Armor of Roses and The Silver Voice

by Marjorie M. Liu

  It was well into the middle of the night when I arrived, and the roads were almost empty as I drove up Spring Street past the angular glass behemoth that was the Seattle Public Library. At the Fifth Street intersection I saw the awning of the hotel on my left, next to the Tulio restaurant. No left turn. I had to circle two blocks before I found myself directly in front of the hotel, and parked across the street.

  I sat staring at the front doors, thinking hard, and then patted everyone’s head. Their skin could slice through solid rock, but only if they wanted it to. I had free rein to touch them—as did Grant and several others.

  I braided my hair and tucked it under the collar of my navy sweatshirt, oversized and borrowed from Grant. Grabbed a blond wig from a canvas tote bag on the floor and slid it over my head. It was an expensive piece of work, with real hair instead of the coarse synthetic stuff, but I hadn’t been especially careful with the thing, so it looked as though I had just rolled out of bed. I slapped a baseball cap on top, wrapped a pink scarf around my throat to partially obscure my chin, and then slid on a pair of heavy-framed glasses—lenses thick enough to blur my eyes, though they were nothing prescriptive. I stuffed chewing gum in my mouth, too, just to make my cheeks look puffier. Slid on a pair of pink knit gloves to hide the armor on my hand.

  As disguises went, it was pretty awful, but if Ernie had used a credit card to stay here, then the police would track down his room sooner or later. Best not to be too obvious with my appearance. The boys could disable security cameras—out on the street and inside the hotel—but not eyewitnesses.

  The front doors were locked, but I used the key card to get in and strode across the lobby with my shoulders slightly hunched, head ducked, a harried expression on my face. Apologetic, even. A young woman dressed in an ill-fitting brown suit manned the front desk, and gave me a questioning look as I approached.

  I held up the room key. “Sorry to bother you, but my grandfather is visiting and forgot his medication in his room. He gave me his key, but I can’t remember if he’s in 304 or 403.”

  The woman smiled faintly, which eased the shadows under her eyes. “His name?”

  “Ernie Bernstein.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, smile deepening as her short nails tapped the keyboard. “I like him. But it’s not either of those numbers. He’s in 610.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said, and began to turn away. She stopped me, though, and dashed into a small room on her right. She was gone just for a moment, and when she returned there was a slender FedEx envelope in her hand, which she slid across the counter to me.

  “This arrived for Ernie. And . . . could you tell him hi for me?” A pretty flush stained her cheeks, maybe because I was staring at her. “There was a . . . guest who was rude to me last night, just when Ernie was checking in, and he . . . you know, took up for me. I appreciated that.”

  I smiled, throat aching. “Yes. He’s a . . . good man. He’ll be glad to hear from you.”

  She beamed, which took years off her already young face, and made her look twelve years old; a kid who needed a hug and pigtails. Made me hurt for her, that Ernie was dead—made me hurt for Ernie, too, who seemed to have been a decent man.

  I took the elevator up to the sixth floor, and found the hall quiet and still. The door to his room opened as I approached. Aaz peered out, giving me a toothy grin. A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung on the brass knob.

  There was nothing extraordinary about the room I entered, except that it was nicely decorated with cherry accents and a king-sized bed dressed in pale sunset-orange canopies. Covers rumpled, unmade. Curtains closed, all the lamps turned on, though the light felt stifled, strangled; like most hotel rooms. I had never been in one that felt truly well lit.

  A briefcase lay on the desk. Behind me, the boys were prowling. Sniffing the floor and sheets, peering into the bathroom. I glanced over my shoulder and found Raw eating a bar of soap. I cleared my throat and he shrugged, also taking a bite out of the chrome dish it had been sitting in. He gave the rest to Aaz, who swallowed the metal without chewing, and licked his lips with a sigh.

  “Maxine,” Zee rasped, poking at the contents of a small carry-on suitcase. He dragged out a stuffed black sock, which he sliced open with one claw. Several wads of cash tumbled out, each one as thick as my wrist. Nothing but one-hundred-dollar bills.

  It was a tremendous amount of money. After some thought, I scooped up the rolled wads and tossed them into the canvas tote bag I had brought with me. I did not need the cash, but it was Ernie’s and if he had family somewhere, then they deserved to have the money sent back to them.

  “You must know what this is about,” I said to Zee.

  The spines of the little demon’s hair flexed, and he glanced at Raw and Aaz, now sprawled on the bed, rubbing their round little tummies. “Old hunt. Old work from our old mother.”

  Old mother. My grandmother. I gave them all a hard look, and focused on the briefcase. It was an antique but well-made, and the locks were crafted from solid brass. Dek slithered from my hair, humming to himself, his snakelike body coiled around my upper arm while his small furred head tilted in careful scrutiny. He touched his long black tongue to the lock, and it began sizzling from the acid in his saliva.

  I had the briefcase open in moments, and found files inside. I flipped through them, noting yellowed pieces of paper covered in handwritten notes, along with typed documents: telegrams, letters, lists of numbers and codes that made no sense. In a large manila envelope I found black-and-white photographs. One caught my eye, and sent my heart scattering into a hard ache.

  It was of my grandmother, a night shot. I knew because her arms were bare, and there were no tattoos on her skin. She was wearing a chi pao, a slender silk dress with a high collar and slit up her thigh that exposed a long trim leg. Her hair was down, her face very young. She looked just like me, but no older than eighteen. Zee and the others crowded close to stare at the photo, and made small choking sounds.

  A little boy stood under her arm with a big grin on his face. He was skinny, with badly cut dark hair, and held a soccer ball under his bony arm. He might have been ten years old. No dates had been written on the photo, no identifying information, but it had to be Ernie. I recognized his eyes.

  Another photograph caught my eye. It was my grandmother again, but just her face; less than a portrait, and more like someone’s attempt to be artful. I saw the edge of an alley behind her, blurred laundry hanging from lines. A day shot. She wore a high collar and sweat beaded her brow. She was so young. Painfully new, but with the beginning of that hard edge in her eyes that I knew so well. Because it was in my eyes.

  There were bumps in the image, and I turned it over. Found a message typewritten into the yellowing paper. Started reading, and my knees buckled. I sat down hard, missed the edge of the bed, and landed awkwardly on the floor. I hardly noticed.

  Maxine, I read, in that small classic typeset. If you get this, save Ernie. Save them all, if you can. I can’t do any more here. She’s

  But the sentence went unfinished. She’s . . . and nothing. She’s dead, I thought, She’s alive, she’s a demon, she’s—

  Spots of light flickered in my vision. I blinked hard, and reached out to grab Zee by the scruff of his neck. I felt dizzy. The wig was suddenly too hot. Sweat trickled down my back.

  “My name,” I hissed. “This note is addressed to me by name. Just like Ernie knew my name.”

  Zee quivered. I released him and stood awkwardly, knees still weak. After a few short steadying breaths, I threw the entire contents of the briefcase into the tote bag, including a box of bullets, and the unopened container of a new disposable cell phone.

  On my way out, I stopped at the front desk again. “Quick question. My grandfather wants to make sure he’s paid up for the next day or two. Did he use cash or a credit card?”

  The youn
g woman did not need to check the computer. She tilted her head, thinking. “Cash. He said he was old-fashioned that way. I think he paid for the entire week, so he doesn’t need to worry.”

  I nodded, and left at a quick trot. The police would not track Ernie Bernstein to this hotel for a while yet, and if he had been as careful as I thought, then perhaps not at all. The man had not wanted to be discovered; in fact, he’d been paranoid about it if he had eschewed the use of a credit card. Or maybe he really was old-fashioned.

  But somehow I didn’t think so. Ernie had known he was being hunted. And the hunter had caught up.

  Now it was time for me to do the same.

  3

  “SHANGHAI was a refuge for Jews during World War Two,” Grant said, over an early breakfast. “It was the only place in the world that didn’t require a visa, so thousands of Jewish refugees went there to escape the Nazis.”

  Long night. Almost dawn. I could feel it in my bones as I chewed on a piece of bacon, eyes burning with weariness—or so I kept telling myself. “But the Japanese occupied the city, and they were allied with Hitler.”

  “Allied, maybe, but they basically left the Jews alone. Forced them to live in a particular neighborhood, required passes to move around the city . . . a hard life, but compared to what was going on in Europe, it was nothing.”

  I finished the bacon, rubbed my hands on a napkin, and leaned over to stare at the files spread on the table between us. I still felt shaken by the message on the back of the photo. I should have been used to strange things by now, but my tolerance for the bizarre, apparently, was not that strong when it involved my family.

  Raw and Aaz were on the floor by the television, watching an old Yogi Bear episode while fishing into a box of razor blades, eating them like potato chips. Zee had a laptop in front of him, delicately tapping the keys with his claws while his little brow wrinkled into a frown. My credit card and a copy of the New York Times were beside him, open to the financial section. Dek and Mal coiled over his shoulder, peering at the screen, occasionally whispering in his ear. Grant followed my gaze. “Stock broker now?”

  I grunted, sipping coffee. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

  Grant picked up the picture of my grandmother. He had said very little about the message, but the line between his eyes had not yet smoothed away. “Remarkable resemblance. Have you spoken with Jack yet?”

  “All the women in my family look the same.” I reached for the FedEx envelope, already torn open. “And no. He’s disappeared again.”

  Jack Meddle. My grandfather. A respected archaeologist and intellectual, who on the surface seemed like nothing more than a cheerful, dapper, eccentric old man who lived above an art gallery in downtown Seattle. But he was even less human than Grant or me—though I was no longer certain if humanity could be judged so simply.

  There was very little in the FedEx envelope—which I had ripped into as soon as I left the hotel and gotten into the car. Contents minimal—just a handwritten letter, read for the first time in the dark, and now here, again, at the kitchen table.

  E.

  I hope this reaches you in time. Be careful. Don’t do anything stupid. And don’t get your hopes up. She’s not Jean. She won’t understand what we went through together. How could she? How could anyone? I don’t care what Jean told you. That was more than sixty years ago. Grandmothers are not their granddaughters, and the dead don’t speak for the living.

  Nor do the living ever listen.

  Best,

  Winnie

  As before, the words had a hypnotic effect. I could not stop staring at them. One, in particular.

  Jean.

  Strange, seeing my grandmother’s name written in someone else’s hand.

  Almost as strange as seeing my name typewritten on the back of her photograph.

  I reluctantly gave the letter to Grant. While he read, I twisted in my chair to look at Zee. “I want the story. I want to know what happened. These children who knew my grandmother. Why?”

  Raw and Aaz stopped chewing razor blades. Zee sighed. “Double eyes, double life. Old mother worked undercover.”

  “Undercover,” I echoed. “Undercover? Are you saying she was a . . . a spy?”

  Dek made a tittering sound. Zee held his little hand like a gun and blew on his finger. “Kiss. Jean Kiss.”

  I slumped in my chair, drumming my fingers on the table. “For which country?”

  Mal began humming the melody of “America the Beautiful.” Grant coughed, but it sounded suspiciously like laughter. I tried giving him a dirty look, but it was difficult.

  My grandmother, the spy. Of course.

  “So she was in China during World War Two,” I said, chewing over the idea. “Hiding out with Jewish refugees in Shanghai while spying on the Japanese?”

  Grant stared at the letter in his hands. “It would have been easy for her to do. Twelve thousand Jews, plus a million Chinese, crammed into a neighborhood that was approximately one square mile in size? Good place to get lost.”

  “But what does that have to do with what’s happening now? Ernie said they were wrong, that my grandmother tried to warn them about something. And that now it was time to finish what she started.” I looked at Zee, frowning as the little demon’s shoulders twitched. “Sounds like she did more than just spy.”

  “More,” Zee rasped, sharing a long look with the others. But that was all, and he would not meet my gaze, no matter how close I leaned—even when I slipped out of the chair and crawled toward him, on all fours. I pushed down the screen of his laptop. It was almost dawn. I could feel it in my bones. Zee stared at my hand, chewing his bottom lip with sharp teeth.

  Grant set down the letter. “I don’t like this.”

  “Winnie, and the other people she refers to . . . all of them could be in danger. If nothing else, they’ll know what’s going on. Since the boys aren’t feeling particularly talkative.” Again, I tried to catch Zee’s attention, but no luck. He simply sat, staring at my hand, his gaze finally ticking sideways, thoughtfully, to take in Raw and Aaz. Both of whom were sitting very still, watching us worriedly. Little comfort—but not much of a surprise. I had never been able to rely on the boys for complete answers. Just riddles.

  I sat back on my heels. “There’s a P.O. box listed for the return address on the FedEx envelope. The 10019 zip code is in New York City, an area just south of Central Park. Zee was able to lift a scent off the letter. I sent the boys on a hunt to see if they could narrow down the location of Winifred Cohen.” I looked at Grant. “And they did. She’s alive.”

  He slouched in his chair, fingering the letter. “You want to go there.”

  “I have to.”

  “How? Driving cross-country?” Grant narrowed his eyes. “I know that look on your face.”

  I hesitated, and held up my right hand, staring at the fragments of armor encasing my fingers and wrist. “I could be there in seconds.”

  “Not worth the risk, Maxine. You don’t know what you’re doing with that thing. You could end up in New York City before there even was a New York City, and what then?”

  “Exploring America before it went European holds some appeal to me,” I replied dryly. “How’s that for a vacation?”

  Grant shook his head, jaw tight with concern. I understood. I knew better than to try to time travel. I watched television. Folks who messed with that shit usually ended up destroying the world. I already had enough on my plate, thank you very much.

  But she addressed the note to you by name, whispered a bleak voice inside my head. Your name.

  I gritted my teeth. He said, “You’ll have to fly. And I’m coming with you.”

  “I know,” I said, staring at my hands, the armor—suddenly feeling like Zee, unable to look anyone in the eye. When Grant did not reply, I forced mys
elf to meet his gaze—and found him staring. “You thought I was going to argue?”

  “You usually do,” he said gruffly. “Lone warrior. Venturing into the wilderness, beating your chest about how you don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

  I thumped my chest. “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

  “It sounds sexier when you’re naked.”

  I wanted to thwack him in the head. “Is it too much to confess that I just don’t want to be apart from you?”

  His jaw tightened. “No.”

  “Good.” I looked away from him, unable to handle the intensity of his gaze. Too many years spent alone, too many expectations to overcome that I would always be alone. And here, this man, who rocked me with emotions I was still unaccustomed to feeling. What I felt for him defied words.

  My skin tightened. I glanced at the window, and found the overcast sky not much lighter. But the sun was moments away from cresting the horizon, somewhere beyond the clouds. Dawn.

  Zee stepped over the laptop, dragging Dek and Mal by their tails. Watching me carefully, Raw and Aaz dropped their razor blades, and clambered close—all of them crawling into my lap, wrapping their long sharp arms around me in tight, fierce hugs. I felt tension in their small bodies, hesitation—too much left unresolved in their silence. They knew it, I knew it. Nothing to be done about it now. I kissed their heads anyway, thinking of my mother and grandmother, and listened to the symphony of purrs that rolled through my body like thunder.

  “Sleep tight,” I whispered.

  I felt the sun rise. In the blink of an eye, the little demons disappeared into my flesh, coating me with smoke and fire—five pairs of red eyes, glinting across my body. Every inch of me, from between my toes to the middle of my neck and scalp, now covered in tattoos: my boys, tingling beneath my clothes as they settled restlessly into dreams.

  My face was the exception, but the boys could shift positions in an instant if danger arose, making me entirely invulnerable. Nothing could kill me while they slept on my skin. Not a bullet, not fire, not a nuclear bomb. If I were held under water, the boys would breathe for me. If I was thrown into a pit and locked up without food or drink, the boys would nourish me from their own strength.