by P. Kirby
She drew and drew, and drew some more. Using ordinary pencil, then pen, then colored pencil, even scanning the image and running computer enhancements, she tried to reach that moment where the character’s essence was distilled into one drawing. Several of her attempts had felt right, but the corresponding euphoria that came with success never happened. At least two dozen completed drawings were scattered around the studio, piled on the detritus of earlier designs, nearly twenty-four hours’ worth of work.
The documents mentioned the importance of compressing innate magic while drawing, then releasing it when the character was rendered to perfection. Using the anticipation of seeing Benjamin again wasn’t an option, so instead she thought of Adam’s reaction when she told him she’d been successful. Imagining the pleasure on his face made her shiver with twisted joy.
But like her attempts with the unlock spell, her magic didn’t release properly. Each time she tried, the pent-up power flowed out of her like water, rushing into the room and once even generating a little breeze that ruffled the page before her. It did not, however, move into the drawing and into the ether—as the document said it would—binding a soul to the figure on paper, and pulling its NeoVerse version into the Real.
The latest failure, drawn in colored pencil, the same medium as the drawing of Benjamin in the diner, stared back at her from the floor where it sat between her sprawled legs. Maya squirmed, a myriad of bruises on her posterior chirping in pain as she shifted on the hard tile floor. The studio, previously a bedroom, had been the only room with carpet when she bought the house. Matching the rest of the saltillo tile in the house seemed like a good idea at the time, but at the moment, she regretted pulling up the carpet. Since Adam had trapped her mind with sticky need to do his bidding, she’d worked for nearly twenty of the last twenty-four hours. What little sleep she had gotten had been on the hard floor, in those moments when she had allowed herself to just close her eyes for a second. Other than a glass of water and a bowl of cereal, she hadn’t paused for meals, or for that matter, her real job.
At ten that morning, Roland had called. “Maya. Are you all right? Selma says you haven’t called in sick or—”
“I’m taking some time off.” Standing in the hallway, just outside her kitchen, she could see a skinny spear of morning sunlight, shaped by a gap in her bedroom curtains, striking a hard line across the floor, reminding her that time was slipping by, time better spent working on Adam’s task.
“Oh, I see,” Roland said, obviously not seeing, and certainly put off by Maya’s brusque tone. “Selma doesn’t have any record of your leave request.”
“I guess I forgot.” Maya’s irritation hissed out her mouth in a loud, exasperated sigh.
“I’m only saying this because I’ve got the phone line to protect me, but are you having a Midol moment?”
The comment was so obnoxious, it rooted out the real Maya for an instant. “Roland!”
“You’re a little snappish.”
Maya felt like a Christmas cracker, pulled at both ends and about to explode, her instinctive desire to be polite to her friend dueling with her desperate need to comply with Adam’s enchantment. Right hand holding the phone, she twisted the collar of the pink pajamas with her left, the soft fabric giving way without much resistance. “I don’t feel well,” she said.
“You sound…fried. I’ll tell Selma you’re calling in sick.”
The drive to return to her drawing buzzed like angry bees in her head. She managed to say, “Okay, bye,” before hanging up.
Time had flown by, too fast by Maya’s reckoning. After ten hours she had yet to create a single new Formed person. Submerged deep beneath the compulsion, she felt a certain relief at this. But her conscious mind roiled and squirmed in frustration. By nature a perfectionist, failure wasn’t something Maya took lightly.
As the last of the sun’s light retreated from the studio, she switched on the lamp on her drafting table and stared at the discarded drawings that carpeted the floor. Why wouldn’t it work? Anger bubbled up and she bent and grabbed the nearest drawing, then fell on hands and knees, ignoring her bruised knees, and collected all her failures. A minute later, everything had been dumped into the trash can and she sank into frustrated misery. She had just sat on the floor, the beginnings of hot angry tears welling in her eyes, when she heard the grumble of a car’s engine. Happiness sang through her before she recognized the engine was Roland’s Porsche and not Benjamin’s noisy Volvo. Nevertheless an image of the copper-haired thief’s face crossed her mind, chased by prickly sparks of pain.
Rubbing her eyes, she shivered with a repressed sob. Her mind turned to her bed, her comfortable bed with its thick goose-down pillows, soft Egyptian cotton sheets and thick, fluffy comforter. The command to create more Formed drummed through her head, but her body’s demand started a louder counterpoint. Confused and bone tired, she remained on the floor, flinching when the doorbell rang.
At first the sound didn’t make sense to her. The second time, it reverberated in her skull and she clamped her hands over her ears. “Stop it!” she said, the words rasping from her throat. After the fourth ring, her brain connected it to the door and she wobbled toward the front door. The deadbolt lock a temporary puzzle, she finally turned the latch and drew the door open.
“Maya. There you are.” Roland, standing in the darkness of her porch—the idea of turning on the porch light was beyond her—the deep shadows accentuating the worried expression on his face. “Are you all right?”
“I’m wonderful,” she said, parroting the response she gave Benjamin.
“Really? According to what dictionary?” His attempt at humor evaded her and she gaped at him. “Can I come in?” he said, holding up a covered plastic dish. “I’ve got green chile stew, made by Eric.”
“I—”
Roland strode forward, setting his free hand on her shoulder and pushing her gently aside. “You need some TLC. To the kitchen.” Getting a vacant stare from Maya, he reached back and shut the door. One hand on her upper arm, he steered her toward the kitchen. “Let there be light,” he said, flipping on the kitchen light.
Although Adam’s spell still controlled her, Maya found that her exhausted body didn’t have the energy to comply. Her legs folded and she sat without protest as Roland pushed her into the chair. Whistling a simple tune through his teeth, Roland moved about her kitchen, finding a spoon and then a loaf of bread. When he popped the top off the plastic container, the hot, heady aroma of Eric’s green chile stew permeated the room.
“I heard that,” Roland said when her stomach rumbled. He handed her the spoon.
Despite her hunger, for a second she paused, caught by the desire to flee the room and get back to her studio. The raw need of her body won out and she dipped the spoon into the stew with the careful slowness of someone who wasn’t entirely in control of her limbs.
As she ate, Roland told her about his day, the usual litany of project managers who did more golfing than management. “Eric’s right. I’m not cut out for the daily grind.” He picked fussily at a loose thread on his cuff. “Do you know he suggested I quit Famtek and try to make it as a fine artist?”
Maya swallowed, closing her eyes as the spicy stew ran down her throat to her aching stomach. “No,” she said.
“I’m thinking of taking him up on the offer. The nursery is doing pretty well. Maybe it’s time I tried my hand at being a kept man. What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” Most of what he said had gone in one ear and out the other.
“You should give it a try too.” Jaw set in a determined line, he nodded. “You’d make a good living doing illustrations for book covers, role-playing games and all that fantasy stuff.”
“That’s not a real job,” she said reflexively.
“Why not? Because somebody told you a long time ago that grownups are supposed to work eight to five?” Leaning toward her, his deep brown eyes blazed. “Pardon my French, but that’s bullshit.
“Come on, Maya. Let’s give it a try. We could open our own studio.” Tugging her shirtsleeve, he gave her a pleading look that usually won her over. “Let’s start a website and post some of our best work. We could take some small commissions, start out slowly.”
“No.” The word had nothing to do with the conversation. The stew had started to energize her, and another image, a new pose, itched to be drawn.
“Why?”
“Because,” she said, standing and starting toward her studio. The little light over the drafting table shone like a beacon. Like a junkie preparing a needle for a fix, she plunked down in the chair and picked up a pencil.
“Maya, what’s wrong with you?”
“I’m busy.” Holding the pencil, she hunched over the table, skimming the tip just over the surface, tracing the face she saw in her mind’s eye.
“Busy with what? Maya, what the hell is wrong with you?”
“I’ve failed him.”
Maya smelled the tangy scent of Roland’s aftershave as he leaned over her, hand on her back. “You what?”
“I failed him. I have to do this. Have to, have to, have to.” The pencil started to make marks on the table’s white surface.
“You’re going to ruin your nice table.” Roland stared at her, one hand stopping her from scribbling on the table. “Sweetie, you must have the flu. You’re delirious.”
The touch of Roland’s hand both steadied and terrified her. The compassion in his touch and kind face warmed her, but at the same time he was stopping her from doing what she had to do. The drive to draw too strong, she wrenched away from his grasp. “Go away.”
Shock plain on his face, he stepped away. With a tiny shake of his head, he backed off and looked around the room, stern gaze settling on her corkboard.
“You failed who?” he said, angry speculation moving behind his eyes.
“Him.” Her voice squeaked with exasperation. “I failed him.” Turning back to the blank surface of the drafting tablet, she said, “Go away. Now!”
“Maya.” Roland moved toward her.
The pencil snapped in her hand. “Get the hell out.”
“Damn,” Roland said, a mixture of hurt, confusion and anger on his face. “Okay. Fine.” His footsteps beat an angry retreat on the tile floor. The front door slammed and Maya winced, the harsh sound breaking her deadened heart. A fat tear broke from her wet eyes and plopped on the table. It paused, jiggling wetly before marching down the inclined surface.
The halves of the pencil fell from her hand and rolled down the table, stopped by a little ridge at the edge. Her fingers lay limp on the table and then reached for a little notepad. Tearing a sheet away, she ground it against her palm, the crackle of dozens of sudden folds sending shivers up her arm.
Maya blinked, dropped the crumpled sheet and reached for another. Just as it always did, the crisp sound of paper folding under her fingers made her innate magic vibrate.
“That’s it,” she said. “That’s the trick.”
Tossing the little ball of paper to the floor, she reached for another pencil, and the nearest sketchbook and started drawing.
Swathed in comforting black, Benjamin watched Maya’s house.
The sun had set below the western horizon an hour ago, chilly darkness replacing bright New Mexico sunlight. The daytime temperature had climbed to a balmy fifty degrees, but now it dropped fast and Benjamin could feel the icy air prodding the hooded black pullover, sneaking under dark fabric to chill his skin. The hood over his head hiding his bright hair, he hung in the shadow of an adobe wall, in the alley, studying the back of Maya’s house. Except for her studio, the rest of the house was dark.
He wondered if this was typical behavior for Maya, again reminded of just how little he knew about her, and unfortunately, that thought accompanied a stab of pain as he realized he’d never know any more about her. The light in the studio was faint, probably thrown off by the little lamp clamped to the drafting table. A yearning for her so strong it burned surged through him. For an instant he almost marched up to her door, with the intent to tell her that he would renounce his life of crime and take up a respectable profession.
“And how do you propose to do that, Black?” he whispered. Any real profession required college. He was a bookworm, but a short stint at community college had taught him that sitting in a classroom was a skill he’d never acquire. And frankly, accustomed to the variety of work that Breas provided, he couldn’t imagine trudging into a regular, mundane job for the rest of his life. The fact that he’d even consider it for Maya said more than he wanted to admit about his feelings for her.
Biting his tongue, he focused on the business at hand. In contrast to Maya’s house, most of the lights in Ms. Kalman’s house were on. All that lighting made it impossible for her to peer out the windows without him seeing her silhouette. She wouldn’t sneak up on him this time, even though he’d be breaking into Maya’s house in broad daylight.
Tonight he was just doing a final reconnaissance of the neighborhood, to fend off any nasty surprises like Ms. Kalman. Getting in and out was really the least of his concerns. First was the minor problem with the drawings containing his image. As he’d learned the first time he broke into Maya’s studio, even with the knife as a buffer, contact with his drawings had been painful. To get around that, he planned on pulling out the drawers and dumping any artwork straight into a bag. To retrieve the few illustrations on the walls, which depicted him and Adam, he’d just have to tolerate some pain.
A bigger concern was whether any other drawings, artwork not contained in her house, existed. Adam was certain she’d never tried to publish the work and was convinced that only a handful of people had even seen her comic book work. Her attempts at graphic novels, printed on her printer at home, were stacked on the bookshelf in the living room. According to Adam’s reading of The Lore of the Formed, Adam and Benjamin were rooted to the Real only through her best work, those illustrations and drawings that were perfect representations of the men. Any earlier work, the kind of stuff her parents might have stuck on a refrigerator, carried no link to Adam or Benjamin. The force of her imagination alone had sustained their existence in NeoVerse.
Hoping Adam’s sources were correct, Benjamin gave Maya’s house one last long look, forcing his mind to see her as just another human mark who needed to be relieved of magical artifacts.
A dog barked, but no one else noticed Benjamin’s passage down the alley toward the street and his car. In the safety of his car and moving along in late-evening traffic, his conscience started to squeeze his insides like a vise. Maya would know who broke into her home and stole the drawings. She’d hate him.
Why should it matter? Sitting at a stoplight on Cerrillos Road, Benjamin knew he’d never live with himself if he didn’t compensate her in some way. Compensation. As he drove toward home, the word turned into a corresponding plan.
Knowing Maya, she might not appreciate his “gift,” but maybe when time wore away some of her anger, she’d find a good use for it. It wasn’t as if he’d need it in EverVerse.
Chapter Eighteen
“The universe hates me,” Benjamin said, flipping through morning television’s offerings and finding no comfort. A quick check of his watch showed that it was only 7:30 a.m., two and a half hours before he’d break into Maya’s house. Hoping to find distraction in public TV he paused only to find a children’s educational cartoon featuring a brown-skinned girl named Maya. He switched off the television and reached into a pile of books on the coffee table.
The lights were off, but a bright spray of sunlight through the window blinds gave him enough light to read. The effort killed about an hour before the protagonists, a cop and a female private detective, lapsed into a bellicose and irritating romance.
Benjamin set the book aside and contemplated the ceiling, counting spiderwebs and looking for interesting faces in the texture. He was sure he’d found the image of Elvis in the water stain in the far corner when the phon
e rang. A stupid hope pinged in his chest and he cursed his naïveté. The only hope that remained was EverVerse and escape from this place.
“Benjamin?” said a male voice on the line. He didn’t recognize the voice, though there was something familiar about the slight Hispanic accent.
“Yeah.”
“This is Roland Salas. Maya’s best friend. I got your phone number off a note on the corkboard in her studio.”
Benjamin paused to give the phone a wary look. The man’s voice had an inflection Benjamin had last heard when Isabel’s four brothers had sat him down and explained in gory detail what they’d do to him if he broke their sister’s heart.
“I was hoping I could meet with you today, around noon?” Roland said, his voice lacking any semblance of friendship.
“Any particular reason?”
“It’s important.” Roland’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s about Maya.”
Concern piqued Benjamin’s interest. “What about Maya? Is she…okay?”
There was a heavy pause. “In a word, no. Could we meet today or not?”
Benjamin put the tips of his fingers up against his eyebrows, shoving them up his forehead. “I’m kind of busy.”
With undisguised hostility, Roland said, “Doing what? Robbing the Louvre?”
“Maybe. It’s on my to-do list.”
Clearly disarmed by Benjamin’s quip, Roland paused a beat. “This won’t take long, fifteen minutes. Please.” The last word was tight and forced.
Conflicted, Benjamin rubbed his forehead, the suggestion of a headache building. The only constraints he wanted to deal with when doing a job were those specific to the mark—work habits, nosy neighbors, alarm systems. He didn’t want to add “Be done by eleven-thirty in time for lunchtime meeting with mark’s best friend” to his usual concerns.
“Okay,” his mouth said, although a nasty, embittered fraction of his brain thought, “Get bent. She dumped me.”