Bleeding Out (16 page)

“You boys. How did I get so lucky?”

“You’ve got a horseshoe up your ass.”

“That’s a pretty way to put it.”

He shrugs. “I can’t help being pretty.”

We get up. We do the dishes. We go through our ablutions. He soaps my back. I drag a cloth behind his ears until they’re squeaky clean. I argue with my hair while he shaves, and I say nothing about the small Chia Pet that he leaves behind in the sink. I just wait for him to leave and then wash it away. I send a text to Derrick.
I love you and we can talk later today
. It’s not an apology, but I’m still unsure whether I owe him one or not. If anything, I owe Miles an apology for denting his boyfriend.

I should sleep more, but the frayed ends of my consciousness feel good, like worn-in jeans. There will always be more coffee. There will always be a surplus of devotion and protection, because that’s what families do. And there will always be broken rules and bloody knees, because that’s what life does when you’re busy painting definitions. I get dressed and come down the stairs. Lucian hands me a travel mug. He loves me like a lion. I take his offering and his hand. Together, we walk outside, blinking in the sunlight, like two clay figures recently given life. Full of vinegar and godsbreath.

“
Lucian?
”

“Yes?”

“Is your brother a ghost plant?”

He looks at me funny as we cross Broadway. “You mean, like, one of the skeletal flowers in the conclusus?”

“No. I mean, you told me once that necromancers were
kind of like plants. If your brother is trapped in Trinovantum, does that make him more of a plant than you are?”

“We’re not actually plants. We don’t need fertilizer.”

“I get that. But your explanation was a little fuzzy.”

“I guarantee that the more you know about necromancers and their peculiarities, the less you’ll understand.”

“Granted. But—is Lorenzo more of a perennial?”

He sighs. “Okay. We’re more like plants than humans because plants have more base pairs of DNA, but they’re empty. Well, not empty, but… uncreated. If that makes any sense. Like flowers, we’re full of empty drawers, and our power comes from all those little voids.”

“You sound like a cheap koan.”

He kisses me on the cheek. “Too bad. That’s all you’re getting. Besides. We’re here.” He surveys the restaurant. “Huh. I can see what Duessa was talking about. This place is a front if I’ve ever seen one.”

The restaurant has no name, just a picture of a cow, which I assume means that they sell steaks. I can see through the dirty windows that every table is vacant. Like the inside of a necromancer. I’m not really sure how to accept the fact that my boyfriend has empty drawers inside of him, but whatever. I’m no proper judge of someone else’s base pairs.

We walk in. The lighting is dim and, for some reason, Shakira is playing on the radio.
Lo hecho está hecho,
she growls. What’s done is done. There’s a huge bar with nobody to tend it, and the menus are dusty. After a few
minutes, a waiter emerges from the back. He’s a ghoul. His makeup is pretty good, but I can still see the decomposition. When you’re undead, you really can’t skimp on cosmetics. “Go MAC or go home” is the motto of most zombies.

The waiter stares at us without saying anything. I feel like we’re trapped in a semiotic standoff. Then Lucian clears his throat.

“We need to see the cook,” he says.

“She’s busy.”

“Lady Duessa sent us,” I supply.

The ghoul rolls his eyes. “I doubt it.”

“Oh, yeah? Come smell me.”

Lucian gives me a look, but says nothing. The ghoul approaches me. He inhales cautiously, then nods.

“You’re right. Her mark is on you.”

“Told you.”

“Fine.” He points to a door in the far wall. “Kitchen is that way.”

We go through the door and down a hallway that reeks of past meals and combination plates.

“Is that how you roll now?” Lucian asks. “Just asking random people to smell you? It seems like a funny way to establish credentials.”

“The guy with plant DNA thinks I’m weird?”

“Geez. Don’t be such a hater.”

We enter the kitchen. It’s really half kitchen and half crack den. Various illicit substances are bubbling and
baking in pots. A giant squid wearing an apron stirs the pots with each of her arms. I realize now what the waiter meant. She’s holding a cleaver. She fixes one luminous eye on us and shrieks something that sounds like profanity in all vowels. Then she spits ink at our feet.

I take a step back. “Do you speak cephalopod?” I whisper.

Lucian shakes his head.

“Great. That’s just great.” I wave at the squid. “Hello. Lady Duessa sent us. We have a question to ask you.”

The squid waves her cleaver at us. We take another step back. I decide to try a new tactic. I point to the nearest pot.

“That smells awfully good,” I say. “What is it?”

Her luminous eyes narrow, as if considering the sincerity of my question. Then she says, in a very thick marine accent: “Methamphetamine.”

“Oh. How nice. May I take a closer look?”

She beckons me over with one tentacle—not the one holding the cleaver, to my relief. I walk over to the pot. The liquid inside it smells absolutely terrible, but I pretend that it’s apple cider and smile expansively.

“Mmm. I’ll bet it’s quite delicious.”

“It would not be my first choice,” she mutters slowly. “But plenty of others seem to like it.”

“I detect a hint of paint thinner. Maybe that’s what gives it such a lovely bouquet. Did you think of adding that yourself?”

“I follow a recipe,” she says. But I detect a hint of pride in her voice. I’m obviously going in the right direction.

“I have a question for you about another type of dish. It’s a bit more complicated, but I can tell that you’re an expert.”

“Go on,” she says. She’s still holding the cleaver, but it’s at half-mast now, which is probably the most I can expect from a wary squid.

“I heard that you might know something about Pharmakon.”

Her eyes narrow. “Who told you this?”

“The Lady Duessa. She said that you were the squid to talk to about all things drug-related. She couldn’t stop singing your praises.”

The cook considers this for a moment. Then she says: “I do not think you could afford it.”

“Oh, it’s not for me.” I gesture to Lucian. “He’s rich, and he wants to contact your supplier. Unfortunately, he’s also mute. Poor thing. He carries this little pad of paper around with him everywhere. It’s kind of adorable.”

Lucian glares at me, but says nothing.

Given that he’s wearing cargo shorts, I’m hoping she won’t draw the conclusion that he’s also a necromancer. Can a squid smell that kind of thing? Can a squid smell at all? I’ll have to remember to look that up later.

“I have not met him,” she says. “He pages, and the waiter picks it up. Always a different address.
Albert!
”

The ghoul walks into the kitchen. “Stop screaming.”

She gestures at us with one of her tentacles. “These two want to buy from the strange one. Are you picking up tonight?”

“Yes. But he said to come alone.”

I point to Lucian. “He literally has money coming out of his ass. We could just wait in the car while you talk to him.”

“I have a bike,” the ghoul says flatly. “And I never talk to him. I just pick up the package from the mailbox.”

“Fine. Let us come with you, and we’ll leave some money and a nice note in the mailbox. We’ll even pay you a retainer.”

He frowns. “What’s that?”

“Fifty bucks.” I turn to Lucian. “Give the ghoul fifty bucks.”

The waiter’s eyes widen. “How did you know?”

“Your cheek is decomposing.”

“Oh, shit.”

Lucian gives me a look that speaks volumes. Extremely pissed-off volumes. Then he reaches into his billfold and pulls out a fifty. I knew it. He always carries an emergency bribe. Grudgingly, he gives the money to the ghoul, who pockets it.

“Fine,” he says. “Meet me back here at seven thirty, and I’ll take you there. You have to stay out of sight, though. He’s crazy.”

“I thought you said you never talked to him.”

“I’ve seen him, though. I know crazy when I see it.”

The sentiment seems odd coming from an undead creature, but considering the fact that I just grifted him, I can’t judge. The truth is that this was a lot easier than I thought it would be. Which makes me nervous.

“We really appreciate it,” I say. “We’ll come back.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Of course not.”

I extend my hand to the squid. “It was very nice to meet you.”

She offers me one of her tentacles. It’s rubbery and cold. I’m not sure if I should squeeze or not, so I just shake it slightly. Then Lucian and I leave.

Once we’re outside, he glares at me again. “Mute? Really?”

“Think about it,” I say. “If anyone asks, they’re both going to remember a mute entrepreneur and some girl. That sounds nothing like us.”

“Why couldn’t you be the mute one?”

“Because you’re too sweet and charming. I’m far more believable as a small-time drug addict.”

“You scare me sometimes.”

“In a good way?”

“In just about every way.”

I smile. “I’ll take it.”

“What are we going to do until seven thirty?”

“I should probably talk to Derrick. If you want to be extremely useful, you can chat with Modred and see if he’s learned anything.”

“You’re sending a necromancer to talk to a vampire. You must have an odd sense of political correctness.”

“Modred doesn’t really take me seriously. But if he knows that you’re involved, he might let something slip.”

“Involved in your unsanctioned investigation, you mean.”

“Yes. Exactly that.”

“Are you sure you know how to play this game?”

“I’m sure that you’ll bail me out in the end. That’s almost as good.”

He takes my hand. “I’m not kidding. You don’t have the CORE behind you this time. You’re on your own. Please be careful.”

“I never am. But thanks.” I kiss him. “See you later tonight.”

I come home feeling as if I’ve used up all my good
words. It’s just as well, because Derrick is asleep on the couch, slumped over Miles like a beautiful marionette. Both of them are snoring. Miles has one hand on the clicker, the other on Derrick’s chest. My boys. They sound like dueling banjos. I wonder what they’re dreaming about. Secret things that only queer boys understand, like Tori Amos liner notes, or the language of scarves. Considering that Derrick can read thoughts, I find it incredible that he’s managed to fall in love. Maybe Miles thinks only proper things. Maybe he has the mind of a unicorn. He certainly knows how to be dirty in ASL, though. Maybe the thought isn’t really what counts, but rather, the voice, the hand, the look. Thoughts come cheap, but
when someone puts their hand on your back, gently, to guide you into a room, that matters. These small, mothlike gestures that form the geometry of care.

I sit down at the kitchen table to write Derrick a note. In my head, the note is hundreds of pages long and full of superlatives. I choose brevity.
Derrick. I love you, and I’m sorry I hit you. I’ll be home later tonight. Don’t forget that we need paper towels and vegetable thins.

I add a semi-hysterical PS for Mia.
Text me when you get home
. I could keep going forever:
text me when you get to Berkeley, when you sleep with a boy/girl for the first time, if the power goes out, when you graduate, when you’re sad or scared, if you need sweaters, when you get your heart broken, text me and I’ll cross any surface to get to you
. But I can settle for knowing where she is tonight. Letting go is a work in progress.

It’s hot outside. I find a patio and order a beer. It mixes with the coffee already in my stomach, and the two embark on a power struggle. I watch the Rollerbladers, the dog walkers, and the street punks blowing smoke. When I was little, I was an angry kitten, full of smoke and savage power. When I was little, a bird demon watched over me, and now he’s dead. All of my teachers die or disappear. Is it me? Am I radioactive? Am I a poisoned well?

I stare at my fingers. If I concentrated, if I parted the atomic curtain and reached in, if I tugged just a little on the margins of the world, I could set this patio on fire.
But the truth is that I’ve always hated fire. I chose the earth, not just because stones asked me the time of day, but because the earth seemed like a book I was willing to read. The earth was something I could crawl into. I could be a blind worm digging, a submerged root, a sealed bulb with no intention of breaking the surface. I trust the earth, but not the other elements. They whisper behind my back like popular girls.

I was born with spines. I was born with opinions and occult specialties. I was born out of demonic wedlock. I was born out of mercy. My mother felt the alien plasmids in her blood, the foreign DNA, and instead of eradicating them, she said:
I call truce
. She injected a drug that solved everything. And here I am. It’s the same thing that we did to Mia.
Here, take this shot, and you get to be human.
But origins can’t be quiet. They clamor for attention, a litter of oracular piglets eating everything in sight.

What does it mean to be a demon’s daughter? Should I be living in another world? Should I be getting more discounts? My father is a false rib that I’ve always felt but never known. Every day, I get closer to breaking through my chest plate and exhuming him, destroying him into consciousness. My mother must have realized this, and that’s why she’s disappeared. My beautiful mother, who, like Frigga, would protect me from anything with thorns if she could. But she forgot about the mistletoe.

I joined the CORE because it seemed to offer a way out, a solution to the daily feeling of being misunderstood,
ignored, feared. The fire that consumed Eve taunted me from one direction, while the CORE beckoned me from another. But who was it who watched me from the sidelines? Was it you? Were you what I saw, in spite of the wind? You might have been a siren or a house on fire; I couldn’t tell. I was always nearsighted. And so, I chose the CORE.