Borderline (5 page)

8

I stared at the shimmering swirls on the paper; they moved as though they were
alive
. I'd misplaced the speech center of my brain again. When I found it, I said a little drunkenly, “What kind of glasses are these?”

“It's like an advanced version of the fairy ointment from the stories,” he said. “One side of the lens shows you what kind of magic a thing has; the other side shows you things as they really are.”

I waited for my rational mind to put up a fight, but it rolled over and showed its belly. I gave the glasses back to Teo, my hand shaking slightly. He slipped them into his coat pocket, along with the drawing itself.

“You need a minute?” he said, watching me closely.

I shook my head. “I'm fine. What was that? I mean, I get that you're saying it's a spell or something. But what does it do?”

“It's a type of charm. Basically he draws something and sort of . . . weaves his magic into the paper, so that whoever looks at it feels exactly what he was feeling when he drew it.”

“And he threw it in the
trash
?”

Teo shrugged. “Nobles like Rivenholt—they call them
sidhe
at World HQ in London—they're into heavy-duty magic. Wards, enchantments. Charms are low-class, like parlor tricks.”

“If it's so beneath him, why make one?”

Teo considered. “I guess even low magic would be pretty valuable on this side of the border. Because it's tradeable. Maybe that's a draft of something; maybe a human offered Rivenholt something irresistible.”

“Like a lifetime supply of Reese's cups?”

Teo glanced at the pile of wrappers that had accumulated on the bed and made a disdainful little sound. “Typical fey.”

“If somebody wanted low magic, why would they ask a noble?”

“It's really just nobles who come here. I've only met two commoners ever, a dryad and a goblin. There's all types of fey in Arcadia I've never seen.”

“By fey you mean fairies. This guy's a fairy.”

Teo shrugged. “Maybe? The word is spelled F-E-Y—it just means weird or supernatural—but London HQ tends to see everything through a fairy filter anyway. Honestly, we don't know what the fuck these things are.”

“Reassuring.”

“When they're here, they enchant themselves to look human. I think ‘facade' is the official HQ word. Do you know John Riven?” When he saw my confused expression, he clarified. “Actor; he was in
Accolade
.”

“Which part?”

“Some white dude in a suit; I don't remember all their names. Anyway, John Riven is Viscount Rivenholt. He's way more involved on this side than most fey. I've got a photo back at the Residence; you'll know him when you see him.”

Teo looked at me like he was waiting for me to argue with him, but I've never understood the pointless ritual of denial. I had a job to do, so I'd assume it wasn't bullshit until I found out otherwise.

“So what next?” I said.

“Still with me?” He looked dubious, but he at least stopped staring at me and went over to peer at the telephone, which continued flashing its tiny light.

“I think so,” I said. “Where is Arcadia, exactly?”

“It's like a parallel world or whatever.” He held up the phone receiver to his ear and punched in a few numbers on the cradle. “We call it Arcadia just to be calling it something.”

“What do the fey call it?”

“Uh, ‘the world,' I guess,” he said distractedly as he punched in another number.

“What do they call our world?”

“Earth mostly, because we do. There's some weirdness with them and language.”

“What do you mean?”

He held up a hand to shush me, listening intently to the phone, then scribbling something on the message pad. “Two messages from Inaya West.”

“What?” I forgot Arcadia for a second. “The actress?”

Teo glanced skyward. “No, Millie, the postal clerk. Who do you think?”

“You're screwing with me.”

“See for yourself,” he said, pushing a couple of buttons and holding the handset out to me. I grabbed it from him.

“Johnny, it's 'Naya,”
said the first message, dated a week earlier. It did sound like her.
“Call me back when you get this, gorgeous.”

The next one had yesterday's date. Same voice, completely different tone.

“Inaya again. I know something's up, Johnny, and I know this isn't your cell number. And now all of a sudden David won't return my calls either? I don't get it. Whatever's going on, I'm reasonable; you don't have to hide from me. Just talk to me. Please.”
And this time she left a number.

I tried to commit it to memory, since Teo had already torn off the paper he'd scribbled it on and stuffed it into his pocket. You never know when the phone number of an A-list actress might come in handy.

“What do you think that's about?” I said to Teo.

“No clue. Maybe Rivenholt was having a fling with Inaya and broke it off. Still doesn't explain why he extended his hotel stay and then left the room. It's like he's running from something. I didn't want to bother Berenbaum with this, but it looks like we're going to have to.”

My stomach dropped to my knees. “Berenbaum? David Berenbaum?”

“No. Oprah Berenbaum.”

“I went to school for directing,” I said numbly. “He—I—my dad took me to see
Blue Yonder
when I was ten. David
Beren­baum
.” The name tore open some hermetically sealed pocket of naïveté I had forgotten I had.

“Oh Jesus. You're not going to piddle on the floor of his office, are you? If so, I'll just crack a window and leave you in the car.”

“David Berenbaum. We're going to see David Berenbaum.” I couldn't stop saying it.

“He funds, like, half the Project. Rivenholt's his Echo. Uh, partner, you might say. Not in a gay way, that I know of; Rivenholt's
like his muse. That's what the Project's for, to regulate travel between here and there. So we can get inspiration from fey and vice versa. Anybody who's anybody has an Echo.”

“All of them? You're saying Martin Scorsese hangs out with fairies?”

“Yup. Not all fey are sunshine and rainbows.”

“Kubrick, Eastwood, Coppola?”

“Kubrick's before my time, but probably. Eastwood and Coppola, yeah.”

“Spielberg?”

“He doesn't need one; he's a wizard.”

The wave of vertigo that swept over me suggested that this was a good time to stop asking questions.

“Let's get you back to the house and feed you some lunch before we go see Berenbaum,” Teo said. “Half the reason we get to hang out with these people is that we stay cool about it, and you are not looking cool right now.”

When we got back to the car, which was badly parallel parked under a palm tree, Teo reached into his jacket for the drawing and studied it again in the sunlight. I peered around his arm at it curiously; it gave me the same icy-bright rush of exhilaration as before. No matter how many times I looked away and back, the feeling was the same, like traveling eight years into the past.

But the drawing was showing me what
Rivenholt
had felt when he looked out his window, a fact both intimate and puzzling.

“Do you remember when Los Angeles made you feel like that?” I said to Teo.

“Nope,” he said, folding the paper and tucking it away. “Unlike ninety percent of this town, I was born here.”

•   •   •

We arrived back at the house to find a crisis in the living room. We heard it as soon as we opened the car doors, actually, but had to see it to believe it. When we walked in, a very tall black man was kneeling behind Gloria, holding her by the arms. Gloria was shrieking, red faced, at the bearded white guy I'd met briefly the day before. The bearded man—whose name I'd already forgotten—was slumped at one end of the couch, face buried in the crook of his elbow, sobbing.

“Look at me, you coward!” Gloria shrieked at him. “Have the decency to say it to my
face
!”

“Quit it,” said the man holding her, barely audible over her screams. “Settle down.”

When it comes to drama, I am both amplifier and sponge. You want to keep drama as far away from me as possible. Faced with this spectacle, I planted my sneaker-clad carbon feet on the hardwood floor as though I were staring down head­lights.

“Where is Song?” Teo asked briskly of the only other calm person in the room.

“She went to the store,” said the man holding Gloria. For just a moment I saw the strain on his high-cheekboned face, the coiled control. When he spoke again, he sounded almost bored. “Gloria, you know they need you back on set in twenty. You need to stop it now.”

Teo touched my elbow, startling me. “Let's go up to my room,” he murmured. I was too disconcerted to make any smart-ass remarks; I just nodded and tried to follow as Teo gave a wide berth to the tableau and practically vaulted up the stairs. I stumbled on the steps myself, dropping my cane
as I grabbed for the rail with both hands. Teo doubled back, picking up my cane and helping me up the stairs none too gently.

“Unless the rent is dirt cheap here,” I said breathlessly once we'd reached the top, “I think I'll take my chances on some other living arrangements.”

“Three things,” he said crisply, handing me back my cane. “One, Gloria's normally very sweet, and when she's not, it's always Phil who gets it. Two, rent is free here. Three, employees at our level have to live in a Project Residence.”

“Why?”

“There are wards on the property and stuff; it's a little complicated for your pay grade.”

“I'm not being paid.”

“My point is, there are reasons we all live together. Working for the Project isn't dangerous, but only because we follow the rules to the letter. It's extra important that new people don't do stuff on their own, but the perks get better as you work your way up. You should see Caryl's place.”

I wanted to, once I stepped into Teo's room. There was barely enough space for his loft bed and the computer desk he'd shoehorned under it. His Avengers bedspread hung off the footboard in a lumpy tangle, and I could smell the dirty laundry that had piled up all the way to the windowsill. His closet was partially blocked by a chest of drawers that was missing the bottom drawer. The only available floor space was dominated by a suspiciously streaked beanbag chair.

“Ugh,” I said. “Doesn't it seem like a terrible idea to you, hiring a bunch of crazy people and penning them up together?”

“I like it here,” said Teo. “It's nice not to be judged all the time. So maybe don't start, okay?”

“Seriously, what's the deal? Does mental illness give people some kind of sensitivity to magic?”

“I dunno; Caryl's cagey about it. But I get the feeling it's just—we're all creative people who might not get a shot anywhere else, you know? And I guess we're open-minded 'cause we've got no illusions that life makes any sense.” He gestured toward his “chair” as he rifled through the file drawer in his desk. “Sit if you want.”

“Even if I had a prayer of getting back out of that thing, I wouldn't sit in it for a hundred dollars.”

“How about a thousand?” he said absently as he flipped through folder after folder at near-light speed.

“Nope.” I was only half listening to him; I could still hear Gloria's raised voice from downstairs, and it twisted my stomach into a knot. I wanted to get away from it, but where was there to go?

“Everybody has a price,” he said without looking at me.

“Yeah?” I forced my attention away from the confrontation downstairs. “What's yours?”

“That depends. For what?”

“Oh, I dunno. An hour in a cheap motel.”

He shot me a look. “With you? Not enough money in the world.”

He said something after that, but I didn't hear it. It was as though a glass capsule of boiling acid broke inside my head. Before I knew what I was doing, my cane swung in a swift arc and struck the side of Teo's head.

9

My swing wasn't hard enough to seriously hurt Teo, but it was more than enough to throw me off balance and send me toppling to the floor by way of the beanbag chair. Even with all those little plastic beans to absorb the shock, it felt like every pin and nail and plate that held my shattered bones together suddenly jarred loose and sent me back to pieces.

“Shit, you okay?” I heard Teo say somewhere over me.

A few moments went by before I could speak. I lay half propped up on my side, staring down. I'd twisted my ankle hard enough to break the suction suspension on my BK prosthetic.

“My leg came off,” I said, staring at it.

“I see that. Do you need—”

“And my elbow's bleeding.”

He knelt next to me, smelling of hair product and stale ciga­rette smoke, sitting me up with careful hands. It had been a year since I had a hug, so I sort of turned it into one.

“You dumb shit,” he said. “Why did you hit me? Now I have to report you.”

“Please don't.”

“Don't move; I'll be right back.” He tried to pull away. “Let go, you nut job; I'm not reporting you this minute, I'm getting something for your elbow.” He eased me onto the beanbag chair and hurried out, returning with a wet washcloth.

I grabbed his arm. “Please don't report me.”

He pulled free, then handed me the cloth. “I have to; it's the rules.”

“I don't want to go back to the hospital. I've got nowhere else to go. Please.”

“I'll tell her I provoked you. And I'm sorry about that, I only meant—”

“I know what you meant, just shut up now please.” I adjusted the silicone sheath on my shin and slid it back into the suspension, but the seal was sloppy.

“No, you shut up,” Teo said. “Even if you were Inaya West, I wouldn't touch you. Among other things, if I molested a newbie, Caryl would have Elliott rip out my entrails.”

“Who's Elliott? The black guy?”

“Wow.” He blinked at me. “Racist much?”

“How was that racist?”

“If you have to ask . . . But no, Elliott is Caryl's, uh—” He looked at me and seemed to think better of it. “I dunno if she wants me talking about that yet. You'll meet him later.”

I held the washcloth against my elbow, watching Teo irritably rub his head where I'd hit him. My brain sort of flatlined; I lost track of what we were talking about.

“You okay?” he said, his hand still in his hair. “I was about to show you the viscount's file.”

“What's the point, if I'm fired?”

“You're not fired,” he snapped, leaning down to rummage
through his desk. His hair stuck straight out where he'd been rubbing it. “I'll tell her I like you.”

“You'll
tell her
you do?”

He ignored me. “Look at this.” He handed me a folder neatly labeled
RIVENHOLT
. It hardly seemed to belong in the mess of his room. Inside the folder were some sort of forms, filled out in careful block print with information that mostly made no sense to me. I wasn't really looking at the words anyway, because the photograph clipped to them was the kind of thing that captures attention.

I remembered him now, though like Teo, I couldn't remember his character's name in
Accolade
. He looked to be in his early thirties, with aristocratic cheekbones and a generous mouth. His hair was nearly as pale as his skin and fell in waves just to his collar. It was his eyes that I couldn't stop staring at, though: almond shaped, fog gray, their chill softened by tawny lashes.

“God,” I heard myself say.

“I know, right?” said Teo scathingly. “Must be nice to be able to design your own face.”

It was hard to reconcile Rivenholt's distant expression with the feelings he had poured into his drawings. “What's he like?” I asked. “Have you met him?”

“Once or twice. Your basic aristocrat stereotype. Thinks he's better than everyone, vain about his appearance, doesn't like humans touching him.”

“There are reasons besides snobbery that someone might not like to be touched.”

“Either way, when we find him, my boot is going to touch his ass.” He hesitated, then turned to fix me with a grave look.
“You know that's a joke, right? I play by the rules, even if Mr. Pretty Boy thinks he's above them.”

“May I remind you,” I said, “that I know approximately jack about the rules?”

“This is important, She-Hulk, so listen up. No violence against fey, ever. Not one drop of blood spilled. Not a scratch.”

“What if one attacks me?”

“Then you take the beating. Smiling optional.”

“That's bullshit.”

“There are really good reasons for that rule—like,
epic
reasons—but those details are way above your clearance level. But this is all you need to know: we do not want to piss the fey off, and not just because if it came to war they'd wipe us out like a termite infestation. They're behind every great—well, anything, really. Our whole society depends on them.”

“Do they depend on us, too?”

“Yeah. To them, our way of reasoning and organizing is the most amazing thing ever. Like their whole ranking ­system, with viscounts and barons and whatever? They got that from the Brits, ages ago, and it's practically religion to them now. Even simple stuff like counting time, it's totally foreign to them and they love it. Fey without human Echoes just sort of . . . drift around like they're in a dream. Don't even really have memories.”

“Huh.”

“I'll let Caryl do the rest of the lecturing. I need to make some lunch.”

While Teo went downstairs to rummage in the kitchen, I set up camp in the bathroom. After a quick shower and a cleaning of my prosthetics, I debated with myself: using the wheelchair
would be a pain in the ass, but if I wasn't dry enough when I put my prosthetics back on, I could cause skin problems that would put me back in the chair for days. Finally I decided to risk it: I used a hair dryer on both my stumps and the prosthetic sockets, praying that would be enough. I put them on, along with a nice skirt and a short-sleeved button-down.

Then came the hard part.

I wiped a clear patch from the foggy bathroom mirror and rubbed some styling wax between my palms, trying to tame the worst of my cowlicks without really looking. I didn't like being reminded that I no longer matched the image in my head, that I never would again. But there was no getting around it; I was going to need to put on some makeup.

The ritual of application was like riding a bike, even after a year. Foundation blended out the slight pinkness of my scar tissue but couldn't hide its cobbled texture. I could cheat with lip liner, redraw the left corner of my mouth, but I couldn't erase the deep vertical slash through both lips where they'd split to the teeth against concrete.

Putting on eyeliner took a kind of scrutiny I'd come nowhere near since my fall; I noticed for the first time how the scarring had pulled the corner of my left eyelid out of shape. I tried to wipe the liner off and reapply, but then I had to stop because my eyes were too wet. I grabbed tissues and tried some of the imagery Dr. Davis and I had worked on: a snowy cabin in the woods with a crackling fire. Once I was calmer I took a deep breath, deftly created the illusion of symmetry with my eye pencil, brushed on some mascara, and called it done.

Down in the kitchen there was a sandwich waiting for me.
Teo had already finished eating his and was poking around the fridge, muttering something about marinades and leftovers while Monty the cat wound figure eights around his feet.

I'd never have expected to like a sandwich with no meat, but the way Teo made mine, I didn't miss it. Sweet cucumber, onion, buttery-fresh avocado, some kind of tart cheese, tomato, and crisp lettuce with just the right amount of freshly ground pepper. An ecstatic profanity escaped me; Teo snorted and told me to wash out my mouth.

“I am never washing my mouth,” I said. “I may keep the last bite of this sandwich in my cheek like a hamster.”

“Gross, and not necessary.” Teo picked up the insistent cat, who seemed to be made of elastic covered in rusty steel wool. “I can make you lunch anytime, if you stop hitting people. I love cooking.”

“That's hot,” I said.

He responded with awkward silence, filled only by the cat's loud purring. A bite of my sandwich went down sideways.

“So,” Teo said when the moment had passed. “Ever been on the Warner Bros. lot?”

“Not since I worked as an extra.” It had been an easy way to watch other directors work, requiring no résumé or references.

“I called ahead to let Berenbaum know we're coming. If you need to do anything else to get ready, be quick.”

Mr. Yesterday's Jeans was insinuating that I wasn't presentable enough? “What about you?” I said. “When's the last time you had a shower?”

Teo put the cat down irritably. “This isn't a date, Roper. Get in the car.”

“No. If can manage a shower, so can you. This is a big deal
to me; I don't want you walking in there smelling like sweat and cigarettes.”

“For fuck's sake,” said Teo. But he slouched upstairs, picking off cat hair as he went.

•   •   •

The Warner Bros. lot, like all major studio lots, is a massive complex of buildings that dwarfs certain small towns. Every building has the same warm butterscotch-taffy exterior, accented with lush landscaping that gives the place a homey, welcoming feeling. It's an illusion, but a nice one.

During my days as an extra, I had always parked in the garage across the road and waited for the
WALK
light to wheel my suitcase of clothing changes and supplies over to the main gate. This time, we got to drive the car right onto the lot. Teo gave the guy at the security booth his ID and got a pass for the dashboard of his crap car. The security guy didn't look nearly as judgmental of us as I thought he should.

Berenbaum had his own little bungalow on a shady back corner of the lot, a cozy stucco outbuilding with a dozen parking spaces out front. Teo pulled right in like he owned the place, and despite the pass we'd been given, I couldn't help feeling like an intruder. Even tourists were given a warmer welcome here than extras; the sight and smell of the place brought back sense-memories of debasement and exhaustion.

As we got out of the car, I winced at the loud, grinding creak of the passenger-side door and glanced around for Berenbaum's trademark red Valiant. Of course it wasn't there; you don't drive an icon to work every day. Teo as usual was not slowing down for me, so I hurried to catch up, making heavy use of my cane.

Just inside the door of the bungalow was a cozy reception
area with barely enough room for the sexy assistant's desk and a few soft chairs. As if I weren't dazzled enough, the walls were hung with illustrious photographs from Berenbaum's career. In the oldest of them he had shaggy dark hair and bell-bottoms, but by the time we got to his first Oscar acceptance his hair was already zebra-striped white. Most of the photos showed him as I had always known him: a craggy, snow-capped man with intense dark eyes.

And then there he was, standing in the doorway behind the reception desk. He had to be pushing seventy by now, but aside from a comfortable sag in the middle and some deep crevices around his mouth and eyes, he looked ready to live another half century.

“Teo,” he said warmly.

He reached out to shake the kid's hand while I forgot how to stand up. I used my cane to steady my wobble and put out my own hand just in time for it to receive the same quick, decisive shake.

“Another new partner?” Berenbaum said with a wry smile as he gestured for us to precede him into his office.

“Just mixing things up,” Teo said.

Berenbaum's office was roomy, congenial, and strikingly absent the kind of self-congratulation that was so prevalent in the reception area. The walls, shelves, and floor were graced with the work of local artists; the only nod to his career at all was a set of framed posters from the Cotton trilogy, each covered in signatures. Even those were nearly obscured by a pair of potted ficus trees. I noticed two pictures of the red Valiant and three pictures of his copper-haired wife, each placed to be visible from his L-shaped work space.

He gestured to a dark leather couch and perched lightly on the edge of his desk.

“I didn't get your name,” he said to me, his eye contact almost unnervingly steady. If he'd checked out my prosthetic legs, he'd been clever enough to do it while I was ogling his office.

“Oh. Yes, thank you,” I said.

Only when Teo looked at me as though I'd grown a nipple on my forehead did I realize what I'd said. Or rather, hadn't said.

“That's Millie,” Teo cut in. “She's in training. She doesn't talk much.” The look he gave me suggested that I had damned well better not.

“So what can I do for the Arcadia Project?” said Berenbaum, the corners of his eyes crinkling a bit.

“We're trying to track down Rivenholt,” said Teo.

Berenbaum waited for more, then glanced at me to see if I'd be any help. I just shook my head slightly.

“You're looking for him here?” Berenbaum asked, scratching his chin with a benignly puzzled look. “
Black Powder
wrapped almost two weeks ago. He'd be settled in back at home by now.”

“He never returned to Arcadia,” said Teo flatly.

Berenbaum's hand dropped to his lap. “What? Are you sure?”

“There are only three Gates inside the Southern California perimeter,” said Teo. “They're all watched by people and double-­watched by magic. If he had crossed over, Caryl would know.”

Berenbaum pushed off from the edge of the desk, moving behind it. “That's just crazy. Let me try his hotel.”

“We were there this morning. Apparently he extended his
stay for a month, but also packed up everything and left. It looks like he hasn't been there in days.”