Path of Smoke (22 page)

“I'm serious. We've got another day until this meeting goes down. Let's be human.”

Ingrid looked uncertain. “Paul's got hockey practice. I could try to find a sitter.”

“I'm sure the Sovereign Court would watch Neil,” Carl said.

Ingrid pulled out her phone. “I'd prefer that he not learn the lyrics to ‘Edge of Seventeen' just yet. I'm going outside to make a call.”

She stood up and left the café. Shelby watched her go. If Ingrid was willing to do this, then maybe Carl was right. Maybe dancing was the appropriate response to fear.

“Sam?” Carl asked. “You're in, right?”

“Will there be straight men at this club?”

“Maybe a few bi guys. But they've got half-price drink specials.”

“Then I'm in.”

They went back to Ingrid's place to strategize, but the session dissolved when it was discovered that Paul had vodka in the fridge.

“He hides it behind the soy milk,” Ingrid said. “But he keeps forgetting that it's there, so he probably won't notice if you have some. All we've got to mix it with is . . . ginger ale.”

“Not a problem,” Carl replied.

By the time Paul got home from work, they were all debating which was the better show:
Breaking Bad
or
Orange Is the New Black
. Sam said that she couldn't watch Bryan Cranston in his underwear, but Carl argued that it was high art. They could all agree that Laura Prepon was the person they'd most like to go dancing with. Paul instantly forgave them for stealing his vodka. Sam convinced him to skip practice and join them at the club. It took very little effort. Ingrid remained sober and played dinosaur games with Neil until the sitter arrived.

Andrew met them at the club. He looked slightly dazed to see them all, like a nature photographer whose subjects had climbed out of the wild. Shelby kissed him on the cheek.

“I miss you something fierce,” she whispered in his ear.

“Likewise,” he said, smiling oddly.

She took his right hand, while Carl took his left. Then they walked into the club. A string of lights guided them upstairs, where the music was already whumping. Carl ordered them shots. Ingrid abstained. She had a slightly faraway look, and Shelby could tell that she was thinking about Neil. But then Paul whispered something in her ear.

“Challenge accepted,” she said, and reached for a shot.

“What did you say?” Sam asked.

“It's a sibling thing,” Paul replied. “Involving blackmail.”

“You got your wish,” Ingrid said, clinking the shot against the bar. “Don't push it.”

The dance floor was glowing like a hot-pink forge. Several ladies had put down their purses and were dancing around them, almost ritualistically. The DJ had wings. Paul and Sam danced together. She was taller than him, but his boots helped to make up the difference. Carl danced with Andrew. There was barely a breath between them. Every time Shelby turned around, Carl was ordering something blue or green. He was in his element. She danced with Ingrid. At first, they kept a respectable distance from each other. Then the distance grew friendly. The song changed tempo, and her arms were twined around Ingrid's neck. She was weightless.

The music stopped, and a beautiful drag queen in a Balenciaga gown ascended the stage. She was the Empress of Regina, and the entire Sovereign Court was gathered at the edges of the dance floor. They couldn't bend a knee, but they did lower their fans in a sign of reverence. The DJ handed her the microphone.

“And now, as they say, for something completely different,” she purred. “One of you would like to read a little something. Come up here, baby.”

A small shadow climbed onto the stage. At first, Shelby didn't register who it was. Then she realized that Carl was standing next to the empress. She handed him the microphone and glided back down to the parquet floor. Carl looked out at the crowd. For a second, she thought he might fall off the stage. Then his expression changed, and she saw that he was in teaching mode. This was just another classroom. He cleared his throat.

“These words,” he said, “belong to that fabulous reprobate, John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester. And to us.”

He was silent for a moment.

Then he closed his eyes, and spoke:

So, when my days of impotence approach,

And I'm by pox and wine's unlucky chance

Forced from the pleasing billows of debauch

On the dull shore of lazy temperance,

My pains at least some respite shall afford

While I behold the battles you maintain

When fleets of glasses sail about the board,

From whose broadsides volleys of wit shall rain.

Shelby couldn't quite look at him. Light blossomed on all sides, twinkling, like spectral Christmas trees. His eyes were still closed. Both Paul and Ingrid were smiling in disbelief. Sam's expression was a mixture of mild horror and sympathy. Shelby looked at Andrew. His face, as usual, was impossible to read. A few people continued to stir, but most of them had stopped completely and were listening. They were children caught in the middle of a story, unable to turn away. Carl shifted from one foot to the other, but his voice remained steady. The poem was somewhere deep in his memory, rising up in bright waves.

I'll tell of whores attacked, their lords at home;

Bawds' quarters beaten up, and fortress won;

Windows demolished, watches overcome;

And handsome ills by my contrivance done.

Nor shall our love-fits, Chloris, be forgot,

When each the well-looked linkboy strove t' enjoy,

And the best kiss was the deciding lot

Whether the boy fucked you, or I the boy.

He leaned forward, until she thought he might fall. But something held him. The soft glow of the lights, the hiss of the speakers, the spell of indrawn breath. It held him as he drew the words to a close. And she could see him, careworn, looking back at this moment, at its fading fire. Looking far back, and realizing that he'd done his very best to ruin them as they deserved.

Thus, statesmanlike, I'll saucily impose,

And safe from action, valiantly advise;

Sheltered in impotence, urge you to blows,

And being good for nothing else, be wise.

Everyone applauded. He handed back the microphone to the DJ, and the music resumed. Carl rejoined them, looking as if he'd just climbed out of another dimension.

“Where did that come from?” Shelby asked.

He shrugged. “I guess I was just feeling metrical.”

Andrew took his hand. “Let's dance.”

Paul and Sam were heading toward the patio. For a moment, Ingrid and Shelby found themselves staring at each other, smiling awkwardly.

“I think . . . I have to pee.” It wasn't what she'd been planning to say.

“Okay,” Ingrid replied. “I'm going to get a soda. I'll wait for you at the bar.”

Shelby headed downstairs. She was thinking about all of the other things that she could have said. They were all better than
I have to pee
. She turned a corner and walked through the open doorway. But it wasn't the bathroom. It was a small office, with a desk covered in folders and computer equipment. A man with red hair looked up as she entered.

“You're not supposed to be here,” he said, though he was smiling slightly.

Ingrid appeared behind her. “I saw you turn right and instead of left, and wanted to make sure you didn't—” She looked at the man behind the desk and trailed off.

“This clearly isn't the bathroom,” Shelby said.

“No.” The man folded his hands. “It isn't.”

“I feel like I know you.”

“Shelby,” Ingrid said, “we have to go.”

“No.” He rose. “Stay. We have some things to discuss.”

“What are you doing here?” Ingrid whispered.

Shelby stared at her. “You know him too?”

“Look closely,” she said.

Shelby squinted. He had a wispy orange beard and eyes that were dark but strangely kind. He was wearing a light green shirt, and his hands were pale and slightly freckled. There was something about his voice. It had a kind of trill to it.

“Narses?” She felt herself grow cold.

“I see the others are with you—including the artifex. There's one that I don't recognize.”

“Leave him out of this,” Ingrid said sharply. “Forget that you saw him.”

“You know that's not possible.”

“Please. Just let him go home.”

“I can't do that, miles.”

“I'm
not
a miles here. I'm a mother.”

“You've always been both. Now, you'd best bring the others. We have some things to discuss, and it's already getting late. There's a meeting room downstairs. We'll be afforded some measure of privacy there.”

“No.” There was panic in her voice—Shelby could hear it. “You have to let him go. He's got nothing to do with this.”

“Perhaps that was once the case, but not anymore.” His voice softened. “He was going to find out sooner or later.”

“Not tonight. Do you hear me? It's not going to happen.”

Narses looked at her for a moment. Then he sighed. “Fine. He and the other one—Andrew—they can go. But the rest of you are staying.”

“Can we wait one second here?” Shelby demanded. “I thought you were dead.”

“A lot of people thought that.”

“What are you doing at our club?”

“I should think that's obvious.” He smiled. “I own it.”

S
HELBY
STARED
AT
HERSELF
in the bathroom mirror.

The fluorescent lights made her look as if she'd been caught in a camera's flash. Milky pale and washed out, with bruised shadows at the edges of her life. Mirrors were supposed to capture your soul, but this one seemed disinterested, offering up her reflection only to be polite. Someone had scrawled a phone number in black marker across the glass. It struck her as being strangely out of time. Did people really phone random numbers? With the exception of talking to Andrew on speakerphone, most of her conversations occurred in a stichomythia of text messaging. It was hard enough to dial up SaskTel, knowing that she'd have to talk to a stranger about her fiscal irresponsibility. She couldn't imagine dialing a completely random number. It was like opening a treasure chest that you'd found in a dungeon. You might get a handful of coins, a priceless artifact, or a poison dart.

Next to her, a member of the Sovereign Court was applying a touch-up. Shelby was impressed by her diaphanous eyelashes. Her hair was streaked blue at the tips, and she wore a strapless black gown that exposed the tattoo on her back.

Still looking in the mirror, she observed: “Judging from your expression, your cat just died, or you lost a bet.”

Shelby reddened slightly. “I'm just having a very strange night.”

“I've been having one of those for the last twenty years.”

“Really? You seem very well adjusted.”

“You don't know me, pumpkin.”

“Sorry.”

She put away her compact and looked at Shelby. “Obviously, you've watched too many movies—you know the kind, where the drag queen has mystical powers and gives you advice about your love life, renews your faith in humanity—” She rummaged around her purse. “That kind of shit. Am I right?”

Shelby felt her expectations falling. “Possibly.”

“You know how you've got that undo button on your keyboard? Control-Z, or whatever? You just press it, and the mistake's gone, like magic.”

It wasn't quite a question. “I'm familiar with control-Z,” she said finally.

“Well, they should make one of those fucking buttons for life. Bad decision? Just undo it. The real shit-kicker is that the bad decisions are the good ones.”

“Is that your advice?”

She smiled. “I'm not your therapist. You seem sweet, though. Have a good night, and remember what John Waters says.
If you go home with someone, and they don't have any books—don't fuck them.
”

She walked out of the bathroom.

Shelby listened to the song of her heels as she climbed the stairs. Then there was only the buzz of the overhead lights and the sound of her own breath, which seemed to belong to someone else. If she stayed in this little bathroom, this white-chocolate space egg, then nothing would change. She could just control-Z the last fifteen minutes. Turn in the right direction. Maybe drag Ingrid into the bathroom with her. Or they could run straight out of the club, hand in hand down Broad Street, ignoring the horns and curious stares of people on their way to Shoppers Drug Mart. They would blaze through the summer dark, a trans-Neptunian object made of irony and fire. Nothing could touch them. It would be like
Bridge to Terabithia
, if you stopped on page 130 and refused to read any further.

In a small, overheated office, full of humming computer equipment and the sweet trace of smoke, Carl and Ingrid were being interviewed by a eunuch. Or maybe he wasn't a eunuch on this side of the park. Maybe he never had been. Maybe he'd always lived in two worlds, trading his sword for a smartphone. Stepping over the park's line of beauty to take control of their club on Broad Street. The lubricated end to so many crooked pilgrimages. How many times had she crouched in a graffitied stall, trying to work up the courage to be real, and there he'd been, wreathed by smoke in that little room? The park had begun to annihilate her personal geography. She could no longer perceive its borders. Like any true game, it was taking over her life from the inside. Perhaps her bones would be added to the pile, sooner than she realized. The thought was almost comforting. She could pay her debt to the clay and the vigilant grasshoppers. All she had to do was leave the bathroom.

She used to have a thing for sinks. In grade school, she would hide in the brown-tiled bathroom and turn on all of the faucets. This was before they'd introduced the ones that shut off after a few minutes. Water arced into the blood-flecked porcelain, stained by some child's nosebleed. She watched it with great fascination, while the sounds of the school rumbled beyond the big door. Once, she'd peed herself because a substitute teacher wouldn't let her leave the classroom until she finished her math test. She remembered the feeling of her damp underwear, the biting odor, the silence of the empty stall, which offered no solutions. If only it could have transported her somewhere.

Shelby glanced at the mirror again. The phone number was written across her face. Should she call? It seemed as safe as anything else in her life, at the moment. It was the nakedness of the number that drew her in. No preliminaries. No promises of a good time, or misspelled accusations. Did it simply mean
I was here
? Or was it an invitation? Finally, she turned away, exiting the bathroom. Music pulsed along the floor. A man sat on the stairs, nodding off, one hand curled protectively around his drink. She carefully stepped around him.

She walked past the ATM, where someone was staring blankly at the screen. Their balance flickered at them.

“That can't be right,” she heard. “It
can't
be.”

Shelby passed a long bench where people reclined and collapsed into each other, like strange particles. Their conversations blended into a chain of riddles:

so done PowerPoint couldn't

pay going to ex construction
every
where

all over me what the hell ladybugs

once torrents jumper cables not without

socks in trees lost the form

where's my where's oh

hold

just for one

winter

A boy looked at her, with hair the color of a prairie sunset, wine-bright and borderless. He was lit by the glow of his phone. For a moment, she couldn't tell if he was really there. He didn't smile. Just glanced at her with mild curiosity. How did she look to him, standing in the corridor with people buzzing around her? Was she like a piece of furniture? Did he have any idea that she spent half of her life in another world, framed by rival queens and offerings to chance? Perhaps he knew that the dice were loaded. He was old enough to be here, after all, surrounded by this glorious accident of dance and rumor.

They all should have known better, yet still, they threw. Rattling around like fireworks in a cup, they waited for their grand entrance, the chance to roll across the green felt table. The kiss good night, or the turned cheek. Kneading in the dark, or walking home, one step ahead of the dawn. You threw because it felt like a choice, and last call was a distant storm. You could see it, but you had a while yet—there was still the possibility of shelter.

She stepped into the eunuch's office. Carl was sucking down a rum and Coke, while Ingrid stood with her arms crossed. Shelby tried to catch her eye, but she was staring at the overhead light, which flickered imperceptibly. What could she divine within its decay? She was so still, except for one curl of hair, which trembled beneath the air-conditioning. Neil was probably fast asleep, dreaming of their next adventure. A real adventure, involving dogs and comets and sunlight.

“Where's Sam?”

“Paul drove her home,” Carl said.

“Andrew?”

Carl drained the last of his drink. For a moment, the office was filled with the sucking sound of his straw. Then he pushed the glass away.

“Gone.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Does it even matter? I hope he goes home with someone. A hookup will distract him from the fact that we're all just messing with his head.” He turned to the club owner. “So, you must get a lot of trim. And free drinks. Why did you ever leave? Was it ennui, or do you just have a fetish for sandals?”

“You might as well pretend that you're in a comedy,” Narses said. “It's a good instinct. If your logic follows, we'll all be married by the end of this.”

Carl nodded. “You've got to admit—all this story lacks is fairy juice.”

“Hush.” Shelby sat down next to him. “I need to think.”

“I need to drink.”

“Stop it! You need to help. You can't just sit there like a useless harlequin, and then puke on the floor as soon as things get dangerous.”

She hadn't intended the words to be quite so acrid. Carl just stared at her. Then he pushed the glass farther away.

“I didn't mean—”

“It's fine. I get it.”

Shelby didn't know what to say. She turned to Ingrid. “Is Paul okay?”

Ingrid didn't answer at first. Then she blinked and looked at Shelby, as if seeing her for the first time. “I told him—” She laughed, suddenly. “I don't even remember. Isn't that great? I just spun the wheel of lies, and who knows where it landed? Sam helped. My sweet brother. He never sees it coming.”

“Deception drives the engine of this game,” Narses said.

Shelby stared at him. “You sound like a character from a cheesy RPG.
I am the Dark Savant, and I get to be cryptic, because of my giant bubble helmet.
Is this really all you have to offer us? Because your clichés stink—”

“Like an evil fart,” Carl added.

“Right. No. Ignore him. What are you even doing here?”

“I used to live here,” Narses replied. “A lifetime ago. The only way to outdistance Latona was to come back.”

“Is it parking when he does it?” Carl asked.

Ingrid stepped forward. “Are we in danger? Here, in this world?”

“The worlds are running into each other, like paint,” Narses said. “That's what she wants. If you stand in her way, she'll devour you.”

“That's not an answer. Why do you people insist on talking this way?”

“It's strange,” Narses observed. “You've been on the other side of the park longer than they have. But you still think of us as different species.”

“We're nothing alike. I have a life here. A family.”

“So did I.”

Shelby couldn't stand it anymore. She was so tired of feeling stupid. It was like being part of an infernal pyramid scheme. You could never quite see the apex, so you kept trying to pull your own weight, hoping that you'd rise. But they always wanted more, and nobody could ever explain what it was all for. How did the park even work? Was it magic? Was it a curse? She'd grown up reading C. S. Lewis and wanted so badly to be Lucy. She'd scoured every shitty duplex and subsidized apartment for a magical wardrobe. But she could never find the room with the dead bluebottle on the windowsill.

And, like most people, she'd given up on deeper magic from before the dawn of time. Until the night that she'd vanished into the park. Then she'd discovered that real magic was dangerous and volatile, a match hovering over celluloid, a look in the dark that might be the death of you. She hadn't even hesitated. But what was it turning into? Bleeding and running and riddles in the club, the one place where she'd felt safe.

She stood up. “Let's go.”

Carl stared at her. “This is the exposition scene.”

“He doesn't really know anything. He's in the dark—just like us.”

“Trust me,” Narses said. “You need my help. When she begins—”

“We'll call you,” Shelby replied. “It's late, and I'm tired of being played with.”

Narses leaned forward. “You have to be careful. They have your scent.”

“She can send as many monsters as she likes. This is Saskatchewan. We'll just get a bigger truck.”

Shelby walked out of the club with Carl and Ingrid trailing behind. Broad Street was humming with late-night activity. Students on bar crawls were headed toward O'Hanlon's downtown, or Bushwakker on the strip. Their nights had just begun. A few exhausted souls were carrying home TV dinners and pet food. The moon kept a yellow eye on them. A group of kids were smoking in the alley. Their braying laughter carried across the street.

“So—” Carl was half smiling, as if to reassure her. “We just walked out on the one person who might have been able to tell us what was going on. Any thoughts on that?”

“We already know what's happening. It was all in the letter that Eumachia stole. Her batshit-crazy mom is meeting with the chieftain of the silenoi to give him some kind of relic. Of course, relics are always safe and never cause destruction, so we have no reason to worry.”

“Shel, are you coming undone?”

They both looked at her kindly. She jammed her hands in her pockets, as if that might keep her from throttling someone.

“I'm just so tired of gambling,” Shelby said. “That's all we do. We rattle around like dice in a cup, waiting for someone to tell us something. But we still don't know a thing about what the park is, or how it works, or if it's going to eventually kill us. Narses helped us—I'll admit that—but right now, he just seems like one more cryptic asshole.” She shook her head. “This was our night, Carl. Our night to be normal. And we came so close. Andrew was here, and Paul, and everyone was dancing, and having fun. It was the first time that I didn't want the magic anymore. I just wanted everything to be like this, always.”

But even as she said it, Shelby knew that it was a lie. Fantasy novels had taught her that it was useless to complain about wonder. She didn't want to be one of those vampires who whined about their immortality, or the child of prophecy who just wanted to be normal. Superheroes, wizards, monsters—they all just want to be us.