Vassa in the Night (21 page)

“So you do think it's the right thing to do?” I ask, and I realize that I really, intensely care what she thinks about this. “Trying to get Pangolin out—and maybe—”

Erg pulls herself up and gives a quick shake, dislodged crumbs flinging off her tiny body. “I wish it wasn't going to be you, Vassa. Going in there. It's not safe for you at all. I mean, there might be some things in there that aren't very friendly.”

“But you won't tell me
not
to do it?” It's only now that I understand she won't be coming with me. Even if it's risky for me, Erg can take care of herself just fine. Right? She can outsmart Babs and the hands, no problem. Can't she?

“I won't tell you not to do it,” Erg agrees somberly. “Because that's why we're here.”

 

INTERLUDE IN SCALES

THE PREVIOUS FEBRUARY

Icy pockmarks hollowed the snow so it shattered under the scrabbling of conical claws and the thrash of a heavy tail; the alley was narrow and inconspicuous and no one had cleared away the drifts. The windows on both sides were sealed with cement blocks and gray icicles dripped from their frames. The corpse—an old man swaddled in rotten furs, his gaping mouth showing two ragged curves of bone in lieu of ordinary teeth—had been left tied to a streetlamp. His neck was badly bruised, his tongue swollen. The body drooped against its bonds and its feet had skidded apart on the icy ground: feet that were almost entirely concealed by extremely long, voluminous pants. Wads of filthy cloth hunched around its shoes, and Pangolin bent to look closer. It was an unnecessary gesture. He was already perfectly aware that those feet in their broken shoes pointed back toward the lamppost: that is, in the opposite direction from the face.

He straightened and peered at a curling note pinned to the old man's mangy lapel. The red ink was snow-smeared but still faintly legible.

Pangolin glanced around for Picnic, who was hugging a corner of the nearest building and tenderly nuzzling the brick. “It appears that poor dear Candlewax has borne the brunt of some overly excitable humans' displeasure. Regarding a certain nocturnal stubbornness, which Candlewax himself assuredly did nothing to instigate.” Picnic tipped his head back and regarded his partner with sleepy eyes, then gave the wall a slow, exploratory lick. “
We will slaughter all you unnatural scum one by one until we get our daylight back,
it says here. Regrettable ignorance, is it not, Picnic? The writer would benefit from instruction on the subject of
nature.
Both what it encompasses, and what it excludes.”

“A fish will balance best with both its feet planted,” Picnic observed gravely. He stood on tiptoe to nibble a soot-blackened icicle.

“Indeed,” Pangolin agreed. “And I fear that persons unknown—though manifestly they can only be
persons of quality
—have rather unbalanced the fish in question, distending the nights as they have. Dreadful selfishness, tinkering with the dim hours in this fashion. Most irresponsible. Well, we have our mandate: to ensure harmony between our community and what one might describe as, perhaps, the society of the not-up-to-snuff. And harmony has no better preservative than obliviousness. I fear the persistent nights are encouraging the lower orders to pay us rather too much attention. They certainly paid too much to poor Candlewax. An appalling bit of vigilantism, this! I expect that some
human
took note of his feet and saw fit to blame him unfairly. And now we must guard against further attacks on others of our society with, ahem, salient characteristics.” A ripple passed through the tip of his snout.

Picnic padded over, his checked suit flapping in the frigid wind, and examined the corpse for a moment. Then he reached out and gave it a gentle shake. Firefly glints began to creep over the snow, gathering from all directions. Soon the backward feet and flopping trousers were covered in twinkling swarms, and Picnic snuffled with satisfaction. The brass plaque around his neck gleamed with unsettled reflections. “Cracked eggs still have yolks,” Picnic said thoughtfully.

“And as this nightfulness appears to thin with distance, it should be entirely possible to pinpoint its epicenter? I find myself very much inclined to agree, Picnic. Well, then, we must take it upon ourselves to bring the full weight of the law to bear—on these persons of questionable judgment—until balance can be restored. We will track down the source of the expanding darkness and identify the perpetrators! We will,” Pangolin added, “bring a
suit
against them. In the court of possibilities!”

Picnic's eyes widened as he turned to stare at his partner, and he gave a high-pitched whinny.

“We will indeed!” Pangolin affirmed. “We will exert our full authority! No measure is too drastic, Picnic, when we find ourselves faced with such perversity!” Behind him the seething lights had already devoured nearly all of the old furrier's flesh; ribbons of worn pelt dripped from exposed bones. The living sparks gathered in dense rings around the skull's empty eyes and the sockets began to widen. It was clear that by morning no trace of the body would remain.

Picnic stood for a long moment with his head tipped, then nodded. A full moon was just rolling into the crevice of sky overhead, and Picnic flourished one long hand in its direction. “The Brooklyn Bridge sweats birds tonight. Wet as fresh-washed socks.”

“So it does,” Pangolin agreed, and proffered his paw.

 

CHAPTER 13

That's why we're here.
I try repeating that in my head a few times, getting used to the way it sounds.
That's why we're here.
Clueless little humanette that I am, I thought we'd gotten stuck here because I came in for lightbulbs. I thought Erg was here to protect me, not to make sure I carry out some vague mission to do with
showing
Babs. How naïve of me.

“You mean we're here to … put Babs out of business?” Maybe I'm semi-enchanted even now, because when I put it like that it sounds awfully mean. Babs has her issues, no question, but for some reason I don't actually want to do her harm. She's like the hopelessly pathological grandmother I never had.

“You don't
like
what Babs is doing, Vassa,” Erg explains. Ah, so we're back to speaking exclusively in terms of how
I
feel, as if Erg's feelings weren't at least as much of a factor in getting us into this mess. As if she didn't have a whole slew of emotions independent of mine. “You're still really upset about Joel. And you don't like the way she treats your boyfriend, or the swans, or those two lawyers. You'd love to stop her from hurting anyone else ever again! Right?”

“Sure,” I say.
What do I owe myself, Joel? What did I borrow from myself, and how on earth will I ever give it back?
“Every time I see Joel's head out there … Somebody should stop Babs from doing that.”

Erg arches her black eyebrows at me. “
Somebody.
Oh naturally, Vassa. As in somebody-who-isn't-Vassa should stop her? Some big, strong not-Vassa hero-person should come along and make everything better, and fix the nights, and help your boyfriend! And maybe after this somebody
else
gets around to fixing everything,
you
can bake them some nice cookies to say thank you! Oh, except by then you'll be too old to stir the batter.”

Maybe she has a point, but she doesn't have to be so snide about it. “So Pangolin was right? Something Babs is doing is making the nights last so long?” This is probably one of those forbidden questions because Erg just fixes me with a sardonic stare, her flat blue eyes weirdly brilliant. I twist the scraggly blanket in my hands. “Well, BY's
is
the only store around here that stays open all night! I guess stretching the nights out must be good for business.” I think I'm only kidding until I hear the words settling on the air. At first they start sounding kind of true, then as Erg keeps on gazing at me they sound absolutely true, unbearably true.

“Ooh, what good thinking, Vassa!” Erg lilts. “Gee, maybe that
is
Babsie's motive. I mean,
you
never would have come in here if the nights were just normal-length, right? And Babs would get so bored if she didn't have customers to play with.”

Every single thing I figure out just sends new questions avalanching down around me. “Okay. But how? I mean how the hell could Babs do that?”

Erg gives me one of her how-dumb-can-you-be looks.

“This has something to do with the motorcyclist,” I say after a moment. “It's crazy, but I think he might be … connected to the night? Is he like a hostage?”

Erg doesn't answer, but she does lift the corners of her mouth just a hair. Letting me know. “So, about how you want me to create a diversion? Babs will stay at the register if she thinks that's what we're doing. So what you need to do is go talk to her and act really hard like you're trying to
keep
her at the register, okay? Ask her lots of questions. Pretend like
you're
the diversion. Then she'll go to see what's happening in back. Okay? Does that make sense?
Then
you run for her door.”

“You sound worried,” I tell her. “No faith in me, Erg?” I'm not too sure I can pull it off, either, really. And even if I
do
get into Babs's rooms I won't have the foggiest idea what to do next.

Even so, I start wriggling my swan foot into my boot. If we're really doing something this crazy, then we might as well start now.

“Well.” Erg has the grace to look embarrassed. “It's not like you're a
doll,
Vassa. I mean I think—compared to a lot of humans, you'll probably do fine? I mean you're used to being
around
a doll, right? So I'd think that would have to help some!”

“Keep digging that hole, Erg,” I tell her. But then I scoop her up, and wipe the gunk off her hair, and kiss the top of her little head over and over. And she doesn't even try to bite.

I'm not actually doing this,
I tell myself as I straighten my jacket and make a haphazard effort at untangling my hair a little.
I wouldn't do anything this stupid.
But I'm leaning down over the cot, holding out my sleeve for Erg.
Anyway, what about Chelsea? You promised you'd be home tomorrow.
It feels like I'm acting out gestures that have been waiting for me all along, like my movements are grooves cut into the air and I'm suddenly flowing inside them.

I open the door and step out into the orange and yellow of BY's, the colors sizzling around me like hot grease. After a few steps Erg taps my arm, and I lean against a shelf for a moment to let her out. I feel the skid of her tiny wooden hands on my wrist; I hear the faint clang of her feet hitting the metal. The tinkling piano music almost covers her chiming footsteps, but not quite. I don't let myself look down to watch her darting behind the jars of green-blue salsa.

That means I'm on my own, of course. I hadn't realized until right now how completely I'm accustomed to relying on her. The idea that Erg would deliberately send me into danger makes my knees waver just a bit with each step.

I walk lazily down the aisle, picking up boxes—one is a cereal called Weasel Bites!—and putting them back in the wrong spots, stuffed in at the wrong angles. It's enough to bring the hands thumping after me, indignantly straightening the things I've mussed; that should give Erg enough time to start whatever she's got planned. I turn away from the hands, knocking a display of hot pink canisters with my elbow. Half a dozen of them clatter to the floor; I absently pick them up, shove them in odd corners, and put one on top of the refrigerator.

Dexter leaps on top of my head with a sickening soft slap, then scrambles in my hair until he's swinging right in front of my nose, jiggling furiously all the while. I wouldn't say I'm used to it, especially not to the feeling of his skin, like hot, dried-out dough, when he drags against my nose.