Sheila and Sara

I haven't written much here , but I have been writing. I successfully completed National Novel Writing Month this past November, for certain values of "completed." I crossed the 50,000 mark a few days early, and closed out at 54,527 on the 30th. However, the novel itself is not narratively complete, so it ended on " To be continued... " instead. (My outline--which I played with for most of the year--was ridiculously detailed.) I plan to work on finishing it over the next few months (there's not enough material left to merit a sequel out of it, plus I have stuff in mind for the next book in the series) and edit into something rereadable. The revisions on  The Two Kinds of Magic  are progressing nicely, thanks to a writers' group that specializes in genre fiction. (As I've discovered, getting feedback on an urban fantasy from literary types is Not Very Helpful.) I'm already outlining revisions in my head for parts that they haven't even gott...

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.  My last confession was three months ago.  I have committed a mortal sin, but I did it to preserve the life of my apprentice, my friend, the safety of this world and my own life.” From behind the screen there was a sigh.  Sebastian recognized it.  It was Father Harrison, who usually took confession around this time.  It was safe to tell him everything; he had been red cord bound for years after witnessing someone flying. Father Harrison finally spoke.  His voice was weary.  “Tell me, Sebastian, who have you killed this time?”

This is a sequel, of sorts, to  The Ugly Handsome Man .  It is a true story. I was in meditation class, listening to a recording of the Dalai Lama and his entourage chanting at the sickbed of Vaclav Havel.  Somewhere in the midst of breathing and listening, I saw the Ugly Handsome Man in the eye of my mind.  He was in a dark room, lying on a stone bier, slit open straight down the middle.  Around him were gathered gremlins in mourning.  His body was completely hollow.  Then he abruptly caught fire and burned until all of him was completely consumed.  The flames then flowed into me, giving me back everything that he had taken.

Every night, one of the nurses would push open the door to the bedspace and shine a flashlight in to make sure we were still in our beds and presumably not in the process of attempting suicide.  She would leave the door hanging wide open each time.  I would wake to the light of the flashlight and stay awake to the light from the hallway.  Each time I would get out of bed and push the door almost closed--enough to block the light but not enough to click the latch, lest they come barging in again for our protection.

“Hope?” she said.  Her lips stretched into a mirthless approximation of a smile.  “Hope requires faith, faith requires trust, trust requires courage, courage requires strength and strength inevitably requires replenishment.  I have lived in deprivation for so long that there is no strength left in me and no source of replenishment.  Therefore I have no strength to have courage, no courage to have trust, no trust to have faith and no faith to have hope.  Keep your pretty words and empty promises.  Give me something to eat and a safe place to sleep and then you can speak of hope.”

She took in a mouthful of the wine and held it on her tongue.  The dark and wooden flavors bit in along with a faint undercurrent of sweetness.  She faked a swallow and kept her eyes on his mouth.  A twitch of a smile flickered before it was suppressed. She let the glass slip from her hand and spat the wine out as she crouched down to retrieve it. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “So very sorry.” She put her hands around the largest shard she could find and when he bent down over her, she went for the throat.

Fifteen yards of velvet fabric, crimson. Five silk scarves of approximately three feet in length and a minimum of six inches in width, black. Three ostrich feathers. One spool of thread. One spool of braided picture wire.  A twenty-five foot roll will be more than sufficient. Cutting shears. Scissors. One bottle of extra-virgin olive oil. One bottle of rubbing alcohol. Tape and gauze. Two bath towels with washcloths. One jar of Nutella hazelnut spread, or reasonable equivalent. One bag of ice. One ice chest. One ice bucket (optional.) One pint of fresh strawberries. Two tubes of red lipstick.

“Put it this way,” she said, “Chocolate and peanuts go well together.  Beer and peanuts go well together.  But would you really want to put beer and chocolate together?” “No, I guess not,” Amy admitted. “Then there you go.  You’re the peanut, baby.  It’s not a bad thing to be.  And either I’m beer and he’s chocolate or he’s beer and I’m chocolate but either way we’re really best taken separately, at different times, with palate cleansers in between.” “I think he’s probably beer.” “I think you’re probably right.  He drinks enough that if you cut him, he’d bleed it.”

“You were right—the job was a good luck charm.” When Delany interviewed for the job, she’d asked the usual question about why the position was open in the first place.  Margie’s answer was that the store had a tendency to raise people’s vibrations so that the next thing you knew, their dream job opened up or they started their own business.  Delany didn’t have the heart to suggest to Margie that maybe people would be less inclined to bolt to other jobs or plunge into the risky waters of entrepreneurship if she paid something closer to a living wage.

Nah, I don’t want to get in trouble with your girlfriend. You don’t have a girlfriend?  Seriously? Sure, you don’t.  That’s what they all say, you know. “I swear to you I’m not seeing anybody else.”  Yep, those words exactly and everything.  Not falling for it.  Not this time. Whether or not I have a boyfriend is not relevant.  I don’t want to get in trouble with your girlfriend.  I know how vengeful women can be when they find out. So you seriously don’t have a girlfriend? Sorry to hear that.  Maybe you should reconsider your technique for meeting people.

“Is that new?” Sebastian asked.  He’d settled into the seat next to Delany. “Had them installed when we put the shelves in.  Stones before spells and all that.  I also had a video projector installed as my plausible explanation.” “How did you explain the curtains over the mirror?”  “If they’d asked, I would have told them I have eccentric but wealthy clients who get nervous around mirrors.  It would have had the added bonus of being absolutely true.  As it turned out, if you pay enough, they don’t ask questions in the first place.  Shall we cast the circle, then?”

“He’s still there,” she said quietly. “Is he?”  Claude turned to look.  “You’d think a magician of his level would have a little more sense than that.” Delany felt that tensing in the air again, like thunderclouds building. Argentine turned and stalked away and the pressure slackened. “ There’s a good boy,” he said.  “Let’s get you back up to Mr. James’ suite, shall we?  You are still staying there, I hope.” “I am.  I was just . . . on my way back.” “We always appreciate returning guests.  Well-behaved ones, at least.  Though you’ve been remarkably troublesome without even making an effort.”

“Oh, he definitely wants you dead—with your throat cut inside of a summoning circle.  Depending on who your father really is, your blood will either bind the demon to his will or unleash it without restraint.  He seems convinced that you are his daughter, or else he is mad enough to believe that summoning an unbound demon is an acceptable risk.  Either way, it would be a catastrophe and I will have no rest until he is stopped.” “Do you ever rest?  When’s the last time you slept?” Sebastian paused to calculate.  “About two and a half years ago.”

We trade cities.  I speak to him of Venice; he speaks to me of Berlin.  There is a place near where a friend of his lives that used to be an airport.  “Hitler’s little baby,” he calls it.  It’s a public park now, he explains, where the runways are now used by skaters and people fly kites when the wind is good for it. The pride and joy of a brutal dictator is now a place where people fly kites.  A place where my friend discovered how delightful flying kites could be.  This is why I have hope in humanity.

“You have abused my hospitality no less than twice, and in ways that count double against you.  There will be no third chances.  You are no longer welcome at the Vaumont, Mister Argentine.  Get out before I seal the wards against you.  Mister Blake is a guest who understands when it is time to leave.  You would do well to follow his example.”  The man turned to Delany and extended his hand.   “Miss Riordan, I presume?  Claude Vaumont, at your service.” Delany tentatively took his hand.  He smiled and placed a light kiss upon her knuckle before leading her inside.

For a full minute, I swear we could not speak.  Recognition lit up on both of our faces and all we could do was laugh.  We embraced as if long parted, rather than meeting for the very first time.  Words had abandoned us both and our actions and laughter spoke for us instead.  You are here.  You are real.  You are flesh and bone and more than all the words and photographs we ever shared on paper and on screens.  And yet I know you.  Finally she said, with a shy smile, the first word ever uttered between us: “Hello!”

When I am a very old woman, I shall wear red with a hat that matches perfectly. Should anyone object I’ll gladly switch to a black one, since black matches everything  and looks damn fabulous doing it. My pension will be spent on bourbon  and silk shirts  and I will still have money for butter. I have no sobriety of youth to make up for— I who talk to the moon, and dance in the rain. When I am a very old woman  I will tend my own garden,  pick my own flowers,  and let my neighbors  keep their own.

Laney was quiet for a long time.  “What do you mean by that?  Crossing over into magic?” “We often liken it to the banks of a river.  On one bank lives the human race in its usual state.  On the other bank are those who have become magical.  Right now, you might be considered between the banks in the middle of the river.  When you have been made a magician, you will arrive at the far bank.” “Is there a way back to the . . . regular bank?” “The near bank, it’s usually called.  And no, there isn’t.  Not once you’ve crossed.”

“What’s the closest you come to dying, boy?” There was a trickle of something warm running down Gary’s neck from where the point of the knife was pressing into his skin.  He hoped it was only sweat. “Right about now, I think,” Gary said with a shaky laugh. The scary grin widened.  “You look it.  Pretty boy, ain’t ya?  You got a woman?” “Not for much longer.” “‘Cause she’s leaving, or ‘cause you’re fixing to die?” “She’s fixing to die.  It’s why I’m here.” “What for?  You want me to kill you so you don’t have to see her go?”

“I ain’t working with him until I can get a good look in his eyes.” Gary shrugged.  “Put me in a staring contest, if you want to.” Bobby--Gary wouldn’t call him ‘Moondog’--walked over and leaned down until the smell of alcohol from his breath overwhelmed the cigarette haze around them.  His watery blue eyes fixed Gary with an unblinking glare.  Gary didn’t see Bobby’s hands move until a moment before the back of his head was gripped with one hand and a knife held against his throat with the other. “You blinked,” he said with a yellowed grin.