Black Bottle

perfectly tuned to his thoughts. Caliph let go of her as if she had become a block of ice.

“What are you doing?”

“Caliph.” Her voice was careful. “Remember that night we slept downstairs? You went to the icebox, so thirsty … looking for a carton of milk.”

Caliph took a step back.

“It was dark,” she said. “You were tired. You wound up with the wrong container and when you lifted it to your mouth, the taste of citrus was so appalling that you dropped it on the floor.

“The juice hadn’t gone bad. It was your expectation that soured it.”

Caliph did remember that night. And she was right. The nectar—flown from Sandrenese vineyards—might as well have been vinegar.

The memory was stunningly relevant to what he felt right now. It was as if her words had flipped a switch inside his head.

She was not like him, despite her appearance. The perfection he saw in her—that everyone saw in her—had instilled in him the expectation that who she was, on the inside, should—

Her words both interrupted and finished his thought, completing it more succinctly than he could have done himself.

“The paragon of humanity is as alien as anything you can dream,” she whispered.

“You’re inside my head.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Caliph imagined a heady fume coiling off her skin in the darkness. The platinum lines glittered as she turned slightly. The sound of Caliph’s own breathing deafened him.

What if she was right?

What if she represented something closer to apotheosis than he wanted to admit? He was afraid to touch her. There were numbers in her. Ratios. The cunning spirals of her ears. The distance from eyes to chin. The precise width of her lips was overly perfect.

“What happened to you?” he said. “What made you like this?”

He hadn’t meant it as a cruel assessment but in response, the black cutout of her head turned down into the fan of her fingers. The uncanny seduction broke off. For a moment he thought she was only thinking. Then her shoulders convulsed.

He couldn’t understand what had caused this. He reached out. The instant his hand touched her, the sound came out, wretched and plaintive. All his internalized fears and postulations shed away. He was left with the sound of her hushed blubbering, the humming of the airship and her strange patchy-warmth shuddering against his chest.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not your fault,” she hissed. “It’s not your fault.”

Feeling brutish, Caliph reached back into their past for anything that might shore up their embrace. “Hey.” He tugged her chin with his finger. “You and I belong to the stars, remember?”

She laughed brokenly at that and said, “You don’t know what that means. You’ve never known what that means.” For a long time after, she was quiet.

Caliph held her. He looked over her shoulder, through the eight-foot circular window, to where the ship’s starboard lights flashed and burned. Slowly, his anxiety began building again.

Other ships signaled back. They were organizing for the single file journey through the Greencaps. The Odalisque revved her engines, preparing to accelerate to lead position.

Caliph felt his skeleton shiver uncontrollably, as if connected to the zeppelin. The vibration centered around his heart with a curious tingle. Just as he was contemplating the strangeness of this, he felt Sena’s fingertips unbutton him, slide inside and crisscross over his chest.

She pulled herself closer, soft and warm, except for those thin glittering lines of coldness. Her aberrations became toothsome. She smelled of hypnosis, of deep narcotic sweetness, sugary mint and water-flowers. Her body crept off the floor, one leg at a time, and wrapped itself around him. She was kissing his lips. Caliph could no longer see. He felt his back bump against one of the stateroom’s paneled walls.

Sena’s hands pushed them off and pivoted them like one creature toward the bar.

He leaned her back amid the imported liquors. She smiled crookedly, tears gone—drunk up by his shirt. Sena reached behind her head for a bottle of hard black rum. The stopper popped into her palm and she tipped it, glugging softly over the front of her body, like a dark cascade over pale stone. It pooled in her navel and wet the jewel there.

Caliph remembered a similar night in the geometry classroom, before he had stolen the clurichaun, her back pressed against the top of Professor Garavaso’s desk.

“Is that where you want to go?” she whispered as if reading his mind. “Where do you want to go?”

Where do you want to go?

Caliph felt a tremor of fear but he closed his eyes and let himself slip into the device that made everything simpler, where Sena’s movement could be described with angular velocity. He felt the compression. Riding the infinite plane of her back. The foundation for the catapult. Waiting for the throw. And her—waiting for the zoetrope’s spinning.

*   *   *

ZEPPELIN light flickers on the delicate windowpanes while Sena’s lips make obscene requests. Her bodice has turned into a black belt trimmed with tiny scarlet feathers—wet with rum.

Caliph has been wanting this for days. Desperate as a junkie for a hit. Unwilling to admit it even to himself.

She is dark and strange like a crow on its back. It is different than anything he has had with her before. Though he wouldn’t have believed it possible, it is stronger than the night after the argument. She is cool and powerful beneath him, like a machine, like water rolling. Her coaxing is primal. He loses himself completely, not for an instant, but for several minutes … or more. His ability to gauge time has left him.

All he hears is her scream like a creature announcing its territory. He feels his soul slip forward, pulled partly through his skin, drawn by the inexorable singularity of something he cannot name. A deep gravity inside of her. He is leaving his body. Nearly breaking against her. He is nearly dying.

Caliph steps back from the beautiful sprawl. Dizzy, glazed. But she cannot dehorn him.

He is staring into her face. Staring at a blue sun. All that matters is his unity with the attractor inside her. He wants to dash himself against her and be utterly destroyed.

CHAPTER

11

Since early spring, three Pandragonian bureaucrats have disappeared. One leaves a sprinkle of brown flecks, dried blood like half a dozen exterminated chinches on otherwise immaculate designer sheets. The second leaves a richly upholstered bariothermic car whispering at the side of the road. The third leaves nothing at all.

The Sisterhood uses Miriam to orchestrate these minatory escalations of Shradnae diplomacy not because she is Pandragonian and therefore moves unnoticed through the south, but because the Eighth House trusts her completely.

With the last bureaucrat’s disappearance, summer fades and the entire coven turns restless.

Miriam returns from Pandragor on furlough and is admitted to the Sixth House. Bored, she takes a part-time post overseeing Parliament’s “nursery.” She wonders what is happening to the Sisterhood.

In the nursery, she overhears girls in the Second House speaking furtively after lights-out about Sienae Iilool and the Willin Droul9: the Lua’groc … the terrifying Cabal of Wights. In Parliament’s vast east wing, they drape themselves over iron bed frames and thin mattresses. It is hot but the windows are open. Some sit cross-legged on the floor, letting the final sweet pantings