Darkness Becomes Her

Sebastian picked his backpack up, avoiding my eyes. “No. She should go back home.” He walked up the stairs.

Crank sputtered, and no one else said a word. The only sound was Sebastian’s unhurried footsteps on the stairs. I glanced from the front door to the stairs and then let out a groan, not believing I was about to run after Mr. Warm & Welcoming.

I jogged up the steps, catching up to Sebastian on the landing. “Hey, hold on a sec.” He stopped, turning partway. “Look, if you know something. . why these people are after me. .”

At five-eight, I wasn’t that much shorter than Sebastian, but I felt small under his storm-cloud gaze. The guy gave nothing away. He tossed a quick glance to the others, who had gathered halfway up the stairs. His jaw clenched and his eyes went hard. He bent forward and kept his voice low. “The Novem got a call a few hours ago with your description and name. . the word went out to all the runners and people who work for the Novem— which is basically everyone in this city — to look for you.”

Dr. Giroux. He must’ve called. But why? “And you work for them.”

“They just want to see you. No one said anything about hurting you, so I don’t know shit about that whole sword thing Crank is talking about. And yeah, I work for them. Doesn’t mean I always listen.”

He marched down the hall and disappeared into a room at the end.

A wave of exhaustion settled over me. My shoulders slumped. I could feel the others’ eyes on me from below, and more than anything I just wanted to be left alone so I could regroup and think straight, to digest everything that had happened so far. My hasty decision or desire — whatever you wanted to call it — to bolt wouldn’t do me any good. It was dark. I needed a place to stay. I’d already paid. And, I sighed, I guessed this was it.

I went back into the bedroom, snagged the box, and sat on the rug in front of the fireplace. But the shuffle of footsteps in the hall made it clear I wouldn’t be getting privacy anytime soon.

Crank, the odd-looking boy, and tiny fang girl — who was now wearing the gold Mardi Gras mask — filed into the room. They sat on the rug, making a circle. The boy leaned toward the fireplace and snapped his fingers over the wood. It burst into flames.

He held his hands over the fire, warming them before turning back to the others. “No big deal. Just a trick,” he said at my open mouth. “What’s in the box?”

Yeah, just a freaking trick. It was easier to believe that than the alternative. “Stuff about my mother.”

A drum echoed from somewhere down the hall. Then another and another, until a rhythm took hold. The walls and the floor vibrated. The tempo picked up, fast, furious, and seriously good, seeping into my skin and bones, finding its way to my heart and beating in time.

“That’s Sebastian,” Crank said. “He plays when he’s in a mood.”

I didn’t have to ask what that meant. I knew moods as well as the next person. In the background, very faintly, I heard music and vocals, and realized that he must be playing in time to the radio or a CD. Whatever it was, it was something you could dance to, or lie down on the floor, close your eyes, and weep to.

As the flames in the fireplace grew, shadows danced on the walls and over the skull, which seemed to grin at me as though it knew something I didn’t. Firelight glinted off the colorful beads and the black satin of the top hat. It needs a name, I thought, wondering which was creepier, the skull or the little girl who stared at me through the gold mask with those luminous black eyes.

“This is Dub,” Crank said, motioning to the boy. “And this is Violet. She doesn’t talk much.”

Violet still cradled her orange in both hands, occasionally bringing it up to her tiny nose to smell it, but her round eyes were fixed on me. She looked like some strange Mardi Gras Goth doll. And for some reason, I found myself warming to the odd little kid. She couldn’t have been more than ten years old.

“I think she likes your tattoo,” Dub said, tapping his fingers on his khakis. “Are you a doue too?”

“A what?”

“Doue. That’s the Novem’s nice word for freaks. Weirdos. You know. . us,” he explained in a fast breath. Everything about Dub was nervous energy. Some part of his body constantly moved. “Violet’s got freaky teeth. Henri’s got weird eyes. I got tricks. Crank’s got—”

“Nothing,” she cut in, disappointed. “I’m the normal one.”

“Yeah, but no one else can make things work like you do,” Dub said. “And”—he put one hand over his heart and the other straight out like he was about to serenade her—“since you fixed the fridge, you rule this house of freaks.”

Crank’s head dipped, and she rolled her eyes, but I could see she was pleased with the compliment. “And your brother, Sebastian,” I asked. “Is he normal too?” Besides being a jerk and a kick-ass drummer.

“Sebastian doesn’t like to talk about it. But he reads people, you know? He feels what they feel. Sometimes too much.”

The drums still banged, but not so demanding as before, not so fast. Now it was a steady, even rhythm full of emotion. There was no other way to describe it. It wasn’t just a beat echoing down the hall, it was something more.

“So what about you?” Dub asked again more quietly. “You look weird and everything.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Well, you got that tattoo on your face, your hair is white, and your eyes are a little freaky.” He shrugged. “You could be a doue is all I’m sayin’.”

“Maybe she doesn’t like to talk about it either,” Crank said, giving me a small smile. I returned the smile and then looked down at my hands. It was the truth; I didn’t like to talk about it. I never had. And suddenly sharing wasn’t something I’d ever do.

“Holy smokes,” Dub said. I looked back up to see him pulling the blade from my backpack. “It’s got blood on it and everything!”

“Give me that!” I lunged onto my knees, snatching the hilt, and then my backpack, out of his hand.

“Sheesh. Sorry.” He sat back down, acting as if I’d made a big deal out of something small. But it wasn’t small. He had no business going into my things. None at all.

I shoved the short sword into the backpack, hoping the blood was dried by now and hadn’t gotten all over my clothes. Smart one, Ari. Should’ve thought about that before I put the thing in there to begin with. “Look, just stay out of my things, okay? I’ll be out of your hair by morning.”

“I can try to talk to Bas again,” Crank said. “I’m sure he’ll help you at the hospital, and—”

“No offense, Crank, but I don’t want his help.”

Crank nudged Dub on the arm, and they stood. Violet stayed motionless, so Crank reached down and tugged on her arm. “Come on, Vi.”

The dark little girl hissed at Crank, but got up and left with the others.

After Crank brought me the sleeping bag, I waited until silence descended beyond my bedroom door, a silence broken only by the natural creaks and moans of the house.

I took two tall candles from the mantel and lit them with the red-hot coals in the fireplace, setting them on the floor in front of me. Finally, I was alone. No interruptions. No kids. No drums. Nothing to distract me. Though, honestly, it had taken me this long just to work up the nerve to see whatever else was in the box.

With a deep breath, I opened the two small jewelry boxes first. In one was a silver ring with a Greek inscription running along its length. It was polished and beautiful and simple. I placed it on my right hand, fourth finger. It fit perfectly. The next box held a worn medallion, so worn that it was hard to make out the image on the front or the words that went around the edge. It might’ve been a sun, I couldn’t tell for sure. I put the medallion back in the box and then picked up a newspaper clipping about a woman beheaded in Chicago, leaving a small daughter, Eleni, behind with no family. My heart gave a hard bang. Holy shit. Eleni was my mother’s name, so this woman could be my grandmother.

The next was a faded letter written to my mother.

Dear Eleni,

If you are reading this then I have been unsuccessful, like so many others before me. I have failed you.

as you grow and reach womanhood, you will understand that you are different. All of us have been this way. No woman in our family as far back as I’ve uncovered has lived beyond her twenty-first birthday. We have all left