Bleeding Out (9 page)

“What if the truth were a hundred times worse?”

I sigh. “It almost always is.”

“Do you want some more toast?”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you tired?”

I yawn. “Maybe.”

“Try to sleep.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Keep watching. I want to know how this episode ends.”

“Jeff turns back into a mannequin.”

“I know that. But Muffy the Mouse is up to something. I feel like it’s all about to get pretty wild.”

I feel weightless. Everything flutters down, and the last thing I hear is Derrick asking me why I think TXL Series 4 is such an uptight computer. Then I sink back into the water. She’s let go, but I can float on my own, enchanted by the bones and black pearls that surround us.

Most of my morning is taken up by a bizarre interview with Selena and Patrick. As Magnate, he has to be present while I’m debriefed about the incident on the beach with the psychotic vampire. I tell them both everything that happened, beginning with the first time I noticed him
at the convenience store, and ending with how his body disappeared into the water. “Like sugar dissolving into tea,” I almost say, but hold back. Neither of them is particularly into similes. Patrick writes nothing down. He’s angry about the attack, but that’s the extent of his interest. It would have been more helpful to have Modred here—at least he might have something to offer—but the last thing I want to do is offend Patrick. He can be surprisingly touchy.

After the debriefing is over, he gives me a hug and promises to buy groceries. I don’t believe him, but the hug is nice. I say nothing about the vampire house party, which I still plan to attend. If he knew about it, he’d insist on coming as my man-at-arms, but his presence would only arouse suspicion. Modred is slicker. Derrick isn’t happy that I want to, in his words, “dive into a vampire orgy” after what happened on the beach, but this is my best chance to gather information. Looking tired and beat-up will only make me less attractive to them, anyhow.

Selena takes me to the break room for a coffee. I haven’t been here in a while, and I feel a bit imposterish, like an overage prom date. Still, the coffee smells every bit as unpalatable as I remember. We sit on the couch in silence, waiting for our respective mugs to cool. In the hallway, I can hear Linus complaining about the eyepiece on his scanning electron microscope.

“What is your problem?” Selena asks. Her tone is so
gentle that the words don’t register at first. I give her an odd look.

“Am I only allowed to have one?”

“I’m serious. You’re supposed to be on mental-health leave. This is your time to figure things out—as in, do you want this job, or don’t you? Instead, I find you tangling with vampires on Kits Beach.”

“Tangling? Are you saying that I asked for it?”

“No. I’m saying you should have been at home with your family. What’s so hard about relaxing for once?”

“I’m sorry; have we met? I’m wound tightly. You know that.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“I’m not talking metaphysically. What do you want to do with your life right now, at this moment? Do you want to retire, or do you want to keep working for the CORE? You can’t have it both ways.”

“I never thought retirement was an option.”

“Look—” Selena puts her hand on mine. It may be the first time she’s ever touched me. “You’ve done a lot. Your accomplishments haven’t gone unnoticed. If you want to walk away from this, I’m authorized to sign your retirement papers. You’d have a generous pension. You’d be free.”

“Free? That word means nothing for people like us.”

“Maybe you don’t really want to leave.”

“What would I do? Garden? Take up capoeira? I’d still
see vampires around every corner. I’d still hear the rocks and the trees swearing at me. The only difference is that I’d have to pretend to be normal.”

“Would that really be so bad?”

I shake my head. “Mia’s about to leave for college. Patrick’s mostly gone already, and it’s only a matter of time before Derrick and Miles decide to shack up together. Who exactly would I be doing this for?”

“You.”

I stand up. “There’s no such person.”

“Tess.”

“Thank you, Selena. I get what you’re offering me, and I’m not trying to throw it back in your face. But I just don’t know.”

“I’ll need an answer from you eventually.”

“I understand that.” I drain the mug. “Thank you for the coffee, and for everything else that you’ve given me. I know I can be difficult.”

“That’s why I like you.”

“I do have one question.”

“What’s that?”

“How did the interview with Miles Sedgwick go?”

She considers the question for a moment. Technically, it’s vague enough that I’m not overstepping any boundaries.

“It was inconclusive. That’s all I can say.”

“Fair enough.”

“Take care, Tess. Call me if you decide anything.”

“I will. I promise.”

The air-conditioning in the lobby raises gooseflesh on my arms. I walk to Waterfront Station. I know I should call my mother, but I can’t bring myself to dial her number. I’m afraid of what I might say. A part of me realizes that she has every right to her privacy, and that the lie she told me was most likely a merciful one. But that realization has done nothing to diminish my anger. I’m not even sure who I’m mad at anymore, to be honest. At the moment, I want to punch the SkyTrain for being late.

I’m a damp mess by the time I get home. I take a lukewarm bath, argue with my hair for a bit, and then put on a robe and slippers. I grab a beer from the fridge and nurse it while sitting on the patio. If anyone ever thought my private life was sexy, the image of me in a terry-cloth robe drinking PBR should disabuse them of that notion. My legs are smooth and moisturized, but there’s nobody around to touch them. I think about calling Lucian, but it seems like a bad idea. He knows me too well. One look at my face, and he’ll ask me what happened. I don’t want to tell the story of the melting vampire again. I just want a little action. It doesn’t seem like so much to ask.

Andy Warhol said that there should be a course on love in the first grade. Most of the time, I feel like I’m in relationship preschool. I’m still working with blunted scissors and paste. Lucian understands romance, while my idea of a fine night together is sharing a bag of Hawkins Cheezies in bed while watching
Flight of the
Conchords
. I’m not sure if I should be putting in more effort, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s unflappable, which started out being sexy, but now it’s just cryptic. When I look at Derrick and Miles, it seems like being a couple just comes naturally to them. It makes me suspect that they’ve taken some kind of continuing-ed class. I brought this up with Lucian once, and he said:
They just fit
. I wanted to ask if we fit, or if maybe we needed a shoehorn, but instead I just laughed because Jemaine was pole dancing.

I was thirteen when I learned that I could see and touch materia. While most girls my age were having sleepovers and hanging out at the mall, I was learning how to fight with a dagger and make stones dance. People like me have the most power when we’re young, and the CORE knows that. We’re bright burning weapons. Those of us who choose to work in the field learn to trust our training, but all those bitter lessons are also a form of control. I realize now that I was taught to channel materia in specific ways, and although that knowledge has kept me alive, I don’t always agree with it. When you tell a power
do this
, it responds grudgingly. It assumes the shape that you’ve requested, but after a while, the exercise becomes rote. I can’t remember the last time I pulled a Schmendrick and just said to the power:
Do what you will
.

I close my eyes and let down my aegis. I don’t search for anything in particular. I just send out a general invitation. Powers are cagey. Like rabbits, they need you to
keep still and avert your gaze. I try to think about nothing. I surrender to entropy as it gnaws at the corners of my life. Protein by protein, my helices grind down; my sunburned myelin flakes. I accept this. Decay makes artful music.

For a moment, I’m somewhere else. I put out my hands and touch something, an edge that cuts my fingers.
Careful,
my father’s voice says.
You’re too young to know this yet, but some worlds have thorns
.

I open my eyes. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, but my tailbone aches; my muscles are sore. It hardly feels fair that just meditating should exact a toll on the body. I make some coffee and then Derrick phones.

“I’m taking a long lunch at Granville Park. You need to help me find a shady spot for Patrick. You know how particular he is.”

I shower, put on a sundress, and leave the house. The park is full of dogs wearing bandannas. Derrick has spread out a blanket under a tree with aggressive roots. The leaves deflect most of the sunlight, but Patrick still has his hood up, and I can smell the Banana Boat lotion on his hands. Mia is texting someone, her eyes narrowed in concentration, and I wonder, not for the first time, how much of our brains are devoted to cycling rapidly through menus and petting track pads. Miles offers me a cream soda. He’s wearing the blue shirt that Derrick likes. He’s met Lord Nightingale; I’m almost certain of it. When Selena calls something “inconclusive,” it’s usually because
it was too weird for her to articulate. I take the can and hug him. Oh, Miles, I love you. I love your quietude and the weft of your hands. I love to watch you dance through the alphabet. When Derrick looks at you, I hear the scratch of his love on your floor.

I sit down next to Patrick. At least he’s untroubled by mosquitoes. There’s a family seated close by. Their bubble machine has attracted a small crowd. They don’t look that different from us, although we have no props, just a cooler. I smell pot and citronella candles. We’re about to break out the sandwiches when, suddenly, all the leashless dogs part to admit Lady Duessa and Wolfie. Most of the people here are normates, so they have no idea how powerful both of them are. We push our blankets together. Duessa kisses my cheek, then pulls a cherry-cheese Danish out of her clutch and hands it to me, perfectly preserved. She smells like vetiver.

I could ask her about Lord Nightingale, but she won’t tell me what I really need to know. She’s too smart. She and the Iblis used to crash the same parties. I try to imagine how old she must be. Surely as old as Mr. Corvid, who rocked the Bronze Age. When I look at Duessa, I see a social being with a perilous core. She’s smiling now, but technically, she could eat all of us.

Derrick sees my Danish and makes his move. I give him half, which is the standard pastry tithe in our relationship. Derrick, it was you who saved me. You paged Katie Green, whose gremlin roared in her purse, who
invited me to her party even though she suspected I was mentally disabled. Katie Green, who’d known no magic other than the indefatigable power of her credit card. Derrick, it was you who went upstairs with me, you who let me kiss you, even though you didn’t normally kiss girls. But there was a Boyz II Men poster on the wall, and it all seemed good. It was you who walked with me past the electric paintbrush at the edge of the water. You promised we would be like sea turtles, and I guess we have been, our shells collecting striae.

It was you who introduced me to latkes. It was you who cosigned our mortgage. Derrick, please keep being my Rosetta Stone. Please continue shredding my old BC Hydro envelopes. Please don’t stop buying sponges. Derrick, oh, Derrick, don’t go. You can’t. Who will I be without you? What will your absence sound like? Will it be the nullity of a spent capillary? No. It will be the universe on fire, its patios ashing away, its escapes howling like mutilated kettles, and Leonard Cohen won’t be there, Manu Chao won’t be there, coffee won’t be there, naked boys won’t be there, Saturn’s Cassini Division won’t be there, but I will, so thank you and fuck you for having a plan when I never did. Miles will make interesting soups for you. Miles will let you read his thoughts, because they’re clean. Fuck you, Miles, for having such clean thoughts.

Everyone, stay. Mia, stay; I have so much to talk to you about, so many ways to embarrass you with my dog
love. I’ll buy you a new SIM card. I’ll give you more counter space, scads of it, without borders, I promise. You can be a vampire. You can kill me if you need to, as long as you stay. Mia,
margarita
, my fang and flower. I am not as swift or as keen-sighted as other mothers. I have hesitated when I should have taken your hand. I have dragged death into your life. I have allowed you to keep odd hours and drink too much caffeine. But, Mia, if you could see what my love looks like, it might stop you, like an accident or fireworks.

Much later, I text Modred and ask him to meet me for pre-drinks at Sawbones. The last time I attended a vampire party, the keg was named Tim. That’s fine if you’re a vampire, but I really just wanted a Keith’s. I take a bus to Gastown, which is a hot mess full of club kids and drunken tourists. I was never so adventurous. I took my top off at Shine once, but I was cleaning it in the bathroom, so that doesn’t count.

Sawbones is mellow when I get there. The necromancers are sitting in their usual corner booth. They don’t quite glare at me when I walk in, but they manage to look chilly. I ignore them. Most likely, they disapprove of my relationship with Lucian. Or maybe they’re just scared shitless because Theresa’s death has left a power vacuum. Like vampires, they can be hard to read until it’s too late.

I sit at the only clean table I can find. There are two goblins in a vinyl booth across from me, and they’re staring. I can’t tell if they’re a couple, or just friends. One of
them whispers something that I can’t understand. I want to tell them to keep their Skeksi-like speculations to themselves, but I don’t need to draw any more attention. I order a pint of Rickard’s and wait for Modred. This place used to freak me out, but once the clientele saw me talking to Lady Duessa, they learned not to hassle me. You don’t cross someone who dresses in weak nuclear force.