Chapter 10 The Twins
THE TWINS
Arla materializes from the trees like a living shadow, her black hair and black Edwardian coat, buttoned nearly to the throat, bleeding into the night.
She lifts an old iron lantern in her right hand, and it flares to life, bringing our surroundings into focus.
“I think we’ve seen enough,” she says sharply, narrowing her eyes at me as I clamber to my feet and brush away grass and dirt, blood dripping down one arm.
She holds out her other hand, irritation in her voice. “Coat!”
I hear a snicker and then a tiny woman steps into the circle of light, her latex jumpsuit glossy as a spider’s abdomen, a snake whip hanging from one hand, my trench coat hanging from the other. She passes it to Arla who snatches it away, holding it out toward me.
“You look cold,” she says.
Indignant, I take the coat from her and pull it over my wounded arms, one bruised, the other bleeding.
“Jude, meet Twig,” she says, laying a finger on the tip of the woman’s pert nose. “I’m sorry if you were hurt. The twins like to play a bit rough.”
I wipe my nose with my wrist and sniff. Twig can’t be more than five foot two.
She has the delicate bones of a sparrow and the heart-shaped face of a little girl.
Her dark hair is divided into braids that barely reach her shoulders, and her bangs are cut in the shape of a V.
Thick brows overpower her face, and a ring of feathery lashes magnify her already large eyes.
The latex leaves nothing to the imagination, and her form is boyishly straight.
But those eyes shine with a devious light, and there is a sharpness to her points and angles, like a wasp.
“Her real name is Triyama,” Arla continues when I don’t respond. “But we call her Twig. It’s a bit of an inside joke,” she says, and they share a laugh as if they are remembering something that neither bothers to explain.
I realize she is one of the ones Brennan warned me about and I glance around, nervous. I distinctly saw two bodies in the light of the fire, and Arla mentioned twins. “So, where’s her sibling?” I ask.
Arla grins. “Come, Rocco, don’t be shy.”
I am expecting a diminutive man with the same mix of features to emerge, but when Rocco finally steps into the light—coming up from behind me no less—he must be six foot four.
Where every part of Twig is small, he is large with hulking shoulders, muscular arms, long legs, and a barrel chest. Even his neck is thick with a bulbous Adam’s apple, making Calvin’s look puny by comparison.
His complexion, though warm, is much paler.
He has none of the woman’s delicacy in the face, sporting a heavy brow, wide jaw, and crooked nose.
And his eyes don’t shine like hers. They are small and deep-set, filled with suspicion.
Twig and Rocco’s only commonality seems to be their dark hair and penchant for pain.
If these two are twins, I’m a unicorn.
He drops a shovel and a tied-off canvas sack to the ground by my feet. Guess we know who was doing the digging, then.
“Rock and Twig aren’t siblings in the genetic sense,” Arla informs me when she sees my incredulous expression.
“But their souls are one. They found each other in an uncaring, uninteresting world and held on for dear life. And then they came to me.” She beams at them like a proud mother, which is odd considering they’re adults of a similar age.
Arla is probably in her thirties like me, though I suspect a few years older.
Rock looks to be in his late twenties, at youngest. It’s hard to place Twig, who could be twelve as easily as she could be thirty-five.
“Do they speak?” I ask without thinking.
“Fuck you,” Twig quickly counters.
That answers that. I glance down and spy a black leather sheath at Rock’s hip where his black slacks meet the black ribbing of his fitted tank. I guess, in addition to being immune to pain, they’re immune to cold.
“I see you brought a knife,” I say bitterly, knowing he’s the source of the throbbing gash on my arm. “Anyone think to bring a Band-Aid?”
He glares at me.
“I would’ve brought my own,” I tell him, “but I didn’t know I was signing up to be a human voodoo doll when I came here.”
“It’s not that deep,” he retorts, his voice a baritone.
“The fuck it’s not,” I argue.
“Children, please. Can we try to get along?” Arla interrupts.
“Why am I here?” I ask, tired, frustrated, and more than a little hangry by this point.
Arla frowns. “You know why. You’re here to prove yourself, Jude. To me. To them. To the circle.”
“No.” I try again. “Why am I here? In this cemetery to a shithole they closed down fifty years ago at the goddamn witching hour?”
I see Rock’s brow knot over his eyes as they get even beadier than I thought possible.
“You are standing at the final resting place of Rock’s great-great-aunt Agnes, who died here in 1936 after nearly forty years of internment,” Arla says flatly. “She suffered terrible nightmares and hallucinations. Symptoms that have sadly run in his family for generations, along with other things.”
I purse my lips. “Sorry,” I begrudgingly tell the man who just cut me with a knife for sport. “Taking her with you, I see,” I say, pointing to the sack. I suppose, if she’s his aunt, he has a right to dig her up. But it seems grim.
He scowls down at me.
“Don’t worry,” Arla says, drawing my attention back. “We’ll make good use of her.”
Now it’s my turn to scowl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
A curl of a smile transforms her face. “You see this as some kind of punishment,” she says.
“But we brought you here as a gift, a sign of great respect. This is a sacred place, a sacred moment we’re sharing with you.
Rock has marked you with his favorite blade.
Twig has let you feel the sting of her most prized possession.
It’s an honor, Jude. We’re letting you in, and I can assure you, it’s an opportunity we never give lightly. ”
“You have a funny way of using the word gift,” I tell her. I glance at the “twins” and mutter sarcastically under my breath, “The candle was a nice touch.”
Arla shrugs a shoulder. “Pain is something the twins excel at. They wanted to show you.”
“Giving it or receiving it?” I ask, still not sold on the whole this-is-a-gift-you’ll-see thing.
“Both,” she says simply.
I bundle my coat across my front and fold my arms. “Yeah, well. I’m not really into BDSM, which, for the record, requires consent.
Maybe you’ve heard of it?” My eyes dart from Rock to Twig.
“Probably not. Anywho, while I’m flattered you see me as shibari submissive material, I’m gonna have to pass.
If I’d known that’s all this was, I would have said so sooner.
But getting stitches after a night in the cemetery is not really a kink I’m into.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find a twenty-four-hour urgent care. ”
I turn on my heel to leave and am greeted by a wall of fire five feet wide and taller than I am. Heat prickles my face, and I instinctively turn away.
“Calm yourself. It’s only an illusion. See?” Arla steps beside me, passes her hand through the flames, and pulls it out again, unharmed.
Shock wars with the fear pulsing through me.
“Try it,” she encourages. When I do, finding only air where the flames appear, she nods. “Rock is something of an illusionist,” she says, grinning affectionately at him. “A dream spinner. He has a gift with nightmares, a way of feeding off others’ fears.”
The flames wither and dim, leaving only the night. All the flashbacks I experienced come into glaring focus. No wonder.
“Anyway, we’re not done here,” Arla says coolly.
“I have a flesh wound that says we are,” I retort. When she doesn’t have an immediate comeback, I say, “Look, I don’t know exactly what you’re selling, but whatever it is, I’m not in the market. I just want to go home, put some antibiotic ointment on my arm, and go to fucking bed.”
“And then what?” she asks, watching me. “Go back to your pathetic little job where they didn’t even know you had a pulse before, and now they want to hang you from the rafters with the rope they made? Do you have a plan for how to wriggle out of that? Do you have any idea if you even can?”
“How do you know about that?” I hiss. Calvin’s threats to me aren’t public knowledge, not even in the office. “Are you stalking me?”
“I don’t have to,” she replies, her tone even.
“Or maybe you want to keep drooling over that man from the bookshop, the one you only found the courage to talk to once I made an appearance in your life? Or perhaps you’ll just go back to your sad memories of Roger?
A man who didn’t love you so much as the blank canvas he could paint himself on.
A man so devoid of depth, he had to buy a personality at Huckberry.
Back to your cheap chardonnay and nights lying alone, unable to even masturbate with satisfaction? Is that what you want instead?”
“Instead of what?” I shout. “Instead of traipsing around in the dark while your lackeys mutilate me with your blessing? I don’t want to do this anymore, whatever this is.
This … initiation. I’m tired of this game already.
I’m done with all the riddles and the secret destinations, questions with no answers. I’m done with this!”
“I agree,” she says, catching me off guard. Even Twig and Rock look a little spooked.
“Y-you do?”
She blinks at me, lowers herself to the ground, and grasps my candle where it is still happily lit, rising as she pulls it from the earth.
She holds it before the candy-red glaze of her lips and blows it out.
“I do. Come with me and let me show you what we’re selling. Come and see for yourself, Judeth.”
My jaw goes slack. I was not expecting this, and now I don’t know how to refuse, or if I even want to. “My car…” I say stupidly.
“Give your keys to Rock,” she commands. “The twins will drive it over.”
“Where?” I ask, uncertain. “Where are we going?”
She passes the candle to Twig and the lantern to her other hand, holding the free one out to me. “You have to accept the invitation if you want to find out. No one gets something for nothing. Not even us.”
We pull up in Arla’s black Jaguar before a four-story building of gingerbread brickwork with windows arched like Jean Harlow’s famous eyebrows.
It sits on the corner of a historic block of Pioneer Square, the now-treasured belt buckle of Seattle’s cinched waist. A black awning stretches to the sidewalk in front of a pair of enormous wooden doors painted malachite green and set with crusty brass hardware, including two carved gorgon heads at eye level, snakes writhing around their faces.
The windows on the ground floor are blacked out, impossible to see through, and the awning bears no lettering to name this place we’ve come to.
But I can feel the heavy thump of bass coursing from the building, vibrating through the uneven street and up into my bones.
I turn to Arla in the driver’s seat. “Where are we?”
Before she can reply, my door swings open. A striking man with impossible cheekbones and lush, glittering lips waits to take my hand and help me out of the car. I look to Arla, but she’s already climbing out. So, I take the man’s hand and let him tug me onto the walk.
Arla marches around the front of her vehicle, engine still running, and barks at another man in a sleek suit. “Park her for me, Jordan? I have someone I want to show in.”
He nods and hurries to pull the Jaguar away.
“We use a dedicated garage nearby,” Arla explains. “Valet is complimentary for all members.”
But before I can ask Members of what? she’s already addressing the man who helped me out of the car.
“Sal, this is Jude. You’ll be seeing a lot more of her around here.” Now that I’m standing, I can see he’s even taller than Rock. “She’s my guest, understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a curt nod. “No line, no questions, no charge.”
Arla looks pleased. She loops an arm through mine and tugs me along, pausing at the doors. Sal reaches over and grasps the brass handle of the nearest one.
“Welcome to Medusa,” he says to me with a wide, maniacal grin.