Chapter 80
The wind was airless. It was breathless and weak. It could not whisper. It could not gust. It could not comfort. It could not blow. Even its thoughts were sluggish and thin.
If the wind ever wanted to lose itself, it would make itself thin until its spirit frayed, its edges unraveled, and it floated into a million particles of nothingness.
It was everywhere and nowhere.
It heard a city of voices voicing at once.
It smelled every city scent that had ever been scented.
It touched every burning metal surface, every saw-toothed blade of grass, every spinning rubber tire, and every belch of steam.
It tasted the hot lick of sizzling condensation hitting asphalt, the burned edge of a street vendor’s hot dog, the mountain-metal flavor of a copper fountain with a shower of pennies glinting beneath the surface.
It lay as a thin, weak, pitiful thing beneath the unending, eternal pressure of a massive waterfall of sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell. The city was like the giant Hoover Dam, and all the water had been unleashed to pour over the wind.
It was too much. Its thin spirit was pummeled by the voices, the scents, the feel. It couldn’t stop the onslaught; it could only lie shuddering beneath the ordeal.
Yet then, amid the universe of noise, it heard a single voice. And then another. And another. It sifted through the waterfall and found the flowing thread of each being the boy needed it to follow—and others . . . The wind would follow others.
It hurt.
Once, the wind had thought nothing could hurt it. But that was a silly, ignorant, wind-thing to think. Now, it knew many things could hurt.
It didn’t want to stay in this thin place for long.
But the boy had asked, and the sky was darkening, and something wrong was scenting the air with a cold, blood-toothed smell.
It could be strong by becoming weak. It could be brave by being scared. It could help by hurting. It could do that for the boy.
It spread itself thinner still, tearing itself, fluttering weakly. It would watch. It would listen. It would warn the boy when the time was near.
When the man was young, and the fawn-like one was still alive, and her wolf had decided he did love her, they’d told the wind this day might come.
“You might be the only one left,” the fawn-like one had said, looking urgently at the leaf blowing in the wind, “and if that’s the way it happens, you have to—Wind, are you listening?—Phil, your wind never listens—”
“It isn’t my wind. The wind is its own thing—”
“I don’t understand why you two are always acting like the wind can hear you. It’s like expecting a glass of water to talk back to you.”
“Silly Wolf,” the fawn-like one said fondly, taking his hand. “Of course the wind is listening. Can’t you hear it talking to you?”
He’d looked at her skeptically, but the man had said, “Wind, listen to Lu.”
And so the wind had listened as the fawn-like one told it that someday, something wrong would come, and the wind would want to stay with someone it loved—
At that, the wind had gusted and laughed. The wind didn’t love. It was the wind. Why would the wind love a thing, much less a something?
“You will,” she said, her fawn-like eyes grave. “And you’ll want to stay close to protect them. But you can’t, Wind. You can’t stay with them always. You’ll want to protect them, but—Wind, listen—you can’t always protect who you love.”
The wind didn’t believe her. First, it would never love. Second, of course it could always protect. It was the wind. It was powerful. It was mighty. It was . . .
“It’s not listening,” the man had said.
But the wind had been. The fawn-like one had continued. “If you’re the last of us left, you’ll have a choice. You’ll want to be with the one you love, but if you stay with them, then . . .”—she’d frowned—“everyone dies, Wind. Everyone.”
What did the wind care? It had huffed. There were always new beings to play with, new sunrises to roll in, new shoots of grass to smell.
“You don’t understand, but you will. When the choice comes . . . this is important . . . they have to do it on their own. They have to do it alone. You know what’s coming. At least, as much as we do.”
It was not something they ever talked about. It was taboo to mention even this much. But the fawn-like one was adamant. She’d shaken the branch where the wind had been spinning lazily. The glade in Central Park was cool and sweet-smelling that day.
“Listen! I’m telling you, it’s going to hurt. I can’t see much, but I see that. It’ll hurt to leave them, but you have to do it, or everyone dies, and the world becomes a still place, a barren, dead place. A place without wind. Do you understand me? Do you understand?”
The wind had fallen like a leaf snapped from its branch. It had settled on the flattened grass and stared up at the fawn-like one’s pale face. Were her brothers not giving her enough blood? Was she weak? Was that why she looked so sick and pale? Or was it fear?
The wind had sighed. There was nothing to fear. There was no such thing as a world without wind. It had left the glade and decided not to think about that moment again. It had locked it in a secret box and never opened it.
But now, as the thinness tore at it, and an agony of sensation poured over it, it remembered the fawn-like one had sworn the wind would hurt.
She’d known it would love.
She’d seen it wouldn’t want to leave its boy.
But if it didn’t make itself thin, would the trickster, the citrus and pearl dust scented one, the girl, the solemn one, the innocent one—all of them—would they all die?
The boy wouldn’t want that. Before, that would’ve been enough. But now, the wind didn’t want that either.
It spread itself thin and teased through the cavalcade of sound. It watched. It listened. It was.
* * *
The trickster turned the cool brass handle of his bedroom door. The unfinished Bard mansion was a hollow, empty, desolate thing. The smell of wilting roses, charred wedding vines, and spilled champagne filtered down the empty marble halls.
At least the air was cool, but the trickster didn’t seem to notice. His appearance was altered enough that no one would recognize him unless they’d memorized the tilt of his smile or the irrepressible mischief that always lingered in his eyes.
He was weary. He rolled his shoulders and dragged a hand down his face. When he shut the door, he rested his head against the wood, closing his eyes.
A small, whistled chirrup brushed across the room.
The trickster ignored the noise.
The sound grew until it was a loud, insistent song.
Surprised, the trickster swore, turning quickly and striding across the room.
The late-afternoon sun shone through a slit in the curtains, sending a rectangle of buttery light over the silk rug. The trickster stepped through it and yanked the satin pillowcase off the cricket’s bamboo cage.
“Oh,” the trickster said, crouching down.
He positioned himself so his eyes were even with the cage.
“You’re still here,” he said, sounding surprised.
His lips turned up. “I mean, of course you’re still here.
You’re locked in a cage—where else would you be?
I only meant I forgot about you. I’m sorry. ”
He dropped the pillowcase, and it fluttered to land in the rectangle of sunlight.
He stood and rubbed the back of his neck. “I hate that I’m talking to an insect. You get that, right? But . . . when you’ve hit bottom . . .”
He shrugged and began to pull off his shirt.
He stopped, dropping the fabric when the cricket’s song grew more urgent.
“What? You’re hungry?” He winced. “I think there’s some aphids left.” He turned in a slow circle, frowning. “I don’t remember where I put . . .”
The cricket jumped, hitting the bamboo slats and bouncing off. It jumped again, throwing itself against the door.
“Hey,” the trickster said. “Hey. Easy.” He kneeled down in front of the cage again. “If you don’t want to be in there, I won’t keep you. Remember? You’re free if”—he unlatched the door, and the cricket sprang free—“you want.”
The trickster blinked, staring at the empty cage.
Then he shrugged and muttered, “Didn’t like it anyway.”
He pulled his shirt over his head, mussing his black hair. The jackaltooth was ravaging his chest, the gray eating away at the gold of his skin. Soon, it would spread over his entire chest and back and run over his limbs and up his throat. When it covered him completely, he would cease to be a man.
At the dresser, he pulled free a clean shirt and pair of pants. He grabbed a towel and swung it over his shoulder. He walked toward the soapy scent of mint and lavender and then stopped as he passed the boy’s mirror.
The trickster turned slowly, his movements careful.
His breath flew from him, and the muscles in his back tensed.
“Cora?”
He looked around the room, scanning the empty space where the lucky one was standing in the reflection.
When he didn’t see her, his expression crumpled, his mouth trembled, and he let out a heaving, anguished breath. Then he stalked to the mirror and pressed his hands to the cold glass.
“Cora. Can you hear me? Are you in there? Did the Ward . . . did that psychotic maniac trap you in there? Cora? Are you . . .?” He curled his hand as if he wanted to dig through the glass. The lucky one stared back at him. Not speaking. Not moving.
The trickster shuddered, then he clenched his hand into a fist and hit the side of his palm against the mirror.
Behind him, the cricket began to sing. It was an urgent, mournful plea.
The trickster looked behind him, staring in surprise at the singing creature.
“You see her too?” the trickster asked.
The cricket jumped away at his question. When the trickster turned back to the mirror, the lucky one was gone.
Quickly, he looked back at the space where the cricket had been.
“Wait,” he said, dropping to his hands and knees. “Wait. Come back. Don’t—”
The cricket hopped into the rectangle of sunlight. It glittered over its brown back and highlighted its wings in a rich gold. The cricket stroked its forewings together and began to sing a sweet song.
The trickster stared for a long moment and then slowly turned to the mirror. The lucky one was there again.
The trickster made a half-man, half-jackaltooth noise. “Cora?” he asked, but this time, he wasn’t facing the mirror—he was kneeling in front of the cricket.
“If it’s you,” he whispered, “come hold my hand.”
He held open his palm, lowering it toward the cricket. He waited patiently, his hand barely trembling, as the cricket slowly crept toward him.
Then it leaped onto his palm, and the trickster let out a violent, stunned, agonized breath.
“Holy . . .” he said as the cricket chirruped. “It wasn’t the psychotic Ward—it was my psychotic wife. And I . . . I almost killed you,” he whispered. “She turned you into a cricket, and I almost—” He swallowed painfully, cutting himself off.
The lucky one made a sharp whistling noise that sounded like a reprimand.
The trickster swallowed, his mouth trembling. “I thought . . . I thought she’d killed you. How?” He shook his head. “Never mind. Is this illusion? It doesn’t feel . . . I can’t tell. We have to . . . Let me think . . .”
The cricket hopped from his palm and landed on his bare shoulder. The trickster looked down at it and smiled.
“Okay. I got it. We’ll go to Mari. If it’s illusion, she’ll unravel it, and . . . no—I know I said she was dangerous, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll do anything for you. I’ll trade anything. I’ll offer any favor. It doesn’t matter. Ouch! Did you just bite me? Dang it, Cora.”
He frowned, and the lucky one hopped back into his hand.
He stared at her, and she stared back.
Behind him, in the mirror, the trickster and the lucky one were sitting on the floor, facing each other.
“You know,” he finally said, “when you said that if I became a beast, you’d become one too, I didn’t think you meant to turn into one before me.”
He smiled when she bit him again.
“I’m sorry. For last night. For not realizing you were you.
For . . . Yeah, I know you hate it when I apologize.
I love you.” He laughed a melodious, stunned Bard laugh.
“I just realized, yesterday, when you saved me, that was you.” He lifted his hand to bring the cricket to eye level.
“All right. We’ll get out of this. Like you said, as long as you’re alive, I’m staying a man, and you’re staying my love.
As long as you’re alive, then luck’s on our side, and we’ll .
. .” He smiled as the lucky one nudged her head against his cheek.
The soft scent of new pennies and honey spun through the air.
The trickster pressed his fingers to his cheek, and slowly, a smile stretched across his lips. “I feel you,” he said. “I feel your luck, love.”
He nodded then and stood. He wasn’t weary anymore. There was a light in his eyes and a focused energy in his movement. He went to the dresser and rummaged through until he found a T-shirt with a pocket on the chest.
“Ready?” he asked.
The cricket hopped into the pocket, and the trickster grinned as the lucky one nestled over his heart.
“We’ll figure this out,” he promised. “Mari will know what to do. We’ll figure it out.”
The trickster smiled as the lucky one sang.