Greywaren, page 7
“Thanks for the temporary solution,” Declan said, not bothering to hide the contempt in his voice. His hand closed over the key in a fist.
“If you need more help,” Adam said from the doorway, “don’t call me.”
Hennessy was dreaming of the Lace.
The Lace dream was different than it used to be.
Before, it always began in the dark. She was meaningless in this version of the dream. Not a cog in the machine, not a blade of grass in a field. Possibly a speck of dust in the baleful eye of a loping beast, blinked away. But nothing more.
Slowly, the dream illuminated, and the light revealed a thing that had been there all along. A thing? An entity. A situation. Its edges were jagged and geometric, intricate and ragged, a snowflake beneath a microscope. Brilliant light shone from behind the Lace, blinding in its intensity. It was enormous. Enormous not like a storm or a plant, but enormous like grief or shame.
The Lace was not really a thing one only saw. It was a thing one felt.
Then—and this was the worst part of the dream—the Lace noticed she was there. How awful to be seen. How awful to have not realized how wonderful a life was before being seen by the Lace, because now there was only after. The Lace stretched toward her, growing like crystals, thin as paper, sharp as razors. Its hatred of her was thorough. It hated what she was. It hated who she was. And most of all, it hated that she had something it wanted.
Hennessy could be a doorway for the Lace. All she had to do was give in, and the Lace could manifest in the waking world, where it would destroy everyone.
For years, she had defied it, and for years, the Lace had punished her for this defiance. The jagged edges pierced her like hair-fine needles, and she woke with a million tiny holes in her skin, each beading blood. She became see-through. Like the Lace.
But since Hennessy had shut down the ley line, things were different. It wasn’t just that Hennessy couldn’t manifest the Lace, even if she wanted to.
The Lace itself was different.
Now when she fell asleep, its jagged form still grew to fill the darkness. It was still sharp and deadly. It still delivered the usual threats. But it didn’t really matter. The dread was missing. She felt she was having a dream of the memory of the Lace dream, rather than experiencing the real Lace. Without the creeping dread and the fear of destroying the entire world through a moment of weakness, the Lace’s dialogue came off more like a recorded message of all the terrible thoughts Hennessy already had.
The Lace hissed at her: You ruined things with Jordan. You know she’s going to have a wonderful life without you, don’t you? You’re going to miss her forever and she’s not going to think of you for even a second once you’re too far to see in the rearview mirror. You’ll have plenty of time to decide what’s worse: dying alone, or living alone.
“You’re singing a song I already know the words to,” Hennessy said.
The Lace lashed out. She let the pain jolt through her.
It was just pain. Hennessy could handle pain.
Just pain.
No fear.
Hennessy woke with a start.
“Oh, she’s right there,” she said.
Just inches away were Carmen Farooq-Lane’s enormous and luminous brown eyes. As always, they were full of beauty and judgment, like a smiting angel. When the smiting angel eyes saw that Hennessy was awake, they narrowed.
“You can’t sleep all day and all night,” Farooq-Lane said.
Classic Carmen Farooq-Lane. Hennessy had only known her for a few days, but it hadn’t taken very long to get her number. Carmen Farooq-Lane liked rules. Carmen Farooq-Lane liked rules other people had come up with. Carmen Farooq-Lane liked rules other people from long ago or in a different branch of government had made so that she didn’t have to think too hard about whether the people who made the rules were actually clever or not.
Some examples of rules Farooq-Lane had attempted to impose already: Meals were to be eaten at regular intervals, at the same time each day, and not in portions left half-eaten around the house. Sleep was to happen at regular intervals, at the same time each day, and not in portions left half-eaten around the house. Clothing was to be appropriate to the temperature outside. Crop tops were not cold-weather apparel. Fur coats were not indoor apparel. Furniture was to be used in the way the maker had intended. Sofas were to be sat on, counters were not. Stools were to be stood on, tables were not. Beds were to sleep in, bathtubs were not.
Zeds were for killing, except when they weren’t.
Farooq-Lane hadn’t found that rule very funny, when Hennessy asked her about it.
“Eight hours of sleep is a fallacy invented by the working man,” Hennessy informed her now. “Eight hours of sleep and no more, leaving the remaining sixteen—is that the math, is it sixteen? Eight plus six is … okay, yes, that’s right—for you to work for the Man. The forty-hour workweek and the eight-hour sleep cycle are a couple, do you understand? They were married by corporations who gave a dowry of suffering; mankind is meant to be like a leopard, lying in a tree all day except for the—”
From the kitchen, Liliana called in her crackling, sweet voice, “I’ve made some broth for us to take with us, Carmen! I think you will enjoy it, Hennessy.”
This was their dysfunctional family, for the moment. Mother Farooq-Lane, laying down the law. Other Mother Liliana, gently softening the blow. Child Hennessy, the dutiful adopted adult daughter brought on because the guilty Mothers had stolen Hennessy’s teeth from her, and wanted to make it up to her by spoon-feeding her structure and love.
Hennessy hadn’t been born yesterday. She knew baggage when she saw it.
For the past few days, the three of them shared a shingle-sided house in a revoltingly domestic corner of the greater Boston area. It was clear Liliana had chosen the rental, as she was the one who liked it best. She was a demure, ancient goddess of a woman, with skin so pale it was greenish in some lights, offset by the turquoise hairband she nearly always wore to keep her snowy hair back. Hennessy could already tell that Liliana had never met a domestic task she didn’t like. She liked to simmer bones for hours. She knitted scarves, sweaters, and bags for scarves and sweaters. She liked hot beverages and things called mulling spices. Houseplants unfurled at her touch. Children melted under her gaze. Altogether, Liliana had a soothing, loving vibe that had initially comforted Hennessy and now made Hennessy feel like she had a pillow over her head, and her legs were just about to stop kicking. Liliana and Farooq-Lane also seemed to have this December–May relationship thing going on, and Hennessy wasn’t one to judge—she just had questions.
“We have an errand to run. Do you want to come with?” Farooq-Lane asked.
“I have moved into a post-want stage of my life,” Hennessy said. “This is what I believe Buddha meant when he said desire is the root of all evil.”
Liliana came around the kitchen to offer Hennessy a steaming travel mug. She looked like the most perfect grandmother one could possibly imagine, her deep-sunk eyes wise and caring. “Do you want to talk about how you feel? Your face looks different, sweetheart, did something happen while we were gone?”
She was so nice that Hennessy immediately felt like being awful to her. She fought the impulse as hard as possible. “Is this a mug of soup? Am I meant to swallow this? That doesn’t seem at all like a thing I would want to do.”
“It’s nourishing,” Liliana said, at the same time that Farooq-Lane said, “This from the person who’s eaten nothing but beer for three days. Cheap beer.”
Hennessy waved both of these statements off and asked, “What’s this errand you’re talking about? Is it a real errand, like, work, or is errand just a funny figure of speech, a code word for something more interesting, like going clubbing or stealing a horse?”
“Declan Lynch gave me an address to investigate.”
Hennessy recoiled from his name. “I don’t want anything to do with that.”
Farooq-Lane’s expression sharpened. “Does that mean you know what it is?”
“What? What what is? No, it means he’s a boring man with a boring face and I don’t want to get close to his awful life in case I get some of his boring microbes and shit into my aura. If you knew what was good for you, you’d take some, like, bug spray or something to make sure you kill any of the boring things that might fly out at you as you got close to his life.”
“I don’t know,” Liliana said with a wry smile, “that sounds a lot like an adventure, Hennessy.”
Farooq-Lane saved Hennessy the work of giving her a frown. “If you want to come, then get up. If you want to stay, stay. I’m not your mother.”
Straightening, she drew her curtain of hair into an effortless knot, causing a wave of appealing floral scent to wash over Hennessy. It was truly amazing how much of the past few days Hennessy had spent either fantasizing about Farooq-Lane or having that fantasy ruined by the reality of her.
Liliana patted Hennessy’s cheek, as if she were a small child. Each time she did, Hennessy felt a little burst of unwilling good feeling. Liliana said, “I got supplies for you today, all the ones I heard you talking about.” Hennessy didn’t remember talking about anything money could buy. “They’re in the basement.”
“Counterpoint: Can I have my sword instead? Have I been good, Mum, can I have it yet? I’ll clean my room.”
Farooq-Lane zipped up her boots. “I told you I’d give it to you when you were sober. That hasn’t happened yet.”
For all her Honorary Mothers’ guilt about taking her dreaming to save the world, Hennessy wasn’t here because she couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. She was here because of her sword. It was one of a set, or had been; she and Ronan had dreamt them at the same time. His, engraved with the words VEXED TO NIGHTMARE, bristled with shining daylight. Hers, engraved with the words from chaos, glowed with the power of the night sky. They cut through just about anything except each other. How hopeful and stupid Ronan and Hennessy had been. What could you do with a sword these days? Strike a cool pose. Look like you knew what you were doing. Cut flowers very fast.
Farooq-Lane had once saved Hennessy’s life with that sword. Instead of letting a tiny bit of Lace kill her while she was paralyzed, she’d snatched the blade up and sliced the Lace to nothingness. And Farooq-Lane had kept the sword—she still had it, in fact. Why would a Moderator do that?
Hennessy didn’t understand, and intended to stick around until she found out.
She raised her voice so that Farooq-Lane could still hear her as she fetched her coat from her bedroom. “Seriously, though, it’s my sword and it’s sort of fucked up that you’re keeping it from me!”
Liliana handed Hennessy a box of shortbread cookies. Hennessy had no idea where she’d had it this whole time, but that was Liliana for you. Comfort in every pocket. “Put a little something in your stomach and you’ll feel a lot better.”
“Paint a portrait of Liliana and I’ll give your sword to you,” Farooq-Lane said, returning to the room. “Or get sober and I’ll give it to you. Your choice.”
Hennessy strained her neck so that she could shout over the back of the couch. “So really that means I could paint Liliana while completely smashed and still get the sword, right, just so we’re clear? Because I think you used the wrong Boolean operator and I just want to be absolutely on the level before I bother drying out.”
Farooq-Lane held the door open for Liliana. “Don’t burn the house down.”
Liliana joined her. “Have a good time, dear.”
After they left, Hennessy closed her eyes again, but she was annoyed to find that Farooq-Lane had been right about one thing. She couldn’t sleep all day and all night.
Slowly, she ate the entire box of shortbread cookies while wondering what tedious scavenger hunt Declan Lynch had sent them on, and then she drank the travel mug of broth while wondering just how old Liliana really was. She was the oldest-looking person Hennessy had ever seen outside of a black-and-white photograph. Then she went into the kitchen and got a soda to wash down the broth while thinking about what Machkowsky had said about being J. H. Hennessy’s daughter.
Then she went to the basement to see what supplies Liliana had gotten for her.
When she pulled the cord attached to the single lightbulb over the stairs, it illuminated just enough of the basement to show her that Liliana had set up an easel, a canvas, and a tray of paints. A tiny little studio carved out just in front of the old washer and dryer. It was a very Liliana thing to do, very thoughtful and unobtrusive, even if Hennessy still couldn’t remember ever mentioning supplies to her.
Maybe she would, she thought. Maybe she would paint. Imagine the look on Farooq-Lane’s face when she returned to see Hennessy had actually picked up a brush.
Hennessy lingered there, fingers lightly touching the cord to the lightbulb, her foot balanced on the edge of the stair’s rounded lip, and thought about what Jordan had said about suspecting that Hennessy was probably a lot like Jay.
Mum?
Jay said, You won’t miss me.
Pulled the trigger.
Hennessy pulled the cord again, plunging the basement back into darkness.
She wanted to go get a beer. She pictured what she would look like going into the kitchen, getting a beer. She presented herself with a list of all the ways she’d feel better with a beer. She presented herself with all the reasons why she deserved the beer.
She didn’t go for a beer.
She didn’t want Jordan to be right.
She pulled the cord a third time, and then she went into the basement to paint.
You should not let her ruffle you,” Liliana said as the two of them navigated the narrow roads of Peabody, Massachusetts. Old houses and buildings cast crooked shadows across the asphalt as the sun fell behind the trees and rooftops. “It teaches her bad habits.”
“Teaches her? She came preloaded with them!”
“Don’t we all?” Liliana pointed to a parking spot on the crumbling curb. “I believe this is it.”
The radio spontaneously began to play opera at top volume, a thing it had begun to do with increasing frequency. Okay, Parsifal, Farooq-Lane thought. She peered at the run-down warehouse, which was labeled ATLANTIC SELF STORAGE, and then consulted the business card Declan had given her. Now the numbers made sense. The first was a unit number. The second a passcode. Not dissimilar to the information she’d given him for Bryde. Information for information. Spies on a bridge.
The only adults in the room, Declan’s voice came back to her.
As they stepped onto the overgrown sidewalk, Farooq-Lane shivered, not just because it had suddenly snapped cold again, but because the hair on the back of her neck felt prickly, like she was being watched. She asked, “What do we think is waiting for us? Do you know?”
Liliana shook her head.
Inside, the unmanned storage facility was a concrete-floored maze of blue metal doors the size of garage doors, each unit numbered. It was heated, but only barely. The unit Declan had directed them to was on the far side of it.
She was uneasy. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
You stopped the apocalypse, she reminded herself.
“It’s okay,” Liliana said softly.
Embarrassed, Farooq-Lane replayed the last few seconds in her head, trying to tell if she’d actually said the words out loud. To her further embarrassment, she couldn’t tell. She hesitated, then confessed, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”
Liliana folded Farooq-Lane in her arms for several long minutes in the barren hallway, and Farooq-Lane let herself absorb the otherworldly comfort. Liliana inhaled the scent of her hair, and then she murmured, “You are such an interesting person, Carmen. You try so hard, even if you don’t know why you’re trying.”
Even if it is killing people.
Farooq-Lane said, her voice muffled by Liliana’s shoulder, “Liliana, are you a dream?”
There was no pause between the question and the feeling of Liliana nodding against her. It wasn’t a secret; Farooq-Lane had simply never asked.
“Who dreamt you?”
“She died long ago,” Liliana said. “She looked a little like you.”
Farooq-Lane found this notion disagreeable, and pulled back. To her surprise, she found Liliana looking a little mirthful.
Amused, Liliana shook her head. “I was dreamt by a man, and he looked like a vulture. I wasn’t sorry he died. I just wanted to see if you could be made jealous or not. Ah, there she is, your beautiful smile.” She touched Farooq-Lane’s mouth.
Farooq-Lane kissed Liliana’s thumb lightly. “I didn’t know you could be funny.” Then it occurred to her: “Your dreamer died? Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“Visionaries can stay awake without their dreamers,” Liliana said. “That is what makes us Visionaries.”
“Did Parsifal know this?” Farooq-Lane wondered. The previous Visionary had never mentioned anything like this. Moreover, he’d seemed so firmly and mulishly human that it was hard to imagine that anyone could have dreamt him.
“He must have,” Liliana said. “We choose this life. We choose the visions to stay awake forever.”
Farooq-Lane half expected opera music to haunt the storage facility at this answer—it seemed like the sort of conversation that should have prompted Parsifal’s otherworldly attention—but none came. The roar and clatter of a truck outside brought her firmly back to the matter at hand, however.
“I want us to talk about this more over a cup of tea when we’re home later,” she told Liliana, and Liliana’s smile spread, surprised and genuine. “But for now, stay back. I don’t know what is on the other side of this.”
She consulted the business card, then knelt on the frigid concrete floor to key the passcode into the unit’s digital lock. With a soft beep, it allowed her to slide the door up like a garage door. The rattle echoed through the warehouse.
The unit was occupied.
