Borderline (8 page)

13

The little dragon, Caryl's familiar, turned its head to look at me. Its beady gaze was friendly.

“You're a witch or something?” I asked.

“A warlock,” said Caryl.

I took off the glasses and turned them so I could look at Teo's reflection in them. Nothing sat on his shoulder in the reflection.

“If you strip away the magic,” said Caryl, “there is nothing to see. Elliott is itself a spell, albeit a very complicated one.”

“So I can't touch him.”

“You have, numerous times.”

Even as she spoke, I got a crawling feeling on my right shoulder. I put the glasses back on to find Elliott sitting there. My yelp made Teo laugh, and even Elliott seemed to grin as I tried futilely to swat him away. My fingers sank right through him, tingling as they did.

“Why doesn't he vanish when I touch him?” I said. When I turned to look at Caryl, I saw a weird, smoky aura around her, so I took the glasses off again.

“Human magic is not identical to the fey's,” she said. “Human spell casters have certain limitations that fey do not, but on
the plus side, since iron is native to human physiology, the spells humans cast have no weakness to it. Your touch would only disrupt fey magic.”

“Do humans cast the fey's facades?”

“We have to design them, since fey seem unable to grasp the rules of what humans can and can't look like. But the spellwork is their own. Why do you ask?”

“When I let go of the fey at the bar, her facade came back. I didn't destroy it.”

“That's 'cause it's an enchantment,” said Teo.

“The fey,” said Caryl, “can bind magical energy into a place, person, or thing.”

Teo ticked off three fingers. “Ward, enchantment, charm.”

“Think of magic as paint,” Caryl said. “For a charm, the paint is applied and left there. It can stay a long time because it's on an inert substance, such as paper. But flesh is alive and constantly changing, shedding cells; you must keep reapplying the paint. So enchantments, or spells on people, draw continuously on the caster's essence.”

“They're plugged into the fey who cast them,” clarified Teo.

“Because of that connection, enchantments can only be dispelled by the caster, or by the caster's death. Thus the mythology around curses, which are actually a type of Unseelie enchantment.”

“So when I touched the fey, I just sort of, uh, interrupted the circuit?”

“If that helps you understand.”

“What about the other one? Wards?”

“Wards are the most complex; humans cannot cast them. They are bound to the earth, or to structures that are themselves bound to the earth, such as trees or buildings.”

I thought of the Seelie bar. “Would I destroy wards if I touched them? Or just interrupt them?”

“Some wards are . . . ‘plugged in' and some are not, depending on their purpose. Just try not to touch any wards unless told otherwise.”

I felt a weird tingling on my left ear and didn't dare look through the glasses. “Which of those things is Elliott?”

“None of the above. Elliott is a construct: a recursive arcano-­linguistic lie bound to itself by pure logic. Only wizards and warlocks create them; nothing could be more foreign to a fey than a construct.”

“And I can't hurt a construct.”

“That's correct.”

Teo shifted restlessly. “Speaking of Millie's phenomenal powers of destruction,” he said, “we found another of the viscount's drawings.”

Teo handed it to her, and she scanned it briefly, not visibly affected by its magic. “I'd like the other one, too, for comparison, when you have a chance.”

I hardly noticed as Teo took his glasses back and started upstairs. I felt a slight pang as I stared at the back of the drawing. “You'll need to be gentle with him,” I said.

“With Teo?” said Caryl, arching a brow.

“No, with Rivenholt. He seems very . . . vulnerable, right now, to judge by his drawings.”

Caryl studied me. “You're concerned about him?”

“The drawings really affected me for some reason.”

“Apparently the iron doesn't stop the psychic elements of fey magic from reaching you. A pity.”

“What are you going to do now? About Rivenholt?”

“I am going to drive to the resort and confront him.”

“By yourself?”

“I want to handle this personally; it's crucial that we keep Berenbaum happy, as he's our primary donor. I don't require a partner; Elliott serves a similar function for me.”

“But I'm guessing Elliott can't give you information you don't already know. Maybe you should take me with you. I was there for the conversation with Berenbaum; I might spot a clue you can't.”

“This would defeat the punitive purpose of your suspension.”

“Negative reinforcement doesn't really work with Border­lines.”

“Then how do you suggest we improve your functioning?”

I sighed and tried to remember what Dr. Davis had explained to me. “Dr. Davis says BPD has something to do with sensitive people being raised in ‘invalidating environments.' Whatever that means. So I guess, you know, don't invalidate me.”

Caryl looked at me for a long time. I would have given anything to know what she was thinking. Sometimes the first thing laypeople learn about Borderlines is that they can't be trusted, and after that, further learning isn't too likely.

“Be ready at four a.m.,” she finally said. “If you are not dressed and waiting when I come by, I will leave without you.”

•   •   •

Even for a morning person, being ready for a road trip at four a.m. was a little harsh. And since we were planning to run into the viscount, I didn't want to just slouch in there with my hair sticking up every which way.

I started to put on the same outfit I'd worn to meet with
Berenbaum, as it was my nicest and still fairly clean, but then I thought of the slim possibility that Berenbaum himself might show up at some point and decided not to risk the embarrassment. I chose my only other skirt and a matching knit top, then girded myself to face down the mirror.

I went through yesterday's makeup ritual, trying to convince myself that it was a little easier this time. I used styling wax to make it look like my hair was messy on purpose, and even tried on a pair of earrings before I started feeling a ­little too much like crying. I sponged a bit more makeup on my left arm and decided that was as much whitewash as this mud fence could handle. I went to the living room to wait.

Caryl arrived at one minute till four, looking as put-together as always. After a brusque greeting, she handed me a pair of glasses like Teo's. “I am lending you these,” she said. “If you behave yourself, you can keep them.”

I took them in the hand that wasn't holding my cane and slipped them on, noting once again the odd purplish-green haze that surrounded Caryl. “I'd rather have a phone,” I said. At this hour I sounded almost as hoarse as she did.

Elliott attached himself to my shoulder, and Caryl pressed a fat file folder into my hand. “Familiarize yourself with that during the drive,” she said, and headed for the door, giving me little choice but to follow.

“Does this mean I'm back on the case?”

“For the moment.”

“This file . . . I actually get kind of queasy if I try to read in a moving car.”

“Then bring a bag if you like,” she said, “just so long as you bring the file.”

I got into the car, belted myself in, pushed the glasses to the top of my head, and settled the folder into my lap, watching Caryl as she backed out of the driveway. “What kind of a name is Vallo?” I said. “Italian?”

“My father is Czech-Indian and my mother is of Moroccan Berber descent, if that satisfies your need for ethnic categorization.”

It didn't, really, and then Caryl turned on some baroque harpsichord music at a punishing volume to discourage further small talk. Reading was hard enough for my rattled brain at the best of times; now I was squinting in the narrow glare of a reading light, trying to block out complicated melodies and keep down a bargain-brand bear claw.

To keep myself from ruining Caryl's leather seats, I mostly looked at the pictures. Some were stills from a recent film I had apparently missed due to either being in an anesthetic coma or locked up in the loony bin. There were reviews tucked into the file, too; they mostly praised John Riven's ability to look stunning in various kinds of light.

From what I could pick up between long, restorative bouts of staring out the window, Rivenholt had been visiting our world regularly for forty-seven years, and every decade or so he changed his human identity. He always favored pale hair and skin and always appeared to be in his late twenties to early thirties.

“Hey, Caryl,” I said over the music. “Is it possible that Rivenholt could have changed his face since you saw him last?”

“Not without returning to Arcadia to replenish his essence, and not without a human's help.”

“Because they don't really get what we're supposed to look like.”

Caryl nodded, then turned up the music a bit more. I took the hint and dived back into the file.

The viscount's latest persona, John Riven, was the only one who had dabbled in acting; the rest had stayed out of the limelight aside from being occasionally photographed as a “close family friend” of the Berenbaums. His earliest alias, Forrest Cloven, had almost no paper trail at all and only one photograph, taken by the Project itself in 1971. None of his four faces really resonated with me the way the drawings had. They weren't
him
.

I was overcome by an urge to look at the drawings again, to study them, as though somehow I could solve the mystery of this man by following the strokes of his pen.

“Did Teo give you both the drawings?” I half shouted at Caryl. “I want to see them.”

She turned the music down: a small victory. “You'll destroy them,” she said.

“Then give me the one I already destroyed.”

“Why?”

“I don't know,” I said irritably. “For the file.”

She kept trying to give me one of her long, searching looks, but it was hard to do while driving in the dark. Finally she gave up. “Open my purse for me, but do not touch its contents.”

It was an odd little bag, held together with leather straps and wooden rings. I managed to wrestle it open and presented it to her. Slipping my glasses back over my eyes, I saw the faint glow of magical objects inside the bag. I also noticed that Elliott was curled up in my lap as though dozing.

Caryl, surrounded by that odd dark haze, felt around for the drawings without taking her eyes off the road, then handed
me the one that had been crumpled and folded and drained of its magic. I snatched it from her with a little thrill.

“Why did you hit Teo?” Caryl asked me before I had even unfolded the paper.

I tensed, glad the glasses hid my eyes. “I thought he already talked to you about it.”

“I want to hear your version.”

I proceeded carefully, not sure what he'd told her and not wanting to contradict. “I was rattled,” I said. “Dr. Davis would call them ‘vulnerability factors.' I had just walked in on Gloria screaming at what's-his-name, and then I went up to Teo's room, which was all cramped and dirty, and I was feeling kind of . . . trapped. I overreacted, and I'm sorry. If I had access to a phone, I could keep up my coaching with Dr. Davis; it's very helpful.”

“Overreacted to what exactly?”

“Just something he said. Something I interpreted as . . . an insult about my appearance.”

“Is your appearance important to you?”

I snorted. “This is Los Angeles.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“And you're not my therapist. Give me a phone and I'll call her.”

Elliott fluttered from my lap to Caryl's side of the car. I came within a hairbreadth of apologizing to the creature, then stopped myself.

“Does Elliott have feelings?” I said.

“In a manner of speaking, I suppose it does. The emotions of a child: unschooled and volatile.”

“I'm sorry,” I cooed gently at the creature. “You're a sweet thing. I didn't mean to scare you.”

Elliott crawled back across the car to me, wings limp. He lay back down in my lap, then rolled over, exposing a fine-scaled belly.

“Aw, I want to pet him,” I said. I stroked my fingers through the air where his belly was, but I had no way of knowing if he could feel it.

“Showing affection to the construct serves no purpose,” Caryl said.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I blurted, sending Elliott skittering away again. “Do you have no feelings at all?”

“Not when I am at work.”

“Wow. Must be nice to be able to just switch them off.”

“It is.”

I ground my teeth and opened up the paper to look at the drawing, pushing my glasses back to the top of my head. The confident, evocative lines of the sketch soothed me, even without the magic. Idly I traced a fingertip over the angular
D
s on either end of
DREAMLAND
.

“I am concerned by the way you are fondling that drawing,” Caryl observed languidly. “I know how easily someone with your disorder can become infatuated.”

I stiffened, folding the drawing back up. “You know just enough about BPD to be really unhelpful.”

“I know how bored and restless you must feel when you have no one on whom to focus your passion. It's why Teo's dismissal enraged you; he was your best candidate.”

“Stop it,” I said.

“I need you to understand that you would find no happiness with Rivenholt either. He would always put you second. No romance can approach the bond between a fey and his Echo.”

“I guess it sucks that you don't have one,” I said acidly.