Lament - Мэгги Стифватер

He blinked at me for a long moment before pulling his hand away from his ankle and thumping his head back on the seat with closed eyes.

I pulled the door shut behind me, watching Rye glare at Luke and then retreat to the side of the road. "I didn't sleep in my own room, either."

He didn't open his eyes. "It's hard to sleep while you're being watched, isn't it?"

I wanted to ask him why They would watch him, but I was afraid he wouldn't answer. I wanted to ask him why he was sleeping in his car a stone's throw from my house, but I was afraid he would answer. I thought about his hand darting to his ankle and wondered if there was something hidden beneath his pants leg, something a bit more deadly than the golden band his shirt sleeve had obscured. Sudden doubts crowded in my mind during his silence, but then he opened his pale blue eyes and smiled at me, and the doubts were swept away like so many cobwebs.

"You're a nice thing to see first thing in the morning."

The giddiness came rushing back as if it had never gone. I grinned. "I know." Why did I become this strange, light creature when I was with him?

Luke laughed. "Well, sing something for me, nice thing."

Entirely shameless, I sang a made-up song about walking without shoes and strange men sleeping in cars, to the tune of "The Handsome Cabin Boy." Seeing his face lighten, I added another verse about the dangers of cow pastures and men who stayed near them. "Lure" and "manure" rhymed nicely.

"You're in a good mood today." He sat up and rubbed his hands through his hair, looking in his rearview mirror. "I'm self-conscious. You're seeing me without my make-up on."

It was my turn to laugh. "You're hideous. I can't see how you stand yourself in the morning."

With careful fingers, I lifted the very edge of his shirt sleeve, revealing the gold band just under it, beaten into a multitude of different facets. "I didn't see this before."

He looked away, out the window, voice oddly dead. "It was always there."

I touched it, rubbing a finger against one of the beaten facets, and noticed that the skin just at the edge was all smoothly calloused and that the muscle of his arm was contoured around the band; the tore had been there a long time. I looked at it for longer than I needed to, wanting the excuse to run my finger along his skin. Staring, I saw something else: pale, shiny marks running perpendicular to the tore. Scars. My mind recreated the dozen slashes running down the length of his upper arm, gashes that sliced his biceps to ribbons of flesh held together only by that tore.

I ran a finger down one of the scars, toward his elbow. "What's this?"

Luke looked back at me and answered with another question. "Do you still have my secret?"

For a moment I didn't know what he meant, and then I gestured to the chain around my neck, lifting it to reveal the key. "One of them. Can I have another one?"

His lips lifted into a smile. "Sure. I'm still fascinated by you."

"That's no secret."

"Maybe not, but it's fairly stunning, all things considered."

I pouted. "I can't consider all things, because I don't know most of them."

"Don't pout. Sing me another song. A real one. Something that makes people cry."

I sang him "Fear a' Bhàta"--"The Lonesome Boatman"--and it was sadder and more beautiful than I had ever sung it, because it was for him. I'd never wanted to sing for someone else before-was this how Delia felt every time she walked on stage?

He closed his eyes. "I'm in love with your voice." He sighed. "You're like a siren, leading me into dangerous places. Don't stop. Sing me something else."

I wanted to lead him into dangerous places, if I was included in said dangerous places, so I closed my eyes and sang "Sally Gardens." A car's not the greatest place for acoustics, but I wanted it to sound beautiful, so it did. I don't think I've ever sung it better.

I sensed him, close to me, a second before I felt his breath on my neck. I was surprised at the emotion that flashed through me in the instant before his lips pressed against my skin. Fear--only there for a second--but there nonetheless.

My treacherous body had betrayed me with a start, and Luke pulled away as I opened my eyes.

"Do I scare you?" he asked.

Strange way of putting it. Not "did I."

I narrowed my eyes, trying to read his face. I felt so strongly that I could see myself mirrored in his eyes: something about my obsession with music and my battle for control of my life. I wasn't sure why, but I just felt in my gut that whatever made me me resonated in harmony with whatever made Luke him.

I answered with a question. "Should you?"

He smiled mildly. "I knew you were clever." Then the smile vanished; he gazed past me, and I turned.

Sitting outside the car, ears pricked and unmoving, staring at us with unblinking black eyes, was a pure-white rabbit.

My stomach turned over.

Luke stared at it for a long moment before speaking, and when he did, his voice was tight and low. "You'd better go."

Go? "What about--?"

"What about what?" he asked flatly.

I stared out at the rabbit, and when I answered, my voice was cold. "Nothing. You're right. I have a gig today anyway. Mom will have my head if I'm not back soon."

I put my hand on the doorknob, ready to get out, but Luke reached over quickly, below the level of the window, and touched my other hand where it rested on the seat.

I understood. Nothing in view of the rabbit. Climbing out of the car, I shut the door; as I did, the rabbit hopped slowly into the underbrush, as if that would convince me it was ordinary, not some peeping-tom-supernatural-killer-bunny.

Rye trotted up from the other side of the road and joined me, without a glance toward where the rabbit had gone, and I headed down the road, not looking back. I had gone a hundred feet when I swore I heard the car door open and shut. I snuck a look back, shaking my head and pretending to swat gnats away. Sure enough, the car was empty.

Where was he?

Focus. This telekinetic crap has to be good for something useful. I listened hard. Nothing. Just the repetitive twittering of cardinals in the trees overhead. It was hard to concentrate on something abstract like sound; I needed something concrete. I pictured Luke carrying a cell phone, calling me and forgetting to hang up. I imagined the crackling of underbrush as he pushed after the rabbit, the sound of his breath. The sound of his voice, faraway and low.

"Have I ever failed before?"

Another voice, earthy and gravelly. Chillingly plural yet singular. "It's never taken you this long."

"I have my reasons for taking my time."

The single voice that was too many sounded contemptuous. "Screw her and be done with it."

There was a pause, a second too long, and then Luke laughed. "Right. That obvious, is it?"

The gravelly voice didn't laugh. "Just fuck her. Finish it."

No pause this time. "I can't wait."

I broke into a run, bare feet slapping the pavement. I didn't want to hear anymore. My imaginary phone hissed and dropped the call. He was lying. He was lying to the gravelly voice. Lying. If I said it three times, it had to be true.

EIGHT

 Mom drove me to the gig. Since she was a caterer, every wedding planner in a two-hour radius knew us, and it hadn't taken long for them to find out that she had given birth to wedding music, as well. It actually wasn't a bad deal. Usually I would arrive on the scene thirty minutes early, spend half that time barfing, and then emerge to play gracefully for a couple hundred bucks. It was worth the barfing; two hundred bucks would support my CD-buying habit for several more months, until the next gig.

But I didn't want to do it today, and it wasn't because of the puking. I wasn't even thinking about the gig. I was thinking about Luke's laugh. Analyzing every angle of it... deciding I was overthinking it... and then deciding I hadn't been thinking about it enough.

Mom was silent for most of the trip, probably thinking I was nauseated. But I could tell she was cooking something, and I was right. She turned down the radio.

"Last night--" Here it came. Frustration welled inside me like a red, ugly blister and exploded.

"I don't want to talk about Luke," I snapped.

I might as well have slapped her. She even put her fingers to her lips, as if I really had. I was violating another rule, of course. I was supposed to sit and just let her ream me out, and then nod mutely and do whatever she said. Screw that.

Bad choice of words.

Just screw her. I can't wait. Finish it. I angrily tugged down the edge of the fitted blue dress Mom had bought for me. I hated the dress. Made it look like I'd raided an old woman's closet.

All I needed was a big gaudy string of pearls and I'd be ready to hit the Moose Lodge.

So what? Luke was in league with the friggin' rabbit? Why even bother to tell me about faeries then? To gain my confidence so he could get in my pants?

Mom jerked the car to a halt and I looked up with surprise, thinking she was preparing for a huge confrontation. But no, that wasn't Mom's way. We were already at the church.

"What are you wearing around your neck, anyway?" Her voice was cold enough for polar bears.

My hand went to the chain that held Luke's key.

"It looks like crap with the dress," Mom said. Wow. Minor swearing. I'd really pissed her off.

"Whatever." Like I felt like wearing it right now anyway. I unclasped it and curled the chain and the key in my palm.

"Put it in your harp case so you don't lose it." Mom pressed the button to open the trunk. "Take your phone."

I took the phone. "You aren't staying?"

Her voice dropped a few more degrees. "Granna can pick you up. I'm going home, I have work to do. Call her when you're done."

"Fine. Okay. See you later." I could be just as icy. I pulled my harp from the trunk, dropping Luke's secret into the pouch of the case, and headed into the church. Mom was already pulling out of the lot by the time I let the massive oak door close behind me.

Inside, the church lobby was dim and spacious, lushly covered in red carpet. It had that smell that only old churches get, something about lots of people and lots of candles and lots of years. There were already knots of people gathered, all discussing details of flowers and timing and music, and in a rush, my stomach remembered how it was supposed to be feeling.

"You must be the harpist." A woman with blond hair glued into place popped up by my side like an overwhelmingly perfumed jack-in-the-box, complete with permanent smile. "I'm Maryann, the wedding planner."

I nodded dumbly. If I opened my mouth, I'd toss chunks all over her stiff hair, melting it.

"Your mother explained all about you," Maryann said through her rack of teeth. "The bathroom's right through those doors."

With equal parts gratitude and humiliation, I tore through the doors and found the tiny, antique bathroom. I shoved aside the fake flower arrangement that was one thousand times too large for the room and promptly puked. Afterward, my stomach immediately felt better, and all that was left was the faintly sick feeling that I'd had since I'd heard the conversation between Luke and the damn rabbit.

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