Dark Metropolis (2 page)

F
reddy was used to being woken at the crack of dawn, but not after a night like last night, with drinks and loud music and flirtation—and that touch. He had slept poorly, remembering both the dead man in his military uniform and the look of shock on the waitress’s face, as if she’d seen a ghost.

“You look tired, lad,” Gerik noted after breakfast, leading Freddy into the workroom, where a single fresh corpse rested on the table. “But you’ll be happy to know it’s just one today.”

“I’m not that tired.” Freddy didn’t want Gerik to think he couldn’t handle a night out. He nodded to the door, dismissing the older man, and pushed up his sleeves as he appraised the body.

She was young, younger than they usually were, eighteen at most. Attractive in a modern way that was more interesting than lovely. Her hair was shingled close to her head, enhancing the lines of her cheekbones. Her lips were narrow and still had lipstick on them. Her body was narrow, too, dressed in a gray wool coat.

There were no marks on her body, so she must have taken poison or pills. Gerik said it was no use wondering about people Freddy would never see again. But he had to wonder anyway.

And he remembered them. He felt he had a connection with each one, like an invisible thread. He never forgot the face of a person he
’d
revived, even though the bodies were countless by now.

He placed his hands over hers, surrendering to the magic, letting a stream of life flow from his hands and into hers, tingling all the way down to his feet before the sensation passed. It always left him slightly dizzy, and today it seemed especially potent, shuddering through him so that he had to adjust his feet to stay balanced. It worked through him, and with him, but it was greater than him, too. The girl’s cold fingers warmed.

He smiled. This moment never failed to satisfy.

Her skin remained pale, but life flowed back into it. He could feel the return of her spirit and, finally, see the flutter of eyelids that had probably been pressed shut by another hand not long ago.

She took a breath and coughed. He tightened his hand on hers and helped her sit up.

“Where am I?” She seemed disoriented, which was normal, and angry, which was also normal enough. “What
is
this place?”

“My workroom.”

“Workroom? Are you a doctor?” she said. “You don’t look any older than I am.”

“Not exactly.”

She hunched forward, eyes darting around the room, across the shelves lined with vials and powders. Her glance was furtive and troubled.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Uncle had said he should never tell anyone who he was or
exactly what he could do.
People will do anything for immortality,
he
’d
said.
Th
ey’d tear out your liver and eat it if they thought it would keep them from death. You must keep your secrets.
“I’m here to help you.”

Her eyes widened, as if she suddenly remembered something important. “You have to let them go.”

“Let who go?” Her intensity gave him pause.

She reached under her coat and released the knot of her necktie with one tug. Her dress was familiar. Too familiar. Dark blue, white collar, slim necktie—the same clothing the Telephone Club waitress had worn the previous night. Then, in one quick motion, she pulled the tie around his neck.

He jerked away from the table, pain jabbing through him as she tightened her grip around his windpipe, and she came with him. Where were the guards? They were supposed to be just outside the door! He reached back and grabbed fistfuls of her coat, and when that failed to break her hold, he stomped his heel on her toes. She gasped, but she didn’t let go.

The door burst open; the sound of their struggle must have finally alerted the guards, two tall men in crisp uniforms. They carried guns but didn’t need them. In a moment, they had pulled the tie from her grasp and caught her arms behind her back.

Her hazel eyes were subdued now, almost emotionless. “You’re the one,” she said. “
You’re
the one she warned me about.”

He stared at her, rubbing his neck. “Who?” he croaked. He wanted to say more, to ask her if she worked at the Telephone Club, but…well, she wasn’t
his
waitress. If some other troubled girl there had wanted to kill herself…

A broad hand clamped over her mouth before she could answer. The guards hauled her from the room.

Although she was the only revival of the day, Freddy lingered in the room a moment. He kept thinking of that spark in her eyes. She had tried to kill him—quickly, purposefully, without explanation. It didn’t seem real, and it didn’t make sense. It was as if she had suddenly known who he was, and hated him for it.

But she couldn’t possibly know. And if she did, she ought to be grateful.

T
hea’s mother shuffled into Thea’s bedroom; she never took off those old slippers anymore, and Thea hated the constant sound of them. Her mother pushed the curtains open, and Thea blocked the morning light with her palm.

“Mother, please, it’s shining right on my face.”

Mother stood at the open window, watching the birds.

She liked birds, always had, and when Thea was a little girl, Mother used to take her bird-watching. They would stay with Mother’s old friends in the country for two weeks during summer and hike in the woods. “There is a waxwing,” she might whisper in Thea’s ear while pointing.

Now Thea didn’t even like Mother to put an arm around her. Her bound-sickness would bleed out, and Thea would know what her mother was thinking—always, always about Father:
Where is he? I can still feel him. He can’t be dead. But why can’t I find him?
On and on.

But Father
was
dead. He had to be dead. Surely he would have found them by now if he were alive, even if he had to fight his way out of a foreign prison or overcome amnesia or any of the other scenarios she’d envisioned. The binding spell would have called him home.

Suddenly she wasn’t entirely certain.

“It’s Sunday,” Mother said. “We have to go to church.”

Thea wrapped Father’s old army blanket around her shoulders and joined her mother at the window. A blackbird pecked at the feeder while a warbler clung to the bars of the fire escape.

She didn’t want to go to church. She wanted to sleep. But Mother was insistent, and Thea always wondered if maybe it helped her, if the familiar rituals were a thin but unbroken line to her old memories.

“I made a cake yesterday, so we can have it for breakfast,” Mother said, finally removing her gaze from the birds.

Thea hoped for a moment that it would be one of the old cakes, but of course it wasn’t. Mother didn’t even know how to make a cake right anymore. Years ago, before the war, she used to make buttery pound cakes, and moist apple cakes, and gingerbread. But when Thea opened the pantry, she saw the same old chocolate cake sitting there. It wasn’t even a good chocolate cake. Rationing had ended several years ago, but Mother still kept baking without eggs or milk or even very much chocolate. Thea could already imagine the cake’s heavy, drab sweetness in her mouth.

Still, she sliced it and got the coffee going. She set the table with plates and cups and pulled Mother away from the window and into a chair.

Mother picked at her cake. “I do like this cake.”

“
Please
wait for me to get home before you use the oven. Maybe tomorrow I’ll make apple spice cake.” That was Thea’s favorite, though it never tasted quite as good as Mother’s used to. Her hand wandered to a stack of letters that needed answering, Mother’s old friends from Irminau. Thea had to respond to them so they wouldn’t worry.

“Maybe Henry will be at church today,” Mother said.

“No,” Thea said gently. “I don’t think so.”

“Father Gruneman might know where he is.”

“Father Gruneman conducted the service for Father. Do you remember? When we got the telegram that he was dead?” Thea no longer bothered saying “missing, presumed dead,” as she once did.

Mother looked confused for a moment. “I’m sure he wouldn’t have done that. He must know Henry isn’t dead.”

Thea just sighed. They were having this conversation every week nowadays.

Only sticky, dark crumbs remained of her cake, and she dumped the plate in the sink with her coffee mug. “Mother, put your good dress on, please.”

If Thea’s mother were her old self, she would have been the one giving orders, telling Thea not to roll her stockings down quite so low, but now Thea had to be the one to make sure Mother was presentable. The mother who had organized singing groups in the neighborhood and taken food to the poor on holidays was gone. The mother who had told Thea to eat every bite on her plate and make her bed every morning was gone. Thea tried not to think about it, but sometimes her armor cracked and despair leaked in, poison thick as oil sliding through her veins.

They walked to church, Thea in her daytime good-little-sixteen-year-old guise: conservative print frock, lips free of paint and eyes free of kohl, her auburn hair set in neat waves under a cream cloche. Her mother was still beautiful, but she looked fragile in her peach crepe dress. Her eyes were gentle but distant. Thea felt a sudden surge of love and fear, thinking of what it would be like to lose her mother altogether. She took her hand and squeezed it. Her mother smiled at her, but Thea could feel her wondering about Father. What a torment never to think of anything else. She let go of the hand.

The white church was one of the oldest buildings in this modernized district, with broad brown beams exposed at each corner and on the roof frame. A simple steeple with a bell reached toward the sky, but even this tower was shorter than the offices surrounding it. The chapel doors were carved with an angel reaching out to a weary woman holding a baby, and above the entrance were the words
COME AND REST IN THE SOLACE OF GOD
.

It was the same church she had gone to all her life, but the war had changed it, too. Government regulated religion, and many of the old hymns of Thea’s childhood were now banned. All the ones that mentioned adversity or rebellion were gone, and so were any that mentioned magic or even miracles. But other things had relaxed—books that had disappeared for years had slipped back into circulation, although maybe it was just that the government couldn’t keep up with regulating them because of the labor shortage after the war’s heavy casualties.

Thea and her mother settled into their familiar pew, made from golden wood that was speckled with color from the stained-glass windows. The smell was ancient and comforting.

Today, Father Gruneman spoke of being kind to one’s neighbor. Thea always had trouble concentrating on sermons: how could she think of kindness to her neighbors when she had so much to worry about? She kept wondering if she ought to tell Father Gruneman how much worse Mother had become in recent months.

Father Gruneman had been a good friend of her father’s. He had given her the book of fairy tales, stories to whisper and drive back the darkness, right after the memorial service for her father.

She was sure he knew Mother was bound-sick, but Thea didn’t know if there was anything he could do. And she found it difficult to admit that she waitressed at the Telephone Club at night and slept fitfully all day, worried her mother would wander off somewhere or set something on fire.

When church let out, that was the difficult part, because she had to hurry Mother home without acting too suspiciously. Some of Mother’s friends always said hello and whispered to
Thea that her mother didn’t look well and did she need anything?

Father Gruneman approached her before she could escape and clutched her hand. He was getting old, and his skin felt fragile and dry, but he still had a firm grip. “Thea, dear girl! And Mrs. Holder! How are you? Always in a hurry to leave after my sermons, aren’t you?”

“Oh, no.” Thea winced even though she knew he was teasing. “It’s just—”

He didn’t wait for her to come up with an excuse. “It’s all right. I just wondered how you were.”

“I have a hole in my shoe,” Mother said. She spoke matter-of-factly, almost peevishly, like a child. Her voice was too loud.

Thea couldn’t hide her horror. She didn’t know how to pretend this was appropriate. “Mother, it’s all right,” she said hurriedly. “We’ll go to the cobbler tomorrow.” She forced a smile at Father Gruneman. Mother didn’t say anything else. She was looking at the ground, fidgeting.

“I’ve been wanting to speak with you for a while now,” Father Gruneman said. Most of the congregation had filed out around them, the children running excitedly after having sat still all morning.

“Oh—have you seen Henry?” Mother asked, as though she’d just remembered that Father Gruneman had known him.

Father Gruneman shook his head grimly. “Thea…how long has it been like this?”

“It wasn’t always this bad,” Thea said. “She gets a little worse every year.”
Every month, almost.
She still didn’t want to admit the extent of it.

“Your father had told me they were bound. That was before we had ever heard of bound-sickness. And I’ve noticed lately that she’s…she’s changed. You should have told me.”

“There isn’t much you could have done,” Thea said. “And I try not to talk about it to anyone. I don’t want the government to take her away.”

“You know I’d be the last person to report her sickness to the authorities! Look at how they ‘cured’ poor Mrs. Hart. She used to be such a delight, and now she doesn’t even smile at my jokes.”

“I know you wouldn’t report it, but I’ve gotten used to keeping to myself. Most people don’t understand why my mother ever would have wanted a binding marriage to begin with.”

Marriage-binding had already been considered a backwater custom when Thea’s parents married. They had chosen binding so each would always know where the other was, so her mother could find her father if he ever got lost hunting or traveling, but city people assumed all bound marriages were arranged and forced. And after the war, the sickness started. Rustic women going mad, insisting their husbands were alive even though they had been reported killed—sometimes even when the wives had seen the bodies.

Father Gruneman’s thick white eyebrows furrowed. “I understand, but what a burden it must be. If you ever need some company, you’re always free to come for dinner, you know. You and your mother. Borrow some books, if you’d like.”

“Thank you,” Thea said, feeling guilty. She just didn’t read much, the way she had as a little girl. He probably still thought of her that way, Thea with skinned knees and a book under her arm. “I still have that book of fairy tales you gave me when Father died.”

“I’ve always felt fairy tales are as true as anything that really happened.”

She smiled. Sometimes he reminded her of a fairy-tale creature himself, a wizard who had crawled out of a magic cave. “You are a dear man,” she said.

“I try to do my part in these grim times,” he said. “At least there isn’t rationing anymore, and you have work. You do still have work, don’t you?”

She nodded quickly, hoping he didn’t ask about it.

“You know what this nonsense with bound marriages is really about,” he said. “The officials want to suppress magic. They shudder at the idea of power in the hands of the poor. But you can’t suppress people’s magic. It’s no better than suppressing art. Of course, they do that, too, don’t they? And they say they can cure bound-sickness, but you know what they really do, don’t you?”

“No…” It made her nervous when Father Gruneman began to speak against the government, as if an official might, in fact, be hiding behind a pew.

“They take their memories away. That’s what they did to Mrs. Hart. It’s tragic. It’s all going to come to something ugly. Your generation is going to have to be very strong. But, Thea, don’t be afraid to ask for help. You are never alone, you know.”

She nodded. But she certainly felt alone.