Borderline (10 page)

16

“Oh, Caryl,” said Vivian, plucking a strawberry from the plate, “I do hate to disappoint you, because I know how
desperately
you want to catch me being naughty, but I haven't harmed the boy. I haven't even seen him in weeks.” She sank her teeth into the strawberry and gave me a little wink.

“Then why are you in this room under his name?” said Caryl.

“You would have to ask him for the full story. He sent me an e-mail offering me a spa package he couldn't use, so I decided to take a few days off. Work has been so
stressful
lately. Far be it from me to say no to a deep-tissue massage and a facial.”

“This doesn't make sense,” Caryl said to me. “Vivian is exiled Unseelie nobility; there is absolutely no reason why a Seelie viscount would—”

“I'm sitting right here, darling,” said Vivian, a hard edge creeping into her voice. “And you know I can't lie.”

“No,” said Caryl, “but you have a history of presenting the facts in a way that suits your purposes.”

“Oh, and what
are
my purposes, aside from a bit of relaxa­tion, which you have rudely interrupted with your breaking
and entering? I would absolutely love to hear your theory.” She carefully selected another strawberry.

My brain finally clicked the name Vivian Chandler into place. She was an actors' agent. A good one, with a sharkish reputation and an A-list roster. I tried to remember whether she represented Inaya West, hoping for at least two pieces in this puzzle to fit together. But last I'd heard, Inaya was with ICM.

“I am currently without a theory,” Caryl admitted. “But if you haven't done something to Rivenholt, then I am sure you would not object to helping us locate him before the Los Angeles Police Department does.”

At this, Vivian straightened, a strawberry poised in her finger­tips. Slowly it browned and shriveled in her grasp. “I don't understand,” she said, her tone as brittle as glass. “What's he done? Am I an accessory to something?”

Caryl looked childishly pleased by Vivian's discomfort. “We don't know,” she said. “But local law enforcement was looking for him in West Hollywood near the Seelie bar, and he has broken contact with his Echo.”

Vivian set aside the spoiled strawberry and rubbed at her chin, her expression guarded. “Interesting,” she said. I tried to see behind her mask, but whatever she had once been, she was now Hollywood to the core, glossy and impenetrable.

“Do you think Rivenholt is trying to set you up for something?” I asked her.

“It
talks
!” she squealed, making Caryl wince. “And what an
interesting
look you have, sweetheart. I don't suppose you're looking for representation?”

“Leave her alone,” said Caryl.

Vivian looked delighted. “Awwwww, little Caryl has found a new mommy. I do hope this one's better to you.”

To my utter shock, tears filled Caryl's eyes. Before I could say anything, Vivian turned her savage smile on me. “It's so nice meeting you,” she said. “Let's play a game, shall we? You be the fox, and resort security will be the hounds.” With that, she plucked a mobile phone from the table and tapped it to her lips, eyeing me up and down. “You don't look very agile, sweetheart, so I'll be sporting and give you a head start.”

•   •   •

Security did catch up to us—it wasn't hard—but since we looked harmless and were on our way out anyhow, they sent us off with a warning.

Removing the charm from Caryl's car was a complicated ­matter, though, now that there was traffic. First we had to get inside the vehicle, which is harder than it sounds when your every ­neuron is thoroughly convinced that there is nothing there at all. Then we had to wait for what felt like hours for a lull in traffic so that no one would see an SUV materialize out of thin air. Even as rapidly as Caryl worked, we still got honked at furiously when we were caught driving over the curb back onto the road.

As soon as we found a legal place to pull over, Caryl put on the parking brake without turning off the engine and started into a long incantation that made me taste bile at the back of my throat. When she was finished, she released the brake and pulled back into traffic. Before I could ask what that was all about, I felt Elliott land on my shoulder.

“What happened back there?” I said.

“A great many things,” she replied. “Which of them do you mean?”

“That woman made you a complete wreck.”

“It wasn't entirely her fault.”

I thought about the way Caryl had flushed when Elliott's construct dissolved. “Did you take on some of Elliott's emotions when you reabsorbed his spell?”

“Elliott doesn't have emotions.”

“You said he had the feelings of a child.”

“I didn't say which child.”

“Ah.” Finally I got it. “Yours.”

Caryl nodded as though we were discussing the way she preferred her coffee. “Elliott is a sort of storage device.”

“For psychological trauma?”

“It serves as a repository for certain parts of my thought process when I am in a professional situation. My emotions are underdeveloped and . . . damaged, and that makes a bad mix with the amount of power I command.”

I studied her face. Once again I realized I had no idea of her age. No older than her mid-thirties, certainly, no matter how much she sounded like someone's grandmother. But then again, I didn't know the first thing about warlocks. She could have been two hundred years old, or two thousand. “What happened to you? What did Vivian mean about your mother?”

“That isn't relevant.”

“If my boss has crippling mommy issues, I feel like it's pretty damned relevant.”

“The auteur of
Th
e Stone Guest
has no call to throw stones about mother issues.”

“That was fiction,” I said. “But I saw the real you back there.”

“Why is some accident of uncontrolled neurochemistry the ‘real me,' and a carefully reasoned system of priorities somehow
false? I have lived more of my life without emotions than with them. If you have to choose a me to be ‘real,' this is it.”

I had a sudden desperate urge to talk to Dr. Davis. This woman, her former patient no less, had torn her mind in half. Her Emotion Mind was perched on my shoulder while her Reason Mind drove the car and told me it didn't matter. It was fascinating and horrible, and I was deeply, sickeningly envious. I looked out the window.

Caryl glanced over at me, then back at the road. I felt Elliott nuzzle my cheek, and I realized that was as close as I would ever get to an apology from my boss.

“So who is Vivian exactly?” I said when I'd pulled myself together. “I mean, I know who she is in Hollywood, but who is she in Arcadia?”

“She
was
Countess Feverwax of the Unseelie Court, but she was exiled at the end of the nineteenth century when she unleashed a plague on her own people for reasons she has yet to explain—if she even has reasons. She talked the Unseelie King out of executing her, and so she's this world's problem now.”

“What did she do before she was a talent agent?”

“She's most often an entrepreneur, favoring businesses with a touch of the macabre: slaughterhouses, funeral homes, that sort of thing. In the olden days she would invest through a husband who would then mysteriously die. She founded Cera Pest Control in 1970 and still holds a controlling interest. Over the years we suspect her to have committed any number of baffling, sadistic crimes, including murdering my predecessor, Martin, but we have never managed to pin her to anything.”

“I thought fey lost their magic if they stayed here too long.”

“Your attention to detail is one of your finer qualities,
Millie.” I couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic. “Normally yes, but certain Unseelie exiles use . . . legal but unsavory means to preserve their youth and power. We believe it may be these exiles who are the origin of the vampire legends.”

“What!” I couldn't help grinning stupidly. “Are you telling me I just had an interview with a vampire?”

Caryl pretended she hadn't heard me, and I couldn't really blame her.

•   •   •

When we arrived back at the Residence, Caryl pulled into the driveway and stopped the car, releasing the locks on the doors without a word.

“Aren't you coming inside?”

“No,” she said.

“Are you angry at me about something?”

By way of answer, Caryl gestured to my lap; I slipped down my fey lenses and saw Elliott curled up there contentedly. “If you hurry, you may still be in time to give Teo your requests for dinner,” Caryl said.

“I—I just thought—I mean, usually people say good-bye or whatever.”

“Shall I walk you to the porch and kiss you good night?”

The fact that I found the idea vaguely appealing was evidence of the severity of my social famine. “That's quite all right,” I said. “Uh, see you, I guess.” I began gathering myself to get out of the car.

“I'll call Song when I get home and tell her to give you Lisa's phone.”

The name rang a faint bell. “Who's Lisa?”

“Teo's last partner.”

I sat there for a moment, letting the weight of that settle on me.

“Millie?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to get out of the car?”

I did, and I slammed the car door just slightly harder than necessary, which hurt me more than it hurt the car.

I found Teo in the kitchen. Apparently I was too late to influence his choice of dinner, because he was already manically slicing long, thin strips of zucchini.

“Hey,” I said. “What are you making?”

“Lasagna,” he said without turning to look at me.

“Need any help?”

“Nope, I'm good.”

“I don't mean to interfere with your cooking or anything, of course, just . . . You know, if you need something stirred or peeled or whatever.”

“Nope.”

“Just trying to be friendly,” I said. “I know you don't like people, but I've learned the hard way what happens when you push everyone away.”

This time he didn't bother to respond.

“Are those pumpkin seeds?” I tried again. “What are they for?”

“Seriously, Millie, just let me cook.”

I stood there for a moment, fighting what I knew was an irrational amount of hurt. I knew I should probably just walk away and respect his space, but part of me couldn't accept the rejection and the other part was genuinely worried about him. I tried to think of something to say that wouldn't irritate him further; I wasn't quite ready to surrender.

“I found it!” piped up a cheery Southern accent as Gloria materialized from behind the island with a fine-mesh sieve.

I almost fell over. “Gloria, I didn't see you there!”

I wanted to take it back the second it came out of my mouth. Judging by the chilly look she gave me, there was no chance in hell I could convince her I hadn't meant any insult. As Teo started to turn toward her, she quickly replaced the glare with a pretty smile.

“Oh, good,” said Teo to Gloria as though I'd already left. “The quinoa's there on the counter.”

She'd heard my whole little speech. And apparently it wasn't
company
Teo couldn't stand, just me. My face heated all the way to my ears. Since neither of them was even looking at me, I didn't bother saying anything else before I turned and left the kitchen.

17

I could tell my face was still red when I got to Song's room, but I didn't care; I just wanted my phone. My landlord sat on the floor supervising her son's attempts to devour himself toes first. Song exuded the kind of bland serenity that's usually accompanied by a stench of stale marijuana, but all I smelled were diapers.

“Caryl wants me to have Lisa's phone,” I said.

Song looked up at me in surprise. “She didn't mention it to me.”

“She's going to call you as soon as she gets home, she said.”

Song rose, moving to what looked like a lost-and-found box. “If you're sure,” she said mildly as she rummaged through it.

Her implied doubt skimmed across my nerves. “Do you figure I'm just making this up?” I said. “How would I even know who Lisa is? Do you think Teo and I have just had some intense ­little heart-to-heart, and now I'm using his dead partner's name so I can steal a phone? Am I wearing some kind of sign that says ‘Beware of Lying Bitch'?”

Song flinched but kept rummaging; my only answer came in the form of a high-pitched keening from the floor. I looked
down and saw the baby's face scrunched up, his arms and legs pulled in toward his body as he drew in breath for an even louder wail.

Song hurriedly pressed a phone into my hand, then rushed to kneel down and take the baby into her arms. It occurred to me that in all the time I had spent in that echoing old house, day and night, I had never once heard the baby cry. From the stricken look on Song's face, she apparently didn't hear it often either.

Song clasped the baby to her chest as though trying to reattach a severed limb. With a half-assed apology still caught in my throat, I made an awkward exit.

I felt bad, but not as bad as I should have felt, which only made me feel worse. I had never understood the fuss over babies. My own window of cuteness had been wasted on a man too eyeballs-deep in grief to notice, and I'd managed to survive.

My new phone was saying “Connecting . . .” before I even realized I'd dialed it. It was a cheap relic with a tiny screen and no Internet capability, but at the moment it felt like a life preserver. I heard the receptionist at the Leishman Center answer as I unlocked the door to my room. A blast of heat greeted me; I'd forgotten to roll down the shades before I left that morning.

“If Dr. Davis is there, I'd like to speak with her. It's Millicent Roper. I need phone coaching, but I don't know her direct number.”

It was like an oven in there. To distract myself from how hard it was to breathe, I sang along with the hold music and struggled out of my clothes and prosthetics. Sitting naked on the air mattress, I stared at my ungroomed hands. Hangnails everywhere.

BPD whispered to me that Dr. Davis was never going to answer the phone. She was avoiding me, just like everyone else. Why wouldn't she? What had I ever done to deserve anyone's patience?

Th
ey've all given up on you. Dr. Davis, Dr. Scott, your own father.
Th
ey can't all be wrong, can they?
Th
ere's something wrong with you, deep down. Everyone can tell.

Stop it. Stop thinking. Fix something you can fix, like those hangnails.

Breath coming fast, eyes burning, I found a pair of cuticle scissors in the suitcase next to the mattress. One of my hangnails was stubborn, so I tore it off with my teeth. The stinging little notch it left in my skin filled in slowly with red. The pain was like a lighthouse, sweeping away the dark.

By the time Dr. Davis answered the phone, it was too late, and all I could do was cry.

“What's the matter, Millie?”

Her voice didn't belong to any reality that made sense anymore. I had washed out of dialectical behavior therapy. I was never going to see the beige walls of her office again. So I just cried, and she sat silent on the other end of the line. Except there wasn't even a line. Not even the barest thread of physical connection linked me to anyone on this planet.

“You know I have to ask you, Millie. Are you having suicidal thoughts?”

I stopped crying, finding annoyance. “No. Never again. I've told you.”

“Have you engaged in any self-harm behaviors?”

I looked down at the cuticle scissors in my hand, the wetly welling slashes of red on my bare thighs.

“You could say that.”

“You know how this works,” she said calmly. “Once you've engaged in a target behavior, it's too late to call me for coaching. I have to end the call now.”

I started crying again, the ugly kind of crying that's like your eyes are throwing up.

“I want to go home,” I said.

“Where's home, Millie?” When I didn't answer, she asked it again. “Where's home?”

I didn't have an answer. I ended the call so I wouldn't have to hear her hang up.

•   •   •

I woke to a rap on my door. It was still dark outside. I groped by the air mattress for my bathrobe and pulled it on. As I hefted myself clumsily up into my wheelchair, there was another knock at the door, louder. “Just a minute!” I snapped. “For God's sake, I'm a cripple.”

I took the brake off the chair and wheeled my way to the door, throwing it open to find a groggy and pissed-off Teo. “Let me in,” he said forcefully. I was so startled that I backed off the chair and did as he asked; he shut the door behind us. “Show me your arms,” he said.

I wasn't quite awake enough to process what he was saying. He grabbed my hand and yanked it up toward him, pushing back the sleeve of my robe. There was nothing there, but now I knew where he was going with this. I twisted my fingers out of his grip and started to back the chair away again.

“Don't you try to hide,” he said. “Take that off.”

“
Excuse
me?”

He went for the ties of my robe, and a smoky phantom of
whiskey teased at the back of my throat. I shoved the heels of my hands hard into his chest; he grabbed my wrists. My gut liquefied with terror. Even as we struggled, some half-­rational part of my brain knew that he was trying to help in his twisted idiot way. “Don't, Teo,
don't
, what are you
doing
? Get your hands off my body!”

I have never seen a man let go of anything so fast. He turned and walked away and leaned his forehead against a ­window. I stared at the back of his head, feeling the pulse pounding in my ears.

“I didn't mean it like that,” he said.

“Yeah, well, in general, don't ever fucking
do
that to a woman. Or a man. Or a
dog
.”

“I'm sorry, okay?”

I took a minute to catch my breath, slow my heart. Then I said, “If you're looking for something in particular, try using your words like a big boy.” Carefully I inched my robe up to expose as little of my skinny, fuzzy, cut-up thighs as I could while still showing the damage. “How did you know?” I said.

He knelt by my chair and peered at the carnage with a clini­cal eye. Monty's claws could have done worse; the puckered flesh around my thigh amputation was a far more dramatic sight than anything I'd just done.

“Is this all?” he said, sitting back on his heels.

“Yeah.” I was glad, at least, not to have to explain why I'd done it. Not to this guy.

“Davis called Caryl, and Caryl called me. So now you don't get to sleep either.”

“I'm sorry.”

He leaned forward on the arm of my wheelchair, staring
me down. “If Caryl ever calls me in the middle of the night again because of something stupid you've done, there won't be enough sorry in the world.”

“I called Dr. Davis, not Caryl! It was supposed to be confidential! How does she even know Caryl's number anyway?”

“They're like, arch-nemeses. Davis calls Caryl all the time to grill her about the Project and beg her to come back to therapy. For all they both knew, you could be bleeding out in here. Caryl thought it was her fault, Millie; she was raving some crap about a fight you two had. She was
crying
.”

“Bullshit.”

“She's like a ten-year-old inside, and she worships you, thanks to that stupid movie.”

“What movie?”

“Yours.”

“
Th
e Stone Guest
? How would you even know?”

“Because I pay attention to shit besides myself. Try it sometime. For all your little lecture about needing other people, you spend a lot of time wallowing in your own misery. You've got to find something to care about besides yourself, or you will literally die of the pain.”

“Like Lisa?”

For a second he looked like I'd hit him in the chest, but he rolled right over it. “Like Lisa. Hanged herself in Residence Five. It's why I don't live there anymore. P.S. I'd moved
there
because I found my first partner, Amir, with his head in the oven in Residence One. And I'd moved
­there
because my mom thought I was possessed by Satan and begged the Project to take me away.”

Without even meaning to, I catapulted headfirst into one
of the distress tolerance skills Dr. Davis had taught me, namely, comparing your problems to someone else's larger ones. It pisses you off if it's forced on you, but if you do it on your own, it's like a hit of refined sanity straight to the veins.

“Teo, I'm sorry,” I said. And I meant it. Not just the usual frantic Borderline apology that means
I'll lie and say I was wrong; just don't leave me.
For a moment I genuinely wanted to undo the hurt I'd done him, and any other hurts he might have collected in his lifetime. Just feeling that kind of sorry gave me a weird hope for myself. I put my hand over his where it rested on the arm of my chair.

He looked at his hand as though a bird had landed on it.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Don't touch you, right? I get that a lot.”

“Naw, touching's okay, I guess.” He turned his hand over and closed it around mine for a minute before standing up and turning toward the door. “I draw the line at making out, though.”

“Yeah, I'm way too hideous for that to be any fun.”

He turned back to me, annoyed. “Look,” he said, “I need you to know that it's not going to happen with us. But it's not personal, okay? And it's not your scars. Caryl said you were all freaked out that I rejected you or something.”

“I am never telling
anyone
anything again.”

“You don't get to have it both ways, Millie. You don't get to have people care about you but no one poke around in your business.”

“Are you saying you care about me?”

“Go back to sleep, Roper,” he said, heading for the door. He paused in the doorway. “Should I get Monty for you? He's very comforting.”

“Not a great idea with open wounds on my lap.”

“Good point.” He started to leave, then stuck his head back in. “By the way, Caryl will be collecting all the sharp objects from your room later today. So if you want to slit your wrists, I suggest you do it in the next couple of hours.”

•   •   •

Caryl did not, in fact, come to Residence Four in the morning but sent Song to do her dirty work instead. Song avoided my eyes as she took my cuticle scissors, my nail clippers, even my stupid electric razor. So much for grooming.

I was worried that when Caryl showed up she would send me back to the hospital despite the steel in my bones unless I did something to prove I was an asset. I wheeled myself down the hall to Teo's room, looking for information. He refused to give me Caryl's number—that was Against the Rules—but he gave me enough other people's contact info to get some work done.

First on my to-do list was David Berenbaum.

I was frankly shocked to hear the effusive warmth in Berenbaum's voice when I identified myself. I had to give myself a firm reminder that Hollywood people always sound like you're just the person they've been dying to see.

“Did you find something out about Johnny?” Berenbaum asked. “Things have been so nuts in post that I haven't had the chance to do any real digging. Part of me still expects it to be him every time the phone rings.”

“We do know he was alive and well very recently. He arranged for Vivian Chandler to stay at Regazo de Lujo under his name. We ran into her there, but she doesn't seem to know what's going on either.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

“Mr. Berenbaum?”

“This is bad.”

“You know what she is?” I said tentatively.

When he spoke again, it was quiet and a little muffled. “Look, can you meet with me somewhere? I can't talk about this with the post crew breathing down my neck.”

“I'd love to,” I said, then slapped a hand over my mouth. Could I sound any more like a fan? Hastily I tried to smooth it over. “The sooner we can get this figured out, the better. Where would you like to meet?”

“My office. It's one of the few places we can talk safely about this kind of stuff. Teo can tell you the basics about Vivian on the way.”

A lie fell out of my mouth before I had time to examine it. “Ahh, no, Teo's tied up with another thing. It's just me today. But it's all right, Caryl gave me the nutshell version.”

“You wouldn't rather wait for him?”

“Nah.”

“Okay.” He paused. “You know, that's all right, really. Maybe it's my age, but I find Teo a little hard to talk to.”

“It's not your age. I'll be there in an hour.”