Borderline (28 page)

“No,” I interrupted fiercely, staring in dismay at the top of his horned head. “No, it's not your fault. And—I was supposed to end up this way. You'd still be in that well if I weren't.”

He looked up at that, and although he didn't make a move toward me, there was so much love in his eyes I didn't know what to do with it all.

“Why did you leave those drawings everywhere?” I asked instead.

“I've been doing it all this time,” he said. “Like messages in a bottle. Everytime I'm stuck on this side waiting for anything, I make a sketch and leave it behind. I had to believe you'd find one eventually. And in the end fate puts you a few steps behind me, hunting the same guy.”

I smiled sadly. All those drawings I'd never found, little slices of Claybriar I'd never see.

I thought of Officer Clay, with his gray T-shirt and his caffè mocha. He didn't scare me. I pictured sitting astride his lap, his hand curled around the scarred end of my thigh, his mouth soft against mine. But of course it couldn't be like that. He couldn't even touch me.

“I should go,” he said, standing.

“Don't give up on me,” I blurted.

He looked at me, startled, one ear twitching back. “Of course not,” he said.

“You'll come back sometime?”

“Of course.” He lingered a moment, then turned without saying good-bye. I averted my eyes from his hooves as he walked away.

I felt a twinge of guilt for judging his appearance—who was I to be choosy about legs—and it was that guilt that made me realize with a shock what had just happened.

When I'd imagined us together, he was the only one I'd changed. For the first time since my fall, I had imagined something beautiful happening with me in it. The real me, missing pieces and all.

•   •   •

Rivenholt was executed in Arcadia with great ceremony, according to an e-mail from David Berenbaum. When I tried to reply, my e-mail bounced back to me—no such account. The next day the trades reported that David had packed it off to some emu ranch in New Mexico with Linda, leaving Inaya West as the sole proprietor of Valiant Studios. As David had promised, she offered me a job as her assistant, and I accepted it.

Since Teo didn't legally exist, and Vivian was being treated as a missing person, only Gloria got an obituary. Gloria Day, freelance script supervisor and missionary to the needy, killed in a tragic accident, service to be held at St. Brendan Church. It wasn't until I heard the Latin hymns at her funeral that I realized why I'd never been able to find anything about her online.
Gloria dei
was more than likely not the name on her birth certificate.

I wheeled myself out of the service a little early—I still hadn't replaced my broken AK—and found Caryl lurking outside, leaning against the church.

“Well, hello,” I said. “You're still basically human, you know. You can probably enter holy ground.”

“Funerals make me uncomfortable,” she replied evenly.

“Tjuan and Phil are up front; I don't think they saw me. But I'm sure they'd like to sit with you.”

“I am only here because I didn't know where else to find you.”

“I've got an apartment in the Marina; you can have the number if you want. I'm going to be Inaya's assistant at Valiant. How about you? Still have a job?”

Caryl was silent for a moment, then pushed off the wall and moved in front of my chair so I had to look at her. For some reason she'd cut off all her hair; it lay close to her head in well-groomed curls.

“National has put me on probation,” she said. “Which means I still have the authority to hire you back, if you wish. Tjuan needs a new partner.”

“Having employee turnover problems?”

“Millie.” Her tone was flat, but I knew a rebuke when I heard one.

I sighed and ruffled my hair. “I can't imagine anything less fun than having Tjuan as a partner. And I have a roof now, and a job.”

“But you're alone.”

“I'm thinking of getting a cat. Seriously, I want to try living a normal life. If I come back, I want it to be because I chose it.”

Caryl regarded me for a moment. “If you
choose
the Arcadia Project,” she said, “you will be the first.”

“Well, I'm pretty special.”

“Yes, you are.” There was no emotion behind the words; she must have had Elliott out. Still, it shut me up for a second.

“You know what they say,” I said briskly then over the urge to cry. “If you love something, set it free.”

Her mouth curved up in a bland little smile, and she reached out, giving my hand a single squeeze with her black silk glove before letting it go. “Good-bye,” she said. “I'll contact you if we hear from Claybriar.”

I watched her walk away down the sidewalk, and a little voice told me I wasn't going to be anybody's secretary for very long. Once you've seen the world through fey glasses, for better or for worse it never quite looks the same again.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Because this book was begun with no expectation of success, it had a long, fragmented path to completion. Without a doubt, I've forgotten some of the people who made it possible.

A dedication isn't enough to acknowledge the contribution of Paul Briggs, who single-handedly led me through the first draft by dangling the carrot of positive feedback, two thousand words at a time. The world is dimmer for his unexpected loss, seven months after holding in his hands the book he helped to create.

A character namesake isn't enough to acknowledge Amanda C. “Dr.” Davis, the first person brave enough to tell me why that first draft drove thirteen other beta readers into hiding. Without her, the book would still being a drawer somewhere.

A paltry percentage isn't enough to acknowledge my agents, Russell Galen and Rachel Kory, for taking a chance on a newcomer and aiming higher than I'd have dared. And there isn't praise enough in the world for Navah Wolfe at Saga Press, whose perfect combination of fannish enthusiasm and surgical precision turned that stack of pages on her desk into a novel. In my wildest dreams I could never have imagined better synergy with an editor.

And Seanan McGuire! Good heavens. Still staggered by the unexpected outpouring of support from someone I'd only ever known as a name on my bookshelf. I think we're doomed to be come either great friends or deadly nemeses.

There are many others who have made this book possible indirectly by propping me up when I faltered professionally or personally—too many to name, but I'll try a few. My husband, Matt, of course, everyday. Wren Wallis, partner in many things. Paul Park, Kim Stanley Robinson, Kenneth Schneyer, Shauna Roberts, Scott H. Andrews, Ferrett Steinmetz, Mary Robinette Kowal, Myke Cole, Joe Monti, Michael R. Underwood, Charles Coleman Finlay, Sunil Patel, Nate “Frog” Crowley, Jason Gruber, Sarah Goslee, Stephanie Gunn, Rachel Hartman, and Guy Gavriel Kay. (Some of you may not even know exactly why your names are on this list, because many of you are so in the habit of giving that you may not remember small gestures that, to me, meant all the world.)

Thank you, all of you, and to those I've forgotten: don't let me. Hound me, throw yourselves in my path. I'll find ways to thank you too.

Author photograph copyright © 2016 by Vanie Poyey

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2016 by Mishell Baker

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Also available in a Saga Press paperback edition

Jacket photograph of woman copyright © 2016 by Jill Wachter;

jacket stock photography copyright © 2016 by Thinkstock

The text for this book was set in Chaparral Pro.

First Saga Press hardcover edition 2016

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Baker, Mishell.

Borderline / Mishell Baker. — First edition.

pages cm

ISBN 978-1-4814-5306-6 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-4814-2978-8 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-4814-2979-5 (eBook)

1. Women with disabilities—Fiction. 2. Government investigators—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3602.A58665B67 2016

813'.6—dc23

2015009176