The Tattooed Heart

  “Servants of Isthil,” John said in a grating voice dripping with contempt.

  I shot a worried look at Messenger. Messenger stood stony-faced, unafraid, unsurprised. “I thought I sensed your kind,” he said.

  John smiled and shrugged. “Well, aren’t you the clever one? A Messenger of Fear, I suppose. One of Isthil’s little busybodies. And what’s this,” he said, indicating me. “Your pet?”

  Messenger did not answer.

  John laughed. “Did you come to listen in? Did you enjoy it?” He turned back to the bed.

  “Stop!” I cried. “Tell him!” But John did not stop, so I cried again, more insistently, “Stop him! Stop him!”

  “He can’t, you little fool,” John snarled. “His kind have no power over mine.”

  “I have one power over you,” Messenger said. It was said quietly, but if you imagine that he spoke without emotion, you would be wrong. I would never have believed so quiet a voice could carry so much fury. “Show yourself, incubus!”

  “Oh, I see,” John said. “She’s a pupil, not a pet. You want her to learn, that’s it, isn’t it?” He focused on me, looked me up and down with a predatory intimacy.

  “Show yourself!” Messenger snapped.

  “As you wish, servant of Isthil.”

  John walked right up to me, swaggered really, and stopped within reach, facing me. He was proud of what he was about to reveal. He didn’t writhe or squirm as if he were being forced to do so, he was glad of the opportunity. He smiled and then stuck out his tongue. But the tongue began to change. The pink color turned black, and his tongue grew long, longer, until it was a two-headed black snake writhing between lips that had begun to change as well, turning a dark red.

  The mouth was wide and lipless, more a gash than a mouth, and within I glimpsed rows of tiny sharp teeth, shark’s teeth. His eyes had migrated across his face, split apart into smaller pools, like spilled mercury. Two human eyes became six eyes that could only make me think of spiders. Not dead little doll eyes, but six active, searching, leering eyes.

  His body was wiry rather than bulky, with something like skin that seemed too mobile, too . . .

  My breath caught in my throat. His skin, his entire now-unclothed body was covered in barbs, like the stem of a fresh-cut rose. “Do you know what I would do to you?” he asked me. “With my tongue I would lick the flesh from you, flay you alive until you were nothing but raw, red flesh.” All the while the barbs that covered him quivered, and the two-headed tongue would quickly dart in and out between words, so fast that his speech was not interrupted. Heat came off him, as if he were packed with glowing charcoal.

  “Get back,” I said in a voice much weaker than I intended.

  “And once I had reduced you to a single vast island of pain, I would take you, I would take you!”

  His tongue lashed out at me. His hands, claws now, swiped at me. He was furious. He was a single nexus of all the rage in the world. He hated me.

  He hated me.

  I couldn’t help it, I backed away, not even conscious of what I was doing. Not conscious of anything but the monster before me.

  “This one cannot harm you,” Messenger said. “Nor can he physically harm Graciella. He can only pour his poison in her ears.”

  The demon—what else to call such a creature—nodded agreement. “Oh, it’s true, sadly. But others—greater than myself—can take your precious immunity from you, little messenger girl. Oh yes, they can. And if it pleases them they can give you to me. They can give me your mind and body and your quivering soul, and then, oh the fun we would have.”

  He moved closer, ever closer, and I felt the door behind me, my back pressed against it now, and panic, sheer terror possessed me.

  “You want to see the demon?” he taunted me. He swung his arms wide and roared, “Here is the demon incubus!”

  I panicked.

  I fled.

  6

  FEAR TAUGHT ME TO USE MY NEWFOUND POWER. Blind panic accomplished what I had been reluctant to do. For when I fled, I did not run, but simply went elsewhere, as Messenger did so easily.

  I don’t believe that I thought, even for a microsecond, about where I would go. I just felt sudden animal terror and I was gone from Graciella’s home, gone from the demon.

  It took me a few shaking, quivering moments to realize that in my panic I had instinctively gone to where I felt safe. I was at the mall.

  Not just any mall, but the mall where I had often wandered with my friends after school, or less happily with my mother who was never a great shopper, except for herself.

  It was the Village at Corte Madera, just a few miles from my home in San Anselmo. The mall is really two malls, one on the west side of the 101, one on the east side, both open-air, as is fairly typical in temperate Northern California.

  I was on the east side, the part with a Macy’s at one end and a Nordstrom at the other. I was standing in front of the Apple store, close to the Macy’s end.

  The sky was dark and I sensed that it was near closing time. Accounting for the different time zones between California and Nashville, I had evidently stayed within the same time line. I had traveled through space but not time.

  I don’t know why my subconscious mind chose this as my destination. Why not my home? Why not my school? Maybe because this place was innocent of any association with my past misdeeds and their consequences. Or maybe it’s because malls are uncomplicated and familiar.

  And maybe it was because I had never seen a demon there.

  There were chairs and tables outside the Peet’s. I sat down in one and lowered my head to the table. Too much. Too much, too fast.

  Too much.

  I felt like I was coming apart. Like my head might crack open and spill filth across the metal table.

  I raised my head just as an elderly couple began to sit on me, unaware, of course, that I was there. I slid out of the way, invisible.

  I walked to Abercrombie & Fitch, weaving around and occasionally through kids my age, in the faint hope that I would see someone I knew. I did.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Mara,” Messenger said.

  I did a poor job of hiding what was in my heart. The residue of shock and utter disgust was on my face.

  Messenger turned off the music—well, for us at least—and did something he did on occasion, but not often: he looked at me. He looked into my eyes and I must have looked pathetic.

  “I didn’t know such things existed,” I said.

  “Nor did I before becoming a messenger,” he said. “Demons can conceal themselves from human eyes.”

  “Are they all . . . I mean, are all evil people . . .”

  “No.” He shook his head. “No, humans are quite capable of evil all on their own. The incubi are a special problem. They are rare. So I am told. And they are disliked, even among demons, not because others of their kind despise their evil, but because they spend too much of their time with humans, and too little time in obedience to their masters.”

  I shook my head. “You’ve been revealing things to me slowly. You’ve been trying to spare me.”

  He nodded almost imperceptibly. “You need to understand, Mara, that your duty as a messenger gives you great powers, but your mind and soul are not protected. It is not just the wicked who end up in the Shoals.”

  “You’re telling me I need to be strong.”

  Apparently that was so obvious it didn’t require a response.

  “I’ve seen the Master of the Game. I’ve now seen a demon incubus. Is that the worst of it? Or is there more?”

  He kept up that steady stare.

  “Ah,” I said. I sniffed because at some point I had started to cry and my nose was running. I was in the middle of A&F, talking to a boy who should have been one of their models, and what I saw in my mind was the face of the incubus. And what I had in my heart was the knowledge of the cruelty he had inflicted on Graciella. The demon had systematically attacked her ego, her sense of herself. E
ach new verbal attack, each new calculated humiliation, was like an ax blow to a tree; no one blow would topple her, but with each cut she was weakened, awaiting only a stiff breeze to knock her down.

  “I guess I’d better find a way to be strong,” I said.

  He liked that answer. No, he didn’t say so, or high-five me, or even really change his expression, but I could tell.

  I had the odd thought that until then I had found Messenger frightening, disturbing, infuriating, and yes, Oriax, wherever you are, attractive, but now I was starting to like him. Not like like, but as a human being. He was looking out for me. He was caring for me. And maybe that was just a part of his duty, but I didn’t think so, and I flattered myself that he at least did not dislike me.

  He waited, eternally patient.

  “Okay,” I said. “Graciella.”

  And without warning, we were on the side of a two-lane highway. Night was falling. There was very little around—a few scattered trees, a lot of grass, a lone trailer, and a well-composed, rustic-looking little building with what I supposed was a tin roof. There was a porch with four-by-four columns. Next to the highway was a sign with a sunburst logo and the name Authentic Coffee Company.

  There was a gravel parking lot with six or eight cars and pickup trucks, and one long, white limousine.

  A semi came tearing past, too fast for the relatively narrow road, and as it passed and its howl faded, I heard music coming from inside the lonely coffee shop.

  We went inside by the unusual (for us) method of simply walking in through the open front door.

  Inside was a remarkably pleasant room, nothing like the usual corporate coffee shop. This had wood-paneled walls, a brick fireplace, and a rocking chair in one corner. I immediately thought that this was the very sort of place I’d love to come to do homework.

  But that was an unwelcome thought as it brought a sense of loss and loneliness with it. Would I ever be able to go back to that life? Did my mother think I had run away or died? Did my friends miss me? I knew now that we had the power to move easily through time, and I told myself that when my apprenticeship, and my time as the Messenger was done, I would be able to slip unobtrusively back into my old life.

  But if time was meaningless, what was I to make of Messenger’s longing for his Ariadne? I had no way of knowing his circumstances, I did not know what evil he had done that had led him to be punished by being made a messenger.

  Maybe in his case his old life was lost. Maybe he had somehow destroyed that old life. But my life had not been destroyed. Yes, I had done a terrible thing, for which I richly deserved this doom, and indeed had brought it on myself. But my life was intact. I hoped. I could go back.

  I hoped.

  It had come to this: I was pining for homework.

  There was a girl playing an acoustic guitar in the corner. Her playing was not wonderful, but it wasn’t terrible, either. Her voice, likewise, was too small, too tentative and untrained to be professional quality. But the song she sang . . . As I listened to the words of longing and hope, to the melody that floated so gently and insinuated itself so effortlessly into my heart, I knew I was hearing something more than a random girl in a random coffee shop.

  The girl was only about sixteen. She was pretty and dressed in embroidered jeans and a peasant girl top.

  She was, of course, Graciella.

  I show you my bruises.

  I show you my pain.

  I show you the things I hide from myself.

  Hope you’re not frightened.

  I hope that you’re strong.

  And pray that you’ll love me,

  My bruises and all.

  I’m a bit of a mess.

  I s’pose that you know.

  Does that scare you off, or push you away?

  Are you fool enough

  To love me despite?

  Or love me because of,

  My bruises and all.

  It was country music, not my usual thing, a Lucinda Williams type of song, but Graciella Jayne was laying herself out there in her lyrics and her music, and it touched me.

  When she was done the half dozen or so people in the room applauded, none more enthusiastically than a young woman—no, a girl, now that she turned around so that I could see her face.

  There was something familiar about that face. I frowned, concentrating, but could not place it. Had she been on television? I had only the faintest wisp of a memory of a music contest.

  She had the look of a girl who’d been put together professionally. The hair, the makeup, the outfit, even the shoes, all had the well-designed look of money and Nashville taste. Then, too, people in the shop were stealing discreet glances at her. She was someone.

  This someone was with a man, older, much older, who nodded, made a skeptical face, shrugged, then got up and went to the bathroom.

  Alone, the well-dressed girl motioned to Graciella to join her. Graciella obviously recognized the girl, and just as obviously was startled. Graciella pointed at herself as if the girl could not really mean her. When the girl smiled and waved, Graciella set her guitar down and came over, taking the seat the old man had left vacant.

  “Are you really . . .” Graciella let the question hang.

  “I’m Nicolet,” Nicolet said, and then the penny dropped, as the old saying goes, and I suddenly remembered. She was one of the youngest ever winners on American Idol. And since then her star had been rising. Had she won a Grammy? I couldn’t be sure, but I was quite sure she’d become very successful. The limousine outside was almost certainly hers—she didn’t look like a pickup truck kind of girl, at least not anymore.

  We moved closer, Messenger and I, and heard Nicolet pouring compliments in Graciella’s ears.

  “Now, I don’t want to offend you,” Nicolet was saying, “but you aren’t ready for performing. You’re just not. But you can write a good song, and that’s a fact. A song I could turn into a hit.”

  Graciella’s eyes lit up. “Really? You would perform my song?”

  “We’d like to see any songs you have.” This from the old man who’d come back from the restroom. He pulled a chair up. “Do you have others?”

  “Sure I do!” She rummaged around in her purse and came up with a dog-eared composition book. “This one’s called ‘Jesus Tweets.’” She fetched her guitar and sang a little.

  Do not be anxious,

  About tomorrow.

  For tomorrow,

  Will be anxious for itself.

  Sufficient for the day

  Is its own trouble.

  Please retweet me.

  And follow me back.

  I follow you, Jesus.

  And I retweet you.

  I just want you to know,

  I’ve got enough.

  Sufficient for this day,

  Are the troubles that I own,

  No need to retweet me.

  Just thought you should know.

  A sly look passed between Nicolet and her manager as Graciella sang, the light of avarice on both parts, and a darker light of jealousy from Nicolet.

  “I think we might like to buy your songs,” the manager said.

  “Really? Oh, my God!”

  “We would do what’s called a simple purchase agreement. See, that way you don’t have to hire a lawyer and an accountant and a manager who will just take everything you have.”

  It occurred to me that Nicolet had all those things, of course—lawyers, accountants, and a manager—but Graciella’s starlit eyes blinded her to the obvious fact that she was about to be ripped off.

  “I think I can see where this is going,” I muttered.

  “Let me see if this coffee shop has a printer I can use, and we’ll draw the contract up right now,” the manager said. He thumped the table for emphasis and squeezed out a big, insincere smile.

  “This is going to be great,” Nicolet said, barely concealing her contempt for Graciella’s naiveté. “We’ll be a team. Like Lennon and McCartney. You write the s
ongs, I’ll sing them.”

  Messenger was looking at me speculatively.

  “What?” I snapped.

  “What shall we do next? Learn more of Graciella’s fate, or return for now to Pete and Trent?”

  It took me aback. Messenger was running the show, I was just along for the ride. Right? Was he judging my readiness?

  “It’s not a great choice,” I grumbled. “I either go with crazy bigots or with the long, slow decline of a girl who grew up being mentally abused by an incubus.”

  “Yes,” Messenger said dryly. “Our duty seldom allows us to choose between chocolate and more chocolate.”

  I blinked. I blinked again. Messenger, the boy in black, the boy who pronounced terrible doom on evildoers, the servant of Isthil, my master, had just made a joke.

  Not a great joke, but . . .

  Of course he did not smile, that would have been too much to hope for.

  “I want to see what they pay her,” I said. “May I . . . Can I . . .” I wanted to ask whether I had the power on my own initiative to play with time as Messenger did.

  No answer, which I suppose was the answer.

  Could I? Well, that was up to me, wasn’t it?

  I didn’t know how to begin. There is no magic wand in our world. No Latinate Harry Potter spells to cast. There is only will and, I suppose, imagination.

  It dawned on me then, that imagination was vital to a messenger. Imagination is a tool of adaptation, a tool that allows a person to accept as real what seems impossible—what is impossible in the usual world.

  I wanted to be a writer. It was that desire that had led me to the sin I was still paying for with this terrible duty. I had a good imagination, that much at least, if few other talents.

  “Fast-forward,” I said with far, far more confidence than I actually felt. And to my utter amazement, it worked. In time I would get past being surprised, but I was not there yet.

  The world of the little rural coffee shop sped up to three or four times normal speed. The three of them, Graciella, Nicolet, and the manager, all began to move swiftly, hands and feet jerking, heads shifting as rapidly as a nervous bird. The guitar was lifted and set down, lifted and set down, and we heard helium chipmunk versions of songs sung at hyperspeed.