Ink Exchange tf-2 Page 6

  "Where's" — Leslie paused, not wanting to say the wrong thing—"everyone?"

  "Seth's out at the Crow's Nest. Keenan's working on some stuff. I don't know where Carla or Ri are." Aislinn stood up and wiped her hands on her jeans, as if the brief contact with the ground had dirtied them. For all Aislinn's comfort in grungy places that made most people uncomfortable, she still had tidiness issues.

  Aislinn glanced at a few unfamiliar guys across the street. When she looked away, one of them shot a grin at Leslie and licked his lips. Reflexively, Leslie flipped him off—and then tensed as she realized what she'd done. She knew better: caution kept a girl safer than provoking trouble did. She wasn't the sort to flip anyone off or speak up, not now, not anymore.

  Beside her, Aislinn had finished her survey of the street. She was always cautious, enough so that Leslie had wondered more than a few times what Aislinn had seen or done that made her so careful.

  Aislinn asked, "Walk over to the fountain?"

  "Lead the way." Leslie waited until Aislinn started walking before she glanced back to make sure that the guy she'd flipped off hadn't decided to cross the street. He waved at her but didn't follow.

  "So did you know that guy tonight? The one you were talking to when I got there?" Aislinn tucked her hands in the oversize leather jacket she had on. She had a nice coat of her own, but she tended to wear Seth's beat-up jacket when he wasn't with her.

  "I've never met him before." Leslie shivered at a sudden rush of longing that rolled over her at the mention of the strange guy—and decided not to tell Aislinn that he'd said he'd be back.

  "He was kind of intense." Aislinn paused as they waited to cross the poorly lit intersection at Edgehill.

  The headlights of a passing bus cut through the shadows, illuminating shapes that for a moment looked like a feather-haired woman and a group of red-tinted muscular men. Leslie's imagination was entirely too active lately. Earlier she'd had the disconcerting feeling that she was looking out of someone else's eyes, that she could see things that were somewhere else.

  The bus passed, sending an exhaust-scented gust of air over them, and they crossed into the slightly better lit park. On a bench across from the fountain, four unfamiliar guys and two equally unknown girls nodded to Aislinn. She lifted her hand in a wave of sorts but didn't go toward them. "So did he ask you to meet him or something, or—"

  "Ash? Why are you asking?" Leslie sat down on an empty bench and kicked off her shoes. No matter how long she stretched or how much she walked, there was something about waiting tables that always resulted in sore feet and achy calves. As she rubbed her legs, she glanced over at Aislinn. "Do you know him?"

  "You're my friend. I just worry and … He looked like trouble, you know? … The kind of guy that I wouldn't want near someone I care about." Aislinn moved so she was sitting cross-legged on the bench. "I want you to be happy, Les."

  "Yeah?" Leslie grinned at her, suddenly calm despite the swirl of feelings that had been swarming through her tonight. "Me too. And I'm going to be."

  "So that guy—"

  "Was just passing through town. He talked pretty, wanted to be adored while he ordered his meal, and is probably already gone." Leslie stood and stretched, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet. "It's cool, Ash. No worries, okay?"

  Aislinn smiled then. "Good. Are we walking or sitting? We just got here. …"

  "Sorry." Leslie thought about sitting down for a half second. Then she looked up at the dark sky swallowing the moon. A wonderful rush of urgency filled her. "Dance? Walk? I don't care."

  It was as if her months of fears and worries were slipping away. She reached back to touch her tattoo. It was just an outline still, but she already felt better. Believing in a thing—acting to symbolize that belief—really did make her feel stronger. Symbols of the conviction. She was becoming herself again.

  "Come on." She grabbed Aislinn's hands and pulled her to her feet. She walked backward until they were several feet away from the bench and then spun away. She felt good, free. "You sat around all night while I was working. You have no excuse for sitting still. Let's go."

  Aislinn laughed, sounding like her old friend for a change. "The club, I guess?"

  "Until your feet ache." Leslie looped her arm with Aislinn's. "Call Ri and Carla."

  It felt good to be herself again.

  Better, even.

  Chapter 8

  Leslie walked down the hall of Bishop O.C., shoes held in her hand, careful not to swing her arm and smack one of the dingy metal lockers with her heels. It had been three days since she'd had the outline tattooed, but Leslie was unable to stop thinking about that dizzying energy. She had been having strange bursts of panic and joy, emotions that seemed misplaced, out of context somehow, but they weren't debilitating. It was like she'd borrowed someone else's moods. Odd, but good. And she felt stronger, quieter, more powerful. She was certain it was an illusion, a result of her new confidence, but she still liked it.

  The part she didn't like was how many fights she seemed to notice—or that they didn't frighten her. Instead she caught herself daydreaming of the Verlaine's customer. His name was almost clear when she thought of him, but he'd never told it to her. Why do I know …? She shook off that question and hurried to the open door of the supply room.

  Rianne was motioning impatiently. "Come on, Les."

  Once Leslie was in the room, Rianne shut the door with a quiet click.

  Leslie looked around for a spot to sit. She settled on a pile of gym mats. "Where are Carla and Ash?"

  Rianne shrugged. "Being responsible?"

  Leslie suspected that she should be doing the same thing, but when Rianne had seen her in the hall that morning she'd mouthed, "Supply room." For all her flakiness, Rianne was a good friend, so Leslie ditched first period.

  "What's up?"

  "Mom found my stash." Rianne's heavily made-up eyes welled with tears. "I didn't think she was coming home, and—"

  "How mad was she?"

  "Livid. I have to go back to that counselor. And" — Rianne looked away—"I'm sorry."

  Leslie felt like a weight was pressing on her chest as she asked, "For what?"

  "She thinks it's from Ren. That I got it from him, so I can't … You shouldn't call or come over for a while. It's just… I didn't know what to say. I blanked." Rianne caught Leslie’s hand. "I'll tell her. It's just… she's really—"

  "Don't." Leslie knew her voice was harsh, but she wasn't surprised, not really. Rianne never did well with confrontation. "It wasn't from him, right? You know to stay away from Ren."

  "I do." Rianne blushed.

  Leslie shook her head. "He's a bastard."

  "Leslie!"

  "Shh. I mean it. I'm not mad at you for letting her think whatever. Just stay clear of Ren and his crowd." Leslie felt ill at the thought of her friend under Ren's influence.

  "You're not mad at me?" Rianne's voice trembled.

  "No." Leslie was surprised by it, but it was true. Logic said anger made sense, but she felt almost peaceful. There was an edge of anger, like she was about to be mad but wasn't quite able to get there. Every emotion the past three days floated away before it grew intense.

  She had the irrational thought that her emotions would settle once she got the tattoo finished—or maybe it was just that she was yearning for it, that bone-melting sensation that she felt when the tattoo needles touched her skin. She forced the thought away and focused on Rianne. "It's not your fault, Ri."

  "It is."

  "Okay, it is, but I'm not mad." Leslie gave Rianne a quick hug then pulled back to glare at her. "I will be, though, if you go near Ren. He's hanging with some real losers lately."

  "So how are you safe?"

  Leslie ignored the question and stood up. She suddenly needed air, needed to be somewhere else. She gave Rianne what she hoped was a convincing smile and said, "I need to go."

  "All right. See you in fourth period." Rianne pushed the stack of mats back into
some semblance of a tidy pile.

  “No. I’m out.”

  Rianne paused. "You are mad."

  "No. Really, I'm just—" Leslie shook her head, not sure she could explain or wanted to explain the strange feelings compelling her. "I want to walk. Go. I just … I'm not sure.

  "Want company? I could ditch with you." Rianne smiled, too brightly. "I can catch up with Ash and Carla and we'll meet you at—"

  "Not today." Leslie had an increasingly pressing urge to run, roam, just take off.

  Rianne's eyes teared up again.

  Leslie sighed. "Sweetie, it's not you. I just need air. I guess I'm working too much or something."

  "You want to talk? I can listen." Rianne wiped the mascara streaks from under her eyes, making them worse in the process.

  "Hold still." With the edge of her sleeve, Leslie rubbed away the black marks and said, "I just need to run it off. Clear my head. Thinking about Ren … I worry."

  "About him? I could talk to him. Maybe your dad—"

  "No. I'm serious: Ren's changed. Stay away from him." Leslie forced a smile to take the sting out of her words. The conversation was becoming entirely too close to topics she didn't like. "I'll catch you later or tomorrow, okay?"

  Not looking at all happy about it, Rianne nodded, and they slipped into the hall.

  After Leslie left Bishop O.C., she wasn't entirely sure where she was headed until she found herself at the ticket window of the train station. "I need a ticket to Pittsburgh for right now."

  The man behind the counter muttered something unintelligible when she slid the money across to him. Emergency money. Bill money. She was usually hesitant to spend her money on a few hours' trip to see a museum, but right then she needed to be somewhere beautiful, to see something that made the world feel right again.

  Behind her, several guys started shoving each other. People around them began joining in, jostling one another.

  "Miss, you need to move." The man glanced past her as he slid her ticket toward her.

  She nodded and walked away from the fracas. For a brief moment, she felt like a wave of shadows surged over her, through her. She stumbled. Just fear. She tried to believe that, to tell herself that she'd been afraid, but she hadn't been.

  The actual ride into Pittsburgh and the walk through the city were a blur. Odd things caught her eye. Several couples—or strangers to each other, by the looks of the very disparate clothing styles in one case—were embarrassingly intimate on the train. A beautiful boy with full sleeve tattoos dropped a handful of leaves or bits of paper as he walked by, but for a bizarre moment Leslie thought it was the tattoos flaking from his skin to swirl away in the breeze. It was surreal. Leslie wondered briefly at the oddity of it all, but her mind refused to stay focused on that. It felt wrong to question the odd things she'd been feeling and seeing. When she tried, some pressure inside her skin forced her to think of something, anything, else.

  And then she walked inside the Carnegie Museum of Art, and everything felt right. The oddities and questions slid away. The very world slid away as Leslie wandered aimlessly, past columns, over the smooth floor, up and down the stairs. Breathe it in.

  Finally her need to run eased completely and she slowed. She let her gaze drift over the paintings until she came to one that made her pause. She stood silent in front of it. Van Gogh. Van Gogh is good.

  An older woman walked through the gallery. Her shoes clacked in a steady rhythm as she moved, purposeful but not hurried. Several art students sat with their sketchbooks open, oblivious to everything else around them, caught in the beauty of what they saw on the gallery walls. To Leslie, being in the museum had always felt like being in a church, as if there were something sacred in the very air. Today that feeling was exactly what she needed.

  Leslie stood across from the painting, staring at the verdant green fields that stretched away, clean and beautiful and open. Peace. That's what the painting felt like, a bit of peace frozen in space.

  "Soothing, isn't it?"

  She turned, surprised that anyone could walk up to her so easily. Her usual hyperawareness was absent. Niall stood beside her, looking at the painting. His button-up was untucked and hanging over the waist of loose-fitting jeans; his sleeves were folded back, giving her a glimpse of tanned forearms.

  "What areyou doing here?" she asked.

  "Seeing you, it seems." He glanced behind him, where a lithe girl with vines painted on her skin stood staring at them. "Not that I'm complaining, but shouldn't you be in classes with Aislinn?"

  Leslie looked at the vine-girl, who continued to watch them openly, and wondered if she was a living art display. But then she realized that it must've been bad lighting or shadows: the girl had nothing painted on her. Leslie shook her head and told Niall, "I needed air. Art. Space."

  "Am I in that space?" he said as he took a step back. "I thought I'd say hello since we never seem able to speak … not that we should. You could go. I could go if you have things—"

  "Walk with me?" She didn't look away, despite the too-pleased look on his face. Instead of being nervous, she felt surprisingly bold.

  He gestured for her to lead the way, acting more gentlemanly than she thought normal. It wasn't quite stiff, but he seemed tense as he glanced around the gallery.

  Then Niall looked back at her. He didn't speak, but there was a strange tension in the way he held himself away from her. He lifted and lowered his right hand like he didn't know what to do with it. The fingers on his left hand were curled tightly together; his arm was held motionless against his body.

  She rested a hand on his arm and told him, "I'm glad you're actually here instead of with Keenan for a change."

  Niall didn't speak, didn't answer. Instead he looked away.

  He's afraid.

  Inexplicably, she thought of the strange guest at Verlaine's, could almost imagine him sighing as she breathed in Niall's fear.

  Breathed in fear?

  She shook her head and tried to think of something, anything, to say to Niall—and to avoid thinking about the fact that his fear was a little exciting. She just stood beside him and let the silence grow until it was uncomfortably obvious. It felt like the other museum patrons were staring at them, but every time she glanced at them, her vision would catch at the edges, as if a filter slid over her eyes and distorted what she saw. She stared at the painting, seeing only blurs of color and shape. "Do you ever wonder if what you look at is the same thing everyone else is seeing?"

  He went even stiller at her side. "Sometimes I'm sure it isn't the same … but that's not so bad, is it? Seeing the world in a different way?"

  "Maybe." She glanced over at him, at his nervous posture, and wanted to reach out to him—to frighten or calm him, she wasn't sure which.

  "Creative vision creates art" — he motioned around the gallery—"that shows the rest of the world a new angle. That's a beautiful thing."

  "Or some sort of madness," she said. She wanted to tell someone that she wasn't seeing things right, wasn't feeling them right. She wanted to ask someone to tell her she wasn't going crazy, but asking a stranger for reassurance was pretty far from comfortable—even with her feelings skewed.

  She folded her arms over her chest and walked away, carefully not looking at the people watching her or Niall, who was following her with an expression of pain on his face. The past few days it seemed like people were behaving oddly—or perhaps she was just starting to pay attention to the world again. Perhaps it was a waking up from the depression she'd been fighting. She wanted to believe that, but she suspected she was lying to herself: the world around her had become off-kilter, and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know why.

  Chapter 9

  With a wariness that felt out of place in the museum, Niall watched the fey watch them. Vine-covered Summer Girls wore glamours to seem mortal. One of the Scrimshaw Sisters slid through the room invisibly, peering into mortals' mouths when they spoke. Another faery, whose body was nothing more than
wafting smoke, drifted past. The faery plucked invisible traces from the air and brought them to his mouth, tasting mortals' breath, feeding himself with hints of coffee or sweets that they exhaled. None tested others' boundaries. Here was a place where the faeries all minded their manners, regardless of court affiliation or personal conflicts. It was neutral space, safe space.

  And Niall was taking advantage of that safety to break his courts rules. He'd appeared to Leslie, spoken to her on his own. He had no explanation for it. It was an irresistible compulsion to be near her, worse than he'd felt at Verlaine's. He'd disobeyed his queen—not a direct order, but her obvious intent. Should Keenan not intercede with Aislinn, the consequences would be severe.

  I can explain that… that… that what? There was nothing he could say that would be true. He'd simply seen Leslie, watched her blind wanderings, and revealed himself to her—stripped his glamour away right there in the gallery where any mortal could have seen, where plenty of faeries did see.

  Why now?

  The pull to go to her, to reveal himself, was like an order he simply could not refuse—nor, truth be told, did he want to. But he knew better. Until today he'd done fine with not approaching her, but that did not undo the embarrassing number of witnesses to his actions. He should excuse himself, turn back before he crossed lines that would result in his queen's anger. Instead he finally asked, "Did you see the temporary exhibition?"

  "Not yet." She kept her distance now, after his too-long silence.

  "There's a painting from the Pre-Raphaelites I wanted to see. Would you care to join me?" He had made a habit of viewing every Pre-Raphaelite painting he could. The reigning High Queen, Sorcha, had been inordinately fond of them and lent her likeness to a number of their canvases: Burne-Jones had almost done her justice in The Golden Stairs. He thought to tell Leslie—and stopped. He was visible to her. He shouldn't be talking to her at all, about anything.

  He stepped away. "You're probably not interested, I can—

  "No. I am. I don't know what the Pre-Raphaelites are. I sort of walk around and look at the paintings. It's not… I don't know a lot about art history, just what" — she blushed lightly—"moves me."