It’s a smile. If you don’t know orangutans, you can’t tell if they want to hug you or kill you. And they can, but this one won’t. At least, she won’t kill me. I stop, reaching through the bars to touch Rue’s face, and she cups my hand, pushing it tighter against her cheek.
“Hey, Rue,” I say, keeping my voice low and calm. Yesterday I told Ribbit that the town council should be less concerned about the alligator and more about the cat. But the truth is that the scariest thing in here is probably this sweet girl, mostly because you wouldn’t see it coming when she decided it was time to snap your neck.
So I’m careful when I reach through the bars, combing out some tangles in her hair. She turns, aware of what I’m doing, showing me a spot she’s been working on. I finish the job for her, pulling out a clump of mud and touching the sore skin underneath.
“I’ll get some salve for that,” I tell her, and she grunts at me like she understands.
I tried to teach her sign language once and was starting to see indications of progress, until all she wanted to do was flip me off. Every time I approached the cage she’d give me a huge grin and a double bird. I couldn’t figure out where she learned it until one day I turned around and saw Cecil behind me, giving me the finger and laughing his ass off.
“Fucker,” I say, and Rue nods along with me.
I sign goodbye at her, but she turns her back, either refusing to show me that she remembers the sign or irritated that I’m leaving her already.
But I’ve got things to do, which is why I’m not going to give Cecil shit about the poison ivy sticking between my shoulder blades or tell Rue that I don’t have time to talk right now. I’ve got things to do, like find out what happened to my parents seven years ago.
And for that, I need manacles.
Chapter 7
Cat
The girl moves—sometimes—
as I do. Sleek. Purposeful.
I know the walk.
Something dies tonight.
She moves between us, watching me,
watching her.
The man, flashes silver, smells of machine.
A breeze brings her to me, meat and green things.
Death and life. She carries both.
Green sap, on her skin.
Drying earth blood.
A gust rattles the bones,
inside my cage. A collection of meals
Long eaten. Their memories, faded, gone.
She goes, with chains, heavy thoughts.
The man carries silver-flash-danger,
Closer.
Eyes me.
He’ll feed us tonight, bleary and slow-smelling,
throwing old meat.
He makes smoke, fills the air with bees,
light sparks. Small shakes. High hums.
I hunker, teeth out, ears down. Muscles tight under, nothing
to leap at,
only silver-flash-danger, biting bars, metal singing.
He stops, sees me down. Makes noises, low now.
His lips curling,
mine too.
He goes, leaving hot metal in the air, curled hind legs beneath me.
The Almost Human in the dusk, hands behind bars,
like butterflies.
Motion again, same. And same. And again.
What Almost Human says, I see—
silver-flash-danger danced wide,
severed the lock-cage-door-shut-trapped.
I flex my feet, claws extended.
And wait for the smell
of old meat.
Chapter 8
Felicity
I started early.
Brynn didn’t say much when I cracked a beer open at my house, but she took her taco costume off so she could drive. Her mouth is tight as we head out to the Allan house, my bells jingling as I nod along with the music. Hugh and David Evans pass us on the way out of town, honking like they’ve accomplished something when they swerve in front of my car. I raise my beer at them in response, like I agree. Brynn silently reaches out, touches my elbow, pushes my arm down out of sight.
“What?” I say, a little bit shitty. “I’m not driving.”
“No,” she says. “The only Black girl in town is. We get pulled over, who do you think the shit’s going to land on? The pretty white girl, or me?”
I take another slug of beer, knowing she’s right. But still, it’s not like we’re going to get caught. “There’s nobody out here,” I say. “And besides, your dad is white.”
Brynn sighs heavily. “That doesn’t outweigh my mom being Black. Might even make it worse.”
I’m quiet after that, the beer can slick in my hand. I don’t know what to say. Except my brain doesn’t get that message to my mouth in time, and I hear myself mutter, “Well, there’s nobody out here, anyway.”
It’s true, which is why the Allan house is such a great spot. It’s an old brick house, three stories, surrounded by acres of woods that have crept right up to the house in the years it’s been abandoned. Gretchen’s mom says nobody has lived here since she can remember, and her grandma says the same. The Allans built this place, had the money to fill it with expensive shit, too. Sometimes I wonder if they roll in their graves every time Cecil Allan comes into town, drunk and depositing a wad of cash at the bank, staring down the teller with one eye and daring her to ask where it came from.
Gretchen’s mom told us the Allan name was tainted before him, though. Something about a drunk in the family, embarrassing stories, glory won and lost, slipping between their fingers. She claims they just split one night, owing everybody money and a few people more than that. Cecil’s line were the poor relations without the money to even skip town. Which is why he jumped at the chance to marry an Usher, eyeing the house and the land that came with it, even if his family name dropped by the wayside as part of the agreement. She says Cecil may be the last person with the Allan name left in Amontillado, but the Allan boys had fun in their day, so there’s still plenty of their blood walking around, claiming to be something else.
Bastards aren’t exactly news around here. We all know each other well enough to spot a family trait on a face without the name it belongs to. But like my dad says, when you point at someone, there’s three fingers pointing back at you. Regardless, most of the Allans split, leaving behind a few babies without their name and a mansion full of furniture, the people in town picking and choosing what they wanted, less and less leaving the house over the years as it rotted where it stood.
There’s not much left now, just the stuff that was too heavy for anyone to move, like a grand piano and a big old grandfather clock that stands at the foot of the staircase. It’s freaked me out more than once, when I’m high as hell and come up those stairs to see my own reflection staring back at me in the glass front, lost, confused, a mess. There’s more than a little bit of my spit dried on the front of that clock, when I told that girl what I thought of her, not using words.
Brynn pulls into the drive, branches scraping the top of my car as she winds her way back to the house. It’s already a rager. Somebody hauled a generator out here, and there are naked light bulbs strung around what’s left of the sagging porch, the glow of electricity coming from inside as well.
“Sweet,” Brynn says, but I’m not thrilled about it. I’ve got to meet up with Tress, and that requires darkness. She won’t do business anywhere people can see. We could go out to the yard, or the woods, but the lights also mean that couples who rely on the dark corners of the Allan house will probably be going outdoors for their privacy tonight.