I felt a twisted stab of contrition, mixed with concern and curiosity, but when I opened my mouth, what came out was, “Poor you with your magic powers and your nice clothes and your SUV.”
Most Borderlines are virtually incapable of a sincere apology. Tell a Borderline she has hurt you and she responds with a list of ways you’ve hurt her worse. Why? Because in a “split” world, someone has to wear the black hat, and for a person with suicidal tendencies, avoiding guilt is quite literally a -matter of life and death.
“The difference,” Caryl said to me, “is that virtually everything that has gone wrong in your life, you have done to yourself.”
“Fuck you,” I said, because nothing pisses off a Borderline quite like the truth.
14
The Regazo de Lujo Spa and Retreat was spread over fifty acres of green, sea-kissed land in Santa Barbara, but when we arrived, the sun had yet to rise to paint it in all its splendor. Even in the dark, the sprawling grounds and distant stucco villas looked inviting—but the REGISTERED GUESTS ONLY sign and dour-looking security guard at the end of the long, narrow driveway were decidedly less so. Caryl drove past the entrance as though planning to circle back around, but this place took the word “retreat” seriously; I hadn’t seen any sign of public parking for miles.
“Where are we supposed to put the car?” I said. “Are you expecting us to park five miles away and walk?”
Caryl turned off her headlights and began to slow down, easing her car over to the side of the road. She checked her mirrors, then drove over the curb onto the grass, coming to a lurching stop.
“Get out of the car, quickly,” she said in a crisp tone that brooked no hesitation.
“You’re going to get us towed.” I heaved myself awkwardly out of the passenger-side door, still queasy from my attempts at making sense of Rivenholt’s file. My nausea was not abated in the slightest when Caryl, now standing next to the hood on the driver’s side, rolled her eyes back and began to murmur under her breath in a foreign tongue.
When I say foreign, I don’t mean foreign in the sense of “from another country” but in the sense of “invading virus.” The harsh, wet consonants and dripping diphthongs made the hairs on my arms and neck lift away from my skin. I slipped the fey lenses down over my eyes and saw that the shadows around Caryl’s form had thickened; Elliott had gone as still as a gargoyle on her shoulder.
A sickly webbing the color of an old bruise began to spread across the windshield, then the windows, then the entire SUV. My hair stirred in a breath of wind that stank like an abattoir; I shuddered and pushed my sunglasses back up into my hair.
The car was gone.
No, of course it wasn’t. I stepped forward and touched the window, just to prove myself sane. I could still feel and almost see the cold gleam of glass under my fingers, but all my baser instincts were stubbornly telling me there was nothing there at all.
“Glamoured,” I said, remembering the bookstore. I cleared my throat when I heard how hoarse I sounded.
Caryl sagged against the hood for a moment, seeming supported by thin air. Her eyes started to roll back again, but she fought it, easing herself onto the grass to keep from outright falling. There was now a car between us, but to my stupid hoodwinked brain it looked as though she had simply vanished.
“Caryl,” I said in alarm, hobbling around the invisible SUV to look down at her. She was sitting on the grass with her head between her knees. I felt a familiar tingling on my shoulder, and lowered my glasses, pointlessly putting a hand up to steady Elliott. He buried his face in the curve of my neck, and I tried to kneel next to Caryl. I half expected to smell or feel the smoky darkness that surrounded her, but I couldn’t.
“I’m fine,” she said without lifting her head. “I really shouldn’t cast spells of that magnitude while I have Elliott out.”
“Why did you?”
“You’d rather park five miles away and walk?” she said dryly.
Impulsively I laid a hand on her shoulder through the haze. Elliott fluttered away from me and curled into a ball on the grass.
“Please do not touch me,” Caryl said. “Ever.”
I yanked my hand away and stared out into the dark road, focusing on my breath. Elliott, fickle child that he was, came back to my shoulder and nuzzled me.
“I am aware of the intent of your gesture,” Caryl said behind me. It sounded as though she was slowly getting to her feet. “And your concern is appreciated.”
I didn’t look at her. “Are you sure it’s not Elliott who’s real, and you’re the construct?” I said. Elliott cringed on my shoulder, but this time Caryl didn’t deign to reply.
“Come along,” was all she said.