I sit up, shaky, grass sticking to my palms, and see my phone lying beside me, the screen glowing the time—12:01A.M.
I am about to make a break for my car when I hear her voice roll around us like thunder. “Enough!”
10THE TWINS
Arla materializes from the trees like a living shadow, her black hair and black Edwardian coat, buttoned nearly to the throat, bleeding into the night. She lifts an old iron lantern in her right hand, and it flares to life, bringing our surroundings into focus. “I think we’ve seen enough,” she says sharply, narrowing her eyes at me as I clamber to my feet and brush away grass and dirt, blood dripping down one arm.
She holds out her other hand, irritation in her voice. “Coat!”
I hear a snicker and then a tiny woman steps into the circle of light, her latex jumpsuit glossy as a spider’s abdomen, a snake whip hanging from one hand, my trench coat hanging from the other. She passes it to Arla who snatches it away, holding it out toward me.
“You look cold,” she says.
Indignant, I take the coat from her and pull it over my wounded arms, one bruised, the other bleeding.
“Jude, meet Twig,” she says, laying a finger on the tip of the woman’s pert nose. “I’m sorry if you were hurt. The twins like to play a bit rough.”
I wipe my nose with my wrist and sniff. Twig can’t be more than five foot two. She has the delicate bones of a sparrow and the heart-shaped face of a little girl. Her dark hair is divided intobraids that barely reach her shoulders, and her bangs are cut in the shape of aV.Thick brows overpower her face, and a ring of feathery lashes magnify her already large eyes. The latex leaves nothing to the imagination, and her form is boyishly straight. But those eyes shine with a devious light, and there is a sharpness to her points and angles, like a wasp.
“Her real name is Triyama,” Arla continues when I don’t respond. “But we call her Twig. It’s a bit of an inside joke,” she says, and they share a laugh as if they are remembering something that neither bothers to explain.
I realize she is one of the ones Brennan warned me about and I glance around, nervous. I distinctly saw two bodies in the light of the fire, and Arla mentioned twins. “So, where’s her sibling?” I ask.
Arla grins. “Come, Rocco, don’t be shy.”
I am expecting a diminutive man with the same mix of features to emerge, but when Rocco finally steps into the light—coming up from behind me no less—he must be six foot four. Where every part of Twig is small, he is large with hulking shoulders, muscular arms, long legs, and a barrel chest. Even his neck is thick with a bulbous Adam’s apple, making Calvin’s look puny by comparison. His complexion, though warm, is much paler. He has none of the woman’s delicacy in the face, sporting a heavy brow, wide jaw, and crooked nose. And his eyes don’t shine like hers. They are small and deep-set, filled with suspicion. Twig and Rocco’s only commonality seems to be their dark hair and penchant for pain.
If these two are twins, I’m a unicorn.
He drops a shovel and a tied-off canvas sack to the ground by my feet. Guess we know who was doing the digging, then.
“Rock and Twig aren’t siblings in the genetic sense,” Arla informs me when she sees my incredulous expression. “But their souls are one. They found each other in an uncaring, uninteresting world and held on for dear life. And then they came to me.” She beams at them like a proud mother, which is odd considering they’re adults of a similar age. Arla is probably in her thirties like me, though I suspect a few years older. Rock looks to be in his latetwenties, at youngest. It’s hard to place Twig, who could be twelve as easily as she could be thirty-five.
“Do they speak?” I ask without thinking.
“Fuck you,” Twig quickly counters.
That answers that.I glance down and spy a black leather sheath at Rock’s hip where his black slacks meet the black ribbing of his fitted tank. I guess, in addition to being immune to pain, they’re immune to cold.
“I see you brought a knife,” I say bitterly, knowing he’s the source of the throbbing gash on my arm. “Anyone think to bring a Band-Aid?”
He glares at me.
“I would’ve brought my own,” I tell him, “but I didn’t know I was signing up to be a human voodoo doll when I came here.”
“It’s not that deep,” he retorts, his voice a baritone.
“The fuck it’s not,” I argue.
“Children, please. Can we try to get along?” Arla interrupts.
“Why am I here?” I ask, tired, frustrated, and more than a little hangry by this point.
Arla frowns. “You know why. You’re here to prove yourself, Jude. To me. To them. To the circle.”
“No.” I try again. “Why am Ihere? In this cemetery to a shithole they closed down fifty years ago at the goddamn witching hour?”
I see Rock’s brow knot over his eyes as they get even beadier than I thought possible.
