Alison Gross

by Midori Snyder
We're offering three free stories on this site to give you a taste of Bordertown. (We hope, however, that you'll support the series and its writers by buying the actual books! We can't keep the series going without you, dear readers!) "Alison Gross" was first published in Life on the Border (Tor Books, 1991). The story appears here with Midori's permission.

April

Thursday night. Sara took a deep drag off her cigarette and then laid it down on the edge of a tin ashtray. She held the smoke in her throat, let it settle in her chest, and then exhaled slowly through her nose. Wreathed in the blue smoke, she closed her eyes, relishing the heavy smell and pleasant burn of tobacco. She opened her eyes again and leaned into the mirror to finish her makeup. Her brown eyes appeared larger from the generous amounts of kohl drawn on the lids, and black mascara stretched the lashes impossibly long and stiff. The full lips were painted a bright coral that stood out against her olive skin. Fairy dust brushed on her cheeks and forehead shimmered as she tossed back long black curly hair.

She adjusted the straps on the brassiere of her costume, tucking her breasts more securely into the small cups. It had fit Nawal, Sara thought, annoyed, trying to keep her breasts from leaning too far out of the bra. She tugged at the waistband of the gauze skirt where it gripped low on her hips. An angry red mark was already beginning to show. The costume had fit Sara when she was fourteen. But at seventeen, she was getting too big. Everything on her had more curves than Nawal, but still she squeezed herself into Nawal's costume, stubbornly refusing to make another. It wouldn't be the same, she thought. It wouldn't be as good.

She took out the makeup kit and with a wet sponge applied pancake over three scars that raked her chest. With makeup, under the colored lights, no one would see them. If only she could forget them as easily. Sometimes when the weather was damp they burned with a cold ache.

She stood and took another drag on her cigarette before putting the little gold belts around her naked waist, accentuating her rounded belly. Coins stitched to the bra clinked playfully as she leaned over. She straightened, arching her neck and rotating her shoulders to loosen the tension in her back. She stretched her body side to side and then rolled her abdominals, watching with satisfaction in the mirror as the little gold belts on her waist rose and fell with the motion. The flimsy fabric of the skirt parted to expose a length of well-muscled thigh.

"Aaargh! They're crazy tonight!" came a muffled voice from the hallway.

Sara stopped belly-dancing as Lolly Dove, the elvin exotic dancer, burst into their shared dressing room.

"Man, I don't know what's gotten into them but they're animals tonight!" she exclaimed, throwing herself down into an overstuffed chair. White and gray doves landed on her thin shoulders, cooing and pecking each other nervously. Sara smiled at the pale woman, her skin as white as the doves she used in her routine. Small jewels glimmered where they pierced the curve of her sharply pointed ears. She'd recently cut her hair short, and it stuck out on her head in blue-tipped spikes. Lolly shuddered again in the chair, shaking the doves from her shoulders.

"That bad, huh?" Sara asked quietly.

"They scared the wits out of my birds! I thought I was gonna have to quit halfway through the act. Wait'll you hear 'em howling. Must be a full moon or something."

Rugger, the Hot Club's stage manager, stuck his head around the edge of the door. His face was round as a cue ball, with a greasy fringe of dark hair. He blinked at Sara from behind thick glasses. "Shake yer buns, Sara, yer on next," and then slammed the door shut before she could answer.

Sara took another drag off her cigarette and, from a small bottle on her dressing table, daubed perfume into her hand. Tabac Blonde. It had been Nawal's perfume. Sara wore it, taking comfort in its familiar smell of tobacco and old roses. She headed for the stage, frowning at the grit of backstage collecting under her bare feet.

The lights dimmed blue and green as Rugger started the music. The mag tape sounded fuzzy with age, but that didn't bother Sara. She knew that once she started dancing the audience would be aware only of her. She was a good dancer, she knew that. Her movements were fluid and mesmerizing. Bobo had taught her how to dance when she was still little, just as he had taught Nawal. Small arms waving gracefully to the sides and her head leaning back, he had laughed and slapped her on the rump. "Sara, you will be a great dancer. Like your mother, maybe even better, eh, what do you think of that?" Sara stopped at the edge of the curtain, startled by the sudden memory of Nawal's green eyes staring at her over Bobo's head. Jealousy, or was it fear? Sara drew a deep breath and forced the memory away. Just dance, don't think, she told herself, as she had told herself a thousand times before. She brushed the soles of her feet clean and then quickly stepped onto the small stage. In the audience, men leered and pounded their fists on the shaky tables, calling out obscene invitations.

Sara heard only the music; the insistent rhythm of the drum. She felt the dance flow up from her feet, through her thighs and belly and into her shoulders. She closed her eyes and spread her arms out wide as if to embrace the audience. There was no hurt when Sara danced; no sorrow or pain. There was only the one perfect memory of Nawal. Nawal moving like rippling water, her spine arched so far back that her body formed a circle when her long hair touched her heels. Insulated by the music and lost in the movements, Sara danced, untroubled by the howls and shrill whistling.

---

"Here she comes." Deki nudged the man bent over hammering a plank of wood. Trasher picked up his head and saw Sara walking slowly along the edge of Chrystoble Street, the lamplight sparkling on her hair. "So? You gonna do it finally?" Deki teased. "C'mon, lover boy, it's now or never. In a few minutes she'll be out of sight."

Trasher stood and called out. "Hey, Sara! How ya doing?"

Deki rolled her brown eyes and slapped her forehead. "Sheesh, very original," she muttered under her breath.

Trasher turned to her annoyed. "Hey, shut up, okay? When I need your help talking I'll ask for it."

"Lines like that, boy, and you'll be begging for my help." She turned away briskly, little bells jingling in her long braids.

Trasher saw Sara look and squint in his direction. As always, his stomach squeezed, excitement like a cold drop of water trickling down his spine. She was back-lit by the street lamp, and in the fairylight of the old globe her body shone around the edges like an eclipsed sun. She smiled and waved, and he swallowed hard.

"Hey, Trasher, what are you doing out so late?" She caught up to him and stood there, slightly out of breath, her hands stuffed into the pockets of a long purple sweater.

"Working on the ramp," he said and held up his hammer. Behind him Deki muttered something else under her breath but he ignored her. "By the way, we got in a shipment of Gauloise. I'll set some aside for you, okay?"

"Yeah, great! I'm almost out of the last carton," she answered.

Trasher had first met Sara at his mother's tobacco shop nearly a year ago when she went in to buy Gauloise. She had told him that those cigarettes had been her mother's brand and, since her mother's death, Sara smoked them as a reminder of her. Since that day, Trasher made sure his mother remembered toorder the cigarettes, even though they were hard to come by and expensive as well.

"What is this place?" she asked Trasher, waving a hand toward a partially built structure rising up behind him. It looked like a huge cut-open dish with high-reaching sides and a deep bowl. In the dish figures crouched low as they whooshed up one side and down the other with a loud scraping noise. "I've been watching it go up for the last week and haven't been able to figure it out."

"The Ramp," Trasher replied proudly. "Departures daily."

Sara frowned, not understanding. He smiled down at her, an angled chip in his front tooth splitting his grin into two halves. He brushed back a lock of long blond hair out of his face.

"For skaters. It's where we come to hang out," he explained. "Practice skating and run a few jams— competitions. See? That big bowl-shape helps you get up speed, and when you reach the edge, you jump and you're in open air." He smiled again. Standing this close to Sara he could smell the heavy scent of her perfume and cigarettes. "Check out the rider up there now." Sara turned and watched the skater speed up to the lip of the dish, then grab the edge of the skateboard and leap into the air. Airborne and flying, the skater twisted completely around before landing the board with a hard thunk and sailing the skateboard down the dish. "Bah, strictly a poser!" he added mischievously.

"Says who, booger-brain?" exploded a voice behind him. Sara looked startled as another girl pushed up against Trasher and poked him in the belly with a finger. "We're the toughest competition you Bogan trash ever had and next jam we'll shred you under our slimeballs!"

Trasher looked at Sara, still smiling. "Sara, meet Deki. Deki, if you can stop foaming long enough, meet Sara."

Deki gave Sara a dazzling smile of white teeth with a glint of gold against the brown skin. "Nice to meet you!" she said cheerfully.

Sara nodded back, her expression still puzzled. Deki was nearly as tall as Trasher and wore her black hair short in the front and in five long thin braids down the back. Into each braid was worked a different-colored tassel ending with a little brass bell that jingled whenever she shook her head. Her eyes were almond-shaped, wide-set in a broad face with high cheekbones.

"Trasher likes to kid," Deki said to Sara, "but he knows his booger Bogans are in big trouble."

"There's a jam coming up next month, and we're on opposites sides, so to speak," Trasher told Sara, who continued to stare at them with a blank expression.

"See, Deki and I have been skating a long time. Beats joining a gang. Now we get a lot of younger kids who want to ride instead of bash. So we started building this ramp for ourselves and make a little money from exhibitions and competitions to keep it going."

"What are you doing?" Deki hollered to a girl who had stopped at the base of the dish and was hesitating. "You call that a boneless slob? I call it sitting on your butt! You skate like a girl!" The girl shrugged, exasperated, her hands spread wide. Deki answered her look. Three other girls waiting their turn on the ramp shook their heads and wagged their fingers disapprovingly. "We aren't girls! What are we?" Deki yelled at the top of her lungs.

"KHANDROMAS!" the girls yelled back and pumped their fists into the air.

"YEAH! So let's see a little air-time, and get your butt off the ground!"

"What are Khan-khan-" Sara asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar name.

"Khandromas," Deki filled in, turning back to face Sara. "That's Tibetan for 'rainbow-clad sky-going goddess.' Not bad, huh?" and she wiggled her eyebrows playfully.

"Are you Tibetan?" Sara asked.

"Yeah."

Sara shook her head amazed. "What are Tibetans doing here?"

"What are elves?" Deki shot back.

"Good point." Sara shrugged.

"My people are traders," Deki explained. "We trade everything and anything: rugs, leather work, brass, silver, turquoise, freshwater pearls. You name it, and somewhere a Tibetan is buying it cheap and selling it dear. And that's what keeps Bordertown afloat, isn't it? The trade."

"And the clubs," added Trasher, "don't forget the clubs."

"And skaters, don't forget skaters," Deki replied.

"And dancers," Sara put in, "don't forget dancers!"

"No," said Trasher, staring hard at Sara, "can't forget dancers." Sara caught his gaze and smiled back. Trasher felt the laces on his hightops tighten.

"Yeah, right," Deki said, eyeing the couple with a nod. She gave a farewell nod and headed for the dish. "See you later, Trasher. Nice meetin' ya, Sara."

"Bye," Trasher called and turned back to find Sara staring at him expectantly.

"She's nice," Sara said, filling in the sudden silence.

Trasher laughed and scratched his head. "Yeah, Deki's all right. Crazy sometimes. But that's all part of being a Khandroma—or so she tells me. She plays the worst practical jokes. She calls it imping and says it's the duty of all Khandromas to make life impossible for me and the Bogans. She claims it keeps us honest."

"Does she succeed?" Sara asked.

"Most of the time," he replied, laughing again. "But she's a radical skater and a good partner. She gives a lot and that's what counts." He paused, looking down at the hammer in his hand. Now's the time, boy, he told himself. Do it now. He picked up his head, his gaze settling on Sara's night-black eyes. "Hey, ah, are you walking home now?" he asked, coughing to cover his nervousness.

"Yeah."

"Mind if I come along?"

"No." She shook her head, still smiling. "Be nice to have company."

They left the ramp and the grinding noise of skateboard wheels, and strolled quietly until they reached Ho Street. It was chaotic as usual, the clubs spilling their late-night patrons out onto the sidewalk as they protested loudly. Along the busy street they passed small clots of people, busily trying to out-chill each other as they struck casual poses while their eyes watched the street. Trasher recognized most of the gangs: the Bloods, dressed in leather and red velvet and shocks of silver hair; and the Pack, the human gang, clothed in coal-black. At the corner a few Dragons were trying to pick up two uninterested women. The crests of their high black mohawks bobbed and wagged as they argued. Trasher walked with an easy gait, nodding his head from time to time to folks on the street. He knew a lot of them, elvin as well as human, from working in the shop. And with a beautiful girl like Sara by his side, he felt invincible.

They turned off Ho Street and wound their way up the short distance of Third Street. It wasn't the most direct way home to the Scandal District, but it was the only way to bypass the confusing maze of back alleys and dead-end streets that characterized Dragontown, the Asian district sandwiched between Soho and the Scandal District. Almost everyone, except those born there, took the long way around Dragontown; skirting the edges, Ho Street to Third Street, past Water Street. When they reached the wide cobbled sidewalks of Sweatshop Row, Trasher started talking.

"Show get over late tonight?"

Sara raised an eyebrow. "How'd you know that?"

He shrugged and laughed, embarrassed. "I've watched you come home every night for about three weeks," he confessed.

"No kidding?" she said with a crooked smile. Trasher didn't say anything. "Yeah, it was nuts tonight," she continued, speaking softly. "Hell, it's nuts every night. I swear each time I'm gonna quit, but I don't. Money's too good and it's what I do best.''

He nodded. Then a moment later asked: "Ever get any time off?"

"Yeah, sometimes," she answered.

"Like to go out Saturday? There's a good band playing at the Ferret. We could get something to eat, maybe, and catch the last set.''

They had turned off Third and were walking across town now, just above Dragontown. Hideaway Street was quiet, but in the dark doorways Trasher could see the red glow of cigarettes from women standing on the stoops, smoking and watching the street. One of the women gave Sara a hello as she passed with Trasher. Sara waved a hand in return.

Sara stopped in front of a tall building squeezed between two other companions, and turned to Trasher.

"Saturday night sounds good to me. Why don't you pick me up at the Hot Club? I'll do the first set and get off early. That okay?"

"Sounds great."

"Yeah. G'night," Sara said and started up the stoop. At the top of the stairs she turned back to see him still watching her. "Thanks for walking me home."

He shook his head. "Any time, any time." Trasher's heart beat furiously, but he tried to maintain a look of utter coolness. Feeling awkward, he did the only thing that made sense to him: he put his skateboard down on the ground and pushed off with one foot. Ga-chucka, ga-chucka, the skateboard rattled as it rolled over the over the uneven concrete of the street. Trasher came to the curb and, with a burst of exuberance, popped the skateboard up into the air. Feet tucked under him and arms extended like a hawk's wings, he stalled for an instant, suspended above the board. As he came down he caught the flying board between his feet and landed it upright on two wheels. He balanced his weight on the edge of the board and then, using his feet, flipped the board up again into the air. This time the board landed flat on the street and he landed with both feet on the deck, knees bent slightly. Perfect, he breathed. He did it perfectly.

He glanced over his shoulder to see Sara one more time. She was still standing on her stoop, watching him. Sara shook her head and smiled brightly at his stunt. Don't fall now, lover-boy, Trasher warned himself, turning his attention back to the skateboard. He pushed off with one foot again, getting up speed as the skateboard continued, ga-chucka, ga-chucka, down the gentle slope of the street and around the corner.

---

Saturday night. The Body Shop was closed, but the gym was still lit by hanging globes. Alison was dressing, the door to her private rooms wide-open. She breathed in deeply the smell of sweat, liniment oil, and resin. In her mirror she could see the sparkling chrome arms of the weight machines like resting spiders. Jump-ropes hung in a tangled web on the wall. She held up a black leather corset to the front of her torso.
"Hey, baby, zip me up," she called over her shoulder.

He crossed the room and moved into her line of vision. She gave a predatory smile at the top of his head and broad shoulders as he bent to zip up the back of the garment. He stood up and saw her staring at him. He said nothing, his face a mask of tan stone, topped by short-cropped bleached hair. Alison turned to him, smoothing down the supple leather over her waist. Her skin was white where her breasts swelled over the top of the black corset.

"Don't pout, baby. It doesn't look good on you." She cocked her head back and ran a hand over his chest, red nails scratching lightly at the fabric of his tight T-shirt. This was how she liked them, she thought: well defined. He was big and broad-shouldered, the trapezius muscles rising like small hills to join his thick neck just below his ears. Her hand traveled from the rounded pectorals of his chest to the washboard belly and stopped, resting on his belt buckle. He ignored her touch, staring straight ahead out of agate eyes, his square jaw set. Alison waited, one nail tapping at his belt buckle.

"Free me, Alison," he said in a low voice.

She pressed her body close to his. One hand stroked the inside of his thigh, the other reached under his T-shirt. Her cheek close to his, she whispered, "Fuck me."

He struggled against her nearness, shuddering at the intimate touches. "No."

She pulled away brusquely and stood, hands on her hips. She was beautiful, her face a long oval with a slim straight nose and a pointed chin. A slash of black hair cut in a diagonal across her forehead accentuated the large eyes with pupils black as spilled ink. Her figure was lean and rock-hard, except where her breasts pushed invitingly over the top of the tight corset. Her legs were long, and on the tapered bare feet each toenail was carefully painted with a red polish that matched her fingernails.

But she knew what he saw beneath the surface of her appearance. He had only to unfocus his gaze to see her as she really was, huge and monstrous, her white skin dimpled and swollen like a maggot.

"That's okay, baby," she said coldly, seeing his revulsion. "I got better plans tonight." She turned from him so he wouldn't see the sneer that twisted her perfect face. Oh yes, she thought angrily, he'd give her what she wanted, sooner or later. They all did before they died. She pulled on boots of dyed grey snakeskin and then slipped on a black leather jacket, zipped halfway so that her cleavage showed.

A scuffling noise stopped her and she spun around, eyes narrowed. A tattered girl stood in the gym, hesitant as a deer. Her clothes were mismatched, held together with colored rags tied at the ankles and knees. Old sneakers on her feet had been painted purple and tied with faded orange laces. A stiff mass of dirty yellow hair stuck out around her head. Close to her chest she hugged a bundle wrapped in an ancient quilt, its pattern nearly worn away.

Alison acknowledged her with a grunt and moved toward the masseur's table.

"Bring it here." She pointed to the table.

The girl licked her lips, afraid to move, and clutched the bundle tighter.

"Come on, I haven't got all night," Alison snapped impatiently. "I want to see it first. I told you before, no names."

The girl came toward the table and handed the bundle to Alison. Alison laid it down and began unwrapping it. A fat, pink baby dressed in a dirty T-shirt and a rag diaper lay sleeping, mouth open. The baby hardly stirred as Alison undressed it. A girl. She frowned, disappointed. She had a contract for a boy. This one would have to go somewhere else. She poked the child with one red fingernail and watched as the baby opened startled eyes. No silver in them. Good; fully human, she noted. The baby began squalling, aware of the coldness. The girl moved instinctively to comfort the child. Alison stopped her.

"Go on. Get out of here. You've been paid."

The girl's eyes widened with desperation as she retreated a few steps from Alison and her baby, hands tugging the ends of her torn jacket.

"She'll go to a good home, won't she?" the girl asked anxiously, eyes never straying from the crying infant. "I mean, you said she would. She'll go to the Hill, won't she?"

Alison stared back disgustedly at the ragtag girl. "If you Rats really cared about these kids you wouldn't get pregnant in the first place. Now take off before I sink you and your bastard kid!"

The girl gave a cry and forced her gaze away from the child. She fled out the door, and Alison heard her sobbing as she ran down the street. She shrugged coldly and turned to the man.

"Lothar, wrap it up and let's go."

The big man covered the baby, his hands moving gently as he wrapped the quilt around the distressed child. He held her up to his chest and the infant stopped crying. Hiccupping, she nestled into the quilt.

Alison grabbed a blue silk scarf and tied it around her neck. She took a last look at herself in the mirror. Satisfied, she turned to leave. Lothar stood there, unmoving, baby in his arms. Alison opened her hand and splayed out her fingers. He jerked forward as if pulled by invisible strings and she smiled.

"Let's go. Gonna pick up my payments and make a delivery. Corwyn of Aldon House should pay pretty well for this one"—she nodded in the direction of the baby— "though what he wants with it, who knows?" Alison recalled the lines of an old song, "Long Lankin": So he pricked him, he pricked him all over with a pin, And the nurse held the basin for the blood to flow in. Long Lankin was Corwyn's street name. One nasty-ass, don't-fuck-with-me elflord. Alison shrugged to herself. Who cared what he did in private? He paid for it with good coin.

At the door of the gym, Alison switched off the light. In the dark she could feel Lothar shaking with rage at her side. She squeezed her hand into a fist inside the pocket of her jacket and heard him gasp for air. He stumbled, choking. She relaxed her fist and waited until he was standing straight again. She patted his cheek. "Don't be so angry, baby. It spoils my fun." She turned from him and headed through the door. Holding the baby with one hand, Lothar locked the door with his other, breathing slowly through his bruised throat.

---

Trasher was nervous. C'mon, he told himself, you don't get nervous taking out girls. Yeah, himself answered, but Sara is not just a girl. She is the girl. She's the one that made his tongue curl up and his socks roll down the first time she walked into the shop and asked for those weird cigarettes. Trasher knotted the laces on his black hightops. He stood up and smoothed down the legs of his black jeans. He wore a bright-purple shirt with a narrow collar and long sleeves rolled back to the elbow. He'd seen the shirt at Trader's and knew he had to have it. Knew it was her color. He checked himself out in the mirror and could almost hear Deki's voice in his ear. "Okay, lover-boy, don't blow it. Be cool, but be yourself." Yeah right, he thought as he left for the Hot Club. He should just tell her she was the most radical girl he'd ever met and he was really stoked and would she like to go through life with him on a Vision skateboard complete with Trucking Ultralights and Slimeball wheels, shredding pavement and popping ollies. Yeah right, he thought, she'd figure him for a major geek. What the hell did they have in common anyway? Trasher was sure he didn't know, but somehow it didn't matter. She was beautiful, he was taking her out, and for the moment that's all that did matter. Hands in his pockets, he made himself saunter down to the Hot Club when his legs would have preferred to run.

Sara had finished her act and was changing behind a small screen when Trasher knocked on the dressing-room door. Lolly Dove answered, feathery wisps of her tiny costume blowing back as she opened the door.

"Come on in," she said in a breathy voice and Trasher entered, feeling overdressed. A dove landed on his shoulder

and started cooing in his ear. With a coy smile, Lolly reached out a slender hand and took up the bird on her finger. "Oh don't mind her, she's such a tease."

"Hi, Trasher, I'll be ready in a minute," Sara called from behind the screen.

"Take your time," he answered and looked for a chair to sit down.

Sara stuck her head around the screen and smiled at him. "I like your shirt. What a great color! Purple's my favorite."

"Oh this?" he said, plucking the shirt between his thumb and index finger. "Yeah, I like it too. I've had it a while," he lied.

Behind Trasher Lolly Dove was making faces at Sara, conveying her enthusiastic approval. She was miming something vaguely obscene when Rugger threw open the door and it crashed into her, knocking her against the wall of the dressing room. "Yer on next, Lolly. Get yer buns out there." The door slammed shut and Lolly stood there, blinking furiously and holding her nose.

"Little creep," she muttered hotly. She whistled and four doves lighted on her shoulders. She wrenched the door open and sailed through indignantly.

Sara stepped out from behind the screen and Trasher knew his socks had been right to crawl down his ankles. She was gorgeous. Her long black hair was tied back from her face with a lavender scarf. She still wore her stage makeup and Trasher was transfixed by the soft fullness of her coral lips. She wore a sleeveless tunic of lavender silk that pulled slightly across her breasts. Around her hips she wore a wide leather belt that accentuated the curve of her hip and thigh. Silver tights covered her legs and dark-purple shoes laced up around her ankles.

"Well?" she asked, holding her arms out. "Will it do for the Ferret?"

"Yeah," he nodded, not trusting himself to say more.
"Good," she smiled at him. She pushed up two silver bracelets high on her arm. Then she grabbed a long purple jacket off the chair and draped it over her shoulders. "I'm ready."

Trasher collected himself enough to take her by the arm. He caught the scent of her perfume and felt every nerve dance. Be cool, boy, he reminded himself, and with studied casualness he led her out of the club.

---

Sara was surprised that she could eat. Surprised that she wasn't fumbling the hot sandwiches, or dropping salad on her lap. She had always known Trasher was good-looking. But until tonight she hadn't realized just how good-looking. She liked the square cut of his face, his blue eyes, and the tangle of blond hair. Even the chipped tooth made his smile more engaging. Before, when she'd seen him on the street or at the shop, he was usually dressed down: a pair of fraying cutoffs, battered red hightops with duct tape over the laces, and a T-shirt with holes at the edges. He was always picking at some scrape on his forearms, and his knees and elbows were white where the sun couldn't penetrate the pads he wore for skateboarding. But when he turned up at the Hot Club, Sara felt like she was seeing him for the first time. The purple in his shirt darkened the blue of his eyes to violet, and she noticed the light dusting of freckles over his tanned nose and cheeks. He was tall—the top of her head reached his shoulder. When he took her arm she liked the feel of his long fingers on her skin. He had slowed his step to match hers, and their hips bumped lightly as they walked.

She felt shy and awkward. Most men expected the Sara they saw on stage. And though she tried, she could not be the exotic creature they wanted. She was quiet, and found it hard to always be sparkling and exciting. But Trasher was different. He took the edge off her shyness with an easy humor, holding her arm gently as he cut a path for them through the crazy Saturday-night crowds. Some of it she knew was part of his routine. Lines he'd probably told a dozen other girls. But she couldn't help herself; she fell for them anyway, and laughed in all the right places. He seemed so sincere— and Sara believed that beneath the glib conversation was someone she could like very much. He made it easier for her to eat and talk, and she was delighted to discover after the meal that she hadn't splashed herself with grease. When they arrived at the Dancing Ferret, Trasher wrapped his hand around hers. She squeezed it back to let him know that she was happy to be there with him.

Outside the Dancing Ferret a small crowd of skaters occupied a corner of the street, skateboards flying off the curb and up the wall of the club as riders practiced free-styling. Bogans, dressed alike in loose black pants, and suspenders crisscrossed over dyed undershirts, were fighting with Khandromas for wall space. Bad Boy tried out a new move. Slamming his board high against the wall of the Ferret, he jumped up to meet it and then rode it down at a ninety-degree angle to the street.

"That's sick, man!" shouted Bonehead appreciatively, and pushed his porkpie hat farther back from his skinny face.

"Hah! Standing still!" retorted Tina. "Dig this, Khandroma-style," and she nodded to Sweetie and B-Good at her side. Tina was dressed all in red. Even her shaggy mohawk was dyed red to match the crimson jacket she wore. At her side Sweetie's colors were blue, from the turquoise hightops to her cobalt-spiked hair. B-Good wore emerald green shorts, and a zigzag of green painted across her face. In unison they attacked the wall, using their feet to push their skateboard up the wall while they braced their hands on the ground in a handstand. Legs up high on the wall, they swiveled their hips and feet, twisting the skateboards and driving them downward again. As the wheels connected with the street, their hands pushed off the ground and righted themselves, crouched over their skateboards. They straightened up smiling as they coasted away from the wall.

Farrel Din stuck his head out the door of his club and yelled, "Can't you find some other place to do that? The sound's driving me crazy!"

"Yeah, yeah," they called back pleasantly, ignoring him.

"Hey, check it out," Bad Boy nudged fellow-Bogan Martinez in the ribs as they watched Trasher approach with Sara. "Oooh baby, now that's some nice. No skinny Blood girl with pointed tits that'll poke your eye out, ya know what I mean?"

Martinez nodded. "Uh huh. Radical, man."

"Hey, Trasher," a female voice called out, "new shirt?"

Trasher swore to himself as Deki, grinning, coasted toward them on her skateboard. At his side Sara suppressed a giggle.

"Come on," he said to Sara, "let's get inside before she completely destroys my image." As he walked past her he muttered sarcastically, "Thanks for the support."

"What are friends for?" Deki answered, shrugging. She smiled at them as they entered the club, one gold-capped tooth glinting in the street light.

Inside the Ferret, the audience was caught up in a frenzied dance, urged on by the pounding rhythms of Hard Edge. DeeDee, the lead singer, was holding the mike above her head to catch the tearing sound of her voice as it cut across the wailing guitars. Sweat beaded in crystal drops on her sculpted flat-top and across her dark-brown face. She was a big woman, heavy breasts crammed into a small silver top. They bounced dangerously as she stood with her legs apart, wide hips grinding to the beat. While one hand clutched the mike, the other reached out to touch the audience.

"Huh!" she grunted into the mike. "You feeling good?"

"Ye-e-a-h!" screamed the audience in reply.

"Say what?"

"Yeah!"

"SAY WHAT!"

"YEAH!" they roared. She smiled at them and closed her eyes, bringing the mike close to her lips. Behind her the band quieted down, the drummer keeping a low steady beat.

"Good. Then let's do it," her voice rumbled.

"AWRIGHT!"

Hard Edge exploded into sound behind her. The drums crashed like homemade bombs and the lead guitar shrieked angrily. DeeDee shook her body violently and the stage quaked, throwing swirling dust into the colored lights. Head back, she launched her powerful voice into "Streets Nights," the band's current hit song.

"What'dya think?" Trasher yelled into Sara's ear over the noise.

"Great!" she shouted back and squeezed his hand in case he couldn't hear her.

They found a dirty table near the far edge of the club and claimed it, sitting down to watch. The audience was lost in the fever of the song. One dancer jumped on stage and stripped off his shirt. Twisting and bumping, he did a wild belly-dance around DeeDee. Sara laughed. He was terrible but his energy was pure and contagious. Sara watched, fascinated, as DeeDee collapsed on the floor and began rolling back and forth, her voice still booming in the mike. The music hammered on and on until the drummer ended the song with a slamming solo that broke two sticks and left DeeDee gasping for air on her knees. And then abruptly the music stopped. In the shattering silence, the room reverberated with the angry buzzing of the speakers.

"Too much," Sara said, shaking her head, the music still ringing in her ears. The bass player helped an exhausted DeeDee up from the floor, her face and arms streaked with sweat and dust. The audience stumbled to find their drinks, knocking them back in long gulps to cool their hot throats. "Too much. Are they really gonna do another set after this one?" Sara stared wide eyed at Trasher.

He grinned back. "Oh yeah. Just wait, you'll see."

A waitress with short dark hair and a sharp grin came up to the table."Sara! Haven't seen you in ages! How the hell are you?"

"Hi, Laura," Sara replied. "I'm good. Can't complain." She leaned her head back to take in the view of the woman in front of her. "You look great! Still doing that chop-chop stuff?"

"Karate? Yeah. Teaching it now," Laura said. "Mostly to beginners. It's fun, I get to yell a lot," she grinned, flicking her fingers through her short hair.

Sara and Laura were friends from way back. Too far back, Sara thought sometimes. It was always strange to see her. Not that she didn't like Laura, but the memories she brought were too painful. Nawal and Bobo dead, Sara herself half-dead and recovering on a couch in Laura's mother's tiny apartment. They had been kind; she wouldn't have made it if it hadn't been for them. But as soon as she could, Sara had moved out, trying to flee the nightmare.

As if Laura had sensed Sara's discomfort, she pulled back and asked in a friendly but businesslike manner, "So what'll it be tonight? Beers?"

"I'll have one," Sara said.

"Soda, whatever kind you got," Trasher answered.

Laura raised her eyebrows, then shrugged. "Be right back."

"Don't you drink beer?" Sara asked.

"No. Can't stand the stuff."

"Will it bother you if I—"

"No," he snapped, "go ahead. I just can't drink the stuff."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Sara laughed. She wondered why Trasher had suddenly gone tense, why his jaw set as if he were angry with her. "I only drink one beer or I get silly." She laughed. "Guess I'm a cheap date."

Trasher laughed and she saw him relax again into his easy manner. Sara couldn't help but think she had passed some sort of test with him.

They talked awhile longer, checking out the flashy patrons of the Dancing Ferret and waiting for Hard Edge to come back on stage. When they finally did, Trasher yelled into her ear: "Wanna dance? No point in trying to talk."

"Yeah!" she yelled back and got up from the table to join him.

In the pulsating colored lights of the dance floor Sara noticed the crooked bump on the bridge of Trasher'snose where he must have broken it once. She wanted suddenly to kiss it. She liked the way he danced; he held her close and with authority. She liked the solid feel of his arm around her waist, and when he rocked her back, pulling her over the length of his long thigh, Sara felt the breath catch in her throat. For an instant Sara saw Deki, her rainbow T-shirt catching her eye as she streaked across the floor with her partner. Deki turned, flashing a brightly colored smile in the lights, and waved.

The audience was growing ragged again, so the band switched to a slow ballad. Couples hung on each other's shoulders, catching their breath, feet shuffling to the slow tune. The room steamed and smoked. DeeDee wiped her forehead with a napkin and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Body hunched over the mike, she sang in a soothing voice. Trasher held Sara close, the contours of her body fitting snugly against his. He took in a deep breath and Sara felt him sigh. Head against his chest Sara heard the rapid beat of his heart slow to an even, steady rhythm. Slow and steady, she thought, just like him, and she smiled.

---

Walking home after the show, they stood apart but held hands, letting the spring breezes cool them off. The skaters had still been on the curb when the Ferret closed, and Trasher could not resist showing off a little for Sara. Grabbing up the nearest board, he skated it up the wall a few feet. He planted one hand on the ground for support as he used his other hand to whip the board away from the wall and over his head. Body supported on one hand, he completed the cartwheel, jerking the board back under him and bringing his feet over to land on the deck.

"Too much!" cheered Bad Boy.

"Too much is right!" yelled Deki in an indignant voice. "Who said you could use my Hosoi? That deck cost me a lot and I don't want anybody messing with it just to impress their date!"

Trasher winced and bowed his head apologetically. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and backed away from the angry girl. "That's what I get for showing off," he whispered to Sara as they left Carnival Street. They walked most of the way in quiet, tired out from the frenetic dancing. But underneath there lingered a pleasant tension that passed from hand to hand. The night wasn't over yet. Neither Sara nor Trasher knew for certain how it was going to end. They turned up Hideaway Road and Trasher felt Sara stiffen, and saw her mouth tighten in a thin line.

He looked up, confused. Ahead a man and a woman approached them. When they passed under the streetlight Trasher saw that the woman was dressed all in black, and that the man at her side was big and heavily muscled. He watched the woman, fascinated; she moved like a cat, placing one careful foot in front of the other. In contrast, the man stumbled with a jerky gait as if he were being dragged. As they passed, the woman turned and stared at Trasher, her gaze piercing. At his side Sara edged closer taking his arm protectively.
"Leech!" she hissed when they were farther up the street, away from the eerie couple.
"Who was that?" he asked.

"Alison Gross," she said bitterly. "The biggest pimp midtown. There isn't a woman in the Scandal Disrict that hasn't paid out in blood to Alison."

Sara looked at Thrasher, confused. "You're a Townie too, aren't you?"

"Yeah. But not any neighborhood in particular. My family's lived all over Bordertown. When we couldn't pay the rent, we moved. My mother finally settled over the tobacco shop last year. I helped her buy the business so we'd have a real place.''

"And your Dad?"

"Dead."

"I'm sorry," Sara said quickly.

"Don't be. He was a sonofabitch. Our life got easier the day he died."

Sara stared back at him, surprised by the unexpected harshness in his voice. He saw her surprise and shrugged.

"Look, I loved my father. But he was weak. He drank too much and it killed him. Nearly killed my mom too. He'd come home oozing apologies and crying like a baby about how he'd failed her. My mother always fell for it. She'd take him back, he'd knock her up and then he'd split for a year until it was over."

"How often did it happen?"

"Ten times. But there's only eight of us. She lost two of the babies because she got too worn out and her health was bad."

"That why you don't drink?"

He nodded. "Yeah. It messes you up. And I don't like being messed up." He looked down at her and his frown disappeared. "It was the pits, but it's over. I'm doing all right. So's my mom and the younger kids that are still at home. How 'bout you?" he asked. "You got family?"

She shook her head. "No. They're dead. Died when I was a kid. I've been on my own since I was fourteen. I lied about my age to get the job at the Hot Club."

It hurt him to see the pain that crisscrossed her face. Bad times did that. Bad, bad times. Maybe that's what they had in common, he thought. He stopped walking and silently took her in his arms. She didn't resist as he pulled her close. He tilted back her chin and under the pale glow of a street lamp gently kissed first her nose and then the coral mouth.

It seemed right to Sara that he should come up to her tiny attic flat. His head nearly brushed against the curves in the gabled ceiling. So he sat on the bed. They didn't talk much. Trasher kissed her again and slipped her dress off her shoulders. His hands brushed against her breasts and he pushed the dress down to her waist. She pulled away from him and started unbuttoning his shirt, planting a small kiss on each exposed spot. She went so slowly Trasher thought he would scream. She started to hurry, yanking the shirt off his shoulders. Then they both stood and quickly stripped off what remained. The bed creaked as they lay down and faced each other. He reached for her and pulled her close.

"Oh god, Sara," Trasher groaned as he pressed his face between her breasts and stroked her sides, "you're so soft."

"Oh god, Thrasher," she giggled back unexpectedly, "you're so hard!"

He told himself he'd laugh later when he wasn't so distracted.

---

AUGUST

The summer night was hot and muggy. Sara's T-shirt stuck to her back. She walked down Water Street, arms crossed, and tried not to think about what she was planning to do. She was too confused, too scared to want to think about it. She just knew it had to be taken care of, decided before the choice got harder for her. The air was stifling and from time to time a weak breeze blew a decaying odor from the muddy canal that ran along Water Street.

She wouldn't have an abortion. That was suicide. Maybe if you lived on the Hill you could get a safe one. But not in the street. There you took a chance, and growing up in the Scandal District she'd known women that had come home and bled to death in their beds.

Besides, she didn't want to kill it. That's what she was afraid of, wasn't it? Killing the baby, killing her child, the way Nawal had tried to kill her. Sara remembered with icy sharpness the knife as it bit her flesh. She pressed a hand over the scars on her chest, feeling it throb again.

Had it been her fault? Had she made Nawal unhappy? Nawal had said she loved her, said she was killing them so Bobo couldn't hurt them. Sara shivered in spite of the heat. "You're so like your mother, Sara," Bobo used to say. He was probably right. In which case, she must send the child away. Far away, where it might be safe.

Alison Gross would pay in advance for the baby. Sara would sell her baby so they could both survive. She wouldn't be able to work once she got big. She'd need that money to eat, and to hide from Trasher.

She frowned, thinking of Trasher. Why hadn't they been more careful about birth control? And why did it have to be Trasher? He was such a good guy, and she loved him. But she couldn't keep this baby. He wouldn't understand her fear. He was always so sure he could handle everything. He'd try to convince her it was all right, but it wasn't. She'd managed to keep it a secret so far, but that wouldn't last long. Maybe Laura's mother would let her stay until it was born. Sara ran her hands through her long hair, lifting it off her neck and twisting it into a knot. She'd never see Trasher again. That was part of the price she had to pay. But it hurt. She bent her head, unhappiness a weight on her shoulders.

Sara hesitated before the open doors of the Body Shop. Standing outside, she saw weight lifters working on the machines. A man was pulling down the bars of the weight machine, his naked skin gleaming and the muscles of his arms and shoulders bulging obscenely. Sara held her breath, trying to quell the fluttering in the pit of her stomach. How many others had stood here before her, waiting until they had summoned enough courage to go in? She hated Alison Gross, but she knew, as all those others must have, that on the street you didn't have many choices. She exhaled hard. Balling her hands into fists, Sara stepped into the shop, squinting at the bright lights.

"Hey baby, what you want in here?" Another man wearing only small trunks and oiled skin stopped her. Sara tried not to stare, but it was hard not to be fascinated by the strange distortions of his body. His skin strained to cover the huge rounded muscles that piled one on top of each other, red and blue veins snaking across them. He wiped his hands on a small towel.

Sara spoke up, her voice barely audible over the constant clanging of the weight machines. "Alison Gross. I'm here to see Alison Gross."

He eyed her for a moment and then leered knowingly. "In there." He motioned with his head to an office door that was shut.

Sara ducked her head so as not to have to look at him or any of the other bodybuilders who had stopped to stare. She went to the door and knocked.

"Yeah, what is it?"

Sara tried the doorknob. It was locked. Her head felt hot and she passed a shaking hand over her forehead, hoping she wouldn't be sick. She knocked again.

"Shit!" she heard from the other side and the door wrenched open. Alison was standing, one hand on the knob, the other on the hip. "What is it?" she asked, annoyed.

Sara looked up at the beautiful, cold face and then over her shoulder at the room full of men whose staring had grown more interested. "Can I come in?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Alison looked her up and down unpleasantly. She waved her into the room and then slammed the door shut after Sara passed through.

"All right. When's it due?" Alison asked brusquely.

Sara stared at her, the speech she had prepared forgotten.

"Come on, I haven't got all day. I know your kind. I know what you're here for. Let's make this deal quick so I can get back to other business."

Sara's gaze darted to the far corner of the room. A man stood there mute, an empty expression on his slack face. It was the same man she had seen on the street that time with Trasher, but he had changed. He was gaunt and thin, his cheeks hollowed, and the staring agate eyes were opaque as thick clouds. His hands trembled at his sides like an old man's.

"Well?" Alison's command brought Sara back sharply.

"Baby's due in the spring," she answered dully.

"No halfies."

"What?"

"I said I don't want halfies. Human only. If you got knocked up by some Trueblood forget it."

Sara shook her head. "No. Father's human," she said, a pang of guilt stabbing at her conscience. Trasher, I'm sorry, she whispered to herself.

"Good," said Alison without pleasure. "This is the deal, then. You'll get the money up front. What you do with it is your business, though I suggest you use it to keep yourself fed. When the time comes, if I don't get my goods in return, I'll find you. And it won't be nice, you understand?"

Sara nodded, her hands cold in the stuffy room.

"I mean it. Don't mess with me. Just deliver," and she laughed humorlessly at her own joke. "One thing more," she added, coming to stand close to Sara. "No refunds. Got it? Once you deal with me it's permanent. You lose the baby, you make another quick. You have a change of heart, that's too bad. Goods are goods. And if I contract them up front I want to be sure I get them."

Again Sara nodded, desperately wishing this meeting over and herself far away from Alison and the ghost that huddled silently in the corner.

Alison reached into a desk drawer and took out a fat envelope. She handed it over to Sara. As Sara reached for it, Alison grabbed her wrist in a taloned grip, red nails digging into her skin. She pulled Sara over to a desk and pressed her hand down on top of it.

"Just a little something to seal the bargain," Alison whispered. Dropping the envelope on the desk, she reached in the drawer and took out a switchblade. It snapped opened with a crisp snick. Sara struggled to free her hand but Alison's grip was strong, and her hand remained trapped on the desk. Alison jabbed the knife into Sara's thumb. Sara's body jerked with pain and she stared, terrified, at the red blood that flowed over her cut thumb. Alison squeezed it, then turned it over and pressed the bloody thumb on a sheet of paper. She released Sara's hand, ignoring her as Sara groaned and wrapped her thumb in her T-shirt to stop it bleeding.

"Name."

"Sara," she rasped. Her thumb began to throb.

"Good," Alison murmured as she wrote it and a date on the paper. "It'll do." Alison turned back to Sara and gave a dry laugh. "There's nowhere you can get lost in Bordertown without my finding you." She blew on the thumbprint to dry it. "You've given me a calling card with which to find you, just in case you should try." She picked up the envelope again and handed it back to Sara.

Sara snatched it and drew back, afraid. Alison laughed and then the smile vanished. "We're done for now. Take off."

Sara edged toward the office door, not wanting to turn her back to Alison. Only when she felt the doorknob behind her, did she turn and bolt from the room.

"Hey, baby, come over here and feel my muscle!" someone shouted to her across the room. Sara was choking, every nerve in her body taut with fear and anger. Head down, she ran and didn't stop running until she was well away from the sweltering heat of the Body Shop and the coldness of Alison Gross.
She finally stopped at the end of Water Street and draped her arms over the canal wall, her head bent, trying to catch her breath. Gradually it slowed and she righted herself. Sweat prickled on her face and neck; her T-shirt was soaked between her breasts, beneath her armpits, and along the ridge of her spine. She dropped the envelope on the ground and with her good hand tugged cigarettes out of her jeans pocket. They were crumpled, and she had to throw out two that were broken. The third she stuck in her mouth and lit with a bent match. She leaned against the stone wall of the canal, sucking furiously on her cigarette until the tip burned bright orange in the dark. She took a gulp of smoke, sucked it down. Smoke leaked out of the corners of her mouth and she exhaled slowly. She was lightheaded, knees weak and trembling. She slid down the side of the wall and sat on the sidewalk, back resting against the damp brick. She dropped her head between drawn-up knees, only raising it long enough to take another drag on her cigarette.

What have I done? she wondered as the fear ebbed away and weariness replaced it. She stared at the envelope lying on the ground near her feet. Her thumb throbbed angrily, and blood dried stiffly on her T-shirt. What have I done? Maybe I shouldn't have. She held down the panic with another quick drag from her cigarette. It was too late now to change her mind. That's what she'd wanted, wasn't it? To give the choice to someone else. So how come she was miserable? Sara reached up to pick off a piece of tobacco from the tip of her tongue and tasted the salt of tears. Her fingers touched her cheek and she found them wet. "Oh no," she muttered, and she pressed her face into her knees to stifle the sobs.

---

Trasher looked up at the attic window and saw a light on in Sara's room. Good, maybe this time he'd catch her at home. She'd been avoiding him for a week now and he didn't like it. Something was wrong and he needed to know what. Was she mad at him? He thought hard, but he couldn't remember anything he might have done to make her that angry. They'd been together five months now and it seemed to him the relationship was solid. He'd been thinking of asking her to share digs with him. He'd even been looking over places they might be able to afford together. Now this. She hated to get up early so he'd gotten up early himself this morning, hoping to wake her and find out what was going on.

He paused on the steps, skateboard in his hand. For a moment he was afraid. Afraid that whatever it was couldn't be worked out. He loved her and he didn't want to think about losing her. Go on, he pushed himself. If you love her what can there be that can't be worked out? He threw open the front door and launched himself up the long flight of steps to her flat.

He knocked and waited for her to answer.

"Who is it?" came a sleepy reply.

"Trasher." There was long silence, and Trasher restrained himself from breaking down the door. "Sara,'' let me in. We have to talk."

"There's nothing to say."

"Then tell me that to my face."

Another silence followed and Trasher clutched the skateboard angrily. He heard the door unlock; reluctantly, she opened it a crack. She showed him a sliver of her face. It looked tired and sad.

"Go away, Trasher.''

"Not until you tell me why."

She shrugged. "I hate skateboards," she said.

"Bullshit!" his voice echoed in the hallway. "Give me the real reason."

"That's it," she said angrily. "I'm sick to death of going out with someone who whizzes around on a stupid board. I want a real man, Trasher, not a boy."

Trasher banged the door open with the edge of his skateboard. Sara gave a shriek and backed away from the open door. He came into the room, struggling to contain his temper. He wanted to break something, anything. He glared at Sara as she stared back at him, pale and frightened. All she was wearing was a big T-shirt—his T-shirt—a pink one with a wild skater on it and purple letters, reading SKATE ROCK. It's not true, he told himself. That can't be the real reason. He looked at her and in spite of his anger yearned to hold her. He set his board down carefully, licking his dry lips, trying to sort out feelings of love and anger.

"Tell me again," he said in a low voice. "Why?" He watched her closely; she wasn't angry but scared. She brushed her hair out of her face with her hand and then quickly reached for cigarettes on the table.

"I told you," she said weakly as she started to light one. Trasher was silent, waiting to hear the words from her again. She started to speak and he saw her weave; her hand reached down to the table to steady herself. " 'Scuse me," she mumbled, and tore out of the room, heading toward the bathroom. From the living room Trasher could hear her vomiting noisily. He rocked back on his heels, the sound of her retching at once awful and all too familiar. A strange calmness settled over his anger, like an explanation without words. He nodded, certain now, and went into the kitchen. Sara's spell-box was old but with a little jingling Trasher got it to heat the water. He stuck in two pieces of bread to toast and got out the white porcelain cup with the pale pink roses on it that was Sara's favorite. All the while he worked in the kitchen, Sara was groaning and retching in the bathroom. Trasher winced at the painful sound, wishing there was more he could do. When the kettle whistled, he made tea, adding a heavy dollop of honey to it. He put the cup of tea on the table alongside the plate of toast. Then he walked back quietly to the bathroom.

Sara was sitting on the floor, her head resting on the edge of the toilet bowl. Her olive skin was sallow, her forehead clammy with sweat. And when she looked up at him, her eyes were black and haunted.

"I thought you'd left," she said hoarsely.

"Come on," he said, reaching down with one hand and pulling her up slowly. Holding her tightly by the waist, he walked her over to the table and sat her down. He put the cup of hot tea in front of her and the plate of toast. "Sweet tea and toast. It'll help the nausea."

He waited until she had taken a sip of tea. "Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant?"

"Could be a hangover," she croaked, swallowing the tea in careful gulps.

"You don't grow up the oldest of eight kids and not know what morning sickness sounds like." Trasher chuckled lightly. "When my mother puked, the whole house shook. I learned to bring her hot tea with lots of honey and toast. It was the only thing that worked."

"Your mother must have needed you a lot, Trasher."

He nodded in agreement. "How about you Sara? Do you need me?"

She looked away. "You don't understand."

"Explain it to me."

"I don't want this baby."

"Sara, I won't leave you or the baby."

"Forget it. I've sold it already to Alison Gross," she said, dully.

Trasher sat stunned, the words she had spoken slow to make sense. And when they did, he lunged forward in a wave of sudden fury. "You did WHAT? Sara, you can't sell your baby! Our baby, dammit! That baby's half mine too, you know!" He jumped up and his chair crashed to the floor behind him. Anger surged through him like a drug, the urge to break something returning.

"It's my father, isn't it? You think I'm like him. You think I'm gonna dump you and the baby, and so you thought you'd save yourself the trouble by selling it off."

"No," Sara protested.

"I'm not a drunk! I'm responsible, dammit!"

"It's not you," she shouted at him, then said in a smaller voice, "it's me. It's me, Trasher. It's what you don't know about me."

"Tell me, then. Tell me what's so bad that you have to sell our baby to a pimp." He leaned over the table and she edged away uneasily. She turned her face aaway, and whether it was from fear or shame, Trasher didn't know. And for the moment, he didn't care.

"Sit down. I can't talk to you hanging over me like that."

Slowly and reluctantly, he moved back, picking up his chair and sitting down, arms crossed tightly over his chest. She pressed her palms together between her knees and stared out the window so as not to see his face.

"When I was twelve, my mother killed me." She laughed drily at her mistake. "She tried to kill me. My father, he wasn't always the greatest of men. Like yours, I guess; he was weak. Sometimes he'd leave us for months, and when he was home, he'd beat Nawal. Once when he had been back for a few weeks things got really bad. He started paying a lot of attention to me, teaching me to dance. But he was also beating Nawal every night. I could hear him pounding away on her. Maybe she got jealous, or maybe she knew something about him that I didn't. I think my mother was just a kid when she got pregnant." Sara stole a glance at Trasher. The red color in his cheeks was fading, but his mouth was still shut in a tight line.

"Nawal helped me dress up in a pretty dress. Combed my hair. She kissed me and told me we were going somewhere we'd always be safe. I was really happy. Then she pulled out her knife and started ...stabbing me." Sara touched the scars self-consciously, then forced her hand away.

"Bobo came home as she was about to kill herself. He tried to stop her and in the struggle she stabbed him too. I lay there on the floor, watching them die, unable to do anything but scream. The blood," she murmured, "the blood was everywhere. A neighbor heard my screaming and called for help. By the time it came, Nawal and Bobo were dead. For some reason, I pulled through."

She reached to take another cigarette from the pack on the table. Trasher reached out and stopped her. He held her hand, squeezing it gently, not knowing what to say. She had never spoken before about the scars, and he had known better than to ask. Now that she had, Trasher wanted more than ever to make the world safe for her, to love her and protect her.

"So you see," she said evenly, "that's why I can't have a child."

"No," he said, still holding her hand but coming to sit by her knees. "No, that's no reason not to have our child, Sara."

"It is. I can't have a child. What if I hurt it somehow, like my mother hurt me?"

He shook his head at her. "You won't!"

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do. Listen to me: you aren't Nawal. She's dead and you survived, Sara. You don't have to be like her."

"But I'm already like her," Sara insisted. "What's so different about my life?"

"Me!" answered Trasher emphatically. "Let me love you, Sara. Let me take care of you and the baby. Trust me and trust yourself to be someone different from your mother."

She shook her head violently, pulling away from him.

"No."

Trasher stood up, anger replaced by frustration. "I've spent my life taking care of other people whether I wanted to or not. There wasn't anybody else to do it. Now, when it really matters to me, you shut me out."

"Forget about me, Trasher."

"No." He bent down and stared hard at her, waiting until she was willing to meet his gaze. "You think because you wear the same perfume, smoke the same cigarettes, and dance, that you're the same as some woman that died a long time ago. Sara, none of those things matter. They don't touch what you are inside. I know you, better than you know yourself. You're strong. Strong enough to be whatever you decide. Not what your parents decided."

Sara wavered. He knew she wanted to believe him. She twisted in her chair, and a cut on her thumb opened painfully. "It's too late. I can't undo the contract."

Trasher straightened up. "I'll make that bitch buy back the contract." He scooped up his skateboard and headed for the door.

"Wait," Sara called after him. "Listen—"

"No! You listen." Trasher stopped at the doorway. "My father didn't give a damn about me. But no kid of mine is ever gonna feel that way. I'll buy back that contract even if I have to kiss her ass to do it." He slammed the door behind him and took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the open street, he tossed the skateboard down on the concrete. Then with one foot pumping the ground he drove the skateboard down the street with a furious rattle, scattering the small stones and pebbles beneath his wheels.

---

Trasher's head buzzed with worried plans. He shut out the sense of hurt and anger. There was no room for that now. He had to be practical; he had to figure out how he was going to get them out of this mess. He'd get the money from the jam fund. Deki would be pissed off when she found out, but she'd understand. This was more important. And Sara. What was he going to do about Sara? Half of him wanted to throttle her, the other half wanted to hold her and tell her it would be all right. Get the contract, he told himself, and then work it out with Sara. What if Alison didn't want to buy it back? She had to, he insisted to himself. That baby was his too. He wouldn't take no for an answer.

He stopped off at the tobacco shop to get the money. His mother was opening the store, counting out odds and ends, setting up the little colored packets of cigarettes and mints.

"Terry, you're up early." She was the only one he knew who still called him by his proper name. Trasher smiled at her. She must have been pretty once, he thought, not for the first time. But now she looked worn, her face pasty, her eyes a washed-out blue. Her hair had been blonde like his but it had faded to a grey flax. She pulled the too-small red sweater down over her large hips.

"Running an errand," he answered; "won't be long," and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

"All right, see you later," she called, and the bell over the door jingled cheerfully as he left the shop.

He continued skating down Water Street past Dragontown, streaking past closed clubs and the shuttered ruins of old buildings. The Mock Avenue Bell rang out the hour, but he knew better than to listen to it. You had to add a few hours to the chimes—or was it subtract?—in order to get the right time from it. He never could get it straight. He turned up a few side streets, trying to remember on which alley the Body Shop was located. This neighborhood always gave him the creeps. Too many places to hide. Too many gangs. One street was Dragon territory, the other Pack or Scorpions'. Trouble was, unless you belonged to a gang, you never knew for certain which turf was safe. He hoped it was early enough in the morning that he wouldn't run into any of them. He concentrated on finding the Body Shop. He wasn't sure exactly where it was, but he knew it was pretty close.

A girl crossed the alley and brought him up short.

"Hey wait," he called after her and she turned, wary. She was a small human girl, or maybe a halfie, dressed in odds and ends, a pair of elvin boots, and a black jacket several sizes too big. Her hair grew in a strange wavy pattern of grey and silver stripes, and for a moment her eyes glowed emerald like a cat caught in the light. He recognized her from the clubs. What was her name? Something like Black or Gray. "You know where the Body Shop is?"

She stared at him, her eyes opaque. "How much is it worth?" she asked in a soft voice. Trasher expected that. How else was she going to eat? From the looks of her, she didn't eat much.

He tossed her what he had loose in his pocket: an old silver mint, and a new elvin gold. The coins fell noisily on the pavement. Her hand brushed the ground to find them.

She gave him a winsome smile and tugged at her striped hair. "Up there about two blocks and then to the left on Brews Street. Can't miss it. Place stinks."

"Thanks."

"Hey wait a sec, you want some free advice?"

"Sure."

"Don't look in her eyes. It's not for nothing she's a witch."

"Thanks, I'll remember."

"Hope you do," she said as he turned away.

Trasher stopped on the curb, seeing the sign for the Body Shop above a pair of huge doors. He stepped on the tail of his skateboard and it snapped up to attention at his side. He picked up the board and set his jaw as he crossed the street.

Peeling layers of grey and orange paint resembled lichen growing on the walls of the building. Old posters announcing bodybuilding competitions were plastered around the shop's entrance. They showed pictures of nearly naked men flexing their muscles in a variety of poses. Graffiti enlivened the faded pictures; one sported a pair of drawn-on breasts along with an oversized erect penis. Underneath, someone had penned in obscene suggestions that somehow fit with the rigid smiles on the faces of the competitors. But Trasher ignored the humor in the posters as he pushed opened the doors.

No one was there, and he walked through the empty gym, searching nervously. With each step he grew less certain of his plan to confront Alison Gross. He was about to leave, to come back later (he told himself sternly), when a voice stopped him.

"What can I do for you?"

She stood in a doorway, wearing a black lace top that hugged her body. Her pants were black silk, slit open to the thighs and tied around her slim ankles. In the morning light, her skin gleamed like polished marble.

Trasher felt his mouth go dry. One side of her mouth lifted in a crooked smile as she approached him, walking with the same cat-like grace he remembered from the street.

"You're here early. Feeling eager?"

"I'm here on business," he blurted out.

"Sounds fun. What sort of business?"

"I want to buy back a contract."

"Whose?"

"A girl named Sara. She was here not too long ago. I want to buy back the contract for the baby."

"Not possible," Alison said smoothly. "Unless—" she stopped.

"Unless what?"

"Well, there might be a way we could work it out. Nice-looking guy like you."

Trasher frowned, gritting his teeth.

She gave a little laugh. "I'm not forcing anyone. It's just a suggestion."

He stayed silent, uncertain, whether to stay or go. All he could think about was Sara.

"Perhaps this will change your mind." She approached him, her hands cupping her breasts, her head rolled back to let him see her more fully.

Trasher stared, mesmerized by sight of her pink nipples through the transparent lace.

"Want to make a deal with me?"

"No," he answered, tearing his gaze away from her breasts to meet her eyes.

Too late, he recalled the alley girl's warning. He gasped as an unseen hand grabbed him, entrapping him like a bird. In a panic he tried to turn, to run, but his body refused to move. The skateboard in his hand dropped to the floor with a loud clatter. He was encased in a cocoon that was spinning tighter and tighter, pressing his arms helplessly to his sides. He struggled fiercely, his heart banging wildly in his chest.

Alison stepped closer and placed a hand on the back of his neck, stroking him with her fingertips. "Don't fuss, baby. It only squeezes tighter."

Trasher tried to jerk his head away, to shake off the icy hand, but he remained immobile. His breath rattled in his throat and he was suffocating more with each attempt he made to free himself. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Alison bent his stiff neck and licked it off.

"Relax, baby. Believe me, it doesn't have to be bad."

He forced the panic back and made himself stop struggling. In response the grip loosened just enough for him to catch a ragged breath.

"Ready to deal, baby?" she whispered into his ear in a husky voice.

"Let me go," he gasped.

She cocked her head back and regarded him through half-closed eyes.

"Fuck me."

He stared at her wide-eyed. The room became a dizzy blur and only Alison Gross, her body leaning back seductively, remained clear. Then she too began to change. The edges of her shape wavered like a distant form in the desert. The features of her haughty face dissolved. Her head expanded, cheeks puffing out in huge white folds, chin disappearing beneath layers of-doughy flesh. The almond eyes moved farther apart, became small and piggy, while her nose flattened to thin nostril-slits. But it was her mouth that Trasher watched with horror. The lips stretched into a wide slash from ear to ear, and between the lips rows of tiny pointed teeth appeared. Her body bubbled and churned as the mass of white flesh doubled and tripled. Trasher's own skin crawled as her huge thick fingers wrapped around his arms and she dragged him close to her. She stank of garbage; he gagged at the stench.

"No!" he said, shutting his eyes to the nightmare. "No!"

She drew back and hissed. The sound slashed across his face like a whip. "Not yet, maybe. But soon. Soon you'll wish you were dead and, lover, there's only one way I'll let you die."

Trasher opened his eyes. The room had focus and edges again. Alison Gross stood in front of him, slender and beautiful. But he could still see the ghostly shadow of turbulent white flesh rolling at the edges of her form.

She shrugged. "It's not a perfect spell. Bordertown is too unstable. But it works well enough." She patted his cheek. "Don't wait too long, baby, to say yes. Or there might not be enough of you left to enjoy it."

She splayed her fingers, wiggling them experimentally. Trasher jerked forward, stumbling into a bench. She laughed. "Lothar checked out dead last night. You came just in time to fill the job. Make yourself comfortable, baby." She snorted sarcastically, then went into her office and shut the door.

Trasher remained standing, his body unable to fall unless commanded by Alison Gross. "Sara," he whispered desperately, trying to beat back the terror. "Sara," he repeated, as if her name alone could break the spell and free him.

---

 

Sara left for work early in the afternoon. All morning she had been thinking about what Trasher said. Maybe he was right. But knowing that didn't make it any easier. Some things were too hard to forget. Some things never left you. Nervously, Sara wondered if he had seen Alison yet. Deep down, she prayed he had done it, freed her from Alison Gross. She passed by the tobacco shop looking for him, but he wasn't there. His mother was worried; said he'd left early and hadn't been back. Sara tried not to think of the man she had seen in Alison's office, but his image haunted her. She grew angry with herself as worry gnawed at her. She shouldn't have let him go alone. She shouldn't have been such a coward. She shouldn't have— She stopped thinking abruptly as Alison Gross turned the corner on Third Street and faced her.

"Just thought I'd tell you, thanks for the little gift." Alison moved her hand and Trasher stumbled into view. He was pale, his eyes staring dully ahead. "Don't think it changes anything between us. A deal is a deal."

"What have you done to him?" Sara cried and lunged at Alison. Alison caught her by the front of her T-shirt and tossed her back. Sara tumbled onto the sidewalk.

"I told you before, don't mess with me, kid. Or lover-boy is dead meat. Got that?"

Sara raised herself on her elbows, shaking. "Let him go. He wasn't part of our deal."

"He made one with me." Alison 's cold face twisted with fury. "I hate your kind," Alison spat at Sara. "You get it so easily that you think nothing of throwing it away!"

"Trasher! Look at me!" Sara called to him. But he didn't seem to hear her and his head didn't turn.

Alison collected herself and shrugged. "He's mine now. He can't do a thing without me." She turned to go, and at her side Trasher shuffled after her. "Take care of yourself, Sara. I'm counting on you to deliver."

Sara stared at them as they disappeared around the corner. She snatched up her purse lying on the ground and took out a knife. Nawal's knife. She carried it as a talisman, as a reminder. She scrambled to her feet, and ran after them. "I'll kill her! I'll kill her," the thought driving her in a frenzy up the street. She reached the corner and turned.

They were gone, disappeared. Twisting from side to side she searched for a sight of them. She held the knife in one hand, ready to strike. There was no one but an old man with white hair and a dour expression. At his side a mongrel dog wearing a beanie hat pulled a small wagon loaded with junk.

"Hey, girl. Take it easy with that! Old Jack ain't much for cutting!"

"Where'd they go?"

"Who? Ain't nobody here but me and Noz."

"You're lying!"

He shrugged casually, but his eye marked the way she held the knife in a white-knuckled grip.

Sara passed a shaky hand over her face.

"Maybe it's best if you sit down for a while," he suggested carefully. "No good rushing into things, is it?"

Sara saw the knife in her hand as if a stranger held it and not herself. She was gripping her purse in her other hand and it ached from the effort.

"No, no, of course you're right," she answered vaguely. Confused, she searched the street again for Trasher and still saw no trace of him. She turned to the old man. He was watching her.

"I'm— I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"That's okay," he said quickly. "Maybe you oughta find somebody to talk to about it, you know?"

She nodded and put the knife away in her purse. Squaring her shoulders, Sara started walking toward Dragontown. Laura was there, she remembered. Maybe Laura could help her. Her stride grew urgent, her legs stretching longer and longer until Sara realized she was running, afraid to look back.

---

Sara found the Dojo, searching the shops on Yamabushi street for the tell-tale flag of a red sun on a white background. She found it fluttering above a red door, which she entered and then climbed the steep flight of stairs to the second floor. She could hear Laura's voice, shouting commands to the students working in the Dojo. At the door, she peeked in cautiously.

Laura was standing erect, fists on her hips and legs apart. On her face was an expression of disgust as she stared at the rows of students that now shuffled to attention. "Downward block, gedanbarai, hagemai!"

Thirty students stepped out in stance, swinging their arms down to block the imaginary kick. Some landed on their right foot, some on their left. A few had their blocking arms mixed up and one nervous student in the back row began to giggle. Laura rolled her eyes and swore.

"Hai, stand up. Try it again. Left foot out, left arm blocks," Laura snapped.

Sara shut the door and ducked back into the hallway. Nervously, she lit a cigarette and tried to think. She took two deep drags off the cigarette and blew the smoke anxiously into the hallway. A moment later, the Dojo door swung open and Laura's angry face stared out at her.

"Who the hell is smoking up here? Put it out!"

Sara jumped and hastily stamped out the cigarette in the outer hallway. She looked up apologetically at Laura, who frowned, recognizing her. Laura cast a quick appraising glance at Sara and then turned back to the Dojo, a hand still holding the door open.

"Merriweather!" Laura called to another student across the room who was punching his fist into a makiwara board. He was tall and gangly, his brown belt resting low on narrow hips.

"Hai, Sempei."

"Take over, until Koga Sensei returns. Then tell him I had to go out."

He hurried to her, bowed, and then stood stiffly in front of the students.

"Run 'em through gedanbarai, then ageuki, then ucheuki. If they've got any breath left, thirty reverse punches each side." A student groaned noisily. Laura glanced sternly in the direction of the sound. "Add an extra ten for every complaint." The students were silent. She nodded her head and left the dojo for the hallway.

"Hey, Sara," Laura said softly, coming into the dark hallway.

Sara held up her hands. "I'm sorry about my cigarette."

Laura shook her head. "It's okay. I thought you were a Rat come up to hang out."

Sara was quiet, not knowing how to start. Laura was intimidating. Everything about her was tough and compact. The black spiky hair stood up like sharp quills, and her blue eyes glittered when they caught the light. She was shorter than Sara, but Sara felt Laura's toughness like a wall that towered over her.
Laura sighed, and then untied her black belt. She took off the top of her karate gi and rolled it up, tying it up with the black belt. Underneath her gi jacket she wore a skinny sleeveless T-shirt in powder-blue.

"Better?" Laura asked.

Sara laughed dryly, as the old Laura she knew suddenly seemed to emerge from beneath the uniform. Was it the uniform that scared her, or Laura? "How did you know?" Sara said.

"People always get that goofy look when I wear my gi. Maybe they see the demon in me," she said softly.
Sara knew it wasn't just words Laura spoke, but the truth. Laura had had a brush with a nasty Blood named Keno. He had summoned a demon from Laura's spirit and tried to use it to hunt the other gangs. Laura beat him by taming her demon, bringing it back under her control. But even now, as Sara looked at the blue eyes that somehow glittered brightly in the dark, she knew the demon was always there in Laura, ready to break out if Laura called it.

"You thirsty?" Laura asked. "Koga's got this weird Japanese drink that tastes pretty good on a hot night."
Sara relaxed a bit and shook her head. "No thanks."

"What's up, Sara?" Laura asked gently.

"Can we walk?"

"Sure, c'mon."

Dropping off her gi jacket inside the dojo and putting on a pair of straw zoris, Laura left with Sara, following her down the stairs in silence. On the street a breeze from the canal struck them with a dank smell.

Sara lit a cigarette and for once Laura didn't complain—probably, Sara thought, because it killed the stink of the canal.

"I gotta big problem and I need help," Sara started. "I'm pregnant."

Laura reached over and grabbed the cigarette out of Sara's hand and crushed it on the sidewalk. "Makes you feel sicker," she muttered.

"Not that kind of help," Sara said testily, but she made no move to light another.

"What about the father?"

"That's part of the problem."

"Jerk not willing to own up, huh?"

"No, nothing like that," Sara said quickly. She took a breath and let the words rush out. "I sold the baby on contract to Alison Gross. Trasher went to buy it back and now she's got him trapped with some spell or something—."

"Whoa!" Laura interrupted, holding her hand to stop the flow of words. "Run that by me slowly."

Sara told her again, in more detail, guilt cutting deeper as she explained. When she was done, Laura regarded her with a shaking head.

"Shit, Sara. Why can't you let go of the past?"

"It's not that easy," she replied bitterly.

"No, but neither was surviving the attack and you already did that."

"I didn't have anything to do with that, it just happened."

"No it didn't," Laura protested. "You made it because you didn't want to die. You didn't want what your mother wanted. You still don't. Otherwise you wouldn't be here talking to me, trying to figure out how to save your boyfriend and your baby. You'd be off somewhere killing yourself and not giving a shit about anybody else."

Sara halted abruptly as Laura's words sliced through layers of memories, and peeled back the shell of another woman. Sara felt husked as Nawal's form seemed to slide from her shoulders.

"Is that true?" she asked in a small voice. "Do you really believe that?"

"Yes."

"Maybe you're right."

"Of course I'm right. Sure, you're strange—who isn't in this town? But you love Trasher and you probably love your baby. Nawal only thought about herself."

Sara stared at Laura. Her words rang true, and for the first time Sara felt ready to believe them. She sighed deeply. "Poor Nawal."

"Poor you," Laura answered. "It wasn't your fault what happened. It's not your job now to carry on her miserable life. Time to live your own."

Sara chewed her lower lip, silent for a moment. "What do I do about Trasher? I gotta help him somehow."

Laura scratched her head over her ear. "I don't know—"

She stopped talking as a loud rumbling grew behind them.

"Sara! Wait up!" Deki flanked by the Khandromas road toward her on skateboards. They stopped a few feet away and Deki stepped on her board, bringing it up smartly into her outstretched palm. Behind her the Khandromas waited, one foot on the ground, one foot poised on their boards. They had arranged themselves behind Deki in the order of the rainbow spectrum; Sian's violet shirt was tucked into a pair of loose purple shorts, baggy lavender socks falling over the plaid high-tops; Sweetie's blue zigzag across her eyes extended to become a cobalt blue streak through her spiked hair; B-Good's sleeveless green jumpsuit was painted with swirls of day glow lime; Machs Nix had a yellow T-shirt, torn off at the midriff, and her bleached hair stood out on her head like frizzed wheat; last was Tina, wearing a cherry red T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and small reflectors sewn on the shoulders. When she moved they winked in the early twilight.

"Where's Trasher?" Deki asked, swinging back one of her braids that was knotted with red feathers.

Sara didn't know how to answer.

"Look, I know you guys have been having some problems. That's none of my business. But when Trasher doesn't show up at the Ramp with the money for the jam, that's my business."

"He's at the Body Shop, with Alison Gross," Sara answered.

"What's he doing there?" Deki's voice was sharp.

"He went to buy back the contract on our baby. And now he's stuck somehow with her and it's all my fault." Sara tensed waiting for Deki to explode with harsh words. But to her surprise, Deki said nothing, only stared open-mouthed as the words sank in.

"Kungosum!" Deki swore. Then she came over to Sara and hugged her hard with one arm while the other still held her skateboard.

"You poor guys," Deki said.

"You're not mad at me?"

"Furious. But what good would it do?"

"I didn't mean it to happen this way."

"I know." Deki turned to the other Khandromas. "Go on to the Ramp. I'll catch you later. But be there so I can find you." They swiveled their boards around and pushed off, Tina rocking her board up and down the curb. B-Good came to a small bank attached to a wall. Riding up the bank, she floated the board over to the wall then skated down the vertical. Arms out, she bent her knees as the board hit the sidewalk. She pushed off with a foot to catch up with the others.

"C'mon," Deki said with an arm around Sara's shoulders. "I know a teahouse up the street where we can sit and figure this out. If it's any consolation, Trasher's not the first hero to get caught by a cannibal queen. Lucky for you Khandromas have some expertise in this area."

They headed up Lo Street and turned into Chang's Alley. At the end of the alley was a small shop, the Lhasa Tea House, with grey-streaked windows that looked out on the alley. Inside there was a counter with stools that hid most of the tiny kitchen. Tables and chairs cluttered the rest of the room. At one table two older couples laughed as they played Mah-jongg. On one wall was a photograph of a smiling man wearing glasses and red robes. The frame had been draped with long white cloths.

"Who's that?" Sara asked curious as they sat down.

"Huh?" said Deki, twisting around to look. "Oh, that's the Dalai Lama. He's the head Tibetan and one cool dude. Hang on, I'll get the tea." She disappeared around the counter and Laura and Sara could hear her speaking rapidly in Tibetan to someone in the kitchen. She returned to the table juggling a tray of cups, a pot of tea, and a plate of food.

"Here, try one, they're called momo," Deki said and passed the plate with white dumplings on it over to Laura and Sara.

Sara shook her head. "No thanks, I don't think I can right now."

Laura reached over and took one. As she bit into it, hot juices from the spiced meat inside squirted out the other side. She leaned her head over a plate, trying not to make a mess.

"Good," she nodded, mouth full. "Real good."

Sara looked away, her stomach queasy.

"Okay, this is what we gotta do," said Deki as she poured three mugs of tea and dumped big spoonfuls of sugar into all of them. She pushed a cup over to Sara and then to Laura, who was eating another momo. "We need to make it worthwhile for Alison Gross to give up Trasher and the baby. What does she want badly enough to trade for them?"

"I think the only thing she really wants is a man," said Sara, thinking of Alison's angry face and the jealous words she had thrown at Sara.

"She certainly goes to a lot of trouble to get one, doesn't she?"

"They don't seem to last very long," replied Sara, and she told them about the gaunt man in Alison's office. "I think that's happening to Trasher," she said worriedly. "He looks awful already."

"What do you know about her magic skills?"

"Not much. But she can sure disappear fast when she wants to. One moment she was on the street with Trasher and then pow! she was gone!"

"No kidding?" Deki took a slow drink from her cup while she thought. "I've got an idea," she said, putting the cup down. "First, we need the right man to tempt Alison. Someone she couldn't resist. Someone who's tough enough—"

"Hot enough—" put in Laura.

"Hung enough," finished Deki, "to make Alison Gross want to give up one baby contract and one skater."

Laura and Deki looked at each other as the same thought flashed in their heads. "Stick," they said in unison. Hadn't every girl in Soho at one time or another found herself with a crush on a Stick? The tall black man with the fat dreadlocks and the vintage Harley was in a class by himself. Only Manda Woodsdatter had made a crack in his cool reticence, but she was still a friend, not a lover.

"Yeah, but no way will he go for it," said Laura, shaking her head.

"He doesn't have to do anything," insisted Deki. "Just stand there and look tasty. The Khandromas will do the rest."

"What are you planning?" asked Sara.

Deki smiled hugely, her dark eyes disappearing for a moment behind the high cheekbones.

"A bit of Khandroma fun!" and she rubbed her hands together. "Man, it's been ages since I did any real imping." She stood abruptly, serious again.

"C'mon. Let's go find Stick."

Laura shook her head taking another sip of her tea. "I don't know, Deki. Just doesn't seem like Stick's scene."

"Hey, I'm Tibetan and I'm Khandroma. I could sell Stick a lifetime supply of suntan lotion!"

Laura snorted, tea catching up her nose at the thought of Stick greasing up his ebony-black skin with a tube of tanning lotion. "This I gotta see."

At Laura's suggestion, they tried the Dancing Ferret first and found Stick sitting in the alcove with Farrel Din, the club's owner. A white ferret dozed on Stick's knee.

"Ah, Farrel, d'ya mind?" Laura asked her employer hesitantly. "We'd like a word with Stick."

Farrel raised his eyebrows at her and then looked over at Stick. "Kicked out of my own corner," Farrel grumbled as he left the alcove and went to the bar.

They sat down nervously and looked at each other, uncertain as to who should start. Sara cleared her throat and began, telling Stick about the baby and then Trasher. Laura watched him as Sara talked and noticed how he seemed to edge away. Although he never moved, she could sense the distance between them widen. She sighed inwardly. That was Stick. He'd help on the street if he saw trouble, he'd pick you up right out of a fight if he had to, but coming up close like this and asking was something different. Laura knew they were invading his private space.

Sara finished talking and an awkward silence followed. Laura and Sara turned expectantly to Deki. She was staring intensely at Stick as if memorizing every line on his face, the length of his dreadlocks, and the cool expression.

"Sorry to hear about that," he said simply to Sara.

"You can help us get Trasher back," Deki started, leaning forward on the table. Laura saw Stick lean back slightly, just enough to keep the same distance between them.

"No, I won't mess with Alison Gross."

"Why not?" Deki asked. "All you have to do is stand there and look good."

He shook his head. "That woman's bad business. Stand close enough to her and you're fucked for life."

"No!" Sara protested and gripped the edge of the table.

"Sorry, but it's true. Alison Gross is an ugly, ugly woman. Inside and out. What you see isn't what you get. She's got a nasty spell that'll tie up any man crazy enough to go near. A spell that's strong enough to work solid even in a place like Bordertown. All you have to do is say yes to anything, anything at all and you're done."

"So keep your mouth shut!" insisted Deki. "All you gotta do is—"

"No," Stick replied firmly.

"You afraid of her?" Deki asked and Laura ground her teeth at the taunt.

"No," Stick said softly but firmly. "It's a question of territory. Something you know nothing about." He hoisted himself out of the chair, and Lubin, the ferret, clambered lightly to his shoulder. He came to Sara and, looking at her desperate, disappointed face, said in a softer voice, "I'm sorry. I can't help you, this time."

Sara nodded back, a lump stuck in her throat. Stick left and Sara slumped in her chair. Deki looked over at her and clapped a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey, you think this is the end?"

"Well you heard him, didn't you?"

"This is only round one, girl. I've just started," Deki said fiercely. "Laura, take her home and stay with her. I'll catch up to you later. At Sara's. Be there."

Laura started to say something but stopped when Deki bolted out of her chair and headed out the door after Stick.

"All right," Laura called to the disappearing braids. "Shit, she's crazy," she said to Sara.

"Yeah, that's what Trasher said. But he also said she was good, so who knows?" Sara gave Laura a weak smile. "Guess we should go home and wait."

As they left the Dancing Ferret they could see Deki standing next to Stick, who was sitting on his vintage Harley, arms crossed over his chest. Deki's hands were moving in vigorous circles as she talked. Laura had to hand it to her, Stick was listening, though from time to time he looked up the road as if wishing himself somewhere else.

---

It was just after midnight by the Mock Avenue Bell when Sara heard Deki yelling out her name from the street. She and Laura ran down the stairs to meet her on the stoop.

"What's up?" asked Sara anxiously.

"Looks good. Everything's on for five a.m. this morning."

"Five? I'm lucky if I stop puking by noon!"

"You can puke all you want afterward; just make sure you're at Tumbledown Park by five a.m. You know where it is?"

"Near Hell's Gate in Soho, isn't it?" asked Laura, frowning.

"Yeah. That's it. A perfect place for some radical street flying."

"Alison bought it?" Sara asked, incredulous.

"Oh man, did she ever. You should have seen it. I pitched a rock through her window—just to get her attention. Whew, the way she came out I thought she was gonna turn me into fried fish! As soon as I told her Stick wanted to deal for Trasher and the contract she practically started drooling."

"Is Stick gonna be there?" Laura spoke up.

"Uh huh. He'll be there all right."

"So how much suntan lotion did he buy?" asked Laura dryly.

Deki laughed, but her face was serious. "Gobs. Come prepared."

"For what?"

"Won't know till it happens, but just keep your eyes open and be ready for some tight moves. Okay?" She looked at Sara, who was biting at her lip. Sara nodded back. "Good. Catch you then. And don't be late."

Sara watched Deki flying down the street, and it seemed to her that Deki moved faster than was possible on a skateboard. As Deki turned the corner she streaked beneath a street lamp and Sara saw a brightly colored arc flash and shimmer just before Deki disappeared from sight.

"Weird," Sara muttered under her breath. "C'mon," she said to Laura, "I'll make tea. Maybe if I don't go to bed I can trick my body into forgetting about morning sickness."

At a little before four-thirty Laura and Sara headed for Tumbledown Park. They walked quietly, each of them intent on settling her nerves. Sara had braided back her long black hair, and in the early dawn light, dark circles ringed her eyes. She was tired and scared. She fingered the knife she carried in the pocket of her purple sweater. Its cold hardness was an alien comfort.

At her side Laura walked with a steady, even gait. She was frowning, her chin up in a hard point. It seemed to Sara that Laura bristled with fierceness and she realized that the demon was close to the surface. Laura's blues eyes flashed with neon streaks of orange. Laura cracked her knuckles loudly and ran her tongue along her teeth. Sara shivered at the growing strangeness of her friend.

At the entrance to Tumbledown Park Laura halted and held out a hand to stop Sara. She stood listening and scanning the street, taking in every possible surprise. She lifted her head and sniffed the air. The orange light of her eyes glowed brighter. Trash rustled quietly, swept along by a breeze down the empty street. A cardinal suddenly burst into song as the pink-and-grey light of early dawn touched the top of a withered elm. Sara looked up, startled by the living sound amidst the broken ruin of the abandoned park.

They entered the park cautiously and looked around. The ground was littered with the rubble of ancient concrete pipes, some tall enough for a hunched skater to pass through. Other pipes lay split open, and Sara could see that they had been laid together to create a twisty maze of runways. Ledges with drop-offs on one side and curved ramps on the other had been built from sections of cracked concrete slabs and plywood. An empty swimming pool off to one side showed doubled lines of skate-board tracks snaking around its sides. A broken concrete wall rose up to one side, spray painted with orange-and-black graffiti.

"I don't like it. This place is spooky," said Laura. "Why'd Deki want to meet here?"

"Home to her, I think," Sara answered, her voice sounding loud in the quiet morning. "This is paradise if you're a skater. Look at the ramps and half-pipes. You could go nuts here on a board."

"We didn't come here to skate," said Laura tersely. "Where's Deki and Stick? And where the hell is Alison and Trasher?"

As if in answer to her question, Alison Gross stepped out from behind the concrete wall. At her side Trasher was standing, grey and expressionless. Three other men stepped out as well, flanking Alison Gross and Trasher. They were big toughs dressed in black jeans and heavy boots, and wearing studded wristlets. Sara sucked in her breath but Laura just snorted.

"Huh, three stooges. All muscle, no brain," she said snidely. She flexed her hands and cracked her knuckles nervously.

"Look." Sara nudged Laura and they saw Stick enter the park. He walked slowly toward them. In one hand Sara noticed he carried a thin twist of rope.

"Where's the Harley?" Laura said softly. "I didn't hear him ride up on it. And where's Lubin?" she added. It was strange to see Stick without the ferret shadowing him.

Laura shifted uneasily as Stick continued picking his way through the dried weeds and broken pipes. Sara glanced over at Alison Gross, who was watching Stick's movements as intently as a cat stalking prey.

"Stick?" Laura asked when he came alongside them.

He nodded tersely. "Stay behind me. Laura, keep your eye on the goons. Sara, you concentrate on Trasher. Got it?"

"Yeah," Sara answered, wiping her sweating palms on her sweater.

"Let's go."

When Alison saw them crossing the park she motioned to the toughs and they shoved Trasher forward. Alison snaked around the fallen pipes and ramps, her eyes never leaving Stick's approaching figure.

When they were still a few feet apart Stick stopped and called out.

"The contract. Let's see it."

Alison smiled, pulled from her pocket the folded paper with Sara's thumbprint, and waved it in the air.

"How do I know it's the right one?"

"Take it," she said seductively. "Compare it against the girl's own hand."

Stick turned to Laura, who scrambled over a broken pipe. She snatched the folded paper from Alison's hand, resisting the urge to flatten the witch with a straight punch to the nose. She hurried back to Sara and held the print up to her hand. The bloody whorls turned in the same pattern as Sara's scarred thumb.

"Now, do we deal for the boy?" asked Alison.

Stick moved toward her, his hand hiding the thin rope he carried. He came and stood close to Alison, their chests nearly touching. She tossed her head back to look up at his face. "Do we deal?" she repeated in a husky whisper.

"Where's Deki?" hissed Laura.

Sara didn't answer. She started running for Stick, screaming. "No! Don't say it! Stick, don't!"

Stick didn't seem to hear her as he bent his head toward Alison and said: "Yes."

Laura flew after Sara, seeing the three thugs at Alison's side head for the girl, nasty grins spreading on their faces.

Before they reached her, the park erupted with the snarl of gravel as skateboards ground down through the open pipes. Sweetie launched her skateboard over the edge of a drop-off, landing it in front of a thug. She threw down a small bomb at his feet that exploded with a cloud of thick blue smoke. He reeled back, coughing, and stumbled over a chunk of concrete. Tina came down a second ramp flinging her bombs into the face of the second thug. Red smoke bloomed and left the man batting at empty air. Machs Nix, tucking her body low over her board, hurtled through the tunneled pipe until she popped up behind Alison Gross. Yellow smoke bombs landed at Stick's feet and bathed his brown face in ochre.

"Get Trasher!" Laura shouted through the smoke to Sara. Laura sprinted through the thickening haze of colored smoke to where she thought she had seen the first thug go down.

Out of the fog, the thug's fist circled in a roundhouse punch, but it was aimed too high. Laura smiled and jerked out her leg in a side thrust kick to the man's knee. It snapped with a sickening crack and Laura followed it with a knife-hand strike to the falling man's neck. Around her the fog swirled and eddied, new colors bleeding into it as one by one the flying Khandromas tossed their smoke bombs.

Sara ran toward Trasher, pushing blindly through the smoke. B-Good, riding one board and carrying another, whizzed by her. The third thug reached out and backhanded her off her board. She hit the ground with a hard thud and dropped the skateboard. Sara had to jump to keep from tripping over it. The thug made a grab for her and she screamed, twisting out of his way. Laura's body exploded between them and Sara heard the smack of a punch as Laura attacked the man. Sara didn't watch but grabbed for Trasher's hand.

It was ice-cold and clammy, and it refused to close around hers.

"C'mon, Trasher," Sara pleaded. "We have to get out of here." A breeze parted the veil of green smoke and revealed Trasher's face. His hair was lank and greasy, and he had grown deathly pale. His eyes stared vacant and his mouth was slack. Panic bubbled in Sara's chest. "Trasher, please." She tugged at his arm.

A wild howl jerked her head up and she saw Alison Gross, both hands locked around Stick's neck. She was strangling him, shrieking with fury, digging as her thumbs into his throat. Sara watched, horrified, as Alison's form changed, growing white and monstrous until she towered over Stick. Stick was choking, one hand flailing as the other tried to break her grip on his throat.

"Sara," he rasped, his eyes bulging red and white.

Sara drew her knife and swung it aloft to strike at Alison Gross. Alison twisted around, dragging Stick in her grasp like a limp rag doll. She faced Sara, transfixing her with an evil glare. Her jaws snapped open and Alison sobbed. The huge flabby face dissolved, melting into the image of Sara at twelve; a child's face, wide-eyed with terror. "Mama, no," Alison shrieked in a child's frightened voice. "Mama, no."

Sara's knife stopped frozen in the air. The past tore at her, stripping away her defenses. "Sara," she called to the image of herself. The knife trembled aloft in her hand. Nawal, she was Nawal ready to plunge the knife. Sara stumbled back terrified, throwing the knife away.

Laura appeared at her shoulder. "Sara, it's a trick!" she shouted over Alison's screaming voice. A hand grabbed Laura by the shoulder and spun her around.

The last thug planted a fist on Laura's jaw and she was knocked to the ground. As she went down, Laura kicked out with her legs, sweeping the man to the ground with her. From the ground she raised her leg and brought her heel down hard into the man's sternum. He yelped and then coiled into a knot with the pain.

Sara heard Laura's words distantly. Part of her struggled to understand them, knew they made sense. But she was trapped by the past and Laura wasn't there, only herself and Nawal. She backed away from Alison, ready to flee, and stumbled over the skateboard Sweetie had dropped. She stared at it numbly and something in its shape, lying upturned like a beetle on its back, sparked another image: Trasher smiling as he rode his skateboard to the edge of the ramp and leaped high into the air. Trasher, his mouth against hers and his hands resting on her breasts. And there was something else too. Sara touched her belly. A baby. Their baby. Sara shook her head to clear the fog of old memories. No, it wasn't the past anymore. Suddenly furious, she grabbed the skateboard and scrambled to her feet. Swinging the skateboard high over her head, she slammed the deck against Alison Gross's head.

Immediately the mirror image of herself vanished and the huge white face with piggy eyes and a slash mouth reappeared, shaking and dazed. Sara didn't wait but smashed the board again over the swollen head of Alison Gross. The deck snapped with the force, cracking the board in two pieces. Alison Gross lurched forward, releasing her grip on Stick's throat, and collapsed onto a pile of concrete rubble.

"My Hosoi!" came a croaking cry, and Sara looked down astonished at Stick. His voice was wrong. Sara blinked as Stick's ebony skin paled to a light tan. "She broke my Hosoi skateboard!" Stick's form was wavering, shrinking in size as it transformed. And then he was gone and it was Deki who lay on the concrete holding her throat.

Sara reached down and helped her sit up, staring in wonderment. Deki was holding out the rope as she tried to swallow.

"Here." She handed Sara the thin rope. "Tie her wrists up with this. It ought to hold her."

"There's nothing to this rope," Sara argued.

"Trust me."

Sara did as Deki asked, moving quickly about the prostrate form of Alison Gross. She grimaced at the putrid odor and slimy feel of Alison's hands.

"Pew, she really stinks, doesn't she?" Deki said, her voice hoarse.

Sara looked up at Deki. "How'd you do that? How'd you look like Stick?"

Deki shrugged with exaggerated casualness. "Old Khandroma trick. It's easy. Along with riding rainbows and messing with the weather, we're good at illusions. Only Alison figured out I wasn't Stick before I had a chance to get the shakpa on her."

"The what?"

"That rope. It's Tibetan. My father used it once to pull my mother from the sky. It's the only way to catch a Khandroma."

"What about Alison?"

"Should work."

"Should? What if it doesn't?" Sara jumped back in alarm as Alison started to come to, rolling her head from side to side. Her eyes snapped open, red and ugly.

"Free me!" she bellowed, and struggled unsuccessfully to lift her head from the ground.

"There, see? What'd I tell you?" Deki said smugly. "Works perfectly. That's what I love about Bordertown magic; it's global." She looked around through the fading colored smoke. "Hey, good work, Khandromas! Some truly bitchin' skating."

Tina came into view, supporting a bleeding B-Good. Machs Nix and Sian, smiling victoriously, held up Laura between their arms. Sweetie skated up slowly to Trasher and took hold of his hand. She looked back at Deki and frowned.

"No good. He's still messed up," she announced.

Deki turned back to Alison and put a foot on her fat throat. "How d'you like to do the slow squeeze?" She pressed down hard and Alison squirmed helplessly beneath her foot. "Just like crushing a maggot."

"Stop," Alison gasped.

"Release Trasher."

They waited as Alison caught her breath and then began to murmur under her breath.

Sara crossed to Trasher and took hold of his hands, searching into the vacant gaze for signs of the man she loved. He shuddered and a familiar spark of light animated his eyes. He drew a deep and ragged breath and his hands squeezed hers.

"You okay?" she asked, staring worriedly at his pale face.

He smiled weakly. "Yeah."

She put her arms around his waist and hugged him, holding him steady. His head drooped and he whispered in her ear. "Sara, I love you."

"I love you, Trasher."

"Too cool," sighed Machs Nix to Sian over Laura's head.

"All right, Khandromas," Deki said gruffly. "Let's get this lump of blubber uptown. I know a bull who's just been waiting for someone to make a citizen's arrest of this creep."

Sian and Machs Nix set Laura down gently on the edge of a drop-off and went to stand close to Deki with Tina and B-Good.

"Catch you later!" shouted Deki. She grabbed hold of the shakpa and hauled Alison to her feet. The air around them boiled and churned, charged with crackling static. Light exploded in a rainbow over their heads that stretched high into the clear morning sky. Reaching up, Deki took a hold of a band of color and leaped into the air. Alison Gross was dragged upward into the arc behind Deki. The other Khandromas reached up disappeared as they were drawn into the prism of colored light.

Sara heard faintly the shouted goodbyes of the Khandromas and the long wailing scream of Alison Gross as the rainbow faded, leaving them alone in Tumbledown Park.

"Shit," said Laura in surprise.
"Let's get out of here," said Sara, "before those guys wake up." She nodded at the lumpy figures of Alison's thugs lying on the ground.

Holding Trasher's hand tightly in her own, Sara led them stumbling out of the park. As they reached the entrance again, the sun lifted up from behind long trailing clouds and bathed the broken terrain in gold light. On the withered elm the cardinal trilled. Sara looked at it and then smiled at Trasher as she heard a second cardinal answering the call of its mate.

---

APRIL
Deki flung herself through the doors of the Dancing Ferret.

"You're about to miss the best show in town if you don't come right now!" she shouted at Laura, who was working behind the bar.

Laura tore off her apron and ducked through the opening in the long wooden bar. It was late afternoon and the club was quiet—mostly regulars having a quiet chat.

"I gotta go," she yelled as she hurried past Farrel Din. "I'll be back after the baby comes!" She didn't wait for a reply but followed Deki through the doors.

Farrel scowled. "Sure, sure," he muttered to her disappearing form. "Go ahead, then. Just take off. See if I care that I don't have a waitress for the afternoon."

On the street Laura was pounding the pavement to keep up with Deki. Three blocks later she had to stop, her lungs burning for more air. She thought she was in good shape, but Deki wasn't even breathing hard.

"We're not gonna make it in time at this rate," she said to Laura. "Take my hand," she ordered, and before Laura could protest Deki grabbed her around the wrist.

Laura heard the sizzle of lightning and saw a flash of light. Above them a rainbow arched high into grey clouds. Laura was instantly drenched by a cold mist that swirled around her shoulders. Deki jumped, and Laura was jerked roughly off the ground. Her legs dangling uselessly, she felt her body stretched as she was dragged behind Deki through bands of violet, blue, green and then yellow and red light.

''Shi—'' she started to scream, her breath carried away by the flying colors and blinding light.

"—it!" she finished, and tumbled out of the sky with a clumsy fall.

"Sorry," Deki apologized; "not the most graceful landing I ever made."

Laura's shirt was soaked through and water droplets shimmered in her hair. She stared at Deki, blinking away the droplets that clung to her eye lashes.

"C'mon!" Deki urged, and Laura gasped as she saw they were standing in front of Sara's house.

"I'll tell you about it later," Deki said.

"Sure," Laura said, stunned; "sure."

They ran up the stairs of the stoop and entered the building. The narrow stairway was already crowded with Khandromas and Bogans bickering and arguing as they waited impatiently for Sara's baby to be born.

"Man, I'll ride over that stupid face of yours if you bring it any closer!" Sian was shouting at Martinez.

"You condems think you're such tough shit."

"Sweetie, punch that bugger's lights out for me, would ya?!"

"Hey Bad Boy, come up here, some condem wants to kiss you."

"Hell no. I don't want my lips falling off."

"Why not, your dick already has!"

"SHUT UP!" came a loud voice at the top of the stairs. Maid Marion of the Horn Dance stood angrily, fists pressed into her hips. When she wasn't playing with the Horn Dance, Mary worked as a midwife, bringing into the world of Bordertown the babies of mothers too poor to go to the hospitals. She wore a white apron over her long flowered dress and a blue bandana tied around her blond hair. "In case you forgot, there's a woman up here trying to give birth. Now would you hold it down so she can concentrate?"

From the apartment, Sara moaned loudly and all heads looked up expectantly at the open door.

"Mary?" Trasher called out anxiously.

Mary ducked back inside and they could hear her speaking in soothing tones to Sara. "That's it, Sara, you're doing fine. Don't push yet, Sara, keep panting. That's it."

In the corridor everyone stared, silent and eager. When they heard Mary give the order to push, Khandromas and Bogans turned red in the face as they pushed in sympathy with Sara. Caught up in the excitement, Laura couldn't help but join them. The hallway quickly became hot and stuffy. Deki grabbed Laura's hand and squeezed it hard.

"Get behind her back, Trasher and hold her up! That's it," Mary crooned. "Come on, little baby. There are lots of folks waiting to see you!"

Sara was huffing and groaning loudly. Her harsh breathing filled the stairway with its rasping sound.

"That's it!" Mary shouted. "Head's out!" and the stairway echoed with Sara's exultant cries. Laura heard Sara burst into deep-throated laughter and then relieved sobs. In the stairway they waited, hushed, until they heard a strange sound like the indignant bleat of a small animal.

"It's a girl!" Trasher yelled out the open door. "A beautiful girl!"

The Khandromas jumped up, screaming and waving their boards in the air. "ALL RIGHT! One for our side!"

"Shut up, shut up," shouted Deki, trying to quiet them down. "How's Sara doing?" she yelled over the raucuous noise.

"Fine. Mother and baby doing fine," Mary called back.

Rivalries temporarily forgotten, Khandromas and Bogans stomped their feet on the stairs and congratulated each other. Tina let Bonehead bend her back in a heated embrace and plant a wet kiss on her mouth before she batted him away.

"Hey down there," Mary hollered over the loud celebration. "Quiet down! Why don't you split for a while and let this family get some rest?"

Laura pressed her body against the side of the stairway as Khandromas and Bogans clamored down the steps and burst out the front door into the street. Laura and Deki followed slowly after them, turning wistful faces to the top of the stairs. They stepped out on the stoop and looked around, happy and dazed.Laura looked up at the cloudy sky, wondering briefly if it might rain. The crowd of skaters split up, the two gangs noisily riding off in different directions. Across the street Laura caught sight of Stick sitting on his Harley.

She and Deki crossed the street to greet him.

"Well?" he asked.

"A girl," Deki answered with a flushed face.

He nodded. "How's Sara?"

"Okay. Mary's up there with her."

He nodded again and then started up the motorcycle, revving the motor a couple of times before he spoke.

"Thought you'd like to hear about Alison Gross. Seems like a few kids from the Hill turned up with scars on their thumbs like Sara's. The Truebloods on Bordertown High Council decided to pack her off to the Realm so they wouldn't have trouble with the humans on the council."

Laura shook her head disgustedly. "That's all it takes, isn't it? One or two rich kids, and suddenly they see there's a problem."

Stick was silent, the motorcycle rumbling quietly. Lubin stuck her pointy face out of the basket on the back of the Harley; the ferret wrinkled her nose and cocked her head at them quizzically.

"They gonna be all right?" Stick asked, glancing up in the direction of Sara's attic flat.

"Yeah," Laura nodded. "They can handle it. And they got good friends," she added, smiling over at Deki.

"I hear you do a convincing job of looking like me." A smile flickered across his lips. Behind him, Lubin made a soft chucking noise before returning to the comfort of her basket.

Deki shrugged. "Passable ... but only at a distance," she added quickly.

"Uh huh," he nodded, "I'll keep that in mind. See you around," he said, and eased the motorcycle out into the street.

After he left, Deki turned to Laura. "You wanna rainbow ride back to the Ferret?"

"No!" Laura said sharply. "No thanks," she repeated. She didn't like the sensation of being tossed up and down an elevator shaft with her stomach left somewhere up on the top floor. "I don't feel like getting soaked again."

Deki laughed and set down her skateboard. "Well, I'm off. Catch you later," she called over her shoulder as she pushed off.

Laura turned and started walking down Hideaway Road, heading for Soho and the Dancing Ferret. She had just reached Water Street when overhead thunder suddenly clapped and she smelled the sharp tang of approaching rain.

"Oh shit," she swore and started to run as rain splattered in big drops on the street. "Guess I'm gonna get wet anyway."

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Editor's note: Although this is (so far!) the only story about Sara, Trasher, and their baby, other folks in this story appear in other tales:

We learn more about Sara's friend Laura (and Laura's partner Koga) in Midori's story "Demon" (Bordertown, 1986) and in Charles de Lint's story "Berlin" (Life on the Border, 1991), and also glimpse her in the background of many other tales. When we first meet Laura, she works as a waitress at The Dancing Ferret...but eventually (as her martial arts skills mature) she becomes a bouncer for the club, while also teaching karate at Koga's dojo in Dragontown.

Stick first appears in Charles de Lint's novella "Stick" (Borderland, 1986), and then turns up again in a number of subsequent stories by Charles and other writers—most recently, in Nalo Hopkinson's "Ours is the Prettiest" (Welcome to Bordertown, 2011). Stick and his pet ferret, Lubin, live in an old museum on the outskirts of Soho. A loner by nature, his only close friend (and possible lover?) is Manda Woodsdatter, a musician with The Horn Dance. He also has long, complicated relationships with Farrel Din (owner of The Dancing Ferret), Koga (Laura's partner), and Berlin (a community activist with the Diggers group).

The character of Alison Gross was partially inspired by a worm-like witch in a traditional English folksong. You can read the song lyrics here.

"Alison Gross" is copyright c 1991 by Midori Snyder. The story may not be reproduced in any form without the author's express permission.

© 2012 Terri Windling. All rights reserved. Site designed by fringe-element