Pet Read online

  What the—!

  The blood spread across her lifeline, and Jam stared at the painting, at the small red drops she’d tracked along it, past the edge, onto the hardwood floor, bread crumbs leading to her.

  Why on earth was she bleeding?

  She got on her knees and shuffled back to the painting, peering at it without the vertigo of standing upright, cradling her hand to her chest. There were drops of her blood on the figure’s chest where she’d fallen—though it was hard to tell them apart from the bloody streaks Bitter had already painted—and looking closer, she saw those glints of metal she’d noticed before. Jam tilted her head, and the light danced off them, bright and steel. Her mouth fell open as she recognized what they were: razor blades. Oh shit, she thought. Bitter’s gone mad.

  Okay, maybe not entirely mad, but still….

  Her hand was stinging, and the blood had started dripping off her palm and onto her shirt. Jam got up quickly and left the studio, closing the door firmly behind her. She paused for a moment, wondering if she should have cleaned up the mess she’d made in there first, but the dampness spreading on her shirt reminded her how bad it would be if her parents came home to find her literally covered in blood. She needed to patch up this wound immediately so she could clean the studio before her blood dried completely into the floors—she’d never be able to hide it from Bitter then.

  Aloe kept a comprehensive first aid kit in the house, accordioned shelves of supplies layered inside, and Jam dragged it out from under the bathroom sink. She stanched the bleeding with wadded paper towels, then pulled out alcohol wipes and a pack of butterfly closures. The cut was clean and deeper than she thought a plain Band-Aid could handle, than she would’ve thought a razor blade could cause. She made the torn edges kiss and held them together with the closures, then put a wide bandage over all of it. That way she could claim it was a scrape from falling off her bike. They wouldn’t ask her too many questions. Every time Jam hurt herself around the house, Bitter shook her head ruefully and just said that Aloe’s clumsiness had to have ended up somewhere. Jam shoved the kit back into its place and ran to her room, pulling her bloodied shirt off over her head. She pushed it to the bottom of her laundry basket and was pulling on a clean shirt when she heard the front door open.

  Dammit, she thought. There wasn’t enough time to go back into the studio. Maybe if she kept them downstairs during dinner?

  “Jam? You home? Come help us with the bags,” Aloe called, his voice carrying through the house.

  “Coming!” she called back, to make sure he didn’t come upstairs. She quickly flushed the reddened paper towels, hoping they wouldn’t clog the toilet, then hurried down to the kitchen, pasting a smile over the anxiety she was feeling. Her parents didn’t notice, and Jam stayed tense for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, until halfway through dinner, when Aloe asked Bitter if she was going to work that night.

  “I don’t think so,” Bitter replied. “Think I taking a little break, maybe another day or two.”

  Jam exhaled in relief, the tight knot of worry in her chest loosening a little but not entirely. When dinner was over and bedtime crawled in, Jam lay in her sheets waiting for her parents to fall asleep, properly asleep, before she could risk going back into the studio without waking them up. In the waiting, she fell asleep herself, startling awake only when she heard the floorboards singing a song she hadn’t heard before. It was extraordinarily soft, barely a sound, even, but Jam knew it was there. She knew every sound the house made, and this was a new one, and it wasn’t the house making it; this was just the house telling her. If it sounded like anything, it sounded like when you were boiling water and tiny bubbles started forming along the sides and bottom. The actual boiling hadn’t begun yet, but it was the sound of a starting, and it was coming from the studio.

  Jam opened her eyes and sat up, pulling off her bonnet. The sound continued. It didn’t seem to be in a hurry, but it was steady. More importantly, there was no reason for the studio to be talking to the house unless Bitter was in it, so that alarmed Jam. She got out of bed and left her room, her palm throbbing. It took a moment before she noticed that the pulse in her palm was matching the song from the floor. That…couldn’t be good. That meant something was happening with the painting, and that particular painting, out of everything Bitter had ever made, was the one piece that Jam definitely did not want anything like this to be happening with. Still, she crept toward the studio, because whatever was going on was probably her fault, after the whole sneaking-in-and-falling-down business, so hiding and waiting for someone else to deal with it in the morning wasn’t an option. You took care of your own messes, her mom always said, plus she still had to clean up the blood.

  The studio door opened without a sound, like it was conniving with her. Made sense, Jam thought. This felt personal, and in some ways the studio was an accomplice, or at the very least, a witness. She closed the door behind her even though she didn’t think that her parents could hear the song—they didn’t seem to listen to the house the way that she did.

  The painting was a pool of moonlight in the center of the room. Jam’s T-shirt stuck to her back, a cold sweat licking down her spine. She walked toward it, and the sound intensified. When she looked down at the painting, the smoke in the background was moving, churning and swirling. As she watched, it started lifting off the canvas, entering the air right above. Some part of her considered being scared, but the smoke was kind of beautiful, and besides, her mother had made it, so how could it hurt her? Even the feathers were moving now, in a fine tremble, moonlight pattering over the gold. Jam looked for her blood, expecting it to be old and dried by then, but her eyes found it easily because it was bright and pulsing and all the drops of it had migrated from the rest of the canvas, even from the floor, and it was all gathered on the figure’s chest. The chalkfur Bitter had painted was rustling now, and Jam held back a cry as she saw the small blob of blood vanish into the painting with a quick sucking sound. She stumbled backward, her eyes wide, as the figure started coming out of the canvas.

  Some small, rational part of her brain that wasn’t screaming internally decided that none of this could actually be happening. Bitter was a wonderful painter, sure, but she wasn’t that good, not turn-your-painting-into-some-kind-of-magic good. Unfortunately for rational Jam, the figure continued to blatantly prove her wrong, levering one arm out and reaching down to the floor for stability, the gold claws carving small strips from the hardwood. It pulled itself out chest first, then hefted its thighs out, hooves clattering on the floor. Smoke came with it, seemed to pour from it, in fact. The terror in Jam’s chest paused at the sheer…awkwardness of the thing. It wasn’t rising with grace so much as jerkily trying to extricate itself from the work, and its head was still buried in the canvas. It reminded Jam of once when Aloe was trying to fix a pipe in the basement but got his head stuck, and all he could do was wriggle and curse while Jam was laid out on the floor, laughing hysterically, until Bitter came down to see what the noise was about.

  It was hard to be frightened of something that was straining to pop out its head like a cartoon. Jam wondered briefly if it needed some help; it really did seem to be just as clumsy as Aloe. Its hooves scrambled and slipped against the floor, and it fell down, its neck still pouring into the painting, and that was when Jam decided it couldn’t be that dangerous. She didn’t know if it could hear thoughts, and it definitely couldn’t see signs, so she decided to voice, even though it might not hear that either, what with its head still stuck in there.

  “Hold still,” she said, coming up to it tentatively. Those claws were way bigger with the added dimension.

  It stopped struggling when she spoke, and Jam reached down toward its shoulders, which were covered in the same sharp lines of metal feathers as its face. The feathers extended all the way down its back, and she stared at the patterns in awe. This was something from th
e other side of the painting, the parts Bitter’s brushes hadn’t touched. It was weird to see that they were real anyway. Jam wondered if it was the thing who got to decide what was on the other side, or if what was there had always just been there, or if Bitter’s imagination had built it.

  One of the thing’s hands—her mother’s hands—jerked, and the scrape of its claws dragged Jam’s attention back. She grabbed its shoulders and pulled, but nothing happened.

  A thought fed into her mind, and she recoiled because for the first time ever, at least so directly, it wasn’t hers.

  Do you think, it said with leaking contempt, that you possess more strength than I do, that you can just…pull me out?

  Whoa, she thought back, letting go of its shoulders. Okay, that’s weird.

  There is no time for your astonishment, human, it snapped.

  Jam folded her arms, feeling more defensive than scared. The silly thing couldn’t even get out by itself. I’m just trying to help, she snapped back. Why you being so rude?

  Merely pointing out facts, little girl, it countered. Now, pay attention. One of my horns is caught on something, so you need to get it loose.

  Oh, so now you need my help, she started, then blinked down at the boiling smoke of the painting, distracted from her annoyance. Wait, what? You seriously want me to put my hand in there? Where does it even go?

  The thing sighed and its voice dripped with even more condescension than it had before, which was kind of impressive. I wish, I truly wish, that I had the time to explain the intricacies of cross-dimensional portals to you, little girl, but I don’t. Hurry up!

  And just like that, she was back to being annoyed. Jam glared at the creature before realizing it couldn’t actually see her, then resolved to pull the damn thing out just so she could glare at it properly. She took a deep breath and slid her hand into the painting, along the creature’s neck, following the smooth metal of the feathers under her fingers.

  It’s the left horn, it told her, and Jam directed her hand that way. Inside, the painting felt like nothing. Just the cold and the smoke and the thing under her hand. The horn felt like regular horn when she got to it, until she traced along its length and felt a loop pressing down halfway. By now she’d reached into the painting almost up to her armpit.

  I don’t want to fall in, she warned.

  You won’t. The rest of the canvas is closed.

  Jam felt around the loop that the horn was caught in. It was firm and cold, pulling the horn down, but if she wiggled her fingers underneath whatever it was made of—she was trying not to think too hard about that—she could push it forward a little, and that seemed to give a bit of room. The creature tried to pull up, and that crushed her fingers between the loop and the horn.

  Ow, stop, stop! It did so immediately, but Jam still wanted to kick it, the careless thing. Push down, she told it, don’t pull up! Down and then sideways. That should get you out.

  It took a bit more wiggling to accommodate the spirals of the horn, but Jam felt it slip out and then felt the loop slither away, leaving a distinct residue of disappointment on her fingers. It was creepy to feel a feeling as if it was a substance, and Jam immediately yanked her arm out of the painting. She massaged it, trying to push out some of the numbness that had crawled in, trying to process that she’d just shoved a part of her body into—what?—another world. That was some weird shit. Jam looked at the creature, now free and sitting on the floor beside the empty canvas, surrounded by smoke and rubbing its horn. That was some other weird shit. Some seriously other other weird shit.

  It glanced up at her with its nothing of a goldfeathered face and puffed some smoke out of its mouth.

  Thank you, it said in her head, and Jam decided to ignore the grudging tone.

  You’re welcome, she replied, hoping it couldn’t sense her returning fear. Um, what exactly are you?

  Its chest fur rippled, and it tilted its head. Why don’t you ask your mother? it deflected. She’s the one who made me.

  Jam frowned, not liking its reference to Bitter. Was there maybe a threat somewhere in there? Did it resent Bitter for painting it? She didn’t know much about this strange, giant thing, but she didn’t like how it was avoiding her question. It knew exactly what it was; it just didn’t want to tell her.

  Okay, then, she thought, then tell me why you’re here? And don’t lie to me.

  The thing pulled in its legs and rose to a crouch. It was almost seven feet tall, so even bent in half, it still looked terrifying.

  I’m hunting.

  The returning fear turned into a stampede in Jam’s chest. She tried not to let it show. Um. O-kay. What…what do you hunt, exactly?

  The blank face swung toward her. Not your family, it said. Don’t worry. That would be…rude.

  Oh. Well. That—that’s good to know, I guess.

  Jam almost laughed through her skittering nerves at the thought of this creature being concerned with what Aloe would call home training and what Bitter would call broughtupsy. If the creature showed up in their house, and out of her mother’s painting, technically that would make them its hosts. Maybe manners did matter, in that case. Jam looked at the thing, and a whole giggle squeaked out. She knew the sound in her mouth was edged with panic and not a small promise of a full-on freak-out, but come on! Her mother had made that. Her mother, who refused to believe in keeping animals indoors and never let her get so much as a goldfish, had gone and painted a thing with goat legs and ram horns, a thing that could have fallen out of some apocalyptic last pages of an old holy book, a furry, goldfeathered thing that was squatting in the studio like no man’s business. The same Bitter who wouldn’t let Jam get a pet had gone and called up a monster.

  The thing’s head jerked at that, and its fur crackled stiff.

  Not a monster, it snapped.

  Jam blinked. Um, she thought back. What?

  Clearly it could read her thoughts; she was going to have to be careful. The creature put on her mother’s voice.

  You don’t learn nothing from all them lessons about pictures and what you does see with your eyes?

  Jam’s mouth fell open at the mimicry, and she covered it with a hand. Oh shit.

  The creature kept staring at her with no eyes, and Jam pulled herself together. I’m sorry, she replied. That wasn’t nice.

  She paused. But to be fair, you don’t want to tell me what you are, so I’m having to try and guess.

  It shrugged and stayed as it was, scary in its stillness.

  Jam swallowed hard. The comfort of its awkwardness was gone, and it seemed casually lethal now, like it was lying in wait, like the crouch was a precursor to springing up and that strange, blurry mouth opening and someone’s throat being torn out. She was worried about her parents, just a few doors down, despite its reassurances; worried about why it was here and what it was going to do.

  She tried to be brave. Well, she said, her hands only a little shaky, at least tell me what I should call you.

  The thing looked at her for a long time, drooling smoke. Something about her fear seemed to register with it. As Jam watched, its fur softened and it shifted its stance just a little, draining the menace away.

  Well, little girl, it replied, I suppose you can call me Pet.

  CHAPTER 3

  Jam stared in silence as Pet stood up from its crouch, its full length looming through the air. She was a little less afraid now. Pet reached into its chest and picked out the razor blades that Bitter had embedded in the canvas, dropping them to the floor in tiny clatters. Jam felt her palm twinge in memory, and she curled her fingers around the bandage sticking to her skin.

  Why didn’t the razors stay inside you?

  Pet shrugged. They were not made of paint, it replied. They were not part of the door.

  Jam nodded, even though she wasn’t quite sure she understood. Pe
t started walking around and looking through the rest of Bitter’s work—piles of drawings stacked on every flat surface, canvases layered and leaning against the walls, shelves full of small sculptures. The moon was still lighting up the studio in a brilliant shine, and it made Pet’s feathers and fur glisten. Jam’s heart was pounding steadily, driving anxious blood to all parts of her. Maybe, she thought, I’m actually in a dream, like one of those that always feel horribly real but as soon as I wake up, I’ll feel silly for even thinking it was real because the real real seems so obvious. Maybe I just need to wake up and that will solve everything.

  “You’re not dreaming,” Pet said, voicing for the first time. The sound was a handful of nails dragging across a mirror. Jam clapped her hands to her ears, wincing, and Pet cleared its throat.

  “Sorry,” it said, a bag of broken glass clattering against a wood floor this time. “Still calibrating to this body, this world.”

  “Still sounds horrible,” Jam said aloud. Pet angled its head, and she could almost see it thinking, matching, measuring.

  “What about now?” it asked, and the sound was a hand dragged across the taut skin of a drum, low and resonant and clear.

  Jam nodded. “That’s better. Actually kind of nice.”

  Pet scoffed deep in its throat and flipped through a pile of charcoal sketches. “Nice. Not one of my concerns in this life, to be nice, to sound nice, what is nice.”