The Underwater Ballroom Society

The River Always Wins

SeaBe’s had been the biggest splash in the club scene, once. You went to hear music you couldn’t get anywhere else, throbbing drums and wailing strings, musicians and dancers black-eyed and white-faced, mocking themselves up like the fish that floated belly-up past the domed ceiling, the angry sounds of a dying river, a fucked-up city.

You thrashed your rage on the floor, cold cement and crushed dreams, and left your scrawl on walls thick with algae and crud, because light never reached there, down ten steps from the last lowest level on the A line, under the city, under the river. Under everything.

It had been ours, and then we grew up and moved on, and it became someone else’s, because there was always enough for someone to be angry about, enough to mock, enough to mourn. For sixty years, it had been there, tucked under the tidal flow of the river, a cement and steel testament to sheer stubbornness.

Tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that, it wouldn’t be. They were closing it down, tearing it out. The river had finally won.

Word had gone out, the way word always went out about a gig at SeaBe’s: mouth to ear. No advertising, no marketing. You had to know, or know someone who knew. And for this, n00bs weren’t invited. If you hadn’t been here, you couldn’t come back.

I had no idea why I was there. I hadn’t planned on coming back. That part of my life was done, over, moved on.

Tili had bent my ear for a week about “one last hurrah” before I gave in.

Digging through my closet for something to wear had been a hike down WTF Lane. “No wonder I was angry all the time, wearing that,” I said, poking at a battered leather jacket even the most desperate thrift store wouldn’t take now. But the boots at least still fit, still felt comfortable.

Punk was for kids, or the relentlessly, unapologetically immature, like Tili. But for one last night, I could pretend.

There were kelpies crowding the entrance when we got there, stomping like they owned it, manes and tails teased out and dyed a dull green glow like they’d been bathing in phosphorescence before coming down.

“I hate this shit.” My gills itched, and I rubbed at them. “Fucking kelpies and their fucking death fetishes. Why the hell did we even come?”

“Pay respects,” Tili said, rocking the kilt and leather like she’d never gotten out of it. “Gotta pay respects to the old lady before she goes down.”

There wasn’t a cover; no point, when everything went to hell in the morning. There were bills stuffed in a coffee jar at the door, anyway. It would go somewhere, to someone. Maybe just to buy the owners one last toot before closing, or coffee for the wake-up realization.

“Fuck respect.” The words felt good, the heavy fricatives in my mouth. “Listen to the shit they’re playing. Buncha shit.”

“We said the same about your shit.” An agni-kumara, ghosting past, heads both turned to stare at us, mouth apple-black, eyes gold-lidded like a funeral mask. “And the ones before us said the same about our shit. Only common thread was everyone upstairs thought we were all shit.”

Tili sneered. “Fuck you.” The language of the club, carrying the feel of ritual, call and response. Someone dissed you, you fought back. But the words lacked the bitterness we used to carry, and the other fatae just smiled and moved on.

Punk grannies, we’d called the older ones back then, half-sneering, half in awe that anyone could survive that long. We were punk grannies now too, Tili and me, and maybe that was what had my gills in a knot. Because if we’d never come back, we’d still be young, still have everything ahead of us and all the ire to burn.

I couldn’t remember the last time I got that angry—got that anything—about something. It was like it had all gotten burned out of me, left smashed into the dance floor, echoing against the amps.

“Come on,” Tili said. “Let’s do this up right.”

I sighed, forcing my hand away from my neck. The scene was making me jittery, too liable to let the venom tucked under my nails leak, and while it couldn’t kill me, you did not want that shit anywhere near sinus tissue. Which reminded me—“Promise me we won’t wake up in the gutter, covered with piskie-glitter and seaweed this time.”

“No promises,” Tili half-sang, grabbing my arm. “And anyway, that time was your fault. And you’re a respectable adult now, right?”

“Right.” I was. Maybe that was what was wrong, why all this felt wrong.

There was a clump of imps and piskies by the bar, sporting the pink-and-red colors of Spoiled Butter. I’d had a halfway-serious flirtation with imp punk, backwhen, and wondered if there was anyone there I might recognize, and if there were, if I wanted to see them.

I really didn’t.

The music shifted, got louder and faster, and someone over near the bathrooms threw a punch, a wave of cheerful violence slipping outward, curses hurled with fists and chairs before the ripples faded back into determined, frenzied dance.

“Some shit never changes.” But Tili was grinning now, upper canines glinting in anticipation. It had weirded me out at first, hanging with an Erinyes, but she’d been a pretty good clubbing companion, and we’d stayed friends even after all these years.

“Down, girl,” I said, watching her eye the dance floor. “I need a drink first, at least.” At the end of the bar away from the imps, I decided. The only thing I could imagine worse than Tili taking offense at something one of them said would be her deciding to adopt them, and I’d never had a clue which she might do until it was too late.

“Two shots of Jack,” I said when we finally made our way up to the scarred wood, then did a double take. “Marco?”

The bartender did his own double take, then reached across the bar to pull me into a one-armed hug, while his other arms continued pouring drinks. “Girl, I wondered if you’d show. Long time never see. Where the hell have you been?”

“Life. You know.” I didn’t want to tell him I hadn’t thought of this place in years. You don’t get too old to be punk, fuck that, but you do get too busy. I’d gotten too busy, that was all. Being a respectable adult. “Do you remember Tili?”

Tili lifted a hand to wave, and Marco slid her the first shot in return, then handed me mine, taking one for himself as well.

“To all the ass we’ve kicked before,” I said, and then downed the shot, wincing a little as it went down. “That shit still sucks.”

“You’re getting old,” Tili said, sucking hers back like it was Budswill.

“Fuck you.” Fatae lifespans tracked all over the place, and the fact that mine was shorter than hers had been a sore spot for twenty years now.

“Infants, infants,” Marco said, already pouring other orders. “Go, dance. Fuck some shit up. The undertakers will be coming soon enough.”

I’d gotten separated from Tili during a particularly energetic set by the second band; she was across the club, an arm around someone tall and hairy, dancing a little in place as they talked. I could have pushed my way through to join them, but the vibe where I was didn’t suck, and I didn’t feel like making small talk at the top of my lungs with strangers. But then Tili turned and caught my eye, tilting her head to say “get your ass over here.”

I shook my head, miming a need to go splash water on my face. She rolled her eyes, but went back to her conversation.

Having committed to the bathroom lie, I started pushing my way to the back, skirting the dancers and their flailing limbs, keeping my drink raised at shoulder-level to keep it from getting jostled. My heart was beating too fast, my gills still fluttering, and I couldn’t just blame it on dancing. Maybe a few minutes alone was a good idea.

The bathroom was the first place I noticed any significant changes; they’d replaced the doors on the four stalls with ones that actually locked, and the lights didn’t make you look quite so month-dead any more. Other than that, it was still the same squalid shithole it had been a decade ago, and I suddenly regretted bringing my drink in here, because there wasn’t anywhere clean enough to put it down.

A human by the counter slapped her palm down on the counter next to her, getting my attention, and indicated a short row of drinks lined up under the ledge, clearly waiting for their owners. I nodded and slid mine in at the end. That was a rule of trust you didn’t abuse in the women’s bathroom. I might not end up with the beer I’d walked in with, but I’d be reasonably certain there was still nothing in it but alcohol.

I didn’t actually need to use the shitter, and for a moment I couldn’t remember why I was there, then my gills fluttered again, bringing back that queasy feeling, like I’d already had too much to drink. There were no mirrors over the sinks, just cracked concrete, decades of condensation leaving green and brown stains under the graffiti. Someone had used a florescent pink marker to scrawl, ‘you’re gorgeous when you bring down the patriarchy’ in a heart shape over a stain that looked like an upraised middle finger. I raised my own finger in salute, then turned the taps, listening to the squeak and chunk of ancient pipes working.

The human at the sink pulled out a hand mirror and started reapplying eyeliner. Someone in one of the stalls flushed, then cursed softly.

Splashing cool water over my gills made my entire system chill down, and even the drops slipping under my torn collar didn’t bother me. I was sticky and gross and we had to be at work tomorrow morning, and I didn’t want to go home.

“You okay?” The human had lowered her eyeliner and was staring at me. “You look kinda…” and she made a vague gesture with her free hand.

There was a thudding noise, ripping away anything I was going to say, and a pair of faun crashed through the door, then suddenly stopped, realizing they’d hit the wrong head.

“Whoops, sorry,” one of them said, while the other staggered forward into an empty stall, slamming the door shut behind him half a second before we heard the sound of him peeing.

“Jesus effing Christ,” the human said. “Dudes, what?”

“Whoops,” the second one said again, but didn’t back out. “Anyone got any gum?”

“Sweet baby Bosch,” I muttered. “I liked it better when they just pissed against the wall outside.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” the faun said with a shudder, oblivious to our disapproval. “You ever piss outside in the winter?”

All right, he had a point. But he was also a faun, which meant in about three seconds he was going to try to hit on me, or the human, or both of us, and I wasn’t in the mood, and she looked like she wanted him to make a move just so she could knee him.

My gills fluttered again, and I felt cold sweat prickle on my skin.

I washed my hands one last time, just because I could, then wiped them dry on my jeans, snagged my beer, and tried to sidle past the faun who was still blocking half the doorway. He shifted, off-balance enough that it was clear he’d been drinking more than beer, and his hooves slipped on the tile, sending him sideways. His empty hand flailed, and caught at my shirt, fingers closing on the fabric and tugging, hard.

Hey hey hey

Nobody was talking.

Hey where ya going?

A memory. A memory of something I couldn’t remember. Wouldn’t remember. No.

Summer-sweat and fingers gripping the front of my t-shirt, tugging me forward. Hey, sweetcheeks, c’mon, what’s wrong?

And I could feel someone touching my gills, cold fingertips pressing in, and I couldn’t breathe couldn’t breathe.

“Hey,” someone outside the world shouted. “Hey, what’s wrong with her!”

The floor up close was prettier than it had any right to be, the rough concrete glittering with bits of mother-of-pearl or something mixed in, and the irony of that, of clodhopper feet and thick-soled boots stomping over something so delicate, made a sob catch itself in my chest, and it hurt like a motherfucker, like the burn of venom in my mouth, and I realized I’d dug my nails into my bare arms hard enough to scratch.

I stared at the crooked red marks in my skin. Fuck. But just nails, not…

Oh my god oh my god someone please

I was screaming. But not now. Some otherme, otherwhen. When? I needed to remember, and couldn’t.

Someone dropped a heavy hand on my shoulder, hauled me up like they’d assumed I’d just gotten knocked over, and shoved me back into the crowd with a cheery grin, like I was new meat still learning how to mosh.

I didn’t want to oh my god someone please

My gills fluttered, too obvious, too frantic, as though I were gasping for water, and I could feel the needle-sharps under my nails press forward. Panic, adrenaline, flight or fight. I had to get out of there, had to get out of the crowd, had to-

Had to get out of here before I hurt someone.

My breath hitched and I heard myself starting to keen. Too late, too late….

The body closest to me turned, weaving, their eyes already hazy, searching for me before they dropped to their knees, arms coming up not to cover their ears but to reach for me, grabbing, trying to-

I tried to shove my hands into my mouth, gagging the noise, but it wasn’t coming from my throat, my entire chest vibrating in distress, the only defense my people had, and people were going to die if I didn’t get out -

“Hey, hey kid, come on, I got ya come on.” Strange, hard hands on my back, and I flinched, then the sense of someone shoving us through the crowd, and the flutter of anxious wings near my cheek, smelling of leather and beer, asking “Is she ok she doesn’t look ok.”

Imp, I thought, able to focus on that, the voice was an imp, but there was only a moment of rational thought, only a shred, and then the familiar smell of my own venom made me want to puke, but I choked instead, the bile rising with nowhere to go, and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t—.

Please don’t please

“Breathe, girl,” the hard hands ordered, but I couldn’t, my gills were covered, I couldn’t—

“Hey. Hey.” Tili, her smell familiar, grounding—but I recoiled when she tried to touch me, too, throwing myself backward like I was trying to escape, the keen still vibrating in my chest.

“Hey.” The hard-handed voice, trying to protect me, and then Tili speaking over him.

“It’s okay, I’m a friend I know what’s happening hey come on, you idiot, look at me, look at me, can you look at me, okay?”

It took everything I had to lift my head, meeting her stare. Erinyes. Immune to a siren’s song. The reason we’d become friends.

Look at me, come on, no just look at me, damn it, don’t look down look at me

The memory came out like a gasp, like a body blow directly into my chest. “I killed him.”

There was supposed to be a shocked silence, the entire club was supposed to come to a halt and everyone stare at me.

“He grabbed me, and I killed him.”

Tili had been there. Tili knew.

Loud music, and I was in a shit mood, the world pissing me off, my parents pissing me off, me pissing me off, it didn’t matter, I was pissed and too young to be able to do anything about it and throwing myself into the waves of music as hard as I could seemed the only way to deal with it.

“What’s she talking about? Is she tripping?” Imp-wings too close to my ear, voice too high, cutting through the music like ripping cellophane.

He put hands on me and it wasn’t anything anyone hadn’t done before, just jostling and shoving the way you did, when arms and bodies got shoved together in the pit and any other day I would have just moved back, snarl-laughing, but something about him smelled like what had been pissing me off and then he threw his arm around my neck, and I—

Something stabbed me, right in the middle of my palm, and I screamed in outrage, my entire world narrowing to the ice-cold burning down to the bone, Tili’s face coming into too-clear focus, eyes wide and teeth bared, her talon jabbed into the flesh of my palm. “Are you with me now?”

The imp and its companion were happy to leave us alone, after that.

There was a cement block at the top of the stairs, some leftover slab from a half-finished subway station cannibalized god knew how many decades ago, pitted where someone had dug the mosaic tiles out, the holes now filled with generations of cigarette ashes and paper butts. It smelled like tar and piss and desperation, the layers of pastrami and pickles from the deli across the street not quite enough to cover it. The first straggle of commuters walked past us, averting their eyes. Too old to be club kids, too well-dressed to be homeless, they knew something was off about us, but not how much.

Everything ached.

I used to amuse myself by imagining the domed ceiling over the dance floor giving way, of water cascading down through the club, giving it a scrubbing, washing everyone out the emergency exit. Morbid, maybe, but funny as fuck. Maybe it would have felt like this.

“I’d forgotten.”

Tili exhaled, her talons flicking back and forth, snick-snick, snick-snick, making the hastily-bandaged jab in my hand burn with the memory of what that had felt like. “You made yourself forget.”

Tili had been there. Tili had remembered. And never told me. Never said anything to me. Nobody had.

“He just… and nobody asked questions?”

“They thought he was drunk.”

My friend. A better friend than I’d ever known.

“I got you out of there before he hit the floor.”

She pulled a kerchief from her bag, poured half a bottle of water over it, draped it over my neck so the water dripped past my gills. I’d taught her that, for hangovers. And panic attacks. “Who was he?”

“Nobody. Some idiot who didn’t know any better. It’s not like you ever hid what you were.”

Brutal, practical, and lacking any sympathy. Erinyes. She had never hid what she was, either. But people fear Erinyes. They desire sirens—until they realize what we are.

“And we never came back.” I never came back.

I’d told myself I was too busy, I wasn’t in the mood, I didn’t like the music they were playing that night. Told myself I didn’t need to fuck things up any more. Until enough time had gone by that all of that was true. And Tili let me. I didn’t know if I should hug her or punch her.

“I thought you just didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t realize you didn’t remember until weeks later. And then I thought… ok, maybe that’s ok. Maybe that’s for the best.”

Better to forget. What had they told his family? Had he had any? Friends who’d gone clubbing with him, who’d been supposed to watch his back?

I didn’t want to know. I probably wouldn’t ever know. “So why did you drag me here tonight?”

“Because I was wrong.” Tili flexed her fingers, and the glitter on her nails caught the light like mother-of-pearl. “It never went away. You forgot, but it never went away. I could see it, under your skin.”

I had no idea if she was being metaphorical or not.

“It was like… something went out of you, after that.”

I shrugged, pressing against the bandage to see if it hurt. It did. “I stopped being so angry.”

“You stopped being alive,” she corrected me. “You acted like… like nothing mattered, when everything had mattered to you, before. I mean, yeah, we all gotta grow up some time, but growing up’s about picking your battles, not giving up on all of them.”

I hadn’t given up. I just didn’t see the point any more.

“I thought… I thought it was too late, then. To do anything. But when the club announced it was closing, I thought, ‘Get her back here, see what happens. If nothing, hey, we had one last hurrah.’ No harm no foul, right?”

I wanted to be angry with her, knew I should be angry with her, but mostly I was just so tired.

“Did you plan on me having a full-on meltdown in the middle of the club?”

“Please.” She stretched, her muscles uncoiling now that there was nothing left to fight, and I took a sideways glance to appreciate it. “Like you would be the first to have that happen. You might not even be the last, there’s still a couple of hours to go.”

Shit happened at SeaBe’s, under the watery lights and the crashing sound. People hit the floor, and sometimes, they didn’t get up again.

I shuddered, but at the thought of what had happened tonight, or what had happened… back then, or maybe it was just the reminder that SeaBe’s would be gone soon, driven under into rubble, the tidal flow washing over the remains like it’d never been there…

Maybe they’d put a memorial plaque in the mud, a plinth breaking the tidal flow of the river, but silt and algae would cover it, and eventually not even the kelpies would go to visit. And what I’d done would have been buried with it.

“I don’t want to be angry.” I kind of liked my life, not raging at everything that went wrong, every wrong ever done. Not remembering what I’d done.

“Yeah, well, you should be. Life is shit, and people are shit, and the good stuff gets run over and plowed under, and then we’re stuck with overpriced clubs hiring shit bands where there’s no room to dance. And a fucking dress code. And people who think it’s okay to put their hands on you just because you’re a sexy beast.”

I laughed, despite everything. “God, you’re a whiner.”

“Fuck you.”

I pulled the cloth off my neck, and tilted slightly, until my head rested against her bony shoulder, the leather sweat-damp and smelling of beer. “I hate you so much right now.”

Her body shifted, her head resting against mine. We probably looked like two drunk street kids, a couple decades past our expiration date. “I’m okay with that.”

The neon sign of the deli across the street flickered randomly, reflecting in the glass. Last hurrah was almost over. They’d pull her down, let the river flow through her bones, wash it all away.

“River always wins,” I said, my voice sleepy-stoned sounding.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I patted her arm. I’d deal with everything… later. For now, for tonight, I was just going to remember.

About Laura Anne Gilman

Laura Anne Gilman is the Nebula- and Endeavor-award nominated author of “The Devil’s West”, the Locus-bestselling weird western series (SILVER ON THE ROAD, THE COLD EYE, and the forthcoming RED WATERS RISING), as well as the short story collection DARKLY HUMAN, the long-running Cosa Nostradamus urban fantasy multi-series, and the “Vineart War” epic fantasy trilogy. Her short fiction has recently appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Lightspeed, Nightmare Magazine, and the anthologies STRANGE CALIFORNIA and LAWLESS LANDS. As L.A. Kornetsky, she wrote the “Gin & Tonic” mystery series.

A former New Yorker, she currently lives outside of Seattle with two cats and many deadlines.