Made of Glass Ch. 01

Chapter One: The Wicked Stepmother

'She hovered there, in the rust of days, the dust of nights
A creature once shimmering, now left in the dark
On display for all to see, but unseen
Who will light her way if she shakes off the rust?' – K.A.

*****

It wasn't her funeral, but Ellery Cain still felt as though her life had ended.

She stared down at the coffin, listened to the whimpers and sniffles around her. Her own tears dried out sometime last week. Not that she needed them; the clouds above were heavy with water, letting it all pour down in fat droplets. It would rain the day of your funeral, Dad, she thought, sighing. Melo-fucking-dramatic. Just like everything else in your goddamned life. The clouds were even a black-edged purple, like a beaten wife's telltale bruises.

No beaten wife here. Ellery glanced sidelong at her stepmother, Nancy, and had to stifle another sigh. She had an arm wrapped around each of her daughters, holding them to her bosom as they cried. Did they really mean it, or were they just squeezing out a bit of extra saline? Ellery had no idea.

Then it came time to throw dirt on the coffin, so she turned and walked away, not caring that she left behind the shelter of all those umbrellas. Macabre fucking tradition, she thought, shivering in the cold rain. Normally she didn't swear so much—not even in her own head—but this sort of thing gave her the heebie-jeebies. Like, here, come dump dirt on your old dad's corpse. It brought up memories of burying him in the sand at the beach, only the funeral shed a morbid new light on them.

"It's rude to just walk away."

Ellery turned. The rain obscured her vision, but not enough that she couldn't see Nancy's bright red lipstick. "A lot of things are rude."

"Ellery, Ellery, Ellery," Nancy sighed. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Let me continue going to art school?"

Nancy frowned. "No. I don't think so."

Immediately Nancy smoothed her expression into something more neutral. Couldn't frown too much; what a shame, with that fresh facelift barely a week behind her. No one would guess her more than thirty-five, give or take a year or two, with her perfect blond hair and wrinkle-free face.

"I mean," Nancy went on, "you couldn't even be bothered to dress nicely."

Ellery looked down, flushing. Dress nicely in what? The only time she had spare money for clothes had been when her father wasn't away on business. And usually, she forgot clothes; instead she bought new canvas, paints, brushes, charcoals, occasionally a new pair of jeans whenever hers started getting too worn. So dark denim and a black button down were the best she could do. Besides, that wool suit of Nancy's looked uncomfortable.

"I hardly think he's going to mind much," Ellery retorted. "Being six feet under and all."

"Ellery!"

"And you know, dad always said he wanted to go out with a bang, but I had no idea he meant literally."

"That is quite enough, young lady."

Ellery snorted. "Yeah, I guess it is. But don't call me 'young lady'. You're not my mother."

"And I thank the Good Lord every day for that," Nancy responded with a sneer. "I have two lovely daughters; I don't need a good-for-nothing parasite. You can barely keep a roof over your head."

"Yeah, well, being an artist doesn't pay as well as being a rich man's widow."

Nancy drew back, her mouth forming a deep red O of shock. Ellery spun on her heel and stormed away, not giving her stepmother a chance to get another word in. After all the emotional blows she'd had this past week, she simply couldn't take anymore. Everything inside her shook and clattered, fragile around the edges like glass full of cracks.

First the call about her father at three o'clock in the morning. She'd listened in numb silence as some man she didn't know explained about the accident. Too many drinks, a dark road on a rainy night, a car crash so bad they couldn't have an open coffin ceremony. Ellery didn't want to think about indentifying the body. Her stomach still lurched dangerously whenever the thought crossed her mind.

Then, a day later, while she was still in the throes of initial grief, the Thornton Gallery had called—and canceled. She was too far behind, between school and a lack of inspiration, and they were afraid she wouldn't get done on time. Truth to tell, Ellery thought, yanking the tarp off her motorcycle, so was I. But damn, I need that money.

More so now than ever before. Because a few days after that, her father's lawyer had broken the stunning news: Ellery wasn't in her father's will. Maybe that was when the tears stopped coming, she didn't know. After everything...after all the years, both after her mother disappeared and after Nancy came into their lives, all those years they'd been as close as two peas in a pod, and he'd left her nothing. She couldn't understand it. Didn't he want her to continue art school? He said he did.

She folded the tarp and stuffed it into the compartment at the back of her bike. As she pulled on her helmet, she reflected on her last bit of misfortune with a wry smile. She'd begged; she'd pleaded; she'd promised. But nothing she said made any difference. Nancy had decided not to fund Ellery's tuition anymore, and that was that.

"Bitch," Ellery muttered. "How did you do it, Dad? How were you so good at attracting lousy, selfish women?"

She figured she was probably destined to be lousy and selfish too. Assuming I live to see twenty-two, she thought, climbing onto her bike. Which at this rate, I won't. How would she pay her bills? Buy food?

Looked like it was time to fall back on a few old standbys. She hadn't used her DeviantArt account in years, but maybe she could sell some prints through there. And Marie kept bugging her to do covers; she could do a few of those too. Ellery wrinkled her nose as she revved up the motorcycle. It felt like pimping herself out, but it was better than pimping herself out for real. There was only one man she'd want to pimp herself out to, and he wasn't the least bit interested.

*****

"How long have we known each other now?"

Kort Ambrose rolled the creeper out from beneath the BMW he was working on. He would recognize Ellery's voice anywhere; soft, husky, with a bit of southern accent she tried so hard to hide but that came out whenever she felt unsettled. Anyone else he probably would've told to piss off.

She stood over him, hands on her narrow hips. Amazing she could ever look intimidating at all, being slender from head to toe—boyishly so—and maybe five foot six on a really good day. Today she looked downright ragged: Paler even than usual, her freckles standing out in stark relief all over her cheeks, her red hair hanging in lank, soaking strands around her face and down to her waist.

"Since sophomore year, so um, six years...ish?" Kort rolled back under the car. He couldn't stand to look at her like this, knowing he couldn't say or do anything to help. "Wanna hand me that wrench near your foot?"

He heard a sigh. A moment later something settled against his palm. Definitely not a wrench, he thought, rolling the creeper back out. He glanced down, smiled as he saw the Saran wrapped sandwich in his hand. How very Ellery.

"That long, huh?" She flopped down on the ground next to him, heedless of dirt and oil. "And yet, after all these years, you still haven't learned to remember to bring lunch?"

She smiled, but it looked all wrong on her weary face. Even her eyes, normally such a vibrant green—a light green, like peridot—looked dulled, faded. And those bruises beneath her eyes... For a moment his hands itched right down to the fingertips. He wanted to reach over, catch her face in his hands, rub those dark smears of exhaustion until they disappeared. But Kort knew better. He made a move like that and everything went to hell in a handbasket.

"You make a killer sandwich, though," he insisted. "Want a beer?"

Ellery wrinkled her nose. "You mean that vile American horse piss you like to drink?" She leaned back against the BMW. "Yeah, sure. Gimme one."

"The funeral was that bad, huh?"

Kort rose and padded over to the tiny fridge at the back of the garage. The place was his, shabby little thing that it was. In a small town like this one he got plenty of business, so he didn't have to worry about whether he could keep it up and running. And he paid no rent, what with the apartment above the garage being a perfectly suitable place to live. Besides, he could live in a cardboard box if it meant having the money for school.

Ellery had never been up to the apartment. Occasionally he toyed with the idea of bringing her up there, especially when he drank too much. Somehow he always controlled himself. He couldn't bring her up there, because if he did, he wouldn't be able to stop himself. It didn't matter to him that she didn't have a killer body; that she was, in fact, built more like a peasant boy with a set of small boobs. It never bothered him, her narrow face and stubborn chin and her mouth, which was all too full and luscious to make sense with the rest of her. He wanted her.

But Kort knew better than to move. Flighty, skittish creature that she was. Like now, when his fingers brushed hers as he passed her the beer can. She jumped like his touch stung.

"It was a funeral," she said, cracking open the beer. "It was hardly going to be a party."

"What about Nancy? Did you talk to her?"

"I...tried. I just couldn't hold my tongue. She's such a bitch."

Kort sat back down on the creeper and scooted it a little closer to her...like a friend offering comfort. It was all he could be. Lust wasn't love, he knew that; he could offer her the former, but not the latter.

"We knew that already," he remarked. "So I'm guessing there's been no change of plans."

"Definitely not."

"Well, we'll figure something else out."

"Like what? Have me use all this grease to finger paint on nude models and sell prints on eBay?"

Kort grinned. "That could work. Well, except the eBay part, you know how they are."

A smile curved her lips, a real one this time. She leaned over and nudged him with her elbow, then took a swig from her beer can. "Nah, I've got a few ideas. It's just gonna suck. I might have to quit school for a while."

"If you need some money..."

"No. Way. That hasn't changed either."

He shrugged. "Fair enough." Kort hadn't figured she'd agree, anyway. "What about...well, now that the news is out, has your mother— that is, your real mother..."

Ellery shook her head, cutting him off.

Her real mother had disappeared when she was three, maybe four; he knew that. But part of him had been hoping the news might draw her out. Darren Cain had been a rich man, after all.

But then, my old man is plenty well off, Kort thought, and my mom never came back either. Something they had in common, him and Ellery. Unlike her, he didn't get along with his dad. And neither one of them had other family. No aunts or uncles, no cousins. She had her lousy stepmother; he had his father, who hated the way he lived his life.

"Guess that's family for you," Ellery muttered. "People in general. They just suck."

"Aren't you a little young to be so cynical?"

"Aren't you?" she shot back.

"Hey, I'm a whole year older than you."

"Oh, well, a whole year. You're so ancient. I know you got held back a bit during high school, but I always wondered why you had all those wrinkles."

He laughed and crumpled up the Saran wrap to toss at her. She ducked away from it, bumping into him. Carefully he put an arm around her shoulders, worried he'd scare her. Ellery went still—then slowly, tentatively, leaned into him. She smelled of paint and—faintly—of roses, with a tiny hint of grease. Like she usually did. He stroked her hair, letting the red strands slip through his fingers.

"Isn't there anything I can do to cheer you up a little?"

She hesitated, bit her lip. He tried not to groan, watching her teeth dig into that soft flesh. "Well...you could write me a poem."

He blinked. "How'd you know about that?"

"You told me about it once, when you were drunk. But you wouldn't let me read any of it."

Well, obviously. Just because he liked writing poetry didn't mean it was any good. He'd taken a few classes, yeah, but that wasn't his major. Only a hobby.

Kort looked down at her. He didn't mind so much, being kind of fucked up in the head; it ran in the family, far as he knew. But he hated seeing Ellery this way. She sounded so bitter these days, so unlike the girl he'd known so long. The girl who'd stared into the distance, eyes aglow, talking about all the good she'd do with her art. Gotta fix this somehow, he thought, kissing her temple tenderly.

"Okay, Ells. I'll see what I can do," he said.

"Thanks, Kort." She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. "You're the best."

"Nah."

She looked up at him, smiled. "Yeah. Yeah, you are."

*****

Ellery closed the door to her apartment and leaned her forehead against it. She felt a little dizzy from too much lousy beer, a little annoyed, and a little giddy all at once.

Kort wouldn't let her drive home like this. He'd caught her in a playful headlock and pried her keys from her pocket—then tickled her a little, just because she wasn't irritated enough at him. By the time he came back from calling a taxi for her, she'd cooled down enough to tease him back a little. It was, after all, his fault for drinking that paint thinner. He'd promised to bring her bike around to her tomorrow—and to have better beer in the fridge next time she turned up.

Thinking about Kort filled her with longing. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair, dark as a raven's feathers and always a little too long, like he just never realized it needed a trim. She wanted to feel the roughness of stubble on his jaw, the hardness of the muscle beneath his clothes, trace the tattoos she'd seen occasionally. Ellery wanted...so many things that would never be.

She liked that he cared about her; she just wished he looked at her as something more than a friend or—or a sister. He never will, she thought with a sigh. Never. Ellery knew why she didn't trust people, but she didn't know the whole of why Kort didn't. She just knew most people didn't make it into his life as anything more than acquaintances or one-night stands.

Of course, there was also the fact that no one found her attractive enough for being more than friends. Not even Hank. I'm the only girl I know, Ellery thought, who's shacked up with a guy who claimed to love her but never once slept with her. Instead he'd taken off with more than a dozen of her best paintings and sold them as his own.

"Enough feeling sorry for yourself, Ells." She turned away from the door. "The past is done and over with. Can't change it now."

She stepped down the short, dark entry hallway, not bothering to flick on a light. At the entrance to the living room, she paused.

"Not that I wouldn't rip the man's balls off, given the chance. Or maybe I'd just hand him off to Kort."

A giggle. Ellery jumped, swaying unsteadily and bumping her shoulder into the doorjamb. A giggle? That didn't make sense. There was no one in her apartment to giggle. She had no roommate and no friends she invited over.

"Hello?" she called.

More titters joined the first. They seemed all around her, bouncing off the walls, echoing in her ears. She pressed a hand to her chest; her heart beat wildly with growing fear. The laughter—it didn't sound human. Cold shivers ran up her spine, raising gooseflesh all along her arms. She took a hasty step back.

And something flew out of the darkness, straight at her face.