A Shiver of Shadows

by Hunter J. Skye

  The drive south into town had been mesmerizing until we lost sight of the ocean. After that, the sprawl of ordinary outer city neighborhoods and offices came and went. The slick, wet sound of sultry sucks and rhythmic rubs was difficult to ignore. I spared a glance to see Celene’s skirt pushed too high and Mephos’s hand lost to the undulating depths of her thighs. The sight or maybe the scent of their entanglement plucked at the ragged wound where Grayford’s desire had once dwelled inside my mind. It was an intimacy we were never meant to share. It was too much, and now we’d lost it.

  My eyes watered as I wrapped my arms around myself in a comfortless embrace. I needed to get back to him. We could surrender to the Joining and recreate the link between us. Everything would be okay, I assured myself. I gently rocked and looked out the window at the endless sprawl, while Celene panted in time to Mephos’s thrusting fingers. The streets widened and the buildings grew as we drew closer to Barcelona. The heart of the city was much different from its tattered edges.

  Avenues stretched in darkgreen tree-lined corridors parting the seas of sculpted apartment buildings and hotels. Businesses lined the sidewalks, and bistros spilled into the medians, providing shady seats to watch the promenade of beautifully dressed Spaniards passing by. Each corner had artfully designed diagonal buildings facing the intersections, and every building dripped with ornamental flare. Had I not been sharing a car with a couple of exhibitionists, I might have enjoyed the experience.

  “So,” Mephos practically sang, slipping his hand from between Celene’s legs as quickly as a changed thought. “What do you think of our fine city?” He waved at the car windows and the parade of life on the other side of the glass. I was not in the mood to compliment him on anything, even his home, but there was a game being played, and I had the feeling that as long as I played along, I’d be safe.

  “It’s wonderful.”

  “Isn’t it?” My captor’s voice softened as he peered out the window. The old eyes in his young face seemed to take in every fluttering flag and curve of stone. It was clear, he loved this place.

  “What are all the yellow and red striped flags for?” The bright standards fluttered from balconies and storefronts along every street.

  Mephos’s eyes glittered as they turned to me.

  “They are the flag of Catalonia. The four red bars on the field of yellow represent the Crown of Aragon. You are not in Spain anymore, Ms. Blythe. You are in Catalan.”

  Completely composed, Celene slid from her seat and sat next to me.

  “Barcelona is separated into districts, each with its own character. For instance, we are now in L’Eixample district. You see the buildings so neatly in squares? Inside each is a courtyard with something to be treasured—a garden or a work of art. No space is wasted. Every inch is lived in.”

  We made our way down a wide avenue, passing high-end shops and hotels with ornate entries and gleaming brass knobs.

  “This is Passeig de Gracia. It is where Catalonians come to shop. You will find the best of everything.” Celene pointed to windows filled with things I’d never be able to afford. A sprawling courtyard lined with café tables opened on the left. In its center, a crowd had gathered, beating drums and dancing. I jumped as a loud bang shook the car. The center of the courtyard disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

  “Oh my God.”

  “Do not worry,” Mephos chuckled. “They are only acting.” His ancient eyes turned to me and a bit of life sparked in them. I turned back to the spectacle of leaping bodies knotted together in the flaring smoke. “But make no mistake…the battle wages in their hearts. Catalan wants its freedom.” A stream of yellow and red flags with a blue triangle and a single white star whipped through the thundering confusion. In a way, they looked like jaundiced versions of the American flag. “Have you ever seen a revolution, Ms. Blythe?” I caught his smile from the corner of my eye. Suddenly, the city took on a different feel. I reevaluated each face we passed on the street. I’d taken them for shoppers, errand runners, strollers taking in the last of the day’s languid light. They were those things and something more. They were kindling marching toward a fire.

  Chapter Nine

  A Magnet’s Call

  Grayford

  The pilots of the cargo jet must have been attempting to control the pitch, but the loose freight wasn’t helping. The entire haul of goods slid toward me as the jet dipped again, then the attitude changed, and the contents of the fuselage tumbled away. A wave of translucence coursed through my attacker as a load of machinery passed through him with a wet and reeking slurp. The other travelers shrieked and chortled. If the plane tilted forward again, I would be crushed.

  It was time to leave, but how many hours had we been in the air? It felt like an eternity. Without a window, I couldn’t see if we were near to land yet. I hadn’t heard the sound of the landing gear lowering. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to hear it over the engine noise.

  Burning sweat dripped into my eyes. I’d checked my cell phone only moments before I was accosted, but a picture of Melisande’s beautiful face on the screen had distracted me. What time had the device displayed? I’d left the cell phone in my pack, which was lost in the toss of sliding pallets.

  My attacker wailed from the other side of a towering wall of goods, and several pallets launched through the dim light. I couldn’t dodge them. I couldn’t move at all. The pain in my chest was crippling. Each breath I took left less and less space to exhale. The roiling force inside me would escape with my help or without it.

  The plane tipped again. The entire shipment slid toward me. Melisande. Her amber eyes filled my mind, shifting through the moments we’d shared together. Our brief love flashed before my eyes like a rich and textured tapestry. There was so much I needed to tell her. We still had a long and flowing patchwork of experiences to share.

  I had no choice. I opened my mouth, and the invisible fire tore from my lungs. It rolled out of my throat and burst from my mouth. The vibration was deafening. The blazing white light of day assaulted my eyes as the cargo bundles crumpled like parchment and raced away from me. My deadened ears popped. The side of the plane yawned open near the far-left quadrant. Air sucked from my lungs as I slid along the floor in a tangle of batteries and boxes. The explosive force left me senseless. I tried to take a stabilizing breath, but my lungs wouldn’t fill. I swam through the bludgeoning cargo toward the wall of the fuselage. Its convex shape had changed, warping and shifting with the loss of pressure. I grasped the rope netting that still clung to the wavering wall and prayed. In a fraction of a second, almost everything had disappeared through the hole.

  The jet dropped so violently my feet hit the ceiling. I had to get a leg through the rope, or I would lose my grip and vanish through the aperture as well. The rushing sky was a force with which I could not contend. It ripped at my clothes, my skin. I hooked a foot through the netting while the other flailed. My pack was gone with the rest of the contents of the plane. My hand ripped loose from the rope web, and my sleeve went with it. My vest tore open.

  Something loud banged below me as if a giant had just punched the underbelly of the plane. The landing gear. I searched the tail of the plane to see if any souls survived, but none were evident. With my outburst, I’d consigned them all to a watery grave. Or had I? A blur of farmland flashed through the gaping hole I’d torn in the plane. Bits of moorland rimmed by slips of sandy beaches raced past in the late day light. We must be over Cornwall, I realized. The plane dipped again, and my fingers strained against the netting. I wasn’t going to make it to Heathrow Airport. I wasn’t sure the cargo jet would either. My ability to translocate was greatly altered now that I was married to flesh and bone. I’d only managed to cover maybe a mile at a time. At this height and velocity, I wasn’t sure how I’d contact the ground.

  There was no help for it. I’d have to descend in increments. The plane convulsed, ripping my fingers from the ropes. I slipped the grasp of the physical world and unharnessed my molecules. W
ith a metallic lash, the airplane tore through me, and I was as free as the air. I floated, then tumbled, then picked up speed. As if responding to a magnet’s call, the matter comprising me pulled together. Energy burned through me as molecules met, cells regrouped, and organs crowded close. The decree issued to my body on the battlefield at the closing of the Seventh Gate could not be ignored. I fell through the air in solid form and the landscape raced to meet me.

  Chapter Ten

  Wooden Grandfathers

  Melisande

  The Gothic Quarter was drowning in ghosts, and its narrow, curving alleys were choked with the living as well. The resulting throng was overwhelming. People from all walks of life knotted and flocked together, drifting through the lingering dead as if they were nothing. The compost of spirits piled in every corner was enough to make my head spin. Eyes watched me. Thoughts brushed against me and hands followed, cold as the void from which they reached. I fought the urge to gather them. There were just too many. There weren’t enough places inside me to store them all.

  I needed more sleep if I wanted to manage the ghostly horde of hallucinations dancing at the edges of my sight as well. The shadowy illusions mixed with the feathery wraiths around me until I couldn’t distinguish between what was real and what wasn’t. Would sleep fix what was happening to me, or would sleep without my CPAP make it worse?

  The crowd parted as Mephos and Celene passed. I followed behind them as best I could in the high heels Celene had given me. The corridor we drifted down was too narrow for the limo, so we’d set out on foot. We plunged into the sea of moving bodies as we wove down one, then another of the winding paths. Tiny tapas bars spilled stylish house music into the cramped streets. Cell phone stores and convenience shops glared neon light into the cobblestone maze.

  Each apartment building had a thickly varnished antique walnut door coated with a skin of Day-Glo graffiti. In America, that would have been a travesty, a misdemeanor, an act of vandalism. But here, it was part of the natural canvas of Barcelona. The old was marred by the new, but not erased. The wooden grandfathers seemed to wear their colors proudly, like tattoos from a complex and changing world. It was part of the scenery and the mindset of revolt. I guess it was just what happened to things that stood still too long in the Gothic Quarter.

  At last, we reached a set of elaborately carved double doors that opened diagonally from an intersection into a hidden twilit garden. A line of servants appeared from nowhere and Mephos spoke to them in Spanish. Their heads lowered as we passed.

  “Welcome to my home, Melisande.” Mephos stepped close to me in the shadows as twinkling lights pricked to life in the rustling trees of the enclosed space. Luxurious couches filled the enclosure, creating conversation pits beneath the open square of sky above. It must never rain, I thought. Balconies peeked down on the private entertaining area. There was little delineation between indoor and outdoor living spaces.

  “Please.” Mephos gestured to a chaise tucked beneath a wide-leafed tree growing from a square of earth. A servant placed a glass of wine on the table next to the chaise and a small plate with grilled shrimp. By the time I’d taken a seat, the man had reappeared with a bowl of olives and slices of bread with oil drizzled over them. I tried to thank him, but he turned away as quickly as politely possible. None of the workers skittering along the shadowed edges made eye contact with their employers as they brought new plates with fancier and fancier delicacies. Celene barely touched the fried squid next to her. She passed the tray to Mephos who settled it on the table closest to me.

  “Do try the croquets, Melisande.” He gestured to yet another plate that had suddenly appeared next to me. I didn’t want to try the croquets. I didn’t want to go to a party. I didn’t want to be on the wrong continent. I didn’t want to be with a woman who could mesmerize me with her eyes, or a man who spoke as if he was fifty years older than he looked.

  I felt the old Melisande rearing up to wreck the moment. She really wanted to shout “Fuck Off” and storm out of the doors into the ghost-riddled streets. There were enough semi-sentient spirits out there to create a shield. I hadn’t sensed anything strong enough to use as a weapon, but maybe I’d make it to a cab if I ran.

  “But save room for the paella. It’s what we are known for in this region. My chefs are the best in Barcelona.” He preened.

  My eyes went to the doors. The new Melisande did things like wait patiently for a window of opportunity. She did other reasonable things like pay off debt and sign for a mortgage. She had a life plan. She could cooperate with potentially dangerous people who defiled limos and kept people hostage. That Mel would live to see another day.

  Hunger finally won out over my fairyland rule. I devoured the shrimp and practically guzzled the wine, which turned out to be a fruity, carbonated variety.

  “It’s good to see such a healthy appetite,” Celene cooed. They exchanged a congratulatory look between them as if they’d watered a plant properly and it was beginning to put out new leaves.

  “So, tell me about this Hell Gate,” I tried and was met with the same dismissive glances.

  “There is plenty of time to talk business after the festivities.” Mephos selected a squid from the display of artfully arranged tentacles, then offered me the plate again.

  “No, thank you,” I demurred.

  “Melisande, tapas are to be shared.”

  I gulped as I looked down at the empty plate of prawns.

  “I’m sorry.”

  They both giggled and sipped their drinks as if I were an entertaining child.

  Just then, the double doors opened, spilling music and laughter in from the streets. A tall, bulky man in a vibrant, fitted blue shirt and gray tailored pants stepped in. He scanned the courtyard as if it were a gladiator’s arena and he was a crowd favorite. Strength rode his scarred features. His handsome face looked to have been rearranged by more than a few fists over the years, but the result had a pleasing, rough-hewn masculinity about it. Gleaming golden hair softened his battered façade, and his pale-blue eyes glowed with what seemed like a calm confidence.

  Dusk had settled outside in the maze of slender thruways, but the temperature had barely dropped a degree. Despite the dry warmth, the man had only rolled his sleeves to mid-arm.

  “Bertrand, impeccable timing.” Mephos clapped. “Come meet our guest, Ms. Melisande Blythe.” Again, someone Mephos’s age would be bro-fisting his friend, not playing the part of a cultured host. The incongruency was off-putting. It didn’t seem to strike the man called Bertrand as unusual, though.

  “Ms. Blythe,” his low voice rolled. A look of mild surprise infused him with personality. “I hadn’t imagined I’d have the pleasure of meeting you so soon.” His astonishment seemed quickly replaced by amusement over the unexpected. He wiped a rugged hand through his flaxen waves. The gesture caused a collar-length curtain of hair to swing loose and settle over one faded blue eye. Something about him eased the knot in my stomach just a little.

  “Yes, it seems our friend Rasmus has misinterpreted my instructions yet again,” Mephos interjected. “But what a happy turn of events. Ms. Blythe will be joining us for the Assumption tonight.”

  The handsome man’s eyes shifted to me as if sharing a joke he’d tell me about later.

  “Have you visited Barcelona before?” He took a seat next to me and popped an olive in his mouth. Even with his casual demeanor and friendly body language, it was unnerving that yet another stranger knew of me and my impending arrival. Zero creepiness.

  “This is my first time.” I returned his look, but mine was less about a joke and more about a demand to be taken the fuck out of there.

  “Ah.” He seemed to acknowledge my unspoken message. “I’m guessing Rasmus just saved you a few thousand in travel expenses.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Melisande.” Mephos practically sang my name. “You have not been to a party until you’ve been to the beaches of Barcelona on a feast day. We will start the night w
ith drinks and maybe a little dancing, then head to the beach to watch the moon rise over the ocean.” The energy of his thoughts seemed to whisk him to his feet. “And then—” He reached for Celene’s hand. She flowed into his arms. “—we will enjoy la noche.”

  I knew enough Spanish to translate the night. I also knew enough of bad guys to assume his idea of enjoy might not be mine. I studied Bertrand’s veiled expression. He didn’t seem consumed with the same lusty sense of expectation that radiated from Mephos and Celene. Instead, he seemed to notice me studying him. The big man stood and swept a glass from the servant’s tray next to him.

  “A toast.” His voice rang in the shadowed courtyard.

  Mephos and Celene uncoiled from each other’s arms and turned their heated gazes on their golden-haired companion. They wore the weight of their hedonistic thoughts like crowns. Their indulgent heads dipped until their gimlet eyes flickered in the low light. I suddenly felt the need to put distance between Bertrand and myself, but movement might only draw their ravenous attention to me. Their lips parted as if ready to devour their friend’s words, or the tongue with which he spoke them.

  “A La Madre. A la luna. A la noche.” He raised his glass and they raised theirs. I hesitated a moment and then raised mine. It was a strange trinity to celebrate the mother, the moon, and the night, but this was a strange people with foreign secrets tucked in their hearts and at that moment, I welcomed anything that would distract me from the all-consuming absence of Grayford’s whispered thoughts. Anything.

  Chapter Eleven

  A Verdant Dream

  Grayford