Mythbound Trilogy Boxed Set

by Cory Barclay

  Steve leaned forward and yanked the contract from the table, causing John to flinch.

  Then he tore it in half, then those halves in half, until the tiny ripped pages fell from his hands like snowy confetti. “Yeah, you can pick that up with your rectum and feed it to your dog, Johnny.”

  “I do not have a dog, Steven.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Steven turned to Nersi and dipped his head forward, tipping an imaginary cowboy hat. “Pleasure meeting you, milady.”

  The woman had a smirk of bemusement still frozen on her face.

  Steve jetted out of the room and Annabel quickly followed. They walked in step with each other. Only once they left the room and were heading toward the front door did they realize Steve’s outburst had caused ten or so other employees to pop their heads out and stare at what was happening.

  “Did that feel good?” Annabel whispered from the corner of her mouth as they reached the front door.

  Steve shoved the door open and they went out into the sunny day.

  “Hell yes, it did,” Steve said.

  “While your loyalty is much appreciated, Bel, I wonder . . . what the hell do we do now?” Steve asked once they’d returned to the studio.

  Annabel frowned. “I was hoping you’d have that answer.” She looked around the lobby and into the four rehearsal rooms. “Where’s Mister Fats?” she called from the hallway.

  “Dunno,” Steve said with a shrug.

  Annabel appeared back in the room. She looked at Steve expectantly.

  Steve pinched the skin of his neck, thinking. “Well, we could try to find an investor. Maybe we can get this thing rolling independently. Though we won’t ever have the distribution of Imminent Records . . .”

  Annabel chuckled. “Yeah, we sort of burned that bridge.”

  “I guess so.”

  Neither of them said anything for a few minutes. Steve sat on the couch and Annabel sat next to him, drawing her legs up to her knees to get comfortable.

  It was almost four o’clock now. The sun was starting to set, the sky was turning a blazing orange and pink. It would be another brilliant sunset.

  Steve took a gamble. Without looking at Annabel, he asked, “Do you want to go watch the sunset at the beach? Maybe we could think of something then . . .”

  Annabel didn’t answer.

  Steve reluctantly, slowly turned his head to glance at her and saw the smile on her face. He had his answer.

  They were in the Lexus in minutes, headed down Garnet Avenue toward the golden sun and the silver waves and the beach.

  When they got to the end of Garnet a few minutes later, they parked as close as possible to the boardwalk, which was a couple blocks away, then walked west.

  There were multitudes of people out and about on the boardwalk: beachgoers, people bringing their boards in from a successful day of surfing, people running out with their boards, going to catch the last waves while the sunlight still lingered . . .

  Steve and Annabel made it to the sandy seawall on the boardwalk and stared out at the ocean. The trembling sun sparkled off the lip of the waves, reflecting white and silvery shimmers of light in a wavy line to the horizon. It was a beautiful sight.

  Steve glanced to his left and right and saw other couples holding hands and watching the sun as it began to set.

  Keyword being “couples.”

  Steve took a chance and touched his hand to Annabel’s, without looking at her. Their fingers intertwined.

  “I’m sorry about this whole fiasco, Bel,” Steve whispered. He was feeling utterly drained and emotional after the events of the day.

  “Let’s not talk about music right now,” she whispered back. She turned to him and stood on her tiptoes to get to his eye-level.

  Then she pushed up and kissed him on the lips.

  And everything melted away—the other couples watching the sunset, the surfers coming and going, the rollerblades gliding down the boardwalk. Everything.

  Steve leaned down and put his arms around her, pulling her close, keeping the kiss going as long as he could.

  When they separated a few moments later, everything was different. Annabel was back on the flats of her feet, but Steve hadn’t come back down to Earth. His head spun.

  “Let’s talk about magic instead,” Annabel said, smiling. She reached up and put her hand around the back of Steve’s head.

  And though Steve didn’t know if Annabel was being serious, her words gave him an idea. He perked up and said, “Why don’t we go talk to the Druid again? Maybe she can answer the rest of our questions . . .”

  “Not yet . . .” Annabel murmured, tiptoeing again to kiss him. She pulled away a mere inch from his mouth. “The sun hasn’t gone down yet.”

  She kissed him again.

  And Steve Remington’s stressful day—and all his troubles—washed away.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  When they got back to the car, both Steve and Annabel were glowing. Their unplanned moment of passion had brightened both their outlooks on life and their futures. Everything didn’t seem so dismal now they’d swapped spit.

  Steve turned on the radio to the local classic rock station, 101.5 KGB. The song playing was “Drift Away” by Dobie Gray, an apropos tune Steve loved. Apparently, Annabel did too. When Steve started the Lexus and drifted onto the road, Annabel started humming and singing the tune along with old Dobie.

  Annabel crooned about her soul being freed, waving her head back and forth with the beat of the tune. She followed Dobie and got lost in the rock ‘n’ roll, drifting away . . .

  Damn, but she could sing.

  Steve grinned and glanced at her. She had her eyes closed as she sang, totally in the moment, in her element, feeling it.

  Steve started singing along with her, and together they sang the whole song until they pulled up to Pacific Beach Tarot less than a mile from the boardwalk.

  It was dark when they got out of the car, the last remnants of the sun having been engulfed by the purple darkness of night. They held each other’s hands as they crossed the street and came to the tarot shop.

  Steve pushed the door open and the familiar Christmas bell dinged to announce their arrival.

  Aiden O’Shaunessy was in the room with his back facing Steve and Annabel, his arms swinging wildly about. January Amos was seated at her table, where she seemed most comfortable.

  They’d walked in on the leprechaun and the Druid having a discussion.

  Or, as Steve quickly realized, an argument.

  “Oh, come on, Jan!” Aiden complained, gesticulating wildly. “It’ll be good for business!”

  January still hadn’t seen, past Aiden, that Steve and Annabel were standing in the doorway, though now she tried to look around the little man, after hearing the ding. “No, Aiden, I won’t have you slinging that crap to my customers. I don’t want them to get the wrong idea.”

  “They’re four-leaf clovers, Jan, it’s perfect for this type of place! I bet they’ll sell like Girl Scout Cookies outside a cannabis clinic. They practically sell themselves!”

  Steve walked into the room—Annabel behind him—right behind Aiden, to see what all the hubbub was about.

  “What’s going on?” Steve asked.

  Aiden spun around. “Ah! Steve-o, mate, what brings you here?”

  “Madam Amos told me to come back if I had any questions. I have questions. So, here I am.”

  “I see you’ve brought the pretty waif with ya,” Aiden said with a grin. “Where’s Thor?”

  Steve shrugged. “Haven’t seen Dale today. And don’t call Annabel a waif, dick.”

  Aiden stepped aside and made an over-the-top, flourishing bow for Annabel, like she was the Queen of England. “My apologies, Miss Annabel Lee. You are as radiant as ever, lass.”

  Annabel smirked. “Apology accepted,” she said, nodding and patting the top of Aiden’s bowed head like he was a court jester that had greatly pleased her.

  January turned to Annabel an
d said, “So this is the girl, Mister Remington? The source of all your troubles?”

  Steve blushed. “I mean . . . she isn’t the source of all my problems . . .”

  January waved offhandedly to Steve, said, “She is pretty, my friend—you weren’t lying,” which embarrassed him even more.

  Steve snorted, shaking his head. “Enough, enough,” he said. He couldn’t remember ever telling January that Annabel was pretty or not, but it seemed like the designated duty of all matronly figures was to embarrass their “children,” and January Amos was certainly matronly.

  “What’s going on here?” Steve asked, trying to change the subject.

  Aiden had a little box on the table between him and January. It was a jewelry box with felt padding and little indents where diamond rings would usually go, but instead of rings were little green clovers.

  “I’m trying to put my four-leaf clovers on consignment here, but Madam Amos is being a bit stingy,” Aiden said. He turned to January and exclaimed, “We can split the profits!”

  “It’s a sham, Aiden,” January said evenly. “Good luck doesn’t come from plant petals, and you know it. You might be able to trick your naïve clientele, but I’m not one of them.”

  Aiden opened his mouth to retort, but January put her hand up to silence him.

  “I won’t speak any more on the matter,” she said with finality in her voice. “You’ll have to take your wares elsewhere.”

  Steve remembered Scarlet Amos, the succubus and daughter of the Druid, saying Aiden was a bit of a con man, and now he saw it firsthand. Though Aiden was on the sleazy side, he was still charming and likable.

  Aiden sighed and snatched up his box of clovers, then left the table, taking a seat on a chair next to the front door. “You’ll be sorry, Jan, my dear. You’re missing out on a big thing,” he muttered.

  January shrugged. “I’ll just have to live with the disappointment. Maybe my daughter will help you—”

  New life sprang onto Aiden’s face, his eyes twinkling from the half-hearted suggestion. “Now there’s an idea . . . I could use her pull on men to get them to buy these things in droves! You’re a genius, Madam Amos!”

  January rolled her eyes, then turned to Steve and Annabel. Steve went to a corner of the room where a folded chair lay up against the wall. He took the chair and folded it out next to the table. Then he sat across from January and Annabel on the chair.

  “Please, make yourselves comfortable,” January said, snidely.

  Steve’s mouth went slack. “O-Oh, I’m sorry. Should we stand?”

  January smiled. “I’m only teasing, lad.” She joined her hands together on the table and leaned forward, some of her silver hair swishing past her face.

  “Now,” she said, more seriously, “what can I do for such a lovely couple this fine evening?”

  Steve blushed, but Annabel took the words in stride. “Mister Steve here forgot to get a few pertinent questions answered in his initial meeting with you, Madam January.”

  “Please,” the Druid said, “call me Jan.”

  Annabel nodded. “All right, Madam Jan.”

  Steve smiled—he’d yet to hear Annabel refer to anyone with less than utter formality, whether that be Mister Steve, Mister Fats, or anyone else. It was an endearing trait, and one Steve thought was very cute.

  “So, what questions do you have for me, Master Remington?” January looked at him, which washed away his dumb smile in an instant.

  Steve cleared his throat and tried to stop thinking about Annabel. He said, “Erhm, yes. Well. When I first came here you mentioned I am the Myth Seeker, and that Annabel is ‘Bound’ to me”—he did finger-quotes around the word “bound”—“Do I have that right?”

  January nodded.

  “Well . . . how?”

  “How?”

  “How is Annabel Bound to me?”

  “Through your Conveyor,” January said, matter-of-factly.

  Steve tilted his head to the side. “My . . . Conveyor? What’s that?”

  “It is an item—an inanimate object—that is used to Sear someone to this world. When the Conveyor passes hands from a Myth Seeker on Terrus to a Mythic being on Mythicus, it pulls that person to your world.”

  Steve was nodding along, his brows furrowed. “So, what is this Conveyor? What kind of an object is it, and how do I find it?”

  January smiled fondly at Steve, like he was a foolish child. “The Conveyor is whatever physical object first passed hands between you two.”

  Steve turned to Annabel. They stared blankly for a moment, reminiscing, trying to remember what that could be.

  “It must be the guitar I let you use,” Steve said at last. “My father’s old Martin Dreadnought.” Annabel shrugged, then nodded.

  January kept staring at Steve, enough that it unnerved him. Her eyes seemed sad, suddenly, like she was doing some reminiscing of her own.

  “What is it?” Steve asked.

  January looked away. “You mentioning your father has brought back memories . . . that’s all.”

  “You knew my father?” Steve asked, throwing his head back in surprise.

  Nodding, January muttered to herself, “I suppose you deserve to know . . .”

  Steve leaned forward on the table with earnestness clear on his face. A voice sprouted up from behind—Aiden’s voice—but he ignored it. The leprechaun was on the phone, presumably with Scarlet, talking about the four-leaf clovers.

  “Deserve to know what, Jan?” Steve asked eagerly.

  The Druid opened her mouth to speak—

  “—Come on, just do it! It’s a good idea. You know it is!” Aiden shouted into the phone.

  Steve spun his head around, his eagerness turned to anger. “Do you mind, Aiden?”

  The leprechaun looked up from his cell phone, completely oblivious, his mouth a perfect O. “Ah, right, right,” he said. “I’ll be off then.” He opened the front door and dinged out of the shop.

  When the door had slammed closed, Steve turned back to January, a stern look in his eyes. He seemed like he was on the verge of another outburst, but he was trying to stay levelheaded.

  “You were about to say, Madam Amos . . . ?”

  January sighed. She paused, as if thinking how to begin. Then she just came out with it and asked, “How much do you know about your father’s accident, Steve Remington?”

  Steve shrugged. “Not a whole lot. He was killed in a car crash.”

  “Wrong.”

  Annabel gasped.

  January continued. “Did you ever see his body in the mortuary?”

  Steve slowly shook his head. “I don’t do well with blood . . . I guess I was afraid.”

  “Well, it makes no difference, Master Remington, because you would have seen nothing.”

  “What?”

  “His body was never there.” January folded her hands on top of each other on the table. “You see, when a Mythic dies on Terrus, his spirit is transferred back to his plane—to Mythicus. He ceases to exist in this world. Sometimes it takes a few days for the soul to find an exit from the body, but eventually it does. You won’t find a criminal record or employment history or social security number or birth certificate . . . nothing.”

  Steve scoffed. “That’s nonsense. I still remember him. If that’s the case, how was I born? Who was my father?”

  January shrugged her shoulders up and held them there, dramatically increasing the severity of the shrug. “It’s a mystery, isn’t it?”

  After a long, disbelieving sigh, Steve leaned back in his seat. “You’re saying my father was a Mythic—”

  “I did tell you your power was hereditary, didn’t I?”

  “Then how did he die?”

  “He was killed by Myth Hunters, Mister Remington. Your father was singled out—much as it sounds like you are being targeted now—and killed because of his powers.”

  “Myth Hunters?” Steve said. “How many damn names and titles are there in this crazy world of your
s?”

  “There is much you don’t know,” January said, darkly, “that would take up the rest of the evening and more to explain. For now, I can tell you what I know. Your father was murdered. It was no accident.”

  Steve paused. His head started aching, and he was feeling the dizziness that accompanied an angry explosion coming on. The calm before the storm. “Who killed him?” he asked at last, getting his emotions under control.

  “I don’t know.”

  Steve fell silent. He bowed his head, unable to look at January or Annabel.

  “How do you know all this?” Annabel asked, speaking up for Steve. She had a curious glint in her eye.

  January sighed. “Because I was his lover. Because I knew what danger he was in—as I know the danger you two are in now.”

  Annabel’s hand fell over her mouth. Steve gave a silent gasp, his eyes shooting back up to gaze at the smooth, calm face of the Druid.

  Steve’s head spun. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing—the revelations, and the nonchalant attitude in which January mentioned them.

  Does that mean . . . he didn’t finish his thought, instead deciding to throw it out into the open. “Does that mean you’re . . . my mother?”

  January chuckled. She shook her head vigorously. “No, I don’t believe that’s the case.”

  There was another long pause. The air around the room was getting thick and stuffy. Things were getting much darker than Steve had bargained for.

  I was right after all . . . Someone is trying to kill me. And Annabel.

  “What can we do?” Steve asked.

  “You can do what Annabel’s parents wish. You can help her return home. Maybe then, at least, Annabel will be safe.”

  Steve eyed Annabel beside him. She was staring ahead, at January.

  And quite suddenly, Steve didn’t much like the sound of that. He didn’t like the sound of losing Annabel, now they had gotten so close . . .

  Is that wrong of me?

  Should I do what’s right for her? I can’t be greedy . . . not like fucking Johnny Levi. No, of course I have to do what’s right for her. That’s not a question at all . . .

  But he still didn’t want to. His heart hurt at hearing January’s words. Even though he’d known all this time, in the back of his mind, things could never stay the way they were now . . . there was that small glimmer of hope that kept poking at him, daring to show its face.