It was like he knew he was on stage. He strutted around the house, neck arched, lifting his legs high and showing off. Beverley couldn’t contain herself. She ran toward us. Errol did his elegant bow again and Mountain helped her onto the unicorn’s back. Parents applauded.
The ponies raised their heads high, too. Errol’s beauty and charisma captivated everyone. Smokey Bear and the other ponies pranced around the yard following him—no encouragement needed.
When the time was up, Nana took over and called for everyone to come inside and wash up for “cold cuts and chips to be followed by cake and ice cream.” Mountain lifted Beverley down; she hugged Errol and ran inside with her friends. We petted and praised the unicorn for being such a show stealer.
Mr. Purdy drew near us, intent on the unicorn. He jerked his bill cap off and scratched his head. “In ten years, I’ve never seen my ponies prance like that.”
“They just need a little inspiration, I guess.”
“Would you sell me that horse?”
“Sorry, Mr. Purdy.”
“How’d you make that horn?” He reached up as if to analyze how we’d attached it.
Mountain cleared his throat. “Check eBay for antlers or movie props.”
Mr. Purdy spat, resettled his ball cap, and said, “If you had a half-dozen white horses, all with those horns, you’d make a killin’ doin’ the county fair circuit. If you weren’t bothered by large groups of people, that is.” He walked away.
“No doubt.” Mountain scratched under Errol’s chin. “But I’m not sure your back is meant for anyone but Beverley.”
Errol nickered and bobbed his head. I was sure he was agreeing.
“How’s Thunderbird?”
Mountain glanced toward the barns. “My truck arrived last evening; had a side of beef in it. The griffons let him have first dibs. He ate lightly, then one of the others brought in a deer leg after dusk, offered it to him, and he ate that, too.” He absently plucked at Errol’s mane. “I’m trying to figure out why the others treat him differently. Sometimes I think it’s his injury, sometimes I’m not sure that’s it.” He paused. “Zhan tells me you want her to take a few of the phoenixes to her family in California.”
“If it will make things better for her, absolutely.”
“She said her folks lived on a small farm north of San Francisco. Her mother grows Chinese medicinal herbs.”
“Sounds like they could easily house and care for some unusual poultry.”
Mountain smiled at my description. “But how do we get them there?”
“Would they prefer a private jet or to go in some type of wheeled vehicle?”
“Not sure.”
“Well, when you figure that part out, I’m sure Menessos can handle the rest.”
When the party was over and everyone was gone except Celia, it was safe for me to go inside. Ares trotted out to greet me and thumped my leg with his tail all the way down the hall. As I walked toward the kitchen I jerked the hot wig and hat combo from my head, loosed the bobby pins, and finger-combed my hair.
Only Beverley was missing from those gathered at the table. “Where’s the guest of honor? The party was a success, yes?”
“Yes. She’s upstairs packing an overnight bag,” Nana said.
“She’s going to stay with me until Monday morning,” Celia added quickly. “I’ll see her to the bus.”
Noting my confusion, Nana clarified. “I’ve decided that I’m going to Pittsburgh with you. I have some words of my own for Eris.”
A road trip with Nana? Thank the Goddess Pittsburgh is only two and a half hours away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Everyone slept in late the next morning, but by ten-thirty we’d all showered, eaten breakfast, and were ready. Atop the stairs I paused to check my overnight bag.
“C’mon! Let’s hit the road,” Nana called out. She held a grocery bag in one hand and had the other on the doorknob.
“What’s in the bag?” Johnny asked, stepping over to her.
“It’s not a bag, it’s a poke.”
“A poke?”
“It’s like a bag, but it’s not.”
“Okay. What’s in it?”
He didn’t know how lucky he was he hadn’t asked her what the difference was.
Nana said, “A nightgown and a change of clothes.”
“Then it’s not a bag or a poke,” he quipped. “It’s a suitcase.”
I descended the steps, imagining how exhausting this little trip was going to be.
Johnny was wearing black jeans, Harley boots, and the long-sleeved tee that matched the knit hat I’d worn yesterday. The silkscreened skulls with wings had a distressed quality, but the brightness of these embellishments made the black of the shirt deeper, darker. Like his eyes. Though still blue, his irises were shadowed today, and were indicative of this day’s magnitude.
“Take this,” he said and tossed me his leather jacket.
The first time I’d worn his leather, we rode the motorcycle to the hospital because Theo had been in a car accident. We’d both come a long way since then. “Why?”
“If you’re undercover as someone in the market for a tat, you should look the part.”
“Don’t I?” I had on my jeans and boots, too. A black tank top with spaghetti straps paired with a velveteen black hoodie served as my top.
“Yeah, but if you ditch the hoodie and just wear the tank and my leather you’ll really sell the idea that you’re a newbie biker chick in search of her first tattoo.”
“I thought everyone had tattoos these days.” I shrugged out of the hoodie, aware that Johnny’s eyes were roaming over me appreciatively. “They’re not just for mechanics, military, and the rock ’n’ roll types anymore. Doctors, teachers, and even corporate suits have ’em now.”
“Still. It’ll help.”
I put the leather on, enveloped in the cedar and sage scent of him. “It’ll help you to be a distracted driver.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.” He ran his fingers through my hair, mmm-ed again, then encircled me with his arms.
“Can we go now?” Nana tapped her foot impatiently.
Zhan emerged from the little bathroom under the stairs. “Load up.”
Nana was out the door before the rest of us took a step.
Johnny held the door open for Zhan and me. As I passed he mumbled, “Promise me Demeter won’t ask, ‘are we there yet’ every five minutes.”
“So, before we arrive,” Zhan said from the backseat, “do I need to know the history behind the bad blood?”
Beside her, Nana answered, “Eris is my daughter. She was an unwed mother and abandoned Persephone with me and ran off to be with some man.”
“What are you hoping to accomplish, Demeter?” Zhan asked.
“I don’t know, but if a confrontation is going to take place, I deserve to be a part of it. I’m the one who picked up where she left off.”
“And what’s your goal?” Zhan aimed the question at me this time.
“I’m not after a confrontation. I just want answers for Johnny.”
“‘Just’?”
Though she meant, “Only that?” I heard the other meaning of the word: “What’s right and fair.”
“Have you nothing you want to gain for yourself, Persephone?” Nana prompted.
“Part of me wants to shout at her. To let her know about all the hurt she caused. To tell her to her face that she’s selfish and clueless and …” I stopped because the passionate anger that filled me clamped my teeth together, hardened my voice, and surprised me.
This was the rage and hate I thought I had abandoned. It wasn’t gone at all.
All that business I’d told Amenemhab about being done with her—no wonder the jackal was skeptical.
Quietly, Nana asked, “Are you tough enough to defeat yourself?”
I twisted in my seat to meet her eyes.
Gaining Johnny’s answers and having my vengeful little encounter was unlikely. Achieving one would reb
uff the other.
Which side of me would I let win?
Nana’s expression remained intent. I sighed and let my shoulders slump. I’m the one who picked up where she left off, she’d said. Unwed mother. My gaze fell to Nana’s lap, to her fisted, wrinkled, old hands.
Nana had picked me up and set me on my feet. Angered by the responsibility thrust upon her by my mother’s flawed character—worried I might grow up the same—she’d been hard on me. It was an imperfect situation, like mine and Beverley’s. But Nana was always there. She never gave up.
As I watched, her fists unclenched … opened. Searching her face, I saw her sigh, too, as if she’d just let something go. Something heavy. She nodded at me.
Am I that strong?
I faced forward in my seat and stared at the road be-fore us.
The silence lasted for several minutes. Johnny was the one to break it.
“I know the two of you have plenty of reasons to be really ticked at Eris. But to put my two unrequested cents in: I just lost Ig. I hadn’t gone to see him in years, but I knew he was there. Now I know he isn’t.” He adjusted his seat belt. “He was all I had. I’m hopeful this Arcanum may be able to unlock my past and let me know if I have parents out there. I want to know. I want that. You have that and it seems you don’t want it but … just think about the other side of it.”
I touched his arm and made my voice soft. “But, Johnny, what if your family is …” It was harder to say than I’d thought. I had to push the words out. “What if they are biased against wæres?”
“Then I’ll know it’s their loss for having their heads stuck up their asses.”
“It’s not as tidy as you make it out to be. The pain of not knowing how your parents feel can’t be as bad as knowing that they feel only animosity.” I wanted Eris to feel the pain of my animosity. As I stared down at the Allegheny River we were crossing, I wondered, Am I an awful person for feeling that?
“What have you got to lose, Red? Can she possibly hurt you more than she already has?”
“If I let her back into my life, yeah. She could.”
Johnny snorted just as the GPS commanded that we take the upcoming exit. He switched lanes. “You’re scared.”
“I am not.” My palms were sweaty but that wasn’t the same thing.
“Yes, you are. You’re scared because you want to be good enough in her eyes, you want to be loved by her so things will be like they’re supposed to be.”
“No, I don’t. Nana loves me. Nana raised me. That’s good enough.”
Johnny guided the car around the ramp to Bigelow. “If a stranger flips you off because they don’t like the way you drive, would you even remember it at the end of the day?”
“Probably not.”
“Because their opinion means nothing to you. But what if it was your overbearing boss and he recognized you? You’d remember that.”
“This isn’t about road rage.”
“Oooo. That’s a great analogy. Road rage is angry people being unconditionally judgmental of other’s actions and behaving aggressively and putting the lives of innocent others in danger.”
I twisted around, seeking Nana’s support in fending off this absurdity. She shrugged. “I’d give him that one.”
I wasn’t giving up so easily. “Bullies with cars might work as a metaphor for child endangerment, but not so much as a metaphor for the emotional abuse of a child.”
He was zigzagging through the impressive downtown area of Pittsburgh with its myriad tall buildings. In their shadows, I felt small—as small as the defenseless child I once was. With all that we were talking about, I didn’t like feeling small just now.
“Okay, how about this,” Johnny tried again. “Road rage can occur at high speeds or in traffic jams. One is the moment when you must act or lose your chance to get ahead, the other is the moment when the feeling of being stuck overwhelms you to the point of lashing out.”
I rubbed at my temple. “So are you making the child represent the car or the road conditions?”
“The child is a passenger, swept along with the bully driving.”
He was beginning to sound a lot like Amenemhab. “Okay. What’s your end point, Mr. Freud?”
He drove onto South Tenth Street and ahead was another bridge. We’d be over the Monongahela River in seconds. “My point is, it’s your car now.” Under his breath he added, “And what a lovely ride it is.” Continuing in normal tones, he said, “So who did you learn more about driving from, Red? From Eris or from Demeter?”
On the south shore, we made a left onto East Carson as the GPS instructed. “Arriving at destination,” the voice crooned.
Johnny cruised through the intersection of South Fourteenth and there it was, beside Pittsburgh Guitars. “Huh,” he said continuing past.
“What?”
“The guitar shop. I’m still not saying I’m superstitious, but I’ll take that as a good omen.”
We stopped in a parking lot up the street and a dark blue Chevrolet Tahoe pulled in beside us on the driver’s side. It was Kirk and Todd. They had intended to ride in the back with Zhan between them, but when they heard Nana was coming they happily agreed to drive separately.
I twisted my hair up, poked bobby pins in to secure it, then donned my blond bob wig. The knit cap again hid the most obvious fakeness of the wig. After checking in the mirror and smoothing the ends, I asked Johnny, “What do you think?”
He wiggled his brows at me and drove back up Carson, parking in front of the guitar shop. Kirk and Todd drove around the corner to wait.
“Five minutes,” Johnny said.
“Give me ten.”
“Eight,” he countered.
“Deal.”
“Here.” Nana punched me in the arm with something. “Wear these, too.”
She handed me her oversize sunglasses. They were one step removed from those post–glaucoma treatment glasses. With much eye-rolling and a deep sigh, I slid them on. As I opened the door to get out Nana said, “What? No smooch for Johnny-boy?”
I slammed the car door and stomped away.
Still unsure what I was going to say, I was glad Nana set me off before I headed in. The edge of anger felt right.
I passed the guitar shop, walking slowly, taking in what was beyond the glass. As the edge of their storefront ended, I could see into the Arcane Ink Emporium. Their glass had an inner covering of UV protection, darkening it. The front was set up like a waiting room, but no one was behind the counter.
I went inside, jingling the bell on the door.
Scream-o metal music was playing just one increment louder than any background music should be, and the smell of menthol cigarettes filled my nostrils. The weak track lighting from above was subdued. I let the glasses slide down my nose a bit and looked around over the top of them.
To my left and right were red leather couches, each paired with a rustic-style coffee table laden with binders bearing printout sheets with a photograph and a name in large lettering placed into the front display pocket. A counter sat ahead to my right, and a narrow hallway stretched down the center of the building beyond it.
Around me, the black walls were cluttered with metal band posters and movie posters in dark red frames hung at odd angles. Smaller frames held things like concert tickets, or photos of famous people with tattoos. Motorcycle paraphernalia—wheels, handlebars, fenders—were also displayed like art. There were large pots with ficus trees and smaller ones with spider plants or cacti set here and there.
The floors were old, the wood worn, and, as I stepped farther in, I discovered they were also creaky. The floor was covered only by oriental area rugs under the coffee tables. There were more binders and bar seats at the counter. Behind it, on a slightly lower table, I could see a monitor screen divided into eight squares. In one, a male artist was working on another man’s arm. Each of the others revealed an empty room set up like a doctor’s office, except the last one—in which I saw myself standing in the main fr
ont area.
“Hello.” From the rearmost area of the building, my mother stepped into the hallway.
She’s here.
Though I had rarely seen it, I remembered that smile.
She walked toward me, smiling like a good shopkeeper. “Welcome to the Arcane Ink Emporium. What can I help you with today?”
She wore a black concert T-shirt for some band called Shatter Messiah. The sleeves were rolled up and the length of the shirt had been cut, revealing both her excessive tan and the spike-studded belt threaded through the loops of her black jeans. Snakeskin boots completed the whole badass fashion show.
“I’m considering a tattoo,” I said. “I’ve heard good things about …” I frowned, as if searching for the name. “Arcanum.”
She sidestepped to take her place behind the counter. “Everyone says good things about Arcanum. My other artists are work-on-demand, but Arcanum decides on a case-by-case basis. Here.” She put a clipboard with a single sheet of paper on it before me, added a pen. “Take a seat and fill that out. I’ll make sure Arcanum gets it.”
“Don’t I get to meet Arcanum first? I mean, what if I don’t like him? I don’t want to yank his chain.”
“Doesn’t matter if you like Arcanum or not. All that matters is if you like the art.” Eris took a binder from under the counter. “Here. Scan through this.” After offering the binder to me, she relaxed into the seat behind the counter and did something on the computer.
I flipped quickly through the photographs in page protectors. The art was certainly not contained in one style. There were brightly colored tattoos and grayscale ones. There was tribal art, modern skulls, standard Chinese dragons. The last dragon in the binder reminded me of Johnny’s tattoo.
“You like the dragons?” Eris asked as I lingered over that image.
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Does that matter?”
She shrugged. “To some people. It can relate to the dragon’s pose, color, where it goes on the body, whether it is oriental or more fantasy. A tattoo should say something about you, it should have meaning beyond the art and color. It should be a badge you give yourself, like a rite of passage.”
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