“Oh, what’s this piece of shit doing in our bar?” asked one demon of the other.
Colby looked up as he closed the door behind him.
“You’d think he’d have the decency to stay in his little faggot bar with all his little faggot friends,” said the other.
The Boggart laughed, but dared not speak up. Of the three, he was the only one to have ever seen Colby angry before. Colby shot them a withering glare and the Boggart looked away, choosing the table in lieu of eye contact. The demons grinned wickedly.
“What the hell are you doing down here?” asked Ewan.
Colby smiled. “I’ve got a thing I’ve got to do a little later. On this side of town. So I figured I’d drop in.”
“A thing?”
“Yeah, just a job. Nothing big.”
“Nothing worth speaking of, or nothing you can?”
“It’s a work thing.”
Ewan pleaded with his arms. “Why does everyone in my life have to be so goddamned mysterious?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
One of the demons mocked him in a pinched voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Colby peered over his shoulder, trying not to be obvious.
“You and Nora and all your secrets,” said Ewan. “Doesn’t anyone, you know, actually talk about their shit?”
“Nora has secrets?”
“Of course she does. I can’t have anyone in my life who doesn’t. Even my bandmates have their little secrets with each other.”
“Well, they’re brothers. What’s Nora’s deal?”
“Her deal?”
“What won’t she tell you?”
“Everything. Where she’s from. What she does. She’s a total mystery.”
“What do you know about her?”
“I know she lives with her uncle out in the Hill Country and that she was in love with some guy once, but he took off and forgot about her.”
“That all sounds pretty norm . . .” Colby’s eyes grew wide. “Where in the Hill Country?”
“Won’t say. Just that she lives with her uncle.”
“Hmmm.” Colby’s voice drifted off, thoughts rolling around in his head.
“She’s not a redneck or anything.”
“Hmmm? Wait, what?”
“It’s not like she’s a hick.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know what you were thinking.”
“You don’t have the first idea what I’m thinking.”
“I need to get more ice. Hang here.” Ewan picked up the large plastic tub, carrying it off into the kitchen.
Colby looked over his shoulder at the demons who in turn continued their sadistic grinning.
“What are you going to do without your djinn, wish boy?”
“Yeah, you ain’t gonna do nothing.”
Colby shook his head, upturning his palm. With a quick flex of his fingers he sucked every last bit of dreamstuff out of the room, every bit of lingering darkness and melancholy, exhaling it as a single ring of smoke. The puff drifted then broke apart.
The three glowered. “Oh, now you’re just being a dick,” said one. The Boggart gently grabbed his wrist, shaking his head.
Colby clenched his fist. “How hard do you think it would be for me to do the same to you? Find another bar.”
“What?” asked Ewan from the other room.
The three stood up, angry and flustered, making their way to the door.
“I said how hard would it be to find a girl like Nora at another bar?”
Ewan returned, his back arched and the tub overflowing with ice. “Why would I want to find another girl?”
“Not you. Me, jackass. What are the odds of me finding a girl like her?”
“Why would you want to find a girl like Nora? It’s not like you’d talk to her.”
“That’s not cool.”
“No, it’s not. But it’s true. I’ve never seen you talk to a girl. Never.”
“I talk to . . . okay, I don’t talk to girls. But imagine for a moment that I did. What would I say? I mean, what did you say to pick up Nora?”
“She did most of the picking up, actually.”
“Reaaalllly?”
“Wait, you don’t think that a girl like that would want a guy like me?”
“That’s not even close to what I was saying.”
“Why is it such a big deal that she hit on me and not the other way around?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
Colby floundered for an answer that didn’t have the word fairy in it. “Because I worry, okay?”
“What?”
“Girls like that can be trouble. She could be an emotional train wreck moving from guy to guy, leaving you heartbroken and penniless.”
“You take that back.”
“Ewan, Jesus. I’m not saying that’s who she is, I’m saying I don’t know her and I worry.”
“You don’t have to worry. That’s not your job.”
“But I do. I’m always going to worry. Sometimes I feel like you’re my only connection to . . . to . . . to the real world. I’m always off in the bookstore, in my own little world, and you are what keeps me grounded, what keeps me feeling human. You’re my link, and if I lose you, I feel like I’ll be lost for good. So yeah. I worry.”
“Is that why you always wrote me letters when we were kids? When you were off having all those adventures?”
“That’s exactly why. Everyone needs one friend who makes them feel normal. Who makes them feel like not everyone in the world is out to get them. That’s you. Without you, I’d go nuts. I don’t think I could handle this place.”
“Goddamnit, Colby.”
“What?”
“I can’t even be pissed off at you properly.”
“That’s the mark of a good friend.”
Ewan nodded and dumped the remaining ice into the well. “It is. Now get the fuck out of here. My boss will be in soon.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE THREE LADIES OF LADYBIRD LAKE AND THE SOULS THEY KEEP BENEATH IT
The word lake was something of a misnomer, a polite fiction. It was actually a reservoir—a dammed-up section of the Colorado River, perfectly bisecting the city, that had at one time fallen into disuse. Only later, through civic revitalization, did it become a destination location for hikers, bikers, and joggers on the prowl. Trails lined the lake up one side and down the other, shaded by trees that ran its length both in and out of town.
Colby was given no deadline or timetable, but the weight of the task gnawed at him, demanding he be done with it. So there he was. It was night, and he stood naked at the edge of the lake at a spot a quarter mile west of the expressway, where he could still hear the traffic.
Of course, he knew of the nixie sisters by reputation, but he had never met them. There were often stories in the local news about drowned men that could be little other than the work of a nixie, and an urban legend about a woman who had drowned her husband and baby before hanging herself that local spirits often attributed to them. Hopefully, they knew as little of him as he did them, or better yet, that they had never heard of him at all.
The water was cool, a few degrees lower than the night air, tickling a bit as he slid into it. He dipped his head in the water, getting that momentary nastiness out of the way, then exhaled deeply, forcing every last bit of air out of his lungs. Then he dropped below the surface, sinking deep into the lake.
Beneath the water, Colby began his incantations. First his skin grew a thick green mucus, allowing his limbs to glide through the water as if it were air. Then his eyes grew a milky white membrane that blinked out the water, allowing him to see into the murky depths. A thick green, brown, and yellow turtle shell crept over his flesh, encasing all but his head and stubby little legs. Finally, he shrank several sizes until he was only slightly larger than a family dog. He popped his head above the water and took a deep a breath, an hour’s worth o
f air. There, he thought. Now I’m ready.
He swam down to the bottom of the lake, paddling quickly but quietly, to the nixies’ hidden lair, careful not to disturb the silt surrounding it. Swimming through the atrium, he entered a cave decorated as a sitting room. Three waterlogged couches sat positioned as if they were meant to host company. Sitting atop one of them—chained down so as to not float away—was the slowly deteriorating, bloated corpse of the nixies’ most recent victim.
Colby tried not to look as he swam past it into the dining room.
As he passed through the doorway—nothing more than a large hole connecting one cave to the next—he saw one of the nixie sisters dining on a stew of things culled from the lake bottom. She looked up at him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked sweetly.
Colby grew nervous. If he spoke to explain himself, she would see through the deception; if he didn’t, there was no telling what she might do.
She smiled. “Aren’t you a cute little one? Don’t spend too much time down here. My sisters are asleep, and if you wake them, they’ll make a soup out of you.” She waved him off with a flutter of her hand. “Off you go then.”
Colby continued, hoping now not to see the other sisters. He passed into another cave, long and slender like a hallway. Along it adjoined several other chambers, four in all, each clearly bedrooms. At the end was the single largest cavern in the underwater den. It was huge, some sixty feet across, the floor covered with a thick layer of silt and sand.
The room was overflowing with jars, nearly 150 in all, each upturned—their necks buried six inches in the sand—upon them carved the names of the suitors they possessed. These nixies had been claiming victims here for decades. Colby eyed the names in the dark, eager to knock over the jar he was here for and be done with it. But there were so many, and he dared not loose them all; there was no telling what might happen then.
He read name after name, each carved messily into the clay with a small knife, until finally he found it: JARED THATCHER.
He nudged the pot with his turtle head, but it would not budge; he was too small and weak to knock it over. The only way he was going to overturn it was to return to normal, leaving him only a minute or so more of air to swim out. Though that left little room for error, he had no other choice. Colby closed his eyes and worked one final incantation, using the last lingering remnants of ambient dreamstuff to revert.
The water was frigid this deep down—a fact he hadn’t noticed until his protective turtle flesh was gone—and the water flooded his ears, the pressure pushing in on his eardrums. He reached down with his arms, dug both feet into the sand, and tugged at the pot. It budged ever so slightly. He tugged again and gained another inch. Straining, he put every last bit of energy into pulling up the pot, finally freeing it from its moorings. A ghostly blue light slipped out from beneath, taking the form of a young man, only slightly older than Colby.
The man gazed upon him with horror, reaching out a single extended hand, his spirit drifting away in the current. “Why?” he gasped. “Why did you do this?”
Colby felt a strange sensation creeping in—a cold, dark, ominous feeling like a distant void peeking through, grasping hold of the spirit in front of him.
“Why?” Jared asked one last time, his eyes full of fear. Then Hell itself reached out from the void and dragged the spirit into nothingness.
What have I done?
Colby’s lungs began to ache for air, the early stages of panic setting in. He needed to get to the surface; he needed to get to the surface now. Colby swam furiously, careless now of how much noise he made. Air. No matter how hard he thrashed, he just couldn’t move swiftly enough against the current. Need air. Without thinking, he grabbed the wall, pulling himself along, casting himself haphazardly through the caves.
He entered the dining room and scanned for the nixie who had spoken to him. She was nowhere to be found.
Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!
He reached the threshold of the atrium, his lungs ready to burst. Then he heard them.
“Someone’s here!” said a voice.
“It’s just a turtle,” said another.
“No. It’s a man!”
Colby kicked up toward the surface, struggling to make his way to fresh air. He shot through the water like a rocket, breaking through with a loud splash. His lungs barked out stale air, and he wheezed desperately to replace it. Behind him, two small splashes.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” asked one of the sisters.
A clawed hand grasped his ankle, dragging him back beneath the water. He sank toward the bottom, flailing for the surface as it drifted slowly away. The nixie grappling with him climbed his body, embraced him face-to-face. She grinned, anxious to drown the intruder for his trespass.
“Now, just who do you think you . . . ,” she said, her voice stopping midsentence, trailing into worry. Her expression promptly changed. “Oh my . . . I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, horrified at the face before her. She kicked with her fin and launched them both upward, breaking the surface, throwing him off her as far as she could. Then she swam away, terrified, as if he bore the plague.
“What are you doing?” screamed one of her sisters.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Please don’t hurt us!” she pleaded.
“What are you going on about?” asked her other sister.
“Him. It’s the boy. The boy sorcerer.”
“Colby?” they asked together. They hadn’t recognized him at first, but they’d seen him around. Everyone knew who Colby was, whether he knew them or not. And they were terrified of him. Without hesitating, the two sisters abandoned the third to the surface, disappearing beneath the waves, leaving her to stare, agape, at Colby. Colby had no idea what to make of what was going on.
“Are you going to kill me?” she asked.
Colby shook his head. “Are you going to kill me?”
“No,” she said.
“Then let me swim to shore and you never have to see me again.”
She nodded and Colby splashed his way back to the embankment across the lake.
He pulled himself ashore, breathless, scared out of his wits, looking back out at the water. The nixies were gone, having vanished beneath the waves. He’d done it, but he wasn’t at all sure what it was. It was probably best not to think about it. With the favor done, the Wild Hunt should not hunt for Colby’s soul, and whoever Jared Thatcher was, he was least where he most likely belonged.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
ONE NIGHT ONLY
After a week of begging, pleading, and cajoling his slovenly potato of a boss into letting his band perform once more, Ewan got his chance. A local band had been hitting up the owner for more money, while Limestone Kingdom was willing to play for free. The owner came around. From then on, what time Ewan didn’t spend curled up with Nora he spent in his bassist’s garage, practicing their new songs.
Something was different about him. Color had returned to his skin—the pale, sickly white replaced by a fleshy, earthy pink. He smiled more. His eyes seethed with a fire, as if he’d been shown something incredible and couldn’t wait to tell the world about it. There was a spring in his step, an interminable energy to his every movement. He oozed confidence; one could almost smell his charisma on the air.
Ewan Bradford was a fucking rock star. And it was time the rest of the world finally got the chance to know it.
Plugging in his amp, the place felt meager and small, almost as if it were unworthy of what he was about to unleash. He smiled, shook that feeling off, reminding himself that the magic was in the crowd, not in the rat-trap fire hazard of a club. There was a certain poetry to playing this music here first—a final go fuck yourself before his band made it. Something had clicked, their music finally just right. It had balls, it was layered; for the first time in his life, Ewan felt as if he had something to say. The drummer’s sister stood offstage with a video camera, recording the show, the bassist’s buddy
, a sound technician, laying it down on tape.
All that Ewan needed now was to see Nora, to get one last playful glance from her before striking the chord that would mark the end of his old life and the beginning of the new. He glanced around, hoping she’d picked the same spot where he’d first seen her sitting, but she wasn’t there. People were still pouring in, eager not to hear Limestone Kingdom, but the band following them, a local favorite. The crowd wasn’t thick, but it was dense enough to make finding Nora tough. Frantically he scanned the room, looking for her.
And then he saw her. She stood at the back of the room, a foot propped up on the wall behind her, wearing exactly the same outfit as the night they’d met. She smiled and winked, noting that he’d finally found her. Then she blew him a kiss, nodding. He was ready.
BREEEEOOOOOWWWWW! The first chord resonated like a bolt of lightning striking the amp, its thunder rolling over the crowd. Everyone looked up. Everyone. Ewan paused before he touched his guitar again, letting that single, drifting note draw everyone in. An awkward anticipation hung in the air, as if the crowd had been awakened suddenly at their desks in class with no idea why everyone was staring at them.
And then he laid into his guitar like a ravenous dog on a piece of meat. There was nothing limp or mediocre about it. It was profound. It was like seeing the aurora borealis for the first time. Everything they were doing seemed wrong, but felt right. Discordant notes blended to form melodies and shockingly addictive chords. Hooks that felt as if they’d been in the audience’s heads for years played to their ears for the first time. Eyes and jaws stared wide, unblinking, at the stage.
There was no stage show. No lighting. No pageantry. But their essence was palpable. Three guys pouring their hearts into a song that everyone swore they’d heard somewhere before but could not place. Everyone present would describe their experience differently, but they would all speak of it reverently, as if it were somehow religious.
Dreams and Shadows: A Novel Page 26
