Messiah of Burbank - An Urban Fantasy

by Paul Neuhaus

  Sam smiled, and her teeth were conical and bright. “I am quite a sight, aren’t I?” she said.

  Quinn flushed. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be rude.”

  Sam nodded. “I know you weren’t. I can see your aura. And what an aura it is. You’re a woman, and yet you’re a Channeler. A very powerful Channeler. Given what I know about history, I’d be tempted to call you ‘Aja’.”

  Henaghan scrunched her nose. “I don’t think I like that name.”

  “Then we’ll stick with ‘Miss Henaghan’,” Sam said.

  “Let’s stick with ‘Quinn’.”

  “Of course.”

  Gilstrap returned with two chairs. David and Quinn sat down.

  “May I ask you some personal questions, Sam?”

  “I assume that’s why you’re here.” Sam rolled her reading glasses around, gripping them by one of the stems.

  “How long have you been here? In this facility?”

  “I was born on January third nineteen forty-five. I know: I look good for my age. I came to Arista shortly after it was built. I’ve been here since I was ten. Give or take.”

  “Did you know Reginald Verbic?”

  Sam stopped twirling the glasses and laid them on top of her book. “Yes. He came every Sunday until he died. The dutiful father.”

  “He was your father?”

  The gray-skinned woman shrugged.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Did Mr. Gilstrap or Mr. Olkin not tell you my personal history?” There was no irritation in the hybrid’s voice, but Sam was inscrutable.

  “I’m sorry. Not really.”

  “My mother was, of all things, a cocktail waitress. I imagine she was pretty much then as you are now. Minus your staggering access to maya. My father was— My fathers were… legion.”

  A flush of memory hit Quinn, making her cold. “Gladys. Your mother’s name was Gladys.”

  Sam raised one finger. “It was not. That was what they called her in the press following the… incident. They never gave her real name. I still don’t know it.”

  Annabelle Grindle, Quinn’s former neighbor, a reporter, had told her the story of “Gladys”. About how the girl was kidnapped and held inside Verbic’s home for three weeks, drugged and repeatedly raped. There’d been a child. A child who was conceived, came to term, and birthed all in that short span. That’d been “Glady’s” story but Verbic killed it before it could see the light of day. Henaghan shivered. “How was your relationship with Mr. Verbic?”

  “Chilly. He would come. We would play chess. Conversation was nonexistent. Were you the one that killed him?”

  The redhead hesitated for only a moment. “Yes. It was me.”

  Sam nodded to her. “Thank you,” she said. “You saved me from an endless purgatory of quiet chess games.”

  “Can you Channel, Sam?”

  “You haven’t scanned me?”

  “No. I didn’t want to be rude,” Quinn said.

  “Yes, I can Channel. I don’t know why. I shouldn’t be able to, and yet I can. I also dream. Strange dreams that take me to other places.”

  Quinn looked out into the courtyard. A big black crow sat looking at them from a tree. The girl shivered again. “Mr. Olkin has, I guess you could say, inherited this place. I’m advising in whatever ways I can. I’d like your input on how we should go forward. With Arista. With you.”

  Sam took a deep breath and looked back and forth between Olkin and Henaghan. “Thank you for asking my opinion. I don’t remember the last time that happened. I see two possible answers. One from a strictly personal point of view, the other more pragmatic and detached. Which would you prefer?”

  “I don’t have a preference,” Quinn replied. “Actually, scratch that. I do have a preference. Give me the personal answer.”

  Sam nodded to her, acknowledging the kindness. “There are times when… I am angry,” she said. “Because of an accident of birth, I’ve been a prisoner my whole life. Frankly, that sometimes chafes. However, in my more charitable moments, I sympathize with my jailers. Look at me: It’s not as though I can walk around in the outside world looking like this.” The tall woman took a deep breath, shut her eyes and rested her head against the back of the couch. “If I’ve lacked for anything, it’s been purpose. My days are all more or less the same. I have leisure and I lack constraints, but I don’t have… drive. My life here doesn’t require it.”

  For a moment, Quinn thought about what Darren Taft had once told her about purpose. She dismissed the memory quickly. “Have you thought about what sort of purpose you’d like to have?”

  Sam’s orange eyes widened in surprise. She raised her head. “No one’s ever asked me that before.”

  “Yes, I understand, but you must’ve thought about it.”

  The gray woman slumped ever so slightly, and she looked at the linoleum. Her eyes came up again finally. “I’m embarrassed to say I haven’t. I’m afraid I may’ve gotten lazy.”

  “That’s understandable. I won’t press because it might make me sound… parental. That’s not the relationship David and I want with you. Will you do me a favor? Will you think about where it is you’d like to be in the next year? Or the next five? Take two weeks. Then we’d like to visit you again. If that’s okay…”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I will think.”

  With that Quinn and David stood and Gilstrap folded the chairs. Sam stood and, again, shook hands with her two visitors. When she got to Quinn, she held onto the hand for a moment. “You seem to me a remarkable person, Quinn.”

  Henaghan smiled. “Wait ’til you get to know me. I’m just as stupid and crazy as anyone.”

  Sam smiled with her perfect white teeth.

  When they were back in the hallway, Olkin grinned at Quinn. “You know, given the mood you were in this morning, I thought I was gonna have to do all the talking. You’ve earned a coffee.”

  Quinn sighed. “Or a belt.”

  “Or a belt,” David agreed.

  Quinn and David wound up in a bar in Panorama City. “Sparky’s”. Red Naugahyde booths. Dim lighting, A grizzled barkeep. The setting was perfect for their conversation, and they sat huddled over their drinks.

  “How goes the detective work?” Quinn said as soon as they sat down. Early-on in Olkin’s tenure as steward of Fleur-de-lys, he’d discovered an equally shadowy company making frequent moves against Verbic’s old corporation. He was keen to find out more, reasoning “the enemy of my enemy is probably my friend” but he’d made almost no progress untangling the jumble of threads making up Tricolore.

  David picked at a persistent bit of dry food from the rim of his glass. A souvenir from a prior patron. “Nada. Zippo. The big goose-egg. Apart from the obvious symbolism we’ve already discussed.” The fleur-de-lys was, amongst other things, the symbol of French royalty. Why Verbic had chosen it as the name of his company was still a mystery, but it was what it was. Tricolore came into existence roughly a decade later and was named after the bullseye-shaped emblem of the French revolution. The fact that it bore that name and seemed to exist for no other reason than to counter Fleur-de-lys’ every move was the only unsubtle thing about it. “One good thing has come out of it though: I’ve been unable to trace undocumented Fleur-de-lys activities by observing Tricolore’s reaction. So, I’ve got that going for me.”

  Henaghan nodded and her expression grew far away.

  “Hey,” Olkin said. “If you don’t mind my asking, what had you cranky this morning? Girl troubles?”

  “What? Oh, fuck no. I mean it took me a while to realize it, but Molly’s the straight-up shit. She’s the polar opposite of Noah Keller.” Quinn didn’t like to speak ill of the dead, but Blank was everything Keller was not. She took a breath before going on. “I’ve… been having night terrors. Like Molly was having before we moved. Only mine’re a little more complicated.”

  David leaned in, eager to hear more. “I can imagine,” he said.

  “They’re weird post
-apocalyptic dreams. Hollywood in flames. Survivors wasting away. Very Road Warrior. This morning was different, though. Not only did I panic, I slipped away. Into a black, lightless space. I was falling. Molly came and got me. Isn’t that weird? She’s not a Channeler. She doesn’t have an ounce of maya running through her, yet she came after me.”

  Henaghan’s former boss took a sip of his Scotch. “It happens sometimes. People who aren’t Channelers have weird savant abilities. Very specific abilities. Maybe that’s what drew you two together.”

  Quinn scrunched her face. “I’d prefer to think we’re both just awesome. I already have enough magic in my life.”

  David said, “Amen” and the two clinked glasses. “I think you should talk to someone. If you’re sleep-Channeling, you could hurt someone. Yourself. Molly. You shouldn’t fuck around with that.”

  “I agree. I don’t wanna hurt anyone. Especially me. Who do you think I should talk to?”

  “That’s an easy one,” Olkin said, holding up his empty glass to indicate he’d like another round. “How did Dr. Terry strike you?”

  “A little off-kilter maybe, but professional. And dedicated. Seems like a good guy in a tough situation.”

  The barman poured Olkin another Scotch. Quinn put her hand over her glass to show she’d had enough and the bear-shaped proprietor walked away. “There you go then,” David said. “If I were you, I’d talk to Dr. Terry. You said you were going back anyway to check on Liam. Multitask.”

  “Okay, well, in that spirit…”

  “Something else on your mind?”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot lately… Partly because of the dreams. The subplot is always about being Aja. I still don’t know what being Aja even means. Do you know?”

  David dabbed at his lips with a napkin and pulled over a faux-wooden bowl full of stale pretzels. “What do you mean what does it mean?”

  “Is it a job? Is it a title? Is it a responsibility? Is it what the name implies? The whole ‘messiah’ thing creeps me out. I don’t like planning more than a day ahead, and it’s got such… implication.”

  Olkin puckered his face and pushed the pretzels away. “Do not fucking eat those,” he said. He brushed the salt off of his hands and returned his eyes back to his younger friend. “Look, you know me. I could easily not know what the fuck I’m talking about here, but I think maybe you’re overthinking. I look at Aja as more of a descriptor than a duty. You are the Aja just like I’m a white male over fifty with moderately bad skin.”

  “What about expectations?”

  “Are people asking for specific things?”

  Quinn had to think about that for a moment. Finally, she conceded that no one was asking her for anything in particular.

  David shrugged. “If nobody’s asking, don’t offer.”

  “Is it fair to make it that simple?”

  “In lieu of a better answer, I’m gonna say yes. It’s not like we have a job description for the Aja. It’s also not like we have a lot of precedent to fall back on. I mean there’s been, what, you and one other chick.”

  Henaghan downed the rest of her Scotch and winced as it went down. “So, you’re telling me to take the job and make it my own?”

  “I guess. Or don’t. That’s up to you. How’s that for a complete lack of expectation?”

  Even though Quinn’s glass was empty, they clinked one last time.

  When Quinn got home, Molly wasn’t there so she decided to go for a walk. Though she’d had reservations at first, she really loved living in Burbank—especially since their house was a stone’s throw from the Walt Disney Studios. Back in the day, Atlanta Quinn would’ve been giddy at such a prospect.

  Henaghan had spent her early years in Los Angeles writing stories about Old Hollywood for a blog she called Company Town. Since the site came from a feminist perspective (not to mention an unjaundiced one), it often didn’t have nice things to say about the people and events it chronicled. Very little of it was about Walt Disney. Apart from a deep and abiding hatred of communists, Disney managed to keep his reputation in line with his squeaky clean public image. From Henaghan’s reading of history, she was sure the animation and theme park impresario could be as big an asshole as anyone in Hollywood, but, as far as Quinn knew, he wasn’t a creepy, exploitative asshole. At least not outside of societal norms. Walking past the House that Walt built always brought her a certain peace. On that particular day, it also brought a rush of sudden and unexpected excitement.

  As she strolled along Riverside Drive, a car stopped in front of her near the studio’s original gate. From out of the car’s backseat, a woman exited. It was a woman Quinn had seen from a distance a couple of times before. The experience had been nearly the same each time. The lady—with her long blond hair, her white dress and her white high heels—would see Quinn from a distance and smile. Henaghan would then feel a surprising (and mildly embarrassing) sexual charge. This time, however, the experience was a little different.

  The White Lady (as Quinn had dubbed her in her mind) paid her Uber driver and looked around. When she saw Quinn, she did not smile, nor did she walk away. This time she walked toward the redhead.

  Henaghan’s mind raced. Oh, shit. She’s coming over here! What do I do? Molly had been the only woman Quinn had ever been attracted to before the White Lady. And, with the White Lady there was no shading. It was all animal lust.

  “Excuse me,” the woman said, her voice was feminine but firm. Quinn tried not to stare (or blow a spit bubble with her pursed lips). “I may be lost. Do you know where the Walt Disney Studios is?”

  Okay, that was weird. Henaghan looked to her immediate left and saw a quaint red brick sign with gold letters. It read: “The Walt Disney Studios”.

  The White Lady followed the motion of Quinn’s head and she too saw the sign. She put a pale hand up to her face and her yellow hair caught the sun. The woman had deep blue eyes and a full mouth painted red. Her look was very old school. Very Technicolor. “Oh, fer crissakes,” she said. “You must think I’m an idiot.”

  The redhead found her voice. “I would never think anyone I just met was an idiot. Not without more evidence. Not anyone so beautiful.”

  The White Lady laughed. Not just politely, but long and hard. She looked back and forth up and down Riverside. “What the hell?” she said. “You talk like Robert Mitchum from an old movie. Which is weird because you’re a lady and this is the middle of Burbank and it’s broad daylight. Shouldn’t it at least be dusky for you to talk to me like that?”

  Henaghan flushed. What had made her dip into noir-speak the way she had? Picking up ladies (or guys for that matter) wasn’t her style. “I’m sorry. You’re right. That was bizarre. This is like the third time I’ve seen you. From a distance the other two times. I don’t mean anything by it, but I guess I find you very striking.”

  The White Lady smiled and folded her hands in front of her handbag. “Alright then. Maybe I better get to my meeting. It was lovely to have met you—”

  It took a moment for Quinn to realize the other woman was asking her name. “Oh. Quinn. My name’s Quinn.”

  The White Lady extended her hand daintily (and, again, in an old school fashion). Henaghan took it. “Quinn. My name is Ciara.” With their hands still locked, Ciara leaned in to Quinn and, with her lips right next to Quinn’s ear, she whispered, “Think of me and I’ll come to you. I’m at your beck and call.” With that, the blond pulled away, turned right and approached the studio gate.

  Quinn watched her go and thought, What the fuck just happened?

  When Quinn got home, the house was still empty, and she decided to take a nap. Before she settled into bed, she checked her ward to make sure it was in place and threw off all her clothes. The residual sexual charge she felt after meeting Ciara followed her into her dreams.

  She was floating in a featureless black. She called out saying the word “Ciara” only once. Ciara was there right away, floating in front of her. The White Lady wore the same dres
s she always wore but it was more free-flowing and expansive. In fact, gigantic tendrils of cloth waved around it like the tentacles of an octopus. The tendrils moved with purpose. Ciara was directing them. They came toward Henaghan and enfolded her in a soft embrace. They stroked Quinn’s face and caressed her body. All the hairs stood up on the redhead’s skin and she closed her eyes, surrendering herself to the sensual pleasure of the waving, purposeful cloth.

  At first, she reacted with alarm as the woven limbs slid the clothing from her body and stroked her belly and breasts. Soon, she gave into the deep sensory delight. She even laid back and arched herself toward Ciara and one of the tentacles twisted into a hard rope and entered her. In and out it went, and Quinn moaned with ecstasy. She climaxed, but the arms of fabric continued in their lovemaking. She climaxed again. And again. Utterly swept away by the expert quality of Ciara’s virtual touch.

  Then she was shaken awake.

  As Quinn’s eyes popped open and she gasped, she had one last orgasm. Disoriented, she finally locked in on Molly, the person shaking her awake. “Quinn! Get up!” Blank said.

  “What happened?” Henaghan said, looking around, fixing her position in space and time.

  “You tell me,” the brunette said. “I was just seeing if you wanted lunch. Were you cumming just now?”

  “What? No. No,” Quinn replied, though her lower body was still tingling from the tremors that’d shaken her while she was asleep.

  Molly folded her arms in front of her chest. “It sure looked like you were cumming. If you were cumming, you’ve got to show me that trick, ‘cause it looked intense.” She turned and headed out toward the living room. “If you want a BLT come and get it. Wash you hoohah first.”

  Quinn sat up and threw her legs over the side of the bed. She stood, and her thigh muscles still quivered. What the fuck? she thought as she stumbled into the master bath.