“There’s a lot you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”
She nodded.
“And you don’t trust me enough to tell me?”
“It’s not that.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s things you’d best not know.”
“About you?”
“About where I come from.”
“Why can’t I know about it?”
“Because if there are things I’d rather forget, why on earth would I want someone else remembering them?”
“Sometimes weights are better carried by two.”
“You read that on a greeting card, didn’t you?”
Ewan smirked, busted. “It might have been a comic strip.”
“You’re adorable.”
“You’re incredible.”
“Run away with me.”
“What?”
Nora sat up, taking Ewan’s hands in hers, staring, unblinking, into his eyes. “Run away with me. We’ll take your band to L.A. and go all the way. Let’s just get out of here and never look back.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Losing all this.”
“No, why do you want to leave?”
“Because you’re never going to be the man you want to be washing dishes in a bar. And I’m never going to be the girl you want me to be living here.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Very.”
“Oh my God. I don’t . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“Tell me you love me.”
“Nora, I love you.”
“Tell me you need me.”
“Nora, I need you.”
“Tell me you’re gonna be a rock star.”
“I’m gonna be a rock star.”
“Run away with me.”
“Okay. After our next show, if we tear the roof off the place, we’ll talk to the boys.”
Nora bounced up and down, clapping her hands. “We’re going to do this?”
“If the show goes well.”
“Then it better go well. I’ll do whatever I can.”
“You really want to do this?”
“More than anything.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE PHILOSOPHER’S BREAKFAST
The sky was angry, roiling with a deep fury betraying unshackled hostility for the earth below. Flashes of light belched within the clouds, streaking from the heavens, trailed by cavernous claps of thunder drenched in a thousand tiny slaps of rain. It was a hateful storm, spiteful, brimming with malice. The sky itself fell in softball-size chunks of ice, the city buckling, breaking beneath it, windows spiderwebbed with cracks before shattering, ice and glass commingling on the ground.
Colby Stevens saw the storm for what it was, the billowing thunderhead above churning with the shadows of Hell, the air stinking of brimstone. There was nothing natural about it. It was the witching hour and the looming threat had chased away the few remaining barflies, leaving abandoned downtown streets. The conditions were perfect for what was about to happen. Though having never before seen it in person, he was familiar with the signs. The Wild Hunt was afoot.
Colby stood in the recessed doorway of a building, barely out of hail’s reach, a backpack slung over his shoulder, holding a single bottle of whiskey—a gift from Old Scraps to rush him out the door before the rare act of closing the bar up for the night. No one wanted to be out in this, even the old cluricaun.
As the hail let up, Colby hiked across the ice-strewn street to one of the city’s tallest buildings and ascended its rain-slicked fire escape. The wet metal left a rusty orange itch in his palm. While spending time atop a rooftop in a storm was a terrible idea, the telltale dull roar of hooves in the distance convinced him that it was better than the alternative. So Colby took the fire escape one step at a time, trying not to think about what might happen if lightning struck its exposed, rusted metal skeleton.
Upon reaching the top, he saw that he was not alone. Sharing the rooftop, perched recklessly upon the outermost ledge, was Bertrand the angel. Suited from the neck down in his battered white suit of armor, he looked more like a lightning hazard than good company. Bertrand craned his neck over his shoulder, sniffing, his long, soaked hair flailing in the wind.
“Is that a bottle of whiskey I smell in your bag?” he called out over the rain.
Colby nodded. “You can smell that?”
“I’ve got the nose of a bloodhound and the thirst of his master.” Bertrand sniffed the air again. “I wouldn’t worry, you’ll be fine up here. Doesn’t smell like lightning.”
Colby walked across the rooftop, pulling the bottle out of his bag. He unscrewed the top, took a long, deep pull off the bottle and passed it to Bertrand. The angel took a brief swig, gargled with the alcohol and swallowed hard.
“Shit,” he said. “I figured a sorcerer would be able to conjure himself up a better brand of bourbon.”
Colby shook his head. “Not in this town. There isn’t enough ambient dreamstuff to put together a stiff drink of rotgut, let alone a whole bottle of the stuff.” Then he took a seat beside the angel.
Bertrand took another drink, then flapped and fluttered his large white wings a bit, shaking rain from his feathers. He extended one wing over Colby, casting a heavy shadow but shielding him from the brunt of the downpour. “I’ve heard things about you, you know. Stories.”
“I’d be surprised if you hadn’t,” said Colby, reaching for the bottle.
“Are any of them true?”
Colby nodded. “I’m sure there’s a little something true in a bit of them all.”
“Which ones are almost true?”
“Well, which one is your favorite? Just assume that one is true.”
Bertrand nodded. “So what can I do for you?”
“What makes you think you can do something for me?”
“A lot of rooftops in this city,” he said. “I only perch on one of ’em.”
“Answers, mostly.”
“You want to ask me questions?” asked Bertrand, genuinely surprised.
“Yeah.”
Bertrand smirked. “Do I have to answer?”
“No. It’s not that kind of night.”
Bertrand and Colby had never spoken alone before, and the angel was rapidly growing impressed. “All right, I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “If you answer one question honestly, I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
“Shoot,” said Colby.
“Why won’t the other angels talk to you?”
Colby looked down at the street below and watched the rain speed away from them, toward the ground. “Did you know that when you free all the dreamstuff from the body of an angel, all that’s left are a few feathers and the smell of newborn babies?”
“I did not.”
“One of your buddies thought he might pull the old visitation in a dream routine. I woke up as he was creeping up on me in the dark. To this day I have no idea what he was trying to tell me.”
“I guess some of the stories about you are true.”
“Like I said, there’s a little truth to most of them. Everything else is perspective and window dressing.” Colby took a swig from the bottle and passed it over to Bertrand. “For the descended of Heaven, your kind sure isn’t fond of forgiveness.”
“The unforgiven have little forgiveness to go around.”
“Fair enough.”
“What is it you want to know?”
“What does it take to be a good man?”
Bertrand laughed. “You want to know about goodness, so you come to someone tossed out of Heaven?”
“You fell to earth, not Hell. There’s something to be said for that.”
Bertrand gave Colby a surprised look, eyeing him from top
to bottom. “You’re far wiser than anyone gives you credit for, you know that?”
“I’ll take that backhanded compliment. Now give me back my bottle.”
Bertrand took a quick tug before handing the bottle back to Colby, who in turn took another long pull. “Look, I’ll tell you what I know, which is the best that I can remember. How’s that?”
Colby nodded, wiping whiskey from his lips with his sleeve. “That’ll have to do.”
“I’m guessing you’re not here for the nickel advice. Love one another and treat everyone as you would have them treat you and all that?”
“No,” said Colby.
“Well then, there are two types of holiness in this world: goodness and selflessness.”
“They’re not the same?”
“Hell no, they’re not the same. They’re not even close to being the same. A good man does what he’s told; he follows the rules and keeps his nose clean. End of story. If he screws up, he asks for forgiveness and tries to do better next time. By the end of it all, as long as he’s done his best and feels bad for all the times he’s dropped the ball, we call him good.
“A truly selfless man, on the other hand, is an evil man. The most selfless thing a man can do is evil. A selfless man is one who does what he knows is wrong because he knows the outcome is ultimately for the greater good. A man who willingly commits his soul to damnation so that others don’t have to? That’s the ultimate selfless act. A true spiritual warrior isn’t forgiven in the end—he gets no redemption—but his sacrifice enables others to live pure and chaste lives. That’s the real reward. Of course, you never see that written in the fine print of the brochures.” Bertrand leaned over as if sharing some trade secret. “You think the Crusaders were forgiven because the pope waved his hand and absolved them before they raped and killed and pillaged their way across the holy land? No. Heaven has no room for the self-righteous. Or the damned.
“You want the cold, hard truth? A martyr—a real martyr—isn’t someone who dies for what he believes in. It’s someone who gives up eternity for it. Someone who knows that they’ll burn for what they’ve done, and does it anyway, consequences be damned.”
“For someone else,” said Colby, nodding.
“For someone else,” agreed Bertrand. “Selflessness is only truly selfless if there is no reward but the outcome. Even in the afterlife.”
“And that’s what goodness is?”
“That’s what holiness is.”
Colby looked over with a sober, probing expression. “So, why’d you fall?”
Bertrand stared out into the rain. “You know, that’s the problem with mortals—no understanding of the soul. You always assume we must have fallen, that we were all thrown out of Heaven.” Then he turned and locked gazes with Colby, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Some of us jumped.”
“Do you remember why?”
Bertrand laughed. He looked away, then back at Colby, laughing again. Once more he looked away, having a hard time keeping a straight face. “You really don’t spend much time around angels. We forget a lot of things—I mean, a lot of things—but we never forget that. The why is branded on our souls and stings every moment we’re away. Yes. Yes, I remember why.”
The dull, distant rumble of the Wild Hunt was louder now, the clamor of far-off hooves becoming more of an uproar, requiring raised voices. It wouldn’t be much longer before they arrived.
“Is that whiskey I smell?” called a voice from the other side of the roof. Bertrand and Colby turned, looking over their shoulders at Bill the Shadow, rain cascading off the brim of his hat.
“Hey, Bill,” the two said simultaneously.
Bill strode up, taking a seat next to Bertrand. “You got another wing?” Bertrand cast a sidelong glance at Bill, then shook the rain from his other wing, holding it over him. “Thanks,” said Bill, lighting up a cigarette. He inhaled deeply. “Now, about that bottle.”
Colby passed it over. The freshly opened bottle was now half empty and sloshing.
Bill drank. “I ever tell you guys about the time I saw the Wild Hunt up close and personal with my own eyes?”
“I’ve never heard that story,” said Bertrand.
Colby shook his head silently and then reached across Bertrand’s chest to signal Bill. Bill took a drink from the bottle and attempted to hand it back, but Colby waved it off and pointed to the cigarette. Nodding, Bill took another puff, and then handed it over to Colby.
Colby took a deep drag.
“It was a decade, decade and a half ago,” said Bill, “out in the Hill Country. You know, deep in the Limestone Kingdom. I was living out there at the time.” He looked over at Colby. “This was just before you and Yashar showed up.”
“You were out there back then?” asked Colby, exhaling a puff of smoke as he spoke.
“Oh yeah. I was even there the night you went all . . .” Bill finished the sentence with a whistle, as if to signify the word crazy.
“Wait,” said Bertrand. “You were there for that? When he disembodied a dozen fairies?”
“That’s not what happened,” said Colby, shaking his head.
“Yeah, I was there,” said Bill. He took another drink from the bottle. “Colby’s right. The legend doesn’t live up to the memory.”
“Thank you,” said Colby.
Bill continued. “It was worse.”
Colby rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on.”
“Oh, you should have seen it, Bertrand,” said Bill. “There we were—had to be at least a hundred of us—all standing around dumbfounded in front of the eight-year-old boy with his chest puffed out. It was surreal. First this redcap just vanishes in a fruity little explosion of flower petals and then nobody moves. A few redcaps get uppity, but Meinrad—he’s the honcho out there—he waves them off because he knows better. This kid means business. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is shitting themselves. It was as if someone had walked into a crowd with a revolver—we knew that he could take out only a few of us before we tore him apart, but nobody wanted to be one of the six who would catch a bullet, you know?”
“So how many did he vaporize?” asked Bertrand with genuine interest.
“Just the one.”
“Really? Because every time I hear that story, the number gets bigger.”
“I told you,” said Colby. “It didn’t happen like that.”
“But it did happen,” said Bill. “That was the night that I decided to leave. I only go back for the Tithe.”
Colby looked over at Bill. “Wait, they still hold the Tithe?”
“Of course they hold the Tithe,” said Bill. “Why wouldn’t they?”
“Because I told them not to.” Colby’s eyes were cold and angry.
“No, you didn’t. You just came to get your little boyfriend.”
Colby was genuinely baffled, drifting off into thought. He’d just assumed they’d stopped.
Bertrand tapped Bill on the chest with the back of his hand; Bill returned the bottle. “So what does that have to do with the hunt?” he asked.
Bill nodded. “The hunt came the night before Colby here showed up. It came from out of nowhere.” He looked around. “Not like this. We were out enjoying the night when the roar just washed over us like a flash flood. Cut up a number of my friends right in front of me. I ducked into the shadows and watched as they took off with most everyone I knew well. After that, the Limestone Kingdom went to shit. And I’ve been drinking ever since.”
The roar became almost deafening as the Wild Hunt rounded a corner onto the street below. While still several blocks away, the riders’ gallop reverberated off buildings, rattling windows, shaking loose grit from bricks. Then the shadows of the large black goats appeared, their twisted horns flailing about in the dark, their feet igniting the earth below with horseshoe-shaped bursts that dimmed and flickered out immediately in the po
uring rain. The riders whipped their steeds, pushing them hard and fast through the city, wisps of smoke trailing from their cauterized rags.
Bertrand brought a thoughtful hand up to his chin, giving a troubled look to Bill. Bill returned a firm, slow nod before the two turned their gaze back to the bedlam below. Something was very, very wrong.
The hunt from Hell galloped by without incident, without so much as looking up at the roof above. There were a dozen riders in all, their identities indistinguishable from where the trio perched. Each raced their goat as fast as it would carry them, vanishing around a street corner three blocks away, their waning thunder and smoldering hoofprints the only evidence they were still present.
“Well, that’s not right,” said Bertrand.
“What’s not right?” asked Colby.
“The hunt,” said Bill, shaking his head. “They’re not hunting anybody.”
“How can you tell?”
“No dogs,” said Bertrand. “They always bring dogs. And they were traveling much too fast; you can’t see anything traveling that fast in the dark, especially when you’re not looking.”
Bill and Bertrand both looked long and hard at Colby, their faces expressionless. Bertrand offered him back his bottle.
“You don’t think . . . ,” began Colby.
Bertrand nodded. “The Wild Hunt only appears where it needs or wants to be. Nowhere else.”
Bertrand put a firm hand on Colby’s shoulder, his caustic breath smelling as if he might ignite near an open flame. Colby wilted, his nostrils burning. “If things go as badly as I believe they will,” said Bertrand, “and you end up on the right side of this, me and some of the boys will get your back. You bring the whiskey and I’ll bring a pack of pissed-off angels.”
Colby looked at him with confused, sincere eyes. “Why the hell would you help me?”
“Like I said, if you end up on the right side of this, we’ll be there. It’s kind of our thing.”
Colby and Bertrand turned their eyes to Bill, who took one last drag off his cigarette before stabbing it out on the wet stone. “Most everyone I give a shit about died a long time ago. If there’s a ruckus, I’m bound to want to take part. You can count me in.”
Dreams and Shadows Page 25
