“Thank you,” said Colby.
Bill laughed. “Don’t thank us yet, kid. There’s a whole lotta hell to be had before it comes to all that. You mark my words.”
With that, the rumble returned. It was like a train shrieking through the city, off its tracks, scraping and crumpling against the street below it. There was no other sound like it. And it was growing louder still.
The Wild Hunt rounded a corner back onto the street, having circled around to come back. Colby’s heart jumped, skipping a few beats. His breath grew shallow; he found it hard to blink, even against the ever-increasing sting of the rain. They were coming for him.
The hunt stopped, all twelve riders coming to a slow trot below the three drunks. The lead rider looked up silently, its goat at a standstill. For a moment, there was a painful quiet broken only by the steady patter of rain. There came a brief, ominous rumble from distant thunder, but nothing else.
“I think they want a word with you,” said Bertrand to Colby.
Colby shook his head.
“If they wanted to kill you,” said Bill, “they’d ride up the side of the building and do so.”
“So you guys got my back, right?”
They both laughed. “No,” said Bertrand. “This ain’t bad. Not yet.”
“Not even close to bad,” said Bill. “They’s askin’ nicely.”
Colby sighed deeply, raising a single hand in front of his face, pinky and ring finger held down by his thumb while his index and middle fingers pointed upward as a single, joined digit. He kicked off the side of the building, descending slowly without accelerating beyond the initial drop. It took a few seconds for him to touch down, and when he did, he landed perfectly before the lead rider—a single downturned palm steadying his landing.
Colby rose to his feet, standing boldly before the hunt. He tried as best he could to look stoic, but shook like a scared kitten before the looming, flickering shadows. The goats bleated angrily, wanting to charge—but the riders steadied them. For a moment, Colby and the lead rider exchanged withering glares.
The rider—a rotten, bubbling corpse of a woman with barely any hair left upon her head, eyes nearly falling out of their sockets, and a few jagged teeth still clinging to her pus-drenched gums—swung her limp, flaccid leg over the side of her flesh-hide saddle, hopping off her goat. Grabbing her mount by the horn to stay it, she walked it forward to Colby, standing just out of arm’s reach.
“What do you want of me?” asked Colby of the woman.
The creature shrieked, the wind howling her vowels for her. “Your help.” She raised a single arm, placing her skeletal, rotten hand upon Colby’s forehead. Colby seized up, overwhelmed with visions.
Before him he saw Ladybird Lake; he was soaring over it like a bird before descending into the waves, deep down, nearly twenty feet below its surface. The water was murky with mud, but as he sank lower, he could make out a mound of lake-bottom silt with a doorway. He moved through it, into an algae-swollen atrium with a dark recess below it into which he sank farther still. There, below the mound, was a series of dark caves leading past what looked like living areas into a sandy-floored room covered in large overturned clay pots. His gaze closed in upon a single pot, a name etched into it:
JARED THATCHER.
The woman removed her hand from Colby—shriveled, decaying bits of flesh remaining smeared upon his face. “Free him,” she howled. “Free my love!”
“You want me to go down there?” asked Colby, his eyes saying hell no.
“His soul! Let it out! Let it out and you will not be collected!”
Colby eyed her nervously. “Do I have a choice?”
The woman nodded, smiling wickedly, patting her enormous goat on the neck. Colby understood immediately what she meant.
“All right,” he said. “But only if you leave. Right now.”
The woman nodded, the entire hunt bursting immediately into flames. A fierce wind kicked up, blowing each flaming rider and its steed like a bellows, incinerating them whole, carrying their ashes off into the storm. Within two breaths, they were gone, leaving Colby alone in the dwindling rain. All that remained was gentle thunder, too far away to matter anymore.
He looked up at the building behind him, Bill and Bertrand staring back, then let out a frustrated sigh, scowling at the fire escape. Then he shuffled, defeated, toward it once more. He might be doomed, but he’d be damned if he was going to let those two finish the bottle without him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
ONE LAST STOP BEFORE SUNSET
Austin continually ranks amongst the heaviest-drinking cities in the country, sometimes going so far as to capture the top spot from the likes of New Orleans, Las Vegas, and New York City. The epicenter of all that drinking is a single street, loaded from one end to the other with bars, clubs, tattoo parlors, and the occasional sex shop. It is Sixth Street, where college kids escape to binge drink and thirty-five-year-olds escape to feel like college kids.
Where there is drinking, there is misery. Where there is misery, there are the dark things. And Sixth Street is loaded top to bottom with the dark things.
During the day it is a vacant, lonely stretch of road with a few open pubs and restaurants serving sandwiches to the downtown day crew. But when the sun goes down and the neon kicks in, the shadows crawl out from their holes and the angels perch along the tops of buildings. As the rest of downtown closes up and rolls down their shutters, Sixth Street breathes in and exhales life into every bulb along the stretch.
Colby tried very hard to avoid Sixth Street. The things that preyed down there weren’t fond of him. Few challenged him directly, knowing full well what he was capable of. But that didn’t quell the dirty looks, the name calling, or the occasional spit on his shoe. Ewan worked on Sixth Street. And Ewan was just about the only reason Colby ever endured the jeers of the things that haunted it. And that’s why he was here now.
After the pounding the city had taken the night before, businesses were busy installing new glass. Those that weren’t had turned instead to plywood and duct tape. Ewan’s bar chose the latter, punctuating their choice with an ironic sign reading: SPENT MONEY ON BEER INSTEAD.
Ewan dumped ice from a large plastic bin into the well beneath the bar. It was a half hour before opening. The bar was bright, lit by heavy, industrial lights meant only for setup and chasing out drunken barflies. In the corner, unbeknownst to Ewan, sat two demons, both mostly human in appearance, and a Boggart more shadow than man, drinking in the last lingering remnants of the previous night’s anguish. They paid Ewan about as much mind as he paid them. But Colby was a different story.
“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.
&n
bsp; “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 of 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, an
d 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.
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