“This is my fault,” Cate said. She sat on the toilet lid and lit a cigarette. “You needed rest. You can’t just keep going night after night like that.”
“It’s not your fault,” Fynn said. The smoke thickened the steamy air.
“And the Nine!” Cate continued as though Fynn never spoke. “I knew they were passing you two Nine backstage, but I let myself get too busy to do anything about it. I thought you guys would be okay. You just seemed so strong. Invincible, really.” She wiped under one eye with a long-nailed finger.
“If I could just talk to Komo for a minute, I’d feel a lot better,” Fynn said. She crossed her arms in front of her breasts.
“I’m going to take care of you for the next couple of days,” Cate said. She stood up.
“Komo,” Fynn said.
“Yes,” Cate said. “I’m bringing Komo here tomorrow morning.”
Tomorrow morning. Fynn lowered her face into the water to keep from screaming.
“I’ve already told the team,” Cate said. She had her phone out, ticking into it the messages that would get things moving. “We’ll cancel the next two tour dates. You’ll cool it with the Nine or I’m sending you both to rehab.”
Fynn exhaled, so the surface of the water rippled under her breath. She had been hoping that there was some Nine in the house. She thought that Cate would provide it. Disappointment throbbed in her chest like a diseased heart.
Cate left with the phone to her ear. Fynn listened to her commander’s voice down the hall, talking with first a promoter, then a merchandise vendor. Fynn rubbed the soap between her hands and washed herself. She dipped her head in the water and let it sluice away the grime that clung to her skin.
A set of silk pajamas draped across the bed. Fynn put them on and let Cate comb her hair and braid it in a long rope down her back. She listened to Cate talk about her plans for the release of Komo’s next album, the places they would visit on the vacation they would take together. Fynn would love Greece and the boat trips on topaz blue waters. Cate couldn’t wait to show it to her.
“Vacations are so important. I have a tendency to be a workaholic,” Cate said. “I know this about myself. I ran Komo into the ground last time, but I’m not going to do it again. This is a real wake up call for me, Fynn. For both of us. In a few days you’ll feel better and you and I will have a real talk about the future, okay? We’ll talk about where we see ourselves in Komo’s career in five years.”
Cate talked and talked. Every word wove another skein in a safety net. Cate was everything her mother wasn’t. She was matter-of-fact and practical and rooted in the real world. Fynn thought she might tell Cate about the dream, the four scorpions in the wall, in the bed. But something kept her from doing it. Cate might send her away from Komo if she knew that she believed in premonitions and prophecies.
Cate watched while Fynn took a few spoonfuls of soup. Her stomach rebelled, but she forced herself to eat it. It tasted strange, but maybe it was that she had not eaten anything with any nutritional value in so long. The Nine robbed her of her appetite for anything, except for more Nine...and Komo. Nothing could take away her hunger for Komo.
Time shifted like a broken elevator jerking on its cable. Fynn was down on the bed, her head resting on one of the huge feather pillows. Then the lights were out.
“Are the windows locked?” Her mouth was lined with cotton.
“They are,” Cate sounded like she was under water. But her voice held the strength that Fynn no longer had. She wasn’t shaking anymore, but she was sinking. Sinking deeper and deeper into nothing. “Komo will be with you by the morning,” Cate said. Fynn anchored on her words and struggled to stay awake.
But her mind slipped and Cate’s words jumbled together...and then there was nothing.
18. The Story Keeper
William the Story Keeper presided at the fire. He finished channeling a long story and the people sat in quiet contemplation. The firelight filled their eyes, but it did not blind them.
He loved these people. He feared for what would happen to the world if the demon hustlers got their way, but it gave him courage that every day more people came to the gate. They were good people who were smart enough to read what was happening in the world, but they weren’t just there to hide. They weren’t survivalists. They were there to make a better way of life for everyone, not just for themselves.
Brigid and William built the Keep themselves with the help of hired hands longer ago than anyone would believe. Some years the walls contained no one but the two of them waiting for the storm only they knew was coming. In the sixties and seventies of the last century it seemed like everybody got a shot of wisdom at once. Brigid’s Keep’s community thrived in those years, with young people earnestly trying to live in a different way from their parents. Their fervor didn’t last. Most went off to make their fortunes in the same corporate America that they had once fled.
A few ventured out to further Brigid’s purpose in the greater world. Dr. Colm Sullivan from the University sat beside him on a stump. Loyal friends like Sully were a treasure. His lab furthered Brigid’s healing work on a grand scale. And he looked after their kid in the outside world. As best he could, anyway.
Sparks flew as William poked the fire. The embers circled upwards until they faded in the mist-laden air. The work Sully and Fynn had done was pure gold for humanity. They were about to revolutionize the treatment of viral diseases throughout the world and there wasn’t any CEO in any drug company who could do a damn thing about it. Mother Brigid planned it from Fynn’s first year at St. Cocha University. It was her idea to generate a Goddess Strain under the cover of academic research. Her faith in Fynn’s brainpower had been well placed.
He hummed a song from the old days. His wife was a genius. He loved that about her.
A blue flame in the middle of the fire danced and took a shape. William put down the stick.
Fynn was in danger. They were back for her, the bastards. Her strength was gone.
Sully lit a pipe. William stared into the fire as though it were talking to him in a tone that only he could hear. There was something else. A dark space where Fynn fell into nothingness. It was anti-matter, a blind spot in his vision. He could not see what was going to happen.
He did not have time to run through the forest to the main house to warn Brigid. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on sending a telepathic message.
“What do you see, Story Keeper?” Sully asked. He broke William’s concentration.
“Forget it.” William fumbled in the pocket of his wool shirt. His finger pushed at the slick surface of his smart phone.
Lucky for everyone he had Brigid on speed dial.
19. The Scent of Drying Sagebrush
The morning sun turned the sky the light gray of a dove’s wing. Only then did Fynn venture outside the tower room. She padded into the kitchen on bare feet. Her stomach was empty, but nothing sounded good to eat.
She called into the house. No one answered, but the hum of the refrigerator. Long tendrils of fog rolled in from the sea outside the picture windows. Cold soot covered the hearth and no logs or kindling rested in the basket on the floor. In front, blowing sands swept across the driveway.
She walked through the downstairs rooms pulling at her tangled hair. She needed to get a handle on herself. Without a car there was no way she could get into town to search for some Nine to tide her over. She needed space to think. Cate was right that she needed a rest. She needed time alone with Komo. They had to cut back on the Nine. Cate was right about that, too. They didn’t have to do it every night. Just nights when he performed. They could set some rules.
Her fingers itched for the silver box filled with the friendly heart-shaped pills. She loved the way it flipped open with a tiny pressure spring inside its mechanism. She loved the way it rattled in her palm with the tablets inside.
She hopped from one foot to the other, as though the floor were hot. She had to think of what to do. If Komo
got to the house and found out that Cate’s plan was for them to detox, he would go into a rage. He would panic and feel as sick as she did right now, and she couldn’t have that. She couldn’t allow for Komo to feel this afraid.
Something moved across the roof. Leaden footsteps. She caught a faint whiff of sulphur. Mayhem demons. It couldn’t be. Not now.
She’d left her phone at the hotel. The landline hung off the wall of the kitchen. Fynn didn’t have anyone’s number memorized. She put her hand around the receiver. Maybe calling 911 would be the thing to do. But what if the police took her into custody, where no one would be able to get her any Nine? She could call the Keep. There was nothing else to do. But when she picked up the phone, it was dead.
She sidled into a pantry and shut the door. She crouched beside a sack of rice, praying to the Goddess to help her.
A car drove up, its tires hissing on the long sandy driveway. Fynn cracked open the door. The girlfriends of Ritual Madness spilled out of a van with surfboards strapped to the top. Fynn wrapped her arms around her body. She almost cried with relief. The groupie girls were her own private goddesses answering her prayers, their hair wet and ropy from the sea.
They came into the house talking and laughing. When they saw Fynn standing alone in the kitchen their voices hushed.
“What’s wrong with you?” One of them asked. She rushed forward to brace Fynn as she swayed to the side. Fynn didn’t remember their names. There were so many of them, and just as she began to get to know them they left and new ones took their places. She didn’t even try to learn who they were anymore.
“Hey, sweetheart,” one girl said. “You’re going to be okay.”
They stood around her in their faded jeans and bikini tops smelling like seawater and patchouli, and Fynn thought she had never been more grateful for a group of people in her entire life.
***
The previous owner of Komo’s grand Victorian painted the living room walls white with accents of navy and red. They must have thought a nautical theme would be appropriate for a house by the sea.
She needed to redecorate. Fynn didn’t know why she didn’t see this before. Four weeks straight on the road was too much. She needed to make the house a home for Komo. They would get rid of the white and blue and paint in aubergine and linden green. She would decorate in jewel tones of ruby, blue topaz, emerald. She would find oriental rugs for the floors and drape silks from the ceilings to make it look like a tent for a Bedouin king. Fynn leaned against a cushion and basked in the Nine that one of the beautiful, lovely, kind and generous Ritual Madness girlfriends had given her to swallow.
Someone had made a plate with French bread, soft cheeses, and grapes, but it lay uneaten on the coffee table. Fynn didn’t need food. She needed Komo. The girlfriends had said that Komo and the rest of the band were due home any minute. Any minute they would come barreling through the front door and the house would be warm again and filled with music. The servants would appear to build fires in the fireplaces. They would take a couple of days of hard earned rest and relaxation. They’d made a ton of money in the last two months with this impromptu Komo tour, every date sold out to maximum capacity. Komo would do the Vine show in a few nights and then they would gather their strength for a string of arena concerts later in the year. And after that, studio time to get the third album solidified and out. Then there would be another tour. The girls talked about it, their long brown arms resting on the backs of the couches.
“It’s going to be so amazing,” the girl with raven black hair said, taking Fynn’s foot in her hands and kneading it. The girl’s touch felt so nice. Fynn rested her head.
The one with the Nine passed her another tablet. “But this is the last one, okay?” she said. “It doesn’t seem like the one I gave you is helping. You still look pretty sick.”
“Nine isn’t supposed to make you addicted,” the one at her feet said. She moved her hands up Fynn’s calves and to the inside of her thighs. “It’s supposed to be a very light high, you know? Like you barely even feel it the next day. No hangover.”
“Yeah, but if you do get in trouble with something, you’re not supposed to quit cold turkey,” Fynn’s tablet friend said. She passed the second one over and Fynn crushed it between her teeth.
She had never taken two at once. She waited to see what would happen. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, a blonde girl leaned above her dropping another tiny red heart into her open mouth. Fynn held it between the roof of her mouth and tongue and felt it beating. A tiny faery heart. There were faeries in the Keep when she was young, but she hadn’t seen any in a long time. She wondered where they’d gone. Maybe someone had rolled the faeries into tablets and that was what made the Nine so lovely.
She moaned as the drug moved through her blood. The girl with the raven hair moved beside her and kissed her with lips that tasted like salted caramel. Her fingertips raked the insides of Fynn’s thighs.
“Is that enough?” one of them said.
It is not enough. It will never be enough.
Fynn cried out in pleasure.
***
Pain. A searing gash on her neck.
Fynn gasped for breath in the middle of the living room floor. She looked up at the high, white ceiling. She could smell him before she could see him. The one-handed Mayhem demon from the woods entered into her vision from above her head.
“Eligos didn’t want me to come in,” he said. “So I killed him.” He nudged Fynn’s shoulder with his boot.
She tried to turn her head to find the Ritual Madness girls, but she couldn’t move. She could only open and close her eyes. She listened for signs of Cate or Komo. The demon man frowned and cocked his head. He kicked her by the ear. Her head wobbled back and forth as though her neck were made of rubber.
He crouched closer and his face flattened into a demon’s mask. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t even talk. Her neck burned, but she couldn’t see or feel why. The demon picked up a long knife with a point dulled by the passing of centuries, smeared with his brother’s blood. It emanated a toxic heat.
Fynn’s breathing reduced to shallow gasps. It was a daemonium blade.
There was a crunching sound and his face flattened further, his mouth stretching into a razor-lined oval. His lips disappeared over a double row of short pointy teeth. His eyes bulged out of their sockets and turned as hollow as glass.
She unlocked her jaw to scream, but what came out was a high-pitched whisper. He looked into her eyes as though watching a movie that enraptured him. Burning sulphur singed her nose.
He held the blade against her collarbone and his mouth grew wider as her skin sizzled and popped under the metal. She smelled her blistering flesh as a trace of thin smoke rose off its surface. In the first second, she didn’t feel it, but then she did. She could not cry out for help. Her jaw was locked and she sucked in air through her teeth.
“Goddess of three,” the demon sang in a voice like a rusty nail. “Come to meeeee.”
He crouched over her chest, his knees on her shoulders. He dug the dull blade into the soft flesh of her throat.
She had nothing. She lost everything. She had no movement in her limbs, she could not speak. She lost everything, but pain and blinding fear as blood poured down the side of her neck and pooled under her shoulder.
Mother. Forgive me.
Tears flowed down the sides of her face and the demon squealed. He licked them with his dry tongue. He thought they were for him.
But she wasn’t crying for the pain. Her human form would suffer and die, and that was her fault in the end. Her heart keened for her family. She would die and there would be a breaking of the Three. Without the Three, the remaining two would lose power. Where the Triple Goddess was rent, all manner of demons and whatever witch rustled them from Hell could move in and destroy the Keep. They could destroy the world.
Fynn closed her eyes. She tried to conjure the comfort of the scent of drying sagebrush in William’s cabin.
She tried to remember the strong arms of her mother, and the way Lia’s comb and sure fingers could put order to her wild hair. She tried to be a child running across the meadow with her small hands clasped in her sister’s and mother’s, laughing in the sunshine, knowing that they would always be safe within the walls.
The demon gurgled in his throat. “Open your eyes,” he said, and slashed at her chest with the blade.
Fynn’s eyes slammed open. She would have no comfort in the past. There was only this one long, terrible moment when she would die.
Mother Brigid, she prayed in silence, the only prayer she had left. Mother Brigid forgive me.
The window darkened behind the monster.
A terrible figure loomed and blocked the hazy sun. Fynn glimpsed skirts waving in the sea breeze and then the image shattered through the window. The demon leapt from Fynn’s chest and rested on thick bent legs. Brigid swooped in and stood between the demon and her daughter. The demon jumped again and bounced off the wall from the balls of his feet. He vaulted through the broken window.
“Daughter,” Brigid said. She gathered Fynn in her arms and carried her out of the wicked house.
20. The Good Mother
The daemonium venom polluted Fynn’s bloodstream like nuclear waste. Phantom insects chewed the edges of her skin. Hallucination spiders crawled from her eyes, their legs puncturing her pupils. She would go mad with terror.
“Kill me,” she said through clenched teeth. She tried to unlock her brain, untangle its knots so she could talk with her mother the way they did in the old days with no voices, no words. The barrier was impermeable as lead. There was no getting through.
Let me die.
Brigid held her in the back seat as William drove. “Don’t cleanse her addiction, Bridey,” he said. He sat ramrod straight as though he considered driving a novelty, his midnight hair shot with silver. His purity of heart made it worse for Fynn. She ground her teeth in pain.
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