It was his lucky day. Ordinary garcinia resin was costly enough, but the gamboge from a tree infused by the power of the Verge was priceless. He carefully stowed it in his shirt pocket as the rest of the tree shriveled and died before his eyes. He walked back to the front of the house, and traversed the ahp’s steep stairs with a slight bounce in his step, whistling a Satie nocturne as he went. This was an omen, whether good or bad, he couldn’t be sure. You could never be sure of anything when the Verge was involved, but there was magic in the air. Halloween was only a few moonrises away and he was closer than ever to exacting his revenge on that harridan Ophidia. Seattle was quickly becoming one of his favorite cities.
Freya sat in her living room, her ratty bathrobe wrapped around her sore and tired body, nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee and listening to the water run in her shower down the hall. Rusty was in there. He’d been a gentleman and let her clean up first after they had made the long trek back to her place after their adventure underground. They’d raised quite a few eyebrows along the way and nobody wanted to sit next to them on the bus back up to Capitol Hill, although the driver didn’t even bat an eye when they boarded bruised and bloodied and caked in foul-smelling mud from the bog.
Freya was anxious to get Rusty to some place where he could rest. The relatively fresh air above ground seemed to do wonders for his constitution, but his odd countenance was still peaked and his eyes, usually so full of the fire of determination, looked glassy and distant. She’d urged him to go first to the shower so that he could lie down and rest but he insisted she go ahead of him. Freya wasn’t surprised when she emerged after a thorough scrub to find him still standing near the door, ensuring that he wouldn’t soil her tidy apartment.
Now as she sat there at her kitchen table staring down her short hallway, she imagined herself slipping out of her robe and stepping into the shower with him. She pictured her body pressed up against his as the warm water trickled down his irregular features. It sent a little thrill of desire through her and she felt her long suppressed sexuality stir. She never thought much about sex. She told herself she was too busy with other more important things. But it was nice to know that she was still a woman with desires, that she still was capable of craving the sensual touch of another person, of wanting, needing sex. And she wanted Rusty. Badly.
Maybe it was all that they had been through together in the last couple of days. Or, perhaps, it was how acutely human she had felt in comparison to those creatures from the Verge that had crossed her path. For whatever reason though, the passion she’d forced into dormancy all this time was finally awakening and it was stronger than ever.
She put her cup of coffee down and instead of just imagining that she walked down the hall to join her strange companion in the shower, she did it and he didn’t protest. They were in there for a long time; the water was cold by the time they got out and toweled off, collapsing exhausted into her bed.
Freya woke up the next morning just before eleven. She shifted slightly in bed and was instantly reminded of just how much punishment she had put her body through the day before. Next to her was Rusty’s broad back, his mane of wavy hair standing out starkly against her white sheets. She wondered if she should wake him, but instead she slipped out of bed and into the kitchen to grab something to eat. Settling on a piece of toast with peanut butter, she had just finished off the last bite when Rusty came down the hall. When he saw her he stopped and for a moment didn’t say a word. Freya was just beginning to feel very awkward when suddenly he spoke.
“Last night was perfect,” he said quietly.
“I thought so too,” Freya said.
“Do we really have to go out and get that other color?”
Freya stared down at her empty plate. She wanted to say no, to stay in bed with Rusty all day long, to forget about the ridiculous quest set upon them by some power-hungry madwoman, but she was afraid of what the consequences might be if they gave up now. Beldame had made her intentions perfectly clear: deliver the color or die.
“I think we do,” she told him in a quiet voice. “Let’s get this over with and then we can move on with our lives. How do you feel?”
“I’ll live,” he said. “At least, I think I will.”
Freya laughed hollowly, but the last color had nearly killed them multiple times. She didn’t hold out much hope for this next one.
Rusty ate a quick breakfast while Freya got dressed in her room. She dug around in her closet for her second favorite jacket, a khaki anorak with plenty of deep pockets. She stowed the ceramic bowl of carmine and Baba Yaga’s dream catcher and zipped them up securely. The kobold horn she gave to Rusty to tuck into his utility belt. It was far too long to carry in a pocket, but she didn’t feel leaving it at her house was a good idea. She was certain that a locked door was little defense against marauding Verge.
She was pulling on her socks when her eyes fell upon the heap of ruined clothes in the corner. Rusty had brought a small duffel bag with him when they’d left his cabin but it couldn’t contain more than one extra set of clothes. She would have to take him shopping if they survived.
Freya studied her phone while Rusty changed.
“Our next place is in Fremont,” she called to him. “They only let strung-out bohemians and granola hipsters live there. How bad could this next Verge be? We might actually stand a chance.”
Rusty’s footsteps fell hard upon the bare wood floors.
“Even free spirits can find themselves bound by the vagaries of the Verge. You must always be on your guard even in such a place as this Fremont.”
“You’re always full of such good news about the Verge and its denizens,” Freya quipped.
“I’m not here to tell you pleasantries, just the truth,” he replied.
“That’s all anyone can ask for,” Freya said as she grabbed her keys and opened her door.
They stepped out into the hallway and she locked up, trying the handle twice before joining Rusty on the landing.
“Alright, are you ready?” she asked him.
“Always,” Rusty said.
“Perfect, let’s go.”
Freya finished parallel parking Mrs. Cartwright’s Caddy on a busy street not far from the reclaimed Soviet statue of Lenin that presided ironically over the peace-loving non-conformists and designer-coffee-drinking pseudo-intellectuals that crowded the area’s bustling cafes. She was rather proud of herself for wedging the enormous land yacht into the tiny space without power steering or a back-up camera, but Rusty seemed unimpressed. He obviously didn’t know much about the exquisite feeling of competence that came from perfectly lining up one’s car with the curb, so Freya had to silently congratulate herself for flawlessly executing a maneuver that her high school driver’s ed teacher told her she should try to avoid.
If that teacher had wanted to save himself and her many hours of angst he should have just started with that statement. If there was one thing that didn’t sit well with Freya it was being told what her limitations ought to be. Nothing fueled her drive to succeed more than proving her doubters and haters wrong. Thus all these years later she felt a little thrill of satisfaction as she got out of the car and admired the narrow space she had left between the Caddy’s tires and the sidewalk. She was going to need all the confidence she could get now that they were so close to their next encounter with the Verge. She sighed deeply, steeled her nerves, and rode that air of self-assurance all the way to the House of Kour’s front door.
She and Rusty stood before the multi-colored house and waited nervously to see who or what might open the chartreuse door, but the house seemed deathly silent. Freya tried knocking again, but still no one appeared. She was just about to raise her fist to pound on the door a third time, when a voice from behind them startled her.
“She’s dead, you know.” It was an old woman, homeless by the look of her ragged clothes and matted hair. “You’ll not find what you’re looking for now. Not anymore.”
She was at the base of th
e steps looking up at them with sharp eyes. Freya looked down at her and suddenly she knew she had seen the strange woman before, the night she had met Ophidia at the museum.
“I know you,” said Freya. “We’ve met before, in the street by the Frye. You grabbed me and told me to beware of Samhain, to watch out for nightmares.”
“And nightmares have taken to the skies,” the old woman screeched. “Look!” and she held aloft a great black feather, by far the largest Freya had ever seen.
“What is that?” Freya asked.
“This, this is proof that the dark lord is here,” she cried, hysteria creeping in on the edges of her voice. “He is here in Seattle. He is here for revenge.”
“I…I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Freya stuttered. The old woman was slowly climbing the stairs and Freya’s heart beat a little faster with every step she took. She felt Rusty go tense at her side. He stepped forward so that his body was between Freya and the woman.
Freya appreciated the thought but she wasn’t in the mood to be protected. She was in the mood to get their color chase over with and this old lady was starting to piss her off. She stepped away from Rusty’s giant form and tore her arm from his grasp when he tried to hold her back. She ignored her rapidly pounding heart and bolted down the stairs to meet the old woman face to face. He called out to her to stop, but she pretended not to hear.
“Listen,” Freya said through gritted teeth. “I’m done with riddles. I’m done with this pointless parade through the looking glass, and, most especially, I am done with playing the hapless victim. So, if you have something to tell me, let’s hear it. Summon whatever remains of your faculties and tell me what you know. Or get the fuck out of my way.”
The old woman stared at Freya slack-jawed for a few moments. It occurred to Freya that she probably wasn’t used to being addressed at all, let alone as a functioning human being. Freya’s directness seemed to snap long-forgotten synapses back into place, and a little clarity cut through the fog clouding the old woman’s eyes.
“Look,” she said, handing the feather over to Freya. “You know what it is, don’t you?”
Freya took the feather gingerly between her thumb and forefinger. It was like holding air despite its size. She looked closely at the absolute blackness of the plume, the matte coal of the quill and the iridescence of the fringe, shimmering in an inky rainbow of ebony shades. She held it, and she remembered that moment at the cemetery, a nightmare-made-manifest with phosphorescent eyes fueled by melancholy and misery.
“Dakryma,” she whispered and the old woman nodded.
“People believe in God,” the woman said, her eyes holding Freya’s in rapt attention. “People think he is the creator, the ultimate architect of life. But, as with all legends, there are always two sides to everything. The players in the dramas that humans have dreamed up are just reflections of themselves. They are neither wholly good nor irredeemably bad. They only inhabit a position on a continuum. People dismiss the devil as a force of evil, a destroyer, but he also creates. Melancholy, sorrow, jealousy, hate – these are his inventions. The devil is a maker too. He paints with a somber brush, but he is an artist, make no mistake.”
Freya regarded the feather intently for a few more moments, the woman’s words rolling through her consciousness like thunder. When she looked again at the woman her gaze was steady.
“Where can I find him?” she asked.
The old woman smiled. “He’s nearby, in The Dispensary. You’ll find it, just ask.”
And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the spark disappeared from the old woman’s eyes and they clouded over again with the opacity of madness.
“Who should I ask?” Freya said quickly, but it was too late.
“Get away from me!” the woman cried shrilly. “Don’t touch me, dirt, scum!”
The vagrant woman punctuated this last outburst by pushing Freya violently away from her. The sudden shove sent Freya falling backwards onto the hard concrete steps, skinning her arm on the way down. She clutched at the stinging scrape as she watched the strange woman lumber away, shaking her head vehemently and throwing her arms about her with spastic aggression.
Rusty helped her to her feet. He’d stayed just a few steps behind her on the stairs, respecting Freya’s desire to confront the woman on her own, but he hadn’t been able to catch her before she hit the unforgiving concrete.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, fine,” Freya said pulling up her sleeve to look at her bloody forearm. “Just a scratch. Let’s go find this Dispensary place. We need to get there before Dakryma leaves.”
They had indeed found it just by asking the first people they’d come across, some twenty-somethings they had nearly tripped on when they turned a blind corner not far from the House of Kour. They were poseur college kids, conspicuous in their rejection of conformity. Freya knew the type. The U was full of them. While she held the truly eco-conscious in high regard and had nothing but respect for social and political activists who backed up their beliefs with knowledge and action, she’d met one too many dissemblers who flaunted their veganism and world views like the sorority girls flashed their two hundred dollar highlights and It bags. Freya was allergic to fakery and these two were making her break out in hives, but, as it turned out, they were definitely the right people to ask about their particular destination.
“It’s just a few blocks from here,” said one as he took in her decidedly ordinary appearance with more than a hint of disdain, “but it’s probably not your type of place.”
He paused as if wracking his brain for a spot in Fremont where she might be welcomed. “There’s a Starbucks just down the street,” he finally offered. “That might be more your speed.”
“No, it has to be The Dispensary and I need directions right away,” Freya said, trying her best to remain civil. “Can you give me some specifics?”
“Dude, does she know what it is?” the other kid asked his friend as he eyed Rusty with fearful suspicion.
“You know what it is, right?” the first one asked her.
“Not really, but I don’t care,” Freya said. “Just give me some directions and we’ll leave you two alone.”
“Jesus, chill, lady. Maybe you do need a visit there after all. It’s down 36th, a little blue cottage with white trim.”
“Thanks,” Freya said and started off, Rusty following closely behind. They walked quickly and, after a few wrong turns, found themselves outside a cute little store front with The Dispensary written cheekily in cursive with extra curlicues on the large window facing the street. Then she saw the pointy leaves painted next to the name and she snorted a bit.
“Oh my god,” she said. “It’s a freaking cannabis café.”
“What?” asked Rusty.
“A cannabis café. You know, marijuana? It’s legal here and there’s a bunch of these kinds of places around town.”
Rusty grunted in response. It was impossible to tell from his characteristically subdued response what he actually thought about the place, but Freya didn’t have the time to ponder his laconic ways at the moment. She was more interested in getting the last color. She wasn’t sure exactly how that was going to be accomplished, but at least she knew this particular Verge creature. That had to give her some kind of advantage.
She pushed open The Dispensary’s door and they stepped inside to the tinkling of a little bell alerting the woman behind the counter that customers had arrived. She looked a bit like a living pin-up doll with a bombshell hourglass shape accentuated by the tightly cut, pink candy-striped dress she was wearing and the little lacy apron tied in a neat bow around her tiny waist. She had beautiful auburn hair, wide green eyes, and full lips painted a brilliant shade of red. Her smile was warm and surprisingly genuine, and she didn’t even bat an eyelash at Rusty’s unusual appearance.
“Hey guys, welcome to The Dispensary,” she said, her voice charmingly raspy. “Anything I can help you find?”
&n
bsp; Freya looked around, momentarily stunned by the over-the-top cutesiness of the place. It was equal parts old time candy store and 1950s soda shop with its black and white checked floor, pastel wallpaper and brightly lit display cases chock full of delicious looking baked goods.
“I just put the finishing touches on a batch of double chocolate space cakes, if you want to try a sample,” she chirped politely.
“Uh, no, that’s okay,” Freya said. “Thank you, though. I’m actually looking for someone. His name is Dakryma. Tall, handsome, brilliant blue eyes. Have you seen him?”
The woman behind the counter folded one arm underneath her ample chest, and put an immaculately manicured finger to her lips.
“Oh, yeah,” she said with a pert smile. “He’s out back,” she said, gesturing toward the Dutch door behind her.
The top half of it was open and Freya could glimpse a little courtyard there, golden in the afternoon sun.
“He’s lucky we open early,” the woman said. “Been here since sunrise.”
Freya thanked the woman as she and Rusty passed by her and stepped out onto the peculiar bakery’s back patio. It was a small space but full of lush greenery trimmed just enough to keep the shiny ivy and coiled ferns at bay. Two tables, so covered in moss and a greenish patina that they seemed to be plants themselves, sprouted from the cracked cement. At the one furthest from the café’s back door sat Dakryma. He had his chair tipped dangerously back, his hands crossed behind his head, his eyes closed. He could have been sleeping were it not for the metronomic tick of his feet as they rocked the chair back and forth through the late October breeze. Freya looked at him admiringly for a second as the sunshine lit up his aristocratic features.
On the Verge Page 20
