"Lord Fireskull." Undercut looked nervous, but his voice was firm. "As always, I shall obey your orders without fail in this matter. I do humbly suggest, however, that we release the prophet and allow him to continue on his way."
"And why would we ever do that?" said Fireskull.
Undercut cleared his throat. "In the event that the prophecy is accurate, perhaps Highcast will discourage Johnny from hastening a face-to-face meeting with you and ending the world."
Fireskull thought it over for a moment and understood what Undercut was getting at. If Johnny bought into the prophecy, he would be less likely to move out to the borderlands, where he might have a greater chance of encountering Fireskull. Therefore, Johnny would be less prepared to repel an invasion by Fireskull's forces.
"I see your point." Fireskull nodded. Stilling the movements of his wings, he drifted down to the bloody ground in front of Highcast. "You're a lucky little man, prophet. You get to live another day."
Highcast steepled his fingers together and bowed deeply. "Many thanks, magnificent one. And thank you for saving the world."
"If I choose to do so, you may thank me then," said Fireskull.
"But I already know you will save it," said Highcast, his voice nearly a whisper. "I have foreseen it."
Fireskull's sunspot eyes narrowed in an angry glare. "None may fathom or predict my glorious and mysterious ways."
Highcast, leaning close to Fireskull, whispered, "In my vision, you realize that it is sometimes wiser to kill an enemy from afar, without setting eyes or hands upon him yourself. In this way, you avoid a trap that Johnny has set for you, a trap baited with your own stolen soul."
"Ah, I see." Fireskull leaned even closer, so that his flames singed Highcast's hood. "I, too, have had a vision. In it, I saw a man suffering through weeks of unending torture.
"It did not take long for the man to beg to be put out of his misery, but his torturer would not end the pain so soon. The man screamed for days and nights on end as one torture device after another cut and pierced and bruised and split him. Pieces of him were removed and fed to wild beasts while he watched.
"Finally, the man was killed. His name, coincidentally, was Highcast, just like yours. His torturer, Fireskull, told him before he died that all this could have been avoided if Highcast had only known when to shut up and go away."
Without another word, Highcast turned and walked off across the battlefield, heading in the direction of Johnny's border.
Fireskull watched him go. In truth, though Fireskull would admit it to no one, the prophet's words had affected him in more ways than simply annoying him.
Perhaps Highcast was not just a charlatan working for Johnny Without. At the very least, he knew things that he should not have known.
For one, he knew that Fireskull was planning an immediate follow-up attack on Johnny, although, granted, he could have guessed that. In the wake of the recent battle, Fireskull had two choices—attack or fall back. So anyone would have had a fifty-fifty chance of guessing what he would do.
On the other hand, Highcast had known about Fireskull's stolen soul. That was something that only Fireskull knew about. Even Johnny did not remember that he had taken it.
And Johnny carried the soul within him as his own.
Fireskull wondered what else Highcast knew, and how much of his prophecy might be true.
WHEN Reacher Mirage threw open the motel room door, the lights were on and everyone was asleep. Chick was curled up on one bed, snoring like a horse. Wicked was sprawled on his back on the other bed, clutching a beer bottle in his right hand and a pillow in his left.
No one stirred when Reacher entered the room. However, their blissful obliviousness would not last.
"Wake up!" When Reacher shouted at the top of his lungs, Chick's and Wicked's eyes snapped open. "Get up now!"
"What the hell?" Wicked's voice was a snarl.
"Cut it out!" said Chick.
"Not till you wake up!" shouted Reacher. "It's an emergency!"
Wicked sprang to a sitting position on the bed. "Since when?"
Reacher marched to the door to the adjoining room and hammered it with his fist. "Eurydice! Gail! Wake up! Emergency!"
"What kind of emergency?" howled Wicked.
"The kind that makes us get out of here right away," Reacher replied.
"No chance." Chick rolled over and closed his eyes.
Reacher rushed to the bed, grabbed a pillow, and hit him over the head with it. "I'm not kidding! Pack up, people! If we don't leave in ten minutes, everything we've worked for will be destroyed!"
"Come on, you guys," Reacher urged as he carried two suitcases out of the motel room. "We have to hurry!"
Youforia's fifty-something manager, Sty Latherclad, stood just outside the door. His face, with its chiseled features, looked tense as he lowered the cell phone from his ear. "My source says Hiya's on his way."
"How does he keep finding us?" Chick marched out of the room with his bass guitar case in one hand and an amplifier in the other. The amplifier cord dragged through the patch of pink grass between the front door and the parking lot.
"How do you think?" Wicked pushed past Chick into the room. "He watches the website and YoFace."
Sty snapped his phone shut and waved it at Reacher. "He's going to be here any second now." Sty's wavy silver hair fluttered in the breeze, as did the tail of his unzipped navy blue jacket.
In response, Reacher cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled at the band. "We leave in one minute! Whoever's not in the van by then gets left behind!"
"Where's your girlfriend?" Gail said sarcastically as she slouched past with an armload of stuffed animals. "I bet you won't leave her behind."
"Whatever it takes." When Reacher smiled, the star-shaped port-wine stain on his right cheek bunched up into a crescent. Some people thought that the plum-colored stain was a tattoo meant to symbolize imminent stardom, but in reality, it was just a birthmark that had never faded.
"The natives are restless," Sty said quietly, for Reacher's ears only. "They're worked up about that damn website."
Reacher shrugged. "So what else is new?"
"They're pointing fingers at each other," said Sty. "And at me. And, by the way, I have nothing to do with it."
"I know." Reacher ran his hand over the white stubble on his scalp the way he did when he was nervous. The color of his hair was unusual, because he was only eighteen years old, and he'd never bleached it.
"That's not to say I think it's a bad thing, necessarily," Sty continued. "The website, YoFace, and Yapper traffic is building interest in you. You already have fans, yet you've never released a recording or played a single gig under your own name."
"Yeah." Reacher fiddled with the middle button of his white bowling shirt. "I hear what you're saying." He always wore un-tucked bowling shirts with cool designs, straight out of the 1950s. A seven-ten split was embroidered on the breast pocket of this one, with a bowling ball rolling toward the seven pin.
"You're already being chased around by a reporter from Tuned magazine, for Pete's sake. Hiya Permaneck's a household name in his own right, and he wants to write an article about you." Sty spread his arms wide and grinned. "The undercover band thing has paid off! Don't you think it's time to end the secret tour? Imagine the publicity when you play out for the first time without being in disguise."
"Time's up!" shouted Reacher. Then he turned to Sty and spoke in a low voice. "We're not ready."
Sty frowned. "Pretty soon, you might not have a choice."
"Not. Ready." Reacher growled.
"When will you be?" asked Sty. "Two Jovembers from now? Three Junuarys? Ten Faugusts?"
Wicked and Chick raced past, arms loaded with belongings, and dove into the band's "tour bus," a twenty-year-old black Studebaker van. Eurydice followed, wearing a backpack and lugging an overstuffed duffel bag.
Reacher shook his head grimly. "I say when we go public. That's the rule."
"All right, then." Sty opened the driver's door and climbed in behind the wheel. "Just so you know, a secret band isn't really a secret if everyone already knows about it from what they read online."
Reacher hopped into the van's passenger seat. "I say when we go public. End of story."
IDEA sat on the Lake Erie beach under a sky full of stars and tried not to make it too obvious that he was closely watching Eunice walk back from the water's edge.
Though he still thought that the whole face-on-the-back-of-her-head thing was weird, he was attracted to her. More accurately, he liked the front half of her, the half with the blond hair and real face.
He liked the front half of her clothes, too. She had changed from the coveralls into another two-sided outfit. He preferred the formfitting pink and white striped top and red pants on the front side to the fur-trimmed black top and jeans on the back side ... although that might have had something to do with the fact that clothes designed for the front of a girl's body didn't look normal when worn on her back.
Either way, as he watched her walking toward him, Idea wished that she would invite him to share the sleeping bag she'd brought along, which was spread out on the sand nearby. It looked to him like it was big enough for two.
"Earth to Idea," Eunice said as she approached. "Who's on your mind? Could it be me?"
Idea felt the heat of a blush climbing into his cheeks. "Just thinking about my website," he lied. "Planning what the band will do next."
"Well, I'm thinking about you." Eunice came to a stop and looked down at him. "You should really think about adding a face on the back of your head, you know."
Idea laughed and stared out at the surface of the enormous lake. After hours of driving, he and Eunice had stopped at a campground on the shore in Pennsylvania. Lake Erie stretched off in the distance, its rippling skin shimmering in the moonlight.
"Let me know if you decide to go for the double face," said Eunice. "I can totally hook you up. Whatever you need."
Idea lifted his bangs out of his eyes with the edge of his hand as he looked up at her. "Whatever I need? How about telling me why you're going all the way to California with a complete stranger."
Eunice shrugged. "Maybe I'm bored. Maybe I'm a sucker for strays. Maybe I'm going to rip you off." She reached into a pocket of her red pants and pulled out a strange-looking smart-phone. It had a black and white striped body with a rubbery texture. When she touched the screen, a cloud of fine, twinkling glitter appeared over it. "Maybe it was my digihoroscope."
Idea gaped at her cool phone, wondering where she'd gotten it. "Your what?"
"The most advanced and accurate electronic horoscope ever developed," said Eunice. "I created it myself, using a customized astrological algorithm to predict events on an hour-by hour basis instead of a daily or weekly one. I've been living my life by it religiously for the past two years."
"And this thing told you to come with me?"
Eunice shook her head. "Based on certain data—my astrological sign, the current date, my geolocation, environmental conditions, et cetera—the digihoroscope predicts likely outcomes. It's up to me to choose which actions to take."
"So what's it say is going to happen next, then?"
Eunice tapped the screen. The glittering cloud swirled gently around her fingertips. "You won't believe this."
Idea stared, mesmerized by her strange phone. He'd never seen anything like it. "What does it say?"
"Are you sitting down?" she asked, although she could see that he was indeed sitting down. "According to the digihoroscope, in the next hour, you and I will..."
Eunice paused and shook her head in stunned disbelief.
"What?" Idea said impatiently.
"Sleep" said Eunice. "We'll be sound asleep. And get this: we'll sleep for several hours to come."
Idea snorted and shook his head. "Wow. That horoscope thing is more amazing than I imagined. It'll sure come in handy on the road."
"No kidding," said Eunice. "By the way, what's your sign?"
"Gemini," he said. "What's yours?"
"Virgitarius." She resumed tapping the phone's screen.
Idea frowned. "Do you mean Virgo or Sagittarius?"
"Yes." Eunice sat down on the sleeping bag. "And what are your parents' signs?"
Idea was annoyed that she'd avoided answering his question. "What do you care?"
"I have to enter all your data for the digihoroscope to chart your future," she said. "And now that our futures are connected, I have to chart yours in order to chart mine with any accuracy."
Idea liked what she'd said about their futures being connected. His annoyance level suddenly dropped. "My mother's birthday is February twenty-third. My father's is October fifteenth."
"Pisces and Libra." Eunice nodded and kept tapping away. "It figures."
"What do you mean, 'It figures'?"
"That ought to do it for now." She shut off the phone, and the cloud of glitter faded. "At least we've gotten started."
"Started with what?"
"I think we should get some sleep." She slipped the phone into her pocket and lay back on the sleeping bag.
Idea was annoyed again. "Can't you give me a straight answer to one question, at least?"
Eunice sighed. "All right, all right. Ask me one question."
Idea thought it over for a moment. It was like being given a wish by a genie; so many possibilities rushed into his head that he had to struggle to choose the best one.
Finally, he said, "When I first met you, where were you going, and why were you able to just pick up and run off with me like you did?"
"That's more like two questions put together, but okay. I was going to meet someone else who was also being chased, but you were more interesting." Eunice rolled over on her belly and winked at him. "As for the other part of your question, I was able to pick up and run off with you because I lost everything and everyone I loved a long time ago, and now I have nothing and no one to slow me down."
Idea stared at Eunice as her words sunk in. As he considered and reconsidered what she'd said, he began to feel funny. His stomach clenched and twisted. In spite of the campfire's heat, he began to feel a chill.
Sick feelings rose up in him, and he recognized them. He'd experienced these symptoms before, and he knew what caused them.
Idea rubbed the three moles on his left cheek with the tip of his index finger, the way he always did when he felt like this. "So what you're saying is that you were meeting someone else who was being chased for some reason when I just happened to bump into you?"
Eunice boosted herself up on her elbows and grinned at him. "Ding, ding, ding! That's exactly right! You were paying attention!"
"That's quite a coincidence." Suddenly, although he was out in the open under an infinite starry sky, he felt as if walls were closing in around him. He jumped to his feet and paced back and forth in the sand.
The chill he felt continued to grow, and his stomach continued to twist in knots. A dizzy nausea oozed into his head, making him weave and stumble.
"What is it?" Eunice pushed herself to her knees on the sleeping bag. "What's wrong?"
Idea stopped, bent over, and planted his hands on his knees. "Did you ever feel ... like someone else is pulling your strings?"
Eunice got to her feet and went to him. "Like God, you mean?"
He shook his head. "It's like you think you're doing things because you want to ... but it's only because someone else makes you want to. Someone controls your every move." Idea gulped deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. "Maybe ... yeah, maybe it is God ... and ninety-nine percent of the time, you don't even notice. But then once in a while you feel it ... and it's the worst feeling in the world."
"Sounds like you're having an anxiety attack." Eunice lightly touched his shoulder.
"Not just ... an anxiety attack," Idea said. "They named it ... after me."
"Named what after you?"
"This disease," said Idea. "The doctors named it ..
. Deity Syndrome. I'm the first person diagnosed with it, so they named it after me."
"Come on and sit down." Eunice took his hand and pulled him toward the sleeping bag.
Idea let her guide him. "It's too much of a coincidence. I'm running from someone, and I meet you, just when they're closing in on me. You just happen to be looking for someone else ... who's on the run, too."
Eunice helped him sit down on the sleeping bag and kneeled beside him. "Try to relax." She pressed the back of her hand to Idea's forehead, as if she were feeling for a fever.
"What are the chances?" Idea tipped his head back and looked up at the starry sky. "How stupid do you think I am? I know you're using me!"
He glared upward for another moment, then let Eunice help him lie back on the sleeping bag. He closed his eyes, slung an arm over his face, and tried to get control of his shallow, quick breathing.
After a few minutes, he began to feel better. The nausea and chills eased, and the ache in the pit of his stomach began to subside. He lifted his arm from over his eyes and smiled weakly up at Eunice.
"Could you get the book from my backpack?" he asked. "I'd just like to lie here and read for a little while."
"Sure." Eunice retrieved the thick paperback from Idea's pack. She read the title before handing it to him. "Fireskull's Revenant. Any good?"
"I can hardly put it down." Idea pulled his phone out of his pocket, switched it on, and opened an app that made the screen glow with enough light for him to read by. Then he opened the paperback to a dog-eared page and waved the book at Eunice. "This is what Deity Syndrome's all about, you know."
"How so?"
Idea met Eunice's gaze and recited from memory a passage from a medical textbook. "'Multisystemic symptoms resulting from a psychosomatic manifestation of the unshakable fear that the patient is a character in a novel.
"'Psychological complex may include the conviction that an omnipotent author has doomed the patient/character to die in the novel in which he appears.'"
"Hmm." Eunice cocked her head and frowned. "So what's this novel about? The one you're a character in?"
My Favorite Band Does Not Exist Page 3
