by Linda Welch
“Great. You tell a centaur to whoa,” I remark with a scowl.
River still tries to look everywhere at once. “It’s just … so much.”
“And it would have been better to look her in the eyes, not stare at her boobs.”
The guard takes us up the steps, through the huge double doors which are open and into a big hall painted jade-green with a white and green tiled floor. Gettaholt City’s seal adorns the ceiling as a plasterwork medallion. Marble columns that pretend to support the ceiling are purely decorative. Nothing has changed since I came here with Castle five years ago.
A few people sit on long black plastic benches along the north wall. A clerk hunches in a cubbyhole behind a waist-high counter.
We swing left and down a corridor. The offices either side have no outside windows but large glass panes look into the corridor. Clerks are busy at their desks, on their phones, rooting in filing cabinets, chatting in muted voices.
River’s steps drag and I’m not doing much better. I want my bed, I want sleep, but won’t get either for hours.
*
Chapter Nine
Initially disoriented after waking stretched out on a street-side bench, when he was able to think coherently, River supposed that knowing but not remembering made him amnesic.
In Manhattan, he walked beneath streetlights at night and knew how electricity worked. He looked skyward at the yellow orb and knew the sun was approximately 152 million kilometers from Earth at aphelion and approximately 147 million kilometers at perihelion. Staring through a store’s window at a line of televisions showing people whose lips moved silently, he recognized one face as Barack Obama who assumed the presidency of the United States of America on January 20, 2009. Walking through a library, reading book spines, he knew William Shakespeare was thought to have written Romeo and Juliet between 1594 and 1596 and Scene III began with Lady Capulet asking the Nurse: “Nurse, where’s my daughter? Call her forth to me.”
He had no memory of reading Shakespeare’s books.
Packets of bulbs on display inside a hardware store included snowdrops, one of the first plants to blossom in early spring, the pure white velvet petals poking up through whiter crystalline snow. Yet he didn’t recall seeing a snowdrop in bloom.
He could have learned the multitudinous facts which constantly barraged his brain as other people do, state or private education, reading and research. Except he didn’t recall reading a book, or going to school, or surfing the Internet. And he couldn’t do any of those things. Opportunities for education are limited when your fingers won’t turn a page or tap a keyboard. Not only had he lost all memory prior to waking, his nervous system was majorly haywire.
He knew McDonald’s Big Mac had two beef patties special sauce lettuce cheese pickle onion on a toasted sesame seed bun, but didn’t recall tasting one. Only later did he realize he didn’t crave food, or apparently require it.
If he suffered from amnesia, he needed help. River tried to ask passersby for directions to a hospital. At first he thought these people with the big city mentality of minding their own business ignored him, until, exasperated, he tried to touch someone and discovered he could not. His hands grasped at air and didn’t quite make contact. Even after this, his mind refused to latch on to the obvious, because the obvious was inconceivable. Then he noticed the way in which people avoided him, not as though they consciously moved out of the way, but as if some natural instinct made them slip aside.
River wandered for weeks, until he walked past an old mansion. He brushed against a man in the street and for the first time experienced the sensation of his body bulking, making him solid and heavy. The brief contact was a shock, as if a giant sledgehammer struck him dead center, and returning to a state of nothing when they lost contact was as bad. A shoulder bumped his, and for an instant warm air bathed his skin, breath rushed in his throat as he sharply inhaled and plumed from his open mouth on the exhale. Stunned, he spun and found the man looking at him.
The guy’s upper lip lifted to reveal slim pointed teeth, and he went on his way.
River loitered at the huge gothic house after that and tried to touch every person who entered and exited. He didn’t get the same result until another, similar-looking man, brushed against him as he left the building. But this man snarled and lunged at River. River took off. The guy didn’t run, but followed determinedly at a fast walk, and River had to lose him by dashing through several stores and out the back exits. If this man made his flesh solid, could he restrain him? River didn’t want to risk finding out.
He waited near the house. Why did these men see and feel him and have an effect on his body? Could he introduce himself to them, was it worth the risk? They were the only people he had interacted with on a basic level; perhaps they could tell him why, except they seemed more inclined to attack than linger for a chat.
Although River woke to a bizarre world, he considered himself pragmatic. He could cope. He could survive in this strange, lonely city, but do nothing more than survive.
He knew so much, none of it from experience.
He saw Rain and she was familiar to him. As if she were someone he once knew, but so long ago he couldn’t quite remember in what context. Then he understood he felt a different kind of recognition. They were alike, phantoms in the world of the living.
So small and fine boned. So black and white. She seemed very young and frail, until he looked into her dark eyes. Her eyes held an age of sorrow.
He knew about vampires, those fantastic creatures portrayed as villains or soulful heroes in books and on the screen, but they weren’t real. He didn’t understand the men he’d watched were vampires, until they went for Rain with fangs extended.
Seeing Rain fight, he knew the impression of fragility was deceptive.
He didn’t really comprehend what she said of Downside. He followed her because the vampires were closing in and he didn’t want to lose sight of her.
Now he is Downside, learning the true meaning of bizarre. His pragmatism fails in the task of accepting Downside as just another place. Everywhere he looks, creatures which his mind says don’t exist mingle with human beings. Rain says many more entities make Gettaholt City their home but are seldom seen; they prefer to live cloaked in the shadows.
Downside is wonderful, and magical, and perilous.
*
Rain rattles down when we come out of City Hall. I wish I could walk between these drops, and do what I haven’t done in years: hail a taxi. River and I are soaked before he opens the rear door for us.
“That’s it? My name and a photograph?” he says as we settle on the back seat.
“And my guarantee.”
He holds up one hand. “Not even fingerprints.”
After a long silence, he adds, “I don’t have fingerprints.”
Familiar streets flash past. Rain batters the side windows, the cab’s wipers whump-whump-whump more efficiently than in Castle’s old boneshaker of a car. The evening sky is a furious black-red.
“All we have at first is a name and a face.” I imagine kicking myself in the ass. Well done, Rain. Now tell him something else he already knows. But the past couple of days have sapped me and I know the questions are going to come fast and furious soon enough.
His eyes reflect suspicion and doubt and I want him to keep his mouth shut, just for tonight. I’m so tired, from traveling Upside and retrieving Verity, and everything that happened before.
The cab stops outside my block. I have enough cash to pay the driver, though the tip is mediocre. River and I slide out and head up the steps, into the small hall and up the stairs to my apartment. I unlock the door and take him inside. It feels warm and stale.
River is still in the doorway.
“Coming?”
He takes one step in and eyes the room. “Your place?”
Duh. “My humble home.”
He shuts the door and walks up to me. His fingers curl into fists. “Rain,” he says, “why did you lie
to me?”
His tone and the accusation coming from thin air make my stomach lurch. I don’t care to be loomed over, and if he shut the door to stop me escaping, he should reconsider. My voice is cold. “I don’t lie. About what?”
“You said we’d be real.” His hand shoots out. “Like this.”
I flinch as his hand clamps on mine so tightly I feel the bone creak and flesh slams into me.
Angry to be handled this way, to be accused of deceit when I’ve done nothing but try to help him, I breathe shallowly to calm a suddenly raging pulse and the instinct to take him down. I can break his hold, but that he’s angry and confused is not his fault. Five years ago I was where he is now.
I do, however, give him an arctic look. “We are real, River, even when we’re not like this. The Station Master saw you. The guard saw you, the clerk at City Hall spoke to you. The Centaur gave you the evil eye.”
His grip loosens, though I still feel the sinewy strength of his hand.
“Remember the sensation when we entered The Station, as though all your muscles seized up, then relaxed? That was your body instinctively adjusting to Downside. This,” I squeeze his hand, “is not natural to us, not Downside. Full body mass tires us, so we take it on only when we need to.”
I drag my hand free and we return to a semi-fleshed state. “This is comfortable and uses less energy.”
He pulls air in through his nose and jerks his head as if flicking away cobwebs. “Nothing you say makes sense.”
Don’t I know it; not to a newcomer. My shoulders slump. “Believe me, I know what you’re going through.”
I have one thing in mind: bed. “Tomorrow. We’ll talk tomorrow. I don’t know about you, but I need sleep.”
He watches me head for the bathroom, confusion still etching his face. But should we get into a discussion it will lead from one question to another, to another, ad infinitum. I can’t take it; I’m dead on my feet.
Sitting on the toilet, too tired to strip, a fast fade out and in leaves me still on the toilet with boots and clothes jumbled around me. The damp jacket and pants go over the shower rail, the shirt, socks and underwear stay crumpled on the floor. I come from the bathroom carrying my blades, wearing an oversized T-shirt which hangs to my knees.
Uncertainty written all over his face, River still drips where I left him. Even his T-shirt shirt is sopping.
“You’re dry,” he observes as I stow my knives in the cube where I keep them.
“One of the advantages of being able to manipulate flesh.” I rake at my hair.
“You make us sound like meat.”
I would laugh were I not so beat. “Everyone is meat.” I go to the bed. “I’m turning in. You can share the bed if you want.” Lifting the blanket, I ease beneath to lie on my side. The bed is small but can take two.
Sorrow engulfs me. Castle shared this bed, this blanket wrapped his big body as we slept in the aftermath.
River still stands in the middle the room. His expression as he eyes the bed is comical.
“Okay, don’t. But stop dripping on my floor. Hang your stuff in the bathroom, it’ll be dry by morning.”
He returns my smile with a wavering one of his own before heading for the bathroom.
I’m nearly asleep when River leaves the bathroom wearing navy boxers and nothing else, hair damp-dry and mussed from being toweled. At least his underwear is dry.
I thought he was skinny, but lean muscle coats his frame. He doesn’t have Castle’s bulk but is by no means the weed I first took him for. He’ll turn heads in better fitting clothes. Minimally clad, he turns mine. Upside people talk about washboard abs but how many know what a washboard actually is? Downside folk still use washboards and River could be a poster boy for washboard abs. Add wide shoulders, chest a collage of flat muscle, arms, thighs and calves lean but ropy and you have a sleek, beautifully defined body.
And the ink is amazing, as if The Book of Kells in all its glowing metallic colors has been inscribed from breastbone to wrists, over his torso back and front until it disappears in the waistband of his boxers.
He moves like a cat to the bed and lifts the blanket, rolls and puts his back to me. With a mere inch or two separating us, he carefully tugs the cover over his length. He can’t be comfortable, with one arm sticking from the bed and the other straight along his side like a ruler. His body is rigid.
I’m not comfortable, either, with him lying like a board.
“Go to sleep.”
“I thought I’d be able to here, but every time I try… .” He wraps one arm around his chest as if trying to hold himself together.
I was exhausted when Castle found me. I wanted to give in and sleep, but felt myself slipping away each time I tried, as though my essence seeped through my pores. I thought, if I let go, I’ll lose myself and won’t come back, so I stayed awake and clung to what remained of me.
“You just have to relax.”
A tremor runs over his body. “I can’t.”
I roll and shuffle till I face his back. My hand goes to his arm of its own accord, hesitates, and settles on his skin. Our bodies firm. “We can sleep like this, for tonight.”
His skin is smooth until my drifting fingers catch on scar tissue.
I stroke his arm up and down. “Go to sleep. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
He fights it, but his breathing evens out after a long half-hour and he slips into exhausted sleep. He will be out for hours.
And I’m wide awake. I can’t believe I am this restless when exhaustion drained me moments ago. How is that for contrary?
Watching him, I draw back from River. His breathing doesn’t change. Almost imperceptible to sight, his body settles into normal density. Normal for Downside, that is.
I listen to River’s quiet breathing.
The excitement of the past day allowed me to ignore the searing grief below my breastbone, still there but manageable. Now, as my mind winds down, sorrow expands in a swamping wave.
Why? First the hellion, then Castle murdered. Is it connected? Had to be. Why didn’t we see it coming? Who’s behind it?
I need Castle. With all my heart, I yearn for the moments of quiet companionship, the bantering, his sarcastic asides. His big body and deadly moves protecting my back.
River occupied me today, but as he sleeps, the absence of Castle, the lack of him in my life makes me want to dissolve in a puddle of tears.
I can’t sleep. Quietly, I dress and slip out of the apartment.
Rain drips from gutters and signs. Light splashes from doorways and shop windows. The streets are no longer crowded but by no means deserted. Gettaholt never sleeps.
I wander aimlessly. Passing Popkins, I look through the window to the rear of the café, but Castle isn’t at his table. I search for black spiked hair and broad shoulders in a canvas coat rising above other pedestrians. I’m making it harder on myself, I know it but can’t stop looking, and everywhere I look, Castle isn’t there. I’m not too surprised to end up the cemetery. I didn’t mean to come but my feet decided otherwise.
Wet grass soaks the knees of my jeans. Drooping, I look at the dark earth which marks Castle’s resting place and wish it could tell me something about where he is. Castle has always been with me, how can I operate without him? I couldn’t even retrieve Verity on my own.
“I miss you.” My entire body is heavy with new grief. A tear trickles down my cheek and falls before I can catch it.
“I’ll find who killed you, Castle. They’re going to die.”
I squeeze my shoulders together. “Pathetic, huh? Moping all over your grave.”
I tell him about River and how we met, about retrieving Verity from Upside. Finished, I just sit, determined not to cry again.
I should get back before River wakes. I use my hands to push up from the ground. “Sleep well. I loved you, you fucking idiot.”
“Aw, cut it out,” Castle says. “You’re making me blush.”
I almost wet myself
.
Castle stands a few feet away, grinning at me, legs apart, hands in the pockets of his canvas trench coat. I don’t think past the fact he’s here and propel myself at him. But the ground grabs my feet as I realize he can’t be, and he isn’t.
Not Castle. Then what? I palm a knife and back off.
He spreads his hands. “Aw, Rain! Is this how you greet your best buddy?”
I don’t waste breath talking. A shape changer? I have never seen nor heard of one that can assume another person’s physical appearance. Not only body - this thing has his voice and mannerisms down pat. An illusion? Physically harmless, but sent to… .
My brain stalls.
The thing slouches at me with a lopsided smile and outstretched arms. “Betcha missed me. Where’s my hug?”
“Back off!” My blade makes circles in the air. “Go back to whichever hell you came from.”
“Don’t be stupid! You can’t hurt me.” It jabs one hand at me. “Go ahead, try, I dare you.”
Heart pounding, I stop skittering backward. “Well, if you’re inviting me… .” And I sweep the knife at it.
I mean it as a warning but it steps into the blow and my hand … my hand and the knife cut through it.
I feel absolutely nothing but gooseflesh popping out all over.
Staggering, I hop back again. An illusion, formless, it can’t hurt me, but I hold onto the knife. Is whoever sent the thing speaking through it? “What do you want?”
“Want? Want?” Castle-like, its hands flail all over the place. “I want to spend time with my best gal-pal.”
I can’t stand any more. This is sick and I have had enough. “If you got nothing important to say, I’m leaving.” I move away, walking sideways so I can keep an eye on the Castle thing.
“Wait up!” It flanks me. “Rain, I’m here. You’re not imagining me.”
“Go away. With everything else, I refuse to add crazy to the mix.”
“No.” Its hand waves up and down in my face. “Hold up a minute. Look at me.”
I can’t help myself. I stop and face it. Seeing Castle so close, so real, about kills me.
