Boogie Beach

by Winnie Winkle

  Chelsea picked up my hand and squeezed it. “Patra, I could not have changed the outcome. A witch is no match for a god, let alone one of the original three. Gods are beyond our power.” She leaned in and wiped my tears with a tissue. “But, if I’d been there, I would have tried to help dislodge the Vapor to save your love.”

  Lost in a stupor, I sat in her hug, feeling the gauze of the potion holding the shreds together while my mind fished.

  Over the ocean, lightning cracked, a huge jagged bolt illuminating the night.

  “Oh, shit,” Chelsea murmured.

  “Bring it. I am fine if Zeus kills me. Without Ballard, I’m already dead.”

  “No, Patra, beg for forgiveness. Please, it’s the only way.”

  Heavy steps hit the balcony, and Zeus ducked and strode through the open French doors, muses on his heels. My mind chittered, sing-songing like a campy late night TV commercial. ‘And now, the sisters of subdue, the divas of damper, it’s the muting, meddling muses!’ Six aqua eyes turned and held mine.

  Huh, I’ve lost my shit, and could care less.

  “Keeper, you lost the book!” Zeus thundered, each word a crack of fury, and I broke the gaze with the muses to look up at his rage. In a surreal twist, I felt no fear.

  “A Vapor split itself, created a diversion, and stole your book. Which of my myriad of magical powers, oh, mighty Zeus, was the best defense?”

  Chelsea’s eyes went wide. Lightning cracked from his fingertips.

  “If you want me gone, I’m happy to jump off this balcony. Get her,” I thumbed at Chelsea, “to lift the spell and I’ll fling into nothing. My life is meaningless; all I crave is Ballard. There is no point burning a building full of innocents when I’m ready and willing to fly.”

  The air behind Zeus shimmered, and Poseidon took form. “Brother, the old precaution in place safeguards the record. Death is unnecessary. I split the Keeper from the human, but it was not enough. The Vapor occupying the human now resides in here.”

  Poseidon passed a grey cube, contents whirling, to the nearest muse.

  “Go, question the Vapor,” Zeus commanded, and the three disappeared. “We are not finished, Keeper. Expect me.”

  A teeth-aching crack raced across the sky and Zeus vanished, the smell of ozone rankling the air. Fueled by this sense of no fear, I opened my mouth to ream Poseidon a new one, but Chelsea squeezed my fingers so hard I thought she intended to break my bones.

  “Where is your journal?” Poseidon’s voice was low, his tone troubled.

  I slid open the secret drawer in my coffee table with my free hand, pulled out the notebook, and passed it. He leafed through the journal before handing it back.

  “What old precaution?” Chelsea’s eyes gleamed green.

  “The book of the line is bound to the Keeper. Once it fell into the wrong hands, the spell that connects it to the journal reversed and poured the entries here.”

  Shocked, I opened it, staring at the writing flowing across the pages.

  “The bell and staff were not touched,” Poseidon added. “The Vapors only sought the record.”

  Chelsea held his gaze as seconds ticked.

  “With your life,” Poseidon told her, fading from view.

  “I loathe you,” I roared to the empty living room. Chelsea’s eyes bugged, but there was no reply.

  My heartbreak meant nothing to them. My heartbeat, to me, even less. Oh, Ballard.

  Chapter 23

  Chelsea remained, but no other magicals came to visit. I thought Pook and Bingo might flap over, but my balcony stayed pelican free.

  “The community is pissed, Keeper,” Chelsea replied when I mentioned this. “Most of them blame you for compromising the book. The majority don’t know the record is safe. You’re a persona non grata.”

  “That’s unfair.”

  “Expecting fairness from life is a human trait. Magicals seek opportunities, strive to deepen our understanding of magic, but none of us expect it to be fair. It’s a system of abilities, Patra. The strongest magic in any situation leads. The rest can angle for advantage, but equity is never in the equation.”

  “Wait, I didn’t compromise the book, a Vapor did! When I opened the door for Ballard, it was after Poseidon carried me to the office door and left me to open it, intending to create the scene to Ballard that I was working, and to preserve the integrity of the ruse.”

  “No magical will accuse Poseidon of error when a human is involved. In this case, two humans. They create emotional constructs that magicals have to navigate. Even now, we are working around your grief to prevent you from choosing something stupid, like killing yourself, before a new Keeper arrives.

  Ouch.

  Her eyes shaded to blue. “While that’s harsh, this mindset dwells in most magicals. We look like humans, Patra, but we are not.”

  “With Vapors the differences are obvious.”

  “Yes, but you don’t grasp that either. Vapors are mechanical in their drive for power. It’s a zero-sum with them and always will be. There is no negotiation. They yearn to release the line because the lack of conquest frustrates their purpose.”

  “So, the gods made a mistake.”

  “Shhh. Watch yourself.”

  “Chelsea, I do not care.”

  “So, you believe Ballard wants this? You suiciding off the balcony? Smited for being an idiot? I doubt it.”

  True. Ballard would want me to be happy.

  “Why is the record a big deal to the Vapors?”

  Chelsea glanced at me, then out to the sea. “I can’t answer that.”

  Huh. Or won’t. My mind turned over the entries I’ve read.

  “I must record the last 24 hours.”

  Chelsea was brilliant, so I expected she’s onto this plan, but stopping me from making a record wasn’t allowed.

  I pulled the notebook and composed my entry, writing while she watched, stopping at points to ask the book to show me other entries for clarification.

  Show me why Keepers have the book.

  The pages wavered and an empty page surfaced.

  Blank? Why? What is the correct question?

  Chelsea drifted off to the kitchen to prepare a pot of tea. My mind raced. Why does the book bind to the Keeper?

  The pages shifted, words rising. The script was spidery and old-fashioned. Was this the original entry? I’d never seen this before. I wondered if a Keeper had to be skilled to call hidden entries forth? Did I just level up? Did Billy know about this? I bent over the entry.

  In the time of strife, the gods called on the mist, forming a relentless soldier to go throughout the world and cement the order of the Universe. The fee for this bargain was freedom.

  So Zeus promised the Vapors a place in the world’s order, then reneged, hanging them out to dry.

  The soldiers created balance, and the world grew peaceful and content.

  Wait, what?

  In the peace, the petition for freedom lay at the feet of the gods. Instead, they stripped the warriors of form and banished them to the space between the magical and human worlds, forever shunned.

  Holy shit. The Vapors aren’t zero-summing jack squat. They’re trying to blow out the line so they gain their freedom, as promised. This is not an attack on the line, it’s an attack against Zeus and company.

  The power to fold the line does not dwell in the hands of any god.

  That was the end of the entry. It didn’t answer my question, which happens. Questions led to new thought connections and secondary questioning to find the entire answer. What was I missing? I queried in half a dozen ways trying to discover who controls the line, but every question resulted in a blank page.

  Dammit.

  I returned to the book, finishing the entry on Ballard’s death, but omitting what I learned regarding the Vapors. That hidden info was private to me, not the magical world, and I planned to sit on it. I needed space to think.

  I closed the book and tucked it into the hidden drawer, palming it clos
ed, glancing at Chelsea sipping tea in the kitchen.

  “Chelsea, I’m going to lie down in my room.”

  Her smile was gentle. “Okay, Patra. Try to rest.”

  Because I was writing an entry, she stayed out of my head. I can use this. I lay in my Ballardless bed, yearning for green eyes and redemption. What I got was dreamless sleep.

  I woke up covered in the sense of being watched and rolled over, coming face to face with a muse.

  Yikes.

  “Show me the book, Keeper.”

  “Hello to you, too.” I rolled out of bed, picking cotton sleep shorts out of my cheeks, and padded through the condo to the coffee table, palming to pull the journal from the drawer before passing it to her. With a flip of silver-white hair she sat on a chair, journal across her knees, and read my latest entry.

  I could see she was asking the book for cross references, so I sat on the couch, watching the ocean and waiting.

  “Secure the book.”

  I took the journal, tucking it away, and peered at her.

  “Is there a problem?”

  It was weird, but I could tell she was freaked even though her face was a smooth mask. Something was bugging her.

  Aqua eyes flicked to me, my face adjusted to look sympathetic.

  “Stay in this place. Do not leave and do not consult the book unless required to make a record.”

  “Why not? We encourage Keepers to study to strengthen ability and improve their understanding. Billy taught...”

  Her punishment, an electrical pulse racing across my skin, knocked me to the floor in front of the couch. Caught in the buzz, I shuddered, desperate to breathe.

  “Do not question me, human. Know your place.”

  I lay, drooling, as she vanished.

  I didn’t agree not to look. She punished before she got an accord. Yes! That wasn’t how magical bargaining worked, and I could also use this. Every freaking nerve hurt, but I won, dammit. If winning didn’t kill me.

  A hand waved before my face and I gripped it, fingers screaming, as Chelsea helped me off the floor and back onto the sofa.

  “Don’t be a smartass to a muse,” she said, genuine concern apparent. “They are humorless, and they will hurt you. The concept of mercy, which humans rely on, is foreign to their purpose. The muses are the balance, Patra, and seek spaces where dark and light are uneven. Imbalance calls, and they correct. Life often terminates to sate their need for the proper mix of good and evil. Their quest for offset is absolute.”

  “Lesson learned.”

  “Oh, I doubt it, Patra. We’ve met.”

  I laughed, realizing, in a small corner of my exhausted emotional heart, that humor helped. I must rise to fix this. The only way forward was to figure out how to continue without Ballard.

  The book guided, and I listened to the whispers.

  Friday passed, uneventful, and the questions I couldn’t bear, such as where Ballard’s body lay and what will happen to The Boogie, stayed in the background. Chelsea magicked up soup, bread, and cheese. An offer of wine, which I declined, followed by one for bourbon, also declined. An eyebrow raised but she let it pass.

  “Chelsea, I’m drowning; adding reckless to sorrow isn’t prudent.”

  With a shrug, she put the liquor away and I ate some she-crab bisque, a mechanical lift to lips. After half a bowl, my mind wandered, full of green eyes and sea.

  Chelsea tried fishing in my head, because she patted my hand, and I filed that away too, rising from the table and grabbing my yoga mat. I was still banned from my balcony, so I set up near the French doors and faced the sea, breathing. Meditation time. I lacked control.

  The rise and fall of breath accompanied a systematic blanking of conscious thought. Any crumbs sifted away, leaving stillness to fill the quieted mind. If there was a next, I needed to dwell in this calm. Blanked, both cool and still. Nothing to be gleaned, impressions below the conscious mind. In and out. Breathe. No fire, no gathering of thought, simple silence.

  Eyes opening, I reveled in peace, one with the control permeating my core. I could return here to protection and grace when necessary, within this space I was powerful in my silence.

  It, and my wits, were the only weapons I had.

  Chapter 24

  The condo had living spaces facing both sides to take advantage of the sunrises and sunsets, so I moved to the west side of the great room and sat near the front balcony. It’s also blocked from me, but the pair of double French doors opened the view and the late October breeze was fresh and comfortable. Chelsea slipped into the matching overstuffed chair and we watched the day leave in a gorgeous array of apricot and magenta. A grunt, and Poseidon plunked on a loveseat. I sensed the power shift, but stayed in my new silent mind. Nothing to steal here, kids. Just peace and tranquility.

  His gaze raked across my mind, but the meditation Zen held and I remained in my bubble, eyes lost in the sky over the river.

  Life numbers the sunsets, so enjoy the beauty, Patra.

  “Keeper, you are not in danger,” Poseidon muttered, and Chelsea shifted in her seat. I focused on tranquil, remaining blank, denying their snooping.

  The brilliance slipped below the horizon. Relaxed, my thoughts turned to Ballard, intent on remembering the good stuff. If they wouldn’t stay out of my thoughts, then they could see the price paid. Call it a recoupment of the human sense of fair play. I revisited the chemistry charged lunch at Fuegos, Ballard’s intensity in asking me to live with him. Poseidon and Chelsea weren’t squirming, but I noticed they were backing out, uncomfortable with the proximity of what happened in juxtaposition to a future terminated.

  “Would you like some tea?” I rose, Zen gaze sliding across each face.

  Two nods, and I moved into the kitchen, setting the pot to boil, remembering the sex on the foyer floor, and the life force, balls to the wall, that Ballard exuded.

  Baby, I’m grateful you found me. When it’s time, our energies will reconnect.

  There’s a tickle of resentment that I couldn’t grieve unmolested, but I inhaled, pulling the quiet back over me. If I couldn’t keep my mind still, they would overrun me before I figured this out. It’s the battle of my life, and them not realizing that I knew this was the only chance I had.

  The kettle whistled and I spun to grab it, bumping nose to nose with a muse’s angry and inquisitive glare.

  Breathe.

  “Tea?”

  A perfunctory nod, and I pulled a fourth cup from its hook and added another bag. The water cascaded into the cups, the kitchen scented with the spice of chai. After choosing a knife, I sliced a lemon thin, then poured a small pitcher of milk and grabbed the honey pot. I placed the steaming cups around the tray and lifted it. The muse had not moved.

  Breathing.

  “May I pass?”

  Frustration evident, she stepped aside, and I carried the heavy tray into the front room and placed it on the weathered steamer trunk that doubled as a coffee table. The muse sat in the other loveseat as I handed a cup to Poseidon, to her, and to Chelsea, careful to follow the power order. I sat and sipped, inhaling the spicy scent, feeling breath fill and release, blank. Ballard and our trip to the mountains occupied my mind, him on his knee, asking to marry. I sensed a shifting of weight in my audience.

  Then, I dwelled in nothing.

  Poseidon burned a hole in the side of my face, but I didn’t turn. Green eyes filled my mind, and I gazed at the only bit of Ballard remaining, my memories, and sipped.

  One thing about running a pub for the extraordinary was I knew how much they drank. Tea wouldn’t satisfy, and I wasn’t open for business. Human spirits were akin to drinking water to magicals, they had to pound a ton of drinks, like an entire fifth, to catch a faint buzz. Wine did affect them, but on a lesser scale than humans.

  An old rule to protect Keepers, though, was that their homes were sacrosanct. Keepers weren’t on call at home, only on the line. So, while in this god-imposed exile, I served at my pleasure, not theirs,
and I stored no alchemy in my cupboards. Chelsea and Poseidon fidgeted. I wasn’t surprised when he rose, nodded, and faded.

  “A visit to my coven is necessary,” Chelsea announced, “I’ll return in the morning.”

  The muse inclined her head. A snap, and Chelsea vanished.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked the muse. “I have leftover bisque, along with bread and cheese.”

  “No, I do not require sustenance,” her haughty tone hung in the air. “Are you adding to the record?”

  “Today was quiet. I plan to read.”

  I bent forward, grabbing the book on Greek mythology I used to look up Asclepius off the side table, and settled back in my chair. After thumbing to the section on muses, I dropped into the text.

  “Why are you reading that?”

  “You are a new entity to me. I have not interacted with a muse prior to this week. As a lifelong learner, I seek understanding.”

  Her brows drew together. “Research of the muse is unnecessary.”

  “My nature is to learn, not avoid new knowledge.”

  I was betting she couldn’t forbid me from reading history, so I didn’t push it, but wasn’t backing off, either. With a wave, I gestured towards the huge built-in bookcases.

  “Please, read whatever catches your interest.”

  She rose and wandered along the floor to ceiling shelves that covered most of my northern wall. “Have you read all of these?”

  “Yes. This stack here,” I gestured to a pile of twenty books in the big basket by my chair, “is my ‘to read’ pile. Those on the shelves are ones I felt I needed to keep. A reference library of sorts.”

  Her fingers trailed along the spines, and I watched her body language. Not what she expected. Aqua eyes cut to me.

  “You possess greater depth than I acknowledged when I first arrived. I did not believe you a worthy Keeper.”

  “You may be correct, but I attempt the role. The life given is the opportunity provided. It’s counterproductive not to try.”