by Cory Barclay
Think of Grandma, think of Grandma . . .
Just in case he couldn’t contain himself, Steve thrust his hands in his jacket pockets.
“Do I make you nervous?” Scarlet asked, innocently.
Steve just frowned and cocked his head in response.
Scarlet chuckled again. “I have that effect on people.”
“Yeah, Aiden told me what you are. And what you do to men.”
Scarlet’s joyous face sunk, turned a bit harder, like there was something dark under those eyes. “Aiden shouldn’t open his big mouth so much. And it isn’t just men, honey.”
Steve blushed, his mouth falling open.
Scarlet giggled, obviously enjoying Steve’s stage fright.
“Jesus,” Steve said, “I feel like I’m in middle school trying to talk to my first crush.”
“Just relax, Steve Remington.”
Steve exhaled deeply. “Okay, well answer me this: why has Aiden brought me here?”
“I suppose he thinks I can help you.”
“And can you?”
Scarlet shrugged. “I guess it depends on what you want.”
“I don’t think you’d believe me if I—”
Scarlet put up a finger to Steve’s lips, quieting him instantly. “Don’t assume what I will and will not believe, Mister Remington.” She raised her hands above her head, to gesture at the trees and fountains and statues. “Do you know how I came to have all this?”
Steve shook his head.
Scarlet took a seat on a stone bench, next to one of the fountains. The moon perfectly reflected down through the canopies of the trees and lit up the spot where she sat. “I’ve been on Terrus for many, many years. When I first came here, I realized what my power could get me . . . but I believe I chose the wrong profession.”
Steve said nothing, just cocked his head again.
“I was a teacher. A college professor of physics.”
Steve raised his eyebrows. “Wrong profession . . . how?”
He didn’t like the sound of where this was going.
“Well, for starters, I had sex with all my students.”
“All of them?”
Scarlet nodded. “I didn’t know how to control my powers yet.”
“I guess not.”
Scarlet flashed a quick frown. “Don’t be mean.”
“Sorry.”
“After that I sued the school for wrongful termination, and I won. And then—”
Steve’s hands came flying out of his pockets. He rolled his wrist and said, “Wait, back up. How the hell did you win?”
“They had no proof of my affairs—no one would snitch on me. And even if they had, what I was doing wasn’t illegal, just . . . highly frowned upon.”
There was a brief pause as Steve tried to unpack that. “Okay,” he said. “Continue.”
“Well, then I chose a profession more suited to my abilities. I became a prostitute.”
“Ahh,” Steve said, starting to understand where this was going.
“But that’s not where I ended,” Scarlet added, nixing Steve’s assumptions. She raised a finger and said, “What’s the one thing men love more than sex?”
Steve shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you.”
“Power.”
“Power,” Steve repeated, nodding.
“And many men feel a rush when they lose that power—if they know it’s not permanent. It can even become part of their sexual fantasies.”
Steve scratched his forehead. “So you—”
“Became a dominatrix,” Scarlet said. “That’s how I afforded this mansion and my butler and my lifestyle. And it’s why some people call me Baroness.”
“So that man you took into the room a few minutes ago?”
“A client. He paid me to squeeze his balls really tight and call him a little weasel over and over.”
That didn’t sit well with Steve, but he was starting to understand. Or at least he thought he was.
But then, no, he was just as confused as before. “Wait,” he said. “Where were we going with this conversation?”
“I just mean to say you can’t judge a book by its cover, Mister Remington. You can’t assume people won’t believe you when they tell you something fantastical. Some of us have really good imaginations.”
“As I imagine you do.”
Scarlet nodded. “So. Tell me what you’re looking for.”
Steve did. He started at the beginning, at his father’s funeral, when he met Annabel. He noted her sudden “arrival”—out of thin air. He talked about the car crash that nearly took him out, and Scarlet asked him questions along the way.
“And did you learn anything from this Shannon Barton woman?”
Steve shook his head. “Only that she ‘did it for love.’ Whatever the hell that means.”
Scarlet grunted and gestured for Steve to continue.
He mentioned the nightmares he’d been having, about meeting Annabel’s vampiric parents in his dreams. Then he talked about meeting Aiden and said, “I feel like that guy’s stalking me.”
“Could very well be true,” Scarlet said. “He’s a con man of the highest order. But he’s also my friend. I don’t think he’s trying to harm you.”
And finally, Steve finished by mentioning what Annabel’s parents had told him in his most recent dream. “They said, ‘Seek the Druid. You’ll know when you’ve found her.’ ”
After his tale, Steve felt winded, like he’d just poured his whole heart and soul on the ground. There was a long pause between them, as they just stared at the cobblestone ground in front of them.
“And that’s why you’ve come here—why Aiden has brought you here? You think I am the Druid?” Scarlet asked.
Steve shrugged. “Well . . . I was hoping.”
“I’m afraid not.” Scarlet put her hand on Steve’s knee, and that was her first mistake.
He felt electrified from her touch—his heart pounding, his throat going dry. And without even thinking, he dipped his head and kissed her on the lips.
Rather than shying away, Scarlet accepted Steve’s kiss and grabbed the back of his head, gripping a wad of hair in her hand.
Then Steve mumbled something and came to. He blinked rapidly, lips still locked with Scarlet’s, and forcefully pulled his head away. Scarlet let go of his head and he reared back, eyes bulging. It was like he’d just emerged from a deepwater dive, barely reaching the surface before drowning.
“I-I’m sorry,” Steve stuttered. “I-I don’t know what came over me.”
“I do.”
Another short pause.
Then Scarlet cleared her throat. She had a serious expression on her face, like she might be slightly ashamed. “Look, Mister Remington. I’m sorry that I’m not the person you’re seeking.” Then she stood up from the rocky bench. In her stilettos she was taller than Steve.
Still sitting, he gazed up at her face.
Then he heard footsteps coming down the courtyard and heard a small voice: “Mister Steve, are you out here?”
Scarlet spun around and started walking back toward the party. He couldn’t tell if she was angry he didn’t pursue their moment of passion further.
“Then you can’t help me?” Steve called out.
Scarlet stopped when she was about ten feet away. Then Annabel came from around the corner and nearly ran into her.
“My apologies!” Annabel gasped, fumbling to stay on her feet.
“I never said that,” Scarlet called out to Steve. “Come find me tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. Maybe we can work something out.” She started walking away again.
Steve scrunched his brow. “Where do I find you?” he yelled.
“You already have the address!” Scarlet replied, then she was gone, back inside.
Then it was quiet, Annabel fiddling her fingers together, nervously staring at Steve. “Mister Steve, what’s wrong? What happened?”
Steve sighed and stared at the ground. He couldn’t meet Annabel’s
eyes—not right now—not after just accidentally kissing Scarlet. “Nothing,” he murmured in a low voice. “Get Dale, Bel. We’re leaving.”
“And you’re meeting Madam Scarlet tomorrow?”
Steve nodded.
“Where?”
He reached into his pocket and found the business card with the party’s address on the back. He turned it to the front and read it again:
Pacific Beach Tarot
1549 Garnet Avenue, 92109
He showed her the card and said, “Here, I guess.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The following morning, Steve wanted nothing more than to wrap himself in a blanket like a human enchilada and waste the afternoon away. But he had two meetings that Wednesday.
First, he was expected to make an appearance at the Pacific Beach Tarot shop at ten o’clock, less than half a mile from his studio. He supposed Scarlet Amos, the succubus, would be there, and that he’d learn some things that would make his new crazy life a little clearer. Judging by the past couple days, though, he wasn’t getting his hopes up. Things seemed to be getting more and more convoluted the deeper he went.
Second, he was supposed to meet with Henry at noon, his AA sponsor and part-time lawyer, to go over the Imminent Records paperwork. Annabel agreed to join him at that meeting, but until then, she announced, she would be fighting off her hangover on the studio couch.
Bleary-eyed and tired from his late night, he downed a quick cup of coffee at the studio and went outside. It was a bright sun-shiny day in San Diego with not a cloud in the sky. The sun beat down on him like he owed it something. As he got in his car, parked out front of the studio on the main drag, he realized there was a yellow envelope underneath his windshield wiper.
“Goddammit,” he said to himself, reaching for the envelope. He knew exactly what this was, and it was much less ominous and mysterious than the recent messages he’d been receiving from random mythological beings.
He’d forgotten that Wednesday morning was street sweeping day on this side of Garnet Avenue.
He opened the envelope and found his prize: a $53 parking citation.
He threw the envelope and the ticket on the passenger’s seat and started up the old Lexus. He glanced at the dashboard and saw the gas gauge resting directly on the E.
Something caught his attention from the corner of his eye. He blinked and shot his eyes up to the alley between Buddy’s Diner and his studio. He swore he’d seen a big, roundish figure standing there, as if trying to hide.
Pancho?
When he opened his eyes from blinking the figure was gone.
Steve got out of his car and cautiously stepped toward the entrance of the alley. With the exception of cigarette butts and stray debris, the alley was empty. No human life. No Pancho.
He checked his phone and saw the time was 9:57 a.m. He was going to be late. Again. And if he ran out of gas, which was a strong possibility, he’d be really late.
The old Lexus rumbled to life and he punched the gas, screaming down Garnet Avenue like the UPS store was about to close. He made it outside the tarot shop by 10:03. The small brick building was nestled between a tattoo parlor and a Wells Fargo building. It had a green awning with terrible typeface that read PACIFIC BEACH TAROT.
He’d passed the place hundreds, if not thousands, of times in his life. It was a staple of the community. Even when restaurants and bars went out of business on the busy, competitive Garnet Avenue, the tarot shop had always been there. Steve used to joke with people, saying it must have been a drug front—how the hell could a tarot/psychic/loony store stay open in the cutthroat, expensive heart of Pacific Beach?
Steve got out of his car and walked under the ugly awning. When he opened the door the smell of lavender incense and patchouli oil invaded his nose. A person in his way stood him up straight, someone that had been heading in the opposite direction—out of the shop.
It was Shannon Barton.
A quick mixture of shock and guilt crossed her face. She ducked her head and squeezed past Steve, murmuring, “E-Excuse me,” while Steve just stood there with his brows all screwed up.
As Shannon left the building, the door dinged from a little Christmas bell. Inside the small lobby were two familiar faces and one new one. Aiden O’Shaunessy and Scarlet Amos were standing toward the back of the room, around the shoulders of a seated lady. The seated lady had silvery hair and a smooth, wrinkle-less face. Steve couldn’t tell if she was sixteen or sixty. He guessed she was closer to the latter.
The small, musty room had ugly green carpets that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in years, a small front counter with all sorts of spiritual mumbo jumbo: crystals, necklaces, abalone, that sort of thing, and the small table where the little silver-haired lady sat. It was a sparse room. Steve expected a crystal ball to be on the center of the table, but his expectations were misguided.
“You must be Steve Remington,” the little lady said. She talked in a low voice, but her tone was smooth and crisp. Steve could hear her perfectly, despite her soft volume and the constant traffic outside on the street.
Steve nodded. “I am.”
“I’ve been expecting you,” the lady said. There was an empty chair on Steve’s side of the table, to which the lady gestured he sit.
Steve rolled his eyes as he sat. “I’ve heard a few people tell me that recently, and I’m starting to get tired of it. Why have you been expecting me? Are you implying something?”
The lady took Steve’s mild outburst in stride, folding her hands on the table and saying nothing. With just a stare she made Steve feel shameful, and he couldn’t keep eye contact. As he turned away he noticed her eyes were a startling turquoise, like she may be blind, but she stared at Steve with an intensity that said she wasn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Steve said at last, sighing. “I’ve had a strange couple days.”
“I can imagine.” She raised her hands up to the two people standing beside her. “These two tell me they’ve both met you—that you’re not what they expected.”
Steve tilted his head. “What were you expecting?” he asked Scarlet and Aiden. “And why are you both here?”
“I gave you the card, mate, so I felt a bit responsible,” Aiden said.
Actually, Michelangelo gave me the card while you were being detained and shoved down a flight of stairs, Steve thought. He didn’t bother correcting the leprechaun.
“And I told you to come here,” Scarlet said. “So . . . same.”
Steve’s eyes went back to the older lady. “So, what kind of mythological legend do I have the pleasure of meeting today?”
“My name is January Amos,” she said.
Steve thought for a moment. “Amos?” he questioned, then glanced at Scarlet.
The succubus put her hand on the smaller woman’s shoulder. “Yes. She is my mother. That’s another reason why I’m here . . .”
Steve’s eyes went from Scarlet, to January, and back to Scarlet. They looked nothing alike, not in facial features or physique or anything else. Steve wondered if this was another case of vampires adopting banshees and the like . . . something like Annabel’s predicament. He didn’t bother voicing his opinion on the matter.
“So, January—”
“Please, call me Jan.”
Steve cleared his throat and retried. “So, Jan, why am I here?”
January furrowed her bushy gray brow. “Scarlet told me you were seeking the Druid.”
“I am.”
January smiled, showing crooked yellow teeth beneath her leathery lips. “Well, you’ve found me.”
Steve’s stomach jumped to his chest. He didn’t know why his adrenaline fired off the way it did—maybe because he felt like he’d just completed an important part of his involuntary quest.
For some reason the line, All roads lead to somewhere, flashed in Steve’s head. “I’m glad,” he lied, then thrust his thumb toward the door behind him. “What was Shannon Barton doing here?”
�
�The lovely woman you almost ran into on the way in?”
Steve nodded.
“She’s one of my regular clients.”
Steve paused to let his brain soak up that tidbit. Shannon claims to have been brainwashed or mind controlled . . . or at least blank about her crash that killed Tumbleweed. Perhaps being a believer in . . . whatever the hell tarot readings are, makes her susceptible to that kind of thing . . .
Steve shook his head. The irony was not lost on him that he was starting to think like the mythical people he’d met. The further he was drawn into this fantastical rabbit hole, the further his mind seemed to be straying from reality—or at least reality as he knew it.
“Are you all right, Master Remington?” January asked, a look of slight worry on her face.
“Yes, just thinking is all,” Steve said. “And please don’t call me ‘master.’ It makes me seem more important than I really am.”
January chuckled. It was a sweet and familiar sound, like it was something she did often. “Oh, but you are certainly more important than you realize, my friend. You do not give yourself enough credit.”
“How do you figure?” Steve asked, scratching his cheek.
January opened her mouth, but then paused. She turned her head left and right and said, “Do you mind if we speak in front of Aiden and Scarlet?”
Steve shrugged. “Makes no difference to me. They seem all right.”
“Fabulous. Well, there must be a reason you were seeking a Druid, correct?”
Steve chuckled. “Yeah,” he said lazily, “because two vampires in my dreams told me to.”
January smiled again. “And it’s my understanding you have a . . . banshee in your midst?”
Steve nodded. “The daughter of said vampires.”
“Wonderful.”
“That’s debatable.”
There was a slight pause while January turned her head and stared out a small window on the other end of the room. It looked out at the red brick wall of the Wells Fargo building. She seemed to be considering how to begin her talk.
“I don’t know any way to tell you this gently, Master Remington,” January began, ignoring Steve’s request for her to drop the “master” stuff.