by Cory Barclay
“I’ll be fine, Annabel. And please . . . why do you continue to call me ‘Mister?’ You can just call me Steve, you know.”
Annabel shrugged. She turned her head and looked out the window at the passing houses and parked cars. They passed by very slowly. “It’s how I was raised.”
Steve half-smiled. He felt it would be some time before he could full-smile. “Well, vampire or not, you must have some very proper parents.”
“They were raised in a different time . . . when people were more formal.”
“So I gather.”
Dale and Aiden had been quiet in the back, so quiet Steve almost forgot they were there. But then Dale quipped, “Can we turn on the radio? It’s not that I’m not interested in this riveting talk you two are having, it’s just—”
“No need to explain yourself, Fats,” Steve said. He punched the volume knob and the radio came to life. “Layla” by Eric Clapton was on, in the middle of one of the choruses.
Clapton sang about being on his knees for Layla, about begging Layla, about Layla easing his worried mind.
Goddammit, Steve thought, shaking his head. As if he wasn’t already having trouble escaping his worried mind . . . now Eric Clapton was driving the point home, reminding him of his wretched predicament.
Steve took a right off the side street and came to Garnet. While listening to “Layla” as it drifted off into its eerie, trippy instrumental second half, a question came to him, regarding music . . .
“Fats,” he said, “since all your recording equipment was destroyed, were the songs we’d been working on with Bel destroyed too?” He looked into the rearview mirror, awaiting his answer.
In the mirror, Dale was fervently shaking his head. “No, no, man. You know how I do—I back evvverything up into the cloud—all the takes, the mixes, the masters, it’s all up there.” He waved his hand above his head to indicate where he thought the “cloud” was.
That gave Steve some relief. At least not all was lost . . . though what they were going to do with that music once Annabel was gone . . . Steve had no idea.
He parked the car across the street from the tarot shop. Everyone somberly exited the vehicle and Steve walked to the back and popped the trunk. He took out his guitar case and held it like a briefcase as he crossed the street.
I’m such an idiot, he thought as he crossed. I should have given up on the guitar and just told Annabel she was stuck here. With me.
He realized he wanted Annabel more than his father’s guitar. But he also understood the shadiness of his thoughts. It wasn’t his prerogative to make Annabel stay. It was his fault she was here, after all, so it was his responsibility to help her return home. Bottom line.
He didn’t realize, until now, how much it would pain him to see this moment come to fruition. Hindsight was 20/20.
Up until this point, he’d just been riding some kind of high . . . like he was on a mythical quest. An adventure. A mission from God.
But now reality was coming crashing down, as it was want to do, and it hurt like a bitch.
They entered in a single-file line into the tarot shop, the door dinging incessantly as they went. January wasn’t in her usual seat at the other end of the room, but she came shuffling in from a side room when she heard the door chiming.
Steve hadn’t realized how short she was until he saw her standing and walking for the first time. She moved gracefully, with an ease of motion and excellent posture—like a graceful garden gnome sliding across the carpet.
“I know you three troublemakers,” January said, pointing at Steve, Annabel, and Aiden as they stood in front of her table, “but who’s the fat one?”
“That’s Mister Fats,” Annabel said with a smile.
“Apt,” January said.
“He’s Thor, named such for having the imbibing proficiency of the Norse gods of lore,” Aiden added, bowing graciously to their hostess.
“Dale Thornton, ma’am,” Dale said, stepping between the two and putting out his big bear-paw. January eyed him for a moment, suspiciously, then shook his hand.
“I’ve just seen on the news about a recording studio being razed, just down the street from here,” January said, taking a seat at her table. Everyone else continued standing because there weren’t enough chairs to accommodate them all.
“If it wasn’t dark outside, you’d be able to see the plumes of smoke from here,” Steve said gloomily. “It was my studio.”
January nodded, frowning. “I feared as much.” She paused, then leaned forward in her chair. “And the Conveyor?”
Steve lifted the guitar case. “Miraculously, untouched.”
January was the first person who didn’t apologize to Steve for his misfortune. In some way, it gave him more respect for her. He could only assume the heaps of crap she’d probably put up with in her long life. And there was only so much apologizing one could take, especially when it wasn’t any of his friends’ faults.
“Lucky us,” January said. She rubbed her hands together, either for warmth or due to excitement. “Shall we get on with it?”
Surprisingly, at least to Steve, all eyes turned toward him. He fumbled for the right words, opening and closing his mouth a few times and stuttering.
January, quick to lose patience, asked, “What is it, Steve Remington?”
Steve laid the guitar case at his feet. He scratched his head. “Well, I was just wondering . . . is there anyway for me to, you know, visit Annabel or something? Like, in her homeland?”
January snorted. “This isn’t a Disneyland theme park, Master Remington.”
“Sure feels like it,” Dale quipped.
“You don’t get to pick and choose what ride you want to take.”
Steve nodded. He was expecting an answer like that, but it hurt all the same. “Right, just making sure.” He glanced over to Annabel, who he noticed was looking back at him with her big, bright orbs—the colors changing every time she blinked. It was like her emotions were portrayed in her eye color, and every blink brought a new one: red, purple, pink, orange, green . . . all the colors of the rainbow.
The most prominent emotion, though, at least as Steve inferred it, was sadness.
Annabel took two steps and pushed herself into Steve, wrapping him in another big hug. “I’m really sorry . . .”
“Ah, I was afraid something like this would happen,” January said.
Steve and Annabel both turned to January.
“And while it’s not inherently a bad thing—a Terrusian and Mythic falling in love—given the circumstances, I can’t advocate it. Not while there’s a Hunter around trying to kill you two.” January was shaking her head, but she spoke softly, like a mother to a child. She clearly understood how her words wounded Steve and Annabel, but current conditions necessitated her to be frank and harsh.
“I know . . .” Steve muttered. He gently pushed Annabel to arm’s-length and stared into her pale face. Tears were fluttering in her eyelashes, waiting to fall.
“I’m sorry, Steve,” she said, dropping the “Mister” for the first time. “But if you ever want this madness to end, I must go back to my plane. For my parents’ sake. I don’t want to put you or your friends in danger anymore. Look what’s already happened . . . I’ll never forgive myself for your studio.”
“It’s not your fault, Bel, really,” Steve said. He had just been about ready to beg her to stay, too, but now he felt like his words would be in poor taste. He didn’t want to sound desperate, after all, even though—
He shook his head abruptly.
And why the hell not? Social norms be damned.
“I’ll miss making music with you,” Steve said. “And everything else along with it.”
“There is . . . well . . . one thing . . .” January was muttering, but then she cut herself off.
Both Steve and Annabel’s necks twisted in her direction, looks of hope and surprise on their faces.
“I don’t want to get your hopes up,” January prefaced.
“What is it, Madam Amos?” Annabel asked.
“There are other people out there, other Mythics, who have powers inverse to yours, Master Remington.”
Steve cocked his head. “Inverse to . . . me specifically?”
January shook her head and tried again. “They do what Myth Seekers do on Terrus, but they do it on Mythicus. Just like Seekers are responsible for Searing Mythics onto Terrus, like you have with Annabel, these beings Sear Terrusians onto Mythicus.”
Steve nodded slowly. “You mean these folks can rip people from Earth and transport them to the mythical world?”
January nodded. “We call them Myth Makers . . . Get it? Because they make Mythics from non-Mythical folk.”
“Yeah, I got that,” Steve said flatly. “Although your name for me . . . Myth Seeker, is still a bit misleading. I never came looking for Annabel. I mean don’t get me wrong, I’m glad she’s here, but I never went . . . never mind. I’m rambling.” Excitement was building in Steve’s voice, which was evident by the rapidity in which he was talking.
There IS a way!
“Where can I find a Myth Maker?” he asked.
January sighed. “That’s why I didn’t want to get your hopes up, Master Remington. I don’t know. They are even rarer than Myth Seekers such as yourself. It seems your people like stealing the Mythics and putting them on your realm more than the other way around.”
Steve punched a fist into his open palm. “Dammit,” he spat. “Then why even tell me that, woman? If I can’t find one of these fuckers, how does that help me?”
Annabel reached out and put a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Steve . . . it’s not her fault.” Her touch, as usual, calmed him almost instantly.
Steve was frustrated. He groaned and turned away from the Druid, bending down to retrieve his guitar.
“I just don’t want you to give up hope,” January said. “Maybe some day . . .”
Steve didn’t dignify her with a response. Instead, he took out the smoky-colored guitar from its case and held it up for her to see.
“What happens now?” Steve asked. “What will happen when Annabel goes home?”
January said, “You will lose all ties with her in the physical world. Slowly, your memory of her ever existing will start to fade . . . Eventually leaving you altogether.”
Steve frowned. “You mean I won’t even remember how I met her? How is that possible?”
January shrugged. “The mind is capable of many strange things, my friend, but none more mysterious than the comprehension of memory.”
“I’ll remind you about her, man, in case you forget,” Dale said from the corner of the room, trying to be helpful. He had been silent for an unreasonably long period of time.
“You too will forget her, though maybe not as absolutely as Master Remington here—whom she was Bound to,” January said. “You may still see her in your dreams, for a time—”
“Like I saw her parents?”
January nodded. “But that will fade with time. Your distant memory of her will turn to a vague recollection, which will turn into nothingness—”
“Okay, I get it, lady.”
January cleared her throat. “Right. I apologize. Shall we?”
Steve laid the guitar on the table, the fretboard and strings facing up. He said, “What do we do?”
“Steve, as the Seeker, you will hold Annabel’s left hand with your right. Then you will both place your hands on the Conveyor, at the same time. Do it in that order.”
Steve stood to the right of the guitar and took Annabel’s left hand. He said, “Anywhere on the guitar?” while his left hand hovered over the strings, trying to buy time.
January nodded.
“And she’ll disappear?” He snapped his thumb and middle finger. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” January said. “You might feel a slight shock.”
Gulping, Steve turned and stared into Annabel’s eyes. “Goodbye, Bel. I promise I’ll try to come looking for you . . . once I find one of these Myth Maker assholes.”
Annabel smiled, her smile turning into a giggle when Steve cussed. Then she went on her tiptoes and pecked him on the mouth.
Steve said, “On three . . .” and started the countdown. “One . . . two . . .”
He hesitated.
“Three,” Annabel said, and both their hands slapped onto the guitar.
Steve clenched his eyes shut.
He didn’t hear a thing. He didn’t feel a thing. The room was deathly silent. It was like he himself had transported into another spiritual realm.
He slowly opened his eyes. Things came into focus . . .
He was still holding Annabel’s hand.
Nothing had happened.
Furrowing his brow, Steve looked at Annabel and said, “Try again? Maybe we didn’t touch the guitar at the same time.” He looked to January. “You’re sure we can touch anywhere on the guitar?”
January’s face was clearly perplexed. She didn’t answer.
They tried it again. Steve counted down from three, finishing the sequence himself this time, and they slapped their hands down again.
And again, nothing happened.
“Something’s not right,” January said.
“No, no, no,” Annabel muttered. “Please, don’t say that!”
“I can’t sense any power in this instrument. This Conveyor is not connecting your two energies . . .”
“The hell does that mean?” Steve asked. Dale was by his side now, staring down at the guitar like it was a disappointing stepchild.
January looked up from the guitar, into Steve’s eyes, her face a mask of baffled confusion. “It means you have brought the wrong item. This isn’t the Conveyor connecting you two.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Back in the car, Steve could hear a pin drop. Everyone was quiet for a long time. Steve drove away from the tarot shop wracking his brain, trying to figure out what could have gone wrong.
How did that not work? And what do we do now? he wondered, glancing over to inspect the back of Annabel’s head. She hadn’t looked from the window the entire drive, either to hide her tears, her frustration, or because she simply didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Steve figured she was probably doing the same thing as him, wondering what the hell could have gone wrong.
The worst part was, in the back of Steve’s mind there was this little voice going “yippee!” repeatedly. The fact that the guitar had failed to transfer Annabel back to her world meant he had more time to spend with her. More time to adventure. He felt utterly guilty about the elation he felt and was not about to make his ass-backward thinking public knowledge.
But, if he was being honest, he didn’t mind the Conveyor had failed to work.
Although all he was doing now, he knew, was avoiding the inevitable. If Annabel had wanted to leave badly enough before, now she must be dying to get home.
The whole time they drove down Garnet, toward Bay Park and Aiden’s house, everyone was silent, thinking about the consequences of what had just happened, or didn’t just happen, depending on how you looked at it.
Until Dale said, “So . . .” in a low voice, followed by, “Radio?”
Steve punched the volume knob. He made sure to turn the volume dial down, so he could think—so everyone could think.
The song playing was . . . big surprise, “Stairway to Heaven.”
As the otherworldly crooning of Robert Plant kicked into gear, Aiden and Dale struck up a dialogue. Aiden started first, saying, “I’ve been thinking about your musical endeavors.”
To which Dale replied, “What about it?”
“How are the songs?”
“They’re strong,” Dale said. “I like them a lot . . .” he stopped there, possibly unsure about how much to say. Would mentioning the songs now be a sore point for Annabel?
“It doesn’t matter,” Steve said, butting in, possibly for Annabel’s sake. “It all came crashing down around us when I ripp
ed the contract up in John Levi’s face.” He was acutely aware of his Bummer Bob overtones.
Aiden would not be discouraged. “You have no funding, is what you’re saying?”
“It’s what we’re saying,” Dale said.
“No funding or distribution,” Steve said. Then he added, “And why does it matter?” while peeking up into the rearview mirror to stare at Aiden’s freckled face. “Annabel won’t be here much longer, so what could we possibly do with the music anyway?”
“Are you so sure about that, mate?” Aiden asked.
“About what?”
“About how much longer Annabel is going to be here . . .”
Steve scoffed and turned his eyes back to the road. “We’ll figure something out,” he said meekly.
“Aiden’s right,” Annabel said, speaking for the first time since the Conveyor had failed to work. She refused to turn away from the window, but at least she was talking. “While I’m here, it would be nice to do something with the music . . . at least see if there’s any potential there.”
“There’s definitely potential there, little missy,” Dale said. “And it’s not like the tracks were destroyed with the studio. Up in the cloud, remember.”
Steve shrugged. “That’s all well and good, but what can we do without funding or distribution or a platform? It doesn’t matter how good the music is if no one is ever going to hear it.”
That quieted the backseat peanut gallery for a moment, just as Robert Plant was signing off to allow Jimmy Page his time to shine with his legendary guitar solo.
After a brief interlude via air-guitar, Dale said, “We could throw it up on the Dubya Dubya Dubya, get on the Facebook and the Twitter. We could build a platform.”
Dale was one of those 21st century cavemen who refused to conform to modern standards, calling the Internet the Dubya Dubya Dubya, adding a “the” before Facebook, and generally not knowing what the hell he was talking about when it came to technology. He still used a flip-phone. In 2018.
But it seemed that, somehow, Dale had excited Annabel, which was good in Steve’s book. His compassion and enthusiasm knew no bounds.