by Cory Barclay
“No idea,” Dale said, keeping his eyes on the road. He swerved around a pokey-pokey driver and fought to keep up with Scarlet, who was indeed driving like a bat out of hell. Wherever they were heading, Steve thought they’d be there in less than fifteen minutes.
Steve gave up on the touchscreen. It prompted Shepherd to lunge from the backseat, over the center console, and smudge the screen with his filthy fingers. Within seconds, he had 101.5, San Diego’s Classic Rock, playing.
“How did you do that?” Steve asked.
“I have the magic touch,” Shepherd said, wiggling his fingers as he withdrew to the back. “The mythic touch, if you will. I’ve learned a few things since coming to Terrus. Learning how to use the radio is a staple of Terrusian assimilation.”
“Yeah, are you sure you’re not an alien, Steve-o?” Dale asked, smirking.
Steve wanted to slap the smile off Dale’s face. He said, “Just follow the crazy lady.”
“I’m trying.”
A few moments passed and the commercials on the radio station ended. A Green Day song started playing.
Steve frowned. “This isn’t classic rock.”
“The whole world’s going to shit and you’re worried about what defines classic rock?” Dale asked.
“Yes, because I have principles. It starts here, Fats, with them taking over our music.”
“Who’s ‘them’?” Shepherd asked.
“You’ll find out some day,” Steve said ominously.
They pulled onto the I-5 on-ramp behind Scarlet’s Mustang. A car had managed to squeeze between them, but Dale made sure to keep his eyes ahead. They headed south, toward SeaWorld, Old Town, and Downtown.
Steve wondered what kind of live music would be playing on a Sunday evening. It was the end of the weekend and people would be heading home to watch the news and get ready for their week ahead. Needless to say, the freeway was pretty free of cars.
Trying to shake off the icky feeling he got from listening to Green Day on a classic rock radio station, Steve looked around the car. The upholstery was real leather, the instrument panel and dashboard were plated in polished wood. He said, “Shannon’s got a pretty nice ride. What does she do?”
“She’s a waitress at Barona,” Dale said.
Steve raised his eyebrows.
“She got this car with the insurance payout from her last car. You might remember it, Steve-o.”
Right, Steve thought, the car that almost killed me and literally started my mythical journey. “I do,” he said in a low voice. He added, “Whatever happened with that? I thought she was looking at some charges.”
“They got dropped,” Dale said.
“How?”
Dale shrugged. “They didn’t find any wrongdoing. Since Tumbleweed didn’t really exist here, he had no background and no one came forward to file a wrongful death suit. She got lucky.”
“I’d say,” Steve said.
When Steve said no more, Dale glanced at him out the corner of his eye. “She’s been through a lot, too, man. She’s a nice girl and I don’t want you talking about her like that.”
Steve felt himself tense up. “Like what? What’d I say?”
“It’s not what you said, Steve-o, it’s how you said it. ‘I’d say.’ All sarcastic and shit.”
Steve rolled his eyes and turned his head to look out the window. “I’m sorry if I offended your soft sensibilities, Fats. I meant no harm. Honestly.”
“Good.”
“How’d you two get together, anyway?”
“Why, because she’s outta my league?”
“Something like that.”
“I had help.”
“From a certain good-looking angel?”
Dale’s eyes widened. “How’d you know that?”
Steve shrugged. “A hunch.” Not really, considering I saw you and Michelangelo conversing in Shannon’s bedroom when I was spying on you. Dale didn’t need to know about that part—about the dream-leaping escapades into his mind. Steve had also seen Dale and Shannon getting quite intimate with each other . . .
Dale said, “Now I owe Michelangelo something, though.”
“What?”
Even in the dark, Steve could tell Dale was getting bashful and blushing. The big man said, “It’s not an it, per se. It’s more of a service.”
Steve raised one eyebrow, his curiosity piqued.
“He wants Shannon to pose nude for him so he can create a sculpture in her image.”
Steve threw his head back against the headrest. “Damn. That’s a bit . . . personal.”
“Yeah, I haven’t told her yet.”
“You’re gonna do it?” Steve asked.
Dale shrugged. He followed Scarlet’s Mustang to the far right lane and prepared to exit toward Downtown.
“I think I have to,” he said. “Otherwise, he might extinguish his spell or whatever. I can’t have that. Shannon’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Steve felt a mixture of happiness and sadness at his best friend’s admission. He was glad Dale was happy, after struggling for so long finding work and a purpose. But he was also sad he wasn’t part of Dale’s “the best thing that’s ever happened.” He felt guilty, knowing he was being ridiculous and expecting too much. For a time, he’d almost lost Dale completely—as a friend and a memory. He knew he should be happy with what he had at that very moment. If anything, Mythicus was proof that you never knew when it could all vanish—in a snap—forever.
“Do you think it works that way? I mean, that Shannon hasn’t formed any feelings toward you, whatsoever?” Steve asked.
“I mean, maybe, yeah, I think she’s grown to like me. But I don’t want to take that chance. What if the spell wears off and she doesn’t even know who I am? Could you imagine her waking up to some big, ugly stranger in her bed one day?”
Steve winced. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Fats. You’re a big, lovable teddy bear.”
Dale tried to hide his smile. “Shut up,” he said. “I need to find a way to break the idea about posing nude for Michelangelo without . . . sounding creepy.”
“Sounds impossible.”
“Could you help me?”
“Definitely sounds impossible.” Steve got the sudden urge to change the subject. He glanced in the rearview mirror and said, “Shepherd’s passed out again.”
Scarlet was slowing down on the left side of the road. They were on a street called Kettner Boulevard. She found a parking spot between two cars and expertly paralleled into it. Dale swung around her in search for another spot.
Steve knew of only one music venue close by. The Casbah was a hole in the wall venue that had been around since 1989 and hosted all sorts of eclectic musical acts. Steve knew the place well because he’d booked shows and played there with his old band. Some names that came through the Casbah: Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, Modest Mouse, Weezer, Arcade Fire. Most of those bands played the Casbah before making it big. The capacity in the place was only about two hundred.
Dale found a parking spot. Aiden and Scarlet were walking past the car as Steve and Dale shook Shepherd awake. Cars whizzed by on Kettner Boulevard, a vacuum of crisp air hitting them in the face as they walked.
Steve squinted down the sidewalk. About a hundred feet away, people were gathered outside the Casbah, smoking cigarettes and conversing.
“Are you gonna keep this a secret from us until we get into the place?” Steve asked Scarlet as they walked.
“No, we’re seeing a friend of mine. She’s too big for this place, but decided to put on a secret show tonight for her fans. Her name’s Nersi Magdalin.”
“Sounds familiar,” Steve said. He tried to recall past memories . . . it was all very fuzzy and he had a feeling Mythicus had something to do with it. Once he Seared to Mythicus, he had started to lose memories of Dale, who was his best friend. He could only imagine that shorter, less memorable memories had diminished completely.
Dale said, “I remember you talk
ing about her, Steve-o. When Annabel was going to sign that shitty contract from Imminent Records.” Dale, of course, had not had the same mind alteration, because he’d never been to Mythicus.
Something clicked in Steve’s mind. “Oh, yeah!” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “She was a big shot and Annabel was gonna sign under her. Isn’t she a Mythic?” He turned to Scarlet for clarification.
She nodded. “A siren.”
Aiden said, “This should be interesting.”
Steve was curious what that meant, being a siren, and what kind of powers she had, but he figured he’d find out soon enough.
They neared the Casbah and weaved around the smokers, ducking under their clouds. Steve had been a smoker before going to Mythicus, but now he found he hated the smell.
The door guy at the front glanced at Scarlet and nodded, backing away from the thin hallway to let her and her friends pass.
“Free show?” Steve murmured.
“For me,” Scarlet said. She tilted her head toward the bouncer they’d passed and added, “He’s one of my clients.”
Steve made his mouth into an O and kept walking.
They walked through the short, outdoor hallway and patio area. Metal wires were strung along the top of the building, part cage, part roof. Staring forward, Steve could see a pool table and a bar. To his right was the entrance to the actual venue, a medium-sized room with another bar near the back. The stage was to the right. He didn’t need to step inside to know that tidbit, unless the Casbah had changed its setup recently.
Shepherd stared up at the sky, at the metal wiring above them. “It’s like a bird cage at the zoo,” he said.
“And we’re the birds,” Dale quipped.
Scarlet went on her tiptoes and searched around. She ignored the people on both sides of the aisle who continued to smoke and ogle her. She walked with confidence and was obviously used to being ogled.
Dale, Aiden, and Shepherd went to the outside bar near the pool table to get a drink. Steve followed Scarlet inside the venue. Steve was happy he hadn’t seen anyone he recognized. Most of his acquaintances probably thought he was dead. Or in jail, for exhuming over two hundred bodies from a cemetery. Boy would they get a surprise seeing his face at the Casbah.
Inside, it was very dark. A group of about twenty people crowded around the stage, watching the opener. She was a solo musician with off-color hair—it was too dark to tell—who played acoustic guitar for one song, then switched to a keyboard for another. Steve thought her music was dull and uninspired, and he hoped it wasn’t a sample of what the headliner sounded like.
It was too dark to make out any faces. Scarlet gave up trying. She retreated to the back bar and ordered herself a drink, bringing Steve a Sprite.
“Thank you,” Steve said. He sat down at a table, Scarlet sitting across from him, and they listening to the girl play.
She was certainly no Annabel. Steve felt a pang of jealousy, knowing that Annabel could be up there right now, blowing the socks off these people. He sighed to himself as he sipped his Sprite.
Before long, the girl finished her set. She thanked the lukewarm crowd and meandered off the stage. Steve had tuned her out and almost dozed off. The room became filled with a constant, low din of people talking to one another. A headache started to form behind his temples.
He was about to get up and go to the bathroom when, suddenly, a tall, platinum blonde took the stage. Her fine hair swept past her shoulders and her silky white dress clung to her body. She was beautiful, no doubt, with a Scandinavian look about her.
She had a guitar strapped to her and said into the single mic, “I hope you don’t mind if I do an acoustic set tonight?” Her voice was silky and sweet, devoid of any Scandinavian accent.
People cheered, while some looked at each other in awe. There she was: Nersi Magdalin, a superstar through and through, standing five feet away.
People went berserk. The low din turned into an uproar. People shuffled in from outside. Before long, the Casbah was packed beyond its legal capacity.
Since Steve and Scarlet had gotten in early, they had a pretty good view from their table. They also occupied one of the only tables in the place, so they weren’t about to move.
Steve thought he saw Nersi hone in on Scarlet and wink at her, but he couldn’t be sure.
Nersi said, “Let’s give it up for my friend Charlene, yeah? Wasn’t she a wonder?” Nersi’s words drew more applause than the entirety of Charlene’s set.
Then, rather abruptly, Nersi went into her first tune. She strummed her guitar much harder than Steve expected. He’d expected her to be a soft-spoken fingerpicker, for some reason. She played a bluesy style, on the low end of the fretboard. She clearly knew what she was doing.
People slowly gyrated to her music before she even started singing.
Steve looked around the dark room and saw Dale, Shepherd, and Aiden had disappeared.
When Nersi sang the first verse of her first song, it was like butter melting in his mouth, but for his ears. She crooned like an old Rat Pack member—like Frank Sinatra. Her voice warbled and floated into the ears of every audience member.
A warm, pleasant sensation flowed through Steve’s body in reaction to her voice. It was almost unnatural, how he felt. Then he understood why John Levi—his ex-friend/music exec—thought Annabel would be a good fit for Nersi Magdalin. They definitely would have jived.
Steve realized after about a minute of listening to Nersi that his mouth had fallen open. His heart was beating faster and he felt high. Not a drug high, but high from . . . life, as cheesy as it sounded. Nersi had that effect. Steve thought every person in the venue probably felt the same way.
The music was exquisite. She played continuously, intimately, for about an hour, until 9:00. Then she said she was taking a break, breaking the hearts of her devoted audience. She disappeared offstage. The audience seemed to heave and sigh in unison, their brains tuning back to normalcy. A few men started to follow Nersi, walking like witless zombies. Three big, burly bouncers materialized from nowhere and stopped the procession. One of them was Scarlet’s “client” who had allowed them in the venue.
When Scarlet tried to pass the bouncers, she went right up to her client. He hesitated for a second, then stepped aside. Steve was quick to follow Scarlet past the bodyguards. They came to a door that opened into a hidden room—the Casbah’s backstage.
Nersi Magdalin was alone in the room, which had a raggedy couch and a table with numerous bottles of booze on it. Nersi was sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette when Scarlet walked in. She jumped to her feet and yelped in happy surprise, throwing her hands in the air and shuffling to Scarlet.
They embraced and, to Steve’s surprise and utter delight, kissed on the lips.
Nersi said, “I’m so glad you came, Scar!”
Scarlet motioned to Steve, who stood awkwardly in the doorway. She said, “I want you to meet my friend, Steve. Steve, this is Nersi.”
Steve smiled dumbly and took a step forward, sticking out his hand. He felt completely beyond his ability to function like a normal, social creature at the moment. Not only because he was the only man in a room, with two drop dead gorgeous women, but they were also both Mythical creatures renowned for their ability to get what they wanted from men.
Nersi ignored Steve’s outstretched hand and wrapped him in a hug. She pushed him to arm’s-length and screwed up her eyes. “You look familiar, honey.”
Steve blushed. He was still speechless as he studied her sculpted cheekbones and glittering eyes. She seemed a bit tipsy and Steve could smell the faint odor of vodka coming from her.
Scarlet said, “He once represented a promising girl named Annabel Lee. Does that name ring a bell?”
Nersi took a step back and clapped her hands. “How could I forget a name like that? Of course! Where is that beauty?” She looked around and behind Steve, as if Annabel was hiding in the shadows somewhere. “She was more than promising. If I remember cor
rectly, she was given a bum deal by the label.”
“That’s correct, ma’am,” Steve said, immediately feeling like an old geezer for calling this woman “ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “They tried to screw her, as labels do with every new, impressionable artist.”
Nersi squinted and shook a finger at Steve. “If I recall, honey, the label was trying to screw you over. You’re just lucky you had such a loyal talent at your side.”
Steve’s face reddened even more, out of guilt.
“Where is she now?” Nersi asked as she sat on the couch, crossed her shapely legs, and took a drag from her cigarette.
Steve scratched the back of his neck. “She’s . . . not around.”
Scarlet said, “She’s in Mythicus.”
Steve scowled at Scarlet. Then he remembered Nersi was a siren—a Mythic herself. His mind started to clear a bit. He thought that whatever spell Nersi had put on the audience during her singing was starting to wear off.
“I’m sure she’s safer there,” Nersi said. “Myth Hunters are popping up all over these days, out of the woodwork. It’s not safe for our people, Scar.”
“Don’t I know it,” Scarlet said. “I’ve had to up my own security to siphon out the freaks from the legitimate customers. Never know what you’re going to get these days.”
Steve remembered Scarlet was a dominatrix, which was how she’d gotten so wealthy on Terrus.
Nersi finished her cigarette and stamped it out in a plastic ashtray on the table. She said, “I have to go back on in ten minutes. What can I do you for?”
“First off, thank you for seeing us,” Scarlet said.
“Anything for a friend.”
Steve wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Scarlet act so nice and sweet to anyone. They must have a special friendship . . .
“There’s a problem on Mythicus,” Scarlet said. “One that could impact all of us—even us renegades on Terrus.”
Is that what Mythics on Earth consider themselves? Mavericks and rebels?
Nersi said, “I’ve heard the gist of it. News travels fast in these parts, even from the Old World.”