InDescent

by K. Z. Snow

  After finally mounting another stairway to get back to safer ground, he paused to get his bearings. The parking lot and his bike were still a couple of blocks away. Traffic droned steadily down the street but few pedestrians were on the sidewalks. Not many people walked around the city at night, unless some event like Summerfest was taking place. Then they moved in herds. There was safety in numbers.

  Jackson didn’t like herds. Packs were more his style. Maybe, after tonight, he’d find the solitary life preferable to both.

  Very faintly, he heard a male voice calling his name as he turned into the parking lot. One of the guys must have come here looking for him. Yeah, there was definitely a tallish figure standing beside his Roadster, which looked like a jewel in the sodium arc light that spilled over it.

  “Jackson. Over here.”

  He frowned. No member of the Black Saints would be calling him Jackson. He wondered who the dude was. Footsteps slowing, he warily approached the man. His hand instinctively went to the knife sheath on his belt.

  Jackson had never seen the guy before. He was maybe six-one, trim and toned and extremely goodlooking. A pretty-boy.

  “Jackson,” he said gently, “can you see me?”

  “Of course I can see you. But who the fuck are you?”

  The man kept peering in his direction, as if a fog bank lay between them and he was struggling to see through it.

  Everything changed then. The city began crumbling, each building and lamppost and stretch of pavement turning into flaking bone. Chalky fragments powdered the air like scurf. People and traffic froze and faded. Dimming lights bled into the white cloud.

  The musty smell of mold overwhelmed the odors of hot asphalt and humid brick, AC and vehicle exhaust. Even Lake Michigan’s weedy, fishy tang was lost to the scent of decay.

  “My bike,” Jackson whispered…and felt a cold clutch of fear, as if his beloved Roadie had become a more threatening force than the smear of black river.

  “Jackson, come on. Hold out your hand.”

  The disintegrating city dissolved into a confused mist.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jackson was breathing through his nostrils, hard, like a horse, when a strong pair of arms came around him. Dropping his cheek to Adin’s shoulder, he mashed his face against his lover’s neck. Every other exhalation carried a feeble sound, like a whimper. Fisting his hands against Adin’s back, he felt the soothing passes of a caring hand over his hair.

  “You’re sweating like crazy,” Adin whispered, resting his head against Jackson’s. “Wherever you were, was it difficult for you?”

  “Yeah. Just like the first time.” It was an incident he’d pushed far back in his mind and smeared with memory-goo to obscure the details. Jackson knew there were plenty more where that one came from. Shit almighty.

  The pulse in Adin’s neck was strong and regular. Jackson wanted to kiss it, but Cutter’s words scuttled between his mouth and Adin’s skin like a foul-smelling crab.

  He lifted his head. They were once again in that albino bubble with the crawling lines on its skin. “Where were you the whole time?” he asked Adin.

  “There was no ‘whole time’. We were here and all of a sudden you weren’t here and then I was standing over a motorcycle.”

  “My Roadie.”

  “Your what?” Adin’s lovely eyes stilled. They’d been scanning Jackson’s face, probably searching for signs of psychological trauma, emotional distress. Only three other people had ever looked at him that way—his parents and Angelina.

  “My old bike. The Harley Roadster.”

  Concern scudded through Adin’s face. “The one you crashed.”

  “Yeah. But I didn’t go through the crash again. That wasn’t what I revisited.”

  Jackson knew why. The accident had no fearsome associations. It had happened too quickly, and the resulting head injuries had left him with no recollection of it whatsoever. More important, though, the wipe-out was an auspicious turning point in his life.

  “Correct,” said M, standing beside them.

  “I don’t know where he-she-it was, either,” Adin told Jackson, “so don’t bother asking.”

  “I will take you further down the same corridor,” M said.

  “You haven’t ‘taken’ me anywhere,” Jackson pointed out. “I took myself.”

  M met this assertion with a sardonic lift of one eyebrow. “Beware your egotistical presumptions, Taliesin. Were I to abandon you, you would wander into hideous territories for which you are wholly unprepared. Do not doubt it.”

  Jackson stared at the creature.

  Adin gave him a nudge. “You might consider apologizing.”

  “Forgive me,” Jackson said to M.

  “You don’t require my forgiveness. Only my guidance.”

  “Then I graciously accept it.” Maybe.

  * * * *

  He grinned as soon as he saw her standing there, beads dangling from her blonde ponytail, brown eyes unadorned save for the snowflakes that clung to her lashes.

  “Ma, why do you always come to the backdoor?” he asked, feigning disapproval. Jackson could only pretend to disapprove; he knew he couldn’t change her and didn’t really want to.

  “Because I like entering a house through its kitchen.” She stepped up to him, firmly cradled his face, and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Got coffee on? I’m freezing.”

  “Always.” He went to the counter to pour some for both of them.

  Sighing, she pulled off her coat and sat at the table. Setting the points of her elbows on the bare wood surface, she pushed windblown strands of hair away from her face and then took off her glasses. They’d started fogging as soon as she’d stepped from the wintry air into the bungalow’s warmth. Irritably, she grabbed a napkin and swabbed the lenses.

  Jackson smiled as he watched her. His mother hated bothering with the mundane activities most people took for granted. But she had boundless patience when it came to doing stuff she loved.

  Like making time for her only child.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked as he slid two mugs onto the table. Her attention was so sharply honed, Jackson could almost feel it drilling into his pores.

  “Really great. Like I’ve been reborn.” He had been reborn. It was obvious to him well before he left the hospital. It became more obvious as he battled through therapy.

  “Are you still laying off the Daniels and the drugs?”

  “Completely. Not like I was heavily into drugs anyway.” Jackson had actually stopped taking his prescription meds, too, although he wouldn’t tell his mother. She’d start lecturing him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?” she asked at the tail end of a swallow.

  “Like you’re expecting my goddamned nose to fall off.”

  Normally she’d smile at such an answer. Now, she grew more serious. Even curled a hand over his. “I need to know,” she said with deliberation, gazing straight into his eyes, “that you’re perfectly fine.”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” he said, matching her tone.

  Although they’d always shared a profound attachment, theirs was a quiet bond—undemanding, ineloquent, demonstrated not through dramatic displays but through playfulness and thoughtful conversation. Annie was an intellectual woman. Oddly enough, though, it was his dad who’d wanted Jackson to go to college. Jackson’s refusal had led to the gravest horn-locking father and son had ever engaged in.

  Finally, Annie released his gaze. “Well, you do look good.” She seemed tense. As if buying time, she glanced around the kitchen. “I love this house. I’m glad you and your buddies haven’t trashed it. Your father and I used to talk about getting a place in Bay View. I’ve always loved Craftsman-style bungalows.” Her mind drifted off with her voice.

  Jackson had started renting the place when he was only eighteen and determined to give his parents the privacy they deserved. He’d gotten it through a client whose mother, the previous owner, had passed away. L
ucky for him that his work and maybe some natural charm had impressed the woman. She’d probably credited him with a maturity and stability he didn’t actually have.

  But he did keep the place maintained. And he unfailingly paid his rent on time.

  As he sipped coffee, Jackson glanced at his mother. Annie was still thinking about Charlie, the passion of her life. He knew because he’d seen that look on her face before.

  Odd couple, Ann Marie and Charles Spey. She, an artsy-fartsy beatnik type who made jewelry and wrote poetry and played jazz piano. He, a blue-collar stiff who could operate the biggest cranes on earth with all the aptitude and confidence of Einstein working an equation. Charlie had been a biker, too. Jackson might have learned his woodworking skills from his Uncle Ambrose, but it was his father who’d taught him the hard, intricate beauty of motorcycles. By the time Jackson was sixteen, he could take one apart and put it together blindfolded.

  He had a sudden, cutting memory of riding with his father through the Kettle Moraine on a blazing autumn day. And at that very moment of wrenching remembrance, his mother started to cry.

  “What’s wrong?” Alarmed, Jackson stared at her.

  She never cried hard—not in front of people, anyway—just got a little misty now and then. But Jackson could remember the sobs that came from her bedroom for nights on end after her husband died. Jackson, twenty-two at the time and wrestling with his own grief, had stayed with her for three weeks solid after Charlie’s death.

  Mother and son, so pathetically strong for each other. Pathetically strong and numb and determined to keep functioning. Like zombies.

  “I miss him so much,” she whispered, hiccupping between the fourth and fifth words.

  “So do I.” It was the first time either one of them had admitted it.

  Her watery eyes shifted to his face. “You never let yourself feel it. I know you didn’t. It was there, chewing at the edges of your heart, but you never let it overwhelm you and pound you into the dirt like hurricane surf.”

  Jackson didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t interpret her mood. Was she angry with him, sorry for him? He couldn’t tell.

  “I’ve set a shitty example for you,” she said, dolefully wagging her head. “Your father would cry over movies. Remember? And I would smile indulgently and you would poke fun at him and neither one of us”—her breath snagged—“neither one of us could see or appreciate the vast soul behind those tears.”

  Pulling off her glasses, she pressed her hands to her eyes. Jackson was dumbfounded. He had no idea what prompted this outburst. He waited until his mother looked at him again. When she did, she was more composed.

  “I have to leave,” she announced.

  His bewilderment deepened. “You just got here.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I need to”—she waved a hand—“get away. Go away.”

  “Where? For how long?” Hell, she was in her mid-forties. So maybe she wanted to go on a fuck-luck cruise.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, honey.” One answer, apparently, for both questions. And a shocking one. Tenderly, she placed a cool hand on the side of his face. “Jackson, when was the last time I told you I loved you? I mean, other than when you were in the hospital.”

  He shrugged. In fact, he couldn’t even remember her saying it then. Knowing his mother, she probably did it when he was sunk in that bleak coma and couldn’t hear her. “Ma, it doesn’t matter. I know you love me.”

  “Yes it does matter,” she said angrily. “See? This is what I mean. We make too damned many assumptions, you and I. We take too much for granted. Do you realize how romantic your father was? How expressive he was? That man was passion personified. In everything he did.”

  It was the truth. Apathetic and indifferent weren’t part of his dad’s emotional vocabulary. Charlie adored his wife unrestrainedly, in thought, word, and deed. And he threw himself into life.

  “I need to escape my own self-containment.” Annie let her hand fall from Jackson’s face. “Your accident made me realize that. Now that you’re well again…”

  Jackson had a glimmer of understanding. With it came a niggling panic. He didn’t want her to go, but he couldn’t tell her that. If he told her, she’d stay.

  “Do you mind?” she asked.

  “No, of course not. I want you to do whatever feels right for you.”

  How could he not sanction her decision? He’d already embarked on his own quirky journey, a study of occult philosophies and magical practices, so he could hardly fault his mother for striking out in a new direction.

  “We haven’t talked about your love life lately,” she said with a wan smile. “Any promising prospects?”

  Jackson pulled down his mouth and shook his head. “Nah. I’m not even looking.”

  “You’re still getting laid, though, I’ll bet.”

  His blush was instantaneous. “Jesus, don’t talk like that,” he muttered. Even after all these years, he wasn’t used to it. His mother could go from erudite to earthy in no time flat. It still embarrassed him to know she’d seen his dick, even though the most recent viewing was a good twenty years ago.

  “Why shouldn’t I ask you?” Her smile increased. “Come on. You’re a vital young man and even more gorgeous than your father. You wouldn’t believe how many women I had to plow through to get to him. Even a few men.” Lightly, she chuckled. “I’m surprised his equipment still operated by the time my turn came around. No pun intended.”

  Groaning, Jackson dropped his forehead to his hand. She’d been forthright, so he had to be forthright. Much to his chagrin. “Yeah, okay, once in a while.”

  Exactly three times since he’d gotten out of the hospital. More and more, he’d been shying away from that scene. Between his work and his studies, Jackson didn’t have a lot of time on his hands or much opportunity to meet people his age. He’d been keeping to himself, trying to cultivate some spiritual refinement. All that indulgence of his various appetites now felt like sewage clinging to every part of his being. He desperately wanted to shuck it all off.

  “Good,” Annie said. “That’s a step in the right direction. But what you need most is many steps beyond casual sex.” She ran her fingertips over Jackson’s hand. “Every day from now on, even after I stop breathing, I’ll be wishing you success and happiness. And love. Above all else, love. You’re already twenty-six, and you’ve never experienced it.”

  Jackson’s throat felt tight. He couldn’t look at her. “When are you leaving?”

  “In a couple of days. A truck from Saint Vincent de Paul is coming by to pick up most of my stuff. I’m only taking what I can fit in the car. Things of value to me and things I might need.” She gave his hand a little shake. “If you want something, just let me know by tomorrow.”

  Jackson nodded. Fuck, why did he feel she was deserting him? He was a big boy, and healthy again. He’d been independent, maybe too independent, for the last eight years. Still, her abrupt departure was an unpleasant jolt, nearly as much a kick in the gut as his father’s untimely death.

  “Please take care of yourself,” he said.

  “I will.” She got up. Jackson didn’t. Couldn’t. Her arms came around his shoulders from behind, and she hugged him tightly. “I love you more than life,” she whispered against his ear. “Just as I loved your father. My brilliant and beautiful son.” Her lips touched his temple.

  After slipping on her coat, she was gone.

  Jackson stared, unblinking, at nothing.

  His stomach hurt like hell.

  *

  Curling his arms around his midsection, he tilted forward. The table’s surface didn’t connect with his forehead.

  “You weren’t as blasé about it as you came to think.”

  “Leave me alone.” Jackson didn’t have to open his eyes and look up to know who spoke. The transition from past to present was more abrupt than the last time…but, strangely, less jarring.

  “You wouldn’t fare well if I did,” said M. />
  Jackson remained doubled over, grappling with the realization of his own pointless, aching resentment and even more pointless cowardice. He could have said and done so much more that day. He could have done so much more since that day. He and Annie could have discussed her decision at greater length. She would’ve postponed her departure—or maybe not left at all, or made her absence temporary rather than permanent—had he been more forthcoming. Shit, at the very least he could’ve made some attempt to find her in the past fourteen years.

  I need to escape my own self-containment. Had she been challenging him to do the same thing?

  He looked up. Where was Adin?

  M interrupted his thoughts. “You’re a proud man, Jackson Spey. Sometimes, however, pride makes you a quitter. Or brings you close to being one.”

  “Shut up!”

  Where’s Adin?

  * * * *

  He couldn’t sleep. Even that shared pitcher of rum and whatever-the-fuck hadn’t helped. Raising his head from the pillows, he pushed aside the mosquito netting that surrounded his too-soft bed. He had an exciting research trip lined up for tomorrow. The more obscure Caribbean islands, like this one, were treasure troves of magic and mysticism…if one knew where to go and had the cojones to go there. And he had ‘em. He just needed a good night’s sleep to keep his mind nimble.

  Shambling to the patio doors of his room, he slid them open and stepped outside. There was so little and yet so much in which to bathe his senses here. Moonlight spangling the dark sea. The susurrations of low waves breaking on the beach. The caress of a steady tropical breeze against his skin and through his hair. And that rich, varied palette of scents.

  He saw a figure approach the water’s edge. A nude man, his stride marked by supple grace, his hair snagging flecks of moonglow. Jackson was transfixed by the smooth, subtle muscularity of his ass. He’d never really looked at a man’s ass before. In fact, he’d probably made every effort not to look. Now, though, he stared at the pale and perfect symmetry.