Vision Quest

by A. F. Henley

  See me, Arik. Let's get to know each other.

  Then coffee: black, hot, perfectly sweetened coffee. Y'all come back now ... If Arik had been forced to draw the events at the mini golf course, he'd have put those words in a balloon over the perfectly-repositioned, suddenly-whole, grinning-bastard goat's head. Horrified, mortified, putrefied, and liquefied. Then just as quickly, grinning and gloating, and all put back together again.

  Have you noticed me yet? Are you catching on, Arik?

  The newscast of barreled, tortured bodies left to rot in their own juices, the tattoo, and the disintegration of a seemingly normal man into a puddle of gore that no one else had noticed washing over their pristine deck shoes and battered sneakers. What else, maybe? How many other little bits of information had slipped past him along the way? While he'd been telling himself to avert his eyes?

  Arik breathed a long, slow sigh, attempting to still the clench of panic that squeezed his guts. He hadn't missed anything. He couldn't have. The Universe wouldn't let him. He opened his eyes and watched the shore transform from suggestion to clarity.

  *~*~*

  The cab was warm, unseen vents huffing heated air, no doubt the benefit of the experienced eye of the driver who'd caught both their shivers as Arik and Blaze sat in the back. Neither man spoke, but Arik didn't blame either of them for that. They were both focused on their own worlds at that moment—the awareness that was sparked in his own head seemed like a visible energy. He almost hated to blink, lest that portion of a second be the one he needed, and the process forced him to miss whatever was being led his way.

  Blaze's thoughts were undefinable, unspoken as they were. Was there fear? As Blaze stood at the brink and peeked over the edge? Fear of what was about to take place? Perhaps, even, fear for what lay ahead. For three hundred plus years Blaze had known immortality. Was it terrifying to think that it might be gone? Even with the pain of living it? Change was, after all, still change. Or was Blaze, instead, more terrified of giving in to the hope? Of having to live with the potential of it all being a fool's calling. Got you, Blaze ... just kidding ... but you should have known better than to believe there was a way out ...

  Arik's eyes caught the Starbucks sign, and he fought the surge that made him want to tap the driver's shoulder and pull over. There was no time. Best not to leave waiting the man who might be instrumental to their quest.

  But damn. He sure could go for a coffee. Just the thought of pulling off the plastic lid and staring into the comforting dark liquid was almost enough to make Arik reconsider. Arik shivered, smiled at the concerned flash of Blaze's gaze, and shifted in his seat. Stupid, really. He'd never had much of a craving for coffee before. It must have been the water—all that dark, swirling water they'd stared at while they crossed the channel. It must have triggered some ridiculous craving. Not even for the taste of the beverage, really. Just to see it. To stare at it. Feel the heat of it on his face.

  Probably just a comfort thing.

  The radio was low, playing more for the driver than for either him or Blaze. They preferred a stronger beat, be it the lively strings that Blaze insisted were the basis of "real" music, or the rock that Arik liked to move to. Bad eighties hair bands, Blaze would say. And Arik never had the heart to tell him most of it was from the nineties. Time was fluid.

  All you have are the memories you'll change ... the singer's voice was soft, haunting ... In the dark. In the dark.

  Arik closed his eyes and drifted. Blaze's hand was warm and heavy in his own. Small hand. Perfect fit. Maybe you were always drowning ... and still the singer droned ... And you just now realized that you were.

  "Gentlemen?" The driver's voice startled Arik's eyes open. It was only then that he realised he'd been sinking into sleep. The thought made him unreasonably angry.

  "I believe this is the spot? But I'm not sure ..."

  Arik's head swivelled toward the home that both the driver and Blaze were already staring at.

  "Duh duh duh dun," Arik sang under his breath, and Blaze answered with the requisite two finger snaps. Blaze turned to grin and Arik offered one back.

  The house wasn't set as far back off the road as Arik would expect of such a large structure. It made a person wonder if the house had existed before the road itself had. It did, however, have the rod iron gates, butted up against mausoleum-esque pillars that continued absolutely nowhere—a concept Arik never could figure out. He'd often wanted to ask the owners of such things if they were aware that people could merely walk around them, if they understood that the only things they were actually keeping out were cars.

  The house was huge, raw, jagged flagstone, with a left-wing arch that had to lead to parking, a right-wing with half a dozen grid-style windows, and a mid-section, most likely the main living area of the house, with nothing more than a double-wide door set directly center. Each wing had its own roof line, simple triangles, and each seemed, from Arik's current vantage point, to be as tall as cathedrals. He scanned the front of the property, seeking out the nesting ravens, crouching spider-beasts, or were-dogs that had to be guarding it.

  "You know," Arik tilted his head and turned the smile at the driver. "For some reason? I'm pretty damn sure this is the right place."

  He dug out his phone to check the time, tsk'ing at the device when it lit. He held it up when Blaze frowned at him. "Cracked the fucking screen."

  "That tends to happen when you launch electronics across hotel rooms," Blaze said, lifting an eyebrow.

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah," Arik held out a hand, directing Blaze to the door of the cab. "Consequences are a bitch, aren't they?"

  *~*~*

  I love you, Arik mouthed at Blaze, as the double-wide oak doors found center, and cut the two of them off from one another. They'd both been led toward the back of the house, through a grand, albeit dusty hallway. But when their guide had lifted a fist to rap on the door of what Arik had coined as "the Library" the moment he saw it—a title he heard spoken in a dark, creepy tone, complete with ominous background music—the man had directed Blaze to a chair that looked far too ancient to be comfortable, and said, "Your assistant may wait out here."

  It had been a statement that had prompted a round of trying to communicate with each other through eye-speak, Blaze's expression one of comfort over concern, and Arik doing his best to exude confidence.

  For a single second Arik closed his eyes, still facing the doors, and took a breath. This is what we're here for. This is the right path. I've got this.

  He lifted his chin, opened his eyes, and turned to face the room. A fire had been set in the hearth, but it did nothing to dispel the dampness of the room. A man stood beside a desk that appeared heavy enough to require an entire moving team to budge it; Mr. Ţapul, Arik had to assume. He'd been expecting ancient, dried-up and frail, imagination adding inches-long whiskers to further the goat persona. Instead, Arik found himself mildly surprised by the attractive, dark-haired, olive-skinned, somewhere-on-either-side-of-fifty man who waited for him.

  Arik stepped forward, years of experience settling the mandatory statements and questions of his trade in place, opened his mouth to speak, and startled both of them with, "Who are you?"

  "I'm ..." Ţapul frowned, cocked his head to one side. "I am the man you are here to try and talk me out of my request to liquidate my investments into cash, I believe."

  Silence settled in the wake of the man's reply. Arik's gaze trailed over the room: books, by the thousands, lining shelves and piled on corners, resting under glass, spread open and begging to be read.

  "And you," Ţapul said when the silence got too heavy, "are the man that once his speech is exhausted and he realises the futility of his attempts, will give me the papers I need to sign and start the process to—"

  Arik snorted, and lifted his eyes to catch and hold Ţapul's questioning gaze. "I could care fuck about your request. You want your money, you can have it. For that matter, you tell me what I need to know and I'll fly back to the office and F
edEx you the goddamn check myself."

  "I'm not sure I understand?" Ţapul leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms over his chest in a decidedly defensive gesture.

  He probably thinks I'm insane.

  "You are," something seemed to whisper back.

  "Ţapul," Arik prompted. "Romanian, yes? Means goat, if I've been advised correctly." He paused, chuckling dryly. "And I have been."

  The age in Ţapul's face became more apparent as his frown deepened. "And?"

  "Also a historian, European to be specific. I would have to assume that means you know quite a bit about the Roma."

  Distaste darkened Ţapul's eyes and twisted his lips. "Are you asking me if I'm familiar with Gypsy fairy-tales, young man? Because I have a Romanian background? Should I ask you if can fill me in on the mating dance of the Big Foot? As you are so very obviously American. Perhaps even which rifle would be the best to use. And why you'll still be holding said rifle in your cold, clenched fingers after your death? Have a conversation on hamburgers and super-sized sodas? Or should we drop the stereotyping and get back to busi—"

  Arik held up his right hand, palm out. "Look, I get the 'we don't talk about this shit' shit. And if that's what your game is, this whole 'you're an outsider and I'm going to pretend I don't know what you're talking about,' then just let me reassure you on something right now: I have fucking need. And I know you're the person who can help me with this need. So, please, if I can just give you some background, I'm sure you'll—"

  "Get yourself into some trouble with a gypsy did you?" The sarcasm that dripped off Ţapul's tongue would have been potent enough to poison an entire family at one sitting. "Fancy yourself to be cursed, do you?"

  "No." Arik made his voice as cold as his stare. "I do not."

  "Writing a novel, then? Do you figure—"

  "I have seen a disembodied limb find its source and reattach," Arik said, his bold tone belying the clenching in his belly. He stepped forward yet again. "I have watched dead blood, black blood, drip from the holes of a vital young man. My heart has broken while I've watched him writhe with internal turmoil that no being should ever know."

  A flicker of interest sparked in Ţapul's eyes. It was an ember that fueled Arik's bravery. "And if you're asking yourself 'Why me?' then let me fill you in on a little secret. I've known your name since before I knew what it meant. I've seen your face in my dreams." An exaggeration, a lie, really. Arik didn't care. Ţapul hadn't stopped him from talking. That meant something. If nothing else, it meant Arik could continue. "What I'm telling you is that I'm supposed to be here, and you're supposed to help me, and lest you end up on the wrong side of your own damn horror-story ending, you're going to damn well help me for no other reason than something out there is insisting that you must."

  Arik paused, gauging reaction. "I don't need to tell you what kind of consequences you might end up facing if you piss off these forces."

  Ţapul smiled the tiniest of smiles and lifted an eyebrow. "Did you just threaten to curse me?"

  Arik lowered his eyes and shook his head. "No, sir." He shrugged. "I won't have to."

  Ţapul laughed out loud, and shifted his weight to perch on the corner of the desk. "You're adorable." He lifted a hand, twirled it. "Crazy. But adorable."

  "And you're gorgeous." Arik smiled. "Frustrating. But gorgeous. And not the only Romanian I've thought those words about. Must be a cultural thing."

  "And this is the woman who is causing you grief?"

  Arik snorted. "Man. But he causes me no grief. That emotion is all for him, unfortunately."

  "I see."

  "You don't." Arik turned back to the door. "But you will."

  He tugged the doors apart, and Blaze all but tumbled into the room. Arik laughed, Blaze grinned, and Arik heard Ţapul rise from his spot on the desk.

  "Mr. Ţapul," Arik caught Blaze's hand, and pulled him closer. "This is Blaze. Blaze, meet our Goat Man."

  Blaze

  "And then we got the phone call and came here," Arik finished. He sat in an overstuffed armchair covered in gold fabric and red peonies. One leg was crossed over the other at the knee, and one foot was bouncing to a manic beat. "That's it. That's the entire story."

  Mister Ţapul—Lucas, please call him Lucas, he'd said—sat in a chair that matched Arik's at another corner of their triangular seating arrangement. His dark grey slacks were impeccably pressed, his shirt had been starched within an inch of its life, but his shirttails were out, and the cardigan he wore was well-loved and patched at the elbows. Blaze liked him. Blaze liked anybody who approached chaos with an air of curiosity and fearlessness. It was rare and beautiful and damned handy.

  After Blaze had fallen into the room, Lucas had suggested they sit and perhaps crack open a bottle of bourbon he'd found squirreled away in his sister's special liquor cabinet. Marjorie Ţapul had always been an eccentric, and it was in her house, cluttered as it was with scrolls and knick knacks that ranged from stuffed bears to figurines of Saints to grotesque and politically-incorrect statues of lewd acts and the judgements of them, in which they sat. Lucas lived nearby in a townhome, or so he'd told them as they had gotten comfortable and had waited on Lucas' man to bring the drinks, and he was considering opening up Marjorie's house as a museum.

  "An ode to the obscure," Lucas had said, laughing and thanking the handsome man who brought the bourbon. "She was a strange one, my sister. Was obsessed with religions, among other things, and the rituals that went along with them. But, I suppose, we're all afflicted with peculiarities. Some of us just have brands that are easier to hide."

  "True," Arik had agreed. He'd been fidgeting and glancing at Blaze every time he thought Blaze wouldn't notice. Eventually Blaze had reached over and squeezed Arik's hand. Lucas had watched, a shadow darkening his face, though Blaze was almost positive it had nothing to do with homophobia and everything to do with regret.

  "So," Lucas had prompted. "Tell me everything."

  Blaze had been about to jump in and offer up an intricate lie that was composed of enough truth to make it believable. He had some skill in that area, after all, but Arik had shocked the hell out of Blaze and gone for broke. Arik had started with his father jumping off a bridge and had ended with their journey from the Fireward to the estate. Blaze had sank further and further into one half of a plush loveseat with gilded edging and dandelions dancing on the cushions, and he'd listened to Arik's frank, calm, but impassioned recounting of their lives together so far. Hearing it all put Blaze into a kind of fugue state. His lips went a little numb, and his extremities tingled like he was touching Arik when he wasn't. Blaze didn't mind; the reminder of their connection, real or not, was pleasant. It made him wonder if it'd be possible one day to have with Arik what he'd had with Doru; a constant link. To wake and walk and work knowing what your other half was doing, feeling, almost thinking ... Blaze couldn't contemplate the possibility too long. He would start to cry, here in this grieving man's inherited home, and he might not stop for a full cycle of the earth around the sun.

  Arik had told their story with a financier's account of detail, and he'd addressed the floor and the fireplace, mostly, but Blaze had watched Lucas. The Goat Man's eyes had widened once or twice, and he'd drained his glass dry by the end, but there was never once a glimmer of derision or damnation. Just interest.

  Blaze approved, both of Lucas and of Arik's choice to spill all their guts, and a painful burbling began again in Blaze's insides. It had started in the shower, after they'd finished and were washing up. At first, Blaze thought he was getting sick or ill and was about to start bleeding out, but nothing like that had happened.

  In the car, when the twisting, turning, knotty sensation had happened again, Blaze had huddled closer to Arik, breathed, and thought the feeling was ... vaguely familiar. Distant, like one might remember old, old physical pain. With agony, Blaze knew, you remembered the sight of the knife piercing your skin. You remembered the well of blood, the horror that you really were
so much meat and fragile bone, and the knowledge that such vulnerability would, most certainly, kill you. The pain itself was a sidelined ghost. It had happened, but its particulars were lost in the nightmare of your life draining out of your body long before it was time.

  And now, with the silence looming in the library and the fire crackling and the wind blowing branches to rat-tat-tat against the tall windows, Blaze felt the churning in his guts a third time. Or maybe it was the fourth. Or maybe ... it'd been there ever since he'd seen a man with dark hair and kind eyes in his Vision dreams.

  Hope. Blaze was pretty sure what he was experiencing was desire for things to get better and the hope that maybe, just maybe, they could. Hope was a badger trying to chew its way out of Blaze's innards, and Blaze was happy to let the little fucker do what it wished.

  "Huh." Lucas went to take a drink, discovered only melting ice, and reached for the decanter the servant had left behind. "So you think I can solve your riddle and you're telling me that you," Lucas looked at Blaze over the rim of his glass. "Are over three-hundred-and-fifty years old?"

  "We don't really expect you to believe it," Blaze said.

  "Fuck that," Arik said. "I do expect him to. He needs to."

  "No, actually, I don't."

  Both Arik and Blaze turned to Lucas. "I don't," Lucas repeated. "I don't need to believe it at all in order to think about it. That's like saying I have to believe in Santa Claus to research Saint Nicolaus. Or that I have to shake hands with Satan to study Dante's seven rings." Lucas shook his head. "It's a hell of a story, gentlemen, and for what my opinion is worth, I think it's as real as anything can be to the two of you."

  "Want to see him cut his finger off?" Arik asked. "It's inspiring on the belief front."

  "No, no," Lucas said. "I think I can do without that. Though I have seen a man brought back from the dead."

  "Excuse me?" Arik asked.

  Lucas nodded. "Mmhm, I was in a god-awful little shack two hours outside of Saint Petersburg. I was interviewing a woman who was, as best as my research could tell, the last of a line of witches descended from a cult that was one of the earliest records of groups that worshipped Lilith. Or, well, their version of that figure. Anyway, a man had died and his wife and son brought his body to the woman's house while I was there. She let me stay, saying that I wouldn't believe what my eyes would see, anyway, so there was no harm. She took the end bones of the wife's fingers and the pinky toes of the little boy and mixed them into some sort of vat. She poured the substance down the dead man's throat, and just after midnight, he sat straight up, wheezed, and asked for a dram of vodka."