by J. D. Horn
The blue lights on top of the police cruiser began flashing, and the siren screamed to life. The car shot forward, paused briefly at the intersection, then tore out of sight. Five seconds later, Nathalie sat alone in the relative midafternoon quiet.
She didn’t know what a police code thirty was—a quick prayer in case it meant victims—but if there were multiple ones, it couldn’t have anything to do with her and Frank. The only incident Nathalie had been a party to had involved exactly one victim. She reached over and picked up her phone, the contemporary pacifier, even though she knew full well it was out of juice.
A white glow formed around her hand, and the phone sprang back to life with a full charge. She stared down in surprise at its glowing screen, at her own glowing hand, pleased that for the first darned time since this crazy stuff had started happening around her, it had finally worked to her benefit.
Her pleasant sense of warmth fell straight away when her driver app opened itself, unbidden, and announced that her next passenger was waiting in Bayou St. John. She canceled the ride and closed the app. It fired right back up and told her once again she had a passenger at a residence near the Magnolia Bridge, wanting to go to an address on Prytania. She hit cancel again, but when she tried to close the app, it kept firing the same message at her. She tried to turn the phone off, but instead it started to ring the waiting passenger.
Maybe that’s what happened when you used magic to charge your phone?
“Hello, then,” the voice on the other end said. In those three clipped syllables Nathalie thought she heard the ghost of an Irish accent. “Is this the driver?” he said. When she didn’t respond, he called into the phone, “Hello, is anyone there?”
She held the phone up to her ear. “Yes, this is Nathalie, your driver. Well, not your driver. I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a mistake . . .”
“You’re a driver, and I need a ride. No mistake in that, is there, love?”
“Uh, no, sir,” she said, wondering if she should come down on him for the love bit, or if maybe he was just foreign. “There isn’t. It’s only that I’m not on duty right now. By the way, no offense, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me ‘love.’” She sandwiched that in. “For some reason”—she lowered the phone to cast a guilty glance at it, then lifted it back to her ear—“the system has me locked in on you, even though I didn’t accept your request. I’ve tried to cancel, so someone else can pick you up, but . . .”
“I’ve tried to cancel, too,” the man cut her off, like he was trying to cover his hurt at being rejected. “Three times, as a matter of fact, but each time you keep accepting.”
“No, sir. I really haven’t been. I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, but believe me, I’m not in any shape—”
“It’s an emergency,” he said, though his sudden panic sounded a bit put on.
“Then maybe you should call 911?” How is that, she asked herself, for irony?
There was a pause, and Nathalie was sure she heard a hiss in the background.
“It’s my pet,” the man said. “A . . . dog. I have a dog,” he added, even though she hadn’t considered pressing for clarification as to his pet’s species. It was true enough, though, that after the disappearance of Good-bye Kitty, she’d had enough of cats to last her a good while. “Oh, please, the poor little fellow’s gotten ahold of something . . .” Another pause. “Toxic. Yes, poisonous,” he said, almost like he was being coached. “I can’t reach anyone else. My car won’t start, and your app won’t let me connect to another driver.” Another pause, this time followed by a rather sincere sounding, “Please, you’re our last hope.”
“All right,” she said, capitulating. “All right. I’m on my way.”
“Yes,” the man said. “Thank you, love.” Then, as a seeming afterthought, he added, “Please leg it, won’t you?”
“Um . . . sure,” she said, but the man had already hung up. “And don’t call me ‘love.’”
She took a left on Bourbon. Always a bit of traffic there, though more distracted pedestrian tourists than vehicles. It would let up in a couple of blocks, past Lafitte’s. That part of the Vieux Carré was nothing but one-way streets and dead ends, so she carried on to Esplanade Avenue, the first street that would lead her straight up to Moss. As she was about to cross over Burgundy, she noticed an emergency vet, and made a mental note to offer to drive her fare and his ailing pup there as a quicker alternative to the Prytania Street address he’d requested.
Her phone alerted her that she’d arrived as she pulled up in front of a large, well-kept Creole-style country house. A slim-waisted guy with red curly hair and broad shoulders stood under the house’s gallery, waving at her with the same hand holding his phone. She rolled down the passenger window and leaned down to announce the obvious—that she’d arrived—but he was already making his way down the walk toward her.
He stopped about halfway across the yard. “Please,” he said, waving her forward even as he stepped back. “Can you come in and help me with . . .”
“We’re not supposed to . . .”
“Oh, please,” he said again, turning around and dashing through the still-open door.
Nathalie thought it over. It might not be a good idea to go in after him. He was well built, athletic even. In a fair fight, though, she figured she could take him. Problem was, few fights were ever fair. Still, she’d trained in hand-to-hand combat and knew how to disarm an assailant. Most likely it would never come to that. She’d just go in and help the guy carry his pooch out to her car. The worst that was likely to happen was that the dog would end up releasing from both ends all over her back seat. Even so, she’d still drive the poor thing to a vet, because . . . Well, because dog.
Her would-be passenger popped his head back out the door and waved her forward again. “Come along,” he called out to her, then disappeared back into the house. She focused on the feelings she was picking up from him. She had tried to take a peek inside his head, but her ability seemed to go on the fritz with this guy. All her life, she’d been able to read people without meaning to, picking up on their emotions and sometimes even their thoughts. Maybe she was still in shock, or maybe it was just lack of sleep, but with this guy, it was almost like the feelers she sent out like psychic radar passed right through him rather than bouncing back. That might have been enough to send her scurrying, but what she could pick up from him felt a bit like cuddling a warm, fuzzy blanket.
She got out of her car and headed down the walk. She stuck her head through the open door, the situation feeling a tad too familiar as she did. “Hello,” she called.
“Yes,” a response came from down the hall. “Back this way, love. Do come through.”
“Uh, please stop calling me ‘love,’” she said, though her voice came out weak as she crossed the threshold, taking care to leave the door wide open, warm fuzzies or no.
“What was that, my dear?”
“Nothing,” Nathalie said with a sigh. She shook her head and carried on down the hall. Her eyes grazed the grand staircase and then followed the polished dark wood banister snaking its way up to the second floor.
A too-bright light spilled in through the landing window. In the center of the radiance, a figure coalesced. A young girl, it seemed—six or maybe seven years old—standing on her tiptoes to peer out the window. Most folk who caught a glimpse of this apparition would think it was a ghost, but Nathalie had seen more than her fair share of ghosts. This girl was no spirit. She seemed more like a memory, or a character from a story the house itself wanted to share with her.
The bright light dimmed, and the vision faded, so Nathalie braced herself and carried on toward the end of the hall where she could hear movement. But then she heard the door close behind her. She looked back to find the tiny gray cat that had led her to Frank’s quarters stalking toward her, readying itself to pounce.
“Oh, for the sake of grateful glory, you dreadful beast,” the man called out. Rather than turning, Nathalie
moved back until she had them both in her field of vision. “Will you please,” he said, pushing along a rolling serving cart that held a fancy, three-tier serving rack heavy with crustless finger sandwiches and cakes, “stop terrorizing our guest?”
The cat winked one eye, then gave a short, low, almost threatening purr.
“I am not afraid of you, you toothless old thing. No one is,” the man said, releasing the cart and straightening.
Another purr, this one piqued and aggrieved at the same time. Nathalie had the oddest feeling that even she could understand its meaning.
“Well, I assure you that you will be,” the man said, continuing to scold the cat, “if you keep this behavior up.”
A silent glare passed between the two.
“You have to sleep sometime.” He growled out each word and stared the cat down. Unless Nathalie was mistaken, the cat blinked first. The man smiled and turned to Nathalie, his sunny disposition recovered. “I do apologize, Miss Boudreau, for her terrible manners. Oh, and for our little subterfuge as well, but I’m sure you’ll understand it was a matter of expediency.”
Crazy world or not, Nathalie wasn’t going to let that one pass. “Ms. Boudreau.”
“As you like,” the man said, pressing his hand over his heart, she sensed, as a form of apology. Suddenly, it hit her.
“Wait. What subterfuge and how do you know my last name?”
“Which answer would you prefer first?” He seemed genuinely concerned with providing her the requested information in the order she desired.
“Either.” Maybe it was the cat. Maybe it was running on two hours of sleep. Maybe it was helping her boss blow his own dead brains out, but Nathalie had almost reached her limit. For the first time in a long time, she felt ready to boil over.
“To begin with,” he said with a boyish smile and shrug, “there is no sick dog, which is bad in the sense that I did lie to you, but also good if you stop and think about it. I mean, you strike me as being a kind person who wouldn’t want a dog to suffer.”
A flat, perhaps even sardonic meow.
“Oh, no you wouldn’t either,” he said, grousing at the cat.
Nathalie got the sense these two enjoyed each other. That not knowing how to share their affection otherwise, they showed it through petty squabbles. Not all that different from her paternal grandparents, really.
“So, no sick dog,” he continued. “No stop sign–running rush to the vet.”
“How about my name?”
“Oh, we know much more than that about you.” Coming from anyone else, the words would have sounded totally creeper, but this guy said them with the innocent pride of a fourth-grade bookworm giving the year’s first book report. “Do come join us for tea, and we’ll discuss all that.” He grabbed the handle of the cart and began pushing it down the hall, back toward the entrance. He turned left into the room directly off the foyer and paused, looking back at her. “Such a treat to have a proper guest for a change. Gives us the chance to use the formal sitting room.” The cat padded ahead of both of them over the threshold.
Nathalie considered the situation and weighed her options. The guy seemed sweet. A bit weird, but sweet. Probably not the person behind what was done to Frank, but this tea party he was throwing for her might arsenic and old lace her down a permanent rabbit hole. The most logical response would be to get the hell out of there. Occam’s razor and farewell. “Uh, thanks, but no thanks.”
The man pulled a pout and stared at her. “But I’ve made scones. Sweet and savory.” He put special emphasis on the conjunction. “Sandwiches, too, though the tuna is for the pewter terror.”
A demanding meow echoed from the sitting room into the hall.
She tried to smile. Tried to find a polite string of words. The best she could muster was a simple “No.” Right now she was kind of over trying to please people—and their cats. She started toward the door.
“Oh,” he said, sounding surprised, “I’d assumed you would want to hear about our Alice.”
She stopped, shocked to hear the name spoken aloud. “Alice?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice bright. “The young woman in the photo you stole from your . . . defunct employer’s quarters. No need,” he said, taking on the tone of a kindergarten teacher, “to dissimulate. Sugar watched you take it herself. Not to worry. It’s all right that you did. It should belong to you anyway.” He turned, pushing the cart forward with his right hand, and reaching up over his head to wave her forward with his left. “Come join us, and we’ll tell you about Alice and a little something occultists speak of as ‘the gravity of rightful destiny.’”
TEN
Alice held out no hope for the tangled skein of magic Daniel was attempting to weave into a rescue plan, but she knew he was out there trying. She would hold on for as long as she could, if only so when it was all over, he might come across some strand of evidence that would let him know she had tried. That she had shown faith in him.
She had constricted her world to a tight circle, its radius the equivalent of not much more than a single city block. The circle centered on the right triangle where Esplanade Avenue meets Ponce de Leon, then joins with Grand Rte. Saint John and Mystery streets to form Fortier Park. It pleased her, seeming both poetic and symmetrical, that in both worlds the park lay at the point where the search for eternal life ended and the mystery of what was to come next began.
All points beyond the circle’s periphery blurred and were lost in a shimmer like that of a heat haze.
It didn’t surprise her that this tiny green space would be the final landmark at the end of her existence. When she was a young girl, still living in Nicholas’s house, this park, or rather the actual park in the common world, was the farthest she’d been allowed to wander on her own. For young Alice, this park had meant adventure and independence, as well as the limit of her freedom. Alice now spent all her daylight hours here. Alone.
She no longer had the luxury of companionship, but she still allowed herself sunlight. A few hours each day.
She shook her head as she parsed that last thought. Sunlight. An artificial brightness that burned away her magic, fed from her life force. Hours. She no longer even had a feel for what the word meant. Alice was losing any sense of time. Each “day” lasted only a few “hours,” and each moonless night an eternity.
At dusk, every dusk, she rose and headed home. Not to a replica of her father’s house, but across Esplanade Avenue to the loft she’d once shared with Sabine. The apartment took up the entire upper floor of a red, two-story shotgun-style house with orange and yellow trim and an apple-green door. Muddied Waters, the coffee shop she and Sabine had run together, monopolized the house’s lower floor.
They’d picked the house’s exterior colors almost as a joke, each pushing the other to the most garish possible combinations, each too stubborn to admit she’d prefer a more traditional palette. Alice had thought she would hate the scheme, but then she’d seen the colors together. They were perfect, revealing a beauty she would’ve never imagined on her own.
She froze as the truth, so easily forgotten, crashed in on her once again.
She had done exactly that—imagined the colors on her own. And her partner had not been Sabine, but something that looked and acted like her.
She stood stock-still in the center of her living room, her mind drifting as her eyes followed the swinging tail of the preposterous cat clock that “something” had wanted for her birthday. A momentary burst of voices—happy customers who didn’t exist outside the Dreaming Road, reveling in the illusory café below—reminded her that she had imagined it all. That she was still imagining it. Even the concept of “below” was a pretense.
The café. The fulfillment of a wish built upon the image of a real café, one she’d hoped to visit, maybe with Hugo or Lucy, the two members of her family that she’d held the most hope of growing close to.
The sounds from below gave way to total silence.
Je pense, donc je mens
. I think, therefore I lie. She heard the words in Sabine’s voice, but the thought was her own. Perhaps the only thing she truly owned in this counterfeit world.
It made sense that Sabine was the last of the shades to linger here.
They’d been happy together, Sabine and she. Every adventure they’d experienced together had formed a zigzagging path that had led them both to being better people than either could’ve been on her own. Even their disagreements had always resolved themselves in ways that led to a greater closeness.
But none of it was real. Perhaps it never had been, even in the common world.
Alice and Sabine were no more than girls when they formed a friendship on Sinclair, though Alice had imagined she might one day love Sabine as more than a friend. The other girl hadn’t voiced any romantic interest in her until the day before she left the island and disappeared from Alice’s life. Now, Alice couldn’t help but wonder if she’d imagined it. Perhaps Alice had projected the qualities she’d hoped to find in Sabine onto her, much as she’d done here on the Dreaming Road.
Sabine. A ready-made disguise she’d crafted for the hungriest of the shadows, the demon—no, she reminded herself, the twisted spirit—that had sunk its teeth deepest into her. It had been the first to come and remained as the last yet to depart. Alice feared this spirit, newly aware that it was her own mirror. In its insatiable darkness, she saw her own future.
The spirit still circled her home without fail every night, until the first rays of Alice’s determined sun forced it to retreat. It could no longer abide the light, now that Alice had seen through its disguise. Even now, it was calling out to her, wailing a piteous cry with one feigned breath and hurling the basest obscenities with the next. As she did every night, Alice pretended to ignore the creature’s cries and curses, the scratching sounds it made clawing at the house’s siding. Until their other nightly routine happened—she broke.