by Kat Turner
A spike of pain stabbed the inside of his right palm, almost causing him to drop his guitar pick. He powered through it, managing not to strike a sour note. Though his joints and knuckles gave him hell on a regular basis, he’d never experienced such discomfort in the meaty part of his hand.
The unpleasant sensation passed with an aftershock, and Fyre rounded out their set of chart-toppers and beloved radio anthems. For the first encore, they brought a performance of “Deep Dark Woods” that drew a standing ovation. He sang “A Thousand Suns” to end the set.
Brian pressed three fingertips to his lips and blew Helen a kiss before bounding offstage to the soundtrack of whoops and cheers. Euphoria streaked across his skin in shivers, livening his nerves and sharpening his senses. Sweat poured off his body and sluiced down his face, stinging his eyes and hitting his lips with a salty tang.
Every detail, from droplets of perspiration and strands of hair catching the glow cast by the overhead lighting grid to the black cords snaking across the floor, popped into sharp relief.
He stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled at the first crew member he saw. “Bring me a journal and pencil, please.”
Why not try a bit of writing? It would take Helen and her friend a few minutes to cut through the clutter and migrate backstage, and with any luck he could scribble some prose in the interim. He handed his guitar to the roadie.
Jonnie swaggered by, unloading his instrument into the hands of his tech. “‘Crimson and Clover,’ eh?” The twinkle in his eyes betrayed savvy awareness.
Some temporary staff lad reappeared with a spiral-bound notebook and two pens. Weight of the items perfect and comforting as he accepted them, Brian tendered the young man a nod of thanks. In under a minute, he’d filled half a page. “I’m feeling inspired today. Finally. Figured I’d have a go. We’ll see if any productivity comes of it.”
Brian paused to shake out a cramp in his hand before writing more. God, he was more obvious than he wanted to be. Though he enjoyed flirting with groupies and fans to keep his skills sharp, he was rather picky about who he dated or slept with. If he connected with a woman on the road, everyone knew right away.
Had he made a lasting connection with Helen? Tough to say, but Brian knew one thing: hadn’t felt like this since before he’d become famous. By coincidence, also at a fair. A little fair, close to his dorm, where he’d held hands with a girl named Suzy and won her an ugly teddy bear after their first-year classes at Cambridge dismissed. It’d started pissing rain, and they’d run for cover and hid under an awning behind one of the game stalls. He’d been too chicken to kiss her, she being an elite girl and he a gawky and overly tall boy from too close to Scotland, who somehow stumbled into the prestigious university.
Jonnie played with the barbell spearing his left ear cartilage. “What’s her name?”
“Someone I met earlier. She’s called Helen. If all goes well, I’ll bring her round for an introduction later.”
“Nice. I’m happy for you.” Jonnie patted Brian on the back.
“Thanks.” Brian soaked in the warmth of brotherly love, though he hurt for his friend. Jonnie’s fiancée, a fellow guitarist, had left him and shredded the bloke’s tender heart.
Jonnie’s entourage stormed the side stage, a jovial bunch bearing champagne and thirsty for attention, and the rhythm guitarist went to hold court for his followers. Hangers-on wouldn’t fill the void inside, but it wasn’t Brian’s place to lecture anyone.
“Hey.” Helen’s charming Minnesotan twang ripped Brian from his musings.
The sight of her sent a surge of excitement through his system. At the same time, her calm, earnest presence grounded him. “Hi. You having a good time?”
“Yes. Awesome show, as always.” She spoke words of assurance, though heaviness weighed on her tone.
“Are you okay? Where’s your friend Lisa?” Had Joe bothered Helen again? If so, the sod could expect an earful.
She moved her jaw back and forth and glanced to the side. “She had to leave. I’m not sure if I’m okay. Can we go somewhere private?”
Concern and confusion twisted through him. “Yes, of course.”
Guiding Helen by the elbow with his free hand, he led her down a short set of metal stairs, ignoring the backstage bustle. They crossed the patchy, trampled grass behind the grandstand and passed a cluster of crew members taking a cigarette break.
Helen tossed a glance over her shoulder, walking a few more paces and stopping. A Ferris wheel spun in the distance behind her, illuminated aqua and purple spokes bringing attention to her furrowed brow, the methodical way she attacked a hangnail. She covered her face.
Suspicion crowded out Brian’s positive emotions. Why was she acting downright furtive? “What’s going on?”
“This is going to sound weird, but I need that crystal. I shouldn’t have given it to you.”
A mess of embarrassment for losing a meaningful item and resentment that an element of Helen’s behavior had to be sketchy tangled his feelings into a knot. “I don’t have your crystal any more. It just disappeared. I looked through all of my pockets. I’m so sorry.”
Her eyes bugged. “What? You lost it? Shit.” Scowling, she picked her fingernail.
This encounter was off in a big way. Why was this crystal so important, such a big deal? Was the stone not hers to give?
“Pardon, I didn’t know it came with a two-hour repossession policy, executable at a moment’s notice.” Though he tried for tart English banter, the comeback came out a bit sharper than intended. Why couldn’t he enjoy a relaxed, uncomplicated evening with a woman without the entire thing going all to pot?
“I wish I could explain in a way that made more sense. But things are happening that could harm you. Things outside of my control.” Lazy wind made her locks flutter, though her pretty face drooped.
“What are you talking about?” His arms twitched, but he fought a desire to lay hands on her shoulders and ease her duress through comforting touch.
He had a daughter to protect, and some bad news waves rolled off Helen with her odd, garbled warning. Best to keep physical and emotional distance from questionable people. He had plenty of untrustworthiness in his life with Joe’s scheming and duplicity.
“I’m not sure.” She rummaged in her purse, pulled out the same black pouch as before, and plucked out another crystal. “Please take this. To absorb negative energy. I think the first one has an evil spirit attached to it.”
Evil spirit? Brian’s chest calcified into a cast of familiar cynicism. A harmless belief in lucky charms was one thing, but evil spirit talk crossed a line. Helen was some manner of New Age kook swept up in her own personal theatre of delusion. She’d seemed too good to be true for a reason, and now he knew why.
He put up his hands, holding the notebook high as he backed away. “No, thank you. Thanks for stopping by the show. Goodnight.”
“Please take this. Something terrible is happening. Please believe me when I say I’m doing what I can to help. This crystal is blessed in the correct way. If you find the old one, text or call me before you leave town.” In her palm sat a hunk of what looked like glass with a waxy sheen. With her other hand, she thrust a violet business card at him. Cobalt cursive and a drawing of a golden lotus flower decorated glossy paper stock.
Some shameful corner of his companionship-starved self made him accept the paper rectangle and token with curiosity. Helen wasn’t like anyone else he’d ever met, he had to grant.
“All right, Helen. I’ll search for it and let you know what I find. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” Before another glimpse of her beauty or distress stoked his protective instinct, Brian turned on his heel and made haste for his tour bus.
The second he opened the door, a creepy feeling of having unwanted company settled over him. A rotten egg stench fouled the air. Grimacing, he set his writing supplies and the items from Helen on the dashboard. After pawing the spare key from the glove box, he fired up the ignition. Tw
o rows of runner lights flanking the floor walkway came to life, marking the cabin’s main path with a soft white glow.
Making his way down the aisle separating a leather sectional couch from a wall-mounted plasma screen television, Brian scanned for evidence of the inconsiderate wanker who’d broken a cardinal rule of touring by taking a dump on the bus instead of using the porta potties.
He found no signs of disruption. No cigarette butts, used cups, or discarded clothing. In the nook making up the bus’s lounge, a few shelves of liquor bottles remained untouched.
Following a yank on the accordion door, he peered into the back bedroom. Empty save for the double bed, dresser, and half-bath with a toilet and sink.
The sole object on the granite bar was the metallic envelope from Joe, Brian’s invitation to the pretentious Hollywood party.
As post-show fatigue clouded his mind, he walked back down the slim carpet and to the driver’s seat and retrieved his notebook and pen. But his inspiration had fled.
After forcing out a few labored sentences, he gave up and set the implements down in favor of staring out the window. A hundred or so feet in the distance, carnival lights spun dark skies into a high-voltage color palette of whirling neon. Had rejecting Helen blocked his flow? No. He’d done the right thing and was simply worn out and tired.
Faint Diesel fumes reminded him Fyre would leave early in the morning, play another city, followed by another. Bleakly, he reflected on how he was a mere windup toy. Entertainment for the masses, playing fairs and arenas named after office supply stores. Delivered from city to city by plane or bus. And the number of state fair gigs crept upward every year. Twice as many this year as last.
A low-grade cousin of dread nipped at his heels. State fairs. Next came casinos. Then what, bowling alleys? Dive bars?
He’d indulged in wishful thinking about the rediscovery of his muse. If he veered off track from his goal of breaking into the executive side of music, a humiliating has-been’s trajectory of low-status appearances and dwindling crowds awaited him. Brian refused to court that chasm, that pit of nothing hovering on the other side of his fame and celebrity.
Unwilling to face his inevitable decline, he pulled his mobile from his back pocket and scrolled through dozens of missed calls and texts from hotshots and famous people, willing the outpouring of attention to fill his cracked and leaking bucket. To make him forget the fleeting, teasing taste of artistic inspiration he’d lost. To banish fantasies of romance.
It was for the best that Helen turned out to be a flake. This way he could focus on his career without emotional investments muddling his focus.
Besides, he didn’t have time to date, and certainly didn’t need a relationship to feel whole. Brian scanned numbers and messages. Though the deluge of external validation should have done its time-tested job of making him feel warm and loved, hollow numbness and dull pain warred for control of his insides.
In the bedroom at the back of the bus, someone grunted. So the interloper hadn’t fled. But who on the crew would act so damn dodgy and hide? One way to find out. Brian strode to the origin of the sound and went back inside the back room.
Joe stood in the middle of the bedroom, a blank, glazed expression sagging his face. He stammered unintelligible gibberish, looking through Brian, not at him. Half-moons of sweat darkened the underarms of his tan T-shirt.
“What the fuck, man? Were you hiding under the bed? Loo emergency you were too ashamed to admit?”
Making a scrunched face like he’d eaten something foul, Joe licked his lips with a smacking sound. “I’m in this for you, we’re all in this for you. These guys are for real. Gonna keep your band crackling with magic until you’re eighty years old. Make sure you’re remembered as bigger than the Stones ever were.” He spoke in robotic monotone, as if delivering a memorized speech. Perspiration made his balding head gleam, though the bus’s temperature reflected the cooling climate outside.
Listening to the man’s disjointed rambling sent an ominous feeling slithering over Brian’s skin. Between this and the rudeness he unleashed on Helen, Joe was worse than ever.
Sketchiness aside, though, Brian couldn’t argue with the legacy piece of Joe’s comment. Still. This scene was beyond irregular, even for conniving, eccentric Joe. “You feeling okay? Please tell me you aren’t on drugs.”
Joe scrubbed a hand over his pallid face. “No. Ate too much fried food and yeah, sorry about the smell.”
A pin of doubt stuck Brian. “What happened to your trip to the Wyoming ranch?”
Even if Joe left for the Aries Records executive retreat location at once, he wouldn’t arrive until midnight at the earliest.
“Gonna hop a flight now. Like you said, emergency shitter stop. All of the outdoor johns were taken. Won’t happen again.” Joe hustled past Brian and off the bus, leaving a cloud of sour body odor in his wake.
What a night. Time to ring the bus driver and get to the hotel, Skype Tilly, and relax with a movie and a bottle of wine before calling upon sleep to blot out the last few hours.
A clanking, metal-on-metal noise sabotaged Brian’s effort to calm down. He whipped his head in the direction of the offending sound. In the kitchenette sink, a black handle jutted from the working garbage disposal.
He shut off the switch and pulled out the object, coming face to face with a ten-inch chef’s blade with something stuck to it. Brian plucked the errant bit magnetized to the metal, blinking as his rational mind struggled to categorize the finding. A bottle cap? An earring? No. He stroked the smooth contours of a familiar charm between his thumb and forefinger.
He held the crystal Helen gave him moments ago. No mistaking the thing, glimmering like a diamond even in minimal light. What in bollocks? No way this trinket could have travelled to the kitchen from the dashboard. He set down the knife and plopped the rock in his palm, leaning down for a closer look. A hot poke of pain impaled the middle of his hand in the exact spot that bothered him on stage. The stone fell from his grasp when he jerked, clattering against the ground.
Brian glanced askance at the crystal on the floor. Wasn’t time to head back to the hotel yet. Not before he confronted Helen and figured out the real story with her.
Four
As crew tore down the stage with the choreographed precision of NASCAR pit mechanics, Helen blazed a path through the dispersing crowd. Skies darkened to a denim jacket shade of indigo, draping packs of jean-clad teens goofily flirting over funnel cake and popcorn.
A musical chair ride whizzed through the air, its tilted ellipses casting off cones of hot pink light. Riders swung dangling legs as screeches rocketed toward webs of stars, but the exciting atmosphere slid right over Helen.
With any luck, the new crystal would keep Brian safe. She turned beleaguered thoughts to the Lisa problem.
Though a rainbow of megawatt colors brought the after-dark fair alive, Helen’s spirit dragged through littered dirt. She didn’t blame her best friend for passing on the backstage visit.
Lisa had lacked the patience to tolerate Helen’s hemming and hawing about the nature of the good news, but how was she supposed to deliver it?
Guess what. Today I found out I’m a witch, and I’m going to use my powers to save us. Except I hexed someone by mistake, so that’s an issue. But still, yay me. Right? No? Oh, okay. Bye.
Would she ever stop making catastrophic mistakes? A red plastic cup crunched underfoot. While Helen stooped and collected the litter, a familiar voice nabbed her attention.
“Hear me out. I know it sounds nuts. But I think I can get Shepherd on board. It’s all in the pitch.” Mr. Sideburns spoke in a hushed, secretive tone, a mouthful of food gumming up his words.
Helen rose to stand and crept in the direction of the Fyre staffer’s voice. The sound of his speech drifted from behind a pea-green food trailer.
“I hear you, I hear you, and I don’t blame you for not wanting to mess with those forces. Try not to freak out. I’ll have more details after the s
ummoning ritual in Wyoming. Come on, man. Led Zeppelin did it. I want Fyre to become the biggest rock band in history, don’t you? We all win in that scenario.” He belched.
Mess with what forces? Advancing, she settled at the rounded end of the vehicle on wheels. Puffs of smoke billowed from the service window, dragon’s breath carrying the aroma of grilled meat.
The employee singing along to a crackling radio didn’t seem to notice her presence. Good, he was occupied with cooking and music. Routing her attention back to the task at hand, Helen crept closer.
“Look, I can’t say for sure it’s a demon. The book describes it as an energy, a force, desire distilled. But if I can get Shepherd to join with it? Jackpot. I found a vessel that looks like it will work for the sympathetic magic.”
Her insides flipped. A sinking sensation pulled her center of gravity to her knees, and the edges of her vision blurred. Mr. Sideburns’s menacing comment about a vessel might tie in with the hex, the thing in the picture. But there was a distinct positive. Sideburns talked with arrogant bluster, but fear trembled below the surface of a tinny voice pitched low for maximum manly impact.
Helen could pinpoint insecurity quivering under cockiness, having lived behind a similar shield for most of her teenage and adult life. Couldn’t let those foster homes pick up on her weaknesses, though no matter how hard she tried to project confidence and assurance that the current home would be The One, she got sent packing.
She corralled meandering thoughts. No time to mope over the lost years. She dove deep into her brain. Joe mentioned a book. He might know Nerissa or practice witchcraft. And this vessel for sympathetic magic? She had a good idea.
Sucking in one of the centering, full-belly inhales she’d learned in yoga teacher training, Helen found strength in the tattoo on her foot. Frida Kahlo’s quote, “I paint my own reality,” decorated her arch in looping, whimsical font. No better way to create one’s own reality than by taking control of a situation.