“Hold up, Jude,” I requested, stopping to fish through my backpack for my change purse so I could drop a few more coins in to go with the ones already gleaming in the hat. I would have stopped anyway to give a busker something on general principle, but tonight it seemed especially vital. Someone playing cheerful, everyday music was almost as great a comfort as having my violin in my hands, and it provoked the first real smile I’d managed all day.
Jude obliged, and as I came up with a few quarters, the old lady looked up at me with bright black eyes. Her shriveled lips curled into an answering smile around the whistle’s mouthpiece, though she never once stopped her playing. I waited long enough to let her finish the last few bars of the melody. She seemed to approve, and with a final flourish, she bobbed her head amiably at me.
“Thank you kindly,” she crooned. She had a voice that should have been coming out of a much larger woman, reedy but full and round, mellowed by a trace of a Texan drawl; she sounded like a clarinet playing old, big-band swing. “Like to see a young person smiling for one of the old tunes.”
“I play violin,” I told her, grinning now.
Snowy eyebrows crooked up over those black eyes, whose gaze swept over me even as the old woman chuckled wryly. “A discerning choice of instrument.” Then her eyes met mine dead on. “I can tell you’re a girlie of uncommon perception. I can see it in your eyes.”
I stopped cold. The words alone were innocent enough, but that look was entirely too knowing for my comfort. Especially when the prickling came back, like a fleeting rain of thorns, the instant her gaze locked with mine.
But then Jude poked me again to get me moving. Though she added two quarters of her own to the hat to go along with mine, my officemate and friend was eying the Penguin’s bright lights like a terrier eyes a bone. She flashed a vague polite smile just because I’d stopped, but seemed to notice nothing remarkable about the woman with the whistle.
I let her hurry me onward.
But I looked back over my shoulder as we went—and when I caught the old lady winking secretively at me, I was not reassured.
* * *
The Electric Penguin was one-third Internet cafe (free wireless connectivity for patrons, terminals available at reasonable rates), one-third gamer haven (featuring a server room full of consoles for a dozen different online combat games), and one-third more traditional bar with traditional bar entertainments: darts, pool, and booze. Its walls sported a plethora of film, television, and anime posters. Its music—a mix of 80’s and 90’s rock—aimed for merely loud rather than deafening; there was a dance floor, but a little one, out of acknowledgement that most thirtysomething, or even late-twentysomething, computer geeks weren’t likely to actually get up and dance.
Live entertainment wasn’t much of the Penguin’s point. But as Jude and I headed into the bar, Jude in high spirits and ready to eat, drink, and be merry enough for both of us since I hadn’t yet gotten with the program, we discovered it would be the point tonight. Colorful posters all over the walls proclaimed in an enthusiastic cherry-red 1950’s font, “Elvis Presley Karaoke Contest 7:30pm!” To go along with the posters, the bluesy, mournful strains of “Heartbreak Hotel” greeted us over the sound system.
“Oh man,” Jude hooted, packing anticipation, amusement, and alarm into one exclamation as she dragged me to an unoccupied booth near where several of our teammates had gathered. “It’s August 16th, isn’t it? Didn’t Elvis die today or something? This ought to be fun.”
“Where ‘fun’ is defined as ‘Oh my God why are they making us watch this?’” Making a face, I slumped into my side of the booth, but waved to the others at the nearby table as I did. Debate over the contest was already in full swing, with Alex the developer and Sanjit and Marshall, the other two testers on our team, playfully arguing who was going to claim what song.
“Thus speaks a woman who is not yet drunk enough to get the point,” Jude loftily intoned before giving me a slap on the shoulder and pivoting to make a beeline for the bar. “Namely, comedy! Hold that thought while I acquire appropriate medication for your humor impairment.” To our teammates, she yelled as she went, “I call dibs on ‘Hound Dog’!”
Moments later the last three members of the team showed up, and with that the ship party got underway.
We ordered food and drinks and started plowing through the bowls of pretzels and chips the staff kept bringing to us. A few of us vanished into the server room, bolstered by beer for an evening of blowing one another to virtual smithereens; the rest opted to stay in the main section of the bar, alternating between appetizers, conversation, darts, and pool until everyone’s food arrived or the contest began, whichever came first.
Content to take it easy at my booth, I nibbled pretzels and sipped at the strawberry daiquiri Jude had brought me. The rum soaked down through my chest and began to untangle the hard ball of tension I’d been carrying around within me all day; at the feel of it I finally began to relax. Friends and coworkers around me celebrating a job we’d done well. Music that wasn’t half-bad, I had to admit to myself. Simple, uncomplicated food and drink. And not a single sign of anything out of the ordinary anywhere in the bar.
Maybe, just maybe, the night was looking up.
Around seven the staff started passing out lists of song titles the Penguin’s karaoke system had on disc and taking the names of those on our team as well as the rest of the patrons bold enough, silly enough, or drunk enough to sign up for the contest. As advertised, around seven-thirty the contest commenced.
A few played it straight, opting merely to sing with a range of skill from painfully inept to decent ability to carry a tune. Everyone else, though, went along with Jude’s interpretation of how to handle the situation: with as much comedy as possible. Jude herself did not actually know the words to “Hound Dog” aside from the first line of the chorus, and did not care. She unrepentantly mangled every other line and made up for it by dramatically waggling her short, thick legs, slicing the air with fake karate chops, and concluding by pinning the audience with a smoldering stare and a curl of her upper lip, along with the obligatory drawled “Thank you very much.”
Two young men in drag queen regalia warbled out “Love Me Tender” in perfect harmony, taking turns pretending to swoon at one another as they sang. When they finished, one grabbed the other in his arms, dipped him over, and ardently smooched him to amused and delighted applause.
A tall, muscular girl whose black leather biker vest, tattooed biceps, and lemon-yellow Mohawk were as far from the Elvis look as you could possibly get popped out of the server room long enough to jump up and take her turn. Her song of choice was “Don’t”, and not only did her smoky contralto come the closest so far that evening to Mr. Presley’s baritone, her delivery nailed him dead on. So did the circuit she made of all the tables closest to the little stage, as she leaned over to serenade everyone within range with a blithe disregard for their age or gender. She even whipped a white scarf from around her neck and ceremoniously handed it to a hysterically giggling Jude, who did her part in return by clutching it to her bosom and squealing in mock ecstasy.
Alex got gales of laughter and a standing ovation from every Star Trek fan in the room when he roared out “Can’t Help Falling in Love” in flawless Klingon, complete with thumping his chest, shaking his fist in the air, and grimacing fiercely out at the bar at large. When he returned to the table everyone showered him in praise and offered to buy him drinks for the rest of the evening, while he grinned boyishly and pronounced in serene satisfaction that he’d been waiting for months for a chance to do that.
It was almost impossible to follow a performance like that. The next three entrants didn’t even try. One of the staff had to coax the fourth contestant after Alex to come on up and take his turn, and the poor guy swallowed hard as he stepped up to quaver his way through “It’s Now or Never”. His voice wasn’t bad, but either stage fright or the realization that Alex had just blown anyone unlucky enough to foll
ow him out of the water made him keep flubbing his pitch.
As Jude had predicted, the entire affair got funnier with alcohol factored in, and by my second daiquiri I’d started joining in on the laughter. But while Alex’s successor struggled his way through his chosen song my attention wandered, drifting around the room to read the print on the movie posters and idly take in the other details of the décor. I was pondering whether the penguin logo on the sign outside would have come out the same if the bar owners had been Debian users instead of RedHat when something prickled through my flesh and along my skin.
The feeling was starting to get familiar. I’d had it last night on the Burke-Gilman trail, this morning by the hedge, and on the way into the bar—and each time it had accompanied things that should not have had any place in actual, three-dimensional life. It cut through the mellow glow of the rum I’d downed, stirring up the panic I’d been doing my damnedest all evening to bury. I thought disjointedly of pricking thumbs and Scottish plays while my gaze, without my willing it, jerked over to the door. It opened, and Christopher MacSimidh walked in.
I blinked. Twice. Two daiquiris weren’t anywhere near enough to make me see things—under normal circumstances. But the last twenty-four hours had been anything but normal, and between the drinks and the impact of everything I’d seen since last night, I wasn’t certain of anything unfamiliar crossing my path. Christopher, though, I recognized in an instant. His features burned—in my memory and in my line of sight—like a brand: honey-brown hair in a ponytail, short beard lining his jaw, pale and weary features punctuated by the bandage on his brow.
He’s real. The shocked fragment of a thought shot across my brain at the sight of him. And then, borne up on a surge of rising dread, another one followed. Does that mean everything else was, too?
Christopher paused at the door, uncertainty darkening his eyes; for just a moment or two, I felt those prickles along my skin grow sharper. I wondered if he would turn his head, if he would see me—but then the moment broke as he shut his eyes and drew in a long, steadying breath. Then he looked up again, and with the single-minded focus of a man stepping across a bed of hot coals, he stalked towards the bar.
Before I’d fully registered what I was doing, I mumbled in Jude’s direction, “Be right back.” I didn’t wait to see if she heard me; I was up and moving to intercept Christopher before the words had finished leaving my mouth.
He beat me to the bar, leaning across it when he got there and waving to catch the eye of the young man mixing drinks behind it. “Jeremy,” he called out, rough and low, “I need a moment.”
The bartender blinked with almost as much surprise as I’d felt seeing Christopher at the door. “Holy crap, Chris, what happened to you? You get hit by a truck?”
“Somethin’ like that. Is Margie about, then? I need a word with her—”
“You look like you need to sit down, if you don’t mind my saying so, man!”
“And those of us at the back table,” put in a customer further along the bar, with just enough sardonic emphasis to get attention, “need a round of White Russians. Tonight. If that wouldn’t be, you know, inconvenient or anything.”
Jeremy started, blurted a quick “sit tight” to Christopher, and then whirled apologetically around to fill the patron’s order.
That left Christopher alone—and left me an opening to get to him.
I stepped up just as he frowned tightly to himself and closed his eyes once more, leaning against the wall on his other side. He had on the same jeans and hiking boots I’d last seen him in, though he’d replaced his lost black flannel shirt with a blue one just as rumpled as its predecessor, sleeves rolled up haphazardly along his forearms, collar undone and shirttails out. My heart rate accelerated as I reached him, and I couldn’t tell if it came from anxiety over his haggard features, a sudden urgent desire for him to explain the weirdness that had engulfed my life, or the way the prickling increased through every one of my nerves at his close proximity. I tried to avoid thinking about any of it too closely as I tapped him on the arm.
“Hey, big guy… Christopher? Remember me? You okay?”
He jolted, straightened, and went a little paler as he saw me. His gaze was exhausted, but far more alert than they’d been when I’d left him at the hospital the night before. “You,” he whispered.
That didn’t seem at all promising. Neither did the prickling, because I didn’t want to know why I was feeling it around a perfectly normal-looking guy as well as all the subjects of the Big Book of the Weird. But Christopher’s attention was on me now—and I was desperate to know exactly what had been going on all around me and within me. “I’ve got to talk to you,” I blurted, ignoring his failure to answer either of my questions. Either the alcohol or the general stress of the day loosened my tongue; more words tumbled out of me before I could stop them. “Do you remember what you said to me, at my place? About seeing… them? I’ve been seeing—I don’t know what I’ve been seeing but you’ve got to tell me—”
“Jesus Christ, girl, not here,” Christopher hissed.
He thrust up a hand as though to ward me off, but I darted forward and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “What color are my eyes?” I hissed back, high-pitched, scared. To my chagrin, tears I couldn’t suppress welled up across my vision, but I hung on to Christopher’s shirt and stared pleadingly up at him. He had to tell me. He understood. He knew.
The question must have thrown him, or maybe it was my crying. His brow furrowed just beneath the bandage; his expression turned awkward. For a couple of seconds I didn’t think he would answer me, but then he pulled in a breath and let it out again, heavily. “Yellow,” he breathed, too soft for anyone but me to hear, and the prickling stabbed up sharply through my ears at the sound of it. “Yellow as nothin’ I’ve ever seen on this earth.”
I felt a wail threatening to creep up out of my throat. But it didn’t get the opportunity to escape—or if it did, I didn’t hear it. A guitar cut across every other noise in the bar, an actual guitar rather than the karaoke machine, sending intricate, liquidly played arpeggios out into the room. A stir of startled anticipation rose up in response, but Christopher abruptly tensed, his attention shooting over and past me to the stage where the contest was going on.
This can’t be good. Too unsettled to think anything but that at the palpably wary expression on Christopher’s face, I looked over my shoulder. And felt another wail building up fast on the heels of the first, along with a wave of the prickling so strong that it felt like a torrent of needles all over me.
I didn’t recognize the words—something about wild country roses, and trees as tall as the sky. The voice that sang them, though, did so with a rich, fluid sweetness that blended so thoroughly with the guitar that the two seemed intertwined, different strands of one unified skein of music. As for the singer, he uncannily called a young Elvis Presley to mind. His hair was jet black, cut in a fetchingly disheveled pompadour. He wore a simple blue cotton shirt a few shades lighter than Christopher’s flannel and a pair of old jeans, and even his battered guitar looked the part.
But Elvis had never had skin that subtly shone as though bathed in moonlight, even under the glare of stage lights in a bar. Or ears that slanted up to points like a pair of uplifted wings. Or eyes as blue and dark as midnight, that even across the room glimmered as though carrying a sky’s worth of stars within them.
Eyes that gleamed like gemstones.
Like mine.
Chapter Six
For fuck’s sake, you’ve got to be kidding me!
The objection sprang up somewhere in the back of my brain, and it should have been right. Looking like the official Elvis impersonator of the cast of The Lord of the Rings should have made the newest figure on the stage ridiculous. That he was singing to a bar full of half-drunk computer geeks should have had us all in stitches.
But it didn’t. His gaze swung round the room as he sang, ironic arrogance glittering in its depths, hinting at bo
th awareness of and sublime indifference to his own potential inanity. The arrogance seemed warranted, for he carried himself with an inhuman grace for which Elvis or any other performer, past or present, would have gleefully killed. Sung by anyone else, the song would have been a sweet, simple country ballad; from him, it became crystalline perfection. It bypassed my sense of hearing and went straight for my blood, stirring it with a haunting, compelling power.
An absolute hush fell over the bar. Faces that had been convulsed with merriment went reverent, awed. One or two women and one of the boys in drag let out astonished—and genuine—squeals. Jeremy, the bartender Christopher had tried to hail, stopped what he was doing. So did the two waiters carrying pitchers of beer to their intended destinations. One of the gamers emerged from the server room, only to stop dead in his tracks and turn to pay respectful attention to the stage.
My blood churned. My own thoughts dizzied me. Something I could not name deep in my bones wanted the singer to look my way, more than I had wanted anything before in my life, and acknowledge—
What?
I didn’t know. And even as I began to shake with unhappy longing at my own ignorance, I went cold at the thought that those midnight eyes, all too like the eyes I’d seen in my reflection, might find me—
Might know me—
I shook harder, torn between the need to approach the stage and the urge to flee out into the night. Before either impulse could win over the other, Christopher’s hand clamped down hard on my arm. “Sidhe,” he barked into my ear, the low whisper grating across the painful beauty of the singing as he yanked me towards the door. “Let’s go, lass, before he sees you!”
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