His ember, not hers. Meager, mortal talent.
Pulling himself up, he wiped the stinging mess from his lips and washed his hands, then shuffled to the dresser. The next album would be his, with just a hint of Polyhymnia for inspiration.
Staring down at the open drawer, a moan escaped his throat. Page after page of sheet music lay in disordered piles, smudged and smeared beyond readability. He rushed to his laptop, typed in his username, and hesitated.
To log in he needed the password, the same word he’d used for everything—all his notes, his music, his output for the past two years—and in his mind her memory burned in its place.
“No.” He tried a guess, something from his childhood. “NO.” Another, the name of his first kiss. Her sad laughter mocked him, though real or imagined he couldn’t say. “NO!”
He breathed in, then out, forcing calm, drawing from his own strength, the strength he hadn’t had to use in years. The memory came, and he typed, hit enter.
The first file wouldn’t open, corrupted beyond recovery. And the second, and the third. All of them. Hammering at the keys, he checked the cloud. Gone, every note, every lyric.
He threw the machine against the wall, shattering it to pieces.
Fingernails raked at his scalp beneath his hair. She’d taken everything. Not only everything they would have done but everything they had. Every note, every lyric, every spark of passion and energy he’d channeled over two years.
His own spark flickered, defiant against the darkness, and he gritted his teeth. He could do this, would do this, without her. Without anyone.
*
“DOMINIC!”
Ken’s voice reverberated through Dominic’s skull, an unwelcome reminder that consciousness exists.
He opened his eyes, ran his tongue across gritty teeth tasting of cheap beer and cheaper girls, one of whom slept next to him on her stomach, naked except for a Deathsmack T-shirt that didn’t quite hide the lumpy tramp-stamp of “Cindy” in faded blue-black. She snored, her breath a fetid mix of rotting garbage and margarita, chest rising and falling over the mound of belly fat spilling out across his mattress.
“DOMINIC!”
Clambering over Cindy, he struggled on a pair of dirty boxer shorts and called up the stairs. “What, dude, what? Christ, you don’t have to yell!”
In a forced, calmer tone Ken continued. “I didn’t want to walk in on nothing, and you didn’t respond the first couple times.”
“All right, all right, I’m awake.” He shuffled up the stairs into the kitchen of their shared apartment, where faded linoleum and peeling paint served as a constant reminder that time consumes all things.
Ken leaned against the stove, a doobie hanging from his lips. “Put some clothes on, man, we got to go.”
The ember cherry flared as he sucked in a drag. Ashes tumbled out across his chest. He held it, then breathed out a long stream of smoke. “Gig starts in an hour and we still have to set up. I’m going, so meet us there in ten minutes.”
He still couldn’t believe how quickly it had all disappeared. He’d left Deathsmack to set out on a solo career, financing his own album over the objections of his agent and band-mates. On his own without Nia and her “gift.” Three years later, bankrupt and hitless, he begged them to take him back, to gig with them opening for newer, hotter bands. The look of pity—Pity!—on Ken’s face had enraged him, but here he was, the glamorous life of a single-album has-been.
Almost thirty years old, living with his bandmate, drunk every day, drunker every night, he couldn’t stomach another mall opening, hosting another Battle of the Bands, another out-of-town trip being some small-town bar’s “special feature.” But he had to eat, and Deathsmack paid his bills—he didn’t know how to do anything else.
His mother’s pastor’s brother owned a landscaping company, and their grand re-opening just had to have the local flavor of Deathsmack to rile up the crowd of graying simpletons before they stormed the gates for discounted bags of mulch. Hate coursed through him for his mother, his town, his band, his life. For Nia, who’d blessed and cursed him with the same casual sociopathy with which she’d taken and left her lovers. She’d shown him heaven just to let him fall into hell.
The band unloaded their gear and set up on the sidewalk to the left of the main entrance, just under a bright red awning. After a quick sound check he ducked under the ribbon across the front doors and inside, working his way across gleaming tile and past perfect shelves toward the sign that said “Restroom.”
Mint and jasmine tickled his nose from the ajar door next to the men’s room, a slice of pure black void against the industrial plastic tile wall. The world sharpened, a twisting memory wound through his head and dragged him toward it. The doorknob shocked him as he grabbed it, protesting with a squeak as he turned it and stepped through into near-total darkness.
She sat in shadows on the desk, legs crossed, bare feet bobbing over discarded black stilettos.
“Hello, Dominic. How’ve you been?”
Hot rage seared his skull. “You know how I’ve been.”
“I do, but it’s polite to ask.”
A growl escaped his throat. “You ruined me.”
“You had forty million fans at twenty-two. You ruined yourself when you rejected me.”
“I had no fans. You had fans.”
“You still have no fans, only now you have no money and no fame to go with it, frittered away on cocaine and beer and bar sluts unworthy of the old names that grace their lower backs.” She chuckled, then, as the lights in the hall flickered and dimmed. “Oh, the arrogance of mortals. Do you think you were the first to think you were different? Special? That your star would shine so bright without mine?”
She blazed, becoming a white inferno that scoured him to individual atoms, blasting him into plasma forged in a living sun. Her voice exploded around him; a wordless, godless, eternal reminder of the insignificance of man. The furnace of her existence raged through him, devoured him, forged and remade him, the quintessence of his every desire trapped in human flesh—and then it fell back to nothing but a glimpse, a promise, a lie. And then, a spoken truth.
“It’s not too late, Dom. We can be again, and all that I am can be yours. Just let me in.”
He picked himself up from the floor, a line of drool trickling from his mouth, and met her eyes. In them, glory blazed. “I want that. I want to be what you can make me.”
“No barriers this time. I’ll be within you, and you’ll live as you always should have.”
He nodded, humbled, exalted. Ready.
“I will.”
She smiled, and faded to nothing.
He breathed in, out. “So that’s it, then? We’re ready?”
Her voice echoed within him. I’ve been ready a long time.
*
The priest looked up in alarm as Dominic shouldered the heavy wooden box through the door. His arm swept across the table to knock the tarot cards to the floor, spilling beeswax from black and red candles as they tumbled across the pentagram etched into the mahogany top. He sized Dominic up and down, then nodded to the chair under the crucifix, Christ’s eyes upturned to a Father that had forsaken him.
“I know you.”
Dominic nodded. “Everyone knows me, or knows of me. The price of fame.”
“How may I help you?”
He licked his lips, swallowed, and sat, setting the heavy box on his lap. “I have an entity in my body struggling to take over, and it’s become more difficult to control than I’d anticipated. I’ve been told you’re the man to get rid of it.”
“That may be. Explain your situation, please.”
“There’s nothing to explain. We’ve lived together three years, and it’s outgrown its usefulness. We’d had a deal, it misunderstood, and I’m tired of fighting. I just need it gone.”
The priest clucked his tongue. “I see. What is the entity? And do you know its name?”
She nodded Dominic’s head. “His name
is Dominic, and he’s the human born to this body.”
The priest smiled. “Did they tell you my price?”
Dominic wailed, silent in the void, as he’d wailed for three endless years.
She lifted the lid with a grunt, tilting the box so the priest could see within. Inside, slept a two-year-old, her tiny body curled into a fetal position. She’d said her name was Alice, and that she wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers, but took the lollipop anyway. Now deep in slumber, she drooled around a limp thumb stuffed between her lips. Cindy’s child, Dominic’s daughter, sired and abandoned the day Nia had taken him; she’d never seen a penny of child support, never a glimpse of her father’s face except perhaps on posters or magazines.
The priest nodded, lust oozing from his eyes. “That will suffice. I’ll get my knives.”
*
Three hours later, the Star hopped aboard the tour bus, a grin splashed across its face to match those of its roadies and band-mates. “Time to make some music.
19
the moon
tim waggoner
Upright: Hidden Enemies, danger, calumny, darkness, terror, deception, error
Reversed: Instability, inconstancy, silence, lesser degrees of deception and error
“Brooke? You here, honey?”
Teresa steps into the cramped living room of the duplex where her daughter lives. Brooke always forgets to lock the door, and while Teresa has lectured her about this a thousand times, she’s grateful for her daughter’s forgetful nature now. She doesn’t have a key, and she wouldn’t be able to get inside otherwise. She knocked, then pounded on the door, but Brooke didn’t answer.
Teresa closes the door behind her, and without thinking, locks it. It’s after eleven o’clock at night, and while Ash Creek is a safe enough town, Teresa is a firm believer in better safe than sorry.
The sole light in the living room is provided by a small end-table lamp, and while the room is dim, corners limned with shadow, the meager illumination is enough to show Teresa that the place is a mess. Rumpled blankets on the couch, baby toys scattered on the carpet, coffee table cluttered with empty mugs, used tissues, crumpled chocolate candy wrappers, and a half dozen prescription bottles. The sight of the bottles makes Teresa’s stomach do a little flip. What if Ana got hold of them? Sure, they have child safety lids, but nothing is foolproof. She imagines her granddaughter pounding one of the bottles on the floor over and over until the lid finally pops off and pills spill out. She pictures Ana taking a pill, examining it for a moment before putting it in her mouth. Maybe it has a bitter taste and she spits it out. But maybe she swallows it, and in a short time the powerful adult medicine starts to do things to her little body. Teresa tries to push the thought from her mind. She’s a worrier, that’s what her husband always tells her, and although she protests whenever he says this, she secretly acknowledges the truth of it. She’s got plenty of real things to worry about this night without allowing her imagination to conjure up any more.
Far worse than the room’s untidiness is its smell. The air stinks of soiled diapers, sour milk, and rotting vegetable matter. Teresa hasn’t been inside the duplex for over a week, and she thought it smelled back then—not that she said anything about it. But the stink is so much worse now, and she fears that Brooke hasn’t taken out the trash or cleaned since her last visit.
The duplex is so small that she can see the kitchen from where she stands, and she sees the counter is covered with empty fast-food bags and drink cups, while the sink is filled with dirty dishes. She’s certain that if she entered the kitchen, the stench would become stronger
The temperature in here doesn’t help. It’s late July, and there’s been record temperature and humidity all week. The air in the duplex is hot, sticky, and stifling, and Teresa can already feel sweat collecting on her forehead, neck, between her breasts, against the small of her back. Is the central air broken? Or did Brooke forget to turn it on? Worse, did she leave it off on purpose?
Teresa feels a gut-punch of panic. Ana’s not even a year old yet, but she’s already been diagnosed with asthma. The last attack the girl had was so bad, Brooke had to take her to the hospital. How can Ana breathe in this sweat box?
Anxiety spurs Teresa forward, and she hurries through the living room, maneuvering around Ana’s toys, to the short hallway that leads to the bedrooms. There’s no light here, nor is there any in the hall bathroom. The door’s open, but as Teresa passes it, all she can see is darkness inside, as if the room is packed with solid shadow. Imagination, she tells herself again when she thinks she sees the shadows move.
“Brooke?” she calls again, not liking the strained, high-pitched tone in er voice. “Are you here?”
Brooke’s Honda is in the driveway, but Matt’s pickup is gone. He’s probably working second shift at the factory tonight, Teresa thinks. Or maybe he’s out drinking with his buddies.
“Is everything okay? I saw your post.”
Less than thirty minutes ago, Teresa had been at home, looking at her phone and not paying attention to a true-crime show on television. She decided to check Facebook, and as she scrolled through her feed, she came across a selfie Brooke had posted. Her long black hair was tangled and looked as if it hadn’t been washed recently, her skin was so pale it looked almost chalk-white, and her eyes were red, the skin around them puffy and dark. A tear ran from the corner of her left eye down her cheek, and the expression on her face was so empty. It was like she was hollow inside, all thought and emotion having deserted her. Teresa had seen her daughter sad many times while the girl had been growing up. More than that, she’d seen her emotionally devastated. But she had never seen her like that before, and the picture filled her with equal part sorrow, pity, and fear.
Brooke posted a message with the photo. Three chilling words.
It’s a lie.
Teresa immediately tried calling Brooke, but her daughter didn’t pick up. She slipped on sandals, grabbed her keys, and hurried out of the house to her car, calling Brooke again, willing her to answer this time. But she didn’t. Teresa kept calling on the drive to Brooke’s place, full moon painting the streets in a soft blue-white glow that she would’ve found beautiful in other circumstances. Brooke never answered.
Now here Teresa is, standing in the hallway of her daughter’s rented home, body slick with sweat, terrified for reasons she can’t name, but which she’s certain are real nevertheless.
There are two bedrooms in the duplex. One is Ana’s and the other is Brooke’s and Matt’s. The doors to both rooms are closed, and no light bleeds into the hall from underneath them. Ana’s room is first, so Teresa grips the knob. She fears it will be locked, but it turns easily and she pushes the door open, old hinges protesting softly.
There’s only one window in the room, and the curtains are drawn back, the window itself open to admit the humid night air. Moonlight streams in, providing more than enough light to see, but making everything in the room seem unreal, as if sculpted from blue-white clay, edges soft and rounded, its substance easily deformed by a simple touch. Brooke stands next to Ana’s crib, the baby lying on the thin mattress inside, wearing only a diaper because of the heat. The diaper bulges, and Teresa knows it hasn’t been changed in hours. Brooke is slender, petite, in her early twenties. She’s wearing a white tank top and black shorts. The moonlight makes her black hair glisten, makes her skin look hard as porcelain. She’s holding a pillow with both hands, gripping it tight. She’s gazing down at Ana, and her face holds the same non-expression that it has in the photo she posted. The only difference is now tears are running from both her eyes.
Teresa experiences three distinct and separate urges then. Run to her daughter and snatch the pillow from her hands. Rush to the crib, grab Ana, and get her out of the house. Go to Brooke, wrap her arms around her daughter and cry along with her. Unable to decide which of these is best, she stands in the doorway, frozen.
“Brooke?” she manages to say, her voice so soft she’s not
certain she actually speaks aloud. She must have, though, for Brooke turns to look at her, head swiveling stiffly, face still expressionless, as if she a mannequin come to life.
“It’s a lie,” Brooke says, voice calm.
“What is, sweetie?” Teresa’s own voice contains no hint of the panic inside her.
Brooke looks to her mother for a moment, continuing to cry, and when she finally speaks, she says only a single word.
“Everything.”
*
Brooke is four. She’s standing in the middle of the street in front of her house in the small suburban neighborhood where her parents live. Her mommy is outside, sitting next to the flower bed in front of the house, her legs tucked beneath her. She’s “weeding,” which Brooke thinks is a funny word. She imagines that Mommy is removing flowers to make room to plant more weeds. She told Mommy this once, and Mommy smiled and said, “That would certainly be easier.”
It’s hot out, and Mommy is wearing shorts, a sleeveless shirt, and a big white floppy hat that she only wears when she works in her flower garden. The hat looks silly, and Brooke loves to put in on when Mommy isn’t using it. It’s so big that it’s like an umbrella you wear on your head.
Brooke knows she’s not supposed to stand in the street. There isn’t much traffic where they live, mostly neighbors coming and going from their homes, and sometimes kids riding bikes or razor scooters. But even so, Mommy and Daddy have made it very clear that Brooke is never to go into the street by herself. But Mommy’s busy pulling weeds and her back is to the street, so she can’t see what Brooke is doing. But even if Mommy could see her, Brooke knows she would still be standing here. She wouldn’t be able to help herself.
There’s a dead bird lying in the street. She doesn’t know the name for this type of bird, but it’s small and brown and black and gray, and she’s seen them around a lot. She’s never seen a dead one before, though. For that matter, she’s never seen a dead anything. The little bird has been flattened to the asphalt, making it look almost like a picture in a book. She figures a car drove over it, maybe more than one. The bird’s head is pressed to the side, its eye closed, beak cracked. Its toes have curled inward, making them look like claws, and sharp edges of small broken bones poke between ruffled feathers. She sees that the bird is missing a toe on its left foot, and she wonders if it was born like that or if it lost the toe when it got run over. The dead thing is so different from a live bird, and not just because it’s been mushed. There’s a stillness to it, an emptiness, a profound quiet that’s so deep, it’s like the bird has always been like this, as if it had never lived at all.
Never Fear - The Tarot: Do You Really Want To Know? Page 38