The Dark Remains

by Mark Anthony

  “So, did you check on Beltan last night?” she said, opting for brisk instead of sympathetic.

  He crammed the remains of the jelly donut into his mouth. “I couldn’t get to his room. Something happened on the fourth floor of the hospital before I got in, but I don’t know what it was. There were security guards posted at the doors, and they weren’t letting anyone through.”

  A sour taste rose in Grace’s throat. The coffee was cheap stuff. She should have sprung for Starbucks; they still had several gold coins they could sell on East Colfax for money. She forced the bile back down her gullet. This was strange news, but it would be foolish to believe it had something to do with her and Travis. Not everything in Denver revolved around them. As of yesterday morning, when she had dared to venture into Denver Memorial, Beltan had still not awakened. Nothing had changed. Travis could check on him again tonight.

  “Come on,” Travis said, holding out a donut. His grin was back now, and his silver earrings glinted. “You need to build up your strength if you’re going to talk to the Seekers. Everything they say is a riddle wrapped in the New York Times crossword puzzle translated into ancient Greek. So eat.”

  He tossed the donut into the air. She caught it in an easy motion and took a big, shockingly sweet bite.

  Fifteen minutes later they walked down West Colfax, the mountains and a cool autumnal breeze at their backs. A cluster of glass-and-steel skyscrapers rose before them, looking strangely alien. Shouldn’t they have been made of gray stone, their crenellated parapets crowned with bright, snapping banners? But Calavere was a world away. These were a different sort of castle.

  They could have taken the No. 16 bus to Civic Center Park. They were to meet Hadrian Farr and Deirdre Falling Hawk at the Denver Art Museum, which stood on the south side of the park. But they still had over an hour until their appointed time. The day was lovely, and it was only a couple of miles to the museum, so they had decided to hoof it.

  Or maybe it was just that neither of them had quite gotten reaccustomed to cars and buses. The hard, shiny vehicles roared past them down Colfax, seeming to hurtle past at an outrageous speed Grace supposed was all of thirty-five miles per hour. She relished the solid feel of the sidewalk beneath her boots of Eldhish leather.

  Grace wasn’t entirely certain when she noticed the police car. It impinged on her awareness slowly, like a gathering shadow, until suddenly she turned her head. The patrol car drove not thirty feet behind them. She snapped back around, clutching her cup.

  “White or black,” Travis said through clenched teeth.

  He didn’t need to say more. White meant a police car. Of concern, but not immediately dangerous. Grace was still wanted in this town for assaulting an officer, but not every cruiser would be looking for her. As for black—that meant them. And from what Travis had told her, she would much rather have a long conversation with the police than a chat with one of the friendly representatives of Duratek.

  “White,” she said.

  They kept walking. Grace was aware of a pale blur as the patrol car drove past, but she did not glance in its direction. She breathed a sigh as the vehicle rolled down the street ahead of them—

  —then her breath ceased as the vehicle slowed and halted. Through the dim rectangle of the rear window she saw the driver look back over his shoulder. She caught the faint sparks of his eyes with her own. The car’s reverse lights blinked on, and her heart stuttered.

  Grace clutched Travis’s arm. “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know. If we run, we might as well hold up a big sign that says Fugitives ‘R’ Us.”

  Motionless, she watched the car back up toward them. What would she say when they questioned her? You can’t detain me, Officer. I’m a citizen of another world. Something told her there were no Calavaner embassies in Denver.

  A blaring noise vibrated through her body. She managed to crane her neck in time to see a delivery truck hurtling east down Colfax. Brakes hissed and squealed as the truck slowed, coming to a stop mere inches before colliding with the police car. The truck’s door flew open, and the meaty driver clambered out, his face puffy and red as he strode toward the patrol vehicle, arms waving.

  “Now,” Travis said. “While he’s distracted.”

  A row of brick-and-glass storefronts lined the block, a shopette that had no doubt seemed sleek and modern in 1964 but was now squat and drab, part of an architectural experiment that had ended, not only in failure, but in ugliness. Travis pulled Grace toward the nearest doorway.

  The sound of chimes floated on the air as the door shut behind them, along with the sound of water bubbling over stone. A faint haze of smoke drifted on the air, rich and mossy on the tongue. A tree branch arched overhead, its gold leaves glinting in the faint light.

  A small gasp escaped Grace. Once before she had walked into a room only to discover a forest instead. It had been in Castle Calavere, when she and Travis had gone to speak with Trifkin Mossberry and his troupe of actors. Through some magic of the Little People, their room had seemed at once a castle chamber and a greenwood glade. Was there a similar magic at work here?

  “Hello,” a husky voice said. “Can I help you find something?”

  Smoke swirled, and before them stood a tall, lean, dark-skinned woman. From her clingy red minidress sprouted slender, beautifully muscled arms and impossibly long legs that Grace knew hordes of Paris runway models would gladly sell what little remained of their souls in order to possess. White platform shoes made her nearly as tall as Travis, and the fantastically sculpted black coiffure that crowned her head was clearly not meant to be anything but a wig. She was, in a word, gorgeous.

  “Incense? Herbs? Candles?” She lifted a hand tipped by wonderfully unnatural press-on nails, gesturing to the crowded shelves all around. “If you need a little magic, you’ve come to the right place. Just tell Marji what you need.”

  How about getting us off this world? Grace glanced back through the door, but the glass was obscured by sun-faded posters, and she couldn’t see the police car she knew was parked on the other side. Was he still occupied with the truck driver?

  She turned back. “We need … that is, we wanted …” Grace felt her eyes bulging. Had she always been such a terrible liar?

  Travis rescued her. “Candles,” he said. “We need candles.” He pointed to a nearby shelf. “Those red ones look good.”

  The woman—Marji—raised a precisely tweezed eyebrow, then sauntered to the shelf. She picked up one of the red tapers. “These? You’re sure?”

  “Yes, those are the ones I want.”

  Marji’s smoky lips curved in a smile as she slipped her fingers up and down the length of the candle. “Honey, you light these in a ritual to make a man do your bidding, if you know what I mean.”

  Travis returned Marji’s smile. “I know. I’ll take five of them.”

  Marji laughed—a delicious, throaty sound—and fanned herself with a hand. “Well, it’s nice to see you’re so modest, honey. But are you sure you don’t want ten? That way you can get the whole team at once.”

  Travis rubbed a hand over his shaved head. “Let’s stay with five. I’m only human, after all.”

  It was fleeting, but Grace noticed his grimace as he said these words. She wasn’t the only one, for the shadow of a frown touched Marji’s face.

  “Of course you are, honey. Aren’t we all?” She took five of the candles, set them on the Formica counter, and wrapped them in purple tissue. When she was done, she turned toward Grace. “And what can I get for you, queen?”

  Grace took a step backward. “Why did you call me that?”

  Marji shrugged, raising her arms—an elegant motion, like ribbons in water. “You’re pretty as a queen, honey, that’s all. Maybe you’d like a Valkyrie charm bracelet.” She reached into the case beneath the counter and pulled out a slender silver chain. Tiny charms dangled from it, making a faint but audible music, like the sound of falling snow. “I see that you like them.”

&n
bsp; “Like what?”

  “Runes.” Marji brushed the charms with a finger. “Like the ones on your necklace, honey. Although, as I like to say, I’m a girl who knows her futhark, and those aren’t Viking runes you’re wearing. Do you know where that writing comes from? It isn’t Minoan, is it?”

  Grace clutched a hand around her necklace. It must have slipped out when they dashed inside. “It’s nothing,” she said, tucking the pendant back beneath her sweater. “And I’ll take the bracelet. It’s perfect.”

  Marji wrapped it up. She totaled the items, and Travis paid her in cash. She handed him the paper sack.

  “Thank you, miss.”

  “You’re welcome, honey.”

  Travis started to move from the counter, then glanced at Grace. Neither was certain if it was safe to go outside yet. Hindu tapestries and Egyptian camel rugs draped the store’s windows; she couldn’t see outside.

  Marji crossed her arms and leaned on the counter. “All right, you two. Now why don’t you tell me why it was you really came in here? And I am not going to believe that you came running in like Bonnie and Clyde on the lam because you needed candles and some pretty new jewelry.” She placed hands on her hips. “And call me Marji. I haven’t been Miss since Bobby Farrell caught me behind the bleachers.”

  Travis opened his mouth, but Grace was stunned to find herself speaking. She was pathetic at lying, but it turned out she was pretty good when it came to the truth.

  “There’s a police car out front. We came in here to get away.”

  Marji gazed at Grace with gentle brown eyes lined thickly in mascara. Then she came around the counter and placed one of her long, beautiful hands on Grace’s. “I know what it’s like, honey. To not want to be seen.”

  Grace studied the other, then nodded. Of course. “I suppose you do,” she said.

  Marji lifted Grace’s hand and gently turned it over. With a red fingernail she traced the lines on Grace’s palm.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Relax, honey. I’m a professional. Besides, you don’t want to go outside just yet, do you? Now take a breath and let your sister Marjoram do her work.”

  Sister. The word was a comfort to Grace. Marji’s touch was warm and light as a hummingbird against her skin.

  Marji gave an appreciative murmur. “Well, I’ve never seen such a strong lifeline, honey. Here, it was cut just after its beginning, and then again not so long after that, but each time it just kept going. And there’s another happening yet to come that will try to take you, but your life is too strong to stop.”

  Grace bit her lip. Maybe Marji wasn’t a professional. She had always felt her grasp on life was tenuous at best.

  “Now, your headline is sharp and deep, so you’re a total brainiac. I think we all knew that to begin with. And as for your heartline …”

  A soft gasp escaped Marji’s lips.

  Grace went rigid. “What is it?”

  Gently, Marji pressed Grace’s hand shut.

  “It’s broken,” she said.

  Grace pulled her hand back, held it against her chest, and nodded. Maybe Marji knew what she was talking about after all.

  “It doesn’t have to stay that way, honey,” Marji said, her words soft and husky. “The lines on our hands don’t lie, but they can change even as we do.”

  Grace gave a bitter smile. Then again, didn’t they say you could never trick fate?

  “How about Travis?” she said to change the subject. It was not as if Marji’s words had revealed anything she didn’t already know. “What’s his hand say?”

  Marji reached out and took Travis’s hand. As she did, her eyes widened, and she made a cooing sound. “Honey, I’ve never felt such a soft hand. It’s like a baby’s. You have to tell me how you do it.”

  Travis let out a soft laugh. “It’s a secret.”

  Grace nodded; she supposed it was at that.

  Marji cocked her head, regarding him, then turned his hand over. She looked up, shock in her wide brown eyes. “But you don’t have any lines on your hand. Not one. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Travis drew his hand back. “It was fire.”

  Marji curled a long hand beneath her chin, but something in her expression did not look convinced.

  Grace cleared her throat. “I think … I think we should go now. We don’t want you to get in trouble if the police come in here looking for us.”

  Now Marji laughed, waving a hand. “Please, honey. I know how to deal with the police. I beguile the boys and befriend the girls.” She spread her arms wide, then hugged herself. “To know Marji is to love her, no?”

  Grace could only laugh in agreement.

  Marji beckoned with a long finger. “This way, you two. Follow Marji. You can take the back door to make sure no prying eyes see you leave.”

  They followed as she parted a beaded curtain. Beyond was a space even more crowded than the store outside. Sagging shelves were lined with sweet-dusty bundles of sage, brass candlesticks, polished pieces of hematite, lacquered boxes, packages of incense, and jars filled with a hundred different kinds of herbs. Grace would have liked to stop and study some of the herbs, to smell them, taste them, probe them with the Weirding to see how they compared to the plant species she had worked with on Eldh. However, Travis tugged her arm, pulling her onward.

  They reached a door. Marji opened it a crack, peered through, then pushed it wider. Beyond was an alley littered with empty boxes and broken pallets.

  “Now, I know you both have important things to do,” Marji said. “No—no need to explain. I see it in your eyes. But you come back to Marji if you can. You’re a special lady, queen. Those are some witchy green eyes you have.”

  She squeezed Grace’s hand. Grace squeezed back.

  “And you.” Marji ran a hand over Travis’s head. “You’re pretty cute for a bald white guy.”

  Travis only grinned.

  “You take care of yourself, honey. Both of you.”

  Grace and Travis nodded. Sometimes words weren’t enough. Then they stepped into the alley. Behind them, the door shut and locked with a click.

  Travis sighed. “I get so used to running from people who want to use us for their own ends, sometimes I forget there are people who will help us and not expect anything in return.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “We owe her.”

  “Him, you mean.”

  Travis frowned, and Grace laughed. Maybe the new Travis was still a little clueless after all.

  “Marji’s a man, Travis. Well, genetically, at least. I suppose, in all the ways that count, she’s a woman. Except no woman I know could have pulled off that ensemble.”

  Travis stared into the wind. Grace wondered what he was thinking. Before she could ask, he shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

  “Well, what’s the point of being alive if you can’t choose what you’re going to be?”

  It sounded good, coming from his lips. But sometimes Grace knew you didn’t have a choice, that life decided for you, and that no matter how much you wanted something, you could never have it back once it was taken from you. She glimpsed it: the shadow that always followed her, just one step behind.

  “Come on,” she said. “It’s not polite to keep members of mysterious international organizations waiting.”

  26.

  The Denver Art Museum loomed on the edge of Civic Center Park, just south of downtown. Travis knew the museum was considered a masterpiece of neogothic architecture, but to him it looked more like a castle seen through a fun-house mirror: big and hulking but distorted, containing none of the original grandeur. Only after a minute did he realize that both he and Grace stood before the museum’s glass doors, unmoving.

  Travis could understand his own hesitation. After all, his last conversation with the Seekers had been anything but cordial. He had been furious with Deirdre Falling Hawk, accusing her and the Seekers of manipulating him. It wasn’t until he returned to Eldh and encountered the ancient, wise, and vastly
cruel dragon Sfithrisir that he realized what a weapon the truth could be. Sometimes lies were the only things that made the hard realities of life bearable, and the Seekers had known that.

  But why was Grace hesitating? The Seekers had helped her escape an ironheart at the Denver police station not three blocks from this museum. And certainly Grace’s analytical mind was a good match for the Seekers.

  “There’s something wrong,” she said.

  He looked around but saw only a scattering of tourists, skateboarding teenagers, street people, and one group of schoolchildren led by a harried teacher. “What is it, Grace?”

  Her eyes were closed. “I don’t know. I can’t really use the Touch here. The Weirding is so faint. But I feel something—a shadow, a presence. Like something watching.” She sighed and opened her eyes. “I’m sure I’m mistaken.”

  Travis wasn’t so certain. He didn’t really understand Grace’s abilities, but she was a scientist, and he had seldom heard her advance a theory she didn’t have evidence to back up.

  “Come on,” she said. “There’s no use waiting around. If there is something, it will show itself.”

  The interior of the museum was more comforting than the exterior. A maze of high walls soared upward to the random window slits that made so much more sense when viewed from this side. The two of them wandered past abstract canvases and sculptures of steel and glass. Farr had only said that he would meet them on the first floor of the museum. Travis wasn’t concerned. Knowing the Seekers, Deirdre and Hadrian would find them first.

  “What is that?” Grace said, stopping before the entrance to a dim alcove. Inside, clear tubes dangled from the ceiling, each one holding a naked plastic doll. Scattered on the floor were books, video games, and movie posters. Red ribbons tangled over them like fire. Or blood. A card on the wall read:

  Protecting Our Children

  A. Becker

  “It’s an installation,” Travis said.