“No,” said Gossamer.
“My shit is together,” said Colby.
Bill nodded, peering at Colby from behind his cigarette. “I know you’ve got to have some hooch on you,” he said. “You always have good hooch on you.”
“Do I look like a liquor cabinet to you?”
“No. You look like a man who could use a drink with friends.”
Colby reached behind him into his backpack and, without looking, fished out a bottle of bourbon. He unscrewed the cap, taking a pull off the bottle. “Give me one of those smokes.”
“Deal.” Bill produced a cigarette from the back of his trench coat, swapping it for the bottle. He quickly looked it over, eyeing the label. “Aw, hell. This ain’t bad, but it ain’t the good stuff.”
Colby snapped his fingers, lighting a flame at the end of his thumb. He lit the cigarette then shook out the fire. “The good stuff always came from Old Scraps.”
Bill closed his eyes, nodding sadly, raising the bottle into the air. “To Scraps.” He took a drink and handed the bottle back to Colby.
Colby took another swig. “He was a hell of a bartender.”
“Hell of a bartender.”
Gossamer looked longingly up at Colby, whimpering a little.
“What?” asked Colby. “You hate bourbon.”
“I was promised beer.”
Colby rolled his eyes, passing the bottle back to Bill. He reached behind himself again, this time fishing out a cold bottle of beer and a dog bowl from the pack. With a quick twist he popped the bottle cap off, sloppily filling the bowl.
“Careful,” said Gossamer. “Pour it along the sides.”
“Maybe you should pour it,” said Colby.
“I don’t like it foamy.”
Bill took another drink. “I see you two have become close. Is he your familiar now?”
Colby nodded. “Yeah, kind of.”
“Wait, you mean there’s a name for this?” asked Gossamer.
“Yeah,” said Bill. “There is. Colby, you didn’t explain any of this?”
Colby put the dog bowl in front of Gossamer, who immediately began lapping up the beer. “Some of it,” he said. “But he’s still learning. I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea about our relationship.”
Gossamer looked up from the bowl. “What’s not to understand? We’re best friends.”
“Exactly,” said Colby. “And that’s how it’s going to stay.”
Bill took a drag off his cigarette, exhaled, took another drink. “Okay.”
Colby looked over at Bill and shook his head silently. Bill took the hint.
The three sat quietly for a moment, Colby and Bill smoking, passing the bottle back and forth, watching the lights on the highway, Gossamer’s incessant lapping the only sound. The night was humid, but cool, a breeze floating in off the lake. The stars were out, the moon’s thin crescent waning, absent a cloud in the sky. It was beautiful.
“So why don’t you hate me like everyone else?” asked Colby.
“I can’t think of a good enough reason, I guess,” said Bill. “I mean, it’s not like I think you’re going to nuke me for hanging around like everyone else does. And, well, we’ve got a lot in common.”
“What do we have in common?”
Bill’s gaze lingered for a second. “We’re both monsters.” He took a long, deep drag off his cigarette, leaned his head back, and exhaled a slow, steady stream of smoke. “You see,” he said, still staring up at the stars, “I don’t scare little kids. I don’t murder chaste virgins caught out alone at night. I just feed on monsters. The soiled. The unclean. The deeper and darker the hate or fear or self-loathing there is, the more delicious the meal. Now you might look at some of the people I feed on and say that they didn’t have coming what I did to them, but you couldn’t for a moment argue that they were without sin, without fault. That the world ain’t just a tiny bit better without them.”
“Yeah? And?”
“And your friend over there didn’t just awaken on his own. This city doesn’t have enough dreamstuff for that. Not anymore. You used the energy of a redcap.”
“You’re gonna hold me to the death of a redcap?”
“I might,” said Bill.
“He crossed over the city limits. He knew the rules.”
“The rules you laid down. You murdered that redcap and you used the energy for your own ends.”
“I’m not a monster.”
“Monsters with purpose. That’s what you told Yashar. Monsters with purpose.”
Colby took another drink. “Shit. I said that, didn’t I?”
“You did. We’re monsters, Colby. But you’re one of the good ones. You mean well. You want to protect the innocent by devouring the unjust. You take that darkness on to yourself and you carry it with you day in and day out. I’ve been around a long time. I’ve seen my fair share of darkness. I’ve taken a lot of it on to myself.” He paused, lost in thought for a moment. “There’s a reason you’ve never seen my face.”
Colby nodded, stabbing out his cigarette beside him on the ledge. “Well, if I’m gonna be a monster, I might as well surround myself with the best sort of them.”
Bill nodded. “You’re goddamned right about that. Thanks to you, that’s just about all that’s left in this city.”
“I try.”
“It won’t last. It never does.”
“As long as I’m here, it will.”
“No one lights a candle in the daytime, Colby. Men dream up their monsters for a reason.”
“So they can have windmills they feel good about tilting at?”
“Something like that,” said Bill, lighting up another cigarette with the end of the old one. “Why are you up here?”
Gossamer stopped lapping at the beer. “He was in the paper again.”
“Ewan?”
“Yeah,” said Colby.
“He’s gone. No coming back from that.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“No, I think you believe that if you keep him in your heart, some piece of him will still live on.”
“Yeah. Maybe. What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s horseshit. The only thing that lives on is the part that makes everyone they left behind who they are. And right now all that’s making you is miserable. The kid got a whole lot more life than he was destined to. Touched a lot more people than he ever would have. All that was you, not him. All that’s left of him is a lead weight dragging you down.”
“I didn’t come here for a lecture.”
“Yeah you did. You were just hoping it’d be from him and not me.” Bill pointed off into the night then formed a shadow puppet of a bird, flapping off, his hands actually vanishing into the dark as he did. “If that fucking angel had any real answers, he wouldn’t have fallen and he wouldn’t be drinking himself into a stupor. He’s not going to forgive you, Colby. No one will. You shouldn’t expect them to. You shouldn’t want them to. And you don’t need them to.”
Colby nodded, swallowing. “It’s just that—”
“It’s just what?”
“He’s the closest I’ve ever come to talking to . . .”
“Talking to . . . ?”
“Talking to God.”
Bill shook his head, the light ever shying away from the features of his face, no matter the angle. “Shit. He’s never talked to God. God doesn’t talk to angels. Not for a long time. Why do you think so many of them jump?”
“I thought there would be answers, you know? When I was a kid.”
“There are answers. You just don’t like them.”
“But there are always more questions.”
“Yeah. If there weren’t, what the hell would be the point? You don’t need more answers, Colby. You don’t need approval. The only thing you need . . .” He trailed off, taking another pull from the bottle. “ . . . is to figure out where the hell Scraps was getting the good stuff. Because, seriously, this ain’t cutting it.”
; Colby reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, crumpled scrap of paper he’d been given by Carol Voss. Then he slowly unwound it, straightening the creases, staring at the number, letting his eyes glaze over as he drifted off in thought. “No. No, it’s really not.”
CHAPTER 6
ON DISBELIEF
AN EXCERPT BY DR. THADDEUS RAY, PH.D., FROM HIS BOOK THE EVERYTHING YOU CANNOT SEE
Disbelief is perhaps the single greatest weapon in the arsenal of anyone trafficking in the arcane. Versatile, powerful, and, most important, final, it is a last resort meant only for when there is no other recourse but the permanent destruction of a thing. Against truly frightening, nigh immortal creatures, sometimes it is the only option. But it is neither clean, nor easy, nor sometimes even possible against certain beings. And it certainly isn’t recommended except under the strictest and direst of circumstances.
Disbelief is, simply put, the art of reweaving the dreamstuff comprising one being into that of another, more harmless form—literally believing it to be something else. You can, with the right focus and understanding, convert a redcap into sunlight or an angel into a breeze. At advanced levels of understanding, one can even convert that dreamstuff into more useful constructs, fueling spells or creating new life. As most beings that can achieve some semblance of physicality actually contain elements and particles other than dreamstuff, there are often physical components left behind—manifesting as smells, feathers, or flower petals—often drawn together as side effects of the disbeliever’s own imagination.
The concepts behind disbelief are simple and build upon the nature of dreamstuff as has already been discussed. Dreamstuff collects together, forming the will or consciousness of a being that can then exert its own will upon other nearby dreamstuff, altering it into a form that it wishes or believes to exist. The stronger the will, the greater its exertion on nearby dreamstuff. Thus, the struggle in disbelief can quite literally be described as a battle of wills. The disbeliever is restructuring a being’s essence while that being is trying to maintain its own form through its belief in its own existence.
The danger of disbelief—besides the fact that you are disintegrating a living, conscious thing—is that some beings are very good at resisting such attempts. Strangely enough, the beings best adapted to resist disbelief, almost counterintuitively, are the lesser forms. Disbelieving complex forms like fairies, genius loci, angels, or djinn is fairly simple unless they are adept in defending themselves from such attacks and are given ample time to prepare themselves in the moments before. They are, after all, beings of complex emotion and, though nearly, if not completely, immaterial, they are made up of as many working, moving parts as we are—even if those parts are entirely made up of energy. No, the hardest beings to disbelieve are those made up almost entirely of a single emotion. Hate, anger, love, sorrow—these are not the kinds of emotions easily diminished by reason. They are stronger than disbelief. Your urge to disbelieve them must be significantly more powerful than their belief in their own existence for it to work.
Beings of hate, beings of love, beings of sorrow and loss; these are creatures that exist only to fuel and feed their emotions. They exist as a means to an end. And those creatures resist with a willpower that few can override. It is why most religions teach their holy men to exorcise rather than to destroy; the beings they are sent up against are creatures of such powerful emotions that they can only be sent away. This is not to say that they cannot be disbelieved, but simply that they cannot be disbelieved by you.
CHAPTER 7
BEATRIZ
You’re going to what?” asked Gossamer. “No way. Not without me.”
Colby shook his head as he grabbed small tokens and materials from around the house, stuffing them into his backpack. “I can’t take you. Not this time. It’s too dangerous.”
“If it’s too dangerous for me then it is definitely too dangerous for you.”
“I promised I’d help. Besides, Beatriz knows the rules. She shouldn’t be here. Not in Austin. This is my city and no one takes children in my city.”
“Are you at least taking Yashar with you?”
“No.”
“Bill?”
“Definitely not. There’s no telling what he would do.”
“At least take the pike.”
Both looked over at the wall, the pike still resting on its pegs. “No. No freakin’ way. That thing stays here.”
“You might need it.”
“I don’t need something that dangerous.”
“What if you can’t just disbelieve her? She’s old. She’s powerful. If she is more emotion than reason—like he was—you might not be able to just make her go poof!”
“I can handle her.”
“By talking to her?”
“There are ways to handle spirits other than just disbelieving them. She has her weaknesses, her own fears. If she doesn’t listen to reason, I’ll find a way to get her gone. I’ve destroyed far more powerful spirits than her before.”
“That’s the kind of cockiness that gets people killed.”
“Goddamnit, Gossamer! She didn’t listen. I told them! I fucking told them! Stay. Out. Of Austin. She was there, Goss. She was there the night they tried to sacrifice him. She was there the night they killed him. That she still walks the earth is only because I didn’t destroy her when I had the chance, and this is how she repays my kindness? By trying to drown children in my fucking town?”
Gossamer cowered, his tail creeping in between his legs. “Your . . . kindness? Are you serious?” He shook his head. “Are you listening to yourself?”
“Are you fucking with me?”
“No. Not even a little bit. I get where you’re coming from and I know how angry you must be, but do you really think that sparing her life from your own rage means she owes you anything?”
“Shut the fuck up. I didn’t ask you.”
“I don’t know . . . I don’t know what to say. Maybe you need this. Maybe you need to go out and kill something. It’s been too long. Maybe Bill was right.”
“About what?” Colby stared at him, thinking back. “That I’m a monster?”
Gossamer shrugged, his fur bristling.
Colby glared for a moment, seething. Then he took a deep breath. And another. And another. Rage seeping away. “No. You’re right. I’m going about this all wrong. I’m not out to kill Beatriz, I’m out to ship her off, send her back up the river away from those little boys. I can’t forget that.”
“Take someone with you. Please.”
“Not this time. This I have to do alone.”
CAROL VOSS’S HOUSE was much larger than Colby had expected. When she’d said money wasn’t an issue, he assumed she was exaggerating. While he had spent time around all manner and sort of supernatural creature in his life, he’d spent very little time around the wealthy except when picking through estate sales—and those were almost entirely run by separate brokers. She seemed normal, just an average everyday mom worried about her kids. As it turned out, Mr. Voss did in fact do very well for himself. Their house was on the expensive side of the river with a Brazilian hardwood boat dock and a view of Mount Bonnell that only a privileged few could afford.
The lawn stretched out long and wide from the back of the house, thick, lush, a shade of green brighter than most of the other lawns this time of year. The grass was firm, uniformly cut, springing back into place with each step, carefully manicured trees growing at perfectly measured intervals. The lawn looked less like someone’s backyard and more like the set of a catalog photo shoot.
Colby stood in the expansive backyard, looking out over the river, the sun setting behind him, waiting for twilight. Shadows crept closer and closer to the water, the sky exploding in pinks and purples. From where he stood, Colby could see the crowds atop Mount Bonnell, watching the sky, waiting for the sun to wink out behind the hills.
And as the hills swallowed up the sun, and the tourists returned to their cars, and the night
began to set in over the river, darkness swelled beneath the waves. Colby sat pensively in the grass, waiting for the moment when twilight shifted to dusk. That was the moment that shadows came out, when Beatriz the La Llorona would show herself.
And there she was. Standing, dripping, hollow eyes burning, knee-deep in the shallows of the river. She stared out, her mouth dangling in some silent howl that had yet to catch up with her, her gauzy linen dress soaked through, clinging to her every curve. Her body was still a sultry twenty-four, lusty, hippy, dangerously seductive. But her face was ghoulish, a wrinkled prune wrapped around yellowed, mossy teeth and embers peering through clawed-out sockets.
She took one sloshing step forward, cocking her head to the side at Colby, her howl finally catching up to her, a shrill, angry cry like bitter wind scraping through dead trees. Then she moved again, and again, her entire body lurching forward with each awkward, splashing step, her feet digging in and out of the river mud beneath. Her hands, soaked, freezing, and pale, were unmoving, clutched in a clawlike rigor, dead nubs at the end of stiff arms. Beatriz moved like the dead should move.
She tried to step around Colby, pretending he wasn’t there. Colby carefully sidestepped. Beatriz grimaced angrily, surprisingly able to become uglier and more horrifying than before.
“¡Ay! Mis hijos!” she wailed.
“No, ellos no son tus hijos,” he replied in slightly accented Spanish. No, they are not your children.
“They are my children, and I need them!”
“No. You need to leave, to return to the water. You know my rules. I’m asking nicely. Please leave this family be.”
“No! I will not leave without my children! I need them. I am so alone.”
Colby stood at the edge of the water, the night getting darker around him. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a finely etched silver Zippo covered top to bottom with arcane symbols. “I’m going to ask nicely one last time,” he said.
Queen of the Dark Things Page 4