Off to the right, softly, sound so faint Brandt nearly missed it, the song of a single harmonica broke through the pulsing beat. Brandt hesitated, nearly taking a tumble as Syn continued forward a step.
“What?” she asked, nearly snapping at him.
Brandt stared at her, shaking his head hard. The harmonica grew a little clearer.
“Wally?”
Syn returned his stare blankly, then turned again toward where 42nd Street would lead them to Main and the park beyond. Brandt didn’t move to follow. He strained to extract the clean, crisp voice of the mouth harp from the reverberating insanity of the primal energy leaking from the dancing shadows ahead. Something was wrong. There were forces dragging at one another, a vortex of sound and energy. In its center, the eye of the proverbial storm, Brandt wavered, cursing softly under his breath as again and again Wally’s song was stolen, or tossed aside.
Syn tugged on his arm insistently. “Come on, Brandt,” she said. “It’s time to play.”
“Shhh.” Brandt moved to shake her off, but she yanked harder, and that quick step put his legs in sync with the deeper song, washing the other away and down, burying it deep in his mind and dragging him ahead. Brandt’s lips moved once, in a silent question, but there was no answer.
They reached the end of 42nd Street and stepped straight onto Main without a glance to the right or left. The park was alive, bodies shifting back and forth, leaping and turning, and the flames shivering up from the bonfire in the center.
“Just like in high school,” Syn breathed.
Brandt turned to glance at her for a second. “What kind of fucking school did you go to?”
Syn glared at him. “Like the bonfires at Homecoming. You know, football? Rah rah?”
Brandt stopped again, pulling her closer. “Not like any fucking pep rally I remember.”
Syn didn’t answer that. The flames danced higher as shadowy figures ran in from the sides, tossing wood and broken furniture onto the blaze. It was a riot, out of control, and yet there were no sirens. The city shifted and blurred, flickering light from the blaze dancing off mirrored walls and endless empty windows. The moment cried out for police, for fire trucks and screaming megaphones. It cried out, and nobody answered.
From the shadows near the flame, long legs appeared, polished boots and a full-length trailing coat. Brandt stood, watching, Syn melting closer to his side. The figure tugged loose from the denser shadows, half-lit by firelight, half-dark. The shrouded figure half-smiled, flashing bright teeth and dark eyes glittering. Nothing humorous in that smile. Nothing warm, or inviting. And still, without knowing why, Brandt took a slow step forward, and smiled in return.
“Was wonderin’ if you’d be stopping by tonight, or tomorrow, boy. All the same when you play the game, you dig?”
The voice was low, deep and resonant. The slang, bad movie drivel from days so long past Brandt couldn’t place the year, dripped with authenticity. Brandt shivered. Like the dancing and the music, the impossible mid-city bonfire, it was wrong. Just wrong. No other word fit, and no modifier heightened the clarity. Wrong.
“What’s the matter, son? Cat got that silver tongue?”
The man was close enough for Brandt to make out his features, long hair flowing back over the collar of his dark jacket, eyes gunmetal gray and flickering with a fire that challenged the heat of the bonfire beyond. The stranger’s hair was either silver, or bright white. He walked with the grace and precision of a predator, stalking.
“Who are you?” Brandt asked, his voice weak and the words empty.
“Who don’t matter none, son, and what . . . well,” soft chuckle and hand extended slowly, diamond glint from the pinky and nails long and meticulously manicured, “that what might take a bit of talk-time we jus’ don’t have. You bring that guit-fiddle to play, or you just carry it around to balance a club-foot?”
Syn laughed nervously, and Brandt glanced down at his guitar. He knew he had to play. Didn’t really matter, he supposed, where, when, or even what. That would work itself out.
The man turned, expansive gesture of welcome as he waved one arm toward the fire. Brandt fell into step behind him, Syn stumbling along beside him.
The music surrounded them, a solid force that buffeted and directed motion. Brandt felt himself matching his steps to the rhythm, purposefully fought for discord, and nearly tripped Syn in the process. They moved from the shadows into the light of the fire.
Men and women moved around them in hot-flashes of motion and light. Laughter, dark and enticing, floated in from all sides, taunting and teasing, inviting them to join . . . something. The music.
Brandt turned to the stranger. “Won’t hear a thing over that if I play.”
The man whirled, his coat whipping up behind him with a flourish, and he smiled again. He pointed to one side, and Brandt turned to follow, nearly gasping as he saw the portable generator, and the amp. It had not been there moments before, of that he was certain . . . or fairly certain. He tugged free of Syn’s embrace gently, taking a step forward.
“Brandt . . .” Syn called out to him, only a foot away, but her voice seemed to come from another world.
He turned back to her, but before he could speak, one of the shadow figures had stepped from the darkness and was pressing a bass into her hands. Not a Fender, like her own instrument. Not electric at all. It stood taller than she, glistening gold in the firelight. Brandt stared as Syn wrapped her slender fingers around the neck of the string bass. He’d not even known she could play one, but the fascination in her eyes and the easy way she plucked at the strings spoke of familiarity. Desire, even. The instrument followed Syn’s own slender curves, as though made for her, and her alone.
Around them, the music slowed. It didn’t stop, not exactly, but grew quiet and expectant. There was a buzz in the air, vibrant and quivering with promise. The moment before a storm, sky blue-green and filled with power, or that hushed instant at the beginning of a concert, half-whispered roar from the crowd settled in like white-noise.
Brandt walked to the amp, leaned to place his case on the ground and unsnapped it, drawing the instrument out carefully. He slid the strap in place over his shoulder and turned, reaching for the cord he had somehow known would be there, crackling with potential sound from its connection to the amplifier, and the dark, squat stack of speakers beyond.
Turning his back to the amps, and the fire, Brandt tentatively stroked his fingers over the strings, hearing the ripple of rich, deep notes flowing up and outward, the soft sigh of expectancy in the air. The stranger was moving toward him again, oily-bright smile wide.
“Told you you could only play the pain, didn’t he?”
Brandt hesitated, frowning. “Who?”
“You know who. Old fool told you it was your responsibility to play, your curse. Said you’d go mad if you didn’t play them all free. Been too many times down that road, son, know the pitch. Know the pain, not insane, dig?”
Brandt watched the stranger, not answering. Then, fingers pressed tightly to the strings, not letting them move, or sound, he asked, “Who are you?”
Laughter, deep, dark, penetrating the backdrop of rhythm and sound, echoing off the buildings and shivering with the chill, empty depth of eternity. The man’s hand dropped slowly, and drums began to beat, pounding deep and pulsing through the air to tease the hairs standing on the back of Brandt’s neck. The rhythm was powerful and insistent. Brandt fought it, pressing his fingers more tightly to the strings. He spun to Syn, but it was too late to speak, or to warn. She was caressing the bass, fingers sliding up and down the polished neck of the instrument, and as she began to pluck those strings, the sound rippled, rich and decadent, catching at Brandt’s nerves.
His fingers slipped. He glanced around the clearing. The bodies, none with a face, or name, ornaments on a back-splash of sound and flame, were moving again. Synthia’s eyes were closed, and with each roll of the drums she wound her notes more perfectly into that sound. Brandt
watched her for a moment—entranced. The grace and hunger masking her features was intoxicating.
Then the itch in his fingers flashed to a burn and his eyes widened.
“Play, boy,” the stranger said softly, though that voice carried over and through the song. “Play that pain, new pain, pain no one has ever known. Show us the way beyond, boy. I love a good song.”
Brandt felt the sound rip from his heart. His fingers slid over the strings, patterns emerging, chords and discord, melody and harmony. There were others, voices, instruments, but for Brandt, only the strings. The inner voices were still. The pain that had built and wound itself around his heart had faded in that instant, driven back and down by the sound, the clear, dark sound that erupted from the amplifier at his back.
He felt the control slipping from him, felt the notes spiraling down into the blazing pits that had been that stranger’s eyes. With an effort beyond any he could recall, Brandt gripped the strings, tightly, still-birthed notes dying, choked and barren. The sounds around him rose from song to full-throated howl, and from a distance, low and deep, the harmonica played once more.
Brandt shook his head, turning to Synthia. She was not looking. Her eyes were closed, head thrown back, and her fingers flew over the strings of the bass. It was so large, dominating her form in ways that her Fender never could have, stealing her motion and her beauty.
Brandt felt her essence leaking into the polished wood and gleaming metal strings.
“No,” Brandt breathed. The notes of the harmonica grew clearer, and the dark stranger turned to him, moving closer, eyes/lips curled into a snarl of rage. Brandt reached back, yanked the guitar cord from the amp, and began to play. He closed his eyes, ignored the stranger, Syn’s hypnotic bass, the pounding of dancing feet and the sharp crackle of the bonfire. He concentrated. As the harmonica grew closer and clearer, he dropped his mind and fingers into that sound, drawing the notes from deeper within his heart. The voices, first a murmur, then a roar, surged up and out, dragging his hands and his mind along for the ride.
He felt no heat from the fire, very suddenly. He did not feel the shiver of drums, or the ripple of Synthia’s bass. Nothing but his fingers, the notes, Wally’s notes, and the voices, their pain shifting from emotion to notes and back again, tears streaming down his cheeks and his fingers, flying now, then slowing, then slurred and broken, then clear again, and still he played. When the rain came, lightning crashing and thunder rolling across the sky, echoing through the streets, he stopped, dropping to his knees. Spent.
It was a long time before he opened his eyes.
Six
The rain had returned, and wind whipped Brandt’s hair about his face, matting the soaked strands across his cheeks. He shivered and opened his eyes. Nothing. No fire. No dancers, and no sound. Not even the harmonica cried out to him. His thoughts grew clearer, and he turned, rising with a stumble and a sharp cry.
“Syn!”
She was lying in the mud a few feet away. Syn’s arms and legs were curled tight to her body, a fetal ball of silent negation. Brandt stepped closer, dropping once more to the mud, kneeling at her side. Her eyes were closed, her face drawn back in a death-mask rictus of pain and denial.
“Syn?” Brandt repeated softly. He reached out, trailing his finger over her cheek and down to her throat. Soft pulse, skittering beat as if running from something, too fast for sleep. Brandt slid his arms under her, began to lift, then cursed. Gently laying her back in the mud, he rose quickly.
His guitar still hung from his neck. The wood and strings were soaked, mud splattering the finish and caking the edges. No way he could carry her this way. He staggered back to the case, slid the guitar into place, ignoring the probable damage. His hands worked the snaps, numb and slippery with cold rain. Rising once more, he turned to Syn.
The illumination of a nearby streetlight cut through the now driving rain to paint her features pale white, like death. Harlequin images danced before Brandt’s eyes, and for a long, vertiginous moment the past washed over him. The Ferris wheel loomed, upside-down death-faced clown scowling at him from above. He saw the old woman, and the cards. Brandt covered his eyes.
With a soft curse, he knelt once more, sliding his arms under Synthia and lifting. At first it was too much, and he nearly dropped her, falling to the mud at her side. Brandt closed his eyes, concentrated, and tried again. This time he managed to roll Syn’s inert form against his chest, rising unsteadily and snagging the guitar case as he moved. She wasn’t so heavy, once he was up, and he turned, making his way back toward 42nd Street.
The rain made it nearly impossible to see, but somehow he crossed Main without incident and made the relative shelter of the buildings lining 42nd Street. He leaned into the arch beneath one of the doorways, blinking to regain some of his sight. Already his arms ached, and he knew he’d never make it to Syn’s apartment. Not like this. Syn murmured against his chest and he felt his heart constrict.
Visions of fire, slick polished wood, and flashing fingers filled his mind. He fought them back, humming a tune, any tune, to banish the invading sound. Syn’s eyes, her face, the deep-seated hunger as she’d arched to that instrument. Brandt fell against the stone wall at his back, head smacking smartly and a hot flash of pain dragging him back to the moment. Syn murmured, and he watched her face.
“I’ll get you home, pretty lady,” he whispered. “Somehow, I’ll get us both home.”
He staggered back into the rain, barely avoiding cracking Syn’s head on the wall as he spun. Head lowered, he plowed into the pouring rain. He was concentrating so hard on dragging one foot in front of the next, that he didn’t notice the sleek, black limousine as it pulled in just behind him, matching his pace. The lights were dimmed, and beyond the water-streaked windshield, only the dark silhouette of a driver could be made out. Very slowly, the back window began to lower.
Brandt’s legs felt like lead. His pants were soaked, his shoes dragged stone-heavy and cold, numbing his toes. It should not be so cold. It was winter, sure, but it was California. Brandt hadn’t felt cold like this since his childhood. It sapped his strength, and every few steps he had to hitch back his shoulders and draw Syn closer to him. The ache in his legs spread slowly to his arms, and his teeth chattered crazily.
The nose of the limousine slid slowly forward, moving even with Brandt, then slightly ahead. He didn’t notice, not at first. He slogged on, barely making a single step now between shifting and clutching at Syn, fighting gravity and fatigue not to let her slam to the wet concrete beneath his feet. Coal bright eyes watched from the interior of the limo.
“Gettin’ heavy, ain’t’ she, boy?
The words sliced through rain and fatigue. Brandt stopped, Syn clutched to his chest, heart hammering suddenly. He didn’t turn, not immediately.
“What the fuck did you do to her?” Brandt asked, still not turning, voice low. He cursed as the cold brought a tremble to his lip. “What the fuck did you try to do to me?”
Cold laughter, and the limo started rolling forward again, slowly.
Brandt watched, cold anger gripping his heart. He strode forward, fatigue forgotten.
“Answer me you bastard!” he screamed into the rain. Syn shifted against him, stirring, and he slowed, fighting to compensate for the shift in her weight. The limo didn’t slow.
The stranger’s face appeared, slipping out the open window to turn, steel-gray eyes locking to Brandt’s own. “You need a ride, boy?”
Brandt faltered. He glanced down at Syn. He shivered. It was nearly a mile to her apartment. Syn’s face was turning blue from the cold, and her breath was shallow.
Brandt lifted his gaze. The stranger was grinning, and in that empty, emotionless expression, Brandt found his strength. His own gaze hardened, and his shoulders straightened. He stepped forward, turning his eyes to the sidewalk.
“Fuck you,” he said. “I’d walk through hell and back before I’d ride with you.”
“That can be arranged,
boy,” the stranger’s voice floated back, followed by a flood of dark laughter. “Long walk, son, but it can be arranged.”
Brandt’s gaze snapped up. The limo was gone, but miraculously, a cab slid through the shadows and came to rest against the curb. Brandt lurched to the curb, grabbing the door handle and dragging it open. He slid Syn in carefully, shoulders and arms straining with the effort. Sliding in behind her, he turned to the driver.
“Thanks, man. God, thank you.”
“No need to thank me son,” Wally chuckled. “Headin’ your way anyhow. You take care ‘a that one. She’s gonna need you like you don’ believe. Like you never seen. You don’t let her down, hear?”
Brandt didn’t speak. He was busy arranging himself, Syn, and the guitar case in the back seat of the cab.
“You could have come a little sooner,” he growled at last. “If you’re on our side—my side—why is it that you only show up when things are already fucked?”
“Don’t got to show up at all, boy. Your song. Your pain. You worry ‘bout that girl, and forget yourself a while. Be good for you.”
Wally drove on in silence, and it was only moments later that the cab pulled up before the door to Synthia’s apartment. Brandt slid out the door, drawing the guitar case after him. Very carefully, he slid in and wrapped an arm around Syn, dragging her from the seat and back over his shoulder. Wally made no move to help.
“You be careful, boy. Every crossroads has four ways to go. Back ain’t never been right for anyone, and those two sides can be real temptin’. You keep your eyes pointed forward.”
Brandt paid no attention. He turned, gritted his teeth, and lifted Syn to one shoulder and the guitar strap to the other. There was a moment’s imbalance where Syn shifted, and Brandt lurched, where he believed either she, the guitar, or both would crash to the wet cement, but with a superhuman effort, he stabilized them all.
The cab pulled away from the curb and Brandt started up the dark stairway, one slow step at a time.
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