The Musician and the Monster

by Jenya Keefe

  Then Aaron said, “I don’t kill fags. I’m only here to kill elves.” He yanked the taser’s prongs out of Ángel’s back, and a high whine escaped Ángel’s lungs.

  Aaron hoisted Ángel over his shoulder in a dizzying swoop that almost made Ángel vomit.

  “Thanks,” whispered Ángel, as they began to head back through the snow toward the wall.

  “Shut up.”

  Give the guy credit: he had to be in damn good shape to lug the twitching Ángel through knee-deep snow. Ángel didn’t struggle. He was no match for these guys, and at least one of them was willing to murder him. He forced himself to breathe, to stay limp, to not antagonize Aaron by throwing up on him.

  Buy time. Stay alive. Get back to Oberon.

  Oberon, he thought. Save me.

  They hauled Ángel over the wall with ropes. That did make him throw up, though he managed not to spray anyone with vomit. He felt pathetically grateful to Aaron for not shooting him. Down-to-murder-elves-but-not-fags Aaron.

  They had snowmobiles. Aaron straddled the seat in front of him and said, “Hang on.” The machine jolted to life, and his empty stomach heaved again. He was so nauseated and dizzy that he could barely sit upright and, as the machines lurched and began to move through the trees, he tightened his fingers on Aaron’s parka. In the interests of not pissing off Aaron, he tried not to cling to him. This was rural Montana. They might not kill homosexuals up here, but they probably didn’t want to be cuddled. But as they picked up speed, Aaron growled, “This is a single-man sled. Hang on.” So Ángel wrapped his arms around Aaron’s torso.

  They were going to kill him. They had already tried to kill Oberon.

  Oberon had been betrayed by someone he trusted. Oberon would definitely be upset. Oberon had killed a man. Oberon might be injured. And Ángel wasn’t there to help him.

  He needed to get back to take care of Oberon.

  Miserably, he debated the wisdom of throwing himself off the snowmobile. But they were going really fast now, flying through the trees. He was shivering constantly and uncontrollably, from fear and stress and the icy air in his lungs. Plus he didn’t want to be tased again. Or shot. Or left to freeze to death.

  He hung on.

  Hours passed. The world brightened, and then abruptly a sunrise ignited half the sky, burning gold and bronze and pink, sending golden rays between the black trunks of the trees, bathing the white snow in bands of flamingo light. Ángel’s tears streaked out of the corners of his eyes and froze on his temples.

  He hadn’t prayed in a long time, not since the priest told him he would die unloved even by God. Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, he mentally recited, gazing at the golden light. Please help Oberon. Please let Oberon be okay.

  Gray clouds rolled over the beautiful sky and the snow started to come down again, stinging his face. By the time the snowmobiles pulled up at a little cabin, he was numb with cold and fear and exhaustion. The silence, when the engines turned off, rang in his ears. Aaron climbed off the snowmobile and gave Ángel a little tug as if to help him rise, but his muscles had locked up, and he fell to his hands and knees in the snow. Aaron roughly hauled him up and dragged him into the cabin, which was heartbreakingly warm. He was shoved into a chair near a woodstove. While the men shucked off their snow-caked outerwear, he extended trembling red hands to the heat.

  He timidly looked around while he warmed his hands. There were four guys. Logan the traitor, who wanted to kill him. Aaron, black-bearded and deep-voiced, who didn’t. The third guy: a skinny weaselly dude not much more than eighteen, whose name he hadn’t caught, and whose stance on killing Ángel he hadn’t yet determined. And a fourth: midfifties, with piercing blue eyes and an air of authority, who’d presumably stayed behind in the cabin.

  “I already know this was a clusterfuck,” growled the old guy, folding his arms over his broad chest. “Where’s Tommy?”

  “Probably dead,” said Logan. He and the others seemed to defer to the older guy as though he was their leader. “The elf wasn’t asleep. We went up to his bedroom, but he wasn’t there. He came up behind us and killed Tommy.”

  “How?”

  “He threw him down the stairs.” Logan’s voice was husky with horror, and Ángel shivered too. “Broke his neck. I ran.”

  “Did he recognize you?”

  “I don’t know.” Logan jerked his chin at Ángel, who was huddled by the stove, his thawing hair dripping. “This one knows me, though. He was outside for some reason, and spotted us going in.”

  The leader’s blue gaze clicked over Ángel, who shrank deeper into the chair and said nothing.

  Logan went on, “I’m not expected back from leave for a week, so if the elf didn’t make me, the DOR won’t know I was there.”

  Aaron said scornfully, “Dude, you think they won’t figure out that the guy on vacation was involved?”

  The leader asked, “Why wasn’t Oberon asleep? Was he warned?”

  “No way,” said Logan.

  “Bullshit.” Aaron seemed to be Logan’s chief opposition in all things. “You gave it away somehow. You did something stupid and tipped someone off, and the elf was ready for you.”

  “Fuck off,” said Logan.

  “You fuck off. You came to us saying this was a sure thing, and now Tommy’s dead and we’re going to have the DOR all over us, because of you.”

  “They were supposed to be asleep,” whined Logan. “No one was where they were supposed to be.”

  An argument ensued, during which Ángel learned that weasel-face’s name was Ron and he was the older guy’s son. Ángel gathered that Logan had sought out the local anti-elf cell and sold them on his foolproof plan, and that now he was in deep shit.

  “He must have figured it out somehow.” Logan waved a hand at Ángel. “Dumbass little cocksucker.”

  There was so much venom in his voice that Ángel was unable to control a cringe.

  “If he’s such a dumbass, how’d he figure it out?” Aaron, his new best friend, stood like a rock, arms folded across his big chest. “Unless someone even dumber tipped his hand. Huh, Logan? How do you think that happened?”

  “Enough.” The leader’s voice was sharp and cold. “None of that matters now. Tommy is dead, the elf is alive. We have to decide what to do next—are we safe here, or do we run? And what do we do with him?”

  They all looked at Ángel.

  Ángel frantically tried to think of something to say—some reason they should keep him alive. Dizzy and ill, he couldn’t think of anything.

  They argued some more. Ángel strove to keep from hyperventilating with terror. Eventually they decided they’d “put him on ice,” and he squeezed his eyes shut, stomach clenching with fear. He opened them again when Aaron grabbed him by the collar of his coat and hauled him outside. Ángel couldn’t quite control a high cry of alarm; he struggled and Aaron punched him in the kidney. His legs gave way and he collapsed, gagging. Aaron unceremoniously dragged him through the snow to a small wooden shed. He threw him in, and Ángel sprawled on the concrete floor, staring at Aaron’s silhouette in the doorway.

  “Listen up. You stay here while we figure out what to do. If you piss us off, we’ll shoot you, and we know where to put your body where no one will ever find it. Got it?”

  “Yeah,” whispered Ángel.

  “Good.” Aaron paused. “There’s a space heater and some blankets. Piss in the bucket, please. Don’t set the shed on fire. We’ll come get you when we decide what to do with you.”

  Ángel nodded. Aaron slammed the door, and Ángel heard him lock it.

  Ángel bowed his head in despair. Tears dropped onto the concrete floor, and froze there.

  After a few minutes, he forced himself to teeter to his feet. He tugged a chain to turn on the light—a single bulb hanging by its cord from the ceiling—and looked around.

  The shed was, like most sheds, dusty and stale, a small box with one door and one high, cobwebby glass window. There were electric power outlets
in the walls, and tidy shelves and cabinets. In the summer it was probably home to spiders; now it was bitterly cold, far too cold for anything to live. The light bulb was giving off a bit of heat, but not enough.

  He dug in the cabinets, where he found some folded wool blankets, some sleeping bags, the promised bucket. And—“Oh yes, thank you,” he breathed—a small electric space heater.

  But there was no food or water. He was thirsty and, to his surprise, queasily hungry.

  Nose wrinkling, he used the bucket, then covered it with a folded tarp. He swathed himself in blankets, positioned the space heater to blow on him, plugged it in, and turned it on. Its elements glowed red, and for several minutes he huddled in front of it and bathed in its warmth.

  Then there was a snap, and both the space heater and the overhead light died.

  Hmm. He’d blown a breaker. He heard his father’s voice in his head: “Old wiring. Too much load on the circuit. You should have turned the light off before you turned on the heater.”

  No problem. He stood up, wrapping a blanket around himself like a shawl, turned off the light switch and unplugged the heater, and began hunting for the circuit box by the sunlight slanting in through the dirty window.

  He didn’t find the circuit box. It was probably in the cabin.

  “Fuck.” His voice was shivering. “Oh, goddamn it. Oh, motherfucking shit.”

  Now he was in real trouble.

  It was extremely cold. This shed was uninsulated and unheated, and he’d just blown the power. With nothing but his damp coat and some blankets to protect him, he could die out here. He would die out here, unless he located a source of heat. The kidnappers wouldn’t have to kill him; they’d find him frozen like an ice cream bar.

  For a moment Ángel wavered, on the brink of collapsing to the floor again. He was too scared, too cold. It was too much. A vicious cycle, like when Oberon grieved, and couldn’t stop grieving.

  No. He clenched his jaw.

  “Don’t set the shed on fire,” Aaron had commanded.

  I will burn this fucker down.

  He hunted through the cabinets. To his frustration, he found everything you might possibly need for a camping trip except something to make a fire: air mattresses, tents, backpacks, snowshoes, skis. No lighters, no matches, no flint and steel, no batteries, no cans of gasoline, no bullets. Nothing he could use.

  His fingers grew bright red and clumsy, and his feet, in their boots, went totally numb. His breath was steaming, and he was shivering constantly.

  “If I ever get back to Florida, I am never going to leave,” he vowed through chattering teeth, wrapping a blanket around his right fist. Then he flipped the bucket over, stood on it, and, with all his strength, punched the window.

  It shattered. Ángel fell backward off his makeshift stool and landed on the ground, clutching his hand between his thighs in agony. After a few minutes of silent breathless cursing, he crawled to his feet, unwrapped his right hand. He flexed his fingers, which didn’t want to straighten all the way—cold, or broken?

  That was his pick hand. If it was broken . . . He remembered his crushed guitar and almost started crying again. No, come on, Ángel. He needed to get out now, before someone noticed the broken window. If they hadn’t noticed already.

  Keep going. Pushing past his fear and pain, he climbed back up onto the bucket. He used his left hand to clear the shards of glass out of the window frame. No one was around, thank God—he still seemed to be undetected. Then he hoisted himself up and crawled out the window. He got snagged on a hidden chunk of glass, clawed himself loose with the sound of tearing denim and a sharp stabbing pain in his hip, and then he was out, rolling in a snowbank.

  From the watery sunlight streaming through the trees, it seemed to be midafternoon. He staggered to his feet and limped stealthily toward the cabin, unhappily aware that he was leaving a trail of footprints in the snow that an idiot could follow. But the woods were silent. He didn’t see anyone around.

  There was a large, well-used-looking blue pickup truck parked in front of the cabin, but two of the snowmobiles were gone. He crept around the cabin, peeping in windows, scalp prickling with fright. He saw no one.

  Had they left? Could he have gotten that lucky?

  He tried the front door—it was unlocked. Quietly he let himself into the cabin and closed the door behind him and stood listening. The cabin seemed to be just three rooms, all of which he could see from where he hovered in the doorway: the kitchen/living room where he stood, one bedroom, and one bathroom. All empty. He relaxed. Maybe he could find a phone, or—

  The pile of afghans on the couch shifted and mumbled, and Ángel nearly had a heart attack. Ron, the weaselly young guy, was there on the couch, buried in blankets. Ángel didn’t breathe while Ron rolled over and sighed, apparently fast asleep.

  Ángel removed his boots, and, in his socked feet, throbbing hand squeezed into his armpit, he searched the cabin. Fast and silent, hoping to find a weapon, or incriminating evidence, or a way to escape. Kitchen cabinets. Bathroom vanity. Bedroom dresser, shelves. Ron did not stir. In the bedside table Ángel found a roll of cash—three hundred dollars—which he pocketed.

  Passing silently back through the main room, he spotted, hanging on a hook behind the wood stove, a set of keys.

  Ángel stared at the keys, then the pickup, then the man in the sleeping bag, who still slept peacefully.

  He grabbed his boots and the keys, and slipped outside.

  He had to use his injured right hand to start the truck, which made pain radiate up his arm. The truck was a diesel and he worried that it would be hard to start in the cold, but it roared to life loud enough to wake the dead. Clenching his teeth, as if he could keep weasel-face Ron from waking up by will alone, he executed a clumsy three-point turn in the driveway—thank God it was an automatic—and pointed the truck’s nose down the mountain.

  For the rest of his life Ángel would revisit the terrifying white-knuckle drive from the cabin in his nightmares.

  He had never driven in the snow before. This road was nothing more than a pair of tire ruts in snow, winding steeply down through the trees. Constantly clenched for disaster—for pursuit, for the truck to slide into a tree, or to jam itself in a snowbank—he found himself praying again. Don’t get stuck, don’t get stuck, don’t get stuck.

  He didn’t get stuck. He eventually came out onto a lonely paved two-lane road, plowed and sanded, which surely meant it lead somewhere. At random, he turned left.

  He was still shivering a little. The truck had a powerful heater which, cranked up to the max, warmed him but could not thaw the ice around his heart. He was dizzy from fatigue and hunger and pain, too, and was worried that he would fall asleep and drive right off the road. So he turned on the radio. It was tuned to the local NPR station playing All Things Considered.

  The man on the radio said, “Audie, security was extremely tight here in Missoula this morning when the new envoy from the Otherworld arrived in a maple tree not far from the University of Montana campus.”

  Ángel braked hard, steered the pickup onto the shoulder of the road, and stopped with a lurch. He turned up the volume.

  “The tree began to glow early this morning,” said the radio man, “giving the DOR time to arrive and secure a perimeter for his safety.”

  “Tell us about the new envoy, Larry,” said Audie.

  “Well, the press was kept in a sort of corral pretty far away,” said Larry. “But from what I could see he looks just like Oberon. He was greeted and given a robe by the mayor of Missoula, because like Oberon he arrived without any clothes. And Oberon was there. Due to the last-minute announcement of the new envoy’s arrival, the governor of Montana was unable to attend.”

  “We’ve seen some very moving photographs of the two elven envoys greeting each other,” said Audie. “Tell us what that was like.”

  “It was very moving, Audie,” said Larry. “Oberon approached the new envoy and I thought he was going to sh
ake his hand, but instead he threw his arms around him. He—” Larry’s professional demeanor seemed to slip a little. “He really fell into the new envoy’s arms, and they embraced for a long time. Of course I couldn’t tell what was said, but the scene appeared quite touching.”

  “And where are the envoys now?”

  “Audie, we don’t know the answer to that question,” said Larry. “Security around the envoy has always been tight, and it’s even more so now. As we said, no one knew that the fae were going to be in Missoula at all, and at the moment, no one knows their whereabouts except the DOR.”

  “Do you think that’s in part because of the recent assassination attempt?”

  “That’s right. As you know, in the early morning hours last night, assassins broke into Oberon’s compound in northern Montana and made an unsuccessful attempt upon his life. Oberon was not seriously injured in that attack, but one of his assailants was killed and several others escaped. During the night Oberon’s friend and podcasting partner, Ángel Cruz, vanished. The DOR is still investigating, and seeking clues as to Cruz’s whereabouts and his possible involvement.”

  “What,” yelped Ángel.

  “Thank you, Larry,” said Audie. “Larry Mandalay from KUFM, Montana Public Radio in Missoula, is covering this surprising story.”

  Ángel turned off the radio and sat in the truck, trembling.

  His possible involvement.

  Until now, Ángel’s one driving thought had been to be reunited with Oberon as soon as possible. It had never occurred to him that he would be under suspicion. But he had walked straight out of the house and into the security blank spot, into the assassins’ arms. He had accompanied them to their cabin. He was driving their truck, he had a pocket full of their cash.

  Could he prove that he wasn’t involved? What was his defense? I was outside in the snow because I was upset sounded spectacularly stupid.

  “I don’t know what to do,” said Ángel aloud. His voice sounded ragged, even to himself. “What do I do now?”

  He might get arrested. He might go to prison.