Dreams and Shadows (18 page)

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

T
HE
Y
OUNG
M
AN
C
OLBY
S
TEVENS

T
here was no such thing as destiny, and no such thing as prophecy; there was only matter slamming into other matter like two toy trucks in the hands of a child. There was no rhyme or reason, no grand scheme to it all—just shiny new things rapidly becoming broken, battered, and old by comparison. Since childhood, Colby Stevens had convinced himself that Yashar had chosen him
for a reason
. That he had made his wishes
for a reason
. That he had saved Ewan from the clutches of Hell
for a reason
. But it was now apparent to him that nothing actually happens
for a reason
. Shit just happens, and there wasn't a reason for
any of it
.

By the age of twenty-two most people think they've seen the world, convinced they've lived a lifetime already, having been gifted some arcane knowledge to impart. But by twenty-two Colby
had
seen the world. He did have knowledge to impart. But there was no one to tell, no one who would believe him.

Colby Stevens was a broken man, a shiny toy battered beyond recognition, whose spark had long since faded and whose new-toy smell had given way to the dank sweat of fear. He was no longer the wide-eyed child keen to see it all. Rather, he was particularly eager to crawl into the hole he had found for himself to hide, hoping never to see anything new again. Nothing would have felt luckier than the doldrums of normalcy—a quiet hobby, a wife, a street without angels perched upon ledges or fading ghosts wandering in and out of his sight.

But Colby Stevens was not a lucky man. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

It's not that there wasn't any light in the world; Colby had seen plenty of light, plenty of goodness. But that was just one side of the coin. The dark of the world was so black that it was blinding, the crushing, lingering weight of everything that was wrong coalesced into creatures he dared not name aloud.
They
were what drove Colby into hiding;
they
were what made life so unbearable. And the creatures, the memory,
the knowledge
could not be gotten rid of, no matter how hard he wished. Some sins even a djinn could not wipe clean. Such was the lesson of his first wish.

Even the dark things seem shiny and new the first time around.

Once again, Colby had few friends and no prospects to speak of. He was a carrot-topped, scrawny excuse for a young man—a tangled mop of greasy red hair atop a gangly, frail, freckled frame that drooped and bowed when he walked. Puberty had been cruel. His eyes were sunken—deep, dark circles pooling beneath them—and his nose seemed a tad too cartoonish to be real. Had he often smiled, he might be laughable, but smiling was something he did rarely these days. Despite his comical appearance, his dour expression and grim countenance kept him from looking either goofy or creepy—leaving him merely awkward and gawky.

He was twitchy. Nervous. He looked around constantly, staring long and hard at the empty spaces in the room. There was an off-putting way about how he would stare over people's shoulders when he talked to them, as if there was something looming behind them that they could not see. When he walked down the street, he muttered and mumbled to himself. This strangeness was not lost on those around him, and thus he rarely found himself with company.

At the age of twenty-two, Colby Stevens was a man who knew too much; who had seen too much; who understood too much. But no one would think that to look at him. Especially not when serving as the stock boy and acquisitions clerk for one Harold Puckett.

Puckett's Stacks was not the sort of bookshop one happened upon; it was the sort of bookshop for which one looked deliberately. One of the few walk-down shops in all of the Austin metropolitan area, no sign announced its presence or map marked its location. You had to know it existed and know someone who knew how to find it, for once you were there it was likely to have exactly the sort of book you were looking for. First editions, rare editions, self-published masterpieces, scribbled notebooks of famed madmen, books of math, books of magic; this was where you found such things. And Colby Stevens had become Mr. Puckett's prime acquisitions man.

How Colby came about applying was still something of a mystery to Harold Puckett. He'd simply turned up one day, announcing that he was there to fill the position. “I hear you need some help,” he'd said, a smile on his face and his hair neatly combed—the one occasion on which Harold would see him looking so professional.

Harold nodded, only moments before having muttered to himself how much he needed some help around the shop. He'd never placed an ad or mentioned to a single soul his need or desire for an apprentice, but there Colby was, fully aware of it, ready to start that very afternoon. Such was his relationship with Colby Stevens: he wanted something, and Colby anticipated his request. It was the sort of relationship one never questioned openly for fear it might one day vanish, so Puckett went along with it, and paid Colby a healthy wage—a wage Colby earned several times over with his nose for rare finds and his ability to sell the most unknown work to a customer who'd never known how badly he or she had always wanted it.

That was Colby's real gift. While one could spend all day discussing the distinctive way in which he carried himself or how uncomfortable one felt around him, his strengths were unmistakable. He possessed an uncanny insight into human nature that bordered on mind reading. Of course, Colby couldn't read minds, but sometimes he acted as though he could, which unsettled even those who knew him well. There were few things that surprised him and he always knew when someone was behind him, even when they were creeping up to catch him unawares. Colby Stevens was a strange, mysterious man. And Harold Puckett felt that this made him right at home in his bookshop.

“Excuse me, sir,” said a patron to Harold Puckett. “I'm looking for something a bit . . . exotic.”

“You mean like erotic?” asked Harold. He wasn't kidding. The man was shifty, squirrely, speaking a few hairs under the volume you would normally ask such a question. That was the sort of man looking for antique porn.

“No, no, no,” said the man nervously. “I'm looking for something . . . occult.”

“Ah,” said Harold, understanding. “Did you have a particular title or author in mind?”

“Do you have any Grady?”

“Grady? Hmmm.” He thumbed his beard for a moment. “I think I ran across a couple of his somewhere. I sure don't remember selling any recently. Let me check.” Harold leaned over the counter, looking past the stacks. As if summoned, Colby rounded a corner, arms overflowing with weathered old tomes. He craned his neck over the pile and made his best
you rang boss
face.

“Yeah, Harry?” Colby asked, anticipating the question.

“You see any Grady lying around the stacks?”

“Hans Grady? Yeah. Over in early American metaphysical.” He briefly sized up the customer. “I'll show you where it's at.” Colby set down the overwhelming mountain of books and beckoned the customer to join him, making his way back across the store. When the customer was close enough to hear a polite whisper, Colby lowered his voice, speaking with great care and discretion. “Now, I have to ask you, are you a collector or a practitioner?”

The customer anxiously fidgeted. “I really don't see how that's any of your business.”

“Well, not meaning to pry, but it's important to know if Grady's really what you're looking for. I mean, if I were a collector, Grady would be an interesting name to have on my shelf. But if I were actually trying to get some use out of the book, well, I'd end up using it to steady my wobbly couch.”

The customer coughed nervously. “Really? And why is that?”

Still in hushed tones, Colby spoke, occasionally looking around to ensure relative privacy. “Grady's ideas are all flash and no substance. The rituals he uses are purely for show, and the effects he gained from them, if any, would have come from his natural talent and not his work. His theories are hogwash and his calculations are scrawled twaddle. Now if I were looking for something with substance . . .”

“Um, well, I am something of a practitioner, myself,” said the customer proudly, trying his hand at modesty.

“Of course you are, and that's certainly nothing to be ashamed of, especially here. What are you looking to do?”

“I don't know. Maybe something . . . tantric?”

“You looking merely to increase
performance,
or are you looking to touch an external or internal consciousness?”

The customer looked him square in the eye. “I want to see beyond.”

Colby gave him a knowing look and a stern nod. “I have just the thing for you over here.” He reached back without looking, running his fingers along a shelf before plucking a book from it. The volume was heavily worn, its edges dulled by time, the binding a tad loose. “Now this is Donaldson. Not very well known outside certain circles, but excellent nonetheless. Here, open it.”

The customer took the book, handling it as if he'd just been handed the Shroud of Turin, examining every scratch and spot of wear as if they contained clues to the book's origin. Opening the cover, he paged through it as Colby leaned over pointing gently at the margins.

“See those notes?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Recognize that handwriting?”

“No, not right offhand. Should I?”

Colby was whispering very quietly now. “Now, Harry would kill me if I told you this, but I believe it's none other than Crowley.”

“
Alistair
Crowley?” he asked, slightly louder than Colby.

“Sshh. Yes. There's another sample later in the book that I believe belongs to Arthur Waite, but Harry hasn't been able to get anyone to authenticate it. Now this text predates the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, so . . .”

“You think this is what inspired Crowley?”

“Might be. I promise nothing, except that the book is dead on. Its theories on celestial body alignment and its use in astral travel are the best found anywhere.”

“I'll take it,” said the customer without hesitation.

“You also might want to check out Donaldson's other works. We've got a few more behind the counter that we secured at a recent estate sale. Ask Harry, up front.”

“Thank you,” said the customer excitedly. “Thank you very much, sir.”

“Don't mention it.” Colby winked. “Just be careful with that stuff. There are things over there that don't like visitors.” The man smiled in return and made his way back up front.

Harold waited at the front counter, a proud smile on his face. He looked down at the book. “Donaldson, huh?”

“Yes. Your clerk said you might have some more up here?” The man peered eagerly around Harold, hoping to catch a glimpse of another volume.

“Donaldson's a little pricey,” said Harold, slowly moving out of the way to allow the man to eye the stacks for himself. “But a few just came in this weekend. I can never keep this guy on the shelf for very long.”

“He sounds like he's worth splurging on.”

“So I'm told.”

Though the man's eyes bulged a bit when Harold handed him the total, he smiled as he wrote the check. He was no longer nervous, but elated. As he handed the check over to Harold and took his books, he glanced around and smiled. “I'll be back.”

“We look forward to it,” said Harold.

The bell chimed on his way out, leaving Harold and Colby alone in an empty store. Harold smirked. “You know damn well that wasn't Crowley's handwriting.”

Colby poked his head from around a bookshelf. “Of course. It was McGreggor's. But nobody knows who the hell that is—though they should.”

“Aren't you the one who thinks Crowley was a cretin?”

“I . . . think those were my words, yes,” said Colby, playfully pretending he needed to remember.

“I'd hardly call the man a cretin.”

“The man sure knew how to write,” said Colby. “That's why he's famous. But he didn't know dick about the other side.”

“Well, you just sold the guy a week's sales' worth of books with his name.”

Colby nodded, doing the mental math. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“Speaking of names,” said Harold, pointing a finger into the air like an exclamation point. “I've got something for you.” He fumbled beneath the battered wooden counter, rooting around and running his fingers up and down the broken spines of books until he managed to come upon just the tome he'd been looking for. Pulling it out, he spun it around, presenting it to Colby faceup. “I found a Ray at an estate auction this weekend, and I know of your fondness for his work.”

The book was very simple: a vanity-press printing with no art on the cover and the words
The Everything You Cannot See
by Dr. Thaddeus Ray in a nondescript, no-frills font. It had neither a dust jacket, nor any copy on the back cover. It was the literary equivalent of a brown paper bag. Colby politely took the book from Harold's hands and nodded a thank-you. “I don't know if fondness is the right word.”

“Well, every time a Ray comes up for auction, I spy you lingering over it for a few moments longer than the others. And since they're so rare, and this woman clearly had no idea what her husband was dabbling in, I thought I'd get you one. This is his first, I believe.”

“Yes. First of four. Only twelve hundred and fifty copies were printed, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Well, now this one is yours,” said Harold.

“You know how much this would bring at auction? The sale of this would run the shop for months.”