Dreams and Shadows (22 page)

“Why'd you do it?” asked Colby. All eyes fell on him.

Coyote smiled. “Whatever are you—?”

Colby interrupted him coldly, his tone bitter and calculated. “Pretend for a moment that I know exactly how smart you are. Why'd you do it?”

Coyote was caught in a lie and had the sheepish grin to show for it. “All things must be taught a lesson,” he said. “Even ancient ones.
Especially
ancient ones. I am life's hard lesson.”

“I know what you are,” said Colby. “Why are you here?”

“Because nobody ever learns. Here we are fourteen years later and children are still slaves to their wishes. You'd think growing up would change that, but it only makes it worse.”

“I think we've heard enough,” said Yashar.

“Yes,” smiled Coyote. “More than enough.”

“Get out,” said Old Scraps.

“Good night,” said Coyote before fading away.

Only the overhead bulbs made noise, their stinging hum slightly less abrasive than Coyote. Yashar leaned forward onto the bar top, shaking his head. “Never, in all my years, have I met a creature who could kill a good buzz quicker than Coyote.”

Old Scraps nodded. “I'll drink to that.”

“Bartender,” said Colby. “Why don't you hit me and my imaginary friend here with a double each? I have a feeling this is going to be a long night.”

“You can s-s-s-s-s-say that again,” Yashar slurred.

Colby eyed Yashar for a second. “Is that a new jacket?”

“Yeah,” answered Yashar. “You like it?”

“Whatever happened to the robes and the sash and all the gold doodads?”

“I just wear that getup for the kids.” He smiled, basking in his own cleverness. “I mean, honestly, would you make a wish to someone in this jacket?”

“I certainly wouldn't have held your hand.”

“Touché.” Once again, the two fist-bumped without having to make eye contact. “It's all about appearances, my friend. Sometimes it takes a bit of a con to get someone pointed in the right direction.” He paused for a moment. “You know that's what Coyote was doing, don't you?”

“Yeah,” Colby nodded dourly. “I know.”

“But you're going to go check on Ewan anyway, aren't you?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“No way I can talk you out of it?”

“You could always give me another wish.”

“Forget it. You're overdrawn, my friend. You've had more than your fair share of wishes.”

“Aw, but I haven't actually gotten anything I really wanted yet.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Yashar. “I gave you everything you asked for. Don't blame me for your taste in wishes. I could have given you a puppy and a girlfriend and you would have been the happiest eight-year-old in north-central Austin.”

“And miss out on all this?” said Colby, motioning around the spartan bar.

“I could take it all back, you know. Undo the whole thing. I'd do that for you.”

“Yeah, I know. But you can't take back time.”

“No. No one can.”

“You might as well just cut out my eyes and seal my ears in wax. I'd know what was beyond the veil, but couldn't see or protect myself from it. I'd spend my days rocking back and forth, paranoid about whatever was standing looking over my shoulder.”

Yashar nodded. “I could make you forget, but . . .”

“. . . then you'd have to start from scratch, yeah. New kid and all.”

“Yes.”

“That wouldn't work either. I'd be dead inside a week. I've made my bed, now I've got to spend the rest of my life lying in it.”

Old Scraps wiped the bar top in front of them with a greasy rag, leaving more slop behind than he was picking up. “How many times are you two dillholes going to have this conversation?”

“Till we don't have to have it anymore, I suppose,” said Colby. Shaking his head he threw back the double whiskey, swallowing it in a single gulp. Then he looked over at Yashar. “Finish your drink; we've got a trap to walk into.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY

T
HE
R
USTLING OF THE
V
EIL OR
S
OMETHING
L
IKE
I
T

T
he locals called it Crackville
—
an uninspired but accurate moniker for a two-block-by-two-block-radius gutter of slumlord-owned apartment complexes, sporting no less than three competing crack houses operating at any given time. It had everything a growing slum needed to blossom into a full-blown ghetto: day-labor storefronts, liquor and convenience stores, bad lighting, and a dozen places to run if the police ever bothered to do anything but drive by slowly. The only thing keeping this mess from spilling over into the rest of the city was being nestled smack in the middle of sub-suburban tract homes, guarded by well-armed soccer moms, aided by lenient laws on gun ownership. While this didn't stop the steady flow of traffic from coming in on Friday and Saturday nights to score, it did keep the transient population from lighting up their makeshift pipes too close to where the kids played. Instead, they lit up behind the overflowing brown Dumpsters sprinkled liberally throughout the area.

Ewan's apartment was on the third floor of the central-most apartment complex in the very heart of Crackville. From his front door, he could see the porches of two operating drug dens—sometimes three, as they were prone to moving around in a shell game triggered by violence or the rare narcotics bust. One had to use caution when walking through the parking lots, not only to avoid degenerates doing the junkie shuffle mumbling for a handout, but also to keep from stepping on needles or shattered glass pipes.

The apartments were cabana style, facing a pool that was a molding, slimy, still-water pond, covered in algae and a thick brown layer of leaves still lingering from the previous autumn. It gave off the sickly smell of rot residents never noticed until mentioned aloud. Swarming with mosquitos as it was, Colby liked to think of it as the birthplace of disease. There was something almost supernatural about how foul Crackville was, as if some coven of infernally aligned creatures crept through its darkest crevasses, responsible for it all. But he knew better. Only humans could invent squalor and filth like this.

Yashar stood beside the door, on the other side of the veil—out of sight from mortal eyes—vigilant for anything that might catch them off guard. Something wasn't right about Coyote's visit. There was a lingering worry in the back of his mind.
Was he missing something?
By simply strolling up to Ewan's were they somehow doing exactly what they shouldn't?
While normally more cautious about such things, the bottle of whiskey he and Colby had polished off helped assuage any fears he might have.

Colby rapped on the door, half drunk, but steady enough to hold a conversation. He waited a moment before raising his fist to rap again.
KA-CHUNK
. He was interrupted by the dead bolt on the other side of the door. It opened and Ewan peered out, looking both ways as he did so.

“Colby?” he asked. “What the hell are you doing here this late?”

Colby didn't have an immediate answer.

“Is that Johnny Walker I smell?”

Colby shook his head. “No, it's far older and much harder to pronounce, especially after half a bottle.”

“Get the hell in here.” Ewan held the door open wide enough for Colby to step through, furrowed his brow, and then closed it behind him, dead-bolting it again.

“Sorry, man,” said Colby. “I've been drinking.”

“I can see that.”

“You mind if I crash here tonight? I shouldn't be out in this condition.” He was lying; he would have no problem getting home. But this seemed about as good an excuse as any.

“Of course,” said Ewan with a wry smile. “You've done it for me.”

Colby thought about that for a second. “That I have, actually.”

“Let me get you a pillow and a blanket from the other room.” Ewan walked into his bedroom and rooted around in his closet. Colby took a moment to soak in his surroundings. He breathed deeply through his nose, smelling nothing but stale laundry and unwashed dishes. There were no unusual shadows, nor were there any out-of-place holes. If any supernatural creatures spied on Ewan, they were doing so outside his apartment.

Ewan's place was the consummate starving artist's retreat. While no gifted painter, he was talented enough an illustrator and had lined the walls with thick sketch paper, scrawled with a series of troubling drawings. Colby had seen them before. Each was of a fairy, clearly a scene from his long-forgotten life, most depicting a little girl. Sometimes she overlooked a pond; other times she ran through fields of tall grass. Over time, Colby had pieced together some of their inspirations from his own memories. He knew the girl, but he'd rather not remember her.

On the floor was a collection of battered secondhand guitars, scattered around a warped, tin ashtray, and the clutter of shuffled notebook paper, covered front to back with hastily scribbled lyrics and sheet music. A single dim lamp lit the room, making it seem dingier than it actually was. Against the wall languished a soiled couch, no doubt reclaimed from a curb, and beside it a rickety old bookcase. Atop that bookcase—perched precariously upon a teetering pile of books and papers—was none other than Colby's old companion, Mr. Bearston.

Colby ran his fingers over one of the bear's outstretched arms. For a moment, he felt eight years old again, ignorant and innocent. He stared into Mr. Bearston's one remaining eye—cataracted with years of grime—and smiled; it was just as he remembered it. Its fur was matted from years of night sweat and frayed from as many years of play. A single round spot lingered where an eye had previously been, revealing something only a few shades off from the bear's original color. “Have you been keeping a proper eye on him, sir?” Colby asked wistfully of the bear. “I sure hope you have. You have a very important job, you know.” Reaching up, he took the bear's head in one hand and made it nod. “Good. Keep up the good work, sir.”

“What are you looking at?” asked Ewan from behind him.

Colby turned around. “Mr. Bearston.”

“Who?”

“Your bear,” he said. “Mr. Bearston.”

“Oh, that? His name is Dithers. I've had him since before we met. Got me through a lot, when I was a kid, you know?”

“
Dithers?
”

“I have no idea. You know how stupid kids' names can be.”

Colby nodded.

Ewan handed him a stained pillow and a ragged blanket. Colby looked askance at the couch, but took a seat anyway. “What are you still doing up?” he asked.

“Writing. Working on a few songs.”

“A few?”

“Yeah, I'm dizzy tonight. I don't know what it is—I mean, yeah, I know what it is—but I've got all of this music bouncing around in my head, louder than it's ever been before.”

“Louder?”

“Yeah. Louder. Clearer. I've always heard music, deep down, but it's always been fuzzy, you know—out of reach. Like it was waiting for me to fill in the blanks. But it doesn't have holes anymore. I can hear the music. I'm just trying to get it right. It's still not all coming out.”

“Where's it coming from?”

“Well . . .”

“Well, what?” asked Colby with a hint of concern.

“There's this girl.”

“This
girl
?”

Ewan smiled, bigger and brighter than Colby had ever seen him. It was a goofy, almost embarrassing expression, like something out of a comic book or a cartoon. “Nora,” he said, sighing silently after he said her name.

“Nora?”

“Nora. She was at our show tonight.”

“You had a show? Why didn't you call?”

“It was last minute.”

“But this dream girl somehow knew about it.”

“I'm not entirely sure she was there for
our
show.”

Colby's eyes lit up. “So what's her deal?” he asked. “Tell me about her.”

“Her name's Nora.”

“Got that. Nora what?”

Ewan's mouth hung open to answer, but his memory turned up blank. Instead: Silence.

“Okay, skipping the last name. What does she do? Is she a student?”

No answer.

Colby grew ever more frustrated with Ewan. “Can you at least describe her to me?”

“Oh! Yes! She's small. Very small. With big brown eyes and wispy short brown hair.”

“Okay, that's a start.”

“She's very . . . different, you know? She's got this way about her that isn't like other girls—unconventional, without trying too hard, if you know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“She has me writing music, man.”

“I can see that.”

“No,
good
music.”

Colby laughed. “Are we sure this girl is even human?” He was only half joking, though Ewan wouldn't know it. “No last name, no job to speak of . . .”

“She's beautiful and her touch is like . . . fireworks.”

“Jesus, man. This sounds serious.”

“I know,” said Ewan, a bit stunned by the idea. “You know how people talk about meeting
the one
and just knowing right then and there that they're
the one
?”

“Yeah, everyone has that. They feel it every time they meet someone they're excited about, and then when that goes south, they forget that they ever felt that way so it can feel new next time.”

“Uh-huh.
Dick
. Well, that's what this feels like.”

“Well, don't just stand there looking like an idiot. Play me some of this music.”

“All right, but it's rough.”

“I would hope so, you just met her tonight.” Colby cocked a brow. “Right?”

Ewan nodded.

He sat on the ground and picked up a beat-up guitar. It was well worn, easily the most battered of the bunch—covered in stickers and nicks from years of abuse—but it had a deep, robust sound. There was something manly and rugged about it, as if it were the Charles Bronson of guitars, each chord dousing the air with the trembling bass of testosterone. If you listened closely, the guitar itself had a story to tell you. But Ewan had his story to tell first.

Colby listened to his friend lay into the guitar. The first notes were enchanting, a delicately constructed opening that drew the listener in, invited them to listen to a love story before promising to tell one, only to turn—when one least expected—into a fiery, percussive rock song with an immediate and insidious hook. Instantly, Colby was nodding along, intimately familiar with the tune, despite never before having heard it.

Or had he?

There was something peculiar about its infectiousness. It sounded like something he'd hummed a hundred times before. It wasn't the Stones or the Beatles—but it had their immortality. Their verve. Something about it wasn't right; most of the notes were there, but not enough to complete the memory it was tugging at.
What? Was? It?

Wait, was it . . . ? It couldn't . . .

The bridge came around and, catching a break in the lyrics, Colby spoke up. “What do you call this?”

“ ‘Pixie Moon.' ”

Shit.

Colby knew what this was. Though incomplete and not enough to be considered true plagiarism, it was close enough to the original that it would draw the attention of any fairy who heard it. “The Rustling of the Veil”—a melody said to be a thousand years old that could inspire any fair maiden to dance upon hearing it. He closed his eyes and peered beyond the veil, trying to grasp the structure of the magic playing before him, but there was none—not a hint of it. It was a rollicking, foot-stomping song to be sure, but there was nothing magical about it.

Try as it might, it was no “Rustling of the Veil.” But it was close enough. Ewan was beginning to remember.

“This girl inspired
this
?” asked Colby.

Ewan smiled. “Yeah. And about half a dozen others. But none of them is as close to being finished.”

Colby nodded. “The song is great. A little more work—just a little—and I think you've got your first hit.”

“Really?” asked Ewan excitedly. Compliments from Colby meant a great deal to him; he offered praise rarely, and only when he truly meant it. If Colby liked it, that meant it might actually be good.

“Yes, really.”

Ewan smiled like a boxer having won a bout after fifteen long rounds. “I'm not sure what to say.”

“Why don't you thank me by telling me more about this mystery girl?”

“She tastes like fresh-picked strawberries.”

“Are you serious?” asked Colby.

“But she smells like flowers, you know, like bluebonnets in the spring. Her hair is like running your fingers through silk. And her skin—it's like a china doll's.”

“Porcelain?”

“That's it, porcelain.”

“So she's a cliché.”

Ewan frowned. “No. She's perfect.”

Colby threw his hands up in the air, defensively apologizing. “Drunk!”

“Yeah. That gets you only so far. You're lucky this girl has me in such a good mood.”

“Sorry, brother.”

“It's cool.”

Colby swallowed hard. “Look, I have something to tell you.”

“What?” asked Ewan, his hand resting flat upon the guitar strings.

Colby wavered on the edge of saying something stupid—something he couldn't take back. He had suspicions, but nothing concrete; he also still had a lot of whiskey in his system, clouding his judgment. “Don't let her break your heart,” he said somberly. “Someone will always—”

“I swear, man,” Ewan interrupted. “Always with the big brother thing. You're a
year
older.”