Queen of the Dark Things (3 page)

Or so I thought.

That first chord rattled my bones, resonating in my gut. And then Limestone Kingdom exploded, playing what would become the anthem for an entire city.

You've seen the videos online. You've listened to the hastily recorded tracks. You know what I'm talking about. Sort of. You know how good the music is, but even words fail to capture just how captivating Bradford was. You couldn't take your eyes off him. I must have seen that guy sling ice as a barback dozens of times, but that night was the first time I really saw him for what he was.

A rock god.

But that was it, the last we'd ever hear from him.

There would be rumors of a fight. Blood on a brick wall that police found to be “inconclusive.” Talk of a girl—whom no two people could even agree as to what she looked like—walking him out of the club. But no clues. No real leads. Ewan Bradford walked off that stage never to be seen again. His band members haven't heard from him, and the label that later signed them (with Bradford in absentia) has a standing reward for information leading to his whereabouts. But at the end of the day, all we have are sightings of guys who look like Bradford, or sound like Bradford, but none of whom can actually sing like Bradford.

He's out there somewhere. And I think he's alive. I think this is the biggest viral campaign in the history of rock music, playing out in blogs and alt weeklies the world over. Ewan Bradford is out there, smiling, laughing, checking as the hit counts climb on every video his fans post.

The real question is: will he ever show his face again?

C
HAPTER
3

T
HE
S
TACKS

M
artin Mack was the consummate rock writer. Though small in stature, he carried himself as if he were the tallest person in the room. He wore leather jackets over black, faded rock tour T-shirts from bands few had heard of, above jeans that were always five minutes ahead of the latest style. His head was shaved close and had been for as long as anyone could remember. No one knew exactly how old he was, but he was old enough to have been around and young enough that he still was. He knew all of the underground, backroom secret spots there were in Austin, which meant he also knew how to find Puckett's Stacks, which is exactly where he found Colby Stevens.

Colby looked up as he entered, at first unaware of who he was. “Can I help you?” he asked. Colby looked grizzled, tired, a world-weary twenty-two going on forty-five. His red hair grew out in long shaggy tufts, longer than he liked it, but not long enough to remind him to bother getting it cut. His gaunt face and sunken eyes oversaw a field of red-brown stubble, almost thick enough to distract from his pointy chin. But it was his expression that was the most damning thing about him. Sullen, beaten, like a tool worn all the way down. He had the look of a man who just didn't give a shit anymore.

Fortunately for him, most people took that as a sign that he'd simply worked in retail a little too long.

Martin smiled, speaking with a soft, friendly tone. “Yes, yes you can. I'm looking for someone. Colby Stevens.”

Colby froze for a second.
People
didn't come looking for him. Things, yes; people, never. “I'm Colby,” he said, cautiously.

“Of course you are. I'm with the
Austin Chronicle
.”

Colby nodded, now recognizing him. “You're Martin Mack.”

“You know my stuff.”

“Only your recent work.”

“Then you know why I'm here.”

“I have an idea. I know what you're writing about, but not why you would want to talk to me.”

“You were one of Ewan's friends.”

Colby nodded. “Yeah, so you'll understand if I'd rather not talk about him.”

“People want to read about him.”

“No. People want to listen to his music. The only reason they keep reading about him is because you've convinced them he's faked his own death.”

“You don't think he did?”

“Man, how would I know?”

“Because,” said Martin, “you were the only person outside the band who appears to have spent any time with him.”

“Aside from his girlfriend, you mean.”

“Nora.”

“That's the one.”

“Did you know her?”

“No. She was a well-kept secret.” Colby slipped a book off the shelf, a tattered, dog-eared copy of Hunter S. Thompson's
Hell's Angels
with a crippled spine and no dustcover. He held it up as if it were what Mack had come looking for.

Mack grimaced. “I've already got a copy of that,” he said.

Colby's expression didn't change. He merely opened it to the title page without looking, turning it toward Mack as he did. Martin Mack's eyes grew wide, his jaw slowly going limp, his teeth almost whistling as the air rushed in past them. “Is that a . . . signed Thompson?”

“A signed first edition.”

“How did you know?”

“What? That the rock writer at the local alt weekly has a thing for Hunter S. Thompson? Call it a hunch.”

“It's a bit beat up and a little the worse for wear, don't you think?”

“You mean like Thompson himself? Yeah. It's kind of perfect, isn't it?”

Martin Mack grinned like an eight-year-old seeing boobs for the first time. “Okay, how much?”

“It's on the house.”

“Bullshit.”

“I'm paying for it. If, and only if, this is the last time we see each other.”

“That's not cool.”

“What's not cool is you coming in here and asking me questions about a friend I haven't seen in a long time. Someone I miss. Someone I'm afraid I'll never see again. And while I appreciate what you're doing—for his music—I gotta tell ya, it hurts like a son of a bitch to even think about. So please, for the love of God, cut me a little slack and leave me alone.”

“You think he's dead, don't you?”

Colby glared at Martin Mack, thinking long and hard about his choice of words. “I think that with all the attention he's gotten, with all the stories you've written about him, with all the people clamoring to see him live, there isn't anything else in the universe that could keep him off a stage.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“Only if you don't use my name.”

“Why not?”

“Some of us, and I'm just speaking for myself here, don't want to get famous off the dead.”

Martin grimaced. “I think he's still around. He's just in hiding, waiting for the right moment to come back.”

“Maybe you're right. But if he does, he better not show up here.”

“You don't want to see your friend again?”

“Of course I do. But I've shed a lot of tears over that man. And anyone who would do that to a friend isn't really very much of a friend at all.”

Martin nodded solemnly; it was a fair point. “I'm sorry to have bothered you.” He turned to leave.

“Wait.”

Martin perked up, imagining for a second that Colby had changed his mind, and turned back around. “Yeah?”

“You forgot your book.”

“Oh. Yeah. Thank you.”

Colby handed him the book and Martin slowly made his way out of the store.

The bell on the door tinkled, and the store fell silent once more. Colby slumped onto the ground in a heap, weeping. Tears erupted, warm and glistening, down his cheeks. He sobbed openly, sure that he was alone. It was the first time in months that he had cried, and it was only then that he realized just how much he had let the emotions build up.

He sat on the ground, his back to a bookshelf, rocking back and forth, running his hands through tufts of red hair, for a moment completely unguarded. Then the door tinkled again. Colby swallowed hard, quickly wiping his cheeks with his sleeve. “I'll be right with you,” he said, spitting out a mouthful of swears beneath his breath.

He stood up, haphazardly collecting himself, took a deep breath, and walked around a bookshelf to the front of the store.

There stood a woman in her early to midthirties, very beautiful, clearly someone who had once been unbearably gorgeous, but was concealing the ravages of fatigue and sleepless nights with an oversize pair of sunglasses and a little too much makeup. She was frayed around the edges, nervous even to be there. Her clothing was expensive, her purse even more so. Everything about her shouted
trophy wife
at the top of its lungs. She looked over at Colby, slipping her sunglasses off to better see in the basement bookshop, immediately noticing his swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

“I'm sorry,” she said, fumbling to return her sunglasses to her eyes. “I can come back.”

“No, no, no,” he said, pointing to his eyes. “Allergies. The molds are killing me this year. How can I help you?”

She looked around to see if anyone else was in the shop, certain that this young man was not who she was looking for. “I'm looking for someone named Colby . . .”

Colby's gaze fell to the floor.
Crap.

C
HAPTER
4

T
HE
B
ILLBOARD
P
SYCHIC

T
he billboard was large, colorful, and could be read clearly from the highway.
PSYCHIC
READINGS
AND
SPIRITUAL
GUIDANCE
.
WALK
-
INS
WELCOME
. In the window hung a neon
OPEN
sign, lit and buzzing. It was a quaint little house, a faded blue box with a porch much fancier than its plain design seemed to deserve—large white columns reaching up to support an unimpressive overhang. There was something about it that felt like it belonged on the outskirts of a plywood-and-plank Wild West movie set instead of along a side street overlooking an interstate. But there it was. Cheap. Tawdry. Looming like a ten-dollar whore beckoning the curious to take a chance and see if it was worth the money after all.

It reeked of sadness and disappointment.

But Carol Voss was desperate. Her hands trembled as she pulled the keys from the ignition and fumbled them into her purse. This wasn't the sort of place she expected to find herself. It was the last place in the world she wanted to try. It was also the last place she had left to turn to.

As she stepped out of the car, she gave one last thought to turning back. Then she heard the wail again in the back of her mind, a chill running up her spine, shivering, gooseflesh prickling across her skin. There was no turning back now. What was waiting for her back home was far worse than any humiliation she might face inside. Here was only the chance to waste her money, which she had plenty of. She might as well give it a shot.

The inside of the house was a cramped cluster of beads and fabric, the air thick with incense, almost every square inch of real estate covered in iconography. It smelled of smoke and mirrors and cheap theatrics. Just beyond the door, just as you entered, stood a lit glass case stocked with candles, crosses, crystals, and stones, a cash register sitting on top with a credit card machine plugged into the side.
This wasn't the home of a psychic,
Carol thought.
This was a gift shop for the gullible.
She clenched her fist nervously, and was turning to leave, when a woman's voice called from behind a curtain.

“Be right with you,” she said.

Carol stopped. She'd come this far. So she waited a moment longer.

“How can we help you?” asked a young woman before she'd even finished rounding the crushed red velvet curtain. She was pretty, and her dark, thick hair draped over the olive skin of her bare shoulder.

“I'm here to speak to . . .” Carol trailed off, searching for the words. “The psychic.”

“Mother Ojeda. My grandmother,” the girl said, nodding. “About your future?”

Carol shook her head gravely. “No. About a problem I'm having now.”

The girl nodded, understanding. “Of a worldly nature or . . . a spiritual one?”

“The . . . the second.”

The girl's eyes squinted a bit. “One moment, please.” She turned around, vanishing again into the back of the house.

Carol waited, her hands tucked together in front of her, fidgeting nervously with the buckle of her belt. She tapped her foot and chewed the inside of her lip. For a moment she thought about slipping out the door as quietly as possible. Then the girl reappeared.

“Right this way, Mrs. . . .”

“Voss. Mrs. Voss.”

The girl walked back behind the curtain, this time towing Carol behind her. The back of the house was a little less cramped, a dining room converted into a gaudy séance chamber. There was a large oak table covered in heavy cloth topped with a much thinner silk overlay. Atop it were a number of candles, all burning. Several carefully placed spotlights cast grim shadows on the walls, highlighting an empty chair next to the room's entrance, a spot on the table where a tarot deck rested, and a chair immediately opposite the first. Sitting in that chair directly across the table was Mother Ojeda, an old Hispanic woman, her thick black hair braided, disappearing behind her into a woven shawl that rested on her shoulders.

She stared at the table, not looking up as Carol entered.

“Grandmother, this is Mrs. Voss,” the young girl announced.

Mother Ojeda nodded with a smile. “Thank you, Celesta,” she said, her accent thick, dripping with old Mexico. “Have a seat, Mrs. Voss.”

Carol sat down in the empty chair.

“My granddaughter tells me you have a problem.”

“Yes. I do.”

Mother Ojeda picked up the tarot deck, shuffling it in clumps. “What kind of problem do you have?” She laid down a card, shaking her head. “Hmmm.”