Dionysus Dying
By
Robert T. Jeschonek
*****
More Fantasy by Robert T. Jeschonek
6 Fantasy Stories
6 More Fantasy Stories
Blazing Bodices
Earthshaker – an urban fantasy novel
Girl Meets Mind Reader
Groupie Everlasting
Rose Head
The Genie's Secret
The Return of Alice
The Sword That Spoke
*****
Dionysus Dying
The old jazzman's crooked fingers wrapped around Bobby Ball's hand with surprising strength. Even as the fingers dug in, they never stopped twitching, as if they were playing the keys of a saxophone.
"Nice to meet you...Bobby." The old man breathed with an effort. He held Bobby's hand a long time, as if he were posing for a photograph or greeting a long-lost friend.
But Bobby had never met Omar Wild until that very moment. The years of hero worship from afar didn't count.
Bobby grinned and just let Omar hold onto his hand. "It's an honor, Mr. Wild. I just...I can't tell you how much this means to me."
Omar breathed deep from the twin clear oxygen hoses riding up into his nostrils. Thanks to the cancer, he was down to one lung, and it wouldn't last long.
No more sax playing for this living legend, not ever.
"You're not exactly...small change yourself, son." Omar lifted his head from the pillow and gazed up at Bobby with an expression of searching intensity and strange wonder. "You're bigger...than I ever was."
Bobby's grin faded a little. Nervously, he patted the black stubble on his shaved, brown scalp. "I used to be big," he said. "But even then, I could never fill your shoes for a second."
Omar's smooth onyx skin leaped out in high relief from the white pajamas and bedclothes around him. "You can...fill my shoes...just fine." He drew in three deep breaths, and the effort seemed to exhaust him. "That's why...I invited you here. I need you...to be...my breath."
Bobby felt the pull of Omar's ancient eyes. Bloodshot, yellow, and filmy as they were, those eyes exerted the wild and desperate gravity of an animal caught in a trap.
Bobby recognized it instantly. Though he didn't show it, he felt the same desperation, the same hunger for hope.
It was really why he had accepted Omar's invitation and come here, all the way to the old man's deathbed in a dilapidated row house on the north side of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Because Bobby needed Omar.
"You'll do...just fine," said Omar. "I know you can play...at my level." He wheezed out a squeaky little snicker. "My level...when I could still play...that is."
Bobby smiled. "So what time tomorrow do you want to get started?"
Omar's eyes flew wide open. "Who said anything about...tomorrow?" he said. "Go get your axe, man!"
With that, he finally released Bobby's hand. His fingers never stopped twitching over the invisible keys of his own phantom sax.
*****
Though the album had been recorded by the great Omar Wild, Bobby wanted to crack it over his knee instead of putting it on the turntable.
The album was titled Nineveh. The problem was, Omar had recorded it in 1970 during his experimental period, throwing aside the usual jazz elements in favor of a raucous free jazz free-for-all.
"Wait a minute." Dropping Nineveh to his side, Bobby tipped out another album from one of the record-packed shelves that lined three entire walls of Omar's bedroom. "You've got an original copy of Wild Man? Let me put that on for just a minute, okay?"
"Wild Man's got nothing...to do with us," said Omar.
"It's the one that got me to pick up a sax," said Bobby. "It's maybe your greatest achievement."
Omar brushed a fluttering hand through the air. "It's garbage...to me now. Waste of time...and I don't have much time...left to waste."
"All right." With a sigh, Bobby slid Wild Man back onto the shelf. At the same time, as unobtrusively as he could, he dropped Nineveh flat on the seat of a rickety wooden chair in the corner. "How 'bout Born Wild?"
"Nineveh." Omar closed his eyes and drew deeply from the oxygen hoses in his nostrils.
Defeated, Bobby snatched up Nineveh from the chair and walked to Omar's bedside. "I thought we were gonna get started today."
"We are," said Omar. "I want you...to match my solo...on 'Solomon.'"
Bobby stopped in the act of sliding the black vinyl record album out of its sleeve. "You're kidding, right?"
"It's a...warm-up...for recording," said Omar.
"I don't really need a warm-up," said Bobby.
Omar's eyes were still closed. "Don't worry," he said. "You can...do it."
Bobby tried to change the subject. "The new piece you've written. Revelations. Can I see the chart for it?"
"You're not...ready for it yet," said Omar, fingers twitching over his chest. "You've gotta...get to the right place...y'know?"
Bobby sighed. As much as he idolized Omar, he knew he'd better lay his cards on the table.
"All due respect," said Bobby. "I'm one of the top ten bestselling jazz artists of all time. A guy like me can deliver the goods. You asked me here to record your new music, so why not trust me to do the job?"
Omar's eyes were still closed, his fingers twitching. "Heh. I said...almost exactly the same thing...to a guy one time. Who'd he think he was...telling me what to do?
"Guy's name...was Louis Armstrong." Omar opened his eyes. "Five years later...my career was...in the toilet...and he was bigger than ever.
"And he was...dead." Omar laughed.
Bobby's smile was forced. The truth was, his own career was already in the crapper, and this was his best chance--maybe his last chance--to bring it back to life.
He hadn't been a top ten jazz artist for years, or even a middle hundred one. The best gigs he could manage were bottom-tier clubs and colleges. His label and his agent had both dropped him on the same day.
All because of a little drinking problem. Not that he thought it was a problem.
The anger management, though...that was a problem.
When Omar had called, Bobby had jumped at the chance to work with him. Like Rick Rubin producing Johnny Cash's late-life comeback recordings, Bobby would rescue a faded star from oblivion and restore his own luster in the process.
He had already daydreamed about the CD release and the world tour. He could picture the poster copy: "Bobby Ball Plays Revelations by Omar Wild." He could imagine the reviews: "Ball's interpretations amplify the power of Wild's last testament, raising both musicians to unequalled and unreachable heights of jazz magnificence."
At least, that was what he'd expected before he'd met Omar...before Omar had insisted he warm up with the godawful free jazz that had killed the old man's career in the 70s.
The question now was, when would Bobby know for sure that the whole scene with Omar was a lost cause? When would he know it was time to give up and leave?
How far would he let the old man push him?
"The 'Solomon' solo is forty-five minutes long," said Bobby. "And it's all freestyle. Everything's random. About the only way to play it is memorize every note."
"Sounds...about right." Omar had trouble with his next breath. He gasped and shuddered, then finally pulled in oxygen on the third try. "Except...not all random. There's a...pattern...a code."
"Code?" Bobby frowned. "Solomon" was legendary for its complete lack of any harmonic, melodic, or rhythmic structure of any kind. The name of the piece had actually become slang among jazz musicians for a performance that amounted to glorified noise.
"It's...a key," said Omar, reaching for the dirty glass of water on the bedside table. "It...opens things."
"What kind of things?" Bobby picked up the glass and placed it in the old man's quivering hands.
"You'll...find out." Omar sipped the water. "Now put that damn...record on the player...and get to work."
Bobby smirked. Code, my ass.
Then, he finally put Nineveh on the ancient phonograph on the bedside table. He dropped the needle at the start of "Solomon," which took up the record's entire Side 2.
And the bedroom filled with the sound of complete chaos.
*****
Squee squaaw squee honk squaaaawk
Rasheesheesheeree reeeeeeeeeee
Honk squeeeee squaaaa squeee ronnnk reeeee
Diddydeedee squeesquaa rideedoodeeda honnnk
Weeeee heeeee keeeee squee squonnnk reesheee
Screeeech honnnk screeeech honnnnk
Cheechareedeedookaakeesqueesquawkhonnnkronnnk honnk.
That was what "Solomon" sounded like, but played at ultra-high velocity. It was like an angry child scribbling fast on a wall. Like a room full of ping pong balls bouncing off walls, floor, and ceiling at zero gravity. Like Saturday night traffic exploding in downtown Mexico City.
Bobby, who'd made a career out of sweet, soothing ballads and upbeat standards, just wanted to cover his ears. To him, "Solomon" wasn't any kind of music at all.
To him and ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the rest of the world.
But he picked up his sax and played along the best he could anyway. He played loud, hoping to drown out the record and fool the old man into thinking he'd matched the solo better than he really had.
But whenever Bobby deviated much and looked in Omar's direction, he saw the old man scowling hard with full awareness of the cheat.
*****
After hours of half-heartedly aping the cacophony on the record, Bobby was glad when the old nurse interrupted.
She appeared in the bedroom doorway and said something, then repeated it. Bobby couldn't hear her until he turned down the volume of "Solomon."
"I'm here to give him his care." The old woman wore a beige cardigan sweater over scrubs. Her pants were turquoise, and her top was decorated with a wildly colorful pattern of geometric shapes.
She was scrawny, and her brown face was scarred. One puckered line ran from her right ear to her chin, and another scar creased her forehead, leaving her brow and lid to sag down over her left eye.
"Come in." Bobby smiled and stepped away from Omar's bed. He was a little surprised when the woman showed no sign of recognizing his famous face. Even now, in mid-career-slump, Bobby's once overexposed features still got a rise out of ninety percent of the people he met.
"This is...Diona...my assistant," said Omar. "She stops by...two, three times...a day."
"Nice to meet you, Diona." Bobby reached out to shake her hand.
Diona hobbled right past without acknowledging him. She pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper from a pocket of her sweater and unfolded it.
"Dear Jesus our Lord," she said, reading from the piece of paper. "Please help this poor soul to go quiet and easy. He's done some things he isn't proud of, but I ask you to please help him not to suffer too much."
Diona placed her hand on Omar's chest. She bowed her head and shut her eyes. "Wash him clean of the wickedness of his life," she said. "Bring him into your kingdom as fast as you can. Amen."
"Not too fast," said Omar, raising his eyes toward the ceiling. "Remember...I gotta finish my last work...with this young man. Amen." With that, he gave Bobby a wink.
"I brought soup," said Diona.
"No pepperoni pizza?" said Omar.
Diona paused before lifting her hand from his chest. She lingered just a beat and flashed him a look...and Bobby noticed.
There was more between those two than met the eye.
"I'll heat your soup." Diona shuffled toward the door.
"Don't forget...the pizza," said Omar. "And the...cigarettes."
Diona acted like she hadn't heard him. "There's only enough soup for one," she said. "In case you're wondering."
"Was she talking to me?" said Bobby as the old woman disappeared through the doorway.
Omar shrugged. "I wouldn't lose any sleep over it."
*****
Slouching on a stool in the smoky bar, Bobby had himself another shot of whiskey and a beer. He knew they'd just make his headache worse, but what kind of an alcoholic would he be if he only drank when he wasn't hurting?
Now if only the booze could get that damn "Solomon" out of his head. That squeaking screeching squawking honking ruckus was what had given him his headache in the first place.
That and knowing he'd have to listen to it again the next day. At the end of the seemingly eternal session that had wrapped two hours ago, Omar had told him he'd failed to match the solo and would have to pick it up again tomorrow.
Which was really something for Bobby to look forward to and a great reason to drink...not that Bobby needed any more of those.
Getting the chance to work with his idol, Omar Wild, only to have to play along with Omar's worst, most head-splitting work, was just the tip of Bobby's personal miseryberg.
He had been to the top of the world, and now he was closing in on the bottom.
Maybe being on the skids wouldn't have been so bad if Bobby had never made it all the way to paradise. He'd struggled in the early days, too, after all...but that had been before the hit records and awards and accolades and money. It had been easy to live down low when he hadn't known what it was like to play Carnegie Hall and the Tonight Show and get billing over Kenny G and Herbie Hancock at Newport.
It had been easier to live down low before he'd killed a man, too.
Bobby had held out hope that Omar would be his ticket back to the game, but now that he'd spent an afternoon with the man, he didn't have much faith in the payoff.
If anything, the old man was giving him a bellyache on top of his free-jazz headache. There he was, Omar Wild himself, a living legend...and he was dying no better than an average loser.
Omar had played with Dizzy and Miles and Coltrane and Monk and Herbie. He'd been instrumental in developing multiple schools of jazz, and he'd even founded his own style, wildjazz. He'd brought his career back from the dead more times than Bobby could remember.
And there he was. Dying like a bum.
Which begged the question, if a legend like Omar could die like that, what would the end be like for a bum like Bobby? Would he have rooms in a rundown row house? Would he even have a scarred and ancient nurse to check on him twice a day?
Bobby wasn't even sure Diona was a nurse. He hadn't seen her give Omar a pill, much less check his vital signs. Maybe she was some kind of church nurse, because she'd prayed over him several times.
The only thing Bobby knew for sure about her--and not because of her scars--was that she'd been through some terrible suffering. It was like someone had poured her full of darkness and plugged it up inside her, leaving it to curdle and soak in and rot her from the inside out.
Bobby recognized it because he was full of the same stuff. Same darkness.
He downed another shot of whiskey, but it wasn't enough to drown that darkness. It never was.
Punching guys in the face wasn't enough, either. He already knew that, had known it for a long time, but he punched someone anyway.
He hit a fan of his, just like always.
The guy looked like he was in his late fifties. He had a blocky head, doughy face, gray crewcut, and a big beer belly under a rumpled denim workshirt. He drank beers and watched Bobby from across the bar for half an hour before shambling around to stand beside him.
"'Scuse me," said the guy. "I'd like to buy you a drink."
"I don't swing that way, man," Bobby said without looking up.
When the guy touched his shoulder, Bobby knew what was coming. He knew what the guy would say, and he knew what would happen after that.
Honestly, he was grateful. He was glad for the excuse. He had lots more anger to give than chances to give it.
"You're Bobby Ball, aren't ya?" said the guy. "The sax player? 'Heart Attacker,' right?"
It was the name of Bobby's biggest hit, the crossover smash that had made him a household name. A big chunk of his current income came from "Heart Attacker" royalties.
So why was the mention of that song like the waving of a bullfighter's red cape to him?
"You tell me," said Bobby.
"Sure." The guy grinned and reached out for a handshake. "That's you all right. I just wanted to tell ya I love your work."
"That so?" Bobby got up from his barstool and stood toe to toe with the guy.
"I've got a lot of your albums. 'Iridescent Sessions' still kicks my ass every time I hear it."
Bobby smirked. "I like the way you put that."
Ten seconds later, he plowed a fist into the guy's doughy face. In this way, Bobby continued his hands-on personal campaign to lose the few fans he had left, one at a time.
*****
"Please...stop it," said Omar, crooked fingers twitching in mid-air. "You've...done enough."
Bobby barely heard him over the sax and the riot of noise from "Solomon." Even then, he wasn't entirely sure what the old man had said, but he stopped playing anyway.
"What's that?" said Bobby.
Omar pointed at the phonograph on his bedside table. "Off!" He raised his voice over the tumult of "Solomon." "Turn it...off!" After he said it, he had to sink into his pillows and heave for breath. He seemed to have lost ground since the day before, forcing him to struggle harder just to breathe, let alone speak up.
Bobby, who was throbbing with the hangovers of ten men plus bruised ribs from where the guy he'd beaten up had gotten a shot in the night before, was only too happy to lift the needle. When the racket cut out in mid-squeehonk, a wave of relief rippled through him.
"Now take a look...at this." Omar slid a stack of pages from under the bedsheets and handed them to Bobby. "What do you...think?"
Bobby was surprised. "This is it," he said, flipping through the messy stack. "The new stuff." Each page was lined with preprinted music tablature scrawled with hand-written notes and symbols. The title atop the first page in the pile was "Revelations."
"Go on," said Omar. "Give it a try."
Bobby had expected to slog through "Solomon" for the rest of the day, but he wasn't about to look a gift jazzman in the mouth. He spread out the pile of pages on the edge of the bed and raised the mouthpiece of his sax to his lips.
At first, as he played the intro from the chart on the bed, he thought that Omar had written a conventional mainstream piece. The melody was simple and sweet, swinging along at a brisk, breezy tempo. Very nice.
Then, the craziness started. The scribbled chord changes and tempos that served as the framework for improvisation were all over the map. Complete chaos for four bars, moderation for two, back to chaos for four more. It was a swirl of sense and nonsense, a blend of alternating traditional and free jazz...and then the two styles rushed together. At the same time Bobby tripped through the incoherent freestyle mish-mash, he had to lay down a linear progression leading somewhere else entirely.
And then he had to turn that on its head and break the whole thing into something different. Which he did.
It was then that he stopped looking at the charts altogether. He closed his eyes and kept playing through the new place where he'd found himself, blowing runs of weird non-chords with no harmony along a constantly shifting meter.
Somehow, it still sounded like music.
Just then, as Bobby powered toward a huge crescendo, he saw something in his mind's eye. Someone.
Bobby saw Diona being attacked. The scarred and withered woman struggled as a man with long hair pinned her to a floor. His black t-shirt and bluejeans were full of holes. He wore scuffed brown cowboy boots. He let go of one of Diona's arms long enough to draw back a fist and punch her in the face.
After that, she didn't struggle so much.
The man undid his belt and opened his bluejeans. Diona bawled, but Bobby couldn't hear the sound she made over the strange music he was playing.
When the man turned his head, Bobby could see he had a huge, hooked nose and a black goatee. He could have been in his thirties or forties, maybe half Diona's age.
He hit her again for no reason, and that was when Bobby stopped playing. The second he did so, the vision vanished from his mind.
Omar's applause drew him back to reality. "Good start...son."
Bobby sat down on the edge of the bed. "Yeah, thanks."
"Now aren't you glad...you spent that time...on 'Solomon?'" said Omar. "Playing this...probably seems like a relief...after all that crazy 'Solomon,' huh?"
"Sure." Bobby felt a little dizzy and wanted a drink. He couldn't stop thinking about his vision of Diona.
"You all right, son?" said Omar.
Bobby wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. "I'll have to get back to you on that one."
*****
An hour later, Diona shuffled into Omar's bedroom. Bobby could see no change in her, no sign that what he'd seen in his vision had already happened.
So had it happened further in the past, or had he glimpsed the future? If neither was true, had he simply imagined the assault on the old woman? If so, why on Earth would he dream up something like that?
Bobby thought that if he could just talk to Diona, he might be able to work out the answer. When she left the room to fetch Omar's lunch, Bobby told Omar he had to go to the bathroom and followed her to the kitchen instead.
While Diona made noodle soup from a packet, Bobby rooted through the refrigerator, pretending to look for something.
"How long have you been taking care of Omar?" he said, trying to sound casual.
Diona stirred the soup in the pot on the stove and didn't answer.
Bobby pulled a half-empty two liter bottle of soda from the fridge and put it on the dirty countertop. "Did you guys know each other from before?"
Diona kept stirring the soup as if she hadn't heard him.
"Do you live around here?" Bobby opened cupboard doors until he found the drinking glasses, then took one out. It had a film around the inside, just like all the rest.
Instead of answering, Diona opened a cupboard and drew out a soup bowl. She tugged open a drawer and fished out a green plastic ladle.
"I'm just trying to be friendly," said Bobby as he unscrewed the cap of the bottle and poured cola into the glass. "What's it gonna hurt?"
Diona switched off the stove and ladled soup from the pot into the bowl. She put the bowl on a tray, then plucked a spoon from a drawer and put it on the tray, too.
"Come on," said Bobby. "I want to help."
That, at least, got a reaction from her. She glared at him for an instant from under her misshapen brow, casting her scarred features in an expression that could have been grateful acknowledgement just as easily as bitter hatred.
Then, she pushed past him to throw open the cupboard where the drinking glasses were stored.
When she'd finished fixing Omar's lunch on the tray, she slouched out of the kitchen without ever having said a single word to Bobby Ball.
*****
Later, when Bobby was making another run at "Revelations," he dipped into the vision again.
It came at about the same point in the piece, and seemed to pick up where the first vision had left off. The man with the long black hair and beard was on top of Diona. He was having sex with her, and she was crying in pure agony.
It was hard for Bobby to watch, but he wanted to know more about what he was seeing. Most importantly, he wanted to find out if it was happening in a time yet to come.
Bobby kept playing his horn, and the vision continued. As the brutal scene dragged on, he focused on background details, searching for something significant.
The setting was a shabby living room at night. Bobby saw a beat-up brown sofa in front of a picture window with tattered curtains half-open on night-time darkness.
Bobby found that in his vision, he could turn away from the action and look around the room. He saw spilled grocery bags on the floor by the front door. A spindly wooden chair lay on its side, and a telephone with its cord ripped out of the wall jack had been thrown down near it.
What really caught Bobby's eye, though, was a yellowed newspaper article in a frame on the wall. "Minaret Wows Queen at Royal Albert Hall," read the headline. Alongside the columns of text, Bobby saw a black-and-white photo of a slender, beaming black woman in an elegant evening gown. She stood in a spotlight on a stage, holding a microphone in one gloved hand and waving the other hand overhead.
Just as Bobby tried to zoom in for a closer look at the article, he was distracted by a flurry of movement in the shadows on the wall. Turning, he saw Diona thrashing on the floor, fighting harder than ever.
And the man was choking her with both hands around her throat.
At that instant, Bobby's concentration was broken by the sound of Omar's voice. Bobby stopped playing his horn, and the vision rushed away like a wave receding from the shore.
"I said...what's the matter, son?" Omar sounded half annoyed and half worried.
"Nothing," said Bobby. "Just really in the zone. You know."
Omar nodded and narrowed his eyes. "Yes I do," he said. "I surely do."
*****
The next morning, as Bobby ran through "Revelations" for the first time that day, a stranger burst into Omar's bedroom.
"Where the hell is she?" The stranger was a woman with a shrill voice and extra-sharp edges. She had the look of someone who has lived rough and aged beyond her years, a sense of immediate danger. Her long, brown hair was tangled and mangled, her bony body flapping around in mismatched baggy shorts and a tank top that probably weren't designed to fit loosely at all.
Within seconds of first seeing her, Bobby had her pegged as an addict. Booze, meth, crack, heroin--it didn't matter. He had seen the look in her eyes before.
In the mirror.
"Where's Grammy?" Fearlessly, the woman stalked up to Omar's bedside. She stopped close to Bobby but didn't even look at him in passing.
"If she's not...downstairs," said Omar, "she must not...have come in yet...Recka." Though Omar's health seemed to have gone further downhill overnight, he still managed to get across his dislike of Recka. His voice, raspy and weak as it was, carried a bitter chill, and his posture stiffened as he spoke to her.
Recka rolled her eyes, shook her head, and blew out her breath in disgust all at the same time. "She knew I needed her to go to the bank with me this morning!"
"Sorry...I can't help you," said Omar. "I'm sure...she'll turn up."
Recka lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in Omar's direction. "At least I always know where to find you," she said with a smirk.
Bobby leaned in to stare her in the face. He didn't have a drop of alcohol in his system, but he was dying to take a swing at her anyway.
"'Scuse me," he said. "Mr. Wild and I have work to do, if you don't mind."
Recka met Bobby's gaze for a long moment, her bloodshot eyes probing his with what felt to him like a mix of hatred and horniness.
Before she could make her next move, the moment was broken. Bobby heard heavy footsteps stomping up the creaky stairs and down the short hallway to the bedroom.
He heard the man's voice before he saw him. "Hey, Recka." The voice was hoarse and crackly, like that of someone who'd just spent an hour yelling over loud music in a bar.
Recka held Bobby's gaze for another beat, then turned away. "She's not here," she said.
"Then we're outta here." The man stepped into the doorway as he said it. "Let's go."
As Bobby got a look at the guy, he felt a chill shoot through his body. The room seemed to fall away, leaving no one standing there but him.
And the guy. The guy from the vision.
He had long black hair, a goatee, and a huge, hooked nose, just like in the vision. He wore the same black t-shirt and bluejeans, identical right down to the placement of the many holes and rips. He wore exactly the same scuffed brown cowboy boots.
Recka dropped her lit cigarette on the floorboards and charged out of the room past the man in the doorway. "Tell her we're looking for her, Gomer," she said without looking back.
"Sure." Omar said it like he planned to do no such thing. "Whatever...you say."
As Recka's feet drummed down the stairs, the guy from Bobby's vision ducked into the bedroom and ground out the burning cigarette with his shoe. "Thanks anyways," he said, giving Bobby a friendly smile and wave on his way back out the door.
"Who were those two?" Bobby asked Omar after the front door downstairs had slammed shut.
"Diona's granddaughter...Recka," said Omar, "and Recka's boyfriend...Boot. They're both...bad news."
"He looks familiar," said Bobby. "I think I might've seen him somewhere before."
"Probably...in a police lineup," said Omar. "Or a bad dream."
"Sounds about right," said Bobby.
*****
Bobby was sucking up a storm, and he knew it. His attempts to play "Revelations" were pathetic.
And he didn't care. All he could think about was Diona, and how Recka and Boot were looking for her.
And Boot was dressed the same as in Bobby's vision...meaning that this could be the day when the vision came true.
Bobby kept listening for the sound of the front door or the phone. The split concentration led him to fumble changes, drop notes, and jumble meter...and not in a good way.
Finally, Omar spoke up. "Stop...it. You're butchering...that piece...so bad...I can't listen to it...anymore." He reached under the bedsheet alongside him and drew out a stack of tablature sheets scrawled with music. "Play this...instead."
Bobby reached for the pages and flipped through them. The title at the top of page one was "Testament."
"More new material?" he said, studying the charts closely.
"Part two...of a song cycle," said Omar. "First part's...'Revelations.'"
"What's the third part?"
Omar didn't answer his question. "Play 'Testament.' You need to...play something different...to snap your rut...on 'Revelations.'"
"Right." Bobby could see from the music that "Testament" was further in the free jazz direction than "Revelations" had been. The notations on the pages established from the first bar that "Testament" was written as "Solomon"-style pure chaos.
"Go on," said Omar. "Play it."
Bobby considered refusing. As long as Diona's fate haunted him, he knew he wouldn't play "Testament" any better than "Revelations."
Sure enough, he didn't. Even in the muddle of random noise that was "Testament," Bobby's discordant wanderings jumped out as all wrong.
What bothered him the most, though, was the lack of a vision.
Playing "Revelations" had tuned him in to what seemed like prophetic visions. Playing "Testament" showed him nothing.
And somewhere out there, Diona was moving toward what might be an impending attack at the hands of Boot.
Midway through "Testament," Bobby finally stopped playing and lowered his sax. He walked over to look out the window at the street below, but he saw no trace of Diona, Recka, or Boot.
"Why'd you...stop?" said Omar. "Piece needs a lot...of work."
"Shouldn't Diona have been here by now?"
"Maybe Recka...caught up...with her," said Omar.
Bobby turned from the window. "What happened to her?" he said. "How'd she get the scars?" He ran a finger over his brow and down his cheek.
"Bad taste in men." Omar struggled for his next breath, then caught it with a lurch. "The mean...drunk kind. Many years ago. Ended her...career."
"What career?"
Omar stared as if he thought Bobby was crazy, stupid, or both. "Singing...of course. Didn't you ever...hear of...Dionetta Minaret?"
Bobby's eyes shot wide open. He recognized the name immediately, though he'd looked right at the woman without knowing her. He hadn't even gotten the picture when he'd glimpsed the name "Minaret" in the headline of the framed newspaper article on the wall in his vision.
He wanted to kick himself. What kind of world-class jazz musician doesn't recognize one of the all-time great chanteuses when he sees her in the flesh?
"I thought she was dead," he said.
"You're not...the only one," said Omar.
Bobby nodded as the pieces fell into place. "You worked together."
"More than...worked." Omar smiled sadly. "But it didn't...last. Now, I thank God...for the cancer...because she takes care of me...and I can see her...every day."
Bobby looked out the window again. Diona was nowhere in sight, and the sun was low in the sky, not far from setting. In his vision, Boot had attacked Diona at night, after dark. "I think she's in trouble."
"What makes you...say that?"
Pacing the room, Bobby wondered what he should say. If the roles were reversed, he didn't think he'd buy the explanation he had to offer.
Then again, maybe Omar wouldn't find it so hard to believe after all.
It's...a key, Omar had said about "Solomon." It...opens things.
Maybe Omar had known all along about the special properties of his music.
"I saw something," said Bobby. "When I was playing 'Revelations.'"
Omar narrowed his eyes. "Saw what?"
"Boot and Diona," said Bobby. "He was hurting her. Raping her."
Omar had to struggle for his next breath. "You think...you saw...the future?"
Bobby shrugged. "I don't know. It was dark out. Boot wore the same thing he had on earlier today."
Omar looked out the window. Twilight had already settled over the red brick row houses across the street.
"So you think...it's going...to happen...tonight?"
Bobby nodded. "Where does she live?"
"Why?" said Omar. "Is that...where it's going...to happen?"
"It looked like it might be Diona's apartment," said Bobby. "There was a framed news clipping about her playing for the queen."
Omar frowned. "The whole thing...might just be...your imagination."
"I'd rather go and find out I'm wrong than not go and find out I'm right."
Omar started to say something, then wheezed and had to take a moment to catch his breath. "I might be...dead...when you...get back. I'm running...out of time."
"I know," said Bobby.
"You and I...we're not done," said Omar. "If I die...before we finish...so much for...passing on...my legacy."
"Yeah," said Bobby.
Omar's fingers twitched over the invisible horn. "So much...for your...big comeback."
Bobby unsnapped the strap around his neck and put his horn down on a floor stand. "Please tell me where she lives," he said.
*****
Looking up from across the street, Bobby couldn't see anything but a dim light through the parted curtains of one window of the apartment.
On the other hand, the windows of the dive bar downstairs, which was called Taps, were bright with neon beer signs. People jammed the place, and loud music thumped from the open front door.
Upstairs, everything looked still and quiet.
As Bobby crossed the street, he considered stopping in Taps for a drink before going upstairs. He actually touched the handle of the bar's front door before changing his mind. Wasting five minutes having a drink could mean disaster; for all he knew, he was already too late to save Diona.
Bobby entered the alley on the left side of the building and climbed the shaky metal grate stairs to the second floor. The name "Minaret" was spelled out in black adhesive letters lined up on the windowless door there.
Bobby listened at the door and heard nothing but the thumping music from the bar. When he tried the doorknob, and it turned freely, he decided to let himself in to the apartment. Knocking would just alert Boot, if he was in there, and give him time to get ready for Bobby.
Pushing the door open, Bobby peered inside.
The first thing he saw, scattered on the floor, were spilled grocery bags.
Without another thought, he threw the door open and charged inside. Boot looked up from the floor at him with an expression of wide-eyed shock and terror.
There was also enough twisted lust on his face to burn away any iota of a thought Bobby might have had about showing him mercy. The look of agony on Diona's face etched the outcome in stone.
The first thing Bobby did was kick Boot away from Diona so she wouldn't be hurt any more than she already was.
The rest was a blur of red.
*****
At first, when Bobby walked in the bedroom, he thought Omar was dead.
The old man lay on the bed like a winter leaf, shriveled and weightless. His eyes were closed, his mouth open, his body perfectly still in the moonlight.
Then, his fingers barely flickered over invisible keys. His chest rose. And fell.
When Bobby sat beside him on the edge of the bed, Omar's eyes drifted open. His voice, when he spoke, was so hoarse and faint that Bobby had to lean close to make out what he said.
"Is she...safe?"
Bobby nodded. "She's at the hospital. Bumps and bruises, but she'll be all right."
"Thank..." Omar fought for another breath and barely caught it. "...God."
"Guess what?" Bobby laughed. "She still won't say a word to me!"
Omar's smile was weak. "That's...my Diona. I love her...so much."
"You're lucky to have her," said Bobby.
"What about...Boot?"
"Broken neck," said Bobby. "Apparently, he fell headfirst out of a second-story window. Paralyzed from the neck down for life, they say."
"What...a shame," said Omar. He was still smiling.
Bobby smiled back at him. "You knew, didn't you? You knew he was going after her."
"I'd have...to be able...to see the future...to know that." Omar shuddered as he struggled for breath. His body arched off the bed, then dropped as he managed to drag air into his one working lung.
He was near the end now, and Bobby could see it.
"You used me," said Bobby.
Omar managed half a shaky grin. "Be my lungs...hell. I needed you...to be...my fists."
"Why go to all that trouble?" said Bobby. "Why not just find someone local to take care of it?"
"I've got...no one left...except Diona." Omar wrestled another breath into his chest. "Even if...I did...who'd believe...an old fool...like me?" Another breath, hard-won and too short, rattled into him. "I needed someone...who I could...connect with...and someone mean enough...to do...the job."
Bobby sighed. "Here I thought you called me to bring your last masterpiece to the world."
Omar's withered claw settled around Bobby's wrist like a butterfly. "Go get...Interstellar Space...by Coltrane...off the shelf."
Frowning, Bobby got up from the bed. He found the record on one of the shelves on the wall and held it up for Omar to see.
"Play it," said Omar.
Bobby slipped the record from its sleeve and put it on the phonograph. He dropped the needle and turned up the volume.
It started with the sound of shivering sleigh bells...then, stuttering drums and cymbals...and Coltrane's sax leaping in like a sudden storm. Drums and horn charging and clashing from then on, horn frantic and angry and stoned, reeling up and down and over and under...faster harder faster...explosive short phrases burning...then a sweet skirling snatch of melody floating up high before breaking down in honks and squawks and screeches and yelps and racing cursing runs like the fury of the last screaming midnight fight between tenement man and wife before the summer's bloodiest murder suicide.
Bobby couldn't help grinning. "'Revelations'," he said.
"There never was...a masterpiece," said Omar. "Just bits and pieces...I stole...from 'Trane."
"You ripped off 'Mars,'" said Bobby. "Why couldn't you have picked something I liked?"
"Sorry...for the lies," said Omar. "Seemed like...the best way...to get you here."
"Don't worry," said Bobby. "I'll get my comeback. Maybe I'll ride Diona's coattails, huh? Does she still have it?"
"I'd bet...my life...on it." Somehow, Omar managed a normal-sounding laugh, strong and deep and resonant.
And brief. The laugh broke into a wheezing cough, leaving Omar gasping for a breath that he couldn't seem to catch.
Bobby sat down beside him and took hold of one of his fluttering hands. "Easy." He gently stroked Omar's forehead. "Take it easy."
Omar gazed up at him with a look of sorrow, exhaustion, and gratitude that broke his heart. He wished he could hold the life inside that frail scarecrow, keep the great man, his idol, from floating away on the next errant breeze.
Keep the breath in the instrument, keep it playing long as possible.
The needle caught the next cut on the record then, "Venus." Sleighbells shivered in the moonlit room, and brushed cymbals whispered.
Then, Coltrane's horn like the ripples in a pond, like the wings of a bird, airy and flowing and peaceful.
Da-deedadeedadeedadeedadeeee
The patter of raindrops...a red ribbon gliding in a summer sky...treetops swaying.
A man's last breaths and the last beats of his heart, fading in counterpoint rhythm.
Bobby's eyes burned with the pressure of tears. He tightened his grip on Omar's hand as the old man struggled for breath. "Do you see things when you listen to this?" he said.
Omar nodded as he gasped for air.
"What?" Bobby's own breath caught in his throat. "What do you see?"
"There's..." Omar fought to eke out the words. His voice was tiny as the squeak of a mouse. Bobby had to put his ear to Omar's lips to hear it.
"There's...another life..." In. Out. "...after this one..." In. Out. "...and man...it's full of...jazz."
Out.
*****
Special Preview: Earthshaker
Gaia Charmer, World Warrior Book 1
By Robert T. Jeschonek
On sale now!
Chapter 1
How did I stop Ray Long the killer from getting away that night? I threw gravel at him, lots and lots of gravel. And not with my hands, either.
I'm special like that. And Ray was stupid. Unlucky's a better word. How was he to know he was dealing with someone like me? Maybe I should've worn a sign for him: "Gaia Charmer. In touch with the Earth."
Make that "Really in touch with the Earth."
Maybe Ray would've rethought his plan to kill his last victim at the quarry if he'd known what I can do. And if he'd known I was hot on his trail that night.
He should've known, though. I warned him when he got away the first time. I told him I was going to stop him from killing anyone else. But hey, he underestimated me, which is easy to do. I'm five foot two, in my early twenties, blonde, and petite--not exactly a powerhouse to look at. Works in my favor again and again, which is awesome. Ray wasn't the first, and he won't be the last to experience my hardcore ways.
Sooner or later, they all find out what it's like when the Charmernator rolls over 'em.
That night, it was the middle of summer in west-central Pennsylvania, mid-July and counting. The moon was full and yellow over the Allegheny Mountains, bobbing like a dumpling in the hot broth of thick humidity.
Honestly, I was almost too late. I'd just discovered (via other special skills of mine) that Ray was killing and dumping the missing kids at the Buckhorn Quarry. I'd gotten there as fast as I could, but I was still cutting it close. Ray had the kid staked out in the dirt and was sharpening his machete by the time I showed up.
Which was all the more reason for me not to waste a second. I didn't pussyfoot around talking things over with Ray or trying to be tricky. I just pulled out all the stops and went at him as hard as I could.
Which, believe me, is pretty damn hard.
As soon as Ray heard me coming, crunching gravel underfoot, he swung his flashlight around and caught me in the beam of it. Shielding my eyes from the glare, I saw his other arm reach around behind him for what had to be a gun. So I jumped into action.
The thing about the quarry was, it was full of all kinds of rock and dirt...and that, my friend, is something I can work with. I'm the original rock star, you might say.
Sweeping my hands around, I aimed at a pile of gravel midway between us, and I focused. Extended my will through my fingertips, if you know what I mean...reached out and touched the gravel with my mind. Felt the size and shape and texture of the pieces. Felt the multitude of forces acting upon them, the halos of gravity and electromagnetism and cosmic radiation. The forces pulsating within them, too--the jostling of molecules and atoms, the spinning of electrons and quarks, the whisper of quantum foam, the humming of superstrings. All the qualities adding up to a marvelous portrait of a pile of objects, a true work of art that I'm privileged to see because of my talents.
Feeling and seeing and sensing all that, I knew how to mold those forces, how to make them do what I wanted. And then I gave them a push.
Keep in mind, this all happened in a fraction of a second. Ray was still in the process of drawing his gun when the first bits of gravel hopped off the pile and shot toward him.
I flicked my fingers back and forth from the pile to Ray. Each time, more gravel jumped the gap and clocked him, dinging off his head and arms and chest. Instead of bringing around his gun, Ray swatted at the flying pebbles, batting them away from his face and body.
But he couldn't stop them all. He grunted as the ones that got through pelted his cheeks and throat, popped against his belly and crotch.
Then, it was time to close the deal. I balled my hands up into fists and pointed them at the pile, letting my power and awareness gather and grow. Picking up as much rock as I could, cupping it in my hands--I mean my mind but it felt like my hands, like I was holding it and getting ready to let it go.
And then I swooped my fists toward Ray and threw what I held. Half the pile of gravel leaped at him, crashing in a wave he couldn't hope to swat away. He screamed as it hit him, all nine thousand five hundred and twenty-one pieces of rock (exactly that many, I felt them) coming down on all quadrants of his body, bruising and breaking and smashing in much the same way he'd wrecked those six kids. A few pieces at a time might have been no worse than bugs, but that wave of almost ten thousand little rocks acting together must have felt like a wall hitting him.
None of it touched the kid staked to the ground, though. Guided by my mind, it all stayed focused on killer Ray, dancing over the little girl as if he had an invisible bubble parked around her. Every last piece of gravel had a single purpose only--to batter Ray Long till he gave up and fell down.
Unfortunately, that didn't happen as fast as I thought it would. Somehow, Ray got his piece out and threw shots into the shower of stone, as if that was going to help. Then, fighting the tide, he managed to crank his arm in my direction and got lucky. Pumped out a bullet that grazed my shoulder, the son of a bitch.
It was enough to break my concentration and my hold on the gravel, which stopped in mid-flight and dumped to the ground. As I cried out and grabbed at my stinging shoulder, Ray scrambled out of the mess of rock and ran off.
Ran off into the quarry, the dumbass. My own personal playground, you might say.
I followed him into the maze of rock and dirt piles, running full tilt in the moonlight. Reaching out with my mind and power, I tugged at a dirt mound ahead of him, bringing it down in a landslide to block his path. When he darted in another direction, I knocked rocks off a heap, sending them bouncing straight for him. One caught him in the hip, another bashed his ankle, but he staggered for only a moment and kept going.
Ray disappeared around a hill of limestone chunks, and it took me a few steps to catch sight of him again. That was when I realized he might get away. The S.O.B. had a motorcycle stowed behind the limestone, about thirty yards back. He leaped onto the seat and started the engine; the front wheel was pointing right at me.
As the bike's headlight flared on, I stopped in my tracks and quickly assessed the options. Lots of rock and dirt around, but I could only move so much of it at a time. Dipshit Ray might just power through any shower of rubble I could whip up.
Time for another tack, I thought. Reach into my bag of tricks for something different. Something guaranteed to lay him out fast.
Dropping to a squat, I planted the palm of my left hand on the ground. Reached out through my fingertips into the layer of earth between me and Ray.
As Ray revved the bike and threw it into gear, I felt the intricate web of tiny fissures and fractures lacing the surface. Sensed the vibrations flowing through them from the bike, rumbling and crackling and splintering, spreading the web further in all directions.
The bike leaped toward me, but I stayed cool. Closing my eyes, I picked out the soft spots between us, the points where the underlying rock had been weakened...each a glowing red pocket of stress in my mind. A button to be pushed.
And then I pushed one. As the roar of the motorcycle approached me, I lifted my hand, made a fist, and brought it down hard on a precise point on a fracture line. Poured my inner force into the blow, giving it more impact than the punch of a single fist.
I felt the power surge out of me like fire, saw it in my mind's eye like silver lightning flickering through the web. The bolt slashed along a jagged path of fractures and fissures, charging like an errant spark through the cracks in a shattered mirror.
And then it hit the stress pocket, and I felt it implode. The soft spot suddenly gave way, and the ground sank.
Right in the path of the motorcycle.
A hole opened up in front of Ray, the ground dropping too fast for him to swerve. The bike's front tire lurched down into the pit and caught there, spinning the rest of the bike over it. Ray, too. He hurtled from his seat and flew through the air, sailing over my head. He came down ten yards behind me on the pile of limestone, cracking his head and bones on sharp corners of solid rock.
Slowly, I opened my eyes and got to my feet. Turned and looked at him. Shook my head.
There he was, unconscious, ready for delivery to the authorities. The monster who'd killed six kids and who'd been about to kill a seventh was out of the game. People could breathe a little easier. And it was all thanks to me.
This was what I call "smooth sailing"...the kind of moment when I am absolutely high on life. When I'm feeling so good about who I am and what I do that I could just dance like a fool. I saved a life, beat the bad guy, made a difference. Hallelujah!
I made a point to drink it in while it lasted, because I knew it wouldn't. I smiled and raised my bright blue eyes to the full moon, because I knew myself too well, and I knew "smooth sailing" would become the opposite extreme far too soon. It would quickly turn into "sinking fast," no matter what I did, because that's just how I am.
But for that moment, I took a deep breath of the humid, dusty air, and I let myself grin. Time to untie and console the victim. Time to hand over Ray Long to the cops. Plenty of good stuff still to come.
Closing my eyes, I danced a little. I swayed from side to side in the moonlight, happy to be alive. Happy to be in the world, to be special, to be me.
And I spun around once, feet turning in the dirt, hands clasped to my chest as if cradling my beating heart.
*****
Chapter 2
One great night's sleep later, and sure enough, the thrill was gone. Just like I'd expected, but not because I wanted it that way. Believe me, I'd rather have smooth sailing all the time, swear to God...but I don't have the choice. It's just how I am.
"Bipolar," they call it. To me, it's just business as usual.
By the time I walked in the front door of the agency, I felt like I wanted to kill myself. Put myself in a coma, at least.
I slammed the door behind me and knocked over the umbrella stand with my shin--and for what? For absolutely no good reason.
I owned the agency, for crying out loud. Cruel World Travel was all mine, free and clear; I was working for no one but myself. Business was good; it was nine in the morning, and there were already customers in the place. Plus which, my partner, Duke, was doing all the work. Truth was, he almost always did all the work, and he did it without complaining.
So what was my damn excuse? Why couldn't I just be happy and satisfied for more than a few hours at a time?
Of course, thinking these thoughts only brought me down more. Which was why I hung up the ringing phone on my desk instead of answering it. Correction, I picked up the receiver and slammed it down like a blacksmith's hammer on a horseshoe.
And that, my friends, is what finally got Duke's attention.
Turning his chair around from the computer screen where he was huddled with two young female customers, Duke chuckled. "Looks like somebody needs her coffee."
"Mind your own business." I dropped down hard into the chair behind my desk, folded my arms on the blotter, and laid my head on them. Shut my eyes like a schoolkid taking heat in the classroom. I just wanted to tune everything out.
Not that Duke would let that stop him. "You, Earth Angel, are the only business I have." I heard him get up from his chair and stroll across the office. He poured coffee in a mug and headed my way. "Now tell me why you woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."
"I just wanna be left alone," I told him.
"If so, then why'd you come in here today?" Duke chuckled and put the mug down on the desk in front of me. "Now tell me, satin doll. What happened last night?"
A sniff or two of that steaming coffee was enough to convince me I should give it a try. Lifting my head, I reached for the mug. "Caught a serial killer."
"Well, congratulations!" Duke sat on the edge of the desk and slapped his knee. "That's fantastic! How could you possibly be in a bad mood after that?"
Duke knew damn well I didn't need a reason for a mood; he knew me better than anyone, even my best friend, Aggie Regal. This was his way of drawing me out, which of course annoyed the hell out of me...but also actually made me feel a tiny bit better. Duke had a way of doing that, with me and everyone else. His beautiful soul shone through; even its strange container couldn't obscure it. Even his body that looked human but wasn't.
"Okay, listen." Duke leaned down and smiled, dark eyes twinkling. His light brown skin crinkled at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and his long oval face glowed with affection. "How about if you drink that coffee and take a little time to work out the kinks? Then you can help me put the finishing touches on Minthe and Nephelae's itinerary."
Suddenly, I sat straighter in my chair. Damned if he didn't know exactly how to get my attention. "Minthe and Nephelae?" My eyes shot to the two young ladies at the computer where Duke had been working. They both smiled and waved...one platinum blonde with light blue highlights, one brunette with deep green highlights, both strikingly beautiful. They looked as if they weren't a day over twenty-one.
Which was all the more amazing if you knew neither one of them was a day under three thousand years old.
"Good morning." I nodded to them both and managed a faint smile. I've always done my best to show respect to their kind; after all, they and others like them make up over half of my annual sales at Cruel World. They're a specialty of mine, you might say.
Creatures connected to the Earth in extraordinary ways. Nymphs and gnomes and all the host of not-so-mythic life-forms with special abilities. I cater to them, because they're some of my best customers.
Also because I'm one of them myself.
"So what do you say?" Duke raised his eyebrows, and the smooth skin of his high forehead rippled like a sweet roll. "Does that sound like a plan you can live with?"
His soothing voice and good humor got to me like always. I was still in "sinking fast" mode, but my rate of descent leveled off. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?" I said it, but I didn't mean it. "You're fired."
"You fire me twice a day," said Duke. "At least."
"Maybe we need to have a talk about the meaning of the word 'fired.'" I picked up the mug and sipped some coffee. "It doesn't mean 'keep coming to work and bothering me."
"I'm sorry." Duke batted his eyes innocently. "Did you just say something?"
I sighed disgustedly and looked past him to Minthe and Nephelae, who were still sitting around the computer. "So where are you headed, ladies?"
Minthe was the brunette with the green highlights. "The Peruvian Andes."
"Llactapata and Cota Coca," said Nephelae, the platinum blonde with light blue highlights. "Lost cities of the Inca."
"Not so lost anymore." Minthe smiled and shrugged. "But still exciting to us."
I nodded. Nymphs like Minthe and Nephelae are often tied to one place or phenomenon or plant. In Minthe's case, it was mint, believe it or not; with Nephelae, it was certain types of clouds. It can be tough for beings like them to travel, or at least to control where they go.
But there are ways for them to break away, and I know them well. It's why I get so much of their business...because they spend their lives tied down, longing to see the world, and I make it happen. Duke and I know all the tricks.
Stuck in a magic spring in Greece or a cursed bower in Provence? Always dreamed of getting wild at Mardi Gras on Bourbon Street or riding the Maid of the Mist through Niagara Falls? Call our toll free number or shoot us an e-mail, and we'll rock your world.
We'll feel good doing it, too. Like I said, I'm one of them myself. I must be, considering what I can do. So it's like I'm helping out the home team.
And they keep coming back for more.
"We loved Rio." Nephelae sighed and rolled her eyes with delight.
"The African safari was the best, I think," said Minthe. "I'll never forget the view from Victoria Falls."
"I'm glad you liked the trips. I'm glad we could help." As I said it, I felt my dark mood lighten just a little. Helping the nymphs keeps me going; that and my hobby, which is using my unique skills to hunt down killers.
If I couldn't travel beyond a cove or grove or pool, I know how I'd feel if someone helped me get to Paris or the Taj Mahal. Fortunately, I'm not stuck in one place in spite of my nymphiness. Duke's theory is that I'm an oread, a land-based nymph linked to mountains and valleys--but apparently, I'm a moveable oread. That's a good thing, because I think I'd totally lose my mind if I were stuck in one place for life. I like having my home base in a small town, but I also like being able to get away whenever I want to.
So I really identify with my special customers, and I can tell they like me, too. We share a bond I just don't have with other people. They're important to me, right up there with Duke; in fact, my best friend Aggie is one of them.
"Well now." Duke slid off the desk and clapped his hands together. "Are you sufficiently caffeinated, my dear? Would you care to help with these young ladies' itinerary?"
I took a long swallow of the warm, mellow coffee. (Did I mention Duke makes the best coffee on the planet?) I hated to admit it, but I was actually feeling better. Almost smiled but didn't want to give him the satisfaction.
"Nag nag nag." I lowered my voice for his benefit. "Why can't you let me wallow in my misery?"
Duke spoke softly, too. "Because this is a business, and I'd rather if you don't drive away all the customers." He gave me his most withering look, but I knew it was a put-on. The old man didn't have it in him to be pissed at me.
I drained the cup of coffee and plunked it on the desk. "Big man, telling me how to run my business."
"Good luck finding someone else who can do it better." Duke chuckled and ran a hand over his wavy hair, dyed shoe-polish black except for his sideburns, which were gray. Being who and what he was, he could've looked any age he liked, but he chose to be an old man. He looked like he was in his mid-70s, near the end of his life. He looked exactly the way he had near the end of his first life, back in the day. His real life. Back before he became what he is now, which isn't the same, isn't even human.
"You win this time," I said, though the truth was, Duke won every time. "Now get outta my way, Edward." With that, I pushed out of my chair and brushed past him.
"All right, ladies." I managed a grin as I thought about my last jab; Duke hated when I called him "Edward." Maybe today would turn out all right, after all. "Who wants to hear about a Peruvian Incan city that isn't on any maps?"
Minthe beamed like a floodlight. "Really?"
"You know of one?" Nephelae was breathless.
"But of course." I gave my hand a casual toss. "You won't find reference to it anywhere...but Cruel World Travel will set you up." It was true. Another of my special skills; I know places no one else alive in the world has ever seen or heard of.
Just as I settled into a chair between Minthe and Nephelae, I heard the front door's ring tone...a little ditty Duke was fond of called "Caravan." We'd set it to play every time someone opened the door; it sure beat the little bell every other business in North America used.
I didn't bother to turn around. Figured we had another customer and Duke could take care of them. But then I heard the familiar boots on the hardwood. Even before Duke said a word, I knew who it was.
"Good morning, Sheriff Briar." Duke sounded pleased; he liked the Sheriff a lot. "Can I get you a cup of coffee?"
"No, thank you," said Briar. "I just need to talk to Gaia. I hate to interrupt..."
"You can't fool me, Dale." I smirked as I turned to face him. "Interrupting me is how you get your rocks off." It was a joke, because Dale Briar was a rockhound on the side--a rock collector slash prospector slash amateur gemologist.
But Briar wasn't in the mood for jokes. "This is pretty important, Gaia." He winced and combed his fingers through his thick brown hair. He looked uncomfortable.
"You need to wrap up Ray Long?" I figured there must be loose ends from the killer I'd turned over the night before. Wouldn't be the first time. "Can it wait like an hour or so? I'm with customers."
Briar shook his head and sighed. "Can't wait, Gaia. It's about Aggie."
Suddenly, I shot straight into red alert mode. I got up and walked away from Minthe and Nephelae without a word or a sideways glance.
"When was the last time you saw her?" said Briar. His expression was frighteningly grim.
I didn't want to answer. I was afraid of what he might say next. "Yesterday morning. Around eight."
"Okay." Briar fidgeted with a ring on his right pinky, twisting it back and forth. The stone was a super-rare red tiger's eye I'd found for him with my talents. Okay, I'd made it for him. He'd tumbled, cut, and set it in gold like a pro. "I'll tell you flat out, Gaia. Aggie's missing, and you were the last to see her."
"Missing?" The word sounded unreal as I said it.
"She didn't show up for work today," said Briar. "Didn't call in, either. No one's seen or heard from her since...well, since you saw her yesterday morning."
"That's over twenty-four hours." My heart pounded like a heavy metal drum solo. I felt flushed and chilled at the same time. Forget red alert; I was at Defcon Five and climbing.
"Does she have any family?" Briar raised his shaggy brows hopefully. "Maybe there was an emergency and she had to drop everything."
"No blood relations," I said. "Aggie's like me."
Briar nodded. He didn't know everything about my world, but he knew enough to get the picture. He'd seen me in action more than a few times. "Can she take care of herself like you?"
I shook my head. Aggie didn't have my kind of abilities, and she wasn't much of a fighter.
"Then this just became my top priority." Briar turned and reached for the doorknob.
I beat him to it. He had to jump back to avoid getting hit in the face with the door as I flung it open.
Without a word to him or anyone, I charged out into the parking lot toward my black hybrid Toyota Highlander SUV. I was behind the wheel before Briar even got the door of his cop cruiser open.
And then I was gone, whipping out of the parking lot like I'd just robbed a bank. Briar chasing me with lights and siren blazing, barely keeping up.
Aggie. My breath caught in my throat as I raced toward her apartment. As I felt my mood shift into a third gear, one that had nothing to do with smooth sailing or sinking fast. One in which everything that slowed me down or distracted me peeled away, leaving nothing but a knifepoint of crystal clear focus and white hot intensity. Willingness to do terrible things. To do anything it took. Apocalypse in the chamber, hammer cocked, finger on the trigger.
For this mood, I didn't have a clever nickname.
*****
What happens next? Find out in Earthshaker, now on sale!
*****
About the Author
Robert T. Jeschonek is an award-winning writer whose fiction, comics, essays, articles, and podcasts have been published around the world. DC Comics, Simon & Schuster, and DAW have published his work. According to Hugo and Nebula Award winner Mike Resnick, Robert "is a towering talent." Robert was nominated for the British Fantasy Award for his story, "Fear of Rain." His young adult urban fantasy novel, My Favorite Band Does Not Exist, was named one of Booklist’s Top Ten First Novels for Youth. Visit him online at www.thefictioneer.com. You can also find him on Facebook and follow him on Twitter as @TheFictioneer.
*****
E-books by Robert T. Jeschonek
Fantasy
6 Fantasy Stories
6 More Fantasy Stories
Blazing Bodices
Earthshaker – an urban fantasy novel
Girl Meets Mind Reader
Groupie Everlasting
Rose Head
The Genie's Secret
The Return of Alice
The Sword That Spoke
Horror
Bloodliner – a novel
Diary of a Maggot
Dionysus Dying
Fear of Rain
Road Rage
Humor (Adults Only)
Dick by Law – a novel
Literary
6 Short Stories
Getting Higher – a novel
Mystery and Crime
6 Crime Stories
Crimes in the Key of Murder
Dancing With Murder (a cozy mystery novel)
The First Detect-Eve
The Foolproof Cure for Cancer
The Other Waiter
Who Unkilled Johnny Murder?
Poetry
Flight of Ideas
Science Fiction
6 Scifi Stories
6 More Scifi Stories
6 Scifi Stories Book 3
Beware the Black Battlenaut
Give The Hippo What He Wants
Heaven Bent – a novel
Heaven Bent, Parts 1-12 – a serial
Lenin of the Stars
Messiah 2.0
My Cannibal Lover
Off The Face Of The Earth
One Awake In All The World
Playing Doctor
Serial Killer vs. E-Merica
Something Borrowed, Something Doomed
Star Sex
Teacher of the Century
The Greatest Serial Killer in the Universe
The Love Quest of Smidgen the Snack Cake
The Shrooms of Benares
Universal Language – a novel
Superheroes
6 Superhero Stories
7 Comic Book Scripts
7 More Comic Book Scripts
A Matter of Size (mature readers)
Forced Retirement (Forced Heroics Book 1)
Forced Betrayal (Forced Heroics Book 2)
Forced Partnership (Forced Heroics Book 3)
Heroes of Global Warming
The Dream Lord Awakens (graphic novel script)
The Masked Family – a novel
The Wife Who Never Was
Thrillers
Backtracker – a novel
Day 9 – a novel
The Trek It! Series
Trek This!
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Trek Script!
Trek Script 2
Trek Novel!
Trek You!
Trek It!
Young Readers
Dolphin Knight – a novel
Lump
Tommy Puke and the Boy with the Golden Barf
Tommy Puke and the World's Grossest Grown-Up
*****
Now on Sale from Robert T. Jeschonek
A Young Adult Fantasy Novel That Really Rocks!
One of Booklist's Top Ten First Novels for Youth
Being trapped in a book can be a nightmare—just ask Idea Deity. He’s convinced that he exists only in the pages of a novel written by a malevolent author . . . and that he will die in Chapter 64. Meanwhile, Reacher Mirage, lead singer of the secret rock band Youforia, can’t figure out who’s posting information about him and his band online that only he should know. Someone seems to be pulling the strings of both teens’ lives . . . and they’re not too happy about it. With Youforia about to be exposed in a national magazine and Chapter 64 bearing down like a speeding freight train, time is running out. Will Idea and Reacher be able to join forces and take control of their own lives before it’s too late?
School of Rock meets Alice in Wonderland in this fast-paced, completely unpredictable novel of alternate realities, time travel, and rock ‘n’ roll. If your favorite band does not exist . . . do you?
"Overall, My Favorite Band Does Not Exist is a wacky and enjoyable trip...full of intriguing, imaginative concepts that keep a reader hooked." –Thom Dunn, The Daily Genoshan
"This first novel has all the look of a cult fave: baffling to many, an anthem for a few, and unlike anything else out there." –Ian Chipman, Booklist Starred Review
"Chaos theory meets rock 'n' roll in adult author Jeschonek's ambitious, reality-bending YA debut." "...this proudly surreal piece of metafiction could develop a cult following..."–Publishers Weekly
"Reading this reminded me of authors like Terry Prachett and Neil Gaiman…" –BiblioJunkies
Now Available from Graphia Books!
Order now from your favorite bookseller.
*****
DIONYSUS DYING
Copyright © 2012 by Robert T. Jeschonek
www.thefictioneer.com
Published in May 2012 by Pie Press by arrangement with the author. All rights reserved by the author.
Originally appeared in PS Showcase #3: Mad Scientist Meets Cannibal, 2008.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Design by Pie Press
Johnstown, Pennsylvania