David Valentine, invisible being and metalworker extraordinaire, required a newspaper.
Not as payment, unfortunately. David wouldn’t just read the paper, say “ta” and go. He wanted four hours of “free time” to do whatever he wanted, and he needed the paper to look up local clubs, restaurants, concerts and movie times.
John knew this. This information lived in his brain, and he’d tripped over it many times.
He just had so many damn papers to keep track of, news and otherwise, and it was difficult for him to decipher Prokovian writing. He thought he had today’s paper. He remembered going downstairs and getting a paper. Lots of times!
But it looked like his most recent trip downstairs to get a paper had been three days ago. He would’ve known that if he bothered to sort through the papers and look at the dates before asking Erik to call a god.
Mysteriously, David’s brandy bottle was also empty. David would not be satisfied with a little paper cup of crème de cacao to sip while he worked. John would either get the necessary supplies to make a real Brandy Alexander, or deal with a temper tantrum from a god.
John wondered if Erik had done something to the current paper, and the brandy. Or maybe David had. Either way, it was bad, and it forced John out of the hotel for yet another shopping trip, leaving David and Erik unsupervised for an hour or more.
When he returned with liquor and the local news, he opened the door without knocking. David would not clean up a disaster in progress or stop making it worse. David had no shame.
He did not find the silver knife underfoot just outside the sweep of the door. He shut the door, locked it, and began to look around on the floor. If they didn’t keep the circle closed…
There was a shriek from within the bathroom. The bomb-making supplies had been abandoned on the card table, and the smaller door hung open like a shocked mouth.
“David?” John cried. He ran.
David had walked Erik’s body into the bathroom and was staring at his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror, with the sharp end of the table knife pointed right at Erik’s fragile, flesh-and-bone eye socket. “Stop the music!” he screamed. “Stop the music, stop it NOW, or I’ll ruin your brain! You hear me in there? I swear, I’ll do it!”
John snatched Erik’s body by the shoulders and spun it around. “David, don’t!”
David did not drop the knife. “Just let me lobotomize him a little, Johnny! Just a little, so he’ll leave me alone!”
John shook him, “David, if you ruin Erik’s brain, you will ruin his ability to hold you long enough to go to the movies and have fun! If you ruin Erik’s brain, I will never speak to you again! Do you understand?”
Erik sank to the bathroom floor and curled over, miserably. David put his hands over his ears. “This is torture. This is literal torture. They do this in movies. It’s not fair. Why doesn’t he play something I like? Why doesn’t he shut up!” He banged Erik’s forehead on the tile. His metal eye went off-kilter and began studying the folds in the shower curtain.
John dropped to the floor and dragged him upright. “Stop that! Stop it! You know damn well he can’t feel it and he likes it when he gets a reaction. Just calm the hell…”
Erik — the physical part of Erik that looked and felt exactly the same — swooned against him. “Oh, Johnny… Save me!”
“Please don’t…”
The operative part of Erik reached up, pulled John nearer, and kissed him on the mouth.
John recoiled, blushing madly.
David leapt to his borrowed feet and rubbed his hands together, grinning in a very un-Erik-like way. “Yes! You hate that, don’t you?” He knocked his head with the heel of his palm. “Cower, pitiful little straight mortal. Look away, look away!”
John staggered to his feet, head hanging. “If you’d just let me talk to him,” he muttered, “he listens.’
David snorted and tipped up Erik’s nose. “Sometimes. But that always shuts him up.” He beamed. “And I love it! Don’t you love it? Look how cute I am!” David posed Erik in the mirror and plucked at the sides of his frock coat, dipping a curtsy to his reflection. The silk shirt had lace cuffs, and the striped trousers were tight enough to cause permanent nerve damage.
“I don’t like the hair,” David opined, combing a hand through it. “Unkempt beauty makes me want to lounge around the house feeling tragic and doing needle drugs…”
“Please, no,” John said weakly.
“Make him grow it out!” David declared. “We can afford a salon. Let’s get it magicked! I’ll coat it in gold and have fun like a blond. Champagne, diamonds, and dancing!”
“David?” John said. “Remember we talked about how I’m a fragile human being under a lot of strain who needs space? You like me and you don’t want me to have a total nervous breakdown, do you?”
“You like bombs that don’t look like bombs for your cute little terrorism project, don’t you?” David replied with a smile.
John sighed. “Yes.”
“And me? You like meee?” He eeled nearer and planted Erik’s smiling face smack dab in the middle of John’s field of view.
John blocked him with a hand and strode out of the bathroom. “You’re a lovely person, I like you best when you’re not trying to lobotomize my friend. Are you done with the thing?” He had escaped as far as the card table, at least. He pointed to the metal object on it, which only looked like a music box with a set of metal birds on top.
“Oh, oh, oh,” said David. “Very well. I shall make us both a Brandy Alexander and finish,” he swept Erik’s hands above his head and made insultingly large quote marks with his fingers, “‘The Thing.’ Will that stave off your eventual nervous breakdown so we can go have fun?”
“I’ll do my best,” John said. “I don’t want a drink.”
David was already mixing two drinks in the paper coffee cups that came with the room.
John sat in the desk chair and put his face in his hands. “Please don’t drink both of those. Erik gets hiccups. You hate…”
“Well, he’d better stop getting hiccups, or I’ll stab him.”
John sprinted back to the bathroom, snatched the silver knife and put it back in front of the door. He stood on it with both feet. “No stabbing, please, David.”
“If he behaves, I’ll behave,” David replied. He held out a paper cup by its rim. “Do you want one of these or not, darling? Hmm?”
John took the cup, if only to keep it away from David. He sat down, resting his back against the door, on top of the knife. David had never gone after the knife before.
Previously, he had always threatened to ruin Erik’s brain with a screwdriver.
“Please,” John said, very softly. “David?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Please tell me you remember we need to leave the silver things where they are, so nobody can find Erik or hurt him with magic, and you can keep having fun. I… I don’t know how your brain or… or whatever-it-is works.”
David gave an extravagant, theatrical laugh. “Oh, nor do I! I’m rather new to this divine existence.”
“Mm-hm,” John said. Only a couple weeks ago, this same god had claimed to predate the advent of mankind. At one time or another, David also said he had invented orchids, Brandy Alexanders, wishing on stars, and oral sex.
David’s ever-evolving resumé sounded like a book of Just So Stories as recorded by a megalomaniacal cocaine fiend.
John had extremely limited experience in calling gods, but even he knew “David Valentine” was unstable and ought to be left alone.
The others all seemed to have one thing they wanted — it might be coffee and cigarettes, two components, but it would be coffee and cigarettes every time. Maybe more, maybe less, depending on how long they stayed, but at least a little bit of each. They had a standard order, they did all their negotiating with Erik behind the scenes, they did their jobs, took what they asked for, and departed amicably.
Sometimes there were a few very specific things that would cause a divine meltdown, but these also stayed consistent. They could be avoided.
John kept a list, one of many lists, one of many pieces of paper he must not lose. He wrote down what they were called, what they wanted, what they did, and any precautions. He read this list every night before bed, trying desperately to remember, because it was only a matter of time before he lost or destroyed the paper again.
Auntie Enora, coffee and cigarettes, heal the sick, don’t kill things. Mad Bartholomew, a glass of absinthe, transformations and basic magic (makes instant tents), don’t let him have the bottle, don’t knock musical theatre. Esmerelda Virgo, hot tea with honey and a biscuit, protection and complicated magic, won’t do anything she thinks is wrong, but she’ll negotiate. Beauty, sleep or sex, heals the person it’s in (Erik), it never speaks. Cousin Violet, milk and cereal, tells the future (badly) and will feed Erik, teases and pouts. Brother Grigori Francis (Greg), plays with animals, runs the Cat Network, hasn’t teleported anyone to the North Pole yet — but he can.
And David Valentine. David wanted four hours… to date John. That could include a lot of activities, many of them dangerous or flat out abusive, but there was no denying these were dates, with all that implied.
David made bombs that didn’t look like bombs, and perfect passport stamps, and perfect passports, and forged identification of all kinds. When occupying other bodies in other places, he also patched wounds with metal and saved lives, almost as good as a real medic. David was carrying this whole operation on his back, on Erik’s back.
David was insane, Erik hated him, and David seemed to sincerely forget — or just not care — that if he harmed Erik, he would harm himself, harm John, harm everyone involved, and maybe get them all killed.
And John…
John was sitting on the floor, with his ankles crossed protectively over a table knife that was probably sharp enough to kill Erik. He was miserable, afraid, and exhausted, with half of a seriously strong chocolate dessert alcohol-thing in him.
John did not hate David. Nope. John hated that David was occupying the body of a boy ten years younger than himself, whom he never wanted to hurt ever again. John hated that David existed behind a face he’d met when he was sixteen and Erik was six.
Badly. They had met very badly. Erik never should’ve forgiven him for that.
But John really liked having a fun person who would take him out of this miserable hotel, talk to him like a human being, hold hands, and tell him everything was going to be okay. He needed it.
It was like standing naked in front of an open refrigerator on a day hot enough to kill. Yes, yes, you’re going to overload the circuit breaker, black out the whole block, and make things so much worse for everyone — but it feels so good while it lasts.
If that pending disaster hadn’t been wearing a face he knew, if he could lie to himself that the intangible, otherworldly energy calling itself “David” was human, or even humane…
Oh, gods, that would’ve been nice. But it would’ve been bad. Dangerous. Even more dangerous than this, and this was already enough to get him and Erik killed.
“Erik?” John said.
He looked up, and over at Erik. It did look so much like Erik, except when it smiled and spoke.
“If you’re in there, kid,” he said, “if you’re listening, I do not deserve your protection. I just want you to know that. If you really are playing dumb and planning an escape, you go ahead and go. Get out of this mess. I promise, I will get you home, I will make them let you go home, and I will deal with my consequences myself.”
He toasted David, and possibly Erik, and knocked back the rest of his ridiculous drink. “Just brandy and chocolate?” he muttered dizzily.
“Well, you obviously haven’t been eating,” David said. “So handsome and thin! I’m jealous!” He laughed. “Oh! I hope you die! And then there’s that nervous breakdown you’ve been meaning to have. One assumes you’re a bit tired. Poor boy.”
Erik picked the brass box up from the table and held it out with a smile. “But set your mind at rest. I have finished… ‘The Thing’! It’s just like the others — two turns clockwise, two counterclockwise, let it play, and get away! It must be magic, because it rhymes. Ha-ha-ha.”
John breathed a weak sigh. “Thank you.”
“Oh, don’t thank me. I’m not being nice. I just want to get paid! Silly. What if we go to a nice restaurant and feed you? Someplace we can do a little dancing, after?”
John put a hand to his head. “Do I have to dress up?”
David put Erik’s hand on his shoulder. “There-there. I’ll help you. I have to dress up too. That’s fair!”
◆◇◆
When the elevator chimed and two masked gentlemen in formal dress (one a great deal more pale and anachronistic than the other) stepped out, Janka Doubek tore out from behind the front desk and slammed the little half-door behind her, beating even the security guard. She had her mouth open to scream.
The tall fellow in the ornate gold mask — with obvious makeup! — put up a silken-gloved hand and overrode her in flawless Prokovian, “Please, my dear. Calm yourself. Anger does your complexion no favours.”
“Miss Doubek, please,” the poor boy with shorter dark hair and a simpler (and Janka thought, rather self-conscious) black domino model protested, in Anglais.
Janka Doubek, who had only been getting her things together to go home, exploded in Prokovian at the degenerate with the perfect waist-length black hair that could be nothing other than an expensive wig, “You are supposed to sign in! We have told you and told you! There is no entry to building without signing in! Human beings live here! You are not safe!” She snatched the book from the stunned security guard and thrust it at the freak in the gold mask. “If I ever see you here again, you devil, you know I will…”
“David,” John said uncomfortably, more of a plea for patience than anything approaching disapproval.
David shooed him with a hand. “Oh, she’s only annoyed because I didn’t sign her little booky-thingy,” he replied, with a sniff. “Pay her no mind.” He slowed down and spoke broadly, so as to insult her pitiful grasp of Anglais, “I am not a devil, I just don’t have time for your nonsense. All that is required to get me anywhere I want to be is to keep my head up like I belong there and just keep moving. I recommend you give it a try and see if you can get them to let you into a decent salon. Now let me see…”
He took the book from her, removed the slick white and gold pen from the binding, and signed his name with a flourish that took up three of the preprinted lines. He dotted each “i” with little hearts. “David Valentine! Room 1409! Time in, four-forty-five — PM! Time out, five o’clock — Precisely!” He wrote this and underlined it several times, scratching insolently with the pen. “There!” He shoved the book at her. “Damn it. You act like I’m trying to steal your scissors — when the only thing I want to do is show my boyfriend a good time.” He smiled at John and threaded an arm around his waist.
“Heh,” John allowed, with a sheepish — and hopefully endearing — smile. There was no use denying it.
“Please don’t go,” Janka said, talking past the evil man in the gold mask. “Vanya? Let me take you home and cook you a nice dinner. You can meet my little niece, Katrina!”
John shook his head. He put his hand around David’s waist as well, and tried to guide him towards the door.
David pulled back, let him go, and addressed the front desk matron with narrowed eyes and a sweet smile, in Prokovian again, “Is hopeless, darling. I have him hypnotized. Like snake about to devour helpless little rabbit.” He leaned closer. “Do let me know if you’d like me to devour you sometime too.” He snatched the lapel of her blazer and kissed her on the mouth.
She gasped and turned beet red. John cried out, “David!”
“…and if not, kindly fuck off,” David said. He stalked away.
John tugged urgently at his coat sleeve. “You can’t…!”
David spoke at a rapid mutter, “Male privilege, dear.” Behind them, the front desk matron was screaming at the security guard that she had just been assaulted and why didn’t he do anything. “You have it, you might as well use it. Now keep your head up and keep moving…”
They made it out the door and into the street. John triggered the umbrella right away and held it over David’s head, protecting his paint job. “Fix your face,” he hissed at the god.
David removed a lipstick and compact from his coat pocket. He dabbed peppermint pink over a smudge of green and sealed it with a little more powder. “Never fear. She’s too distracted by her bruised virtue to notice at all, and next time she sees me she’ll stay the hell away. Which is what we want.” He pocketed the makeup and pursed Erik’s lips. “She’ll never shove that blasted book in my pretty face again!”
John looked sick. “I think you do whatever you want and make up a reason afterwards, but I wish I could be sure.”
“I like to imagine you staying up at night, wondering about me,” David replied. He growled and knocked a hand on the side of his head. “He is playing again, Johnny! It’s barely been ten minutes.”
“I don’t believe you,” John said numbly.
“Believe what you want,” David snapped. “I will walk this boy straight into traffic, in front of a bus, if he doesn’t stop winding me up, do you believe that?”
John allowed David to drag him into the nearest alley and steal another kiss, after which David repaired his makeup once again, and beamed. “Shall we away to Chez Chatterbox? Loud music, dim lighting and anonymity, within walking distance, with sandwiches and coffee available at the bar? And it’s singles’ night!”
“Please,” John said. He held the umbrella over David the whole way, as the freezing rain pelted him and stiffened his coat. There would be coffee at the club.
◆◇◆
On the way to Chez Chatterbox, they walked under the awning of a largish supper club with a white marble facade and warm light spilling out of the windows onto the street. The well-dressed people in these windows were sitting at tables with flawless white cloths, drinking endless coffees and classy amber-coloured highballs. The clatter of silverware on understated white porcelain was audible through the closed double doors, if only just, amid faint strains of big band music.
There was a doorman in a red and gold uniform standing beside the entrance, and a black sandwichboard sign with gold balloons and streamers gleaming on it.
David pulled John to a halt and indicated the illegible writing on the sign. “Oooh, look, Johnny! ‘Happy Birthday Dasha’s! Here’s to Fifty Years, and Fifty More! Free Champagne at Midnight!’ I like free champagne at…”
“You’re not staying until midnight,” John said. He tugged David’s coat. “Please.”
“…Any champagne you buy for me is free, and I like it any time!” David replied. “Come on!”
John rooted himself to the spot. “No. That place is lit up like a chandelier. We do not go to Dasha’s, we never go to…” He paled. “You said you wanted to go to Chez Chatterbox because you saw something about this in the paper and you actually wanted to go to Dasha’s.”
David laughed. “Can’t I just be impetuous?”
“Yes, you can!” John snapped. “Constantly! But I do not for one instant believe that that is what this is!”
David narrowed Erik’s eyes. The metal one whirred and adjusted. “I want to take you out dancing and feed you a decent meal, and a sandwich and coffee is not a decent meal.” He clenched Erik’s teeth. “Now let me take you to Dasha’s.”
“No,” John said, ashen. “Please. This isn’t safe. You’re going to get us both…”
David stamped his fine spatted shoes on the wet cobbles and tore at his hair, perilously close to tearing it off. He shrieked, “I want to go to Dasha’s for champagne and dancing and a nice meal RIGHT NOW!”
John found himself walking up to the doorman, already reaching into his pocket for his most essential “dealing with David” supplies. Apart from the emergency vodka flask, he had enough folding money in there to make four or five sincere apologies for his screaming, overdramatic friend — and a few modified gumballs, for when “sorry” just wasn’t enough.
The large man put up a hand to stop them, and David tugged him back.
“What?” John said, blinking.
“He says, ‘Couples only,’” David muttered. He beamed at the doorman, pulled John near, and kissed his cheek. He spoke to the doorman again, smiling.
John rubbed his cheek and made a panicked assessment of the amount of lipstick that came away on his fingers. “David…”
“It’s fine.” David addressed the doorman again, frowning this time. He snarled and took hold of John’s hand, twining their fingers together.
“I do not want to be part of whatever argument you are having,” John said. “I’m not a…”
David shrieked, stamped, and addressed the doorman with a pointed finger.
The doorman bowed and let them into Dasha’s, without waiting for a tip. He abandoned them to the care of the coat check girl, and wandered away, down the rainy street. The coat check girl opened the door and called after him, but he did not reply.
“What did you,” John hissed.
David waved a hand. “Oh, I don’t know. I was upset.”
John glared at him.
“All right, I may have said something along the lines of, ‘If you can’t get your head around the fact that love is love, then go jump in the Potok River,’ but I’m sure…”
“The Potok River is in Cinovec!” John cried. “We’re in Cyre! On the Silk Sea!”
“Well, he’ll either get his head around the fact that love is love or I suppose he’ll have to pay for a taxi,” David replied. He handed his coat to the stunned-looking girl. “Tip the lady, Johnny. Service people live on tips. Go on.”
John tipped the lady and gave her his coat. He and David went into Dasha’s.
David got exactly the table he wanted, of course, a dim nook near the bar, in a booth with high sides for privacy, and a single candle for light. John was grateful, and hopeful. They might just get away with this! He ordered champagne, for David. David ordered grilled salmon and a Cobb salad, to start, for both of them.
They drank, and ate — and listened to something other than club music, for once. And eventually, John muttered towards his plate, “I can’t stand this. I hate it. I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m losing my mind.”
“Of course you can’t,” David replied. “And of course you do, and of course you don’t, and of course you are. This has got to be miserable for you.” He motioned at the waiter and ordered another bottle of champagne, simply by indicating their empty glasses with a finger. He folded Erik’s hands carefully under his chin. “I don’t know if it helps any, but I can rummage around in here all I like when I’m visiting.” He touched a subtle fingertip to Erik’s temple. “He’s not hurt, or afraid, and he doesn’t blame you for anything because there’s nothing to blame you for. This is all sort of a…” He gestured at the sparkling supper club. “A funny dream he’s having. He doesn’t mind.” He smiled at John. “I wouldn’t like it as much if he did.”
John pressed his cloth napkin over what wanted to be a smile. “I can’t believe you. I want to, but I can’t.”
David reached across and squeezed his hand. “Stop fighting with yourself. That takes energy you just do not have. If you need a break, just let your brain do whatever it wants and ignore it. Distract yourself! You’re in a beautiful city, with a beautiful friend, “ he grinned, “who’ll get you anything you like. I like to drive fast and have fun, and if you come with me, your worries will never catch us. What do you say?”
“What do you want to do?” John said.
“Well!” David collected both champagne glasses. “What if we trade these to that cute bartender over there and add something sticky and dessert-like to our tab — I know you like Grasshoppers, and I’m not one to judge, ha-ha! — and while we’re waiting, shall we have a dance? And if any of these backwards idiots object, I shall send them to jump in the Potok River. How about that?”
John hesitated, and at last allowed a weak half-smile. “Okay.”
David took his hand, holding both glasses in the other. “Come along, we’ll see if they have anything special for their birthday party. It’s probably something dreadful like… Cake flavoured vodka, in a milkshake with real cake!”
“Honestly,” John said, as he stepped a foot on the plush red carpeting of the bar area, “I’d be willing to try…”
A small man with a huge black camera slid in front of them, and yelled something jovial in Prokovian. David yelped, “Oh, I say!” then pulled John nearer with a grin. He lifted both glasses, miming a toast towards the camera, as the flashbulb blared for five long seconds. Everything bleached white, and then purple with blue edges.
“What?” John cried, blinking.
The camera-man’s voice made another laughing request from the glare. This time, David lifted one glass and kissed John, and the flashbulb winked out again.
There was much laughter, and a little applause. The man with the camera said something quick and polite, then departed with a bow — to go yell at and assault more people, over by the dance floor.
“Oh, my gods,” John said. He lifted his black mask and scrubbed both hands over his eyes. “What’s going on? What happened?”
“Well,” said David, “He said, ‘one more for the scrapbook,’ so apparently they have one of those.” He dabbed both eyes carefully with a silk hanky and peered around the bar. “Ah!” He laughed and pointed. “And the other one is for the wall back there! See all the pictures of happy people? In tasteful black-and-white! We really must make this our regular spot, it has class…”
“What?” John said. “A photo?” He stared, panicked, at the wall behind the bar. Above the lighted shelves and bottles, there was a double row of eight-by-ten, glossy, framed photos. The smiling people in them laughed and toasted him in an endless ten second loop. Each loop finished in series and displayed a brief black frame with a gold letter on it, spelling out some mysterious phrase that cycled from the top row to the bottom like a neon sign.
“It says, ‘Happy Birthday, Dasha’s. Let the Good Times Roll,’” David said. He shrugged and smiled. “More or less. A bit annoying, but it is cute.”
John yanked David near and snarled, “We can’t be in photos! We’re… We’re…” He didn’t want to say they were undercover, not out loud. And, anyway, that word had standards that he did not feel he and David met, at all.
“We’re in masks,” David replied, giving John’s a playful tug. “So of course we’re not in photos. It’s impossible for us to be in a photo. It’s just two silly idiots having a nice time, and they’re going to hang it over the bar for a while and then tuck it into a dusty old book and forget about it, at most. Now what would you like to…”
“I want to go home,” John said miserably. “I want to go home, right now.”
“Do you mean the hotel, or all the way back to Marsellia, dear?” David said.
“Oh, gods, what am I going to tell Billie?”
“Nothing,” David replied. “Nothing happened! There is nothing at all she needs to know, so don’t worry about it. Come on and have a drink.”
“I don’t want a drink!” Nevertheless, John collapsed onto a barstool and put his head in his hands.
David stood beside him, patting him, and addressed the nearest patron — whom he felt looked a bit disapproving — in Prokovian, “Is nothing. We’re cheating on our wives and he’s gone slightly paranoid. No worries. Fancy a threesome?” David leaned a bit nearer and blew a kiss.
The man blew out a disgusted snort and vacated his barstool, which David stole and dragged nearer to John. “There, that’s better.” He waved a hand for the bartender’s attention and pointed at the ridiculous concoction drawn on the chalkboard, below the usual menu and announcements. There was a sparkler in it! “Two, please. Whenever you have time. Oh, and happy birthday!”
“I don’t want,” John muttered.
“It’s more effort to cancel it now, dear. See? She’s already put the cake in the blender. I’ll have both if you don’t want one!”
“Oh, gods…”
“Can I have another little kiss? He’s playing again.”
They ended up missing the free champagne at midnight, but only just.
◆◇◆
In their absence, the room had been tidied — somewhat. The half-hearted swipes of a carpet sweeper were evident in the threadbare pile, not anywhere near full coverage. Housekeeping treated room 1409 like it was full of poison gas. There was a stack of clean bedding and towels on one armchair, and a plastic-wrapped stack of clean laundry on the other. The empty laundry bag had been hung on the open bathroom door. Inside, the toilet roll had been folded into an uneven point. It wafted in the cool breeze from the radiator, like a swirl of dust and leaves indicating the sudden departure of a cartoon character — post-haste, even.
On the warped linoleum floor of the tiny kitchen, there was total mouse carnage. Potato was still batting around the last shell-shocked survivor.
John paled and found himself groping to turn off the light switch, which would at least let him pretend he didn’t have to clean that up until all of it was dead.
He ended up brushing the clear vinyl decal applied to the wallpaper near the switch instead. Apparently, he’d fed it enough information for it to recognize him, or else the damn thing was just as tired and broken as he was — he’d have to ask Billie, tomorrow. A few minutes later, as he was removing the laundry from a chair to sit down, the scan completed itself and glowing green text materialized in front of his eyes: Welcome home, John! No new magic or bugs! You’re safe!
He gave a cry and sat suddenly without meaning to, but it was just as well. He was supposed to scan the room on purpose, every time, and then wait. But he could never remember it, especially after David. He staggered back towards the door, wondering absently if he ought to hit the sticker again…
A gloved hand pulled the large window open from a convenient metal handle affixed to the outside. Breathless and streaked after his trek up the fire-escape from the street — it was nothing but a wrought-iron ladder, which David had already repaired in several places — David-in-Erik stepped over the radiator and onto the floor.
Potato gave a cry, scooped up the stunned mouse, and scrambled to deposit it at David’s feet, vibrating with carnivorous joy. The small grey creature staggered a few steps and keeled over on its side, visibly gasping.
David patted the cat on the head and crushed the half-dead mouse under the heel of his shoe. “I appreciate the sentiment, darling, but I wish you wouldn’t torment your toys quite so much. Do you want a few more to play with while we attend to business? There must be one or two…”
“Please don’t,” John said faintly, sickened.
David leaned down, tapped the splintered baseboard and spoke softly, “Are there any more mice at home?” Potato dashed over, recognizing the posture. However, David did not demand that any nearby mice come out, right now, and present themselves for the slaughter. “So sorry, Kitty. You’ll just have to amuse yourself with what you already have.”
Nevertheless, the cat trotted happily after him as he made his way around the room. First, he removed the gloves, tucking them in his jacket pocket, then he put the wig and gold mask on the blank wooden mannequin head. He stowed the head under the kitchenette’s sink, behind a stickerless door that Erik could not open, then zipped his coat into the laundry bag.
John heard the water running from the bathroom sink. He shed his own coat and collapsed into a chair — the wrong chair, the one with all the bedding and laundry heaped in it. The plastic-wrapped clothing sighed weakly, pheeeeef.
“Blech,” said David, muffled by the half-open door. “I don’t mind a bit of foundation, but the sheer amount of concealer I need to leave this blasted hotel room is unbearable. Fuck this racist fucking country. I’d help you blow the whole thing up if you wanted, honestly. Shall we burn down this shitty hotel and that bitch at the front desk with it?”
“No, thank you,” John said, head in hands.
“What about just her?”
“No.”
Erik — David — peeked out of the bathroom, shirtless, with the top button of his fly undone. “Then shall we just have another drink and talk about your troubles?”
“No,” John said. “Go away.”
“But you’ll miss me when I’m gone,” David said, beaming.
“I will, but I’ve had enough of you tonight,” John said. “Go on. You’ve had your time.”
“I’m only cleaning him up so you don’t have to,” David replied, flouncing out of the bathroom. “Now where’s that old liquor bag? I’ll clean the rest of him up t…”
John had bolted out of his chair and put his whole body between Erik and the black bag on the windowsill. “No!”
David put a surprisingly gentle hand on his shoulder. “You know he needs it. He won’t leave the damn violin alone and he thinks he’s going home on Tiw’s day.” He cocked a finger at Erik’s head. “I don’t know how that fell in here, but it’s not falling out. I’d say have me back on Tiw’s day and I’ll do it then, but I think he’ll sniff something’s amiss before that. I’m either going to do it now or you’ll have to.” He moved his hand down to John’s arm. “I know you don’t like to — and I don’t mind at all!”
“You like it,” John spat. “You like hurting him. I don’t like that!”
David laughed. “It doesn’t hurt him. It doesn’t even hurt me, and I get hip-checked back to the god-lounge every time. It’s… Like a ride in a fast car! It’s fun!”
“He cries every time! He…”
“Well, he doesn’t have to.” David sniffed, knocking back Erik’s head. “He’s probably just toying with your emotions because he’s an irritating little shit…”
“No, that’s you,” John said tightly.
“Do you want to do it,” David replied, just as tightly, “or do you want the irritating little shit who doesn’t care to do it? I’m leaving you alone with him either way. You’d rather have more room service and eggs?” He smiled sweetly.
John sat in one of the folding chairs with a huff, turning away. “Don’t tease him. For gods’ sakes, don’t tease him. Just be fast.”
“Always,” David said, collecting the back from the sill. He snickered and shrugged. “Well, not always.” He winked at John with the eye that could. When that failed to get any reaction, he shrugged again. He pulled out the silly little teapot and set it on the table, then he tugged the bag all the way open, revealing the other thing inside.
◆◇◆
In the safe little room in Erik’s head, the radio snapped back into existence and screamed: DON’T SCREW AROUND WITH BATTERIES, THEY’LL RUIN YOUR BRAIN!
“No,” Erik said, silent, unheard. He dropped his violin, and she evaporated before she hit the floor. The planks were winking out one-by-one as well, leaving random patches of dark obsidian. “No-no-no…” He ran forward with hands out to catch himself, to stop himself — never once thinking that he wouldn’t, couldn’t — and fell out of the window with a voiceless cry.
◆◇◆
He couldn’t gasp, he couldn’t shudder. His heart didn’t even speed up. He couldn’t move. He felt the tip of his left index finger pressed firmly against a cubed metal prong with a deep divot in the centre, one of a pair of dice that had rolled permanent snake eyes. The other was right under his nose. He couldn’t see it, but he smelled hot metal like blood.
The thing was huge. Almost big enough for a car. He’d never…
No. He had. It had been in the back of the truck. And John had pushed down his hand.
No. You don’t have to do that, I want to help! Please! I know why you did it and I WANT…
He felt his mouth open, and his tongue peek out between his lips. “I used to lick nine-volts for fun, Johnny,” he said playfully. “Did I ever tell you that?”
John slammed a hand down on the wobbly card table, making the whole thing jump. “Cut that out!”
David laughed, he felt David making him laugh. “It doesn’t really matter. Ta, for now.” He stuck out his tongue and licked the other terminal, completing the circuit with a magic metal patch that was right up next to his brain.
It felt like a push on a swing. A playful push on a swing from a sadist who was going to make him loop-de-loop over the branch holding him up, spilling all the change out of his pockets and the thoughts out of his head, then slam his whole body into the ground and bring the tree down on top of him. He knew that for an instant and lost it. It was too fast. A reverse Gravity Drop that was going to catapult him out of the stratosphere. Everything blurred with speed-lines like a comic strip and he could only scream…
He didn’t know if he screamed. He didn’t know what screaming was. Or comic strips, or a “Gravity Drop.” There were words for what was happening, where he was, what he was feeling, but he couldn’t find any of them. Everything was soft and abstract like some kinda painting he thought he might remember, or the world viewed through stained glass, or some other thing he didn’t know.
There were… Noises. Low. Sawing. Wet. He didn’t like the noises, but he couldn’t make them stop.
There was something warm near him, then around him. Holding. That was a little better, but the noises still wouldn’t stop.
◆◇◆
“Shh, Erik, that’s okay.” John held him a little tighter, rocking with him, waiting out the worst of it.
The first time, Erik had laughed. He’d laughed like crazy. Sincere-sounding, helpless laughter, like he’d just heard the funniest thing in the world. It went on for maybe five minutes straight, and then, on-and-off, for another ten, while John sat beside him on the truck’s tailgate and held him up. Then it seemed he wanted to sleep. He didn’t say so, but he put his head on John’s shoulder, curled up and shut his eye. When John laid him down in the back of the truck and threw a blanket over him, he did sleep… or passed out, or fell into a brief coma. Even now, John wasn’t sure about that.
Erik had laughed every time, for a long time, but it seemed to get less and less happy, more desperate, and broken.
Now, Erik cried. Every time. Helpless sobbing without words. It would be a few hours with no words at all, and maybe a day or more of random, confused silences and fear.
“It’s okay,” John assured. “This is just for right now. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
One last gasp became a sigh. Erik dropped his head on John’s damp shoulder and put both arms around him, as if asking to be picked up and carried. But Erik was too big for that now.
“Come on.” John pulled him out of the chair. “Let’s go to bed. You just need some sleep. You’ll feel lots better after you sleep, I promise. Come on, that’s okay…” Erik walked well enough, with help. When John let him down on the mattress, he curled up and turned his head aside, pressing his metal eye to the pillow.
John knew he ought to have Erik take his eye out, and do the list again — Erik would rest better, and feel better, and obey better — but he just didn’t have the strength.
He sorted through the bedding, found the blanket, and shook it over Erik, without bothering to remove David’s pants or shoes. He’d get them later. “Just get some sleep, you’re all right.”
◆◇◆
Erik was… tired? He guessed? Yeah. Dizzy. Like, too many trips around a merry-go-round, ha. Or maybe someone pushed him so hard he did a loop-de-loop on a… a whaddya-call-it? Swing. Yeah. Funny. But that was all right. He’d just sleep for a little. No big deal…
