4
The Faerie Reel
Eric opened his eyes, and wished he hadn’t.
The elf was still there.
Please, God, don’t let this be real. This has to be a drug flashback. It just has to be.
“Bard?” Again, that soft, hesitant voice. It bordered on timid. It was certainly diffident. “Please, talk to me, tell me you’re all right. Bard?”
It’s not real. I’m just seeing things. There isn’t an elf in my living room. I’ll close my eyes, and when I open them again, he’ll be gone, or he’ll be a rubber tree, or maybe a unicorn. Eric shivered, his head throbbing, and closed his eyes again. If he’s still there—I won’t think that. This isn’t happening. If there isn’t an elf, if it’s all in my head—
It has to be in my head. If it isn’t in my head—those nightmare things—were—
Real. No. Oh God. Please, no. Not again. I can’t face them twice.
“Bard?”
I can’t even face an elf. Maybe if I don’t talk to it, it’ll just go away.
The hallucination sighed deeply, and said something that Eric couldn’t understand, a brief phrase in a language that was liquid and musical, even if it did sound like a muttered curse.
A hand traced a delicate line down Eric’s cheek; rested on his shoulder.
He shuddered away from the touch. Just go away, please . . . don’t be real.
Then an electrical shock slammed into him; he’d gotten hold of a live wire once, helping set up for a gig, and this felt exactly like that all-too-unforgettable incident. Eric yelped and somehow managed to leap into the air from a prone position, levitating in midair for a brief moment before landing again in a painful heap on the couch.
He glared accusingly at the hallucination, who was smiling broadly, his grin bright with relief. “Oh, good, you weren’t hurt at all! I was . . . ”
That was all the elf had time to say. Eric was goaded past being afraid. The creature froze at the rage in Eric’s eyes, and then he gurgled as Eric reached over and grabbed him by the throat.
The next exciting thing Eric experienced was the unmistakable sensation of having his face flattened against plaster as he slammed against the far wall of the living room. With a groan, he slid down to the carpeted floor.
He did not want to move. Not at all.
Not for four or five days, anyway.
His head rang with the impact and with a strange polyphonic harmony. This can’t be a hallucination, he thought dazedly, tasting salty blood where he had bitten the inside of his cheek. It hurts too much.
“Bard?”
Oh God, he’s still here.
“Please, Bard, you have to stop attacking me. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”
Eric turned over—slowly—then blinked a few times, as the room spun wildly around him. “Yeah,” he muttered thickly, “I don’t want you to hurt me anymore, either.”
He pulled himself up into a sitting position, and shook his head to stop the ringing in his ears, then looked at his unwelcome house guest.
Eric stared in fascination as several identically-blond elves moved towards him from across the room, then slowly reformed into a single figure that knelt down beside him.
“Let me see,” the figure said, and lightly touched Eric’s forehead. Eric winced at the sudden pain that lanced through his head, front to back.
“This is my doing. I shall take care of it,” his imaginary visitor said quietly. To Eric’s surprise, the pain began to recede as a soft melody (somehow as close as the wall, and as distant as the moon, simultaneously) echoed lightly in his mind.
If anybody ever puts that in a bottle—he thought; then he wasn’t thinking, just listening. Listening to music that seemed to be becoming a part of him. Like the very first time he’d ever listened to anything on a really good pair of stereo headphones only better. Enchantingly better.
It’s like Bach, all the layers of voice, building together.
Finally, the music faded. Eric sat up with a pang of regret, feeling as though he had just awakened from a long restful night’s sleep. The elf was looking at him with those large, emerald cat’s eyes, eyes that were darkened with concern.
This cannot be real. Scratch that. It can’t be what it looks like. So what would it be if it wasn’t what it looks . . .
Maureen. She’s getting even with me. And she must know a bizillion people over in the studios.
Those ears—
The delicate ears, curving to a graceful point—They have to be fakes, like what those Faire kids all dressed up in wolfskins were wearing last season. Eric wondered if the tips would come off if he pulled on them . . .
“Try it,” the creature said in a voice suddenly cold and steel-hard, “and I’ll knock you on your backside again, Bard or not.”
How did he know—“No thanks, I think I’ve had enough of that,” Eric said hastily. He carefully stood up, gingerly touching the side of his face that had impacted so resoundingly with the wall. To his surprise, it was slightly sore, but didn’t hurt. Much.
The elf helped him walk back to the couch, and Eric sank down onto the squeaky cushions with an audible sigh. The elf sat beside him.
“This is not going as I had planned,” the elf said, looking at him out of the corners of his eyes. “You are not cooperating, Bard.”
Take a different angle. Yah. It’s not “real” because this has to be some kind of trick. “My name’s not Bard,” Eric snapped. “Who the hell are you, when you aren’t breaking into people’s apartments and bashing them into walls?”
The elf straightened, pride written in his stance and expression. Eric’s blue jeans and Faire shirt looked incongruous on him, like a polyester business suit on King Arthur.
Okay, so he’s an actor, at least. Pretty good one, too.
“I am Korendil, warrior and mage, second to Prince Terenil, leader of the elves of this region.”
“Uh huh,” Eric replied dryly. “I’m Eric Banyon. Street busker. What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”
The hair could be his, could be a wig. Ears are latex. Eyes—contact lenses. You could even do the funny pupils that way; that’s what they did in “Thriller.” Korendil, Terenil, they sound like somebody lifted those names right out of Tolkien. And yeah. He didn’t read my mind, he read my eyes. I looked at his ears—he’s gotta know that the first thing anybody would think is, “Are they real?” And he’s too smart not to figure I’d try to yank on them.
“I followed you here,” Korendil said, some of the pride draining out of his stance. “I followed you from the place-of-festival.”
Cute. “Place-of-festival” instead of “Fairesite.” Oh, you’re good, fella. But I’m not that stoned, no matter what Maureen told you about my habits.
“You followed me, huh?” Eric sat back and rubbed the sore side of his face. “Why?”
“I was trapped in the Node-Grove, the magic nexus at the place-of-festival, trapped by our enemy, Terenil’s and mine, the traitor we once harbored in our midst.”
“You expect me to believe elves have traitors?” Eric laughed. “Come on! You’ll have to do better than that.”
Korendil glared. “You, who play ‘Sheebeg Sheemore’ with such feeling, how can you be such a great fool as that?”
“Watch who you’re calling a fool, buddy,” Eric growled. He’s got the script down good, that’s for sure. “Just what is this guy supposed to have done to you?”
“He caught me unawares and bound me in sleep in the oaken grove. Until you Awakened me.”
“Say what?” Whoever wrote this script sure has a weird imagination. And Maureen sure gave him a lot to work with.
Korendil leaned forward, earnestly. “You Awakened me, Bard. With your song, two nights ago. And you freed me from imprisonment in the grove.”
Music, wild and fey, the trees bending closer to listen, then that moment when everything had clicked, that moment . . .
And how the hell did he know that? Maureen wasn’t there. There’s no way he could know what happened Saturday night.
Okay, wait a minute. He was at the Fairesite, he stole my cloak. He probably talked to people who know me, knew I tend to slink off to that grove to be alone. Hell, he probably was hiding in the trees and listening to me!
Bastard. You almost had me falling for it.
But I didn’t hear or see anyone, and I would have. Wouldn’t I?
“You’re stoned, mister,” Eric said slowly. “Yeah, I played in that grove on Saturday night, but I didn’t do any more than that.”
“But you are a Bard—and Bards are the greatest of mages. Bards control the magic of creation, the magic only the most skillful of High Adepts can use. Even untutored, you are a greater mage than I or even the Prince. Untutored, you can break the spells of lock and ward simply by wishing for freedom as you play.”
I wanted freedom—and—
Damn, he’s good. He almost suckered me in. I wonder where Maureen found this guy? The annual Screen Actors Guild Christmas party? “You still haven’t said why you followed me home.”
“It is a long tale—” Korendil looked at him doubtfully.
Eric spread his hands wide. “I’ve got nothing but time. Humor me.”
The elf cleared his throat, and took on that proud posture again. “Once we lived freely in this land,” he said, his words sounding as if he was reciting some chronicle. “We came here from across the sea, seeking freedom from fear even as your kind sought it. We spread farther and faster than your kind, and were well settled by the time they came upon us again. We welcomed them. Our groves were scattered among the humans’ dwellings, and we lived in peace with them. That changed; in the way of humans, so swiftly that we were taken unawares. You humans began to build with cold iron in this valley, more and more as the years went past, and slowly our people were cut off from each other.”
Eric shrugged. “So? What’s that got to do with anything?” Logic; let’s have some logic here. How’d he do what he did to me? How do you fake magic?
“We have been cut off from the Node-Grove, the nexus, the source of all our magic, by the walls of cold iron you humans have built. That has weakened our power, and—”
“So move,” Eric interrupted. “Do what everybody else does. Head for the suburbs.” He’s SAG, I bet. Using some kind of special effects. Bet Maureen can just wiggle her hips and have forty techies begging to do her favors.
“We are tied to our groves,” Korendil explained, as if to a particularly stupid child.
Eric bristled a little, and Korendil continued, apparently not noticing. “Without the magic of the Node-Grove, most of us are bound to the groves where we anchored ourselves in your world. We cannot travel far from the home-trees without much pain and further weakening. Only those of the High Court, who need no anchoring to dwell on this side of the Hill, remained free to move. They could not, and would not, leave the others.”
Eric was only half-listening, sizing the guy up. He could be a martial artist. He’s got the build for it. That would sure account for him being able to toss me across the room. And if Maureen gave him her key, he could have been in and out of here all he wanted.
“Uh huh,” Eric said vaguely, shifting his weight so that the couch creaked. “So, they’re stuck. What’s so bad about that?”
“What’s ‘so bad,’ ” Korendil said acidly, “is that when elves are cut off from each other and the source of their magic, they fall into Dreaming.”
The capital “D” was as plain as if Korendil had written the word.
“Dreaming what?” Eric replied, interested in spite of his anger at the trick being played on him. Whoever came up with this should write a book. It’s better than half the fantasy schlock I’ve picked up lately—like telepathic horses, or ancient Aztec gods invading Dallas.
“Dreaming . . . it is a—” Korendil groped for words.
This part must not have been in the script.
“It is a state,” he said, finally. “A state in which only ‘now’ is important. There is no memory of the past, or thought of the future. All that matters is existence and amusement.”
“Sounds like half the kids hanging out at the malls,” Eric replied, uncomfortably aware that Korendil was describing something very like his own life.
“And that is where you find them,” Korendil said, nodding. “In the malls. What little magic they have left to them, they use to help steal what they want. Things of amusement, entertainment, and clothing that catches their fancy. Surely you have seen them, and yet never noticed them, nor noticed that they are not to be seen outside of your malls.”
God, what a concept! Eric suppressed the urge to laugh. Mall-elves! Tolkien invades Southern California! Christ, it’s as hokey as a Saturday-morning cartoon show! Like that one I saw a while back—what was it called? Jewel?
Damn, but this guy should really write a book!
“Even the Prince has been lost to the weakening of magic,” Korendil continued sadly. “Even he has begun to give up all hope. So—I turn to you, Bard Eric, and I offer you your heart’s desire.”
Eric crossed his arms over his chest, and put his feet up on the scarred coffee table. Okay, this is too clever and too consistent to be some lunatic’s private fantasy. So let’s hear the pitch I’m supposed to fall for. “And just what is that?” he asked.
If he has a laser up his sleeve, that would account for the electric shock too. I think I’ve got you figured out, fella. I’m willing to play the game through before I throw you out. Make you work for your money.
“I offer you,” the elf said, proudly, “a cause to fight for.”
“What?” Eric laughed aloud. “Go around playing reveille for all your little mall-elves?” He shook his head. “I’m a flautist, not a trumpeter.”
Korendil’s eyes darkened and narrowed. “No,” he said coldly. “Have you heard nothing in the past three days? The place-of-festival is doomed—and all magic for this Valley originates there at the Node-Grove. Bad enough that my people are lost in Dreaming, but if the nexus is destroyed, all magic here will die. My people, unable to flee to a new source, will fade and die. And you mortals stand to lose as well—mark you. The Node-Grove is the reason for Hollywood and all that is associated with it being located here. If the Node-Grove is destroyed, your connection to magic and creativity will be lost, and the dreams and hopes that make your short lives worth living will be destroyed as well.”
You slipped up, fella. One minute you’re talking forsoothly, and the next, about the Industry. Uh huh. Gotcha.
Eric laughed in the impostor’s face.
“Sure,” he said, deliberately sneering at him. “And I’m the only person in the whole of L.A. who can help you. Right. Where’d you get this idea, anyway? Some script you couldn’t sell? Well, you can’t sell it to me, either.”
“You mean—” Korendil looked aghast. “You mean you don’t believe me?”
Still playing the part. He’s good, I’ll give him that. Wonder why I never saw him at Faire before this?
“Damn straight I don’t believe you—and even if I did, I don’t see anything in it for me.” He shrugged. “And you can tell Maureen I said she’s not gonna be playing any games with my head anymore.”
“But—the magic here is one of the reasons you play so well,” Korendil cried, his face twisted with anguish. “You respond to it, and it responds to you, don’t you see? You’re a true Bard, like Merlin, like Taliesen—”
“Like bullshit,” Eric interrupted. “You can tell Maureen that I didn’t find her little trick very funny, and I didn’t fall for it. I hope she paid you a bundle—you earned it, that’s for sure. But, no matter what she told you, I’m usually in pretty good control of my reality. And I don’t like this kind of practical joke, mister. So you can just pack your act up and get the hell out of my life.”
“But I’m not—” the phony elf started to say.
“Bye,” Eric said, wriggling his fingers. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t get up. I’ve had kind of a strenuous day.”
Korendil rose from the couch—
Probably a dancer, too. Maybe he’s in ballet. Too tall to get a lead part, though; he must be six-five if he’s an inch. Wonder if he’s gay? It sure seemed like he was coming on to me for a while.
I wonder if that was part of Maureen’s little game, too? Would it make her feel better about the breakup if she found out I was into guys?
“I will be back,” the elf-actor said, making the words a promise. “I will be back. I will convince you somehow, Eric Banyon. That, I swear!”
Eric shrugged. “Just don’t expect Maureen’s key to work again. I’m having the locks changed.”
The elf wrapped anger and frustration around him like a cloak, and glided out the door, which—despite Eric’s assumptions—did not slam shut behind him.
Christ. What kind of an idiot did she take me for, anyway? A few special effects and a fairy tale, and I’m supposed to fall for it. Hell, he wasn’t even dressed like an elf, he—
He was wearing my clothes!
Shit! And he took them with him!
Bastard!
Eric sat up slowly, feeling a residual ache in too many places. Christ, Maureen, why did you have to do this to me? I never thought you’d stoop so low—
—or that you hated me this much. The elation he’d had earlier was gone.
What did I do to make you hate me like this?
He looked around the living room, seeing only the empty places that used to be filled with Maureen’s posters, her Beethoven, all the other reminders that someone else lived here. Funny. Most of the things that made this place look like a home instead of Howard Johnson’s were hers. Everything I care about you could put in a couple of backpacks.
If I died tomorrow, nobody’d miss me until the rent was late.
Helluva note.
From the high of the afternoon he slid abruptly into one of the lowest lows he’d had in a long time. He rubbed his eyes, as the silence around him oppressed him further still.
I can’t stay here alone tonight. I can’t. If I do, I’ll go crazy, or drink everything in the apartment, or do something equally stupid. Maybe I should call some people, set up a jam.
Wait a minute—
There’s Spiral Dance, they’re playing in Studio City tonight. Beth wanted me to join them, the usual split. Hell, the money would be good, and I sure don’t want to stay here tonight, staring at the ceiling, listening to the water pipes play percussion solos.
His throat felt tight, and he shivered.
Maureen is probably in Westwood tonight with her Pavilion friends, drinking wine and laughing about that idiot flautist she walked out on.
Eric closed his eyes tightly, fighting off the impulse to bury his face in the couch pillows.
Dammit, I am not going to cry. I’m going to get off my ass and play a gig tonight, make some cash, drink a few with Beth and the Spiral Dance folks. And have a good time. I sure did the last time I did a gig with them.
He thought back to his last gig with Beth Kentraine and her wild crew of folk-rock musicians—which had climaxed with Beth launching herself, Fender and all, from the stage and landing on one of the tables, much to the surprise of the customer sitting there.
She didn’t even make the table rock. God, she’s crazed.
He began to smile, and his depression slowly lightened. Yeah, I’m up for that. Old Celtic melodies with electric guitar and trap set. Black leather and studs, and Bethy’s dark velvet voice, singing an ancient, gentle Irish air.
Oh, they’re crazy, but fun-crazy, terrific to play a gig with. Now they might have taken that pointy-eared joker seriously.
That’s a good reason not to get tied up too closely with them, though. There’s something kind of weird about them—like how they cancel a gig if someone has a bad feeling about it. All that weird shit. Like too many people at Faire, acting like their characters are real. Caught up in some reality I don’t understand.
Hell. They got a right. Beth and the Spirallers are good people, damn fine musicians. Even if they are a little weird.
That’s it. I’ll go gig with them tonight.
He pried himself off the couch, and headed into the bedroom to look for his gig clothing. His black leather boots, his least-faded pair of jeans, a dressy shirt, bright red with little fake-pearl buttons. Yeah, that’s me: Eric Banyon, the hottest rock-flute player in L.A., and a snappy dresser too.
I really wish that SAG guy hadn’t walked off with my leather vest, though. That was pretty cheesy, taking off with my clothes. And my Faire boots.
Damn it, Maureen, that was a low trick! But I’m not going to let your stupid games spoil my life, or even one night.
Eric retrieved his cloak from where the actor had left it, draped over one of the chairs. He fastened the brass clasp at his throat, then walked over to where his gig bag was lying on the chair.
And stopped at a tug on his throat. Something isn’t right—
He looked down. The cloak was six inches longer than it had been the last time he wore it.
But it used to fit me perfectly, exactly ankle length. I don’t—wait, that pointy-eared actor was at least six-two, closer to six-five, and I’m five-ten. Could he have had somebody add more material to my cloak, make it longer so it would fit him right?
Eric examined the hem of the cloak, and shook his head in disbelief.
Nope. No sign of anything added. Not even that the hem got let out. It’s just longer. Besides, how in the hell could he have matched the plaid lining?
Okay, okay. It’s wool. Wool stretches. He got it wet, and it stretched. Let’s get real about this.
He let the cloak fall, trying to ignore the fact that it was dragging on the floor with every step he took. I’m not going crazy, it’s just that somebody is playing mind-games with me, messing with my head, and dammit, Maureen, it isn’t funny!
Screw that. I’m going to play a gig and enjoy myself.
Eric slung the gig bag over his shoulder, and stopped, one hand on the doorknob.
Okay, the cloak got stretched—but how in hell did that guy fit in my jeans?
Don’t ask, Banyon. Just—don’t ask.
Deliberately whistling a jazzed-up version of “Banish Misfortune” with determination, he locked the apartment door behind him.
The RTD bus bounced and swayed along Van Nuys Boulevard, the driver honking angrily at someone who was blocking the street in rush-hour traffic.
Eric added that syncopated rhythm to the tune he was composing. He smiled at the elderly woman in the seat across from him, who was glaring silently at him as he whistled another brief snatch of melody then quickly scribbled the sequence in his notebook.
That’s what I like about L.A., everybody is so friendly . . .
Eric leaned against the grimy window. His depression was gone, just as quickly as it had descended. Everything seemed somehow brighter, touched by the red-gold of the sunset, the wisps of multicolored clouds overhead. The Hollywood hills were a reassuring presence on the right.
All those rich Industry people, just waiting to discover a talented musician like meself—
Ahead, Burbank and Pasadena vanished into the thickening brown-blueness of the sky, the last glint of sunlight reflecting off the distant antenna towers capping Mount Wilson, high above the Valley.
Looking down at the street, Eric watched the moving crowd: the shoppers, weighed down by packages; the high school kids walking in clusters, like some modern kind of herd animal. A policewoman directed cars as a broken traffic signal flashed its single red light forlornly.
I don’t know what it is, but I like this city. Of all the places I’ve lived, or just wandered through, I really like L.A. the best. Sure, it’s crowded, and smoggy, and dirty, but there’s such a feeling of life to it. Maybe it’s the dreams—all the hopes and dreams of all the people who live here make this place come alive.
The little old lady on the opposite seat suddenly gasped with surprise. Eric stood up quickly and looked out the window as two motorcyclists, both wearing skintight red-and-white racing leathers, arced past the bus, barely avoiding the cars ahead of them. One motorcyclist dropped down on one foot, the bike banking sharply, then gunned the engine and followed his friend down the boulevard.
The elderly woman muttered something about hooligans and reckless drivers, and transfixed Eric with a dark accusing look, as though all of this were his fault. But Eric barely noticed, watching as the bikers disappeared into the late afternoon traffic.
They’re crazy. But beautiful. I wish I could do things like that with a motorcycle. Though that’s not too likely, not unless I could find a bike that somehow drives itself! But they really are beautiful to watch. Like dancers.
Eric sat back down in his seat, looking out the bus window. Even through the glass, he could hear the pounding beat of a rap song.
A group of kids were breakdancing on the sidewalk. Eric watched in disbelief as one boy moonwalked backwards, flipped over into a handstand, then rolled to the concrete in a tight backspin. The kid vaulted back up onto his feet, moving aside so one of his friends could take his turn on the pavement.
Damn. Another thing I wish I could do! He laughed silently at himself. “If wishes were fishes we’d walk on the sea.” They make it look so easy, but I’d probably kill myself if I tried any of those stunts.
A white limousine pulled in between Eric and the sidewalk, blocking his view of the street dancers. Eric tried to peer over the top of the car—
But his gaze was caught by a movement inside, and he saw a man in the back of the limo, gazing out the open window. An older man, silver hair, strong features—
I’ve seen someone like him before, somewhere. I know I have. The curve of his jaw, the high cheekbones—God, he looks familiar . . .
Then the man looked up, and saw that Eric was watching him. Their eyes met; Eric was unable to look away, trapped by the intensity of the man’s gaze.
Green eyes, clouded emerald—falling into a bottomless pool of water. Jade mirrors reflecting the shadowed night sky. Something watching, wanting, reaching out and reaching in—taking hold—taking possession—
Eric turned away from the window with an effort, shaking his head. What in the hell is wrong with me? he thought desperately. I know what it is. He has the same eyes as that actor, Korendil, that so-called “elf,” the same leaf-green eyes. No. I’m seeing things. Or else they’ve both got the same optometrist.
Against his will, Eric slid back to the window, and stared down at the man in the limo again. The man, gazing up at the bus window, smiled—but it was a smile edged in frost. The emerald eyes caught him, drew him in close, and refused to let him go.
Eyes—
Reaching up and through, touching intimately, examining everything, no matter how secret—echoes of scornful laughter—something foul and slimy where no one should ever be able to go—shame—violation—stripping everything away, all the illusions, all the delusions, leaving a rag of self for all the world to see . . .
A wave of dizziness hit Eric like a wall, blocking out everything except the feeling that the world was spinning around him, and there was nothing he could hold onto, nothing that was still him. He clung to the window, his mouth dry, bile in his throat, and clutched for anything that was real.
Nothing I’ve ever done has made any difference to anyone; nothing I do is ever going to make any difference. I could throw myself in front of a semi, and no one would care. I wouldn’t even rate more than three words in the obit column.
This was more than depression, this was despair, bleak, cold, hopeless.
Nobody would ever miss me. Maureen wouldn’t. My landlord wouldn’t. The Faire wouldn’t. Beth might wonder where I vanished to—for about five minutes. Then she’d forget about me. They’d all forget about me. I might as well never have lived.
Despondency weighed heavily upon his soul, and sent his heart plummeting downwards.
Nobody gives a damn about me, and nobody ever will. I’ve never done anything worthwhile. I’ve never done anything right. I might just as well take that dive and get it over with—
When he looked out the window again, unable to keep from shaking, the white limo was gone. Nauseated and sweating, Eric closed his eyes and leaned against the cool glass, breathing unsteadily.
Christ. What’s happening to me?
I think I’m losing my mind. God, I’m better off dead . . .
He concentrated on the feeling of the glass against his forehead and closed his eyes until the nausea passed. When he opened his eyes again everything had changed.
The breakdancers were still lounging on the sidewalk, but now they were gathered around an elderly man like hyenas around a helpless gazelle. Eric stared in horror as one of the youths shoved the old man hard against the wall, sending him sprawling face down on the pavement, where they proceeded to strip his pockets, riffling through the fallen bag of groceries spilling out onto the sidewalk. A gray-haired shopkeeper watched in silence from behind the dubious safety of his glass storefront, then turned away. Even the pedestrians on the street carefully looked the other way as they walked past.
What in hell is going on here?
Everything is so gray, so unreal . . .
Even the Hollywood Hills, instead of their usual green-brown dotted with houses, seemed to have faded. The sky had darkened to a sullen gray. No one on the street laughed, or smiled, or even looked as though they were enjoying life, or were glad to be alive.
They looked more as if they were enduring the last few moments before their own executions.
Eric trembled and closed his eyes, turning away from the window. God, what’s happening to me?
A burst of laughter and applause drew his attention back to the window. Eric saw the breakdancer bow to the gathered crowd, as the elderly man, still carrying his bag of groceries, bent down to put a dollar bill in the cardboard box next to the dancers’ tape player.
The bus lurched into movement again, slowly rumbling down the boulevard, as Eric stared at the receding sidewalk and the breakdancers. But I know what I saw—
The despair was fading, almost tangibly.
It’s the drugs, Eric. Serious drugs. Definitely too much in one weekend.
He shook his head, hoping to clear it. First a gay elf, then Svengali in a limo, then a remake of 1984. Shit. I hope I can get my act together for the gig tonight, or Beth Kentraine is going to kill me.