The Dark Remains (50 page)

She tapped one of the cards in the center triangle—the Devil—and a shiver coursed up her back. She felt so cold. But that’s what happened when one chose fashion over comfort.

Like you’re ever going to change your ways, girl. Being beautiful is your burden
.

Although it hadn’t always been. Once, years ago, she had been Martin J. Morris, a gangly black teenage boy
living in Five Points with an uncle who only ate food that came in cans, only drank things that came in bottles with bulls on the labels, and only spoke in words that would have been bleeped out on the TV reruns Martin liked to watch.

Fame?
What’s that crap, Martin? You should be watching
The A-Team.
Mr. T—now that’s the man you want to be. ’Cept without all that jewelry. Spin like them dancer boys, and they’ll be calling you Fartin’ Martin. Are you listening?

Martin wasn’t. He did spin, at night, alone in his attic bedroom.

Things hadn’t been so bad when his aunt was alive. She had laughed when Martin had danced for her, holding an egg beater like a microphone as he lip-synced to her old Billie Holiday records. Then, one day Martin had glanced into the mirror in his bedroom, only he hadn’t seen his own reflection. Instead, as clear as
That Girl
or Ginger on
Gilligan’s Island
, he had seen his aunt walk across a street he knew was two miles from their house. Then he had watched as a garbage truck ran a red light and struck her.

He had always thought people flew through the air when they got hit by cars, tumbled to the pavement, rolled, and got up just like Lindsay Wagner, the Bionic Woman. Instead, his aunt had exploded, as if the frail, heavy fruit of her body had been just barely held together by the force of her life. For a moment the mirror had turned crimson, then he had stared at his own wide eyes.

By the time he got downstairs, the police were there, and his uncle had already popped the top on a bottle.

It was about a year later, one day when his uncle was snoring wetly on the couch, that Martin sneaked into his uncle’s room, raided the closet of his dead aunt, and ran back to the attic with an armload of chiffon, velvet, and crisp polyester. And that gray afternoon, at the age of
sixteen, color finally found its way into Martin’s life in shades of canary, hot pink, and lime green. Sister Marjoram was born.

A year later, when his uncle finally found what had become of his dead wife’s clothes, he threw Martin out on the street. It was the best favor anyone had ever done for Martin in his life.

It’s clear you’re suffering from depression, low self-worth, and a lack of identity
, the slack-eyed counselor at the youth center had told him, staring dully at his tight jeans, tube top, and feather boa.
That’s why you’re creating a new persona for yourself
.

But the counselor was wrong. Sister Marjoram wasn’t the persona. Martin J. Morris was. For sixteen years he hadn’t had the slightest clue who he was, had gazed at the skinny boy in the mirror with the uneasy eyes of a stranger. Then, that day, he had finally found what he hadn’t even known he was looking for in a pair of high heels and a Chanel handbag. He had found himself.

And she wasn’t Martin anymore. She was something different, something marvelous, and—for all the falseness, for all the feathers and sequins, the depilatory cremes, collagen injections, and silicone—something that was utterly true.

She was Sister Marjoram, the Spice of Life.

And, at the moment, she was more than a little confused.

“What is going on here, girl?”

Marji knew she was psychic, just like she knew she looked sensational in lavender chenille while it made Chi-Chi Buffet look like Miss Piggy. A dozen times more in her life she had seen things in the mirror, like the day she saw her aunt die, or the day she saw herself opening Marji’s House of Mystery, and each of the visions had come true. But today her talent seemed to have fled her. There were so many clear images, but nothing quite fit together, like a broken mirror she couldn’t fix.

She lifted her finger from the card of the Devil. That evil was real and dangerous, but it was distant, surrounded by cards that bespoke traveling, the past, and dreams. She moved her finger to a card in the outer circle. The Knight of Swords, reversed. A powerful man, but his power had been stolen. Only who was it? Next to the card was the Magician. That was him—the delicious bald boy. Travis.

She sighed. “You would have done a few personal favors for him, election or no, wouldn’t you, girl?”

A heat rose in her, then cooled to chill dampness. It wasn’t just desire. It was darker, stranger, and so much more compelling. She had known it the second she had seen him: that she loved him and could never have him.

“You can’t always get what you want, Marji, you know that. That’s what wine and credit cards are for.”

But if she couldn’t have him, who would?

The Knight of Swords. It had to be—the position made it clear. And hadn’t they said there was a man they were trying to rescue? But there, on the other side of the Magician, was another court card, the Queen of Swords. So who was it who loved him, then? The Knight or the Queen? Then she knew.

“They both do, girl. Lord above, they both do.”

But if the prisoner was the Knight, who was the Queen?

An image flashed through her mind: golden eyes, gazing at another deeply when it seemed no one else had been looking. No one but Marji.

She nodded. Mystery solved. Marji clucked her tongue. “You’re going to be one busy boy, Mr. Travis.”

She smiled, and the expression was one of sorrow as well as gladness. It hurt to let something so precious slip through her fingers. And it healed to know there were others who needed it more than she did.

“It’s your own fault for being so damn together, Marji. But thanks for the kiss, honey. I’ll lock it in my heart for always.”

Now she was getting weepy. Not a good idea when you wore so much mascara. Marji forced her tears back and picked up the deck of cards. She was due for a reading herself, and maybe it would help take her mind off things. She shuffled until she felt the spark that let her know it was right, then turned the first card.

A grinning skull stared up at her from the black hood of a reaper’s robe.

Marji went rigid.

It’s just a symbol, girl. Change, the end of a cycle, that’s all it means
.

That’s what the books about tarot said, anyway, maybe just to make people feel better. But sometimes, she knew, the card meant exactly what it read.

Death
.

A coldness flowed over her, and this time it wasn’t just imagination and skimpy clothes. The velvet curtain covering one of the small windows fluttered, and icy autumn air swirled into the room.

Marji moved to the window. “I thought you were closed. Marji must have breathed in a little too much nail polish remover today.” She shut the window and started back toward the table.

Halfway there, she heard it: a low
whuffling
, almost like her uncle used to make after downing a couple of malt liquors and collapsing on the couch.

Marji froze, listening. The
whuffling
ceased. Then she heard the bright sound of glass breaking out in the main shop.

Indignation rose within her. So some creep had let himself into her store and was now trampling around like a buffalo. She grabbed a stainless-steel nail file from a shelf. Whoever was out there had balls. But not for long.

Marji walked down a hallway, past several doors, then reached the curtain of beads. A stench hit her a second later, so strong she batted her eyelids, but the tears came anyway, and her mascara started to run. Whoever was out
there, it smelled like he had rolled in a Dumpster before coming in. Breathing through her mouth, she reached out and parted the beads.

There was a wet grunt, then something dark and sinuous moved from the shadow between two rows of shelves. A small, low-browed head looked up, and pale eyes stared at Marji. With an easy, loping motion, it started for her, letting talons run along the shelves as it came.

More bottles fell to the floor, and Marji’s scream was absorbed by the sound of shattering glass.

She stumbled back, letting the beads clack into place, concealing the sight of the thing. But she could still smell it, could still hear it. Whatever that monster was, it was coming for her. Fast.

Groping behind her, she found a doorknob, turned it, and backed into her dressing room. The walls were lined with mirrors, and the top of a large white vanity was cluttered with makeup, hairbrushes, nail polish, and curlers. Beauty like Marji’s didn’t come naturally; it came in lots and lots of little bottles.

She shoved against the door, but she was too slow. Something struck it, hard and furious, and she stumbled against the vanity. The back of her head smacked the mirror, and jars and vials clattered as they fell.

It came through the door slowly, cautiously. Whatever it was, it was smart enough to know it had her cornered. She could see it clearly now in the bright light reflecting off the mirrors, and her gorge rose in her throat.

“You are one ugly boy.”

The thing reminded her of an ape. Its arms dragged the ground, claws cutting the rug to shreds. Long, matted hair covered its body, and its short snout wrinkled as it bared fangs in a drooling grin. Yet the eyes were the worst: too large, slanted, white as moons. Nothing had eyes like that. Nothing on this planet, anyway.

The creature stalked forward. Marji reached behind her, fumbling with numb hands on the top of the vanity.
The stench was enough to induce unconsciousness. Dizziness swept over her. The monster braced short legs and reached for her as it opened its maw.

Marji’s hands closed around a pair of hard, familiar objects, and in a motion as smooth as a diva’s she whipped them out before her. With one finger she let loose a billowing cloud of hairspray from a can, and with another she flicked the lighter she used to heat eyebrow pencils.

She flashed a wicked grin. “Looks like you’re having a bad hair day, sugar.”

Fire roared forth, engulfing the creature. It shrieked, lifting impossibly long arms as flames licked up its greasy hair, and fell back.

Marji followed after, can thrust out before her, spraying a gout of flame. Again the thing let out a squealing cry, then it fell backward into the hallway. It jerked, limbs tangling in spasms as the flames ate it.

Marji lowered the can. The thing grew still, curled in on itself like an insect as it burned. It was dead. She reeled backward, eyes burning from smoke, and turned around. Breath fled her. Marji gazed into the dressing room’s mirrors and did not see herself.

It was a two-lane highway, leading over the crest of a hill and down into a valley. Beyond, flat slabs of gray stone thrust up like giants leaning against gray-green mountains. Five eighteen-wheelers sped up the hill, past a highway sign. The trucks were painted black except for a single white crescent moon on their sides. Marji gazed at the highway sign, but even as she did the image faded, and she stared at a tall, lean form in a sequined jacket and a beehive hairdo.

It was a faint skittering sound that broke the trance. Marji turned around.

They scuttled through the door, wriggling toward her across the singed carpet, gleaming in the light. Spiders. Gold spiders. She counted ten, twenty. Then she stopped counting as they continued to pour through the door. Again
she lifted the can of hairspray and the lighter. Flame burst forth. The first row of spiders melted into motionless lumps.

The can sputtered. The flames wavered, then died out.

Marji threw down the can. She backed up against the vanity.

This is not good, girl. You always looked best in silver. Gold is definitely not your color
.

The spiders wriggled closer. She fumbled for the phone on the vanity. There was time for one more call. From her jacket pocket she drew out the card the handsome, grumpy one had given her. She dialed, lifted the phone to her ear.

You have reached a Comlink pager
, an electronic voice intoned.
Please enter the telephone number where you can be reached
.

No, there was no time for call-backs. They would just have to be smart enough to understand the message. She didn’t know what it was she had seen in the mirror, only that if she saw it then it had to be important. With a hard fingernail, she punched the keys.

Something brushed her ankle. Marji dropped the phone and stamped her foot. A spider fell off. Another stamp, and it was pulverized beneath her stiletto heel.

More spiders followed after it, and more. There was no more room to back up.

“Last dance, Marjoram,” she whispered.

More spiders crumpled under the heels of her shoes until she felt the first, sharp pricks of pain.

Beltan crouched in the metallic shadows behind a pile of steel crates. He cocked his head, listening: the sound of rapid footsteps, echoing voices, the boom of doors shutting. For over an hour, Beltan had crept through the dim, angular halls of this fortress, encountering little activity. Then, a few minutes ago, the noises had begun. Something was happening.

Perhaps the doctor has gone back into the room and found your bed empty, Beltan
.

Except he had heard no alarm, and the distant shouts were not sharp with anger and fear. They sounded more like commands.

It was cold. The thin white coat he had pilfered offered no warmth, and he pulled his knees to his chest. He knew he should get moving again. The guard he had seen a minute ago was gone, off to join his companions in whatever task they had been set to. But he needed to rest, just for another minute. While there was a strength in his bony limbs he had not thought possible, the simple act of moving quietly between hiding places had left him damp, weak, and trembling as a newborn foal.

A low hooting noise.

She was curled up in the corner behind him, long arms coiled around her small head, as if cradling it. She gazed at him impassively, her gentle brown eyes filled with intelligence and pain. The bare patches on her arms glowed in the faint light, scabbed-over cuts marking them like some of Travis Wilder’s runes.