Throne (15 page)

Deep breaths. City smells. But not Manhattan. No towering skyscrapers, no avenue traffic, the constant honk of taxis and ambulances. No; sitting up, she stared up and down the length of the road, at the four story brownstones that lined the street, and then with a cry scrambled to her feet and threw herself aside as a black sedan went honking right past her. She staggered, gasping, onto the sidewalk, ignored the bearded dude yelling out his window as he drove by. It was late afternoon. Struggling, she rose to her feet, raked her hair out of her face. She needed a mirror. A shower. Clean clothes, her sanity back.

Speaking of which. Looking around, she saw nothing supernatural about her. No talking animals, maniacs with razors, nothing. Just this quiet street opening up onto some busier one. An avenue perhaps. Deep breaths. Things looked normal. Perhaps they would stay that way.

Walking forward, she passed a church on her left, iron rail fence, beige and brown elegance. A strip of grass and snow alongside the walls. It was large, stately, and then she saw the street name on the corner: Pacific. Still in America, it seemed. Intersecting with 4th Avenue. Either way, normal. Traffic rushed up and down it, and she espied a huge building to her right, fifteen, twenty stories tall, an old school skyscraper made of stone, looking like a picture of a space shuttle about to launch. People walked by, eyeing her. Two men in black suits, thickly bearded and wearing strange black top hats. A fat black woman with breasts so large they reached down to her waist. An Asian guy in tight black jeans, his hair long and gelled to one side. The mix and flow of normal people. Something in Maya unclenched, relaxed.

The late afternoon sunlight was good. Everything was in hues of grays, browns and dull reds. Huge sky above them, something she wasn’t used to in Manhattan. Everything moved at a slower pace, even the traffic. More trees, too. She ambled up the avenue, towards the old skyscraper, and then paused when it all opened up into a broad plaza. Three avenues converged here, triangulating around a central island on which a small, stout building stood, a miniature fortress.

Raising her hand to stop a passing woman in a rumpled business suit, Maya stepped forward and then stopped. Choked. The words wouldn’t come out. The woman, not slowing her pace, gave her a wide berth, eyebrows raised. Maya put her hand to her throat. She turned to a gangly white kid walking by, skateboard under one arm. Again the words stoppered up in her throat. The kid looked at her curiously, but he didn’t stop either.

Sudden tears welled in her eyes. It wasn’t over. She wasn’t free. A tan Cadillac pulled up next to the pavement a few paces ahead of her, and the door swung open. Helpless, lost, suddenly without the will to move, she watched a skinny white man get out, big nosed and with curly hair down to his shoulders. He was dressed in a scuffed dinner jacket that hung open to reveal a white wife beater, low slung jeans, and sported cheap tattoos all over his body. Music was pumping out of the Cadillac, catchy and with a good beat, and the young man yelled a goodbye in through the window as it pulled away.

Turning, he saw her. He was ugly, she saw, eyes small, nose too long, skin sallow and, on the whole, looking kind of effeminate, despite the tattoos, the clothing. He stared right at her, his eyes dark, and then cracked a lopsided grin that completely transformed his face.

“What you crying about, huh?” The tips of wings extended from each side of his wife beater, hinting at some tattooed bird over his chest.

“I’m just so tired,” she said. “I just want things to go back to normal.”

“Hell, ain’t nothing in the world that’s normal, girl. You just got to go with the flow, know what I mean?” He gave her another grin, and then turned to walk away.

Maya paused. Something. Something. Hands flew to her throat, and then she yelled after him, “Hey! Wait a second.”

He stopped, stood still. He could have just looked around, but he seemed to like doing it more dramatically. Spun around on his heel, stared at her. “Sorry,” he said. “I already have two girlfriends. And I’m actually not joking.”

“No,” she said, trotting up. “You can hear me.”

A beat. “Yeah,” he said. “But are you saying anything worth listening to?”

“Hey,” she said, jerking up her chin. “Watch it.”

He smiled again. “Just playing. So look. I’m going to walk this way. Nice and slow. How about you go that way?” He pointed in the other direction. Winked at her. “Take it easy.”

Maya tried to think of something to say. And instead saw Tommy Rawhead watching her from across the street, open razor in his hand, standing head and shoulders above people who ignored him, walked around him without giving him a glance. His bloody pate gleamed wetly in the dying sunlight, and his idiot grin radiated malice and delight.

Maya took a step back, and then, not knowing what else to do, ran after the tattooed man. Grabbed him by the shoulder. “Hey-“

He spun out from under her hand. “Look bitch, enough is enough—“

“Just look over there,” she said, and something about her voice stopped him. Still frowning, stepping away, he glanced across the street, froze. “Do you see him? You see Rawhead?”

“Rawhead,” said the guy. He blinked once, twice. “You mean the tall dude, bleeding from the head, holding a straight razor? Coming this way? Yeah. I see him. Friend of yours?”

He was taking it remarkably well. “No. No no no. Please. I need help.”

“And what do you want
me
to do about it? Bitch slap him with my dick?” They were both backing away, neither taking their eyes off Tommy.

“I don’t know! You can see him though, you can hear me talk, please—“ But she didn’t have time to say anything else. Tommy lunged forward, scattering people before him who screamed and fell with looks of utter confusion and fear on their faces. His straight razor came whistling in at them, but the tattooed guy grabbed her hand and yanked. Maya stumbled back, and then they were running.

Down the sidewalk, people yelling and jumping aside. Leaving 4th Avenue behind, running along Atlantic, Tommy hooting and giving chase, his long ungainly steps keeping stride with them.

Maya looked over at the tattooed guy. His weasely face was strained now, his lips pulled back from his teeth, and she saw that he was grinning. “What you smiling at?” she yelled at him.

“I smile when I’m scared!” He yelled back. A bus roared past them, shuddering and causing the air to quaver and vibrate. There was a bus stop ahead. “Come on!”

Maya ran. The sunlight was suddenly lurid, growing red. It was getting closer to dusk. She didn’t want Tommy chasing her in the dark. People yelled as the guy shoved them aside, knocked them down. The bus pulled over to the curb, and an old man jumped out in a spry manner, nearly tripped and then walked off, cursing. A couple of people got in, the doors started closing.

“Hold the bus!” yelled the tattooed guy. “Hold it!”

The doors closed. Opened again. They reached it, clattering up, both out of breath, and threw themselves onboard. “Go!” he yelled at the bus driver, who stared back, eyes wide. Her new friend yanked out his wallet, plucked out two dollars and waved them in his face. “Please?”

There was a clicking sound from outside, and then they both turned to stare out the window. The doors had closed. Tommy was standing outside. He reared up, straightening his back so that he stood some seven feet tall, and then pressed the tip of the razor to the first window. Stared at them through the glass.

Maya and the guy stared right back. The bus pulled away. Tommy pressed the razor tighter against the glass. It began to squeal as it cut a deep scratch into the window. Down the length of the bus it went, leaving a wavering undulation of white distortion in its wake. Everybody in the bus clamped their hands to their ears and stared round in confusion, trying to see the source of the sound. Nobody stared at Tommy, who was left behind.

“My name is Kevin,” said the tattooed guy. “Kevin Jones. I’m not tripping. I’m not drunk. Which could be the problem. So what the hell was that about?”

Maya curled her hair behind her ears, and realized with a pang of horror that she’d dropped her purse somewhere. She groaned inwardly. After holding onto it for so long. “I’m Maya. That was Tommy Rawhead. He’s some kind of monster, or bogey man, or something. Nobody else can see him except me. And you, apparently.” She stared dully toward the back of the bus, wishing there was a rear window through which she could check on Tommy.

“Right,” said Kevin. “Sure. Why not? I’m going to take this bus down to Grand Army, and then I’m going to catch a cab to the closest liquor joint. I think I need a therapy session.”

“How come you can hear me?” asked Maya. “Or see Tommy?”

Kevin shrugged a skinny shoulder. “I used to see shit all the time when I was a kid. Guess I’m regressing.”

“What kind of stuff?” Maya asked, and then screamed as the rear tire of the bus blew completely and the bus lurched down and to the right. A horrendous shrieking of breaks filled the air, the driver spinning the great steering wheel to the right, and they slammed to a halt, people reaching to steady themselves and stare in shocked surprise out the window. More yelling. The doors opening, the driver rising to his feet.

“No!” yelled Maya. “Don’t open the door!”

The bus driver jumped down onto the sidewalk. Tommy came dancing into view, staring through the windows at them.

“Fuck this,” said Kevin, and turned to the far window. Grabbed the emergency release latch, and yanked at it. Ropey muscles flew into sharp relief across his shoulders, and then the glass popped out and fell away. “Come on!” Without waiting he clambered out and dropped to the road.

Everybody was staring at her. Tommy pressed a huge, simian palm against the glass, leaned in and grinned. He was playing cat and mouse with her again. Not knowing what else to do, Maya clambered out the window right after Kevin and began to chase him down the street.

Kevin was laughing. Curly brown hair thrashing about his head, he ran ahead of her, his scrawny form knifing through traffic. A red hatchback came screeching to a halt before him, the backend fishtailing, and without slowing down he leapt and slid across the hood, denting it and tumbling off the far end. Maya ran after, trying to catch up, but he was already up and running again, clawing the hair out of his eyes. The doors to the hatchback opened as two guys spilled out, yelling after him, but then she rounded the car and they were left behind.

Looking over her shoulder, she saw Tommy loping down along the sidewalk, keeping pace, broad shoulders swaying with each swaggering stride. He cut and sliced at things as he ran, severing a support strut to an awning so that it collapsed, dragging the blade along a brick wall so that brick chips and dust flew out into the air, startling the hell out of two women pushing baby strollers. Maya cut to the left, away from Tommy, and saw that Kevin had already gained the far pavement.

“Come on!” he yelled, slowing down only to grab her hand and pull her after him, picking up the pace. He was slick already with sweat, the chill of the winter air seeming to have no effect on his metabolism. Down Flatbush Avenue they ran, dodging pedestrians and rounding mailboxes, crates, newspaper dispensers and bags of trash. Maya’s lungs were beginning to rasp, a hot ingot of pain manifesting deep in her side. She couldn’t keep sprinting for long.

Traffic was thick and fast moving now, and casting a look about she saw that they had momentarily lost Tommy. “This way!” she yelled, and swerved to the left, off the pavement and through a gate in an iron fence that ran along the length of the block. Another church, smaller than the first but with larger grounds, trees bare and stark, the windows lean cuts in the stonework, dark like winter pond water and revealing nothing of its interior.

Kevin ran alongside her as they circled the church, leaving the avenue behind, feet crunching on the thin layer of snow. Round the broad base of the church, past the massive main doors, and round the back. Slowing down, they staggered to a stop. Kevin bent over, hands on knees, head hanging as he gasped for breath. Face slick with sweat, he gasped once, twice, and then straightened, putting his hands against the small of his back as he looked up at the sky, sucking air.

Maya looked about. The church grounds were empty. Buildings reared up around them, making the small lawn seem like a pocket of gray and white amidst the brown stone and brick.

“Can… can your buddy… follow us into a church?” asked Kevin, looking at her through one eye. “Holy ground?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He’s not here though. So.”

“Yeah.” With one final exhalation he regained control of his breathing, and wiped the back of his arm across his forehead. “Wow. What the hell? I just wanted to buy some condoms and cigarettes. Did
not
expect to end up running from some psycho killer. You going to call the cops?”

“Can’t,” she said.

“That’s right. They wouldn’t be able to see him. Man. You’re fucked, eh?” And he grinned at her.

Maya looked past him, trying to think. A barn owl flitted down from the sky and alighted on a branch, swooping down silently to then sit and stare at her with dark eyes. It was beautiful, its wings feathered with burnished orange plumage that tended to gold, dappled with soft gray patterns, face white and august, stomach plumed with the softest white feathers. Compact and dignified, it ruffled its feathers once, shifted its weight on its taloned feet, and simply gazed right at her.

“Huh,” said Kevin. “An owl.”

A second flew down. Descended from the skies, wings beating down in a silent whiplash of fury as it arrested its course and landed on the branch of another tree, higher up but still remarkably close. Identical to the first, it could have been its twin. It was high enough to catch the dying afternoon light so that the gold feathers on its shoulders and the back of its head gleamed to white.

“Another owl,” said Kevin, turning to stare at her. She returned his gaze. Shrugged. Then three more owls flew in, a flurry of broad wings, taloned feet extended at the last moment to grip branches, the horizontal bar of the iron fence, the top of an old gravestone standing straight and proud despite the weary passage of the years.