Juniper Wiles, page 9
“What do you mean you stole this life? Was there another guy named Ethan Law?”
He shakes his head. “No, but there was the potential for him to exist so I stole the space where his life would have fit in if he did exist.”
“That makes no sense.”
He doesn’t bother explaining. Instead he taps a finger against his temple. “But I can feel Palmer in here, like he’s watching me. Or looking for me. I thought I’d be able to get away from him, but even if I did, what if he comes after Edward? What if when he’s done with me he starts in on everybody else I know in this world?”
My head’s hurting like it did when Jilly was explaining that magic is real.
“So…what are you saying? That Palmer—or this Charlie Midnight—is trying to cross over to this world and somehow he got to you?”
“Why else would I be dead?”
I think of hobs and faeries and werewolves. Of how the city has a special task force devoted to dealing with the supernatural.
“No,” I tell him. “This isn’t right. It’s too much. Nora Constantine is a fictional character. So are her friends, and Crescent Beach, and everything to do with the books.”
“Here, sure,” he says. “But over there—”
“Over there, over there. There is no over there. Emma Rohlin made all of this up.”
He nods. “Except it’s based on things that are real, only they happened somewhere else. Or maybe she makes them happen by writing about them. All I know is that in Nora Constantine 10: The Rising Dark she brings Palmer back, except now he’s some kind of a vampire creature named Charlie Midnight and he’s trying to end the world. The book’s either unfinished or it ends on a cliffhanger, but you can plainly see where it’s all heading.”
He pauses a moment before he adds, “And that’s exactly what happened over there. Crescent Beach was on its way to becoming a disaster zone that would be the jump off point for the whole world to fall apart.”
“No. There is no Crescent Beach. It was just a set, with parts of Long Beach and Santa Feliz filling in for the establishing shots. Those sets are all long gone now.”
“You have to stop saying that. In the book, Charlie Midnight feeds on us—the people in Nora’s life—and he’s going to do the same to those of us who have escaped here. According to you, he’s already gotten to me. But you’re still in danger, Nora.”
I sigh, exasperated. “I’m. Not. Nora,” I tell him. “I’m just an actress who played her on a TV show.”
He shakes his head.
“So if I’m Nora, why would I look exactly the way Nora looks on the show? Why wouldn’t I look like the girl on the covers of the original books, or even completely different? This is ridiculous.”
“Read the new book,” he says. “Figure him out so that you can find a way to stop him before he gets to you.”
“Forget it,” I say. “I’m not going to read some stupid book.” I reach out to poke him in the shoulder with a stiff finger, except there’s nothing there. My finger goes right into his shoulder and he just dissolves away.
My hand drops to my lap and I stare for a long moment at where he was sitting, then I lean over and bury my face in my hands. Sonora whines but I can’t comfort her. I feel like I’m going insane.
I might have stayed like that forever except my cell pings, telling me I’ve got a text. I sit up slowly and dig in my pocket for my phone, reaching down to pat Sonora with my other hand.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. I’m surprised at how steady my voice is. “I’m just having a mental breakdown, but someone will take care of you. Tam. Or Jilly.”
She pushes her head against my leg.
I finally get my phone out. The text says: Read the book. Edward can tell you where I keep my Nora stuff.
What? Now a ghost has my cell number?
I slide off the bench and sit on the pavement beside Sonora, hugging her to me. I’m dimly aware of traffic on the street. There’s not a lot, just a few cars until a bus pulls up in front of me with a hiss of its brakes. The door opens and the driver looks down at me.
“Are you all right, miss?” she asks.
I give her a slow nod. “Just dandy. Thanks.”
“You can’t come on with that dog.”
“I know.” I didn’t, but right now I don’t know much of anything.
“Do you want me to call someone?” the driver asks.
That gets me to my feet. “No, I’m fine. Really. I was just resting.”
The driver gives me a dubious look. She must think I’m stoned or drunk. But finally she closes the door and the bus pulls away. I watch its taillights as it continues down the street.
Read the new book, the ghost wrote.
Which I assume is at his office since that’s where Edward told us Ethan keeps his Nora Constantine memorabilia.
“Okay,” I tell Sonora. “I can deal with this. We can deal with it. Sorry about the meltdown.”
A man’s been coming down the street as I talk to her and gives us a wide berth, stepping off the sidewalk to keep some distance between us. I don’t blame him. If I look the way I feel, I must be wild-eyed with crazy.
I concentrate on steadying my breathing. Once I feel my heart rate drop, I bend down to give Sonora another reassuring pat and set off again for Ethan’s office.
When I open the door and switch on the lights, nothing has changed. It’s still creepy in here. My own face still looks at me from too many places. Sonora heaves a sigh and stretches out on the floor.
“I know,” I say. “We won’t be here long.”
This time I decide to give the bookcase a closer look, noting the books, DVDs, and merchandise. The manuscript’s not hard to find. It’s in a shallow box on the bottom shelf under the Nora Constantine board game and a couple of unopened cartons of collector’s card packs.
I pull the manuscript box out and lift the lid. The title page reads Nora Constantine 10: The Rising Dark by Emma K. Rohlin.
I sit back on my heels.
I start thinking about the authors of the novelizations. When I look for Ethan’s copies, I find them a couple of shelves up. Emmett Rowland wrote three of the books, one for each season of the show. The other two authors were Erica Roberts and Evelyn Roome.
They all have the same initials. Emmett Rowland could almost be Emma Rohlin.
How come I never noticed that before?
I have a feeling I’ll be making another phone call to Emma in the very near future.
I spend another half hour poking around the office, not really sure what I’m looking for. Nothing jumps out at me. Finally I take the manuscript box and Ethan’s notebook computer and slide them into my backpack. I start to zip it closed when I remember the power cord. I add that and heft the backpack. It’s not light, but I’ve carried heavier loads.
While I’m sitting at the desk I have another look at the text message I got at the bus stop. There’s no return number, which just adds to the list of impossible things I’ve run across this week. There’s always a name or a number under the title bar.
I try responding with a message of my own. But when I hit send the app won’t deliver.
I swing the backpack onto my shoulders and adjust the straps.
“You’re a good, patient girl,” I tell Sonora.
I grab the end of her leash and step into the hall, locking up behind me.
The trek back to Bramleyhaugh on Stanton Street takes less time than going to Ethan’s office did, but that’s only because there’s no pause for a conversation with a dead boy. When I get there, Wendy tells me that Jilly and Sophie have gone over to the Memorial Court to give the kids day passes to FaerieFest. Tam’s gone too, having taken Sonora’s food and sundries with him. I hand over the laptop to Wendy and readjust my pack. With only the manuscript in it, I have a lighter load. After dinner I’m going to start the book.
“Are you hungry?” I ask Sonora as we leave the house. “I know I am.”
She wags her tail and gives me a goofy grin.
I laugh and give her a pat on the head. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Tam has dinner waiting for me when we get home, some kind of Thai soup, rich with vegetables and chicken, seasoned to perfection, flavourful and spicy hot. I feel sorry for Sonora with her kibbles, so I save a few pieces of chicken, which I give to her after I’ve rinsed them off.
“And so the spoiling begins,” Tam says with a smile.
“I waited till we were finished.”
“That’s true. I was expecting you to feed her from the table.”
“But look at those kibbles. Can you imagine what it would be like if that was all you could eat? I’m going to look up some recipes and make her food myself.”
I take the dishes to the sink.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” Tam asks.
“No, I’ve got some reading to do.”
I don’t tell him about meeting Ethan again. I didn’t tell Wendy either, and I don’t know why. I think I’m still trying to process everything.
I was going to read the manuscript in bed, but the loose pages make it awkward, so I sit at the dining room table, Sonora collapsed on the floor by my feet. I guess she isn’t used to all the walking we did today.
The book’s pretty much the way Ethan described it. I can’t tell if he’s right about Emma Rohlin really having written it or not. I haven’t read any of the other Nora books in forever, so I can’t compare the styles.
I don’t like the story. The addition of the supernatural elements takes away the charm the original books had. I always liked the interaction of the characters and their relationships, and that seems to take a back seat to Charlie Midnight and his monster allies. It’s all action with no mystery.
I set it aside after I’m about halfway through and get my laptop. I know I shouldn’t be doing this because it’s just going to irritate me, but morbid curiosity has me going to Ethan’s fanfic blog, where I skim through the last few entries.
I’m not a prude. I believe people should be allowed to do whatever they want in the privacy of their own homes so long as they’re consenting adults. And I know I’m not Nora. But the sex romps he writes piss me off.
From talking to Allison, I expected the gay pair ups of James and Toby, and Gabi and Nora. Even the pair up of Nora with her frenemy Carmen, though I didn’t see the heavy S&M and bondage coming. What pisses me off is that my face, and those of the other actors from the series, have been seamlessly Photoshopped onto the bodies of porn stars, creating explicit illustrations to go with his stories.
Allison thinks they’re hilarious but I never went looking online to see how bad they were. I don’t find them funny at all. The thing is, I knew that people reading this trash would be picturing us in these roles. The photos just add a further level of debauchery to the whole tawdry mess.
If Ethan were here right now, I’d punch him in the face. Except he’d probably dissolve away before he could feel it.
“Whoa,” Tam says from behind me. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were—”
“Oh stop it,” I tell him. “I’m just doing some research. These pictures are on the blog the dead guy had. Can you believe it?”
He comes over to the table, making sure to not step on Sonora, and takes a seat. Reaching over, he closes the lid of my laptop.
“These are obviously pissing you off,” he says, “so why put yourself through it?”
“I told you. Research.” I sigh. “And morbid curiosity.”
“We should see about having that blog taken down. Get Greta to deal with it. She must know a million lawyers.”
“Monday,” I tell him. “Right now I’m going to bed. We’ve got a long day tomorrow, you know, what with the poufy sleeves and all.”
“Lay off, little sister. I’m bigger than you. I could whup you.”
“In your dreams.”
I stick out my tongue at him and head off to bed, Sonora following at my heels.
5
Friday
I have bad dreams all night, fuelled by the unpublished Nora novel and Ethan’s stupid blog, and maybe the cages from the animal shelter. I don’t remember much when I wake, only flashes of S&M gear, a lot of running, hiding, whips and chains. At one point I’m hanging on a wall beside Nora’s boyfriend Toby, both of us decked out in sleazy leather bondage gear. Carmen is cheerfully flailing away at us with a whip, hitting the wall, thankfully, more than us. At one point I’m also back in the cage.
It’s awful, but the worst is, I keep catching glimpses of the monstrous Charlie Midnight who, just like last night, looks way more like the classic Nosferatu than Adam Hendrix who played Bret Palmer on the show.
I know that no matter how disturbing the kinky sex elements of these dreams have been, I really don’t want Midnight to lock his gaze on me. Even if it’s just in a dream.
I stare up at the ceiling, willing myself not to drop off again.
Sonora was sleeping at the foot of the bed at the beginning of the night. Now she’s cuddled up against me, her head on the spare pillow. I turn on my side and throw an arm over her. She sighs but otherwise doesn’t stir.
I can see the digital numbers of my clock from here. It’s almost six-thirty. The alarm’s set for seven but I get up anyway. Sonora stretches, one eye peering at me as I go about packing the stuff we’ll need for the day.
She watches me dress in my workout clothes and follows me downstairs. I take her out to do her business in the backyard, then give her some breakfast while I put on the coffee. Tam walks into the kitchen just as the coffee’s ready.
“You’re up early,” he says.
He helps himself to a mug then fills one for me when he sees I haven’t taken any yet.
“Yeah, I need to go punch something.”
His eyebrow goes up.
“Bad dreams,” I explain, “courtesy of Ethan Law and his pervy blog.”
“Not cool,” Tam says. “If he wasn’t already dead I’d have a go at him myself.”
He eyes my workout clothes and nods approvingly. “Throw a few slugs for me. Want me to bring Sonora to the park?”
I shake my head. “No. I want to introduce her to Pearse.”
When Sonora and I reach O’Shaunessy’s I open the side entrance and we wait just inside until I can catch Pearse’s attention.
“Can my dog come in?” I ask when he approaches us.
Pearse looks down at her. “Is it housetrained?”
“It’s a she. Her name’s Sonora and she’s as housetrained as you.”
“Then I don’t have a problem. But that might change if I get any complaints.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t bring her out front where she might scare the yuppies.”
Pearse smiles. “Play nice, Juniper.”
“Always.”
Sonora’s good. She lies quietly and watches me go through my routine like we’ve been doing this together forever. By the time I get to the heavy bag, I’ve worked up a good sweat. After twenty minutes on the bag I’m drenched and I’ve punched away the last of my dreams. Pearse has been sitting and watching me for the past five of those twenty, absently rubbing Sonora under the ear.
He tosses me a towel.
“Maybe you could help me with something,” he says.
Pearse never asks me for anything, so I’m curious.
“Sure,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Be good if you could work a few sessions with this kid I’ve taken on. She’s showing a lot of promise, but I think she’ll really blossom with another woman as a sparring partner.”
“That could be fun,” I tell him. “But I’m busy this weekend. How does Monday morning sound?”
“Perfect. I’ll let Gabrielle know.”
“Pretty name for a boxer.”
“Don’t worry. She’s got steel in her.”
I sit down beside him and we watch a couple of guys sparring in the ring until I realize I need to clean up and get over to the park.
“I’ll watch Sonora for you,” Pearse says.
I bump fists with him and head for the shower.
The rental trucks are already at the park when Sonora and I get there. Alan Grant and his wife Marisa, the owners of East Side Press, go all out for FaerieFest. It makes sense since this is their big moneymaker of the year.
I tie Sonora up where she can hang out with Bobo, and help unload the last of the boxes from the trucks. We’ve all been doing this for so many years that we’ve got it down to a fine art. Before you know it we’ve got the giant tent and the smaller tent up, the displays and stage assembled and the merchandise all laid out. Books, posters, cards, CDs, figurines, T-shirts. A few original paintings are on easels and the big banners are in place. The smaller one says “East Side Books.” Above it hangs a much larger one that reads, “Jilly Coppercorn Faerie Art,” which embarrasses Jilly every year.
As soon as the banners are hung, the air fills with the sound of wings. Dozens and dozens of crows drop to perch on the tent top and the nearby trees. It happens every year, regular as clockwork. They come as soon as we’re done setting up and stay through the weekend until Sunday evening when we take everything down.
“Isn’t that weird?” I said the first time I was helping out a few years ago.
“What? The crows?” Geordie said.
I nodded.
“They’re security,” he told me.
I didn’t understand until that evening when we were all about to head over to the final concert. All the merchandise, even original paintings, were still on display.
“Um, guys,” I said. “Anybody can just walk in and help themselves.”
At that point, Jilly’s friend Joe stepped out from the shadows inside the tent. Joe’s a tall Native man with a loose, lanky stride and intense eyes. He’s always been nice to me, but to this day I still think he’s a little scary. It’s those eyes. And it doesn’t help that people also call him “Crazy Dog” and “Bones.” Only scary people have names like that.
