Dreams of Shreds and Tatters (23 page)

Liz’s breath rushed out as the sight drove back her fatigue. She stepped forward, but a wide chasm lay between them and the palace. Black water seethed at the bottom and the drifting fumes seared her nose. She retreated, rubbing her eyes.

“Do we fly across?”

“Flying might be easier, but no. That is our path.”

She followed Seker’s pointing hand and saw a bridge sagging between the chasm walls. An ominous looking thing, and it became no more reassuring the closer they came. A piecemeal creation—bones and grey boards, scraps of cloth and shards of glass, all bound in wire and rope and leather cords. It clattered like a windchime in the breeze.

A shape moved as they drew near, what she’d taken for a statue rising from its crouch to become a gaunt old man. Yves, she thought for a wild instant, but no. This man was taller, thinner, eyes sunken on either side of a beaky nose. He grinned, and his teeth were crooked and very sharp.

“What’s this? Pilgrims?” His voice was the scrape of broken glass, the crunch of gravel being ground to dust. “Supplicants to the King?” He peered at Liz, and his eyes gleamed under heavy brows, the irises wide and yellow as a goat’s, with the same sideways pupils. “You, at least. You I know of old,” he said to Seker. “Wanderer, trickster, conjure man. Come begging at the tables of your betters.”

Seker’s face hardened. “We don’t have time for games, old man. Let us pass.”

The bridgekeeper cackled. “It’s my bridge. We have as much time as I say we have. And as many games as I wish.”

“Please,” Liz said, stepping around Seker as he tried to hold her back. “I need to reach the castle. How do I cross?”

“You pay the toll, of course. The real question is, what do you have that I want?” The old man tapped his staff on the ground and sucked his teeth pensively. His coat was patchwork, like the bridge, rags of velvet and brocade, burlap and leather. The colors must have been vibrant once, but now they had faded to dirty yellows and greys.

“What
do
you want? I don’t have much—” Liz spread her hands. She didn’t have anything, not even pockets. Only Blake’s ring and Seker’s brooch, and those weren’t hers to offer.

“Oh, you have plenty. Flesh and bone and blood. Hair. Eyes.” He opened his coat with a flourish, like a fence unloading stolen watches. But instead of gold chains and fake Rolexes, the lining was pinned with bones and locks of hair. Phalanges, metacarpals, clavicles, all polished slick and gleaming. Red hair and golden and glossy black. A bit of pale leather, inked with part of a tattoo.

Liz swallowed. “I need those.” Not her hair, she supposed, but it was mousy and tangled, nothing anyone else would want.

The man hrmphed and shrugged his coat shut. “Then what about all the bits and bobs swirling around in your head. You monkeys have more grey matter than you know what to do with. It only gets you into trouble. You know,” he said to her blank stare, waggling one bony hand for emphasis. “Thoughts. Dreams. Jokes. Ideas.”

“I don’t know any jokes. What about—”

“No riddles,” he said before she could finish. “Everyone thinks of riddles. My bridge is lousy with them. Riddled, even.” He winked one inhuman eye and Liz winced.

“What, then?” she asked, biting back impatience.

The old man leaned in, wizened cheeks splitting in a smile. “I am fond of memories. No two are ever the same. Better than snowflakes.”

“What kind of memories?”

“What sort do you have?” He waved her closer. “Come here, come here. I won’t eat you. Have to show me the wares if you want to barter.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you the King?”

He cackled again. “Clever girl. But no. I’m the bridgekeeper, the ferryman. The King is in his castle, and I’m here. He binds. I collect.”

“Are the two of you the twins?”

“Curious little monkey, aren’t you. No. The twins are in the castle with the King. Except when they aren’t. They are the vine and the wine, the mania and the melancholy, the desire and the spasm.”

“And between them falls the shadow?”

“Exactly! You’ll learn, Curious George, you’ll learn quickly here. Now step closer.”

Seker’s hand closed on her shoulder. “This is not a good idea, dreamer.”

She shot him a glare. “Do you have a better one?”

The bridgekeeper’s caprine eyes narrowed. “He thinks he can defeat me. Don’t you, conjurer? And I’m sure you could, an old man like me. But this is my bridge. It does what I say. And it’s the only way to reach the palace.”

He snapped his fingers and the ground shuddered. Liz stumbled, her stomach flipping over. The black rock beneath the castle cracked and splintered, stretching as it shot upward, until it was no thicker than a wine stem and the top of the cliff was lost in the clouds. The bridge dangled from the heights, but now it was only gossamer threads thin as cats’ footsteps and fish’s breath, nothing that would bear weight.

“Do you see, monkey? This will be so much easier if you simply pay the toll.”

Liz drew a breath and let it out slowly. Shrugging off Seker’s hand, she stepped forward. “Fine. But just one memory.”

“It will have to be a good one, then.” He cupped her chin, long nails pinching her flesh. “Now show me your pretty pink brains.”

He let his staff fall and wrapped his other hand over her skull. Liz twitched with a sudden vision of him cracking her head like an egg. Her lip trembled, and she shut her eyes against her reflection in his eyes, so tiny and scared.

She waited for pain, but what came instead was a dizzy floating sensation. A burst of color and meaningless noise. The sickening sensation of fingers picking through her brain, selecting images like beads from a bowl and holding them to the light.

How about this one?

“Excuse me.”

Rubber soles squeak on warped linoleum, and Liz looks up at the boy standing beside her lab table. Tall and spindly, a worn leather biker jacket sagging over narrow shoulders, chin-length scarlet hair fading to rust and dirty blond at the roots. Fluorescent light washes his glasses white and blind. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

She shakes her head and he folds into the plastic chair like a string-cut puppet. “Thanks. I’m Alex.” He smiles at her, this scarecrow boy, and his eyes are bright and blue behind his glasses.

No,
she said.
No
. She might never see Alex again, but she wouldn’t give him up.
Not like this. Not him
.

Fine
. Again the nauseous swirling in her head.
Here’s a pretty one—

Red hair flattens beneath a brush, glinting copper and gold as curly strands pull straight. It bounces free at the end of the stroke, coiling over Lorna Drake’s shoulders. Liz stands beside the old walnut vanity, turning a powder compact between her chubby fingers while her father watches them from the doorway.

Lorna winks as she reaches for her lipstick. “Remember your Chomsky, Elizabeth.”

Not this,
Liz thought, but her resolve weakened. Her parents were years dead, and so many of her memories of them had already dissolved. What was this moment compared to Blake?

Fine. Take it
.

Good, good. But it’s an older one, faded around the edges. Perhaps a little something extra....

One memory. That was the bargain
.

Yes, yes. Only one memory. But something else, something small. A little spice. Lagniappe. A color, perhaps, or a scent or a flavor... Oh, no. A word. Yes, a word. Give me a word.

What kind of word?

Your favorite, of course.

Liz froze. She loved so many words: sesquipedelian, penultimate, numinous, liminal, spleen, cellar door—did that count as one word?—incandescent...

Pick one,
the bridgekeeper said with a sigh,
or we’ll be here all night. And nights in Carcosa are very long
.

It might have taken her that long to choose, but far in the distance she heard the waves of the black sea breaking against the shore, their rhythmic hiss and rush—

Susurrus,
she said.

Done!

She expected a wrench, a tug, some feeling of dislocation, but there was only a grey haze enveloping her, passing through her, taking away—

Taking what?

Liz opened her eyes to see the bridgekeeper backing away, all his teeth bared in a grin. She sagged in Seker’s arms, his strength the only thing holding her up.

“What happened?” she whispered.

“You made a very foolish bargain. But it’s done now.”

“Done indeed,” the bridgekeeper said, retrieving his staff and gesturing with it toward the castle. It had returned to its original position, the swaying patchwork bridge in place once more. “You’ve paid the toll, Curious George, and now you may cross.”

“Thank you. I think.” Liz straightened, blinking until her vision focused. Her head was light and spinning. What had she lost, to dizzy her so?

The old man’s staff came down with a crack as she and Seker started for the bridge. Liz turned to find the two men staring at one another.

“She paid the toll,” the bridgekeeper said. “Not you.”

Seker’s lip curled. Nothing about him changed that Liz could recognize, but for an instant he seemed as inhuman as the old man. “You can’t deny me. Not if you allow her. And you’ve already struck the bargain.”

The air between them thickened with tension, electric and palpable, and Liz edged away. Finally the bridgekeeper shrugged his patchwork shoulders.

“I suppose not. You’re a lamprey, and it’s too much trouble to cut you out. Go with your pet. But don’t think your tricks will work so easily against the King, conjure man.” He stepped aside with a mocking bow.

The bridge creaked and swayed beneath her feet, planks shifting underfoot. The ropes of the railing unraveled in lazy coils. Strands of long red-gold hair threaded the cord, such a familiar color—

Liz closed her eyes against a wave of dizziness, then forced them open again as her toes curled on empty air. Acidic mist swirled up from the chasm, sighing between the boards and bones. Wind whined between the chasm walls like voices in pain.

“Don’t stop,” Seker said, close enough that she felt his warmth against her back. “It’s not much further.”

“Pet?” she asked, though she knew she might not like the answer.

Seker sighed. “I’ve thrown my lot in with humanity, for better or worse. Many of the older powers revile or ridicule me for it.”

It wasn’t much of an answer, but she didn’t press. His company kept her moving. Maybe the old man was only trying to confuse her, to make her doubt an ally. If not...

If not, she would choose the devil she knew. Would choose any devil that gave her a chance to win Blake back.

She walked on.

Liz stumbled when the bridge ended, the sensation of solid ground unsettling after the pitch and sway. Her mouth was dry and sour, her skin raw and stinging.

“We’re here,” Seker said.

The palace soared above them, lost in the clouds. The walls looked even more like wax up close, every inch of stone covered by carvings. She looked closer, and her throat clenched. The carvings moved. Human and inhuman figures writhed in slow motion, twisting beneath a skin of black-veined marble. Faces contorted in agony and exultation; she wasn’t sure which was worse. No gate or barbican stood to keep them out, only massive doors of yellow stone, covered with more undulating bodies.

Swallowing sour spit, Liz stepped forward. But before she reached the doors, the rustle of giant wings filled the air.

“The gatekeepers have arrived,” Seker said.

Gargoyles, Liz thought as she watched two shapes plummet from the towers, aloft on wings the color of old mushrooms, but they weren’t made of stone. The draft of their passage buffeted her as they landed; they reeked of honey and old death. Leathery sinew creaked as they furled their wings.

:What do you want here?:
they asked in unison, a choral swell of voices that set Liz’s teeth on edge. Their eyes flashed, full of darkness and scattered light.

“We desire entrance,” Seker answered—Liz’s voice was nowhere to be found. “And audience with your master.”

:Our master is otherwise occupied:

“Nonetheless, we will enter.” Liz couldn’t see Seker’s face, but she heard the mingled humor and impatience in his voice.

The creatures straightened on crooked legs. Taller than any human, and the sweep of their wings only made them more imposing. Segmented tails lashed behind them.
:We cannot allow that.:

Liz forced herself forward. “I paid the toll,” she squeaked.

Two long heads swung toward her in unison.
:Then you may stay here as long as you wish, until the doors open. But they do not open now:

Seker sighed. The air around him crackled, and Liz’s ears ached with changing pressure. “Go inside, dreamer. I’ll provide all the entertainment they need.”

:Touch the door and we’ll peel your skin to line our hives:

“You’re welcome to try.”

“I’m not leaving you alone,” Liz said, shifting her weight. Seker stood between her and the guards. She was only a few yards from the doors.

He chuckled. “I can take care of myself. Go and find your friend. You don’t have much time left.”

She inched toward the door. The guards hissed, gaunt jaws clacking. Liz stared at their talons, the glistening barbs on their tails. “I can’t—”

Seker turned, his eyes flashing. “Go now!”

She moved as if shoved, the force of his words hurling her toward the door. Carvings twisted as she touched the waxy surface, toothy mouths opening. Something shrieked behind her as she threw her weight against the door, but she didn’t turn to look. The panel shifted and swung inward; teeth sank into her flesh. Liz screamed and tumbled inside.

The last thing she saw before the door swung shut was a flurry of grey wings and white linen. Then the entrance closed with an echoing boom and she was alone in the dark.

A
N HOUR BEFORE
dawn Rae stood beside Liz’s bed, staring down at the sleeping girl. She wished she had her deck, familiar symbols to make sense of the confusion spinning around them. The voices and music were louder than ever, a constant chorus in the back of her head.