Mythbound Trilogy Boxed Set Page 14

  Hope that maybe Annabel would be with him. Would stay with him.

  Unthinkingly, he reached his hand out and Annabel took it, their fingers intertwining once more.

  “And you don’t know who killed my father . . . so you don’t know who might be after us, either . . .” Steve murmured.

  “That’s correct, Master Remington,” January said. Her voice was soft now, matronly and sad, like she was trying to encourage her children after a bad day at school. She leaned forward and extended her hands across the table, for Steve and Annabel to grasp.

  And they did.

  Now they were sitting in a triangle, holding each other’s hands like they were gearing up to sing Kumbaya.

  “Don’t fear,” January said. “As long as I am around, you should be safe. That is the job of the Druids of Mythicus. We are protectors of the history . . . of the people. We have ways of keeping you safe . . .”

  Steve wanted to believe her. But he couldn’t rely on her guarantees alone. Hell, he hardly knew her. Feeling a bit testy, he said, “My father was murdered, you couldn’t protect him—what makes you think you can protect me?”

  “It wasn’t my job to protect your father.”

  “If it was, you blew it.”

  January said nothing.

  Gritting his teeth, Steve changed the subject. “Once I have the Conveyor, can I use that to send Annabel home?”

  January nodded. “Yes, you’re catching on now. The same Conveyor that Seared Annabel to this world must be used to propel her back home. That is why she is Bound to you. Only you, with the Conveyor, can return Annabel to her rightful place.”

  “Then let’s go get that guit—”

  Steve’s phone cut him off, “Smoke on the Water” blaring for all to hear. He took his hands away from both Annabel and January, feeling sort of foolish, and reached into his pocket for the phone.

  The screen said “Fats.”

  Steve clicked his tongue, waited for the song to keep playing, then hung up. Even though he hadn’t heard from Dale all day, he had more important things to think about right now.

  After the call ended, “Smoke on the Water” started playing again, immediately.

  It was Dale again.

  Groaning, Steve picked up the call.

  Dale’s voice was frantic.

  “Steve, Steve, is that you?!” he called out. He was yelling into the phone. He sounded like he was outside, fearful, and that he wasn’t fucking around as he was usually apt to do.

  But the sign that said, “this is serious,” came not from his tone, but simply from using Steve’s actual name, rather than calling him Steve-o.

  “Dale, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “You’ve got to come quick, man. Oh, shit. Get over here!”

  “Where?” Steve asked. Dale seemed to be cutting out, so Steve yelled into the phone, as if that would help. “Come where, Dale?!”

  “The studio, man! Get to the studio, stat!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Dale couldn’t manage to give Steve a clear idea of what was going on at the studio. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, so he just kept repeating, “Just get over here, man,” and “Shit, shit, shit.” Steve’s mind raced as he and Annabel screamed back toward the studio in the Lexus.

  The atmosphere in the car was polar opposite of what they’d experienced from the boardwalk to the tarot shop. Then, things were calm and relaxed and happy—both Steve and Annabel singing along to a classic rock tune on the radio, giving each other amorous glances. Now, Steve white-knuckled the steering wheel, eyes plastered on the road ahead, swerving to avoid street-crossing pedestrians and slow cars. Annabel gripped the center console and armrest with deathlike talons, her eyes bulging as she stared at the road like a trainwreck.

  A million thoughts went through Steve’s mind. Eventually, when he realized Dale couldn’t give him a straight answer, he’d hung up the phone and dashed out of January’s shop, Annabel following close behind.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happening?” Annabel kept asking, to which Steve had no reply.

  As they neared the halfway point between the tarot shop and the studio, the ominous blaring of an emergency vehicle broke the airwaves, splitting and ricocheting off building walls.

  Steve looked in the rearview mirror and saw lights growing bigger and bigger.

  Red lights.

  It was a fire engine, going even faster than they were. It was catching up to the Lexus.

  Steve gritted his teeth. He debated trying to outrun the fire truck but thought better of it when Annabel laid a hand on his forearm. He groaned and swerved to the right, against the curb between two parked cars.

  The fire engine went barreling by the Lexus, its ear-piercing siren echoing as it passed them. Immediately after it passed, Steve swung out into the lane behind it.

  Now a new thought crossed Steve’s mind:

  The singing. Damn, how could I forget about Annabel’s singing—bringing bad omens and bad things along with it? Could it be possible that her beautiful voice, singing “Drift Away” along with the radio, could be the cause of whatever catastrophe we’re headed toward?

  They saw the smoke when they were still five blocks from the studio. It was thick, black, choking smoke, wafting into the sky, like the kind you see from an 18-wheeler that’s punched the accelerator on the freeway.

  Steve’s mouth was dry, slack-jawed. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but he was forced to believe it as he neared his studio and home. It was like a horrible nightmare, one he couldn’t wake up from. But it was real, and it was happening in real time.

  Remington Studios was ablaze.

  A deep orange flame seethed violently from somewhere inside the building. The windows were already blown out. Lighter tendrils of flames crept up the walls like unwieldy vines in a vineyard, crackling and sucking all the oxygen from the air.

  Steve parked diagonally—haphazardly—halfway on the road and halfway on the sidewalk. He put his hands on top of his head as he got out of the car.

  Even being on the other side of the street, the heat from the blazing structure caused him to sweat. Annabel came rushing over from her side of the car and hugged him—a minor comfort. He wasn’t paying attention to her, though. All his focus was on his building as it burned to the ground.

  The fire truck had parked in the middle of the street, blocking traffic going both ways. The firefighters were running around like headless chickens—one of them running to hook up their hose to the nearest fire hydrant; another couple operating the front end of the hose, unwinding it from the truck. Though their methods looked uncoordinated, they moved quickly and had water pouring onto the structure within minutes.

  Large groups of spectators had formed on either side of the street. It was a ghastly affair.

  Somehow, Buddy’s Diner had remained unscathed. But from behind Steve, he heard an onlooker whispering to her companion: “Isn’t that where that car crash happened the other day?”

  To which her companion responded, “I think so. Jeez, what terrible luck.”

  Then one of the firefighters called out: “Does anyone know who owns this building?”

  Annabel, with her arms still wrapped around Steve’s body, looked up at him with big, sad eyes.

  Steve was unresponsive, though, still unable to wrap his head around what he was seeing.

  Then Dale came running over from nearby, pointing vigorously at Steve. “That’s my best friend! It’s his building!”

  The firefighter came over to Steve and asked him a question, but the firefighter was speaking gibberish, like an old Peanuts cartoon, “Wah, wah, wah, wah!”

  Annabel shook Steve hard, and he came rushing back to reality.

  “What?” he muttered blankly to the firefighter.

  The man had an urgent expression on his face. “I said, is there anyone you know of who might be in there? Are there any animals in there?”

  Steve shook his head, unable to tear himself
away from gazing at the cruel flames.

  The firefighter ran off to report his findings to his superior.

  Now there were six firemen dousing the building in water and retardant, and it was starting to work. What had been a blazing inferno just minutes before was now starting to take shape.

  Within five minutes, the structural support of Remington Studios, and Steve’s upstairs apartment, was a black, skeletal shell of a building. The dark smoke, mixed with the water and retardant, turned muddy gray then brown as it billowed and swirled into the air. Ashen embers showered the street and sidewalk like apocalyptic rain.

  Then the fire was finished. Its mayhem complete and absolute, Steve had to lean his back against his car to stay standing.

  “I’m so sorry . . .” Annabel was saying through sobs. She was outwardly more of a mess than Steve, who simply brooded and buried any emotion other than utter shock from his face.

  Dale was beside Steve and Annabel now. He had his hands on his hips, stared at the black shell of the building, and said, “What a hell of a thing. Goddamn.”

  Steve said nothing.

  “I guess I won’t be moving in, eh?”

  Steve’s eyes finally deviated from the smoldering fire, slowly, over to Dale. Steve’s eyes were filled with rage, more angry and violent than the fire that had destroyed his livelihood.

  Dale saw the look in his eyes and took a step back, putting his palms forward. “I’m sorry, man, really . . . that was stupid—not cool. Just trying to lighten the mood I guess.”

  “Don’t,” Steve said. He started wandering toward the building, his brain not working but his legs involuntarily taking him toward the carnage.

  Dale grabbed Steve’s arm, but Steve yanked his arm away from his friend’s clutches and kept walking.

  He was stopped by a firefighter. “What do you think you’re doing, sir?” the fireman asked.

  “Going to see what’s left of my life,” Steve said.

  “I can’t let you do that, sir. Not until the Fire Inspector gets down here.”

  “You think it was caused by foul play?” Steve asked.

  The fireman leaned his head back and looked at Steve like he was crazy. “You say there was no one in there? And the place just combusts and erupts at the end of a dry, cloudless day? Yeah, I’d say ‘caused by foul play’ is a good assessment.”

  Steve frowned. He didn’t think the guy’s snide, condescending attitude was necessary—not when Steve had just lost everything he owned besides his Lexus. It pissed him off, and now he wanted to take his fury out on the man in front of him.

  But he also didn’t want to go to jail, so he just said, “Arson?”

  The fireman shrugged. “Can’t be sure until we know the source of the fire . . . but I give it a good shot.”

  Steve stayed silent. He still wanted to go inside . . .

  “Is the place covered by insurance?” the fireman asked.

  Steve nodded. “I assume so. I didn’t own it, just rented. It was my business as well as my home.”

  “Ah, well, either way, most homeowners insurance covers fire damage . . . so you shouldn’t be too bad off in the long run. You should be covered for any destroyed possessions or lost valuables.”

  “And what do I do now?” Steve asked.

  The fireman shrugged. “Well . . . yeah. For now, it’s gonna suck. I’d say you inform your landowner, then have them contact insurance right away. The quicker you can get things going, the quicker you can get everything resolved. I also suggest heading to a shelter, maybe, if you need somewhere to stay.” The fireman was starting to sound nicer—he was probably initially stressed at what he was seeing—and he put his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Then the firefighter walked away.

  Dale came up beside Steve again. “I’d let you stay at my place but . . . you know . . . the whole eviction thing makes that a bit tough.”

  “Who could have done this?” Steve asked to no one in particular.

  Dale sighed. “That’s a good question. I mean, you don’t have any enemies, right, Steve-o?”

  Steve shook his head.

  Although there’s supposedly a “Myth Hunter” after me . . . some mysterious, mythical being I may not even be able to see, much less know who it is.

  The thoughts about the Myth Hunter brought Steve back to the tarot shop and what January had said she needed.

  The Conveyor . . . Steve thought. My dad’s old guitar . . .

  Could that be it? I mean, if someone is willing to try to run me over with a car, I’m sure burning my place down isn’t too far of a reach . . .

  Steve wandered away from Dale and Annabel, toward the fireman he’d just spoken to, who was now huddled around the fire engine with a couple coworkers.

  “Hey,” Steve called out as he approached. The three firemen turned in his direction. “If I have one of you follow me, can I just try to find one thing in there real quick? It won’t take long—I know where it would be.”

  The firemen seemed to think long and hard about it. “Something you think wasn’t destroyed by that inferno, you mean? Just let it go, man. Whatever it is, it’s gone.”

  “It was my father’s guitar,” Steve said. “And it was in a case, so it might not be gone.”

  After a brief debate between the three firemen, the one who’d struck up the conversation with Steve agreed to head into the building—but only briefly. He didn’t want to get caught coming out of such a nasty fire when the Fire Inspector got there.

  Steve agreed, and they went to the building. The door, which had been plated glass, was gone. A hole with the framework of a door was all that stood in his way.

  Steve walked into the building. Black stains of smoke and soot had tattooed itself onto the walls of the interior. The couch had burned like a Christmas tree—most of the fabric had melted away completely.

  He made his way down the smoky hallway and into the recording room, his mouth and nose covered by his hand. The room was badly damaged, but not nearly as destroyed as the front of the building. Steve felt a small pang of hope, that perhaps it would be here, undamaged . . . and perhaps his apartment upstairs wouldn’t be as damaged as the rest of the studio . . .

  And the gods gifted him with a win.

  It was minor, but it was something. The case of Steve’s father’s guitar was sitting on the ground, covered by ash and pieces of wood from the ceiling. He took the case, opening it, and felt a smile creeping up his face.

  The guitar was undamaged.

  He left the house at the coaxing of the fireman, but he would have even if he hadn’t been asked to. He’d had nothing too valuable in his own apartment, nothing sentimental.

  When he went back outside, Dale and Annabel had a new face standing beside them.

  Aiden O’Shaunessy stared wide-eyed at the building, shaking his head.

  Steve asked, “What are you doing here, Aiden?” before resting the guitar case on the ground next to his car.

  “Word travels fast in this city, mate. I heard the news. A tragedy, my friend, really.”

  Steve looked around and only then realized that all the local news stations were on scene. Yellow tape was being strung up around the diameter of the building, from one side of the street to the other.

  “Thanks,” Steve said, frowning. “But at least I still got ol’ faithful.” He gently kicked the side of his guitar case.

  Aiden said, “I wanted to offer you mates—and lass—a place to stay, if you’ll let me. I have a big enough house in Bay Park, and not enough bodies to fill it.”

  Annabel put her hands together like she was praying. “Oh, Aiden, that’s so kind of you!” she exclaimed.

  “Are you sure?” Steve asked, a bit bewildered.

  “Of course, mate,” Aiden said, shrugging. “It’s the least I could do.”

  “Thank you, man,” Steve said. “But before we do that, I’ve got something I need to do with this here guitar.”

  Aiden smi
led. “It survived the fire? Lucky you, mate. Seems like a good sign.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Everyone got into Steve’s car: Annabel in shotgun, Aiden and Dale squished in the back. The guitar case went in the trunk. Steve drove away from the hollow building, but not before letting his eyes linger on it one last time, to say goodbye. With a heavy sigh, he flipped a U-turn at the end of the street and got off Garnet Avenue.

  He’d seen enough of Garnet Avenue for the day.

  Unfortunately, where he was headed was on the other end of the avenue, but at least he could take the side streets to get there. Driving through residential districts, he was feeling lethargic and empty, and it showed in his driving. He barely drove the speed limit, but no one asked him to speed up. They weren’t in any hurry.

  In fact, in Steve’s eyes, they were in anything but a hurry.

  If everything went as planned, he would lose Annabel soon, only adding to the things he cared about that were being taken from him. It was almost too much to bear—after starting to get close to her, only for her to be ripped away from him. It wasn’t fair.

  He tried not to dwell on the negative thoughts from the recent hour and the upcoming one, but he couldn’t keep his mind off them for long.

  Maybe if I plead with Annabel . . . maybe I can get her to stay?

  He laughed inwardly at himself. Jesus, I sound like such an asshole. I’m sure she can’t wait to be home, to be free from this crazy, fucked-up world. It’s no wonder there are so few Mythics on Earth . . . why would they want to come here?

  Annabel was watching him out the corner of her eyes. When she saw Steve chuckle at something, she could see him drawing within himself, losing himself to his dark thoughts. She tried to break the darkness by saying, “Are you going to be all right, Mister Steve? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Yeah. Don’t go, he wanted to say, but couldn’t bring himself to. Not right now, feeling so pitiful, and definitely not in this car filled with Dale and Aiden. He didn’t want to hear their opinions on the matter.