Astounding! (23 page)

Afterward the three of them stood in the parking lot, delaying the farewell. Freddy was bundled in a nubbly zip-up sweater that had seen better days, and Keith wore a long-sleeved shirt over a tee that declared
Han shot first
. Warm emotion washed through Carter as he looked at them. He loved them. They were family.

“You know,” Freddy said, not looking him in the eyes, “one of us could drive up with you while the other flies home.”

“Nah. You still need to go to Alcatraz, and I bet Keith’s dying to visit the Exploratorium. I’ll be fine.” When Freddy looked skeptical, Carter sighed. “Really. I’ll drive slowly and carefully, and I promise I’m dealing okay with losing John. I feel like… like some of him is still with me, you know?” And John’s aftereffects seemed to be permanent, although Carter didn’t mention that part.

Frowning slightly, Freddy nodded. Then he looked at Keith, and something significant and nonverbal passed between them. When Freddy faced Carter again, his eyes were crinkled in a smile. “Do you know what you are, Carter Evans?”

Actually, not so much. Not anymore. Carter half shrugged. “Unemployed editor?”

“Muse. You’re my goddamn muse.”

Well, that was unexpected. “I thought Keith was your muse.”

Freddy shook his head, wrapped an arm around Keith’s middle, and drew him close. “Nope. Keith is many things. He’s the light of my life. He’s the man who makes my shriveled heart go pitter-patter. He cooks for me and organizes my life and when I can’t find the energy to do anything, he hauls my ass out of bed. And then at night, he hauls my ass right back into bed. He’s my number one fan, in a totally non-Annie Wilkes kind of way, and—”

“But if you kill off Lady Trethayne I’m definitely going to chop off some part of your anatomy,” Keith interrupted.

Freddy gave an evil chortle before poking Keith in the belly. “Shh. I’m in the middle of an expository monologue here. Let’s see. Where was I? Ah. Keith is my sun and my moon. He’s apparently soon going to be my husband and the father of my children—”

Carter whooped. “Seriously? You saw the light? That’s
awesome
, you guys!” He gave them a big, clumsy hug.

Keith was grinning ear to ear. “I proposed to him last night. With drag queens.”

Freddy appeared to be trying to hide a smile too. “Still monologuing,” he insisted.

“I get your point. Keith is your all. I understand. He’s a really great guy, far better than an asshole like you deserves.”

“Don’t I know it. But that was
not
my point.”

“If I had a red pen handy, I’d be editing all over this part. Wordy.”

Freddy pointed at him. “I’m going to make up a character named Sir Carter and he’s going to die very, very painfully.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Carter said with a grin. “Except I think he ought to be a peasant. Or, you know, an honest working man. A carter! But then his mules go rogue and he gets trampled and dies horribly in the gutter. Give him some meaningful last words.” He reached imploringly to the sky with a shaking hand. “Oh, woe! Evil is mankind that would let a poor man come to this fate!”

Freddy tried to kick him and missed. “I’m going to make him a poxy bastard with oozing sores on his face. But
you
, Carter, are my muse. And that was my thesis when we began this discussion.”

“And it still doesn’t make any sense.”

After giving Keith a quick kiss on the cheek, Freddy let him go and took a step forward. “I’ve told you this before, Car. Wasn’t for you, I’d never have had the guts to finish a story and submit it anywhere. And you took those first raggedy-ass scribblings of mine and polished them all pretty. You turned straw into gold, my friend. And not just me. How many writers have you inspired with your magazine? How many times have you recognized raw talent and coaxed some shivering newbie into flower? Without you, there’s no Stonesfire Saga with zillions of adoring fans and lots of juicy merchandizing deals. No fancy house with movie-star neighbors, and no adorable boyfriend who I met when he was fanboying me.”

“I didn’t write your damn stories,” Carter mumbled. He was blushing.

“No, I did all the goddamn hard work. But you waved your fairy wand and inspired them, then waved it again and made them great. And you did the same for dozens and dozens of other writers. You even brought soul to an
alien’s
work, man. You are a goddamn muse. Rich or poor, running a magazine or not—none of that’s gonna change what you are.”

And he gave Carter a fierce, body-crushing embrace.

Keith had to join in too, of course, and there might have been a little bit of sniffling, but none of them would admit it.

And after making a scene in a Hayward, California, parking lot—behind a mediocre diner and near a tax preparation place and a payday loan joint—Freddy and Keith got into their rental car and drove away. Only minutes later, Carter and his Dart headed east.

W
ITH
HIS
careful slow driving, Carter earned more than a few evil looks from his fellow motorists, but the Dart held together. He’d had a late start and made only gradual progress, so he didn’t attempt the trek all in one day. Instead he checked into a hotel in Ashland and spent a good part of the evening floating over the Rogue Valley. The view here was different from Yosemite, which was lit at night almost entirely by moon and stars, and different from San Francisco with its quilt of sparkling lights. He liked it nonetheless. But as the hour grew late, he settled into his recumbent body and slept.

He arrived in Portland the following midafternoon and easily found John’s duplex. He had to bite his lip, though, as he parked in front of the little yellow building and looked at the lace-curtained windows. It hurt knowing that John wasn’t inside and never would be again.

The pain didn’t subside after Carter fumbled open the locks and dragged in his luggage. John had left on a moment’s notice, and although his home was very neat, a few things indicated a life interrupted: an empty mug in the sink, a few dirty clothes in the hamper, a book open and facedown on the tiered table between the green armchairs. But a fine layer of dust covered everything, as if John had already been gone a long time.

Carter threw out the spoiled milk and food in the fridge—there wasn’t much—and decided to go shopping the following day. He checked the mail. Not much there either, but John received the same shoe catalog that Carter used to. He smiled at that strange little kinship.

He carefully placed John’s duffel bag against a wall in the bedroom. Eventually he’d have to unpack it. And eventually he’d have to go through John’s clothes and get rid of the items Carter wouldn’t or couldn’t wear. But not now. Not for a while. For today, he placed John’s last story on the desk in the living room, alongside the final copy of
Astounding!
, autographed by Freddy. He stripped naked, climbed between sheets that still smelled of John, and hugged a pillow tight. He didn’t sleep.

C
ARTER
WAS
comfortable in John’s house. Over the next few weeks, he thought occasionally about his own belongings in basement storage at the Seattle building, but he didn’t feel any urge to retrieve them. Most of them were books and magazines anyway, and John’s collection was just as good. Better, even, because it contained a lot of things Carter hadn’t yet read.

He read a lot. And when he wasn’t reading, he went to second-run movies or hung out in coffeehouses, or he ran. Portland was a great running city.

At night he floated above the buildings and treetops. Sometimes he considered trying it during the day, but he decided against it. The sunlight would be too much. Even a full moon was enough to intoxicate him and make him dizzy. And that was fine—nights were lovely.

When he went grocery shopping or ventured farther away from home, he usually took John’s Chevy. He thought about selling the Dart because two cars were a bit much, but in the end he kept them both. The Chevy wasn’t legally his—John had no way to sign it over. Carter felt it was a good idea to have a vehicle he could officially call his own. Besides, he was kind of fond of the ugly Dart, rust spots, oil guzzling, and all. Its rumbling engine always seemed to growl a greeting.

On a rainy Tuesday evening in early summer, Carter sat at a table in P-Town coffeehouse, nursing a coffee and listening to the music. Every Tuesday brought the same performers he’d seen there with John: an ethereally beautiful man with long blond hair and a somewhat older man with sharp cheekbones. Neither of them sang, but they wove beautiful tunes with their guitars. They had quite a regular following, in fact, but Carter had the impression they played for the joy of it rather than for any dreams of fame. And they each had a lover who made an eager audience every week. The blond’s boyfriend had colorful hair and bright clothing, whereas the other guy wore an eye patch and plain T-shirts and jeans. Carter was sure there was a story there somewhere. Maybe more than one. If Freddy were here, he could write it.

But Carter couldn’t write anything. And although, thanks to John, he was comfortably set for a little while, eventually he would need a plan. So far he hadn’t come up with any brilliant ideas on what to do with the rest of his life. His options had never been all that great to begin with, and now they were severely limited by his new… condition. He’d already permanently fried his laptop and phone. Clearly any job requiring the use of a computer was out of the question. That included all editing gigs and pretty much everything else as well.

Fuck.

Well, for now he had good music to listen to, and when he got home, he could lay his body in bed and fly.

Lost in thought, he hardly noticed when the musicians stopped and the café began to empty out. But when he looked up, the blond guitar player stood beside his table, head cocked slightly to the side. Carter stared back. The man was truly beautiful, but there was something… odd about him. Carter couldn’t put a finger on it. But hadn’t John mumbled something about this guy not being human?

“What are you?” asked the musician. He had a very faint accent.

“Pardon me?”

Before the musician could answer, his technicolor boyfriend hurried over. He handed a large water bottle to the musician, who smiled and took a deep swallow.

“You’ll have to excuse Karl,” said the boyfriend. “He’s a little eccentric.”

Karl didn’t seem put off by the label. “Ery, this man sparkles. Can you see?”

Ery frowned at Carter. “Oh, jeez. Don’t tell me you’re a vampire. ’Cause I can deal with werewolves and a lot of other things, and I’d even be willing to entertain the possibility of the undead, but not sparkly ones.”

“I am
not
a vampire,” said Carter. This wasn’t the strangest conversation he’d ever had—John had been responsible for that honor—but it ranked right up there.

Karl flapped his hand at Ery. “He’s not. But he’s… he thrums. Like those power transformers near the dam.” He made a slightly peeved face and added to Carter, “Ery won’t let me swim too close to the dam. Dangerous, he says.”

“I, uh, suppose it would be.”

“So what
are
you?” Karl repeated.

Carter spent a moment playing with his coffee cup before responding. He had the odd certainty that these two men would believe him if he told them the truth. But God, it was a long story and a little too melodramatic, so he settled for one version of reality. “I used to be a completely ordinary human. Boring. Nobody looked twice at me. Now I’m… a little bit of something else. I fell in love with a unique someone, and some of his magic stuck to me.”

Ery patted Karl’s shoulder. “I know exactly how that is.”

But then Karl came a little closer and crouched to Carter’s eye level. “You know what, though? Ery was just as magic as me. He just never realized it. I bet you’re as special as your someone too.” He did that head tilt thing again. “Where is he?”

“Gone,” Carter sighed.

“I’m sorry. But he loved you?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Karl said with a nod. He stood and smiled blindingly. “And you should know that you are a very beautiful being. I think you’ll find love again.”

A prediction from this odd creature—a complete stranger—shouldn’t have meant anything to Carter, yet he found it comforting. “I hope so. Thank you.”

Ery moved up behind Karl and bussed his cheek. “You’ve been dry awhile, sweetheart. We should go.”

“All right.” But Karl wasn’t quite through with Carter. “Will you come back and hear us play again? Please? I’d like to learn more about you. You’re very interesting.”

Carter couldn’t help but laugh at those words coming from one of the most interesting people he’d ever seen. “I’d like that.”

Karl and Ery said good-bye before returning to the area near the stage to retrieve Karl’s guitar. They chatted for a few minutes with the other musician and his one-eyed boyfriend, and it was obvious they were all very comfortable with each other. Friends. Hell, Carter could use a few more of those.

He left P-Town and walked out into the drizzle, but he felt warm inside. He didn’t know what Karl was or how he and Ery had found each other, but it was nice to know that there were other unusual people in town.

“Keep Portland weird,” he said to himself and chuckled.

H
IS
JOB
opportunity came a few days later, completely out of the blue. He’d been wandering the city, as he often did, and he stumbled onto a shop called Far Out. It didn’t look like much from the outside—a dusty window display of paperbacks and old magazines. But when he walked in the door, he expelled his breath in a whoosh of surprise. The place was huge, crowded with ramshackle plywood shelving and crammed with printed materials. A section of the shop displayed collectibles—toys, figurines, movie posters—but publications were the store’s main stock: science fiction, fantasy, and graphic novels.

One large bookcase contained nearly every issue of
Astounding!
, most of them well thumbed. And with penciled-in prices that nearly made him choke. Apparently he could have ended his poverty simply by selling his back issues.