Green Fairy (Dangerous Spirits) (36 page)

I swear to you, father, he did not suffer. He was laughing, and I struck him once with a candlestick—one of the set given to us by the Marchands, not one of the good set, but I believe it has already been entered into evidence, and you know this. He collapsed, insensate, as a rag doll might fall, or a marionette whose strings were cut. I fell to my knees, horrified by what I had done even though I understood well the necessity of it. It was but a moment, but the life had already fled from him. I clasped my hands together and looked to our Father, beseeching Him for mercy.

Sol stopped reading, staring at his phone. Jean had killed Niki?
Killed
him, beaten him over the head? No, no. Niki hadn’t died that way, he couldn’t have. His gorge rose. He read the paragraph again, but the words didn’t change. Sol scrolled ahead, skimming the text as it went by.

—the Seine being so close, it naturally suggested itself—

—my poor fortune that the night watch was present on its rounds this of all nights—

—my attempts to explain the body they had seen me push—

—the restraints found on him were placed there prior to the blow—

—dead before he was thrown into the Seine, father, I swear—

And then the book ended:

I ask you, père, to believe in your son. Have faith that I acted only in the best interests of our family, and that it breaks my heart even now to think of what I was driven to, as much for the loss of my beloved fox as for the trouble and calumny I have caused to you and mamère. I beg of you to bring this document to the court and intercede on my behalf. I swear that from this day forward I will live a chaste and respectable life, I will follow your wishes to the letter, I will not stray from the path you have tried so hard to guide me on. I have learned my lesson, that love is not for those such as me. All my aspirations of romance lie cold and dead at the bottom of the Seine, and will trouble me—and you—no longer.

If you need proof of my feelings, you need only look so far as the painting: all my love was poured into it, and there I preserved my fox as I remembered him, as the ghost of my love wished him to be. In that painting he is my faithful companion, all the good of him without his base nature. I beg of you, consider the painting and the depth of feeling it demonstrates. If you approach the court, certainly they will hear you as they will not hear me; certainly if you vouch for my character, they will listen; certainly if you ask for clemency, they will grant it.

I place my heart, my honor, and my very life in your hands.

I remain always,

Your faithful and obedient son,

Jean

There was an afterword, which noted that Jean de Giverne had been tried and convicted of murder. He had been apprehended on the bank of the Seine after throwing in the body of a fox, which had been recovered but never identified. This pleading letter had remained locked in his father’s desk for twelve years; only after the elder chamois’s death had it been discovered and published.

The afterword did not mention the painting Jean alluded to, but Sol knew instantly what it must be. He ran to his computer to search, but as he sat, he heard the clump of Meg’s footsteps on the stairs.

She tossed her backpack on his bed, then sat down beside it. “Looked over your essays. Not bad. What the hell are you doing?”

Sol tapped some terms into a search engine. “Just looking for something. Give me five minutes. The thing I wanted to show you is there.” He gestured backwards at the painting, rolled up on the bed.

“You painted something?” In the reflection of his computer screen, he saw her black-furred arms holding the white roll of canvas, unrolling it.

He’d just gotten an image result from a search on “Jean de giverne painting”: a male fox, nude, seated on a stone bench in a park in autumn. It looked instantly familiar from his dream,
the fox on a stone bench in a park poised to stand, about to get up, but forever caught in the moment before he leaves
. Sol clenched his fist.

“Trying to figure out who painted your painting?”

Meg had come up over his shoulder. “I
know
who painted it.” He stabbed his finger at the screen. “It wasn’t this asshole. This is the guy who wrote one of the books I read. It said at the end that he’d painted something, but he didn’t, he just took credit for it after…” Sol took a breath and forced himself to relax. “Anyway, it’s not the one I have.”

“Sure it is,” she said, and he saw that she was holding the rolled-up painting. “Well, it’s not a painting; it’s a giclée.”

“A what?” He stared as she unrolled the painting, and he realized that he had never opened it all the way. He’d assumed it was the female mouse, but as Meg unrolled it, Sol saw that the white fur he’d seen was the tip of a fox’s tail. Sol’s mouth felt very dry. There it was, unmistakably: the painting of Niki. Sol reached out, but hesitated before touching it.

“Giclée. A reproduction. Really nice. These days they kinda roll them off like on an assembly line, but this is a good one. Painting’s not bad either.”

“It’s beautiful.” Sol traced a finger down the edge.

“Well, I know why you think it’s beautiful. And yeah, he’s not bad. But they always exaggerate in paintings.”

“Not this one,” Sol said before he could stop himself.

Meg arched an eyebrow. “Found a photo of the model? Or a, whatsit, a daguerrotype?”

“Not really.” She kept staring at him. “This is the guy from the dreams. I found this in the attic and it’s the same painting of him from my dreams. I mean, that’s…that’s weird, right?”

Meg stared at him. “You sure you never saw this before? I mean, it was in your attic. Maybe you were like five…”

“Maybe.” Sol looked at the giclée in Meg’s paws as she let it curl back into a roll. “But the book was written by the guy who claims he painted that painting! How did I start reading that book, then?”

“It’s a little out there, but…” She sighed and rubbed her ears. “A hundred-year-old ghost reaching across time and space to a high school student?”

Sol set his ears back. “You’re the one with a vampire friend.”

“He’s not a real vampire, moron.”

“Does he know that?”

“Of course he knows that! Look, we’re just trying to make the world a little more interesting than it is. He doesn’t go out at night and bite people’s necks. He just wears a cape.” She paused. “And eye makeup. Sometimes.”

“Does he sparkle?”

“Don’t ever ask him that.” She shook her head and unrolled the painting again. “Who did paint this then? Van Gogh? You said it’s not this guy.” Her finger rested on a little scrawl that read “J. de G.”

Sol rubbed at the name with his thumb, to no effect. He looked away. “It was this artist named Henri Trounoir. He was really good. He was Niki’s friend.”

“Oh God, you named the fox.”

“He’s in the book,” Sol said sharply.

“Is he? What happened to him?”

Sol followed the curve of the fox’s back up to his ears, to the bright green eye. “He died. The chamois killed him.”

Meg stared at him. “Seriously?”

Sol nodded. “Smashed in his head with a candlestick and threw him in the river.”

“He…wrote about this?”

“He got caught. So he wrote a confession hoping to show extenuating circumstances.”

“Extenuating circumstances for bashing in someone’s head. This oughta be good. So?”

Sol shook his head. “He was executed.”

“Well, good. At least
their
justice system got it right.”

The black wolf let his eyes wander over the painting again before rolling it up. “I guess so. That didn’t bring him back to life, though.”

Meg put a paw on his shoulder. “Okay. Look. I will admit that something is going on here, something weird and maybe pretty awesome and cool. I mean, I still don’t believe in ghosts. But if it’s good for you, then it’s cool. And it’s good for you, right?”

“I guess.” Sol didn’t want to tell her he’d cried more in the last two weeks than he had the two years previous. That didn’t seem like it would be a mark on the positive side of his story. “It’s been exhausting, too.”

“Promise me something.” Meg tapped his computer. “Write that shit down.”

“I already started.”

“Then finish. And let me see it when you’re done.” She sat on the bed and eyed the half-open door. “Okay, now we need to finish up this report before your dad kicks me out.”

They sat down at the computer and put together the work Sol had done with the impressive amount of work Meg had done. More than once, Meg praised the level of detail and realism Sol had put into his essays, and said, “You dream some cool shit.” Sol, looking over Meg’s collection of paintings and touching up her essays on the artistic movements, found himself understanding better the background of the work Henri and van Gogh had been doing.

After an hour and a half, Meg pronounced herself satisfied with their progress. “Which is good ’cause it’s about time for me to go.” She looked around. “Where’s the gift of the Green Fairy? Let’s get this over with.”

“Um. Yeah. It’s in my desk. I’ll get some glasses.”

Meg called as he was heading down the hall, “Just one. I don’t get fucked-up ghost dreams.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sol said. “You started this with me, you can finish it with me.” He hurried down the stairs and called, “Just getting a glass of water,” to his mother and father in the living room. In the kitchen, he stacked two glasses and filled the topmost with water, took a small cup of sugar, and ran back upstairs.

Meg was swirling the green liquid, staring thoughtfully at it, when he returned. “I got it.” He held out the glasses, kicking his door shut. If his parents noticed, it wouldn’t be for a few minutes, and that was all the time they needed.

“Give it here.” She shook her head when she saw the small cup of sugar. “You don’t have sugar cubes?”

Sol shook his head. “This is all.”

Meg made a disapproving “tsk” noise. “No point in bringing out the spoon, then. I’ll just mix it. Should still work.”

“It did the other night.” Sol curled his tail down as Meg glared at him. She poured the last of the absinthe equally into both glasses and added sugar.

“You’re still not off the hook for that,” she said, handing him his glass. Light green clouds swirled and played in the ordinary drinking glass, only about a third full. “But this is it. You want more, I’ll give you my vampire fox’s e-mail address. Just don’t mention sparkles.”

“Thanks,” Sol said. “But I think this’ll be it for me.”

Meg picked up her own glass of cloudy green liquid. “Now, prepare to receive the gift of the Green Fairy. May she give you the dreams you seek.”

All he wanted was one chance to see Niki’s side of his last meeting with Jean. Meg dranks hers, but Sol hesitated with the glass at his lips, the anise smell strong in his nose. If he got the dream he expected, it would be bad, probably a nightmare.

“What’s the matter?” Meg set down her glass and shoved the empty bottle in her backpack. “You miss the frankincense? Sorry, I would’ve brought some, only…” She tapped her nose. “Your mom freaked out the last time we lit incense over here.”

Sol lowered the glass. “This might be one bad dream.”

She reached out as if to take the glass from him, but didn’t touch it. “You’re going to see him die, aren’t you?”

He watched reflections bob on the surface of the liquid. “Probably.”

“Don’t do this if you think it’s dangerous.” When he looked up, she was staring steadily at him. “I mean it, Sol. Even if it’s just a bad trip, you take drugs in a bad state of mind, and you could end up seriously fucked up or even dead. If you think it’s going to be that way—”

He shook his head, pulling the glass toward him. “I don’t think so. But it doesn’t matter. I have to do this.”

“Listen, um.” Meg started to say something, then her expression softened. “If I’m right, then they’re just dreams. They can’t hurt you. If you’re right, then…this spirit, whatever it is, it stopped you from getting in the bathtub before. It’s not going to kill you now, right?”

“Probably not.” He raised the glass to his lips, then lowered it again. “Hey, Meg. There’s a file on my computer called ‘Niki’s story.’ If…if something happens to me—”

“Jesus, Sol.”

“Just listen. Take a look at it. I’d like someone else to remember it. Even if it was just a crazy dream. And remember who really painted that painting.”

She hefted the pack over her shoulder. “Any other last will and testaments?”

“Yeah. Tell my folks it was an accident. And…you’re a good friend.”

“Great.” She patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll see myself out. See ya tomorrow on the bus.”

“See you, Meg. Thanks again.”

She raised a paw and walked out, closing the door behind her.

Sol took a breath. He cast an eye down at the rolled-up painting, and then raised his glass. “To you, Niki,” he said softly, and drank.