Tell My Sorrows to the Stones (26 page)

Courtney slid her chair back, its feet scraping the floor. Several people turned to look but she ignored them, glaring at the thief.

“I don’t know if I believe it or not, but I’ll tell you this much,” she said. “I was with James for nearly five years and in that time I never saw him so much as sneeze. He never had a fever or a bruise, never went to a doctor, never cut himself, never had to take medication for anything.
Anything
.”

As she stood, Wilkie did the same.

“Y’know what?” he said. “I’m going to do you the biggest favour of your life, no charge.”

Courtney rolled her eyes and started to turn away. As she did, Wilkie reached out and grabbed hold of the balloon string, tugging it toward him even as he snatched up a fork from the table. She understood his intention instantly, cried out and grabbed his wrist, trying to break his grip on the balloon string. As he struggled against her, she bumped the table, toppling her martini glass, which shattered on the floor even as Wilkie used the fork to puncture the wattled rubber of the balloon’s neck.

“No!” Courtney shouted, lunging at him.

Wilkie wrested himself free of her and let go of the balloon string. Courtney slipped and fell to the floor, her left hand slamming down onto shards of her broken martini glass. She cried out in pain and jerked her hand back, still clutching the balloon string in her right.

“Rich people,” Wilkie muttered, dropping the fork on the table as he hurried from the restaurant.

Courtney knelt on the floor, shaking as she stared at the large, curved shard of pomegranate-stained glass that stuck up from her palm. She blinked in surprise as she realized that there was no blood. A frown creased her forehead and she could hardly breathe. In disbelief, she plucked the glass from her palm with her right hand, balloon string still twined about her fingers.

The slice left behind by the glass shard closed as she slid it from the wound, flesh sealing itself back up like water flowing in to fill a void. Staring at her unmarred palm, she blinked with the realization that the low hiss she heard came from the balloon. The chatter of voices and clatter of dishes and glasses and silver and the rich, mellow music from the patio seemed to vanish, leaving only this new sound. This deadly sound.

Her body went numb. She felt the colour drain from her face as she staggered to her feet. The hiss of escaping air filled her ears and at last she reacted, grasping the balloon’s neck, pinching off the tiny puncture, stopping the leak.

Heart thundering in her chest, she stared at the balloon. It had not lost very much air, was still far from wilting. Could she patch the hole somehow? Maybe.

Courtney glanced around. Most of the patrons studiously ignored her, some whispering, perhaps assuming they’d just witnessed some kind of lovers’ quarrel. Only one person, a man sitting by himself, perhaps waiting for someone to join him, studied her curiously. A busboy came toward the table with a dustpan and brush and began to attend to the broken glass. A waitress appeared and started toward her, and Courtney fled, picking up her little clutch bag and exiting through the open French doors, walking amongst the patio crowd. The drinks had already been paid for, so nobody would come rushing after her.

Her heels clicked on the sidewalk as she hurried to the corner of Montana Avenue. Her pulse throbbed in her temples and tears burned at the corners of her eyes.
Oh, my God. Ohmygod
.

She faltered, the strength going out of her as she leaned against the wall outside a hideously trendy boutique. Her fingers hurt from pinching the balloon so tightly between them. She held it in front of her eyes, staring at it, studying it. Did it look a bit flaccid now?

Her lower lip trembled.

Slowly, she moved it up to her ear, and realized that she could still hear the hiss, a slow, quiet seeping sound that was present despite her best efforts, her tightest grip.

Courtney bolted. Eyes wild, she ran along Montana Avenue, past Kismetix and half a dozen other shops. Perfectly made-up wives and daughters arm in arm, chins in the air, stared at her and made way as she rushed along, desperate to be rid of the balloon.

It had been true all along. She had wanted to hurt James, to deprive him of his prize, and now she had taken possession of it. It
belonged
to her. That meant she would reap the benefits, and suffer the consequences. The ground seemed to tilt underneath her and she whirled in a circle, a scream bubbling up the inside of her throat.

No, no, please no. Not me.

A tan, middle-aged brunette stepped out of Jamba Juice, right next door, and held the door for her little boy, who was busily sipping away at the straw in his drink. Inspiration seized her. Skin prickling with fear, breathless, wild with desperation, Courtney strode over to them and dropped into a crouch right in front of the boy.

“Hey, little buddy. Want a balloon?” she said, thrusting it toward him.

On instinct, the boy reached his free hand out for the dirty string.

“Thanks, but I don’t know if—” the mother began.

But the boy had already tightened his fist around the string. Elated, heart unclenching, Courtney let go of the balloon’s punctured throat and stepped back. The hiss seemed loud to her, but the mother and son didn’t seem to notice. The woman cast an odd look at Courtney, and a slightly distasteful glance at the dirty string in her son’s hand, and then thanked her, just to be polite, as she guided her boy a little farther along the sidewalk.

Courtney fled, walking as fast as she could without breaking into a run. Her heart seemed to pound against the inside of her chest and her face still felt flush, but the rush of terror began to subside.
Fucking James
. Never mind Wilkie; the thief hadn’t understood what he was doing. But James . . . without even realizing it, he had nearly killed her.

Killed
. She froze, catching her breath, raised a hand to her eyes. Jesus, what had she done?

Courtney turned and saw that the mother and son had stopped in front of Kismetix. The woman knelt in front of her boy, their Jamba Juices on the sidewalk, while she tied the dirty string of the balloon around his wrist so he wouldn’t lose it. Already it sagged a bit in the air, but they didn’t seem to have noticed.

The boy had dark hair, like his mother, and he grinned as he looked at her, cocking his head, making strange faces, just monkeying around the way little children did. He couldn’t have been more than four.

What am I?
Courtney thought.

“Wait!” she called, running after them.

The mother rose, she and the boy both holding their juices again, and turned to see what the fuss was about. Courtney raced up to them and the woman gripped her son’s wrist, taking a protective step in front of him.

“What’s wrong—” the mother began.

“I’m sorry. It was a mistake. You have to give it back,” Courtney said, the words streaming out too fast, frantic, a jumble. “Please, I’m sorry, I know it’s weird, but I shouldn’t have given that to him. It’s not for him.”

The woman scowled. “Excuse me? What the hell are you trying to do? That is so completely not cool.”

“I know, and I’m—”

“Just go away,” the mother said. She turned her back on Courtney, and marched the little boy along beside her. “Come on, Justin.”

“No, listen,” Courtney began, grabbing the mother’s shoulder and trying to turn her around.

The woman spun, slapping her hand away. “Don’t put your hands on me, you psycho. Back off, right now. If you wanted the stupid balloon, you shouldn’t have given it away, but you did. My boy is three years old. You can’t be all nice and give him something like that and then take it back. Go and buy a new one!”

The little boy tugged on his mother’s blouse. “It’s okay, Mumma, she can have it.”

Courtney’s breath caught in her throat and she reached out.

“Forget it,” the mother said. “It’s the principle of the thing. What’s fair is fair.”

By now other people had slowed to watch the spectacle unfolding on the sidewalk. Someone had a cell phone out, no doubt getting video of the confrontation. It would be online in minutes, but Courtney barely registered the whispers and the looks of disgust and disapproval from the onlookers.

She lunged for the balloon with one hand, reaching for the boy’s wrist with the other.

The mother swore in disbelief and threw her Jamba Juice at Courtney. The plastic cup and straw bounced off of her, bright green slush splashing Courtney’s clothes and neck and face. As she reached up to wipe the stuff from her eyes, the woman shoved her hard, and Courtney fell backward, sprawling onto the sidewalk.

“No, please, you don’t understand,” she pleaded.

“You don’t put your hands on my son, you crazy bitch,” the woman said, but already her voice was retreating.

Courtney jumped up, calling out, still wiping at her eyes. She blinked to clear her vision, but more people had gathered on the sidewalk. Several of them whispered her name. A man and two women came out of Kismetix to stare.

“Out of the way. Please!” she cried, trying to push through them, but the people wouldn’t move.

Someone spoke to her from the crowd, then, a quiet voice, telling her calmly that the police had been called, that she needed to go. Numb and hollow inside, she could only stare over the heads of the people gathered around her. Stare at the red balloon, bobbing happily in the air, wilting even as it receded into the distance. The balloon vanished around a corner as the mother and son walked out of sight.

As kind hands turned her around and got her walking away from the crowd, it occurred to her that she had gotten what she wanted. She had taken away James’s most precious possession. She had hurt him.

I win
, she thought, her mind and heart brittle.
I get to live
.

Then the tears came, in great, wracking sobs.

I get to live
.

Enormous thanks are due to Brett Savory and Sandra Kasturi at CZP for their patience, good humour, and the loving attention they give to all of their books, as well as all of the original editors of the stories appearing herein. Gratitude always to my agent, Howard Morhaim, my manager, Peter Donaldson, and to Allie Costa and Lynne Hansen, who make a pretty amazing support team. Special thanks to Neil Gaiman for his kind words and advice regarding the final story in this collection.

Christopher Golden is the
New York Times
bestselling, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of such novels as
Of Saints and Shadows, The Myth Hunters, The Boys Are Back in Town, Strangewood,
and the upcoming
Snowblind
and
Tin Men
. He has also written books for teens and young adults, including the Body of Evidence series,
Poison Ink, Soulless,
and
The Secret Journeys of Jack London
, co-authored with Tim Lebbon. His current work-in-progress is a graphic novel trilogy collaboration with Charlaine Harris entitled
Cemetery Girl
.

A lifelong fan of the “team-up,” Golden frequently collaborates with other writers on books, comics, and scripts. He has co-written three illustrated novels with Mike Mignola, the first of which,
Baltimore, or, The Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Vampire
, was the launching pad for the Eisner Award-nominated comic book series,
Baltimore
. As an editor, he has worked on the short story anthologies
The New Dead, The Monster’s Corner, and Dark Duets,
among others, and has also written and co-written comic books, video games, screenplays, and a network television pilot.

Golden was born and raised in Massachusetts, where he still lives with his family. His original novels have been published in more than fourteen languages in countries around the world. Please visit him at
www.christophergolden.com
.

“All Aboard,” “Under Cover of Night,” and “Breathe My Name” were first published as part of the Bram Stoker Award-winning collection
Five Strokes to Midnight
, edited by Gary A. Braunbeck and Hank Schwaeble.

“Put On a Happy Face” first appeared in
Blood Lite 3
, edited by Kevin J. Anderson.

“The Art of the Deal” first appeared in
Lords of the Razor
, edited by Joe R. Lansdale.

“Quiet Bullets” first appeared in
Son of Retro Pulp Tales
, edited by Joe R. Lansdale and Keith Lansdale.

“Thin Walls” first appeared in
Death’s Excellent Vacation
, edited by Charlaine Harris and Toni L. P. Kelner.

“Mechanisms” first appeared in
Hellbound Hearts
, edited by Paul Kane and Marie O’Regan.

“The Secret Backs of Things” was first published online at
Horror World
by editor Nanci Kalanta.

“Nesting” first appeared online in
Horror Literature Quarterly
.

“The Mournful Cry of Owls” first appeared in
Many Bloody Returns
, edited by Charlaine Harris and Toni L. P. Kelner.

The original text of “The Hiss of Escaping Air” was published by Peter Crowther at PS Publishing as a limited edition chapbook to coincide with FantasyCon 2008 in the UK. It has been revised considerably for its appearance in this volume.