Dead Rockstar (The Dead Rockstar Trilogy Book 1)

Chapter 12

When Phillip returnedtwenty minutes later, I was still in just a t-shirt, sitting there fretting, holding ice on my knuckles. After I”d slammed the door on Lee, I”d punched the wall in a fit of rage. I was relieved when Phillip walked through the door holding a brown paper bag.

“Those coffee cups over on the fridge will have to do,” he said, walking over and popping the cork on the wine. “I forgot to get cups.”

“It”s fine.”

He glanced over at me. “What the hell happened to your hand?”

I relayed Lee”s visit and my subsequent rage punch. He chuckled and shook his head.

“I”m gone half an hour...”

“He just makes me so mad,” I said.

“That guy is an A+ creep. If he comes around here again, I”ll deal with him.”

“That’s just it. I don’t think he is a creep,” I said, blowing on my fingers. “But he’s definitely a coward. He doesn”t come around unless you”re gone.”

“Then you”ll stay by my side at all times,” he said, sitting on the bed and pulling me close. He ran a hand up my thigh and I sighed with pleasure. “I can”t believe you said that to him.”

“It”s true.”

“When I saw those knuckles, I thought you’d punched him.”

“Next time I will,” I said. I meant it. I reached up with my bruised hand and ran a finger down his jaw, which was stubbly and coarse; he hadn’t been shaving. “But let’s not think about him anymore.”

“I”m still on cloud nine from before,” he said, placing a soft, sensual kiss on my lips. “And I”m going to take you back to bed in a minute, believe me. But Stormy-” His face turned serious. “Don”t risk yourself for me. Ever. I know you can take care of yourself, you”ve proven that. But no heroics. Not on my account.”

“I have an obligation to you,” I said. “I brought you back.”

“That doesn”t obligate you. You had no idea what would happen. I won”t have you risking your neck for me.” He brushed my hair back from my face. “I like you way too much for that.”

“Fine,” I said stubbornly. “But the same goes for you. No stupid heroics just for my benefit, either, understand? You need to lay low and keep yourself safe.”

He nodded, his eyes full of bemusement and affection and something else I couldn’t place. He was lying, but so was I, so what did it matter?

I held out my hand. “Where”s my wine, you handsome devil, you?”

“It”s the cheap stuff,” he said, pouring me some and handing it over. “Hope you”re okay with red.”

“That”s all I drink.”

“Me, too.”

We sipped in silence for a few moments, both of us lost in thought. I wasn”t scared, exactly, but I was nervous. Anxious. Lee was a weirdo, but some of what he said seemed to have a ring of truth to it. Seeking out this guy Guthrie did seem risky. Just because he”d given Phillip a spell years back when they were both high as a kite didn”t mean he”d take kindly to seeing him in the flesh all these years later, nor would he necessarily be thrilled to see a random girl from the sticks who just happened to accidentally perform necromancy. He might be really offended, or worse, want to squelch my black magic – which meant squelching me. I was out of my depth here, with no idea about magic, how to counteract it, or whether or not I”d gotten myself or Philip into serious trouble. We wouldn”t know until we saw Guthrie, and once we did, it”d be too late to run.

We were taking a risk, but it was a necessary one. I just hoped we’d come out of it unscathed.

I guzzled down the dregs of the cheap wine and poured a little more. I wanted to have a nice buzz to help me forget my nerves. Phillip seemed to be of the same mind, because he discarded his cheap coffee mug and took a long swig straight from the bottle. Then he handed it to me. We drank that way, just staring at each other, saying nothing, until the bottle was about half gone. Then he took me in his arms and leaned me back on the pillows. He placed a gentle, wet kiss on my lips.

“I feel pretty lucky,” he said, smiling at me. “To have you. I really don”t deserve you, not after the life I”ve lived.”

“That life is over,” I said, wrapping my legs around him. “This is a whole different life.”

“Let me do the talking,”Phillip had said to me before we exited the truck to knock on the door of the little house. As if I had any plans to chat up this mystery person.

It hadn”t taken us long to find the place; apparently Phillip still knew the location by heart, even after twenty-three years. It wasn”t far from his old family home, where Jason now lived (I knew another conversation about that would have to be had soon), just a couple of blocks, though in those couple of blocks the neighborhood had changed dramatically. Gone were the nicely manicured lawns, clean painted shutters and flower box windows. The houses on this street were full of peeling paint, sparse, dry lawns, and beat up vehicles. The house we were about to enter, if anyone was home and agreeable, was a tiny place that looked to be only one bedroom, with ancient powder blue siding and a roof that was in ill repair. The front porch wasn”t much more than a stoop, and it was covered in boxes of what appeared to be junk. A sullen-looking yellow cat sauntered out from one of the boxes, making me smile, and with a nonplussed swish of his eaten-looking tail, went around to the back of the house.

I was tempted to just wait in the truck, but felt I”d be safer by Phillip”s side. Just the idea of Guthrie scared me. If Lee was to be believed, he would not be happy to find out who I was or what I had done: I did not like the idea of what he might say or do to me. I planned to tell him that if didn”t want people doing spells, he ought not to give them out like candy to trick or treaters, but behind all my attitude, I was scared shitless.

Despite never having met him, something about Guthrie reminded me of a guy my parents had been friends with when I was a kid. He had lived in the same trailer park, in a singlewide off to the very end, secluded and nearest to the woods. His name had been something weird and old fashioned like Eldred or Elvin – my folks had insisted I call him “Uncle El” - and he had always frightened me. Now that I was grown, I knew he’d just been your usual run of the mill pot dealer, somebody who sold my drunk parents dime bags of weed and the occasional bump of coke; just a tragic, middle-aged guy who was probably harmless.

And yet he had creeped me out so much when I was little that I’d avoided going to his house with my parents whenever I could, begging to stay home in my bedroom with my books. When I was forced to go along, I’d cower in his living room, sitting on the very edge of his dark, scratchy couch, almost sliding off onto the floor, trying not to look up at the dreamcatchers he had suspended from the dingy, smoke-stained ceiling. He’d had dozens of them, all sizes and colors, some of them huge, with elaborate, colored feathers, others small and cheaply made, likely bought from the dollar store. They’d catch the light from his streaky, dusty windows and the breeze from his box fan, and I’d try not to watch them dance, because I was afraid that the spirits attached to those dreamcatchers would catch my eyes and not let them go, that they would follow me – follow me home, follow me to bed, haunt me in my dreams, and I’d wake up blind.

As a child, I had no awareness of why it scared me, but now, standing with Phillip outside the truck, I had an inkling. “Uncle El” had co-opted something that didn’t belong to him, that wasn’t his…the magic that he’d contained within his little singlewide was too large and too real to be contained within that small, dirty space, commandeered by someone who had no tie to it, and no real idea of its significance. It was magic for magic’s sake; false magic. Playing with things that weren’t yours to play with. It had just felt wrong.

And that’s how it felt now, too. It felt wrong. It wasn’t Phillip that felt wrong, or even the spell I’d done; no, something about that felt right to me, as though I had been meant to do what I did in that drunken moment. It was all the rest – the specter of Guthrie, the shifty beings following me, so many variables – that felt out of place, wrong and dangerous.

I waited, pulling my black hoodie around me tightly, like a cocoon, determined to shake my dreadful thoughts. I was certain that Phillip had been fumbling around in my head – I wasn’t sure he could even help it most of the time – but thankfully, he said nothing, only placed an arm gently around my shoulders and gave me an optimistic smile.

Phillip wasn”t nervous or full of dread, just eager. Now that one piece of business had been concluded, he was anxious to get the second out of the way. I envied him his lack of fear, his logical attitude toward it all. What he planned to do next I supposed relied upon whatever Guthrie had to tell him, if he told him anything at all.

I imagined his questions were the same as mine, though we hadn’t discussed it. Instead, they hung unasked in the air between us. What exactly was Phillip? A zombie? A Frankenstein monster? A reanimated corpse? How had the spell worked? Was I a witch or was it just a fluke, a spell that would have worked for anyone? Was it indeed black magic? Could Phillip be hurt or killed? What happened if I released him? Was his incredible strength, almost-psychic “vibes” and the fact that electronics didn”t work around him all part of his super-human abilities? How long did he have before he died again? Would he go on to live a normal human lifespan? Or was he immortal?

Those were just a few of the questions I wanted to ask. A few I hoped Phillip would get the answers to. Many I was content to never know, if I could help it. The thought of something happening to Phillip now filled me with terror. I was falling in love with him. I had no excuse. I hadn”t even tried to stop it. How could I not have? I”d lusted after him since I was a teen, and he was bound to me – there were forces stronger than me at work. What would Guthrie say about that?

Phillip rang the door bell, and after about thirty seconds when there was no answer, he knocked. I wrapped my arms around myself tighter. It was very cold in Boston, and windy, too. I wished I had thought to bring an actual coat and not just a jacket. I was too accustomed to southern winters, where it would be forty degrees one day and seventy the next, where the only snow we ever got was like a dusting of powdered sugar on a cake. Phillip was only wearing his black t-shirt. He had to be cold. I resisted the urge to lean into him, to try and warm him up. He sighed and knocked again, louder this time. There were no sounds of movement from within.

“He must not be home,” I said, but just as the words left my lips, we both heard footsteps from inside the house. My teeth began to chatter, and not just from the cold. “Phillip, it”s not too late – we could just hop in the truck and leave-”

He shook his head at me, and we heard the lock rattling on the door. It opened gingerly, and a pair of blue eyes set in wrinkled skin peered out at us. Whoever it was had a mop of frizzy gray hair.

“What do you want?”

“We”re here to see Guthrie,” Phillip said. “Please.”

“Guthrie?” the voice said, its owner still peering at us through the crack in the door. It repeated, “Guthrie?”

“Do you know him?” Phillip asked. “I”m an old friend of his but haven”t seen him in a very long time. Does he live here, or have we come in error?” He was talking very properly, trying to keep the patience in his voice. Maybe he was a little nervous.

“Guthrie,” the voice said again, and then the door swung open. It was a little old woman in a housecoat with birds of paradise all over it, and blue house shoes, the same shade of blue as the house. Her hair was in tufts all over her head; it looked like it had been years since she”d seen a hairbrush. “Yah, I know Guthrie.” She chuckled. Her voice had a heavy accent. “Not a lot of folks asking after him these days. He hasn’t lived here in ten years.”

“And you are...”

“Lydia.” She offered no other explanation.

“Nice to meet you, Lydia.” He offered his hand, but she just looked at it. “I”m Phi-”

“Phillip Deville,” she stated, giving him a steady look. “Yah, I know who you are. Don”t you remember me?”

He obviously didn”t. He blinked for a moment, then turned to me. “This here is-”

She interrupted him again. “Stormy Fiona Spooner.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. How did she know my name? I never even used Fiona; my mother had given me that middle name after herself, and I hated it.

“How do you know Stormy?” Phillip demanded.

“Why don”t the both of you come off the porch and get out of the cold before I”m forced to give explanations,” she said with a dry cackle, and pulled us both inside.

The house was so tiny, the living room and kitchen were basically one room. I couldn”t imagine Phillip here in his rock star days, even if he”d only come by to pick up dope. It seemed almost too small for him, his head near the ceiling. Another inch and he”d be brushing up against it. We both sat down on a mauve couch and a puff of dust rose in the air when I sat.

“I don”t use this room much,” she explained, sitting across from us. “I mainly stay in the back bedroom. I”m sick and have a bad back and prefer to lie down most of the time. I rarely get company anyway. I”m afraid I don”t have any refreshments to offer you.”

“That”s okay,” Phillip said. “We don”t plan to stay long. I really just wanted to find Guthrie. I assume you know a little about-”

She laughed again, the sound as dry as bone buried in sand. “I would surely hope so. Since I”m his wife.”

“But you two live apart?” Phillip asked, evident confusion in his voice. “You said you hadn”t seen him in ten years.”

“He just up and left you?” I asked, incredulous. “But you said you’re ill…”

“I’m better off without him. Guthrie couldn’t take care of a plant,” she said bitterly, then fixed her eyes on Phillip. “I wish I could tell you where he is, dearie, but I can’t. I’ve not seen him in years, and that suits me fine. Whatever you need to ask, you’ll have to ask me, I’m afraid.”

“I”m not sure you can help me,” he said, unsure. He was tense and disappointed, the muscles in his arms rigid.

“Sit down, Sidhe,” she said, and I looked at her, confused, wondering what word she’d just called him. I’d never heard it before. She looked back at me with clear eyes, then uttered another laugh. “You sit down, too, Fee. Let’s see what we can do.”

We both sat down dutifully, but I was confused. “Sidhe and Fee,” she said, and it sounded like shee-n-fee. “I like the ring of that, don”t you?”

“What does it mean?”

She took another puff of the cigarette, ignoring the question. “So, Sidhe, I assume you have questions about the spell. About what you are, among other things.”

“I do.” His voice had gone low. He didn”t particularly care for this woman, even though it seemed she was being helpful enough. After all, she could have turned us away once she realized we were looking for Guthrie.

“Ask, then,” she said. “I”ll answer what I can.”

“A spell,” he began, then told her about the spell Guthrie had given him, how he”d put it on his album, and how I”d recited it. “Obviously it was a real spell, because it worked. Stormy here brought me back.”

“Fee,” she said again, looking at me. “That’ll be short for Fiona, dear. You might dislike it, but it’s part of you, and you should learn to embrace even the parts of yourself you don’t understand or care for.” She gave me a grizzled old smile, then turned back to Phillip. “Fee brought you back. Good job, dearie.”

It struck me that she was giving a performance, almost a caricature, barely real. The woman was one warted nose away from a fairy tale villain. I tried to smile at her, but I felt like Dorothy faced with the Wicked Witch; I wanted to throw a bucket of water at her and run away. Instead, I steeled my gaze and spoke. “I didn”t know the spell was real. I was drunk and reading an album cover. It was a total fluke.” This was a stretch of the truth, but I wasn’t quite ready to admit just how far I’d gone with it. “When he showed up on my doorstep it was a hell of a shock.”

“And then you were pleased as punch,” she said, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “Right?”

I looked down and didn”t answer. She was poking fun at me.

“How did it work?” Phillip demanded. “How could it have? When Guthrie gave me the spell, he owed me money. I never took it seriously for a second, and when I printed the damn lyrics in my liner notes-”

“Not lyrics, a spell,” she corrected him.

“Right, fine, the spell – when I printed them in the liner notes I had no idea that it was a real thing, that I”d be sealing my fate as this, this -” he gestured with his hands, “-whatever I am.”

“Didn”t you?” she asked. “Didn”t you have some idea it might be real? Otherwise, why would you have bothered?”

“It”s not like I knew I was going to die in two years,” he said petulantly.

“Didn”t you?” she repeated.

This was not going well.

“The spell – is it permanent?” I asked, deciding to go with a direct question. “Or can it be reversed?” Phillip looked at me with alarm – apparently, he had not thought of this.

“It”s permanent, yes, but it can also be reversed,” she answered. This was maddening. I had a sudden vision of her as the tuft-haired caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland, puffing away on her Virginia Slim, talking in riddles. “You can reverse it, except-” She stopped, then shook her head. “-you wouldn”t do that to poor Sidhe, would you?”

“No,” I answered. “Unless he asked me to.”

“Maybe not even then,” she said with a smile. You”re wrong, I thought to myself, hating her smugness. I”m not selfish like you. She turned to Phillip. “Whether or not Fee cooperates, dear Sidhe, you can always reverse the spell yourself.”

“How?”

“Can you not think of anything?” She raised an eyebrow.

I grimaced. “So if it”s permanent, that means he won”t, like, keel over tomorrow. But otherwise, is he a normal mortal guy? Can he be hurt or killed?”

“Yes,” she answered, her cigarette dangling from her lips. “He can be hurt and killed, both. But it will be harder to do either to him than most. He has a bit of extra strength, you see.”

“Yes.” I”d seen that for myself.

“Why did Guthrie give me the spell?” Phillip asked.

“You just said yourself,” she answered in surprise, “he owed you money. He did that from time to time back then. Idiot, foolish thing to do, but he never was very smart.”

“I don”t believe that, not anymore,” Phillip answered. “He didn”t have to give me that spell to placate me. He chose to, for some reason. He picked me for this...he knew that it would happen. The same as I know you”re holding something back.” He fixed his gaze on her, and his hands were clasped tightly in my own, squeezing my fingers harder than he realized. “Why did he pick me for this?”

“I can”t say I know, Sidhe.”

“Stop calling me that,” he snapped.

“You”re very tense,” she said. “Relax, Phillip. You have nothing to fear. It”s a blessing, a gift. Count your lucky stars. Not every man has the opportunity to shake off the mortal coil on a temporary basis.”

“What do I have to give in return?” he asked. “That”s what I want to know. My soul? Something else? Will I end up sacrificing someone I love or having to serve some-” He stopped and shook his head. “What kind of price do I have to pay for this ”blessing”?”

“None at all,” she answered easily. “Magic doesn”t work that way.”

“Then she,” he gestured at me, emphasizing the word, since it sounded so much like the one she kept using for him, “will have to pay the price.”

She looked at me dreamily. “Nothing she hasn”t already paid.”

Phillip”s face twitched.

“This magic,” I said, stepping in to diffuse the situation. “Is it white or black?”

“What?” Her forehead crinkled.

“The spell,” I said. “White or black magic?”

She smiled. “Fee means White Lady. White Witch. Magic is all about intention and what you use it for, what”s in your heart.”

“That”s not an answer,” Phillip thundered. “And you just said it was short for Fiona.”

“So it is.” She puffed away, her watery eyes working over us. “And Sidhe is an old Gaelic word that roughly translates to ‘tall fairy.’ The Sidhe were a mythical race of faeries that were able to walk among the heavens and the earth in kind. They had much magic,” she said with a clever smile, looking at Phillip. “Just looking at you, hulking around, so full of misplaced pride and concern you try to hide; it suits you. So tall and strong – all the trappings of a brute, but such a feminine face and a tender heart.”

Phillip glowered beside me and I hid my smile behind my hand.

“Fee and Sidhe. My white witch and my tall fairy man.”

“We”re not yours,” Phillip growled. “And I’m sure as hell not a fucking fairy.”

“Oh, down boy.” She chuckled. “He really can be like a dog with a bone,” she said to me, her eyes sparkling. “I don”t know how you contain him.”

I ignored this, though inside, I wanted to chuckle. She wasn’t wrong. “From everything I”ve read, necromancy is black magic,” I changed the subject, uneasy.

“Sidhe and Fee, so worried.” That smile again. “So it is. Black magic. What of it? So many misconceptions about good and evil.” She sighed. “Nobody has any real understanding of the practice, of what white and black magic entail. They work in conjunction with each other, you see. Two halves of one coin, two very necessary halves. You must find the balance.”

“She”s not going to tell us anything real,” Phillip muttered to me.

“Oh, I suppose now you”ve been earth-side for a whole four days you suddenly know everything,” she said. “Not real? Look at your flesh, restored. Feel the breath in your lungs. Mere days ago, you were rotting in the ground. And you want to talk about what”s real?”

“I didn”t ask for this,” he said, angry. “Neither did she.”

“Yes, you did. Yes, you both did.” She puffed her cigarette. “Now shall we put away our egos and talk plainly?”

“I didn”t intend to be a witch,” I said. “I know that much.”

“Well, don”t worry sweetie, because you aren”t one.” She laughed, smug. “Not yet. Nor will you be with that attitude. Any fool can do a bit of magic if they say the right words and have the right talismans. But to be a true witch, you have to believe – in your power and in yourself. You don”t believe much in either.” Her words stung. “Intention, as I said. If you don”t value what it is to be a witch, you”ll never be one.” I reared back, feeling as if she’d just slapped me. How many times had I said the very same thing to Sloan, half joking, half resentful of the way she always dismissed me? Now that the word was on Lydia’s lips, it felt aggressive and mocking.

I looked down at my feet, angry. Even though I”d just told her I wasn”t interested, who was she to suggest otherwise?

“We”ll be going now.” Phillip stood up again. “Thanks for nothing.”

“You”re being very unfair,” she said calmly. “I”ve answered everything you”ve asked.”

She flicked ashes into the ashtray and stood on shaking legs. “I can tell you one more thing. You asked how the spell can be reversed. There”s one way, but you should know – it”s immediate.”

“What is it?” Phillip asked warily. We were both meandering slowly toward the door, eager to get away from her. Something was off; among the dusty, stale, oppressed air of the house there was a new electricity, something humming, something chaotic and anxious. I knew Phillip felt it too, because the hairs on his arm, where I was clutching him with white fingers, were raised.

“You”ve heard of Samson and Delilah?”

“Of course,” Phillip said. “I was raised Catholic. Samson”s strength was in his hair, and when Delilah cut it in his sleep, he lost it.”

“Guthrie used to call that spell the ”Samson spell’.” She grimaced. “It always irritated me. Christians take everything from pagans. Everything. Your hair, Sidhe. If you get tired and want to shuffle off, cut it. That”s it.”

“Just cut my hair? And the spell reverses? I die?”

“You cease to be in this realm,” she answered. “Put it that way.” Then she laughed.

Phillip looked a bit green. “We”re going now.”

“Goodbye, then, Sidhe and Fee. See yourself out. Lock the door behind you.” And she was gone to the back of the house, seemingly without giving us a second thought, confident that we’d let ourselves out. We heard a door shut and Phillip turned to me.

“What a waste of fucking time.”

“She did tell us a few things,” I said.

“All she did was talk in riddles and throw us a whole hell of a lot of attitude.” He put his hand on my back. “Let”s get out of here before the cigarette stench absorbs into our clothes.”

We were at the truck when the screen door opened, and Lydia stuck her frizzy head out. “Sidhe…look after her.” She gestured at me with a gnarled hand. “She’s in far more danger than you are.”

Phillip’s face twisted in disgust, and he opened his mouth to reply, but I stopped him with a hand. Something about the expression on her face told me not to tangle with this woman, and anyway, she was right. Phillip had been saying all along that the ragtag group of guys following us were after him, but it was just as I’d suspected -they were really after me.

“Let’s just go,” I said in a low voice. Lydia had already retreated inside in a cloud of smoke, the screen door slamming behind her. I could hear the deadbolts locking on the other side of the heavy door.

Phillip trudged over to the driver’s side of the truck and opened the door. He climbed in and put the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. “Storm,” he called to me. “The truck won’t fucking start.” I was still standing outside the truck, unlocking my cell phone to check for messages from Sloan, who still had not responded to my earlier text. I peered through the truck window.

“What do you think it-” I began, then something at my feet caught my eye. I crouched down to pick it up, hearing the blood rushing in my ears, knowing without really looking what it would be. Of course, it was another tarot card. What else would it be? The Death card, no doubt. Well, I wasn’t going to touch the damned thing. Not here in this creepy ass yard, after talking to that creepy ass woman.

I stood back up, my stomach lurching, turning back toward Phillip, who was still fiddling with the ignition, cussing up a storm. I opened my mouth to tell him what I’d just seen, but no sound came out. Suddenly I was overcome with dizziness, an unwelcome, nauseating feeling of being bound – I tried to call out again, to move my arms, to wave, to shuffle my feet forward, but I was stuck to the spot. I couldn’t even reach forward a couple of inches to open the truck door or tap on the glass and get Phillip’s attention. I watched helplessly as Phillip continued to fiddle with the keys, not looking at me, not sensing my sudden terror. How was it that for once he couldn’t feel me? Why wasn’t he in my head?

I had the sensation of something looming heavy behind me, creeping up like a black cloud of smoke over my eyes, nose and mouth. I could feel the thud of Phillip”s heartbeat – he was full of the same sense of foreboding and I could feel it – and realized, staring in mute horror, he wasn’t actually fiddling with the keys at all, but was rather staring straight ahead at the steering wheel, one hand suspended in the air, clutching the keys, the other in his lap. He wasn’t moving. He was bound - terrified and paralyzed, just as I was. I tried to screambut I could do nothing but stare ahead, voiceless, trapped in the immobile cage that was my body. I heard a sudden rustling of feet behind me, and that was the last thing I knew before my world went black.