The Raven King
Page 32
“This is a memory,” he said.
She nodded again. Now it made sense. He was wandering in a recollection of one of his early lessons with Persephone. The goals of those sessions were always the same: Escape his conscious mind. Discover his unconscious. Expand that to the collective unconscious. Look for the threads that connected all things. Rinse and repeat. In the beginning, he had never got past the first two. Every session had been spent trying to lure himself out of his own concrete thoughts.
Adam’s fingers scraped the bare bottom of the door pocket. The truth of where the cards had been in his memory was bumping up against the knowledge of where he stored them in the present. That window had started to leak after Persephone’s death, and he had begun to keep the cards in the glove box instead to prevent damage.
“Why are you here? Is this a dream?” he asked, then corrected himself. “No. I’m scrying. I’m looking for something.”
And just like that, he was alone in the car.
He was not only alone, but he was in the passenger seat where she had been, holding a single tarot card in his hand. The art on the card was sketchy and scribbly and looked a little bit like a pile of hornets. Actually, it might have been a face. It was unimportant. What was he looking for? It was difficult to navigate the space between conscious and unconscious. Too much focus, and he would lose the meditation. Too little, and he would lose the purpose.
He let his mind wander slightly closer to his present.
Electronic music bled into his awareness, reminding him that his body was actually in Ronan’s car. In this other place, it was easy to tell that the music was the sound of Ronan’s soul. Hungry and prayerful, it whispered of dark places, old places, fire and sex.
Adam was grounded by the pulsing backbeat and the memory of Ronan’s closeness. The Devil. No, a demon. The knowledge was not there, and then it was.
North, he said.
A ring of glowing white surrounded everything. It was so bright that it seared his vision if he looked directly at it; he had to keep his gaze focused ahead. A very faraway part of him, a part that thudded with electric beat, remembered suddenly that it was the light of the phone charger. That was the part of his brain that was still present enough to whisper directions to Ronan.
Turn right.
Cabeswater muttered into his deaf ear. It whispered of taking apart, of disowning, of violence, of nothingness. A backwards step of self-doubt, a lying promise that you knew would hurt you later, a knowledge that you were going to get hurt and you probably deserved it. Demon, demon, demon.
Go go go
Somewhere, a dark car raced along a night road. A hand gripped the wheel, leather bands looped over the wrist bone. The Greywaren. Ronan. In this dreamplace, all times were the same time, and so Adam had a strange, lucid beat of reliving the moment Ronan had offered his hand to help Adam up from the asphalt. Stripped of context, the physical sensations exploded: the surprising shock of heat from that skin-to-skin grip; the soft hiss of the bracelets against Adam’s wrist; the sudden bite of possibility —
Everything in his mind was ringed by the searing white light.
The deeper Adam moved through the music and the white-ringed dark, the closer he got to some sort of hidden truth about Ronan. It was hidden in things Adam already knew, half-glimpsed behind a forest made of thoughts. For a bare moment, Adam thought he nearly understood something about Ronan, and about Cabeswater – about Ronan-and-Cabeswater – but it slid away. He darted after it, deeper into whatever stuff Cabeswater’s thoughts were made of. Here, Cabeswater hurled images at him: a vine strangling a tree, a cancerous growth, a creeping rot.
Adam realized all at once that the demon was inside.
He could feel the demon watching him.
Parrish.
He was seen.
PARRISH.
Something brushed his hand.
He blinked. Everything was that glowing circle, and then he blinked again, and it resolved into the bright iris of the phone charger plugged into the cigarette lighter.
The car was not moving, though it had only recently stopped. Dust still swirled by its headlights. Ronan was absolutely silent and still, one hand resting on the gearshift, made into a fist. The music had been turned off.
When Adam looked over, Ronan continued looking out the windshield, clenching his jaw.
The dust cleared and Adam finally saw where he had brought them.
He sighed.
Because the helter-skelter drive through the cold night and Adam’s subconscious had brought them not to some disaster in Cabeswater, not to some schism in rocks along the ley line, not to whatever threat Adam had seen in the glaring headlights of his car. Instead, Adam – freed from reason and turned loose in his own mind, set upon the task of finding a demon – had directed them back to the trailer park where his parents still lived.
Neither of them spoke. The lights were on in the trailer, but there were no silhouettes in the windows. Ronan hadn’t shut off the headlights, so they shone directly on the front of the trailer.
“Why are we here?” he asked.
“Wrong devil,” Adam replied quietly.
It had not been that long since the court case against his father. He knew that Ronan remained righteously furious over the outcome: Robert Parrish, a first-time offender in the eyes of the court, had walked away with a fine and probation. What Ronan didn’t realize was that the victory hadn’t been in the punishment. Adam didn’t need his father to go to jail. He had merely needed someone outside the situation to look at it and confirm that yes, a crime had been committed. Adam had not invented it, spurred it, deserved it. It said so on the court paperwork. Robert Parrish, guilty. Adam Parrish, free.
Well, almost. He was still here looking at the trailer, his pulse thudding lowly in his stomach.
“Why,” Ronan repeated, “are we here?”
Adam shook his head, his eyes still on the trailer. Ronan had not turned off his headlights yet, and Adam knew that part of him was hoping for Robert Parrish to come to the door to see who it was. Part of Adam was, too, but in the shivery way of waiting for the dentist to just pull your tooth and get it over with.
He felt Ronan’s eyes on him.
“Why,” Ronan said a third time, “are we at this fucking place?”
But Adam didn’t answer because the door opened.
Robert Parrish stood on the steps, the finer details of his expression washed out by the headlights. Adam didn’t have to see his face, though, because so much of what his father felt was conveyed by his body. The thrust of his shoulders, the slant of his neck, the curvature of his arms into the dull traps of his hands. So Adam knew that his father recognized the car, and he knew precisely how he felt about that fact. Adam felt a curious thrill of fear, completely discrete from his conscious thoughts. His fingertips had gone numb with a jolt of sick adrenaline that his mind had never ordered his body to produce. Thorns studded his heart.
She nodded again. Now it made sense. He was wandering in a recollection of one of his early lessons with Persephone. The goals of those sessions were always the same: Escape his conscious mind. Discover his unconscious. Expand that to the collective unconscious. Look for the threads that connected all things. Rinse and repeat. In the beginning, he had never got past the first two. Every session had been spent trying to lure himself out of his own concrete thoughts.
Adam’s fingers scraped the bare bottom of the door pocket. The truth of where the cards had been in his memory was bumping up against the knowledge of where he stored them in the present. That window had started to leak after Persephone’s death, and he had begun to keep the cards in the glove box instead to prevent damage.
“Why are you here? Is this a dream?” he asked, then corrected himself. “No. I’m scrying. I’m looking for something.”
And just like that, he was alone in the car.
He was not only alone, but he was in the passenger seat where she had been, holding a single tarot card in his hand. The art on the card was sketchy and scribbly and looked a little bit like a pile of hornets. Actually, it might have been a face. It was unimportant. What was he looking for? It was difficult to navigate the space between conscious and unconscious. Too much focus, and he would lose the meditation. Too little, and he would lose the purpose.
He let his mind wander slightly closer to his present.
Electronic music bled into his awareness, reminding him that his body was actually in Ronan’s car. In this other place, it was easy to tell that the music was the sound of Ronan’s soul. Hungry and prayerful, it whispered of dark places, old places, fire and sex.
Adam was grounded by the pulsing backbeat and the memory of Ronan’s closeness. The Devil. No, a demon. The knowledge was not there, and then it was.
North, he said.
A ring of glowing white surrounded everything. It was so bright that it seared his vision if he looked directly at it; he had to keep his gaze focused ahead. A very faraway part of him, a part that thudded with electric beat, remembered suddenly that it was the light of the phone charger. That was the part of his brain that was still present enough to whisper directions to Ronan.
Turn right.
Cabeswater muttered into his deaf ear. It whispered of taking apart, of disowning, of violence, of nothingness. A backwards step of self-doubt, a lying promise that you knew would hurt you later, a knowledge that you were going to get hurt and you probably deserved it. Demon, demon, demon.
Go go go
Somewhere, a dark car raced along a night road. A hand gripped the wheel, leather bands looped over the wrist bone. The Greywaren. Ronan. In this dreamplace, all times were the same time, and so Adam had a strange, lucid beat of reliving the moment Ronan had offered his hand to help Adam up from the asphalt. Stripped of context, the physical sensations exploded: the surprising shock of heat from that skin-to-skin grip; the soft hiss of the bracelets against Adam’s wrist; the sudden bite of possibility —
Everything in his mind was ringed by the searing white light.
The deeper Adam moved through the music and the white-ringed dark, the closer he got to some sort of hidden truth about Ronan. It was hidden in things Adam already knew, half-glimpsed behind a forest made of thoughts. For a bare moment, Adam thought he nearly understood something about Ronan, and about Cabeswater – about Ronan-and-Cabeswater – but it slid away. He darted after it, deeper into whatever stuff Cabeswater’s thoughts were made of. Here, Cabeswater hurled images at him: a vine strangling a tree, a cancerous growth, a creeping rot.
Adam realized all at once that the demon was inside.
He could feel the demon watching him.
Parrish.
He was seen.
PARRISH.
Something brushed his hand.
He blinked. Everything was that glowing circle, and then he blinked again, and it resolved into the bright iris of the phone charger plugged into the cigarette lighter.
The car was not moving, though it had only recently stopped. Dust still swirled by its headlights. Ronan was absolutely silent and still, one hand resting on the gearshift, made into a fist. The music had been turned off.
When Adam looked over, Ronan continued looking out the windshield, clenching his jaw.
The dust cleared and Adam finally saw where he had brought them.
He sighed.
Because the helter-skelter drive through the cold night and Adam’s subconscious had brought them not to some disaster in Cabeswater, not to some schism in rocks along the ley line, not to whatever threat Adam had seen in the glaring headlights of his car. Instead, Adam – freed from reason and turned loose in his own mind, set upon the task of finding a demon – had directed them back to the trailer park where his parents still lived.
Neither of them spoke. The lights were on in the trailer, but there were no silhouettes in the windows. Ronan hadn’t shut off the headlights, so they shone directly on the front of the trailer.
“Why are we here?” he asked.
“Wrong devil,” Adam replied quietly.
It had not been that long since the court case against his father. He knew that Ronan remained righteously furious over the outcome: Robert Parrish, a first-time offender in the eyes of the court, had walked away with a fine and probation. What Ronan didn’t realize was that the victory hadn’t been in the punishment. Adam didn’t need his father to go to jail. He had merely needed someone outside the situation to look at it and confirm that yes, a crime had been committed. Adam had not invented it, spurred it, deserved it. It said so on the court paperwork. Robert Parrish, guilty. Adam Parrish, free.
Well, almost. He was still here looking at the trailer, his pulse thudding lowly in his stomach.
“Why,” Ronan repeated, “are we here?”
Adam shook his head, his eyes still on the trailer. Ronan had not turned off his headlights yet, and Adam knew that part of him was hoping for Robert Parrish to come to the door to see who it was. Part of Adam was, too, but in the shivery way of waiting for the dentist to just pull your tooth and get it over with.
He felt Ronan’s eyes on him.
“Why,” Ronan said a third time, “are we at this fucking place?”
But Adam didn’t answer because the door opened.
Robert Parrish stood on the steps, the finer details of his expression washed out by the headlights. Adam didn’t have to see his face, though, because so much of what his father felt was conveyed by his body. The thrust of his shoulders, the slant of his neck, the curvature of his arms into the dull traps of his hands. So Adam knew that his father recognized the car, and he knew precisely how he felt about that fact. Adam felt a curious thrill of fear, completely discrete from his conscious thoughts. His fingertips had gone numb with a jolt of sick adrenaline that his mind had never ordered his body to produce. Thorns studded his heart.
