It could
have ended differently. But it ends like this.
Or, more
accurately, this is how the ending begins.
It
begins in the summer. It begins in Los Angeles.
Jonathan
feels like something not good is waiting to happen. He doesn’t always feel like
this, just on birthdays, holidays, and most of the days between. This is a day
that holds something bad. He’s been avoiding talking to Fortuna recently, since
he feels like he’s been working on these kinds of jobs long enough to be able
to find the right answers on his own. But this isn’t an ordinary case. This
time he’s going to need help.
He
wishes that he could tell Phillip what has really been going on with Pandora,
but he can’t. Not yet, perhaps not ever. Phillip has helped a lot, moving in
and out of his life like an older brother, no, like a good friend. Ever since
Sebastian died. Jonathan looks at his drink. He’s going to need more alcohol
too.
Phillip
wants him to find Pandora, but that’s something he doesn’t think he can do
alone. That’s why he’s convinced himself that he should talk to Fortuna. He
still isn’t sure who Fortuna is or how she knows what she knows. Kalinda
introduced them one night in San Francisco, but he never learned where,
exactly, she came from. He is grateful that she doesn’t mind sharing her
knowledge with him. He had entertained thoughts that Fortuna might be involved
with black magic, but he knows he’s wrong.
She is
beyond good and evil.
Jonathan
taps his fingers on the bar. He’s hanging out at Swampland, while the DJ tears
up the vinyl, spinning through a mix of early ‘70s punk rock obscurities and
British Invasion hits. He turns to look but the DJ booth is shrouded in shadows
and dim red light. He thinks about saying thanks for the songs but decides he
doesn’t need another excuse to stay. “Right, let’s just get it done.”
It took
him a while to find Fortuna. She’s someone that even the dead don’t like to
talk about, and the dead love to talk. It took a few visits to Hollywood
Forever, a boom box, and an old Shriekback cassette. He felt like a gothic
Lloyd Dobler, but he finally got his answer. The Tropicana Motel on Santa
Monica Boulevard, Room 29. Now that he knows where she is, the trick is to work
up the nerve to go there. Jonathan knows he shouldn’t go. He doesn’t always
listen to the word “shouldn’t.” He shouldn’t be infatuated with a woman named
Pandora who is the next best thing to a vampire, and not a good one. He
probably shouldn’t be trying to track her down either. He knows Fortuna might
be able to tell him where she is; he kind of hopes that she can’t.
Clearing
away spirits is like tearing down the dusty latticework of old cobwebs
accumulating in a musty attic. That he can handle, though it gets a little
dirty at times. Vampires, though, they’re solid. Blood-sucking evil solid, and
he isn’t looking forwards to dealing with any of them. Not that Pandora is a
real vampire, but she’s close enough. He’s been running from her and searching
for her at the same time, and it’s getting old.
“Damn
you, Phillip,” he grumbles as he leaves Swampland, wishing reality was like it
used to be. As far as he knows, Phillip’s the same as Pandora but, at least so
far, not evil. Phillip did help Jonathan get settled in Los Angeles.
Jonathan
can clean out a haunted dive bar in about twenty-four hours, he can exorcise a
possessed drum kit in the time it takes to listen to the extended mix of
“Fascination Street”, he can purify a stage from spectral remains before a band
returns for an encore. He just doesn’t know if he can take out Pandora. He
walks fast down the sidewalk, passing all of the faceless people, and then—
A
dark-haired woman moves past him with a sidewalking glare. She struts hard in
high black boots. She’s stalking the streets like a storm on the concrete,
heels over heartbeat, and Jonathan’s breath catches in a suddenly broken
rhythm.
She’s a
whiplash girl twisting necks, and he feels the stirrings of a fever. He doesn’t
even care about the weather; he just knows it’s better when it’s hot.
This heat
holds, and slides out from between her steps. He watches her tight black dress,
the fabric painting eyes and stirring blood. Slick lick lips, thigh-high and
higher. She hits him with a flash of red, a slip of a smile, like some reptile
out for a spin.
Jonathan
stops, but it’s not her.
He still
has time. He needs to figure out how to get away from Pandora—for good. It
feels like they’ve been haunting each other for an eternity, though it’s only
been a few years. He needs to know where she is and how to stop her. The only
person Jonathan knows who might have answers is Fortuna. She always has
answers. She always freaks him out as well.
Jonathan
waits for his hands to stop shaking. He watches the sun set in the reflection
of skyscrapers, pulling the half moon to rest behind a closed curtain of
brilliant clouds. He connects the stars while walking between parked cars. Some
quiet frenzy slips inside him, and he hides it from the outside world. He
already knows what song she’s playing as he moves up the stairs. He can feel
the rhythm tracing taut lines around his veins with a wire’s kiss.
I am the
fly.
Jonathan
walks through the cold night into Fortuna’s motel room.
