One-Eyed Jack (3 page)

Chapter Two

I didn’t have much of an appetite that
morning. Oh, I’ve seen much worse than a missing finger, but it
still wasn’t exactly my favorite way to start the day. Breakfast
was a bowl of Cheerios, and I didn’t bother with milk, or with a
spoon; I ate them with one hand while my other worked the mouse on
my old Dell, searching for any news stories about a kid losing a
finger.

I didn’t find any, at least nothing
recent, or about a boy the right age.

Whatever had happened to his finger,
it was a safe bet that was just the beginning of something, and
that I was going to get dragged into it.

And since I was dreaming
about it, and it was happening to people I didn’t know in a place I
didn’t recognize, it was another safe bet that the supernatural was
involved. If a spook chopped off his finger, that was bad. That
was
really
bad.
Ordinarily the things I see at night can’t actually hurt anyone;
they aren’t substantial enough. When they
can
hurt people, it’s bad, because
how do you stop a phantom? Worrying about that killed the idea of a
big breakfast.

Another reason for the weak appetite,
if I even needed another reason with the image of that kid’s hand
still in my head, was that I knew I needed to call Mel soon. It was
about time to talk to her anyway, just to stay in touch, and the
dreams made it more urgent – she always wanted to know about it
when I had the dreams.

But it was too early; she wouldn’t be
up for hours. I’d have to wait until evening. Which meant a whole
day with that hanging over me.

I didn’t really think she would know
anything, but no matter how unpleasant the conversation might be,
it would be comforting, in a way, to talk to the one friend I had
who totally accepted the reality of my dreams, and who was
accustomed to dealing with things that didn’t belong in the natural
world.

Of course, in other ways it wouldn’t
be comforting at all. Talking to Mel was not fun. That wasn't her
fault, but it was true. Quite aside from the hours Mel kept, if I
ever called before work there were likely to be after-effects that
would not help me keep my job. Trembling hands are not good when
stocking shelves, and customers don’t like people who jump at the
slightest surprise.

Instead of calling her I shut down the
computer, went downstairs, and caught the bus to work. That meant
not talking to anyone about the kid, or doing any more research,
for an eight-hour shift. Selling hardware and building supplies is
about as far from dealing with psychic phenomena as it’s possible
to get, which is one reason I liked the job there; I’d never told
anyone at the store about my little involuntary hobby.

That was another reason I didn’t have
much of a social life, on top of not going out after dark; I had to
constantly watch what I said if I didn’t want people thinking I was
completely insane. Most of the people I’d known as a kid had
drifted out of my life because I’d stopped talking openly with
them. Most of my neighbors in the apartment building kept to
themselves, and a lot of them didn’t want to hang around with a
white guy in any case – I think they considered me creepy, and I
didn’t blame them. I was friendly enough with some of my
co-workers, but none of them were exactly close.

Some education Mrs. Reinholt gave me.
Some gift.

I didn’t nap during my break this
time. I didn’t lose any customers, either – in fact, I had a pretty
good day, moved a lot of merchandise, did a little harmless
flirting with a cute brunette. The only bad moment was when I was
showing someone a power saw, and my imagination made an unwelcome
connection with the sight of Jack’s left hand.

Not that I really thought a power saw
was involved; the gash on his ring finger didn’t look right for
that. Still, I had to stop talking for a few seconds and regroup. I
told the customer I’d rushed my lunch and probably ate something I
shouldn’t have, when I hadn’t actually eaten lunch yet at that
point.

I gave Mr. Sanchez another heads-up
about my imaginary family problems, said something about my Dad’s
health getting bad, before I left.

I didn’t like doing that; so far as I
knew, Dad’s health was fine, and I didn’t want to jinx that, but it
was the only thing I could think of at the time.

When I was a kid I didn’t worry about
jinxes. Hell, I felt superior to the other kids about that – I knew
better, I knew that stuff was all crap. When they were worrying
about stepping on cracks or walking under ladders, I laughed at
them and did whatever I wanted.

Now I don’t know one way
or the other. Maybe there really
are
jinxes. There are sure as hell
actual curses. Mel was living proof of that. Some people might say
I am, too.

I wished I knew the rules
– not just the bits I thought I’d figured out about how my dreams
worked, but about all of it. I wished I knew there actually
were
rules; the more I
dealt with the dreams and portents and visions and monsters, the
more I believed that there weren’t. In all the stories I’d ever
read as a kid, or seen on TV, the monsters followed rules –
werewolves change on the full moon and can be killed with silver,
vampires suck blood and fear the sun, magic takes careful
preparation and specific rituals. From what I’d seen, it didn’t
work that way. The things that went bump in the night generally
didn’t have tidy little labels like “werewolf” and “vampire,” so
far as I could see. Each one was different. And magic, when it
worked at all, could happen spontaneously, and couldn’t always be
controlled. I don’t think Mrs. Reinholt
intended
the curse she put on Mel to
do what it did. I
know
she didn't intend
all
of what her spells did. She certainly
hadn’t
looked
suicidal.

I called Mel pretty much as soon as I
walked in the front door of my apartment; I wanted to get it over
with. I punched her number on my cell and held it to my
ear.

She answered on the third ring, and an
ominous feeling, a sensation of foreboding, came over me. I
grimaced. The curse was still there.

Of course it was. It had been there
for eight years; it wasn’t going to just spontaneously
vanish.

“
Yes?” Her voice was cold,
almost threatening, and I shivered at the sound of it. A sensation
of emptiness sucked the strength out of me; I turned my back to the
wall and braced myself.

“
Hey, Mel, it’s Greg,” I
said.

It seemed as if she paused before
answering, and a feeling of dread, a certainty of looming disaster,
crept up my back at that. The phone felt like ice in my hand, and I
began to think that calling her had been a very, very bad
idea.

But that was just the curse, I told
myself. Talking to Mel was always like this.

“
Gregory! How
are
you, dear boy?”

She’s a month younger than I am; “dear
boy” was an affectation, part of her act. I knew that. She didn’t
need to keep up the act with me, but sometimes she kept it going
out of habit. I knew she didn’t mean anything by it, but I couldn’t
help hearing it as vicious sarcasm. The sound of her voice sucked
the life out of me, all the hope and light; the apartment that was
my refuge from the world suddenly felt like a stark, empty prison.
“I’ve...” I swallowed. “I’ve been better,” I said. “I had a
dream.”

“
You’re dreaming again?”
The words were harmless enough, and I knew she didn’t intend them
to be threatening, but they sounded like an accusation. Dreaming
suddenly seemed like the worst thing I could do, a crime against
nature and a betrayal of... well, everything.

“
Yes,” I managed. It came
out in a whisper.

“
I’m so sorry! Is it
bad?”

“
It’s...” I couldn’t
finish the sentence; the words caught in my throat. I didn’t know
whether she meant the dreams or her curse, and I didn’t dare give a
wrong answer. I didn’t dare question her.

“
Strong as ever, isn’t
it?” she said.

She meant the curse, then. “Maybe
stronger,” I said.

“
Maybe,” she said. “It
didn’t used to be so bad over the phone. It’s brave of you to call
me then, Greg; I appreciate it.”

I made a noise.

For a moment we were
silent, a horrible ominous silence. “I’ll tell you what, Greg,” she
said after a few seconds. “I’m going to be quiet now, and you’re
going to tell me all about your dreams. I want to hear it
all
, and I’ll be very
displeased if you leave anything out. And when you’re done telling
me, then you can end the call. How’s that sound?”

“
I love you, Mel,” I told
her, and a wave of sheer terror washed over me at the thought that
she might take that as an invitation to meet in person, to spend
time together.

But I meant it; I did love
her, I had since high school – not romantic love, but as a friend.
Even the curse hadn’t been able to change that. The way she dealt
with the curse, the way she refused to let it destroy her, made me
love her all the more; she called me brave, but she was the one who
lived every day with what that old woman had done to her,
and
used
it,
instead of letting it rule her.

I might not always agree with how she
used it, but I admired her strength.

And she had stayed my
friend, when the other people we knew from high school avoided both
of us. She had
power
, she had money and influence, and I had nothing. She had
turned her curse into an identity and a career, while I had let my
“gifts” ruin my life, but we had stayed friends.

She laughed. “You’re sweet, Greg,” she
said. “Now, tell me your dreams.”

I told her. I talked for
several minutes, and she didn’t say anything. Talking to her wasn’t
so bad; it was when I was
listening
to her that the curse really hit.

“
His finger was gone?” she
asked, when I finished, and I shuddered so badly at the sound of
her voice I almost dropped the phone. “I mean, he didn’t have it in
his pocket? It wasn’t just severed?”

I felt like a fool for not even
considering that possibility, and despaired at my own stupidity and
incompetence. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I didn’t see it
anywhere.”

“
You think that woman cut
it off?”

“
Maybe,” I said. “I don’t
know.”

“
What did she look
like?”

“
I couldn’t see her face.
She was thin, pale, with long dark hair – ”

I stopped, as I suddenly realized that
description could more or less fit Mel, too.

Mel realized the same
thing. “Gregory Kraft, you didn’t think she was
me
, did you?”

“
No!” I shouted. My voice
cracked. “No, of course not! Please.” I was crying. She was angry
with me, and I couldn't face that.

Well, really, she probably wasn’t, but
I couldn’t think straight enough to believe that. I had been
stressed by the dreams to begin with, and talking to Mel was hard
enough when I was calm.

“
Greg, are you all right?”
she asked, and on one level I knew she was genuinely concerned, but
the curse changed it; she was mocking me, taunting me, berating me
for my weakness. I pushed the button to end the call, and then fell
into an armchair and sat trembling.

The phone rang.

It was her; I knew it was her. Part of
me wanted to fling the phone aside, but I pressed the “send”
button, and put the phone to my ear. I didn’t say anything; I
didn’t need to.

“
Gregory, you
hung up
on me!” she said.

“
I know,” I said
miserably.

“
You
hung up
on Madame Melisandra, Dread Mistress of Fear and
Queen of Despair, when you knew I didn't want you to?”

“
Yes,” I
croaked.

“
My God, you’ve got
balls!” She laughed.

“
You
scared the
shit
out of me!” I said, shivering uncontrollably.

The laugh cut off
abruptly. “Well, yes,” she said. “That’s what I
do
.” She sounded sad, almost
wistful.

That
wasn’t the curse. Sad and wistful wasn’t a misinterpretation
that would fit the curse. That was her real feeling.

“
You said that when I was
done telling you my dream I could end the call,” I reminded
her.

“
Yes, I
did. But I hoped you wouldn’t. And you weren’t
done
, dear boy – we were
still discussing how closely this woman resembled me.”

I tried to remember the woman from my
second dream, and match her against Mel – or rather, against Madame
Melisandra de Cheverley, the Dark Lady, Queen of Despair and
Mistress of Fear. Mel was the girl I’d known in high school, and
Madame Melisandra was what she had become to accommodate the curse
Mrs. Reinholt put on her.