Page 9

Indy

Days passed.

As promised, I worked with Sully in the gallery.

There wasn’t much to do, so she set up an easel and watercolors and put me in front of it as a live exhibition.

Not a very interesting one, though, since I had yet to do more than mix one color, then another, only to watch them dry in their pots.

By Friday evening, Sully was sick of my moping and lack of productivity, and I was desperate to venture beyond the four walls of the gallery.

So, I took some cash and headed for the Thai restaurant down the street.

They were notoriously slow, which gave me time to roam without Sully looking over my shoulder.

I called in our orders and started walking, then kept on, past the restaurant and farther, trying to outpace my thoughts.

Sobriety was shitty.

The club was open, and I battled the urge to call Chaz.

He would meet me in that scummy alleyway, always happy to fill my order.

But I had my memories now.

And I’d been clean for seventy-two hours and counting.

I didn’t need pills.

That was what I told myself as I advanced down the street and past the cordoned club entrance.

It became a mantra as I moved.

A marching tune.

I didn’t need drugs.

Didn’t want them.

I was cured.

Repaired.

Whole.

I tugged on the sweater yarn knotted around my wrist.

Staying quit should be easy now.

I walked all the way to Central Park before I realized why.

Evander would likely be onsite.

Looking back over the scope of my lives, I had known him in every one.

He was almost as constant a fixture as Loren.

He showed up at events like Joss Foster’s art exhibition, or my own gallery shows, or masquerading as a groundskeeper at the trailer park when Loren and I moved there.

He and Loren clashed for reasons Evander already explained.

Demons and angels were like oil and water, but I knew enough now to realize Evander had never been a problem for me.

In fact, if demons were so opposed to him, even on principle, he might have been a deterrent for the hellhounds hot on my tail.

Maybe I owed him an apology.

Traipsing down the path toward the heart of Central Park, I spotted Evander’s crowd of fans.

Wafting paint fumes lured me closer, and I wondered if anyone else had gathered in the hopes of catching a contact high.

Not me. I didn’t need that anymore.

Didn’t want it.

I grew quickly bored watching the angel work.

It was another cosmic scene.

Planets and stars and way too many moons cluttered the canvas.

Evander hunched over the newspapers protecting the ground from the color and glitter being thrown down layer after glossy layer.

This show came with a flashier finale.

Once the painting was complete, the angel pulled out a Zippo and a can of topcoat.

Striking the lighter, he sprayed through it, creating a belch of fire like a makeshift flamethrower.

The onlookers gasped in awe as the heat rapidly dried the painting and left it with a high shine.

Applause answered the performance, and Evander sat up to offer a bow.

I rolled my eyes and, of course, that was the moment he spotted me, looking far from impressed by his showmanship.

Rather than call me out by name—or hair color—he smirked and accepted payment for his masterpiece, then informed the crowd he needed to fuel his creativity with some popcorn from the nearby cart vendor.

Standing and dusting down his paint-spritzed apron, Evander padded over to greet me.

His jovial expression became guarded as he closed in.

“Something’s different about you, Indigo.”

I gave one of my curls a tug.

“Plum. Eggplant,” I corrected, then stabbed a finger into my chest. “Indy. And I remember you, Evander. I remember everything.”

His pierced brow arched.

“The witch got to work, did she?” Bending back, he surveyed me head to toe before asking, “You want some popcorn?”

“Loren’s gone,” I admitted by way of reply.

“You were right.”

Evander ceased his inspection and looked almost remorseful as I tagged on.

“We sent another hellhound after him, but” –I sighed— “I don’t know.”

Clapping a hand on my back, Evander propelled me toward the vintage red cart with the striped awning parked a few dozen feet away.

Its open windows let out the smell of hot butter to clash with the chemical stink of spray paint.

We joined the short line, and Evander ordered a bucket of plain popcorn for himself and a bag of confetti corn for me.

I wasn’t sure how he knew it was my favorite flavor.

I expected him to linger around his canvases and other supplies strewn across the nearby sidewall.

Instead, he headed deeper into the heart of the park, leading me along behind.

“Another hound, you say?” he asked as we fell into stride.

“We didn’t really have a choice.” I bounced my shoulders.

“We summoned his mistress to try to trade my tears, but she drank them and then?—”

“She drank them?” Evander stopped short.

I frowned at his interruption but finished anyway.

“And then she ascended to Heaven.”

I would have kept walking, but the angel stayed in place, hugging the cardboard bucket of popcorn while storm clouds rolled across his face.

“That’s not possible,” he said.

Giving my bag of rainbow glazed popcorn a shake, I picked out a green kernel then popped it into my mouth.

“That’s what Whitney said,” I muttered between chews.

“Loren, too, before he left.”

“And Whitney is…?” Evander’s pale blue eyes darted over to mine.

“The other hellhound.”

I grabbed a yellow piece next, banana flavor chasing lime.

“That’s why the demons want me. Like I can make them holy or some shit. I thought it would be a sort of sprinkle baptism, but she took the tears like a shot and poof. Gone.”

A cyclist passed by, ringing his handlebar bell to clear the path as he zipped ahead.

He cut through the crowd awaiting Evander’s return, causing them to scatter.

“That can’t be,” the angel sputtered.

“It’s not allowed… in Heaven?” The question in his tone was clearly not meant for me since he carried on without my response, muttering under his breath.

“I would’ve heard…”

Scooping out a palmful of popcorn, I poured it into my mouth and talked around it.

“You get a lot of angel news in Central Park? Do you have a magic cellphone, too?”

My sarcasm caused him to scowl.

“I’m not here all the time, Indigo.”

I swallowed then sucked a breath to correct him.

“It’s… You know what, never mind.”

Evander turned toward me, closing us into a more conspiratorial space.

“Who else knows?” he whispered.

“About Loren?”

He shook his head.

“About your tears. About the demon ascending.”

A pair of joggers squeezed between us.

I backpedaled toward the grass bordering the sidewalk and took another bite of confetti corn.

“I don’t think the tears are much of a secret,” I said.

“They’ve been looking for me for months now. Kinda surprised you aren’t in the loop. Aren’t angels like all-knowing or something?”

Evander’s expression soured.

“If you believed that, then why did you come to tell me?”

“Call it a Hail Mary. Or a… hail you.” Simply put, we’d exhausted Hell’s resources, so I figured it couldn’t hurt to tap one of Heaven’s.

“Well, I wasn’t aware.” Evander shifted his popcorn bucket to his hip, having completely lost interest in his snack.

After a moment’s consideration, he began again, “The demon who ascended?—”

“Moira,” I supplied.

“You said she was Loren’s mistress?”

“Whitney’s, too, I think. But they’re both free now.” And I should have been thrilled.

It was a staggering victory.

Loren had been possessed—and a possession—as long as I’d known him.

The existence of an evil entity behind the scenes, giving commands and pulling his strings, had always chafed me.

She made him miserable, and I was glad to see her gone, but such an event was something we should have been celebrating together.

And I’d never felt more alone.

“She was the mistress, then?” Evander said more than asked.

“Of all the hounds?”

“Maybe?”

Evander’s features went slack.

“Then they’re all free.”

It sounded like a good thing.

An outcome I hadn’t considered.

If the hounds had been following orders to run me down, now they didn’t have to.

My tear trade might have paid off in larger dividends than I thought.

Relief must have found its way onto my face because Evander fixed me with a scornful glare.

“This is not a good thing,” he snapped.

“Why not?”

“Because they’re beasts.” He bit at the words, and argument bubbled up behind my pinched lips.

“Monstrous creatures running rampant in Hell, on Earth, and wherever else they please. Who knows the kind of havoc they might wreak?”

“You’ve met Loren, right?” I asked, folding my arms.

Evander’s mouth bent in a frown.

“You know I have.”

“He’s the sweetest, gentlest man I’ve ever met, and he’s a hellhound.”

The angel blew out a haughty breath.

“Loren is an aberration. There’s a reason I’ve allowed him to keep close to you all these years.”

Allowed him?

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Rather than answer, Evander scanned the park.

His audience had left, and his painting supplies were arranged how he’d left them, but he made no move in that direction.

Instead, he grabbed my arm and bent into my line of sight.

“Go home, Indigo. And stay there.” His voice was gruff.

“Don’t come back here. I’ll come to you.”

I jerked away from him so abruptly some of my popcorn scattered in the grass.

“I’ll go wherever I want. It’s a free city.”

Evander grew increasingly severe, juxtaposing his mood with the carnival-style popcorn container tucked against his side.

“Pretty little thing like you can find trouble without even trying. Don’t make it easier than it has to be. Especially with your guard dog missing in action.” His icy eyes narrowed in the field of his tawny skin.

“Stay home. Let your witch do the heavy lifting. I’ll find you when it’s time.”

“Time for what?” I asked.

He turned away, headed deeper into the park waving me off as he went.

“Go home, Indy!”

My home was the Airstream trailer sitting empty outside town, but I wouldn’t go there, not without Loren.

As for my witch, the Thai restaurant was slow, but this had turned into a suspiciously long outing.

I could only hope Sully had gotten tied up with customers and lost track of time.

When I looked in the direction Evander had gone, I saw no trace of him.

Without walls on which to draw a portal, I had to wonder how angels came and went from the earthly plane.

Maybe he sprouted wings and took off.

Or maybe he phased out with sparkling special effects like the transporter beam in Star Trek.

Another unknown was, when an angel dipped out of existence, what happened to the shit they left behind?

Evander’s art station remained as he’d left it.

Seemed a shame to leave it all to be snatched up by vagrants or other ne’er do wells.

Knotting off the top of my popcorn bag, I tied it to my belt loop then made a beeline for the paint.

If I got an extra sack from the Thai place, I could get everything back to Sully’s apartment, and she’d be none the wiser.

Surely Evander wouldn’t mind if I played with his toys while he was away.

As long as I stayed out of trouble.

It was after midnight when I decided to go down to the gallery and get the untouched easel and canvas and drag them up to Sully’s apartment.

The spray paint I’d borrowed—stolen, whatever—from Evander formed a semi-circle on the floor around me.

I had repurposed the pages of Sully’s Enchanter’s Almanac for masking and took a cup from the kitchen to make round planet shapes.

For art, I told myself, a whisper in the darkness.

I’d sampled the colors first, by sight and smell.

Their plastic lids were removed and arranged like a tasting flight.

Each one got a little spritz of color before I cupped it to my nose for a nice, long whiff.

The noxious fumes went straight to my brain, and something lit up inside me like a bell ringing yes, right answer.

So, I huffed them again and again until the aerosols tasted like the goddamn rainbow.

Now, the canvas was dripping with too many layers of paint, and I had the munchies.

I balanced my pad Thai leftovers in one hand and shook the rattle can with the other, preparing to lay down a smattering of stars.

A muffled groan preceded Sully emerging from the bedroom hallway.

She scrubbed her scalp, then dragged her fingers down her face before squinting at me.

“Indy?”

“N. D.,” I chirped in response.

That was going right on the corner of this galactic masterpiece.

Big letters. N.D. It used to be a tattoo on my arm.

I remembered that. But tattoos, piercings, and endless applications of hair dye washed away with every rebirth, and I came back as a brown-haired, boring, basic bitch.

Sully repeated my name.

She sounded pissed.

“What are you doing?”

“Art,” I replied.

“Inspiration struck.”

I spritzed the canvas with white, speckling the dark skyscape.

“Well, I’ve been struck by a hell of a migraine.” Sully’s nose wrinkled.

“You can practically see the fumes in the air. Why didn’t you open the window?”

Because I liked it.

Didn’t need it, but I wanted it.

The smell made my head swimmy, and the pillows on the floor looked like a lopsided smiley face.

I smiled back, deep-diving into my earliest memory about the man who put me in a cage and cut my hair and pulled my feathers.

He called me N.D. Marked me with it.

Just N.D.

Sully muttered a few words, then swept her hand toward the wall.

The gauzy drapes fluttered as the window opened.

Wind gusted through the apartment, creating a vacuum that momentarily stole my breath.

It cut like a draft pouring out into the night.

Then the glass slid shut.

I stood, holding the spray paint limp at my side.

My attention traveled from the cityscape outside to the bookshelves that flanked it.

Tucked between other oddities, the taxidermized creatures watched me with black, beady eyes.

I smiled at them, too.

“Indy.” Sully shook me.

When had she gotten so close?

I looked at her, putting every piece of my fragmented focus into holding her gaze.

“You got paint on your nose,” she said.

“In it, too.” I snorted a laugh.

“Up it.”

The angry lines forming valleys in her forehead began to smooth, and her eyes softened along with her voice as she said, “You’re high.”

“Oops.” I grinned because it was funny.

Didn’t she see how fucking funny it was?

“ Not oops.” She leaned around me to survey the scattered paints and the almanac stripped down to its spine.

“How did you…” She shook her head.

“Where did you even get all of this?”

“I know a guy.” I gave the paint can a shake.

“He’s an angel.”

Finished with her inspection, Sully faced me directly.

“An angel gave you paint to get high?”

I nodded, testing the tether of my neck that felt as limp as a cooked noodle.

“Evander. He was at the trash art show. Do you know him, too?”

Sully sighed.

“I don’t think so.”

Stepping around me, she bent and began collecting book pages from the floor.

She draped them over one arm, all out of order and striped or misted with paint.

I crowded in behind her, talking to her back as she worked.

“Loren doesn’t like him,” I said, then amended, “Loren doesn’t like many people. Or angels.” I frowned.

“Do angels count as people?”

Sully lifted a pair of pages that were stuck together and peeled them gingerly apart.

“I’m not sure,” she replied.

Pausing in my pursuit, I consulted the canvas.

Not too shabby for a first attempt, but it could use a few more stars…

I raised the aerosol can, targeting the blank spot in need of speckles.

“Evander paints like this,” I said.

“In Central Park. People love it.” The hissing sound as I pressed the nozzle caused Sully to jerk upright.

She spun on me with ire in her eyes.

“Do you have a lighter?” I asked.

“What for?”

“There’s this cool flamethrower trick…”

Her hand flew out and snatched the can of white paint.

“No,” she snapped.

Tucking the can in the nest of papers, she went for the other colors next, collecting them all in an awkward armload.

When she headed into the kitchen, I followed.

“Evander, though,” I continued.

“I told him about Moira and Whitney, and he called the hellhounds beasts. That’s racist. Classist? Speciesist?” I shook my head, and a rogue curl brushed the bridge of my nose.

“And he said he ‘allowed’ Loren to be around me. What the fuck is that? He doesn’t make the rules. He’s not my dad. Or my daddy.”

Giggling, I stopped in place while Sully piled the paint and pages on the counter.

She went to the under-sink cabinet next and rooted around to produce a roll of trash bags and tear one off.

“I called Loren that once,” I said as she shook air into the bag.

“You should’ve seen his face. Grossed the fuck out. He’s so literal, I swear. Like that time I begged him to breed me, and he sat me down and proceeded to have this entire conversation about how he’s dead, and we’re both dudes, so he can’t get me pregnant.”

I snickered again at the memory of sitting naked in bed and enduring a damn near scientific explanation about how there was a lot of otherworldly shit going on in our lives, but butt sex babies were not one of them.

“I mean thank god, right?” I asked through a wide grin.

“Pregnancy would be hell on my figure.”

With a single sweeping stroke, Sully pushed every book page and can of paint into the garbage bag.

My gaze dropped to where the bottom of the sack bulged, then tracked back up to Sully’s face.

“Is this really what you want?” she asked.

“Huffing paint and stinking up my apartment while you ramble about angels and your breeding kink? Who knows what you’re doing to your brain.” When she hefted the bag into the air, the metal cans clattered inside.

“Is it what you want?” she repeated.

“Or can you just not help yourself?”

The knife of reality sliced through my euphoric cloud, and my lips pursed in a sour look of my own.

“I want my fucking boyfriend back, Sully.”

I wanted the paint back, too, but I wasn’t about to tell her that.

Let her take it to the dumpster.

I could dig it out. Maybe I could tag the alley wall while I was at it.

Graffiti was art, too.

“This isn’t even about Loren, and you need to stop using him as an excuse for your behavior.” Sully’s locs swung as she knotted off the trash bag and dropped it on the floor.

She straightened and aimed an accusatory finger at me.

“This is about you . Your life and how you want to spend it.”

“My short ass life,” I snipped, tasting the bitterness that had been on a slow drip for days.

Minutes ago, I’d been savoring the rainbow, but now everything was black.

“No one is guaranteed anything,” Sully replied.

“Not a day, certainly not forever.”

“How about a forever of short ass lives?” I folded my arms again and set my feet to stop myself from swaying.

Sully rounded on me with her shoulders back and feet planted much more firmly than mine were.

“You wanted me to be real with you?” she asked.

“Like I used to be?”

I nodded.

“Here’s something real,” she said.

“If all you’re gonna do is get high and while away the next decade, you might as well turn yourself over to the demons now.”

I flinched as Sully stepped forward.

She took me by the elbows and met my gaze.

“People care about you, Indy,” she said, “but you have to care, too. You have to decide that your short ass life has meaning, and that it’s something worth protecting. Loren certainly thought it was.”

The pity in her expression was too much, and I ducked away, hiding from her and a sudden rush of tears.

Not tears, though, merely the feeling of them.

The rush of heat and the sting around my eyes.

I’d cried enough in recent days to know the sensations, but no moisture came.

“You said this wasn’t about him,” I muttered.

I knew Sully heard me, but she didn’t respond except to ask, “Is there a meeting tomorrow?”

There was always a meeting.

If not at the community center, I could find another.

New York had no shortage of misery seeking company.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Good.” She gave my arms a squeeze.

“We’ve worked a lot on the Loren problem. I think it’s time we worked on you.”

It sounded like rehab, and I’d hated rehab.

The therapists told us that staying clean was a lifelong commitment, often a lifelong struggle.

Lives long. I wasn’t promised forever, and I wasn’t sure I wanted it.

Not like this. Being hunted for sport, relentlessly chasing a high, and filled to the brim with memories of a man I might never see again.

“I’m not giving up.” I rubbed my aching eyes.

Sully pulled me in, and I sagged against her.

“Neither am I,” she replied.

“Not on either of you.”

She wrapped me up, and I could have cried again.

Except I couldn’t. Maybe phoenix tears had a long refractory period.

My reserves were empty and needed time to refill.

Regardless, I buried my dry face in her shoulder, overcome with dozy, drowsy feelings that told me I might actually get some sleep tonight.

Yes, sleep sounded better and better, and tomorrow, I would work on me.