Mid-January 1978: San Francisco, CA
Fog, rain, cold. It never changed in San Francisco, especially in late January. Shivering, Vão — short for don't-call-me-Estevão — Carvalo trudged up the stairs of Cy Goldberg's business office in the Haight, an old painted-lady house. Cy had called a special meeting for the band Karma, and Vão wasn't about to make their manager angry again. Vão shoved the door open and waved himself past the receptionist and into the inner waiting room.
As usual, Dylan had beaten him there, and, surprisingly, the new keyboardist, Nathaniel Tanner. Dylan Jones was shaggy, rubbery, and golden, Nathaniel a sullen southern Cal surfer dude, though he'd moved from L.A. last year, and both were a stark contrast to Vão, a scrawny runt with a beaky nose jutting out from under his mop of black hair. Vão opened his mouth to say hi, then thought better of it. The press party that past weekend had been a major embarrassment — Vão had gotten drunk and had said too much about his new bandmate, none of it complimentary. The media people had laughed, and Vão had thought everybody took it all as a joke, until Cy hauled him outside for a major shout-down.
Nathaniel was pointedly not looking at Vão, and Vão caught the bare edge of disgust and hurt. Great, just great. Vão clenched down on his shields, the comforting and necessary mental walls between him and the rest of the world. His shields had been erratic for the last week or so, and the thought of facing the whole of San Francisco — let alone the band — without them was terrifying. Hopefully, Nate would settle and it'd all blow over soon.
The afternoon news was on the TV. Good. Distraction helped Vão ignore his Empathic Gift, which tended to act up with little warning. "Anything important?"
"Nope," Dylan said, with a sly grin. "They haven't mentioned you once."
Vão laughed. Dylan was easy to deal with; the bassist's laid-back joker front ran beneath the surface, too. Vão grabbed a soda from the office fridge, passed another to Dylan, then watched the scrawl of images on the TV: Muni workers on strike again, gas prices, Middle East, recession, depression, blah blah blah.
The door burst open — Rafe Hollen, their lead guitarist, a muscled half-chicano, half-Black street-rat with wiry, dark hair slicked back into a long, tight ponytail. Their drummer, Ian Parsons, bald, lean, and quiet, strolled in behind him.
"Jesus, Hollen, trying to trigger another quake?" Dylan drawled.
"That was outside," Ian said. "He nearly ran down a cop on that new Harley of his."
"Cy in yet?" Rafe said.
"A while ago," Nathaniel said, not looking away from the TV. "Doing secret stuff in the inner sanctum."
"Reading Star Trek porn is hardly secret," Dylan said.
The shocked pause was broken by Rafe and Ian's combined burst of laughter, Nathaniel's uncertain grin, Vão's snort.
"Anything's better than listening to your bass playing, Dyl." A round, bearded apple of a man, Cy stood in the inner doorway. "Now get your asses in here. We've got stuff to get settled.""
Dylan mouthed a long, silent "Oooooooo", catching Vão's gaze with another grin.
"Star Trek porn versus Dyl's bass," Ian said, dead-pan. "Yeah. He's got a point." Dylan mimed a punch, which Ian ducked.
Shaking his head, Vão turned from the TV, then stopped, his attention caught again. "Did they say New Orleans?"
"Yeah," Nathaniel said, "the murders down there. There's been another one."
"Murders?" To his embarrassment, Vão's voice cracked. They were supposed to play a show at Mardi Gras. They hadn't even finished recording the new album, but that never stopped Cy from grabbing any chance at publicity. Not on the actual Fat Tuesday, though. Even Cy wasn't publicity-hungry enough to compete with that, which meant that the band might be able to enjoy the party, too.
Until this, anyway. Rafe had stopped, staring from the TV to Vão.
"Just the usual Satanic stuff, no big deal," Dylan said. "Cow skulls, black candles, backwards Led Zep albums, voodoo dolls, dead bodies, you name it. Been six, so far."
"Seven." Nathaniel nodded at the screen. "They're scared it's going to keep folks away from Mardi Gras."
Dylan snorted. "Yeah. Right."
Rafe moved to stand next to Vão. "Kris went down there," Rafe said. "With Joshua."
The usual hurricane of energy and emotion surrounding the guitarist had gone decidedly spiky. Vão dared it: he gripped Rafe's shoulder. Over the last tour, something had changed, something with Kris, something with him, something with Rafe. Vão wasn't sure what or why. But he and Rafe had been walking on eggshells around each other, uncertain and wondering…
"You did say Kris and Josh, right?" Ian said. "They of the 'we'll kick your demonic asses all the way to Ohio and leave you there' fame?"
"I feel sorry for the killer," Dylan said.
That broke the tension. Vão snorted, felt Rafe's shoulder relax. "Oh, yeah," Rafe said, grinning, "right." But Vão couldn't stop staring at the TV: police stumped, no clues, the brutality of the murders, all young, men, women, kids…
"Someone I should know here?" Nathaniel said.
"Just our bodyguards," Dylan said. "I hope, anyway." He raised an eyebrow towards Cy, who still stood with ill-concealed impatience in the doorway.
"Well, if you can tear yourselves away from the TV and get in here," Cy said. "You too, Carvalo. You can catch up to your press later."
Vão clamped his mouth shut. Cy had been getting more irritating lately, all of it aimed at Vão. Vão pulled himself away from the TV, followed Rafe past Cy, but not fast enough. Cy shoved both Rafe and Vão a little too hard through the mail room after the others. Two of the fan club people sat in a pile of letters, studiously ignoring the band save for friendly nods.
"Cy," one said, an edge to her voice and a spike of fear that made it through Vão's shields. He stopped as Cy went over to look at what she held, and there was another sudden fear-spike and a hiss of breath. Vão edged over, just enough to see what they held — a photo of some kind, torn up?
"No, you don't." Cy pushed Vão away.
"Cy—"
"You are not paid to deal with lunatic fan mail. You, singer. Them, mail jockeys. Now move it before I get Hollen to kick your ass for you."
Vão huffed himself up, then decided against it, allowed Cy to push him into the meeting room; Vão would sweet-talk the fan-club woman later. He could feel Rafe's gaze on him, but Vão only dropped into the chair next to the guitarist with a graceless sprawl.
"To answer your question," Cy said to Dylan, "yeah, the Center group'll be guarding us in New Orleans. Mostly, anyway. Their regular team. Usual terms. So you idiots can get that worry off your minds. Or off other parts, some of you."
"Mostly?" Vão said.
"Yeah, mostly. Believe it or not, there's more important things than you, Carvalo. That's what Mar Mountainhawk said, so stop glaring at me. Enough of their folk for your personal bodyguards. I'll be hiring others to cover the venue."
Nathaniel looked confused. "This is over bodyguards? Is there something I should know about here?"
Vão and Rafe exchanged looks. They hadn't let Nathaniel in on everything, not yet.
"I am part of the band, y'know," Nathaniel said stiffly. "Right? Or you guys feel like he does?" He lifted his chin towards Vão.
"Tanner," Cy said, then glared until Vão shut his mouth. "Settle it, both of you."
"I'm not the one who un-settled it," Nathaniel snapped.
"So level with us, Tanner," Rafe said, "and we'll level with you."
Everyone's stares moved from Nathaniel to Rafe, then back. Nathaniel only gave Rafe a steady, long glare, then looked away.
"Riiiight, that's settled. And closed." Cy glared around the table, then changed the topic.
Long, long, boring. The thought of getting out of San Francisco and into the warm South was overrun by the minutiae of show planning, flight arrangements, interviews, and promo things. Cy and Nathaniel kept glaring at Vão, their disgust and anger beating at him, but Vão carefully fixed his gaze on the window, running through mental exercises to reinforce his shielding and not let them get to him. He didn't want to start anything here.
Finally, it was over. Vão wanted to bolt out of there, but held himself in check, lagging behind the others.
Cy was already ahead of them and through the doors, the others trailing, chattering. Mel and Jack were nowhere to be seen — Vão glanced at the clock: past 4:30. He edged towards the mail Mel had been working on.
There. A torn edge…
"What are you doing?" Rafe said, right behind him.
Vão jumped, throttled the yell before it tore loose, and collapsed against the nearby desk, waiting for his heart to get out of his throat. Rafe, though, stared at the torn photo that Vão'd dropped.
"Jesus," Rafe said. "What is that?"
"Mel had it, when we came through," Vão said. "Spooked her good. She called Cy over and he wouldn't let me see —"
Rafe grabbed Vão's wrist when Vão moved to pick it up. "Don't. It's real, whatever it is."
It was a promo photo of the band, one of the new ones that the fan club had just started sending out — but all the eyes were stabbed out, the mouths blacked out with permanent marker, and brownish-red splatters were everywhere, crossing through arms, over hands, throats…and worse…
It'd been ripped in two: Vão's image had been torn away from the others, though mangled just as horribly.
"Blood magic," Rafe breathed. "Mierda…"
"Talking behind my back?" Nathaniel came into the room, then froze, staring at the photo.
"Look, idiots," Cy said from the outer door, and all three musicians jumped. "I want to lock up — dammit, Carvalo, I told you to leave that alone!"
"It's not an idiot fan," Vão blurted. "That's real. It's serious." He was babbling, he knew it, but the blood-lust coming off the photo hammered at his Gift, right through his shields.
"Then I'll tell the cops about it and we'll let them deal with it," Cy said. "You three get your asses out of here and Go. Home."
"But —"
Rafe grabbed Vão and shoved him and Nathaniel away, past Cy. "We're leaving, we're leaving."
Swallowing his anger, Vão didn't resist as Rafe had steered him out to the parking lot and to his car. Only then did Vão jerk free of the grip and round on Rafe.
"Shut up," Rafe snapped. "Just shut up. Yelling at Cy ain't gonna help!"
Vão collapsed against his car, struggling to get under control, to calm down. He was one step from freaking out good and royal, but Rafe was right, damn him. It didn't help that he could sense Rafe was just as close to freaking as he was, nor that Nathaniel was standing right there, watching both of them with arms crossed and face world-class blank.
"We'll call Mar," Rafe was saying. "We'll tell her and they can deal with it. Better, let's drive over there and you can freak at her."
Vão could imagine Mar's reaction to that. Tough and no-nonsense, Mar Mountainhawk was one of those in charge of Bay Area Center; she commanded the Association's Blades for the western U.S. Somehow Vão managed a weak grin. "You're trying to get me killed."
Rafe gave him a rough shake, then let him go.
"Someone wanna tell me what's going on?" Nathaniel said.
"Sure, Tanner," Rafe said. "You gonna level with us now?"
Abruptly Vão caught what Rafe meant. How he'd missed it… "If it helps," Vão said, quiet apology, "I'm an Empath. I don't want to be. And Rafe's —"
"— a guitar player," Rafe cut him off. To Nathaniel, "Well?"
Nathaniel stared from Vão to Rafe and back. Then, without a word, Nathaniel stalked off towards his car.
"I'll tell my own secrets, thank you very much," Rafe said to Vão.
"Sorry." Vão stared at Nathaniel's retreating back. "He's scared. He's scared to death."
"He can join the club. Not my fault he's a buster. Let's go ambush Mar. Look pathetic and maybe we can beg dinner, too."
Vão didn't move. "Rafe, if Cy takes that thing to the cops, they won't believe us. And it'll destroy whatever's on there. Mar's people'll need to see it, you know that."
Eyes closed, Rafe breathed out a curse. He looked around the parking lot; Cy and the others had already left, Nathaniel was just now pulling out. "Yeah. Come on."
They went back up the stairs to the front door. Rafe laid his hand on the wrought iron-work, whispered something, and Vão felt a surge of energy and vertigo. The iron screen clicked open; the door swung in.
"After you," Rafe said.
They eased through the building, back to the mail room. The photo still lay on the top of the mail pile. Vão wasn't about to touch it; just looking at it made him ill. Even Rafe looked decidedly green.
"Here." Rafe snagged a sheet of cardboard off a nearby desk. Using another piece of mail, they scraped the photo onto the cardboard, weighted it down with a box of paperclips, then carried it out to Vão's car.
"I'm not having that in my car," Vão said.
"I'm on my bike," Rafe said. "So I can't. I'll be right behind you. It can't cause that much trouble between here and Yerba."
Vão glanced across the parking lot. "You got a Harley?"
"Maybe I'll let you ride later. Haul it, mister. Before Cy decides to come back."
Vão had to force himself to not look at the photo all through the long drive to Yerba Buena; the Center was the only estate on the island. But the photo kept snagging his attention; he felt slimy and unclean just being near it —
The blast of a horn jerked him back, then a flash of overwhelming fear and blinding pain. Spinning the wheel, Vão barely avoided a green truck careening over from the next lane. He skidded onto the shoulder; his passenger side scraped the concrete barrier. Slamming on the brakes, he wrestled control back and finally came to a stop on the shoulder.
Head against the steering wheel, Vão sat there, shaking from the near miss. The pain hadn't stopped, battering at him from outside — then his shields collapsed under the onslaught: broken bones, crushed limbs, shattered ribs. Metal crushed him, crushed his legs —
Behind him on the highway, three cars had piled up. Somehow Vão shoved open the car door and staggered out, but the phantom pain crumpled him to the pavement. He couldn't block it. He couldn't do anything but fight not to scream. Then it hit him. Rafe — oh dear god, Rafe had been behind him!
Rafe screeched up and skidded to a halt. He jerked his helmet off and stared back at the wreck: one of the cars was pancaked against the other shoulder. Breathing a long stream of curses, Rafe collapsed against Vão's car, but then saw Vão huddled on the pavement.
Vão felt the energy slam down, a solid wall between him and the mess behind them. The pain eased off; he could breathe.
"What'd Kris tell you about your shields?" Rafe growled, helping Vão up. "You okay?"
Shuddering, Vão took another shaky breath, reinforcing his own shields as best he could. He could still feel the panic and pain beating against him. Desperate for distraction, he looked away.
Ahead of them on the berm, another vehicle had pulled over — the green truck. Vão caught a glimpse of a jowled face watching them through the side-view mirror.
The truck pulled away.