Chapter Text
by Nancy Arena and Pamela Rose
(October, 1977)
The old guitar was battered and scarred, but the music was new. The hand holding it was also scarred, but the notes flowed with concentrated grace, soft and a little mournful, less of a lament than a warm comfort in the melody.
Pausing to light a cigarette, the guitarist watched the smoke curl toward the gilded pattern on the ceiling. Across the opulent suite the drapes were closed against the autumn sunshine and the room glowed dimly as candlelight flickered in the whisper of air conditioning, silent except for the inexorable metronome of a clock on the desk. The guitarist listened to his inner music and heard the next line of notes playing clearly in his head. The cigarette hung forgotten between his lips as he repeated the riff on the obliging strings.
A moment later the telephone began to ring.
The guitarist stopped playing but made no move to answer, waiting patiently until the ringing ceased before returning his attention to his instrument, painstakingly beginning the song again. But his concentration had shattered and after a false start he set the guitar gently aside. He flexed the fingers of his hand, watching them move with a kind of wonder. The jagged scar running up his wrist seemed faded in the candlelight. He didn't care about the ugliness, but the pain nagged at him.
It was better, he told himself. Better now than last week and better then than the week before. A year ago he hadn't been able to bend his wrist -- tonight his fingers should be, would be, flying over the guitar strings in front of 15,000 people who knew his music better than he did. They would accept no excuses. There could be no mistakes, no slacking off. He had spent the better part of the last eight years giving them his best and if they were trained for blood he had no one to blame but himself.
He gazed at his hand and wondered for the millionth time if he would be able to do it. The fingers bent easily, the callouses rebuilt, the muscles and tendons stretched and toughened by hour upon hour of not-so-patient exercise.
There were times, especially in the early morning hours, when he would awaken sweat-drenched from nightmares, sure he had lost his music forever. They had told him there was no hope, that the accident had torn and broken too much. For too long he had believed them, turning to his lovely, illicit chemical oblivion to cushion the silence and nudge him into elusive sleep with the vague, dark hope that he would never awaken.
They had been wrong. He looked again at his hand, remembering the pain and remembering that his ability to play a guitar had not been the only thing torn and broken that night.
No, he couldn't think of that. Not now.
He stood and went to the window, pushing away unwelcome thoughts. The view hadn't changed in the last hour; the city's sound was the same. He let the curtain fall and roamed the suite aimlessly, wanting something to do but unable to concentrate.
Would he make it through the show? And if he did, would it be enough?
In the sitting room more candles were lit, the curtains drawn. There were flowers, fruit in baskets, champagne along with mail and unopened telegrams from fans and friends overflowing to the floor. He picked up a couple at random and opened them. Everyone wishing him luck.
He didn't need luck, he needed strength, and he was afraid that his courage had gone the way of his dexterity -- lost on a dark Paris evening.
Sighing, he went back into the bedroom and his eyes strayed to the table where well-worn cards were laid out in an ancient pattern. Even from across the room he could feel them drawing his attention and he didn't particularly like what they said. Nor was he particularly surprised.
For two years he had stored them away, unwilling to face the truth they revealed; when one lived -- or existed -- only for the moment, the future held little interest. A future without music was of no interest at all.
It was only very recently that he was able to hope there might be a future for him, a time when his hand would move as easily over the strings as it had dealing out the cards.
He paced, willing the phone to remain silent, needing time to think, to adjust, to understand what he had seen lurking in the weeks and months ahead. Reminding himself that the Tarot never compelled, only suggested, didn't help. He had never depended on the cards to reflect the coming times, but then he'd never been in quite this position before.
Gritting his teeth, he went back to the coffee table to kneel in front of it, and swept up the cards. He shuffled them expertly, riffling through the deck to find the one that would represent himself. Automatically he chose the Magician, then smiled wryly. Once, perhaps. They still called him Merlin. But there was no magic in him now, and few illusions -- only a frightened man asking the clichéd question of whether he could make it through the night. He slid the Magician back into the deck and chose the King of Swords; a basic card for a man with dark hair and eyes. It represented a judge, suspicious and cautious, and it fit his mood of the moment. Having made his decision, he put it down on the table with an audible snap, then paused to light another cigarette from the one already burning.
Deciding to go for a different style of reading, he separated all the Major Arcana cards from the deck. Reshuffling, he slapped down the covering card which signified what surrounded and influenced his question. The World. He smiled and sat up straighter. It was a good card that could be read as success and riches.
Paradox, he thought, quickly putting down the crossing card. He froze. The Magician.
He had shuffled the deck, it shouldn't have come up again this soon, and the coincidence disturbed him. His ego and a legion of fans had made it his card. But crossing him? So did that make him his own worst enemy?
He continued to lay out the Celtic cross of the Tarot, but he found few surprises. Although many of the cards were different, the final result was similar to the previous interpretation. His impression was of success in the impending endeavor depending on a choice that must be made. Oddly enough, he had the distinct feeling that this reading, like the one before it, had nothing to do with his original query, but concerned a far larger question, one he wasn't at all ready to ask.
There were two cards that were identical to the previous reading, falling in exactly the same places. The first was t
Shrugging it off, he went to the last card. Unlike the High Priestess, this card was almost as familiar as thhe High Priestess in his future position; a very unusual card for him. Baffled, he stared at it, unable to click to the significance.
e Magician and it sat in the final outcome position as though it belonged there.
The Fool.
He picked it up and stared at it as if it would speak to him and give him the answer. The Fool who was anything but -- the innocent seeker on a venturesome quest. It had always meant, could only mean one person to him. Alex.
& & & &
"I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Lindsay doesn't answer."
"Bloody hell," the man growled. "Well, try Logan's room then -- 837."
"Yes, sir."
This time the phone was answered by a female voice.
"Who the fuck is this?" he demanded. "Where's Alex?"
"Oh... uh... l'm Katie. I'm a friend of--"
"Listen, darlin', this is Mick Royce an' I don't give a rat's arse who you are. Just get Alex on the bloody line."
"He's not here. They went down to the restaurant a few minutes ago--"
"Who's 'they'?"
"Alex and Duff. Do you want--?"
"Good." He hung up and headed for the door.
& & & &
"--after terrorizing the hotel guests and reputedly mauling one of the band's attendant young girls, the tiger proceeded to eat the whipped cream slathered around the suite and was eventually tranquilized and carted away, much to the relief of the hotel manager, not to mention the tiger " Alex stopped reading and shot a puzzled look across the table. "Whipping cream? What whipping cream was that?"
Liam Neal, better known as Duff, looked as fragile as a bearded, brawny, twenty-six year old millionaire could. Duff ignored him and continued to stare balefully at a glass of liquid fizzing before him.
Alex waited.
"Ah, fuck it," Duff said finally, and pushed the glass aside, reaching simultaneously for the fifth of Jack Daniels tucked inside his jacket. He broke the seal, downed a good quarter of the whiskey, set the bottle down, and belched, focusing on Alex at last. "Eh?"
Alex held up the newspaper. "They're still gettin' mileage out of your little surprise for Camy."
"Wot, Tommy the Tiger? Poor old beastie, only had about three teeth left. Camy 'alf frightened it to death screamin' like that." Duff started to shake his head, thought better of it, and reached for the bottle again. "'Ow many people do they say he savaged this time?"
"Who? Camy or the tiger?"
"Ha, ha."
"They've toned that down to one groupie being mauled. But they've added whipping cream on the carpets. Wasn't that Houston?"
Duff snorted. "Stupid sods're mixin' up their stories again. Only thing on the carpet was where Tommy forgot hisself. Christ, that must've been six, seven years ago! What... '70? No, '71. Now that was a tour. No wonder they're still writin' about it. Lemme see."
Alex obediently handed over the paper, then rocked his chair back on two legs, surveying the hotel dining room with vague interest. Absently he twined a strand of his hair around one long finger. Alex's blond curls had grown past his shoulders ten years ago when he and Duff couldn't afford a barber, even if they had wanted one. While they could hire a fleet of stylists now, their desire for haircuts had not kept pace with their bank accounts.
The hotel was the most expensive in New York City. With a grin Alex modified that to the second most expensive. The priciest establishment was where the regrettable tiger episode had occurred and they had not been welcome in the premises since.
His eyes followed a waitress appreciatively as she moved around the empty tables, adjusting cut crystal and sterling silver into perfect position. The dining room, with its huge chandeliers, marble columns, and plush carpet, wasn't officially open for lunch until 11:30, but the waitress had succumbed easily to a bit of calculated Alexander Logan charm. She had even kindly supplied the Alka Seltzer now popping its untouched last pop for Duff’s obvious hangover. Alex had thanked her nicely, knowing quite well Duff wouldn't touch it. His friend had passed the point where such innocent cures worked about the same time Alex's hair had reached the middle of his back.
Alexander Logan was twenty-five years old, very tall, slimly muscular and green-eyed. He moved with casual natural grace, his hair falling far past his shoulders in heavy gold curls. He was impossibly rich, talented, and rapidly becoming very cynical.
As the waitress bent to pick up a napkin, he noted her cleavage with a connoisseur's eye, perfectly aware that she was putting on a little show for his benefit and enjoying her efforts. Girls had been doing much the same since he'd hit puberty with a roar at age twelve and he had remained a grateful audience.
The magazines touted him as a sex symbol, a "Norse god," a "sensual pagan,“ and other equally embarrassing, if flattering appellations, and went on a great deal about the indecent snugness of his jeans. But those same papers also exaggerated about tigers and whipping cream and orgies, so it was impossible to take any of it very seriously.
It was all magnified beyond belief and if Alex's ego ever needed to be trimmed a peg or two, he had mates like Duff to remind him of who he was and where he came from.
The pretty waitress glanced his way and blushed as Alex smiled at her. He held up his coffee cup and immediately she skittered off to the kitchen to bring a refill. Alex sighed, letting his chair plop back to four legs. One of the best things about being filthy rich was the service. He could still remember being refused any service at all in a greasy spoon in Mobile on their first tour.
"Long haired hippie freaks,” the manager had muttered as he wiped fat fingers on a gravy-stained tee shirt. Oddly enough, what Alex remembered most about that night in Alabama wasn't his own intense embarrassment, but Tristram Lindsay's calm and dignified walk across the long room with all the redneck patrons staring, his head held high, dark gaze straight ahead as if seeing beyond the moment to the heady future. It was as if Tris had known that in less than a year the world would be calling him Merlin as he wove his guitar spells onstage with Alex singing beside him.
Well, perhaps not all the world, Alex amended ruefully. There were undoubtedly still a few restaurants in Alabama where they would always be long haired hippie freaks. But that was okay, too.
The waitress reappeared and filled his cup. Alex thanked her and signed his name to the bill with a flourish. When she left the receipt on the table, he wasn't in the least surprised to find her phone number on the back.
Duff was still engrossed in the newspaper, having long since finished with the entertainment section, moving on to world news. The bottle was half empty now and steadily dropping. Alex glanced at his watch and began tapping his fingers on the table top.
"Late and lamented?" said a voice in his ear.
He glanced up. "You're always late. An' you look disgustingly happy, yes?"
Duncan Cameron pulled out a chair and slid into it smugly. "Janey misses me."
Duff peered at him over the paper. "Jesus, Camy, you've only been gone a day an' a 'alf."
Duncan was wounded. "The phone company depends on me, doesn't it? Whenever Paradox announces a tour I get a thank you note from Ma Bell herself. Being married is expensive."
"He used to know the overseas operators by name, you know," Alex told Duff. "They all wanted to know what I'm really like."
Duff rolled his eyes and handed the paper to the newcomer. "Seen this?"
Camy glanced at it. "Yeh, and the Times and the Post. They're wasting no time raking up the nasty bits, are they? Hope they won't be too disappointed that we're older and wiser this tour." He eyed Duff meaningfully, but the other man just reached for his bottle again. Camy sighed, folded the paper and tossed it down. "For all the fuss, you'd think Paradox was risen from the grave, not back from hiatus."
"It's been over two years," Alex said. "That's a long time in our business... especially after Tris--"
"Bloody vultures," Duff muttered from behind his bottle. "They're gonna dig up a lotta muck. How's Tris gonna cope--"
"Yes, well, I wonder how much of the stir is due to Simon's PR," Camy broke in, but was then interrupted himself.
"Get off yer bleedin' arses! We got a problem!" A little man stood in the arched entry to the dining room and he let his words echo effectively before adding, "An' Duffy, put that friggin' bottle down!"
"Some things," Camy sighed, "never change."
Alex shrugged. "Too true."
They exchanged a look.
Mick Royce was already at their table, his thinning red hair standing on end. His hair was always on end, whether he ran his fingers through it or not. His amber eyes bulged a little, whether from nature or temperament, no one seemed to know. He was called "typically Cockney" by the American papers and "vulgar Irish" by their home British press. Paradox called him a genius manager and friend.
"He'll be as 'appy as a wet cat, "Mick told them mournfully. "Took me six months to convince him to agree to havin' a fuckin' journalist on this bleedin' tour! Six months to pick one he'd have about and what does the fucker do?"
The three members of Paradox waited. No one had to be told who "he" was; only one member of their company was missing.
"Breaks his bleedin' legs, that's what!" Mick glared at them.
"Tris?" Alex half rose.
"No, you twit! The journalist!" Mick was impatient. "I just got a call from the Radioactive office. The stupid lump wrecked his motor. Fuckin' Yanks."
Camy said calmly, "I'm sure they'll have someone else handy."
"Tris don't want no one else," Mick rolled his eyes heavenward, then pursed his lips, "though he did sign the contract. Four interviews, three road reports..."
Duff shrugged. "Get Fred The Lawyer to break the contract. We've never had a reporter on tour before and we've done all right."
Mick said bluntly, "It's been two years, Duffymate, and we can use a jot of good publicity after all the bad."
"We're sold out in ninety percent of the venues," Alex offered.
Mick didn't bother to answer him. "I'm going to the offices to talk to the editor, that Monroe feller, personally. An' you're all bloody well comin' with me. Simon's bringin' the motor around."
Camy frowned. "Must we?"
"How important is that missin' ten bloody percent? Duffy, switch to coffee or I'll do you."
Duff put down his bottle, mainly because it was empty anyway, and cheerfully swiped Alex's coffee. "I'll go along. Come on, mates, might be a larf."
"Ten percent, eh?" Camy stood.
Alex dug into his tight jeans pocket then reluctantly followed the others from the dining room. They hadn't done one show and already the disasters were beginning.
When she returned to check on her illicit patrons, the waitress was disappointed to find the receipt with her phone number still lying on the table. She was consoled, however, by the crumpled fifty dollar bill stuck in the neck of an empty Jack Daniels bottle.
& & & &
On the desk the clock was still ticking and Tris wanted nothing more than to fling it out the window, but there had been enough sidewalk smashing in their career, whatever the size of the appliance in question. It wouldn't halt the passing of time. In a few hours he would be on stage again and the opportunity for cold feet was past. Unfortunately, it wasn't only his feet that were cold; even his fingers felt numb.
The cards didn't help his anxiety attack, for all that they indicated success. There were too many twists and chances possible. And damnable choices. God, he hated decisions. Not about the music, never that -- music was the only certainty, and despite the persistent ache in his hand, he was cautiously confident in his ability to play. But for all his effort, everything else in his life was still chaos.
He sought out his guitar, the old acoustic providing a comfort and shield to his unsteady emotions.
Again, his gaze fell on the cards, still puzzling over the one that seemed to have no relevance. He would have dismissed it except that the same card had turned up stubbornly, twice in the same place -- influence in the future.
The High Priestess. Spiritual enlightenment. Mystery hidden in the unconscious. What bloody mystery? But it could mean something else.
The perfect woman.
& & & &
She stood in the center of the glade with drifting fog and silky moonlight surrounding her.
"I don't understand," she said and the Mother's voice answered with confidence, "You will, Daughter."
"I can't do it."
"Then we will lose the soul and the power both." There was no judgment, no disapproval; it was no more than a statement of fact.
The choice was hers. But so then was the responsibility and the danger. And once chosen, she could not retreat. On the other side a soul was in pain; someone who needed peace, someone who touched great power. Soon that power would be needed and must be channeled.
Mother's voice said, "Remember. The one thing that overcomes all shades is light."
Then she was alone, but the silver light and the warmth were a part of her, and nothing in the rolling fog or the ebony darkness could hurt her.
In the far-off distance she could hear bells ...
... the sound of bells grew louder, escalating into strident, demanding tones.
Sarah West lay flat on her back and cautiously squinted one eye. The ceiling, she discovered, was not a canopy of green foliage, but just plain white.
It had been another of those weird dreams, that was all. A little harder to shake than usual, but just a dream. She'd been having them off and on since the accident, and though she never remembered much about them, they always left her feeling warm and safe and isolated. No doubt a psychiatrist would love it and have all sorts of complex names for whatever went on inside her head, but Sarah was not the type to need a shrink and had long since decided that anything that made her feel this pleasant without being either addictive, expensive or fattening was quite all right with her.
Unfortunately the real world tended to interrupt and the phone was still ringing impatiently. Sarah and mornings and telephones seemed to be perpetually entwined, and none of them got on well. With a groan she rolled over and glared at the offending instrument.
"Shut up," she said, "I hate you."
Apparently the party on the other end knew her habits, for the ringing continued unabated. Kicking the blanket aside, she blinked as the sunlight struck through the curtain, smashing against her face like the clash of cymbals. Schooching out of its relentless path, she groped for the receiver. On the third try her hand connected.
"'Lo?"
"Sally? Where the hell have you been? You'd better get down here on the double. All hell's broken loose and the office has been invaded by foreigners and Monroe's been screaming for you for the last hour and your service said you were at home--"
"Good morning to you, too, Marty. I am at home. On vacation. What time is it?"
"Morning hell! It's twenty past noon. You've got ten minutes. Move your ass!"
There was a loud crash as Marty slammed the phone in her ear. Sarah yawned, dropped the receiver in the vague direction of its hook and rolled off the bed.
"Shower," she muttered, still unable to pry her eyes open past the merest slit. "I know I have a shower around here somewhere . . ."
She crawled towards the bathroom.
& & & &
The offices took up the entire twenty-third floor of the Loman Building on Fifth Avenue. Sarah pushed open the double black doors labeled EVERHEART PUBLISHING and entered, then leaned against them, unnoticed, as she watched the chaos exploding around her.
She was awake, alert, dressed casually and ready for what was left of the day. But somewhere deep inside, she was still wrapped in her dream. Amidst the shouting voices a part of her stood in the glade where all was serene and a white light filled her with peace. It set her aside from the pandemonium, an amused observer, and she wondered which branch of the company was being threatened this time. As she watched, one of the shouting mob picked up a heavy ashtray from the comer table and threw it. The ashtray flew past her and struck the wall near her head, bouncing off and leaving a hole in the expensive paneling. Sarah didn't flinch.
The office was richly furnished, but the sofa had only one occupant. A man with longish, dusty blond hair sat there, his legs crossed negligently as he idly turned the pages of a magazine. He was ignoring the melee as if long inured and Sarah's eyes passed over him, barely registering his presence.
It was the other blond who caught her attention and held it. He stood in the middle of the crowd, but he was taller, his hair longer, curlier and brighter gold, his face handsomer, his jeans tighter and his voice louder than all the others. If asked to describe him in a word she would have instantly chosen more.
A second later she fit a name to the face, surprised it had taken her that long. He was one of the most recognizable people on the music scene, even after a two year absence.
Alexander Logan. A singer of the superstar variety, he was vocalist for one of the most controversial and successful bands in rock history.
She watched, mildly interested, as Logan remonstrated with the others. They were fighting over the merits of two sports teams of some kind, and Logan blazed with passionate heat. It was not, she thought, just that he was one of the best looking men she had ever seen, it was a natural charisma he exuded like electricity. To see Alex Logan was to envision a faery prince on the make for a likely princess. Every secretary in the room stared at him with open-mouthed awe and she had no doubt he was well-accustomed to being the center of attention. Cynically she wondered if it would have bothered him more had the girls not been staring.
On the other side of the room, across the expanse of thick carpet, past the imposing desk, padded couch and yelling people, a door opened. Two more men spilled out; angry, harassed voices rose as they competed to be heard over the din.
"I can't help it! Buddy didn't show up and that was the first we knew about the accident! Dammit, he didn't plan to end up in the hospital!"
That was Monroe, editor of Radioactive , her sometime boss. The chaos was explained. All these people were concerned because Buddy Winslow, a regular staff writer, had cracked up his car again and wouldn't be writing brilliantly witty things about whatever he was supposed to be writing brilliantly witty things about.
"I don't bleedin' care what he did! You fuckin' signed the bleedin' contract and I'm fuckin' holdin' you to it!"
It was amazing, she mused, that such a blast of noise could come from such a small man. He was hardly taller than Sarah, but the booming voice carried not only power but authority. He had thinning, carrot red hair and a broken nose. He also possessed muscular shoulders and arms that looked more than capable of preventing anyone from calling him "Shorty".
Definitely the Manager, she decided. Ready and able to break heads and terrify rip-off artists.
Monroe was not a rip-off artist, but he was rapidly becoming terrified. Sarah yawned and crossed one ankle over the other.
"If you'd just listen ," Monroe pleaded. "Buddy's in the hospital, but we can send someone else--"
"Who?" the Bantam demanded. "Show me! I don't bloody see anybody and the bleedin' tour starts tonight! What d'ya think he'll say about this, eh? 'ad to talk meself blue to get 'im to go for it, an' if you think you can fob just anybody off on us -- Put down that fuckin' lamp!"
Assuming the manager wasn't yelling at empty-handed Monroe, Sarah moved her eyes back to the shouting mass. It had separated into three men and Marty, the diminutive receptionist, who was vainly trying to save the lamp from going the way of the ashtray.
The Bantam plucked Marty out of the way and grabbed the recalcitrant pitcher by his beard. "Did you fuckin' hear me, Duff? Sit down and belt up or I'll do you!"
Abruptly there was silence. Sarah grinned and caught Monroe's eye. He looked shattered.
"Sally!" He brightened immediately and waved. All eyes turned to her.
Sarah leaned down and picked up the ashtray that had rolled to her feet. She tossed it to the red-headed manager who caught it in one large, big knuckled hand.
"That paneling is about $150 a foot. Hi, Monroe. What's up?"