Marc Zicree - Angelfire

Russo shakes his head. His eyes crinkle at the corners and get a little milkier. “No. Not goin’ into that place. Not goin’ downtown.”

Russo clearly has some serious angst about the Bubble. I gotta admit, it weirds me out no end, because I can’t tell what’s inside it. I figure maybe Howie knows, so I ask. “What’s downtown, Howie? Is it … is the Dark downtown? Is that what makes the Bubble?”

He gapes at me. “The Dark? Here?” He’s laughing, sort of, but his eyes are darting around as if the Dark might just jump right out and bite him. “What kind of crazy question is that? Nobody knows where the Dark comes from. Nobody’d want to know.”

Except us. I slant a glance at Cal. Your turn .

Cal says, “You’re stuck here. You said it yourself. If you want to get unstuck, you need to void that contract. And given how things change, we may need a guide. You help us, we help you.”

“You help me?”

Cal nods.

Russo seems to consider that for a moment, then develops a profound case of Gumby shoulders. “Why get unstuck? No place to go.”

Cal leans down into his face. “We know a place you can go.”

“Cal’s right,” Enid chips in. “Maggie and I just came from there. It’s called the Preserve. It was a safe place for us, Howard. Until I got so damn sick. If I can get free of this contract, it’ll be safe for us again.”

“Just show us where we can find Primal Records,” says Cal.

“Now?” Russo squeaks.

“We’re in a bit of a hurry,” I say.

Russo blanches. Except for the tips of his pointy little ears, which turn a darker shade of blue. “Oh, no, no. Not now. S’after hours.”

That’s a chuckle. “They still keep business hours?” I ask. “Old habits,” says Russo, fidgeting.

“Sorry,” says Cal. “I don’t buy that. You don’t know how to get in, do you?”

Russo leans toward Cal, his eyes shifting to the shadows. “I know how to get in, couns’ler. But you don’t wanna go out at night around here. Trust me.”

About as far as I could throw you , I think.

“Fine. I’d rather do this fully rested anyway.” Cal lays a hand on Russo’s tweedy shoulder. “But tomorrow morning you’re taking us to see the Wizard.”

Russo looks at the hand, then back at Cal, and giggles again. “Yeah. T’morrow. See the Wizard.”

We are to spend an uneasy night in Russo’s third-floor suite of rooms. There is a large, rather ostentatious office with its own minimally working bathroom, a wet bar, and what amounts to a parlor tucked into a corner beside the front doors. Through a second set of doors a small but fully furnished living room with a fireplace, and a large bedroom with a second bath, line up along the front of the building. A pocket kitchen opens up kitty-corner to the bedroom door. Only a close look at the accouterments in the living room reveal that the marble hearth and parquet floors are faux. It’s been slightly “grunterfied.” Every window is covered with thick curtains, none of which seem to match. They are velvet, linen, brocade. One is a quilt.

There is no moon visible tonight, but the faerie Bubble illuminates the darkness much as Chicago’s bowl of light pollution must have done once. When I pull the quilt aside from a living room window, I can see it shining dully above the rooftops about two or three blocks to the east. I try to touch it, figuratively speaking-try to lay psychic hands on it, to feel its texture. It resists me. After pulling me here, its silence is unnerving and annoying. I’m pretty sure this is what it feels like to be a cat toy.

It clearly makes Russo ferklempt . He doesn’t go near the window; he doesn’t look at the window. This strikes me as odd, because the Bubble’s just not that bright. It puts out a lot less light than Magritte does, and he doesn’t seem at all reluctant to look at her, even though she makes his eyes water. In fact, he can’t seem to take his eyes off her, which makes me nervous.

“Close that,” he whines at last, as if he can’t stand the pale wash of ruddy light that seeps in.

I oblige, letting the quilt fall. “What’s the matter, Howie? Don’t like the view?”

He just grunts. Typical.

Cal has been watching Russo as closely as I have. “What can you tell me about that?” he asks, nodding toward the window.

“What?” Russo asks, then fills his mouth so full of jerky that he couldn’t answer if he wanted to.

Cal’s mouth quirks wryly. I’m sure he’s seen similar delaying tactics in the courtroom. “The bubble of power over the Loop. What do you know about it?”

Russo chews noisily and methodically and stares at Cal for a minute without answering. Then he swallows, licks his lips, also noisily, and shakes his bald head. “Nothing.”

“You don’t know how it’s generated? Where it came from? How it’s maintained?”

A shrug.

“I think you do know,” suggests Cal. “And you don’t like it. Why?”

Russo’s eyes glaze over a little then roll back over to Magritte, where they come into sharp focus.

I snap to immediate attention and move to stand so that Maggie and I are nearly touching. I don’t know if it’s her or me or both of us, but I feel as if slugs are crawling all over me. I glance at her face; she is clearly creeped out by Russo’s interest.

He stops chewing and points a gnarled finger at her. “D’I know you? Sure I know you.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I heard Enid talk about you, is all.”

“Watch’er name-Maggie, is it?”

“Magritte,” says Enid. He’s perched on the arm of Russo’s couch, tucking into a can of hash. “Her name’s Magritte. We go way back. Further than you and me. You never met that I know of.”

The grunter’s eyes gleam with what I take as recognition, and his wide mouth curves into a grin. “Magritte? Shit, yeah , we met! You’re Choir Girl, right? Worked the Rainbow Club. Had a room upstairs.” He snaps his fingers and points again. “Green velvet. Green velvet and a-a crystal unicorn in the window. Little colored sparkles all over everything .” He giggles hideously. “No surprise you don’t ’member me. Didn’t stand out in a crowd back then. But I remember you.” He looks right at me, still grinning. “She’s good .”

Suddenly, I’m struggling to breathe and wanting to simultaneously shed tears and pound the living crap out of him. Then my hands are around his neck. And weird green flames are shooting from my fingertips. And Howard is shrieking like a banshee.

Cal, Colleen, and Enid leap in harmony to stop me from killing the little shit. They loosen my fingers, but he continues to scream like a reject from Gremlins.

“My eyes! My eyes! Light hurts!”

I so want to wad Howard Russo into a little blue-gray ball and shoot a three-pointer into the toilet, but the others prevail, tearing me away from him.

He scuttles into a corner, eyes wide and blinking. “What? Wha’d I do? She’s a hooker, for chrissake! Doin’ a job. I’m just a fuckin’ customer.”

Poor choice of words. I leap again, but Enid and Cal’s arms are tangled around me and Enid’s voice comes tight and low in my ear: “Ignore him. He’s a stupid shit. He’s just a stupid shit. Let it go.” I’m not sure which of us he’s talking to.

We are like that-an off-balance human pretzel-when Magritte screams. The sound wrenches me inside out and spins all of us around.

Her face is frozen in terror, mouth open, eyes sightless and wide. She hears the Storm’s countless Voices, sees its long shadow, feels its dark hands. I know, because I feel it, too. The Storm is rising in my head-in my soul-and if I don’t move fast, it will literally tear Magritte and me apart.