Charles De Lint - Memory and Dream

Isabelle shook her head. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“Not directly, perhaps, but you owe me. Of this you can be very certain.” But Isabelle was still shaking her head. “I don’t owe you a thing,” she repeated. “Now get away from me before I call for help.”

The mocking smile left his lips, if not his eyes.

“No, no,” he said. “Don’t even think of it. You’d be dead before you opened your mouth.”

Isabelle tried to dart by him, but he moved in close to her, moved quicker than she could have thought possible. With his body shielding the action from the view of anyone watching in the courtyard behind him, his hand shot up to her neck. The fingers felt like steel cables as they pushed her head roughly up against the doorjamb and held it there.

“You don’t really have any choice in the matter,” he told her conversationally, “except whether you come in one piece or not.” The fingers tightened slightly. “Understood?”

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even move her head, but he could read the defeat in her eyes. When he let her go, she gasped for air, her own hands rising protectively about her throat. The doppelganger put his arm around her shoulders.

“Are you all right?” he asked, all concern now.

Without waiting for her reply, he led her away across the courtyard, through the light scattering of midmorning shoppers, his face turned solicitously toward her, the feral hunger hidden under hooded lids.

But the bruising grip of his hand on her shoulder was a clear reminder of who was in control.

Outside Joli Coeur they were met by a teenage girl. The girl appeared to be colorless, a monochrome study brought to life. The hungry look in her eyes matched that of Isabelle’s captor.

“Mmm,” the girl said. “She looks tasty.”

“She’s not for you.”

“Not for you either, Bitterweed.”

Bitterweed, Isabelle thought on hearing her captor’s name. That made sense. Bitterweed to John’s Sweetgrass. Monster to his angel.

“Maybe not now,” Bitterweed said. “But later ...”

The girl laughed, a dark unpleasant sound that matched the maliciousness in her eyes. “There’ll be no later for this one.”

“Shut up, Scara.”

The girl’s humor merely grew. “Hit a nerve, did we? I think a bit more John Sweetgrass went into your making than you’ll ever admit to. Next thing you’ll be wanting her to fall in love with you.”

“I said shut up.”

“Who ... who are you people?” Isabelle asked.

Her throat was still sore and the words came out in a rasp. The pair turned to her. Her question seemed to have startled them, as though they were surprised that she could speak.

“Sweet dreams,” Scara replied.

“Memories,” Bitterweed countered.

Scara’s lips pulled into a thin, savage smile. “Or maybe nightmares—take your pick.”

They hustled her toward a small black car that stood at the curb. Bitterweed pulled her into the back with him while his companion slid in behind the wheel. She had the motor started and was pulling away from the curb before Bitterweed was able to close his door.

“Watch it,” he told her.

Scara’s dark gaze regarded them from the rearview mirror. She sang softly, the melody nagging at Isabelle’s mind until she placed it as a song by the Australian group Divinyls. They’d been one of Kathy’s favorite bands, although this song had come out long after Kathy had died. Scara tapped her fingers in time on the steering wheel as she wove in and out of the traffic.

“Bless my soul,” she sang, reaching the chorus.

Isabelle shot a glance at the man beside her. What do you want from me? she’d asked him.

A piece of your soul. That’s all. One small piece of your soul.

You owe me.

He felt her glance and turned to meet her gaze. The shock of the alien person inhabiting that oh-so-familiar and much-missed body struck home all over again. She had to look away, out the window. The streets seemed unfamiliar, as though she were being taken through a city in which she’d never lived, never even been before. She realized that she didn’t know where she was, where she was going, what was going to happen to her. All she knew was that they were going to hurt her. They wanted something from her and, once she gave it to them, they were going to hurt her.

She looked up into the rearview mirror to find Scara’s hungry gaze fixed on her. When the girl mimed a kiss at her, Isabelle quickly turned back to the view outside her window.

Oh, John, she thought as she watched buildings she couldn’t recognize speed by. I need you now.

VIII

At first Alan didn’t recognize the black woman who was coming down the steps of his building just as he and Marisa were disembarking from their cab. When she stopped in front of them and called him by name, he immediately replied with a terse “No comment.”

“What?” she said, obviously confused.

Alan looked at her, a sense of familiarity coming to him now, but he still couldn’t place her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you were a reporter.”

She shook her head. “I’m Rolanda Hamilton—from the Foundation.”

“Right. I knew that. I’m really sorry. I ... I’m just ...”

“He’s not been having a very good day,” Marisa explained as Alan’s voice trailed off. She held out her hand and introduced herself

“It looks like I’ve come at a bad time,” Rolanda said. “Maybe I should come back later.”

Alan shook his head. He’d had a moment to collect himself by now. “I’ve had better days,” he told her, “but that’s no reason to take it out on you. What can I do for you?”

“This is a little embarrassing, but I have this problem ....”

“Don’t worry about intruding,” Alan said when at first she hesitated, then fell silent. “To tell you the truth, you couldn’t have come at a better time.” Rolanda raised her eyebrows.

“There’s nothing that helps you forget your own troubles like listening to someone else’s,” Alan explained. “So why don’t you come in?”

“I’ll put some water on,” Marisa said as they went into the apartment. “Tea or coffee, Rolanda?” she added.

“Whatever you’re having.”

Marisa went into the kitchen with Rolanda and Alan trailed along in her wake. They each took a chair at the kitchen table. As Marisa bustled about, filling the coffee maker and setting out mugs, Alan turned to their guest.

“So,” he said. “I hope you’re not here to tell me about the plans for some celebration that the Foundation has planned, now that we’ve finally got the okay to go ahead and publish the Mully omnibus.

I’d hate to put a damper on them, but there have been some ... complications.”

Rolanda shook her head. “No, it’s not that at all. Actually, now that I’m here, I really do feel embarrassed. You’re going to think that I’ve completely lost it.”

“Now I’m really intrigued.”

“But—”

“And I promise, I won’t laugh.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

“So,” Alan prompted her when she hesitated again.

Rolanda took a deep breath. “It’s just ... do you know a girl named Cosette?”

Everything went still inside Alan. Only in my dreams, he wanted to say, but all that came out was

“Cosette?”

“She’s about fifteen or so, maybe older. Red hair. She—actually, she looks just like that painting by Isabelle Copley that’s hanging in the Foundation’s waiting room. You know, the one with all the roses.”

“The Wild Girl,” Marisa offered from where she was leaning against the counter.

Rolanda nodded. “Cosette looks exactly like the wild girl. She says she was Copley’s model, but of course that’s impossible.”