Part 12 (1/2)

”I got nowhere else to go,” she says and smiles for him, but he doesn't smile back for her.

”Good. I want to read a few more lines, skipping ahead to the end of the essay, okay?”

”We're almost out of time,” Niki says, glancing at the clock. ”My hour's almost up.”

”There's time for this,” he says and then begins reading again before she can object. ” 'The trick must be to become aware of it'-and here, Campbell is talking about the visionary object or its witness, the visionary subject-'to become aware of it without becoming lost in it: to understand that we may all be saviors when functioning in relation to our friends and enemies-savior figures, but never The Savior.' ”

Niki shuts her eyes a moment, just to be sure, and then opens them again.

”Spyder thought she could save us all,” she says.

”Yes. I think she must have.”

”I've never asked anyone to save me. The hour's up, Dr.

Dalby,” and he checks his wrist.w.a.tch.

”So it is. Remember these things. You'll need them, I expect.”

”I'll try.”

”Try hard. You have to cross this bridge alone.”

”Just like all the others,” Niki whispers, and outside the window all the pigeons take flight at once.

”Watch your step, Nicolan,” Dr. Dalby says and takes another sip of water. ”And don't look down.”

The Dog's Bridge rises so high above the sea of fire that its crest almost brushes the underside of the sulfur clouds before finally beginning the long descent to the opposite sh.o.r.e. Niki walks down the middle, because there are no guardrails, nothing to prevent a fall, and the bridge of bones sways slightly in the hot wind, s.h.i.+fts as the lava flows 102 slowly by far below. But mostly, she's careful not to lose count, because then she'd have to go back to the beginning and start all over again, and Spyder said not to turn back, no matter what happened.

The deck of yellow-white and ivory creaks loudly beneath her boots, long bones and vertebrae, tooth-studded jaws and parts of broken skulls all wired together, the bones of men and animals and gigantic beasts she's glad she's never seen alive. Sweat pours from her face and drips to splotch the dry path at her feet. The heat and fumes alone almost enough to kill, she thinks, and looks at her hand again, Marvin's bandage gone now, sloughed off like some sweaty second skin, and the wound has turned an even deeper red than the sky.

The sea makes a sound like dying, and the clouds moan a low and threatful reb.u.t.tal. Something falls, screeching, burning alive, a living meteor streaking past the bridge, plummeting towards the lava. She doesn't stop walking, doesn't stop to see what it might have been.

”Watch your step, and don't look down,” Niki says out loud, staring straight ahead. ”And don't f.u.c.king look up, either.”

Bone snaps and crunches beneath her boots, and the hot wind blows like sandpaper fingers through her tangled hair, across her blistered skin, and Niki keeps counting. In the end, she finds the other side, because all bridges, even here, eventually lead somewhere.

And when she opens her eyes, Marvin's kneeling there beside her, brus.h.i.+ng hair from her face, and the checkerboard tile of the restroom floor is smooth and cool as ice beneath her. She blinks up at the fluorescent bulbs, the white light that means nothing at all, only electricity and a bit of glowing, ionized gas and nothing more to it than that.

Nothing to marvel at and no riddles here to solve, nothing to have to fear.

Hold the line.

”Don't move,” Marvin says, and she can hear how scared 103.

he is, and how relieved, can see it in his eyes. ”Someone's coming.”

”Did you feel it? Was it an earthquake?” she asks weakly, but he only looks confused.

”You just be still now. Someone's coming to help. They'll be here in a second.”

”I'm okay,” she says, and Niki closes her eyes again because she doesn't want to see how worried he looks. ”I was dizzy. I must have fainted. I think I fainted and fell, that's all.”

”I heard you call my name,” he says. ”I came as quickly as I could.”

”Yeah,” she whispers. ”You did real good, Marvin,” turning her head to one side so that the cool tile presses against her right cheek, skin that still remembers the heat of a flaming sea. And Niki keeps her eyes shut until they come to check her pulse and ask her questions and take her away to one of the examination rooms.

C H A P T E R F O U R.

This Only Song I Know Daria Parker is lying alone on the wide hotel bed, much too wide for just one, staring out the sliding-gla.s.s balcony doors at the glittering Atlanta skyline stretching away into the night. Dylan's playing on her laptop, Street Legal, and she rolls over and stares at Alex Singer, who's been staring at her back for the last fifteen or twenty minutes.

He's sitting on a love seat on the other side of the room, sipping a bourbon and 7UP. His guitar case is lying at his feet. He sighs and glances towards the sliding doors.

”So, why won't you call her?” he asks. His Manchester accent gets heavier when he's exhausted or drunk, and it's heavier than she's heard it in a long time.

”No. It's easier if I don't. Marvin can take care of things.

Isn't that what I pay him for?”

”Easier for who? You or Niki?”

”Easier for all of us,” Daria replies and almost tells him to leave. She's too tired for Alex and his disapproval and his questions. She just wants to sleep, wants to not think about Niki or San Francisco or work for a few hours. Her sinuses are still aching from the dry, recirculated air of the plane, and her stomach is sour as old milk.

”I don't know, Dar,” Alex says softly, almost whispering, and takes another sip of his drink.

”What? What don't you know, Alex?”

105.

”I'm saying you gotta deal with this s.h.i.+t. Get it under control. We can't cancel another date.”

”Niki's my problem, not yours.”

”Right. Well, at least we agree on something then. You're my problem.”

Daria grits her teeth and shuts her eyes, willing herself not to take the bait this time, too weary and sick and worried to get into an argument with Alex tonight. To get into the same old threadbare argument all over again.

”What time's the signing at Tower,” she asks him.

”They want us there by three. Jarod says there are fliers up all over the city. He's expecting a crowd.”

”That figures,” Daria mutters to herself.

”And you've got an interview at four. Nothing major, just some local music reporter.”

”I thought we had a radio spot lined up.”

”They changed their minds.”

Daria opens one eye and glares at the guitarist.