Page 10 of Dead Rockstar

Fire, Blood, and Candy was their third album, released after they'd started to wane a little in popularity, and while the lyrics were full of deep-seated angst, the melodies added a sort of pop-ambiance to their normal doom metal sound. A lot of their fans hated it, but I didn't. Didn't matter to me what direction they took – you can't fight true love.

I lay down on the rubber mat, which was gnawed a little on one side thanks to Blinken, and relaxed into corpse pose, controlling my breathing to the beat of the music. How Sloan would laugh at me if she saw me doing yoga. It was another thing – along with tarot reading and spells – that I'd always scoffed at. I'm not a very spiritual person. I'm pragmatic, logical. I believe in science. I'm that annoying person that retweets videos from Scientist Twitter and goes on drunken rants about the evils of organized religion. Just after my divorce, Sloan had set me up with a guy who had raved half the night about the Illuminati. He'd been surprised when I got up in the middle of dinner and left.

Why, I wondered as I settled down onto the mat, feeling my bones relax, did I feel the need to hide parts of myself? Despite my snark, I'd been secretly doing yoga for years. It relaxed me, made me feel less on edge. I'd been dabbling with tarot cards for a few months now, and I could feel part of me blossoming, taking to the new age, “woo” side of me like a parched plant to water. Why had I never told Sloan? Or anyone else, for that matter?

Tess left and I lost myself. I didn't know who I was anymore. The truth was, I had already begun to change long before he left, but the end of my marriage had pushed me over the edge. Whatever I was becoming had the feeling of something big. I didn't know if I was about to have a mid-life crisis of my own or if it was my new emancipation, but I could feel it coming, calling me, just on the edge of my awareness, in my peripheral vision.

I shifted into the snake pose and focused on stretching each muscle one by one. Next, downward dog. My shirt billowed down, exposing my belly, and I stretched my neck out, not looking, determined not to be critical of the softness around my waist band.

I went through some semblance of a routine, and by the time I was back in corpse pose, I was panting heavily, sweat running down my face and neck in rivulets. I was so out of shape. I'd been living on nothing but fried food, coffee and wine for weeks. It seemed like eons since I'd run on Driftwood Beach. My normal ritual was to do that every other day, riding my bike on the weekends. I had saved for two years to buy a beach-ready road bike. Now it sat out under the shed, collecting rust.

I grabbed a hoodie from the couch and mopped at my face – after all, there was nobody there to see me – and was standing up and reaching for my glass of water when I heard the doorbell. I stood there, wondering if I should even answer it. It was after dark, I was home alone, and after the night before with the pranksters, I was a little concerned.

“Who is it?” I asked, grabbing my phone and pushing it down into the waistband of my yoga pants. As if I'd have time to dial 911 if it was really someone intent on doing me harm. I craned my neck, listening for the answer.

“It's me.”

It was a male voice, one I didn't immediately recognize. But “it's me” implied that I knew them. Against my better judgment, I went to the door, unlocked the deadbolt, turned the door handle, and pulled it open.

I stood there for a moment in the darkness, staring up at the man on my doorstep. He was so tall the door frame was almost level with his dark green eyes, which flashed in the dim light of the porch. He repeated, again, the voice soft but deep as a well, “It's me. Phillip.”

The next thing I knew I was traveling downward toward the floor, which I hit with a loud thud.

Five

The hands that were touching my face were soft but cool, the fingers calloused. “Stormy Spooner, wake up. You okay?”

I was in arms that felt strong and were holding me tight. My eyes were closed. I surmised that I was lying on the floor where I'd fallen – no, fainted – and he had knelt down to check on me, cradling me in his arms. I'd had some kind of hallucination, some episode, probably because I hadn't eaten anything other than espresso beans and had exercised with no substance in me. I would open my eyes and it would be someone else holding me. Sloan, or even Tess. But Sloan didn't smell like woodsmoke and sandalwood, and Tess's arms weren't firm and strong like these...

I took a deep breath and opened my eyes, just peering a little at first. Then they opened wide, disbelieving.

Sitting above me, his long, ink-black hair falling into my face, with an expression of both concern and amusement, was Phillip Deville.

Phillip Deville.

THE Phillip Deville, lead singer, violinist, bassist and sometime harmonica player for the Bloomer Demons, cult-famous rock star, poet, legend. And dead for– I tried to do the calculations in my woozy head – twenty-three years?

I lay there in his arms, my head buzzing, unable to sit up, though I wanted to. I wanted to flee from the house and run screaming into the trees. This could not be. It wasn't possible. I was seeing a ghost. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The eyes that stared down at me were like emeralds, a dark shining green, the expression in them kind. But I was terrified.

He brushed a hair from my face, then tucked his own behind his ears. “Are you okay?” he asked again.

“I... you died when I was in high school,” I stammered stupidly. “It was on the news.” As though this gave it more legitimacy.

“MTV News?”

I looked at him, befuddled, and managed to choke out. “Yes, but also the, er, evening news. NBC. CBS. All of them.”

He looked pleased. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “Did Kurt Loder break in with a bulletin? I always hated that fucking guy. I hope he had to do it.”

I tittered dumbly, this time the words unintelligible. It was entirely possible that I would pass out again.

He chuckled softly, his sharp white teeth shining in the dim room. “I've given you quite a shock,” he said in a quiet voice that was very deep despite his low, soft tone. “Though you shouldn't be shocked, really, should you, Stormy Spooner?”

“I don't understand.”

“Find the spell and bring me back,” he said softly, and put a hand around my waist, pulling me up to a sitting position.

I stared at him. “Spells aren't real,” I said incredulously, the blood roaring in my ears. “Especially not that one. A third-grader could have written it.”

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