Page 76 of Dead Rockstar

“Sidhe and Fee,” she said. “Such a pair.”

“You and Guthrie,” he sneered, “are much worse.”

“Indeed,” she said. “We did not part on good terms. Lee comes and goes – he does some work for Guthrie, and I don't ask, because I don't want to know. You want to talk about black magic, dark magic – that's Guthrie's sort. That's what he's drawn to. Only he doesn't balance it out.” She fixed an eye on me. “I don't know what he wants with you, girl, and that's the truth. But what I do know is that he's far more dangerous than I could ever be; not because of any great power of his own, but because he’s able to get so many people to do his bidding. His charm, his ability to invoke fear…those are his powers.” She shook her head sadly. “I may have sent Lee after you, to try and talk a bit of sense, but it’s Guthrie who hired Shank, and Guthrie who gave him the go ahead to drug you and beat you.”

I squeezed Phillip’s hand, hard. A feeling of dread had begun to course through me. She was telling the truth. I didn't trust her, but I believed her. And I had to admit, a small part of me liked her. In another life, I might have thoroughly enjoyed sitting on her dusty couch, learning about spells and hearing about the no-doubt colorful, mysterious life she must have led. I wouldn’t have minded hearing more about Lee, too; I’d never tell Phillip, but I found him almost as curious as I found his mother.

I felt Phillip tense beside me; I hadn’t been guarding my thoughts carefully enough. I’d never get used to the loose connection between all our brains. I squeezed Phillip's hand harder, a silent warning not to boil over, but inside, I was smiling. Lydia was charming me despite myself. I could see now how Lee managed to be so disarming while doing all sorts of shady things. He had inherited that quality from his parents, one of whom had, in the small space of ten minutes, managed to almost turn me over to her side.

“I'll tell you one thing more,” she said to me, her small eyes fixing on mine. “And you should heed it, because it's a strong message I'm getting.”

“Oh, now you're an oracle, too?” Phillip's tone was nasty.

“Really, Sidhe. I must ask you to get control of yourself. And they say women are too emotional.” She rolled her eyes and turned back to me. “You played around with the tarot a bit, didn't you, Fee? And now a certain card has shown itself to you twice.”

I gaped at her. “Ok, I'm listening.”

“The tarot is just fools' magic, a wayward spirit having a bit of fun. It's nothing to be overly concerned about, only...” She looked at me curiously, lighting another cigarette. “So many people misinterpret the death card. They see it and think it literally means death – that someone is going to die, or that they themselves are dying.” She took a puff. “I imagine you saw it and interpreted it as Phillip – an omen of death himself, standing on your doorstep.”

I nodded. That was exactly what I’d assumed.

“That's all wrong, Fee. Generally, the death card does mean death – but not the death of a person. Rather, it’s the death of something important, something you thought was finite. It represents a closing, an ending. Often a tragic or unexpected one.”

“Like what?” I asked. “Like losing my job?” I didn't think Jean would fire me over my short vacation, but who knew.

“Could be,” she said. “But not in your case, I think. Something more personal, something you thought was steadfast, unbreakable. It could be anything, really. The end of a marriage, a betrayal from a friend...even losing one's home.”

I sighed. “Well, one of those things has already happened.” I didn't mention Tess. She didn't know him, and anyway, she'd probably already seen it in my aura. At the thought of him, my heart felt a little pang. God, how long was it going to take to get over it already? I’d thought maybe I had a shot at moving on until I’d discovered he was now working for Guthrie, being paid to terrorize me; now the pain was fresh and raw again. It didn’t seem fair.

“Just keep your eyes open,” Lydia said, still puffing away. “The card wants you to heed its warning. Be careful who you trust.”

“I don't trust you,” Phillip cut in. “I want to know how I can keep Stormy safe. That's all I want. For her life to go back to the way it was.”

“As if that were possible, Sidhe.”

“Stop calling me that,” he growled. “And yes, it is possible. I'm going to make it possible.”

She looked at him with a small, quiet smile, and said, “You, my long, tall fairy, are no witch.”

His eyes flashed in anger. “But I'm the wild card in this game and Stormy is the one holding the deck, right?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Lydia fixed her eyes on him, a look of curiosity on her wrinkled face. “Though it's hardly a game.”

“And if she hadn't brought me back, and I wasn't here, alive, walking upright-” he gestured to himself “-you'd leave her alone?”

“I’d have no reason to bother her,” she said. “I can’t speak for Guthrie, though. I assume-”

“I get it.” Phillip stood again, pulling me to my feet with him. He turned to me, cradling my face in his hands, and suddenly pitched forward, planting an unexpected, tender kiss on my lips. Then he kissed both of my cheeks, his lips rough and hurried on my skin, pushed my hair from my face with his long, graceful hands, and smiled. His deep green eyes searched mine for a moment, full of tenderness and unspoken words, then he kissed me again, even slower this time, his mouth searching mine as if he was trying to find the answer to an unspoken question. I kissed him back, but my hands were on his shoulders, half-heartedly trying to push him back, to ask him what was going on, but the soft, sweet feel of his mouth against mine was too much to resist. Lydia was watching us. I could feel the heat of her gaze as Phillip finally pulled away, his eyes still on mine, the expression on his face both sad and resolute. I opened my mouth to ask what he was doing, but his look silenced me; his eyes said no. He stared at me, silent, for a few beats, his eyes moving all over my face, seeming to memorize me, and then he bit his lip and turned to Lydia.

I watched as Phillip reached in his pocket and produced a pair of kitchen scissors, ones I recognized from his old family house. I'd seen them that morning when he'd cut open the bag of loose-leaf Earl Grey tea; always the damned tea. They were sharp and glinted in the sunlight as he held them up.

Lydia and I both looked at him, aghast. “You say bringing me back upset the balance,” he said, reaching up and pulling his long braid – the braid I’d lovingly plaited with my own hands, infused with my love and care and yes, my magic - out in front of him, “so let's remove me from the scale.” My eyes widened and my hands flew to him, but he was too fast – with one swift movement he opened the scissors, enclosed the long, messy black braid between the blades, and snipped. Lydia and I reached out, shouting, but we were too late. Phillip had just enough to time to blow me a kiss.

The braid fell to the porch soundlessly, followed by the loud thud of Phillip's tall, heavy body as he tumbled to the porch floor.

Nineteen

“Phillip!” I was by his side in an instant. His skin was clammy under my fingers, his eyes closed. I pressed at his face, pushed him, shoved him, shook him, but he didn't wake up. Lydia had said his hair was his armor and if he cut it, that was the end. It didn't seem possible that someone so large and strong and full of life moments ago could now be lying lifeless on a dusty old porch, all from cutting off his hair. But he wouldn't wake up.

---