“Spectacular, Kenzie,” Jonah murmured, resting his gloved hands on his brother’s shoulders, pulling them back when the pain became intolerable. “Spectacular.” He just kept talking, saying anything that came into his head, knowing that his voice was one thing that could keep Kenzie grounded. All the while Jonah scanned their surroundings, alert for attack.
When it was over, Kenzie sat, exhausted, pale and sweating. Jonah slipped the headphones over his brother’s damp hair, replaced the MP3 player in his hand, and hit shuffle.
It was nearly five a.m. when the Kinlock brothers made the long climb up St. Clair, heading home. Jonah had just settled Kenzie back in his room when his phone went off. A text from Natalie. In fact, it was the latest of several he had missed. Mose is at Safe Passage. In the Octagon. He needs you now.
Chapter Twenty-five
Safe Passage
After returning Kenzie to his room, Jonah descended to the first floor, exited out the front, then circled around and reentered through the glassed-over courtyard in back. Summer and winter, this place was an oasis in the city, filled with plants and flowers, a vegetable and herb garden, a fountain. All of the Safe Passage rooms let out onto this courtyard.
Jonah caught a whiff of Gabriel’s highly potent ganja from across the courtyard. The door to Octagon stood open, and Jonah walked into a smoky haze.
The lights were dim, candles all around, each flame haloed. Mose was sprawled in one of the custom-made recliners that most clients at Safe Passage preferred to beds. He was wrapped in a fleecy blanket, his arms and legs poking out like chicken bones from a nest of feathers. Natalie sat in a chair next to the bed, her expression grim, her nose pinked up from crying, holding Mose’s hand. She’d never gotten used to facing off with death . . . and losing.
Severino was sound asleep in another visitor’s chair, one arm flung over his eyes. Mose was wearing headphones, but when he saw Jonah, he slid them off and set them on the table beside the bed. Rock and roll leaked out, obviously set on maximum volume. “Jonah!” he said. “No more worries about ruining my hearing.” He lifted a Corona from the cup holder on the recliner and tilted it toward Jonah. “Want one?”
Jonah shook his head. “Not tonight.”
“Hey now, think it over, man,” Mose said. “Bar’s open. Irish wake.”
“All right,” Jonah said. He crossed the room and reached into the cooler next to Mose’s bed, fishing out a bottle. Wiping it on his jeans, he cracked it open and took a sip. “What are we celebrating?”
Mose patted the cushion beside him. “Please. Sit down.”
“I’m pretty nasty, to tell you the truth,” Jonah said, brushing at his clothes. “You don’t want me on your bed.”
“You mess up the bed, it’s not my problem.”
Jonah sat on the side of the bed, rolling the bottle between his hands. “Are you in any pain?”
“No, I had me a great massage and a spell in the hot tub and few tokes on Gabriel’s primo weed. Natalie’s been hanging out with me . . . she’s totally set on soothe. I’m feeling pretty mellow, to tell you the truth.”
“So. What’s going on?”
“Tomorrow—no—today’s the day, man,” Mose said, glancing at his phone. “Today’s the day I cross over to the dark side.”
“No,” Jonah said, shaking his head. “No. That can’t be right.”
“I swear, it’s true. I got back here and looked in the mir ror, and bam! There he was—death, looking me right in the eye. Giving me that come-hither look.”
“I think you messed up.”
“Have I ever been wrong before?” Mose raised an eyebrow.
“You never applied your gift to yourself before,” Jonah said. “And you’ve been sick. It stands to reason that you’re off your game.”
Mose snorted. “Let’s go over that argument: you’ve been sick, so you can’t be dying. You’re going to have to do better than that, Kinlock.” He propped his chin on his fist. “Persuade me. I do love to hear you talk.”
Jonah looked at Natalie. He could tell by the expression on her face that Mose was right.
“What about Byron?” Jonah said, naming Mose’s most recent boyfriend. “Does he know you’re here?”
“Oh, Jonah,” Mose said, with a heavy sigh. “That is so over.”
“Yeah, but he still might want to—”
“I just want to be with my friends,” Mose said. “My band mates and you. You were ever my true love, anyway, Jonah.”
“Where’s Gabriel?” Jonah asked. “Does he know?”
“He was here earlier,” Natalie said. “He . . . uh . . . he had to leave. He wasn’t dealing with it very well.”
What about us? Jonah thought. Anyone wondering how we’re dealing with it?
As if he’d overheard Jonah’s thoughts, Mose said, “I’m sorry to have to put you through this. It’s easy for me. All I have to do is die.”
“I thought Alison would be here,” Natalie said. “I’ve texted her, but no answer.”
“She’s working,” Jonah said. “She’ll be here. Is there anyone else we should call?” Jonah desperately wanted to share responsibility with someone else.
“The priest has already come and gone. So it’s official.” Mose took a swig of his beer. “So. Now will you take the vinyl?”
Jonah cleared his throat. “I’ll take it all,” he said. “The turntable, too, if you want.”
“And the Parker Dragonfly. You know you want it. You’ve always lusted after it . . . just like I’ve always lusted after you. Kind of a love triangle, in a way.”
Jonah’s cheeks heated. “You should give that to Alison,” he said. “She needs something to remember you by.”
“Alison won’t respect the guitar. You will.” Mose shifted his gaze to Natalie. “Doesn’t he have to honor last requests?”
“I believe he does,” Natalie said, her voice low and tight, her eyes swimming with tears.
“Great,” Mose said. “Request number two: Jonah takes my place in the band.”
“What? . . . No!” Jonah said, dread displacing his grief for the moment.
“I want the band to be good,” Mose said. “Better than it ever was. It’s got to be you, Jonah.”
“No,” Jonah said. “I’m not the guitarist you are, and I never will be.”
“Guitarists are a dime a dozen. It’s a great singer that’s hard to come by. I kind of like the notion that it’ll take two people to replace me. Bonus: you’re a songwriter. You can satisfy Natalie’s unquenchable thirst for new material.”
“I’ll give her songs,” Jonah said. “I don’t play in public.”
Mose opened one eye. “If I can’t get what I want on my deathbed, then when can I get it?”
Jonah looked up at Natalie, who was glowering at him, making throat-cutting gestures.
“All right, you win,” he said. “I’m in. I’ll join the band.”
“Great,” Mose said, yawning. “Hold him to it, Natalie. You know I’m doing it for his own good.”
Rudy had awakened during the conversation. He came and stood behind Natalie, rubbing her shoulders and neck, his face a landscape of grief.
Mose’s eyes drifted shut. Jonah thought perhaps he’d gone back to sleep, but then Mose murmured, “You know what they say about a watched pot? Well, it ain’t true. Not in my case.”
The door slammed open, and everyone jumped, except Mose, who scarcely flinched. Alison barged in, still dressed for battle. “Mose! I didn’t have my phone on. What the hell are you doing here?”
Jonah moved aside, giving her space, but Alison circled around to Mose’s other side and rested her hip on the edge of the chair. She gripped his hand, as if she could hold him in the world. “You are not dying, Mose, so get that out of your head right now. We have three gigs on the calendar, coming up, and we can’t afford to break in somebody new.”
“’S’all right,” Mose whispered. “Jonah’s going to step in. You always wanted Jonah in the band.”
Alison darted a look at Jonah, then focused back on Mose. “I’ll be glad to have Jonah in the band, but that doesn’t let you off the hook.”
“Jonah,” Mose said, a note of urgency in his voice now. “I think we’re getting close.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Jonah stripped off his gloves and laid them on the bedside table. “Don’t you dare!” Alison snapped, and leaned over Mose, her tears dropping on his bedclothes. “You can’t die, Mose, because then . . . because then . . .” Suddenly she was sobbing too hard to speak further.
“Anyone who can’t be cool about this needs to leave,” Mose said. “This is going to be hard enough for Jonah as it is.”
Alison turned away, burying her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.
“Jonah,” Mose said, from his nest of blankets.
“I’m here.”
Mose lifted up the bedclothes. “Would you mind . . . very much . . . holding me?”
And so Jonah did.
Chapter Twenty-six
Survivor
Voices were calling to her, as if from a great distance. Hands poked and prodded her—none too gently. Burning hands. Relentless hands. Needles. Liquid flame, running into her veins.
Clamoring voices. Harsh, squabbling voices. Strangers.
She’s not responding. Some kind of poison. Or a toxin. Resistant to treatment. She’s going to die, and if she does we’ve got nothing. We need to bring in a healer.
No. Absolutely not. Nobody can know she’s alive.
Well, if you don’t get someone, she won’t be for long. Gabriel Mandrake is the most gifted and knowledgeable herbalist and healer in the country. He’s right here in town.