Authors: K A Jordan
"This is crazy." Eric glared at her staggering to his feet. "I'm out of here." He stalked out of the garage.
The door to the kitchen slammed; June's heart went out to him. He needed to see, to understand the danger he was in. A slight hiss made her look back at the motorcycle. Cora trailed her nails across the cage of light.
Teeth flashed in a snarl – a threat?
Since when did a spirit have the nerve to pull tricks like this? June tugged at the rubber matting. The puzzle-shaped pieces came free, exposing the floor painting underneath, a white pentagram on a green background and a blue ring on the edge. Cora and the second shadow retreated back to the motorcycle.
The motorcycle sat in the center of the pentagram, a vile serpent contained in her sacred space. June felt them brooding in their confinement as she quickly took up her antheme.
The kitchen door slammed again. June palmed her antheme as she heard Eric coming out of the house.
Eric entered the garage with his leather chaps and boots on and his jacket slung over his shoulder. He took one look at the pentagram on her floor and his jaw dropped.
"What kind of freak are you?"
"I'm a Wiccan, not a freak," June snapped.
"I'm out of here." Eric advanced on her, threat in every line of his body. "I'm leaving and you are going to let me go, with my bike. Right now."
"Sure. Okay, just open the door." Her eyes followed him as he strode over to the garage door. While Eric's back was turned, June banished the circle. The stones in her hands flared hot as the spirits circled her. The worst they could do was give her a bad case of chills.
Was there anything she could say to Eric to mend this? From his body language, June figured that she wasn't going to see him again.
Every movement stiff with outrage, Eric stalked to his motorcycle, pulling on his leather jacket. He didn't push his bike outside; he started it where it sat. With a final glare, he pulled on his helmet.
He rode the motorcycle out of the pentagram, out of her garage – out of her life.
June heaved a sigh as she watched him ride away.
She closed the garage door. As soft as a breeze, she felt movement in her hair. Then there was the warm brush of a lover's lips against her throat.
June wiped her neck, shuddering with the knowledge that Eric had taken only one spirit with him. The second one, a man, had stayed. She turned off all the lights, leaving the garage in darkness.
She wanted her dogs and her nice quiet house.
~^~
As Eric racked his bike through the gears, he gritted his teeth. He'd been tricked. He didn't know how, but whatever happened in the garage had nothing to do with magic. June wasn't a witch, she was a nutcase.
He wouldn't believe the bullshit about his bike and spirits. There was no such thing as ghosts. They were the stuff of movies – utter nonsense.
Yeah, he called his bike Cora. Guys name bikes, cars and body parts. It didn't mean anything.
It didn't have anything to do with ghosts or witches or crazy shit. He glanced up at the cloudy sky. It was this town – everybody here was nuts – like some kind of horror flick.
While he was off serving his country, his life was completely destroyed. Cora was all he had left. Everything else was gone or packed in a storage unit.
A large dark SUV passed him, going the other way. Eric flinched and checked his rearview mirrors. The SUV kept going, but his train of thought shifted. He had a better idea of the county roads, thanks to the Ohio map. He wouldn't be trapped or lost so easily this time.
Eric slowed for the stop sign – no cars – he blew through it. He found the Rt. 11 on ramp and turned north. He could take 11 to Lake Road, then west to Geneva where there was a Harley shop. Someone would help him find Van Man Go.
The freeway was open, flat, inviting him to test the engine. Cora sang to him until he shifted into sixth, then her engine shrieked. He crouched behind the windshield and let her rip, 90 miles an hour – 100 – 105, Cora had plenty left to give. Flashing red lights ahead warned him the highway was ending. Just a mile up the road was a set of stop signs and a cross road. He coasted to a stop, then turned left.
This part of the city looked flat broke. There were buildings with the tarpaper siding from the middle of the last century. The impression of age made him feel that he was moving back in time to the 1930's or 40's.
He went over the hill and down into the Harbor. He saw marinas on his left, a huge ship offloaded on the right. He kept to the speed limit as he took the sharp turn, passed under the huge stone counter weight that hung over the road, like a giant hammer, onto the short span of bridge.
The mile long strip of Bridge Street opened up in front of him. Lined with bars and little shops, studded with baskets of bright-colored flowers, the street fairly buzzed with people and cars. Moving slowly with the flow of traffic, Eric saw the simple white sign with black lettering.
"Van Man Go – Custom Painting."
Yes! Eric slowed the bike, turning left into the parking lot. He stopped just outside the bays. The wooden building was dark red with black trim. A big sheet-glass window was covered in a mural, a couple of motorcycles racing on a flaming track.
Music blared from the open bay. There were auto parts scattered inside, paint splashed everywhere. A full dress Honda Goldwing sat center stage, female devils danced in the red flames on the fairing. The artwork was gorgeous, intricate and colorful – the bike was a show-stopper in the making.
Eric killed the engine, pulled off his helmet.
"What do you want?" a man demanded from the shadows.
"I came to talk to Van Man Go about my bike." He straddled the bike with his helmet on his thighs, peering at the shadow that moved into the light.
"I'm getting ready to close." Van Man Go was a thin pale man in a tattered, sleeveless, 'wife-beater' undershirt and paint spattered jeans. He was heavily pierced through the ears, the lips and the chin. His face was gaunt, eyes sunken and crafty. His skin hung on him like an outgrown suit.
Fear ran freezing fingers down Eric's spine. It was the man from those freaky dreams. His mouth went dry, the hair on his arms stood up.
His gut screamed 'Run!'
Eric dug deep into himself for the attitude he'd used while serving two tours in 'Stan. Fear would not get Cora restored. He'd seen worse than this unnatural little weasel. He knew how much damage a man could do with bare hands. It wouldn't take much for him to snap the creep in half.
"Huh. You got any money, boy? 'Cause time is money." Still standing in partial shadow, Van Man Go measured Eric with his eyes.
"What do you think?" It was lame, but it was the best Eric could do. He swung off the motorcycle to face Van Man Go.
Van dismissed him with a flick of an eyebrow. Instead he looked at the bike with a twisted smile.
"So-oo Cora's back." Van cut his eyes to Eric. "I heard Jake missed a curve a couple months ago. Too bad."
"Shit happens." Eric shrugged.
"Bring her in." Van motioned Eric inside.
Eric took a deep breath; he grabbed the handlebars of the bike and shoved. Cora didn't move.
"What's the matter?"
"Stuck in gear." Eric kicked the gear shift into neutral.
"Never mind." Van stamped out of the bay.
Eric half expected him to burst into flames like something out of a vampire flick.
No such luck; Van didn't even flinch.
"Some damn amateur screwed up my work." Van trailed his fingers over the paint. "Colors aren't right. What did he use for topcoat – nail polish?" His eye accused Eric of defiling the motorcycle.
"I bought her like this." The bike shifted backwards, falling off the kickstand. Eric stepped forward to save it. The metal was ice cold. Eric repressed a shudder.
"Some of these are fresh."
"I got run off the road."
"Hmm, that seems to be going around." Van contemplated Eric for a moment. "Come here, boy." He walked back into the shop, saying over his shoulder, "Don't worry, this is a freebie."
It took an effort of will for Eric to cross that line from light to shadow. He blinked to adjust his sight, removed his dark glasses. He followed Van to the right, to a wall covered in a dizzying collage of drawings, photos, before and after pictures. Vans from the 70's, custom cars, motorcycles, tour buses with huge detailed murals. This was a lifetime of work, awards, trophies and bits of fender or gas tanks, every bit of it first rate. The music got louder as they walked closer to the wall. It was a vaguely familiar keyboard riff.
"Awesome."
"I'm no freaking amateur, boy." Van turned to him, pointed out the photos of a woman dressed in black corset and leather shorts. "That was Cora Cobra – one tall, sassy tramp. Take a good look."
As Eric looked, the keyboard was joined by a bass back beat. The haunting sound threaded through his mind as he looked over the collage. The woman in her Goth makeup had an albino python wrapped around her like a scarf. There were professional pictures signed "Don't you want to see more? Cora Cobra." Some photos of her dancing with the snake reminded him of the bar scene in 'Dusk 'til Dawn.' She was so posed and life-like in the photos she almost seemed to sway.
There were close-ups of the snake; detailed sketches of the scale patterns. Guitars picked up the beat, crossed it, fuzzed and whined, blared and screamed. There was a series of color photos of the bike when it was finished. Eric licked his lips as he looked at the photos of Cora on the bike. Her tousled black hair fell like a veil across smoky eyes of a glowing green. Her lips were colored a red so dark it was almost black. He listened to the music as it ran endlessly – staring at the full pout of Cora's mouth. He lusted for her – the woman and the machine that was all that was left of her.
The guitar dropped out, the hypnotic bass run continued as the keyboard threaded over and around it. The music would have suited Cora to a tee – sultry and seductive. Enthralled, Eric fell under the spell of a drum solo and a half-remembered dream of Cora dancing naked at his feet.
"I'll put her back to rights." Van shot a sly glance at Eric. "You want that, don't you?"
"Yeah," Eric's throat was dry.
"I'll work up an estimate." Van Man Go smiled, showing his fangs. "This'll take some time. You don't look like a local boy."
"Just passing through." Guitars screamed, wrenching Eric from his trance – his head started to pound.
"The Iroquois has rooms to rent, cheap." Van hooked his thumb in the general direction of next door. "Unless you got some honey to put you up for a while?" His sly guess put Eric's back up.
Eric ground his teeth. Ten minutes with this creep made June look like Miss Sweet and Innocent. He wanted to forget her and the simple intimacy of spending a day at her house.
"Come back tomorrow." Van dismissed him.
Eric got back on his bike to ride to the next building over. A woman sat smoking on a concert stoop in the back of a three story brick building. The sign on the front said "Iroquois Club." There was a 'Rooms for Rent' sign in the window. He shouldered his jacket before he strolled in the door.
The interior of the club had time-blackened paneling and worn red carpet. He blinked at the darkness and took off his shades. A narrow archway and wide stairs rose to his right, a parlor was to his left. Straight ahead was a hallway to the bar itself. Walking to the bar was like walking down a dark tunnel into a cavern where time stood still.
He could smell a century of cigarettes and beer, hear the clack and thud of pool balls over the jukebox. He'd never been in a building where the past pressed on him like this. At the bar, he set his sunglasses down, rubbed his palms against the smooth surface, look at the back bar's window of mirrors. Through a screen of glittering bottles he saw himself, the room behind him, the bandstand, square pillars of dark wood and pool tables. The reflection pulled him deeper.
Deja'vu opened its dark petals and sucked him inside.
This was worse than his flashbacks to Afghanistan. Utterly dislocated from time and space – he knew
where
he was, but he wasn't sure
who
he was. He saw himself shooting pool, winning money and getting raving drunk. He saw himself holding a pistol and raiding a house. Faster and faster the images flashed until time seemed to stop.
He was polishing Cora while a blonde woman railed at him. She spewed jealous nonsense while he tried to keep his temper in check.
"You can't ride it!" She walked around the bike to stoop to his level and look him in the eyes. "They'll find you. They
will
kill you."
"That cowardly scum wouldn't dare!" He jerked the cuff of his jeans up, showing a .38 caliber pistol. "I killed one of them; the rest are hiding back in that shit-hole town."
"What? Are you Dirty Harry now?"
Something inside him snapped.
"Get out of my face!" He shoved her away, threw his leg over the bike.