The Helios Syndrome by Vivian Shaw

Author:Vivian Shaw
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Lethe Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

 I get a text around eleven-thirty, eddie’s please :) :) :), and it only takes me about half an hour to get into the city and pick up takeout from Desi’s favorite Chinese place. Her magic shop’s on 18th, sandwiched between a tattoo place and an art gallery. I’ve never stepped into either. My battered second-hand Corvette doesn’t look out of place parked out front. She has the predictably expensive batik caftans displayed in the store window along with a selection of clunky sterling jewelry, but there’s a discreet little moon and stars in purple neon up in one corner of the window: visual shorthand for psychic shit available within.

(Purple neon always means psychic shit. I don’t know when that happened, but it’s universal: you see a purple neon sign, it’s going to be advertising some kind of tarot or crystal or palm-reading service, every time. Desi’s display is kind of a balancing act, aimed to appeal to the ordinary punters and the more specialized clients at once.)

She’s with a customer when I come in, fragrant paper bags in hand, and gives me a smile over her shoulder. As usual, she’s wearing her own merchandise, and this is one of the reasons people are so eager to hand her wads of cash; there should be a little warning label on the inside of her dresses that says you will never look as good in this as Desi Serensky does.

The customer departs, less $389.95, and Desi flips the sign on the door to CLOSED. “Jesus, that took forever,” she says. “Come upstairs and show me what you’ve brought and tell me all about it, have you finally fallen in love with somebody unsuitable?”

“Nope.” I hand her the bags. “I got myself a ghost problem.”

“You have ghost problems?”

“Just one, but he’s kinda significant, though. Also I’m having weird dreams.”

“You totally need absinthe,” says Desi, and nods toward the stairs.

Her upstairs apartment is a comfortably cluttered lair; the front room where she sees clients features a shawl-draped table supporting a crystal ball, and the rest of it is furnished with cushions and rugs and low tables. She clears off one of these, setting aside a tall and impressive brass hookah, and starts opening takeout cartons. “Start from the beginning.”

So I do, in between stuffing my face. I tell her about the Mount Storm crash investigation, about what I’d seen and felt and heard, and how I’d had to fudge the account I gave to Dooley of what actually killed the plane. Instead of the promised absinthe she’s cracked a couple of beers, and that kind of helps with the story-telling part.

“So ever since then I’ve seen him, now and then, when I do pretty heavy magic—but it’s getting more frequent. A lot more frequent. Last night I dreamed about the crash and he was there when I woke up, and—he wants something, obviously he wants answers, or—I dunno, closure—and I can’t give it to him. And it’s kinda fucking up my day job, to be honest, so I was hoping you’d be able to help.

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