Black Dust Mambo by Adrian Phoenix

Author:Adrian Phoenix [Phoenix, Adrian]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781439167878
Publisher: Bill
Published: 0101-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

SEVENTEEN

SOMETHING MORE THAN A DEATH SENTENCE

Layne followed a gaggle of pudgy sightseers clad in tourist regulation wear—shorts, sun visors, baseball caps, shades, and pungent sunscreen—through the black-iron gates of St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. He paused on the gravel and seashell path, looking for McKenna in the city of the dead, among all the stone monuments to loss.

“Did she say why she chose to visit the cemetery?” Felicity asked.

“No,” Layne replied. “But I imagine it suited her mood.” Sunlight glinted on the white tombs and crumbling brick, and Layne shaded his eyes with the edge of his hand.

A melancholy air permeated the cemetery, sieving into the crypts, black-iron railings, and the living like a ghost into a Vessel. But since the uncrossed-over usually lingered at places they’d known in life, or in the spots where they’d died, Layne found cemeteries peaceful and relaxing—ghost-free.

The sorrow he felt emanating from the crypts and well-trod paths belonged to all of those left behind over the centuries.

Felicity shifted beside him, and he caught a whiff of her body-warmed perfume—fresh-cut roses, a welcome distraction from the odd sensation in his head of Augustine’s presence.

The ghost in the cargo hold.

As a safeguard against personality and essence meshing, they’d decided that whoever wasn’t in charge—the one not steering the tandem bicycle—would stay out of the way, tucked behind a shield of static, a shield Layne taught the Brit how to create and shape.

The transition had been as easy as the riders of that mythical tandem bicycle switching seats while pedaling, and doing so without touching each other. Once during the shift, Layne’s mind had grazed against Augustine’s like a ship scraping along the rough face of a glacier. Images and sensations not his own had bled into Layne’s consciousness.

He finds himself standing beneath an old-fashioned big-top circus tent, a deck of slick new cards in one hand and a black top hat in the other—hands less scarred than his own—the gaslight-heated air pungent with sweat, fresh sawdust, and animal shit. He feels the burn of booze in his belly and tastes the oak bite of good whiskey on his tongue. The loud and cheerful whistles of a calliope accompany the trumpet of elephants and the raucous roar of an entertainment-hungry crowd.

But what holds his attention is a man in a dust-grimed tuxedo hurling knives at a woman strapped to a huge spinning wheel. . . .

She never, ever flinches, that one. She revels in the danger. God, but she’s beautiful. She’d make one hell of a magician’s assistant, with her nerve and long legs.

Pain skewers Layne’s thoughts—no, Augustine’s thoughts—and the images disintegrate, a painting scrubbed clean from its canvas.

Layne had no idea what Augustine had experienced from his memories, if anything, but planned to ask him later.

They’d agreed to signal each other whenever they needed to switch places. Augustine had chosen his fricking clanging bell as his signal and, just to get back at him, Layne had selected the sound of a revving and unmuffled Harley.

“Did Ms. Blue agree to meet you at a specific spot?” Felicity asked.

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