The smoke and curses pouring out of Annie's Bath House and Pub advertise that it's more pub than bath house.
While Bastian scopes out the situation inside, looking for trouble-making lowlifes like Rake and Merrick, Whiskers and I wait in the street. The old man is trembling from the exertion of walking, and every breath he takes sounds like it's going to be his last. Hopefully, a warm bath will set him right. Maybe they'll add a little eucalyptus oil to the water.
Bastian returns and hands me his satchel. "The place is low-key, for the moment. There's food in the satchel, which should pay for Whiskers' bath, as long as he doesn't ask for a shave. Remember, we're all meeting at Miss K's. It's a couple blocks in that direction." Bastian gestures toward a narrow street and pats Whiskers on the back in one blurry movement. "I expect you to escort Ivy safely to the door, my friend. When we see each other again, I hope to have a new first mate in tow."
"See if you can find one with better manners than the last." Whiskers grins, showing off his stained teeth.
Bastian rests his hand on the small of my back and heat radiates through my dress, soothing me better than ointment. He lifts his hat to kiss my cheek, then escapes into the crowd like a ghost returning to the grave. I hold back the knot trying to form in my throat, hating how he can yank my feelings around. One second I'm swooning, and the next I'm stinging from the hole he left in my heart. I take Whiskers by the hand, ignoring the crusty stuff on it, and walk him into the pub.
The scent of perfume and cheap cologne does a lousy job of hiding the stink of cigarettes and other rolled substances. I spot the sign in the back of the room, hanging over a dark hallway. It's just a plank of wood scribbled with paint, but the word 'Baths' is clear enough. The trouble is, we have to wade through a sea of tables to get there. Most of them are filled with rough-looking men and girls in short dresses. I duck my head and hurry Whiskers towards the hall, hoping no one will notice us.
"Hey, girly in pink," a voice croaks. Damn. I'm not even halfway there. "When you're done givin' that old timer his bath, will you give me one?"
The room breaks into raucous laughter and, just like magic, the place is no longer low-key. Whiskers pays no attention to them as he pulls me toward the bar.
"Look! They got my favorite whiskey here."
"Sorry, Whiskers. We aren't here to drink today."
"Awe." Whiskers has no energy to put up a fight, and he lets me drag him away from the bar and further embarrassment.
The narrow hallway leads to a wooden counter covered in bumper stickers. I read some of them as we walk up. Most are funny, like 'Beam me up, Scotty' and 'My other car is a broom'. But the one that really stands out claims, 'If anything can go well, it will.'
A woman is sitting behind the ironic counter, reading a magazine. She has blistering red hair, bottled for sure, and it's swirled on top of her head in the most ancient-looking style. Great Granny Bea wore her hair the same way in all the pictures I saw of her. Mom called it a beehive. I don't even try to figure out how the woman gets it so stiff. Hairspray is definitely a luxury.
"We're here for a bath," I say, trying not to stare at her hair.
She lowers the magazine slowly, pretending she didn't already see us walking up, and purses her lips. "We don't run that kind of bath house."
Like I'd be in that kind of bath house.
"What I mean is... This gentleman needs a bath," I say.
Whiskers grins. "I ain't been called a gentleman since my dear wife passed. She was the only woman I knew who could tell a lie and make you believe it."
Beehive's nose wrinkles as she stretches to peers over the counter at Whiskers. "You gotta pay in advance. We take food, clean water, and liquor." She holds out her hand while I fish a can of peas and a box of macaroni out of the satchel. She inspects the faded label on the peas and rolls the can between her hands. Then she peeks through the flimsy, plastic window on the macaroni. "This will do. Have a seat and someone will be out in a minute."
"You don't happen to have eucalyptus oil, do you?" I ask. "It would really help his breathing."
Beehive snorts. "You'll have to go to Junction if you want something fancy like that."
She points to a row of mix-matched chairs along the wall and I help Whiskers into one. His wheezing is getting louder. I pat his arm and recite a prayer, one that seems appropriate.
Goddess comfort Whiskers and take away his pain.
"You sure have a mean sluggin' arm...for such a slender thing," he says between rasping breaths. "I don't think I ever seen anyone punch Merrick...who didn't end up on the ground after...including females. What's your secret?"
Does the old guy suspect I'm a caster? Did he see the sparks fly in the galley? I shrug, making it seem like I handle jerks all the time. "It's a technique my dad taught me. You just have to equalize your thrust between both arms."
The lie sounds all right to me, and, when Whiskers nods, I realize it's probably as good as any his wife told him. But Bastian is right. I need to keep my magic in check or I'll be lying to everyone. "How long has Bastian been friends with Merrick?"
"Longer than I've known the Cap'n. And I wouldn't 'xactly call 'em friends. More like rivals. If one of 'em finds a good scavegin' spot, the other is right behind 'em. And if one of 'em gets a pretty girlfriend, the other tries to steal her." Whiskers nudges my elbow and offers a sly grin. I know what he's hinting at, but I don't 'xactly feel like Bastian's girlfriend.
"What about Della? Did Merrick try to steal her?"
"Nope. Bastian stole Della from Merrick."
A pale-faced woman in a wet apron walks through a doorway and looks at Whiskers. She doesn't scrunch her face at the sight of him like Beehive did. She softens it, which makes me like her instantly. "I've got a hunch you're here for a bath. Come on now, while the water's hot."
I help Whiskers off the chair and the woman takes his arm, guiding him through the doorway. The room beyond is filled with the toxic glow of burning coal. Not the best kind of air for Whiskers right now. Hopefully, she'll be giving him his bath. The poor guy is a rattling bag of bones. One slip and he's done for.
I steal a glance at Beehive and notice she's stealing glances at me. After a few minutes of awkward exchanges, she walks over and hands me a tattered magazine.
"Here's something to read while you're waiting. It's about two years old, but it's got some entertaining articles."
"Thanks. I haven't looked at one of these since...since I left home."
"Where's your home?" Beehive asks, as she shuffles back to the counter.
"It's north of here, in Utah. At least it was. It's buried under lava now."
The woman bobs her head solemnly. "Mine too."
Silence falls between us, the silence that comes when people share the same pain. I distract myself with the pretty actress posing on the front of the magazine. She's wearing a black dress with stiletto heels, and her lips are the color of firethorn berries. I recognize her from a vampire drama I watched at Justine's house. Mom didn't approve of television, but she admitted the show was well researched. I glance at the print date and realize the actress posed for the photo just two months before her city chunked off into the Pacific.
Mechanically, I turn the pages without reading them. The articles are not as entertaining as Beehive claimed, or maybe our views are different. All I see are stories of famous people and the absurd things they do with their money, or used to do, interspersed with cologne ads showing bare-chested men sitting inside trucks and beautiful women with perfect teeth and fake tans sitting on top of them (the trucks and the men). None of that exists anymore.
I set the magazine down as reality hits me like a lava flow, prompting my new and improved magic to rush in, guns blazing. I grab the chair as a dizzy spell catches me by surprise.
"Heaven's gate!" a woman cries from the coal-lit room.
Beehive jumps to her feet and mutters, "Not another one." She glances at me and her expression darkens. "You mind watching the desk for a minute while I check on something?"
I nod dumbly as magic continues to race through my veins like it owns the joint. I have no choice but to let the energy lift me off the chair and push me towards the counter. Muffled voices carry into the hallway, and I hear the word 'choked', or maybe it's 'croaked'.
As I ride the wave of magic and adrenaline that I appear to have no control over, Beehive picks that moment to return. It's all I can do to keep my feet planted under me.
"You related to that man you brought in?" she asks, staring at the counter and biting her lip.
"No, but he's a friend." My voice cracks, which doesn't surprise me.
"Well, he's in a much better place now, if you believe in that sort of thing." Her eyes never leave the counter.
Coward.
My hands clench like they're preparing for a fight. One more trigger and I'm taking out Beehive and the counter she's hunched behind. But it's not her fault. It's no one's fault. Deaths are more common than births. And Whiskers was ready to go. I know that in my gut. He's off the hook now. But I'm not.
Thanks to Bastian's generous donation, I can't control my magic. What did he say to do when things get crazy? Clap? No. Stomp. It doesn't leave marks. Without giving it my usual ten second deliberation, I slam my foot against the floor. The shockwave that follows hits me harder than a kick to the ribs from Aunt Helen's donkey. I double over, grabbing my stomach before it escapes, and my throat convulses like it wants to get rid of that pesky organ.
Beehive snaps out of her stupor and takes my arm. "Oopsie daisy. I think you need to sit down." She helps me to a chair and I drop into it like a drenched towel. "Holy Quakes! You're burning up." She jerks her hand away and backs into the counter. "You have the fever. How could you come in here with the fever? Get out!"
"But I...don't have..." I sputter.
"Get out now! Or I'll call someone to take you out!" Beehive's eyes are wild and fixed on me like a bird of prey. She's definitely suffering from fever phobia, and if I keep arguing with her I'll be thrown into a fever house for sure.
I count to three and use the adrenaline to stand, focusing only on calming the hell down. I could power a small city with the amount of energy running through me. I grab Bastian's satchel and stagger down the hallway towards the pub. I just need to make it through the swinging doors without someone asking me to give them a bath.
"Not that way!" Beehive yells, poking her finger at the coal-lit room. "There's a back door. You don't need to be infecting everyone in the damn place. Now, hurry up!"
I redirect my legs and shuffle past her as she glares at me like I've just committed murder.
Yep. Mental status definitely borderline.
I walk into the room and the first thing I notice is a clothes dryer that has been jimmy-rigged into a fireplace. The deadly smoke is directed through a metal pipe that pokes through a hole in the roof, but a thin trail of grey escapes through a gap to pollute the air inside. I take shallow breaths, which is difficult since I'm jerking like an addict.
A patchwork quilt hangs from a rod near the ceiling, splitting the room in half, and two bathtubs are bolted to the floor on either side of the curtain. One tub has water in it, and the other tub has Whiskers in it. He isn't coughing or trying to catch his breath. He isn't breathing at all. I've never seen him look so peaceful.
The pale woman in the apron crouches beside the tub, scooping out cloudy water with a bucket and pouring it into a drain in the floor. She glances at me as I stare at Whiskers. Is he smiling under his beard?
"I'm sorry for your loss, Miss," she says. "We'll have him taken to the Junction morgue. You can pay your respects there. If you tell me his name, he won't have an unmarked grave."
"Um... I only knew him as Whiskers," I say weakly. I feel like a jerk for not knowing Whiskers' real name. But names are overrated these days.
Beehive steps into the room, reminding me I'm supposed to escort myself out, although I'm not quite ready. Between Whiskers being dead and my magic trying to flatten me, I'm struggling to hold an upright position. I thought clapping left the marks. My legs react to Beehive's glare, carrying me to the door. I open it and sunshine streams in, wrapping around Whiskers' concaved chest like angel wings. It makes me think of something Beehive said, besides 'Get Out!' It was the thing about believing in a better place. If it really does exist, my gut tells me Whiskers has found it.
PLAYLIST SONG: Waste by Smashmouth