four

An American, a Broad

I jauntily wheeled my chartreuse zebra-striped suitcase through the airport and to the stairs that led to the trains. Although I’d repaired one of the case’s broken wheels with a piece of wire coat hanger, it still looked very stylish.

I liked the hustle and bustle of big-city public transportation, and I liked grabbing a window seat on a train and seeing billboards and scenery flashing by.

Mercedes had recommended a hotel in Kensington that was close to the Tube. The hotel was a well-kept, renovated Victorian with moderately priced rooms, just the sort of comfortable, convenient place Mercedes would stay while checking out bands.

My junior suite was a medium-sized room with a love seat, a narrow desk, a view to the street, and an all-white bathroom with a deep tub.

I walked to a French café, bought a latte, and took a stroll to the park, trying to remember to look to my right when crossing streets. When I returned to my hotel, I called Don Pedro.

“Don Pedro, why don’t we meet at one of the local attractions so I can sightsee while you tell me whatever?”

“Alas, I have so many followers all over the world, those who come to me for guidance in the ways of the shapeshifter. I fear that we would be interrupted and I want to give you my undivided attention.”

“Gotcha, no witnesses.” I was tempted to tell Don Pedro that I actually knew a real shapeshifter—it had something to do with biology and optical illusions—but he’d insist that he was one himself.

“May I come to your room?” he asked.

“Only if you promise not to put the moves on me.” I was joking since he was a little bug of a fellow that I could crush between my fingers.

He tittered and said, “I shall treat you with the utmost respect even though you are certainly a most enticing young woman and if I were younger—”

“Stop or you’ll give me brain cooties. I’ll see you at noon.”

There was a knock on my door exactly at noon. I opened it to see Don Pedro Nascimento, officially the author of Spiritual Transformation: Adventures of a Shapeshifter.

He was a tiny brown man with enormous chocolate eyes behind oversized black-framed glasses. He wore khaki pants, a white shirt with colorful yarn embroidery of birds and flowers, and a brown and white woven jacket with a llama motif and fringe. He carried the same worn leather satchel he’d had when I’d first met him.

“¡Mi Milagro!” he said, and reached out to hug me.

I moved away and said, “Come in, Don Pedro.”

He walked into the room and sat down on the love seat. He smelled of coconut oil, and I had a sudden craving for a piña colada, a sunny beach, and a Rupert Holmes tune playing on a boom box. I turned the desk chair to face Don Pedro and sat down.

“Your aura is even more brilliant than when we last met!” he said. “I hope that your journey is astonishing.”

“Yes, first-class is definitely the way to go.”

“I meant your journey on this astral plane, Milagro, exploring and discovering your spirit self. Your power glows from you like the sun rising over the red rocks of Sedona, where I once met a shaman in the form of a javelina—”

“That’s utterly enthralling. Let’s talk business.”

He crossed one toothpick leg over the other and said, “I have watched you in my dreams, and I am both enraptured and fretful.”

“That’s kind of you. Do you mind saving the caca for people who pay for your seminars and private consultations?”

“There are different truths, Milagro. There is the truth that you think you know about me, and there also exists the truth of your book as I lived it.”

“How could you live something that I fabricated?”

“It could only happen through the magical meeting of our minds, my Milagro!” he said ecstatically. “This is why you and only you can help write my second book. It explores life in different realms.”

“Like the earth realm and space realm? Aliens?” I said, suddenly interested. “I’d love to subvert the clichés of aliens as long-armed, big-headed pixies. What about swarms of nanorobots that can cluster together to mimic any other life-form? I could tie that into your shapeshifter mythology.”

Don Pedro held up his weathered hand. “I was speaking of the realms of life and afterlife and most especially the Middle World. Life after life and before deathly death. I traveled to an island in the azure Caribbean, and a tribe gathered to make a feast for me and …”

I dazed off at this point, because all of Don Pedro’s stories followed the same plot: he was treated as a wise elder by indigenous people who had a feast in his honor. They invited him to a ceremony, injested magical potions, had visions, shapeshifted, et cetera. However, the word “undead” caught my attention.

“Don Pedro, what exactly do you mean by undead?”

“The tribe,” he said, and then whistled. “That is how they say their name, the whistle of a bird, because they are as birds, neither of earth nor heaven. Their name means the Caretakers. They showed me how they raise up the dead with their astonishing juju.”

“If it isn’t astonishing, it isn’t juju,” I commented.

“I sat with one of these living-dead creatures, and we smoked a bowl of an herb that only grows there in the volcanic soil. He told me of returning to life from the misty swamp of eternity.” Don Pedro stared at me and said solemnly, “This being was an oracle, and he asked me to give you this gift.”

“That’s really not necessary …” I began, worried that he’d pull a mummified foot or, worse, a dried man-handle from his satchel.

Instead, Don Pedro brought out a large clear plastic bag with a folded cloth inside. “The oracle said that you would know how to use it to help those who wish to come back and to guide them to the island.”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?” I took the bag and saw that the material was handwoven of fine yarn. It was white with an intricate border of suns, moons, mountains, and waves. “It’s beautiful.” I would have to show this to my friends in the Stitching & Bitching group. “The colors are so pretty.”

“It is imbued with magical powders that will preserve and revive the dead and was woven by a blind bruja whose third-eye guides her. The color is taken from the spring flowers that grow in the soil by a spring of freshwater.”

“Organic dyes, then. I thought so.”

“By the spring, I saw a monkey, a mono araña, with a face as white as a ghost, and a bat flew overhead. The monkey said to me, ‘The little bat above must spread her wings or she will fall into the chasm. Her strength and her …’” Don Pedro paused and wrinkled his brow. “‘Her strength and her fun are gifts to be used.’”

My strength and fun? As usual, Don Pedro made no sense. I held up the powdery cloth and said, “I’m not going to have any problems getting this through customs, am I?”

“Laws of mortal man do not govern the dead.”

“That goes without saying. Now, about the writing fee …” I lobbied for twice the amount he had initially offered. Fifteen minutes later I agreed to a sum that would pay for my loft repairs and keep me gainfully underemployed for another year.

Don Pedro agreed to transfer a third of the funds into my bank account, pay another third upon delivery of the manuscript, and pay the balance when it was accepted by the publisher.

I felt somewhat regretful as I signed the release that gave Don Pedro all rights to the sequel. But he was the reason for the first book’s success: people wanted to read about his life and they adored his loony interviews and seminars.

“One more thing,” Don Pedro said.

“What?”

“It would please me to have the story written by hand,” he said, and brought out five standard composition books. He unfolded a sheet of paper from one. “Here is a sample of my writing and you have such a discerning eye, I know you can copy it.”

No electronic evidence, I thought. “You’re in luck, Don Pedro. I happen to be an accomplished forger.”

“Oh, no, this is not forgery,” he said, shocked. “It is transcribing from my spiritual transmission.”

“You say potato, I say fauxtato. Whatever.”

As Don Pedro left, he said, “You will know how to use the magic of the cloth.”

“I don’t believe in magic.”

“You are magic.” He put his fine-boned hand on my wrist. “You are Milagro de Los Santos, the Miracle of the Saints. You must trust in yourself, in the role that destiny has written for you. Even though others would put you in a cage, the one who watches you recognizes your true self and loves you still.”

I was surprised at the shiver that went through me. “I know you’re full of it, but damn if I don’t want to believe you.”

“Then do,” he said, and winked one of his big bug eyes.

After Don Pedro left I decided to call Wilcox Spiggott.

Mercedes had been able to find only a few public records on Wilcox and, most interesting, that he participated in surfing competitions. I called the number listed for Crimson Leasing Agents & Real Estate. A receptionist answered with a crisp voice, and I said, “May I please speak to Wilcox Spiggott.”

“Might I say who is calling?”

I didn’t know if my reputation had traveled here, but I didn’t want to scare Wilcox off. “My name is Milly. I’m a journalist writing a story on surfing in the UK.”

In a moment he was on. “Wil Spiggott here.”

“Aloha, dude,” I said in surferese. “I’m doing some research on the best of Brit surfing and I’m looking for someone who’s hip to things oceanic and—”

“Who gave you my name?”

“Ahhh, well, I was at Hermosa Beach and this dude, awesome surfer, what was his name? Bitchin’ technique, really knew how to drop in late.”

“Bodhi?”

“Yeah, I think that was it,” I said, wondering where I’d heard that name before.

“Long streaked hair, killer smile, liked to skydive? That Bodhi?”

Wow, that sounded so familiar. “I’m pretty sure he’s the one. We were downing some brewskis at a bonfire and I was like, dude, do you know anyone I can interview, and he was like, dude, you totally gotta talk to Wil Spiggott.” I wondered if I could expand this narrative as a short piece with a mutated shark that would represent the offshore oil industry.

“Bodhi gave you this number?” Wilcox said.

“Uh-huh. Any chance I could buy you a drink today?”

“What do you look like?”

“No one’s complained,” I said, which wasn’t entirely true, since some people didn’t appreciate my physical and sartorial extravagance.

Wilcox said he could meet me at a pub after work. That gave me time to go to St. Paul’s Cathedral. I cried as I read the memorial to American soldiers who died in World War II, young men long gone but not forgotten.

Then I climbed to the top of the beautiful dome. I stood on the windy parapet and looked at the city below. The sun was already beginning to set and lights began to glow golden.

I wished that I was sharing this with someone else because it was too incredible just for me. I wondered what Oswald was doing now, and I tried not to wonder what or whom Ian was doing.

I went to the hotel and changed for the evening. I put on tight black jeans, black boots, and a snug cranberry cashmere sweater that I’d gotten on clearance because the shoulder seam was crooked. But the sweater was low-cut and I thought no one would notice the imperfection, especially if I let my hair fall forward over it. I wore a pink trench and a scarf that I’d knit from chunky violet yarn.

When I arrived at the pub, it was crowded with young professionals. I realized I had no idea what Wilcox looked like. I saw a muscle-bound guy with a bleached buzz cut jostling toward the bar. He smiled when he caught me looking at him.

I grinned and made my way to him. “Wilcox?”

“Sure I will coc—” he said, and stopped and glanced over my shoulder.

I turned to see what he was looking at.

The man behind me was tall and thin, with very fine, messy, streaked blond hair. He had a really good fake tan and nice features, but I focused on his light hazel eyes, lined with kohl.

“Are you Milly? I’m Wilcox.”

The first man burst into laughter and said “Who isn’t with jubblies like that?” before turning back to the bar.

I shook Wilcox’s hand and bopped my head. “Aloha. Cool to meet you.”

His coat was open, revealing a black V-neck sweater over a rust-colored crewneck and dark-wash jeans. Around his neck was a thin, worn leather cord with a single shell. He had silver rings on his slim fingers and small silver hoops in his ears.

He was definitely, unquestionably fabulous.

“Call me Wil. Let’s get a table outside. If you don’t mind the cold and the dark.”

“That’s fine by me.”

Wil led me out to an empty bench by a sidewalk table. A waitress had just finished taking orders at the next table and she stopped by. Wil ordered a pint of bitter, and I said, “Me, too, thanks.”

When she was gone, the vampire smiled at me and we checked each other out.

“So, Milagro de Los Santos, what do you want to know?”

I laughed and said, “What gave me away?”

“My bros don’t know my work number, and Patrick Swayze played Bodhi in Point Break.”

I thought for a second. “That’s why the name seemed familiar. And Keanu played Johnny Utah. Great movie.”

“Agreed, but your story was rubbish. Now, Milagro from California, filthy cute, rep for asking lots of questions, brilliant”—he let his gaze drift downward—“immune system. You know I’m stoked to be sitting here with you. We all know about you. Do you really go by Milly?”

“Milagro or Mil will do,” I said. “I lied because I didn’t need your coworkers to know we were meeting. I heard that the Council was hassling you, and the Council has some Issues with me.”

“I heard they wanted you dead.”

“Like I said, Issues.” I wondered what else he’d heard. “I don’t die easily, though. Or willingly. I’m quite reluctant about the whole ceasing-to-exist thing. How about you?”

“Equally reluctant. How did you hear about me?”

“Do you know the Grant family in California?”

He nodded and said, “Never met them, though.”

“They’re good people,” I said. “After I was accidentally infected by Oswald Grant, they took care of me and helped me transition.”

“I met your friend, Ian Ducharme, last year when I was on holiday in Lviv.”

“Lviv is the new Warsaw,” I said automatically.

“That’s when he was with a gorgeous icy blonde, Ilena, at all the parties.”

“I’d rather not discuss Ian if you don’t mind,” I said, trying to quell the ugly swirl of emotions rising in me. “Anyway, one of the Grant family mentioned that you’re organizing a movement to have your kind live openly.”

“My kind? Aren’t you one of us?”

“They gave me a membership card, but most of the time they tell me that the club is closed for a private party. I think so long as your kind live in hiding and fear, there will never be …”

The waitress came back, and I paused while she delivered our drinks. Wil and I fumbled over who would pay, but he insisted, saying, “You’re my guest.”

I sipped the warmish beerish drink and said “Mmm” to be polite. “You’re lucky our drinks came. I was just about to launch into a speech about human rights for all. I know all the politically correct talking points.” I didn’t mention that I’d learned many from animal rights activists.

“Before we get into all that, what are you doing tonight?”

“I was hoping to see a play, or see if any museums have evening hours.”

“Could I interest you in a special tour befitting a special guest?”

When an attractive and unknown man presented me with a vague offer of a good time, I always had the same answer. “Absolutely.”

We finished our drinks and took the Tube to a crescent-shaped block of white terrace houses with graceful black railings and boxes of blooming flowers. “It’s an underground restaurant,” Wil said, putting his arm through mine in a very friendly way. “It’s not in the guidebooks.”

“Do we need a secret knock?”

“Fer sure.”

“I’m not an expert, but you seem to speak surferese very well,” I said as he led me up the steps to the glossy red front door.

“It’s one of my languages.” He lifted the brass door knocker and tapped it twice, then three more times. After we waited, he looked at me and said, “It gets loud.” He banged the door with his fist and yelled, “Open up, you bastards!”

I heard footsteps and then a bulky older man came to the door. Wil practically tackled him and gave him a smacking kiss on his cheek. “This is Mil, Graham. Mil, this is Graham.”

“Hello, Mil,” Graham said sternly, and looked me in the eyes. “This is a private gathering. Nothing that happens here leaves.”

“She’s cool,” Wil said. “She’s with the Grants in California and Ian Ducharme.”

“I know Ian,” I said. “But I’m not with him.”

“Ian Ducharme,” Graham said with a cynical smile. Then his expression changed. “A sexy señorita with the Grant family and Ian Ducharme? Don’t tell me this is Milagro de Los Santos!”

I was a little annoyed at the sexy señorita description. “Okay, I won’t.”

“Come in! Come in! Welcome to the Bloody Good Table.”

The interior of the house was chic and modern, dove grays, snowy white, and black with red accents. A niche in the long hallway held a tall vase of red ginger, and the dark gray runner was edged in red.

Voices and music came from down the hall. “Everyone’s in back,” our host said.