The Prophecies Of Gods

Author's Note: If you haven't read my work Hooked, you will probably wonder if I've lost my "bloody" mind with this chapter. If you have read Hooked, I'm betting this will be a special treat.  I've been saving this secret that I've known about Riley for a very long time, probably since I got the idea to twist his character into a sexy folkstar... I know my reader's won't see this coming, but I think this chapter explains a lot about Riley, his talent for being rather omniscient, and his paranormal attachment to Priscilla. Hooked fans, enjoy. All others...just go with it.  Even us authors need to have our fun now and again.

Riley, 7 months later

She's never more beautiful than this—her gray eyes lit with the adrenaline of performance, so close to mine, sharing the same microphone, her glossy dark hair nearly blue beneath the stage lights, her hands—a completely new attraction for me, the way they move as we sing together, reaching for me, never touching me. Her lips caught between the words of our song and a loving smile, meant only for me. Always for me.

Then the last note of our performance ends, and her smile changes. She plasters on the brightness of a performer as we turn to the smattering of applause from the...on-lookers. I'm not sure you can even call them an audience. We're performing on a side-stage. Really, just a 10X10 platform with a mic and amp and two acoustics. Most of our listeners are in line at the beer trucks. Or on their phones. I put on my stage smile, too, ignore the acute ache in my back, and say the closing things I always say to promote us at the endless college festivals. I say we're R&R, I encourage the crowd to give my beautiful partner another round of applause—she gets a few whistles from college guys but the same smattering of claps—very hard to do a good job of it with a beer in hand—I direct them to our merch table—no one cares—and by the time we unstrap, we've lost the attention of the few actual audience members we had.

All but one, I notice. There's a striking red-head, sitting cross-legged on top of a very nice merch van selling the headliner's t-shirts. Also brewery t-shirts, because the headliner has branched into the beer business.

The redhead appears to be wearing some of the headliner's merch. A black t-shirt that says, Son of a Witch. I'm familiar with the album. It's fantastic. I would be looking forward to hearing him perform it later tonight, but now that Row and I have finished performing, I know the creep of anxiety and dread, not to mention the pain in back, will overtake me as soon as the high wears off. I'm finding it hard to enjoy much except our performances. It's been a particularly tough week.

The redhead puts her fingers in her mouth and whistles. It's shockingly loud. It catches Row's attention, and the woman claps over her head and gives Row two thumbs up. Row smiles at her and waves, but then the woman's eyes slide to me and she winks and crooks her finger.

It takes everything I have not to groan. It's very likely my woman is about to go all jealous shedevil. I only have eyes for Row, but it's impossible not to see that this woman flirting with me is beyond beautiful. Every thing about her is perfect.

She's like a goddess. And now she's sliding off the van and slinking toward us like a feline predator. She makes Leed and Mac look like kittens.

"Goddamn," Row says with a breath of amazement. I look at her quickly, surprised to hear admiration instead of jealousy in her tone. "She's fucking hot."

Well, that's unexpected.

"I wasn't under the impression women stirred you like that," I say dryly.

"Me either," she said with real surprise. Then she blinks and looks at me. "But I love you, and I won't even make a joke about a threesome."

"I think you just did," I say dryly.

Row gives me her real smile. "But I didn't mean it. It's just you and me, Ems. Against the world. You know that."

"Yeah," I say, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

Row and I against the world has been the theme of late. What little buzz our album made in Nashville faded within weeks. The gig that Adam wrangled us at the famous Bluebird Cafe received critical acclaim, but then a thousand more blogs were published about other music industry up and comers over the next weeks, and our reviews faded away in the torrent of information being fed to the world. Adam helped us get a few more notable gigs, with the same result. Then we settled down to the harsh reality of doing this the hard way. The way nearly everyone does it.

From the bottom to the top.

The problem is...lately we're scraping the bottom of every barrel. My pain tolerance barrel. Row's inspiration barrel. The financial barrel. The faith barrel. They are all nearly empty.

The redhead has reached us.

"Hi," she says. She focuses equally between us, her strange green and brown eyes glinting like amber in the sun. "I have to tell you something. You two? You have a real...spark. It's very rare. Don't give up."

She's not smiling. Her expression is too intense for that, and I have the feeling she's looking into me. She reaches out, runs a finger down my forearm. She shocks me. Like actually and figuratively. Both the sensation of her touch, and the fact that she licks her finger, wet with my sweat. I grimace, but she nods, as if in some kind of confirmation.

I'm too flummoxed to react in any way, but amazingly, Row laughs. "Damn, you're bold. Back up, okay? He's my lover, not just my singing partner."

"Of course he is." Red says brightly. "But he's much more than that. He's just a teeny tiny bit Tuatha de dannan."

"What?" I ask.

"Nevermind," she waves a hand in front of us like a Jedi and suddenly the word she just said...I couldn't repeat it if I tried. "Tell me...Riley, is it? Do strange things happen to you? Any...powers or unusual perceptions?"

The image of Priscilla's ghost pops in my mind, but I immediately push it away. "I don't quite know what you mean."

Red smiles at me in the most beguiling way.

Yes, you do.

I blink. The words formed in my head, in this woman's voice. Just the way Priscilla's once did.

No. I think firmly. Just...bloody fucking no.

Red smiles. Are you sure you want to do things the hard way? I could teach you how to be a bit more like your cousin Sean. His gifts helped him a lot, on the stage.

I'm  on the brink of opening my mouth and telling her that I don't have a cousin Sean, but then I remember she didn't really say anything.

Please. Get out of my head, I plead. Her every word recalls me to Priscilla's voice in my head, and I promised Row she was gone. I don't know what the bloody hell this is, but I want none of it. I just want Row. To make music with her. To make a living at it. And maybe, god willing, to make babies with her, one day.

Everything I just now thought reflects in this...witch's amber eyes. Her eyes travel up and down me, and it feels as though her gaze is penetrating my body, the blockage in my spine, and lower to my... my...

Her eyes flick to mine. The mischief is gone. Now they are filled with empathy and kindness. God willing? I'm sure he will be. Then her eyes move over Row. She on the other hand...has a hurt that can't be healed so easily. She lost a child. Yours?

This woman has managed to put me on my knees in less than two minutes. First Priscilla, now the baby. It's like she's turning me inside out, exposing wounds healed over.

Please... I don't want...this, I beg again.

She nods, a gravity in the gesture that makes her seem much older than her appearance. Of course. There are many like you...gifts so diluted that you have never noticed them. The threads of what remains of Us in you are... very fragile. You are wise not to weave with them, they might not hold your weight. Be at peace. A human life with Greenspark love is the most precious blessing He and I could have ever given you.

And then, something happens. Or unhappens, I guess. The...track she's using in my mind shuts off. Not only that...it rewinds, erases. It's like a cassette tape being recorded over. I know she said some things, but she rewound them, and taped over them with white noise.

Row is completely unaware of what just happened in my head. She's oddly attracted to this woman, and has lost her rockstar cool entirely, oversharing. "Oh my god, yes. I tell Riley all the time I think he's psychic or something. He's creepy as fuck sometimes." Row reaches out to the woman, putting a light hand on her forearm. Row draws back immediately, as if she's been shocked, too.

I grab for her hand at once, not wanting her to touch this... powerful creature again.

Row blinks, shakes her head and babbles on, as if she can't help herself. "He has like, crazy intuition. He always knows everything that's happening, almost before it happens. He has the knack for showing up at just the right time for...practically everything. And he somehow always discovers everyone's secrets, everything they are trying to hide. Except, ironically, mine." Row winks at me.

It's true. I've learned Row well because she lets me into her heart, mind and body, but I can never read her as easily as other people. To me, it seems like most people show what they are thinking on their face. Not Row. She's has this...mysterious aura about her. It's probably why she enthralls me so. Even after all this time.

Red nods as if this is the most normal conversation, instead of the most bizarre. She's looking at Row. Or rather, all around Row. "Calleach, but no, not exactly. Not of my line, or even my clan. Hmmm...del Marco. That's Italian, right?"

"Yes," Row answers, ignoring Red's weird words and latching onto the mundane observation. "Both my grandparents. My grandmother is straight up old world. Always cooking something amazing, always burning incense, lighting candles, singing old Latin songs she learned from her great-grandmother, like a good Catholic."

"Ah. Not quite Catholic, I think," Red giggles mischievously. "Stregherian. No offense, but I absolutely despised your great great great grandmother. Five hundred times removed, I mean. Don't worry. Not all Trivia's children were as rotten as her. I'm sure your grandmother hails from a long line of very lovely witches. And that father of yours? He's a sexwitch if I've ever seen one."

"What?" Row says.

Red purses her lips in a dismissive way, waves her hand again, and for the life of me, I can't recall the last things she said. I look at Row. Her eyebrows are knitted in confusion.

Red leans forward, touching me. This woman has got some serious static charge. "Your fates are entwined, but sometimes snarled. It is very difficult to be of...different clans. Sometimes it will seem as if the...elements themselves...work against you. But you have the spark. You can overcome it. Don't give up."

To my utter shock, she rises up on her tip-toes and kisses me on the mouth. "Blessed be, blood of my blood."

She walks away. She doesn't look back, but she crosses paths with a tall black man with long, tiny braids held back in a ponytail. She trails her fingers across his arm, and he looks  sharply at me and barrels my way.

"Oh shit, Riley," Row murmurs. "Jealous husband two o'clock..."

She jumps in front of me, holding out her hands to this massive, beastly dude making a beeline for me. "He can't help it. It's the accent. Women lose their minds for it."

This beast stares down at Row, like he didn't notice her before. He sniffs her, makes a face like he's smelling something foul, and barks out a laugh. "It's not the accent, little Italian enchantress. It's the timbre of his voice." He looks me up and down. "You have the look of your cousin Sean."

"I don't have a cousin Sean," I say emphatically.

For a second the man looks confused and...affronted. He turns around, looking for the redhead, I think, but she's disappeared into the crowd. Still, he stares after her and shouts "Carrie! What in stag have you put me in the middle of?"

He continues to stare a long moment.

When he turns back to me, the ruffled feelings appear to have faded.

"Ah. My wife is not the best communicator when she's drunk," he says mildly. "It seems I only got the vaguest shape of your conversation with her. I confused her... thoughts with your... petition."

"Petition?" Row and I say together.

"Aye," the man nods firmly. He looks us both over again. "She's right, there's only the one of you that we can do anything about. If your enchantress were of our spiritual persuasion, perhaps we could help her too, but whether she knows it or not, she plays for the other team, and there is the treaty to think of. Unless of course, you would like to defect and dedicate yourself formally?" He looks at Row again. "With a blood ritual? You're a very lovely witch. I would welcome your worship."

He smiles at Row, all charm.

Now I'm putting Row behind my back, and while I do it, I press firmly on the underside of her panic bracelet.

"Uhm, we'd rather not...spill any blood here today, mate," I say as mildly possible.

He shrugs. "Sure. No pressure." To my surprise, this man reaches around my neck, grips it, and says a few words in a language I know has to be Gaelic, of either the Scottish or Irish variety. I feel a shiver down my spine. This time, it doesn't stop at the dead place, like it normally does. It keeps goings. All the way to...

"Jesus Christ," I grit, barely managing not to shake from the spine like a dog. Or cup my balls. Or...have a spontaneous emission.

"Every single time I heal a man he gets the credit," the man says gruffly. He turns to Row. "I ask you, do I look like Christ? No, I do not." He points to himself, in much the same way Leed often does. "The name is Cernunnos."

Then he claps me on the back, and says, "I'm sorry I couldn't do more for your feet. Those metal plates in your spine make it difficult. I'm afraid if I gave you a bigger jolt, it would ricochet between them like a pinball and do much more harm than good. Still, I think you'll find you can move about without pain. And of course, I did answer your prayers."

"I didn't...I..."

"Yes, you did. Carrie read your desires perfectly. It's all taken care of. When the time comes," he casts a look at Row, "When she's...healed... I assure you, you'll sire."

"Hearne!" a sharp feminine voice wafts above the crowd noise. "TMI! I told you. They're just passing through!"

"Shit, I forgot already." he calls back.

"I'm not the only one that's drunk!" She yells back.

Then he gives us one of those dismissive waves like his wife did, and I can't clearly remember for the life of me all the things he said, thought the sensation that ripped down my spine is chillingly sharp in my memory.

He reaches out and grasps my forearm. "Blessed Be. Your children may be more concentrated than either of you. Send them to us, if they get into too much trouble out there in the secular world."

He, too, walks away without looking back.

The crowd doesn't seem as impressed with him as they should be, but suddenly there's a wave of excitement crowning as someone else passes by. I recognize the man that walks past. He's Sean Faraday, an indie artist so talented he practically became mainstream. He was once as big as Mumford or Avett. He didn't need sons or brothers. He did it all himself. A couple years ago, he got married, had a kid, took a big step back from touring and built a local brewery, which is where he mostly plays impromptu shows now. He's still makes new music and is still huge around these parts, however. Hometown boy made good.

The crowd is mobbing him, but he's somehow untouched by them all. Then he stops, and looks straight at me. The crowd falls back slightly, like he willed it. He smiles at me and his eyes darken in his face. What I see there is impossible. The limitless night sky. Inky blue heavens with pinpricks of light. Then he blinks, and they are normal eyes again. A shade not unlike mine.

"Saw your set, Cuz," he says to me. His eyes light curiously on Row. "Damn, fate gave you a handful, huh? Not much honeymeade in your veins, is there, girl? More like bold, rich wine." He chuckles, shakes his head. "Gotta tell you guys, your music is magic, but you two are star-crossed. Big time. You've had some tough times, and they aren't over yet. My brother-in-law would counsel that all victories require sacrifice. But I'm more of a lover than a fighter, so I'll see what I can do to help out. Gotta play my set now. Keep the faith, Riley. It's always darkest before the dawn, but love will always lighten your sky. Eventually."

He continues on the through the crowd, and mounts the stage. For him, the crowd comes alive with a thunderous roar that hardly lets up as he yells, "Hello Sabit, it's good to be back home where I belong!"

AJ staggers towards us. "Whas the prob..." he hiccups, "the problem?" He sways as he scans the people nearby us.

For the first time in a very long time, I feel my blood lit hot with anger. I can smell alcohol wafting off him in waves. "Are you drunk?"

"No," he says, looking confused. "No, I...I swear. I was talking to this crazy guy who told me the craziest bullshit. He said he was the Celtic God of Spirits. I...I maybe mocked him a little bit, and he got belligerent and he punched me. I swear, his fist came out of nowhere, and ever since then, I don't know, man. My head is fucked up."

He's clearly drunk, yet AJ is a good man, and he's never fallen down on the job. I nearly believe him. Row turns to me, not a little fear in her eyes.

"Riley, what is this place?"

"I don't know, darlin'," I say, pulling her close to me, feeling like this mountain town is an unfamiliar world. "I've got to start vetting these gigs better."

"Let's get out of here," she says. It's not like my beautiful heathen to abandon a festival without a buzz and romp through the grounds, but I'm grateful that she's not interested melting into the crowd tonight.

Grateful that is, until we get to the hotel, and our card is declined even as a confirmation to check in. For the third time this month. Row wordlessly puts her Black Amex on the counter in front of the clerk, and AJ pretends not to notice.

We ride the elevator silently. In the room as she strips to her underwear, preparing for a shower, I kiss the back of her neck so she doesn't see the shame in my eyes. "I'm sorry, Rowan. The money's my job. I shouldn't have let the situation get so thin. I'll figure something out."

"Don't be sorry, Riley. We're not desperate, we're just momentarily cash-strapped," she murmurs. She pulls off her underwear and steps into the shower. "Coming?" she asks.

"I have to make a call," I tell her.

There's no call to make. I've already made all the calls, called in all the favors, hustled all the risky deals I can. The album cost three times as much as I anticipated to produce, we're in the red on this tour, and I'm robbing Peter and Paul to pay for our travel expenses and Row's security and the mortgage back home and still not keeping the credit bill below the spending limit because these gigs aren't covering our expenses. We're flat broke and everyone that knows me knows it. Marley and I are arguing about the lines of credit  I've run up that are technically owed by Emsworth Agency, because she knows it won't be long before the books don't balance on the side of good business there, either.

I pour a tumbler full of gin and toss myself into the balcony chair of this budget hotel. I do note that my back doesn't hurt a bit from the reckless motion, but the gin is better comfort than that realization.

Keep the faith, was what Sean Faraday told me. Easy for him to say. He's a Folk God, and everything he's ever touched, from his guitar to his brewery, has been pure gold. Perhaps he's right. No matter how much Row and I love each other, no matter how much happiness and comfort we take in one another, beyond the bubble we've built for ourselves, nothing ever seems to roll our way.

"Do my back?" Row says lightly. She's standing in the patio door, clad only in a towel.

I am in sore need of her comfort. Lost in our music and in her body are the only places I'm not wracked with guilt and worry lately. I rise too quickly, considering my back is pain free, and I'm required to catch myself on the wall. I cover by pulling her roughly toward me.

"I'll do more than your back," I tell her through gritted teeth. I take her by the hand, pull her back to the bathroom. She watches me with unsure eyes as I hastily strip by clothes off in frustration, but she lets me walk her back into cheap small shower. In such a confined space, I don't have to worry about my balance, and I grab her thighs and roughly pull her off her feet, pressing her back to the shower wall and wrapping her legs around me.

"Riley, your back!" she cries, alarmed at my movements, perhaps maybe even a little wary of my intense mood.

"My back is not what I'm feeling right now," I hiss in her ear as I nip her neck.

"Are you sure...you aren't hurting?" she tries again, with words more gentle, gasping as I push into her.

I'm hurting. My pride. My wallet. Our rapidly disappearing dreams. They all hurt. But miraculously, my back does not. "I need you, Row. I need this. Don't make me feel like...like..."

Less than a man. Less than that big dark beast that exuded virility, or less than Sean Faraday, with his detached, effortless success.

I don't finish the statement. Row takes the necessity from me by kissing me hard. Then I fuck her like I haven't in...in well, ever. She comes quick and hard and I follow right behind, surprised at the intensity of feeling. I'd forgotten the glory of intense, urgent release.

I let her down gently, and she's soft compliance in my arms. Her head on my shoulder, her back in the warm spray. "That was different."

"All right, darling?" I have the sudden thought that perhaps it wasn't good for her. Maybe it reminded her of the aggressive sex after...before...in the bad times.

"Wonderful," she says. "Just worried about your back, is all."

"It feels fine," I assure her. I don't know what that...man did to me, but it was no trick. It was real. My back, the sex...it's like I was never hurt. Everything back like before, but the feeling in my feet.

She falls asleep at once. In the dark, I lay awash in anxiety, wondering where I'm going to come up with the cold hard cash tomorrow to pay down our credit so I don't have to see that look on Rowan's face as she silently slides her Black Amex to me.

I scheme for hours, trying to think of any possibility other than embezzling from my agency's clients or  selling the house that she wants so badly to keep. Anxiety makes my skin crawl, and makes laying still beside Row a torture.

It occurs to me that I didn't take my regular dose of pain medication because I didn't need it. But I'm accustomed to it now. Not abusing, but dependent. And though my back feels perfectly normal, the rest of me, without it's small dose of neurochemical relief, is agitated.

I rise, again without pain, and pad to the bathroom. I pull out the pain pills I don't need. I'm so far past the regularly scheduled dose, and it's been both a completely bizarre day and shit evening, worried about our finances. I'm on overdrive, body and brain amped beyond all possibility of sleep.

I look at myself in the mirror. "Just two, mate. Just for sleep. Never more. You'll figure something out. You'll get through this tight spot and you'll won't need them for pain, or sleep, or calm or anything," I tell myself.

Then I hastily slap two pills in my mouth, and gulp water from the faucet.

Sometimes later, I finally feel the old familiar drowse, the release of all worries, tensions, shames, as I fall into a dreamless sleep.