We’ve signed your mother to a contract. She’s with me, Clay Harper. Suffering hoooorrribly.
It took longer than he thought, but Clay finally arrived at a bend in the trail overlooking the crescent valley and the dense clutch of trees and rooftops that was his neighborhood. A moment later, he located the bluff that Savy had told him about and picked his way down to the edge. Tiny rocks raced over the sheer drop—and Clay understood that the slightest miscalculation of balance would send him tumbling after them. Savy hadn’t been the only Throne diehard to brave this vantage. Several devotees had chanced death to leave vinyl albums and framed pictures of Boyle, and maybe to catch a glimpse of the Generator among the trees.
Except there was no Generator anymore, just an empty gap where the slanted roof had once been, the trees around it bare and black. Silence seemed to hang over the whole city. When Clay broke it, his voice sounded strained. “Rocco? If you’re still around… I could really use an assist right now.”
The crows down in the canyon replied.
Could a ghost exist if its anchor had been destroyed? Would it lose its access to the mortal world or could it be set free to wander in it? And if Boyle could wander, how far could he go?
“Roc, please, man.”
Crows and more crows. The sun was behind the Santa Monicas now. The golden hue of the rocks was losing its luster around him. Clay closed his eyes and slid a little further down the slope, dangling his legs over the drop. His body was cocked backward, assuring his balance, but if he shifted his weight ever so slightly over his hips….
Why was he up here? Clay hadn’t thought it through. The idea of Boyle hearing him and rushing to his aid like the Fairy Rock-Mother was a farce. A sad shot in the dark. But he hadn’t really expected it to happen, had he? So then—why had he come?
It’s a long way to find piece of mind, his mind told him.
He sighed, exhaling until his lungs ached.
Find me at the precipice, his mind told him.
Clay opened his eyes and saw the bottom of the cliff staring back at him. More Boyle memorabilia blown over the edge, smashed on the rocks below.
A strangled sound escaped him. He could see it—his body lying broken and anonymous across those rocks.
“This is how. I. Emp-tee pain…” he sang.
That is just. What. The-prick wants, Boyle sang back.
The reply made Clay flinch, and for a moment, one ass cheek left the rocky outcropping—before he scrambled madly, pulling his weight back.
Young tortured singer takes a header and the rest of his band soldiers on to fame.
The voice was coming from the open space beneath him, drawing closer. If Savy had been here, Clay imagined her witnessing Boyle floating over the trees, rising to a height roughly parallel to the bluff, hovering there.
“I wasn’t going to,” Clay told him.
Of course not.
“I thought maybe you were gone for good.”
The Hailmaker’s goons did their best. None of them are very smart though. Beside Clay, rocks shuffled as Boyle lowered himself. They were like two iron workers, having lunch on a high-rise beam.
“Let me guess, Karney set fire to the Generator?”
Pyro fuck. First he breaks into my house and helps kill me and the woman I love. Then he tries to live my life. And when that doesn’t work, he lights his own house on fire and tries to kill my protégé. And when that doesn’t work, the son of a bitch comes back and lights up my sanctuary. Rooster. Fucking Rooster. I have a Monte Cristo-size score to settle with Rooster.
Clay spent a minute giving Boyle a condensed version of the horror and heartbreak of the last twelve hours. To which Boyle replied, after some rumination, You survived.
“But to what end? My band is gone. Everyone’s looking for me.”
That’s true, unfortunately. I’ve spent the day dodgin’ Essie. She’s got these little boxes and hypnotic talismans. Says she can do Farewell Ghost and she’s gonna throw me in the ocean. Boyle paused. That’s only the start of what she wants to do to you.
“Are you laughing?” Clay shook his head. “I thought you said if I resisted The Man, he wouldn’t come after me?”
The Man isn’t comin’ after you. But these soulless creatures—in their minds we were the ones who got them killed. I guess they’re lookin’ to settle their own scores.
“Is there anything you can do? Poltergeist their asses? Like Deidre did to me?”
What little power I have is diminished without the Generator, Boyle admitted. It’s only because our connection is so developed that you can hear me at all.
Clay folded his arms against the chill descending on him.
Gimme time to figure out how to evict them. Then: It may not seem like it, man, but you’ve already beaten him.
“No, call me crazy, it doesn’t feel like he’s been beaten at all. He’s not sitting up on the edge of a cliff. Forgive me if I don’t send him a Hallmark card.”
You didn’t sign the Hailmaker’s contract. You didn’t give in. Your fate is your own—that’s all that matters now.
“Meanwhile, the rest of my band is playing the Palladium tonight. With the songs you and I wrote. And what am I left with? A ghost friend and a low-end acoustic guitar.”
Now Boyle’s laughter barked out over the rocks. Below, the crows broke from the treetops, having had enough. You know, sometimes a little ego does wonders, Clay. It’s certainly a closer relative to confidence than this woe-is-me funk you’re in. Think about it: The Hailmaker confronted you. Not Savy or Spider or that dickface Joe. You’re the talent behind Ghost. Without you, they’ll be a one-album wonder—at the
