Blood of the Stars Read online

  BLOOD

  OF THE

  STARS

  J.L. MURRAY

  Copyright © 2016 J.L. MURRAY

  All rights reserved.

  Cover by Dean Samed

  http://deansamed.com/

  “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

  ~ Oscar Wilde

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  BLOOD

  OF THE

  STARS

  CHAPTER ONE

  I remember my name.

  The nurse who comes and goes tells me that the year is 1945, and I remember small fragments, scattered shards of memory. Things that don’t make sense. Blood, smoke, the smell of death. The smell of lightning fills my nostrils and I remember pain. I remember the way it feels to fly, I remember a child with worlds in her eyes. I remember impossible things, and I know that I’m broken. But I remember my name.

  Spencer. I say it over and over in my mind. Spencer. This one small piece makes me feel less untethered from the world, as if knowing my name makes me more real. I’m not a ghost, even if I feel like one. I have a name. I don’t know if it’s my first or last name, but it’s something. I am something. I just don’t know what yet.

  Untethered. Just thinking the word makes me anxious. I feel as though it has a deeper meaning, though I can't quite remember it. My mind is shattered glass, cracked, fragile. Broken into tiny pieces that don't make sense.

  “You’re awake,” says a soft voice. A woman’s silhouette fills the doorway and then she steps into the light. She moves her hips as she walks, her red hair slipping over one eye. She laughs and pushes it back carelessly. I can’t remember if I know her, but seeing her makes me feel uneasy, and I clench my fists as she fixes me with her bedroom eyes.

  “Hey, stranger,” she says, and she smiles, her teeth whiter than white. “I was so worried.”

  I watch her without speaking as she sidles up to the bed. She looks older close up. In her late forties, maybe, but it's hard to tell under the makeup caked on her pale skin. When she takes my hand, I want to pull away. Her blue eyes are cold and her smile is too perfect. Her lipstick is deep red, and shines like it’s wet.

  “Do I know you?” I say. The redhead rolls her eyes and laughs again. She sounds forced, fake.

  “Of course, darling,” she drawls. “I’m your loving wife. Now let’s get you out of here, I hate hospitals.”

  “You’re my wife,” I repeat.

  “You really don’t remember?” Her eyes go sad, but not really. There’s a chill that stays.

  “What’s my name?” I say.

  She raises a perfect eyebrow. “Spencer McQuarrie, of course. I am Mrs. McQuarrie.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Rita,” she says, and she looks it. I believe she’s a Rita, but my wife? My stomach feels like a bag full of eels when I look at her.

  “I don’t remember you,” I say.

  “It’ll come back,” she says. “It always does.”

  “This happened before?”

  She nods and her eyes fill with tears.

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  “In the war,” she says. “You saved another man in your platoon when the Germans dropped a bomb. You got all torn up. Shrapnel.”

  “There are no scars,” I say.

  “It was a while ago,” she says, not looking at me. “Spencer, why are you being this way? Don’t you want to come home?”

  “There would be scars,” I say. “Shrapnel leaves a scar.”

  “Are you saying I’m lying?” she says, the tears stopping. “Your own wife is a liar?”

  “I don’t know you,” I say. “Who’s to say you’re not just someone off the street?”

  “How do I know your name, then?”

  “I don't know if it is my name,” I say, but I'm lying. It's my name and I know it. My mind twitches. Names. Have I had more than one? Why would I have more than one name?

  “You selfish bastard,” she says, and her eyes are cold again. She tosses her hair back and narrows her eyes into pretty little daggers looking for a vein. “You're coming home with me whether you like it or not. You’re my husband. You belong with me.”

  “I'm not going anywhere with you,” I say.

  She turns and walks to the door, stopping before she turns the handle, her handbag swinging from her arm.

  “You’re going to regret this, McQuarrie.”

  “I already do.”

  She slams the door and the cheap pictures on the wall shudder. I push the blankets away and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I have to get out of here. A panic rises up from my guts, turning my stomach to acid. This is wrong, all wrong. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be. The thought stops me as I put my bare feet on the cool tile floor.

  I shouldn’t be, I think to myself. And now I know four things: My name is Spencer McQuarrie, I dislike the redhead who claims to be my wife, I have to get out of this hospital, and I shouldn’t be. Be what? Here? A person? Alive? I shake my head. I can’t think straight. I try to remember Rita, how I know she isn't my wife, but all I get is a headache.

  I stand up, head swimming, as if it’s stuffed with cotton. I’m thirsty and spend a good minute slurping from the little sink in the room. Then I open up the wardrobe. There’s a shopping bag stuffed with clothes and I pull them out, piece by piece.

  “Oh, hell,” I say. What used to be a suit is now shredded into strips and small scorched pieces. A blue tie survived, but it’s twisted and stretched and stained with what looks like blood. There’s a thin robe on a hanger and I grab it, put it on, knot the belt.

  Clothes will have to come later. The panic in my chest is forcing me to move, to run, to flee. I poke my head out the door and see two men with badges talking to a nurse down the hall. I go the opposite way and turn the corner, peeking my head around to look back. I see the cops, one broad and fat and the other short and stocky, go into my room. I turn and run, my bare feet whapping against the floor, my robe flying out behind me like a cape. I hear people yelling after me, nurses, doctors, but I keep going.

  It’s hot outside, and so humid the air feels like soup. I look around and recognize some of the buildings, but the panic is still urging me on. I start running and realize that my body seems to know where I’m going, even if my brain doesn't. I trust the feeling and in a few blocks allow myself to stop running and walk. I've cut my foot on something and feel a twinge of pain with every step, a heel-print of red following me. Sweat is pouring off my forehead and soaking my hospital gown and robe. I’m feeling lightheaded and thirsty, but I cut a path through the streets, toward the destination my slow, sodden brain can’t quite remember.

  On the street corner, a black man with a saxophone stops playing and stares at m
e for a second before his face cracks into a wrinkled grin.

  “Damn, you escape from the crazy house?” He doubles over in laughter. Men in suits, their faces a sheen of sweat, pass by us, scowling at me. A white woman gasps audibly and crosses the street. At the nearest bodega, an old man in a short-sleeved shirt comes out and shakes his head at me, muttering in Spanish.

  “Come on now,” says the old man with the sax. “You’re scaring all the white people away.” He nods at the open saxophone case, littered with a few nickels and dimes.

  “Where am I?” I say. I wipe my forehead with my palms and rub them against my robe.

  The old man laughs again and I feel like I should be angry with him, but there’s no malice in his laughter and I find myself wanting to laugh with him. I look down at myself, brown legs sticking out of a thin cotton robe, drenched in sweat.

  “You a mess, kid.”

  “Yeah,” I say, wiping the sweat from my eyes with the back of my hand.

  He pulls a packet out of his shirt pocket and offers me a cigarette. I take one and my hands are shaking. He lights it with a wooden match that he strikes on the brick wall behind him.

  “You been through some shit today, haven’t you?” His eyes are smiling as he lights his own cigarette, the saxophone hanging off his shoulder.

  I nod and inhale the smoke, closing my eyes as the nicotine hits me.

  “Where am I?” I say again, my voice cracking.

  “You in N'awlins, kid. Can't you tell?” He waves his hand around, holding his lit cigarette.

  I look around. It’s all familiar. I know I’ve been here, maybe even lived here. I should be looking for someone, but I just can’t remember.

  “Hey, it’s okay, man,” says the old saxophone player. “Maybe you better get yourself back to the hospital.”

  “I can’t,” I say. “There’s some policemen looking for me.”

  “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” he says, narrowing his eyes. “What you done, then?”

  I shake my head. “I wish to God I could remember.”

  “Well,” he said, drawing on his smoke, “you don’t look like a killer.”

  “I don’t think I am,” I say hopefully and the man laughs again.

  “Yeah, I don’t reckon I can see you killing anybody,” he says.

  “I guess I’ll sound real stupid if I ask what year it is?” I say.

  “Oh, shit, son,” he says, and he doesn’t laugh this time. “It’s 1945. War just ended. You sure you’re okay?”

  “No,” I say. “Thanks for the smoke.” I start to walk away.

  “Where you going?” he says. “You don’t even know where you are and you just going to walk through the streets like that?”

  “I know where I’m going,” I say, waving.

  He laughs. “Okay, kid. You be safe out there.”

  The French Quarter makes itself known before I even get there. There's shouting and singing and music in the streets: all kinds of different people playing, singing, dancing, laughing. Happy. I see a chaotic parade as I approach, but as I limp closer, it's just a long line of happy drunks, bottles sloshing with various colored liquids, eyes red and laughter on their lips. I see two men fighting, a plump but pretty white woman watching them as she smokes a cigarette.

  “What's going on?” I ask her.

  She looks at me, focusing slowly, blowing smoke in my face.

  “War's over,” she slurs. “Or ain't you heard?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. “I did hear that somewhere.”

  Her lips raise up in a smile. “You're a funny one. Want a drink?” She raises a grubby bottle to her own plump lips and drinks, watching me.

  “No thanks,” I say. “There's somewhere I have to be. I think.”

  “Hey,” says one of the men fighting. The other stops grappling with him to look. “That's my girl.”

  “Don't worry,” I say, walking away. “You can keep her.”

  “Put some pants on and you'd be taking me home, green eyes,” the woman calls. “So I can take them off of you.” I hear her explode with laughter as I weave my way through the crowd. It's only late afternoon, but the clubs and the bars are already bursting with people and sounds and smells. Cajun spices fill the air, mingling with sweat and booze and the old urine and garbage that flow from every alley. It's all familiar, but more than that. Through the chaos, all the sounds and smells and laughter give me a sense of calm. This is where I belong.

  A large black woman in a headdress is dancing on top of a pedestal, three men attacking the drums below her. Jazz and blues and big band music are bumping up against one another in a cacophony of sound that is completely perfect.

  I make my way through the revelers as best I can. In a few blocks, the crowds start to thin. I let my feet guide me to a small street, too narrow to hold more than one car. There are no people in sight, no traffic, no parades or revelers or dancers. I can hear the party, but it is distant, as if happening in another world. The buildings are nondescript ugly gray squares: an apartment building, a storage facility, offices. Except for one: a small green shop set into the middle of the block. The front is dominated by a picture window made up of dozens of panes of thick glass filled with bubbles. It has an odd green tint, as though made in another century. The sign, too, looks as if it came from another era. In antique lettering running across the top of the building near the roof, the cracked and peeling letters say: TRAVELER'S CLOCKS.

  I stop, staring at the building. In the alley next to it, I can see a line of tidy garbage cans, clean and shining, as if they've never been used. I cross the street, my feet on fire from the heat radiating from the street. I peer into the little panes of glass, trying to see inside. This is where I need to be. Faces peer at me from the apartments next door, the wrought iron bars on their windows starting to rust. I find a key under the doormat and pick it up.

  With the key halfway in the lock, I feel a hand on my back and turn, but there's no one there. I'm shaking so hard I can barely get my hand on the knob, but manage to open the door and a bell tinkles.

  “Spencer,” a voice says, and I stiffen.

  I turn again and Rita's there, smiling in the sun.

  “Don't be this way, Spencer.” Her voice changes, goes cold. Her lip curls, then she turns her head and smiles as a shining car pulls up the curb. Rita looks back at me and I know she's not my wife. Not my friend.

  “You should have listened,” she says. “My friends aren't so nice as me. I would have taken you away from all this. We could have been happy.”

  The car looks new and expensive and a behemoth of a man steps out of the driver's seat, skin dark against his white suit. He's wearing a matching fedora that's too small for his head. He comes around and opens the rear door and a man steps out, dressed to the nines. He's tall and thin with a dangerous look to his eyes. Lighting on me, he smiles, his teeth long and straight.

  “Well, Mr. McQuarrie,” he says. “As I live and breathe.” There's a Creole lilt to his voice and I can see a thin white scar running across his neck, just above his shirt collar, bright against his copper skin. A third occupant of the car, sitting in the passenger seat, is staring at me with bulging, bloodshot eyes.

  “Do I know you?” I say, holding onto the doorknob for balance. Sweat stings my eyes and my vision keeps swimming with black spots.

  Rita laughs and my stomach turns cold.

  “He's good, isn't he?” she says to the man in the dark suit.

  The man takes a step toward me, shaking a finger. I see the behemoth watching me warily, his hand now moving slowly into his jacket. There are heavy bulges in both of their jackets. Guns.

  “I don't know,” says the man. “Something happened to you, McQuarrie, didn't it? Something that shook you. You look like shit, man. You're a pale reflection of who you used to be.”

  “Did I do something to you?” I look back to the man in the car, still staring at me with mad, bulging eyes. Something about him sends a thrill of panic through me.


  “See,” says the man in the suit, continuing as though I hadn't spoken, “my friend there, he told me everything. All you did. All you saw. At least all that he knew of, which I'm going to bet ain't the whole story.” The smile disappears from his face and his expression is like knives. “I want to know how you did it, McQuarrie. How did you survive?”

  “Something's wrong with my head,” I say. I stagger a little, my hand slipping on the doorknob. “I don't know what's happening. I can't remember. Anything.”

  “It's okay,” he says, his voice low and more deadly. “I'm going to get it out of you. You don't remember me, that's okay. Scarasse. Louis Scarasse. Now we know each other. Let's take a little ride in my car and we'll talk. Now that we're friends.”

  The behemoth was coming toward me, slowly, not in a hurry.

  “Look, I don't know what you want from me,” I say, “but there must be some mistake. I woke up in the hospital. They said I was some kind of veteran.”

  Scarasse laughs. “War hero, eh? There is a war, that's true enough. But I'm the hero here. They're all looking for you, did you know? All your little friends have turned against you. They know you're running around untethered, McQuarrie.”

  That word again.

  “Untethered?”

  “Maybe he really doesn't remember, Louis,” says Rita, looking at me. “Maybe he doesn't know.”

  “Well, we'll get this all figured out, won't we?” He smiles.

  The behemoth is right in front of me now and reaches his hand out, grabs the back of my neck. I see a figure standing right behind him and I go even weaker. A tall man, thin as a skeleton, stands between the behemoth and Scarasse. His eyes bore into me and I can see that they're not just red, but glowing. He's wearing a top hat, with two pointed horns rising up on either side of the brim. He smiles at me. I look at Scarasse, but he doesn't seem to notice. The man in the car starts to scream.

  The behemoth loosens his grip on my neck and I fall on the stoop. The man with the horns isn't staring at me anymore, he's not even next to me. He's sitting in the car. I don't see him move, but he's suddenly in the car. I can't see what he's doing, but I see the man in the passenger seat gyrating and spasming as if having a fit. And then he goes still and I can see that the horned man is holding his coat open. Something is moving there, out of his coat, slithering and shifting, like snakes, but without substance. I blink and the horned man is standing outside the car now, looking at me.