Free Black Wings: New Tales of Lovecraftian Horror by S.T. Joshi

trunk. Doesn't remember his instructions. Was there a script that disappeared? He'd like to turn back. But he doesn't know the way.
      The flash of a match, a scar burning this cell of night. Mr. Phoenix without his dark-brimmed hat, face under it, glowing black edge to black edge. Mr. Phoenix carved out of sharp moonlight. Smiling. Smiling that blasted, open-faced, silent smile that soured his stomach, that could hit you like a shot to the ribs. Mr. Phoenix seated at a table under a canvas pavilion. Saxophones—a pair?—coming from a tape recorder by his feet, playing blind, surging, interstellar meditations, the lost music of some vertical invader awakened from slumber, hungry, hunting. Saxophones screeching and yeowlin' like those fuckin' blacksouled cats had their tails on fire. And his cats, pushing each other aside to lick his hands. Mr. Phoenix singing, "In the Outer Nothingness, Heavenly Things dancing in the sun . . . They Dwell on Other Planes." Empty well-deep voice—thin, stone lips hardly moving—reflecting yesterdays gone with the wind.
       Not a drug deal. Not a delivery of some hijacked old shit. Devil worship? He turns his head and looks back at the Pontiac. At the trunk. The trunk he'd never looked in.
      "Hello, Johnny."
      "Sorry I'm late, but the rain—"
      "Rain?"
      "It stopped just over there. Freaky. Like there was a barrier it couldn't pass through."
      "Rarely does the rain hunt in the Halls of Fire." With a hand, thin wisps of curling smoke rising off it, he removed his sunglasses.
      Red eyes leveled at him. Unblinking. Stabbing red eyes, bare of all except contempt.
       Fuck, that's . . . unholy! His mouth open—language flattened out with a bang, the burning air rushing into it.
      The dark man has not moved. As cursed shadows tethered to forgotten riddles his cats sit at the edges of the table.
      "Heavenly things dancing in the sun . . . They Dwell on Other Planes." Empty well-deep voice. Thin, stone lips hardly moving.
       How does he do that? His hand moves to his left for comfort— no gun. He has a gun, but it's on the seat of the car. Forgotten in haste; to get this over and get out of here, to get his money.
      The moon falls between cracks in the clouds. The air smells of light-devouring blackness. And the black man has not moved. And the scarring pattern of the swelling music boils on.
      All he can do—simple and terrified—is stare. At the loud red eyes. He wants The End. Wants the money—his money. Wants to leave, to be on his way to Mexico. Wants Now to be over. But all he can do is stare.
      The song the black man sings ends. The red eyes grow cold, the smile widens. "So we have arrived. Dark and light in shadows on this hill. Dark and light, one to take and one to give."
       Shit, the package. It's still in the trunk. "Right. Sorry. I'll get the package."
      Low laughter dancing. "I've no need for it. I know the way."
      "But I have it. It's in the trunk. Right where your man said it was. I've never touched it. Never even looked at it . . . Could I get my money? And go?"
      "Money? Oh, yes, that. Calm yourself, my boy, you'll have no need for money—not that there ever was any. Not where you are going."
      The stone smile.
      Bait. Tricked.
       Going? I'm going to get my fuckin' gun. He'll give me my money, then . . . and I'll put two in his head for fuckin' with me. Shoot his fuckin' cats too.
      "Johnny, I can see by your face you think to do me violence and leave. That will not happen. I control the opening of every door. I've a few moments to fill, so allow me to amuse you with a detail or two about you and the road traveled.
      "Your dear mother was a drunkard and a whore, not that she took money for her wanton rutting, mind you, but for a few cheap drinks she would spread her legs wide. And I had a need, a need that required a vessel to carry a drop of my essence. A need for an act to occur under a star engraved in