Moonlight & Vines by Charles De Lint Read Free Book Online

It’s the same self-fulfilling prophecy. You don’t trust something to be true, so you push it to the point when it isn’t true.”
    â€œThat’ll never happen,” Geordie says, but I can see it’s something he wants to believe, not something he really believes.
    â€œWe can’t let it happen,” I say. “So that’s why I’m telling you now what Saskia said to me: The only way I’ll leave you, is if you send me away.”
13
    I don’t envy the music others hear anymore; I’m too filled with my own now, the strains that connect me to Saskia and my brother and the other people I love in my life. I’m not saying my world’s suddenly become perfect. I’ve still got my ups and downs. You should see the review that
The Daily Journal
gave my last book—Aaran Block at his vitriolic worst. But whenever things get bad, all I do is slow down. I stop and listen to the music and then I can’t help but appreciate what I do have.
    It’s funny what a difference a positive attitude can have. When you go out of your way to be nice to people, or do something positive for those who can’t always help themselves the way Saskia does with her editorial work on
Street Times
, it comes back to you. I don’t mean you gain something personally. It’s just that the world becomes a little bit of a better place, the music becomes a little more upbeat, and how can you not gain something from that?
    See, when you get down to the basics of it, everything’s just molecules vibrating. Which is what music is, what sound is—vibrations in the air. So we’re all part of that music and the worthier it is, the more voices we can add to it, the better off we all are.
    Sure beats the silence that’s threatening to swallow us otherwise.
14
    â€œTell me a story,” Saskia says that night after Geordie’s gone home.
    I turn my face toward her and she snuggles close so that my mouth is right beside her ear.
    â€œOnce upon a time,” I say, “there was a boy who lost his ability to sing and the only person who could find it for him lived in a forest of words, but he didn’t meet her until he was much, much older . . . .”

In This Soul of a Woman
    If I were a man, I can’t imagine it would have turned out this way. I will say no more except what I have in my mind and that is that you will find the spirit of Caesar in this soul of a woman.
    â€”
from the letters of Artemisia Gentileschi
    (1593–c.1652)
1
    â€œEddie wants to see you.”
    â€œWhat’s he want?” Nita asked. “Another blow job?”
    â€œProbably. I think he’s tired of the new girl.”
    â€œWell, fuck Eddie. And fuck you, too.”
    â€œChrist, Nita. You on the rag or what? I’m just passing along a message.”
    Nita didn’t turn to look at Jennifer. She stared instead at her reflection in the mirror, trying to find even one familiar feature under the makeup. Even her eyes were wrong, surrounded by a thick crust of black eye shadow, the irises hidden behind tinted red contacts. From beyond the dressing room came the thumping bass line of whatever David Lee Roth song Candy used in her act. That meant she had ten minutes before she was up again. Lilith, Mistress of the Night. Black leather and lace over Gothic-pale skin, the only spots of color being the red of her eyes, herlips, and the lining of her cape. Nita’s gaze dropped from her reflection to the nine-foot-long whip that lay coiled like a snake on the table in front of her.
    â€œFuck this,” she said.
    The dressing room smelled of cigarettes and beer and cheap perfume which just about summed up her life. She swept her arm across the top of the table and sent everything flying. Whip and makeup containers. A glass, half full of whiskey. Cigarettes, lighter, and the ashtray with butts spilling out of it. A small bottle filled with uppers. The