The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [61]
Like his skin, his new eyes were highly reactive; bright light hurt them, although he found he could see shockingly well at night. He had bought a pair of wraparound sunglasses for three bucks from a street vendor and never took them off from dawn to dusk, and sometimes not even then.
As for his bald head—that had been his own choice. His hair had begun to grow back not long after their return, and over most of his body it had come in as he remembered it, if a bit redder than before. However, the shocking, flame-colored curls that had sprouted on his crown had nothing in common with his old, sandy brown hair.
It was too much for Travis—too strong a reminder of what had happened to him—so he had taken a razor and shaved it off. At least his skull wasn’t a moonscape of ridges and craters; that was one difference between him and Brother Cy.
The goatee had come a few weeks later. He had never worn one before in his life, but something told him he had never worn this body before, so the change seemed appropriate. And as for the silver rings dangling from each of his ears—well, Travis had had a hard time explaining them to Grace when she asked.
In some of the neighborhoods I’ve been searching, people stare if you don’t have a piercing, Grace.
She had accepted his explanation, but he wasn’t certain he had been entirely honest with her. Not that he truly understood the reason he had let the muscular, nose-pierced young man at the tattoo parlor talk him into it.
It doesn’t matter if you want them, man, he had said, running his hands over Travis’s smooth head. You need them.
Maybe the man had been right. The Stone of Fire had destroyed Travis, then had forged him anew. And even though he was still a man—neither god nor monster by choice—he wasn’t sure he was entirely the same man. He still had Travis Wilder’s name. He still had his thoughts, his memories, his fears. And he still had the magical symbol branded deep into the flesh of his right palm. All the same, instinct told Travis that every atom in his body was utterly new. Somehow, looking different made the mystery of that change easier to bear.
Travis had taken his hat off when he sensed the wind coming. Now he pulled it from the pocket of his trench coat—the same pocket he had found it in after buying the coat for four bucks at a thrift store on South Broadway. The hat was black, shapeless, and vaguely beretlike. Grace said it looked like a bad toupee or a dead cat, depending on how she squinted. Travis liked it.
As he settled the hat on his head, he caught a glimpse of mountains behind his image in the window. They hovered in the gap between two buildings like gray ghosts on the horizon. For a moment he wished he could go back there, to the mountains, to Castle City. Wasn’t that where they had always helped him decide what he was supposed to do—Brother Cy, Sister Mirrim, and the dark Child Samanda?
But the strange trio wasn’t there anymore. It had been risky, maybe even stupid, to let anyone know that he was alive and on Earth, but a few nights ago Travis had picked up the phone and dialed information.
What city please? the recorded voice droned.
He had hesitated, then said the words. Castle City.
What listing?
That was harder. He had thought about Jace Windom, but she was a deputy. Wouldn’t she have to report any conversation with Travis to Sheriff Dominguez? After all, twice now he had vanished from the scene of a fire in which others had died.
Davis or Mitchell Burke-Favor, he said before he really thought about it.
One moment please.
Davis and Mitchell had always come to the Mine Shaft Saloon every Friday to dance to the country music on the jukebox. They were close enough friends that they would help him, but not so close they would be compelled to come find him. Besides,