The Everborn - Nicholas Grabowsky [158]
Andrew crept closer a pace or two, in silent disbelief of the sight displayed before him. He had an idea what to expect as the reality dawned on him, but then again he hadn’t a clue it would be like this.
Ralston had removed all furniture from the room and covered the section of carpet in the far corner with bed sheets, a section squared off in a corral of perhaps every damn pillow in the house. A sea shell statuette table lamp sat table-less upon a blanket in the corner, its light a ricocheted image off the room’s low-set windows, shades pulled up revealing Brea’s vast starry nighttime. Flickering globules of fire swelled from several candles dispersed on teacup saucers on the outskirts of the lamp, like a shrine.
Ralston was nestled facing the window, lounging propped against the pillowed border, legs crossed and a six-string in his lap.
It was apparent by his appearance that he was well on his way into that Ol’ Time Regression each Everborn’s life was supposed to amount to. His stature was stunted like one of the undead Jawa creatures out of the film Phantasm, and the London Fog black trenchcoat he wore was so disproportioned and oversized that it added to the effect of this not being Ralston at all, but a hairless and alien facsimile of Ralston. Andrew perceived that the start of Ralston’s regression may have preceded his own.
But how could that be?
“Ralston, have you gone mad?” Andrew took an assertive march toward the window and yanked the dangling string that released a succession of vinyl blinds downwards, ensuring their privacy.
“Hey, my view!”
“People might see us,” Andrew rebuked him.
“Indeed, if people were twice as tall and dwelt in exaggerated houses to accommodate their height,” Ralston replied. “Chill out and pull up a pillow. We’re safe here and there’s much to discuss.”
Andrew stood where he was. Ralston’s facial features were not unlike Andrew’s, exhibiting the same broadening of bone and structure and elasticity of skin, of eyes a cavernous black and teardrop-shaped, lips and nose tightened, plain, as if retreating into his face. His countenance echoed a greater percentage of all the attributes uniquely Ralston, relieved of most of the intolerable qualities such as the cockiness which always made him a bastard. Granted, a subtle sarcastic quality revealed he was still a know-it-all, but Andrew suspected that maybe this time Ralston practically did.
“We don’t have time to pull up pillows,” Andrew said, hurried and anxious. Then, “What happened to Jessica?”
“She took a hike before I could persuade her otherwise, I suppose.”
“She left you?”
Ralston set his guitar to one side and resorted to clasping his hands and lazily twiddling his thumbs. He wore black Levi’s, legs rolled back high enough to oblige his shrunken stature, a droopy grey sweatshirt beneath the coat.
He sighed. “Jessica’s pregnant, but then we both know that. I gotta tell you, I nearly pissed my pants at your old pad when Bari came to your rescue. At the time, I felt I had every right to kick your ass. I thought you were selling me out. William Behn had me convinced and paranoid and I went off on a mission not entirely aware of the facts.”
“I understand that,” Andrew replied,
Ralston released his clasped hands and tapped a single finger to his cranium. “Now I’m aware of the facts. Hear me out. The Watchers have been...well, watching my agent for a long time. They knew he would be one of the recipients of a typewritten message from the future. They knew about the book, Andrew. This particular group of Watchers knew about the book because they’re from the future