To get rid of his pulsing anxiety, Julian drove to Freddie Roach’s and pounded the speed bag until it was a blur, until he could barely lift his hands. He pummeled the heavy bag, turning into it with his whole body over and over until he thrashed every fucking Big Ben thought from his mind. He took a Comedy Central meeting with Ashton, for which he was physically present but mentally a million miles away and spent the rest of the day at the Treasure Box, finally driving to pick up Mirabelle at seven.
She was in one piece, but quiet as a struck bird. She said everything was fine, she was just tired. She wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t thirsty. She didn’t want to go for a drink, she didn’t even want dinner. She just wanted to go home. He asked if she wanted to go look at some furniture. A month ago, after they had climbed down from their Elysian outpost at the Marmont and returned to the world, Mia requested new sheets before she would stay at his place. She said she didn’t want to sleep on sheets, even laundered ones, on which a parade of other women had been entertained. Julian did one better. He took her to Cantoni on La Brea and they picked out a whole new bed, a leather pampas king-sized beauty with an adjustable base and a plush headboard you could sit up against when necessary and grab on to when necessary.
But now a full spousal remodeling was in order. They were planning to repaint the house, redo the floors, get new kitchen cabinets, and a wine fridge. She wanted to get a 75-inch flatscreen TV. He offered to take her shopping for it.
She said no. “Maybe tomorrow, my love,” she said, taking his hand as they drove. “I don’t feel up to it today, even though it’s my lucky day and everything, I’m sorry.” She tried to smile.
At home Zakiyyah had made buttermilk chicken and a summer salad, but Mia had no appetite. Ashton invited them to go swimming. Mia didn’t want to. Zakiyyah wanted to go dancing; not Mia. They brought out Taboo, Mia’s favorite game, and she didn’t want to play. She asked for a cup of tea, but when Julian brought it to her, she had fallen asleep on top of their bed. He couldn’t watch TV or work on his website.
Mirabelle slept, and Julian sat in the chair by the open French doors and listened for any change to her breathing, and to the laughter and guitar-playing and arguing and singing coming from Ashton’s house.
Eventually the joy died down, and Julian lay down by Mirabelle’s side. Rhythmically, deeply, completely asleep, she continued to breathe and live.
He fought his own sleep all night, searching her body for signs of destruction. How could he defend her from threats both mystical and mundane when he didn’t know what his dreams meant? Were they what had been, or what was yet to be? Were they memories or premonitions? Were they nothing but irrational fears? Though that was a fuckload of some pretty specific fears. He’d never been on a ship, or in a fire, had never seen bombs fall, or watched anyone stoned or choked to death. He had never killed a man. Had never been to London, yet London was so clear in his dreams like his mind’s eye had drawn a map of the city, with every well-defined street etched in bold.
Why London?
And why Big Ben?
What did 49 mean?
Nothing made sense, nothing.
Julian stayed awake, afraid of things he couldn’t express. He covered Mirabelle with the black cashmere throw from the Marmont and left his hand on her until dawn. His eventual sleep was brief but not dreamless. He saw Mirabelle as when he first met her. But it wasn’t at Coffee Plus Food. He saw her bathed in red lights, in a garden, naked in a house, in a crowded square, next to a field gun in a room with no ceiling, in a tavern, and on top of the horizontal door. Different stage, different life, but it was always Mia’s face and Mia’s eyes and Mia’s shining smile.
50
The Dungeon of the Haunted Warlord
THE NEXT MORNING SHE WOKE UP EARLY, SPENT A LONG TIME in the bathroom, and informed him she wouldn’t be needing a ride to work because she was running off for a quick appointment with Zakiyyah who would drop her off at Warner’s afterward. “But you better show