Wonderland
Dancing Days

1

In summer, the night air in Texas is heavy. It's palpable, choking off your air supply as you walk the streets in the busy heart of the cities, but far more oppressive in the silence of the suburbia surrounding it. Or in the darkened, stuffy rooms of the house she owned off of Fry Street , not far from the art deco and classical architecture of the university, so unlike the schools back home. The clubs would be worse. Steamy, noisy, sweaty. But at least there was life there, a place to get a cold drink and drown out the old voices.

Denton , Texas had more than its share of ghosts. Most of America was quiet by comparison, particularly here in the southwest. Occasionally, she deigned to believe that their carpe diem, youth culture prevented Americans from developing the necessary angst to hold on after death. Their teenagers were content to haunt while they were young, a last fit of hormone-driven anxiety before moving on to the realities of the larger world. But you could still find ghosts occasionally, guarding old farmsteads or crime scenes, or wandering the suffocating streets. At least in America , death filtered out the ordinary. Only the curiously unique and disturbed hung on long.

Now Denton . There were enough killers here to populate London with ghosts.

Kelly Brooke stopped on the sidewalk to fish a cigarette out of the pack in her pocket. It was by far too warm for the velvet jacket at this time of year, thanks to the humid air pouring out of the Gulf of Mexico , and sweaty goth was not a style that flattered anyone. So it was a tube top and black jeans, the curly mass of her hair wound back into a bulb behind her, and slip-ons. Once she lit up, Kelly paused to check the time on her father's watch, wondering if she wanted to see a band tonight. Japanese Jesus was playing the Roadhouse, building up to the release of their first album, and Tease was working the Official down the street.

"Kelly, you look like a whore," a voice chuckled.

She glanced over her shoulder. The grey, washed-out figure was leaning against the crumbling brick façade of the shopping strip housing the Tomato. He grinned at the smirk his comment earned him and slid his hands into the pockets of his old Levi's. Cocking her head, Kelly walked a ways back toward him, indulging herself with a lazy glance over the body underneath the crisp white tee and blue jeans Hawthorne wore. He was one of the few ghosts in the city who wasn't completely maddened, and who hadn't been warped beyond recognition by the storms in Sheol and the influence of Denton 's demons. Kelly suspected Hawthorne actually came from elsewhere, though he wouldn't say. Something, whether it was the thing in Cement City or just the presence of so many unusual individuals, lured ghosts here, despite the danger of the journey. "Yeah," she observed dryly, taking a drag off her cigarette, "I'd have been burned at the stake back in the Fifties."

"There's still time for that, I bet," Hawthorne suggested, "Can I bum a cigarette, honey?"

Smirking again, Kelly flicked her cigarette at him, watching the trail of sparks as it listlessly sailed through his body and bounced off of the wall behind him. She caught his twitch as he restrained the urge to try and catch it. He knew better than that. "You're dead, Hawthorne ," she reminded him, "Like it's going to do you a lot of good."

"Old habits die hard," he sulked, "You were on this side once; have a heart."

"Don't remind me," Kelly murmured softly.

With a world-weary sigh, Hawthorne glanced at the smoldering butt on the concrete before turning back to her. Her hands were in her back pockets as she slouched, surveying the bored college students looking for thrills across the street with a distracted air. It was a crying shame the way time passed him by on the twilight side. Women today thought nothing of wearing clothes that looked like they were painted on their bodies, baring everything on a street corner. He'd kill to be a lecherous old man sometimes.

"Oi," Kelly muttered, glaring at him, "Stop looking at me like that."

Chuckling, Hawthorne shrugged and looked away. "Shit, throw a dog a bone, why don't you? You on the rag or something? You ain't usually this moody."

"Things aren't turning out quite the way I hoped," the young woman confessed, her voice fuzzy with preoccupation. Kelly's mind drifted for a moment as she followed the college students with her eyes, hearing the muffled echo of their laughter. Her features were drowsy when she returned her attention to him. "Something still feels like it's missing . . . I can feel it more clearly now, but it's still . . . just out of reach."

"Get laid, honey," Hawthorne advised her, "You'll feel better."

Kelly smirked but didn't argue with his assessment of the situation. There were rare occasions when Hawthorne 's simple, rebel-without-a-clue wisdom offered something of value. He seemed to sense this line of thinking, because his expression turned serious, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur. "Hey, you know the way things go on this end. S'why you left in the first place, right? So whatever it is, get over it. At least you ain't dead. And you sure as hell don't want to come back here. Don't worry, be happy, and all that shit."

The woman's dark eyes studied him in silence, gleaming in the electric glow of the streetlight. But Hawthorne saw that his words had the desired effect on her by the subtle emotion that crossed her face. "You going to the clubs?" he inquired, nodding toward the gaggle of students as they trickled away around the block.

"Thinking about it," she agreed.

Hawthorne nodded, flirting with a knowing smile, and ran a hand over his slicked-back hair to smooth it out for what had to be the millionth time in the forty-nine years since he died. "Well, you might want to stick around. I hear there's supposed to be some action later tonight."

Kelly frowned faintly, brushing at a stray curl by her ear. "What kind of action?"

"Beats me," he shrugged, "Mysteries are your department, right?"

Shaking her head, Kelly flashed him a small smile and began walking on toward the just-perceptible bass throb emanating from down the street. From the noise, Tease must have started their set. If she hurried, maybe she could find a table in the back somewhere and enjoy the show without having to deal with the overexcited throng. "We'll see," she called back to him, "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Hawthorne ."

"Yeah, right," he shot back, leering at Kelly as she walked away.

Life was wasted on the living.

2

Tease played a short set that night, racing through a dirge of punk rock that left most of the Official's patrons dazed and rather bemused. They started with a cluster of unknown songs intended for their perpetually postponed breakout album, all the while suffering through crowd demands to play their one single off the radio, the sarcastic "Don Juan". Eventually, of course, the band caved and played the song as an encore. It would probably be the only moment from the show the college kids would later remember, if they even remembered that. From her dingy corner table far in the back of the club, Kelly pitied Jesse Sylva and her friends as they stalked off the stage, sweaty and dejected. Hadn't they realized yet that the long road to stardom was paved with prostitution?

For a long time, Kelly stared listlessly at her drink, occasionally nudging it about in mystical patterns over the formica tabletop. Anyone who looked her way saw only a pretty dark-haired girl at a secluded table, crying softly to herself. The tequila helped numb some of Kelly's frustration, enough to allow her to break down and feel the real loneliness underneath. On nights like these, she used to raid her father's study for Poe, Wells or Lovecraft, expunging her sadness with a bit of a scare. Dad would come upon her, curled up in his leather sofa with The Shape of Things to Come, sound asleep, having exhausted herself with imagination and the excesses of escapism. In later years, Victoria would stroke her hair and whisper bad jokes to her as they lay in bed, mocking their professors and the irksome young men who tried to bed them. And in between there was only the haze of drugs, pointless sex, and Nine Inch Nails blasting away all thought through the headphones of her little Sony walkman.

Prodigy was playing when Kelly looked up, brushing stray curls out of her eyes, and smoked the hundredth cigarette of the day. She watched the young men - the interesting, eerily effeminate ones in their tight jeans and soft clothes, not the thugs with the military hair cuts who should've known better than to visit the Official - and the young women - the interesting, strong ones who dominated the men and women around them with a clever smile, a touch of decadence and a dance to their movements. The urge struck to call Victoria , just to hear her voice and say she was sorry, which was stupid. Kelly had lost her phone number years ago, and it would've changed anyway. Neither of them stayed in one place long enough to track the other down. She could go dancing and meet someone, but her mood wasn't right. Instead, this felt like the perfect night to get blitzed out of her skull. When your world looks rotted and grey every moment of every day, why not?

"Hey," a woman asked over the din, "Can I bum a ciggy?"

Kelly glanced up, wondering if anyone but her bought their own cigarettes. It was Sylva, ragged out and red-eyed, her fingers itching hopefully for a smoke. Her white-streaked hair was slicked back and stiff with sweat, baring her wan features. She'd changed clothes after the set, sliding into a tank top and short skirt, which stuck to her skin in the humid, stifling air of the club. "Yes," Kelly murmured, tapping a cigarette out of her pack to offer the young woman, "You look like you could use one."

"Thanks," Sylva muttered. She lit up from an Official matchbook in her back pocket, and Kelly eyed the brief flame with something like admiration. Sylva shook it out when she finished and dropped the match into the ashtray, leaving a little trail of smoke in its wake. Kelly turned her eyes to Sylva as the other woman took a drag, following the curve of her body underneath the clothing. "You mind if I sit here?" Sylva asked.

Kelly eyed the other woman for a moment. Sylva was at least half the reason people came to see Tease in the first place, slender and sensuous with a growl like a pissed-off lioness. Her normal speaking voice was somewhat finer, a husky murmur colored by smoking and the effort of singing. Kelly did nothing to hide her appreciative examination, which elicited a smirk from the other woman. "Feel free," she offered, sliding over to make room.

"I've seen you at several of our shows," Sylva muttered as she sat down, tapping ashes into the tray, "But you always look fucking miserable. How come?"

"That's just the way I look in general," Kelly smiled faintly, "Don't be insulted."

Sylva shook her head with a grin, running a hand into the oily mess of her hair to smooth it out. "Hardly, girl. I don't get insulted as a general rule, except by assholes who only want to hear the same fucking song over and over again." Her eyes flashed over Kelly as she took a long hit on the cigarette. "I take it you're not into the music, though."

"The music's marvelous," Kelly countered, "I wouldn't come if I didn't like it."

Shrugging, Sylva sank down on the bench, folding her legs against the edge of the table. Her lanky hair swung out on either side of her face, following the well-worn curves and breaks of the style it was used to. In another few seconds, Sylva went through the rest of the cigarette and dashed it out into the tray. "I like your accent," she commented, "You're English?"

"Technically Scottish," Kelly smiled, "But I grew up in Manchester and London ."

Sylva grinned, looking back at Kelly with eyes that were brighter than moments before. When her pensive, tough cookie exterior broke open to reveal the human being inside, Kelly thought she looked quite beautiful, sticky hair and all. "I've been there a couple of times myself. Was a huge Smiths fan in the Eighties. Visited Salford Lad's Club and everything. Must've been something to live there, huh?"

"It's just like any other old burgh," Kelly smiled delicately, keeping her memories of home safely at bay, "Haunted and bloody wet most of the time." She reached for the packet of Morleys on the table to get herself another cigarette, only to find it was empty, and crumpled it into a cardboard and plastic ball with a satisfied grimace. "What about you?"

" Galveston ," Sylva shrugged. The curiosity in her eyes burned down with Kelly's disinterest, but didn't entirely leave her. Restless fingers tapped her lip in thought as she studied her companion, who glanced away into empty space with a pained expression. "Look, I don't mean to intrude or anything, but I saw you crying earlier when I was at the bar . . . "

Kelly turned back to her, wounded. "Yes?"

"Well," Sylva offered, "Are you okay?"

"No," Kelly replied smoothly, polishing off her drink in a single drought. The slow burn of the alcohol on her tongue and down her throat was horrid - but that was part of the point. Intoxication was the goal, not a pleasing taste, and Kelly was intimately familiar with the masochistic delights involved in drinking. Besides, the world was getting hazy by then that to do anything but sink deeper into stupor would be terribly unpleasant. Hangovers could wait for the bright glare of morning. Kelly's eyes were dark and slightly unfocused as she returned Sylva's sympathetic gaze with her own weary one.

"Well, why the fuck not?" Sylva asked.

Kelly blinked in surprise, then laughed. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"Sure," Sylva shrugged, wiggling slightly as she eased lower into the seat, and grinned at the attention this earned her from Kelly. Despite the waiflike miserablism Kelly shared with the other girls - and some of the guys - around them, there was life in her eyes, and more than a little naked desire. The honesty of her feelings was refreshing. The young woman nodded with a small smile, brushing stray curls out of her eyes, and scanned the crowd around them before answering in a dry tone: "I see dead people."

"So do I," Sylva remarked, "They're dancing over there right now. Same fuckers who kept interrupting our songs . . ."

"No, really," Kelly interjected with wide-eyed, half-drunken persistence, gesturing listlessly at room around them for effect, "I see ghosts. And all the time at that. Though, to tell the truth, that's not really why I'm miserable. It's fucking depressing, yes, but it's not why I'm miserable. Not quite."

Lifting an eyebrow, Sylva echoed, "Ghosts?"

"Yes," Kelly nodded, tapping on the table for emphasis.

"Ghosts here?"

"Ghosts everywhere," Kelly countered softly, "And some of them know me. We talk. In fact, I used to be one of them. Sometimes I feel like I still am, you know what I mean? And what's worse is that I don't just see them, I see the world they live in - all fucked up and falling apart from Oblivion or wyrm-taint or whatever you'd like to call it. Not always, but I can make it out if I try, and sometimes when I don't want to, sort of superimposed upon the real world. Now that's something that'll bloody well screw up a little kid's mind . . ."

Sylva pondered on this for a moment, her fingers fidgeting near the ashtray, wanting a another cigarette. Kelly's eyelids grew heavy as she stared at her insistently, flopping back against the cushion of the bench. After a moment of silence, she looked away with a sigh and reached up to let her long, curly brown hair down. A smile flickered across Sylva's lips as she watched the young woman lazily fuss with her hair, draping it across her front like a veil. "What's your name?" Sylva asked gently.

"Kelly."

"Kelly," Sylva smiled, "You're drunk."

Laughing under her breath, Kelly shook her head.

"Do you live around here?" Sylva inquired, clasping her hands behind her head with a small yawn. The music changed again, though she couldn't quite make out what it was. The bass rippled through the two women in staccato bursts, the rest of the song heard subliminally at best. Quixotic, Sylva thought, or one of the other odd trance groups. Probably just the DJ indulging a whim, though the sudden change in tempo confused the gaggle of college kids who'd been thrashing on the dance floor.

"On Fry Street ," Kelly agreed, "A few blocks away."

Sunshine.

Bloody bright sunshine at that. Kelly felt like it was burning away her eyes and melting twin holes into her skull, even when she closed her eyes, but that was just her natural dislike for sunlight combined with a splitting headache. Hangovers were marvelous things. Fortunately, she was used to this - years of experience - and so she crossed her arms over her eyes and tried to remember the events of last night in the cool darkness this brought. Hawthorne and his irritating, cryptic messages. Whatever action he mentioned, she'd missed. Or so she thought, anyway. The sluggish workings of her mind seemed to recall a lone, dark figure at the Official, which she assumed was a ghost, and there being an ambulance outside when she left, but she hadn't stayed around to watch. Instead, she had . . . had . . .

Sylva?

Rolling away from the window, Kelly found Jesse Sylva curled up beside her, her naked body half-covered by the swirled sheets. She was still sleeping, the sound of her breathing sounding loud to Kelly's hypersensitive ears. The woman's shoulder length hair was a messy halo around her head, a splash of color against the plain white of the bed. The room itself was similarly plain but also peaceful, the tasteful, softly feminine furnishings belying the young woman's butch demeanor the night before. Kelly eased into a sitting position, brushing long hair out of her eyes, and took note of the fact of her own nakedness. Her clothes, dark and a little unsavory-looking in the light of day, were a messy pile on the beige carpet beside the bed. According to the simple wall clock, it was after 10am .

Pressing the balls of her hands to her eyes, Kelly took a minute to meditate, focusing her concentration on the ticking of the clock, and cleared her head of all cobwebs. While she couldn't undo the physical effects of the alcohol, she could at least ignore the mental fuzziness that came with it. There had been a dark figure at the club, dressed all in black, with a strange headdress of some kind. Almost like the entire head was wrapped in black bandages. Though strange, he was too solid and real-looking to be a ghost, and he lacked the cold touch of Oblivion she was used to sensing from them. In fact, other than his appearance, nothing seemed extraordinary about him whatsoever.

Peeling back the layers of memory, Kelly remembered the ambulance arriving just as she and Sylva were leaving the Official. There had been a bit of commotion, and a stray voice had mentioned someone falling down on the dance floor. The local ghosts were there, though not Hawthorne , drawn to the scene. Someone in pain, Kelly thought, or someone dying. But her head had been spinning by then, and when Sylva suggested going to her place instead, she hadn't argued. Why should she? Jesse was a soft, sweet body crushed against her, which was far preferable to the haunted loneliness of her own home. Kelly remembered falling backwards onto the bed, half-undressed and laughing, and then sex. Lots of sex.

That sounded like one of her nights out, yeah.