options, he pushed himself to his feet like he had always done. Pain shot up his leg, but he could still walk, so he limped to where the Harley lay. Handlebars and back wheel both bent, definitely not drivable but possibly pushable. Ignoring the sudden burn in his leg, he dragged the bike upward from the wreckage and shoved it down the road away from the mess, though he might have had more luck pushing an elephant up the stairs.
Had to be a sign. If it hadn’t already been crystal enough, now he saw the truth. He’d hit a dead end in his life. No more long, aimless rides in the dead of night. He’d spent too much time spinning his wheels with no direction, no destination.
Where the hell had he ended up anyway? He couldn’t remember which direction he’d ridden out of town. Must have hit his head harder than he thought. Somewhere down the road, the lights of the Jersey boardwalk beckoned in a flash of crazy colors, a surreal landmark standing out against the blackness.
Distant music mixed with an engine’s rumble grew louder as headlights approached. He curled his lip in disgust. She wants to go another round? Fine, come get me.
Instead, the approaching pickup chugged to a stop, the vehicle as ancient as the driver. The wizened, wiry old man smiled through the open window. The color of wet clay, his pointy, battered hat flopped over, wide brim shading his features. “Get in.”
Tempting. “I’m not leaving my bike.”
The old man climbed out in a flash. Before Jackson knew it, and despite the fact that he stood about as tall as the bumper, the guy opened the gate and drew down a wide wooden plank. He swept his hand in a there-you-go gesture.
Distrusting, Jackson still dragged the bike up the board, swaying beneath the weight. He propped the Harley against the side, then jumped down. “Thanks.”
The old man’s smile never wavered. A nod, and he shoved the board back into the truck bed and slammed the gate shut. He reappeared in the cab before Jackson reached for the door handle.
After clambering in, he kept a wary eye on the old man, whose constant, crooked-toothed smile gave Jackson the willies. “Kind of out of your way, aren’t you?” Elves normally didn’t travel this far from the forest. Or was he a wizard?
“I’m Grundy.” His long, gnarled fingers curled around the shifter and slammed into third gear.
So much for explanations. “Jackson Grant. I appreciate the lift. So what brings you out here?”
When he lifted his head, his clear sapphire eyes sparkled in the dashboard light. “I have work to do.”
Jackson tried to return the smile, but something about the way he said it made him more nervous. Like he was the bull’s-eye in Grundy’s target.
A song came on the radio. Mesmerizing, and he’d probably hum the tune for days. “What band is this?”
“You don’t recognize Malcontent, the most popular rock group in the world?” Grundy’s smile seemed to mock Jackson.
Malcontent? He’d heard the name somewhere. “I don’t listen to the radio much. I prefer to write my own songs.”
“Rightfully so.” Grundy nodded, downshifted, and steered into a parking lot.
Jackson hadn’t noticed the bar wedged among the line of junky shops and pizza joints until they pulled to a stop beneath the neon sign that read Last Chance. Real funny. “What are we doing here?”
The old man pocketed the keys. “An old friend’s coming to see you.”
He expelled a quick breath. “Do you always speak in riddles?”
“No riddle. You’ll soon see.” He climbed out. Spry as before, Grundy disappeared inside.
Jackson blew raspberries. What the hell, might as well, though he only had enough spare cash for maybe one beer. No one would bother the Harley, wrecked as it was. He followed and found Grundy at the bar. The girl behind the counter winked as she set down two mugs.
“Thanks.” He dug in his pocket for some coins.
Grundy laid gnarled fingers on his arm. “Save your money. You’ll need it.”
Another riddle. Jackson raised his mug. “Cheers.”
Someone slapped him on the back. “Hey, stranger.” Stepping around, Darius smiled at him. He was a leaner, meaner version of the guy Jackson used to jam with, playing dives like this one while the preppies and jocks went off to college. Now Darius had an edginess behind his pleasant expression, a sad, haunted look in his dark eyes, like he’d seen things too strange or awful to speak of.
“Hey, where have you been hiding?” Jackson stood for a quick bear hug.
“Hell, I think. But I escaped last week.” Darius beamed at him, then Grundy. “You two found each other. How crazy is that?”
Jackson was thinking maybe not so crazy after all. “Grundy saved me from a long night of walking. You know each other?”
“Old Grundy gave me this sweet ink.” Darius rolled his shirt up his back to reveal an intricate design of a phoenix rising from the ashes. “You called it, man.”
Whoa, expert craftsmanship on the ink. “Called what?” Jackson didn’t normally pry but Darius had piqued his curiosity.
“When I met Grundy, he took me to this very bar and said I was about to go down in flames but I shouldn’t worry. He said I’d rise above and start over. Everything would be better than before. And you were absolutely right.” Darius pointed at Grundy, then chugged the beer.
When did Darius join the ranks of the fanatics? Jackson stifled a wince. “Or maybe you unconsciously changed your life after you chose the phoenix tattoo.”
“I didn’t choose the design. Grundy did. He told me I needed this particular one.” Calm and cool, Darius acted sane even though his words were anything but.
Grundy laughed. “The ink chooses the person. I only embroider the tattoo.”
Jackson would hate to see the old man’s needle if he called his work embroidery. He angled toward him. “What design would you give me?”
“Whatever the ink commands.” Grundy smacked the beer foam from his lips. “Come to my shop and I’ll show you.”
Jackson shrugged. “Maybe sometime.”
Behind the ever-present smile, Grundy’s gaze turned steely. “Why not now?” He shelled out more than enough bills to cover the beer and hopped down.
“No time like the present.” Darius lightly punched his arm. “I’ll go along.” A jerk of his head, and he strode toward the exit.
“Great.” A party. “Look, I can’t afford a tat right now.”
“No payment necessary. Not to me anyway.” Grundy took off, zigging and zagging through the crowd.
Enough with the cryptic remarks. Hurrying to catch up, Jackson called after him, “Look, I appreciate the offer, but—”
Grundy whirled and glared at him. “Your fate has come due, Jackson Grant.”
Despite the smile, the hardness of the old man’s stare cut through Jackson like a cold knife.
A gulp, and he nodded. “All right then.” Jackson wouldn’t back down. He knew he owed plenty. Paying his due would either relieve his burden, or kill him. Time to face the music.
* * * *
The jester face atop the whirling carousel laughed at Jackson as they walked past. The screams of the Tilt-a-Whirl riders provided an eerie, yet fitting soundtrack for this strange night. Thunderous pounding and muffled screeches sent a chill over Jackson as Grundy led them around the fun house, then down a dark alleyway. He took out a key that looked like something used in medieval times to unlock the tat shop, then flipped on a light. No sign marked the place, only a skull