Chapter Seven

There were three walls visible from Dagny's sofa and, completely obscuring the third, was a series of neatly framed playbills. They'd been clipped and separated, cover from contents, the latter parts stored in a box beneath her bed; their title pages stood out from the plain plaster, illustrations watching over the room like old friends. In a way, to Dagny, they were. Seven had followed her from Portland, simply-drawn relics of a time when dreaming, too, had been simple. Three came from Boston, pretentious first efforts she preferred to forget with gag-worthy titles she couldn't help but remember. The final five, just below the ceiling in a perfect, brightly colored row, were stamped with yellow bands, "The Lapis Theater" written boldly across each one. It was on these that Dagny focused when hours of research proved fruitless, when her jar of quarters ran out, when New York got a bit too loud and the family portrait on her bookshelf got a bit too dusty; it was on these that Dagny focused that morning but, try as she might to see them, the only image in her mind was of Bryant Parkson –– or whoever he'd been, really –– vanishing into thin air.

She'd spent almost twenty-four hours dreading her hallucination's return, wasting an entire morning at the window, examining her surroundings in storefronts once she braved the outdoors. She'd refused to touch a book called "Histories of Loki" and had considered bolting the minute Marcus introduced his new friend. After so much terror, it was a wonder she could function at all but, even after her second sleepless night, Dagny felt strangely calm. The girl on the street, she kept reminding herself. The waitress. Marcus.

These three phrases had become her mantra.

The girl on the street had been tall and big-boned with tendrils of thick, mahogany hair. She'd given Bryant –– Dagny refused to call him Loki, even in her thoughts –– a once-over as they'd exited the theater.

The waitress in the cafe had asked, when she'd returned to Dagny's table with the check, where her friend had gone.

Most important of all was Marcus, who had spent a good portion of his meet-and-greet with the stranger, who had introduced him to Dagny and made a show of leaving them alone. Marcus, who had texted her at 4 AM, saying, "Dagny, if you didn't give that british guy your number, I WILL fire you." All things he wouldn't have been able to do if Bryant Parkson wasn't real.

So, he was real. He was visible, he was audible, and he was not a product of her insanity. He had been on the street, in the cafe and theater –– and, though she could hardly bring herself to believe it, he'd been the invisible heckler, too. She'd watched him fade, brighten, and disappear, fantastic as that seemed. There was no possible explanation. But...

The girl on the street. The waitress. Marcus.

Her pulse pounded through her skull, a fly against a window pane, each time she repeated the thought. Her pajama pants were streaked with handprints along the left knee, where she'd absently wiped her sweaty fingers. Her bare feet quivered along the seam of the sofa and the tip of her braid –– never untied the night before –– was damp from the time it had spent in her mouth. She was worried, yes, and definitely scared; possibly more scared than she'd ever been in her life. She wasn't crazy, though, and that made Bryant Parkson something more than a harbinger of horror and loss. He was a fact to research, a problem to solve, and the only way to solve it was to find him again.

She had a feeling she knew where to look.

It took a long time for her to gather the nerve to stand; a long time to stop staring out the ninth-story window and a long time, after that, to shove her trembling knees into a pair of dark leggings and tug her now-wavy hair from its braid. She tried to act like it was entirely typical, trading a stack of Gardians files for her wallet, dropping twelve tiny flakes into Tzeitel and Malvolio's bowl, crouching to kiss Cecily while she reached for her tote bag. The only indication that things weren't normal was the sudden, heart-pounding paralysis she felt as her fingers brushed the doorknob.

Well, she thought, staring hard at the crust of green paint.

So, Bryant Parkson's voice answered.

Taking a deep breath, Dagny clenched her hand into a fist and pulled open the door, forced herself through it, then hurried down the stairs and out of the building.

For a brief moment, as she scanned the crowd of snow-spattered strangers, she wondered what she'd do if he wasn't there. What she would do, where she would go; if her confidence in the girl on the street, the waitress, and Marcus would finally sputter out like an old car. What turn would her thoughts take if the disappearing man stayed gone, if she never got an answer at all?

She'd run from it once, but she realized, then that not knowing would always be worse.

Fortunately for Dagny, the man who called himself Bryant Parkson was waiting across the street, watching her from the shadows of a tall, steel-fronted bank. He was wearing his long, black coat, buttons reflecting the sunlight as it bounced off a pile of snow, and she recognized his winding, green scarf. His skin was pearly and his cheeks were flushed; he was half-hidden by a pillar, but clearly defined, as bright as he'd been in the cafe. He smiled when he saw her. She felt herself frown.

Okay, she thought. It's going to be okay.

She waited for a gap in the traffic, then she crossed the street.

A stream of businesspeople was suddenly all that separated her from the man; noticing, he held her gaze and stepped through a gap in their midst. The light hit him seconds before the crowd; one woman turned, lips forming an apology, and Bryant Parkson replied graciously, with words Dagny couldn't hear. She had a feeling he'd planned for the collision. She didn't have a clue what that meant.

It's going to be okay, she repeated.

The last of the businessmen folded his way around the stranger and then he was standing, unobscured, on the sidewalk in front of her. He still had that smile on his face and the intelligent glimmer she'd seen in his eyes the night before. It took her a moment to realize she didn't know what to say. What could she say to this man who'd been a hallucination, a possible coffee date, then a complete and utter mystery?

"I had hoped you would come," he said, saving her the trouble.

"Oh," she replied, almost whispering. "Well, I thought you might be here."

The man's smile widened as he took another step; Dagny would've moved but, at the last second, he veered to her left. "Shall we walk?" he asked, nodding toward a wave of approaching tourists. "I've found it difficult to stay still in this city's crowds and I imagine you have questions to ask me."

He started down the sidewalk and, without really thinking, Dagny followed him. She kept an arm's length between them as he led her down Forty-Ninth Street, her eyes trained on the back of his head. Every so often, she caught a glimpse of his face, turned to examine a building or watch a bus pass; he looked interested, appraising, entirely genial, but he never looked at her. Finally, as he took a right onto Sixth Avenue, she opened her mouth.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

Bryant Parkson shrugged.

"What does that mean?"

He shrugged again. "I had no destination in mind."

Dagny felt a familiar rush of emotion, her lips gathering into a line as she remembered the last time she'd felt it. She'd been on the same street with the same man, only two nights before; he'd been cryptic then, as well, and she'd been just as annoyed. Seconds later, she'd been overcome by terror, but she tried to push that thought from her mind.

"Do not mistake my silence for apathy," the man continued in a calm, pleasant voice. "I'm simply waiting."

"For what?"

"For your questions." A man in a sweatsuit passed close to the stranger's shoulder and he stepped back, falling in line with Dagny. "I've said many times now that I will tell you what you wish to know."

"Okay." She lifted her gaze from the sidewalk and realized, with a jolt, he had turned his onto her face. Though she'd seen his eyes a dozen times by now, their color still managed to startle her. It was all she could do to hold contact as she asked, "How did you do it?"

Bryant Parkson's smile turned devious. "Magic," he replied.

"So you're a magician."

"Yes."

"Do you do card tricks too?" She wasn't sure if he meant to toy with her, or if he was answering honestly. She worked in theater, after all: she knew her way around fly systems and trap doors. "Was it mirrors, then? Hypnosis? Misdirection? Did you bribe those kids to say they couldn't see you? And the waitress - did you pay her too?"

"Not that kind of magician," the man replied, quietly.

But Dagny was on a tirade. Her thoughts poured more rapidly than she could think them until her ears were burning and her pace became quick and deliberate; soon, she was three steps ahead of him. "Whatever you did," she growled in his general direction, "Can you tell me why you did it? You interfered with my job. You made me think I was insane. I'm all for practical jokes, but I don't know you. Did I do something to you I don't know about? Is there a reason you had to go all David Blaine on me?"

Bryant Parkson's smile faded.

Good, Dagny thought. He deserves to feel bad. But as her pulse thudded back to normal and her footsteps slowed –– after thirty seconds passed with no response from the man –– she felt herself flush.

"Look," she said. "I just want to know your game here. You said you'd tell me anything, so just answer this: why me?"

The man's voice was painstakingly measured as he said, "Because you could see me."

"What does that mean?"

"It would be easier if I could show you."

"Then show me!" Dagny cried.

Suddenly, Bryant Parkson had hold of her, tugging her back in the direction they'd come. She snatched her wrist from his grip, avoiding eye contact, but followed him anyway until, with a last turn, she realized where they were headed. "Are we going to the library?" she asked.

"Nearly," he replied. "I'm taking you to Bryant Park."

The first place he took her was the shops.

Stuck in among the cluster of pop-ups, artist corrals, and nearly empty holiday stalls, which had been packed with ornaments, decorations, and post-Christmas bargain shoppers only three weeks ago, was a wooden, teepee-like structure, devoted to metalworking. Folding tables stuck out of the open front doors, displaying twisted bits of steel, reworked into trees, miniature humans, and strange, metallic monsters in varying positions. Dagny followed Bryant into the shop, which was warm and cramped, despite its open doors. Every once in a while, a breeze would sneak inside and tug her hair over her eyes; each time she brushed it away, she noticed that it stirred Bryant's as well, and used this to remind herself he was real. It also helped that the shop-owner, seated at the back of the store behind some kind of school-desk, kept glowering at Bryant, like he was about to pocket a dragon figurine.

To the owner's credit, Bryant did seem distinctly interested in the creatures; with a swift, graceful movement, he picked up one of them, lifting it until it was level with his probing gaze. His puzzled expression turned thoughtful and, for a moment, Dagny could've sworn the dragon opened its mouth in a silent roar; startled, she blinked, and everything was as it had been. Well, that wasn't exactly true.

Bryant Parkson was now smirking at her.

"Was that..." she started to say, then decided against it. Impossible, she reminded herself. But so was turning invisible and he'd somehow managed that.

"Was that another question?" he asked her, still smirking as he stepped closer to her.

She shook her head. "You said you were going to show me something," she chided, injecting some semblance of annoyance into her voice, despite the fact that it was shaking.

Bryant raised his eyebrows. "Patience," he said, softly. "I don't forget my promises so easily, even when faced with metal dragons."

"Oh, of course," Dagny tried to maintain her sarcasm, but felt it fade by her second word. "Do you face many metal dragons?" she asked after a moment, not sure if she meant it or not.

"I wouldn't say many," he replied, lowering the figurine, then turning abruptly toward the shop-owner. "What's the price of this creation?" he asked, his voice twisting into velvet ripples.

"Sixty," the man answered. "Cash only."

Bryant Parkson smiled. "Ah," he said. "Cash only. Of course."

And then he faded.

For a moment, it seemed as if his form would continue to darken and Dagny worried that he would vanish entirely, as he had in the cafe, leaving her answerless for a second time. But he didn't disappear; he was paler, swathed in shadow, but still stood before her, turning to glance over his shoulder as the shop-owner jumped to his feet.

"Hey!" the other man shouted, his head swinging from left to right. "What the hell?" Blinking rapidly, his eyes danced between anger and confusion as he tried to convince himself that he'd looked away at the wrong moment or missed Bryant walking away. "Thinks he's quick on his feet, does he?" he asked, finally settling on fury "Well, you'll be paying for what your friend took, little miss, or I'll be calling the cops on both of you's."

"I'm – I'm..." Dagny stuttered, looking between the metalworker's snarl, now turned on her, and the dulled back of Bryant Parkson; the latter glanced over his shoulder and winked. "Um, I..." She swallowed, trying to keep panic from rising. It was one think to consider, safe in her apartment with her playbills and cat, that this man had and could turn invisible; one thing to discuss it, quietly, as he led her down the sidewalk. But now that it was actually happening –– for the third time, no less –– it was all she could do to stay upright. "He...I – I don't know what he's..." Her voice broke before she could finish. Why are you able to see me? the stranger had asked. Because she could see him, even though the shop-owner couldn't.

Turning to face her, Bryant echoed her thoughts. "I am invisible," he explained. "This man cannot see me and, should anyone enter this shop, they will not see me either. In fact, I am the one of two living beings on this realm –– and eight others –– who knows where I am, at this exact moment."

The man behind the desk kept shouting, completely unaware of another voice. "I don't care what he thinks he's doing," he growled. "Only thing matters is he left my shop with my merchandise and you'd best be handing me sixty big ones in the next three seconds or I'll be –"

Before he could finish, before Dagny could focus on either man enough to comprehend his words, Bryant Parkson brightened and, with his back to the owner, he said, "On second thought, your prices are rather steep. I apologize for the inconvenience, but we'll be going now. Come, Dagny." He took her by the elbow and led her through the door. She was so stunned that her legs wobbled beneath her; he was holding her upright by the time they'd crossed the path.

"That man," she sputtered. "I thought he was going to kill me. And you...what did you..." Her knees knocked together and she broke from his grip, sinking to the stone curb; she could feel snow seeping through her leggings, but the sensation was calming, somehow. "He couldn't see you," she said, "And you didn't..." She trailed off, glancing back at the shop, noticing how small and bare its walls were: no mirrors, no trap doors, barely any lights. And there had been no time for mentalism, hypnotism, any kind of misdirection; even if there had been, Dagny had been watching Bryant the whole time. He'd moved. He'd spoken, all without the other man noticing. "How?" she whispered.

"Magic," he told her.

Her neck drooped until her nose bumped her knees and she stayed like that, playing and replaying the scene in her head –– her companion fading, then speaking without being heard; the shop-owner's furious shouting, then his dumbfounded look as Bryant reappeared. "I don't believe you," she said, softly.

"Yes, you do."

She lifted her chin, barely, so she could look him in the eye. He was right; she did believe him. But that didn't make it any easier. She was in theater; she knew what they called real magic was little more than mirage, illusion, mischievous tricks, meant to fool.

And Loki was the god of mischief.

Dagny swallowed hard, her lungs squeezing and expanding in quick, spurting motions, as Bryant crouched down beside her. "I find," he said, meeting her gaze until she dropped his, "that, when faced with the possible and the impossible, it's important to consider which satisfies more of your questions and eliminate the other."

"What are you, Sherlock Holmes?" Dagny choked out.

"Who?"

But she didn't answer him; she was already taking his advice.

Two nights ago, no one at the Lapis had seen the man she was speaking to, even when he'd been standing right in front of them –– why? Because she'd imagined him? Because she was crazy? No, it had happened again, three times since. And the girl on the street, the waitress, Marcus –– now the metalworker, too –– had all looked at Bryant, had all seen him, had spoken to him. How could he hide himself like that, then return to normal, as if nothing had happened?

His voice snaked its way through her thoughts. Magic.

She took another breath and looked into the man's face. "All right," she began and, though her voice chirped on its way out, at least it sounded steady. "Let's say I believe you. You do magic. Is turning invisible your only power or do you do other tricks?"

His delighted smile had the hint of something savage.

"Oh, Dagny," he said. "There is so much you have yet to see."

Hello, my friends. It's certainly been a while, hasn't it? To those of you who've been waiting, thank you so much. To those of you who've just stopped by, thank YOU as well! I hope you enjoy reading this as much I enjoy writing it. On a related note, has anyone else seen The Dark World yet? If so, are you still alive? Because I'm pretty sure I died and went to heaven...