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It wasn’t a bad general theme, though. My choice of music was just the sort of thing most people either loved or hated on a gut level. I just had to hope there were more people in the former camp.
Now, though, the sounds of Loki’s Laugh filled my ears and rattled my skull as I stood waiting for public transportation. Buses from the loop were notoriously unreliable, the posted schedule being more of a polite suggestion. More often than not, it was due to the disaffected driver moseying over from the nearby café, fresh coffee in hand and a paper under his arm.
Finally, one came to pick me and some other passengers up. In the back by choice, I rode the bus as far as I dared, stopping far from my home uptown. I was on a mission and there was only one place I could go to be certain of success. As certain as anyone ever was, anyway.
Blink and you might miss it. That was the easiest way to describe Shadow Realm— an underground record store hidden in the downtown core that obviously took its task of naming itself rather literally.
The old, thinly carpeted stairs squeaked beneath each step I took. I kept hold of the nicked wooded railing, just to be safe. It would be no good to take a tumble and potentially break my neck. That had likely been the thinking of any officials dispatched to inspect the premises.
The scent was immediate and strong. Sage, with hints of smoke. It was likely due to cheap incense, but it was still far preferable to the smell coming out of some of the indie boutiques I’d been to. Let alone thrift stores.
It was also much better organized, the owners doing as much as they could with the limited space they had. Most of the records, actual vinyls, were in milk crates, with the different categories written in Sharpie on purposely cut sheets of cardboard slipped between the record sleeves.
There was a small selection of CDs lining the walls on stretches of string. The jewel cases hung out like clothes drying on a line.
“Can I help you?” someone asked.
I tried not to gasp when I saw the person who had just spoken. Instead, I let just the tiniest squeak of surprise come out. I couldn’t stop myself— it was like meeting a vampire in real life.
The woman’s black velvet dress was cut just right to display her ample bosom and she was wearing it with a matching choker that seemed to shimmer even in the low light. Offsetting her palace pallor complexion, which had no doubt been achieved with the assistance of a powder puff, were lips the color of her dress.
Her eyebrows had been replaced by intricate, almost tribal, designs. All of this was topped off with a crown of jet-black hair that seemed to defy the laws of gravity.
She was unlike anyone or anything I’d ever seen before. It was my first real jolt of culture shock on the new path I’d been on for quite some time now.
“I— I—” I stammered.
“Don’t worry, sweetie, I don’t bite,” she said. “Not without permission, anyway.”
I laughed and she added, “How can I help you, darling? What’re you here for?”
“Loki’s Laugh. You sell their t-shirts, right?”
“Follow me.”
Hopping down from her stool, she led me to the shirt rack, lifting the front of her extraordinary skirt like a fine lady in a costume drama. Her Doc Martens gleamed like mirrors in the gloom.
“I didn’t get your name,” I said, suddenly, deeply curious.
“I didn’t give it,” she said, halting and turning like a ballerina. “I’m Anastasia Mordant, but my friends call me Ana.”
I accepted her offered hand, feeling a whiff of something cool and dark. It was like sitting under the shade of a tree.
“I’m Rebecca Adams, but people call me Becca.”
“How very old is our world,” Ana said, with a playful wink, before turning her attention and her outstretched hand to the t-shirts. “Here you go. The t-shirts you requested.”
There were several designs to choose from, all of them with a version in something close to my size. I liked my clothes to be loose on my curvy frame and generally found a men’s size Large to fit me quite well.
After finding the only one that wasn’t majority black, which was a white baseball style t-shirt with black sleeves and collar, I checked out. Reused grocery store bag in hand, I said goodbye to Anastasia and climbed the mountain once more, into the light of day.
DreamTime Publishing, the outlet where Ashe worked, wasn’t big. The virtues of its diminutive nature were a cause of celebration, not only by those who worked there but by anyone who’d even seen one of their beautifully crafted, richly illustrated volumes.
The company would never make the Fortune 500, but they didn’t have any direct competition either. No one else was able to match their deft combination of the traditional and innovative, the sublime and the surreal.
