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EIGHT:
IT'S A SATURDAY NIGHT
AT THE WORLD

Just as promised, the elvensteeds returned Eric and Ria to the World Above the same day they'd left—or, rather, very late that same night. Eric had never been so grateful for Lady Day's autopilot abilities: he'd done a lot more playing—and dancing—after the Bardic competition. And it had been a competition as much as a performance, he'd found to his chagrin. Adroviel had led all the performers back out onto the stage to take their bows before the company—and then presented Eric with the golden laurel crown.

After that, the evening had been pretty much a blur, though alcohol wasn't to blame for that this time. But, as Eric had discovered, ambient magic could have much the same effect. . . .

He barely remembered saying good night to Ria at the door to her Park Avenue apartment, and remembered nothing at all after that until he awoke in his own bed with Sunday morning sun shining down on him.

Jumbled unreal memories of leaving Lady Day in the parking lot behind the building, of tiptoeing in past the sleeping Hosea and somehow getting his boots off before he flung himself in bed, surfaced as he lay looking at the ceiling. He was still wearing his Court clothes, and investigation proved that he'd gone to bed with both sword and flute.

But it'd been a heckuva party.

Just so long as there isn't another one any time soon, he thought, stretching. Visits to Underhill are fine, so long as they're just that . . . visits. 

He checked the bedside clock as he rolled out of bed: 11:30. Not too bad for the morning after a late night. He could hear Hosea moving around the apartment. He'd better pull himself together so they could hit up a few of the better gigging sites. There'd be another audition soon, so Hosea could get a performer's license of his own, but not until the middle of August, still a couple of weeks away.

And August means the Sterling Forest Faire will be opening. I wonder if I should make arrangements to play up there for a couple of weekends? It would be fun to introduce Hosea to the Rennie world, and with a little Bardic magic, some of Eric's outfits would fit the Appalachian Bard.

Thinking about Bards made Eric remember Dharniel's comments last night. He wondered how Hosea would take to the idea of being taught by Eric—there was a lot more about his past he'd have to come clean with Hosea about, if he did. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

I can think about it later.  

He stripped off his Court clothes, flinging them into the back of the closet, grabbed his robe, and headed for the shower. When he came out a few minutes later, wet and dripping, he felt a lot more "grounded on the Earth plane," as Beth's friend Kit always used to say.

"Morning," Hosea said, as Eric wandered into the kitchen. "Must've been a pretty fine party last night." He held out Eric's laurel garland.

"Um . . . thanks." Eric took it. The leaves were made of pure gold, twined with a silver ribbon on which elvish letters burned with blue fire. Not your ordinary sort of party favor.

How do I explain this? How do I explain any of this? Suppose Hosea doesn't want me for a teacher? 

He tucked the crown under one arm awkwardly.

"There's coffee brewing. Looks like you could use a cup. Oh, and someone named Margot came by and dropped off something for you. Looks like a letter."

Although with Margot one can never be sure. Eric cracked wise, if only to himself. He'd been Overhill long enough now to have gotten back his coffee habits—and had already needed the caffeine more than once. "I'll look at it after I get dressed," he said, and made a less-than-graceful exit from the conversation.

Dressed, caffeinated, and with the last evidence of his Underhill sojourn tucked safely out of sight, Eric adjourned to the living room, where Hosea was reading a book. He set his cup down on the coffee table and picked up the envelope.

It said "Eric" on it in bright purple calligraphic ink, and the envelope was liberally dusted with spray-on glitter. Definitely a Margot touch. It wasn't sealed. He opened it and pulled out a glittery violently purple sheet of paper.

"Calling the Usual Suspects: Lammas Party Next Saturday! 7:00 till Sanity intercedes! Bring yourself, bring a friend, bring munchies! Venue: the Basement!"

Every few weeks most of the building's tenants got together for a sort of informal mixer down in the building's basement. While only a minority of Guardian House's tenants were Wiccan, the eight festivals of the Wiccan year fell approximately 45 days apart, making a convenient schedule for parties.

Eric passed the flyer to Hosea. "You're certainly welcome to come—the building is mostly artists, so we tend to show off our latest work, play a little music, unwind a bit."

"Sure," Hosea said, passing it back. "Be mighty nice to meet a few more of the neighbors."

* * *

Hard to believe I was in Elfland just a week ago today, Ria thought, staring down at the mound of work on her desk. All the glamour—in the oldest sense of the word—seemed pretty far away when she was staring at the latest pile of paperwork on her desk. And she'd cross-her-heart promised to show up at a party Eric's friends were having at Guardian House later tonight.

Not her usual sort of entertainment; Ria's tastes ran more to the thoroughly civilized, such as ballet and opera. But there was no denying that Eric's friends were likely to be an engaging crowd . . . and that Eric was the main attraction.

Their relationship was an interesting one . . . doomed, you might say. Eric was a thoroughgoing do-gooder and idealist, believing, like Spider-Man, that with great power came great responsibility. Ria was more of a pragmatist: stone-cold dead cuts recidivism by 100%.

And they were opposites in so many other ways, too. She thought Eric was too trusting. He thought she was paranoid. She liked a mannered, organized life. Eric Banyon was the original free spirit. She thought that discipline was the most important thing about making your way through life. Eric thought that Love conquered all. LlewellCo—a billion-dollar multinational—was her entire life. Eric had no idea what he was going to do with his life once he got out of Juilliard. Ria hobnobbed with presidents and kings. Eric hung out with elves and street musicians.

Insurmountable. But somehow they were making it work—so long as each of them took care not to step too far into the other's life. But how long could they keep up this balancing act? Eventually Eric would be done with his schooling, and she'd be done with her work on the East Coast. What then?

You're daydreaming like a schoolgirl, Ria. She sighed, shaking her head, and reached for the file in front of her.

The phone rang. Ria reached for her desk phone before she realized her cellular was ringing. She'd set it to roll over calls from the apartment. But who could be calling?

"Ria Llewellyn."

"Ria? It's Elizabet."

Elizabet Winters was the Healer who had saved Ria's life. In mundane life, Elizabet was a psych therapist with the LAPD, dealing with crime victims and other trauma cases. She and her apprentice and adopted daughter, Kayla Smith, had brought Ria back from coma and insanity in the wake of the battle for Elfhame Sun-Descending.

"Elizabet!" she said warmly. "How wonderful to hear from you. Are you in town?"

The other woman chuckled. "No such luck. I'm stuck behind my desk with an ever burgeoning caseload. No, I'm calling about Kayla. I wanted to let you know that she's decided to take you up on your offer. I think its fair to warn you that the child still has champagne tastes."

Ria laughed. "So she's decided on a college and a major? Where?"

"Columbia," Elizabet said. "She got the acceptance letter last week. They've got a good computer school. She's thought the matter over carefully and decided she wants to train to be a Web designer."

"Well, she'll never lack for employment," Ria answered. More to the point, Web designer was a solitary profession with odd hours. Though Kayla's great Gift was Healing, you couldn't set yourself up as a free-lance medic without running into legal trouble, and even if Kayla'd had the patience, taking a medical degree to legitimate her skills would have been nothing more than a quick trip to early burnout or even death. A Healer and Empath needed a lot of time alone to process the pain from those she touched. There were going to be a lot of times when she'd really need to get away from people altogether, and Web designer would be a career where she could tailor both her hours and her interactions with others.

"And certainly I can cover her tuition. Just have the billing office get in touch with me. Which dorm will she be in?"

"Well, that's another thing I wanted to talk to you about." Elizabet sounded hesitant. "Columbia doesn't really have a lot of student housing, and I'm not really sure I'd be all that comfortable with Kayla around a couple of hundred other teenagers. She's a great kid, and of course she wrote the book on street smarts, but I think sometimes that we just tend to forget that she is a kid. I was hoping more for a situation where she'd have some adult supervision."

I think I know where this is going. Of course Elizabet was right—dropping an Empath into a cauldron of teenaged angst would be like dropping a firecracker into a tank of gas, personality issues aside. And Ria owed both Kayla and Elizabet so much that anything she could do in return would never be enough.

"I'll be happy to keep an eye on her," Ria said. "I've got a huge apartment that I hardly ever see. I'll be glad to have her stay with me."

Elizabet let out a sigh of relief. "I was hoping you'd say that," she said. "I know that babysitting a teenager is nobody's idea of fun . . ."

"Kayla's hardly your typical teen. And street-smart or not, she's never seen anything like New York before. Here, I'll give you my home address. Just crate her stuff up and ship it when you're ready. I'll be sure to meet her plane."

"You're a doll, Ria!"

They chatted for a few minutes more about various things, and Ria gave Elizabet the address of her Park Avenue apartment—and be damned to the co-op board if they don't like it; I can always buy the building!—and several emergency phone numbers. She also made a promise that they both knew was empty: that she'd do her best to keep Elizabet's young apprentice out of trouble. Kayla was drawn to trouble as the moth to the flame.

What am I getting myself into? Ria wondered as she hung up the phone.

* * *

What am I getting myself into? Eric wondered, not for the first time that week. He still hadn't been able to bring himself to mention the idea of becoming Hosea's mentor to Hosea; every time he rehearsed the words in his head they ended up sounding arrogant and stupid. But the longer he delayed, the guiltier he felt. Tonight. At the party or after. For sure. 

They'd made the rounds of the usual spots this afternoon. The take was a little lower than usual—it was August, and a lot of Gothamites were fleeing the city for cooler climes—but still respectable. Hosea had insisted on knocking off early; he had a recipe he wanted to try for the party tonight. He'd called it "pocket dumplings," but when he described them, Eric recognized the recipe for Cornish pasties. Makes sense. Just about everyone from that neck of the woods hailed from the British Isles originally. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if there wasn't a Grove tucked away somewhere in those hills . . .

So they'd gone shopping, and then Hosea had firmly shooed Eric out of the kitchen. "I've seen what a kitchen looks like once you're done with it, Mister Bard. You just do your part and eat what I cook."

Eric had wandered around the living room for a while, unable to settle. He thought about going for a walk, but the idea held little charm—Manhattan in August was hazy, hot, and humid, and he hated the thought of leaving his spell-driven air conditioning.

I wonder how Jimmie's doing? He hadn't seen her in the last couple of weeks; she'd been working on Friday when they'd had their get-together. But Paul had told him her schedule, and she should be home now. He decided to go see her, maybe cadge a cup of tea.

A few minutes later he was standing in front of her door. He knocked gently, and after a few minutes heard her walking down the hall. She opened the door.

"Eric. How are you?" She tried for a smile and missed. Eric tried to keep from looking as shocked as he felt. Jimmie looked like something the cat had dragged in—deep puffy black circles under her golden eyes, and lines in her face that hadn't been there a month earlier.

"I've come at a bad time," he said.

"No." She opened the door wider. "Come on in. Really."

He stepped past her, into the hall. It was lined with shelves full of books on every conceivable subject—Jimmie Youngblood was a voracious reader.

In the living room window, an elderly a/c wheezed and thundered, working hard to cool the room. Eric walked over to it and touched it lightly. He reached out with his power, asking it to remember the days when it was new. It instantly began to purr quietly, and the temperature dropped appreciably.

Jimmie sighed in relief. "Thanks. You could make real money doing that."

"If I ever need a second job," Eric said. "But are you sure this isn't a bad time? 'Cause frankly, Scarlett, you look like hell."

Jimmie shrugged. "Going from days to nights is always hard, and I haven't been sleeping well. It's not the nightmares. That charm you did for me worked fine, and they haven't come back. I've just got this feeling of impending doom. Every morning I wake up expecting to go into the bathroom and see a banshee doing laundry in my sink."

Eric smiled at the feeble joke. Legend held that those who saw a banshee washing her bloody garments were doomed to die within the fortnight. "But neither Greystone or the House has noticed anything?"

"Nothing," Jimmie answered tiredly. "I'm starting to wonder if I'm turning into one of those cranky old ladies who goes around prophesying the end of the world."

"Not you," Eric said gallantly. "Are you sure there isn't anything I can do to help? I mean, I know I'm not a Guardian—"

"You wouldn't want to be," Jimmie interrupted, cutting him off. "Once you get the Call, your life doesn't belong to you any more. You never know where you're going to be sent, or what you'll have to do. And it's not like there's an instruction manual for being a free-lance occult do-gooder. Sometimes I wish there was." She walked into the kitchen and came back a few moments later with two tall glasses clinking with ice. "Tea. Or as Grandma used to say, 'sweet tea.' "

Eric took his glass and sipped. It was sweet—sweet and cold and delicious, tasting faintly of mint.

"The secret, so she told me, was to put the sugar into the hot tea, so it dissolves completely. Then add the mint, wait for it to cool on its lonesome, and chill. I sure do miss her. She came up North to take care of us kids after Mama died, and never stopped complaining about Yankee ways until the day she died."

"You've never said much about your family before," Eric said.

"That's because I don't have one anymore—well, outside of Toni and the guys. And you, Eric. You've been a real friend. I'm glad the House chose you," she said, sitting down on the couch beside Eric.

"Me, too," Eric said. He sipped his tea. "Hosea's cooking for the party tonight, and suggested I could be of the most use by making myself absent." He hesitated, wondering if he should mention that he might be taking Hosea on as an apprentice. "When a Guardian trains their successor . . ." he began.

He was interrupted by a healthy snort of laughter from Jimmie. "Oh, my! I just wish we did! But that's not the way it works for us. If we're lucky, we get to meet our successor and pass on the Call in person, but that's about it. Usually it arrives like a bolt out of the blue, and then it's sink or swim time."

"Doesn't sound really efficient," Eric said, probing gently.

Jimmie grinned, savoring a private joke. "Who are we to argue with the Powers that Be's way of doing business? But seriously. There's no way to train for this job. You can either handle it, or someone else comes along pretty quick to replace you, on account of you taking a quick trip on the hurry-up wagon. Of course, you can spend a long time fooling yourself. I was pretty stubborn when my Call came. Thought I was losing my mind. It's different for everyone. Paul stepped right up like he was born to it when his Call came—but then, he'd been involved in the occult for years. I was just a dumb street cop." She drained her glass in several long swallows and set it down on the floor beside the couch. "And I sure wish I could shake this case of the blue-devils. I even took your advice . . . I did something I swore I'd never do."

Eric raised his eyebrows inquisitively. Jimmie sighed.

"I tried to get ahold of my brother. All I had was a P.O. box address from about a dozen years back. I wrote to it. But he never wrote back. I could use my contacts on the Force, maybe; see if he's Inside somewhere. But I don't really want to rake up old bones at the Job. Y'know, sometimes it doesn't seem like it when the Post gets going, but there's nothing a good cop hates more than a bad one."

Eric waited, sensing there was more to say. But if there was, Jimmie drew back from it.

"He didn't even resign. Just disappeared when Internal Affairs came calling. Damn near broke Dad's heart."

And yours, Eric thought, but didn't say so.

"So what's the deal, Eric? You look like somebody with something on his mind besides my little problems."

"Yuh got me, podnuh," Eric said. "It's not really a problem. It's just . . . Hosea came to New York looking for someone to train him as a Bard. And I've got an awful feeling I'm it."

"Can you?" Jimmie asked, cutting to the chase.

"Yeah, well, technically . . . yes. My teacher thinks so, anyway."

They sat in silence for a few moments. Eric could almost hear Jimmie thinking it over.

"So, don't you like him?" she asked.

"Sure I do," Eric said quickly, leaping to Hosea's defense. "He's a great guy. It's just that . . . what if I screw up?"

He'd never been responsible for anyone but himself, not even Maeve. That was what it came down to. She was Kory and Beth's. Not his. Saving the world was one thing (though he wasn't over-confident about his abilities there, either, if truth be told), but crises tended to boil up and blow over pretty quickly. Taking on an apprentice was a long-term commitment to another person—and at Juilliard, he'd had ample chance to see the harm that a bad teacher could do.

"What if you don't—screw up, I mean?" Jimmie asked reasonably. "Spend all your time worrying about what might happen, and you'll never get anything done. Good advice. I ought to take it sometime," she said broodingly.

"I'm sure you'll figure this out eventually," Eric said. It sounded like hollow comfort, even to him. "Maybe it's all blown over and this is just the aftershocks. Meanwhile, why not come to the party this evening? Shake off that gloom'n'doom feeling?"

"I should," Jimmie said. "I will. Wouldn't miss the chance to sample your friend's masterwork."

She forced a smile, and the talk turned to other things.

* * *

The basement was already full when Eric and Hosea came down, balancing two large cookie sheets covered with warm, golden-brown pasties. Alex was there, talking computers with Paul, and Margot and Caity were spreading a paper tablecloth over the top of the washing machines, converting them to a makeshift buffet for the evening.

The basement of Guardian House ran the entire length of the building. Part of it was walled off, forming the "magical bunker" that Toni had told Eric about in his first days in the building, and there was even an apartment down here—a small studio, its only access to the outside world a high narrow strip of windows along one wall. No one lived there; it'd been vacant since her predecessor's time, Toni had told him once, and was now used for storage.

Eric introduced Hosea to the others. Tatiana—in full war paint and more trailing shawls than Isadora Duncan—camped and vamped at him, cooing about "big, strong men" until Hosea actually blushed. Seeing that, she relented, and went off to get them drinks from the bar-by-courtesy, though aside from a couple of bottles of wine, there was nothing stronger than fruit punch there.

By the time Ria arrived, the party was in full swing. Someone had brought down a boombox, and a World Music sampler—mostly ignored—vied for attention with the fragmented sounds of various musicians trading licks. The live music usually came later in the evening, when everyone had mellowed out and finished exchanging gossip and news. Hosea's pasties had vanished early on, but Toni had brought empañadas—a Puerto Rican specialty—and Paul had brought a couple gallons of the Famous Punch (a mixture of exotic tropical fruit juices, savory and non-alcoholic). Eric had a glass of it in his hand when he "felt" Ria arrive, and went upstairs to guide her down.

"Cozy," she said, looking around the basement. "Done in early catacomb?"

She was wearing a pale gray silk business suit and looked like the well-tailored heroine of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. She had on a pair of green jade earrings that played up the green of her eyes, and her ice-blonde hair was held back by a wide clip of the same material.

"Think of it as a trendy after-hours club," Eric said cheerfully. "C'mon. I'll get you a drink."

"I brought my own," Ria said, brandishing a large bottle of white wine. "After the day I've had, I could use a drink."

"Trouble?" Eric said, leading her over toward the buffet.

"More in the line of chickens coming home to roost. You remember Kayla, Elizabet's student?"

"How is she?" Eric asked.

"Starting school at Columbia this fall. And living with me while she does."

Eric was startled into laughter. "The punkette and the Uptown Lady—how'd you get rooked into that one?"

Ria looked faintly cross. "Elizabet asked me, as a favor. She doesn't want Kayla living in the dorm, and wants somebody local keeping an eye on her. L.A.'s a long way from New York."

"And you're elected," Eric said.

"I volunteered," Ria corrected him. "But as for what I'm going to do with her when I get her here . . ." She sighed, shrugging. "How bad can it be? But I've got to say, what I know about teenagers you could engrave on the head of a very small pin."

"Well, she's not exactly your ordinary teenager," Eric said, imagining Kayla in Ria's posh uptown apartment. Let's just hope she doesn't decide to redecorate. "Kayla's a good kid. And like you said: how bad can it be?"

"I'm sure I'll find out," Ria said darkly. "And pretty soon, too: Elizabet's going to send her out here as soon as she can get a cheap flight so she can settle in and get her shields up to speed."

Though Los Angeles was a major city, it was far more sprawling than New York was. Manhattan's population density would pose special problems for an Empath and Healer.

"You know you can count on me for help. Babysitting, and so forth." He expertly peeled the wrapper off the neck of the bottle and twisted the cork out, pouring a plastic cup half-full for Ria.

"I'll remember that," Ria said. "And if you're good, I won't tell Kayla that's what you said."

"Truce!" Eric cried, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. "The last thing I want is to have Punky Brewster mad at me. C'mon, I'll introduce you around."

The tenants were mostly cool—there were only a couple of remarks of the "you're that Ria Llewellyn?" sort—and finally Eric steered her over to where Hosea was.

He was leaning against the wall, his banjo slung across his chest, intently trading riffs with Bill, a guitarist and sometime member of various Soho bands.

The two of them waited politely until the musicians had finished, then Eric caught Hosea's eye. "Hosea, Bill—I'd like you to meet Ria Llewellyn. She's a friend of mine."

There was a moment as Hosea and Ria sized each other up, each recognizing the power in the other. Then Hosea held out his hand.

"How do you do, Miss Llewellyn. Eric's said a bit about you, all good."

"Pleased to meet you," Ria said. "Are you still looking for an apartment?"

"Yes, ma'am," Hosea said. "But at the prices you cityfolk are charging, you'd think I wanted to buy the place, not just live there."

Even the most run-down studio apartment in a bad Manhattan neighborhood rented for $600–800 a month, and some Gothamites were paying a couple thousand a month for a place smaller than Eric's living room.

"I may have a solution, at least a temporary one. LlewellCo is going to be putting up some new low-cost housing on the Lower East Side as an anchor point for redevelopment of some pretty grungy neighborhoods. We're relocating the current tenants, of course, but it's going to be November or so before the building's actually condemned. Meanwhile, the place is standing half empty. I'd been going to put in a security guard—idle real estate being the devil's workshop—but if you'd like to move in and keep an eye on the place until we raze it, you'd have a place to stay—free—and I wouldn't have to worry about squatters moving in and making trouble for the remaining tenants." She smiled hopefully at Hosea.

Wow. She sure played that one right, Eric thought in admiration. He knew Hosea wouldn't even consider taking charity, but Ria'd figured out a way to offer him a free apartment that he'd still be paying for, in a sense—and she wasn't lying when she said she'd need someone looking after the place.

He watched Hosea carefully turning the offer over in his mind, considering it from all angles. Finally he smiled. "That'd be a kindness, Miss Llewellyn. I've been taking up Eric's couch for too long already. I expect he'd like his living room back."

"It's no problem," Eric protested. A guilty twinge reminded him he still hadn't suggested to Hosea that he take him on as a pupil, and part of him realized that Hosea having his own place would make that easier. Emotions between teacher and student could sometimes run high, and it was better not to add that dynamic to the fact of living under the same roof.

"Why don't you come down to the office on Monday?" Ria said, fishing a business card out of her jacket. "I'll make sure Anita has the keys; she can run you over there and get you settled in. There should be enough cast-off furniture there to take care of you, otherwise we can just rent some for a few months. You don't want to be sleeping on the floor. I've been there—some of the roaches are big enough to saddle and ride."

Hosea grinned, tucking the card into his shirt pocket. Unwanted insect life was no problem for a Bard—a few tunes, and the critters tended to go elsewhere. But he only thanked her again for her kindness.

The party broke up around two. Ria had left earlier, pleading a heavy workday on the morrow. Eric and Hosea stayed to help with clean-up—despite her promise to attend, Eric hadn't seen Jimmie Youngblood anywhere tonight—and then headed upstairs.

"Y'know," Eric said tentatively, once they'd gotten into the apartment, "there's something I've been meaning to bring up with you, but I didn't know just what to say."

Hosea stopped and regarded him placidly. "Ayah, you've been looking as broody as a hen with one chick for nigh on a week. Guess it'll be easier now that I'm moving on."

"It's not that," Eric said quickly. "It's . . . when I went to that party the other week, I got a chance to talk to my old teacher. I knew you were looking for somebody to train you as a Bard, and I thought he might be able to recommend somebody."

Hosea waited, listening intently.

"He did. Me."

He saw Hosea wait for the punch line, realize there wasn't one, and consider the matter. "Would you be willing to do that?" he asked in his slow mountain drawl. " 'Cause I don't think you could pass me the shining without you was willing, and I can't think of any way I could pay you back, leastways not for a long while."

"Don't even think about paying me," Eric said firmly. "You don't pay this back. You pay it forward. The question is, do you want me to teach you, if I can? I've never done anything like this before."

The anxiety with which he waited for Hosea to answer surprised Eric. Somewhere between here and Maeve's Naming Day, it had come to matter to him very much that Hosea think Eric worthy of being his teacher. He valued his new friend's opinion that much.

Hosea grinned. "Then I guess we've got a lot to learn together, Mister Bard." He stuck out his hand. "Let's shake on it."

Eric took his new student's hand. "Done deal. I'll teach you everything I know, however much that turns out to be. And I guess I'll be learning a lot of things, too."

Patience is the first lesson a teacher learns. A memory of Dharniel's voice echoed in his mind. "We can start as soon as you're settled into your new digs."

* * *

On Monday mornings Eric didn't have any classes until after noon, and he usually took advantage of that fact by sleeping late. "Morning person" was not in his job description, and even busking with Hosea, they generally skipped the morning rush-hour crowds.

This morning was different.

Screams woke him—no, not screams. Scream. The House itself was screaming, a soundless air-raid-siren wail of protest. And beyond that, audible to his ears and not his mind, the sound of a door slamming, over and over.

:Scramble! All units scramble!: he heard Greystone shout in his mind. He lunged out of bed and flung himself into the living room, clawing his hair out of his eyes.

Hosea wasn't there. The front door was slamming itself rhythmically and springing open again.

:Greystone!: Eric mind-shouted. There was no answer.

He couldn't stop the House's alarms, but he could shut them out with a spell of his own. He did so automatically, and as it faded to a thin wail of protest, he apported the first clothes that came to mind—the jeans and T-shirt he'd been wearing last night—and ran for the door. It banged open and stayed that way as he passed through it.

Several of his fellow tenants were standing in the hall in various states of dress from business suits to nudity, all talking agitatedly at once. Most of them seemed to feel there'd been either an explosion or an earthquake, unlikely though the latter was for New York. Someone—he didn't stop to see who—was holding a broadsword, its blade glowing a deep black-light purple.

Eric lunged down the stairs, barefoot, taking them three at a time. He was heading for the lobby. Whatever the source of the disturbance was, it was there. He could feel it.

But when he reached the ground floor, all he saw was Hosea, standing there in bewilderment. He had his duffle bag and his banjo with him.

Of course. He was going to pick up the keys from Ria today.  

The wailing was louder here, loud enough to pierce his hush-spell. As Eric reached the lobby, Toni came charging out of her apartment. She was wearing an apron and carrying a baseball bat.

"Get back in there!" she shouted behind her at her two boys. The door slammed shut the way Eric's had.

"What?" she demanded, staring around wildly, looking for the threat.

"All I did—" Hosea began.

Footsteps on the stairs behind Eric told him that the other Guardians were coming. Paul had obviously been in the shower when the alarm came—his hair was still full of shampoo and he wore nothing other than a terry-cloth bathrobe. José had been asleep—he was wearing a pair of striped pajamas and looked as confused as Eric felt. As for Jimmie, she arrived with gun drawn, looking as if she hadn't slept yet.

"All I did—" Hosea began again. He took another step back from the door.

"Enough. Quiet," Toni said, though not to them. Eric breathed a sigh of relief as the wailing ceased.

:I dunno, Boss. It's quiet as church on Sunday out here. Gotta be something inside: Greystone said, cutting Eric in on his side of the conversation.

"What's going on?" Jimmie demanded. The four Guardians seemed to commune silently for a moment.

José ran a hand through his disordered hair. "I've never heard anything like that in my life. It even woke the little ones," he said, speaking of his beloved parrots.

"As well as everyone else in the building, Sensitive or no," Paul said tensely. "You might have a little explaining to do, Toni."

"What was—or is—it?" Toni demanded, more sharply this time.

Jimmie slowly lowered her gun. Eric heard the click, loud in the stillness, as she put the safety on.

By now several of the tenants had reached the first floor. Without seeming even to notice the gathering in the lobby, they hurried past them and out the front door, to cluster in a tight knot on the sidewalk staring anxiously back at the building.

"Well, if that don't beat all," Hosea said, gazing at the door with surprise. "It was locked when I tried it just a moment ago."

"Locked?" Jimmie said. "It's never locked from the inside."

The exodus of tenants had ceased and the door had swung closed again. Jimmie walked over to the door and grasped the handle. It opened easily. She stared at the others in confusion.

"Try it again," she said to Hosea, stepping back from the door.

He glanced back at Eric, who nodded.

As Hosea approached the door, they all felt the House tense, as if preparing to give voice again.

"Wait," Toni said. Hosea stopped, his hand inches from the door. "You try it," she said to Eric.

Shrugging, Eric walked over to the door. He hesitated for a moment, steeling himself for the psychic equivalent of an electric shock, but there was nothing. The door opened silently and easily. He opened and closed it several times. Nothing.

"No one else had any problem; neither Bard, Guardian, nor civilian. Only this young man," Paul said.

"I think we'd better find out why," Toni answered grimly. She glanced out at the cluster of people on the sidewalk.

"You figure out what to tell them, and with Eric's permission, we'll convene a council of war at his place—in, say, about fifteen minutes?" Paul said.

"Sure. No problem. I'll put up some coffee." And maybe get my heart started again. "C'mon, Hosea. No point trying to leave now."

* * *

The hallway outside the apartment was empty when Eric and Hosea reached it. Eric's door swung open peremptorily as soon as they reached the top of the stairs, but, to his relief, stayed still and allowed him to close it himself. He didn't bother to lock it. He'd just had a taste of how very efficient the House's security systems were.

"Just the way I'd want to start a Monday morning," he said, sighing. He looked at Hosea with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I know you're going to have to go over it again when the others get here, but . . . what did you do?"

Hosea looked troubled, and when he spoke his Appalachian drawl was thicker than Eric had ever heard it. "Nothing I ain't done most every other morning. I figured I'd just take my traps with me when I went down to Miss Llewellyn's office, and that way I wouldn't have to double back to get them. So I locked up, same as I always do, an when I got to the front door, it was locked. And all of a sudden, something started hollering in my head." He shook his head ruefully. "I hope Miss Hernandez ain't too put out with me. That woman's got a temper on her when she's bothered, and that's the certain truth."

Eric regarded Hosea, puzzled. He knew the other man was telling the truth—and the whole truth, as he knew it, at that. Unfortunately, it didn't answer any of Eric's questions.

"Why should everyone else be able to leave and not you? Why this time and none of the others?"

* * *

It was a question still unanswered half an hour later, as Eric, Hosea, and the four Guardians—with Greystone listening in from his perch outside the window—gathered in Eric's living room. Toni had given the other tenants the cover story that there'd been an explosion in the boiler that provided the building's steam heat, but that it was all taken care of now and the building was perfectly safe. The explanation would do as long as nobody thought too closely about it, though of course, those who had sensed the House's alarm for more or less what it was would have to be told something more. And the six of them were no closer to the truth than they had been downstairs.

"So what was different about this time?" Jimmie asked Hosea.

The country Bard shook his head in bafflement. "Nothing I know of. I was going to go and get settled in to my new place, and then come back here to pick up Eric—you know, so we could go busking in the subway?"

"Wait a minute," Jimmie said slowly. "What 'new place'?"

"I'm moving out. Miss Ria, Eric's ladyfriend, she offered me a place to hang my hat for a few months, an—"

"That's it," Paul said, interrupting him. "It's got to be. It's the only thing that's changed. This time you weren't just going out for a few hours. You were leaving."

The six of them looked at each other.

"Well, now we know that much," Toni said sourly. "Not that we know anything at all."

"We know that the House doesn't want Hosea to leave," Jimmie said slowly. The four Guardians looked at each other. "And we know what that means."

"No we don't," Eric said. "At least, the two of us don't."

Jimmie and Toni looked at each other, and again Eric had that sense of unspoken communication. After a long moment, Jimmie answered him.

"You know that the House picks its tenants for its own inscrutable reasons. If it wants you, you can stay. When it doesn't want you, you go—you have to. But sometimes, it really wants somebody. And when it does, it encourages them—strongly!—to stay. My guess is that your friend here wasn't taking the hint. So it stopped hinting—and yelled."

"But there are four of us," José said, as if continuing a different conversation. "There've never been more than four. Why him? Why now?"

The House wants Hosea? As a Guardian? Eric thought blankly. José couldn't mean anything else.

"It's not as if there's a hard-and-fast set of rules about this sort of thing," Paul offered, looking thoughtful. "There are four of us, and as we know, that's a lot of Guardians to gather in one place. Why not five?"

"No vacancies?" Toni suggested. "The place is full, Paul. Every apartment's rented, and they're all good people. Who am I supposed to evict?"

"There's that studio in the basement," Eric said. "You could clean that out. We'd help."

"Just a doggone minute, here," Hosea said. "What's this all about?"

"I think," Eric said slowly, "that it's about you joining the Occult Police. Becoming a Guardian."

"I can't do that!" Hosea protested. "I ain't a—a—" He groped for the word. "A root doctor like you folks. I got me a little shine, sure, but I'm a Bard—leastways, I'm gonna be one as soon as Eric here gets to training me. Right now I don't know much of anything."

The four Guardians looked at each other again.

"Well," Paul said, "it does look like you're going to have the time to learn whatever it is you're here to learn, my young friend. Because no matter for what purpose the House wants you, I truly don't believe you'll be allowed to leave until you agree to stay."

"As much sense as that makes," Jimmie offered.

"The basement apartment's not much, but I can get it cleaned out and painted by the end of the week," Toni said. "Then it's yours."

"I don't want no charity," Hosea said, looking stubborn. "I've got a place to go to, all ready and waiting for me. I don't have to stay here."

Oh, brother! Eric thought. No wonder the House'd had to shout, if that was how Hosea had been responding to its gentler suggestions.

"You may be stubborn as a pig in mud, but I guarantee, this place is stubborner," Jimmie said. "Don't pick a fight you can't win, Hosea."

"Por favor," José begged. "For the sake of my little ones. And to spare me another awakening like this one."

Toni was looking at Hosea critically. "Well, maybe you're wrong, Jimmie. As far as I can tell, he hasn't been Called." The others nodded agreement, seeing something Eric couldn't. "But the House wants him to stay. Mr. Songmaker, would you consider doing us all a very great favor and staying on until we can get this sorted out? The rent won't be much for that small a studio, and I've got a certain amount of latitude in what I charge, anyway. Eric tells me you'll be getting your busking license soon, and I can wait for the rent until then. Besides, if you do stay, I won't have to wake José up any time I need some heavy lifting done," she added with a grin.

Hosea still hesitated.

"Do it," Eric said firmly. "I don't want another wake-up call like that one, either. We need the time to figure this out."

"I hate to disappoint Miss Ria that way," Hosea said tentatively.

"She'll survive," Eric said. "You aren't irreplaceable there. But it looks like you are here."

"Well . . . okay," Hosea said. "I accept your kind offer, Miss Hernandez. And I'd just like to say that I'm sorry for putting you good folks to all this trouble on my account."

"Don't mention it," Jimmie said, smiling crookedly. "Battle, murder, and sudden death our specialty. And I'm just as glad to know that we aren't going to have to find out what kind of crisis requires five Guardians on tap."

"It's settled, then," Toni said briskly. "C'mon, Hosea. You can help me empty that place out and figure out where to stow all that junk." She got to her feet.

"I guess I'll go knock on a few doors and reassure our Sensitives that the Last Trump hasn't blown," Paul said, also getting to his feet.

Toni and Hosea left, and in a few moments the others followed.

"Hey, Jimmie? A word?" Eric said, as she prepared to follow them out.

Jemima Youngblood stopped and turned back to Eric, closing the door.

"What's really going on here?" he asked. "Is Hosea a Guardian now, or what?"

"I wish I knew," Jimmie said, sounding as puzzled as Eric felt. "I've never heard the House alarms go off like that for anything else—not even the time it suckered that child molester into the basement so we could deal with him quietly, or the time one of our other tenant's guests found his ritual tools and decided it'd be fun to conjure up a demon. But . . . you recognized Hosea as—what? a fellow Bard?—the first time you laid eyes on him. Well, it's the same for us. One Guardian always knows another. And as far as that recognition factor goes, Hosea isn't a Guardian. I just wish I knew what the House knows that we don't."

Yeah. Me, too, Eric thought. "Oh, well. At least he'll be close by for his Bardic training."

"Look on the bright side," Jimmie agreed. She glanced at her watch. "Nine-thirty. And I'm working four to midnight this month. If I don't get my head down soon I'm not going to be worth much at all."

"You'd better go on and get some sleep, then," Eric said. He opened the door for her. "Sleep well."

"Thanks," Jimmie said. "And thanks for convincing your stubborn friend to take the path of least resistance. I'm not surprised the House had to yell to get his attention."

"We'll try to avoid that in the future," Eric agreed.

But how? he wondered, long after Jimmie had left.

 

 

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