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ELEVEN:
YOU WANT TO DRESS IN BLACK

The suite of rooms was an elaborate fantasia upon death; a medieval memento mori elaborated by a big-budget madman with a flair for detail. Paintings and statuary depicted every possible way a person could die, and a series of pictures painted upon the ceiling showed every stage in the dissolution of a corpse, a motif repeated on the mosaic floor, so that whether you looked up or down, you saw decaying bodies.

The bedposts were skeletons—elves might not sleep, as Jeanette Campbell knew now, but there were still some things they needed beds for—and the coverlet was jeweled and embroidered with more variations upon the gentle art of murder. Bed curtains of cobweb-fine black lace surrounded the bed, making it look even more like a catafalque. Imprisoned within this suite of rooms, Jeanette had nothing to do but contemplate the death, in all its forms, that was forever to be denied to her. And boredom was an additional torment.

Invisible servants hovered around her to fulfill her every whim—fill her bath, bring her food, play music for her, dim or light the lamps. But there were no books for her to read, and all the music sounded like it came out of the Middle Ages: weirdly atonal and military, like funeral marches played on bagpipes. She'd asked for a guitar, but that request hadn't been granted, and she thought the invisibles might not know what it was, because when she confused them, they simply ignored her orders: they wouldn't bring her coffee either. When she got tired of trying to order them around—it was like dealing with a balky computer—she could look out the window at the unchanging night and the eternally moonlit forest below. It had been a real shock when she discovered that she could see the same moon in the same position from windows on the opposite sides of the room.

Other than that, she could sleep, or pace the floor—trying to avoid catching sight of herself in any of the enormous mirrors—or (as much as she hated her confinement) pray that Aerune wouldn't come again to let her out. She could study the death images until she'd memorized every detail. And then, for a change, she could nerve herself up to try looking in the mirrors without flinching.

The mirrors were Aerune's other joke—funny, with all the time she'd spent imagining what elves would be like if they were real and she could meet them, she'd never imagined they could be so mind-numbingly petty. It was one thing for Aerune to still be in mourning for a girlfriend killed, as far as Jeanette could figure out, about five thousand years ago, and to be intending to wipe out the human race in revenge. That was almost dignified. Romantic, Byronic, all those things that she loved and hated at the same time. But at the same time, to have him invent this whole elaborate sniggering joke, not only on the way she looked now, but on her humanity as well. . . .

That was cheap and petty, a symptom of an arrogance so vast it didn't only not care how it appeared to outsiders, it couldn't even imagine any point of view but its own. And that amount of self-obsession sort of took the edge off the whole romantic lost-love thing.

She went over to the stained-glass windows and pushed them open wide, leaning out as far as she could. Damp smells of forest and water welled up out of the night, and in the distance she could hear the sound of a river. But aside from minor variations, the landscape was as unchanging as a photograph. The moon (or moons) never moved, the sun never rose—sometimes the place went to a foggy twilight, but on no particular schedule—and somewhere at the edge of the forest, the world stopped and turned back on itself, and the only way to get somewhere else was through a Gate that only a Sidhe could work.

She had only the vaguest idea of how long she'd been here—even when Aerune took her out to hunt, she couldn't get an accurate idea of the time, and the time where she went didn't seem to have any relation to the time here—but she'd learned a lot during her captivity. About the nature of the Sidhe, about Aerune's plans, about magic itself. Once she would have given up anything she had to see and do the things she'd done. Now, she only wished she'd been spared the disappointment of finding out what she knew. She hadn't wanted to know that elves were so petty, so mean, so . . . empty.

The whole place seemed as if it'd been assembled as a scrapbook of Gothic Evil Through the Centuries, with the emphasis on the High Medieval period. There was nothing new here, nothing exciting—nothing, in fact, that she couldn't have made up for herself. Sure the creatures were weird—but no weirder than she could see in the movies. Sure the landscape was alien—but no more alien than she could see in a painting. Sure her surroundings were opulent—but you could get awfully sick of gold and jewels. Everything was grand, but nothing was comfortable. It was like trying to live in a museum.

She should have turned herself in and gone to prison when she'd had the chance. At least they let you read in prison.

But Aerune would have found her there, too. And Aerune still scared her, terrified her, frightened her on levels she didn't know were in her. He was trite, but he was also monstrous. She forgot what he was like the moment she left his presence—a form of self-preservation, she suspected—but when he was near she resonated to him, like a crystal goblet that someone had struck. And that hurt, like a dentist's drill that never stopped.

That was what the T-Stroke had done to her—turned her into an Empath, and she resonated to the physical and psychic pain of anyone she was near. She had no control over it. And she was drawn to magic, to Talent, to what Aerune called Crownfire, most of all. That was what made her so useful to Aerune. She could no more not sense the presence of Talent than she could hold her breath forever, and try as she might, she couldn't hide her reaction. All Aerune had to do was drag her within range of someone with Talent and she vibrated like a tuning fork. Every time he took her out of here, it was to find people like that.

And then Aerune killed them. Sucked up their magic, their potential, their Talent, and killed them.

And there was nothing she could do about that, either. She'd tried to kill herself. It didn't work. It hurt a lot, and it scared her, and it didn't work. She'd given up trying.

She'd also tried to refuse to do what he wanted, but all it got her was pain—and if she still tried to refuse, he would begin to kill people. Surely it was better to give him what he wanted? That way, only a few people died. Fewer.

Funny how I can't seem to stop doing things like that. So much for good intentions.  

Time to try the mirrors again—that or throw herself out the window. She kept covering them up and turning them to the wall, but the invisibles always put them back again the way they'd been. Maybe she'd get used to what she saw in them eventually. She turned away from the window and crossed the room, her long heavy skirts swishing. She was dressed in what she guessed was Elvish haute couture, and it made everything even worse. These weren't her kinds of clothes. They didn't suit her, and she didn't deserve to be wearing them. They made everything worse.

She approached the mirror, eyes closed—after this long, she knew every inch of her prison and all its accessories well enough to navigate it blindfolded—and stood before the mirror for a long moment before she could force herself to open her eyes. A stranger stared back, looking like a caricature of the self she knew. This was what Aerune had made of her.

Her eyes were now wide, the bright unnatural green of a child's crayon, fringed with thick black lashes. Her body had been fined down to asexual slimness, stretched and remade. Her hair was long and thick and moon-silver, cascading down over her shoulders and back, giving her the look of some exotic bird. This was her the way she'd always wished she was, and that was the cruelest joke of all—that Aerune had taken her secret dreams and dragged them out into the light of day, making them dirty with his touch. She hated it, hated him, and hated herself most of all.

As she watched, the elaborate silk gown she wore began to flow and change like melting wax, darkening and molding itself to her body until she was clad head to foot in a sheath of form-fitting black leather covered with matching silver studs along the shoulders, arms, and legs. Around her neck was a heavy leather collar with silver spikes, the kind a hunting dog might wear.

This was her hunting costume.

"No. Oh . . . no," she whispered, backing away from the mirror.

And then her image vanished as well, and Aerune stood within the ornate frame, holding out his hand.

"Come, my hound. It is time to hunt once more—and this time, I have a special treat for you."

She made a sound in the back of her throat—a groan of utter despair. Useless to fight him, impossible to try. Hating herself, she held out her hand to him in response. There was a jarring wrench of translocation, and they were . . . elsewhere. Now she had a leash upon her collar, and Aerune held the end.

"Do you like it?" Aerune asked her.

She looked around herself, wondering where he'd brought her this time. Back to Earth, somewhere in daylight, in some sort of office building.

No, not an office. The halls were filled with teenagers, wearing clothes that hadn't been in fashion in a very long time. A school of some sort, she supposed.

No one saw them. No one would see them unless Aerune wished them to. But Jeanette could see—and feel—everything. Emotions buffeted her naked senses like gusts of wind—despair, murderous anger, fear and pain and joy so intense it made her reel drunkenly, bathed in the emotional storms of adolescence.

This was high school. Her high school.

Recognition brought horror. James K. Polk High School, sometime in the late eighties. The same time she'd been going there.

"Why did you bring me here?" she demanded furiously.

"To hunt," Aerune answered. "Do you wish to see yourself as you were? There you are."

He pointed. A girl was walking down the hall. Her mouse-blonde hair was skinned back in an unflattering ponytail, and she wore no makeup. Her skin was blotched with acne. She was wearing a cheap leather jacket that didn't fit very well and carrying an armload of books. Her head was down and her shoulders hunched, as though she expected somebody to hit her.

Me. That's me. But why don't I stand up straight? Scuttling along like that, it's practically like wearing a "kick me" sign.  

She stared at herself, feeling the faint recognition of Talent thrill over her skin. It was no surprise; the T-Stroke would have killed her outright if she didn't have it. But it was stifled, suppressed, ignored. Covered over with a sullen anger that didn't look outside itself, that poisoned everything it touched.

Stupid. I was so stupid.  

Jeanette watched as her younger self stopped in front of her locker, awkwardly juggling books as she reached for the padlock. A boy in a cream and gold varsity jacket strode toward her, deliberately banging into her and spilling her books all over the floor.

Cary McCormack. Oh, god, I hated him!  

As she bent to pick them up, one of the boys with Cary darted forward and slapped a sticker onto the back of her jacket. It was a promo sticker for a local rock band, and adult Jeanette thought it looked pretty cool. But she felt the flare of rage from her younger self like a spike in her guts as younger-Jeanette wheeled on her tormentor, hissing curses.

All of the boys laughed, even Cary, but she could see into them as well as she could see into her other self, and there was none of the gloating joy she expected to see—just worry and uncertainty, boys feeling their way into adulthood just as her younger self was. And stuffed into Cary's back pocket, a well-thumbed paperback novel, one that she had read and loved. He was watching her younger self anxiously, a little bit of him hoping for some other reaction than rejection and anger, an acknowledgement that he hadn't meant her any real harm.

He just wants to talk. But boy, is he going about it the wrong way!  

But how could she expect more? They were children, all of them. They were still learning how to do all the things adults took for granted—make friends and alliances, fall in love, serve conflicting loyalties, react wisely to unfairness and cruelty, and all the rest of the things that were supposed to set adults apart from children. If she'd been willing to make an effort, she could have turned the whole situation around, made a joke, maybe even talked to Cary. . . .

But she hadn't. She'd pushed hard to make them enemies, because it was easier, because she was young, too. She'd made them into monsters and they'd done their best to be what she wanted.

But I could have wanted something else. I threw away my whole life and let them bring me to this just because I was stupid!  

It was an epiphany, but she didn't like it very much. The best revenge wasn't revenge, it was living well, and she hadn't. She hadn't revenged herself on her childhood tormentors by turning into Aerune's hound—she'd finished their work for them.

The boys went on. Young Jeanette got her locker open and began picking up her books again. A clique of girls—the bright ones, the pretty ones—went by, pointing at her and sniggering, but inside each of them was the fear: am I like that? What makes me different? What if I'm not pretty any more? How do I do everything right when I don't know what I'm doing at all?

They could never have been her friends—their interests were too different—but they didn't have to have been her enemies. She hadn't had to notice them at all, one way or the other. That was the part that had been her choice.

"Can we go home now?" she asked in a hard voice.

"There is still the hunt. You know what I seek. Find it for me," Aerune answered implacably.

She looked at the kids still filling the halls. They all thought of themselves as fully adult—only she knew how much of their lives' journey was before them. Refuse to do what Aerune wanted, and those unfinished lives all ended here. She didn't remember a bloodbath happening in her high school years here, but that didn't mean Aerune couldn't arrange one now.

The few for the many, and no matter what she chose, Death would come to JKPHS today.

Defeated, she began the hunt, pacing through the halls at the end of Aerune's leash. For a while back in the beginning she'd used to hope that if she spent enough time back in the Real World the T-Stroke would catch up with her and burn her out, but Aerune had quickly destroyed that hope. While she hunted for him, his spells kept time from touching her, even here. There was no escape.

She had no way to block the pain radiating from the kids around her—this one was pregnant, that one's parents were divorcing, the other was trying drugs for the first time and was terrified he was going to hell—but if she forced herself, she could let it wash through her, sifting through it for what Aerune sought. Several times a pang of Talent made her stop and quiver, but a lot of kids had Talent that burned out within a few years at this age. That wasn't what Aerune was looking for, and god help everyone here if he didn't find something to make his Hunt worthwhile.

Then she felt it. Burning like the sun, heat and life enough to warm her cold bones, banish all the borrowed pain. Helpless, she turned toward it. Refuse to follow the trail, and the killing would begin.

One or two instead of a dozen. That's good, isn't it? Isn't it a better choice?  

There were other wellsprings of Power here. She could feel them. But this one was the strongest, the closest, and so she could concentrate on it and not give warning of the others. It was all she could do.

It was lunchtime, so most of the classrooms were empty. She passed each one, seeing glimpses of a world as foreign and lost as ancient Atlantis inside. There were real tragedies here, and cutthroat social climbing more intense than anywhere outside of Hollywood, but at the same time, there was a certain innocence to all of it. That was why people always spoke of high school as the happiest time of their lives . . . if they managed to forget the pain.

She hadn't. She'd let it rule her. And this was the result. She'd become someone she didn't even know. 

She followed the trail of Power to the school auditorium. No one was supposed to be in here, but it wasn't locked. James Polk had been a nice upper-middle-class school in a good district. Parents all congratulated each other about not having the problems with violence or vandalism found in other schools. She and Aerune went inside.

It was dark in here. The school had been built in the thirties, and the auditorium bore a more than passing resemblance to a theater, with balconies, stage, and thick red velvet curtains, now drawn back to reveal an empty stage. A few lines of Shakespeare were carved on the archway above:

All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts . . . As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7. 

There was someone sitting at the foot of the stage, leaning against it; a small untidy boy with an ever-present spiral notebook in which he had constantly been doodling.

That's Strange Stan Chandler. He ran away from home his junior year and nobody ever found out what happened to him.  

Now she knew. She could feel his power, his creativity, that wonderful gift that the Sidhe lacked. She could see the life he would have had as if a movie were unrolling in her mind: high school, then art school, then an apprenticeship at one of the major animation studios, then ground-breaking work in CGI and a series of brilliant movies that would bring a renewed sense of childhood wonder to all who saw them. . . .

And none of it was ever going to happen. Because Stan Chandler wasn't going to get a chance to grow up to be a wizard. Because Stan Chandler hadn't run away at all.

"So this is the one," Aerune said, as Jeanette died a little more inside. There was a ripple of Power, and she knew they were suddenly visible.

"Come with me, little one," Aerune said. "Come into my kingdom."

She saw Stan's face awaken with wonder, with hope, with incredulous disbelief and gleeful awe, saw him jump to his feet—a skinny kid with big ears and thick glasses, somebody that nobody would ever look at twice—staring at the elf-lord in amazement. And then saw suspicion replace wonder, saw the fear begin.

But by then it was too late. Aerune had reached him, taken his hand. And the world melted around the three of them like a disrupted reflection, to re-form as Aerune's throne room.

Jeanette backed away—he'd dropped her leash, now that his prize was in his hands—but she could not block out what came next. Somehow Aerune reached into Stan, finding the reservoir of his Talent and draining it away, into himself.

It hurt. She covered her ears, but that didn't block out the screams. Or the pain. She crawled up the steps of Aerune's throne and huddled against its coldness, begging and praying that the pain would soon be over.

For both of them.

A long time later she became aware that people were talking above her head—Aerune and someone else. This was rare, but not unheard of, and she tried not to listen. If Aerune noticed she was here—if Aerune noticed she was here and didn't like it, he would transport her to some other place. If she were lucky, she'd wind up back in her room. If she weren't, it would be some place like an open grave, or a swamp filled with maggots, or a bright place where things she could never remember clearly afterward did . . . something. Something horrible.

But she couldn't shut out the voices. Because while one of them was Aerune's, the other was human, from her own world and time.

"Oh, we're moving forward, Lord Aerune. People are willing enough to believe in you after Tunguska and Roswell and Grover's Mill. I'm sure you don't mind if they think you're space aliens—'elves' is a little hard for folks to swallow these days, but it doesn't matter what they call you, so long as it gets the job done. And psychic space aliens are even scarier than the other kind, if you get my drift—especially once they start encroaching on humanity."

Whoever he was, he wasn't afraid of Aerune. Jeanette listened in amazement. It was almost as if they were . . . allies.

"I believe I do, Mr. Wheatley. But I trust that your inner circle is quite aware that the invaders are not 'space aliens,' but the Sidhe?" Aerune asked.

"Indeed they are, Lord Aerune. The bodies you've provided have been quite helpful in that respect. But I have to ask—when are my boys going to have a live specimen to play around with? We can go just so far with sweeps and drills."

She didn't dare move, didn't dare look up or draw attention to herself in any way. Aerune was talking like Earth was being invaded by elves in all directions, but as far as she knew, the only one who wanted to invade Earth was Aerune, and he couldn't get any of the other Sidhe to play along.

So he'd gotten this human to help him present elves as a threat to humanity, so that elves would see humans as a threat. Couldn't this Wheatley see that if Aerune's plan worked, he'd be as dead as everyone else? How stupid could bureaucrats be?

Aerune was speaking once more.

"I am aware of your concerns, but I must counsel patience. You may continue to use the special equipment I have provided to search out those members of the Bright Court who live among you, passing as your own kind. Properly handled, even their discovery can bring about the war we seek. Meanwhile, I shall endeavor to provide you with captives who will be properly . . . unconcilliatory, but it will require time."

"Yeah. The last thing we want is to grab one of those Bright guys who'll go all reasonable and multicultural on us. We need a real fighter," Wheatley said cheerfully.

"All in time. And what of your plan to move against those of your own kind with Power?" There was a gloating note in Aerune's voice that made Jeanette shudder.

"Well, there we're seeing real progress," Wheatley said, gloating. "We've consolidated a number of those dumb-ass government psychic research programs under our agency umbrella—Anomaly, Trapdoor, Arclight, and so on—and we're massaging the results to make it look not only as if psionic powers are widespread and reliable, but that the Spookies present a real threat to the power structure. You'll have the screening programs and internment camps you want within five years, or my name isn't Parker Wheatley. When you come right down to it, the Psionicist Threat is the perfect social control: fear of a minority that's invisible, that you can't prove you don't belong to. We can put down anybody we need to by saying they're psychic once this gets rolling."

"I am glad you are pleased—" Aerune broke off suddenly, and Jeanette realized with a pang of sick despair that he'd noticed her after all. She scrambled back off the edge of his throne, hoping to beg for mercy. But the floor swallowed her up as if it were water, and then she was falling, falling down into the night.

* * *

By unspoken agreement, they all gathered back in Eric's apartment on their return from the hospital, huddled together like the survivors of a disaster. For a long time no one spoke. Finally Paul got up and left, returning a few minutes later with a bottle of Scotch and a large silver cup.

"I'd been saving this for a very special occasion. There's none more important than saying good-bye to a beloved comrade. We'll hope it's unique." He poured the calleach full—it took half the bottle—then set the bottle down on the floor, very gently.

"Here's to Jimmie Youngblood. Warrior and friend. I will miss her." He drank, and passed the cup to Toni.

"I loved her," Toni said, her voice stark in its grief. "Waes hael, girlfriend. Go with God."

The cup passed, each person saying their own good-byes.

"She gave me more than I ever gave her. I wish we'd had more time." Eric took only the barest sip, but his farewell was no less heartfelt for that.

Kayla was next. "I didn't know her. I wish I had. Death bites."

Ria followed, giving nothing but a simple toast and passing the cup. He ought to get up and make some coffee, Eric supposed, but it didn't seem worth the effort. He sat on the end of the couch, the smoky taste of the Scotch on his lips, and mourned the future that would never be. It was one thing to die fighting for something that mattered, giving up your life so that the innocent could live on in happy ignorance of their peril. But that wasn't how Jimmie had died. She'd died in an accident—a stupid, pointless, meaningless fluke, as random as if she'd stepped off the curb and been hit by a car. After all she'd done, all she'd suffered, all she'd given up to be a Guardian, her death should have had more meaning than that. It was as if God had just lost interest in her and blotted her out.

It wasn't fair. He bowed his head, not caring if the others saw his tears.

"If Jimmie had to die for me to become a Guardian, I don't want the job," Hosea said thickly. "She was a righteous lady, and I won't ever be able to fill her shoes." He drank deeply, passing the cup to José.

"Good-bye, my friend. You should not have had to die for so little."

Greystone had joined them, his wings held high and tight over his back as if he wished to shut out the events of the night.

"Farewell, mo chidr. We can't always choose our fights, but you never ran from yours. Fare you well." He accepted the cup from José and drained it.

There was a long moment of silence. "The first time I saw Jimmie," Paul said softly, "it was raining. She was standing outside of the House—no umbrella—looking like a wet cat, and about that mad. . . ."

But talking about Jimmie didn't make the loss of her easier to bear. It made it worse. They were whistling in the dark, choking on their own despair, each wondering when their own painful pointless death would come. Why live? Why do anything, when your death would be nothing more than a ripple, counting for nothing, quickly forgotten. If life meant so little, if death was so cruel, why not hasten the moment? If you could control nothing else, if there were no true choices in life, why not choose death and get it all over with? There was no way to win against it. Everybody died, and no death meant anything in the long run.

* * *

"A test." Aerune's voice came out of nowhere, rousing Jeanette from her aching daze. She could see nothing, could barely feel the surface on which she lay. Everything hurt; her eyes burned and her throat was raw with screaming, but worse than that was the terrifying blankness in her mind. She could not remember where she'd been, or what had happened to her, since she had been in Aerune's throne room.

Worse, she felt as if the information lurked somewhere beneath the surface of her mind, and to recover it would drive her mad.

But it did not do to ignore Aerune when he was speaking. He was still angry with her. She could tell.

"What test, my lord?" she asked. She reached up and felt her face. Her eyes were open, but she still saw nothing. Blindness? Darkness? Or some kind of spell? Asking would only bring her more trouble.

"Of your abilities. I will bring you to a place where there are many of those whom I seek. You will find me the strongest concentration of them. And I will use their power to give Mr. Wheatley the proof he so ardently desires."

"Yes, lord." She staggered to her feet, groping for stability in the darkness. When would she stop caring about what he used her to do? When would she go numb, or mad, or just die? When would he be done with her?

"Come, then."

She felt a whisper of air, and then the tingle of magic as Aerune opened a Portal. She stepped through.

The assault on her unshielded senses was as if a million people were shouting at once in a language she didn't understand. She staggered, blinded now by the wash of physical and psychic pain, choking, gasping for breath. She fell against the side of Aerune's elvensteed, felt his armored leg against her back. He moved his mount away from her touch and she fought to stay on her feet. If she fell, he wouldn't let go of her leash.

She forced her eyes open. Night. Trees. City lights. Hot summer air, the smell of car exhaust and hot asphalt and the distant wail of sirens. Aerune usually chose less populated places for his hunts—Cold Iron was deadly to elves, as well as screwing up their magic, and big cities were full of it. He wouldn't have come to a place like this without good reason.

Her heart hammered faster, racing, and waves of chill and nausea swept over her. Something was different this time, but she couldn't take the time to puzzle it out right now. Aerune wanted results, but how could she find one trace of Power among so many false clues?

She was in a park, near the edge. As she peered at the buildings across the street, she realized she knew where she was. New York. Central Park.

Almost home.

New York must have some kind of connection to Aerune's home base, somehow—he'd first appeared here when Threshold was doing field tests, and she didn't think he'd have noticed the tests if he hadn't been here, in the same world at the same time. New York must interest him somehow, and she didn't think it was because it was the center of the global business economy, or a great cultural center, or the home town of American publishing, or one of the biggest and most advanced cities on Earth.

No. That must really be the reason. Aerune wanted to take humanity down here, because if he took out New York, no place else could be any harder to destroy. If she were a Sidhe looking to build a beachhead in the mortal world, she'd pick some place like Minneapolis or Toronto to start with—smaller cities with fewer people. Or maybe someplace with no people to speak of at all, like the Great Plains, or Russia, or Antarctica. But obviously Aerune felt differently.

Arrogant. Stupid. And powerful enough that it probably didn't matter, in the long run. Make a big Sidhe fuss here, in the Big Apple, and there'd be no way on earth the government could hush it up. He'd have all the panic he wanted—and the war he wanted, too.

But right now, Aerune wanted a Hunt.

Jeanette picked a direction at random and began walking, trying to get her bearings and cull information from the agonizing and bewildering wash of sensations that surrounded her. She needed to strike a trail, and fast. Aerune's patience was close to nonexistent at the best of times, and this was more than a test. Somehow, this was a trap.

Is what I overheard so important that I've got to die? That can't be it. He could kill me any time he wanted to. And who would I tell about Wheatley, anyway? Everyone in that place belongs to Aerune body and soul, even the High Elves. None of them would betray him. None of them would even care. 

All the while, something had been trying to get her attention, like the high faint peal of a bell over the roar of a storming ocean, and she finally focused on it.

Power.

Enormous power. The thing Aerune sought—that he must have known was here, somewhere in New York, before he ever set her on its trail. She stopped in her tracks and turned this way and that, trying to get a bead on it.

North and west.

"That way." She pointed.

Aerune reached down and pulled her up behind him on the horse, riding in the direction she indicated. It drew her, swamping all other input. Not one Talent, but too many to count—an ocean of power, enough to drown in.

Enough to turn Aerune into a god.

And if she didn't help him find it, there were millions here for him to slaughter. He didn't even have to kill them one by one. All he had to do was take down the power grid, and thousands would die as the carefully-balanced machinery of the city ground to a halt.

And if she did help him find the Power he sought, how many more would die?

How could she make that kind of choice?

The elvensteed broke into a trot. They were near the river now, and Jeanette realized he was no longer waiting for her directions. Whatever the source, it was big enough—and close enough—that Aerune could sense it himself now.

They stopped on a darkened side street. She didn't know what time it was, but she knew it was late—there wasn't any traffic here, and most of the buildings around them were dark. On her left was a parking lot filled with motorcycles and an assortment of small cars—the lot itself unusual on the Upper West Side, where real estate space was at a premium.

And beyond the lot was the source of what had called her. An apartment building, with a few windows lit. Every apartment contained Talent of some sort, and behind one of those windows, a concentration of pure Power, and anguish so great that Jeanette tried to curl up where she sat, and only succeeded in sliding from the saddle to the ground, to huddle at the elvensteed's feet.

Aerune jerked on her leash. "Stop that." The Sidhe's voice was lazy; he sounded almost drunk on the pain that was killing her. "Do you not see? My other hound has done me one last service in his dying, striking a heart's blow against these petty mortals who would oppose my will. He has opened a path through their defenses; helpless in their grief, they will not sense me until it is far too late. In their destruction, the seeds of mortalkind's destruction will be sown as well."

He was gloating, Jeanette realized with numb indignation. But she could barely concentrate on his words, let alone react to them. The torment was too great, worse than ever before. It was as if . . .

She was dying.

In his impatience to tap into this concentration of Power—or perhaps because he needed all his own puissance to survive here—Aerune had loosed the spells that kept time from affecting her. The T-Stroke was working again, weakening her, burning her out.

If only the people in the building would keep Aerune distracted, keep him from noticing her again until it was too late. She hated herself for the thought, but she had no illusions left. She was a coward, a user, a destroyer. A victim, not a hero. Even if she dared to try to do something right, things only got worse.

All she could do—the only thing she could ever do—was try desperately not to be noticed. To escape, any way she could.

* * *

If only mortals knew what power lay in their despair.  

Aerune could sense his hound's anguish—he fed upon it, increasing it as he did the pain of those who lay in the fortress beyond. It had been Jeanette's helpless rage and self-loathing that he had most loved about her. Her empathic power had only been an incidental thing, his use of it a way to pass the time and learn more of the mortal world while his long-range plans came to fruition. He had been surprised at her strength—no matter what he did, she did not surrender, did not come to fawn upon him with the helpless groveling love of his Court. With time enough, she would have realized what power her despair gave her, and that would be tiresome and inconvenient. Better to end it here, now, by allowing the poison she had taken to work its will upon her at last—or would it be more amusing to let her think she had escaped, then to snatch her back from the gates of Death?

Only a small part of Aerune's consciousness was occupied with that idle speculation. Most of it was engaged in siphoning off the rich banquet of power and grief that lay before him, slipping his subtle magics past the lax wards of the stronghold and turning the anguish of those inside back upon itself so that they could think of nothing else, and in their sorrow become utterly vulnerable to his attack.

For I am the Lord of Death and Pain, and all who sorrow and weep do me homage . . .  

Aerune no longer felt the weakness brought on by the deathmetal surrounding him. Once he had drained these enemies dry, destroyed the last of their defenses, all that set them apart from the ordinary run of humanity would be gone, to flow through his veins, allowing him to strike them down with impunity. Power to spare, power to waste, power to shield him from their monkey tricks and petty impediments . . .

* * *

Kayla's eyes ached with unshed tears. The power she'd expended tonight had left her exhausted, and there was nothing to show for it. The operation was a success, but the patient died, as the old joke went. Her head drooped, and she shivered, even though she'd reclaimed her leather jacket when they got back here and was huddled into it now. Everything in her urged her to give up, surrender, make an end to things now before life could hurt her any more than it already had. . . .

Wait . . . wait . . .  

Her thoughts were groggy, as if she'd had a lot more to drink than just a sip of Scotch.

This isn't right.  

It was hard to think. She was drowning in the others' grief, resonating to it like a water glass to a soprano.

Not just me . . .  

Cautiously she lowered her shields, wincing at the uprush of grief that spilled past her barriers. Gritting her teeth, she reached past her immediate surroundings. The House itself was grieving—it, and everyone in it: the Sensitives who did not know the cause of their overwhelming sorrow; the magicians who set up wards against it in vain; even the other tenants, those who were only as sensitive as any artist. All of them mourned, turning inward, shutting out the world beyond their walls.

And something outside those walls was feeding on that pain, magnifying it and siphoning it off at the same time.

Kayla drew back inside herself, making her shields as tight as she could. But there was such a sweetness in surrendering to the pain, a dark joy in the knowledge that she could receive no greater hurt in life than that she had already received, that turning away from that submission was the hardest thing she had ever done.

"Hey . . ." Kayla said. Her voice came out in a croak. "Something's wrong."

Paul looked at her, his red-rimmed eyes bleak. "Everything's wrong. The good die and the innocent suffer, and there's nothing anyone can do about it," he said in a flat voice.

Kayla pulled herself to her feet, the dragging weakness—physical and emotional—making her stagger and reel. "No!" she said, louder now. "Something's wrong!"

The others ignored her as if she hadn't spoken. Sat, drained and grieving, emotional zombies.

I've gotta do something! Something to turn them out of themselves, away from Death, back toward Life. But Kayla was tapped out. She had barely enough energy to keep herself on her feet, and none to spare to heal them.

Music. Could that help?

I've got two Bards here, they oughtta be able to do something.  

She looked at Eric. He was sitting with Ria's head on his shoulder, staring at nothing. His eyes were empty, swollen with unshed tears. Maybe if she put the flute in his hands . . .?

She staggered toward the bedroom. The floor tilted crazily with her exhaustion, and she could barely feel it beneath her feet. She clung to the wall, keeping herself upright by sheer bloody-mindedness.

There! The flute case lay on the bed, and beside it, Hosea's banjo. She tripped over the edge of the flokati rug and fell to her hands and knees. It would be so easy just to lie here, give in to her exhaustion, sleep and pray to never wake up again.

Wimp.  

She pulled herself to her feet, clinging to the edge of the mattress, then grabbed the flute case and the banjo. They seemed to burn in her hands, weighing far more than they possibly could. It was only with an effort that she kept herself from using the banjo as a crutch as she reeled back into the living room.

She dropped the flute case in Eric's lap. "Play something—something happy," she demanded raggedly.

Eric looked up at her, moving as though underwater. "Not now," was all he said.

"Eric, we need this. Play." Oh, please. Don't make me beg. I don't have the strength. 

He shook his head.

"It's too soon. Let the dead rest," Hosea said, dully.

Kayla rounded on him, holding the banjo like a club. She felt anger building inside her and fed it, welcoming the burn of fury. It was all that was keeping her going. And when it was gone, there would be nothing left.

"Oh, yeah. That's a great idea! Jimmie'd be real proud of you, farmboy—she goes through hell for you and this is how you pay her back? Lie down and die? So she's dead—play her out, then! Play for her!"

Hosea's eyes focused on her, and slowly he reached for the banjo. "Guess I can do that much," he said. He began to play, something slow and mournful—"John Barleycorn," she thought.

"Oh great—is that how you want to remember her? A dead loser? You want to lie down in that grave with her?"

Hosea stopped and looked at her. "That ain't fair, Kayla."

"Do you think this is how she wants you to remember her?" She spun around and glared at Eric and Ria, although the world was graying out around her. "Do you think she just wants you to give up and die? Play!"

Slowly Eric began to fumble with the flute case, plainly unable to understand why Kayla was so upset. Hosea began to play again: "Ashokan Farewell." Kayla groaned inwardly. Not much livelier than the other thing. But when she looked at him, she could see confusion in his eyes as he began to sense the wrongness here. By the time the melody came around again, Eric had joined him, the flute wailing like the wind in high lonely places. She could see he didn't get it, and she had no more to give. She sank down to the floor, sitting at Eric's feet.

But still the two Bards played, pulling themselves agonizingly from song to song, like travelers crossing a frozen river: from "Ashokan Farewell" to "Lorena" to "Bonnie Blue Flag" to "Dixie." It almost didn't matter what they played, not really. Music was life, and anything would help. Then faster: "Marching Through Georgia" and "Union Forever"—fighting songs, those—and "Susan Brown" and "Turkey in the Straw" with their catchy cheery rhythm, and she could see the power linking the two Bards like binary suns. Power—and life, that spilled over into the others, through the walls and the floor, filling the entire building with their defiance, filling Kayla until she twitched with it, all exhaustion banished.

The others roused, shaking off the seductive despair that had wrapped them like a burial shroud, breaking the cycle of grief and surrender. It seemed as if Kayla could feel the House itself taking a deep breath and shaking all over like a wet dog.

And then at last they could all sense the threat that came from without: the malignancy—and triumph.

* * *

:Bogeys at six o'clock! Scramble!: Greystone Sent, panic in his mental voice. They could all feel it, that power like no other: the mark of the Dark Lords, the Unseleighe Sidhe. Eric ran to the window and stepped out onto the fire escape. Behind him he heard the apartment door slam as the Guardians ran to defend their turf. The front door of the building was "twelve o'clock," so the enemy was at the back, in the parking lot.

Aerune. A sickness twisted in Eric's gut as he recognized the rider on the black elvensteed. Aerune was the one who had been feeding on their anguish, turning their grief to despair. He vaulted over the railing, and let a touch of Power carry him lightly five stories to the ground. Outside the bespelled air conditioning of his apartment, the summer heat enveloped him like a glove, plastering his white dress shirt to his body as sweat sprang out of every pore.

The other three—no, four—Guardians reached the ground at the same time he did and fanned out, not seeing Aerune yet. Eric didn't see Ria—she was probably still inside, sitting on Kayla. That was a small mercy. The last time any of them had faced Aerune, he'd been kidnapping and draining Talent—and Kayla would be just the sort of morsel that would whet his appetite—if he weren't already glutted with the power he'd siphoned off from Guardian House and its inmates. Aerune glowed with Power in Eric's mage-sight—power enough to rock the city around their ears.

But tonight it seemed that Aerune had other plans.

"Greetings, mortal pests—and Bard." Aerune bowed with a flourish, leaning over his mount's saddle, hugely pleased with himself. When he spoke, the glamourie that surrounded him vanished, and the others could see him as well. "It is a lovely evening, is it not?"

"What does he want?" Toni whispered to Eric. "You're the expert on elves."

"Good evening, Lord Aerune."

Eric stepped forward, bowing in turn. Good manners, due form, these were vital in dealing with High Court Sidhe, whether Dark or Bright. Ignore the forms, and they could kill you out of hand, but if you played by the rules, they had to as well. "You are far from home."

"I ride over lands I intend to claim," Aerune said. "Had you fallen into my trap, I could have done so tonight without difficulty—but no matter. I am an apt pupil, Bard, and I have learned your lessons well. My allies daily grow stronger . . . and I can wait while you wither and die. Mortals die so easily—ah, but you have already discovered that this fine evening, have you not?"

He means Jimmie, Eric realized, and held onto his temper with a great effort. Fury was weakness. It would not help him.

"Yes, I can wait," Aerune continued, "while all you can do is age and die, pathetic mortal meat that you are. Perhaps I will save you from that, and grant each of you a hero's death."

Aerune drew back his hand. It glowed blackly with levin-fire. Eric barely had time to throw a shield over himself and the others, but they were not his target. Aerune struck at the House itself, balefire fountaining over bricks and mortar, until the walls of the building itself ran with cold fire.

Eric could hear screams coming from inside. The Sensitives of Guardian House would have nightmares for months, but he dared not look away from the Unseleighe Lord. He wasn't powerful enough to take on Aerune by himself, the Guardians had no experience with the Sidhe, and Hosea was untrained either as Guardian or Bard. And nightmares were better than body bags.

Seeing that none of them would attack, Aerune began to laugh. "But not tonight. No, tonight, in token of the great love I bear for you all, I bring you . . . a gift."

Something—someone—staggered forward, sprawling at their feet. It was a girl—a woman—dressed in a glove-tight suit of black leather studded in silver, that covered all of her but her face. Silver hair spilled down her back, glittering in the parking lot's merciless halogen lights.

She wore a collar and leash, and she was human.

Aerune's mount reared and vaulted through the Portal he had opened. The Portal vanished, but his laughter echoed in the air.

Eric ran forward to help the girl up, but she scrabbled backward on hands and knees, whimpering. The leash dragged along the ground. She was hemorrhaging Power, radiating like a beacon, and Eric could detect no hint of shielding.

"Hey, take it easy. We won't hurt you."

She shook her head—he still couldn't see her face—but she began to laugh breathlessly, a sound chilling in its hopelessness.

"What the hell is going on?" Ria demanded, arriving with Kayla. "What's that?"

"Aerune said she was a present," Eric said tightly.

The crouching figure looked up.

There was a frozen moment of silence.

"You," Ria breathed, fury in her voice.

The woman scrabbled to her feet and tried to run, but Ria was faster. She lunged forward, grabbing a handful of silver hair and dealing a stinging open-handed slap with the other. She drew back her hand to slap the woman again, but Eric grabbed her.

"Ria! Stop it! What's going on?"

Ria glared at him, green eyes flaming, her hand still fisted in the woman's hair. She shook her victim. Ria's handprint stood out lividly against her skin.

"Don't you know who this is, even with the clever plastic disguise? Meet Jeanette Campbell: she invented T-Stroke, and I'm going to make her wish she'd never been born. Let go of me!" She struggled, trying to pull her arm free of Eric's grip. Jeanette cowered back, panting and whimpering.

"Now, Miss Llewellyn," Hosea said mildly. He picked up the trailing leash and looped it around his hand. "She isn't going anywhere. And I think we'd all like some answers."

"She's mine!" Ria snarled.

"No, she isn't," Eric said levelly. "Let go of her, Ria. We have to find out what she knows. And then the law can make her pay for her crimes."

"No," Jeanette said, her voice barely intelligible through sounds of pain. "No, it can't."

Ria let go of Jeanette's hair to try to break Eric's grip, but he refused to release her. Jeanette ran to the end of the leash Hosea still held and dragged helplessly at it, trying to get away. Hosea reached for her to try to calm her.

"Oh, God, no! Don't touch me!" Jeanette shrieked. The raw agony in her voice stopped all of them cold for an instant, but an instant was enough.

"She's an Empath," Kayla said, her voice flat with discovery.

"I don't care if she's Mother Teresa," Ria growled, yanking herself free of Eric.

"I think," Paul Kern said, "that we'd better take this inside if we possibly can." He pointed back at the House.

Eric looked up. It was well after midnight—nearly dawn, in fact—but all the windows on this side of the building were lit, and he could see people at most of them gazing down into the parking lot. In a few moments some of them would come downstairs, asking a lot of questions that the people standing in the parking lot wouldn't want to answer.

"Yes. Greystone, is this some kind of trap?" Eric asked.

:Not that I can see, laddybuck. She's harmless,: the gargoyle replied in mindspeech. :Come on in.: 

"You guys go ahead," Eric said.

They went, Hosea dragging Jeanette by the leash. She shied away from all attempts to touch her. Ria stalked into the building without looking behind her, back stiff with fury.

But Ria's anger was a problem to solve later, if he could. For now, some damage control was needed. Eric stepped back from the building, lips pursed in a soundless whistle as he summoned Power. The simplest of the Bardic Gifts—a spell of sweet dreams and forgetfulness for all those who stood watching from their windows, and for everyone else within the House it could reach.

Safe. You're safe here, all is well. Nightmares belong to the night and fade with the sun. It was all a dream, an evil dream, and it's over. You're safe. All is well.  

The magic sounded forlorn and lost, like a candle in the wind. But each time the tune circled round again the magic was stronger, more hopeful. Eric ran through the simple tune that worked the spell nine times—three to shape it, three to set it, and three to bind it well—before he was satisfied. And finally he could feel it reach out to the people inside the House, touching them, bringing them comfort and hope, drawing force and reality from their hesitant belief.

It wouldn't be enough to banish the effects of Aerune's levin-bolt, but it would do for tonight. Later he and the others would have to see what they could do to unweave the harm that Aerune had done here, but tonight they had a more immediate disaster.

When he got back upstairs, Ria was sitting in the corner, seething, with Hosea hovering over her like a prison guard. Jeanette cowered in the far corner of the living room, her back against the wall, hugging herself and moaning. Her too-beautiful face was haggard, etched with lines of suffering. She looked like a bad plastic surgery case. Kayla knelt in front of her, several feet away, talking softly.

"I don't care what Aerune's done to her—it isn't enough," Ria said angrily when Eric arrived.

"Maybe not. But right now, finding out what he's up to is more important than revenge," Eric said.

Ria growled wordlessly and looked away.

"Yeah, facts are always nice to have," Kayla said, "but you aren't gonna get anything out of her while she's like this. She's got no shields, Eric. None. How can somebody be an Empath, and her age, and alive, and not have shields?"

Eric shook his head. "Maybe we can give her some."

"Wait a minute." Ria surged to her feet and took a step toward Jeanette. "You're going to help her?" She glared furiously at the three of them. Kayla glared right back.

"I'm going to—" Eric began.

"Don't worry, Ria," Jeanette said painfully, her voice a whispery croak. "Just a little time . . . I'll be dead and it won't matter." She smiled with great effort, as if this were a good joke on someone.

"You took T-Stroke," Eric said in abrupt understanding. Suddenly it all made terrible sense. That's why she has Gifts and no idea of how to deal with them. 

Jeanette flinched. To an unshielded Empath, strong emotion was like salt in an open wound. He saw her meet his gaze with a grim struggle. "I thought Elkanah was going to kill me and T-Stroke was my only weapon. I wish he had," she added in a ragged whisper. "He killed someone here. Aerune said so."

Elkanah? Toni said that was Jimmie's brother's name! It made terrible sense—Jimmie's brother would have been able to get through her shields. If she had felt his pain, if he had led her to her death . . .

"Let me help you," Kayla repeated, reaching out.

"Don't touch me!" Jeanette gasped, shrinking back. "Whoever you are, you can't fix this. I've seen Healers die. I know. Please."

Kayla drew back. "We've got to do something. We can't just let her die," she said pleadingly to Eric.

Eric looked at Ria. Of everyone there, she was the only one, aside from Jeanette, who knew anything about how T-Stroke worked. All Eric knew was that Jeanette Campbell had come up with a drug that turned ordinary people into Talents . . . and killed them.

"Yes, we can," Ria said. "That's what T-Stroke does. It kills people a few hours after someone gives it to them. Only your clock wasn't running while you were in Underhill, was it, Campbell? Too bad Aerune's hung you out to dry, isn't it? Maybe now you'll know what it's like to die the way all the people you killed died."

Jeanette met Ria's gaze, though Eric could see that for her it was as much of an effort as to thrust her hand into an open fire. And just as agonizing.

"I never hurt you, Ria. Just your pride. Others have a lot more right to my head than you do. Stand in line." Jeanette gasped and doubled over, hugging herself against sudden stabbing pain, coughing raggedly until she began to gag. Kayla winced, flinching back from Jeanette's distress. Hosea crossed the room and swooped Kayla up as if she were a doll, depositing her on the couch at the far side of the room.

"You have got to stop Lord Aerune," Jeanette got out through gritted teeth. "He's got help." She curled into a fetal ball on the floor, shaking and gasping.

"I think if you've got any rabbits, Eric, now's the time to pull 'em out of your hat," Hosea said quietly.

But what could he do? He couldn't send Jeanette back to Underhill—from the looks of things, she wouldn't survive long enough for Lady Day to make it to the Everforest Gate. And he couldn't heal her—she was right; whatever T-stroke did to the human body, it was beyond the ability of either Healer or Bard to undo. Her time was running out.

But if he could stop time here . . .

"I'm going to try something," Eric said to the others. He thought about asking Hosea to help him, but he wasn't sure how Guardian Magic layered over Bardic Gift worked, and this wasn't any time to go doing field tests. "It'll buy us the time to figure this out, I hope, but it might feel kind of weird. Don't fight me, okay?"

"Whatever help we can give is yours," Paul answered.

Eric looked at Ria. She had power that stemmed from her half-Sidhe heritage and a lifelong study of sorcery. She could help him—or make this impossible.

Ria took a deep breath and nodded. "You're right. She's right. Do what you can. I won't stop you."

The first of the two spells was easy: a simple warding, to build the shields for Jeanette that she couldn't build herself. Eric saw them settle into place around her, saw her uncoil from her fetal crouch, panting with relief.

The second part was harder: to stop time itself for all of them here in this room. He didn't know if he could do it at all, if the House would permit it, and if he could, it wouldn't be for long. But he had to try.

For Eric, for any Bard, magic was music. He took a deep breath, holding the finished tune—the finished spell—fully formed within his mind—then letting it uncoil, filling him with music as he filled it with power. "Backward, turn backward, O 'Time in Thy flight . . .' " 

It was like rolling a giant boulder uphill. He gritted his teeth, focusing his will on that impossible task. He got through the first iteration, but there were eight more to go before the spell was truly complete.

Seven—six—five— And he had no more to give. For a moment he thought he would fail, that the spell would uncoil right then, then new strength came flowing into the working.

Ria.

:I said I'd support your decisions, remember?: her cool voice came in his mind.

Four—three—two—one—and the spell was set and began to run. The walls of the room grew pale and indistinct, the doors and windows vanished, leaving the eight of them suspended in a bubble of silvery timelessness.

"You must teach me that sometime," Paul said respectfully, looking only a little rattled. José and Toni were looking around at the transformed apartment, wary looks of wonder on their faces.

"Yeah," Eric said, sighing. He turned back to Jeanette. She was sitting up, breathing more easily. She looked at Eric.

"This is magic, but it isn't a cure," he told her. "I don't know how long I can hold this bubble, but when it pops . . . you're probably going to go with it," he finished reluctantly.

"Just as well," Jeanette answered. "I've killed a lot of people. It's time I paid for that."

"It isn't enough."

It was Hosea who spoke, coming to the center of the room and looking down at Jeanette with a stern expression on his face that Eric had never seen before. "I'm not sure who you are or what you've done, ma'am, but Miss Llewellyn seems to think it's something pretty bad. You can't wipe out something like that with one grand gesture and a quick death. It's gonna take a power of effort and time—a lifetime of doing good, and more."

"I don't have a lifetime," Jeanette said, looking at him. "And I suck at social work. If you can think of any way around that, I'm open to suggestions." She shook her head, looking away. "I did have, once. All the time in the world—a lifetime to use however I wanted. But I pissed it away and you don't get a second chance, so be happy, Ria, because I'm going to fry in Hell for a thousand years." She closed her eyes, gathering her resources. "Here's what you need to know. Aerune found where I was hiding. He sent Elkanah, one of Lintel's Threshold ops, to bring me to somewhere he could get his hands on me. He's got most of my stash of T-Stroke, but it doesn't work on elves."

"Elkanah? Elkanah Youngblood?" Toni demanded in amazement. "Jimmie's brother?"

Jeanette stared at her. "Maybe. How do I know? People in our line of work aren't that free with last names and home addresses, y'know?" She took a deep breath. "Elkanah didn't know he was working for Aerune until the end—neither of us did. I thought he was going to kill me, so I dosed both of us with T-Stroke. The higher the dose, the more time you have—maybe if you take enough, you get to live, I don't know. But Aerune came. He took me Underhill and left Elkanah behind. I don't know what happened to him, but he's dead now, for sure. At least I know he deserved it," she added quietly.

"Most of what happened then isn't important. But this is: Aerune has human help—a guy from this side of the Hill. Parker Wheatley. They're working together—planning to start a war between humans and elves so Aerune can get us to bomb ourselves back to the Stone Age. I get the idea Aerune found a bunch of government elfchasers and gave them a little help. Wheatley depends on him now. If you can't stop them, they're going to drag all your precious secrets onto the front page of The New York Times, and then what I've done is going to look like a wet firecracker next to a neutron bomb. They were talking about . . . internment camps for witches. Crazy stuff."

Even insulated as she was, Jeanette was still painfully weak, and delivering the message had cost her a lot. She hung her head, breathing hard. "There's a lot more to tell you, but I don't think I have time."

Eric knew she was right. His spell couldn't hold, even reinforced with Ria's power. In a few minutes, it would fade away, and time would run normally once more. And a few minutes after that, Jeanette would be dead.

"You could have." Hosea spoke again. "Time."

Jeanette looked up at him, hate and hope in her expression. "Yeah? And how do you figure that?"

"Your body has to die. You don't. Instead of going on, why don't you stick around and clean up some of your mess?" Hosea said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"Become a voluntary ghost?" Paul said doubtfully. "That has certain drawbacks, you know. Once a spirit has chosen to tarry, for whatever reason, moving on becomes a rather ticklish proposition. And you'd need an anchor to hold the spirit in place."

"Like a building," Toni said. "But I don't want her haunting Guardian House."

"It could be a physical object, not a house," José said. "A sword, or a mirror, as the old tales say. Or a harp."

"We're a little short on any of those objects right now," Paul pointed out, looking around the room. "Even if the lady agreed."

"And we don't have a lot of time to discuss it," Eric said tightly.

"Hey, so you don't have a harp. You've got this," Kayla pointed out, holding up Hosea's banjo. "Will this work?"

Paul took the instrument from her hands and studied it carefully. "If Hosea consents, and Miss Campbell does as well, I think this will do nicely. But I warn both of you: though we can hold her here, we can't set the terms of her imprisonment, and I do know one thing—if the banjo is destroyed without Jeanette's spirit being released from it, she will be dead in this world and the next, with no reprieve possible."

"I'm game," Hosea said, and looked at Jeanette.

"A choice between Hell and bluegrass," Jeanette said. "I'll take bluegrass—if you'll have me, Hosea?"

"This isn't right," Kayla said. "I saw— When Jimmie— Shouldn't she go on and find what's waiting for her?"

"No, thanks," Jeanette said briefly, and shuddered. "I think I've seen it."

"Everybody deserves a chance to fix what they broke," Hosea agreed. "If you do right, Miss Jeanette, I'll do right by you."

"Folks—" Eric said urgently.

"Come here, Jeanette. Take the banjo. Eric, when I give the word, release your spell and let us cast ours," Paul said. "I warn you, Miss Campbell, this isn't going to be pleasant for you. Keeping a spirit from passing over is a terrible thing, painful for both the spirit and the enchanter, even when full consent is involved. You may wish we hadn't."

"Just do it, for God's sake." Jeanette crawled to the center of the room and sat, reaching out to take the banjo and cradling it in her arms. The Guardians formed a circle around her, even Hosea, who looked very unsure of himself.

"Call this your baptism of fire," Toni told him.

"I can't—" Eric said, just as Paul said: "Now."

With a pang of relief, Eric stopped feeding power to his spell and felt it uncoil and vanish. Time rushed back into the room like the incoming tide filling a sea cave. Jeanette gasped and fell over on her side, groaning and clutching the banjo tightly.

Light surrounded the five of them, like an egg of multicolored opal. Ria reached out for Eric's hand, and he took it.

Eric wasn't sure he believed what he saw happen next. He saw Jeanette—a ghostly, different-looking Jeanette—climb to her feet, stepping over the slumped body on the floor. She gazed around, frightened, shaking her head, obviously looking for a way out. But there was nowhere to go. She beat against the walls of the egg, crying out silently in frustration.

Kayla jerked forward.

"No, Kayla," Ria said. "Her choice, right or wrong." Ria coaxed Kayla to sit down again. The young Healer's face was a mask of frustration. "You don't know," she repeated.

"Jimmie went to what she deserved, after a lifetime of service and self-sacrifice. Do you think Jeanette wants to face what she deserves?" Ria asked.

"How can you be sure you're right?" Kayla demanded.

"I don't have to be," Ria said austerely. "All I have to do is let her make her own mistake."

Slowly, the egg of light shrank, keeping Jeanette imprisoned within it despite her struggles, dwindling until it surrounded the banjo alone, forcing her down with it.

Then the light was gone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have created the world's first haunted banjo," Paul said wearily. "And I wish I felt better about doing it."

"You did what you had to, Paul. We all did," Toni answered.

Hosea picked up the banjo from where it lay against Jeanette's dead body. One of the strings promptly broke, and in the faint ringing Eric thought he could hear the echo of a human voice.

:Bluegrass . . . : 

"Feels heavier," Hosea said, hefting the instrument. He began to detune the banjo, taking the tension off the remaining strings.

"Well, this has been a hell of a night," Ria said.

"Look," Kayla said. "The sun's coming up."

And it was. The sky outside the living room window was gray with dawn.

"What now?" Eric said.

"We need to make plans," Toni said, "but first things first. We all need sleep. And then . . . Hosea, I guess Jimmie's apartment is yours now." Her eyes filled with tears as the reality of Jimmie's death hit her anew.

"Eric, you should warn Misthold about Aerune's plans. I don't know much about Underhill politics, but maybe there's something they can do about him from their side," Ria said.

"Yeah." Weariness—healthy weariness this time, and not Aerune's spell of despair—overwhelmed Eric, and he dropped into the nearest empty chair. But I doubt it. Aerune's too clever to give them an excuse to move against him, and by the time I convince them he's a real threat to Underhill and the World Above alike, it might be too late. Elves don't do anything in a hurry, and nothing much excites them. Kory's the real exception there, and he's young. The others just won't listen—or if they do, they won't do anything. 

"But that's a matter for another day," Ria went on, seeing his face. "Come on, Kayla. It's time to get you home and settled in."

"No way. I'm staying here." Kayla got to her feet and walked to the middle of the room, glaring at Hosea and the other Guardians. "You people need a keeper, you know that? If I hadn't blown the whistle on Aerune, he woulda slurped you all up like a Coffee Coolata—and where'd you be then? You're great at taking care of everyone else, but who's taking care of you? You need me, and I'm staying. End of discussion."

Her speech took the Guardians by surprise. "You?" Toni asked.

"You see anybody else applying for the job?" Kayla shot back.

The Guardians looked at each other, and back at Ria, who shrugged, looking almost as tired as Eric felt.

"I'm not her mother. And I think it would be okay with Elizabet if Kayla lived here, so long as someone was keeping an eye on her."

"I think we can arrange that," José said, with the ghost of a smile. "And I think I speak for all of us when I say that your offer is most welcome, munequita."

"Well, good," Kayla said. She'd obviously been expecting more of an argument, but by now Eric was used to the speed with which the Guardians made decisions. And as for Ria, having seen Kayla's taste in clothes, he was pretty sure Ria was a little relieved not to have Kayla on hand to redecorate her Park Avenue apartment.

"Then it's settled. I guess you can have the basement apartment, now that . . ." Toni said. She took a deep breath and went on. "Why don't you go home with Ria tonight, and tomorrow we can see about getting you settled in. And there will be the . . . funeral arrangements for Jimmie. She died in the line of duty. There will be a Department funeral, I think. I'll have to check."

"That can wait," Paul said, putting an arm around her shoulders. "Now it is time to rest, and to gather our strength. There will be time enough to say our proper good-byes."

But how much time was Aerune—and his unknown allies—going to give them? Eric wondered.

 

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