Faery Moon

by P. R. Frost

  Once more I had to stand and clap, slowly, methodically. I had to let the world know that I believed in faeries and my belief gave them life. Gollum rose beside me, tall and determined. He increased the pulse of our clapping. Then Mickey added his own applause from the pit area, and Donovan, and the camera men, and the stage crew. We all made this a truly live performance for those who would only share the magic by DVD.

  At long last, the portal opened a fraction and one long arm reached through to help the lost faery go home.

  One huge group sigh of relief and it was over. I felt restored by the show. At the same time I knew sadness because it was the last time I would see it live. There could only be a few more performances before the show closed forever, and the dancers either died or I led them home.

  I knew what I had to do next.

  “Mickey, can you examine the spell on the dormitory and somehow find its weak spots?” He nodded. “Gollum, rent us a car, probably something with four wheel drive. Noon tomorrow. We’re going to the Valley Of Fire.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Besides the awards banquet tonight and my final class tomorrow morning?” I smiled sweetly.

  They exited the theater ahead of me, heads bent in consultation.

  I hung back, fading into the shadows beside the exit.

  Sometimes I can become a chameleon. With a shift in facial muscles and posture, and a tug on clothing to alter its shape, I lose my distinctiveness. With Scrap’s help, I can even adjust the shade of my clothes.

  No Scrap this time. I set him to watch from the musicians’ ledge.

  “You can’t hide from me, Tess,” Donovan said as he came abreast of me.

  “I don’t want to hide, I just didn’t want you to notice me until you were too close to avoid me.” I took his arm possessively and walked beside him into the lobby. He didn’t pull away from my grasp. Good. I knew he could. He had lots of honed muscle beneath his black polo shirt. He’d bested me more than once on the fencing strip.

  He paused in the center. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d let me borrow that ring?” I tried to look innocent.

  He scowled. “Why?” He wasn’t going to make it easy on me.

  “It has properties I need to complete my mission.” I turned to face him, keeping my hand in the crook of his elbow.

  “I don’t have it anymore.”

  Damn!

  “Then I’ll just have to tell Lady Lucia you lost her treasured wedding ring.” I stepped back and withdrew the slight connection of my hand on his arm.

  “Lady Lucia!” he exploded. “I bought that ring in Paris last December. From a reputable antique dealer. I have provenance back to 1850.”

  Interesting. He had the ring a month ago when I refused to mother his children without love and marriage first. He had it when he ran from my rejection into bed with WindScribe, who now carried his child.

  “Did you give the ring to Gregbaum after I refused your proposal?”

  “I sold it to him. At a handsome profit.”

  “He used to be close to Lady Lucia, possibly intimate with her. He had to have seen her portrait wearing that ring and recognized it,” I mused out loud. “What made you buy that particular ring besides its beauty and value? There must have been others offered in the auction.”

  “There were. But I knew at first glance that ring was special. I catch glimpses of power in it, but I can’t access it. Can you?”

  I shrugged. “I only know that it begs me to wear it.”

  “If I thought he’d give it up, I’d buy it back and give it to Lady Lucia.” Donovan turned as if to leave.

  I grabbed his arm once more. “Please, Donovan, buy it back. I’ll reimburse the money. I’ll give it to Lady Lucia when I’m done with it. Please. I really need the ring to save the faeries.”

  “How? How does it work?”

  “I don’t know yet. I only know I need it.”

  Scrap, talk to me, tell me everything you’ve found out! I knew he’d been investigating, not how far he’d ranged in doing so.

  Donovan stood there, challenging me to say more.

  I met him glare for glare, equal in stubbornness and determination.

  We stood there so long, Gregbaum slithered out of the theater, stopping short within a yard of us.

  “Why are you still here?” he snarled. His face grew red. A sure symptom of high blood pressure. Maybe he’d keel over with a heart attack and I could just grab the ring off his hand.

  “Sell me the ring, Gregbaum,” I demanded.

  “No. Why should I?”

  Because it is an artifact of power. It only partially exists in this dimension. You can’t control it. If you try, it will burn you up. That last was just a guess. But I couldn’t say any of that out loud.

  “Because I’ll tell Lady Lucia you have it if you don’t sell it to me or let me borrow it,” I said. “She might even invent a new drink in your honor: Bloody Gary. Or do you prefer Gregbaum smoothie?”

  The pudgy man blanched beneath his high color.

  “I don’t have to keep it from Lady Lucia. I might even make a present of it to her. With the proviso that you never get your hands on it.” He folded his arms across his chest, calm again, face a more normal shade.

  “What if I tell Junior Sancroix you have it?” I smiled sweetly.

  He grew white again but held firm. “Go ahead. He can’t do anything more to me once Lucia closes down my show.”

  “Can’t he?” I tried to raise one eyebrow and only succeeded in twisting my face into a grimace.

  Donovan quirked his left eyebrow up. I’m sure he did it just to best me. He was in that kind of mood.

  “Fifty thousand, cash. Now. Otherwise I’ll bury it out in the desert where you’ll never find it.”

  I blanched this time. I might be able to lay my hands on that kind of cash given a week to liquidate some savings and stocks. A lot of stocks. Maybe raid my IRA.

  “That’s twice what I sold it to you for,” Donovan snarled.

  “Fifty large is half what it’s worth,” Gregbaum returned.

  “I’ll give you thirty in an hour. That’s five grand in profit in two days. I’d say a pretty good return on your money,” Donovan snapped back.

  Thank you, I mouthed.

  “I’m not doing it for you. I want credit with Lady Lucia for giving it back to her. It’s a whole lot safer for her to owe me favors than the other way around.” He stalked off, leaving me to face Gregbaum on my own.

  If I could get it back to Lucia, she just might let me borrow it Monday night. She wanted me to rescue the faery dancers.

  “You’ll never get your hands on this little treasure now. I know Donovan. In fact, I may just let him have it for the twenty-five grand I bought it for. Just so’s he’ll let me open a new show in his new casino up in Half Moon Lake.”

  “He abandoned plans for a casino and is building a much smaller spa.” I’d witnessed his signature (in blood) on the refinancing after his original casino building collapsed into a rogue portal when I closed it last autumn.

  “Did he? I hear he’s in Vegas looking for new investors. Why do you think he’s talking to Lady Lucia? She doesn’t care who—or rather what—patronizes his ‘spa,’ ” Gregbaum tossed over his shoulder as he turned to leave.

  “You can’t open a new show without new dancers,” I called after him.

  “I’ve got access to dozens more.” His disembodied voice echoed ominously around the tile and marble lobby.

  I need to do more research on that ring. Tess won’t need me at the awards banquet, though I do love to watch her glow with satisfaction when she wins.

  Maybe I’d better postpone my trip until I help her get all gussied up. She is absolutely helpless when it comes to clothes. She’ll mix gold with silver jewelry, cover her shoulders with a shawl that clashes with her gown, and put on mismatched shoes. She’s even been known to forget to brush her hair. A total fashion disa
ster.

  Once she’s set, I’ll flit off to track that ring from Tess’ ancestors to Lady Lucia. Then I’ll find a way to get it back to her.

  Hmmm, if it’s only partially in this dimension, maybe I can grab it right off of Gregbaum’s hand from inside the chat room.

  After I know more. Can’t drop it in Tess’ lap and have it bum her up because she doesn’t know how to use it.

  Now for some fun dressing dahling Tess. That midnight blue number will have to do. No time to shop for something new and it is quite suitable for the occasion. the strappy black sandals with two inch heels—she’s never comfortable in anything higher—will set it off and not strain her pulled muscle. Silver jewelry, I think. And I might be able to add some more sparkle to the chiffon. She lost some of the original sequins and beads climbing out of the gondola and the remainder are too subtle and already dimming in luster.

  Yes! Silver glitter. Too bad I can’t get back into Faery for some sparkle. Who else has some?

  Pixies?

  Tricky. They aren’t as giving as faeries. There’s always a cost and hidden condition with a pixie. I’ll have to call in some favors and make promises with my fingers crossed. Might even have to let them tie my tail in a knot.

  But my Tess is worth every bit of it. She’ll look marvelous tonight.

  She’ll look even better when I get that ring for her.

  So how did it get from the Noncoiré family of blacksmith to Lady Lucia?

  Once more I stand looking through a window in time. We’ve moved forward a lot of centuries to eighteen fourteen. The same remote village, on the slopes of the French Alps where the first Noncoiré tricked a faery out of the ring. Italy is just over the pass of the mountain visible in the distance. I bet the local language has as much Italian as French in it.

  My lock on the ring takes me back to the same woodland. Another Noncoiré blacksmith reclines against a tree, powerful legs stretched out into the grass.

  And he’s naked. Magnificently, rawly naked except for the ring on a leather lacing around his neck. Oh, my. I have to mop up a little drool. This youth’s muscles ripple cleanly beneath his sleek skin. And the way he stretches promises much prolonged delight. His blond curls look like gold in the dappled sunshine.

  He glows with health and energy and optimism. He should. A young Lucia nestles beside him, equally naked. Her skin is smooth with pampering. No ugly calluses on her hands or feet. She doesn’t work, or walk much, and her shoes must be custom made. Her black hair is sleek and tossed up into a casual do that probably took her maid hours to achieve.

  Hey, isn’t she a blonde now? Oohh, the secrets only her hairdresser knows for sure.

  Nearby, an elegant palfrey nibbles at the greenery. She rides everywhere. Must have some noble blood and money in the family.

  So this is an illicit love affair. The daughter of the local lord slipping out to tryst with a commoner. And not a bit of protection between them. Doesn’t she know the consequences?

  She whispers sweet nothings into the blacksmith’s ear. As she speaks, she wiggles her body along his, enticing him to new—um—lengths of passion.

  She is well practiced in these arts and probably not a virgin for all of her maybe fifteen years. At least that’s how young she looks. I’m beginning to believe that looks are deceiving.

  I notice that she speaks good French, hardly a hint of the thick Italian accent she affects in modem society.

  Our young man responds with enthusiasm if not exactly gentleness.

  Lucia matches him in passion and eagerness. I could watch these two lovers all day. Their passion is raw, not violent like she indulges with Donovan now. They remind me of my precious moments with Ginkgo.

  When they finally finish and lie back all sweaty, panting, and satisfied—me, too, for that matter—Lucia dallies with the ring on its chain.

  “A good luck charm. Been wit’ me family for generations,” the young man explains. His accent is thick, local and uneducated.

  “Does it bring you luck?” she asks coyly. Her long dark hair dangles across his chest, tickling him.

  He wraps a curl around his finger and tugs gently until her mouth reaches his. They kiss, openmouthed, devouring each other for endless moments.

  I sigh. Young love is so sweet.

  But I’m not convinced Lucia is entirely sweet. Her left hand has never left the ring.

  “I call it luck that you favor me,” young Noncoiré says. He’s breathing hard again.

  Oh, the stamina of the young. I may get another show.

  “This ring should be a token of our love. As long as we have it, we can find ways to be together,” she replies. “This ring is special. Magic.”

  “I’m off to war soon. Emperor Napoleon needs all Frenchmen to rally for his next campaign. France will rule the world again.” He sounds as if he believes that claptrap.

  How else can ambitious generals con men into following them into hell and death?

  “I hate the thought of you leaving me! You could be captured. You could die. And I’d never see you again.” She pouts prettily, a practiced look. Her hand clamps tighter around the ring.

  If he takes the ring with him and dies, she’s lost more than just a lover. And she knows it.

  “That’s the cost of bringing France back to her rightful place on top of the world.”

  I snort in derision.

  “Perhaps I’d better keep the ring for you. Just in case.” She clasps the ring tightly, keeping her hand and her body in dose contact with him.

  Deep in my mind I hear a chortle of triumph. That is a new voice, neither Lucia or the young blacksmith.

  “Oui, ma sweet. It is my gift to you, so that you never forget me.” He slips the leather thong from his neck and places it around hers.

  Gods and Goddesses! It’s the imp within the ring. He’s using the tiny crack from the last transfer of ownership to leak power and enticement. He needs Lucia to own the ring because ... I’m not sure why. But she offers him more hope than the peasant blacksmith.

  Again she holds it tightly, covetously.

  A tiny niggle of doubt wiggles into my mind. I’m not as sure as I was before that I should release that imp.

  And then they are at it again. Their hands and mouths explore, nip, pinch, taste, and stroke. I watch them avidly, forgetting all about the black imp and the ring.

  Their world goes transparent on me. I have nothing else to learn here.

  Except in my last quick glimpse, I know that Lucia will never forget her strong blacksmith. Her first true love. The father of her child.

  Does she know that Tess includes the son of that blacksmith in her family tree?

  I bet she does. The name alone should give away the connection. No wonder she favors Tess with flowers and tickets to “Fairy Moon.” I bet she also knows all about the Sisterhood of the Celestial Blade. She knows about me. She knows that Tess and I are the only ones who can rescue the faery dancers.

  But we need the ring to do it.

  Chapter 32

  Downtown Las Vegas (Freemont Street as opposed to the Strip) is sometimes called Glitter Gulch because of the proliferation of big neon signs.

  GOLLUM MET ME at the elevator on the convention floor. His dark blue suit with the crisp white shirt fit him perfectly. For once, his glasses sat firmly on his nose, where they belonged. He’d even combed his soft blond hair. The only mar on his perfect demeanor was the blinding tie filled with cartoon space aliens.

  “I’ve gotta have some fun,” he said, blushing.

  “I like it. Sometimes these award ceremonies get a little too tense: as if they are more important than the books they honor.”

  He nodded. “Academic stuff is a lot more pretentious. The competition cutthroat. You look wonderful by the way.”

  I twirled in my sparkling cocktail dress. Who knows where Scrap found the extra glitter, or how he affixed it to the chiffon,(I’d lost more than a few sequins climbing out of the gondola and over the bridge
at the Venetian) but it added just that extra dimension that made me feel special.

  Gollum offered me his arm in escort.

  Shyly, I took it, acutely aware of his masculine scent, his lean body, and a new layer we added to our friendship.

  He stood a foot taller than me, even with heels. Still, we managed to match our strides and fit together.

  For once I didn’t want to talk about our mission. I just wanted to spend time with my friend.

  We took our places at a round table for ten. A female mystery editor I didn’t know and a male agent who specialized in Romance fiction already sat there. She was into her third drink and fidgeting anxiously, looking longingly into her purse. Probably at a pack of cigarettes.

  She pulled out a cell phone and stared at the screen, willing it to ring.

  So much for clichés. I wondered if she had a sick child at home and needed to check in with the family.

  The male agent might not look like a romantic hero with his spindly frame, balding head, and ill-fitting suit, but he certainly knew how to market them.

  I expected the other six places to fill up rapidly with conference attendees who wanted a chance to chat with our table mates.

  Within moments, my mother floated in, looking elegant in a cream-and-gold outfit, with gold clips in her graying blonde hair—that had new highlights. Behind her walked her housemate Penny and the tall man with a Stetson we’d encountered outside the theater a few nights ago. The agent and editor looked grateful when I introduced them. They’d probably been inundated all weekend with unpublished writers seeking an “in” in the publishing industry.

  “I wanted to share a moment of triumph with you, Tess,” Mom said kissing my cheek. “I haven’t supported you very well in your career.”

  “You kept house for me for three years so I could get on with the work.” I kissed her back. “That was more help than you can imagine.”

  “But I didn’t give you the emotional support. Now I understand the necessity of that. I want to be the first to hug you when you win this award.” She preened a bit as if my triumph was all her doing.