by Sharon Lee
“Let that float for now,” she said, soothingly. “First, I must, myself, see this Borgan. How will it be done?”
The goblins were seen to sigh, then Daphne said, with something less than grace, “We’ll find you a guide.”
* * * * *
I woke to the sound of an engine revving, and to the realization that there was something damp stuck inside my ear.
“Hey,” I said, reaching up to rub the afflicted body part.
My fingers found fur; the engine noise stuttered, and a weight I hadn’t noticed on my head shifted slightly, possibly in protest.
Right, I thought, I have a cat now.
Not only did I have a cat, but apparently I had a cat who liked to sleep on my head.
“Sorry,” I said. “The last cat I knew intimately was too big to sleep on my pillow. He slept beside me or on my chest.”
Actually, he’d slept from my chest to my knees. Bowie’d been a big cat, and I’d been a smallish kid.
“I’m not complaining, understand,” I said. “I’m just out of practice.”
The weight on my head shifted and there was some activity that disturbed the peace of the pillow, followed by a brush of fur along my cheek. Then a white and orange face filled my vision while the cat seated herself on the bed by my left elbow.
Amber eyes seemed slightly puzzled, and I raised my right arm and offered a forefinger to her.
She gave it a polite bump, and settled back.
“So,” I said, “it seems to be working out all right on my side. I hope it’s working out on yours, but if it’s not, you just let it be known. Also, you should know that it’s usually plenty quiet around here; fun parties like we had last night are rare. Borgan and I have been trading off every other night, so, unless I hear different, I’ll be spending tonight on Gray Lady.”
I frowned slightly.
“Might be too quiet for your taste.”
The cat blinked—either an acknowledgment or a smile; I didn’t know her well enough yet to call it.
“So, let’s keep the lines of communication open, right?”
Another blink, which I took for “right.”
“Super. Now, I’m going to go downstairs and start the coffee brewing.”
The cat rose to all four feet, stretched daintily, and jumped over my legs, hitting the floor with an authoritative thump. I could see the flag of her tail as she headed for the door.
I threw back the bedclothes and followed.
* * *
An hour later, after a quick shower and breakfast with the cat, I was on my way up Archer Avenue, heading first for Wishes Art Gallery. I’d volunteered to take the news of the midway’s sale and Fun Country’s imminent demise to the on-the-hill members of Archers Beach Twelve to Twelve, and “get their thoughts.” Jess had thought there’d be value in paying personal calls, rather than just phoning. I tended to agree with her, even though it wasn’t necessarily the best timing in the world, being, as it was, High Season, and customers coming first.
I’d hoped my early start would at least solve the customer problem, a hope that crashed and burned as I walked through the open front door into Wishes. The place was crowded with customers. Each painting and photograph had at least two people admiring it, and the 3D stuff had even more. I slipped through the crowd, heading for the counter at the back of the shop with no real expectation of finding the owner at liberty.
My expectation was wrong.
Joan Anderson was standing behind the counter, overlooking the crowd, with her hands in the pockets of her jeans. She smiled and nodded when she saw me.
“Kate—welcome! What brings you all the way to the top of the hill?”
“News, and a pop quiz.” I turned my head slightly to indicate the masses behind me. “Don’t want to take you from your customers, though.”
“They’re not customers until they want to buy something,” she said. “Or at least until they have a question. Come on around.”
I stepped behind the counter and looked out over the shop. A teen couple, holding hands, paused on the threshold to gaze up and around with wide eyes, matching grins of delight growing on their faces.
“How’s it going?” I asked Joan.
“We still have more lookers than buyers,” she said comfortably. “But we do have buyers. I’m pleased with progress.” She gave me a half-smile. “Is that what you came to ask me?”
“No, actually. I came to tell you that Fun Country has sold the midway and is closing the park at the end of this Season.”
Her mouth tightened, but she didn’t say anything. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, I guess.
“The question is kind of a double whammy,” I said. “One: What do you think about the news, and two: Can you think of anyplace in town that the rides can relocate to? If you think that having an amusement park is a draw?”
“Of course it’s a draw,” Joan said promptly. “As to what I think about the news, I see some tender ears out there in the crowd, so if you don’t mind, I’ll limit myself to saying I think these decisions by Park Management are very shortsighted. Big parcels in town…” She shrugged. “The only one that springs to mind is the empty lot where the Lonely Loon used to be—but that was sold for condos, wasn’t it?”
“There’s a rumor the deal fell through, but even if—the parcel’s not big enough. I guess we could split the kiddie rides out from the adult, but…”
A clash of metal, followed by a prolonged silvery tinkle, gave me pause.
“But,” Joan said, stepping into the breach, “the rides ought to stay together, for synergy, and what’s going to happen to the games?” She sighed sharply. “How much are they asking for the property the park’s on now?”
“Henry’s looking into it.”
She nodded, then stepped up to the counter as the teen couple came forward, the girl holding a beaded bracket from which were suspended six silver butter knives and three silver spoons. The utensils chimed sweetly against each other as she walked.
“We’d like to buy this, please,” the boy said.
“Certainly,” Joan said, reaching under the counter and pulling out some sheets of tissue paper. “These are real silver, you know.”
“Yes,” the girl whispered, handing over her prize with visible reluctance. “Is there a special way I should treat them?”
I touched Joan lightly on the shoulder.
“I’ll be going,” I murmured. “Thanks.”
She looked up, her hands still busy with tissue and knives. “Will there be a meeting?” she asked.
“Should there be?”
“I’ll call Jess. Thanks, Kate.”
“Sure.”
I gave the kids a smile, slipped around the counter, and headed out to make call number two of the morning.
* * *
By the time I’d worked my way down to the bottom of the hill, it was clear that Twelve to Twelve members were horrified by, as Joan had it, Management’s short-sighted decisions. The prevailing opinion was that the town should buy the land and lease it to an operator-owned corporation. Running a close second was the idea that the operators should buy the land.
The idea of a leaseback was intriguing, though I wasn’t sure how reasonable it was to suppose that the town would be party to such a thing—or that it had sufficient money in its operating budget. Another job for Henry, I thought, turning right into the pass-through between Ronnie’s ice cream stand and Lisa’s Pizza.
It was in my mind to go up to Heath Hill, check in with family, and get a little relief from what was turning into another scorching hot day. Archer Avenue was choked with the cars of day-trippers coming in for Saturday at the beach, and I reminded myself that this was a good thing.
The pass-through gave onto the alley next to Daddy’s, and the courtyard where he and Lisa kept their Dumpsters, maybe not the sweetest smelling shortcut for a hot—
“Stop that!” a voice screamed. It was followed immediately by a hollow boom, like somebody had jus
t thrown the Dumpster lid back, and shouts of laughter.
Gaby!
I didn’t need the land’s confirmation; I recognized her voice. Gaby was one of the more timid of the trenvay, utterly harmless, and almost completely defenseless. Which of course made her a prime target for bullying assholes.
I tore around the corner into the courtyard, the land snarling like a wolf, ready to attack; to protect Gaby no matter the cost.
There came another boom, followed this time by a yell.
I stopped, and stared. Cans and bottles littered the concrete, rolling free, and making for treacherous footing. At the far end of the courtyard, back to the wall, was Gaby—a small, thin figure in gimme hat and khakis. And coming at her fast was a guy twice her height and maybe three times her mass. He reached—and he was air-borne, hitting the Dumpster’s metal side about halfway up, the boom reverberating off the walls and the other Dumpsters, and fell to the concrete next to another guy, who was shaking his head in a dazed sort of way.
“Get outta here!” Gaby screamed.
I could see her shaking from where I stood, and the land fed me the taste of her rage—and something else; something like a racing, ravenous wind. It puzzled me—and then I had it—Gaby was calling on all the power of her service, to protect her.
And that was a two-edged sword.
“Gaby!” I snapped, and moved forward, setting myself between her and the two guys, knowing the land would warn me if one of them decided to get cute.
“Gaby, let it go. You’ve got backup now.”
She looked up at me with eyes that showed red, her thin face was…graven, as if it were cut from stone.
“Gaby…”
The land snarled; I spun, dropping into a fighting crouch as the guy who had been shaking his head rushed me—
And became airborne, smashing into the side of the Dumpster with a boom!
“Gaby!”
The door in the wall to my left—the back door to Daddy’s Dance Club—slammed open, and here came the man himself, striding into the midst of it, grabbing both guys by the collars and yanking them up to their knees. The shirts must’ve been a little tight to the throat, because neither one struggled, or tried to stand.
“Stand down, the both of you!” he snarled, presumably to Gaby and me. “I got ’em, and they ain’t going nowhere. Now, who’s gonna tell me what happened?”
He looked at me.
I shrugged, showing him empty hands. “I was cutting through and heard Gaby yell; thought she was in trouble and came in to help.”
Daddy nodded and looked at Gaby, whose face now was only drawn and tired, though her eyes were still worryingly crimson.
“Pickin’ up the returnables,” she said, her voice shaking. “Those two—they come in for a bit o’sport. Pushed me, and spilled all my…all my cans…”
Daddy looked grim.
“Hey, man, she tried to kill us,” one of the guys said, hoarsely. “Threw me against the Dumpster.”
“You be glad I don’t throw you in the Dumpster,” Daddy told him, “after I break your worthless neck.”
“Us!”
“You! What the hell were you doing? Just having some fun? A little freak-bashing to make yourselves feel good?” He yanked on their collars and the guy on the left actually raised his hand toward his throat.
“Pair of goddamn heroes,” Daddy continued, apparently not noticing the guy’s discomfort. “You make me sick. Gaby.”
“What?” she squeaked, once again the timid trenvay I knew.
“You wanna report these guys to the cops or should I handle ’em for you?”
“No cops!” Gaby said, which anybody could’ve predicted she would.
“Right, then. I’ll take care of ’em. You an’ Kate clean up here. I’ll bring you out a couple beers. All right, you two.”
He twisted his hands a little more firmly in their shirts and started walking toward the door. The guys walked, too, on their knees, and I heard a deep chuckle.
Standing in the door was a short, whip-thin guy in motorcycle leathers, the Saracen colors on proud display. “Wouldn’t’ve lasted long in our unit, huh, Dad?”
Daddy snorted. His friend chuckled again, swinging out to grab the arm of the guy on Daddy’s left.
“I’ll take this one,” he said, and yanked him to his feet with a snap.
The guy gasped, but didn’t yell, which meant nothing was broken. I hoped.
“C’mon, sonny,” the biker said. “Time to sit you and your brother down and explain the facts of life.”
He swung his prisoner through the doorway, Daddy following with his guy still walking on his knees.
The door closed.
Gaby had picked up one of her bags and was already busy recapturing the rolling returnables. I grabbed another and bent to the task.
“Little dangerous to call the whole power of your service to hand,” I said softly, keeping my head bent and my eyes on the task.
“I didn’t want to,” Gaby said. “I was just so scared.”
“Understood. If you don’t mind my asking—what is your service?”
“Got a little stand o’wood down near the municipal parkin’ lot. Nothin’ so big and fine as your gran’s Wood, but it’s mine an’ I love it. Hell of a fight, back when they was buildin’. Hell of a fight I had to put up when they was clearin’ for the lot. They was gonna just keep on goin’ while they had the equipment roused, and my wood nothin’ but an auxiliary lot.”
She shot me a look from under the gimme hat.
“Took it outta us, but we managed to scare the idea away.”
“I’m glad you did,” I said. “Is that town land, then? For the maps, I mean.”
Gaby nodded. “Been up for sale—prolly still is. Ain’t enough for nobody to want it, not at the price they’re askin’. Just hope they keep askin’ high.”
“How much, you know?”
“Three hundred thousand, was.” Her mouth twisted. “That’s a lotta returnables.”
The back door to Daddy’s opened, and he came out, carrying two beers in bottles so cold the condensation rained off of them.
“Here you go,” he said, handing them off. “On the house.”
“Thanks,” Gaby said, taking hers with a snatch. “Kind of you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Daddy?”
“What’s on your mind, doll?”
“Those two guys…”
He laughed.
“Don’t you worry ’bout them. Keith’ll give ’em bloody damn’ hell, and by the time he’s done, there’s nothing they’ll want more in their lives than to make him proud. Seen him do it too many times to count. Lucky he happened by today, or else we would’ve had the cops, since I wouldn’t relish breaking their necks, even if they did deserve it—and they only stay scared so long.” He looked aside, his mouth twisting a little. “Gaby.”
She looked up, shoulders hunched.
“Next time, go a little easy, right? Trip ’em, or knock ’em cold. You got a cell?”
She shook her head, and he sighed, fishing in his pocket.
“Here,” he flipped a coin to her; she snatched it out of the air and looked down.
“A quarter?”
“That’s my quarter,” Daddy said. “You’re keeping it for me, unless you gotta use it for this one thing, and that’s to call me if you get trouble like this again. You knock ’em out, with as little damage as possible, then you find a phone and you call me, no matter what day or time. Otherwise, that quarter stays in your pocket and you’ll have it for me, if I ever ask for it back. We got a deal?”
Gaby straightened, and looked him square in the eye.
“Deal.”
“Shoulda told me right off—well, hell, no. Guess not.” He sighed. “I’ll be getting back inside, see how Keith’s doing with our heroes.”
“Thanks,” I said again, meaning it.
“No trouble.”
On that, he left us to it, closing the door firmly behind
him.
I took a nice, deep swig of beer, sighing as much for its temperature as its taste, then set the bottle near the wall and went back to gathering empties.
Chapter Seventeen
Saturday, July 8
The goblins had not said that the Borgan was beautiful.
She lay in the water with her guide; a shark, so Olida had it, a creature that had some resemblance to the herigana of her own lost sea—toothy, tough-skinned and murderous. When first she beheld it, she had wondered if the goblins at last understood their peril—but, no. It would appear that Olida was owed some service from the creature and it understood, as herigana did, that it was wise to bow before those more ferocious than itself.
So the shark brought her to a boat, and, obedient to Olida’s command, remained with her. Whether it would seek to protect her from the Borgan, which had been Olida’s further command, she doubted; but in any case, it would not be put to the test.
The love the sea held for the Borgan was plain to her senses.
Poor goblins. For such as they to aspire to something so rarified and perfect…It could never be; even the goblins must know it, in the deepest cave of their hearts. And yet, one could not find it in one’s own heart, to scorn them.
No, she thought, for the goblins to desire what the Borgan shared with the sea was, perhaps, an effrontery—pathetic and laughable—nothing more. Neither they nor any of theirs could sully or break the purity of the sea’s passion. One could almost pity them.
For a moment, she simply floated, rapt in the reflected glory of the sea’s love. Then, with an effort, she focused her attention elsewhere.
The Borgan’s power was old and deep: subtle and elegant. There was a constancy to it, and a sweetness somewhat familiar, as if it were—as if it were exactly the sweetness of the sea itself, which had so struck her when first she had entered these waters.
His power drew her; she felt that she might gaze upon him always and never wish to gaze elsewhere. He was seducing her, of course; seducing her to the sea. Such would fall well within his honor as the beloved of these waters, to capture random elements and weave them into harmony with the waves. She bore him no ill will for the doing of his duty, but she would not be seduced.