A Host of Furious Fancies

by Mercedes Lackey

  Eric grinned slightly, savoring the mental image of a posse of sunglasses-wearing Feds in Lincoln Green Armani suits armed with high-tech wizard’s staves and magnetized steel sword-phones. It’s almost weird enough to happen. . . . Then he turned serious again.

  “Maybe whoever it is doesn’t realize what he’s actually up against. If you’re Sidhe—and practically immortal—and living Underhill anyway—you might not really have noticed the last two or three centuries go by, even though it’s made a helluva lot of difference here in the world. Meanwhile, you can’t deny he could do a lot of damage before someone stopped him—and what would happen if the Feds got real, concrete proof that the Sidhe existed? I tried to warn Jimmie and the others, but those Guardians are way in over their heads—and they won’t even consider the possibility that this is something they can’t handle. Quietly, I mean.” Or at all. Guardians die as easily as anyone else, and the Dark Court can put a lot of resources into the field.

  But Ria’s attitude had changed while he was making his point. She looked almost disapproving, now.

  “I’m flattered that you’d want to use me as a sounding board,” Ria said, sitting back in her seat and regarding him with an unreadable expression. “But frankly, Eric, I don’t see what this has to do with you or me, other than meaning we ought to get out of here before the fireworks start.”

  Eric stared at Ria in disbelief. He’d just naturally assumed that once he’d told her what the problem was, she’d immediately have some suggestions for what to do next to take care of it.

  “If a Sidhe Great Lord starts a war with the United States, we’re going to be drawn into it no matter what,” he finally pointed out. “This is entirely leaving out the people who’ll get killed, or hurt, or sucked dry before he’s stopped.”

  “The Guardians think they can handle it. You said yourself they’ll probably stop him eventually. And you’re the one who’s living here, not me,” Ria said. “Besides, there’s a faint possibility you’ve misread the situation. Maybe a few disappointments will change your Nexus-builder’s mind about moving here before he throws down for a full-scale war. So why not let these Guardians do what they’re here for? You said it was their full-time job. They probably have lots of experience.”

  “Not with this,” Eric said stubbornly. “They don’t get many Sidhe here in the city. They’ve never seen this kind of magic before. You have, and so have I. You know what kind of damage a situation like this can do.” He leaned forward, willing her to understand how important this was. But even before she spoke, he knew he’d failed.

  “Eric, people are dying horribly every day, all over the world. Even if I devoted my every waking moment to making things better for them, it’d be a drop in the bucket compared to what they’re doing to themselves. I have responsibilities closer to home—to my employees, to my staff, to the people who depend on me personally to be there, and not go haring off on some kind of damnfool idealistic crusade designed to get someone close to me out of a midterm exam.”

  “Is that what you think this is about?” Eric demanded, recoiling in hurt. Ria of all people knew how much trouble a Nexus in the wrong hands could be. He’d been sure that the moment he explained things to her she’d be ready to help.

  Ria smiled gently. “No, Eric, not entirely. But I think it is part of the reason you’re trying so hard to push yourself into someplace you’re obviously not wanted. Dharinel told you to stay out of it. These Guardians told you the same thing. Why not listen to somebody for a change?”

  I’ve already been doing too much of that! Eric felt a stubborn anger rising inside him, and tried to push it aside. He’d been open and honest with Ria, and she seemed to be treating this as if it were all some sort of meaningless game!

  “Okay. All right. I guess I deserve some of that. But at least come and look at the place in the Park with me. Make up your own mind about how bad this could be. And if you don’t want to get involved then, I’ll respect that.”

  He leaned forward, willing her to say yes. To that much, at least.

  Ria sighed. “Okay, Eric, you’ve won me over. I’ll come and look. But I can’t do it today, and Monday’s looking pretty full, too. I have companies to run; give me a few days. I’ll clear a space in my schedule.”

  A few days could be too late! Eric took a deep breath and regained control of himself with an effort. He felt oddly disappointed—in Ria, in himself—as if a door that might lead to something wonderful had just been unexpectedly slammed in his face. He’d thought—well, maybe he hadn’t actually thought. He’d been upset about what happened at the Park last night, he’d wanted to see Ria again, and he guessed he’d let his hormones do at least some of the thinking.

  “Okay,” he said grudgingly, hating how hurt, how betrayed he felt. “I guess that’s fair. Why don’t you give me a call when you’ve got some free time?” He got to his feet. “I won’t bother you any more. I’m sure we’ve both got a lot of things to do.”

  Ria rose gracefully, her face a cool social mask of politeness. Bard or not, Truth-sense or not, he couldn’t get a peek at anything behind her shields to judge her feelings. “I’ll see you later, then, Eric.”

  With as much dignity as he felt he could muster under the circumstances, Eric left.

  * * *

  Out on the street again, Eric took a few moments to catch his mental breath. Those mis-cues just now had been at least partly his fault—and more than partly, if he were being totally honest with himself. He realized that he’d been thinking of Ria as a sort of natural ally against the Guardians who’d fall in with anything he proposed—well, she’d disabused him of that notion pretty quick.

  Then I’ll do it myself, said the Little Red Hen.

  He managed a smile. It would have been nice to have company and a little backup, but he was a Bard, after all. He could do his own investigating. And I’m right here, and the Park is pretty safe during the day. All the muggers are probably out Christmas shopping, too.

  And it wasn’t really going against Dharinel’s advice. Not yet. Whoever’d put up the Nexus didn’t seem to be around during the day, and Eric would be sure not to leave any trail that could lead an Unfriendly back to his doorstep. The guy was after Talents, and Eric didn’t fool himself about the fact that his own power made him a pretty enticing mouthful. And he wasn’t interested in being anybody’s lunch, thank you ma’am.

  But a little looking around wouldn’t hurt. And Ria was right about one thing. With a quick glance in the dark and a bunch of other people around, he might have misjudged how serious the situation was. He waited for a break in the traffic and crossed the street, heading into the Park.

  From the window high above, Ria watched him go. She felt an irritated mixture of anger and regret over what had just happened.

  Just who the hell did Eric Banyon think he was, anyway? The Lone Ranger?

  Not the old Eric Banyon, that’s for sure. The old Eric, the one she’d kept as an intriguing pet, wouldn’t have thrown himself into things this way. That Eric had waited to be led, or told what to do. This one made his own choices, and his own rules.

  But I’m not going to play by them. He can be the Lone Ranger if he wants, but he’ll have to find another faithful Indian companion!

  She respected him enough to send him away today, rather than teasing him into bed. It would have been a sweet sort of triumph to distract him that thoroughly—Eric had always been a generous lover, and this new maturity made him even more interesting as a potential bed partner—but she wanted him as an equal, not a conquest. And that meant equality on both sides. If she didn’t want Eric as a submissive follower, then he was going to have to learn that he wasn’t automatically the leader, either. Living in the real world meant negotiating for what you wanted—and if Eric wanted her as much as she wanted him, he was going to have to learn that little lesson. And hope it doesn’t kill either of us.

  That didn’t mean she was going to hang him out to dry, either. He’d been right ab
out one thing: she knew this enemy better than he did. She hesitated a moment, coming to a decision, and then picked up the phone.

  “Jonathan? Ria. Look, I’ve run into a little something out here that needs looking into, and I’m going to need some backup. Yes. Armed and very discreet. Who do we use in New York? Call me back when you have the number. I want to make the call myself.”

  About an hour later there was a knock on her door. She checked through the peephole, and then opened the door.

  “Gotham Security,” the man said, holding open a photo ID for her to look at. Raine Logan, read the name below the photo.

  He was only a few inches taller than she was, but he carried himself as if he were six feet tall. He wore a dark blue nylon bomber jacket and jeans, with an army surplus duffle slung over his shoulder. His black hair was brushed straight back from a deep widow’s peak, there was a day’s worth of black stubble on his jaw, and beneath his bulky clothing, he had the trim, sculpted body of someone who worked out with weights for more than show. When she’d called the service, she’d specified needing someone who could keep her safe anywhere in New York—and blend in on the street. The man they’d sent more than fit the bill. You wouldn’t give him a second glance anywhere from Spanish Harlem to Crown Point.

  “Come in, Mr. Logan,” she said, closing the door behind him.

  “Just Logan. And you’re Ria,” he said. “These are for you.” He held out the bag. “The service has your size and your profile; you’ve used our West Coast service in the past.”

  She opened the duffle and pulled out the contents. Worn jeans with the extra gusset at the crotch that would give them as much flexibility as a pair of dance tights, a tight black T-shirt, and a jacket. It looked like a cheap vinyl imitation of a black leather jacket, but when she lifted it, it was heavier than she expected. She checked the lining, and found it was lined in Kevlar—enough to stop anything up to a Black Talon cop-killer.

  “The dispatcher said you’d be going into some rough neighborhoods. You don’t want to go looking like money,” Logan said.

  “Thanks,” Ria said, meaning it. Gotham Security was the best. They turned down more clients than they accepted, and the reason they still accepted her commissions was because she never argued with their decisions once she’d set the parameters. Ria respected competence in any field. When you hired an expert to keep you safe, there was no point in telling him how to do his job.

  “Help yourself to some coffee. I’ll go change.”

  She’d worn running shoes on the plane, but they weren’t some expensive brand someone would try to kill her for. She stripped off the seduction outfit she’d worn for Eric and changed into the street clothes the bodyguard had brought, then braided her hair severely back and pinned it into a tight bun. She looked in the mirror, frowned, and then went into the bathroom to scrub off every trace of makeup. There were thin gloves in the pocket of the jacket, and she put them on. Satisfied at last, she came back into the sitting room of the suite.

  Logan was standing where he could watch both the doors and the windows, a cup of coffee in his hand. He regarded her impassively, and then gave a short nod of approval.

  “Let’s go.” He held out a black watch cap. “Wear this. Blondes aren’t that common in some parts of town.”

  Eric hadn’t told Ria exactly where the unfinished Nexus was, but once she got into the Park, the trail of Unseleighe taint was fairly obvious. Logan followed her like a silent shadow as she cast around, working her way into the center of the magic.

  Here.

  The partial Nexus shimmered in the dry winter air, invisible unless you were Gifted and knew what you were looking for. Its twisted magic made even Ria shudder inwardly. This was Unseleighe work, fuelled by death, human death. She could still see the faint smudges of levin bolts on the grass where the Sidhe Lord had destroyed the bodies of his victims.

  The surrounding trees looked faintly haunted. If the Nexus came fully into being, this would become a bonewood, the trees taking on a malicious life of their own in imitation of their dark master.

  So he—whoever he is—was here. But where did he come from, and where did he go? In and out of Underhill, of course. She wouldn’t be able to track his movements Underhill from here, and even if she’d had the power to force an entry into Underhill from a standing start, she knew too little about her foe to make it a good idea. She turned her attention to another part of the problem. Eric had been here as well, and recently. Had he seen what she saw, she wondered? And if he had, where was he now?

  Not chasing the Unseleighe, that’s for sure. There’s nothing to track.

  She circled the area, frowning faintly. This wasn’t Unseleighe Sidhe work alone. There was something else here as well.

  Her hands wove small patterns through the air as she called upon her magic—not the Gift that was the birthright of the Sidhe, but sorcery that she’d learned painstakingly over the years. She worked slowly and carefully, and at last she had banished everything that was wholly of Underhill from her perceptions.

  But something remained, the human taint she had noticed at first.

  And that left a trail she could follow.

  An hour before Ria left her hotel room with Logan, Eric headed into Central Park. He stopped just inside the grounds to dig his flute out of his bag and put it together. He blew a soft note into the mouthpiece to warm the cold silver, and seemed to feel the trees around him shiver in response. More proof, not that he needed it, that someone had been using major magic here—enough magic to wake the trees, let alone the dead.

  Carrying his flute in his hand, Eric walked deeper into the park, back to the place Toni had brought him to last night. The scorch marks were still there, and in the daylight he saw something he’d missed the night before—the deep cuts of horses’ hooves in the frozen turf.

  And sure, there are bridle paths through the park, but they’re clearly marked and the riders stick to them. And these tracks sure weren’t made by any New York Rent-a-Nag. Where were you going, Mister Dark Lord of the Sidhe? And who were you after?

  Let’s see just how you’ve been spending your time. . . .

  He lifted his flute to his lips and began to play. A few trills and runs first, just to warm up, and then he segued into “Sidhe Beg, Sidhe Mor,” letting the plaintive demand of the music speak for him.

  The light seemed to shift, some colors growing brighter, others vanishing entirely. The hard brightness of the afternoon sun became muted, fading almost into the unchanging silvery light of Underhill, while the latticework of the unfinished Nexus burned bright and clear, like a sculpture of purest purple-black neon. The constant background noise of New York—sirens, traffic, and the hum of a thousand conversations all taking place at once—faded to silence. Now Eric could see the magic plainly, yet he himself was as invisible to mortal eyes as magic normally was. Cloaked in his music, Eric could pass through the city unseen, even by his quarry. He turned, casting about.

  The whole park was dotted with hoofprints that glowed with a deep scarlet light—the Unseleighe Lord, whoever he was, had been making himself right at home, him and his elvensteed. The creature’s glowing scarlet trail crisscrossed the grass from a dozen directions, giving the dry winter grass a spuriously festive look.

  I can’t follow all of these! Eric shifted his bag higher on his shoulder. He had to pick one—but which?

  At last he saw one set of hoofprints of a slightly different color than the rest—almost maroon, instead of the bright vermillion of the others. As he stepped into them, he caught a faint whiff of something . . . something almost raw and primitive next to the ancient malice of the Unseleighe Sidhe.

  As good a way to make a choice as any, Eric decided, and began to follow the dark track.

  The track quickly took him across town and out of the high-priced spread. He could see splashes of magic along the way—as if someone had been carrying it in a bucket that kept slopping over, staining the sidewalks and buildings. When h
e got further downtown, a fine red mist seemed to hang in the air like a fog of magic—too thin to really have any effect, but more evidence that its source—or even many sources—had passed through here, all leaking magic like a sieve.

  What is this? A mage’s convention? And if so, why wasn’t I invited? he thought whimsically.

  The odd thing was, the “splashes”—for lack of a better word—seemed to be concentrated around the street people. None of them seemed to be the source, but somehow they’d been near the source, and not very long ago. Eric guessed the Nexus point in the Park hadn’t been started more than a day or so—the timing of its building coincided perfectly with his dream—and the traces he was following would fade away completely in another day or so.

  Cold weather to be on the streets, Eric thought, watching an old man pushing along a grocery cart full of bits and pieces of unnameable junk. A Sidhe Lord down here. Now THAT’s culture clash.

  The contrast between the busy, purposeful shoppers—all of whom had homes to go to—and the shabby homeless that cowered back from them like hungry ghosts was jarring. He didn’t remember there being so many street people the last time he’d been in New York—hell, he didn’t remember there being any, but the Upper East Side tended to run them out of the area pretty rigorously. He’d gotten used to seeing them in the last few weeks—as used as you could get, anyway—but as he headed east, he realized that the ones in his neighborhood were just the tip of the iceberg. As he left Yuppieland and entered the area of clinics, flophouses, and SROs6 the tribe of the disenfranchised seemed to multiply, and for the first time Eric realized how very many people in this city had no other home than the streets. Not hundreds. Thousands.

  And not just people living in slums or in welfare housing, but people who didn’t have any place to go at night at all. He walked past a man in a tattered overcoat who might have been any age from forty to seventy and was carrying on an angry, animated conversation with the empty air. His hands were covered with small unhealed sores, and there were flecks of spittle on his cheeks. Greyish stubble covered his cheeks, and even in the cold he stank of urine, unwashed body, and illness.