Nevernever

by Will Shetterly

  “Wish I hadn’t taken this job.”

  “Oh? Have I heard that said before?” She pushed a small clay pitcher toward him.

  The Finder sniffed the pitcher, splashed milk from it into his cup, sipped, and smiled. “Yes. Then you said, ‘You must answer what’s within you. To deny that is to slay your soul.’”

  She kept her satisfied smile. “I did?”

  “It was after a few beers. After we’d both had a few beers.”

  She nodded. “An odd way to ask the way to the toilet.”

  He looked across the table, still quite somber. He had the kind of steady gaze that makes girls talk about their loves and guys talk about their fears. “Elves. They do everything obliquely.”

  “Is’t true?” She lost her amusement. “Then, purely as an exercise, I’ll ask, What now?”

  My fingers and toes were growing tired, but the Fixer’s question made me forget that.

  “Tell ‘er we found the kid with the moles. Get our money. And not have to take another job for months.”

  “As though you hate doing this.” She had pulled a Swiss Army knife from her pocket and was dismantling the toaster, so her eyes did not meet his.

  He grimaced. “If I can’t stop it, I might as well make a living from it.”

  She held up something from the innards of the toaster, then began to scrape it clean. “Make a living, or make a life?”

  He said, “C’mon, Tick-Tick.” She glanced up at the name, and he said, “Do I ask you that?”

  “No, I grant you, and would bless you for it, could we soulless folk bless anyone.” Tick-Tick was already reassembling the toaster. She pressed the lever once, and it sprang up obediently. “Was this for me?”

  “Took it in trade for finding a National steel guitar. Easiest job I ever had. Told the kid the directions to Folk Yourself, and she gave me the toaster. It’s a working antique—”

  Tick-Tick muttered, “Now.”

  “—from Bordertown. One of the truckers at the market’ll give us something for it. Be worth something back in the World.”

  I wanted to scream, What about the kid with the moles? I wondered if Taz were still waiting, if Florida and Sparks had made it to their respective homes, if anyone in the neighborhood had noticed a werewolf clinging to the outside of someone’s window.

  The Finder finished his coffee and went to a shelf. I saw books, jewelry boxes, clothing, old record albums, and kids’ toys, all neatly placed as if waiting for their owners to fetch them. He picked up a hand mirror, which seemed odd, and then spoke to it, which seemed odder yet: “Mirror, mirror, on the ball, who’s the vainest of them all?”

  “Very funny,” someone said. I glanced at the Fixer, Tick-Tick. She was sipping her coffee and watching the guy. I wondered if she was the best ventriloquist I’d ever seen. Then I shivered: My fur was screaming a warning at my skin. The Voice was coming from the hand mirror.

  “Found what you want,” the kid said.

  “Oh?” The Voice had an Elflands accent, but so did a quarter of the elves in B-town.

  “Wasn’t easy. The pull kept disappearing. Every time I had to ask for it again, I got the most amazing headaches—”

  “Orient. We agreed on a price,” the Voice said.

  Orient? At first I thought it was a command, then realized it was the Finder’s name, or maybe his title.

  “All right. But I want you to know what you’re paying for.”

  “I’m paying for an elven child with a triangle of birthmarks on one shoulder.”

  “Right you are,” said Orient. “Which isn’t very specific, which is probably why the pull kept fading on me. What I did—”

  “Do you have our child?” the Voice demanded.

  “What I did,” Orient repeated quite calmly, and I rather respected him then, even if he was in the middle of dooming Florida, “was triangulate on the fix whenever I got it. And eventually I narrowed it down to a couple of areas. And tonight, we got lucky.”

  “Yes?”

  “Direct fix while I was looking right at the kid. Can’t be much surer than that.”

  “I believe you. Where is the child now?”

  “Well.” Orient looked at Tick-Tick, who shrugged. I wondered if I should attack them both somehow, just to distract them, but I also wanted to know all they knew. If they kept talking, I might learn the identity, and maybe even the location, of the Voice.

  “I am waiting.”

  “I’m not sure, exactly,” said Orient.

  “I expected something more than this.”

  “And I expected a lot less, dammit! Finding a missing elf ought—” Orient brushed his loose locks of hair back and said, more calmly, “Look. It’ll be easy now. Your kid seems to be around Mock Avenue fairly often. And I can give you an exact description, as of this evening. Good enough?”

  “It will have to be,” said the Voice. “But do not expect payment until we have our child.”

  Orient glanced at Tick-Tick, and they shrugged simultaneously. Orient said, “No prob. The reason you never spotted the elf with the birthmarks is ‘cause someone did some serious magic. You’re now looking for a medium-height kid who looks remarkably like the title character in I Was a Teen-Aged Werewolf.”

  I fell off the side of the building.

  Chapter 4—Night of the Hunter’s Moon

  If Leda had tried to turn me into a cat, maybe I would’ve landed on my feet. Mutt-man was lucky he didn’t bust his butt. I just sat there on the leaf-strewn sidewalk looking stupid until I glanced up and saw someone in the window above. A lock of moon-white hair told me it was Tick-Tick, and her voice confirmed that. She said, “Speaking of—”

  I scrambled to my feet and ran. It was probably luck again that took me toward Taz instead of away. If luck’s finite, I was using mine up awfully quickly.

  My mind was like a bike stripped of high gear. I was thinking frantically, but answers wouldn’t come. I saw one thing clearly: Now that the searchers thought they were looking for the Teen Wolf, Orient could find me anytime, anywhere. If they caught me and realized I wasn’t who they wanted, they might let me go. Or they might not. Either way, if they got that close to me, they’d be one very small step from capturing Florida.

  Taz was waiting at the corner. I began to realize I’d done a few things wrong. I should’ve tried to break the magic mirror that let Orient talk to his boss. I should’ve stolen or sabotaged their bike. But if I’d tried either, Orient and Tick-Tick might’ve caught or killed me, and things would have been even worse than they were.

  Whatever else I do, I worry better than anyone I know.

  I realized another thing. If I was in danger, anyone with me was in danger. I made a shooing motion with one hand as I ran past Taz. I had a destination then. Sometimes that’s a reasonable substitute for a plan.

  Riding beside me, her bike quiet and its lights out, Taz said, “Training for the Olympics? I ‘spect you’d get the gold as the only entrant in the werewolf-runs-through-town-and-doesn’t-explain-a-bloody-thing races.”

  I made the shooing motion again.

  “Anyplace you’re going, I can get you there faster.”

  She was right. I didn’t like that; it meant I had to trade a little of Taz’s safety in the hope of winning more for Florida. I nodded. As Taz slowed, I hopped on back, then jammed my finger forward in the air several times, pointing ahead.

  “Go fast?” Taz asked. “Like there’s another way to travel?” She cranked the throttle.

  I kept my left arm around her waist as we raced. With my right hand, I tapped her shoulder whenever I thought she should turn, then pointed in the proper direction. After a couple of turns, we settled on a system: tap right shoulder for right turn, tap left for left.

  And after five or ten very long minutes, I pointed at a black cinder-block building. If you squinted, you could tell it had started life as a bus station. Since I’d last been there, a spell-driven neon sign had been mounted over the front doors so even touris
ts could know they’d found Danceland.

  There are always kids hanging out by the doors if the club’s open. When bands like the Unwanted or Lord Dunsany’s Nightmare are playing, the street is as packed as the interior. I could tell we’d arrived after the last show: The only people on this end of Ho were a couple of elf and human kids who sat talking together on the curb. They glanced at us as Taz pulled up to Danceland’s front doors, and they kept talking. At another time, I would’ve been pleased that I was becoming a common sight in some parts of Soho.

  Taz said doubtfully, “Least it’s not an elves-only joint.”

  I jumped off, gave her a grin and a wave in the hope that she’d go, and headed for the front door. I heard her kickstand drop behind me, and then her bootsteps trailed me to the front doors.

  They were locked. I pounded on the wooden planks that’d replaced the glass long ago, and ignored someone yelling from inside, “It’s over, go home, find some more money and bring it to us tomorrow night!” After half a minute, the same person said, “All right, all right, if it’s not an emergency already, I warn you, it shall be one.”

  The door opened. Beside me, Taz took a small step backward, a reasonable response to Goldy when he’s in bouncer mode. The tight coils of metallic hair and the weightlifter’s shoulders are part of it, but when he sets his dark features in an I’m-going-to-eat-you-for-lunch-and-I’m-still-going-to-be-hungry look, smart people want to get out of his way.

  I pushed into the doorway as Goldy said, “Wolfboy? Something wrong with Mickey?”

  I shook my head quickly. At my heels, Taz said, “I’m with him.”

  Goldy said, “Nothing’s happening now, we’re shutting—”

  I said, “’I’er.”

  Goldy squinted; he’d regained his impassive look after I’d said Mickey was all right. “Strider? He’s mopping the dance floor, I think.”

  I ran inside with Taz and Goldy in tow.

  A lot of the glamor departs from a club when the overhead lights are bright and the customers have gone. In Danceland, the black wall paint wanted renewing; the ceiling neon, turned off, was a grotesque jumble of wires and tubes. The room stank of stale smoke and stale beer. The owner and her main bartender were wiping down the counters and gathering dirty bottles, Sai was pushing a beer keg on a dolly across the dance floor, and Strider was mopping the bare stage. For some people, it’s disillusioning to see behind the scenes. For me, it’s a different kind of magic. It’s the magic of being trusted with the truth.

  The owner, a wiry woman called Dancer, looked our way. So did Valda, the bartender, who always reminded me of my grandmother. Goldy called, “’S cool. The Wolf’s a friend.”

  Dancer nodded, and she and Valda kept working.

  Sai grinned, parked the dolly by the bar, grabbed me around the waist in a hug, and whirled me into the air. “Hey, Woof-woof, how was the Nevernever?”

  I wriggled a bit, wishing she’d set me down. As soon as Goldy said, “Something’s up,” she did.

  “Oh?” She looked at Taz.

  “Just taxi service,” Taz said cautiously. Maybe she wasn’t sure what to make of a half-Asian, half-elven woman who still had the biceps of her boxing days. I preferred to think Taz wondered what Sai’s hug meant.

  Sai nodded, bouncing the short mane of black hair about her head. “Come after pay and a tip?”

  “Nah. Finding out what this is all about will be enough pay.”

  Sai glanced at me. I winced and shook my head a tiny bit.

  Taz caught that. “But if I’m not wanted—”

  I grabbed her arm as she turned away. She spun back fast, angry. I raised both hands in surrender, then one finger for patience, then pulled out pen and paper: NOT MY PLACE TO TELL. ISN’T ABOUT ME.

  Taz said, “Yeah, right,” in a hard voice.

  If I could’ve talked, I would’ve said FINE in the same voice. I wrote, SORRY. BUT I CAN’T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT.

  She gave me the deep eyeball search. It wasn’t easy to stand there meeting her gaze, but I did, and she nodded. “Okay, Wolf. See you.”

  She started toward the door. I ran after her, tapped her shoulder, and crooked my finger to draw her back toward the center of the room. Strider had joined the others, so the Terrible Trio awaited us in all their glory: a slender elf with his white hair tied back in a samurai’s knot, a stocky halfie, and a broad-shouldered human, united only by green Danceland long-sleeved T-shirts and identical expressions of grim confidence.

  I grinned and, bowing a bit, pointed both hands at Strider, then waved them to point at Taz.

  Strider caught on, as I knew he would. I expected him to answer in Prince-of-Faerie mode, but he had his Bordertown manners down: “Strider. Hope you had better luck with your nom de guerre.”

  Bordertown style undoubtedly made Taz more comfortable than Elfands would’ve; Strider knew more about manners than I did. Taz smiled. “‘Tasmanian Devil’ didn’t last, thank God. Taz.”

  Sai said, “Sai. I fought pro for a year or so. When I quit, I lost the the.”

  “The Soho Sai!” Taz grinned. “I saw you tie with the Dragontown Kid. I thought you were better’n him.”

  “Course she is,” Goldy said. “Call me Goldy. For reasons that must be evident.”

  Taz nodded. “You’ve all got business. I’m gone.” She made a pistol of her thumb and forefinger and fired it at me. “See you.”

  I watched her disappear around the front hall, wondered if I would see her again, and scribbled, CAN WE GO? PEOPLE ARE AFTER ME WHO BELIEVE I’M THE HEIR TO FAERIE. I DON’T WANT THEM THINKING DANCELAND’S IMPORTANT.

  I expected Strider to laugh, but Goldy was the only one who began to smile. He saw I was serious at the same time Sai called, “Dancer, okay if we finish up early tomorrow?”

  Dancer waved a hand in dismissal. “Get. Come in at the usual.”

  Valda added, “Hey, have some fun for me!”

  The Trio grabbed jackets, and we exited through the back door into the alley. A midnight blue Harley with a flaring windshield was parked there, next to a dented red Honda scooter. Sai got onto the motorcycle, saying, “Isn’t it beautiful? It’s the Batcycle.”

  Strider got on behind her. “A wedding present. Who needs money when you have wheels?”

  Goldy started the little red scooter. “Where to, Lupo?”

  I got behind him and showed him my latest note: SOMEWHERE WE CAN TALK THAT WON’T COMPROMISE ANYONE. “Compromise” made me feel like Spywolf.

  The Trio said simultaneously, “Hard Luck.”

  I nodded; I should’ve guessed that.

  We rolled all of half a block up Ho Street, and I wondered whether Florida and Sparks had gotten home, and how soon the Voice would send people after me. That kept me from paying attention to Ho itself, which is usually a shame. Ho’s where you go when you want to see something happening or be something happening.

  The Hard Luck Café is where you go on Ho when you’re thoroughly tired of things happening, and all you want is food or conversation or a few minutes of relative calm. I say “relative” because the Hard Luck’s where everyone else goes who’s in search of a salsa-and-mushroom grilled-cheese sandwich, coffee that’ll wake the dead and kill the living, or a chance to see who else is playing nighthawks-at-the-diner.

  This night, that consisted of a couple of chess players near the window, a couple of girls holding hands across the table at a booth, and a few loners, human and elf, at the counter. We took the corner booth without consulting. When the waiter yelled over the music from a seedybox, “The usual?” Sai told her, “All around.”

  I hardly noticed the coffee cup that appeared at my elbow, and when the waiter asked about food, I shook my head. I was writing. By the time the waiter returned with a bowl of blueberries and yogurt for Goldy and a huge cinnamon roll for Strider and Sai to share, I’d written this:

  HUMAN CALLED FINDER A.K.A. ORIENT AND ELF CALLED FIXER A.K.A. TICK-TICK WERE PAID TO FIND ELF KID W/ 3 MOLES. TON
IGHT, FLORIDA, SPARKS, & I WENT TO MILO CHEVROLET’S W/ SOME PACKERS: TAZ, GORTY FM. CASTLE PUP, & SKINNY GUY CALLED Q. PAUL.

  MAGIC DOESN’T WORK AT MILO’S. SO MOLES WERE ON KID’S SHOULDER. SO FINDER TRACKED US MAGICALLY OR SOMETHING. GOOD NEWS IS I WAS STANDING IN FRONT OF FLORIDA THE ONLY TIME ORIENT GOT A LOOK AT HIS QUARRY, SO HE THINKS I’M THE HEIR.

  THAT’S THE BAD NEWS, TOO.

  Goldy shook his head. “You have some kind of luck, kid.”

  Strider said, “Who knows what happened?”

  I wrote, ME. & YOU GUYS. OTHERS JUST KNOW SOME KIDS WERE TRACKING US. THEY HELPED ME FIND ORIENT: 2ND FLOOR, 231 MORRISON.

  Sai said, “Where’s Florida?”

  ELSEWHERE, I HOPE.

  Goldy said, “You haven’t checked?”

  MS. WU’S SPELL SHOULD BE HIDING HER AGAIN. NOTHING’S HIDING ME IF THIS FINDER STARTS TRACKING WEREWOLVES.

  Strider said, “He is.”

  Sai glanced at him.

  Strider said, “They want the heir. As quickly as possible. Any idea who hired ‘em?”

  A VOICE CAME THROUGH A MIRROR ORIENT USED. SOUNDED FEMALE. ELFLANDS ACCENT, NOT B-TOWN.

  Strider grimaced. “Crystaviel.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t need to write that I thought so. There were thousands of female elves in Bordertown, but only one had tried to kidnap Florida before.

  Strider stood. “One way to find out for sure.”

  I gulped coffee, Goldy gobbled a last spoonful of yogurt, and Sai stuffed the last crust of cinnamon roll into her mouth. Strider gave the waiter a pass good for any Danceland main stage show; she said, “Oh, that’s too much,” and gave him a Ren and Stimpy pin in change, which he pinned to Sai’s jacket.

  Sai said, “You’ll spoil me.”

  Strider answered, “Never enough.”

  Back on the street, Goldy said, “Shall I go with you?”

  Strider said, “No. Check on Florida.”

  Goldy nodded and left on his scooter. To state the obvious: Appearances are always deceiving in Bordertown. Prime example: there’s no relation between the size of a bike and the power of a spellbox. Goldy rocketed.