by P. R. Frost
Damn. No wonder my spine itched.
I gave Sylvia a brief progress report on the new book and disconnected.
I cursed and bit my nails. “Is this my fight, Scrap?” I asked.
He shrugged and dove back into the air conditioner like a ghostly cartoon.
Curiouser and curiouser. There are no coincidences in imp lore. Nor are there any references to four-eyed scholars stalking a monster that should be stalked by my warrior. I need an imp version of the Internet to do some research.
Lacking that, I just might have to figure out how to use Tess’ laptop.
I spent the next day jumping at shadows and avoiding bat wings. Those bat costumes creeped me out. Finally, after dinner—a sandwich grabbed at a nearby restaurant filled with con goers but no bats—I retreated to my room to change for the masquerade.
Dahling, don’t tell me you’re going to wear that to judge the masquerade. Scrap folded his stubby arms and looked offended. He took on a bilious yellowish-green color that made me feel sick just looking at him.
“What’s wrong with this?” I twirled in front of him showing off my little black dress—which is really midnight blue since I hate wearing that much black—that I never travel without.
The skirt is too long. It cuts off in the middle of your calves and makes them look fat, Scrap sneered. He fluttered around me, sniffing and wrinkling his nose as if I smelled bad.
“Don’t do that. I just had a shower.”
Take it off, he insisted, tugging at the demure elbowlength sleeve that hid the lingering twin red marks left by the monster dog’s teeth. They still itched but showed no sign of infection.
“No. I like this dress.”
Why, pray tell?
“It’s… it’s practical.”
It’s ugly!
He was right. I looked ten years older and… heaven forbid, was returning to my former lumpiness.
“Oh, all right.” I unzipped the soft crepe and flung it onto the bed. “What do you suggest I wear?”
Go play with your computer for ten minutes.
“I can’t go out in just my black slip and I didn’t bring another dress.”
Hmm, that is a nice slip. Silk?
“You know it is. You picked it out.” And the garment dripped lace.
I plunked down into the desk chair and awakened the laptop. I didn’t dare get embroiled in my work in case I forgot to leave for the masquerade on time. So I played three hands of solitaire.
Hey, Blondie, I fixed your dress.
I groaned, dreading the result. Scrap had been known to crop dresses so short they showed my butt. While playing cards on the computer, I’d decided to wear my black slacks with the red silk blouse and black sandals with two-inch heels.
“Wow!” What else could I say. Scrap had sculpted the dress, slitting the side seam almost to my butt, removing the sleeves and plunging the neckline. I slipped into it and surveyed the result in the inadequate mirror.
“I look almost sexy. But I need makeup to cover that dog bite.”
What do you mean, “almost”?
“I’ve got cleavage!”
And legs and a teeny, tiny waist. Every man in the room will be looking at you, babe, and not the costumes.
I turned side to side, surveying the transformation. “It needs a necklace.”
Just that hematite pendant. Scrap dropped the gleaming black necklace in my hand.
Two minutes later I strolled (strutted) down the corridor to the staging area beside the main ballroom. A couple of Trekkers whistled. A pirate and his minion kissed my hand.
I tossed my loose curls and smiled.
Until I saw the bat troupe mingling with the crowd.
They sported big blue ribbon rosettes—awards for hall costumes. Thankfully, that took them out of competition for the masquerade. I wouldn’t have to touch their costumes to judge workmanship. The younger members had gone from furred hoods to full fur masks. I walked around them quite warily.
The tall man with the wings of silver hair paused to stare at me. He lifted his hand to smooth his braid with a wonderfully long-fingered hand (a habitual gesture?), showing the full breadth of his bat wings. He smiled.
I froze. Our gazes locked. I couldn’t look away, couldn’t move, totally entranced by the chocolate depths of his eyes.
That flash of teeth and the steadiness of his brown eyes reminded me of Dill.
Then he looked away.
I shivered and entered the private area as quickly as possible. Those bats could take all the fun out of this con for me.
Sunday morning, the last day of the con, when half the members walked around in zombie trances of fatigue, I slipped into a filk concert performed by a couple of acquaintances.
I’d picked up their latest CD in the dealers’ room and was anxious to hear them.
Scrap bounced and twitched in time to the music. We don’t have anything this good back home.
“And where is your home?” I whispered.
Elsewhere. He never said anything more than that.
We were deep into a rousing version of a movie parody sung to a familiar tune when I felt a sharp tug on my hair. I jerked my head around. One of the bat children grinned at me. She had on black lipstick and kohl around her eyes. I glared at her and slapped her hand, with its unnaturally long fingers, away from my head.
Watch your left, babe, Scrap hissed at me. She’s just a diversion. He bared his teeth and morphed to hot pink bordering on red.
Then I noticed a bat brother crawling up beside me, one hand (also with extra long fingers) reaching into my tote bag. I pulled it into my lap and hugged it close. What was in there to entice them, other than the challenge? Some bookmarks, autograph copy stickers, book covers minus the books, my con schedule, some aspirin, and a hairbrush. And the antique comb. I’d pulled it out of my hair an hour ago. The tines were beginning to irritate my scalp, and I noticed more very pale gold hairs breaking off every time I took it off.
Nothing of value. My wallet and room key were in a belt pack.
The children retreated.
I tried to enjoy the concert after that. But my mind kept returning to the black-clad brats. What did they want from my tote bag?
Gratefully, I flew home that night. That was the first con I hadn’t thoroughly enjoyed in ten years.
Chapter 8
TWO WEEKS LATER, I had exhausted my creativity on the Internet with no luck in finding a reference to the monster dog. I spent hours looking through sixteen new research books on Native American religion and mythology. In the process I’d found a lot of material for my next book. Somehow, I’d also added four chapters to the current work in progress.
Still, I had nothing referring to a big ugly dog attacking adolescent Native American girls. Two more attacks had made the news, one in western Idaho, another near Spokane, Washington.
Sylvia Watson had not called with news that Cynthia Stalking Moon had returned to her clan. I worried about her as much as I worried about that damn dog.
Each report of a dog attack was accompanied by yet another Sasquatch sighting. An intrepid hiker had even managed some hazy footage of the beast on his camera cell phone. Those few frames could have been of a big hairy dog or a kid in a gorilla suit. No way to tell without more pixels in the pictures.
No one seemed to make a connection between the dog attacks and the Sasquatch sightings. I began to wonder if they were related. Most news readers passed the craziness off as symptoms of increased stress due to a downturn in the economy.
In order to stop the dog, I needed a cultural anthropologist who specialized in Native American lore of the Pacific Northwest. No one but me had the skills and determination to take it out. My instincts told me that. So did Scrap. He claimed that I had permission from the Sisterhood of the Celestial Blade to pursue the dog. As if I needed their permission for anything.
They’d kicked me out because I didn’t conform to their ideals. I’d left their hidebound sanctuary gl
adly.
Hey, Blondie, Scrap called to me from his perch on the wrought iron spider hanging inside the fireplace of my office. He swung back and forth on the hook.
His barbed tail twitched dangerously near the flames. It glowed red.
He jumped to his feet on the hearth and slapped his tail against the bricks. A few sparks fell harmlessly back into the fire as he blew on the burn.
I scooted my chair back to peer at him from my desk in the back parlor of the house. This room stretched the width of the house and contained an original, stillworking fireplace big enough to walk into. The two smaller original rooms also had working fireplaces in the same chimney. I used the little rooms as a library and a private sitting room where I could entertain special guests or read.
“You are disrupting my concentration as usual,” I replied, not all that upset.
You are turning into a computer potato, Tessie dahling.
Time for a workout. Scrap had turned a pale orange all over to match his still hot tail.
Then I realized my muscles ached from inactivity.
“What day is it?” I searched for the icon to open my PDA file.
Tuesday.
He came up with the information at the same moment I did.
“I’m going to the salle. You coming with me?” I closed down the computer and stretched my back, still seated.
You’d do better working out with the Celestial Blade in the basement. I’ll coach you.
“Tomorrow, Scrap. I need confrontation with people to hone my reflexes. I also need to socialize. I’m turning into a grouchy hermit.”
Surprisingly, Scrap agreed.
Before I could weave a path through piles of books and papers filed upon the floor, Scrap disappeared, then popped back with a whoosh of displaced air carrying my gym bag with two foils, an epee, and a saber sheathed and attached to the side with a special strap.
Clean jacket, knickers, mask, and glove inside, he told me. You’ll have to find your own shoes and socks.
I looked down at my fuzzy green slippers in the shape of dragons and sighed. “Any idea where I left them?”
Your mother put them away.
I rolled my eyes upward. Who knew what interesting nook or cranny Mom had found to stow them in. Her idea of organization and mine were entirely different.
At least she didn’t dare clean up after me when I was home. Only when I left town for more than twenty-four hours did she ferret out all of the half empty coffee cups, dirty dishes, and laundry wherever I dumped them.
Scrap cleaned, but at least he left things where I could find them!
“Okay, Coach will have to put up with my dirty running shoes and mismatched socks.” Those I found on the first step. I had intended to take them up to my bedroom with me next trip. That had been last Thursday.
Twenty minutes later I walked into the salle, a goodsized storefront in an old strip mall. Coach had marked three lanes on the floor with duct tape. Two of the lanes were equipped with electronic equipment for competition fencers. I staked out the third lane. I didn’t compete.
I came here to hone my skills and reactions should I ever have to confront a demon with my Celestial Blade.
If Scrap could ever transform properly.
I had that funny feeling at the base of my spine. Something told me that I was headed for another confrontation with the monster dog.
No sooner had I stretched out and warmed up than someone tapped me on my shoulder.
A tall man with long dark hair pulled back into a tight braid, dressed in a European styled padded jacket, faced me. He smiled and showed brilliant white teeth against his bronzely tanned face. His teeth were brighter than the silver wings of hair at his temples.
Something familiar…
“May I have this bout, miss?” No discernible accent.
“I haven’t seen you here before.” I had seen him somewhere else.
He shrugged. “I am visiting from… the West Coast.”
“You look familiar.”
He flashed those brilliant teeth at me once more.
My heart threw an extra beat. Soda bubbles danced through my veins.
“You signed a book for me in Portland a few weeks ago.”
“Of course.” I returned his smile and picked up my foil, whipping it back and forth a couple of times to test its balance. A stalling technique.
I’d have remembered him if he had stood in line at Simpson’s. He’d stand out in any crowd, especially that one, which had been filled to overflowing with teenagers and young con goers, with only a sprinkling of people his age.
What was his age? His smooth face, without a trace of five o’clock shadow, and sparkling brown eyes placed him at early thirties. The silver in his hair pushed that guess up a decade or two.
I had seen him in Portland, though; driving a creamcolored BMW. He’d smiled and my fear of the little brown bat had vanished.
Then I’d seen him at the con in San Jose wearing a bat costume himself.
Something akin to warning flared at the base of my spine. But…
He smiled.
We moved onto the strip, four meters apart. Two more fencers took up positions on either side of the center line. My opponent and I saluted each other with upraised blades that we snapped downward with an appropriate whoosh through the air. We saluted our officials and then put on our protective masks.
The blade seemed to come alive in my grip, eager for me to use it. Niki, the assistant coach, had tweaked the alignment last time I’d been in. She did excellent work.
Gareth on my left called, “En garde.”
I assumed the position, right foot pointed forward, left foot ten inches back pointed outward at a right angle, both knees bent, weight to my center, foil held level, wrist straight, palm up, left arm behind my shoulder, hand up.
My opponent mimicked me. But he centered his weight over his front leg. An aggressive fencer. I watched him for other tells.
He used an Italian foil with a pistol grip that required the fencer to slip two fingers through rings. Impossible to knock the blade from his hand. Which is good if you are fighting a duel to the death. Those grips had been known to break fingers. That can ruin your day in sport fencing and knock you out of a competition.
“Fencers ready?” Gareth asked. His teenaged voice carried through the suddenly quiet salle.
I could hear my heart beat inside the enclosed mask.
“Ready,” I replied, as did my opponent.
“Fence.”
I crept forward, watching my opponent’s blade and his eyes, what I could see of them through the black metal screens of our masks. He kept his head up, assessing, planning. He circled the tip of his blade, testing my reaction. I beat my blade against his once, knocking his blade aside and slid in, aiming for his quarte, the upper inside of his chest—the side opposite his weapon hand.
Lightning fast, he parried my attack and riposted to my exposed sixte, the upper outside—the side of my weapon hand. I parried that attack and withdrew one step. He followed, pressing me, rapid thrust after thrust.
I gave ground, seeking a weakness, an opening.
Then before I could find a way beneath his longer reach he caught me with a doublé.
Did I say he was tall? Make that very tall with long arms and longer legs. He struck me at a distance that would require me to do a double advance and a full lunge. He only did a half lunge.
My heart raced. Heat flooded my face. I could learn from this man.
His broad shoulders and lean waist enticed me to explore more than his fencing technique.
“Halt,” Gareth called. He recounted the last action and called the point good.
We backed apart, putting the full four meters between us. A long four meters. This time when Gareth called “Fence,” I leaped forward and lunged beneath my opponent’s attack while he was still planning.
My blade bent with the force of my thrust. I was close enough to smell the musky undertones of his sweat.
My nose twitched and my body tightened with desire.
The score was one to one. Sometimes a surprise attack works against the most highly trained and skilled opponents. I’d have to remember that.
He countered my next lunge with one of his own. We met in the center, masks and bodies so close I could feel his heat and see his smile behind the mesh.
The bell guards of our foils clanged.
My senses sang.
“Halt. Corps á corps!” Gareth called. “If you two are close enough to kiss, you’re too close to fence. Yellow card to both of you.”
We backed apart. I had to bite my cheeks to keep a feral grin at bay.
For many long moments we battled, back and forth.
My face and back dripped with sweat. The terry cloth band inside my mask caught most of it. But the occasional salty drop stung my eyes.
Every time I changed tactics, he met my attack and countered, always leading with a strong point and incredible flexibility.
If this bout were a duel to the death, I didn’t know if I’d have the stamina to win through. Even with the added advantage of my Celestial Blade.
Told you, dahling, you need more work with a true weapon, Scrap whispered into the back of my mind. But he stayed away. I couldn’t sense him near my left shoulder, his favorite perch.
The next clash of blades brought us corps á corps again, which gained us each a point but did nothing to dampen the heated sensuality of the match.
Finally, my opponent caught me with a wicked flick.
He took the bout with a score of five to four.
We removed our masks and saluted, then moved together to shake hands—left-handed without gloves.
Our gazes locked. His long fingers wrapped around my hand with something more than respect for a bout well fought.
We nearly exchanged promises with our eyes.
“Good bout,” I said sincerely, trying not to pant.
His hand remained folded around mine. Little thrills of electricity raced up my arm to my heart. I forgot where and when I was.
“Sloppy, Tess,” Coach Peterson said. He stood, hands on hips and with a deep frown of disapproval on his face. All the while his eyes twinkled with mischief and fire for good fencing.