by P. R. Frost
Embarrassment burned my ears, and I finally dropped the stranger’s hand. Then I pointedly stepped off the strip, clearing it for the next pair.
“You can’t let a pretty face distract you, Tess. Your grip was too tight and your balance too far back,” Coach continued his lecture. “Slowed you down.”
“And as for you, my friend.” He slapped the stranger on the back. “You overreached yourself the first three times she scored. You left your lower octet open and vulnerable. She caught you there on two of her points. Tess, let me formally introduce you to my old friend, Donovan Estevez. We trained together in Colorado Springs umpteen million years ago. He’d have made a good fencer if he wasn’t so busy making millions in gaming software.”
“Tess Noncoiré.” I shook hands with him again, righthanded without gloves, needing to feel the warmth of his hand in mine. By this time we’d both opened the neck flaps of our jackets to dissipate body heat.
It didn’t help.
“I know who you are. I’ve read all of your books— even the ones you wrote under a different name. The last one was worth the wait.” Estevez smiled again, nearly blinding me with those teeth.
I slipped my hand free of his and dropped my eyes. I did not discuss the long years between my fifth book and my sixth, the most recent one.
No one knew about the year after Dill’s death when I’d made myself sick with grief and locked myself away from reality in the Citadel of the Sisterhood. When I finally emerged, scarred, trained in many weapons, and accompanied by Scrap, I’d needed another half year to finish writing the book and sell it, then another nine months until it saw print.
“Enough mooning about. You can flirt over coffee after class,” Coach intruded. “Drills, Tess. You need drills and concentration.” He practically shoved me toward the back corner where Morgan, a twelve-yearold girl, awaited me. “Parry/riposte, until your arms threaten to drop off,” Coach called after me.
I knew the girl; she’d make the Olympic team if she didn’t get distracted by boys and high school in the next couple of years. No insult to drill with her. We stood nearly eye to eye.
I looked over my shoulder to see coach setting up a bout between Estevez and Gareth, the young man who had officiated for us. Gareth was quick and strong but lacked discipline and point control.
By the end of the evening, I’d fought seven bouts, winning all but that first one. I even managed a win against Niki, the assistant coach, in saber. She was the only one who defeated Donovan Estevez that night.
I dripped sweat, and was on an exercise high by the time the clock clicked over to nine. I needed coffee and carbs to replenish my body and calm my mind.
For those long two hours I had totally forgotten Scrap. But I could not forget Donovan Estevez. My eyes strayed to his whenever we had a moment to breathe between bouts.
We spent far too much time just staring at each other.
Coach gathered Estevez and me, along with three other adult students. We all headed toward the diner across the street that served the best pie on Cape Cod.
A decidedly yellow Scrap appeared out of nowhere and jumped into my gym bag, strangely subdued. He remained in the bag when I tossed it into the back seat of my car on the way to the diner. But he poked his head up long enough to hiss at me.
Watch yourself, Tess. He smells wrong.
Then I looked around the parking lot for Donovan Estevez. Scrap could only mean the newcomer.
Estevez dropped his gym bag into the trunk of a cream-colored BMW sedan.
My sense of danger flared at the base of my spine. At the same time, his dazzling smile threatened to swamp my common sense and willpower to resist him, or any man who was not Dill.
Oh, Tess, my love, what have we gotten into this time? I cannot come close to this man. I dare not let you get close to him.
What does he smell like? Certainly not human. But not demon either. Something almost familiar. Like leather and sage and a dry musk, not acrid but not sweet either.
I need to make a quick circuit through the dimensions to trace that scent. I dare not leave my babe. Yet I cannot get close to her while that man holds her enthralled.
I wish she could find a nice, normal man to love. One who loves her as deeply as I do. One who has the right smell about him and won’t be intimidated by her warrior calling. For it is a calling. A vocation. A way of life she can never give up.
Until she dies. And then I will die, too. For my life is tied to hers more completely than in a marriage or a mortal love.
For the first time since leaving the Citadel, I am truly afraid, for myself and for Tess.
Chapter 9
I WENT INTO THE diner cautious and withdrawn. By midnight, Donovan and I sat alone, coffee cups empty, pie eaten, and totally fascinated with each other. At least he held my fascination. I presumed he was equally entranced by the way he held my gaze and looked longingly into my eyes.
He held my hand across the table. Little thrills invaded my sense of calm and rationality.
He admitted that fairly equal mixtures of Coleville Indian, Irish, Spanish, and Russian blood flowed through his veins. I confessed to my parents’ French Canadian heritage, but not that Dad and his thirty-something male tennis instructor partner lived a few miles away from me, to Mom’s total embarrassment.
We discussed politics, art, the state of the school system, the weather, and fencing. Often back to fencing and other blade weapons, fighting strategy, and the place of rules and honor in a battle.
The diner staff sat bleary-eyed and resentful in a corner booth, having already cleaned up and cashed out.
Scrap never made an appearance though he loved the old diner for its damp cellar.
Every time I paused to think about this oddity, Donovan smiled and I forgot to be worried.
When my yawns punctuated my sentences too heavily, Donovan paid the bill and escorted me back to my car.
“Nice car,” I said when the conversation stalled, needing to become more personal or be abandoned. I didn’t know which.
“It’s a rental. I travel enough to reserve the same model I own. I don’t want to have to think about where the windshield wiper switch is while driving strange roads.” He grinned again and I forgot to breathe.
Dill had had the same effect upon me.
“May I follow you home?” he asked a bit wistfully.
“I can defend myself…” I replied, thinking only of the chivalrous meaning behind his words.
My body tightened with longing. Heat flashed from my breasts to my ears and downward. Could I? Dared I?
Would Dill haunt me in the middle of sex with another man?
“Oh, I’m sorry, not tonight. I have a lot of work to do before I leave town again Thursday morning.” But, oh, I wanted him to take me in his arms and kiss me, lingering long, holding me tight, as we learned each other’s bodies.
Some tiny part of Scrap’s warning nagged at me.
“Where are you headed this time, Tess?”
“Tri-Cities,Washington. I’m GOH at High Desert Con.”
“I have clients in Pascoe, Washington. Perhaps I can arrange to be there…”
I lifted my face, expecting his lips to meet mine.
He paused.
We looked at each other with longing.
His lips brushed my cheek.
Disappointed—and relieved—I got into my little hybrid car and started the engine before he could add any more persuasion to his request.
The moment I cleared the parking lot, Scrap popped onto the dashboard, pale red and puffing away at his smelly cigar. About time you showed up, babe, he snarled between clouds of acrid smoke.
I opened the window and let some chill night air in and some of the smoke out. And some of his noisome gas.
You want to do an Internet search on that guy, Tessie. He smells wrong.
“And you smell rotten from mold and cigars. Not to mention your lactose intolerance. You’ve been into the heavy cream again. Tonight I w
ant to sleep in my own bed, not bent over the keyboard of the computer.”
Maybe you should teach me to use the computer…
“Not on your life.”
What if it means your life? He grinned around the cigar, showing his dagger-sharp teeth. His color paled, took on the greenish tinge of teasing.
I couldn’t take him seriously when he showed his teeth and flapped his ears. He looked too much like a cartoon.
“Tonight I sleep. Tomorrow we search.”
Monday, after the con, we go look at that motel. Maybe Dillwyn’s death wasn’t senseless. Maybe he was saving you from something worse than the fire.
“Like what?” I demanded, suddenly angry. I couldn’t go back to that little place in Half Moon Lake, Washington.
I just couldn’t.
The tiny resort town built around a mineral lake was only a two hour drive north of Tri-Cities. I could rent a car, drive up after lunch, and be back at the con for a late dinner.
Like that guy that you left in the dust back there.
Hooking up with him might be worse than burning at the stake. Scrap disappeared into that other dimension where I could not follow.
“Donovan Estevez is CEO and founder of Halfling Gaming Co., Inc.,” I said as I swept a wooden replica of the Celestial Blade through the air of my basement, testing the weight and balance. Each end of the quarterstaff curved into a sickle blade, one waxing and one waning. A dozen fine spikes extruded from the outside curve of the blades. Symbolically, I fought with the twin faces of the Moon Goddess Kynthia with the Milky Way flowing behind her like tresses blown in the solar wind.
I’d actually seen her face in the sky once. A considerable blessing according to my Sister warriors.
And only once. Most people never got the opportunity even if they knew what to look for.
The moment of peace, serenity, and connectedness to the universe I’d experienced in that instant of viewing the Goddess spurred me on to finish my training. Despite the tension and disagreements that grew steadily between me and the Sisterhood. All in hopes of catching another glimpse of the elusive star configuration and regaining that moment when I knew my place in the universe and why I existed.
I was still striving for that.
So you found out his company is legit. What about him? Scrap asked. He unfurled his wings. They’d grown a little and now supported him for short flights and extended his bounces. He fluttered about, daring me to catch him with the training blade.
I didn’t know why he wore a pink feather boa draped around his neck. He usually played dress up with me, not himself.
He could only assume the blade’s conformation when in the presence of something totally evil, like a being from another dimension—a demon. Hence the less lethal training blade that matched the true one in size, weight, and balance.
“Donovan’s bio on the Web page mentioned an MBA from University of Florida. He’s not married. Almost made the Fortune 500 list of most eligible bachelors.”
I sensed a pattern in Scrap’s movements.As he swooped up and to the right, I swung the left-hand blade to catch him on the downward spiral.
Only the boa tangled with the tines on the outside edge of my blade.
Fooled ya! Scrap chortled, yanking his garment free, scattering tiny feathers through the air and into my nose.
I sneezed as he arced farther right, almost behind me.
I spun in place and caught his tail in the spikes, dragging him away from the support beam that would hinder my swing.
“You did what?” I laughed as I released him with a twist of the blade.
Timing is better. But you can’t play in the battlefield.
You can’t hurt me in this dimension. Attack for real. He bounced and tangled his tail around the staff at the opposite end. All of a sudden he put on weight and form, dragging my weapon down.
I compensated and flung him back toward the stairs.
He landed with a gush of expelled air, odiferous from both ends.
The boa lay at his feet. He snatched it up and wound it around his neck.
“You are such a flaming queen,” I snorted.
Am NOT! Scrap sounded genuinely affronted.
“Are, too! Why else would you wear a pink feather boa?”
Bcartlin demons have pink feathered ruffs around their necks. He fussed with the drape of the boa, getting it just right. It matched his pink skin perfectly. You need to know their vulnerabilities.
“And how would you know?” I stood over him, still balancing the blade.
Last time through the chat room they were on guard.
He stuck out his receding chin.
“And just where is this chat room you mention but never explain?” A new tactic came to mind. I played it through three times, wondering if I was fast enough to make it work.
I’ll take you there when you’re ready. It won’t make sense until then.
With a quick thrust I stuck the flat of the blade under his butt, scooped high, and twisted at the same time.
Scrap flew over my head and landed, face and belly flat against the far wall.
He slid down with a grunt, boa still in place.
“I thought you said I can’t hurt you?” I dashed over to him, concerned when he lay there like a puddle of ectoplasm.
“Who are you talking to, Tess?” Mom called from the top of the stairs.
I cursed long and fluently under my breath as I stashed the Celestial Blade in the armory, a hidden cubbyhole beneath the stairs, and slammed the door. It latched automatically.
In the last second I grabbed the very visible boa and hid it behind my back. Nothing I could do about the flecks of pink feathers scattered around the floor. I just hoped Mom wouldn’t notice them in the dim light from a single bare bulb overhead.
“I thought you went shopping in town, Mom,” I called up to her. I leaned against the door to my secret room and panted a moment.
Scrap disappeared.
“I finished, dear. I hope you are doing laundry down there. You know you are leaving again tomorrow and I don’t think you have a clean set of underwear anywhere in the house.” She floated down the steep stairs like an elegant lady descending to a ballroom. Of course she wore heels and pearls; a lady did not shop wearing more casual clothing. I’d never be that graceful. Mostly because I didn’t work at it like she did.
“Laundry’s all done.” I pointed to the piles of folded clothing, sheets, and towels atop the drop table across the back wall—well away from the armory. Thankfully, I remembered to use the hand that didn’t hold the pink feathers. I dropped it into the shadows behind the stairs.
Damn! A glimmer of light shone beneath the door.
Scrap, please turn off that light, I pleaded silently. If you don’t, she’ll be in there cleaning. Not a single saucer of mold will be left. Ever!
“Here, Mom, will you carry these upstairs for me?” I dashed over to the laundry counter on the opposite wall and handed her a pile of towels. I’d even fluffed them in the dryer an extra time so she couldn’t complain about how old and threadbare they had become.
A nanosecond before she turned back to face the stairs and the armory, the light beneath the door extinguished.
I breathed a sigh of relief, and Scrap returned to my shoulder. He looked his usual gray with just a hint of pink. No boa.
“Oh, Teresa.” Mom turned around quickly, as she had when I was a teen and she was trying to catch me hiding a package of condoms or cigarettes.
I returned her peering survey of me with innocence.
Her gaze lingered on my left shoulder.
I knew Scrap made faces at her. The longer her gaze lingered, the more I began to sweat and the stiller Scrap became.
“Yes, Mom?”
“Uncle George just called. We’ve changed family game night from Sunday to tonight so you can come.”
“I have to pack…”
“You have an hour before dinner to do that. I’m fixing my special ragout a
u vin.”
“Mom, ragout is stew with wine, so if it’s ragout au vin, do you double the wine?” I asked.
She snarled at me and retreated upstairs.
“I need your support tonight, Scrap,” I whispered.
“The only way they will let me get out of game night is if I answer every question correctly, even the sports and science questions.”
You mean cheat? That’s against the rules of the Sisterhood.
Scrap sounded enormously happy at that prospect.
You’d cheat your own family?
“With my family it’s not cheating, it’s survival. The rules of battle say survival comes first, honor and dignity second.”
Donovan had said that last night.
I am not gay! What an insult. And from my babe, too. What would make her say that?
Imps can’t be gay. Can they?
Ooooh, Mum would be murderously livid if she ever suspected one of her offspring leaned that way.
Maybe I should admit to it in Mum’s presence just to put her knickers in a hot pink twist.
My babe doesn’t care which way I lean. That’s one reason why I love her so.
But I am not gay. I just like pretty clothes. That doesn’t make me gay. I’m the weapon of a Celestial Warrior.
Tess is learning to think like a warrior. But will it be enough, soon enough? The fact that I grew a little bit after the abortive attempt to transform must mean that I will continue to grow each time we encounter evil. Each time the evil will grow worse, requiring more strength and agility from both of us.
Something looms just over the horizon. MoonFeather and her horoscopes can break through the veil of the future only a little. Only enough to see warning signs. Her talents help.
Not enough.
Do I dare? Am I skilled enough to manipulate time to catch a glimpse of the future or the nature of our enemies? The least slip can trap me in that awesome dimension. The tiniest moment of inattention will make me vulnerable to the portal guardians. In the dimension of the future I have only my wits—no magic, nothing to help me.
The past is easier to view as long as I don’t try to manipulate it.