by P. R. Frost
“Hey, there you are! Donovan, Tess, can we join you?”
Donovan’s three young friends called from across the restaurant in voices loud enough to be heard in the next county.
“Ignore them,” Donovan growled.
“A little hard to do when they are surrounding us.” I jerked away from him and smoothed a napkin across my lap. A wave of cold emptiness threatened my equilibrium.
I sipped at my iced tea and fussed with sweetening it and squeezing a lemon wedge over it to cover my momentary disorientation.
“Can’t you send them away?” I murmured under my busyness.
“Sorry. Their parents are clients. I promised to look after them.”
“They are old enough to go to a bar. They are old enough to take care of themselves.”
“Not according to their parents. Tess, I’m sorry. I can’t afford to offend their parents.” He captured my hand again and tried to bring my gaze back to him.
I waved to Gollum just beyond the plants at my back.
“Join us,” I called.
“I’m meeting Bob, but we’ll both be over in a minute.”
“Did you have to?” Donovan asked, very much annoyed.
I heard Scrap chuckle in the back of my mind. Keep him off balance, Tessie. He deserves it. I hadn’t seen much of the imp since returning from the high school. I wondered what was keeping him busy.
What does that mean?
No answer.
Donovan’s friends—I never did learn their real names, they insisted on gibberish sounds as their con names—pulled up chairs, filling the table. I frowned at them, but they didn’t budge.
Gollum and Bob elbowed them aside and slid next to me on the banquette. I felt like the filling in a cookie squashed between Gollum and Donovan.
And that set the tone for the rest of the con.
The weekend passed in a blur of activity with my entourage in tow at every event. Panel discussions, writer workshops, I judged the costume competition, no bats this time. Donovan wore jeans and T-shirts like a normal person. We all partied. Leonard Stalking Moon presided over a keg at a reception held for the visiting authors and musicians and other special guests of the con. He was always too busy to discuss anything other than the amount of foam topping each cup of beer.
No sign of Cynthia. I looked for her at every panel and party. If she came to the con, she kept her distance.
I even sent Scrap to look for her. He came up empty.
Donovan and friends—he was always in the company of those blasted friends—came to my panels, my reading, and my autographing. He produced old and battered copies of my first books for my signature. Since they were all out of print, my estimation of him rose and the tension and longing between us climbed, too. He came to the parties, but was rarely more than an arm’s length from his three masked friends. Bob and Gollum did their best to stay between Donovan and me.
The dance Donovan and I performed trying to carve out some time together became almost funny.
The tension between us continued to mount, along with the frustration.
I wanted him, but I knew I needed to spend more time getting to know him before we enjoyed a replay of Thursday night.
Scrap kept a low profile.
Dill did not return, even in my dreams. Maybe I was finally moving on. Maybe the grieving process had run its course.
But…
Bob dragged me into the filk circle. I couldn’t sing.
My throat closed every time I even thought about it.
Dill had loved this part of cons and we had harmonized easily, my soprano against his lovely tenor.
Donovan and friends partied and danced rather than sit still long enough to enjoy the filk.
By this time both Gollum and Bob had a few beers in them. They joined the music with lusty—and slightly off key—bravado. Their near instant friendship warmed my heart. I’d learned to like Gollum even if he was a bit stuffy and pedantic. Then someone struck up a ballad and Gollum took the lead line with a beautiful light baritone. All the singers faded out just to listen. Afterward, he blushed and stammered and kept quiet for the rest of the evening.
Sunday morning I had a few minutes to breathe, so I joined the mock battles in the hotel courtyard. All of the weapons were “boffered” or padded and blunted to avoid injury and a dozen gym mats had been duct-taped together on the ground. (Did I mention that a con cannot be run without two dozen rolls of duct tape?) I selected a quarterstaff wrapped in acres of bubble wrap and duct tape. It lacked the Celestial Blades at the ends but weighed and balanced much like my weapon of choice.
To my surprise, Donovan appeared opposite me with a long broadsword made from cardboard stiffened with a dowel down the center and wrapped in duct tape. The demon children hovered in a semicircle behind him, but off the mats.
“Care for a rematch, L’akita?” he asked.
His voice slithered over me like hot massage oil.
I focused on his mouth, felt myself pulled toward him.
I needed to kiss him again. I needed to feel his arms around me.
Two hundred people around us and two meters separating us kept our mutual sizzling heat down to a slow burn.
All of the disappointment and frustration of the weekend rose up like a living entity. We wanted each other.
This bout was only the foreplay.
Donovan selected a gaudy football helmet in orange and green to protect his head.
His three companions stood behind him, still masked.
Outside the pub, I hadn’t seen them without the masks all weekend.
I chose a helmet in pink and purple to match my lavender slacks and sweater. Bob and Gollum moved behind me, almost as if they needed to back me up in this mock battle.
Appropriately, the bloodmobile had parked at the far edge of the combat area. A lot of cons have blood drives—they aren’t all fun and games—but the symbolism of the truck struck my funny bone.
“A little different this time, L’akita,” Donovan said.
He smiled showing his very white teeth against his dark skin. But not as bright as the silver wings of hair at his temples. He looked more tanned than I remembered, his hair darker and longer.
My focus narrowed and my heartbeat quickened. My body told me I needed the practice. My heart told me I needed a long roll in the hay with the man.
“No fencing strip and no rules to confine me.” I smiled as I swung low, to my left, aiming for his knee. A quick sidestep and I pivoted out of reach of his counter attack. He thrust his sword forward in parody of the sexual act.
We both grinned and circled each other, seeking an opening.
“She looks so skinny and fragile. She’ll get hurt,” Bob whispered.
“She’s fast and strong,” Gollum answered, also in a whisper.
Only then did I realize an even larger crowd had gathered to watch the GOH in a weapons demonstration.
I’d talked a lot about writing realistic battles this weekend.
Donovan came at me low. I swung the staff high, clipping his helmet as I danced out of his way.
He shook his head to clear it. “You surprise me, L’akita. Where did you learn that move?”
“Not from Coach.” I engaged his sword once more.
A flicker of movement to my left, and I knew Cynthia Stalking Moon watched from the fringes of the crowd.
Finally. I hoped she had something to tell me about the dog, some tribal legend or shamanistic secret knowledge.
Donovan caught my right arm with a vicious sideswipe.
I went numb from elbow to fingertips and almost dropped the staff.
Dammit, I needed to talk to Cynthia, find out what she and her family knew about that dog. Donovan wasn’t about to let me free of this bout until one of us lay in the dust or both us lay naked in bed.
I had to postpone any other encounters we might desire.
All because of the damn dog and the near continual itch at the base of my spine.
> Very well. “No more Miss Nicey-Nicey,” I muttered.
He tended to lean forward and overreach. I pressed him to the edge of the gym mats with half a dozen fast strokes.
He met them, barely, retreating a step or two with each block and parry.
“Interesting strategy, L’akita,” Donovan said. He sounded surprised at my ferocity.
Then, as he panted and considered my next attack, I caught him from behind, between the shoulder blades.
He stumbled forward. I swept the staff in front of his knees and knocked his feet out from under him. He went down onto the gym mats with an “Ooh.”
He lay there long enough for the officials to count him out. They began selecting and arming the next opponents.
I kept my hand on the quarterstaff. For some reason I felt I needed it close.
Gollum rushed to my side.“Congratulations!” he gushed, patting my shoulder.
“Quickly. Cynthia is over by the bloodmobile. We’ve got to talk to her.” I glanced down at Donovan as he struggled to sit up and remove his helmet.
He cocked his head at me. “You were not so fast and sure on the fencing strip, L’akita.” He flashed his teeth at me. My knees nearly melted.
“No rules and restrictions here. No sportsmanship and honor. When I need to defend myself, I fight dirty.”
I offered him a hand up anyway.
“Later,” I whispered, then eased my way through the crowd, Gollum and Bob in my wake.
Chapter 15
MY SKIN TINGLED from the exercise, and my right arm still ached from the hard blow I’d taken. I shook it out as we moved. Surprisingly, I kept hold of my quarterstaff, as if it belonged to me. My eyes searched every shadow and between parked cars for signs of the girl. As we rounded the bloodmobile, I spotted her edging away.
“Cynthia, please don’t run away from me. We need to talk.” I held her shoulder gently and tried to make eye contact, tried to reestablish the fragile friendship we had begun.
“Uncle says I don’t have to talk to you,” she said in a meek voice.
“No, you don’t have to talk to us. But it would help me find the dog that attacked you if you would tell us what you know. It would help me prevent that dog from harming another little girl. What’s in the tribal legends about that dog?” I tried to keep my voice bland and unthreatening.
I picked nervously at the duct tape holding the bubble wrap on the staff until I had one end exposed and a long loop of twisted padding hung free. It was sort of like the compulsion to pick at an itching scab.
Somehow, I breathed easier with every inch of tape I freed.
Cynthia pressed herself against the van, making herself as tiny as possible.
“I don’t know. Those are stories told to the hunters by the shaman.” She kept her head hung low and her eyes on the ground.
“But you have listened, haven’t you, Cynthia?” Gollum took up the litany of persuasion. “Your encounter with the dog makes you a warrior. Warriors should not be excluded from the legends. They need to know them, they need to know how to fight the legends.”
“Legends aren’t real,” Bob scoffed.
“Some legends are,” I countered. “Some legends come to life when we least expect them.”
“What are you saying, Tess?” Bob looked around warily. He shuffled and shifted as if he expected a boogeyman to crawl out from under the bloodmobile.
“I’m saying, Bob, that some of the things I write are real. It’s not all fantasy. And right now, Cynthia is in the middle of something important.” I caught his gaze, hoping he could read the truth in my eyes.
“I thought so. What can I do to help?” He half grinned at me and nodded his acceptance. “Gollum and I had some interesting talks this weekend.”
“Watch my back.”
“Always, love. You know this means you have to marry me now, to keep the secrets in the family.”
I sighed in exasperation. I couldn’t tell anymore if he was serious or not. I didn’t have time to puzzle it out.
Finally, Cynthia lifted her gaze to mine.
“You gave me a flower for my husband’s grave. That was kind and thoughtful,” I whispered, strengthening our ties. “We were both lonely and grieving. That’s a powerful connection, Cynthia. We have common ties to this dog.”
“Legends do come to life,” Cynthia whispered. “The dog and the old woman. There’s a blanket that must be saved. It must be rewoven or mankind will shrivel into dust without honor.”
“What did you say?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly.
“The old woman weaves the blanket of destiny. The dog protects the old woman from the demons who need to steal the blanket.”
“Look out!” Bob yelled as he pushed me to the ground.
Then I heard the growls and the scrabble of sharp claws on the parking lot.
“Scrap! Celestial Blade. Now!” I held out my hand, desperately hoping my imp heard my plea. All I had was the padded quarterstaff.
Even as I spoke I rolled out from under Bob. “Protect the girl.”
Then I faced the dog. I took a guarded stance.
So did he.
I centered my weight.
He bunched his muscles.
I lifted my lip in a snarl of defiance.
So did he.
I twirled the staff, and circled, never taking my eyes off the dog. The staff shifted. The looping tape and bubble wrap hardened, sharpened.
Dog followed my moves until his back was to where Bob and Gollum huddled over Cynthia.
The staff lengthened, turned silvery. Twin Celestial Blades curved and flowed from the ends. Scrap’s puckish face blinked at me from the shiny metal.
He’d done it! For the first time in our partnership he fulfilled his potential.
We faced a demon, the personification of evil.
We swung into action, moving the dog away from his intended prey. He leaped and reared, avoiding the blade.
Came at me sideways. Green drool oozed from his longjowled, square muzzle. Red blood oozed out of a long gash on my forearm.
I gulped and blinked. And pressed on, ignoring the burn that ran all the way to my shoulder and into my brain.
I pressed him, back and back until I had his measure.
Then I swung the right-hand blade to connect with his neck. He dashed past me. I nipped his tail and flank.
He took a piece out of my calf.
He turned and snapped at the blade. I whipped it out of his reach. And stumbled to the left, leaving Bob, Gollum, and Cynthia exposed.
Donovan’s demon children edged closer to them.
Hastily, I regained my footing and swiped at Dog, moving his attention away from the others.
We circled again, feinting and dodging.
Dog bunched his muscles for a leap.
I swung the blade to meet him.
Dog dove beneath me toward Cynthia.
The demon children made the same leap. They and Dog landed upon Bob’s broad back, fangs ripping through flesh, knives flashing.
Screams.
Shouts.
Blood. Too much blood.
I ran, blade sweeping toward the dog.
Gollum rose up and kicked the dog in the belly.
The monster released his grip upon Bob and turned, growling at his new enemy.
I lashed out with the Celestial Blade. Tears blinded me. I cut a long gash along the dog’s ribs.
He yelped, turned on me, saw the blade. He bared his teeth and growled. But his eyes remained upon Cynthia who cowered beneath the bloodmobile. He barked once and loped off.
I threw the blade aside and reached for Bob. Blood gushed from a dozen wounds. His face looked gray beneath his tan.
Gollum ripped off his knit shirt and pressed it against Bob’s jugular. Some of the blood slowed. Not enough.
The demon children backed off, looking confused.
“We were trying to protect Cynthia,” they protested over and over.
�
��Don’t you dare die on me, Bob!” I cried.
“Someone call for an ambulance,” Gollum yelled over the shouts and merriment on the other side of the van.
“Get a doctor. The bloodmobile. Nurses. Med techs. Anyone!” I barely dared breathe as I tried to staunch the horrible wounds.
The demon children faded into the mass of people drawn to us by the sounds of chaos and the scent of blood.
“Sing for me, Tess,” Bob murmured. His lips barely moved. “Sing at my funeral.”
“You aren’t going to die. I won’t let you.” Too much blood seeped around my makeshift bandages and my hands. Too many wounds.
Too much blood.
The smell nearly gagged me. Still I did my best.
“You know which hymn to sing,” Bob breathed.
“If you live, I’ll marry you. But you have to live.”
“Just sing at my wake.” Blood foamed at his mouth.
His lungs labored and rattled.
Then he smiled as he looked up into the brilliant autumn sky with wide blank eyes.
Chapter 16
“WHERE’S THE GIRL?” Gollum shouted into the chaos.
“Tess, L’akita, what happened?” Suddenly Donovan knelt beside me and enclosed me in his arms.
I leaned my head back onto his shoulder and let the tears flow.
Someone moved Bob’s dead weight from my lap. All I could do was huddle in on myself; let Donovan’s warmth take care of me. I couldn’t do it for myself.
Gollum, thank Goddess, answered questions, organized a defensive barrier, and kept people away from me.
All the while he kept asking after Cynthia.
A medic slapped bandages on my two bleeding wounds and slid a blood pressure cuff on my arm. The bite of the band jolted my senses back to reality. I had to ignore the gaping hole in my gut and do something. Bob was dead.
A vicious dog from another dimension had killed him.
Only I had the tools and the knowledge to keep it from happening again.
Bob was dead. Just like Dill. Was this to be a pattern?
Were all the people I cared for doomed to die horrible and painful deaths before my eyes?