by P. R. Frost
“Wonderful?” I blinked at her blearily. “Where’s the coffee?”
“Same old Tess. Brush it off, hide your pain, and pour it into your work. Makes for wonderful novels, Tess, but I worry about you. You need to talk about this, maybe see a counselor. Posttraumatic stress syndrome.”
“I have talked about it, Syl. Endlessly. To the Marines, to Homeland Security, and to my research assistant.”
“That cute-sounding gentleman who called me? What is his name? Gordon?”
“Guilford.”
“There something going on between you two? About time you found someone new. You’ve mourned Dill long enough.”
“There is nothing going on between me and Gol… Guilford.” Not while I lusted after Donovan, even though I couldn’t trust the bastard any farther than I could throw him.
My cell phone bleeped out the opening phrase of the Star Wars theme.
Sylvia raised her eyebrows.
I turned away from her as I answered.
“Tess, you didn’t call me. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Gol… Guilford. I’m getting ready to eat brunch with my agent. I need to talk business with her.”
In other words, go away.
“I made some progress on the tape you made Tuesday night.”
“Was it only yesterday?” My time sense and balance were off. This was… what, Thursday? So day before yesterday. Yesterday had evaporated in long waits for airplanes, flurries to get onto airplanes, then long waits while flying. Over and over again.
“I think we’ve got the incantation to open the portal.”
“Fine. Memorize it and translate it. I’ll check back with you later.”
“In an hour, Tess. I’m serious. You are in danger.”
“I’ll check with you later.” I disconnected.
“What was that all about?” Sylvia asked, too curious to be polite. Maybe too pushy to care about being polite.
That’s why she’s such a good agent.
“He was just giving me a progress report.”
“Making sure you aren’t with another man?”
I picked up my menu and pointedly ignored her comment.
Before we’d done more than order, three other writers stopped by our table to say hello. By the time our food arrived, we’d waved and exchanged distant greetings with an editor and another agent. Over the course of the next two hours I connected with almost every person I knew attending the con.
The tension of the last weeks dropped away as we discussed business and gossiped about the publishing industry and our genre. Once more, I was one of them; nothing special about me or my life other than the success of the latest book, the upcoming release of the second in the series, and my progress on the third.
Scrap remained elusive, though I caught whispers of cigar smoke now and then, like he was near, just not interested enough or strong enough to show himself. I hoped he was having as much fun in his home dimension as I was in mine.
“I want to do an anthology on the etiquette of first contact,” Julie Jacobs said over drinks before dinner.
Five female authors from an e-list had gathered so we could get to know each other in the flesh after communicating only by e-mail for years.
“Got a publisher interested?” I asked. The most important question. An anthology without a publisher had no life.
“Working on it. He says I need ten more recognizable names committed to it before he can push it through marketing.”
“I’m in,” four of us said together.
Then we laughed about possible story ideas that got more outrageous with each drink.
I wanted to stay, but dinner with my editor called.
This was a private meeting, just the two of us, to talk about my books and my career in general. I ran story ideas past him. He countered with issues I could explore with those scenarios. We parted with me promising him an early draft of book three by the first of the year.
Friday morning I sat on a panel discussing heroic characters from mythology and literature. Since most of the attendees were professionals, there were always more writers willing to do panels than panels to do. So we each only got one. Two at the most.
That left me the rest of the day to play in the dealers’ room and hang out in the bar with friends. I excused myself for a much needed nap about two, and reemerged ready for dinner with Sylvia and some of her other clients. I wore the little dress Scrap had altered for the convention in San Jose.
I got a few whistles from male writers and editors who knew me. A lot of makeup hid the still healing demon bite on my leg. Dark nylons couldn’t cover it adequately.
Sylvia introduced me to her newest client, Val White, and Val’s husband George. “I just sold her fat fantasy trilogy to Gryffyn Books,” Sylvia preened.
I shook hands with Val. She gave me a limp and sweaty grip with a hand as pudgy and pale as the rest of her. George, on the other hand, presented an exact opposite.
Tall, lean, dark-skinned. He vibrated with energy.
She tended to hide behind him.
We sat down together in a private corner of a Mexican restaurant three blocks from the hotel.
“I thought Howard Ebson was supposed to be here,” I said as I looked around the small circle.
“The famous recluse?” Val gushed, the most animation I’d seen from her.
“Infamous is more like it,” replied Dave Fischer, a professor of psychology from out west somewhere. He wrote psychological thrillers with futuristic backdrops.
“He promised he’d show up on Sunday for the lifetime achievement award.” Sylvia shrugged. “At least his lady friend promised she’d get him here. He doesn’t talk on the phone to anyone anymore, not even me.” Sylvia pouted, offended that her most famous client had shut her out along with the rest of the world.
“When did his last book come out? Ten years ago?” I asked, amazed that anyone could remain viable in today’s publishing industry without producing something every year or two.
“Two short stories last year,” Dave said. “Both got nominated for every award there is. Wish I could write that well.”
“Nominated but didn’t win,” Val offered tentatively.
She acted afraid to enter the discussion in this rarified company.
“Token nominations by his longtime friends because they can’t stand to see a short list without his name on it,” Sylvia grunted.
I raised my eyebrows at that.
The discussion went on to the validity and ethics of campaigning works for awards versus just letting them happen.
Scrap finally showed up on the walk back to the hotel.
I hung back a little to assess his color. Still a bit gray around the edges, but definitely closer to normal.
I don’t like it here, babe, he said, chomping on his cigar. Great dress by the way. New designer, dahling? He winked at me.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered, very aware that Dave also hung back from the crowd.
Don’t know. Just feels colder than it should.
I’d noticed that the wind out of the north bit through my nylons to the still healing demon bite on my leg. I snuggled deeper into my wool coat.
We continued on in silence.
Gotta feed some more. The moment we stepped into the brightly lighted hotel lobby, Scrap winked out.
“Time to party!” I called to the others. I suddenly needed a lot of people and noise around me. Body heat and the hot air from too much talk sounded wonderful.
My cell phone sang. Gollum checking in. His concern warmed me even better than the party. Make that parties.
I hit three that night before my body’s demand for sleep overcame my need to keep people close and unseen enemies away.
Chapter 42
SATURDAY BECAME A close repeat of Friday. I pitched book and story ideas right and left, made one firm deal, and got tentative commitments on two others. Life can be good when you are on a roll. I began to believe that life could become
normal once more.
Demons and Native blankets and pesky anthropologists had no place here.
Especially the pesky anthropologist who called far too often.
Only the hotel staff wore costumes on Saturday—
Halloween. We were professionals after all (at least we pretended to be). I couldn’t tell if Val White’s flowing caftan in glaring colors was a costume or her normal style of dressing.
I saw some great costumes on the street Saturday evening while I walked to a restaurant with friends and colleagues. Thankfully, none of them wore demon masks that might not have been masks at all.
The parties were fun but much more subdued than those at cons run by fans for fans.
For some reason I kept looking for the contingent of bat people. And not with my normal trepidation. Maybe the Morris critter back at Fort Snoqualmie had helped me get over my phobia. Maybe. I didn’t count on it.
I think I was just lusting after Donovan. Dammit! One night in bed with the man, and every other man paled in comparison.
I kept remembering the feel of his slick skin under the shower spray, all lean muscle, not a bit of fat on him.
So was he truly a half-Damiri demon? Gregor said they tended to fat… .
By Saturday night I had convinced myself that the past few weeks, the last three years, had all been a dream. Just to prove it to myself I dialed Bob’s cell phone, his work number, the one he always kept with him.
“We’re sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected. No new number has been assigned,” the automated voice blared in my ear.
Tears nearly choked me. I hadn’t even been able to sing at Bob’s funeral, as he requested.
Would I ever sing again?
Not if my new life kept putting the ones I loved in the way of demons and monsters.
Resolutely, I went off to the next party, this one at the overflow hotel two blocks away. I needed to party, to reaffirm that life existed beyond the realm of demons and imps and secret warrior Sisterhoods.
I took a shortcut through the back parking lot since I was running late, no thanks to yet another call from Gollum. With a quick dash, I shouldn’t need a coat.
This party was hosted by my publisher, so I wore a brand new black sheath covered in gold and iridescent sequins. Since this was the end of October in Wisconsin, I slung a lace shawl woven with metallic gold threads around my shoulders. Not much protection against the wind, but I should be okay outside for a few minutes.
Tiny glass beads weighted the fringe of the shawl. The entire ensemble glittered gaily in the subdued light. I could hear the noise from the party in the small groundfloor ballroom half a parking lot away.
The soft grass verge between the two parking lots absorbed the sound of my high-heeled footsteps. It absorbed the raucous voices and music from the party as well.
Streetlights didn’t penetrate here.
A hushed barrier grew between me and the rest of the world. The hairs along my spine tingled.
Mist covered the few lights I could see.
“Scrap?”
More silence. No cigar smoke. I couldn’t even smell the booze, smoked salmon, and cigarettes from the party.
“Where the hell are you, Scrap, when I need you?”
A shadow appeared beneath a spindly tree to my right. It looked like it stepped right out of the tree. A shadow that had no being to cast it. I stopped and placed my feet en garde, or at least as close to that position as the straight skirt of my dress allowed. I hiked it up, almost to my hips to give my legs moving room. While I debated kicking off my shoes, another shadow appeared out of the matching tree on my left.
Retreat or advance?
Right shadow took the decision away from me. It moved away from the wall and placed itself between me and the party. It had three dimensions now, roughly humanoid in shape, though with no substance.
Left shadow crowded behind me.
What could they do to me if they had no substance?
The temperature dropped to freezing. Ice crystals formed on the grass and in the mist around the lights.
They could freeze-dry me and crumble me into stale coffee grounds.
I took off the shawl and whirled it over my head like a toreador cape. The weighted fringe made the thing bell out. Front shadow ducked.
Every creature is vulnerable in the eyes and in the groin, Sister Paige’s voice came to me unbidden. The trouble with demons is finding the eyes and the groin.
Since these guys looked vaguely human, I kept the glass beads on the fringe as close to their eye level as I could—a full head above me. Were these guys more Sasquatch only halfway into this dimension?
Back shadow moved off to my side.
Still whirling the shawl, I lashed out with my left foot toward backside shadow. The spike heel landed near its groin.
It grunted painfully.
Before I could take satisfaction in landing a good one, front shadow advanced. It grabbed the shawl in one hand and reached for my throat with the other.
I ducked and plowed forward, ramming my head into its middle. It stumbled and went down.
It had substance after all.
Back shadow recovered. It lunged for my knees.
“Goddess, Scrap, where did you get to?” I evaded the tackle, just.
Right here, babe. The smell of cigars sharpened in the frigid air.
I snapped my fingers. Scrap appeared in my right hand, elongated and sharpened in the blink of an eye.
I twirled the blade, cleaving mist. It hung in tattered streamers like shattered silk in a circle around me.
Shadows backed off.
I kept up my circular pattern, over my head, down low, in the middle, never giving them a chance to touch me.
They kept moving around and around me, looking for an opening, reaching to touch me so they could freeze me.
I kept edging closer to a tree, to protect my back.
Could they lose their third dimension and slip between me and the trunk?
I gulped, hesitated.
One of them dove low toward my ankles.
I stomped on its hand with my heel. It yelped and flowed backward, half mist, half solid.
Gut one of them, Scrap chortled gleefully.
“Bloodthirsty little imp, aren’t you?” I followed suit with a long lunge and backhanded slash with the spikes on the outside curve of the blade. My skirt ripped.
Damn. The dress had cost a fortune.
I cleaved in two the shadow demon in front of me.
It screamed. The high-pitched shriek stabbed at my hearing and my sanity.
My shoulders hunched in an attempt to cover my ears.
I couldn’t drop the blade to use my hands.
The two parts of the demon toppled to the ground in opposite directions. Black liquid pooled out from both halves. The grass absorbed it like nourishing water.
I gagged on the scent of burning hospital waste mixed with sulfur and disinfectant.
The other shadow came at me from the left with a roar that could shake the eight-story building in front of me to dust.
I swung the blade. It backed off, turned to mist, and disappeared within itself.
The parking lot brightened. The temperature rose.
Noise from the party oozed out of the French doors.
My teeth stopped chattering. But the base of my spine still tingled.
Using my Celestial Blade as a walking staff, I sauntered on toward the party, pretending nothing had happened, that the rip in my skirt seam, halfway up my thigh was intentional.
“Hey, Tess, cool weapon,” Steve Littlefield, one of my fellow writers called. He squeezed between people to come examine my blade. He wrote sword-and-sorcery fantasy and had a collection of blades, real and fanciful.
“Hi, Steve. I had this made up as a wall ornament, but it works really well as a prop at cons,” I hedged.
Steve touched the spikes with tentative fingers.“Those are really stable. Surprising. You�
��d think metal that slender would wobble.” He made as if to take the weapon from me.
I jerked it away from his reach. “I know you, Steve. You couldn’t resist trying it out and it’s way too crowded in here.”
I propped the blade behind a potted palm and took Steve by the arm, steering him away from the Celestial Blade. Scrap could use the privacy to return to his usually invisible self while I partied.
But three hours later, the blade was still intact.
Scrap couldn’t dissolve because a demon was present.
“Steve, walk me back to the hotel,” I suggested around midnight. I knew almost everyone in the room. Who among my colleagues led a double life as a demon and a writer?
If that was the case, who was missing? Besides Howard Ebson and his lady friend. They were always missing.
Val and George had said Thursday night that they didn’t party. They got up early for a refreshing swim before breakfast.
“Sure, I’m about done in anyway.” He eyed my Celestial Blade with longing. I kept it close by my side.
“So who’s going to win best fantasy novel tomorrow? You or me?” he asked.
“There are three other nominees,” I hedged. I really wanted that award. I’d never won anything before.
“Token nominees to fill out the field and pretend it’s a real contest,” Steve laughed. “Everyone knows its between you and me and no one else.”
First I’d heard that rumor. “May the best woman win.” I grinned and offered him my hand.
“May the best man win,” he countered as we shook hands.
“Where’s Val, your wife?” Valeria Littlefield as opposed to Valerie White. I suddenly went cold again.
What if… ?
“Oh, she’s tucked up in bed with a cold and the copy edits of my next book. She should be well enough to attend the awards brunch tomorrow.”
I hid my sigh of relief. I’d known and liked this couple for a number of years. Who else did I need to be suspicious of?
Goddess, I hated suspecting my friends.
Chapter 43