Mad Maudlin

by Mercedes Lackey

  He'd found out more tonight about Eric's childhood than he'd ever known before, and none of it good. It was bad enough to have parents who'd bred and raised him with no more love—less, in fact—than a farmer would give to a pig he was fattening for slaughter, but then to find that they'd repeated the sin was a double blow. Because a brother—even a brother he hadn't known about until the day before—wasn't just some stranger. He was family, and Eric's responsibility. And then to find that he not only existed, but was lost somewhere in New York. . . .

  Well, it was a heavy burden.

  "I'm seeing her in the morning," Eric said, with a crooked smile. "And she'll probably read me the riot act, but hell—if I hadn't gone when I did . . . Magnus would still be out there, only I wouldn't know to look for him."

  "There's truth to that," Hosea agreed. "You stop on by the shelter tomorrow morning. Ah'll have talked to Serafina by then. She knows a lot of the places those kids den up. If you check enough of them, you should find him. But when you do find him, Eric . . . ?"

  "I'm not sending him back to Boston." Eric's voice was flat and uncompromising. "Maybe . . . Underhill? I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead. Ria said the first thing was to find him."

  "Well, Miz Llewellyn surely has the right of it. But it's a puzzling thing that yore shine ain't helping you any."

  "Or not much," Eric said with a sigh. "He's in Manhattan, that's as much as I know for sure. If I could just get close enough, I'm sure I could break through whatever protective spells he's got wrapped around him. Ria's suggested hiring specialists—mundane ones—to look for him, and if I don't turn up anything in a day or so, I'll do that. But I'm afraid that if he does realize somebody's after him, he'll run again."

  Hosea nodded. "There is that possibility. And he's just the least bit safer when he's not running than when he is, not that being a runaway is any kind of safe at all, bad as the homes some of them run from are. Ah'll do everything Ah can to help. We all will."

  "Thanks," Eric said, meaning it. "And maybe I'll get lucky tomorrow. I'll be bringing in a sort of native guide of my own. And Ria would flay me alive if she knew."

  "Uh-huh," Hosea said, decoding the sentence without effort. "Stands to reason that Little Trouble would figure a way to stick her nose in. Well, looks like you're going to have yourself a busy day tomorrow. You'd best get your rest."

  * * *

  After Eric had left, Hosea picked up Jeanette and sat down in his rocking chair, plucking the banjo's strings idly.

  "What're we going to do, Jeanette?" he said aloud.

  :Let 'em all fry,: the banjo suggested.

  "Now you know you don't mean that," Hosea said mildly.

  There was a sulky listening silence from the banjo, and finally a defeated sigh. :Is he turning tricks? Running with a gang? Somebody knows where he is, and trust me, big fella, they'll be happy to give him up for a hundred bucks cash.:

  "Well, now," Hosea said mildly, his fingers continuing to weave glittering patterns of sound in the silent apartment, "Ah don't doubt you, but the question is, who do we offer the money to?"

  :Let me think about that,: Jeanette answered. :I never had any particular connections in New York, and what I did have are years out of date now. You go walking into a Saint clubhouse, and you'll be dead before you can explain yourself.: Another brooding silence, while Jeanette thought about things. :Your problem is, you want him alive and in good condition.:

  "That Ah do," Hosea admitted, with a heavy sigh. "Well, we'll both sleep on it. Might could be something will dawn on one or both of us. Good night, sweetheart."

  Chapter Six:

  Boil The Breakfast Early

  Eric settled onto the "non-directive couch" with a large carton of upscale tea in his hand. Oriana usually didn't let patients bring food or drink into the sessions, but she took pity on those who were forced to disrupt their usual routines to come in for an early-morning session. She hadn't remarked on his peculiar outfit—Eric was wearing his "street person" costume—and she heard out the story of his spur-of-the-moment decision to go to Boston in silence, allowing him to tell the story in his own way, without interruption.

  "And how did you feel when you saw your parents again?" she asked.

  "Shocked, I guess," Eric said, thinking about it carefully. "I'd expected them to still be the same as they'd been when I was eighteen. But they weren't. And they were, in a way. You'd expect . . . losing a child that way . . . and never knowing what had happened to him . . . to change a person. People. But it obviously hadn't. Or hadn't seemed to. They'd just gone and had another one, like they'd replace a broken microwave."

  "Do you feel that Magnus has replaced you in their lives?"

  Eric stared at her in surprise. "Well, hasn't he? They obviously haven't told Magnus I ever existed. And they weren't going to tell Dorland—well, me as Dorland—that I'd ever existed. They just had another kid, and tried to duplicate my life, whether that's what he wanted or not." Or had any talent for. Although obviously he did.

  "And how do you feel about that?"

  "Angry," Eric growled. "Very angry."

  "At whom?"

  Eric looked at her, puzzled, not seeing where this was going.

  "Whose fault is it that this has happened? Yours? Magnus? Your parents?" Oriana prompted.

  "Not Magnus," Eric said positively. "He didn't ask to be born. My parents, yes. They're the ones who wanted a trophy object instead of a son."

  Oriana waited. Eric shook his head.

  "And yes . . . me. I guess. A little. I should have . . . no." He shook his head, trying to sort his way through what had seemed simple, and now had revealed more layers than he'd thought existed. "That isn't right, is it? Their actions are not my fault."

  Oriana still waited.

  "But . . . he's my brother. I'm responsible for him. Yeah, I know, I didn't even know he existed before I went out there, and it isn't like I ordered them to brew up another tame prodigy, but he's still my flesh and blood—and that counts for a lot, in magic." That much he was certain of, and he thought he saw a faint expression of approval flit across his counselor's face. "What's more, I think the Bardic Gift bred true in him, too, and that makes another level of kinship. So, this isn't my fault. But it is my responsibility. I have a responsibility to take care of my brother because, hell, nobody else is going to, are they? Not just because he's my brother—although that's enough—but because he's a potential Bard. I have to find him, and keep him from getting into trouble with his magic." Assuming he hasn't done that already.

  "And your parents?" Oriana asked.

  "They just aren't very important," Eric said, with a sense of discovery. It was true. Magnus was what was important. As long as Eric could find him, and keep him out of the hands of his parents forever, they weren't really that important, were they?

  "You know, they don't matter. They gave over their right to matter to me a long, long time ago." He had a sense, right that moment, of letting go of something that had been weighing him down.

  "Well," Oriana said, closing her notebook and getting to her feet. "I think we've made progress here, and our time is just about up. I'll look forward to seeing you at our regular time on Monday. And Eric, I think it would be best if you let me know before you decide to get in touch with your parents again, don't you?"

  "If ever," Eric said feelingly.

  * * *

  Kayla was waiting for him, appropriately enough, in the waiting room when he came out. Her own appearance had undergone a marked transformation from the day before. Only the leather jacket remained from the previous day's costume. The boots had been replaced by worn sneakers, the parachute pants by stained and scruffy jeans, and the camo-top by a faded T-shirt advertising a band Eric had never heard of. She'd washed all the gel out of her hair, and done something else to it as well, and it hung lankly down around her face, looking greasy and dull.

  "Wesson Oil," she said cheerfully, seeing his baffled expression. "The grunge-Goth
s use it all the time."

  "And you had this stuff in your closet?" Eric said doubtfully.

  "What, you think I help Too-Tall refinish furniture in my best vintage? Get outta town!" Kayla scoffed. "I figure this is the right look—I just about had to mug the door guy to get up here."

  "Good thing I left your name downstairs, or you'd probably be sitting on the curb right now," Eric said. "C'mon. Let's go have breakfast. Then we're going to go see Hosea."

  Kayla made a rude noise.

  * * *m m m

  Eric wasn't unreasonable enough to try to walk into a restaurant where the way they were dressed would get them immediately thrown out—or raise a lot of eyebrows at the very least, which wouldn't be comfortable for anyone. He took them into a part of town where their clothes wouldn't attract any particular notice—and the food was just fine. Cholesterol heaven, in fact.

  Kayla ate like a starving teenager—all of her omelet, home fries, and toast, and most of Eric's breakfast as well. He didn't really have much of an appetite, picking at his eggs and toast.

  "You're gonna be starving by lunch," she predicted, piling grape jelly on her toast.

  Eric shuddered, pouring more sugar and milk into his coffee. Had coffee always tasted this bad? Or had he just lost the taste for it over the years? It really didn't matter. He needed the caffeine to jump-start himself this morning. Tea just wasn't going to cut it. "I'm not really hungry," he said.

  "Eat anyway," Kayla commanded, shoving half of his eggs back at him. She cocked her head, gazing at a point a few inches above Eric's head. "You'll do," she said. "But you need to feed the beast. The only reason—other than worry about Magnus—that you aren't hungry is because you aren't used to being up this early."

  Reluctantly, Eric shoveled down eggs and cold toast, though the food seemed to have little taste. He did feel better once he'd managed it, though. Kayla was usually right about physical things—not surprising for a Healer.

  "I guess I'm just as worried about finding him, as not finding him," he admitted. "I'm not sure what I'm going to do once I do."

  "Hell, that's a no-brainer," Kayla said, looking surprised. "You don't think he wants to go back to Hell House, do you?"

  "Of course not!" Eric said. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that.

  She shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. "Well, then. Ria gets her voodoo lawyers to paper-trip him. He gets a brand-new secret identity, you do a couple of mystic passes, and he gets to be somebody else."

  "But . . ." Eric said. He hadn't even met Magnus yet! He had no idea of what his brother's situation might be, or what he'd need to do to set things right. Or what Magnus wanted out of life, for that matter.

  "Details," Kayla said, waving Eric's protests away. "We can work them all out when the time comes. Trust me. Ria loves to fix things, the more complicated, the better. C'mon. We're outta here."

  * * *

  Hosea arrived at Jacob Riis early that morning. He actually spent quite a few more hours there than he was paid for, but he didn't mind. There was always plenty of work to do, and not enough hands to do it, and Hosea liked to feel needed.

  Breakfast was served early. The temporary cots put down for the overnighters were taken up at five and stored away, and the tables unfolded in their place. Everyone helped. If you helped, you got fed.

  Once everyone in the shelter had eaten, the transients were turned out for the day and the doors were opened to feed the street population. There were already lines outside the door—always.

  Sometimes there were eggs for the first through the door. Usually the staff was able to provide at least outdated cold cereal and muffins or bagels and coffee for everyone who came, or coffee at the very least. When donations were especially good, there was hot cereal and juice, but that wasn't often. The street people were philosophical, taking whatever came in enduring silence. The food service closed down by nine, or whenever supplies ran out, and then the kitchen staff got to work preparing lunch, and the rest of the shelter workers turned to their other jobs.

  In the little lull, Hosea managed to catch Serafina's eye.

  "Ah need a favor," he said.

  "You can have anything I have to give—not that that's much," she said. "Come into my office."

  Serafina's office had probably once been a linen closet, back when this had been a house. A desk piled high with neglected paperwork, an ailing copier, and two ancient overstuffed file cabinets crowded the small room to the state of the legendary "Fibber McGee's Closet." There was barely room for her to edge around between the wall and her desk and get into her chair, and just enough room for him to stand in front of the desk.

  "Ah need to find a boy," he said. "Came to the city about a month ago. Seventeen, but looks younger."

  "Ay!" Serafina threw up her hands. "Only one?"

  Hosea smiled ruefully. "It's a favor for a friend."

  She sighed explosively. "Picture?"

  "I'll have one tomorrow," he promised. "He's white. Upper-class family. Auburn hair, shoulder length when he left home. About five-seven, maybe 130 pounds. Green eyes. Very . . . pretty," he added reluctantly, knowing she'd need to hear it.

  She was shaking her head tiredly. "Hosea, you know what happened to him. He didn't get in touch with his family, didn't get picked up by the police . . . he's gone, querido."

  Hosea sighed. There was no way to explain that they knew Magnus was still alive, still here. "Ah know, 'fina. But it's only been a month. Maybe he's still here, somewhere. Or maybe somebody remembers him. You know where the kids go to den up. Give me some hints."

  "You're not going to go down where they go," she said, alarmed.

  "Ah promise. And Ah'm not going to send his parents there, either—" that was a promise easy enough to make. "Ah don't want the blood of innocents on my conscience. His parents have hired a professional to look for him." And that was the honest truth as well. "Like Ah said, Ah'm just trying to help."

  "You promise you won't go looking for him yourself?" she insisted.

  "If Ah hear he's at one of the other shelters, Ah might go there—Ah won't lie to you, 'fina. But to follow on any of the hints you'd be so kind as to provide, that Ah won't do. That Ah do promise."

  She sighed again. "Pobrecito. Well, your friend might start by talking to some of the other boys down under the highway, though I'm sure they'll tell him anything he wants to hear for twenty bucks. He might have gotten lucky—though I'm not sure that's the right word—and gotten taken up by one of the white gangs, like the Dead Rabbits or the Future; I haven't seen Prester in a few weeks, but I'll try to catch him if he comes in. He still seems to know most of the gang gossip. Of course, he's crazy as a fruit bat, which is why they leave him alone, but he might know something useful.

  "Another possibility you might want to have your friend check out is abandoned buildings—if he can find one that isn't being used as a gang clubhouse or a crack den. Sometimes the kids move in and take them over for a few weeks or months until the police drive them out—or one of them manages to start a fire and bring in the Fire Department. Most of them are down here, but I've been hearing rumors that there's a big one somewhere Uptown—which would have to be somewhere in Harlem, I guess. I'll try to get you some addresses."

  " 'Preciate it," Hosea said. "And now Ah guess Ah'd better get out there and make some music."

  * * *

  After the music session—Angelica was gone, and Hosea tried not to think too much what would happen to her—he wandered outside for a breath of air, wondering when Eric would be showing up.

  He heard a skirl of flute music from down the street and smiled to himself, following the sound.

  He recognized Kayla by her jacket—and the fact that she was wearing the clothes she'd been wearing when she'd helped him paint his apartment—but if Eric hadn't been holding the flute in his hands, Hosea wouldn't have recognized Eric at all, and he could tell that Eric wasn't using a trace of glamourie to fool him.

  Well,
the old story-songs did say that the Bards were masters of disguise, and Hosea was coming to realize more and more every day how much truth there was in the old songs.

  It wasn't just the old clothes he'd dug up from Lord knew where; even Eric's closest friends might not have recognized him, walking past him on the street. He looked small and frail, hunched over his flute as though it were his last friend in all the world, playing the mournful notes of his calling-on song.

  Hosea walked up to him, digging in his pocket for a handful of change, and tossed it into the open flute case at his feet. If Eric was serious about going undercover, he'd better make this look good.

  Kayla looked up. She was sitting at Eric's feet, huddled on a piece of cardboard scavenged from a dumpster. Her face was blank, her eyes wary. She reached out and scooped up the coins as though he might take them back. Eric continued playing, not seeming to notice, and for a moment, Hosea felt a pang of genuine alarm.

  "There's hot coffee around the corner at the shelter," he said. "You could come in, get out of the cold for a while."

  "C'mon, Boss," Kayla said, tugging at Eric's leg and getting to her feet. "Coffee."

  Eric brought the tune to a close and lowered the flute. "Yeah. That'd be nice. I'd forgotten how cold it got out here on the streets," he said softly.

  * * *

  "You scared me there for a minute," Hosea said, as they walked back toward the shelter.

  "It just sort of gets to me," Eric admitted. "I start out by acting like a street person and then after a while I kind of become one. I guess it's effective, but . . ." He let the sentence trail off, then laughed shakily. "If that's how much I get sucked into a part, I guess that job on Broadway is right out. Did you get a chance to talk to Serafina?"

  Hosea gave a rueful shrug. "She'll ask around. She gave me a bit to go on with. Made me promise Ah wouldn't go pokin' mah nose in mah own self. Says the places the kids go are pretty rough."