Spirits White as Lightning

by Mercedes Lackey

  Jimmie sighed in relief. "Thanks. You could make real money doing that."

  "If I ever need a second job," Eric said. "But are you sure this isn't a bad time? 'Cause frankly, Scarlett, you look like hell."

  Jimmie shrugged. "Going from days to nights is always hard, and I haven't been sleeping well. It's not the nightmares. That charm you did for me worked fine, and they haven't come back. I've just got this feeling of impending doom. Every morning I wake up expecting to go into the bathroom and see a banshee doing laundry in my sink."

  Eric smiled at the feeble joke. Legend held that those who saw a banshee washing her bloody garments were doomed to die within the fortnight. "But neither Greystone or the House has noticed anything?"

  "Nothing," Jimmie answered tiredly. "I'm starting to wonder if I'm turning into one of those cranky old ladies who goes around prophesying the end of the world."

  "Not you," Eric said gallantly. "Are you sure there isn't anything I can do to help? I mean, I know I'm not a Guardian—"

  "You wouldn't want to be," Jimmie interrupted, cutting him off. "Once you get the Call, your life doesn't belong to you any more. You never know where you're going to be sent, or what you'll have to do. And it's not like there's an instruction manual for being a free-lance occult do-gooder. Sometimes I wish there was." She walked into the kitchen and came back a few moments later with two tall glasses clinking with ice. "Tea. Or as Grandma used to say, `sweet tea.' "

  Eric took his glass and sipped. It was sweet—sweet and cold and delicious, tasting faintly of mint.

  "The secret, so she told me, was to put the sugar into the hot tea, so it dissolves completely. Then add the mint, wait for it to cool on its lonesome, and chill. I sure do miss her. She came up North to take care of us kids after Mama died, and never stopped complaining about Yankee ways until the day she died."

  "You've never said much about your family before," Eric said.

  "That's because I don't have one anymore—well, outside of Toni and the guys. And you, Eric. You've been a real friend. I'm glad the House chose you," she said, sitting down on the couch beside Eric.

  "Me, too," Eric said. He sipped his tea. "Hosea's cooking for the party tonight, and suggested I could be of the most use by making myself absent." He hesitated, wondering if he should mention that he might be taking Hosea on as an apprentice. "When a Guardian trains their successor . . ." he began.

  He was interrupted by a healthy snort of laughter from Jimmie. "Oh, my! I just wish we did! But that's not the way it works for us. If we're lucky, we get to meet our successor and pass on the Call in person, but that's about it. Usually it arrives like a bolt out of the blue, and then it's sink or swim time."

  "Doesn't sound really efficient," Eric said, probing gently.

  Jimmie grinned, savoring a private joke. "Who are we to argue with the Powers that Be's way of doing business? But seriously. There's no way to train for this job. You can either handle it, or someone else comes along pretty quick to replace you, on account of you taking a quick trip on the hurry-up wagon. Of course, you can spend a long time fooling yourself. I was pretty stubborn when my Call came. Thought I was losing my mind. It's different for everyone. Paul stepped right up like he was born to it when his Call came—but then, he'd been involved in the occult for years. I was just a dumb street cop." She drained her glass in several long swallows and set it down on the floor beside the couch. "And I sure wish I could shake this case of the blue-devils. I even took your advice . . . I did something I swore I'd never do."

  Eric raised his eyebrows inquisitively. Jimmie sighed.

  "I tried to get ahold of my brother. All I had was a P.O. box address from about a dozen years back. I wrote to it. But he never wrote back. I could use my contacts on the Force, maybe; see if he's Inside somewhere. But I don't really want to rake up old bones at the Job. Y'know, sometimes it doesn't seem like it when the Post gets going, but there's nothing a good cop hates more than a bad one."

  Eric waited, sensing there was more to say. But if there was, Jimmie drew back from it.

  "He didn't even resign. Just disappeared when Internal Affairs came calling. Damn near broke Dad's heart."

  And yours, Eric thought, but didn't say so.

  "So what's the deal, Eric? You look like somebody with something on his mind besides my little problems."

  "Yuh got me, podnuh," Eric said. "It's not really a problem. It's just . . . Hosea came to New York looking for someone to train him as a Bard. And I've got an awful feeling I'm it."

  "Can you?" Jimmie asked, cutting to the chase.

  "Yeah, well, technically . . . yes. My teacher thinks so, anyway."

  They sat in silence for a few moments. Eric could almost hear Jimmie thinking it over.

  "So, don't you like him?" she asked.

  "Sure I do," Eric said quickly, leaping to Hosea's defense. "He's a great guy. It's just that . . . what if I screw up?"

  He'd never been responsible for anyone but himself, not even Maeve. That was what it came down to. She was Kory and Beth's. Not his. Saving the world was one thing (though he wasn't over-confident about his abilities there, either, if truth be told), but crises tended to boil up and blow over pretty quickly. Taking on an apprentice was a long-term commitment to another person—and at Juilliard, he'd had ample chance to see the harm that a bad teacher could do.

  "What if you don't—screw up, I mean?" Jimmie asked reasonably. "Spend all your time worrying about what might happen, and you'll never get anything done. Good advice. I ought to take it sometime," she said broodingly.

  "I'm sure you'll figure this out eventually," Eric said. It sounded like hollow comfort, even to him. "Maybe it's all blown over and this is just the aftershocks. Meanwhile, why not come to the party this evening? Shake off that gloom'n'doom feeling?"

  "I should," Jimmie said. "I will. Wouldn't miss the chance to sample your friend's masterwork."

  She forced a smile, and the talk turned to other things.

  * * *

  The basement was already full when Eric and Hosea came down, balancing two large cookie sheets covered with warm, golden-brown pasties. Alex was there, talking computers with Paul, and Margot and Caity were spreading a paper tablecloth over the top of the washing machines, converting them to a makeshift buffet for the evening.

  The basement of Guardian House ran the entire length of the building. Part of it was walled off, forming the "magical bunker" that Toni had told Eric about in his first days in the building, and there was even an apartment down here—a small studio, its only access to the outside world a high narrow strip of windows along one wall. No one lived there; it'd been vacant since her predecessor's time, Toni had told him once, and was now used for storage.

  Eric introduced Hosea to the others. Tatiana—in full war paint and more trailing shawls than Isadora Duncan—camped and vamped at him, cooing about "big, strong men" until Hosea actually blushed. Seeing that, she relented, and went off to get them drinks from the bar-by-courtesy, though aside from a couple of bottles of wine, there was nothing stronger than fruit punch there.

  By the time Ria arrived, the party was in full swing. Someone had brought down a boombox, and a World Music sampler—mostly ignored—vied for attention with the fragmented sounds of various musicians trading licks. The live music usually came later in the evening, when everyone had mellowed out and finished exchanging gossip and news. Hosea's pasties had vanished early on, but Toni had brought empañadas—a Puerto Rican specialty—and Paul had brought a couple gallons of the Famous Punch (a mixture of exotic tropical fruit juices, savory and non-alcoholic). Eric had a glass of it in his hand when he "felt" Ria arrive, and went upstairs to guide her down.

  "Cozy," she said, looking around the basement. "Done in early catacomb?"

  She was wearing a pale gray silk business suit and looked like the well-tailored heroine of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. She had on a pair of green jade earrings that played up the green of her eyes, and her ice-blonde hair wa
s held back by a wide clip of the same material.

  "Think of it as a trendy after-hours club," Eric said cheerfully. "C'mon. I'll get you a drink."

  "I brought my own," Ria said, brandishing a large bottle of white wine. "After the day I've had, I could use a drink."

  "Trouble?" Eric said, leading her over toward the buffet.

  "More in the line of chickens coming home to roost. You remember Kayla, Elizabet's student?"

  "How is she?" Eric asked.

  "Starting school at Columbia this fall. And living with me while she does."

  Eric was startled into laughter. "The punkette and the Uptown Lady—how'd you get rooked into that one?"

  Ria looked faintly cross. "Elizabet asked me, as a favor. She doesn't want Kayla living in the dorm, and wants somebody local keeping an eye on her. L.A.'s a long way from New York."

  "And you're elected," Eric said.

  "I volunteered," Ria corrected him. "But as for what I'm going to do with her when I get her here . . ." She sighed, shrugging. "How bad can it be? But I've got to say, what I know about teenagers you could engrave on the head of a very small pin."

  "Well, she's not exactly your ordinary teenager," Eric said, imagining Kayla in Ria's posh uptown apartment. Let's just hope she doesn't decide to redecorate. "Kayla's a good kid. And like you said: how bad can it be?"

  "I'm sure I'll find out," Ria said darkly. "And pretty soon, too: Elizabet's going to send her out here as soon as she can get a cheap flight so she can settle in and get her shields up to speed."

  Though Los Angeles was a major city, it was far more sprawling than New York was. Manhattan's population density would pose special problems for an Empath and Healer.

  "You know you can count on me for help. Babysitting, and so forth." He expertly peeled the wrapper off the neck of the bottle and twisted the cork out, pouring a plastic cup half-full for Ria.

  "I'll remember that," Ria said. "And if you're good, I won't tell Kayla that's what you said."

  "Truce!" Eric cried, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. "The last thing I want is to have Punky Brewster mad at me. C'mon, I'll introduce you around."

  The tenants were mostly cool—there were only a couple of remarks of the "you're that Ria Llewellyn?" sort—and finally Eric steered her over to where Hosea was.

  He was leaning against the wall, his banjo slung across his chest, intently trading riffs with Bill, a guitarist and sometime member of various Soho bands.

  The two of them waited politely until the musicians had finished, then Eric caught Hosea's eye. "Hosea, Bill—I'd like you to meet Ria Llewellyn. She's a friend of mine."

  There was a moment as Hosea and Ria sized each other up, each recognizing the power in the other. Then Hosea held out his hand.

  "How do you do, Miss Llewellyn. Eric's said a bit about you, all good."

  "Pleased to meet you," Ria said. "Are you still looking for an apartment?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Hosea said. "But at the prices you cityfolk are charging, you'd think I wanted to buy the place, not just live there."

  Even the most run-down studio apartment in a bad Manhattan neighborhood rented for $600-800 a month, and some Gothamites were paying a couple thousand a month for a place smaller than Eric's living room.

  "I may have a solution, at least a temporary one. LlewellCo is going to be putting up some new low-cost housing on the Lower East Side as an anchor point for redevelopment of some pretty grungy neighborhoods. We're relocating the current tenants, of course, but it's going to be November or so before the building's actually condemned. Meanwhile, the place is standing half empty. I'd been going to put in a security guard—idle real estate being the devil's workshop—but if you'd like to move in and keep an eye on the place until we raze it, you'd have a place to stay—free—and I wouldn't have to worry about squatters moving in and making trouble for the remaining tenants." She smiled hopefully at Hosea.

  Wow. She sure played that one right, Eric thought in admiration. He knew Hosea wouldn't even consider taking charity, but Ria'd figured out a way to offer him a free apartment that he'd still be paying for, in a sense—and she wasn't lying when she said she'd need someone looking after the place.

  He watched Hosea carefully turning the offer over in his mind, considering it from all angles. Finally he smiled. "That'd be a kindness, Miss Llewellyn. I've been taking up Eric's couch for too long already. I expect he'd like his living room back."

  "It's no problem," Eric protested. A guilty twinge reminded him he still hadn't suggested to Hosea that he take him on as a pupil, and part of him realized that Hosea having his own place would make that easier. Emotions between teacher and student could sometimes run high, and it was better not to add that dynamic to the fact of living under the same roof.

  "Why don't you come down to the office on Monday?" Ria said, fishing a business card out of her jacket. "I'll make sure Anita has the keys; she can run you over there and get you settled in. There should be enough cast-off furniture there to take care of you, otherwise we can just rent some for a few months. You don't want to be sleeping on the floor. I've been there—some of the roaches are big enough to saddle and ride."

  Hosea grinned, tucking the card into his shirt pocket. Unwanted insect life was no problem for a Bard—a few tunes, and the critters tended to go elsewhere. But he only thanked her again for her kindness.

  The party broke up around two. Ria had left earlier, pleading a heavy workday on the morrow. Eric and Hosea stayed to help with clean-up—despite her promise to attend, Eric hadn't seen Jimmie Youngblood anywhere tonight—and then headed upstairs.

  "Y'know," Eric said tentatively, once they'd gotten into the apartment, "there's something I've been meaning to bring up with you, but I didn't know just what to say."

  Hosea stopped and regarded him placidly. "Ayah, you've been looking as broody as a hen with one chick for nigh on a week. Guess it'll be easier now that I'm moving on."

  "It's not that," Eric said quickly. "It's . . . when I went to that party the other week, I got a chance to talk to my old teacher. I knew you were looking for somebody to train you as a Bard, and I thought he might be able to recommend somebody."

  Hosea waited, listening intently.

  "He did. Me."

  He saw Hosea wait for the punch line, realize there wasn't one, and consider the matter. "Would you be willing to do that?" he asked in his slow mountain drawl. " 'Cause I don't think you could pass me the shining without you was willing, and I can't think of any way I could pay you back, leastways not for a long while."

  "Don't even think about paying me," Eric said firmly. "You don't pay this back. You pay it forward. The question is, do you want me to teach you, if I can? I've never done anything like this before."

  The anxiety with which he waited for Hosea to answer surprised Eric. Somewhere between here and Maeve's Naming Day, it had come to matter to him very much that Hosea think Eric worthy of being his teacher. He valued his new friend's opinion that much.

  Hosea grinned. "Then I guess we've got a lot to learn together, Mister Bard." He stuck out his hand. "Let's shake on it."

  Eric took his new student's hand. "Done deal. I'll teach you everything I know, however much that turns out to be. And I guess I'll be learning a lot of things, too."

  Patience is the first lesson a teacher learns. A memory of Dharniel's voice echoed in his mind. "We can start as soon as you're settled into your new digs."

  * * *

  On Monday mornings Eric didn't have any classes until after noon, and he usually took advantage of that fact by sleeping late. "Morning person" was not in his job description, and even busking with Hosea, they generally skipped the morning rush-hour crowds.

  This morning was different.

  Screams woke him—no, not screams. Scream. The House itself was screaming, a soundless air-raid-siren wail of protest. And beyond that, audible to his ears and not his mind, the sound of a door slamming, over and over.

  :Scramble!
All units scramble!: he heard Greystone shout in his mind. He lunged out of bed and flung himself into the living room, clawing his hair out of his eyes.

  Hosea wasn't there. The front door was slamming itself rhythmically and springing open again.

  :Greystone!: Eric mind-shouted. There was no answer.

  He couldn't stop the House's alarms, but he could shut them out with a spell of his own. He did so automatically, and as it faded to a thin wail of protest, he apported the first clothes that came to mind—the jeans and T-shirt he'd been wearing last night—and ran for the door. It banged open and stayed that way as he passed through it.

  Several of his fellow tenants were standing in the hall in various states of dress from business suits to nudity, all talking agitatedly at once. Most of them seemed to feel there'd been either an explosion or an earthquake, unlikely though the latter was for New York. Someone—he didn't stop to see who—was holding a broadsword, its blade glowing a deep black-light purple.

  Eric lunged down the stairs, barefoot, taking them three at a time. He was heading for the lobby. Whatever the source of the disturbance was, it was there. He could feel it.

  But when he reached the ground floor, all he saw was Hosea, standing there in bewilderment. He had his duffle bag and his banjo with him.

  Of course. He was going to pick up the keys from Ria today.

  The wailing was louder here, loud enough to pierce his hush-spell. As Eric reached the lobby, Toni came charging out of her apartment. She was wearing an apron and carrying a baseball bat.

  "Get back in there!" she shouted behind her at her two boys. The door slammed shut the way Eric's had.

  "What?" she demanded, staring around wildly, looking for the threat.

  "All I did—" Hosea began.

  Footsteps on the stairs behind Eric told him that the other Guardians were coming. Paul had obviously been in the shower when the alarm came—his hair was still full of shampoo and he wore nothing other than a terry-cloth bathrobe. José had been asleep—he was wearing a pair of striped pajamas and looked as confused as Eric felt. As for Jimmie, she arrived with gun drawn, looking as if she hadn't slept yet.