Adornments of Glory

by J. Crispin-Ripley

  "No, it isn't," Feldspar said, finally coming out of it. "Dragons like shiny things, sort of like magpies. So, what's the story with you?" she asked the girl. "And what's your name?" she added, as an afterthought.

  "I'm Lupa, daughter of Caleb. I'm seeking sanctuary and asking for pardon. I can't live with who I've been." A knife had appeared in her hand. The girl's reflexes were superhuman.

  Susan prayed silently that Feldspar wouldn't reject Lupa out of hand. If she did, Lupa was going to use the knife. On herself. She wasn't sure how she knew that, but she did.

  Fortunately, Feldspar seemed to sense the same. "I'm not sure I'm the right one to ask."

  "You're the one who's here."

  Past Lupa, Susan could see the smokers still looking their way, now talking things over. "Maybe we should go inside? You are nineteen?" she asked Lupa.

  "Twenty. I'm the same age as Feldspar." She opened the door. "Exactly. You'll like this place. Play it right and you never have to buy your own drinks."

  There was a world of information in that statement. "Do you know Hilldweller... pardon me, Hilda Weller?" Susan asked as they stepped inside.

  "Of course. I'd guess she's in her usual booth at the back." Most of the people in the bar were facing that way. "But it's not a good idea to drop by without an invitation."

  Feldspar nodded. "She had four bodyguards that I see." The couples at the tables nearest the booth were large, and a few years older than the Bent-Arm's norm.

  "Going to try the dragon gambit again?" Lupa asked.

  Feldspar grinned and swung the briefcase as before. "It would get her attention, but no, I think a glimpse of her son will be more effective." She became Skythane.

  "Cool." Lupa sounded impressed. "I only got a glimpse of you this way before." She looked long and hard.

  All the tables in line-of-sight of Hilldweller's booth were taken. Now they were here, Feldspar didn't feel any urgency with regard to the quest and the Adornments. No, and curse her for wallowing in self-interest, she needed to know about Lupa and how they were connected. She felt a different, new fear now. Despite herself, she felt attracted to Lupa. But she didn't want to be linked to the werewolf in any way whatsoever; Lupa's pack had been cannibals that hunted and ate other sentients and Lupa should have been destroyed, along with the rest of her clan. But evidently, she and her father had survived. And Lupa said they were the same age, exactly, in a way that implied a connection with Feldspar, that implied that they were soul-sisters. It couldn't be.

  "We're exactly the same age?" she asked as they sat.

  "To the minute. Fairies danced at my birth." Said with an edge caustic enough to melt a sword.

  "And where have you and your father been the past ten years, when you both should be in your graves?"

  A rapid intake of breath from Susan. Feldspar glared at her. This was none of Susan's business.

  "Cool down, dearest," Lupa said with venomous composure. "Cool down and assume I'm alive for a reason. What the heck... assume you are too--just for the heck of it."

  How dare she? Someone craving pardon shouldn't show such effrontery. The only sanctuary Lupa deserved was that of oblivion.

  "Drinks, folks? Afternoon, Lupa."

  "Hi Percy... I'll have the usual. What you guys want? First round's on me."

  "What? Oh, yes... I'll have... something non-alcoholic?" And some privacy? How could she be expected to decide anything at a time like this?

  "I think I'll have an iced tea," Susan said. "Unless you have iced coffee?"

  "Best in Noronto," the waiter replied. "Colombian, Blue Mountain, Espresso?"

  "Real Blue Mountain, or ersatz?" Susan asked.

  "One hundred percent authentic," Lupa put in. "It's my drink. I insist on nothing but the best."

  "The Blue Mountain then," Susan said. "How about you, Skythane?" She overemphasised the name.

  "The same, please." The waiter left.

  Did Susan think her unrattled enough to forget she was wearing an illusion? Actually, she had... not that it mattered. This was all Susan's fault. If she hadn't interfered by now a ten-year-old mistake would have been rectified by Lupa's demise en route, at her hands.

  "Feel free to try, sweetheart. Anytime." Lupa leaned back in her chair, twisting and stretching her lean frame. "Any time you want to take me on, be my guest."

  "You read minds?" Feldspar asked.

  "It's kind of obvious from your face," Susan said. "Okay, so you don't like her. Put that on hold for a bit, okay? You're here to recover the Adornments... remember them? The fate of two worlds in your hands? All that stuff?"

  "You're right. Thank you." Take a deep breath. Try and relax. Assume everything happens for a reason, even when it seems like it’s only to piss you off. "Truce?" she asked Lupa.

  "For as long as you want. Just keep in mind I was only ten when the pack got broken up, hardly old enough to run against them. And also that right now I'm choosing the Unknown over my own father. But don't sweat any of that. It's my choice and I've made it, no matter what. In the grand scheme of things, the problems of one little werewolf don't amount to a hill of beans."

  Unaccountably, Susan started to laugh. "Pardon me... oh my... I'm sorry, Feldspar... I mean, Skythane. It would take too long to explain."

  Susan's obvious attraction to Lupa couldn't mean anything, could it? Susan wasn't a great judge of character; she lusted without discrimination. But, looked at objectively, Lupa was an extraordinarily attractive woman. And it had nothing to do with her obvious physical attributes and everything to do with the incisive intelligence that showed in her face. The danger she'd sensed radiating from Lupa down in the tunnels became overwhelming at short range. This wasn't anyone you wanted as your enemy. She'd be deadly enough as your friend.

  "Your coffees." The waiter announced his arrival in a loud voice. "And Ms. Weller would like to see you all in her booth."

  "Tell her we'll be there in a few minutes, Percy," Lupa replied. "Skythane needs to readjust his reality before he meets his mother."

  His mother? Lost in the conundrums Lupa presented she'd again forgotten she was in Skythane's guise, despite Susan's having just reminded her. This illusion wouldn't fool Hilldweller and wasn't intended to. If she had it to do over, she'd have come into the Bent-Arm as herself. But she couldn't change now, not in the middle of a crowded bar. Some choices were irrevocable. Lupa smiled at her as they both stood. Some choices needed to be made with great care.

  * * * * *

  When Roger answered Albright's door, the damn idiot grin on his face was matched by a face-stretching response from Sian. Ishtar pushed past their entrance-blocking embrace. "Where's that damn elf? Dragon dung!"

  The answer to her question lay on the hallway floor, dead to the world and exposed to it. "On your feet, harpy bait." She booted him just below the ribs. His body shifted an inch closer to the wall but otherwise, no response. She swung her foot back again. This time she'd nail him in the temple and he wouldn't ever get up... but no... that would be gratuitous. He wasn't a threat to anything now--didn't look like he would be for hours, maybe days.

  "You're damn lucky, elf boy. You should thank whoever did this to you for saving your no-account life."

  "It was my pleasure." Albright's voice drifted out from the first door on the right.

  Sian and Roger were still necking on the threshold. "Either of you care to back me up? Or am I on my own?"

  "Sorry." Sian broke away from Roger. "Okay, I'm ready."

  Roger grabbed her. "Max isn't our enemy."

  "Max? You're on intimate terms with her now?"

  "Yes. No, not that way... you're the only woman for me, Sian."

  Ishtar sighed. Those two weren't going to last, they just weren't. She stepped over Rabid, resisting the temptation to stomp on his head, and walked into the room where Albright was waiting. The voice had been right but she looked different... younger... eighteen, maybe. At the Westshire, Albright's power had been palpable, but its nature
unclear. Now there could only be one explanation unless this was Albright's granddaughter. It wasn't... her eyes were old. "You vamped elf boy."

  Albright's answering laughter trilled like crystal bells... phoney bitch. "As hard as I could," she said at the end of the trill. "Tea?"

  "Poisoned?"

  "Earl Grey."

  "And poisoned?"

  Albright sighed. "No. Linda's asked me to try and convince you you're on the wrong side, the one that's going to lose--the one that should lose because its head is stuck in the sand of outdated antiquity."

  Behind her, Ishtar heard a snort of derision from Sian. "Woman's speaking's as overblown as her writing."

  "I would greatly appreciate it if you wouldn't speak of me in the third person."

  "You're past tense far as I'm concerned." Ishtar advanced on Albright.

  "Beyond the shadow of a doubt, you've forgotten I'm a vampire. Touch me and I'll sap your very being. My ability is sufficiently limited that, with the elf, I only could take a percentage of essence sufficient to eliminate him from the immediate picture. With you, however, I'd have no trouble and feel no compunction at depleting your life force in its entirety."

  "Finished your speech?"

  Albright nodded. Her eyes were calm confidence. Time to change that.

  "Bitch Linda didn't think to mention I'm a vampire too, did she? Thought not... she doesn't know. Suppose she's the one who taught you the ins-and-outs of vampirism too? Thing is, she's only a nominal herself. You're far more powerful than her. So am I, and I've studied under masters." Didn't need to mention it wasn't vampirism she'd studied, totally unnecessary. "Ah, beginning to doubt yourself, are you? I wonder if I can age you to what you were before, and stop."

  "Do it. If she's alive, she's a danger," Sian offered from behind. "Besides, I love watching them shrivel."

  If they were lucky, Albright didn't know much about being a vampire. Either Sian didn't or she was playing a bluff--victims didn't get older, their lives became shorter. And only vampires of the third rank or better became younger in appearance, and then only if they chose or didn't have sufficient training.

  "I am not intimidated." Albright's words were belied by the tremor in her voice.

  "You should be. If I don't recycle you, Belinda will. You'll have noted how loyal she is to her minions."

  "I am hardly a minion."

  Roger and Sian joined Ishtar in her laughter. It finished Albright. Ishtar felt a faint regret--she'd been eager to test her powers, to see if she could defeat the woman in a fight. But Albright wasn't the real enemy and a few questions made it clear she wasn't even a proper flunky but rather, a patsy--she knew nothing about the Adornments. They left her in the hallway, tied to a chair, next to Rabid--he wouldn't be regaining consciousness any time soon. At worst, Albright's cleaning lady would find them the next morning. By then, the quest would be over, one way or the other.

  Since they'd got in the cab, they'd called to pick them up at Albright's and told the driver to take them to the Westshire, no one had spoken. Ishtar seemed lost in thought and Roger... Sian knew Roger was angry with her for doubting him. Her grandmother and Annwyl weren't around to give advice. She'd been terrified her leadership might have sent Roger to his death, then furious when they found him sipping tea with the enemy, tea that could well have been laced with poison.

  "This isn't going to work," she said into the silence.

  "What isn't?" Roger asked, eventually. He didn't turn his head to meet her eyes.

  "Us."

  "Oh."

  "You want to know what I think?" the driver asked.

  "No." They answered together.

  "At least there's something you two can agree on," Ishtar said. She'd sat in the front, giving them limited privacy. "Ignore them," she said to the driver. "I'd like to know what you think."

  "I think people today watch too many movies. Take that 'love is never having to say you're sorry' crap. Love is whatever it takes, you know? I mean, people today talk about 'true love' like it's just one thing but it's different for everyone and it takes a hell of a lot of work--know what I mean? Those cruddy fairy-tale cartoons should be banned, if you ask me--white knights, eternal devotion--all a load of crap. Love takes work, and it's messy."

  "Are you married, sir?" Roger asked. While Sian had listened with half an ear he'd been paying rapt attention to the cabbie's harangue.

  "To my best friend. Grew up next door to her and never gave her a second look until the war came and we ended up in a refugee camp together. Know what I think? I think you people in this country got it too soft. You expect everything to be easy, handed to you; no one wants to work for anything. You should all go live where I come from for a while, that's what you should do."

  "Where did you come from, sir?"

  "Hell, son. I came from hell. Here's the Westshire... you all have a nice day now."

  Sian gave him a generous tip and stood watching as he drove away. "So, what do we do now?"

  "Get to know each other?" Roger suggested. "Then decide?"

  She turned, looked up into his face, and smiled. "Yes, that's a thought, but I meant what do we do about Belinda."

  "Destroy her." Ishtar might be short on details but knew her goal. "Find out if she had the Adornments first, and, if she doesn't, make sure she can't get her filthy hands on them, ever."

  "Sounds good... how?" Roger asked.

  "By killing her."

  "I meant, how do you find out if she has the Adornments?"

  "If she's got it, she'll flaunt it... that's what I'd do and, after all, she is my mother."

  In the lobby, the only sign of the morning's chaos was a hole in the ceiling where the chandelier had pulled loose and an overabundance of media, loitering and waiting for something more to happen, eyes roaming between the entrances and the elevators. Ishtar's appearance set the pack into action. "Ishtar, can you tell us... Do you have any comment on... Do you and your mother... Ms. Bedarova...."

  "Damn." Ishtar seemed so at home on Earth, Sian had forgotten she might not know the feeding habits of reporters. Within seconds they surrounded the new arrivals like circling sharks. "Is it true that... How do you feel... Ms. Bedarova...."

  Ishtar chopped the most intrusive microphone with the edge of one hand. "Shut up."

  "That's better," she continued.

  The sound technicians who'd been treated to an amplified version of Ishtar's battle cry stood dazed. As far as Sian could see, none were bleeding from their ears. An almost famous blonde from an American network stood holding her now-curved mike, first gazing at it in wonder then murmuring a few words into it to see if it still worked. Ishtar strode forward and the sea parted to let her through. She hopped onto a coffee table, putting her at eye level with most of the multitude. "Damn giraffes. Okay, I'll answer anything you ask... one question at a time. Except the next one who calls me 'Bedarova' gets a boot in the chops."

  Whatever the outcome of the quest for the Adornments of Glory, Linda Bedarova's reputation was forever destroyed in the first five minutes of Ishtar's impromptu press conference. The reporters believed her. Roger had never seen anything like it; the cynical media was like a crowd of previously sceptical kids who'd just been introduced to the real St. Nick. Ishtar held them entranced. Entranced? That might be it. Their trust in Ishtar was unnatural, especially considering the fables she spun.

  Due to her mother's promiscuity, Ishtar's prospective fathers numbered in the hundreds, the story went. She'd been abandoned as a child, left to be raised in an obscure, unnamed, village by a drunken innkeeper. In some ways, she'd been lucky to land with him. One of the candidates for father, he'd raised her with as much love as his brutal nature permitted. A pretty child, she'd become his meal ticket.

  She didn't blame him for that. Despite running a house of largely ill repute, he'd never pushed her to share her charms with his customers but when she reached a certain age, it seemed only natural. Yes, she admitted to her shame that her essential na
ture was much like her mother, Linda Bedarova's, in that to her, sex was power and she enjoyed watching others crawl at her feet.

  None of the reporters were crawling in the literal sense of the word. All were, figuratively. Ishtar's compelling presence had them in her thrall. As she continued, to Roger's eyes, she glowed.

  "Is that a halo?" Sian asked him, in a whisper.

  "Just the lighting. For the cameras. I wonder how long Belinda's going to let this go on?" Some of the broadcasters were doing live feeds. And even if they didn't have a radio or television on upstairs, surely Belinda would have left an observer downstairs, expecting someone to come after her.