“Someone shut that blasted thing off!” he raged. “We don't want everyone down on us again!”
At the center of the mob, Fionna had sunk into a heap on the floor. Lloyd huddled over her, frantically trying to bring her around. Nothing seemed to be wrong with Fionna apart from red, angry skin on her bare arms.
“A hell of a lot of help you were,” Lloyd snarled at Liz.
All Fionna could say over and over as they bandaged her arms was, “Now you'll believe me.”
And Liz had no choice. The stink of malignity rose from her skin like cheap perfume.
“You say the hair on her arms caught fire?” Liz asked, wondering if she had heard incorrectly. “Not the sleeves?”
“That's it,” Laura Manning said, examining the skin carefully. “There were no sleeves. Left her smooth as a baby's bottom, apart from the burns, that is. Shh, honey. I've got some cream downstairs.”
“We can't have any more delays,” Patrick Jones cried, pacing up and down. “My God, if the reporters get hold of this. I'll kill myself.”
“Oh, that'd be good press,” Eddie Vincent growled. Nigel Peters tore his thinning hair.
Liz focused immediately on finding the source of the power. “Did anyone see where the fire came from?” she asked, but every face in the circle was blank. To them it was just another freak accident, one of many. Only Liz had felt the anger and hatred fill the arena just before the attack. It was fading quickly. They would have to work fast to find the source.
“It's symbolic that the fire was centered on Fionna's sleeves,” she said under her breath to Boo-Boo, who knelt beside her near Fionna. “She didn't have any in this dress, but that's what everyone was talking about just before the blaze. That meant the energy had to have come from somewhere in here.”
“How many people could hear the stage manager?” Boo asked. “Let's ask everyone again, one at a time. I can do that. I'll bring them back to what they were thinkin' of at the last moment before it happened.”
“No, that's a waste of time,” Liz said sharply. Fionna's eyes fluttered, and she sat up. Lloyd immediately pushed the agents away and cradled his girlfriend in his arms. “We have to examine the site at once, before the influence dissipates.”
“I think,” Boo said, in a low tone, “you're forgetting that this is my turf. You're my guest. I'm in charge here.”
“Not this again,” Liz hissed. “We asked for your help. It's my case.”
“It's our country,” Boo said loudly, his eyes glowing with the light of battle. “You can't operate here without our permission. You might as well pack it up and go home.”
“Never! My government will never take a back seat to yours!”
“We tossed you out once. We can do it again!”
“Knock it off or leave!” Lloyd shouted. “Look at her. She's hurt! Let's go downstairs, love.”
Liz looked down at Fionna, who was holding onto the bodyguard like a drowning swimmer to a float. She was ashamed of herself. It was the second time that day she'd caught herself behaving in a nonprofessional manner. Two black marks, Miss Mayfield, she thought, shaking her head. Lloyd helped Fionna to her feet. Fionna tottered toward the stairs to her dressing room, with Lloyd and Laura Manning in attendance. The crowd parted to let them pass. Liz and Boo-Boo followed behind.
“We've got to work together on this,” Liz said, after a moment. The tension in Boo-Boo's shoulders relaxed. She knew the two of them were thinking the same things. Here was a case where she could produce proof of an actual magical attack. If they solved the mystery this could spell credibility for their departments, assuring the budget for next year, not to mention putting Lord Kendale in their debt. It would put the Department and OOPSI into the headlines. Horrified, Liz stopped her flight of fancy. If this made the headlines the furor would never die down. The general public was not ready. They already suspected the government of prying into their everyday affairs. If they knew about the departments devoted to the paranormal, there would be open rioting out of naked fear.
Boo-Boo was thinking the same thing. “We've got to solve this and keep it quiet,” he said, guardedly. “Miss Fionna needs us, ma'am. Both of us.”
“It won't be easy,” Liz said. “To say we have different styles is an absolute understatement, but I'll try if you will.”
“It's a deal,” Boo-Boo said, holding out his hand for hers. They shook on it.
“The first thing to do is talk to our crime victim,” Liz said, briskly.
Instead of occupying her grand throne, Fionna was curled in Lloyd's arms on the couch at the side of her dressing room. She had her knees drawn up protectively, like a little girl.
“They're here,” she whimpered. “They're listenin' to me. They're comin' for me.”
“Who's they, honey?” Lloyd asked, rocking the trembling woman in his arms.
“Let me see the burns,” Liz said, starting to sit down at Fionna's other side.
“Piss off,” Lloyd snapped, glaring at Liz. “I don't want you within yards of her. This is all your fault.”
“All our fault?” Liz asked, blinking at him. “Are you mad? How?”
“This has been going on all along,” Lloyd said, his face stony. “She tried to tell you.”
“We needed proof,” Liz said.
“To hell with your proof,” Lloyd said. “I'm calling this all off as of now. You're out.”
“It's not so easy as that,” Boo said.
“Oh, yes, it is!”
“Oh, no, it isn't!” Liz said. “You might have believed her, but what could you do to help?”
* * *
As they argued over her head, Fionna clutched herself in fear. She had felt herself hauled to her feet from the stage, and had obediently followed Laura and Lloyd downstairs, while angry voices rang in her ears. She didn't follow half of it, didn't want to. With her eyes closed, she felt her arms stretched out. Something cool was swabbed along them, and the familiar feeling of gauze and sticky tape touched her skin. Fee was having a hard time keeping from raving out loud and crying for police protection or an exorcism. She might be Fionna Kenmare to millions of fans worldwide, but underneath the wild, Irish persona beat the upper-class English heart of Phoebe Kendale. Where Fionna delved into the supernatural with alacrity, Phoebe still thought it was a little naughty, something to taunt the Aged Parents with, who didn't like her choice of career or friends. She'd always known in her heart something bad would happen if she started to play with magic. Always. She'd been cautious. She'd followed every rite of protection she could find to counteract the dark forces just outside the light, just in case. Just to make sure. Never step on a crack. Never spill salt without tossing a pinch over her shoulder. Always wish on a star, a fallen eyelash, a candle flame. Don't let black or white cats cross one's path. But the evil had started to press too closely in the last few months. That was why she had come to New Orleans, in hopes of finding stronger magic than she had. But the bad ones had found her here, first. They were coming for her, just like before. She started to rock back and forth, worrying.
The strong arms surrounding her helped to push the bogeys away. All her friends were gathered around her. They wanted to help. They were the grownups, there to protect her from the darkness. She felt as if she was a little girl again, crying in the nursery when the lights went out. They'll make it better. But they couldn't help. They didn't understand. She had followed every one of the superstitions to the letter, even the ones that made her feel silly. It wasn't enough to keep her safe. She drew a ragged breath and burst into tears.
Oh, I want my mummy.
Fionna sobbed uncontrollably. The evil was here. It had followed her here. The emotional storm inside her rose to hysterical proportions. It was hard to breathe.
She felt herself being shaken. A calm voice, a familiar voice, cut through her misery.
“Fionna. Fionna.”
Oh, it was that imperious prig, Elizabeth Mayfield. Forgot to set the tables again, or was it some equall
y tedious House task?
“Fionna.”
Go away, she willed the calm, insistent voice. Go away. Elizabeth was just another manifestation of the evils that surrounded her, haunted her. She tried to shut them all out, using the ward chants she had learned from the books. Go away, pesty voice.
“Fionna.”
She put her fingers into her ears. Two strong hands grabbed her sore wrists and pulled them away. She yelped, and went back to chanting.
“Fionna,” the voice continued, in an urgent whisper, sinking lower and lower and becoming more and more intense until it burned into her very being. It was a mere breath upon her ears. “Phoebe Kendale, if you do not open your eyes right now and snap out of your sulk I will tell everyone here how you jumped naked off Magdalen Bridge into the Isis River at dawn on Midsummer Day five years ago.”
Fionna's bloodshot green eyes flew open, glaring into Liz's serious blue ones. “You wouldn't! Of all the officious, interferin' candy-arsed bitches who ever walked the earth on hind legs . . .”
Liz stood up and nodded to Nigel Peters. “She'll be all right now,” she said.
“My God, how did you do it?” Peters asked, staring at his star in amazement. Fionna stopped raving and tensed up.
“Departmental secret,” Liz said curtly. But she gave Fionna a look that said if she indulged herself in another screaming fit the secret would be out. The singer crossed her bandaged arms and stared her defiance. Liz shook her head. Fionna/Phoebe was as stubborn as the day they had met. She left the woman to the ministrations of Laura and Nigel, who began to argue about whether to put Fee to bed or to go on with the rehearsal.
“Let's get back to it,” Voe Lockney said, fidgeting with his drumsticks. “We need the run-through.”
“No,” Lloyd said, cradling Fionna closely as if possession was nine-tenths of the law. Her eyes were closed again. “Call it off. Fee's frazzled. Let her rest this afternoon.” The band and the crew immediately broke into protests.
“Oh, no,” Michael Scott said, his blue eyes ablaze. “We'll be rusty enough. I have to hear the acoustics of this place.”
“Is she going to fold in the show?” Voe Lockney asked, looking at Fionna with bewildered eyes.
“I don't see what all the fuss is about,” Robbie Unterburger said, sourly. “I've had worse burns from flash powder.”
At the sound of the word “burns,” Fionna nestled closer into Lloyd's meaty arms. Robbie's lips pressed together as if seeing the couple like that hurt her. Eddie Vincent gave them a disapproving look.
“Godless,” the keyboard player muttered. “Marry him already, woman!”
“The evil feeling has dissipated now,” Liz said, as soon as she and Boo were out of earshot of the others. “Where did it go?”
“Where did it come from?” Boo asked. “We've checked all over this place. The portals were cleared. Everyone was clean. We missed a leak somehow. It'd have to come in a vent, or on a breach in the walls to the outside. Malignity has to be invited into a neutral space. The only psychic doodads here belong to Miss Fionna. That kind of thing leaves a mark on people. No one has any deep-seated stains I can see.”
“Too deep for you?” Liz asked.
Boo gave her a glance full of meaning. “Not for our detection methods, ma'am,” Boo said mysteriously. “Can't say more'n that.”
“This isn't like anything I've ever had to deal with before,” Liz said, pushing departmental rivalry aside until later. “Is she really under attack from some kind of malign spirit that follows her around?”
“I dunno, ma'am,” Boo said. “We need some special expertise here. I know people. We can have a couple dozen specialists here in an hour. There's a Santeria priestess I know. The local wiccans will want to be in on it, and there's the Evangelical healers. Maybe a shaman or two.”
Liz only gawked. “Is there anyone in this town that you don't know?”
Chapter 10
The clean-shaven, heavyset man leaned into the SATN-TV camera lens. He was wearing a plain black tunic and breeches with white bands at his throat and wide white cuffs. The costume, coupled with the truncated-cone-shaped hat, evoked an image of a Puritan settler, but his speech had no relation to the founding fathers' simple message of religious freedom.
“Hate,” he said, with all the flourishes and dramatic pauses of his profession, “liberates you. Hate sets you free. The ultimate freedom comes when you allow yourself to reach inside and draw out the burning fires within, to destroy your enemies and vanquish them into the netherworlds. Hate creates power.”
Behind him was a clutch of stern-faced women dressed in a similar style, straight out of The Crucible. They were throwing handfuls of powder onto a fire that exploded in a flash and puffs of noxious, yellow smoke.
“Are you getting passed up for promotions because the boss likes a different candidate more than you?” the man asked. “Then, curse your rival! Curse the boss, too! There's no reason for you to take ill-treatment like that without calling down eternal wrath upon those who do you wrong. Join our congregation! We'll be happy to offer a ritual for you. All you have to do is send us a donation of $100, and we'll invoke Satan in your name. Watch our show, and add your prayers that vengeance will be yours. Now, here's that address. Send $100 to SATN-TV . . . .”
The slim man in khaki trousers waited until the announcer had finished with his spiel. “Cut! Speaker Downey, come on. How come you're not going to show some skin? I thought Satan worshipers were, you know . . . naked girls on the altar?”
“How dare you?” the head Puritan said, coming toward the producer with a face like an angry thundercloud. “Private worship is not for public display!”
“We could guarantee you a hell—sorry, Speaker—a heckuva lot more viewers in the prime time slot if you would make your pitch, you know, a little more adult-friendly?”
“You mean, washed in sin!” Downey stormed.
“I mean, that's what people want to see,” the producer said, imperturbably. “What you're doing now is strictly daytime—bored housewives and unemployed people with the tube on for background noise. The real money is in the evening, if you wanted to cater to the public a little, or after midnight for really hot stuff. Sheesh! Some of the evil you guys espouse is obviously sadomasochism! You ought to . . . let it show a little.”
One of the women sidled up to him, seductive even in the heavy-skirted costume. “You're a follower?”
“I . . .” the producer began, uncomfortable even while he was starting to look interested.
“We prefer to keep our show in the light of day,” Downey said, angrily. “Night is for the creatures of the dark, like . . . like that druid's wench!” He pointed at a poster of Fionna Kenmare and Green Fire that was being carried onto the set by a couple of grips. “The fire of our Master keeps us strong! Darkness surrounds her. Many of our viewers have called down curses upon her and her minions, but they bounce back at us. She is trifling with things beyond her ken! More power is needed to bring about her downfall!”
“Now, now,” said Augustus Kingston, coming out of the shadows and throwing an arm over Speaker Downey's shoulders. Only the ember of his cigar end had given away his presence to the others. As he got closer the producer could smell the tobacco over the sulphur from the brimstone incense. “Don't you get all het up about Miss Kenmare. She's gonna get what's coming to her.”
“She wastes the otherworldly power, brother,” Downey said, shaking his head. “Her motives are suspect! What fool would use magic and not employ it for personal gain?”
“Well, you are so right, my friend,” Kingston said, smoothly. “And if I have not said it lately, I, and all of my people here,” he pointed the cigar at the producer, trailing along behind them like a worried watchdog, “appreciate your help in dealing with wrongheaded women like Miss Kenmare, there. Yes, she's got wards around her. There're some busybodies interfering with right-minded people like yourself who quite rightly want to see her blasted into the underworld, bu
t in the end those won't be a barrier. No one can stand against the might of pure evil.”
Downey's eyes gleamed from underneath the brim of his antique hat. “We will continue the fight, brother.”
“We sure will. You all run along,” Kingston said, with an avuncular smile. “We've got to set up for the afternoon telethon now.”
“They just stand there,” the producer complained, watching the black-clad worshipers file out of the studio. “I could get more interest out of an oil painting.”
“But they bring in the money from the grass-roots viewers,” Kingston said, transfering his cigar to the other hand and taking the producer by the upper arm and leading him out into the noisy foyer, where a young, redheaded woman in a headset was punching the controls of a computerized switchboard set. “Look at that. The telephones are ringing off the hook. You just let them do their business, and concentrate on making it look as interesting as you know how. We've got our prime-time specials all locked up for this week. Might have a special special for you later on. Keep up the good work.”
The producer looked doubtful. Kingston slapped him on the back and headed for the rear office.
The man was right, though. It would have helped a lot if they could have raised the kind of power Kingston dreamed of through normal operations, but they couldn't, not in a puny backwater like this, far off in the northwest states. But Kingston, and some of his acquaintances had a plan to put themselves on the supernatural map—and that goody-goody little singer was going to help them do it.
“SATN-TV, please hold,” the operator said, poking the flashing button with the end of a pencil. “SATN-TV, please hold. SATN-TV, yes, Mr. Mooney! He's expecting your call. I'll put you right through, sir.” She jabbed the HOLD button, and cleared her throat. “Mr. Kingston, Mr. Mooney on line three.”
* * *
Kingston sat down in a huge, black, leather swivel chair in his office and swung it away from the monitors trained on Studio One. “Eldredge, nice to hear from you.”
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