Was this her choice, or could she only be corporeal in the otherworld? She'd said things were different here, and he hadn't asked her what she meant by that. He was too afraid to ask. Without a way back to the elf realms, the answer might be too painful. What if she was intangible because she wanted to be? What if she would only be real for a real elf, and not a counterfeit like John was coming to believe he was?
Was his elven heritage just another of Bennett's lies?
What could he be but a counterfeit? He still looked like he always had. There was none of the gauntness and fey beauty of an elf about him. His ears had no points, his eyes no nacreous luster. He looked to be the same tall, gangly John Reddy he'd always been. What did it matter that he'd seen himself with a different face in the otherworld? Bennett had been the one who'd sent him to that otherworldly reflecting pool. He felt that what he'd seen was true, but what if it wasn't? What was he supposed to believe? He didn't look any different now. No one he knew on this side of reality thought he was an elf. To them he'd looked as he always had, was what he'd always been.
Of course, there was Bear, the great King Arthur. Bear, being Bear, saw things differently. He had believed John was an elf, and he'd cursed John for it, calling him a "serpent in my camp." Damn Bear anyway! What right did he have to judge John? To curse him just because of what he was? Especially when even John couldn't be sure it was true. Bear should have trusted him more. Bear should have known John was the same John he'd always been. Bear should have believed that he was the same person who had saved Bear from blundering his life away in the weeks after his awakening, believed in the person who had stood by him right up until the end. Even when Bear had accused him of being a traitor, John had stood by him. Saved him, even!
And gotten not so much as a thank-you.
But Bear had seen John as an elf. Hadn't he? He'd certainly acted and spoken as if he had. Or was even that another of Bennett's tricks? They had been in the otherworld at the time.
The otherworld was the past now. The present was a dirty, smelly slump on the West Side of Providence; John's life was that of a maybe-orphaned, urban castaway with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. One thing his adventures with Bear had done was to kill his old life. Too bad they hadn't quite prepared him for his new one.
Another cop car wailed along the highway, sounding like a damned soul rushing to oblivion. He almost howled along with it.
"What's the matter, John?"
Everything. "Nothing. Just thinking."
He felt her feather touch about him, a tantalizing mockery of her real embrace. Her voice was real enough, though. Real enough to remind him of other times, other chances.
"I know." Her tone was honestly sympathetic. Did it have a hint of pain as well? "You've been thinking about things that make you unhappy. I don't like to see you so fretful."
Fretful? Yeah, he supposed so. "Life's not so great around
here."
"We're together again. That's what's important."
Together? When they couldn't touch? "How can we—" He slopped, realizing how stupid what he'd been intending to say was. They'd been together for years without physically touching each other and it had never bothered him. They'd been the best of friends, happy and content with each other. Had so much changed?
"How can we what, John?"
He was too embarrassed to answer honestly. "How can we—ah—how can we make it better? Life around here, I mean?"
"This is a good place, John. It feels a little like home."
Rezcom 3 of the Benjamin Harrison Town Project was never like this sprawl-blighted abandoned factory. The place was half a dozen floors of ravaged masonry, smashed windows, vermin nests, graffiti, and refuse. There was no power and no climate control. No mall with a gazillion things available on your corp card. There were also no crowds, cleaning 'bots, security doors, sec-cams, or Mitsutomo-owned watchmen—so maybe it wasn't so bad after all. But home? "How can you say that?"
"Can't you feel it in the air?"
There was something about the place; John felt it when he'd first stumbled in out of the rain. He'd put the feelings down to just being glad to have shelter. He'd stayed, thinking it just a matter of convenience, but now that Faye had drawn his attention to it, he realized that there was something—not exactly friendlier, but—easier about being here. Maybe it was Faye's presence.
"I don't know what I feel," he said, realizing that he'd felt something about the place even before Faye had come back with him. Maybe he'd have to look a little harder at the place and see what lurked behind the debris of abandonment and decay. Why had he decided to slump here? Beyond the fact that it was available and free. Why here out of all the derelict sites of the sprawl?
Thinking about the place made him aware of an itchy, uncomfortable feeling that hovered on the edge of his consciousness, the sort of thing he'd felt as a kid when he was sure that his mother was about to find out something he'd done. "It sure doesn't feel like home to me."
"It could be. You could make it your domain."
"My domain, eh? Not exactly a palace suited for an elven prince. But then I'm not exactly an elven prince, am I?"
"You are my prince, John."
Her voice made his knees quiver and her words made his head spin. All the frustration of her intangibility rose up and strangled his eyesight, narrowing it until he could only see straight ahead, out the window in front of him. In the night sky only a pitiful few stars were visible against the sprawl glow, a tantalizing hint of what was hidden. It wasn't right!
One of those lonesome stars blinked as something occluded it, breaking his frozen stare. His vision returned to normal, but he didn't want to turn around. What was there to see anyway? He gazed out at the street, quiet now in the early morning. Dawn was only a few hours away; even the night creatures were abed. A flicker of motion told him that he was even wrong about that.
"Someone's coming," Faye said.
It was true. The face of the building was in shadow, but John's night vision was very good; he could make out darker shapes moving in the darkness below. He couldn't tell who they were, but he counted four. He hoped they would go on by, taking their dark business away with them, but they stopped near the main entrance, huddling in a clump of congealed night. One moved away from the bunch and continued on, slipping around the corner of the building. One by one, the others slipped inside.
The little bits of magic he'd learned in the otherworld hadn't worked for him in the real world. He couldn't turn himself invisible and scout out the intruders. But Faye was already invisible. ...
"Check them out," he ordered as he snatched up his pants. faye went. He dressed as quickly as he could, pulling on his picket and strapping on his belts. Stuffing his bronze-headed defense stick in his waist belt, he headed for the stairwell. I he top floor was the most comfortable sleeping area, but Ihcre were too few ways down, and he didn't want to be trapped.
Whatever the old corp had done in the factory involved luige machines; most of the building's first three stories were devoted to an open work space. A maze of catwalks hemmed in the rusting hulks of the old machines and offered aerial access to almost the whole of the main area. Faye rejoined John as he crouched on one of the higher catwalks, watching two of the intruders pick their way across the ground level debris. It was forty feet to the floor, but the height didn't bother him; people in his building bothered him.
"There are only the four," Faye reported. "The one who didn't come inside is a female; she's waiting on the loading dock by the door. The ones inside are all males. One stayed in the lobby. The other two are searching the lower floor."
He could see that. "What do you think they're looking for?"
"You."
Somehow, the answer wasn't a surprise. "Anyone they can find, or me specifically?"
"You specifically."
"How do you know that?"
"One of the searchers said, 'This Tall Jack's gonna be easy money.' "
Some
of the locals called him Tall Jack. Easy money? Bounty hunters or ordinary hunters? "Did they let slip why they're hunting me?"
"No."
Of course not. "Are they streeters or corporate?"
"Streeters, by their look and talk."
"Even the woman?"
"I haven't heard her say anything, but she looks it."
John was indignant about the intrusion. This was his place, his domain, as Faye would have it. These intruders had no place being here. He was even more incensed because they had come seeking him for money. He shifted catwalks, keeping the two intruders in sight. The searchers were still working the north corner; they showed no signs of noticing his move. He had half a dozen escape routes planned; he could be gone before they got off the first floor. He could be, but he didn't want to be; he was tired of running.
"Guns?"
"I didn't see any," she said.
Fine. If they didn't have guns, any fighting would be more even. From the searchers' awkward pattern, John could tell that he knew the place better than they did. Another advantage. Maybe he wouldn't have to run. If he could catch them one at a time ... They were already cooperating by keeping half their numbers at the doors.
"Comlinks?"
"No."
Better still. If they couldn't talk to each other easily, it'd be harder for them to call for reinforcements.
John moved along the catwalks, passing over the two below. He stopped near one of the taller machines. Carefully, he climbed over the rail, and lowered himself until he was hanging, gripping the walk with his hands. His feet dangled in open air. He waited until his body stopped swaying before dropping. He landed silently, but awkwardly, on the uneven surface of the machinery, and almost lost his balance. He had to grab a stanchion to steady himself and avoid an uncontrolled plunge to the floor, still a good twenty feet below. The maneuver wrenched his defense stick out of its snugged position. The stick started to shift, to fall. John twisted, knowing he'd be too late to keep the heavy bronze head from gonging on the machine but trying anyway. The stick never struck. It hung in the air, head hovering less than an inch from the metal surface.
"Thank you, Faye," he whispered as he closed his hand on the wooden shaft.
"You're welcome," she whispered back.
Climbing down the machine was harder with the stick in his hand than it would have been otherwise, but he didn't want to risk having it slip again; he couldn't count on Faye's being close enough to catch it. He reached the floor without attracting the attention of the searchers. John crept closer.
"Hey, Roscoe, how come we're doin' all the work?" one of them complained in a whining voice.
"Cause we're gettin' paid, stupid," Roscoe answered absently.
"Yeah, I know that."
The two of them continued their probe of the darkness around the machines. They were not very thorough; they missed more than a dozen places where someone even of John's height could have hidden. Flashlights would have made their search more effective, but would have made their movements more obvious as well. Despite their talking, stealth seemed to be part of their plan.
John crept closer, hoping they would soon find it necessary to separate.
"Hey, Roscoe."
"What now, Flake?"
"How come she's waitin' out back doing nothin' while we're doin' this?"
"The geek might go out that way."
"Yeah, I knew that."
Flake tripped over something and stumbled into one of the machines. John used the opportunity to cross the aisle. By what he was observing John guessed that Roscoe would be the more dangerous one; he'd have to be taken out first. But not just yet—the two were sticking too close together.
"Hey, Roscoe, you know what I think? I think she's gettin' ideas. I think she thinks she's gettin' too good to do the rough stuff."
"I think you're thinkin' too much. She gets to do what she wants 'cause she's got the connections."
"We could get our own connections."
"Now I know you're thinkin' too much. We're gettin' paid; that's enough. Now shut up, Flake, or the geek'll hear us comin'."
"Aw, Roscoe, we been all over most of this place. Tall Jack ain't down here. He ain't gonna hear us."
"Talk any louder and he'll hear even if he's on the roof. Now shut up!"
Flake shut up, mostly. He grumbled as he continued poking about. The two intruders worked their way to the old warehousing area. It was more open in the upper levels—-no catwalks—than the main area, but just as clogged on the ground level because of all the old crates and debris on the floor. John still had cover. He moved closer still, angling toward Roscoe. He lost some ground waiting for Flake to turn away from an area illuminated by a streetlight's amber glow shining through one of the windows. The delay made John nervous. They were finishing their search of the main floor and would be heading up the stairs soon. It would be easier to separate them upstairs, but harder to sneak up on them; there were fewer places to hide.
A shadow flickered across the floor.
Flake jumped back. "What's that!"
"Shit, Flake!" Roscoe spun and crouched. Seeing nothing untoward, he straightened up. "Will you cut it out?"
"I saw somethin'."
"What?"
"I don't know."
Flake's head jerked about as he tried to see everywhere at once. Roscoe scanned the dark more slowly and carefully.
"I don't see nothin'."
"I'm tellin' you I saw somethin'." The shadow flickered again. "There!"
Flake pointed at the floor, where the shadow had been. John shook his head. Though he hadn't seen whatever had cast the shadow, whatever it was wasn't on the floor; it had been somewhere behind the two. He knew it wasn't Faye; she didn't cast shadows.
"It's outside," Roscoe said. That was John's conclusion as well. "Somethin' flew past the streetlight."
"I ain't so sure." Flake sounded scared.
"It's just a bird or somethin'."
"Birds don't fly at night," Flake snapped.
"Ain't you never heard of owls?"
Flake thought about that for a moment. "Ain't never seen no owls 'round here."
"So it was a bat. You seen bats, ain't you?"
"A bat? I dunno. Ain't so sure it was a bat."
"Just shut up and come on." Roscoe sounded impatient.
"I'm tellin' you there's somethin' in here with us!"
Roscoe grabbed Flake's jaw and turned his face to the light. He started intently into his partner's eyes. "You drop somethin' before we came in here, Flake? Shit, man, you know better than that."
Flake yanked his head away. "I didn't take nothin'!"
"Better not have."
"I didn't!"
"Then you ain't got no cause to see things that ain't there. Now come on, we got things to do here."
Roscoe turned away and went on to the next tumble of abandoned crates. Flake gave the window a glance before following. The intruders' search took them through the storage area without offering John the chance he was waiting for. Roscoe started across the open area by the loading dock. Flake was slower, more wary. The gap between the two increased, but Flake stood between John and Roscoe, spoiling John's plan to take Roscoe first. John might have to settle for what he could get. Roscoe was across the loading area and nearly to the stairway. If he didn't stop to wait for Flake ...
Roscoe entered the stairwell.
John didn't think he'd get a better chance.
He stepped out from behind the stack of crates that had shielded him and crept forward. He held his defense stick before him, the bronze head heavy in his hand. The stick wasn't as fast as the swords he had used when fencing nor did it have a point or edge, but it did have an authoritative weight that had proved itself more than once on the street. There had been times he'd regretted that the stick was blunt, but not often. He hoped this wasn't going to be one of those times.
Flake turned when John was four meters away, warned by some premonition, certainly not b
y any sound John had made. The intruder's eyes went round as he saw John; he made a strangled sound, but he didn't yell. That suited John. Flake jumped away and John's first strike missed.
Seeing John extended in his lunge, Flake found some nerve and came after him. John recovered to stance with a speed that seemed to baffle Flake rather than serve as the warning it was. Flake charged forward, swinging a wide, slow roundhouse punch. John grasped his stick at both ends and sidestepped outside the blow. Using the stick as a baton, he directed Flake's punch away before shifting his grip and swinging the bronze weight down along Flake's temple. The man went down like a sack of laundry.
John could have put the blow on the top of the man's head and probably killed him, but he hadn't. There were still some questions John wanted answered. A concussed villain was a villain who might answer some of them, but a dead one wouldn't have anything at all to say; Flake didn't seem to be the sort who would be able to avoid answering questions.
A loud noise, halfway between a squeak and a shout, echoed through the building. Briefly. The sound cut off almost as soon as it began. Startled by its strangeness, John turned to look for its source. It had seemed to come from somewhere near the front entrance.
Had he been the only one to hear it?
"Behind you, John!"
Faye's warning was timely. John turned to see Roscoe rushing him, something dark and heavy-looking in the man's hand. Acting on reflex, John met him with a stop thrust, the narrow tip of the stick taking Roscoe in the solar plexus. Breath whooshed out of the intruder and he doubled over, gasping. If John had been armed with a sword, Roscoe would have been spitted.
John brought the stick down on him. There was a cracking sound and the man collapsed. John found himself holding only the weighted end of his broken slick. He hadn't thought he'd hit Roscoe very hard. John bent down to see if the man was still breathing.
He was, raggedly. That didn't seem good.
robert Charrette - Arthur 02 - A King Beneath the Mountain Page 8