The Sunne Duology (Romance and Adventure in Medieval Ireland) ~

The Sunne in Gold ~ Lady Cathelin O'Cameron - known by many as the awesome knight and hero Blacksunne - returns home from the Crusades only to discover that her family's estate of Inishowen has been usurped by a traitor. Though triumphant in war, the fierce Irish warrior surrenders her heart to the beautiful Muslim slave-girl Madrigal. But Madrigal harbors many secrets...and one will either bring two hearts and souls together forever, or destroy them utterly!

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The Sunne in Scarlet ~ Terribly wounded and near death, Cathelin must nevertheless battle with all her might against mortal enemies intent on destroying Inishowen and the Lady who rules there. Madrigal, her sworn mate, is forced to fight near insurmountable odds and her own fears as she goes to war to protect her family and the woman she loves.Will passion and strength triumph, or will the contest between greed and vengeance, love and honor, prove to be the end of all that lies between the ladies of Inishowen?

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~ Georgian/Regency/Victorian (Individual Stories with a Historical Setting) ~

Stand and Deliver ~ In the late 18th century, a swashbuckling highwayman steals a lady's jewels as well as her heart... but is he really what he seems to be, or are appearances not the only things that are deceiving? (Appeared in the e-zine Bad Grrls)

Truth in Love: A Solstice Tale ~ Verity Hawkins is the loneliest woman in London. On Christmas Eve, 1898, she works an old folk-magic spell in order to catch a glimpse of her one true love in a mirror. What she sees is shocking, and will change her life forever. (Written for the Academy of Bards Christmas Challenge 2001)

Heaven in Her Face ~ Emma Fullham falls too easily in and out of love. A wager with her brother to prove her constancy to her current inamorata seems to be easily won, until Emma meets and falls head over heels for her lover's sister! Will Penelope Pye return her affections? When danger threatens, Emma learns the difference between infatuation and true love. (Written for the Academy of Bards Valentine's Day Special Invitational 2003)

All That Glitters ~ In 1820 England, Lord Snowly is in a Devil of a fix! His late uncle's fortune has vanished, and it's up to Lady Augusta Stapleton and her clever companion, Caroline Peregrine, to figure out the truth.

~ The Underworld Chronicles (Occult Mystery and Suspense) ~

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall ~ Psychic detective Jo Tate is having a very bad day. First she's nearly killed by a devious demon, then she's saved by her new neighbor, Evan Reilly. But things start heating up when Evan's shocking secrets are revealed and both women realize that the only way to save Jo's soul is to fall in love... or they may lose both their lives to an eternal evil that will damn them forever !

I Dream of Genies ~ What do werewolves, hungry succubi and an accursed jewel have in common? Murder, that's what !! Jo Tate and her partner, Evan Reilly, investigate a shocking series of deaths and try to uncover the connection that will lead them to the killer...or it may reveal an ancient evil intent on destroying the world !

Claws and Effect ~ The theft of a rare and deadly book, bloody murder at a Gothic nightclub, and acolytes of a dark and deadly cult involve Jo and Evan in a tangled web of malicious magic and demonic ritual that will ultimately lead to hell on earth...unless the beautiful Druid and her partner can stop the coming apocalypse !

Horror in Dixie (13 Tales of Terror with a Southern Flavor) ~

Room for One More ~ A tragedy from the past returns to haunt two women who take a wrong turn on a stormy night. Why does everyone at the Regal Crown Hotel insist that there's "Room for one more?" Much to their dismay, Vivian and Katie find out!

Dead as a Doornail ~ The good citizens of Foxbrush Hollow wonder about the strange goings-on at the old abandoned funeral parlor. Does it have anything to do with Elijah P. Cuthbert Dowdy's famous Everlasting Miracle Preservative? Lonely Becca Dowdy will surprise them all!

Appetite ~ Clearwater sheriff Virgil Kane is a God-fearing man who runs his town the way the good Lord intended, until a pair of New York City women arouse his suspicions. Lorelei and Liddy Cox change everything, and Virgil's sins come home to roost in delicious fashion.

Lulu and Butterbean On the Road to Nowhere ~ Lulu Cantrell and her faithful henpecked partner, Butterbean Shirley McCall, get lost and end up with their truck stalled on railroad tracks in the middle of nowhere. A train is coming. And is that a little girl on the tracks?

Lulu and Butterbean Go to Perdition ~ When Lulu demands they go away for a second honeymoon, Butterbean takes her to a cabin on Lake Perdition. Neither of them knows that the place is haunted. Will satisfying a Confederate ghost bring untold riches?

Lulu and Butterbean: Teased to Death ~ Going to the annual Hairdo Voodoo contest in Carterdale was bad enough, but Butterbean gets more than she expected when the leading hairdresser turns out to have a very unnatural advantage.

Lulu and Butterbean Wake the Dead ~ When the most stubborn man in Flathead County dies, Butterbean has to think fast as hijinks erupt at his funeral. Will Butterbean save the day, or will Lulu be forced to slap her bald-headed?

Lulu and Butterbean Cheat the Devil ~ A quiet poker game in their trailer is interrupted as the Devil himself appears, intent on depriving Lulu of her life. Poor Butterbean is at her wit's end. Will Lulu Cantrell's card skills be enough to save them both?

Crybaby Bridge ~ When Paulette Starke's infant goes missing from Crybaby Bridge, FBI Special Agent Dawn Masters investigates. She and Caro Starke, Paulette's sister, uncover a sinister web of supernatural conspiracy that stretches into the past, and threatens the future.

Bark at the Moon ~ Sheriff Annalee Crow runs for her life in the forest called Malingering Deep, pursued by men intent upon revenge. The wolves of the Deep are watching. One good turn deserves another in this tale of breathless terror and surprising love.

Hell Come A-Walkin' ~ The children want a story, so their stepfather obliges with a tale set during the War Between the States, involving Miss Calpurnia Burke and Miss Baby Tishamingo, who use their special skills to save the town of Bottletree from Yankee invaders.

Come Dawn ~ Tilly Destrehan can't sleep. Her partner, Lizbet Hardy, goes to see the conjure woman for a potion. This innocent visit will have gruesome consequences when an old grudge leads to murder, suicide and hideous poetic justice from the grave.

Spirits White as Lightning ~ The eerie lightning portrait of a long-dead slave named Fancy Joe leads a young woman and her friend to uncover the poignant truth about long-ago murder and injustice that ripped apart two lovers, whose spirits still long to be together.

Plus Four New Bonus Stories for 2004!

Lulu and Butterbean: Scrump-Deadly-Icious ~ Something's going on at the Dairy Princess factory in Dryland... and it ain't just the ice cream flavors that are strange! If Butterbean don't do her best, Lulu's going to do her worst, and the cow chips will be flying.

Lulu and Butterbean Face the Music ~ At long last, Butterbean gets the better of Lulu when she wins a contest and gets to meet the ghost of Elvis Presley himself. Or does she? An old adversery conjures the King of Hell instead, and it's up to the real King of Rock n' Roll to save the day before he leaves the building.

Lulu and Butterbean Go House Haunting ~ When Lulu wants to give up her beloved double-wide and buy a real house, Butterbean gets dragged into the most haunted home in Flathead County. Will they escape in time, or will Lulu smack Butterbean so hard she coughs up bones?

Lulu and Butterbean Get a Wild Hair ~ The full moon and a foreign female bring loads of trouble for Butterbean when she's forced to interfere in a lover's spat over in Hooter's Holler 'cause otherwise, there's no domestic peace to be had. Loopie Garou is after cousin Essie, and Butterbean and the intrepid Lulu have to put a stop to it.

And a Fabulous New Story for 2006!

~ The Chamber of Horror (Sinister Stories in Contemporary and Historical Settings) ~

Thirteen ~ Alabama 1955. Maria Flynn, a nurse working the night shift at the Ashpool-St. John Asylum for the Criminally Insane, is warned about a mysterious and dangerous patient whose identity is unknown, but occupies the dreaded Cell 13 on Ward 7. An evening of shock and horror ensues as Maria is unwittingly drawn into a maelstrom of injustice that emanates from the past, and a cry for help from beyond the grave.( Written for the Academy of Bards Halloween Special Invitational 2001)

Dolorosa: Our Lady of Darkness ~ Long ago, a portrait painter met and fell in love with her finest subject, the beautiful Jenny Dolorosa. When a tragic accident leads to death and separates the lovers, Lady Mary falls headlong into madness... but is it her own guilt driving her to the brink, or a spirit seeking vengeance?

Through a Glass Darkly ~ 12th century Ireland. Blind acolyte Aislinn has never known anything save the tiny island convent where she was found, until the day a dark warrior arrives, bringing with her a ghost from the past that may destroy them all.

Flesh of My Flesh ~ (Sequel to Through a Glass Darkly) Aislinn and Dunlaith are torn apart by glamorous magic and their own fears. Can they discover a strange lord's horrible secret in time, and will their love survive this test?

Best Served Cold ~ A young nun, working at a homeless shelter, comes in contact with a very troubled woman. She wants to help Eleanor... but Sister Winnifred has no idea how far she will be forced to go in order to right a terrible wrong.

"I"of the Beholder ~ In Paris, 1905, a psychopathic artist and her terrible obsession with the young Gabrielle d'Orsay leads to mayhem and murder.

Sweet Comfort Blues ~ In 1938, a mysterious blues player vanished, leaving behind an enigmatic legend which hints at darkness. Decades later, a graduate student searches for the truth but some things are better left in the grave.

Rip-"Her"~ Jack the Ripper meets his fate on the streets of Whitechapel after tangling with two very special ladies of the evening.

For the Love of Irina ~ (A retelling of Sheridan LeFanu's Carmilla) In the mountains of Romania, Gabriella is drawn to a beautiful stranger, and must choose between her mortal's life... or lose her soul to a damned love everlasting.

Resurrection at Rest ~ Driving home late at night, Xena Bonchance gives a pretty young hitchhiker a ride, only to become involved in the darkling world of spirits, voodoo and revenge.

Living Doll ~ Felicity's obsessive quest to regain her lost love by any means possible - including forbidden magic - leads to possession and murder. What terrible sacrifices must be made to put things right again? (Written for the Academy of Bards Halloween Special Invitational 2002)

Moonlight and Blood Red Peonies ~ In 22nd century Tokyo, a Reader of the dead, Makiko,and her partner investigate the death of a beautiful nightclub worker. There is something more than mere murder going on, as the trail leads to black magic and sorcery.

Lily White ~ She's beautiful but deadly, and oh, so very, very cold. What are her secrets? Don't ask her lovers - they've all gone mad. (Written for the Academy of Bards Halloween Special Invitational 2003)

Well Met by Moonlight ~ In Victorian London, Alice Russell is dying of starvation and cold, and then she meets the beautiful and mysterious Countess Dargorad, a vampire. When the Countess' enemy seeks revenge, Alice risks her very soul to save the immortal that she loves. (Written for the Academy of Bards Halloween Special Invitational 2003).

Murasaki Midnight ~ In 22nd century space, something strange is going on in the Murasaki Orbital Station. Everyone on the newly arrived Genji transport is dead with a single exception, and the surviving victim is in no condition to talk. Nandita Okalani and Inspector Tomiko must unravel the mystery before cultures and superstitions clash in a duel to the death! (Written for the Buy-a-Bard Auction II, commissioned by Mary Pardo and archived here by her kind permission)

Between the Flowers and the Moon ~ NEW! When the corporate ninja Katsumi meets a supposedly insane homicidal murderer named Bindiya, the supernatural collides with reality in 22nd century Tokyo. The dead are driving Bindiya insane, and only Katsumi can save her before its too late.

~ The Kennings Series (Mystery and Adventure in the Distant Human Future) ~

Picker of the Slain ~ In which the legal advocate Lt. Commander Amalthea Quint joins forces with Fey Lonyali in a case of murder that dredges up an lover from Amalthea's past. Pressure is being brought to bear; the Confederation Corps doesn't care if the accused is guilty or not as long as the case is solved. Amalthea and Fey are determined to get to the truth, no matter what it takes... even if everything goes to hell in the process.

Mouth Tale of Giants ~ In which Amalthea Quint and Fey Lonyali, following the success of their first case and the beginnings of their budding relationship, take a holiday on a luxury space cruiser. When the Duchess of Banjul's jewels are stolen, Amalthea and her partner agree to investigate.

Raven's Mead ~ In which Amalthea Quint and Fey Lonyali journey to Fey's homeworld, Tyvesh, to attend the legendary Festival of Thieves and end up in the middle of bloody murder when the mate of Fey's aunt is killed.

A Feast of Eagles ~ In which Amalthea Quint and Fey Lonyali go to Amalthea's homeworld, Yggdrasil, in response to a dire emergency - the Battle Banner of King Knut has been stolen. Although the Confederation itself is on the verge of implosion, the two sophonts have to deal with something even more terrifying than the threat of rebellion - Amalthea's mother!

~ Kwaidan: Supernatural Tales of the Floating World (A Series Set in a Fantastic Ancient Japan) ~

Azumaya: The Eastern House ~ (The First Tale of Unmei) Strange happenings in the Imperial Palace come to the attention of the samurai Ichijo Ayumi and her new mistress, the young noblewoman Fujiwara no Kimiko. A vengeful ghost is no less troubling to the two women than the machinations of the powerful people who rule the Floating World.

Hotaru: Fireflies ~ (The Second Tale of Unmei) Kimiko has been ordered by her powerful uncle to marry despite her love for Ayumi, but supernatural happenings and an envious spirit lead to an unexpected end.

Onna Yugao: Lady of the Evening Faces ~ (The Third Tale of Unmei) The separation of Kimiko and Ayumi continues, but so does the danger as both women face trials and tribulations on their way to a reunion that could finish in death.

Shorogejo: The Weeping Maid ~ (The First Tale of Giri) Now that Kimiko has sworn rebellion against the Empire, Ayumi aids her as they journey towards their shared destiny, facing horrors and gaining new allies in their quest.

Nukekubi: Floating Heads ~ (Short story ) A kind act by a stranger proves to have a bizarre and deadly motive as Ayumi and Kimiko learn that horror wears a pretty face. (Written for the Academy of Bards Halloween Invitational 2004)

Yuki Onna: Snow Woman ~ (Short story) While travelling through the winter-stricken mountains, Ayumi and Kimiko are forced to confront danger in the form of a beautiful and murderous elemental force, leading Kimiko to accept strange allies in order to save Ayumi from an icy doom! (Commissioned by Mary Pardo for the Buy-a-Bard Auction II and archived here by her kind permission)

by Nene Adams ©1998 - All rights reserved

PROLOGUE

O goodly images of those antique times,
In which the sword was servant unto right;
When not for malice and contentious crimes,
But all for praise, and proof of might,
The martial brood accustomed to fight;
Then honor was the meed of victory,
And yet the vanquished had no despair.

-----The Fairie Queen, Edmund Spenser

CHAPTER ONE

Came the rush of ruddy dawn cascading down from white-shouldered mountains, and Castle Inishowen fell to siege. 

Madrigal shuddered in terror and tried to place her shackled arms over her head, but the chain that fastened her bonds to the massive bed was too short. Whimpering, she allowed her wealth of blue-black hair to cover her face and closed dark purple eyes tightly, wincing each time the castle walls shuddered beneath another blow from the attacking army's siege engines. 

A wild cry echoed up from the courtyard three stories below: ''The gate! They've breached the gate!'' 

Madrigal shivered again and jerked her leg against the cuff that fastened it tightly to the chain. Although only a slave, and her lord's bedslave at that, she'd heard enough from the other servants to be nearly faint with horror at the thought of being in the hands of the knight known as Blacksunne. Lord Francis had waxed eloquent about the dark knight, filling the slave girl's mind with a thousand terrors... which were about to come true, if what she was hearing drifting through the arrow-slits was any indication of the way the battle was going. 

Please, she prayed as she shivered, let me find a way to die before he comes.Wrapping thin arms around her slightly swollen belly, Madrigal whispered brokenly, ''Please...''

Dozens of masculine throats roared in unison, ''The Sunne! The Sunne!'' and the screaming began in earnest as the attackers pressed their advantage. In the midst of the roiling melee, one figure clad in black enamel-chased plate armor stood out like a Titan - immovable, implacable and incapable of defeat. 

The black knight's high tenor voice carried over the sounds of battle: ''May God damn you for a coward, Westfield! Show yourself!'' he thundered, waving a massive broadsword overhead. 

The battle surged on as the knight strode through it, seeming scarcely to notice the men he mowed down as if they had been mere wheat to his scythe. Blood splattered the peacock-blue surcoat he wore over his armor; the device on the shoulder - a stylized sun as black as a raven's breast set on a field of gold - stood out clearly. This was the dreaded Blacksunne; the knight who had never known defeat in battle and whose fame carried all before him; the knight who had ridden with King Richard the Lion-Hearted on Crusade to the Holy Land and received his spurs from the royal hand. The sound of his name alone was enough to cause his foes to shudder aside in dread. 

Blacksunne's voice was as high and light as an unbearded boy's, but those who mistook the knight for an unblooded child soon learned otherwise, often as their souls were sent shrieking to Hell. ''Westfield!'' Blacksunne shouted, ''Come, test your steel against mine! COME!!'' 

Lord Francis Westfield was not in the midst of battle, rallying his rag-tag collection of men; he was not in the castle, seeing to its defenses; the lord and master of Inishowen was in the stables, trying frantically to saddle a recalcitrant mare. ''Hold still, you damned jade!'' he gritted, struggling to fasten a stubborn saddle girth, when a voice from behind made him start in fear and surprise. 

''Going somewhere, cousin?'' 

Lord Francis turned his head slowly, and a sickly smile spread across his face. He did not have time to reply as a gauntleted fist drove into his mouth, and he tumbled down into sparkling darkness. 

Lord Francis Westfield knelt on the cold stone floor of the Great Hall, directly in front of the dais where the new lord of the manse sat in a massive carved oak chair. Blacksunne had not yet removed his armor; nor had he removed his helm or lifted its visor. He sat at his ease, however, the great broadsword of the O'Cameron ancestors leaning against the arm of the chair within easy reach. 

Lord Francis pulled at the bonds fastening his wrists behind his back and winced as the movement sent another jolt of pain through his head. ''So, cousin,'' he spat sarcastically, ''had I known you were coming I'd have slain the fatted calf.'' 

Blacksunne did not move, although one hand clenched into a fist. ''I gave you every opportunity to surrender, Francis. You took what was MINE, and expected me to give it up without a fight?! You're either a very brave man or a fool.'' 

''Is it foolish to be ambitious? Remember, cousin, it was not I who left this place to go crusading with the Lion-Heart to the Holy Land. Five years gone, was it not? And poor Sir Giles, left all alone in his old age, his only child deserting him in his hour of need...'' 

''Cease your damned lies!'' Blacksunne's fist thudded on the arm of the chair and the armored figure leaned forward menacingly. ''You have always coveted Inishowen, cousin. Do not think I haven't heard about the way you invited yourself into the castle right after father became ill. You cozening bastard - was he even cold before you started issuing orders?'' 

Lord Francis smiled, showing a missing front tooth; the wound still bled sluggishly, and the light beard around his mouth was stained, dark red against gold. ''Possession is nine-tenths of the law, cousin, despite what Sir Giles' will might have been. You were not here. I was. T'is as simple as that.'' 

Blacksunne relaxed and casually rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. ''Well, I possess Inishowen now. You and yours aren't made for war, Francis; more for raping serfs and terrifying sheep.'' The dark knight chuckled. ''You should have stayed on your mother's estate in Cornwall. '' 

''My mother's estate?! You must think me mad! Cornwall is nothing more than a filthy boil on the buttock of the world, and my mother is the brazenest whore who ever lifted her skirts to a guardsman's dancing arse! Seeing Inishowen, who would NOT be tempted?'' 

''You should have known better. Cousin, you have known me long; our fathers were brothers and our families close. Did you truly believe I would stand aside and do nothing?'' 

''I'd honestly hoped you dead, but it doesn't really matter what I believed or dreamed.Come, pronounce your judgement. I admit my crime willingly, if it is a crime to covet and not a sin I could be shriven for by any shave-pate priest.'' 

Blacksunne rose. Both hands went to the helm that shielded his features. Lord Francis' hazel eyes darted back and forth; he searched for sympathy from the men who lined the walls of the Hall and found nothing but scorn and disdain. 

Blacksunne reached back and unclasped the hasp that held the two pieces of the war helm together, then drew it off in one smooth gesture. Long, dark crimson hair snaked across armored shoulders, and Lady Cathelin Brigit O'Cameron stood revealed, her molten amber eyes as haggard as a hawk's at bay. 

''So, cousin. You ask me for judgement. I desire justice. We shall see if the twain can meet.'' 

Lord Francis's lips twisted into a sneer. ''I'll not beg, Cat. Strike off my head with your bloody great sword, or do whatever else you will. But do it quickly; I weary of kneeling here like a supplicant before a vengeful goddess.'' 

Cathelin slowly walked down the stairs of the dais. ''I should send you straight to a deserving Hell, Francis. But I respect your mother too much to kill her only son, thieving bastard tho' he is.'' 

Turning to her chief man-at-arms, a taciturn older man with a figure like an ale barrel and a rusty red mustache, Cathelin said, ''Cut off his right thumb. Then give him thirty pieces of silver - no more, no less - and escort him to the boundaries of Inishowen. And,'' she continued, swiveling her head to address the kneeling man, ''if I ever hear of you befouling my land again, you pig-dog, I'll have no more mercy. I'll take your head and nail it to the doorpost to serve as an oracle.'' She smiled savagely, showing salt white teeth. ''My wild ancestors would have done no less.'' 

Lord Francis tried to spit but his mouth was too dry. The removal of his right thumb meant he would be unable to use a sword, unless he could transfer that skill to his other hand. The jibe about thirty pieces of silver burned in his soul like acid. How like Cathelin to rub coarse, religious salt into a wound... 

As he was dragged roughly to his feet, Lord Francis worked his mouth, and gathered enough moisture to scream shrilly, ''I'll have Inishowen someday, Cathelin! And revenge! REMEMBER, Blacksunne! I will have my revenge!'' 

Cathelin shook her head as Francis was literally carried away; his hysterical screams and threats echoed along the stone corridors of the castle. When they finally died down, she motioned over a silent guardsman and said, ''I'm going up to the master's chambers. Send a servant with wine and have my squire fetched. I'll also want a bath; tell the cooks to start heating water.'' 

The man tugged his forelock respectfully.. ''Aye, m'lady,'' he replied before sprinting off.. 

Cathelin sighed wearily, shoulders slumping for a moment. The battle had been won; the dead dragged away for burial, and the injured sent to the abbey a little ways apart from the village that nestled at the foot of the castle mount. Now, she could rest... Until her seneschel had time to look at Inishowen's accounts and bespeak her the damage done to the castle's stores of goods and gold by that son-of-a-soul-crippled-sow the Good Lord had seen fit to inflict upon her as a blood relation. 

She straightened up and began making her way to the stone staircase that spiraled up to her bedchamber, mentally making lists... and wondering if the contents of the iron bound casket she had brought home from the siege of Acre would provide enough to outlast a harsh Irish winter.

CHAPTER TWO

Much later, soaking in hot, herb-strewn water, Cathelin rubbed her aching shoulder and wished she hadn't sent her squire Thomas down to his supper. 

The tub she soaked in was a huge wine cask that had been sawn in half; it was perfect for one, and even someone of Cathelin's more-than-ordinary height fitted comfortably inside. The water steamed gently, and despite the raw place on her hip where the padding beneath her armor had slipped, and bruises covering her from crown to heel, Cathelin relaxed for the first time since she'd come home from the Crusades in Saracen Outremer... only to find her family seat usurped by Lord Francis, her father cold this last twelve-month, and (fortunately for her), vengeful allies on every hand, eager to help bring down Westfield. 

Aye, she thought, poor Francis. The boy would go and insult every neighboring laird within miles with his nose-in-the-air, wipe-my-arse Sassenach ways. Luckily, those same neighbors had been willing to stand and fight with her for revenge's sake rather than concessions like cattle or sheep, neither of which could be spared if her people were to survive. 

She closed her eyes and lay her head back against the edge of the tub, strands of crimson hair billowing around her like exotic water weeds, and relaxed... until her trained ear picked up a sound that should NOT have been there - the sound of another person's breathing. 

Cathelin's amber eyes popped open, and she leaped from the tub in one smooth motion, suppressing a wince as sore muscles protested. ''Who's there?'' she asked warily, her body in a half crouch. ''Show yourself.'' 

Only a whimper answered her. 

Head cocked to one side and dripping water, Cathelin slowly approached a corner of the room that occupied fully one-half of the western tower's third floor. She was prepared for anything - except the sight that came into view as she cautiously peered around the high canopied bed. 

A woman knelt on the stone floor. Mother naked save for the wealth of fine, blue-black hair that puddled on the floor around her, all tangled and elf-locked from miscare. A woman whose enormous dark purple eyes were red with tears, her sweetly rounded face slick with moisture. A woman who shivered, but not with cold... with absolute, soul-killing fear. 

With a start, Cathelin realized that the woman was manacled; heavy iron chains led from the cuffs on both wrists and ankles and fastened to one leg of the bed. She straightened up and the woman whimpered again, bowing until her face was pressed against the floor. 

''Christus! Who are you?'' Cathelin didn't mean to sound harsh, but the presence of another when she'd thought she'd been alone startled her. 

The woman shook with terror. ''M-m-madrigal, mistress,'' she half-whispered. 

Madrigal was nearly frozen with shock and fear. She had seen the other woman come into the bedroom as if she owned it. The slave had kept quiet, hoping that this woman with hair like the setting sun would ignore her; she would have crept away, silent enough not to be noticed, but for the iron bonds that kept her chained in place. 

She must be Blacksunne's leman, Madrigal thought, then with further horror remembered every tale of Lord Francis' regarding the knight's sadism and cruelty. His woman must be as terrible as himself! The slave trembled, wondering what fresh horrors awaited her. 

Cathelin was non-plussed. There had been no such servant at Inishowen when she'd left. ''Speak up, woman. What are you doing here?'' For a moment, she wondered wildly if one of her men had intended this as a jape, then dismissed the thought. Although her preference for the female sex was known, none of her men would have so presumed on their lady commander's legendary temper. 

Madrigal trembled some more. Keeping her face to the floor as she had been taught, she replied, ''I... I was the Lord's bedslave, if it please my mistress.'' 

Comprehension dawned on Cathelin's face. She knelt down, a careful arms-length from the other woman. ''A slave, eh? From where?'' 

''Palestine, mistress. But I was born in Bactria.'' 

Cathelin put out a hand and cupped Madrigal's chin, forcing the other woman's face up so that dark purple eyes met amber gold. ''I keep no slaves,'' she replied flatly. Cathelin had seen too much during the destruction of Acre, things that still filled her nights with terrible dreams and visions of death and blood and screams. She needed no Saracen slaves to remind her of a time best forgotten. 

Madrigal said nothing, although her eyes filled with tears again. Silently, she whispered to her unborn child - I am sorry, little one. Perhaps Allah will grant His mercy on us both, and our deaths will be merciful and swift. 

The slave believed the sun-fire woman intended to kill her, and part of her welcomed the freedom of death. She lowered her eyes and waited calmly for the end, finding from some unknown depths the strength to accept the inevitability of her ending... and the courage not to beg. 

Cathelin saw emotions flooding across the slave girl's face: fear, regret, then... acceptance. With a pang, she abruptly realized that the other woman expected to be butchered, in cold blood, as if she were some sort of... animal... Cathelin wrenched her eyes away, breathing heavily. 

They sat there for some time, the slave waiting patiently, the Irishwoman blinking back tears of her own. Finally, Cathelin rasped, ''Where did he keep the key?'' 

Madrigal blinked, startled from her thoughts. ''I...,'' she began, then stopped. Tears spilled down her face as a tiny shred of hope blossomed. ''The master kept it in there,'' she said at last, pointing to a small, decorative box with ivory inlay that sat on a  table. 

Cathelin stood up and for the first time, Madrigal realized how magnificent this woman was, like a warrior out of legend. Broad shoulders, smoothly rounded bulges in the arms, thighs as firm as tree trunks. The slave blinked again as Cathelin stalked away; momentarily fascinated, despite herself, by the play of muscles in the Irishwoman's buttocks. 

Returning in a moment, Cathelin unlocked the cuffs, flinging them away as if they were trash. Muscles writhed beneath the skin along her jaw as she took in the raw, bloody places on the slave's wrists and ankles - and saw for the first time the marks of the lash, some of them still oozing, that criss-crossed Madrigal's back. 

Madrigal had stayed absolutely still while she was being freed; the moment Cathelin finished unlocking the cuffs, she prostrated herself, laying her face on the Irishwoman's bare foot and kissing it. 

Had she seen the look of total disgust on Cathelin's face, Madrigal might have died of sheer fright. As it was, she flinched when the other woman said in a hard tone, ''Get up.'' 

The slave tried to obey, but long hours kneeling on the cold stone floors had left her too stiff. She struggled to rise but nearly fell over. Crying out, Madrigal instinctively tried to protect her stomach and its precious burden, when strong arms reached out and caught her. 

Cathelin grimaced, then with a grunt lfted the astonished slave into her arms and laid her carefully on the bed. Madrigal tried not to cry when the wolfskin covering rubbed against the still tender flesh of her back, although she did let out a gasp.. 

''Stay there,'' Cathelin commanded, then crossed to the door. Flinging it wide, she declared loudly, ''Ho! A servant for your lady!'' Running footsteps echoed as a maidservant pelted along the corridor. 

Reaching the door, the maid curtseyed and said breathlessly, ''Mistress? You called?'' 

Cathelin waved a hand. ''Have warm water, clean linen rags and my saddlebags brought up. Also, more wine and food.'' 

The maid curtseyed again, then turned around and ran back down the corridor. The Irish were casual about nudity and had little body modestly; the maid no more noticed her mistress' undressed state than she would a child's. 

Cathelin closed the door and turned back to the figure on the bed. ''Roll over,'' she said shortly. 

Madrigal obeyed, inwardly terrified. Thus far, the sun-fire woman had offered her no hurt, but that command usually meant a beating. ''Please, mistress,'' she said, her voice muffled against the bed furs, ''have mercy. I am...,'' but she was interrupted. 

''I'm not about to beat you, girl. Just lie still; I need to see to your hurts.'' Cathelin was more than a little exasperated and ran her hands through her still dripping hair. With a curse, she snatched up a linen sheet and began to dry herself, mentally thanking God and St. Brigit that it was high summer and the castle fairly warm. 

Madrigal lay still, fearing to move, as Cathelin quickly tugged on a pair of breeches and a linen shirt that had seen better days. A discreet scratching at the door signaled the return of the maid, who entered with several other servants at her heels. 

No one lifted a brow at the naked Madrigal's presence on the bed; what their mistress chose to do with Lord Francis' property was none of their concern, although most of them felt sorry for the girl. Silently, a table was pulled over; a wooden bowl of steaming water, clean rags, and a tray containing a flask of wine and a plate of food were left beside the bed. Cathelin's leather saddlebags, retrieved from the stables, were left as well. As silently as they had trooped in, the servants departed, leaving the two women alone. 

Madrigal hissed softly through her teeth, fiery threads of pain lancing through her back as the other woman gently bathed it. The wolfskin coverlet beneath her was liberally bedewed with tears by the time Cathelin had cleaned the cuts to her satisfaction; then, the Irishwoman began tenderly washing the slave's wrists and ankles. 

Cathelin noticed much older scars on the slave's back, scars that had had time to turn silvery with age. Her amber eyes glowed with rage. Slavery was anathema to her; she had seen barely pubescent girls sold in the public markets of Antioch to white-bearded lechers, and she had personally witnessed the fate of harem girls at their master's hands. Irizin, she thought with a pang, then brutally put that memory aside. That was then; this is now.

Despite her anger, her hands were gentle as she removed a jar of green, fresh-scented cream from her saddlebags and began to slather it on the cuts. Madrigal hissed again, this time in relief. The cream was cool, almost icy, and took much of the pain away. 

Finally, Cathelin tied strips of linen around the slave's wrists and ankles, then stood up. She walked over to a massive oak chest and threw the lid open. Rummaging around inside, she finally came up with an old linen nightshirt, thin and threadbare with age. 

Without a word, Cathelin helped Madrigal turn over and sit up, then pulled the nightshirt over the other woman's head. Madrigal swallowed. There was something she wanted to ask, but the stony look on Cathelin's face made her afraid. At last, gathering her courage, the slave said, ''Mistress? Will I be required to serve Lord Blacksunne tonight?'' 

Cathelin's lips tightened. ''I am Lord Blacksunne.'' 

CHAPTER THREE

Madrigal's eyes glazed and she struggled for breath, heart beating against her chest like a caged bird. ''I... I...,'' she stuttered, then scrambled to her knees, ignoring the burning of cuts being reopened. 

Laying herself face down before Cathelin, she managed to get out, ''Please forgive this stupid slave, mistress.'' She didn't know what to think about this revelation but she was certain it boded ill for her and the unborn child she carried. 

Cathelin's dark red hair was dry; it curled down her back like a raging cataract of flame. Rolling her eyes, the Irishwoman said, ''I thought I told you I don't keep slaves. Get up girl, before you do yourself more harm.'' 

Shaking with fear, Madrigal sat up. She kept her eyes lowered; in Palestine, a slave who presumed to stare into a master's eyes could be whipped to death. ''Forgive me, mistress. I beg you.'' It was all she could say as visions of torture, rape and mutilation spun through her head in rapid succession. 

''I am NOT your mistress! Nor yet your master!'' Cathelin was frustrated, upset and beginning to get angry. ''There are no slaves at Inishowen, and I'd not give a tarnished copper what that bastard Francis told you. He is gone; you have no master save yourself. Now stop all that bowing and scraping, girl. I don't like it and I won't have it.'' 

Madrigal whispered, ''As you command, mis...'' She broke off, not willing to offend this half man-half woman creature. Surely, the slave thought, trembling in every limb, this Blacksunne must be a djinn or a servant of Shaitan. No woman could wield weapons on the field of battle, and no man would allow one to command him. 

Cathelin sighed and ran her hands through her hair again. ''Call me by my name, child. Cathelin. You can say Cathelin, can you not? Or call me Lady, if it pleases you more.'' 

Hesitantly, Madrigal said, ''Cathelin.'' Her slight accent gave the Irishwoman's name an exotic quality. ''My Lady.'' This attempt was much firmer; the slave felt odd calling her mistress by her given name, and was more comfortable with an honorific. 

''Good.'' Cathelin smiled. ''Now, why don't you try and eat something.'' She indicated the plate of food. ''But don't drink too much wine. You don't want a thick head tomorrow.'' 

Madrigal reached for the plate, feeling as if she were in a dream. As Cathelin walked over to the fireplace to sit down and stretch her long legs out on the cold hearth, the slave began to eat, scooping up the cold beef and juicy summer greens with her fingers, and was astonished to find herself scraping the plate with a crust of bread in very little time. 

Cathelin chuckled. ''You've a hearty appetite for such a wee thing,'' she said. ''Now, get you some sleep. Aye, sleep, Madrigal,'' she added as the other woman's eyes widened. ''I know 'tis but a few hours past the nooning, but from the look of things, you're fair knackered.'' 

Madrigal put the plate down and obediently curled up on her side, legs tucked up. She closed her eyes, but she could not sleep; she dreaded what the sun-fire woman might do. 

Lord Francis had amused himself by spinning tales of Blacksunne the tormentor; Blacksunne the monster; Blacksunne, who lived and breathed only to subject young women to unimaginable tortures. Madrigal's fear was so great it was nearly paralyzing; that fear only increased when Cathelin crossed over to the bed and with a weary sigh, lay down, rubbing her temples. 

''I think I'll take a bit of my own advice,'' Cathelin said softly. ''I'm mortal weary after such a day. Nay, girl,'' she added as Madrigal made to get off the bed, ''Stay. We'll find another place for you later.'' 

When Madrigal lay back down again, Cathelin relaxed and slipped into a light, restful sleep. Her warrior's trained senses were still on alert; she'd wake up immediately if there was an emergency or if someone attacked. The thought that Madrigal might be hostile she dismissed; the girl was unarmed and seemed too cowed to take foolish risks. 

After a time, the regular rhythm of Cathelin's breathing convinced the slave that the other woman was truly asleep. Madrigal leaned up on an elbow, the better to study her new mistresses' face. 

Cathelin was not classically beautiful; her nose had been broken more than once and was slightly askew. Her cheekbones stood out like ivory spars beneath skin that bore a light touch of the sun; elsewhere, Madrigal remembered, her skin had the color and sheen of fine cream. 

A small scar marred the underside of her chin; another scar, this one as jagged as a lighning bolt, ran from her right temple, through her hair and around the back of her ear. Madrigal noticed that Cathelin's ears had been pierced and was not surprised; the people of Ireland were fond of personal adornment. 

There were other scars, of course. Tentatively, Madrigal traced a long, curving scar on Cathelin's forearm, marveling, despite her lingering fear, at the texture of the other woman's skin. 

Around Cathelin's upper arm, Madrigal remembered, had been a dark blue band, like a wide cuff of twisting snakes within a braided border. It was done using the sacred woad; the slave had been shocked to discover that the marking were permanent, the pigment driven beneath the skin in an incredibly painful ordeal that was sometimes considered a rite of passage. Ireland might have been a Christian nation, but old pagan customs still clung despite the Church's best efforts. This was astonishing to Madrigal, who had been raised in the faith of Islam. 

Madrigal's heart almost stopped when Cathelin's eyes opened. Those fierce amber orbs held a shimmering fire that both fascinated and frightened the slave. ''I thought I told you to get some sleep, girl,'' Cathelin growled, but with a wide smile. ''And stop staring at me like a goose- wit. Has the tip of my nose turned green?'' 

Madrigal shook her head frantically and lay down, cradling her head on her folded arms and closing her eyes. Perhaps Allah has shown us mercy, little one, she thought to her unborn child. Perhaps the lady is not as terrible as the lord told me. A very small part of her began to trust the other woman... a little. But her natural suspicions were still very much alive. 

Eventually, Madrigal fell asleep, her dreams filled with fire, thunder... and the memory of Cathelin's smile. 

''WHAT!!!'' 

Cathelin's roar of rage startled Madrigal awake; it was early the next morning - she had slept through the day and night together, exhausted both by pain and the emotional upheaval she had experienced yesterday. For a moment, she lay perfectly still, although her heart pounded. Then Madrigal realized that her Lady's anger was not directed at her at all, but towards the man she knew as Michael Drury, the castle's seneshal. 

Drury was not a small man; in fact, he was as tall as the lady herself - but in her larger-than-life presence, he seemed diminished. He held his loaf-shaped hat in his hands and twisted it with nervous fingers. ''Please, milady,'' he said, reaching up to pluck at his mustache. ''There was nothing we could do. The old lord was dead, beggin' your pardon, may he rest in peace. Lord Francis claimed Inishowen in your absence. There were no other heirs to contest his claim.'' 

''And so you allowed that worm to eat my father's food, slay my father's cattle, and spend my father's gold as if there were no tomorrow? By God, man! Did you not think of the people who depend on us, on Inishowen, to survive the winter? Or perhaps you believed the Good Lord would rain snow less harshly upon your heads since otherwise you'd starve?! Feh!'' Cathelin was seething; she'd summoned Drury to bring the castle's accounts, and the news was not good. 

St. Brigit! she thought angrily. In a year's time, Francis managed to run through every bit of Inishowen's wealth and stock; gold doesn't stick to his fingers - it runs through like shit through a goose. 

Cathelin plopped herself down in a chair and picked up the massive accounts book, waving it beneath Drury's nose like a weapon. ''Why'd you not slit his weasel's throat while he was swiving some wench? Our neighbor folk would not only have thanked you with hosannas, they'd have helped you bury the bastard!'' 

Drury gulped. He wasn't sure how to respond. The truth of the matter was, despite the fact the castle people were all loyal to the O'Camerons, being left without a lord in residence had made them nervous and uncomfortable. To the majority, a bad master was better than no master at all. 

Cathelin sighed. She hadn't really expected an answer; loyalty was all well and good, but the castle's people depended on a lord to survive. Without, they'd have been prey to every jumped-up baron with a court connection, looking to acquire Inishowen's lands. ''All right, then. Pack your saddlebags, Michael. You're going to Cork.'' 

Drury stuttered, ''C-C-Cork? Oh, milady, please don't turn me out! Please...'' The big man seemed on the verge of tears. 

''I'm not turning anyone out, you quake-buttocked fool! I brought some treasures back from Outremer - jewels and such like. You're to go to the Jeweler's Guild and the Goldsmith's and get every copper groat you can, then stock up on supplies. We'll need anything and everything come wintertime.'' 

Drury's weathered face filled with relief. ''Yes, milady,'' he said, bowing his head. 

''Ttake a list of foodstuffs, woolens and the like. Whatever we need. I trust you'll bargain well, since your family, as well as everyone else's, will suffer if you don't.'' 

''Yes, milady.'' 

''And Michael?'' Cathelin's voice was a dangerous purr. 

Drury gulped. ''Yes, milady?'' 

''Don't forget the wine.'' 

Drury nodded in relief and turned to go, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. 

As the door closed behind the seneshal, Cathelin rubbed one hand on her crimson hair and sighed. And I truly believed retaking the castle would be the hardest part, she thought ruefully. 

The Irishwoman caught sight of Madrigal prone figure on the bed and noted that the slave's eyes were open. 

''So you're awake, eh?'' Cathelin said. ''Are your wounds paining you?'' 

Silently, Madrigal shook her head. Cathelin stood up and thumped the book back down on the table. Crossing to the bed, Cathelin sat on the edge, noticing the other woman's barely preceptible flinch. 

''Softly, girl. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want a look at your back.'' Cathelin reached out and carefully peeled the nightshirt up, seeing with satisfaction that the cream had kept the linen from sticking to the wounds. 

The lash marks seemed less inflamed already. Cathelin nodded with satisfaction. ''Well, I think you'll survive. That cream's a marvel, I tell you. Bought it from a healer in Antioch. Many's the man I've seen die of wound rot; but this stuff prevents it. I paid a king's ransom for the secret of its making, too.'' 

Madrigal wasn't sure how to respond, so she settled for whispering, ''Yes, Lady.'' 

''You'll be up and about in no time, you'll see. But you can't run around the castle in a nightshirt. Have you no proper clothes?'' 

Madrigal's deep purple eyes filled with tears. ''The lord did not see fit to give me any. He preferred me...'' She stopped and spread her hands apart helplessly. 

Cathelin's nostrils flared with anger. Francis, you've a great deal to pay for, she thought, and I wish to God I'd extracted every pound of flesh you owed. Despite her anger, she smiled slightly for the girl's sake. ''Well, that will not do. I suspected you had little, but... My sister Marguessan, may God rest her soul, was about your size. I've asked the Wardrobe Mistress to bring you a selection, and what you like, you can keep.'' 

Madrigal was frankly astonished. The notion of anyone giving a slave a choice was beyond comprehension; but she kept silent with the stoic resignation of someone who has no will of their own, save their master's. 

Cathelin said gently, ''Have you no questions? You seemed mortal surprised that Blacksunne and myself are one and the same.'' 

Madrigal said softly, ''What you wish me to know you will tell me.'' 

The Irishwoman snorted. She'd bound her dark crimson hair into two braids that swung on either side of her face; the waist length plaits were fastened at the ends with wrapped leather thongs. '''Madri,'' she said, ''if you wish to know more of me, of my life - you must ask.'' Her amber eyes twinkled. ''I know you've a tongue in your head, lass. Use it.'' 

For a moment, the slave was lost in thought. Cathelin swung her long legs up on the bed and reclined on one elbow, watching the other woman's face intently. 

After a while, Madrigal asked hesitantly, ''How did it come to pass that you are the Blacksunne?'' 

Cathelin blew out a breath. ''A long tale, Madri. But suffice to say, my mother, Lady Ydris O'Cameron, married Sir Giles Forthwright, an English knight. Ah, they were very much in love,'' she mused. ''Soon after their marriage, I came along, then my sister Marguessen - she died of a fever when I was seventeen - and then no more. My father desperately wanted a son, but God chose not to grant him his dearest wish. 

''After mother died, he fell into despair; he truly loved no other woman, and would not sully Ydris' memory with another marriage. So, he decided that if the Good Lord would not give him a son, he would make one.'' 

Cathelin stopped, momentarily caught by the memory of her father's strong arm guiding her own, his hand atop hers as she wielded her first sword against the pells. Swallowing, she continued, ''I trained for years, but not the normal girl's pursuits. T'was the arts of war I learned, and there was no better teacher than my father. To our mutual surprise, I think, I proved to have a talent for it.'' 

During the Irishwoman's recital, Madrigal has listened carefully, not only with her ears but with her soul, trying to find the tiniest lie, the slightest hint of falsity - but to her surprise, found none. 

Cathelin continued, ''My ancestors founded this village two centuries ago, fleeing enemies in Scotland, and the O'Camerons have lived and died here since. But I was restless, and as some would have it, reckless. I left for the Holy Land five years ago, joining the crusade against the infidel under the banner of King Richard, a childhood friend of father's. Of course, the King had no idea I was a woman, and neither did his men. My own kerns knew, but were sworn to silence on the matter.'' 

The Irishwoman chuckled, recalling the priceless look on the King's handsome face when he'd discovered her not to be a comely lad, as he'd thought, but a lass full grown. Aye, she thought, he'd come to my tent that night for a bit o' seduction, and ended up playing draughts with me until dawn. Despite the earlier embarassment, the two had grown close. 

'''T'was Richard himself who knighted me, giving me spurs with his own hand. He also gave me the title Blacksunne, deeming it best that few as possible know a woman fought within the black armor. Little did I know that minstrels were already composing songs about Blacksunne - it was mortal embarrasin' to climb off the boat in Calais and find that the deeds of Cathelin O'Cameron had been credited to a mysterious knight of unspeakable bravery and fame. 

''It's quite a riddle. In my own country, and to my own men, I am now and forever will be Lady Cathelin O'Cameron of Inishowen; but to the English, I am Lord Blacksunne. Two persons in one body - you'd think it would get a wee bit crowded, would you not?'' Cathelin chuckled. ''And that is the end of my tale, Madri. P'raps you've one of your own you like to share?,'' Cathelin concluded, cocking her head to one side and staring at Madrigal expectantly. 

While her Lady had spoken, Madrigal came to the conclusion that it had been her former master who lied. After all, she thought, the Lady has not offered me any hurt, she has fed me and tended my wounds, and certainly her people have respect for her. As a slave, Madrigal was intimately acquainted with the difference between fear and respect. 

It was with something approaching relief that the slave surrendered the worst of her fears, and began to believe, for the first time, that she might survive this experience after all. 

Clearing her throat, Madrigal said, ''What is this 'Madri' you call me? Is that to be my new name?'' 

Cathelin's amber eyes widened. ''No, no, I will call you what you wish. 'Madri' is but a small-name... an endearment, of sorts.'' 

''Ah.'' Madrigal had finished considering; now, she thought, it is time to act. The woman sat up, gracefully kneeling on the bed, her hands clasped together in her lap. The glory of her blue-black hair spilled like a waterfall of dark indigo around her. ''Please forgive me, Lady, but a slave has no past worthy of interest.'' 

The Irishwoman's golden amber eyes flashed with barely suppressed anger. ''I told you, you are NOT a slave!'' she began hotly, but was silenced when Madrigal raised a slender hand. 

''Forgive me, Lady, but I am a slave. I have known nothing else most of my life. Although you have removed my bonds, I am, nevertheless, your property.'' 

Cathelin blinked, dumbfounded. ''B-b-but,'' she stuttered, but again was, with exquisite politeness, interrupted. 

''You own this castle, do you not?'' Madrigal asked. When Cathelin nodded, the slave continued, ''And you own all the property within? I am a slave; I was purchased by the Lord Francis and now, like the castle itself, I belong to you. There is nothing else.There can be nothing else. That is the way of the world, and all is as Allah wills.'' 

Cathelin thought furiously. It was becoming obvious that nothing she could say was going to convince the other woman that she was free. Finally, the Irishwoman gave up. ''Very well, tho' you've a stubborn streak in you I've rarely seen in mules, much less lasses. If you insist you are a slave, I'll  argue no more. Of servants I have plenty; what skills have you to earn your keep? I can keep no idle hands about; we'll have a hard enough passage through winter as it is.'' 

Madrigal was not modest about her accomplishments; they'd cost her much in time, and sometimes pain. ''I can play many instruments, and my masters have told me I have a good singing voice. I have made paper, dyes and inks; I can weave, sew and embroider. I have been taught to cook, bargain at the marketplace, and I know many amusing tales and poems to entertain you. I am also...,'' and she hesitated, then continued bravely, ''highly skilled in the arts of love.'' 

''What?!'' 

Madrigal gave the astonished Irishwoman a shy look. ''When I blossomed, I was sold to a harem-master in Palestine. I was given a pleasure girl's training; some of my teachers had been great beauties in their time, and I learned much. Lord Francis praised my skills highly.'' When he was not beating me for failing to rouse him, she added silently, but that was as Allah willed. 

Cathelin swallowed, overcome for a moment by the memory of another harem girl... Irizin, whom she had met at the village well, so long ago in the Eastern lands. Irizin, whose dark eyes had flashed with promise and more above the veil that swathed her unbelievably beautiful features. Irizin, whose master had left her broken and bleeding body in the Irishwoman's tent when he'd discovered his concubine's infidelity. 

Madrigal waited patiently, although inwardly she cringed at the haunted look on the Lady's face. She hoped she had not been too forward; some of her worst whippings had been because she'd overstepped the bounds of propriety between master and slave. 

Finally, Cathelin spoke slowly, ''So... it seems to me a shame to waste such talent in the kitchen, or in the laundry, or about the common household. At the moment, I  have no servant to tend to my personal needs; if you are willing, Madri, I would have you tend my wardrobe, and see to other such things.'' I cannot turn the poor weevil out, she thought. She'd starve inside of a week. A tiny corner of her mind was incredibly curious about just how skilled her new servant was... and Cathelin ruthlessly suppressed that thought. 

Madrigal drew a deep breath and bowed from the waist until her forehead touched the coverlet. ''As my Lady commands,'' she said calmly; inside, she nearly wept with relief. 

The Irishwoman smiled slightly. P'raps one day she'll realize she's free to do as she pleases, but in the meantime... Aloud, she said, ''All right, girl. Enough of that. Have you anything else to tell me?'' 

The slave straightened. Although she could barely remember, she had once been a soldier's daughter; one of her father's favorite sayings had been, 'As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb'... Now, she gathered her courage together; her pregnancy would be the most difficult thing to confess. ''My Lady,'' Madrigal began... 

But was interrupted by a small, furious, female form that burst through the chamber door like a whirlwind.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sorcha O'Reilly stood framed within the doorway, green eyes snapping with indignant sparks. ''Well?'' she demanded outrageously. ''P'raps you'd care to explain why Michael Drury is down in my kitchen, pokin' about the stores and askin' questions of my folk that he has no business doin'?'' 

Madrigal flinched, expecting an explosion. But to her surprise, Cathelin laughed at the other woman's effrontery. ''Ah, Sorcha,'' she said to the infuriated blonde, ''gracious as always. Glad I am to know that despite advancing years, my memory is as keen as ever.'' 

Sorcha ignored Cathelin's sally. ''I am the chatelaine here, Cat. Appointed by your father of blessed memory, in case you've fogotten. Unless you intend to give Michael Drury the keys, then I'm tellin' you to order him to keep his long nose away from my duties and stick to his own business.'' 

Now Catheline frowned. As willing as she was to accomodate Sorcha's moods, this discourtesy was beginning to irritate her. ''As far as Drury, you may rest contented knowing that he does no more than my will, nor less besides.'' 

Madrigal watched this sparring in wide-eyed wonder. Sorcha, the slave knew well. Sir Francis had encouraged the chatelaine's subtle and not-so-subtle abuses; Madrigal also knew that the blonde woman and her former lord had been secretly betrothed. She wondered if her Lady knew of this, and decided that she did not. Nor will I reveal the tidings, Madrigal thought, suppressing a shudder. My Lady may not be as savage as I first thought, but surely she would strike down the bearer of such ill news... 

Meanwhile, Cathelin had risen from the bed, nostrils pinched white in anger, in response to Sorcha's shrill rantings. ''You may be distant kin of mine, Sorcha O'Reilly,'' she rasped, ''but by St. Brigit! You will NOT dictate to me what I may and may not do in my own household!'' 

Sorcha stumbled back, face pale. Cathelin's eyes were brighter than molten gold with fury; Sorcha dared not defy the mistress of Inishowen any longer. But some day, the blonde chatelaine thought sullenly, when I am wed to Lord Francis, it will be she who dares not try my wrath. 

Sorcha swallowed her pride and said humbly, ''Forgive me, Cat. I've overstepped myself. Of course, if Michael Drury is actin' on your own orders, I'll give no more protest.'' 

Cathelin snorted, anger subsiding. ''You're forgiven, Sorcha. Have a tray sent up for Madrigal; no doubt she's perishin' hungry. And tell the hetman, Fergus Niall, to come up from the village. I need to speak to him about the harvest.'' 

Sorcha threw a scathing, hate-filled glance at the figure of Madrigal on the bed behind Cathelin. Not a few of the whip-marks on the girl's back had been made by the chatelaine; in truth, she had enjoyed it mildly, but had been mostly content to leave the chit be. But for a slave to have witnessed her humiliation! - Sorcha bowed her head in acknowledgement of Cathelin's dismissal, and inwardly vowed to be revenged on Madrigal, any way she could. 

Cathelin sighed as Sorcha left, and walked over to the clothes chest, selecting a dark red tunic, gorgeously embroidered along the sides, cuffs and neckline with black and gold oak leaves, and a pair of knitted black hose. She turned to Madrigal. ''There's a tear in the seam, here,'' the Irishwoman said, pointing to one side of the tunic, ''Do you think you feel well enough to fix it for me?'' 

Madrigal smiled and sat up, brushing her blue-black hair away from her face. ''Of course, Lady,'' she answered. ''I feel much better today.'' 

While Cathelin waited, Madrigal carefully sewed up the torn seam, taking impossibly tiny stitches that could barely be detected with the naked eye. It was only a matter of moments before the tunis was as good as new. 

Cathelin observed all this in wonder. She herself had never mastered the art of needle and thread; in Outremer, her squire Thomas had taken care of her clothes. ''Marvelous!'' she breathed, turning the tunic over in her hands - the damage could not be detected now. ''You've a fine light touch, Madri.'' 

The slave blushed slightly and returned the precious steel needle to its ivory case, then tucked it back inside the small wooden sewing box, shaped like an acorn with a tight fitting lid. Madrigal slid off the bed and padded over to Cathelin. For the first time, the Irishwoman realized how tiny the former slave was; the top of her head barely came to the level of her own breasts. 

''Please, allow me,'' Madrigal said politely but firmly, taking the mended tunic from Cathelin's hands and laying it carefully aside on the bed. The Muslim girl quaked at her temerity, but if she was to be the Lady's servant, she would perform her duties to the best of her ability. 

While Cathelin struggled to hide her amusement, Madrigal removed the taller woman's old linen shirt and battered trousers, and helped her don the thigh-length tunic and hose, carefully pulling up the latter to avoid baggy knees and tying the leather laces tightly enough around Cathelin's upper thighs to keep the hose in place, but not so tight as to impair circulation. Finally, she took a clean loincloth from the clothes chest and fastened it around Cathelin's hips. 

As she drew one end of the long cloth between Cathelin's legs, Madrigal was acutely aware that her face was only inches away from the flaming thatch that crowned the other woman's mount. She averted her eyes as she tucked the free end back into the wrapped waist and pulled it tight; the sight of those softly curling locks, as ruddy as the hair on the Lady's head, caused strange stirrings in her lower belly that made Madrigal flush slightly. 

Madrigal looked up into Cathelin's amber eyes and asked, ''What footwear does the Lady desire?'' 

Cathelin bit her lip to hide a smile. I've not been waited on so since I was a wee child, she thought. I could grow to enjoy this. Aloud, Cathelin said, ''The brown boots, if you please.'' 

Madrigal retrieved a pair of knee-high leather boots from an iron-bound oak chest, then knelt gracefully at Cathelin's feet. ''If my Lady will permit...?'' 

Cathelin sat down on the edge of the bed and allowed the dark Muslim beauty to draw on her boots. Then the Irishwoman stood up and stomped a few times, settling her feet. 

A discreet scratching came from the door; a few seconds later, it was opened by a stout, florid faced woman with iron-gray hair and dark blue eyes that twinkled merrily. '''T'is only myself, Lady,'' she said, sweeping into the chamber with several dresses flung over one arm. ''I've brought you the things you asked.'' 

Cathelin gave the older woman a brilliant smile. Meagan MacAvera, the Mistress of Wardrobe, was one of her favorite people. Mistress Meagan had been serving Inishowen since before Cathelin had been born; her duties were to see to all household linens and woolens, and included supervising the yearly weaving and dyeing, as well as overseeing the creation, maintenance and management of clothing worn by all of Inishowen's people.She'd also acted as a second mother after the death of Ydris, and had been a vast source of comfort after the death of Cathelin's sister, Marguessen.. 

''Come in, Mistress,'' Cathelin said warmly. ''T'is grand to see you again.'' 

Mistress Meagan laughed heartily. ''Aye, and grand it is to see you as well, colleen! Well, then, here's the dresses you asked for; are they for wee Madrigal?'' 

Madrigal smiled tentatively at Meagan and rose from her kneeling position. She, too, felt the Wardrobe Mistress to be a friend; the cheerful Scottish woman had always had a kind word for the slave. 

''Yes,'' Catheline replied, ''I thought she and Marguessen might be of a like enough size, and I've since learned the girl has nothing of her own.'' 

Mistress Meagan raised one brow but forbear to comment. In her own mind, she had deplored the usuping Francis' use of the Muslim slave, and only her strong committment to the O'Cameron family had kept her from leaving. ''I think you've the right of it, lass,'' she said to Cathelin. ''Come here, Madrigal, there's a good girl. Try this one on; I think it will suit you nicely.'' 

Madrigal shyly took the dress from Meagan's hand; it was linen, floor length and dyed a rich blue. Though simple, the dress had an embroidered cloth belt that could be tied around waist or hips, and the tasseled ends dangled nearly to the floor. Madrigal had never had such a fine dress before and she was close to tears. 

''Well?'' Cathelin said. ''Are you trying it on or standing there all amort 'till sundown?'' A generous smile took the sting out of her words. 

Madrigal stripped off her nightshirt, wincing slightly as the wounds on her back were stretched; fortunately, there was no tearing. She slipped the dress over her head and swiftly tied the belt around her hips, pushing the length of her blue-black hair out of the way. The sleeves were a little long, but otherwise, it was a perfect fit. 

Meagan said, ''That's fine, just fine! I'll have Tom Cobbler make up some shoes for you. I think we've nothin' that would suit in the stores, save perhaps some slippers for indoors.'' 

Cathelin nodded. ''Attend to it, Meagan, and soonest.'' She reached out one hand and grasped Madrigal's shoulder gently. ''Let me see,'' she said. 

The Irishwoman carefully spun Madrigal around and caught her breath at the depth of the other woman's beauty. She'll be driving the lads insane before too long, Cathelin thought, or the lassies. 

There were a few women (and men) in the ranks of the warriors and craftspeople who served the Lady that were of her own mind - they preferred their own sex, and despite the Church's official ban on such things, marriages and bondings still took place as usual. The parish priests turned a blind eye, knowing that in some things, it was best to let the people do as they wished, and add some extra penances or prayers. The Church's hold on the Irish was not as firm as the bishops wished; the Celts had a way of borrowing what they liked, changing what they didn't, and throwing out the rest with a casual shrug. 

''Very nice. Still, it needs something,'' Cathelin murmured. She went over to a small, pearl studded box that stood on a table and opened it, stirring the contents around with one finger. Finally, she came back with something glittering between her two hands. 

It was a light silver chain, the links as delicate as woven cobwebs. Dangling from the chain was a purplish-red agate that had been carved in the shape of a phoenix - the crest of Sir Giles Forthwright's family. Cathelin placed it carefully over Madrigal's head, pulling her loose hair out of the way, and adjusted the lay of the agate charm against the Muslim's bosom. 

''There,'' the Irishwoman said in satisfaction, while Meagan beamed. ''I think that much better, myself. Keep it, Madri, as a welcome gift; you're one of my people now, and deserving of much better than you've gotten before.'' 

Madrigal laid a hand on the charm - and began to cry softly. The dress, her new status in the household, and now this gift... she could not help but cry. For so many years she had dwelled in a place of utter loneliness, where no one cared whether she lived or died; where no man or woman would have lifted a finger to help her; where her worth was valued, not as a human being, but as property. To know that the Lady felt that she belonged, truly belonged to her own tight- knit clan, was more than Madrigal could bear. Hot tears coursed down her face and she bit back a sob. 

Instantly, she was swept into strong arms... Arms that had the potential to kill, and had often done so, but at this moment were as gentle as a mother lioness with her cub. ''Shhhhh,'' Cathelin crooned, pressing Madrigal's wet face into her chest, braids tickling the other woman's neck. ''Softly, sweetling, softly. It's all right, now. I'm here.'' 

Meagan tip-toed out of the door, leaving the other dresses draped over a chair. The Mistress was nearly in tears herself; she had liked Madrigal from the beginning, reckoning her to be an intelligent, sweet-natured girl, though one of appallingly unfortunate circumstance. Meagan was glad that Lady Cathelin was back, and mistress of Inishowen... She'll see that things are put right, and soon!, Meagan thought. She closed the door carefully behind herself and said a silent prayer for Madrigal, hoping the poor girl would find some measure of peace at last. 

CHAPTER FIVE

Cathelin held Madrigal, rocking the smaller woman in her arms until the sobs changed to sniffles. She drew back a little and looked down into the slave's face. ''All done, sweetling?,'' she asked kindly. Cathelin had more than an inkling as to what Madrigal was going through; her experience in Outremer had given her a unique perspective on the effects of slavery. 

Madrigal wiped her eyes with one hand and stared at the wet stain on Cathelin's tunic. ''Oh!'' she exclaimed in horror. ''Your tunic!'' 

Cathelin looked down and chuckled. ''It's all right, Madri. It'll dry itself in a bit. But how are you?'' 

Madrigal sniffed. ''I'm fine, Lady,'' she replied. ''I just...'' For a moment, the Muslim girl hovered on the verge of a fresh outbreak of tears; she swallowed the lump in her throat and controlled them with an effort. ''Thank you,'' she said simply. 

''My pleasure, sweetling,'' Cathelin said. ''Now, if you're all right, I must be going to my meeting with Master Niall.'' Then she paused, as if remembering something. ''Where's that food I ordered?'' she asked of the air. Turning around, Cathelin opened the chamber door and shouted, ''Ho! A servant for your Lady!'' 

A male servant appeared almost as if by magic. ''Yes, Lady?'' he asked, bowing his head and tugging his forelock.. 

''I ordered a tray of food sent up from the kitchens some time ago!'' Cathelin snapped. ''Where is it?'' 

Tiny beads of sweat broke out on the servant's forehead. The man had been cautioned by all the other servers of their Lady's temper... and the tales they had told him, while sniggering behind their hands, had him terrified of this warrior queen. ''I-I-I...,'' he stammered, then caught hold of himself. ''I will inquire, Lady,'' he said, and turned, running headlong down the hall to the great stone staircase that lead down from the tower to the lower floors. 

Cathelin's lips twisted. By the standards of the day, she was quite lenient with her people; as Lady of Inishowen, she literally held the power of life and death over them, although she rarely exercised this privilege. Other lords might discipline with torture or hangings; she preferred a glove of velvet over a fist of steel. 

This did not mean that Cathelin allowed laxity or disrespect; indeed, nearly every servant at Inishowen had, at some time or another, been exposed to the Lady's fierce temper - and once was usually more than enough. 

Madrigal had sat down in a chair next to the fireplace, smoothing the fabric of her new dress with both hands. She looked at the fuming Lady. ''Perhaps it was forgotten?,'' she asked, trying to placate her mistress; one of her duties in the harem had been to attend to the needs of the other wives and concubines, and she had often been complimented on her peace-making skills. 

Cathelin clenched her jaw. ''If it was...,'' she replied ominously, but did not voice the threat; she spied the servant scurrying back along the hall, out of breath and panting heavily. 

''Well?'' Cathelin growled. 

The servant bowed and struggled to control his breathing. ''It comes, Lady. The Chief of the Hearth, Mistress Shevaughn, sends her apologies.'' 

Cathelin was annoyed, but controlled her anger. It was not this man's fault her orders had been ignored. She dismissed him and turned back to Madrigal. 

''Your tray will be here soon, Madri. If it is not, send Meagan to find me. I'll not be defied in my own house, by God!'' Cathelin had a fairly good idea of what had happened. Sorcha had deliberately not conveyed her orders to the kitchen staff, a petty gesture of defiance. She made a mental note to deal with the vixen later; she had no time at the present. The hetman, or overseer, of the village, Master Niall, would be waiting. 

Madrigal nodded, saying softly, ''Yes, Lady,'' although she would never have complained. It is not my place, she thought. I have no wish to make trouble. Allah has been kind thus far; it is best to avoid angering anyone, the lowly or the high.. 

Cathelin left the chamber, cutting a magnificently barbaric figure in her embroidered tunic and boots, braids of dark red hair framing her handsome face. She did not even bother to carry a light sword; unarmed, the Irishwoman would be more than a match for a man her own size. 

After she left, Madrigal busied herself going through the contents of the clothes chests, sorting and evaluating the numerous tunics, breeks, hose, shirts, vests, and other items of apparel. Some, like a breastband that was heavily stained and full of holes, she laid aside - these would be given to Mistress Meagan to be cut up as rags. Others, like a gorgeous teal blue tunic with intricate silver thread knotwork that had been picked in places, she put in a pile to be mended. 

Madrigal hummed softly to herself as she worked, an old romantic air she had heard played often in the harem by blind eunuch musicians. A tray of food, bearing a loaf of still warm bread, cheese and a slice of tender lamb, came and was devoured. As the child within her grew, Madrigal knew that she would be eating more and more; she hoped that she could gather up the courage to tell the Lady of her condition before it became too obvious. 

It was late afternoon before Madrigal was satisfied with her work. The enormous clothes chest had been organized to a fault, and all the mending had been done, except for the teal-blue tunic; she would have to ask the Lady for silver thread before that job could be finished. Madrigal had also strewn the chest with bundles of dried lavender gotten from Mistress Meagan, both to sweeten the clothing and to keep away devouring moths. 

Then the Muslim girl had bustled about the room in a flurry of cleaning and dusting. As a final touch, she emptied the cressets that hung on the walls of their burden of ash (the pierced iron vessels provided both warmth and light, were far cheaper than candles and cleaner than rushlights), and scrubbed away their coating of soot and rust. 

Now, Madrigal sat quietly, trying to finger-comb tangles from her incredibly long blue-black hair. A carved horn comb stood on the Lady's table in front of a bronze mirror, but the Muslim girl did not want to use it without permission. 

During her cleaning frenzy, Madrigal had removed her fine new dress and worked naked, it being easier to remove dirt from skin than cloth. She had also ventured from the confines of the Lady's chamber; although she had both dreaded and feared her reception, the other servant's had, at the least, been distantly polite. It was clear that her new status in the household had become common knowledge by some mysterious means. 

In truth, that was Mistress Meagan's doing. Before Cathelin had left, she had drawn the Scottish woman aside and told her to make sure that everyone at Inishowen understood - Madrigal was her personal servant and ranked as a lady's maid; anyone who offered her offense because of her former enslavement would face Cathelin's wrath. Meagan had gleefully done as she was bid, delighting especially in the crestfallen expression on Sorcha's face. 

After gathering a basin of cold water and quickly sluicing off the worst of the dirt, Madrigal had put her dress back on and sat, patiently waiting for her Lady. 

Smiling to herself, Cathelin entered the door of her private chamber and stopped dead in her tracks. 

When she had left that morning, the chamber had been, frankly, a mess. And it had not smelled very pretty, either; the lidded pot behind the screen in a corner had not been emptied, the fireplace had been full of clinkers and ash, the cressets emitting a feeble light at best. The fine tapestries that hung on the stone walls to keep out the cold were full of dust and spiderwebs; the chairs strewn with bits of clothing; the floor filthy and full of trash. 

Now, Cathelin's amber eyes were wide with amazement. It was as if, in her absence, a miracle had been wrought. 

The floor was not only clean, but sported a few bright rag rugs; the room smelled of lavender instead of stale piss; the cressets gleamed; even the furniture had been given a good coating of beeswax... And Madrigal sat by the fireplace, her dark purple eyes shining. 

Gracefully, Madrigal rose and crossed to Cathelin. ''Are you pleased, my Lady?'' she asked shyly, lowering her eyes. 

Madrigal was stunned when Cathelin placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and whispered, ''More than pleased, sweetling.'' 

Cathelin put her arm around the smaller woman's shoulders and gestured. ''Tis' nothing short of amazing, Madri. I should make you the chatelaine; at least, you've proved you have no fear of hard work.'' 

Madrigal's heart almost burst with pride. Searching for something to say to keep this moment from ending, she replied, ''All your clothing has been mended and aired, my Lady. But I need silver thread to fix one tunic; the knotwork has come undone in many places, and it cannot be mended until I have it.'' 

Cathelin gave her a friendly squeeze. ''Ask Meagan in the morning,'' she said. ''Surely we've a bit of silver thread squirreled away somewhere. Ah, you've done a fine job here, sweetling. I feel as if I'm truly at home, instead of dwelling in a pig sty.'' 

The Irishwoman let her arm drop away from Madrigal's shoulders, and crossed to the other side of the room where a long oak table served as a desk; unlike many of her peers, Cathelin could both read and write in Latin, and preferred to do her own correspondence instead of relying on the services of a paid scribe or priest. 

The account book for Inishowen was there; all her papers had been neatly stacked, and a new quill sharpened for her use. As Cathelin sat down, Madrigal immediately appeared at her elbow with a mazer of spiced wine; the square metal goblet, set with chunks of amethyst, was Cathelins' favorite and had been hers since she was a teenager. 

Cathelin nodded her thanks and began to write a letter to Sir Alan Eoghain, one of her neighbors; she would write letters to all the nearby lords, hoping she could hammer out agreements to take any surplus stores they might have at the end of the harvest in exchange for future favors. 

As she labored, Cathelin unconsiously rubbed the back of her neck; the muscles were rigid with tension and fatigue. Niall had been pessimistic; the fields had been allowed to lay half fallow, a quarter of the new calves had been lost due to disease brought on by fouled water, and the vegetable harvest, planted nearly too late, would be scanty at best. 

Cathelin tensed when she felt someone creep up directly behind her, but within a heartbeat she knew it was Madrigal. Soft but strong hands glided across her shoulders. Cathelin held her breath as those hands began rubbing, gently but firmly, skillfully teasing the knotted muscles into relaxation. 

Madrigal massaged her Lady's neck and shoulders, softly humming to herself. She had noticed the Irishwoman's discomfort, and, wanting to be as thorough in her duties as possible, decided to massage away her mistress' pain. It was something she had been taught as a child, when she was a servant in the household of a physician. 

Cathelin closed her eyes and bit back a groan as Madrigal's hands kneaded the stiff muscles in her neck. She let her head fall forward, letter forgotten, as little by little, the wire-tight tension she had felt all afternoon faded beneath the Muslim girl's ministrations. 

Cathelin was acutely aware of how close Madrigal was to her; even through the linen tunic, she could feel the other woman's body heat against the skin of her back. Finally, however, the massage ended; those wonderful hands slid away, and Cathelin was left relaxed, but with a different sort of tension coiling in her lower belly. 

Firmly, the Irishwoman thrust that thought away. Madrigal had been a pleasure slave; no one knew better than she how such wretched girls were treated. Cathelin would never force herself on an unwilling woman, especially one who believed she had no choice and would submit out of fear. Better to sleep in a cold bed, Cathelin thought, than hurt the poor girl any further. 

Besides, she thought, if it's company I'm needing, there are a few down in the soldier's barracks who'd be happy to share a jug of wine and a tumble with me. Cathelin found herself thinking about a freckle-faced, crop haired kern with a beautiful smile and the nicest heart-shaped arse she'd ever seen. What was her name? Aoife, Cathelin thought with a mental purr. 

Cathelin stood abruptly and stretched. ''Er, Madri?'' she asked, turning around. ''I'll be off now. You can eat in the kitchens, if you like, or else have a tray fetched up. Don't wait up for me, sweetling. Take to bed when you've a mind.'' 

Madrigal stopped trying to work a particularly difficult tangle from her blue-black hair. ''Yes, Lady,'' she answered. ''Have you found another place you wish me to stay?'' 

Cathelin was startled for a moment. ''Well,'' she began, ''I've been a wee bit busy of late, but if it's another bed you're wishing for, I can...'' 

Madrigal interrupted shyly, ''No, Lady. Do not trouble yourself, please. I am content.'' Cathelin shrugged. She didn't mind sharing a bed; she'd done it before, and with lice-ridden men, too, in Outremer. ''Whatever you wish.'' She watched Madrigal trying to pick out the knot in her hair, then scooped up the wooden comb from the dressing table. ''Here, lass. This may work better,'' Cathelin said, handing the comb to the other woman. 

Madrigal took it tentatively, then bestowed such a beautiful smile on the astonished Irishwoman that her heart nearly stopped. ''Thank you, Lady,'' Madrigal murmured. 

Cathelin cleared her throat. ''I'll be off now. Don't stress yourself too much, Madri. You still need to rest.'' 

Madrigal bowed her head in acknowledgement, and Cathelin left, relieved to be away from the slave girl's presence. St. Brigit! Cathelin thought, hurrying to the soldier's barracks. ''Glad I am to have her here,'' she said softly to herself, ''but when the Good Lord spoke of temptation, I truly believe he had no idea.'' 

CHAPTER SIX

Madrigal went down to the kitchens and met Shevaughn, Chief of the Hearth. She was an enormously tall woman and nearly as broad, with a round red face and a booming laugh. Some of the other servants treated Madrigal coolly - in fact, Sorcha ostentatiously took her wooden bowl of stew and left the room with a sniff as Madrigal sat down - but at least, no one dared offend her outright. 

Shevaughn was frankly astonished at Madrigal's command of English. ''An' ye've been in this country only a few years?'' she asked, absently smacking a pot boy as he tried to sneak a meat pastry from the cooling rack. 

''Yes, Mistress,'' Madrigal answered. ''On the boat from Palestine, my former master insisted that I learn his language as quickly as possible.'' Privately, Madrigal thought that being lashed each time she made a mistake was a good incentive to learn quickly. 

Shevaughn shook her head, jowls wobbing. ''Sweet Jesus,'' she said. ''Ye've a good head on yer shoulders, lassie. No doubt the Lady thinks the same. But here I am, natterin' on like a lack-wit. Eat, child. Eat!'' 

Madrigal finished the meal in silence, and Shevaughn, noticing her appetite, dished up seconds and even thirds without being asked. When the Muslim girl offered a shy compliment, the Hearth Chief swelled with pride. ''I can see ye appreciates good cookin' when ye sees it, lassie. Yer welcome in my kitchens anytime.'' Shevaughn glared fiercely at the other servants, obviously daring them to contradict her. 

No one did; Shevaughn was as feared in her smoky realm as Cathelin was on the battleground. Only last year, a drunken kern of Francis' had tried to roughly woo the Hearth Chief in her own domain; there was still a gouge on the heavy oak kitchen door where she'd pinned him to it with an accurately thrown knife. 

Shevaughn beamed at Madrigal. ''Ye see? My folk likes ye as well.'' 

Madrigal choked back a chuckle. Rising gracefully, she replied, ''Many thanks, Mistress, for the meal and the company. Now, I must return to the Lady's chambers and await her return.'' 

Back upstairs, Madrigal removed her cherished dress and pulled on her nightshirt, wishing Cathelin was there to change her bandages. The cuts on her back were no longer as painful, but every time she moved, the Muslim girl could feel the fragile skin stretching uncomfortably. 

At last, covering the cressets with their wrought iron lids and banking the fire, Madrigal pulled the wolfskin cover off the bed and slipped between the cool sheets. It was not too long before she fell into a deep sleep.

Cathelin reeled up the stairs, tunic slung over her muscular shoulder. In one hand, she held an nearly empty wine jug; with the other, she supported herself against the stone wall as she bumped from stair to stair. Cathelin O'Cameron was drunk as an earl, and sated on both wine and love. 

Sweet, sweet Aoife, Cathelin thought muzzily. The guardswoman had been quite enthusiastic to the idea of a tumble in the hayloft above the stable, and Cathelin was sure she would still be picking straw out of strange places come morning. 

The Irishwoman staggered into the darkened bedchamber, striking her shin against a table leg. Cursing, she lost her balance and stumbled across the room, arms windmilling, the wine jug forgotten until it landed with a crash against the hearth, and finally fell over a chair with a bump and a vile oath. 

Madrigal sat up, clutching the sheet to her bosom. In the dim light from the banked embers of the fireplace, she could see Cathelin sprawled over a chair, clutching her aching leg in both hands and swearing softly. 

Madrigal hastily got out of bed and stirred up the fire, lighting a cresset with a flaming splinter of kindling. That done, she hurried to Cathelin's side. ''Lady?'' she asked, ''Are you hurt? Ill?'' 

Cathelin grinned at her crookedly. Her dark crimson hair was unbound and sprinkled with bits of hay; the exposed skin of her torso blotched and sweaty. With a start, Madrigal realized the purpling bruise on one breast was a love-bite, and she blushed. 

Cathelin crooned, ''Pretty, pretty Madri.'' She gave the astonished and embarrassed slave girl a wink. ''Have some wine, sch.. sch... sweetling. S'good wine. S'over there, I'm thinkin'. By're Lady!,'' she exclaimed, looking mournfully at the shattered wine jug on the hearth, ''What a waste! And a good swallow left, too.''  Madrigal realized with a sigh that her Lady was drunk. She stood and put one of Cathelin's arms around her shoulders, pulling the inebriated Irishwoman up with an effort that left spots dancing in front of her eyes. Allah! Madrigal thought, nearly wheezing. She's as heavy as a she-camel! 

The two women staggered over to the bed, Madrigal's face red with strain, and Cathelin softly slurring a bawdy song under her breath. Finally, Madrigal managed to get Cathelin seated on the edge of the bed, and knelt down to remove her boots. 

After tugging on one boot unsuccessfully, Madrigal sat back with an exasperated sigh. Cathelin chuckled. ''Nay, Madri. That's no how it's done. Turn around an' grab it from behind.'' 

Madrigal did as she was bid, straddling Cathelin's outthrust leg and bending over, the boot held tightly in both hands. With a start, she felt Cathelin's other boot on her backside. 

''Now, lassie, pull!'' Cathelin shouted, giving the Muslim woman's buttocks a shove. The boot popped off, and Madrigal nearly fell face-first into the floor, only avoiding disaster by catching herself with her hands. The scene was repeated for the second boot, and Madrigal hastened to untie Cathelin's dirty hose and remove her loincloth. The Irishwoman did not make this an easy task; she lolled on the bed, giggling and singing to herself, while Madrigal sweated and struggled. 

After much effort and not a fewArabic curses muttered under her breath, Madrigal finally got Cathelin settled beneath the sheets and banked the fire again, smothered the cresset, and lay her Lady's clothes neatly on top of the clothes chest. At last, the weary slave girl climbed into her own side of the bed and lay awake for a while, listening to Cathelin's soft snores. 

Sleep, when it finally came, would be all too brief.

Cathelin dreamed... 

Thick clouds of dust swirled over the battlefield, obscuring the hot yellow sun. The screams of horses rivaled the hoarse pleas of wounded men as the battle raged, twin smells of blood and bowel-stench heavy in her nostrils. 

Blacksunne wielded her mighty broadsword with skill - and hatred. The siege of Acre had broken; the desperate Saracen army had poured from the walls, wailing and shrieking to their god, each one determined to die on the battlefield to secure his place in the heathen Paradise.

To Cathelin, it seemed as if a red haze obscured her vision. Only four days ago, her lover Irizin had died in her arms, tortured and beaten to death by her master. Each one of the men who died, spitted on her blade, bore the face of Irizin's murderer. Behind the visor of her war helm, her teeth were gritted, face a mask of murderous rage as she swept through the Saracen ranks, leaving a path of utter destruction in her wake. 

One after another, they came... and one after another they died. She lost count of the men she killed; she battled in a trance of insane blood lust, lopping off heads and limbs with an almost casual skill that left even her own allies chilled with fear. 

At last, she wrenched off her helm, crimson hair nearly black with sweat and filth. She took a waterskin from her squire, Thomas, and squirted the lukewarm water over her face and head. The battle was over; two thousand seven hundred Muslim prisoners had been taken, and the city of Acre belonged once again to the Crusaders. 

With indifference, she noticed that her broadsword's blade was clotted with blood and notched all along its length from the violence of her blows. Thomas handed her a cloth, and she began to wipe down the steel. Cathelin felt detached; it was as if all her emotions, having been caught up in a whirlwind of hate and fury, had subsided completely, leaving her empty and drained of all. 

A figure strode through the swirling dust; it was King Richard, his own once-gleaming armor of blue steel fouled and dull. He pushed back his visor, revealing the handsome Plantagenet face; his blue eyes were dark with exertion, but an inner fire burned there. Unlike some Crusaders, Richard fought, not for personal gain, but for the glory of God. 

''The Saracens would not surrender; they asked for no quarter, and none shall be given. When you have rested a while, O'Cameron, come join the other men. Every one of the prisoners will die, as a gesture to Saladin that we shall not brook no denial of our quest - to free Jerusalem, or to die.'' Richard's voice was deep and self-assured; the King doubted nothing, his faith in God rock firm. 

Cathelin nodded her acceptance. ''Aye, Your Majesty,'' she rasped. ''Kill them all, let God Almighty sort them out.'' 

Richard chuckled. ''Then I take it you will have no difficulty serving your term on executioner's duty?'' 

Having gotten the blade cleaned to her satisfaction, she rammed the broadsword back into its scabbard and looked at her King for the first time. Even he, the bravest man in Christendom, flinched back from the flames that twisted and burned in Cathelin's amber eyes. ''Count on it, my liege,'' she said huskily, and her lips stretched over her teeth in a wolf's hungry grin. ''Just as soon as I sharpen my sword.'' 

The Muslim prisoners died; by the dozens, by the hundreds, and by the thousands. Several priests from Richard's own household went down the endless line, asking each prisoner if he would renounce his heretical faith and join his destiny with the Christian God. None did, but it would not have saved them anyway. The King was determined that every Saracen would die; if any had converted, they would have been shriven before execution to ensure their place in Heaven. 

Day wore into evening, then into night, and into morning again, and the battlefield outside the city was soaked in blood, strewn with the bodies of the dead. Vultures had already begun their work when Cathelin took up hers, the broadsword of the O'Camerons raising mechanically up and down as she mowed through the line of kneeling prisoners, neatly beheading each one. When her aching arm could lift the sword no more, she stopped, panting, face speckled with blood, and turned back,  smile of savage satisfaction dying... 

Her amber eyes widened as she looked... 

...At the headless bodies sprawled on the ground, some still quivering. 

...At the faces of the men who had not yet died. Some had clearly accepted their fate and waited with dignity; others babbled prayers and pleaded with Allah for mercy. Some were mere boys, not yet bearded, while others were wrinkled and brown, dark hair sprinkled with gray. 

...At her fellow knights, who drank and laughed and mocked the death throes of the Muslims, making faces and telling jokes, spitting and reviling, each one trying to outdo the other in cruelty and vicious humor. 

...At King Richard, who knelt, hands clasped, eyes closed, as he prayed for God to lend him strength for the coming battle, and to speed the souls of the heretic Outremer Saracens to Hell. 

The enormity of what she had done finally struck Cathelin like a hammer blow. Her senses reeled as long-denied emotions rushed to the fore - guilt for Irizin, guilt for her own slaughter, sorrow and bitter rue; her hand clutched the hilt of her broadsword covulsively. Unable to stand, she fell to her knees; her heart ached and burned, throbbing in her chest like a wound. She was a soldier; her duty was to kill at the King's command - but she had become a butcher, no better than the man who had ordered Irizin's death. 

She had killed those men like cattle, men helpless and bound, and against all her oaths of chivalry and knightly vows, she had not only done the deed, but she had enjoyed it, reveled in death and the taste of hate, laughed in the depths of her soul as the blood of her enemies, heady as wine, flowed across her lips... A sweet, coppery taste she could still sense in her own mouth... 

She could not deny any longer. On her knees, the sword of her family lying forgotten in the blood-drenched dust, Cathelin wept like a child for the loss of life, wept for the sheer waste of it all, wept for her butchered Irizin, and at long last, wept for her own lost innocence.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Madrigal was wakened by a whimper from the woman who lay next to her. Propping herself up on an elbow, the Muslim girl carefully leaned over, trying to see if the Lady was ill from her drinking bout. 

Cathelin's head thrashed on the flat pillow, face greasy with sweat. Madrigal could see her eyes rolling beneath the closed lids, and Cathelin's fists clutched the sheets in a deathgrip. 

''No...,'' Cathelin whispered, panting in desperation, ''Not again... no more...please...'' 

Ah, Madrigal thought, the Lady rides the Night Mare, and from the sound of it, the journey is not a pleasant one. 

Madrigal's heart swelled with compassion and she suddenly felt close to tears. To see one as mighty as the Lady suffer, caught helplessly in the grip of evil dreams, roused the slave's pity. Although she had known Cathelin only a very little time, already Madrigal felt an enormous sense of trust. It was as if she had discovered a thing she had already known; something that had lain just out of reach in her former life, but was now within her grasp, if only she dared reach out her hand. 

Praying to Allah that her trust had not been misplaced, Madrigal began to croon a nonsense lullaby in Arabic, one she had learned as a child, and with her hand, traced lazy patterns on the Irishwoman's brow. 

''Come, little one,'' Madrigal sang softly, ''the evening draws near. Come, little one, and have no more fear. Climb up in your bed, and lay down your head, while I sing the western wind away...'' 

That simple song had more effect than Madrigal could have ever hoped for. Cathelin calmed; her breathing evened out and grew more regular, her hands relaxed their hold on the sheets. The battleground of Acre faded, and she slipped back into true sleep, nightmare visions soothed away. 

Madrigal continued to sing until she was sure that the other woman was no longer plagued by the Horse of Evening Ill. She withdrew her hand and settled back on her side, listening to Cathelin breathe. 

She had nearly fallen asleep herself when she felt a long, muscular form mold itself to her back. Cathelin snuggled up against Madrigal with a sigh of pure contentment, putting one arm around the Muslim girl's belly and drawing her legs up against the other woman's. Madrigal's eyes widened when she felt Cathelin's face buried in her hair, warm breath against the back of her neck. 

The dark-haired woman tried surreptitiously to free herself, but her efforts only caused Cathelin to mutter restlessly and tighten her grip. Madrigal gave up and closed her eyes... feeling warm and cherished and oddly comforted by the closeness of her Lady. 

When Madrigal woke the next morning, Cathelin was seated at her desk, eating a meat pastry and scratching on a bit of parchment with a quill pen. 

A pair of servants entered, rolling the wine cask tub along the floor. After they set it up in a small alcove, a seemingly endless parade of servants trooped in, carrying buckets of steaming water which they emptied smoothly, spilling not a drop. In a little while, the tub was full; a final servant scattered a double handful of dried herbs across the surface of the water, laid out a clay jar of soft soap, linen rags, a small bucket of hulled oats and a copper dipper. He then departed, leaving the two women alone. 

Cathelin put down her pen and stood, stretching with the boneless grace of a cat. Madrigal gulped when she saw the muscles rippling beneath the surface of the Lady's smooth skin. Cathelin was nude; sunlight struck sparks from her dark crimson hair, and the fiery curls between her thighs glowed like rubies. The sight dazzled the slave into speechlessness. 

''Well, the lay-abed's finally awake, eh?'' Cathelin asked with a smile, amber eyes twinkling. ''You'd better hurry, lazybones, or the water'll be colder than a witch's tit.'' 

Cathelin had wakened with the Muslim girl cuddled in her arms. For the life of her, she could not remember if something had happened or not. She had lain awake a long time, studying the other woman features. Sweet, heart-shaped face, delicate cheekbones and chin, and a nose straight from a Grecian urn. The angle of Madrigal's jaw made her profile as clear as a line of flame, and just as hypnotic. 

The few locks of blue-black hair that feathered across her face made her creamy skin seem even paler. Madrigal was, quite simply, the most stunningly beautiful woman Cathelin had ever seen, and she hoped fervently that she had not done Madrigal an injury; Cathelin was feeling a little nervous as she waited for the other woman's reaction. 

The Irishwoman walked over to the bed and handed Madrigal a flaky pastry. ''Here. Eat this, sweetling. Then you can wash and soak a while with me.'' Cathelin watched carefully for any sign of repugnance or fear; but Madrigal sat up and took the pastry with a smile of thanks, and Cathelin breathed a silent sigh of relief. 

The smell of the pastry in her hand was, at first, appealing. But suddenly, the scent turned Madrigal's belly inside-out. Dropping the meat pie, Madrigal stumbled off the bed and fell to her knees beside the chamber pot, heaving and retching convulsively. 

Cathelin was instantly at her side, pulling back the Muslim girl's long blue-black hair and supporting her. ''What's wrong, Madri?'' Cathelin asked anxiously. ''T'isn't pig, you know.'' May God damn me for a selfish swine myself, she thought savagely, if it's anything I've done to provoke this. 

Just the thought of pork, the forbidden meat of her faith, made Madrigal's stomach rebel again. She retched helplessly, acrid taste of bile making her even sicker. Finally, though, just when she thought she would die, the nausea eased. Madrigal sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with one hand, the other clutching her stomach. 

Cathelin tenderly wiped her face with a damp linen rag. ''Are you well again, sweetling?'' 

Madrigal nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She put her hand on Cathelin's arm and tried to rise, but the Irishwoman prevented her. 

''No, no, sit here a while till it passes. Did I...'' Cathelin hesitated to ask the question that was burning inside her. Taking a deep breath, she said, ''Did I do something to you last night, Madri? Quite the head I had, and when I woke up...'' Her voice trailed off. She could not continue. 

Madrigal looked at the Lady, dark eyes filled with an expression of puzzlement. ''Do, Lady? You came in and hit your leg, the wine jug was broken, and I helped you into bed. That is all I know.'' Privately, Madrigal did not want the Lady to know that she had seen her riding the Night Mare. It would embarrass the warrior to know that her vulnerability had been witnessed, so Madrigal vowed to keep silent on the matter. 

Cathelin was relieved again, but now she found herself concerned about the cause of Madrigal's illness. ''Good. Now, I know you've not eaten this day, unless you raided the kitchens in the night, which I doubt. Here, rinse out your mouth,'' she said, handing Madrigal her own mazer of clean spring water. As the slave girl did as she was told, spitting the water into the chamber pot, Cathelin continued, ''So it can't be tainted food or poison. Unless... what did you eat for supper?'' 

Madrigal whispered, ''Stew. Like the others.'' 

''And you had nothing special? Mind you, Madri, I'll not be angry. I know Shevaughn too well,'' (and Sorcha, she added silently). ''Give her half a chance, and she'll stuff you like a Solstice goose.'' Cathelin helped Madrigal back to her feet and kept one arm around the smaller woman, who swayed, feeling a little dizzy. 

''No, Lady. I had the same as the others.'' Madrigal put a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. She truly did not feel well at all. 

Cathelin shook her head. ''Well, I confess to being baffled, sweetling. I'll have one of the men run down to the Abbey; Brother Ignatius is a fine apothecary. I'd trust him afore I'd trust anyone else. P'raps you've only eaten too much and made yourself sick by it, but I'd rather be sure.'' 

Madrigal weakly protested, but Cathelin was firm. ''T'is the same as I'd do for any who look to me, Madri. I've made up my mind, and what's done is done. Now, do you feel well enough for your bath?'' 

Madrigal nodded, feeling exhausted and not a little apprehensive. She knew full well why she had gotten sick; she had suffered from morning illness nearly every day, sometimes even into the afternoon, when the child first began to grow. She had hoped to be past that time, but it was obvious that Allah had not yet finished with his trials. And I pray this priest of the Christ is not as learned as the Lady believes, Madrigal thought fervently. 

She knew it would not be much longer before her pregnancy was obvious, but she wanted to put off telling her Lady as long as possible. Once the Lady sees how well I perform my duties, Madrigal thought, then perhaps her wrath will be softened. She did not really fear being killed any longer; instead, she hesitated to place another burden on the already heavy load she knew her Lady carried on her broad shoulders. To know that a child conceived of the hated Lord Francis dwelled beneath Inishowen's roof - well, such a child could be the focus of the Lord's further ambitions. 

No, it was best to keep silent and wait, Madrigal decided. No need to concern my Lady now. 

The master's chamber was so large that the tub sat by itself in splendid isolation in an alcove, steam rising in wisps from the enormous oaken cask. Cathelin steered Madrigal to the tub and helped her off with the nightshirt, carefully peeling away the stained bandages on her back, but stopped Madrigal from getting in. 

''Nay, sweetling. Wash first, then soak. Here, I'll help you.'' Cathelin dipped hot water from the tub and poured it over Madrigal's shoulders, then scooped up a little soft soap from the jar onto a linen rag and sprinkled a bit of oats over it. When Madrigal looked curiously at this ritual, Cathelin explained, ''The oats'll help scrub off the dirt. T'is marvelous good for the skin.'' 

Madrigal stood absolutely still as Cathelin rubbed the rag across her shoulders, scrubbing gently, her touch impersonal yet caring at the same time. Down her back, mindful of still tender scabs; across both small, firm buttocks; massaging the backs of her thighs, the sensitive hollows of her knees. Madrigal closed her eyes as tiny ripples of pleasure flowed through her with each firm glide of the slippery cloth. Then she shuddered as Cathelin dipped more hot water and let it cascade over the other woman, rinsing away soap and oats and grime. 

Madrigal gasped when Cathelin poked her with one finger. ''Here, Madri,'' Cathelin said, her face expressionless. ''You can wash your own front; I need to wash my own self afore the water turns cold.'' 

Cathelin turned her back as she began her own scrubbing. The Irishwoman's heart was pounding. She'd meant to be kind and helpful, but had found herself growing increasingly aroused by Madrigal as she'd washed her. 

The Muslim girl's skin was like velvet, soft but with a firmness beneath that gave lie to her seeming fragility. Kneeling on the floor, ignoring the harsh stone beneath her knees, Cathelin had smelled the other woman, Madrigal's scent like honey and musk, and had felt her own desire roused to near fever pitch. She'd had to stop; Cathelin knew that if she had continued, the washing would have quickly turned to seduction, and she was determined to leave the former slave strictly alone. 

I'll not force her, the red-haired woman thought. She's been through enough as t'is. Cathelin scrubbed quickly, hoping the cool rush of air against her wet skin would help chill her ardor. 

For her part, Madrigal was feeling both disappointed and relieved, but also a bit self-conscious. She washed herself, wondering why her Lady had stopped. Perhaps I have done something to offend her, Madrigal thought, and wondered what it could have been. 

Then a thought struck the Muslim girl. Of course, she thought, I am blind! I am the servant here; it is not seemly that the Lady wash me as if I were her own child. I should be washing her. Foolish, foolish slave! she chided herself, rinsing quickly. Your ignorance of duty will be your downfall! Just because the Lady has been kind does not mean you may ignore her needs. 

Quickly, Madrigal asked, ''Lady? Do you wish me to scrub your back?'' 

Cathelin stood stock still and took a deep breath. She forced herself to calm. Easy, woman! she thought. The girl's only trying to be helpful. Cathelin said aloud, ''Why, yes, Madri. Thank you kindly.'' 

Cathelin handed the cloth to the Muslim girl, who eagerly began scrubbing Cathelin's back, hoping by enthusiasm to be forgiven for her lapse. Madrigal marveled at the scars on the other woman's skin; so many, and some had obviously been deep wounds, and yet her Lady had survived. That she was a great warrior, the slave had no doubt. But until this moment, she had not realized how great. 

Madrigal felt a sudden flush of pride. She had heard it said that the status of the master reflects upon the slave; she had never felt this way herself, and had not truly understood what it meant until now. 

To bask in the shadow of the mighty is a wonderous thing, Madrigal decided. To know that I stand in the presence of one who has braved untold dangers, and faced death in battle, the greatest warrior in the world... and I am trusted with her very life! For does she not allow me to sleep in her bed, serve her food, be closer to her than any other living being... Truly, Allah has blessed His servant. This is a mistress I can be proud of serving. 

Little by little, Madrigal's confidence was trickling back. She made a mental vow to help her Lady as much as possible. If I can draw away some of her burdens, then I will be a true servant - the Left Hand of the Master, she thought, remembering the title given to slaves who were so trusted and loyal, they were given a status nearly equal to a family member, and at death, were honored by a place in their owner's own tombs. 

Cathelin shuddered a little as Madrigal, in her newfound pride, scrubbed all the harder, seemingly determined to buff her mistress' skin until it gleamed. It was not painful; in fact, it was just the opposite. Finally, Cathelin could stand no more. ''Thank you, Madri,'' she rasped, eyes closed tightly, ''But I think my back can get no cleaner.'' 

Madrigal smiled. ''Yes, Lady,'' she replied as she rinsed Cathlin with dippers of hot water. ''Now, we soak?'' 

''Yes. We soak.'' Cathelin helped Madrigal into the tub, then climbed in herself, mentally thanking God that the heat of the water would conceal the flush of desire that covered her skin. 

It became obvious that both women would not fit comfortably facing one another; with a sigh, Cathelin motioned for Madrigal to sit between her spread legs and rest her back against the taller woman's torso. 

Madrigal leaned back, her head pillowed against Cathelin's neck. One of the Irishwoman's arms was around her waist, helping support her. Madrigal rested her arms on the sides of the wine cask, eyes closed and utterly relaxed, feeling a little drowsy. 

Cathelin rested her chin on top of Madrigal's head, closing her own eyes. The water was hot enough that she felt herself beginning to relax; even with the other woman's closeness, the slide of skin against skin, Cathelin's breasts rubbing against Madrigal's back, the Irishwoman felt desire slipping away, replaced by calmer contentment. 

They soaked a while, then, while the water was still warm, Cathelin asked Madrigal to wash her hair. 

Delighted, Madrigal complied; then nothing would do but for Cathelin to wash Madrigal's own blue-black locks. 

Madrigal's eyes were squeezed shut against the soap suds dripping into her face as Cathelin's fingers massaged her scalp. Then she heard the Lady's voice, amused: ''Hold your breath, sweetling!'' and that was all the warning she received before Cathelin pushed her head beneath the water. 

Madrigal came up sputtering, arms flailing wildly, fingers scrabbling to find purchase on the rough sides of the tub. Drowning! Fear and panic swept through the Muslim girl; she kicked out with her legs, whimpering and retching, all rational thought gone in the instinctive animal's struggle to survive. 

In the first few seconds, Cathelin thought it was a jest, an excuse to get into a water fight. But the instant she realized Madrigal's distress was not a joke, Cathelin grabbed her, holding the thrashing woman tightly, ignoring the minor pain of nails raking across her shoulders, legs flailing wildly against her thighs. Madrigal tossed her head back and forth, strings of wet black hair clinging to her face. Her eyes were open but unseeing; she was panting with exertion and panic. 

''Madri!'' Cathelin said urgently, ''Madri, you're safe! You're safe, sweetling! Softly, Madri, softly. Shhhh,'' the Irishwoman crooned, ''You're safe now. I've got you.''

Madrigal's hands tightened convulsively on Cathelin's shoulders as, with a shudder, she began to cry. 

Cathelin held her for a moment, tucking the other woman's head against the side of her neck. I'd better get the both of us out of this water before we catch our death of cold, Cathelin thought. 

Not loosening her grip on Madrigal, Cathelin gathered her legs beneath her and stood, powerful muscles uncoiling, sheets of water slopping over the side of the tub. She held Madrigal in her arms, carrying the slave like a child, while hot tears continued to scorch the skin of her neck. 

Cathelin persuaded Madrigal to loosen her grip long enough to be wrapped in a dry sheet and tucked into a chair near the hearth. Ignoring the water droplets sprinkling her skin, Cathelin crouched down and built up the fire, tossing a few bundles of dried herbs on the wood to sweeten the smoke. Despite the summer day, the interior of Inishown was a little chilly; the thick stone walls did not absorb heat very well. 

Finally, Cathelin dried herself off briskly, then pulled on an old tunic, not bothering with underclothes or hose. She picked Madrigal up from the chair like a doll, and sat down, tucking the other woman in her lap. 

Madrigal's face was shiny with tears; wrapped in her linen sheet, soaking wet hair slowly drizzling a puddle on the floor, dark purple eyes rimmed with red, she looked as forlorn as a lost child. 

Cathelin settled Madrigal's weight more firmly against herself, took one of the miserable girl's hands in her own, and sighed. ''Well... if I'd know you'd take my jape so ill, sweetling, I'd never have done so. Surely you did not think I meant to drown you?'' 

Madrigal shook her head. Now that the panic attack was over, she felt nauseous, headachy and very much ashamed. ''Forgive me, Lady,'' she whispered. ''I... I...'' The Muslim girl shook her head again, her throat constricted by remembered fear. 

''Tell me.'' Cathelin's voice held calm command; Madrigal looked into the Lady's amber gold eyes and realized that in this, she would not be denied. 

Bowing her head to hide her shame, Madrigal did as she was bid. She began her tale with her new master, an English knight, purchasing her in Palestine.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"I was purchased by the Inglizi Lord from the Palestine slave market; the Chief Wife of the merchant prince I belonged to took exception to her husband's growing interest in me, and had me sold.'' Madrigal's voice was soft and steady, if a little rough from swallowing the bathwater; the hand still clasped in Cathelin's grasp was cool and dry. 

Madrigal continued, ''The Inglizi Lord kept me for a few days in Palestine. Then, we went to the ship which would take us to England...'' As the Muslim girl continued, still speaking calmly of the Inglizi's casual brutality, Cathelin's lips compressed into a tight line and her nostrils whitened in suppressed fury. 

Madrigal spoke of daily beatings, whippings and rapes; the Inglizi had broken her ribs, smashed his fists into her face, kicked her savagely when she lay helpless on the ground, retching in terror and pain. His methods when it came to teaching her English were equally brutal; each time she made a mistake, he whipped her with a pony lash until the blood ran. 

''One day, I displeased the Lord. He had been drinking much; he was very angry that I had forgotten some small chore. The Lord decided that I needed to be taught a lesson...'' 

And that lesson was one which Madrigal would never forget. Hauling the weeping, pleading young woman by the wrists, the Inglizi had dragged her to the stern of the ship and ripped off her simple linen shift. Standing there naked, shivering in the wind,  face wet with tears, Madrigal had been sure the Lord intended to offer her to the sailing men, who had prowled around the scene like animals close to being maddened by blood scent. 

Instead, the Inglizi had something more diabolical and sadistic in mind. He had wrapped hempen rope around Madrigal's wrists, tying her bonds so tightly they drew blood. Then, he drew back his leg and kicked her off the stern. 

Madrigal would never forget that horrible moment. Sailing through the air... all the breath driven from her lungs as the sea came up to meet her with a hammer blow. Being dragged behind the sailing vessel, helpless, twisting in her bonds, one minute below the ocean, the next above, in so much pain she would have screamed if she'd been able, arms nearly wrenched from their sockets. In a state of absolute terror, she had gasped for air, inhaling seawater, which only made her panicked state worse. Finally, after a time which had seemed an endless eternity in Hell, she had been hauled up like a fishing catch, dripping and half dead from near drowning and fear, and dumped back on the deck. 

The Inglizi's eyes had betrayed his excitement as Madrigal had lain there, shivering, almost mindless with terror. 

Madrigal stopped speaking. She kept her eyes downcast, staring at the pattern of threads in the linen sheet that was wrapped around her. 

Long minutes passed, broken only by the hoarse sound of Cathelins' breathing. Finally, Cathelin asked, ''What's his name?'' 

Madrigal shivered. ''I...,'' she began, then stopped as a lump in her throat prevented speech. She had a superstitious dread of the Inglizi and thought he was an evil djinn; even the mention of his name might be enough to put her in his power again. 

Cathelin's voice was as hard as the steel of her broadsword, and just as sharp. ''Look at me.'' 

Madrigal raised her head and stared into her Lady's eyes... they were molten pools of gold, so bright they dazzled. Cathelin said again, ''What is his name?''The Irishwoman was very nearly in a killing rage; the only thing that prevented her from grabbing a sword from the wall and hacking the room apart was the thought that Madrigal needed comforting, not more fear. As she waited for a reply, Cathelin slowly disciplined herself to a calmer state. 

Softly, praying that her Lady was strong enough to protect her, Madrigal replied, ''Wallace. Alexander Wallace, my Lady.'' 

Cathelin pulled Madrigal to her chest and held her tightly. ''I'll make you a Solstice gift of his head, sweetling. That worm-riddled bastard doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as you.'' She gently kissed the Muslim woman on the forehead. ''I may even go hunting afore Samhain. He'll no more hurt you, Madri. On my honor, I swear it.'' 

She wanted to do nothing more than leap on the first horse and track this Wallace down, but schooled herself to wait. Cathelin had heard of him; he was reputed to be a mediocre swordsman with a mean streak wider and longer than the road from Cork to Dublin. I'll find him soon enough, the Irishwoman thought, and I'll bury his worthless carcass face down and unshriven. Surely, if any go to a deserving Hell, t'will be Alexander Wallace.

Madrigal, greatly daring, put her arms around Cathelin's neck and laid her face against the other woman's throat. ''Do not trouble yourself over me, Lady,'' she said. ''I am well enough.'' 

Roughly, Cathelin said, ''No. If I had known...'' She could not finish. Cathelin's heart was filled with pity, and more than pity, for the sweet young girl she held in her arms. To have survived all that and not be made bitter by it was a matter of amazement and profound respect. Madrigal was far braver than many soldiers and knights Cathelin had met; she doubted any of her own kerns could have suffered so and survived. 

They sat together, each taking comfort from the other's presence, listening to the sound of each other's heartbeats, and the soft rhythm of their breathing. 

Finally, Cathelin rose, cradling Madrigal in her arms. ''Sweetling, I must go,'' she said regretfully as she carried the Muslim woman to the bed and set her down carefully. ''I hope to be back afore the evening meal. In the meanime, you rest. I'll have someone run down to the Abbey and fetch Brother Ignatius.'' 

Madrigal had forgotten about the holy man. ''I feel much better, Lady,'' she said, hoping to forestall the monk's visit. ''Perhaps it was only the rich food. I am not accustomed to such fare.'' 

Cathelin snatched the old tunic over her head, dropping it on the floor, and pulled on a pair of dark brown knitted hose. ''I'd feel better knowing Brother Ignatius looked at you anyway. Don't fret yourself, sweetling. He's a kindly old man who'll treat you like his favorite daughter, so there's no reason to be a-feared. '' Cathelin felt Madrigal's protests were the result of her terrible experiences; she wanted to reassure the other woman that Ignatius was no threat. 

Madrigal bowed her head in acceptance of the unavoidable. ''Yes, Lady,'' she replied. ''I will make the holy man welcome.'' 

Cathelin quickly ran a comb through her dark crimson hair and braided it up into a long queue that fell down the middle of her back to her waist; then she drew on a light tan, sleeveless tunic, embroidered with running stags around the square neckline,  armholes decorated with whipped leather stitches. The tunic exposed her lightly tanned, muscular arms, and the color contrasted sharply with the dark tattoo that snaked around her upper left. On top of the tunic she put a simple leather vest, and pulled on her boots. 

With a smile, Cathelin went to the door and opened it. ''Be well, Madri,'' she said. ''I'll try not to drink too much wine tonight.'' 

Madrigal smiled in return as Cathelin left. 

Sighing, the Muslim girl surveyed the watersoaked floor, the crumped linens, the scattering of damp oats... Unwinding the sheet that covered her, the Muslim girl began her day's chores.

Madrigal walked carefully down the winding stone stairs, holding up her skirts with a hand. It was another of her new dresses; pale green, the color of new leaves in the spring, and decorated with carved wooden buttons and dark green ribbons threaded through the wide sleeves. 

She had begun exploring her new world. Mistress Meagan had welcomed her help in the sewing room, where she and her circle of women weaved, dyed and sewed the clothing that was used by the people of Inishown; Madrigal had even been persuaded to go to the barracks by a friendly kern, to entertain the soldiers with songs. 

In fact, they had given her a little harp to play on; it was her most treasured possession, aside from the necklace she had gotten from the Lady. She had also begun showing Shevaughn, the Hearth Chief, how to prepare some of the dishes of her former homeland using spices brought back by the Lady from her sojourn in Outremer. 

Madrigal had begun to think of Inishowen as home. And with that thought, another came... 

It had been three weeks since the monk's visit. Brother Ignatius, an ancient man with a fringe of silvery hair fluttering around his ears, had reminded Madrigal of a friendly bat - his enormous ears were nearly pointed and stuck out sharply on either side of his head; his beaky nose bent down at the end in an exaggerated curve. 

Brother Ignatius had prodded and poked, muttering under his breath, and at last pronounced Madrigal with child. The Muslim woman had hastened to explain to the holy man about her circumstances, hoping against all hope that he would have compassion for her dilemma. 

To her surprise, he had. 

''I'll no be tellin' a soul, so dinna fash yersel','' Ignatius had said, blue eyes twinkling. ''But ye'd best be thinkin' on how ta tell Lady Cathelin; ye'll be no more hidin' yer state, I'm thinkin', fer more than another month er two more.'' 

He had given her a pouch of herbs to make into a tea, to combat the baby-ill in the mornings. Madrigal had to admit that they helped greatly in calming her stomach. 

Unconsciously, her free hand went to her belly and she patted the growing bulge. My child, she thought, Allah has been kind. Now, my happiness would be complete if only He would visit his vengeance on another...

But she refused to finish the uncharitable thought. For the past three weeks, Sorcha O'Reilly had been intent on making the slave's life as miserable as possible. There were daily pranks - such as still-steaming horse droppings smeared on the bed after Madrigal had left the room to carry dirty sheets down to the laundry; or waiting until Madrigal had gone out on some errand and throwing rancid grease and stale piss all over floor. That had taken the Muslim nearly four hours of hard, down-on-her-knees labor to clean up. 

Madrigal had no proof, but she was sure it was the chatelaine's doing. Without such proof, however, she had no intention of telling the Lady anything. I do not want to destroy her faith in one of her servants, Madrigal thought, not unless the evidence is unclouded, so that her judgement may be also.

The Lady's nightmares still plagued her; when they did, Madrigal sang to her softly until the journey was past. Each morning, the slave awoke with her Lady's arms around her, a cascade of bone-straight crimson hair blending with her own blue-black. Often, Madrigal would lay awake unmoving, cherishing those few moments of utter safety and comfort in the gray dawn. 

The slave was so intent on her thoughts that she failed to notice the the smear of shiny grease midway down the stairs until it was too late... Her foot slipped, throwing off her balance. With a cry, she fell forward, instinctively trying to roll into a ball to protect her precious burden, tumbling down the unforgiving stone stairs... 

A blur of visions: flashes of stone; red-black sparks of pain; a servant's face seen upside down, his expression one of comical shock; the floor rising up in disjointed, naueasting leaps... 

With a crack, the back of Madrigal's head struck the last step, sending an explosion of agony down her spine... and then the peace of darkness and oblivion. The Muslim woman lay unconscious, a pitifully crumpled heap on the cold stone floor at the bottom of the stairs, blood staining the pale green dress she had worn so proudly a few moments ago. 

CHAPTER NINE

When Cathelin entered the Great Hall, she was whistling a jaunty tune, a brace of partridges slung over one shoulder. Her hair was half down, clothing ripped and stained, but her expression was one of triumph. She had gotten permission to hunt on one of her neighbor's lands, and her men had taken several bucks, wild boars and more. The meat was in the courtyard now being dressed, and Cathelin's mouth watered at the thought of a juicy haunch of venison for supper instead of mutton. 

The Irishwoman stopped dead when she heard the voice of Mistress Meagan raised in a bellowed shout, ''Dinna move her, ye lack-wits! Wait fer the litter, b'Christ!'' 

The partridges sailed through the air to fetch with a thump on the floor as Cathelin moved with inhuman swiftness to the source of that voice. At first, all she could see were the backs of the household servants standing in a rough semi-circle around something at the foot of the stairs... heart in her mouth, Cathelin roughly shoved them aside until she was clear and saw... 

Madrigal. Unconscious and obviously badly injured. That sweet face was papery white, lips slightly blue, and her breathing was labored and raspy. Meagan squatted next to her, trying to assess the girl's injuries with hands that shook slightly. 

Cathelin drew a deep breath and knelt down beside Madrigal. ''What happened?'' she asked Meagan, voice tightly controlled. 

The Scottish woman did not look up from her delicate probing of Madrigal's skull. ''I dinna know. One of the servants, Tom Swann, saw it happen. He says she just fell.'' 

Cathelin's molten amber eyes narrowed and sought out the unfortunate witness; he gulped, prominent Adam's apple bobbing up and down. ''Well?'' she growled. 

Swann gulped again. ''Aye, Lady,'' he said nervously, ''t'is as I told the Mistress. She was walkin' down the stairs, and all of a sudden-like, she just fell down. I swear it.'' 

Meagan finished her examination. ''The girl's skull's no cracked that I can tell, but she's had quite a fall. I've sent fer Brother Ignatius; she's got broke ribs and I don't know what all else. We'd best be careful.'' 

Cathelin nodded agreement. ''Where's that litter?'' she asked the crowd in general, who gave a collective shudder at the tightly reigned rage in her voice. Almost immediately, a litter appeared, carried by two men. 

Carefully, paying heed to Meagan's instructions and feeling their Lady's hot gaze on their backs, the men loaded the unconscious slave, and began carrying her up the stairway. Halfway up, one of the men slipped and nearly fell, but caught himself in time to keep Madrigal from tumbling off the litter. 

His ruddy face paled in fear as Cathelin flowed up beside him. She bent down and wiped one finger across the step... the expression on her face reminded him of a wolf's - lean and narrow and lusting for blood. 

Not trusting herself to speak, Cathelin nodded for the men to continue, then caught Meagan's arm when the woman passed. ''Grease,'' she said shortly. 

Meagan caught her breath. ''Sweet Mary and Joseph!'' she whispered. ''Who?'' 

Cathelin shook her head. ''I don't know, but by God, I intend to find out. And when I do...'' 

Meagan shuddered at the promise of slow, agonizing death in Lady Cathelin's amber eyes. ''The lass'll be all right,'' she said, patting the other woman's arm. ''I'm sure of it.'' 

Cathelin's expression was bleak. ''She had better be,'' she replied harshly, then turned and walked up the stairs heavily, hands shaking and teeth clenched so hard her jaw hurt. If anything happens to my Madri, she thought savagely, the tortures of Castille will NOT equal what I'll be doing to whoever responsible - aye, and with my own hands, too! 

The servants watched their mistress with heavy hearts. Most of them had gotten to know the sweet Muslim girl, and although a few still disapproved, the majority had come to like her for her sunny ways and friendly smile. She was always willing to lend a hand at any task, had a way about her that was completely disarming, and the other servants prayed for her recovery with compassion and pity. 

But one pair of cold green eyes watched with ill-concealed glee... and a pair of thin lips stretched into a tiny, triumphant smile. 

Sorcha O'Reilly slipped out the postern gate behind Inishowen and ran through the kitchen garden to the stable. Once there, she coaxed a wild maned mare to allow her to mount bareback, then she rode away, dark brown cloak flying back behind her like ragged wings. 

Six miles away lay her destination - a cliff that overhung the pounding sea. The cliff face on the landward side was riddled with caves, and it was to one of these that she pounded up, the mare's sides flecked with foam. 

Sorcha slid from the horse's back and ran lightly to the cave mouth. ''My Lord?'' she asked, peering into the darkness. ''T'is Sorcha.'' 

A ragged figure appeared in front of her. Francis Westfield was no longer the spoiled, finely dressed lordling he had been. His beard had grown wild and straggled across his face;  hazel eyes sunk deeply into bruised sockets; his frame gaunt, mere whipcord over bone. But his eyes burned with a mesmerizing fire - a look Cathelin would have instantly recognized. It was the madness of a fanatic, and Lord Francis' hatred of his cousin had become an obsession that had pushed him well beyond the bounds of sanity. 

''Well?'' he rasped. 

Sorcha drew a breath, excitement warring with fear in her breast. Since his exile, Lord Francis had become a figure of infinite fascination for the chatelaine; not the least because the vengeance he labored for had become her own. ''T'is done. The wench is dead.'' 

''Good,'' Francis nodded. ''How?'' 

Sorcha reached up and patted a blonde braid. ''I greased a step. T'was a simple enough doing. It'll be thought an accident; all the castle knows how careless the chit was, popping up and down the stairs all blessed day..'' 

Francis took a step forward and grabbed Sorcha's arm in a steely grip that made the woman shudder in pain... and arousal. ''And Cathelin?,'' he asked, tongue flicking out to moisten his dry lips. 

''I wish you could have seen her face, my Lord. Why, she was paler than new curd, that one. Being deprived o' her bed wench should set the high and mighty Lady back a notch or two.'' 

''Excellent.'' Francis roughly pulled Sorcha to his chest and kissed her savagely, deliberately hurting her, then released her with a sneer. 

Sorcha stumbled back, one hand to her bloody lip. Her green eyes were dark with fear - and desire. ''Aye, my Lord,'' she said huskily, then flowed up to press her full breasts against him. ''And how goes your own venture?'' 

Francis idly toyed with one of Sorcha's blonde braids. ''Well enough,'' he replied. ''I've gotten some like-minded men who agree that Blacksunne needs to be taken down. In a few months, we'll strike.'' His hazel eyes narrowed. ''Are you sure the slave's dead?'' he asked with mock casualness. 

''Oh, still breathin' she was when I left, but I doubt that'll last for long,'' Sorcha replied airily, tilting her face back for another kiss. 

Instead, Francis gathered her long braids in both of his hands and twisted them brutally, wringing a smothered yelp from the woman. ''Did I not tell you to be sure?'' he asked in a dangerously calm tone. 

''Aye, my Lord, aye! But I came straight away to tell you...'' Sorcha's green eyes were filled with tears. 

''Go back,'' he commanded, emphasizing each word with a yank, ''Go back and make sure! That bitch has to die, do you hear me? She has to die!'' 

Francis reserved a small portion of his hatred towards the slave he considered had betrayed him. When Sorcha had first told him of how Madrigal had not only been freed, but raised to household status, he'd nearly choked on bile; since then, the chatelaine's acidic reports of Cathelin's and Madrigal's growing closeness had made the flames of anger burn even hotter. Sorcha believed the two were lovers - and so did Francis. The thought of his slave finding happiness in his cousin's arms was more than Francis could sanely bear. 

If I could, he thought, ignoring the blonde woman's agonized protests, I would take my little slave and teach her a few lessons in humility. Too bad she wouldn't live long enough to learn everything I want to teach her.

''Please, my Lord!'' Sorcha screeched, trying to fall on her knees but prevented by Francis' grip on her hair, ''Please! I'll go, I'll go!'' 

Francis released her, and Sorcha fell to the ground, her head aching and scalp raw. ''See to it, my beloved,'' he said with another sneer, ''I want that heathen whore dead by nightfall.'' 

''Aye, my Lord,'' Sorcha answered, rubbing the top of her head, ''She'll not breathe another moment after I return. And then, shall I be coming to you again? P'raps tonight?'' The blonde woman's voice held a note of eagerness; she relished Francis' lovemaking - it was violent and passionate, filled with a pain she found arousing beyond anything she'd ever known. 

Francis paused on his way back to the cave. Without turning around, he replied, ''Yes,'' and then disappeared back into his sanctuary. 

Sorcha climbed back aboard the mare, more determined than ever to see the slave girl buried... and Cathelin writhing beneath a burden of hurt that could well nigh crush her. The chatelaine laughed softly to herself as she wrenched the mare's head around and started back to Inishowen. Aye, she thought, a small smile twisting her lips. The Lady will know what it is like to be deprived of the one she loves this very night! 

The pounding of the mare's hooves echoed for a long time after Sorcha had gone, intent on her murderous errand.

Next Page ~~~~~>

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by Nene Adams ©1998 - All rights reserved

CHAPTER TEN

Brother Ignatius' wrinkled face was grave as he wiped his bloody hands on a rag. ''Aye, two broke ribs, but I bent 'em back and strapped 'em down, so that'll be no difficulty; should heal well. Skint up as well; like to have took off all the hide twixt knee an' hip. Her brain pan's no cracked, but she took quite a knock. The wee lass'll probably be out fer the day, at least. But,'' he added, ''there's more, an' it's no good news I'll be tellin'.'' 

Cathelin stared at the still form on the bed and her mouth worked. After a moment, she rasped, ''What is it?'' Her face was pale and her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. 

Brother Ignatius studied the woman in front of him. ''Sit ye down, Lady, an' have a swaller 'er two o' wine first.'' 

Cathelin turned on the old monk, amber eyes blazing. ''Tell me, damn you!'' she shouted. ''Or by St. Brigit...'' 

Ignatius held up one hand. ''Dinna threaten me with damnation, Lady. Do as I say, or not another word I'll be tellin' ye.'' 

Infuriated almost beyond her control, and sick to her stomach at the sight of Madrigal's unnaturally pale face, Cathelin whirled around and threw herself down in a chair. Brother Ignatius padded over, brown robes swaying, and poured them both mazers full of wine from a nearby decanter. 

He waited until she had taken a long swallow, then said, ''Madrigal's with child. And very close to losin' it, she was. No all the blood on yon dress was on count o' her scrapes. But the bairn's secure for the nonce.'' 

Cathelin stared at him in shock, the metal mazer clutched so tightly in her hand it creaked. Then she swallowed. ''With... with child?'' she stammered, trying to force her reeling brain to absorb the information. ''But... how?'' 

''The usual way, I'm supposin','' Ignatius chuckled, patting Cathelin's hand. ''I knew, o' course. When I come up afore to see to her belly-gripes, I could feel the bairn movin'. But the wee gal asked me to tell no one, includin' yerself.'' 

Cathelin blinked. Rapidly, she brought up and rejected scenario after scenario of Madrigal dallying with one of the castle servants or even a kern. Suddenly, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she knew. ''Francis...,'' she breathed. 

''Aye. So Madrigal said.'' Ignatius took a gulp of wine and wiped his lips on one long sleeve. ''T'is my belief that the Good Lord was watchin' o'er her this day, but she's no out of danger yet, Lady. Rest is what the lass needs; she should no more be clamberin' up and down the stairs all day. Not until the bairn's born.'' 

Cathelin's lips tightened. ''May God damn you straight to Hell, Francis,'' she said aloud; then her face grew troubled. ''Brother,'' she said, ''why did she not tell me?'' 

Ignatius looked into Cathelin's eyes, the gold now clouded with pain. ''As to that,'' he replied kindly, ''I believe she meant to tell ye, Lady. But she was afeared.'' 

''Afraid?'' Cathelin shook her head, wild locks of dark crimson hair fluttering. ''What has she to be afraid of? Surely she didn't think...'' 

''She knew how much ye hated Lord Francis, Lady Cathelin, may God forgive us both fer the thought.'' 

Cathelin frowned, toying with the mazer. ''But I cannot believe...'' Her eyes abruptly filled with tears as the full knowledge of the stressful situation Madrigal had been struck her. ''Oh, my poor Madri!'' she exclaimed, biting back a sob. ''All this time, and I never knew...'' 

''Dinna fash yersel', Lady. The lass was happier these few weeks than I'd e'er seen afore. T'was your doin', no mistake.'' 

Cathelin burst into fresh tears. Brushing past Brother Ignatius, she flung herself down on her knees next to the bed, taking Madrigal's small hand in her own. ''Can you forgive me?'' she pleaded quietly. ''Please, please, wake up, sweetling...'' I'm here, she added silently. Don't leave me.

Brother Ignatius gathered his things and prepared to go. ''While ye're down on yer knees, Lady, remember - a prayer or two won't hurt.'' 

Cathelin nodded, still crying, as the old monk left. I've been blind, so blind! she castigated herself. I knew something was troubling her and I did nothing! 

She remembered teasing Madrigal about her growing weight; although her frame was still slender, the Muslim had filled out some. Cathelin had noticed the growing bulge of the other woman's tummy, and put it down to rich foods and Madrigal's enormous appetite. 

And all the while she was with child, Cathelin thought, berating herself for a fool. What a burden to have to carry on her shoulders, and I, who should have been helping - I've been acting like a fornicating swine, I have, and t'is a wonder and a marvel to me that Madri hasn't left my bed afore now.

Although Cathelin had sternly resisted the urge to make her growing feelings of attraction evident to the other woman - she would not force herself on someone who was incapable, by her past slavery, of refusal - nevertheless, waking up in the morning with Madri snuggled in her arms had quickly become Cathelin's favorite part of the day. 

She found herself thinking about the Muslim when she was outside the castle, hunting or harvesting, or helping her people, and her servants and kerns adored Madrigal, despite her faith and origins. She's certainly made herself at home, Cathelin thought, and for that, I'm glad. 

And whenever she came home, Madri was always there with a smile, a cup of wine, and those delicate, thoughtful attentions; in fact, it had come to seem as if Madri was able to anticipate Cathelin's needs, always on hand instantly with whatever was required. 

Aye, Cathelin thought, she's very nearly my own right arm, she is. And I'll never forgive myself if she comes to harm. 

Tears streamed down Cathelin's face as she bent her head and humbly whispered a fervent prayer to God and St. Brigit not to take Madri away. 

Madrigal's eyelashes fluttered as she slowly rose from the well of darkness and into the light... 

She gradually became aware that her hand was being held gently... that her Lady was there; she could hear the other woman's voice, whispering... Madrigal's free hand went instinctively to her abdomen and she was reassured by the still bulging presence of her child. 

''Lady?'' she whispered. 

Cathelin's face immediately swam into her vision as the Irishwoman leaned over her. ''Madri?'' she asked, a tentative smile lighting up her red-rimmed eyes. ''How do you feel, sweetling?'' 

''Thirsty...,'' the slave rasped, and a mazer of cool water was touched to her lips. Madrigal drank, the water sliding down her throat more welcome than the nectar of Paradise. The cup was taken away and she whimpered, wanting more, but Cathelin soothed her. 

''No more, Madri. You'll be sick.'' Cathelin wiped Madrigal's face with a damp cloth. ''You fell down the stairs, sweetling, and fetched your head and ribs quite a crack, but Brother Ignatius says you'll be fine.'' 

Madrigal's head was pounding as if a horde of djinns had taken up residence and were tunneling through her skull. ''I...,'' she began, then gulped as a wave of nausea swept through her. 

Cathelin hastily fetched a basin in time and supported the other woman while she retched helplessly. Laying Madrigal back down gently, Cathelin wiped her lips and perched carefully on the edge of the bed. ''I know you're with child, Madri,'' the Irishwoman said simply. ''Brother Ignatius told me.'' 

Madrigal closed her eyes, feeling depleted and drained. At any other time, she might have been panicked, but now... she waited, her emotions exhausted, mind numb, head dizzy and throbbing with pain. 

Cathelin took Madrigal's hand again and squeezed it carefully. ''T'is all right, sweetling. You've not lost your place here; I still want you... to serve me, if you'd like. You do still want to stay, don't you?,'' she asked anxiously. 

Madrigal opened her dark purple eyes. Her long, blue-black hair had been braided up loosely, and a few stray locks curled onto her cheeks. A tear trickled down her face. Her Lady was looking at her with those amazing amber gold eyes. ''Yes,'' she whispered. ''Yes, Lady, I want to stay.'' 

Cathelin put the back of Madrigal's hand against her face. ''Well, you're to rest, sweetling, at least for a few weeks. T'was a near thing on those damned stairs; you like to have lost the babe, and your life besides. So, no more cleaning, no more gallivanting about; stay in bed. All right?'' 

Madrigal nodded carefully. ''Yes, Lady,'' she said. A warm glow suffused her soul; she felt like dancing, felt like singing, but the pain was too great for that now. She had no more fears - the Lady had spoken. She and her child were welcome in this place she had come to regard as home. 

As Madrigal closed her eyes and sank slowly into the bliss of peaceful sleep, she felt her Lady's lips brush tenderly against her brow... and the slave smiled.

Cathelin walked downstairs to the dining area. The hall was vast and high ceilinged; the banners of her family's enemies hung on the walls, as well as their swords, axes, shields and spears. The long, T-shaped table was crafted of heart oak, so dark with age it seemed almost black in the uncertain light of rush torches in the iron cages that lined the stone walls. 

Waiting for her was one of her kerns, a dark-haired Scottish warrior named Wolf McLeod. The crimbeul that drooped above his upper lip hung down to the sharp angle of his jaw, and his eyes were the icy blue of sunlight seen reflected in a mountain loch. 

He bowed his head respectfully, murmuring, ''Lady?'' He was dressed in a tartan kilt that exposed scarred knees, and a billowing-sleeved shirt beneath a leather vest. The vest was covered with bone buttons - they would not be enough to stop a sword blade, but would suffice to turn aside a knife thrust. 

''Wolf, I have a task for you,'' Cathelin said as she joined her kern at the table and poured them both goblets of wine. 

Wolf wet his lips with the spiced wine and waited politely. He was not quite as tall as Cathelin, but more powerfully built, as muscular as a young bull. A torc encircled his thick neck, the finialed ends set with cabochon beryls. 

Cathelin took a long swallow of wine. ''You've heard of what happened to Madrigal earlier today?'' When Wolf nodded, she continued, ''Well, what's not generally known is that the step was greased.'' 

Wolf raised one black eyebrow at this information, and rumbled in his deep, gravelly voice, ''Assassin?'' 

''Aye.'' For a moment, Cathelin's amber eyes flared with anger, but she immediately regained control. ''I want the one responsible found. And soon.'' 

''Could it have been meant for another?'' 

Cathelin shook her head. She'd taken the time to do something with her hair, and a pair of dark crimson braids wound with black leather ties hung on either side of her face. ''Nay. The servants go up and down those stairs all day. Whoever it was knew what time Madrigal usually came down to help Meagan in the sewing room. It was meant for her... And I want that person FOUND!'' Her fist struck the top of the table hard enough to make the goblets jump. 

Wolf reached out a hand to steady his cup and looked at Cathelin with steady blue eyes. ''Aye,'' he said, ''Me as well. With your permission, Lady, I'll get to it directly. We're all rather fond of wee Madri in the barracks; there'll be no dearth o' volunteers for a turn at the rack when we catch the bastard who hurt her.'' 

He and Cathelin exchanged a savage smile. Madrigal had endeared herself to the fighters when one of them had heard her singing. At his request, every day after that Madrigal took time in the afternoon after weapons practice to sing to the men and women of Cathelin's private army. Although at first shy, after being presented with a small, battered hand harp, she had grown in confidence, blossoming under the kern's surprisingly gentle attentions. 

Wolf knew that neither man nor woman of the Phoenix would harm Madrigal; in fact, just the opposite. ''Well, Lady, I'll be taking my leave,'' he said, rising, ''Have I permission to question the house servants?'' 

Cathelin waved a hand. ''Of course, of course. Do whatever is necessary, Wolf. T'is a free reign I'm giving you. Only...do not fail me in this. I want him.'' Her lips skinned back from her teeth in a wolf's grin. ''Or her.'' 

After Wolf left, Cathelin sat at the table for a moment, absently adding water to the wine in her goblet. It wouldn't do to get drunk; she had too much to do. Abbot Benedict was waiting in her father's office - a rarely used room since she herself preferred to do business from her master chamber. 

Cathelin got up, shoving the bench with a thrust of her knees, and stalked away, resentful of any time she had to spend away from Madrigal. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Abbot Benedict was a tall, beautiful, infinitely proud man with a mop of silver hair, a high ivory forehead and a patrician nose that seemed built for his cold gray eyes to stare down. ''I wish to discuss the matter of the heathen slave, Lady Cathelin,'' Benedict said in his round-toned voice as soon as Cathelin walked in the door. 

Cathelin sat down and crossed her legs at the knee. ''What about Madrigal?'' she asked, irritated. The Irishwoman and Abbot Benedict had never gotten along; he was convinced that his destiny was to be Archbishop, and so he assiduously sought out sin, as avid in his self-proclaimed duties as a starving ratcatcher. Only once had he attempted to chastise Cathelin for her sexual proclivities; after Bishop Rudolphus, his direct superior, received the rich gift of an emerald crucifix with the Lady's compliments, Benedict had been instructed to leave Cathelin strictly alone. 

Benedict looked down his long nose at the woman he privately termed the ''Whore of Inishowen.'' 

He despised Cathelin; not the least because she refused to allow one of his own priests to take over the parish duties in her own household, preferring a doddering old man named Father Paul who had been young in her grandfather's time. And, of course, because she was a sinner of such magnitude, she would surely roast in Satan's own fire - but she got away with flaunting it in what Benedict considered the most brazen manner imaginable. 

''It has come to my attention that Brother Ignatius has been treating your slave; this will stop.'' The abbot crossed his arms, sliding his hands within his sleeves, and his gray eyes were as hard as river stones. 

Cathelin stared at Benedict, her own eyes beginning to catch fire. ''She's no more a slave than you are, Father Abbot. Less, in fact, since she does not bind herself to a vengeful and intolerant God. What of the compassionate God? The Lord of mercy who suffers the little children to come to Him?'' Cathelin raised a brow and waited; she and Benedict had chewed this old bone before and it was a major point of contention between them.. 

Benedict's eyes flashed. ''Do not speak of the Lord Our God so blasphemously!'' he chided, then stopped and composed himself. ''But I am not here to chastise you for your many sins, Lady Cathelin. Brother Ignatius is bound to obey me - and it is my will that he come to Inishowen no more, if his patient is to be a Saracen heathen.'' 

Cathelin drew in a breath. ''What of Christian charity, Father Abbot?'' she asked mildly. That calm tone was a sham; inwardly, the Irishwoman was seething. 

''I'll not have Ignatius wasting his time, talents or anything else on some... bed slave,'' Benedict replied, and the scathing disapproval in his voice was like a spark on oil-soaked kindling. 

Cathelin stood up. ''Exactly what do you mean by that,'' she asked, stalking towards the silver-haired abbot. Her blazing amber eyes met Benedict's gray, and the older man shuddered a little, but rallied. 

''I mean, Lady,'' he said with thinly veiled sarcasm, ''that you will have to hire a leech to tend to your lightskirt. Brother Ignatius will not be coming here any longer.'' 

Abbot Benedict turned to go, but Cathelin's hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. The voice behind him was a deadly purr. ''Leaving so soon, Father Abbot?,'' she said. ''We've not yet finished this matter.'' 

The taller man was spun around; Cathelin's grip on his shoulder tightened until it wrung a gasp from Benedict. ''Now, you'll be listening to ME, Father,'' Cathelin continued through gritted teeth. ''Your abbey squats on land my ancestors donated for the purpose. Be assured, Benedict, if you defy me in this thing, the King - who is a very good friend and a comrade at arms - will not hesitate to grant me back the use of my own property. And what use has the Our Holy Mother, the Church, for a priest who lost her a valuable tract of land, and hope of more besides?'' 

Benedict's gray eyes widened. ''Surely you would not...,'' he faltered, then gulped when he realized she did. This... this... this foul, unnatural bitch-whore, with her red lips and redder hair and sword skills, would not hesitate to take over the abbey's land grant and toss all the brothers out on their ears - himself, especially. And what would the Bishiop say? The Archbishop? Indeed, what would Rome Herself say?! 

Sullenly, Abbot Benedict yielded, mentally vowing to flagellate himself more thoroughly than usual tonight to cleanse himself of the Whore's contaminating touch. ''As you wish, Lady,'' he said with freezing dignity, ''I will not forbid Brother Ignatius. But he must not miss any Masses, and he will be required to carry out his normal duties.'' 

''Fair enough.'' Cathelin released the abbott's shoulder. ''And DO NOT think to threaten me again, Father Abbot. I have far more friends at court that yourself, and that's including your own Bishop. Now,'' she drawled, adding a final insulting touch as Benedict turned to leave, ''you have our permission to withdraw.'' 

Benedict hissed through his teeth and gathered the skirts of his brown robes in both hands, hurrying from the room with the shreds of his tattered dignity gathered around him. As he swept away from the scene of his humiliation, he renewed his vow to see to it that Cathelin suffered - and soon. He did not see Sorcha, hidden in the shadows, who watched him go with a small, satisfied smile. 

Cathelin grimaced. She'd disliked the pompous Benedict ever since the old abbot, Father Sulien, had died. Why Bishop Rudolphus appointed such a self-righteous jackass is beyond my ken, she thought, then scrubbed her face with one hand and sighed. 

A glance at the thick striped candle that quietly marked time in one corner showed her it was nearing the night meal hour. Cathelin stood and stretched; she'd be taking Madrigal some of Shevaughn's rich venison broth. And feeding every drop to her with my own hands is what I'll be doing, she thought with a smile. 

Cathelin left the room, in a far better mood than she had been when she entered. 

A month passed. 

To Sorcha's consternation, Cathelin kept herself so close to Madrigal that the chatelaine had no opportunity to carry out her Lord's deadly instructions. She could not even poison the slave's victuals; one of Cathelin's kerns tasted every dish. Sorcha had endured Lord Francis' fury at Madrigal's recovery - indeed, she still shuddered when recalling his inventive displeasure - but then, when she had told him of the pregnancy, he had smiled. 

Sorcha rubbed her hands up and down her arms and shivered. That smile... he had told her to leave Madrigal alone for now, but his hazel eyes had burned with an insane fire. It was clear that he had other plans for the slave. The chatelaine could almost have felt sorry for the girl, if she had not hated her so. 

Sorcha had also told Lord Francis of Abbot Benedict's hatred of Cathelin; the two men, united in this cause - with Sorcha acting as intermediary - were plotting the overthrow of the Lady of Inishowen. 

Sorcha passed down the hall quickly, skirts fluttering, and nearly ran into Wolf McLeod, who shot a narrowed blue glance at her retreating back. Both Wolf and Cathelin suspected Sorcha of playing a large role in Madrigal's accident; however, without proof, she could not be bound over for justice, and thus far, the Lady had forbidden a confession by torture. The warrior gripped the hilt of his sword tightly and renewed his vow to keep searching... and to keep a very close eye indeed on the pretty blonde chatelaine. 

CHAPTER TWELVE

Up in the master's chambers, Madrigal's forced convalescence - at Brother Ignatius' strict orders - had nearly driven her to tears of frustration more than once. 

For the past month I have lain here, the Muslim thought, picking at the fur coverlet. I feel well; my head no longer aches, I am no longer ill, my child grows well. But still the Lady treats me as if I were a sickly infant!

In truth, Cathelin was fully enjoying the role reversal. She waited on Madrigal hand and foot when she was there, and had appointed one of her own kerns to act as bodyguard and nurse - a curly-haired girl with a charming gap between her front teeth named Becca Llediath, or Half-Tongue, because she'd taken a sword stroke across her face in Outremer that had carved a piece from her tongue and left behind a hideous scar. 

The injury did not prevent Becca from speech; in fact, Becca talked incessantly, and from her Madrigal learned many of her new land's oldest tales, including the hair-raising story of Lludd and Llefelys - about fierce dragons; the heroic myth 'The Wooing of Etain;' and many others. 

Madrigal had passed her time by listening to Becca; singing and practicing on her little harp; and sewing and mending, the only two chores Cathelin and Brother Ignatius would allow. But now that she was feeling better, she wanted to do more than sit, or take small walks in the garden. She longed to go back down to the sewing room with Meagan and her women, to talk and gossip of small matters; to go to the soldier's barracks and see her old friends; to show Shevaughn how to prepare more of her country's spicy dishes; and most importantly, to take care of her Lady again. 

Madrigal sighed as Becca nattered on. The Lady had not slept in the same bed with her since the accident, having a rope cot brought in for her use. The slave found that she missed her Lady's presence in the night, the feel of strong arms wrapped around her, the warm breath against her neck... 

''Madrigal?'' Becca asked anxiously, ''Are you feelin' all right? I swear, you've not heard a word I've said in the past five minutes.'' 

Madrigal sighed again. ''Forgive me, my friend,'' she replied. ''I am well. It is just that...'' She spread her hands out helplessly. 

Becca grinned, showing the gap between her teeth. ''Aye, I know how you feel, truly. When I got this,'' she waved a hand at the thick scar that ran from her left temple, across cheek and lips, and ended at her chin, ''I was with the bone barbers for weeks. Nearly went mad, myself.'' 

Madrigal nodded. ''Yes. But the Lady...'' 

Becca grinned again, this time conspiratorially, and her brown eyes twinkled. ''Well, if you're of a mind, I suppose I could escort you downstairs myself. But you have to promise the minute you get tired to come back up. Lady Cathelin'll have my head on a pike if you strain yourself. Mind you, I only do this on count of she's not here.'' 

Madrigal threw the bedclothes back eagerly. ''Oh, yes,'' she said, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, ''Please. I would be so grateful.'' 

Becca helped her rise. Madrigal's pregnancy was far more advanced; thanks to good food (Shevaughn had outdone herself in providing delicacies for the Muslim's burgeoning appetite - much to Sorcha's disgust) and a great deal of loving care. Brother Ignatius thought the child would be born sometime after the next three moons, before the winter Solstice. Cathelin privately thought her Madri was waxing like a new moon, and was determined to see her delivered of the child safely. 

The kern helped Madrigal don a dress whose front panel had been let out to accomodate her growing belly; the weather had turned cooler, and the gown was of lightweight wool dyed dark gold. The Muslim had embroidered a pretty pattern of black and crimson running hares all over the bodice, and around the sleeves and hem. Madrigal smoothed her skirts while Becca twisted up her blue-black hair into three braids held together at the ends with a carved wooden slide; the braids hung below her knees. 

Cathelin had left Inishowen on an errand for a few days, leaving the seneschal, Michael Drury, in charge. The harvest was in, and soon it would be Samhain, the pagan festival still celebrated by many of the Irish, despite the Church's frowning on such activities. Madrigal was looking forward to the autumn celebration; there would be singing and story-telling contests, and she would play a special song for the occasion. 

Despite Madrigal's protests, Becca made her sit down on the edge of the bed while the kern pulled soft house slippers of tanned deerhide on the slave's feet. Then Becca rose and offered her arm jauntily. ''Where to first, mistress?'' she said with a grin. ''The sewing room? The kitchen? Or the garden?'' 

Madrigal took the offered arm and rose with a grunt. She had less of her usual grace; the small of her back often ached, and when she couldn't sleep, Cathelin massaged her with warmed oil. Although Madrigal enjoyed these attentions, they still made her uncomfortable. I should be serving my Lady, she thought, abashed, I am her slave, not the other way around. 

Cathelin's nightmares were becoming less and less frequent, although Madrigal still sang to her Lady in the night watches. But the Muslim missed her Lady's smiles when she performed some service that pleased or surprised her - and mostly, she missed feeling as if she were part of a community that revolved around the strong figure of Lady Cathelin. 

''The kitchen, I think,'' Madrigal replied aloud, and was rewarded with another cheeky smile from Becca. 

''Now, why did I think you were going to say that?'' Becca said, cocking her head to one side. ''The babe must be hungry again. I think he's all stomach, that one.'' 

The two women walked from the chambers, and Becca kept a careful grip on Madrigal's arm as they descended down the stone stairs. Cathelin had not let Madrigal walk down the stairs since the accident; she carried her, much to the other woman's embarrassment, and everyone else's amusement. 

The Chief of the Hearth, Shevaughn, beamed when Madrigal and Becca entered the steamy kitchen. ''Well, look what the cat dragged in!'' she said, laughing so hard her jowls shook. ''If it t'isn't wee Madrigal! Here, child, come an' sit a while,'' Shevaughn continued, hastily clearing off a bench near a small table. 

Madrigal started to sit down, but was prevented by Becca. The kern re-arranged the table and bench so that the dark-haired woman would sit with her back to a corner; then Becca took a chair and sat down at an angle to the slave, to keep her own self between Madrigal and the rest of the world. 

Shevaughn watched these proceedings with a frown. ''Are ye thinkin' that's so necessary, Becca?'' she asked. ''Surely none'd harm wee Madrigal in my own kitchens.'' 

Becca shrugged. ''I take no chances, Mistress,'' she replied, ''I've no wish to be chopped into dogsmeat by Lady Cathelin, nor Wolf McLeod besides.'' 

Shevaughn considered that a moment, then laughed again. ''Aye, ye've the right o' that,'' she said, black eyes twinkling. The Hearth Chief's salt-and-pepper hair was cropped short around her face, leaving only a small tail in the back that was kept tightly braided and wrapped in leather thongs. She turned back to the fireplace, basting a haunch that was being turned slowly on its spit by a pot boy. 

''How goes the gathering of winter's food?'' Madrigal asked. She was worried, but only because Cathelin still fussed over the state of Inishowen's supplies. 

''Well enow,'' Shevaughn answered, sprinkling a simmering iron pot with a dusting of herbs, ''T'will be a hard winter, no doubt o' that, but Master Drury brought back a plentitude o' foods and such, an' the harvest was not near as bad as first thought ta be.'' 

Madrigal sighed with relief. She knew, from what she had heard from her Lady and others, that Inishowen's folk were not only the castle servants and villagers. Small farmers and woodsmen lived in cottages sprinkled throughout Inishowen's vast tracts of land; Cathelin had worried that they might not survive the winter, and had been working diligently to make sure the castle's supplies could bear an influx of people if the season were particularly harsh. 

Shevaughn continued, shrugging her massive shoulders, ''T'is thankin' God I am, that the neighborin' lairds allowed the Lady to hunt on their lands. We've put up meat a-plenty, both dried, smoked an' preserved; t'will be enow.'' 

''What price did she have to pay for these favors?'' Madrigal asked curiously. 

The Hearth Chief opened her mouth to reply, then stopped and bellowed at a hapless undercook, ''Nay, ye mincin' foplocked mullet! Make the sallet, then stuff the partridges!'' The man began hastily slicing roots, and Shevaughn muttered, ''Saints preserve me from madmen and fools!'' She shook her head, then replied to Madrigal's question, ''No price as yet. The debt to be repaid in four years time, or so I've heard. We need time to replenish the herds an' such.'' 

Suddenly, Madrigal's stomach growled loudly, causing her to cover her lips with one hand in embarrassment. 

Shevaughn had heard the rumble, however; the ultimate mistress of her domain, she missed nothing. ''Oh, ho!'' she said loudly with a smile, ''I hear a hungry babe!'' 

As Madrigal blushed, the other kitchen servants laughed, even the disgraced undercook. 

Shevaughn quickly scooped a bowl of honey-sweetened porridge from the soot-encrusted pot that hung in the back of the fireplace, and slid it in front of Madrigal. In a moment, the Muslim also had a plate of sausage rolls, a chunk of sharp cheese, and a mazer of light ale. 

As Madrigal ate, Sorcha swept into the kitchen, the jangling chain of her office with its many keys fastened around the waist of her dark brown dress. ''Mistress Shevaughn!'' she said self- importantly, ''T'is time for the monthly inspection of the pantry.'' 

Sorcha noticed Madrigal and shot her a poisonous look from deadly green eyes. Becca immediately shifted her position on the chair and stared back at the blonde chatelaine, one hand lingering on the hilt of her belt knife. Her steady gaze said, That far. No further.

Sorcha patted her braids with one hand and decided to ignore both kern and slave alike. ''Well?'' she asked the Hearth Chief, ''I haven't all day, you know.'' 

Shevaughn, who topped Sorcha by a good head, and outweighed her by more than half again besides, sucked in a breath through her nostrils. ''Aye, Mistress Sorcha,'' she said sarcastically, ''If ye'll wait but a moment, I'll be with ye presently.'' 

Sorcha tossed her head, hands on her hips. ''Nay,'' she retorted, ''I've much to be doin' afore the day's end. T'is now, I'm thinkin' - or would you rather I fetched Master Drury  and told him you neglect your duties? A whippin' t'will bring you down a notch or two... common Cook as you be.'' 

Shevaughn stiffened. She reached out a massive arm - beneath the layers of fat there was a foundation of surprisingly solid muscle mass - and wrapped her strong hand around Sorcha's upper arm. The chatelaine winced as the Hearth Chief's fingers bit into her flesh. 

''Missy, ye'll no be talkin' ta me suchly in my own kitchen,'' Shevaughn hissed. ''Now, away wit' ye! If, and I say only if, I have the time tomorrow, I'll gladly open my pantry. But for now - GET YE GONE!'' she finished with a roar that made the copper pans on their hooks rattle against the walls. 

Sorcha tore herself from Shevaughn's grasp, green eyes alight with rage. ''T'is payin' fer that you'll be,'' she said, rubbing her bruised arm, ''someday when my Lord comes...'' Realizing she may have said too much, the chatelaine broke off with a gasp, whirled around and fled the kitchen, hot tears of anger on her cheeks. 

Becca watched Sorcha leave with a thoughtful expression. Now, she thought, where might the McLeold be at this time o' day? I'm thinking he'd be very interested in what I've heard.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When Cathelin arrived home several days later, riding easily on the back of a dun mare, Inishowen was in an uproar. 

After riding through the massive iron studded gates, Cathelin dismounted and grabbed one of the milling, shouting throng. ''What in God's name is going on?'' she asked. 

The man, a peasant farmer, recognized Cathelin immediately and hastened to tug his forelock in respect. ''T'is a hangin', Lady,'' he replied. ''A witch, I heard.'' 

Cathelin's amber eyes widened. A witch? ''Who?'' she asked, shaking his arm a little. ''Who's been accused?'' 

The farmer's attention had been caught by a group of gossipping elders; he snapped his eyes back to Cathelin when he felt her grip tighten. ''Why,'' he said, gulping, ''some woman, I heard. A-castin' evil spells on the folk, or some such like. Maybe even dancin' naked an' temptin' the good brothers of the Abbey...'' The man's eyes glazed at that thought. 

''Feh!'' Cathelin flung his arm away and led her horse through the mob in the castle's forecourt. Some enterprising businessmen had begun selling cheap clay mugs of cider and ale; others were hawking hot pastries and roasted potatoes. The scene reminded Cathelin of a festival, and her eyes grew hotter the more she took in the people's behavior. 

Finally, Cathelin managed to push her way through to the stables. Flinging the reins of her horse to an astonished stable hand, she quickly passed out the back gate, and in a long, ground-eating lope, ran to the postern gate and into the kitchen. 

The castle kitchen, at least, was an oasis of calm compared to the chaos outside. Spotting Shevaughn, Cathelin hurried over to the Chief of the Hearth, ignoring gasps and hasty bows from the other servants. ''Mistress Shevaughn!'' Cathelin yelled, getting the other woman's attention, ''What's going on? Who's being hung? And WHY, for the love of God!'' 

Shevaughn wiped her hands on the sacking apron she wore slung around her neck. ''Let's go someplace more quiet-like where we can talk,'' she said, and led Cathelin to a small room off the main kitchen area - the cool room, where stores were held in preparation of the day's cooking. 

Clearing her throat and feeling distinctly nervous as her mistress' hot gaze burned, Shevaughn said, ''T'was like this, Lady...,'' and explained about Sorcha's tongue-slip in the kitchens a few days ago. 

Cathelin nodded. ''Go on,'' she replied. Her face was grimy from road dust, and locks of dark crimson hair straggled down her back; the Irishwoman's dark brown tunic was stained, and her travel cloak muddy at the hem, but she presented a commanding figure nonetheless. 

Shevaughn went on to explain how Sorcha had been questioned by Wolf McLeod, eventually confessing - when the kern gave the chatelaine a tour of the castle dungeons - to the attempt on Madrigal's life. She would not, however dire the threat, say why. And she had refused to reveal any more about her 'Lord.' 

''...an' so,'' Shevaughn concluded, ''t'was the decision of Masters McLeod an' Drury to hang the woman for her crimes. Abbot Benedict, he protested somewhat strong, but t'was to no avail. As soon as the people heard... well, you know how the folk are about a hangin'. An' as all the world knows, gossip an' rumor flies longer an' faster than geese to a hard winter's haven.'' 

Cathelin nodded. Her people worked hard throughout the year just to survive. They'd take any excuse to stop their labors and have a festival, and a hanging - for whatever reason - was considered quite a treat. She did not condone such a party atmosphere, however. The application of justice was, and always should be, an occasion for solemnity and prayer. Cathelin made a mental note to have her kerns disperse the crowd in the outer courtyard. 

Just as she opened her mouth to ask another question, Cathelin heard a familiar voice coming from the kitchen, and she recognized it as Madrigal's. 

''Here,'' Cathelin heard her say, ''Why do you not rest awhile, James? I can finish the pastry.'' 

Shevaughn's black eyes widened and she flung out her hands at the look on Cathelin's face. ''Nay!'' she stammered, ''The lass is fine, I swear it! Only, wee Madrigal was tired o' sittin' all day, an' anyhow t'is no healthy for a bearing woman to be layin' about so, an'...'' Shevaughn's voice trailed off as Cathelin spun about on one heel and left the cold room. 

The Hearth Chief wiped her suddenly sweaty brow with the back of a hand. Well-a-day, she thought, I've rarely seen Herself in such a mood... Then her eyes widened again. "Sweet Jesus!" she said to herself as she grabbed her skirts in both hands and ponderously hurried from the room, "I'd best get there afore the Lady's spleen kills wee Madrigal!" 

However, as Shevaughn rounded the corner, she slowed her pace, for she could hear that she was already too late. 

''WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT OF BED?'' Cathelin roared. 

All was utter silence in the kitchen as the echoes of the enraged Lady's shout rolled back from the walls. 

Madrigal laid aside the rolling pin and dusted her floury hands on her skirts. ''I am well, Lady,'' she replied respectfully. ''There is no need to be concerned.'' Although outwardly she appeared calm, Madrigal's stomach fluttered with anxiety. 

Cathelin was not going to be so easily appeased. ''Did not Brother Ignatius himself tell you to stay a-bed? Did not I tell you to stay a-bed? St. Brigit, I'm gone only a few days, and my home is turned arse-over-crown, my chatelaine's about to be hung, and I find you in the kitchen laborin' like a common chop slut!'' 

Before Madrigal could reply, she found herself scooped up in Cathelin's arms, the Lady muttering, ''Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Madri! Stayin' off your feet you should be. No, not a word!'' Cathelin commanded. ''I'll not hear excuses. Back to bed you go!'' 

Madrigal put her arms around her Lady's neck as she was carried up the stairs. Part of her was still upset over having been caught disobeying orders, but another part marveled at the ease with which the extraordinarily muscular Lady was able to bear her weight up the stairs without even breathing hard. 

Cathelin kicked the door of the master's chambers open with her foot and stood there a moment, staring. Becca was seated cross-legged on the floor, sharpening a knife. When she saw the Lady, she immediately leaped up and bowed. ''G-g-good afternoon, Lady,'' the astonished kern stuttered. ''Was your trip well?'' she continued lamely, as Cathelin's scorching gaze swept her from heel to crown. 

Finally, Cathelin grunted, ''Well enough,'' and strode over to the bed, laying Madrigal down gently. ''Now, p'raps you'll explain whyfor I see you sittin' on your poxy, lazy arse instead of stayin' with Madri as you were ordered?,'' the Irishwoman asked Becca, who flushed. 

''Well,'' Becca said sheepishly, ''I thought with Sorcha taken and all, t'would be safe.'' 

Cathelin's lips tightened. ''Oh. You were thinkin' again,'' she replied scathingly. ''T'is a bad habit for a soldier. Might get you deaded someday.'' 

Becca flushed again, the scar across her face silvery-white in contrast. ''Aye, Lady,'' she said, bowing her head. ''I am in the wrong. I should not have disobeyed.'' She sank to one knee, preparing to formally offer her apologies, when Cathelin stopped her with an upraised hand. 

''I've no time for this now. Get you downstairs and fetch Master McLeod and the senschal. And you're to tell them both that there's to be no hanging until I've sorted this bloody great mess out myself.'' 

Gratefully, Becca rose and pelted out of the room. 

Cathelin sank down on the edge of the bed next to Madrigal. ''And as for you,'' she began, but was interrupted by a small moan. 

Madrigal had one hand pressed to her swollen belly, and her eyes were closed. Hastily, Cathelin leaned over and asked, ''Sweetling? Are you all right?'' 

A moment passed before the Muslim could answer. ''Yes,'' she finally answered. ''The child does well. Only...'' 

''Only?'' 

Madrigal chuckled at the anxious expression on her Lady's face. ''Only he is very vigorous, this one! I think he finds his room too small and wishes to enlarge his quarters by kicking down the walls.'' 

''Oh.'' Cathelin sat back, relieved. ''Well, then... will you promise me to stay in bed, Madri?'' she asked. ''You should not be running about.'' 

Madrigal sighed and interrupted. ''I must,'' she replied. ''The holy man is a marvelous healer, Lady, but he does not know much of woman's matters. I was a slave in the household of a physician; I have also been in the seraglio, where there were others who were both carrying and birthing children. My child is well, and grows strong; my ribs have healed, as has my head. Truly,'' she continued plaintively, ''if I stay here much longer, Lady, forgive me but I will go mad!'' 

Cathelin thought about that for a minute, then said resignedly, ''All right. BUT -,'' she continued sternly, despite the happy smile on Madrigal's sweet face, ''No heavy laboring. No going down those stairs alone. And if you feel tired, Madri, for God's sake, rest!'' 

Madrigal's dark purple eyes were shining. ''Yes, Lady,'' she replied, then much to Cathelin's consternation, swung her legs off the bed and rose. ''May I go back to the kitchens now?'' 

The Irishwoman sighed at the thought of all those steps, then reached out and dusted a smear of flour from the other woman's nose. ''Aye,'' Cathelin said reluctantly, ''but wait until Becca returns. I've must bespeak Wolf and Drury, and sort out all this hanging business.'' 

Becca returned shortly, accompanied by the tall seneschal and the smaller but bulkier warrior. Wolf nodded politely both at Cathelin and Madrigal, but Drury was twisting his loaf-shaped hat in both hands, obviously nervous. 

As Becca escorted Madrigal out of the room, Cathelin said, ''Well? Why is Sorcha to be hung? A man outside told me she was thought to be a witch, of all things. What, in Sweet Jesus' name, is going on?'' 

Drury looked expectantly at Wolf, then his shoulders sagged when he realized that he would have to be the one to explain. ''Lady Cathelin,'' the seneschal said, ''the kern Becca Half-Tongue overheard Sorcha make a remark about 'her Lord;' she seemed to imply that he would be revengin' her grievances - treason against you, Lady. So Master McLeod questioned her; she refused to tell us who this 'Lord' is, or what his plans are, but confessed to greasin' the step to kill Madrigal. So...'' He spread his hands helplessly. ''I ordered her hangin'.'' 

''I see.'' Cathelin crossed her legs and laced her fingers together over one knee. ''And you, Wolf? Have you nothing to say?'' 

The warrior's blue eyes stared into Cathelin's amber without flinching. ''Aye,'' he replied, ''I suspected th' wench from most th' start, as did yerself. This 'Lord' business chills my bones, but I would nae order torture, since ye'd fain made yer feelin's on that subject clear.'' 

Cathelin nodded. She could not condone torture; despite her initial rage at Madrigal's near-fatal accident, if she could have laid hands on Sorcha at that very moment, the worst she may have done would have been to kill her quickly. In Outremer, she'd lost her stomach for such bloody work. ''Where is she?'' Cathelin asked. 

''Locked in a storeroom, Lady,'' Drury said. 

Cathelin rose and removed the silver brooch that pinned her cloak to one shoulder, allowing the garment to slip to the floor. ''Take me to her,'' the Irishwoman ordered, amber eyes glittering. ''I must speak to her afore orderin' any hangings, today or any day.'' 

Both men bowed their heads in acknowledgement, then silently, led their Lady to the place where the chatelaine of Inishowen, Sorcha O'Reilly, awaited Cathelin's judgement... and her own fate. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Sorcha was defiant. ''So,'' she sneered, ''T'is the mistress herself come to pay a call. Well, Lady, had I known you'd be visitin' my humble dwellin's, I'd have laid out the Cloth of State.'' Her waved hand indicated the bare storeroom, holding only a rope cot, a chamberpot and a small, rickety table. 

Cathelin sighed and motioned for Wolf and Michael Drury to leave her alone with the blonde chatelaine. After the two men left, shutting the door behind them, Cathelin crossed her arms over her chest. ''Sorcha,'' she asked sorrowfully, ''why?'' 

''Why did I try an' kill your little slavey?'' Sorcha replied sarcastically, defiant although her hands twisted the folds of her skirt into a knot. ''P'raps only because she was there. T'is quite blood mad I am, as all the world knows.'' 

''Nay, Sorchi-fach,'' Cathelin said, using the other woman's childhood nickname, ''I want to know the truth. What did Madri do to you that makes you hate her so?'' 

Sorcha's green eyes were brilliant with hatred; she had refused to explain to Drury or McLeod, but now that Cathelin was here - Well, t'is best I get my vengeance where and how I can. 

''I despise that bit of heathen trash you keep for the warmin' of your bed, Cat,'' Sorcha said angrily. ''Aye, I beat her afore, did you not know that? Quite a few of the marks on her back were made by my own hand. An' then, what do you do save make her think she's as good as the rest of us... Fah!'' She spat, the gobbet of spittle just missing Cathelin's boot. ''Takin' up with some poxy foreign whore when...'' She stopped abruptly and turned away. 

Cathelin moved closer to the other woman. ''When what, Sorcha?'' she asked. 

For a long moment, Sorcha said nothing, just stared into space. Then, as if entranced, she replied softly, ''...when you could have had me.'' 

Cathelin was stunned. She and Sorcha were distant kin, and despite the fact that the blood between them was not close, she'd never considered that the blonde woman had any feelings for her other than familial ones. ''Sorchi-fach - I sorrow that you feel this way, but why did you not tell me? We could have...'' 

Sorcha's shoulders quivered as she struggled to control her bile. ''Nay,'' she interrupted. ''You are still blind. I never loved you. NEVER. You were the golden child, the favored one, always havin' anythin' you wanted. An' me? I was nothin' more than a servant, tho' one of the blood. Oh, I wanted you, t'is true. But only on count of you could give me more than I had. I wanted to be a grand lady, an' you could have given me that. But then, t'was givin' it all to your precious slavey you were. I wanted her dead, Cat. Both for the insult an' to hurt you as well.'' 

Cathelin's face was grim as a thought struck her. ''Sorcha, how did Francis learn of my father's illness?'' 

The blonde chatelaine whirled around. ''Why, for that I wrote an' told him myself,'' she replied with malicious glee. ''I'd hoped you dead in Outremer, an' Lord Westfield was quite grateful.'' She ran her tongue along her lips. ''He was a far better lover than you'd have been, an' gave me more besides.'' 

Cathelin felt sick. She'd wondered how Francis had found out about Sir Giles' sickness... now she knew. It had been Sorcha who had betrayed Inishowen to Francis' greed. ''Do you know what you have done?'' she asked. ''T'was bad enough to have tried to murder Madri, but this...? T'is no less than treason, and you know full well the penalty for that.'' 

Sorcha said nothing. She held her head high and stared at Cathelin with nothing but hatred, anger, frustrated ambition and insane envy glowing in her lambent green eyes. 

''Who is this Lord you spoke of in the kitchens, Sorchi-fach?'' Cathelin asked, wondering what else this women she had once trusted had done. ''What have you knitted up now? Another plot?'' 

''I'll say no more, Cat,'' Sorcha replied. ''That secret dies with me.'' 

''I could have you tortured, you know,'' Cathelin said. She walked to the other woman and gently took one of her hands. ''Tell me, kinswoman. Tell me what this means, and I promise to spare your life. Otherwise...'' 

Sorcha knew that Lord Francis would not be coming to her rescue. She had already resigned herself to her fate; death held no fear for her anymore. At first, she had wept and stormed and railed, but now, she was determined to protect her betrothed Lord to the grave. ''Torture me then, Cat,'' she said defiantly. ''Bring on the rack, the whips, the screws. I'll not betray my Lord, no matter what you do.'' 

Cathelin flushed. Although Inishowen's dungeons were filled with the equipment necessary for torture, they had not been used in decades. In truth, she was filled more with sorrow and pity than anger. Sorcha had always been discontented with her lot; Cathelin felt guilty that she had not noticed how the discontent and envy had turned to bitterness. ''No,'' she whispered, ''I cannot. I will not. Sorchi- fach, if you'll not tell me, I cannot force you.'' 

Sorcha sneered, ''No stomach for it then? I never took you for a coward, Cat, but I'm supposin' things can change.'' 

Cathelin tasted bitter bile in the back of her throat. ''So, you'd rather die than betray yet again? I find that passing strange, but no matter. God will judge you, Sorcha, not I.'' 

Cathelin turned to go, then stopped with her hand on the latch. Without turning around, she said, ''I'll have Father Paul come to take your confession. Make a full one, Sorchi-fach, and be shriven for your sins. You've left me small choice. Come the dawn, I must order your hanging.'' 

Sorcha hid her trembling fists in the folds of her skirts as Cathelin left and the door banged inexorably shut behind her. 

Madrigal hurried down the hall as quickly as she could despite her somewhat waddling gait. She'd heard that her Lady had confirmed Drury's orders for Sorcha's hanging. Allah!, the slave thought, barely acknowledging the nods from other servants she passed. She has ordered the death of kin! 

Cathelin had shut herself up in her father's office and refused to see anyone for any reason. She was in a savage temper; Michael Drury had already felt the stinging lash of her tongue and had fled in terror. Madrigal knew her Lady needed her, felt this knowledge in her bones, and hastened to answer the call. 

Reaching the door, Madrigal took a moment to smooth her hair and brush off her skirts. Then she diffidently knocked, calling softly, ''Lady? May I enter?'' 

There was silence, then Cathelin's voice croaked, ''Nay, Madri. Go on, then. I'll be calling if I need anything.'' 

Madrigal laid her face against the door. ''Please, Lady... let me in,'' she pleaded. 

Abruptly, the door opened and Madrigal nearly lost her balance, but Cathelin's strong arm caught her and put her back upright. The Muslim gasped at the sight of Cathelin's red rimmed eyes, elf-locked hair, and pale face. It was obvious that her Lady was in distress, and Madrigal ached to comfort her. 

''Lady,'' Madrigal began, but was interrupted. ''Go on, Madri,'' Cathelin said not ungently, ''Go help Shevaughn or Meagan. Or practice your song. Go on now, sweetling. I need to be alone.'' 

She started to shut the door, but Madrigal prevented it by shoving her full belly in the gap. As Cathelin's brows drew together in a frown, Madrigal laid a hand on her arm. ''Please, Lady,'' the dark-haired woman said, ''Let me in.'' 

Cathelin sucked in a breath, then released it in a sigh. She opened the door wider and motioned for Madrigal to come into the room. 

As the door closed behind her, Madrigal turned to face her Lady. ''I have heard that you have ordered Mistress Sorcha to be hanged.'' 

Cathelin sat down on a cushioned bench and leaned forward, hands dangling between her knees. ''Aye,'' she replied heavily. ''And aye, again. God knows I do not wish it... She hurt you, Madri, and I could not have forgiven her for that, but... Treason is treason, even if she is of the blood; she betrayed my father as well, and tried to steal a birthright that is not lawfully hers. I could have her quartered for it, or broken on the rack - I'd be within my rights as lord of this demense - but hanging... t'is swift enough, I think.'' 

Madrigal sat down beside Cathelin on the bench. ''This decision must have been very difficult for you, Lady.'' 

''Difficult? Ah, well, it could be put that way, I suppose.'' Cathelin's mouth worked a moment, then tears shimmered in her amber eyes. ''I'm at least in part to blame for this, Madri. I've known Sorcha since we were children. She's always envied me my place. Father thought by making her chatelaine, t'would be reward and rank enough.'' 

Madrigal scooted closer to Cathelin and laid her head on the other woman's shoulder. ''Envy is never satisfied, Lady,'' she answered, entwining her fingers with Cathelin's. ''Had you provided Mistress Sorcha with the moon and all the stars, she would have asked why you did not give her the mountains and seas as well.'' 

Cathelin chuckled in spite of her tears. ''You've the right of that, but still. T'is a hard thing, Madri, knowing that someone will die, and that by your own word and command. Oh, Sorchi-fach,'' she said softly, ''had I only known.'' 

Cathelin began to cry in earnest, guilt and sorrow etching her soul like acid. She felt Madrigal's arms encircle her, pulling her head down to the a soft breast, and felt the other woman's warm, firm belly pressing against her. Cathelin wept, tears of pity and rue, and Madrigal held her as if she were a child, rocking her gently and stroking her back. 

Eventually, through the boundless agony in her soul, Cathelin was startled to hear a familiar song. Her hands tightened their grip in Madrigal's skirts as the slave sang a soft Arabic cradlesong. 

Cathelin's head snapped up. Her face was shiny with tears, but her eyes glowed. ''Madri?,'' she asked, ''T'was you?'' T'was you who chased away my nightmares, she added silently, not daring to ask aloud. Your voice and your song that have helped me forget Acre. In my dreams, I saw Irizin, but it was always you.

Madrigal smiled shyly, then wiped her Lady's face with her hand. ''Yes,'' she replied simply. ''The Horse of Evening Ill often plagues you. I have tried to help.'' 

''Oh, Madri,'' Cathelin whispered, ''I never knew.'' She buried her face against Madrigal's neck, breathing the spicy scent of her blue-black hair. ''Thank you, sweetling,'' she murmured, ''without you...'' 

Madrigal placed on hand on the back of Cathelin's head and stroked her hair. ''It was my duty, Lady, and my pleasure.'' 

Cathelin sat up a bit, her face very close to Madrigal's. ''You mean so much to me, Madri,'' she said softly, searching the other woman's dark purple eyes with her own. ''I...'' She broke off, unable to continue, and began to cry again as sorrow welled up within her; first Sorcha, now Madrigal and Irizin... It was too much. 

Madrigal held her Lady, pulling her face down again, crooning softly as Cathelin desperately whispered through her tears of another land, another time... and a woman named Irizin. 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"I was young, so young and full of myself, a soldier of God in King Richard's army,'' Cathelin said softly, voice raw from weeping. ''There was a village near where we camped. I would go there sometimes in the dawning to watch the women draw water from the well. 

''They were so graceful, Madri, in their robes and veils, balancing clay jars on their shoulders, scooping clean water from the well in the lavender-gray light of early morning. They were more beautiful than anything I've ever known - and one was more beautiful than the rest. 

''Her name was Irizin, and the headman of the village was her master. Irizin was one of his concubines, but the first time I saw her, my heart was no more my own and I knew I could not rest until she became mine alone.'' 

Cathelin stopped as she remembered that morning, the first morning when she had realized that the flashing black eyes above the light veil that shielded Irizin's features were staring back at her... 

The Irishwoman sighed, and continued, ''Oh, I'd been in love before, Madri. Or at least I'd thought so. But Irizin was different. Soon, she began bidding me good morning. How daring her actions were, I did not understand at the time. I truly did not know, but ignorance is no excuse - I am as much to blame for her fate as any other. 

''Soon enough, we were doing more than bidding on another 'Good morrow.' Irizin would slip out of the seraglio at night and visit my tent; our sentries knew, of course, but that sort of thing was winked at. She was so beautiful, Madri. All fire and grace and beauty; I was out of my mind with love, and I begged her to stay with me. I had some wild notion, you see, that I could bring her back to Ireland... I was a fool,'' Cathelin said bitterly. 

Madrigal said nothing; she had already guessed the ending of the tale, and her heart ached for both the Lady and her lover. She held Cathelin, silently offering support, as the Irishwoman continued. 

''Well, I suppose the headman must have been suspicious. Irizin - she told me about the harem. All of it, Madri, and all of what I heard made me burn. I wanted to take her away from the pain, the slavery, the humiliation. Did you know she was circumcised?'' 

Madrigal closed her eyes. It was common in the East for a concubine to have her clitoris cut away; this was felt to guarantee faithfulness to her Lord and master. The circumcision of females was, thank Allah, something Madrigal had never had to endure herself, although she had known those who had been mutilated in that fashion. 

But Cathelin was continuing, ''The first time I saw her...'' She gulped. ''I was shocked. I could not believe - and then I was so very angry, Madri; I wanted to take up the sword and paint the village red with the headman's blood. But Irizin was not bitter; she told me it was Allah's will, and although I did not truly believe she could be so complacent about it, I laid my anger aside. 

''Then... well, I was a puffed-up peacock, Madri, so sure of myself - until I came out of my tent one morning and found Irizin there...'' 

Madrigal listened as Cathelin told her what she had seen. Irizin had been beaten savagely; the concubine was covered in blood, and there were signs of torture on her body. Her face had been left untouched as a final blow. Cathelin saw a bloody, mangled wreck of a human being, and it bore Irizin's face. 

Irizin had been alive, although just barely. She had died in Cathelin's arms, unable to respond to the other woman's desperate pleas. 

''I went mad,'' Cathelin said dully. ''I was prevented from killing the headman only by the direct command of the King. So, a few days later when Acre fell, I took up my sword with a vengeance.'' 

Madrigal caressed Cathelin's back as a flood of jangled, horrible details about the battle poured from her. Cathelin's voice was a hoarse croak by the time she'd finished. 

''I did not want to live, truly,'' Cathelin whispered. ''I took my leave of the King; he dismissed me from service - and I went to the headman's house. I took him out in the desert, Madri - and I made sure he was three days dying. For four years after that, I wandered through Outremer. Half mad I was, or more than half, drunk on blood and the sound of his screams, and Irizin's face, until I met a monk named Father Timothy. 

''T'was Father Timothy who helped me. He'd been a Crusader his own self, afore God called him to higher service. He listened, he understood, and he helped me understand that I was not a monster. And he gave me penance, which I sorely needed. I'd a goodly deal of gold and such from the siege; Father Timothy helped me send the bulk of it to the headman's family, to atone in part for their father's murder. The rest I've used for my own people's welfare; Father Timothy would take none himself.'' 

Madrigal nodded. Such holy men in her own land wandered from village to village, helping the less fortunate and doing Allah's will. She knew many stories about such saints; she had no doubt that her suffering Lady had been visited by one of the Christian angels, or perhaps by one of Allah's own angelic servants. 

Cathelin sighed. ''Ever since, I've been plagued with nightmares about that time, Madri. I thought it was a punishment from God for my sins. But...,'' She raised her head and looked deeply into Madrigal's eyes, ''now I understand more clearly. God sent you to me, sweetling. I'm as sure of this as I'm sure of my own name. And I will spend the rest of my life taking care of you. I swear it.'' 

Madrigal's heart nearly stopped and her dark purple eyes widened. ''No, Lady,'' she said desperately, ''You must not say such things...'' 

Cathelin smiled. ''Sweetling,'' she said, stroking Madrigal's cheek, ''I cannot forget Irizin - I never will. But I believe God has taken pity on me at last, for did He not send you to me?'' 

Madrigal shook her head. This was wrong. She was a slave, a servant, and Cathelin a great noblewoman. ''Lady, I...'' 

Cathelin leaned forward, the bulging curve of Madrigal's belly pressing into her own flat stomach. ''Ah, sweetling,'' she said, amber eyes soft, ''don't fret so. I... I love you, Madri. I need you, like song and wine and air. I love you,'' she whispered, eyes wide and wondering, and her lips captured Madrigal's in a gentle kiss.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Madrigal was stunned. She could not move, could not breathe, as her Lady kissed her; not with passion, but with infinite tenderness and care. 

Involuntarily, Madrigal's hands slid to Cathelin's broad shoulders... then she turned her head away with a gasp. ''Please, Lady,'' she said shakily, ''I am too far below you...'' 

Cathelin chuckled. ''Nay, sweetling. At the moment, you're in exactly the right place for me to kiss you again.'' 

Madrigal put one hand across Cathelin's lips. ''Lady,'' she said seriously, ''I am a slave. It is not proper to love such as I; I am too humble, my station does not equal yours. It would be an embarassment to you, a humiliation, and I do not wish you to be harmed on my account.'' 

Cathelin slid off the bench and knelt before Madrigal. She felt as if a gigantic burden had been lifted from her shoulders; despite the lingering sorrow over Sorcha, despite her regret and guilt over Irizin... she knew this was right. Madrigal had helped to heal her as much as Father Timothy, but what she felt was not only gratitude. Cathelin realized that she had begun to love - truly love - Madrigal for some time; she had just not admitted it to herself until a few moments ago. 

''Sweetling,'' Cathelin said, ''if I wished to take a sheep into my bed, my own folk would keep their wagging tongues to themselves. I've a fierce reputation, you know, and I give not a broken reed for the opinions of strangers.'' 

Then a thought struck her. ''Madri,'' she asked anxiously, ''I don't wish you to feel you have to do this. True, I love you, but if you feel you cannot... you are NOT a slave. You're free to do as you please. I'll not force you into something...'' 

Madrigal interrupted. ''And since I am free, as you say - what if I wished to tell you no?'' 

Cathelin bit her lip. ''As I said, I'll not force you. Oh, I'll woo you a-plenty, sweetling, if you've a mind to accept such. But if you absolutely want me to let you be, I will.'' 

Cathelin held her breath as she waited for Madrigal's reply. 

Madrigal was carefully examining her own feelings. She greatly respected and admired her Lady, that was true. But love... with a growing sense of disbelief, Madrigal realized that she had come to love her Lady with more than a servant's devotion. 

I am happy when she is happy, Madrigal thought. If I were able, I would take all her burdens on myself, to spare her the load. When she holds me in her arms, I have never felt safer or more cherished in my life. When she touches me, I feel the stirrings of feelings I did not know I possessed. When she is gone, it is as if a part of myself is gone as well.

If this is love, she thought, disbelief turning into wonder, then I, too, am caught in its weaving. 

Madrigal made a decision; it was not an easy one. All her life, she had obeyed the commands of others, but this woman, her own Lady, waited patiently, not pressing or demanding, for her to make up her own mind. At the urging of her heart, Madrigal surrendered. 

''Lady,'' she said at last, reaching out one hand to touch Cathelin's face, ''I... I love you as well. I am still a little unquiet in my heart of hearts, but perhaps with time, that will pass.'' Seeing Cathelin's eyes fill with tears of anguish, Madrigal hastened to explain, ''I was raised a slave, Lady. It is all the life I have ever known. It is difficult for me to overlook the difference in our stations, but I do love you. And I need you as well. Come - let me show you.'' 

Madrigal took Cathelin's hands in her own and gently tugged the other woman back to the bench. This time, it was Madrigal who leaned forward and kissed Cathelin, delicately running her tongue along the other woman's lower lip, wanting to invoke the passion she knew lay just beneath the surface of Cathelin's tenderness. 

Cathelin pressed herself against Madrigal as tightly as she dared, her mind reeling; the scent of the Muslim's hair, the softness of the body that touched her own, nearly overwhelmed her. But she was careful; she controlled herself, not wanting to hurt Madrigal or the child she carried. 

Madrigal's eyes were closed, but she felt her Lady's mouth open against her own, strong hands touching her back with infinite care. Madrigal explored Cathelin's mouth, tongue fluttering and sliding, her own hands pressed against her Lady's face. 

Finally, when both women were out of breath, they parted, although Madrigal kept her hands on Cathelin's cheeks. 

Cathelin blew out a breath and smiled radiantly. ''Well... if that's how you feel when you're unquiet, sweetling, I'd better start eating liver and such, to store up 'gainst the time when your confidence grows.'' 

Madrigal returned her Lady's smile, pleased she had been able to give her happiness again. ''I am content,'' she answered simply, then rose with a slight grunt. ''Please, Lady,'' she said, holding out a hand, ''come lie with me.'' 

Cathelin leaped to her feet. ''Are you sure, sweetling?,'' she asked nervously, ''What with the babe and all - well, I'm of a mind to rather wait until the child is born for that, if it's all the same to you. Not that I find you undesirable as you are,'' she explained hastily, ''but I don't want to hurt you, or him besides.'' 

Madrigal laughed. ''I understand. Then will you sleep with me again? I miss you in the bed, Lady.'' When Cathelin started to demur, Madrigal replied, ''You will not hurt me. Please, Lady. Will you do this thing? It will give me great comfort.'' 

Against that argument, Cathelin had no defense. She bent over and kissed Madrigal's swollen belly. ''As you wish, sweetling. But - t'is back to the cot I'll be going if you wish it. And don't be shy about telling me, Madri. God knows I've never borne a babe myself, but I've heard stories.'' 

Madrigal smiled and laced her arm through Cathelin's. ''Do not fear, Lady,'' she answered. ''As I said... I am content.'' 

Cathelin escorted her love from the room, the Irishwoman's heart feeling much lighter than it had been; Madrigal feeling as if she had begun to stretch her wings, and for the first time in her remembered life, cherished the heady sensation of true freedom. 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

When Madrigal woke the next morning, Cathelin was gone. Quickly, the Muslim donned a dress and with considerable effort, managed to pull on a pair of soft house shoes. 

Twisting up her blue-black hair as she hurried down the hall, Madrigal met Becca, who was coming heavily up the stairs. ''What is it?'' Madrigal asked, spotting the worried look on the kern's face. 

Becca replied, ''Lady Cathelin sent me to tell you to stay within. She doesn't want you seeing this. Sorcha's about to be hung and the Lady's up on the battlements with McLeod and Drury and Father Paul.'' 

Madrigal hesitated; on the one hand, she felt that she must obey this order - and on the other hand, she desperately wanted to be at her Lady's side during this ordeal. Madrigal thought furiously, and made her decision. If she was truly free, as her Lady had said, then she should act on her heart, not on the blind obedience that had been ingrained within her. 

''Please. Take me to her,'' Madrigal asked. 

Becca shook her head. ''Nay, lass,'' she answered, ''I'll do no such thing. I'd end up swinging right alongside Sorcha, and no mistake.'' 

Madrigal laid her hand on the other woman's arm. ''Please?'' she asked. ''The Lady needs me - and I wish to be with her.'' 

Becca sighed and rolled her brown eyes. ''Oh, all right,'' she conceded, ''I'll take you up. But I'm expectin' you'll shed a few tears when Lady Cathelin tears out my guts for harpstrings, truly.'' 

Madrigal gave the kern a reassuring smile. ''I am sure she will not mind.'' 

Becca took Madrigal by the arm and led her to a narrow, inner staircase that accessed the roof of the castle, muttering, ''Aye, she says t'will be all right, but she's never seen the Cat in a temper. St. Brigit protect me!'' 

By the time they had wound their way around the stone spiral staircase, Madrigal was out of breath and her back was aching. They paused at the door a moment, Becca asking anxiously, ''Are you all right? Shall I fetch one of the men to carry you?'' 

Madrigal struggled to control her breathing and finally, the tight pain in her ribs eased. ''No, I am well,'' she said, ''Let us go on.'' 

The day was overcast, although the sun peeked bravely through the dark, sullen clouds that littered the sky. A chill wind whipped across the battlements, snapping and fluttering the pennants that reared on poles above the towers. 

Madrigal shivered a little. She should have thought to bring a shawl, but had been in too much of a hurry. 

Cathelin was standing with Wolf McLeod and Michael Drury. The old priest, Father Paul, was administering the Last Rites to doomed Sorcha. The chatelaine stood bravely, the rope already about her neck, blonde braids hanging on either side of her pale face. Her hands had not been bound; this had been at her own request. 

Becca escorted Madrigal to Cathelin, mentally praying to St. Brigit, the Virgin Mary and any other saint who might be listening to spare her the Lady's wrath. 

Madrigal reached out and touched Cathelin's arm; the Irishwoman jumped a little, then turned her head. Her amber eyes widened when she spotted Madrigal. 

''What are you doing here, sweetling?'' Cathelin said in a low tone, not wanting to interrupt the priest's droning Latin prayers. ''I thought I told Becca...'' 

The curly-mopped kern backed away slowly, hoping to get out of her Lady's sight before she was spotted.

Madrigal caught Cathelin's attention before her Lady could spy the sheepish soldier. ''I wanted to be with you,'' she said. ''I did not want you to face this alone.'' 

Cathelin sighed, shaking her head, then opened her cloak and drew the smaller woman against her side, covering Madrigal with the thick wool. ''Madri, I would wish you not to do this. Hanging's not a pretty death. But if you insist, I'll allow it. Just please - if you feel faint, tell me.'' 

Madrigal nodded, insinuating herself beneath Cathelin's arm, her sweet face poking out of the front of the cloak. She put her arm around the taller woman's waist and looked up at her. 

Cathelin's dark red hair was held back from her face by a leather band, then allowed to fall unhindered down her back nearly to her knees. She wore her full regalia as an Irish chieftain - a pair of silver earrings set with amber, a heavily carved torc around her neck. Around her eyes, blue woad had been dappled in a cat pattern that to Madrigal, made her Lady seem to be a figure of legend come to life. 

Beneath the cloak, Cathelin wore a black tunic covered in crimson and gold knotwork, black trews, and crimson boots. Besides the torc, she also wore a crucifix on a long silver chain, and a scarlet baldric stretched from shoulder to hip, bearing the phoenix insignia of her family, the black sun on its field of gold that was her personal standard, and a red cross on a white background, signifying her status as a former Crusader. 

Father Paul finished, making the sign of the cross above Sorcha's forehead. The blonde chatelaine's eyes looked out over the crowd that had gathered in the outer courtyard, seeking one face in particular. 

This crowd was a more seemly lot than they had been before; there was none of the festival air that had offended Cathelin before. Instead, the people were somber and grave, for the Lady had caused it to be known that if any of the spectators became unruly, they would be summarily ejected, if not punished themselves. The presence of her fully armed kerns around the fringes of the assembly made it clear that she was not to be denied in this command. 

Sorcha's green eyes locked on a ragtag figure who stood shoulder to shoulder with a group of peasant farmers. Even from this distance, she could pick out the figure of Lord Francis, and took an odd sort of comfort in knowing that her betrothed would watch her die. 

The rope around her neck was of twisted hemp and scratched her delicate skin. Sorcha clenched her fists into her skirts and forced her trembling knees to be steady. She would be damned if she would show fear now. 

Cathelin drew off her cloak and tucked it around Madrigal. Then she strode forward into the sunlight to stand in front of Sorcha. ''T'is not too late, kinswoman,'' Cathelin said gravely. ''Confess to me the name and deeds of the one you call the 'Lord' and you can be saved yet. Come, Sorchi-fach, I've no wish for you to die. Mayhap exile, but surely you've other kin who'll take you in.'' 

Sorcha's mouth worked a moment, then she spat full into Cathelin's face. ''A pox on you and your mercy!,'' she cried. ''Know that I die this day filled with nothing but hate for you and your leman! My curse on you and all you have or own. May you rot in Hell, Cathelin O'Cameron, and I pray to the Dark Ones that you'll never have a moment's peace or happiness till my Lord and my death are revenged!'' Her voice rose into a high-pitched shriek that cut across the wind like a bean-sidhe's wail. 

Cathelin wiped the spittle from her face with a shaking hand. Taking a deep breath, she said, ''So be it,'' and stepped up between two of the massive stone blocks that lined the top of the roof like blunted teeth.

''Inishowen!'' Cathelin shouted, and every eye in the outer courtyard turned towards the figure of their Lady. She continued in a clear voice that had been trained to carry across a battlefield, ''I call ye forth to witness! Sorcha O'Reilly, chatelaine and kinswoman of the O'Camerons, has been adjudged guilty of treason. Her crimes were that she betrayed Inishowen to the usurper, Lord Francis Westfield; and further, that she attempted the life of one of our own. For that, I have ordered her life be forfeit; this day, she shall hang, and may God Almighty have mercy upon her soul.'' 

All below crossed their breasts piously as Sorcha was helped up to the Hangman's Leap - a single rectangular block of stone that jutted out from the battlements like a stunted finger. The other end of the rope had been fastened an iron staple set directly into the stone; when she jumped, or was pushed, she would fall directly above the outer courtyard - the height was more than sufficient to guarantee an instantly broken neck. 

Cathelin nodded, and pipers began to blow a plaintive melody; it was a lorica, or prayer of protection, and as they played, everyone began to chant softly in time to the music. 

''God with me lying down, God with me sleeping. 
Evil be far from my sleeping and dreaming. 
The cross of Brigit be under my feet, 
the mantle of Mary about my shoulders, 
the protection of Michael over me, taking my hand, 
and in my heart, the peace of the Son of Grace. 
If malice should threaten my life 
then the Strong Son of God between me and evil. 
From tonight till a year from tonight, 
and this very night, and for ever, and for eternity. 
Amen.'' 

There was absolute silence as the wailing of the pipes took a more martial air and a drummer began the beat. Sorcha stood still on the Leap, skirts whipped by the chill wind, and kept her own eyes on Lord Francis'. 

Finally, Cathelin nodded again, the muscles in her jaw rippling beneath the skin. Wolf McLeod approached the Leap and prepared to vault up to the finger of stone, but he was stopped by Sorcha. 

''Nay, whore's dog,'' she said to the warrior proudly, ''ye'll not be sendin' me down. My Lord, I kept your faith. Avenge me!'' she continued loudly enough to be heard, and closing her eyes, stepped off the Leap and into space. 

The snapping of Sorcha's neck was shockingly audible. 

Cathelin stood stock still, her lips drawn into a tight line. She waited while Sorcha's body was hauled up, and her kerns began to disperse the folk in the outer courtyard. One of the young priests from the abbey, Father Reuben, had come to bear witness for Abbott Benedict; he threw a length of clean white linen over Sorcha's twisted features after she was laid down on the roof stones. 

Cathelin walked over to the corpse of the one she had called her kinswoman, then knelt down and softly kissed Sorcha's forehead. ''God will judge you, Sorchi-fach,'' she whispered, ''for I cannot.'' 

Then she stood and went back to her place on the wall. ''Inishowen!'' she cried, ''I have called ye forth to the place of execution to witness justice! Look upon this work, and remember this day - the law shall not be broken!'' 

There was a roar of approval from the folk who were being herded out of the gates, and from Cathelin's kerns, and the castle folk who had stopped their duties to watch the rare execution. 

As everyone went about their duties, gossiping and chatting, Cathelin walked back to Madrigal. Her face was stony, her amber eyes dull, and her breath came in harsh gasps. 

Madrigal immediately hurried over, and reached the Irishwoman just as she thudded to her knees, face buried in her hands, keening in a high-pitched wail. 

Wolf McLeod, Michael Drury and the others quietly carried Sorcha's body away on a litter to prepare her for burial. Cathelin reached up blindly and buried her face in Madrigal's skirts, sobbing uncontrollably. 

Madrigal put both hands on her Lady's head and spread her legs apart for balance as the Irishwoman wept... 

At last, the storm of weeping eased. Cathelin raised her face; streaks of woad ran down like a jester's face paint. ''Oh, Madri,'' she whimpered, ''what have I done?'' 

Madrigal had closed her eyes when Sorcha had leaped; she had not watched the body being drawn up. She understood the burden her Lady was under - as the mistress of Inishowen's domain, justice and the keeping of the law were in her hands. Truthfully, Madrigal was somewhat relieved at Sorcha's death; that woman had been the cause of a great many of her hurts, and the former slave felt she had gotten only what she deserved. 

''Lady,'' Madrigal asked, ''did not Mistress Sorcha break your laws?'' 

Cathelin nodded dumbly. 

''And did she not betray your father, and yourself?,'' Madrigal continued. 

Again, Cathelin could only nod. 

''Then what you have done this day is justice, not revenge. Be at ease in your heart, Lady. In my country, criminals receive far worse, as you know. At least, her death was merciful, if deserved.'' 

Cathelin was shocked. ''B-b-but sweetling!'' she protested, ''Sorcha was kin! You do not understand what you are saying...'' 

Madrigal interrupted. ''If all were permitted to receive no punishment for their crimes, then the world would burn in the fires of chaos. There must be laws; there must be punishments; there must be justice. That is all. Kin or not, if she broke your laws, and you have said that she did, then let Allah be merciful if He wishes, for you cannot. Are you not required to follow the law as well? Did you not offer her chance after chance? Surely, none could have done more.'' 

Slowly, the throbbing ache in Cathelin's chest eased. She still grieved over having ordered Sorcha's death - never in her life would she forget that awful moment when her kinswoman stepped into God's arms - but at least, that death was justified. She had tried to be merciful, but had she allowed Sorcha's crimes to stand... Well, that I could not do, Cathelin thought. I will pray for the deliverance of her soul, and hope her death is not counted as sin against me when I go to my own judgment. That is all any one of us can do. 

Cathelin stood, then looked ruefully at the dark blue woad stains on Madrigal's dress and her own cloak. ''I've ruined your pretty dress, sweetling,'' she said. Then she continued with a sigh, ''You're right. I do only what I must. Even as lord of Inishowen, my obedience of the law is no less required than that of a peasant.'' 

Madrigal nodded. In the physician's household, she had come to know many of his patients, and some were judges in the caliph's own courts. She had heard this argument before, about the justification of dealing death to criminals; she was glad that she had remembered enough to give her Lady some freedom from guilt and pain. 

Cathelin said gravely, ''For what she did to you, sweetling, I could have slit her throat myself, truly. But... revenge is not lawful - justice is. The folk must have justice.'' 

She held Madrigal's hand tightly as she walked across the lonely battlements, and the only sound they heard was the cry of a hunting hawk high above the castle, and the snapping of pennants in the wind. 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It was Samhain, the Feast of All Saints, and Madrigal proudly smoothed the front of her new gown. Made of heavy wool dyed with purplish blackberry stain, the Muslim had sewn tiny bone buttons in the shape of flying birds all over the bodice, and the full skirts were decorated with braided loops of bright ribbonwork. 

Cathelin walked into the chamber, carrying a mysterious sack over one shoulder. ''Well, sweetling?'' she asked with a grin. ''Are you ready for the festival?'' 

The Irishwoman wore the teal blue, silver-knotworked tunic Madrigal had repaired, and a pair of light tan leather trews. Her cloak was pinned at one shoulder with a round brooch set with a cabochon beryl. 

Madrigal returned her Lady's smile and settled the silver chain of her precious necklace over her head. The agate with its intaglio design of a phoenix glowed against the purple-black of her dress. ''Yes,'' she answered, ''I am ready.'' 

''Hmmmm.'' Cathelin cocked her head to one side and studied the other woman. ''Sweetling, I'm thinkin' you're a mite underdressed.'' 

''Underdressed?'' Madrigal looked down at herself in confusion. ''I do not understand.'' 

For answer, Cathelin reached into the sack and withdrew... a harp. Madrigal caught her breath. The lap harp was made of dark wood heavily carved with leaping dolphins set with ivory. It was the most beautiful instrument Madrigal had even seen. 

''T'is for you, Madri. Had it off a Sassenach trader a little while back. He played her for me - she's got a sweet sound, and t'is only God's truth that she'll match your voice marvelous well.'' 

Madrigal reached out nd took the harp, then ran one finger across the strings. The tone was high and pure, like a young boy's voice. The Muslim sat down carefully on the edge of the bed and propped the harp against her bulging belly. Her skilled fingers quickly plucked a rippling melody and she smiled. Not only did the instrument have the sweetest sound she had ever heard, but it was perfectly tuned. 

Madrigal rose. ''Thank you, Lady,'' she said, walking over to Cat to bestow a kiss on the other woman's chin. ''It is beautiful, and a fine gift. I will play it tonight in your honor.'' 

Cathelin leaned down and kissed Madrigal's lips before the other woman could move away. ''Will you not call me Cat, Madri? T'is what my friends call me, and my kin mostly, and you're both and much more, besides.'' 

Madrigal smiled shyly. ''I will try - Lady Cat,'' she replied, compromising a bit, and was rewarded for her effort with another kiss. 

''We'd best get going, sweetling, if you're not to miss the contest. Don't forget your cloak - t'is as cold as a witch's tit outside, even with the fires.'' 

Madrigal chuckled and pulled her cloak off the hook. Cathelin fastened it around her shoulders, taking time for another kiss or two. 

Cathelin insisted on carrying Madrigal down the stairs, which did not embarrass the Muslim anymore. In truth, not only did she enjoy the sensation of Cathelin's strong arms bearing her lightly, but she also tired more easily these days. 

There is only one small thing that makes my happiness incomplete, Madrigal thought as Cathelin put her down at the bottom of the stairs and escorted her to the outer courtyard. And that is that my Lady still fears to touch me with passion rather than tenderness. 

Although Cathelin had begun to sleep with Madrigal again, she had attempted no further intimacy other than a few kisses. The Muslim woman was growing annoyed at this reticence - Cathelin had assured her that she found her beautiful and desirable, but... I know she had not visited the barracks, Madrigal thought. Surely, her need must be strong, but her will is stronger. I must think on this thing and decide what to do. 

Both the inner and outer courtyards of Inishowen were filled with people. Samhain was an important festival, for it marked the beginning of winter. Rush torches and bonfires had been lit, and the walls of the castle were hung with colorful buntings and branches of pine and rowan. 

All around there were tales and song. Inishowen's hospitality to minstrels and bards was legendary, and some had come from as far away as London to participate in the contests and entertain the folk. 

Cathelin led the bemused Madrigal to the inner courtyard, where the song contest was to be held. Already, the space was filled with both contestants and interested spectators, milling about, drinking beer, ale and cider and tuning their instruments. 

At the moment, the story-telling contest was winding down. An old woman with a hooked nose and tiny eyes set like raisins in the wrinkled skin of her face was concluding the ghost story, ''The Adventures of Nera.'' 

''...and so Nera, mighty hero, vanished into the sidhe... AND WAS NEVER SEEN OR HEARD FROM AGAIN!,'' the old woman concluded with a hair-raising cackle. There was a whoop of appreciation from the spectators, and the judges smiled. 

Cathelin led Madrigal to a bench that had been set up against one wall. It was crowded already, but as soon as the Lady of Inishowen was spotted, a space was hastily made to accommodate the Muslim woman. 

''Sweetling,'' Cathelin said, bending down to plant a kiss on the other woman's brow, ''I'll be on the judge's dais. Don't be nervous or upset; just play and sing as if for my kerns and all will be well.'' 

Madrigal smiled and fingered her harp as Cathelin strode away. She had been working on a very special song for her Lady. At first, she had thought to do one of the provocative songs of her homeland that had been popular in the harem, but had ultimately decided against it. Surprisingly, it had been Wolf McLeod who had recommended a particular song, and Madrigal was grateful for his help. 

Her dark purple eyes searched the crowd for familiar faces. She saw Becca Half-Tongue, dressed in brilliant crimson and dark blue, hanging onto the arm of a handsome minstrel; and Wolf McLeod, somber in black and gray, eating a roasted apple and talking to a gray-bearded old man who held a branch of wood hung with tiny bells; Shevaughn was regaling a group of children with a ghost story. 

Madrigal sat and waited her turn, listening to the other performers. Most were talented amateurs, but there were one or two whose polished performances were breath-taking. These would be the ones that Madrigal would have to outshine. 

Finally, her turn came. Rising, she came forward, and seated herself on the small bench that sat on the dais. The judges sat to one side behind their long table; all eyes turned to her as she adjusted her cloak, and began to play an ancient Irish air which described the virtues of a hero. 

''She is pure gold, she is a heaven round a sun,'' Madrigal sang, 
''She is a vessel of silver with wine, 
She is an angel, she is wisdom of saints, 
She is a sweet branch with its blossom, 
She is a vessel full of honey. 
She is a precious stone with all its goodness, 
She is a brilliant sun round which is summer, 
She is a race-horse over a smooth plain, 
She is a chariot that is driven under a king, 
That bears off prizes in the east. 
She is the moon that glories holy heaven, 
A woman for whom the great King is thankful; 
She is a temple, prosperous, noble, 
She is a shrine which gold bedecks. 
She is an altar whereon wine is shed, 
Round which is sung a multitude of melodies; 
She is a cleansed chalice with liquor therein. 
She is white-bronze, she is gold. 
She is my beloved; her virtues are untold.'' 

For a moment there was silence, then the crowd burst into wild shouts of approval. Most knew of Madrigal, though many had never met her. But all knew enough to recognize the Muslim's song as a tribute of love to Lady Cathelin, and although some disapproved of Madrigal's religion, nevertheless they had to acknowledge the honor she had done their Lady and themselves. 

Cathelin brushed aside a tear. Madrigal's achingly pure voice soaring in that beautiful love-lilt had touched her deeply. Glancing around, she saw from the expression on the other judge's faces that they had been affected as well. 

Madrigal rose and bowed her head, then stepped lightly from the dais. She had seen the look on Cathelin's face and the tear; she smiled to herself as she went back to the bench, pleased beyond all measure that her Lady had approved. 

Madrigal's performance seemed to take the heart out of the other contestants. In a short time, the judges were ready to announce the winner. Sir James ap Mathonwy, a man of middle-height and dignified bearing, came forward. In his hands he held a crown made of autumn leaves bound with grasses and wound with trailing scarlet ribbons. 

''As you know,'' Sir James said, ''it is the duty of a judge to be impartial. But many of us here tonight - nay, all of us - were so moved by a particular song that we could not help but declare our favor. Need I truly tell you who has won the crown?'' 

The crowd roared, ''MADRIGAL!'' as Sir James beamed and gestured for the Muslim to take her place on the dais. 

Madrigal was trembling but her face was wreathed in a glorious smile. Sir James laid the winner's crown on her head, and she turned to Cathelin, dark eyes filled with light and incandescent joy. 

Cathelin was so proud of her love she thought her heart would burst. She sprang to her feet and clasped Madrigal in her arms, kissing the other woman in full view of the crowd, which snickered, sighed and clapped wildly. 

Madrigal looked up into Cathelin's shining amber eyes. ''Are you pleased, Lady Cat?'' she asked. 

''Sweetling, I am so pleased and proud t'is a wonder and a marvel that I can stand without falling arse-over-crown. Oh, Madri, I do love you so.'' 

''I love you as well,'' Madrigal replied shyly. 

Cathelin led Madrigal from the dais... unaware that amidst the throng, two pairs of eyes watched them, glittering with hate - and awful purpose. 

The two women wandered the festival, stopping now and then to hear a story, or speak to a visitor, or nibble a treat. Finally, however, Madrigal confessed herself exhausted. 

''I am sorry, Lady Cat,'' she said as Cathelin carried her back into the castle, ''Please, stay and enjoy the feast. I will do well enough.'' 

''Madri, don't fash yourself. The folk will get wondrous drunk and eat themselves sick, and on the morrow, we'll be lucky to have no broken heads or hearts to tend to. I had much rather spend the time with you.'' 

Madrigal smiled and snuggled her face into Cathelin's neck. She was tired, but not nearly as exhausted as she had claimed. In fact, she had some very good ideas about the way she wanted to spend time with her Lady, and all of them involved the bed, and none of them involved sleeping. 

Cathelin carried Madrigal into the master's chambers, kicking the door shut behind her with one foot. Carefully, she eased Madrigal down until the other woman was standing on her feet. 

Cathelin had just removed her cloak when Madrigal asked, ''Lady Cat? How is it that you have not been with Mistress Aoife these days?'' 

Cathelin nearly choked. Aoife, the rambunctious kern with whom she'd shared a night of tupping in the hayloft, had indeed let it be known that she was not loathe to test her commander's stamina again. Although Cathelin had been feeling deprived of late, she'd sternly curbed her libido. She did not want to hurt Madrigal by turning to another. 

''Er,'' Cathelin replied, stalling for time, ''Aoife? Who is that, Madri?'' 

Madrigal laughed, hanging up her own cloak. ''Why, have I not heard tales in the soldier's barracks of you and Mistress Aoife and a certain hayloft?'' 

Cathelin flushed. She really did not want to discuss her previous sexual partners with the woman she loved. ''Oh, that Aoife,'' she answered, then pulled off her tunic, boots and trews in quick succession. ''T'was not a matter of any great moment, sweetling. Only for one night, and before I loved you, besides.'' 

Madrigal stepped in front of Cathelin and her dark purple eyes slowly appraised the naked woman from heel to crown, lingering deliberately on her Lady's firm breasts and most especially, the gloriously red cluster of curls between her muscular thighs. 

''I can understand why she would wish for your return to her loft, Lady Cat,'' Madrigal purred, licking her lips, ''You are a very desirable woman.'' 

Cathelin was growing increasingly warm... and uncomfortable. ''Um, Madri?'' she said, ''Do you not want to go to bed, sweetling? You said you were tired...'' 

Madrigal pressed herself against Cathelin, and the other woman gulped as the fabric of the Muslim's dress brushed against her legs and belly. ''I do wish to go to bed, Lady Cat,'' Madrigal said softly, reaching up one hand and tracing Cathelin's bottom lip, ''but not to sleep.'' 

As Cathelin desperately tried to think of something, anything, to say (half of her wanted to ravish Madrigal then and there, the other half still feared hurting her)... there came a discreet scratching at the door. 

Biting back a curse, Cathelin strode to the door and flung it open... to confront the disapproving frown of Abbott Benedict.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The abbot's cold gray eyes flickered as he took in Cathelin's nudity. ''Lady,'' he said, reclining his head slightly, ''There are matters I wish to discuss with you, if you are not otherwise... engaged?'' He lifted his brow at this delicately phrased inquiry, and Cathelin blushed furiously - but in anger, not embarrassment. 

''One moment, Father Abbott,'' she replied and snatched her cloak from its hook by the door. Flinging it about her shoulders, she said shortly, ''What is it?'' 

Benedict stared down his nose at Cathelin, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his voluminous robe. The ebony rosary of his office was around his neck, heavy gold crucifix studded with rubies, sapphires and pearls. ''It is regarding Sir Alexander Wallace,'' he said tranquilly. 

''I see.'' Cathelin raised her own dark red brow and continued, ''What of the pig-dog?'' 

''You know the Church frowns on duels, my Lady,'' Benedict said, a slight sneer on his lips. Behind Cathelin, he could see the figure of her Muslim whore, on hand on her lips. The slave is obviously overawed by me, the abbot thought with smug satisfaction. Even such an unnatural woman acknowledges my authority in God. 

He drew himself up a little taller and continued, ''Nevertheless, I have been commissioned by Sir Alexander's surviving family to petition you for the return of...'' 

Cathelin interrupted. ''Whatever their request, I say them nay.'' 

Benedict's brows shot towards his hairline. ''Surely you do not mean to deny his family the comfort of a Christian burial?'' 

Cathelin waved one hand. ''T'was my sword took the bastard's life. I left them his horse, plate and weapons, as well as his belt pouch. What I did take was unimportant; tell them to bury the rest and not to grieve - if any deserved a slow death, t'was Alexander Wallace. They should count themselves lucky I did not reive his castle as well.'' 

Cathelin started to shut the door, but Benedict interrupted. His face was red and his eyes dark with anger. ''You would defy God, Lady? For I am one of his authorities on Earth, you know. Return what you have stolen, and I will make your penance light; refuse, and I will do everything in my power as a representative of Our Holy Mother Church to see you punished.'' 

Cathelin had been pushed too far. The good mood of the earlier evening had fled, replaced by stark fury. ''You forget yourself, Father Abbott,'' she hissed, ''and your place. Go back behind your walls, you gape-mouth, lolly-locked hypocrite. Do you believe I know nothing of your filthy secrets?'' 

Benedict turned pale and reeled back a step, dignity forgotten in the sudden flash of shock and panic. ''You... you... you know?'' he stammered. 

''Of course.'' Cathelin tossed her head. ''My walls have ears, Father,'' she replied with deadly sweetness, ''and my village as well. I've not told the Bishop yet, but I can have a messenger on a fast horse within the hour.'' 

''No!,'' Benedict said in a strangled voice. ''I... I... I withdraw my petition and my order, Lady Cathelin,'' he continued, ''Do what you will.'' 

''Why, t'is thanking you I am, for all your graciousness,'' Cathelin said sarcastically. ''Now, is this business done?'' In truth, Cathelin had no idea what the abbot's 'secrets' might have been, but she knew he was the type to have many; she'd used this sort of bluff before and was pleased that it had worked. 

''Yes.'' Benedict turned to go, then stopped. ''What shall I tell his family?'' he asked, shoulders slumped. 

''Tell them to be thankful I took only his bastard's head,'' Cathelin answered shortly, then shut the door. 

Benedict was shaken. How had she known? he thought as he walked down the stairs. I've been so careful. I'm certain none of the boys would have told their parents, not with the threat of hellfire and damnation hanging above their heads.

As the abbot walked through Inishowen, surprise and fear turned into renewed hatred - and a further resolve to see that the hammer of Almighty God struck the red-haired whore with all the power at his disposal. 

Madrigal stood in the middle of the room. She had overheard the conversation - she'd had no choice - and now, she did not know what to say or how to act. Her Lady had slain the Inglizi in a duel... The dark-haired woman didn't know whether to laugh, cry or faint dead away in astonishment and awe. 

Cathelin removed the cloak and hung it back on its hook. ''Sweetling...,'' she began, then stopped. 

Madrigal sat down in a chair next to the hearth and kept silent, her hands clasped over her swollen belly. 

Cathelin scratched her head. In truth, she'd rather Madrigal had not found out about Wallace's death just yet; she'd been saving the tale for a special Solstice treat, and had commissioned a minstrel to write a special song to be sung in the Great Hall during the winter celebration. 

''Er... Madri,'' Cathelin began again, seating herself in the chair opposite Madrigal. ''I did not want tell you yet. I would have, sweetling, only - well, I wanted to surprise you.'' 

''I am surprised,'' Madrigal replied, dark eyes wide. Her hands trembled slightly; she could not quite grasp that the Inglizi was truly dead, that he would trouble her no more in this life. 

''Did I not swear, sweetling, that I'd make a present to you of his head? When I went away those few days - you remember, when Sorcha was taken by McLeod - I went a-hunting for Wallace.'' 

''And?'' Madrigal asked, eyes downcast. She was still stunned. 

''And... I challenged him to a duel muscular - he'd no real choice after the insults I flung after him - and I won.'' Cathelin looked slightly ashamed. ''He was no real knight, Madri. All gone to fat, he was, and what little skill he owned had long ago been pawned away to wine. T'was like spearing trout in a wine tun,'' she concluded. 

Cathelin was not ashamed of killing Wallace - in her opinion, no man deserved death more - but she did wish he had been more of a real opponent. She'd skillfully peeled the armor off him in chunks, then with one blow of the flat of her blade, broken both his shin bones. As Wallace had toppled to the ground, bellowing in pain, she'd removed his head with one clean swipe. 

''Truly,'' Cathelin said anxiously, ''t'was a kinder death than he deserved, sweetling. I'm not much for torture myself, but if you'd rather I'd taken him alive, well... all I can say is that I understand. I'd even have sharpened the knives for you... but...'' Her voice trailed off as her amber eyes narrowed, seeing the past - another man's face amid sand and wind 

Madrigal felt a sudden swelling of emotion in her breast. It was not sorrow - she would NEVER be sorry the evil Inglizi was dead - it was vindication and triumph. When she had belonged to him, there had been many times when she'd fantasized about the Inglizi helpless, as she had been helpless, writhing beneath all the torments of a vengeful slave. But now, she was only glad he was dead, glad her Lady had killed him, and glad many times over that her Lady Cat had not been harmed by the Inglizi's evil. 

''No, Lady,'' Madrigal said, raising her eyes to look directly into Cathelin's own, ''I did not wish to torture him.'' She rose and walked around the small table. Leaning down, she put her arms around Cathelin's neck and kissed her cheek, murmuring, ''Thank you. I cannot tell you how much.'' 

Cathelin put one hand on Madrigal's back. ''No matter, sweetling,'' she replied softly. ''I know. I wanted to spare you. I've already told you of how I went mad after killing Irizin's master. I thought I should kill Wallace myself, cleanly, to spare you that agony.'' 

Madrigal pressed herself as closely to Cathelin as she could, but her stomach got in the way. ''I love you,'' she said simply. 

Cathelin stood up, and Madrigal's arms slid away. ''As to his head... it's at the goldsmith's. I'm having his skull made into a drinking cup.'' 

Madrigal's eyelashes fluttered. She had heard of some of the barbaric customs of her new land, but this?! 

Cathelin laughed at the expression on Madrigal's face. ''Nay, sweetling,'' she said, ''not for you to drink from. T'is a trophy is all. There's a whole cabinet full of the things down in the Great Hall. I've never drunk from one myself, but my grand-father did. T'is a custom, you see, to enshrine the remains of our worst and greatest enemies, so that our children do not forget where we came from and who we are.'' 

Madrigal nodded, although she was still slightly appalled. If it is custom, she thought, I will say nothing. Some of the customs of my homeland would seem equally barbaric to these Christian folk.

Cathelin stretched, and Madrigal's attention was immediately riveted to the play of muscles sliding smoothly beneath the other woman's skin. Exposure to sun and wind had given her a light tan on her arms, neck and face, but the rest of her body was as light as cream, blue veins visible on her breasts and flat stomach. 

Madrigal asked softly, ''Will you help me with my dress?'' 

''Of course.'' Cathelin helped pull the thick wool gown over Madrigal's head, and carefully folded it up and placed it back in the Muslim's own clothes chest - a tightly woven willow basket with engraved brass bosses on every corner. 

Turning around, the Irishwoman saw Madrigal combing out her incredibly long, blue-black hair... Her swollen breasts jiggled a little as she moved the wooden comb briskly though her hair, and proud, high curve of her belly jutted forward like brash new moon. 

Madrigal stopped combing when she realized she had her Lady's full attention once more. Flipping back the long strands of her hair, she laid the comb aside and put her hands on her hips. ''Did you not tell me once you found me beautiful?'' Madrigal asked. 

Cathelin's mouth was dry. ''Aye,'' she whispered hoarsely. 

''And I, too, find you beautiful,'' Madrigal continued with a tiny smile. ''Since we are two such beautiful women, should we not act upon this attraction?'' 

Cathelin could not say a word as Madrigal walked towards her; her love was not as inhumanly graceful as she had been, but... 

Madrigal stopped, allowing her belly to press against Cathelin. ''You will not hurt me. Nor the child.'' She picked up Cathelin's hand and placed it on the curve of her stomach. ''I desire you very much, Lady Cat. I wish to show you the depth of that desire. Come,'' she continued, gently tugging on Cathelin's other hand, drawing her towards the bed, ''let us see if I can guess what pleases you the most.'' 

With those words, Cathelin's passion erupted in an uncontrollable burst of flame. She swept Madrigal off her feet and laid her on the bed, crouching above her, legs on either side, supporting her weight on her hands. ''Do you truly wish this thing?,'' she asked, amber eyes burning with need. 

Madrigal reached up and grasped a handful of dark red hair on either side of Cathelin's face. Pulling her down for a kiss, she whispered, ''Yes.'' 

CHAPTER TWENTY

Cathelin bowed her back, fitting the curve of her body to Madrigal's, and pressed her lips against the other woman's, feeling Madrigal's mouth open to her. 

Cathelin slid her tongue into Madrigal's mouth, tasting cinnamon and cloves from the apple she had eaten, moaning slightly as the other woman's tongue slipped around her own, sparring slightly, flicking and dancing. 

Madrigal closed her eyes, her hands holding Cathelin's hair tightly, and they parted. Cathelin trailed soft kisses all along her cheek - those feather-light kisses sparked prickles of fire along Madrigal's skin. 

Abruptly, Cathelin swung her other leg over and settled herself beside Madrigal on the bed. She wanted to make love to Madrigal in the truest sense of the word. The fire in her blood gentled as she stared into the Muslim's dark purple eyes, heart swelling at the expression of trust and love she saw there. 

Cathelin bent her head and kissed the soft skin of the other woman's shoulder, breathing in the scent of spice that clung to her blue-black hair. Her own dark red locks slid along Madrigal's body as Cathelin shifted on the bed and put one strong arm across her love's body, supporting her weight as she leaned over to trace her tongue in delicate patterns all along Madrigal's breast. 

Madrigal gasped as she felt the warm touch of her Lady's mouth, and her hands clutched Cathelin's shoulders as those tender lips descended, capturing one of her nipples and sucking gently. 

The tight coiling of passion in Madrigal's lower belly vibrated more strongly and she moaned as Cathelin's lips tugged on her sensitive nipple, tongue flicking against the swollen nub. 

The Irishwoman allowed Madrigal's nipple to slide out of her mouth, and she smiled at the expression of desire on her love's face. She lowered her head again, putting more of her weight on her arm, and softly kissed her way to the other breast before giving it the same loving attention. 

Madrigal's legs had unconsciously spread; she felt a trickle of hot moisture flow from her center as Cathelin released her nipple and said huskily, ''Sweetling, I want to make love to you with my mouth...'' 

Consumed by desire, Madrigal whimpered as Cathelin's kisses trailed lower down her body. The Irishwoman kept shifting on the bed, moving her head back and forth, determined to cover every inch of Madrigal's skin with warm, wet kisses. 

Cathelin took her time, running her hands along the bulge of Madrigal's belly, and following those hands with her lips. She swirled her tongue around the Muslim's navel, and was rewarded with a small buck from Madrigal's hips as the other woman sought to bring Cathelin's kisses lower still... 

Finally, Cathelin positioned herself between Madrigal's thighs, drawing up the dark beauty's legs and resting them over her broad shoulders. Settling down with a sigh, Cathelin began licking the ebony curls that adorned Madrigal's mount in long strokes with the flat of her tongue, hands beneath her love's buttocks. 

At the first touch of Cathelin's tongue, Madrigal nearly exploded with sensation. She wanted to bury her hands in Cathelin's hair, but her belly was in the way. Instead, Madrigal clutched the fur coverlet in a stranglehold. Her hips shot off the bed when Cathelin's tongue probed her more deeply... 

Cathelin supported Madrigal's weight on her hands as she flicked her tongue all along the other woman's rosy folds, teasing and tasting. Like honey, Cathelin thought, and rarest wine... She stabbed her tongue deeper, seeking and finding Madrigal's font, the vermilion gate, and eagerly thrust her tongue in and out, as her love cried out, thighs quivering. 

Lowering her to the bed, Cathelin swept her tongue up and took Madrigal's small, sensitive bud between her lips, sucking and nibbling; Madrigal nearly screamed as the explosion of pleasure that coursed in trembling waves throughout her body became stronger, lifting her higher and higher... 

Finally, the dam burst and Madrigal convulsed, a star sprinkled sky of ruby and diamonds and gold coruscating behind her tightly closed eyelids, breath coming in shuddering gasps as she fell through a rippling sea of unbelievable pleasure and at last, fell again to ground, toes curled, sweet sensations slowly, slowly dying. 

Cathelin waited until she was sure, then gently kissed Madrigal's inner thigh. She could not see the other woman's face. Cathelin carefully lifted Madrigal's legs from her shoulders and laid them back on the bed, then flowed up to rest beside her love. 

Madrigal's face was covered in sweat; strands of dark hair clung to her skin. She opened her eyes and stared at Cathelin, trying to catch her breath. Her pupils were dilated so widely her eyes appeared black. ''Lady,'' she said, wonder in her voice, ''I have never...'' 

''What, sweetling?'' Cathelin asked, lazily tracing a forefinger along Madrigal's stomach, and was startled to feel the child moving against her touch, as if he, too, took joy in his mother's happiness. 

''I have never felt... such before. Is this magic?'' Madrigal still could not believe how she had felt. I have felt the stirrings of desire, the Muslim thought amazed, but I have never felt such sensations before. Truly, my Lady is a worker of miracles... 

Cathelin drew her brows together in a frown. ''Are you telling me you've never...?'' 

Madrigal shook her head. ''That such things existed, I had heard,'' she replied. ''But, to hear of a thing and to experience a thing - they are very different,'' she concluded, still marveling. 

Cathelin tried to wrap her mind around that. ''I can't believe...,'' she began, then stopped. Of course, she thought, my poor Madri. She was trained to please others, but never herself. Compassion warred with pride as the Irishwoman realized that in some things, she would never be Madrigal's first lover - but in this, she was the only. 

''I'm truly sorry, sweetling,'' she said, bowing her head to kiss Madrigal's cheek, ''but I take it you liked it?'' 

Madrigal chuckled throatily. ''Oh, yes,'' she replied, running her hand along Cathelin's arm, ''I liked it very much. Only...'' 

''Mmm?'' 

''Only... how long will it be before I can have another?'' Madrigal asked plaintively, remembering her training in the harem, and how men, having reached the pinnacle, sometimes required long periods of rest before they were able to become aroused again. 

Cathelin threw back her head and laughed. ''Why, sweetling,'' she said when she was able to speak again, ''You may have as many as you wish, as often as you wish... Would you like another now?'' 

''Oh, yes!,'' Madrigal exclaimed with the excitement of a child who has discovered a new and wonderful toy. 

Cathelin chuckled deep in her throat as she captured Madrigal's lips with her own and thought, Well-a-day. T'is going to be a fine, long night, indeed. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The seasons turned, autumn into winter, and snow roared down from the mountains, casting a chill white blanket over the demesne of Inishowen. 

It was nearing Solstice, and Madrigal's belly had ballooned and dropped, so that her heavy burden hung more closely to her knees than her breasts. She was having difficulty sleeping, and only leaning her back against Cathelin's strong body in bed, and being supported by her love's strong arms, allowed her to get any sleep at all. 

This morning, the village midwife, Branwen mac Nessa, a tiny, bird-like woman with the smallest, narrowest hands Madrigal had ever seen, spent a good half-candlemark with her ear pressed to the Muslim woman's belly, pale green eyes closed in concentration, fingers probing inch by inch. 

Finally rising, Branwen smiled at Cathelin, who had watched the entire ritual wide-eyed with excitement. ''Well?'' Cathelin asked eagerly. 

Branwen smiled more widely, showing several missing teeth, and flipped the hem of Madrigal's dress back over her swollen belly. ''Och,'' she replied with satisfaction, ''t'is twins; both male child an' female, or I'm no judge.'' 

Cathelin grinned. ''Hear that, sweetling? Twins, by God!'' She was nearly as ecstatic as a new father herself; in fact, she had come to regard the child (now know to be children) in Madrigal's womb as her own flesh and blood. 

Madrigal grunted. She was tired, so tired; it seemed as if all her energy went straight to her stomach, leaving none for herself. In the last month, she had not even wanted Cathelin to perform that amazing magic on her, and she had certainly not felt like giving pleasure, either. All she wanted to do was eat and sleep, and she was grateful that her Lady Cat did not press her. 

Madrigal struggled to rise from the chair, and Cathelin hastily helped her. ''Madri, sweetling, are you all right?'' Cathelin asked. 

''Yes,'' Madrigal answered shortly, brushing aside a lock of stray hair from her brow. ''I am hungry, though. Again.'' The Muslim woman was feeling a bit peevish this morning; she had to restrain herself from kicking the chair to relieve her irritation. 

She waddled over to the bed, Cathelin clucking behind her as anxiously as a hen with one chick, and Madrigal really had to restrain the urge to kick her Lady. She did not know why she felt so ill- humored and grumbly, but she knew she would be glad when the birth was finally over. 

Cathelin stifled a laugh at the petulance on Madrigal's face. At any other time, she might have tried to jolly the other woman out of her bad mood, or perhaps even given some in return, but... Well, she's got the mulligrubs, poor mite, she thought, and no wonder! Carrying twice the burden of another woman, and her so small too boot! 

Getting Madrigal settled, Cathelin drew Branwen out of the room. ''T'is worried I am about the birth,'' Cathelin said. ''Madrigal is so small...'' 

Branwen clucked. ''Nay, gie it no more thought, Lady. Yon one's hips be wide enow fer th' birthin'. Now, t'is her first, an' those be more difficult than others an' wit' twins. Hmph. I'll be comin' up ta stay at th' castle after Sunday, an' Brother Ignatius will be on hand as well. So, dinna fret. We'll see th' wee one through wit' th' Good Lord's help.'' 

Cathelin nodded, slightly reassured. As Madrigal's time grew nearer, she worried more and more. She had seen and heard of women dying in the birthing bed, each tale more gruesome than the last, and the thought of anything happening to her love was nearly more than she could bear. 

Abruptly, Madrigal's voice was raised behind her. ''Must I go to the kitchens myself for food?'' she yelled, thoroughly out of sorts. ''Will the djinn waft me down the stairs, or must I rub Aladdin's lamp first?!'' 

Cathelin bit her lip and her shoulders shook as she laughed silently. Oh, my sweet Madri is turning into quite the crosspatch beldam, she thought, amused. Then she lifted her own voice, ''Ho! A servant for your Lady!'' 

As a manservant pelted down the hall towards the master's chamber, Cathelin heard Madrigal grumble in Arabic, ''Children of she-camels and he-goats! I starve, and they all laugh at my distress! Allah, defend Your servant from this barbarian horde!'' 

The manservant was very surprised when the Lady laughed in his face. 

Six miles from Inishowen, in a cavern in a cliff, a group of men had gathered. 

Lord Francis had washed, cut his hair and trimmed his beard; he no longer resembled a woods-hermit. Instead, to the other men, he seemed the very image of a holy Crusader, for his hazel eyes still burned with a fanatic's light. However, it was the insanity in those same eyes that caused them to shudder and turn their faces away. 

Beyond their view, in the darkest shadows of the cave, a woman's body lay. It was Sorcha; Francis had dug her up under the cover of darkness and hauled her corpse to his den. After nearly three months, it no longer stank; the increased cold had helped. 

Francis liked to toy with Sorcha's long blonde braids as he sat by the fire, brooding; sometimes, he would even kiss her cold, worm riddled cheek and talk to her as if she were still alive. He had not loved her when she was living - he had only used her; but now that she was dead, he found himself growing increasingly fond of his former betrothed. To him, she had become the ultimate woman: quiet, obedient, and loyal to the end. The fact that she had become yet another means of revenge against his hated cousin gave her increased value in Francis' view. 

''Soon, my love,'' he crooned, casting his eyes to the corner. Abbot Benedict watched with narrowed gray eyes, but said nothing. He knew Francis was insane; he only hoped the Lord could maintain his grip on what little sanity remained to help put their plot into motion. 

Gathered in the cave were ten other men - three of them Sorcha's kinfolk from southern Ireland; they were hard-bitten sell-swords and thieves whose stake in the venture was more than revenge. They thirsted to loot Inishowen and fill their clan's purses, and they had pledged a dozen men to the venture. 

Three were Lords who, for one reason or another, had cause to be disaffected by Lady Cathelin. Benedict let his eyes wander from one to another as they talked. 

Sir Duncan Galbraith, Baron of Carbery; his grudge was that Cathelin's great-grandfather had, in his family's mind, cheated them of prime pastureland, and they had never forgotten or forgiven the insult; 

Edward O'Kennedy, head of a powerful merchant clan; Cathelin as Blacksunne had commanded a portion of Richard's army that had included his son, killed in battle at Acre. O'Kennedy blamed her for that death; 

Desmond O'Brian, Earl of Kinslainne, whose eldest son had been betrothed to Marguessen, Cathelin's younger sister. O'Brian had tried to force Sir Giles to betrothe Cathelin to his son Robert after Marguessen's death, but Sir Giles had refused. When Robert pressed his suit at his father's insistence, Cathelin had challenged him to a joust that had left the boy with a permanently twisted leg from a bad fall; 

Three of the other men were representatives of a certain element in the village that Abbot Benedict had been carefully cultivating. There were some who felt that Lady Cathelin was condemned to Hell for her unnatural sexual proclivities, and wanted her gone lest the same doom fall upon them by association. They were not many, and all peasants and woodsmen, but Benedict was proud of his contribution. Knowing the land as they did, these folk would be ideal for penetrating the castle's grounds and allowing an element of surprise; 

The last of the seven was a Knight Templar from England, Sir John Rivenoak. He was a hired champion who had fought in many jousts, tournaments and challenges. Sir John was a pragmatic individual who sold his sword to whosoever could afford it, and always gave satisfaction for his fees. Sir John would take care of Lady Cathelin while the rest of the men, and their personal soldiers, poured through the gates and took Inishowen. 

All of the men were quietly discussing their plans when Lord Francis spoke up. ''There is one more thing that must be done,'' he said, ''before we can proceed with the attack.'' 

Sir Duncan looked choleric. A stout man with a full beard and mustache of mink brown, he suffered from gout and was in a perpetually testy mood. ''What d'ye mean, sirrah?'' he asked angrily. ''The attack is planned for tomorrow morning! My men are shivering in the woods as we speak! Nay, we shall not wait upon you!'' 

In a move like a striking snake, Francis had his belt knife pressed against Sir Duncan's throat. A thin line of blood appeared as the razor-keen edge barely parted the flesh. ''You will wait,'' Francis hissed. The other men looked at each other then backed away. No one wanted to get between this madman and his prey. 

Just as suddenly, Francis' knife flickered back into the sheathe on his belt. ''Besides, it will not take long,'' he said with an ugly smile. ''I just need to reclaim something that was stolen from me.'' 

The others looked at him, and Abbot Benedict shivered, but not with fear. With glorious anticipation.

Next Page ~~~~~>

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by Nene Adams ©1998 - All rights reserved

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Cathelin had gone, called to some early evening conference with Wolf McLeod and Michael Drury in the barracks. Madrigal was alone in the master's chamber when there was a discreet scratching on the door. 

Calling, ''Enter!'' Madrigal saw a red-nosed, bleary-eyed maidservant with cornsilk yellow hair. The woman's face was scarred from the pox, and her figure stick thin. The Muslim had never seen her before, but with winter hard upon the land, some of the folk from more isolated areas had come to Inishowen for shelter. 

''Yes?'' Madrigal asked kindly; the maidservant looked like a timid mouse, eyes darting at shadows. 

''Beggin' yer pardon, Mistress,'' the maid said with a clumsy curtsy, ''but Master McLeod sent me ta tell yer ta come down ta outer court straight away. Been an accident.'' 

Accident? Madrigal heaved herself off the bed, cursing slightly under her breath, and waddled across the room, grabbing her cloak. Her back had been bothering her all day, with pains that came and went with increased frequency. 

''What sort of accident?'' Madrigal asked sharply, fastening her thick woolen cloak with a brooch. 

''Somethin' ta do wit' a horse is all I knows,'' the maid said, wiping her runny nose with one hand. ''Ta Lady needs yer, s'all I were told.'' 

Oh, Allah! Madrigal thought, and hurried as quickly as she could out of the chamber. Lady Cat had recently been gifted with a fiery destrier, a war-trained mount half-jokingly named Shaitan. That beast had already savaged one stableboy, and Madrigal knew that her love was determined to train Shaitan to her hand no matter the cost. 

She has probably broken her leg or her head, Madrigal thought, carefully picking her way down the stairs. Her heart almost stopped when she considered that Lady Cat's wounding must be more acute than she had first suspected, for Master McLeod had not sent one of the kerns to help her down the stairs - per the Lady's strict order. 

Madrigal swept through the halls, not noticing the curious glances of the servants. All her thought was solely concentrated on Cathelin. 

When she let herself out the gate, it was so dark she couldn't see a foot in front of her face. Carefully she listened - for the screaming of a horse, the shouts of men, the curses of her Lady, but she heard nothing. 

Madrigal's moment of confusion was short-lived. Suddenly, a sack was pulled over her face and she screamed, but her cries were muffled by the rough cloth. She struggled, but was picked up and slung on the back of a horse, and a man's hard body settled in the saddle behind her, arms like iron bars squeezing her rib cage until she thought she would vomit. 

The horse pounded away from Inishowen, while Madrigal screamed and cried and clung to the mount's mane - until the pommel of a dagger struck her sharply behind the ear, and her head exploded with pain... then blackest oblivion. 

Cathelin's face was grim. ''How many men does he have, Wolf?" she asked. 

Wolf McLeod looked at his Lady, ice blue eyes bright. ''Two hundred or so,'' he answered. ''Th' bulk o' th' men trained soldiers, but a few o' our own among 'em.'' 

Cathelin sighed and closed her eyes. It particularly hurt that some of the would-be invaders were her own people. Still, she thought, if I tried to please everyone, I would please no one.''And their plans?'' she asked aloud. 

''Our people inside were s'posed ta open the gates an' cause a distraction in th' hours o' early morn. Their warriors would slip in an' th' fightin' would begin.'' 

Cathelin grunted. Wolf had kept her appraised of his spy operation - he had noted Sorcha's attention fixed on one particular man in the crowd the day of her hanging, and instructed a pair of kerns to follow the individual. They had tracked him to the sea-overhanging cliffs that lay six miles away... and discovered it was the exiled usurper, Francis Westfield. Since then, daily reports had come from the spies - and three hours ago had come the last. Things were coming to a head; Westfield and his borrowed army, with the help of Cathelin's enemies, were to attack Inishowen a few hours after dawn. 

This was the last little detail she needed. Instead of a surprise attack from an invading army, she would lead her kerns to the opposition's staging area, and catch them by surprise, neatly turning the tables. They would be outnumbered nearly two-to-one, but Cathelin's men and women had survived Outremer - a war experience that had toughened them like no other. And she had one ally in particular who thirsted after the O'Kennedy's blood, so the odds were not too bad. 

She pushed aside the parchment maps that littered the table and took a swallow of well-watered wine. Rising, she said, ''Have my squire Thomas meet me in the armory,'' she said, ''and gather the army. Full weapons, winter cloaks and shields. Pick a few of your best horsemen and issue them mounts from the stables; they'll be breaking trail for the rest. Have you heard from the O'Fierna?'' 

Wolf nodded, his expression fierce. The O'Fierna clan was closely connected to the O'Camerons by blood, and Lord Bran O'Fierna had responded enthusiastically to the Lady's request for aid in her campaign when the usurper's plans were first known. Francis' ally, the O'Kennedy, had long ago made an enemy of O'Fierna over a woman and a deadly insult. 

Wolf had sent the message bird himself scarcely two hours ago, instructing the Lord in where and when the fight would take place, and the reply had been thrust into his hand right before the war council. 

''Aye, Lady,'' he responded in his rough, deep voice. ''The O'Fierna's agreed ta bring another thirty men as weel as himself; t'will be meetin' us at St. Wilfrid's Ford.'' 

Cathelin nodded, and Wolf bowed and hastened away to begin the preparations. The Irishwoman turned to her chief man-at-arms, Neith Owen. ''You're in charge of the castle defenses whilst I'm away,'' she said. ''Have the archers line the walls and ready the oil pots. God willing, we will defeat this enemy, but if not, then it's up to you, Owen, and your men, to see Inishowen safe for my heirs.'' 

Neith bowed deeply, rusty red mustache stained with purple wine. He had been called from his dinner to join this conference, and with a sigh, he mentally consigned the remains of his meal to the cookfires. There would be no time for a leisurely meal tonight. 

Michael Drury cleared his throat. ''And me, Lady?'' he asked. 

Cathelin looked at him with cold amber eyes. ''My will,'' she said simply. ''T'is locked in my desk, and Bishop Rudolphus has a copy. In the event of my death, you're to see to its lawful execution.'' Seeing the confused look on Drury's face, she explained, ''Madrigal's children. She and they will inherit Inishowen; I have no time for long ceremony, but you men bear witness: At this moment, as chieftain of the O'Camerons and Lady of Inishowen, I formally swear that she is kin to me and mine, and an equal of the blood.'' 

Taking up a small paperknife, Cathelin made a careful slit in her forefinger, allowing blood to drip down on the earthen floor of the small war room attached to the barracks. ''This do I vow, by earth and blood,'' she declared solemnly with both men watched, ''That Madrigal, child of none, is here this day of the clan O'Cameron. St. Brigit watch over her, Mother of God keep care of her, and may the Good Lord smite without mercy if I, or my inheritors, or other kin of the name, ever dishonor her. So be it.'' 

Drury and Owen murmured, ''So be it,'' to complete the ceremony. True, it was far less elaborate than the usual adoption; that was more like a festival celebration. But their Lady was correct - Inishowen was on war footing, and there was precious little time to waste on ritual. Later, that blood-soaked bit of earth would be scooped up with a silver sickle, and mingled with Madrigal's own blood. The result would be flung into a fire made of three sacred woods - oak, ash and rowan - and there would be a grand party to welcome Madrigal into her new clan. If there was a later... 

Cathelin left the room, heading towards the family chapel that lay in the center of a small formal garden close to Inishowen's back walls. She had much to do, but first, she had to confess and be shriven, and then she would say her goodbyes to Madrigal. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Madrigal was terrified. She had wakened in a smoky cave, lying on the filth-encrusted stone floor; from a short distance away, she heard a voice she recognized, and it sent a chill of horror down her spine. 

Lord Francis was saying, ''We'll march out at early dawn. By the time we arrive, the gates should be open, and we'll be able to take the outer courtyard before the alarm is raised. Sir John, do not forget - Lady Cathelin will be in her Blacksunne armor, so you should be able to spot her easily. If not, ask - the three commanders know her on sight.'' 

Madrigal tried to curl up into a ball but was unable to. Suddenly, a sharp pain rippled through her stomach and she bit her lip to stifle a moan, both hands around the swollen mound. She knew what was happening - her children, eager to see the world, had decided it was time to begin the business of being born. 

Footsteps approached, and Madrigal squeezed her eyes tightly shut, pretending to still be unconscious. A boot toe prodded her arm, and she rolled with it, keeping her limbs limp despite her pain; then the foot drew back and kicked her viciously in the thigh. Madrigal fought to remain still but feared the next kick might be to her vulnerable belly. The pain eased as the muscles of her womb rested to prepare for another contraction... 

She opened her eyes, squinting a little in the bright light of the torch Lord Francis held above his head. ''So,'' Francis said, a slight cold smile on his face. ''The bitch is awake, eh? Good... I promise you, slavey, you'll not die just yet. First, you must live to see your whoremonger mistress' head on a pike. And after...'' His lips stretched into a death's-head grin. ''I'll kill your brat. Would you like to hold it once before I smash its head apart on the walls?'' 

Madrigal shuddered. His eyes... Lord Francis had never been entirely sane, that she had known. But now - he has been possessed by an evil djinn, Madrigal thought with horror. He is as mad as a foaming dog. Allah preserve me.

Madrigal knew she would be missed eventually, and prayed that her Lady would be able to track the abductors. But if what he says is true, she thought, there is a some kind of army outside. Even so, my Lady Cat is the greatest warrior in the world. Surely, she will find a way. And if not, then I pray to Allah and all the saints that I die before she, and before my children.

Francis drew back his foot and kicked her thigh again, making her wince as the blow landed in the same place as before. ''What, no words of love?'' he asked in mock disappointment. ''Did you not miss me? I should think that warming my cousin's bed wouldn't hold a candle to the things I did to you, slavey.'' 

Hot tears filled Madrigal's eyes but she struggled to maintain control. She would not beg - she knew this was what he wanted - and within her heart, she held her Lady's words, repeating them over and over, ''I love you'' and ''You are free.'' She would never be a slave again; Lady Cat had taught her about true freedom, and Madrigal, having at last discovered pride and love, would never be forced to that place of abject slavery again. 

I must continue, she thought as Francis stared down at her, frowning. I must be strong. I must not give in to fear. My Lady will come.

Abruptly, Francis turned away, tired of the game. A true sadist, if his prey did not respond with fear, he became bored. 

Earl O'Brian cast a worried glance at Lord Francis. ''D'ye think it can be done?'' he quietly asked Sir John, who adjusted a shoulder vambrace on his armor and replied, ''Yes. As soon as we take the castle, I'll kill him. But I'll expect half my payment in advance, my Lord of Kinslainne. And the other half when I deliver Lord Francis' head to your tent.'' 

''Aye,'' O'Brian answered, and handed the other man a bulging pouch. ''But why wait?'' 

Sir John weighed the pouch thoughtfully in his palm before tucking it into a fold of his surcoat and smiling slightly. The mail coif he wore over his head framed a seamed, weathered face, criss-crossed with scars, and his light brown eyes met O'Brian's. ''Because, my Lord, I am an honest man... I can be bought only by one master at a time.'' 

Cathelin took the stairs two at a time, hurrying at breakneck speed. She'd spent far longer in the chapel with Father Paul than she'd intended, and her kerns had almost finished gathering in the forecourt. Her goodbyes to Madrigal would have to be brief. 

''Madri?'' she said hastily as she skidded into the room... But there was no reply. 

Cathelin's eyes searched the chamber, but there was no sign of Madrigal at all. Spinning about on one heel, she noticed the other woman's cloak was missing from the hook beside the door. 

Where in God's name can she be? Cathelin thought, beginning to get irritated. Surely she's not gone to the jakes on a night like this! She walked to the close-stool that sat in one corner behind a screen and lifted the lid. Nay, the pot's empty and the ash clean. 

Her dark red brows drew together in a frown. If she's down in the kitchen again, I'll be skinnin' her alive, she thought darkly. ''That woman'll be the death of me yet,'' Cathelin muttered aloud. ''Disappearing to God alone knows where, and me with my war band freezing in the forecourt.'' Not to mention her squire Thomas waiting in the armory to help her on with her suit of plate armor. 

The sound of wild weeping drew her attention. Coming down the hall was Wolf McLeod, his face grimmer than usual, ebony brows drawn so closely together they appeared to march in an unbroken line across his forehead. In his tight grasp he pulled along a crying, stumbling maidservant, her cornsilk yellow hair straggling across her pock- marked face. 

''What this?'' Cathelin said, annoyed. If Wolf wishes me to discipline a servant at this late hour, she thought, I'll be throwing my hands up and surrendering to the world's madness! I've no time for such now! 

Wolf paused at the threshold, then thrust the maidservant inside the chamber. She fell to her knees, wet face buried in both hands. ''One o' the new maids, my Lady,'' he said. ''T'was showin' this about in th' servant's quarters.'' He cast a handful of silver coins down to ring and chime on the stone floor. 

''I questioned her, for one so poor ta have so much is beyond an honest man's ken,'' he continued, then paused. This news would be no easier to deliver than it had been to hear. ''Mistress Madrigal's been ta'en.'' 

For a moment, Cathelin was certain she had gone deaf, or mad, or both. ''What?'' she asked in confusion. ''Taken? What do you mean?'' 

''This one,'' he said, prodding the maidservant with one toe, ''is handfast ta Simon Fletcher down in th' village. He's one o' them we've been keepin' a peeled eye on.'' Wolf waited, hoping he would not have to explain further. 

Abruptly, comprehension dawned, and Cathelin closed her lips tightly against a bellow of pain and rage. MADRI! she thought, that bastard Francis has taken my Madri! 

She grabbed the maidservant by one shoulder, hauled her up off the floor and shook the hapless girl like a rag doll. Cathelin's lips had peeled back from her teeth in a snarl of pure animal fury and her eyes were as hot as the gates of Hell. ''Where is she?'' she shouted, oblivious to Wolf's protests. ''WHERE IS SHE? What have you done with my Madri?!'' 

The maid could only stammer and wail, and finally, Cathelin threw her back down to the floor in disgust, struggling to control the instinct to draw her sword and hack the girl into a dozen or more pieces. She panted, trying to think, but her mind would only circle back to the same terrible thought - her Madri back in Francis' power. 

Suddenly, she calmed. It was as if a cloak of pure ice had been drawn over her swirling, blood-maddened emotions; dimly, Cathelin was aware that she was in the grip of the profoundest anger she had ever known. Not since Irizin's death had she felt this way, but instead of heat, all she felt was cold... the chill craving for revenge, and more than revenge. 

''Tell me,'' she said through gritted teeth to Wolf McLeod. 

He ran a shaky hand through his black hair. ''Fletcher's wit' Francis' army. Th' maid tol' me a 'friend' gie her th' coin ta bring a false message ta Mistress Madrigal. Thirty pieces o' silver he paid. Tell her, lass.'' 

The maidservant keened, ''I were only tryin' ta earn enow fer th' banns! An' he were tellin' me it were a jape. S'all, Lady, I swear ta yer!'' 

Cathelin knelt down and forced the maid's head up. Her terrified, bleary blue eyes stared... and the maidservant abruptly realized that her life hung in the balance. ''Who paid you?'' Cathelin asked, her tone dangerously soft. ''And what did you tell her?'' 

The maid swiped one hand across her runny nose. ''I dunno his name, Lady,'' she replied with a sniffle. ''I only knows I were s'posed ter tell yer woman ter go down ter outer court, an' tell 'er it were somethin' about an accident wit' a horse, an' that yer needed her.'' 

Cathelin sat back on her heels. ''That's all?'' 

''Aye.'' The maidservant was terrified; she knew full well there had been something more behind the man's excuse of a jest. No one paid good coin in a hard winter for a mere joke, but the silver had been too much to resist. She knew her life was forfeit and shivered, lips forming a plea for mercy that she dared not voice. 

Cathelin rose. Her face might have been carved from granite; her lips were pinched and white with strain. ''I'll be down within the half-hour,'' she told Wolf. ''Have the men ready; we ride as soon as I'm armored.'' 

''An' what of this one?'' Wolf asked, looking pointedly at the shivering maidservant. 

Cathelin was already on her way out the door. ''I'll deal with her on my return,'' she replied over her shoulder as she walked away. ''Give her to Father Paul and tell him to pray for her soul.'' 

The maid burst into a fresh shower of tears as those ominous words struck deeply - and Wolf McLeod bestowed on her a look of angry satisfaction. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The army marched. 

Through a blanket of pristine white, their breath foaming in the air, woolen cloaks held tightly against the cold, wolfskin boots crunching down the snow-clotted trail. They needed no torches; the moon shone brightly down on the scene. 

Cathelin rode in front with Wolf McLeod, Becca Half-Tongue and four others, their horses' hooves breaking up huge patches of snow - and Cathelin thanked God and St. Brigit there had been no freeze as yet. The snow was packed but not iced, and easy to break through. 

Cathelin was in her full Blacksunne armor, and the smoke of her breath streamed from behind the grilled visor of her war helm, making her resemble a steel dragon from ancient myths. The mighty broadsword of the O'Camerons was on her hip, and behind her saddle hung a quiver of javelins with leaf shaped tips of razor-sharp steel. 

Wolf carried aloft the O'Cameron banner, a bright crimson flag with a white and silver phoenix rising from ebony flames, and Becca proudly fingered her new badge of office - Cathelin had promoted her to the officer ranks. It would be her task to stay with the Lady during the fight and blow battle signals with the ancient ivory horn of the clan. 

Cathelin had not said a word when she'd arrived in the forecourt earlier, looking like the Morrigan herself - the Battlecrow - in her black enameled armor. Her new war horse, Shaitan, had bucked a little as she'd swung into the saddle but her fist between his ears had put an end to his fractiousness. 

As they marched, the kerns softly sang an ancient war song, although the pipers and drummers were silent; scouts had been sent ahead to deal with any sentries the enemy may have posted, but Cathelin had promised to hang any who lost them the element of surprise. So the army marched and chaunted quietly beneath their breaths: 

''Every day and every night 
That I say this prayer of St. Brigit, 
I shall not be killed, I shall not be harried, 
I shall not be put in a cell, I shall not be wounded. 
No fire, no sun, no moon shall burn me, 
No lake, no water, nor sea shall drown me. 
Come, Daurdabla! Oak of Two Woods! 
Come, Coir-cethair-chuir! Four angled music! 
Mouth of pipes and bags and drums! 
The White Host above me, 
The Queen of Heaven about me, 
And my sword to the service of God! 
May the blood of my lord's enemies 
Be as a river beneath my feet, 
And may that red water, 
Be mingled with the tears of their women...'' 

Cathelin gave a grim smile behind her war helm as the quiet verse reached her ears, and urged Shaitan with her heel to pick up his pace, while behind her, the army marched on.

Madrigal arched her back slightly as she was squeezed in a fist of pain; she had wrapped a stick in a scrap of cloth torn from her skirts, and her teeth were tightly clenched down on it to stifle her cries. 

The pains were coming more frequently now; she was bathed in sweat and beginning to believe there had never been anything in the world except this cycle of pain and purpose. Oh, Allah!, she thought as the agony eased and she panted quietly, protect my Lady Cat, and let my children be born soon! 

In the dark, campfires flickered fitfully as the men of Francis' army huddled in their cloaks, sharpening their swords or, in most cases, napping. A veteran knew to take his rest where and when he could. 

Small tents had been set up in the grove; most of those tents were quiet and dark. Lord Francis was in the commander's tent with O'Brian, O'Kennedy and Galbraith, going over their plans for the coming morn... 

Suddenly, the quiet night was shattered by nearly a hundred voices raised in the keening, hair-raising wail that was the Irish battlecry - and out of the dark, flaming arrows sizzled down to strike the trees. 

Francis scrambled out of the tent, the other three men on his heels, as several trees burst into flame, becoming gigantic torches that cast a surreal light on a scene from their worst nightmares. 

The pipers and drummers gave the beat as a horde of soldiers burst into the camp, screaming, swords raised, cloaks streaming behind, faces painted into devil's masks with sacred blue woad... and met with little resistance. 

O'Brian bellowed frantic orders as the terrible figure of Blacksunne slid down from her horse, the quiver of hunting javelins empty; Cathelin had hurled them expertly as she'd ridden into camp, and twelve of the enemy already lay dead. She drew her sword and whacked Shaitan on the withers, sending him flying from the fight, and settled down to begin wrecking destruction in earnest. 

Galbraith, his lean face pale, hastily jammed a helmet on his head and ran, legs pumping, to rally his own men to the fight, O'Kennedy hot on his heels. 

Lord Francis watched, entranced, as resistance was quickly organized and the fighting began in earnest. It was as if he dwelled apart, in a space alone, somehow above the battle, yet observing it all. His hazel eyes were wide with excitement, and he shivered as he watched a man's arm fly through the air to land steaming in the snow beside him. Then he slunk away from the scene to find a safer location to watch from; he knew his whore cousin's men would be looking for him, and he had no intention of dying just yet. 

Cathelin ignored the banging of swords against her armor and swept her own sword up and around, cutting a soldier in half. She was still in the grip of icy, almost detached calm. Behind the war helm, her face was rigid, lips skinned back from her teeth in a snarl. 

She pivoted, smashing the iron boss of her shield into another man's face and he fell, spitting teeth and blood. Cathelin stamped down hard on his exposed neck as she engaged another warrior, cracking the fallen enemy's windpipe; behind her, she heard the drumming of his heels on the ground as he choked to death. Always make sure of your enemy, her father's voice sounded in her ears. Never assume he's dead until you hear his death-rattle. 

She grunted, swinging her broadsword up and back until it lay in a straight line down her back. She milked the hilt as she had been taught, then, belly muscles clenching with effort, swung it down in the pattern Sir Giles had called the 'apple splitter.'' 

The soldier had been banging his sword along Cathelin's armored sides, seeking a seam he could penetrate. The blurred arc of her broadsword shot down like a bolt from Heaven, and he did not even have time to raise his shield in a futile gesture as the steel struck, and his head was cleaved literally in half, down to his breastbone. 

Cathelin raised one foot and kicked the convulsing body off her blade, and her head swung around, seeking another enemy to send to Jesus' arms. 

All around her, pockets of her own men and the O'Fierna's were engaged in battle. Bran O'Fierna himself was locked into a sword dance with the O'Kennedy, the two men exchanging insults over their shields. Cathelin spared a tiny corner of her mind to note that they were evenly matched, and sent a small prayer to St. Brigit that O'Fierna would not be too badly injured. 

Suddenly, a voice caught her ears; amidst the clash of steel, war cries and screams, it was barely audible, but to Cathelin, it had all the power of a shout from God Himself. Her eyes narrowed behind the steel grill of her visor as she searched for the source of that voice... and saw Madrigal on her knees at the entrance to a cave mouth. 

The ice that had held her soul in its grip fractured, then splintered apart into a thousand shards as the sight of the woman she loved hit her like a blow, and her blood began to flow again. Cathelin screamed, ''MADRIGAL!'' and began to hack her way through the clustered knots of fighting men, determined to reach her love... until she was halted abruptly by a bellow behind her. 

Turning, she beheld a giant of a man dressed in mismatched mail and leathers. He was nearly seven feet tall and bald, with a heavy blonde mustache, and his face was covered in woad tattoos. In his hands he wielded a heavy war maul, the leather covered head of the hammer covered in blood and brain matter. 

''I'll kill thee, Blacksunne!'' the giant roared, swinging his maul negligently and bashing a hapless soldier to the ground. ''Come an' die by Cormac's hammer!!'' 

Cathelin settled herself behind her shield, sword at the ready, heart pounding furiously in her chest. She controlled her breathing as she had been taught, but her thoughts were not on the coming battle... they were with Madrigal, and she was impatient to kill this Cormac and rush to her love's side. 

Cormac yelled lustily, then came at her, hammer swinging with deadly purpose.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Madrigal heard the ululating war cry burst from the night's silence, and then the clash of swords and ringing steel. She struggled to her knees, crawling across the cave floor to the entrance, compelled to witness what was going on. She had to know, had to find out if her Lady had come. 

Her knees and the palms of her hands were bloody, rubbed raw on rough stone, by the time she gained the entrance, but she did not notice. All of her attention was fixed on the swirling, flame-lit scene before her as she searched the skirmishing warriors for the one figure she knew would be there. 

Wolf McLeod thrust the crimson phoenix banner of the O'Cameron's into a mound of snow covered earth, then drew his longsword. He carried no shield, but in his left hand he wielded a hand axe with deadly efficiency, and he leaped into the fray with a blood-curdling scream... 

Becca Half-Tongue danced lightly beside the black armored figure of Blacksunne, her sword flickering like a serpent's tongue, and just as quickly. At Cathelin's muttered orders, she would raise the ivory horn to her lips to blow patterned notes in the code that would tell the Lady's men and allies where to gather and where to strike. 

Madrigal's eyes feasted on her Lady; she was enthralled by her battle prowess. My Lady is the greatest warrior, she thought, and her eyes shone with tears of love and pride. 

Soon Cathelin stood alone, separated from her men and embattled, but using her sword like an extension of her arm and will, creating an ever-outward expanding circle of death and blood around her. 

Madrigal watched, then felt her stomach contract again... She bit her lip until the blood ran, trying not to cry out as she was gripped by pain, curling over her bulging stomach, both hands clawing at the unforgiving stone floor, but at last, she threw back her head and howled the name of the one person she longed for: ''CATHELIN!'' 

Down on the battlefield, Madrigal saw, through a haze of agony, her Lady Cat's head swing around, and she nearly wept when the figure in black armor began methodically chopping soldiers out of her way, heading straight towards the cave. My Lady comes, Madrigal thought, and collapsed on her side, panting. 

The terrible pain eased. Madrigal sat up, and her dark purple eyes widened as she supported herself on her hands and saw something that made her heart nearly stop. Allah, she thought, the size of him! Her Lady was being challenged by a hammer-wielding giant, and Madrigal felt an icy chill of fear trickle down her spine.

''Oh, Allah!'' Madrigal breathed fervently, ''Let Your hand cover my Lady Cat; protect her, watch over her, let her come back to me safely.'' 

The Muslim watched with growing apprehension as her Lady and the giant exchanged blows, the giant's hammer smashing the Lady's shield from her hands. They circled and danced, the Lady fighting like a wolf, darting in to wound and leaping out of range; the giant like a mighty bear, closing in on his prey to smash and rend. 

Finally, however, the blood-covered giant roared in fury, and began swinging wildly, raining blow after blow down at Cathelin, who adroitly avoided the hammer and pricked him in the thigh. 

Then, to Madrigal's horror, the giant swatted Cathelin's sword away from him with one hand, the other bringing up the war maul underhand with all his strength... 

The hammer struck her Lady full in the chest, sending her flying backwards to land with a crash on her back. As Madrigal wept and prayed, her heart in her throat, the giant closed in for the kill. 

She couldn't breathe... 

Cathelin rasped for breath, but couldn't fill her straining lungs. The steel of her breastplate had been so severely dented, it acted like a vise, squeezing her grating ribs together. Spots danced before her eyes as she struggled to turn over. Get up, get up! she remembered her father saying, when as a child she'd fallen exhausted to her hands and knees after practice. His commands ricocheted through Cathelin's head, and her limbs automatically obeyed ingrained warrior training, lifting the broadsword in a shaking hand as she sat up with a hiss of pain and tried to gather her legs under her. 

Cormac bellowed in triumph. He swung the hammer up over his head, gripping the shaft tightly, muscles in his arms bulging like oak knots beneath the skin. His tiny eyes were red with fury, like a boar's; the earth seemed to shake beneath his feet as he rushed forward... 

Cathelin's vision had narrowed to a small tunnel of light surrounded by darkness. The point of the broadsword wavered as she watched the seemingly tiny figure of Cormac coming towards her. With her last conscious thought, she seemed to see the smiling face of Madrigal, her love, beckoning her onward, and behind her visor, Cathelin returned that smile. 

Becca downed another man, twisting aside fastidiously to avoid spurting blood, and whirled around to see Cormac the Giant, hammer in hand, standing above the Lady. The kern bent, snatched her opponent's spear from his convulsing hand and cast it without pausing, praying to God and all the saints that her aim would be true. Even as the spear hummed through the air, she ran to her Lady's side, still praying... 

Just as Cathelin lost consciousness and collapsed, Cormac stopped; the spear thrown by the desperate kern had thudded home and stood, quivering, between his shoulder blades. His eyes held a faintly puzzled expression, then a flood of dark blood spilled over his lips as he choked, then fell as heavily as a mighty oak hewn by woodsmen's axes, to land with a crash on top of Cathelin, his mighty hammer driving into the earth. 

Becca skidded to a stop beside her fallen commander. She snatched the ivory horn to her lips and blew a measure, then without waiting to see what effect this had on her allies, fell to her knees and began trying to roll Cormac off the Lady, sweating and grunting with effort. 

In a moment, she was joined by Wolf McLeod. As other soldiers pounded up to form a protective ring around their commander, she and Wolf managed to get Cormac off the Lady. Her squire, Thomas, wriggled his way through the massed warriors, waving a large rucksack. 

''Let me pass! Let me pass!'' he squealed, then getting through to the inner circle, hurled himself down to the ground beside Cathelin and rummaged in the sack, quickly bringing out a set of steel bars, pointed at one end and blunt at the other. 

''Here,'' he said breathlessly, passing the tools to Becca and Wolf, ''use these on the armor joints and break it apart. Hurry!'' He drew off Cathelin's war helm gently. Becca gasped at the sight of Cathelin's pale, still face; the Lady's lips were turning blue, and the kern knew it wasn't from the cold. 

The three of them worked quickly, first getting off the badly dented breastplate; Wolf whistled - the area of collapsed steel was as deep as his fist. Thomas, tongue between his teeth and a lock of reddish-blonde hair hanging in his eyes, expertly peeled the breastplate back. 

All around them, the men kept back Francis' rallying soldiers, using spears and swords and shields to hurl the enemy away. But they did not break rank to pursue - they dared not. If one enemy warrior broke through, it would take only a single swordstroke to rid them of their beloved Lady - and every man and woman there was determined to sell their own lives if necessary. The O'Fierna's men began attacking the enemy soldiers, and soon, Francis' men were trapped between two walls of sharp steel. 

The instant he could, Wolf laid his head on Cathelin's chest, probing her rib cage. She still wasn't breathing properly, only in shallow gasps, but there was no wheezing; it was as if her body had not yet realized it could take deeper breaths. He couldn't detect any sign of a collapsed lung. 

Calculatingly, Wolf drew back his arm and delivered a careful blow to Cathelin's chest, making her draw a sharp, deep breath of pain as his hard fist made bruises flare in anguish. The sound of that indrawn breath was sweeter than angel's harps to him, and a rare smile lit up his face. 

Cathelin's eyelashes fluttered as the pain, and the increased oxygen to her lungs, brought her up from darkness. In a moment, her amber eyes opened... and she beheld the smiling face of Wolf McLeod. ''C-c-cormac?'' she rasped, one hand clutching her aching chest. 

Wolf and Becca helped Cathelin sit up as Thomas worked on removing the rest of her upper armor. ''Dead,'' Wolf said simply. Cathelin's eyes moved to the giant's corpse and she smiled faintly. ''Whose spear?'' she asked. 

Becca flushed and could not speak, so Wolf nodded his head in her direction. ''T'was th' Half-Tongue,'' he replied. ''Good cast, lass.'' 

Cathelin raised one hand and touched Becca's arm. ''My thanks,'' she said. Then, her disordered mind began to wake, and she struggled to get up, amber eyes wide. ''Madri!'' she gasped. 

Thomas protested, ''Sit still, Lady! I've got to get the rest of this armor off you!'' 

Cathelin ignored him. ''Where's my sword, Wolf? Madri's up there!'' When the three paid her no heed but continued to unlace her armor, Cathelin snapped in fury, ''I've no time for such! Give me my damned sword, McLeod!'' 

''Nay,'' he said, concentrating on a knot, ''Just a few more moments, Lady. Ye canna confront th' enemy half-accoutered. I'm sure th' wee lass is safe.'' 

Fuming, Cathelin allowed them to get the rest of her armor off, then stood, swaying a little as the sudden motion caused spots to dance before her vision. Beneath the armor she wore only leather trews and a padded gambeson; the cotton shirt was rust-stained and stank of stale sweat and iron. 

Thomas pulled a mail shirt out of his sack and helped Cathelin draw it over her head, the steel rings jingling. Then, he drew out a helm, the noseguard in the shape of a phoenix, and the wings of the bird swept over either side of the dome. 

Cathelin stamped a few times, settling the mail into place, and pulled the helm over the coils of her dark red braids. Her chest felt as if she had been stampeded over by a herd of horses, but she could breathe, and while her ribs creaked, she didn't think any had been broken. Wolf pressed the hilt of her broadsword into her hand, and Cathelin nodded her thanks. 

Around them, the outer ring of kerns was holding strong. Cathelin pushed between two of them, nodding at her men's shout of ''The Sunne! The Sunne!'' as they beheld their Lady, and a mutual prayer of gratitude was whispered from a dozen throats, thanking God that their Lady was uninjured. 

Screaming, ''Attack!'' Cathelin led her kerns into another charge, and the slaughter began with renewed ferocity. She swirled through the battlefield like the Cailleach, Black Annis herself, harvesting the souls of heroes. In her wake was strewn the bodies of the dead and dying. 

Becca caught a riderless horse by the bridle as it pounded past, and helped Thomas load the Lady's precious plate armor onto a hastily rigged litter, then boosted the young man up on the mare's back. 

Seeing him safely off the battlefield and on his way to Inishowen, Becca smiled grimly and wrenched the spear out of dead Cormac's back, bracing one foot on the cooling corpse. Twirling it expertly between her fingers, the scar-faced kern chaunted a fierce war song as she danced back out onto the battlefield, eyes alight. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Abbot Benedict watched with growing dismay and alarm as the tide of battle turned against the defenders. Despite the best efforts of the Lords' combined men, they were no match for Inishowen's blood-hungry fighters. 

He picked up the skirts of his brown robe and hustled away, calculating, planning... Behind the false stone in the fireplace of his private study in the abbey, there was a sack of gold and jewels - his personal fortune, gathered over the years by skimming the offerings and taking bribes from local Lords to turn a blind eye to some of their misdoings. 

Benedict knew his dream of becoming a Bishop, or even Archbishop, was in jeopardy, but he was determined to play this out to the end. If he could only get away, perhaps to Rome itself, and be the first to tell the story. Well, then, he thought, dodging a snow-laden branch, it may yet be that I can put down the Inishowen Whore and all her ilk, and come away clean and ennobled by the Church as well. 

His steely gray eyes sparkled at the thought of Cathelin bound to a stake, being burned alive at the behest of infuriated churchmen. There were those elements in the Church, he knew, who would have no qualms about ordering such action, and the political consequences be damned. Even Bishop Rudolphus could not afford a breach with Rome, nor could he ignore a direct order from the Pope. 

As Benedict hurried away, his mind racing through plots and plans, he failed to notice an infuriated pair of eyes watching his exit. 

David Uileand, Master of Hound for Lady Cathelin, scrubbed angry tears from his face. The tall, scrawny man who had charge of the Lady's war and hunt hounds had seen the figure of the Abbot scurrying away, and his heart was swollen with fury. 

Just that morning, his youngest son, a ten-year-old named Gwion, had told him of the goings-on among the choirboys at the abbey. Gwion had spoken tearfully of rape at Benedict's hands, and his fears of being damned to Hell for, in the abbot's own words, 'tempting a man of God to sins of the flesh.' 

David had been appalled; at first, he had been inclined to disbelieve the child, but the story had rung all too true. Then his wife, Emer, had fearfully confessed to finding blood on the boy's sheets, and his doubts had exploded into rage. He'd wanted to grab up a hunting spear and kill Benedict before he drew another breath, but then his Lady's needs and his own vows to serve her cause had interfered. However, he now saw a God-given chance to repay Benedict and revenge his son, and all the village's children, of their hurt at that evil pedophile's hands. 

''Ssssa, ssssa, me lovelies, me fierce ones,'' he whispered to the two enormous hounds at his side. Although thin, David's musculature was sufficient to hold the dogs in check as they strained on their leather leashes. 

The gaze-hounds were shaggy, brindle coated monsters, bred to take down an armored foe with ease. Their shoulders were even with David's hips; they had blocky heads with feathered, drooping ears, and their eyes glittering with feral intelligence. They bayed, paws scrabbling at the snow, fangs bared, strings of spittle hanging from black jowls. 

David pointed to the figure of the Abbot; the hounds' heads swung around, their noses working to catch the scent. Unique among canines, gaze-hounds hunted by both sight and scent; once an enemy had been spotted, it took only a single command to set them on the hunt, and they would pursue that target relentlessly until they brought it down or were killed. 

''Derga, Culain,'' David said, and the hounds pricked up their ears a little at the familiar names. Their bodies quivered with eagerness as the Master of Hounds unbuckled their leashes, careful to avoid being pricked by the heavy, steel-spiked collars they wore. Both hounds knew this action portended the Word, and they were impatient to begin their lawful work. 

David was sure the hounds had been fixed on the abbot; both Derga and Culain had the tail down, ferociously concentrating look he had come to know well. 

He drew a breath and said, grinning fiercely, ''Brave ones... SEEK!'' he commanded, and both hounds shot away, bellies low to the ground as they howled after their prey. 

The Hound Master smiled to himself as he trotted after his charges. He would not miss this slaying for all the world. 

Abbot Benedict's boots crunched on the snow as he turned in the direction of the abbey, following a small, frozen stream that he knew ended behind the abbey's walls. He had gone far enough from the battlefield that the sounds had faded; he pushed aside an icicle strewn branch and picked his way carefully, trying to avoid a slip. If he broke his leg now, it would cost him his life. 

Suddenly, shockingly near, he heard the baying of hounds. Benedict's heart froze in his chest; surely he had to be mistaken... But the howls drew nearer and the abbot panicked, running, stumbling, catching himself against the boles of trees in his headlong flight. 

He had no real warning; one moment, he heard panting and the thudding of paws along the ground; the next, he was falling forward, screaming thinly as massive jaws gripped his shoulder in a bone-crushing grip, and nearly fifteen stone of muscle and fur sent him crashing to the ground. 

Derga snarled and shifted his grip, grinding the abbot's arm into a splintered, bloody mess. Benedict wailed again, his good hand clawing at the snow covered earth in an instinctive effort to get away. 

Culain's head darted forward and she seized Benedict's buttocks in her slavering jaws, teeth penetrating deeply. Derga leaped off the prey, and Culain picked up the squealing abbot and shook him, blood splattering the snow and spraying into her face. 

Benedict's eyes were closed as excruciating pain exploded through his body. He had never felt pain like this before; even flagellating himself with a barbed whip had never caused such unbelievable agony. Both hounds seized mouthfuls of his flesh and began their work again, tearing chunks away which steamed in the cold air as he screamed and screamed and screamed... 

A shrill whistle caused Derga and his mate, Culain, to back away from the whimpering Benedict and sit down in the snow. Both hounds' muzzles and faces were dark with blood, and they panted, tongues lolling, waiting for their master. 

David Uileand trotted up, a cross-barred boar spear swinging in one hand. Benedict rolled over with a massive effort, uselessly bloody arm flopping to one side. The abbot whimpered when he saw the grim expression on the other man's face. 

David's dark green eyes shone with a satisfied light as he surveyed the hounds' work. Derga and Culain slunk over to him, and he patted and praised the dogs before turning his hot gaze on the horribly injured abbot. 

''I'm knowin' what ye did ta me boy, ye pederast barsted,'' David spat viciously. ''An' th' others. Ye'd best pray fer God's mercy, ye pig-dog, fer ye'll be gettin' none from me an' mine.'' 

The abbot blubbered, tears of pain and humiliation spilling down his face. He wept and begged, but David's face was as hard as stone. He said, ''I hopes ye burns in Hell, ye poxy whoreson. Ye'll no more make a catamite out o' any childer again.'' Derga and Culain whined as they waited for a further Word from their master. Their black eyes were locked on the figure of the pleading abbot and they snarled, roused by the smell of blood and fear. 

David smiled, a heart-stopping grin of such ferocity that the abbot's mouth clicked shut, and he began whimpering the Lord's Prayer. David pointed to the abbot and commanded, ''REND!'' 

''Nooooo!,'' Benedict screamed, a high, thin wail of disbelief and awful torment as Derga and Culain leaped upon him with a howl and began to tear him apart piece by bloody piece, taking their time as they had been commanded, instead of killing their prey quickly... 

David watched in satisfaction as his charges evoked further screams from the abbot. Eventually, there were no more, and the blood-splattered scene was quiet except for the hoarse panting of the hounds, and David's jaunty whistling as he drew a broad bladed knife and set to work himself, taking a trophy from the ripped-apart corpse to show to his traumatized son. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Madrigal bit down on her stick again, belly heaving. She had propped herself up against the stone wall of the cave, and her legs were spread wide apart as she pushed, grunting with massive, muscle-straining effort. 

Finally, the pain slacked off and she relaxed with a sigh, legs spraddled on the floor. Her face was beaded with sweat despite the cold, and her limbs trembled with exhaustion. She knew she had a while to go yet before the birth was imminent, and she wondered if she would survive. 

Below her, Cathelin was frantic. It seemed that an endless parade of enemies blocked her path to her love, and although she mowed them down relentlessly, they kept popping back up, anonymous faces with all too real weapons who had to be swept out of her way. 

At last, though, she disposed of a final warrior, and her eyes darted back and forth, seeking another, but there were none. The clear call of a horn flowed over the battlefield and Cathelin looked around. Galbraith had taken his surviving men and fled back to Carbery, to lick his wounds and pray for Inishowen's downfall; the Irishwoman knew it would be a frozen morning in Hell before Sir Duncan came against her again. 

The O'Kennedy was dead, his head tied to Bran O'Fierna's saddlebow, and his warriors had been slaughtered to a man. O'Brian had been captured, and even now knelt in the snow, waiting judgment and possible death at Cathelin's hands. His men had surrendered and had been let free by Wolf McLeod, to bear the news back to the O'Brian clan. 

Where is Francis?, Cathelin wondered, then allowed her gaze to sweep back up to the cave where Madrigal waited... and she caught her breath as a wave of pure fury overcame her. Her cousin was there, his fist wound in Madrigal's blue-black hair, and he was dragging her further into the cave. 

Cathelin let out a scream of rage, and bolted towards the cave, casting off her helm and dropping her broadsword, her only thought to tear Francis apart with her own two hands. 

She was not noticed by her men; they were busy giving the grace stroke to badly injured enemy warriors and organizing litters to carry Inishowen's wounded to the leeches who waited to tend to their hurts. 

Madrigal yelped as Francis dragged her across the floor. Her hair felt as if it was being ripped from her skull, and she supported her belly with both hands as she was scraped across the stone. 

Finally, Francis flung Madrigal down in the back of the cave and drew his knife with his left hand. It was dark, but the Muslim could see ripples of light shimmering down the length of the steel. She gave a small sigh of relief when Francis used the dagger with a bit of flint to light a torch on the wall, then slid it back into the sheath. 

She was lying against something - brittle, with an odd, musty-sweet smell... Madrigal craned her neck to see and bit her lip hard to smother a gasp of shock. 

Sorcha's body lay behind her, the woman's lips drawn back from the ivoried teeth in a hideous grin. Her eyes were hollow sockets, and she was virtually unrecognizable as the vibrant chatelaine of Inishowen, except for the two long, blonde braids that had been her hallmark when living, and now served to identify the dead. 

The corner of the cave was dark, but Madrigal could detect a salty flavor to the air. There was a hollow roaring, as if she held her ear to a seashell, and the Muslim squinted against the torchlight, straining to see. Yes, she thought, those shadows seem less dark than the others. That must be a blind corner, and an opening to the sea beyond. 

Francis was muttering, ''Whore! Whore! You stole my land, you stole my Sorcha, you stole my army, you'll not steal my life!'' 

He squatted down abruptly and laid a hard hand on Madrigal's belly. ''I have no time to play anymore, sweet slavey.'' The knife glittered in his left hand again, and he grinned, the pupils of his hazel eyes expanding with excitement. ''I'll have to end this more quickly than I expected. Too bad I can't stay to see the look on my bitch cousin's face when she comes to find you gutted like a pig and still squealing.'' 

Madrigal trembled, then she was swept away in a ferocious burst of pain. Not now! was her last conscious thought before pure instinct took over, and her hands squeezed the rags of Sorcha's dress. She whimpered, helplessly tossed in a whirling storm of agony. 

Francis looked down at Madrigal's grimacing face and with a start, realized she was in labor... Then he grinned widely. He'd never cut a pregnant woman before, and he wondered if her womb would still convulse with the effort of birth after he ripped her belly open. 

He pulled his knife out of the sheath slowly, licking his lips with anticipation. Madrigal's eyes were closed as she pushed against the rigid muscles of her abdomen, panting heavily. 

Francis lightly trailed the point of the knife along a fold of Madrigal's dress, and he whispered, ''Sweet slavey... I'll take your heart with me when I go.'' 

He pulled his arm back and up, his manhood growing hard in his breeches as he prepared to strike. 

Cathelin skidded into the cave, nostrils flared, breathing hard. It was empty - then the faint flickering of a torch at the back of the cave caught her attention. 

The Irishwoman walked carefully towards the light, feet making not a sound on the dirty stone floor. When she rounded the shallow corner, her amber eyes flared with renewed rage... 

Madrigal lay on the floor, twisting in pain, with Francis above her, a knife poised to strike. 

Cathelin's mind went up in flames. 

With a roar, Cathelin tackled Francis from the side, rolling him with her momentum across the floor, fetching up with a bang against the opposite wall, her hated enemy on top. Francis was stunned for a moment, then he felt Cathelin bury her teeth in the tender flesh of his throat. 

Cathelin growled through the mouthful of flesh, jaws grinding, and Francis screamed, striking out with his knife. The point was deflected by Cathelin's mail shirt, but the force of the blow made her release him. She sprang to her feet and waited, holding her bruised ribs with one hand. 

A trickle of Francis' blood stained the corner of her mouth and her tongue flicked out to taste it, an explosion of coppery sweetness that had the effect of sobering her somewhat. All too well do I know that taste, Cathelin thought, and she controlled the urge to attack her cousin like a wild animal. 

Francis got to his feet and touched the side of his neck to assess the ragged wound. 

''So, my whore cousin returns,'' Francis said sardonically, ''and such a kiss of welcome, too. Come for your little slavey, have you?'' He gestured with the knife towards Madrigal. ''You'll have to kill me first.'' His voice was hard, and his hazel eyes were alight with insane glee. 

Cathelin suddenly smiled, amber eyes as hot as molten gold. ''You'll be having your wish, cousin,'' she replied. ''You hurt my Madri, bastard whore's get. I'll kill you with my own hands, and great will be my pleasure in the doing of it.'' 

Francis darted forward, knife held professionally low. His right hand struck out at Cathelin's face, but she deflected it easily, and the point of the knife skidded across her thigh, drawing blood. 

Cathelin grunted, then drove her face forward, slamming her forehead into Francis' nose. Blood spurted as he reeled backwards, tripping over the sweating, panting Madrigal and falling to sprawl on Sorcha's body. Cathelin started towards him, and he scrambled backward, disappearing around the blind corner and out of sight. 

Cathelin paused and squatted down beside Madrigal. ''Are you well, sweetling?'' she asked, keeping her eyes on the blind corner lest Francis should return. She was still very angry, but her concern for Madrigal overrode other considerations. Besides, she thought, he'll not escape, save he learns to fly. She had explored these caves as a child, and knew the opening at the rear of the cave led to a sheer two-hundred foot drop, straight down to the white-foamed maw of the sea. 

Her love opened her eyes; the Muslim's contraction eased, and Madrigal replied hoarsely, ''Now that you are here, yes. But the children come quickly, Lady Cat. Finish it and come back to me.'' She bestowed a tired smile on her Lady, and mentally thanked Allah for protecting Cathelin. 

Cathelin leaned down and kissed Madrigal's sweaty forehead. ''Rest, Madri,'' she said softly, ''I'll be back before you even know I've gone.'' 

The Irishwoman stood, dark red hair loosened from its braids and flowing in tangled strands across her broad shoulders. She stepped carefully over Madrigal and Sorcha, and stalked around the corner, the muscles of her jaw writhing beneath the skin. 

Francis was waiting, outlined in the faint ruddy light of dawn that streamed in through the small cave mouth. His shirt was stained with blood, rusty stains spotted his sandy beard, and one eye was swelling rapidly shut, but his lips were peeled back from his teeth in a defiant snarl. 

''I'll kill you, YOU BITCH!'' he screamed, and rushed towards Cathelin, who ignored the twinge of pain in her thigh and prepared to meet him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The two warriors grappled, reeling across the small room. Francis drove his knife repeatedly into Cathelin's back, squalling in pain as the woman's arms tightened around his waist and she squeezed with all her strength. 

Cathelin ignored the pain of the blows against her back and heaved Francis from his feet, tightening the muscles in her arms into rigid bars as she tried to break his back with her grip alone. Her face was stony, lips pressed so tightly together they were pale and bloodless. 

Francis managed to free his left arm and drove the knife towards Cathelin's face; she dropped him to dodge aside. His right hand caught the Irishwoman a hard swipe across the throat and she gagged, staggering backwards, chest heaving as she tried to draw breath through her bruised windpipe. 

She felt her heels falter on the crumbling stone at the edge of the drop-off, and her heart hammered in her chest. Her arms flew out to brace against the sides of the opening, strong hands gripping the rock face convulsively. 

With a shrill yelp of triumph, Francis walked towards her and Cathelin knew she was going to die. It would take only a small thrust to break her grip and she would tumble backwards, windmilling down to the ocean and the black spines of rock below. 

Goodbye, my Madri, Cathelin thought regretfully as she prepared mentally for death. Although she still struggled to regain her balance, the stone beneath her feet crumbling and pattering away, she was also ready to take Francis with her into death. T'is damned I'll be if I let him live to torment my Madri again! Cathelin thought, as time slowed down to a crawl, and Francis came at her, knife upraised, sheer hate and elation mingled together on his face. 

Madrigal's pain eased, and she lay her head back on the cool stone floor. She was exhausted, so terribly tired. 

The grunts of combat from beyond the corner drew her attention. Something is wrong, she thought, worried. Lady Cat should have returned by now. 

Shakily, she crawled over Sorcha's body, wincing as the brittle bones of the corpse crunched beneath her weight, and managed to get around the corner, although her arms shook with the effort of holding herself up. Madrigal kept crawling, stubborn determination spurring her on. 

As she reached the small room beyond the corner, Madrigal's dark eyes widened in shock and fear and her heart thudded into her throat; silently, she keened Cathelin's name in her mind as she took in the horrifying scene. 

Lady Cat was poised on the very edge of the tiny platform that jutted out over the sea, and she held both sides of the rock face tightly. It was obvious that she was helpless, balance gone, and it was only her grip on the stones that held her there still. 

Lord Francis was stalking towards her Lady; his back was to the former slave, but she could sense his gloating delight. He was going to kill her love. 

Madrigal's hand desperately scrabbled on the floor, seeking something, anything she could throw to distract him. A stone, a stick, anything... better I die beneath his blade than my Lady, she thought frantically. 

Her searching hand alighted on something, and with a sense of disbelief she realized it was a short horse bow. She picked it up and noted with relief that it was not some old relic, but new, the bowstring taut and perfect. It must have been left by one of Francis' men, she thought. 

She hastily found an arrow, cutting her thumb slightly on the barbed head. Then Madrigal nocked the arrow, drawing back the string as her warrior father had taught her in those long-ago, barely remembered days of her childhood. She could not remember his face, just the feel of his callused hands on her own tiny ones as he taught her to draw the child's bow he had made for her. 

Her arms trembled with the strain of holding the bow, but from somewhere inside herself, she found a previously unknown well of strength and her wavering aim miraculously steadied. Madrigal closed one eye, sighting carefully, the feathers of the fletching tickling her cheek, and sent a prayer to Allah not to take her Lady Cat this day. She knew she would have only one chance, and her mind shuddered away from the consequences if she failed. 

Ponderously, Madrigal struggled up on one knee, knowing if this worked, she would have to act quickly. 

Francis wet his lips with his tongue and slowly drew the knife along Cathelin's cheek, a thin line of blood springing up along the path of the razored steel. Cathelin's muscles were taut as she held herself up by sheer strength of will alone. 

Francis whispered in sing-song fashion, ''Now you're going to d-i-i-ie,'' and Cathelin held herself poised, preparing to whip one arm out and fasten his tunic in her grasp, pulling him over with her as she fell. 

Suddenly, a soft sigh echoed from the cave walls as Madrigal released the arrow and got to her feet, already in motion, casting the bow aside as she hurried with all the speed she could muster. Francis felt the arrow bury itself in his back, the barbed head slamming into his kidneys and shredding flesh and organs in its passage. 

He screamed and toppled forward, but Madrigal was there, moving adroitly despite her clumsy bulk, fear for her beloved Lady lending wings to her feet. She snatched him by the arm and pivoted, hurling him away from her Lady Cat with a strength magnified by love and desperation. Francis slammed into the cave wall, the force of Madrigal's arm and his own weight pushing the arrowhead deeper into his body. 

As soon as she released Francis, Madrigal's hands buried themselves in Cathelin's mail shirt and the Muslim woman heaved with all her might, pulling her Lady forward and away from danger. 

Cathelin gaped as she saw Madrigal moving with grace and purpose despite her immense belly; her love's sweet face was frozen in a teeth-clenching rictus of effort, but her dark purple eyes shone with a ferocious light Cathelin had never dreamed she possessed. 

T'is as if she's been possessed by the battle madness, Cathelin thought in amazement as Madrigal sent Francis hurtling away with what seemed like effortless ease, then darted forward to seize the Irishwoman's shirt and pull, strands of blue-black hair sticking to her wet face. 

Cathelin found her balance and released her deathgrip on the rocks, but then was overbalanced by Madrigal's mad tugging, and fell, taking the Muslim woman with her; Cathelin absorbed the shock on the palms of her hands, keeping her weight off Madrigal only with a gut-wrenching effort that caused beads of sweat to spring up on her brow. 

Madrigal looked up at Cathelin. Now that the moment had passed and her Lady was safe, she felt another contraction coming on. ''Lady,'' she gasped, ''my children...'' 

Cathelin rolled away from Madrigal and sprang to her feet. She started to run towards the front of the cave, but stopped and retraced her steps. Always make sure of a fallen enemy... 

She walked back to the small room and over to Francis, who opened his eyes at her approach. The insane light within those hazel depths had dimmed, but he smiled with his blood-stained mouth. 

''God... damn... you...,'' he half-whispered, and a gout of dark blood bubbled from his lips. ''God... damn... you...to... Hell...'' 

Cathelin squatted down and put her arms around Francis, then stood, the injured muscle in her thigh quivering as her effort ripped the cut wider. She carried Francis to the small opening at the back of the little room, keeping her feet carefully away from the shattered edge. 

His hazel eyes widened and he whimpered fitfully, tossing his head back and forth in denial. Cathelin looked down at her cousin's face and searched her heart, but found no guilt, no mercy - just the remembrance of justice, and the meaning of the law. 

''You first, cousin,'' she said softly, then dropped him over the edge... 

Francis screamed shrilly as he fell, tumbling over and over through the air, and the wet splatter of his body striking the rocks below was overwhelmed by the rushing roar of the sea. 

Cathelin watched him fall, then turned away. No tears burned in her eyes for this death; only grim satisfaction at a judgment given, a punishment meted, and the thought that her Madri had, at last, been fully revenged. 

Madrigal cried out, and the sound of her voice jolted Cathelin from her reverie. ''Sweetling!'' she yelped, then absurdly blurted, ''Stay there - I'll fetch help.'' 

Madrigal grunted in acknowledgment as she pushed, her belly heaving up and down. Cathelin ran, ignoring the burning pain in her leg and the ache of bruised ribs, shouting at the top of her lungs for Wolf and Becca. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Madrigal strained, face reddening with effort, and Cathelin urged her to breathe. ''Come, sweetling, t'is not good to hold your breath so,'' the Irishwoman crooned. 

Madrigal's hands were fastened onto Cathelin's, and she clutched them in a bone-grinding grip as the pain went on and on. 

Cathelin looked up at the sound of horse's hooves coming towards the cave mouth. A troop of hastily assembled kerns had gotten a roaring fire going in a circle of stones, smoke wafting up through a natural chimney in the ceiling of the cave. Madrigal had been moved to the front room, Cathelin carrying her, and now reclined in a cushioning nest of furs and donated cloaks. 

Becca had been sent back to Inishowen on the fastest horse available, to fetch the midwife with all speed. Cathelin knew Madrigal could not ride, nor be carried, even in a litter, the six miles back to her own bed, so the birthing would have to be here. Wolf McLeod had been sent to the abbey on a similar errand - the Lady wanted Brother Ignatius in attendance as well. 

Madrigal relaxed as the contraction passed, gasping for breath. Her filthy dress had been cut away, and she was covered by a clean fur. Cathelin had melted snow in her helm over the fire and bathed the Muslim with a soft cloth, getting off much of the dirt and grime and making Madrigal feel infinitely more comfortable. 

Becca and Branwen hustled into the cave, the midwife already throwing a spotless apron over her head. The woman carried a leather sack in her hand, and she grinned widely. 

''So, I see th' wee lass' time is come,'' Branwen said. She said to Becca, ''Melt some snow ta boilin', then set is aside. I'm wishin' ta wash my hands o' horse sweat an' such afore I touch th' gal.'' She reached inside her sack and brought out a clay jar of soft soap and a piece of folded leather. 

Cathelin sighed in relief. She helped Branwen slide the softly tanned piece of bullhide beneath Madrigal, and smiled down at her love. ''T'will be all right, sweetling,'' Cathelin said, kissing the tip of Madrigal's nose. ''I love you.'' 

Madrigal returned the smile, although her eyes were glazed with exhaustion. ''I love you as well,'' she said softly, and Branwen chuckled. 

''Glad I am ta see these bairns be born ta such a lovin' household,'' the midwife said with a gap-toothed smile. When Becca indicated the water was ready, Branwen soaped up her narrow hands and lean forearms, and rinsed them thoroughly, flinging the slops out of the cave mouth. A idle soldier received the barrage full in the face, and Branwen ignored his muffled curses with dignity. 

Kneeling down between Madrigal's spread knees, the midwife said, ''Now, wee one, I'll be checkin' on yer progress.'' 

Branwen lifted up the fur to expose Madrigal's nudity, then carefully slid two fingers into her, probing delicately, head cocked to one side. ''T'is good,'' she said firmly. ''Not much longer now. You, Lady, get behind th' little mother an' let her rest agin ye. Yer as much a part o' this birthin' as she.'' 

Cathelin slid behind Madrigal, pulling the other woman up between her spread legs as Branwen directed. Her naked back was against the hard stone of the cave wall, but she did not complain. 

Madrigal rested her hands on her Lady's upraised knees, half- reclining, her head pillowed on soft breasts, feeling a vast sense of comfort at the feel of Cathelin's strong arms around her. Then another pain hit, and her hands dug into her Lady's flesh as she let out a strangled scream. 

Cathelin felt her own stomach muscles clench in sympathy. She had removed her mail shirt and gambeson, as well as her tunic as the cave had grown warmer, and the sweat-soaked strands of Madrigal's hair tickled her chest. She whispered, ''Softly, sweetling, heart's delight...'' She stroked Madrigal's brow with one hand as the other woman strained. 

Madrigal had never felt such pain in her life. As her contractions grew stronger and more frequent, she felt as if she were being torn apart. No longer fearing to raise her voice, the Muslim screamed, cried and cursed in Arabic, calling down the wrath of Allah on the one who had caused her torment, and on the breed of men in general. 

Cathelin stifled a chuckle and held Madrigal as the powerful contractions racked her small body. My Madri has quite the sharply pointed tongue, she thought. I pity the bard who tries to satirize her. The Irishwoman looked at Branwen, who was still kneeling between Madrigal's legs. 

''How much longer?'' Cathelin asked. 

''No much,'' Branwen answered, then passed a short bladed knife to the hovering Becca. ''Pass this through th' flames till t'is cherry red, then,'' she added, splashing liquid from a wineskin into a wooden bowl, ''put it in here.'' 

Becca sniffed at the bowl; it was pure usqueba, the potent water of life, and the scar-faced kern grimaced but obeyed her instructions, carrying the bowl back to the midwife when she was finished. 

Branwen looked up, pale green eyes alight. ''I'm seein' a head,'' she announced. 

Madrigal grunted, pushing with all her might, feeling as if her pelvic bones were separating. She wept, ''I cannot! I cannot!'' tossing her head back and forth against the pain. It was too much, she was too tired, she felt as if she had battling all day and wanted nothing but rest... 

Cathelin put her hands over Madrigal's where they clutched her knees, and said, ''Take my strength, sweetling. Let our children come into this world.'' She pressed her lips against the top of the Muslim's head, and closed her eyes, willing energy to the woman she loved and praying silently for St. Brigit's aid. 

Madrigal sucked in a shuddering lungful of air, then heaved with renewed effort. Those words - ''our children'' - had given her hope. She felt as if she struggled against titanic forces, but knew that as long as her Lady Cat was there, everything would be all right. 

Branwen grinned widely, hands busy beneath the sheltering fur. Cathelin opened her eyes but could not see what was going on. ''Well?'' she croaked. 

The midwife's eyes were narrowed in concentration. ''T'is comin','' she replied shortly. 

Madrigal screamed as the baby's head slowly emerged amidst a gout of blood and fluid. Then, Branwen guided the infant's shoulders out with practiced skill, and soon, a squalling child was cradled in the midwife's tiny hands, the bloody cord still attaching it to its mother. 

''A boy!'' Branwen crowed, tying off, then cutting the umbilical cord with the sterilized knife. The midwife laid the squirming child down on the fur between Madrigal's breasts; her son mewled, eyes tightly closed, tiny fists waving in protest at his abrupt transference from a place of warmth and darkness into the light of the world. 

Cathelin felt tears flowing down her cheeks, while Madrigal reached up one hand to steady her firstborn. Although streaked with blood, wisps of dark hair matted to his slightly misshapen skull, he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. 

Cathelin touched the baby's cheek with one finger and said quietly, ''He's lovely, our son. Must be taking after his mother.'' She kissed Madrigal's ear, her heart swelling with love and pride. 

Madrigal closed her eyes as another spasm of pain shot through her. In a few moments, Branwen said, ''An' here's t'other! Come along, lassie, yer mother's waitin'.'' 

The other baby emerged more rapidly than her brother had done, and instead of wailing, she trilled with seeming delight. 

''An' yer daughter! A fine, healthy bairn,'' Branwen announced. 

Soon, both babies lay wrapped in warm furs, sleeping in Madrigal's arms. Branwen had massaged the Muslim's belly to expel the afterbirth, then cleaned up. By the time Brother Ignatius had arrived, practically carried by Wolf McLeod, it was all over. 

''Well,'' the old monk had sighed, ''at least I'll be in time fer th' christenin'.'' 

Becca wiped tears from her cheeks as she took the astonished Wolf by the arm and led him away from the cave, Brother Ignatius and Branwen following. They left the two women alone, Becca already making plans for the birthing celebration. 

Cathelin took up the baby girl's hand and marveled at how perfect and delicate it was. ''Have you ever seen such tiny fingernails?'' she asked Madrigal, who sighed. 

''Yes,'' she replied softly, ''I have seen newborns before.'' Her dark eyes gazed down at her two children, and although she was mortally weary, she had to smile. 

Cathelin was still behind her, the hard-muscled body warm against Madrigal's back, and the Lady's arms were around her. Madrigal snuggled against Cathelin and closed her eyes, drifting off to sleep. 

Cathelin smiled and stroked a forefinger along Madrigal's cheek. Then with a sigh of her own, she rested her chin on top of her love's head and let her eyelids close, tumbling into Morpheus' dark-feathered embrace to dream of life and love. 

CHAPTER THIRTY

Two weeks later, Inishowen was the scene of a huge celebration, and the castle was crammed to the rafters with the clan, and visitors, and guests. The festival had a tri-fold cause - to celebrate the Winter Solstice, to welcome Madrigal and her new children to the O'Cameron clan, and to rejoice in the news that Lady Cathelin and Madrigal would be handfast next Beltain in a ceremony that, while it lacked the blessings of the Church, would nevertheless be considered valid by the laws of ancient Ireland.. 

Cathelin sat at the high table beneath the gold embroidered Canopy of State and watched the revelers with a smile. There had been a feast - Shevaughn and her crew had worked nothing short of a miracle to get all in readiness - and her people were dancing, singing, and making merry with high-spirited abandon. 

Madrigal sat at her right, blushing with shy pride each time one of the folk came up to wish her happiness, Merry Solstice, and praise her babies. She wore a dark crimson gown with contrasting black queen's sleeves that fell into a point at the wrist that swung nearly to the floor. The neckline had been trimmed with black ribbon knotwork, and around her neck, she proudly wore both her Lady's welcoming gift of the silver phoenix necklace, as well as a new gift: a heavy silver collar of intertwined swans set with amethysts, dark garnets and exotic black pearls. Matching earrings swung nearly to her shoulders as she softly thanked the excited clansmen and women for their kindness. 

Cathelin hitched at the hem of her own new tunic and sighed. The tunic was black with crimson trim, and Madrigal had studded the front and sleeves with white bone beads and embroidered silver moons. The Irishwoman's dark red hair swung in its customary twin braids as she turned her head and contemplated the children that had made such a difference in her life in such a short time. 

Currently, the babies were in the lap of the new nursemaid; a plump, cheerful, heavily freckled young woman named Crimthan Oengus, whose fiery orange hair exploded in a profusion of corkscrew curls over her shoulders, proving her mother had been right in naming her ''Fox.'' 

The boy had been christened Padraigh Giles O'Cameron. Madrigal had been very pleased when her Lady had expressed great pleasure over their son being named after her father. Though only two weeks old, the child had already earned the nickname of 'Wee Dragon', being quite fierce in his temperament, and not at all shy about expressing himself. 

The little girl, on the other hand, was sweetness itself. The naming of this baby had nearly caused the couple's first fight. Madrigal had insisted on naming the baby after Cathelin, who had categorically refused to countenance it. 

Cathelin sighed again when she remembered that argument. ''But sweetling,'' she had said, trying to be reasonable, ''t'would be too confusing, having two of me about the place!'' 

Madrigal had been stubborn and equally implacable. Finally, however, they agreed on a compromise; their daughter now bore the name of Brigit Cathbadh O'Cameron, but the folk called her ''Honey-Cat.'' She was a loving baby, and her dark eyes were constantly filled with wonderment and delight at all the marvels in the world. 

Privately, Cathelin was relieved that neither of the children had Francis' coloring or, in fact, anything of him in their looks she could detect. While it would not have made her love them any less, still... the reminder of their father would have been a hurtful one. ''Crimthan, lass, let me have my sweetness,'' she said aloud. 

With a broad smile, the nursemaid passed Honey to the Lady. She, and many others of the clan, found it a source of private amusement that their fierce warrior Lady should have taken so to the little girl, while shy Madrigal, who insisted she loved both children equally, clearly had a slight preference for the boy. Crimthan chuckled, plump freckled shoulders shaking. Aye, she thought to herself, th' Good Lord works in mysterious ways.

Cathelin cradled Honey in her arms, making nonsense baby talk and tickling the baby's snub nose with the end of one dark red braid. Madrigal smiled indulgently; she, too, found Cathelin's delight over the girl baby amusing. Crimthan raised one eyebrow at Madrigal, but the Muslim shook her head. Her breasts ached slightly, being full of milk, but the children were not yet hungry. 

While her Lady cooed and kissed the baby in her arms, Madrigal's dark purple eyes swept over the gathering. 

Wolf McLeod, resplendent in tartan kilt, sporran, blue tunic and his black hair in a braid, was engaged in a vigorous sword dance with heavy claymores against a visiting member of the O'Fierna clan - a well-muscled warrior with a pale blonde thatch of curls and charming dimples in both cheeks named Lugh. The two men yelled lustily as their swords flashed and clanged. 

Shevaughn was dancing a wild reel, the skirts of her brilliant crimson gown held high as her feet kicked and skittered, and the Hearth Chief twirled with unbelievable grace, face wreathed in a broad smile as her partner, a smaller woman with a fox-like face and wavy blonde hair named Ceridwyn, panted to keep up. Bets had already been taken among the kitchen staff as to who was seducing whom, and speculation ran rife as to whether or not Shevaughn and Ceridwyn would end up in the storeroom, the hayloft or perhaps even the wine cellar. 

Becca Half-Tongue sang along with a group of her fellow kerns to an old drinking song played with enthusiasm by a minstrel. She leaned her head on the shoulder of a one-eyed veteran, and ran one hand down his lean muscled chest, keeping time with her mazer of wine with the other hand. He leaned his head down and kissed her, and Becca wondered if the war room in the barracks was occupied. 

Even the hapless maid was there, drinking small beer and chattering with a group of servers, her bleary blue eyes alight with happiness. Cathelin had spoken to the pox-scarred maid for a long, long time, and having determined that the girl's crime was greed and inability to avoid temptation rather than true treason, had forgiven the girl in a burst of parental joy. 

But Father Paul had not been so lenient; the old priest had laid a penance on the maidservant - to clean his small house, and bring his firewood, and cook his meals - and generally kept her about the chapel, where he could keep a fierce eye on her doings. Her betrothed had been killed in what was now known as the Battle of the Trees, and while she had wept for his death, the maid was relieved that she had been forgiven by the Lady, and that the payment for her crimes was such a light one. She knew she would never do such again, and thanked God every night that her Lady and the Lady's beloved had not been killed or worse due to her lapse. 

Cathelin handed the now sleeping Honey back to Crimthan, leaned over, and kissed Madrigal's lips. ''Sweetling,'' she murmured, ''what about your song?'' 

Madrigal nodded. Her blue-black hair had been pinned into a coronet around her head, and a crown of gold ribbon-wrapped mistletoe was perched on her head. She pulled her harp into her lap and softly strummed the strings, the dark wood with its carved dolphins glistening in the torchlight. 

Cathelin stood and raised her voice in a bellow, ''Silence! Silence!'' she shouted until the merrymaking ceased, and all eyes turned towards the Lady. 

Cathelin smiled. ''Madri has promised to sing us a special song tonight.'' She paused for the wild whistling and clapping to die down, then continued, ''Now, let all be silent and respectful whilst she plays. Or else,'' she added fiercely, amber gold eyes raking across the throng. She sat back down, certain that even the hardened drunkards would pay attention. 

Cathelin nodded to Madrigal, who drew a lovely, slightly martial melody from her harp and began the six hundred year old Song of Long Life: 

''I invoke the seven daughters of the sea 
Who fashion the threads of the sons of long life. 
May three deaths be taken from my beloved! 
May seven waves of good fortune be dealt my beloved! 
May no evil spirits harm my beloved! 
In flashing corselet without hindrance, 
May her fame not perish! 
I invoke Senach of the seven periods of time, 
Whom fairy women have reared on the breasts of plenty. 
May her seven candles not be extinguished! 
She is an indestructible stronghold, 
She is an unshaken rock, 
She is a precious stone. 
May she live a hundred times a hundred years! 
I summon these boons to her, 
And may the grace of St. Brigit be upon her!'' 

As soon as the last strains of the harp died away, the assembled folk roared their approval, led by the new Abbot, Father Dominicus, who had lived in Inishowen as a boy before taking holy vows. He clapped enthusiastically, and even went so far as to place his fingers in the corners of his mouth and blow a shrill whistle of appreciation. 

Madrigal smiled at the new abbot; Father Dominicus was much more concerned with the welfare of his flock then Benedict had been, and furthermore, had very strong ideas of his own which contradicted Church policy. 

As he had explained to the Muslim upon their first meeting, ''I care not whether God's children love themselves, nor yet one another, save only that there is love somewhere.'' His merry blue eyes had twinkled. ''An' if you've ever a mind to convert, lass, then I'm your man. So...,'' he'd added with mock casualness, ''when will you two ladies be publishing the banns, eh?'' 

Madrigal had laughed, completely at ease with the middle-aged priest. They had already had a few long discussions over the chess table, and Dominicus' attitude towards her relationship with her Lady, not to mention the fact that the priest had a very sharp mind and a great deal of good-natured curiosity, had made the Muslim consider him a friend. 

Madrigal grabbed Cathelin's hand and gave it a squeeze. ''Tell me, Lady,'' she asked mischievously, ''are you full of magic tonight?'' 

Cathelin grinned and cocked one eyebrow. ''Aye,'' she answered, ''and near full to bursting with it, too.'' 

''We will have to do something about that, then,'' Madrigal said, then rose, tugging Cathelin to her feet. ''I do not wish you to burst just yet... but perhaps later... '' She ran her tongue along her lips and continued, ''Come, Lady Cat. Come walk with me, come lie with me, come and share my bed.'' 

''Sweetling,'' Cathelin replied, amber eyes beginning to shine with warm desire, ''You've no need to be asking me twice.'' 

The two women snuck away from the celebration arm in arm, while Crimthan rocked the babies on her lap and laughed softly. 

And all the people of Inishowen sent up a prayer that night, wishing their Ladies happiness, joy, and boundless love for ever, and ever, and aye. 

The End

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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Prologue

Here was thou bay'd, brave hart;
Here didst thou fall; and here thy hunters stand,
Sign'd in thy spoil, and crimson'd in thy leth.
O world! thou wast the forest to this hart;
And this, indeed, O world! the heart of thee.
----- Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

CHAPTER ONE

Lady Cathelin, chief of the O'Cameron clan and lord of castle Inishowen and its lands, glided through the forest silently, brushing aside branches laden with wet leaves, stealthily stalking her prey.

She and several of her kerns were boar hunting, seeking a feral pig that had already savaged several farm tenants. Her boar spear clutched tightly in one hand, Cathelin cocked her head to one side and crouched down, barely breathing, as the belling of hounds wafted from close by. 

Blessed Jesu! she thought, motioning to her men to fan out. I hope to get this day's business over with and return to my Madri. She smiled when she thought of her handfasted mate, a former Muslim slave; now chatelaine of Inishowen and honored mother of the Irishwoman's adopted children. 

Much as I enjoy hunting, if I had my druthers I'd be home playing with Dragon and Honeycat, tho' that boychild is a double handful of mischief, as all the world knows. Her smile grew broader, but vanished entirely when her mind was snatched from the vision of home and hearth by wavering howls and a wild thrashing in the undergrowth that was moving towards them rapidly. 

Cathelin wore a simple deerhide tunic and breeks, and her long, dark red hair was done up in dozens of braids that had been wound together with leather strips into a thick club at the back of her neck. She shifted the cross-barred spear in her hand and waited for the hounds to drive the boar into the clearing in front of her and her waiting men. 

The forest was ancient, filled with oak, rowan and ash trees that had been old when her people still danced naked around fires in limestone caves. Thick brush sprang up from a carpet of last season's leaves, wetted thoroughly by that morning's rain; smaller plants, flowers and herbs, enriched by the spring warmth and dappled sunlight, flourished beneath the spreading branches. Sniffing, Cathelin thought she'd never get over how fresh, how green were the scents of her homeland; she filled her lungs gladly until she tingled from heel to crown. 

The day was still overcast, but the sun had peeped out from behind dark clouds to lend enough light to the hunt. A brisk wind blew from the south, ruffling a leafy branch against Cathelin's cheek, making her amber eyes narrow. 

The yelping canine cries were getting closer, so close Cathelin could hear, as if directly beside her, the unmusical blatting of the cow's horn which her Master of Hound used to guide and command his charges. The Irishwoman had not wanted to use the more massive gaze-hounds for this task; those shaggy beasts were capable of bringing the pig down all by themselves. Instead, she had chosen to use dogs only to herd the tusker, harry it to earth so that her hunters could take it down themselves; risky, but a necessary excitement after an idle and boring winter. 

Suddenly, without any warning, an enormous boar burst into the clearing, eyes red with fury, long white tusks curving from its lower jaw. It stamped, squealing, absurdly tiny tail whisking back and forth; it was the biggest wild pig any of them had ever seen, and the sheer size of it was enough to cause several of the men to make the sign of the cross and grip their weapons harder. 

Cathelin waited a heartbeat, then with a fierce warcry she leaped into the clearing, followed by her men, the broad steel head of her uplifted spear flashing in the dull sunlight. 

Although the boar fought savagely, it was no match for the six skilled hunters. Wolf McLeod, dark-haired captain of Cathelin's kerns, bare to the waist and clad in a tartan kilt, struck the deathblow with a yell of triumph, his spear cleaving the boar's heart as it lay pinned to the forest floor by the weapons of the others. 

The huge animal quivered, hooves pawing up dirt, head futilely thrusting back and forth in an effort to revenge itself against its tormentors, until finally, with a heaving gasp, the furious light in its eyes dimmed, it let out a long snorting sigh - and the boar died. 

David Uileand, Cathelin's Master of Hound, stumbled into the clearing. The pack of dogs circled the bloody scene, yelping and pissing in excitement but knowing better than to interfere in the kill. They threw back their heads and howled, tails wriggling between their hind legs, coursing back and forth, nostrils working to take in the smell of fresh blood. 

The scene was one of controlled chaos; the boar was being butchered, its flesh loaded up onto a litter to be carried back to the castle, including the tusked head, which would be cooked whole and served to Wolf in a special dinner ceremony; the beaming captain being slapped on the back and congratulated by the others; David whistling and calling to his hounds; and Cathelin stood a little ways apart, panting, her handsome face speckled with blood. She leaned on the long spear and watched her people, taking pride in the way her clan worked together to achieve a common goal; a necessary survival trait, for Ireland was often as harsh as it was beautiful. 

It wasn't until she felt the hammer-blow in her back that she realized anything was wrong. 

Cathelin struck the forest floor so hard it knocked the breath out of her, and searing agony shot through her body. Her eyes flew open, mouth gaping in shock, as wave after wave of pain, incredible pain, tore and ripped at her. Cathelin barely heard the shouts of, ''It had a mate!'' and ''God! To the Lady!'' before she felt herself sucked along a dark, whirling path... and lost consciousness entirely. 

CHAPTER TWO

Madrigal hummed to herself as she repaired one of her Lady's tunics. Although the two women had undergone a handfasting ceremony a little over two years ago, she still thought of her love as ''Lady Cat'' - which amused Cathelin no end. 

And after this, Madrigal thought, hands busy at her task, I will go down to the kitchen and ask Mistress Shevaughn to bake some of those little honey cakes that my Lady Cat enjoys so much. And perhaps I will also have her bring up a flask of that sweet wine from Rome.

A shrill scream of protest from the floor caused her to look up from her labors. Her son, Padraigh Giles O'Cameron, known as Wee Dragon or just Dragon, was trying to pull a carved wooden doll away from his sister, Bridgit Cathbadh the Honeycat. 

The boy's face was red and he screamed again, tugging at the toy, while his sister merely tightened her grip and smiled placidly. Madrigal sighed and began to stand up, but the children's nurse, Crimthan Oengus, shook her head, making her corkscrewing orange curls flutter. 

''Leave 'em, Lady Madrigal,'' the nurse said, a broad smile on her round face. ''Dragon needs ta learn he can no win every battle, even if t'is only one o' the nursery.'' 

Madrigal sighed again and sat back down, the shirt forgotten in her hands as she watched her children. They were such opposites, despite being twins - Dragon was fierce and uncompromising with a will of stubborn iron; he had been the first child to walk, his baby face bruised as he fell and rose to fall again, but never giving up. 

Honeycat followed her brother's lead but Madrigal noticed that, although more passive than her fiery sibling, Cat, too, had a will of her own, quiet and peaceful but just as strong. A wild summer storm against a mountain of stone, Madrigal mused. 

Finally, Dragon gave up trying to release his sister's grip on the toy and got to his feet, attempting to deliver a kick to Honeycat's leg but falling over in the process with a heavy thump. His face screwed up into an ugly grimace, but Crimthan hurried over and picked him up, settling the child against her hip. ''Now, Dragon mite, no tears! You should no be hittin' yer sister; yer s'posed ter protect her. Are ye no a brave and fearsome knight? What honor in strikin' a helpless girl?'' 

Dragon looked at Crimthan gravely, tears forgotten, one hand screwed into her orange curls. ''Mine!'' he said, pointing with his other hand at the toy clutched tightly in Honeycat's hand. 

''Nay, youngling, that's yer sister's playpretty.'' Crimthan toted the child across the enormous master chamber that served as Madrigal and Cathelin's bedroom and solar. She bent over and scooped a rag toy from the floor - a colorful collection of scraps ingeniously fashioned into the shape of a dragon - and handed it to the child on her hip. ''There,'' she said, plopping Dragon down on the wolfskin covered bed, ''play wit' that, there's a good lad.'' 

Dragon's lower lip pushed out as he considered pouting but his attention was quickly diverted by his namesake ragdoll. He babbled to himself, giggling, as he made the cloth dragon swoop through the air. 

Madrigal bent her head back to her task, but felt a small tug on her skirts. Honeycat, wooden doll tucked beneath her arm, was pulling on her linen dress, wanting to be held. 

The Muslim set aside her sewing and picked up her daughter, settling her in her lap, smelling with pleasure the wondrous scent of fresh, clean baby. Honeycat smiled broadly, showing tiny white teeth, and held up the doll for her mother to admire. 

''Yes, little one, very pretty,'' Madrigal murmured, stroking Honey's soft hair. Both children had inherited their mother's fine, blue-black locks, but although their eyes had been nearly black at first, they had soon lightened into dark green, the color of emeralds. Madrigal felt her belly muscles clench momentarily when she remembered that their father's eyes had been hazel. 

She thrust that unwelcome memory aside. Sir Francis Westfield, her former owner, was dead, killed by Cathelin's own hand during the legendary Battle of the Trees two years ago. He would never torment her again. 

Madrigal rocked Honeycat on her lap as Crimthan began picking up the toys that were strewn across the floor of the chamber, returning them to a reed basket. Cathelin was due home soon, and while she thoroughly enjoyed the children's presence in their chamber, she had often made her displeasure known when she'd bruised her heel on a forgotten toy. 

Shouting from the courtyard made Madrigal lift her head, dark eyes narrowed. She rose briskly, ignoring Honey's muted whimper of protest, and handed the little girl to Crimthan before crossing to the arrowslit window. 

Since it was spring, the slit in the castle's stone wall was uncovered by tapestries, and the bottom of it was almost wide enough to allow Madrigal to perch on it as a seat. She stuck her head through, looking down into the courtyard, where the hunting party was returning through the gates, bearing a litter... 

Madrigal felt her heart literally stop with a thump; her mouth went dry with shock, and if Crimthan hadn't been right behind her, she might well have toppled from the window. 

The nurse's fist was knotted in the back of Madrigal's skirt and she heaved the other woman back into the room. ''What in the name o' St. Bridgit has possessed ye, Lady? Ye nearly fell...'' 

Madrigal gasped for breath, finally managing to get out, ''Lady Cat!'' before whirling around and darting out of the chamber, her footsteps echoing down the hall as she ran at breakneck speed for the stone stairs. 

Crimthan stuck her own head through the narrow window, then, her face pale, turned back to the room and gathered the protesting children up hastily. ''Hush, now, wee ones,'' she said, taking them back to their nursery, ''Yer momma can no play now. Shhh, bairns, t'will be all right.'' 

But the nurse, remembering the pale, still form being carried in, worried that it would not. 

CHAPTER THREE

Madrigal burst out of the door, pushing frantically through the crowd that had gathered, and came to an abrupt halt when she ran into the tall warrior, Wolf McLeod. 

His hand shot out to steady her. ''Lady Madrigal,'' he said solemnly, nodding his head. His ice-blue eyes were sad. ''T'is Lady Cathelin,'' he continued, ''she got a woundin' in th' hunt.'' 

Madrigal's eyes were wide and she flung out a hand as if to silence any further news. The litter, carried by four kerns, was making its way towards her. At her first sight of Cathelin's face, blood splattered and ice white to the lips, Madrigal could not suppress a cry. 

She went down to her knees beside the litter, grabbing Cathelin's hand and holding it against her cheek. Wolf moved behind her, his lean, scarred face lined with grief and guilt and woe. ''We kilt th' boar an' were butcherin' it...'' His lips twisted. ''Didnae know it had a mate. Th' she-pig come afore we knew it an' savaged Lady Cathelin; she ne'er had a chance to defend herself. We fought it off, th' men an' I, but t'was too late. She's bad hurt, Lady Madrigal, I'll no lie to ye. I sent one o' my men down to th' abbey for Brother Ignatius an' Brother Sebastian... an' th' Half-tongue's on her way to fetch Father Paul.'' 

At the mention of Father Paul - the aged priest who administered to the religious needs of Inishowen - Madrigal immediately knew why the old man had been summoned and swallowed the urge to scream in protest. Cathelin's wounds were so grave that Wolf wanted the Last Rites given to ensure the Lady's entry into the unbeliever's Heaven... 

Madrigal stood shakily, Wolf's hand still on her shoulder. I must be strong, she thought, although every fiber of her being longed to cry out, tear at her hair and beat her breast, break down utterly in a storm of tears and heartbroken wails. As long as she still breathes, there is a chance, and I MUST be strong for my Lady Cat!

Scrubbing her face with one hand, Madrigal took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. ''Take her to the master's chamber,'' she commanded, much to the astonishment of the kerns and the folk, who had been eyeing the delicate looking woman carefully, expecting a collapse. ''As soon as Father Paul arrives, have him escorted up the stairs - he is an old man and tires easily. Wolf,'' she continued, turning around to tilt her head back and look up at the warrior, ''have Abbot Dominicus informed as well.'' 

As the litter was borne inside, shepherded by the warrior captain, Madrigal searched the faces of the crowd and lit on one she knew well. ''Mistress Meagan,'' she said, ''make sure we have enough clean linen cloths on hand; have a servant bring some up to our chamber.'' The silver-haired Mistress of the Wardrobe came forward long enough to squeeze Madrigal's shoulder before lifting her skirts in both hands and hurrying away. 

Turning to a kitchen servant she knew by sight if not by name, Madrigal continued, ''You! Go and tell Mistress Shevaughn to begin boiling water and to slaughter a young calf to make broth. Also, she is to check the herb stores - we will need coltsfoot, feverfew... she will know what to do. Whatever Brother Ignatius needs, she is to provide.'' 

As the servant pelted away, Madrigal pushed a stray lock of hair out of her face and glared at the rest of the crowd. ''Well?'' she asked, putting her hands on her hips. ''Do you not have labors of your own? Or do you intend to stand here all day, catching flies in your open mouths?'' 

Madrigal's tart tone was like a bucket of ice water; the assembled servants and villagers broke up into small clusters and walked away, murmuring and speculating, some moving automatically back to their tasks in shocked silence. 

The Muslim woman sighed, shoulders slumping for just a moment; then she straightened up, turned and went into the castle. 

CHAPTER FOUR

Brother Ignatius took a sip of the proffered wine and grimaced. ''I'll no sweeten my news wit' lies, Lady,'' he said to Madrigal. The old monk could barely grip the metal mazer in his hands; the previous winter, arthritis had struck with a vengeance, leaving his fingers twisted into useless claws. But there was nothing wrong with his mind - it was as keen as ever - and his apprentice, Brother Sebastian, was a quiet, studious lad with a skillful touch. It was rumored that Brother Sebastian would be elevated to the place of Infirmarian when Ignatius retired. 

At this moment, however, Ignatius supervised his apprentice's work, watching all the young monk did with an eagle's eye, barking instructions, criticisms and praise impartially. Despite advanced age, he was still the best healer available in Inishowen. 

Madrigal sat in a chair next to the bed, holding Cathelin's hand in her own. It was so cold, so bloodless. ''Tell me, honored one,'' she said softly, ''I must know.'' 

Ignatius sighed. Sebastian had been sent from the room on an errand for his master. ''She lost a lot o' blood, but thank God yon Wolf had sense enow to wrap her tight, otherwise she'd have died.'' Ignatius thought about the gaping wound that sliced across Cathelin's belly; if the captain had not immediately wound cloth strips across the woman's body, her guts would have spilled to the forest floor. 

He continued, ''Th' bowel's no cut, praise th' Good Lord, but th' wound still be serious. An' she's sure ta take th' fever, make no mistake. If she survives - an' I've nae strong doubts in th' matter, lassie, for Lady Cathelin is young an' strong as an ox - then she will, wit' God's help, recover eventually. But t'will be some time afore she can move; ye'll have to make sure she stays abed. I can no emphasize this enow - she musn't be gettin' out o' yon bed fer several seven-days, p'raps e'en so long as a moon or twa.'' 

Madrigal nodded, outwardly calm. ''Is there anything else?'' 

Ignatius sipped his wine again. ''I'll be leavin' ye some medicines. An' dinnae hesitate ta call me if ennythin' happens. Th' rest o' the Lady's wounds have been stitched an' poulticed 'gainst infection, an' Sebastian gave her some poppy electuary fer th' pain. Let her sleep fer now; but when she wakes, gie her th' medicines an' as fer th' rest...'' He shrugged. ''Pray.'' 

Madrigal nodded again. ''Thank you, honored one.'' She looked at the old monk and sighed. ''I would ask the blessings of Allah upon you as well, if you would not consider it an insult.'' 

Ignatius chuckled tiredly. ''Nay, lassie, no insult ta'en; a man as old as I has need o' every blessin' he can get.'' He rose, hooded brown robe spotted with blood. ''I'll have young Becca come in ter watch th' Lady fer a while. Ye need yer rest.'' 

''No.'' Madrigal turned back to Cathelin, fixing her eyes on the other woman's still face. ''I will stay here. Lady Cat needs me.'' 

Ignatius crossed to the bed and laid a gentle hand on Madrigal's head. ''Lassie, ye'll be o' no use ta th' Lady if ye collapses yersel'. Go an' get sommat ta eat, or see ta yer bairns. Th' Lady needs ye, t'is true, but ye can best help her by stayin' well an' strong an' seein' ta th' needs o' th' folk. I've already heard rumors in th' village that th' Lady be dead.'' 

Madrigal sighed again. ''I will have Wolf speak to the village hetman.'' Placing Cathelin's hand gently back on the bed, she rose. ''Now I must see to making sure that dinner is served on time... and other things.'' 

She rose, a hand going absently to caress the necklace she wore - a purplish-red agate set in silver, the face of the stone carved into a phoenix. It was Lady Cat's first gift to her, and the sole piece of jewelry that she never removed. ''Thank you, honored one. I cannot tell you how much I am grateful for.'' 

Ignatius interrupted her. ''T'will be well, lassie. All th' brothers'll be prayin' fer th' Lady's health, an' th' Abbot's plannin' a special Mass.'' He looked at her and his rheumy blue eyes twinkled a bit. ''Will ye no offer an old man yer arm? Fer I confess th' thought of goin' down all them stairs leaves me sommat breathless, an' that's God's own truth.'' 

Madrigal gave the old monk a tiny smile, then laced her arm through his and guided him from the chamber, casting a final look over her shoulder at Cathelin - who lay unmoving, dark crimson hair limp and dull against the white linen sheet.

CHAPTER FIVE

Pain... it seemed as if Cathelin swam through an endless sea of pain.. She burned and froze, plagued by nightmare visions that capered and gibbered and did things that caused her to twist away, fighting. 

''Hold her still!'' an uplifted voice rang in the darkness like a bell. ''Please, Lady Cat, do not fight, you will tear your wound open again!'' 

Cathelin thought the voice was familiar, but then a fresh wave of agony caught her and she spiraled back down into oblivion. 

Madrigal wiped her wet brow. ''Give me another pad, Becca.'' 

The curly-mopped kern handed the other woman a thick pad of folded linen and watched as Madrigal slid it beneath Cathelin. They had finished changing the sweat-soaked sheets, and Becca eyed the blood-stained bandages wrapped around the Lady's midsection with concern. 

''Shall I have Brother Ignatius fetched, d'you think?'' she asked Madrigal, who grunted in response, then replied, ''No. I do not wish to trouble the honored one, who is old and needs his rest. This we can do ourselves.'' 

Becca quietly helped the other woman change the bandages, smearing new linen with the infirmarian's thick concoction made with crushed marigold, coltsfoot and other herbs to promote healing and prevent infection. The edges of Cathelin's wound were red and puffy, swollen around the stitches and oozing a clear liquid, but to Becca's battlefield experience seemed to be healing well. 

Madrigal finished, wiping her hands on her skirts. Her long gown was spotted with food, blood and other things, and her blue-black hair, come half-down from its pins, was greasy and hung in limp strings that she pushed out of her face without realizing it. 

The Muslim turned to a bronze bucket left on the floor beside the bed; it held water cooled by ice. When Cathelin's fever had started two days ago, Madrigal had known that she must do something and would have sold her soul to Shaitan for a wagon-load of snow. It had been Brother Sebastian's idea to raid the coldhouse, a deeply dug underground pit that held blocks of ice cut from the river in winter and used to keep stored perishables from rotting. The apprentice's idea had been a godsend. 

Now, Madrigal dipped a rag in the cold water and used it to wipe down Cathelin's body, biting her lip as the fever-heated flesh seemed to soak up the chill liquid, absorbing it. Lady Cat tossed her head, crying out something in a language the Muslim did not know. She gave Becca an inquiring look. 

''She's... she's talking in Gaelic to someone named Irizen,'' the kern responded, brows drawn together in puzzlement. ''Askin' her forgiveness...'' 

Madrigal finished her ministrations silently and tucked the newly washed sheets around Cathelin before sitting down in the wooden chair she kept by the bed. ''Leave us,'' she said shortly, picking up Cathelin's hand and holding it against her chest. 

Becca opened her mouth to protest then thought the better of it. There was something in the smaller woman's tone that brooked no denial. Scooping up the dirty bandages, she left the chamber... and as she did so, she heard Madrigal's voice softly crooning a song. 

Closing the door softly behind her, the kern bit back a tear. 

John the Bastard, current occupant of the throne of England against his brother Richard Lionheart's return, leaned back and gestured at the man in front of him. 

''Tell me more about this O'Cameron woman,'' he said. King John had the dark hair and eyes of his mother, but his face was purely Plantagenet and handsome, if a bit puffy; John found life at court much to his liking and had been indulging in the favored vices of excessive food, drink and wenches since he had become Regent. 

Desmond O'Brian, Earl of Kinslainne, bowed and made an elegant leg. He wore his best court doublet of raw white silk, sleeves slashed to show the dark blue lining beneath, the expensive fabric criss-crossed with gold embroidery. A pearl and sapphire earring swung near his shoulder but O'Brian was no useless dandy, however well he may have dressed the part. 

''Your Majesty,'' he said, ''This is a private grievance betwixt myself and the O'Cameron. Surely Your Majesty does not intend to become involved in such a... sordid affair?'' He raised a blonde brow suggestively. 

King John grunted, reaching into a bowl next to him for a slice of ripe pear, and glanced at his favorite advisor, William, Duke of Northanger. William, a small, spare man who habitually wore stark black and was reputed to have many contacts within the Church, nodded and leaned forward to whisper directly in the king's ear. 

''I know something of the affair, Your Majesty,'' Duke William said softly. ''This could be an opportunity for the Crown to increase its holdings in Ireland without risk to the throne or yourself. Not to mention an opportunity for... other things.'' 

John and William locked gazes, then the king nodded and spoke aloud, ''Clear the room! I will be attended only by my Lords of Kinslainne and Northanger.'' As his guardsmen began to herd the brightly-dressed throng of sycophants and petitioners from the throne room, the King looked at Desmond and smiled. ''You have our entire attention, my Lord,'' he said when the last of the throng was gone and the doors had been closed, leaving the three men in complete privacy. 

Desmond's brown eyes looked into John's black, seeking and finding a kindred soul - and the Earl returned his sovereign's smile. ''I come seeking Your Majesty's favor in putting down a wretchedly sinful blot upon the landscape of our fair isle, and in the process redressing a grievous wrong,'' he began. 

Both King and councilor listened avidly as the Earl told the story of the Battle of the Trees and of Lady Cathelin's treatment of his son some years previous, twisting the events to make it sound as if he were the injured party. O'Brian had a diplomat's gift of phrasing and a persuasive personality; he could make even the most unlikely lie seem plausible. His own people had nicknamed him The Tinker, for he had such a silver tongue that they said he could sell cream to a cow. 

King John and William knew the true circumstances of both events, of course; it was in the men's minds that Desmond had waited until the tale had ceased to be a sensation and been mainly forgotten in the wake of other scandals and gossip at court. 

When Desmond finished speaking, he waited with bowed head, mouth dry in anticipation. If all goes well, he thought, I'll be myself avenged against that unnatural bitch. He still burned with resentment and hatred over the handling of his ransom; captured after the battle and held hostage, the O'Cameron witch had asked for the insultingly small ransom of a mere head of cattle - a devastating blow to the pride of the O'Brian chieftain. 

John and William looked at one another, then William gave Desmond a tight smile. ''We are sorry to hear of your grievances, my Lord of Kinslainne,'' the Duke said. ''Come... it is His Majesty's wish that you and I and he speak further of this thing... in more complete privacy.'' 

Putting a friendly arm around the bigger man's shoulders, William led Desmond from the throne room, following the King. 

And Desmond had to suppress the urge to grin in satisfaction. 

CHAPTER SIX

At last, Cathelin's fever broke on the third day, leaving her soaked in sweat and limp with exhaustion. 

Madrigal had been persuaded to bathe and wash her hair by Becca, who had nagged and pushed until the Muslim woman had finally exploded, ''By ALLAH!! Will you not leave me in peace? You are more stubborn than a she-goat! Is it that in your barbarian tongue there is no word for 'no?' Or are you merely ignorant of such things?!'' 

Becca had given her a lopsided smile, the thick scar that snaked across her face preventing the muscle in her left cheek from responding properly. ''Ah, well, t'is only that I thought you might wish to smell a bit sweeter for the Lady, rather than like a stale piss-pot.'' 

For the first time, Madrigal had become aware that she itched; that her hair was filthy, her dress was filthy - in fact, the cleanest thing about her was her hands, which were constantly immersed in water. And she did, in truth, stink. Suddenly it was all to much. 

Sinking to her knees, Madrigal had begun to cry, only to be embraced by the kern, who murmured, ''Shhhh, Lady, don't fret so. I'll have the servants bring up the washtub an' plenty hot water an' you'll take a nice bath an' relax a bit. Th' Lady's out o' danger for the nonce an' I'm sure she wouldn't mind.'' 

The wine-cask tub was fetched, and for an hour, Madrigal soaked her body with hot water, as well as the tub with her tears. After she finished crying, oddly enough she felt better, more able to continue shouldering her back-breaking load; it was as if by pouring out her salty tears, she had poured in renewed strength. As chatelaine, she had to oversee the entire castle's operations as well as caring for Cathelin, and the last three days had been a considerable strain. 

Now, she was clean, her hair still damp and curling to the floor like a flood of spilled ink. She wore a clean dress, too, one of Cathelin's favorites - golden cloth the color of harvest corn, embroidered with red and black stylized deer. Madrigal sat in her chair beside the bed and closed her eyes; she was weary, oh so weary from her vigil, and worry, and work... 

Her breathing slowed and deepened, and Madrigal leaned forward with a small yawning sigh. Pillowing her head on Cathelin's hand, she drifted off to sleep. 

Morning turned to early afternoon, and Madrigal slept until she was startled from her nap by a familiar voice, but hoarse and scratchy, as if from disuse, and filled with weariness and pain. 

''Sweetling?'' 

Madrigal sat bolt upright, her hands convulsively clutching Cathelin's. Her Lady Cat's eyes were open, the amber color dulled. ''Lady?'' Madrigal managed to choke. 

''Aye, sweetling,'' Cathelin replied softly, wincing as her belly wound griped, ''T'is back I am from the feverlands.'' 

Madrigal bit back a sob, tears trembling on her lashes. At last, she could contain herself no longer. With a long, drawn out wail, ''Caaaaaaaaat!,'' she fell to her knees beside the bed, weeping out of sheer relief and unable to stop until she heard the hiss of Cathelin's indrawn breath as the other woman shifted on the bed. 

Sniffling, tears still flowing, Madrigal raised her head. ''No, Lady Cat, no! You must not move, the honored one has said!'' 

Cathelin grimaced, then being a bit more careful and less ambitious, managed to heave herself to one side of the bed and lay there, panting with effort, spots dancing in front of her eyes. By God!, she thought, if I'm only moving an inch and feeling like I've been beaten with an iron shoon, I'd hate to have to get up to use the close stool!

When she got enough breath back to speak, the Irishwoman turned her head to see Madrigal standing there, a look of intense concern and worry on her beautiful face. ''Sweetling,'' Cathelin said, trying to raise one hand and failing, ''come lie beside me. I want to feel you...'' 

Madrigal shook her head. ''No, Lady Cat,'' but was interrupted by Cathelin's softly slurred, ''Please.'' 

Carefully, trying not to jounce her Lady, Madrigal crawled up into the bed next to Cathelin. At the other woman's silent plea, Madrigal cast a silent prayer to Allah and lay down, putting her head on Cathelin's shoulder and gently embracing her love, her tears drying up at the feeling of sheer comfort in the closeness and warmth of the body next to her own. 

Cathelin sighed in pure contentment. ''Ah, I've missed that sorely, Madri.'' She closed her eyes a moment, then opened them and asked, ''What happened?'' 

Madrigal told her about the hunt and her wounding by the boar's mate. Cathelin listened, one of her hands inching up to touch the bandages around her middle. 

''Well,'' she sighed when Madrigal finished, ''t'is lucky I've been, for I could have been killed outright.'' Cathelin lay silently a moment, internally cataloging her injuries: numerous deep cuts on her back, both thighs and one arm, plus the near eviscerating-wound. She knew she'd be a long time recovering, but Cathelin vowed to send a fine offering to the Church in thanksgiving, as well as think of some reward to give Wolf McLeod for his quick action in the forest, which had truly saved her life. 

''Where are our children?'' Cathelin whispered. 

''With Crimthan, in the nursery,'' Madrigal replied, equally softly. Raising herself up on one elbow, the Muslim gently kissed Cathelin's chin, then her crooked nose and both eyes, murmuring, ''I thank Allah that He has kept you safe, Lady Cat.'' 

Making a massive effort, Cathelin managed to raise one hand and cup Madrigal's face. ''I love thee, Madri, my pearl beyond price,'' she said in Arabic, to which Madrigal responded, ''And I love thee as well, light of my soul.'' 

They looked into one another's eyes for a long moment, then Madrigal kissed Cathelin's lips. ''I must go, Lady Cat,'' the Muslim said reluctantly. ''My duties call me, but I will have Becca Half-Tongue keep watch over you until I can return.'' 

''Tell Crimthan to bring in the babes,'' Cathelin answered, tugging a lock of Madrigal's hair. ''I could use some mischief to keep me awake.'' 

Madrigal got off the bed and stood, arranging her skirts. ''As you wish, but only for a little while. And if you are tired, you must sleep, but first you must eat. I will send a servant up with a tray from the kitchen.'' 

The thought of food made Cathelin slightly nauseous, but she knew that to recover, she'd have to make an effort and eat. ''All right, sweetling, but please - no gruel! I'm not yet old enough or dead enough for anyone to be forcing gruel down my throat.'' 

Madrigal quickly twisted her hair into a braid, replying, ''No gruel. Good beef broth, perhaps some bread softened in the soup. No ale, no wine, no small beer. Water.'' Her dark purple eyes flashed. 

''Oh, but you're a cruel mistress indeed!'' Cathelin said theatrically, then sighed. ''You're right. No wine. No ale. No small beer.'' She sighed again. ''Remind me not to dwell in your sickroom too long, Madri. You're too mean by half.'' But the smile she gave her love took the sting from these words. 

Madrigal, her step lighter by far than it had been since the accident, gave Cathelin a quick peck on the cheek and left the chamber, a foolish grin spreading from ear to ear... 

Becca met Madrigal outside and grabbed her by the arm. ''The Lady?'' she asked, brown eyes wide. 

''She is awake, she does well. Watch over her while I see to her supper,'' Madrigal replied. ''Crimthan will be bringing in the children; I charge you to see that they do not stay long.'' 

Becca nodded, feeling her heart swell with relief. As Madrigal moved away, the kern wiped a tear from her face and said to a passing servant, ''Spread the good word, my friend! Lady Cathelin is awake, the fever's broke, an' all is well!'' 

The beaming servant rushed off, and Becca, her knees suddenly weak, slid down the wall and sat on the cold stone floor, head in her hands, ignoring the puzzled looks of passers-by as she prayed fervently, sending her thanks to God for preserving her Lady's life. 

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lughaid, Desmond O'Brian's half-brother, was worried. The Earl had gone away to London to court, refusing to explain why. I wonder what business Desmond could have with the King? he thought. 

Lughaid was a strikingly handsome, some might even say beautiful, young man. Curly blonde locks fell to his shoulders in luxuriant waves; his eyes were dark blue framed by thick lashes; and he was slender instead of bulky, seemingly delicate and frail. Many women had swooned over his romantic good looks, and some had assumed him to be a lover of men, but Lughaid had made too many conquests among the female population of Kinslainne for there to be any doubts as to his sexual preference. 

Lugh disdained to commit himself even to a single dalliance with women of his own class, preferring to ease his physical needs with willing maidservants and kitchen sluts. Until he fell head-over-heels in love and lost his heart completely to a single woman, he wanted no angry fathers beating down the door, demanding marriage to their despoiled daughters. 

The trouble is, he thought as he tuned his harp in his sister-in-law's solar, that I'm too handsome by half. There were at least a dozen giggling, eyelash fluttering young women in peacock-bright gowns and jewels sitting in attendance on the Lady of Kinslainne - the haughty Eithne, his brother's wife; girls whom his sister-in-law paraded in front of him as if he were a prize bull, commenting on this one's dowry and that one's lands. 

I almost Eithne to show me their teeth and talk about good breeding stock, Lugh thought. The Lady desperately wanted her brother-in-law to make a good alliance, one which would enrich the O'Brian clan and by extension, herself. She lived and breathed politics, and was ambitious enough to imagine the consort's crown of England resting on her own head. 

Lugh stifled a sigh and sat up straighter as Eithne waved for silence. 

Eithne O'Brian nee O'Flaherty was a strikingly beautiful woman despite her forty-odd years. Her hair was the same rich brown it had been when Desmond had met her at court ten years earlier, her eyes the same peat gray. Ever morning she rubbed fresh buttermilk into her skin to keep it fresh and youthful, and she always carefully schooled her expressions lest frowning or smiling bring unwelcome lines. 

''Lugh, cariad,'' she said, plucked eyebrows raising. ''I think we'd like to hear the song about the stars.'' 

Lugh sighed again and plucked at the front of his scratchy doublet. 'No Star is Brighter Than My Lady's Eyes' was a popular troubadour's tune, and in the young man's mind, no more syrupy, sickeningly sweet melody had ever been written. 

As he hesitated, Eithne continued, ''Sometime this morning, if you please, sir.'' Although she did not frown, there was an air of displeasure in her tone that made him shudder. Lady Eithne in a temper was not something he cared to contemplate so early in the day. 

Lugh strummed his harp and began to sing, glorious tenor soaring to the rafters, while his sister-in-law's attendants giggled behind their hands and made great cow's eyes at him. 

The young man sang the morning away, one romantic tune after another, while Eithne nodded in satisfaction, no doubt plotting his marriage alliance and totting up advantages... but uppermost in his mind was a single thought: What could his brother Desmond be up to now?

Crimthan entered the master's chamber, a babe balanced on each hip. As soon as Dragon saw Cathelin, he let out a squeal. ''Mathra!'' he hollered, squirming in excitement, ''My mathra!'' 

Honeycat gave her ''mathra'' - as the children called the Irishwoman - a wide, serene smile, and asked calmly, ''Mathra better?'' 

Crimthan blew a curl out of her eyes and deposited both children on the bed. ''Aye, Honey, she's better. Dragon, be careful now, yer mathra's still sick. No bouncin', no wrestlin', no ticklin'. Ye dinnae want ta hurt your mathra, hmmm? Be a good boy an' remember what yer momma told ye.'' 

Dragon nodded eagerly, crawling across the wolfskin coverlet to sit beside Cathelin. ''Hurt?'' he asked gravely, pointing a finger at the bandage on Cathelin's stomach. The day being hot, she had thrown back the sheets and lay there unclad save for wrapped linen strips. 

She nodded. ''Aye, little one.'' 

''Hug?'' Dragon hesitated, unwilling to touch her. Cathelin frowned slightly and gave Crimthan a glance. 

The nurse said briskly, ''He understands ye've been hurted, Lady. He knows ta be careful an' not hurt ye more.'' The unspoken ''or else'' was evident in her eyes. ''Lady Madrigal explained ta both o' th' children that yer still sick.'' 

Cathelin snorted, saying to Dragon, ''Give your mathra a hug, boy. Don't be a-feared.'' 

Slowly and carefully, the tot put his arms around Cathelin's neck and squeezed, his sweaty, slightly sticky face pressed against her cheek. ''Mathra,'' he murmured, and Cathelin felt as her heart were being squeezed tightly as well. 

When Dragon sat back, clearly pleased, Cathelin motioned to Honeycat. ''Come here, dearling,'' she said. 

Honeycat shook her head, black braids bouncing. 

''T'is all right, my sweetness, you'll not hurt me. Come, give your mathra a hug. She's missed you sorely these last few days.'' 

Honeycat put her finger in her mouth and slewed her green eyes sideways at Crimthan, who nodded and made shooing motions. Finally, the little girl got down off the bed, walked around to the other side, and tried to get up again. After Crimthan boosted her up, Honeycat nestled against Cathelin's side and whispered, ''More better?'' 

''Oh, aye,'' Cathelin whispered back, pressing a kiss on her daughter's brow, ''Much more better indeed.'' 

Dragon talked for several minutes about seeing a 'flutt'ry-bye'' in the garden and playing with new puppies in the stable, his black brows drawn together in a serious frown. Cathelin listened, asking questions, stroking the quiet Honeycat's hair, until she felt her eyes beginning to close and she yawned widely. 

''All right, children, yer mathra needs ta sleep. Come along now,'' Crimthan said, and as Dragon protested loudly, ''Ye'll see her again later, I promise.'' Slyly, the nurse added, ''I hear Mistress Shevaughn's made honeycakes again.'' 

With the bribe of honeycakes firmly fixed in his mind, Dragon gave Cathelin an almost perfunctory kiss goodbye and toddled away purposefully, Crimthan following with Honeycat clutching her hand. As she exited, the nurse said over her shoulder, ''I'll just be tellin' th' Half-Tongue ta come in again an' keep ye quiet company, Lady.'' 

Cathelin nodded slightly, suddenly feeling more tired than she ever had in her life. After several more jaw-cracking yawns that made her belly wound burn, the Irishwoman fell asleep, not even waking when Becca tip-toed in and covered her with a blanket, a small smile curving the kern's lips.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Desmond rubbed his hands together gleefully. John the Bastard had come through with his end of their devil's bargain - a troop of his personal army, disguised as common mercenaries, were already camped in a deserted pasture on O'Brian land. 

Although it had been nearly two weeks since his fateful meeting with the king, the Earl had not allowed dust to gather beneath his feet. His own army, carrying the badges and standard of his clan - a silver boar on a field of green - was on war footing, prepared to march at a moment's notice. 

He sat back and gave a sigh of satisfaction. If all went well, by this same time next week, Inishowen would be in his hands, and Cathelin O'Cameron would be roasting in Hell. 

His wife, Eithne, swept into their bedchamber, the skirts of her elaborate purple gown billowing. ''Well, husband?'' she asked, pouring herself a mazer of wine. ''I've held my tongue these last two sennights, but now I think it's time you told me of your plan.'' She sat down in the chair next to him and fixed her gray eyes on his face. 

Desmond ran both hands through his blonde hair. ''King John has given me secret aid in my campaign against the O'Cameron. A full forty of his best men, tho' disguised, will fight on our side in the upcoming siege.'' 

''And?'' Eithne raised a brow. ''What does His Majesty expect in return?'' 

''Only that I pledge my own loyalty to his cause, to which I've made my mark on a secret agreement. While Richard Drag-Arse languishes in the Holy Land, the King seeks to gather 'round him a core of devoted peers, intending to depose Richard when he returns.'' 

''Treason!'' Eithne widened her eyes, then narrowed them in thought. ''Or not. After all, possession is nine-tenths of the law, and at this moment the crown rests on John the Bastard's head. But still... why such secrecy?'' 

''He cannot afford to let the other lords know of his involvement. They don't trust him as yet; if it were known His Majesty participated personally in a private feud...'' 

Eithne completed the sentence, ''...it could very well ruin his chances at a rebellion against the old king. Not to mention the fact that he'd be surrounded by a dinning horde of grudge-bearing leeches with their hands out, and he cannot afford to alienate anyone right now.'' She drank deeply if daintily from her mazer. ''Well, when Inishowen is taken, and the O'Cameron dies, what will John do then?'' 

''Nothing. If any of the other lairds protest, he will stall and stall and stall - promising much but delivering nothing. Eventually, the matter will be forgotten. And you, my precious pet, will be mistress of Kinslainne and Inishowen both.'' Desmond beamed at his wife. 

Eithne reached out a hand and touched Desmond's cheek, tracing her thumb against the narrow blonde mustache that adorned his upper lip. ''Husband, the question that comes to my mind is... why?'' At Desmond's frown, she continued, ''Why does the king help us at all? It seems great risk against small benefit, and the reward is in the future and speculative at best, to boot.'' 

''Our king is a practical man, pet.'' The Earl kissed his wife's fingertips. ''He had much rather a man he can trust in charge of Inishowen than a wild Irishwoman who has never even bothered to show her face in court. Whoever rules Inishowen is a power to be reckoned with and he knows it. John also bears his own grudge against Blacksunne; it seems our Cathelin once unhorsed one of John's favorites in a tourney, causing the Bastard to lose a pretty purse as well as humiliating him in front of his brother. Add this to the fact that the O'Cameron was knighted by Richard's own hand, and you may believe that His Majesty bears no love for her or for any of Inishowen.'' 

''When will the siege take place?'' 

''In another week's time. As soon as the castle is taken, I plan to execute the O'Cameron, her bedslut, and Westfield's bastard children. To make absolutely sure, however, I have a man on the inside, a spy, who will poison that evening's meal. By the time the sun comes up, a goodly portion of Inishowen's defenders will be either dead or too sick to fight. We should have an easy victory.'' 

Eithne leaned over to kiss Desmond's mouth lightly. ''I am pleased, husband,'' she purred, one hand sliding over the hose that covered the Earl's thigh. ''Well pleased indeed.'' 

The two kissed passionately, and thus did not hear the soft footsteps that headed down the hall, away from their bedchamber... 

As soon as he was safely away, Lugh rested his forehead against the stone wall, hands clenching and unclenching, jaw clenched, mind reeling. 

Dishonor! Treason! Murder! 

He gasped for breath, sweat breaking out on his face. An honorable fight against an honorable enemy I could countenance, he thought, but this?!! My brother plotting with John Lackland for the overthrow of the rightful King... planning to poison innocents to gain Inishowen... murdering children? Has he gone mad?

Lugh was sickened to the core. But what can I do?, he asked himself, desperately wanting to do something.. 

I cannot confront them directly; I wouldn't put it past Eithne to arrange for an 'accident' - like falling off a tower or getting spitted on a spear. But I can't let Desmond do this thing, either. Tthe deed he plots will besmirch our clan's name for all time to come.

Finally, however, he began to think... and soon an idea blossomed in his brain. An unlikely plan, perhaps, but one which, as he examined it, seemed his only course. The only honorable course, he corrected himself. Although I'm not yet a spurred knight, I believe in the truest meaning of chivalry. Desmond must be stopped! And I'm the only one who can do it without spilling blood, or so I pray...

Having made his decision, Lugh wasted no time. Returning to his room, he quickly exchanged his doublet and hose for an old patched tunic and worn-out trews that he usually wore to weapons practice. After tossing a few things into a saddlebag, he snatched up his harpcase on the way out and quietly made his way to the stables. 

Choosing a placid, jug-headed mare, he saddled her and mounted, grateful that the Master of the Stable was at his dinner and not hovering about asking questions. As a final touch, he pulled a moth-eaten old cloak from a hook in the wall and swirled it about his shoulders, fastening it with a broken bronze pin. 

Riding slowly, the hood of his borrowed cloak concealing his face, Lugh left behind the open gate of Castle Kinslainne and went through the village, not wanting undue attention, striving to appear normal... unremarkable... invisible. 

As soon as he was safely away from prying eyes, Lugh turned his mount's head in the direction of Inishowen... and said a silent pray to God that he would not arrive too late. 

CHAPTER NINE

Two weeks of being waited on hand and foot; two weeks of having every whim catered to by a doting staff; two weeks of not even being able to take a piss by herself, dress herself, feed herself - Cathelin felt as if she were going mad. 

The pure hell of it, she thought, is that I'm still weaker than a month-old kitten. Even trying to stand is an ordeal, but if Brother Ignatius clucks at me one more time, much as I respect his holy rede, I swear I'll beat the old man within an inch of his saintly life!

The old monk, fully aware of Cathelin's resentment, held his tongue and merely handed the Irishwoman a horn cup that brimmed with a foul concoction. ''Drink this, Lady,'' he said, avoiding Cathelin's simmering golden eyes. 

She took a sip, screwing up her face at the taste. ''By'r'Lady!'' she exclaimed, lips twisted in a hideous scowl. ''What's in this, Brother? Dead cat?'' 

''Only a little, an' only fer th' taste,'' Ignatius replied with a mock serious air. ''Dinnae sip, Lady. Just gulp it down an' I'll gie ye a sweetmeat ta take away th' sting.'' 

Cathelin made another face at the monk, this time for acting as if she were a recalcitrant child to be bribed by sweets, but obeyed his instructions, swigging down the bitter medicine with screwed-shut eyes and a grimace. 

''There, now,'' Ignatius said, removing the empty cup from Cathelin's hand, ''t'was not so bad as ye thought, was it?'' 

Cathelin turned her head to glare at Brother Sebastian, who had both hands clapped over his mouth to prevent a snicker from escaping. With enormous dignity, the Irishwoman shifted her amber gaze to Ignatius. ''When are you thinking I'll be well enough to get out of this bed?'' 

Ignatius indicated to Sebastian to begin gathering up the medicinal supplies. ''P'rhaps this afternoon... I'll tell Lady Madrigal that yer ta begin takin' small walks, but...'' He shook an admonishing finger. ''NO gaddin' about the castle entire, NO goin' anywhere alone, NO walkin' up or down them stairs, an' NO swordplay! I've no wish ta be draggin' my old bones back here on count of ye fallin' an' showin' folk th' color o' yer insides.'' 

Cathelin nodded. ''Aye. I've been wounded before, Brother, and I've battlefield experience. I'll take care.'' 

Ignatius sniffed. ''See that ye do. G'day, Lady. I'll mention ye ta th' Good Lord in my prayers.'' He and Sebastian exited, the young apprentice deferring respectfully to his teacher. 

Cathelin sighed. Madri was down in the storage rooms, helping the seneschal, Michael Drury, take an inventory of Inishowen's food supplies. Crimthan had taken Dragon and Honeycat into the woods for an afternoon frolic. Even Becca Half-Tongue was busy, drilling new recruits on the practice field. 

And that's where I should be, the Irishwoman thought with another sigh. She pressed a hand to her stomach and winced; although partially healed, the area was still tender to the touch and flared with pain every time she moved. Her abdominal muscle had been deeply cut, and if the wound were torn open again - T'is tripping I'd be over my own guts.

She understood the need to rest, regain her strength, allow her body to heal, but it was still very frustrating. Cathelin let her eyes roam over the room, boredom settling into her very bones. 

Just as she was about to take another nap, the door of the chamber flew open, and Fergus Niall, the village hetman, stumbled into the room. ''T'is yer babes, Lady!'' he gasped, light red mustache fluttering with the force of his exhalation. 

Cathelin's eyes widened and her hands clutched the bed linens. ''What?!! What's happened? Tell me, man!'' 

Fergus panted; he was a paunchy man but still muscular, a former guardsman gone somewhat to fat with good living. ''Wee Dragon an' Honeycat's missin'! Wandered off in th' wood! Oh, Crimthan's a-wailin' an' carryin' on somethin' awful, Lady, so I come myself ta bespeak ya th' news.'' 

Cathelin sucked in a breath, then clenched her jaw. With a massive effort that left beads of sweat standing out on her brow, she slowly pushed herself into a sitting position, swinging her legs off the bed. Nostrils pinched and white, with a grunt she rose to her feet, hanging onto the bedpost for support. 

''Fetch me a pair of trews and a tunic, Master Niall,'' she said in a strained voice. ''I'll be going back with you to lead the search.'' 

Niall opened his mouth to protest, but thought the better of it when he saw the expression in the Lady's eyes. As he rummaged in the clothes chest, Becca ran into the room and skidded to a halt when she took in the scene. 

''Just where d'you think you're going?'' she demanded. 

Cathelin hung grimly to the bedpost. ''I'm going after my children, Lleidath. You can help or get out of my way.'' 

''No, you're not! Niall, put down those clothes! Listen to me, Lady,'' Becca said, coming closer, ''You're in no condition to be traipsin' through the woods. I just heard the news myself and was coming to tell you that Wolf's organizing a search party.'' 

Cathelin kept her eyes locked on the clothes that hung loosely in Niall's hand. ''Does Madri know?'' 

Becca shook her head. ''Not yet. I s'pose Mistress Meagan's telling her now.'' 

''Good.'' Cathelin took a deep breath, then let go of the bedpost and straightened up. Although the effort this took was not outwardly evident, she had to stand still a moment before the swirling room steadied. ''I'll get dressed and join them in the courtyard.'' 

''Lady, please! You can't go!'' 

''Listen to me, Becca Lleidath! I'll not be told what I may or may not do as if I were a child myself! Now, I'll be going with your help or without it, but BY GOD I AM GOING!'' 

The echoes of Cathelin's enraged shout made Becca's ears ring. Lips set, without another protest, she nodded to Niall. 

Cathelin managed to pull on her trews and tunic by herself, although she was soaked with sweat by the time she finished. Knowing she couldn't possibly manage boots, she merely stepped into a pair of soft leather sandals and somehow tied up the straps without fainting. Grabbing a spear from the wall beside the bed, she used it as a staff to help make her way across the room. 

When she reached the door, Cathelin turned her head and said, ''Are you coming?'' Without waiting to see if they were following, she passed slowly down the hall. 

Becca looked at Niall and shook her head. ''I know not which is worse... that the Lady might kill her stubborn self, or that Lady Madrigal might kill me for letting her!'' 

Niall twisted his mustache between his fingers and did not reply. 

Dragon held Honeycat's hand as the two children toddled slowly through the dense woods. 

It had been a fun prank, to hide behind trees and beneath rotted logs, giggling quietly while their nurse Crimthan had searched and called in increasingly frantic tones. Crimthan had gone away and they had wandered around for a while, admiring pretty leaves or flowers and chasing bugs. But now they were hot, tired, thirsty - and beginning to get scared. 

It was early afternoon, so there was plenty of sun, and it was warm and mild, a slight breeze rustling the undergrowth. Dragon wiped his face with a grimy hand and sighed. 

Honeycat suddenly came to a halt. Silently, she pointed along a deer trail. 

Dragon shook his head, dark hair flying in his eyes. Uncut since birth, it flowed across his shoulders in a mass of black curls. 

Honeycat tugged his hand, still pointing, and began moving towards the trail. 

Dragon frowned. ''Stop, Cat!'' he said stubbornly, pushing out his bottom lip and digging in his heels. ''No!'' 

''Yes! Want momma! Want mathra!'' Honeycat was equally insistent and pulled at her brother until both children fell over in a heap. 

Dragon's lip trembled as he thought about crying, but seeing Honeycat solemnly examining a scrape on her knee, he immediately forgot about tears. ''Hurt?'' he asked, brows drawn together in a frown. 

Honeycat shook her head... then her green eyes widened as they scanned past Dragon's face, focused on something behind him, and kept going up, up... 

Dragon jumped when he heard the roar behind him. He scrambled to his feet unsteadily and turned around to confront the enormous bear that stood above the two children, shaggy head thrown back, muzzle open to emit another roar. He bunched his hands into fists and shouted, ''Bad bear! G'way!!'' 

Honeycat sat there, frozen in terror, heart skittering as she watched the bear's beady black eyes narrow. The bear roared again, showing long downcurving fangs, waving its claws as it came closer and closer. 

CHAPTER TEN

He was close to Inishowen when Lugh heard the roar of an enraged bear, followed by the unmistakable tones of a child's shrill scream. 

Clapping his heels against the mare's side and startling her into motion, he guided the horse in the direction of the noise, keeping her tightly controlled as they skidded around trees and vaulted over a fallen giant of an oak. Lugh held a fold of his cloak over his face to protect his eyes as leafy branches whipped past, lashing him like thin whips. The mare obeyed but her eyes rolled wildly and she started to foam as they drew closer, the musky scent of bear making her skittish. 

As they burst into the clearing, Lugh was already in motion. Sawing at the reins with all his strength, the mare was brought to a skidding halt even as he dropped the leather leads and launched himself from the saddle, already drawing the heavy hunting knife from its sheath at his back. 

The bear stood at least seven feet tall, rough shaggy coat sprinkled with leaves and twigs, and long claws that he thought must measure two thumbs in length. It stood on its hind legs, muzzle agape and drooling as it menaced two children, mere babes, both of whom were now screaming; as Lugh moved across the clearing. The bear shambled closer to them. 

With a wild scream of his own, Lugh leaped on the bear's back, clamping his legs along its sides and twisting one hand into the fur at the side of the bear's neck. Knowing he would have only one chance, he wasted no time. Barely feeling the hot pain of the bear's claws raking one of his calves, he raised the knife and buried it to the hilt in the animal's eye, praying the blade would be long enough to reach the brain. 

Even as the bear squealed and pawed at him again, several arrows thudded home in its chest. Snuffling and roaring in rage, the bear dropped to all fours, blood pouring down its face, streaming across its muzzle. A javelin struck its side and stood out, quivering, and several more followed. 

Lugh rolled off the bear, keeping his own body between the animal and the children, and somehow managed to get to his feet. He stood there, swaying and empty-handed, not sure what he would do if the bear attacked, but knowing he couldn't leave the children helpless. In that wild heartbeat of moments, it had not yet occurred to him that he was not alone. 

The bear roared again but weakly, and toppled over onto its side, shuddering, fur stained with dark blood. With a quivering whimper and a massive sigh, the beast died. 

Lugh watched, panting. until a hand clapped on his shoulder made him start. He turned his head to see a black-haired warrior with a drooping mustache, whose icy-blue eyes looked into his with approval. ''Good job, lad,'' the warrior said. ''Ye've saved the Lady's kin.'' 

Lugh turned around to see a woman with dark red hair kneeling on the leaf-strewn dirt, both children gathered in her arms. For a long moment, she held them, murmuring softly; then one by one held them away from her and examined them for wounds. The little girl had a skinned knee that received a soft kiss, but other than a scare, it seemed as if they were all right. 

Then the woman raised her head to look straight at him, and Lugh felt her golden gaze hit him like a hammerblow in the chest. 

''Who are you?'' she asked, while he stood there as if stunned. ''I want to know the name of the brave man who saved my Dragon and my Honeycat.'' 

''L-l-lugh,'' he stuttered, feeling ten kinds of fool. ''Lugh, er, Sodath.'' 

Cathelin frowned. That last was no proper clan name; in the Old Gaelic, it meant ''comely.'' She decided to allow it to pass; by the look of him, and by the harpcase she could see strapped to the back of the ugly mare held by one of her kerns, he was likely a wandering minstrel. 

''The gratitude of the clan for what you've done, Master Sodath,'' she said, inclining her head graciously. ''You were on your way to Inishowen?'' 

''Aye.'' Lugh nodded. 

She waved a hand and turned her head to look over her shoulder. ''Becca, help me up.'' Another woman broke from the ranks of the warriors he could now see gathered behind the red-haired woman; this one had brown curly hair cut in a soldier's short crop, and her otherwise pretty face was marred by a thick scar. With something approaching shock, Lugh realized that the woman on the ground must be Lady Cathelin O'Cameron. 

Becca hauled the Lady to her feet, and Lugh saw Cathelin's face go white beneath her tan. Then she was up, both children clinging to her legs. Cathelin sighed. ''Just get me up on my horse and hand them to me.'' Becca loosened the children's clutching grips and picked them up, settling them against her hip. 

Cathelin grabbed a tall spear from another warrior and turned to go, but the warrior beside Lugh called out, ''And what of Master Sodath, Lady?'' 

''He goes with us, Wolf... back to Inishowen. With full guest-right and all honors; have the Mistress of the Hearth prepare a feast when we return.'' 

Lugh felt his heart begin to beat again. 

The warrior whom the lady had named Wolf sighed. ''Stubborn...'' Then he broke off and studied Lugh. ''We'll wrap your leg for th' trip home, t'will not take long. The abbey healer'll have a look at ye. D'ye need help to mount?'' 

''No. I don't... think so.'' 

''If ye do, ask one o' th' men. And lad?,'' Wolf continued, misinterpreting the look of anxiety on Lugh's face, ''Dinnae worry. Ye're a guest o' the O'Camerons, not a prisoner. An' if ye know any o' th' Lady, ye'll know she keeps to th' old ways for th' honorin' o' heroes.'' 

Lugh sighed, nodding... and limped over to his horse, thinking, Have I made a mistake? Can I do this? Can I avert a war?

But he was also thinking... Dear Sweet Jesu! I think Lady Cathelin's the one.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

They rode slowly through the gates of Inishowen, the guards on duty saluting their Lady. 

Cathelin's face was the color of whey, lips pressed so tightly together they were bloodless. But her arms never faltered in holding her children tightly, for although Madrigal was their mother-by-blood, Cathelin had come to regard Dragon and Honeycat as precious as if she'd borne them herself. 

Riding up to the castle, Lugh could see a single figure standing in the forecourt. An uncommonly beautiful woman, petite but with generous curves and features that were exotic in this land. Her blue-black hair was twisted back into two braids, and her gown, while linen, was gorgeously embroidered with blackbirds and crimson berries. This, then, was a woman of some importance; when Lugh noticed the silver chain with its jangling keys that was looped around her waist, he knew this must be Inishowen's chatelaine. 

He composed his face into a smile, even though this leg had begun to hurt fiercely, but the smile died forgotten as the woman ignored him, concentrating her sole attention on the Lady and her children. 

''Dragon! Honeycat!'' she said fervently, snatching both children down, kissing them, then shaking them fiercely and kissing them again. ''You do not EVER run away from Crimthan again!! EVER!'' 

Dragon protested, ''Lost!'' but the woman silenced him with smack to his sturdy rear end. ''Enough!'' she said. ''Now go with your nurse, Dragon, and do not do so again! You frightened your momma and your mathra, both.'' 

Dragon began to cry and was handed over to Crimthan - a plump, freckled woman with wild orange hair. Honeycat stared up at her momma with wide eyes and the woman sighed. ''You go as well, little one.'' 

Honeycat whispered, ''Momma? Bear...'' 

''Not now, Honey. Go with Crimthan; I will hear about it later.'' 

Crimthan hustled both children into the castle, and the woman put her hands on her hips and turned flashing eyes on Cathelin. ''And may one ask what you are doing out of bed?'' she asked in a deceptively mild tone. 

To Lugh's surprise, the Lady gave the chatelaine a sickly smile and replied, ''Sweetling, they were lost...'' 

''Enough from you as well!'' the woman almost shouted. ''Get down from that djinn-possessed eater-of-straw and get back in bed! Allah preserve me! Is it that you wish to die?'' 

Cathelin's smile had become fixed, her eyes glazed. Slowly, she slid from the saddle, straight into the woman's arms, and both of them crumpled to the ground. 

Holding Cathelin's head in her lap, the chatelaine shouted, ''For the sake of the Prophet! Help me!'' 

Quickly, the kerns dismounted, Wolf organizing a hasty litter. In no time at all, Cathelin was on her way into the castle, borne by several sweating soldiers who rolled their eyes fearfully at the fuming dark-haired woman. 

Lugh managed to get down from his own horse and limped over. ''Is she all right? The Lady, I mean,'' he asked the chatelaine. 

''I pray to Allah she will be,'' she answered absently. Then, she seemed to notice him for the first time and smiled slightly, although the look of worry on her face never faltered. ''I am Lady Madrigal,'' she said. ''Are you a guest here?'' 

Becca had lingered in the background, carefully watching Lugh. Now she spoke up. ''Aye, that he is. Saved both babes, he did, an' the Lady's ordered a hero's feast.'' 

''Indeed?'' Madrigal's delicate brows rose. ''Come,'' she said, looping her arm through his. ''Come inside and have some wine. I apologize but I must see to my children and to my Lady Cat. Becca will keep you entertained and see to your hurt.'' 

Lugh allowed himself to be led into Inishowen... not missing the grimace on Becca's face. 

Brother Ignatius was so furious that his bat-like ears quivered. ''Are ye entirely mad? Did ye lose a mortal portion o' yer brains ta th' boar what gored ye? Did I not tell ye ta be careful?'' 

''Aye,'' Cathelin sighed wearily. ''That you did.'' 

Ignatius slapped a linen pad on Cathelin's stomach, ignoring her wince. ''Well, God was wit' ye, ya slack-witted, sword-maunderin' horse's arse!'' 

Brother Sebastian used the pad to mop up blood, then stood back so Ignatius could take a look at the re-opened wound. The old monk tsked under his breath and said, ''It no needs re-stitchin', praise God. T'is only a small tear. BUT,'' he added at Cathelin's sigh of relief, ''that no means yer ta be up an' about an' spear castin' an' killin' bears at th' drop o' th' pin! Yer ta stay abed this night, an' more nights besides, till yon wound has a chance ta heal! D'ye understand me, Lady, or do I need ta have ye chained there?'' 

Cathelin nodded. Muttering to himself, the old monk and his apprentice wound linen strips around her middle as a bandage. When finished, Ignatius said in parting, ''An' I'm sure yer own lady has words fer ye as well, ye obstinate child o' mules! An' yer no ta try an' run away, either! Ye'll probably end up tryin' ta fly from a parapet, or the saints know what... yer as mortal as th' rest o' God's children, ye know!'' His voice faded as he bustled down the hall, a smirking Sebastian at his heels. 

Cathelin sighed again, and steeled herself for the confrontation with her beloved that she knew would be forthcoming. 

St. Michael and the Virgin Mary protect me, she thought to herself. I'd almost rather face a cohort of head-hunting Picts than my wife when she's in a temper!

CHAPTER TWELVE

As predicted, the instant Ignatius was gone, Madrigal swept into the room. Fury has colored her cheeks and her dark purple eyes glittered. ''Well?'' she asked in a hard tone. 

Cathelin gave her a half-hearted shrug and said, ''T'is sorrowed I am that you worried, sweetling. But the children...'' 

Madrigal snorted. ''Did you not have a barracks full of warriors who were eager to search? Do you not trust Wolf with your life? And what of Becca? Does she not have experience in these matters?'' 

''Well, yes, Madri, but...'' 

''Do not 'but' me! What did you mean, getting out of bed, and still so weak, too! You could have died! I have been waiting here, half out of my mind with worry, almost convinced they would bring back a corpse instead of my Lady Cat!'' 

''Now, sweetling...'' 

''How could you do this? How?'' Madrigal grabbed her skirt in both hands and shook it. ''Is it that you wish to die? There are far easier ways to go about it! Shall I have a servant fetch your sword so you may fall upon it?'' 

''Madri, please - I had to do something. I couldn't just lay here...'' 

''Allah!'' For several minutes, Madrigal cursed Cathelin in Arabic, floridly obscene phrases spilling from her lips. The Irishwoman lay back with a sigh, putting her hands behind her head and watching her mate with a tiny smile on her face. 

When Madrigal began repeating herself, Cathelin said mildly, ''Did you not forget to call me an eater of swine's-flesh? The obstinate offspring of a she-camel? Not even to mention the debauched daughter of a wine-swilling prophet?'' 

Madrigal's face colored even further. ''Do not mock me, Lady Cat,'' she said warningly, coming closer. ''You have angered me greatly.'' 

Cathelin sighed again, her amber eyes never leaving her love's. ''Truly I am sorrowed, sweetling,'' she replied. ''Believe me, I've no wish to die. At least, not yet. But I've also no wish to see our children dead, either. Can you not understand that?'' 

''Of course I understand.'' Madrigal sat carefully on the edge of the bed. ''It is that I cannot bear losing you.'' 

Cathelin's brows rose, but she remained silent. 

Madrigal continued, picking up the Lady's hand and holding it against her cheek, ''Perhaps I am a bad mother and Allah will punish me for my thoughts. But although the thought of losing my children is painful, and part of my soul would die with them if anything ever happened, still... if I were to lose you, you who are my pearl beyond price - I would be soul-lost entirely.'' 

''Do you love me so much then?'' 

''Yes.'' Madrigal's dark eyes glittered with unshed tears. ''Without you, I am nothing. As much as I love them, without my children I could still find the strength to continue; without you, I could not. I would die to defend my children; but if I must choose between them and you... I would choose my Lady Cat's life and accept the consequences. These thoughts I will be damned for, I know; but I will gladly endure Shaitan's punishments in the next world if it will save you in this one.'' 

Cathelin rolled over on her side, suppressing a wince, and slid her free hand along the cloth that covered Madrigal's thigh. ''Thou art my oasis in the burning desert, my moon of gold, my cup of palm wine and honey,'' she said softly in Arabic. 

Madrigal sighed, then lay down beside Cathelin, carefully putting her arms around the other woman and resting her cheek on the Irishwoman's arm. ''For love of thee I would stand against the world.'' 

Cathelin kissed each of Madrigal's closed eyelids. ''Since I have known you I have been unmoved by all else, even though the sky were to fall or the sea to overflow,'' she whispered in Gaelic. Then switching to English, she continued, ''T'is all right, my sweetling. You'll not be damned, no less than I.'' 

Softly, Madrigal began to cry, tears falling into Cathelin's dark red hair, while her mate held her tightly and crooned, ''T'will be all right, sweetling. T'will be all right.'' 

Her face pressed against Cathelin's neck, Madrigal did not speak for a long while. And when she did, it was to reaffirm her love in the most unmistakable terms - and Cathelin replied in kind. 

Becca wrapped linen bandages around Lugh's calf and tied off the ends. ''Too tight?'' she asked, keeping her eyes focused on her task. 

''Nay, feels all right,'' he replied. ''My thanks. You've a light touch.'' 

Becca pulled his pants leg down over the bandage and stood, wiping her hands on the front of her trews. The cuts, while long, weren't terribly deep and hadn't needed stitches. She'd slathered them with Brother Ignatius' sovereign salve to prevent infection, and wrapped his leg in linen to keep it clean. The kern went to the sideboard to pour the stranger a cup of wine, watching him surreptitiously beneath her lashes. 

This Lugh Sodath is as comely as his false name suggests, she thought. Pretty as a virgin maid. I wonder if he's a man-lover - and I wonder what he was doing so close to Inishowen.

Bringing the wine to Lugh, Becca said, ''Are you hungered? Mistress Shevaughn's preparin' a feast, but that'll be for later tonight. I can fetch you some bread and cheese if you'd like.'' 

Having not eaten all day, Lugh suddenly realized he was famished. Wetting his lips politely with the wine (and raising his eyebrows that so fine a vintage should be given to one believed to be a penniless, wandering minstrel), he replied, ''You'd have the blessings of my belly, mistress. T'is small wonder to me that its not been making its emptiness known before now.'' 

Just as these words left his lips, Lugh's stomach rumbled loudly, making Becca laugh. 

''Aye, so I hear,'' she said. ''Take your ease, Master Sodath. I'll be back in but a moment.'' 

''Please, mistress,'' he said gallantly with a smile. ''Call me Lugh.'' 

''As you wish.'' Becca turned to go, and almost as an afterthought, added, ''And call me Becca, if you please.'' She exited the dining hall, leaving Lugh alone with his thoughts. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lugh toyed with his winecup, swirling the dark red liquid around and around. 

His eyes roamed the huge, high-ceilinged room, with its walls of cut stone hung with the banners and flags of the O'Cameron enemies defeated in battle since Lady Cathelin's great-great-grandfather's time. Captured axes, spears, swords and shields also paid mute testimony to the war prowess of the O'Cameron clan. 

The massive fireplaces on either side of the room were big enough to roast an ox whole; the T-shaped table, with the top bar of the ''T'' set on a dais beneath the canopy of state, was large enough to host a horde of guests. 

From where he sat, he could see the silver saltceller that dominated the upper portion of the table. The large bowl, with its fantastically crafted lid in the shape of a chariot drawn by two rearing horses, would indicate the relative rank of those seated at the feast. Those of high rank were seated ''above the salt,'' while those of lower rank were seated ''below the salt.'' Lugh was somewhat startled to realize that for the first time in his life, he would be below the salt at dinner. 

Well, t'is a necessary evil, he thought. I'll have to forget about my birth-rank until this is over. For now, I must pray that Lady Cathelin is all right and I can somehow make my brother's plans known to her without being executed as a spy. As far as what Desmond will do to me - he can hardly take the head of kin so closely tied by blood and birth, even if it seems I must commit treason to avoid a black stain on the clan name.

Lugh's thoughts naturally turned to Lady Cathelin... So tall, so strong, but not beautiful. No, not even handsome. Fierce, like an eagle, with an eagle's golden eyes. She's hardly the obscene half-man my brother describes.

Lugh rose and walked around the room, stopping at a large wooden cabinet that was against one wall. The doors were sheathed in translucent mica and he could barely make out shadows against the paper-thin stone. Opening a door, he found the shelves full of goblets made of human skulls. 

Taking one out, he examined it. The upside down skull had a stem of silver and a gold foot, both studded with turquoise. The skull itself was sheathed in silver, empty eye-sockets filled in with gold and two large pearls. The rim of the grisly goblet was likewise decorated with a ring of pearls. A Latin inscription around the inside of the cup read: ''Alexander Wallace, for whose crimes God hath judged, the Lady Cathelin O'Cameron as His Arm of justice. Thus was Madrigal O'Cameron avenged.''

With a shudder, Lugh replaced the goblet and shut the doors. The cabinet contained a round dozen or more of the things. He'd heard of such traditions in old-fashioned households, but his own O'Brian clan was too Christianized to pay much heed to the old, barbaric ways that had prevailed before St. Patrick's conversion of Ireland. 

Becca returned, bearing a wooden platter. Sliding it on the table, she said, ''Here's your bread and cheese, Master Sodath.'' She sat down on the bench opposite the one he had been sitting on and nodded. ''Come and eat; then I'll show you to your room.'' 

Lugh sat back down and broke open the steaming loaf of bread, inhaling the fragrance gratefully. He noticed that someone had also provided a lump of fresh butter, and a generous slab of pale yellow cheese. Taking a large bite of bread, he said around the mouthful, ''I didn't know Lady Madrigal was of the O'Cameron clan. What's her relation, may I ask?'' 

Becca gave him a shrewd glance, but decided the question just might have been an innocent one. ''She was once the slave of Sir Francis Westfield the Usurper,'' she replied, ''and the Lady freed her, and took her to wife.'' 

Lugh nearly spewed the swallow of wine he'd taken across the table. Her WIFE? Well, that explains the name in the inscription, he thought, mind reeling with the implications. ''So she's adopted by marriage?'' 

''Nay. Before the Battle of the Trees, Lady Cathelin formally adopted Lady Madrigal into the clan. Later, they were wedded. Lady Madrigal's children are the chief's children as well, and her heirs.'' 

Lugh nodded. The O'Brian's did not recognize such unions as legal on their own lands, but he'd heard that Inishowen was different. He'd never imagined just how different. ''Those were the children who were attacked by the bear?'' 

''Aye.'' Becca decided to give the minstrel a bit more information. She was suspicious, though without true grounds save an instinct that screamed at her that the pretty lad was not what he seemed. Not enough to take to Wolf or the Lady. P'raps if I pay out enough rope, she thought, he'll hang himself and save me the trouble. ''Lady Cathelin was wounded by a wild boar some weeks ago,'' she offered casually, ''and has been recoverin' ever since. She shouldn't have joined the search; she's still too weak. Gut wounds can be dangerous, you know.'' 

Lugh nodded in agreement. ''Aye, I've seen a man or two who thought his belly was stitched tight together get up and have his guts on the ground,'' he replied. ''So that warrior... Wolf?... would be in charge of the castle defenses now?'' 

Becca shook her head. ''Nay, for t'is the custom and law that the lady wife of the laird defend the walls if her husband's away or hurted. No doubt Lady Madrigal will see to it if necessary.'' This last question of the minstrel's had made her suspicions flame even higher; the kern was determined to go to Wolf at the first opportunity. Surely this minstrel needs a sharp eye kept on him, she thought. 

Lugh was astonished to notice that the bread and cheese were gone, the platter devoid of even crumbs. He felt better now that he'd satisfied his hunger. Rising, he said, ''My thanks for the meal, Becca.'' Looking down at his torn and dirty clothes ruefully, he continued, ''Might this castle boast a common bathing room? I'd hate to appear at the feast looking like a beggar.'' 

''Aye. I'll show you where it is, and where your room is. Then, I need to be gettin' to the barracks before the captain has my hide.'' Becca ran a hand through her brown curly hair and gave Lugh a smile, showing the tiny gap between her two front teeth. 

As Becca led Lugh out of the dining room, the man was determined himself to seek an interview with Wolf... and hopefully warn the warrior about the impending siege.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

At DaDerga, the O'Brian's hereditary castle named after a famous house of Irish myth, Desmond O'Brian paced in his bedroom while his wife looked on with faint amusement. 

''Where in God's name can Lugh be?'' he asked of the air. ''He's been gone two days!'' 

Eithne smoothed her dark hair with one hand. ''Are you sure he's not lying drunk in some field or ditch, husband? Or snug in a pretty maid's bed?'' 

Desmond gave his wife an evil glare. ''I've had my men turn the castle and village upside down. Not a trace of him has been found. And his harp's missing as well.'' 

Eithne did not frown but there was a trace of ill humor in her peat-gray eyes. ''Well, no doubt he'll turn up. Stop worrying so about that harp-strumming fop! Surely any mischief he gets up to can be dealt with after we take Inishowen.'' 

''True.'' Desmond took a gulp of wine from the expensive glass goblet he'd imported all the way from Hungary at his wife's insistence. ''It makes my blood roil, thinking about Lugh. Why now, of all times, does my brother choose to desert me?'' 

''He could not have known about your plans,'' Eithne soothed. Getting up from her chair, she pressed herself against her husband's back, her hands sliding to caress his bare chest. ''Forget the boy, Desmond. Forget everything except your war and how good it will feel to be avenged on the O'Cameron once and for all.'' 

Desmond sighed and reached up a hand, toying with one of the many rings that encircled Eithne's slender fingers. ''Aye, you've the right of it.'' He turned around and embraced his wife. ''You're right as always, heart of my heart.'' 

Eithne played with a lock of his hair and purred, ''Am I not always, my husband?'' 

A knock on the door interrupted their kiss. Desmond growled and strode to the door, flinging it open. ''What?'' he asked to the man who stood on the threshold. 

It was Matthew Dunstan, the captain of O'Brian's soldiers. ''I've news of Lugh, my Lord'' he said shortly. Dunstan was tall and spear-slender, with a bushy strawberry-blonde mustache and shaven head. His ears were pierced with several silver rings, and his left arm was covered in abstract woad tattoos. ''He was seen leaving the village on an old mare two days ago.'' 

Desmond frowned. ''To where?'' he wondered aloud. 

Dunstan rubbed his bald head with one hand. ''No doubt about his destination, my Lord. Master Lugh was headed in the direction of Inishowen,'' he replied. The captain's blue eyes betrayed no emotion whatsoever. 

With a roar of pure rage, Desmond hurled the precious glass goblet across the room, where it shattered against the stone. ''That betraying bastard!'' he shouted, turning to accept the leather tunic mutely offered by his wife and pulling it over his head. ''Fetch my horse and gather the men together. As soon as I speak to our mercenaries and prepare them, we'll be leaving for Inishowen.'' 

''So soon?'' Dunstan asked. 

''Aye. T'will take us a day to march to Inishowen if we stop not to rest but continue through the night.'' Desmond sat down to draw on his boots with a grunt. ''We've lost the element of surprise, but if we make haste, we can get there before the castle's defenses are fully prepared.'' 

Dunstan shrugged and turned to go, but was stopped when Desmond said, almost as an afterthought, ''And send a message bird to our spy in Inishowen. They're to drug the meal this evening instead of waiting. With any luck, my treasonous brother's not had time to fully warn them yet.'' 

Dunstan went out, and Desmond turned to Eithne. ''And you, my love, will prepare the pickling vat,'' he said, brown eyes flashing. ''When I return from Inishowen with the O'Cameron's head, I'll have my brother's fixed to my saddlebow as well.'' 

Eithne bowed her head in assent, but asked, ''How do you know Lugh has betrayed you? How can you be so sure?'' 

Desmond grimaced. ''Ever since we were children, my brother's been as empty-headed as a court lackey. Always prating about honor and chivalry until my belly was fair to burst with his nonsense; the fool believes that expediency is a sin. Make no mistake, Eithne. Somehow my puling brother, and God alone knows why He gave me such a weakling for kin, has heard of my plan and intends to spoke my wheels. Well, he'll not get the chance.'' 

Eithne nodded. ''He must have overheard you talking. I've seen him sneaking about the castle before, quiet as a cat.'' 

''Aye.'' The blonde Earl took his wife by the shoulders. ''I have tried to love Lugh for our father's sake, but this time, I cannot forget and I cannot forgive. He has betrayed the clan and his life is forfeit.'' 

Eithne kissed Desmond's chin. ''Do what you must, my husband,'' she said. ''Be revenged on the O'Cameron for her insult to you as well as the death of our son. And return to me safely.'' 

At the mention of Robert, his dead son, Desmond bit his lip. The young man had been injured by Cathelin in a tourney, leaving him permanently disabled. Last year, Robert, suffering from black depression over his inability to win a knighthood, had committed suicide by slitting his wrists, thereby condemning his mortal soul to Hell. The Earl blamed Cathelin for this, although he had refrained from telling the king about his private pain and shame. 

The one will pay for all, he thought savagely, already imagining the red-haired O'Cameron on her knees, begging for her life. 

Kissing his wife so hard he bloodied her lip, the Earl left the room, shouting for his sword. 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The dining hall was full, the length of the table crowded. As he had earlier thought, Lugh was seated below the salt, wedged between a pair of the Lady's kerns. He sopped at his wooden trencher with a bit of bread, getting every scrap of juice from his slice of the roasted cow's side that had been brought in earlier. 

Lady Cathelin was at the high table with her mate, Madrigal, at her side. While the Irishwoman looked pale and wan, it was clear from the expression of triumph on her face that she basked in her people's shouts and toasts of approval. The Lady of Inishowen was obviously well loved by her folk. 

Lugh surreptitiously scanned the dining room, seeking familiar faces... and saw Becca Half-Tongue speaking quietly and earnestly to Wolf McLeod. He shook back a lock of blonde hair that had fallen into his eyes, and decided there was nothing sinister in the conference. 

Becca hissed, ''He's a spy, Wolf, I'm tellin' you!'' She shot the unsuspecting Lugh a dark glance. ''Asking about the castle's defenses, he was!'' 

Wolf stroked his mustache lightly with one finger. ''An' what did ye tell him?'' 

''The truth, as much as I wanted him to know.'' Becca lowered her voice further. ''B'sides, I'm thinkin' I've seen him somewhere before.'' 

''Aye?'' 

''Aye. The Battle of the Trees, I think. I can't be sure, but I think I seen him there on the O'Brian's side. You and I both know the Earl's still lustin' after the Lady's blood over that ransom insult she dealt him, not to mention his son's death.'' 

Wolf looked thoughtful. ''Well, ye've the right o' that at least,'' he allowed. ''P'raps I should have a private talk wit' th' minstrel lad.'' 

''After the feast, then.'' Becca fingered the horn hilt of the belt knife she wore. ''I'll bring him to you myself.'' 

Wolf nodded. 

In the meantime, Lugh had risen from his seat and unslung the harpcase from his shoulder. ''A song!,'' he said loudly, ''A song to honor the Ladies Cathelin and Madrigal!'' 

Amid the cheers and banging of cups on the table, Lugh saw Lady Cathelin nod her assent. Taking out his harp and making sure it was tuned properly, he put one foot up on the bench and propped the harp against his inner thigh. 

Playing an ancient air, he sang the ''Immrama of Bran Mac Febel,'' the tale of a hero who makes a mystical journey to the Otherworld: 

''There is a distant isle, around which sea-horses glisten. 
Let thine intoxication overcome thee; 
begin a voyage across the clear sea. 
If perchance thou mayest reach the Tir Fa Thonn, 
The Land Under the Waves, 
thou shalt find the citadel of Manannan Mac Lir, 
the Emain Abhlach, 
but first thou must pass the Pillar of the Silver Net, 
even as brave Bran Mac Febel did in years past...'' 

Lugh continued the song, detailing Bran's adventures in the Otherworld and how he eventually escaped. At the end of the song, he stood flushed with pride  while the assembled people banged their cups and cheered, calling for another. Shouts of ''Play 'The Drunken Men of Ulster!''' and ''No! Give us 'The Faithful Fool!'' made the rafters ring. 

But before he could strike the harpstrings again and begin a new song, Becca said from behind, ''Come with me, Master Sodath. Wolf is wantin' to see you.'' 

Still feeling the heady rush of his audience's applause, Lugh put down his precious harp and followed the curly-haired kern, brushing at his tunic and thanking God that he'd taken a bath that afternoon and changed his clothes. 

Wolf maneuvered Lugh into a corner while Becca stood guard at the warrior's back to keep the curious away. ''What's your name, lad?'' he asked, and when Lugh stammered his false surname, the Scottish warchief sighed and shook his head in mock sorrow. ''Nay, boyo. Give me yer real name an' clan.'' 

Lugh pretended confusion. ''I don't know what you're talking about,'' he said. ''I'm Lugh Sodath.'' 

''Listen ta me. Either ye gie me yer true name or I'll have my men take ye down ta th' dungeons. Mayhap a taste o' th' rack'll loosen yer tongue.'' 

Lugh widened his dark blue eyes. Dungeon? Rack? Had he somehow given himself away? ''Please, Master Wolf,'' he replied pleadingly. ''Have I offended you somehow?'' 

''Becca tells me ye've a familiar look ta yer face. An' I hear ye've been askin' questions o' th' castle's defenses. T'is in my mind ye be a spy fer an enemy o' th' clan. Added ta that, I've news that th' O'Brian's mobilizin' an' armin' soldiers, an' I know t'isn't fer th' sake o' payin' a social call. So...'' The veteran warrior leaned in close, so close Lugh could see the barely detectable gray hairs in his luxuriantly drooping mustache. ''I'll have what ye know, one way or t'other.'' 

Lugh gulped, misinterpreting Wolf's words about his brother, and began thinking furiously. If Desmond was indeed on the verge of attacking Inishowen, then something must have happened to make him change his plans... and if his siege plan had changed, then perhaps so had his other - to poison Inishowen's people by tainting their food. 

But I don't feel sick, he thought, so maybe the spy doesn't know the siege had been pushed up... Or maybe it just hasn't happened yet. I must think!

Wolf poked Lugh in the chest with one finger. ''Well?'' he said belligerently. ''What d'ye say, lad?'' 

Lugh pushed back a lock of blonde hair with one hand. ''My bro... I mean, the O'Brian's mobilizing now?'' Oh, God, he thought, give me strength. I never figured he'd notice I was missing; normally, Desmond pays as much attention to me as to the meanest kitchen slattern. What can a spy poison among so many dishes to be sure of killing the most people?

Wolf's brows drew together in a frown, and he opened his mouth to reply, but Lugh, staring over his shoulder at the crowded table, suddenly shouted, ''NO!'' and pushed past the astonished warchief, headed for the dais even as eager hands reached out to stop him. 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lugh had seen the sweet course being served; a thin, shallow bowl of Trinity Pudding - red berry jam, cream and honey swirled together. It was an expensive dish and a rare treat... and it suddenly flashed on the young man that of all the dishes served that night, only the pudding was likely to be consumed by everyone in the hall, as well as the kitchen servants who would devour the leftovers. 

The perfect dish to poison, he thought, and his eyes sought the dais, where Lady Cathelin, smiling at something her wife had said, was bringing a horn spoon to her lips. 

''NO!'' Lugh yelled and shoved his way out of the corner, nearly knocking over Wolf McLeod in his haste. Shouting warriors and others rose from the table, long benches falling over with a crash, hands reaching out to clutch at Lugh as he sprinted past, pushing and ducking, even hitting one red-headed kern in the chest with his open hand and vaulting over her sprawling body. 

Wolf snatched an axe from the wall and prepared to throw, convinced that Lugh was not only a spy but an assassin. He cocked back his arm, ice-blue eyes narrowed in concentration. 

Becca Half-Tongue scrabbled after Lugh, belt knife drawn and held low for a disabling wound. She knew the warchief would want the young man taken alive if possible. 

Cathelin, her attention drawn by the commotion, got to her feet with a grunt and despite Madrigal's protests, put herself between her mate and the oncoming minstrel, who had a wild look in his eyes. 

Lugh scrambled up the steps to the dais, panting, ''No! Don't touch it!'' 

Madrigal had also risen to her feet by this time and was staring at him around Cathelin's arm. ''What do you mean?'' she asked, trying without success to get her Lady Cat to sit down again. Madrigal had seen that the young man was unarmed. 

''The pudding!'' Lugh nearly sank to his knees; his tunic was ripped and torn, blonde hair a mess of tangled curls. ''T'is poisoned!'' 

It was the hissing of the thrown axe that caught Cathelin's attention. Before Lugh could blink, the handle of the axe smacked into the Lady's hastily extended hand, the curved, razor-sharp blade stopping a hairsbreadth from his face. Lugh closed his eyes and trembled. 

Wolf and Becca pounded up the steps and each grabbed one of Lugh's arms. ''My apologies, Lady,'' the warchief said to Cathelin. ''I cannae believe I missed.'' 

''You didn't,'' Cathelin said dryly, holding out the weapon and sinking down in Madrigal's chair. ''I caught it. I'd much rather Master Sodath lived, being as how he may have saved all our lives.'' 

Madrigal said loudly, ''No one eat the pudding! If you have already partaken of it, then stay here in the hall. The rest of you leave; this feast is over.'' 

Although there was some half-hearted grumbling from the more drunken members of the party, eventually the room was cleared. No one had had time to eat even so much as a spoonful of the dessert. 

That sorted out, Madrigal looked at Cathelin and clucked her tongue. Lady Cat was pale and she had a hand pressed to her stomach. ''My beloved,'' Madrigal said, kneeling beside Cathelin and touching her knee, ''please go back to bed. You are overtired, I see it in your face. I think you should not have come down to the feast, especially after this afternoon.'' 

''I think you've the right of it,'' Cathelin replied, her forehead shiny with sweat. ''And my sorrow to have been so obstinate as to insist. If Becca'll help me, I'll go back to our chamber and rest a bit. Can you sort out this mess, sweetling? If not, just have Wolf toss Sodath into a storage room till the morrow.'' 

Madrigal rose and pressed her lips to Cathelin's cheek. ''It will be well,'' she said softly, gesturing to Becca. ''Sleep, moon of my delight,'' she continued in Arabic. ''I will join thee and kiss thy cares away before the stars are much higher in the heavens.'' 

Cathelin gave her love a shaky smile, then Becca was there, helping the Irishwoman get to her feet and half-carrying the larger woman from the dining hall, leaving Madrigal alone with Wolf and Lugh. 

Madrigal smoothed her knee-length braids with one hand, staring after Cathelin, then sat down, dark purple eyes seeking Lugh's. ''So tell me, Master Sodath,'' she said calmly, ''why do you believe the pudding is poisoned?'' 

Lugh did not immediately reply, so Wolf shook him hard by the shoulder he still held and growled, ''Answer th' Lady!'' 

Madrigal shook her head. ''Please, Wolf,'' she said, ''let him go. Sit down, Master Sodath. If what you say is true, then we will have all the more reason to give you honor.'' 

Lugh sank down in the chair next to Madrigal's, Wolf hovering a bare arm's length away. ''I don't think...,'' he began, then stopped. Running a hand through his hair, he sighed. 

What in God's most holy name have I gotten myself into?, he thought. If Lady Cathelin hadn't been so quick to catch that axe...

Abruptly, Lugh realized how close he had come to having his head split open like a summer melon. Cold, greasy sweat broke out on his brow and he swallowed, suddenly chilled and nauseous. He closed his eyes, hands gripping the chair arms in a white knuckled grip. 

Madrigal recognized the symptoms immediately. ''Watch out, Wolf,'' she warned, holding out a hand as the warchief reached out to shake the young man again, ''he is going to...'' 

Lugh retched, tremors racking his body, then leaned over and vomited, strings of viscous drool and chunks of beef hitting the floor with a wet splat as Wolf backed away, a look of disgust on his face. 

Lugh continued heaving and retching until he brought up only greenish bile, then sat up slowly, face red and eyes watering. Madrigal handed him a cloth and a cup of water; he wiped his lips and drank gratefully, mortally glad that Lady Cathelin hadn't been there to see his disgrace. 

When he finished, Madrigal patted his hand kindly. ''Do you still feel ill?'' 

Lugh shook his head and took another sip of water. 

''Wolf, have a servant come and clean the floor,'' the Muslim woman said, and when the warrior scowled, clearly loathe to leave her alone even for a minute with the suspected spy, she continued, ''I do not think Master Sodath is a threat. Please go. I will be fine.'' 

Still scowling, Wolf backed off the dais and went to the door of the dining hall, keeping his eyes on Lugh until the last possible second. 

When they were finally alone, Madrigal said, ''Now, tell me what is happening here. Why did you come to Inishowen? Who are you? And what do you know?'' 

Lugh studied the woman who was the sworn mate of his already cherished Lady Cathelin. She was incredibly beautiful, kind and compassionate, but there were layers of steel in her soul, that much he could sense. She would make a dangerous enemy... and a powerful friend. 

''My true name is Lughaid Conchobor Michael O'Brian,'' he said softly. ''Half-brother to Desmond O'Brian, Earl of Kinslainne...'' He continued speaking for some minutes before Madrigal raised a hand to stop him. 

''When Wolf returns, we will go upstairs to the master's chamber. If Lady Cat is well enough, I wish her to hear your tale; if she is not, then Wolf must surely be made known of what is going on.'' 

Lugh nodded, relieved that, for the moment at least, he was believed... and that his honorable intentions would, hopefully, bear fruit.

Next Page ~~~~~>

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Up in the master's chambers, Cathelin lay in bed covered only by a thin sheet, listening intently to Lugh's story. When he finished, she turned her amber eyes on Wolf. 

''Is this true? O'Brian's gathered his clan together for war?,'' she asked. 

Wolf nodded. ''Aye. Our spy in DaDerga said he'd more than a hundred men, all veterans, some o' them hired mercenaries. Well armed an' trained. I figure O'Brian means ta lay siege, as Master Sod... I mean, as Lugh has said.'' 

Cathelin nodded. She had taken a draught of Ignatius' pain-alleviating potion upon returning to bed and was feeling, if not completely better, at least well enough to be able to think. ''And the pudding?'' 

''I had Mistress Shevaughn test it on a stray dog outside. Th' beastie kicked heels an' died. Brother Sebastian come up on my summons; t'is his opinion th' puddin' was laced wit' hemlock.'' 

Madrigal said, ''Hemlock? Do we know who would do this thing?'' 

Wolf looked grim. ''Aye. I asked th' Hearth Chief which o' her scullions had th' makin' o' th' puddin'. T'was a fairly new servant, a man - John Loegaire.'' He chuckled slightly. ''Mistress Shevaughn was most put out over her puddin' bein' spoilt. He confessed right quick when she threatened ta slice him into collops an' roast him over a slow fire. I didna have ta torture him at all.'' 

Cathelin smiled at the image of her enormous Hearth Chief, a woman nearly as big around as she was tall, shaking her knife beneath the nose of a scullion/spy. ''Well, I'll be sitting in judgment on Loegaire soon enough,'' she said. ''What did he tell you?'' 

''He received instructions from DaDerga this mornin' by messenger bird, tellin' him the plan had been put forward an' ta poison th' evenin' meal. No doubt O'Brian's already on the march to Inishowen an' will be here by th' morrow.'' 

''Why did he poison only the pudding?'' Madrigal asked. 

It was Lugh who answered. ''I think it would be impossible to poison every dish. Too many servants in the kitchens, too many witnesses. Tainting the dessert was a good idea; sweets are few and hard to come by most days, so virtually everyone at the feast would have some.'' 

Madrigal nodded. ''And the kitchen staff and household servants, as well.'' She looked at Cathelin. ''What do we do about this army, Lady Cat?'' 

Cathelin and Wolf exchanged glances. ''As Lugh has told me his brother has no mangonels or other large siege engines other than small catapults, I dare say Inishowen can withstand a siege. O'Brian dares not let it drag on too long, and we've plenty of food and our own water supply behind the walls,'' Cathelin said. 

''I'll issue the call now,'' Wolf said, ''an' summon the country folk to the castle. No need ta leave them out ta be burnt or kilt.'' 

''And send someone to the abbey with the news,'' Madrigal added. ''Abbot Dominicus may want to shelter some of the villagers within the protection of the church.'' 

''What of Lugh O'Brian?'' Wolf asked. 

Cathelin stared at the young man until he blushed. ''If what he tells us is true, then he deserves our further gratitude. If he proves false, however...'' Her golden gaze hardened. ''...then I'll personally be sending him back to his brother - one piece at the time.'' 

Lugh gulped nervously. While he prayed that his brother would give up his mad plan for revenge - On the other hand, I don't want to die. ''My Lady,'' he said, ''believe me, please. If I did not think my family's honor more important than obedience to my brother and clan chief, I would not have risked my life coming here.'' 

Cathelin pursed her lips. ''So you say. Until the matter sorts itself out, one way or the other, you'll stay in your room with a guard at the door. Don't try and run, Lugh. T'will only get you a cell in the dungeon.'' 

Lugh nodded. Confinement to his room was only to be expected. After all, he thought, they really have no reason to trust me. ''Thank you, Lady,'' he said, rising, ''I understand your need for caution. I will pray for your continued health, and also for my brother to abandon his quest for revenge. I bid you good night, ladies,'' he continued, bowing politely both to Cathelin and Madrigal. 

After he was escorted from the room by Becca, Cathelin looked at Wolf. She was tired, her wound still pained her somewhat, but she would do what was necessary to preserve the lives of her people. ''Tell me, Chieftain of War,'' she said to the Scotsman, ''what preparations need to be made for siege...'' 

Despite Madrigal's attempts to get the Irishwoman to sleep, Cathelin and Wolf stayed up until nearly cockcrow, and the messengers flew from the castle thick and fast. 

Desmond O'Brian pushed back the visor of his war helm and stared at the silent castle of Inishowen. 

The village had been completely deserted; only a few stray chickens barred his army's pathway. The troops lent to him by King John were a disciplined lot, as were his own men; warned that looting or burning was strictly forbidden, they had reined in their impulses and behaved impeccably. 

The Earl muttered to his second-in-command, Dunstan Shave-Pate, ''Have the siege engines brought up to the front, and have some of the men look for a suitable tree in the woods hereabouts to use as a ram.'' 

Dunstan scratched his head. ''Do you not expect little resistance, my Lord?'' 

''A good commander expects the unexpected, Dunstan. We'll not need it for certain, but go ahead and have it done anyway. And bring those engines up fairly close; I don't want the foot soldiers overtaking the catapults in a forward assault.'' 

The second-in-command nodded, then rode away, shouting for a work detail. 

No smoke from the chimneys, Desmond said to himself thoughtfully. No defenders on the walls. The lack of villagers is troublesome, but no doubt when the folk began ailing last night, every able hand was drafted to help care for the sick and dying.

The Earl confidently expected that the spy within his walls, a former peasant farmer from his lands named John Loegaire, had carried out his poisoning mission. Loegaire had been condemned by Desmond to be hung for stealing a pig, and he had been pardoned in exchange for his ''services'' in the Inishowen household. 

The information the man had sent the Earl had proven to be invaluable; it was how Desmond had learned of Cathelin's wounding before the man's communication from the O'Cameron estate had ceased nearly eighteen days ago, only to be renewed with a single, simple message received the evening of the Earl's departure, acknowledging his orders and giving a few details about the castle's defenses. A messenger on a fast horse had delivered the message scant hours ago. 

Inishowen is defended by a woman, a heathen who most likely knows little or nothing about such matters. O'Cameron's warchief is a wily old fox, but hopefully he's either dead or too ill to be of much use. The survivors of the poisoning will be ill-organized without a leader... Yes, Desmond thought with satisfaction, this day the O'Camerons will lose their chief and I will gain a jewel in the crown of the O'Brians.

Tilting down his visor, he said to his standard bearer, ''Sound: archers advance.'' 

The teenager, full of pride to have been selected for this important task, put a bronze horn to his lips and blew a series of notes that shattered the cool spring morning with a brazen blast of martial sound. 

The war drums began to beat, and the army of the O'Brian's marched to castle Inishowen. 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The castle was quiet and still; not a single living thing could be seen, although the great, iron-studded door was shut tight. The gate to the village had been left open, almost as if those whose duty it was to bar the gate at night had been derelict, or ill. 

As soon as the catapults rolled into position, however, with the O'Brian archers behind, the illusion of peace was abruptly shattered. 

An ululating wail pierced the morning, and dozens of men and women with bows materialized on the parapets of Inishowen as suddenly as if they had been ghosts summoned from Hell by a warlock necromancer. 

A hail of arrows was launched at the attackers, many of whom fell wounded to the ground. The entire crew of one catapult was lost to a man; the other two engines were severely depleted of personnel by woundings as well as death. 

The Earl, mounted at a safe distance, cursed behind his visor. ''Sound: retreat behind the lines,'' he said to his trumpeter. 

As the trumpet's notes emblazoned the air, the O'Brian's men ran from the field, many of them either dragging or carrying wounded comrades. The dead were left behind. 

''May God damn and blast you!'' Desmond shouted at Dunstan, ''You had the engines pulled up too closely!'' 

''My sorrow, Lord. But you seemed so confident your plan would succeed...'' 

Was that a gleam of reproof in Dunstan's mild blue eyes? Belatedly, the Earl remembered that he had ordered his second-in-command to pull the catapults up close. He harrumphed, unwilling to admit he had been wrong. 

''No matter. I'll have the men begin shelling the castle with stones from here; as soon as that ram is ready, we'll go in under cover of shields. Make sure the ladders are prepared; we'll assault them on two fronts - the door with the ram and the walls with the ladders. Once I get some men up on the parapets and take care of those archers we'll have no further trouble.'' 

Up on the roof of the castle, Madrigal was walking back and forth, issuing crisp commands. She was dressed in boy's leather trousers and a simple shirt that was much too big for her; even with the sleeves rolled up and tied with thongs, she looked like a little girl wearing her older brother's cast-offs. Blue-black hair twisted into tight braids and a linen headband to keep her eyes clear, Madrigal looked - and acted - every bit the confident commander. 

There was a strung bow over her shoulder and a quiver of arrows at her hip. Madrigal had been practicing archery for the last two years and had become an excellent shot. Several of her arrows had pierced the attackers. ''Send some men down to the kitchens, Wolf,'' she said. ''Have them bring up that barrel of rancid oil Mistress Shevaughn has been saving.'' 

Wolf sent four men racing away, then looked down at Madrigal. ''The kettle is already heatin','' he said, nodding his head to the huge iron pot that hung on crossbars over a crackling fire on an iron plate. ''As soon as that oil arrives, we'll get it ta boilin'. T'will be a nasty surprise fer th' O'Brian.'' 

''Good. Lady Cat was right; the O'Brian pulled back his forces after the arrows. If she proves true again, he will begin using his catapults and will bring up a ram for the door.'' 

''An' that's when those lads'll have th' second bath o' their life,'' Wolf said with grim humor. 

''Make sure the archers who will be shooting have their torches lit. It will take some time for the oil to heat, but it is best to be prepared.'' 

''Aye.'' Wolf stalked off to see to this little duty. 

Madrigal watched him go, outwardly calm but inwardly wishing she could run, run as fast as she could to her Lady Cat and let someone else take command. But, she thought, this I cannot do. If I give up, Lady Cat will feel she must be here to take charge, and I fear it will kill her to do so. So, I must be strong.

It wasn't easy; she could feel the myriad eyes that crawled across her skin, the dozens of people who looked at her for cues to their own conduct. If she panicked, the kerns who trusted her would lose some of their confidence and the day might well be lost. 

I will put aside my fears and do what I must. She squared her small shoulders. My Lady Cat, my children - all the people I have come to know and love depend upon me and I will not disappoint them.

She did not know it, but the sight of the O'Brian's army had put a small seed of fear into the kern's hearts. They were used to carrying battle to the enemy on their own terms; having to defend the castle behind its walls was, to them, much akin to being fish waiting to be speared in a barrel. Madrigal's confidence, her willingness to fight alongside them, had bolstered their own spirits; privately, many of Cathelin's soldiers thought of Madrigal as Scathach, the legendary female warrior who had taught war skills to the hero Cuchulainn. 

Madrigal, unaware of her heroic status among the folk she commanded, gave a small sigh... then went again to the walls to watch the attacking army's movements. 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

In his small room, Lugh chafed at his confinement. He had been told that his brother's army had been sighted, and the sound of the warcry and the hissing rain of arrows had confirmed that the Earl had attacked. He desperately wanted to get up to the roof, to see first hand how the siege was going. 

He turned guileless blue eyes on Becca, who leaned back on a chair against the door. ''Please, won't you ask Lady Cathelin if I might fight with her people? I'm not a knight, but I do have some battle experience.'' 

''Aye,'' Becca replied resentfully, brown eyes flashing. ''I seen you at the Battle of the Trees.'' 

''Oh.'' For a moment, Lugh was non-plussed. He had, on that occasion, snuck away from DaDerga without Desmond's knowledge or permission, secreting himself in the ranks of his brother's soldiers. 

Although he had personally killed no one, for the Earl had spotted his wayward sibling and ordered him off the battlefield, he had witnessed many of the momentous events of that fight. ''I just wanted to, well... please understand, Becca. I've practiced at fighting all my life, but my brother's never given me a chance to prove myself. I might have been at that battle, but I never fought.'' 

Becca snorted. She was bitter over being relegated to what she considered to be nursemaid status when she should, by rights, be up on the walls with her fellows helping defend the castle. ''If so,'' she replied sarcastically, ''then I'm the Dolorous Washerwoman at the Ford.'' 

Lugh grinned and bowed from the waist. He was seated cross-legged on the bed, a cup of ale in his hand. ''Welcome, oh mighty Babdh,'' he replied, invoking the name of the ancient Celtic goddess of death and misfortune. ''A drop of wine if you cross not your fingers and curse against me.'' 

''I'd sooner swallow my own tongue than drink with you,'' the curly-mopped kern said, curling her lip. ''As far as I'm concerned, O'Brian, you're still an enemy. If I had my way, I'd march you out to the walls and see if you grew wings before you hit the ground.'' She looked away. 

Lugh sighed. ''Becca, my sorrow you feel that I've offended you in some way,'' he said. ''Truly, I wish you and yours no harm. Did I not come here to warn your chief of my brother's plan, even though I knew I could be executed as a spy? And what of my own position within my clan? If Desmond survives this battle, do you think he'll forgive me for betraying him?'' 

He took a sip of ale. ''Surely he already knows that his plan failed, and as he's no fool, he's figured out it was I who ruined his schemes. I'll be lucky if he doesn't kill me outright; if I live, I'll truly become the wandering minstrel of low rank you all supposed me to be.'' He honestly did not believe this would be so; his brother was a hard man, but, after all, they were kin. Lugh waited to see if his bid for sympathy worked. 

There was silence for several moments while Becca considered. She was a reasonable woman, and after reflecting, realized that she was being rude to Lugh because she had been ordered to watch him by Wolf, when what she really longed to do was wet her blade with O'Brian blood. 

''My apologies,'' she said formally. ''I've insulted you for no reason. If you wish me to pay you an honor price, I'll do it gladly.'' 

''Nay,'' Lugh replied, waving a hand, ''no need of that. But will you ask permission of Lady Cathelin? Or will you take me there to make my petition myself?'' When Becca gave him a suspicious look, Lugh continued earnestly, ''Keep your blade at my throat if you wish; you know I'm unarmed and not a threat, but I'll consent to hostage-status if t'will make you easier in your mind.'' 

Becca rubbed the end of her nose. ''Well, if you give me your word you'll not be runnin' off, I'll go ask the Lady. But Lugh O'Brian, if you break your oath, know that you'll have to answer to Becca Half-Tongue.'' 

Lugh nodded. ''By God our Father, the blessed Virgin Mary and the Sacred Heart of Jesus, I so swear: I will remain in this place unmoving until you return. May I be stricken dead, my rank dissolved and my name anathema if I am forsworn.'' 

It was Becca's turn to nod in satisfaction. ''All right, then. I'll be back soonest.'' 

She left, and Lugh uncrossed the fingers he had held behind his back. God forgive me for deceiving her, he thought, but I must see for myself what is going on! He pulled a tunic over his head and went out the door, running lightly down the hall.

As he ran, Lugh thought: I must be mad... I'm no hero of legend, no Conaire or Fionn. But, if I can prove my prowess in battle, prove my honor and aid Inishowen in defeating my brother - mayhap then Lady Cathelin will look on me with favor, and more besides.

His heart beat faster at the thought; but not out of fear... out of eager anticipation.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Another stone hurtled past, smashing into the peel tower and shattering, sending shards of rock flying. 

The kerns on the wall crouched down, holding up their shields, and many of them kept an eye on the figure who was shinnying up the wooden standard pole that towered above the floor of the roof. 

Wolf practically gnashed his teeth in rage. ''Get ye down!'' he hollered, oblivious to the head-sized rocks that were bouncing off the crennellated wall. ''Lady! Come down NOW!'' 

Madrigal, bow clenched in her teeth, ignored him, concentrating on climbing. When a child in Palestine, she had often climbed date palms to gather the sweet fruit. The principle was the same; sides of her bare feet used to push and hang on, arms pulling her up, hand over hand - and she knew not to look down. 

Many kerns had already been injured by O'Brian's catapults as they had become increasingly accurate - one woman would lose her leg, completely crushed and attached to her body only by a thin strip of skin - and there were also five dead. Madrigal, by Wolf's own admission, had the best long-range eye of any archer he had seen. So, she had determined to get to the highest point possible in order to try and pick off the catapult crews. 

She had rejected the top of any of the towers; she'd be too easy a target since it was clear that the catapults had been skillfully adjusted for range and aim and were rarely missing their mark now. But trying to hit something as small and slender as a flagstaff and a woman on it would be nearly impossible. Allah, she prayed, let my aim be true and theirs not. 

She was sweating by the time she reached the top of the pole, where the pennant flag of the O'Cameron's snapped and fluttered. Hanging on with one hand and gripping with her knees, Madrigal pulled a knife from its sheath at the back of her trews and sliced the top cord of the flag. It fell, drooping by the remaining rope - limp and out of her way. She would have preferred to remove it entirely, letting it drop to the roof below, but knew from what she had learned of her new country's customs, this would indicate that Inishowen was surrendering to the enemy... and that she would never accept. 

Clamping her thighs and calves around the pole, she leaned out a bit and pulled the bow from between her teeth. It was a Welsh longbow, and just a head shorter in length than she was. It would take all of her strength to pull it, but Madrigal had practiced with such a longbow last summer and knew that while difficult, the task was not impossible. 

Nocking an arrow, one the long ones called clothyard shafts, she raised the bow and drew a deep breath. Every muscle in her body quivered with effort as she pulled the string back with a grunt, teeth locked in a grimace. Sighting along the shaft and calculating distance and other factors, the feathers of the fletching tickling her ear... Madrigal released. 

The arrow sped up in an arc, disappearing from view as it descended towards the O'Brian's lines. Madrigal, squinting, could see a catapult crew member throw up his hands and collapse. 

She grinned fiercely, watching the milling confusion of the enemy, one hand clamped around the pole for balance, then let go and nocked another arrow. 

Lugh crept onto the parapet, hugging the far wall. Several soldiers were down, injured by flying rocks, and were being attended to by monks in brown robes who had come up from the abbey to stay in the castle during the siege to help tend the wounded. As soon as they could be moved, the injured would be carried to the castle's sickroom; for now, they remained behind the relative shelter of a stone overhang while the monks labored. 

One woman's face was set in a rictus, eyes bulging, as a monk twisted a tourniquet on what remained of her leg and began cutting off the mangled, bloody mess that hung below the knee. Lugh turned his eyes away, feeling sick. 

He noticed many of the kerns were looking up; emulating them, he saw someone clinging the standard pole. As he watched, an arrow flew from the bow the person held and arched down towards his brother's army. Shading his eyes with a hand, he saw one of the O'Brian men fall. 

St. Columba! he thought, Whoever that is up there is a mortal brave soul and a God-blessed shot besides.

A noise from down below his position attracted his attention. Looking between two of the stone crennellations that lined the roof like gapped teeth, Lugh was shocked to see several dozen men armed with ladders and grappling hooks sneaking along the back wall. 

Even as one ladder smacked into the wall and men began swarming up with drawn weapons, Lugh shouted, ''An attack! They're attacking here!'' and scooped up a halberd from the floor. 

Using the hooked bill of the halberd's spearpoint, he pushed the ladder back from the top of the wall, wincing at the screams of the falling men, but a round dozen soldiers still managed to scramble to the roof, swords at the ready. 

Lugh's dark blue eyes widened as he recognized the O'Brian badge each of the men wore on the left side of their mail shirts, and he hesitated for a brief second while his mind strove to decide between the lesser of two evils: to kill his own clansmen and compound his sin, or defend Inishowen, home and clan seat of the Lady he knew he loved and adored... 

This fatal indecision was nearly to prove his downfall. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

One of the O'Brian kerns casually swiped Lugh across the side of his head with his sword, sweeping the young man from his path and knocking him to the floor. The kern wore an arm badge over the sleeve of his jingling mail shirt that indicated he was a corporal. ''Attack!,'' he shouted, shaking his sword, blue eyes like chips of ice on either side of the noseguard of his helm. 

Several of Cathelin's kerns pounded up, led by Becca Half-Tongue, who was keening a warcry. With a clash of steel and a full-throated roar, the two groups smashed together into a blood splattering, wailing melee. 

Lugh was semi-conscious, blood running into his eyes from the cut on his forehead. He screamed as one of his hands was stomped on by a soldier, and he curled into a ball, trying to protect himself from the flashing swords and slamming bodies of the fighters around him. 

A hand shook his shoulder hard. ''Can you rise?'' It was Becca, the scar on her face standing out like a silver brand against the livid skin. He nodded cautiously and felt himself hauled to his feet. 

An O'Brian warrior popped up, sword raised, broken teeth showing as he snarled and prepared to swing. Lugh flinched back and Becca sprang forward, skewering the man through his belly and then kicking him off her blade. As he fell writhing to the floor, she cut his throat with one swipe of her sword and grabbed Lugh's arm. ''Come on!'' she shouted in his ear, guiding him away from the battle. 

As they stumbled clear of the fighting, Lugh wiped the blood from his eyes, blinking rapidly, and looked back at the fight - which was already over. Cathelin's kerns were hauling the bodies of the O'Brian to the front wall to be thrown over as a sign to the Earl that his rear attack had not been successful. A few were quickly binding flesh wounds, but it seemed that none of the O'Cameron warriors were seriously injured. 

As Becca steered him away, he realized she was talking. ''...for you I come up here afore going to your room,'' she said, giving him a furious glare over her shoulder. ''Otherwise, you'd've been dogsmeat, and that by your own clansmen.'' 

He held a shaking hand to the cut on his forehead, clenching his teeth against the throbbing pain. ''I had to see for myself, Becca,'' he replied, ''I had to make sure Inishowen was safe.'' 

Becca let of his arm and whirled around to face him. ''By God, O'Brian!'' she shouted angrily. ''You broke your oath and nearly got killed on count of you were curious?'

''It wasn't just curiosity,'' he replied a bit sullenly. ''I could have helped if things were going badly.'' 

The sword in Becca's hand raised, as if she were considering striking him down in sheer frustration... then lowered. ''You've no battle experience to speak of, and if you'd have just waited a bit, I could've given you the news myself.'' She ran her free hand through her hair and blew through her nostrils. ''I don't know whether to chain you in that room or keep you here so I can have an eye on you - either way, Lugh, promise me you'll stay out of the way at least. And no more false oaths. I shudder to think what Father Paul'll put your penance at for lyin' before and breakin' your word.'' 

Lugh allowed the woman to take hold of him again and push him down into a sitting position beside a robed monk. ''Stitch his head, Brother,'' Becca said, ''to keep what remains of his brains from falling out the hole. And stay here, Lugh. I mean it. If I catch you gallivanting about, I'll hamstring you.'' She stalked away, muttering beneath her breath. 

The monk began laying out needle and thread, a bowl of greenish salve, linen bandages and the like. His pale blonde hair was cut in a tonsure, a circle shaved from the crown of his head. ''I'm Brother Theosophus,'' he said with a small smile. ''Are you hurted anywhere else, my son?'' 

Lugh shook his head, distracted by the activity going on by the front wall. The stone shelling had stopped; it was clear that the O'Brians were attacking and the kerns were using arrows to pick off enemy soldiers. Some were already holding halberds to push away ladders, as he had done before, and others were waiting beside a smoking kettle, prepared to use spears to tilt the pot over and splash whoever or whatever was below with boiling oil. 

For some reason, his gaze was drawn to the door of the stairwell that led down into the castle. Lady Cathelin had come up, wearing a sleeveless jerkin and breeches, her feet bare and her dark red hair unbound. 

Her eyes tracked upwards... to the figure on the standard pole. ''MADRIGAL!'' she shouted anxiously. 

And Lugh felt a cold hand clutch his heart as the woman on top of the pole lost her precarious position and fell headlong into space. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

When she felt herself slipping, Madrigal threw her bow away and made a desperate grab for the pennant cord... and missed. 

The floor seemed so far away, but she knew it would be mere heartbeats before she struck the unforgiving stone. Madrigal sent a hasty prayer to the Compassionate Allah to lay His hand on her Lady Cat and her children, to protect them after she could not. 

Madrigal fetched up with a bone-rattling jerk halfway down, the dangling end of the cord she had cut having wrapped around one leg without her noticing. She swung upside down and struck the pole with a crack that made pain flare through her entire body. 

Her eyes were wide open and she stared at the scurrying figures below her, heart fluttering in her chest. 

Cathelin's eyes had turned to glittering pools of gold in her rage and fear. ''Get someone up there with a rope!'' she said urgently to Wolf, ''and tie it off above her. Make sure it's long enough to reach the floor.'' She began unlacing her jerkin and Wolf stopped her with a touch. 

''Ye cannot do this, Lady. Yer not strong enough,'' he said, as a young boy, a coil of rope over his shoulder, shinned up the pole like an agile squirrel. 

''Do not get in my way, McLeod!'' Cathelin hissed, lips drawn back from her teeth in a snarl. ''Madri needs me!'' 

''Aye,'' Wolf replied dryly, ''an' what use ta her will ye be if ye fall yerself an' burst like a ripe plum on yon floor?'' His pale blue eyes held concern for both women. 

In frustration, Cathelin growled deep in her throat and grabbed a double handful of her hair, pulling it savagely. ''Dear Sweet Jesus and St. Brigit, both!'' she shouted to the uncaring sky, ''Why do you afflict me so!'' She was half out of her mind with fear. It didn't help that she kept seeing Madrigal, in her mind's eye, a twisted wreck of blood and bone lying at the foot of the flagpole. 

A kern stepped up; Oengus Pryderi, a red-headed, short, squat man so thickly built he resembled an ox. His arms were overlong and bulged with solid muscle. ''I'll go, Lady,'' he said, spitting on both hands and rubbing them on the front of his bone-button covered jerkin. ''I'm strong enough, an' I'm a champion at climbin' the pole at the travelin' fair.'' 

Wolf nodded. ''Aye, Oengus is yer man. He'll get Lady Madrigal down safe. Go to, man. An' fer th' love o' Christ, Pryderi, dinnae drop her!'' 

Meanwhile, the kerns defending the wall sent up a shout; the boiling oil had been poured down on the besieger's log ram, and fire arrows launched. The huge tree, still covered in rough bark, went up with a roar of flame and a greasy fireball that nearly singed the eyebrows off those who hung over the parapets to watch. Shrieks and wails of agony from men being roasted alive in their mail almost drowned out the defender's roar of approval. 

The boy slid back down the pole, stopping halfway to reassure Madrigal, ''T'will be well, Lady. Do you hang on for a little while longer; yer lady be down there an' Master Wolf as well. We'll see ye safe.'' His brown eyes were sincere and he smiled, showing dimples in his freckled cheeks, as he slid down the rest of the way, his mission accomplished. 

Madrigal clutched the pole with both hands and prayed, wisps of blue-black hair fluttering in her face. 

Oengus solemnly peered upward, obviously judging the situation with placid contemplation, then toed off his boots. Taking hold of the pole with hands that were the size of small hams and covered in red hair, he began climbing casually, muscles bulging in his arms. 

Cathelin glared at Wolf. ''If he fails,'' she said darkly, ''I'll be having both your heads on pikes.'' 

''Aye, an' I'll lay my head on th' block willingly,'' the warchief replied mildly, never taking his eyes from the scene. 

Oengus reached Madrigal and said in his deep baritone, ''I need to get you loose, Lady, so don't panic and thrash about. If you stay still, t'will be easiest.'' He looked at her earnestly. ''Trust me, Lady. I'll see you down safe, you've my oath on it.'' 

''I trust you. I will not move,'' the Muslim woman replied through gritted teeth, her head throbbing in time with her pulse. 

Oengus grabbed Madrigal's arm in a bruising grip with one hand; with his other hand, he pulled out a small knife and sliced through the cord tangled around her leg. She swung down into space, ending rightside up and dangling from Oengus' big fist, too breathless to scream. 

The rest of the rescue was almost anticlimactic. As Cathelin watched, heart in her mouth, Oengus slid easily down the rescue rope, holding Madrigal's arm in his hand as if she were an oversized doll. As soon as her feet touched the floor, he released her, and she collapsed to her knees, gasping and trembling. 

While Wolf congratulated Oengus, making the red-haired man grin and swell with pride, Cathelin sank down beside Madrigal and embraced her tightly. 

''Oh, love, my sweetling... are you all right?'' Cathelin put her hands on either side of Madrigal's face and peered at her searchingly. 

In a small voice, Madrigal replied, ''Yes, I am well. Bruised but alive, thank Allah.'' 

''Then WHAT in the NAME of God were you DOING up there!'' Cathelin shouted, red-faced, unable to contain her fright anymore. ''You could have been killed!'' 

Unable to answer, Madrigal put her arms around Cathelin's neck and buried her face in her love's jerkin, weeping and shaking violently. Cathelin began to cry, too, stroking Madrigal's dark hair and weeping in sheer relief. 

Lugh, who had watched the whole thing, sat back with a sigh - both of relief for Lady Madrigal having escaped unscathed, and of regret for Lady Cathelin's continued and obviously unwavering devotion to her spouse. 

The two women clung together, the world and the war forgotten in their mutual need for comfort and closeness and love. 

I've not a chance, he thought ruefully, barely noticing the pain of the monk laying careful stitches in his forehead. Not a chance at all. Those ladies are soul-bonded, two-made-one. Lady Cathelin'll never give me a second look no matter what I do.

Tears filled his dark blue eyes as he felt his own heart breaking.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Earl of Kinslainne was furious. ''Send a detail to get those dead soldiers away from the castle door,'' he said, ''They'll block our access later.'' 

Dunstan cast a glance over his shoulder at the O'Brian kerns, who nursed their wounds and muttered darkly. ''That may not be the best idea, my Lord,'' he began diplomatically, only to be interrupted by Desmond. 

''God damn you for a coward! Do as I said, man!'' The Earl viciously backhanded his second-in-command across the face. 

Dunstan licked a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. ''Aye, my Lord,'' he replied sullenly. Turning around, he savagely kicked a lingering soldier, shouting, ''Move! Has your Lord not given a command?'' 

Desmond pulled off his helm and wiped his sweaty face with a dirty rag. The siege was not going the way he had planned, and he had to suppress the urge to scream until Inishowen's walls shivered and fell from the force of his shout of frustration and rage. 

''Oh, for the Joshua's Horn,'' he murmured to himself, ''to shatter these walls of Jericho in God's name.'' 

His cold blue eyes surveyed the smoking remains of the ram and its crew. I've been outwitted at every turn. Even the men I sent to attack in the rear were somehow anticipated. Without John the Bastard's troop here, I would be sorely under strength now. 

Desmond licked his lips. Great pleasure I'll take in killing that bitch with my own hands. He bunched his gauntlets into fists and stared angrily at Inishowen. 

The captain of King John's personal soldiers trotted up to the stirrup of the Earl's horse. ''Beggin' your pardon, my Lord,'' he said politely. ''If you please, a private word?'' 

Without replying, Desmond kicked his horse and guided the mount to a shady area where his command tent had been set up. The place was deserted. 

Looking down at the captain, he said coldly, ''Well?'' 

The captain, a native Londoner named Peter Godolphin, surveyed his nominal commander with a professional soldier's eye. He considered the Irish little more than Godless barbarians, even though they professed to worship Christ, and was frankly disgusted that his King had ordered him and his men to this heathen island to fight for a venal Earl who didn't know his arse from a mousehole. 

Even so, Godolphin thought, orders are orders, especially when they come from the King. ''My Lord, you've lost quite a few of your men without benefit. My miners have returned and tell me it would take months to tunnel beneath the walls of the castle, provided they weren't discovered or fall prey to counter-measures. His Majesty instructed us to be at your disposal for forty days only; at the end of that time, we return to London - with your pleasure or without.'' 

Desmond stared down his nose at the captain. Was this jumped-up lackey questioning him? ''I realize our time is limited, Master Godolphin. I've no wish to cool my heels at Inishowen any longer than necessary.'' 

Godolphin frowned. ''What are your further plans, my Lord?'' 

''We will creep over the walls tonight; the full moon will make torches unnecessary. No doubt the defenders will be sleeping and we can take them by surprise. Better if the men can get to the O'Cameron's sleeping chamber and cut her throat; without their clan chief, the rest of her men will be disheartened and surrender quickly.'' 

The captain raised his eyebrows. ''Isn't a night attack somewhat... unconventional?'' he asked delicately. In fact, the custom was that when darkness fell, both armies retreated from the field, and truce was established long enough to gather the wounded and bury the dead from both sides. Further, a sneak attack of the sort that the Earl described would be considered dishonorable in the extreme, and Godolphin wondered if the King knew exactly what his new ally's character was. Shit and more stinking shit, the captain thought. 

''That's why it will be a surprise,'' Desmond replied, narrowing his eyes. ''In the meantime, withdraw your troops to that hill and let them rest. I intend for your men to carry out tonight's attack, so they should sleep now while they can. And captain? Do not fail me. Or else the consequences will be very unpleasant.'' 

Godolphin spun around on his heel and walked away, troubled and angry. He didn't like the idea of his men used as war fodder, and in the dark, too, when it would be difficult to distinguish friend from foe in face to face combat, if it came to that. He also didn't care for being threatened by a heathen who was destined for hellfire... and he really didn't like the Earl's dishonorable plan. 

I would send to His Majesty for instructions if I were able, he thought. But there is no time. 

Bitterly, he repeated to himself, Orders are orders... and went to tell his men the news. 

Becca squatted down beside Lugh, handing him a loaf of coarse bread filled with smoked sausage and cheese. ''Here, eat,'' she said, settling herself beside him, back against the wall. ''And I've got well-watered wine as well,'' she continued, patting the leather jack at her side. 

Lugh tore into the meal hungrily. A bandage was wrapped jauntily around his forehead, the knot above his ear. There had been a respite in the attacks; for the last several hours O'Brian's men had remained at a distance, and according to the keen-eyed lookouts stationed on the roof of Inishowen's four towers, appeared to be preparing for the night. 

Cathelin limped over, one arm draped around Madrigal's shoulders. ''Are you holding up, Lugh?'' she asked, a small crease between her brows the only outward sign of her pain. It was clear that she and her beloved were closer than ever. 

''Aye,'' he replied around the bread and meat, swallowing hastily. ''Well enough for now.'' 

Cathelin frowned, looking out to where her enemy's army was encamped. ''Any idea as to what your brother will be doing next?,'' she asked bluntly. ''I know you've loyalty to your clan to consider, but...'' 

She was interrupted by a shout from the walls. A herald dressed in the O'Brian livery of green and silver had come to within calling distance of the castle, white linen flag fluttering from the lance he held balanced in his stirrup. 

Cathelin and Madrigal moved to the front wall, looking down, with Becca and Lugh not far behind. 

''I bring word from the Earl of Kinslainne!,' the herald said in a loud voice, controlling his skittish mare expertly. ''Hear the words of the Earl of Kinslainne!'' 

''Speak!'' Cathelin shouted down. 

''Desmond O'Brian, sworn clan chief of the O'Brians and Earl of Kinslainne and all its lands and goods and chattels, hereby declares that his half-brother Lughaid O'Brian, son of the old Earl Graham, and his second ladywife Blanaid, is no more a child of the clan O'Brian.'' 

The herald withdrew a white-fletched arrow from the folds of his surcoat and snapped it in half, throwing the broken arrow to the ground. ''His name is from this time forward stricken from the ancestral rolls; he is declared fudir and daer-fudir, clanless and landless and nameless. Thus sayeth the Earl of Kinslainne, kin no more to Lugh the Betrayer.'' 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Half-eaten roll clutched forgotten in his hand, Lugh felt his heart literally stop from shock. Becca put a comforting arm around his shoulders. ''I'm truly sorry,'' she said compassionately, squeezing him against her side. 

Lugh couldn't reply; he could only stare blindly as his life crumbled to dust and ashes in front of his very eyes. In the space of a moment, he had gone from the ranks of the nobility to a man who had not even a clan name. Lower than the lowest peasant, who at least could claim - no matter his poverty - that he belonged to someone, and take pride in that fact. 

I never believed Desmond would go that far, he thought. Or to be honest, I never even considered the possibility before I set off on this mad course. I've acted the very picture of the preening, empty-headed peacock my brother always claimed me to be.

Lady Cathelin spoke quietly. ''You've done me and mine a few good turns, Lugh. You saved our children's lives, and by warning us of the attack on the rear wall, you may even have saved Inishowen itself. There's a place for you in the O'Cameron clan if you wish it.'' Sincerity shone in her amber eyes. 

''I... I... I am honored, Lady,'' he stammered, moved, flattered and shocked anew all at the same time. An adoption into a clan for one who was nameless and shamed, was so rare an occurrence that it had happened only a handful of times in all the ancient history of Ireland. Clanless men were outlaws and treated little better than criminals, no matter if they had committed a crime or not. For Lady Cathelin to say this, and moreover to mean it, was surprising in the extreme. 

Sensing his confusion, Cathelin gave the young man a smile. ''Don't fret, Lugh. Even if you choose not to adopt the clan name, you'll always have a home at Inishowen.'' 

Lugh nodded, still speechless, then withdrew to think about this turn of events and consider his options, while the herald began speaking again and the others turned their attention back to the O'Brian's mouthpiece. 

''Further word of the Earl of Kinslainne!'' the herald called. ''Desmond O'Brian challenges Cathelin O'Cameron, both Chiefs of the Name of their respective clans, to a duel muscular, to be held at DaDerga in seven day's time. The issue to be determined: the revenging of the death of Robert Artgal O'Brian, sole heir of the body of the Earl of Kinslainne, foully murdered by the O'Cameron; and the insult given to the Earl over his ransoming after The Battle of the Trees. May God strengthen the arm and lend the might! To the victor go the spoils - all lands, goods and chattels contained within the demesne of the defeated. How say you: Do you accept?'' 

Madrigal clutched Cathelin's arm and hissed, ''Do not, Lady Cat! You cannot duel with this man, not even in another week! Your wound will not be healed enough!'' 

''Aye, sweetling, but if I accept, the siege will be lifted. No more of my clanfolk need die needlessly or be crippled for life.'' It was clear that the few losses they had endured had hit Cathelin hard. 

''Then I will fight him! Does not the challenged have the right to choose weapons?'' Madrigal begged Cathelin with her eyes not to accept the Earl's proposal. ''Let him meet me with bow and arrow!'' 

''Nay, Madri.'' Cathelin hugged her mate and kissed her cheek, ignoring the way the other woman stiffened in her arms. ''T'is a formal challenge, knight to knight, Lord to Lord. You cannot accept, nor would I allow you to do so.'' 

Taking a deep breath, the Irishwoman shouted down, ''I accept the Earl's challenge and his terms! In seven days I will meet him in single combat, and may God have mercy on his eternal soul!'' 

Madrigal, infuriated beyond speech, whirled around and stalked back into the castle. 

Lugh was back in his room, idly strumming his harp. His head bandage was stained lightly with blood, and he was already half-drunk, having avoided dinner and instead drinking mazer after mazer of strong ale. 

A tap at the door made him look up. ''Aye?'' he called. 

Becca entered, carrying a bowl. ''I brought you some stew,'' she said, crossing the small room to perch on the side of the bed. ''Here; eat before it turns cold as a stone.'' 

Lugh took the bowl and set it aside on the table by his bed. ''I'll eat later,'' he replied softly. 

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, then Becca laid a hand on his knee. ''For what it's worth, Lugh...'' She took a deep breath. ''T'is not easy for me to say this, but I'm so very sorry about your exile. What you did, coming to Inishowen and warning the Lady - t'was a brave thing and honorable besides. I for one think no ill of you for it; nor do any of the castle folk or the kerns. And you have the good will of Lady Cathelin; that's worth much.'' 

Lugh snorted and took a long drink from a square-sided metal cup. ''Not in this life, Half-Tongue,'' he replied, ''nor, I think, in any other.'' 

Becca's brows drew together in a puzzled frown. ''What d'you mean, Lugh?'' 

He banged the mazer down on the table hard enough to make his bowl of stew jump. ''I mean that she is no Macha Red-Mane and I am no Cimbaeth,'' he replied bitterly, referring to a pair of famed lovers of Irish myth. 

For a moment, Becca was too startled to speak, then she realized what Lugh was saying. ''Oh, laddie,'' she said sympathetically, near tears, ''you're in love with Lady Cathelin...'' 

''No more.'' Lugh lashed his fingertips across the harpstrings, drawing a jangling chord. ''If I accept adoption, she will be my clan chief and far above me. Besides, does she not already have the love she desires? Why should she look at me - a coward, a treason, a man who has no respect for his own... for his former clan? I am only Lugh the Betrayer, after all.'' 

Becca scooted closer to him. ''You're a good man, Lugh,'' she said insistently. ''A gifted musician, brave enough to face a bear full grown with only a knife rather than walk away and let two children die. Loyal enough to cry warning on an underhanded attack and save lives... respectful enough not to press your suit on the Lady as many men would and have, sure that their worth is beyond price by the mere fact that God made them male. Oh, Lugh, you're a fine, good man that any woman would be proud to call her own.'' 

Lugh searched Becca's face. The scar that cut across her features was not distasteful to him; being raised in a martial household, he had seen scars more mutilating. She was pretty enough; he even found the small gap between her front teeth to be an asset rather than a disfigurement. With a growing sense of startlement, he began remembering what Becca had done for him in the short time since he'd known her. 

Has she not, at nearly every turn, aided me within the boundaries of her own honor? Did she not save my life when it would have been easy indeed to turn a blind eye and allow me to die by O'Brian swords? True, it has only been two days, but...

He had seen so much already, and suddenly Lugh realized that the ''love'' he had felt for Lady Cathelin was nothing more than an illusion, crafted of hero worship, false adulation and an idealized image of the Lady that he had somehow created inside his own mind. Infatuation at first sight. It was like the courtly love of the troubadours for the ladies of the King's palace; pretty words and flowery compliments, a formalized dance of romance that, in the end, meant nothing. 

Thank God I did not make of myself more a fool.

But Becca was different. 

Laying aside his harp, Lugh sucked in a breath and gathered his courage in both hands. For the first time in his life, he truly believed he had met a woman he could love, and he somehow felt that this was right. I think we were meant for each other, but time enough for that later, he thought. First, I will have to convince her I'm not a bumbling puppy latching on to the first sympathetic shoulder I can find. I must put aside the boy and become the man.

He smiled sweetly, dark blue eyes aglow. ''I could use some company tonight, Becca Lleidath. Will you share my pillow? Will you share my bed? I know we've not known each other long.'' 

If Becca was surprised or shocked by his proposal, she didn't show it. ''Aye,'' she replied, leaning forward to stop up Lugh's mouth with a kiss. ''And aye again.'' 

They tumbled onto the bed together, and no further words were spoken for a while. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The moon had risen high, glowing like a wheel-pin of silver in the midnight sky. 

Cathelin was awakened from a sound sleep by the sound of clashing steel in the hall outside her bedchamber. 

Pushing Madrigal's head from her shoulder, Cathelin sprang from the bed, urgency overriding any pain she might have felt from the stressing of her wound. Snatching a light sword from the wall, the Irishwoman threw open the door and leaped into the hall, already assessing the situation even as she ducked a swing from an opponent and laid his thigh open with the edge of her blade. 

''To me,'' she shouted, and blocked a blow from another warrior with her sword, while throwing a punch with her free hand that rocked his head back on his shoulders and left him sprawled on the floor, unconscious. 

Her own kerns were fighting hand to hand in the hallway, struggling to reach their Lady. Finally, Wolf broke through and stood back to back with Cathelin, using the axe in his hand to his advantage in such close quarters. The warchief's face was speckled with blood, and he wore a simple breechclout wrapped about his loins. From the similar undressed state of the defenders, including Cathelin's own nakedness, it was obvious that the attack had come as a surprise. 

''What happened?'' Cathelin gritted, kicking another opponent away from her and cutting him nearly in half as he fell. 

''Th' guards I posted had their throats slit,'' Wolf replied coolly, cracking open another enemy's brainpan with his skillfully wielded axe, ''They come over th' walls in secret an' got down into th' castle itself. I've got some men searchin' Inishowen fer stragglers.'' 

Madrigal, a long knife in one hand, was standing at the threshold of the master's chamber, lips skinned back from her teeth in a feral grin. As a warrior stumbled towards her, she neatly spun away from his sword and plunged her knife into his face, making him fall back with a choked scream. 

Shortly, the attackers were dead or dying. Cathelin indicated the one she had knocked unconscious. ''Take that one down to the dungeon,'' she said. ''We'll be asking a few questions of him when the mopping up's done.'' 

A hand tugged insistently at her arm. Looking down, Cathelin saw Madrigal, who wore a worried frown. ''Has anyone seen to the children?'' she asked, strands of blue-black hair sticking to her face and nude body. 

''St. Brigit!'' Cathelin spat vehemently. ''Wolf!'' she called to the warchief, who was directing the removal of the prisoner, ''get some men to the nursery! And hurry, man, as you love life!'' 

Wolf took off at a dead run, shouting for several kerns to accompany him. Madrigal looked after him, dark eyes filled with concern. ''You do not think they will harm Honey or Dragon?'' she asked. 

Cathelin stroked Madrigal's hair. ''Sweetling, any man dishonorable enough to order a night attack after issuing a formal challenge is liable to do anything.'' Her golden eyes were incandescent with suppressed fury. ''God help Desmond O'Brian if the babes are harmed...'' 

Sword dropping unnoticed from her hand, Cathelin led her mate to the nursery - and Madrigal's heart beat faster, her imagination supplying horrible images that made her want to weep - and a growing fury igniting in her soul. 

 Peter Godolphin held up a screaming, struggling Dragon, his knife poised at the child's throat. ''Drop that weapon, woman!'' he ordered sternly. ''Or I swear to God I'll kill the brat!'' 

Crimthan, with Honey clinging to her leg, narrowed her eyes, the point of the dagger she held in her fist never wavering. She had been awakened by Dragon's cries and had rushed into the children's room. Godolphin had already picked up Dragon, and she had hastened to snatch Honey from her little bed and keep the girl with her, accepting the hasty blow aimed at her face by Godolphin's fist rather than relinquish her charge. 

''Harm one hair o' that bairn's head, ye motherless bastard,'' Crimthan spat ferociously, ''an' I'll have yer jewels as earbobs!'' 

Godolphin had been with twenty of his men, sneaking through the halls to get to the master's chamber where they knew Lady Cathelin and her lover were sleeping, but the alarm had been raised by a naked woman with brown curly hair and a scarred face, who had opened the door of a room they passed and screamed bloody murder before attacking bare handed. 

Despite her lack of weapon, she had managed to disable two of his men before Godolphin himself had stabbed her and shoved her stumbling back into the room, straight into the arms of a sleepy young man with tousled blonde hair. 

Dragon stopped crying with a gulp; he hung limp in the captain's grasp, eyeing the man with pure hatred. Godolphin watched the nurse, who was circling left, looking for an opening and coming closer. 

He shook the toddler slightly. ''I'll kill the brat, I swear!'' Inwardly, he wondered where in God's name his men were. He'd gotten separated from them during the ensuing fight and prayed his second would be able to carry out their mission successfully. 

The door to the nursery was kicked open and a warrior entered, a large, well-built man with a drooping black mustache whose dark hair was fastened at the back of his neck with a wooden slide. ''Let th' boy go,'' he said, gesturing with the sword he held. ''Yer cut off from yer men, most o' whom are dead. Surrender now an' I'll spare yer life. Harm th' child an' t'will go worse wit' ye.'' 

Godolphin began to sweat, eyes darting back and forth. More warriors surged into the room, including a tall, incredibly muscular woman with dark red hair whose creamy hide was marred by tattoos and scars. The captain shuddered; to see a woman so perverted as to try and take a man's place on the battlefield made him want to puke. More evidence the heathen Irish had no place in God's perfect world. 

''Keep away!'' he said urgently, pressing the knife harder against Dragon's throat. ''Keep away from me or bury the boy!'' 

There was a much smaller woman at the taller one's side. By the thick scars that braceleted her wrists, Godolphin knew she must be a slave, but the look she gave him held nothing but contempt and hatred and rage. She held a knife and from the promise in her stance and her exotic purple eyes, the captain knew she'd take great pleasure in stripping the flesh from his bones slowly and with great attention to detail. 

He shook the sweat from his eyes. 

Suddenly, several things happened at once.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

With an infant howl, Dragon buried his teeth in Godolphin's hand, drawing blood and a curse from the man. 

Honeycat, with a shrill scream, launched herself at the captain, fastening herself onto his leg and biting his calf, while Crimthan hastily came forward and, dropping her dagger to the floor, grabbed Godolphin's arm, forcing the knife away from Dragon's throat. 

Before an astonished Wolf or the kerns could react, Madrigal and Cathelin moved as one, like hunting wolves, splitting up and flowing to either side of Godolphin. As Crimthan wrestled with the spitting, swearing captain, Madrigal grabbed Honey's arm with her free hand, shoving her to safety, swinging up her other arm to bury her knife in Godolphin's side. 

Godolphin's grasp on Dragon loosened, and Crimthan, with a gasp, let go of his arm to grab the toddler before he could hit the floor. She crouched down, shielding the child with her own body as the enraged captain aimed a kick, which never landed. 

Cathelin let loose a roar of pure animal fury and latched onto Godolphin's leg, wrenching it violently to one side. The great bone in his thigh snapped with a hideous crunch and he screamed, falling with a thud and a whining shriek as the broken bone in his leg was jarred. 

The whole thing was over in heartbeats. Godolphin lay on the floor, leg at an awkward angle, dagger quivering in his side, hand bleeding from the marks of Dragon's tiny teeth. Panting, Cathelin drew her leg back for a kick, aiming for his throat, but was stopped by Madrigal. 

''No, Lady Cat.'' The Muslim woman looked down at the prone captain, and he shivered at her bloodthirsty glare. ''Let him live to be questioned instead. Does he not bear the mark of a commander?'' 

For the first time, Cathelin noticed the badge the man wore. It was indeed the sign of the O'Brian clan, indicating the soldier's rank of captain. 

''He must've been in charge of the mission,'' Cathelin said. ''Take him down to join the other, Wolf.'' She turned to Crimthan, who was examining both children. ''Are they all right?'' 

''Aye,'' the nurse replied. Her lip was split and bleeding, but she seemed unhurt otherwise. ''They're no hurted save fer bruises.'' 

Grimacing, for her belly wound was beginning to throb, Cathelin knelt down and held out her arms. ''Come here, little ones,'' she said. 

Dragon and Honey flew into their mathra's arms, and Cathelin stood up with a grunt, the children clinging to her neck and staring at the injured captain with wide eyes. 

Madrigal took Dragon from her love and the two women carried their children back to the master's chamber, where a hastily assembled guard of four stern-faced kerns was already on duty, short swords naked in their hands. 

It wasn't until the next morning, after a sleepless night of comforting Honeycat and Dragon, that Cathelin and Madrigal learned of Becca's bravery and wounding in the fight. 

Madrigal, tying the belt of a green gown she'd hastily tossed over her head, hurried to the castle sickroom where injured kerns were being cared for by monks from the abbey. 

Brother Ignatius, despite his arthritic hands, was supervising. Upon seeing Madrigal, he drew her to one side. ''How's th' Lady?'' he asked, rheumy eyes filled with concern. ''An' yer bairns?'' 

''She is fine. No bleeding and the wound is healing well,'' the Muslim woman answered absently, eyes seeking a familiar form. ''Dragon and Honey were plagued by the Horse of Evening Ill, but that will pass.'' Then she saw Lugh seated on the edge of a bed, holding someone's hand. ''How is Becca?'' 

''Oh, she'll do well enow,'' the aged monk answered, smoothing his silver fringe of hair with one crippled hand. ''Stabbed in th' shoulder; looks much worse than t'is.'' He chuckled. ''Ye should've seen yon minstrel boy last night; come bawlin' an' weepin' wit' th' Half-Tongue in his arms, actin' like she were bangin' on th' gates o' Heaven. I had to gie him a draught ta calm him down afore we could bandage up th' woman.'' 

Madrigal gave Ignatius a fond smile, although she wondered at Lugh's behavior. ''I will go and talk with her,'' she said, ''and then, honored one, you should seek a bed and rest.'' 

''Ah, sweet lady,'' Ignatius said with a wink, ''when yer my age, ye learn that rest eternal comes all too soon. I'll sleep when I'm ready, dinnae worry.'' 

After patting his hand, Madrigal went over to Becca and Lugh. ''How are you feeling, Becca?'' she asked, sitting on the edge of the cot. 

The kern smiled. ''I'm fine.'' A bulky bandage was tied to one shoulder. ''I'm only glad I had to visit the jakes last night, otherwise those bastards might've gotten to your chamber and killed the both of you, and none the wiser.'' 

''And you, Lugh? How do you fare?'' 

The blonde young man turned sad eyes on Madrigal. He looked terrible; dark circles marred the pale flesh of his cheeks and he was obviously suffering. ''I should have done something,'' he moaned, clutching Becca's hand convulsively. ''They hurt Becca and I did nothing.'' 

Becca slapped his thigh with her free hand. ''Hold your tongue!'' she snapped, although her brown eyes twinkled. ''You did enough, to stop the bleedin' and carry me here, tho' you've so little meat on your bones I'd be surprised if a stiff wind didn't blow you clean away.'' 

Lugh kissed Becca's knuckles. ''Still...'' 

Madrigal intervened. It was obvious to her that the pair were lovers; whether their connection went deeper than that, she did not know, but she had a feeling that Inishowen would soon find out. 

''Lugh, you must not blame yourself. It was a dishonorable attack, the alarm was given in time, and while there were a few injuries, there were no deaths. You took care of Becca when she needed you; this is more important than fighting.'' 

A slight ray of hope shone in Lugh's dark blue eyes. ''Truly? You don't think I'm a base coward and a fool?'' 

''Nay, tho' you're behavin' like a right regular mince-locked molly-puppet,'' Becca said with a chuckle, brown eyes twinkling. ''Lugh, you've nothin' to be ashamed of. Now, stop all your belly-aching; t'is givin' me a headache I vow could shake the world.'' 

Madrigal smiled. ''I will leave you now,'' she said, rising. ''Lady Cat and the children need to break their fast, and then I must speak to Wolf about our prisoners.'' 

''Oh, Lady,'' Becca said, eyes wide, ''you're goin' to put them to the question?'' 

''Yes.'' Her eyes met Lugh's, and the young man shuddered; they were as cold and dark as icy amethysts. ''And we will learn of the O'Brian's plans... and stop him. We will. We must.'' 

With that dire pronouncement, Madrigal left the sick room. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Back in the master's chambers, Cathelin had finally gotten Honeycat and Dragon to sleep. Having left the children to the bed, she was seated in a chair by the hearth, spooning up porridge thickened with ham and boiled eggs. 

''Sweetling, those men...,'' she said, poking at the porridge with her spoon and shooting her mate a worried glance, ''I mean, hey may prove stubborn.'' 

Madrigal stared at Cathelin serenely. ''They may,'' she answered, pinching off a bit of bread and eating it. 

''We may have to use torture.'' 

''Yes. I agree.'' 

Cathelin's dark red brows drew together in puzzlement. ''Madri, I know what you went through before, what Wallace did to you, besides others. I'm thinking you've not the stomach for such work. You needn't pretend otherwise.'' 

''You are mistaken.'' For the first time, Madrigal allowed her mate to see the simmering rage and hatred that consumed her. ''They have killed or hurt my friends, people I have come to consider my family. They tried to harm my children. They would have killed you. Those men,'' she spat, ''have tried to destroy everything and everyone I love. Do I have the stomach to torture them? YES,'' she concluded in a hiss. 

Cathelin was taken aback. ''Sweetling, consider what you're saying,'' she replied earnestly. ''You of all people know what it's like. You mean to say you could truly - and I mean wholeheartedly - put someone to the rack? The pincers? The boot? Have their back whipped to ribbons and salted well? Without soul injury to yourself?'' She leaned forward and spoke urgently. ''I would not have you hurt further by this. In fact, I had liefer you stayed here with me whilst Wolf carried out the orders.'' 

Madrigal stood, her chair sliding back with a screech of wood on stone. ''You think me weak?'' Her eyes flashed as she shook back her sleeves and thrust thickly scarred wrists beneath Cathelin's nose. ''Could a weak woman survive what was done to me? Could one without courage have lived, and continued living, with the memory of hell that I have? You know I bear other scars than these.'' She shook her head violently. ''There are times, Lady Cat, when you do not understand me as well as you think. Now is one of those times.'' 

Cathelin grasped Madrigal's wrist. ''I think you should sit down and consider well what you mean to do,'' she said, amber eyes filled with concern. ''You've shouldered many heavy burdens these last few weeks...'' 

Madrigal interrupted. ''And now you think me mad as well?'' She laughed softly and the hair rose on the back of Cathelin's neck. ''I am no hysteric, Lady Cat. Nor am I possessed by the demons of revenge. Like you, I will do what must be done because there is no other choice. It troubles me not at all to think of torturing those men if it is needful. I will do what must be done. You cannot; I know you could not do this thing coldly, but I can... and I will. '' 

Madrigal left and Cathelin half rose, intending to follow her - then sat back down again, bowing her head. Blessed Virgin and St. Brigit, she thought, let not my Madri follow this course, but if she must, then let the burden of her sin fall upon my shoulders, for God knows I would spare her if I could.

Cathelin was no coward; indeed, had she not proven her courage on the field of battle time and time again? But after the Holy Land - after the siege of Acre long years ago - after waking up night after night, still hearing the screams of the man she'd tortured to death for the slaying of her beloved Irizen. Cathelin knew that never, ever again could she witness, or be a part of, cold-blooded torture. 

Nay, she thought, not even if t'were my own soul at stake.

So she sat, watching her children sleep, and silently wept, fearing Madrigal's actions would scar and warp her within - making a stranger of the woman she loved. 

Desmond gnashed his teeth, the grinding audible to his squire, who flinched. Damn them all to Hell eternal! the Earl thought furiously, wishing he could borrow the Hammer of God to smash Cathelin O'Cameron and all her ilk from the earth of the world with one swift, avenging blow. 

The sneak attack had failed and now Desmond had serious issues to consider. He'd only given the formal challenge as a sop, intending to lull the defenders of the castle into believing that the siege was over; after all, there wouldn't be any survivors who would gainsay the Earl's word. But it hadn't worked; not one of Godolphin's men, nor the captain himself, had returned. And this morning, the walls of Inishowen bristled with heavily armed kerns still. 

The remainder of the King's men had left as soon as the sun broke over the top of the hills. Despite Desmond's urging, pleas - and ultimately, threats - the soldiers had shouldered their weapons and marched away under the command of a corporal who had given the Earl an icy stare before replying with freezing dignity, ''Our captain is missing and probably dead. We consider it a judgment of God upon him and yourself. You, for your dishonorable tactics; Godolphin for agreeing to be a party to them. We return to London, my Lord of Kinslainne. Rest assured, the King shall hear of your deeds when we arrive.'' 

Desmond had sworn mightily and in a violent temper, had taken an axe to his lavishly appointed tent, destroying everything in sight and leaving the furniture in splinters. Finally, panting, he had buried the axe blade in the centerpole and stalked away, leaving his terrified squire to clean up the mess. 

The sweet, silvery sound of a trumpet caught his attention... hearing the excited shouts of his men, the Earl walked towards the disturbance with long strides, shoving soldiers from his path. What now, b'God?! he wondered, then... By'r'Lady!!

Mounted on a solid black destrier was King John himself, the horse's panoply of cloth-of-gold richly embroidered in silver and studded with precious rubies and pearls. The King's own tunic matched his steed's colors and jewels, and the dark sovereign wore a puffed hat on his head with dangling ribbons, pins of gold and silver, and merlin's feathers that danced in the breeze. 

''Ho, my Lord of Kinslainne!'' the King cried, catching sight of the astonished Earl. ''I've come to witness your little war!'' 

At the king's side was his advisor, William of Northanger, mounted on a spirited roan and dressed in his customary unrelieved black. ''Shall I have the servants set up your tent, Your Majesty?'' he asked. 

King John waved an unconcerned hand. ''So tell me, Kinslainne, how goes the siege?'' One of his black eyes trembled in a faint wink. 

Desmond watched with open mouth while a mule-train and wagons rolled into his war camp. King John never traveled lightly but in full estate, taking not only guardsmen, but dozens of servants, courtiers, and the like. His retinue was so vast that, on those rare occasions when His Majesty pleased to visit one of his royal subjects, said unfortunates were often forced to go to the Jewish moneylenders in London for relief from the gaping maws and outstretched hands of the king's men. 

Desmond realized the King was waiting for an answer, beringed fingers tapping impatiently on his saddlebow. He shook himself inwardly to gather his scattered wits. ''What an honor, Your Majesty,'' he said with a low bow. ''Your glorious presence has fair stricken the speech from my tongue; pray, forgive me, sire, for my earlier lapse. I was like a man who catches sight of the sun in all it's splendor, and is made mute by the beauty thereof.'' 

The King preened beneath the Earl's flattery. ''Attend upon me, Kinslainne,'' he said, dismounting and stepping down onto the back of a crouching servant, who grunted at John's weight. ''Shall we retire with His Grace of Northanger? I have many questions to ask you.'' 

Desmond looked around wildly and caught the stern eye of Duke William. The austere man yawned behind his hand, affecting unconcern. ''Yes, Your Majesty,'' William said. ''I believe you especially wished to question the Earl as regards the desertion of Your Majesty's troops from his service.'' 

''You... you've seen them? Talked to them?'' Desmond felt near to weeping; he had visions of himself on the chopping block, shaven neck bared for the headsman's axe, his wife wearing mourning black, the O'Cameron bitch smiling in triumph... this last thought made his soul burn, but he turned his attention back to the matter at hand, hoping no one had noticed his lapse. 

''Yes, my Lord Earl.'' William's eyes were as black as coal, and as hard as diamonds. ''We have. And we did.'' He, too, dismounted, but far more gracefully than the king, disdaining to use a servant as a mounting block. While the king's servitors and attendants, with much shouting and confusion, began setting up John's magnificent tent with all its fabulous accouterments, William walked up to Desmond and smiled. 

The Earl shuddered; the Duke of Northanger had the half-mad grin of a rabid wolverine that catches the blood scent of a wounded animal. 

''Come, Kinslainne,'' the King said and began leading the way to Desmond's own tent. ''Attend me. We will speak with you privily...'' He gave Desmond a significant glance, concluding, ''Right now.'' 

The Earl felt his heart turn to stone in his chest. Duke William laced his arm through the stricken man's and guided him none-too-gently away. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Madrigal looked at the naked, sweating men who were shackled in the little used dungeon of Inishowen. Iron cuffs encircled their wrists, chains leading up to a ceiling beam. They stood on their feet, a brazier of hot coals providing both light and heat, reflections of tiny flames gleaming on their skin. Godolphin's side had been bandaged, one leg roughly splinted, and he balanced on his good leg, swaying slightly, his face betraying not a single mark of pain. 

Despite her brave words to Cathelin, Madrigal prayed to Allah she would not have to do this thing. She felt sick at the thought of actually using the instruments of torture that had been cleaned and oiled in preparation. A poker had been thrust into the coals of the brazier and she stared at it in horror. 

Although she was still very angry, now that the heat of the moment had passed, she regretted her hasty words to Cathelin. It is true they tried to destroy my love, my children, my life, but no matter their crimes, they did not succeed, for Allah the Merciful was watching and His angels, too.

They are pawns, even as I was once a pawn, at the mercy of larger and more powerful forces. Even if I had the O'Brian here, I am not sure I could raise my hand so. Can I truly do this thing? Madrigal gulped, averting her eyes, careful not to let the men see her weakness. No. To kill in defense is one thing; to destroy a man's body with pain is another. But Allah! What a dilemma!

We must have the information... we must know who they are. What shall I do? What CAN I do?

Lugh had already told Cathelin and Madrigal that he did not recognize any of the men who had been slain, nor did he know the two survivors of the aborted attack. Surprising, considering they were supposed to be O'Brian kerns. 

It had become imperative to find out just exactly what was going on, how many lairds or others were involved, for it seemed that the scent of conspiracy was in the air. Madrigal steeled herself with an effort. She would hate herself later but it must be done. 

Even as she tried to find the courage to begin questioning the prisoners, with a sudden influx of light and hope, she conceived of a desperate plan. Oh, Merciful One, Madrigal thought, lend Thy daughter Thy wisdom and guidance. If not, then let this deed be swiftly done, and give Thy daughter the strength she needs to complete this task.

She stepped up to the captain, schooling her face into an expression of cold severity. ''Who are you?'' she asked in a hard, cruel tone. ''We know you are not of the O'Brian's. Who is your clan? Who is your lord?'' 

Godolphin spat at Madrigal's feet and replied insolently, ''Go straight to a deserving hell, heathen witch. You'll have nothing from me.'' He stared at her proudly. 

Madrigal glanced at the other man, a round-eyed teenager who danced fearfully in place, the chains that held his cuffed hands above his head jingling noisily. This was the one, then, a weak link. ''Do you wish me to torture this boy? This child in your service? Think, O captain. Will his screams keep you company in your own chains? Will the scent of his burning flesh be sweet as perfume to you? Speak, or the young one suffers and the guilt will be placed at your door.'' 

Godolphin's answer was to spit again, this time the gobbet just missing Madrigal's full skirts. ''Do your worst, witch. The Lord God revenges his own.'' 

But the boy stared at Madrigal, mouth working. 

His name was Hugh Wright. He was fifteen years old, and barely a month ago had been proud of his ceremonial induction into King John's private army. His mother had nearly burst when he'd told her the news. Now, his brown eyes were wide and he gulped, Adam's apple bobbing, as he gazed with absolute terror on the black-haired woman with the dark purple eyes who surely must be a demon from the very depths of Hell. 

Before that impossibly tall, impossibly muscular warrior-wench had felled him with a contemptuous blow the night before, Hugh had never seen a woman with battle skills. To his young mind, the people of this castle were hellspawn, godless creatures with otherworldly skills disguised as weak women but with the hearts and stomachs of men - and the very thought made his bowels turn to water. 

Madrigal fixed her eyes on Hugh, coming closer an inch at a time, and he danced more desperately and muttered a Pater Noster beneath his breath, praying for the protection of God from what must surely be one of Satan's dread lieutenants who wore a face and form of beauty to conceal the evil within. 

Madrigal reached out without taking her eyes from Hugh's face and grasped the handle of the poker. Drawing it out of the coals, she waved it tantalizingly in front of the flinching teenager's face, letting him feel the heat. ''Where first, I wonder?'' she murmured musingly, letting her eyes roam up and down his sweaty form. ''Here?'' In one swift move, she let the poker drop until it was a bare inch from his thigh and the stench of singed hair filled the air. 

''BlessedJesusprotectme,'' Hugh blurted, eyes rolling. 

''Perhaps here?'' The poker moved up, close to one of his nipples and Hugh tightened up on his toes, every muscle rigid. 

''DearsweetLordhelpme,'' the teenager moaned, wanting desperately to close his eyes but compelled to watch the red-hot iron even as whispered prayed spilled from his lips. 

''Or how about here?'' The cherry-red tip of the poker dropped lower, until it hovered over his shrimp-curled manhood. 

Whimpering, Hugh pissed himself, urine splattering on the dirt floor and droplets falling with a hiss on the poker. Madrigal did not move; she continued to watch the boy's face intently, and suddenly, reached out her free hand and grabbed his testicles, letting her fingernails dig in slightly. 

With a howl of pure terror, Hugh reared back, eyes so wide the white showed around the pupils, toes scrabbling as he tried to get away. Madrigal spat an Arabic curse and hastily snatched the poker away before the idiot could singe himself. Stepping right up next to him, even as he strained to hold his body away, she hissed, ''Tell me what you know, boy. Or...'' She let her brow raise suggestively. 

''Oh God, ohGodohGodohGod!'' Hugh sucked in a breath, blubbering, snot mingling with the tears running down his face. ''Please don't hurt me! Please, please, please don't hurt me!'' 

''Then speak, boy. Tell me all you know.'' Madrigal glanced down at the poker. The tip had cooled to black and while the iron was still hot, it was no longer as dangerous. 

Pressing herself right against Hugh - who danced at the end of his chain - she touched the poker briefly against one of his jiggling buttocks, hearing it hiss as the heat evaporated the sweat on his skin, and then snatched it away, knowing he wouldn't even have a blister to show for it. 

But by Hugh's reaction, he evidently believed otherwise. 

''JESUS!,'' he screamed, spittle flying, ''JESUS! Don'thurtme! Pleasepleaseplease! I'll tell! I'll tell! Oh, God!!'' He started weeping in earnest, pleading, ''Don't hurt me anymore, please! I'll tell you anything, just don't hurt me anymore!'' 

Madrigal stepped away, mentally sighing. She felt sorry for the boy; so young, so naive. But, she told herself, consider the alternative. He could have been hurt far, far worse; now, at least, he will live, if not unscarred within. I will ask Cathelin if provision can be made for him. Surely, after this, he will not wish to return to England.

''What is your name?'' she asked softly. 

''Hugh! Hugh Wright!'' It was clear the boy was desperate to please. ''Please, mistress. I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do anything! Don't hurt me anymore, please.'' 

''I won't hurt you, Hugh. Just answer my questions.'' Madrigal motioned Wolf forward. The Scottish warchief gave her an approving look, but settled his face into a stern expression when he turned to confront the heavily sweating, terrified Hugh. 

''Now,'' Madrigal kept her voice soft and low, ''who are you sworn to, Hugh? Who is your Lord?'' 

Despite Godolphin's shouts and threats (the captain was ultimately gagged, although he continued to mutter furiously behind the cloth), Hugh Wright babbled everything he knew in an unceasing stream of words mingled with pleadings and personal confessions and prayers - and broken expressions of abject gratitude that made Madrigal flinch, remembering a time when she, too, had begged a cruel master and been grateful when punishments had been light. 

In the end, they had to throw a bucket of cold water in his face to get him to stop, and even then, Hugh continued to whisper until Madrigal had him taken down and carried to the sickroom to be tended by the monks.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Cathelin hugged Madrigal tightly. ''Oh, sweetling! Glad I am you did not...'' She broke off, unwilling to continue that thought. 

Madrigal whispered back, ''I am glad as well.'' She released her mate and stepped back, fingering a burned spot on the skirt of her gown. ''Hugh was only a scared child. What I did, though, in its way was as bad as the rack, the whip. I deliberately frightened that boy and broke him, Lady Cat. I cracked him as if he were an new-laid egg.'' 

''Well, at least his hide's intact. As for the other - the young heal fast.'' Cathelin seemed unconcerned, so Madrigal tried to explain. 

''Beloved - I, too, was once broken, as that child is broken. I pray to Allah his mind and soul will recover; it is certain he will bear the scars on his heart for a long time to come.'' The Muslim was troubled. 

Cathelin sighed. ''Madri, let the monks care for the boy. Give him time. If, and I say only if, he doesn't recover his wits, I'll give the good Abbot a hefty sum to pay for Master's Wright's care for life. The Brothers will see that he does not suffer or hunger.'' 

''That is not the point. One cannot purchase relief from guilt.'' 

''Aye and one can't purchase forgiveness, either.'' Cathelin embraced Madrigal again, rubbing her back. ''T'is a hard, cruel world we live in, sweetling. All in all, young Hugh got off lightly with a goodly lesson. He's no longer an innocent, true. But consider this: what if he'd been taken by someone less, well, kindly than yourself? They'd have broken his body and stolen his manhood and left him a bloody wreck, if he lived at all.'' She bent her head and kissed Madrigal's cheek. ''You've nothing to feel guilty about. The boy was old enough to swing a sword in the King's service; he was old enough to take his chances on the battlefield and kill his fellow man. Be at ease with yourself, Madri. You did what you had to; no more, no less.'' 

Madrigal kissed the underside of Cathelin's jaw. ''For your sake, I will try.'' 

''Nay, sweetling. For your own,'' Cathelin asserted. 

Madrigal stared into her Lady Cat's amber eyes and felt her burden lightened a little by the deep love she saw there. 

Cathelin blew out a breath, making Madrigal's hair flutter. ''I'd best be seeing Wolf and consulting with him about our course. John the Bastard's involvement in all this makes my small hairs rise.'' 

''I, too, am uneasy.'' Madrigal considered. ''Will you still fight the duel?'' she asked. 

''I don't know. The challenge was issued formally, but...'' 

The women were interrupted by a knock on the door. Becca came in, wearing a front-laced vest and breeches, her shoulder still swathed by a bandage. ''Ladies,'' she said, bowing her head. ''I've news. Guess who was seen enterin' the O'Brian's camp? I'll give you a hint - it weren't the Blessed Virgin nor the Holy Ghost, neither.'' 

Cathelin's eyes widened. ''The King?'' she murmured. 

Becca grinned. ''Aye. John himself in right royal state, the very picture of greasy curds and cream, and as fat and satisfied as a picket whore on payday. Now I find myself wondering... why?'' 

Madrigal and Cathelin exchanged a glance. It appeared as if the plot against Inishowen was thickening. 

''Has Meg returned yet?'' Cathelin asked. 

''Nay,'' Becca replied. ''No doubt she's still countin' her coppers or some such. Wolf expects Herring Meg sometime tonight.'' 

Cathelin moved to the chair and sat down, absently pulling Madrigal down on her knee. She needed to think about this. 

The Muslim woman leaned gently against her mate, arms around the other woman's neck, and Becca couldn't suppress a wide grin. 

Suddenly noticing the kern was still there, Cathelin said, ''Well? Be off with you, saucy baggage!'' Her smile took away the sting of her words. ''Tell me when the fishwife's returned, and for the love of God, have a servant bring me some food! Now, get you gone...'' Her amber eyes glinted slyly. ''...or p'raps your new laddie-love'll find himself a new appreciator of fine music to spend his evenings with, a-making sweet melodies and the like.'' 

Madrigal hooted with laughter. Apparently, Lugh and Becca's night of passion had been overheard by half the castle servants - and despite the dire doings of the attack, the folk were all a-buzz with gossip as usual. 

Becca blushed. ''Aye, m'Lady,'' she mumbled, leaving the room so hastily she nearly tripped over her feet. 

Madrigal bussed Cathelin on the lips, still laughing slightly. ''Truly, Lady Cat - how cruel to tease Becca!'' 

''Nay, for have we not been teased for our music making in the past?'' Cathelin arched her eyebrow, and it was Madrigal's turn to blush. They did sometimes get a little loud... 

The pair stayed together the rest of the afternoon, basking in one another's presence and reaffirming their mutual affection and love, the one no more soul-bound than the other, and reveling in the ties that had knotted their lifestrands into a single, strong thread that was unbreakable. 

With the connivance of the castle folk, Cathelin and Madrigal were left alone, until Becca returned much later to tell them that Meg had finally come home to Inishowen. 

CHAPTER THIRTY

Herring Meg was a short, bandy-legged fat woman with enormous breasts that bulged from the bodice of her tight wool gown. Some of her gray-streaked ash-blonde hair was twisted up in a half-forgotten knot on top of her head, the rest tumbled down her back in tangled elf-locks. Meg's face was as wrinkled as an winter apple, owing to the fact that she had no teeth. As a result, she tended to drool and kept a rag stuffed up the sleeve of her dress to mop up her chin when needed. 

Meg curtsied clumsily. ''Beggin' yer pardon, yer ladyships,'' she said in a voice as rusty as an old hinge. ''I'd not wanted ta disturb ya, but good Master Wolf here says as how yer wantin' ta hear me news.'' 

Cathelin nodded. ''Aye. You've been working the O'Brian's camp?'' 

''Aye.'' Meg whisked out her rag and wiped her chin. ''I've been makin' a bit o' coin from his soldier boys an' keepin' me ears open. But I can always do wit' silver instead o' copper, if yer ladyship takes me meanin','' the woman said significantly. 

Cathelin raised her eyebrows, clearly amused, but handed the old whore a purse whose weight made Meg suck in her breath. ''Now,'' Cathelin said, ''If what you've to say is as valuable as you told Wolf, then I'll be giving you another like it. But don't disappoint me, Mistress Meg. I've a sore temper these days.'' 

''Oh, well,'' Herring Meg simpered, curtsying again, ''no worries, yer ladyship. I were smack dab against th' Tinker's own tent, I was, swivin' a lusty guardsman, me heels in th' air an' dancin' merrily. But Ol' Meg keeps her ears open, she does; keen as a gazehound's, I vow, e'en when I'm urgin' a dallyin' gallant ta finish his business so I can finish mine.'' 

Madrigal stifled a laugh. Herring Meg was an Inishowen fixture; despite the fact that Father Paul regularly thundered from his pulpit about her ''sinful business,'' that didn't stop the village men from frequenting the old whore when they had a coin or two in their pockets. 

She had a dozen children by as many fathers, her oldest son Jack Smith having the distinction of being built like a brick wall and twice as thick, and the village blacksmith, besides. Few were the men or women who mocked Meg twice; her seven boys, Jack included, loved their mam and tended to use hard fists and harder heads on any who disapproved or were less than polite to the woman. And her girls had a reputation for sheer pig-headedness that outshone any mule born. 

''Aye, I've news a-right,'' Meg said, patting her tangled hair with one hand. ''I were hearin' ol' Tinker O'Brian a-speakin' wit' Himself th' King, an' oooh, but weren't th' Bastard sore as an arse-boil!'' 

''Well? What did he say?'' Cathelin knew that Herring Meg's excursions to the enemy camp had been motivated by mercenary concerns rather than an actual desire to spy, but nevertheless, she was one of the clan and in her own way, loyal to the family. But that old bawd'll be about it all night if I'm not pushing her on, she thought with a sigh. Meg'll be thinking she's a bard, next.

Meg sucked her gums thoughtfully, eyes screwed up as if she were trying to remember something of some importance. ''Ah, well, yer ladyship... t'were hearin' I was how Himself were angry at th' O'Brian fer issuin' a challenge or some sort. Himself allowed as how this challenge, bein' honorably accepted an' such, would have ta be takin' place as offered. An' weren't th' O'Brian close ta weepin' wit' rage! I vow he's a spleenish sort! Prob'ly not enow swivin' or wivin'. 

''Ennyhow,'' she continued hastily, seeing that Cathelin was shifting in her seat with impatience, ''th' King were sayin' that th' O'Brian'll have ta lift th' siege an' all... an' they was all makin' plans ta travel ta DaDerga fer ta get ready fer a tourney. I heard Himself tellin' ol' Tinker that he expects ta be paid fer a-lendin' o' his troops, an' when O'Brian wins... well, th' Bastard had Tinker sign a paper assignin' th' ownership o' Inishowen ta th' Crown. So I reckon if God ain't on yer side, yer ladyship, I'll be makin' me curtsies ta th' King by-and-by, hee hee hee,'' Meg concluded with a simper. 

Cathelin's lips twisted in a rueful smile. ''So, John expects O'Brian to win, does he?'' She looked at Madrigal. ''I'll have to donate a new altar cloth to the Church, Madri, and ask the good brothers of the abbey to include me in their prayers.'' 

Madrigal snuggled close to Cathelin and put an arm around her waist. ''Is there anything else?'' she asked Meg. 

The old whore scratched her chin. ''I reckon not, unless yer wantin' ta hear about me sister in Wales givin' birth ta another cross-eyed girl, er me Jackie-boy a-poundin' ol' Tom Cobbler fer givin' me an ill look this Sunday past.'' 

Hastily, before Meg could begin another round of gossip, Cathelin handed her another purse, which vanished in the layers of shawls and skirts she wore over her dress. 

''My thanks, Meg,'' Cathelin said. ''Go buy yourself a drink to keep you warm tonight, and I'd be grateful if you included me in your prayers.'' 

''Oh well, now,'' Herring Meg said piously, ''I'll be doin' that forthwith, yer ladyship. An' I'll even buy some fine beeswax candles ta donate ter th' altar o' St. Mary in th' abbey in yer name. I figures ye can use all th' help ye can get, hee hee hee.'' Gathering her layers around her and plumping up her extraordinary bosoms with both hands, Meg waddled away. 

Madrigal was silent a moment, then burst out laughing. ''Oh, Lady Cat!'' she exclaimed. ''Even your God must not approve of prostitutes! How could you ask her to pray for you?'' 

Cathelin grinned innocently. ''But sweetling, many's the time I've seen Herring Meg sitting in her pew on a Sunday morning, cracking walnuts in her fist and listening to Father Paul's sermons like he was a minstrel entertaining around a bonfire. I've even heard her make critical commentary worthy of an ard-ollamh - master poet tho' she's not - usually whilst Father Paul's still sermonizing.'' She waited until Madrigal's giggling ceased, then continued, ''She's not a bad sort, truly. She raised her children respectable; even her daughters are married to upright tradesman, despite their birth or lack of it. And I'm thinking that God listens to Meg's confessions with as much interest as the good father himself.'' 

The thought of the usually sweet natured Father Paul being scandalized almost to apoplexy by the confessions of Herring Meg was too much. Madrigal dissolved into giggles again. 

When she was finally reduced to gasping and wiping her eyes, the Muslim woman asked, ''There is one thing more I simply must ask. Why is she called Herring Meg?'' 

Cathelin's eyes took on a sly glint. ''Why, for in the summertime, being as how Meg's not fond of washing, she smells like a fishing village at low tide. T'is worth your life to get downwind of her.'' 

Madrigal's shout of laughter nearly burst the Irishwoman's eardrums. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

With the siege lifted, and the O'Brian army returned to DaDerga, the lives of the folk of Inishowen returned to relatively normal - except for the daily fights between Lady Cathelin and her beloved chatelaine. 

''You will not fight!'' Madrigal shouted, beautiful face red with fury. 

''I must!'' Cathelin shouted back, equally flushed. 

Madrigal shook her fists in the air, absolutely enraged. ''You WILL NOT do this thing, Lady Cat!!'' Her dark purple eyes snapped with sparks. ''You will leave me a widow with two young children, defenseless against the O'Brian and the King! You will die and I will follow you, I swear to the Prophet!'' 

''I have NO CHOICE, you stubborn woman!'' On either side of her broken nose, Cathelin's amber eyes were haggard as a hawk's at bay. ''If I renege, then O'Brian can lawfully lay claim to Inishowen, and no one will be safe! Are you wishing to see your children and clan tossed out into the snow, clad in rags, without a crust to their names?'' 

''I wish only to preserve you! Allah! Daughter of goats and camels and mules! You are not well enough to fight! Choose a champion! Hire a Templar mercenary! Do something, Lady Cat, but DO NOT DO THIS!'' 

''I will. I must,'' Cathelin answered in a cold, silky tone that meant that as far as she was concerned, there was no more to be said. 

And Madrigal burst into tears. 

In Lugh's bedchamber, Becca and Lugh exchanged a glance. ''This isn't good,'' the young man said. ''They fight nearly all day, and from what I've been hearing, kiss and make up at night, only to start over again come the morn. Small wonder they're both in such a foul temper lately.'' 

''Aye.'' Becca nodded knowingly. ''The Ladies pretend there isn't anything going on, but all the folk, not bein' deaf, know there's troubles between them.'' She sighed and lay her head on the reclining man's shoulder. ''Lady Cathelin's wound is healin' well, but... in a joust, t'would take only one well-landed blow to send her flyin' and maybe kill her.'' 

''What can we do?'' Lugh stroked Becca's curly hair. ''Drug her, maybe? Keep her here? After all, in armor, no one will suspect a substitute, and can't one of the kerns take her place?'' 

Becca kissed his shoulder. ''Nay, for that the Lady's too proud. And none in Inishowen can fit Blacksunne's armor. We'll just have to join the abbey brothers and Father Paul in prayin' for Lady Cathelin's safe victory. B'sides, if someone were to drug her, I'd not be wanting to be in the same country when she wakened..'' 

Lugh sighed. 

Eithne scurried down the hall, full skirts held in both hands, dark hair billowing out behind her like a cloak. Servants leaped out of her way, for the mistress of DaDerga would stop for nothing. 

She made it to a door, then stopped and composed herself, laying a hand on her pounding heart. King John has summoned her to his guest chamber. Although it was in the late afternoon - and normally Eithne would be supervising the feast that would be given in His Majesty's honor that evening - when the King commanded, none dared say him nay. 

She scratched deferentially at the door and heard the King's deep voice respond: ''Enter.'' 

Eithne walked inside, closing the door behind her, and immediately sank down in a deep curtsey, the folds of her heavily brocaded skirt pooling around her on the floor. 

King John surveyed Eithne O'Brian. B'God! he thought. She's as beautiful a lady as rumor has insisted! He fingered the jewel encrusted goblet half-filled with strong wine he held in his hand. ''Rise, Lady Eithne,'' he said. 

Eithne stood up, hands clasped before her. ''How may I serve Your Majesty's pleasure?'' she asked with great dignity. 

John shifted on his chair. His puff-sleeved tunic of yellow, slashed to show the crimson lining beneath, was embroidered with griffins and unicorns in silver thread and dotted with winking garnets and diamonds. ''That is it, my lady,'' he replied, giving her a look from beneath his ebony brows. ''I am accustomed to the presence of the softer sex and have sorely missed their sweet company here at DaDerga.'' 

Eithne did not miss the look the look the King gave her; it was a heated glance, full of suggestion. ''Forgive me, Your Majesty,'' she said, heart beating faster. ''I have neglected my duties as hostess and crave your pardon for my lapse.'' 

John's lips lifted in a small smile. ''Come,'' he said, ''Will you not share a cup or two of wine with me, Lady Eithne? I vow, you are the most beautiful woman I have seen in all of Ireland.'' 

Eithne considered. On the one hand, she was satisfied with her husband Desmond, who had given her powerful clan connections, wealth, and the respect of many. On the other hand, she thought, the King can give me more. P'raps even a crown on my head.

''Aye, Your Majesty,'' she replied after no more than a moment's hesitation, her decision made. ''I'll stay awhile and keep you company. After all, we would not want you pining away from loneliness, or neglect of your needs.'' Her peat-gray eyes simmered with lusty promise and she slowly licked her bottom lip as she emphasized that last word with a husky purr. 

King John gave her a wide smile in return, feeling his manhood stir, and poured Eithne a cup of dark, sweet wine.

Next Page ~~~~~>

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by Nene Adams ©1998 - All rights reserved

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The scene at DaDerga on that brilliant spring morn was more like a country fair than a serious contest at arms. 

There were vendors of small fried cakes dripping with honey; women with trays around their necks who sold ribbons, lace and small fairing rings of silver and brass; alewives broached casks and cried their wares, which were bought eagerly by the crowds of people who had gathered on the O'Brian lands to see the great duel. 

Pavilions had been set up near the lists, bright multi-colored tents crowned by snapping pennants, each with a pole set up in front that bore different clan's standards, for the word had gone 'round with lightning speed, and many friends and foes of both the O'Cameron and the O'Brian had come to witness this momentous affair, and to pay their respects (whether sincerely or not) to the King. 

A minstrel wandered the grounds, singing from the poet Blathmac's telling of the crucifixion of Christ: 

''A fierce stream of blood boiled until 
the bark of every tree was red; there was blood 
throughout the world in the tops of the great trees. 
At the cry of the first bird 
they began to crucify Thee, 
O cheek like a swan; 
It were not right to ever cease lamenting.'' 

Cathelin looked up as the minstrel walked past her tent, still singing, and crossed herself, muttering, ''Let it not be an omen, Lord. I've too many a duty on me and cannot lay them down this day and die.'' 

Madrigal, seated on a bench, said sullenly, ''I have begged you not to do this thing, Lady Cat. I have gotten on my knees and pleaded. And still you go.'' 

Cathelin crossed the tent and crouched down beside Madrigal, laying a hand on her thigh. ''My sweetling,'' she said with an earnest frown, ''can you not understand still? There is none but myself who can do this thing. I cannot, in honor, ask another to stand in my place; as Lord of Inishowen, it is my duty to answer this challenge and hazard my body against the O'Brian's. With the help of God and the saints, I'll be nailing his head to the doorpost of Inishowen yet.'' 

Madrigal caressed Cathelin's cheek, giving her a sad look. ''I fear you will die, Lady Cat. My blood grows cold; my heart is like a stone. I will not live without you.'' 

''Say not such things, Madri!'' Cathelin exclaimed. ''T'is a mortal sin even to think of suicide, much less commit it! B'sides, if you were to kill yourself, sweetling, you'd have no place beside me in the family vault and I'd miss you sorely.'' She smiled. ''Even if I will have to bribe the priests in my will to allow a heathen to be buried in holy ground.'' 

Madrigal sucked in a breath, dark purple eyes shimmering with tears. ''May Allah protect you and preserve you, my beloved,'' she said in softly slurred Arabic. ''May the light of the sun go out before the light of your life fades.'' She leaned forward and gently kissed Cathelin's lips. 

''I will come back to thee, Madrigal,'' Cathelin replied, also in Arabic. ''Even though the Dark Angel itself shall bar the way, I swear I will come back to thee.'' 

They kissed, a desperate intermingling of breath and life, clutching one another tightly, as if it were the last time they would be permitted to touch. Finally, Madrigal broke away with a gasp. ''I must go, Lady Cat,'' she said, dabbing at her eyes with one hand. ''You will need to get prepared. I will be watching and praying for your safety.'' 

She pulled a silk scarf from the sleeve of her poppy-red gown and laid the colorfully embroidered length in Cathelin's hands. ''Wear my favor, beloved. And know that no matter what happens - I will always love you.'' 

She kissed Cathelin's cheek, then stood and hurried out of the tent, unwilling to allow her Lady to see her cry. She has enough troubles, Madrigal thought as she walked slowly to the benches that had been set up for spectators, wiping streaming tears from her cheeks. I do not wish to add to her burden of worry.

After Madrigal left the tent, Cathelin lifted the gossamer scarf to her crooked nose and sniffed gently, closing her eyes, letting her love's special scent waft over her, then she stood and called for her squire, Thomas, to help her into the armor of Blacksunne. 

Madrigal's place as the mate of the O'Cameron clan chief was directly in front of Eithne O'Brian; and, incidentally, near King John as well, who sat in a chair on the highest tier above the two women, shaded by a length of satin and attended to by servants. 

Madrigal settled down in her seat, ignoring the dark-haired woman of her Lady's enemy, and held out her arms to Crimthan. ''Give me Honey,'' she said, and the little girl was soon seated in her mother's lap. ''Crimthan, you hold Dragon and make sure he does not wander off!'' 

Dragon squirmed in Crimthan's lap. ''Go! Go there!'' he demanded, pointing with a small finger down to the grassy green field where the tourney would take place. A horizontal pole ran down the length of the field; this would hopefully prevent the two opponent's horses from crashing into one another. 

Crimthan began speaking to distract Dragon. ''Know what will happen, little one?'' The toddler shook his head, black hair flying. ''Well, then,'' the nurse said, ''your mathra an' a man named O'Brian are goin' to fight today.'' 

''Fight?'' Dragon immediately perked up; the hero's tales Crimthan told him were his favorites; and to his child's mind, the bloodier, the better. 

''Mmm-hmmm. First, they'll joust wit' lances down there,'' she continued, nodding to the lists. ''They'll keep doin' that till one of them's unhorsed. Then, if th' downed knight wishes to continue, they'll draw swords an' fight till one or th' other yields. Yer mathra, since th' English King is here, will fight as Blacksunne, but we all know t'will be her.'' 

Honey was listening, too. ''Mathra fight?'' she asked Madrigal. 

''Yes, Honey. Your mathra is going to fight today. With the help of God, she will have a great victory, and then we will go home and have a feast to celebrate.'' 

Madrigal hugged her daughter. She and Cathelin had agreed that the children would be raised as Christians, and although she had some misgivings, she realized that her own position as a Muslim in a Christian household was an extraordinary one. No one made much of it, but she knew she still received a few disapproving glances from the village folk from time to time. She did not want her children stigmatized in the country of their birth because of religion. 

Honey put a finger in her mouth, emerald green eyes fixed on the field, a small sweaty hand absently clutching her mother's arm. She wore a little dress of gold-dyed linen, embroidered by Madrigal in a pattern of pheasant's feathers; her brother's dress was identical, for he was not considered old enough to wear trousers. 

Eithne almost curled her lip at this domestic display, and shifted in her seat until her profile was turned away from the barbarian woman and her bastards. From the corner of her eye, she could see King John, swilling blood-red wine and chatting with his loathsome councilor, William the Widowmaker - so named by the O'Brian folk because they thought of him as a poisonous spider crouching in the center of a web, waiting patiently for prey. 

Her husband, Desmond, was down in his tent on the field. Eithne bit her lower lip lightly between her teeth. She had been discreet, she knew that. Desmond did not suspect she was having an affair with the King, and DaDerga's servants knew better than to betray her with wagging tongues. 

John had been attentive, true. But although she'd cast aside all inhibitions and played the wanton in the King's bedchamber, he'd given her nothing more than vague promises. Eithne worried that her ambitions would not be fulfilled by this weakling King, but... I must try, she thought. John is a fool, willing to be led by a woman's honeypot waved beneath his nose. I'll be a queen yet, for is not my blood good enough for royalty?

William of Northanger cast a worried frown in Eithne's direction. ''Is Your Majesty certain of this?'' he asked. 

''Yes,'' John replied, sucking the sweet flesh from a purple grape and tossing the empty skin aside. ''Lady Eithne's a fiery wench, t'is true. But to bring an Irish baggage to Court would be folly. No, let her stay behind with her husband when we return to London. Give her this when we've gone.'' John pulled a large gold ring set with precious amber from his finger. ''A token of my good will and affection.'' 

William sighed, tucking the ring inside his tunic. ''As Your Majesty wishes,'' he said. ''And if the husband dies?'' 

John turned in his seat so he was fully facing the Duke. ''If O'Brian dies,'' he said, ''then I will have DaDerga and the Kinslainne lands.'' He looked smug. ''Did you not have the Earl sign over possession of his title and lands to the Crown when we agreed to assist him secretly?'' 

''Yes.'' William looked pleased as well; it had been his masterstroke to insist on the illiterate Earl signing a formal agreement, lying to Desmond about the contents. If Desmond O'Brian died, the demesne of Kinslainne would revert to the Crown - and if Cathelin O'Cameron died, then John would be given ownership of Inishowen from the grateful Earl. Either way, thanks to his devious councilor, the King would win and the throne of England enriched by prime Irish lands. 

King John chuckled and gestured for another cup of wine. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Desmond's squire Henry adjusted another bolt on his blue-steel armor. ''If you'll turn this way, m'Lord,'' he said, eyes intent on his task, ''I'll adjust your shoulder vambrace. Then we'll have the helmet.'' 

The Earl allowed Henry to do his job, brooding about the coming duel. O'Cameron had a reputation as a fine fighter on the battlefield, as well as on the tourney lists as Sir Blacksunne. But he was skilled as well; two equally matched opponents would fight that day, and only the judgment of God would say who was the better. 

Henry picked up Desmond's helmet, the top decorated by foaming egret feathers dyed stark forest green. The Earl took a quick swallow of well-watered wine from a cup, then Henry fitted the helmet to the collar of his armor, fastening it down tight; a fresh cloth pad had been inserted that morning to soak up the man's sweat, for although the day was not hot, a fully armored man either froze or burned depending on the weather. When he was ready, the squire placed Desmond's surcoat of green velvet over him, making sure the silver boar badge was prominent on the shoulder of the garment. 

''There you are, my Lord,'' the squire said, fastening a belt around Desmond's hips and thrusting his two-handed broadsword into the gilded leather scabbard. ''Shall I have Padraigh bring up your destrier?'' 

''Aye, and tell that damned groom to make sure Strife's been fitted with the new bit,'' the Earl said, his voice muffled behind the visor of his helmet. ''Get the mounting block and have my herald ready to make the announcement.'' 

Desmond strode from the tent, his body encased in steel, confident in his heart that he would win and gain both revenge and the favor of the King. Standing outside, he looked up and saw his wife, Eithne, in the stands. 

Before he could raise a gauntleted hand in greeting; however, to his shock he saw her move up to the King's tier, and watched the King's beringed hand laid familiarly on the back of his wife's skirt... and saw she did not protest, but laughed and kissed John on the lips. 

Desmond's mind reeled. Eithne and John the Bastard? Suddenly, a hundred insignificant details - glances, touches, hushed conversations - came together in his mind, and his face darkened to an ugly hue. 

His squire Henry's face swam before him. ''My Lord? All is ready, if you'll come and mount.'' 

Without a word, Desmond turned and followed Henry, a slow, steady rage igniting in his heart. Blinking back tears, he said roughly, ''Henry, after the duel is over, I'll be wanting my smallsword from the tent.'' 

''Aye, my Lord.'' Henry wondered a bit; what would the Earl need with his smallsword? But it wasn't a servant's place to question his Lord's whims, so Henry merely helped Desmond mount the war-trained Strife, and soon forgot that he had wondered at all. 

The two knights faced one another at opposite ends of the lists; Blacksunne in her ebony-chased armor and peacock blue surcoat, the golden sun badge upon her shoulder, a silken scarf wound around her upper right arm. She held a long wooden lance easily, the butt balanced in her stirrup, a shield with the phoenix symbol of the O'Cameron's strapped to her left arm. Cathelin was mounted on her own destrier, Shaitan - a coal-colored stallion who pranced uneasily until she booted him hard in the shoulder. Together, horse and rider presented a nightmarish symphony of ominous black. 

Strife, the O'Brian's stallion, suddenly screamed and reared as the scent of a rival horse caught his attention. The warhorse was the color of heavy cream, mottled with light gray, and his mane had been roached and decorated with trailing green ribbons. Desmond, cursing, managed to bring Strife back down to a sweating, eye-rolling standstill, and waved off the grooms who had come running to help. 

As the challenger, the Earl had the right to formally announce his grievances first. His herald, wearing the O'Brian livery, pranced out onto the lists, mounted on a dainty roan mare, and blew a series of notes from his trumpet. ''Hear ye, hear ye!'' the herald called, getting the full attention of the onlookers. ''Know that the Earl of Kinslainne, Desmond O'Brian, clan chief of the O'Brians, hereby announces to the gathered people and to His Majesty the King, the crimes of Cathelin O'Cameron, chief of the O'Cameron clan.'' 

Unrolling a scroll, the herald read the already familiar litany of so-called ''crimes,'' ending with, ''... and so, the Earl of Kinslainne has challenged the O'Cameron to a duel muscular, the defeated to lose title and claim to all lands, chattel and goods therein contained within the particular demesne. It has been so agreed. The duel will continue until one of the opponents has yielded, cannot continue due to injury, or dies. May God lend the might!'' The herald departed the field. 

Now it was the O'Cameron herald's turn. This was Becca, mounted on her own gray gelding and proudly wearing a phoenix badge on her crimson tunic. 

She lifted the ancient ivory horn of the clan to her lips and blew a series of crystalline notes, then said loudly, ''Cathelin O'Cameron, Lady of Inishowen and Chief of the Name of the O'Cameron clan, denies these foul lies and half-truths. Further, she cries insult upon the O'Brian for a dishonorable attack upon Inishowen after the Earl's challenge was accepted. The O'Brian is unchivalrous and unworthy to be called a knight. The conditions of the duel are accepted, and the Lady's champion, Sir Blacksunne, will prove the O'Cameron's right and avenge her good name and reputation. May God lend the might!'' 

Becca kicked her gelding lightly to urge the horse towards the stands. Facing the King directly, she said, ''Your Majesty.'' The kern-turned-herald kneed her horse, and as she had painstakingly trained, it sank down into a bow that made the onlookers gasp with delight. Urging the gelding back to its feet, Becca continued, ''The Lady Cathelin makes further announcement that Lugh O'Brian, half-brother of the Earl of Kinslainne, having been declared fudir and daer-fudir by the O'Brian, has agreed to adoption within the O'Cameron clan.'' 

Becca's face split into a huge grin at the look of shock on Eithne O'Brian's face. She turned her mount's head and rode lightly back to the O'Cameron tent, wishing she could be a fly on the wall when the Earl and his Lady discussed that development. 

And after that, it was time for the duel to begin. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Cathelin crouched down in the saddle, lance extended in front of her, braced against her side, her shield held slightly tilted. Shaitan quivered beneath her as if gathering himself, eager to begin the day's contest. 

From behind the bars of her visor, she could see Desmond O'Brian, her enemy. The man who had tried to take her lands; who had tried to kill her people; who had wanted to take her wife and children and life. 

She licked her lips and her field of vision narrowed until all she could see was the armored figure of the knight in front of her. She snarled, barely feeling the ache in her stomach as her wound throbbed. 

With a brazen blast of trumpets, the duel was begun. 

Clapping heels to Shaitan's sides and wailing a shrill warcry, Cathelin pounded up the lists, eyes squeezed into slits as she concentrated on the slightly bobbing point of the O'Brian's lance. 

With a crash, the two knights met and thundered past one another, leaving lances shattered into splinters in their wake. 

Cathelin sucked in a breath as she automatically turned Shaitan and trotted back to her end of the field, stars sparkling in her vision. The O'Brian's lance had hit her shield dead center, and it was only the strength of her legs gripping the horse's sides that had kept her in the saddle at all. 

Accepting a fresh lance from her squire, Thomas, Cathelin readied to charge again. The trumpet blasted and the pair came at one another, each determined to see the other upon the ground. 

Up in the stands, Madrigal watched, heart in her mouth, as Cathelin was rocked back in the saddle on the first pass. Oh, Allah, she prayed silently, protect my beloved Lady Cat.

Honey watched intently, but Dragon, who was easily bored, squirmed around in Crimthan's lap, the nurse not noticing because her eyes were riveted to the field. 

The little boy smiled at Eithne over Crimthan's shoulder. ''Pretty lady,'' he said. 

Eithne ignored Dragon but knew the child had spoken to her. She was seated at the King's feet, nibbling from a platter of sweetmeats given to her by a servant. 

Dragon, eyeing the treats, decided he wanted some, too. ''Me!'' he said, pointing at the platter in Eithne's hands. ''Give me!'' Then, remembering the manners that his mother, mathra and nurse had tried to drill into him, he added, ''Please.'' 

Eithne looked at the little boy, the son of her husband's enemy. A bastard of no name, as far as she was concerned, and as far beneath her as the earth from the moon. ''Silence, child,'' she said in a hard tone. She was still considering the impact Lugh's adoption into the O'Cameron clan would have on her own position, and wanted time in silence to think some more. 

Madrigal did not notice this exchange, being intent on watching the field. On the second pass, O'Brian's lance missed entirely, but Cathelin's struck him in the breastplate and shattered; the Earl desperately tossed his lance away to grab the reins of his steed with both hands in order to keep his seat. 

The opponents trotted back for fresh lances and Dragon looked slyly at Crimthan's face. The woman was absorbed entirely in what was going on in front of her, so the little boy slipped quietly off of her lap and climbed up to Eithne's tier, intent on those sweetmeats. 

Reaching Eithne, he stopped and grinned charmingly, dark curls fluttering around his face. ''Pretty lady,'' he said. ''Please... me have?'' Sticking out his hand, he laboriously folded down all his fingers save one. ''This many?'' It was a ploy he'd often used, having learned that asking for more than one treat often resulted in no treats at all. 

Eithne stared at him coldly. ''Go away, brat,'' she said. ''Go back to your sluttish whore of a mother.'' 

Dragon didn't understand the words, but he certainly understood Eithne's hostile tone. Thrusting out his bottom lip, he said belligerently, ''You bad lady! You g'way!'' 

Eithne was abruptly filled with rage. That her own sweet Robert should die, and this... this... this son of a heathen slave by a madman should live was suddenly more than she could take. She snatched up the platter and threw it hard, straight at Dragon, saying in a poisonous whisper, ''Take it, brat! And may you choke on every morsel!'' 

The heavy silver platter struck Dragon in the chest and he fell over, toppling from the tier with a wail, bouncing and rolling down several benches before lying still in a small, pitiful heap, horrified onlookers rising and staring at the boy, murmuring in shock. 

Eithne stared, panting, gray eyes wide. She hadn't meant to harm the child, not like that. 

Madrigal, hearing Dragon's cry, leaped to her feet and, putting the protesting Honey down on her seat, hurried down the tiers, followed closely by Crimthan. 

Kneeling down beside her son, Madrigal laid a hand on his chest, and was reassured that he was still breathing. A shout from the crowd made her look up, just in time to see Cathelin fall heavily from her horse with a crash of black armor and lie still. As still as their child, as still as her own suddenly quiet heart.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Cathelin tried to catch her breath. O'Brian's lance had knocked her squarely out of the saddle on their fourth pass. As she lay there, gasping, the Earl called out, ''Do you yield?'' 

Cathelin sucked in a breath and yelled, ''Never!'' She somehow managed to roll over on her side and get to her feet, swaying slightly. Sparkles of light danced in her vision, and she could feel a trickle of something wet and warm running down her leg. 

Must be blood, she thought, ignoring the agony of her reopened gut wound, for I know I didn't piss myself. Drawing her sword with a hiss of steel, she waited, watching Desmond as his squire and several grooms helped him dismount. Her armor had never been so heavy, so bulky, and she felt as if she were moving in slow motion. 

Desmond drew his own sword and advanced. He'd hoped her wounded, perhaps even a broken arm or leg. If the O'Cameron had surrendered, he'd have had his victory and his revenge, too. I'd have tossed her out on her ear, he thought, and let her roam as a beggar for a while before I gave her the mercy of death. And I'd have taken her wife as well, and killed her children before her eyes.

Even so, he said to himself as he circled his opponent, I will have her head this day. He saw she was favoring one side of her body and made a mental note to concentrate on her weak point. 

Cathelin bunched the muscles in her arm to keep her sword up. It was difficult; sweat was running into her eyes and she blinked the stinging salt away. 

With a roar, Desmond attacked, raining a series of blows down at Cathelin, who blocked some and accepted others even as she sought to penetrate a joint of his armor. She managed to slam a blow to his knee that made him wince, but the flat of his sword banged against her side, a stunning blow that made her whistle in pain. 

They disengaged, circling one another. Then Cathelin came at the Earl, slapping his sword aside with her shield and cutting deeply into the inside elbow joint of his armor. She was gratified when his shield arm hung limply, blood trickling from the fingertips of his gauntlet. She backed away, dodging his return stroke but not quick enough to avoid a ringing blow to her helmet that made her eyes water. 

Desmond's arm was broken, he knew it; and deeply cut besides. But he was beyond pain; behind his visor, his dark eyes were filled with nothing but the flames of hate and rage - his dead son, his unfaithful wife, the whispers of the clanfolk following his disastrous alliance with Francis Westfield at the Battle of the Trees. For an instant, Desmond O'Brian went mad. 

With a guttural scream, he ran at Cathelin, sword upraised, determined to end this contest and kill the woman he blamed for all his ills. 

Cathelin knew she had strength enough for only one more pass. As the Earl came at her, she dropped to one knee, shield at throat level. He came close and his sword swung down at her head; the Irishwoman grunted and using every muscle in her body, simultaneously rammed her shield into his crotch and swung her sword out broadly to the side, bringing it whistling back to embed itself in O'Brian's thigh, cutting through armor, flesh and bone as if they were nothing but clouds and mist. 

His leg nearly severed, Desmond dropped to the ground, unable even to scream, his sword flying from his hand to land behind Cathelin, who laboriously got to her feet. 

O'Brian's herald and some guardsmen ran out onto the field, but kept at a discreet distance when Cathelin wrenched her sword out of the Earl's leg, prompting a hoarse cry, and waved the bloody steel in their direction. 

Using her sword as a prop, she limped closer until she stood over Desmond. With the back of her hand, she raised her visor, golden eyes stared down into his. ''Do you yield, O'Brian?'' she rasped wearily. 

''No...'' Desmond looked up at her, into eyes that held no hatred, only pain and bone-deep weariness. ''No...'' 

Cathelin shrugged. ''Then I'll wait,'' she replied hoarsely. ''You'll bleed to death soon, I'm thinking.'' Cathelin waited a moment, then continued earnestly, ''Come, man! It's over! God had judged and you've lost. Yield and at least keep your life, and make not a widow of your wife.'' 

Desmond closed his eyes. He could feel his life draining out of him with every beat of his heart. Suddenly, he wanted to live - for revenge and hatred still pounded more strongly than his pulse. ''I yield,'' he croaked, then repeated louder, ''I yield me! I yield to the mercy of O'Cameron and the judgment of God!'' 

Cathelin motioned the guardsmen closer so they could attend to the Earl's hurts, and everyone ignored the roaring of the crowd's approval. As one of the men peeled off the leg section of Desmond's armor to apply a tourniquet, she said, ''Shall I summon a priest?'' 

The Earl licked his lips. ''No. Just leave me in peace.'' 

''As you wish.'' Cathelin inclined her head, then began to walk away, but before she'd gone more than a few steps, the lightness in her head overwhelmed her, and she sank down to her knees. 

Becca ran up. Tilting back Cathelin's visor, she assessed her Lady's pale lips and white face. ''Ho, a litter!'' she called over her shoulder. Looking at Cathelin with concern, she continued, ''Is it your gut wound, Lady?'' 

Eyes scanning the silently suffering woman, she noticed dark blood running from the heel of her armored foot. ''Jesus!'' Becca murmured. ''Don't worry, Lady. Brother Sebastian is here, he'll take care of it.'' 

Cathelin nodded, lips pressed tightly together to contain her sudden nausea. When the litter arrived, she went without a murmur. 

Dragon lay so unnaturally silent and still, it was all Madrigal could do to keep from snatching her child up and shaking him, demanding hysterically that he WAKE UP! She shook her head, trying to control herself. 

Crimthan, lips drawn tight, was running her hands over his limp body, probing him with gentle fingers, trying to determine if he had any broken bones. ''His arms an' legs seem aright,'' she said in a worried tone. ''But where's that healer?'' 

Madrigal looked up, noticing that Cathelin was being carried off the field in a litter, as was Desmond O'Brian. She had to restrain herself from leaping to her feet and racing down to see if her Lady Cat was all right. I hear no mourning, she thought. Perhaps she is not badly injured.

Her heart was torn; Madrigal wanted to wring her hands and weep, wanted desperately to be at Lady Cat's side, but could not, dared not, until she knew if Dragon was all right. 

If I went to her and told her this thing without knowing the outcome, it would cause her grief and great distress. So, I must wait. But it was the hardest thing she'd ever had to do. 

King John rose behind them, and the crowd fell silent as they waited for his announcement. 

''We declare the winner of this contest to be Sir Blacksunne, champion of Lady Cathelin O'Cameron,'' he said in a clear tone that carried to every ear. ''It is our decree that this feud betwixt O'Cameron and O'Brian hath been clearly judged by the Lord our God, and all grievances answered by Him and Him alone. We pray these two houses may once again befriend one another in the true spirit of honor and chivalry.'' King John sat back down again, ignoring Eithne, who sat at his feet and shivered. 

A young monk pushed his way through the crowds. ''Brother Alwyn,'' he said curtly, kneeling down beside Crimthan and pushing up the sleeves of his black robe. Without any further ado, Brother Alwyn began his own examination of Dragon, clucking his tongue and muttering under his breath. When he finished, he sat back on his heels and sighed. 

Madrigal held her breath as she waited for his verdict. 

''The boy's had the wind knocked out of him,'' the monk said. ''His limbs and spine are intact, as is his head.'' Alwyn pointed to a red mark on Dragon's chest. ''This will leave a bruise but it's not serious. You should get him out of the sun, into a cool dark place; when he wakes, give him only a little water, no food. If he vomits or is dizzy, send someone to fetch me.'' 

Madrigal felt dizzy herself, but she managed to give Alwyn a shaky smile. ''My thanks, honored brother,'' she began, only to be cut off when the monk rose. 

''Do not thank me, harlot,'' he said severely, looking down his nose at Madrigal with sheer contempt, ''Thank the Lord by repenting of your sinful, heathen ways, doing penance and acknowledging the One True God.'' 

Before a stunned Madrigal could respond, Alwyn left. 

Crimthan tossed back a lock of her orange hair. ''That one'll ne'er get into Heaven wit' that attitude,'' she spat. Seeing the look of confusion on Madrigal's face, she continued more gently, ''Well, then, Lady. I'll carry wee Dragon down ta Lady Cathelin's tent, fer I'm thinkin' t'would be fairly peaceful there. T'is too far ta go fer our own guesting tents. D'ye wish ta come an' bring Honey as well?'' 

Madrigal suddenly felt exhausted. Her brain was reeling; if she heard Crimthan's question, she did not acknowledge it. ''I must go to Lady Cat,'' she replied flatly. ''Do what you wish.'' 

With that, Madrigal started walking down the tiers towards the field, leaving a confused Crimthan behind. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Inside his own tent, Desmond sweated and swore at the chirugeon who had been hastily summoned. 

''I'll not be having my leg off!'' he shouted. ''Do what you must, man, but I'll not be carved on like a Yuletide goose!'' 

The chirugeon shook his head. ''But my Lord,'' he said, ''if I don't amputate, either you'll bleed to death or the leg will rot. The bone's in so many pieces... do you want to die? That's a mortal sin, you know.'' 

The Earl fumed. The pain in his leg was as nothing compared to the flaming agony in his soul. He had surrendered, yielded his honor and good name to the one person in this world he hated more than anyone else, and he had only done it to preserve his life a little while longer. 

For while he hated Cathelin, what he felt for his wife Eithne and the duplicitous King was only a little less strong. 

''Leave me!'' Desmond said. When the chirugeon began to argue, the Earl waved him away. ''Go! Just get out!'' 

As the chirugeon left, Desmond motioned to Henry. ''Where's my smallsword?'' 

Henry was puzzled. ''Your smallsword, my Lord?'' He gulped. ''Why'd you be wanting that?'' 

''Never mind why.'' Desmond gritted his teeth against a surge of searing pain. ''Just fetch it and give it to me.'' An arm was bound across his chest in a cloth sling, the bone roughly set by one of his men. Already, the bandage around the cut on that arm was crimson and dripping. 

Fearfully, Henry did as he was bid. When Desmond held the sword tightly in the fist of his good hand, he said, ''You're to go up to the stands and ask my ladywife to attend me, as well as the King. I've important things to tell them both. A deathbed confession. Do you understand?'' 

''Aye, my Lord.'' Henry decided the Earl's mind had become unhinged, and he hesitated until Desmond roared, ''Now, man! I've not much time!'' 

With rolling eyes, Henry fled. 

When he was alone, Desmond managed to raise himself into a sitting position, although he felt himself getting weaker by the second. A tourniquet had been applied to his leg, but he was still losing blood. 

Just a few moments longer, he said to himself as he struggled to stay conscious. Just a few moments longer... 

Eithne stared as the nurse carefully picked up the little boy and carried him down, followed by another woman - Emer, Duchess of Scartanore and wife of Duke Lleu mac Daire- who carried a little girl in her arms, Madrigal drifting behind the two women as they headed for the O'Cameron's tent. Eithne's peat-gray eyes marked their progress across the field with something approaching relief. 

No one saw me, Eithne thought. No one saw what I did to that little boy. I'm safe from that charge at least. She wrenched her mind away from the memory of Dragon lying motionless. Now I must see to my future.

She rose and smoothed her skirts, flashing a look at John. ''My husband's sore wounded,'' she said. ''If he lives, he'll like as not lose that leg and be unfit to lead the clan.'' She waited, sure that John would offer to take her back to London, install her in the Court, and eventually, when Desmond died as he surely would, make her his Queen and his wife. 

King John nodded. ''So we have seen. You have our condolences, Lady Eithne. To lose a son, and then a husband... we shall surely remember you in our prayers.'' 

It was his tone that alerted her; it was lazy, almost bored. Eithne suddenly realized that the King had no further use for her; rather than being besotted by her charms, he was dismissing her as if she meant absolutely nothing to him. Rage simmered up; rage and outraged shock. She'd sacrificed her honor to John and now he intended to drop her like roasted earth apple! 

She opened her mouth, prepared to screech like a fishwife, but William the Widowmaker was at her side, whispering urgently in her ear, ''Remember your place, woman,'' he  murmured, ''and take this as surety of the King's affections.'' He pressed the heavy gold ring into her hand and walked back to his place at the King's side. 

Eithne stared at the ring and her mouth closed with a click. Now she understood fully what she had been to John. This was her payment, as if she were a common whore. She looked at John with gray eyes that were as full of hatred as a stormcloud of lightnings; his personal guards moved closer to the King, as if responding to a threat. 

Desmond's squire, Henry, reached Eithne and gave her a sketchy bow. He was panting from his race across the field and up the terraced benches. ''My Lady,'' he said, gasping for breath, ''your husband, the Earl, wishes you to attend him in his tent. And His Majesty as well.'' 

William of Northanger's dark eyes pierced the squire. ''What does the Earl want of the King?'' he asked. 

Henry's eyes widened further. He was not accustomed to being in the presence of those of such high rank, but he managed to squeak, ''A deathbed confession, m'Lord. T'is what the Earl said.'' 

Without a word, Eithne turned around in a swirl of skirts and headed down the tiers. King John considered a moment, then rose. ''We will attend the Earl,'' he said, ''as a mark of our royal favor. Do you go ahead of us, sirrah, and announce our coming.'' 

Henry bobbed his head, then tore back down to the field, overtaking Eithne and quickly disappearing into Desmond's tent. King John and Duke William followed at a more discreet pace, ringed around with armed guardsmen. 

''Why do this at all, Your Majesty?'' William asked. 

The King gave his councilor a slight smile. ''If O'Brian is dying, I want to tell him what else he's lost this day. And to thank him for the use of his wife during my stay at DaDerga.'' 

William gave John a sharp glance, but forebear to comment. Let the King twist the knife, he thought. A petty gesture. Perhaps after this, I can interest him more in the coming war with France than with the lusty lilies of the Court.

Neither man knew the Earl was planning a desperate revenge.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

In the O'Cameron tent, Brother Sebastian finished the last of a series of neat stitches he was putting in Cathelin's abdomen. ''There,'' he said in satisfaction to his sweating patient. ''The muscle's no come apart much, just a wee tear. But the scar'll be all the greater fer the tearin'.'' 

''Aye,'' Cathelin replied. ''But I live and that whoreson O'Brian likely will not. What's a scar or two more on my hide, Brother? T'is only a reminder to me of mistakes past, and not to repeat them.'' 

Sebastian nodded sagely, then smeared the re-stitched wound with Ignatius' sovereign salve and began the process of bandaging. ''Well, you nearly had your guts upon the ground, Lady. This time, p'raps you'll consider takin' your healer's advice and stayin' abed.'' He gave her what he hoped was a stern look. 

Cathelin chuckled. The salve took away much of the pain, besides preventing infection. ''With my Madri at my side, good Brother, what other temptation would I be needing to spend all my time in bed?'' She'd drunk a good cupful of ale and was working on a second; jousting and sword fighting were thirsty work. 

Sebastian flushed scarlet. ''I'll be prayin' for your speedy recovery, Lady,'' he replied hastily, mortally embarrassed. The apprentice had entered the abbey as a child, one of the Innocents so desired by the Church, and although he'd had a somewhat rough education in the matters of men and women outside the abbey walls lately, he was still young and naive enough not to fully understand sex. 

But that didn't mean he couldn't still be embarrassed by the implications of it, despite what Brother Ignatius had insisted was, ''No mortal sin, only a wee bit o' what th' Good Lord intended fer th' continuance o' th' human race!'' Sebastian was still unclear on exactly what kind of relationship two women could have, but if Brother Ignatius and Abbot Dominicus saw nothing sinful in it, he could not, either. But he could still wonder... 

Sebastian was gathering his healing supplies together when Crimthan entered the tent, carrying an unconscious Dragon. Cathelin immediately sat up on the cot, then blew out a slow breath when the motion caused a sharp pain in her stomach. ''What...?'' she managed to gasp. 

''T'is all right, Lady!'' Crimthan said hastily, ''th' lad's had nobbut a knock. A healer's already seen to him.'' The nurse laid the boy on the end of the cot carefully. ''Th' brother said as how he'll wake soon, an' should have no food, only water. An' if he gets dizzy or vomits, we're ta call him.'' 

Sebastian snorted. ''I'm the one you'll be callin','' he said, abruptly assuming, in his concern, the confidence of his trade. ''In fact, I'll be examinin' the lad now, just to be sure.'' 

Cathelin watched with worried eyes while the Brother carefully went over Dragon with skillful fingers. In the meantime, Lady Emer entered the tent, carrying Honey. ''Here's your good girl,'' she said cheerfully. 

Emer was a small, plump, motherly woman with dark blonde hair, blue eyes, and a disposition not unlike a lioness with cubs. It was said that even her husband Lleu, a highly respected warrior with a reputation for fierceness, deferred to his little wife. ''I watched you lay that O'Brian bastard out flat, Cathelin. T'was a fine bit of swordwork, that.'' 

''My thanks, Emer,'' Cathelin replied, somewhat distracted. Honey whimpered, and this immediately got her attention. ''Oh, come here, little Cat,'' she said, opening her arms. 

Honey squirmed until Emer deposited her in her mathra's lap, then the little girl stared with wide green eyes at her brother. ''Wake up!'' she insisted. 

''Nay, Honey,'' Emer said, sitting down on a camp stool and pouring herself a cup of ale. ''Not now, sweet. He'll wake in a bit, no doubt.'' She continued, talking to Cathelin, ''Had the wind knocked out of him, he did. Ah, and here's your own lady!'' The Duchess shifted her chair around so Madrigal, who had just come in, could enter the small tent fully. ''Well, this is a merry little party, eh?'' 

Madrigal stared at Cathelin and licked her lips. ''You are... unhurt?'' she asked hesitantly. Madrigal feared her Lady Cat was a ghost, that she had died and the body she saw no more than her beloved's spirit, returned to fulfill her oath. 

And I would die as well, she thought, fear and hope warring within her. She was afraid to move, to break the spell, and lose her Lady Cat forever. 

Cathelin got up with a grunt and deposited Honeycat on the bed. She'd removed the padded gambeson she wore beneath her armor and was nude from the waist up. Powerful muscles shifted beneath her scarred and tattooed skin as she took the two strides necessary to bring her within a hair's distance of her mate. 

Madrigal half-closed her eyes, the smell of sweat and rusted iron and horse and leather rolling over her. Cathelin's hair, formerly pinned up beneath her helm, had come partially down, and dark-red locks cascaded over her broad shoulders. The Muslim reached out a hand and touched the new tattoo over Cathelin's heart - a circle filled with an abstract pattern suggestive of wings - and sighed. Cathelin had gotten the tattoo in honor of her adoption into the clan. It was her. 

The pulse of life beat beneath her fingers, the flesh she caressed was warm; it was her Lady Cat, the owner of her soul, her sun of glory returned whole and alive and looking down at her with a smile. Madrigal trembled when Cathelin took her hand and brought it to her lips, kissing it tenderly. ''Aye,'' Cathelin said huskily, ''I'm here, sweetling.'' 

That was enough. With a choked cry, Madrigal fell into Cathelin's arms, feeling the strong heartbeat beneath her cheek, her hands clutching her Lady, unwilling to ever let her go again. ''I thought you dead,'' Madrigal said, tears sliding down her cheeks. ''I thought you dead.'' 

Cathelin stroked Madrigal's back. ''I'm alive, Madri. I'm here. Don't fret so, sweetling. I love you, truly.'' Over her weeping wife's head, Cathelin saw Emer wink and drain her goblet. 

''I'll just be seein' to my own Lord,'' Emer said, a broad grin on her face. ''I'm sure the two of you need a bit of privacy right about now.'' With that, the blonde Duchess strode out of the tent, already determined to ask her minstrel to compose a love song in honor of the most besotted pair of wenches she'd ever seen in her life. 

Aye, Emer thought with a sigh. Young love. Is it not grand?

She chuckled to herself as she made her way across the field, barely acknowledging the King's passage as she walked briskly past the O'Brian's tent.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

King John entered the O'Brian's tent, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the relative gloom after the brightness outside. William of Northanger instructed the guards to wait outside. 

Eithne was already there; she gave the King a venomous glare and returned her eyes to her husband, who sat up on the cot and stared into the distance, a smallsword clutched in his hand. 

''I am here, my Lord of Kinslainne,'' John said. ''What would you have of me?'' 

Desmond's head slowly turned until he looked at the King. ''Closer, Your Majesty,'' he said in a breathy, barely audible voice. ''Closer, please.'' 

William nodded, indicating the pool of blood beneath Desmond that was sinking slowly into the dirt. ''He is weak,'' the councilor said. ''I think it is safe.'' 

King John harrumphed and gathered his ermine trimmed cloak around him. Stepping fastidiously around scattered pieces of armor, bloody bandages and other detritus, he went to the Earl's side and waited. 

''Closer...,'' Desmond whispered, trying and failing to wave his splinted arm. ''I must confess...'' His voice trailed off. 

John leaned down, tucking his cloak between his knees... 

And Desmond struck at him with the smallsword, roaring, ''Bastard! You bloody whore's get!'' And struck again. 

Even as Desmond's sword clanged off the hidden breastplate the King wore beneath his tunics and robes, William grabbed John's shoulder and pulled him, reeling, out of danger. Both the King and the Earl panted; the former out of sheer terror (as evinced by the urine trickling from the leg of his hose), the latter from the exhaustion that effort had cost him. 

''Why?'' John nearly screamed in panic as several guardsmen rushed in with drawn weapons. ''In God's name, why?'' For a moment, he believed the Earl knew of his plans for DaDerga. 

''You bastard!'' Desmond panted, still holding his sword. ''I know what you've been doing with my wife! Goddamned cuckolder! Did you think I'd wear the horns gladly?'' 

A guardsman raised his sword, but John stopped him with a gesture. ''I admit the Lady Eithne's a fine tumbler, O'Brian. And yes, I had her a time or two.'' With a small leer, he reached down a hand and patted his padded codpiece, ignoring his earlier fright in the anticipation of making the Earl's last minutes a living hell. ''She was ripe for it. Practically begged me. A born whore - and I should know.'' 

''You bastard!'' Eithne shrilled, hands bunched into fists. ''I'll kill you for that!'' 

''Tut-tut, Lady,'' John said, black eyes alight with the glee of a child who pulls the wings from flies and watches them struggle and die. ''A threat against the Crown is treason.'' 

Eithne began to weep and Desmond looked at her with cold hatred. ''Cease your blubbering, bitch,'' he said. ''I should kill you now, Eithne, for what you've done. But I'm a dying man, and have not the strength...'' He turned burning eyes towards the King. ''I tried to kill you and failed, John. I've nothing to lose, so execute me if you will. But I do ask a final request of you.'' 

John raised an eyebrow at Desmond's deliberate use of his name rather than a royal title. ''Say on, O'Brian.'' 

''Her.'' The smallsword dropped from the Earl's hand; he was slipping away, the darkness threatening to swallow him whole, but he clung to life for just one moment longer. ''Destroy her.'' 

''Who?'' The King seemed amused. ''Your wife? Or Lady Cathelin? Choose, O'Brian, and you have my word I shall use every power within my command to bring the lady down.'' 

A choice... Desmond fell back on the cot heavily, feeling cold, so terribly cold. His blood was freezing within his veins, clotted snow and ice blew through his flesh. ''I...,'' he began, then wheezed, eyes beginning to cloud over. 

William of Northanger bent over the dying Earl, keeping one hand on the dagger in his belt. Putting his ear over Desmond's working mouth, he listened for the man's words, and his fate-filled choice. 

Dragon had awakened and was nestled on Crimthan's broad bosom, being rocked while he clutched his favorite rag-dragon toy. The nurse had given the little boy a drink of water, and when he'd complained of a headache, had gotten Brother Sebastian's permission to give him a few sips of willowbark tea heavily sweetened with honey. 

Honeycat had also complained of a headache; she had been so insistent that Sebastian had given the little girl a tiny cup of the tea as well. Now she sat on the cot, playing with a small dark gray puppy she'd found roaming outside the tent. She was already calling the tiny animal ''Faithi,'' - a choice that Cathelin found disquieting. 

''T'is the Gaelic for a seer, an oracle,'' she explained to Madrigal. ''And that pup's got wolf in him or I'm no hunter.'' 

''Is it safe?'' Madrigal was still holding Cathelin's hand, although the two women now sat on stools side by side. ''I mean, he will not attack her, will he?'' 

''Nay,'' Cathelin said. ''Although I'm wondering how such a wee thing, and barely weaned, too, by the look of him, managed to come here.'' She watched her daughter giggle, charmed by the friendly puppy's antics, then sighed. ''I suppose t'will be all right. But he can not sleep in your bed, Honey!'' she said firmly. ''We've enough problems with fleas and such.'' 

Honeycat nodded, then giggled again as Faithi licked her face enthusiastically. 

''Will we have to get a puppy for Dragon, too?'' Madrigal asked, but before Cathelin could reply, Becca entered. 

''There's a messenger from the King, Lady,'' she said to Cathelin. ''Duke William of Northanger. He insists on seeing you now.'' 

''Oh!'' Madrigal jumped up as Cathelin reached out a long arm and snatched a tunic that was draped over her armorstand. 

Madrigal helped her get it on, then quickly washed Cathelin's face and hands and pinned her dark-red hair back into place. That done, the Muslim straightened her own dress and ran hands over her braids to make sure she was presentable. 

Cathelin bore all her mate's fussing with an amused grin. ''All right, Half-Tongue,'' she said when Madrigal had settled down, arranging her skirts, ''We've not the look of such dirty barbarians now. Ask his Grace to come inside.'' 

Becca ducked out of the tent and returned a moment later. ''His Grace, William of Northanger,'' she announced formally. 

The councilor came into the tent, black eyes coming to rest on Cathelin. ''Lady Cathelin,'' he said with a barely perceptible bow. ''His Majesty, King John, requests your presence immediately in the royal pavilion.'' 

Cathelin rose carefully, mindful of her stitches. ''I'm hardly dressed for a Court function,'' she began, but was cut off by William. ''What you wear is not important. This is to be a private meeting between yourself, the King, and one or two others.'' 

Cathelin's brows climbed to her hairline, but she politely indicated for the Duke to precede her. It wasn't until they got out of the tent that she realized Madrigal was right behind her. ''Madri?'' Quickly, she pulled her mate aside while William waited impatiently. ''The King's invitation was for me, sweetling, much as I hate to say it. I must go alone.'' 

''Where you go, I go.'' Madrigal's sweet face took on its most stubborn expression. 

Despite Cathelin's urgings, Madrigal refused to countenance leaving her mate, until finally William snapped, ''Come along then, obstinate wench! But you're to be silent and respectful or you'll likely find your head on a block.'' 

Giving Cathelin a smug smile, Madrigal twined her arm through the taller woman's and together, they followed William to the king's elaborate tent. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

King John sat on a sturdy chair covered in cloth-of-gold, boasting feather-stuffed cushions and bolsters. His feet, shod in the curl-toed slippers currently in vogue, rested on a small carved ivory ottoman, and in one hand he clutched a goblet, the bowl carved entirely of turquoise - a protection against poisoning. 

Around him, lining the walls of his tent, stood his personal guards, clad in mail, helms fantastically crafted into snarling beast's masks, and they held their swords naked in their hands. 

A minstrel, clad in bright green and ivory cloth, with yellow, scarlet and blue ribbons fluttering, strummed a lute and sang a Celtic praisesong to the King: 

''Good his reign; 
Since he has assumed the kingship, 
No cloud has veiled the sun for the space of a day 
from the middle of spring to the middle of autumn. 
And not a dewdrop has fallen from grass 
till midday 
and wind would not touch a cow's tail 
until noon.'' 

When William entered, the minstrel fell silent and withdrew behind a screen. Cathelin and Madrigal ducked inside, directly behind the councilor. King John waited while the two women bowed deeply, while the Duke stepped adroitly to the King's side. 

''We have summoned you here to witness the Crown's justice,'' King John said, black eyes glittering. He snapped his fingers, and a pair of guardsmen brought Eithne inside; the dark-haired woman had been gagged, although her hands were not bound. 

The men released her and she stumbled, falling to her knees on the rare carpets that were piled deep on the tent floor. Lifting her hands and removing the gag, Eithne spat to clear her throat and turned stormy gray eyes on the King. ''Bastard!'' she said huskily, ''I'll see you a rotted, maggot strewn corpse someday!'' 

''Now, Lady Eithne,'' King John said mildly. ''Curse us not lest you be gagged again. Be silent and listen, for our news concerns you as well.'' 

Cathelin surreptitiously took Madrigal's hand behind her back and squeezed it lightly. If John was surprised by the Muslim's presence, he gave no sign. ''If I may be so bold as to speak, sire?'' the Irishwoman said, inclining her head. ''Does this justice you speak of have to do with the Earl of Kinslainne?''' 

John looked pleased and smug. ''It does, Lady Cathelin.'' He took a sip of wine. ''Desmond, Earl of Kinslainne, is dead. He was shriven before dying, and made of us a final request, which we have deigned to grant. He desired revenge upon a lady; one of you here, in fact.'' 

Cathelin and Madrigal exchanged a glance, and Madrigal slipped her free hand through the slit in the side of her skirt to finger the hilt of the dagger she wore strapped to one thigh. She had no hope she could kill any the guards, but with any luck, if necessary, she could fatally wound the King, giving Cathelin time to escape in the confusion. 

I will not let him harm my Lady Cat. She kept her dark purple eyes on John, marking the space between his doublet and his chin; his throat, unprotected, would be the best place to attempt a strike. 

The King continued, oblivious to the Muslim's attentive stare. ''We swore an oath by our crown and kingdom to use our royal powers to take the Earl's vengeance upon the lady of his choice. You, Lady Cathelin; and you, Lady Eithne, were the women he most desired to be punished.'' 

At his gesture, some of the guards moved from their positions on the walls to block the entrance of the tent. ''And there will be no escape, either here or in Heaven.'' John settled back in his chair, watching the women with amusement. 

''What of the duel, Your Majesty?'' Cathelin said, every nerve in her body alert. She wished now it was not a crime to wear a weapon in the presence of the king. 

''The Earl's grievances against you, as cited by his herald, were answered by your combat. And, despite the terms of the duel, Lady Cathelin, the Earl had a previous agreement with us, deeding the Kinslainne lands to the Crown in the event of his death. This agreement predates your own involvement with O'Brian and we intend to enforce it.'' 

Cathelin shrugged; she really hadn't cared to take over Kinslainne. The Earldom was vast, if not as rich as Inishowen, and she had enough responsibilities already. If she had won the duel, she'd intended to make a gift of Kinslainne to a cadet branch of the O'Brian clan. 

King John continued, ''And as for Lady Eithne... she made a cuckold of her husband, lifting her skirts to a man unsanctioned by the holy bonds of marriage. For that crime, the Earl would have been within his rights to kill her himself.'' Eithne held herself erect, although still kneeling. The skirts of her brilliant orange gown, made of costly silk and embroidered heavily with gold, were torn and stained. 

Her hair was a mess of tangles, face dirty, lips cracked and split, but the dignity and pride of her bearing made her seem like a Queen, not a supplicant. ''Abortive, rooting hog!'' she said to John scornfully. Eithne turned her head to stare at Cathelin. ''May you see your own children die as I did mine, witch. A pity your brat didn't break his neck when he fell.'' 

Madrigal snapped her head around and her eyes narrowed. ''What do you know of that?'' she asked. 

Eithne spat again, gray eyes aflame with contempt. ''Why, for that t'was my hand that knocked the little whelp from his perch.'' The sheer flush of her emotional upset made her uncautious; suddenly, Eithne didn't care what happened - she'd lost everything except her life, and even that didn't seem quite so precious anymore. ''Too bad my aim wasn't truer. I'd have worn yellow to the funeral and drank a toast, besides.'' 

Madrigal trembled, and Cathelin hastily put an arm around her shoulders. The Irishwoman was furious as well, but dared not let her rage break through and endanger her mate's life. ''I'm sure God will find a suitable punishment for a would-be murderess,'' Cathelin murmured, but the soft tone of her voice was a fraud. Inside, she seethed, and swore to herself that if she survived this day, Eithne O'Brian would not. 

King John smothered a laugh behind his hand. This was better, far better than the passion plays he'd endured at Court. ''Ladies,'' he said, ''if you're quite finished... we imagine you would enjoy hearing our decision.'' 

All eyes turned to the King. 

CHAPTER FORTY

Cathelin waited, the pain in her belly abated by the sheer rush of adrenaline as her body sought to respond to threat as it had been taught. With an effort she held herself still, although her hand clutched Madrigal's in a convulsive grip. 

Madrigal had switched her attention to the King again and, her hand locked on the handle of her concealed dagger, coiled her muscles and prepared to leap at John if he announced Lady Cat's name. 

Eithne knelt, hands clasped together in her lap, gray eyes lashing the King with whips of scorn and injured pride. 

King John sipped his wine, drawing out the tension as long as he could. When he felt the mood was so tight it nearly thrummed like a plucked harpstring, he spoke. ''Lady Cathelin... the Earl did not name you, much to our surprise.'' 

Cathelin felt her knees almost give way in relief, but she kept herself upright with an effort. Her head felt light as she heard the King continue, ''...seems his wife's unfaithfulness was of more concern to him than any other issue. However... in view of Lady Eithne's crime against your own family, we are willing to defer royal justice in favor of your own. This, we feel, would not break our oath to O'Brian.'' 

Madrigal relaxed, too, letting out a sighing breath. She looked up at her beloved Lady Cat, silently answering the question in those golden eyes. 

Cathelin squared her shoulders. ''Nay, Your Majesty,'' she said. ''Though you've my thanks for offering. We leave the Lady Eithne to you. I've no wish for more O'Brian blood on my hands; there is already enough.'' 

King John nodded. ''Very well. But stay and be a witness to our sentencing of the Lady Eithne.'' 

Eithne stared at John, her face so still it might have been carved of Alexandrian marble. ''Do your worst, pig-dog!'' she said, sneering. ''Betwixt you and the O'Cameron witch, I've lost my husband, my rank, my son, my home and my honor. Kill me or imprison me; I care not what you do.'' 

William leaned over and whispered in King John's ear, and the King suddenly smiled - but it was not a pleasant grin. ''Then, as we gave your husband - may God rest his soul - we give you a choice, Lady Eithne. You may either enter the cloister of Kildare, or you may be locked within the tower room of DaDerga without food or water. We will give you a small dagger, if you wish to commit mortal sin rather than allow the will of God to relieve you of this life. Let it not be said we are not a generous monarch.'' 

Eithne stared at John in shock. The cloister of Kildare was dedicated to St. Bride, midwife to the Virgin Mary. An eternal flame burned there, tended to by nineteen nuns; their vows of poverty, chastity and silence were among the strictest in a Christian convent. The nuns had virtually no contact with the outside world; the women were forbidden to read, write or do anything save tend the sacred fire, cook food donated by pious peasants, and sing and pray. For a beautiful woman, still in her prime, the cloister would be akin to being locked up in a circle of Hell itself. 

Eithne stood slowly. ''I prefer death to a living burial,'' she said, gathering her skirts with both hands. ''But before I die, John the Bastard, know that I do so with a curse on my lips and a fire in my soul that cannot be quenched. May the very thing you desire be snatched from your grasp, and may you die yourself before the fulfillment of your uttermost dreams.'' 

Eithne suddenly darted at one of the guards, who half-raised his sword in reflex; she impaled herself on the blade, hitting the man so hard that the bloody point of the sword protruded from her back. With a sigh, she sank down, gray eyes wide open and opaque as riverstones seen through rushing water. The guard pulled his sword from her body with a rasp of steel on bone, and stammered, ''Your pardon, Majesty. She just...'' 

''I know.'' John looked at his former paramour, then said to William, ''See that she is given honorable burial beside her husband. I am not inclined to consider this suicide.'' 

William nodded and gave the order. Eithne was carried out, her dark hair unbound and brushing the ground like a cloak. 

John snapped his fingers for more wine. ''You have our permission to go,'' he said to Cathelin and Madrigal. 

Without a word, Cathelin bowed to the King and left, towing Madrigal by her hand, desperate for a breath of fresh air after her interview with the King of England. 

Once they were outside, Madrigal began to say, ''Lady Cat, I...,'' but they were interrupted by Duke William, who had hurried after them. 

''Your pardon, Lady Cathelin,'' he said. His black eyes looked directly into Cathelin's own amber, for the councilor was as tall as the Irishwoman, if leaner. ''There is something we must discuss.'' 

''Aye?'' Cathelin did not want to seem impatient, but she truly wished to get away from this place of death and return to her own home as quickly as possible. 

William moved until he stood so close that Cathelin could smell the cloves he sucked on his breath. ''It was I who heard the Earl's final request,'' the man said. ''No ear but my own can testify as to the truth of the matter.'' He stopped and waited, stroking his eyebrow with one finger. 

Cathelin schooled herself to betray nothing. ''And?'' she asked coolly. 

''And... perhaps I was mistaken about the Earl's choice. Perhaps I made a regretful mistake, but one which can still be rectified... at any time. I am getting to be an old man, my Lady. My memory is not what it used to be.'' 

''I see.'' Cathelin understood exactly what the Duke was implying. If he told the King that he had made an error, then like as not the sadistic John would be more than happy to offer her a choice between the cloister and death. 

William gave her a tiny smile. ''I believe we understand one another.'' 

''What do you want?'' Cathelin asked bluntly. She was tired of the councilor's game. ''Let's have an end to it, man. Money? Land? Cattle?'' 

William's smile grew wider. ''Meet me tonight, my Lady. The third landing of the privy stair in castle DaDerga. Come alone.'' The threat in his tone was evident. ''Remember, Lady Cathelin. Right now, your fate rests in my hands.'' With that, he walked away. 

Cathelin let out the breath she had been holding... and looked down at Madrigal, who stared after the Duke's retreating back and fingered her hidden dagger once more.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The Inishowen party, as well as many of the nobles sympathetic to the O'Cameron cause, had been invited to be guests of the King that evening. The cooks had labored to provide a suitable feast, and even now the vast dining hall of DaDerga was alight and alive with guests and servitors. The tables could not have possibly accommodated everyone of rank; instead, only the titled and wealthy were given places and the rest were served in lesser halls. 

There were minstrels and jongleurs, even a golliard poet or two. The King's jester, a diminutive hunchbacked man named Jackie who had been further deformed as a child - his lips had been skillfully carved away, leaving him with a grotesque perpetual smile - capered nimbly in his fool's motley, drawing laughter and a hail of bread crusts from his audience. 

Cathelin, seated at the high table beneath the canopy of state at the King's insistence, applied herself to her dinner, waving away the more exotic or highly sauced dishes. When the first of several subtleties were brought out - a rampant griffin shaped out of bread dough that was either fighting or fucking a currant studded unicorn - she turned to Madrigal, seated at her side. 

''These damned things can go on for hours, and it's my thinking that the whole lot of them will be drunk as alewives. Mark my words, Madri; half the women won't be sleeping with their own husbands tonight, and the other half'll be wondering where their lords are.'' 

Madrigal stirred the contents of a silver platter with her eating knife. ''What will you do with the Duke, beloved?'' 

Cathelin gave Madrigal a sharp glance, then lowered her voice. ''What do you mean, sweetling? I've no idea yet what the man wants.'' 

It was Madrigal's turn to glare, but she kept her voice low as well. ''I am not a fool, Lady Cat. If you yield to this man's demands, he will want more, and more and more. His kind are never satisfied; you will be bled white, Inishowen drained and still, like a spider, he will weave you further into his web until it is too late to escape.'' 

Cathelin shrugged. ''What would you have me do, Madri?'' She picked up her goblet and took a healthy swig of spiced red wine. ''I'll be meeting with the viper tonight, as you know. After that... we'll see.'' 

''As you wish.'' Madrigal daintily hacked off a bit of meat from the joint of lamb being passed around by liveried servitors. But she was not nearly as calm as she pretended to be. 

William of Northanger watched the two women carefully, taking neat and precise bites of the clove and cinnamon dusted peacock's breast on his platter. 

It was clear that Lady Cathelin and the heathen woman were more than friends. While William had heard of such relationships being sanctioned - or at least ignored - by the Church in Ireland, he'd never witnessed such himself. 

Rather than being shocked, the Duke was pleased. Yet another weapon to add to my arsenal, he thought. I'm sure I can find at least one corrupt servant in Inishowen who'd be willing to testify as to their unnatural relationship in a canonical court. Then the Lady would face a tribunal of cardinals appointed by Rome, and no doubt she and her strumpet would be sentenced to the stake.

But only if she refuses my demands.

William was an ambitious man. Having the ear and favor of the King, he was the second most powerful lord in the land, but it was his determination to become the king himself. He had his own supporters, but right now he knew he could not defy John openly and hope to succeed. 

However, with Lady Cathelin and her own allies drawn within the plot... 

An armed uprising in Ireland would draw the armies of John's fealty-sworn barons, dukes and earls, leaving England virtually devoid of anyone loyal to the King who was powerful enough to oppose William in his treasonous bid for the throne. 

This was why he had urged King John to make an alliance with Desmond O'Brian; the Earl of Kinslainne would have made an excellent addition to William's own cadre of secret supporters. William had also intended to use Eithne O'Brian's adultery with John to blackmail the Earl into aiding him; a fortuitous accident that had coincided well with his plans. 

But with the Earl's death, William had rejected his wife, figuring the woman would, even if sympathetic to his cause, be useless by virtue of her sex. Without an heir, even if Eithne had taken over Kinslainne, she would not have been able to claim the chieftanship of the O'Brian clan, and thus, would not have been able to bring an alliance of other clans to further William's plot. So, she was discarded - both by the King and, much more secretly, by the Duke. 

William dipped his fingers into a bowl of rose scented water and wiped them on the waiting servant's tunic. Then he helped himself to a dish of braised calf's brains and cabbage, and while he ate he watched all around him with his cold black eyes - and the Duke thought, and schemed, and planned. 

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Cathelin yawned, running both hands through her dark red hair. ''T'is mortal tired I am, Madri. Are you as ready for bed as I am?'' She'd taken off her feast clothes, carefully putting away the silver and copper embroidered black tunic and matching hose; now she was dressed in simple homespun trews and a threadbare tunic that had definitely seen better days. 

Madrigal, seated in a chair and brushing out her incredibly long, blue-black hair, nodded. ''Yes, the feast was long, and I, for one, was bored. Why is it that you find such humor in a small man falling into a pie? I felt pity for him, the little king's jester.'' 

''Aye.'' Cathelin crossed the room and poured herself a cup of wine, watering it well from a bronze pitcher. ''Poor Jackie Manikin. You'll notice I did no laughing, sweetling. T'is a hard life that one leads, I'm thinking.'' 

''And the minstrels were terrible as well. What was that song they kept playing? It was as sweet as rahat lakoum and just as sickening.'' 

Cathelin grinned. Rahat lakoum was a Saracen sweetmeat made with honey and hashish; it was infamous for its richnes, and rare was the individual who could stomach more than one. ''I believe t'is called 'No Star is Brighter Than My Lady's Eyes.' Did you see the look on Lugh's face? He was so green I thought his liver had flopped over.'' 

Madrigal chuckled. ''I wish Lugh had been able to sing. He has a fine voice and his harp is better tuned as well.'' She laid aside the comb and sighed, then twisted her hair into two braids, securing them with leather cords that had been gilded. ''It has indeed been a long day, my beloved.'' 

''It has at that.'' Cathelin put a hand on her abdomen, gingerly feeling the bandages that were wrapped around her middle. ''And t'is not over for me yet.'' She yawned again, stretching until her spine cracked, ignoring the painful pulling of her stitches. 

''When must you meet with the Duke?'' Madrigal rose and crossed to Cathelin, putting both arms around the taller woman and squeezing her. 

''Soon.'' Cathelin glanced at the candle on the table. It was fat and striped with red and white; as it burned down, it marked the hours of the night. ''In another half-hour, I'm thinking.'' 

During the feast, the Duke had sent a page to Cathelin. The little boy, who could not have been older than nine years, had come up to the two women and said softly, ''The first hour after midnight.'' Cathelin had given him a small coin and dismissed him with thanks. 

Madrigal sighed, snuggling closer to her mate. ''Be cautious, Lady Cat. You cannot carry your sword, but at least take a knife.'' 

''I will.'' Cathelin took another gulp of wine, then set the goblet on a table and put her arms around Madrigal. ''I love thee, my paradise-dove,'' she said in Arabic. 

Madrigal replied, ''Thou art my soul,'' in the same tongue. Then, as Cathelin yawned again, eyes fluttering, the Muslim tightened her arms around the woman she loved, and prayed she would have the strength to protect her Lady Cat from the world, but especially from the vile man known as the Widowmaker. 

William leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed over his chest. She was late, but the Duke knew Lady Cathelin would come eventually. She had no other choice. 

A figure muffled in a cloak appeared on the fourth floor landing above him. The torches burned low but it was apparent from the graceful way it moved that this newcomer was a woman. 

''Lady Cathelin?'' William moved away from the wall and waited as the figure descended the stairs slowly. ''Come, woman! Dawdle not so! We have much to discuss and my time is limited. I must return to the King's chambers before I am missed.'' 

In truth, King John was dallying with a pair of pretty serving wenches; but as soon as he finished, he would be summoning the Duke. John took a perverse pleasure in trying to privately humiliate William; thus far, the king had no idea of the many times his ''faithful'' councilor had come close to revealing his contempt and disgust for the deviant monarch. 

''Hurry, sluggardly wench!'' William was beginning to seethe; it seemed as if Lady Cathelin was showing her disrespect for him by deliberately lagging and refusing to respond. ''Or would you rather have me reveal to Rome the true nature of your relationship with that slave of yours. What is her name?'' He bared his teeth in a sarcastic parody of a smile. ''Ah, yes. Madrigal. A toothsome piece, eh?'' 

The figure hesitated, then began to walk down the stairs even more slowly than before. 

William continued, ''Not that I blame you. No, she seems a lusty little armful, that I grant. But you know how the Church frowns upon such sins. I've no doubt the cardinals would vote to have the pair of you condemned to the stake, although you could always bribe the executioner to strangle you first and escape the pain of the flames. Or I could just tell the King; he might forgive you, but I know he'd want the pair of you to come to Court and attend him in his bedchamber. His Majesty likes to watch, you know.'' 

It was at this moment that William realized something was wrong. Even concealed in the folds of a cloak, the woman descending the stairs seemed somehow smaller than he remembered. The Duke drew in a quick breath, but it was already too late. 

The woman came down the remaining stairs in a rush, her cloak billowing out behind her like the wings of a dark, vengeful angel. William had not even time to cry out before she hit him with all her body weight, pushing him over and down the stairs. 

He rolled, bumping from one unforgiving stone stair to the next, somersaulting down as pain exploded throughout his body, until he reached the next landing and lay, sprawled and breathless, struggling desperately to clear his head of the swirling universe of sparks and darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. 

William was aware when the woman stood above him; the folds of her cloak brushed his face and he turned his head, seeking instinctively to see her. When he managed to get his eyes in focus, he choked, ''You!' but his voice was cut off when her booted foot came down across his throat and began to press hard. 

The Duke raised his hands, only dimly realizing one of his arms was broken, and his nails scrabbled against the leather boot. His tongue protruded from his mouth as he heaved and strove to live, to take just one single breath of sweet, sweet air. 

Eyes rolling back in his head, heels pounding and scraping the stone floor, William convulsed, his struggles getting weaker... weaker... until they stopped altogether. The woman continued to bear down on his throat, but carefully; she did not want to break his voicebox and betray his death as murder. 

When she was satisfied the Duke was dead, she removed her foot, flinching when a rattling sigh came from his lips; a final lament from the last bit of air trapped in his lungs. William's black eyes stared up at her, his protruding tongue a bloody rag from where he'd bit down on it in panic. 

The man was dead, of that she was sure. She bent down and closed his eyes with her fingertips, then arranged his limbs more haphazardly, as if they had remained that way after he'd fallen. There was blood on the stairs from a gash in the back of William's head; a tiny pool of the dark red stuff had gathered beneath him, soaking his hair, but the flow was sluggish, almost hesitant. 

Carefully, making sure she left no sign of her presence, the woman turned and went back up the stairs, the hood of her cloak falling back to reveal blue-black braids wrapped in gilded leather cords. 

As she left, as silent as a ghost, not even a footfall to betray her, she did not notice a small shadow detach itself from the larger shadows in the corner of the fourth floor landing, and scurry quietly away. 

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Cathelin's eyes fluttered open and she winced as bright sunlight struck at them like spears. Oh, St. Brigit! she moaned internally. How much did I have to drink last night, I'm wondering?

With a shudder, she buried her nose in Madrigal's hair, breathing in the fresh, spicy scent she adored. She was curled up against her mate's warm back, one arm over her waist, a heavy breast cupped in her hand. Her other arm was numb from where she'd had her own head resting on it. 

Cathelin moaned softly and felt Madrigal stir. ''Has the grape turned on you, Lady Cat?'' the Muslim asked softly. 

Cathelin moaned again, licking dry lips. ''Aye,'' she replied huskily. ''Either that, or some son-of-a-she-wolf used my head as a battering ram in the night.'' 

Madrigal was silent. She'd drugged the wine in their bedchamber last night to ensure that her Lady Cat slept, using a packet of herbs she'd stolen from Brother Sebastian. The wine had been spiced with apricots and cloves, and sweetened as well; the Muslim knew this would disguise the bitter taste of the drug. 

She'd gotten precious little rest herself. Her eyes felt gummed together; she raised her hands before her face, not surprised they were trembling a little. She half expected to see them covered in blood -William's blood - but they were clean. 

If only my own soul were as clean, she thought. 

Cathelin grunted, shifting to find a more comfortable position. Her belly wound was beginning to gripe. ''T'is chilled this morn,'' she hinted. ''Although I've a powerful thirst, I've no ambition to rise and face the cold stone floor.'' 

Madrigal sighed, then threw off the heavy coverlet, shivering a little when the cool air hit her skin. Pulling away from Cathelin, she got out of bed and padded across the room, wishing they were back in Inishowen; she had covered the floors of the master's chamber in colorful rag rugs. Besides providing a homey touch, they kept feet from freezing first thing in the morning. 

Cathelin watched Madrigal, noting the other woman seemed tired as well. Ah, my poor sweetling... she's had a bad time of late, and in no small part due to me. I'll have to think of something special for us to do together when we return to Inishowen.

Madrigal came back with a cup of water, which Cathelin drank gratefully. Handing the empty cup to her mate, the Irishwoman lay back with a sigh, flexing her arm, which had begun to tingle with returning feeling. She was looking forward to a morning cuddle with plenty of sweet kisses, but much to her disappointment, Madrigal pulled a gown over her head and sat down across the room, her back turned to the other woman, taking her hair down from its sleep-braids. 

''Madri? Will you not come back to bed?'' With a smile, Cathelin patted the empty place beside her. ''We'll be leaving for Inishowen later and we'll have precious little privacy on the trail. Besides, I'll have to be seeing Duke William before we leave; I'm sure the man's angry at my failing to meet him last night.'' 

When Madrigal did not reply, Cathelin continued, ''I don't know what got into me last night, sweetling. I slept like the dead. Mayhap t'was the wine.'' 

Madrigal's back was rigid beneath her gown but she said nothing until she had finished pushing bronze pins into her coiled hair. Then she turned on her stool, facing Cathelin. ''How so, Lady Cat?'' she asked calmly, although inwardly she trembled. 

''Why, for that I can usually hold my liquor better than that. Must've been stronger than I thought.'' Cathelin, with a regretful sigh, climbed out of bed and pulled a leather tunic over her head, its color a dark gold, decorated with bone beads and tiny silver studs that winked and flashed in the morning light. 

Madrigal helped Cathelin put on her hose, then handed her mate a pair of soft house boots. ''For now, wear these,'' the Muslim said absently. ''I will leave your riding boots out for later.'' 

Cathelin leaned over and kissed Madrigal's mouth lightly. ''Will you be wanting to break your fast here?'' she breathed against the other woman's lips. Her hands, powerful enough to break bones, were gentle as they slid along the back of Madrigal's gown, lingering over her rounded buttocks. ''I know what I'd be wanting to feast on...'' Her tongue curled over Madrigal's ear delicately. 

Madrigal moved away. ''I must stay here and supervise the packing,'' she said, avoiding looking at Cathelin. ''You go down, Lady Cat. The King will be expecting you to take your leave of him; and, as you say, you must still meet with Duke William.'' 

Cathelin was frankly astonished. Since she'd been wounded, she'd hadn't exactly been inclined to do more than kiss or cuddle, and sometimes, not even that. And she knew this had been a hardship to her sweetling, who'd had to relieve her urges alone when she grew frustrated enough. 

Now, when she was doing everything except tossing Madrigal on the bed and leaping on her like a starving wolf, the woman was more interested in packing! Cathelin growled beneath her breath but decided to leave it. She did have business to attend to, regardless of what she'd rather be doing. 

We'll be talking of this later, she and I, Cathelin decided. I'll get her alone when we're on the way back to Inishowen, even if I have to post guards to do it!

Madrigal tried not to let Lady Cat know how distressed she was; she meekly tilted her head to receive her mate's kiss on her smooth cheek, sensing the other woman's upset boiling beneath the surface. When Cathelin left the room, she sighed and sat back down, hands clasped in her lap, worrying a loose thread in the embroidered oak leaf design on her purple gown. 

I have committed a terrible crime, she thought. And compounded it by refusing to lay with Lady Cat. But I just... cannot... not now.

She was startled from these thoughts by a scratching at the door. 

As she walked through the halls, Cathelin noticed clustered knots of servants and lords and ladies huddled together, whispering excitedly. Catching sight of Emer, she hastened over to the plump blonde woman. 

''Good morn, Lady Emer,'' Cathelin said with a polite bow. ''I hope your slumbers were restful.'' 

Emer looked up at Cathelin and grinned. ''Oh, save the flowery speeches for the king and his lackeys!,'' she replied. ''I've no need of such. Have you heard the news, Cathelin?'' 

''Being as how I've only just wakened, no. Walk me down to the dining hall, will you? And tell me on the way.'' 

Emer laced her arm through the taller woman's and they walked together, the full skirts of the Duchess' gown swishing against Cathelin's leg. ''Duke William of Northanger is dead,'' she said. 

Cathelin stopped dead in her tracks. ''What?'' Her amber eyes were wide with astonishment. 

''Aye.'' Emer nodded politely to a passing Countess and her entourage. ''The place is all a-buzz with it. A servant found him, stone dead, on the privy stair early this morning.'' 

''Hmph.'' Cathelin began walking again, dark red brows drawn together in a frown. ''How did he die?'' 

''He fell, or so I've heard. His limbs were broken, his skull cracked, and blood everywhere. The King's own chirugeon and a monk examined the Duke's body and confirmed it must have been an accident.'' 

''Slipped and fell, eh?'' The two women entered the dining hall, where a long table had been set up with platters and dishes of food and drink. Already, the eating tables were filling as people shoved for a place, the hum of voices filling the vast hall. 

Cathelin grabbed a bowl of porridge and several slices of fried bacon, wrapping the latter in a chunk of bread. Then, taking a goblet of hard cider, she escorted Emer to a table, having only to glare at the occupants before they hastily moved down to make two spaces available. 

Sitting down, Cathelin drank half her cider first. ''So tell me, Emer. How did the Widowmaker slip and fall? And what in the name of God was he doing on the privy stair?'' Of course, she knew why the Duke had been there; he had been waiting for her and their secret meeting. But she wanted to know if that particular bit of news had gotten out somehow. 

Emer shrugged. ''I've no idea,'' she replied, taking a big bite of smoked eel. She chewed and swallowed, then continued, ''Mayhap the old Sassenach was meeting with some kitchen slut. Or with a great lady whose husband didn't know he was being fitted for a cuckold's horns. I'd put nothing past these English folk; they're as lusty a lot as any, and I've already heard this morning of a wedded couple who snuck from their own chambers in the night for an assignation with someone else. Much to their embarrassment, they woke up with one another this morn!'' The Duchess laughed merrily. 

Cathelin chuckled but continued to think while she ate. ''Where's John the Bastard?'' 

''In his own chambers, I heard. Mourning the loss of his favorite councilor, although there's few who'll grieve over that wicked man's loss.'' Emer spotted her husband, Lleu, who was coming into the hall. ''Your pardon, Cathelin. I have to speak to my lord about a certain lady's maid who snuck into our bedchamber last night.'' The Duchess sighed. ''Quite a pretty lass, if a bit scrawny. She was surprised, she was, when she found me there instead of Lleu!'' 

Emer rose and glided away, her plump little form not unlike a galleon under full sail. Upon seeing his wife, Lleu flinched and held a hand to his temples. 

I'm not be wanting to be Duke Lleu right now, Cathelin thought, then turned her attention back to the problem at hand. 

I know I didn't have that much to drink last night. The wine I drank at dinner was well watered, and save for that last cup at bedtime... Cathelin's eyes opened wide as a thought suddenly struck her. 

Gulping her cider, she stood and hastily left the dining hall, taking the stairs two at a time, intent upon reaching her bedchamber - and Madrigal, whom she was beginning to suspect had more than a little to do with Duke William's unbelievably fortunate demise.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Jackie Manikin looked at Madrigal. His eyes were the pale green of new spring leaves, his hair so pale a blonde as to be almost white. Although only in his twenties, the dwarf's face was lined and creased with care. 

Madrigal suppressed a shudder; Jackie's mouth, so horribly mutilated, made her heart clench in empathy. How could someone do that to a child? she asked herself. 

As if he'd read her thoughts, Jackie said, ''Your pardon, m'Lady.'' He waved a hand at his mouth, teeth exposed in a perpetually foolish grin. Over the years, he'd painfully learned to speak somewhat normally, although it was an effort. ''My peasant parents sold me to a man who trains and then sells deformed children to great lords and ladies as 'pets', you might say. My first owner, Count Henry of Wilverton, had this done to me; he thought it was amusing. And besides, he claimed I didn't smile enough to suit him.'' 

This time, Madrigal allowed Jackie to see how affected she was. ''I am truly sorry, Master Jackie. I, too, know what it is like to be a slave and subject to a cruel master's whims.'' She looked at him, compassion and empathy clearly visible on her beautiful face. 

The dwarf's entrance had been so unexpected, and when he'd asked to speak to her, Madrigal hadn't had the heart to refuse the little man's request. She'd put aside her brooding guilt about her role in Duke William's murder, almost relieved to have something else to think about. 

''So I've heard,'' Jackie said. ''But you shouldn't call me 'Master.' I'm far beneath you in rank, m'Lady.'' His eyes looked searchingly into Madrigal's, as if seeking something there; after a moment, he nodded in satisfaction. Taking a deep breath, he continued, ''So, to business then. What did the Duke have on you?'' 

Madrigal was startled. ''What? How did you... I mean, I don't know...'' She stopped, flustered, knowing she had betrayed herself and unsure exactly what the dwarf was implying by his question. 

Jackie held up a hand. ''Listen to me, m'Lady. I saw what you did to the Widowmaker last night.'' He sighed. ''Sometimes, women want to use me in bed, for I'm intact and still a man, despite my lack of stature and my twisted back. They shudder in horror, true - but it's a perverted adventure to them, a taste of forbidden fruit that isn't sweet at all. I was on the privy stair last night, waiting for a certain Countess who'd asked me to meet her there. She never came. You did.'' 

Madrigal didn't know how to reply; her mind twisted back and forth in panic. He saw! He knows! What can I do? Finally, she took hold of herself with an effort; although her heart pounded, she strove for calm. ''I see.'' The Muslim didn't quite know what to do. 

I have already murdered one man coldly, for he threatened my Lady Cat. It will be difficult for me to live with this and I know Allah will punish me harshly for the sin. But... I do not think I could do it again, not to this man, who has suffered so terribly already. Her eyes narrowed as she considered the hunchbacked dwarf, who had gone through the agonies of slavery, even as she had once. 

Jackie waited patiently. He was crouched on a stool, dressed in green and yellow fool's motley, his long pale hair in thin braids that had been wrapped in soft copper wire to make them stand up crazily, like corkscrewing horns. Madrigal took him in, not only with her eyes, but with her soul, tasting this man's pain. 

''How is it that you speak so well?'' she finally asked, surprising herself with a question she hadn't known she wanted to ask. 

''Practice.'' Jackie rubbed a hand across his chin. ''If you mean, why do I speak like an educated lord? Bear in mind that I'm a mimic, m'Lady. I ape the manners of my betters, the better to amuse them.'' He sounded bitter. 

''What will you do now? What I mean is... what is it that you want from me?'' 

''Freedom.'' The dwarf shifted on his stool. ''I don't want money, m'Lady. I only want to get away from the King and his courtiers. He'll sell me cheap; I'm not his favorite jester by any means. I think the only reason he brought me along on this trip was that he hoped I'd come by some accident in the O'Brian's war camp. The sight of my death throes would make a jolly jest for the king, I think.'' 

''And if I do this thing? What will happen then?'' Madrigal knew all about the longing for freedom; it had been a fantasy of hers when she'd been a slave. If I can help him, I will, she decided. Thus far, he has spoken not a word of threat, and even if he did, I do not know if I could live with another such act upon my soul.

Again, it seemed as if the dwarf was a mindreader. ''Make no mistake, m'Lady. I wouldn't betray you.'' Jackie looked at her earnestly. ''No matter if you tell me to leave, right now, and pester you no more. I'll keep my mouth shut. Well, as much as I can.'' He couldn't give her a rueful glance, but his shrug conveyed his feelings. 

''Suppose I buy your freedom. Where will you go? What will you do?'' Madrigal hesitated to ask the dwarf what he could do; she was well aware that the common folk were often cruel towards the deformed, and like as not the little man would end up stoned to death in some backwards village, instead of using whatever small skills he had to scratch out a living. 

''I've no idea.'' Jackie scratched his head. ''I admit I've never thought further than to just get away. But no doubt I'll survive somehow.'' His light green eyes searched Madrigal's face. ''I don't mean for you to think I've some kind of hold over you, m'Lady. Please believe me... I don't want to make trouble for anyone.'' 

''I believe you, Jackie.'' Madrigal reached out one hand and took Jackie's. ''I will do this thing for you, because I believe slavery is a terrible thing, and because no man deserves to be treated as you have. I would have done this even if you had not seen me on the stairs last night; if you had only come and asked.'' She smiled, suddenly sure her decision was the right one. ''And you will come back with us to Inishowen, if you wish. I am sure my Lady Cat will be willing to provide you a place.'' 

''Truly?'' Jackie's eyes shone with unshed tears. ''Truly, m'Lady?'' When Madrigal nodded, he kissed the hand that held his own. ''I swear you will not regret this, m'Lady! I swear it!'' 

Madrigal sighed. ''I will regret nothing. But you must promise me you will not tell Lady Cat what you saw. I will tell her myself, in my own time. I do not want her to become upset. She has not been well.'' 

Jackie nodded eagerly. ''Yes, of course, m'Lady! I'll hold my tongue, I promise.'' 

''Why did you come to me, Jackie? Why not beg your freedom from one of the other lords or their ladies? I am curious, because you told me you did not want to make trouble by telling what you know.'' 

Jackie considered. ''Well... I'd heard you were a slave before the Lady Cathelin freed you. I figured you'd be more sympathetic than any of the others. Besides, I really had nothing to lose, did I?'' 

Before Madrigal could reply, the bedroom door burst open, revealing Cathelin, her face bright scarlet with rage. 

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The door slammed shut behind her. ''Well?'' Cathelin asked, seemingly oblivious to the dwarf who'd clambered down from his stool and hastened to a corner of the room. ''T'is waiting I am for an explanation.'' 

Madrigal blinked. This was an unexpected development. She would have to be very careful not to give herself away until she knew what Cathelin was talking about. ''An explanation of  what, Lady Cat?'' she replied, hiding her suddenly shaking hands in the folds of her skirt. 

Cathelin drew in a deep breath. When she spoke, her tone was soft, but this was deceptive; inside, the Irishwoman was at the point of raging. ''An explanation, Madri, of why I slept so suddenly and deeply last night after no more than a single cup of wine in our bedchamber... an explanation of why I wake up this morning, and you all but toss me out of our room on my ear... and an explanation of why Duke William of Northanger was found dead in the early hours.'' 

Madrigal stared at her mate, dark purple eyes wide. ''I don't...,'' she began, but the denial stuck in her throat. 

''Well?'' Cathelin crossed her arms over her chest, and for the first time, acknowledged the trembling Jackie's presence. ''And while you're at it, my wife, p'raps you'll also be explaining why I find the King's jester here, in our bedchamber, no less, consorting with you in God knows WHAT manner! By the Lord Jesus, Madrigal!'' She stopped, drawing a deep breath, then continued in what was almost a shout, ''What ELSE did you get up to in the night? Will I next be finding the King with his throat slit? A parade of guardsmen traipsing through with their breeks around their knees? How dare you, woman? How DARE you?" 

Throughout Cathelin's tirade, Madrigal had been silent. Now, however, she rose from her chair fluidly and faced her angry mate. ''I dared because I had to,'' she replied, swallowing her own outrage at Cathelin's ridiculous accusations. ''I dared because the Duke would have kept us beneath his heel for all time to come. I dared because he would have been like a naked sword hanging above our heads, and our lives would have been blighted, and our children's and grand-children's. Was his death at my hands so different from the O'Brian's at yours?'' 

Madrigal walked to Cathelin, then gracefully sank to her knees, bowing her head to the floor in a profound obeisance as she had been taught so many years ago. ''If I dared, it was because of my love for you.'' Her hands lifted and extended, palm up. ''But only a free woman would have dared to risk so much. It is obvious you do not consider me free enough to take action where I deem necessary. Do with me as you will, Lady Cathelin.'' She turned her head to one side, baring her neck. ''My life is not my own; this slave has displeased you and submits herself to you for a master's justice.'' 

Cathelin croaked, ''Get up.'' She had not moved an inch. 

Madrigal remained where she was, although her arms began to shake from the strain of remaining uplifted. 

''I said, get up!'' Cathelin was near tears; and when Madrigal meekly sat back on her heels, head bowed, hands behind her back, she said, ''How can you still be believing you're a slave? Did I not free you? Did I not wed you lawfully in the ancient way, in the eyes of my people; raise you up and make of you an equal to myself?'' 

Madrigal replied softly, ''Yes. You have done all these things. And have I not done as much as I could as well?'' She raised her face and Cathelin's heart convulsed when she saw her mate's cheeks were wet with tears. ''Have I not done the duties you saw fit to give me? Have I not welcomed you in my bed and given you pleasure even when I did not truly feel as if I wanted to? Have I not smiled when I was sad, laughed when I wished to cry, been cheerful and obedient and done all I could to ease your burdens?'' 

''Madri...'' Cathelin was shocked. ''Sweetling...'' 

''When you were wounded, I took upon myself your responsibilities as well; your people, our people, looked to me to make decisions for the castle and its lands. In battle, I have killed for you, even though I am not a warrior as you are. I have defended Inishowen, cared for our children, and been a loyal wife to you in all things. ALL THINGS! I have sinned against Allah for you, my soul in jeopardy of Shaitan's icy hell! I have given myself to you completely, Lady Cat. And now you accuse me of terrible things, insult me, and ask me how I dare? I ask you the same question! How do YOU dare to say these things to ME?'' 

Madrigal rose from the floor in one smooth motion and continued, ''You say I am no slave? Then DO NOT treat me as one! You say I am your equal? Then treat me as such! Yes, I killed the Duke.'' She took a deep breath. ''I did not ask your permission, Lady Cat, because I knew you would not allow it. And, as you say, I am free. So... I admit I deceived you, drugged you, and destroyed an evil man. One of your kerns could not have done so; they are far too visible. I, on the other hand, have had much practice in making myself invisible, as a servant is seen yet unseen. I alone am guilty of murder. It was my decision, my deed. And I do not apologize for it.'' 

Cathelin's mind was reeling. Had she truly treated Madrigal so... so... casually? To her shame, as memories rose unbidden... she had. The years they had been together - for much of that time, she had taken her mate for granted with a cavalier attitude that now amazed her. And Madrigal's accusation of her being insensitive in bed. She now realized this was true as well. ''Oh, sweetling, why did you not tell me? If I forced you...'' She could not say the word 'rape' aloud. 

''I could not.'' Madrigal half turned her face away. ''I owe you so much.'' 

''And now this.'' Cathelin began to cry. ''Madri, the Duke's death means nothing to me, truly. I spoke from fright; can you imagine what the King would be doing to you if he knew the truth? For the murder of his favored councilor? Beheading would be a kindly fate. T'will be my everlasting sorrow that you bore this alone, when I should have been there. Please... I do not want to lose you.'' 

She moved closer to Madrigal, wanting to touch her but hesitant. ''I cannot. My soul would wither and die without you. I did not mean those things I said; I was angry, but mostly with myself, and spoke in haste.'' 

When Madrigal did not reply, Cathelin continued, ''You are right; you are not a warrior or battle trained. Duke William was both. I'm not knowing how you killed the man, or made is seem an accident, but... if you had not succeeded, Madri, you'd be imprisoned or dead yourself. T'was a dangerous thing you did, and t'is right you are that you risked much. The cause was just; I only wish you'd trusted enough to tell me. But,'' she said hastily as Madrigal's eyes rose to hers, ''that is as may be, and over and done with, besides. It should have been me to crush the Widowmaker, but proud I am that I have such a mate as you, who would brave such dangers for the sake of love and be so clever about it, too.'' 

Madrigal searched Cathelin's face. ''I... I did a terrible thing, Lady Cat. To kill a man in the heat of battle is one thing; to destroy an enemy with cold calculation is another. But I found the strength and courage... because I knew if I did not, then you would be harmed.'' 

Cathelin touched Madrigal's arm. ''I know.'' She scrubbed her face with her free hand and sighed. ''And... there is something else as well. You are not a slave, sweetling. Not now, nor ever again. You owe me nothing, do you hear? There is no debt between us, nothing to be repaid. I did not realize I had been so...'' The words wouldn't come and she gulped past the lump in her throat. ''I've been... you should have...'' Finally, she burst out, ''If you've no wish to be loving me, Madri, say so! You'll not hurt my feelings! Well I know that what I wish is not always what you're wishing as well. I'll not seek another, I swear. But do not think you must, sweetling. That hurts me as well as you.'' 

Madrigal nodded. ''I have wronged you in this, I think,'' she said. ''Oh, I know you did not mean to be insensitive, Lady Cat. And I know you would never force my will. But, I felt obligated, for all that you've done for me.'' 

''All of which you've earned on your own merit and skills, not on your back!'' Cathelin took the final step that brought her own muscular body directly against Madrigal's softness, and she carefully put her arms around the other woman. ''I'd no idea you felt so. T'is my fault as well, for being blind and such a fool. I meant no hurt to you, sweetling. Believe that. And I am proud of you, although I don't take kindly to being drugged like an oak sacrifice.'' 

Madrigal slid her arms around Cathelin, hands pressed to her mate's back. ''I was wrong to deceive you. But do you feel I was wrong to kill the Duke?'' 

''Have you not been listening, Madri? No, you were not wrong... although I admit you right in saying I'd have done everything in my power to stop you if I'd known what you were planning. Not because I think of you as a slave, beloved; but because I would not see you hurt.'' 

''Then you are not angry?'' 

''Nay. Not truly.'' Cathelin squeezed Madrigal tightly. ''He was a devious, heartless wretch who deserved killing. He may have been titled and a powerful man, but he had no honor, and in my own eyes, no matter what you did, t'was no more than the will of God. And there's an end to that bad bit of business. Ah, sweetling, I do love you.'' 

''Well, next time I will be sure and...'' 

Cathelin interrupted. ''Pray God there BE no next time!'' She chuckled, then kissed the top of Madrigal's head. ''Now... there is one other thing about which I'm eaten alive with curiosity...'' 

Madrigal tilted her face until she could look into Cathelin's amber eyes. ''Yes?'' she asked softly. 

''What in God's name is that jester doing in here?'' 

Two sets of eyes turned to Jackie, who gave the women a weak wave and plopped down abruptly on the floor. 

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Jackie Manikin proudly smoothed the front of his new blue tunic, stitched by Madrigal's own hand in a pattern of bees and blossoms. It had been specially tailored to accomodate his twisted body and was by far the finest thing he'd ever owned. 

True to her word, Madrigal had convinced Cathelin to buy the little man's contract of servitude from the King. A week after they'd returned to Inishowen, Cathelin had presented the contract to the astonished Jackie, explaining that he was no longer a slave; the weeping dwarf had consigned the document to the flames and burned his hated jester's suit as well. He'd then sworn himself to the O'Cameron clan's service, and to Madrigal's in particular; there was now nothing he would not do for the Muslim woman who had treated him as a human being - as a man - for the first time in his life. 

Jackie had, in the first flush of freedom, taken it upon himself to demonstrate his knife-throwing skills, honed by years of juggling and an almost supernatural aim. Wolf McLeod had immediately assigned the dwarf to protect Dragon and Honeycat. 

Wolf had explained to Cathelin, ''He's a wee fellow, I'll admit, but you should see him tossin' blades! I vow there's no equal ta his skills amongst th' kerns. He can nip a fly's wings from its body in midflight an' th' fly's no wiser till he falls. I'm thinkin'...'' Wolf had narrowed his icy blue eyes thoughtfully. ''His size an' such'll make a nasty surprise fer any assassins what might come sniffin' about, fer you've many enemies still, an' not all rest quietly in their graves.'' 

Cathelin, much to Jackie's delight, had agreed. 

Becca and Lugh were practically inseparable; in fact, many bets were being taken on just when the banns for the two would be published, for it was a forgone conclusion among the folk that the warrior and the newly adopted minstrel would be wed... and soon. 

The female population of the castle had collectively swooned when it became common knowledge that the romantically beautiful young man's heart had been given to the Half-Tongue; now plans for the wedding grew more complicated by the hour, and were debated, heatedly discussed and fought over in acrimonious, occasionally hair-pulling, spats. It seemed as if, since they could not have him, they would at least make sure the ceremony was a gratifyingly elaborate spectacle that would be talked about for generations. 

It was a matter of debate, too, as to whether any of Inishowen's unattached women would even survive the betrothal, so fierce was each partisan's rhetoric or fists; or so joked the men, who eyed all the fuss and declined to participate, preferring to make jests and good-natured cow's eyes at both Becca and Lugh - each of whom were red-faced with embarrassment over the whole thing. 

Jackie looked at his mistress, Madrigal - for that was how he thought of her - seated on the high dais beside the Lady of Inishowen. In only a few months, the little man had become completely enamored of the Muslim woman and utterly devoted to her, her children and her mate... although Lady Cathelin he still considered too formidable for familiarity, but definitely worthy of great respect and awe. Jackie's heart swelled in his breast; he considered Madrigal the most beautiful woman in all the world. 

''A song! A song!'' The shout went up from the tables in the dining hall, where torches blazed, casting dancing light and shadow on the colorful pennants that hung on the walls. 

With a nod, Jackie crossed to Lugh's side, climbing up on the table itself in order to be heard. Lugh, blue eyes shining and staring at a grinning Becca, strummed his harp and played a delicate air of his own composing, while the dwarf sang in a high, pure voice as sweet as an unbearded boy's: 

''At the door to the west, 
On the side of the setting sun, 
I see my Lady, my dark haired lovely one. 
Oh, take down your braids, 
Take them down and let our spirits run, 
And let me lie with you in the purple-green grass, 
My dark haired lovely one. 
And your hands, as soft as the breasts of doves, 
Let them wander where they will and ne'er be done, 
And let me kiss your mouth and eyes, 
My dark haired lovely one.'' 

Now, Madrigal struck her own harp, playing a counterpoint to Lugh's music, and sang, her voice twining around Jackie's in a soprano duet that made many sigh at its sheer beauty: 

''At the door to the west, 
Where grow trees of silver with leaves of gold, 
I see my Lady, all crowned with crimson bold. 
Oh, lay down your weapons, 
Lay them down and let our flesh enfold, 
And take me to lie in the warm bright sun, 
My Lady crimson bold. 
And your mouth, far sweeter than the honeyed wine, 
Let it wander where it will, and you I'll hold, 
And kiss me till the stars dance by, 
My Lady crimson bold.'' 

When the music ended, Cathelin leaned over and gave Madrigal a kiss that made the entire company whoop in appreciation. Lugh laughed, clapping Jackie on the shoulder, and then Becca leaped over the bench and grabbed her minstrel lad by both ears and bussed him on the mouth until Jackie coughed, pale green eyes politely averted from the display. 

When the applause died down, Cathelin said quietly to Madrigal, ''Are you... I mean, do you wish...?'' She tugged at the neckline of her tunic. ''I mean to say, after the meal, are you...?'' 

Madrigal smiled. ''I know what you mean, Lady Cat. And the answer is yes.'' She laid aside her harp and held out a hand. ''Your mouth, far sweeter than the honeyed wine, let it wander where it will, and you I'll hold,'' she sang under her breath, and chuckled when Cathelin colored. 

Since their return to Inishowen, Cathelin had taken great care in not being too demanding... although not timid by any means, she had encouraged Madrigal to talk to her, tell her what was going on, and was contented with a kiss or two if that was all her mate was willing to give. Never again would she be so presumptive, the Irishwoman vowed. I love her far too much to be a selfish pig-dog again.

''What do you think of those two? Lugh and Becca?,'' Cathelin asked, changing the subject in order to calm the sudden skipping beat of her heart. 

''I think they make a fine couple,'' Madrigal replied thoughtfully. ''I do not know if it will last but they seem happy.'' 

''Aye.'' Cathelin leaned over further. ''And glad I am to see you happy again as well.'' She kissed the hand she held tenderly. 

Madrigal had suffered nightmares as a result of her killing of the Duke; it had taken intense sessions with Abbot Dominicus to allow her to come to the realization that despite the method, the man's murder had been justified. 

''The Lord has told us thou shalt not kill,'' the abbot had said, blue eyes staring into Madrigal's. ''However, one must not suffer evil lightly, either. T'was your sin of pride to take this deed upon yourself without consultin' your lawful mate; if she's forgiven you, an' you truly regret your deception, then I see no need for guilt.'' 

''But holy one! I killed that man...'' She had wrung her hands together in an agony of indecision. ''Not in self defense. He was unarmed.'' This had bothered her more than anything else; that she had killed an unarmed man, and not in honorable combat or battle-madness. 

Abbot Dominicus had snorted. ''My dear child, if what I've heard from Lady Cathelin is true, then I would say you were defendin' yourself, indeed! Oh, to be sure, he had not drawn steel against you, but the weapons he used were just as deadly. Make no mistake; William of Northanger was your enemy, an' while the battle you fought was one of words and foul plottin's, you could've ended up just as dead. An' your children, an' the Lady as well.'' 

He had cocked his head and continued, ''Self-flagellation is a sin, too, as is excessive guilt where no need exists for such. Don't wear out your knees over this, or your mind or your heart. If it comforts you, then pray to Allah for His forgiveness, an' I will pray to my God, too. But don't let the matter fester inside you, my child. Let it go... an' be free of the Duke forever, rather than allowin' him in death to put you in the captivity he did not in life. Grave-chains are terrible things, Lady Madrigal. Let it go.'' 

Madrigal now sighed, remembering the Abbot's kindness and wisdom. She had not thought herself capable of calculated murder; now she knew she was. Abbot Dominicus had pointed out to her that she was no saint; she was human, with all a human's failings, and that everyone, even himself, was capable of taking life if the need existed. She was not a monster; she had just needed to hear that from someone other than Lady Cat. 

Cathelin rose, tugging Madrigal to her feet. ''A toast!'' she called out, raising a goblet in her other hand. ''A toast to the Lady of my heart! My Madri, who has with courage, skill and wit has saved Inishowen, and myself, from many an enemy! To Madrigal!'' 

The company roared, ''To Lady Madrigal!'' and the sound of their approval and agreement rattled the ancient weapons on the stone walls of the hall. 

Madrigal blushed. 

Dragon and Honeycat, with the puppy Faithi curled up between them, clapped their hands together and squealed with delight, while Crimthan juggled her three small charges on her lap. ''Listen, babes! Yer mother's a hero!'' she called out, making Madrigal blush again. 

Jackie ran a hand through his flaxen hair, settled down on his bench and sighed happily. His Lady was well, he had finally found a home and his much dreamed-for freedom... and it looked as if life was going to be very fine, indeed. 

The End

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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Stand and Deliver by Nene Adams ©2000 - All rights reserved

The swords clashed loudly, a shower of fiery sparks leaping from the singing steel.

One of the opponents was a highwayman, dressed in black from head to toe; ebony breeches clung to his legs like a second skin, tucked into thigh-high boots, while the cloak knotted around his throat flowed down his back like great bat wings. A vizand mask was tied across the upper half of his face, leaving only a chin and oddly feminine lips visible. A wide brimmed hat was jammed down on his forehead and a profusion of dark-dyed ostrich feathers curled from the side like billows of smoke. Blue eyes, as brilliant as sapphires bathed in flame, sparkled in glee as two uniformed guards attacked him.

"Is that the best you can do, gentlemen?" the highwayman quipped, side-stepping one guard’s charge and delivering a tooth-rattling boot to his backside as the man stumbled past.

The second guard snarled. The red-and-white tunic of his uniform hung in shreds, testament to the highwayman’s skill. "We’ll see you hanged yet, Charlie Rose!"

"Not in this lifetime, I’m afraid," the tall, lean, black-clad man said with a confident smile. Parry, parry, riposte... the thin but deadly blade of his rapier danced through the air, singing shrilly as he adroitly evaded the guard’s blows.

The first guard got up from the ground, shaking his head groggily. One of his eyes was swelling rapidly but he could see well enough to realize the highwayman’s back was completely unprotected. He drew his sword back and charged, intent upon skewering the man who’d been responsible for humiliating not only himself, but so many of his bretheren.

Charlie Rose, the nortorious Roaring Boy, the Roving Black-Hearted Blade, seemed to have eyes in the back of his head. He leaped aside at the last possible moment, sticking out a foot to trip the man running past him. The guard narrowly missed impaling himself on his friend’s sword and fell face down in the dirt, spitting and cursing loudly. Rose gave him a casually brutal kick to the temple and the man lay limp and silent.

Slowly, the highwayman turned back to his only remaining opponent. The guard gulped and his eyes narrowed. The point of his sword shook.

Rose smiled. It was the cheeky grin of a charming bastard and it infuriated the guard to undreamed-of heights. With a scream of pure rage, he stamped forward, sword swinging back and muscles tensed, intent upon splitting the highwayman’s head like an overripe melon.

Rose ducked beneath the blow and smashed the hilt of his rapier behind the guard’s ear. The man dropped like a stone... leaving the highwayman alone with his defenseless victims.

He glanced over at the coach, which had pulled off to the side of the road. Sheathing his rapier and drawing a loaded flintlock, Rose said in a deep, husky voice, "Stand and deliver, my man!"

The driver glanced at the dark figure in the road ahead, rolling his eyes in fear.

From within the carriage, a woman’s voice sounded peevishly. "If the King’s guards want payment for this night’s work, tell them I’ll not put up a bloody cent. T’is their duty to protect travelers from scum like Master Rose. And they’d best not try and load the body into my coach, either. Let them drag that thief back to London by his hair!"

The highwayman cocked his head and abruptly, a broad grin stretched across his face. He walked towards the carriage, reaching out to pat the coach horses’ velvety noses as he passed them by. The driver was too frightened to do more than move his eyes.

"Now who can this be?" The highwayman jerked open the door of the carriage. "Kindly step outside, milady," he said politely, thrusting the flintlock inside and smiling even more broadly at the chorus of frightened squeals. "How stupid of me. I mean, my ladies."

Three women scrambled out of the coach; they wore the lacy mobcaps and simple gowns that marked them as mere maidservents. Rose winked saucily at one bold wench, who simpered and pushed her bulging bosoms with her hands, encouraging them to spill even further over the square neckline of her dress. Being robbed by a dashing, dangerous and mysterious stranger was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to them, and each one of the maids dreamed that the highwayman – so romantic! so handsome! – would whisk them away on the rump of his horse for a night of torrid passion and whispered promises.

The girls sighed simultaneously and surreptitiously adjusted their clothing and hair to its best advantage.

The same female voice that had spoken a mere moment ago now sounded again from the lightless interior. "How dare you, sirrah!" she snapped. "Do you know whom you are dealing with? Those are the King’s guards you’ve murdered!"

Rose’s blue eyes sparkled with good humor. "Why, if your appearance is as lovely as your melodious voice, milady, I can scarcely restrain my impatience to view your charms. And the guards are not dead, merely sleeping, which is their primary occupation, I understand. Now come out at once, if you please, or I will be forced to come in there after you."

The maidservants sighed again in pure admiration.

With a snort of annoyance, Lady Sarah Summersby emerged from the coach. She was a petite but voluptuous young woman with startlingly bright copper-red hair. Her large gray eyes, set a shade too far apart from her aquiline nose for true beauty, seethed with resentment.

"You blackguard!" she challenged, scrambling down the steps and ignoring the highwayman’s proffered hand. "I’ll see you hanged for this and I’ll spit on your grave, to boot!"

Rose blew her a kiss, much to the lady’s further fury. "Did your mother never tell you that such sour looks were unbecoming?"

"Ha!" Lady Sarah’s dress of steel-silver satin was cut so low that her nipples were practically visible through the froth of lace that outlined the plunging neck. Her ivory breasts quivered with indignation and threatened to topple out of her gown entirely as she panted in rage. "T’is the High Justice for you and no mistake, sirrah! How dare you rob His Majesty’s servants on the King’s own road!"

"I would dare much more, milady, for the merest chance to bask in your warm and gracious presence." The highwayman was at his most charming and the watching maidservants giggled. A glare from their furious mistress quelled their hilarity if not the hot looks they continued to bestow upon the black-clad robber.

He flashed them an impudent, salt-whilte smile and said, "Now, milady, deliver up your money and your jewels... and I mean the jewels around your pretty white neck, not the sweet rubies that are falling out of your dress. Alas, I have no time to sample the lovelies properly, else I’d hardly turn down the invitation."

Lady Sarah crossed her arms over her chest to hide her ample bosom and tapped a foot nervously; the peacock feathers in her headdress bobbed in time. "You’ll get nothing from me, you rogue! Nothing!"

"Ah, well." He shrugged. "We’ll see about that, milady. I am sorry you choose to do this the hard way. Then again, perhaps I’m not sorry at all." The long barrel of the flintlock dipped, nosing about the bottom of Lady Sarah’s skirts. Both the lady and her maids gasped in horror as the hem of her dress rose scandalously higher, revealing shapely ankles and well turned calves clad in tight knitted hose.

"Ah-ah!" Rose cautioned when the lady tried to pull herself away. He reached out his free hand and grabbed her arm firmly, holding her in place. "I’m not quite finished viewing all that I came here to see."

Lady Sarah gasped in thwarted anger as her skirts were raised nearly to her waist. She bit her lip so hard it nearly bled and her cheeks blazed with scarlet blushes.

A little higher, showing softly rounded thighs clasped by jeweled garters, and the barest hint of fluffy copper curls that lay between. At this violation, Lady Sarah let out a shrill scream of pure fury and tried to struggle away from the highwayman’s grasp, but it was no use. Her strength was no match for his; the man’s deceptively slender build concealed oak-hard muscles that easily kept her from escaping.

Now Rose let go of her arm and wrapped a wiry arm around her waist, keeping the lady’s skirts up and giving everyone – with the exception of the driver – a good look at Sarah’s charms. Thrusting the flintlock into the waistband of his trousers, he shoved his fingers between her thighs, making her scream again, and emerged with a bulging leather pouch in the palm of his hand.

He let Lady Sarah’s skirts drop and pushed her away, pulling the flintlock out again. "I had a feeling you were hiding a treasure beneath your skirts, milady," he said, weighing the pouch before tearing the strings open with his teeth. Tangled strands of pure gold, set with winking rubies, shimmered in the moonlight.

"A most generous contribution," Rose said with a smile. Lady Sarah’s hands shook as she straightened out her violated dress; the pouch had been tied to her petticoat strings, dangling betwixt her legs - a place everyone thought reasonably safe from thieves.

"T’is little pleasure you’ll get from your prize," she told him bitterly. "I’m on a mission from the King and that’s his property you’ve got there." Suddenly, the sound of hoofbeats shattered the night air and Sarah hissed triumphantly, "More of His Majesty’s guards! You’re a dead man, you blackhearted bastard!"

Undaunted, the highwayman turned to meet this threat so coolly that the maids nearly swooned. Grabbing Lady Sarah again, he crushed her so tightly against his body that she couldn’t breath. His head dipped down and he forced his mouth upon hers, pressing her unwilling lips open and thrusting his tongue inside, tasting her sweetness, her spice. Sarah struggled for a moment, whimpering, then her hands came up of their own accord and wrapped around Rose’s shoulders, held the back of his neck.

This kiss seemed endless, a meeting of two such volcanic passions that it seemed the very night would be set aflame. When Rose pulled away, they stared at one another, Sarah’s gray eyes wide and filled with an emotion that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with awakened desire. The highwayman smiled and ran a gentle thumb across Sarah’s bruised lips, soothing her trembling with soft caresses. Then a trumpet blast sounded and the moment came to an abrupt end.

Rose laughed softly and winked, blue eyes glittering. "I think I’ve stolen more than your baubles this night, milady."

Without giving her time to reply, he spun her away and leaped into the saddle of his horse, a huge, satanic-looking steed with a flat, hostile glare. Clapping heels to the horse’s sides, he rode away, the wings of his cloak flaring out, and in a heartbeat, the Roving Blade was gone.

As the King’s guards came pounding up the road and stopped at the carriage, the figure of the highwayman appeared on a nearby hill, silhouetted against the moon. His horse reared, plate-sized hooves slicing the air, and Rose flourished his flintlock. His throaty laughter floated down to them, a sardonic compliment to an excellent night’s work. A cloud moved across the moon, blotting him from sight... and when it moved away, he had disappeared without a trace save the faint echoes of hoofbeats thrumming like a pulse down the King’s highway, far away from the scene of his crimes.

Lieutenant Bassington took in Sarah’s flushed cheeks, disheveled dress and heaving breaths. "Are you all right, milady? That rogue didn’t... harm you in any way?"

Sarah blushed hotter and looked down at her hands, trying to forget the hard body of the highwayman, the taste and incredible feel of his mouth. "No, Lieutenant. I’m fine. But the bastard’s stolen something of mine that’s very valuable – a set of rubies, in fact. They’re priceless and I want them returned."

Bassington’s eyes narrowed into slits. "Did he now?" He glanced at the giggling maids and wondered if the highwayman hadn’t taken a taste of the lady’s charms as well. Everyone knew what they said about the ravenous sexual appetites of noblewomen. Still, he wouldn’t make an issue of it – Lady Summersby was too well connected at Court.

"Well, mum, Rose is well away but we’ll make the attempt to retrieve your jewels and catch the bloody thief." He signaled and several of his men took off in the direction of the highwayman’s trail, bent low over their horse’s necks and urging them to speed with spurs and whips.

"Thank you, sir." Lady Sarah smoothed her palms over her cheeks, wishing she had a more concealing complexion. "I was on my way to dine with the Countess of Grangemoor," she offered by way of explanation. It wasn’t usual for ladies of quality to be out and about so late at night. "The King kindly gave me two of his guards as an escort but Rose overcame them."

"So I see," Bassington replied in disgust, eyeing the unconscious men. "Shall we accompany you the remainder of the way, madame?"

Sarah sighed. "No, thank you, sir. After such a trying evening, I much prefer to return to the palace. I shall inform the King about what has happened, including your most timely intervention. Had you not appeared in the nick of time, who knows what the rogue might have done!"

Bassington tipped his hat in her direction. "Very well, mum. We shall escort you to the palace and see you in safety to the door." Turning his head, he bawled, "Smart formation, gentlemen! There are ladies present!"

"Oh! Thank you most kindly, sir." Lady Sarah shooed the maids back into the coach and clambered inside herself. Leaning out the window, she called to the driver, "Jennings! Back to the palace, if you please!"

It took three shouts and a stout smack across the lips before Jennings recovered enough from his fright to drive.

In the wee hours of the morning, Lady Sarah finally returned home to Summerfield, the grand stone mansion of her ancestors that sprawled in a private wood outside of London.

Wearily, she entered her bedroom, pulling her gown away from her neck. The maids she’d been traveling with were all palace servants and she’d left them to the tender mercies of their peers, who would no doubt spread the word of her violation at the highwayman’s hands. Her own servants were more discreet; she knew she could count on their silence.

She worked off the busked bodice of her dress until her breasts bounced free of their confinement. Sarah sighed; she hated being laced to such extremes but in the King’s Court, fashion reigned supreme.

Thinking about fashion led her to the embarrassing interview she’d endured with the King upon returning to the Palace. Her good friend, the Countess of Grangemoor, was His Majesty’s secret mistress; Sarah had been charged with acting as go-between, delivering letters and gifts to and from the palace because her presence would never be suspect. The King’s love affairs were usually somewhat less than private but since the Countess was married to the volatile and duel-mad Count Henri, His Majesty hadn’t wanted to take a chance on the unstable Frenchman’s temper and scorn of lese majestie.

The pouch of jewels had been a love gift from the King, intended to grace the Countess’ pretty neck at the next Court function. Everyone suspected the beauty had a mystery lover but no one knew who. Reporting to the King that his expensive present had been stolen by a notorious highwayman hadn’t been the easiest moment in Lady Sarah’s life.

Suddenly, Sarah stopped dead in her tracks and stared at the floor, coppery brows drawing together in a frown.

Ebony hued clothing lay scattered on the carpets – trousers, ruffled shirt, boots and cloak. Weapons were also in the pile – flintlock, rapier, scabbard. The clothes seemed to have been abandoned in a haphazard fashion but actually led the eye in a more or less straight line right up to the great canopied bed that she’d slept in all her life.

The curtains had been drawn back and swagged with gilded cords. A figure lolled on the peach satin sheets, lazily picking through a platter of chilled fruits.

It was a woman, long and lean, arms and legs showing sleek muscle beneath her olive-toned skin. Hair as black as raven’s wings spilled down her back and across her broad shoulders, curling down to her trim waist and boyish hips. Her breasts were small and firm, tipped with small pink nipples. Bright blue eyes sparkled at Sarah from behind the vizand half-mask that concealed the upper part of the woman’s face.

"Charlotte!" Sarah gasped, hurrying over to the bed. "Did you have any trouble?"

"Not at all," the woman replied in her deep, husky voice. "I took the backroads; those idiot guards never even got a whiff."

Charlotte Rosings untied the mask and tossed it aside. Her features were too strong for beauty but she was quite handsome. "So... how much do you think we’ll get for these little bijoux?" she quipped with a dazzling smile, offering a leather pouch on the palm of her hand.

Sarah took the pouch and opened it, spilling the rubies out onto the bed. The necklace, bracelets and earrings blazed in the candlelight like drops of fiery blood. "Do we really have to sell them?" she asked regretfully.

"Sweet, if the King caught you with those baubles around your neck, he’d have your head on a platter. Come now, when we get enough of a fortune together, we’ll sail away to America and I’ll weigh you in so many pretty sparklies that you’ll stagger."

"Oh, Charlie..." Sarah fell into bed, kissing her lover’s mouth again and again. "This is the best haul yet!"

"Thanks to you, sweet." Charlette popped a grape into Sarah’s mouth. "We make a good team. You keep your ear open at Court for travel news and tell me when and where. I make the snatch and we’re practically rolling in guineas, ducats and reals!"

Sarah squirmed out of her dress and lay beside the woman she adored, coppery hair fanned out on the bed, gray eyes aglow with passion. "I love you, Charlie! If the roving blade business ever goes out of style, we could always take to the stage!"

"There are some things one simply can’t fake, no matter how great one’s acting skills." Charlie leaned on her elbow, staring down at Sarah, a faint smile quirking up one side of her mouth.

"Oh?" Sarah’s eyes sparkled with mischief. "What’s that, then?"

"This..."

Charlette kissed Sarah hard, a hand slipping down her lover’s body, caressing and pinching her satiny skin until it glowed.

"And this... and this..."

"Oh! Oh, Charlie!"

Blazing rubies slid to the floor, forgotten...

And the Roving Blackhearted Blade stole far more that night from Lady Sarah than mere jewels.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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A Solstice Tale by Nene Adams ©2001 - All rights reserved

London, England 1898

Verity Hawkins stood before the tall mirror in her bed chamber, smoothing the front of her blue velvet gown with her palms. It was Christmas Eve and it was also her birthday; at the stroke of midnight, she would be thirty-three years old. Too young to be a spinster, too old to marry, she thought gloomily. Too tall, too slender in some places, too well endowed in others. Too intelligent to appeal to a fool, too unconventional for the fashionable or stodgy. Face it, my girl  you are destined to be alone for the rest of your life.

She was still handsome, even if the first flush of youth had begun to fade. Her golden hair was slowly turning to gilt, and there was a touch of silver at her temples. Veritys eyes were an electrifying shade of blue, enhanced by the deep color of her dress; her lips were full, her cheekbones high and prominent. A patrician nose gave her a haughty appearance, as did her habit of peering down at people from her awkward six-foot height. In truth, Verity was not overly prideful or snobbish; she was slightly near-sighted, but hated wearing glasses.

When I was a child, I used to pray for love. When I was seventeen, I begged God and the Fates for it. When I was twenty-one, I harbored the hope that some day, I would meet my grand passion. Years passed, and I am yet alone. I have forgotten how to yearn. She frowned at her reflection. Why have I always closed my eyes and dreamed, not of a husband, but of another woman who would be mine?

Verity did not know the answer to her question. She accepted that she was different, and had never sought to engage a mans affections. The fact that no man (or woman) had offered her so much as a chaste kiss was nevertheless painful, an injury made twice as sharp by her continued virginal state. She did not want a husband, but a female partner who would love her and be loved in return and unfulfilled dreams became tarnished over time.

Ive never even been kissed... she thought, and shook her head. Enough foolishness and self-pity. Youve read far too many romances, girl. There are no knights in shining armor. There are no Casanovas to serenade beneath your balcony. No one will ever offer you rosebuds and posies. There will never be moonlight and stars and magical nights in your life, only a cold bed and a colder heart.

She stared into the mirror, momentarily fascinated by the reflection of a candle on her bedside table. The flame flickered and danced in a draft from the window. Verity refocused on her own image. Tugging her ruffled cuffs into place, she patted her high-necked bodice, and fastened a silver pin in the shape of a lyre to her discreet lace collar.

Shed done her hair up into a Grecian knot threaded with ribbon, with a pair of corkscrew-curled lovelocks left to dance on either side of her face. A scroll and a gold painted apple completed her costume. It was the evening of the annual Christmas celebration at Tobias Swanns home in Grosvenor Square.

Verity worked as an assistant librarian at the British Museum, and Mr. Swann was her supervisor. Every year, he invited his employees to celebrate the holiday season with a banquet and costume ball, for Mr. Swann was a generous, good-humored man.

Verity had decided to attend as a Muse  not any Muse in particular, but rather as three of the minor goddesses who appealed to her personal tastes. Hence the scroll for Clio, proclaimer of history; a lyre for Eratos love poetry; and a golden apple to stand as a symbol for Melpomene and tragedy. Had not a golden apple caused the launching of a thousand ships, and the topless towers of Illium to burn? All for the love of a woman, she thought, eyes catching sight of the candles reflection once again. A world burned to ashes for love.

A wild idea suddenly blossomed in her mind. There had been a group of professors at the library the other afternoon, researching Russian history for some scholarly work. She had unearthed a peculiar pamphlet detailing some of the ancient customs and superstitions of that place. The information had included a Yuletide ritual. She had merely glanced at it then, but the memory of what shed read was insisting on being recognized.

It was insane. It was nothing more than ignorant superstition, the same sort that caused thousands of English girls to peel apples and toss the peel over their shoulders to reveal the initial of their future husbands. Or to melt lead and drizzle it through a wedding ring into a bowl of cold water for a similar  result. She had even heard of stupid young women actually setting a match to black powder poured in the snow, then taking note of the resultant patterns  and possibly losing an eye in the explosive process.

When she was younger and sillier, living in her familys farm in Oxfordshire, Verity had made a dumb cake with three friends one year. Each of them had, in complete silence, taken turns mixing flour, water, eggs and salt into a dough, and then baking it on the hearth. Tradition said that after eating equal shares of the cake, the girls should walk backwards to their beds, there to dream of future mates. The only thing Verity had gotten out of the ritual was indigestion. She had sworn to never do such a pointless thing again.

However, something about the Russian custom stuck in her mind and refused to go away. Verity finally sat down in a chair, chin in hand, thinking hard. There was a half hour before Mr. Swanns coach would arrive to pick her up. She had plenty of time to exorcise an errant thought and put common sense back into its place.

This is nonsense, pure and simple. Im a grown woman, not an ignorant child. Magic does not exist, and only superstitious, uneducated people believe in fairy tales and divination.

After sitting and pondering and arguing against herself, Verity abruptly stood up and went to fetch another full length mirror. If performing an idiotic ritual would appease some part of herself  an impossibly romantic germ that continued to fester, no matter what she said or did  then so be it. She would get it over with, and then go to Mr. Swanns party.

Verity lived in a small flat on Saffron Hill, a London neighborhood favored by lower class Irish immigrants. It abutted onto Smithfield, a riverside district with an unsavory reputation. This was not the safest place to live, nor was it remotely respectable, but it was all she could afford on her assistants salary. However, there were a few second-hand furniture and pawn shops, and shed been able to furnish her flat surprisingly well.

The mirror she dragged into the bedchamber was mahogany framed, its condition marred only by a crack in one corner of the glass. Verity spent a few minutes arranging this mirror opposite the one already in the room, and putting a chair in-between. The lit candle collected, she sat down, closing her eyes against an ache in her ribs where the tightly laced corset cut into her sides.

The Russian pamphlet said that a young lady performed this ritual on Christmas Eve, sitting between two mirrors with a candle in her lap. The mirrors reflected into one another, repeating the same image again and again. She had to find the seventh reflection; here she would supposedly see the face of her one true love.

Her hands began to tremble. Verity controlled them with an effort, lest she spill hot wax on her velvet dress. She was breathless, as though the air had grown thinner, yet also electrified. This is ridiculous! she thought, opening her eyes. Am I a school-girl, to pay heed to fairy tales as though they were truth?

Nevertheless, she was exhilarated, a tingling sensation growing at the base of her spine. The faint inner protest had no power. It was as though she was being controlled by someone else, a stranger who lurked beneath her own skin. All those long and lonely years, her hopes had been dashed, shattered against grim reality  but somehow, deep within, a little piece of her heart had never ceased to believe.

Veritys eyes sought the seventh reflection, delving deeper and deeper into the mirrors silvery depths. She could not have torn her gaze away. Mesmerized, her head felt hot and hollow, a burgeoning lightness that threatened to pull her out of the chair and send her floating over Londons coal-smogged skies.

There! There it was, the seventh reflection in the right-hand mirror. Verity squinted to bring the image into focus.  Perhaps I should have put on my glasses, she murmured, leaning forward. Much to her disappointment, all she was able to make out was her own face, and a tiny, flickering candle flame, the sole point of brightness. Verity was hideously crushed. She might not have wanted to believe, but it would have been nice to see something other than herself.

Balderdash and humbug! she proclaimed, about to rise. At that moment, something shocking occurred that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and the blood freeze to ice in her veins.

The candle flame turned blue. Vivid as a summers sky, it leaped from the wick, nearly singing her eyebrows. Verity sat back down with a thump, staring in horrified fascination at the candle held between her fingers. The blue flame billowed at an extreme angle, seemingly drawn to the left-hand mirror. Despite her initial terror, Verity rolled her head to the left... and beheld a miracle.

There was a seventh reflection here as well, only it was expanding, swallowing up all the other images until it was prominent from corner to corner, interrupted only by the crack on the mirrors front. Tongues of streaming blue fire splashed against the surface, curling away in smoky threads.

Verity saw a woman, lovely, vibrant and laughing. She was dark as a Spaniard, with an olive complexion, black hair and flashing black eyes. Crimson lips drawn back in a brilliant smile, punctuated by a tiny mole at the corner of her generous mouth; a beauty mark that was begging to be kissed. She was plump and animated, the skirts of her dull gold gown swaying as she danced in place, fluttering a fan. Exquisitely rounded shoulders rose from a low cut bodice that all but exposed the strangers charms.

The woman twirled, pulled a pin from her hair, and shook out a wealth of thick, black locks that tumbled and curled about her face. She spun again and again while Verity watched, her mouth gone dry, heart thudding painfully in a too-tight chest.

Verity was frozen in place, unable to move, but equally unable to resist the temptation to touch this impossible vision. She forced herself to reach out a hand that shook uncontrollably, and her fingertips just grazed the mirrors cold surface. There was a loud snap and a spark that sent an unpleasant jolt burning her arm from hand to elbow. Verity screamed, and in the same instant, the mirror cracked into a hundred pieces, and the candle went out.

She spent a few minutes panting in the near darkness, trying to gather her scattered wits back together. At last, when she felt a bit calmer, Verity got up and made her way to the small fireplace, where a log was burning sullenly. There was a box of paper spills on the mantelpiece; she lit one, and used it to re-light the candle. Houses on Saffron Hill were not fitted with gas lights, and she preferred candles to smelly oil lamps.

Her pulse had returned to normal. In truth, Verity felt rather numb, detached, as if she had received a mortal blow and the pain of it had yet to make itself known. Her arm did not hurt anymore, although it prickled slightly, a pins and needles sensation that was rapidly disappearing. She examined the broken mirror; fortunately, although it was shattered, the pieces were still held within the mahogany frame.

There was also a clock on the mantelpiece. Verity looked at it, noting that it was time for Mr. Swanns coach to arrive. He had been kind enough to send it for her, rather than allow her to travel unescorted in a hired hansom cab. She stuck the candle in a dish, retrieved her gloves and a woolen coat, which she buttoned up beneath her chin. The gilded apple and scroll were thrust into a pocket, along with her reticule. She did not have much money, only a few shillings, but it would be enough to tip the driver.

Verity risked one last glimpse into the broken mirror. Her image was distorted into dozens of sharp-edged fragments, chopped into slivers and bits. Her eyes were haunted by shadows, their bright blue hue somehow muted into gray. Pale as a ghost and bloodless to boot, Verity thought. Pull yourself together, girl. It was a whimsy, a hallucination, most likely  produced by the strong cheese you had for lunch. Be rational. Magic does not exist. You saw nothing but an illusion. And the mirror is old; you probably damaged it when you dragged it in from the sitting room.

Bah! she said aloud, scowling at her reflection. Fancies of a diseased brain, no doubt. You must be going mad, to think a superstitious rite would let you see the future! Stupid, foolish girl... I suppose youve learned your lesson now. Soul mates are found only in badly written, melodramatic novels. Therell be no love for you, Verity Hawkins. Thats your fate, and you might as well accept it.

Angry at herself, believing that her own mind had deceived her, Verity blew out the candle and swept away into the sitting room. She stomped through the door of her flat and slammed it behind her, ignoring the crash of glass as pieces of the broken mirror fell to the floor. Underneath her breath, she muttered, Seven years bad luck, too, I suppose... bah!

Chin high, she strode down the stairs to the street below, there to await the arrival of Mr. Swanns coach.

Tobias Swanns grand house had been inherited from his great-uncle, who had made a fortune in the Exchange. Tobias was the Chief Librarian at the British Museum  a position of great consequence among the university set  but while that afforded him much respect, it did not grant him any social standing at all. To the gentry, he was a type of tradesman, because he worked a regular set of hours instead of being idle. Although he lived in a highly fashionable part of town and had money, his friends were as common as himself.

Every year, Tobias loved to share his good fortune with the library employees by giving a grand Christmas costume party. Everyone was invited, from lowly Michael Smith, an errand boy, to the terrifying Mrs. McGillicudy, a beetle-browed harridan in charge of 18th Century Periodicals. There would be a vast banquet, games, carols and diverse entertainments. No one ever left one of Tobias parties hungry or bored.

The house was ablaze with lights as Veritys coach pulled up to the front. It had snowed earlier in the evening, but such pristine whiteness never lasted long in London. Already, the bulk of it had turned to dirty slush and ice. The night was bitterly cold and clear; very little of the citys famous fog was in evidence.

She waited while the driver climbed down and opened her door, offering a hand as she exited. She tipped him two shillings, wished him Merry Christmas! and made her way inside.

There was a maid standing by the door, ready to take her coat. Verity was grateful to be rid of it; Tobias had so many candles and gaslights lit, not to mention a roaring fire in every hearth, that it was very warm. A blast of noise and laughter and music assaulted her ears. She flinched from the sheer volume of it.

Tobias caught sight of her as she stood in the entrance hall. My dear Miss Hawkins! Merry Christmas, dear lady! Welcome to my humble home!

The man was considerably shorter than Verity, and nearly as wide; he waddled when he walked, and the buttons of his fancy waistcoat strained across his middle, seemingly in danger of exploding. Dressed as a gentleman of the Sun Kings court, he wore an eye-searing orange satin coat, and his plump legs were encased in stockings and knee britches. The color made his florid face appear even redder, as did his powdered wig. Brown eyes sparkling with genuine happiness, Tobias clasped Veritys hand and shook it vigorously.

Thank you, sir, Verity replied. She liked Mr. Swann. He was a kindly soul, a true gentleman, but he was so short, she always felt like a gawky Amazon when standing next to him. How is your wife?

Capital! In her usual rude health, by Gad. Tobias winked broadly and made a show of examining her dress. We are not a-muse, eh? Get it? A Muse? I see at least two classical references on your costume. The third escapes me for the moment, but you cant fool me for long.

She smiled at his joke. Clio and Erato, as you see, she said, flourishing the scroll and pointing to the silver lyre pin on her collar. Can you guess the last? She held up the gilded apple.

Not yet, but if the punch hasnt fuddled me, Ill come to it soon enough. Well, my dear girl, dont be shy. The dancings begun, and Im certain we can winkle out a partner for you.

Veritys protests went unheard as Tobias steered her into the ballroom. It was a long, rectangular space, actually a sitting room, dining room and drawing room combined by removing the connecting doors. A quartet of musicians, screened behind a wall of aspidistras and ferns, sawed away on their violins and cellos. At the moment, they were playing a waltz.

Out of the way of the dancing floor, a table had been set up for the banquet. There were raw oysters served in the shell, along with crisp oyster loaves, fried smelts and smoked fish. Roast geese stuffed with sage and onion dressing competed with a huge round of roast beef with gravy, and all the trimmings from brussels sprouts to potatoes to rice croquettes. In the center of the table was a bowl of shrub, a heavily sweetened, rum-and-orange punch that she knew was delicious, though deceptively strong.

On the sideboard was a plum pudding big enough to feed an army, accompanied by brandy butter, custard and whiskey sauce. She also spied a cheese board, mince pies, fancy cakes and fresh fruit should anyone have a spare corner or two that needed filling after such a feast.

Verity managed to extricate herself from Tobias grip, promising him a dance later in the evening. The little man wandered away in high spirits, to join a group of people playing hunt the slipper. She managed to find a quiet corner where she could stand and observe  her usual pastime at Mr. Swanns jolly, holly-wreathed gatherings.

Mr. Bagg of Almanacs and Atlases had come dressed as an American cowboy, or rather his version of it, with a coiled whip, an empty saddlebag fastened onto his shoulder and an oversized Stetson hat that kept falling over his eyes. The effect was incongruous, especially since he wore a formal tuxedo rather than chaps and boots.

He was trying to dance with Mrs. Pittman (Encyclopedias), but kept being blinded by his hat, tripping and then interrupting the waltz to apologize profusely. Mrs. Pittman, who was stout, forty and wearing what Verity first took to be a shell pink nightie  but which on further reflection was an Empire-waisted Regency gown  huffed and puffed and turned an alarming shade of puce.

The couple whirled past her, and Mr. Bagg cried, Ah, Merry, ah, Christmas, Miss... er... Chalkins.

Thats Miss Hawkins, sir, Mrs. Pittman replied, giving the younger woman a smile that revealed teeth as big as tombstone slabs. Shes the assistant in Geographical Journals and Periodicals. Merry Christmas!

Verity nodded as they swept away, leaving a trail of mumbled apologies and magenta complexions. Her gaze shifted. There was a fir tree in a corner, a massive thing so completely covered in silver tinsel, glass ornaments, gingerbread men, candy-filled cornucopias, tin soldiers, marzipan decorations and other trinkets that it threatened to collapse. A Dresden angel with an unfortunate leer was given a place of honor at the top. As she turned away from Tobias Swanns excessive holiday cheer, she was startled to see someone standing directly before her.

He was shorter than she was - the top of his head came just level with her bosom  and wearing a rakish pirates costume, complete with a rusty red, bristling false beard, a pig-tailed wig and tricorn hat. Black trousers were tucked into knee boots; he had on a ruffled shirt, embroidered waistcoat and a deep scarlet frock coat with wide, brass-buttoned cuffs. He caught her eye and bowed, hand on heart. Might I have the pleasure of this dance?

Verity was speechless with astonishment. She looked down at this... this impertinent midget... trying to discern his identity. His voice was a bit husky but without masculine depth, which made her realize that he was a teenage boy. His accent proclaimed him an American. She was certain that she did not know him, nor could she remember seeing him in the library. His eyes were black and heavily fringed with dark lashes, but much of his face was obscured behind that ridiculous beard.

Certainly not! she snapped. We havent been properly introduced.

A minor technicality, he replied, not at all abashed. When Mr. Bagg and Mrs. Pittman came spinning around for a second pass on the dance floor, he reached out and tapped the middle-aged gentlemans shoulder. I say, do you know this delightful lady? Would you be so kind as to introduce us?

Mr. Bagg threw the boy a grateful smile. He took a moment to catch his breath, while Mrs. Pittmans color slowly subsided. Ah, of course, dear boy. Miss Hawkins, may I present Mr... er...

Beck, the pirate stage-whispered.

Yes, yes, of course. Miss Hawkins, ah, may I have the honor of presenting to you Mr. Beck. Mr. Beck, Miss Hawkins. Er, what division did you say you worked in?

Prestidigitation, Beck said promptly. He turned to Verity. Charmed to make your acquaintance, Im sure.

Verity was aghast at the boldness, the sheer effrontery of this rascal. One could only request an introduction from a male member of the ladys family, and she had no such in London. You, sir, are no gentleman, she said icily, looking down her patrician nose at him.

Mrs. Pittman made a scoffing noise. Do climb down from your high horse, Miss Hawkins, and give the boy a dance. Hes obviously taken with you. She tee-heed, but the ladylike giggle soon turned into a guffaw that made her enormous bosoms bounce. The Regency gown she wore was scandalously thin, a nightgown rather than a proper dress, not buttressed by multiple layers of petticoats and underthings. Verity almost hoped that the interfering womans bodice would burst.

Will you pay heed to your friends advice, Miss Hawkins? Beck held out a hand in invitation. Surely it would not be a hardship to grant me the honor of a single dance.

Verity itched to smack his impudent face. Mr. Bagg, repeating the word prestidigitation to himself in puzzlement, finally pushed his oversized hat back on his head, took hold of Mrs. Pitmann with a determined breath, and sent them both careening back onto the floor. His whip fell off with the vigor of his movements, and was kicked away. The saddlebag fell, too, and he tripped over it, nearly bringing down Mrs. Pittman. Someone persuaded the couple to visit the buffet. Verity was left alone with the cheeky pirate, his black eyes sparkling with mischief.

Its not as though Id be compromising your virtue, Beck said, cocking his head to one side. It was not possible to tell if he was grinning beneath the beard, but Verity suspected he was. Please, Miss Hawkins. Just one dance, and if you dont care for another, Ill leave you be.

Verity realized that she was not going to be rid of Mr. Beck until hed had his way. Very well, sir. A single dance, on the understanding that afterwards, youll go about your business and leave me to mine.

Splendid! Without warning, Beck swept her into his arms and they were away.

Unmarried ladies do not waltz! Verity hissed in embarrassment. She didnt dare struggle against his surprisingly strong grip, not wishing to draw attention to herself.

Relax and enjoy, Miss Hawkins. I think youll find that a hint of scandal is very exhilarating, Beck skillfully led her in the dance, one hand on her waist, the other caressing her fingers. Round and round they spun, gracefully gliding in time to the strains of the Viennese waltz.

Beck whispered a poem in time to the dance:

O sway, and swing, and sway,
And swing, and sway, and swing!
Ah me, what bliss like unto this,
Can days and daylight bring?

O swing, and sway, and swing,
And rise, and sink, and fall!
There is no bliss like unto this,
This is the best of all.

Verity was impressed. He was quoting part of work by Amy Levy, The First Extra: A Waltz Song. It was perfect. She was fond of poetry, especially by modern authors. A spark of mischief made her quote a different poem by the same author in return:

Grind me a dirge or a requiem,
Or a funeral-march sad and slow,
But not, O not, that waltz tune
I heard so long ago.

Beck clutched her tighter, and she felt herself literally melting in his arms.

Despite herself, Verity was enjoying the experience. She closed her eyes in sheer pleasure, allowing herself to be guided solely by her partners masterful touch. The music swept through her senses, sent a thrumming melody straight to her core. The sun, the moon, the stars were dancing, too, in a stately reel. She felt as light as air, two becoming one, and the waltz was a long, sweet, purely sensual experience that she never wanted to end.

Becks chuckle cut through her euphoria. The music stopped two minutes ago, Miss Hawkins. Shall I bribe the band master to play a second?

Her eyes flew open. Anger abruptly flooded her veins, and to her horror, she slapped his face. Rogue! Scoundrel! she growled, shaking with rage. How dare you, sir!

I would dare much for you, delightful lady, Beck replied, staring up at her. He had the audacity to kiss her hand, while she was paralyzed with indignation.

She snatched her hand away. Begone, sir. Youll not make me a laughingstock again. Verity stomped away, chin up, gathering the rags of her dignity around her.

Beck stood bemused, watching her leave through the French doors that opened onto the garden.

Verity went outside to cool her flaming cheeks. It was refreshing after the overheated room. She was ashamed, alarmed and confused. What was I thinking? A teenage lad who is not yet old enough to shave! Whats wrong with me, that I took such pleasure in his arms?

She could have sworn there was something familiar about Becks sparkling black eyes, his graceful movements, the barely glimpsed smile beneath his false beard. Verity shook her head and blew out a breath; a plume of white smoke escaped her lips and vanished. I must be going mad.

Verity knew that she did not want a man. Her dreams, her desires were always for women. So why was she attracted to a boy who was probably half her age? This is insane. Good Lord, Im old enough to be his mother! And my mother would roll over in her grave if she knew!

She was close to tears, and that infuriated her, too.

A voice from behind said, Excuse me, Miss Hawkins. I was a little concerned. Its perishing cold out here, and I dont want you to catch your death.

Beck had taken off his frock coat, and put it around Veritys shoulders. She considered hurling it down and stamping on it, but he was right. It was quite cold, and her hands were like ice. The coat was too tight to button over her bosom, but she was able to thrust her arms through the sleeves. Thank you, she said in a clipped, polite tone. Your concern and thoughtfulness does you credit.

He folded his arms across his chest. Im twenty-six years old, inherited several silver mines in Colorado several years ago, and have traveled all over the world. I can honestly say that Ive never met a woman like you before.

A hot flush suffused Veritys face. It wouldnt be polite to call him a liar, but how could she believe such an obvious fabrication? How interesting, she replied as neutrally as possible.

Beck laughed. Im afraid that in order to prove my claims, Id have to take you to my hotel. Im staying at Browns in Mayfair.

Another lie. Browns was one of the finest hotels in London. I could not possibly accept such an invitation, Verity said. She stared out into the garden. Moonlight washed the landscape, softened the bare branches and winter-blighted shrubs. There was a suspicious wetness in her eyes; she wiped it away roughly. Her heart was in turmoil, her mind consumed by doubt.

All her life, Verity had desired the perfect womanly partner. Such things were possible; she had occasionally smuggled naughty books from the Restricted section that detailed sapphic liaisons in all their glory. Reading the stories alone in her room at night, she had fallen asleep to dream of herself in the arms of another woman. Men held no fascination for her at all... or so shed thought.

Now she found herself lusting after Beck just because of single, albeit magical, waltz. There was no mistaking the sensation of infatuation. Shed had schoolgirl crushes. She knew the signs and symptoms well. It could not be... and yet it was. Verity was so miserable, she wished the earth would open up and swallow her whole.

Beck touched her shoulder. Miss Hawkins, theres something I have to tell you. Something extraordinary happened tonight, and I...

His speech was interrupted by Tobias Swann, who came bustling towards Verity. My dear girl! We are about to begin the Phantom Waltz. I insist you participate. He blinked, noticing Beck for the first time. Good Gad, thats an excellent costume, sir! Are you perchance Mr. Dexter of Numismatics?

Alas, you are mistaken, sir, Beck replied.

Mr. Pierce, the assistant in Medieval Theology?

No, sir.

Tobias snapped his fingers. Ive got it, by Jove! Youre Chomondely from Anglo-Saxon Studies!

Mr. Swann, you are perceptive, but I am not Chomondely, Pierce or Dexter.

Tobias scratched his head, tilting his powdered wig askew. I shall eventually guess correctly, sir. I beg you not to spoil my fun by telling me.

I wouldnt dream of such a thing. Beck smoothed his false beard down; it bristled quite fiercely, giving the impression of an animated hedge when he spoke.

It came to Tobias that Miss Hawkins was standing alone in the garden with a charming young man. She was wearing said mans frock coat. Her color was high. She appeared ill-at-ease. The gentleman with her was quite the opposite, apparently in excellent spirits. Tobias was sometimes absent minded, but he was no fool. He could smell a romance in the making, and could not help chuckling loudly.

Ill leave you two alone again, shall I? he said slyly. On a night such as this, with a moon such as this, a young persons fancy turns to love, eh? Capital! Capital, I say! A pair of dark horses, for Id had not a hint from your office behavior. Still, you need not fear scandal, Miss Hawkins. Should anyone ask, I shall tell them you are indisposed. He winked, nudged Beck with his elbow, and waddled back into the house.

Verity was mortified. The horrible old man and his insinuations were not to be borne! She knew that Mr. Swann was well-meaning, but he was also a terrible gossip. News of her liaison would be on everyones lips by the time the clocks chimed midnight. She put her face in her hands and muttered, Ruined. Im ruined.

Not at all. Beck put an arm around her waist. She tried to shrug it off, but he held on. Come with me; you need something warm to drink and some food inside you. It would be a pity to faint on Christmas Eve and miss Mr. Swanns gala.

I cant. Dont you understand? Verity had a haggard expression that made Beck tighten his grip, afraid that she might really faint. Please, I beg you, leave me alone. I dont want to see you. I dont want to speak to you. She suddenly felt dizzy, and the night spun in circles around her. Beck caught her as she started to fall.

Verity pushed him away. Dont touch me! I cant bear it! She forced herself upright, struggled out of his frock coat, and shoved it into his arms. Just leave me alone. She ran back inside, trying desperately to compose herself.

 Upon seeing her, Mrs. Pittman at the buffet swallowed a mouthful of goose and said to Mr. Bagg, The poor lamb. Shes been crossed in love, mark my words.

Mr. Bagg, who was still trying to remember what prestigitation meant, did not reply.

The band was playing another waltz. Verity had gotten a cup of smoking bishop, a spiced mulled wine, and hidden herself in an upstairs bedroom. She was attempting to calm her nerves. She felt thoroughly wretched. Her world had been turned upside-down by a petite pirate who was an outrageous liar and a rogue. Her reputation was ruined.  Everything she thought she knew about herself was false. Or was it? Could it be a momentary aberration? Verity could not envision life as a conventional wife. Her flesh crawled at the vision of allowing a man to do things to her, things she had read about, things a proper lady was not supposed to know. She wanted a woman... or did she? Oh, this is so vexing! I dont know what I want anymore! Or if I want anything at all!

A soft knock came from the door. She started, nearly spilling cinnamon-scented wine over her dress. Its me, Miss Hawkins. Please let me in. I have to talk to you.

Verity recognized that voice. It was a demon, a tormentor sent from Hell to confuse and plague her. Go away, Mr. Beck!

Please?

No! Leave me alone! Verity began to weep in earnest. She couldnt help it. Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks, dripped into her wine, made spots on her satin gloves.

If you dont open the door, Miss Hawkins, I shall be forced to take drastic action.

Verity did not dignify this meaningless threat with an answer. She sat down on the edge of a divan, her nose beginning to swell. She sobbed, taking in great gasps of air, her shoulders shaking. Verity was so caught up in her distress that at first, she did not notice a scraping sound coming from the door.

She hiccuped and said, What are you doing? I want you to go away, Mr. Beck.

The reply she received was muffled by the stout oak door.

Atthis, my darling, thou did'st stray
A few feet to the rushy bed,
When a great fear and passion shook
My heart lest haply thou wert dead;
It grew so still about the brook,
As if a soul were drawn away.
My darling! Nay, our very breath
Nor light nor darkness shall divide;
Queen Dawn shall find us on one bed,
Nor must thou flutter from my side
An instant, lest I feel the dread,
At this, the immanence of death. 

Verity started whispering the poem to herself at the fourth line, her voice echoing Becks. It was one of her favorites, written by Michael Field  the pseudonym of a pair of lesbian lovers, Katherine Bradley and Edith Cooper. She wiped her wet face with the back of her hand, and put the wine cup on a table. What do you want? she called. The storm of weeping was over. Instead, a heavy sadness had invaded her heart.

There was a click, and the door swung open. Beck slipped inside, shutting it behind him and re-locking it. He held up a hairpin. I used it as a lock pick. If my father hadnt struck silver all those years ago, Id have probably become a fairly good thief. Benefits of an undisciplined childhood, playing poker and billiards in mining towns. I have many skills, some of which are highly questionable.

I have nothing to say to you, Verity replied in leaden tones.

Well, I have plenty to say to you. Beck put the hairpin in the pocket of his coat. Now, we can sit here and discuss this calmly and rationally, like adults, or I can shout it after you as we run all over this house and down the streets of London. Its your choice.

Verity sighed. Fine. Have your say, Mr. Beck. It seems that I am unable to resist.

Beck plucked a single rosebud from the floral arrangement on the mantelpiece. He began to pace back and forth, twirling the flower between his fingers. Ive been in London on business for the last three months. About a fortnight ago, I had the good fortune to visit the British Museum Library. I spied an angel there  that would be you, Miss Hawkins  and I was instantly smitten.

Please, sir, no more.

Hear me out, I beg you. Beck stopped and fixed Verity with his intense gaze. I followed you around the library, overhearing your conversations, but discreetly, always discreetly. The more I listened and saw, the more I came to admire your intelligence, your independence of thought. Ive been your constant shadow for nearly fourteen days. I inquired after your personal life through colleagues and neighbors. Quite a liberty, Ill admit, but I was and still am utterly besotted.

Verity was flabbergasted. Villain! How dare you!

As I said before, Miss Hawkins, for you I will dare anything. In fact, I took to going armed when I followed you home from work, in case you should require a heroic rescue. Beck removed his tricorn hat and flung it into a corner. I was a fool in love, dear lady. You are as vibrant as you are beautiful, and I couldnt bear the secrecy any longer. I was determined to meet you, in circumstances where I could snatch a moment alone and explain myself. Id hoped to impress you with my ingenuity.

Impressed is an understatement, Verity said, rolling her eyes. I am, in fact, horrified.

Beck tore off his false beard, hurling it to join the tricorn on the floor. He was devilishly pretty, with an olive complexion, pouting lips, round face and gorgeous black eyes. There was a tiny mole at the corner of his mouth. Verity felt a thrill of recognition run through her, but as far as she knew, Beck was still a complete stranger.

He continued, I wasnt sure if youd seen me in the library. The last thing I wanted was to cause a scene, or think that I was completely mad, so I adopted a cunning disguise. Perhaps a bit too cunning, as matters nearly backfired. He loosened the cravat around his throat. Truth to tell, I was afraid to approach you directly. Youre a goddess, Miss Hawkins  a golden, unapproachable goddess, and I was frankly terrified of rejection. Flowers, bon-bons, diamond bracelets... the usual trappings of courtship seemed somehow inappropriate. However, fortune favors the bold. Im done lurking in the shadows. Im done with disguises and games. It is time for the truth to out, and the Devil with the consequences.

With that pronouncement, Beck took three swift strides towards the divan, took Verity by the shoulders, and pushed her backwards. His body settled on hers, gracefully as a lion falling upon delectable prey. His mouth sought her lips and devoured them hungrily. Verity had no time to protest, no time to do anything other than squeak in alarm.

 Her hands fluttered, settled on his chest, and attempted to shove him away. Her eyes flew open as she encountered a suspiciously pliant softness beneath his shirt. Verity managed to tear her lips away and nearly shriek, Youre a woman!

Beck smiled, staring down at her. Of course I am. People see what they want to see, what theyve been conditioned to interpret as truth. Only men wear trousers, ergo, a person in trousers must be a man. It never occurred to me that you wouldnt perceive the woman beneath the loose pirate clothing, so Im sorry to have distressed you, dear heart. You ran away before I could explain. By the way, my real name is Tamsin Rebecca Quinn. My friends call me Tam.

The American heiress? Veritys heart was stammering in her breast so hard, she could barely force herself to be coherent.

Yes. I wore a mourning dress and layers of veils when I visited your library the first time. There are a lot of newspaper men in London who have been pestering me for interviews - very tiresome, but I don't begrudge them their trade. I just avoid them when possible. I learned something about disguise from a Pinkerton detective in San Francisco; the knowledge was put to good use when I decided to keep my eye on you incognito, as it were. Tam used the rosebud she was still holding to trace a path across Veritys cheek.

"I was the street sweeper who cleared your path on Thursday last, the violet seller on Monday, a beggar on Tuesday - that shilling you gave me is my most treasured possession," Tam continued. "I've been a policeman, an infirm widow, a window cleaner... I even played a dowdy spinster collecting for charity when I knocked on your door in Saffron Hill last week. As I said, I have many skills."

That was you? But why? Far from being uneasy, Verity was enjoying the weight of Tams body on hers. A subtle fire was burning deep within, a pleasurable sensation made all the more thrilling by the knowledge that there were no conflicts, there could be no more doubt. Her heart had been right all along.

I told you. When I saw you that morning, I was knocked head over heels. There was something about you, something that drew me with an irresistible call. Believe me, I didnt try to resist at all. I wanted you so very badly. Tam tossed the rosebud over her shoulder. The pig-tailed wig followed, revealing lush, black curls pinned firmly into place. In a kind of wondering daze, Verity removed the pins one by one, sending Tams hair tumbling free. The fragrance made her want to swoon.

Tams voice trembled. I thought you were a woman for women, like me. The poetry you liked to read, the books I saw you smuggling out of the Restricted section  sinful girl! She tapped Veritys nose with one finger. Ive had affairs in the past, but thats not why I sought you out. I believe youre the companion of my soul, my lady, the one Ive been searching for all my life. But if you arent... I mean, if Ive been wrong... She broke off, searching Veritys face.

Verity thought she might fly away to the moon, or burst into song. The vision in the mirror had not been an illusion. It was truth, and there was love in truth, and magic did exist. Oh, she believed in fairy tales, superstition and Christmas Eve. She believed! Ive been waiting for you forever, she said softly, blue eyes wide and shimmering. Kiss me again, Tam. Kiss me again.

Tamsin needed no second invitation. This time, their embrace was sweet, warm as liquid honey. Verity felt like she was melting again. Theyre playing another waltz, Tam whispered, lips against Veritys ear. Will you pay me the honor of another dance?

As long as you dont kiss me with that horrid beard, Verity replied breathlessly.

To her astonishment, Tam quoted from another poem by Michael Field. As she said the lines, Verity realized that they spoke indirectly of her own experience earlier that same evening  the mirrors, the blue flaming candle, that impossible vision of lovely, lovely Tamsin Rebecca Quinn dancing in a silver reflection.

One night--A night of mystic blue, of rose,
A look will pass supreme from me, from you,
Like a long sob, laden with long adieux.
And, later on, an angel will unclose
The door, and, entering joyously, re-light
The tarnished mirrors and the flames blown to the night.

It must have been an angel that sent you to me, Verity said, almost purring in bliss. Im in Heaven.

Youre also in a compromising position, Tam said with a very wicked grin. What about your reputation?

To hell with my reputation, Verity said, shocking herself. That was no way for a lady to talk. On the other hand, the things she was contemplating doing to Tamsin when they were alone together were not ladylike at all. She squirmed slightly, making Tams grin grow even broader. Did you say that you have a hotel room? she asked, feeling extremely naughty. I havent had affairs in the past, but Im certainly willing to try.

Tam chuckled. Anything for you, my dearest Verity.

From belowstairs came muted cracks and bangs as guests opened their cosaques, or exploding bon-bons, which contained little trinkets. Tobias insisted on this ritual taking place at midnight. Clocks around the house began to chime, twelve strokes ringing out one by one.

Its my birthday, Verity said.

Happy birthday. Tam kissed her again and again, until Verity was panting and flushed. What would you like as a gift? Ill lay the world at your feet, my golden goddess.

Ive been given the greatest gift of all. Verity wound her arms around Tams neck and said huskily, You, my love.

The flames in the fireplace flickered and danced, turning sapphirine blue, as the two loneliest women in London pledged their love in a holly bedecked house on Christmas Day. A mirror above the mantelpiece went unnoticed, but magical visions began bubbling up from silver depths. Reflection after reflection of their future life together, leavened with laughter, a few troubles, and a trace of sorrow...

They did not know it then, but Verity Hawkins and Tamsin Quinn would, indeed, live happily ever after.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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Heaven in her Face - a Regency Romance by Nene Adams ©2003 - All rights reserved

Omnia vincit amor, et nos cedamus amori -
Love conquers all, and let us yield to it (Virgil)

Honeymead village, England 1816

"Oh, Lord!" cried Emma Fullham, throwing herself full length upon the sofa cushions. "I am in love!"

Guy Fullham peered at his sister and sighed. "What, already? My dear Emma, we've been out of London and in the country for a fortnight. Surely none of the milk-cheeked maids hereabouts have caught your eye so quickly."

"You can be positively infuriating at times." Emma sat up, her face flushed, blue eyes bright. A tumble of blonde curls fell over her forehead; she pushed them back impatiently. "I tell you, I am in love for the first time in my life. How dare you make sport at such a beautiful sentiment!"

"Because you have been in love so often, I cannot take the subject seriously," Guy replied. "Let me see... have you forgotten Georgina Bartlett?"

"I was a child then."

"It was last year! You were moonstruck by the lovely Georgina, as I recall. Nearly suffocated the poor wench in letters reeking of eau-de-cologne. Before that, the Hon. Elizabeth Parker had the dubious pleasure of your affections. Then there was Ursula Threadgoode, Jane Barkley, Miss Caroline What's-Her-Name from Bath... shall I go on? The list may take some time to enumerate in full."

In response, Emma quoted a favorite poem:

"I did but look and love awhile,
'Twas but for one half-hour;
Then to resist I had no will,
And now I have no power."

Her brother made a rude noise. Emma picked up a cushion and threw it at his head. "Hateful beast!" She looked around for something else to throw, and her eye lit upon a vase sitting on the table next to her.

Guy dodged the cushion and clucked his tongue. "Temper, my dear," he said, plucking the vase from her hands. "Don't start banging crockery about because you don't care for the truth. When it comes to matters of the heart, you're neck or nothing and deuced fickle, to boot."

"Nonsense, I'm not fickle! I am very faithful..."

"To the light-o'-your-love of the moment," Guy interrupted. He put the vase back down on the table and gazed at his sister with a serious expression. "Frankly, Emma, I wouldn't give a tinker's damn except that I'm your closest surviving relative, and therefore somewhat responsible for you. This romantic nature of yours is going to get you into trouble. That it has not already, I put down to the same Providence that protects children and idiots."

"Oh, Guy!" Emma let out a peal of laughter, which only served to deepen her brother's frown.

"Mock me at your peril, dear girl." Guy sat down on a chair, stretching his legs out before the fireplace. "Love is not all a matter of moonlight and posies and sentimental poetry. I would wish all poets hanged for the trouble they've wrought! For once in your life, I beg you to be sensible before plunging headlong into another fleeting romance."

"I do not understand you at all." Emma rose and began pacing the room. "How can you be so cold? When I am in love, I cannot think. My feelings run too deep for sense or rational thought. Breathless, I am a-flame and a-flutter, unable to do naught else but be swept away. I am consumed by it, obsessed by it. How can true love be otherwise?"

"You speak of infatuation. Calf-love never lasts."

Emma turned on him in a swirl of white muslin. "Love without passion is nothing!"

"Passion that contains not a hint of reason is madness."

"Then I must be mad." Emma helped herself to a sweetmeat from a dish and glared at her brother.

Guy ran his hands through his hair and tried to calm himself. He could not argue with Emma. She was impulsive but obstinate by nature; the more one tried to push her in a direction, the more she dug in her heels and refused to budge. Yet he could not sit still and let her continue on this path. The blind pursuit of sensationalism and romantic ideals would lead Emma to grief if she was not taught a lesson. She was not stupid - in fact, she was an intelligent girl whom he felt had been deceived into believing that violent passions were a substitute for moderation and sense. A glimmer of an idea surfaced in his mind.

"Very well, my dear," Guy said. "Will you concede that your love spells tend to come and go rather quickly?"

"What do you mean?" Emma replied, her brows drawing together in a suspicious frown.

"It seems to me that such passion as you feel, while intense, does not last more than a week or two. Am I correct? You enjoy the pursuit, but once you have the lady in question, your interest fades and you begin to seek a new amour in other pastures."

Emma stared at Guy, who stared innocently back at her. At last, she said, "What mischief are you brewing now?"

"No mischief, but a wager."

"Go on."

"I know that you've long desired a pony phaeton of your own. God knows you'll probably break your neck when you overturn the cursed thing while speeding down a lane, but there it is." Guy leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees. "Here are the terms of my wager - if you demonstrate that you can remain faithfully in love with one person for a period of one month without turning your attention and affections elsewhere, the phaeton will be yours. Furthermore, I will never again attempt to interfere in your affairs or give advice, as you will have proved your point beyond doubt. Romance will have triumphed over reason, and I shall be named a heartless fool. Does this seem fair?"

Emma smiled. "It will be an expensive wager for you, Guy, as I cannot lose."

"Ah, yes. The inamorata you were telling me about earlier... may I know her name?"

"Miss Marianne Pye."

"And does Miss Pye look upon your suit with favor?"

"Naturally. I have an engagement with her this very afternoon to walk on the village green"

"Excellent." Guy sat back with a satisfied look. "Remain in love with Miss Pye for one month entire. Should the flame of passion be extinguished and you wish to disengage your affections for another, you will be the loser. If that is the case, you owe me your solemn vow to remain chaste as Diana for a full twelve months. No more poetry. French and Italian love songs will be strictly forbidden, as will romantic novels, posies and billet doux. You will remain sober at all times, contemplate serious matters, and not stir out of doors unless you can conduct yourself in a sensible fashion. Are we agreed?"

"We are agreed. You'll see, my doubting brother. Miss Pye is the most exquisite creature imaginable. Delicate as a trace of dew on the blushing petals of a rose. I worship the ground she walks on. My life depends upon her happiness." Emma's expression was beatific. "The fair Marianne will have my heart forever."

"I certainly hope so, dear girl." Guy reached for a bottle of wine and poured himself a glass. "I certainly hope so. Otherwise, I fear you're in for a very dull year."

Emma made a face at him and left the drawing room.

Miss Marianne Pye was eighteen, petite and extremely pretty, with big brown eyes, pouting lips and a china doll's face. She was pacing to and fro on the grass, a parasol on her shoulder to shield her complexion from the sun. As soon as she caught sight of Emma walking into the square, she let out a squeal and ran towards her. The many tiers of lace on her white high-waisted gown made Marianne resemble an animated wedding cake.

"Do you have it?" Marianne asked breathlessly, as soon as she reached Emma. "Oh, please... tell me you have it!"

"Would you like me to read it to you?" Emma replied, taking a folded piece of paper from her reticule.

"Please! Don't be so cruel! You know I've been waiting ages for you to copy it out." Marianne came closer, linking her arm through Emma's. The feather on her bonnet tickled the side of the other woman's face.

Emma smiled. "Close your eyes." When Marianne had obeyed, she began to declaim slowly, with great emotion,

"When as I wish, fair LICIA, for a kiss
From those sweet lips where rose and lilies strive
Straight do mine Eyes repine at such a bliss,
And seek my lips thereof for to deprive.
When as I seek to glut mine Eyes by sight;
My Lips repine, and call mine Eyes away.
Thus both contend to have each other's right;
And both conspire to work my full decay.
O force admired of beauty in her pride;
In whose each part such strange effects there be,
That all my forces in themselves divide,
And make my senses plainly disagree.
If all were mine, this envy would be gone:
Then grant me all, fair Sweet; or grant me none!"

"Ah," Marianne sighed, apparently thrilled to the core. Her eyes popped open and she stared soulfully at Emma. "It is Shakespeare? Cowper? Scott?"

"Giles Fletcher."

"I've never heard of him, but you read the lines with such passion, it fairly makes me tremble." Marianne giggled and began walking, tugging Emma along with her. "I might swoon, as I did when you recited the divine Byron."

"I'll bring more sonnets. Tomorrow, if you like."

"I don't know. My mother needs me tomorrow at the house. She says I've been neglecting my needlework, which I find a tiresome business. I would much rather read aloud, but Mother doesn't care for novels, and I cannot bear Fordyce's Sermons."

Emma was taken aback. "Mrs. Pye does not read novels?"

"No, no... she says they are immoral. I've had to hide mine under a floorboard in the pantry, and dare not read them in the house at all. If it weren't for your kindness, dear Emma, I would surely be undone."

"Dearest, you know that I can refuse you nothing, because I love you so."

"I love you, too. You cannot know how much! Without the comfort of your friendship this past sennight, I do not know what might have become of me," Marianne simpered.

Emma's mouth went dry. The fairest flower of them all says that she loves me! Just then, her shawl slipped from her shoulder; she paused a moment to adjust it, and nearly fell over when Marianne suddenly released her.

"Oh! Let us walk the other way, quickly!" Marianne cried, so agitated that she dropped her parasol.

Emma did not understand what was causing the girl's alarm. "What is it? Are you unwell?"

"No, you goose! Hurry! Hurry! Oh, Lord, she's seen us," Marianne groaned. "You should have helped me escape while we had the chance."

Emma glanced around, wondering what terrible character had put her dear Marianne into such a state. Coming towards them was a tall woman; as she drew closer, Emma sucked in a breath, astonished. The stranger was a veritable Amazon! She had a quiver of arrows slung over the shoulder of her yellow gown, a bow in her hand, and a leather bracer strapped to her forearm. Her dark hair was drawn back and tucked under a bonnet, which only served to emphasize her Grecian profile, complete with broad forehead and a proud eagle's beak of a nose.

"Marianne," the stranger said, nodding her head. "Will you introduce me to your friend?"

Marianne rolled her eyes. With ill grace, she said, "Penelope, may I present Miss Fullham, who has taken Stafford House with her brother, Mr. Guy Fullham. Emma, this is my eldest sister, Miss Pye."

"I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Fullham," Penelope said, giving a little curtsey.

Emma returned the curtsey, but could not stop herself from staring at the bow and arrows.

Marianne noticed the look and said pertly, "Not only is Penelope a bluestocking, but she's fond of archery, too. And Greek, and Latin, and all sorts of terribly boring things, which is why our mother says she's unlikely to have any marriage prospects. It's just as well. No gentleman in the full possession of his senses would want to take a gawky great cow to wife."

Despite her belief about the free expression of one's feelings, Emma found this rudeness shocking. She was both ashamed and fearful on Marianne's behalf, and regarded Penelope anxiously, as one might while waiting for a seething volcano to explode. Surely a woman of such formidable profile, such broad shoulders and healthy figure, accoutered with deadly arms, would take steps to redress the insult!

Instead of striking Marianne down where she stood, Penelope merely reached out and patted Marianne's cheek, as if she was jollying a sulky child. "Someday," she said with a twinkle in her dark eyes, "you will learn that there is a difference between honest candor and ill manners. Good day to you, Miss Fullham." She turned and walked away, headed for the ladies archery range.

Marianne sniffed and tossed her head, making the feathers in her bonnet dance. "Penelope is horrid. Simply horrid! She might as well put on a spinster's cap and be done with it. Do you know, she was once asked to dance by Lord Rushworth's eldest son at a neighborhood assembly and she refused him? He was all politeness and affability, too! She would rather read a fusty old book or play whist than dance. Can you imagine? Lord! She is the most tiresome creature. One would hardly think we were related at all."

Emma watched Penelope's retreating back, then shook her head and turned her attention back to her friend. "Why did you not tell me that you had a sister?"

"Because she has recently been in London with our aunt and uncle Bertram. She was meant to stay there another month entire, except something occurred which brought her home again."

"What was it?"

Marianne put on a pout and began walking again. "I do not know. Our father had a letter from Mr. Bertram, but I haven't seen it. If it were anyone but Penelope, one might suspect that her trouble had to do with a young man." She rolled her eyes and giggled.

"Oh, Marianne! How wicked!"

"I told you, my sister is too serious minded for larks of that nature. No, she was probably so tedious, our aunt and uncle could not bear it any longer. Penelope is always trying to ruin my fun. I see no reason why she should not continue her horrid behavior whilst away. She takes pleasure in few things and resents my happiness and gaiety, for she complains to our father and mother that I'm allowed too many liberties. It was through her influence that the Bertrams did not invite me to visit London, which I found most unfair. I had just as much right to go there as she did!"

"Poor girl. There are many diversions to be had in London."

"If I should ever go to London, I shall definitely desire a turn along Lover's Walk in Vauxhall." Marianne gave Emma a sidelong glance. "How wonderful it would be!"

"Vauxhall is beautiful, but the food is dreadfully expensive, and the cold meat is cut so thinly, one could almost cover the entire garden with slices from a single ham!"

Marianne laughed. "Have you ever seen a duel in Hyde Park? Pistols at dawn... the crack of bullets... a red stain blooming on white linen. I feel quite faint thinking about it."

"No, I have never witnessed a duel."

"That is a shame, for I believe that there can be no more beautiful or noble thing than to die for love."

Emma pressed closer. "I would die for you, dearest."

Marianne responded by kissing her cheek. "And I for you."

The simple caress made Emma's head spin. She wanted to place her mouth against those sweet lips, bury her face in Marianne's neck and inhale the fragrance of lavender water and powder. Emma was about to suggest they go elsewhere when a voice interrupted their interlude. It was Penelope.

"Marianne! Our mother requires you urgently at home."

"What is it?" Marianne asked crossly, pushing Emma away.

"Mother received an express about a half-hour ago. The letter says that our aunt Talbot's son has taken very ill." Penelope walked up to her sister, and glanced at Emma. "Please excuse me, Miss Fullham. Marianne is to accompany our mother to Wynbourne at once."

"Why can't you go?" Marianne stomped her foot. "Sir George Benwick is giving a ball on Tuesday next, and I did so want to attend. Mother promised me a new gown and said I should wear her pearl necklace."

Penelope leaned down and took her sister by the arm. "You will not be a selfish beast at a time like this," she said softly but firmly. "Our cousin has a putrid fever, and there are four other children in the house. You've had the fever and I have not. So you go home, Marianne, and pack your trunk, and cease your childish complaints. You and Mother are to catch the post coach for Wynbourne as soon as it may be accomplished. I trust we have come to a right understanding on the matter?"

"Yes," Marianne said, a sullen expression on her china doll face. "It isn't fair! Why should my cousin's trifling little fever spoil my plans? Mother should go alone, but not before she finishes my dress. I'm sure they'll survive until then."

Penelope gave her a little shake. "Mother needs your help, God save the poor woman, as does our aunt. Now behave yourself and do as you're told, or I vow that you'll not get a moment's peace from me."

Marianne wrenched herself from her older sister's grasp. "Very well! You needn't be so vile. I'm going home, but I wish you would go to Wynbourne and to the Devil, too!" Without glancing at Emma or even saying her good-byes, she flounced away.

Emma was at a loss, embarrassed by witnessing the private argument.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Fullham," Penelope said. "Family rows are never pleasant."

"No, I should have made my excuses and not become involved in such a personal business," Emma said, ill-at-ease.

Penelope shook her head. "Marianne has been spoiled and petted and pampered all her life by our father, who dotes upon her too well. Mother tried her best but my sister's disposition was ruined at a young age."

This insult upon her beloved made Emma say hotly, "How can you say that about Marianne? I have always found her a most amiable and sweet natured girl."

"Ah, but you have not had the experience of eighteen years to guide your judgment." Penelope gestured with the bow she held in her hand. "Shall we sit down, Miss Fullham? Unless you have pressing matters to attend, of course."

"I had planned to spend the afternoon with Marianne."

"Since that is no longer possible, may I presume upon the pleasure of your company for a little while?" Penelope walked to a nearby bench and sat, shrugging off the quiver of arrows. She leaned the leather case and her bow against the seat.

Emma joined her reluctantly. They sat together for several minutes without speaking before Penelope said at last, "I understand that you are from London."

"Yes, my brother Guy has taken Stafford House. We have no plans to return to London at present."

"And how do you find our country society, Miss Fullham?"

"Very pleasant. We have been invited to all the neighborhood assemblies and balls."

Again, there was an awkward silence. Penelope heaved a sigh and said, "I suppose you know that Marianne is engaged to be married?"

The news burst upon Emma like a cannon shell. She jumped up, shocked and dismayed to the core, but half-convinced that she had misunderstood the other woman. "What? It's impossible!"

"I fear that it is so, Miss Fullham. Marianne has been engaged these past four months to Henry Musgrove, a very respectable widower who has six thousand a year and an estate in Oxfordshire. They are to be wed this summer. He will make her a very good husband, I think. Sir Henry is a kind man, old enough to be patient with a silly young girl and indulge most of her whims. It is a good match."

"I cannot believe it," Emma whispered through stiffened lips. She felt as if she had been stabbed through the heart. It was difficult to breathe; a stone was pressing against her chest, heavier and heavier until she thought her ribs would crack. The blood drained from her face. She stumbled and would have fallen, if Penelope had not caught her around the waist.

"Here, sit down, Miss Fullham," Penelope said, pushing her onto the bench.

Emma was devastated. She began to weep helplessly, hot tears spilling down her cheeks. Her world was in ruins. The pain was so great, she hoped that she would die on the spot. Penelope kept an arm around her shoulders. "You must not carry on so, Miss Fullham. Did you think that you and Marianne could run away and live together? Surely you have not known each other long enough to make promises. Your brother has only had Stafford House for a fortnight."

"I... I loved her," Emma said between sobs. A handkerchief was placed in her hand; she pressed it against her face.

"Believe me, I am not unsympathetic to the affection you bear for my sister, but she is to be married. It is all arranged."

Emma jerked herself away from Penelope. "Marianne told me you were horrid," she said, desperate for an explanation that made sense. "Do not think you can deceive me, Miss Pye. It is some plot, I know it. Marianne would never willingly wed anyone without taking me into her confidence. She loves me. Does she even know about this so-called engagement?"

"The marriage was arranged with Marianne's full consent." Penelope clasped her hands together in her lap and gazed at Emma. "Did you know that last year, my sister eloped with a calvary officer she met while his regiment was stationed in the village? The officer was no gentleman; they did not go to Gretna Green but to Bath, where they lived together as man and wife without benefit of the clergy for several weeks before they were discovered. Thank God that Marianne did not get a child from the misadventure. It cost our father a pretty penny to have the matter hushed up and thus preserve her reputation, otherwise our family would have been ruined."

Emma's mouth opened and closed a few times. She swallowed and said, "I refuse to believe it."

"Did Marianne tell you that she was engaged? I know she did not. She can keep secrets when she chooses." Penelope's expression showed nothing except concern and compassion. "I don't wish to offend your sensibilities, Miss Fullham, however I must tell you that my sister is no innocent, no matter how well she plays the part. She is selfish, sly and manipulative. One dislikes speaking ill of one's own relation but I felt you had the right to know. If you believe my interference is unkindly meant, then I urge you to speak to Mrs. Gray, the village midwife. She knows the truth of the matter. Our mother consulted her when it was believed that Marianne might be with child."

Emma thought she might vomit. She remembered the kisses she had given Marianne, who had lain in her arms and accepted them with little sighs and moans. Hesitant caresses through a thin muslin gown, whispered endearments in the dark. Their mutual passion had never been fulfilled, for Emma herself had been loathe to go too far lest she frighten the supposed maid.

While Penelope sat beside her, Emma went through as many moments as she could remember spending with Marianne. She had first been attracted to the pretty, vivacious girl at a card party; they had established an immediate rapport, idolizing the same poets, writers and artists. She could see now that Marianne had always let her lead the way, never expressing her own opinion without first ascertaining Emma's thoughts on the subject. Marianne had flattered and charmed and cajoled until Emma was thoroughly besotted.

She recalled how Marianne would denigrate other girls in their social circle; at the time, she had considered the remarks witty, but now realized that they were mean-spirited and petty. The contempt with which Marianne treated her sister was very telling, as was her reaction to the trip to Wynbourne. These incidents spoke volumes about her friend's true character. There were other things, too, that should have alerted her, but Emma had been blinded by love.

No, by the idea of love, Emma thought. Guy is right. I felt nothing more than infatuation for a pretty face and false charm. I have been stupid and acted without common sense of any kind. Have I been deceived in every love that I've ever felt? Could I have been such a fool? She felt shamed and angry, both at herself and the girl who had betrayed her. Her head was aching, as was her heart.

She had gotten into the habit of intensifying her emotions to a fever pitch, coaxing embers into raging flames. Music could send her into transports of rapture or tears. A well-turned poetic phrase gave her the vapors. Whether she loved or hated, she did so with every fiber of her being. Emma had reached for the familiar grande passion that had always carried her to dizzying heights, and made the unpleasant discovery that it could also scorch her to the soul and leave her feeling empty of everything save ashes and bitter regrets.

Penelope cleared her throat and said, "I wish you would come to the house with me, Miss Fullham. You've had quite a shock and your color is not as it should be. A glass of wine will do you good. Marianne and our mother should have gone by now."

Emma recollected herself with an effort. Surely nothing could be more painful than visiting a house where the very atmosphere was permeated with Marianne's invisible presence. She had exposed herself enough to pain and humiliation. At that moment, she decided that she would never fall in love again. Never!

"Thank you for the loan of your handkerchief," Emma said, returning the object to its owner, "and thank you for the invitation. However, I must decline."

"There may even be a few olives left in the cupboard, along with a Portuguese ham that I brought back from London." Penelope stood up and ventured a smile. The expression lightened the severity of her features. "It is well known that the surest cure for heartache is a good meal and good company. Can I not tempt you?"

"I thank you, but no." Emma rose with as much dignity as she could muster, considering the circumstances. "There is no need for concern, Miss Pye. I shall find my own way home."

She was proud that her footsteps did not falter until well after she was out of Penelope's sight.

"So, Miss Marianne Pye has gone to Wynbourne, eh?" Guy said at supper a few days later. "I had the news from her father, who has lately returned from business up north. Why did you not tell me that your inamorata had flown away? I assume this is why you have been sulking around the house instead of playing the suitor."

Emma put down her fork and knife. This was a moment which she had been dreading. After much consideration, she had decided that as long as Marianne remained away, she would pretend as if everything was as it should be. Emma had been humiliated enough without the added burden of her brother's triumph. She would confess and let him say, "I told you so," but only after her pain had dulled.

"Of course I am saddened by separation from my lover," Emma told him, putting on a suitably mournful expression. "My misery is a torment that haunts my every waking hour."

"Well, so long as you do not sit in the music room playing those disgustingly sentimental tunes, you may pine to your heart's content. If you must weep, though, I beg you will do it quietly in your own room. Do not alarm the servants by having blue devil fits in the garden at midnight." Guy helped himself to more boiled chicken with celery sauce.

"Have you no consideration for my melancholy?"

Guy swallowed and said cheerfully, "None whatsoever. What you need, dear sister, is an occupation which will distract you from wallowing in romantic misery. May I suggest the Honeymead Ladies' Toxophilite Society as a suitable venture?"

Emma, who had taken a forkful of chicken, nearly choked on it. Guy helpfully pounded her back until she caught her breath. "Toxophil---what?"

"Archery! The Society meets every Wednesday on the village green. I understand from Mr. Pye that his eldest daughter is a member. You will be able to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Ingratiate yourself with the family before your inamorata returns, and distract yourself by learning a new skill. Dr. Delford assures me that archery is a perfectly suitable exercise for young ladies, most beneficial to the health."

"Indeed." Emma took a gulp of wine to steady herself. That Guy should suggest... dear God! It was almost beyond belief. The last thing she wanted was to see Penelope. No matter how kind the woman had been, the sight of her would only serve to remind Emma of Marianne. Her wounds bled afresh merely considering the idea. However, Guy might grow suspicious if she refused.

As she considered her options, she realized something else. If Marianne came home and found her in a state of utter desolation, wasted away to a shadow, would that not put triumph in her corner? It was bad enough that she had been cut to the quick by Marianne's treachery. Why should her betrayer have further opportunities for smug satisfaction? If Emma did take care to present herself as healthy and carefree as possible, Marianne would never know how much she had been hurt.

"You are right, Guy," she said after a pause. "Perhaps it would be best for me to take up an occupation. Fresh air, sunshine, exercise... yes, I think a little archery may do me good."

"It will do wonders for your complexion," her brother said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Put roses in your cheeks. You should be as pale and wan as curdled cheese if you stayed in the house moping and composing tragic sonnets all day." His blue eyes twinkled. "I understand from Mr. Pye that you may call upon his eldest daughter tomorrow at three o'clock, if that is convenient."

Emma finished her wine in a single long swallow, hoping it would give her the courage to face the ordeal to come.

The Pye family's home, called The Pynery, was about a mile away from Honeymead village. The distance was easily traversed on foot, although the country lane was narrow and filthy from recent rains. Emma had prudently donned an old flannel petticoat and stout walking shoes, for while the day was warm, there were still mud puddles and dirt to be reckoned with. Her straw bonnet was new, however, and it caused her no end of consternation when the silken ornaments became entangled in a low-hanging tree limb.

"Oh!" Emma exclaimed, the knotted ribbon beneath her chin drawn chokingly tight. She thrashed about in a brief panic, thinking of footpads and gypsies and all manner of persons who lurked (at least in novels) in gloomy woods, their main purpose to abduct young ladies and carry them off to a fate worse than death. Reaching her hand back, Emma discovered that her attacker was, in fact, a tree. An attempt to twist around proved impossible. She tried to loosen the ribbon that held her bonnet on, only to discover that the pretty bow had turned into a knot which might require the Gordian solution.

Again, she tried to turn around, only to have her feet shoot out from under her as she slipped in the mud. Down she tumbled, the branch snapping, and landed flat on her back in a puddle. The breath was quite knocked out of her. Emma lay there in a daze, her muslin gown and flannel petticoat quickly soaking up dirty water.

"Good Lord, Miss Fullham, are you injured?" said a familiar voice from nearby.

Emma opened her eyes and beheld Penelope Pye, looming over her like a giantess. At least, Emma thought, she is not laughing at me. That I could not endure. "I do not think so," she replied, her voice sounding very thin and weak to her ears. "But my bonnet... the tree..." To her horror, tears welled up in her eyes, and a sob caught in her throat.

"I see the difficulty." Penelope squatted down, heedless of the mud that now stained her skirts. "Have you any pain?"

"Not as such," Emma said. Her skin felt chilled all over; she was soaked through and beginning to shiver. Very little sunlight penetrated the thick canopy that surrounded the lane. Here in the shade, on the wet ground, the temperature seemed more appropriate to autumn than summer.

Penelope removed what was left of the bonnet from Emma's head and slid an arm under her shoulders. "It is only a quarter-mile further to the house. We must get you on your feet and see if you are able to walk."

More swiftly and easily than she could have imagined, Emma was standing upright and clinging to the taller woman. Despite her embarrassment, she was amazed by this show of strength. She could feel Penelope's smooth muscles beneath her hands, see the pulse that throbbed in her throat. Smell the rosemary scent of her hair. Emma blushed, hoping that Penelope would attribute the heat in her cheeks to shame rather than impulsive desire. She wished her treacherous body would be obedient to the vow that she had taken. I will not fall in love, she told herself firmly, especially with Marianne's sister!

"Are you able to walk, Miss Fullham?" Penelope asked.

Flustered, Emma released Penelope and took a step, only to cry out at a surge of pain in her lower back. Glancing down, she realized that a tree root had been submerged in the puddle; it had struck her when she fell. She already felt stiffer than she had after her first pony ride. The bruising must be considerable and would only get worse.

Penelope's dark brows drew into a frown. "What is it? Your ankle?"

"No, my..." Emma hesitated, unable to voice such an indelicacy to one who was a virtual stranger. She took another tentative step and nearly fell.

Penelope caught her. "I am not a surgeon, but I am no stranger to the sickroom, either. Whatever the problem, I do wish you would confide in me. I should not like to make an injury worse by ignorance."

Emma hung grimly to Penelope's upper arms. The pain in her buttocks and lower back was throbbing worse than a toothache. She looked up into the woman's face and beheld only concern. "It is a bruise, nothing more. On my... the intimate regions, if you comprehend my meaning." She glanced again at the root, which was now sticking out of the puddle.

Penelope followed her gaze. "I see. Well, I have something at the house that will help." At Emma's protests, she continued in a no-nonsense tone, "Miss Fullham, neither one of us is a stranger to other women's bodies. As the injury is not mortal, you will allow me to treat it. I shall hear no objections." With that pronouncement, she scooped Emma into her arms and set off for the house.

Emma threw her arms around Penelope's neck, startled by the suddenness of being lifted and held. After a few minutes, she relaxed. It was as they came into view of the house that certain words that Penelope had spoken finally registered in her consciousness. Neither one of us is a stranger to other women's bodies. Emma felt her cheeks burning anew. That simple phrase could mean nothing, or it could mean everything. Females who shared a household often assisted one another with bathing or dress-making or treating illnesses. It was common for sisters to share a bed if there were not enough suitable chambers in the house. She supposed that was what Penelope meant, but she could not stop thinking about other implications.

The Pynery was a modest place which had once had a large greenhouse attached to it for the growing of pineapples. The greenhouse had fallen into some disrepair, but the house itself and the rest of the grounds seemed well tended. Penelope carried Emma through the front door, took her straight to the still-room that overlooked the back garden, and stood her next to an old oaken table.

"I would offer a seat," Penelope said, removing her bonnet, "but I fear it would bring you more discomfort. After we are finished here, I will give you some wine in the drawing room and provide a soft cushion for you to sit upon."

Emma placed her hands on the table. Her gloves were filthy and she stripped them off, unwilling even to contemplate what the rest of her must look like. A mud soaked horror, she thought. Why, oh why, did this stupid mishap have to occur today?

To distract herself from worries about her appearance, she glanced around the room. The walls had been freshly whitewashed; the wooden floor was spotless. Racks suspended from the ceiling held bunches of drying herbs and flowers. She recognized lavender, rosemary and sage, but Emma was not a very keen gardener. Shelves held pots whose contents were a mystery. In a few moments, Penelope returned to her side, bearing a small pottery jar.

"If you would be so kind as to lift your gown," Penelope said, "and expose the site of the injury."

There was not a hint of impropriety in her tone or expression. She sounded like a professional, and Emma had no doubt that she would act like one. Accordingly, Emma bit her lip and hauled her drenched skirts and petticoat up to her waist. A blast of heat from the fireplace began to thaw her frozen skin. It felt so good that Emma nearly moaned. She did let out a squeak when Penelope began smearing her bruises with liniment.

"I make it with an extract of arnica, which I grow myself," Penelope said, causing Emma to grasp the edge of the table as warm breath puffed across her buttocks and thighs. "The receipt includes lavender, comfrey, yarrow root and calendula."

"I see." Emma's knees felt distinctly unsteady. The liniment was cool at first, but heated up quickly under Penelope's gentle massage. That is not the only thing which is growing hotter, she thought. With an effort, she said steadily, "I have no practical knowledge of medicines."

"I should think not, coming from London which has apothecaries on every corner. Here in the country, we must often do for ourselves." Penelope rubbed in a quantity of liniment, taking care not to hurt Emma any more than necessary. "It is a good thing that I went out to meet you in the wood, otherwise you might have been there a while longer and caught your death of cold."

Unbidden, Emma's thoughts began to turn upon Penelope and how close she was, how intimate those touches were, and how much more intimate they could become. Neither one of us is a stranger to other women's bodies. Oh, God! If only she would...

But the fantasy went unvoiced inside her head when Penelope said briskly, "I think that will suffice. Do lower your gown, Miss Fullham."

Emma let her skirts drop and spun around, knowing her face was crimson but unable to stop the rush of blood. Penelope did not remark upon her color but assisted her to the drawing room with every courtesy. Once there, with a shawl around her shoulders and a plump cushion to shield her bruises, Emma felt herself calming.

Penelope gave her a glass of clear liquid that smelled like almonds. "Ratafia d'Angelique," she said, sitting down in a chair. "Made of angelica roots and seeds with crushed peach kernels."

"Do you brew it yourself?" Emma asked, taking a sip. The liquor was sweet but deceptively powerful, burning its way down her throat.

"Yes. Angelica is an excellent tonic for soothing the nerves." Before Emma could respond, Penelope rose to her feet. "Please forgive me, Miss Fullham. I must leave you for a few moments to find a servant. You cannot possibly walk home and my father has the horses at the farm today. I shall send a note to your brother, relating your accident and asking him to send a carriage to collect you. Does this meet with your approval?"

"Of course. You've been too kind already."

"Nonsense." A beam of late afternoon sunlight came through the window, illuminating Penelope's strong profile. "It is the least that I can do." She exited the room, leaving Emma alone.

Emma sighed, drank the rest of the liquor, then rose somewhat stiffly. The room was fairly large and faced south, with an excellent prospect of the garden. Beneath the window was a small table which held a number of glass bottles. She examined the labels with no real interest, expecting the usual port or Madeira. Instead, she found herself intrigued by exotic names such as Elephant's Milk, Frontignac and L'Huile de Venus. She pulled the stopper out of a bottle marked Parfait Amour and sniffed. There was a nearly overpowering fragrance of roses. Emma poured a little into her glass and tasted it, wondering if this was indeed intended as a beverage or if it was perfume. The stuff certainly tasted like rosewater, except for the strong alcoholic kick.

In quick succession, she tried Elephant's Milk (which reminded her too much of medicine), Tincture Japonica (a bitter but spicy brew), and Frontignac (which tasted of gooseberries). Eau Divine was nice; she savored the lingering aftertaste of lemons and oranges. L'Huile de Venus had almost no flavor at all except for an odd suggestion of carrots. Emma was especially disappointed in the last; the name 'Oil of Venus' had been so evocative, she had imagined someone like Lord Byron sipping it while composing verse in his Oriental cap and slippers.

Someone cleared their throat behind her, and Emma nearly dropped the glass.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Fullham," Penelope said, coming to the window. "I have dispatched a servant and hope to hear from your brother before the afternoon is entirely gone. In the meantime, if you think you can manage the stairs, I have hot water and a change of dress waiting."

"Thank you," Emma said, putting the glass down quickly. She hoped that her breath did not reek of the various liquors she had sampled. "I believe I can negotiate the stairs."

"Mr. Pye is at the farm today. As you know, my sister and mother are in Wynbourne, so we are mostly alone in the house. You need have no fear of being disturbed." Penelope crooked her arm in obvious invitation. "Shall we go?"

Emma was glad of the support as they made their way upstairs. The liniment had done its work; she felt a little easier in her movements, but only time would heal the bruises. Penelope led her to a bedroom, which was simply but elegantly furnished. A basin of hot water was steaming on the dresser, with folded lengths of clean linen beside it and a new cake of soap.

A dress lay across the bed. Penelope remarked, "It is one of Marianne's, I fear. Mine would never fit. You would be swallowed by the length, and my shoulders are much broader. I hope..." For the first time, she hesitated, but the pause was brief. "I hope this will not cause you further distress, Miss Fullham. I would have gladly given you something of my mother's, but she is a stout lady, and Marianne's was the best choice."

Emma glanced up at her. "It is true, I would rather not have further reminders of Marianne. But I'm grateful for your consideration." She ventured a smile and said with the tiniest waver in her voice, "Do I look very horrid?"

"You look like a pretty young woman who has had an unpleasant encounter with a mud puddle," Penelope replied, returning the smile. "Shall I leave you to it? If you are hungry afterwards, I can make a cold supper."

"I did not think to have an appetite," Emma said, "but I do feel peckish."

"Good. I will come back for you in a half-hour." Penelope exited the room, closing the door behind her.

The first thing Emma did was examine herself in the mirror. She gasped at her reflection. Her curls were limp and muddy; the rest of her hair had come unpinned and gotten its share of the dirt. Her face was a mess, too, splattered with liquid filth. Emma could scarcely believe that Penelope had carried her to the house. She would not have wanted to touch such an apparition.

She removed her shoes, dress, chemisette and petticoat, bundling them together and laying them on a chair, retaining only her stays. Her white silk stockings were ruined; she clicked her tongue in annoyance, for she had paid three shillings for the pair in London. Emma untied the garters that held the stockings below her knees and pulled the sopping things off, adding these to the pile of discarded clothing.

She could not wash her hair, so she settled for combing out as much of the dried mud as she could. Hot water and soap were put to good use for cleansing her face, neck and hands. After she had washed and dried, Emma turned to the bed and Marianne's dress.

It was simple frock, high-waisted with a scooped neck. The indigo-dyed Indian cotton would not have suited Marianne's dark coloring; she looked her best in Turkey reds, bronzes and greens. Emma did not see a chemisette, but there was a lace fichu to tuck into the bodice for daytime modesty. She put on the dress, relieved that it did not smell of Marianne at all. She could detect only laurel leaves, lavender and a hint of camphor, and decided that it must have been stored away.

The dress did not fit her very well; it was too short by a few inches, loose in the waist and sleeves, and the bodice hung dangerously low. At least it is warm and dry and clean, Emma thought, gazing at herself in the mirror. I need only wear this for a little while, until I am home again She arranged the fichu to conceal her décolleté and drew on the pair of stockings provided. They were badly knitted and lumpy; Emma wondered if Marianne had made them herself. She also donned some slippers, which were more comfortable.

There was a knock at the door. "Miss Fullham? Have you finished?"

"Yes, Miss Pye," Emma said.

Penelope entered the room. "I trust you have found everything to your satisfaction?"

"It will do wonderfully, and I thank you again for your kindness."

"Miss Fullham, there is no need for repeated gratitude. We are neighbors; I hope we may someday be friends."

Emma paused before replying, "My recollections of Marianne are, at present, very painful to me."

"I know." Penelope came closer, until her skirts brushed Emma's. "I am willing to do whatever I can to help mend your spirits, Miss Fullham."

Once more, Emma felt a swelling of desire. Kiss me! she demanded silently. Kiss me! Part of her was horrified that she should feel such an attachment to one who was not only a stranger, but allied by blood to a treacherous lover. Her body, however, was already inclining towards the taller woman. She felt her breath catch in her throat. Emma raised her eyes. Penelope's expression was guarded, but was there a glimmer of something indescribable yet thrilling in that dark gaze?

Their gazes locked; tension hummed between them, a tightly drawn thread that was broken when Penelope let out a strangled cough and looked away. "There is cold veal pie for supper, and apricots from our orchard," she said with only a trace of strain in her voice. "Will you come down and dine? We could discuss archery, if you like. Your brother believes that you might find the exercise beneficial, or so my father has informed me."

"Oh! Of course." A little flustered, Emma followed her out of the bedroom and down the staircase. She did not know how to interpret Penelope's reaction. Had she offended her by being too obvious? There had been a moment - a heartbeat only - when she had thought that Penelope might kiss her after all. It was very confusing. Her own feelings were also confused. She had sworn never to fall in love again, yet here she was acting like a short-heeled wench when Penelope offered her only simple courtesies! The attraction was unmistakable, yet...

If I had any sense, Emma admonished herself, I should be very ashamed. Miss Pye has done nothing more than rescue me from a mud puddle, smear me with liniment, and see to my comfort in a neighborly fashion. There is nothing romantic about bruises, mud or liniment. What is the matter with me?

Her problem was compounded by the fact that Penelope was different. Far from trumpeting her feelings for the world to hear, she presented a cool facade that was difficult to crack. Emma was not used to restraint. At one time, she would have thought Penelope was the coldest creature on earth. Now she found herself remembering how the other woman's arms had felt around her body, cradling her tightly. The strength of her! And Emma, carried like a heroine through the wild wood, yet not to ravishment but to hot water, soap and medicine.

Guy is correct. I am mad.

By the time they reached the dining room, Emma had regained her some of her equilibrium. If Penelope noticed how closely Emma studied her, she gave no sign. Penelope's conversation did not stray from the conventional, beyond waxing eloquent on the beauties of archery for a time. Confined to polite chat about the weather, the health of one's relations, and Madame de Genlis' advice to young ladies, Emma was frustrated.

Furthermore, she could get no closer to solving the puzzle that Penelope had become. More than once, she found herself longing to express her sudden affection, to simply lean over and capture the other woman's lips with her own. Emma did not because she had no idea how these advances might be taken. If she could only ascertain some sign that Penelope felt the same way! But there were no signs, or if there were, they were carefully hidden. Still, Emma could have sworn that she had seen a frisson of desire lurking in Penelope's eyes, but she could have been mistaken. It was very tiresome to be so unsure!

When Guy Fullham arrived to retrieve her, Emma was ready to make her good-byes and return home.

On Wednesday, Emma arrived at the village green dressed in a pink-and-red striped gown that was bordered around the hem with lace and silk ribbons. It was new, as was the bonnet she had bought to replace the one destroyed during her accident in the lane. The sun was out and the day was fine; her chief worry was not rain, but that excessive sunshine might freckle her nose.

The ladies gathered around the archery range were varied in age and social station, from spinsters to matrons to unmarried young women from the neighborhood. They wore simple frocks, canary yellow bordered with green. Emma did not recognize anyone save Penelope Pye.

When she approached the group, a full-figured older woman came to meet her and said, "Miss Fullham? I am Mrs. Sharples, chairwoman of the Society."

Emma murmured a polite response and curtseyed.

"I understand that you are to join us today?" Mrs. Sharples continued. She was handsome rather than pretty, middle-aged with severe lines running down from the corners of her mouth. "As you have no bow, you will share with Miss Pye, who will also be instructing you in the basics of toxophily. I have assigned the two of you to the target at the end, the one nearest the pond. I urge you to pay close attention to Miss Pye's lesson. Archery is a serious study, not a frivolous pursuit." She sniffed, looking with disapproval at Emma's dress, and especially the dangling pearl earrings that she had chosen to wear.

Emma felt intimidated and insulted. She was about to make a rude reply when Penelope appeared and said, "I believe that Miss Fullham approaches toxophily with all the seriousness that is due to the subject."

Mrs. Sharples sniffed again. "Well, be sure that she wears something more appropriate at the next meeting. Our Society colors are yellow and green. Pink silk and lace and ribbons, indeed! This is not a picnic, Miss Fullham, nor are we fashion plates."

"It is entirely my fault," Penelope replied, taking hold of Emma's arm and giving it a warning squeeze. "Accept my apologies, madam. I will take Miss Fullham to the end, as I see that the Misses Andrews are about to toe the scratch."

"Are they?" Mrs. Sharples peered at the line that had formed. "Miss Andrews! Miss Elizabeth Andrews! You are not to loose until the signal is given!" She bustled away and Penelope let out a sigh of relief.

"Mrs. Sharples may seem like a harridan, but she is a good woman at heart," she said. "I am sorry if her manner distressed you."

"I thought she might have apoplexy at my poor earrings!" Emma replied, shaking her head to make the objects in question dance.

Penelope led her to their assigned target. "You should remove them. Mrs. Sharples is concerned because last year, one of the new girls - a Miss Thicknesse - tangled an earring with her bowstring and nearly lost an earlobe. The incident has made her much more conscious of our dress. Speaking of dresses, we do have a uniform for our members. I should have mentioned it before. If you decide to join, I will give you the name of my seamstress. She has the pattern and works quickly, but her fees are reasonable."

Emma found herself standing on the grass while Penelope strapped a leather bracer to her forearm. "The snap of a bowstring can be very painful. This part," Penelope said, tapping the long section that covered the inside of Emma's left arm from wrist nearly to elbow, "protects you from the sting. It is heavy and can be hot, since it is lined with felt, but the bracer is essential."

Next came the shooting glove for her right hand. It, too, was heavy leather; not exactly a glove, but more of a gauntlet that covered the fingertips but left the palm bare. Penelope adjusted the buckle and said, "If you continue, it would be best to have your glove made to fit. This is one of my old ones; you can see it is too large. Your hands are quite a bit more delicate than mine."

Penelope went on to describe the art which was her passion. Soon, Emma's head was spinning with terms such as 'dead shaft,' 'fistmele,' and 'whipping.' At last, Penelope realized that the young woman's eyes were glazing over and relented. "For now, we will deal with the practical aspect." She showed Emma first how to string the bow.

Laying the yew bow flat side down on the grass, Penelope braced her foot against the middle. She bent over and slipped one end of the string - the eye - into the bottom nock, or the groove cut into the wood . Then she grasped the top of the bow and stood upright gradually, bending the length until she could slip the other eye into the upper nock. When she was finished, the bow was a graceful curve ready for use.

Emma expressed her amazement that this was accomplished so easily. Penelope replied, "Perfection comes with practice. Think of Odysseus and the test of Iphitos' bow against his wife's suitors in Ithica. Strength alone could not have fitted string to weapon. He was able to do it when others failed, and thus prove his identity and his rights, because Odysseus was familiar with the vagaries of that particular bow."

"Ah, but then he had to shoot through twelve axeheads," Emma said, choosing an arrow from the quiver and offering it to Penelope. She smiled, glad that the other women was at least familiar with one of her favorite stories. "Fortunately, in this modern age we have no axes, only yon target on which to test our mettle."

Penelope took the arrow and nocked it. The feathers were dyed bright yellow, the better to be seen against grass should it miss the target. "One must normally account for windage and drift, but today is calm," she said. Settling her feet, she drew the bow and loosed the arrow in a smooth movement.

Emma watched as the arrow seemed to magically appear in the target. "You have struck in the red," she said. "Does this have significance?"

"One looses three arrows per set. An archer's pair, it is called, though there are three arrows instead of the two which might be expected from the name. The colors of the target determine the number of points that one has gained. The outer white, or the petticoat, is one point. Black is three; inner white is five; red is seven; and gold is nine." Penelope nocked another arrow, drew and loosed. It struck near the other.

"May I try?" Emma asked, intrigued by the notion of shooting a bow. It seemed simple enough. She was startled when the other woman moved behind her and seemed about to give her an embrace.

"If I may instruct you?" Penelope spoke directly into Emma's ear, making her shiver.

"Please do," the young woman replied, trying and failing to keep a flush from blooming on her cheeks.

"Hold your body thusly." Penelope pushed Emma's shoulders until she stood at right angles to the target. "Keep your head towards the goal." She touched Emma's chin and tilted her face slightly upwards. "Most importantly, your posture should be straight and erect."

Emma jumped when Penelope's hand suddenly cupped her buttock. It was not exactly painful - her bruises were mending nicely - but the gesture was unexpected. She whirled around, heart thumping, and beheld Penelope grinning down at her.

"Is something wrong, Miss Fullham?" Penelope asked, dark eyes brimming with mischief.

"Not at all," Emma replied, thinking that Miss Pye was not as cool as her demeanor tended to suggest. Still, she did not know her well enough to judge whether this was a jest or something in earnest. Penelope's expression did not give her any clues. Emma decided to ignore it and continue with the lesson. She positioned herself again and said, "What do I do now?"

"Take the bow and nock an arrow." Penelope moved in once more, almost snuggling against Emma's back. She placed her hands over Emma's and guided her movements. Together, they drew the bowstring back until the arrow feathers brushed Emma's cheek, then loosed.

It struck near the small gold circle at the center of the target.

"Excellent!" Penelope said, releasing the smaller woman. "Now we must retrieve our arrows and try another set." She began walking towards the target. Emma stared after her.

I cannot believe... no. It is impossible. She wishes to be my friend, nothing more. True love is like standing on the edge of a precipice, having neither the will nor the desire to resist falling headlong into the abyss. Love is a fire that is impossible to extinguish, all consuming and burning so brightly, it dazzles. What I feel cannot be love... can it? Despite these reservations, Emma began to consider whether there might be different levels of intensity - the slow yet relentless swell rather than the crashing wave that she had experienced before. Both were powerful in their own way.

She desired Penelope physically. In her mind, that stirring was related to love - the type of violent and irresistible passion that soon, she had to admit, gave way to ennui and seeking new thrills, new sensations. She would have once dismissed anyone without similar sensibilities as hopelessly dull. Now she was learning to see Penelope as a person; not the type to wear her heart upon her sleeve, but complex and enigmatic all the same. Rather than pursue a frenetic relationship, Emma was being forced to patience, to uncertainty, to a mutual understand that could not be rushed.

At that moment, Emma knew that she would have to make a decision.

Penelope returned, the arrows in her hand. "Are you ready for another set?"

Emma nodded. My fate is in the hands of Providence, she thought. I would like to love her, and be loved in return, but it seems that I don't know what love truly is. I have never learned to nurture feelings that should not be forced, and allow them to flow naturally from within. I have instead been a child grasping at bubbles and weeping when they burst in my palms. Am I ready to become a woman? I shall have to school myself to patience and find out.

Aloud, Emma asked, "Will you show me how to hold the bow again? I fear that I have quite forgotten."

Penelope's smile grew wider. "Of course, Miss Fullham. We have all afternoon, you know."

"Then I am ready for your demonstration," Emma said, turning around in silent invitation.

Penelope came close again, and the hours flew by as swiftly as the arrows they shot.

Emma persuaded Guy to let her set up an archery range on the lawn of Stafford House. She had discovered a positive passion for the Amazonian pursuit; the local bowyer, fletcher and saddler felt the benefit of Emma's new obsession as she ordered the finest custom equipment to be made. Guy paid the bills without complaint. He had suggested the venture, after all, and could not find cause to make an argument against expense.

"At this rate, you will beggar me," he said to Emma one evening after dinner, "and my pockets will be put permanently to let. However, I had rather you purchase every arrow in the country than sit around the house with the megrims. This archery business seems to have done you good. I haven't heard you sing Voi Che Sapete at the pianoforte once since you began."

"I still harbor great affection for Mozart's Cherubino," Emma replied pertly. "It is a lovely song, and The Marriage of Figaro is a lovely opera. You have no taste in music, brother."

"All that sentiment gives me a headache." Guy raised his voice in a quavering falsetto and sang, "You who have tasted love's mystic spell/What is this sorrow naught can dispel?" He stopped and snorted. "Shocking stuff."

Emma laughed. "Dreadful man! How do you expect to get a wife if you disparage her singing, pianoforte playing, and all her other lady-like accomplishments?"

"I would just as soon have no wife at all than some twittering, empty-headed ornament." Guy stood up and glanced at the clock on the mantle. "I must leave tomorrow for London on business. Do you wish to accompany me?"

"No, for Miss Pye has promised to visit. We will be practicing toxophily in the late morning, followed by supper and conversation. Miss Pye will show me how to make honeyed rosewater, which she says is an excellent remedy for coughs."

"Taking an interest in the still-room, eh?"

"I have been informed that country folk must often do for themselves. It seemed a practical thing to learn." Emma picked up her embroidery from her lap and began to sew.

Guy observed his sister keenly. He knew that Marianne Pye was still at Wynbourne with her mother. He also knew, because the housekeeper had told him, that Emma had received no letters from Marianne, nor had she sent any. She was spending a great deal of her time with Miss Penelope Pye, who by all accounts was a spinsterish and respectable sort of woman, not the kind he would have expected Emma to find interesting. Furthermore, his sister was not exhibiting the normal signs of infatuation as he had come to know them.

It must mean nothing, he thought. She need not fall violently in love with every female of her acquaintance. Yet Guy had a suspicion that all was not as innocent as it appeared. Emma had changed in the last month, ever since she had begun her association with Penelope Pye. She was calmer, more introspective, not the same hoyden who blurted her every opinion and feeling as soon as it occurred. She had matured, her terrible taste in music aside.

Whatever Miss Pye's influence, I find it a good thing, Guy thought. He bent over and kissed Emma's forehead, startling her.

"Good-night, dear sister," he said, smiling.

She smiled in return, although her brows were drawn up in surprise.

At archery practice the next day, Emma thought that Penelope had made a mistake when she called her, "Fair Clorinda."

"Who is this Clorinda?" Emma asked, laughing. "And should I be jealous of her attentions towards you?"

To her astonishment, Penelope bowed like a gentleman and quoted,

"As that word was spoken, Clorinda came by,
The queen of the shepherds was she,
Her kirtle was velvet, as green as the grass
And her buskin did reach to her knee.
So modest her gait, her person divine,
And her countenance free from all pride!
In her hand was a bow, and a quiver of arrows
Hung gracefully by her fair side.
Said Robin Hood, "Lady fair, whither away?
Oh whither, fair lady, away?"
She smilingly answered, "To kill a fat buck,
For to-morrow is Tutbury day."
And as we did wend all towards the green bower,
Two hundred fair stags we espied;
She chose out the fattest of all that brave herd,
And shot him through side and side.
"By the faith of my body," said bold Robin then,
"I never saw woman like thee;
Oh com'st thou from east, or com'st thou from west,
Thou need'st not beg venison from me."

"Oh!" exclaimed Emma, clapping her hands together. "That is perfectly marvelous! Did you write it?"

"No, indeed," Penelope replied. "It is part of a ballad from the previous century. You have greatly improved upon your skills with the bow, and thus reminded me of the Fair Clorinda."

"For any skill that I have learned, thanks are due to my tutor's patience with one who would otherwise be hopeless." Emma turned and walked towards the house.

Penelope followed after her, saying, "What I have done for you is little enough. The rest lies with diligent practice."

"Aye, and you are a diligent task-mistress! I have rarely worked so hard at anything in my life." Except, Emma added silently, trying to determine the nature and extent of our connection.

The two women had become friends; little gestures of affection, like a hand on the waist or a kiss on the cheek, were common between them. Emma had found that such caresses were satisfying in a way that heated embraces were not. It was soothing, comforting, a true rapport of the soul. She felt loved, although no words or further evidence was offered. This realization had not come upon her as swiftly as an epiphany; instead, the knowledge had gradually crept in until Emma did not know exactly when the idea had found anchorage in her mind.

Penelope was a friend... would she also be a lover? Even now, Emma was not sure. The only thing she knew with certainty was that she had difficulty envisioning a future in which Penelope took no part.

She was distracted from these considerations when Penelope asked,"Will you be attending Mr. Palmer's ball at Wendelwood on Saturday?"

Emma frowned. "I have been invited, yes, though I suspect that Mrs. Palmer and her unmarried daughters would prefer my brother's attendance over mine."

"Well, I think that I may have a surprise for you on the night of the ball." Penelope gave her a sly look. "Do not importune me, either, for this is a secret I mean to keep."

"I had believed you no more capable of mystery than an open book. Now you show a positive gift for intrigue!"

"I am full of surprises and more secrets than you know." Penelope quirked an eyebrow and grinned. "But you will have to wait until Saturday before a particular one is revealed."

"Beast!" Emma laughed and shook a mock fist. "I hate you!"

Penelope leaned down, so that her face was on a level with Emma's. Her expression was suddenly serious. "Do you?" she murmured. "I have wondered, you know."

Emma's mouth went dry. "Wondered... what?"

"I did not mean to hurt you that day, when I told you about Marianne's engagement. It grieved me to give pain to someone so exquisitely beautiful, so lively in spirits. I was the blackest villain of the piece, and would not have blamed you if you had hated me."

"I never could," Emma said, half-closing her eyes. She felt that it was time to make an admission. With such an opportunity at hand, how could she resist? "My feelings are... quite the opposite," Emma said. Her lips parted; she waited breathlessly, all her senses reeling.

Instead of kissing her, Penelope drew back. "I am glad to hear you say that," she said. "My life would have been lacking had you not appeared to take a place in it. You are my most cherished treasure."

Emma was torn between weeping in frustration or weeping in despair. She does not love me! Or does she? Oh, why does she not declare her intentions and be done with it! Until I know how she feels, I cannot declare my true feelings. I dare not commit myself one way or the other. It would be dreadful to lose her now. How I hate this indecision! What shall I do? What can I do, except wait?

Something of this inner torment must have shown in her face, for Penelope frowned and said, "Dear girl, are you unwell? Your face has gone ghastly white, but your cheeks are spotted as with fever."

Emma stammered a lie about a headache. When Penelope offered to stay with her, she said, "I have taken too much sun today, I think. I will lie down in my room until dinner. That should set me a-right."

"I could make a cold compress..."

"No!" Realizing from Penelope's concerned expression that she had been too forceful, Emma moderated her tone and attempted a smile. "No, I will be fine on my own. Solitude and rest are what I need the most. You need have no worries on my behalf."

"Very well," Penelope replied, drawing on her gloves and bonnet. "If your condition worsens, please send a servant for me, or at least ask Dr. Delford to call. I do not like your color; summer fevers can be dangerous."

After more assurances and promises, Emma finally persuaded the reluctant Penelope to leave.

Once she was alone, Emma went upstairs to her chamber, threw herself across the bed and cried until she did have a headache. When the storm of tears had subsided, she quoted to herself a bit of poetry that seemed apt:

"To sigh and wish is all my ease;
Sighs which do heat impart
Enough to melt the coldest ice
Yet cannot warm your heart."

Mournfully, Emma wiped her wet face and contemplated the thought that comfort could not always be found in the poet's art.

She did not see Penelope Pye at all on the day of the ball. Emma sent the other woman a note, saying that her health had improved but preparations for the evening would take up much of her time. She had labored for hours composing those few simple lines. Instead of polite phrases, she longed to pour her heart out upon the paper, but insecurity kept her from making any admissions. Crumpled love letters had littered the floor around her desk, tear-stained and half written. Emma made sure to burn them before the maid arrived in the morning with her cup of chocolate.

Her ballgown was not new; she had brought it with her from London - an ice blue silk that complimented the color of her eyes. When she tried it on that morning, Emma realized that practicing with the bow nearly every day has caused her to gain some muscle in her shoulders and upper arms. The gown was far too tight in the bodice, so much so that the mother-of-pearl buttons in the back were gaping, and her breasts were nearly spilling out over the top. Lacing her stays tightly only exacerbated the situation. Emma looked into her mirror and could not decide whether to laugh or tear out her hair. She had known that her ordinary dresses were somewhat less comfortable than usual, but this was extreme!

After consulting with the housekeeper, Mrs. Atkinson, it was decided that Emma should take the garment to the village dressmaker herself, since new measurements would have to be taken. There was no time to make the gown afresh; it would have to be let out skillfully. Emma knew the dressmaker - a widow named Mrs. Ludlow - since that woman had made the frocks she wore to the Toxophilite Society's meetings. Mrs. Ludlow was a dab hand at the needle. If anyone could perform a miracle, she could.

Declining the carriage, Emma walked into Honeymead. The distance was only a few miles and the road was well graveled. She delivered the gown to Mrs. Ludlow's establishment, had measurements taken, and was assured that it would be ready well before the ball. Having made these arrangements, Emma was examining some gloves in the milliner shop's window when she caught a reflection in the glass that made her gasp and whirl around.

Marianne Pye was walking across the street, headed towards her.

Emma let out a squeak of near panic. There was nowhere to hide, however, and she could not avoid the confrontation. She straightened her shoulders and assumed a mask of polite indifference, determined to be civil. Marianne had other ideas.

"Dearest!" she cried, launching herself at the cringing Emma. "I have missed you terribly!"

Emma muttered something - afterwards, she never knew what. Marianne did not notice anything odd in her friend's reception; she bubbled on, "It was so very horrid in Wynbourne. I thought I should perish from tedium alone! And you never wrote me, you wicked creature! I would have written you, except that I had no time, as my mother insisted on my playing the ministering angel to my cousins."

"I... I did not think..." Emma was at a loss for words. Time and distance had made her forget how charming Marianne could be, how vivacious and beautiful she appeared.

Marianne wrinkled her nose and laughed. "I see that you have become somewhat dull since I last saw you. What, no word of welcome? No sonnet, no kiss, no ardent declarations?"

"No declarations," Emma said, all her hurt and bitterness welling to the forefront, "for I hear that you are to be married."

Far from denying it, Marianne nodded. "So you have heard the news, eh? I wonder who could have told you. The engagement has not yet been announced. Was is my sister Penelope, perchance?"

"Yes." Emma could hardly speak past the lump in her throat.

"That interfering baggage!" For an instant, naked hatred blazed in Marianne's dark eyes. "Have I not told you that she has set out to ruin me? She cannot bear any happiness that comes my way." Her expression softened; her voice took on a wheedling tone. "Dearest, do not take on so. This engagement is not of my doing."

"I was told that you were agreeable to the match."

"A lie! They seek to force me to wed some old man against my will. I shan't do it, not even if they lock me away! Let my mother and sister apply the bastinado to the soles of my feet, and still I shall not marry!"

This disclosure gave Emma pause. Although it was not usual for parents to make an arranged marriage, she knew that pressure could be brought to bear. A young girl with a modest dowry would be thought lucky to wed an established gentlemen of good fortune, regardless of her feelings on the matter.

Marianne continued, "And I suppose that our helpful Penelope has also told you that I ran away with an officer last year?"

Emma nodded.

"You do not know the story in full," Marianne said, a quaver in her voice. "I did not run away with Mr. Willows. I was taken by force - kidnapped! - and held prisoner in Bath." She sniffled, a teardrop spilling down her cheek. "I was terrified for my virtue and feared that he might ravish me. Indeed, he did try, but I struggled and screamed until he desisted. Of course, my father paid a ransom! Very few people know the truth, because you know that everyone will think the worst. Oh, how can you believe her lies? I tried to warn you that she is the most deceitful wench, but it seems that you, too, have tasted her poison."

Emma shook her head, not knowing what to believe. On the one hand, she had never caught Penelope in a lie... at least, she thought, not yet. On the other hand, Marianne's story sounded convincing. She had heard gossip about impecunious officers 'kidnapping' impressionable young ladies and forcing their families to pay to have the matter hushed up. Whether anything untoward had happened or not, a woman's virtue could be fatally compromised by the mere suggestion of impropriety.

Society could take a very cruel view; she knew this from her time in London. She and Guy had not associated with the Bon Ton - that fashionable set flew too high for either of their tastes - but the men and women in her modest circle took pleasure in vicious gossip. Tearing some unfortunate's reputation to shreds, or relating a deliciously scandalous piece of news over coffee, was considered a social delight. She had no reason to believe that such things were different in the country.

"Why did you not tell me about this engagement?" Emma asked, trying to reconcile what she had been told by Penelope with the tale that Marianne had given her.

"Because I knew you would misunderstand." Marianne took out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. "Still, I would have told you that day on the village green, but then I had to go to Wynbourne and there was no chance."

"Why would Penelope tell such horrid lies?"

Marianne began to sob. "Because I wanted to run away with you! Escape from this dreadful destiny and live happily with you for the rest of my days. If you loved me as much as you claimed, would you not want to rescue me? I may speak brave words, dearest, but if no one comes to my aid, I fear that I shall end in parson's mousetrap, married to a disgusting lecher. Can you imagine the wedding night? Oh, I wish I could die rather than let a rake like Henry Musgrove touch me as you have touched me. He is vile, Emma, truly vile. The stories I have heard..." She broke off in another sob.

Emma did not know Mr. Musgrove, but her heart went out to the pitifully weeping girl. She seemed genuinely terrified and lost. All at once, the feelings for Marianne that Emma had thought were dead came bursting forth, having lost little of their power. Whatever she felt for Penelope was swept away by this flood of familiar feelings. Emma was relieved to stand on the precipice again, to be warmed by an irresistible blaze of love. There was no doubt here, no agony of indecision.

Reason gave way to passion - an old habit that had not been broken but suppressed. She wanted to comfort Marianne, to protect her; most of all, she wanted to forget discretion and throw caution to the winds. It was madness, but it was a beautiful madness and not to be denied. At that moment, she forgot how mean-spirited Marianne had been; she forgot everything except how good it was to be swept away and care not a fig for the consequences or the cost.

But Penelope has been your good friend, said her conscience, and you believed that you loved her. Will you throw aside that friendship, the possibility of a future, in favor of what can only be folly?

Emma looked deeply into Marianne's bewitchingly dark gaze. She could fall forever in those depths, drown herself in dreams. If there was deception in those fine eyes, she did not want to see it. Emma desperately wanted to believe that this love was real. She wanted to be intoxicated, bewitched and enchanted. She had been floundering about with Penelope, unsure about the other woman's feelings, unwilling to expose herself. With Marianne, everything was clear.

A few lines of Dryden's poem sprang to mind:

"In ev'ry possessing
The ravishing blessing,
In ev'ry possessing the fruit of our pain,
Poor lovers forget long ages of anguish,
Whate'er they have suffered and done to obtain;
'Tis a pleasure, a pleasure to sigh and to languish,
When we hope, when we hope to be happy again."

She had suffered long enough; the pangs of unrequited love were too much to bear. How much better it was to simply let go and be swept up in a whirlwind! Accordingly, Emma told her conscience to go to the Devil, and said aloud to Marianne, "Yes, we will go away! When shall we go?"

Marianne stopped sniveling and answered promptly, "I hoped that we might go this evening, following Mr. Palmer's ball at Wendelwood."

"So soon?"

"Mr. Musgrove is expected to call at any time and I greatly wish to avoid it. He may try to elope with me to Gretna Green. My mother would not issue a protest, for she dotes upon him and his fortune. I scarcely dare delay a single moment."

Emma nodded. Her lover's fears made sense. "And where shall we go, dearest?"

"Anywhere. The Continent, perhaps."

"Very well." Emma took Marianne's gloved hand and pressed it to her cheek. "Until tonight, my love. I will arrange everything."

"Oh!" Marianne pulled her hand from Emma's grasp. "There is Alice Decastries, one of Penelope's Amazons. If she sees us together, she may tell tales. Please tell no one, my dear. Discretion must be our watchword, otherwise we will be undone! Until tonight, beau chevalier... farewell!" With that dramatic pronouncement, the young woman fled around the corner, out of sight.

Emma's jaw clenched. Resolutely, she made her way to the local stables in order to make the necessary preparations. She was the knight in shining armor, riding a-rescue for the fair maid in durance vile. She was the hero to Marianne's heroine, slaying dragons and laying her sword in chivalric devotion at her love's feet. They were Tristam and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet, Lancelot and Guinevere, Hero and Leander, Abelard and Heloise... yet she wished for no tragic ending, but a happy forever after.

A beautiful madness had to be embraced with one's whole heart.

Wendelwood Hall was considered one of the most pleasant properties in the neighborhood. The house had a very picturesque aspect, with a broad lawn bordered by cypresses leading to a pond and trout stream. From the outside, the place seemed fairly modest, all ivy-lashed brick and a minimum of detail save for the neo-Classical portico; it was cozy and homely rather than grand. However, the interior was spectacular, furnished with everything that fashionable taste could possibly demand.

Mr. Palmer had inherited a large fortune; together with Mrs. Palmer's income from her mother's marriage settlement, they had lavished a great deal of money and attention on Wendelwood. The long gallery in particular was thought to be fabulous; the gilt and crystal chandeliers had come from Italy, the carved ebony benches around the walls from France. Walls were papered in red and gold, while the marble fireplace was a wonder to behold. A mural on the ceiling depicted Jove's conquest of Europa; the bull seemed to have a wickedly lascivious expression, but Europa's long tresses were strategically positioned to conceal that which had shamed Eve.

Such a conspicuous show of wealth might have alienated the Palmers from their neighbors, but both of them were so hospitable, so willing to give parties and freely deliver invitations, that they were quickly forgiven their good fortune.

On the evening of the ball, candles blazed from the chandeliers overhead, making the long galley feel stuffy and hot. Emma entered the room, blinking at the light and heat. An orchestra was wheezing away while couples had formed up to dance the Sir Roger de Coverly. Matrons in lace caps sat on the benches along the walls, talking furiously and keeping an eye on their daughters, or they lingered near the refreshment tables, gulping white soup and exchanging news. Many husbands had already retired to the card rooms, leaving unmarried gentlemen the pleasure of mingling with young ladies. Everyone was dressed in their finest; jewels glittered, silks and satins gleamed.

Emma was greeted by Mr. Palmer, who though sweating and red-faced was in a jovial mood. "Welcome, Miss Fullham! I trust you had a pleasant journey to Wendelwood?" he asked.

"It is barely eight miles from Stafford House," Emma replied, having to speak loudly to be heard over the buzz of conversation and music, "and I was quite comfortable, indeed."

"And your brother? He is in good health, I trust?"

"Very excellent health, sir. Guy asked me to convey his regrets and apologies. Urgent business in London called him away most unexpectedly, otherwise I'm sure he would have delighted in attending your ball."

"I am very sorry that he cannot be here," said Mr. Palmer, "but we must all bow to necessity. Would you care for a drop of negus, Miss Fullham? It is a deucedly warm night."

"Thank you. That would be kind." Emma waited until he returned with a glass of mulled wine, then made her excuses. Pushing her way through the crowd that had gathered to observe the dance, she ran directly into a tall woman, splashing negus on the back of her gown. Emma stammered an apology, shocked at her clumsiness. To her further startlement, when the lady turned around, she saw that it was Penelope Pye.

"So, the Fair Clorinda has arrived!" Penelope said with a smile. She was dressed in Turkey red satin; a feathered turban concealed her dark hair except for a cluster of curls on her forehead. A garnet necklace was nestled on her décolletage; matching earrings swung from her earlobes, and she carried a painted chicken skin fan in one gloved hand.

"Oh! Miss Pye!" Emma went white, then pink, as apprehension warred with embarrassment and guilt. The sight of Penelope filled her with dismay; she thought that her plan to elope with Marianne must be writ upon her forehead in letters plain enough that the other woman could not help but discern them.

"I see that your complexion is still not as it should be," Penelope said, concerned. "Are you feeling faint? I should hate for you to succumb in all this crush; you would probably be trampled. Shall I take you to the retiring room?"

Emma could feel a droplet of sweat rolling off the tip of her nose. "No, that is not necessary. I am quite well, thank you." She glanced left and right, trying desperately to manufacture a way to liberate herself from this dreadful situation.

"You appear very ill to me. Perhaps this will help." Penelope removed a small gilt vinaigrette from her reticule, opened it, and passed the box beneath Emma's nose. The sponge inside had been soaked in a strong camphor solution.

Heat, light, noise and roiling emotions had made Emma's head reel. Now she choked on the reek of camphor, spilling the rest of the wine from her glass. Her eyes watered; she could not catch her breath. A wave of dizziness and nausea swept through her body. Despite the warmth of the room, cold chills made her shiver. Emma felt someone grab her wrist and pull her stumbling along, but she was helpless to protest.

Not until she was out in the garden, gulping at the fresh air like a victim nearly drowned, did Emma realize that Penelope was supporting her. The tender expression on the taller woman's face made her feel even sicker. All her courage, all her resolve had drained away, leaving Emma shaken and weak. She made a deliberate effort to summon the passion she felt for Marianne. She reminded herself of Romeo and Tristan and Lancelot, but it was in vain. How could she think to be a hero, when she stood beneath the gaze of one who would find her future actions dishonest and intolerable?

Emma stared into Penelope's face. She was no china doll like her sister; she was an Amazon - strong, capable and intelligent, possessed of good sense and honor. Was she also a liar and a villain? To hear Marianne tell the tale, one would think that Penelope was steeped in the blackest dye. Yet now that Emma was no longer in that young lady's presence, the romantic fever that Marianne excited in her was dissolving. The spell was loosening its hold, coming unraveled under the scrutiny of Penelope's fine dark eyes. Who was the villain? Who was the liar? She did not know anymore.

In her confusion, Emma grasped at the few facts which seemed as unclouded as crystal. Marianne loved her. Marianne needed her. Penelope did not.

She wrenched herself out of Penelope's gasp. "I do not want you," Emma said through gritted teeth. She stood with her back to the other woman, her hands balled into fists at her side. Unshed tears burned in her eyes.

Penelope said very softly, "Do you not?"

Emma felt hands upon her waist. She could not resist when Penelope turned her around. Her head fell back; her lips parted when a warm mouth descended upon her own. Emma responded to that gently insistent kiss, winding her arms around the taller woman's neck. She was breathless and yielding, trusting to Penelope's strength to support them both. Time spun out in increments measured by the beating of her heart.

Penelope tasted of wine and caraway comfits. There was a firm body beneath the satin gown, but there was a woman's softness, too, pressing against her. Emma's senses were reeling again, but this time the cause was very different. A lazy heat suffused her blood, robbing her of every inclination except to clutch those broad shoulders and be suffocated with love. When Penelope released her, she whimpered an inarticulate protest.

"Good Lord! What have I done?" Penelope said, pulling away from Emma.

Emma swayed on her feet, touched her mouth with her fingertips. She could not speak, nor did she notice Penelope's distress. A simple kiss had deprived her of that power. Doubt was crushed beneath the weight of a revelation. She loves me! She loves me! Emma exulted. Marianne was forgotten. At this moment, in this hour, there was only the tall, dark lady who had haunted her dreams for what seemed like a lifetime.

She understood now that her notions of love were fatally flawed. This was the true meeting of hearts and souls - a coming together that was beyond anything the poets described. No words were sufficient. In a thousand lifetimes, Emma would never be able to articulate the glory she had felt when Penelope kissed her. Joy suffused her until she could have sworn that she was glowing brighter than the candlelight streaming from the house's windows.

Emma took a step towards Penelope, eager to declare her affections, but stopped when the woman held up a hand.

"I did not mean... I cannot... oh, God!" Penelope's face was ashen, her eyes dulled with pain. "Stay your distance, madam, I beg you. Forgive me." She turned on her heel and walked quickly back to the long gallery.

What does she mean? Emma thought. What is the matter?

With a growing sense of horror, Emma realized that Penelope did not love her. Why else would she offer such a demonstration and then flee, looking as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels? How could I have been so stupid?I was too ardent, too practiced, yielding too easily. She must think me the worst wanton in England! What else could she do but reject me? She tasted the fruit and found it spoiled by too many other hands.

I have lost her. I will never see her again.

The pang that lanced through Emma's breast made her want to fall to her knees and scream, but she found that she could not even weep. Her eyes were dry but she wished the tears would come, if only to offer some modicum of relief. She stood in the garden, staring into the shadows, her sorrow and despair too great to find expression. She had caught a glimpse of what might have been, only to have the promise snatched away from her in an instant. Emma thought that she had known heartache before; it came to her that whatever injuries she had suffered in the past were mere pinpricks that left no mark and were quickly forgotten. In her present state of agony, the torments of Torquemada would have been a blessing.

After a while, Emma said to herself, At least Marianne has some regard for me. She loves me. She needs me. I may be certain of giving no offense in that quarter. We will go away together, and I will try to forget.

Rain began to fall. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Her heart broken - it seemed beyond repair - Emma went back to the ball.

She had no difficulty spotting Marianne. The young lady was flirting outrageously with a gentleman, admonishing him not to tread upon her gown when they danced, as she wore nothing beneath to preserve her modesty. Marianne had never seemed so beautiful. The rich, poppy-orange coquelicot color of her silk dress was enhanced by heliotrope trim; her black hair was caught up with a pearl-studded comb and hung in glossy coils to her shoulders. She tossed her head and laughed at the gentleman's whispered remark, and her eyes sparkled as brightly as the crystal earrings she wore.

Emma laid a hand on Marianne's arm. "Pray excuse us, sir," she said to the gentleman. "A matter has arisen which requires Miss Pye's immediate attention."

The gentleman bowed and took his leave, though not without casting a smoldering glance at Marianne.

"What are you doing?" Marianne asked, a petulant frown marring her face. She rapped Emma's wrist with her fan. "I was about to favor Mr. Carteret with a dance."

"To dance at such a time? My God!" Emma took hold of the young lady's upper arm and drew her into a private corner. She was amazed that Marianne was so cool. "Have you forgotten that we are to leave this very night?"

"No, my memory is perfectly clear."

"Then how can you be calm? Is it not the fashion for girls to show some hint of nerves on their elopement?"

"Oho! You are jealous of Mr. Carteret!" Marianne crowed. "That is the true cause of your distemper. Do I spy a tinge of green in your face? Will you play Othello to my Desdemona, and if so, who is to be our Iago? Do you think that I tempt heaven with a dance?"

Emma was in no mood to bandy words. She wanted nothing more than to be gone from this place, the scene where her hopes had been dashed to pieces. With an effort, she suppressed her impatience. Emma reminded herself that Marianne - and the certainty of Marianne's affections - was all that she had left to cling to. There was nothing left but to follow the course set by Providence and her own actions. Penelope was gone. Marianne remained.

"Forgive me, dearest," Emma said, attempting to sound lover-like and contrite. "I could not bear it if some swaggering dandy were to importune you with charm and promises. I'm also very eager for us to be away."

"So soon? But it is scarcely ten o'clock!"

"I have a hired coach waiting." Emma said, unable to withstand the desperate desire to flee. Her glance swept over the crowd; was that a feathered red turban bobbing in their direction? She would rather be struck dead than confront Penelope. "We must go, Marianne. If we leave at once we'll not be missed for hours."

"La, madam! Soften your tone lest we be overheard!" Marianne's eyes flashed with ire. "Very well, I'll come with you now though it quite spoils my evening. I do not like us haring off into the night like a pair of thieves. It is not a whit romantic, you know. I'm sure an elopement doesn't go so hurriedly in novels."

"I will make it up to you, I promise," Emma cajoled. "Come, dearest. You shall have sonnets and sonatas later."

There was a slight delay while Marianne retrieved her cloak, and then the two women made their way outside. Emma spotted her driver and ordered the man to bring up the coach. He was not one of her brother's servants; she had hired him along with the conveyance, fearing that someone who knew her would object to being an accomplice in her flight. As soon as the coach rolled to a stop, Emma helped Marianne climb the steps and clambered in beside her.

They set off in motion with a jerk, but that soon steadied into a rhythmic jogging of horses and rolling wheels and the road. The storm was worsening; blasts of wind now accompanied the rain, which was falling in heavy sheets. The noise of water lashing down upon the roof was nearly deafening. Emma knew they would not make many miles that night, not with the weather conspiring against them.

It was dark inside the coach. Emma could see very little of Marianne besides the subtle gleam of her jewels, the mere suggestive glimmer of her face. They sat in silence for a while before Emma groped for the other woman's hand.

"We are going to London," she said, and winced when her voice cracked. Emma cleared her throat and tried again. "We shall need funds if we are to travel to the Continent. My father left me a portion of his estate, and of course I have my mother's income to do with as I choose. I must visit my solicitor to make the necessary arrangements."

Marianne did not respond, so Emma continued, "We'll be comfortable, dearest, I promise. Maids can be got in London, too, and a manservant, so that everything will be proper and respectable when we begin to travel. I thought perhaps to begin in France, since our brave Duke put paid to Boney last year, and it should be safe enough. Then Italy, Venice, Germany, Austria, Spain, Portugal, Greece..."

"I think not," a man's voice said, interrupting the recital.

Emma screamed. A narrow beam of light shot out, directly in her eyes. Dazzled, she cried out and flung an arm across Marianne as the stranger finished opening his lantern, illuminating the interior of the coach. She blinked, eyes watering a little, until her pupils adjusted enough to let her see the intruder.

There was a man sitting on the seat opposite. He was roughly handsome, as swarthy as an Italian, with pale green eyes that stared at her with all the insolence and self-confidence of a tomcat. His mouth was curiously sensual, wet and plump and pouting. He was dressed entirely in black - the better to conceal himself in the shadows - and holding a flintlock pistol in his free hand.

Emma gathered up her courage and asked, "What do you want, sir? We have no money." She held Marianne close to her side, trying to shield the other woman with her body in case the ruffian had violent plans. "We are not without friends or connections. Your interests would be better served by withdrawing at once and leaving us in peace."

He said nothing, merely stretched his legs out with a grunt. The pistol lowered, pointing at Emma, who wrapped her arms around Marianne more tightly. To her consternation, Marianne jerked herself out of Emma's grasp and moved to sit next to the man. "No!" Emma cried, trying to catch the girl's skirts and haul her out of danger.

Consternation turned to disbelieving shock when Marianne tilted up her face and bestowed a loving kiss upon his lips.

"What are you doing?" Emma whispered, shrinking back into her seat. "Have you gone mad?"

"Am I mad, Willows?" Marianne asked with a little laugh. Her sidelong glance at Emma was full of glee.

"Of course not, my love." The swarthy man gave the lantern to Marianne and received another kiss in return.

Willows! Emma recalled that this was the name of the officer who had run away with Marianne to Bath (or kidnapped her) and very nearly caused her ruin. For that act alone, she considered him a brute, a commonplace thug and a villain of the first water. He was clearly no gentleman! She could not explain the kisses that she had witnessed, except to think that perhaps Marianne's mind had come unhinged through terror. Emma saw him run a hand over Marianne's thigh in a possessive manner that she found unsettling. Uneasiness turned to wrath when Willows dipped his head and ran a tongue over the girl's ample décolletage.

"You cad! Unhand her at once!" Emma demanded, making a desperate lunge for Marianne.

Willows quickly planted a boot in her midriff and shoved her back into the seat. "Stay still and quiet," he growled, "or I'll put a ball between your eyes."

Marianne giggled. It was an ugly sound.

Emma glanced from one to the other, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. "What is this game?" she asked, a dull and leaden ache spreading through her belly. "Marianne, has he threatened you? Coerced you? In God's name, tell me!"

"Willows and I are to be man and wife," Marianne replied, snuggling closer to the man in question. "He wrote to me after he learned that I was to marry Mr. Musgrove. Isn't it exciting? A real elopement! Oh, my mother will gnash her teeth when she finds out that I've run away with Willows!"

"I thought..."

"Your assumptions were mistaken, Miss Fullham." Willows pursed his plump lips. "I never kidnapped Marianne. True, we went to Bath - and I intended to make her my bride when I could - but Mr. Pye put all our plans at naught. I had to resign my commission and flee to the north of England, for my reputation was in deshabille thanks to that gentleman's work. However, last month an acquaintance made mention to me of Marianne's engagement. When I learned of it, I made all haste to contact my beloved. Our affection for one another was unaltered. Absence does make the heart grow fonder."

"How long has this affair been going on?" Emma felt sick, looking at their smug faces. The coach rocked on its springs as the driver urged the horses around a corner. She braced herself and swallowed hard.

Marie said, "Willows and I met in Wynbourne to make our plans. He is very clever, you see. We need money and you are going to procure it for us, Emma!"

"I do not have the pleasure of understanding you," Emma said, pressing a fist to her breast.

"It is you who are being kidnapped!" Marianne said with another giggle. "Is that not the most amusing thing? You believed I was running away with you, but that was just a bag of moonshine. Your weakness for the fairer sex made everything easy. I told Willows about you, and he planned it thus so you would be deceived!"

"What wickedness is this!" Emma cried. "Have I meant nothing to you? I thought you loved me!"

Marianne said to her with casual cruelty, "I am all astonishment, madam! Did you think that a few kisses and heated fumblings would be enough to turn my regard from Willows? I'll admit that your attentions gave me a little pleasure, and you were a very kind friend to me when I was otherwise alone, but there was nothing else on my part."

Emma damned herself for a fool. Aloud, she said, "I tried to be good to you, Marianne. I was willing to sacrifice my family, my home, so that we could be together."

"What is that to me? Is it my fault that you were willing - nay, eager - to hang upon my every word? To believe every faradiddle I told you? Hah! I'm a champion story-teller, am I not? Lured you into the Devil's own scrape with false tears and lies, and you followed straight behind me like a lovesick calf! I could laugh myself to fits thinking about it."

"You lying chit!" Emma spat, a burst of anger overwhelming her. Instead of gold and amber, the lantern light inside the coach was tinged with red. "You shameless wanton hussy!"

Marianne was quick to respond. "Stupid wench! How dare you insult me? Willows, do something!"

Emma leaned forward, her blue eyes bright with fury. She was raging at herself, at the Providence that had made her a dupe, at the loss of all the illusions that she had held dear. Love's opposite is hate; at that moment, if she had possessed a pistol, she would have shot Marianne dead without a qualm.

"I wish to God that I could scrub myself clean of your pollution," Emma said flatly. "To live with the knowledge that I have touched such a loathsome creature is almost more than I can bear."

"Enough!" Willows said loudly. "I've heard enough, by Jove, so sheathe your claws - both of you!" He poked the flintlock at Emma, who sat back and glared. Marianne sneered in triumph.

"You will not profit from this crime," Emma said to the man. "My brother will come. He knows how to deal with scoundrels like you."

"Your brother will not miss you until he returns from London," Marianne answered. "By that time, we will have you safely locked away. Mr. Fullham will pay a large ransom, and Willows and I will go to the Continent, where we shall be very gay together."

Emma kept her attention on Willows. "And if he does not pay?"

Willows smirked unpleasantly. "Oh, I think he will. Look upon this as an adventure, Miss Fullham. Taken captive against your will, forced to accede to your captor's whims at pistol point. Solitary confinement in a ruined abbey - or better yet, a haunted convent - where you may wallow in despair and grief to your heart's content. Just like in one of those novels you fancy, eh?"

"If you touch me, I will kill myself," Emma said, not liking the gleam in the man's eyes or the way he kept wetting his lips.

"Your virtue is safe," he said. "I have no interest in you beyond your brother's fortune."

Suddenly, they heard the driver's panicked shout above the drumming of rain. The coach gave a sickening lurch. Marianne's scream was echoed by the horses. Willows bellowed like a wounded beast. Emma cracked her head against the side of the window; scarlet light and pain burst behind her eyes, then faded to darkness as she lost consciousness.

The coach lurched again, seemed to pause for a breathless moment, and finally toppled over on its side with a mighty crash.

Emma woke up with a gasp. Ice cold water saturated her to the skin. She was disoriented at first, until she realized that the coach had been overturned and was lying on its side in a rain-swollen stream. Emma was on her back, lying at the bottom of the wreck. Water had come in through the shattered window beneath her, and she was partially submerged. There was no sign of Willows or Marianne. Above, she could see the sky framed by the open door; storm clouds still swirled around the moon and a few drops of rain were falling, but the violent tempest seemed to have passed.

She tried to move and bit back a scream as a vague ache in her ankle bloomed into agony. One of her legs was stretched up in the air, her foot wedged beneath the collapsed seat. She thought her ankle might be broken. Emma tried to pull her foot out and was rewarded only by a fresh wave of pain. The limb would not budge. Because of the awkward angle of her leg, she could neither sit nor stand. Emma was well and truly trapped.

Emma called out, "Help! Someone help me, please!" Her cries became more urgent when she realized that the water level was gradually rising.

The stream was not yet deep enough to cover her face, but that could only be a matter of time. In a frenzied panic, Emma began to thrash around, heedless of the excruciating pain that flashed up her leg. The water was up to her ears. It lapped at the bottom of her chin. It kissed her cheeks and trembled at the outer corners of her eyes. Emma screamed, took in a mouthful of water and choked, fluid bubbling up from her throat. Racked by convulsions that threatened to tear her apart, she coughed and spluttered until her airway was clear again.

After a few moments of harsh panting, she caught her breath and blinked away the droplets clinging to her eyelashes. Above her, the moon shone as brightly as a silver penny; it was surrounded by a halo of cold fire. She focused her gaze on the moon and lifted her head. Outside, she could hear nothing except the gurgling of the stream, the wind rushing through trees. Emma blinked again, the hysteria that had gripped her fading quickly. She was left feeling grateful that no one had witnessed her embarrassing loss of control, but also angry that her pleas for help went unanswered. Where were Willows and Marianne? Could they have been thrown clear of the wreck? And where was the driver?

More minutes passed while she gathered her strength for another attempt. Gritting her teeth, she tried to move her foot back and forth in the hope that she might be able to shift it out from under the seat. The pain was terrible, but she persisted until it became obvious that no amount of effort on her part would be able to free the limb. She had to take a different approach.

Elbows braced against the wood beneath her, she pushed her body up until her torso was out of the water. It was not an easy position to maintain - threads of fire were crawling across her shoulders and neck - but Emma thought she could hold herself up until help arrived. They had been on the road to London; it was a well traveled route, and if someone did not come tonight, it was likely that a post coach or private carriage or express rider would be along in the morning. The accident would be discovered. If she could just hold out until dawn, there was every hope of rescue.

If the water stopped rising.

If the stream did not flood its banks and sweep her away, coach and all.

Merciful God, Emma prayed, if it be Thy will, deliver me from this fate. I do not want to die.

Like an answer to her prayer, a face appeared above her at the open door. It was Willows.

"Stand up and give me your hand!" he shouted.

"It is not possible!" Emma cried back to him, so grateful that she could have kissed the scoundrel. Relief made her feel faint. "My foot is caught!"

"Well, pull it out!"

"I cannot! Help me, sir! Can you not see that I am trapped?"

Willows cursed. He had abandoned his coat; his white linen shirt was wet through, dyed pink in places where a cut had bled and rain had bleached the stain. "Are you certain that you cannot free yourself?"

"Yes! For God's sake, help me!"

He still held his flintlock in one hand. To Emma's shock, he aimed it at her.

"I'm sorry, Miss Fullham," Willows said. "The coachman is dead of a broken neck and I cannot free you without assistance. If you prefer to drown, I'll leave you to make peace with your Maker. Otherwise, I'll do you a mercy and make the end quick. It will be painless, I assure you. I'm an excellent shot."

Emma screamed a hoarse protest, and as if by magic, an arrow appeared in Willows' arm.

He dropped the pistol and turned, falling off the coach. Emma heard hoofbeats and men's voices shouting and howls that had little to do with the wind. She lay there, dazed and numb, beyond any reaction at all. Her strength was gone, her will shattered by too many strains, too much horror in a single night. There was nothing left except mute acceptance. She let her head fall back into the water and waited for the end.

Raindrops pattered gently on her face. The storm was fading. Her eyes closed, only to flutter open again when someone called, "Miss Fullham! Emma! Good God, Emma, speak to me!"

It was Penelope Pye, peering down at her anxiously. "Tell me, are you hurt? Please, sweetheart, say something!"

Emma could not answer. There was nothing to say.

She closed her eyes again and let peaceful oblivion carry her away - to Heaven or Hell, it did not matter. Nothing mattered anymore. She was so tired... so very tired...

"Emma!"

Not even that lady's insistence could make Emma disobey the call to rest.

Emma woke up slowly, her recollection a somewhat confused jumble of images and sounds. She remembered the coach ride, the moment when she had learned the extent of Marianne's betrayal. The appearance of Willows. The kidnap plot, and then they were overturned, and the water...

She sat up, heart racing, and found herself warm and dry in her own bed at Stafford House.

A nagging headache gripped her temples. Careful examination with her fingertips revealed a bandage wrapped around her brow. Emma's throat was dry and scratchy, too. All that was nothing compared to the throb of her broken ankle. Her foot felt unnaturally stiff. She reached down beneath the covers and felt linen wrappings binding her limb tightly from instep to mid-calf.

Glancing around the room, she saw Penelope Pye sitting in a chair near the window, reading a book. Since her awakening had gone unnoticed, Emma lay back on the mound of pillows and studied the other woman.

Penelope's face was drawn and pale; this made her beaky nose seem even more impressive than usual. Her hair was pulled back in an untidy bun; she wore a stained apron over her dress. Dark circles had formed like bruises beneath her eyes. Penelope looked as though she been suffering acutely, and Emma thought she knew the cause.

I have caused her so much anguish and grief. It is all my fault. She came to care for me when I was hurt because she is good and kind, but I can see how much it pains her. How she must have steeled herself to touch me, believing that I'm no better than... no. I wrong her compassionate spirit. She would think only of a friend's duty and perform what service she could without grudging or complaint. I was a fool - ten thousand times a blind fool - to mistake Marianne's dross for Penelope's gold. The one soul is worthless; the other bears a price beyond rubies.

Emma's chest began to ache under the weight of unshed tears, unvoiced sobs, unuttered words. She still loved Penelope; those feelings would never change, not if she lived to be a hundred years old. That kiss at the ball would never be forgotten. She would experience that glorious moment again and again in her dreams. Yet Emma would not force her attentions on one who found them so obviously repugnant, nor would she permit Penelope to remain in an environment which she found distressing. Penelope would have to leave Stafford House and return to The Pynery as quickly as possible.

And afterwards, since I cannot avoid her in society, I will probably go to London when my ankle will bear the travel, Emma decided. 'Twill be the purest torment to leave her, but what else can I do?

Watching Penelope sitting there reminded Emma of a poem. She murmured softly, "Graceful and useful all she does, blessing and blest where'er she goes; Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass, and Heaven reflected in her face."

Penelope's book fell from her lap as she rose to her feet. "Miss Fullham! You are awake!" A brilliant smile spread across her features. "Thank God!"

Emma could not return the smile; indeed, she could scarcely bring herself to look Penelope in the face. She felt terribly awkward and uneasy. "Yes, I am much better, I think," she said, averting her gaze and peering at the other woman from beneath lowered eyelashes. Absently, her fingers began plucking at a loose thread on the embroidered coverlet.

"I had thought... that is, we were all worried..." Penelope faltered and stopped, a spot of bright pink burning in each cheek.

"I am alive, and I thank you most profoundly for your concern," Emma replied, resolved to mask her feelings behind a polite facade. "Would you be so kind as to call my brother?"

Several emotions flickered across Penelope's face - chagrin, anger, pain - before she presented a blank countenance. "Of course. I shall fetch Mr. Fullham at once," she said. "He will be eager to see you." Without uttering another word, she left the room.

Emma sighed and continued to unravel threads until Guy came into her bedchamber. He wore a grin so wide, it seemed to stretch from ear to ear.

"Dearest sister!" he cried, practically glowing with relief. "You do not know how sick I was with worrying! How do you feel? Do you wish food or drink? Ask and it shall be yours." He danced from foot to foot in his eagerness and joy.

"My throat is dry," Emma replied, and accepted a glass of wine from him. After a few sips, she said, "Do sit down, Guy, and stop buzzing about the room like a bumblebee!"

"Oh, but I am so top-filled with joy, I should like to fly!" Guy laughed, dragged the chair to her bedside and sat down. He could not stop grinning. "It has been a harrowing three days... add an evening to the score, too, if we are to count your rescue as part of the ordeal."

Emma's hand tightened around the wine glass until it threatened to crack. "Can you... can you tell me what happened? I remember so little about it..."

"And no wonder! You must have been crazed with fear." Guy leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "Well, I had gone to London to make arrangements for your pony phaeton, since I believed that you had won our wager. I returned early and thought to surprise Mrs. Palmer and her unmarried daughters by paying a call at Wendelwood towards the end of the ball. Upon my arrival, I met Miss Pye, who seemed anxious because both you and her sister were missing and could not be found upon the grounds. An inquiry amongst the servants revealed that your hire coach had been observed leaving the house in great haste. Furthermore, some of the other coachmen had witnessed a strange gentleman entering the hire coach earlier in the evening, and were able to describe him in great detail.

"It was at this point that Miss Pye became alarmed. She related to me the details of an incident between a John Willows and Miss Marianne Pye, and that this was the man whom the coachmen described. Miss Pye proclaimed Willows to be a scoundrel and a rogue of the blackest sort. It was assumed that he was in the north of England, but she had seen him in London a few weeks previously, and she came home at once to inform her family.

"Needless to say, everyone feared for the safety of two young women in such company. It was assumed that he had abducted you both for some nefarious purpose. Myself and a party of gentlemen set off on horseback to overtake the coach. Miss Pye insisted on accompanying us, for she swore most dreadfully that if Willows harmed you, he would pay dearly, and her own hands would take the pound of flesh he owed! She is the most extraordinary creature, Emma, but I suspect you know that already."

"I do," Emma said, wondering why Penelope would want to defend her so fiercely.

Guy continued, "We stopped only once, to retrieve Miss Pye's weapons. The rest of us were already armed with pistols, but she was most familiar with the bow, and put it under her cloak to keep it dry. What a terrible ride! With the storm howling all around us, the night was dark as pitch and fairly impenetrable. More than once we thought that we were on the wrong track. The road was full of puddles and pitfalls and ruts deep near enough to sink a horse to the fetlocks! Yet we persisted at breakneck speed, and Miss Pye was the most daring of us all.

"Then, when we finally came upon the coach, it was overturned in a stream. There was no sign of you. We could see Miss Marianne Pye huddled beneath a tree on the opposite bank, and Willows standing on the upturned side of the coach. He had a pistol. The eldest Miss Pye did not hesitate, but shot the damned - pardon me, dearest - the deuced blackguard in the arm with an arrow. He fell off and tried to make a run for it. Mr. Palmer and some of the gentleman went in hot pursuit of the rascal, while the rest searched for you. It was Miss Pye who found you trapped in the coach. Oh, you were nearly dead, poor girl, but Miss Pye refused to let you go. I have met Army colonels who had not half as much command! While she braced your leg, the rest of us pushed the coach upright on its wheels. After that, it was ax work to cut you free. Miss Pye stayed with you the entire time and insisted on carrying you back to Stafford House herself. And she has not left your side for an instant these three terrible days, nursing you back to health, preparing medicines and cures... in short, Dr. Delford has proclaimed her a horrid nuisance, but could find no fault in either her sickroom skills or her devotion.

"I do believe Miss Pye cares for you greatly... perhaps more than you know," Guy concluded, and sat back in his chair with an air of satisfaction.

Emma did not trust herself to speak for several long minutes. At last, she asked, "What of Willows and Marianne?"

"John Willows... hmph." Guy ground a fist in his opposite palm and scowled. "That damned - pardon me, dear - cursed scoundrel had the cheek to try and threaten me with the exposure of my sister's peccadilloes unless I stopped his mouth with cash. Hah! I gave Willows a good thrashing and warned him that if he came within a hundred yards of the village again, I would certainly call him out. He escaped and fled two days ago, presumably to the Continent. As for Miss Marianne Pye, she has gone to Oxfordshire to stay with relations until her wedding to Mr. Henry Musgrove."

"Poor, stupid Marianne," Emma said. "She will never appreciate Mr. Musgrove, I fear. He is not romantic enough."

"She is besotted with ideas and illusions. There is no reason for you to emulate her behavior."

Emma's eyes went wide with surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

Guy took her hand and squeezed it affectionately. "I do not know what passed between you and Miss Penelope Pye on previous occasions, but it is clear to me that she loves you, Emma."

"No. It is impossible." Emma wrenched her hand out of his grasp. It was very unfair, she thought, for her brother to pile misery upon misery. Have I not suffered enough? "She does not. She cannot."

"Nonsense! If you two have had some trivial quarrel..."

"Nothing like that, Guy, I assure you."

"Well, then, don't lose this opportunity, dearest!" Guy stood up and smoothed back his cropped blonde curls. "She loves you deeply. I swear that I'm not mistaken. Why else would she risk her life? It was not for the sake of her sister that she rode miles in the rain and the dark. And there is something else I have not told you. Willows admitted that he was prepared to shoot you - a mercy, he claimed, for he could not bear to see you drowned. It took three grown men to subdue Miss Pye and stop her from killing the rogue on the spot. She was positively enraged on your behalf. Indeed, the curses she uttered were such that if I were Willows, I might have died of pure fright! I doubt he would have fled so handily if Miss Pye had not prompted that flight with promises of tortures beyond measure. I would not have wanted to face her with a brace of pistols to hand."

"She... she wanted to fight for me?"

"She was eager to defend your honor and punish the man who had nearly caused your death. That goes beyond mere friendship, my girl. Tell me again that Miss Pye does not love you!"

"Oh, Guy... I don't know what to do!" Emma buried her face in her hands and began to cry. The whole sorry tale poured out in a rush. Her infatuation with Marianne. How her feelings had changed, her affections turning to Penelope, then the confusion and doubt that had led her back to Marianne. The ball, the kiss... and a rejection that had shattered her heart. She did not spare herself; she admitted that her own foolishness had been the ultimate cause of all her woes.

"If only," Emma wept, "if only..."

Emma became gradually aware that someone was sitting next to her, holding her tightly. She assumed it was her brother. That same someone gave her a handkerchief, and she used it to wipe her eyes and wet cheeks. When she looked up to thank Guy, she froze in shock.

The person holding her was Penelope!

Guy was still standing next to the bed. He raised a gilded brow at both women and said, "I believe that some private discussion is required, so I will take my leave." He bowed and walked out of the room.

Emma was left alone with the one woman whom she loved and feared more than anyone else in the world.

She recoiled, terrified of giving offense, of humiliating herself, but Penelope gathered her in a closer embrace and said, "Do not struggle so, sweetheart. Unless you find this unpleasant, in which case I'll trouble you no more."

"Please," Emma whimpered. Although she had ceased trying to pull away, her body was rigid. She waited, suspense rubbing already raw nerves to the breaking point.

"I have not that ease, which some possess, in revealing my innermost feelings at the snap of a finger," Penelope began at last, one hand stroking Emma's hair. "I am a cautious and private person. It gives me no pleasure to put myself forward that way. Some think me cold and uncaring because I will not hang my heart upon my sleeve... but I do have a heart."

"I do not doubt it, madam," Emma said stiffly, crumpling the handkerchief in her hands.

"Hush, dearest, and listen. This is not a simple confession to make." Penelope paused, drew a deep breath, and continued, "The first moment that we met, when you were walking with my sister on the village green, I knew you were not one of those frivolous and goose-witted girls who plague the countryside composing sonnets to sheep or odes to dead leaves. Oh, you played the part very well, as one exceedingly practiced at the art, but I felt there were depths to you that were yet unplumbed. I was intrigued. I was entranced. You were so beautiful! How I despised myself for hurting you with the truth about Marianne! At the same time, I rejoiced because in severing your connection to her, my own suit might have a chance. Was this very wicked of me?"

Emma said in a very small voice, "I do not know." She was not entirely sure of the direction this conversation would take; some apprehension remained that Penelope was merely being kind and trying to soften the blow to come.

"Ah, but you must hear the rest," Penelope said. "It was I who encouraged my father to speak to your brother about the Ladies' Toxophilite Society. This was the only way I could become acquainted with you. You can have no idea, Emma, how difficult it was for me to maintain propriety when you were in my house that day. Even covered in mud and bruises, you were like some dazzling goddess. The temptation was very great. If I had not known you were in pain, if I were not sensible of right and wrong, I might have abandoned prudence altogether. I could not, of course. As far as I knew, you regarded me as a friend and nothing more. No, not even that. I was the one who had ruined your hopes with Marianne.

"So I made the effort and we did become friends. The more we were together, the more sure I became that you were the woman to whom I longed to give my heart. If only you knew how much I have suffered, wondering if you could ever return my love! Despite my feelings, I had to be cautious, I had to be sure - this is part of my nature. Doubt tormented me. Finally, I thought I discovered some regard for me in your countenance, though your affections were not marked enough to make me declare myself on the spot. I decided to tell you of my feelings on the night of the ball."

"You kissed me," Emma said, touching fingertips to her lips.

"Yes, I kissed you." Penelope's dark brows drew together in a frown. "That was the surprise I had teased you about. You seemed to be delighted, at least until the end. Imagine how I felt when I heard your protest! You whimpered like a wounded kitten, and the look in your eyes is one that I will never forget. Your face was pale as milk. God save me, I thought I had violated you in the most despicable fashion. To make such an appalling mistake! I was too overwrought to offer an apology. Instead, I withdrew from your presence immediately, in order to preserve you from further distress."

"No!" Emma cried, almost falling from the bed in her haste to put her arms around Penelope's neck. "I thought you hated me! I thought I had offended you terribly, to make you run away like that!"

"Then you did not... you were not..."

"Of course I wanted you to kiss me, you ninny! In fact, after the first, I desperately wanted you to kiss me again."

"Oh."

The sheepish expression on Penelope's face made Emma laugh. All her cares seemed to vanish in an instant. Once again, she felt enveloped in a warm glow that made her tingle from crown to toes. "I love you," Emma said, gazing into Penelope's fine dark eyes. "I love you more than I can possibly express. Do you think that you're the only one who has bedewed her pillow with tears? I was not sure of your feelings in the matter. I even wrote you passionate letters, but dared not send them lest you think me too forward. "

"Did you? I wish you had sent them. Then you might not have been abducted by that blackguard, Willows."

Emma sighed. "The day before the ball, Marianne told me that her marriage to Mr. Musgrove was forced. When I decided there was no hope that you would reciprocate my affections, it seemed that saving her was the best thing to do. I believed she loved me. I could not leave the poor creature to her fate. Marianne was familiar; I could cling to her as a habit and forget how much I desired to be with you instead."

"And then we kissed, and misunderstood each other, and you nearly lost your life because I'm a fool!" Penelope groaned. "Perhaps you had better not love me, if only for the sake of your continued good health."

"But you saved me most heroically. I hear that you offered to spill Willows' claret, too, for daring to endanger me."

Penelope said fiercely, "That disgusting ruffian was going to shoot you in cold blood! Had he harmed a hair of your precious head, I would have torn him limb from limb. As it was, I managed to puncture him with an arrow before he could fire."

"Did you know that I was inside the coach?" Emma asked, curious to discover the answer.

"Somehow, I did. It was the luckiest shot I have ever made." Penelope grinned. "Fully fifty yards in the dark, in a rainstorm, to boot. And so small a target at that distance! But I am almost ashamed to admit that I was aiming for his chest, not his arm. The thought that you were about to be murdered set my blood afire. I would have killed him if I could. Afterwards, when you were brought from the coach and I knew you would live, I confronted him. He had the audacity to expect me to applaud him for granting you mercy instead of abandoning you to an agonizing death. Had your brother and some others not restrained me, I would have done considerably more than draw a little blood from him, my dear. I would have broken his neck!"

"I seem to recall that you called me sweetheart, or was that part of my delirium?"

"I forgot myself, so great was my agitation. I fear that your brother must have overheard me. He has been winking at me and making suggestions as to poetry and plays I might read aloud while you convalesce. Hence my embarrassment when you awakened; I thought you had remembered the endearment and been offended by it."

Emma giggled and snuggled closer, feeling incredibly cherished and protected. "Lord, we are a pair of idiots!"

"The course of true love never did run smooth, if one is to believe the poets."

"Speak to me not of poetry! Or novels, or Italian songs, or picturesque landscapes, or dead leaves and sheep! I know what love is now. I shall never again mistake sentiment for truth." Emma could hear Penelope's heart beating. She thought the sound was finer than any music ever played. "You know, the first time I saw you, I thought you were an Amazon. My first impression has not been proven wrong."

"Nor has mine. I thought you were lovely and spirited and brilliant as a star." Penelope leaned her brow against Emma's hair and breathed in her ear, "So... we are in agreement. We love one another, and neither of us has any reservations on that score."

"Not one."

"Excellent."

They kissed, their lips meeting, mouths joining together in a harmony that was sweet and timeless. Nothing else existed; the world was utterly forgotten. When they broke apart to breathe, Emma said, recalling the poem she had uttered earlier, "When I look at you, I see Heaven in your face."

"You are so beautiful..." Penelope whispered, her expression suffused with a joy and wonderment that made her beautiful, too.

"Kiss me again, my dearest Amazon. Never stop, not while we live."

"Never, Fair Clorinda. Not while we live, I swear."

They melted into one another's arms, two souls that had suffered and found each other through the storm. Cherished and cherishing, loved and loving, both friends and lovers. Each was completed by a love that was deep and abiding. Doubt and error were gone; in their place was a union powerful enough to withstand tempests and remain unmoved, unaltering and unchanging except to grow ever stronger as the years passed.

After a time, Emma murmured, "Lock the door."

And Penelope hastened to comply.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

ALL THAT GLITTERS
a Regency Mystery
by Nene Adams ©2004 – All rights reserved

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
Molten, graven, hammered and rolled,
Heavy to get and light to hold,
Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold,
Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled,
Spurned by the young but hugged by the old,
To the verge of the churchyard mold;
Price of many a crime untold.
Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Good or bad a thousand fold!
How widely its agencies vary,
To save- to ruin- to curse- to bless-
As even its minted coins express:
Now stamped with the image of Good Queen Bess,
And now of a Bloody Mary.
---Thomas Hood, Miss Kilmansegg: Her Moral (1799-1845)

London, England 1820

“My dear Gussie, since Uncle Nash died, my pockets are quite to let.” Lord John Snowly’s lips quirked in an embarrassed little smile, and he shrugged his massive shoulders. “Otherwise I would gladly loan you every penny in my purse.”

“Oh, fiend seize it!” Lady Augusta Stapleton threw down her fan in a fit of temper, her beautiful face flushing crimson. Frustration and annoyance made her blue eyes sparkle like gems. “What am I to do, Snowly? I’m in damned low water on account of that accursed, jingle-brained young Vickery.”

“I hadn’t heard about that.” Snowly settled himself on the sofa next to Augusta, obviously prepared to at least lend an ear to her Iliad of ills, even if he could not lend a hundred pounds to pay off her gambling debt. “Do go on, Gussie. I hang upon your lips, eager to absorb every confided detail, after which I intend to offer my inestimable advice.”

Augusta pushed the loose blonde curls off her forehead and scowled. “Bah! You know, of course, that young idiot Horace Vickery – the Duke of Yardley’s youngest son – has recently become engaged to Lavinia L’Estrange.”

Snowly nodded. “I was as astonished as the rest of the London beau monde, my dear. It seems, on the face of it, a veritable misalliance. The L’Estrange family are well-known encroaching mushrooms who aspire to rub elbows with those beyond their natural station. They have actually had the indecency to earn a fortune in trade!” He affected a fastidious shudder. “I was given to understand that the match is being tolerated because the blushing bride’s generous dowry will enable the Duke to reclaim some family lands which were mortgaged by his grand-father.”

“Indeed, and it is also understood that as much as L’Estrange père and mère wish to use their son-in-law’s connections to ingratiate themselves into Society, they are also quite rigid in their moral outlook.” Augusta gave Snowly a grim smile. “Poor Vicky has had to swear off drinking, gambling and… ahem.” She raised her eyebrows and gave him a knowing look. “At least, until after the wedding takes place.”

“Poor Vicky, indeed,” Snowly murmured, knowing all about Horace Vickery’s tempestuous and illicit relationships with certain women of easy virtue.

“Well, Vickery’s oldest brother, who is a lieutenant in the Lilywhite 7th Hussars – do you know Andrew, Snowly?”

“Yes, I am acquainted with his lordship.”

“Andrew decided that before Horace had to embrace virtue for a six-month engagement, he ought to get his fill of vice.” Augusta got up from the sofa and went to the side-table to pour herself a glass of ratafia. She sipped the almond-scented liquor and went on, “It was quite a bash, Snowly. I’m surprised you weren’t invited to the Gilt Feather.”

“I was out of town at my uncle’s estate near Sheffield.” Snowly accepted the glass that Augusta offered him. “Frankly, Gussie, I’m shocked white that Andrew Vickery invited you to partake of such a bawdy bacchanal, and at a notorious gaming hell, no less.”

Augusta shrugged carelessly. “Oh, that!” Her tone was scornful. “I was perfectly safe, Snowly, given that I was escorted by Caroline Peregrine.”

Caroline Peregrine? Snowly’s eyebrows ached from being perched so high on his forehead. “Not quite the well armed escort I would have preferred,” he said noncommittally, toying with the glass of liquor. He would have liked to say more, but Augusta beat him to it.

“Caro is a perfectly respectable personage,” she said hotly, banging her glass on the side-table so hard that it cracked. “In fact, I am quite besotted with her.”

“But Miss Peregrine is a bluestocking,” he pointed out, “a savant, a seeker after nuggets of dust-dry knowledge. I should think she would be more interested in astrolabes and alchemy than dicing at hazard. Is not this attachment somewhat inappropriate?” He did not really know the woman – she was outside his social circle – but Caroline’s late father, Professor Peregrine, had taught the sciences at Oxford until his death five years ago.

“She is actually quite good at hazard – Caro rolled several ‘nicks’ and scooped the stakes, which made the Earl of Penhallow fairly weep in chagrin - and furthermore, it is not an improper attachment,” Augusta insisted, her cheeks flushing a brighter scarlet. “We are quite fond of one another, Snowly. I am thinking of setting up a household with her, like the celebrated ladies of Llangollen.”

Snowly choked, causing the liquor in his glass to spill onto his breeches. His first thought was that his valet, a strict disciplinarian when it came to his wardrobe, was going to be furious at the stain. His second was that Augusta must be mad.

He uttered something to the effect that the conduct of two eccentric Irish females who lived together in a cottage in Wales was, despite their popularity with such individuals as the Duke of Wellington, not quite in accord with the current fashion for gentlewomen to wed gentlemen. Snowly thought he had put his views plainly yet diplomatically – he felt in loco parentis to Gussie Stapleton, given that her parents were dead and her sole relation was a sour-faced spinster aunt - but Augusta remained stubborn.

“Don’t bandy words with me,” she cried, “for you’ve no notion of how I feel for Caro, or how she feels for me. This is no fustian nonsense, Snowly. I am thoroughly smitten. And besides…” Augusta turned sulky. “Until I can pay off the debt I owe James Pelham, I shan’t be able to take Caroline anywhere, let alone Bath.”

Snowly’s head was spinning. He decided to give in on the issue of the Peregrine woman – for now – in order to concentrate on the more immediate business. “Bath? Why should you… wait.” He held up a hand to forestall Augusta’s explanation. “First, tell me how you came to owe Plum Pelham a hundred pounds.”

Augusta flung herself back onto the sofa. “I was telling you about the party at the Gilt Feather.”

“I await further revelations with bated breath,” he said dryly.

She glared at him from beneath her lashes. “Don’t be so frightfully missish, Snowly. I assure you that Caro and I were not the only respectable females at Andrew Vickery’s spree. Miss Allegra Idlewyld and the Honorable Jane Malmsey also attended, as well as Lady Katherine Braddock, Lady Almeria Elphinstone, Miss Penelope Roby, her sister-in-law Mrs. George Roby, her mother Mrs. Edward Roby, and that whey-faced, freckled little thing who belongs to the Pryce clan. And there were abigails a-plenty to act as duennas and see that no one’s reputation suffered a mite.”

“I see.” Snowly made a mental note to have a long, possibly violent chat with Lt. Andrew Vickery on the proper conduct becoming an officer and a gentleman, which did not include involving ladies in a questionable to-do that might yet become the scandal of all London. A gaming hell! Good Lord!

“At any rate,” Augusta continued, “it was James Pelham who entered into an altercation with the Honorable Frederick Maybrick over the high-stepping, bang-up-to-prime blood bay that they both had tried to buy at Tattersall’s, but which was pinched from beneath their very noses by Richard Yarmouth. Both Freddie and Plum swore sour grapes over the bay gelding, claiming it was a broken-winded, sway-backed nag unfit to be slaughtered by the knacker-man. Being a trifle worse for drink, nothing else would do but Richard had to have the bay fetched from the stables, and Freddie had his grey brought, and Plum called for a race to determine whose horse was the better. He made an excellent book, too, and I simply couldn’t resist because I thought it was a certain thing.”

“You wagered a hundred pounds on Freddie Maybrick’s dapple grey? My dear, everyone knows that mare isn’t worth a farthing.”

“Am I a feather-witted baggage? A chuckle-head of the first water? Of course I knew that Freddie’s mare was no good, which is why I wagered a hundred pounds on Richard Yarmouth’s gelding. But devil take it! The bay slipped on a cobblestone and injured his fetlock, which allowed Frederick Maybrick’s miserable bonesetter to win. I am not yet convinced that bamboozler Pelham did not grease the street to effect just such an outcome.”

Snowly rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a case of the megrims coming on. “And so you lost a hundred pounds,” he said, trying to grasp the essential facts. “And dare I ask - what does this contretemps have to do with taking Miss Peregrine to Bath?”

“My money is still held in trust by that horrid old dog’s wife of an aunt of mine until next year, when I turn twenty-five,” Augusta said. “She has me on a strict allowance; no amount of Banbury tales or girlish tears will wring a further shilling out of her. I lost the rest of my year’s allowance on that silly wager, when I had counted on winning, you see, and then I’d have the blunt to pay for a visit to Bath for myself and Caroline. It isn’t to be.” She sighed. “Instead, I can’t make good my debt to Plum until next year, and everybody knows he’s desperate for the ready on account of his debts, which if he can’t pay he’ll be sent down from Oxford in disgrace, and his father will no doubt fit him up for a career in the Church.”

Augusta picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of her lavender muslin dress and sighed again. “And that, my dear Snowly, is why I wanted to borrow a hundred pounds from you.”

“I see.” Snowly sat back and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. “My dear Gussie,” he said as an idea occurred to him, “how is your inamorata at solving puzzles?”

“Oh, Caro’s terrifically clever,” Augusta answered with such confidence, Snowly felt the tentative plan firm at once into a concrete scheme.

“Allow me to offer you a proposition,” he said, stretching his long legs out in front of him, glossy Hessian boots crossed at the ankle. “As you know, my uncle Hieronymus Nash died two months ago, leaving me his entire estate as I was his only heir.”

“Yes, and I still don’t understand why you’re so poorly in the pocket,” Augusta said. “Wasn’t Mr. Nash as wealthy as Croesus?”

“Not quite, but his fortune was, by all accounts, tolerable. I use the past tense because, hang it, I haven’t been able to find Uncle Nash’s fortune a’tall!”

“Oh? Has his banker done a moonlight flit?”

“Uncle Nash did not trust banks,” Snowly said. “When Old Boney began terrorizing Europe, my uncle converted his cash into gold and hid it somewhere on the grounds of his estate. Or possibly inside the house, which is a labyrinthine experience, I must tell you, having been added to over successive generations and subsequently filled with all manner of rubbish.” He laced his fingers over his stomach. “That branch of the family is a touch eccentric.”

“Have you looked for the gold?”

“Of course I have, you wearisome chit! My uncle’s manservant, Jenkins, has been helping me search but thus far without result. Now here’s my proposition – you and Miss Peregrine come to visit the Sheffield estate; we can put it about that you’re actually paying a call on my sister, Elizabeth, which ought to quell any scandalmonger’s tongues.”

“You’ve intrigued me sufficiently,” Augusta said, a gleam in her eyes. “Go on.”

“If your beloved Miss Peregrine can determine where my uncle hid his gold, I shall not only give you the hundred pounds to pay your debt to James Pelham, I’ll double it as a finder’s fee. But it must be done within a fortnight, as I’ve been invited to visit my friend Eustace Darby’s country house in Devonshire for the shooting season.”

Augusta nodded, then thrust out her hand. “Done and done!” she said, a huge grin creasing her pretty face. “Will you drive us in your carriage or must we go by the infamous Yellow Bounder?”

“In my own carriage, madam! I’d not trust two young and tender ladies to a hired post chaise where you will no doubt be set upon by ruffians and forced to endure rapacious landlords at roadside inns.” Snowly returned her grin and sat up, uncrossing his legs. He took her hand and shook it. “A fortnight, mind you – not a single minute more!”

“You sound like my aunt,” Augusta complained, but her smile did not fade. “Prepare to be dazzled, dear Snowly. Caroline Peregrine is no ordinary lady.”

“Good Lord, I hope not!” Snowly replied. “If she cannot provide a solution to this conundrum, I don’t know where to turn next. I’ll be brought to Point Non Plus, indeed.”

“O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter/Thou now request'st but moonshine in the water.” Augusta said nothing more after quoting Shakespeare but her expression was very sly.

Snowly wondered if he had perhaps made the situation worse. He shrugged inwardly. What was done was done. If the plan succeeded, he would be rich and Augusta’s immediate problem would be solved. As to what he might still do regarding the attachment Gussie was evincing towards Miss Peregrine… well, there were ways to discourage young misses and the objects of their wayward affections.

At the very least, he would have a chance to assess Caroline Peregrine for himself.

~~~xooo0ooox~~~

Caroline Peregrine was both more and less than Lord Snowly had expected.

She was not quite beautiful, but neither was she plain, although like Augusta she was past her first bloom. Her dress was ordinary but showed excellent taste. Caroline’s dark curly hair was cropped short in the style known as à la Titus and worn swept back from a high white brow. Her gloved hand clutched Augusta’s, but that was the only sign that betrayed anything of her nerves. Otherwise, she remained mostly silent during the trip, politely avoiding Snowly’s attempts to include her in the conversation.

As the barouche rolled in stately fashion over the long crushed-stone drive that meandered through an artificial wood towards the Nash residence, Caroline glanced up the hill and surveyed Hackworth House calmly through big brown eyes. All at once she asked, “Was your uncle fond of you, Lord Snowly?”

The unexpected question made him jerk back in surprise. “Why, er, yes, I believe so, Miss Peregrine,” Snowly replied, blinking, “given that I was his nearest relation and he had no children of his own.”

Caroline subsided against the carriage seat, a distant expression on her face. Snowly exchanged a glance with Augusta, who shrugged. He, too, sank back into the cushioned seat but he did not relax. His thoughts were busy with the riddle that was Caroline Peregrine. On the surface, she was very different from the usual Society woman – full of thoughtful silence instead of lively chatter, for example, but not sullen or spoiled. Despite being an academic female with no fortune or connections to recommend her to the fashionable set, there was nothing vulgar or commonplace about her. Snowly had yet to see any evidence of her supposed intelligence, however, and he found himself wondering what Augusta saw in Caroline. Thus far, he himself had found her quite dull.

Jenkins was waiting for them outside the house. When the carriage halted, the man opened the door and flipped down the steps. Snowly exited the conveyance and gallantly assisted the ladies in alighting as well. “Is my sister Elizabeth at home?” he asked the servant.

“Yes, milord,” Jenkins answered.

A miniature whirlwind in white-on-white embroidered cambric erupted from the front of the house and scrambled down the steps. “John!” cried Miss Elizabeth Snowly, a glad smile lighting her pretty face.

Snowly embraced his younger sister and kissed her brow in brotherly fashion. “Lizzie, my dear, how was your journey from Brighton?”

“Our aunt Phillips sends her felicitations,” Elizabeth replied. Her frankly curious gaze transferred to the two women waiting beside the carriage.

Taking the hint, Snowly said, “May I present Lady Augusta Stapleton and her companion, Miss Peregrine. Lady Stapleton, Miss Peregrine, allow me to present my sister, Miss Snowly.”

The women murmured greetings to one another. Augusta quickly turned her charm on Elizabeth and soon the two chattered together like old friends. Caroline’s attention was fixed on the servant, Jenkins.

“Where was your master’s forge?” she asked him.

Jenkins ducked his grizzled head. “In the library, miss,” he said. “Master Nash converted the fireplace with brick and mortar into a small forge with an anvil and bellows and everything needed for blacksmithing work.”

“Thank you,” she said, and followed Augusta and Elizabeth into the house.

Snowly remained behind, issuing orders on the matter of their trunks. Jenkins was the only male servant at Hackworth House, his uncle Nash being a notorious pinch-purse who would skin a flea for its hide and tallow. His own valet was away, visiting an ill relative. Accordingly, Snowly had to order the carriage driver to assist in the disposition of the luggage, which made the fellow surly until his lordship offered a handsome gratuity for the additional service.

Meanwhile, the ladies had removed bonnets, gloves and pelisses, and adjourned to the sitting room, where Elizabeth offered a glass of sherry and a seat by the fireplace. Augusta’s corded mulberry muslin carriage dress and lilac satin shawl were much admired by Elizabeth, while in her turn, Augusta praised Miss Snowly’s willow green morning gown. Caroline’s sprigged India muslin dress with its simple lace fichu was diplomatically deemed unworthy of mention but she did not seem to mind. Instead, Caroline remained quiet, absorbing the chatter and observing everything with her big brown eyes. The talk between Augusta and Elizabeth turned to politics, the weather, mutual acquaintances and family gossip.

Snowly joined the women in the sitting room in time to catch Elizabeth exclaim, “I do not understand why one’s own relations must prove so pernicious as to prevent their heirs from easily claiming what is theirs under the law.”

“Do not speak ill of the dead, Lizzie,” Snowly admonished, bowing to the ladies and going to stand near the fireplace. “I’m sure our beloved Uncle Nash did not mean to leave us without a sixpence to scratch with.”

“Did your uncle die unexpectedly?” Caroline asked, earning herself an astonished glance from Elizabeth – who might have been forgiven for supposing the other woman was completely dumb - and another surprised look from Snowly.

“Well, he was ill for nearly a year before the end,” Snowly said. “He made arrangements for the coffin down in Hackworth village; a local man made it cheaply, which was all that Uncle Nash desired.”

Caroline folded her hands in her lap and gazed at him steadily. “So the gentleman was cautious with his money?”

This time, Elizabeth answered. “Morbleu, Miss Peregrine, and sink me to the devil! You’ve struck the nail squarely on the head.”

Snowly winced at his sister’s vulgarity.

Elizabeth continued unheeding, “Uncle Nash was the most notorious pinch-purse in Sheffield. Aye, in all of England, I dare say! Nothing new would do when he could get it second-hand – including his waistcoats and small-clothes – and he would never make a purchase if the article could be mended, preferably by his own hands to save the fee. My uncle was an amateur blacksmith, too; he used to shoe his ancient and toothless pony himself rather than pay the village ‘smith for the chore.”

Caroline’s glance became as keen as a razor’s edge. Her features sharpened. Snowly felt a chill invade his blood; goosebumps rose on his flesh and the small hairs on the back of his neck sprang to attention. Something important had just happened, but he could not have said what. He cleared his throat.

“My sister is correct in her assertion that my uncle was careful not to be a spendthrift,” Snowly said, “but perhaps she states the case too strongly.”

“Does she?” Caroline arched a brow in his direction.

Snowly felt a touch of color creep into his cheeks. At that moment, Caroline Peregrine reminded him of his childhood nurse, a stern, stout woman whose ideas of child-rearing had included watery porridge and religious sermons in equal measures. He realized that he was steeling himself to endure a lecture from Mr. Fordyce’s edifying tome, and stifled a laugh at his own folly.

“Miss Peregrine, I must admit to my family’s eternal shame that Uncle Nash was, indeed, a sober and miserly individual,” Snowly said, propping a booted foot on the hearth and leaning his elbow against the mantelpiece. “He believed in getting value for money; profligate wastrels were not welcome beneath his roof.”

Caroline considered this statement gravely. At last, she asked, “May I see the household accounts for the past two years?”

This apparent non sequitur had the effect of once again setting Snowly back on his pins. There was a method to her madness, he supposed. He risked a glance at Augusta, who was looking insufferably proud of her inamorata’s presumed cleverness. Indeed, his friend was almost preening. Could this Peregrine creature actually solve the puzzle of his uncle’s missing wealth?

And if she did, would he not feel obliged to withdraw his objections to Augusta and Caroline’s liaison?

Snowly determined that he would take things as they came and not borrow trouble.

Once Caroline was settled in the library with the requested account books, Snowly and Elizabeth accompanied Augusta on a tour of the grounds. Uncle Nash’s apple and pear orchards would be ready for harvesting soon, but the glass-paned pinery and orangerie had both fallen into gross disrepair. The herb garden planted by Snowly’s great aunt was a riot of yellowing foliage and seed-heads. From the view afforded by a gap in a rampant hedge, Hackworth House was just as much of a sprawling mess, with a Tudor main residence that had a classical portico (stuck on in Snowly’s great-aunt’s day in a willy-nilly way), and a yellow-grey limestone wing on either side, each sporting a round tower with a pointed slate roof like a witch’s hat.

Hackworth House was not even charming, although one of the towers was virtually smothered in ivy, which lent that particular wing a rustic air that was not altogether unpleasant. Snowly had already decided that, if he could but raise the cash, he would like to renovate Hackworth’s aspect into a more tolerable one. That thought raised another and he said aloud, “I wonder how Miss Peregrine is getting along.”

“Quite well, I assure you,” Augusta said. The day being cool despite the late afternoon sunlight, she had wrapped the lilac shawl around herself but foregone her pelisse. “Trust in Caro, my dear Snowly. She will provide.”

“Like the Lord Our God?” Snowly asked in a lazy drawl.

“For shame, to blaspheme the Church! Or is this an example of Modern Piety?” Augusta laughed and quoted Mrs. Elizabeth Beverly, who had published the poem the previous year:

“Two ladies fair, in lively chat;
Began to talk of this and that:--
Cries Celia, “why within the door
Of church do you go ?--'tis quite a bore,
As grave to sit as Simon Pure,
I know 'twill make your phiz demure;
So dull and stupid is the place,
Indeed 'twill spoil your pretty face.”

Elizabeth continued the poem:

“Dear friend,” cries Ann, “you quite mistake--
Explain I will, love, for your sake:
To church I go, tho' not to pray,
'Tis not polite to stay away !
Besides we go to hear the news,
And shew our feet in pretty shoes:
In talking--laughing, all the while
Of service, we the time beguile:--
New faces and new dresses see,
And are as blithe as blithe can be:--
Then ogle beaus, their hearts to take;
Each sabbath we new conquests make.
Next eyes we lift as tho' to Heaven,
To shew the blessing to us given;
Their glances steal away each mind,
The man of God may preach to wind:
Our dress too, on the sabbath day,
We can with elegance display;
Our friends next, strive we to outvie,
And make them for our splendor sigh:
Such ends to gain, I'm sure no more,
You cannot style the church a bore!”

“Excellently done, Miss Snowly!” Augusta proclaimed.

Elizabeth gave her a graceful curtsey. “So, is Miss Peregrine here to ferret out uncle’s secret?” she asked, her eyes sparkling in delight. “How wonderful!”

“One can only hope,” Snowly said, pressing a hand to his shirt bosom. “Come along, ladies. It’s nearing the dinner hour. Let us return before Mrs. Sickert the housekeeper sends Jenkins to beat the bushes in order to scatter us from cover.”

Caroline proved difficult to pry away from her study of the accounts but Augusta managed by a combination of browbeating, pretty pleading and perhaps other persuasive activities that were not witnessed by Snowly or his sister, but the evidence of flushed faces and swollen lips told his lordship the rest of the story. He said nothing, however, merely indicated that dinner was waiting. Caroline, at least, had the grace to blush at his knowing glance but Augusta – always a troublesome, bold-faced wench – faced him with chin held high and a tiny, secret smile wreathing her cupid’s bow mouth.

Mrs. Sickert proved a capable cook as well as an assiduous housekeeper. Lord Snowly, his sister and their two guests ate baked eggs in the Florentine manner with béchamel sauce, pigeon pie, roast ribs of beef, a fricassee of turnips, pike in court bouillon, a sallet of endive and cabbage-lettuce, a ragoo of celery with wine, and pyramid creams for dessert. Afterwards, Snowly enjoyed a glass of port while the ladies indulged in an excellent Madeira. It was while the diners were lingering over the nuts and sweetmeats that Caroline made a polite cough to gain Snowly’s attention.

“Your lordship, I believe I know what your uncle Hieronymus Nash did with his money. Shall we repair to the library?”

Snowly’s eyes were as round as dinner plates, he was certain of it.

Augusta shot him a triumphant look. “Shall we, dear Snowly?”

Elizabeth squealed and clapped her hands together in excitement. “This is so very thrilling, just like a Gothic romance!”

Caroline led the way, a tall wiry figure in plain blue jaconet, her cropped dark curls restrained by a bandeau twisted around her head. The light from candles and lamps in the library gave her sallow skin a further golden cast that made her seem exotic and strange, almost otherworldly. Snowly found his spine straightening, his breath catching in his lungs. Elizabeth was right – it was exciting, waiting for the dénouement.

As soon as they had all gathered together, Caroline gestured for the others to take a seat. She remained standing, her hands clasped together behind her back. Around her were heavy wooden shelves that rose from floor to ceiling, crammed full of books; there were also a number of tables that were piled high with papers, and more stacks of papers littered the corners of the room. After a moment, Jenkins entered and unobtrusively made his way to the fireplace, which as he had said was converted to a small forge. The anvil was missing, however – Snowly had had it hammered apart by the village blacksmith in case the missing gold was hidden within – and the bellows wrecked for the same reason.

“Before we begin, there are one or two trifling details which must be clarified,” Caroline said. Her gaze settled on Jenkins. “I presume that your master applied the wallpaper himself,” she said, gesturing at the lurid green paper with its printed puce swags that adorned the sole wall that was not cluttered with shelves.

“Yes, miss, he did so at night,” Jenkins replied. “He had thought of doing the whole house up in the paper, for he had taken a fancy to it, but did not like to do the work after he finished the library.”

“Did your master sleep in the library as well?”

“He did, miss, towards the end.” Jenkins nodded at a large clear space in a corner of the room next to the makeshift forge. “The master had us bring his bed and mattresses here. He had a fear of thieves, miss, and slept with loaded pistols under his pillow. Milord Snowly ordered that the bed be moved back upstairs to the master’s chamber.”

“And how did your master discharge his monthly debts?”

“Why, the tradesmen in the village sent up their bills, which I entered into the accounts book,” Jenkins said. “Then I brought the accounts to the master in the library and the next day, he gave me the money to pay them.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jenkins.” Caroline’s keen gaze now swept over Snowly, who said facetiously, “I had no intention of sleeping in the library, Miss Peregrine. You may accuse me of nothing more than that.”

“I knew that a bed had been here because of the four distinct scuff marks made on the floor here,” Caroline said, going over to the area in question to point at the floor. “This old varnish is quite susceptible to damage if treated roughly.”

She glided back to her previous place. “Upon checking the household accounts, I found two curious entries. The first was made two years ago, when Mr. Nash sent to Leadenhall Street in London to purchase a volume called Metallurgy.”

“Not so very curious,” Snowly said, “for as you know, he was an amateur blacksmith.”

“True, milord, but this was a new book.” Caroline’s eyes glittered. “An astonishing thing for a renowned miser to purchase, but this particular volume had just been published and was, no doubt, impossible to obtain second-hand. It also cost twenty shillings.”

Snowly shrugged. “A princely price indeed.”

“The second entry is even more curious. Mr. Nash sent to a French firm in order to acquire a number of rolls of heavy, very expensive wallpaper, as well as this.” Caroline bent and retrieved a sheet of paper from the stack near her feet. “It is vellum, milord, and exorbitantly costly. One’s purse must be quite plump to afford such ostentation.”

“Fiend seize it, why should Uncle Nash purchase such costly rubbish? I can see no sense in it!” Elizabeth cried. “Surely he did not spend all his fortune on paper.”

“No, he did not, Miss Snowly.” Caroline tossed the paper back down. “These are the facts,” she said, ticking off each point on her fingers.

“One: Mr. Nash applied himself to amateur blacksmithing, even going so far as to cause a forge to be built inside the library;

“Two: When he became ill, Mr. Nash stayed in the library because he feared thieves, having a bed installed herein;

“Three: Despite his predilection towards second-hand goods and a well-known reputation for miserly behavior, Mr. Nash not only purchased an expensive new book on metallurgy, he also bought vellum and costly wallpaper; furthermore, he put up the wallpaper himself, at night, without witnesses.

“Four: Mr. Nash converted all his cash into gold.”

Caroline looked at each of them in turn, a tinge of pink creeping into her sallow cheeks. “Do you agree that these are the salient points?”

“If you say so,” Elizabeth replied. Snowly shrugged again.

“I do not see how this solves the matter, Miss Peregrine,” he said.

“But your lordship, I have given you every fact necessary to solve the puzzle,” Caroline replied, spreading her hands apart. For the first time, a hint of mischief shone in her brown eyes. “My father, the professor, taught me the same methods of logic and deduction that must have formed part of your own university curriculum, Lord Snowly. Can you not deduce the answer yourself?”

Snowly was hard-pressed not to show his amusement at Caroline’s challenging stare. “Do go on, Miss Peregrine,” he said. “I should not like to deprive you of an evening’s entertainment when you seem to be conducting matters most brilliantly on your own.”

Caroline inclined her head in acknowledgement of the compliment. “Very well, your lordship. Allow me to elucidate the matter as I see it.”

She began to pace back and forth in the small space – four steps left, turn, and four steps right. “Fearing the encroachment of Napoleon Bonaparte upon England, Mr. Nash – who did not trust banks – converted his cash into gold bullion some years ago, which I presume he hid somewhere in the library, since according to Mr. Jenkins’ testimony, the money to pay his bills came from this room. However, at some point, he worried that the precautions he had taken to conceal his fortune would come to naught.

“It was then, I believe, that he formulated a scheme to make his hiding-place much more secure.” Caroline regarded her audience steadily. The play of shadow and candlelight flickering about her face, highlighting her cheekbones and chin and the sharpness of her nose, lent her an eldritch aspect. She might have been some wise woman of old, proferring advice and prophecy to a Saxon thane.

“He purchased a book on metallurgy; at the same time, he ordered the thick wallpaper from France, as well as the vellum," Caroline went on. "Toiling night after night, Mr. Nash was here at his forge, utilizing his blacksmithing skills for the purposes of that concealment which he felt was necessary. Toiling night after night, he put up sections of wallpaper by himself so that anyone entering the room on the next day would be unaware of his efforts.”

Caroline paused and stalked to the papered wall. Lifting a long silver letter opener, she slashed at the wall like a woman possessed. Snowly let out profane exclamation, while Augusta chuckled and Elizabeth stared at him, scandalized. Short dark curls standing around her head like a wild halo, Caroline continued her destructive work on the green-and-puce stuff and did not acknowledge his oath. She finally grasped a torn edge of the paper and pulled sharply, ripping a large, jagged section away from the wall…

Which glinted shiny gold in the lamp and candlelight.

“He beat his gold into a rough sort of leaf between the sheets of vellum, which are used for that purpose in the metallurgical industry,” Caroline said, reaching out to run a finger across the sheet of solid yellow metal that had been, Snowly realized with frozen shock, nailed to the panelling beneath. “Afterwards, Mr. Nash used the thick wallpaper with its busy pattern to hide the fact that this wall was slightly thicker than the rest.”

She turned and tossed the letter opener on the desk. “I believe I have answered your challenge, Lord Snowly. Here is your inheritance.”

And strangely for an erudite man, Snowly could not think of a thing to say.

~~~xooo0ooox~~~

“Two hundred pounds,” Snowly said a week later, after his banker had come with a dozen well-armed guards to transport the raw gold to London. He finished writing out the bank draft and handed it to Augusta with a flourish. “As I am now ten thousand the richer, I feel well able to afford your inamorata’s peculiar services.”

“I’ll not hear a thing against Caro, you know that,” Augusta sniffed, tucking the piece of paper into the reticule whose strings were knotted around her wrist. “I told you she was brilliant and so it has been proved.”

“Indeed, I can hardly cavil at so handy a solution to both our problems,” Snowly said. He sat back in the chair; sunlight streamed through the open window behind him. “I shall have my driver convey you to Bath in the barouche box, if you wish.”

Augusta twirled a blonde curl around her fingers and gave him a sly look. “Does this mean that you approve of my liaison with Miss Peregrine?”

“It means, you minx, that I cannot, in good conscience, object to your scheme to live as a celebrated virgin with the female partner of your choice.” Snowly grinned. “I must, however, raise my concerns regarding the clever Miss Peregrine, who will surely suffer some ruination of her intellect in your company.”

“Brute! Beast! Bully!” Augusta said, but she smiled, too, to take the sting out.

And Caroline Peregrine closed the study door and tip-toed away, pleased that the plan to win Lord Snowly’s approval had been handled so successfully.

Oh! She could hardly wait to visit Bath with the lady that she loved.

THE END

<---------- Return to Library

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Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

by Nene Adams ©1998 - All rights reserved

This story contains graphic violence, adult language/situations, and the graphic depiction of a romantic/sexual relationship between two mature, adult women. Reader discretion is advised. No reproduction or duplication of this story, electronic or otherwise, is permitted without the express, written permission of the author.

CHAPTER  ONE

It always came back at the witching hour. 

Two a.m., Jo had always thought, was the real midnight of the soul; a time when all the dark chasms opened up, leaving you screaming and clawing for sanity, when most suicides and murders were committed, when you woke up in an ice cold sweat in wet tangled sheets and prayed for deliverance from your demons... 

But Jo's demon was very real indeed. 

As she scrambled, naked and bloody, to a corner of the tiny apartment, trying to lay hands on the gun she knew she'd left on the entertainment center, Jo thought crazily that if it hadn't been for Councilor Diggs, she wouldn't be in this mess. But then there was no time for thinking; with a shattering, crystalline noise, the demon stepped through the big mirror that hung on the wall, its flesh raw and wet-looking, enormous claws on both hands clicking as it scuttled towards the terrified woman with a leering grin on its half-finished face. 

''Shit, shit, shit!'' Jo's trembling hands scrabbled on the shelf of the entertainment center where she thought she'd left her gun. Her left shoulder had been opened up by the demon's claws and a sheet of blood ran over her side and down her arm, dripping off her fingertips. The woman's platinum blonde hair was greasy with sweat and she tossed her head to get it out of her eyes. 

As the demon moved closer, obviously savoring Jo's atavistic terror, her hand finally landed on the cold steel of her Beretta. Swinging around, she pointed directly at the demon's heart and fired, the sound of the shots roaring in her ears, nearly drowning out the pounding of her pulse, the stink of gunpowder filling the air. 

The demon stopped in its tracks, a puzzled look on its face. Raising one clawed hand, it poked into one of the holes in its chest and pulled out a twisted bullet, then it tossed the spent ammo over its shoulder and continued its advance. 

Jo fired again and again, despairingly. The gun had always stopped the demon before, driving it back into whatever corner of Hell it occupied when it wasn't playing with her like a cat plays with a helpless mouse. This time, for some reason, it wasn't working. With a shrill scream of rage that bubbled up from her gut and burst out of her mouth, Jo flung the gun at the demon's face and prepared to sell her life dearly. 

With a bang, the door of her apartment burst open, fluorescent hall lights flooding the room with an eerie glow - and a silhouette on the threshold stepped boldly into the apartment, the door closing behind it unaided. 

The demon whirled around with a snarl to deal with this new threat... and Jo's eyes widened when she saw the new woman who'd just moved into the apartment down the hall. Small, compactly built but muscular, with flaming orange hair the color of ripe tangerines. Jo's mind dredged up the woman's name even as she scrambled to get between the newcomer and the demon. 

Reilly, Jo thought, her name's Evan Reilly, and then, Goddammit! What's she doing here, the crazy broad? She's gonna get killed!

Evan shook back her hair; it was long, hanging nearly to her knees and straight as bone. She was dressed in a ragged robe, and Jo noted with some detached corner of her mind that her neighbor wore fuzzy bunny slippers on her feet, the felt ears torn and drooping. The demon reached out its impossibly long arms towards Evan, and something happened that made Jo fall back in shock. 

The air seemed to crackle as Evan raised one hand, palm out, towards the demon. Chanting something under her breath, she raised her other hand and pointed a black hilted knife at the creature. It squealed, voice rising up off the scale until Jo thought her eardrums would burst. She blinked; Evan's form seemed to flicker, from woman to something - wolf? - and back again. The demon hunched over and screamed again, black tongue extended and seeming darker against the yellowed ivory of its shark-like teeth. 

Evan moved closer to the demon, still chanting, and a thin, electric-blue line shot out from the point of her knife, striking the demon squarely between the eyes. Dipping into the pocket of her robe, the woman flung a fistful of something into the demon's face and it staggered back. Its hellishly yellow eyes, diamond-pupiled like a goat's, glared at Evan in pure hatred, then with another scream, it leaped back into the mirror... 

And was gone. 

The silence was nearly deafening. Jo sank down to the floor, holding her wounded shoulder and panting. Evan briskly dusted her hand off on her robe, tucked the knife away, and looked down at Jo. ''What's a nice girl like you doin' consortin' with demons in the middle of the night?'' she asked in a voice that had a hint of Irish lilt in it. 

Jo couldn't help it - she had to laugh. The entire situation suddenly struck her as absolutely hilarious, and she laughed until she cried, until she felt Evan's hands on her, lowering her to the floor. 

She laughed until the darkness reached up and engulfed her in cool, blessed peace. 

CHAPTER  TWO

"Sacred salt and St. John's wort,'' a voice said. 

Jo opened her eyes a crack, squinting against the sunlight that streamed into the room. Evan sat on the floor beside her futon, both hands wrapped around a steaming mug. Jo sniffed; it wasn't coffee and she wrinkled her nose, suddenly craving caffeine. 

Evan smiled slightly. She'd seen Jo in the hallway a few times. The other woman was tall, prone to wearing a worn leather jacket and ancient stringy jeans, with a baseball cap that hid her platinum blonde hair. Jo rarely smiled, mumbled hello, and went about her business in a slouch. Truly, until last night, Evan hadn't even considered that Jo might be involved in the occult - she just hadn't seemed the type. 

''What,'' Jo croaked, trying to rise, then fell back again hissing through her teeth as the pain in her shoulder struck with a vengeance - but it seemed to be fading with each passing moment. 

''Sacred salt and St. John's wort. I'll give you some if you wish. Demons have a mortal hatred for the stuff. But what in the name of Holy Brigit were you doin', raisin' a demon without a protective circle? Did you think you could control it that well? Woman, that was at least a member of the Fourth Circle and if it had gotten loose, the gods alone know what might have happened!'' 

''Shut up!'' Jo snarled; she was naked and feeling very vulnerable in front of this woman who, it suddenly came to her, had saved her life last night. Shit!

''I'm sorry,'' she continued in a softer tone, swallowing her resentment. Jo had always thought of herself as strong, needing nobody and nothing and it stung that this little orange-haired chick had pulled her out of the fire without breaking a sweat. ''Look, I didn't call it, okay? It just... came, that's all.'' 

Evan frowned. ''Demons don't just 'come', they have to be called. You don't have to use a ritual; all you have to do is open a door.'' 

Jo shifted on the futon. ''Yeah, so I'm attractive to hellspawn,'' she said sarcastically. ''The way my life's been lately that's the only attention I've gotten in months.'' 

''Hmph.'' Evan laid down her mug. ''Listen to me,'' she said seriously. ''This is no laughin' matter. Somehow, this demon's comin' through into this world from its own, and it clearly has some kind of attachment to you. Now, I can help you if you'll let me. If not...'' She shrugged. ''I'll just wait until it rips out your stubborn throat and then clean up the mess afterward. Your choice.'' Her eyes, the dark gray of stormy skies, stared into Jo's. 

Jo shook her head, one hand going absently to her shoulder to scratch. The bulky bandage there prevented her from relieving that pesky itch. Itch? she thought. A second ago it hurt like hell. She peeled off the tape that held the bandage in place, tore off the packing and looked at her wound. 

Four deep clawmarks had been there last night; Jo would have figured she'd be in the ER getting stitched. But the marks looked almost healed; the scabs were already loosening, which was why it itched so much. She stared at Evan, who smiled. 

''I took the liberty of doin' a healin' on you,'' Evan said. ''I figured you not the type who'd be wantin' to answer a lot of question from nosy doctors.'' 

Even as Jo turned her eyes back to the clawmarks, the scabs fell off, leaving pink marks behind... which rapidly turned to the silver of months-old scars. ''I-I-I...,'' she stammered, then gulped and looked back at Evan. 

The orange-haired woman relieved Jo of the bloodstained bandage and tossed it into the trash can by the futon. ''Small enough work,'' she said lightly. ''After demon banishin', I can always use somethin' positive to work on.'' 

''It's gone? Banished?'' Jo asked, wondering just who the hell this Reilly woman was. 

''Only temporarily, I'm afraid,'' Evan replied. ''It'll be back, no doubt. Here; sip this tea and tell me how it came about that you're bein' stalked by one of the Morningstar's kinfolk.'' 

Jo drank the tea, nose wrinkling at the taste, and abruptly came to a decision. She'd trust this woman; after all, she'd saved her life in more ways than one... 

But only so much, Jo thought. Only so far. I'm not gonna get hurt again. But I owe her, and a Tate always pays her debts.

Taking a deep breath and settling back on the pillows, Jo began her story. 

CHAPTER  THREE

"About two months ago, I took this job for a big hoo-ha on the City Council,'' Jo said. At Evan's puzzled expression, she explained, ''I do odd jobs, mostly. Bodyguarding, bounty hunting, skip tracing, some private investigation... whatever gets thrown my way. Anyway, Diggs wanted to hire me 'cause I've got a rep for taking on the strange cases - like two years ago, with the arsonist poltergeist that turned the Steinway manor into a pile of ash, that kinda stuff?'' 

Evan nodded, and Jo continued, ''Dunno how come I fell into this crap. It just kinda happened. So there Diggs is, holding out this wad of cash that woulda choked a mule, and I couldn't resist. I ain't exactly a legit operator; skirt just this side of the law most times, so I take what I can get. 

''His boy, Alex, had been having some problems. He was twelve going on forty, so it was the usual benign poltergeist stuff - objects flying around the room, shaking bed, occasional levitation. I figured it was the old puberty angst angle and would settle itself out in a few weeks. It usually does. My job was just to keep the family calm until it passed. But then... things got more, well, sinister. 

''First, the family cat was found strangled and impaled on the lightning rod on the roof of the house. Then, Mrs. Diggs was pushed down the stairs when she coulda swore she was alone, and got her leg broke. Then Alex started acting strange, speaking in tongues and getting violent. Diggs called me one night, saying I should haul ass, big bad mojo was going down. So I went.'' 

Jo stopped speaking as she remembered that night. It had been storming, the wind whipping the trees into a branch-lashing frenzy, and it was bitterly cold. By the time she'd gotten to the Councilor's house, riding through the freezing rain in her leaky and grumbly Chrysler P.O.S., she'd been chilled to the bone and shivering. 

She shook herself out of her trance and continued, ''The house was dark; the electricity had been turned off. I grabbed a flashlight and started looking around. First one I found was Diggs; he was in his den, neck broke. His head had been twisted almost all the way around. 

''The Mrs. was in the kitchen; there was blood everywhere - painted on the walls, splashed on the ceiling. She had so many sharp objects stuck in her in her that when the M.E.'s assistants carried her body out, it rattled like castanets. Anyway, I went looking for the boy. By this time, I figured it was some kind of psycho murderer, serial killer maybe. Didn't recognize the M.O., but then again, I ain't exactly on the cop's sweetheart list and don't have access to VICAP so I didn't know for sure. 

''Alex was in his room. Pajamas covered in blood. And his eyes, oh God, his eyes!'' Jo shuddered. ''They were yellow, like that demon's, and they glowed. He had shreds of flesh in his teeth and he was growling like some kinda dog or something. I was packing my Beretta, but I swear, I never even thought about drawing it. I was paralyzed; I just couldn't wrap my mind around what was happening.'' 

Evan laid a comforting hand on Jo's shoulder. ''You couldn't have known the boy was courtin' possession,'' she said softly. ''Your gun wouldn't have been effective anyway, not against the demon. You might have killed the flesh, but the demon could still have animated it.'' 

Jo said bitterly, ''Whatever,'' and pulled away from Evan's touch. Swallowing, she continued, ''I don't really remember what happened after that. When the cops arrived - the next door neighbor had called 'em 'cause of the screams they heard - the boy was dead. According to the coroner's report, it was natural causes; his heart just stopped. They found Alex's fingerprints on the weapons used to kill Mrs. Diggs, and the boy's prints were on Diggs' neck, so I wasn't a suspect. They let me go.'' 

''And when did the demon start visitin' you?,'' Evan asked. 

''About two weeks later. It comes at the same time, but not every night. At first, it just stared at me from that damned mirror; then, it came out and started stalking me. I shot it a few times and it went away. But last night, it kept coming, just reached out and took a chunk outta me. I thought I was a dead woman until you showed up.'' 

Evan nodded. ''And you don't remember what happened that night? Why Alex died? Or how?'' 

''I told ya, I don't remember!'' Jo snarled, suddenly suppressing the urge to smash her fist into the wall. ''I tried getting rid of that mirror. Hauled it to the dump one afternoon. Damned if I didn't get home and there it was, back on the wall! I tried smashing it, but whatever I use just bounces off like bullets offa Superman's hide! I tried giving it away, but it keeps coming back! Jesus Christ!'' She turned her face into the pillow and bit her lip, trying to stop the angry tears that threatened. 

Evan looked at Jo, her hand reaching out... then stopped. ''Listen to me, Jo,'' she said. ''I'll help you. You're not alone... not anymore.'' 

Jo snuffled, her face still turned away. ''Who gives a shit anyway?,'' she asked. ''I ain't nobody important. You just go back to your own life, Ms. Sticking-Her-Nose-Where-It-Don't-Belong. I'll be okay.'' 

Evan flushed angrily. ''Oh, really?,'' she retorted. ''Were you okay last night? If you're that demon's focus and it kills you, it'll be free to do whatever it wants in this world. And that's not acceptable. So, you're goin' to take my help, you stubborn bitch, whether you want it or not!'' 

Although angered, Jo inwardly admired Evan's spirit. She's got fire, I'll give her that, the blonde woman thought. 

''Just who the hell are you, anyway?'' Jo asked, scrubbing at her face with her hand. 

Evan smiled, a startlingly sweet smile that gave her the look of a slightly wicked fairy. ''I'm Eoibhan Reille,'' she replied, and even Jo heard the slight difference in the way she pronounced her name. ''And I'm here to help you.'' 

Jo couldn't deny the sincerity of those words, or the feeling of warmth and goodwill she got from the other woman. Under other circumstances, Jo thought absently, I'd probably ask her out on a date. She quickly dismissed that thought. She didn't even know if Evan was gay. ''Okay... s'pose I accept this help you're offering; how much is it gonna cost me?'' 

Evan reached out and smoothed a lock of platinum hair from Jo's brow. ''Only your friendship, colleen. And only if you're willin'.'' 

Jo nodded; if this women could help... No, she thought. I don't want to go there. Not now - maybe not ever.

''All right. Throw me a pair of jeans and a shirt, then tell me what we gotta do,'' Jo said, sitting up and tossing off the sheets. 

CHAPTER  FOUR

Evan watched Jo get dressed; the other woman's skin was as pale as her own, though marked by old scars and the traceries of ancient injuries. She was skinny but well muscled, like a gymnast or dancer, with small breasts and a narrow waist, barely enough hip to keep from being boy-shaped. But there was one other thing... 

On her right rear shoulder had been tattooed a dragon in flamboyant crimson and blue, fiery yellow and vivid emerald. It stood rampant, imperial five-claws extended, forked tongue lashing and wings outspread. Its tail coiled up and then down, snaking around Jo's upper right arm in three coils that ended with a multi-colored barb just above her elbow. Evan was impressed. 

''Beautiful,'' she breathed, reaching out one hand unconsciously to touch the tattoo. Jo twisted away and pulled a worn tank top over her head, then ran both hands through her shoulder-length platinum hair until it stood up in a quiff on top. 

''Yeah, got it in Hong Kong,'' Jo said, standing up and tugging on a pair of jeans whose knees were non-existent. ''Was over there about six years ago, tracking this deadbeat importer who skipped out on his partners.'' 

What Jo didn't tell Evan was that the importer had been a naga, one of the half-human snake-folk... and a supplier of first-rate heroin, shipped onto the island for import into the U.S. via his business. She'd confronted him in a warehouse on the waterfront and nearly died that night when he'd summoned his clan to help him. Ruefully, Jo examined the silver marks on one arm where she'd been struck several times by venomous fangs; fortunately, she'd loaded herself up on anti-venom before the incident but had still been ill for weeks after. 

Evan merely nodded, sensing this was not the time for questions, then rose. ''First, I need to see about some kind of protection for you,'' she said. ''I'll just be runnin' to my apartment for a minute and throw on some clothes of my own and grab a few things.'' 

For the first time, Jo looked at Evan... really looked at her. She still wore her worn robe, but it was stained and spotted with blood all down the front, and the bunnies on her slippers seemed more bedraggled than ever. ''Um... I'll give you the money for a new robe if you want,'' she said lamely. 

''Oh, no,'' Evan replied airily. ''I just wear this around the house. Be right back,'' and with hardly any noise at all, let herself out of the apartment and closed the door behind her. 

Jo wandered through the living room, noting that at some point in the night, Evan had cleaned up. No more fast food wrappers heaped on the floor; no months-old pizza boxes stacked up in the corners. The window had been thrown wide open, allowing the first fresh air in months to sweep away the stale, fusty stench that had permeated the place before. 

Even the tiny kitchen was spotless. Jo sniffed herself, then wrinkled her nose. Maybe I'd better take a shower, she thought. Passing by the mirror on the way to the bathroom, Jo realized that the silvery surface of the cursed object was completely covered in tiny, rusty red symbols. Rubbing her shoulder, she muttered an oath under her breath and went to take her shower. 

When Evan returned, letting herself in without knocking, she was wearing a pair of black Lycra leggings and a big white T-shirt that had been cut off at midriff in a ragged seam. Her wild orange hair was twisted back in a simple braid that hung down to mid-thigh, revealing the half-dozen tiny gold rings she wore in each ear. 

She fingered the small bandage she wore on one wrist; she'd cut herself with her antheme, the sacred knife made by her own hands, to get the blood she'd used to paint the symbols of disallowance and denial on the mirror. She shuddered as she passed the object; so many dark waves of evil emanated from that mirror that she had no doubt it was an open door to the very pit of Hell. 

Evan plopped the leather case she'd brought down on the rickety wooden coffee table and sat down cross-legged on the couch, wishing she'd brought a cigarette with her. She rarely smoked these days, but sometimes craved nicotine's calming effect. 

Jo is a troubled soul, she thought, listening to the running water. Truth to tell, I'm powerful attracted to her at first glance.. but I'd better watch my step. That one's been hurt, no doubt of that, and like as not sure to be skittish as a unbroken colt. She smiled to herself, recalling the other woman's stubbornness. Aye, I've rarely seen such a strong will in this lifetime, nor any other; but will she be able to accept me for what I am, even if we're no more than friends?

Evan screwed up her face, recalling other times, other places, when she'd trusted friends or lovers with her secrets... and been betrayed. Sometimes out of malice, but most times out of fear. But I must help this one, she thought, fiddling with a stray wisp of bright orange hair. Something draws me to her... some instinct. Over the years, I've learned to trust my gut when it comes to things like this.

Jo came out of the bathroom, enveloped in a cloud of steam. She'd put back on the tank top and jeans, but her hair was slicked back, wet and clean, and she certainly smelled better than she had. As she settled beside Evan on the couch, Evan sniffed and was rewarded by the scent of crisp herbs and spice. ''You smell nice,'' Evan said with a smile. 

''Uh, thanks,'' Jo replied, a bit nervous. She got back up again and scrubbed her hands on the back of her jeans. ''You want a beer or something?'' she asked, moving to the kitchen. 

''No, thank you.'' 

Jo grabbed a can of Coors from the refrigerator, popped the top, and took a long swallow. The shower had helped clear her head, but now she was dealing with other problems. Like her libido. Down, girl! she thought to herself. Jesus, you just met the woman and you're ready to play pat-fanny-squeeze-titty with her already!

She went back into the living room and sat down again. The couch was so small she was forced to sit close to Evan, barely a palm's length away. 

Evan reached for the leather case and opened it up, folding down the sides. Within were various phials and bottles, each one strapped to the interior. She removed three, then with a frown, took out a fourth. ''Now then, first thing I'll do is put up some protections around you. Close your eyes.'' 

Jo started to ask why, then shut her mouth and did as she was told. No sense in arguing with the woman every time she turns around, she admonished herself. Either you trust her, Tate, or you don't - you pays your money, you takes your choice, and you sticks with it! She ignored the growing sense of nagging doubt and forced herself to be calm. 

Evan uncorked one phial and put a bit of oil on her fingertips, then anointed Jo's eyelids, murmuring under her breath the Rann of Othersight. It would allow the other woman to see what she was doing, see the fields of magical energy Evan would be weaving into a protective ward. 

''All right. Open your eyes again.'' 

Jo did, then swallowed a shriek and screwed them closed again. ''What the hell?'' 

''It's all right, colleen. You're just seein' what's there all the time, only now your eyes are opened to it.'' 

Cautiously, Jo opened her eyes again. Evan was surrounded by a snaky, twisting brilliance of purest blue-white; her own hands glowed with dull yellow, red and blue, but there was a narrow streak of black that pulsed and shimmered, interlocked with the other colors. 

Evan put one hand on Jo's leg. ''See the black? T'is the demon's hook into you. This is how he comes back, Jo. You're his focus, his foothold in this world.'' 

''Get rid of it!'' Jo bit her lip to keep from screaming; she suddenly had the overwhelming urge to climb back into the shower and scrub and scrub until her flesh came off in strings... and another urge to get up and run, run as fast as she could away from this woman and her... magic? 

''I will, I will,'' Evan soothed. ''But first things first. Turn around and lean back against me.'' 

Jo closed her eyes and shifted on the sofa, suppressing a sigh as she felt the softness of Evan's breasts pressed against her back. Warm, strong arms came around and held her tight, and even as she flinched, the need to throw off the other woman's touch strong, Evan breathed in her ear, ''Open your eyes and watch.'' 

Jo did. Evan's hands were in front of her, every finger flashing with rings, nails cut sensibly short and unpolished. She was... God, she's braiding the light! Jo watched, holding her breath, utter fascination overwhelming everything else as Evan weaved and twisted strands of her own blue-white aura into and around Jo's, building a shield that would provide a measure of protection against psychic attack from the demon. 

As the interlocking weave of light surrounded her, Jo took a deep breath, suddenly feeling better than she had in weeks, and the urge to get away from Evan fluttered and died. 

She'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be fully well and alert; her senses had been dulled down, only pain and fear spiking to peaks whenever the demon appeared. Evan's voice with its musical lilt chanted words that Jo didn't understand, but somehow knew had to do with the magic. There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Jo said to herself, and relaxed for the first time in a long time. 

And within Hell, a demon snarled in frustrated fury, its hold on Jo weakened by Evan's magic. But in a moment, realizing the binding was still there, if no longer as strong as it had been, the demon stopped sending thoughts and feelings of mistrust and fear along the link... and stroked its chin with its clawed fingers, deep in thought. 

CHAPTER  FIVE

After she finished the Rann of Withy-Work, Evan was tired. She'd nearly depleted her stores of personal energy, and in a big city, there were scant ley lines to draw upon. She hoped the shield she'd woven would be enough to protect Jo from an attack until she could do some research, raise more magic and complete a permanent banishment ritual. 

She was mildly surprised that Jo had relaxed so much when she'd been to tense before; the other woman leaned against her, eyes half-closed, a small smile on her face. When the shield was finished, Jo sighed and squirmed a little, obviously snuggling closer. Evan's lips curved in a tiny smile of her own; she knew Jo must be feeling much better, now that the demon's influence had been lessened. 

Evan placed the flat of one palm on Jo's forehead and whispered a Blessing, then said, ''Now turn around and face me.'' 

With a sigh, Jo obeyed, loathe to give up the sudden, sheer comfort of feeling the other woman's closeness. She sat cross-legged facing Evan, their knees touching. 

''I'm goin' to paint some symbols on your face, hands and feet, as well as over your heart, kidneys and navel. You won't see them; they'll be invisible to normal sight, but they'll help ward off evil influences and assist in purifyin' you.'' Evan pulled a small clay dish out of the leather case, and quickly mixed some of the contents of the other three phials, putting all the glass containers back into their slots when she was finished. 

Taking a tiny paintbrush out of the case, she swirled it through the clear fluid. Jo asked curiously, ''What's in that?'' as Evan, a frown of concentration on her face, began painting lines of symbols on Jo's forehead. 

''Lady's Mantle, rue and rosemary oils, plus a bit of garlic, believe it or not.'' 

''Doesn't stink.'' 

''T'isn't supposed to.'' Evan continued painting, then said, ''Now don't move your face and don't talk! I'll be through here in a moment.'' 

Quickly, Evan finished Jo's face and moved to her hands and feet, including palms and soles; when the liquid dried, it was invisible as promised. Jo wrinkled her face experimentally but she couldn't feel anything different. 

To her eyes, however - ow upon row of delicate glyphs marched in ruler straight rows across her skin, glowing with a faint blue light. She held up one of her finished hands to admire it. ''You know,'' Jo said, ''When all this is over with, I wish you'd write me down some of this stuff. I think I'd like to get it tattooed into an armband.'' 

Evan chuckled. ''Might not be a bad idea, considerin' your choice of career.'' She stopped and took a deep breath; although the expenditure of magical energy was small, just enough to activate the symbols, it was, on top of everything else, nearly exhausting. I won't be good for much after this, she thought ruefully. Maybe enough to put protections on the threshold and window, but that's goin' to be it for a while.

''So where are you from?'' Jo asked a bit awkwardly as Evan pulled up her shirt and began painting something on the skin over her heart, small wisps of her hair brushing Jo's breasts. 

''I was born in Ireland,'' Evan replied, applying broad yet precise strokes; this symbol, and the rest, would be much larger and the work would go more quickly. ''But I've lived in America for... a long time.'' 

''I figured. I mean, you don't hardly have an accent or anything. Just a little one. It's kinda cute.'' Immediately, Jo could have slapped herself in the forehead. Aw, Jeez, Tate, g'wan and impress her by babbling like a fuckin' idiot, she thought. 

But Evan didn't seem to mind. Finishing with the heart symbol (which Jo thought looked rather like an infinite series of snakes eating their infinite tails; the symbol was complex and nearly eyewatering), the orange-haired woman put down the brush and unzipped Jo's jeans, pulling them down a bit to expose her navel. ''Thank you,'' she said simply, picking up the brush again and ignoring Jo's indrawn breath and involuntary flinch. ''I've worked hard to fit in.'' 

Jo gulped. It had been a long time since she'd felt another woman's hands on her body. She tried to hold herself as still as possible, although the movements of the brush tickled a little. 

Evan blew a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. ''So, tell me a bit about yourself, Jo. How'd you get involved in magical affairs? Most folks don't believe and if they see, deny.'' 

Jo let the breath she'd been holding escape her lips slowly. ''Um... ever since I was a kid, I could see things, you know? Like dead relatives and stuff. I never told nobody 'cause I figured they'd have me committed. Anyway, after mom died, it got worse. All the time I was Seeing, I mean, every time I turned around; walking to school, riding the bus, going to the store. I thought I was gonna go crazy 'cause I just couldn't get them outta my head - the voices, the whispers. For a while there I figured I was schitzo or something. 

''After I graduated, I drifted a while, doing whatever - spent some time in construction as a laborer, even picked vegetables in Florida. Then I met this woman in Louisiana; she took one look at me and hauled my ass off to see her grandmomma.'' 

''Who was a voodoo priestess, I'll bet,'' Evan murmured, continuing her painting. 

''Yeah. Big time mambo, lived in a swamp shack in Bayou Teche. Nothing but alligators and Spanish moss as far as the eye could see.'' Jo began to relax again. ''She waved a chicken at me and did some kinda ritual, and after that, things got better. For a while.'' 

Evan nodded. She'd met untrained psychics before. One of the reasons she'd wanted to get shields on Jo as soon as possible, even with her own depleted resources, was that the untrained but gifted were often targets for psychic predators. What the mambo had done had been a panacea; something intended to provide short-term relief by blinding Jo to the Otherside. 

''Somewhere along the way, though, you learned some control?'' Evan pulled down Jo's shirt and motioned for her to turn around. 

Jo shifted around with a grunt, then felt Evan's hands raise her shirt again. ''Um, yeah. Not like you can take lessons at your local community college.'' She bent forward at the pressure of Evan's hands, and soon felt the brush again. ''Anyway, I just kinda fell into it by accident. A friend of mine bought this house that turned out to be haunted. I went there to help. Next thing I know, I'm chasing friggin' ogres, or dealing with pissed-off spirits and shit. I read a lot; best thing my old man ever did for me was get me a library card.'' 

''You mean to tell me you've had no formal training? No training at all?'' Evan was so shocked she stopped her brushstrokes. 

Craning her head around, Jo replied, ''What? Like I could just walk into my neighborhood coven and say, 'Excuse me, but I'm psychic and I have this little problem I'm hoping you can help me with.' I wish. I just try and keep up, that's all, do the best I can. I make a fairly decent living, enough to keep me in beer and pizza, anyhow. And pay the insurance on my piece of shit land-yacht.'' 

Evan didn't reply; she continued the scrolling design she was painting on the other woman's back, and silently vowed to make sure she found a good teacher for Jo before. If I have to leave, she corrected herself, then shook her head and picked up more oil on her brush. 

CHAPTER  SIX

The symbols were finished. Jo whipped off her shirt and stood before a full-length mirror in a corner of her small apartment, admiring Evan's work. ''This is too cool!'' she said, twisting her head around to see the design painted low on her back, and another to cover the area where her heart would be. ''I gotta get copies of this stuff, Ev! Jeez, Bald Henry's gonna go apeshit when he sees this!'' 

Evan leaned back on the arm of the sofa, her mouth pinched. She was tired, so tired... ''Who's Bald Henry?'' she asked. 

''My tattoo artist. He designed my dragon. I wanted this geisha chick on my back, but I think I'm gonna have him duplicate your drawings.'' 

Evan chuckled. ''That's a good idea. I'll have to show you how to activate them...'' She broke off, remembering she might not be around when Jo had the markings permanently engraved on her flesh. 

''Um, Ev? How do I turn this off?'' Jo waved at her eyes. ''I mean, the lightshow's neat and all, but I think it'd be kind of a distraction while I was driving or something.'' 

Evan twisted her fingers in Jo's direction and muttered something, and Jo's normal eyesight returned. She looked back into the mirror and saw the symbols were no longer apparent. ''They're still there, right?'' 

''Yes.'' Evan licked her lips. ''Mind if I take you up on your beer offer now?'' 

''Shit! I mean, yeah, sure, hang on a sec.'' Jo carried her shirt in one hand and went to the refrigerator, grabbing a pair of bottles from the interior. Good old Sam Adams, she thought, returning and handing a bottle to Evan. 

The orange-haired woman smiled slightly. ''Bottle opener?'' 

Jo grinned. ''No prob.'' She took the bottle back and twisted the cap off, bicep bulging. ''I used to pop 'em off with my teeth, but I hadda quit when this bottle slipped and snapped one of the front ones in half.'' At Evan's raised eyebrows, she shrugged and plopped back down on the sofa. ''Bar trick to impress the babes.'' 

Evan took a sip of beer. ''I'm goin' to have to go out for a while,'' she said, trying to focus on Jo's face and not her exposed breasts. ''I need to pick up some supplies.'' 

''Sure.'' Jo put her feet up on the coffee table, beer bottle swinging casually from one hand. ''Want me to give you a lift?'' 

''Thanks for the offer, but no.'' The last thing Evan wanted was for Jo to see her in her shiftself without any warning. ''I'm goin' outside the city a while. I'll be back before nightfall. In the meantime, I suggest you get somethin' to eat, maybe take a walk in the park or read a book, and relax. You've been on edge a long time.'' 

''Whadda I do if fuckface comes back?'' 

Evan grinned. ''Pray to the deity of your choice and run like hell. Here,'' she continued, tossing Jo the keys to her apartment. ''If the demon really does try again - and I don't think it will, at least for a while; I hurt it pretty badly - then get to my place as quick as you can. It's fully warded; nothin' short of a god is gettin' in there without an invitation.'' 

Jo snickered. ''Gee... it's not even our first date and already you're giving me the key to your apartment.'' 

Evan rose and walked to the front door. ''Just don't break anything.'' With that, she departed, closing the door behind her. 

Jo sat there thoughtfully a moment, enjoying the first peace she'd known in weeks. You know, she mused, I have no idea why I opened up to Evan like that. I just met her, but already it seems like I've known her forever. I've never met anybody I've been so, well, comfortable with. Not in a long time.

Abruptly, she stood and pulled her shirt on, then donned a pair of scuffed and scarred boots. Crossing to the front door, she reached out and grabbed a worn leather jacket from a hook screwed into the wall, shrugging into it and patting one pocket to make sure she had her keys. 

''What the hell,'' she said aloud. ''I'm as curious as the next girl.'' 

Jo left, intent on following Evan - no other thought in mind but to learn what she could of the woman she already, if instinctively, considered a friend. 

CHAPTER  SEVEN

Evan didn't bother going back to her own apartment; she left the building and stepped directly into the cab that drew smoothly up to the curb. The driver was a small man and incredibly hairy; dirt-brown hair cascading over his forehead and beyond his shoulders, a thick beard buried his face almost up to the eyebrows. 

His glittering brown eyes sought Evan's in the rearview mirror. ''The usual?'' he grunted. His voice was odd; husky and deep, yet at the same time carrying light musical undertones, almost as if an oboe and a flute were playing a duet. She nodded, leaning back against the cracked leather seat as the cab pulled away and headed down the street. The morning rush hour traffic had dissipated; they had fairly clear sailing all the way to her destination. 

''How's Laurel?'' Evan asked after a while. 

The driver grunted again. ''Okay,'' he replied shortly, then after a moment, ''Need help?'' 

''No, I don't think so, 'Restes. I'm goin' out for a run; I need to rest a bit and relax.'' Evan stared out of the window, barely noticing the click of the driver's hooves as he manipulated the brake and gas pedals. Orestes was a satyr; his incredible mop of hair concealed the two tiny horns that rose up from his forehead. He and Laurel, a dryad, had been together for centuries, long before the pre-cursor of this city had risen like a cancer from the woodlands that had been here before. 

Most mortals don't know it, Evan mused, but many of their myths dwell among them. If imperfectly blended, the human mind has a great capacity for self-denial and self-deception. She knew ghouls who worked as funeral home directors or state pathologists; ogres and trolls employed as bouncers in nightclubs or as enforcers for organized crime; she'd even seen Astarte Herself working a highly successful string of call girls out of an exotic dancing club downtown called Babylon High. 

And as for myself... I pass, I blend, and I'll keep on doin' it, too. I've no other choice.

In complete silence, the cab sped down the streets. 

Jo followed the taxi cab at a discreet distance, weaving behind cars, careful to keep from being spotted. She didn't know how Evan had gotten a ride so quickly - no way she'd had time to call a cab company, fer Chrissake - but she chalked it up to yet another mystery to be solved. 

The cab soon left the city behind, headed for the suburbs, then beyond to the large wooded area that had been designated a state park. Jo parked her car at a discreet distance and waited as Evan exited the cab, leaning over and speaking to the driver, who afterward drove his vehicle away, leaving the orange-haired woman standing at the gated entrance. 

Evan went inside after paying the entrance fee; in a few moments, Jo followed, digging a couple of wrinkled and faded dollar bills out of the pocket of her jeans and being waved inside by a sour-faced attendant in a too-tight, food spotted uniform. 

Evan walked briskly down the pine-needle strewn trail, seemingly having a destination in mind. Jo, baseball cap pulled down over her forehead, kept her in sight but was prepared to duck behind the nearest bush or whatever if Evan turned around. 

She never did. After a bit, Evan turned off the trail, moving deeper into the woods; with a deep breath, Jo followed, wincing every time her feet crunched into last year's dead leaves. 

When Evan reached a clearing surrounded by enormous trees, Jo crouched down, concealed in greenery, and prepared to watch. I got no clue as to what's going on here, she thought, but damned if I'm not as intrigued as hell.

Evan spread her arms out wide, nostrils flaring as she took deep breaths of the crisp forest air. Then she closed her eyes, reached down deep inside - and changed into her ShiftSelf. 

Jo gasped as Evan's form melted, sort of... it was difficult to tell just exactly what was happening; her eyes didn't want to focus, kept sliding away from the blurred image, but in the space between one heartbeat and the next, Evan was gone and in her place stood an enormous wolf, easily twice the size of the normal North American kind. 

The wolf's fur was the same brilliant orange as Evan's hair had been and its eyes the same stormy gray. A slightly stiff mane of hair stood up around the wolf's neck, and her tail was a tangerine plume that wagged once or twice before settling down. 

Evan lifted her muzzle and sniffed, lips unconsciously drawing back to expose long, razor sharp fangs. Although her senses were keener than most humans when she wore skin, in her shiftself they were unbelievably sensitive. An elusive scent drifted on the slight breeze; her forehead wrinkled as she tried to place it. 

Jo clamped down on the yell of surprise and shock that threatened to leap out of her chest and fought to stay still, her fingers digging into the dirt convulsively. Fuck me! she thought wildly. Evan's a goddamn werewolf!

Evan whirled around, facing the stand of greenery where Jo was concealed. Her fangs were exposed and gleaming, a deep growl rumbled low in her chest as she leaped, powerful muscles uncoiling with startling speed.

CHAPTER  EIGHT

"Christ!'' Jo scrambled backwards, twigs snapping beneath her flailing arms as she tried to avoid the wolf's attack. But she lost her balance and fell, sprawled on her back in the dirt and as helpless as a child. 

The wolf landed directly on top of Jo, straddling her, a pair of big paws on either side of Jo's head. Jo looked up... directly into a muzzle full of the sharpest, meanest looking teeth she'd ever seen in her life. Drawing a tiny breath, Jo whispered, ''help.'' 

Evan was furious, both at Jo and herself. Scathach's Tits! she thought blasphemously. Why now? And why didn't I sense her followin' me? She lowered her massive head and sniffed the terrified woman beneath her, checking for blood or pain scents; even angry, she wanted to make sure Jo hadn't suffered any damage from her fall. 

Now what? Evan said to herself as Jo stayed frozen in place, barely breathing. I can't communicate with her, and I surely don't want to shift back into skin, not when I've gone to the trouble of donnin' fur. Damn the woman for her curiosity! She's as bad as Bluebeard's wives! I didn't want this, not now... maybe not ever.

Then an idea struck her. Jo was psychic, after all, if untrained. 

Carefully, she reached out a probe, pushing it past the shields she'd fashioned around Jo, and mentally said, ::Can you hear me, colleen?:: 

Jo came close to leaping out of her skin when she heard the familiar voice inside her skull. Aloud, she said, ''Uh-huh,'' and nodded carefully, thinking, I left the fuckin' Beretta at the house like the world's biggest asshole. I gotta play along here. Maybe I'll survive this after all.

The ''voice'' chuckled. ::I can hear you, you know. And aye, you'll survive all right.:: The wolf's gray eyes held a glint of amusement. ::If I let you up, will you promise not to run?:: 

Jo nodded again, feeling her heart fluttering in her chest. 

Evan backed away, then sat down, tongue lolling out of her muzzle in a wolfish laugh. ::I can catch you if you try to run:: she sent. ::Just calm down, Jo. I'm not a big bad wolf, and you're no Little Red Riding Hood, either.:: 

Jo sat up, her baseball cap lying forgotten where it lay after being knocked off by her fall. ''Um... so tell me something, uh, Evan...'' Abruptly, Jo felt anger welling up in a mighty wave; she felt humiliated, betrayed and really, really pissed. ''WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?'' she yelled. Echoes of her shout bounced through the forest, scaring every living thing in miles. 

Evan winced. ::I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. What would you have liked me to have done? Said, oh, and by the way, I spend part of my life in a fur coat chasin' rabbits? Believe me, I intended to tell you... if I thought you could handle it.:: 

Jo panted, then with a convulsive heave got to her feet, dusting off the seat of her jeans. ''Goddammit, Ev! You scared the shit outta me! And whaddya mean with that crap, 'if I thought you could handle it?' I know we haven't known each other all that long, less than a friggin' day in fact, but didja really think I wouldn't find out eventually?'' 

Woman and wolf stared at one another, and it was the wolf who lowered her eyes first. ::My apologies:: she sent. ::I meant no insult. It's just that... well, most mortal folk who find out usually react in one of two ways. Half want to turn me into a circus exhibit; the other half start meltin' down the family silver to turn into bullets.:: 

Jo huffed. ''Honestly, Ev. You know what I do for a living. I've seen stranger shit go down. Christ! Give a woman a little warning next time; you scared five years offa me, I swear.'' 

::I'm sorry.:: The wolf looked as contrite as a being could whose face was covered in fur. ::Listen... I have some business to do here. Why don't you go back to your car and go home. I'll be a few hours yet, but I promise I'll explain when I return. All right?:: 

Jo thought a moment. ''All right,'' she said slowly, then pointed a finger at Evan. ''But I'm expecting an explanation the minute you walk in the door, okay? And it wouldn't hurt to pick up a pizza as a peace offering.'' 

Evan sighed. ::I will.:: She rose and shook herself, settling her flamboyant fur back into place. ::I'm truly sorry I frighted you, colleen.:: She trotted over to Jo, who flinched back a little but stood her ground. Carefully, Evan thrust her muzzle into Jo's hand and licked her fingers lightly. ::I'll see you before nightfall:: she sent, then nuzzling Jo's hand again, ghosted away into the forest. 

Jo stood there, watching the she-wolf vanish. Her fingers still tingled from the rasp of Evan's tongue. ''What the hell am I thinking?'' she said aloud in exasperation, running a hand through her platinum blonde hair. ''Tate, the ASPCA would probably have you arrested, so just lock it down, babe. Besides... ain't she a bit hairy to be your type?'' 

Bending, she snatched her baseball cap up off the ground, jammed it back on her head, then turned around and tromped away, unaware that a pair of gray eyes watched, and a pair of sensitive ears listened. 

Evan, back in her SkinShape, tapped on the door then let herself into Jo's apartment, a flat pizza box balanced on the palm of one hand. As promised, it was only dusk, a red giant sun sinking slowly behind the skyscrapers and radio towers. 

''Um, Jo?'' she said, walking in hesitantly. ''I brought your pizza.'' 

''C'mon in, Lassie,'' came Jo's voice. Evan shut the door behind her and entered the apartment fully. 

Jo was perched on the sofa, bare footed once again. ''Anchovies?'' she asked, uncoiling her long length from the faded and patched leather seat. 

Evan wrinkled her nose and decided to ignore the Lassie remark. ''Ugh! Who eats hairy fish?'' 

Jo bit her lip but it was too good to pass up. ''I do,'' she said with a leer, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. ''On almost every friggin' date, in fact.'' 

For a moment, Evan was non-plussed, but the meaning behind Jo's remark finally dawned and she flushed. ''Oh, uh... okay. Sure,'' she mumbled, sliding the pizza box on the counter of the tiny kitchen. 

''So, what do werewolves eat when they're to home?'' Jo asked, picking up the lid of the box and inhaling... Ah, she thought, cheese, sausage, pepperoni, onions, extra garlic, mushrooms and peppers - Paradise! I can feel my arteries clogging already.

Evan raised a brow. ''You know, you're takin' all this a bit too calmly, colleen. Are you sure you're all right?'' 

Jo lifted a steaming slice from the box, jiggling the strands of molten mozzarella until they either fell off or came with. Taking a big bite, she chewed and swallowed before answering. ''Well, I had some time to think it over while you were gone. The way I figure it is: if you really wanted to kill me, you coulda done it last night when I was passed out. Or you just coulda waited for the demon to do it for you. Now, don't get me wrong - I'm still not sure I'm okay with all this wolf business - but at least I'm not gonna freak out on you or nothing.'' She bit into the pizza again, managing to cram most of the rest of the slice in her mouth. 

Evan smiled. Jo didn't know it, but the mental probe she'd sent was still in place and her surface thoughts resonated down the link. By Kernossus, Evan thought, she's tellin' the truth! Evan quickly terminated the psychic link from her end but left the strand in place; it would come in handy should Jo ever see her in her shiftself again, but she didn't want to frighten the other woman by reading her thoughts uninvited. 

Jo munched her way happily through three more slices before emitting a contented belch. ''S'cuse me,'' she said without a trace of embarrassment, wiping her chin free of red sauce with a paper towel. ''My stomach thought my throat'd been cut. Now, lemme grab a beer and you can tell me all about how come it ain't no full moon and there you were in the forest doing your Rexette the Wonder Dog routine.'' 

Evan followed Jo out into the living room, electing to sit in a battered armchair instead of the sofa. Jo frowned slightly, but swigged her beer and didn't say anything. Shit, it's not like we're married or anything, she thought. In fact, we haven't even had a friggin' date yet! So let her sit where she wants, but her ass is gonna get sore after a while 'cause of that busted spring... hee hee hee...

''How do I begin?'' Evan said after a moment, then sighed. ''I think it best I show you somethin' first.'' 

Both of Jo's pale brows rose. ''Show me?'' she asked. 

Without answering, Evan took off the shirt she wore and turned slightly in the chair, and Jo caught her breath. 

Engraved on Evan's back and covering her from shoulders to waist was a tattoo in dark blue, but somehow so subtly shaded despite the single color that Jo could've sworn she was looking at a painting. Trees, a moon, snow. It appeared to be a landscape, but suddenly Jo's sight shifted, and she saw it was also a picture of a wolf, staring back at her with all the wisdom of the world in its eyes... 

''Jeez! Where'd you get that done?'' Jo got up and crossed over to the chair, running one hand lightly down Evan's back, then twisting the other woman slightly so she would get a better look. ''That's gotta be the best work I've ever seen.'' Jo also noticed that Evan had another tattoo, also dark blue, on her upper right arm - this one a stylized circle with spirals that seemed flowerlike, yet at the same time reminded her of spearpoints. ''Got any more?'' 

Evan smiled. ''Yes,'' she replied shyly, then pulled her shirt back over her head, much to Jo's disappointment. In her tattoo-admiration frenzy, she'd not gotten a chance to really see the other woman's breasts. Oh, well, Jo thought, slouching back over to the couch and sitting down. Maybe next time. 

As Jo took another swig of beer, Evan said, ''As to where I got them... they were placed on me during a ritual that took thirty days and thirty nights.'' She rubbed her suddenly sweaty palms on her leggings; this would be the hardest part. ''The woad's stood up pretty well, don't you think, considerin' it was done more than two thousand years ago.'' 

Beer spewed all over the coffee table as Jo choked. 

CHAPTER  NINE

"What the fuck?!'' 

Evan nodded. ''Aye, colleen. You're lookin' at a very old woman indeed.'' 

''Well, gawd, Ev, you hardly look a day over three hundred.'' Jo wiped her lips with the back of her hand and noticed her fingers were trembling slightly. She willed them to be still. 

''I had scant choice in the matter. You see, Jo, when I was a young girl, my parents gave me over to the Druids for trainin'. I had the gifts, you see, both of magic and also the family blessing. One of my ancestors did a favor once for Lugh Light-Spear - one of the old gods - and was blessed for it by bein' gifted with the shiftself. It skips generations; as far as I know, bein' as how I've had no children and don't have any direct descendants, I'm the last of my clan to be so.'' Evan twisted a strand of bright orange hair around her finger absently. 

''Ooooo-kay,'' Jo replied, sitting back again and staring at the other woman. ''And this explains your age... how?'' 

''T'was in the time when Gaius Julius Caesar thought to conquer Gaul. My people were just one of the many tribes who fought the Roman invasion; at the time, I was just finishin' my trainin' and was about to be initiated fully into the mysteries.'' 

Jo screwed her eyes up, probing her memory. ''Um... that woulda been around, what, 54, 53 B.C., something like that?'' 

Evan nodded. ''Yes, although the calendar we used reckoned the years somewhat differently. One of my Druid teachers, Uilliam, had a prophetic dream durin' my initiation ceremony.'' 

Evan remembered as if it was yesterday... The old man, his wattled and sagging skin marked by woad and splashed with the blood of the sacrifice, falling to the floor in ecstasy as the gods granted him a terrible vision. She sighed. ''He saw the comin' of the Christus, the crucified one who would supplant our gods. I was chosen to remain behind; to give up death and the hope of rebirth in order to preserve the knowledge and the magic for a time when the gates would be opened and the old gods returned from exile.'' 

''I see.'' Jo lifted the beer bottle to her lips, then put it down again when she realized it was empty. ''So you've been roaming around for two thousand friggin' years?'' 

''Close enough as to make no difference. I've lived in most parts of the world; fought on many battlefields, both mundane and otherwise. And I've learned from many different traditions; my approach to magic is somewhat eclectic, but I doubt my teachers would disapprove. Only... don't be mistaken, Jo. I'm not a werewolf, not as you believe them to be.'' 

''Uh-huh. So... wolfsbane cocktail ain't gonna work?'' 

For the first time since she'd sat down, Evan smiled. ''Afraid not. Nor will silver bullets. I'm not invulnerable; I can be hurt, even wounded mortally. But given a chance, I heal fast, as many an enemy has found to his disadvantage. Also, I'm not bound by the moon phases; I can change to my shiftself anytime I choose.'' 

''Assuming you're not loco, and I'm not hallucinating or stuck in a hospital somewhere with tubes up my nose... what now?'' 

Evan spread her hands. ''Up to you. I understand if you don't want to be friends with me; after this demon business is finished, I'll leave you be if you want. I warn you, though... I've no desire to end up in a zoo somewhere, or in a lab bein' vivisected for the sake of science. What I am is a secret and I prefer it remain such.'' 

Jo nodded her agreement. ''Sure, I can see why you'd feel that way. Hey, c'mon! I trusted you, right? You think I wanna end up in some Vegas act? Or worse yet, in a padded cell?'' She rubbed her nose, thinking furiously. Aw, what the hell, she thought, taking a deep breath and plunging in. ''I know we just kinda met, and under some pretty fuckin' weird circumstances... But I like you, Ev. Really. And I'd like the chance to get to know you better.'' 

Evan had studied human nature a long time... and to all her senses and innate instinct, Jo seemed sincere. ''I'd like to get to know you, as well,'' she replied. 

Blue eyes gazed into stormy gray... and finally Jo heaved herself off the couch with a grunt. ''Wanna beer?'' she asked, loping into the kitchen. 

''Sure,'' Evan called, rising and moving over to the couch to sit down again. 

The demon whimpered softly, licking its wounds with a long, black tongue. The wolf-woman had hurt it, but not too badly; right now it was in pain, but would heal while wrapped in the supernatural fires of its home... Hell. 

Eridu was a childe of Azrael, demon of corruption. As it lifted burning waters from a pool to soothe its face, its ''father'' - in the form of a dark, greasy cloud of roiling mist - drifted up. 

''AND HAST THOU COMPLETED THY TASK, MY CHILDE?,'' Azrael asked. Its voice was changeable and changing; at the moment, it sounded like a woman racked by the throes of either orgasm or intense agony. 

''The pale woman will be mine, Lord,'' Eridu hissed, bowing at the waist. ''As soon as I am well, I return to the mortal world.'' 

''BE WARNED, ERIDU. I DO NOT TOLERATE FAILURE.'' 

''This is known, Lord.'' Eridu bowed again, this time lower than before. ''I but toyed with the woman in past times; now I am in earnest and have given the matter much thought. In twice seven days will come the waning moon, when the dark powers are at their strongest. Then shall I strike.'' 

''GOOD.'' Azrael's voice had changed again; now it was the bellowing of a man gone insane. ''THE MORTAL IS POWERFUL AND HER LIFE HAS BEEN RECORDED BY OUR INCORRUPTIBLE COUSINS AS A FORCE FOR THE LIGHT. IT AMUSES ME TO SNATCH HER FROM THEIR GRASP AND CAUSE CHAOS IN THE UPPER REALM. THIS WILL BE A COUP FOR OUR DREAD EMPEROR; ANOTHER STRIKE AGAINST THE ONES ABOVE.'' 

Eridu shuddered at Azrael's mention of the Incorruptibles and the Ones Above; it knew its Lord referred to the Bright Servants of The-One-Who-Cannot-Be-Named. ''Yes, Lord,'' it said. Dark tears of blood drizzled down its cheeks as it said earnestly, ''I will not fail you. The woman's spirit and power will be yours and her flesh mine. I will wreak havoc on the mortal realm before I am finished, and there will be such a harvesting of souls that the Morningstar will be well pleased, indeed.'' 

Azrael's voice was that of a child who has slain its parents and laughs mockingly at the horror it has wrought. ''SEE THAT YOU DO NOT FAIL, ERIDU. OR IT WILL BE THY FLESH THAT IS DEVOURED BY THY BRETHREN, AND THY SPIRIT THAT FLEES HOWLING INTO THE ABYSS.'' With that, Azrael drifted away again. 

Eridu shivered and clenched its hands into fists, ignoring the way its claws cut into the flesh of its palms. Oh, no, Lord, it vowed silently, I will not fail. Vengeance shall be mine.

It returned to its task, thinking all the while it sunk slowly into the pool of flames. I must be rid of the wolf-woman, it thought. She is the obstacle that stands between me and my goal... And after a while, an idea came... and Eridu showed its shark-like fangs in a purely evil grin.

CHAPTER  TEN

A week passed, seven days of bliss as far as Jo was concerned. Evan had practically moved into her apartment, although so far she'd declined to share Jo's futon, preferring to sleep on the couch. 

Yeah, Jo thought, we'll see how quick she gets tired of that old act. The platinum blonde woman was seated cross-legged on the floor, trying to meditate. Evan had begun tutoring her in both controlling and maintaining her psychic ability, and Jo was progressing in leaps and bounds. 

It's almost like she's not really teaching me anything, Jo thought, all efforts at making her mind still and quiet a total failure so far. It's more like she's just helping me remember stuff. 

Jo smiled to herself, the sun streaming in through the window creating a halo of light around her head. She'd been sleeping better, eating better... I never felt this friggin' good in my life. All because of Ev.

At that moment, Evan walked into the apartment, carrying a covered dish in both hands. ''Mornin'!'' she called, kicking the door closed behind her with one foot. ''I brought breakfast.'' 

Immediately, Jo uncoiled up from the floor. ''Yum!'' she said eagerly. ''What's on the menu?'' 

Evan went into the kitchen and put the dish down on the counter, then began grabbing plates and silverware. ''Huevos rancheros,'' she replied. ''I made the salsa yesterday.'' 

''You know,'' Jo said, taking off the lid and digging into the dish with a spoon, ''there are advantages to being five thousand years old. At least you know how to cook.'' 

Evan snorted, slapping napkins down on the counter. ''Hmph! More like two thousand years and well you know it. Hey! At least put it on your plate first, woman!'' 

Jo shoveled a spoonful of the delicious mess into her mouth and closed her eyes. ''Mmmm,'' she moaned. ''More... more!'' 

Smiling, Evan dished up a healthy serving to her starving friend and then served herself. Both women ate in silence, then Jo said, ''So tell me why we're still hanging around here while that's on the wall.'' She pointed her fork at the cursed mirror. ''You told me your apartment was bigger'n mine, anyway.'' 

Evan's hair was down this morning, and cascaded to the backs of her knees in a straight length of brilliant orange silk. ''I want to keep an eye on it, for one. And for another... the demon would be able to find you no matter where you were. The mirror's just a convenient access point; it would still be able to manifest in this world because you're its true focus, not the mirror.'' 

Jo grimaced and gulped from her coffee mug. ''We've been farting around for a week here, Ev. Not that I'm complaining, mind you.'' She grinned. ''Any luck on figuring out the origins of the hellspawn?'' 

''No.'' Evan had been spending a lot of time at the library, roaming the stacks and the Rare Books Department, hoping to figure out the demon's name and ranking. Such knowledge would be valuable ammunition in their fight. ''But I did find somebody today who might be able to help.'' 

''Yeah? Like who?'' 

''He's a man I've heard of, never met. You might know him... Bartholomew Long?'' 

''Shit! Bart Long? I thought that bastard was still over in England, adding to his precious hoard. When'd he get over his fear of flying?'' 

''He's in the States for a few weeks, attendin' estate auctions. If you know Bart, you know he'll stop at nothin' to add to his occult collection. At least, that's his reputation as I've heard it.'' 

''Yep. That's him all right. So where's he at now?'' 

''Stayin' at the Rosecrown Hotel downtown. Nothin' but the best for Mr. Long.'' 

It was Jo's turn to snort. ''Uh-huh. The best of everything, all right. He's got more money than God.'' She sipped her coffee again. ''When's the meeting?'' 

''In about an hour. He was reluctant enough to talk to me; I'm hopin' I can persuade him to let us take a look at some of his grimoires. Finish your breakfast, get dressed, and we'll go see what I can charm out of the fellow. I did ask him if I could do some research just in the books he brought with him - he always carries several dozen of his best pieces everywhere he goes - and the man was quite rude and refused unconditionally.'' Evan sighed. ''It's a long shot, I think, but our best one so far; I'll just have to see if he can be begged, bought or bribed.'' 

Jo thoughtfully ate another forkful of the eggs and salsa, then grinned. ''Oh, boy... ol' Bart's gonna be real surprised to see me. Dontcha worry, darlin'. When I'm through with him, Fat Boy Number One over there is gonna be crawling on hands and knees to let you do anything you like. You didn't tell him you were bringing me to the meeting, right?'' 

Evan shook her head. ''No, but...'' 

Jo whooped, slamming her fork down on her plate and making it rattle. ''Baby, you just leave everything to me! Damn, but I'm looking forward to this. Bart owes me one, and it's payback time.'' 

Even though Evan tried to press for details, Jo refused to explain.. but her anticipatory smile never faded. 

Bartholomew Long was in his mid-fifties; balding, close to three hundred fifty pounds of sheer mass, with tiny piggy eyes that peered out at the world from beneath a shelf of fat on his forehead. When Jo walked into the lobby of the five-star Rosecrown Hotel, the big man almost swallowed his tongue. 

''J-j-j-Georgia Tate!'' Bart managed to get out, face turning the purplish-red color of raw liver. ''What a... surprise.'' 

''Aw, can the crap, Bart,'' Jo retorted, standing beside the couch where Long sat. ''Me and my friend want to talk to you.'' She jerked her thumb at Evan, who glided up in her usual noiseless manner and smiled slightly. 

''Good mornin', Bart,'' Evan said. ''Good to finally meet you.'' To Jo, she whispered, ''Georgia?'' 

Jo muttered back, ''I'm gonna kill that fat S.O.B. Can I help it if my mom had bad taste in names?'' She thrust her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket and spoke up. ''C'mon, Bart. You gotta room we can go to, someplace private?'' 

Long rose with the majestic grace only the truly obese can maintai  and led the women to the elevator. ''My room is on the fifteenth floor,'' he said, struggling to regain his dignity and his calm. ''Er, Ms Tate...,'' Long said as they rose up floor by floor, ''If this is about that unfortunate cemetery incident...'' 

Jo flashed him a tight smile then turned to Evan. ''What Bart's getting at is the time he stuck me with this Haitian bocour - black magic dude - who owed him some money. Damned if Ti Cousin didn't have some zombies hanging around, waiting for the chance to corner me in a fuckin' graveyard and try to rip me to shreds. Hey, Bart... I ever show you the teethmarks I still got on my aching ass?'' 

The doors of the elevator slid open, and Jo continued talking as they followed the sweating man to his room. ''And the worst part of it was, Ev, not only did Mr. Long here not tell me I was dealing with a bocour, but he stiffed me for the bill! Not one penny did I see... and that was three years ago. Said he was dissatisfied with the service, of all things. Can you believe it?'' 

Long fumbled with the keycard, finally managing to shove it into the slot of the box that hung on the door. There was a click, and he opened the door and waddled inside, followed closely by Jo, who was still talking. ''Bart, I gotta real hard-on for you, bud. It wouldn't be lying to say I was something close to homicidally pissed.'' 

Evan closed the door behind them as Jo loomed in front of Bart, causing him to press his back against a wall fearfully. Jo was tall enough to look him in the eye, and the murderous expression on her face was almost enough to induce a heart attack in the fat man. ''I'm gonna do ya slow, Bart,'' she hissed. ''Slow and easy, peel ya back one layer at the time...'' 

Long licked his lips, eyes darting back and forth. ''Please!'' he half-shouted. ''Ms. Reilly! Call her off! I beg you!'' 

Evan crossed her arms over her chest. ''Are you goin' to pay Jo what you owe her?'' 

''Yes! Yes, I've got cash, I've got traveler's checks... Please! Don't let her hurt me!'' 

Evan put a hand on Jo's shoulder and squeezed. Jo responded by leaning forward slightly and pretending to sniff at Long's face, murmuring, ''Fee, fi, fo, fum... gonna see me the blood of an Englishmun...'' 

Long shrieked, ''I'll pay! I'll pay! With interest, if you want!'' 

''Good.'' Evan squeezed again and Jo backed off slightly. ''Now,'' Evan continued, ''I also want complete access to your travelin' collection.'' 

Long's chest rose up and down with the heaving of his breath. ''What collection?'' he asked, licking his lips. 

Jo smacked him lightly on his rounded belly. ''Aw, jeez, Bart! The lady wants to check out those books and manuscripts you always carry with you. Got it, or do I have to get nasty? I can always take my payment by the pound... of flesh, that is. You got plenty to spare.'' 

Bart's lower lip pushed out as he considered. Evan Reilly he'd heard of vaguely, mostly whispers among other collectors about how she sometimes managed to get her hands on the most extraordinary items. Jo Tate was another matter. He regretted the day he'd ever let his accountant talk him into hiring the big blonde woman. ''Very well,'' he finally said, ''but they don't leave this room and I'm staying to supervise.'' 

Jo looked at Evan, who nodded. ''Fine,'' Jo said as she backed down completely. ''Now where's my money, you miserly son of a bitch?'' 

Long's hand scrabbled inside his suit jacket for his wallet while Evan smiled. 

CHAPTER  ELEVEN

Driving back to their apartment building, Jo was still elated. ''Whoo! I got five grand in my pocket - in cash, thank you!; I finally paid back that cheese-paring bastard for dicking me over that Haitian deal; and I gotta beautiful woman sitting beside me, even if it is in this piece of crap Chrysler instead of a Jag.'' She grinned at Evan, who returned her smile. 

The old land-yacht of a car rattled and grumped down the road, threatening at any second to either explode into pieces or just give up the ghost right then and there. Jo drove confidently, left hand on the wheel, steering expertly through the late afternoon traffic. 

Casually, she stretched her right arm across the seat back, incidentally draping her hand over Evan's shoulder. Evan gave her a startled glance, but didn't protest or move away, so Jo relaxed. It was a beautiful day, she was feeling fat and happy, and there didn't seem anything that could possibly go wrong... 

Suddenly Evan lunged across the seat, grabbing the steering wheel and wrenching it to one side, heedless of traffic. The Chrysler slewed across two lanes, but the black Mercedes that had been behind them seemed to gather itself and leap after the older vehicle, clipping a Volvo's fender in the process. 

''What the fuck?'' Jo hollered, trying to take control of the wheel again, but Evan ignored the squealing of brakes, frantic horn blowing and shouts of irate drivers as she continued to guide the Chrysler in and around the traffic, seemingly driving by blind instinct. Holes that weren't there before miraculously opened up a heartbeat before the big car skidded into a lane. 

Jo gritted her teeth and stood on the brake a split second before Evan choked, ''No!'' 

The Chrysler shuddered and shrieked, spinning out of control in a full 180 as it skewed across a lane; the driver of the Mercedes slammed into the rear of the car as it spun, causing the Chrysler to flip over the safety rail and plummet down the embankment, rolling over and over before finally coming to rest, upside down, at the bottom. 

Sudden, shocking silence... 

Evan coughed, tasting coppery blood in her mouth. She lay curled up on the roof of the car, the shattered windshield scant inches from her face. From the pain and the difficulty breathing, she knew broken ribs had pierced her lungs, and she lay quietly, panting and trying to stay still, as her body knitted itself back to its healthy state. 

Suddenly, a breathy moan close to her made her scattered wits abruptly come together. Jo!

Evan rolled over, biting her lip against the sudden grinding in her side, and saw Jo. The platinum blonde woman's arm was broken, one end of the bone standing out through the sleeve of her blood-soaked leather jacket. Both her legs were twisted at impossible angles, and as Evan frantically laid her head against Jo's chest, her heartbeat stuttered... and stopped. 

''Noooooooo!!'' The wavering howl was torn from Evan's constricted throat. 

Jo's heart suddenly began beating again, but Evan, even as she felt the sweaty flush of relief, knew it wouldn't last. Probably internal injuries, bleeding... she couldn't work on Jo, not cramped up in the wreckage of the car. 

She tried the driver's door; it was jammed tight. Turning back over, she tried her own door; it, too, was jammed. Clenching her teeth together, Evan pulled her legs back, knees almost flat against her chest, and screaming a high-pitched Celtic warcry, suddenly slammed both feet into the door with all her strength. With a metallic shriek, the door exploded from its hinges and flew for several yards before bouncing and skidding along the ground. 

Grabbing the back of Jo's jacket collar, Evan backed out of the car, pulling the other woman with her. Her own injuries were almost fully healed, and Evan brought all her concentration to bear on her mortally wounded friend as soon as she'd gotten her clear of the wreckage. 

She cast about mentally, seeking something... There! A tiny trickle of a ley line cut across from north to south. Combined with her own severely curtailed resources, it might be enough. 

Evan knelt down by Jo's head and brought her hands above her head, palms out. Taking a deep breath, she began sonorously chanting the Seven Ranns of Healing and simultaneously tapped into the ley line, drawing on the small source of magic. 

While she chanted and guided the magic, Evan used the mental link that still existed between herself and Jo to monitor her condition. Slowly, shattered bone drew itself back together again and fused; the ulnar bone sticking out of Jo's arm withdrew back beneath the skin to its proper place; internal organs, rent and split with the force of the woman's impact against the steering wheel, healed. Flesh drew back together and bruises paled. Time passed, it seemed to crawl, but in fact it was but a matter of some minutes before Jo, her face losing its blue tinge and flushing to healthy pink, began breathing easier and stirred. 

''Ev?'' she croaked, blue eyes fluttering open to stare up at Evan's face. ''W-w-what...'' 

Evan continued the chant to its end, making sure blood clots in Jo's system were broken up into harmlessness and shunted away; for good measure, she used the very last little bit of the magic to repair the worn cartilage in Jo's knees and soothe away an incipient headache. Then she lowered her hands and stopped, her breath harsh and raspy. 

''Uh, Ev?'' Jo sat up carefully, patting herself with both hands. ''Last thing I remember we were driving home... Oh shit! My car! We were in an accident, right? Christ, baby... you okay?'' 

Evan nodded. Her skin was the color of heavy cream and slicked with sweat. She'd so depleted even her own personal stores of energy that her body barely had the minimum required to keep her heart beating and her lungs drawing breath. She had none to spare to answer Jo's increasingly frantic questions. Even her orange hair seemed dulled and lifeless, coated with blood, oil and grease. Her upper torso swayed slightly and her pupils expanded as she struggled to remain conscious. 

''Ev? C'mon, baby, talk to me!'' Jo lightly stroked one of Evan's hands. ''Talk to me, dammit!'' 

But Evan couldn't speak; her tongue was felt thick and clumsy in her mouth, like an alien object she had no control over. Her gray eyes met Jo's... and she gratefully surrendered to unconsciousness. 

CHAPTER  TWELVE

When Evan woke up, it was night, and the cool evening breeze that floated off the bay wafted through the window, bringing the smells of salt and waves and water and fish. 

She came around slowly, first aware that she was on her back, being cradled against a chest, arms around her from behind, soft breathing in her ear. ''Jo?'' she murmured. 

Jo's voice whispered, ''Uh-huh. How you feel?'' 

''Better,'' Evan rasped, licking dry lips. ''Drink?'' 

A cup was pressed to her lips, and the cool, clear water tasted better to Evan than any of the finest wines she'd ever sampled. ''Mmmm, good,'' she said, relaxing against Jo again. 

''I had a helluva time convincing the cops you weren't D.O.A.,'' Jo said softly, putting the cup back down on the coffee table. She and Evan lay on her couch, a knitted afghan thrown over both of them. ''Then the paramedics arrived. By then, you were breathing more normally and your heartbeat was strong. I told 'em you fainted and they let me take you home. Both of us checked out, by the way.'' 

She chuckled. ''Damnedest thing they ever saw. Fire/Rescue guy took one look at that car, a second look at us, and told me I'd better hie down to the nearest church and start lighting candles, 'cause it was a miracle we survived, let alone without a scratch.'' 

Jo shifted slightly, but when Evan began to sit up, her arm tightened around the other woman and drew her back down. ''So Officer Friendly drove us home after taking my statement, which was nothing but a bunch of bushwah anyway. Some of the witnesses said we'd been hit from behind by a Mercedes, but - and you won't believe this - not one soul among 'em noticed the way you were weaving in and outta traffic like friggin' Mario Andretti.'' 

Evan sighed. ''The Mercedes?'' 

''That's another thing. The car was right where the driver left it... with a dead man behind the wheel. Apparently, we were hit by a corpse.'' 

''What?'' Evan squirmed around until she was on her side, still reclining against Jo, and she stared at the other woman. ''What did you say?'' 

Jo chuckled again. ''I said, the driver was a dead man. Literally. Bony fingers clutching the steering wheel, the whole nine yards. Best guess was he'd been dead several weeks. You shoulda seen the cops scratching their heads over that one.'' 

''Do they know who he was?'' 

''Yeah. Small-time drug dealer who hit the state lottery a coupla months ago. Jeffrey Bach, otherwise known on the street as Jazz. His mile long record didn't stop our chock-full-o-wisdom elected representatives from giving Jazz a check for a quarter-million bucks. He blew it all, partied hearty, and finally joined the choir eternal following an overdose. Guess what they found in his apartment?'' 

Evan closed her eyes, then opened them again. ''The same thing we found in Bart's book, right?'' 

''Bingo!'' Jo sounded enormously pleased. ''Besides the usual books on black magic, they found an amulet exactly like the one we read about - lead, inscribed with Azrael's symbol and his name. I figure Jazz musta cut a deal with the Corrupter.'' 

Evan nodded. ''Makes sense, especially since we figured out from The Book of Hidden Lies that the demon who's tryin' to kill you is Azrael's offspring, Eridu. I'm willin' to bet that somehow, Bach's body was reanimated, probably by an imp under Eridu's control, and sent to kill us.'' 

''Which reminds me,'' Jo said, ''just what the hell were you doing, grabbing the wheel like that?'' 

''I got... a warning. That's the only way I can explain it. If I hadn't, we'd have both been killed instantly. As it was, if you hadn't stepped on the brakes, we'd have probably been okay.'' 

''So it's my fault now, hmmmm? Well, if you'd bothered explaining to me that some imp from the nether regions was gunning for my Chrysler, I might not've panicked.'' 

Jo reached out a long arm and snagged a bottle of Harp ale from the coffee table and took a sip. ''That's okay, baby. I remember... I remember hearing you singing or something, and there was this terrible pain, I mean I just about died, and when I opened my eyes, you were there looking like hell. What was that about?'' 

Evan took a deep breath. ''You nearly did die, Jo.'' Her hand reached out to touch the other woman's face. ''Thank gods there was a ley line there, otherwise...'' 

Otherwise I'd have given, and kept on givin', pourin' myself into you until there was nothin' left, she continued silently. Until I gave it all entirely and died myself, making the last twenty centuries a mockery in the faces of my family, my clan, my faith. 

Jo froze at the light touch on her face, then willed herself to start breathing again. ''Um... were you hurt too?'' 

Evan nodded. ''Aye. But I heal much more quickly than you do. I was never in any danger. It's just... well, usin' magic is just as hard, or harder, than most physical labor you can think of. It takes a lot out of you.'' 

Jo's eyes narrowed into blue slits. ''Something tells me I'm not hearing the entire truth, here, but I'll let it slide, Ev. Someday, though, I want the whole story. Deal?'' 

Evan withdrew her hand reluctantly. ''Deal.'' 

''Okay, so we know the name of the demon who's after my hide. We know who its sire is. Now what?'' 

Evan swallowed and sat up, resisting Jo's grasp. ''Now... we raise some magic. After that, I'll make a talisman to banish and bind Eridu and you'll be free of his influence for good.'' 

Jo, already missing the warm presence of Evan in her arms, sighed, ''What the hell, baby... I'll try anything once.'' 

Evan didn't reply, her gray eyes staring unfocused into the distance as she considered their next move... and not without misgivings. 

"Tell me again why we're doing this?'' Jo's voice echoed hollowly off the tiled walls of the bathroom. 

''It's partly for purification for the ritual, colleen.'' Evan scattered another handful of dried herbs and salt into the steaming water-filled tub. ''And partly because we both stink to high heaven!'' 

Ruefully, Jo glanced down at herself. In the rush to get Evan back home and safe, she'd completely forgotten she was still clad in her filthy T-shirt and jeans. Peeling off her shirt and wincing as dried blood stuck the fabric to her skin, she sat down on the toilet seat to pull off her boots. 

They were in Evan's apartment; the orange-haired woman had deemed her place best for the ritual they were going to initiate. She'd so far refused to give Jo any details, just that it was the best and most efficient manner of raising a considerable amount of magic in the shortest time possible, barring human sacrifice - a concession that had made Jo shudder. 

Jo glanced around the bathroom; it was easily the size of her entire apartment, and dominated by a whirlpool tub that could seat six without all of them having to be really good friends. 

Evan's apartment had originally been two separate units; at some time in the past, one of the numerous companies that had managed the property had knocked down some walls, erected others, and rented it out as a luxury two-bedroom. 

Jeez, I never saw so much stuff in my life! Jo thought. Evan's furniture was an eclectic mixture of antiques and modern pieces, all of it arranged with an artist's eye for balance, texture and color. Paintings that hung on the walls in gilded frames had familiar signatures - Gaugin, Renoir, Monet, Degas. 

Whatever else, Jo said silently to herself, the chick's got money from somewhere. I guess a coupla thousand years of compound interest really adds up.

Removing her boots, Jo stood back up and shucked off her jeans, tossing them into a corner to join her shirt. ''I think I'm gonna burn mine,'' she said to Evan, nodding at the pile. 

Evan flung her own once-blue shirt into the corner and wriggled out of her dirty and torn Lycra leggings. ''I couldn't agree with you more.'' 

Jo stood up, admiring Evan's form. The other woman was smaller but bulkier than herself, with a strong frame that supported an astonishing amount of muscle. Her breasts and hips were full, but only enough to lend feminine curves... and what curves, Jo thought, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. 

Evan's breasts (And thank God there's only two of 'em!, Jo snickered to herself) were tipped by rosy nipples and swayed enticingly as she moved, bustling around the bathroom laying out towels, soap, shampoo. Finally finished, Evan stepped into the tub with a sigh and motioned Jo to join her. 

For the next hour, they washed themselves and each other, Jo taking great pleasure in soaping up Evan's incredibly long hair and taking extraordinary care not to let it get hopelessly tangled. Finally, though, Evan stood and grabbed a towel. ''You can run clean water in and soak a bit if you want,'' she said, getting out of the tub and briskly rubbing herself dry. ''I've got some more preparations to do in the other room.'' 

Jo watched Evan's shapely buttocks as she exited the bathroom, then leaned back against the side of the tub with a sigh. First women I've been naked and close to in months, and all she thinks about is work, work, work!

Blowing out an exasperated breath, Jo heaved herself out of the tub and grabbed her own towel. 

CHAPTER  THIRTEEN

Evan's stomach felt like it was inhabited by a thousand butterflies. 

Why am I so nervous?, she thought, lighting another fat white candle and pulling the twisted iron stand into position. Not like I haven't done this before.

Ah, but before you weren't so attracted to the other, were you?, her inner self admonished. Before you weren't... in love.

Evan rolled her eyes. Kernossus! I've only known the woman for a week! How can I be in love? In lust, surely, for she's beautiful and brave and brightly souled - but love? I think not. Or, at least, I hope not.

Still, nagging doubts lingered as she finished her preparations for the ritual, rolling up a Klimt area rug to expose the wooden floor in the living room. Just as she completed the last finicky detail, Jo emerged from the bathroom and walked down the hall to the living room to join her. 

''Okay,'' Jo said, eyeing the candlestands arranged pentacle fashion around the large drawing on the floor. ''Now do you think you can tell me what we're gonna do here?'' 

Evan moved to the center of the drawing, tossing down several large flat cushions, and replied, ''Come here and sit, colleen. I'll explain, I promise.'' 

When Jo settled down across from her, Evan continued, ''In order to combat Eridu, I need magic, which is in scarce supply here in the city. The amount I've used in the past week, includin' my reserves, has left me bone dry. Normally, I'd just accumulate it a bit at a time, but there's no time left. Eridu could come back at any minute, which is why I want to do this ritual. It'll raise a great deal of power and at little cost to us both.'' 

Jo raised an eyebrow. ''Do we have to wear little black hats and dance widdershins or something?'' 

''No.'' Evan clasped her hands loosely together. ''We have to have sex.'' 

Jo's other eyebrow shot nearly to her hairline. For a moment, she was speechless. ''Excuse me? I thought you just said we had to have sex.'' 

''I did.'' Evan smiled. ''Many cultures practiced sex magic, colleen. It won't hurt, I promise. And you'll leave the ritual with more energy than you came to it with.'' 

Jo thought about this for a moment. Okay, now, I admit I wanted to get her in bed, practically from the first minute she waltzed in the apartment door and cold-cocked that fuckin' demon. But...

The more she thought about it, the more Jo realized she didn't really mind the idea after all. In the past week, she'd gotten to know Evan well, better than many of her so-called friends. They'd gotten so close in such a short amount of time that when Jo thought about it rationally, it just didn't make sense. But she did know one thing - the feelings she had for the smaller woman were powerful ones. 

''Okay.'' Jo shrugged. ''I got no problem.'' 

Now it was Evan's turn to raise her brows. 

''Look, baby,'' Jo said, trying to relieve the tension with a little humor, ''Who am I to refuse a request from a drop-dead gorgeous carrot-top whose sitting stark-damn naked in front of me and practically begging to knock boots? A saint I ain't.'' 

Evan giggled, then sobered. ''Are you certain you want to go through with this? I can find someone else if you've doubts...'' 

Jo snorted. ''Don't you dare!'' She grinned and patted Evan's knee with one hand. ''B'sides, who you gonna call in the middle of the friggin' night? Sex Magic Partners R' Us?'' 

The candlelight lent a burnished gold sheen to Jo's skin, and despite the warmth of the apartment, her small nipples were erect. Evan sternly reminded herself that above all else, she must remain in control. Despite her assurances to Jo, if the ritual spun out of control, the results could be disastrous. 

Jo ran a hand through her pale hair. ''So whadda I do?'' She was beginning to be a bit nervous... Shit! You'd think I'd have gotten over performance anxiety by now, she thought. 

Evan smiled. ''I'll guide you. Just relax.'' 

Evan consecrated the circle. 

For the first time, Jo noticed that the floor around them was covered in painted symbols and they sat in a clear space in the center. Some of the glyphs and drawings she recognized, some not. They were aligned in geometric precision along painted lines within an enormous circle. 

Evan raised her arms above her head, this action making her breasts taut, and began chanting the Rann of Opening-The-Way. 

The liquid cascade of language sounded beautiful to Jo, even if she didn't understand a single word. It was a bit like the Gaelic she'd heard spoken at this pub she'd been to, Harpwinds, but the words of this chant were somehow both more musical and more harsh, all at the same time. 

Jo shifted to her Othersight, something Evan had taught her... and saw the pulsing, blue-white lines of magical energy spring up around them, forming a sort of geodesic dome that reminded her of a spider's web. 

Evan shook back her brilliantly orange hair, ceasing her chant, and lowered her arms, holding her hands out in front of her, palms out towards Jo. At Evan's nod, Jo put her palms against the other woman's. 

Immediately, she sucked in her breath as a small whirlwind of power swept through her, and her blue eyes half-closed as the magic left her open and receptive, tingling from her toes to the crown of her head. 

Evan leaned forward and kissed Jo on the mouth, tongue sliding across her lips, then gliding in, wet and warm... Jo moaned in the back of her throat and laced her fingers through Evan's, pulling the other woman closer still as Evan's tongue explored her mouth. 

Breaking off the kiss, Evan nibbled on Jo's lips, then along her jawline to her ear. Jo closed her eyes completely when Evan's tongue curled along the delicate curve of her ear, and Evan's teeth closed gently on her earlobe, pulling it into her mouth and sucking. 

Jo pulled her hands away from Evan's, and she ran them across her lover's shoulders, feeling smooth muscle shift beneath her fingers. When Evan nudged her, pushing her over onto her back, Jo didn't even try to resist, spreading her legs wide to accomodate the other woman's body. 

She felt boneless, surrounded by liquid warmth... Evan shifted her position so that she was straddling Jo, tangerine hair falling around their faces like a silken curtain. Jo ran her hands along Evan's back as she kissed her deeply, tongues fluttering, mouths melding into a delicious whole. 

Evan shoved aside her own feelings of arousal. This was neither the time nor the place for such things, although she promised herself that if Jo was still willing after this, she'd welcome the blonde woman to her bed anytime... and that right happily. 

''Now, colleen... let's unleash your dragon,'' Evan murmured against Jo's lips, then kissed her again. 

CHAPTER  FOURTEEN

Jo lay on her back, eyes squeezed shut, body covered in sweat. Once again, Evan's skilled fingers and tongue were bringing her almost to the point of climax, something that had already happened so many times that Jo had lost count. 

She couldn't think rationally anymore; her body responded to Evan like a musical instrument in the hands of a maestro. Jo tossed her head from side to side, her hands tangled in Evan's hair, hips rolling, pumping in waves. She groaned, ''Please...'' 

Evan felt Jo tightening on her fingers and stopped licking her, raising up her head slightly to assess her lover's condition with narrowed gray eyes. Jo was almost exhausted, sweating profusely, and at this point, it would barely take any effort at all to make her orgasm. 

Evan withdrew her fingers and used her thumbs to pull apart the lips of Jo's vulva, blowing a cooling breath across the heated, slick flesh while Jo shuddered and nearly cried out, back arching to push her hips up, offering herself to Evan desperately. 

After waiting a moment, Evan probed the lines of force that still surrounded them... the magical energies were pulsing wildly now, glowing hotter and hotter, brighter and brighter... 

Bending her head, Evan slid her tongue back into Jo's sex, expertly laving her with long, slow laps. Jo pulled her hands out of Evan's hair and her back came completely off the cushions as she arched up with a loud moan, hands balled into fists, her entire being solely concentrated on the sensations that were bringing her closer and closer to the edge. 

Evan used the flat of her tongue, sweeping up and down, taking her time, knowing from Jo's response that it would only take a touch... Judging her moment carefully, Evan placed a fingertip on Jo's rock-hard clit and touched her lightly, once. 

With a guttural scream, Jo spasmed, on and on and on, delirious with sheer pleasure, hips banging up and down, shuddering and gasping, a fresh flood of sweat and musky fluid pouring off of her and out of her, soaking the already wet cushions... She felt lifted on wings of pure, blue-white flame, a mighty dragon uncoiling from her spine and soaring higher and higher, pulse pounding so hard she could barely breathe... 

Evan watched as magical energy boiled off Jo, a roiling mass of the purest power she'd ever seen. It seemed endless, unstoppable, growing brighter and brighter until she had to squint or be blinded. And still it grew, a roaring, raging inferno that swirled faster and faster until like an arrow shot from a bow, the energy generated by Jo's orgasm flew into the waiting web of magic Evan had raised... and exploded. 

The apartment seemed to rock, the building seemed to shake and Evan threw her arms around Jo's thighs and hung on. Jo screamed again as Evan's breasts came into contact with her now ultra-sensitive sex and she spasmed again, nearly throwing Evan off as her body twisted and shivered, another but smaller wave of magical energy rippling into the web. 

Evan threw wide her defenses, abandoning her mental shields completely as she grabbed the lines of the web and strove to bring them under control. The magic resisted, bucking like a maddened mare, but Evan set her jaw and concentrated, slowly but surely taming the wild magic to her will, feeling it soaking into her, limning her very bones with power, until she felt giddy and light-headed. 

Quickly, she manipulated the magic, shifting it into her reserves, filling those to the brim, then trickled some into the ring-amulets she wore on every finger, filling those as well. Then, Evan carefully insinuated some of the magic into Jo, massaging away her weariness and sore muscles, leaving her glowing with health and energy. 

At last, she was done. Feeling a bit tired but still much, much better than she had, Evan collapsed the web with a flick of her will and gathered the remainder of the energy, calling it like a bird to her hand, and released it joyfully, scattering magic to the four winds like silver coins, a sacrifice of thanksgiving to the gods. 

All was quiet and still once again, the silence broken only by the sound of Jo's deep, even breathing and Evan's sigh as she laid her head back down on Jo's flat belly and closed her eyes. 

After a while, Jo chuckled and stretched a little, marveling at the way she still felt. It was as if all her life she'd stood outside, nose pressed against the glass, watching a feast being laid and never invited to the table... now she felt absolutely sated, top-filled to the brim and running over, the dragon at rest. Tired but it was a good tired, fulfilling and fulfilled. She stroked Evan's hair with one hand and gave a contented sigh of her own. 

''Wow,'' she said softly, a wicked grin spreading over her face, ''Can we do it again? Huh? Can we?'' Jo sounded like a child who was begging for another ride on a roller coaster. 

Evan's snort was muffled, and she smacked Jo's hip medium-hard while the other woman giggled. 

CHAPTER  FIFTEEN

Over the next few days, Evan showed Jo how to increase her protective shields, strengthening them... how to ward her apartment with ''traps'' to catch supernatural intruders, ''alarms'' to warn her of dangers both mundane and otherwise, and how to both make and activate talismans and amulets against specific threats. 

Jo's command of magic was growing stronger every day. Evan took her back to the park to show her ley lines, teaching her how to draw on them for energy, use her will to mold the magic to her purposes. The lines in the park were small, barely existing and nearly worthless for practical purposes, but it was good practice. 

Jo was a good pupil, always willing to work, never complaining, had a near instinctive grasp for the work, and seemed quite content with her teacher. 

It was the end of another week, and the two women were relaxing in Jo's tiny apartment. They'd taken to sleeping together, most often in Evan's enormous tapestried bed, but occasionally on Jo's futon. They hadn't had sex again yet, contented with touching and kissing, closeness and the comfort of one another's presence. Jo was slumped on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table, one arm around Evan's shoulders, her lover snuggled up against her. This felt so right, so true... For the first time in her life, Jo thought she might be falling in love, and, oddly enough, the prospect didn't terrify her as she once thought it would. 

Maybe I'm growing up, she thought, looking at Evan's face. Of course, if somebody'd told me I'd fall for a two thousand year old Druid-wolf-witch-woman, I'd have sent 'em to the nearest nuthouse or called the white-coated boys with nets to come and get 'em.

Several times, mostly at Jo's request, Evan had gotten ''bitchy'' as Jo facetiously called it, donning her shiftself and allowing the other woman to get used to her wolf shape. Jo still couldn't get over it; dealing with the fact that Evan was a magic worker was easy - she'd dealt with magic before. The age difference was another hump Jo had gotten over fairly quickly - Evan certainly didn't act as if she were two millennia older, and Jo, after a bit of internal wrestling, finally decided to be casual about the whole thing and just accept it. But the wolf... 

''It's not that I gotta problem with it per se,'' Jo had plaintively explained once, ''It's just that I keep expecting some dude from the ASPCA to show up every time I kiss you or something. Of course, if we made a porn video, there's guys I know who'd buy it in droves.'' Evan hadn't been amused at Jo's attempt at humor. 

Jo buried her face in Evan's hair and inhaled contentedly. As always, Evan smelled of some faint, sweet musk that never failed to make her heart beat faster. ''Damn, you smell good,'' Jo murmured. 

Evan smiled. ''My thanks, dearheart.'' Certainly, Jo can be more than a little crude sometimes, she thought, but those rough compliments of hers mean more to me than all a courtier's flowery words.

Evan tilted her face up and kissed Jo lightly on the lips, raising one hand up to cup the other woman's chin. ''Chinese?'' she asked. 

''Sounds like a plan to me,'' Jo answered, reaching for the cordless phone that sat on the floor... 

And that's when all hell broke loose. 

After the failed attempt to use the dead drug addict to kill Jo and Evan, Eridu sat in a corner of Hell and brooded. True, that failure had cost it nothing more than a worthless imp under its control, but still... i did not like to be thwarted. 

It realized it should have been more patient, waited until the time when its power would be at the peak before attacking, but trying to kill the women in a semi-mundane fashion had seemed an appealing idea. 

Now Eridu sat and thought, warning away those of lesser rank with a snarl, and ignoring the mad wailing of souls in torment. Finally, however, it came to a decision. 

The wolf-woman is strong, it thought. And I am no Lord of Hell to contest her so easily. But, where one might fail, many might succeed. 

And so Eridu went about Hell, seeking its siblings and equals, from the ever-gibbering Eligon to the taciturn and melancholy Ophiel, falsely promising great rewards in Azrael's name and gathering several Third and Fourth Circle demons to its cause. 

The demon host, some dozen in number, bewinged, befanged, beclawed, furred or feathered or scaled or a combination of bizarre in-betweens, met their general on the Plain of Division, gathering before the Wall of Octroi that separated Hell from Earth. Small chinks and the occasional gaping maw had opened in the wall before, created by human magicians or sometimes accidentally by unconscious mortal will - and every demon in Hell, from lowest to highest, knew the moment a breach occurred and scrambled to take advantage. 

Eridu allowed a vast smile to stretch its lips, and strings of viscous drool slathered its chin. The mirror conduit in Jo's apartment was blocked by the wolf-woman's spell, but Eridu knew that with a concerted effort, the power of the Denial would be broken. It could return alone, using its binding on Jo as a way of getting through, but its brethren could not come. So... the Denial must go. 

It raised its hands and with a howl, plunged all of its claws into the lines of force that covered the conduit, the breach in the wall; at the same time, it sent a staggering burst of demonic energy that struck Evan's spell-shield like a hammer. 

The lines of the Denial shivered, then began to wilt and decay, turning black as frost-seared rose petals and falling away, crisp bits of ash floating through the sulfurous air. The conduit pulsed with dark energy now, a rhythm like a dying man's heart, stuttering and irregular, and Eridu howled once again in triumph, leaping through the breach, followed by its brethren - and all of them ready for bloody war. 

CHAPTER  SIXTEEN

Jo jumped up as what seemed like hundreds of demons poured through the pulsating mirror, the air shivering with their unholy cries. In a heartbeat, she realized it was only a dozen or so. But one fuckin' dozen is twelve too many, she thought crazily. 

Evan, too, was up and moving, twisting her fingers and shouting the Rann of Turning-Back-The-Enemy, blue-white magic sizzling into demonic flesh and causing wails of agony. 

A nightmare of bloated, greasy flesh with multiple eyes flowed to Jo's side and huge hands reached for her. Ducking the demon's attack, Jo concentrated, forming an aura of force around her hand, then slammed her fist into the creature's stomach, sending it shrieking and tumbling back into another. 

Evan gasped, ''The talisman! Jo, go for the talisman!'' as she blocked a winged gargoyle's attack and staggered back, her shirt ripped open down the front by the demon's three-clawed hand. 

For a moment, Jo was torn, paralyzed by indecision. She didn't want to leave Evan alone, even for the short amount of time it would take to sprint to the other woman's apartment and grab the talisman Evan had constructed, a powerful artifact they'd planned to use in a ritual to seal Eridu back up in Hell. As she hesitated, another demon, its upper lip pierced by a copper arrow, feinted at her and she instinctively pulled back, thin narrow cuts opening up on one cheek. 

''Jo! Get out of here NOW!'' Evan screamed even as she smashed a hastily created whirlwind of magic into the face of a grinning demon. ''GO!'' 

''Shit!'' Jo turned around and ran for the door. 

As soon as she knew her lover was safe, Evan waited, panting, as the demons gathered around her, a snarling, growling horde. 

Her lips stretched in a feral smile. Holding out a hand, Evan threw back her head and screamed a word that ripped from her throat, leaving behind a pain as if she'd swallowed jagged glass. As the echoes of that cry faded and nothing happened, Eridu licked its face with its black tongue and sidled towards her, claws clicking in anticipation. 

There was an explosion of light, brilliant, eye-searing, centered around the woman, making the demons draw back, hissing and muttering. When the light faded, Evan was clad in silvery armor, blue lines of energy crackling across the metallic surface, and in her hand she held a sword whose blade was a smoking, white-hot flame. 

''Now,'' she said hoarsely, clenching one gauntleted hand into a fist, ''Come and die, hellspawn!'' 

The demons howled in fury... and fell upon the woman as one. 

Jo ran back down the hall towards her apartment, the precious talisman clutched tightly in one hand. Inscribed upon the tablet of incorruptible gold were Eridu's secret symbol and name, centered in a Double Seal of Solomon and surrounded by arcane glyphs. Used against the demon, the talisman would banish Eridu back to Hell, severing its ties in the mortal world - including its bond with Jo. 

Her friggin' door wouldn't open. Jo wanted to scream and tear at her hair in frustration, but instead of continuing to wrench futility at the stubbornly closed door, she concentrated as Evan had taught her, feeling the power turning to her will, but slowly, too slowly. Frustration mounting, Jo yelled, ''FUCK!'' at the top of her lungs and just threw magic at the door, heedless of the consequences. 

With a rending moan, the door shattered, exploding into splintered fragments and dust. Jo blinked once, and muttering, ''Goddammit, there goes the security deposit,'' leaped through the open doorway, shaking bits of disintegrated wood from her hair. 

The first thing she saw as she entered the living room/battlefield was Evan, on her knees, bleeding. Her blue eyes widened, then narrowed in fury, taking in the paleness of Evan's face, the ruptured armor and broken sword that, even as she watched, faded into sparkling light, then vanished completely, leaving the wounded Evan helpless in her torn shirt and jeans. 

Jo raised a hand, holding the talisman out for Eridu to see. ''Get away from her!'' she demanded. 

Eridu showed its sharkish teeth in a complacent grin. ''See you, mortal,'' it said in a high-pitched voice like the squealing of nails on a chalkboard, making Jo shudder. ''The wolf-woman dies as you watch... unless we can come to an agreement.'' 

Jo's eyes flicked back and forth. A good half of the demons who'd joined the initial attack were dead, the apartment strewn with ghastly severed limbs and heads that were rapidly rotting, creating an unholy stench. Her stomach tightened and she suppressed a gag, thinking, At least Ev took some of 'em out... now what the fuck can I do about the rest?

Eridu moved closer to Evan and placed one hand against the pale column of her throat, claws dimpling the skin... a clear threat. ''Enter willingly into a pact with me and my Lord Azrael,'' it said, ''and the wolf-woman will go free.'' 

Desperately, Jo searched her mind for every scrap of demon lore she'd ever read and everything Evan had told her about these creatures... One thing she knew for sure - never, ever take a demon's word for anything. And even if you think you've got all the contingencies covered, think again. Demons were infamous for their Jesuitical skill in wriggling through loopholes, and Jo could think offhand of at least a half-dozen cases where the magician had experienced first hand, and to his/her detriment, the demonic reputation for cunning and lies. 

''No!'' Evan choked, ignoring the claws digging into her flesh. ''Jo, don't do it!'' 

With its free hand, Eridu cuffed Evan across the head. ''Silence, witch!'' it hissed angrily, then its bright yellow eyes turned back to Jo. ''Decide, moral, or I kill the one you love and take her soul down with me into Hell.'' 

The one you love... those words struck Jo like a spear of light, illuminating every corner of her mind so suddenly that she caught her breath. 

Yes, she finally admitted to herself, I love Evan. I love the way she smiles, the sound of her soft, slurring snores against my neck, the way she moves and the color of her hair and her smell and those gentle kisses that make my knees go weak. I love her.

Jo's blue eyes locked on Evan's gray and a wealth of silent meaning passed between the two women... then Jo looked up and glared at Eridu, her lips twisting into a sneer. ''Fuck YOU!'' she screamed, and threw the talisman at the demon's face, flinging herself to one side and praying she'd read Evan's intentions right. 

If not, Jo thought as she collided with the couch, we're both so much fuckin' dead meat. Baby, I hope you know what you're doing!

A reply insinuated itself softly into Jo's mind... ::Trust me.:: 

And Jo did, breathlessly hoping for something to happen.

CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN

At the exact moment Jo threw the talisman at Eridu, who flinched at the sight of the missile, Evan twisted her form into her shiftself, changing from a strong if helplessly caught woman into a raging, snarling she-wolf. 

The remnants of Eridu's demon allies scattered with squeals of terror as Evan, growling and wrinkling her muzzle to show ivory fangs, leaped among them, ruff of bright orange hair standing up and sparkling with static electricity, storm gray eyes full of fury and frightening intelligence in her wolf's face. 

The talisman struck Eridu squarely in the chest and stuck there, burning and sizzling into its flesh, and it clawed at the gold medallion, screaming shrilly. A few of the demons tried to strike back at Evan, but she evaded their blows with ease, seemingly dancing in mid-air - graceful, deadly, and everywhere at once. Fangs slashing like razors, the she-wolf exacted a terrible toll... and the demon's will broke. 

The demons hastened to cast themselves back into the mirror in a panic, shoving and tumbling over one another in their hysterical zeal to quit the mortal realm and be free of the savage, unstoppable wolf who harried them as if they were helpless sheep. One by one they disappeared... leaving Eridu alone. 

Eridu, still screaming, digging its claws into its chest and gouging out chunks of flesh in its agony, staggered backwards, and its eyes lit on Jo, who lay half on, half off the sofa, breathing heavily. 

''You!'' it growled, taking hold of the bindings it still had on Jo and cruelly smothering the woman's will, using its hook of dark energy to take control, ''Kill the wolf!'' 

As if in a trance, Jo's hand slid beneath the sofa, emerging with her Beretta. Beads of sweat sprang up on her forehead as the gun shakily rose, pointing straight at Evan. 

Evan shifted again, back into her skinshape, and crouched on the floor. Her eyes sought Jo's and saw the desperate plea in those blue eyes. She straightened up, standing proudly, and turned her back on her lover deliberately. 

Making a sign in the air with her right hand, Evan began chanting the Rann of Banishment and Binding. Eridu snarled at Jo, ''Kill her! Kill the wolf-woman! I command you!'' 

As the words of the Rann rang through the air, Jo struggled against the demon's grasp. In horror, she watched as her finger tightened on the trigger, and she redoubled her efforts, trying to wrench control of her body away from Eridu. Reaching deep inside herself, into some unknown well of strength, she managed to rip herself free of enough of the demon's control in order to lower the gun before it fired - right into her own leg. 

Eridu screamed again as pain shot through its own leg. In binding its essence with the mortal's, it had forgotten that whatever was done to her, it would feel as well. The gunshot would was incredibly painful, magnified twice over because of the link. 

Evan continued chanting, swirling sparks of magic coalescing around Eridu and settling into seven coils of blue-white energy that seared the demon's flesh, making the smell of burning meat fill the apartment. 

Jo fired the gun again, once more into her own leg, making Eridu howl in agony. Between the pain of its wounds, the wolf-woman's binding ritual, the hated purity of white magic that choked it, and the desertion of its fellows... it gave up. 

Releasing its hold on Jo completely, Eridu fled, still howling, tail tucked between its legs, back through the mirror - which pulsated, surface rippling and heaving, before shattering into a thousand silvery fragments with a sound like a crystalline bell. 

Evan drew a deep breath. ''It's gone, completely banished and bound back into Hell.'' 

Despite the pain in her leg, Jo gave her lover a shaky grin and replied, ''Yeah. This house is clean,'' in her best Zelda Rubenstein imitation. 

There was a long moment of silence... and then the ruined apartment rang with the sound of both women's laughter. 

Jo flopped down on Evan's bed with a grunt, grunting again when Evan fell half on top of her. Her arm encircled the smaller woman's shoulders, pulling her closer, and Jo heaved a sigh. 

''I'm beat,'' Jo muttered. ''Friggin' exhausted. You?'' 

Evan whispered, ''Yes.'' She had expended more magic healing Jo's bullet wounds and making certain she was fully cleansed of Eridu's influence. Now Jo's aura sparkled in shades of topaz, sapphire and ruby, just as it should. But if one looked closely, and Evan had, there could be detected the faintest line of shimmering blue-white - the color of magic. 

In Druid terms, Jo would now be considered an acolyte priestess, Evan thought. But I think I'll wait a while before tellin' her.

Evan snuggled her face into Jo's shoulder, her arm wrapping over the other woman's waist. ''Let's just lay here a little while, dearheart, and rest.'' 

Jo yawned. ''Sounds like a plan to me... love,'' she added hesitantly, and was rewarded for her bravery by Evan's soft kiss against her arm, and Evan's voice saying, ''Good night, love. Sleep well.'' 

''You, too.'' 

Her lady cuddled sweet and warm in her arms, the assurance of love given and received and returned bringing a glow to her heart, Jo closed her eyes and fell asleep, a tiny, contented smile curving her lips. 

And in Hell, the remnants of what had once been the demon Eridu quivered once... and then were still. 

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

by Nene Adams ©1998 - All rights reserved

This story contains graphic violence, adult language/situations, and the graphic depiction of a romantic relationship between two mature, adult women. Reader discretion is advised. No reproduction or duplication, electronic or otherwise, is permitted without the express, written permission of the author.

CHAPTER ONE

Evan dreamed...

They had come from all over Eire, converging at this one sacred spot - a clearing within the deepest forest, dominated by the Grandsire Oak - a tree of unimaginable age whose trunk was so thick that ten men could not span it hand-to-hand.

In the center of the glade crouched the Holystone, a large, irregularly shaped flat rock with a small depression about three-quarters of the way along its rough table surface. This depression was black, in stark contrast with the whiteness of the stone surrounding it; here for generations, Druids had made a blood sacrifice to Kernossus and the other Tuatha De Danaan. So much blood had the rock absorbed through time that the shallow bowl was always wet and slick.

Torches had been lit and thrust into the ground; a bonfire of the three sacred woods - rowan, oak and ash - cast brilliant sparks into the still night air. As the more than three hundred men and women gathered in the glade that night stood and waited, a figure stepped out from beneath the trees.

He was Cathbadh, Chief Druid of Eire, known as the mac Seinghesa, or 'son of wisdom.'

''Let the sacrifice come forward,'' he said in a deep, sonorous voice. Cathbadh was ancient, with a thin silver beard that fell in rippling waves beyond his waist, and white hair that curled down his back. He wore a simple deerskin loincloth wrapped around his scrawny hips, and every inch of his loose and wrinkly skin was decorated in abstract swirls of faded woad tattoos.

A pair of deer antlers reared up from his brow, held in place by a band tied around his forehead. His pale blue eyes, peering out from a nest of wrinkles, searched the crowd.

A young woman stepped away from the waiting Druids. Brilliant orange hair, bound into dozens of skinny braids, was held off her face by a twist of cloth; like the others, she was clad only in a homespun robe. ''I am here,'' Eiobhan Reille said simply. ''I am willing.''

At Cathbadh's nod, a pair of Druids stripped Eiobhan of her robe and the young woman stood proudly, naked skin burnished with a golden glow from the fires. She had many tattoos, as did most of the Celts; but on her back she bore the artwork of Fiachu Mar the Blind, chief woad artist in Eire; a man of sheer supernatural talent who had been born sightless in this world, but with vision firmly fixed in the Other.

A Druid himself, Fiachu was a banfaith or seer; it was said that with one look of his blind eyes, he could discern the shape of a man's soul and etch it upon his flesh. The snow-and-moon landscape on Eiobhan's back seemed to twist back on itself, changing into a wolf with wise eyes staring out at the world; the tattoo had been done in a ritual lasting a full thirty days and nights. Upon completing it, Fiachu had laid aside his inkbowl and bone needles, drawn a final, weary breath... and died, having poured the remainder of his life and talent into his greatest work.

Eiobhan shook back her braids and stepped up beside Cathbadh. She was young, just barely in her twenties, but already her skin bore the scars of battle. She was thickly muscled and powerfully built, though shorter than the average woman. Her smoke gray eyes were clear and bright as she waited for the ancient Druid to begin the ritual.

Cathbadh chaunted a blessing, answered by the flashing gleam of several hundred sickle knives raised in answer, held high to the moon. Without being told, Eiobhan got up on the Holystone and lay on her back, her head in the depression. The coppery reek of old blood made her nose twitch; but other than that, she remained calm and quiet. The night air's chill made her flesh rise up in gooseknots.

''I invoke the land of Eire,'' Cathbadh said, his words rolling over the crowd like water rushing over riverstones, growing louder and more powerful until by the end, his voice shook the very trees:

''Deepest in the hill-top well;
A well of tribes, sons of Mil of the ships,
Like a lofty ship is the land of Eire,
O, lofty land sung with incantations of great cunning.
Falias, Gorias, Finias and Murias,
the cities of the Tuatha De Danaan;
Yield up your golden treasures, your silver and bronze;
Safe haven we do create -
A cauldron of light,
A vessel of rebirth,
A darkling womb of rest and sleep
Until the crannith tirr be not lit in summoning,
Until the Son of Sacrifice be withdrawn,
Until the treasures of Eire can be returned yet again to the world.''

The Druids began forming a line, holding their curve bladed sickle knives, each one crowned with mistletoe. Off to one side, two anruth stood in the memory trance, tuigen mantles of bird's feathers drawn about the poets' shoulders as they recorded, with trained memory, the events that were taking place.

Cathbadh, sweat pouring off his lean frame, threw out his arms as if to embrace the world and began chanting the Ranns of Unframing and Grasping the Tide, simultaneously reaching with his trained will to harness the mighty forces of magic that were being concentrated in the glade.

Even the least sensitive of them could sense it; the old man's struggle with titanic forces that slowly and surely bent to his hand. To the Othersight, Cathbadh began to glow a brilliant blue-white, brighter and brighter, until he seemed like a captured star, fallen from the firmament to lie in blazing splendor upon the earth.

Through it all, Eiobhan remained still, eyes closed, preparing herself for what she knew was to come. One by one, the other Druids there would make a blood sacrifice while Cathbadh used magic to open the way for the impossible. Each man and woman there would, in the act of giving blood, be ''donating'' a certain number of the remaining years of their lives. These would be added to Eiobhan's own span of time, giving her in essence a virtual immortality.

It was a mighty sacrifice, as no man knew how many years the gods had granted him; and many would die that night, particularly the older ones who, having passed their wisdom down to many, had chosen to give up their lives entirely to this most sacred cause. For it was the intention of every Druid there to create a haven for the Celtic gods, who would be driven out of Ireland by the coming of the Christus - the Sacrificed One. And Eiobhan was to be that vessel.

When Cathbadh, blazing like a comet, laid a hand on Eiobhan's brow, and when the first Druid sliced across his wrist, his warm blood splattering on the young woman's face... she arched her back and screamed.

CHAPTER TWO

Evan woke up, eyes popping open to stare wildly into the dark, her heart hammering in her chest.

The light clicked on and she blinked rapidly, struggling to pull her mind away from those images of another time and place, away from the agony and ecstasy and soul-wrenching madness of that night so long ago.

Beside her, a voice murmured sleepily, ''Hey, baby... you okay?'' When Evan didn't answer, Jo sat up, sheets sliding away from her torso. ''Ev... you okay? What's the matter?''

Evan rolled over, pulling the sheets with her, and mumbled, ''He died...''

''Who? Who died? Jeez, Ev, you having that damned dream again?'' Jo scrubbed a hand through her short platinum blonde hair and waited, looking down at Evan's back, blue eyes filled with concern.

Silence stretched... then Evan replied, ''Aye.'' Although her tone was normal, her shoulders were wire taut with tension..

With a sigh, Jo lay back down, fitting herself against the other woman's body, sliding an arm under Evan's neck and putting her other arm over Evan's waist. ''Shit. You wanna talk about it?''

''No.'' Evan ignored the soft breasts she could feel pressed against her, the strength of Jo's arms and the whispered breath that tickled the side of her throat. ''I'll live, colleen. T'was but a dream.''

Jo kissed Evan's ear. ''You been having that nightmare for... what? Two months now? Regular as friggin' clockwork. Baby... maybe you oughta talk to somebody about it. You know... a professional or something.''

Evan gave a short bark of laughter that had no merriment in it at all. ''Aye, I suppose I could just go to a therapist and say, 'Excuse me, but I'm havin' dreams of when I lived two thousand years ago...' No, Jo. I can't. I just need... I need some time to think things through.''

''Mmph.'' Jo buried her face in Evan's thick, flamboyantly orange hair. ''I'll listen, if you want to tell me.''

''Maybe another time.'' Evan stiffened when the phone rang; Jo muttered a curse and answered it, rolling away to reach for the cordless with a long arm. ''Yeah? Another one? Shit! Yeah, I'm on my way. No, goddammit! I'll get there! Uh-huh... right. Thanks, McTierney. I owe ya one.''

Jo sat up again, rubbing her eye with one knuckle. ''Ev... we gotta go, baby. The cops just found number two.''

Evan slid out of bed and began twisting up her hair. ''Same as the other one?,'' she asked as she padded to the bathroom.

''Yep. Same mutilations to chest, face and groin. They found him in damn near the same place, too - the warehouse district in the Chinese quarter, close by an illegal mah-jongg parlor and fancy girl house owned by Momma Fat.'' Jo began pulling on a pair of worn out jeans. ''McTierney's gonna meet us at the police line and let us through.''

Evan emerged from the bathroom and swiftly pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of black denim leggings. Her hair was secured in a loose French twist at the back of her head, and wisps had already come down, framing her face. ''Should I bring anythin' besides the usual?''

Jo leaned down and kissed Evan lightly on the lips. ''Just your sweet little self, Ev.'' They'd been living together for six months now; every day, Jo became more and more convinced that the smaller woman - despite her years, magical talents and wolfish alter ego - was her true soulmate. It was the first time Jo had been in love, real love; and she relished every moment of it.

Evan hugged Jo. ''Just let me grab my bag and we'll go,'' she said softly. She was aware how Jo felt but her own feelings were mixed at best. Oh, I love her all right, Evan thought. But, is it fair to her? Can I truly, bein' what I am, give her enough?

She shook her head, pushing those thoughts aside for the moment as Jo pulled on her worn leather jacket and jingled the keys in the pocket impatiently. ''C'mon, Ev, whatcha waiting for? An engraved invitation? Haul ass, woman! We got us a hot body that ain't gonna hang out forever.''

Even smiled to herself as she hastily snatched up an old, battered doctor's bag she used to store magical supplies - her travel kit, she called it - then joined her lover. ''Let's go,'' she said. ''Are we takin' the Lincoln?''

''Naw. Today we ride in style.'' Jo flashed Evan a grin.

''Oh, Kernossus! Don't tell me...''

''Yep. I'm babysitting Jim Bob's Doozy. Yee-haw!''

The two women exited, Evan muttering under her breath, ''Oh, ye gods and martyrs! Protect this faithful servant from the curse of cold iron... and Jo's everlastin' foot of lead!''

CHAPTER THREE

They pulled up to the crime scene in the souped-up Duesenberg owned by Jim Bob Matthews. The information broker had converted the old if stylish auto into a screaming purple and turquoise hot rod with tons of gleaming chrome and a supercharged and expertly ''tweaked'' customized Porsche engine that could blow away damn near anything else on the road. It was street legal - just.

Jo loved driving Doozy; Evan hated it when she did. When they finally rolled to a stop, the orange-haired woman peeled her white-knuckled fingers from the ''oh shit'' strap and said, ''That wasn't the Autobahn, you know. Was it truly necessary to go a hundred-thirty?''

Jo grinned. ''Yeah, just like it was necessary to crank it up to a hundred-seventy when that dude in the Beemer tried to pass me.'' She chuckled evilly. ''Damn, I wish I coulda seen his face!'' She climbed out of the car and went around to the passenger side, opening Evan's door and helping the shaken woman out. ''Aw, c'mon, Ev! It ain't all that often that Jim Bob goes off to Bangkok and leaves the Doozy in my - if I may say so myself - more than capable hands.''

Evan brushed a lock of orange hair from her face. ''Capable? More like homicidal! Or suicidal, I vow, the way you drive.''

Before Jo could protest, a new voice called out, interrupting their ''discussion.''

''Hey, Tate! You gonna schmooze with your girlfriend or you wanna see this stiff before the meatwagon shows up?''

Jo turned and smiled hugely. ''Bear! Damn, man, it's good to see you!'' She enveloped the enormous police officer in a hug. ''You know Ev, right?''

''We've met.'' Lt. Benjamin ''Bear'' McTierney worked homicide; he and Jo had been friends ever since they'd met four months ago while working opposite ends of a case involving a tong gang in Little Manchuria that had been smuggling both illegal aliens and Chinese vampires into the city. ''How you doing, Ms. Reilly?''

Evan raised one brow. Bear was, as his name suggested, a big, burly man gone slightly to fat upon his promotion from streetwork to desk jockey. He wore his brown hair slightly longer than regulation and pulled it back in a ponytail that emphasized his short thick neck. There was often laughter, as well as sadness, in his eloquent blue-green eyes. ''Hello, Bear,'' she replied. ''I hope you won't get into trouble over this.''

Bear scratched his beard, a monstrous thatch of fur that joined heavy sideburns and mustache, swathing his face in mink brown hair. ''Yeah, well... just don't touch anything, okay? I'd hate having to explain to the forensic guys that the beautiful fingerprints they just found belonged to my gay buddy and her gorgeous partner.'' He grinned.

''Of course.'' Evan laced her arm through Jo's. ''Shall we?,'' she said. As they approached the yellow taped perimeter, Jo said, ''So, Bear? Whatcha got so far? Any witnesses?''

Bear held up the tape to allow the two women to enter. ''Nope. Nary a one. Momma Fat's girls suddenly forgot how to speak English, and when we brought in a translator, they forgot how to speak Cantonese, too.'' He sighed, escorting them into a small alley between two brick warehouse buildings, and stopping when they reached the body.

''Peter Boswell, attorney. That's all we know so far, pending official I.D. The first man on the scene got it from his wallet, which was still in his jacket. Nothing stolen.'' Bear squatted down, his big thighs making the seams of his cheap polyester pants groan in protest. ''Somebody really did a number on this guy. We still haven't figured out the weapon that was used on the first victim, but I know it's the same killer did both. The wound patterns look the same to me, only I'm not jumping to any 'official' conclusions until after the autopsy.''

Jo nodded. Boswell's body was sprawled on the street, amid heaps of trash and vile smelling pools of dark liquids. His empty eye sockets were filled with congealed blood; his face and hands were marred with deep gouges. The front of Boswell's shirt was in tatters, a gaping hole in his chest clearly visible. Most shocking of all, the crotch of his pants had been torn away...

Bear gulped, averting his eyes. ''Yeah... nasty, huh? We haven't found it, either. Or the one that's missing on the other victim from a month ago. Or the hearts. Or the eyes.'' He rose, waving away a newbie technician who had come stumbling back from vomiting outside the lines to finish taking pictures. ''We got no leads, nothing. The FBI says it looks like we've got a serial killer on our hands, but they won't be able to do a profile or anything for at least six months. Christ!'' He tugged his beard. ''If the murderer keeps the same pattern he's started, that'll be another six victims. One every twenty-eight days.''

Evan's head came up. ''Twenty-eight days?,'' she asked. ''He's on a lunar cycle, then.''

''So far. It's still too early to come to any definite conclusions.''

Jo crouched down and examined the victim's wounds, keeping her hands ostentatiously in the pockets of her jacket.

Evan drew Bear aside. ''Why did you call Jo?,'' she asked. ''What does this have to do with...''

Bear interrupted. ''With the weird ass shit she gets involved in?'' He looked around then said softly, ''I found something on the first victim. Same thing on the second. I've been holding it back from the released reports.'' He dug into a pocket and handed Evan an envelope. ''I'd appreciate it if this goes no further than the three of us,'' he continued, nodding to Jo.

As Evan opened the envelope, Jo sauntered up and put a casual arm around the smaller woman's shoulders. ''Whatcha got there?''

Evan spilled the contents into her hand... and sucked in a breath. ''Morrighu, Badb and Nemain!''

Jo peered down... on Evan's palm nestled a claw, curving and sharp as a razor. The end was blunted, as though it had been clipped off deliberately rather than torn off accidentally. Jo looked up at Bear and raised an eyebrow. ''That's wolverkin, all right.'' She sniffed. ''Maybe there's a rogue running around...''

Evan knew there was a small community of wolverkin, or werewolves, who dwelled in the city. They lived in a compound near the stockyards; a sprawling, brawling tribe who were incestuously close and almost xenophobically fearful of outsiders. But... ''It would have to be a rogue, Jo. If the wolverkin had broken the Pact, there'd be more than one victim in the streets.''

Bear scratched his head. ''Wolverkin? Rogue? Pact?'' He looked at both women. ''Something you should tell me? Or is this one of those spooky things I really don't want to know about?''

Jo grinned. ''You don't wanna know. Leave it to me, Bear. I'll check out that angle and get back to you. In the meantime, can you forward copies of the autopsy reports to me on the sly? Not that I can read 'em, but Ev's smarter'n me; she'll figure out all that medico mumbo-jumbo.''

Bear nodded. ''Yeah, I can do that.'' A uniformed officer strolled by and when he reached the big man, whispered, ''Apache attack, watch your back.'' As he disappeared, Bear frowned. ''You gals have to scoot. Internal Affairs is on the prowl. They catch you around here and I can kiss my cheap gold retirement watch goodbye.''

''I hear ya.'' Jo hastily put the claw back in the envelope and shoved it in Bear's jacket. ''We're outta here, big guy. No worries.''

Jo led Evan away, sticking close to the wall and hiding behind the dozen or so officers who suddenly materialized in a welter of frenzied activity. Everybody wanted to look good for I.A.D. or at least, not be caught doing any less. The Commissioner was digging into the shadowy corners of the police department, determined to sweep away any slackers, troublemakers or downright corrupt officers he could find, and Internal Affairs was his broom.

When they reached the Doozy, Jo said, ''Ev? You got connections with the wolverkin?''

''A few. Why?''

'''Cause I don't really know 'em that well. Got one who could vouch for me with their alpha, the Howler, but he's honeymooning in Hawaii with his new mate.'' Jo saw Evan into the car, shut the passenger door, and walked around to climb in herself. Shoving the key into the ignition, she said, ''Home? Or Howler's place?''

Evan considered a moment. ''Howler, I think.'' She settled her doctor's bag beneath the seat; she hadn't needed it. ''If Lunabiter or Slashcatch is there, we'll be all right.''

Jo started up the Doozy, revving the powerful engine and making Evan wince. ''You got it, baby. To the Fur-Filled Mansion, and don't spare the horsepower!''

They took off with a squeal of tires on asphalt and Evan's yelp of protest floating back behind them.

CHAPTER FOUR

Lunabiter frowned. ''You say the police believe it was one of us?'' She was the dominant female of the pack; 'top bitch' as Jo would say. Luna appeared to be a wiry woman in her late thirties, dark hair streaked with broad bands of gray; eyebrows so heavy and thick they met at the bridge of her nose; and a pair of midnight black eyes.

Evan hastened to explain. ''Nay, there's a policeman who's investigatin' the murders. He found wolverkin claws on both victims and asked Jo and me to look into it because he knows Jo often investigates the unusual, but he really knows nothin' save that murder has been done.''

''We have no rogues,'' Luna replied flatly, lines at each corner of her mouth deepening. ''If we did... rest assured the unlawful one would not live to kill twice.''

Evan nodded. From everything she'd heard of wolverkin, what Lunabiter said was true. The tribes were scattered, but they all lived under one law - the Pact. One of the chief tenants was: they did not kill humans - ever - and if they had to do so for self-defense, they used mundane weapons. After the Great Slaughter by the Church in the 1400's, which decimated the wolverkin population almost to extinction, they wanted only to live quietly, drawing no attention to themselves in order to survive. Those who broke the Pact were punished swiftly and harshly; there was only one penalty, and that was instant death.

Jo leaned forward, elbows on her knees. ''So, you have no idea how a pair of wolverkin claws got on the victims? They were pretty mutilated...''

Luna slashed her hand through the air, inches from Jo's face. ''No! The Howler's tribe has NO ROGUES! None here have violated the Pact.'' Her black eyes flashed. ''None!''

Jo held up her hands. ''Okay, okay. Shit! Don't get your tail in a knot, sweetheart.'' Luna snarled, and Jo continued, ''Sorry. But you can't deny the claw I saw, and Evan saw, was wolverkin. Any idea how it could've gotten there?''

''No.'' Luna was growling softly to herself and her dark hair stirred on her shoulders, trying to rise. Wolverkin only changed into their wolf shapes for three nights out of the month - before, during and after the full moon - but even human, they retained many of the wild qualities of their alters.

''Luna, think, please.'' Evan's gray eyes locked on the werewolf's black. ''No one accuses you of anythin'. But we need your help to end this confusion.''

When Lunabiter didn't answer, Jo rose with a regretful sigh. ''C'mon, Ev. She ain't cooperating and I ain't busting my ass no more.''

Luna stirred. ''Wait, human.'' She seemed to be considering something. ''Sit.'' Jo sat back down again and Luna rose, calling over her shoulder as she left the room, ''Stay here. I'll be back.''

''Sit, stay, roll over, play dead. Goddamn if I don't feel like a friggin' trained poodle.'' Jo rubbed her chin. ''If she asks me to fetch, I'm gonna whack her on the nose with a rolled up newspaper, I swear.''

Evan chuckled and patted Jo's hand. ''Luna's an acquired taste, colleen. But she is more reasonable than most of her folk, and she's willin' to acknowledge my imaginary status and speak to us. That's more than some of the wolverkin would do.''

''Yeah... their motto's 'Bite first, ask questions later.''' Jo looked around the room. The furniture was leather, but much of it patched, torn and sagging. The floors were scuffed wood, stained with unidentifiable substances, and huge puffs of hair were gathered in every corner. ''I see the wolverkin ain't exactly the Donna Reed's of the housekeeping world,'' she said aloud.

Lunabiter came back into the room, leading Slashcatch by the hand. He was a teenager with a shock of white hair that fell over one blue eye. Luna pushed the youngster down on an ottoman that leaked stuffing, and said, ''I have only heard rumors of what my bloodchild is about to tell you. I ignored them, believing what I heard was harmless, or twisted out of all meaning. But now... I have reason to believe it is not.''

Slashcatch looked chagrined. Peering at Jo and Evan with his visible eye, he said, ''Me and some of the others... there's this shop down on 4th and Main. One of those occult deals? Anyway, the owner said he'd pay big for wolverkin claws and stuff - you know, blood, hair, urine, even...'' He gulped, clearly embarrassed. ''You know. Stuff.''

Evan's brows drew together in puzzlement, then she said in sudden comprehension, ''Oh!'' Leaning over to Jo, she whispered, ''He's too embarrassed to say, but the dealer also wished to acquire sperm.'' Jo nodded, and Slashcatch continued.

''Anyway... I mean, who's gonna give some magic practitioner blood or anything, right? We aren't stupid. But he offered to pay in cash. So, some of us cut off a couple of our claws and sold 'em. No big deal.''

Lunabiter wrinkled her nose, lifting her lips in a snarl. ''Except now, you and your packmates have foolishly endangered the tribe!'' She cuffed Slashcatch on his head with one hand, rocking him on his seat. ''Puppy! Do you know how close you came to violating the Pact? Do you want the police to hunt us down like animals? Stupid, milk-toothed, blunt clawed puppies!'' She cuffed him again.

''Take it easy, Luna!,'' Jo gritted, half-rising from her chair. Her hands were balled into fists. Evan gave her a startled look, then grabbed Jo's upper arm and squeezed warningly, shaking her head and mouthing silently, ''no.'' Jo reluctantly sat back down again, guts roiling and the taste of bile in her mouth.

Jesus Christ!, Jo thought, wiping her mouth with the back of one hand. My old man used ta do that kinda crap to me. Hitting me like that, always yelling I should take a swing, take my best shot I was so fuckin' tough, I was such a mean bitch... Hell! One and only time I did, it felt real good... right up until he got up off the floor and beat the holy shit outta me.

Lunabiter glared at Jo, then turned her black eyes back on her son. ''Did you never think, youngling, how this human knew about the wolverkin?''

''No,'' Slashcatch answered sullenly.

''We'll go have a little talk with the man,'' Evan said, rising and motioning to Jo to do the same. ''If I can, I'll retrieve the remainin' claws from him. Slash, how many did you sell?''

When the teenager didn't answer immediately, Luna cuffed the side of his head again. ''Six!,'' Slashcatch exploded, saliva spraying from his mouth, voice rising in a whine. ''Six, okay?! We only sold six!''

''That's enough.'' Jo looked at Luna with cold blue eyes. ''Don't hit the kid anymore. We're going. Evan'll bring your stuff back.'' She turned and left the room, hands jammed into her jacket pockets.

Luna ran a shaking hand through her dark hair. ''I know you're not of Fenris' Kin, Evan, but...''

Evan nodded. ''I'll do what I can.'' With a worried expression, she hastened from the room, hurrying to catch up with Jo's long legged stride.

CHAPTER FIVE

Jo was silent all the way home. It wasn't until she'd flopped down on the sofa in their apartment with a beer clenched in one fist that her taut body finally began to relax.

Evan puttered around, sensing the moment was not right; plumping pillows, watering plants, cleaning imaginary spots on the kitchen counter. She and Jo had both had to move following their confrontation with Eridu and his demonic horde six months ago. They'd gotten a place together in Bougainvillea Towers, a turn-of-the-century former hotel that had been converted into luxury apartments. A small balcony with floor-to-ceiling French doors was off the living room, and the view they had of the city at night was spectacular.

Jo took a swallow of beer and rolled the sweat-beaded bottle on her forehead. ''Shit. I'm sorry, baby. I totally lost it in there.''

Evan sat down beside Jo and laid a hand on her knee. ''It's all right, colleen. Want to talk about it?''

''Not particularly.'' Jo blew out a breath. ''Aw... crud. My old man was a real piece of work. A high story man, worked construction all his life. Big, tough son of a bitch, real mean when he got drunk. He used to knock the stuffing outta me fairly regular. Mom, too. I guess I just can't stand it when people push kids around, hit 'em and stuff.''

Evan snuggled closer to the taller woman, laying her head on Jo's shoulder. ''Slash isn't exactly your normal teenager. And wolverkin live by different laws than we do. But I can see why you'd get upset.''

''I know.'' Jo gulped the rest of her beer. ''I just got a real hot button when it comes to that. Don't take much to set it off.''

''Well... t'is all right, colleen. Luna isn't the type to take offense easily. When do you want to go look for this shop?''

Jo checked the cheap Timex knock-off strapped to her wrist. ''In about an hour, Ev. I gotta go see a man about a dog.''

Evan's eyebrows rose, but she refused to take the bait. ''Fine. We'll meet over at Babylon High about seven, hmmm?''

''Babylon High? Astarte's place? What the hell for?''

It was Evan's turn to be enigmatic. ''I want to ask a goddess about her supplicants.''

Jo checked up and down the street. For midday, it was pretty quiet downtown. Only the Dragoman Heights Building, a massive, Art Deco skyscraper that dominated the skyline, was bustling with business; the ornately Gothic fountain in Dragoman Square, with its hideous chimerae and water squirting monsters, played host to dozens of suit-clad people devouring their brown-bag lunches and chain-smoking.

The shop she stood in front of was called ''Old Curiosities.'' Behind the fly-specked glass of the window, a stuffed baboon in top hat and tails menaced a trio of blank-faced porcelain dolls. In addition, a swooping paper dragon and an open parasol of some strange matte black fabric were included in the collage. There was something about the display, something faintly menacing, that made the hairs on the back of Jo's neck rise.

Jo hadn't wanted Evan to come along; she knew the other woman would disapprove of any strong arm tactics she might have to use to get information. So, I sorta lied. Big deal. No prob. She can go doggie and chase a Frisbee in the park or something. I'll tell her all about it when we meet tonight. Besides - sometimes I miss working alone.

Jo pushed open the door, squinting to adjust her eyes to the interior gloom. Almost immediately, a raspy voice said, ''May I help you?''

The man behind the counter was inhumanly tall and skeletally lean; Jo identified him as a ghoul. His loose, blousey shirt would hide the extra elbow joint, and quick movements of his spidery fingers concealed the fact that he had six on one hand, four on the other. His hair was magenta and hung down to his shoulders in greasy strings.

The man's eyes were hidden behind round lenses of smoked glass. He smiled, careful not to show the sharp points of his teeth. ''Miss? Are you looking for something in particular or just browsing?''

''Actually, I'm wondering about something.'' Jo leaned casually against the waist-high counter, putting an elbow on its scarred oak surface. ''What's a nice ghoul like you doing in a place like this?''

The man drew back and hissed, and Jo chuckled. ''Aw, c'mon! The pun wasn't that bad!''

''What... what do you want?'' The ghoul eyed the platinum blonde woman with concern. ''Money? I don't have much...''

''I ain't interested in money. I'm interested in information.'' Jo squeezed her eyes into slits. ''Let's exchange names, dude. I like to be on a friendly basis with the people I deal with.''

The ghoul hesitated. Among its kind, to exchange names with another was tantamount to trusting the other person with one's soul.

Jo reached into the inner pocket of her beat-up leather jacket and produced a crumpled business card. Laying the card on the countertop, she slid it to the ghoul with one finger.

Silently, it picked up the card and scanned it. Then, it nodded, licking its lips with a long, purplish tongue. ''K'klitni,'' the ghoul said, giving Jo his name. ''How did you get my pater familias' name?''

Jo plucked the card from K'klitni's hand. ''Jo Tate. I did your daddy a favor once. Now, I wanna know how come you're buying up so much wolverkin stuff. Word is, it's a hot commodity and a seller's market. 'Fess up, K'klitni. Whatcha doing with that stuff?''

The ghoul toyed with a lock of its oily magenta hair. ''I have clients who want special things sometimes.''

''And one of your clients wanted wolverkin artifacts? Name?'' Jo smiled, leaning closer to K'klitni, who backed away a pace.

''The name he gave me was an obvious fake. You still want it?'' When Jo nodded, the ghoul continued, ''Albert Mage. And the address is just a drop-off on Kirlian Avenue.''

''So how many claws did you sell him?''

''Six. All I got. He wanted other things, too, but... I was unsuccessful in acquiring them.'' The ghoul drew off its glasses; its eyes were chartreuse and pupilless. ''He paid well.''

''How much?''

''Several hundred pounds of food. Medical waste, by the look of it.''

Jo suppressed a shudder. Ghouls exclusively ate human flesh; in the old days, they'd lived in graveyards, catacombs and tombs, devouring the dead. Now, they usually got themselves into positions where they could, in a quasi-legal sense, feed themselves and their families without unwanted attention.

''Mmmm... sounds finger-lickin' good. Listen, K'klitni - this Mage dude comes around again, I want you to give me a buzz, okay? Do this for me, and I'll see what I can do about an arrangement with the coroner's office.''

K'klitni's eyes glowed brighter and it licked its lips again. ''Yes. You have a deal.'' Jo handed the ghoul one of her own business cards, and left the shop, letting the door bang closed behind her.

Once out on the street, she drew in a deep breath and began walking south, back towards the Doozy she'd left parked in the city garage.

CHAPTER SIX

Babylon High was a nightclub with a guilty secret - a constant stream of beautiful women who came and went, chauffeured in limousines to five-star hotels to grace the bedrooms of high level executives, wealthy industrialists, and, frankly, anybody who could afford their specialized services.

The club was run by Astarte, the Babylonian goddess of love and sex; her call girls were sacred prostitutes transplanted to a much different place and time, although their worshipful mission was the same - generate sexual energy to please Astarte, who fed on the ''sacrifices.''

''A sex goddess in a Puritan society who camouflages her worship behind the mask of illegal prostitution. She's a smart one, Astarte,'' Evan said.

Jo nodded, replying, ''Whatever,'' and took another sip of her astonishingly expensive beer. ''Bet she ain't hurting for cash, either.''

The two women sat at a tiny table in the neon-lit interior of the club. A stage featured three gyrating dancers who wore masks and nothing else. From the ceiling swung gilded cages, where other women, and those who appeared to be women but were not, performed explicit sex acts.

Jo watched the stage. She'd never been to Babylon High but she'd heard about it. When two of the women began licking and caressing the third, she turned to Evan and muttered, ''Maybe I should take notes. Or pictures, huh?'' Evan grinned in response.

Their server, an androgynous figure wearing a bright red tuxedo, returned to their table. ''Ms. Ishtar will see you now,'' he/she said in a fluting voice. The server's eyes were outlined heavily in kohl, and his/her lips parted in a slight, condescending smile.

Jo tossed a ten dollar bill on the table and grabbed her beer bottle. She and Evan threaded their way through the banks of tables and across the dance floor, where couples danced to the heavy industrialized beat of the wildly popular underground band, Winchester Goose.

When they reached the backstage area, Jo dug a finger into her ringing ear. ''What the heck kinda band name's that, anyhow?,'' she asked Evan. ''I mean, even Strawberry Alarm Clock's name had a sorta rhythm to it, even if didn't make any sense.''

Evan grimaced. ''It's an Elizabethan euphemism. A winchester goose is a swellin' in the groin caused by venereal disease.'' She pushed her way past a troupe of sweaty, spangled dancers.

''Oh? So now they're not only a crummy, loud band, they're a crummy, loud band with really gross pretensions? Jeez...'' Jo shook her head. ''Just gimme Molly Hatchet or Led Zeppelin anytime.'' She grinned when Evan made a face of mock disgust.

They arrived at a door guarded by two extremely large men, both black, both armed to the teeth. Jo waggled her fingers at one and said, ''Hi, guys. Jo Tate and Evan Reilly. We gotta invitation from the big, bad momma herself, so open sesame.''

The man glared and folded his massive arms across his chest. ''Nobody allowed,'' he said in an unfriendly tone. ''Ms. Ishtar's not to be disturbed.''

Evan pushed back a stray lock of orange hair. ''Listen, gentlemen. Astarte's waitin' for us and it's not a good idea to keep her waitin', if you know what I mean. Why don't you just ask if she's expectin' us?''

The other guard leaned down until his face was inches away from Evan's. ''Maybe you don't hear so good. Beat it, slitch, and take your white trash girlfriend with you.'' He poked Evan in the chest hard with a thick finger, almost making her lose her balance.

The shattering of glass was shocking as Jo smashed her beer bottle against the man's head, sending him staggering back with a heavily bleeding cut over one eye, and then menaced the other with the broken neck. ''Listen up, goddammit!'' she snarled, blue eyes glowing with fury. ''Nobody touches her! NOBODY! Now get that fuckin' door open or I swear to God I'm gonna do somebody, right here, right freakin' now!''

The uninjured guard was swinging up the sawed off shotgun he carried on a strap over his shoulder, and Evan hastily snarled the Rann of Morfessa, casting up one hand to catch a swirling, glowing sphere of fire in her palm and sending it hurtling towards the guard.

The fireball burst against the shotgun and the metal barrel immediately glowed red hot and began to melt. With a screech, the guard pulled the strap over his head and let the ruined firearm fall to the floor, where it turned into a molten puddle in seconds, leaving only a scorched stock behind.

The other man, blinking blood out of his eyes, was in the act of reaching for his own gun when the door abruptly opened.

''What is going on here?'' a woman's voice said.

''You said you didn't want to be disturbed, Ms. Ishtar,'' the first guard said, dancing away from the smoking metallic puddle that threatened his shoes.

''Idiots!'' The woman called Ms. Ishtar, seen only as a silhouette, seemed to shrug her shoulders. ''I told Hari I was expecting visitors.'' The two guards looked at one another, then back to their employer. ''Ah, well... I will deal with Hari later. Ladies, please, come inside.'' Ms. Ishtar moved away from the door.

Jo let the jagged bottle neck drop from her hand and straightened her leather jacket. As she walked past the bleeding guard, she said, ''Better put some ice on that, shithead. And next time you manhandle somebody's girlfriend, better make sure they ain't tougher'n you coupla pussies.''

Evan merely gave the other man a look from her stormy gray eyes that made beads of sweat break out on his brow, then she swept inside the room on Jo's heels.

The door closed behind them. The room was opulently furnished, the floor a tiled mosaic that depicted sex acts of every variation, even some that were mindboggling. Jo's brows rose as she contemplated one scene; she finally nudged Evan and whispered, ''You think that's two guys and an octopus, or three women and a she-male contortionist?'' Evan didn't reply.

Ms. Ishtar, or Astarte, motioned the women to sit down on a curved sofa covered in sable throws. ''Refreshments?'' she asked.

As Astarte busied herself at the bar, Jo studied the goddess. She was tall, well over six feet, but lushly proportioned. Her hair was auburn, eyes golden brown, and her skin the shade of clover honey. She was also unbelievably, even inhumanly beautiful; the sheer perfection of her features would have caused Helen of Troy to gnash her teeth in envy.

Astarte walked across the floor carrying a tray, stiletto heels clicking on the tiles. ''I apologize for my associates. They are often overly fierce in their protection of me.'' She shook her head and smiled, revealing even white teeth. ''I am grateful that you did not annihilate them, Gifted One.''

Evan replied coolly, ''I didn't think it necessary to do more than warn.'' She accepted a glass of Scotch and took a sip, then her eyebrows rose in appreciation.

Astarte chuckled. ''I've had that blend laid aside for a century or so.'' She handed Jo a glass of beer, then sat down opposite them in an overstuffed chair, crossing her legs and making her scarlet miniskirt ride up, showing an expanse of smooth, golden flesh. ''Now... what can I do for you, ladies? Your note was a little unclear, Gifted One, if intriguing.''

It was Evan's turn to chuckle. ''Aye, I thought that would get your attention.'' The note the Celtic woman had sent had merely read, It's eight o'clock... do you know where your priests are?

Evan continued, ''There've been a pair of murders. Both men, and both had their genitalia removed, among other things. Would you know anythin' about that?''

Astarte shook her head. ''My cult does not deal in murder, Gifted One. Unlike some other gods, the sacrifice of human life is not pleasing to me. True, some of my male priests, like Hari, have voluntarily chosen to castrate themselves in the Ultimate Sacrifice, so I see why you'd at least suspect there was a connection. However, Cybele's priests were exclusively eunuchs; why not go question Her?'' The goddess smirked, knowing her rival Cybele's worship, and that deity, had died out centuries ago.

Evan ignored Astarte's spiteful dig. ''Do you know of any reason why wolverkin claws would be found on the bodies? T'was not the wolverkin who committed the murders; this much we know.''

''I would say...,'' Astarte began delicately, then stopped. ''Hmmm... have you considered it was a ruse? To make you suspect the wolverkin?''

''Naw. Wouldn't cut no ice with the police.'' Jo stretched out her legs, nursing the beer. ''They don't even know about wolverkin, not really. And the claw from an animal - I mean, only a complete friggin' moron would think the cops'd fall for a thing like that. Identical mutilations on both bodies? No animal does that.''

Astarte smiled again. ''It seems as if you have a mystery on your hands. I wish you luck in solving it.'' This was clearly a dismissal, but Evan refused to take the hint.

''Does the fact that both men visited prostitutes before their deaths mean anythin' to you?,'' she asked. Jo was startled by this new information but quickly pulled on a nonchalant facade.

The beautiful goddess frowned. ''I... It was not any of my priestesses, I assure you.''

''No. It wasn't.'' Evan rose. ''My thanks for your time, Astarte,'' she said, taking Jo's arm and leading her to the door.

After they had gone, Astarte got up, crossing the room to her desk, then dialed a number on her telephone. ''Hello?'' she said, lips curving into a seductive smile. ''Armand? I have a job for you...''

CHAPTER SEVEN

They arrived back home, stopping to pick up ribs from a barbeque joint near their building.

Once inside, Jo eagerly tore into the greasy ribs, muttering through a big mouthful, ''Mmmph. I almost forgot. Got something for you today.'' She wiped her hands on a napkin, then reached into a pocket of her jeans, pulling out a small, flat box.

''What is it?'' Evan asked, laying down a french fry and taking the box.

''Aw, jeez. Just open it, willya?'' Jo gnawed another hunk of meat off a rib, ignoring the sauce smeared on her face.

Evan flipped back the lid of the box... and caught her breath. Inside, nestled in white velvet, was a bracelet. ''Oh, Jo! It's beautiful!'' She took it out and held it up to the light, admiring. Each link in the bracelet was fashioned into the shape of a gold running wolf alternating with platinum quarter moons. ''Where did you...?''

Jo wiped her mouth. ''I was downtown this afternoon, had some time to kill, and I saw that in this antique shop window. I hadda get it for you... I figured it was fate or something.''

Jo's words registered and Evan narrowed her eyes. ''Downtown? You were downtown today?''

''Uh, yeah.'' Jo suddenly realized she'd made a mistake. Sortof. ''Shit.'' She ran both hands through her platinum hair, forgetting she had barbeque sauce on her fingers. ''Well... okay, I fucked up, I guess. I found the shop Slashcatch was talking about and talked to the owner. A ghoul, if you can believe that. Told a great story about a client who asked him to get the claws, and took delivery at a mail drop. I checked that out, too. Run by this Ukrainian dude whose name has about a hundred consonants to one vowel. Nearly tied my tongue in a knot questioning him.''

''Oh?'' Evan pursed her lips. ''Any reason why you didn't see fit to invite me along on your little jaunt?''

''Honest, baby. I didn't mean nothing by it. I just... well, sometimes I work better alone. That's all.'' Jo leaned an elbow on the table. ''Are we gonna have an argument about it now?,'' she asked mournfully.

Evan looked at Jo's barbeque-sauce-laced hair, and the splatters of grease and sauce on her face, hands and shirtfront. ''No. But I think next time, you could at least tell me what's goin' on.'' Her feelings were hurt, but she decided to let it pass - this time.

Jo sighed. ''I'm sorry. I'm a major screw-up. I don't know why you put up with me.''

''Because I love you, that's why.'' Evan leaned over and delicately licked a smear of sauce from Jo's face. ''I think I'd like to finish my dinner in the bedroom,'' she said pointedly.

Jo brightened. ''Yeah... sounds like a plan to me.'' She stood up, wiping her hands on the legs of her jeans. ''I'm looking forward to dessert, myself.'' She winked at Evan, who replied, ''You'd better wash your hair first, colleen. I'm not wantin' to get a hairball lickin' that mess clean.''

Jo touched her hair, winced, and said, ''Oh, shit!'' before heading for the bathroom, muttering curses under her breath.

As the sound of running water came from the bathroom, Evan giggled... then went to join her lover.

Across the city, in the ruins of what had once been the Gralloch Music Conservatory, a man sat on the marble floor, smothered in heavy robes, breathing the incense fumes that swirled in graceful patterns around his head.

Berresford Ellis was a sensualist; he'd criss-crossed the globe in his endless search for new experiences, new heights of ecstasy. Having inherited a fortune from his oil baron father, he'd been able to completely indulge his sexual appetite, but as time had passed, he'd grown jaded and dissatisfied, needing more and more stimulation to excite his dampened senses.

Then he'd discovered magic.

On the floor in front of him was an ebony cane, the carved silver knob set with a huge smoky garnet. In the depths of the jewel could be discerned a flickering, undulating shape; Ellis held both hands over the stone and recited an incantation in a harsh, unmusical tongue.

A hazy form appeared in front of him, then rapidly coalesced into the shape of a woman. She was completely nude, with long brown hair foaming down to the floor and a necklace of human teeth that hung around her impossibly tiny waist. The woman was incredibly beautiful, except that her eyes were scarlet, like an albino's; and from the knees down, she had feathers and scaly feet like a bird's.

''You summoned me, master?'' the apparition said. Her voice had oddly deep undertones to it, like a man's groan.

''Karcis, I need you tonight.'' Ellis licked his lips. ''You promised.''

The succubus Karcis parted her gleaming lips in a silent laugh. ''I require another sacrifice to manifest myself in your world again, O master,'' she said. ''Let my servants free again this night and you shall have all that you desire.''

''You said the last one would break Paracelsus' binding,'' Ellis replied sullenly. ''I don't like this.''

Karcis stepped forward and laid a cool hand on Ellis' face. ''The old mage is stronger than I thought,'' she said. ''Another mortal life, and we will be together forever.'' When Ellis frowned, she continued, ''Just you and I - a paradise of endless delights, all for your pleasure alone. Only I can satisfy you,'' she said seductively, leaning down to flick her overly long tongue against the man's ear. ''Let me be free... help me...''

Ellis' hands came up to touch Karcis' heavy breasts and the succubus moved back, out of his reach. ''When the next mortal life is given to me, I will come to you in all my power,'' she said, and vanished.

Ellis gritted his teeth and cursed. Even the light touch she had given him was enough to make his manhood throb. The succubus was unlike any other woman he'd ever had... she was a glorious banquet of sexual delight, far more imaginative and uninhibited than any human female. He had to have her... no matter the cost.

With a sigh, Ellis got up and went to a large wooden cabinet that stood in one corner of the room.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Oh, God, that feels good...,'' Jo moaned, tossing her head from side to side. She lay on her back, knees up and thighs wide apart, both hands buried in Evan's wild orange hair.

Evan lapped at Jo's sex, wriggling her tongue against the other woman's hard clit, two fingers deep inside her thrusting hard and fast. When Jo moaned again and started to tremble, she pulled her fingers out and sat up, grabbing a pillow and sliding it under platinum blonde's ass.

Jo spread her thighs even wider apart as Evan mounted her, lowering her own sopping pussy to brush against Jo's tight curls. Evan braced herself on both hands with a sigh of pure pleasure.

Jo gasped, then reached down and pulled apart the lips of her vulva, feeling Evan do the same to herself with her free hand. Evan squatted down further and began to pump her hips up and down, around and around, sliding wet flesh against flesh, rubbing their clits together, hot juices mingling. Releasing Jo's nipple, Evan panted, ''Okay for you?''

Jo groaned, ''Yeah... oh, yeah, maybe up a little, right there!'' and put both hands on Evan's ass and squeezed, grinding her pussy into the other woman's with quick movements of her hips. ''Mmmm... fuck me...'' Both feet were in the air, bobbing in time to her lover's rhythm.

Evan panted, muscles in her back and shoulders shifting as she rode Jo hard, making her ass bounce against the bed. ''Shit,'' Jo gritted, and her hands clenched on Evan's ass harder, hips working and rolling in waves.

She was almost there. Evan mashed her pussy down harder, pumping faster, screwing her clit around in Jo's heated slickness, sweat pouring off her face and down her tattooed back, gray eyes narrowed. Then, with a yelp, she came, hips shuddering convulsively, barely registering Jo's full-throated scream, ''FUUUUUCK!'' as she, too, started quivering in orgasm.

After a long, timeless moment, the heart-stopping pleasure eased, and Evan collapsed on top of Jo, gasping for breath. Jo panted, eyes closed, but her hands came up to smooth her lover's long, sweat soaked hair. ''God... I needed that,'' the platinum blonde said. ''Have I told you lately how much I love you?''

Evan smiled against Jo's throat, her pulse beginning to return to normal. ''You only want me for my body,'' she replied teasingly.

Jo relaxed slowly with a sigh. ''Yeah... and what a body!''

Evan chuckled and rolled off the other woman, nestling against her side. ''Next time, you get on top,'' she said.

''Lazy...'' Jo turned over so that she was face to face with Evan and hooked one long leg over hers, drawing their bodies closer. ''I think I'm gonna get a new tat,'' she said. ''Whaddya think about doing one around my navel?''

''Protect the seat of life? I'll make a design for Bald Henry to copy,'' Evan replied, snuggling her head under Jo's chin and putting an arm over her waist. ''I'll get to work on it after this murder business is finished.''

Jo ran one finger over the armband tattoo on Evan's tricep, tracing the pattern of interlocking lines that formed a complex grid of dark blue. ''I still can't get over this artwork. It's just so, well, cool!''

''T'wasn't cool at the time. We tattooed ourselves not just for decoration.'' Evan held up her hand. A circular design had been etched on the webbing between thumb and forefinger. ''This was my clan mark,'' she said, eyes growing darker with remembered pain. ''I got it when I was eleven, after I'd killed my first man.''

Jo gulped, eyes widening. ''Holy shit! You killed a guy when you were only eleven?''

''Yes.'' Although their bodies were still close, Evan seemed to retreat inwardly. ''He was a raider, a Saxon from the north. They came in their dragon boats, burnin' and lootin' all along the coast; they left nothin' but death and fire in their wake.'' She sighed. ''I didn't find out about my shiftself until after I started the moon bleedin' when I was thirteen. And I hadn't been given to the Druids yet for trainin'. So...'' She stopped, hesitating.

''Yeah? And? C'mon, Ev. Tell me. I wanna know.'' Jo prodded.

Evan took a deep breath. ''And I stuck a wooden knittin' needle in his eye when he was rapin' me... then, when he was blinded and screamin', I ripped out his throat with a broken piece of board. T'was hard, you know,'' she continued dreamily, ''but I was pretty strong, even so young.''

Jo shuddered in sympathy, then pressed her warm body against Evan's suddenly chilled one, hugging her close. ''Jesus... I'm sorry, baby.''

Evan hadn't finished yet. ''After he was dead, I left the hut. I was covered in blood - his, my own, my older sister's... she died, colleen, tryin' to keep the raider off me. When I got outside, it was chaos. Fire everywhere, folks screamin', the dead piled about, and those motherless bastard's laughin' and tossin' more torches, and pullin' up their britches after rapin' the women.

''I was so angry. I've never been that angry in my life. I stood there, on the shore, listenin' to the groanin' and cries for help from the wounded - some of them my own blood kin - and I wanted so very, very desperately to kill them all, destroy every one of the raiders. That... that rage built up inside me until I thought I would explode into a thousand pieces. And that's when it happened.''

Evan fell silent, lips pressed together. Jo rubbed her back and said, ''What happened, Ev? What did you do?''

Evan sighed, and a tear slipped down her cheek. ''I did. I killed them. Have I not told you before that I had a talent for the magic? Well, that day I found it. I reached out in a way I'd never done before, just reached out and grabbed the power - it was like ridin' the lightnin'; like dancin' in a bonfire; and one by one, the raiders began to die.

''They collapsed, just fell like poleaxed oxen. I found out later that their hearts had burst within their chests, their blood dried and baked to a powder within their veins by the heat of my anger. T'was not till days later, when the Chief Druid of Eire, Cathbadh, came himself to see me, that I learned what I'd done. I went to live with the Druids, then; I had precious little family left, and precious little to lose.''

Jo kissed her forehead. ''Jesus. I'm so sorry, baby.'' Her blue eyes gazed into Evan's. ''You... hell, you survived, right? You're here, here with me, and I'm gonna protect you and love you as long as you'll let me.''

Evan smiled faintly and reached out to touch Jo's cheek. ''Aye. You are here, colleen. And I love you for it.'' They kissed... and the phone rang, startling both of them.

''Aw, shit!'' Jo spat. ''Just ignore it, Ev. Let the machine pick it up.''

''Answer it.'' Evan's gray eyes took on a distant expression. ''T'is important.''

Groaning, Jo rolled over on her stomach and grabbed the phone. ''Yeah? This better be pretty fuckin' important... no shit!'' With a convulsive heave, she sat up, running a hand through her hair and making it stand up in a quiff. ''Okay. Yeah, I said okay, goddammit! Gimme ten minutes.'' She slammed the phone down on the nightstand, braced her elbows on her knees and covered her eyes with both hands.

''What is it?,'' Evan asked.

''It's Bear. He's dead. GodDAMMIT!'' Jo punched her fist into the wall above the headboard.

Silently, Evan got up and began to get dressed.

CHAPTER NINE

Detective Hammond ''Piglet'' Russell was waiting outside the all night coffee shop on Preservation Parkway. A small, compact man with a neat blonde goatee and green eyes, he had been Bear McTierney's best friend. 

The Duesenberg hot rod squealed up into the nearly deserted parking lot, back fender bumping against the street and striking sparks. Russell sipped his steaming latte and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. 

Jo wrenched the door open as soon as the car came to a halt and scrambled out, Evan following her at a slower pace. ''What happened?'' the platinum blonde asked. She wore a pair of shredded jeans and a man's sleeveless undershirt that was on backwards and inside-out. 

Russell waited until Evan joined them, then said, ''Good ta see ya, ladies. How ya'll this evenin'?'' His exquisite manners and soft southern accent had targeted him for a lot of ribbing when he'd first joined the force, but after taking a bullet to protect his partner in a firefight during the Republic Bank stand-off, he'd earned a reputation for bravery and a great deal of respect. 

''Shit, Piglet! I ain't here for a friggin' lesson in Emily Post!'' Jo glared at the smaller man. ''What the fuck happened to Bear?!'' 

Russell took another sip of his latte. ''C'mon inside, we'll talk about it over some caw-fee, don't stand here in the chilly air.'' He pronounced it, ''a-yuh.'' He led the two women inside the coffee shop to a private booth and quietly ordered drinks from the weary-looking waitress. 

By the time their coffee arrived, Jo was jiggling in her seat, on the verge of exploding with frustration. She ignored the mug in front of her. ''Now... I want some answers, goddammit! Give!'' 

Russell's green eyes were sad. ''Ah got the news over the radio 'bout nine o'clock this evenin'. Bear was found outside his apartment buildin' by a lady jogger. He'd been kilt same as the other two... eyes, heart and penis gone. Been dead sev'ral hours. Funny thing is, we didn't find no more claws. Just the original two. Bear'd taken ta carryin' 'em around on him. But there's more...'' 

He nodded to the waitress, signaling for a refill of his latte. ''Bear's been actin' funny all day... said he found a connection between the murders, had ta do with this burglary a coupla months ago ovah in the Diamond District. Some rich gentleman got hisself robbed of a buncha rare, museum quality artifacts... black magic things, Ah heard. Anyways, Bear asked fer the file this afternoon, was goin' through 'em and gettin' more and more excited like. Then he told the sergeant he was gonna go home and study 'em up some more. Nobody heard ennythin' else till the 911 call.'' 

Jo's mouth was set in a straight, tight line. ''Jesus... poor Bear. Damn!'' She shook her head. ''I gotta personal stake in this now, Piglet. You make sure I get everything, you hear me? Everything!'' 

Russell nodded. ''Yeah, Ah figured you'd be wantin' ta get in on it. You was Bear's friend, too.'' He reached into the soft sided briefcase on the seat beside him and pulled out several manila files. ''Here. The first two autopsy reports on the victims... crime scene photographs, everythin' we got. Copies, but good ones. And Ah made copies of the burglary case notes; Ah don't see no connection myself, but Ah ain't smart as ol' Bear, neither. Now, don't let nobody know you got 'em, okay?'' He looked slightly anxious. ''If ya'll get caught, you didden get 'em from me.'' 

''I hear ya.'' Jo pulled the files across the table and put a proprietary hand on them. ''Thanks, man. I owe ya one.'' 

Russell stood up. ''Naw,'' he replied, handing their waitress several folded bills. ''Ah done it fer Bear, 'at's all. Ya'll just be careful. Ah got me a feelin' this ain't ovah yet. Good evenin', ladies.'' With that, he left, swinging back out into the night. 

Evan laid a hand on top of Jo's. ''Colleen...'' 

''No.'' Jo grabbed the files and hastily rose, nearly bumping into the hovering waitress. ''Let's go. We got stuff to do.'' 

They left the coffee shop, Evan aching to put her arms around Jo and comfort her... and Jo was silent and withdrawn all the way home. 

Ellis was covered in sweat and gasping for breath. Karcis smiled, showing small, needle sharp teeth. ''Are you satisfied, O master?'' the succubus asked. 

''Y-y-yes,'' Ellis stuttered, reaching out for her again, but Karcis scuttled off the bed, the teeth on the thong around her waist clicking dully. 

''Where... where are you going?'' Ellis asked, sliding off the bed. His body was lean, without an ounce of fat, the muscles well defined and sleek. 

''I must return to my imprisonment,'' Karcis replied, her form beginning to shimmer. ''That last life was not strong enough... I feel the protective barriers rising again, and I must go back lest I be destroyed.'' 

''No!' Ellis put both hands in his hair and yanked. ''No! NO! NO!You said... you promised!'' he whined. 

Karcis licked her lips. Her image was fading... ''In three days, we will try again. My servants are weary now.'' Her voice echoed hollowly as she vanished completely. 

Ellis stumbled into the next room. The Gralloch Music Conservatory had been built in the grand, Art Nouveau style, and had hosted many important concerts and benefits. He remembered going there as a child to see ''Cosi Fan Tutti.'' But a fire in the seventies had destroyed much of the old landmark. His corporation had purchased the land and building, intending to tear down the wreck and build a mall, but for now, it was his home. 

Plenty of money can buy anything, even discretion. A suite had been restored on the second floor. Ellis lived in luxurious style, and it was no coincidence that his magician's work room was located next to the bedroom. 

In the center of the bare marble floor stood a stand, and on that stand was the cane with the garnet jewel of Karcis. Ellis stared at it, remembering.

CHAPTER TEN

He'd heard of the alchemist Paracelsus' ebony cane, supposedly set with a fabulous stone that contained a spirit that did all his bidding. Further research into the history of the alchemist and the stone revealed several interesting things. 

The garnet, called the Eye of the Beast, had belonged to an 12th century sorcerer in Jerusalem called Abraham Balai. It had been captured in the fall of Jerusalem by a Crusader, a Templar Knight whose identity was lost to time. After that, it disappeared for a few centuries before turning up on Paracelsus' cane. 

But before Abraham Balai, the stone had supposedly been the property of one of the Magi, that sect of mysterious magicians who had secretly ruled the Persian Empire before its defeat at the hands of Alexander the Great. This Magi had imprisoned a Div - an evil female spirit named Karcis - within the stone, binding it with the Rule of Solomon to do his bidding. Paracelsus had used the Div Karcis as well, during his endless and ultimately fruitless search for the Philosopher's Stone. 

Ellis went to the cabinet in the corner and opened the doors. Resting on a shelf was a box, filigreed gold over iron, set with turquoise and carnelian studs. With trembling hands, he pushed back the domed lid of the box... 

Inside, the space was much larger than the dimensions of the box suggested. He looked at a score or more of tiny female shapes, iridescent wings folded close to their bodies. Their faces and forms were exquisitely beautiful in miniature, but their fingers and toes had sharp hooked claws, and their delicate mouths were filled with razor sharp teeth. These were peris, Karcis' servants... despite their small size, they were rabid killers, descending upon their victims and literally eating their way into their favorite parts of the flesh - the eyes, heart and genitalia. 

Ellis had released the peris three times already... the first, two months ago when he'd first made contact with Karcis after hiring a professional to steal the cane and Paracelsus' instructions from the collector who owned it. During that all-too-brief communication with the Div, Karcis had told him she had to have a human sacrifice in order to manifest, and given him the peris, with instructions on how to release and control them. 

The wolverkin claws had been his idea. The peris weren't very bright, and needed something to focus on in order to find their victim. And the victims deserved their fate; they were corrupt men, black souls steeped in sin. 

Those claws were unique, and he'd known if they were instructed to destroy a human who had one, or any wolverkin artifact for that matter, they'd do precisely that. Karcis' sacrifices were, of necessity, male; and if they'd had sex recently, the power she received was better for her purposes. So he'd formulated a fool-proof plan... 

Wolverkin were very, very careful and distrustful almost to the point of xenophobia; how many humans could there be with claws in their pockets? There was no room for mistakes in this dangerous business, and he thought he'd managed to get things just exactly perfect... 

Besides, he'd kind of hoped the police would put the murders down to animal attacks. So far, he hadn't read anything in the papers about them and thought he was fairly safe. After all, there was really nothing to connect him with the killings. Except one. 

He closed the lid of the box and walked slowly back to the bedroom, and the phone rang. He'd bribed a workman from the telephone company to run an illegal and off-the-record line to the Conservatory. 

''Hello?'' he said, answering the phone. ''What? What do you mean, you didn't get the chance to plant it on him? But...'' Ellis stopped, brows drawn together in consternation. ''No. No, it's all right. We'll do it again in three days, all right? Yes, the usual payment. Yes, I'll pay you for this one, even though you fucked it up. Now, listen to me! I'm really disappointed... you didn't do what you were supposed to, but I'll pay you anyway for your time, just like we agreed. But don't push it, bitch! Hear me! DON'T push it!'' He slammed the receiver down and wiped his suddenly sweaty brow. 

If his confederate hadn't planted the claw as planned - if the peris hadn't killed that person - who the hell had they killed? 

Ellis suddenly felt sick... and very, very scared. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Evan looked up from the file she was studying. Jo was scowling fiercely, her face a study in concentration. Evan laid aside the folder. ''Jo, tell me about your father.'' 

''Huh?'' Jo's blue gaze flew up to meet the other woman's. ''What the... what the fuck does that have to do with the price of blowjobs in Beijing?'' 

''From a few things you've said, I gathered... well, that he wasn't a very nice man, colleen. I was just curious.'' Evan had been reading the first victim's autopsy report; he'd been an office worker with a construction company and she'd suddenly remembered that Jo had mentioned that her father had been a construction worker. Now she wondered why Jo never talked about her family... 

''Shit... um... yeah, 'not a nice man' don't quite cut it, baby. He was mean sober and meaner drunk. Used ta beat the all-fired holy crap outta me and my mom.'' Jo shrugged and turned back to the burglary report she'd been studying. ''Least he didn't do anything, you know, sexual. But he liked to use his fists. Anyways, he fell off a big mother skyscraper he was workin' on; he'd had one too many whiskeys at lunch and lost his balance. But the company hushed it up and paid mom his pension and insurance and stuff.'' 

''And your mother? Where's she now?'' 

''Mom died a coupla years ago. Breast cancer. By the time they caught it, it was too friggin' late. She died in this hospice across the state. I didn't find out about it until they called me to find out what kinda funeral arrangements I wanted ta make. Buncha heartless bastards,'' Jo fumed. She looked up from the file. ''What brought this on?'' 

Evan gave her lover a slight smile. ''As I said, colleen... curiosity. You never talk about your family.'' 

''Ain't got none. Well, except my crazy old aunt who lives in Bluebottle, Georgia. Real bubba-ville hick town. She's my mom's older sister. I ain't seen her in about a hundred years.'' Jo cocked her head to one side and, much to her surprise, yawned hugely. ''Jeez... I'm wiped. I gotta get some sleep; it's friggin' three o'clock in the morning.'' She tossed the file aside. ''You comin', Ev?'' 

''In a minute. I'm almost done here.'' Evan watched as Jo uncoiled her length from the floor and stretched, one hand wandering down to scratch her denim covered ass. As Jo padded from the room, Evan picked up the burglary folder and scanned it quickly. 

She was on the point of laying it aside and getting on with the autopsy report when something caught her eye. Evan read more carefully... then she closed her eyes, leaning back on the sofa. 

Kernossus! the Celtic woman thought, suddenly feeling every one of her two thousand plus years. She's back. 

Evan sat like that for a little while longer... then got up to join her lover in restless sleep. 

''Yer kidding, right? Tell me you're jerkin' my jane, here, baby. I'm beggin' ya!'' It was eleven o'clock in the morning, and Jo had gone from grouchily sleepy to fully alert with Evan's news. 

''I'm entirely serious.'' Evan took a bite of the breakfast burrito she'd concocted, licking salsa from her lips. 

''Aw, shit! Shit, shit, SHIT!'' Jo spun away from the kitchen counter. Oh, Jesus Christ! she thought. Not another one! ''Another fuckin' demon! A goddamned, mother fuckin', hellfire and brimstone belchin' demon! Shit!'' 

''Jo, calm down. A Div is only like a demon. They're from Persian, not Christian, mythology.'' 

''You think I give a flyin' fuck where the bastard comes from? I don't care if he's straight outta Disneyland, Ev! It's a DEMON!'' Jo suppressed the urge to race into the bedroom and start packing. ''I'm getting too old for this shit. At least tell me this one's not gonna start paying house calls, willya?'' 

Evan chuckled. ''I don't think so, love. But Karcis is a bit different from most Divs I've heard about. For one thing, she's sexually oriented, like a succubus. That's why poor Paracelsus never found the Philosopher's Stone; Karcis could've given him the time of his life, but she doesn't really possess much arcane knowledge. She does, however, have ambitions. One of them's to permanently cross over into this plane.'' 

''Great! Just great! Another demon who wants to rule the friggin' world! Can't they be a little more original? Like, wanting to totally fuck up the economy? Oh, wait... I guess that's already happened,'' Jo said sarcastically. 

''Jo... as near as I remember, Karcis doesn't want to rule the world. She is shootin' for goddess status; once she crosses over, if she can get enough worshippers under her belt, she'll be ridin' high and mighty as the leading figure of a cult. If not... well, she thrives on negative sexual energy. Maybe she'll get a job at the Cutting Edge.'' 

Jo rolled her eyes and smothered a snort. The Cutting Edge was an exclusive, members only S&M club. ''Yeah, right... I can see it now. 'Coffee, tea, or nipple clamps?' Jeez, Ev... so is she as dangerous as Eridu? I mean, can we expect a buncha her buds to come charging in here, champing at the bit to break our heads?'' 

''Well...'' Evan hesitated. ''Let me explain. How I made the connection was this: the coroner's office is completely baffled by the wounds - they haven't figured out what weapon was used because nothing they can think of makes sense. 'Looks like tiny bite marks; maybe a customized tool?''' she quoted. ''Then I read the burglary report. One of the items stolen from that collector, Armand Duvalier, was an ebony cane set with a garnet the size of a baby's fist. I happen to know that cane was once owned by Paracelsus and that Karcis was trapped inside; how Bear figured it out, I'll never know. But...'' 

''But? Oh, Christ! Tell me there ain't no buts, Ev! I don't think I can stand it!'' 

''As I've already said, Karcis is Persian. She has servants who attend her... peris.'' Evan quickly explained what peris were, and what their function was. 

Jo shuddered. ''Like getting nibbled to death by fuckin' ducks... Great! Wonderful!'' She threw her hands up in the air. ''I tell ya, if it weren't for the retirement benefits, I'd quit this chickenshit outfit in a heartbeat!'' 

Evan giggled. ''What benefits, colleen?'' 

''Oh, yeah, that's right... there ain't none!'' Jo scrubbed her face with a hand. ''Goddammit. I think I'm moving to Bermuda or something.'' 

''After this is over?'' 

''Well, no, not really. I hear there's some wild and woolly things that go down in the Islands, too. Ain't nowhere on this planet safe.'' Jo sighed. ''All right... so now what?'' 

''Now, I think we should talk to Monsieur Duvalier. The police haven't been able to trace any of the stolen items, and I'd truly like to know what information he has on Paracelsus' cane.'' 

''Okay. Whatever.'' Jo grabbed a burrito and crammed half of it into her mouth, salsa running down her chin. ''Mmmph... foo wan tek t' fimfmofile?'' 

''Hmmm? Chew and swallow, colleen. Gibberish isn't one of my languages.'' Evan smiled. 

''I said,'' Jo repeated, gulping. ''Do you wanna take the Pimpmobile?'' 

''The Lincoln? Yes!'' Evan grinned. ''How about you finish breakfast, while I call Monsieur Duvalier?'' 

''Sounds like a plan to me.'' Jo stuffed the rest of the burrito into her mouth and reached for a second; as Evan left the kitchen, she detoured briefly to kiss a bit of tomato and jalapeno from the tall blonde's chin. 

CHAPTER TWELVE

Armand Duvalier's family had escaped the Revolution with their fortune intact, fleeing for the relative safety of England. They had eventually returned to France, just in time for World War II, where they'd collaborated with both the Nazi's and the Resistance, hedging their bets while acquiring even more wealth and priceless artworks. 

Duvalier was slightly pudgy, with neatly trimmed black hair and brown eyes that were set just a shade too close together; this, along with a long, sharply pointed nose, combined to give him the look of a well-fed weasel. 

He now lived in America; the black sheep of the Duvalier family, he'd been tossed out on his ear when he was seventeen after getting expelled from university for extortion, sexual escapades and selling drugs. He'd managed to get his own fortune by marrying well, and often, to wealthy geriatric widows who were charmed by his European suavity and the hint of scandal in his background. 

The Frenchman took a puff of the black cigarette in his hand, set in an ivory holder. ''Oui, mam'selle Reilly. I collect the occult, you see. It is a fascination of mine.'' He tapped the cigarette against the side of a crystal ashtray. ''I have many rare artifacts.'' 

''You keep them here?'' Evan looked around. Duvalier lived in the penthouse suite of the Coeur de Lyon, a towering edifice built for the fabulously wealthy, and situated in the heart of the Diamond District, the city's stomping grounds for the rich and privileged. 

Duvalier laughed. ''We have good security, the best! My cases were filled, a lifetime's work, a good deal of it gone - poof! - in a moment. However...'' He crushed out his cigarette, blowing a stream of smoke from his nostrils. ''The thief was not so professional, in my opinion. Oh, he managed to evade the alarms... but he did not know what he was doing otherwise.'' 

Jo leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. ''How's that?'' 

''You see here?'' Duvalier crossed to one of the massive mahogany cases the lined the walls and opened the door. Reaching inside, he withdrew a book with a battered cover of dark red leather. ''Unprofessional!'' 

''May I?'' Evan reached for the volume, and Duvalier handed it to her with a shrug. She opened it reverently, read a moment, then breathed, ''The lost Sword of Moses... Jo, do you know what this is?'' 

''Not a clue. Fill me in, Holmes.'' Her blue eyes twinkled at the expression of scholarly lust on Evan's face. 

''One of the famous lost grimoires. There's a extant copy of the first Sword of Moses in the British Museum, but it's long been known that a companion volume existed, tho' none have ever seen it.'' Evan closed the cover of the volume. ''I can see why you believe the thief to be a novice, monsieur,'' she said, handing the book back to Duvalier, who replaced it in the cabinet and sat back down. 

''I still don't get it,'' Jo muttered. 

Duvalier explained. ''You see, mam'selle Tate, if our thief had known what he was doing, he would have left the little bijoux in the cases - trinkets, really, even if gold and silver - and taken things like this. The grimoire is irreplaceable and the only known copy in existence. He could have named his own price from nearly any collector. He ignored the important pieces, taking only the glitter.'' He frowned. ''But... he took the cane.'' 

''Wouldn't the garnet be worth much?'' Evan asked. 

''Yes,'' Duvalier said thoughtfully. ''But one as big as the Eye of the Beast... there is no one save a private collector who would purchase such a large stone, and all would know what it is upon first sight. Further, if it were cut into smaller stones - even if it could be - it would not be worth nearly as much. Why take it at all?'' 

Jo frowned, thinking. ''Okay... see if this makes sense. I've heard about some collectors who hire thieves to boost a rival's collection. Happened to some stamp guy a few years back. Could somebody've been sent to steal one specific thing and taken the other stuff to cover it up?'' 

''It's possible,'' Duvalier allowed. ''If this were the case, I would say that the object in question was the Paracelsus cane.'' 

''How so?'' Evan asked. 

''The other things that were stolen - they were unimportant. A seal ring belonging to Dr. Dee, a necklace purported to have been worn by Marie Laveaux, things like that. The cane was the only truly important piece that was stolen.'' 

''Monsieur Duvalier, do you know what the cane was?'' Evan, too, leaned forward, fixing her gray eyes on the gentleman. 

Duvalier scratched his cheek. ''Oui,'' he replied simply. ''If you mean that the jewel was the prison of a demonic entity. If the Eye of the Beast had been an ordinary garnet, mam'selle, do you suppose it would hold any value for me, despite its former owner?'' 

Jo sighed. ''See? Demons. Shit fire and spare the matches!'' 

''What my associate means, monsieur,'' Evan hastened to say, ''is that we've had experience dealin' with such before. Was anythin' else of occult value taken?'' 

It was Duvalier's turn to sigh. He closed his eyes a moment, then opened them again. ''Oui. Paracelsus' personal journal. All his working notes, everything. In it, there was the spell he used to summon Karcis, to bind her to his will. As far as he was able.'' 

Evan's eyes widened. '''As far as he was able?''' she repeated. 

''He could receive no information on the Philosopher's Stone. However... you may not know that Karcis can be freed. If enough lives are sacrificed, the bindings put on her will be broken. And I pity the mage who frees her; the ending of his life would completely shatter Karcis' last tie to the Eye.'' Duvalier smiled. ''Let us hope the thief, or his employer, is not such a fool.'' 

''Aye.'' Evan was silent a moment, then she stood up and shook Duvalier's hand. ''Thank you, monsieur. For your time and for your information.'' 

''To help two such beautiful ladies, I would go to far more trouble,'' he answered, kissing Evan's hand while Jo scowled. 

When he held out his hand to Jo, the woman sneered slightly and flipped her fingers at him in farewell. As she walked beside Evan to the elevator, the platinum blonde muttered under her breath, ''Greasy Euro-trash sonnuva bitch.'' 

Evan gave her a startled look, but remained silent. 

Back in the penthouse they had just vacated, Duvalier pursed his lips, then got up and poured himself a cognac. 

Just as the glass touched his lips, a voice behind him said, ''Well, Armand? Do you think they can do it?'' 

''Oui, Astarte. I believe they can.'' He turned, green eyes meeting the goddess' golden brown... and smiled. ''I do believe they can.'' 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"I figure the bastard's getting antsy,'' Jo said as they drove home in the night-black Lincoln limousine she called the Pimpmobile. It had been converted into a hearse at one point in its checkered career, and Jo had gotten it cheap from a man who swore it was haunted. It had been, but between them, the two women had managed to lay the restless spirit to peace. 

Evan twisted a lock of orange hair around one finger. ''The killer? Perhaps. He kills one victim, then waits a full twenty eight days for the next.'' She shifted in her seat, moving closer to Jo. ''Then, the day after the second murder, he kills again. We know it wasn't a copycat; what made him step up his schedule?'' 

''I told ya. He's getting antsy. I know from psychos, okay? He shot his wad too quick or something, wanted to cream his jeans again, so he gets Karcis or her peris to do Bear. What I wanna know is: how come he didn't leave a claw on Bear?'' 

''No time?'' 

''Nuh-uh. Bear was laying there for hours before that health nut chickie found him.'' Jo jerked the wheel, steering the car around a sputtering VW, and cruised back over to the exit lane. ''We know he's got four left, right? I mean, that's part of his ritual or some weird ass shit like that...'' 

Jo seemed to contemplate the matter as she drove the Pimpmobile through the exit and turned west to the Bougainvillea Towers. Suddenly, she slammed on the brakes in the middle of the lane, setting off screeching tires and bellowing horns behind her. ''Holy motherfuckin' shit!'' she screamed. ''I got it!'' 

Evan twisted her neck around, looking at the cars piled up behind them, and turned back to her lover. ''By Kernossus, woman! Are you tryin' to get us killed? Let's go!'' 

Elated, Jo stomped on the gas, making the big car lurch forward, tires squealing and smoking. Once she'd straightened out the wheel, Jo looked at Evan with a huge grin on her face. ''Oh, baby... I got it! I got the bastard by the friggin' balls!'' 

''What ARE you talkin' about?'' Evan was starting to get annoyed. ''And will you BY DANA watch where you're goin'!,'' she yelled as Jo narrowly avoided hitting a white-faced man on a motor scooter. 

Jo banged her fingers on the steering wheel in a syncopated rhythm. ''Ha! I know how come Bear got killed, and how come he ain't got no claw! Jesus Christ! That fucker really screwed the pooch this time.'' 

''I find that phrase so offensive,'' Evan said, reaching out one hand to yank the wheel to the right in order to avoid hitting a pedestrian. 

''Sorry.'' Jo jerked the car over, cutting off an infuriated woman in a Toyota, and rolled up into the Towers parking lot. Getting the Lincoln into their assigned compact car space usually involved plentiful cursing, sweating and even the creation of new, original blasphemies, but today, Jo manhandled the Pimpmobile into position with nary a swear word in sight. 

Cutting off the engine, she turned to Evan. ''Listen, baby,'' she began eagerly. ''We know the first two victims were with prostitutes before they were killed, right?'' 

''Yes,'' Evan admitted cautiously. 

''Okay. Now, I happen to know Bear was clean; never did the walk-on-the-wildside, freakout boogaloo with no hustler. But - there was one thing he had in common with the other two dudes.'' 

Jo waited expectantly, holding her breath while Evan frowned, puzzled. Finally, the Celtic woman shrugged and said, ''I'm still baffled, colleen.'' 

''Well, we've been assuming that the killer left the claws on his victims as a kinda calling card, but what if his victims already had the claws before they got killed?'' Jo's blue eyes sparkled with excitement. 

Evan mulled this over a moment... ''Mmm... but how would they... Oh! I see!'' She scooted so close to Jo that their thighs touched. ''If the claws were bein' used as some kind of... hmmm... trackin' device by the peris; then Bear had them, and they focused on him instead of their intended victim.'' 

''Riiiight,'' Jo purred. ''So - and tell me if I'm a babbling idiot over here - that would mean that it was the prostitute who was the common cause in the first two murders, right? I mean, she hadda plant the things. So our murderer has a partner, who maybe don't know what she's gotten into, and yesterday she FUBAR'd the killer's plans by not planting the claw on her john, and Bear was just in the wrong place with the wrong stuff at the wrong friggin' time.'' 

''FUBAR?'' 

Jo looked smug and patted Evan's cheek. ''Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition,'' she said. ''Now all we gotta do is find that prostitute.'' 

''But the police...'' 

''Fuck the police! They can do interviews from now till doomsday, but the shit's fixing to hit the fan, if it hasn't already; and besides, I think the ladies of the evening ain't too fond of cops and not likely to be passing out info, not even the time of day. Personally, I think we oughta pay the coroner's office a little visit...'' Jo gave her lover a significant look. ''Maybe do some of that voodoo that we do so well.'' 

Evan leaned over and kissed Jo on the mouth, murmuring, ''Yes. Tonight when it's quiet.'' She put a hand on Jo's thigh and squeezed. ''After I give you a prize for bein' so smart and figurin' it out, Jo Tate. And this time, you're on top.'' 

Jo closed her eyes and sighed happily, murmuring, ''Mmm-mmm good.'' 

A wolf with fur the color of ripe tangerines slipped through the hole she'd dug beneath the high wire gate that surrounded the perimeter of the Angelicus County Coroner's Office. Wriggling on her belly and clawing at the hard packed dirt, she managed to get under the fence and took off at a dead run across the treeless field behind the sprawling, low-slung edifice. 

When she reached the building, Evan sent a thought to her lover, ::Jo? Are you 'bout ready?::

Jo thought back, ::Yeah. Roger-dodger, 10-4 good buddy and all that kinda shit. Kiss for luck, baby... tongue optional.:: 

Evan's tongue lolled out of her mouth in a wolfish grin. She reared up and planted both enormous paws against the locked doors, threw back her head and howled. 

The long, wavering cry echoed across the parking lot, and reached Jo's ears. Huh!, she thought. This might work. If there ain't no pooches around here what needs a good screwing.

::I heard that!:: 

Jo winced. ::Sorry, Ev. Present company excepted:: She grinned. ::You already had yours, anyhow.:: 

Jo's short, platinum blonde hair was hidden beneath a black baseball cap; she wore black jeans and a brand new inky T-shirt. The sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, but she wore gloves on both hands. 

Jo waited, listening. 

Evan scrabbled at the door, howling mournfully. Finally, one of the doors opened cautiously. ''What the hell...?'' came a puzzled male voice. 

::Now, Jo!,:: Evan drny, and knocked the white coated employee down, insinuating herself inside. She sniffed; the man who'd come to the door was out cold. The wolf took a quick look around, spotting the desk where a security guard gaped. 

Growling hideously, she leaped across the intervening space with a single, fluid bound, hitting the guard in the chest with her full weight. He fell over, squealing in panic, trying to draw his gun. But he was old, very overweight, and simply no match for Evan in her shiftself. She clamped her jaws around his jowls and squeezed carefully, judging the exact amount of pressure she could bring to bear, then jerked her head sideways, slamming the guard's head into the side of the desk. With a shudder, he fell unconscious. 

Evan reared up and nosed the gate buzzer, finally hitting it on the third try. From the banks of security monitors, she could see the razor-wire topped gated open slowly, and then the black clad form of Jo scuttling through and sprinting across the parking lot. 

When Jo got to the front doors, she heard the buzz, and hit the right one with both hands. Getting inside, she crossed the small lobby with a few quick strides, then joined Evan behind the security desk. 

''Gotta fix that tape,'' she muttered to herself. In a few minutes, she'd rewound the entire videotape and started it recording again, over the portion that would show the illegal entry of a wolf and a woman. They would leave by the back, out the ambulance bay. 

That task finished, Jo blew out a breath and turned glowing blue eyes on Evan, who nosed the platinum blonde's hand with her muzzle. ''Good girl... you wanna Scooby snack?'' Jo quipped, and snickered as she led the way through the swinging doors that would take them to the morgue. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A single employee was on guard outside the morgue; a pimply faced intern who had on a pair of earphones that leaked Metallica in a tinny blare. He had a comic book in front of his face, one of the new ones featuring impossibly big-breasted women in skimpy costumes; and he was devouring Ding-Dongs, one right after the other. 

''Oh, shit, this is gonna be too friggin' easy,'' Jo said under her breath. She whipped off her T-shirt, revealing the fact she wore no bra to confine her small, pert breasts. 

::Jo? What in the world are you doin'?:: Evan's plumed tail stopped wagging and fell. 

''I'm gonna give that kid one helluva wet dream. Stay here, baby. Lemme handle this.'' Jo sauntered out of the hallway, straight into the room, scanty hips swinging back and forth like a pendulum. 

For a minute, the intern didn't notice the intrusion; his slightly bulging eyes were fixed on the comic book. But soon, those eyes rose and bulged even further, and the comic book went one way, the headphones another. ''Um... uh... you...,'' he squeaked, then cleared his throat, prominent Adam's apple bobbing up and down. ''You lost or something?'' 

''Naw, I ain't lost. You're Andrew, right?'' Jo had spotted the young man's nametag. She leaned a buttock on the corner of the desk. ''I'm Bambi. I'm s'posed to give you a strip-o-gram from your buds.'' 

''Huh? A s-s-strip-o-gram?'' Andrew reached out and mechanically picked up a Ding-Dong, then let it drop when he noticed it in his hand. ''For me? B-b-but it's not my birthday or anything.'' 

''Aw, c'mon, stud! Who cares it ain't your birthday?'' Jo bent over and ran a finger down over Andrew's downy chin, smiling widely. ''You're not shy, are you?'' She lowered her voice to a husky purr. ''I like 'em shy.'' 

Adam's apple bobbing even more wildly, Andrew sputtered, unable to say a word. 

Jo edged closer, leaning down further until her breasts were practically touching his face. ''You gotta private place we can go, Andrew? Someplace we ain't gonna be disturbed for a while?'' She nearly lost it when Evan's scathing comment, ::I'd give him five minutes, if that!:: sounded in her mind. 

Andrew rose, bumping his chair back with a squeal of metal on tile. ''Um... yeah... we got an employee lounge over there,'' he said, pointing down another corridor. ''Uh... there's not much of a crew this late at night. Just the cleaning guy, the security guard and my friend, Joey. You... you want to go there?'' 

''Sure, you hunka burnin' lovemuffin.'' Jo got up and grabbed Andrew's hand. ''Lead the way.'' 

Evan watched her lover tow the boy into the employee lounge; a few minutes later, she exited alone. ::Well? P'raps I should've placed money on his longevity - or lack of it:: Evan sent in an acid tone. 

''Don't get yer pretty tail in a knot, baby. I cold-cocked the kid before he could even put his dirty paws on my luscious little boobies. Andrew's off in la-la land, dreaming about getting his rocks off with strippers named Bambi, and probably doing nasty things to the pile of linen I stuck him in. Now, shall we go?'' Jo snatched her shirt up off the floor and pulled it over her head. 

Inside the morgue, it was cold, the temperature much lower than the rest of the building. Jo rubbed her hands down her arms. ''Brrrr... it's colder than a witch's tit in here!,'' she complained. 

::I'm nice and toasty warm:: Evan thought. 

''Yeah, but you're wearing a friggin' fur coat!'' Jo eyed the handwritten chart that hung on the wall. ''We want E-26, Ev. That's the first guy, whassisname.'' 

::Felix Yoder. Ironic, isn't it?:: 

Jo scanned the doors of the stainless steel corpse coolers, looking for the number. ''What?'' 

::Felix... in Latin it means, lucky.:: 

''Yeah, well I guess old Felix's luck ran out, Ev. Happens to the best of us.'' She found the drawer she was looking for; pulling down the handle of the door and popping it open, Jo drew the drawer out. 

Yoder's corpse was in a black bodybag. Jo unzipped it, praying it wouldn't be too gross and that she wouldn't disgrace herself by heaving all over the dead man. 

Evan shifted back into her skinshape. She, too, was dressed in black from head to toe, and her orange hair had been twisted into a tight braid that hung down to her waist. ''Mmmm,'' she murmured, looking at Yoder's body. ''I'm takin' it that Karcis' isn't too choosy about her men.'' 

In life, Felix Yoder had been short, grossly overweight, and hairy. His bottom lip protruded in a perpetual pout and his hairline had receded drastically. A line of black, waxy thread stitches marched from his pubis to just beneath the gaping hole where his heart had been removed; so much of the surrounding tissue was gone that no amount of stitching was going to close the wound. 

His body had been held pending further findings; as Yoder wasn't married, nor did he have many relatives, the coroner's office hadn't had any trouble retaining the corpse. 

Jo wrinkled her nose and grimaced. ''Ugh! Damned if I want to end up stark naked with strangers staring at me and putting their greasy hands all over me! I want that, I'll  get a job as one of them exotic dancing chickies.'' 

''Dollar bills in your G-string? Aye, I can see that,'' Evan replied with a smile. ''Ready to do the spell?'' 

Jo yanked down her shirtsleeves. ''Yep. Ride 'em, cowgirl!'' She walked over to Evan's side of the drawer. 

''Yee haw,'' Evan said with a grin. She held out her hands, palms up, and Jo covered them with her own. Even through the surgical gloves they wore, each woman could feel the other's warmth. 

Evan began chanting under her breath - the Rann of Clear Waters Gazing. This spell would cause an image to form of the events leading up to Yoder's death, and hopefully, the person or persons behind it. 

Jo fed Evan energy in a steady stream, tapping into the ley line she'd scouted out earlier. Eyes closed, Jo gathered the magic as she had been taught, drawing it into herself, then shunting it to the Celtic woman, who continued to chant. 

When the last words of the Rann spilled from Evan's lips, Jo opened her eyes.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A vaporous cloud had formed above Yoder's body; a ball of swirling mists that, as Jo watched, rapidly coalesced, becoming more solid and opaque. It was like looking through a slightly fogged window; Evan said a few words under her breath and the image cleared into crystal clarity. 

I'll be damned! Jo thought in wonder. This is better'n cable at a fuck n' suck hotel, and I didn't even have to spend the quarter.

They watched as Yoder, on top of a woman in what appeared to be a cheap hotel room, furiously banged back and forth for several minutes, fat ass cheeks wobbling. He stopped, quivered for a long moment, then rolled off her. 

''Where's the zoom on this sucker, baby?'' Jo leaned forward as the woman's form was revealed. 

Evan muttered something, and the image of the women abruptly filled the gazing cloud and froze. 

Jo dug a slim pencil camera out of her jeans. She'd picked up the miniature equipment in a spy shop, and it took excellent pictures, but the film was more expensive than the camera itself. She held it up to her eye and snapped several pictures, hoping Evan was right in that, although the images were magical in origin, they might still be captured by mundane equipment. Jo had wanted to consult a parapsychologist but there hadn't been time. 

''Next time, see if you can get the dirty dyke channel,'' Jo murmured. Evan gave her a raised eyebrow, but spoke the commands that would make the image continue. 

They watched as Yoder got dressed, handed the prostitute several bills from his wallet, and departed. As he walked out the door, Jo said, ''Ev... rewind this thing and slow it down. I thought I spotted something.'' 

With a sigh, Evan did, and when Jo said, ''Freeze! Right there!,'' she hastily blurted the appropriate word. 

Jo pointed. ''See? When he's handing her the cash, she takes it with her right hand but her left comes up, too, over on the side. I bet she's sticking the claw in his jacket pocket. Smooth move. I gotta wonder if this hooker's a dip on the side.'' 

''Dip?'' 

''Pickpocket.'' Jo nodded. ''Go on - we're just getting to the good part. Want to hold my hand when the bad guys show up? This is gonna be a regular slash fest, and no Freddy or Jason or Michael Myers in sight.'' She sighed. ''I wish I'd brought some popcorn.'' 

The images continued scrolling, through the peri's sudden, vicious attack. Yhe small creatures abruptly appeared and swarmed around Yoder, who waved his arms, mouth open in a silent scream. When they started burrowing into his flesh, Jo averted her eyes. ''Okay, enough's enough. I don't think we need all the gory details, do we?'' 

''Oh, not so tough as you thought, hmmm?'' Evan teased, but slashed her hand from side to side and the gazing cloud began swirling again, around and around, disappearing slowly as if being sucked down a drain. When it was gone, she sighed. ''Now, let's do the next one. I think it'll go faster this time.'' 

They repeated the ritual for the second victim, Peter Boswell, and finally for Bear McTierney. This last was hardest for Jo; she could barely make out the images in the gazing cloud through her tears. But she gulped them back and took the pictures; it was the same woman, all right, and by the time they'd finished, Jo was ready to hit the street and start searching. 

''Let's go,'' Evan said wearily. ''I'll go into fur, colleen, just in case we meet anyone else while we're still in the building.'' She changed to her ShiftSelf, again becoming the gray-eyed she-wolf. 

''You know, baby, every time you do that I get the willies,'' Jo said. ''Okay, to the ambulance bay, faithful sidekick! And try not to piddle on the floor. I didn't see any newspapers around.'' 

Evan shook herself, settling her fur into place, then led Jo out of the morgue. 

Their exit from the building was uneventful. When they were both back in the Lincoln and on their way home, Evan back in her skinshape, Jo frowned. ''I know it's two o'clock in the morning, Ev, but I want to drive by Sy's place. He's up, always is - don't think the man's slept since 1972.'' 

Evan nodded and yawned. ''All right. But then I want to go home and to bed, Jo. I'm mortal tired.'' She yawned again, and Jo chuckled. 

''Here... put your head down in my lap, baby. Take a little nap till we get to Sy's lair. No funny stuff, though,'' she added as Evan slid down and nestled her head on Jo's thigh. ''Don't wanna rear end some poor dude 'cause my girlfriend was frenchin' my pussy while I was driving. Try explaining that to the traffic cops.'' 

Evan giggled, then closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. It seemed as if only a few moments had passed before she heard Jo's voice saying softly, ''Hey, Ev, honey... we're here. C'mon, baby. Wakie, wakie.'' 

Evan sat up, rubbing her eyes. ''Hmmm? Oh, all right.'' 

Sy's lair, as Jo had called it, was situated in a small, solidly middle class neighborhood. But unlike his neighbors, Sy Cosenza's house was surrounded by a high, barbed wire fence; security lights on tall poles were placed at strategic points in the yard, and the entire place was peppered with video cameras, motion detectors and other paraphernalia. 

Jo walked up to the gate, where a black intercom box was mounted next to the mailbox. Thumbing a button, Jo said, ''Hello? Sy? Hey, man, open up. It's Jo. I gotta job for ya.'' 

The intercom crackled to life. ''Jo? Who's that with you? I'm reading two on the infrared.'' 

''Aw, jeez, Sy! It's my partner, Evan. You remember Ev, right? From the Christmas party? Carrot top, built like a brick shithouse, cool tats in places you ain't seen yet.'' Jo winked at Evan and smiled hugely. 

''Oh. Yeah, sure, I remember Evan. Hang on a sec.'' With a hum, the gate slid back slowly. Sy's voice came from the black intercom again. ''It's pattern Beta-4 tonight. You remember?'' 

''Yeah, I know it. Thanks. We're coming in.'' Jo took Evan's hand and led her into the yard. ''Step only where I step, baby. Sy's got the whole friggin' place mined with army surplus shit. He's got explosives rigged on some kinda computerized system; changes the pattern regularly. Real paranoid sonnuva bitch.'' 

They wound around in serpentine fashion until they got to the front porch of the house. A pair of video cameras turned in their direction; the two women waited and finally, the door opened. 

''Come on in, ladies,'' Sy said, carefully staying behind the door. 

They went inside and Sy immediately closed the door behind them; it was six inches of solid steel in a heavily reinforced frame, and it slammed home with a thud. He swiftly threw several bolts, chains and locks, then turned to his guests. 

''Sorry about the fuss, Evan, Jo,'' he said, running a hand over his thinning blonde hair. ''One can't be too careful these days.'' 

Sy Cosenza was a medium sized man in his early fifties with sad, hound dog eyes set in permanently dark circles, sagging jowls and a heavily lined forehead. 

Jo reached into her jeans pocket and Sy immediately whipped up a semi-automatic Glock. ''Slowly,'' he cautioned. 

Evan sucked in a breath and considered taking him out, but a warning look from Jo convinced her to calm down. 

The platinum blonde drew the miniature camera from her pocket. ''See? It's just a camera, man. I want you to develop the film... rush job. I'll pay ya for it.'' 

Sy held out his hand and took the camera, holding it up to the light, the barrel of the gun steady on Jo. After a moment, he lowered the Glock. ''Sorry. They've been hanging around again, trying to get to me.'' He tucked the gun into the back of his pants. ''I have to be careful.'' 

Evan was convinced the man was mad, but if Jo trusted him, she would, too. But only to a certain extent. One more threatenin' move, she thought, and I'll be seein' if he's immune to a magic bullet.

She looked around while Jo explained to Sy what they wanted. The windows of the house were covered by metal shutters; electronic equipment, much of it unfamiliar to her, beeped and hummed and glowed. There were weapons everywhere, enough firearms to take a small country by the look of it. Several gas masks, and a full environmental suit with oxygen tank, were in one corner. There wasn't much furniture; just a sagging couch, some halogen lamps, and, oddly enough, not a television in sight. 

Sy was saying, ''I can have the pictures for you tomorrow. Want me to have them delivered?'' The man was clearly nervous; it was apparent he didn't like visitors violating the sanctity of his lair. 

''Yeah, that's cool.'' Jo dug into her pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. ''A hundred okay?'' she asked, peeling off twenty dollar bills. 

''Sure. I'll even throw in some more film; CIA grade, not that retail crap.'' Sy took the money carefully between his thumb and forefinger, then tossed it into small lidded box of some dull metallic material. He then turned around and marched out of the room without a word. 

At Evan's look, Jo sighed. ''He's gone to wash his hands. Sy's convinced the government's adding mind altering chemicals to the ink on the money; that box is lead, to keep the spooks from tracking it by the tiny microchips they've implanted in the paper.'' 

''Jo, that man is...'' 

''I know, baby. Total bug-fuckin' nuts, but real smart. Genius IQ, degrees up the wazoo, went to MIT for Christ's sake. He was gonna be a professor or something, but he went to Vietnam instead. Came back with a hunk of shrapnel in his brain and mucho paranoid delusions.'' She shrugged. ''He may sound crazy, Ev, but you know what they say: if you think somebody's after you, they probably are.'' 

Evan laid a hand on Jo's arm. ''Is he dangerous?'' 

''Um, yeah, probably, if he felt cornered. Way I see it, the only guys likely to bother him are the IRS, 'cause he ain't paid taxes in years, and if those bastards come banging on his door and get blown away, is that such a bad thing?'' She smiled. ''I'm kidding. I don't Sy'd actually kill anybody. He just acts like a big, bad motherfucker.'' 

Sy returned, wiping his hands on a towel. They looked red and raw and he smelled faintly of bleach. ''All right, Jo. You'll have your pictures in the morning. Now, if you'll excuse me... I was working on my newsletter when you arrived and I've got to finish. My reading public needs me.'' 

He showed them to the door, and it slammed shut behind them. Evan asked softly, ''Newsletter?'' 

''Sy doesn't have a reading public.'' Jo led Evan off the porch and back into the yard, guiding her to the safety of the street. ''He does this newsletter every month, then he mails copies to every politician on Capitol Hill, the state, even city officials right on down to the neighborhood volunteer Crimewatch dudes. I gotta friend on the Commission who calls him Mr. Conspiracy.'' 

They climbed back into the car. ''Do you think someone's really after Sy?'' Evan asked. 

''Dunno.'' Jo started up the Pimpmobile and put an arm around Evan's shoulders. ''But if they weren't, he'd be awfully goddamned disappointed.'' 

Evan yawned, then snuggled up to Jo and slept all the way home. 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

They spent several hours on the street the next night, going from prostitute to prostitute, showing photographs of the mysterious woman who'd been an accessory in at least two deaths. 

Finally, they hit paydirt. ''Yeah, I know her,'' the woman said. She wore a silver tinsel wig, neon pink tube top, and a lime green leather miniskirt that left little to the imagination; bright crimson lipstick was a startling contrast to her rich black skin. ''That's Wanda. We call her Wonder Woman 'cause she does the freakshow stuff mostly.'' 

''You know where this Wanda hangs out, Kadijah?'' Jo handed the prostitute a fifty and waited. 

Kadijah licked her lips and accepted the bill, folding it into quarters and tucking it into her top. ''Yeah. How come you wanna know?'' She eyed Evan up and down, fake eyelashes fluttering, then slewed her coffee brown eyes back to the tall platinum blonde. ''You want a threesome, honey, I can provide. Or maybe you want to try something your old lady ain't gonna give you. The black berry's got the sweetest juice, you know.'' She leaned closer to Jo, who drew back a little. 

''Naw, sweetheart. This is strictly business.'' Jo flashed Evan a grin. ''B'sides, I get enough at home to keep my motor running happy.'' 

''Uh-huh.'' Kadijah snorted. ''Whatever. You ever change your mind, you call me, hear? For you, I gotta special rate. Specially you wanna go solo.'' 

Evan suppressed the urge to grab Kadijah by her augmented breasts and shake her. ''Listen, all we want to know is where we can find Wanda. So quit flirtin' around and just tell us.'' 

The prostitute snorted again and rocked her head back and forth, hands on her hips. ''Huh! Listen to her, Miss Thang over there. Whatcha gonna do, Miss Thang? You gonna get all mean and tough on Kadijah? Gimme attitude? Fuck you! I ain't gotta take no shit from you, white ass, fake orange headed, freak cunt!'' The glittery tinsel of her wig blew in her face. 

Evan lost her temper. With a snarl, she reached out and pulled Kadijah to her, shoving her face close and showing her teeth. ''Tell us where we can find Wanda, or I'll be showin' you how mean and tough I can be!'' 

She shoved the other woman back and Kadijah stumbled on her stiletto heels, nearly falling. ''Diseased whore's get!'' Evan followed the prostitute, staying intimidatingly close. ''Talk! Now! Or I swear to Lugh I'll beat you till you can't move!'' 

Kadijah's eyes were wide as she took in Evan's threatening stance. ''Shit, lady! I was only fooling around! Chill! Chill! Okay, momma, you want to know where Wonder Woman hangs out? Try Augustine Street, okay? Augustine Street!'' She continued in a mutter to herself, ''Damn crazy bitch!'' 

Evan panted, and Jo wrapped a hand around her arm, leaning down to put her mouth close to the smaller woman's ear. ''Way to go, bad cop. My turn now.'' 

The platinum blonde smiled at Kadijah. ''Sorry 'bout that, sweetheart. My old lady gets hung up on stuff, you know? Anyway, thanks for the info and stay safe.'' She shoved a twenty at the prostitute, who took it with a trembling hand, and led Evan away. 

Back in the Pimpmobile, driving through the light traffic, Jo said, ''I coulda sworn you were being jealous or something back there, Ev. You didn't think I was serious or nothing about Kadijah, right?'' 

Evan was silent, breathing heavily through her nose. Finally, she said, ''I've no right to be jealous, truly. If you want to see Kadijah, or anyone else...'' She gulped. ''I don't mind.'' 

The effect of these words was instantaneous. Jo wrenched the wheel to one side, pulling up into a supermarket parking lot. It had rained earlier, and small puddles of water reflected the bright yellow and green sign above the store as well as the glaring sodium lights. 

Slamming the Lincoln into park, Jo shifted in her seat to face Evan directly. ''Just what the fuck is that s'posed to mean?'' she asked vehemently. 

''I don't...'' Evan shook her head. ''Nothing, colleen. Nothing.'' 

''Don't gimme that shit! Goddammit, Ev! We've been living together for six months. I know I ain't so good with words, for sure I ain't no poet or nothing, but I love you. I want us to stay together.'' She scrubbed at her pale hair, making it stand up in spikes. ''Whaddya mean, it's okay for me to want other women? I don't want nobody but you!'' 

''I...'' Evan was flustered. ''I only thought...'' 

''Look. You're my main squeeze, right? I mean, I love you. It ain't easy for me to say, 'cause I ain't had much practice, but I need you, Ev. I don't care you're older'n me, I don't care you gotta run around in a fuckin' fur coat sometimes, I don't care about magic or nothing. I just care about you. You ain't gotta worry I'm gonna dump you for some other woman, baby. Ain't gonna happen, not in this lifetime.'' 

Evan started to cry. ''But Jo, you don't understand.'' 

''Then explain it to me. I'm listening.'' Jo folded her arms across her chest, trying to dull the ache in her heart. 

''Colleen, it's not just a question of love. I love you as well. But do you not see? You'll grow old, Jo, and I'll remain the same. I've held myself away from love and commitment for a long time because of that.'' Tears dripped down her cheeks. ''I'm immortal. You're not. I'm not sure I can stand watchin' you slip away, year after year, until you breathe your last and I'm left alone again.'' 

''Oh. Shit.'' Jo unfolded her arms and laid a hand on Evan's knee. ''Okay. I think I see where you're coming from. But lemme ask you a question: would you rather stay alone forever, or would you rather have somebody with you, somebody who loves you, even if it's only for a little while?'' Her blue eyes searched Evan's. 

The Celtic woman sighed, then snuffled. ''I don't know. I don't know which is worse or which is better; I've been through them both.'' She accepted the worn handkerchief Jo offered and wiped her face. ''I do love you, Jo. Somethin' fierce. Just for right now - can we take it a day at the time?'' 

Jo drew her hand back. Well, at least she ain't telling me to take a flying leap, she thought. ''All right, baby. Whatever you want. I ain't proposing yet; but someday, I'm gonna get down on my knees and ask, and you'd better have an answer for me, like a definite yes or no, okay?'' 

''Okay.'' Evan nodded and blew her nose delicately. 

Jo started the car again and pulled out of the parking lot, back out onto the street. ''And no more of this, 'it's okay to see other people' shit, either. I don't want nobody else, and if I catch you making eyes at some other dyke, I'm gonna get real pissed real quick.'' 

Evan gave a small chuckle. ''No worries on that score, colleen. Now, where to?'' 

''Well, I know this little place on Augustine Street that's got these killer chili dogs,'' Jo replied with a smile. ''Smothered in stewed onions. And they sell Maalox, too.'' 

Evan rolled her eyes. Jo and her stomach, she thought. It's a wonder and a mystery to me how she stays so thin. ''And after? I take it we're goin' to look for this Wanda?'' 

''Got it in one!'' Jo turned right and they headed into the outskirts of the downtown area... a rough neighborhood that was not quite a complete slum, but deteriorated a little more, night after night, in a slow, downward spiral of corruption and vice - The Hinterlands. 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Jo ate three chili dogs to Evan's one, and was sucking on a cold Coke as they wandered down Augustine Street. Small shops had metal grills over their fronts; there was a prevalence of bars, pawn shops and tattoo parlors. The neon sign over one bar read, ''The Sacred Fist'' - and from the dozens of motorcycles parked out front, it was a biker hangout. 

Jo stopped to admire a gleaming chromed machine. ''Mmm, always wanted me a Fatboy,'' she said dreamily. 

''No. Absolutely not, Jo Tate.'' Evan clung to Jo's hand possessively. ''You're not gettin' any murder-cycle. I'm not havin' to identify your body after you get yourself killed.'' 

''Aw, c'mon, baby. It ain't that dangerous.'' Jo's eyes gleamed as she fantasized about the wind in her hair, Steppenwolf's ''Born to Be Wild'' blasting through her helmet, throbbing machine between her thighs, bugs in her teeth. Ugh. Ick. Back to the throbbing machine... oh, yeah.

''The way you drive, colleen, you'd be dead in a week.'' Evan tugged Jo onward. ''B'sides, I'll not be gettin' on one of those things.'' 

''What? You never wanted to be a hot biker chick?'' Jo drew the Celtic woman closer, wrapping an arm around her waist. 

''No,'' Evan replied pertly. ''Oh, Jo... wait a moment. Is that not Wanda up there?'' 

Jo peered. A small group of hookers was congregated just up the street from where they stood. As she watched, a Ferrari cruised up and a cluster of women scurried over, bending down and posing, while the rest cat-called and whooped. 

One of the women was smoking a cigarette, leaning back with one leg bent, foot resting against the brick wall. She wore a lavender fake fur midriff top, a short white skirt slit up both sides, and knee high plastic boots. Her strawberry blonde hair was caught up in two ponytails, and as the Ferrari glided away from the curb with its triumphant passenger, she spat and took another moody drag off her cigarette. 

''Yep. That's the one, all right. C'mon, Ev. Let's go ask Ms. Wanda the Wonder Woman a few questions,'' Jo said. 

When they approached, however, something in their stance must have made Wanda suspicious. Shooting them a look from heavily outlined eyes, she flicked her cigarette away and began walking rapidly up the street, the small trick bag over her shoulder banging into her hip. 

''Shit. There she goes.'' Jo began walking faster, Evan right at her side. Wanda looked over her shoulder, then took off at a dead run, racing down the trash littered sidewalk. 

''Goddammit! You go fur, Ev. I'm gonna try and cut her off this way,'' Jo gritted as she veered off and sprinted down an alley. 

In mid-stride, Evan changed to her shiftself and the she-wolf put on an astonishing burst of speed, loping after Wanda - past a trio of winos, who shook their heads, muttered something about Sterno, and went back to sleep huddled in their Salvation Army coats. 

As Wanda scuttled around a corner, Evan managed to grab the hem of her skirt and dug her paws in, legs straight, causing the woman to fall, sprawling, on the sidewalk. ::Jo! I've got her!:: she sent. 

Wanda rolled over, eyes wide as saucers in her pinched looking face as she took in the massive wolf whose bright orange ruff was standing around her head like a mane. Sobbing, the woman scrambled in her trick bag, finally pulling out a canister of Mace. Before she could press the trigger, however, a foot kicked it out of her hand. 

It was Jo; the tall platinum blonde was gasping for breath, and leaned over, hands on her knees. ''Jesus Christ, woman! We just wanna talk to ya, that's all! What's with the Roadrunner act?'' 

Wanda's mouth worked but no sound came out. She got to her knees and was clearly thinking about bolting, but Evan came forward on stiff legs, growling. The prostitute's eyes rolled back in her head and Jo grabbed her arm, hauling her to her feet. ''C'mon, sister. No fainting, now. The nice doggie ain't gonna hurt ya.'' 

::I'm goin' to get you for that, Jo:: Evan sent, but she sat back on her haunches and stopped growling. 

''See? Nice doggie.'' Jo held Wanda up, supporting her weight with a hand around her waist. Her other hand reached into the trick bag and pulled out a wolverkin claw. ''Oh ho! Whadda we got here?'' 

Wanda suddenly struggled to pull free. ''Lemme go! Don't touch that, it's mine! Put it back!'' 

Jo held her arm in a tight grip. ''Nuh-uh, cookie. How's about you tell me where you got this little pretty, huh? Who gave it to you?'' 

Wanda struggled some more, but soon realized it was futile. Jo was a lot stronger than she looked. ''I don't... I can't tell ya, okay? It's just this thing, right? Why you wanna hassle me? I ain't done nothin'.'' 

''Yeah, yeah, right.'' Jo let go of Wanda but kept the claw in her hand. ''Let's go someplace private-like. You gotta story to tell me about this here claw, and I'm dying to hear all about it. In detail.'' 

Wanda shook her head, wisps of strawberry blonde hair sticking to her sweaty face. ''No way. He'd kill me if I told.'' 

''Who'd kill you?'' 

''I already said too much.'' Wanda tugged at the hem of her fake fur top. ''I gotta go. Gimme that thing,'' she said, reaching for the claw, but Jo snatched it out of reach. 

''Listen, cookie. You got a coupla choices here: either you can be a good girl and cooperate, and I'll make sure you're protected and stuff, or I can just beat the hell outta ya and get what I want anyway. Up to you.'' Jo cracked the knuckles of one fist ostentatiously. ''I been needing a good workout anyhow.'' 

Wanda was clearly scared out of her wits, but while she wasn't exactly bright, she wasn't stupid, either. She licked her lips nervously and said, ''Okay. I'll tell ya what ya wanna know. Only, you gotta protect me from him! He can do stuff... weird stuff, magic stuff. I mean.'' She dropped her voice to a whisper. ''He's like some black magic dude or something. He can kill people just like that!'' She snapped her fingers. 

''Okay. Where you wanna go talk? After we chat, I'll make some arrangements.'' 

''We can go to the Palm Court. It's just down the street. I'll meet ya there.'' 

''No way, sister! You think I'm dumb or something? You come with us, all nice and quiet, and I'll even chauffeur you there in style.'' Jo grabbed Wanda's arm again. ''C'mon. March.'' 

::She's very scared, colleen:: Evan sent. ::I can smell the fear in her.:: 

::Yeah, I know. She's just a kid:: Jo replied silently. If Wanda was twenty, she'd be surprised. ::We'll take her to this Palm Court place. Must be a hotpillow joint.:: 

::Hotpillow?:: 

::Rents rooms by the hour. Never order room service in a hooker hotel, Ev. And never eat the popcorn in a porno theater.:: Jo's mental image of what they might use for butter in such a place made Evan's ghostly giggle echo through her mind. 

The platinum blonde and the wolf escorted Wanda to the Lincoln, garnering very little attention. The street people had seen stranger sights... 

But a man dressed in stinking rags looked up as they passed, then hurried to the nearest pay phone. 

A few moments later, he spoke into the cracked receiver: ''Hello? Let me speak to Ms. Ishtar. Yeah, I'll hold. But it's important.'' 

His eyes narrowed as he watched the big black Lincoln drive away.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Palm Court turned out to be just what Jo predicted: a motel dedicated to the prostitution trade. Jo rented a room for two hours from the bored clerk, paying cash, then got them all inside.

A Queen sized bed was covered in a stained gold lame bedspread; the rest of the furniture consisted of a cheap formica nightstand, a table with a TV bolted to the top, and a rickety chair. The place stank of stale cigarette smoke and disinfectant, with an underlying odor of rank sweat and sex that made Evan wrinkle her muzzle and wish her nose wasn't quite so sensitive.

Evan was still in her ShiftSelf as a wolf, having communicated to Jo that since Wanda was nervous already, there was no need to have her further frightened by what she would believe to be a werewolf.

Jo had agreed, commenting wryly, ::She's already damned near pissed her panties. Wouldn't want her doing a brown shower act without getting paid.::

Wanda perched on the end of the bed and lit a cigarette. Evan sniffed the smoke, suddenly craving one herself.

::No way I'm asking, Ev. It's weird enough, you acting like Rin Tin Tin. B'sides, you'd look silly with a coffin nail hanging out of your muzzle, and how ya gonna smoke anyway? Not like you got lips or nothing.:: Jo smiled as Evan got up and nosed her leg.

''So, Wanda, you got my full attention, here,'' Jo said out loud. ''How's about you tell me how you got in this shit.''

Evan sat down by Jo, listening intently while Wanda spoke.

''There's this guy, right? I met him a couple of months ago at this club, you know, that one over by the Masonic Hall? The Hairy Eyeball?'' Jo nodded, and Wanda continued. ''Anyways, he told me he was a magician, could do all kinds'a stuff. Showed me some real freaky things. He gimme a lot of money, told me to plant this claw on my next john. I figured it must be kinda a joke or somethin', so I done it.'' She shrugged and tapped her cigarette ash on the floor. ''Month later, same deal. Then, a coupla days ago, he gimme another one, only I kinda forgot. He was majorly ticked when I called him and told him I didn't do it. But he paid me anyway, and I was s'posed to do it again tonight. Then you guys showed up.''

Evan sent, ::Ask her if she knows the men are dead.:: To herself, she thought,What's that noise? Sounds like a refrigerator... maybe the soda machine outside.

''Lemme ask ya, cookie - you know what happened to those guys you planted the claws on?'' Jo dangled one arm down and laid her hand on Evan's head, stroking the soft fur with her fingers.

Wanda shook her head. ''Nope.''

''They're dead. Both of 'em. Plus, a cop who had the first two claws on him. The police ain't happy campers right now.''

The cigarette dropped from Wanda's nerveless fingers and began to smolder on the dirty gold pile carpet. She quickly crushed it out with one boot. ''Oh, my God!'' Wanda exclaimed, on the verge of tears. ''Oh, my God! What'm I gonna do? I don't wanna go to jail! I didn't do nothin' wrong! You gotta help me!''

''We will.'' Jo stroked one of Evan's upstanding ears absently. ''You know this magic dude's name? Where he lives? Anything?''

''I dunno.'' Wanda used one finger to rub off streaks of runny eyeliner from beneath her eyes. ''No, wait. Told me his name was John Smith, like I was gonna b'lieve him, right? But he said something this one time. Said he lived in the Gray Lock, whatever that means.''

::Gray Lock?:: Jo scratched her head with her free hand but continued petting the wolf. ::Mean anything to you, Ev?::

Evan cocked her head to one side. ::Mmmm... a little to the left, Jo, my ear itches:: she instructed, then, ::Let me think... oh! Ask her if it could be the Gralloch.::

::Gotcha.:: Jo turned her blue eyes back on Wanda. ''Maybe it was the Gralloch? The old Conservatory place down south?''

''Yeah, maybe.'' Wanda crossed her legs and began to wag her booted foot up and down. ''Sounds like what he said. Hey, I got his phone number, too. Hang on a sec.''

Evan was getting annoyed. What is that noise? Her ear began flicking back and forth.

As Wanda started sifting through the contents of her trick bag, pulling out packages of condoms, lipstick, keys and a few bills, looking for her employer's phone number, Jo sent, ::I got an idea. We get outta here, I'm introducing her to Sy.::

::You jest, colleen!:: Evan sounded shocked. ::Whyever for?::

::Huh. Sy may not look it, but he's a pretty good guy under all that tin-foil-hat paranoia shit. We can rig up protections around his house, and for sure he can protect Wanda from any mundane threat, right?::

::Hmm. You just might be onto somethin' there.::

The humming noise that Evan had been hearing just on the edge of her perception got louder... and she suddenly realized what it was. ::Jo! Get Wanda in the bathroom! Now!::

Without questioning, Jo leaped across the room, snatched the startled prostitute up, and hustled her into the bathroom, Evan on her heels. As she slammed the door shut, Jo sent, ::What the hell?::

Evan sat down facing the door, and abruptly shifted to her SkinShape, making Wanda scream and slide down the wall to huddle against the toilet.

''The peris. They're coming,'' the Celtic woman said shortly. ''Lock the door.''

Jo's face paled.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"Whadda we do?'' Jo asked, nervously scrubbing her hands on the front of her jeans.

''I'm going to set up a protective shield. This ceramic tile will hold an electric charge.'' Evan began to chant the Rann of the Iron Shield, pulling every scrap of power she could from the faint ley lines near the motel, as well as pooling her own personal energy and the reserves in the rings she wore on each finger.

Wanda was still screaming. Jo bent over and slapped her sharply, rocking her head back. ''Willya shut the fuck up, cookie?'' she said to the hysterical prostitute. ''We got problems enough without you making us deaf.''

''I don't... what... what's happening?'' Wanda whimpered.

Jo squatted down next to the terrified young woman and put a hand on her knee. ''Listen. Some really, really bad shit is fixing to go down. Now, me and my partner, Ev, we're gonna take care of you. But you gotta be quiet, okay? Let us work.''

''How... I mean, she was a wolf...'' Wanda started crying again.

Jo blew out an exasperated breath. ''I'll explain later.'' Rising, she muttered, ''If there is a friggin' later.'' The tall blonde shifted to her Othersight in order to see the magical energies Evan was manipulating.

The humming was loud enough now that she could hear it, too. As bars of blue-white energy began forming up around the door and settling against the walls and ceiling, Jo stepped back a half pace, eyes wide. The wooden door was beginning to splinter under the force of the peri's attack.

''Oh, SHIT!'' Jo spat, then began transferring her own magical resources to Evan, praying they could get the protections up in time.

Evan never faltered, continuing chanting while the door was rapidly chipped away, holes appearing in the smudged white surface. Sweat pouring down her brow, she gasped the last line of the spell and stepped back herself, bumping into Jo.

The door was reduced to splinters and sawdust in a few moments, and the women had a clear view of what was going on in the other room.

All the furniture had been reduced to shreds and tatters; even the television was nothing but a heap of twisted metal and wires. Small forms buzzed in mid-air, looping and hovering on blurred iridescent wings, just beyond the coruscating blue-white shield that Evan had gotten up just in time.

One of the peris came closer and Jo stared, fascinated. A tiny winged woman, exquisitely beautiful, with over-large black eyes, itty-bitty pink nipples and a wisp of down between her smooth legs. As Jo watched, the peri opened her mouth and hissed, showing needle sharp teeth, and reached out one clawed finger to touch the shield.

Jo flinched as a surge of blue-white energy crackled, making the peri shriek in agony and convulse as pure powerful magic seared her flesh. The creature dropped to the carpet with a muffled thud - a charred, smoking corpse that resembled a charcoal briquette.

The death of one of their own seemed to infuriate the peris further. They all began screaming shrilly in rage and redoubled their efforts to find a hole in the women's defenses. Chunks were ripped from the walls, but the peris were defeated each time by the shield. The screaming grew louder, more frantic, and their flying more frenzied.

Jo put both hands on Evan's shoulders, ignoring Wanda weeping behind them. ''Jeez, baby. These things killed Bear and the others?''

''Yes.'' Evan watched as the peris destroyed the room further in their efforts to get into the bathroom. ''I don't know what they'll be doin' when they find they can't get in here.''

''Maybe they'll go away,'' Jo murmured. ''I only got the room for two hours.'' She squeezed Evan's shoulders, then turned and said to Wanda, ''We're safe. Hear me? They can't get in. We're safe.''

Wanda continued crying softly, hands covering her face.

Jo sighed. ''Shit.'' She sat down on the edge of the bathtub. ''I need a drink.''

Evan sat down cross-legged near her lover, and propped her elbows on her knees. Jo began kneading the muscles of her shoulders, and she let her head droop forward with a sigh of her own.

The peris kept screaming, and Wanda kept crying.

Jo looked at her watch. ''Jesus! They've been at it over two hours, Ev. Think they're gonna get tired anytime soon?''

Evan glanced at the open doorway. The peris were still hovering just beyond the shield. Large holes had been eaten into the walls and other peris were stationed there as well. It seemed as if they were determined to wait as long as necessary to flush out their prey.

They can't be after all of us, Evan thought. And we only just met Wanda.

She scooted around to face the prostitute. Wanda had finally fallen silent and stared into space, clearly in shock. ''Wanda?'' Evan asked softly. ''I need to ask you a question...''

A banging on the front door of the motel room startled them. A man's voice came through. ''Hey! You only got the room two hours! C'mon in there! Either you pay for another hour or get lost! I gotta business to run here!''

''Oh, shit! It's the friggin' clerk!'' Jo got up and walked close to the cracking magical shield, shouting, ''HEY! DON'T COME IN HERE, MAN!''

The clerk banged on the door again. ''I gotta master key! Open up or I'm gonna do it myself!''

''SHIT! NO, DON'T COME IN HERE!'' Jo reached out one hand to the shield, then let it drop. ''GODDAMMIT, YOU FUCKIN' IDIOT! DON'T COME IN! THERE'S DANGEROUS SHIT IN HERE, MAN! YOU'LL GET KILLED!''

There was the sound of a key scrabbling in the lock, then the front door was flung open wide and the clerk entered, saying, ''I don't give a good goddamn what you people are doing in here, either pay up or...'' He suddenly noticed the hovering peris, who had all turned to see the intruder. The clerk continued in a small voice, ''get out.''

He looked at Jo, her form clearly visible in the open bathroom doorway. ''What the fuck?''

Jo put one hand over her eyes as Evan moved up next to her and wrapped an arm around her waist. ''There's nothing we can do,'' the Celtic woman said. ''You warned him, colleen.''

''Yeah, but... aw, shit.'' Jo peeked out from between her fingers...

The peris shot towards the clerk in a buzzing crowd, swarming around him. He waved his arms wildly, yelling, ''Fuck! Get away! G-g-get away from me! Ow!'' He'd connected with one peri, who nipped him in return.

He stumbled backwards, hand bleeding, until he got to the threshold and fell over in a heap, panting and chanting, ''Fuck... fuck... fuck...,'' between gasps. The peris immediately formed up at the doorway, then shot off like arrows back to their former positions just beyond the shield that protected the bathroom.

Jo looked at Evan. ''Well, I'll be goddamned!'' She watched the clerk get to his feet and stumble away. ''They didn't have him for a midnight snack! What the hell's going on, Ev?''

Evan frowned. ''I think... Jo, do you still have that claw?''

''Yeah.'' Jo dug one hand into her jeans pocket and came up with the object. ''What about it?''

''I have an idea.''

CHAPTER TWENTY

The claw had been placed on the sink. Evan held both hands up to the shield, then glanced over her shoulder.

Wanda was directly behind her, with Jo bringing up the rear, her hands locked around the prostitute's upper arms. If Wanda faltered, Jo would drag her if she had to.

''Ready?'' Evan gathered herself, preparing to drop the shield.

''Yeah. Ready when you are.'' Jo drew in a deep breath and tensed her muscles.

With a muttered command and a slash of her hands, Evan let the shield drop and led the other two women into the motel room, Jo having to literally shove the paralyzed Wanda along.

The peris swarmed around on iridescent wings, dark hair fluttering, eyes wide and unblinking. They hissed, dipping up and down, hovering, claws extended - but they didn't attack.

''C'mon, colleen. I think it's workin'!'' Evan led them across the room and out the door as the peris buzzed and hummed. ''They'll only attack if the victim's got the claw!''

As soon as her feet hit the sidewalk, Evan sprinted for the Lincoln, keys in her hand. She had the driver's door open as Jo picked up Wanda and carried her bodily to the car, shoving her inside. ''Get in, goddammit!'' the platinum blonde muttered to Evan, who dived in.

Jo slid into the seat, slammed the door and started the engine. Peris had poured from the motel room and were squealing and humming in a cloud around the car. But it seemed as if their earlier purpose had been lost. They weren't trying to get inside; they looped around in mid-air confusion, and when Jo got the Lincoln in gear and drove away, they stayed behind.

Jo kept her foot on the gas as they peeled away from the motel, one eye on the rearview mirror. Evan was twisted around in the seat, looking out of the back window. The peris gathered into a cloud again, then shot off into the night with a rising wail, disappearing back where they'd come from.

Jo wiped her sweaty brow with one hand. ''Jeez... you are such a fun date, you know that, baby?'' She put one arm around Evan's shoulders and pulled her close, planting a kiss on her lover's forehead. ''How's Wanda?''

Evan glanced at the prostitute. Wanda was slumped against the passenger door in a dead faint, a thin line of drool snaking down the side of her mouth.

''She's out, Jo. Where to now?''

''Home.'' Jo sent the Lincoln shuddering around a corner and drove like a maniac through the rain slicked streets, and kept her arm around Evan, who snuggled closer and closed her eyes, deciding this was not the time or place to comment on Jo's insane driving habits.

''Yes,'' the Celtic woman murmured. ''Take us home.''

Ellis waited.

Karcis stood in the center of the workroom. Her form was slightly blurred, as if seen through a warped glass. ''Soon, master,'' the Div said. ''Soon we will be together for eternity.''

''I don't know. I just don't know anymore.'' Ellis paced nervously back and forth. ''I mean... they killed a cop. That's big trouble.''

The story had broken in the newspapers that morning. Headlines screamed, ''Serial Killer On Rampage'' and ''No One Safe From Crazed Murderer!'' A few details about the mutilations had gotten out and the media was having a field day. Charles Columbia, Chief of Police, had held a press conference that afternoon, lamenting the death of ''one of their own'' and vowing to bring the killer to justice.

Karcis smiled. ''He was a man like any other, O master.'' Her hands slid up her body, along her curves, to clutch and knead her full breasts. ''Another life and I will be yours completely.''

Ellis looked at the Div, taking in her perfection. ''I don't know...,'' he whined.

Karcis smiled again, and her form shifted, hair shrinking to a short, curly mop, curves altering, body reshaping itself, until she stood there as a young man, flat muscles and belly, penis bobbing between his/her legs. But the eyes were still crimson, the feathers and bird's feet had not changed. ''Just think, O master, what delights await you...'' He/she tugged on his/her penis, shaking it a little. ''I can give you what no other woman can. I am all things.''

Ellis gulped, his mouth suddenly dry, and tore his eyes away from the sight. '' I just...,'' he began, and stopped. A buzzing hum had sprung up. ''The peris! They're coming back!''

Karcis snarled, ''No! NO! They have not given me a life!'' and shifted back to her female form.

The peris swarmed into the room, screeching shrilly. Ellis covered his ears and shouted, ''Make them stop!''

Karcis barked a command and the peris fell silent. She held out a hand, palm up, and one of the peris backwinged down to perch on her palm. The Div held the creature up, looking it in the eye. ''What happened?'' she asked, breasts quivering as she drew deep breaths through her nostrils.

The peri squeaked, voice just at the edge of human perception. Ellis dug a finger in his ear and shuddered; the sound was like nails on a chalkboard.

When the peri finished speaking, Karcis was silent - then shockingly, her hand abruptly closed, crushing the tiny creature. Black blood dripped from her fist and her eyes blazed with crimson fury. ''Fools!'' she shouted. ''You have failed me!''

The remaining peris began squeaking in consternation, banging into one another as they sought to escape their mistress' wrath. Karcis pointed a finger out the open window. ''Back! Go back, worthless slaves! Find me a life, I care not what kind, but find me a life and return to me! Go! GO!''

''No!,'' Ellis exclaimed, trying futilely to stop the peris as they swarmed through the window and back into the night. ''You can't... no! Stop them! Now!'' He turned to the Div. ''We'll try again tomorrow night... You can't just... what if they kill a child or something? You can't... I mean... the others were dirty, they deserved what they got, but...''

Karcis turned her crimson eyes on the spluttering man. ''I need a life. I will have a life. So much the better if it be untainted of sin and pure.'' She drew closer to Ellis, just beyond arm's reach. ''I will have it!''

Ellis ran shaking hands through his hair and began chanting the commands he'd gotten from Paracelsus' journal, the incantation that would bind Karcis to his will. He reached the end of the spell and stepped back, confident he could now force the Div into obeying.

But to his shock, Karcis laughed, an unpleasant sound that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. ''You are a fool as well, O master,'' she said with a sarcastic twist to the last word. ''You can command me no longer. I am too strong now and soon, I will be free of the jewel, free to do as I please. You cannot stop me.''

As Ellis stumbled back, eyes wide and jaw dropping in shock, the Div continued with a sneer. ''And yours will be the final life I need to break my chains forever.''

With a wail, Ellis sank to the floor, knowing in his very bones he could not escape - and Karcis' laugh echoed on and on, filling the room with the sound of demonic scorn.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"So what can we do to stop her, Ev?'' Jo glanced at her lover, who sat on the other end of the sofa. ''Hello? Earth to Lassie! Come in, Ev!''

''Hmmm? Oh...'' Evan smiled. ''Sorry. I was thinkin'...''

Jo snorted. ''Like that's such a surprise.'' She took another gulp of the sweat beaded bottle of Harp in her hand. ''So whadda we gotta do to stop this Karcis?''

''Well, last time she tried breakin' free - this was around the 1500's or so - the Egyptian mage summoned Al'Quiset, a djinn - not a djinni - to deal with her.''

''So how come we can't do the same? And what the hell's a genie, anyhow? Barbara Eden in a harem get-up? What's the diff?''

Evan stifled a laugh. ''Ah, no, colleen. See, the eastern mythology has man and angels, but betwixt the two are the djinn and the djinni. Djinn are good, like guardian angels. Djinni are evil, like demons. A Div is a descendent of a djinni. The djinn have power over the djinni; Al'Quiset was able to force Karcis back into the jewel long enough that the Egyptian could renew the bindin's on her.

''But we don't have that option. Most of the djinn are gone. The few who remain are imprisoned in bottles and such. We haven't the time to go searchin' for a magic lamp.''

''I see your point.'' Jo sighed. ''So if she busts loose, whadda we do about it?''

''We'll have to keep her from killin' the mage that summoned her, for one. Until she does, she can't be fully freed. There's this spell we can do. It'll cause the life energy she's stolen to return to the Wheel - the afterlife, if you will - and out of her reach. Once she's weakened, we can renew the bindin's on her.''

''Great. Another shitstorm we gotta wade through.'' Jo tugged her earlobe. ''Well, before we do this, I gotta drop Wanda off at Sy's place. I already called and told him we were coming. Anything else?''

Evan shifted on the sofa until she was pressed against Jo. ''Mmm, I can think of one or two minor things that need takin' care of,' she said in a husky purr.

''Does dangerous shit always make you horny, woman?'' Jo asked, but she slid one hand through Evan's hair and bent her head, tongue flicking out to trace the other woman's bottom lip.

Evan opened her mouth, allowing Jo access, moaning softly as her lover's tongue slid inside, tasting and probing; her hands gliding up Jo's back, holding her close as their breaths mingled...

''Um... I gotta pee. Where's the bathroom?''

They abruptly sprang apart, startled blue eyes and gray staring at Wanda, who shifted uncomfortably. She'd woken up in a strange bedroom and hearing voices, had wandered into the living room to see what was going on.

''Uh, yeah... bathroom's down the hall to the right.'' Jo made a face to Evan, who laughed softly. ''Shit. Okay, I'm outta here. Wanda? You go pee and then I'm gonna take you someplace safe where you can hole up a while.'' The platinum blonde got off the sofa and stretched. ''Ev, I'll meet ya at the Conservatory in an hour.'' She leaned down and kissed Evan's mouth lightly.

In a few minutes, Jo and Wanda left the apartment, and Evan was alone.

She ran over the requirements of the spell she would be using and gathered together the components. Going into the second bedroom, which they used as a workroom, she lit candles and stripped down, anointing herself with oil and murmuring a blessing of protection.

Within forty minutes, she'd finished most of the spell and sat back on her heels, the orange hair around her brow dark with sweat. All that remained was a single command and a handful of salt, and Karcis would lose the magical energy she'd stolen. Hopefully, the Div could then be forced back into the jewel. Rising, Evan blew out the candles, then staggered back, clutching the skin above her heart.

Jo!

Danger, death danger, jumbled images that suggested pain and injury... sheer soul killing fright rose up in the Celtic woman's breast. Jo was in trouble! Gray eyes wide, Evan scrambled into her clothes then headed out the door, not even bothering to lock it in her haste to get away, get to Jo, get there NOW! As she ran down the hallway to the stairs, her lips lifted in a snarl of pure rage.

If anythin' happens to my Jo, she thought savagely, taking the stairs in a controlled foot-flickering tumble, t'is a grand killin' there'll be this day!

Sprinting through the lobby, heart in her throat, she reached out to the mental bond she shared with her lover. ::Jo? Jo, are you all right?::

The answer came faintly. ::Aw, shit... I'm dead. They fuckin' got me, baby... Sorry... love you...:: and her mental ''voice'' trailed off into terrifying silence.

::No! NO! Jo?!! Answer me!:: But there was no reply.

Hitting the revolving door hard with her hands, Evan got outside the building and leaped into the taxi waiting at the curb. ''The Gralloch Conservatory, 'Restes!'' she barked to the driver. ''And hurry! There's a life at stake!''

Orestes the satyr didn't reply; he peeled away from the curb with smoking tires and the stink of burning rubber, and headed for their destination, his hoof planted firmly on the gas. Evan had summoned him earlier and he'd been waiting for the woman ever since.

Evan leaned back against the seat and panted, body covered with cold sweat. She felt nauseous, dizzy... again and again she reached out, calling, ::Jo? Jo? Please, answer me!:: but only silence greeted her efforts.

Leaning forward, the Celtic woman banged her fist on the Plexiglas divider and said, ''Go faster, 'Restes!''

His mud brown eyes met hers in the mirror. ''Who hurt?'' he asked in his rumbling voice, expertly guiding the taxi through traffic.

''My... it's Jo, my Jo, she's hurt, maybe dyin'... hurry!''

The satyr scratched the wild brown locks that tumbled across his forehead. ''Okay,'' he replied simply, then mashed down on the accelerator hard, making the taxi leap forward with a roar.

Evan was pressed back into the seat as Orestes took her at her word and made the taxi fly. Again and again, the satyr narrowly avoided accidents and ran red lights with complete unconcern. Evan closed her eyes, whispering prayers to the gods to keep the woman she loved beyond all life safe until she could get there.

::Hold on, Jo:: she sent desperately, hoping Jo could hear her even if she could not reply. :: Hold on, my love. I'm comin', I'm on my way... I love you.::

And the taxi rocketed through the streets on its desperate mission.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

It had taken Jo less time than she'd thought to convince Sy to let Wanda stay at his place. She'd concocted a story about the young woman being stalked by ''possible government agents, you know, the dudes with all them initials,'' and Sy had suddenly become fiercely protective.

''Don't worry,'' he'd said, putting an arm around Wanda's shoulders and hefting a Remington 12-gauge shotgun. ''They won't get you here. You're safe. I'll protect you from them.''

Wanda, having decided to get over her initial fright, was feeling much better. Apparently, she'd convinced herself that the peris were just figments of her imagination. Or something.

''You know,'' she whispered to Jo, ''this guy ain't half bad. I'm glad we got outta that motel, though. They had really bad mosquitoes.'' With a sunny smile, the prostitute accepted a hastily procured soda from Sy, and Jo grinned.

Whoo-hoo! the platinum blonde thought. Am I a matchmaker or what? Cupid, step aside, son, 'cause Jo's in town and doin' the Dating Game thing!

Indeed, it seemed as if the paranoid Sy was really warming up to Wanda, who listened, fascinated, to his stories, twining a lock of her strawberry blonde hair around and around one finger. Both of them had forgotten that Jo was even in the room.

Which is totally cool by me, she thought. I gotta rig some protections around this joint anyway.

She stalked around Sy's house, muttering an incantation under her breath and sketching invisible symbols using water and salt she'd gotten from the man's kitchen. Doors, windows, attic trapdoor, the whole nine yards. After she finished, Jo let herself out, making sure she marked the threshold as she left, and climbed back into the souped up Doozy.

''Okay. Nothing's getting in there now. Where to? Where to?... I can go back to the apartment and pick up Evan... no, she's probably left by now,'' Jo said to herself, checking her watch. ''Maybe I'll just cruise on over to the Gralloch, scope things out before she gets there.'' She started the engine and pulled out of Sy's neighborhood.

The ruined hulk of the Conservatory was dark; broken windows gleamed like jagged teeth in the moonlight. It was nearly 3 a.m., and a soft wind blew from the east, rustling through trees and scattering leaves along the wild, weed-thick grounds.

Jo parked on the street, and spent a moment just looking, probing the building with her eyes, seeking any sign of life. There wasn't any. She got out of the car and sauntered to the boarded-up door, tugging a baseball cap on her head and tucking the black Xena T-shirt she wore into the waistband of her jeans.

Yeah, I gotta be cool, like Xena on TV, she thought with a grin as she walked slowly around the perimeter. Do the whole wild-warrior-momma with an attitude thing. Yi-yi-yi, motherfuckers! Drop yer drawers and kiss yer hairy asses goodbye 'cause Jo the Barbarian Wench is kickin' bootie and takin' names!

As she walked, keeping to the charred walls of the building, Jo began to think about Evan. She's so fine... got manners like a real lady, so loving, gotta love that bod, too. Ev's fuckin' built! And cool tats. That hair... man, naked with that wicked orange hair, like lookin' at a bonfire or something between her legs... and she cooks and keeps stuff clean, even does my friggin' laundry, she's so caring, so good to me. If that ain't love, I sure as hell don't know what is. And I love holding her, talkin' to her. I can tell her anything. She's my best friend and my baby.

Jo fingered the small box she had been carrying around in her jeans for a month. She'd gotten Evan a ring, had it custom made by this jeweler she knew. Paid cash, too, so her lover wouldn't find it on a credit card bill or in the checkbook. She'd been wanting to ask Evan for a commitment, propose they stay together forever.

Let's mate for life like swans... or wolves. Jo thought.

Suddenly, a slight noise behind her made her whirl around - straight into the baseball bat swinging toward her head.

Dimly, through a brilliant burst of light and pain, she heard Evan's frantic sending, asking if she was okay.

::Aw, shit...:: Jo sent as she fell, spiraling down into darkness, ::I'm dead. They fuckin' got me, baby... sorry... love you.::

And then she surrendered to oblivion.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Ellis paced back and forth, back and forth... he'd tried to run earlier, but Karcis had dragged him back screaming, using her demonic power to shackle him to the workroom.

The peris returned, squealing shrilly in triumph, and began feeding life energy to the Div. Karcis' form brightened, glowing with power, becoming more and more solid until, with a sound like the shattering of pure crystal, some unseen force stretched thinner and thinner finally frayed - and broke into a thousand invisible fragments.

''Free...'' Karcis breathed, stretching luxuriously. ''Free!''

Ellis stared at the Div, his face haggard. ''So what did they kill? An innocent woman? A priest? A child?''

Karcis turned to face the man, eyes blazing bright crimson. ''No. If it is any consolation, son of Adam, the sacrifice was old and male, steeped in vice and corruption.'' She licked her lips. ''But it was enough. At last, I am free!'' The talons of her bird feet scratched at the marble floor.

Ellis looked dully at the ebony cane of Paracelsus on its stand. The garnet, the Eye of the Beast, no longer glowed; it seemed dark and lifeless, every hint of inner light blown out like a candle.

Karcis suddenly frowned as one of the peris screeched imperiously. ''There is a daughter of Eve outside. She has power, that one.'' The Div gestured. ''I want it. Go, man. Bring her to me. Alive.''

Ellis felt the ties the demon had placed on him tightening, compelling him to rise. ''I won't... you can't make me...''

''You will. You have no choice.'' Karcis' lips stretched in a mirthless smile. ''Make sure you do not kill her. I will sacrifice you both together; that will be more than enough to break the final binding on my power and allow me to dwell in this plane forever. I will become a goddess and the human cattle will bend down and bow their heads to me... I will only have a small corner of the world, but it will be mine!'' She clenched her hands into fists. ''Now, go! Bring me the woman!''

Ellis struggled against the compulsion, but in the end, had no choice but to surrender to it. He watched as his body, no longer under his control, walked downstairs, picking up a baseball bat and gliding through the hidden door to the outside, silently stalking the tall woman in a baseball cap who was sneaking around the building.

He swung, careful not use all his strength, straight at her. She turned around, mouth open, hands coming up but it was too late. The bat connected solidly to her temple and she crumpled in a heap on the ground.

Ellis tossed aside the bat and grabbed the woman's heels, dragging her back inside the Conservatory, and in some small part of his mind that was still able to process thought, he screamed an apology, over and over again.

Evan was out of the taxi before it came to a full stop, wrenching open the door and tumbling out.

She was trembling, but with rage rather than fear. ::Jo! Hang on! I'm here!::

Evan was held in the grip of a profound fury but she managed to keep a rein on it, locking down the negative emotions and channeling that energy into her magical reserves.

As she ran full-tilt towards the door, she changed to her ShiftSelf, picking up speed and hitting the boarded-up opening with her full weight and the impetus of fear-spawned anger behind her.

The boards splintered under the she-wolf's charge and she was through, falling to the littered floor, claws scrabbling on slick marble, thick orange fur dusted with bits of wood. Her paws slid as she scrambled, muzzle up and casting back and forth, seeking Jo's scent.

There! The elusive odor she knew better than her own.

She raced up the stairs, belly low to the ground, tail streaming straight out behind her, following Jo's scent. ::Where are you, love?:: she sent. ::Jo! Can you hear me?::

Faintly, she heard Jo's reply. ::Yeah... I'm here. Dunno where. Jeez... anybody get the number of the truck that hit me?::

::JO!:: Evan almost shouted in relief. ::I'm comin'. Just hold on...:: She sniffed, orienting herself, then took off down a corridor, nails clicking on the marble floor.

::Hey, no hurry, baby. I ain't going nowhere.::

In the workroom, Jo tugged ruefully at the bonds on her wrists and ankles. She was flat on her back in the middle of a pentagram drawn on the floor; the ropes were fastened to staples set directly in the black and white marble. Beside her, a man who was also tied down alternately wept and giggled.

Oh yeah, she thought. He's gone.

She winced as her head throbbed in time to her pulse. Shit. I got one mother of a headache. Suddenly, a figure loomed over her and her blue eyes went wide.

::Um, Ev? Does a Div have red eyes and feet like a friggin' bird's?:: Jo smiled weakly and waggled her fingers in hello as the demon-chick grinned widely, showing needle sharp teeth. ::We gotta live one here, baby. Watch yer ass!::

::Karcis!:: Evan had reached a closed door. Her muzzle quested by the crack, snuffling. The scent was strongest here. ::Just a moment longer, love. I'm right outside.::

::Be careful. Looks like Karcis is getting a little impatient.:: Jo watched as the Div reached out into the air and her hand wrapped around the handle of a hook-bladed knife whose razor sharp edge glittered. ::Oh, SHIT!::

::JO!::

But there was no reply.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Evan changed to her SkinShape, pushing orange hair out of her face. Twisting her fingers together in a complicated knot, she barked a single word, and with a horrible screech, the door blew off its hinges, flying across the room and sailing through a window, leaving broken glass in its wake.

She jumped through the opening, skidding on the floor and nearly falling, but managed to wrench herself back up and ran, barely registering that she seemed to be in an elaborately ornate bedroom, decorated like something from a whore's nightmare.

The room beside that one was open. She came to a halt at the doorway, hands clutching the framework convulsively.

The Div Karcis knelt at the apex of a pentagram drawn on the floor. Within the center of the symbol, Jo and a strange man were bound. Candles flickered everywhere, wax dripping down and pooling in strange shapes on every flat surface. Karcis held a knife whose hooked blade glinted cruelly; she held her other hand flat on Jo's forehead, forcing her head back and exposing her vulnerable throat.

''NO!'' Evan roared, the sound seeming to fill up every available space within the room and rebound back, growing in strength and fury. Without thinking, Evan changed to her ShiftSelf, and the she-wolf, with a howl of pure rage, leaped across the intervening space, straight at Karcis.

The Div looked up, beautiful face twisted in a grimace. A bolt of concussive force slammed into Evan in mid-air, throwing her back and into a wall. She hit hard, cracking the plaster, and slid down to the floor.

Karcis smiled evilly, then said, ''You cannot stop me, child of oaks. I am too strong for you. I will kill these two and then I will be free!'' She laid the edge of the knife against Jo's throat, drawing a bead of dark blood that slipped down the woman's pale flesh. ''I would kill you as well, but walk away now, and I will grant you your life. What means this mortal to you anyway?''

Evan shifted back to her SkinAhape and licked a trickle of blood from her lips. She crouched down on the floor, hands flat in front of her, back bowed, growling softly, the incongruous sound bubbling from her human throat.

Jo lay absolutely still, eyes watering, but she said, ''Ev... will you marry me?''

Evan was startled out of her rage-trance. ''W-w-what?''

''I said, goddammit, will you marry me! It's time, baby. Yes or no?'' Jo stopped talking as Karcis pressed the knife harder into her neck.

For a long heartbeat, Evan considered, drawing up from her memory everything the other woman meant to her - and how empty her life would be without the tall blonde who had come to be the other half of her soul.

Kernossus and Dana help me, the Celtic woman thought. I cannot live without her. She is my world. I love her too much to give her up. These misgivin's of mine are foolish. Oh, Jo. I throw my heart entirely into the Cup of Truth and trust to Fate, my soul friend, my love.

Without another moment's hesitation, Evan replied simply, ''Yes.''

Karcis sneered, ''How sweet. Now, will you go, oak child? Or will you die with these mortals?''

But Jo was hardly as helpless as she appeared.

She reached inside to the power within, and squeezing her eyes shut, sent a lash of energy to the bonds on her wrists. The ropes burned through in a second and her hands shot up, fastening around Karcis' wrists and forcing the knife away from her throat.

''Do it now, Ev! NOW!'' Jo shouted, as Karcis cursed and struggled, the knife coming closer and closer.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Dipping a hand into the pocket of her shirt, Evan uncoiled from the floor and was across the room in a bound, tossing a handful of salt into Karcis' face and shouting the final line of the spell she had set up before.

The Div screamed shrilly, clawing at her face, the knife falling with a clatter. Evan burned through the ropes on Jo's ankles with a word, then dragged her lover out of the pentagram.

Jo panted, ''That guy! Gotta be Smith!'' and rolled over on her stomach, hand going to the knife she carried in a sheath that hung down the back of her neck. Drawing the blade, she scrambled on hands and knees back to the pentagram, Evan yelling behind her, ''Jo! Get out of there!''

''Can't let her kill 'im, she'll get free,'' Jo muttered as Karcis fell over on her back, bird's legs kicking, sharp talons gouging chunks from the floor dangerously close to the man's head.

She was nearly depleted of energy. Shot my wad with that last one, Jo thought, and started sawing at the ropes on the man's ankles. He wailed, babbling, ''I'm sorry! I'm sorry!'' over and over.

Evan hastened to help as Karcis shrilled, ''Kill them! Kill them all!'' and the peris swarmed out of the cabinet, humming with deadly purpose.

Jo ignored the buzzing peris, even as one fastened itself on her cheek and bit down, making her swear, ''Fuck! Get offa me, you piranha bitch!'' She continued cutting through the man's ropes and another peri started chewing on her ear, blood dripping on her T-shirt. More were coming, lighting on her hair, her chest, trying to get to her eyes.

Getting his ankles free, she looked up to see Evan, a deep gash above her eyebrow dripping blood, and peris clawing and biting at her shoulder and face, slice through the ropes on the man's wrists with a muttered word. Jo grabbed his ankles and heaved, getting him out of the pentagram, then stood shakily above him, reaching up to snatch the burrowing peris off her face and ear, shaking her head violently and jumping up and down to dislodge the rest.

Evan got up, too, then began waving her hands in a weaving motion and chanting hoarsely. Peris began exploding, one after the other, with a sound like popping corn and a wet splattering as bits of wet flesh and black blood hit the floor and walls.

The remaining peris shrieked, their voices rising higher and higher, beyond the human register, and continued swarming in deadly earnest. Jo managed to dredge up a tiny amount of magic from somewhere and threw up a weak shield around herself and the man.  Shit! I don't have enough power to protect Ev, too! Fuck, fuck, FUCK!

Karcis began to glow, her screams getting louder and deeper, like the bellowing of a bull in pain.

''Jo! Get him out of here!'' Evan shouted, shaking blood from her eyes. ''Go!''

''No way in hell, baby! You can't get rid of me that easy!'' Jo was in an agony as she watched a peri chew a chunk from Evan's arm. ''Shit! C'mere, Ev! C'mere! Get in the shield! C'mon, get in the friggin' shield!'' The man was screaming and Jo kicked him in the head, knocking him unconscious.

''Not enough power,'' Evan gritted as another peri exploded, literally in her face. ''I can't... stay there... I'll be fine.'' She was getting weaker, both through blood loss and exertion. She'd drained her reserves and had only a little left.

''GodDAMMIT!'' Jo shouted. ''Hang on!'' She closed her eyes, seeking - and her senses detected an enormous amount of power, right in the room. Shifting to her Othersight, Jo saw it was Karcis who was the source of the magical surge; Evan's spell was sucking the stolen lifeforce from her, gathering it into a shimmering, swirling ball of energy.

Licking her lips, Jo reached out just as Evan screamed, ''NO! DON'T! IT'S TOO WILD! YOU CAN'T CONTROL IT!''

I ain't gonna stand here and watch Ev get eaten, Jo thought, and with an effort that made her dizzy, reached out with her senses and took hold of a lightning bolt. ::I love you, baby:: she sent, and that was her last coherent thought for a while.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Pure power sizzled through her, making Jo's pale blonde hair rise like dandelion fluff around her head. Her blue eyes were wide open, pupils fully dilated, lips parted as she emitted a series of high pitched screams, body jiggling up and down convulsively as if she'd stuck her finger in a light socket and cranked up the voltage.

Evan screamed as well: ''NO! JO! LET IT GO!''

Tell me again why the hell I thought this was a good idea, Jo thought, suddenly at one distance removed from the searing agony she'd felt before. It was as if a wall had come down between her mind and her body, separating the essential ''her'' from the burning meat of her flesh.

Suddenly, a presence invaded her mind. ''Mortal,'' a voice breathed, ''Let me use you. I can harness the energy and send Karcis back where she belongs...''

Who the fuck are you? Jo thought wildly.

''Astarte.'' The goddess' presence was powerful, with such strong overtones of sexuality that Jo felt a sudden spurt of dampness between her legs.

Great. I'm dyin' over here and my stupid pussy's doing the jungle boogie!. Okay, Astarte. I let you take over, and then what?

The goddess' voice was eager. ''Send Karcis back into the jewel forever!''

Jo projected a negative tone. More than that. I give you what you want, you heal Ev and me, fix us up, get rid of those goddamned peris, too.

''Agreed.''

How do I know you'll keep your word?

''You do not. Like most mortals, you will simply have to deal with me on a basis of faith.'' Astarte's voice was amused. ''Do you have faith, daughter of Eve?''

Jo thought about Evan. Her lover, mouth set in a rictus, was blasting peris left and right, but she was bleeding heavily from dozens of wounds and wouldn't last much longer, not with the drain on her magic. Her body's extraordinary healing powers couldn't keep up with the amount of damage the insatiable creatures were doing to her.

Okay. You gotta deal. But if you cross me, I'm gonna kick your ass, goddess or no goddess! Jo sent, then braced herself.

She felt herself squeezed further in a distant pocket of her mind as Astarte oozed within, the goddess' presence nearly overwhelming, coil upon coil of divine power filling her like some vast and unimaginable serpent whose scaly length could reach to the stars and back.

''An apt metaphor,'' Astarte said with a chuckle. ''Snakes are sacred symbols of my worship.''

Yeah, yeah, Jo sent, intensely worried about Evan. Will you fuckin' get on with it!

Astarte did.

The crackling blue-white power that engulfed Jo was abruptly tamed, lightning harnessed to the Sumerian goddess' hand. With a full throated laugh, Astarte began wrapping strands of energy around the struggling Karcis, whose efforts to free herself made the goddess' laugh again - but in cold triumph, without a trace of amusement.

Strand after strand, magic spun as thin as spidersilk, settled over the Div, surrounding her, wrapping her as tight as a mummy. In a few moments, Karcis was nothing but a heaving bundle of blue-white power and muffled shrieks could be heard issuing from her shroud.

Evan fell to her knees, one eye gone, unable to continue, her face a mask of blood, and Jo screamed to the goddess, DO SOMETHING! NOW, GODDAMMIT!

Astarte sighed, then reached out again and sent the Div back into the jewel with a blast of energy that nearly blinded Jo's mage senses. When she was able to ''look'' again, she saw the garnet on Paracelsus' cane was a crimson blaze, and deep in the heart of the jewel could be discerned a white, twisting form. As she watched, the criss-crossed bindings were re-woven and reinforced by the goddess, trapping Karcis back in the bitter prison she had known for centuries.

One by one, the peris dropped to the floor, already dying, their tiny bodies rotting rapidly, going from grotesque corruption, to skeletons not unlike those of baby birds, and finally to dust that was lifted up and swirled away on a breath of wind from the broken window.

With the last bit of power, Astarte healed Evan's wounds, wiping away her injuries with a touch, restoring her eye.

''Mortal, there is not enough to heal the both of you.'' Astarte's voice sounded slightly regretful.

Forget about me. Just heal her, Jo replied.

In moments, Evan was returned to full health and Astarte withdrew from Jo, leaving behind a sense of smug satisfaction that made Jo frown.

Wonder what the hell she's so friggin' happy about? she thought, then, Oh, shit!

She was back in control of her body, and Jesus Christ! It felt like every bone in her body was broken. She collapsed on top of the man, having just enough presence of mind to banish the protective shield before pain and sheer exhaustion took over and she whimpered helplessly.

Evan, after staring a long moment at the cane and wondering what had just happened, hastily got to her feet and crossed the room to fall on her knees beside Jo. Rolling her over and off the unconscious man, she winced in empathy, noting the injuries to the other woman's face and ear, the livid burn that ran from her temple and snaked around her throat.

And probably goes all the way down her body to her foot, Evan thought. Just like a lightning strike.

Jo clutched Evan's sleeve with a bloody hand. ''You... okay?'' she croaked.

''Yes, I'm fine, love,'' Evan replied, casting out her senses, looking for any scrap of magic she could find to use for healing Jo. ''Lay still.''

''Ev, look in my pocket.'' Jo tugged on Evan's arm insistently. ''My... pocket...''

''In a moment...''

''No... now. Do it now. Please?'' Jo's eyes begged Evan to do as she asked and the Celtic woman sighed.

''All right, all right.'' Evan quickly patted Jo's pockets until she detected a lump, then stuck one hand inside and pulled out a jeweler's box. ''What's this? Jo, I need to heal you, we don't have time for this...''

''Open it.'' Jo coughed up a wad of bloody sputum; Evan wiped it away, then opened the box.

A ring was inside; white gold, a wolf with head thrown back, howling at an opaque gray moonstone. The workmanship was exquisite and Evan caught her breath.

''Put it on.'' Jo waved a hand weakly. ''Put it on... gotta do stuff right, bein' as how we're engaged an' all.'' She coughed again, then began retching helplessly.

Evan shoved the ring on her finger, tossing the box over her shoulder, then rolled Jo over on her side. She'd breathed the superheated air around her when she'd grabbed the wild magic and her lungs were damaged.

Finally, just as Evan was at her wit's end, she caught a trace of magical energy flowing nearby. She tracked it to its source, and realized it was coming from a church.

The worshippers were singing joyously, a spirited hymn in praise of the Crucified One. A stream of positive energy flowed upward, powerful and pure, but Evan hesitated.

It's like stealin', she thought. I'm not sure I should do this, there could be repercussions. But Jo needs it, I cannot let her die.

She tentatively reached out, and suddenly the power was there, jumping to her grasp as if it had been trained to her hand. Evan sent silent thanks to the Christian God for His generosity, then began chanting the Ranns of Healing that would restore her lover to health.

As she chanted, she had the sensation of vast wings fluttering around her, white flames and gold swirling and dancing on unseen currents, heart-achingly beautiful music floated through her mind. As soon as she finished and Jo was healed, she released the remainder of the power, keeping back not a jot for herself.

Slowly, the wings slipped away and the music died - and Evan opened her gray eyes to look directly into Jo's blue.

The platinum blonde smiled weakly. ''Gee, that was fun. Let's do it again sometime... NOT!''

Evan returned her smile, feeling a profound sense of gratitude, then leaned down and captured Jo's mouth with her own, holding her soul-friend in a tight, warm embrace.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Berresford Ellis, number five on Forbes' list of the ten wealthiest Americans and considered to be one of the most eligible bachelors in the world, was discovered this morning wandering the grounds of the condemned Gralloch Conservatory of Music.''

The news anchor shot the camera a significant glance, raising his eyebrow for added emphasis, and continued, ''Mr. Ellis had been missing for nearly four months before he was found by police, who had been given an anonymous tip. Doctors at Lovecraft Memorial Hospital have reported that while Mr. Ellis is in good physical health, he is severely delusional and his mental state is such that he has been involuntarily committed to Collins Asylum pending further examination. In further news, the police have reported no further success in identifying the serial killer who has recently been terrorizing the city...''

Jo pushed a button on the remote, turning off the television, and settled back on the sofa with a sigh. ''Poor Ellis. I gotta kinda feel sorry for the guy. I mean, I know he was an idiot for getting involved with Karcis, but hey! With tits like that, who can blame him?''

Evan punched Jo's arm, making her wince and say, ''Ow! I'm gonna have a bruise there tomorrow!''

''Aye, and other bruises as well, if I've anythin' to say about the matter,'' Evan replied with an arch grin.

Jo grinned back foolishly and pulled Evan close, hugging her tightly. ''I love you, even if ya do beat me black and blue.''

''I love you, too.'' Evan snuggled her head beneath Jo's chin, molding herself to the other woman's lean body. ''We need to return that cane to Monsieur Duvalier,'' she said.

''Yeah, later. Right now, I got this problem.''

''Mmm? What's that?''

''Well, you see, when Astarte was inside me, she was making all these goddess sex vibes things, and right now, I'm horny as hell.'' Jo looked down at Evan, and her grin grew even wider. ''I could screw a stick shift or something, I got it that bad.''

''Oh, really?,'' Evan purred, raising a tangerine eyebrow. She pushed her hand inside the waistband of Jo's jeans, sliding down to the crotch of her cotton briefs. ''My, my, colleen... you're certainly wet.''

''Uh-huh.'' Jo shifted on the sofa. ''Soakin'.''

''So I see.'' Evan felt around some more, rubbing Jo's pussy through her briefs. ''I'll have to be doin' somethin' about that. If you flood anymore, we'll be washed out of the apartment entirely.''

''Oh, yeah,'' Jo moaned, raising her hips, hands going to the zipper of her jeans. ''Wouldn't want that.''

Evan helped Jo skin out of her jeans, then pulled off the bloodstained Xena T-shirt, tossing it on the floor.

As Jo watched, Evan peeled off her own top, letting her full breasts bounce free of their confinement. Jo reached up and gently squeezed one, then tugged the firm flesh, pulling Evan over until she could wrap her lips around the turgid nipple and suck, her other hand sliding around Evan's back.

Evan moaned deep in her throat, arching her back as Jo suckled, pulling strongly, making waves of pleasure shudder through her body.

The Celtic woman reached back and wriggled out of her own jeans, managing to keep from dislodging the nipple in Jo's mouth. Jo nibbled a bit more, then began licking Evan's breasts, first one then the other, and her tongue wandered in warm, wet patterns up the other woman's throat until she reached her lips.

Evan shifted, pressing her lover down into the sofa cushions, and opening her mouth, thrust her tongue past Jo's lips, fluttering and sliding in sweetness and heat. Her hands glided up Jo's arms and she laced her fingers with the blonde's, holding her captive while she sucked on her lower lip, making Jo groan.

''Oh, Jesus, baby... yeah...'' Jo began rubbing her sopping pussy on Evan's knee, damp dark blonde fur sliding up and down, wet and hot against the Celtic woman's flesh.

''Mmm... yes, that's it...'' Evan kissed Jo again, sensuous and deep, pressing her knee into the other woman's sex and rotating it in small circles. Jo arched her back slightly and hissed through her teeth, clutching the other woman's fingers in a tight grip.

Evan bent her head down and gently bit one of Jo's small pink nipples, holding it between her teeth and rolling it back and forth. Then her wet tongue began flicking it back and forth rapidly. ''Oh, God...'' Jo's hips were jerking up and down faster. ''Get over here... I want you in my mouth...''

Releasing Jo's hands, Evan turned around, straddling her body, mouth hovering over the blonde's pussy. Jo put one leg up on the back of the sofa, the other foot flat on the floor, spreading herself wide. As Evan pushed aside the lips of Jo's vulva with her fingers and settled down for a long, loving taste, she lowered herself on the other woman's waiting mouth.

Jo looked up at the flamboyant orange curls above her. Murmuring, ''Oh, yeah, c'mon baby... you know I love the way you taste,'' she reached up and pulled Evan's hips down further, thrusting her tongue into the slick red folds.

They sucked and licked, using their fingers and tongues... Evan began sliding her tongue over and over Jo's hard clit, feeling the other woman tremble beneath her and a fresh burst of thick musky fluid flowed into her mouth.

Jo's squealing, ''Ooooh, yeah! Oooooh, oh oh oh! JEEEEEESUS!'' was muffled, but she convulsed as she came, clipping Evan's head between her thighs as her ass banged up and down and she quivered, panting and moaning.

As soon as she caught her breath, Jo began licking Evan's pussy again, thrusting her tongue deep inside, over and over, fucking her with that velvety length. Evan rose up, licking her lips, and began riding the other woman's face, hips undulating in waves. Jo reached up with both hands and fastened her fingers on Evan's nipples, squeezing and twisting gently.

Evan threw back her head, wild orange hair falling over her shoulders and back, knowing she was on the verge of an explosion. When Jo sucked her clit, wriggling her tongue carefully on the sensitive tip, she came with a small, breathy howl, pressing back and rocking her hips, smearing her juices all over Jo's face.

After, they lay coiled together on the sofa, sweaty bodies pressed tight, arms around each other.

Evan kissed Jo's shoulder, tracing an old scar with her tongue. ''I love you, Jo Tate.''

''I love you, too.'' Jo took a deep breath, praying she wouldn't fuck this up. ''Eiobhan Reille.'' She beamed proudly, glad she'd gotten the bartender from the Ulster Arms pub to teach her the correct pronunciation of her lover's name.

Evan's gray eyes went wide, then she smiled back and traced Jo's mouth with one finger. ''Very good, colleen. We'll have you speakin' a proper language in no time.''

''Uh-huh. Don't hold yer breath, baby. Blue ain't your color.''

Evan giggled, and the morning turned slowly into late afternoon, but not slowly enough for two lovers in love.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

This time, when the guards in front of the backstage door to Astarte's office saw the two women coming, they moved aside hastily and opened the door, nodding politely.

''Glad to see you learned some manners, boys,'' Jo said in passing, reaching out to pat one flinching guard's face.

Evan merely glared, shooting the big men a look from her stormy gray eyes that made them cower.

Once inside, Jo drew a deep breath. Oh, man, this is gonna be sweet. ''Helloooo? Yoo-hoo, Ms. Ishtar... hey, c'mon out, you got com-pan-eeee!''

Astarte walked gracefully from the other room, clad as usual in a designer evening gown. Her hair was twisted into seven braids whose ends had been pinned to the top of her head, making loops of shining brown plaits that framed her impossibly beautiful face. The goddess' scarlet lips stretched in a smile. ''Welcome, daughter of Eve and child of oaks! You honor my establish...''

Those words of welcome were never finished. With several long strides, Jo marched up to Astarte, drew back her arm, and with her full weight behind the swing, punched the goddess dead in the face.

Astarte staggered back, one hand clapped to her mouth. Armand Duvalier raced from the other room, putting an arm around the Sumerian goddess' waist. ''What do you think you are doing?'' he yelled, green eyes swiveling wildly. ''Do you know who this is? Do you know who've you just insulted?''

Jo spat, then replied, ''Yeah. A double-dealing bitch of a whore goddess who's too good to do her own fuckin' dirty work.''

Evan tossed the cane to Duvalier, who caught it in a fumbling grip. ''And you, monsieur... you played your part as well.''

''Uh-huh.'' Jo crossed her arms over her chest. ''We figured it out. The way I see it played is that you, Mr. French Dude, lost the cane and the journal to some thief hired by Berresford Ellis. That part was true. What you didn't tell us was that you were one of Astarte's worshippers and the goddess knew what was going down the minute she heard Karcis was on the loose.''

Evan continued, narrowing her eyes, ''Karcis was a threat to you, Astarte. If she'd succeeded in gettin' herself freed, you'd have a rival for the relatively few devotees you've got. So, she had to go, and fast. But you didn't have enough power to eliminate her yourself. You needed help.''

Jo took up the thread again. ''So, along comes me and Ev, two mortals who just happened by sheer coincidence to stumble into this friggin' shitstorm, and I bet you got so excited you nearly wet yourself. You wouldn't have to go toe-to-toe with Karcis. Oh, no, we'd do it for ya. And if we got killed in the process, eh, to hell with us. We're just so much meat to you.''

''So you watched, and you waited, and you planned.'' Evan took a step closer to Astarte. ''And when we'd nearly lost our lives tryin' to send Karcis back where she belonged, you stepped in 'cause we'd raised enough power that you felt confident enough you could do it yourself without riskin' anythin'. Of course, I'd thank you for savin' our lives, but that was just incidental to you, wasn't it? By that time, you'd vanquished your rival and a gesture on your part didn't mean much.''

Jo concluded, ''So we just come here to say one more thing: fuck YOU!''

The two women waited, holding their breaths, not sure how Astarte would react.

When the goddess threw back her head and laughed, Jo and Evan exchanged a glance and moved closer together.

Duvalier released Astarte and stood to one side, still holding the cane. While the goddess roared with glee, he asked, ''The journal?''

''We didn't find it. But without the cane and the jewel, Paracelsus' journal isn't worth all that much, is it?'' Evan flicked her hair back in a contemptuous gesture.

Astarte's laughter finally ran down into chuckles, punctuated by giggles. At last, she wiped the tears from her eyes and sat down heavily on a nearby ottoman. ''Oh, my,'' she said breathlessly, ''I have not had that good of a laugh in millennia.''

Jo frowned. ''You think it's funny? Goddammit, I oughta...''

The goddess held up one hand. ''No, daughter of Eve. If you hit me again, I will have to take steps. This one I will allow to pass. I deserved it, according to your lights.'' She still smiled. ''You are correct. I did use you both.'' Her golden brown eyes flickered from Jo to Evan. ''If you feel I owe you something for your services, tell me what it is.''

Jo sighed. ''You don't get it, do you? We're not friggin' puppets, and I really, really hate having my strings pulled.''

''Yes, but consider this: We both got what we wanted. You wanted Karcis imprisoned; so did I. She would not have only been a threat to me, Jo Tate. The Div was a sexual predator; she would have drained her victims dry, and gone howling for more. I, on the other hand, am much more benevolent.'' Her eyes glittered and she touched her cheek. ''To a point.''

::Well? What now?:: Jo sent. They hadn't expected this reaction.

Evan thought a moment. ::I, for one, would be content with an apology, colleen. But I doubt we'll get it.::

''I am not so proud as that, child of oaks,'' Astarte said, picking up the silent exchange. One of her braids had come down and slithered across the shoulder of her satin dress. ''I am sorry I used you. Perhaps I was wrong; if I had actively helped you instead of staying in the shadows, it might have been that Karcis would have been trapped sooner.''

''Hmph.'' Jo looked at Evan. ::I think that's about all the apology we're gonna get, baby.::

Duvalier cleared his throat at Astarte's prodding glance. ''I believe you were admiring a certain volume of mine, mam'selle Reilly,'' he said. ''It would do me great honor to present it to you as a gift.''

Evan's eyes lit up. ''The lost Sword of Moses?'' she asked. ''You'd really give it to me?''

''Yes.'' Duvalier sighed, rubbing his dark hair with one hand. ''I will have it delivered to your apartment tomorrow.''

Jo took an aggressive stance. ''What about me, huh? Gonna blow me off now?''

''No.'' Astarte looked at the platinum blonde shrewdly. ''What is it you desire from me, daughter of Eve? Physical beauty? Boundless passion? Irresistibility to women or men? Sexual skills beyond all other mortals?''

''Um, no.'' Jo scuffed one foot on the floor. ''Actually... see, there's this girl, Wanda. She ain't got much, and what she does have ain't worth much, if you take my meaning. She got caught up in all this friggin' mess and it wasn't her fault. Anyway, I thought maybe you could give her a job. Not as a call girl or nothing like that. Maybe a waitress or file clerk or something. Help her turn herself around, make a new life. Maybe help her get into school...''

Astarte smiled. ''I believe that can be arranged.'' She walked around to a delicate Louis XVI desk and picked a piece of paper. ''This is also for you,'' she said, handing the paper to Jo.

Jo accepted the paper and turned it over. It was a check, and the amount of zeros after the first digit made her eyes widen. ''Holy shit!,'' she exclaimed. ''I mean... thanks! Jeez, this'll come in handy. How come guilt money's always so much more than payin' a friggin' bill?''

''You're welcome.'' Astarte grinned.

Jo stuffed the check in her pocket. ''But that don't mean I ain't still pissed! Jeez, Astarte - next time, warn a gal, willya?''

''I will keep that in mind. Have your Wanda come to the club tomorrow night; rest assured, I will find her proper employment.'' Astarte turned around, a clear dismissal; Evan and Jo left the office and headed back through the noisy, crowded club to the outside.

It was about an hour after dusk. The moon was a silver horn of plenty spilling a wealth of stars across the evening sky. Evan put her arm around Jo's waist and sighed. ''Well, colleen... satisfied?''

Jo fingered the check in her pocket. ''More or less.'' She examined the slightly swollen knuckles of her right hand. ''Damn. Remind me next time that goddesses have fuckin' hard heads, willya? Hmmm... you know, I hear there's this Greek diner over on Barnabas Circle makes a mean souvlaki.''

Evan laughed, then stood on her toes and kissed Jo beneath the diamond dusted sky, the moonstone on the ring she wore catching the lunar light and glowing, but not more brightly than the happy Celtic woman's gray eyes.

''I love you,'' she murmured in Jo's ear, and was rewarded by her soulmate's grinning reply, ''Ditto, baby... ditto infinity.''

And in Collins Asylum, Berresford Ellis, buckled tightly into a straightjacket, rocked back and forth on the floor of his heavily padded cell, whispering in sing-song fashion, over and over like a mantra: ''I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm sorry...''

Lt. Hammond Russell turned away from the observation window, fingering his blonde goatee. ''Close it up, Ah've seen enough,'' he said to the white coated attendant.

Whistling the theme from the old 60's TV show, ''The Avengers,'' Piglet Russell turned and walked away, a file stamped ''CLOSED'' tucked beneath his arm.

Behind him, Ellis continued to chant, ''I'm sorry...''

Moonlight streamed through the high barred window, illuminating the look of lunatic horror on the man's lined face, and the howling wasteland of emptiness in his eyes.

Berresford Ellis wasn't home anymore... nor would he ever be again.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

by Nene Adams ©1999 - All rights reserved

This story contains graphic violence, adult language/situations, and the graphic depiction of a romantic relationship between two mature, adult women. Reader discretion is advised. No reproduction or duplication, electronic or otherwise, is permitted without the express, written permission of the author. 

CHAPTER ONE

No one who survived the horrible events at the Mors Ab Rosa would ever forget that night.

The door to the nightclub opened, allowing a cloud of cigarette smoke, a blast of pure thumping noise, and the smells of stale sweat and alcohol to assault the otherwise quiet night.

In the semi-gloom of the large converted warehouse, a group of twenty people were gathered around a collapsed couch in the rear of the room. All around them were swirls of other men and women, few over the age of thirty, all dressed in vintage black costumes and wearing heavy white make-up that gave them a death-like pallor. They styled themselves the "Children of the Night" - and the Gothic nightclub, Mors Ab Rosa, was their favorite hunting/preening ground. 

Sitting on the couch were Lord Silvernail Nightshade - during the day, he endured the embarrassment of his existence as Kenneth Coombs, inventory clerk - and his current favorite, a scrawny girl with an unhealthy complexion who called herself Sylph. Her eyes showed no animation whatsoever, no soul, no life. Those flat brown orbs stared glassily ahead when Silvernail caressed her thigh; occasional twitches were the only sign that Sylph was not already dead. 

Silvernail gave a thin, cool smile to his congregation of twenty. "Are we ready?" 

They nodded. 

Silvernail's hands trembled as he unwrapped a brown paper package, tearing at it impatiently. At last, he revealed the prize he'd read about in an old occult book he'd found at the second-hand bookstore. That most sinister grimoire, chest of demons, religious instruction and code to unlocking eternal life and god-like power, all rolled into one. 

The Necronomicon. 

"This is the real deal!" Silvernail breathed, running his fingers reverently over the thick leather binding. In the center of the front cover was a golden pyramid inset with a human eye - which was closed; the back cover sported a silver plaque covered in a complex diagram of lines, swirls, geometric shapes and strange symbols. 

Silvernail carefully opened the book, holding his breath in excitement. This was it! A real, honest-to-the-dark-Gods untainted copy of the Necronomicon. His excitement grew and he felt the palms of his hands growing damp from excitement. All around him, music pulsed and throbbed; clusters and knots of people shouted at one another in a vain attempt to communicate; his Inner Circle was gathered close, waiting for the moment their leader would put his grand plan into action. 

"Once we raise the Wyrm," Silvernail said, "we can command it to do anything. Bring us riches, destroy our enemies... even make us immortal!" 

The Inner Circle shuffled even closer to their leader. Their eyes gleamed. This was the stuff of legend. The more sober among them were torn between doubt and wonder. All of them were, at the very least, eager to participate in what they viewed as yet another rejection of established morality; their parents, bosses and community would have been shocked speechless at the notion of dabbling in demonology. And this wasn't going to be your typical, marijuana-and-beer soaked, heavy-metal half-assed Satanic ceremony conducted by drunken losers with crude ballpoint pen tattoos. 

They thought of themselves as an Arcana Major, serious scholars who continued the precious work begun by Paracelsus, Aleister Crowley, Madame Blavatsky, Heinrich Himmler - the exploration and subjugation of the unknown. They were mages... even if the bulk of their occult knowledge came from the backs of role-playing game trading cards. 

Silvernail was going places and they were privileged to be allowed along for the ride. 

A collective sigh of appreciation rose. 

Silvernail gestured, drawing his group closer and tighter around him. Turning to a specific page, he began to chant in a loud voice, guiding his eyes across each line of text with his forefinger. 

"Vermis Mysterius!" he called loudly. His chest felt tight. "Lu kutu! Lu kutu!" 

He continued to chant in the strange tongue... and bask in his follower's admiration.. 

At some point, Silvernail suddenly felt as if control of his own body has been taken over by someone - or something - else; his lips formed words and phrases that he wasn't even able to read. When he reached the end of the page, he was unable to turn the leaf over - he was paralyzed. Muscles and nerves failed to obey his conscious commands... but he could feel that something within him - a dark presence - was beginning to stir. To his horror, he continued to chant the tongue-twisting phrases in a rising rhythm. He tried to stop but couldn't. Something was using him as a conduit; he felt an oozing pressure wrap around his brain in tighter and tighter coils until he'd have screamed from the pain... if he'd been allowed.. 

Screaming, "Yog sogoth! Io! Io! Ia! Lu kutu!" he felt something erupt into the air around him, some fiery presence that streamed from the abyss within him and ripped its way out of his quivering flesh. Blood spilled over Silvernail's lips and he convulsed; beside him on the coach, Sylph touched a fingertip to the crimson flow and hesitantly smiled for the first time in memory. 

Silvernail's eyes rolled up into his head; he choked on the clots of dark blood that were welling up into his mouth and spilling down his shirtfront. Around him, he could dimly sense the screams from his Inner Circle, who were staring in fascinated terror as Silvernail's body jerked, joints cracking apart as his arms and wrists were forced into impossible positions. His ribs popped and splintered; his internal organs were crushed into a slurry by some unseen, powerful force; his belly was felt as if it were gripped in a vise, squeezed mercilessly, muscles ripping and tearing. Liquid feces mingled with urine dribbled down the leg of his pants. His hair began to smoke, smolder, and then shockingly burst into flames. 

Released at last from the coils of his invisible tormentor and writhing as fire began to spread along his entire body, Kenneth Coombs forgot his learned, all-powerful mage pose and howled in agony for his mother. 

The Inner Circle broke and fled, screaming, shoving their way across the crowded nightclub in a frantic attempt to reach the door and get away from whatever force they had inadvertently set loose. 

Before the first could get more than a few paces away, however... they, too, began to convulse and bleed. 

A complete panic set in as two hundred patrons tried to reach the single exit simultaneously. The couch in the rear of the club which contained Kenneth's blackened corpse began burning uncontrollably. The fire spread and there was a veritable stampede, a fear-maddened rush as pure survival instinct took over, people clawing at one another like animals in their attempts to leave this deathtrap. The weak were trampled underfoot, crushed by the wailing, cursing mob. 

By the time the fire department and police arrived, there were already over thirty dead and twice as many injured. 

The nightclub blazed merrily, defying all the fire fighter's attempts to put it out. 

In the confusion, no one noticed a fiery thread escape the general conflagration and streak across the sky, resembling a falling star but infinitely more deadly in purpose. 

The nightclub burned until the wee hours of the morning. For once, the Mors Ab Rose earned its nickname as the "hottest club in town." 

Chapter Two

"I knew there was going to be trouble," Jo muttered. "Bad things always happen in threes."

Evan's tangerine colored hair had been pulled into a ponytail and fastened at the nape of her neck by a wooden slide; she wore her usual costume of a T-shirt and a pair of black leggings. "Oh, aye?" she asked, glancing at her taller partner. "Are your thumbs prickin'?"

"What?"

Evan pitched her voice low and quoted, "By the prickin' of my thumbs, somethin' wicked this way comes."

Jo rubbed a hand through her buzz-cut, platinum blonde hair. Her dark blue eyes shone with good humor. "I dunno. I just got one of those weird, ass pucker feelings." It was clear that whatever her foreboding, she wasn't worried. 

The two women continued walking up to the blackened shell that was once the Mors Ab Rosa, a popular Gothic nightclub. Evan surveyed the charred remains. Police officers, firemen and other official personnel scurried about their business. Curiously, none of them noticed the petite Irishwoman and her tall partner. "Did Mister Melmahay specifically say to meet him here?" 

Jo nodded. "Yep. You sure he can scope us out when he gets here? This 'no-see-'um' shield you got around us is totally cool, but I don't want Melmahay to shit his ethereal britches 'cause he thinks we're blowing him off with a no-show." 

"He'll be able to see us." Evan sighed. "As I explained before, colleen, the Shield of Unseeing is actually more of a psychic suggestion that tells people we aren't here. They don't see us because they've been 'told' we don't exist. Melmahay's expectin' us, and besides, he's a..." 

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Jo interrupted. "I know exactly what Melmahay is. So do you. Maybe that's why my sphincter's doing the 'speak no evil' bit." 

A figure was approaching them. He appeared to be a short, stout gentleman of around the age of fifty; his head was balding and greasy with sweat. He wore a gray jogging suit that fitted his round body like the skin of a sausage, and as he came closer, both women saw that his eyes resembled small pebbles of coruscating flame. 

Melmahay, First Lieutenant of the Watchers, had arrived. 

"Gee, thanks kids, for comin' down so quick," he said in a rumbling bass that seemed totally out of odds with his looks. "I gotta problem." 

"So I gathered," Jo said dryly. "What's shaking, Mel? And what's with the borrowed flesh? You couldn't find a bodybuilder or something, so you hadda grab one off the rack?" 

Melmahay grinned. "It's called unobtrusive, Tate. You oughta try it sometime." 

Evan cleared her throat. "What do you want from us?" she asked. The Watchers were the second wave of angels to fall from grace; unlike their 'cousins' who were led by Lucifer Morningstar down into Hell, the Watchers lost their place among the Host not because of pride or envy, but out of lust. The race of giants they had spawned from mortal women had been the direct cause of the Great Flood; now, having been banished to the mortal plane of Earth, they involved themselves in human affairs with Byzantine stealth and cunning. 

They were immortal wheelers and dealers whose agenda was unknown. They headed the sharpest, most widely spread and secretive organization, with figurative fingers in who knew how many world-wide pies, and frankly, they made Evan nervous. 

Melmahay gave the Irishwoman a charming smile. "You got class, lady. Dunno what you're doing hanging out with Bitch-On-Wheels over here." He jerked a meaty thumb at Jo. 

"Get to the point!" Jo growled. "I got better things to do than being jerked off by a cherub wanna-be in a bad suit." 

Melmahay shrugged, not taking offense. "You're right, Tate. Let's cut to the chase. What went down last night wasn't an accident... exactly. You two got contacts in some of the right places; we wanna know who done this and why." 

"I was under the impression that your group knew everythin' that went on in the mortal world as well as the OtherSides," Evan said. "Your contacts are much more extensive than ours. What do you need us for?" 

"Let's say, we have suspicions that we'd like confirmed or denied. Yeah, I grant you that we can put our hands on a ton of information, but there are certain places we don't have access to, certain people we can't interview. That's where you come in." 

Jo jingled some loose change in the pocket of her black leather jacket. "Lemme guess... you're talking about Up There," pointing a finger to the sky, "and Down Yonder," stabbing the same finger towards the ground. 

Melmahay nodded. The flames in his eyes whirled a little faster. "Got it in one. Let's face it; eons of enmity between the three groups hasn't lessened over time and we don't see the situation changing anytime soon. Only mortals can have contact with the Above, the Below and us. The Watchers are out of the celestial loop, so to speak, on this one." 

Evan rolled her eyes. "Look," she said impatiently, "this is nonsense. You've got mortal agents; get some of them to do your dirty work for you." 

"We want you." The Watcher's borrowed flesh deflated a little, then ballooned out again alarmingly; his eyes seemed about to pop out of their sockets. With an effort, Melmahay got himself under control. "Hey, you got no beef with us, right? Can't we all just cooperate on this one without all the back and forth?" 

Jo snorted. "You're one slippery bastard, Mel. If we say no, you're gonna call in your cards, huh?" 

"Got no choice, Tate." The Watcher spread his hands wide and shrugged. "Orders are orders." 

Evan turned to her partner with a questioning look. Jo scuffed her feet and refused to meet her eye. After a moment, the tall blonde said, much to Evan's annoyance, "Okay, Mel. We'll look into it. No promises, but we'll check it out and see." 

Melmahay blew out a breath. "Thanks, Tate. You still got my card, in case you need to contact me?" 

"Yeah, yeah," Jo answered. "Now get outta here before you attract attention. Your skin's slipping." 

Melmahay looked at his hands and muttered something; the flesh was drooping, almost wilting off the bones. It was a side effect from the Watcher's habit of slipping their non-corporeal forms into dying mortal bodies. The fat man turned on his heel and walked away, giving the women a wave over his shoulder. 

"Jeez, that's so gross," Jo murmured. "On the other hand, a much cooler effect than you usually get in a cheapie zombie flick." 

Evan's nostrils flared and her gray eyes seemed more stormy than usual. "Would you kindly be tellin' me the reason why we've agreed to help?" she asked angrily. "You know I don't like havin' anythin' to do with Them." 

Jo sighed. Evan was the immortal repository, so to speak, of the old Irish gods, the ones who had been driven out of their home by the Christian faith. Still, the followers of the Crucified One didn't make her itch enough to climb out of her own skin - the Watchers did that. They reminded the Irishwoman too much of the Inquisition and the Star Chamber; she mistrusted their secrets and the way they operated in the shadows. 

"Look, baby, I'm sorry but I owe Mel, okay?" Jo made a sour face. "He helped me out once when I was in a jam." 

"Oh? When was this, colleen? And what did that thing do that puts you in his debt?" 

"A while before we met. I was stuck on this case, a real bitch of a problem, and Melmahay introduced me to a contact - no charge." Jo focused her gaze on the burnt ruin of the nightclub again, and Evan prompted flatly, "No charge 'cept for a favor to be determined at a future time." 

"Yeah." The platinum blonde sighed again. "Okay, so I didn't exactly sell my soul but I came mighty damned close. My case was real important, baby. If Mel hadn't given me a hand, I'd still have my thumb up my ass and a lot of people would be dead now. So... I owe him. After this, we're quits. If you don't wanna help, that's okay. I know the Watchers creep you out." 

"Nay, we'll face this together," Evan replied. Her frown faded at the chagrined look on Jo's face. "Worry not, colleen. We're a pair, you and I. I'll fight at your back, as always; never would I leave you to face such as Them on your own." 

Jo looked doubtful but the set expression that Evan bore was enough to convince her that her partner was resolved in the matter. 

"Okey-dokey," the platinum blonde said, ruffling her fingers through her short quiff of hair. "How long's this shield of yours gonna last?" 

The Irishwoman replied promptly, "As long as needful." 

"Great." Jo eyed the extensive wreckage of the nightclub. "Well, let's get cracking. I'll take this side; you mosey on over to the other." 

"What are we lookin' for?" 

"I dunno. Something big, bad and full of ass-biting black magic." 

Unexpectedly, Evan smiled. 

Jo looked at her sharply. "What's so funny?" 

"Naught. Only I wondered..." Evan cocked her head to one side, eyes sparkling with good humor. "How tight's your arse puckerin' now?" 

Jo snorted. "Let's put it this way, baby... I don't think my sphincter would make a flea's girdle at the moment." 

Evan laughed out loud until she choked. 

Chapter Three

Jo decided that their first course of action should be, in her words, to "have a serious convo with the white hat dudes." To that end, she and Evan drove across town, ending up in a rundown area on the outskirts of the city's Japanese sector of Little Edo - a claustrophobically clustered series of apartments and shops called Gethsemene Gardens. 

Most of the shops had steel shutters in place of windows; more than a few were closed. Every clear surface of each building bore its stigmata of graffiti in a kaleidoscope of colors, gang signs warring with artistic expression mated with declarations of love, lust and despair. When the Gardens had been built in the 1960s, they'd been envisioned as a utopia for the poor, an area where they could dwell without fear and in comfort, living off the largesse of the State and working towards their betterment. Instead, the area had quickly degenerated into an urban jungle of drug dealers and gang wars, corruption and hatred; a place where two generations of children had been trapped by "good intentions gone horribly wrong" into shedding their innocence quickly and taking up the only tools of power they could comprehend - guns, knives and blood money. 

The police rarely interfered in the Gardens; too much money and too much manpower had already been sacrificed on that altar of bone-deep hopelessness and rage. These days, the authorities only stepped in to clear away the bodies and wash away the blood. 

Jo and Evan, cruising along in their turquoise and pink '57 Chevy convertible, were as out of place as an emerald in the ear of a swine. 

Looking around at the cracked concrete sidewalks, the looming apartment buildings, the knots of young men and women who stared with slitted suspicion at these intruders into their territory, Evan couldn't suppress a shudder. Suddenly, she longed for the open air, to be surrounded by trees and green leaves, far away from this oppressive and heartless atmosphere. 

Jo laid a comforting hand on her arm and said softly, "Chill, baby. We ain't gonna be here long." 

They stopped outside one of the better preserved buildings; this one actually had a few window boxes where bright geraniums struggled to overcome the wretchedness by a brave show of scarlet, pink and brilliant orange. 

They walked up the steps together, Jo remarking, "I agree it ain't pretty during the day but at night, this area lights up like a knocking shop on payday. If you can't get your poison on the streets here, it ain't available no where else. The Garden is a junkie's Disneyland and heroin's the current fave; come sundown, there'll be so many Rolls Royces and Porsches prowling around that you'd think there was a gynecologist convention going down. Capitalism's a beautiful thing, huh?" 

Evan didn't answer; she was too busy withdrawing her abused senses behind a protective mental screen. Like no where else in the city, the Gardens seemed to her a dead place, a steel and concrete corpse so foul that she wanted nothing more than to run away. Her skin crawled, her hair prickled and she felt sick to her stomach; she controlled herself with an effort and followed Jo inside. 

Jo escorted her silent partner to a creaking, reluctant elevator, which they rode to the twelfth floor. When they got out, the platinum blonde took Evan by the hand and led her down the quiet hall to a door marked STAIRS. The carpet underfoot was bilious green, greasy and rotting; huge stains and long, flaking rips testified to years of hard use and abuse. Evan's nostrils twitched; the air smelled of boiled cabbage, stale urine, sweat and fear. 

The muffled sound of a baby's wail followed them down the hall; it was cut off abruptly when they walked through the STAIRS entrance and the heavy steel door slammed shut behind them. 

To Evan's surprise, instead of climbing up or walking down, Jo walked across the narrow landing and placed her palm against the wall. For a few seconds, nothing happened; then a door slowly appeared. Switching to her OtherSight, Evan was astonished to see that the door had been concealed behind a complicated magical veiling; the work was so good - and so subtle - that it must have been done by an Adept, at least. 

 She gave Jo a questioning look. The tall blonde shrugged. "The building's bigger on the inside than it appears on the outside. There's an extra floor but this is the only way in or out." 

"Wait!" Evan called when Jo put her hand on the doorknob. "Who are we goin' to see? A mage of some kind?" 

"Not exactly," Jo replied. "I'll explain later." 

Evan frowned but closed her mouth against further questions. Sometimes her partner's love of surprises and secrets could be exasperating, but she trusted Jo as much as she loved her. 

Opening the door, the two women entered a large, badly lit room. Candles were stuck to every flat surface; long stalactites of wax reached to the floor and formed spiky puddles of the hardened stuff. The furniture was a crazy mixture of antiques with more modern pieces, all juxtaposed without rhyme or reason. Evan recognized a Rembrant hanging next to a Warhol lithograph; a Louis XVI gilt chair paired with a cracked leather ottoman; a round 70's 8-track player sitting on a Beidermeyer coffee table, surrounded by jeweled snuff boxes and cheap plastic water globes. The whole place resembled the grandmother of all salvage yards and junk shops; a bastardized Sargasso Sea of cultural detritus and kitsch culled from the ages. 

The stench of stale cigarette smoke was nearly overwhelming and Evan's queasiness increased. 

There were no windows, only several doors that were closed. Jo stood in the middle of the room patiently, obviously waiting for something - or someone. Evan resigned herself to patience as well. They didn't have to wait long. 

One of the doors opened slowly and a man shuffled into the room. He was bent and twisted like a wind blasted oak; his fringe of silver hair was yellowed with nicotine. "Who comes?" he croaked. 

Jo answered promptly, "A child of Eve called Jo Tate and a child of oaks called Evan Reilly." 

"Welcome," the old man said, pushing his round spectacles up on his forehead and peering at them with bloodshot brown eyes. "Child of oaks, eh? Haven't had one of those." 

"Yo! Good to see ya, yadda yadda yadda. Small talk over. Is the Mother home?" Jo asked. 

"Do you seek Her to abate suffering or for the forgiveness of sin?" 

"Neither," Jo replied, rolling her eyes. "I need some advice." 

The old man appeared to think this over. Jo jingled the loose change in her pocket, curbing her impatience. 

"Did you bring a sacrifice?" he asked finally. 

Jo bit back a curse - she'd forgotten to bring something for the Mother's collection. Fumbling in the pockets of her black leather jacket, she came up with her keys. A rabbit's foot dangled from the collection. Unclipping it, she presented the furry object to Adam. "It's a good luck charm," Jo explained as the old man fondled the rabbit's foot with his gnarled fingers. "Very valuable." 

Adam thought about it and nodded. "The sacrifice is acceptable," he said, caressing the foot once more before dropping it casually into a Ming vase. "I will announce you to the Mother. Wait here for Her pleasure; do not stray lest ye be lost forever in outer darkness." 

"Yeah, yeah," Jo answered, waving a hand. 

As soon as he shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind him, Evan turned on Jo with a disbelieving hiss. "His name is Adam? Don't tell me this Mother of yours is..." 

"Naw, it ain't Eve," Jo said. "All her mortal servants are named Adam; She's got a kinda hard-on for the name. And this sacrifice business is just one more way of keeping herself amused. She don't really care what you bring; I mean, look around you. There are huge rooms absolutely full of this shit. Every few hundred years she clears out the lot and only keeps the pieces she really likes, but for an immortal she's got some screwy fuckin' taste..." 

"An immortal? Not another goddess!" Evan cried, ignoring Jo's efforts to hush her. "It's bad enough having to do business with that Babylonian hussy, Astarte!" 

A female voice answered her: "Do you know my several times great-grandchild, then?" 

Lilith, first wife of the first man Adam, Mother of Nightmares and Consort of Demons, had arrived. 

Chapter Four

Evan whirled around. 

At first glance, Lilith looked like an ordinary matron in her late forties who'd gone to serious seed. She was dumpy and pudgy, with silver-streaked black hair wound into a sloppy knot at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were a bottomless black, streaked with rainbow iridescence like an oil slick. She wore a long brown skirt paired with several moth-eaten sweaters; her support hose had fallen around her ankles and hung in folds down to her house slippers. Lilith looked like a bag lady; if she'd been pushing a cart full of trash on the street, no one would have looked at her twice. 

That would have been their mistake, and possibly a fatal one. To Evan, Lilith radiated the unmistakable aura of immense power, of a life stretching back into antiquity and beyond, of knowledge and magic that could not be defined or tamed. She was dazzled and repelled, all at the same time. 

Lilith seemed to sense the Irishwoman's discomfort. "I'm not as bad as all that, really," she said. Her voice was deep, almost a baritone. "I just got a lot of bad press because I said the wrong thing to the wrong person a long time ago." 

"Oh?" Evan asked with a raised brow. "You're not the Mother of Demons, then?" 

"Not exactly." Lilith seemed amused. She sat down in a rocking chair and indicated that her visitors should sit as well. "I've birthed some strange children to equally strange fathers over the millennia, but I can't be held responsible for everything bad in the mortal realm." 

Jo leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "You heard about what went down last night at the Mors Ab Rosa?" 

"Of course. I make it my business to stay informed." 

"We've been contacted by the Watchers..." 

Lilith drew back. "Those rapists?! What's their business in all this?" 

"They want info, that's what I was told." Jo scratched the side of her head. "You got another angle?" 

"No," Lilith replied thoughtfully. "Although I'd be very careful where they're concerned. The Watchers don't have a reputation for honesty." 

"Like any fallen angel does?" Jo said. "Anyhow, I wondered if there was some word on the celestial grapevine. Seems there's bad mojo involved and frankly, if whatever happened in that Goth nightclub makes the Watchers nervous enough to drag us into it, there must be some super heavy shit on the way." 

Lilith considered the request. "If I tell you what I know," she said, reaching for a pack of cigarettes, "what will you give me in return?" 

Evan made a scoffing sound. "Are you so far reduced that you need to bargain with mortals?" 

"Value for value," Lilith answered, lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply. Smoke trickled from her nostrils. "One hand washes the other. That's the way of the world, as well you know." 

Jo leaned back and wrinkled her nose as smoke swirled in her direction. "What do you want?" she asked frankly. 

"For myself, nothing. However..." Lilith took a few more puffs before continuing. "There is more behind this story than you can guess. I don't think even you, child of oaks, have an inkling as to what's truly at stake." 

"I don't," Evan confessed. "Then again, the religion of the Crucified One interests me not." 

"It should." Lilith crushed out her cigarette and her black eyes glowed. "I'm in a unique position, you see. I remember Eden; I was the consort of Adam and created by God's own hands from the same clay. I don't practice magic - I am magic, flesh and bone. Adam died in time because God chose to impose mortality on human kind when He took my husband's rib and shaped Eve. I, on the other hand, will live forever and I like it that way." 

"Is there a point to all this?" Jo asked. 

Lilith frowned. "The point is, I'm the only one who can help you. I used to talk to angels when I was young - they told me all their secrets. Likewise, I've consorted with a fair number of demons since I left Eden. I've had a long time to sit down and sift through information, piecing the story together one shred at a time. Only the Watchers can equal my knowledge, but they've been sitting on this story since they shed their radiance and fell to earth. I don't think they're likely to confide in you. Therefore, what I have to share is  priceless and I personally know of at least a dozen people who'd cheerfully kill you to possess it." 

"Okay, okay, we got it already," Jo said. "Which pound of flesh do you want and where do you want it delivered?" 

Lilith chuckled. "I'm not interested in flesh. What I do want is the promise of a future favor." 

"Absolutely not!" Evan said forcefully. "That's how we were involved in this mess." 

Lilith shrugged. "Then see if you can squeeze answers from the rocks, child of oaks. They will surely be more talkative than I." 

Evan made a noise of frustration deep in the back of her throat. Jo touched her shoulder. "I'll pay. It was my fuckup that got us into this." 

The Irishwoman shook her head, tendrils of wild tangerine hair flying. "Nay, colleen. I told you before - we face this together." She focused on Lilith. "Very well, we agree to your bargain. Your knowledge in exchange for a future favor." 

"Good choice," Lilith said, lighting another cigarette and relaxing back in her chair. "You know why the Watchers were banished from Heaven, I assume?" When the women nodded, Lilith continued, "Well, when they got here, they were given another job." 

"I thought they were exiled from Heaven and barred from Hell," Jo said. "Who could've been passing out employment to former angels?" 

"Call it Fate, or Destiny, or the Universal Constant or whatever. There are more forces than that of Good and Evil in the OtherRealms, you know. The same is true here. Anyway, the Watchers were entrusted with the most important task of all. To make sure the Balance is maintained." 

"The balance between good and evil?" 

"And love and hate, and war and peace, and any other opposites you care to name. But primarily to keep the balance of power between Heaven and Hell as equal as possible." Lilith tapped some ash off her cigarette. "If one or the other gains a serious advantage and tips the scales... poof! Armageddon." 

"You mean like, the end of the world as we know it?" 

Lilith nodded. "Bingo! Now here's part two of what you need to know. The battle for supremacy between Heaven and Hell is nothing more than a reflection of a much bigger war. Chaos and Order, mother and father of all gods, have always been in conflict, and its their slow duel that keeps the universe running. If the Balance is broken, then not only does this world come to a screeching halt, but all other worlds as well. As above, so below." 

Evan's gray eyes were wide. "All things are connected to one another. If either Heaven or Hell were to gain supreme dominance over the other, that would be enough to start a cataclysmic reaction that would rip apart everythin'. By Kernossus! All worlds, all Realms, all of everythin'... just gone." 

"Right." Lilith took a puff on her cigarette. "How does this all fit into last night's little misadventure? I can't tell you." At Jo's blasphemous shout of disapproval, she amended, "Or rather, I won't tell you. It's better that you hear it from the mouth of someone who was there; get the first-person details, as it were. I'll be sending her along to you later today." 

"Who should we be expectin'?" Evan asked. Having realized the implications of Lilith's story, she was more than eager to get to the heart of the truth. "The survivors of last night's fire weren't exactly coherent in their stories." 

"That's because they're mortal," Lilith answered with a smile. She put out her cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. "My daughter isn't - and she was perched at Ground Zero when it happened." 

When Jo and Evan stared at her, Lilith's black eyes glittered with amusement. "Her name's Sylph. And she's a Mormolae." 

Evan shuddered while Jo looked at the Mother of Demons in shocked alarm.

Chapter Five

Late in the afternoon, when the sun's brilliance had mellowed to a pale crimson smear that hovered over the hills, Jo and Evan received their visitor. 

Lilith's daughter walked into their living room uninvited, slipping a fur coat from her shoulders and saying in a breathless little voice, "I hope I'm not interrupting anything." 

Jo let out a muffled shriek and stood up, tossing Evan off her lap and onto the floor. She panted, a hand on her heart and eyes wild, for several moments before catching enough breath to whisper fiercely, "Don't you people know how to fuckin' knock?" 

The Mormolae just stared at Evan, who rolled over and stood up, rubbing her hip. The Irishwoman spat angrily, "Is such a lack of manners common to the blood drinkin' kind?" 

"Do you really enjoy that?" the Mormolae said, ignoring Evan's question and cocking her head to one side. "That mouth on mouth thing you mortals do all the time." 

"You mean kissin'?" Evan made a face at Jo, who mouthed Sorry and put an arm around her shoulders. "Of course we do. T'is pleasant, with the right person." 

Lilith's daughter shivered. "Looks disgusting." She tossed her fur coat onto a nearby chair and slid off the dark sunglasses that concealed her flat brown eyes. The Mormolae wore a skin-tight scarlet sheath dress that revealed quite a lot of her scrawny frame, and she was perched as easily on her stilt-like stiletto heels as if she were balancing on air. 

"About as disgusting as drinking boy's blood," Jo retorted. She sat back down on the sofa and pulled Evan down next to her. 

It was the Mormolae's turn to make a face. "It's not like it was in the old days," she whined in her breathy voice. "We were gods then. But immortality's a bitch and then you can't die." 

Both Jo and Evan greeted this sally with rolling eyes. The Mormolae added, "You can call me Sylph," before floating over to a chair and sitting down with a flounce. 

"What were you doin' at the Mors Ab Rosa last night?" Evan asked, deciding to get the ball rolling as quickly as possible. Having a vampiric Mormolae in their home made her uncomfortable, even if she and Jo were the wrong sex and the wrong age to be of interest as a victim. Truth to tell, she could deal with demons or even ghouls without flinching but for some reason, the Mormolae's blood drinking habits filled her with atavistic hatred, a xenophobic reaction that she found difficult to control. 

"My sisters and I seek sacrifices among the Children of the Goth," Sylph breathed. "The rule has changed, of course. We no longer kill unless to cull the dying, but there are those who come to our embrace willingly." 

"Of course," Evan replied dryly. These days, the Mormolae's victims usually survived being deprived of a pint of blood; furthermore, the teenage boys sacrificed themselves willingly. "Still tradin' on that vampire nonsense, eh? Sellin' eternity and a vampire's powers when you know good and well it doesn't work that way." 

Sylph aimed her dead eyes at the Irishwoman and for a few seconds, an invisible force seemed to sizzle between them. Finally, just as Jo was about to interfere, the Mormolae backed down and stared at the floor, saying, "Mortals believe what they wish, even if it is untrue. We use the myths they already believe, a comfortable illusion that lulls and soothes. If it feeds my sisters and myself, what harm is there in a lie?" 

Evan pursed her lips angrily and bit back a sharp retort. 

Jo ran a hand through her platinum hair, making it stand up on end. "How about we drop the finger pointing, 'I'm righteous and you ain't' game and concentrate on what we're here for, okay? Now, Sylph... Lilith said you were at Ground Zero when the shit hit the fan. How about spilling the whole story while we sit here and listen politely." 

This last was aimed at Evan; the Irishwoman glared at Jo but subsided reluctantly, acknowledging with a curt nod that her partner was right. Now wasn't the time or the place to get into an ethical pissing match with the Mormolae. 

::I like this not:: Evan sent via her mental bond with Jo. ::Still, the potential destruction of the world takes precedence over my own dislikes. I'll be mortal happy when this monster's away, though. Blood drinkers weave my hair in knots.:: 

::Glad you're being so mature about it:: was Jo's sardonic reply. ::I'll be happy when this case is solved and the world don't blow up in my face. Now hush and pay attention.:: 

Sylph tossed a lock of black hair out of her eyes. "As I said before, my sisters and I seek willing sacrifices among the Gothic Night-children." She waited to see if Evan was going to protest, and when the Irishwoman didn't, the Mormolae continued, "I was cultivating one called Kenneth Coombs, who styled himself Lord Silvernail. He was responsible for... what happened." 

"And how old was this kid? Did you know anything about his family, his life outside the club?" 

Sylph wrinkled her nose. "He thought himself an Adept Mage, though truthfully, he had but a little knowledge gleaned here and there. Kenneth was a child, barely haired and beardless for all that, playing in the shadows of forces he didn't understand. Like all his kind, he felt cheated by fate and hated his life. But somehow, despite his inexperience and youth, he found a copy of the Book." 

Evan held her breath. Jo asked the burning question. "What Book would that be?" 

"The Necronomicon." 

Jo snorted, then unexpectedly broke into laughter. "Aw, c'mon, pull the other one!" she chuckled. "That story's so old it's got a freakin' beard. Everybody knows the Necronomicon ain't no ass kicking grimoire; it's nothing but Lovecraft messing with people's heads." 

Evan shushed her partner. "Actually, you're both right and wrong," she explained. "The author Lovecraft did indeed create a false Necronomicon, as well as the myths surroundin' it. T'was a case of hidin' in plain sight that which needed to be hidden. The real Book was written by the Archangel Raphael and contained all the wisdom of the Incorruptible Ones as well as Morningstar's kin. Semjaza and Armaros, two of the Watchers, stole the Book when they were banished from Heaven. It was later stolen by King Solomon and then lost, save for poppin' up every now and again, usually in the hands of dark-souled mortals." 

Jo stared at Evan in astonishment. "I thought you weren't interested in Christianity?" 

Evan shrugged. "I'm not. But the Book was being written about and debated by occultists when Egypt was young; havin' magic myself and learnin' from so many disciplines, I could hardly have closed my ears and ignored what was goin' on around me." 

"The Book tells of the First War," Sylph offered. "When Chaos and Order first clashed. Order created the myriad gods, the mortal universe and the OtherSides to be their battlegrounds; Chaos birthed the Ancient Enemy, the Wyrm." 

Evan opened her gray eyes wide and gulped. "The Wyrm?" she asked in a hushed voice. "We have to battle the Wyrm?" 

"Sounds like a job for the early birds," Jo cracked. When Sylph and Evan gave her a dirty look, she muttered, "Just kidding. Jeez, don't be so serious!" 

"This is very serious," Evan said, and the Mormolae added, "The Veil has been pierced and the Wyrm stirs. That's what Kenneth did last night. I was too far in blood trance to notice until the Wyrm killed him; he was too weak to provide a suitable conduit for its escape, but his death created a hole in the Veil that protects this world from the Wyrm's prison." 

"It's tried before," Evan said. "The Wyrm is pure hatred and t'will side with Morningstar's forces knowing full well that if the Balance is destroyed, so are all the realms. We must stop it from takin' corporeal form and emergin' into this plain; failin' that, we must force it back and repair the Veil." 

Jo looked nonplused. "Shit. Shades of Cthulhu and friends." 

"Where do you think Lovecraft got the idea?" Evan turned to the Mormolae. "Did you take the Book with you?" 

Sylph shook her head. "I hadn't time. Things happened too fast... I barely managed to fly out of there. The last time I saw it, the Book was with Kenneth, in the back of the nightclub." 

"We saw no trace of it in our searchin'. And if the police had found it, we'd know." Evan rubbed her temples. "We need the Necronomicon to repair the Veil and stop the Wyrm. There was another copy in the Bodleian library but it was stolen in 1934; it fell into Hitler's hands and Rudolph Hess was tryin' to return it when he flew to England in World War II. Or so the story goes. The Nazis weren't the first mortals to think they could harness the Wyrm to their desires," she continued darkly. 

"Ooookay," Jo said. She'd had time to think about it and she was feeling annoyed. "Can somebody tell me why in the hell did Big Celestial Poobah Raphael put a freakin' 'get outta jail free' card for the Wyrm into the Book? I mean, if this thing's as big a mother fucker as everybody thinks, why be so goddamned stupid as to give every Tom, Dick and Harry a key to letting it out?" 

"I don't know." Evan sighed. "No one knows. Anyway, most Necronomicon copies are corrupted and useless. Then there's Lovecraft's edition, also meant to confuse; he was in the pay of the Watchers, or so I've heard..." 

Jo snapped her fingers. "That's it! I'll give Mel a call, give him the skinny. Maybe he can point us in the right direction; it's his dime, after all." 

"Good idea." Evan turned her attention to the waiting Mormolae. "You can go now," she said coldly, plainly relieved that Sylph's departure was imminent. 

Sylph took no offense at this abrupt dismissal. Standing up and retrieving her coat, she swayed gracefully to the door. "If you need the help of Lilith's daughters, we will stand with you," she said in her breathy little voice, startling Evan. 

The Irishwoman nodded slightly. "If there's need, we'll be callin'." 

Sylph exited, shutting the door behind herself so quietly that the latch didn't even click. 

Jo popped up and stretched, working out the kinks in her muscles from sitting so long. "Let's go find a phone, baby." 

Evan, in desperate need of fresh air, didn't have to be asked twice. 

Chapter Six

The reason why Jo didn't use the telephone at home became apparent very quickly. The women cruised around until Jo pulled up next to a public phone booth that had been trashed. Someone had yanked the receiver cord out of the box and it dangled uselessly, exposed wires twisted and splayed. 

While Evan waited in the car, Jo calmly picked up the broken receiver and tucked it between shoulder and neck. Pulling out a business card from her wallet, the platinum blonde dialed a nine-digit number and waited. This was a bit of sympathetic magic; as a non-corporeal entity, Mel wasn't listed with directory assistance and couldn't be contacted by conventional means. However he could - and did - use the telephones lines in some mysterious way to stay connected to his mortal agents. 

There was silence; then a prolonged hiss and finally, Melmahay's rumbling bass. "Go for it." 

Jo gave Evan a thumbs-up and said, "Yo, Mel! It's Tate. We got some news, pal, and it ain't good." 

She quickly related what they had learned from Lilith and Sylph, adding, "We gotta get a handle on the Book. Evan says we can't do fuck-all without it. Coombs' copy has disappeared..." 

The Watcher interrupted, "We know." 

Jo fought the urge to pound the telephone receiver against the phone booth wall. "If you knew all about it, mother fucker, why'd you call in your marker and drag me n' Evan into this shit storm?" 

Melmahay sighed. When he answered, his tone was filled with the put-upon patience of a parent explaining something to an especially obdurate child. "As I've already told you, we don't have all the necessary contacts..." 

"Bullshit!" Jo hit the side of the booth with her fist for emphasis. "Don't give me that shuck-and-jive again, Mel. Give me the straight scoop or we're outta here, I swear." 

The platinum blonde was bluffing; she and Evan couldn't turn their backs on this potentially apocalyptic situation. But Jo had a feeling that Mel's reasons for involving them in the business had nothing to do with "contacts" and everything to do with more of the Watcher's secrets. Her partner concurred; hence, the ultimatum. 

There was silence on the other end of the phone and Jo was smart enough not to break it with useless chatter. She let the silence stretch on until it was on the verge of becoming oppressive. Never play chicken with a Tate, she thought. I'm too goddamned stubborn to blink; rather let my eyeballs dry up and blow away.

Finally, Mel flinched first. "All right," he said heavily. "You win. But I can't talk about it over an unsecured line." 

Unsecured line? Jo stared at the broken phone receiver in her hand and decided to let it pass. "You sound like one of them CIA covert-ops cowboys. Whassa matter... afraid some old lady's got her police scanner on?" 

Mel ignored this sally. "Go to 1141 Grace Street. You'll find your answers there." 

"You'd better not be blowing me off, pal, or I'll... hello? Hello? Goddammit!" Jo exclaimed, flinging the dead receiver down on the floor. "He hung up on me!" 

She exited the booth and swung back into the car. Evan looked at her. "Where's Grace Street?" she asked. The Irishwoman had listened to the whole conversation via her mental link with Jo. 

"I dunno. Somewhere downtown, I think," Jo answered, revving the Chevy's engine. "Between Kelly and Allen." 

As they peeled away from the curb, Evan said, "Do you really think we'll find any answers there?" 

"Baby, we'd better," Jo replied grimly, steering smoothly around a spluttering Pinto and paying no attention to the angry honks of other drivers behind her. "Otherwise, I'm gonna rip Mel a new celestial asshole; ex-angel or no friggin' ex-angel." 

Evan was too busy hanging on to the suicide strap to think of a suitable reply. 

Meanwhile, the fiery spark which had escaped the Mors Ab Rosa conflagration was busy with an important task of its own. 

It had dwelled for millennia in the shadow of the Wyrm and its purpose had not changed in all those years. The Herald was the cup bearer and chief priest of the Wyrm; when the Veil was pierced, as had happened before, and no suitable vessel for its master's might could be found, then the Herald would prepare a place of power and raise the Wyrm to the mortal realm. 

To do this required much magic... and cataphracts of rich, red blood. 

The Herald set about its task as it had done before. Remaining, for now, in its misty, ethereal form, it cast about like a hunting dog, extending its senses to detect every trace of darkness, every stain of murder, every shadow of mortal evil. It found exactly what it was looking for and glided silently in that direction. 

Riding a hot, sooty wind, the Herald soon came to a non-descript building whose windows had been blacked out. A neon sign over the entrance buzzed and flickered in poisonous pink and lime, "The Bone Yard." A few cars were parked in the dusty lot. 

Inside, loud music blasted from concealed speakers. On the middle stage, a bleary-eyed woman with more silicone than cellulite swayed mechanically, her heavily made-up face set in a blank stare of boredom. A scattered handful of men sat at the edge of the stage, nursing their drinks and never taking their eyes off the woman's big, firm tits, but they didn't look excited. Instead, their carefully bland expressions mirrored the dancer's. 

The Herald stopped a moment, confused; there were many sins here but this didn't seem the den of filth and darkness it had detected before. Then it searched further... and found the jackpot. Beneath the building was a basement, and it was here that so much evil had been committed that the place fairly reeked of horror and death. 

The Herald easily passed through walls and floors until it arrived in the basement. Here it found a woman, swathed in scarlet satin robes. She was on her knees before a black draped altar, surmounted by an inverted crucifix. A man's naked body was on the altar, his flesh showing clear signs of torture; his throat had recently been cut and the blood drained into a silver cup. The woman gobbled some incantation in doggerel Latin and drained the cup, licking her lips. 

Probing her mind, the Herald discovered that her real name was Carolyn Lunt, although she preferred the self-appointed identity of Lamia. She considered herself a high priestess of the Morningstar and craved all things dark and demonic; the bar above was a flesh trap, baited with scented females and intended to lure sacrificial victims down to Lamia's hungry god. Truck drivers, barflies, lonely bachelors and divorced businessmen - those without family, the dispossessed, the unnoticed and unwanted. She took them all for the greater glory of her god... and herself. 

The Herald fluttered around Lamia's shoulders, intoxicated by the insanity it sensed in the woman. What potential for destruction! What hatred, what horrible perfection of evil was locked in this frail mortal flesh! It knew that its search was over. This dank and gloomy place, filled with the trappings of an ignorant worship, would become a vortex of true and fearsome power such as the world had seldom seen. 

Lamia was blind to real magic; she'd fallen in with a pseudo-Satanic crowd when she'd run away from her sadistic father long ago. The rituals she performed had never brought her a scrap of occult power, but she derived a great deal of personal, almost sexual satisfaction in making strong men weep and beg for mercy before killing them in Lucifer's name. 

Some long dormant, inner instinct of self-preservation made the hair on the back of Lamia's neck stand up and shiver. Vaguely, she sensed a brooding, demonic presence. She immediately assumed that her prayers had been answered; after years of searching, so many deaths, so much blood... Lucifer had come to reward her! 

Lamia scrambled up from her crouch, saying, "Dark Lord?" Her voice was ecstatic and her eyes wide with excitement. "Dark Lord... your servant... I am here." 

At that precise moment the Herald struck. 

Lamia struggled feebly but the battle for possession of her flesh was over almost before it had begun. 

The Herald ran her hands down her new body, feeling mortal warmth for the first time in centuries... 

And smiled. 

Chapter Seven

Evening had descended in full force when Jo and Evan pulled up at the address they'd been given by Melmahay. 

"1141 Grace Street," Jo remarked, squinting at the worn numerals carved into the stone of the building. "It's a friggin' church." 

The church was small and built of stone blocks which had settled over time, giving the building a definite slump in one direction. The windows were little more than slits filled with a haphazard collection of stained glass; a light shining from inside made the colored glass glow, a few pitiful beams of scarlet, azure and gold reflecting against the night. A massive wooden door in the front was closed. 

They approached the door and Evan sniffed. "I smell incense," she said. "Candlewax and beeswax and people. Generations of people. This place is very old." 

"No kidding." Jo glanced at the door; lettering had been incised into the wood. "Chapel of the Holy Rood," she read aloud. "Do you think it's Catholic?" 

"I don't know." Evan put a hand on the door handle. "Let's go inside. We aren't solving anythin' by standin' out here with our thumbs up our arses." 

They went inside, the Irishwoman leading the way. 

A small foyer led to a big room with an arched, vaulted ceiling supported by small buttresses. Wooden pews were lined up precisely on either side of the room; iron candlesticks were affixed to each end of each pew, supporting fat candles that sweated and sputtered, providing illumination enough to read by. 

More candles had been placed in niches along the wall. On the right side near the altar there was a multi-tiered rack that held votive candles, each one aflame, as well as fresh flowers, fruits, loaves of bread and bottles of wine. The altar itself was covered by a splendidly embroidered cloth depicting the Virgin Mary and the crucified Jesus. 

The two women began walking down the aisle. Jo bumped the marble font near the door with her hip and nearly knocked it over. Holy water sloshed over the sides, wetting her jeans, and Jo let out a whispered obscenity. Evan frowned; her partner shrugged sheepishly. They continued towards the altar but were stopped by a voice that rang out in challenge. 

"Who dares disturb the house of God?" 

A man emerged from behind a curtained area to the left of the altar. He was dressed in a black, hooded robe with a scarlet cross embroidered on the breast, and a cord was wound around his waist. "Enter if ye be friends," he said breathlessly, as if he'd been running, "if your intent is evil, you are not welcome." 

Jo opened her mouth to speak but was forestalled by Evan's elbow digging into her ribs. 

"Who aided the Widow in her flight?" the Irishwoman asked calmly. 

The priest looked at her suspiciously. "The Architect of the Temple," he replied slowly. 

"The Sword of the Son." 

"The Breastplate of the Widow's Dream." The priest let out a long, slow breath. His eyes, a peculiar caramel color, gleamed with relief. "You know of the Mysteries?" 

Evan shrugged and smiled. "I've heard of them." 

The women having been established as friends by sign and counter-sign, the priest returned her smile. "Are you seeking shelter, protection or knowledge?" 

"Knowledge." Evan held out her hand. "I am Evan Reilly; this is Jo Tate, my partner. We were sent to you by a Watcher named Melmahay." 

The priest clasped her hand briefly; his palm was dry and cool. "Father Joseph." He nodded at Jo, who was fairly jiggling with impatience. " Please join me in the inner rooms where we can speak without being interrupted." 

He motioned through the curtained entrance near the altar. The inner rooms proved to be a series of tiny chambers interconnected by a twisting corridor; Jo had to hunch over slightly to avoid banging her head on the ceiling beams. Father Joseph plucked a candle from a nearby sconce and led them confidently through the claustrophobic warren. 

"From the little black cord of the Templars, God grant us mercy," Evan muttered. 

Directly behind her, Jo snorted. "Templars? Jeez, Ev! I'm gonna kill Mel when I get hold of him. More friggin' secrets, I bet. This case makes me feel like I'm wandering around in a maze, waiting for some godawful booger to jump out and make me shit my Calvins." 

Evan whispered a hasty explanation as Father Joseph marched on. "The Knights Templar was established by the Watchers in 1118. During the Crusades, their real mission was to recover a lost copy of the Book, which had turned up in the hands of an Arabic magician, Abdul Alhazred. The Templars killed Alhazred and recovered the Book, but it was stolen by King Phillip the Fair during the persecution of the Order. Or that it was hidden and the knowledge of its location lost when Phillip's prisoners were burned at the stake in 1314. No one knows for sure; the Order is famous for keepin' secrets to the grave." 

"Ooookay," Jo said. It was clear that the history lesson didn't impress her. "Hey teacher, is there gonna be a quiz later, 'cause I forgot to take notes." 

Evan shook her head and refused to be baited. 

Father Joseph made an abrupt right turn and suddenly, they were in a well-lit, comfortably appointed room that looked like a library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls; each shelf fairly groaned with heavy volumes and broken-spined tomes. Chairs and tables formed both conversation and study areas. Unlike the church, this room used electric lights in place of candles. 

An unusual sculpture immediately caught Jo's eye. Crafted of heavily gilded bronze and silver, the full-size image was in the shape of a woman's head. The eyes were set with turquoise; the slightly parted lips were carved carnelian; pearls, diamonds, rubies and sapphires formed gleaming ornaments for her upswept hair. 

"Bet that's worth a pretty penny," Jo said, nudging her partner and indicating the sculpture. "Those eyes are spooky, though... it's like they're following me wherever I go." 

Evan, eyes locked on the sculpture, said shortly, "They are." 

Jo bent over until she was within inches of the sculpture's face and took a closer look. 

Shockingly, the eyes blinked once and the lips moved. A voice like the piping of a flute came from the head's throat. "Did not your mother tell you it was rude to stare?" 

Jo squawked and leaped backward, nearly knocking Evan over. "What the fuck?" 

The head frowned. "Such language is forbidden in the library. Be respectful, young woman, or I will ask you to leave." 

Father Joseph placed a fond hand on top of the head. "This is our librarian, Helen." 

"So this is the brazen head the Templars were accused of worshipping!" Evan was fascinated. "I always thought that was one of the excuses Phillip used to persecute the Order!" 

"I am not an idol,"  Helen said primly. "I am a librarian." 

"Whatever you wish to know, Helen can provide." Father Joseph drew a chair over to the table where the head was placed, and sat down. "Please rest yourselves, my friends. Tell me why you have come." 

Evan outlined the facts, emphasizing their need for an uncorrupted copy of the Necronomicon. 

Father Joseph sat up straight in alarm. "The Wyrm has been wakened? Sweet blesséd Mother!" He crossed himself vigorously. "If that is so, then even now the Herald prepares a place for its master." 

Jo roused herself; she had been staring at the brazen head out of the corner of her eye and now felt a headache coming on. "Speak friggin' English, will ya? What the hell's a Herald and what's that got to do with the price of ice in Alaska?" She glared at Helen, daring the sculpture to protest her language again. 

Taking no offense at Jo's rudeness, Father Joseph explained the nature and tasks of the Herald. "It will have taken the Book that was used to rouse the Wyrm; when it has pooled enough power, it will use that Book to finish tearing the Veil apart and free its master to this realm." 

"How will it get that much power?" Evan asked; even as she voiced the question, she had a sinking feeling that she already knew the answer. 

"Blood sacrifice," Father Joseph answered promptly. "To raise the Wyrm requires the blackest magical arts. If that happens..." 

"The Balance will be lost and all worlds destroyed." Evan's gray eyes were slitted in thought. "So we must either stop the Herald before it gains enough power to raise the Wyrm entire, or we must somehow locate a copy of the Necronomicon and battle the Wyrm when it arrives on this plane.  I much prefer a pre-emptive strike, myself." 

"Even if the Herald is defeated in its aim, the Wyrm may still rouse itself enough to do great damage before it subsides," Father Joseph said. "This is a two-fronted battle. You must find the Herald's nest and destroy it, and you must also have the Book in hand in order to quell the Wyrm." 

::Great:: Jo grumbled mentally. ::It don't rain but it freakin' pours.:: 

::Have hope, colleen:: Evan answered. ::T'is a challenge but no greater than we've faced before.:: 

::Yeah, yeah, says you. We ain't never had Armageddon hanging over our heads before. This camper is NOT happy.:: 

::What ails you, woman?:: Evan looked sharply at the tall blonde. ::You've not been actin' yourself recently.:: 

::Nothing:: Jo's mental "voice" was distinctly sullen. ::Ain't a goddamned thing wrong with me that a nice cold beer wouldn't cure.:: 

Evan tried a small probe but Jo slammed her mental shields shut and stared at her with cold blue eyes. She shook her head and decided to get to the bottom of her partner's behavior later. 

Aloud, the Irishwoman asked the brazen head, "Where might we find an uncorrupted copy of the Book?" 

Helen's turquoise eyes closed. "Raphael's original text was in the angelic script; this volume was taken by the Watchers when they Fell and was later stolen from them by Peter the Apostle. Four Latin translations of the Book were made; due to a plethora of causes, these volumes were scattered over the centuries. The original edition currently resides in the Vatican..." 

Jo interrupted with a snarl, "If I hear any more history I'm gonna barf, swear to God! Just answer the fuckin' question, will ya?!" 

Helen's eyes snapped open. "Have I not already warned you about the usage of foul language in the library?" 

Jo grimaced. "Look, I ain't an immortal, I don't got decades to sit around and wait for you to get over yourself. Just the facts, ma'am, okay? I want a lesson in obscure trivia, I'll get off my ass and be a contestant on Jeopardy." 

The brazen head's reply was beautifully enunciated, every word bitten off precisely and dripping with venom. "Your point is made, madame. I shall endeavor to be as brief as possible." 

Evan ground her teeth together and sent to Jo, ::Can you not at least be polite?:: 

Jo refused to answer; she shifted in her seat, rolled her eyes and let out a hugely exaggerated sigh of patience. 

Helen's eyes closed again. It was clear that they were going to get the full version of events - whether they liked it or not. "Of the four translations - the Wormius edition was hidden in a slate mine in Wales in 1944 and its current whereabouts are unknown.  Dee's translation was stolen from the Bodleian library in 1934 by German agents; it disappeared when Rudolph Hess was arrested by the British government and is believed to be in the private collection of a former MI6 officer. The Pickman edition vanished in mysterious circumstances along with the artist R.U. Pickman from his home in Salem, Massachusates in early 1926. Finally, there is the Gaza volume which was supposedly destroyed in a fire in San Francisco earlier this century. It was, in fact, discovered by a Chinese immigrant and successful shopkeeper named Jiao Han, who moved to this city in 1976. Following his death in 1989, his entire book collection was donated to the local library." 

"That must be the copy Kenneth got his hands on. The Herald has that one now." Evan tapped her chin with a fingenail. "So... we can hardly go to Rome and ask the Pope for his copy." 

"I could," Father Joseph said modestly. "Or anyone of the Order - if the Watchers so decreed." 

"I don't think we're goin' to get much more help from the Watchers," Evan replied. "I get the feelin' that we're on our own in this." 

"That is only as it should be," the priest answered. 

Jo broke in. "Can we get our mitts on the Dee translation? That seems to be our best shot." She turned to the brazen head. "What's this MI6 dude's name and where does he hang his hat?" 

"His name is Sir Rowan Ashmole," Helen replied. "He is currently retired and lives at his family's country estate in Sussex." 

Father Joseph cleared his throat. "Perhaps I can be of some assistance in this matter. If you ladies will undertake to discover the whereabouts of the Herald, I will journey to England and obtain Sir Rowan's copy of the Book." 

Jo looked at him askance. "Whatcha gonna do? Hit him with your rosary when his back's turned, grab the swag and run like hell?" 

"Not exactly." The priest rose from his chair and smiled. "While the Order works with the Watchers, we have power in our own right. I assure you that I'm not without influence in that part of the world; as soon as I explain to Sir Rowan precisely what's at stake, I'm sure he'll be happy to help." 

Father Joseph radiated such confidence that Evan couldn't protest his decision. "Very well," she replied. "Once you return with the Book, we'll meet here for a council of war. By then, I'm hopin' Jo and I will have sniffed out the Herald's lair." 

The priest clasped hands with each of the women before leading them back to the church proper. 

As they crossed the threshold, Father Joseph called, "Go with God, my children!" 

Jo muttered darkly, "I should be so lucky." 

Despite Evan's efforts to find out what was wrong with Jo, the platinum blonde brooded with black intensity all the way home. 

When the Irishwoman pressed too hard, her partner turned to her and snarled, "Leave me the fuck alone, okay? Just get off my goddamned back! I think you got enough to worry about without jumping down my throat every ten minutes." 

Stunned, hurt and feeling very put upon, Evan lost all desire to discover why Jo had been behaving so childish lately. In a cold, silky voice, she replied, "As you'll have it, colleen. When you wish to talk, I am here." 

No other words were exchanged on the way home. Evan withdrew into her own private world of hurt feelings, prickly pride and pain; Jo drove like more of a maniac than usual, taking insane chances as if she were already tired of life. 

In point of fact... she was. 

Chapter Eight

The Herald had wasted no time in preparing a place for the Wyrm. 

It had possessed Lamia and expanded her cult of one into a thriving temple of pain and death. The Herald cast wide a psychic net and was able to sense those mortals whose souls were already corrupted. It used its powers to lure them to The Bone Yard; once there, it played upon their fantasies, crafting illusions of power or wealth or beauty that dazzled their eyes and senses. Those who accepted the Herald's dreams joined their fellows in ecstatic worship, believing they had glimpsed the might of a dark and glorious god and would be rewarded by their hearts' desires. 

If the cost of such rewards was bloodshed, then so be it. Told to provide sacrifices to prove their worth, the cult members eagerly brought family, children, spouses, friends, co-workers and employees to the Herald's altar. Mothers offered their babies to the knife; husbands cheerfully held their wives and mistresses down on the stone. Deaf to screams, hardened against mercy, believing only in the promises of their god, the cult was sent out night after night to find more victims. 

The establishment of the Wyrm's temple happened almost overnight, so swift was its growth. Spending its personal magic recklessly, the Herald transformed the basement into a whore's nightmare of crimson velvet, black satin and leather. Indulgent orgies of every deviance and vice took place there, rivaling the worst of Caligula's Rome. So complete was its hold on the thirty-six members of the cult that at the Herald's word, they would have cheerfully cut their own throats. 

The bar above the basement was still in operation, but the girls who danced were in the cult, and they used their bodies to entice men to their doom. 

The Herald was careful to shield its operations from the mundane authorities; too much attention could prove fatal to its plans. Although the newspapers and television commented nightly on the rash of disappearances and whipped up public hysteria to near frothing proportions, neither the police or FBI had any leads, thanks to the Herald's delicate mage work. 

Due to the dedication of the cult, in three short weeks the Herald had an incredible amount of occult power at its disposal... but it needed more. More pain, more deaths; a sea of mortal lives would hardly be enough. 

But how? The work went well but too slowly for its liking. 

Seated upon its throne, its arms still drenched in the blood of the last sacrifice, the Herald pondered and planned. It caught sight of an advertising flyer that had been brought in by one of its followers and suddenly, the Herald knew what could be done. 

By the Eye of the Wyrm, what would be done! 

Quickly, it cast a simple summoning spell to bring its followers home. 

There was much work to be done before the final slaughter could begin. 

As the days stretched into weeks, Jo became increasingly sullen, sarcastic and withdrawn. Evan decided she had no time to deal with her partner's black mood; instead, she threw herself into increasingly complex castings, trying without success to pinpoint the Herald's hideaway. 

Newspaper headlines and television broadcasters screamed about the strange disappearances; theories ranged from dimensional vortexes to alien abductions. Even more disturbing was the flight of supernatural creatures from the city. Ghouls, ghaneeshi, nagas, satyrs, dryads, the wolverkin - even the usually level-headed Babylonian goddess Astarte - had all packed up and fled for parts unknown. The situation reminded Evan of rats deserting a sinking ship and only served to confirm her worst fears. Lilith and the Mormolae remained behind but their presence was small comfort to the Irishwoman. 

Evan knew the Herald had something to do with all the madness; what drove her to distraction was her inability to locate either the monster's lair or the blood magic it had raised. The city was criss-crossed with false trails, confusion spells and magical mazes, all liberally sprinkled with traps to catch the unwary. It was slow going and Evan was exhausted, irritable and her raw nerves were stretched to the breaking point. 

After spending nearly an entire day laboriously tracing a trail of magic, untangling each thread with breathless caution, disarming several nasty traps and still ending up nowhere, Evan was ready to scream with frustration. Glancing about, she spied Jo, who was slumped on the sofa drinking a beer. 

"Why are you sittin' there, fillin' your gullet with spirits?" Evan's tone was hard and unfriendly. "I though you were goin' to see Helen at Holyrood and ask to borrow the Father's copy of the Liber Loagaeth. You know I need it to break a cipher spell of the Herald's." 

"I didn't feel like it," Jo answered sullenly. She turned a pouting face to her partner. "That freaky rustbucket's too mouthy for me." 

Evan drew a sharp breath. "That 'freaky rustbucket,' as you call her, is Helen of Troy. Aye," she continued hotly when Jo's brow raised in disbelief, "did you think the Greeks warred with the Trojans for ten years over a common woman? She's the font of all knowledge and a good ally besides. You'd do better to give her respect rather than cheap insults. I think you still owe her an apology for the way you treated her before." 

"Whoop-dee-doo," Jo said snidely, turning away and nursing her beer. "I couldn't give a rat's ass. You want this Liber whatsitsname, you can get it yourself. And I ain't gonna say 'I'm sorry' to an ILM reject. What I'm gonna do is have another beer and watch As the World Turns - which is a helluva lot more interesting than all this end of the world shit - so fuck you, lady, and the bunny slippers you rode in on." 

Evan trembled with barely suppressed rage. She'd had enough of her partner's sarcasm, unhelpful attitude and childish remarks - the camel's back had finally broken. 

"I cannot believe you!" she shouted, making Jo start in surprise. "You ungrateful, selfish, black hearted wench! I've borne enough of your spleenish temper, woman; I've had my fill of you walkin' about, whinin' and whingin' like a beggar's cur and snappin' at every friendly hand. I'll no more indulge you, by Kernossus! If you're so determined to turn your face to the wall and strive no more, then spare me the sharpness of your tongue and get you gone!" 

Jo sprang up off the sofa. Her face was stark white except for two spots of hectic red that burned on her cheeks. "Goddammit, don't bitch at me! You don't know shit about what I've been going through lately!" 

"You?" Evan laughed, an ugly sound that made Jo's eyes darken with anger and tears. "What of your little troubles, colleen? The world trembles on the knife edge of destruction and instead of puttin' your soul into the savin' of it, you cry a litany of your own woes. Pardon if I cannot join you in useless weepin'; I've enough burdens to bear without addin' you to the load." 

Jo's lips twisted. Suddenly, she hurled the empty beer bottle at the wall; it shattered, spraying the room with bits of glass. "Fuck you!" she choked, tears streaming down her cheeks. "You think you're so goddamned smart... I got news for you, babe! You ain't gonna have to put up with me much longer anyhow..." Her voice trailed off in a sob. "Fuck you." 

Evan rolled her eyes and sighed. "Go then; take what you wish and leave." Through her anger, she could already feel the aching void of loss. She loved Jo and could hardly bear to think of life without her, but she hardened her heart and put sadness aside. Their shattered relationship was unimportant beside the possible destruction of the realms; there would be time to grieve later. 

Jo's shoulders shook. She glanced at Evan with swollen, reddening eyes and croaked, "Fine. You want me gone? I ain't gonna let the doorknob hit me in the ass on the way out." 

Drained of anger and energy alike, her emotions numb but heart aching, Evan watched Jo stuff a few pitiful possessions into a duffel bag. 

Shrugging on her leather jacket, Jo slung the bag over her shoulder. Wiping her wet face with the back of her hand, the platinum blonde let herself out of the apartment and shut the door behind her. Not another word was exchanged between the two women. 

Evan roused herself long enough to send a mental message. ::Let me know where you're stayin'. I'll send the rest of your clothes and things.:: 

Jo didn't reply. Instead, she deliberately smashed the psychic link between them, severing that intimate contact. 

It was an act almost as final as death. 

Evan caught her breath with a sob, then controlled herself with an effort. Sitting down at the desk, she opened a notebook and attempted to study several spells she'd copied at Holyrood... but tears welled up in her eyes and blurred the script. 

Staring blankly at the page, all Evan could see was Jo's face. The harsh words they'd exchanged echoed and re-echoed inside her mind. 

You ain't gonna have to put up with me much longer anyhow.

Suddenly, those words of Jo's took on a much different meaning than they had before. 

Heart beating wildly, hope warring with despair, Evan abandoned her studies and ran out of the apartment, hoping to find Jo before it was too late. 

Despite her admirable intentions, the fate of the world now seemed far less important than her lover's life.

Chapter Nine

With all the trails and webs of magic encircling the city, Evan couldn't use a spell to locate Jo. Also, she didn't know how to drive; since arriving in the city, she'd relied on Orestes, the satyr taxi driver, or her partner for transportation. She found complex mechanical devices - such as automobiles or VCRs - completely baffling and had barely mastered the arcane art of cooking on the electric stove in their apartment. 

The city was large and searching every inch on foot would take days, if not weeks. The only logical option was to use four feet and keener senses to hunt down her lover. 

As she hit the doors and flung herself outside, Evan activated her inborn gift and transformed to her ShiftSelf - a big female wolf whose wild tangerine coat was a match for her own hair. 

The wolf ranged back and forth in front of the apartment building, ignoring fearful pedestrians who gasped and beat a hasty retreat out of the huge animal's path. Panting and snuffling, Evan soon caught Jo's scent and was off, loping down the sidewalk with her tail streaming behind her like a banner. 

Bystanders scattered out of the wolf's path like chickens before a hungry fox... 

Including an anemic looking gentleman in a business suit whose eyes were coruscating pebbles of flame. 

Jo stumbled along in a daze, unsure of her destination but wanting to put as much distance as possible between herself and the total freak she'd thought she was in love with. 

Jeez, Tate! What kinda perv are you, anyhow? she thought. She's always on your case, nag, nag, nag, day and night, always got a hair up her ass about something. You're better off without her.

What the hell were you thinking? The chick's a bitch, and it ain't all just an attitude problem. I don't need a girlfriend who thinks she's friggin' dictator of the world AND turns into a poor man's version of Lassie. Forget cracker crumbs in the bed... I get goddamned fleas!

It was the utter unfairness of Evan's accusations that bit to the bone. 

Shit, I got problems, too, Jo whined to herself. It was amazing how quickly rationalizations and justifications for her actions came to the fore. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that giving her heart to Evan had been a huge mistake. 

Always bossing me around, acting like she knows better than anybody else... I'm just as good as she is, goddammit. I'm just as smart. I can take care of myself; I don't need her hanging over my shoulder, criticizing me every ten minutes over little shit that nobody cares about.

Who needs her?

Let the Wyrm eat the world; I don't give a good goddamn. Hope the bastard gets terminal indigestion.

I need a beer.

Jo stopped outside a small bar; the place was nearly deserted, except for a couple of old soaks who were trying to cadge drinks off the bartender. 

She dropped her duffel bag near the bar and climbed up on a stool. When the bartender glanced her way, she waved a fifty-dollar bill at him and said, "Beer with a bump. Keep 'em coming." 

Plucking the money from her fingertips, the bland-faced man pushed a glass mug of beer and a shot of schnapps in front of her. With a flick of her wrist, Jo downed the schnapps, grimacing as the sickly sweet peppermint liquor burned her throat. She cooled the fires with a long draught of beer, throat working as the level of liquid in the mug dropped with alarming swiftness. Slapping the mug down on the bar, Jo gestured for another. 

And another. 

And another. 

The next couple of hours was a blur, punctuated only by a stumbling trip to the restroom, more beer and more schnapps. 

The more she drank, the more her thoughts turned to death and the dreams she'd been having. 

I mean, death ain't such a bad thing. Hell, I been dreaming about death - my death - since the day we started this fuckin' case. Looked pretty nasty, too. Lessee... I've dreamed I got dismembered, disemboweled, decapitated and generally de-everything'd. John Carpenter ain't got nothing on my imagination.

But that wasn't the worst of it. 

Night after night she'd watched herself die in agony, screaming and writhing, begging for mercy, as she was slowly torn apart by a shadowy thing that she knew instinctively was the Wyrm. She'd seen Evan confront her destroyer and be annihilated in turn. She'd watched the world erupt in flames, billions of people consumed in a flash of brilliance brighter than the sun; when the light faded, only their smoking, flaking, grinning skeletons were left behind. 

Jo had seen the universe consumed bite by bite, leaving nothing but a howling wasteland of living darkness behind. 

The pure hell of it was that her psychic senses all told her that the visions were true - her death, Evan's death, the death of everything and everyone was inevitable. Fate was about to sucker punch the world and although Jo could see it coming, she couldn't stop it anymore than she could have hoped to halt a runaway train by stepping in front of it. 

The more she tried to fight, to deny, to find any spark of hope to lift her out of despair, the worse the visions had become. She wasn't able to articulate her fears; each time she'd tried to tell Evan about the visions, the words were snatched from her lips and instead, the rantings of a sullen child were substituted. At first this had bothered her, but bludgeoned by nightmares, Jo stopped trying and didn't even think about it anymore. Lashing out with sarcasm or insults became the only mode of expression she was allowed. 

A feeling of utter and complete hopelessness engulfed her. The Wyrm couldn't possibly be defeated; it was too powerful, too strong. It was a god and what was she? A pitiful bag of blood and bones that would be crushed beneath its might. She was going to die and there wasn't a goddamned thing she could do about it. At this low ebb, death was looking better and better. 

Peace and quiet, Jo thought, tossing a handful of bills at the bartender and staggering off the stool. No more nagging, no more dreams, no more swallowing other people's shit. Just a nice, deep grave that I can crawl into and pull the sod over my head.

Don't wait, a voice whispered inside her mind. You don't have to. Why suffer if you can slip quietly into oblivion? 

Jo nodded, agreeing with this inner whisper. This was the most sense she'd heard in a long time. 

Damn straight! Why should I stand there with my thumb up my ass and let the Wyrm rip my head off? Goddammit, if I have to die, I'm gonna do it MY way.

With that thought firmly in mind, she staggered away, leaving her duffel bag behind. 

As she made her shambling way out of the bar, Jo failed to notice one of the winos watching her progress with keen interest; the old man's eyes glowed with whirling sparks of fire. 

Chapter Ten

The tangerine-furred wolf searched for her mate, oblivious to every distraction except the faint and elusive scent that she knew so well. 

Natural blonde perfume, Evan thought, racing across a street and dodging traffic adroitly. The first time I told Jo how I perceived her scent in my ShiftSelf, she laughed until she was sick.

Pedestrians shied away as the wolf followed Jo's trail straight into a bar that had seen better days. 

The only customer was a ragged old man who lay face down in a puddle of stale beer, snoring. The bartender was picking his nose and reading a racing form, and didn't notice Evan as she stepped inside. 

A duffel bag lay near a stool; Evan immediately recognized it as Jo's. She could smell no blood, and for a moment debated whether or not to shift back into her SkinShape, so she could search the bag for possible clues. She swiftly discarded the idea; from the strong scent markers, Jo had sat there for a couple of hours, drinking heavily, and it was clear that the blonde hadn't opened her duffel since leaving the house. 

Within a few more moments, the wolf discovered something that made her heart pound. Jo had left less than fifteen minutes before! Evan shot out of the door. Kernossus! She's so close! Nose to the ground and tail tucked between her legs, Evan sniffed deeply, scouting back and forth, trying to pick up Jo's trail. Out of so many different threads of odors that criss-crossed the streets, one strong strand stood out as if lit by fire. 

Jo!

The wolf raced away, muzzle so close to the concrete sidewalk that she was in danger of scraping her nose. 

Jo wandered unsteadily down the sidewalk. She had ended up in a section of town devoted mainly to warehouses and big storage facilities; trucks whizzed up and down the four lanes of the street, bawling horns and belching diesel fumes, some ferrying their loads to the highway and others returning home. Despite the noisy traffic, the area was virtually deserted; office workers had already gone home for the day and the little sandwich shops and cafes were closed. 

The voice in her head kept hammering the point home: Better to die now by your own choice than suffer. Better to die now...

Jo stopped, her senses reeling. A truck blurred past, engine roaring, the hot wind of its passage kicking grit and old food wrappers into her face. 

Better to die now...

Another truck was coming. 

Destiny was calling. 

The humming in her ears grew louder and louder as she edged closer to the curb. 

Evan skittered around a corner, paws scrabbling for purchase on the concrete. 

Big fenced warehouses and office buildings were illuminated by the pale, golden glow of the late afternoon sun, lending the otherwise unaesthetic structures an almost otherworldly aura. Waves of heat shimmered off the dark asphalt, burning her pads, but the wolf ran on. 

Jo was standing in the middle of the street, a bemused expression on her face. A semi-truck was bearing down on the blonde; the driver was already braking, shattering the air with ear-splitting wails of his horn, but it was clear that he could not hope to stop in time. Glimpsed through the sun-crazed glare on the windshield, his bearded face bore a look of horror, mouth and eyes open wide as he struggled with the steering wheel, torn between smashing the suicidal woman into blood-soaked rags or driving his cargo into a building, killing who knew how many others, including himself. 

There was scant time for choices. It would be over in a few heartbeats, one way or another. 

Evan put on another burst of speed, cutting across the street and aiming straight for Jo, her path as unerring as an arrow in flight. 

Her heart trip-hammered in her chest, her tongue hung from the corner of her muzzle, her lungs worked like bellows as Evan sought desperately to save her partner from certain destruction. 

Time seemed to slow into a syrupy trickle of disconnected moments. Jo, the truck, the reddening sky, tiny pebbles buried in the hot asphalt... the most insignificant details came suddenly and sharply into focus. 

One final convulsive effort forced from muscles that burned and bled and tore... and the wolf leaped, knowing that if she failed, the darkness that waited for her beloved would claim her, too. 

Jo stared straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to her plight but actually welcoming it. She was going home at last; this truck was a savior, a heavenly messenger sent to end her suffering, ease her pain into eternal peace. Even the gleaming chrome grill looming closer and closer appeared more like a grin of welcome than a grimace of threat. 

Better to die now...

A small smile curved her lips as she watched salvation approach, blue eyes glazed as if mesmerized by the furious squeal of the truck's brakes, the acrid scent of burning rubber that seemed like the precious odor of sanctity, incense and music to her desperation and madness. 

It wouldn't be long now. 

Jo held out her arms, threw back her head and waited, glorying in the sense of freedom, the absolute rightness of her actions. 

Warm and waiting, wrapped in shadowy wings of despair that were even now lightening to joy, Jo closed her eyes and laughed - 

Until something impacted straight into her chest, knocking the breath out of her and sending her down, down to the street, hands clutching, rolling over and over in a blind, bone-wrenching, tooth-jarring ride that lasted only until her head struck the concrete curb with a solid thud. Her mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood, her senses reeled with confusion and shock, and a starburst of brilliant lights flashed inside her skull... 

And Jo knew no more. 

Chapter Eleven

The wolf crouched over her partner's limp body, panting. The truck roared past and she squeezed her eyes shut, the scorching wind of its passage blowing her luxurious tangerine fur backwards, diesel fumes and ozone-scented smoke burning her nose, ears screwed back against her skull as the driver leaned on the screaming brakes one last time, bringing the big vehicle to a shuddering halt a couple of hundred yards away. 

A heartbeat later and Evan changed to her SkinShape. Her hands shook as she delicately probed Jo's body with her mage senses, then used her dwindling store of magic to heal the blonde's physical injuries. As she was assessing and healing, the driver of the truck leaped out of the cab and ran over. He was a big, brawny man whose wild eyes and stammering tongue indicated nervous shock. 

"S-s-she was right in front of me, swear to G-g-god!" the driver bleated. "I didn't have n-n-no choice! Swear to God! Oh, Jesus!" 

Evan glanced up at him, sparing a moment's concentration from her task. With a sigh, she crooked a pair of fingers at the man and murmured the Rann of Full Cleansing, wiping away his short term memory of the event. As he stiffened and stared straight forward, his face blank, Evan reached within his mind and substituted false memories, swiftly tying them into reasonable explanations drawn from his own experience. It was a rough, patchy job of psychic manipulation, but more subtle methods weren't required. As she withdrew, he blinked, licked his lips, turned around and walked back to his truck, the incident already forgotten. 

The problem of the driver disposed of, Evan sat back on her heels and looked at Jo thoughtfully. Her partner's wounds, internal and external, were completely healed, but she was keeping her unconscious while she tried to figure out what had driven Jo to such insanity. 

She acts as if she were bein' influenced, Evan thought. It can't be an enchantment; I'd have sensed such magics through the link we share. And Jo's shields are of the best... I should know, I taught her to create them! So, unless my poor colleen's gone completely mad, there has to be another explanation.

She wrinkled her brow as an idea came to her. The use of pure magic was as different from pure psychic ability as night was to day; telepathy or clairvoyance required no mage skills, were inborn talents that drew upon the user's mind for power rather than outer magical sources. So what if the attacks on Jo's mind weren't magical in origin? What if... 

Evan sucked in a breath, berating herself for a blind fool. What if someone's been trackin' through Jo's mind, the same as I just did to that truck driver?!!

It had been a long time since she'd checked Jo's mental shields; after rigorous training, she'd figured her partner more than capable of marshaling and maintaining her own psychic protections. As soon as she touched Jo's shields, however, she knew something was wrong. 

Thin as tissue paper, the Irishwoman thought with alarm. The merest semblance of strength, meant to fool a casual touch. No real protection at all.

It was child's play for the Druid-trained woman to push back those crumbling shields and survey the damage to Jo's psyche. It was clear that someone - or something - had left its mark, burned like a brand in the other woman's mind. 

Like a booted foot trompin' on eggshells, was Evan's horrified evaluation. A cursory examination revealed loops and twists of malign influence which had been knotted into Jo's own psychic abilities. Poor colleen. Whatever false notions were fed to her, she'd have believed them. My sorrow that I taught her to trust those instincts. T'was that unthinkin' trust that led her down this path - and I never paid heed to her troubles, much to my shame.

The damage had been done, however, and needed to be repaired. Evan couldn't do it here; despite the lateness of the hour, the place was far too public for her liking. She needed to get Jo off the street and into a place of privacy and concealment, a sanctuary where she could work on restoring her partner's shattered mind. Taking her back home was impossible, not when Evan suspected that their apartment was being watched, if not physically then with psychic "eyes." The moment that Jo's tormentor knew that its hold on the woman was broken, it might be provoked into an attack, and Evan's magical reserves were too low to provide much of a defense. 

A public telephone stood in solitary splendor a few paces away. But who could she trust? After some deliberation, Evan made her decision and conjured up a quarter from thin air. 

About twenty minutes after placing her call, a car glided over to the curb. While she'd waited, Evan had called upon the last of her reserves and placed a bubble of Unseeing over herself and the comatose Jo; although darkness had fallen and there were few pedestrians in this section of the city, the Irishwoman had decided that discretion was the better part and acted accordingly. 

The car was an antique Rolls Royce painted gleaming black, and as it came to a halt the rear door opened invitingly. Evan squatted, gathered Jo's limp body into her arms and stood with a muffled grunt. Although much shorter than her partner, Evan was powerfully muscular; still, the dead weight she carried was a burden, and the few steps to the car made her knees feel watery and weak. 

Sliding Jo into the car and clambering inside herself, Evan was too weary to be startled when the door closed of its own accord and the Rolls Royce purred smoothly down the road. 

"How is she?" asked a deep voice politely. 

Evan sighed, leaning against the seat back, Jo's head propped up in her lap. "Physically, she's healed, but her mind's a mess." 

A dim light flickered on, revealing the voluptuous form of Lilith. "Can I do anything to help?" the Mother of Demons asked. 

"You already have," Evan answered. "I'd not involve you more than necessary, and besides, you've done enough as t'is." 

Lilith leaned over, placed a cool hand on Jo's forehead. "You mean you'd rather keep the debt you owe me as small as possible." Her dark eyes met the Irishwoman's and it was Evan who dropped her gaze first. 

"Aye," Evan said wryly. "Blame me not for caution, Lilith. I've learned the lesson of it almost too late, and see how my beloved has suffered!" 

Lilith smiled slightly. "It wasn't my intention to criticize. In fact..." She fumbled about her clothing, finally coming up with something that glittered in her fist, and offered it to Evan. "Perhaps this will help. It's all I could come up with on short notice." 

Evan took the object. It was a gold medallion, embossed with a fair representation of Lilith's face on one side and a multi-rayed sun emblem on the other. The thing fairly pulsed with power; with a growing sense of astonishment, Evan realized that this coin held enough magic not only to replenish her dwindled reserves, but leave enough left over to shift the earth on its axis without much effort at all. 

Or scribe my name in the stars themselves, came the giddy thought unbidden.. 

"A little something I've been saving for a rainy day," Lilith explained. "I've been putting a bit of magic aside for a long time. You never know when it might come in handy." She spoke as casually as if she'd been a thrifty housewife saving her pin money. 

Evan stammered her thanks, overwhelmed by the gift. Although Lilith was clearly delighted, she waved aside the Irishwoman's gratitude. "Just keep the Wyrm from upsetting the Balance and I'll consider myself well paid," the Mother of Demons said as the car halted. 

The door opened and Evan stepped outside. They were on Grace Street, directly in front of Father Joseph's church. As the Irishwoman bent back inside the car, muscling Jo onto her shoulder, she heard a male voice directly behind her. 

"Blesséd Virgin! Let me help you, child!" 

It was Father Joseph himself. 

Although Evan was surprised to see the priest - the last she'd known, he was still in England, trying to charm a copy of the Book from Sir Rowan Ashmole - she welcomed his assistance. Together, they got Jo out of the Rolls and into the church, carrying her through the maze of corridors that led to the library. 

As they walked, Evan quickly explained Jo's condition. 

"A grave problem indeed," Father Joseph panted. "It's just as well that I returned this morning." 

Once inside the library with Jo stretched out on a battered sofa, Evan sank down on her knees beside her partner and began the delicate process of removing the alien influence from Jo's mind. 

It was psychic work and the medallion given to her by Lilith, though an object of puissant power, was useless; she would have to rely solely on her inner resources and pray they were enough. 

Evan worked without faltering, labored until she was nearly blind with pain, head throbbing to the beat of her pulse. What had been done to Jo was like the systematic application of a slow poison, bearing all the hallmarks of the Herald - or one of its servants. 

Desperation piled upon despair and married to death but gradually, so gradually - little by little the subject's own fears were distorted and blown up out of all proportion, and the whole thing had been tuned specifically to the blonde's own psychic abilities. Whatever nightmares the controller had sent to gnaw at Jo's disintegrating sanity would have seemed like true visions of the future. Then, the coup de grace - a suggestive nudge towards suicide, which by that time must have been a relief. 

The Irishwoman cursed the Herald's cleverness, subtlety and ability. No spider ever wove its web as cunningly as this servant of darkness.

After what seemed an eternity of unraveling knots of baleful psychic influence, Evan at last reached the core of the spiritual infection. It was a swirling vortex buried deep, with a strangely glimmering cord stretching away; presumably, at the other end of this cord, Evan would find Jo's tormentor. Despite her weariness, the Irishwoman never forgot caution; she stealthily seized the line in a gossamer grip, careful not to alert or alarm, and followed it through the astral plane to its ultimate origin. 

She felt pulled as thin as wire, almost disconnected from her own body, by the time she reached the mind beyond. Evan did not enter it; she had no wish to find herself in a battle which she could not win. A superficial examination on the surface revealed strong traces of insanity - insatiable bloodlust, twisted sexual desires and fantasies, overtones of sadism and bright scarlet threads of hate. 

Evan gathered her strength, almost weeping in frustration when she realized it would not be enough. Just when she'd begun to despair and consider withdrawal, she felt a surge of power pulse through her; with relief, surprise and joy, she recognized Father Joseph's presence. 

The priest sent a mental message - ::Do what you must; I will lend you what strength I have. With both of us set to the task, I do not think we can fail.:: 

Evan sent an acknowledgment and wove the strands of glittering power into a familiar shape. In moments, she held a shining spear. As the weapon of Lir in legend, she thought, welding more power into the diamond bright spearpoint. Fail not to strike into the enemy's heart and roar as you claim victory in righteousness.

With all her might she cast the psychic spear straight at the dark mind, exulting when the weapon pierced her enemy's defenses and drove deep, exploding with a shattering, crystalline scream, echoed by a wail of pure pain and fear from the mind. Then the evil psyche blew apart beneath the attack, lines of force and personality and memory sheared away, blowing past Evan like ashes from a bonfire. A few struck, affording her brief glimpses from the other person's memories, sudden flashbacks in a dizzying kaleidoscope of images and visions, smells and sounds. 

Only Father's Joseph's grip on her astral body kept Evan from becoming lost in the storm as the enemy's mind convulsed, imploded, died. 

As soon as she was able, Evan returned to the physical. She was drenched with sweat, felt weakened to the bone, and the headache was making her nauseous. 

Still, when she forced her eyes to open and focus, when she was at last able to quell the ringing in her ears, the sweetest sight and sound in the world greeted her efforts. 

Jo was awake, staring at her with a look of utter confusion and rubbing her forehead with one hand. 

"Jeez, babe, what's up? Where the hell are we? And what the hell happened to you? You look like I feel... like poor old Tokyo after a major Godzilla square-dance stomp. Oy, my achin' head! Hey, why're you crying? What's with the waterworks? What's going on? Ev? Ev?!! Ooof!" 

Father Joseph beamed at the couple, the Irishwoman's arms locked around Jo's neck, smothering the blonde in kisses and tears. 

From across the room, the brazen head named Helen sniffed and quoted, "Oh, that the desert were my dwelling place, with one fair spirit for my minister, that I might all forget the human race, and hating no one, love but only her!" 

The priest nodded his head. "You are quite right, my friend, and so was Byron. Let's give them a bit of privacy, shall we?" he replied, walking over to Helen and firmly turning his back on the two women, which incidentally blocked the brazen head's own view. "I fear such moments will be altogether few and far between in the days to come." 

Across town, in a basement below a strip bar, the Herald stared down at the twitching, drooling remains of its pet psychic and frowned... 

And for the first time in its long existence, felt a chilling splinter of doubt lodge behind the breastbone of the woman's skin it wore.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jo's memory of the past three weeks was fuzzy. 

"Like going to a party, getting totally blasted and having the time of your life... next morning, you wake up with a lampshade on your head, a shaved gorilla with dragon breath clinging to your chest and goddamned if you can remember much of anything past that sixth margarita." Jo gave her partner a rueful smile. "I recall bits, here and there. A few things are clear, but a lot of the time, it was like I was doing a slow dance in molasses, you know? One step removed and slow as hell to catch on." 

Evan nodded. "I should have known somethin' was wrong," she said bitterly. "Magic and mages are not the only powers on the earth. Had I thought to check, even once..." 

"Hey, Ev, don't beat yourself up over it." Jo slid closer to Evan, putting an arm around the other woman's shoulders. "It's okay. You were distracted by all that all-mighty Wyrm and end-of-the-world jazz. Hell, even I didn't know I was being manipulated, and it was all going down in my head! Talk about thick as a brick!" 

Evan sighed, putting a hand on Jo's knee. Her gray eyes were still troubled. "Do you remember how it started?" 

"Some weird fuckin' dreams. I don't remember any details, just that they made me want to crawl out of my skin, barf up my toenails and run screaming for the hills. For some reason, I thought they were going to come true. But details...? Can't help you there. It's all a blur." 

"It was the Herald," Evan said, twisting a lock of wild tangerine hair around her finger. "One of its servants. A truly deranged mind, tho' that's a mild way of puttin' the sickness I saw there. There was somethin' else as well. I saw..." Her voice trailed off and she caught her lower lip between her teeth 

Jo leaned forward, dark blue eyes searching her partner's face. "What didja see, babe?" When Evan didn't answer, Jo frowned. "Do you really  want to go there, Ev? Sure you wanna do an instant replay of that psycho's psyche? Sounded pretty goddamned nasty from what you told me." 

"I..." Evan shook her head. "I'm not sure. But I need to find out." Abruptly, she stood and walked across the room, sinking down to sit cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed in concentration as she initiated a deep meditation trance, trying to recall that one glimpse out of so many confusing images she'd been bombarded with when she'd destroyed the  Herald's servant. 

She wasn't sure why she felt such sudden urgency, but her instincts were rarely wrong. Druid training had given Evan perfect recall; now she sat within the quiet of her own mind and sifted through all she'd seen and felt in her attempt to rescue Jo, examining each detail minutely and listening to the promptings of her inner voice. 

Father Joseph joined Jo on the sofa. "It could be important," he said softly. 

Jo glanced at him then lowered her eyes. "Look, padre, I figure I owe you an apology," she began with some degree of embarrassment, "I don't  remember exactly what I might've said to you, but it was probably  bitchiness squared..." 

The priest interrupted. "You were not yourself," he said. "And that's all I'll hear on the subject!" He beamed at Jo and patted her shoulder. "I'm glad you're back to normal, my child. Each defeat which evil suffers, each victory of the light, brings us closer to restoring the Balance." 

They were sitting near Helen; the brazen head pursed her lips. "Er-hem!" 

Jo looked up and caught Helen's turquoise glare. "Yeah, I know," the  blonde said, "I owe you an apology, too. Sorry I was so mean to you.  Honest! I really don't think you're a freak or anything like that. In fact, I think its kinda cool, and anytime you wanna give me an update on obscure historical facts, I'll not only listen but I'll take notes!" 

Helen didn't seem mollified, so Jo added hastily, "Pax, okay? I kid around sometimes but I really, really, honest to God, cross my heart and hope to die, wanna be friends, and I'm truly, truly sorry I insulted you and called you names and stuff." She grinned at Helen hopefully. 

Father Joseph crossed his arms and tapped a foot on the floor. "I think that's a handsome apology, Helen. Don't you?" he asked pointedly. 

The brazen head's frozen expression softened somewhat. "Not exactly a courtier's flowery speech, but it will do." 

"Phew!" Jo whispered to the priest, "Evan'd have my head if I screwed  this up. She's really ga-ga over Helen. Not," she said loudly when the brazen head turned in her direction, "that I'm not head-over-heels  myself! Only, Ev's the brains of this outfit; I'm just the magical  muscle, too friggin'... I mean, too darned bone-headed to appreciate  Helen's, uh, intelligence and uniqueness. I guess." 

Jeez, Tate, why don't you just eat a shoe-leather sandwich and get it over with? Jo thought as those pale turquoise eyes stared down at her with what she imagined was a cold expression. For some reason, the  librarian's good opinion of her was a matter of importance; she wasn't just trying to make friends for Evan's sake. 

Helen sniffed but made no complaint. Instead, her bronze lips quirked in what might have been an almost undetectable, secret little smile, then she arched her brows and turned her face away, the gilded and bejeweled head moving smoothly on its base. 

Father Joseph eyed Evan's seated form. "Shall I tell you where I've been or do you think it wise to wait until she's finished?" 

"Naw, go ahead and gimme the skinny," Jo said, profoundly relieved that  Helen hadn't taken further offense. "I think my red-headed baby's gonna be a while." 

The priest's caramel colored eyes were magnified by the round-lensed spectacles perched on the end of his nose. "I was unable to reach Sir Rowan Ashmole in Sussex; according to his staff, he had gone to Cairo for a private auction of antiquities. They could not tell me where, however; the sale was being held at a secret site and was invitation-only. Fortunately, the Order has contacts in that part of the world, so I arranged a charter flight and met with Father Orlando, head of the Egyptian Temple. I also took the precaution of sending instructions to our Vatican office to begin negotiations to obtain the original text of the Book in case I met with a refusal from Sir Rowan." 

Jo scratched her head. "For a super secret society nobody's ever heard of, you guys are pretty damned... I mean, pretty darned connected." She gave Helen an apologetic smile. The brazen head studiously refused to look at the blonde. 

Father Joseph looked ever-so-slightly smug. "We have members everywhere." 

"So how come the Templars haven't been featured on the X-Files?" Jo asked with a twinkle in her eyes. 

The priest chuckled. "Because Mulder and Scully are in on the conspiracy, too." 

It was Jo's turn to laugh. "Okay, okay, you got me!," she conceded, waving a hand in surrender. "That's what I deserve for being a smart ass... I mean, smart butt. Anyway, how'd it go in Cairo?" 

"I was able to meet Sir Rowan without problem. Getting the Book was an exercise in diplomacy and, frankly, bribery; I obtained his permission to retrieve the Book only after I made arrangements for him to visit the Bibliotheca Arcanus in Rome." 

"The what?" 

"The Library of the Mysteries in the Vatican. During the Inquisition years - and after - the Church not only burned occult manuscripts, they saved copies as well. There are a great many rare and unusual texts being kept there and the only individuals allowed to access these archives are specially appointed custodians, certain high officials of the Church and those with the express permission of the Pope." 

"I scratch your back, you scratch mine," Jo replied. "Tit for tat - or in this case, Book for books. Everything went hunky-dory, right? No problems getting His Holiness to give the thumbs up?" 

"His Holiness was happy to oblige," Father Joseph said. "It just took time for our representatives in the Vatican to forward me the necessary documents. Once that was in hand, Sir Rowan accompanied me back to Sussex and the exchange was made successfully. For this task, at least, it was not necessary to beg the influence of the Watchers." 

"Geez, sounds like one of those friggin'... I mean, darned spy books that Evan's hooked on. Personally, all that techno gobbledy-gook, 'the name's Bond', secret weapon in the cufflinks, martini and bikini of the moment shit... I mean, stuff, makes my eyeballs itch. It's too complicated and I just can't believe half the plot, anyhow." 

Father Joseph nodded. "Understandable." He removed his spectacles, polished the lenses on a corner of his robe, and perched them back on the end of his nose. "The Book is locked in my safe. Would you like to see it?" 

Jo blinked. "Um, not right now. Evan'll want to get her mitts on it, so I'll just take a pass." 

They sat together in silence for a moment, then Jo cleared her throat. "Padre, I gotta burning question and I really don't wanna upset Ev. She's got enough crap... I mean, stuff on her mind." 

"Anything you tell me will be in confidence. I will even consider your question under the seal of the confessional, if that makes you any easier." 

"Whatever, just don't tell Evan, okay? I was wondering... I mean, how come the Wyrm picked on me? Why not Ev? She's the big kahuna when it comes to magic working. Wouldn't it be, I dunno, a better strategy to take out your enemy's big guns first?" 

Father Joseph considered. "I can think of two possible explanations. First... knowing that Evan is a considerably powerful Adept with one weakness - you -  the Wyrm thought by attacking and destroying her beloved, it could undermine Evan's concentration, determination and strength, devastate her emotionally and leave her vulnerable. To put it in military terms... why waste power in a futile attack against a strong and well armed army when you can create havoc and undermine morale by targeting civilians in their homeland?" 

"Yeah, that makes sense." 

"The second explanation is that you are more important to our cause than Evan." 

"What?" Jo shook her head, grinning. "No way, padre. I'm still pretty wet behind the ears when it comes to a lot of this magic jazz. I got some knowledge, yeah, but comparing me to Ev's like measuring the difference between a fart and a big momma hurricane. 'Scuse my French, but still, you gotta see how ridiculous that is." 

"Not necessarily." Father Joseph held out a hand to stop Jo's protests. "I'm sure you know that this is not the first time the Wyrm's come close to getting free." 

"I think Ev mentioned something about that but I wasn't really paying attention." 

"Down through the centuries, the Wyrm - Child of Chaos - has sought to break free of its prison and precipitate the final battle, that which the followers of Christ know as Armageddon. Sometimes it attempts a direct confrontation, other times its plan is more subtle. But always there has been a Herald, one who labors on behalf of Chaos. The Herald may be an incorporeal but powerful manifestation which must then take on flesh, or it may be a mortal whose mind has been influenced by the Wyrm. The Herald known as Adolph Hitler was an example of the latter case." 

Helen now joined the conversation. "History does repeat itself, over and over again. There have always been two sides in this battle - the Wyrm and Chaos versus the forces of Light and Order. There has always been a Herald... and Order, too, has its own special servant." Those uncanny turquoise eyes settled on Jo and the woman felt a sudden chill. 

"While the struggle will hinge on both magic and mundane weapons and folk, the confrontation will, ultimately, not be decided by armies but upon the strength of one individual," Father Joseph said. "Someone who is willing to die to save the Realms." 

"The Sacrifice," Helen said. "The Wyrm is self-absorbed and selfish; it is Chaos' only weapon and therefore, too precious to lose. Self-preservation is deeply rooted within the Wyrm and it will seek to survive at any cost. This is its only weakness." 

"The Wyrm cannot be defeated solely in the physical Realm," the priest said. "Only a soul which willingly sacrifices itself can stand between the Wyrm and its goal. The Sacrifice is not chosen by lot nor fated to die; it is simply one individual who has enough strength and will to embrace death at the right time, in the right place." 

At Jo's puzzled look, Father Joseph added, "In other words, although there must be a Sacrifice if we are to win, it does not necessarily follow that you, or I, or anyone are required by God to do this. It must be a voluntary action or the gesture is worthless." 

Helen looked both startled and outraged. Her mouth opened and the priest made a gesture with his fingers. Her mouth closed with a click; a few more gestures from Father Joseph and Helen sighed, giving an imperceptible nod. 

Jo missed this bit of by-play; she was still trying to absorb the information she'd been given. 

Helen said in a strained voice, "Jo, the circumstances dictate that there must be a death to overcome Chaos; free will demands that there must be a choice." 

Helen looked up at Father Joseph appealingly; his fingers flickered and danced for a heartbeat. With an air of grim resignation, she continued, "No one will force another to bare his throat to the knife - it isn't our way. Anyone who has the courage to die for another - or in this case, for every being in the mortal plane and all the other Realms - is potentially a Sacrifice. In answer to your question, however... if the Wyrm believed that you might be a strong candidate, it might seek to destroy you before the fullness of your time." 

The brazen head looked as if she'd like to say more, but Father Joseph made another abrupt gesture and Helen fell silent. 

Jo blinked and croaked, "Does Ev know about this?" 

"If she does not - and I suppose that is possible although I doubt it, given her extensive knowledge - she will have to be told." Father Joseph sighed. "I do not mean to frighten you, Jo, or have you believe that your death is foretold and inescapable. You may not be the Sacrifice, after all. It 
could be me, or Evan, or anyone else who chooses to stand with us against the Wyrm." 

"But somebody's gotta die, right?" 

"Jeanne d'Arc, Eva Braun, Alexander the Great, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Janis Joplin... they were all Sacrifices, and with that unselfish act kept the Wyrm at bay for a little longer." 

Jo frowned. "Gotcha. Thanks for the help, padre. You, too, Helen. I gotta think about this for a while." She got up and walked over to Evan's side of the room, hands clasped behind her back, watching her partner for signs of awakening. 

Helen opened her mouth but Father Joseph shook his head. His fingers danced in subtle gestures as he used the secret sign language of the Order to caution her to speak in an hushed undertone. 

"Is a lie told for a good cause such a sin?" he asked quietly. 

The brazen head frowned. "You know the truth!" she hissed. "I cannot believe you lied to trick that young girl... or that I helped you do it!" 

"She has been through enough already," the priest said soothingly, glancing at Jo's back to make sure she hadn't overheard their quiet argument. "Would you have her terrified of the future all over again? What good would that do our cause?" 

Helen said bitingly, "The snow-white ox was given drugged grain the night before the sacrifice, so that he suffered not, nor did he protest, when the priest raised the ax and split his mighty heart." 

"She is the one," the priest insisted, "so don't bother quoting Smyrnaeus at me. I refuse to feel guilty. What we're doing is necessary, can't you see? Do you want to frighten away our only chance of victory? The Wyrm gave her the truth and see what happened!" 

Helen shook her head. "She was confused and frightened before; her manipulator was a ham-handed idiot with no sense of subtlety. Had you told them earlier that you suspected Jo was being influenced by the Herald and what that might mean..." 

"It makes no difference." Father Joseph removed his spectacles and rubbed them on his robe. "Do not tell Jo or Evan the truth. Or anyone else, for that matter. I command it!" 

Helen subsided, muttering, "I still think..." 

The priest rolled his eyes. "On this subject, I order you not to think." He bent down and whispered in Helen's metallic ear, "Just do as I say and all will be well. You have only to repeat what you've heard me say - that the Sacrifice is not pre-destined. Hammer that point home as often as possible." 

The brazen head protested weakly, "I hate lies! And isn't the truth what we're fighting for?" 

Father Joseph looked down at Helen, his caramel eyes full of sympathy. "No, my dear," he said, not unkindly, "We are fighting for survival. Obey me without question; that's the purpose of your creation. Jo's is to be the savior of us all." 

Helen reluctantly nodded. 

The priest turned to go, then stopped and said softly over his shoulder, "The burden of my destiny is to stain my conscience with the blood of another." He sighed. "Amen. Selah. So be it. Let not this cup pass from my lips, O Lord, if I be strong enough to bear it." 

As Father Joseph walked away, the brazen head muttered, "From the little black plots of the Templars, God save us all." 

Chapter Thirteen

After an hour, Evan began to rouse from her trance. Jo was at her side with a cup of hot herbal tea and an energy bar. 

Evan devoured the sticky, honey-coated fruit bar, then clutched the mug in a white-knuckled grip, trying to control the tremors in her hands. "So cold," she whispered through stiff lips, and Jo snatched a chenille throw from a nearby chair to wrap her in. 

"You were out there for a long time, baby," Jo said. She knelt on the floor, took Evan's icy bare feet between her hands and rubbed them briskly. "Want me to warm you up the easy way?" 

Evan nodded, teeth chattering on the rim of the mug, and Jo concentrated briefly, mumbling something beneath her breath. The spell was a bit of earth magic which drew upon the elements of Fire and Air to create a pocket of warmth around Evan. After a few moments, the Irishwoman began to thaw and stopped shivering so violently. 

"Almost as good as a Beltane bonfire," Evan said, beginning to relax as the heat penetrated her frozen skin. 

"Well, I'd get nekkid and cuddle to share heat but we've got an audience," Jo replied with a grin, nodding over her shoulder at Father Joseph and Helen. "Feeling better?" 

"Much." Evan finished her tea and laid the mug aside, smiling at her partner. 

The priest came to stand behind Jo. "Did you learn anything?" he asked. 

The Irishwoman's smile faded, replaced by a worried frown. "Yes," she said. Pushing aside Jo's eagerly extended arms, Evan rose by herself, allowing the throw to slide to the floor. "I know the Herald's plan." 

She walked across the room and stood in front of a bookcase, staring at the volumes blindly. Taking a deep breath, Evan continued, "What I saw was an advertisin' flyer. There were garbled strands of memory attached, bits and pieces of conversation, but I was able to recall enough to make sense of it. The Herald plans a great slaughter to raise enough blood magic and release the Wyrm. It's in a hurry, you see, because it knows we're on its trail." 

 "What's going down, Ev?" Jo asked. 

"The Feast of the Innocents," the Irishwoman replied in a rush. She turned around and Jo caught her breath at the look of distress on her partner's face. "The Herald plans to be there with its followers on the morrow. It will seal off the park and kill everyone at the festival, includin' - nay, especially - the visitin' choirs." She gave the priest a significant look. 

Father Joseph's voice cracked as he said, "Sweet blesséd Mother! All those children..." His face was suddenly pale and greasy with sweat. 

Evan nodded. "In the end, with so much innocence lost, the Herald would have enough power to raise the Wyrm. And we wouldn't have a prayer of stoppin' it!" 

Jo cleared her throat. "Will somebody please explain to me what the hell... I mean, what the heck is going on?" 

Father Joseph shook his head. "There is no time," he said crisply. "We must begin preparations immediately. Evan and I will study the Book; you call Lilith and tell her to be here tomorrow morning at the latest." The color was already returning to his face; he seemed more confident, like a general discussing battle plans with his officers. "Have her summon the Mormolae as well as anyone else she thinks may be of use. When you're finished with that, there's a list of possible allies on my desk; contact them all and explain the situation. 

"We'll be in my study," he finished as he turned away, grabbed Evan's arm and whisked her out of the room, leaving a stunned Jo behind with her mouth open and an expression of sheer disbelief on her face. 

A heartbeat later, Jo closed her mouth, blinked, then summoned up her feelings in two simple words, pronounced with savage precision: 

"Well... shit!!" 

While this obscene pronouncement still echoed from the room's four walls, Jo put her hands on her hips, turned to Helen and said, "Okay - you got nowhere to run, so how about throwing the dumb blonde a bone, huh?" 

Helen pursed her gilded lips. "Do you want all the facts or would the highlights alone satisfy you?" 

Jo sighed. "Better stick with the diet plate instead of the whole surf-and-turf," she replied wearily, plopping down on a chair next to the brazen head. "General Padre's just promoted me to chief bottle-washer of this chickenshit outfit, so I'd better get down to the friggin' dirty work ASAP." 

"Very well." Helen's eyes closed. "The Feast of the Innocents is held in a different city each year. It is a festival which combines the elements of a Renaissance Faire and a high holy feast day of the Church. Passion plays, minstrels, costumed knights re-enacting Crusader duels, pilgrims, strolling monks, gentlemen and ladies dressed as members of the Middle Ages nobility, speeches by scholars on the early Catholic rituals, debating theologians and philosophers, games, food and merchandise. The highlight of the Feast is a special performance of Bach's Matthaus Passion by a select number of children's choirs - this year, there will be twelve such choirs, each possessing between twenty-six and thirty youngsters, all of whom are typically under thirteen years of age." 

Jo let out a long, slow whistle. "Fuck me!" she exclaimed. "If the Herald manages to kill all those kids..." 

"It will most certainly gain enough magical power through the shedding of innocent blood that raising the Wyrm will be a foregone conclusion," Helen concluded. 

Jo jumped up. "No wonder the padre went whiter than a vampire's ass." She took a few steps towards the door that led to the priest's study. "I'd better hustle my bootie and get my fingers a-walking, see if I can drum up some support before all hell breaks loose." 

She was almost at the door when a thought occurred to her. Turning around, Jo eyed the brazen head and said, "You know... I just realized that I've been cursing like a sailor's parrot and you haven't said a word about it." 

Helen's eyes opened and, much to the tall blonde's astonishment, the beautifully sculpted face smiled widely, showing carved ivory teeth. "I decided that your colorful use of language was not quite as offensive as I first believed," she said, then added more primly, "provided there is less of it than before." 

Jo chuckled. "I'll try my friggin' best." When Helen gave her a mock scowl, Jo raised her hands and said, "Just kidding! I swear! And now, I'd better quit with the small talk and get my butt to work." 

"So shall I," Helen replied. "Good luck." 

"Right back atcha, my friend," Jo said, flashing an impish grin and disappearing through the door. 

Helen watched her leave. 

Slowly, the brazen head's smile changed to a frown of pure and profound sorrow, and she sighed, mourning already the loss of such a brave and spirited woman. 

We each have our duties, Helen thought. And lying while keeping up a brave front is the most unpleasant duty of them all.

Lilith showed up at the church before dawn. She brought with her all twenty-four of the Mormolae; each of the immortal women was identical to the others, differing only in clothing choices and hairstyles. 

Sylph was dressed in the same scarlet sheath dress she'd worn to Jo and Evan's apartment. "Nice place," she said in her breathy little voice, those flat brown eyes soaking up every detail of the library. "Much nicer than our cave. More... atmosphere." 

"Yes, but we have color TV," piped up one of Sylph's sisters, this one clad in a rubber catsuit that covered her from head to toe. "I hate books. They're so boring." 

Some of the other Mormolae began squabbling amongst themselves, the arguments spreading until the small room seemed filled with cackling, fluttering hens, each intent on pecking the others to death. 

Lilith rolled her eyes. "Girls! GIRLS!," she roared. "Enough! Shut up and settle down... or I'll close your mouths permanently." 

Instantly, the bickering ceased and each of the Mormolae was at least an arms length away from any other. The women perched their scrawny frames on shelves, the backs of chairs, even on top of the bookcases; the mirrored expressions of fear on their thin, pinched faces betrayed their awe of the Mother of Demons' wrath. 

"That's better. So," Lilith said, turning to give Jo and Evan each a kiss on the forehead, "the Herald's got big plans, eh? Your partner was a big cagey over the phone but I gathered that this was going to be a council of war rather than a cocktail party." 

Father Joseph had sent an underpriest of his organization to the women's apartment for fresh clothing; now Evan was informally dressed in a pair of denim shorts, an oversized T-shirt and had battered bunny slippers on her feet. "Aye," she replied. "The Herald's plannin' on usin' the Feast of the Innocents to top off its blood pool and finish tearin' the Veil aside for the Wyrm." 

Lilith's forehead crinkled as she grimaced. "I hope you've got a brilliant counter-attack planned." She glanced around the room, giving a wide-eyed Father Joseph a nod. "Is this everyone or are we expecting more allies?" 

Jo snorted. "Everybody else jumped ship, including - I might add - the local members of the Satanic church. I got in a call to Melmahay but the Watchers are doing what they do best. Which is watching, I guess, since they sure as hell aren't doing anything about it." 

"The Watchers are forbidden to involve themselves directly," Father Joseph offered, coming closer but staying a wary distance away from Lilith and the Mormolae. "At least, that's what I've been given to understand." 

"Wonderful!" Lilith snapped. "Trust those high-handed outcasts to sit on their celestial butts and play canasta while the world ends with a bang." 

"I was able to round up a few brave psychics," Jo said. "They're supposed to meet us at the fairgrounds. Some of them are kinda weird - hell, who in this shebang isn't? - but they're fairly stable and reliable. They know the score, too." 

Evan shot her partner a glance; as soon as Father Joseph had told her about the Sacrifice, she'd had a talk with Jo. She wasn't happy about the priest's revelations - in fact, she'd suspected he was holding something back but Helen had corroborated his story one hundred percent. Despite these reassurances, Evan's gut kept insisting something was wrong, so the Irishwoman was keeping a cautious eye and ear on her partner. 

The sooner this is over, Evan promised herself, the sooner I can take Jo away for a nice healing vacation. Somewhere nice. Ireland, perhaps.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Lilith. "You do have a plan of your own, don't you? Something brilliant and guaranteed to end the Wyrm's threat without getting us all killed?" 

Evan threaded her arm through Lilith's and led her to the sofa. "Sit down and I'll tell you all about it," she said. 

One of the Mormolae tugged Jo's shirt sleeve. "Hey, any way I can get a drink around here?" she whispered hoarsely, licking her lips. 

Jo unhooked her garment from the Mormolae's claws and said, "Does it look like we've got teenage O-positive on ice? Chill, girlfriend... we live through this, I'll treat you to a bloody sundae with a cherry on top." 

This clever sally didn't cheer up the Mormolae at all. "I'm thirsty!" she whined. 

"Look!" Jo exclaimed, "Nobody's making you stay. You wanna bug out for a quick bite, go ahead. Only don't blame me when you get scragged 'cause you weren't paying attention in class." 

Everyone settled down when Evan cleared her throat and all eyes were fixed on the short, muscular figure as she paced up and down the room, explaining her plan with broad gestures and plain language. 

When she finished, Father Joseph glanced around the room, light glinting from the spectacles perched on the end of his nose. "Any questions?" 

Lilith looked faintly amused. "Just one..." She took a drag from her cigarette and allowed tendrils of smoke to trickle from her nostrils before continuing, letting everyone squirm in suspense. 

When Evan was fairly jiggling with impatience, the Mother of Demons asked with a sly grin, "Where in my Creator's name are we going to find twenty-seven nun's uniforms at this late hour? Holy Orders R' Us?" 

Even the normally stoic Helen laughed until she choked. 

Chapter Fourteen

The day of the Feast of the Innocents was clear, bright and sunny. The five-acre Lon Chaney Memorial Park in the center of town was awash with brilliant colors and muted roars as tents, booths, stages, pennants and people crowded the normally quiet, grassy expanse. 

Actors and actresses strolled the grounds, clad in a bewildering variety of garb ranging from simple gowns and cone-shaped wimples to the peacock splendor of Elizabeth the First's court. Groups of monks representing Benedictine, Franciscan, Beguine and other orders entertained visitors with history lessons and chanted litanies. In certain locations, passion plays were being performed and a mock battle between mailed Crusaders and Saracens was taking place every hour. 

The concert stage had already played host to several children's choirs; those who had already participated in the Matthaus contest were free to wander the fair and sample the delights of the games booths and snack mongers. The remaining contestants sat on benches at the back of the stage, waiting their turns and infuriating their directors with spitball fights, bickering over Game Boys, whining and eating forbidden sweets. 

No one noticed the arrival of a group of traditionally dressed French nuns led by a tonsured mendicant monk in a coarse woolen robe. 

Father Joseph rubbed the bald spot on the crown of his head. "I feel naked," he complained. 

Evan gave him an amused glance; her bright tangerine locks were hidden beneath a tight fitting black and white headress sporting enormous curved wings. "You hadn't all that much to lose," she pointed out. 

Lilith snorted. "You were the one who insisted on authenticity, Father," she said. "Think of your hair loss as a little revenge for putting us in these awful penguin suits." She smoothed her hands down the sides of her loose-fitting dress; made of crisp black cotton, it covered her from throat to toes, the stark color relieved only by a starched white collar and cuffs. 

"I feel like the friggin' Flying Nun," Jo grumbled. She shook her head, making the wings of her headress flap wildly. 

The Mormolae were also dressed in nun's costumes. The full, rich crimson color of their lips seemed inappropriate to the austerity of the clothing they wore, and from their slouching postures and pained expressions, they felt far from comfortable. 

The psychics that Jo had contacted drifted over. There were four of them - a hand-holding androgynous couple who were so alike in appearance they might have been twins, a plump and nervous young woman dressed in layers and layers of fringed shawls, and a middle-aged man with feathered braids who chain-smoked incessantly. 

"Okay, folks," Jo said, "This is Zoe and Stringfellow Garvey," nodding to the couple, "and Miss Penelope and Jason Whitehawk." 

The Garveys were tall, thin and blonde with patrician features and multiple-piercings. They were clad in matching khaki shorts and sleeveless leather vests that showcased the bright tattoos on their arms, shoulders and chests. Zoe blinked, moistened cracked, dry lips with her tongue, and mumbled, "Some party." 

Her husband echoed her sentiment in a high-pitched whine. "Too weird, man. Reminds me of parochial school." He picked his nose absently, wiping his finger every now and then on the front of his T-shirt, and he stared hungrily at Evan as if he were assessing the lines of her body through the loose costume she wore. 

Miss Penelope gathered her shawls more tightly around her person and nodded politely to everyone, head bobbing comically, wisps of thin brown hair escaping from the unfashionable bun scraped together at the back of her neck. She reminded Evan of a hen who has outlived her egg-laying usefulness, knows she's destined for the pot, and adopts a desperate sort of cheerfulness in the hopes that it will save her from the axe. 

"Good to see you again, Jason," Miss Penelope said in an artificially bright voice. "I hope you're feeling better after that dreadful flu." 

Jason grunted; his oily black eyes were narrowed in suspicion, as if he were almost, but not quite sure, that people were secretly laughing at him. He worked the smoldering cigarette in his lips to the corner of his mouth and didn't reply. 

Jo cleared her throat. "These guys are gonna help us track the Herald," she said to the group in general. Lilith raised her eyebrows, clearly unimpressed. 

Evan explained, "Due to the confusion spells, traps and mazes the Herald's been spinnin' to cover its tracks, findin' it will be a problem - we can't use even the simplest locator spell. That's where you come in," she said to the waiting psychics. "I have a good idea of the Herald's mental aura. We need you to scout the grounds, scannin' for any sign of the Wyrm's servant or those under its influence." 

Stringfellow Garvey examined the end of his finger, wiped snot onto his shirt and said, "Sweet deal, man. So we, like, get a picture of this guy's psychic makeup from you, then cruise the fair and try to, like, get a lock on the target? Not a bad plan for a muscle chick who's seriously into church fetish. Hey, pretty mamma... wanna play Spanish Inquisition after this gig? Zoe does a pretty gnarly Torquemada impersonation." His murky green eyes flicked up and down Evan's body and he gave her a nasty smile while Zoe giggled. 

Jo flowed up beside Stringfellow; she was a couple of inches taller than he was and in considerably better physical condition. "Yo, motormouth!" she said, her hand slamming into his crotch, fingers clutching in a steely grip that made him bite his lip against a scream. "Mess with my girlfriend again and I'll seriously fuck you up! Understand?" 

Zoe scurried away with a shriek, lime-colored eyes wide with fear and more than a bit of excitement. 

Beads of sweat appeared on his upper lip as Stringfellow's hands locked around Jo's wrist, but his strength was no match for hers and she easily resisted his efforts. Twisting her hand and squeezing until his face turned white, she barked, "I said, do you understand, asshole? Or do you want to find out what a bad motherfucker I can be when I'm pissed?" 

He gasped, "I gotcha, boss. I gotcha! I'm sorry, okay?" 

Jo released him and stepped back to Evan's side. "Here endeth the lesson, dude," Jo said. "Forgiven and forgotten... but don't disrespect my baby again or I'll tear your head off and shit down your neck." 

"Yeah, yeah," Stringfellow said weakly. Zoe moved to his side again and smoothed his hair with the flat of her hand while he fidgeted. "I hear ya loud and clear on that one, boss." 

Evan rolled her eyes at Jo, who gave an unrepentant shrug. "Guy's gotta learn to keep his lips sewed shut," she muttered then said aloud, "Okay. We're gonna split up in teams of seven; me, Evan, the padre and Lilith will each head a team and there will be one psychic per group. The leaders all have cell phones; if anybody gets a hit, call the others and wait for backup. Don't pull no hero shit and try to take down the Herald by yourself; that dude is one nasty bastard who eats folks like us for breakfast. Wait for the calvary - got it?" 

"What is this, a spiritual SWAT team?" Jason sniped, lighting a new cigarette from the butt in his mouth. His black oily eyes darted here and there, finally resting on Jo. "I don't remember electing you chief either, white skinwalker." 

"Do as you're told or get the fuck outta Dodge," Jo said sweetly. "Ain't nobody making you do this; you volunteered, remember?" 

Jason subsided, sullently sucking on his cigarette. 

Evan closed her eyes and rubbed her aching temples with the heel of her hand. "I can't believe I thought this was a good idea," she whispered. 

Jo grinned. "Don't sweat it, baby. At least if we screw the pooch, we probably won't be around to suffer the consequences." 

"Don't remind me!" Evan moaned. Opening her eyes, she squared her shoulders and gave her long dress a tug. "All right," she said to the four psychics, "Let's all step behind this tent and get to business. While we're gone, Jo will divide up the teams. We've already got maps marked off for the search; we don't want to miss a square inch of this fair, not when the Herald's likely to be anywhere and in any guise." 

Twenty minutes later, the teams were bustling through the fairgrounds, keeping themselves alert for anything out of the ordinary. 

Pushing their way through the crowds of chattering, laughing visitors, nodding to other groups of nuns and keeping together only with great effort, the teams began their methodical search. As she shouldered her way through a rapt audience watching a group of monks perform Gregorian chants, Jo began to appreciate Evan's nun disguise. 

Anyplace else, we'd stick out in these goddamned costumes like a pimple on a supermodel's million dollar nose, she thought, following the bustling Miss Penelope while six Mormolae cruised directly behind. But here we're practically invisible.

That had been one reason for the nun outfits. With so many people dressed in imaginative clothing and role-playing to the hilt, their group was unremarkable and blended perfectly into the scenery. The other reason was equally simple - the tight fitting headresses with their floating wings, as well as the flowing dresses which obscured their figures, made the women seem identical. Their individual features were so blurred and changed that Jo had had a hard time recognizing herself in the mirror. 

The Herald sure got a good fuckin' look at everybody, including Ev, when its asshole buddy was squatting in my head, Jo thought. Even if it's got lookouts on every corner ready to blow the whistle if the God Squad shows up, they ain't gonna know it's us. Groovy!

The cellular phone in the pocket of Jo's robe chirped. She snatched it out, flipped it open and said, "Yeah?" 

It was Lilith; the immortal woman sounded breathless. "We found it!" she said urgently. "A booth on the west side of the fair, near..." The connection crackled and snapped with static, obliterating the sound of Lilith's voice. 

"Yo, Lilith! What's going down?" Jo said loudly, screwing a finger into her free ear to block out the sounds around her. "Where are you exactly?" 

She could only hear hissing for a few moments, then faintly, "...hurry! It's start..." Lilith's voice faded out again and Jo gestured to the Mormolae. "Your momma's in trouble," she said. "West side of the fair, don't have an exact location. You guys better boogie." 

She turned to the open mouthed Miss Penelope as the Mormolae started off through the crowd, moving at such speed that their figures were blurred. "Sounds like the shit's about to hit the fan," Jo said. "You'd better take cover and or the hell outta here." 

The remainder of her sentence went unfinished when there was an explosion of light, sound and color that snatched Jo off her feet, tumbling her through the air like a loose-jointed doll and slamming her into a booth, knocking the breath out of her body. The flimsy structure of the booth collapsed around her and plaster Virgin Mary statues poured off their broken shelves, bouncing off her chest and head. 

Jo blinked rapidly as brilliant fireworks burst like gunpowder chrysanthemums inside her skull and a tearing pain ripped through the left side of her chest. Dazed, she groped for the cell phone she'd had in her hand and came up instead with a headless plaster statue. It was a few minutes before her battered brain comprehended what had happened. 

"Fuck!" she spat, tossing aside the statue, struggling out of the debris and ignoring the agony of broken ribs. She staggered free and looked around; tents had been flattened, booths destroyed, people injured but the majority of the fair's visitors and staff were picking themselves up off the ground and wandering in circles with confused expressions and hysterical weeping . Several horses with hooves the size of dinner plates had gotten loose; they raced past, adding to the melee and forcing screaming people to scurry out of their way. 

Miss Penelope was calmly directing the mobile victims towards the exits; her round face was dirty and she'd lost about half a dozen shawls. She reached out and grabbed the arm of a young woman whose brown eyes were completely blank. "You're in shock, dear," the plump psychic said. "You follow these nice young gentlemen to the exit, go home and have a nice cup of camomile tea." 

Spotting Jo, Miss Penelope clucked her tongue against her teeth and said, "Oh, dear... weren't you going to the west side?" 

"Yeah, right, west," Jo mumbled. "Shit!" She found the mobile phone on the grass; it had been trampled by one of the loose horses and was now nothing more than a handful of useless parts. 

Miss Penelope pointed and said firmly, "Go west, young woman!" 

The tall blonde looked at her with startled recognition... and then the full horror of their situation penetrated the fog in her brain. Without another word, Jo snatched up her skirts and made for the other side of the fairgrounds at full speed, heart pounding as she wondered if Evan was okay, sick with rage and worry that her beloved Druid was not.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

As she sprinted through the fairgrounds, Jo noted the incredible amount of damage and grew more worried by the second. 

Looks like a fuckin' A-bomb went off, she thought, swerving to avoid a cluster of bawling women in medieval wimples. What the hell happened?

The west side of the grounds was the worst; there were several fires burning out of control, filling the air with acrid smoke. People were milling around, faces black with soot, hair singed, clothing torn and stained. Jo didn't have time to spare them more than a sympathetic look. 

She scrambled through the splintered remains of a wooden cart and came to a skidding halt, sucking in her breath then whispering, "Fuck me..." 

There should have been a gated wall directly in front of her, the west exit that led visitors out of the park and back onto 1st Street. Instead, a shimmering wall of opalescent flames more than fifty feet high stretched north and south as far as the eye could see, completely concealing the park's wall.. 

Jo reached out a tentative finger and immediately snatched it back. The pale fires were so cold they burned; she had no doubt that anyone attempting to enter that field would be dead in a heartbeat. 

Probably pop out of the other side looking like a frozen TV dinner. Shit! We're boxed in but good. That big bang must've been the Herald throwing up this wall.

She'd still seen no sign of Lilith or her team, nor the six Mormolae she'd sent here moments before the blast. Where the hell is everybody?

"Jo!" It was Lilith; the dumpy Mother of Demons was limping heavily and being supported by two of her daughters. A trickle of blood ran from her nose and dripped down her chin. "It's begun! The Herald and its disciples are on the center stage, getting ready to make the first sacrifice." 

"Goddammit!" Jo shouted, now thoroughly angry, both at herself, circumstance and the enemy who'd proven so clever already. "Have you seen Evan?" 

"I called her before you," Lilith said. "She knows. She and Father Joseph have already left to confront the Herald. I suggest you get there as quickly as possible." 

"I'm on my way. Are you okay?" 

"A minor injury." Lilith's black eyes radiated concern. She shook off the Mormolae's support and stood as tall as she could.  "Jo... answer me one question," she said. 

"I don't have time..." 

"Yes you do." Lilith might have looked like a battered bag lady but the power and sheer aura of command she radiated could not be denied. 

Chafing at the delay, Jo snapped, "Okay. What's so fuckin' important?" 

"Georgia Tate," the Mother of Demons said, startling Jo with her knowledge of the blonde's real name, "is today a good day to die?" 

"What?" Jo was startled. "Are you nuts?" 

"Just answer the question, step-daughter," Lilith said, referring to all mortal women's connection with Adam's second wife, Eve. 

Jo tore off her nun's headdress impatiently, scraping her ear, and tossed the heavy fabric construction over her shoulder. She looked at Lilith defiantly. "Yeah," she said slowly. "You bet. It's a mighty goddamned good day to die." 

"My Creator go with you," Lilith said with more than a trace of sadness in her voice. 

"You keep right on praying," Jo said, turning away and heading towards the center of the fairgrounds. "I gotta feeling we're gonna need all the help we can get." 

A strong wind, scented with the nauseatingly sweet aroma of corruption, buffeted the concert stage, fluttering clothing and causing the long black dresses of the Mormolae to swirl out behind them like mourning banners. 

Father Joseph and Evan were face to face, their hands wrapped tightly around each other's wrists; the Irishwoman had lost her nun's headdress and the glory of her wild tangerine curls whipped around her head in a fiery tangle. In the cradle of their arms rested the copy of the Necronomicon that the priest had retrieved from England. Curiously, although the Book was open and the force of the hot wind rising, the pages did not so much as quiver; it was as though the Book was surrounded by an invisible bubble of calm. 

The Mormolae hissed and opened their mouths wide, almost unhinging their jaws and allowing the thin retractable fangs hidden behind their canines to spring out in a frightening display that made them resemble venomous serpents, swaying and bobbing to martial music only they could hear. Their dead black eyes were fastened on the stage, where the Herald and its minions were preparing for a feast of blood that would, after eons of impatient waiting, release the Wyrm to claim the rightful inheritance of Chaos - utter destruction of the Realms it had hated so passionately and for so long. 

No one could get near the stage; the Herald had blocked access with a spell similar to the glacial wall it had raised around the park. This shield was not visible but it was just as deadly. Two of the Mormolae had tried to penetrate the barrier; their bodies were now encased in green ice that was harder and less penetrable than a mountain's stony heart. Evan didn't know if they were dead; in her own experience, those gifted with immortality could suffer pain and injury but never succumbed to injuries that would have killed a mortal ten times over. 

Still, the fallen vampire's sisters itched for revenge. They circled the stage like hungry jackals, hissing and snarling, seeking any breach in the Herald's defenses. 

Rubbish skittered across the grass yard, impelled by the wind. A sheet of song music wrapped itself around Father Joseph's hairy calf and then was gone, swept away by a foul smelling gust. Evan had to shout to make herself heard. "What are we waitin' for?" 

The priest squinted and hunched his shoulders. "Not yet!" he insisted. "The timing must be perfect or the incantations won't work!" 

Up on the stage, the Herald continued its preparations. With a broad gesture, braziers filled with smoking incense appeared, as well as an altar carved from blood-red stone. Terrified children huddled on benches in the back, weeping and clutching one another for comfort. There were over a hundred youngsters on the stage; the adult choir-masters and chaperones stood in a group over to one side, guarded by a pair of the Herald's servants. Although some of the children sobbed their names, the adults' faces were blank and devoid of expression; they were caught in the grip of some paralyzing spell. Their unblinking eyes shone with unshed tears, despair and soul-destroying fear; although their bodies were useless, they were still capable of thought. Trapped and utterly helpless against the evil that threatened to consume them, their minds sought refuge in madness and denial even as they anticipated the scorching flames of hell. 

Chanting, "Yog Sogoth! Io! Io!" the Herald shook back the sleeves of its dark crimson robe. Its occupation of Carolyn Lunt's mortal body had taken a terrible toll; the woman's flesh had softened, darkening in places and sagging off the bone. Her face looked half-melted, as if her skin and the muscle beneath were made of molten glass, and one of her eyeballs rested on her cheekbone, the milky-blue, blind orb staring grotesquely into space. Lunt's hair had once been silken soft and the color of burnished amber; now it was thin, dry and resembled sun-scorched hay. Sores had bubbled up on forehead, chin and cheeks; whenever the Herald spoke they burst open, staining her skin with trickles of black, stinking pus. 

A half dozen Catholic priests were already dead, including the saintly and much beloved Father Wulflac; the Herald has used their life forces to construct the shields around the park and concert stage. 

The light of the sun began to dim as the Herald chanted, gobbling its incantations in a horrid, burbling voice, as if it were speaking through liquid filth. The children began to scream and Evan shuddered. 

"It's almost too late!" she shouted, the wind snatching the words from her lips. "We must do it now!" 

"We must wait!" Father Joseph cried. "It is not yet time!" 

Just as Evan opened her mouth to argue further, Jo skidded around a corner. At the sight of her beloved partner, looking scraped and sore but unharmed, the Irishwoman let out a sigh of relief. 

Jo fought her way over to the swaying pair, bent almost double against the wind. "Glad you didn't start the party without me!" she gasped. 

Father Joseph's face was a study in profound thankfulness. "Thank God you've come!" he said loudly. 

Jo squinted up at the concert stage. "Looks like the main show's about to swing into action," she observed. "You guys better make with the mojo. Ev, is there any way you could get me up there? If I could sneak the kids off and get them somewhere safe..." 

Although Evan knew the danger involved in such a scheme, she had no choice but to agree. She and Father Joseph would have to use the Necronomicon to seal the Veil and banish the Wyrm - they could do nothing at the moment to stop the Herald's murderous plan. The Mormolae couldn't be trusted to keep their minds on the mission and forsake personal revenge. 

At the priest's nod, he and Evan broke their grips on each other's arms. While Father Joseph held the Book, Evan tugged at a chain around her neck. Fastened to the chain was the medallion which Lilith had given her. 

"Get to the back stairs," Evan said. "Let me know when you're ready and I'll blast the shieldwall. You'll have to work quickly, colleen; the Herald will know when his shield's been damaged and you'll probably have to fight your way out." 

Jo nodded. "Story of my friggin' life." She bent down until her face was level with Evan's; her dark blue eyes captured and held the stormy gray orbs of the woman who owned her soul. "I love you, baby," the platinum blonde said simply. 

"Be careful, my beauty, my heart. Come back to me." Evan kissed Jo briefly, a timeless moment when the two women felt the sheer strength and passion of their love knitting them together even more closely than before. Then they parted and Jo cleared her throat, her eyes shining. 

"With my shield or on it," she quipped with a lopsided smile. "Okay, enough mushy stuff. Gimme a few seconds to get into position before you set off the mystical TNT." Flashing another smile, she turned away and loped around the side of the stage towards the back stairs. 

Evan's heart was in her throat and she felt a sudden fury at her helplessness, unable to confront the Herald because her part in their plan was too important to risk. She felt like a general who must command his troops from safety lest the battle be lost with his life. Father Joseph had made it perfectly clear - her sole responsibility was to use her knowledge, magic and skill to seal the Veil and nothing more. 

During that meeting in which he and the Irishwoman had discussed their strategy, the priest had said solemnly, "What do a few lives matter against the billions who will be lost if the Realms are destroyed?" 

Against that cold assessment she could make no argument, then or now. 

She set aside her anger and schooled herself to calm. Jo's plan was logical and seemed like the only way of thwarting the murder of innocent children. She could only hope that her partner would succeed. Holding the silver medallion in her hand, Evan closed her eyes and concentrated, tapping into the well of magic. Instantly, she felt power welling into her veins, a rich flood of white-hot energy that made her feel as if her hair were sizzling. 

::Hurry, love!:: she sent through the link she shared with Jo. ::I can't hold it much longer!:: 

::Yeah, yeah, where've I heard that before?:: Jo sent with the mental equivalent of a cheeky grin. ::All righty, Mission Control. The Eagle has landed. In other words... blow me, baby!:: 

Evan didn't hesitate; she released a stream of pure power at the Herald's shield.

With a mighty roar and a flash like a thousand suns exploding in an instant, the shieldwall was breached, and Jo was gone. 

Chapter Sixteen

The moment the Herald felt the concussive blast of its shield being ripped open, it snatched a knife from its robes and made a hooking gesture with its free hand. 

Immediately, four of the entranced choirmasters lurched forward like zombies, shuffling across the stage towards the nightmarish figure in dark crimson robes. The Herald's servants chanted in a sing-song fashion, "That is not dead which can eternal lie... and with strange eons even death may die." 

The Herald looked past the remaining shield on the front of the stage and saw Evan, Father Joseph and the Mormolae, exactly the same group of people who had been there from the beginning. As it watched with narrowed eyes, Lilith and two more Mormolae came limping up to join them. It had not seen Jo and had no way of knowing she'd already made her way up the back stairs and was creeping silently towards the children. 

To the Herald, the strike against its shield was a hopelessly futile gesture made by a desperate enemy. It knew that the fatal moment had not yet arrived - only when the Wyrm was on the threshold between the worlds would it be vulnerable to attack. Its own position was unassailable; who would dare lay siege to its magically defended fortress when it held so many hostages in the form of children? 

The fact that those same children would be sacrificed as fuel to the Wyrm's escape did not make them less valuable; in the Herald's experience, humankind's pitiful attachment to their offspring, as well as their unfathomable ability to find hope in even the most despairing circumstances, was its enemies' greatest weakness. 

The Herald was confident that it could exploit those weaknesses to the hilt. 

It sneered and a dollop of melting flesh slid down its chin. "You will fail," it gurgled, projecting its voice so that its enemies could hear. "After day cometh night; man's day shall pass and Chaos will rule again, as it was before accursed light imprisoned its perfection in darkness. The Wyrm will rend the Realms asunder in a holocaust of freedom and ecstasy... and that time has come now!" 

As soon as the first choirmaster was within reach, the Herald grabbed his hair, hauled his head back and sliced deeply across his throat. Gouts of blood splattered across its robes, spurting in time to the final frantic beating of the victim's heart; a fine crimson mist filled the air, speckling the faces of the chanting servants. 

The disciples of the Wyrm wore black hooded robes embroidered with a writhing, multi-armed symbol that the eye refused to focus on clearly. While their faces bore beatific expressions, their eyes were empty and soulless. 

"Vermis Mysteriis," they sang, "Undimensioned and unseen! Shub niggurath! Io!" 

The Book which the unfortunate Kenneth Silvernail had used to crack the Veil was lying open on the scarlet stone altar. The murdered man's blood had pooled on the pages; as the servants continued their chant, the blood began to disappear, soaked up by the Necronomicon as if the Book had become a sponge. 

In rapid succession, the other three choirmasters shared the first victim's fate. 

Meanwhile, Jo was squatting unnoticed in a shadowy corner at the back of the stage, near the benches where the children were being kept. There were two guards at either end of the front benches; the rest of the servants were chanting and their only focus was the Herald. 

Shit! she thought. I can take out one of those guards but I'm pretty damned sure I can't get both, at least not without somebody noticing. They raise the alarm and I'm dead meat. I gotta get these kids outta here somehow... where's John friggin' Rambo when you need him?

An idea came to her. She concentrated on the guard furthest from her position; his mind was completely unprotected. 

Typical bad-guy attitude! Fuck the help - they're just cannon fodder. On the other hand, that's good news for me. 

Swiftly but carefully, she established a link with the guard's mind, then acted without hesitation. 

Jo leaped out of her hiding place and attacked the first guard, locking her arm around his throat and squeezing his airway shut. Simultaneously she sent a devastating mental "scream" down the link she'd established with the other man. He convulsed, brain overloaded and synapses scrambled by Jo's psychic attack, and slowly sank to his knees, fine threads of blood trickling from ears, nose and eyes. He died quietly a few seconds later. 

The guard in her arms was turning purple, tongue protruding, eyes nearly popping from their sockets as he struggled to breathe. Jo put her free hand on his forehead, exerted more force, and neatly snapped his neck. The sound was unpleasant, like a green twig being cracked apart, but the noise was drowned out by the enthusiastic chanting of the other servants. 

Jo eased the guard's body to the floor and took a deep breath. From beginning to end, the dispatching of the two men had taken about twenty seconds but she felt as exhausted as if she'd run a marathon. Sweat dripped from her forehead and stung her eyes; she wiped it away impatiently. 

The children were staring at her with round eyes. She put a finger to her lips and walked over to the back row, kneeling down beside the bench. "I'm gonna get you guys outta here," she whispered to the closest children. "But you gotta be quiet and do what I tell ya, okay?" 

They nodded silently and she continued, "First twenty on this row, tip-toe out, don't make a sound, and go single file to the back. Go down the stairs, turn left and haul ass to the main park exit - don't go to the front of the concert area 'cause that'd be a real bad idea. When you come out, don't sneeze, don't cough, don't fart, okay? You gotta be quiet as mice. I'm counting on you not to give the show away to the bad dudes 'cause then we'll all be in deep doo-doo." 

The kids whispered among themselves for a second, then twenty of them filed past Jo. She watched the front of the stage where the Herald was busy feeding bursts of magical energy to a rapidly expanding rift above the altar. 

At first seemingly composed of glittering black opal particles that swirled on invisible currents of air, this tiny hole in the Veil began to fuse and grow into a flat black line that pulsed and vibrated. The Herald was using its store of magic to widen a hairline crack in the very fabric of reality... and through this portal something awful was beginning to emerge. 

Clouds of mist, strangely scented with hot iron and brimstone, began pouring out of the rift; strange flashes of black light crawled and tumbled through the hot, foul-smelling steam. 

Forty children had gone and another twenty were on their way down the stairs when the Herald sent a final surge of power crackling into the rift. 

The Herald's robes dripped with blood and it stood in a pool of the sticky, crimson liquid. It raised both arms and screeched, "Vermis Mysteriis! The maze of time is thine! The labyrinth of thy confinement is ended! Enter this Realm on a tide of innocence defiled, child of Chaos, and claim thy birthright!" 

It turned and immediately spotted Jo, as well as the fact that more than half its intended victims were gone. 

Jo muttered, "Shit!" as the Herald screamed, "Stop her!" 

Servants began to converge on the tall blonde. 

She planted herself firmly in front of the benches, determined not to allow any of the children to be harmed. "Run!" Jo yelled at the terrified kids. "Get the fuck outta here now!" 

Black robed disciples descended, snatching at her arms and legs. Those children who had obeyed Jo's shouted order to run were swiftly caught and hauled back to the benches, weeping in terror. 

The Herald's good eye narrowed. "Be careful to take her alive," it commanded. 

"Goddamn you mother fuckers to hell!" she shouted, punching and kicking, even biting, inflicting as much damage as she could, but Jo knew it was only a matter of time before she was overwhelmed. 

::Make the bastards pay!:: she sent to Evan. ::Don't let...:: 

Her last words were blotted out in a rush of pain and red-tinged darkness as one of servants punched the side of Jo's head, sending her down into peaceful oblivion. 

In the grassy yard in front of the stage, Evan confronted Father Joseph. "We must stop this madness!" she shouted angrily. "You aren't going to stand by and let the Herald kill those children, are you?" 

Father Joseph shook his head. A gust of wind made him stagger but Evan's grip on his wrists kept him from falling. "It's up to Jo!" he hollered back. "We cannot sacrifice ourselves..." 

Her perception flip-flopped suddenly and his words took on a different meaning. Evan felt the hairs on the back of her neck shiver and rise. She stared at the priest incredulously and finally said, "This is what you intended all along, isn't it?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"Jo is the Sacrifice!" she screamed, fury rising with the chilling realization. "You lyin' bastard!" She could not believe that she'd been so blind. 

"It was necessary! Would you have allowed Jo to go up there alone if you'd known her fate?" the priest asked. "One life balanced against so many... isn't that a reasonable price to pay?" 

Enraged, Evan tried to send a mental message to her partner and to her astonishment, found that Father Joseph had blocked that line of communication... so skillfully she'd never even noticed. "What are you doin'?" she cried. "We have to warn her!" 

"No!" the priest said forcefully. "We must wait until the Wyrm is vulnerable!" 

Desperately, Evan tugged at their joined hands and was unable to break the connection. "And until Jo is already dead. Go nithe an Bhadhbh do bhall fearga!" she said bitterly in her native language. 

"Not a pretty sentiment," Father Joseph commented. Before Evan could reply, he called to Lilith, "Go around to the back of the stage. Jo will be sending the children down - make sure they get to safety." 

Lilith nodded. Gathering the Mormolae around her, the Mother of Demons limped away, leaving Evan alone with a man she now hated more than anyone else on earth. 

Her gray eyes were darkened by anger. "I will not forget or forgive," she promised. There was deadly purpose in her expression and rigidly controlled hatred in her tone. "If we succeed and Jo is lost... you will be the next to die, I swear by the Morrighan." 

Father Joseph looked at her sadly. "Do what you must," he replied. "I am willing to die in the service of my masters." 

"The Watchers?" Evan spat. "They have no stomach for battle. And think not that you can hide behind their skirts, Father Turncoat. If Jo dies, even your almighty God can't protect you from me!" 

Just then, there was a commotion on stage. Even called loudly, "Jo! Jo!" and struggled to separate herself from the priest. 

He held onto her firmly; Father Joseph was much stronger than he looked. He shook his head. "Its almost time," he said. "Wait for my signal. And don't think to use the magic Lilith gave you to rescue your lover," he added. "I can block anything you try and besides, she's already as good as dead. Obey my instructions for now; when it's over and the Realms are safe, you'll be free to act as you please." 

Evan's eyes were filled with tears of frustration. "Damn you!" she hissed. 

"Possible but unlikely," he returned calmly. 

At that moment, Evan received a fleeting message from her partner. ::Make the bastards pay!:: she heard in her mind. ::Don't let...:: Then it was cut off and there was only silence. Evan tried to reply but couldn't; the priest was still blocking her from sending. "At least let me tell her good-bye!" she begged. 

Father Joseph, taller than the Irishwoman, could see events on the stage clearly. 

He replied with a frown. "Get ready. The moment is near." 

Wishing she could bury her teeth in the priest's throat instead, Evan prepared as best she could for the coming struggle. 

Up on the stage, a tentacled horror was slowly pushing its way out of the rift. 

The Wyrm was crossing the threshold. 

Chapter Seventeen

Two of the Herald's servants went to the benches and grabbed a young girl by both arms. She was perhaps ten years old, with a round face and big, frightened brown eyes. Her yellow braids swayed as she was hauled over to the altar; although her mouth was open, she was too terrified to scream. The servants held her up, the toes of her sneakers trailing in a pool of blood. 

When the Herald turned towards her, she took one look at that nightmarish visage, sucked in a breath and let out a deafening howl. A gush of urine flowed down her leg and she howled again. 

Jo hung limply in the grip of two burly servants. A dark purple bruise blossomed on the side of her face and there was a crust of blood on her mouth where she'd bitten through her bottom lip. She was only pretending to be unconscious; in fact, she watched the proceedings through slitted eyes and planned her next move. 

::Ev?:: she sent. ::Yo, sweet Irish momma! Do you read me?:: 

Her blood chilled when there was no reply. 

Evan fought to keep standing; the wind was even stronger than before and the sky had turned the dull yellow of sulfur. The sun shed a weirdly muted light upon the landscape, making everything seem that much more blurred and unreal, as if viewed through a veil of thinnest gold. 

She and the priest cried out together, 

"Bind the venomous claws below the thunders of the deep, 
Send the child of Chaos to a void of dreamless sleep; 
Form abideth not within that veiled and slumberous cell, 
Seal the gate 'gainst dreaming death and angels' gallows-fell." 

A blue-white light was collecting in the air above the Book that was balanced across their arms. As they continued to weave the incantation, the potent magic gathered there began to spin and turn, growing brighter and brighter until it resembled a fiery St. Catherine's wheel. 

One of the Mormolae came dashing around the corner, a fierce and feral smile on her face which did not reach her eyes. "Lilith said to tell you to get stuffed! There's still kids up there and she's gonna let us fight." 

Father Joseph broke off the chant. "She can't! That might ruin everything!" 

The Mormolae shrugged. "She doesn't want any more of her stepchildren to get hurt. She's pissed and hurting, God-boy, and I wouldn't try anything if I were you." Her breathy little voice was unaffected by the howling wind and she flexed her claws as if already anticipating the shedding of blood. 

The priest looked at Evan, a clear appeal in his eyes. If Lilith were inclined to listen to anyone, it would probably be the Irishwoman. 

His effort was in vain. Evan glanced at him coldly and shook her head. "We must stay here and not risk ourselves," she said mockingly. "My hands are tied." 

The Mormolae snickered at the anguish and frustration on Father Joseph's face. 

Evan jerked her head to draw the vampire closer. "Have you news of Jo?" A slender threat of hope flared up; could it be possible that the priest was wrong and her beloved yet lived? 

"I don't know. They've got some young blonde female on the altar; the Herald's about to kill her. Look, I have to get back or I'll miss the fun." The Mormolae was chafing to go. 

"Could it be Jo?" Evan asked desperately. 

The Mormolae shrugged again. "I guess so. Probably is; we only got about fifty kids out of the area and the rest are still up there. Don't think she'd quit unless she had to." 

Her wild, impossible hope withered with the vampire's words. If Jo was free, if she'd been able to act - even against impossible odds - the children would not be in such danger. Evan drew a deep breath. "Do what you must," she choked. 

"Yeah, sure," the Mormolae said. "Whatever." Without waiting for any further reply she turned about and fairly flew back around the corner, where presumably the rest of her sisters and her immortal mother waited. 

The priest said gently, "She's already dead. They can't possibly rescue her in time. Accept her death and rejoice; Jo's sacrifice will save us all, and I have no doubt she will be well rewarded in the life to come." 

Evan's gray eyes were as hard and cold as river stones as she turned her regard on Father Joseph. Her heart was breaking, cracking and shivering into freezing splinters that stabbed and gnawed at her breast but she gave no sign of her pain; she would mourn Jo's loss later... after she'd finished licking the priest's heart's blood from her lips. 

"Never speak her name again," Evan said flatly. 

Only the rigorous training she'd been given by the Druids kept her in control now, otherwise Father Joseph's corpse would already be cooling. 

Faced with the Irishwoman's almost palpable hatred and scorching gaze, the priest shivered. 

"Let's continue," Evan said. "I'm not wantin' my lover's death to be in vain." 

Facing the stage, they chanted, 

"Into the cauldron, cast ye be, eternal waiting lie, 
Age and ages scrolling past 'till time itself shall die. 
Destroyer, Serpent, Dragon, Wyrm, 
The pale beyond shall hold thee firm. 

"Seas abysmal, clutch him tight, this prison is his lot, 
Seal of Five and Seven, Nine, ensure he is forgot. 
Depart and rest ye, Chaos child, within the starless night, 
Arrest thy shade, resist no more the power of the light." 

Forgive me, my Jo, my heart, Evan thought as the words slipped automatically from her lips. Forgive me for making you die alone.

Although her eyes were dry, within the depths of her soul Evan wept and grieved in ceaseless rivers of tears for the loss of the woman she loved. 

A ten-year old girl was dragged over the altar and held there by servants. The Herald raised its knife over her and chanted, while tendrils of mist from the rift crawled over her body, ruffling her hair and clothes. The void over the altar opened further and more whip-like tentacles spilled over the edge; the flesh was corpse-white and each sucker ringed with gleaming onyx claws. The tentacles quested faintly along the floor, trembling and tangling together, hesitating and fumbling like a blind man feeling his way across an unfamiliar room. 

Jo swallowed. A gush of fear sweat soaked her armpits, stood out in fat beads on her face, arms and neck. I ain't gonna get out of this one alive, she thought. 

As if in answer to that thought, a flash of illumination and calm descended upon her; it was as if Jo suddenly stood alone on a vast, light-saturated plain that stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see. Turning around, she could see crystalline spheres bobbing up and down as if tethered to invisible anchors. Each of those bubbles contained an episode of her life, replaying again and again like a movie, pictures that captured every joy, every pain, every love and hate, each petty sin and each moment of glorious love. 

Somehow she didn't find this strange world the least bit curious or unnerving. Looking down at her feet Jo could see smaller bubbles; they contained the present, just as the previous ones had presented the past. As she watched, the spheres grew until they broke free with a silent sigh, then floated back to join the others, lined up as neatly as beads on a string. She recognized the Herald, the horrified face of the ten-year old girl, Evan's frown of total concentration as she mouthed some incantation. All growing, maturing and slipping into the past heartbeat by heartbeat. 

Bemused, Jo looked ahead and saw... nothing.. 

This is what you were born to do, said a voice inside her head. This is your destiny. It had a dry, sexless and dispassionate tone, sounding like a dedicated scholar who knows little of life outside his studies. 

"Do I have a choice?" she asked. 

Yes, the voice replied. There is always choice. There must be choice.

Jo glanced down at the spheres near her feet. The vast form of the Wyrm was continuing to emerge from the rift in the Veil; Father Joseph and Evan were screaming phrases from the Book in the teeth of what appeared to be a howling gale; more children were being brought towards the altar by the Herald's servants, kept clustered together like sheep in a slaughterhouse. 

"Who are you?" she asked, already knowing the answer. 

I am the Creator, the voice said simply. 

Not the Christian god, nor any other god; they were just representatives of a more powerful, cosmic force. The Creator of All - every Realm, every life, ever star, every universe, everything. The ultimate Magna Mater and implacable enemy of that old destroyer, Chaos. Order spoke, and when it commanded, worlds wheeled in their orbits and sentience was born from the sea. 

Do you accept? the voice asked. 

Jo understood what this question implied. She'd known it all along and denied; the Wyrm had played upon her fears, amplifying doubt and despair. But now her head was clear, her blood sang and her bones vibrated with the knowledge that she was the one. Father Joseph may have tried to deceive, tried to soothe her with the false comfort that she was not pre-destined for this doom, but now she knew the truth. He had not lied about one thing, however - the Sacrifice must be willing to die. 

Sometimes, all the paths of fate led in the same direction, but not today. At this precise moment in time, the future lay in two distinct and separate paths; her choice - and no one else's - would determine the fate of all worlds. 

There was no further need for hesitation or questions; Jo had known what she would do the moment she arrived in this place. 

She stood tall and said firmly, "I accept." There were no more doubts, no more fears and no regrets. As soon as she finished speaking, she felt a profound sense of relief sweep through her and her knees almost buckled. It was as if she'd been unknowingly smothered beneath a huge weight for so long, that when the burden was finally lifted, she nearly collapsed at the sudden sensation of freedom. 

So be it. 

Jo looked once again at the spheres close to her feet. The Herald had its knife raised above the girl's chest; the servants were staring with rapt faces at the horrible apparition that was slowly, almost gingerly inserting itself into the mortal Realm. The chanting reached a peak; Evan's face was white and greasy with sweat; several shrieking Mormolae swam into view; the knife began to descend... 

And the light faded as Jo was sent reeling back to reality to face her destiny.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Mormolae, led by Lilith, came swarming onto the stage, attacking the Herald's servants. The Mother of Demons shook wild locks of silver-streaked black hair away from her face, snatched the lit cigarette from her mouth, pointed a finger at an opponent and spat a phrase in a gutteral, snarling tongue. The robed man convulsed, blood suddenly gushing from every orifice... and then dropped bonelessly to the floor, dead before he hit. She took a deep drag off her cigarette and contemptuously blew smoke at the fallen servant. 

"Hope you enjoy Hell," Lilith said with a sneer. 

As her daughters engaged some of the other servants, Lilith began hauling children off the benches and herding them towards the back staircase. Anyone who got in her way quickly regretted it - if the Mother of Demons didn't impatiently crush his heart with an almost casual gesture, the Mormolae swooped down and savaged him with fangs and claws. 

The servants who held Jo were astonished when the woman they'd thought was unconscious suddenly surged against their grips. Jo tore herself away from them in an adrenaline-fueled frenzy, shaking off their holds and virtually flying across the small space that separated her from the Herald. 

Jo's vision narrowed to a tunnel; her sole focus was the blood-stained knife that was continuing its descent. Time slowed until the steady beating of her heart thundered in the her ears. Obsidian clawed tentacles whipped towards her but she eluded them easily, moving like quicksilver straight towards her goal. With an effort that nearly wrenched muscle from bone, Jo leaped towards the altar, arms outstretched as if she was diving from a great height... or reaching out to eagerly embrace her fate. 

Jo grunted as she landed face down on top of the girl who was stretched out on the altar... 

The Herald's good eye went wide with horror as it realized what was going to happen but it was too late to stop its actions. 

More tentacles slipped and slid in tumbling, knotted heaps over the edge of the rift as the Wyrm hastened to complete the transition before it was too late. 

The knife completed its arc. 

The girl shielded by Jo's body let out a muffled screech. 

And the knife buried itself to the hilt in Jo's unprotected back, slipped between her ribs and finally - fatally - stilled the frantic beating of her willing heart. 

The glowing circle of blue-white light above the Book in their arms had grown to immense proportions. Evan and Father Joseph no longer had to fight against a howling wind; within the vicinity of the counter-portal they'd created, everything had grown calm and still. 

Despite the relative peace of their surroundings, they still had a battle on their hands. The energy sphere was as difficult to control as a bucking, unbroken stallion. Evan and the priest both sweated heavily as they struggled to keep the wild magic leashed with their wills. 

The Irishwoman could feel herself weakening; it was as if her bones had turned to jelly, her blood and bowels to water. She could barely force herself to stand erect; all she wanted to do was collapse - mentally, physically and emotionally. Instead, she dredged up the last vestiges of strength she possessed and bent to her task, uncaring of the heavy penalty in pain and exhaustion she would later pay. 

A smaller cost than my Jo's, she thought numbly. 

Father Joseph's head was cocked to one side, as if he were waiting for some signal only he could hear. 

Suddenly, Miss Penelope, Jason Whitehawk and Zoe and Stringfellow Garvey came walking calmly onto the grass. Evan had thought the psychics gone, fled with the rest of the fairgoers, but as they approached, she realized that she'd been mistaken about them  - for these people were clearly much, much different than they'd first appeared. 

The four people had shed the small illusions they'd layered over their appearances... and now their eyes betrayed the tell-tale swirling flames that identified them as Watchers. 

Stringfellow Garvey nodded to Father Joseph. "The time is near," he said in Melmahay's distinctive rumble. 

The priest nodded back. "I recognize you now," he replied. "Evan, this is Azazel, who taught mankind the making of weapons of war." 

The woman she'd known as Zoe Garvey grinned. 

Miss Penelope cleared her throat. "Semjaza, teacher of enchantments." 

"Armaros, who taught the resolving of enchantments," said Jason Whitehawk. 

The four Watchers arranged themselves in a semi-circle around Evan and the priest. Their faces were upturned, eyes fixed upon the swirling, glowing ball of pure magic that emanated from the Book. 

The muted sounds of commotion came from the stage, muffled by the barrier still erected around the structure. The fallen angels listened and Melmahay held up a hand. 

"On my sign," he said. 

Evan's nerves were stretched taut and fraying further by the second. She felt like her entire body had been wrung out, beaten to a pulp, sieved through a fishnet and dried in the summer sun. The beginning of a fierce headache pulshed behind her left eye; her arms trembled and ached with the strain of holding up the Book for so long. 

There suddenly came a moment of complete silence and stillness; it was as if the world itself was holding its breath, halted in its orbit and waiting in eerie patience for some resolution that would tell it where and when and how to turn. 

Melmahay barked, "Now!" 

With a sob, Evan released the twisting, blinding bolt of blue-white power. It seemed to gather in upon itself for a second, then it streaked towards the stage as swiftly as an arrow in flight. The Irishwoman pulled her hands away from Father Joseph and slowly sank onto her knees, resisting the urge to bury her face in her hands and weep. 

The energy bolt flew truly, aimed precisely at the heart of the rift... 

Then shockingly, it swerved abruptly, missing its target by inches. 

Evan scrambled to her feet. "All in vain!" she screamed hoarsely at the priest. "My Jo's blood is on your hands and it was all for nothin', you motherless bastard!" 

"Look!" Father Joseph choked. 

Evan turned... 

And saw Jo. A second glance was confirmation enough; her lover was truly dead and that terrifying figure of beauty and power that stood upon the stage was not flesh but soul alone. Jo's spirit was returned to the mortal plain, transformed by the willing sacrifice of blood and life, baptized in the sacred fires of the Otherworld and now the Champion of Light in truth. 

The magic of the Book streaked across the stage like a maddened comet. 

Tears filled her eyes. "Oh, my love," Evan whispered. 

The ghost that was Jo caught the ball of energy easily; it glowed between her hands, pulsing waves of blue-white light that looked hot and cold by turns, spilling a waterfall of sparks between her fingers.. Her figure was opaque and unclear, blurred around the edges; skin like milky glass, hair like thin spikes of silver, the dark blue of her eyes washed out to the pale hue of glacial ice. 

Jo's body still lay upon the altar, limbs cooling and stiffening, the hilt of the Herald's knife jutting obscenely from her back. The ten year old girl she'd shielded had squirmed from beneath the corpse and sat near the altar, face blank with shock. 

The Herald raised both hands and sent bolt after bolt of flaming, black-tinged sorcery at Jo's spirit. The malign magic sparked against her figure and then blew away, scattered into nothingness. 

The Wyrm sought to grasp the ghost; as soon as its sickly white tentacles touched the opaque figure those limbs were blasted and sent flopping back down upon the floor, charred and smoking. The Wyrm let out a shriek of dim rage and its limbs writhed in futile threat, but it did not attempt to capture Jo again. 

The power in Jo's hands began to whirl faster and faster. Those few servants who had survived the Mormolae's attack tried to flee; with vengeful spite the Herald spent some of its dwindling magical resources to make its unfaithful disciples burst into flames. The fiery figures, screeching in agony, staggered around the stage, setting props and curtains alight. 

In the midst of this holocaust, Lilith and the Mormolae swiftly gathered up the rest of the children and the surviving choir masters and retreated, leaving the stage to the Champion of Light and her enemies. 

As soon as everyone was clear, Jo slowly drew her hands apart, stretching the blue-white energy and molding it with her fingertips. In moments she had fashioned a sword whose blade was composed of pure, sizzling energy that shed a shower of sparks with each movement she made. 

The Herald seethed with thwarted fury. "You cannot stop my Master!" it howled, causing a veritable avalanche of flesh to cascade off the bones of its skull. "It is too late! The Wyrm is here!" 

Dimly, as if glimpsed from an unimaginable distance, a vast yellow eye loomed in the center of the rift. It drew closer and closer; the air was shattered with a sound like the shrill shrieking whistle of a locomotive as the Wyrm abandoned all caution and made for the edge of the rift with all the speed at its command. 

The expression on Jo's face was almost kindly. "It's never too late," she replied. Her voice was hollow and echoed strangely, as if she was speaking from the bottom of a well. 

She swept the blazing sword up, then down, chopping at the Wyrm's tentacles with all the casual, workmanlike skill of a lumberjack at his trade. Her spectral face bore just a hint of a smile as she hacked and slashed, bending to scoop up the spurting, severed tentacles and hurl them back into the rift. The Wyrm whistled again, this time in pain, and its single yellow eye burned with hate. 

The Herald danced about, flapping its hands and sending weak bursts of energy that fizzled out before they reached Jo. It dared not touch her but finally, as Jo continued her grisly business, galvanized by its Master's screams, the Herald rushed forward and tried to grab her. 

Its clutching fingers passed straight through Jo's indistinct form and emerged burned to cinders. Still smoldering chunks of flesh and bone scattered on the floor as the Herald futilely scrabbled to come to grips with the enemy that was destroying its Master. 

Without pausing, unaffected by the smoke and flames that roared around her, Jo carried on hacking and slashing; dark green ooze splashed up from the Wyrm's wounds but did not touch her. 

As soon as the last of the tentacles had been severed and tossed back to the other side of the Veil, Jo stepped back a pace, scanning the floor to see if she'd missed anything. At that moment, the Wyrm thrust part of its massive head through the rift. 

Jo stood there unmoving as the Wyrm glared at her with its hellish eye. Beneath the vast staring orb, a ridiculously tiny beak clacked and ground together, the sound reminiscent of fingernails scraping across a chalkboard and just as hair-raising. 

The ghost tilted her head and stared straight at the Wyrm. Impossibly, a slow grin spread itself across her face as she hefted the blazing sword in both hands and said, "Go directly to jail." 

The sword swept across the Wyrm's face, making it flinch back hastily. 

"Do not pass GO," Jo continued with another swipe of the fiery weapon. 

The look in the Wyrm's eye changed rapidly from hate and anger to fear and disbelief. It began to retreat further into its shelter on the other side of the Veil. 

The sword flourished again. "Do not collect two hundred dollars," Jo said. 

The Herald cried out in terror as a pair of tentacles shot out of the rift and wrapped themselves around its stolen body; the Wyrm's gleaming obsidian claws shredded its servant's rotting flesh and stinking black fluid splattered the floor. 

Legs wide apart, sword cocked over her shoulder, the Champion of Light sucked in a deep breath and shouted, "BEGONE, ASSHOLE!" 

Screeching in pain and fright, menaced by Jo's flaming sword, the Wyrm fled back into exile. The Herald, clutched tightly in its master's tentacles, was dragged across the floor and hauled into the rift. 

Screaming, "No! Master! It wasn't my fault! Don't, please!" the Herald disappeared into the black void of the rift. As soon as its squirming, pleading form disappeared, the roiling mist was sucked in behind it, as well as the flames that were consuming the stage. Clouds of gray smoke followed... then with a deafening explosion, the rift collapsed in on itself, shrinking and thinning until it resembled a long, worm-like thread. 

The thread vibrated, dancing on air, until it was drawn down into the pages of the Book on the altar. The cover snapped shut hungrily... 

And the sudden, shocking silence was only broken by the sound of Evan's weeping. 

Chapter Nineteen

On the stage, the opaque figure of Jo was staring ruefully at the ruins of her physical body. The great sword she'd created of pure power was gone, sucked down into the Book. The leather cover now bore a new seal of interlocking pentagrams and strange, shimmering symbols that bound the front and back together. The seal looked as if it had been crafted of white gold, but deep down within the surface of the metal, currents of silver-blue magic surged and swirled in never-ending patterns, constantly renewing the mystical lock that kept the Wyrm at bay. 

Evan started to approach Jo, one hand outstretched, but Father Joseph yanked her back. "Are you mad?" the priest hissed. "Let me deal with this." 

He cautiously walked up to the spirit by the altar, keeping a respectful distance. "The flesh has been Sacrificed to gain power and knowledge," he said. "Thus was the Ancient Enemy defeated. Go now with our thanks; the Gates of the Blessed await your triumphal entry." 

"What?" Jo's ghost replied in its hollow, echoing voice. "Lemme guess... legions of fat-kneed cherubs bawling hymns of praise, brass trumpets, a ticker-tape parade, rose petals in every orifice and more incense than you can shake a Buddha at. No thanks, pal." Her arms crossed over her chest and she leaned down to thrust her face directly at the priest, who shrank back. "I ain't going nowhere." 

"But... but..." the priest sputtered. "You can't stay here!" 

"Watch me." 

Semjaza, Melmahay, Amaros and Azazael joined the others on the stage. Semjaza, still clad in Miss Penelope's plump flesh, came up behind Evan and put her hands on the Irishwoman's shoulders. "Can you heal this?" the Watcher asked, nodding her head in the direction of the corpse on the altar. 

"No," Evan said hoarsely, wiping her tear-stained face with the tail of her shirt. "I cannot. She's been... gone too long. But perhaps there is one who can." 

"Who?" Amaros asked in Jason Whitehawk's voice. 

"Brigid." Evan pulled Lilith's medallion out of the pocket of her jeans and rubbed it thoughtfully with her thumb. "A powerful goddess. She took back the Cauldron of Rebirth after the death of Matholwch and has it still. The Cauldron could heal Jo's body, bring her back to life." 

"Doesn't Brigid live within you, as do all the other Celtic gods?" Semjaza asked. 

Evan shot the fallen angel a suspicious glance. "Aye, but how do you know that?" 

"We're not called Watchers for nothing," Melmahay answered with a hint of irony. 

"If I use the magic in this medallion, I could release the gods," Evan said. "Brigid could bring Jo back..." 

"And you'd be killed in the process," Semjaza said. "Releasing the gods would destroy you. You're talking about nothing less than suicide." 

"Your gods wouldn't survive very long after, either," Melmahay said. "Only belief sustains the existance of gods; there aren't enough faithful believers in the world to keep the Irish dieties alive. They'd dwindle and fade in a short time, joining all the other forgotten ones who starve and suffer on the fringes of the Upper Realms. You would condemn the ones you've protected for so long to a shadowy and painful existance." 

"You would be breaking your oath," Amaros said. "Betraying the memory of all those who sacrificed their lives so that you might live beyond the normal span of years." 

"So be it," Evan said. "I cannot... I will not stand idle and watch them put my Jo into the ground. This is the only way to bring her back. Whatever the cost, I'm willin' to pay." 

"Your life and the lives of your gods in exchange for one mortal?" Semjaza asked. 

"Aye. Seems fair enough to me." 

"Do you love her so much then?" Amaros asked gently. 

"More than breath, life and light," Evan answered. She looked at Jo's ghost, who was still arguing with Father Joseph. 

She clutched the medallion in her fist and took a deep breath. She could feel the immense power stored in the relatively small receptacle; it would be more than enough to free Brigid and the others. Evan had been a living refuge for them for two millennia; surely they would understand her reasons and be willing to grant her this favor for all those years of faithful service. And perhaps the picture painted by the Watchers wasn't quite so bleak; Evan had noticed a rise of interest in ancient Celtia and other pagan cultures, so it might be possible for her gods to survive. 

Fresh tears sparkled in her eyes as she looked at Jo's spirit. For no other would I forsake my vows, my people's memory, my honor, my dieties, my own life. Only you.

She didn't notice the four Watchers moving closer to her, arranging themselves in a circle and staring at her avidly. 

Jo's ghost stared at the priest in disbelief and mounting anger. Tiny bubbles of ectoplasm dripped from the edges of her form, reminding Father Joseph of ice cream melting on a hot summer's day. 

"Look, bubba," the spirit said in her hollow, echoing voice. "I had to save that kid. Hell, I had to save the whole goddamned universe. No problem; I'm a pretty generous type of gal. I knew the score before I made my choice. It just pisses me off that now the party's over and the shit went wide of the fan, you wanna shove a harp in my hands, slap a halo over my ears and say 'aloha'. Geez, I have the feeling that I'm getting fucked and you didn't even buy me dinner first." 

Father Joseph impatiently pulled the glasses off his nose, polished them on his robe and shoved them on his face again. "What would you do if you stayed?" he asked. "You don't have a physical presence anymore. You'd be nothing more than a lost spirit; no substance, no purpose, nothing. Do you really think you can ever touch Evan again? Feel the texture of her skin, taste her mouth, smell her hair? All of this is lost to you and cannot be regained. Why torture yourself by staying? And what about Evan? How do you think it will make her feel - seeing you as you are, never able to touch you, always reminded of the love you shared and never again able to act upon it. If you care nothing for your own welfare, then at least consider your lover." 

The ghost was silent for a moment, then sighed. "Okay, okay. You gotta point. I may not like it - and I sure as hell hate admitting it - but you may be right. No... shit! You are right. It wouldn't be fair to Ev." 

"Exactly." Father Joseph looked smug. 

Jo glared at him. "I hate a sore winner," she muttered hollowly. Turning around, she spotted Evan, who was kneeling on the scorched stage; the four Watchers stood around her in a circle. 

"Yo, Ev!" the ghost said, waving an opaque hand. "C'mere, babe. We gotta talk." 

There was no response; it was as if Evan hadn't heard her. 

"Hey! Ectoplasmic entity to Ev! Hello!!" 

There was still no response. 

Suddenly, the ghost had a chilling thought. "I'd swear somebody was walking over my grave, only I ain't buried yet," she murmured. "Uh, Ev... don't go doing anything stupid right now, okay?" 

Evan had something in her hand. With a start, Jo realized it was Lilith's medallion. 

She began drifting towards her lover, moving across the floor as quickly as she could. "Ev! Don't!" the spirit cried. 

The Irishwoman looked up; there were tears in her gray eyes. "I love you," she said simply. 

Father Joseph sucked in a breath. 

Evan made a twisting gesture with her free hand. 

Jo's ghost made a eerie, wailing sound. 

And the world exploded in rippling waves of brilliant blue-white light. 

"Ev-aaaaaaaaan," the ghost groaned, her voice weirdly distorted. 

As soon as Evan released the magic contained within the medallion, the Watchers acted. Instead of plunging into the kneeling woman, sundering her immortal flesh and releasing the Celtic gods, the magic was snatched away by the fallen angels and redirected... 

Straight towards the body of the woman on the altar. 

Evan screamed, "No!" and tried to regain control, but it was too late. The energy warped and twisted away from her, flowing in a continual, sparkling stream into Jo's body. 

The Watchers joined hands; the whirling flames in their eyes spun faster, glowing brighter and brighter until their borrowed flesh flaked and fell away, burned to cinders by the power they were releasing. To Evan's dazzled vision, they appeared as beings of living fire, naked but sexless, each perfect line of their bodies composed of leaping, red-gold flame. Vast wings stretched out behind them, each fiery feather sporting an unblinking eye, and each of their four faces - man, ox, eagle and lion - bore similar expressions of fierce joy. 

Evan raised her arm, sheltering her eyes against the blinding brightness of the Watcher's true forms. 

The medallion in her hand grew hotter and hotter until it began to burn her hand. Evan dropped it and shouted, "What are you doin'?" 

The body on the altar began to smolder and jerk grotesquely as more and more magic poured into its lifeless tissues. As it flopped, it turned over completely, giving the horrified Evan a good look at the distorted features of Jo's dead face, those blank blue eyes. 

"Stop this!" the Irishwoman screamed, struggling to rise. "You're destroyin' her! If you burn her body she can never be healed!" 

The Watcher's mouths opened and they began to sing, a strangely harmonized melody without words. Jo's ghost was suddenly siezed in an invisible grip. 

"Hey! Leggo!" the ghost hollered, struggling against the unseen hands that gripped her. 

"What are you doin'?" Evan tried to grab one of the Watcher's hands and ended up with second degree burns on her palm and fingers. "Stop!" Tears of frustration trickled down her cheeks; she could feel the hair of her eyebrows beginning to crisp and sizzle from the heat. 

The strange melody continued. Jo's ghost began to distort and fade, flickering like a bad flourescent bulb, features bulging and receding, mouth and eyes yawning to enormous proportions then shrinking to near nonexistance. The spirit screamed, a shrill cry that made her ectoplasmic form shimmer and ripple in sympathy. 

The music reached a crescendo; within the circle of the Watchers, Evan curled up into a ball with her hands covering her face, barely able to breath the superheated air. It was like being in the midst of an inferno; she could feel blisters popping up on the back of her neck, her cheeks and wrists. 

There was a final high note that went on and on, reverberating until Evan's ears were ringing. As she huddled on the floor, biting her lower lip to bloody shreds in an effort not to cry out with pain, she heard Melmahay's rumbling bass voice, so close it seemed like he was speaking inside her head. 

"There's already been one sacrifice today; no need for another. What you cannot do, we will... for against Chaos and Order we may not act directly, but in this matter we may do as we see fit. What the two of you have together is too rare and precious a thing to allow to die. Consider it a gift for the sake of love, or perhaps payment for services rendered. You won't see us again - but we will be watching." 

The flames rose until they licked the ceiling; the song of the Watchers began to die... 

And then suddenly, there was no more fire, no more music. Evan pushed herself up from the floor, shoving scorched orange hair out of her eyes. The Watchers were gone, leaving behind only patches of heat-blackened floor as evidence of their existance. Evan looked around frantically; there was no sign of Jo's spirit - it had gone as well. 

For a moment, despair nearly overwhelmed her. Her first thought was that the fallen angels had destroyed Jo's soul, or sent it beyond the mortal realm, or any one of a hundred increasingly improbable scenarios that spun themselves out in her head in dizzying fashion until she felt as if she was choking on sheer emotional distress. Just when she felt as if she was going mad, a single shred of hope cut through the pain so abruptly she was made breathless. 

Evan wanted desperately to believe it was possible but did she dare? 

Could it be? Did they... would they...? Was Jo...? 

She could not voice the thought aloud. 

It wasn't possible and yet... 

Father Joseph had taken shelter underneath the altar; he came crawling out, coughing and spitting. "Are you all right?" he asked. 

Evan shook her head. There was a pressure in her chest that was getting tighter by the second and a huge lump in her throat. She fixed her eyes to the top of the altar; Jo's arm hung limply off the side, fingers splayed, skin streaked with soot and dried blood. Freezing chills made her shiver, the skin on her exposed arms rose in goosebumps, her elf-locked tangerine hair stirred on her shoulders. Evan held her breath, waiting, watching, concentrating all her hopes with a lover's single-minded desperation. 

As she watched, Jo's hand twitched once, then twice. There was a low groan and Jo licked her lips, head moving slightly from side to side. 

Heart almost bursting, feeling warm tears gather in her eyes, Evan scrambled over to the altar and grabbed Jo's hand between her own. The flesh was warm... alive. 

Alive!!

"Jo?" Evan searched her lover's face. "Colleen, can you hear me?" She checked Jo's pulse; it was steady and strong, thrumming against her fingertips with a rhythm more familiar than her own. 

Jo's eyelids trembled, then to Evan's eternal relief, they opened fully, revealing the bright blue orbs she remembered so well. The platinum blonde coughed and said hoarsely, "I ain't deaf, you know. Just a little well done." 

Evan cradled Jo's hand to her cheek and burst into a near hysterical fit of relieved laughter and tears. 

Jo was alive - and all was right with the world once more. 

Chapter Twenty

"Police and fire department officials have released an official statement regarding the disaster which took place at the Feast of the Innocents, held last Saturday at the Lon Chaney Memorial Park." Steve Holland, the airbrushed news anchorman of Channel 5, gave the camera a vapid smile and shuffled his papers. 

"Incidents of mass hysteria, triggered by an electrical fire on the central stage, sparked a riot which ended in half a dozen deaths and more than twenty seriously injured fairgoers. Ten-year-old Shelly Spears, the only child to have suffered massive shock and hysterical hallucinations following the incident, was released today from King Children's Hospital and is now in stable condition. 

"Reports of mysterious women who calmed down the crowd and led a large group of children to safety are still under investigation. Although many eyewitnesses have come forward with descriptions, it has proven impossible to confirm their identities. Anyone possessing further information about these samaritans is requested to contact your local police department." 

Steve Holland's perfectly moussed hair gleamed beneath the harsh studio lights like a golden helmet as he continued with his report, clearly reading from the teleprompter. "Archbishop Gregory McKinnon will be attending a memorial service for the victims of the fire on Friday. Charges of gross negligence have been dropped as a result of the official investigation, which found no fault with the Church's arrangements or safety protocols." 

The news anchor peered at the camera again. "The Church is offering free counseling, grief therapy and financial renumeration for those who suffered a loss due to last week's disaster. Please contact Archbishop Gregory's office at 555-9999 for more information. 

"In other news, the mass disappearances which have taken place around the city were solved yesterday when police received an anonymous tip which sent them to an exotic dancing club called the Boneyard. Dozens of skeletons were found buried in the cellar; identification of the victims and notification of next-of-kin has already commenced. The owner of the Boneyard, Carolyn Lunt, is suspected of the murder of these individuals and possibly more in satanic cult rituals. Police are continuing their search for Lunt, who has disappeared herself without a trace, along with a number of her employees..." 

Jo clicked off the television and tossed the remote control onto the nightstand beside the bed. "The Archbishop's freebies are gonna cost a few widow's mites; do you think it's a P.R. gag or something?" 

Evan stretched, wiggling her toes, and snuggled closer to her lover. They always watched the evening news together but the Irishwoman rarely paid any real attention to the broadcast. She preferred to rest her head on Jo's shoulder and let her fingers caress the other woman's soft, warm skin, luxuriating in the sheer physical presence and closeness they shared. 

With a reluctant sigh, Evan let go of her comfortable mood and raised her head. "T'wasn't exactly Gregory's doin'. I heard that Father Joseph made the arrangements." 

"Oh, really?" Jo snorted. "Weren't you going to eat his achy-breaky heart for breakfast or something like that?" 

Evan bared her teeth in a not-quite smile. "I've decided to let him live... for now. He did help us get out of the park - you were so weak, colleen, and two of the Mormolae were hurt - so I owe him some small favor for that. But someday..." She didn't finish the sentence but the look in her eyes was so fierce that Jo winced. 

"I kinda feel like I owe him something, too - preferably a swift kick in the ass. On the other hand, you can't really blame the guy. He was just following the Watchers' orders." 

"So said those they hanged at Neuremburg," Evan muttered darkly, good mood vanished completely. "I know he was not entirely at fault. He did nothin' wrong, really, save the keepin' of secrets. I know t'was more the fate that chose you to weave that work but still... I cannot help but feel anger towards the man. Perhaps because he makes a most convenient scapegoat - I can hardly rail against Heaven or Hell and t'is easier by far to hate a human than a faceless force." 

"Look, don't forget that it was my choice, baby. You can't blame Father Joseph for my... er, death. The Powers That Be needed me to put things right and I was given a choice. I could've said no. Nobody held a gun to my head." 

"Oh, aye. Die to save the world or watch it be destroyed. Small choice that." 

Jo swallowed hard. Even after a week, it was difficult talking about what had happened to her. She didn't remember dying or much that had happened after; from the moment she'd jumped on top of the altar, there was a complete blank until she'd opened her eyes to see a crying Evan and an astonished Father Joseph. The entire experience was so surreal that she had difficulty believing it had actually happened - all except her conversation with the power called Order. That part was vividly clear. 

"Hey." Jo stroked Evan's cheek with a finger. "You'd have done the same. We're both pretty wired for self-sacrifice, I guess. It's one of them hero thingys." She forced a grin. "Besides, I heard you were fixing to fry yourself and give your gods the old heave-ho 'cause you thought they might bring me back. So let's quit bitching and moaning about what happened and who's to blame. I'd just as soon forget the whole thing and get back to living for a freakin' change." 

Evan searched Jo's face for a second then relaxed against her. She's right, the Irishwoman thought. I shouldn't hold on to my anger. T'will weaken me in time, for such negative emotions are damagin' to the soul.

To let go was rational and logical - after all, what had she lost? Nothing, really. She'd made some new friends and allies, Lilith and the brazen head Helen foremost of all. She'd been an important part of the effort to hold back Armageddon - which had succeeded. She'd added to her store of knowledge and kept her gods safe. She hadn't even lost her beloved Jo. 

As if reading her partner's mind, Jo said, "What've we got to complain about? I'm back and good as new. No psycho psychics screwing up my psyche, no squid monsters trying to destroy the world, no horrors carving up the citizens of our fair burg, no more of that fate shit. Hell, I don't even have a friggin' scar to show for it." She suddenly brightened. "And we've got... pizza!" 

Evan had to laugh as Jo reached a long arm over to the nightstand and retrieved a cold, soggy slice of double cheese, double pepperoni, mushroom, onion, garlic, hot pepper and olive pizza from a cardboard box. Orange grease dripped onto her chin as Jo took an enormous bite, rolling her eyes with pleasure. 

"Aw, man - how can you still be pissed when there's pizza like this in the world!" Jo crammed the rest of the slice in her mouth and chewed blissfully. 

Evan wiped the grease off her lover's chin with her fingertips. "How can I still be angry when there's a Jo Tate in the world?" she asked softly with a smile. 

Jo belched contentedly. "That's right, baby. The one and only, built to last, satisfaction guaranteed." She rolled over on her side and scooped Evan closer. Her breath smelled of garlic, onions and spices but Evan didn't mind. "I got a serious question for ya." 

"What's that?" Evan laid her head in the crook of Jo's shoulder, loving the sensation of warm skin on skin. 

"Do you think we should try pineapple on the pizza next time or is that just too weird for words?" 

Evan giggled. "Have I lately told you how much I love you?" 

"More than breath, life and light," Jo replied. "And I love you, too, you wicked, wild, wonderful witchy woman!" 

Even drew back a little and looked at her lover with a slight frown; Jo shrugged, winked and wrinkled her nose while the Irishwoman laughed softly. 

Their lips met in a sweet and tender kiss that soon turned passionate... 

And they did not notice a pair of eyes watching them from a shadowy corner of the room - eyes that were composed of swirling, dancing flames. 

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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Room for One More
byNene Adams ©2002 - All rights reserved

Katie Collier glanced over at her partner. "Hey, Viv... how're you holding up?"

"Fine, except my legs are cramping and my ass is numb from sitting so long," Vivian Wellborn replied. Rain was coming down hard, a solid sheet of water crashing against the car windshield. She was curled up in the passenger seat, her face a pale oval blur. "We must've taken a wrong turn back there."

"Yeah, but the interstate's got to be around here somewhere." Katie gripped the steering wheel tightly, her body hunched forward, as if she could force the car onto the right road by sheer force of will. "Don't worry. We'll be in Richmond before you know it."

Vivian peered out of the window. Visibility was almost nil, a combination of rain and nightfall. A white rectangle loomed out of the darkness, illuminated by the headlights. "Stop the car!" she said.

Despite her partner's forceful tone, Katie eased the automobile to a halt. She leaned towards Vivian, as far as the seatbelt would allow. "What does that sign say? I can't make it out."

"Neither can I." Vivian sighed. "I'll roll down the window, dammit."

Wind gusted a shower of wetness into the car, cold raindrops splashed against her face. Vivian craned her head out of the window, blinking furiously at the downpour. "It says: Taliaferro Springs, two miles ahead," she reported, drawing her head back inside.

"Taliaferro Springs?" Katie scratched her head. "Never heard of it. Hand me the map, will you?"

Vivian cranked the window up. Beads of water frosted her eyelashes, darkened her hair. Trickles ran from cheeks to chin. She looked at Katie and grimaced. "Get it yourself," she grumbled. "I've just been through the Flood."

"I'm sorry, sweetie." Katie reached over, opened the glove box and retrieved the map. "Next time, I'll volunteer for the rain shower."

Vivian wiped her face with her palms, ran hands over her damp hair. "I think we ought to stop for the night. There's got to be a motel or hotel or B-and-B in Taliaferro Springs. We can get directions to the interstate in the morning. Right now, all I want is a hot meal, a hot shower, and a warm bed."

Katie put on the interior light and studied the map. "Yeah, okay, here we are." She stabbed a forefinger at a red meandering line. "We took the wrong exit, ended up going west instead of east. We're about thirty miles out of our way."

"Did you hear what I said?" Vivian slapped her hand down on the map, which got her partner's undivided attention. "I'm tired, wet and hungry. We've been driving since six o'clock this morning. It's nine-thirty at night. Richmond can wait, dammit. Your family won't care if we get there a little late. Your grandmother's birthday party isn't until tomorrow night, anyway. Let's stop and get a room."

Katie nodded, and surprised herself by yawning.

"See?" Vivian took the map out of Katie's hands, folded it up, and put it away. "You're tired, too. We don't want to get in an accident if you fall asleep at the wheel."

"Uh-huh. I'm sorry, sweetie. You're right. I'm hungry and sleepy, too." Katie snapped off the light. In a few moments, they were underway again. "Taliaferro Springs is probably an itty-bitty place, but there's got to be somewhere we can stay for one night."

The town was, indeed, very small. The main thoroughfare was lined with shops and businesses. At the end of the street was a soaring structure, Art Deco architecture rendered in stone and marble. A sign across the front read Regal Court Hotel in ornate gilt script. Lights blazed in almost every window of the fifteen-story building. Both Katie and Vivian thought the hotel's appearance was incongruous, considering the size of Taliaferro Springs. Nevertheless, they left the car in a nearby parking lot and went inside.

The interior was lush and glamorous, but old-fashioned in a way that reminded Vivian of 1940's Hollywood. Crimson-and-gilt papered walls, black marble floors, lamps in the shape of leaping deer, crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceiling. Bronze statues depicted lean, stylized women in various postures. Chinese pots full of ferns and small palms. A fountain in the center of the lobby, capped by an Artemis figure astride a stag, a new moon crescent shining silver in her verdigris hair.

The reception desk was a vast sweep of polished mahogany, inlaid with lighter woods, bound with brass and topped with green marble. The man behind the desk was dapper, his hair slicked back with pomade, a tiny mustache perched above his upper lip. He greeted Katie and Vivian with a smile. "Welcome to the Regal Court Hotel," he said. "How may we serve you?"

"Um, we'd like a room for the night," Katie replied, glancing around with trepidation. She hoped they could afford a place like this; her credit card was almost maxed out. "A single, if you have it."

"Certainly. There's always room for one more here," said the clerk. He pushed an open book towards her. "Sign here, please."

Katie did so, using the fountain pen that the man offered. She started to take out her credit card, but the clerk smacked his palm down on a bell. "Front!" he snapped.

A uniformed bellboy, who resembled an organ grinder's monkey, popped up with a grin.

"Room 603," said the clerk, handing the boy a key. "Miss Collier and Miss...?" he hesitated, raising his brows at Vivian.

"Miss Wellborn," she replied.

"Miss Collier and Miss Wellborn," said the clerk to the bellboy. "Be prompt, Ralph. We'll have a lot of guests that need looking after when the party starts."

The bellboy took the key, hoisted their single bag to his shoulder, and led the way to the elevator. It, too, was old-fashioned, with a cage door that had to be slid into place, and it was operated by a hand mechanism. Ralph obviously knew what he was doing.

On their way up, Vivian said, "Excuse me, but did he say there was a party tonight?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Ralph. "The Midnight Halloween Costume Ball. Happens every year. Folks come from all over. Gonna be a busy night. But like the man said, there's always room for one more."

"What am I, chopped liver?" Vivian asked Katie, sotto voce. "One more, my ass."

"Do you want to get some sleep or not?" Katie replied, just as softly. "We're lucky to get a place, seeing as how there's a big party tonight. The hotel's probably booked solid."

Room 603 was no less luxurious than the lobby downstairs. Thick fawn carpeting, green walls, alabaster lamps, glass tables, deeply upholstered chairs, and a round bed with satin sheets. It was not until Ralph departed that Vivian noticed there was no television or telephone, no mini-bar, no VCR - no modern amenities at all.

"What kind of hotel is this?" she said, peeking into the bathroom. That whole room was tiled in a mosaic pattern that depicted a fantasy underwater scene. No shower, but the tub looked big enough for two.

"Hey, sweetie, it's warm and dry and damned comfortable," said Katie, stretching out on the bed. "I'm not complaining. Why don't you take a bath? We can go down in a bit, see if we can rustle up some dinner."

"Okay. It's just weird, that's all."

Katie managed to shrug while lying down. "Maybe it's part of the historical register rules or something. I think I saw a telephone booth in the lobby, if you need to make a call."

"No, I was just..." Vivian paused, finally flapped her hands. She could not put her unease into words. "I don't know. Let me take that bath, maybe I'll feel better."

A little while later, clean and dressed in a sweatshirt, Vivian was still not relaxed. She found it impossible to sit still. She moved from chair to chair, visibly fretting.

Finally, Katie levered herself off the bed and said, "Girl, you're jittering around like peanuts on a hot griddle. It's making me nervous. Let's get some food into you before you wear a hole in the carpet."

"No, I'm not hungry." Vivian looked down at her hands. She had been absently picking at a loose thread on the hem of her sweatshirt. She forced her fingers to still. "I'd rather just go to bed."

"Are you sure?" Katie stripped off her shirt and jeans, pulled on an old football jersey and boxer shorts.

"Uh-huh." Vivian was suddenly cold. Her teeth began to chatter.

Concerned, Katie bundled Vivian into bed, and curled up behind her. Laying a hand on her partner's forehead, Katie said, "I think you might be a little feverish. Want an aspirin?"

"No," Vivian said, shivering. "Just hold me."

Katie pulled her into a close embrace, her chin nestled atop Vivian's head.

It seemed that Vivian had only just fallen asleep when she woke up abruptly, jarred out of fitful dreams by some unidentified sound. She lay there, quietly listening, and could detect nothing except Katie's soft snoring breaths.. It was warm under the blankets, but the satin sheets were like cool water against her skin. The room was dark. Vivian did not remember Katie shutting off the lights. She took a deep breath, and froze.

Smoke.

She smelled smoke.

Vivian nudged Katie awake. "Do you smell that?"

"Huh?" Katie responded groggily. "What?"

"I smell smoke." Vivian squirmed around, took hold of her partner's shoulder. "Do you smell it, too?"

Katie yawned, scrubbed at her eyes. "You're dreaming. Go back to sleep."

The odor was getting stronger. Was it her imagination, or was the room getting hotter, too? "Katherine Louise Harris Collier," Vivian said, "you'd better wake up right now!"

"I'm up, I'm up." Katie raised herself up on an elbow. "What's gotten into you, sweetie?"

"I told you, I smell smoke." Vivian gritted her teeth, forced herself to speak calmly despite the rising panic. "Look, I'm not dreaming. Let's get dressed and go downstairs, okay? If I'm wrong, we can come back to bed."

"Dammit, Viv..." Katie threw back the covers, turned on the light next to the bed. She searched her partner's face for a moment, then conceded. "Fine. We'll go downstairs. Otherwise you'll probably drive me crazy all night."

Vivian quickly pulled on a pair of jeans and sneakers; she was still wearing her sweatshirt. Katie took a little longer. As soon as they were both dressed, the women left Room 603. At Vivian's insistence, they walked down the spiraling central staircase to the lobby, instead of waiting for the elevator.

Inside the stairwell, Katie admitted that she smelled smoke, too, but faintly. "Maybe they've got a fireplace somewhere?" she said doubtfully. Her voice echoed in the narrow space. The stairs and banisters were iron, the walls unadorned brick work.

"I don't know," Vivian replied. "Did you see the doors we passed on each floor? Those weren't fire doors. No alarms, no sprinkler system, and I didn't see any emergency exit signs, either."

They reached the lobby, where dozens of people in costume were drinking and talking. Vivian saw a fairy princess in yards of pink tulle, her gauze wings ablaze with rhinestones. Another women wore a gown designed to make her look like a mermaid; green silk that hugged her curves to mid-thigh, where it split and swept back into twin flukes that dragged the floor. A gentleman dressed as Napoleon was laughing with Marie Antoinette, complete with high white wig and sailing skirts. There were children, too, dressed as pirates or ghosts or cowboys. Everywhere she looked, people were laughing and making merry. A banner hung between two columns read: Welcome to the Regal Court Hotel's Midnight Halloween Costume Ball of 1946.

"What, are they too cheap to order a new banner every year?" Katie asked. She glanced around, snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. "Hey, that guy looks like Charlie Chaplin!"

Vivian clutched at Katie's arm. The clerk was gliding towards them, light reflecting from his oily pomaded hair. "Will you join our party, Miss Collier?" he said to Katie. "There's room for one more."

"Why do y'all keep saying that?" Katie put the champagne glass down on the rim of the fountain.

A young lady dressed as Little Bo Peep skipped over to the two women. "Room for one more," she said, fluttering her eyelashes. She took hold of Katie's other arm.

Vivian said, "What the hell is going on here?" and yanked Katie away from Bo Peep, who pouted.

Suddenly, the acrid reek of smoke threatened to choke her. Vivian coughed, tried to catch her breath. Thin flames began to lick up a crimson-and-gilt papered wall.

"One more!" cried Napoleon, reaching for Katie.

"Yes, join us!" the mermaid said. "There's room for one more."

Vivian felt a brush of something soft and feathery against her face. Ashes were falling from the ceiling. With a roar, the lobby erupted into flames. Thick black smoke billowed upward. The banner caught fire, was gone in an instant. People changed, their costumes charring, flesh bubbling from their bones.

The fairy princess' gauze wings melted in a flash of white-hot heat. "One more!" A grinning skull turned blind eyes towards Katie.

Vivian tugged on Katie's arm. "Come on!" she shouted. Katie seemed entranced, unable or unwilling to move. Vivian pulled harder, wheezing as her lungs contracted, starved for oxygen. A wave of unbearable heat seared through her. She could feel blisters popping up on her nose and cheeks. Fire was all around them. A chandelier dropped, sending shards of shattered crystal flying in every direction.

"Katie, come on!" Tears ran from Vivian's eyes as she used every ounce of her strength to haul Katie across the flame-filled lobby. She was sobbing and gagging, blinded by smoke and flame. The rubber soles of her sneakers were melting, sticking to the marble floor.

"Room for one more!" screamed the clerk, who was in front of the mob. Vivian recognized the bellboy by the sooty remains of his uniform. The party-goers were horrid leering figures, shambling lumps of smoking meat that reached out to take Katie, make her one of their own.

In a burst of adrenaline fueled panic, Vivian tore Katie away, sent them both stumbling towards the lobby door. They burst through, falling to the pavement. The rain felt like a blessing. Vivian lay there, dazed and nauseous, racked by a coughing fit that threatened to break her ribs.

Katie crawled over to her, smoothed wet hair away from Vivian's face. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Vivian rolled over, spat out a mouthful of saliva. Her cough quieted after a moment. She felt her face, and could detect no blisters, no heat damage at all. "Don't you remember?" she asked hoarsely.

"We were in bed. We went to the lobby. There was a party." Katie shook her head. "I remember a fire. Or it seemed like a fire, but there were these people..." Her voice trailed off. "Viv, did we almost die in there?"

"Something like that." Vivian forced herself to rise, although her knees were shaky. She looked back at the hotel. It was gone. The Regal Court was nothing but a brick shell in a weedy, trash-filled lot. Their suitcase was sitting on the sidewalk. There was a bronze plaque set in a slab of stone, standing in front of the fence that surrounded the lot.

Vivian went to read the plaque. Katie joined her, putting an arm around her partner's waist.

The Regal Court Hotel in Taliaferro Springs: Burned on October 31, 1946
One hundred and thirty people lost their lives when fire erupted at the Regal Court Hotel during their annual
Midnight Halloween Costume Ball in 1946. Though arson was suspected, the official cause of the blaze was
deemed accidental. The fire began in the lobby, where it quickly spread to the central stairwell, cutting off escape
for those who were trapped on the upper floors. Firefighters labored valiantly to save the 286 guests and staff.
Among the survivors was Winston Collier, a three-year old child who was thrown from the burning building
by his mother, and caught by fireman Gareth Hood. Winston was miraculously uninjured despite the six-story
fall. A photo taken of the incident by amateur photographer, Charles Breedlove, won the Pulitzer Prize.
With one hundred and thirty fatalities, including hotel founder George Regal, and over eighty guests
seriously injured, the Regal Court disaster has been deemed the worst hotel fire in American history.
This marker is dedicated to the victims, the survivors, and those who battled to save lives that fateful night.
May our merciful Lord grant them peace forevermore.

The rain stopped. Katie turned to Vivian. "My father's name was Winston. He used to tell us that he was a miracle child, saved from a fire that should have killed him, but he never mentioned Taliaferro Springs." She was trembling. "Room for one more. Oh, my God."

Vivian untangled herself from Katie's embrace. She picked up their suitcase, her face white but controlled. "I don't know about you," she said, "but there ain't room in our car for anybody except the two of us. Let's go. I'm not staying here one more minute, and neither are you."

"Viv, what happened in there?"

"I don't know. I don't care." Vivian shrugged wearily. "I just want to get out of here before we find out the hard way." Her dreams would be haunted for years, but at the moment, all she felt was relief that Katie was alive. Questions could wait. Some questions would never be asked, because the answers were too terrifying. She wanted to put it out of her mind, never think about it again. The smell of smoke still hovered in the air, but it was dissipating.

Katie did not argue, but she was shaking so hard that Vivian had to drive them the rest of the way to Richmond.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

Dead as a Doornail
by Nene Adams ©2002 - All rights reserved

Nobody in Foxbrush Hollow knew what Becca Dowdy was doing in the old abandoned funeral parlor, but they reckoned she was up to something. "Like her granddaddy afore her," the good folks whispered, rolling their eyes. "Old Franklin Appleskate Dowdy was a decent soul, but crazy as a coot, bless his heart. Poor girl. They say these things run in the family."

True southerners cherish their eccentrics, even while pitying them. It was generally hoped by the community that time would bring Becca around, and if not... well, it wasn't as if she stripped buck naked and ran in the moonlight like Widow Ford, or perched on a rooftop to crow in the dawn like old Cockadoodle Ledlow. If it gave Becca Dowdy pleasure to waste time in her granddaddy's laboratory day and night - a shame, really, since Becca was such a pretty young thing - then all her neighbors could do was supply a casserole or Jell-O salad now and then, and talk about her shamelessly behind her back.

Occasional explosions from the funeral parlor on Boneyard Hill were ignored, more or less. Foxbrush Hollow's sheriff (a devoted angler) counted these as mildly annoying compared to those no-count sumbitches who dynamited fish on nearby Miskatoonee lake. Moreover, he had been puzzling over reports of grave robbing from the surrounding townships of Shelby, Latchkey and Chowderville.

"Never happen in my town," Sheriff Eckles declared. The Foxbrush Tattler ran an editorial on the breakdown of morals and ethics in today's society, citing the desecration of graves as an offense slightly less serious than cannibalism.

Pete Roak, the local postman, wore his legs to a nub trotting all kinds of packages up to Boneyard Hill. "Chemicals and stuff," was all Pete would mumble upon being questioned by the curious. Bribes of coconut cake and fried chicken did not dent his discretion as a member of the United States Postal Service. Pete's own formidable momma threw her hands into the air and gave up on her mule-headed son. There was clearly no enlightenment to be had from that quarter.

The curator of the tiny Foxbrush Hollow museum (which mostly contained relics from the War Between the States) gave Becca a box full of heavy glass bottles which she had found gathering dust in the basement. Mrs. Gatwood was tired of barking her shins on the old box every time she went downstairs to use the employees' rest room. Since Doc Hightower had put her on diuretics for her blood pressure, her shins had taken quite a beating. It was time to return this artifact to its origin.

"Your great-granddaddy's embalming fluid, famed in thirteen states," said Mrs. Gatwood when she delivered the box to the funeral home. She noted with great excitement that Becca had burnt off half her eyebrows, and was looking decidedly seedy. "Elijah P. Cuthbert Dowdy's Everlasting Miracle Preservative, Pat. Pend. Probably the last intact bottles we'll ever see."

Becca's pale face registered a flicker of emotion. Excitement? Hope? Mrs. Gatwood could not tell. Becca reached out, gathered the filthy cardboard box to her chest, and slammed the door in the astonished lady's face. "Thank you," Becca mumbled faintly, and shuffled away.

"Land sakes!" said Mrs. Gatwood later, to her Bridge Club friends. "I stood there with my mouth hangin' open. Didn't her momma teach that girl some manners?"

It was soon after this that the first body disappeared from the churchyard. Pastor Spurlock thought it was a prank by local teenagers. Sheriff Eckles was inclined to theorize about Satanic rituals until his eyes glazed over and he started to sweat. As the sheriff's idea of such rituals involved nude women dancing in the moonlight (with figures unlike the Widow Ford's), his discomfiture was understandable. Mrs. Spurlock, on the other hand, glanced up at the funeral parlor on Boneyard Hill with deep suspicion burning in her breast.

Another empty grave. And another, and another. The only evidence was fresh soil humped about the edges of a yawning gap in the earth. Whoever was doing it had robbing cemeteries down to a science. It did not go unnoticed that it was the recently dead who were being taken. Particularly a party of six young adults who, returning rather drunkenly from a party, failed to avoid a tree whilst speeding around a curve at eighty miles an hour. Four down, two to go. All of them had been friends of Becca Dowdy.

At the next meeting of the Ladies' Bridge and Social Club, Mrs. Spurlock and the rest had the good sense to consult Tally Fenimore Cobb, the town's oldest citizen. It was assumed that Miss Tally was over ninety years old, although it was impolite in the extreme to inquire after a lady's true age. She sat ramrod straight, hands clasped over the silver head of her cane, and listened carefully while the situation was explained to her. She might have been slightly deaf and more than a little lame, but Miss Tally's mind was still sharp as a tack.

She pursed her lips and considered while the Ladies' Bridge and Social Club waited breathlessly. Finally, Miss Tally sighed and said, "Leave her be. I knew Becca's grandma, Ionia. Obstinate as a mule, and Becca takes after old Miss Ionia more'n she does her momma, Marylou. No, I say Becca's got to make her mistakes and learn from 'em. You go giving her what-for, she'll back into a corner and get more stubborn by the minute. So y'all just leave her be. I reckon it'll work out all right in the end."

Not entirely satisfied by this wisdom, the ladies were nevertheless compelled to defer to Miss Tally Fenimore Cobb. Following their usual Wednesday night spaghetti-and-meatball dinner, they went home and refused to tell their menfolk anything about it.

Meanwhile, the mysterious grave robber struck again, despite Deputy Ernest Bedgood and three gun-toting volunteers standing guard over the cemetery. Sheriff Eckles suspected that their dereliction of duty was due to the fact that all four men were drunker than Cooter Brown's goat before midnight had even rolled around. Deputy Bedgood claimed the mason jars of moonshine were a necessary precaution against catching pneumonia, it being common knowledge that cemetery air was bad for the lungs.

"Medicinal purposes, my ass!" cried Sheriff Eckles, kicking a mason jar to smithereens.

Now there was just one left, the only child of Mr. and Mrs. Harold Stokes.

Beautiful Dodi Ann Stokes, called home to the Lord far too early.

Harold Stokes guarded his daughter's grave with a shotgun for three consecutive nights, until the lure of a cold six-pack from the Quik n' Stop on Calhoun Street proved too great to resist. When he returned to the cemetery, replete with Budweiser and a bucket of take-out chicken, it was too late. Dodi Ann's grave was opened, her coffin gone.

Upon reaching home, Harold claimed to his wife that he had been "witched" away from their daughter's grave. She, sniffing beer fumes on his breath, consigned him to sleep on their lumpy sofa. Further reflection made her determine to burn a ten dollar pot roast to a cinder, and give him nothing but liverwurst sandwiches to eat for lunch for at least a week.

Mrs. Stokes wasted no time calling her good friend, Mrs. Spurlock, even though it was four o'clock in the morning. "Menfolk are about as useless as tits on a boar hog," said the aggrieved Mrs. Stokes. "So what are we going to do about it?"

"Not a blessed thing," replied Mrs. Spurlock. "Remember what Miss Tally told us? Leave her be. I have a feeling that it'll be over soon."

"Not soon enough to suit me. I don't much like the idea of my Dodi up there on Boneyard Hill."

"Now, now, Iris Stokes... I know it ain't the best time but... Good Heavens!"

"What's the matter?"

"Why... my George just walked in the front door! George Junior, I mean. Oh, honey-pie!" Mrs. Spurlock dropped the phone.

George Spurlock, Jr. had been one of those killed in the accident. Mrs. Stokes frowned, wondering if Beryl Spurlock had gone insane. Faintly, through the receiver still pressed to her ear, she could hear Mrs. Spurlock's cries of joy.

A moment later, there was a knock on her own door. Iris Stokes hung up the phone, still frowning, and went into the living room. She found her husband in a dead faint on the floor. Standing in the doorway was her lost daughter, Dodi. The young woman looked a bit worse for wear, considering she had spent two months in the grave, but Iris did not care.

"Dodi!" she shrilled, throwing her arms about the slightly moldy figure.

Almost immediately, she let go again. "Oh, sweetie," Iris murmured, "you need a bath somethin' desperate." She wiped her hands on the front of her housedress, mentally consigning the garment to the flames. No amount of Tide was going to get that smell out.

The phone lines burned in Foxbrush Hollow as six sets of frantic parents called each other to verify that they were not losing their minds. This fact established, an impromptu celebration commenced. Pastor Spurlock was called upon to bless the silent, though mobile, resurrectees. It was a great relief that none of the six former corpses burst into brimstone-scented flames.

Becca Dowdy came out of the funeral parlor on Boneyard Hill. The general acclaim of the citizens made her blush. "I just followed my great-granddaddy's formula," she said with becoming modesty. "Of course, I had to experiment with one or two little things. I found the addition of a measure of white lightning to be most efficacious..." She was drowned out by grateful parents, and eventually snuck back to the funeral parlor to continue her experiments.

Jubilation continued. Thanks to Elijah P. Cuthbert Dowdy's Everlasting Miracle Preservative, Pat. Pend., and the eccentric genius of Becca Dowdy, no one need ever lose a loved one forever again. Hallelujah! Praise the Lord, Amen! The Mayor announced a plan to bring the rest of Foxbrush Hollow's dead back from the grave, as soon as it could be organized.

Miss Tally Fenimore Cobb, a coat thrown over her flannel nightgown, pursed her lips and said nothing.

However, the gratitude of Foxbrush Hollow was short lived. In the next few weeks, it became obvious that the six returned children were not as lively as they had been. They did not eat. They did not sleep. They did not speak. In fact, all they seemed to do was sit around, or stand patiently in one place, as the case may be. The smell worsened, too. Iris Stokes tried bags of potpourri tied with ribbons around Dodi's neck. She doused her daughter with perfume, floral water, and eau-de-cologne. Finally, she resorted to spraying Lysol directly on Dodi, who did not seem to mind.

"It's not the way she looks that bothers me," Iris confessed to Mrs. Spurlock. "Well, her eyes could be a bit brighter. Not much left there to work with. And there's a stubborn streak of mold on her upper lip, but if I cover that up with some rouge... and her hair is simply unmanageable. That smell, though..."

"Talk about stink! George Jr. reeks like a dead skunk.." Beryl Spurlock said. "I talked to Mrs. Hightower the other day. Did you know that her girl, Ruby, got chewed on by some rats last night? Lost two toes and a hunk off her chin. I recommended wood filler and plenty of pancake make-up."

"The smell is driving me crazy. Harold won't sleep in the house anymore. I think his hair is going white."

"I saw Jim Ledlow - you know, Cockadoodle Ledlow's son - at the hardware store this morning. He had his boy August in tow. Literally. Rope around his waist like he was a calf being led to slaughter. There stood August between the roofing nails and the tar paper, his jaw all askew, tongue swole up and pokin' out. I wish that man over to the Peaceful Ease Mortuary had done a better job."

"It was a closed casket funeral, as I recall."

Both women sighed.

Iris Stokes said at last, "Jeanette Hornby doesn't look too bad."

"Her momma puts a wig on that girl to cover up the hole in her head. Big enough to put your fist through."

"Does she? That might be an idea for my Dodi. Her hair is so dry, I'm afraid it might catch a-fire. I have forbidden Harold to smoke in the house, but he don't stay here much, anyway. Not since..."

"I know, Iris. Not since that crazy Becca Dowdy went meddling with things she ought to have left alone!"

"Why, Beryl! What a thing to say!"

"No, listen to me, Iris." Mrs. Spurlock's voice was low and intent. "I loved my George Jr. from the day he was born. I raised that boy, protected him to the best of my ability. And when he had the foolishness to get himself killed, I mourned him something fierce. I missed him. I wanted him back more than anything. Only now..."

"Now we've got them back, and we don't want 'em." Iris forced herself to say what she had afraid to admit to herself. "I don't know how much more of this I can stand. Dodi just sits there. She ain't rotting anymore, but she ain't alive, either. I'm going crazy! I wish she'd never come back. What are we going to do?"

"I reckon we've got to go up to Boneyard Hill. Let Becca Dowdy know the error of her ways. I've talked to Mrs. Hightower, and the Hornbys, the Ledlows... all of them that are suffering under this curse. They feel the same way we do."

"Oh, yes, Beryl. Thank God! And we've got to stop that pea-brained Mayor of ours from resurrecting anybody else."

"Good Lord! I'd clean forgot about that. Can you imagine what would happen if Old Man Ford was walking around again? I mean, my George Jr. doesn't do much on his own, but I figure Old Man Ford might have more gumption."

"You're right! No woman in this town would be safe from that old lecher. He used to chase anything in a skirt, until he broke both hips pursuing the Bartle twins. Good thing they had on rollerskates, 'cause that man was a caution, even at seventy-five."

Both women reflected on the possible horrors about to be inflicted on Foxbrush Hollow. The cemetery contained honorable ancestors, but it also held horse thieves, bank robbers, dipsomaniacs, nymphomaniacs, pyromaniacs, just plain maniacs, and other skeletons from family closets.

"It must be stopped," Beryl Spurlock said at last.

"Amen," agreed Iris Stokes.

"I'll call the rest of the ladies from the Bridge Club."

"Shall I whip up a banana pudding for after?"

Mrs. Spurlock considered. Finally, she said with deep regret, "Much as I love your nanner puddin', Iris, I just don't think it would be appropriate."

"You're right. Don't forget to bring George Jr."

"We'll all bring the bodies back to Boneyard Hill," said Beryl Spurlock darkly. "Better tell Harold to round up some menfolk, start digging graves. Becca Dowdy might need one, too, if she survives the tar and featherin'!"

Although they bore flashlights instead of torches, it was an angry mob of women who stormed the funeral parlor in search of Becca Dowdy. They found her in the morgue, surrounded by bubbling, flashing, beeping, chattering equipment. Empty bottles of Elijah P. Cuthbert Dowdy's Everlasting Miracle Preservative were neatly stacked in the recycling bin. Everything was tidier than they had expected in a mad scientist's laboratory. There was even a gingham tablecloth draped over the embalming table.

"Look what you done to my Jeanette!" howled Mrs. Rosalee Hornby, thrusting her daughter forward. Jeanette's brunette wig fell off, revealing a large hole in the crown of her skull.

"And my George Junior!" screamed Mrs. Spurlock, pushing her son towards the shrinking Becca. George Jr.'s clothing was stuck all over with air fresheners. Mrs. Spurlock pulled a can of Glade out of her purse and sprayed him liberally, dislodging a cloud of flies. Iris Stokes followed suit, unleashing a burst of Lysol at her daughter, Dodi.

Mrs. Hightower was weeping, but her face was mottled crimson with rage. "I had to fix her face with wood filler," she choked, pointing a finger at her daughter, Ruby, "and God knows where her toes went! If I hadn't heard those rats rustling in her clothes..."

"What about my August!" said Mrs. Ledlow. Her son August's shattered jaw had been bound up with a red handkerchief.

"Take a look at this mess! Like he done been rode hard and put away wet!" The last of the six mothers, Mrs. Newsome, almost swallowed the wad of snuff tucked behind her lower lip as she shouted her accusation. She spat a thin stream of tobacco juice on the floor, narrowly missing the feet of her silent, unanimated offspring. Roy Newsome, driver of the car that had wrecked six lives, and gone on to wreck six families. One of his arms was backwards, the elbow facing forward. Like the rest of the resurrectees, he appeared rather worse for wear. Like the others, he stared blankly at the space in front of him. No reaction. No expression. No life.

Becca held up her hands in a futile effort to stop the screeching that was hammering away at her consciousness. Besides the enraged mothers, most of the other women of Foxbrush Hollow had come to put their two cents into the matter. Some of them were waving ax handles. Others had pistols. There was an ugly atmosphere of violence. The morgue could barely contain the mob; they were pressed together tightly as tinder, awaiting a single spark to set off an explosion. Becca shook, terrified, her face white to the lips.

Suddenly, a voice called out, "Hold up a damned minute!"

Mrs. Stokes was the first to see the newcomer. "Lord have mercy!" She stepped back, right onto Mrs. Ledlow's foot.

A woman pushed through the mob, headed straight towards Becca. She was tall and dark haired, with brown eyes that were snapping with fury. The brief shirt she wore did not conceal a line of black stitching around her wrist. Closer inspection revealed more stitches - delicate french knots in front of an ear, a row of beautifully executed running stitches in her hairline, shadow stitches on her collarbone. More black ties below her navel. Turkey, chain, herringbone, lazy daisy, blanket, cross, and mosaic stitches, all scattered here and there on the woman's body.

A shockwave rippled through the mob, whose members abruptly wished that they had somewhere else to go.

Mrs. Spurlock managed to regain her voice. "What in tarnation are you?" she asked the newcomer. "A person or an embroidery sampler?"

"My name is Legion, for I am many," the woman replied. Everyone knew their Bible verses; they all took a step backwards, heedless of the damage done to toes and shoe leather.

"That's a little joke," she continued with a smile. Mrs. Stokes noted, partly with horror, partly with dawning interest, that the woman's gums were decorated with feather stitches, much finer than her own needlework.

"I made her," Becca said simply. "Her name is Jubilee."

Jubilee nodded, put an arm around Becca's shoulders. "That's right. So settle down, because I'm not going to let you hurt Becca Dowdy. She's my sweet little honey-lamb, and I'll get right angry if anybody does anything foolish. Understand?"

Iris Stokes cleared her throat. "What do you mean, you made her?" she asked Becca.

Becca blushed. She was a shy girl, not much given to public speaking. Jubilee nudged her in a good-natured way, a whip-stitched elbow planted gently in her ribs. "Well, you see, all my life I've wanted this perfect girl to be my special friend. I had a picture of her in my head. Only I couldn't find her, so I had to build her from the ground up, so to speak."

"Is that why those bodies disappeared in Shelby, Latchkey and Chowderville?" asked Mrs. Eckles, the sheriff's mother.

"Yes," Becca admitted. "I mean, I know it says in the Bible that the dead in Christ shall rise..."

"First Thessalonians," murmured Mrs. Spurlock.

Becca continued, "...but I didn't think they'd mind me borrowing a part or two. An arm here, a leg there, and so forth. Not really that much different than somebody having something amputated. I figured the Lord wouldn't mind all that much."

"Get on with it," demanded Tally Fenimore Cobb, a latecomer and somewhat out of breath from the climb.

"Yes, ma'am. As I was saying, I found the right parts in Shelby, Latchkey and Chowderville. Nice and fresh. I just had to put them all together. Animating the body was troublesome." Becca smiled at Mrs. Gatwood. "I sure am grateful for those bottles of great-granddaddy's formula. I had to tweak it some, but at last the experiment was successful. Jubilee became part of my life. I love her, and she loves me."

"Sure do, dumplin'," drawled Jubilee. "I love you to pieces."

There were a few raised eyebrows at that remark, and some silent consideration. It was eventually decided that Jubilee was not being literal, and the ladies relaxed somewhat.

Mrs. Gatwood asked Miss Tally, sotto voce, "Is this like those two spinsters who live together over on Turtle Lane? Those special friends? You know, Maybelle West who does Home Economics over to the Shelby High School, and Shirley Jean Gooch who drives in the monster truck rally."

"I imagine it's something very much like that, Myrtle," said Miss Tally. "Now be hush and let me listen."

"If all you were after was making a friend," cried Mrs. Newsome, punctuating her remark with more tobacco juice, "how come you brung back my Roy in such a state?"

"Oh." Becca flushed. "I do apologize for that. It wasn't my intention to hurt any of you. I needed to see if the formula worked. I reckon Roy, Ruby, Dodi, August, Jeanette and George Jr. were just a mite too old for the preservative to really kick in the way it's supposed to. My intentions were good, I swear. I hoped to return your sons and daughters, since they had been taken away so very cruelly. I did my best. I'm sorry if I caused you more pain."

"Ah, well," sniffed Rosalee Hornby, "your heart was in the right place, I guess."

"So is mine," Jubilee said, grinning widely.

Mrs. Hightower blew her nose into a handkerchief which she had pulled from the vast recesses of her bosom. "It was a nice thought, Becca," she said. "A real fine gesture."

The former mob looked at Becca and Jubilee thoughtfully, their wrath subsided. Ax handles were placed in an out-of-the-way corner, while pistols were returned to purses. Everyone seemed just a little bit embarrassed by their former behavior. Miss Tally stumped forward, supported by her silver-headed cane.

"You see what comes of messin' about with things that don't concern you?" Miss Tally said fiercely to Becca. "Man was not meant to play God. Let the dead rest in peace from now on. You hear me, Becca Dowdy?"

"Yes, ma'am. Besides, all of great-granddaddy's preservative is gone. I was going to try and make some more, but I won't."

"Good. By the way, where did you learn to make such a lovely herringbone stitch?" Miss Tally asked, examining a patch on Jubilee's upper arm.

"Momma taught me," Becca replied with simple pride. "I got bored with all that surgical needlework. Wanted something prettier. Do you like it?"

"It's serviceable," Miss Tally said critically. "I'm expecting to see you at our next quilting bee, girl." She prodded Becca with her cane. "You've been hiding your light under a bushel long enough."

"Yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Spurlock did not like to interrupt Tally Cobb, but she had a pork roast in the oven that needed tending. "Excuse me, but what about my George Jr.? I don't mean to sound ungrateful, Miss Becca, but something's got to be done."

"Hear, hear!" seconded Mrs. Stokes, followed by Mrs. Hightower, Mrs. Newsome, Mrs. Hornby, and Mrs. Ledlow.

"Well," Becca offered, "I think the crematorium out back still works."

The mothers looked at one another, their neighbors, and the floor and ceiling. After some quiet deliberation, during which many significant glances were exchanged, Mrs. Spurlock spoke for them all. "Let's do it, then. I'd rather have an urn on the mantelpiece than George Jr. smelling like summer roadkill in the corner of my sitting room."

"That's mighty sensible of you, Beryl," said Miss Tally, patting Mrs. Spurlock's arm.

"Thank you, Miss Tally," Beryl Spurlock sighed. "Now, does anybody know the number of the gas man down in Latchkey? I reckon we're going to need to get that tank filled forthwith. We've got six cremations to attend to."

And so it was that the Stokes, Hornby, Hightower, Newsome, Ledlow and Spurlock families returned home, each carrying an urn full of ashes. The Mayor was inclined to get touchy when informed that his resurrection plan would not go through, but Harold Stokes had a talk with him. No one knew exactly what Harold said to His Honor, but the man tottered out of City Hall and into a week-long drunk that lasted until his wife got fed up, and took him to Sarasota Springs to rest his nerves.

After his momma spoke with him, Sheriff Eckles threw away the grave robbing reports from Shelby, Latchkey and Chowderville, and lost his own files in a cigar accident. Jubilee Dowdy, as she came to be known, was accepted by the community at large, although she wore long-sleeved shirts and jeans when she went out of town. She remained Becca Dowdy's special friend, the two of them as happy together as pigs in mud.

The matter of Elijah P. Cuthbert Dowdy's Everlasting Miracle Preservative was largely forgotten by mutual consent. Life - and what passed for life - went on.

When Miss Tally Fenimore Cobb died the next spring, no one talked openly about taking her body up to the old funeral parlor, but a few eyes glanced towards Boneyard Hill. Then everybody sighed, and conversation turned to the weather.

THE END

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All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

Appetite
by Nene Adams ©2002 - All rights reserved

It was the middle of a hot and humid summer's night. Virgil Kane eased his way into the bushes. He moved carefully, his breathing shallow and controlled. A mosquito buzzed his face; Virgil did not blink or flinch. The last thing he wanted to do was alert the occupants of Route 3, Box 9, Ryerman County, that they had a trespasser lurking in the lilacs.

Virgil did not think of himself as a trespasser, though. He was a righteous man who attended church every Sunday morning and Wednesday night. He mostly avoided strong drink, diligently studied the Bible, did not take the Lord's name in vain. He did not spare the rod and thus did not spoil his nine-year-old son. Or his wife, for that matter, who sometimes forgot that God commanded her to obey her husband. Virgil Kane prayed regularly, tithed ten percent to the church, and went to prayer meetings when they did not interfere with watching afternoon football on TV.

Virgil also made it a regular part of his Sunday church attendance to point out those who were backsliding into sin. Audra Lou Higgins and her husband's S&M games (Virgil had surveillance photographs, and he had thoughtfully used a black magic marker to ink out the shameful anatomical parts). Quinnie Dexter's drunken orgy down at the Kickapoo roadhouse one Friday night. Sam Lowry's pornography collection. Caleb Wheeler, the bigamist with wives in two states. Dr. Jackson's drinking problem, and addiction to prescription pain killers. Lulu McCutcheon's abortion. There was no secret that Virgil could not uncover. He was the duly elected sheriff of Clearwater, and liked to think of himself as a shepherd guiding his sometimes wayward flock.

As Virgil saw it, his duty was to serve God, provide a role model for his fellow citizens, and root out any sin or crime that might besmirch his little domain. Which was why Sheriff Virgil Kane was being eaten alive by mosquitoes, squatting in the lilac bushes outside the old Dodd house on Route 3, trying to catch a glimpse of the two women who had bought the place.

Virgil knew they were from New York City (the modern day Sodom and Gomorrah, as far as he was concerned). They had money enough to be self-supporting, and that made him suspicious. He thought that Edna May Dodd had mentioned they were artists of some sort (but Edna May had not been right in the head since that last stroke, bless her heart, and she was a tad confused these days). Had Virgil known that Edna May was planning to sell the house, he would have consulted with her in the spirit of Christian charity. Pointed the poor old lady in the right direction, helped her steer clear of strange Yankee women who might, God forbid, be setting up a drug laboratory under his very nose. He would put nothing past New Yorkers - not drugs, or gun running, or gang banging, or white slavery - and artists, in his opinion, were just revolutionaries and probably Communists, too.

The sheriff of Clearwater had a clear and certain duty to keep an eye on potential troublemakers. These two women looked like they could have invented the term.

So Virgil had watched the women as they went around Clearwater. He had made it his business to know their business. One of them was a tall, lanky blonde with a multitude of piercings in both ears. Her name was Lorelei. No last name, just Lorelei. She was reticent, soft-spoken, rarely pushing herself forward. She seemed mannerly enough. Minded her P's and Q's in a way that told Virgil that the girl's momma had beaten some politeness into her. From her accent, she was not a Yankee born and bred, but he could not quite place her origin. Somewhere in the South, he suspected, from the elongated vowels and almost slurred sentences. Yet she had definitely lived in New York City, and that was a big black mark in Virgil's book.

The other one was far tougher - a small red-head with a swaggering way about her that rubbed Virgil the wrong way. She had weird tattoos from wrist to shoulder, and the Lord God only knew where else. Her name was Liddy Cox. Virgil could smell a wrongness in her that made his hackles rise. Liddy was hardly ever rude, but she verged on insolence at times, and that could ignite into full-blown defiance. In fact, she had caused a scene in Woolworth's last week that still made his blood pressure spiral towards the ceiling. Liddy had threatened lawsuits and restraining orders unless he stopped harassing her.

Virgil had been downright flabbergasted. How dared that sawed-off little New York City artist - who was probably a card-carrying member of the Communist party, and a minion of Satan, at that - question his authority in his own town? He had every right to protect the citizens of Clearwater from evil influences like Republicans and the ACLU. Virgil had merely wanted the answers to certain questions, like why she and Lorelei never left their house during the daylight hours, and how come they never went to church when he knew for a fact that Pastor Threadgood's wife Myra had invited them both and even brought them a home-baked cake?

Why had they come to Clearwater at all? Surely there were other places that would have welcomed a pair of New York City women who dressed like Jezebels, and whose refusal to respect his duly appointed (and God-given) authority was surely a sin worthy of smiting in the Old Testament fashion. He was certain that there were drugs involved. Possibly pornography or cult activities. Pastor Threadgood preached that the Devil was always at work, seeking to drag souls into hellfire and damnation. It was a Christian's moral obligation to protect himself and his family from Satan's works. In Virgil's case, he extended that protection to include everyone in Clearwater, whether they liked it or not.

There were those, Virgil thought darkly, who had lost their way, and turned from the path of righteousness. Lorelei and Liddy Cox were such a pair. If they thought he was going to permit them to corrupt his town, well... they had another think coming. Sheriff Virgil Kane, pillar of the community and servant of the Lord, was not going to allow Clearwater to sink into depravity. Ever since the women had come to town, things had been changing, no doubt due to their bad influence.

He had sat up and took real notice earlier today, when he returned from a two week law enforcement conference in Atlanta to find the town virtually deserted. Telephone calls to various people - including his deputy, Dempsey Hayes, a boy as dumb as a sack full of hammers - revealed that Clearwater's citizens had not been snatched up bodily into Heaven (Virgil was relieved that The Rapture had not left him behind) but were merely keeping strange hours. Sleeping during the day, active at night, just like those Yankee Jezebels. Nobody was willing to tell him why. Their doors remained bolted, windows locked, shades drawn. Phone conversations were all well and good, but the face-to-face confrontations he wanted were refused. Politely in some cases, rudely in others, but refused nonetheless.

Even that old biddy, Ruby Lee Abernathy, who was usually to be found spreading gossip at the Curl Up n' Dye hair salon, stayed barricaded in her house while the sun was high. This was a complete reversal of the natural order of things. The clincher was his wife's attitude when he had spoken to her on the phone this afternoon, to let her know he would be late for dinner. She had cursed him, ordered him to stay away from her, and threatened to kill him if he so much as touched a toe to the front lawn of his own home.

His sweet obedient wife, using language that would have brought a blush to a sailor's cheeks! As soon as he eliminated the cause, Virgil would turn his attention to chastising her. After all, it was his duty as a good husband to be sure his wife stayed in the place that God had designed for her.

Yes, things had changed in Clearwater, and Virgil did not like it. There was something evil afoot. Virgil intended to dig it out this very night, root and branch. Whatever was wrong, he was sure the Jezebels had something to do with it. All he needed was an excuse to get rid of them. Any excuse would do. If he could not find one, he would make one up. A sheriff had his prerogatives. As soon as they were gone, things would return to normal; he would make sure of that.

So Virgil had driven out to Route 3, a paved road that petered out to gravel, then to hard packed dirt. The Dodd place was at the end of the line, just within Clearwater's city limits. Once there, he had stoked himself up on Coke and bourbon while sitting in the patrol car, waiting until dark. He had learned early on that people thought the darkness was safe, a time when inhibitions and self-control were shed to reveal the truth beneath. Ferreting out secrets and shame was best done by moonlight.

"Be sure your sin will find you out," Virgil whispered now, sitting up so that he could peer more closely through the window.

He had a good view of the living room, which was still filled with the Dodd family's old furniture. Heavy solid pieces that had survived Sherman's March and the destructive capabilities of several generations of small children and pets. There was, he recalled, a swaybacked sofa pushed under the window. Virgil had sat on that sofa many times while paying calls to Edna May's late husband, Earl Dodd. It leaked horsehair from sprung seams, was hard as a granite bench, and tended to smell funny in wet weather.

The two Jezebels from New York were sitting on the sofa, their backs to him. If the window had been opened more, Virgil could have reached out and touched their hair. As it was, the window was merely cracked open an inch, but that was sufficient to allow him to overhear their conversation.

"Are you hungry?" Lorelei asked diffidently.

Liddy put her arm around the blonde's shoulders. "I could work up an appetite." She turned her head, so that Virgil saw her profile. The one brown eye that he could see was a-glitter with some emotion. Greed, he thought.

Lorelei sighed, reached up and toyed with Liddy's fingers. Stroking them up and down in a way that Virgil found very suggestive. "I'm afraid there's not much for dinner."

"You smell good." Liddy nuzzled Lorelei's neck. "Good enough to eat." Her voice was muffled, but Virgil caught the meaning well enough.

"Oh, you don't want to eat me," Lorelei said. She kissed Liddy's hand, sucked lightly on the fingertips. Ran her tongue across the other woman's knuckles. "I'm too tough."

"You're juicy and succulent." Liddy sat up, pulled off her shirt. Virgil's eyes widened when he saw her bare shoulders, caught a glimpse of her small, firm breasts. "Absolutely delicious."

"Are you sure you want to eat me?" Lorelei asked coyly. Virgil was certain that she was flirting. Flirting with another woman!

"Oooh, baby... I sure do. I want to devour you. I'm going to gobble you up until you scream." Liddy cupped her own breasts, shook out her flame-red hair. She knelt up on the sofa, wriggled out of her high-cut denim shorts. Virgil got eyewitness proof that the woman was heathen enough to wear nothing beneath her clothes. Disgusting!

The more Virgil heard and saw, the more outraged he became. He was positively swollen with indignation. Virgil did not know if they were card-carrying Communists, or Republicans, or pornographers, or white slavers, or drug pushers. He did not have any proof (except for poor old Edna May Dodd's faulty memory) that they were even the artists they claimed to be. However, he had discovered something about the Jezebels that made his hair crawl upon his scalp. The situation was far worse than he feared.

They were lesbians!

Virgil backed out of the lilac bushes, stood, and hoisted his belt up. There were some things that simply could not be tolerated in Clearwater. He remembered the time when he had caught George Bullard Jr. and Toby Ingram behind Bullard Senior's barn, performing what could only be described as a profoundly unnatural act. He had been shocked to the core, especially since George Jr. was the high school football team's star quarterback. Virgil had given both boys a good whipping with his stout leather belt, then hauled the teenagers to a meeting with their respective fathers. It had not ended there, of course. The following Sunday, Virgil had condemned George Junior and Toby in front of the church congregation. What a ruckus that had caused! Especially when that little coward Toby (one of the white trash Ingram tribe, so no great loss there) hanged himself. George Junior was sent to military school, which was surely the best thing for him.

Sin had to be dug out, root and branch, or the whole world might as well go to Hell in a handbucket. No wonder Clearwater was going to rack and ruin! New York lesbians had invaded his town!  Virgil could not quite figure out how these two females had worked such wickedness amongst the population in so short a time, but he could find out. Some drug in the water supply? He made a mental note to look up the symptoms of LSD tomorrow. Right now, immediate action was required.

The Lord had called, his duty was clear, and Virgil Kane would not be found wanting. He marched up to the porch, pounded on the front door with his fist. He kept his free hand on the butt of his gun.

After a moment, he heard someone calling, "Come in." Much to Virgil's consternation, the voice sounded like his wife, Sally.

Virgil settled his hat more firmly on his head. The situation with Sally would need to be rectified sooner than he thought, but no matter. If she had indeed taken up with the Jezebels, her correction would need to be as harsh as all get-out. Lovingly harsh, of course, but wasn't it better to suffer in this life than suffer the flames of hellfire for all eternity? She would be grateful later, when she realized that Virgil had saved her from a fate worse than death.

He opened the door, walked inside, and stopped in his tracks.

Ruby Lee Abernathy was perched on a chair, next to Doc Johnson and Caleb Wheeler. Standing in a group were Audra Lou Higgins and her husband, Pastor Threadgood and his wife, Edna May Dodd, Lulu McCutcheon, Quinnie Dexter, Sam Lowry, a whole host of the white trash Ingrams, and others. Deputy Dempsey Hayes had an arm around his own wife, Sally. A fair portion of Clearwater's population was stuffed into the parlor. Virgil could have sworn the room was empty except for the women he had come to spy on.

The two lesbian Jezebels were still sitting on the swaybacked sofa, naked as the day they were born.

Everyone was grinning at him like raccoons chewing barbed wire.

"What the damnation is going on here?" Virgil demanded, fingering the butt of his gun to remind everyone of his authority. His blood pressure, already sky high, was shooting towards Mars.

"We've been waiting for you, sheriff," Liddy Cox replied. She stretched and yawned. Virgil turned his eyes away from the indecent sight of her unclothed flesh. "I thought you might come over tonight."

"I want some answers!" Virgil said angrily. "What have you done to these God-fearing people? Why are they here? And what have you done to my wife?"

Sally sneered. He had never seen that expression on her face before, and his hands itched to slap it off. "I'm not your wife anymore, Virgil. You'll never lay hands on me or my son again."

"What?" Virgil turned to confront the others. "Pastor Threadgood, do something!"

"I intend to," Pastor Threadgood said in a friendly way, but his eyes gleamed.

All their eyes were gleaming with the same greedy expression that Virgil had noticed before.

"You've changed these people," Virgil accused Liddy. "New York Communist lesbian artists, seducing them with your wiles, leading them down the road to Hell. You've changed them all!"

"Oh, yes," Liddy said, "they've been changed, all right. In ways you can't possibly understand."

"But you will," Lorelei added slyly.

"Well, I won't have it!" Virgil thrust out his jaw pugnaciously. "You hear me, Jezebels? I won't have it!"

"I think you will." Sally took a step forward. "We're sick of you, Virgil. Every last one of us. You're a small minded, mean, miserable, self-righteous little son of a bitch. You're going to get what's coming to you."

Virgil's eyes bulged. "Shut your hole, woman!" he squealed, raising a fist.

Sally smiled.

They all smiled, showing elongated canines that looked razor sharp.

Abruptly, Virgil realized that the expression he had seen was not precisely greed. Nor was it desire.

It was appetite, pure and simple. A voracious appetite that could be quenched by only one thing.

"Won't you join us?" Sally asked, a line of drool snaking down her chin.

"Join us for dinner," said old Edna May Dodd, licking her chops.

Virgil took a step backwards, preparing to run for his life. The situation was far, far and away more terrible than he could have imagined. He began to scream.

The Jezebels weren't just New York Communist lesbians. They were vam--- !

A blur of motion, like a pack of starving wolves falling upon a single helpless prey, and the screaming was abruptly cut off.

However distasteful Sheriff Virgil Kane may have been before this night, the newly changed citizens of Clearwater found him rather appetizing in the end.

THE END

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All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

Lulu and Butterbean on the Road to Nowhere
by Nene Adams ©2002 - All rights reserved

You know that girl I live with, Lulu Cantrell? Anyhow, t'other night I was driving Lulu up to Picayune to get a new transmission for her truck, and we got stuck on Highway 109. Big traffic jam. We must've sat there for half an hour without moving an inch.

Then Lulu says to me, "Look, there's an exit over yonder. Let's get off 109, swing east till we hit State Road 21, and pick up the Parkway straight to Picayune. Otherwise, we'll still be sittin' here come tomorrow, and I don't want to miss my program on TV."

Well sir, I did like she told me. I reckon we must've got lost somehow, 'cause we ended up on this two-lane road out in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. Lulu kept telling me to stop and ask for directions, but as I pointed out to her, there weren't no place to ask directions at. 'Bout the only place I saw was this gas station, and that place looked like it hadn't been open for business since Moses was a lad.

Lulu was mighty put out. Lord, I ain't heard language like that since Papaw McCall got his man-tit caught in a fan belt! But I couldn't do nothing except keep driving straight on. I sure as hell wasn't gonna turn around. Besides, I figured that if we didn't find State Road 21, we'd either hit the mountains or the sea, dependin' on which way we was headed. Lulu was going to give me grief no matter what I did, and I was too proud to admit that I might have temporarily gotten us into a mess.

I turned on the radio to listen to some music instead of Lulu's grizzling for a change. Hey, you know that new song by what's-his-name? Lots of slide guitar action. Goes something like this:

"My wife run off with my best friend
And left me all alone.
Worse than that, she closed my bank account,
Turned off my gas and phone.
But worse that that, she stole my pickup truck -
I'd just paid off the loan.
But worst of all, she took my old hound dog,
And left me with the bone."

What do you mean, I sing like a cat caught in a meat mangle? Damn your hide, boy, and pay some respect to your elders. And you can reach me another beer while you're at it.

Anyhow, the weirdest thing happened. We come upon this railroad track that was real spooky. All the ground on either side was eaten up with kudzu, but the track itself was clean. No, that ain't necessarily the spooky part, but it was mighty damned strange. I once left an old backhoe in the north field for two weeks, and when I went to get it, the kudzu had completely covered it up. They don't call it "mile-a-minute vine" for nothing, you know.

So here's this railroad track, clean as a whistle. I stopped for a second to get my bearings. Right about then, the radio quit playing that song. It didn't just up and quit like it was busted, but the song cut off and something else came on. Sounded like a voice from real far away. I couldn't quite make out what it was saying, so I fiddled with the knob. Lulu was huffin' and puffin' and saying things under her breath that would've made her sweet momma reach for the soap.

I tinkered around with the radio, but danged if I could get that voice any clearer. What really raised the hair on the back of my neck was when I realized that no matter what station I turned to, there weren't nothing but that scratchy voice on it. Even Lulu had come out of her blue funk and was paying attention.

"Butterbean," she says, with one of them looks in her eyes, "I am going to slap you sideways if you don't get us out of here right now."

I'll admit to being spooked, but Butterbean Shirley McCall ain't no sissy. I had turned my head to give Lulu what-for (after all, it was her idea that got us there to begin with), and then I saw a light at one end of the tracks. I felt a rumbling in the earth, and I heard a whistle. There was a train coming. Fool that I was, I'd parked my truck across the tracks, 'cause they were at the top of a little hill, and my brakes ain't what they used to be.

Well, the engine coughed and died, which gave me a real "oh shit" moment. Lulu was her usual helpful self, meaning that she gave me eleventy-dozen different kinds of hell, the least of which would have earned her a good talking-to, had we not been stuck in the middle of a railroad track with a train drawing nigh. Lord, I love that woman, but sometimes she'd try the patience of a saint. I think she gets it from her daddy's side of the family. The Cantrells ain't particularly noted for sweet tempers. Lulu's charms lie elsewhere, if you know what I mean.

That light got brighter. The whistle got louder. I hollered at Lulu to haul ass out of the truck, thinking maybe there was time enough to push it out of the way. Best piece of advice my Papaw ever gave me - don't get into an argument with a train, 'cause the train's gonna win every time. He should've listened to his own advice when it came to the fan belt.

Just as I got my feet on the ground, that voice on the radio came through, loud and clear. "Ready or not, here I come!" Sounded like a girl, about the age when me and my brothers were still playing on the tire swing in the yard. I didn't have no time to ponder, not if I wanted to save my truck. Lulu was still sitting there, staring at the radio like it was a snake about to bite her.

I went around to the other side of the truck, fixing to yank Lulu out by the hair, if necessary. Couldn't hardly hear myself think, what with all the train noises and the light that kept getting bigger. Sucker like to have blinded me. At the time, I reckoned the engineer didn't see us, 'cause it didn't seem like he was stopping. Anyhow, I looked over my shoulder, and what did I spy but a child standing on the track, 'bout twenty feet away. Little thing, all pigtails and big eyes and scabby knees. Where she came from, how she got there, I did not know. Nor could I understand how come she was standing there staring at me, when it was obvious that there was a train about to squash her flat.

Lulu will tell you that if I have one bad habit, it's that I usually jump feet first into something without thinking about it. I can't claim much common sense in that department. Quicker than a blink, I was pelting down the railroad track, screaming at that fool child to move. She didn't, so I grabbed her, but there was no more time. I could see the train not a foot away - smokestack, cowcatcher and all, looming behind that light - and knew I was about to meet my maker. So I held the little girl in my arms, shut my eyes and hunkered down, waiting for the big ka-pow that was going to mash us both to pieces.

Only the big ka-pow never came. Instead, I felt a coldness that cut me straight to the bone. I ain't never felt so cold in my life, except that time when I got accidentally locked in the meat freezer down at the processing plant. And a blast of wind that like to have knocked me off my feet. And a roaring in my ears, which was mixed up with a little girl's giggling.

It was over before I had a chance to die of a heart attack. I stood up, feeling my arms and legs to make sure I wasn't dead. The girl was gone, and so was the train. Much to my relief, the truck was still there, didn't seem hurt at all, although I couldn't say the same for Lulu. As she told me later, she didn't quite soil her drawers, but it was touch and go there for a minute.

"Butterbean," she says to me, with her face as white as the driven snow, "if you ever do such a thing again, I will smack you clean into next week. And feed your dinner to the dogs."

Well, I couldn't rightly blame her. My own jeans were somewhat dampish, if you know what I mean.

I climbed back into the truck, started the engine (it was working again), and finished driving over the track. I found a place to turn around about a mile or so down the road. Me and Lulu were still kind of shaky. We hardly said a word to each other. When we came back to the railroad track, I heard the little girl's voice come over the radio again. "Gotcha!" she said. "You're it!"

Me and Lulu looked at each other, then I stomped my foot on the gas and tore the hell out of there. I got us back to Highway 109 in record time. Can you believe the road was still jammed tight? Took us three more hours to get to Picayune, and by that time, the auto parts store was closed. Lulu missed her TV program, and I tell you, brother, getting the piss scared out of her didn't take the edge off her tongue whatsoever.

Now, you're probably thinkin' that maybe I'd had one too many Budweisers that night. I swear to God, what happened is the honest truth, no more, no less. Furthermore, I told Nanny Cantrell about it, and she told me something she'd heard back in her childhood, during the Depression. It seems there were these kids playing Hide and Seek over by the railroad track, and this one little girl got run over and killed by the Number 12 train. It happened somewhere near the old lumberyard, or so she says. I went back there last week, but I couldn't find that exit or the road we took. The lumberyard got tore down thirty years ago.

Spooky, huh?

Anyhow, pass me another beer before Lulu gets here. And don't ask me no more questions, boy. Everything I know, I done told you already. Only one more thing I got left to say...

...how the hell do you get out of being "it" when you've been tagged by a goddamned ghost? 'Specially when she didn't even give me a chance to touch base!

THE END

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All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

Lulu and Butterbean Go To Perdition
by Nene Adams ©2002 - All rights reserved

Did I ever tell you about the time me and Lulu Cantrell went up to Lake Perdition? No? Damn, boy. Reach me another beer and I'll do my best to enlighten you.

Now, Lulu got all het up one day, wanting to go away for a second honeymoon, as she called it. This didn't make much sense to me, 'cause we ain't never had a first honeymoon, unless you count that weekend over at the Motel 9 with pay-per-view. But once Lulu gets her mind set on something, it don't do no good to try and talk her out of it. Just to keep the peace, I went and had a little talk with Tallywhacker Jones.

Tally's got this cabin at Lake Perdition that he don't hardly use at all. I figured to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Lulu would be able to enjoy the great outdoors, and I'd get in some fishing time. Anyhow, Tally said he'd rent us the cabin as long as I got my cousin Willard to overhaul his boat engine. Lulu cottoned onto the idea right away. She called it a "rustic getaway." I think she'd been reading too many lady's magazines.

We packed up the truck and off we went to Lake Perdition, which as you know is about half a day's drive away from here. Well, it would have been half a day if Lulu had a bladder bigger n' a walnut. She made me stop at every damn Stuckey's along the way. I swear, if I ever see another pecan log, I'm going to scream. We also ended up with a plastic monkey backscratcher and a glow-in-the-dark Jesus. Don't ask me why, son. Lulu gets trash fever sometimes.

By the time we made it to the cabin, it was near dark. I was too pooped to pop. Lulu was still grizzling at me 'cause I flat out refused to buy her a bag of Krystal burgers when we passed through Perdition City. I pointed out that we had a whole cooler full of ham sandwiches and tater salad, dammit. Lulu gave me one of them looks.

"Butterbean," she says, "I ain't forgetting about this anytime soon."

Lord knows I love that woman, but when she gets a bug up her ass, there ain't no reasoning with her. As it happened, she checked the cooler as soon as she hopped out of the truck, and we ended up having to drive back to Perdition City anyway. My bait bucket had leaked, and that tater salad smelled a mite suspicious. Belching Krystal burgers left and right, we went back to Tallywhacker's cabin. This time, we actually got as far as unloading the truck and going inside.

Wasn't too bad, considering Tally wasn't going to win no housekeeping awards anytime soon. Lulu said it was the kind of place that any self-respecting pig would refuse to lie down in. I couldn't rightly argue with her. The cockroaches liked it well enough, since about a zillion of 'em scattered when I shut the light on. Suckers bit, too.

Lulu wasn't having any. Back to the truck, another trip to Perdition City for bug bombs. Lulu said a number of unflattering things, but it was her own fault as far as I was concerned. She's the one who wanted a second honeymoon. I didn't tell her that, though. No sir, I'd rather not get my skull stove in by an economy sized can of Do-Right hairspray. Lulu's got a temper like well-aged dynamite when she gets riled. Butterbean Shirley McCall knows when to shut her mouth.

Once again, back to the cabin. Me and Lulu bedded down in the truck whilst the bug bombs stunk up the place. Probably killed every roach along Perdition Lake. I know the fumes like to have made me expire. Two hours later, Lulu made me go shovel the corpses out.

"Butterbean," she says, "this is all your doing. I wanted to go someplace romantic, like South of the Border or Graceland, but you dragged me way out here. I ain't sleeping in no cock-a-roach graveyard. So do your duty, or by thunder, I'll knock you clean into next week."

Took me the better part of an hour to dispose of the evidence. When I was done, I heard Lulu cussin' up a storm because of the skeeters. Did you know that Miz Lulu Cantrell was crowned Tomato Queen of Flathead County for three years running? Let me tell you, brother, she don't let nobody within hearing range forget it, 'specially when she's been inconvenienced. Them skeeters was out for blood, and they didn't much care that Lulu's was semi-royal.

Off again, hi-de-ho, back to the city to pick up mosquito spray. This time, Lulu decided to stay at the cabin, which gave me a good half-hour's worth of quiet. I thought I'd be clever. Not only did I buy skeeter spray, I got roach spray, fly spray, chigger spray, ant spray... you name it, I took a can with me. My brainstorm did not end there. I also bought a bucket of Lulu's favorite ice cream, Goo Goo Clusters, barbeque tater chips, RC Cola, and a sack of boiled peanuts. It can't never be said that I don't know how to take care of my woman.

Back again to the lake. I found Lulu perched on a rickety picnic table, all het up about some noise she thought she heard inside the cabin. Probably a raccoon, I told her, as I was plumb wore out from all that backing and forthing. Lulu calmed right down when I showed her the groceries. The look of love was in her eyes.

"Butterbean," she says, "if you don't come over here and kiss me right now, I will kick your scrawny behind."

Lord, how I adore that woman!

One thing led to another, as it usually does, and we ended up inside the cabin. The sofa was soft as a marshmallow, but once you were used to the smell of cat piss, it wasn't too bad. I got my second wind and was settling into the loving mood when there was this noise, like footsteps walking on the roof. Lulu screeched and clutched me so hard, I was afraid she might do serious damage.

"That ain't no coon, Butterbean!" she hollered.

I managed to pry her off and beat some feeling back into my arm. "Don't you fret, honey-pie," I says to her. "Ol' Butterbean will take care of it."

But the door was swole up somehow and I couldn't get it open. The footsteps got louder. Sounded like big hob-nailed boots stomping up and down. The whole cabin started quivering hard as a Jell-O salad in a hurricane. Lulu grabbed that glow-in-the-dark Jesus and commenced to praying. I had foolishly left my shotgun in the truck, so I took hold of the first thing that came to hand - which turned out to be a collectible Elvis liquor bottle - and made ready to refuse the line.

It's funny, but I didn't know that Lulu had a religious streak. Must be that Baptist upbringing, but the only prayer she knew was: "Good bread, good meat, good Lord, let's eat!" I hoped whatever it was on the roof didn't think we was inviting it to a sit-down supper. She kept on babbling regardless. I didn't say nothing, figuring the praying would keep her occupied for a while.

Minutes passed and nothing happened. The footsteps stopped. I sat back down on the sofa, but kept the King close by. Truth to tell, I was feeling a mite riled myself. I purely hate it when the mood gets ruined. Lulu had changed out of her jeans, and was wearing about two yards of gauze with three spangles on it. She looked like an angel. Well, not really an angel, since I doubt the Lord God Almighty would have approved of what was jiggling around underneath that outfit. I sure did, though.

Whoever or whatever it was had given up on trying to kick the roof off, so I settled down. Right about then, the front door started slamming open and shut, the windows started banging up and down. Bam! Bam! Bam! Lulu prayed louder. She was mixing up parts of the Lord's Prayer with that Gloom, Despair and Agony on Me song from Hee Haw. Bless her heart, my Lulu just don't know when to quit.

A wind come roaring through the cabin, blowing over all the furniture, lamps, gee-gaws and what-not except for the sofa we were sitting on. Even the groceries flew up and blew outside and landed in the yard. It would take a mighty damned hard wind to snatch Lulu away, however. She's solid right down to her little pink toes. When she saw the ice cream go, Lulu stopped praying and glared at me like it was my fault.

Shit, sometimes I just can't win for losing.

Anyhow, I still had a tight grip on that Elvis liquor bottle. After the wind blowed itself out, there was a rattling in the chimney. This didn't necessarily surprise me none, since I reckoned that the last time anybody used the fireplace, it was probably back in Tallywhacker's granddaddy's day. Squirrels, birds, possums... who knows what kind of critters were up there? As it turned out, if there were any critters, they most likely had the shit scared out of them by what rolled out of the chimney and thumped into the fireplace.

It was a human head.

Kind of mangy looking and maggoty, it was. Nasty sunken eyeballs. Face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. Reminded me of Tallywhacker himself in a way.

"Lord have mercy!" yelled the head. "What does it take to get y'all's attention 'round here?"

Well, I don't mind telling you that I was plumb flabbergasted. It ain't every day that you get a talking head come rolling into the living room of your rented cabin. I reminded myself to open up a can of whoop ass on Tallywhacker for not telling me the place was haunted. Just like him, really. Boy would forget his own brains if they weren't secured inside his skull.

Lulu was not so easily dumbstruck. She gripped that glow-in-the-dark Jesus like it was a baseball bat, and she was Babe Ruth fixing to hit one out of the park. "Who the hell are you?" she says. "And what the hell did you do to my Chocolate Banana Peanut Fudge Caramel Ripple ice cream?"

"Do calm yourself," says the head. "Since you are a guest in my home, and a lady, I would expect you to conduct yourself accordingly."

You know, Lulu actually blushed? I ain't seen her so bashful since Daddy Cantrell caught her and me behind the woodshed. Never mind what we were doing. Suffice it to say that we were made for each other all our lives, and leave it at that.

Those nasty eyes swung in my direction. "Allow me to introduce myself," says the head. "I am General Jeremiah Jubilation Johnson, once known as Ol' Cornpone. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"Butterbean Shirley McCall and Lulu Cantrell," I replied smartly. Whoever this head belonged to, he had an old-fashioned gentleman's manners, and I found myself responding accordingly. "I'm sorry if we disturbed your rest, sir. This cabin belongs to Tallywhacker Jones, and we just rented it out for the weekend."

"No harm meant, I'm sure," says the General. "Perhaps you ladies would be so kind as to favor me with a moment of your time? I find myself in a predicament which you may be able to alleviate."

Now Lulu was suspicious of his fancy talk - butter wouldn't have melted in Ol' Cornpone's mouth - but she nodded all the same.

The General's head continued, "You see, ladies, I fought gallantly against the Yankee invaders so long ago. When I returned from the war, I married a lovely young woman and built this cabin to be our home. Alas, the lady proved perfidious. When I discovered she had wed me solely for my money, I gathered up my treasure and buried it where she would never find it. I had hoped this would cool her greed. Woe is me, for my wife was instead enraged. She stole upon me whilst I was sleeping and cut off my head. My poor dead body was hauled outside for burial, my head stuffed up the chimney, and she ran away with a carpetbagger. Oh, woe is me!"

"Well, that's a crying shame," says Lulu, "only what does that have to do with us?" She tried to sound cool as a cucumber, but her eyes had lit up at the mention of treasure. Mine too, probably.

Ol' Cornpone suddenly looked like he'd bit into a lemon. "My lazy no-count brother Job Hallelujah inherited this place. The first time I asked for his help, he ran like a yellow dog and never returned. His descendants are no better. Cowards! Poltroons! Blackguards of the highest degree! Oh, woe is me, for I can find no peace, no rest, until the pieces of my body are reunited."

Lulu shrugged, still playing it cool. "La, sir," she says in as good an imitation of Scarlett O'Hara as I've ever seen. "Tut-tut. Fiddle-dee-dee. Supposing we help you, General Jones sir. Give you aid out of the kindness of our hearts. Would there perchance be a..." she paused delicately, batted her eyelashes, "...reward?"

"Why, certainly, Miss Lulu," says the head, like him and Lulu were old buddies from way back. "It would be my honor if you would accept my treasure as a gift for your kindness and trouble."

Lulu turned to me, all her airy-fairy Southern belle ways completely gone. "Butterbean," she says in a voice which I know all too well, "fetch a shovel."

And so I ended up digging in a half-dozen places around Lake Perdition, because Ol' Cornpone couldn't quite remember where his wife had buried the body. Lulu was standing there supervising, with my bait bucket in one hand (the head was in it), and a can of mosquito spray in the other. Between blasts of skeeter spray, she gave me lots of helpful advice. I started cussin' about the twentieth time I hit rock with that damned shovel. The General was using language not normally heard in the presence of a lady. I gathered he didn't much like the smell of the bait bucket.

All right, so I left them minnows one day too long in the shed! Yes, it's been a hot summer. Lulu gives me hell when I try to keep the damn bait in the ice box. It ain't entirely my fault, you know. Now reach me another beer, be hush and pay attention.

At last, something went clunk, and it wasn't rock this time, but bone. I cleared off the rest of the dirt in record time. Sure enough, there was a body down there, still clad in the rags of a uniform. Lulu brung Ol' Cornpone over for a look-see.

"I do declare!" he hollered from the depths of the bait bucket. "Oh, no longer will I be chained to this dismal existence. No longer will I lament and cry my woe. No longer will I be forced to endure the torments of the undead. Glory, glory, glory, I am coming home at last!"

I come up out of the hole, hot and sweaty and covered with dirt. Chigger bites, too, dammit. "Look here," I says to him. "I hope your directions to the treasure are a damn sight better than your directions to this body, otherwise I'll be tempted to dig you up again."

"Be assured, the treasure has been on my mind for many a long year." Ol' Cornpone's head was dissolving, or at least the flesh was slipping off to reveal his skull. "You have but to take four paces from the pecan tree at the east corner of the house. The treasure chest is there, six feet down." He quit talking then, because Lulu dumped him in the hole. Just a clean skull that joined clean bones, and the dirt caved back over to cover the grave.

Shit. More digging. I should've known.

Drag-ass tired as I was, I knew Lulu would give me no rest until I'd dug up this treasure. All the while I was manning the shovel, she was making plans as to how to spend the money. A new double-wide trailer with all the fixings. A satellite dish. Big screen TV. First-class trip to Knott's Berry Farm. Maybe even a vacation to Nashville. Yes, Lulu couldn't wait to go home dripping with gold, and do all her friends one in the eye. She was going to be shitting in high cotton, all right. Tomato Queen? Hell, the way she talked, Lulu Cantrell was fixing to be queen of the world. Or at least, the queen of Flathead County. I just hoped she didn't forget about poor Butterbean while she was out swanning around with a diamond in her nose.

Thump! Thump! I hit something. Lulu nearly turned purple with excitement. I uncovered a wooden chest, managed to haul it out while Lulu danced on the edge of the pit.

"Open it!" she says. "Hurry up and open it, Butterbean!"

Sucker was locked, but the iron had rusted. I used the shovel to break the chains apart. When I finally got that goddamned chest open, I peeked inside and about fell over laughing. Lulu slid down into the hole, but I was too out of breath to appreciate the sight of her dressed in gauze and spangles and nothing else but mud.

"What the hell?" Lulu screeched upon catching sight of what was in the chest.

See, that thing didn't have no gold, no jewels, no pieces of eight or whatever.

It was full of Confederate money.

Lulu had a conniption fit. "If I could bring that cheatin' sumbitch back to life, I'd cut him open from asshole to appetite," was the least of the things she had to say.

She swore up and down that she was going to dig up Ol' Cornpone, piss on his bones, and commit various other blasphemies and indignities. There was a big ol' vein throbbing in her forehead. Frankly, I pitied General Johnson if Lulu got her hands on him. I would rather jack off a bobcat than mess with Lulu when she's in a killing mood.

It took some doing, but I got her calmed down before she did herself an injury. Lulu might not have been dancing mad anymore, but by God, she was still angrier than a bee-stung bull. Before I could stop her, she ran to the truck, got down my shotgun, and unloaded both barrels into General Johnson's grave. Whether it did him any harm, I couldn't tell you. I was just glad that a) Lulu hadn't remembered that it was my idea to come out to Lake Perdition; and b) I hadn't brought no more ammunition with me, just in case she remembered later.

Nothing would do after that but to pack everything into the truck and head back home. Lulu tossed her gauze and spangles into the lake before we left. The glow-in-the-dark Jesus met a terrible fate, as did the plastic monkey backscratcher. She ate the Goo Goo Clusters, though. I had to restrain her from setting fire to the cabin, the chest, the woods, and everything. Hell hath no fury like a woman deprived of big screen TV and a new double-wide, I say. And brother, I've got the scars to prove it.

The next time I saw Tallywhacker Jones, I gave him two black eyes in exchange for all the trouble he caused me. Lulu passed him on the street and gave the boy such a look, he couldn't speak for a full week. On the other hand, I hear Tallywhacker's daddy has started renting the cabin out to Yankee tourists who don't know no better. I hope they enjoy the smell of cat pee. For sure, I will never visit Lake Perdition again as long as I live.

About a month later, I took that Confederate money over to this antique store in Meridian, on the off chance that somebody might give me a little cash for it. Much to my surprise, the guy at the store paid me five hundred dollars for the whole chest full. So Lulu got her satellite dish, which smoothed things over considerably.

However, every time I tell her I'm going fishing, she gives me a look that could melt glass.

Can't win for losing, dammit. And she still won't let me keep bait in the ice box.

Oh, well. I love her anyway.

Next time she wants to go on a second honeymoon, though, I'll let her pick the destination.

Knott's Berry Farm, here I come.

THE END

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All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

Lulu and Butterbean ~ Teased to Death
by Nene Adams ©2002 - All rights reserved

There was this time when me and Lulu Cantrell and Lulu's momma Dolly had to go up to Carterdale to see Dolly's sister, the one that everybody calls Aunt Sister. Seems Aunt Sister - a hairdresser by trade and inclination - was entered in the annual hairstyling championship of Flathead County, held every year in otherwise podunk Carterdale. Aunt Sister was feeling her nerves, and Dolly wanted to give her some moral support in person. Lulu just had to go along, of course. Where goest Lulu, there goeth I, too, as it sort of says in the Good Book. All three of us in a station wagon I borrowed from Cousin Willard, 'cause Dolly purely hates to drive anywhere in a truck. She says it's common. I don't know where Dolly got them airs, since her daddy was a manure salesman, and Dolly herself is, by all accounts, a six-month baby who weighed ten pounds at birth. Hah!

Anyhow, I didn't have nothing better to do, and damned if I was going to let Lulu and her momma drive to Carterdale by themselves. I was afraid they might get into trouble, them being two women who could borrow grief interest-free and pay off the mortgage by sundown. You know it's true. Cantrells attract trouble the way shit attracts flies. The last time there was a Cantrell family reunion, a tornado wiped out the meeting hall, half the picnic got poisoned by bad mayonnaise, a herd of cows stampeded the sack race, and there was a rain of catfish that plumb ruined the upholstery in Daddy Cantrell's new Cadillac convertible. See what I mean? Trouble with a capital "T."

Now a good many Cantrells live in and around Carterdale, which makes it the consternation capital of the universe. They've got a Mystery Spot, a Gravity Hill, spook lights, a phantom motorcyclist, ball lightning, two-headed calves, white ladies by the score, Bigfoot, swamp apes and what-not, or so it's claimed. Ever since the state closed off the Irvine Extension road, Carterdale doesn't get that many visitors, which is just as well. Too many tourists gettin' eaten by swamp apes or carried off by giant mosquitoes does tend to send local economy into the crapper. The mayor of Carterdale, casting about for some event that might bring cash to the city's coffers, hit upon a hairstyling championship called Hairdo Voodoo. No danger to tourists, as it would involve natives only, plus all their relatives who would, presumably, flock to Carterdale to buy cheap sourvenirs and expensive beer. Sounds like a plan, huh?

The idiot. I could've told him that there ain't no disaster - natural or otherwise - that compares to a town full of bloodthirsty females ready to do each other the dirty in order to be declared Miss Hairdo Voodoo of Flathead County. The first year there was two shootings, a dozen fist fights, and a grisly curling iron incident whose memory causes strong men to turn pale to this day. Butterbean Shirley McCall's momma didn't raise no fool. I came to Carterdale prepared for anything and everything, up to and including the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. I would have borrowed my Uncle Jerry's old army surplus bazooka, but Lulu packed the suitcase so full of clothes, I couldn't find room for the shells.

Aunt Sister was staying with some Cantrell relatives at their house, but we didn't meet her there. Instead, we drove straight through to the old sausage factory some two miles outside of town, where Hairdo Voodoo was being held that year. Hizzoner the Mayor had decided, in the wisdom gained from ten years of experience, to keep the contestants as far away from Carterdale as possible, while still being within a reasonable distance of food and drink. I'm sure that the Great Fire of '89 had something to do with his decision, though I'm still not convinced that the destruction was deliberate. Desiree Benbow's moonshine still has been known to blow up from time to time. I'm sure she didn't mean to do it, even if her baby girl Darla got disqualified that year because she was caught spiking another woman's hair gel with Nair.

Anyhow, the sausage factory was packed to the gills with hairdressers from all over Flathead County, along with their family members. I have rarely entered a deadlier place, and I include the Mass Panic Roadhouse on Route 4. The air inside that factory reeked of permanent solution, hairspray and pure unadulterated malice. I took hold of Lulu, just in case somebody decided to do her a mischief, and checked to make sure my hide-out pistol was loose in my boot. Dolly managed to spot Aunt Sister right away, and went yelping off to greet her.

Lulu gave me one of them looks. "Butterbean," she says, "you behave yourself around these women, or I swear to God, I'll smack you so hard you'll be coughing up bones."

She didn't have no call to say that, really. Lord knows, I love that woman more'n peach butter on biscuits. There was that one time, I'll admit, when I'd had a few too many longnecks at Whisper Haggard's barbeque, and I woke up with lipstick all over my face and a purple G-string in my pocket. I still had all my clothes on, though, so it couldn't have been too bad. Never did find out who belonged to the G-string.

Aunt Sister was all a-flutter, fussing over her model like a momma hen with one chick. You see, the contest goes like this: each hairdresser brings one model, whose hair has been simply washed and dried. At 7 p.m. exactly, the hairdressers and models retire to individual booths where magic is made with switches, teasing combs, mousse, gel, bobby pins and enough hairspray to poke another hole in the ozone layer. At 10 p.m. exactly, the gussied-up models are brought out before the judges, who then determine the winner and declare the new Miss Hairdo Voodoo of Flathead County. Sounds simple, don't it? Son, you have no idea. Those hairdressers were not above slipping ipecac into a rival's Coke or worse, just to scuttle their chances. Underhanded or bold as brass, there was malice afoot, or my name wasn't Butterbean Shirley McCall.

Dolly pointed out this itty bitty woman to me and Lulu. "That's Madame Gootch," she says. "She's won the competition every year since it started. Madame is one of the swamp Gootches from Backwater Slough."

Well, Madame Gootch looked like ten pounds of poison in a five pound sack. She had the evil eye, all right. Her model was a scrawny thing packing an impressive head of hair. I reckon that hair must've weighed more'n her and Madame Gootch combined. It was a right strange color, halfway between white and gray. The girl kept her mouth closed, and looked around with these beady little black eyes. Gave me the heebie-jeebies for some reason.

Aunt Sister fixed Madame Gootch with a look that should have put her six feet under. "That old buzzard ain't gonna win this year, by thunder. Not if I have anything to say about it."

You should know that before the Hairdo Voodoo contest got started, there was one place in Flathead County that everybody went to to get fancy hair for weddings, parties, dances and funerals. Many a young girl was taken there by her momma in a rite of passage every bit as meaningful as a boy's first deer hunt. I'm talking about a girl's first big hairdo, proudest moment in her young life, when she knows for sure that she has become a woman. Well, the place to go used to be Aunt Sister's Curl Up n' Dye Coiffures in Hogbend, right between RX Drugs and the Layaway Funeral Parlor.

However, Aunt Sister hadn't won the competition yet. Business had fallen off in favor of Madame Gootch's Cut n' Curl over in Backwater Slough. Sister was mad enough about it to chew barbed wire and spit nails. She was sure that Madame Gootch had some kind of influence over the judges. I didn't see how that could be the case, since the judges were from out-of-state and presumably had no ax to grind. Swamp woman Gootch didn't impress me as the kind who would resort to bribery, anyway. No sir, I figured her for a hands-on cheater who operated with extreme prejudice.

My attention got distracted 'cause Lulu was about to pitch a hissy fit. She reckoned I was eyeballing other women. Could I help it if the place was wall-to-wall females? Besides, I was so nervous, you could've stuck a chunk of coal in my ass and gotten back a diamond. I recognized any number of Cantrells in the crowd. Aunt Sister had called in reinforcements from around the county. She was really determined to win the crown. Lulu had to stop and make kissie-face with nieces, aunts, cousins, grandmommas and what-not every five seconds. Must've been every living Cantrell woman in the place, from Carterdale and beyond, come to support Aunt Sister in her hour of need.

Madame Gootch from Backwater Slough had no idea what she was up against.

Then again, neither did I.

The factory whistle blew, announcing the beginning of the competition. Aunt Sister retired with her model (one of her grand-daughters, Oralinda), and the wait was on. The Cantrells had brought coolers full of fried chicken, tater salad and nanner puddin', so we had a tailgate party in the parking lot. I couldn't eat much, on account of having this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. How to describe it... well, have you ever been out in the woods alone, turned a corner and come face to face with a pissed-off grizzly bear? Wait, boy, I ain't done yet. Now suppose you snatched up your gun and shot point-blank at the bear, only all you hear is a loud click instead of a boom. The way I felt was exactly the way you'd feel in that split-second when you and the bear realized that you'd forgotten to load the damned shotgun shells.

Oh, shit, indeed.

Ten o'clock couldn't come soon enough for me. Lulu was having the time of her life, since Cantrell family reunions had been banned by state law back in '75. Dolly was running around, screeching happily at the top of her lungs. Hizzoner the Mayor had probably run off to hide in a concrete bunker somewhere until the all-clear was blowed. I wished I could've joined him. There are few things that put the frightener on ol' Butterbean, but a concentration of Cantrells is one of 'em. Lord knows I love Lulu, but my in-laws and outlaws are best taken in small doses.

All of a sudden, from inside the sausage factory there came an awful hollering that damn near made me swallow my teeth. We ran in and found a herd of hysterical hairdressers. Aunt Sister had this disgusted look, like she'd found a cat turd in her cornflakes. The last time I saw such a look, it was on my momma's face after I'd been foolin' with her pressure cooker and accidentally blew a jar of green beans all over the ceiling. Man, I got a switching that day that still gives me twinges when the weather changes.

Aunt Sister says, "I told you that ol' swamp buzzard was cheating!" She was hanging on to a blue-tick hound that was baying fit to bust, and jerking hard on the leash.

Sure enough, there stood Madame Gootch. Ten pounds of poison in a five pound sack, and I wouldn't have messed with her for all the tea in China. Beside her, that scrawny girl with the gray-white hair had fixed her beady little black eyes on the hound. She opened her mouth and hissed, showing a bunch of pointy teeth which reminded me of something, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Her hair had been teased and sprayed until it was a positive danger to air traffic.

Madame Gootch sniffed, which she was well able to do, having nostrils so big you could've crammed a cannonball in each one, and still had room left over for gunpowder. "I don't know what you're talking about, Sister Cantrell," she says in her swampy voice.

"Oh, yes you do!" hollers Aunt Sister. "This here's my husband's second best hunting dog. Everybody knows animals can suss out hexing, which is what I reckon you been doing all these years, 'cause I am the best hairdresser in Flathead County, bar none. I would've won if you hadn't taken unfair advantage with your witchy ways. Quit lyin', you no-count Gootch, and admit that's what you done."

The scrawny girl was still staring at the hound, who was going plumb crazy. Aunt Sister was having trouble holding it back. The girl hissed again, and I suddenly got a notion.

"Butterbean," Lulu says to me, "something ain't right."

I resisted the urge to turn around and say something to her like, "No shit, Sherlock." Discretion is the better part of valor, especially when it comes to dealing with Lulu.

The judges stumped over, somewhat the worse for wear after stuffing themselves with lunch provided by Carterdale's church ladies. "What the hell are y'all doing?" one of them asked. "Sister Cantrell, if you are the author of this trouble, I'm going to disqualify you right now. And for the love of God, would somebody please hush that dog?"

The Cantrell women drew up in a mass and inhaled sharply, sort of the way a rattlesnake gives warning just before it strikes. The judge kind of petered out at that point and wandered away, muttering something under his breath. The other two judges, not being utter morons, also took themselves off. Hairdressers stood around in a circle, giving that swamp woman the stink eye, but also standing clear of Aunt Sister. Nobody wanted to commit themselves yet, for all that the envy against Madame Gootch was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Madame Gootch's face had turned the color of clabbered milk. She kept looking at the dog, and back to the girl, and fingering something hidden in her pocket.

Lulu got caught up in the moment, as usual. "Ah hah!" she says, swooping down on Madame Gootch. "What's this?" She reached into the swamp woman's pocket and pulled out a little sack, tied around the neck with black thread.

My hair stood on end. I got a sickening feeling, somewhat like the time I stepped barefoot on a worn-out electric cord. Zap! From my heels to the back of my neck. Aunt Sister let go of the dog. Lulu screamed and dropped the sack, which spilled all over her feet. All hell broke loose.

The scrawny girl took off, one step ahead of the dog. That blue-tick hound chased her from one end of the sausage factory to the other. I tell you, I've never seen such an exhibition in my life. Aunt Sister had Madame Gootch by the nose, Dolly had hold of Aunt Sister around the knees, and the rest of the Cantrells were clustered around Lulu, who was having the biggest conniption fit ever seen in Carterdale. See, that sack was full of some kind of hexing powder that made hair grow all over poor Lulu's feet. Looked like she was wearing fur slippers.

If you ain't guessed yet, let me tell you that the scrawny girl weren't no girl at all. She was a possum, hexed into human form by Madame Gootch's swamp magic. How come she used a possum? Well, there ain't too many critters in Backwater Slough, and 'gators and snakes don't have hair. How come she didn't use a regular model like everybody else? Boy, I have no idea. Maybe her powers required it. Did she put some kind of glamor on the girl, to make the judges vote for her? Could be. Please don't ask me no more questions. I don't believe in hoodoo.

Anyhow, the dog smelled the truth. I know that hound dog, by the way. He nearly had his nose bitten off by a possum when he was a puppy. The way I figure it, he was out to pay off an old grudge.

Round and round they went, the scrawny girl getting smaller and more hairy by the minute. That hound treed her on a walkway before too long, and by then she was all possum again. Mind you, a possum with the finest fluffiest coat I've ever seen, even if it was a bit odd, what with the pompador and all. It sat up there, swelling and hissing, while the blue-tick hound howled fit to beat the band.

Meanwhile, the three judges were trying to restore order, which they couldn't have done with a full riot squad and the National Guard, besides. I doubt even an Act of God could've kept Lulu from trying to get at Madame Gootch. I heard her holler, "Butterbean, get over here and hold this old biddy down while I kick her to death!" No sir, not me. Something else was a-brewing. That ass-pucker feeling was getting stronger by the minute. Zap! From heels to head.

Remember what I said before about hell breaking loose? That weren't nothing compared to what happened next. Cantrell consternation struck again.

A big ball of lightning rolled in through an open window, which made everybody's hair stand straight up, if it was capable. We had itty bitty sparks flying off every metal object in the room, including fly zippers and bobby pins. Suckers bit! I grabbed Lulu and ducked under a table. Everybody else in the room scattered for cover, too. I ended up crammed in there with Lulu, Dolly, Aunt Sister, the dog, and some strange woman who - according to Lulu - kept praying and squeezing my ass everytime she said "Jesus!" which only went to show that some people ain't no better than they ought to be. Frankly, I was too busy worrying to notice.

Madame Gootch took the opportunity to make a run for it.

That ball lightning flew around the room and smacked into a locked electrical box on the wall. All of a sudden, the sausage making machinery came to life. It had been turned off on account of the competition, you know. There wasn't much equipment on the first floor where we were, 'cause that's where trucks dropped off their loads of hog meat. Just conveyor belts. The main part of the processing happened on the second floor.

Madame Gootch went flying towards the door. Right about then, she slipped on a pool of hair gel and went skidding along until she landed on a conveyor belt. Up she whizzed at a good clip, and got dumped in the grinding hopper. It happened too fast for us to do anything. Next thing we know, there's dreadful curses coming out of that hopper. A big green hand, all scaly and clawed, reached out and hooked onto the edge. Something started coming out of there, and whatever it was, it was seriously pissed off.

I don't mind telling you that I was shaking like a poodle crapping peach pits. Lulu shoved me out from under the table and says, "Butterbean, deal with this! And don't get yourself killed, or I'll put a knot on your head that a calf could suck on."

Well, I was so used to jumping everytime Lulu said, "Frog!" that I was on my feet and running up those stairs before my brain caught up with my body. It was nice to know that I had Lulu's confidence. On the other hand, if I had my druthers, I'd rather have stayed under the table and been known as the kind of person who couldn't catch a cold if it had handles.

Madame Gootch kept pulling herself out. I saw this head rising from the hole that would've given me nightmares for life, if I hadn't wiped the memory clean out of my mind. Anyhow, the machinery was groaning mighty fierce, which I can understand, because taking on a swamp witch like that would give anybody a bellyache. I pulled out my boot pistol and let her have it. More's the pity, 'cause my hands were shaking so bad that I missed.

There wasn't nothin' else to do but engage the enemy hand-to-claw, as it were. As I was commending my soul to God (and wishing I'd told Lulu about the two hundred dollar emergency stash buried in a mason jar in the backyard), something hit me in the back of the head. It was a bottle of water. I looked down and saw Aunt Sister.

"Sprinkle her! Sprinkle her!" says Aunt Sister.

Now why would I want to make a Methodist out of the swamp witch? I hollered down as much, and Lulu shouted back, "Just do it, Butterbean, or I'll come up there knock you for a loop!"

Okay, I know better than to argue with Lulu. I took the bottle, opened it, and chucked the contents into what was passing for Madame Gootch's face. Much to my surprise (for I didn't believe baptism would to any good at this point), Madame Gootch roared and fell back into the hopper. Some truly horrendous noises came forth, and I was afraid the sausage grinder might explode, but it didn't. After a few minutes, the sounds stopped, and everything was normal again. Well, as normal as Carterdale gets, anyway.

I came down to find Aunt Sister jumping up and down with glee. "I knew it!" she says. "I knew that weren't no Christian woman!"

Turns out that bottle contained holy water 'specially blessed by some televangelist. I later talked to Meemaw McCall, who knows a bit about hexing, and she asked me if it was sea water. It was, and she told me that monsters and witches can't bear the touch of salt. This makes no sense to me, as swamp water is brackish, but I don't argue with Meemaw. Aunt Sister paid twenty dollars for that bottle of water, by the way. I ain't never told her she could have saved her money and just took some salt packets from Hardees for free.

Furthermore, after we went and fetched the judges out from under the podium, they declared Aunt Sister as the new Miss Hairdo Voodoo. I don't think their decision had anything to do with Oralinda's hairdo, which had gotten fairly squashed during the excitement. No, it was probably the sight of all them Cantrell women giving them looks which could've curdled milk. Hizzoner the Mayor crawled out of his liquor bottle long enough to announce that the Hairdo Voodoo competition was canceled from then on. I don't blame the man. I hear his wife wants to sponsor an agricultural fair, on the presumption that vegetables don't shoot each other, conjure monsters, or ruin a whole day's sausage production.

I don't know about that. I've heard stories about killer tomatoes in Dryland that would curl your hair, so to speak.

A fellow from over in Backwater Slough later told me that Madame Gootch wasn't really a swamp monster, but she was a witch. Seems she'd conjured up a real swamp monster and sent it to the competition in disguise. All it had to do was sprinkle possum girl with magic powder to make the winning hairdo.Why? Because the real Madame Gootch couldn't do hair worth a damn. She had to use hoodoo 'cause her shop (which she had inherited from her momma) was about busted for lack of custom. Her relations thought she went over to Carterdale for the contest every year, but she really took a side trip to Brookfield to go to a line dancing contest. Fancied herself quite the belle of the dance floor, I understand. She ran off after the news came out. I saw a picture of her once, and I tell you, boy, the swamp monster was a damn sight better lookin'. Madame Gootch would've done better to study beauty spells.

Lulu's unfortunate foot condition came about 'cause she wasn't a possum, I guess.

Following a talk with Aunt Sister and Dolly, Hizzoner the Mayor agreed to pay for Lulu's treatments. I am pleased to report that her little pink toes are just about fur free. She still blames me for the whole mess, of course. I had to buy her four new pairs of shoes before she'd tell me where she hid the remote control.

Aunt Sister is currently queening it up in Hogbend. I understand there's a waiting list for Curl Up n' Dye coiffures.

Now I really must be getting home, son. It don't do to leave Lulu alone for too long. There's no telling what she'll get into next, and poor ol' Butterbean will have to hump right along just to keep up with her.

THE END

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All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
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© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

Lulu and Butterbean Wake the Dead
by Nene Adams ©2002 - All rights reserved

Did you ever know Boyd Berdeaux from over in Gulledge? Most obstinate man in Flathead County, I swear. Once Boyd got a notion in his head, wild horses and a twenty mule team couldn't shift it out. No sir, Boyd Berdeaux was the kind of fellow who stuck to his guns, right or wrong. A real stubborn old coot. Well, Boyd was called home a while back, and let me tell you, brother, he didn't go to his eternal reward without first causin' a peck of trouble for everybody concerned.

The way it happened was like this: Boyd had a bum ticker, but he would insist on re-roofing the house during the hottest day of the year. His wife, Eulalia - who happens to be my great-aunt - tried to argue him out of it. Boyd wasn't having any. Up he went with tar paper and nails and shingles, even though his heart wasn't what it used to be. Sure enough, Boyd had a massive coronary. Dead before he hit the ground, said the doctor. Boyd landed right in the middle of Aunt Eulalia's prize-winning petunias and mashed 'em flat. I don't know which hurt her more - losing her husband, or the utter ruination of her petunias just a couple of days before the flower show.

Now Boyd's funeral was the social event of the year in Gulledge and beyond. Between them, Boyd and Eulalia are related to half of Flathead County by blood, and the other half by marriage. I haven't seen so many casseroles and Jell-O salads and pecan pies and cobblers and fried chickens in my life. If somebody had been thoughtful enough to bring a walk-in freezer, Aunt Eulalia would've been set up for life in the food department. As it was, the undertaker had to let us borrow space in his cooler for all them dishes, 'cause Eulalia was holding the wake in the Layaway Funeral Parlor's meeting hall.

The funeral was beautiful. Boyd's hunting buddies sang Amazin' Grace, accompanied by little Ginny Herlong on the accordion. Walleye Berdeaux, Boyd's younger brother, read a eulogy that left not a dry eye in the house. The service was conducted by Boss Tott, pastor over to the Church of the Everlasting Honey-in-the-Rock in Gulledge. Boyd lay there in his coffin, looking peaceful in his best Sunday-go-to-meeting suit, which I think he'd only worn once in his life, and that was at his wedding.

After Boss Tott finished boring us with "begats," he commenced to sermonizing without once mentioning "hellfire" or "damnation." I reckoned that was right tactful of him, considering Boyd Berdeaux was about as heathen as you can get in Flathead County. The only interruption came from Cousin Charlene, who got filled with the Holy Spirit and started speakin' in tongues till she remembered that this wasn't a charismatic service. Charlene was mightily embarrassed as she lay there on the floor. I ain't seen a face so red since that notorious nervous farter Winsome Dale had a solo in a school concert, and every time he fluted, he tooted, too. That was a duet that brought down the house, and then some.

Anyhow, we all went over to the meeting hall where the undertaker, John Layaway, was ready to press flesh and dispense coffee along with the sympathy. Don't get me wrong, I like John Layaway, even if he does look somewhat like a bloodhound that got kicked and was feelin' sorry for itself. He knows his business. He had the coffin wheeled in and placed amongst the flowers, so we could continue to admire Boyd to his face, and talk trash behind his back while we ate up the feast. It's funny, how folks say you shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but they'll do it in spades before the body's cold.

Lulu Cantrell was in the thick as usual, looking mighty fine in a black ensemble that she saved for special occasions. Lord, how I love that woman! That sad day most especially, as there's somethin' about a funeral that stirs up the carnal appetite, if you know what I mean. Provided that the funeral ain't your own, of course. Lulu was eating a slab of coconut cake and talking a mile a minute to Momma McCall about the time when Boyd got caught dynamiting for bass. I was just about to sidle up and suggest to Lulu that we might like to go home early, when Aunt Eulalia let out a screech that could've been heard as far away as Dead Mule Pond.

I turned my head in time to see Boyd Berdeaux clambering out of his coffin, knocking over vases of lilies left and right. Eulalia let out another screech and passed out in the potato salad.

Eulalia's sister, my Aunt Jessie, is made of sterner stuff. "Boyd," she says, "get yourself back in that box right now! Don't you know that you're interruptin' your own funeral?"

"Well, Jessie," says Boyd, looking around at all the people staring at him, "I know it ain't polite to interrupt, but I just don't feel dead."

And that was the problem. Remember what I said about Boyd Berdeaux bein' the most obstinate man in Flathead County? If he didn't feel dead, then by God, he wasn't going to be dead, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. Nobody knew what to do. We all stood there, dumb as rocks, while Boyd helped himself to the fried chicken. Dolly Cantrell dragged poor Aunt Eulalia out of the salad, laid her out on some chairs, and tried to wake her up. Everybody gave the chicken a wide berth.

"Mr. Berdeaux," says John Layaway, "I assure you, sir, that you are indeed dead."

"Nope," says Boyd, gnawing on a chicken leg, "I ain't dead 'cause I don't feel dead."

"I've been an undertaker for thirty years, man and boy," says John Layaway, "and I can tell you, Mr. Berdeaux, that I have never seen a corpse more rigid than yours." He was starting to sweat. I reckon he felt that Boyd's surprise resurrection was reflectin' badly on the family firm.

Boyd flexed an arm. I swear to you, his elbow creaked like a rusty hinge. "Arthritis actin' up," he says.

Eulalia roused herself, probably because Dolly had poured about half a pint of whiskey from a hip flask down the front of her widow's weeds. "Boyd," she says, "you fell off the roof last Saturday and mashed my petunias to hell and gone. If you ain't dead, then what are you?"

Boyd finished his chicken and started on a plate of pigs in the blanket. "I have no idea, wife. All I can tell you is that I don't feel dead," he says. "And I'm sorry about your petunias."

Boss Tott decided to have a try. "Boyd Berdeaux," he says, "I command you to return from whence you came."

Boyd says, "But Pastor Tott, I was born and raised in Gulledge. Where else am I s'posed to go?"

"To Heaven," says Boss Tott. "Although I ain't sure that the Pearly Gates will be your final destination."

"No, thank you," says Boyd. "I reckon I'll stay right here, if you don't mind. Pass me that Watergate salad, will you? I'm so hungry, I could eat a horse."

"If you ain't dead, Boyd, then how come we're havin' a funeral?" says Aunt Jessie.

"I don't rightly know," says Boyd. "It can't be for me, 'cause I'm feelin' fine and rarin' to go. Do dead men eat? Do dead men walk around? Do dead men kiss their wives?" He puckered up and went for Eulalia. She fended him off with Meemaw McCall's walking cane. I don't blame her. Morning breath don't even begin to cover the stink comin' out of Boyd's mouth. I could smell it from where I was standing.

Well, the more everybody tried to argue Boyd back into that coffin, the more stubborn he got. He thought the whole thing was a joke. Boyd kept eating, which meant that nobody else would touch a morsel of food. Finally, Aunt Jessie came over to have a word with me.

"We can't let this go on," she says. "He'll start turning green and stinking in a few days. Not that he don't already smell fairly raunchy "

I agreed with her, as the weather was still pretty damned hot. I didn't know what to do about it, though.

Lulu gave Aunt Jessie a smile that was sweeter than molassas. "Butterbean will figure it out," she says, "or I'll slap her naked and hide her clothes."

Why does it always have to be me?

Needless to say, the women folk were real happy to put the burden on poor ol' Butterbean Shirley McCall. Even my own momma thought it was a good idea, and that is the woman who raised me. Meanwhile, Boyd was eatin' everything in sight. I swear, that man had a hollow leg. Lulu was giving me looks that like to have curled my hair. The relations were getting restless. Uncle George and Walleye Berdeaux were muttering about meat saws. John Layaway wanted to call the sheriff. Aunt Eulalia was having an attack of the vapors every five minutes, and we were runnin' out of hip flasks. I had to think of something fast.

For once in my life, Fate didn't make me the ground floor tenant in a two-story outhouse. I had an idea.

I borrowed a handkerchief from Aunt Jessie, loaded it up with my secret weapon at the food table, and went over to Boyd. "Hey, do me a favor," I says to him, "sniff this and tell me if it smells funny."

"What is it?" he says.

"Cousin Cindy Lou's tuna casserole," I says, knowing it was his favorite dish. The only reason he hadn't started on it was 'cause he liked to save the best for last. "I think it went off."

"Gimme that," Boyd says, grabbing the handkerchief and sticking his nose inside.

Only thing was, it weren't Cindy Lou's tuna casserole. No sir, I had filled that thing full of black pepper.

Boyd turned tomato red, then the color of strained peas, then kind of purple. I snatched the handkerchief away, clapped my hands over his mouth, pinched his nose shut, and held on for dear life.

The explosion was muffled, but messy.

It got real quiet after that. Me and Boyd stood there a minute.

"I reckon I really am dead," says Boyd.

"Yes sir," I says. "That's what we been trying to tell you."

"I'm sorry, Eulalia," he says, turning around. "I'll go now and bother you no more, I promise."

Aunt Eulalia was white as a sheet, but managed to stay conscious. "I know, Boyd. I'll miss you, but it's time to go," she says.

Boyd says to me, "Would you kindly hand me back my eyeballs? I believe they landed in the lime Jell-O."

"Actually," I says, "they're in the pickle jar."

Well, we didn't have no more trouble with Boyd Berdeaux. He went to his coffin as meek as a lamb. John Layaway offered to cremate him for free, but Aunt Eulalia decided that since she'd paid for the plot in the graveyard, somebody ought to use it. We did nail the coffin shut, just in case Boyd changed his mind and wanted to take a whack at the dessert table.

Do you know, Aunt Jessie took credit for the whole thing?

There ain't no justice, I swear.

On the other hand, Lulu was mighty sweet afterwards, but I had to burn my shirt before she'd let me lay a hand on her. Next time you're up at the Peaceful Slumber cemetery, go say "hi" to Boyd Berdeux. You never know, he might say "hi" right back at you, especially if you're carrying Cindy Lou's tuna casserole.

THE END

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All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

Lulu and Butterbean Cheat the Devil
by Nene Adams ©2002 - All rights reserved

Boy, next time you hear some preacher man tellin' you 'bout how all-mighty powerful the Devil is, you can look that preacher in the eye and tell him that he don't know shit from shinola. I've met the Devil and I tell you, he ain't half as slick as he's made out to be. I'll tell you about it right after you reach me another beer.

See, me and Lulu Cantrell were having a friendly poker game in our trailer over by Flathead Creek one night. As usual, Lulu was winning 'cause she cheats. Don't get me wrong. Lord knows I love that woman, but put a deck of cards in her hand and she turns into the vilest cheater this side of Broomstick Ridge. Lulu learned her skills at the knee of a master. I'm referrin' to Momma Dolly Cantrell, of course, whose Friday night cut-throat pinochle matches are the stuff of legend. Me, I ain't got the knack.

Anyhow, I pretend not to notice that Lulu's cheating, which is the only way of keeping peace in the family. We don't play for money, thank God. I quit playing porker with her for cash ever since we were ten years old and Lulu won a gazillion bazillion dollars from me. As I only had ten cents at the time, I've been paying off the debt ever since.

By some miracle that night, I got a lucky hand - a royal flush, which beat out her four of a kind. Lulu was mighty put out about it, 'specially since she'd have to share the stakes - boiled peanuts, as I recall.

"Butterbean," she says, with one of them looks in her eyes, "if you didn't cheat to get that hand, I'll bet the Devil my head!"

Next thing I know, there's a loud clap of thunder, and a knocking on the door that like to have shook the whole trailer off its blocks. I jumped up to go see who it was, and found a strange man standing there on the steps. He was big fellow, with a crop of black hair and strange yellow eyes. He smiled at me and says, "Is Miz Lulu Cantrell to home? I've come to take her up on her offer. My name is Mr. Scratch."

Well, my heart crawled up into my throat. It might have been from the smell of bad eggs that was drifting in. From behind me, Lulu says, "Do come in." I reckon she thought he was collectin' for the church. I knew who he was right off, dammit, and I wished I'd paid more attention in Sunday school.

The Devil come inside, oozing charm and sulfur stink all over the place. He went straight to Lulu, clip-clopping on the linoleum 'cause he had hooves like a goat instead of proper feet. He says, "I beg to inform you, madame, that Butterbean McCall does not cheat at cards."

"How the hell do you know?" Lulu says, bold as brass. It takes a lot to put the scare on Dolly Cantrell's daughter.

"Because it's my business to know," the Devil says, smiling like a shark that's just spotted a leaky lifeboat full of fat ladies singing their hearts out.

Lulu hemmed and hawed, but in the end, couldn't help but admit that Mr. Scratch had the right of it. His occupation requires a workin' knowledge of sin, after all. As for me, I wasn't going to stand there and let the Devil take poor Lulu away. Only thing was, I couldn't think of a damned thing to do to stop it.

Meanwhile, Lulu had a look on her face that made me sit up and think, uh oh. Yes, you guessed it. She had a plan. I was wound up tighter than a nun's ass in a whorehouse, but I still had a lot of confidence in Lulu. If anybody could beat the Devil at his own game, I'd bet even money that Lulu Cantrell was the one to do it.

Mr. Scratch's grin got so wide, I was afraid he might swallow his own head. "What's your game, Miz Cantrell?" he says.

Lulu proposed a poker game to last until cockcrow. "Five card draw with a ten boiled peanut minimum to open," she says. "Winner takes all."

"Oh, I think we'll play for more than peanuts," says the Devil, pulling a big ol' pouch out of his pants. He opened it up and spilled a heap of gold coins on the table. Lulu looked like she'd swallowed a live frog. He pushed half the pile over to her and sat down.

I sat on the kitchen counter near the open window, so as to keep the bad egg stink to a minimum. It was getting hotter inside the trailer, too. I kept an eye on Lulu as the game commenced, bringing her sweet iced tea and cold towels as needed.

The Devil dealt the first rounds, by the end of which Lulu's pile of gold had gone down considerable. If he was cheating, I sure couldn't spot it. Smooth as silk. Boy, he handled them cards like he'd been born with a deck in his hands. That shit-eating grin on his face never faltered for an instant. The pressure was high, but Lulu didn't break a sweat. After the Devil's fourth royal flush in a row, however, she started getting this look on her face that foretold trouble for all concerned. I figured Mr. Scratch was in for a surprise when it came Lulu's turn to deal, and I was right.

She cracked her knuckles, picked up the deck, and proceeded to open up a can of whoop ass on the Devil. I tell you, Lulu had a mechanic's grip that was a thing of beauty. She knew the faro shuffle, Hindu shuffle, whorehouse shuffle, double duking... she could stack that deck six ways from Sunday. Little did he know that she also kept a hold-out hand (aces full, of course) in her sleeve. She was palming cards, second dealing, bottom dealing, double dealing, center dealing, false cutting... you name it, she knew every trick in the book and some that were invented solely by the Cantrells. Her bluffing was masterful. Lulu had that poor ol' Devil so confused, he didn't know left from right. He kept getting hotter and smellier, until I had to stick my head out of the window just to catch my breath.

At last, the sky lightened. Lulu had most of the gold piled in front of her. It was plain that Mr. Scratch had met his match, and son, he was pretty jacked off about it. "One more hand," he says to Lulu.

"I do believe that dawn has come," says Lulu, raking in her winnings.

The Devil slammed a paw down on that gold. "I think not," he says, showing teeth that were way bigger and sharper than they had been. His face had changed somewhat, too, becoming more beast than man. "The cock hasn't crowed. I insist we play one more hand."

Give Lulu credit for nerve, she never turned a hair. "Fine," she says. "One more hand."

"Agreed. But I'll deal this time," says the Devil.

If I was nervous before, it weren't nothin' compared to how I felt at that moment. My flesh was trying to hump off my bones. I swore that if we lived through this, I was going next door to Bubba James' place and wring his rooster's neck. It had been dawn for five minutes by my reckoning. That lazy no-count sumbitch chicken was going to get Lulu killed. Me too, probably, as I had no intention of letting the Devil run away with Lulu without me putting up a fight. Lord knows, I love that woman to distraction, and she ain't going to Hell without me taggin' along for the ride.

Lulu handed the deck to Mr. Scratch. They both pushed their coins into the center of the table. All or nothing, winner take all. The Devil dealt their hands. Lulu discarded two. He discarded three. Fresh cards for each. My jaw hurt from grinding my teeth together. I was positively ill with dread. This was worse than the time me and Cousin Maylene stuck that rotten tater in Papaw McCall's tractor exhaust, and the nasty thing blowed up all over him. Stank to high heaven, enough to gag a maggot. He never gave no indication that he knew who done it, but I swear, I nearly chewed my fingers to nubs, waiting for Papaw's retribution to strike me down. To this day, I can hardly look him in the eye when he says, "Butterbean, pass the potatoes."

Anyhow, the Devil laid his hand down on the table. He was looking real smug. Two pair, aces and eights. Dead man's hand. "I do believe that I have won," he says.

I had seen Lulu's cards from across the room - a busted flush that was worth exactly nothing. She might've been able to bluff her way out in a normal game, but this was the moment of truth. She had to lay down that hand. Our lives were forfeit. We were fixing to board the express train to Hell. I swallowed hard, wishin' I had time to tell Lulu how much I love her. On the other hand, I was kind of glad that I wouldn't have to pay Diddy Ryebolt that fifty dollars I owed him, which Lulu hadn't found out about yet. Just goes to show that every cloud has a silver lining, if you look hard enough.

"Not so fast," Lulu says. She turned over her cards. My eyeballs nearly jumped clean out of my skull. Busted flush, my ass! She had a full house - ladies over fishhooks to me, queens and jacks to you. My heart started beating again. That sweet cheatin' honey-pie had done it, 'cause a full house beats two pair every time! Lulu had beat the Devil! I found out later that she'd had another hold-out hand (a full house, naturally) stuffed inside her bra. Always prepared, that's my Lulu.

Well, Mr. Scratch didn't like that none. He stood up and hollered something, which I'm glad I didn't understand, 'cause I figure my brains might have dribbled out of my ears if I had. Them gold coins turned to worms, all squirming and slimy - the best damned nightcrawlers I ever clapped eyes on. Lulu stood up, too. I reckon she was mightily upset about the cash disappearing. "You sir," she says, turning red in the face, "can go straight to hell!"

And at last, Bubba James' rooster crowed. The trailer door flew open. The Devil swole up until he looked like one of them swamp toads, all bulgy eyes and steam comin' out of his ears. He roared like a stuck boar hog. He stank so much, I like to have tossed up my toenails. He kept on blowing up bigger and bigger, getting hotter by the minute, until bang! The Devil exploded into a bazillion pieces of pure sizzling red-hot spleen. A big wind zoomed inside the trailer, scooped up all them pieces, and flew 'em away. Craziest thing I ever saw. Plumb ruined the linoleum, which I was meanin' to get replaced anyhow.

Lulu had a few things to say about that. I ain't heard such language since Booger Slidell was running a backhoe in his yard and fell through the septic tank. The Roto-Rooter man had a field day, let me tell you.

You know, me and Lulu don't play poker no more. We stick to Old Maid and Go Fish, in case the Devil's still lurking around in the neighborhood. Boiled peanuts have been banned for the time being, so as to avoid temptation.

Never bet the Devil your head, boy, unless you happen to be a card cheatin' Cantrell who keeps a full house in her bra, among other things. Here endeth the lesson. Now reach me another beer.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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Crybaby Bridge
by Nene Adams ©2002 - All rights reserved

"It's really the Seven League Bridge, but most folks around here call it Crybaby Bridge," said Caro Starke. "A place of haunted sadness." She stared straight ahead, focusing on the iron span as though it might disappear if her attention faltered. Muscles worked in her jaw. A breeze ruffled strands of black hair around her bony face.

Caro took a deep breath and continued, "The spirit of Ginny Little stole my sister Paulette's baby. That's the truth, so make of it what you will."

FBI Special Agent Dawn Masters shook her head. "I'm sorry, Ms. Starke. I just don't believe in ghosts."

For the first time since coming out to the bridge, Caro looked at Dawn. Her gaze was as intense as a blow, and Dawn involuntarily took a step backwards. Caro said, "Stick around Waterboro much longer, Agent Masters, and you will. Hell, I know you think Paulette killed her baby. I'll tell you one more time, and you can take my word or leave it as you choose - Paulette would never hurt that child."

Dawn glanced away, uncomfortable in the face of Caro's unswerving conviction.

She had come to Waterboro at the request of Sheriff Aiken, when the disappearance of Paulette Starke's six-month-old infant was deemed a possible kidnapping. Several days had passed with no ransom demand, no trace of the perpetrator, no evidence supporting the kidnapping theory. It was still possible, but Dawn had found herself leaning further towards considering the mother to be a prime suspect.

She suspected Sheriff Aiken was thinking along the same lines, but he had to handle the case with kid gloves. The Starkes were not wealthy, but the family was prolific, and related to almost everyone else in Waterboro. In a town where kin ties were held nearly sacred, it would require concrete proof for Aiken to arrest and charge Paulette with murder.

They had not yet found a body, despite divers borrowed from the State Police. Seven League Bridge spanned a relatively narrow section of the Blacksnake River, but the water was deep and dark, the current strong. Volunteers had literally beaten the bushes for five miles on either side of the Blacksnake, but found nothing. Of course, if Paulette Starke had killed her baby, there was no reason to believe that she had gotten rid of it in the river. They had only her statement to go on, and it was probably false.

Paulette Starke was a single mother, her husband a philandering truck driver who had divorced her a year ago, before baby William Jr.'s birth. The father's alibi had already been checked and verified - William Sr. had been on the road at the time of the disappearance, taking a load of pork products to Charlottesville, Virginia. He could not have done it, nor did he seem overly concerned when interviewed. William Sr. didn't give a damn about his ex-wife or his son. He was shacking up with an exotic dancer, and had no desire to saddle himself with a child.

Having eliminated this as a case of custodial kidnapping, Dawn turned next to Paulette's statement.

She had just gotten home from the night shift at the diner. Her mother, Arlene, took care of cranky, colicky William Jr. while his mother was at work. Arlene left around ten o'clock. At eleven-thirty, Paulette took the baby for a drive, hoping to lull him to sleep. She was crossing the Seven League Bridge when her automobile broke down. It was pouring rain, and Paulette did not want take William Jr. with her while she walked the quarter mile back to town. Accordingly, she had kept the lights on, locked the doors and windows, and left the baby alone inside the car.

Not the brightest thing to do, Dawn thought. Then again, Waterboro is a relatively crime-free town, except for the occasional drunken brawl or domestic disturbance. Seven League isn't that popular because it's narrow, a single-lane span. Most people use the Cook Bridge upriver. The chance was very slim that anyone would come across the baby.

Paulette reached the Gas n' Go station at twelve-twenty, where she placed a call to her cousin John Starke (confirmed by phone records). John picked up Paulette at the gas station about ten minutes later. They drove back to Seven League Bridge, where they found the car still locked up, the engine still running... but William Jr. was missing. Paulette collapsed into hysterics. John forced her back into his truck, and they returned to Waterboro to alert the sheriff.

Dawn had read the reports. There was no sign of a struggle, no evidence of forced entry into the automobile. Forensic trace revealed nothing beyond the ordinary. It was as if the child had simply vanished, somehow spirited away while his mother struggled through the driving rain.

The most obvious answer was, of course, that whoever had taken William Jr. had a key to Paulette's battered old Plymouth in their possession. Paulette claimed no one else had a key. To Dawn's mind, that was almost an admission of guilt.

Now Dawn was standing here in the bright summer sunshine with Caro Starke, Paulette's sister. No two women could have been more different. When not shaken by bouts of helpless weeping, Paulette was a soft, plump, pretty young lady, with a sweet and sometimes bewildered disposition. Caro Starke was hard as stone, tough as nails -  lean and rawboned, sun scarred, with a fan of wrinkles at the outer corners of her cold blue eyes. She projected an aura of violence contained only by the strength of her will. It amazed Dawn that someone like Caro would believe in ghosts, and she said so.

"Agent Masters, it ain't a question of belief." Caro turned her icy gaze back to Seven League Bridge. "As I said, take it or leave it - the truth is sitting right over there." She nodded towards the bridge. "Ginny Little took my sister's baby, and no mistake."

Dawn had already eliminated Caro Starke as a suspect. She had been in a bar in Okalacheecola, thirty miles away from Waterboro, with her domestic partner, Reba Hathaway. Caro and Reba were involved in a stable relationship, and a dozen witnesses put them both in the bar at the time of the disappearance.

"I've never heard about Ginny Little," Dawn said. "You know, you'll find places named Crybaby Bridge all over the country. What makes this one so different?"

"You'd best check with Sheriff Aiken. His daddy was a sheriff, too. This ain't the first time somebody's baby got took on Crybaby Bridge." After that cryptic statement, Caro walked away, back to her pickup truck.

Reba Hathaway was sitting in the passenger seat. Sunlight reflected off the windshield, a dazzling blaze that obliterated Reba's face. Only her arm was visible, sticking out of the window - denim shirt, sleeve rolled up to display a dozen glittering silver bracelets on her skinny wrist. Long crimson-colored nails drummed against the truck's side. Caro wrenched the door open, climbed inside. The engine started with a coughing roar, muffled like distant thunder. While Dawn watched, the truck backed up the gravel trail, stones rattling beneath oversized tires. In a few moments, they were gone.

Dawn went to her rental car, a white Toyota whose air conditioning only reached lukewarm temperatures. She paused before stepping inside, looked at Seven League Bridge over her shoulder. Crybaby Bridge.

A place of haunted sadness.

By all rights, she should return to the District Office. The FBI had no jurisdiction in a case involving simple murder. That would be handled by local authorities. She had been in Waterboro for five days, long enough to determine that her involvement was no longer required.

However, something about Caro, about the helpless bewilderment in Paulette Starke's eyes, about that iron bridge squatting there in the sunshine, made Dawn want to stay. Uncover the truth. Solve the mystery.

A place of haunted sadness.

Shooing a cloud of midges away from her face with her hand, Dawn got in her car and followed the gravel trail to Route 43. From there, it was a fifteen minute drive to Sheriff Aiken's office.

Sheriff Elmo Aiken was a jowly, no-nonsense man whose beer belly overhung his belt buckle. The fan sweeping back and forth in his cramped office was not sufficient to prevent sweat stains from darkening the underarms of his khaki uniform shirt. A scar tugged one eyebrow upward, giving him a slightly sardonic look, but his smile was reasonably friendly.

"Whoo!" he said, when Dawn entered the dim reception area. "Hot enough for ya, Agent Masters?"

"If one more person asks me that question," Dawn replied, "I might start shooting."

Aiken guffawed. "C'mon in. Ain't that much cooler than outside, but you can have a Coke from the ice box." He opened a squat refrigerator near his desk, retrieved a sweating can of cola. From a drawer, he removed a half-empty bottle of bourbon. "For medicinal purposes," he said, shaking the bottle invitingly.

Dawn accepted the Coke, shook her head at the bourbon. "No, thank you. This is fine." She rubbed the cold can over her forehead, the back of her neck, the base of her throat. "How can you get anything done in this heat?"

"We manage as best we can." Aiken sat back in his chair, whose springs creaked alarmingly. "This is fairly mild for the time of year. Now, had you come around mid-August... well, that'd be a real humdinger. So dry, the trees are bribing the dogs." He unscrewed the cap on the bourbon bottle, took a sip.

Dawn opened her Coke, swallowed gratefully. "I just had a talk with Caro Starke," she said. "Caro thinks that some ghost took her sister's baby."

Aiken's unscarred eyebrow rose. Slowly, he said, "So that's the way it is. Yes, ma'am, I figured somebody would drag that old story out sooner or later."

"Would you mind telling me the story?" At his blank look, Dawn continued, "I'm at a disadvantage here, Sheriff. I don't know the local lore, or how it might fit in with the current case. Caro mentioned that this was not the first time a baby had disappeared from Seven League Bridge. She hinted that you - or your father - might know more about it."

"Hmph!" Aiken consumed another sip of bourbon. "Most everybody in Waterboro can tell you about Crybaby Bridge. As to that... the whole thing started back in the 40's. Young gal named Ginny Little had a baby out of wedlock. In those days, the condition was a mighty shameful one for mother, child and all the families involved. Ginny kept mum about the father, though. Nobody knew who it was. Well, the baby got born, and Ginny's parents had a talk with some lawyer, who promised the child could get adopted out of state. That suited them, but not Ginny. She loved that baby to distraction, only there weren't many single mothers in Waterboro, as you can imagine."

"Go on." Dawn finished her Coke, put the empty can on his desk.

"Anyhow, one night Ginny took the baby for a walk down by Seven League Bridge. It was summer, hot and muggy, and the baby was irritable. While they were on the bridge, a car come along and hit Ginny, knocked her and the baby into the water. She was badly injured, but my daddy reckoned she was still alive. Maybe Ginny heard the baby crying and went looking for it. At any rate, they found her and the child about a mile downstream, both dead. The baby was snagged under a tree root. A great tragedy for all concerned."

"But I imagine also a great relief for Ginny's parents," Dawn ventured.

"They were good Christian people, Agent Masters," Aiken said, thumping his fist on the desk. The empty cola can fell to the floor, unnoticed. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "Good Christian people who loved their daughter."

"I'm sorry." Dawn's scalp prickled with sweat. "That wasn't very polite. Please accept my apologies."

"Don't matter." Aiken dismissed her apologies with a wave of his hand. "The accident was a hit-and-run, the driver never identified. No evidence, I should say. This was my daddy's case. The file's probably in the back somewhere, along with everything else."

"And what about other infant abductions?"

"There's a belief here in Waterboro that if you drive out to Seven League Bridge with a baby in your car, the ghost of Ginny Little will appear and try to take it. Don't hold much with that sort of thing myself, but there have been three other child kidnappings under similar circumstances. Mother alone, car breaking down, the woman going for help, her baby gone when she returns. The last time it happened was back in '72, as I recall. Right before my daddy retired."

Dawn sat up straight, trying to muster energy for what she knew was going to be a long, hot afternoon. "I'd like to see those files."

Aiken gestured towards the door of the file room - hardly more than an airless closet filled to the ceiling with cardboard boxes. "Help yourself, Agent Masters. Stuff from the 40's will be way back. The rest are... lemme see... Lavernia Hawkins, 1952. Ora Lee Summers, 1967. Dixie Watkins, 1972. Good luck. To my mind, that dog won't hunt, but so be it."

"Thank you." Dawn stood up, wishing she was not representing The Bureau. All field agents had to dress in suits, be well groomed, and absolutely could not wear shorts and a halter top while on duty, no matter how insanely hot it was. She did take off her jacket, hung it neatly over the back of the chair. Her blouse was creamy silk, tucked into trousers. Opening the door of the file room, she eyed the dusty, cobwebbed boxes and sighed. My drycleaner is going to bankrupt me, she thought.

After that, she was too busy, too dirty and too sweaty to think about her ruined clothes.

It was dark before Dawn found all the necessary files. Sheriff Aiken (or his father, or his father's predecessor) had a disorganized filing system. Each box was labeled with a year, but the contents were mixed up, the files simply thrown in on top of each other. After an hour, she found that some files were in the wrong boxes - a shooting from 1959 tucked between a domestic disturbance and a drunk driving charge from 1952. That meant she had to start over from the beginning, and physically go through each box to find the files she was looking for. By the time Dawn had finished, she was completely covered in dust and dirt, her hair festooned with cobwebs. Her silk blouse sported a long grease streak down the front, not to mention damp patches where she had sweated heavily. She also had a sore, stinging patch beneath one breast, where her bra had rubbed her raw.

Dawn blew out a breath, examined the files she had retrieved - Little, Hawkins, Summers, Watkins. She decided to go back to her motel, take a shower, and catch up on Waterboro history afterwards. Stuffing the folders in her oversized purse, Dawn left the sheriff's office. Aiken himself had already gone home, leaving her a key so she could lock up when she was done.

There were no hotels in Waterboro. Dawn had rented a room in nearby Okalacheecola at a family-operated motel - the Comfort Cabins. Not luxurious by any means, but the rooms were clean, there were ice and soda machines, and best of all, air conditioning. True, the window unit was a wheezing, bubbling contraption that seemed on the verge of explosion or expiration, but it worked. Dawn let herself in, drew the drapes, tossed her purse on the bed. Seconds after tearing off her clothes, she was standing in the shower, a drizzle of cool water making her feel human again.

When she was finished, Dawn wrapped herself in a towel, kicked her filthy clothes in a pile near the bed.

There was a 24-hour restaurant next to the motel called the Kountry Kitchen. Dawn had tried the food once. It was uniformly greasy, and everything tasted like bacon fat (even the coffee). The cooks had never heard of bran muffins, green salads or baked anything. If it could be fried, it was. If it couldn't, it wasn't on the menu. Dawn's arteries threatened to close at the mere thought of eating there again.

There was a knock at the door. Dawn's trained response was to reach for her gun, which she had placed on the formica nightstand. Drawing the weapon from its holster, she called, "Who is it?"

"It's me. Caro Starke. I want to talk to you."

"It's late, Ms. Starke. Can this wait until morning?" Dawn slid off the bed, thumbed the safety off her gun. A precautionary measure, in case Caro had decided that the way to get rid of her sister's problem was to eliminate an FBI Agent.

"I brought you some supper."

Dawn went to the door, looked through the peephole. She saw Caro Starke's slightly distorted figure. The woman did not seem to be armed - indeed, she was carrying a brown paper grocery sack under her arm - but Dawn never took chances. She slid the chain off the lock and backed away, holding her weapon steady. "Alright. Come in."

Caro did so, shutting the door behind her. When she caught sight of Dawn, standing there in a towel, holding a gun in a classic two-handed grip, she commented mildly, "I guess you weren't expecting company."

Slowly, Dawn lowered her weapon. "What are you doing here, Ms. Starke?"

"I told you, I wanted to talk. I met Sheriff Aiken on my way to pick up Reba." Caro jerked her chin to one side. "She's a cocktail waitress over at the Fortune. You know, that hooky-jook over yonder."

Dawn puzzled over this piece of information, finally decided that Caro meant that Reba worked at the Fortune Bar, which was a couple of blocks away from her motel. "I see," she replied, putting her gun back into its holster.

"Anyhow, Sheriff Aiken done told me that you were looking into his files. He reckoned you might be at it all night. So I dropped Reba back home and drove over here, figuring you might want something to eat." Caro pulled the paper bag out from under her arm, offered it to Dawn. "I thought I might leave it up front if you weren't back yet, but Cousin Earl said you was here."

Dawn took the bag, opened it to reveal several styrofoam boxes. The smell was delicious. She put the bag down on the bed, said, "Give me a second." A quick rummage in her suitcase, and she found a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Dawn went into the bathroom to put them on. When she returned, Caro was sitting cross-legged on the floor, studying the files from Aiken's office.

"Um, those are official police documents," Dawn said, trying not to sound too officious.

"Aw, hell... Aiken may be sheriff of Waterboro, but that man couldn't pour piss out of a boot with directions printed on the heel." Caro turned a page. "Better eat that food while it's still hot."

Dawn pulled boxes out of the bag. A barbeque pork sandwich, slathered in sauce, topped with a heap of coleslaw. Thick-cut french fries, barbeque beans, an ear of corn with butter. A heap of paper napkins had been provided, along with a plastic knife and fork, and a styrofoam cup of sweet iced tea. Dawn took a bite of the sandwich, rolled her eyes.

"Good!" she said around a mouthful of pulled pork and spicy red sauce.

"I'm glad you like it."

Caro read silently while Dawn ate her belated supper. When she had finished, Dawn said, "Anything interesting?"

For answer, Caro simply handed her the files. "I'm going for a Coke. You want something?"

"No, I'm fine."

Dawn was so immersed in her reading that she lost track of time. When she finally glanced at her watch, she realized that Caro had been gone for forty-five minutes. Puzzled and slightly alarmed, Dawn left her room, went to the soda machine. The woman was not there. Cousin Earl, the night desk clerk, told Dawn that Caro had peeled out of the parking lot about a minute after exiting Dawn's room.

"Shit!" A sudden flash of insight nearly blinded her. Dawn sprinted back to her room, grabbed purse and keys and gun, along with the original Little file - the case that had started it all.

The previous sheriff's notes indicated that a young man named Lester Watkins had been suspected of being the father of Ginny Little's baby. His alibi for the night of the hit-and-run was supported by his best friend, Izzard Hawkins; Izzy's girlfriend, Millie Summers; and an independent witness - Poe Starke. The sheriff had thought that they were lying, but he could not prove it.

Then Izzy died in an accident on Crybaby Bridge about six months later, his car driving off the narrow pass. His girlfriend survived the accident. She claimed to have seen the figure of a woman appear in front of the car just before it plunged off the bridge.

Dawn jumped into her Toyota, intent on catching Caro before anything tragic occurred. She was worried and simultaneously pissed off, realizing that she had been used.

Caro wanted me to get those files. She wanted to see them, try to connect the disappearances somehow. In her mind, the fault lies with whoever killed Ginny Little and her baby. How nice, bringing me supper, stabbing me in the back. And I fell for it like an idiot! Dawn frowned, pressed her foot harder on the accelerator, one hand on the wheel. She pulled out her cell phone with her free hand, dialed Sheriff Aiken's home number.

A man's voice answered sleepily, "Hey, Aiken here."

"Sheriff Aiken, this is Special Agent Dawn Masters. I need some information, and I need it now."

"Do you know what time it is?" Aiken sounded aggrieved.

"Wake up, man! This is urgent! Life or death!"

"Well, don't get your knickers in a twist. What's the problem?"

"I need to know about Lester Watkins, Izzard Hawkins, Poe Starke and Millie Summers."

"Christ on a crutch! You call me up at two in the morning to ask me that? Can't it wait?"

"No. Start talking, sheriff, or there may be a murder to investigate in the morning."

"All right, all right. Lemme see... Lester Watkins married Dixie McKay. Poe Starke never married, he moved to Atlanta, died of a heart attack in 1981. Millie Summers got a job out in Charlottesville, got married some time back. She has several grandchildren now, or so I've heard told. Izzard Hawkins is dead."

Dawn skidded her Toyota around another driver, who blared his horn at her recklessness. "What relation is Poe Starke to Paulette Starke?"

"Her cousin. Son of her father's brother."

"And Dixie McKay... that's the Dixie Watkins whose baby disappeared in 1972?"

"Ain't hardly likely," Aiken answered dryly. "However, Lester and Dixie had a daughter called Betty Jo, and she had a daughter named Dixie after her grandmomma. Betty Jo's the poor woman who lost her baby."

"Okay." Dawn was trying to keep it all straight in her mind. "Did Izzy Hawkins have any close relations?"

"Sure did. His younger brother, Maynard. Dammit, Agent Masters, what the hell is going on?"

"Is Maynard connected to Lavernia Hawkins?"

Aiken sighed. "Yes, ma'am. She was his wife. And before you ask, yes, it is the same Lavernia Hawkins whose baby was stolen back in 1952. I reckon I can anticipate your next question. Millie Summers had a much younger brother, Charles. Surprised all hell out of Momma Summers, since she was forty-six when little Charlie popped out of the hatch. Charles Summers married Ora Lee in the spring of 1966. Their baby was abducted in 1967." He let out a huge yawn. "Anything else I can help you with, now that I'm up?"

"So all the children who have disappeared are related in some way to the original people involved in the Little case: Lester Watkins, Izzy Hawkins, Millie Summers, and Poe Starke."

"Yes, ma'am. Where are you headed with all this?"

"Is Lester Watkins still alive?"

"He lives alone, in a trailer park out on Crabapple Road, north of Main Street. The Twilight Gardens. Hey, you don't think old Lester had anything to do with Paulette's baby, do you? He's all stove up, can't hardly get around these days. Hey, what were you talking about... a murder?"

"I've got to go. Thanks." Dawn cut Aiken off, threw her phone on the passenger seat. She now had a good idea of what Caro intended to do. I'm too late to prevent her from getting to Lester at the Twilight Gardens, but I think I know where she's taking him. If she hasn't killed him already. In a parallel universe, all of it would make some weird kind of sense. In this world, Dawn was going on nothing but intiution. Her guts were in a roil, sour bubbles breaking against the back of her throat.

Dawn wrenched at the wheel, made an illegal U-turn. Brakes squealing, tires smoking, she fishtailed out of the turn and managed to straighten her Toyota back into the right lane. Protest of horns followed her as she sped east.

Straight as the crow flies, to Crybaby Bridge.

"Confess!" Caro said loudly. She was pointing a shotgun at Lester Watkins, and there was no doubt that it was loaded. Caro handled the weapon with the ease of a woman who had grown up hunting.

She and the old man were standing in the middle of Crybaby Bridge, illuminated by her truck's headlights. Dawn drove right up behind the truck, got out, her gun in hand. "Caro Starke! Drop your weapon and put your hands behind your head!" she shouted.

"You don't understand!" Caro called back. "He did it. He killed Ginny Little and her baby. He's the reason!" She gestured with the shotgun towards Lester, who cowered away from the barrels.

Lester Watkins was in his seventies, a bent-backed man with a liver-spotted skull, wattles of wrinkled skin bobbling on his jowls. He shaded his eyes with a hand that shook badly. "Hey, you there! Shoot this damned crazy Starke afore she kills me!" His voice was cracked, wheezing.

"Shut up, you old bastard!" Caro snarled.

Dawn wiped sweat off her face. A mosquito buzzed in her ear; she brushed the insect away. "Caro, listen to me. Maybe Lester Watkins killed Ginny Little all those years ago, but that has nothing to do with what happened to Paulette's baby."

"The hell it doesn't!" Caro said through gritted teeth.

Dawn was startled to hear Reba saying from behind her, "Best listen to her, Agent Masters, and put that popgun away before somebody gets hurt." Dawn turned her head. Reba came out of the shadows, holding another shotgun. Like Caro, the way she held it told Dawn that Reba knew how to use the weapon very well.

She allowed Reba to take her gun, and cursed herself for being fool enough to forget to strap her hold-out pistol to her ankle. The little .22 was only effective at close range, but it could give an opponent a nasty surprise. She had left it at the hotel. Reba pushed Dawn forward, until they were standing next to Caro. Lester Watkins watched, his mouth working in ineffectual rage.

"Well, what about it?" Caro pulled back both hammers with her thumb. They made a chilling snick-snick sound that carried in the still night air, echoed back from the bridge's iron supports. "Call her, Lester. Call Ginny Little. For once in your miserable life, you're going to do the right thing and tell the truth."

Lester gave her an awful grin. "Just who do you think you are? Nothin' but a no-count Starke!"

"I'm done debating with you, old man. Call Ginny Little. Tell the truth about what happened. Do it now, or I'll blow your kneecap off. Won't kill you right off, but it'll hurt some. Then I'll do the next kneecap. After that, I reckon I'll work my way up from your toes. I got plenty of ammunition, Lester. Deer shot. And we got all night to play."

"Please don't do this," Dawn said, struggling to remember anything that she had learned during a hostage negotiation seminar she had taken about five years ago. "Caro, I'm begging you. Don't do anything now that you'll regret later."

"Me and Sheriff Elmo Aiken are going to have words after this night's work," Caro replied, ignoring what Dawn had just said. "He could have ended this a long time ago, if he and his daddy had more'n a penny's worth of courage between 'em."

It was difficult to tell in the stark white light of the headlights, but Lester's color had heightened. Spots of scarlet burned on his cheekbones. "How'd you find out about it, anyway? Was it that no-good Poe Starke? I paid him good cash money to stick to his story. I knew that Starke couldn't be trusted!"

Dawn's eyes widened. Poe Starke had been bribed to support Watkins' alibi! So Lester had lied, and Millie had lied, and Izzy had lied, too. Lester had gotten away with cold blooded murder. Another connection made. She still could not bring herself to believe in ghosts, and yet...

Lester continued, "All right! I did it! I killed the bitch! Is that what you want to hear? Yes, ma'am, I run her down in my brand new Ford, and that brat of hers went with her. Right down into the Blacksnake River. See, Millie lived next door to the Little place; she called me and told me when Ginny walked out that night, bastard child in tow. I followed 'em to the Seven League Bridge and run her down. Poe Starke saw me, so I paid him to keep his mouth shut, tell the sheriff I was with him and Izzy and Millie over to his place."

"Why?" The question slipped out before Dawn could suppress it.

"Because Ginny was gonna to tell everybody that I was the baby's daddy!" Lester wiped a streak of spittle from his chin. "She was quiet for a while, hopin' I'd marry her, save her from disgrace - the poor dumb bitch! I wasn't going to marry no white-trash Little, ruin my life with an ignorant wife and a puking bastard child. No, ma'am! I had my eye on another girl. Prettier, better mannered, pure as the driven snow. Miss Dixie was the one I wanted for my bride. Her daddy had money. Dixie was a real lady, not cheap and trashy. Women like Ginny ain't good for nothing 'cept one thing, and I swear every hot-peckered boy in town had had a poke at her. I couldn't be sure if I was the father, and I sure as hell didn't care. I wasn't going to let no whore ruin my chances, was I? No, ma'am! I solved the problem, got on with my life. So you can kill me if you wish, Caro Starke of the no-count Starkes, but I'll die proud of what I did!"

Dawn saw it out of the corner of her eye - a white mist gathering on the surface of the black water. Bellowing frogs fell silent, as did the crickets' chirping. No sound at all except a sighing breeze that stroked ripples across the river, made wavelets lap at the weedy banks. The moon was obscured by clouds. From below, a rusting iron support groaned once, and fell silent.

"I knew it," Caro said with tight-lipped triumph. "I wasn't sure 'till Paulette's baby got took. I needed them police files for the whole story. Nobody remembers right 'cause it was a long time ago, folks get mixed up and tell it wrong. Everybody knows about Crybaby Bridge, only they don't know what really happened." She paused, blinked sweat from her eyes. "I reckon the dead are pretty patient; Ginny waited for her chance to get you back, Lester. You and them others that told lies, covered up the truth. When she got the opportunity, she took it. The sins of the father shall be visited upon the son. Watkins, Starke, Hawkins and Summers - all those families have paid for your sins. My sister's baby, Lester - God damn you for a selfish sumbitch!"

Lester stared at her. "What do you want me to do about it? I'm an old man. I'll pay for my own sins soon enough."

"Not soon enough to suit me." Caro nodded at him. "Go on, Lester. Call Ginny Little up from the river. Let her decide when it's time for your sins to catch up with you."

"You're crazy."

"Maybe so, but I'm the one holding the gun."

Lester turned; the headlights threw stark shadows across his withered features. "Ginny Little! Ginny Little, come out! I'm the one that killed you, girl. I reckon you're burning in Hell, but if you ain't, then come out and face me!"

Dawn shivered, gooseflesh prickling her arms. "Do you see that?" she asked Reba out of the corner of her mouth.

Reba pursed her lips. "Hush," she breathed. "It's a-comin'."

The mist grew, gathered into a swirling ball that danced lightly upon the water. Lester cackled, held up his hands in a parody of a boxer's stance. "C'mon, girl! The dead can't harm the living, so bring it on!"

Slowly, almost gently, the mist formed into the figure of a young woman. Opaque, softly lit from within, she looked like a shaft of moonlight fashioned into human form. Ginny Little wore a flower-patterned dress that billowed around her knees. She stood on the surface of the Blacksnake River, bare feet supported by rippling black water.

Lester trembled, lowered his hands. "Ginny?"

The spirit said nothing, merely watched him with a reproachful expression. She seemed to be waiting for something.

Before Dawn could gather her wits, Caro stepped forward, nudged Lester with the shotgun. "Go on," she said harshly. "Get along with you, old man. Reap what you've sowed. Join your lover and your child." She pushed him onto the edge of the bridge, where tarred wooden trestles hung out over the water. There was nothing between Lester and the river except a forty-foot drop. He said nothing, just continued to tremble and shake.

Caro seemed prepared to simply shove him over. Reba called out, "Honey, wait! You'll kill him."

"He deserves it," Caro replied, a stubborn expression on her bony face. "He killed that woman and her baby." Nevertheless, she hesitated, and the spirit of Ginny Little struck back at her murderer with a sudden swiftness that was terrifying.

One moment, Lester was poised on the trestles. The next, he was wrapped around with misty tendrils, a woman's scream of rage rending the air again and again. Caro stared into the Blacksnake, while Reba and Dawn were involuntarily drawn to join her at the edge of the bridge. Dawn could not tear her eyes away. She was rooted to the spot, paralyzed by horror and fear and fascination.

From somewhere, a baby began crying. The sound grew louder, then faded altogether as Lester whimpered and pleaded, arms lashed to his side by glowing moonlight mist. He was dragged off Crybaby Bridge and into the river, held in a ghost's implacable embrace. There was hardly a splash, hardly a ripple as cold black water closed over his head. A few bubbles broke the surface, then nothing. The fog rolled back, grew thinner, and vanished.

After a moment that seemed like a lifetime, a frog began its full-throated bellow. Crickets chirped.

A baby started crying again.

The sound broke her paralysis.

Dawn jumped off the bridge a split second after Caro. She hit the water feet first, floundered around in wet darkness until her head was out, and she was gasping for air. Feeling as if she had swallowed half the Blacksnake River, she shouted, "Where is it?" and gagged as more gritty water sluiced down her throat.

"Over here! Over here!" Caro's voice came from somewhere to her left. Dawn swam in that direction, powerful strokes that were only a little hampered by the jeans and T-shirt that she wore. When she reached Caro, the woman was supporting a screaming baby, treading water while trying to keep William Jr. afloat with one hand.

Sirens pierced the night. A police car tore up the gravel trail, stones crunching loudly and scattering when the driver slammed on the brakes. "What the hell is going on here?" called Sheriff Aiken. He pulled a portable searchlight out of his car, trained it on the river. Dawn blinked as brightness seared her vision, leaving dancing red spots behind.

"We're over here!" Caro said. She tossed her head, slinging strands of wet black hair out of her eyes. She looked at Dawn, and grinned. "Do you believe in ghosts, Agent Masters?"

Well, ma'am," Dawn said, deliberately mimicking Caro's drawl, "I reckon I do now." She was elated, and did not care if she was grinning like a fool. Later, she might feel pity for Lester, but not now. Miracles deserved to be celebrated.

William Starke, Jr. cried lustily, waving his tiny fists in protest. Caro guffawed, choked on a mouthful of water.

Sheriff Aiken and Reba slid down the riverbank with glad cries, welcoming the prodigal son back home.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

Bark at the Moon
by Nene Adams ©2002 - All rights reserved

In the forest called Malingering Deep, a woman was running for her life.

Harsh panting, legs crashing through the undergrowth, branches whipping across a sweat stung face. Wet leaves to stumble through, fallen logs that crumbled at a clutching hand, devious pitfalls to snare the unwary foot. She stumbled, caught herself, and ran on. Pain under her ribs, hot and sharp, stabbing knives at every breath.

Behind her, the hunters were coming. Yip-yip-yip as their dogs caught the scent of her passage. These men were skilled at tracking prey through Malingering Deep. Beer and bourbon and self-righteous indignation had whipped them into a frenzy. They hated her because she was an outsider. A do-gooding sheriff who had no business in Lingerville, even though it lay within her jurisdiction. Previous sheriffs had left Lingerville alone. The town was small, the people close-knit and hostile. They had their own brand of justice in Lingerville. However, Annalee Crow could not turn a blind eye.

She had made it her business to investigate poaching in Malingering Deep - particularly wolf poaching. Who cared if the wolves were supposed to be protected? These men knew that wolves were indiscriminate killers, beasts of waste and desolation who ought to be exterminated. The purpose of dumb animals was to serve man, and wolf pelts brought good money. If trapping was illegal, then it was federal law at fault, not honest men trying to earn a living.

Arrests of the three most blatant poachers had inflamed matters in Lingerville to the point where Sheriff Annalee Crow was running for her life through Malingering Deep, just ahead of a lynch mob. Murphys, Gunns and Ricketts - the three clans of Lingerville were going to avenge a wrong against their kin, get rid of a nuisance, and have a good time doing it, too. Disposal of the body would not be a problem. Some deer hunter might stumble across her bones in a few decades, somewhere in the midst of the forest.

Eye-watering slap of a branch across her eyes, which momentarily blinded her. She had no weapon, there had been no time. When the trucks had come roaring up her driveway, filled with armed men, Annalee had simply jumped out of the bedroom window. She lived on the edge of Malingering Deep; her first instinct was to try and lose them in the forest. She had not anticipated dogs.

Now Annalee dodged behind a tree trunk, almost luminescent with green fungi, and tried to catch her breath. Her bare feet were numb, her legs coated to mid-shin with wet loam and leaves. She was glad that she could not feel them. Deep, vaguely painful sensations told her that her feet had sustained damage in her wild flight. She shivered uncontrollably in a combination of cold and adrenaline shock. Annalee was wearing a man's undershirt and a pair of cotton panties - her usual sleeping attire, and scant protection against the damp chill of Malingering Deep.

She was also lost.

Malingering Deep was two hundred and seventy miles of old growth forest, which did not include a ridge of foothills that bordered the forest's southern edge, and the fast-moving Tippatoc River in the west. Annalee had no compass, no knife, no tools whatsoever. Even if she managed to evade the men hunting her, her chances of survival were slim. She might die of hypothermia before morning if she could not find shelter, and some kind of warmth.

There were supposed to be people living in Malingering Deep, a family whose members were rarely seen. She could not remember the name, had only seen a pair of them once - stocky muscular man and shy young woman, coming out of the grocery store. The young woman had lagged behind, been hassled by some local toughs. Annalee had stepped in while the girl scurried away without a word. That was a year ago. She tried to think. The family hunted rabbits mostly, deer in season, and sometimes hired out as local guides. If she could find them...

Yip-yip-yip! The baying of dogs made her head snap up. Annalee groped on the ground for something, anything she could use to defend herself. It had been a wet autumn. The only stick that came to hand was rotten. The hounds were yapping shrilly, alerting their masters that the prey was close. She sobbed once, bit her lip until she tasted blood. Annalee was sweating heavily despite her grave-cold flesh. She was going to die. The knowledge made her bowels turn to water.

Death was approaching on booted feet, wading through slick leaves and mud. Death spoke in twanging tones to dogs that shat and pissed in excitement. Death had guns and bullets and rock solid determination. Annalee found herself praying under her breath. She had not believed in God since the age of twelve.

Annalee could feel rough bark under her cheek, smell the wild green odor of the forest around her. She gouged her nails into the soil, trembling, on the verge of tears. Annalee Crow had thought of herself as a brave woman. She had faced her share of dangers. There was a rippling scar on her ribcage that testified to a close call with a drunken, knife-wielding woman in a bar. It had happened in her home town, Brightbrook, about sixty miles east of Lingerville. The woman was her mother. That was Annalee's first act as a sheriff's deputy, and very nearly proved to be her last.

Taking over from Sheriff Muller had been a triumph. Annalee had gone forth to do battle with Lingerville's poachers, believing her armor of badge and gun would be protection enough. She was wrong. Arrogance had brought her to this pass, alone and unarmed and defenseless. Death was coming, and she did not have the strength to flee from it anymore.

As a child growing up near Malingering Deep, she had come to love the wolves that lived there. Silent, smoky shapes that flickered among the trees like ghosts. Mystery shadows. Their howls had comforted her, those times when she was curled up beneath a tattered quilt waiting for her mother to come home. The raging and stink of whiskey and clumsy slaps were easier to bear, if she thought the wolves were watching. Her mother hated them, as did many people who lived on the edge of the Deep. As did the men who were approaching, Death in baseball caps and dirty jeans. Death eager for an accounting.

Annalee could not fight them all. The best she could hope for was to enrage them enough to make the ending quick.

She took a ragged breath, trying to muster energy. It was hard, so hard with cold shackling her bones, ice creeping into her flesh. When she was twelve years old, her mother had almost beaten her to death in a futile rage against the sumbitch who had fathered Annalee, then abandoned his lover to bear a bastard child alone. The feeling she had then, lying with her face sticking to the floor in a puddle of her own blood, was similar to the weightlessness she felt now. As if her head was a bubble of air, her limbs threatening to float away of their own accord.

Annalee got up, using the tree trunk for support. She was not twelve years old anymore. She was a grown woman, a sheriff, and by God she was going to go down fighting! She would use fists and nails and teeth, keep on living as long as she could, and die when she was good and goddamned ready. Annalee steadied herself against the tree, knowing the dogs would come upon her first. They would have been trained to keep their prey pinned down in one place, not to attack. Men were the real killers in Malingering Deep.

A howl caught her attention. It was deep throated, a long spiraling sound that was picked up by others. A chorus to the moon. She tasted blood on her tongue, realized she had bitten her lip again. Then the hounds started screaming.

Annalee was paralyzed. She clung to the tree, scarcely able to breathe. Her eyes were wide open, registering everything in minute detail, but these details slid across her mind in a bewildering jigsaw of images. A man staggered past her, stream of blood arching from the hole in his neck. He grunted, turned to her, his expression full of horror. Still, she could not move, not even when warmth sprayed across her face. She blinked. Blood looked black in the moonlight.

Another blink. A hound collapsed at her feet. The animal's belly had been ripped open, coils of intestines spilling out of the gash. Other bites had torn patches from its tan coat. The hound quivered, paws paddling the air, and died. Odor of dung and blood. Black in the moonlight. Blink.

She could hear men screaming to each other, double boom-boom of shotguns that shook her like thunder. Snarling throaty sounds. High pitched yelp of an injured dog. Annalee also listened to the pulse that pounded in her temples. Blink. She found herself fascinated by the faint spiral curl in the patch of fungi near her left eye, the texture of bark above and below.

Malingering Deep was silent once more. She felt soft, moist panting against her ankle. Annalee's gaze tracked downward...

And she looked full into the eyes of a wolf.

Black coat standing up in a mane around the wickedly muzzled face. Golden eyes blinking up at her. Tongue licking lips that were stained with blood. The wolf stepped forward delicately, pausing with one paw raised.

Annalee whimpered.

The wolf cocked its head, let out a low whine. Took another step.

Annalee stared in fascination and dread.

Suddenly, another wolf appeared. This one was bigger, dark coat sporting a streak of white on the side of its forehead. It, too, stared at her with golden eyes. The newcomer gruffed at the smaller wolf, who whined again, then ran away. Disappearing into the undergrowth like a ghost, as if it had never been.

Annalee blinked, and the other wolf was gone, too.

Slowly, she forced herself to relax. Forced herself to breathe, not gulp air like a stranded fish. Forced the paralysis back, took control of her mind. Muscle cramps burned in her arms and legs. Annalee stepped out from behind the tree. She already had a good idea of what she would find.

Bodies. A dozen men, plus twice as many hounds. Shotguns in lax hands. Bite wounds on them all. Abruptly, Annalee was reminded of a bumper sticker she had seen on the back of a pickup truck: You can take my gun when you pry my cold dead finger off the trigger. She began to giggle; the giggle turned into a guffaw, which led to a bout of hysterical laughter that left her weeping. Tears rolled down her cheeks, salt taste in her mouth. She sobbed, and did not know why.

After a while, Annalee's hysterics subsided. She stood up, unconsciously rubbing filthy hands across her shirt. Her problems had lessened slightly. She was no longer being hunted by a lynch mob, but she was still lost in Malingering Deep. Dawn was, by her calculation, several hours away. Moonlight filtered down through the forest canopy, but unless she could find a vantage point or climb a tree, she would not be able to see the sun rising in the east. Direction seemed impossible to determine. Annalee was exhausted, freezing, hardly able to think. She could have taken clothing from the bodies, but she could not bring herself to do it.

A cold wet muzzle pushed into the palm of her hand.

Somewhat immunized against surprises, Annalee did not jump, although her leg muscles twitched. She looked down, and saw the smaller wolf again. Annalee thought it was probably female. The wolf's tail did not exactly wag, but it did move ever so slightly in a friendly way.

"Hey," Annalee said quietly. "I thought y'all were done for the night."

Golden eyes bored into her own, trying to deliver a message that Annalee did not understand. She did react, however, when the wolf - apparently growing impatient with her stupidity - nipped her with sharp white teeth.

"Ow!" Annalee examined the bruise on her wrist. "What did you do that for?"

The wolf walked away, paused, and deliberately looked back at her. Annalee gaped. The wolf sighed, went back, and nipped her again, this time on the ankle.

"Okay, I think I get it. No more biting, if you please." Annalee followed the wolf through Malingering Deep. The animal always stayed ahead, but was careful not to leave her two-legged companion too far behind. When Annalee faltered, the wolf came to her side, applying more encouraging nips. In spite of the pain, Annalee grew to love the black wolf. There was intelligence in those golden eyes. Intelligence and something she could have sworn was affection.

She fell once or twice, sprawling on the ground, not sure if she could get up again. The wolf licked her face, tugged her hair, nosed her ear until she was on her feet. Drag-assing forward, too tired to avoid brambles that scratched her arms and neck. Too exhausted to pay attention to where she was going. If the wolf had not alerted her with an impatient bark, Annalee would have knocked herself unconscious on a low hanging tree limb. Many dangers were avoided this way.

Without the wolf's persistent ministrations, Annalee was sure she would have died.

After what seemed hours, the trees began to thin. Annalee saw the outline of her house rearing against a dawn-lightening sky. Joy lent strength to her faltering stride. She stumbled towards her home, and stopped. The wolf was waiting at the edge of forest; it was clear that she had no intention of going further.

Annalee did not know what to say. The wolves had saved her life twice in one night. This wolf, in particular. No expression of gratitude seemed enough. Finally, she raised a hand, as if in benediction, and said, "Thank you."

The wolf threw back her head and howled. The sound was answered by other wolves singing from the depths of Malingering Deep. Annalee howled, too; her voice mingled with the chorus, a sustained note that wavered until she was out of breath. When she opened her eyes, the female wolf was gone.

In the morning, Sheriff Annalee Crow led a party into Malingering Deep to recover the bodies - an even dozen Murphys, Gunns and Ricketts. Her deputies were shocked, but knew better than to break silence. Officially, the men's cause of death was deemed accidental - a hunting trip gone fatally awry. Too much beer, not enough common sense. It was a common story.

Despite Annalee's efforts, rumors flew through the communities surrounding the forest. Whispers of witches, ogres, man-eating monsters, even werewolves. Bible sales skyrocketed, as did visits to the local root doctor for magical protection against evil, because superstition is as strong as religion in some parts of the south. The remaining poachers in Lingerville, remembering their lost kinsmen, decided to stay out of the forest for good.

Annalee missed the black female wolf with an intensity she found surprising. In dreams, she felt dense fur beneath her fingertips, saw golden eyes watching her. Affection. Love. She began to worry about her state of mind.

One day in spring, Annalee was walking to the grocery store in Brightbrook when she spotted a stocky muscular man across the street. He had a streak of white in his dark hair, just to one side of his forehead. He was accompanied by a shy young woman, whose mane of coarse black hair was held back from her face with a rubber band.

Annalee stared, stunned.

The young woman looked over her shoulder at the stunned sheriff, her golden eyes unblinking. The man continued on his way, heading towards Malingering Deep with uninterrupted strides.

"Hey!" Annalee called, jerked out of her reverie at the thought of never seeing the young woman again. "Hey," she said more softly when she had caught up, "what's your name?"

"Lunella." The reply was diffident, but the golden eyes flashed, peering at her through a fringe of hair.

Invitation? Something more than simple friendliness? Annalee could not tell. She was seized by an overwhelming desire to walk with this young woman, this Lunella. Talk to her. Run with her through the forest. Howl together. Annalee felt almost giddy. She had read a book long ago that stated: wolves mate for life.

Oh, yes, Annalee thought, staring mesmerized into golden eyes. She could read the message now. The day that Annalee had saved Lunella from those toughs, she had been chosen. A mate for life. Part of the pack. The wolves had saved her from the Murphys, Gunns and Ricketts because of Lunella. She might appear human now, but Lunella was a wolf on the inside. Loyal, protective of her mate, patiently waiting for poor dumb Annalee to get a clue.

Love at first bite. Hell, my bruises are barely healed. It doesn't matter. I want to be with her. Goddamn! I wonder if we'll have to live in the Deep with her family. I don't care. Lunella, Lunella... where have you been all my life?

Annalee cleared her throat. She was not sure how wolf mating rituals were supposed to go, but she would figure it out. One step at the time. "Um, how do you like your steak?" she asked.

"Extra rare," Lunella replied, grinning to show white teeth that looked slightly too long for her mouth. Her golden eyes sent another message: It's about damned time, Annalee Crow.

Never mind. Annalee would definitely figure it out. She had time.

And if anybody don't like it, they can eat shit and bark at the moon.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

Hell Come A-Walkin'
by Nene Adams ©2002 - All rights reserved

So, y'all want to hear a story? Settle down, then - do close that window, Wendell, before that rain plumb ruins your Meemaw's chifferobe - and I'll spin you a tale about the Great Battle of Bottletree, just the way your Meemaw told it to me.

This happened back in the days of the War of Northern Aggression, when General Sherman and his Yankee army were marching to the sea, burning everything in their path like hell come a-walkin'. What wasn't burned, they stole. Didn't matter if it was red-hot or nailed down, them damned Yankees swarmed around like a cloud of locusts, leaving hardly a crumb behind. Soldiers peeled off in groups from the columns, most times a few days ahead of the main body, to scout and scavenge. Not a shred of common decency in the lot of them. The Yankees took bread from the mouths of defenseless women and children. They destroyed their homes and crops, their crimes multiplying as they drove further south. It was an ungallant war. The battlelines were drawn, not against our brave Confederate soldiers, but striking full upon those frail beloved who were left behind. Our boys' families suffered greatly at the hands of Sherman's men.

Refugees brought the word to friends and neighbors as they fled that devil's march. Hell come a-walkin', all right, and terror went right alongside.

There was a plantation on the land where your Meemaw's house sits - the actual site's a bit north of where your uncle Cutshall has his hunting shack - which was owned by a woman named Calpurnia Arbelle Burke. Miss Calpurnia was an educated lady, obstinate as a mule, with a will of purest iron. Too contrary to marry, she lived with her friend and companion, Baby Tishamingo. Miss Baby (one of the Birmingham Tishamingos, not the no-count Kempersville branch) was raised on a sugar plantation in Haiti. They didn't keep no slaves in Sans Souci, but somehow the fields were worked, their needs were met, and no man was the wiser.

In those days, the nearest town to the Sans Souci plantation was a tiny little place called Bottletree. Hardly much of consequence in Bottletree at all, 'cept a church for marrying, and a cemetery for burying. There was some farmsteads in the area, a few sharecroppers, a clan or two of hill folk - just enough custom to support Bottletree's four merchants, the pastor and the blacksmith. Miss Calpurnia was the uncrowned queen of the place. When she and Miss Baby arrived at church in style on a Sunday morning, clip-clopping along in their fancy surrey with a yellow fringed top, men took off their hats and woman curtsied in the street. People back then knew how to mind their manners - unlike you, Mary Eudoxia, so get that finger out of your nose 'cause I'm fixin' to ask the cat to bite it off!

Now, it happens that there were sometimes strange doin's up at Sans Souci. Lightning running side to side, strange colors in the sky, unseen voices speaking in tongues, the occasional rain of toady frogs... that kind of thing. But since Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby were always most generous and kind in their dealings with the people of Bottletree, nobody paid much mind to their little ways. Besides, frogs make good bait for bass fishing, and the old pastor was often to be found with pole in hand when he wasn't preaching or organizing war relief.

Life was good in Bottletree, even in those hardscrabble times... until the day they got the news that a band of Sherman's raiders was spotted, riding hard for the town.

Quite naturally, the good folk called upon Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby to save Bottletree from the Union vultures. The ladies came riding down from Sans Souci in their fancy yellow-fringed surrey. Everyone had gathered outside the feed store - farmsteaders, merchants, sharecroppers, hill people - and all of them looked to Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby for help. Since the able-bodied men were away at war, there were mostly women and children left, along with the old and the infirm.

Miss Calpurnia asked if they were willing to fight. Hell yes! went up the answer. They had almost nothing 'cept good will and good hearts, but not a one of those people was going to run from damned Yankees. It was their land, and by God, they were going to defend it. So Miss Calpurnia sent them out to gather what weapons they could, before the soldiers arrived.  Then the ladies went back up to Sans Souci, to do what they could in defense of Bottletree.

With Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby on their side, the Bottletree folks felt they had a chance.

The soldiers against them numbered fifty-odd; they were trained killers, and well armed, besides. Against them stood a dozen mothers, about as many grandmothers and grandfathers. The children were hidden in the church, it being hoped that even a Godless Yankee would hesitate to blaspheme against the Lord by setting His house afire. Bearing pitchforks, flintlock rifles, hatchets and native ingenuity, Bottletree's defenders made themselves ready to repulse the enemy.

Just before dusk they came, soldiers riding proud in blue, silhouetted against a scarlet sky.

Lester George, quit pulling your cousin Minnie's pigtails and pay attention, boy! If you're so restless, maybe you'd better go and chop some firewood instead of sitting here pestering the devil out of your cousin. Oh? You want to hear the story? Then settle down, son, and leave that girl alone. Minnie, if you don't stop whining, I'm going to give you something to cry about. All right? Are we done? Good.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes... so the Union soldiers came to Bottletree. They had found the farmsteads deserted, the livestock driven into the woods. Onward they came, the arrogant ones, believing there could be no opposition. They were wrong. The Bottletree folk stepped out to meet them, weapons at the ready, their souls commended to God, Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby. The Yankees drew their pistols, eager for a fight. It looked like the end.

Suddenly, yonder from the plantation house came a clap of thunder so loud it startled the deer for miles around. Lightning bolts flew side to side. Strange lights filled the air, like stars fallen out of Heaven. Unseen voices proclaimed a hallelujah chorus in tongues unknown to man. Toady frogs fell from the sky, plopped in the dirt, and started croaking doom.

That may not have been enough to drive the Yankees away, but Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby weren't done yet. No, sir! For shambling figures came streaming out from the plantation fields, shedding dirt and flesh and flies. More came from the church cemetery, to box up the Yankees before and behind. Some were hardly more than bone held together with rags, but most still had some juice left in them. Lurching like drunkards, teeth bared in skull faces, Bottletree's dead had been awakened.

Well, it wasn't much of a fight after that. While the good folks watched, them dead folks whupped hell out of those damned Yankees. They tore them scalawags into itty bitty pieces. When it was all over, there wasn't much left of Sherman's soldiers except a few scraps that were quickly scraped up and fed to the hogs. After that, not a trace remained.

The dead went back to the cemetery, dug themselves back into their graves. The ones from the plantation house just fell over and lay there, gathering flies. Bottletree's people consigned these defenders to a corner of the cemetery, giving them the reward of consecrated soil to rest their weary bones. Of Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby, nothing was ever found. The ladies disappeared from Sans Souci, and were never seen alive again.

They were particularly missed by the pastor, since he had to catch his own bait from then on.

So, when the War of Northern Aggression was finished, the citizens of Bottletree were moved to erect a statue of Miss Calpurnia Arbelle Burke and Miss Baby Tishamingo, the women who had saved their town from destruction. Did you know that the statue still exists? Oh, yes... it stands in a clearing out there by Crossfire Creek. It's said that the ladies protect their own, and they are quick to punish offense.

How do I know, Wendell?

Take a look at my hand, son. See where I've lost these two fingers?

Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby snatched 'em clean off 'cause I was a bad boy!

Boo!

Aw, now, Wendell... stop crying. You too, Minnie. I was just funning you. Lester, stop sniveling. Mary Eudoxia, that finger's going to start digging out brain if you aren't careful.

You children know we're fixing to sell this land to them developers from Up North. They're going to move the bodies in the old cemetery and everything. I reckon they'll get rid of that statue somehow. Yes, Wendell, I know your Meemaw don't like it. She's old, son, and a mite touched in the head. This house of hers is worth a pretty penny. I already signed the deal. Uncle Cutshall will have to build himself a new hunting shack someplace else.

Minnie, I do not care what your Meemaw said. I'm not selling your heritage for a mess of pottage. These Up North people are nice, not anything like Sherman's Yankees.

Yes, Lester, the land's been in your family for a long time. I knew that when I married your momma, who ain't got a lick of sense, either. Takes after Meemaw in that regard. Now, I may be your stepdaddy, but when I tell you to stop that crying, I mean it, buster. There ain't no such thing as curses, whatever the silly women of this family may believe. Oh, Uncle Cutshall believes it too? Well, good for him. Moonshine does terrible things to a man's brain, and let that be a lesson to you.

No, Mary Eudoxia, Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby aren't going to kill me and feed me to the hogs. Bottletree is long since gone, and so is Sans Souci. The land remains, but the town and plantation ain't nothing but memories and a dumb old statue. It's just a story.

The Yankees are not invading. They're businessmen, not soldiers. Everybody knows that, 'cept for ignorant hill folk like your Meemaw. You can visit her in the nursing home when...

Hey, y'all... did you hear something at the door?

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

Come Dawn
by Nene Adams ©2002 - All rights reserved

Crenshaw, 1936

Tilly Destrehan could not sleep. Every night, she lay down beside Lizbet in the bed they shared, closed her eyes, and waited. Instead of dreams, she saw only the backs of her own eyelids. There was no escaping the horrible state of wakefulness. Warm milk, hot toddies, herbal remedies - nothing worked. Tilly wanted to sleep, but she could not. She fussed and fretted, tossed and turned, until the cock crowed to announce dawn. She got out of bed, stiff and red-eyed, bone tired but unable to find peace. Tilly would have sold her soul to the Devil for a fifteen-minute nap.

At breakfast, Lizbet was worried. "Honey, you look like hell."

"I feel like it, too." Tilly tried to give her partner a reassuring smile, but it was more like a painful grimace. Her hair was like straw. She had lost weight, her clothes baggy on a painfully thin frame. "I've just got a lot on my mind. It'll pass."

"I wish you'd go see Doc Coleman."

Tilly shook her head, forced herself to get up from the table. The effort seemed tremendous. "He can't help me, dear heart."

"He could give you sleepin' pills." Lizbet rose, gathered the dishes, and took them to the kitchen sink.

"And then I'd be useless the next day. No, thank you. I'll be fine." Tilly kissed the back of Lizbet's neck, patted her plump behind. "I've got to go into town and pick up a load of feed for Bill Joyner. Be home by lunch time."

Lizbet dried her hands on a dishtowel. "Be careful, honey."

"I will." A last kiss, and Tilly was gone.

Lizbet waited until the noise of the truck engine had receded. Then she finished doing the dishes, made a pot of vegetable soup for lunch, and left it simmering on the stove while she went to visit the conjure woman. It was a hot day; the dirt road was dry and dusty, almost too warm underfoot for comfort. Even the air smelled scorched. A straggling stand of pines threw a little shade, but Lizbet was sweating by the time she had reached her goal.

Everyone who lived in and around Crenshaw knew about the conjure woman, Sarah Burdett. She was about Lizbet's age, perhaps a year or two older. Few people socialized with Sarah. She made love potions, medicines, good luck tokens; she could lay tricks and curses, charms and hexes, or remove spells cast by others. Sarah was respected, but the respect was mingled with a healthy dose of fear. No one crossed Sarah Burdett twice. She was the kind to cherish a grudge, squeeze every drop of bile from vengeance, and dance on her victim's grave afterwards.

A few bedraggled chickens pecked the bare ground near the porch of Sarah's house. The rest of the yard was hardly more than sun blasted weeds. Lizbet walked up to the porch. "Hey, anybody to home?" she called.

Sarah came out, scowling. She might have been pretty, if she had smiled. "What do you want?"

"I'm Lizbet Hardy..."

"I know who you are." Sarah allowed the screen door to slam shut behind her. She crossed her arms over her chest and stood there, glaring. "Tilly Destrehan's woman."

Lizbet nodded. "I came to see you 'bout Tilly. She can't sleep at all. It's killin' her."

"Oh?" Sarah's manner abruptly changed. With an almost courteous air, she said, "Do come in, Lizbet. I see you're in desperate need of help."

Lizbet entered the house, which was dark and musty and airless. Sarah showed her to the parlor, where they sat down on an old horsehair sofa. "So you say Tilly can't sleep?" Sarah asked.

"Yes. It's terrible, Sarah. She ain't got a wink of sleep in two weeks." Lizbet bit her bottom lip. "I'm afraid for her. If she don't sleep, she's gonna die."

"Yes ma'am, that's usually the way of things." Sarah reached over to a table, crowded with bottles and jars. She selected one, filled with ruby fluid. "Sleeplessness is a danger to body, mind and spirit. If Tilly don't sleep, she'll go mad. That's a fact."

"Please, is there anything you can do to help?"

Sarah tilted the bottle, held it up to the faint light coming in through a crack in the threadbare curtains. "Three spoonfuls of this potion will put a person to sleep. They'll sleep deep and peaceful till they're fully rested."

"What's in it?"

"Elderberry wine, herbs, dove's blood, ashes of a frog's heart, and a few other things," Sarah replied, frowning. "It ain't proper to ask me questions 'bout my work, Lizbet Hardy."

"I'm sorry." Lizbet took a ten dollar bill out of her pocket. "I got no more money this week, but I can bring more by the end of the month if this ain't enough."

"Keep your money," Sarah said. She gave the bottle to Lizbet. "I know Tilly from way back. Me n' her went to school together. I thought she loved me, till she met you." Sarah shrugged at Lizbet's surprise. "What's past is past. Tilly made her choice. So be it."

Lizbet hugged the bottle to her breast. "I didn't know 'bout you and Tilly," she said warily..

Sarah shrugged. "As I recall, you two met at a harvest dance, didn't you? What was that, five years ago?"

"Closer to seven. I hope you wasn't hurt too bad when Tilly left you." Lizbet examined Sarah's bland countenance, looking for any trace of anger or bitterness or resentment. There was none. Lizbet relaxed a little. Despite her reputation as a grudge holder, it seemed that Sarah had forgiven, if not forgotten. After all, if there was still bad blood between her and Tilly, Sarah would have refused to help.

"Young hearts heal. Tilly wasn't my first, and she won't be my last. I was a child then, hardly knew what I wanted myself. Things generally work out for the best." Sarah ventured a smile that was scarcely more than a flexing of her thin lips. "Don't you worry, Lizbet. We'll soon have Tilly fixed up proper."

Lizbet was relieved. "Tilly means the world to me, you know."

"I know." Sarah leaned over, tapped the bottle with a fingernail. "You be sure and give her the right dose, hear? Three spoonfuls before bedtime. No more, no less."

"I'll remember. How often can she take it?"

"No more'n a week. After that, if Tilly still ain't sleepin', you come back to me."

Lizbet smiled. "Thank you, Sarah, from the bottom of my heart."

"No, thank you, Lizbet Hardy." Sarah's eyes gleamed. "Thank you very much."

That evening, Tilly was reluctant to take the potion after learning that it was Sarah's work. "I don't hold with conjuring," she said. "And I don't like it much that you went behind my back, baby girl."

"I did it for the best," said Lizbet. "You won't go to Doc Coleman. I wasn't goin' to sit around and wait for you to drop dead. Sarah Burdett said it'll work. You got somethin' against her personally?"

Tilly rubbed her face with her hands. She was so very tired. The notion of getting a full night's sleep was extremely tempting, no matter the source. "Not really. It's true that Sarah loved me once," she said. "I guess I loved her, too. But she was clingy and jealous and just wore me out. We parted with hard words."

"That was seven years ago. Why, she was the soul of courtesy to me," Lizbet said. "I don't think she'd have agreed to help if she was still jacked off at you. She would've told me to go jump in the river. Look, if you don't want the stuff, I'll dump it down the sink. Only hadn't you better try it once before it's gone forever? Couldn't hurt, might help." She knelt by Tilly's chair, touched her knee. "Honey, I purely hate to see you sufferin'. You're gonna end up in the hospital or worse if this keeps on. I'm so worried. If anything happened to you, I'd die."

"All right." Tilly picked up a spoon. "Give me that bottle. As you say, it couldn't hurt. Hell, if this potion of Sarah's puts me to sleep, I'll go over there and thank her on bended knee."

Tilly downed three spoonfuls of ruby liquid, gagging a little at the taste. "What's in this?" she asked, wiping her lips.

"Elderberry wine, herbs, dove's blood, ashes of a frog's heart, and God knows what else," said Lizbet, grinning at the look on Tilly's face. "It don't matter, honey, as long as it works."

Lizbet was elated when Tilly went to bed about a half-hour later and dropped off immediately. She was slightly less happy when she went to wake her in the morning. Despite shaking, a cold cloth, and Lizbet's shouts, Tilly continued to sleep.

Oh, well, Lizbet thought, going about her chores. The poor thing's plumb exhausted. I reckon it's best to leave her be.

The sun went down, and Tilly did not awaken. She lay in bed, still as the dead, face slack and ashen. Lizbet began to worry.

When the cock crowed at dawn, Lizbet tried to wake Tilly again. Her partner did not respond.

Panicking, Lizbet ran a mile to Bill Joyner's place. By the time she reached his farm, she was close to hysteria. Bill's wife had to administer smelling salts and a glass of sherry before Lizbet could calm down enough to tell her tale. Bill got dressed and drove into Crenshaw to fetch Doc Coleman. He also brought Sheriff Kratt.

After examining Tilly, Doc Coleman took off his stethoscope and shook his grizzled head. "I'm sorry," he said to Lizbet. "She's gone." He turned to Sheriff Kratt and continued, "No pulse, no respiration. I reckon she slipped away during the night. Tilly's momma had a congenital heart defect, which her daughter must've inherited."

Lizbet trembled. "Tilly was strong," she said. "There wasn't nothin' wrong with her heart."

"I'm sorry, Lizbet." Sheriff Kratt had removed his hat, revealing the bald dome of his skull. "I've known Tilly Destrehan all her life. Tilly's momma passed away suddenly, too. Tore her daddy all up."

"I'll call the undertaker, make the arrangements," Doc Coleman said kindly. "And my wife to come over to stay with you for a while."

"No!" Lizbet ran to the kitchen, snatched the bottle of potion off the counter. It slipped from her hand, shattered on the floor. "Sarah did it!" she screamed. "Sarah killed my Tilly!" A shard of glass cut her foot. Blood mingled with the ruby liquid that had spread into a pool.

Sheriff Kratt grabbed her while Doc Coleman administered a sedative. Lizbet continued to scream and struggle until the drug took effect. Even as she slumped into the sheriff's arms, she whimpered, "Sarah Burdett... Sarah Burdett..."

The doctor grunted. "Superstitious nonsense. Tilly Destrehan wasn't poisoned. I'd stake my reputation on it."

"Nobody's pointing fingers at you," said Sheriff Kratt, supporting Lizbet's limp body. "Folks around here believe Sarah's got power. It's a hell of a lot easier to blame the conjure woman than admit that the Lord took your loved one in His own good time. Lizbet will get over it. You'll see."

Doc Coleman grunted again, and helped the sheriff carry Lizbet to the sofa in the parlor.

As it was high summer, the funeral was held without delay. Tilly Destrehan was laid to rest in the Crenshaw cemetery, next to her mother and father's graves. Everyone from the area attended the services, including Sarah Burdett. She showed up wearing black, but the secretive expression on her face made the mourners uneasy.

Lizbet was semi-conscious throughout. Doc Coleman kept her sedated for her own good. Lizbet moved as in a dream, barely able to acknowledge the condolences and offers of help. She had to be helped from church to graveyard, tottering where she was led like a woman who had aged four decades overnight. Only once did Lizbet rouse herself, when Sarah Burdett came to her, mouthing syrupy platitudes.

"Get out of here," Lizbet slurred, black veils trembling. "Get out. Murderess. Hypocrite. You killed Tilly."

Sheriff Kratt put a hand on Sarah's arm. "Leave her be, Miz Burdett. Lizbet ain't herself."

Sarah acknowledged him with a small smile. "Oh, I understand how a woman's mind can be turned by grief, Sheriff. Yes, sir. I understand that all too well."

For a moment, a flicker of suspicion went through Sheriff Kratt's mind. He regretted that the bottle of potion had been broken, the contents contaminated by Lizbet's blood. Otherwise, he would have taken a sample, sent it off to a big city lab to be analyzed. As things stood, he had taken Doc Coleman's word that Tilly had died of natural causes, and seen no need for further investigation. Sheriff Kratt was not a bad man, but challenging Coleman without evidence would have made him seem like a fool.

Nevertheless, he steeled himself and asked Sarah directly, "Did you kill Tilly Destrehan?"

"No, sir. I did not," Sarah replied. She fixed him with a steady look, and he knew in his bones that she was not lying.

Flustered, Sheriff Kratt let go of Sarah and stood aside to let her pass.

Lizbet moaned as she was taken away from the fresh earth mound that was Tilly's grave.

That night, Lizbet had a nightmare.

She saw Tilly trapped in a pine box, tearing at the lid with her fingernails in a panicked frenzy. Dirt trickled through the cracks in the lid. Tilly's chest heaved, her mouth wide open as scream after scream was muffled in the small space of her coffin. Her nails snapped, but she continued to claw until blood ran down her fingers. The vision was so terrifying that Lizbet woke up, shaking and covered in cold sweat.

Doc Coleman's wife was no longer in the house. She had gone home, sure that Lizbet would continue to rest undisturbed because of the sleeping pill she had administered. The doctor's wife was wrong. Some things are too strong for medicine to hold at bay.

After a few moments, Lizbet threw back the covers and got out of bed. The cut on her foot throbbed, but the doctor's stitches held. A feathery pulse beat in her temples. She walked outside, pausing only to take a shovel from the tool shed. Lizbet was inhumanly calm, her emotions as muffled as Tilly's screams. In some distant part of her mind, she knew what had happened. Acknowledging the truth was another matter. Lizbet was driven to confront the horror, even as she desperately wanted to deny it.

She walked three miles to the cemetery, her way lighted by a crescent of new moon. The wind ruffled softly through pine trees; that sound always reminded Lizbet of crisp taffeta skirts, the kind she had worn at the harvest dance when she met Tilly. She shuddered away from the memory, otherwise she might have gone mad. Lizbet was hanging on to sanity by the thinnest of threads.

Before she had gone a mile, Lizbet's foot was bleeding again. She did not notice. Pain meant nothing now. No sensation could pierce the shell that surrounded her. When Lizbet reached the graveyard, she went straight to Tilly's grave and started to dig. Her hands blistered, the blisters breaking to slick the oaken handle, then blood came. It did not matter. All around her was quiet and still, save for the cold scrape of shovel against the earth. Lizbet moved mechanically, her breath chuffing out between parted lips.

At last, the shovel blade thumped against the coffin. Lizbet scraped away the final layer of dirt. She was standing in a deep hole, the top of which was higher than her head. Glancing up as she wiped sweat from her brow, she could see the sky, the moon, the stars; a picture framed with crumbling clots of earth. It was like being at the bottom of a well. A worm wiggled out of the wall nearest her, plopped onto the coffin, and whiplashed away.

Lizbet used the shovel to pry up the lid. Nails creaked, wood splintered and gave way with a loud crack. She was strong and determined, although her grip kept slipping because of her raw bloody palms. Lizbet continued, thrusting the iron blade beneath the rim, exerting muscle to lever it up. Her lungs burned with effort. A final tearing crunch, and she shoved the lid over.

"Tilly?" she asked, staring into the coffin's interior.

Lizbet was no doctor, but she knew that Tilly was truly dead this time. Her partner's face was frozen in a horrific snarl. Blood droplets gleamed wetly on her cheeks, forehead and chin. Tilly's fingers were curled inward, but Lizbet could see claw marks on the underside of the coffin lid. She reached down, turned over the dead woman's hand. Tilly's nails were gone, her fingertips worn down almost to bone. The wounds were still wet, glistening blackly in the faint moonlight.

"Oh, Jesus!" Lizbet breathed. She staggered, almost fell, caught herself on the side of the hole. She was too late. The shovel dropped, clanged against the coffin. Her eyes went wide, full of madness and despair. Sarah's words came to her unbidden: "Three spoonfuls of this potion will put a person to sleep. They'll sleep deep and peaceful till they're fully rested." The ruby liquid had not been poison, but an agent that had sent Tilly into a coma, undetectable from death.

Tilly had been buried alive.

Suddenly, Lizbet turned her back, began to pull herself out of the grave. She was frantic, keening shrilly, scrabbling into damp soil with fingers and toes. Her nightgown ripped at the shoulder. Lizbet sobbed, dirt falling into her open mouth, her eyes, her hair. By some miracle, she managed to gain the top and rolled out of the hole. Lizbet lay there, face and body smeared with filth. Gritty earth in her teeth, the taste of it on her tongue. She vomited, great heaving spasms that ripped through her body. Tears turned the dirt on her face into mud.

The soul of courtesy. Sarah Burdett had waited a long time to get revenge against Tilly's slight, and had used Lizbet to do it.

After a while, Lizbet rose and walked home, the sound of taffeta skirts in her ears.

Once there, she took a coil of rope from the toolshed. Lizbet calmly went inside the house, where seven years of memories slid past in a blur. Her searching uncovered a little wax doll beneath their bed, hidden under a floorboard. Tilly's insomnia had been manufactured, too. The doll had a needle stuck through its head. Lizbet went to the kitchen stove, where the fire had been banked for the evening, and threw the doll into it.

No one locked their doors in Crenshaw. Sarah could have gotten inside to work her mischief when the place was empty.

Moving without haste, almost tranquil though her face was devoid of color, Lizbet fashioned a noose from the rope she had fetched. She tied one end of the rope to the upper banister of the staircase. The noose fit snugly around her throat. Coarse hemp fiber scratched her skin. Climbing up, Lizbet closed her eyes. "I'm sorry, Tilly," she said, and stepped into space.

The snapping of her neck was drowned out by the grandfather clock in the hall, chiming three o'clock in the morning.

When news of the tragedy swept through Crenshaw, Sarah Burdett stayed aloof in public. In private, however, she celebrated the delicious culmination of her vengeance. Lizbet Hardy's suicide was an unexpected bonus. Her real target had been Tilly Destrehan, the woman who had wronged her seven years ago.

"Throw me over for a fat, freckled, no-count girl, will you?" Sarah mumbled to herself as she sat on the horsehair sofa in her parlor. "Ah, Tilly, I waited till you'd had a good long while of happiness, then I took it all away from you. Too bad you ain't around to appreciate it. The dead don't suffer, more's the pity. But you got what was comin' to you. Yes, ma'am. Nobody makes a fool of Sarah Burdett."

Sarah had delayed the plot for years, not wanting to act too soon. She was a patient woman. Sheriff Kratt suspected her, but he had no proof. "No, sir," Sarah said aloud, "I didn't kill that woman. She took a potion to help her sleep, that's all. Can I help it if Doc Coleman can't tell sleep from death?" She began to laugh. Her giggling triumph was an ugly sound.

The conjure woman hugged herself, thinking about Tilly's terror when she had woken up and realized that she was in a coffin. Her imagination supplied her with vivid details, which she savored over and over again. At last, because it was getting late, Sarah went to bed, still smiling.

It seemed that she had only just gotten to sleep when a woman's voice said next to her ear, "Wake up, Sarah."

Sarah bolted upright, her heart pounding, fingers clutching the edge of the quilt. "Who's there?" she said, eyes scanning the dark.

The mantle clock in her parlor chimed three o'clock in the morning.

Sarah got out of bed, lighted an oil lamp, and took a piece of kindling from the fireplace to use as a weapon. She searched her house, but found no sign of an intruder. Grumbling about bad dreams, she returned to the bedroom and burrowed back into the quilts.

A woman's voice said next to her ear, "Wake up, Sarah."

The mantle clock in the parlor chimed three o'clock again.

This went on all night. No sooner would Sarah try to sleep when she was awakened again. Several searches of the house revealed nothing, nor could she find out what was wrong with her clock. It kept time all right, but didn't chime the correct hour. Just before dawn, she fell into an exhausted slumber on the horsehair sofa. Once more, a woman's voice said, "Wake up, Sarah."

Sarah suddenly recognized the speaker. It was Lizbet Hardy.

Having gotten no rest at all during the night, Sarah tried to nap during the day. That proved futile, too. No sooner would her eyes close and she would start to relax, than something would happen to wake her up. A plate falling from the china hutch. Scuppernong vines rattling loudly against the window. Sometimes, Lizbet Hardy herself saying, "Wake up, Sarah." And always, the chiming of the clock that began to seem like a death knell.

Sarah battled the unwanted presence with all the knowledge at her command. She covered up all the mirrors in her house with thick black cloth, it being known that spirits used mirrors to travel from the underworld. She bargained with the knacker man for a big wad of horsehair, which she wove into nets that were hung over the windows to trap the ghost. She heated water for a bath, into which she placed black pepper, salt, rue, hyssop, dried devil's shoestrings and three silver dimes. Sarah washed herself thoroughly to remove any traces of the hex that plagued her.

It did not work.

Each time she went to sleep, Lizbet Hardy was there. "Wake up, Sarah."

Sheer exhaustion might have allowed Sarah to rest despite the nagging voice, but she was pinched, slapped and  jolted out of sleep by needles being driven into her flesh. After three days, desperation drove her to the graveyard. Sarah dug up Lizbet's body and sewed her lips shut with strong thread. Using an ax, she dismembered the body. The arms and legs were laid over the torso in a double cross pattern, while the head was placed on top. This was a sure-fire method of ensuring that the dead could not rise.

Filthy and dizzy with fatigue, yet triumphant, Sarah returned home and fell into bed.

No sooner had she dropped off when the voice said, "Wake up, Sarah."

Sarah screamed herself hoarse. The next morning, she went to Bill Joyner's place to buy a black chicken that had twisted, deformed feathers - a frizzled fowl to keep evil at bay. Bill commented on how ill she looked, and Sarah snarled at him. She hung burdock root necklaces and bay leaf wreathes on the porch. She nailed up horseshoes. She buried cans of Red Devil lye at the four corners of her house. Finally, she went to bed.

"Wake up, Sarah."

As she burrowed deeper into the quilts, her eyes bloodshot and burning, Sarah considered that maybe she was not being haunted by Lizbet Hardy at all. There were other conjure women in the county. Perhaps someone was jealous of her power, and had laid a trick against her.

She bought a beef heart at the butcher's, and boiled it on the stove, pricking it with a two-pronged fork all the while. While it cooked, Sarah recited the names of all the other conjure women she knew. This spell would give the one responsible a great deal of pain until they came to her and admitted their guilt.

"Wake up, Sarah."

No one came. The haunting continued. The clock struck three o'clock at every hour.

"Wake up, Sarah."

After a week, Sarah Burdett's nerves were shattered. She no longer bothered to keep herself clean. She jumped at the slightest sound. She could not eat.

"Wake up, Sarah."

She lost weight.

"Wake up, Sarah."

She developed a nervous tick in her left eye.

"Wake up, Sarah."

Finally, Sarah decided to take her sleeping potion. It was dangerous, as she might never come out of the induced coma, but by this time, she was almost insane from lack of sleep. Sarah took three spoonfuls, and barely managed to make it to bed before the potion began its work. For the first time in seven days, the conjure woman slept deeply and peacefully. Nothing disturbed her rest.

Doc Coleman, who had been told by Bill Joyner that Sarah Burdett was looking poorly, called at her house the next morning. Finding Sarah in her bed, he attempted to rouse her. When she would not awaken, he checked her pulse. Sadly shaking his head, Coleman sent for the undertaker and signed the death certificate.

"Natural causes," he told Sheriff Kratt. "I reckon she just slipped away in her sleep."

Sheriff Kratt, who had re-buried Tilly Destrehan's body himself and sworn the pastor to secrecy, said, "Are you sure?"

Doc Coleman drew himself up, the picture of offended dignity. "Of course I'm sure. I could order Sarah's body held at the funeral parlor, if you'd care to send for a second opinion."

Sheriff Kratt paused, considering. He would have to pay a doctor to come all the way from Decatur. That would generate a lot of ill will from Coleman. True, the man had mis-diagnosed Tilly Destrehan - dear Lord, he would have nightmares about her open grave for years - but Coleman was generally an efficient and skilled physician.

The sheriff had kept the truth about Tilly Destrehan hidden, because he knew that it was not Coleman's fault. He did not want to destroy an innocent man. The pastor had agreed with him. No one else in Crenshaw knew that Tilly had been buried alive. Kratt still thought that Sarah was responsible, but he would never find evidence to support his theory.

He glanced at Sarah, lying cold and pale on the bed, and made up his mind. He was a simple man who believed in simple justice.

"You've always done the best you could," Sheriff Kratt said to Coleman. "I ain't going to tell you how to do your job."

"Good," said Coleman, putting the stethoscope back into his black bag. "I'll tell Pete over at the funeral parlor to get a coffin ready. With the weather like it is, we'd best get her buried quickly."

The funeral was not well attended.

Sometime later, at three o'clock in the morning, a woman's voice said, "Wake up, Sarah."

Sarah Burdett woke up in a pine coffin, buried six feet deep in the ground.

No one could hear her scream.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

Spirits White as Lightning
by Nene Adams ©2002 - All rights reserved

Belinda Belle Waller stared at the window, fascinated. Etched upon a pane of glass was the ghostly visage of an African-American person (man? woman?), the features distorted with pain or terror, mouth open in a silent scream. She shivered despite the heat.

"That's Fancy Joe," said Tricksy Lou Faulcon with a shrug. Having grown up in the old Arcadia plantation house, she was blasé about such things. "He was a slave back in the 1840's, when Archibald Faulcon lived in Arcadia. Mary Margaretta Dupuis Faulcon was Archibald's wife. Her picture's over there." She pointed towards a portrait that hung over the fireplace.

Belinda tore her gaze away from the window, fastened it on the portrait. The painted woman was beautiful, proud and haughty, seemingly cold. However Belinda noticed a certain suggestive glitter in the woman's eyes; sensed a conflagration of hidden passions burning beneath the icy exterior. The outline of her body beneath the antebellum gown was rich, swollen with the promise of pleasure kept tightly controlled.

Tricksy went on, "Margaretta Ma'am is what they called her. She bore three stillborn children to Archibald before finally giving birth to my great-great-granddaddy, Wade Dupuis Faulcon. Anyhow, she's the reason why Fancy Joe's image was caught in glass by lightning. Want to hear the story?"

Belinda nodded. Her eyes traveled back and forth, from window to portrait. Her scalp prickled.

"After she gave Archibald an heir, Margaretta Ma'am didn't want nothing more to do with her husband in that way. They hadn't married for love, you know. It was arranged betwixt their families." Tricksy settled down to tell her tale with the relish of one recounting a juicy scandal. "From what I've heard, Archibald preferred slave women to his wife - I reckon she couldn't help it, poor thing, since they kept girls ignorant in those days - and that was that. Only what he didn't know was that Margaretta Ma'am wasn't sleeping alone. She had taken a house slave, Fancy Joe, as a lover.

"Well, one night there was a big storm, full of lightning and wind. Archibald was s'posed to be taking care of some business down in Laughlin, but he came home early, drunk as an earl, and caught Margaretta Ma'am and Fancy Joe together. Lord, he went plumb crazy! Whipped Margaretta from her bedroom to the hall, from the hall to the stairs. She fell and was dead by the time she hit bottom. The bloodstain on the floor is still there, you know. Scrubbing won't take it out; neither will sanding or replacing the floorboards. My uncle Vernon tried it; tore it all out and had the boards replaced. In two weeks, the stain was back, but that's neither here nor there."

Belinda asked, "What happened to Fancy Joe?"

"Archibald pursued that slave through the house, until he cornered him in this very room. Archibald was going to kill Joe, but a big ol' streak of lightning came flashing down through the window, struck Fancy Joe dead. The only pane of glass that wasn't busted was the one with Joe's image on it. That lightning somehow caught Joe's reflection and burned it into the glass. Archibald left it there. Don't know why." Tricksy shrugged again, scuffed a toe against the faded rug. "We just leave it be. It don't bother us none."

"I remember you telling me that Arcadia is haunted," Belinda said, focusing attention on her friend.

"Yeah, and you said you didn't care, that you wanted to spend the summer here anyhow."

"I do. But I'd like to hear more about the ghosts."

Tricksy frowned. "All right. Folks have heard Margaretta Ma'am crying in the hallway upstairs. She don't hurt nobody, so don't have a conniption fit if she comes around. Okay?"

"No fits, I promise."

"And when there's a big lightning storm, we can hear something screaming out by the pond."

"Something?"

"Nobody's ever seen it, but nobody's ever come to grief over it, either. Now I don't know about you, but I'm bored to tears with all this ghost talk. Want to go out to the pond and have a swim? S'posed to be clear until late tonight."

"Sure." Belinda followed Tricksy out of the parlor, up the double staircase.

They had met at the Laughlin Community College, where both young women were taking courses. Belinda had grown up in nearby Darlington, and knew very little about the plantation's history. The two became friends, helped by the fact that they were very, very distant cousins. Eventually, Tricksy invited Belinda to stay at Arcadia for the summer - her parents were taking a cruise to Norway, and she would otherwise be alone in the big house. Since Belinda was fascinated by ghosts and ghost stories, she had eagerly accepted.

About ten miles outside of Laughlin, Arcadia was set back from a dirt road that angled away from Elderberry Drive - hardly more than a narrow country track that was bogged in the rainy season, and full of dusty potholes in the dry. A thick stand of pines and crepe myrtles obscured the view of the house from the road. Arcadia itself was an antebellum jewel. A grand front porch, supported by classical columns, faced flower beds full of petunias that had wilted in the heat. There was a wide balcony that ran the length of the second story. Windows were tall and broad, to admit as much air as possible during the summer months. A vast wisteria vine clung to one side of the house. It had reached as high as the roof in some places, and sent runners onto the second-story balcony rail. The vine was covered with drooping purple flowers, whose sweet scent attracted bees.

Belinda threw open the French doors in her bedroom, inhaled deeply. She could hear droning bees, and crickets chirping in the shadows beneath the wisteria vine. Tricksy had gone to her own room to change, and Belinda was alone. She turned to her suitcase, found the swimming suit she had brought with her. It took her only a few minutes to change.

As Belinda twisted her blonde hair into a braid, she found herself recalling Fancy Joe's agonized face. The memory brought another shiver with it. Poor man, she thought, fastening the end of the braid with a rubber band. Poor Margaretta Ma'am. Tricksy didn't say, but I hope they had some happiness together before the end.

Suddenly, Belinda felt a brush against her cheek. She turned her head, saw a flash of gold out of the corner of her eye. Bee, she thought, scanning the bedroom for any sign of the insect. Belinda spun in place, found nothing. She had just dismissed the incident from her mind when she heard a woman's voice say clearly, "Lies."

Belinda jumped, startled. What the hell was that? She was alone. Tricksy slept in another bedroom, two doors down the hallway. She knew there was no television upstairs; Tricksy had told her that when she'd accepted the invitation. A radio, maybe?

"Lies," the woman's voice repeated, a sob at the end of the word.

A chill raced down Belinda's spine. "Who's there?" she asked, gritting her teeth to keep them from chattering.

There was no answer.

Belinda waited a few more minutes, until she heard Tricksy say impatiently, "C'mon, girl. What's taking you so long?" The door opened, and Tricksy poked her head through. "Are you coming with me to the pond or not?"

"Yes, I'm coming." Belinda blew out a breath, rubbed the goosebumps on her arms. After one last look around the room, she followed Tricksy back downstairs. When they reached the spot where a dark, irregular stain glazed the floorboards, Belinda bit her lip. "Um, Trick... has Margaretta Ma'am ever spoken to you?"

"Nope." Tricksy shook her head, dark curls dancing. "Far as I know, she ain't never spoke to nobody."

They walked away from the house, down a pathway that curved behind the wisteria. It was like going through a dark green, heavily scented tunnel; Belinda's head was swimming from the perfume. Then they struggled free of the vines, took a little track through the woods, long weeds whipping at their legs. A carpet of dry pine needles crunched underfoot. The pond was a short distance away. Tricksy dove in immediately, bobbed back to the surface spitting water through her teeth. "Ah, that feels good!" she whooped.

Belinda walked into the water, leery of what she might be stepping on. "Are there turtles in this pond?" she called.

"Yeah, big ol' snappers, bite your toes off just like that!" Tricksy laughed at the expression on Belinda's face. "Damn, girl, you look like a cat walking on wet grass. Quit pussy-footing and just come in!"

Belinda was not a very good swimmer, and she knew it. Nevertheless, she managed to get in deep enough to start dog-paddling, trying to keep her face from getting wet. The pond seemed fairly clean; the water was greenish-brown, cool, hardly sun warmed at all. She found it refreshing.

Tricksy splashed around, sending glittering arcs of droplets through the air. "Hey, Lindy... I was thinkin' about calling Boyd, seeing if he might want to come over. Want me to ask him to bring a friend for you?"

Belinda made a face. Boyd Heckler also attended the community college. Tricksy was sweet on him. Belinda thought he was a loud-mouthed asshole. Despite her opinion, she remembered that she was a guest at Arcadia, and minded her manners. "I'd rather not see anybody right now," she answered. "Reckon you and Boyd would prefer to be on your own."

"Oh, yes, ma'am! I love that boy to pieces!" Tricksy swam closer. "You don't mind?"

"Not at all. I can find something to occupy my time while you and Boyd..." Belinda did not complete the sentence, but risked a ducking by raising her hands and making a gesture that caused Tricksy to blush hotly.

"Oooh, Lindy Waller, you bad, bad girl! I'm gonna tell your momma on you!" Tricksy laughed.

A little while later, when they were lazily floating on the surface of the pond, Belinda said, "You sure that Margaretta Ma'am doesn't speak?" Try as she might, she could not help worrying this thought like a dog with a bone. She stared up at the sky, which had gone grey as iron, though cloudless.

"Well, Grandmomma Eunice said she heard things sometimes, like somebody talking from far away, but she couldn't understand what they were saying." Tricksy flicked water at Belinda. "How come all these questions?"

"I don't know. I thought..." Belinda stopped. She did not want Tricksy to think she was crazy. "Never mind. Maybe you could answer me one more question."

"Questions, questions, questions! Curiosity killed the cat."

"But satisfaction brought him back," Belinda completed the old saying.

Tricksy giggled. "Go on, then."

"How do you know that the story about Archibald, Fancy Joe and Margaretta Ma'am is true?"

"Are you accusing me of lying?" Tricksy's voice was suddenly cold.

"No, no," Belinda said hastily. "Not that. It's just... well, sometimes stories get mixed up, you know? I was wondering if maybe there were some kind of records, or whatever, to prove it."

"Not any that I've ever heard. I told you the story the way I got it from Granddaddy Chester Faulcon, who probably got it from his momma or daddy, and so forth. Don't know nothing about proof. It just is." Tricksy rolled over, started swimming towards the edge of the pond. "You about done? I want to call Boyd."

Boyd Heckler proved unable (or unwilling) to drive up to Arcadia. Tricksy sat at the kitchen table, pouting while Belinda fixed their supper - bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches. "I will never understand men," Tricksy complained, sipping a glass of iced tea. "My parents aren't here, Brother's away in Atlanta, and we'd have the whole house to ourselves."

Belinda was relieved, but hid it well. She slid a sandwich in front of Tricksy and said, "Trick, honey, don't work yourself into a state. Maybe he can come tomorrow."

Tricksy brightened. "From your mouth to God's ears, Lindy!" She picked up her sandwich and took a big bite, good humor restored.

After supper, she and Belinda retired to the family room to watch television. The set was new, but the rest of the furniture was old, battered, almost worn out. Belinda sat in a chair with a sprung spring digging into her behind while Tricksy flipped through the channels. One inane program followed another, until Tricksy hurled the remote away.

"I'm bored!" she cried, throwing herself full-length upon a sagging sofa. "No reflection on you, Lindy, but living out in the ass-end of nowhere just makes me crazy sometimes."

"We could go to town, see a movie," Belinda offered.

Tricksy wrinkled her nose. "I'd rather go find that no-count Boyd. Probably swappin' lies with his buddies in a bar somewhere."

"I'd lend you my car..."

"But I can't drive stick. Oh, well. It's my own damned fault for being too lazy to learn." Tricksy heaved a sigh.

They sat there in silence for several long moments. Finally, Belinda asked, "Has there ever been a seance in Arcadia?"

"Good Lord, girl! Is that all you've got in your head?" Tricksy wriggled around, so that she was facing Belinda. "What is this obsession with ghosts all about?"

Belinda sat back, gripping the arms of the chair. "It happened up in my bedroom, when I was changing. I thought somebody touched me. There was no one there. And I heard a woman say, "Lies." She said it twice, as clear as if she was standing right in front of me."

"Hmph." Tricksy's eyes narrowed. "Are you pulling my leg?"

"I swear to God."

Tricky's skeptical expression changed to one of puzzlement. "That's never happened before. No, wait. It did happen once, when I was a kid. I'd forgotten about it." She squirmed upright, excited. "See, my cousin Carter got engaged about twelve years ago to this girl from Honeymoon Junction. One of those mountain families, you know? Anyhow, she broke off the engagement after Carter brought her here, 'cause she said she heard a woman saying, "Lies," in the bedroom, and thought it meant that Carter would deceive her after they got married. What was her name? June something-or-other."

"Junette Glidwell," Belinda said, relishing Tricksy's astonishment. "She's a third cousin from my momma's side of the family. We hardly have anything to do with the Glidwells. I didn't know she was engaged to your cousin Carter."

"It's a small world." Tricksy ran a hand through her cap of dark curls. "Damn, girl! That's weird. You think it was Margaretta Ma'am giving you a message from the Other Side?"

"I have no idea." Belinda scratched a mosquito bite absently. "Maybe we can find out."

"How? A seance?"

"Meemaw told me once about a thing called a dumb feast. It's meant to call up spirits."

Tricksy's mouth fell open. "Does it really work?"

"I dunno." Belinda got up, looked down at her friend. "Want to find out?"

"It's got to be better than sitting around here getting eaten alive by skeeters. C'mon, girl." Tricksy took Belinda's hand, used it to help haul herself out of the depths of the sofa. "I've never seen Margaretta Ma'am. Wonder if she looks the same as her portrait. Hah! Let's find out."

Apprised of what was needful, Tricksy found a folding card table, which she placed at the foot of the stairs, close to the old bloodstain. Belinda thought the connection between flesh and spirit might be reinforced that way. Following her Meemaw's instructions, Belinda gathered together items from the kitchen and placed them on the table in the dining room, then she took china and silver from the cabinet to set the card table for two. Tricksy insisted on turning off the lights and lighting candles, for "the right atmosphere." Finally, they were ready.

One by one, Belinda and Tricksy each took an item from the dining room, walked with it backwards to the card table, and set it down without speaking a word. Salt and pepper shakers, mustard pot, honey jar, jam pot, vinegar and oil cruets, bread basket, and a cut crystal wine decanter - the nine items required by ritual. Next, they went (still backwards) to the kitchen and brought out a loaf of bread. Together, they sprinkled the loaf with salt and stood silently, facing away from the table.

The grandfather clock in the entrance hall chimed midnight. Twelve strokes, deep and mellow, echoing through the house.

Through Arcadia's corridors and rooms, basement to attic, golden tones telling the witching hour.

At each note, Belinda seemed to feel a strange vibration beneath her feet. The loaf of bread fell to the floor. Tricksy grabbed her hand, and she knew the other woman felt it, too. The compulsion to exclaim, to give vent to a growing sense of terror was nearly overwhelming. Belinda clamped her mouth closed, breathing heavily through her nostrils. A phrase crossed her mind: Et in Arcadia ego. She could not remember where or in what context she had read it.

Suddenly, there was a bone-rattling wrench, as if the world had taken two steps to the left, dragging her with it. Belinda gasped, staggered, and would have fallen if Tricksy had not tightened her grip. She blinked. They were still in Arcadia, but the white-painted walls in the entrance hall were now a rich ochre, and plaster ornaments on the ceiling looked new. So did the ivory button in the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. It had been yellow, cracked with age - an old-fashioned symbol that the plantation's mortgage had been paid off.

Belinda realized the card table was missing. "What happened?" she said, frowning because her words sounded hollow to her own ears.

Tricksy shrugged, but did not let go of Belinda's hand. "I don't know." Then she frowned, too.

Both of their voices were muffled. It was as if they were speaking to each other from a distance, even though they remained close together. "Did you feel something?"

"I thought I was going to lose my supper. I'm still kind of queasy. What the hell did you do, Lindy?"

"I don't know. Meemaw just said the spirits were supposed to appear. You could ask them questions as long as you didn't look at them directly."

"Well, I don't see no spirits."

Belinda nodded towards the staircase. "No card table." She inhaled sharply. "And no bloodstain!"

"What?" Tricksy wanted to go closer, but Belinda restrained her.

"No, no, Trick. We'd better keep hold of each other. No telling what might happen if we didn't," Belinda said. "Together, then."

A step at a time, the young women advanced to the staircase. As Belinda had seen, the floorboards were polished and unstained by blood. "Shall we try it?" Tricksy asked, jerking her chin upwards.

"I don't know." Belinda was unsure. Piss or get off the pot, as her Meemaw used to say. Meemaw had another saying: Might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. The trouble was, Belinda did not want to be hanged at all.

Growing impatient with Belinda's hesitation, Tricksy tugged her hand. "I want to see upstairs. Don't be such a scaredy cat, Lindy."

"Look before you leap," was the only caution Belinda could think to give.

Tricksy snorted. "You're the one who got us into this. Now you want to stand here all night?" A flash of lightning, distant boom of thunder, startled her. "Didn't know it was fixin' to storm."

"Oh my dear sweet Jesus." Belinda's face was ashen. "I think I know where we are."

"We're in Arcadia, fool."

"No, I mean, when we are. Remember the story you told me about Margaretta Ma'am and Fancy Joe? I think this is the night. The night it happened."

Tricksy squealed, "Really? Goddamn! History in the making!" and she dragged a protesting Belinda up the stairs.

Margaretta Ma'am's bedroom was at the end of a corridor on the house's southern side. The door was closed. Tricksy reached for the doorknob and got the shock of her life.

Her hand passed straight through, as though her flesh was made of smoke.

Belinda shrieked, clapped her free hand to her mouth. Her eyes bulged, staring into Tricksy's equally horrified gaze. "We're ghosts," Belinda whimpered.

Tricksy touched a finger to her lips. "I don't feel like a ghost," she said slowly, already starting to calm. "Do I have a pulse?"

"How the hell should I know?" Belinda looked at the door, and back at her friend.

"Aw, poot!" Tricksy's foot stamped on the floor. "It don't matter. I can't do nothing about it, so I'm going inside. Are you coming, or do you want to wait out here?"

There was really no choice. Belinda shuddered as Tricksy disappeared through the door. Their hands were still joined. Belinda saw slender fingers clasping her wrist, Tricky's arm cut off bloodlessly at the elbow. The rest of her, it was presumed, was in the bedroom. Tricksy yanked hard, pulling Belinda through.

The bedroom was painted a bright blue-green, the walls further decorated with an exotic mural of white peacocks, cypress trees and swirling clouds. The massive mahogany bed was canopied with fringed net, and it was occupied by two women - Margaretta Ma'am (recognized by the portrait - the painter had not lied) and another, who was light-skinned with auburn hair, but had definite Negro features.

"Josephine, I want to write in my diary," Margaretta Ma'am said, her drawl slurred, overlain with a French accent. "Please fetch it for me."

"If you must, petite." Josephine replied, her voice as musical as her mistress'. "I wish you would sleep instead."

"Please." Margaretta Ma'am stroked Josephine's cheek and smiled. "Please, cherie."

Josephine threw off the quilt and got out of bed. She was nude, firm bodied, strong. Her bare feet whispered on the floor as she walked towards the fireplace. A loose brick in the side revealed a hollow with a leather-bound journal inside. Josephine retrieved the diary, put it on the writing table. Not bothering to cover her own nakedness, she helped her mistress into a silk robe. Margaretta Ma'am wrote in the journal with quill and ink for a while, Josephine brushing tangles from her long dark hair.

Tricksy and Belinda goggled at the sight. More shocking was the easy familiarity between the two women. Considering the time and place, Josephine had to be a slave, yet Margaretta Ma'am treated her like a favored intimate. They exchanged little caresses, kisses, endearments in French and English. Margaretta Ma'am and Josephine acted like they were in love.

Belinda reeled beneath a sudden inspiration. "Weren't lighter skinned slave girls called 'fancies' back then?" she whispered.

"Uh-huh. I think so." Tricksy was hardly breathing. "Quadroons, octoroons, mulattos." She snapped out of her trance. "Wait a goddamned minute..."

"Fancy Joe. The fancy, Josephine. Your family remembers it wrong, Trick. Margaretta Ma'am wasn't in love with a man."

"Holy shit!" Tricksy cried, then looked guiltily around. After a moment, she sagged in relief. "I reckon they can't hear us. We really are like ghosts. Unless they can see us?"

Belinda, greatly daring, waved at Josephine when she turned around to get a scent bottle from another table. "Doesn't look like it."

"Wow." Tricksy loosened her grip on Belinda's hand, but not completely. "Momma's going to flip when I tell her about this. Oh, Lord... I'd better not tell Grandmomma Eunice. She'd turn wrong-side out."

Margaretta Ma'am finished writing, returned her journal to its hiding place. When she stood up again, she took Josephine into her arms. "I've been thinking about it, cherie. The thing we discussed."

Josephine's expression hardened. "Oui?"

"We've suffered long enough. It was bad, so bad, cherie, when he took you, hurt you. I thought I would die! When the child came, I was terrified that he would take it, sell it far away. Your son."

"His son."

"And yours," Margaretta Ma'am persisted.

Josephine softened. "Wade is a good boy. He looks white, he will be Arcadia's heir. Master Archibald says that Wade has his mouth, the Faulcon nose. Not like mine." She sighed. "How I wish we'd never left our home. Your parents were mad to marry you to that brute!"

"His animal lusts sicken me." Margaretta Ma'am made a soft spitting sound. "Three dead babies in three years. I was not made for breeding. Thank God for your strength, cherie. Archibald is content with his son. He has not sought my bed in months. He will not, since he has women elsewhere to satisfy his needs."

"He will never have you again. You belong to me, only me!" Josephine kissed her lover passionately, while Belinda and Tricksy watched with huge eyes.

"Yes, I've been yours since we were girls," Margaretta Ma'am panted. "Do you remember, cherie? The wicked games we would play! And later, after Archibald, you would come to me, wash away his touch, comfort me."

"Like this?" Josephine's supple fingers slipped beneath the silk robe. "And this?"

Margaretta Ma'am murmured, "Je t'adore, oh my love, my love... I never gave myself to him. Never gave that part to him. Cold, cold was my bed, cold was my heart. I saved the best for you."

"Oh my God," Tricksy groaned. "I don't think I can watch this anymore. It's embarrassing, like catching your parents having sex."

"Hush." Belinda was waiting for the rest. She knew there was more to come.

"What were you writing?" Josephine asked, pulling away from her clutching lover.

Margaretta Ma'am regained her composure with a visible effort. "The measure of my days, cherie. Tonight, I wrote of triumph. When my husband returns tonight, filthy drunk as usual, he will meet with an accident. All will be as we've planned it. When Archibald is dead, you and I and Wade will be safe. The child will be better without such a father. He'll be our boy, cherie. Our son. There is money enough. By law, you must remain a slave, but in this house, you will rule at my side."

Josephine licked her lips. "No one must suspect, or we'll both be hanged. For you, a quick death. For me, many agonies before the noose."

"Archibald is a known drunkard. A storm, a bolting horse, a broken skull." Margaretta Ma'am fluttered her eyelashes. "A grieving widow with an orphaned son. I'm sure there will be many sympathetic mourners at the funeral. Be easy, cherie. Remember how much we have already suffered at Archibald's hands. He hurt you, my darling girl, forced you to bear his child because I could not. We must be strong."

"I think the master begins to believe that we are not simply mistress and maid."

"Let him think as he chooses. After tonight, he will be doing his thinking in Hell."

They kissed again. The door banged open, revealing the rain-soaked figure of Archibald Faulcon. Brown hair was plastered to his face, which bore a wild expression of combined hatred and triumph. "Whores!" he shouted. A horse-whip was clenched in his fist. "Dirty devil whores! I heard your plotting, every word!"

Belinda and Tricksy, unwitting observers, could only watch in horror as Archibald stomped into the room. Water drizzled from his coat, pooled on the floor. His shoulders hunched, his lips twisted in a grimace, Archibald looked more demon than man. He flicked the whip expertly at Margaretta Ma'am, tearing open the shoulder of her silk robe. The fabric fell apart, showing a bloody welt on her milk-white skin.

Josephine screamed with rage and launched herself at him. He batted her out of the air, a powerful blow that sent her crashing against the bed. Her head hit a solid post with a wet crunching noise, and Josephine slid down limply, to lie on the floor like a discarded rag doll. A trickle of blood darkened her auburn hair. One eye was open, the pupil fixed and dilated.

"Whores!" Archibald said hoarsely.

Margaretta Ma'am was stricken, her face absolutely colorless. Crimson flooded back into her cheeks, hectic red spots that burned hotly. "You killed her," she said, low and deadly. There was nothing but naked hatred in her expression. "Bastard. Murdering monster."

"Don't you talk to me like that, God damn you for a lying bitch," Archibald said thickly. He drew back his arm, sent the horse-whip singing through the air again. Margaretta Ma'am did not move. She stared at him, not flinching when the whip carved another mark on her upper arm.

"Bastard," she said, unblinking.

He hit her again. And again. And again.

She stood still as a statue, his rage made impotent by her disdain.

Finally, when her robe was in bloodied rags, Margaretta Ma'am lifted her chin. When she spoke, it was in a voice edged with razor sharp scorn. "Kill me, Archibald. Kill me now. If you don't, I swear that you're a dead man."

Archibald weaved on his feet. The horse-whip dropped with a clatter. "You ain't doin' nothing, bitch. I've seen the truth. All these years, you been playing me for fool. Denying me my rights as your husband, and laughing behind my back with that nigra. That's where I went wrong. I treated you decent, like a lady, and you ain't nothing but a filthy whore."

Margaretta Ma'am stepped forward, swung back her arm, and gave Archibald a stunning slap across the face that knocked him to his knees. Then she was gone, out of the door and running down the corridor. Archibald struggled up, bellowing like a wounded bull, and lurched away in pursuit.

By mutual silent consent, Belinda and Tricksy followed them. There was a pair of crossed tomahawks on the wall by the landing - hammer polled iron heads with a curved steel cutting edge, maple hafts studded with brass tacks. As Margaretta Ma'am started down the stairs, Archibald snatched up one of the hatchets and threw it at her. The tomahawk wheeled end over end through the air, landed with a meaty thunk in the back of Margaretta Ma'am's neck. She fell, tumbling to the bottom of the stairs, a blur of white flesh and ragged silk. When she reached the end she lay there unmoving, a leg twisted at an impossible angle. Blood pooled beneath her body, a widening scarlet pool.

"You wanted to kill me," Archibald mumbled, "but I got you first." He had gone halfway down the stairs, and now paused, hanging on the banister rail for support.

He turned as a choked sound came from the landing above him. Josephine was not dead. She stood, looking down at Margaretta Ma'am. Her face twitched. Thin lines of blood trickled from her nostrils. Josephine let out a low moan, an animal sound that made the hair stand up on Belinda's neck.

Josephine drifted down the stairs, brushing past Archibald as if the man did not exist. He made no move to stop her.

At the bottom, Josephine knelt in Margaretta Ma'am's blood, reached out a trembling hand to smooth a lock of hair from her brow. "Sleep now, pretty one," she slurred. "He can never hurt you again. Take my love with you into the darkness, ma petite. Be at peace."

Archibald's mouth worked a moment. His bloodshot eyes stared at Margaretta Ma'am and Josephine. "You ungrateful nigra bitch," he said softly. "I gave you my seed, because my wife couldn't give me nothin' but dead babies. You had my child in your belly. My son. I took him as my own. I promised never to sell you away. That wasn't enough for you, was it?"

Josephine stood up. Thunder rumbled nearby. Blood dappled her nude body, glistening scarlet in candlelight, scarlet in the mellow glow of oil lamps. She opened her mouth, closed it, and shook her head. With great dignity, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving a series of bloodied footprints behind.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Archibald shouted after her. He half-ran, half-fell down the remaining stairs, skidded in his wife's blood, and went after Josephine. Belinda and Tricksy followed. Both of them were fairly certain that they could not physically affect anything in this place, but they nevertheless stepped cautiously around Margaretta Ma'am's body.

By the time they reached the parlor, Archibald had Josephine cornered. Rain lashed at the windows, driven by screeching winds. The curtains had not been drawn, but the only view outside was blackness and water. Archibald glared at Josephine, mumbling oaths to himself. His hands were knotted into fists, the knuckles white and strained. The slave woman faced him unafraid.

Belinda squeezed Tricky's hand, felt a returning reassurance. The tension wound tighter and tighter, a nerve-racking ordeal, and Belinda prayed it would end soon.

Relief came in the form of a lightning strike.

A dazzling blue-white explosion that seared their retinas, accompanied by a rain of flying glass shards. When Belinda cracked her eyes open, she saw Josephine outlined with a crackling burst of energy that crawled over her skin. Her face was contorted in agony, head thrown back, mouth open in a scream that was swallowed up by a deafening crack of thunder. The vision was etched into Belinda's brain, although it lasted for barely a heartbeat. When she blinked away the after-affects, Josephine was lying on the floor, presumably dead. There were burns on her wrists and ankles. Her auburn hair was kinked, tendrils of smoke wafting up from the scorched mass.

Archibald had been blown off his feet by the concussion, landing on his back on the other side of the parlor. He got up, arms and legs struggling feebly. He seemed to have aged in the last few moments. When he shuffled out of the room, he moved like an old, tired man. Another booming swell of thunder made him stop briefly, glance over his shoulder. Archibald was afraid. He continued on his way a little faster.

Belinda tugged Tricksy towards the blown-out window. A single pane of glass was intact in the lower right corner. Josephine's screaming face was somehow burned into the glass, looking exactly as it had in the contemporary Arcadia. Belinda shivered, and felt Tricksy shuddering beside her.

"Two parts truth, one part lie," Tricksy said, staring at Josephine's body. "My ancestor Wade never knew his real momma. Never even got to know Margaretta Ma'am. He was a baby when it happened. Wade got killed in the Battle of Chickamauga, but he left a wife and three sons behind him. I reckon he must have told his boys the story he'd gotten from Archibald."

"And so it goes, and so it goes," Belinda said. "That skeleton in your family's closet just got a little worse or a little better. I'm not sure which."

"Hush your mouth, girl. It was bad enough before. Now I don't know whether to laugh or cry."

Archibald returned with another man in tow. "I want you to see to the burying, Glidwell. Not in the slave cemetery."

"Where d'you want me to put her?" Glidwell asked, sidling around to gawk at the dead woman.

"Weight it down, throw it in the pond. There's some scrap iron in the mule barn." Archibald rubbed his face with his hand. "The storm's about over. When you're done, saddle my horse. I need to go into town for the sheriff. My wife's had an accident."

Glidwell nodded. "Yessir. Just as you say, sir."

Belinda frowned. "Glidwell? I knew the family lived around here way back when, but who is he?"

"Probably the overseer," Tricksy answered.

Archibald walked out again. Glidwell pulled a big burlap sack from beneath his coat. "Alright, girl. Let's get to it." He stopped down, began to stuff Josephine into the sack. The real horror was yet to come. When her upper body was inside, her legs began to jerk slightly. A shuddery moan issued from the sack.

"Oh my God," Tricksy said. "She's still alive."

Glidwell realized that, too. He sat back on his heels, pulled at the thin beard that adorned his chin. "Mister Archibald," he said, "she's pretty lively for a dead'un."

Archibald returned, holding a glass of whisky. Without pause, he strode to the fireplace, pulled out a poker. Glidwell hastily backed away as Archibald smashed the poker down on the sack until Josephine stopped moving. Then he dropped the instrument on the rug. "See to it," Archibald said coldly. Fear and shock had sobered him. "And keep your damned mouth shut."

"Yessir." Glidwell hurried to finish his job. When he was done, he tied a piece of twine around the top of the sack. With a grunt of effort, he heaved it up on his shoulder. "Pitiful waste of good woman flesh," he grumbled to himself.

"What was that?" Archibald asked.

"Nothin', sir. Nothin' at all." Glidwell bore his burden out of the parlor, wheezing under his breath.

"I'll bet her bones are still at the bottom of the pond," Belinda said before she could stop herself. The thought made her gag.

Tricksy used her free hand to aim a slap at Belinda. "Don't say things like that."

Belinda noticed that there had been a feeling of pressure around her which was now growing lighter, less dense. "Uh, hang on, Trick. I think we're fixing to..."

And suddenly there was a bone-rattling wrench, as if the world had taken two steps to the right, dragging her with it.

This time, Belinda kept her balance. As soon as the queasy feeling passed, she turned around. She and Tricksy were standing at the foot of the stairs. In front of her was a card table. The walls were white again. Belinda bent over, looked under the table. The floorboards were stained with old blood. There was still a faint echo of the grandfather clock's chime shivering through the air.

"We're back," she said. "Looks like no time has passed."

Tricksy pulled hand out of Belinda's grasp. "Are you sure?" She looked at the table, the nine items, the loaf of bread on the floor.

"Seems that way."

"Christ on a crutch, Lindy." Tricksy pulled out a chair, sat down and leaned her head on her hand. "Remind me to kick your Meemaw's ass some day. Dumb feast, hah! Ignorance is bliss, you know. I could've done without seeing all that mess."

"Your ancestor killed his wife. He would've killed Josephine, too, if the lightning hadn't beat him to it." Belinda wet a napkin in the water jug, used it to wipe the back of her neck.

"Margaretta Ma'am plotted to kill him first."

"Two wrongs don't make a right," Belinda said, quoting another of her Meemaw's favorite sayings. "I think it's Josephine who screams out by the pond. You said it happens during lightning storms, right? That makes sense. And Margaretta Ma'am is trapped in the house. What happened to Archibald?"

Tricksy took the napkin away from Belinda, put it to her forehead. "He died when Wade was eighteen. Drank himself to death. I think his liver gave out. He don't haunt Arcadia, that's for sure. Margaretta Ma'am in the hall upstairs, Josephine by the pond, Aunt Octavia in the music room. That's it. How come the spirit talked to you, anyway?"

"Margaretta Ma'am also talked to Junette Glidwell." Belinda shrugged. "Maybe it has something to do with Josephus Glidwell. Who knows? I mean, the Wallers are hardly related to that family anymore. Certainly not close kin."

"Do Glidwells have the Sight?"

Belinda was starting to get a headache. "I have no idea. Does it really matter? Dammit, Trick, we've got to do something about this tragedy. Think about it. All those years of misery and torment... God! The only comfort they had was each other, and that was taken away. Those two women are in hell. They've been suffering ever since that night."

Tricksy sighed. "Daddy would kill me if I drained the pond. Besides, if Josephine's bones are still in there, they're probably buried in six feet of mud. Anyway, how do we know this wasn't some hallucination brought on by bad mayonnaise?"

Belinda rolled her eyes. "The diary, remember? If we find the hiding place, then we know it was real."

"Smarty pants. I was just what-iffing. That felt too damned real to be a salmonella delusion."

"Wait a second..." Belinda's headache was worsening, just the way it usually did before a big storm. "Didn't you say there's supposed to be rain tonight?"

Before Tricksy could answer, a rumbling growl rolled overhead. The air changed, the wind blowing through open windows carrying coolness, the crisp scent of ozone. "Uh-huh," Tricksy said, eyeing the ceiling.

"Then I've got an idea."

Despite Tricksy's objections, she accompanied Belinda through the gathering darkness to the pond. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the pines. "If I get fried, I'm going to come back and haunt you," Tricksy warned.

Belinda did not answer. She was out of breath from carrying Margaretta Ma'am's portrait under her arm. The gilded carved frame was heavy. When they reached the pond, she put the painting down carefully, the muscles in her arms burning. "Okay, if this works, you have to help me bring the portrait back to the house."

"Right." Tricksy had put on a yellow rain slicker, pulled rubber boots over her feet. "I still think this is the craziest thing I've ever heard."

"It might be crazy, but on the other hand, it just might work." Belinda propped the portrait up so that it sat on edge, supported by her legs. Another thunderbolt sizzled across the ink-black sky. "If Josephine isn't bound here by her bones, it may be that she's just lost and can't find her way. If we can get her back up to the house, maybe she and Margaretta Ma'am will be together again. If we can get her to pay attention to us. If she'll follow the portrait."

"That's a whole lot of "ifs" there, Lindy."

"I know. I just feel so sorry for them, Trick."

Tricksy pointed at the portrait. "Momma will skin us both alive if that thing gets ruined out here."

"It won't." Belinda considered a moment. "Hey, where's Margaretta Ma'am buried?"

"At the graveyard in Laughlin. Oh, I get it. If Margaretta Ma'am can haunt Arcadia when her bones are buried in Laughlin, then maybe Josephine ain't trapped in the pond. You do have a teaspoonful of brains in that head of yours, don't you?" Tricksy laughed, held out a hand. A fat raindrop landed on her palm, then another. "It's a-coming. I have the feeling this is going to be a real frog strangler."

"Yeah, my head is about to bust."

They waited in silence as the storm rolled in. Jagged streams of lightning clawed towards the earth, followed by loud thunderclaps. Not much rain had fallen yet, but it was coming. The moon was obscured by boiling black clouds, swollen and dangerous. Tricksy heard the sound first.

"Listen," she said quietly.

Belinda cocked her head. A shrill wail had started in the woods to their left. She looked that way, and saw a flickering blue-white light weaving among the pines. "I think that's her." The screams grew louder each time a lightning bolt flashed, and faded away.

"Okay. Here goes." Tricksy sucked in a deep breath. She let it out in a shout so loud, Belinda almost fell over. "JOSEPHINE! JOSEPHINE! JOSEPHINE! I CALL YOU FORTH THREE TIMES!"

Belinda knocked the side of her head with her fist, trying to stop the ringing in her ears. "Damn, Trick, you ever thought about taking up hog calling for a living?"

Tricksy grinned. "Momma always said I good lungs for a girl."

The flickering presence came closer, skittering along the edge of the pond. It was human shaped, with two arms and two legs, a torso and head, but it had no face. The wailing carried on, up and down the scale, and set Belinda's teeth on edge. As agreed, she and Tricksy each grabbed a side of the portrait, held it up for the ghost to see.

"It's Margaretta Dupuis who waits for you," Belinda said. "Do you remember Margaretta? She's waiting, Josephine. Waiting in Arcadia. We'll take you to her." As she spoke, she and Tricksy took a step backwards. To Belinda's amazement, the glowing spirit followed. She had not expected her plan to work so well.

"I wish she'd quit that," Tricksy gritted through her teeth. "Like fingernails on a chalkboard."

"Be hush and keep walking."

It was awkward, but Belinda and Tricksy managed to wrestle the painting along the path back to the house. Getting the portrait through the wisteria tunnel was a nightmare, since they had to go side-by-side in a narrow space that had little maneuvering room. At last, the two women reached the front porch steps. They went up, and stopped in front of the door while Tricksy reached behind her with one hand, groping for the knob.

The spirit halted at the bottom of the stairs. The wailing trailed off into silence. Its featureless head was turned blindly in their direction. Belinda did not know how it had followed them, or why it was attracted to a portrait that it could not see. Then again, she thought, Josephine's been dead for a hundred-plus years, and maybe ghosts don't need eyeballs. She screams pretty good for somebody that's got no mouth, too.

Belinda felt Tricksy shoving her. "Take it easy. Can't you find the knob?"

"It ain't that. Get out of my way, girl!" Tricksy dropped her end of the portrait, causing Belinda's grip to slip. The painting fell on the porch, and the frame split with a loud crack.

Belinda began to protest, but stopped. The door had opened of its own accord. Standing on the threshold was Mary Margaretta Dupuis Faulcon. She looked as though she had stepped out of the portrait and into flesh. Vivid, beautiful, magnificent and proud. Sapphires sparkled on wrists, earlobes and around her neck. She walked out onto the porch, the skirts of her antebellum gown rustling. Step by step, she glided down, and disappeared around the corner. Belinda and Tricksy rushed to the side of the porch to follow her progress.

Margaretta Ma'am had not acknowledged the blue-white spirit. She walked on, until she reached the tall window of the parlor. Once there, she did not hesitate. Margaretta Ma'am reached out and touched the pane that held the lightning portrait. Instantly, a hair thin bolt of energy zig-zagged out of the sky. It struck the pane, and the glass shivered into fragments.

"Oh, no..." Tricksy breathed. "Grandmomma Eunice is going to have a cow. A whole herd of 'em. I don't even want to think about what Daddy's going to say."

Belinda nudged her with an elbow. "Look at that."

Josephine's spirit was changing. Where there had been nothing but horrible blankness, a face was rapidly forming. Wide eyes, a flat nose, full-lipped mouth, prominent cheekbones. It was Josephine, restored to the beauty she had known in life. Her blue-white color altered to skin like rich cream. She wore a red satin dress that somehow did not clash with her auburn hair. She joined Margaretta Ma'am, and the two spirits linked arms.

"Look at that," Belinda repeated, wiping away tears.

Tricksy sniffled. "They're so happy. Can you feel it, Lindy?"

"Oh, yes, I feel it. It's beautiful. The storm is over."

The wind was blowing from another quarter, sending the storm back to the mountains. A final scattering of raindrops pattered in its wake. Belinda wished she had a Kleenex. She leaned against Tricksy, who put a friendly arm around her waist. "Do you think they're going to Heaven now?" Tricksy asked.

The two spirits walked back to the porch, floated up the steps, and entered the house. The door closed behind them. Belinda said, "I reckon that answers your question, Trick."

Tricksy shrugged. "I hope they don't aim to have their bedroom back. Momma just had it redone into an office for Daddy, and I don't think he'll relish having them two ghosts turtle-doving while he's trying to work."

"I'm sure it'll be fine." Belinda looked at the door with sudden suspicion. "Uh, Trick... you did bring the house keys, didn't you?"

Tricksy gasped. She ran over to the door, turned the knob. "Aw, poot!" She stomped her foot, struck the door with her fist. "Hey! Let us in! Margaretta Ma'am! Miss Josephine! Let us in!"

Belinda laughed. "C'mon, girl. I'm sure they want some privacy."

"Really?" Tricksy stopped banging the door, mingled fascination and wariness in her expression. "Can ghosts do that?"

"After a hundred-odd years, I'd surely be tempted to find out." Belinda came over, still chuckling. "I've got a spare set of car keys. Let's go to town, find Boyd, and make him buy us a beer."

"A beer, hell. After tonight, I want a whole pitcher." Tricksy ran off the porch, into the yard, and looked back at the house. She started giggling.

"What's so funny?" Belinda asked as she joined her.

Tricksy continued to giggle. Belinda glanced up, and saw a window on the second story. Two misty figures stood there, close to one another. They were limned in soft pink light. Faintly, just on the edge of perception, Belinda heard, "Ma petite... je t'adore."

Belinda blushed furiously, grabbed Tricksy's arm, and pulled her to the car.

THE END

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All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

LULU AND BUTTERBEAN ~  SCRUMP-DEADLY-ICIOUS
by Nene Adams ©2004 - All rights reserved

I'm sure you heard about that little thing over in Dryland a while back, where a bunch of cows broke loose and stampeded the Dairy Princess headquarters? Well, bubba, you're 'bout as ignorant as you look if you believe everything you read in the papers or see on the idiot box. Me n' Lulu was in Dryland when it all went to hell in a handcart, and them news folks didn't tell half the story. Reach me a beer and I'll set you straight on what really happened.

See, Lulu has this thing about ice cream. Not just any ol' stuff, mind you, but Dairy Princess Genuine 100% All-Natural Farmland Best Ice Cream. Comes in the damndest flavors, too. Like Raspberry-Boysenberry-Potato Chip Swirl, or Pickles n' Cream (a real convenience food for them times when a woman's got a bun in her oven). I'm partial to the Chocolate-Pretzels and Beer, myself. But Lulu, bless her heart, has a positive mania for the stuff. Hell hath no fury like a Cantrell standin' in the middle of the frozen foods section at the Piggly Wiggly when the Dairy Princess is sold out and new delivery ain't till next Wednesday. I swear, that manager's eyes haven't quit buggin' out since the last time he got caught on the wrong end of Lulu's tongue. I ain't heard language like that since Do-Right McAllister got his nipple pierced in a fly-fishin' accident.

Anyhow, whenever the Piggly Wiggly don't come through, it's time for poor ol' Butterbean to jump in the truck and head over to Dryland. They always have a passle of ice cream to sell at the Dairy Princess headquarters. Son, they even have a drive-through window. Can't beat that with a sack o' catfish. Usually, Lulu stays at home doin' her hair or nails or reading a magazine whilst I cruise down Route 278. On the way back, I stop and pick up a sack of Krystals. Ain't nothin' can keep them itty-bitty belch-burgers down better'n a bowl of cold Dairy Princess.

This time Lulu decided to come along for the ride. That might've had somethin' to do with her momma, Dolly Cantrell, who was goin' to pay us a visit the followin' Sunday. Lulu's convinced that I'm so dumb, I could be tossed inside a barrel full of titties and come out suckin' on just my thumb. She just had to have a gallon of Dolly's favorite flavor ice cream (Praline & Hot Chili Pepper Surprise) and a gallon of her own favorite (Cheeze Whiz n' Jellybean) and I didn't have brains enough to keep that straight, accordin' to her. Why we had to do this when the sun went down, I don't rightly know. Lulu's so stubborn she'd argue with a stop sign, and I know when to shut my mouth and hop frog.

You know when Route 278 kind of peters out and runs into this gravel track up to Dryland? There's pasture all through there, both sides of the road, and everywhere you look there's cows. Big ol' milk cows chewin' cud as far as the eye can see. At night, the Dairy Princess herds get rounded up and bedded down in barns. Yep, there's a point here, son, so pay attention. When me n' Lulu was drivin' down that track in the moonlight, we could see cows lined up along the fence.

That's about a half-bubble out of plumb already but there's more. Them cow eyeballs was reflectin' in my truck headlights and they weren't normal. No sir, those eyes was fiery red. I mean like blood. Reminded me of the time when a bunch of us gals went over to Hooter's Holler to give Mary Lou Grabbit a hen party at the downtown hotel. That was one hell of a shindig. I do believe we drank every margarita in Flathead County. I dimly remember some dancin' fellow dressed in one sock and a bow tie. I've been told that I don't look bad in a lampshade with a plastic flamingo between my teeth. I don't recall startin' a naked-but-a-feather duster conga line, and I'm pretty sure Lulu lied to me about why I woke up with some Yankee woman's business card stapled to my ass.

Jose Cuervo is no longer a friend of mine, that's for damn sure. You try standin' on a step-ladder at six o'clock in the mornin' to harvest bras and thongs off a chandelier in the Tiki-Wiki Ballroom when you've got a hangover that could stand flat-footed and screw an elephant, whilst a few dozen women stare up at you with bloodshot eyes and faces like seven miles of bad road. Enough to gag a maggot off a guts wagon, and the reason why I've sworn off tequila forever.

Anyhow, had I the sense God gave to a goose, I'd have turned around and lead-footed it out of there. I do recall asking Lulu if we ought to go home and try again in the morning.

"Butterbean Shirley McCall," she says to me, giving one of them looks, "if we don't get that ice cream tonight, I will slap you so hard, you'll be coughing up bones."

And then I had to stand on the brakes 'cause there was a herd of red-eyed cows in the road.

They stood there starin' the truck, which is fairly normal for a cow, except I swear them critters had a real hungry look. Like me n' Lulu was two chunks of Spam in a can, and they was tryin' to figure out how to operate the opener. Gave me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies, the jim-jams, the willies and the jitters, all in one go. My flesh didn't know whether to creep or crawl.

Lulu latched onto me and says, "Butterbean, them cows have got fangs."

Shit.

Vampire cows in Dryland.

I should've known this weren't no ordinary milk run.

Now, there's a deep ditch on either side of that track. I knew there was no way on God's green earth that I could bulldoze my way through that herd in a twenty-year old Chevy pickup held together with baling wire and bubblegum. Once I pried Lulu off my leg, I started backin' up the truck slow and steady. Them vampire cows kept pace. I went a little faster. They kept comin'. I panicked and floored it. Brother, you ain't lived till you've been flyin' backwards on a narrow gravel road at eighty miles an hour in the middle of the night, with a squalling Lulu who's trying to cuss and pray and hang onto the suicide strap and swat you a good one at the same time. And still the damned cows were keepin' up!

I got to a turn-off and took it hard, one foot on the brake and t'other on the gas. The truck was on two wheels at one point, and Lulu like to have pitched the conniption fit of the century. Lord knows, I love that woman, but she can swear a blue streak that'd put shame to a jacked-off longshoreman in a cussing contest. Between her chewin' out my ass and them vampire cows catchin' up in the rear view mirror, I was up to my armpits in trouble with a capital "T."

Goin' bass-ackwards like a bat out of hell, we was headed for the headquarters. Dairy Princess Inc., it said on the sign. The placed looked solid as Fort Knox so I drove through the gate, put both feet on the brakes, hauled the steerin' wheel around, and spun that Chevy at the front door. We come to a halt with not an inch to spare. The engine ticked over and died.

I ain't seen Lulu turn so pale since she took a bite of what she thought was leftover Chinese noodles, only it turned out to be a carton of my best bait worms.

"Butterbean," she says, suckin' down air like it was goin' out of style, "if you ever do that again, I'll jump down your throat and run through you like a bad dose of castor oil."

There weren't no time to be nice about it. "Lulu Lee Rubella Cantrell," I says, "you'd better haul ass, fool woman, or I'll leave you here for vampire fodder!"

I popped out of the truck, jerked Lulu along with me, and beat feet into the building before the shock wore off. No security guards or alarms, so we went in the elevator and took off to the top floor. I was operatin' on the assumption that vampire cows weren't smart enough to figure out how the damned thing worked, and they sure weren't light enough to climb. If we could keep out of their way till dawn, I figured them blood-lustin' critters would have to leave us be, on account of the undead bein' allergic to sunlight. Of course, everything I know about vampires, I learned from drive-in movies. Most of the time, though, I was paying way more attention to Lulu and her glow-in-the-dark drawers than the picture show.

Anyhow, by the time we got to the top floor, Lulu was swole up like a bullfrog on helium. "Butterbean," she says to me, "I ought to jerk a knot in your tail for speaking to me that way."

"Honey-pie," I says, "if we live through this, I'll make it up to you with Goo-Goo Clusters, Moon Pies, RC Cola, boiled peanuts and dinner for two at the Finger Lickin' Rib Shack. And I'll help you tie the knot."

As I was speaking, I seen something movin' outside the window. We was on the eighth floor, so I figured that it couldn't be nothin' but a bird. The biggest damn bird I ever seen. The biggest damn bird I ever seen that had an udder, two glowing red eyeballs and fangs. You guessed it, bubba. Vampire cows can fly! It looked right at me and went, "Blooooood." I was glad my Chevy was parked on the other side of the buildin'.

I jumped back a foot, but Lulu just got mad. That girl would charge Hell with a bucket of ice water. "Shoo! Shoo!" she says, flapping at that vampire cow like it was a chicken underfoot. "Go on, git!"

The cow didn't take kindly to bein' fussed at. It went, "Bloooood," again and crashed through the window. Behind it, the rest of the herd was coming up fast. Son, I don't mind tellin' you that I was nervous as a fart in a hot skillet. I grabbed Lulu and made for a door. We wound up in a cooler full of ice cream tubs. You'd have thought that Lulu had struck the motherload. The only thing she lacked was a spoon, and she was off to the Promised Land without no help from me.

I had shut the door, but them vampire cows was persistant as gum in your hair. They commenced to whackin' and bangin' on the door, raising cain with a vengeance. Lulu was too busy shoveling ice cream in her face to get het up about it. Spoon, hell. Lulu had found a popsicle stick in the corner to use as a scoop, and she was workin' on her second pint like she hadn't a care in the world. Which she hadn't, you understand. Whilst I'd druther be known as somebody who couldn't slide off a greased log backwards, Lulu's got faith. Somehow, scrawny ol' Butterbean will save the day.

"Butterbean," Lulu says to me around a mouthful of Snuff and Dandelion Wine Ripple, "you do something about them vampire cows, or by thunder, I will jar your preserves."

Right about then, the door busted open. There we were, trapped in a walk-in cooler with vampire cows fixin' to come walkin' in and partake of the feast. I grabbed a pint of Chicken ala King Sherbert and would have chucked it at 'em, except Lulu took it away from me. She couldn't bear to part it, ammunition or no. There was a box to my left and I ripped it open. Frozen T-bone steaks. I thought I remembered somethin' about vampires being allergic to steak, so I took one up and prepared refuse the line.

The lead cow goes, "Bloooood," and I shoved that steak in its mouth. Ever seen a vampire cow look surprised? Brother, that critter couldn't have been more astonished if I'd stripped off and square-danced naked with a plucked duck on my head. It went, "Bloooood?" and then its head exploded.

Talk about a mess! Guts and grease and God knows what all over the place, and Lulu sat there givin' me one of them looks. Seems she caught some of the backwash and her hair-do was plumb ruined. Not all the spray in the world was going to fix that thing. I didn't have no time to deal with her hissy fit, though, 'cause the next cow was coming through.

I grabbed another T-bone and says, "Git, bossy, or I'll steak you but good."

"Bloooood," that vampire cows says. "Bloooood."

Vampire cows ain't the sharpest crayons in the box, so I reckoned I'd have to do this thing the hard way. Soon as that thing opened up its mouth again, I shoved in a steak. Boom! The score was Butterbean: 2, Dumb-Ass Cows: 0. Vampire number three came trottin' along and got the same treatment. Boom!

Lulu weren't too happy, 'cause them short, sharp showers of cow had really put her off the ice cream. On the other hand, we was both still alive, so long as I didn't run out of T-bones. There wasn't but one box, though, and a whole herd of vampire cows, and I had to hold 'em off till dawn.

At last, I was on my final steak. There was still a dozen of them red-eyed bitches outside. The situation looked mighty grim. Even Lulu had stopped grizzlin' and started worryin'. The cows come closer, crowdin' inside. I could feel that hot vampire breath on my face and knew it was the end.

"Bloooood, bloooood, bloooood!"

And then the sun came up.

Hallelujah!

Them vampire cows didn't so much explode this time as they did just sort of peter out. They shrank up like worms on a hot sidewalk, and by the time they was done, there weren't nothin' much left. Me n' Lulu took some tubs of ice cream and beat feet on out of there. A bunch of rent-a-cops met us downstairs, but after Lulu gave 'em eleventy-dozen different kinds of hell, they let us go in a hurry.

Don't ask me how come Dairy Princess had vampire cows. I ain't got no damn idea, son. Maybe they was working on a new flavor or somethin'. Anyhow, the real traumatizin' part of the business was all that ice cream. We didn't eat nothing but ice cream for breakfast, lunch and dinner for three weeks. Like to have spoiled me forever, though Lulu tried adding stuff to it like chili beans and watermelon rind pickles and tuna melt.

Nowadays, I stick to a small vanilla cone, just in case Dairy Princess tries to pull a fast one.

Now get a mooooove on, son.

It's time for another beer.

THE END

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All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

LULU AND BUTTERBEAN FACE THE MUSIC
by Nene Adams ©2004 - All rights reserved

There have been damned few moments in my life when I've gotten the best of Lulu Cantrell. Lord knows, I love that woman, but she can get so far above herself that she's in danger of an out-of-body experience. Does her good to be thwarted from time to time, though I don't know if you need to repeat that to her. Now hush up, reach me a cold beer, and I'll tell you about the time when I won a contest and met the King of Rock n' Roll.

It all happened when me'n Lulu was having supper at the All Shook Up Diner and Washerette on Highway 109 between Picayune and Meridian. I'm sure you know the place. Diner on one side, coin laundry on t'other. A right popular place on Friday night, since it was close to the T-Bird Drive-In and the Seeking Singles Social Club. Take your date to supper and get a week's washin' done at the same time. Can't beat a bargain like that with a stick.

Anyhow, I had just finished washing down a piece of chicken fried steak the size of a small steer with some cherry limeade when Lulu clutched my arm so hard, I swallowed a chunk of ice and damn near choked to death. "An evening with the King!" she says, using her other hand to point in the general direction of yonder.

After I pounded some feelin' back into my arm - and my chest, which felt frozen solid - I took a look. In the corner near the jukebox was a cardboard sign that said, "Special Seance to Summon the King of Rock n' Roll, Elvis Presley, In the Spirit! Enter our contest and win a chance to participate with Narcissa Honeycutt, Spiritualist Medium and Channeler of the Stars. Only $5 per entry!"

I turned back to Lulu and says, "Honey-pie, that ain't nothin' but a way for the diner to make money off folks without havin' to deep fry anything. Besides, you know I ain't never won nothing in my life except you."

Yes, I was tryin' to take her mind off the stupid contest 'cause I needed that spare five dollars in my wallet for a poker stake the next weekend with Boss Tott and the boys over in Hogbend.

Didn't work though. Lulu wasn't fooled for a hot second. She give me one of them looks. "Butterbean," she says, "if you do not march over there right now and pay these nice people five dollars so's I can enter their contest, I'll smack you so hard that when you wake up, your clothes'll be out of style."

I know when I'm beat, but Butterbean ain't no sissy. I forked over that five dollars all right, but instead of filling out the form in Lulu's name, I used my own. I figured she'd never find out. Man alive, was I wrong. Trouble sticks to me like a booger you can't thump off, and I should've known that something would go wrong.

About a week later, Lulu came bouncin' into the trailer with the mail. I had plumb forgot that contest until she flapped an envelope under my nose. "I do believe that I've won," she says, grinnin' like a coon eating barbed wire. "It's from the All Shook Up Diner."

My poor ol' stomach did a flip-flop that could've earned it a score of "10" from an Olympic committee. "Uh, honey-pie," I says, girding up my loins, so to speak, "about that there contest..."

"Hush up," Lulu says, opening the envelope and breaking one of her Lee Press-On nails in the process. She didn't even stop to cuss, which should give you a fair indication of how excited she was. "Oh, I'm goin' to meet the King!"

Then she read what was in the envelope.

I braced myself.

Sure enough, Lulu gave me a look that was uglier'n a lard bucket full of armpits. I mean to tell you, brother, if looks could kill, I'd have been six feet under with the service already said and the gravediggers shoulderin' their shovels. Lulu blessed me out but good, too. I ain't heard language like that since Mac Dougherty mashed his thumb with a hammer, fell off the roof, landed on top of the outhouse and went clean down to the bottom of shit-pit. After he got up, he realized that he'd lost his false teeth and then he really got mad. I reckon his wife's blackberry cobbler tasted a mite strange that afternoon.

Anyhow, even Lulu Cantrell can't cuss the whole day without repeating herself three or four times, so I finally got a word in edgewise. "Honey-pie," I says, "I wouldn't dream of deprivin' you of your chance to see the King."

That got her attention. It also earned me some sugar points, 'cause Lulu quit grizzling and gave me a kiss that like to have curled my hair. See, she's the biggest Elvis fan in Flathead County. The bedroom in our trailer is wallpapered with black velvet paintings of the King in all his glory. There's collectible Elvis liquor bottles above the fridge, plastic Elvis plates in the cupboard, Elvis rocking pelvis clocks, Elvis snow domes, Elvis ashtrays, and a glow-in-the-dark lifesized Elvis in the bathroom that scares the bejesus out of guests. We even have a gold-plated Elvis bust that says, "Thang you verra much," when you passed it on your way to the front door.

She has seen every Elvis movie ever made, owns every album, has made annual pilgrimage to Graceland every year since she was thirteen, and is the life-time President of the Elvis Presley Fan Club of Flathead County and Unincorporated Catfish Junction. Lulu has smooched the lips away from many a picture of the King in her lifetime. She would've put Elvis sheets on the damned bed, but it's bad enough tryin' to perform when you've got about a thousand black velvet eyeballs staring down at you. I'd never get to the Promised Land with Mr. Presley's face pressed against my backside, if you know what I mean.

Lulu's most cherished possession is a dirty, crumpled up old towel that her Aunt Sister swore she'd gotten off a girlfriend's girlfriend who had been at the King's Aloha concert in Hawaii. Genuine Elvis sweat, supposedly. Lulu keeps it in a glass dome in the closet and only trots it out for special occasions. I ain't jealous for three reasons. One, he's the King. Two, the man's dead. Three, I know when to keep my mouth shut so's not to upset Lulu. 'Nuff said.

Needless to say, Lulu was thrilled all the way down to her little pink toes. She got on the phone and called her relatives, her friends, her enemies and probably total strangers, too. I drew the line when she tried to call the President of the United States, though. I was pretty certain that the man had enough problems - domestic and foreign - without having to deal with Lulu, who can cause more consternation in a flat minute than any other disaster on earth, natural or otherwise.

Now I wasn't too keen on Lulu goin' to the All Shook Up Diner alone, mainly because of the Curse of the Cantrells. That whole brood can't be beat for raising cain, mischief and mayhem at every opportunity. Lulu is pert near the penultimate Cantrell. She just can't help attracting insanity and pure ass-bitin' weirdness, bless her heart. I felt sorry for them people who were going to Narcissa Honeycutt's seance with Lulu. They had no idea what they were in for.

Unfortunately, the contest winners were allowed to bring one guest. It said so in the small print at the bottom of the page. Guess who Lulu picked? That's right. Poor ol' Butterbean.

I was born under a misfortunate star, brother, and that ain't no mistake.

Well, the big night came and Lulu was almost beside herself. Most of the Cantrell women had come over to the trailer to give her a grand send-off. From all the fuss, you'd've thought she was flying to the moon under her own power. There was more fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches than you could shake a stick at, and more excitement than you'd find on male stripper night at the Chugalug-a-Go-Go Bar n' Grill. I had to go outside before all that squealing busted my eardrums.

We finally left and Lulu nearly made me wreck the truck three times on account of tryin' to make me drive faster. Lord knows, I love that woman, but there is a time and a place for 'resting her head in my lap' and Highway 109 pretty much ain't it. I have never been so relieved in my life as when we rolled into the parking lot of the All Shook Up Diner and Washerette. Of course, soon as we parked, Lulu weren't interested in nothin' but the seance. Shit. I just can't win for losing sometimes.

Anyhow, there was thirteen folks all told, us includin', which should've been my first clue. That psychic female, Narcissa Honeycutt, was an itty-bitty thing, but she was so buck-toothed she could've eaten corn on the cob through a keyhole. She had about two pounds of jewelry on each arm, and a turban perched on her head that was big enough to be used as a spare tire. I thought I knew her from somewhere but damned if I could put my finger on it. Meanwhile, Narcissa passed out copies of her astrology column that runs in the Gulledge Tattler, just to prove that she weren't no fake.

I knew she didn't have no special powers, 'cause not once in ten years has she predicted anything except happiness and sunshine for my sign. Hah! You can see ol' Narcissa Honeycutt was phonier than a two dollar Rolex. I kept my mouth shut, though. Lulu was happier'n a cuddlebug at a hug party, and I sure weren't goin' to pop her balloon. There ain't no use borrowin' trouble when I got a durned truck-load of the stuff back home.

So there we was at the All Shook Up Diner and Washerette, sittin' 'round a table and trying to conjure up the King. I'll give it to ol' Narcissa, that gal knew her stuff. The lights was turned down low and she commenced to shakin' and moanin' and jitterbuggin' around in her seat like a whole herd of fire ants had taken up residence in her drawers. I ain't seen an embarrassing public display like that since Euphonia Shank got the Holy Spirit smack dab in the middle of Sears & Roebuck, and as she was wearin' a mini-skirt at the time, I learned first-hand how come Momma McCall always told me to wear clean underwear in case I had an accident. In Euphonia's case, though, every boy in the store got a lesson in anatomy that he'd never forget.

Lulu was clutchin' my hand so hard, I feared she'd do me a permanent damage. I couldn't rightly pry her off, though, 'cause something was happening in the room that made me feel like I had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. Ain't nothing good ever comes of meddlin' in things that man ain't s'sposed to know. Just ask me, bubba. I earned every damned one of my gray hairs trying to keep Lulu from not only knockin' on Heaven's door, but ringing the doorbell and hollering to be let in.

What, you ask, had me shakin' like a poodle crappin' peach pits? Well, a thing was appearin' over the table. It was black and kind of swirly and, come to think of it, looked a lot like an ice cream cone with a curl on top. Except it was real menacin' in a way that ice cream usually ain't, unless you get it from the Carterdale Dairy Princess, where it's as likely to be swamp ape flavored than not. The Curse of the Cantrells, you know.

This thing kept on comin' like it a preacher runnin' late for an all-you-can-eat fried chicken buffet. Lulu was so excited, I reckon her jeans was a mite dampish. In fact, I figure everybody's denims was fixin' to appear in a new picture show, The Yellow River by I.P. Freely. If things took a turn for the worse, we'd all get starring roles in The Brown-Spotted Wall by Hoo Flung Dung. Yeah, boy, it's one of them foreign karate flicks. Lord have mercy! If brains was gas, you couldn't drive a pissant's go-cart around a Cheerio. Remind me to loan you that new book, Forty Yards to the Outhouse by Willie Makeit and Betty Wont. Now hush up and reach me another beer.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. All of a sudden, the thing popped into focus and I pert near threw my bones out of joint in surprise. That black swirly menacin' ice cream cone was, indeed, Elvis Presley. The King himself was floating over the table! His jumpsuit had more spangles on it than a show-girl's titty holster. Yes sir, he looked fat and sassy, so I reckon they put on a good spread in the Here-After.

Lulu let out a scream that you could've heard clear over in Dryland. I do know that my hearin' ain't been the same since. All around the table, folks sucked in air and didn't know whether to shit or go blind. Me, I just closed one eye and farted, so to speak, 'cause to be honest, I don't trust these things. Somethin' always goes wrong. And I was wound up so tight, you couldn't have driven an eight-penny nail into my ass with a ten-pound sledgehammer.

Elvis looked at us with his bedroom eyes and says, "Thang you verra much."

The crowd went wild. Narcissa Honeycutt was doin' her mumbo-jumbo business, and Elvis was bobbing around in thin air, and Lulu was so ecstatic, she was fixin' to start speaking in tongues. It was at this point, son, that the other shoe dropped. Or rather, Narcissa's turban fell off and rolled behind the counter.

Turns out she had some kind of glass ball under that big ol' hat. It dropped off her head, hit the floor and busted into about a gadzillion pieces. Soon as that ball was broke, Elvis showed his true colors. He weren't the King of Rock n' Roll at all. Nope, it was some other kind of spirit that Narcissa had conjured up. She must've controlled it with that glass ball of hers, and without it, her so-called psychic powers was 'bout as useful as tits on a boar hog. Once I got a good gander at her, I knew who she was. The turban had thrown me off, and them buck-toothed dentures she was wearin'.

Narcissa Honeycutt was really Madam Gootch, the swamp witch of Backwater Slough!

I thought I'd recognized that ten pounds of poison in a five pound sack. Lulu did, too. She ripped out a string of cuss words that turned Madam Gootch as red as a fox's ass in a pokeberry patch. I don't know if Lulu was mad 'cause the last time we tangled with the swamp witch at the Hoodoo Voodoo Contest, her dainty pink feet got covered in fur. Or maybe she was jacked off 'cause Elvis had left the building. Either way, Lulu was ready and willin' to open up a can o' whup ass on Gootch, and I had to haul her back before she got hurt. More gumption than sense, that's my honey-pie.

Elvis had shucked off his skin, revealin' the ugliest damned critter I've ever clapped eyes on. If you can imagine a toady-frog blowed up the size of a mule, with a million big ol' pointy teeth and claws like Hell's can openers, you've got about ten-percent of what we saw that night in the All Shook Up Diner and Washerette. That thing had a face like it had caught on fire and its momma had put it out with an icepick. Could've scared a dog off a meat wagon. The critter rolled them fiery red eyes at us and roared loud enough to shake plaster loose from the ceiling.

Madam Gootch jumped up and beat feet for the door. I was there just ahead of her. "You think you're hot shit on a silver platter," I says, "but you ain't nothin' 'cept cold boogers on a paper plate."

"It'll kill us all!" the swamp witch hollers, anxious as a one-eyed cat watchin' two rat holes. "Run for your life, fool!"

"Butterbean Shirley McCall's momma didn't raise no fool," I says. "Now get rid of that devil-critter, you dishonest hussy, or by thunder, I'll feed you to it in bite-sized chunks."

Lulu and the rest were holed up behind the counter. "Go to it, Butterbean," she says to me, "and don't get yourself killed, or I'll slap you so hard, you'll starve to death rolling!"

I give Gootch the stink-eye. "What's your choice?" I says.

Well, she thought about defying me, but that didn't last too long. In the end, she agreed to do what needed to be done. 'Course, it might have been 'cause I had the hold-out pistol from my boot pressed against the back of her head. Whilst we was negotiatin', Lulu and the other folks were distracting the critter by tossing raw hamburgers at it. The devil-critter gulped 'em down a mile-a-minute. That thing was all appetite from head to heels. I knew there weren't no time to lose.

"Get a move on," I says to Gootch, "or I'll kick your ass so hard, your breath'll smell like shoe polish."

Madam Gootch commenced to conjurin', mumbling all sorts of foo-fa-rah and wavin' her hands in the air. Lulu had switched to chuckin' chickens at the critter, which it gobbled faster than the hamburgers. Steaks and hams and barbeque meat and hot dogs and pork chops flew through the air. It gave my heart a pang to watch all that good stuff bein' wasted on a toady-frog monster.

Finally, though, Lulu ran out of ammunition. The devil-critter let out a belch and turned its googly eyes on me. It was now or never, as the King would say.

I thumbed back the hammer of my hide-out pistol. "You got one second before I send you on to your eternal reward," I says to Gootch.

She clapped her hands together and gargled some foreign soundin' words. There was a rattlin' boom of thunder and a bright light and a sizzling noise that sounded like bacon in a hot fryin' pan. Then I swear that I witnessed a miracle.

Standing there before us was Elvis Presley. The real deal this time. His jumpsuit was even more dazzlin' than before, and he lit up that diner like a diamond in a goat's ass at high noon. The King struck a pose and everybody in the place - excludin' the devil-critter - squealed and jumped around and generally made a fuss. Lulu broke cover and ran at him, her lips already puckered. Bless her heart, I reckon Lulu was so het up that she'd have let devils gnaw on her liver for the chance to get some sugar from the King of Rock n' Roll.

Elvis slicked back his hair and curled his lip and says, "Not now, pretty momma. I'm takin' care-a bidness."

Lulu had stars in her eyes, alright. If I'd have said that to her, she'd've knocked me for a loop. Instead, Lulu went back behind the counter as Elvis made some karate moves, preparin' himself to kick that devil-critter's behind. They faced off, the King of Rock n' Roll vs. the King of Hell. We all held our breath. There commenced a battle the likes of which I've never seen before, 'cept that one time when the satellite dish picked up a wrestlin' program from Tijuana. Or maybe it weren't wrestlin' at all, 'cause when's the last time you ever saw a donkey in the ring? But I digress.

I tell you, boy, Elvis bitch-slapped that devil-critter up one side of the diner and down the other. He whupped a mudhole in its ass and stomped it flatter'n Lulu's biscuits. By the time the King was done, that critter was nothin' but a ball of agony and doom. He grabbed it up by the scruff of its neck, drew back his leg, and drop-kicked that thing clean out of the place. If it landed anywhere this side of Broomstick Ridge, I'll eat my favorite feed store cap.

When he was through, Elvis gave us a wave and a smile that made my knees rubbery as Jell-O salad. The King started to vanish, then re-appeared and came at me. He leaned over Madam Gootch and I swear, there was a twinkle in them bedroom eyes. He kissed me dead on the lips and whispered, "Are you lonesome tonight, pretty momma?"

I could feel Lulu starin' at the back of my head. It was one of them looks. The hide was bein' peeled off me in thin layers. "No sir," I says in a real hurry, "but maybe you can talk to Lulu Cantrell about that. She's your biggest fan."

The King winked at me and he was gone, leavin' nothin' but a bit of shine in the air behind him.

Well, that was it for the All Shook Up Diner and Washerette. Madam Gootch went home to Backwater Slough. Turns out she'd been pullin' that same trick all over Flathead County, and she had to repay every red cent on account of false advertisin'. Except, of course, I never saw my five dollars again 'cause the real King of Rock n' Roll showed up at our seance. Can't win for losing, and that's a fact.

As for Lulu, I figured she'd be madder'n a wet hen. Elvis kissed me, after all. But Lulu never said a word about it. Life goes on, and she even ordered a set of Elvis shot glasses from TV the other day.

At odd times, though, I catch her lookin' at my mouth and fondlin' a sharp knife.

I figure that someday, a little part of me may join the Elvis Aloha towel in its glass case in the bottom of the closet. Hopefully, I ain't goin' to be needing 'em no more when it happens, 'cause I sure get a powerful lot of pleasure out of whistlin' Dixie.

Thang you verra much.

Butterbean has left the building.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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LULU AND BUTTERBEAN GO HOUSE HAUNTING
by Nene Adams ©2004 - All rights reserved

You know, there was a time when I didn't believe in much 'cept cold beer, country music and a good pair of boots. A time when me and Lulu Cantrell lived a simpler life. A time when we didn't have no ambitions other'n a satellite dish and a big ass monster truck that required an escalator just to get into the cab. Them times is over, son. Pass me a beer.

I reckon the trouble started when Lulu - bless her heart - decided that since her best friend from high school, Missy Purdue, had just bought herself a house, she ought to have one too. The best double-wide trailer at Friendly Bob's weren't good enough. No, sir. Every damn day and every damn night, Lulu was on to me about a house, 'cause she can't stand it when some other woman gets an inch ahead of her. Lulu was crowned Tomato Queen of Flathead County for three years running, and ain't nobody allowed to forget it. I hemmed and hawed and generally tried to squash the notion, but finally Lulu put her dainty foot down.

"Butterbean Shirley McCall," she says, giving me one of them looks, "you will buy me a house, or by thunder, I'll deal you a blow that'll knock some sense into your head and pitch it out again on the other side."

Lord knows, I love that woman, though I wonder if I really need all this excitement in my life. Not out loud, of course. Mama McCall didn't raise no fool.

I wisely figured that since I didn't want get my skull stove in by a riled up Cantrell with an economy sized can of Do-Right hairspray, I had best get in gear and see what could be done to satisfy the latest bug to crawl up Lulu's pretty pink behind. Let me tell you, brother, there ain't no misery ever devised that can rival the pure-dee horror of house hunting. Finding a place to satisfy Lulu was like trying to herd cats, but she was in a powerful hurry, too. Couldn't let Missy Purdue out-do the Tomato Queen. Lulu had me moving so fast, you'd've thought my feet was on fire and my butt was catchin'.

She dragged me up and down the county every weekend, from Meridian to Picayune, Gulledge, Carterdale, Perdition, Hogbend, Broomstick Ridge and even Backwater Slough, giving various properties the eyeball. We must've stumped through every doghouse, cathouse, chicken house and outhouse, too. Lulu was leaving no stone unturned in her search for the perfect home that would show Missy Purdue who was who in dear ol' Flathead.

At last, we came upon a place 'bout five miles outside of Picayune, down this dirt track that wandered off Route 9. It was literally the last one on a list that Lulu had gotten from her cousin, Larry Cantrell, who sold real estate between the deer hunting and fishing seasons. Lulu's eyes lit up like a knocking shop on payday when she spied the house. As for me, I like to have swallowed my teeth.

The house was one of them grand affairs, all columns and porches and la-dee-dah, the sort of place you figure can't nobody live in unless they wear hoop skirts, drink mint juleps by the gallon and say, "Fiddle-dee-dee" a lot. A real Southern belle's home of the kind described in them fancy real estate brochures as stately, gracefully appointed, lots of old-fashioned charm and other code words to let you know that it costs serious money. In other words, if you have to ask the price, bubba, you ain't going to afford that sucker in your lifetime. You might as well mosey on over to Friendly Bob's Trailer Heaven and please, don't take the shine off the doorknob when it hits your poor ass on the way out.

Lulu, on the other hand, was squeaking and moaning and damn near foaming at the mouth. The light of love was in her eyes. Missy Perdue was going to shit kittens when she saw Lulu, gracious lady-of-the-manor in a home that Scarlet O'Hara wouldn't have sneezed at. I took one look and knew that I was in trouble with a capital "T."

With my stomach hoverin' somewhere in the region of my toenails, I went inside with Lulu, who continued embarrassing me with her little noises. I ain't heard sounds like that since she accidentally grabbed a worn-out electrical cord when we were in the middle of a boot-knocking romp and she was close to the Promised Land. Don't know exactly what that did for her, but she hollered loud enough at the end to bust the ceiling fan loose and was real nice to me for about a week afterwards. Until she found out that I'd replaced the cord, whereupon Lulu grizzled something fierce and burned the cornbread.

Anyhow, the inside of the place was huge and there was lots of furniture covered in sheets. Lulu peeked at all of it, and the more she saw, the more excited she got. She was already imagining the look of drop-dead-bitch jealousy on Missy Purdue's face, and I felt lower'n a toad in a dry well. There was no way I could afford this house, not unless Jesus Christ co-signed the mortgage papers and the Devil himself coughed up a down payment.

Lulu don't take disappointment very well and I was dreading the moment when I'd have to put a stick in her spokes. The more she giggled and tee-heed and scrubbed her hands together, the worse I felt. Nervous don't begin to cover it, son. I reckon you could've put a chunk of coal up my ass and gotten back a diamond.

Finally, I says, "Honey-pie, we can't afford a big ol' place like this. It's plumb marvelous and all, only I'm pretty sure that my boss ain't going to raise my salary four-hundred percent so's I can make the payments and we can starve to death on what's left."

Lulu fixed me with an awful look. "Butterbean," she says, "you are standing in our new home, which is going to turn Missy Purdue pea-green with envy. Cousin Larry told me that this one was an absolute steal. Now quit your belly-aching or I'll smack you clean into next week and jerk you back to last Tuesday by the small hairs."

Well, there ain't no arguing with Lulu, who was clearly happier than a dog with two peckers who'd just stumbled into a T-bone steak mountain. I consigned myself to doom and returned to the truck, wishing I'd had the sense to bring along a six-pack to keep me company. An absolute steal? That's the sort of thing them real estate folks tell you before they start whetting the fillet knife and pickin' out their pound of flesh, preferably as close to your wallet as possible. Lulu, meanwhile, was busier than a cat covering crap on a marble floor. She ran all up and down that house, squealing with delight. I must've fallen asleep, 'cause the next thing I knew, it was full dark and I was the all-you-can-eat mosquito buffet.

I went back in the house and there was no sign of Lulu. It was also darker in there than the inside of a hog at midnight during the dark of the moon. I stubbed both big toes and took most of the skin off my left shin, stumbling around in search of a candle or a flashlight. Finally, I found one of those fancy doo-hickeys like Liberace used to have on his piano and lo! There was light, 'cause I had the foresight to carry that buck-naked lady lighter I'd won off Whisper Haggard in a spitting contest. That boy never could handle his chaw. When it came down to the moment of spit or swallow, Whisper could be counted on to get confused about half the time.

I couldn't find Lulu so I went upstairs, beginning to worry about that crazy Cantrell girl that I love more'n cheese on grits.

I got my first surprise on the landing when a soldier dressed in a Union uniform ran up and stabbed me through the gut with his bayonet. I dropped the candle doo-hickey and let out a yell that ought to have blown that bastard back a yard or three. He acted like he didn't even hear me and kept on stabbin'. Strange thing was, I didn't feel a thing. Not a twinge. And then it hit me.

He was a ghost.

The house was haunted.

Shit, I just can't win for losing sometimes.

I picked up the candle doo-hickey and walked right through that soldier, who hollered an oath that would've made my Papaw reach for the big scary switch that was saved for special occasions. Soldier-boy followed that up with, "You're under arrest!"

Well, that plumb stopped me in my tracks. I turned around and gave him the stink-eye. "What on God's green earth are you talkin' about, you damn Yankee fool?" I says.

I have to give that solider's spirit credit. He stood his ground and says, "You're under arrest, you Rebel murderer."

My first inclination was to laugh until I busted the elastic out of my drawers. I mean, have you heard anything crazier in your life? There I was, flesh and blood. There he was, about as solid as a fart in a hurricane. There weren't a damn thing he could do to me. It was like the time when I took on that notorious school-yard bully, Junior Junior, behind the gym in 10th grade on account of his talkin' trash about Lulu. Two hundred-ninety pounds of pure mean vs. skinny ol' Butterbean. Little did he know that I had a kick like a bad-tempered mule and had learned the art of putting the hurt on a man from Momma McCall, who is no slouch in that department herself. I ducked the first swing and nailed that boy so hard in his denims, he just shriveled up and crawled away. Took him a week to walk straight, then he apologized to Lulu like I told him.

Needless to say, Lulu took me behind the gym and rewarded me for bein' her hero, but that ain't neither here nor there.

Ah, sweet memories.

Now there I was with this ghost giving me what-for, and my sweet Lulu in God only knew what kind of mess. I turned my back on that damn fool Yankee and went on up the stairs, where I found a whole bunch more damn Yankee spirits waitin' for me. They was right nasty looking, too, with beards and other facial fungus you could've hid a herd of possums in, and every last mother-lovin' son of 'em was trying to put the frightener on me.

An officer ghost says, "You murdered my men with poisoned mushrooms, you Rebel bitch. I should have known not to trust a Southern woman. An invitation to dinner, so charmingly and politely extended though we looted your smokehouse and took the family silver. You smiled and smiled while we ate, and smiled even more when we died. Now it's your turn!"

Well, I wasn't about to let no ignorant spirit give me down the river for something I didn't do. Besides, I would've bet my last nickel that these here damn Yankees were some of Sherman's raiders, so they probably deserved it. And I was still worried about Lulu somethin' fierce  I resisted the urge to annoy them with a few choruses of Dixie and walked through without harm. Oh, a couple of 'em jabbed at me but it didn't even tickle. Stubborn but dumb as a bag of hammers, the lot of 'em.

I got my next surprise when I opened the first door. There was a gallows inside with a crook-necked man hanging from it. Another ghost, naturally. He flapped his black tongue and rolled his bulgy eyes at me in what I can only describe as the worst flirtation attempt I've ever received, and I'm counting the time when G.G. Walker pissed my initials into the barbeque ash at the annual Pig n' Plenty social back in my high school days 'cause he had a crush on me. I wasn't impressed. Neither was Lulu, by the way. I never did find out exactly what she said to him, but G.G. gave open barbeque pits a wide berth from then on.

Inside the next three rooms were a passle of Indian spirits on the warpath. The bathroom was playin' host to a group of ghostly settlers who kept circlin' their wagons. Made me kind of dizzy, so I went on to find a whole troop of dead folks in old-fashioned clothes occupying six spare bedrooms and a linen closet. The attic was filled to the rafters with spooky but substantial lady spirits dressed in lingerie and less, who said things to me that I would blush to repeat. They were doin' things, too, that would have gotten 'em arrested in most states except Georgia, and that's only if you do it with your cousin.

I beat feet out of the attic and finally found Lulu in one of them little cubby-hole places under the stairs. She was fast asleep, bless her heart, all tuckered out from gloating the whole day. She didn't rightly believe me about them ghosts at first. Lulu kept sniffin' my breath and wondering how the hell I managed to find Mr. Jack Daniels in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. Don't rightly know what she smelled, though.

I ain't had a drop of hard liquor since Diddy Ryebolt got me drunk as a boiled owl and dared me to steal Dreama Slidell's g-string off the washin' line in her backyard. I think I was s'posed to run 'em up the flagpole outside the courthouse. Instead, I woke up hoisted to the top of the pole myself with the biggest, pinkest, laciest pair of drawers you ever laid eyes on bein' used as a sling. Folks sure gave me some odd looks after that. Nowadays, I stick to beer and cow tipping, 'cause I reckon I'm about the worst underwear bandito in history.

Anyhow, Lulu changed her mind about me being a low down dirty liar when some of them Indian spirits came riding down the staircase, chasin' a wagon train.

I think the cherry on the cake was some woman ghost bein' burned at the stake in the parlor. Or it might've been the headless guy who popped up out of the toilet when she went to relieve her distress at listenin' to said woman screeching and hollering fit to beat the band. As Lulu told me later, it was touch and go there for a minute, but she figured on treatin' it like a gas station facility and just hovered, although having a man between her thighs (even if he was only a ghost) was sure distractin', and not in a good way.

Lulu was still willin' to give the house a try. "Missy Purdue's place ain't full of haints," she says, watching a gaggle of gibbering ghosts in straight jackets bouncin' off the walls. "It might be fun."

I kept my mouth shut.

After about a minute, Lulu says, "Yes ma'am, I'm sure that nobody in Flathead County will have a more haunted house than ours."

I still kept my mouth shut. Ol' Butterbean ain't a complete moron, you know.

The headless ghost of the toilet came splashin' out into the vestibule. Some flappers from the 20's danced by, showing off their bullet wounds. A wagon rolled past my nose, followed by them damn Yankees marchin' in formation. All that noise just had to be heard to be believed. It was louder than a Fourth of July family reunion, a guinea hen convention, a Baptist tent rally and Two-For-One night at the Mass Panic Roadhouse, all rolled into one.

Lulu says, "We can get used to it, I'm sure."

And then, by thunder, some spooks-of-the-evening from the attic came jigglin' down the stairs, wearing nothing but smiles. They waved at me and called, "Yoo-hoo!" and I knew they weren't askin' for a cold drink.

Lulu gave me one of them looks. It like to have peeled my hide clean off. "If I find out that you've been eyeballin' other women, Butterbean Shirley McCall, I will knock your teeth down your throat and you'll spit 'em back single file."

See, I kept my mouth shut for a reason.

Well, we got out of there after that, and Lulu said not another word about buying the most haunted home in the whole state. Which should've made me happy, only it didn't 'cause Lulu gave me eleventy-dozen different kinds of hell over them naked lady ghosts. She even went so far as to confiscate the naked lady lighter I'd won from Whisper Haggard. No idea what she did with it, but damned if the backyard didn't stink of burned plastic somethin' fierce for a while.

I reckon the one who got the worst of it was Larry Cantrell. Turns out the house was not only built on an Indian burial ground, witch burnin' site and old cemetery which had never been moved, it had also been a whorehouse (all the girls were slaughtered by a dissatisfied customer), insane asylum (half-burned down after a massacre of the staff by the inmates), and speak-easy (another massacre). Larry said it was called the "Hell-no House" 'cause nobody who stayed more'n a night in the place would have it on a silver platter with a side helping of a million dollars.

Lulu paid Larry a visit and like to have snatched him bald-headed for playin' her such a trick. I believe the boy honestly thought that his cousin Lulu was the equal of anything a spook could throw at her - and normally, he'd be right - but he forgot about her jealous streak. There was no way that Lulu was goin' to let me live in a house with naked lady ghosts and that was final.

Things worked out for the best, though. Turned out Missy Purdue's house was really a fishin' shack on Lake Perdition that no self-respectin' cockroach would set foot in. She'd got it in the divorce settlement, along with Dillis Purdue's second-best pickup truck and a year's supply of frozen bait. Lulu was pert near in Seventh Heaven and skipping on Cloud Nine, 'cause the fishing shack we had on Dead Mule Pond was a heap sight better. It even had a flush toilet, while Missy's didn't boast nothing but a hole in the ground and an old Monkey Wards catalog.

You know, sometimes I wonder if I didn't bring something back with me from Hell-no House. On dark and moonless nights, when the bug zapper's working overtime and I'm on my fifth longneck of the evening, I can almost catch a glimpse of sequins out of the corner of my eye, and I swear I hear a voice calling, "Yoo hoo!"

And that's as true as grits is groceries, my son.

Amen.

THE END

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All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

LULU AND BUTTERBEAN GET A WILD HAIR
by Nene Adams ©2004 - All rights reserved

You know, there was this time when my fifth cousin twice removed, Essie Belle Lessie Lou Jolland - who lives over in Hooter's Holler - got herself entangled with some female from France or Denmark or New Jersey or one of them excitin' foreign spots. It all come to a bad end, as you can well imagine, but I'll bet you ain't never goin' to guess how. All right, you done went and twisted my arm, bubba. I'll tell you about it whilst you reach me another beer.

Essie Lou has this big ol' chicken farm that she runs with her special friend, Myrtle Malinda Dean. Yeah, them two is a real odd couple, let me tell you. Forget two peas in a pod. Those girls are as alike as motor oil and red-eye gravy, and I don't mean the nasty slop that passes for gravy at the Twisted Spoon Truck Stop on Route 96. Man, that stuff'll eat you alive on the way in, and tear you a new one on the way out! Do like I do and stick to the hamburgers; they'll even give you an extra bun to sop up the grease if you run out of French fries.

Anyhow, Essie and Myrtle fight all the time. Both them women are as cantankerous as a ship full of sailors with the clap durin' a penicillin shortage. They'll get riled up over nothing. If one of 'em said the sky was blue, the other'd claim it was red just to start somethin'. They're at it day and night. All I can say is, it must be love.

But there came a day when Myrtle and Essie had their greatest set-to yet. Essie's big enough to hunt bear with a switch, and Myrtle ain't nothin' but a skinny lick of bone and skin with a bouffant hair-do, but she's got enough mean to make up for it. Fortunately for the Flathead County Sheriff's Department, the fight didn't end in bloodshed unless you count a minor concussion from a stiletto shoe, three broken fingernails and a high-haired coiffure that'll never be the same again. Myrtle pitched a hissy fit over the utter ruination of her 'do, left the chicken farm and took up residence at the Kon-Tiki Hotel in downtown Hooter's Holler.

Now bein' a single woman without a hobby, Essie went to the Lonely Hearts Dance Social on Saturday nights at the Kon-Tiki Hotel. Whether by accident or design, this caused some serious consternation. Myrtle sat there every Saturday night with a pearl-handled pistol in her hand, watching Essie with a look on her face like a rat chewin' crap off a wire brush; hungry enough to swallow but not too thrilled about eatin' shit. See, Myrtle might've been seriously jacked-off at Essie, but by thunder, nobody else was goin' to spin her woman around the dance floor without a ruckus bein' raised that's more catastrophe than Krakatoa.

The Lonely Hearts social club weren't too happy, neither. There ain't nothin' like the prospect of getting shot or snatched bald-headed that keeps folks at home. The Kon-Tiki manager, rightly fearin' mayhem of Biblical proportions, was wound up tighter'n a tomcat with ten testicles. And that's when Suzie Cantrell-Bodine - who's related to Lulu on her momma's side - asked poor ol' Butterbean to stick her nose in the business.

Suzie's the manager of the hotel in question, in case you didn't know. She wanted me to have a heart-to-heart talk with my cousin. I was s'posed to either get her back together with Myrtle or find Essie another hobby that didn't involve innocent bystanders and cross-fire I wasn't exactly keen to place my tender ass on the firin' line betwixt twolovers. When I complained to Lulu, though, she weren't too understandin'.

"Butterbean," she says, "if you want sympathy, look in the dictionary between shit and syphillis."

Of course, Lulu was real busy at the time 'cause we'd just bought a second-hand VCR and she was catchin' up on her favorite soap opera, A Roll in the Hay. Have you ever seen that show? Makes The Dukes of Hazzard look like Tennessee damn Williams. I'd rather eat a cat turd fried in earthworm lard than waste my time with a dumb soap opera, 'specially if there's a monster truck rally on TV. But Lulu's an pure-dee addict, bless her heart. If A Roll in the Hay was religion, Lulu'd be the Pope of Soap. She weren't interested in my trouble so I had to seek advice elsewhere.

Problem was, nobody wanted to help, and Butterbean was on her own. Well, it ain't the first time that life's left me feelin' like the ground floor tenant in a two-story outhouse. Somethin' had to be done and I got elected. Come Saturday night, I went over to the Kon-Tiki to see Essie, hoping I could talk some sense into the girl.

Lo and behold, what do I find but Essie shakin' her considerable money-maker in the arms of a strange woman, and I do mean more strange than stranger, son. That female was positively covered in hair. One big eyebrow, bitty mustache, thick hair from wrists to elbows and ankles to knees. I ain't seen so much hair on a woman since my Aunt Aggie went through the change-of-life and ended up havin' to shave twice daily to avoid bein' mistaken for Bigfoot's mangy relation.

Anyhow, when Essie got done and Miss Soup Strainer sashayed off to get drinks, I had me a talk with my cousin. Seems this was a female from way out of town. Accordin' to Essie, she was prone to passing out hand kissies and whispering sweet nothings and was generally slicker'n eels in a bucket of snot. Loopie Garou was her name. It was all French to me. I told Essie that she ought to consider poor Myrtle, who, by the way, was nowhere in sight.

"Myrtle can kiss my lily white ass," Essie says, tossin' her head like she's fixin' to rip out a fiddle-dee-dee, too. "I am through with that gal! And I don't owe her nothin', so keep out of my way, cousin Butterbean."

Right about that time, Loopie Garou come back and commenced to making lovey-dovey on Essie. She fussed and patted and petted and playfully pinched and sucked face till I was practically in sugar shock. Kept talkin' 'bout how she liked her women meaty. Hell, Essie's so solid you could use her for a hitchin' post. She's warm in winter and shady in summer, bless her heart. If you told her to haul ass, she'd have to make two trips.

I do believe you've got the picture.

Loopie was a smooth one, all right. Kept trying to get Essie to agree to have supper with her. A romantic picnic at night in the woods ain't my idea of a proper grub-fest, but my cousin sure latched onto the idea. Right when Essie was on the verge of acceptin' this proposal, something happened.

Somebody opened the window curtains in the ballroom, lettin' in the light of the full moon. Let me tell you, son, that Loopie Garou got a whole lot hairier betwixt one minute and the next. She also grew fangs and claws and a big bushy tail. Now, Butterbean Shirley McCall may be sharp as the leadin' edge of a basketball, but she ain't no fool.

You guessed it - Loopie Garou was a werewolf!

And Butterbean was in the doghouse again, dammit.

Essie let out a screech, Loopie let out a growl of pure appetite, and I went for the hide-out pistol in my boot. The rest of the folks in the Tiki-Wiki Ballroom commenced to prayin' and running around like chickens when the ax-man cometh. At this point, Myrtle arrived, somewhat out of breath. Seems she'd been delayed 'cause the beauty parlor ran out of hair spray and they had to make an emergency run to the drugstore in Gulledge. That beehive 'do she was sporting was so high, I was surprised eagles weren't nestin' in it. It was more of a hair-don't than a hair-do, in my opinion.

Myrtle took one look and hollered loud enough to call hogs home. Quick as a wink, she had her pearl-handled pistol out and was shooting at the werewolf chasing Essie. Only trouble was, Myrtle couldn't hit the broadside of a barn with a bass fiddle. Everybody in the room dove for cover. Me, I didn't bother 'cause Essie knocked me down on the first pass and stomped all over me in the second.

Meanwhile, Loopie-the-werewolf was howling and sprayin' spit and generally raising cain. Myrtle hadn't hit it once. I beat some feelin' back into my legs and took a few shots at that wad of teeth and hair. Didn't have no luck. Then I remembered that werewolves ain't too partial to silver. Now, the Kon-Tiki Hotel ain't the Ritz; they ain't got no silver but chrome and lots of it.

I says to Myrtle, "We need some silver to put that thing down!"

Myrtle says, "No shit, Sherlock," and sat down to take off her boots.

I'll be honest with you, boy. For a minute there, I thought Myrtle had lost her mind. The middle of a fight with a werewolf who's tryin' to eat the biggest woman in Flathead County just ain't no time to worry about your footwear. I was fixin' to point this out to her when I realized that her boots were silver-tipped. Hallelujah! We was saved. Sort of.

See, Myrtle didn't have no intention of lettin' me do the dirty work. I was a mite concerned. Myrtle's so skinny, if she held a glass of tomato juice and turned sideways, she'd look like a thermometer. Loopie Garou was twice her size and four times her girth. That werewolf looked like a depot stove in a mink coat. If I'd had to make book on it, I'd've bet Myrtle would get snapped like a dry twig in the first five seconds. On t'other hand, that girl's got more attitude than a sorority get-together and a drag queen convention rolled into one.

Essie rounded the room in a hurry. As she came by, Myrtle wound up and bam! Loopie Garou went down with a silver-tipped boot in her skull. The werewolf tried to get up, but Myrtle was lustin' for vengeance. She commenced to beatin' on Loopie with the other boot, taking both hands to the job like she was threshing corn. Myrtle whipped that hairy bitch like a red-headed stepchild, and then she opened up a five gallon pail of whup-ass. After that, she kicked werewolf butt six ways from Sunday.

I'll tell you straight, Loopie Garou was one sorry werewolf when Myrtle got through with her. I reckoned it was all over but the shoutin', when a familiar voice sent chills down my spine.

"Butterbean Shirley McCall," says Lulu, who had just come into the Tiki-Wiki Ballroom, "what the hell are you doin' at the Lonely Hearts Dance Social? You ought to be at home. You'd better have a good answer, or by thunder, I'll slap you so hard, you'll feel like you've been eaten by wolves and shit over a cliff!"

It figured that Lulu, bein' caught up in her soap opera, didn't pay me no never mind until she needed somebody to go to the store for Velveeta n' crackers. There are times when that gal wouldn't notice a snake unless it bit her. But she sure picked a bad time to show up. I needed that like a tomcat needs a marriage license.

Myrtle got distracted and let Loopie go. The werewolf jumped up and made for Lulu, droolin' fit to beat the band. Might've had somethin' to do with the fact that Lulu had eaten some fried chicken on the way over to Hooter's Holler - I could smell the grease from where I was standing. Or it could be that Lulu ain't exactly built like a wide-body trailer, but she's a fairly solid armful. Maybe it was both. Loopie didn't much care 'cause she was hungry, and Lulu was on the menu. My little pink porkchop was about to become a three-course werewolf dinner. I could've smacked my own brains out.

Lord knows, I love that woman, but never as much as I did that night. 'Cause Lulu didn't holler or faint or run faster'n  a deacon in a whorehouse. She faced that werewolf square and says in a voice of doom, "Bad dog! Sit!"

And damned if Loopie didn't do just that!

That werewolf was so confused, it didn't know whether to scratch its watch or wind its ass. I grabbed the boot from Myrtle and let Loopie have it. Ol' Butterbean might be a no-count fighter, but I was mad enough to raise Hell and put a chunk under it. No foreign werewolf-woman was goin' to put the bite on my Lulu!

It didn't take too much lickin' before Loopie Garou had enough. She beat feet out the window, howlin' and barkin' and generally making more noise than two skeletons screwin' on a tin roof. I heard later that some real hairy female of the foreign variety ate up the whole buffet at the Carterdale All-You-Can-Eat House of Catfish n' Cornbread. She also raided the Chicken and Waffles restaurant and the Dairy Princess ice cream parlor. When last seen, she was headed towards Backwater Slough, presumably to try out the alligators and the swamp apes. Good luck, ma'am, and good riddance.

You'll be happy to know that Essie and Myrtle got back together again, much to the relief of most folks in Hooter's Holler. As for Lulu, she settled down some after Suzie Cantrell-Bodine explained things. I still had to put up with tapes of A Roll in the Hay when I'd druther have watched Hee-Haw or somethin' else educational, but you know how it is. When you're livin' with the former Tomato Queen of Flathead County, you might as well let Her Majesty have her way.

Besides, Lulu don't know yet that I accidentally taped over the part where Savannah's illegitimate half-brother's aunt turns out to be that slimy land-grubbin' lawyer, Rex Wyoming, back from the dead after a brain transplant and a sex-change operation. Will the woman convicted of his murder, Zephyr Eden, be let out of jail, or will she give in to the sweet seduction of her prison guard, who is really her former fiancee in disguise?

Will we learn the terrible secret that lies within the woodshed?

Well, if Lulu wants to know, she's goin' to have to treat me real nice.

Tune in next week, brother.

This is Butterbean, over and out.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

by Nene Adams ©2001 - all rights reserved

Winding all my life about thee,
Let me lay my lips on thine;
What is all the world without thee,
Mine --oh mine!

Let thy strong eyes yearning o'er me
Draw me with their force divine;
All my soul has gone before me
Clasping thine.
-----Mathilde Blinde, Love in Exile

Alabama, 1955
The Ashpool-St. John Asylum for the Criminally Insane

"Want a cup of coffee?" Phyllis Harwood asked, leaning her hip on the counter. Her nurse's uniform was white and crisply starched, blonde hair pinned up beneath the triangular paper hat. Despite the rules on make-up, she wore bright red lipstick and more than a touch of eyeshadow.

Her co-worker, another nurse named Maria Flynn, pursed her non-rouged lips and shook her head. "If I drink any more coffee, I'm going to be able to float to Ward Seven."

Phyllis checked the bubbling coffee pot on the electric ring in the Staff Room. "You're on Seven tonight, huh? That's no fun. You know, there was a nurse here named Lansing who worked Ward Seven for years - since the Stone Age, practically." She took a thick china cup from a shelf, glared at the near empty sugar container, and rummaged inside a small refrigerator for milk.

"Was she transferred?"

"No, she died last night. Of a heart attack at home," Phyllis added hastily. "That's why you've been put on this shift. You'll get used to it."

"I never met Nurse Lansing."

"She had some really bad scars on her fingers and forearms. Other than that, she wasn't too bad looking for her age. Just very severe, if you know what I mean." Phyllis squinted and pushed aside some crumpled paper bags. "Do you have any questions about procedures?"

"Um, Dr. Freeman ordered the patients in Seven to be put into restraints earlier..." Maria broke off, twirled a lock of black hair between her fingers in a nervous gesture.

"He does that every night. All except Jane Doe," Phyllis said over her shoulder. She closed the cabinet, bottle of milk in hand. Her rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the linoleum floor as she turned. "It's standard. We've got orders not to disturb her, no matter what."

Maria lowered her voice. "Her reputation frightens me. Everybody tells stories. She's supposed to be... well, even crazier than the rest."

"I heard she assaulted a doctor about ten years ago." Phyllis poured herself a cup of coffee, lacing it liberally with sugar and milk. "Bit off three of his fingers before the orderlies could peel her off and trank her. Don't remember who told me. Maybe one of the older nurses."

Maria sighed. "I heard an orderly lost an eye because of her, not to mention other grisly stuff. Maybe I should ask Dr. Freeman if I can be transferred to another shift. I can deal with the others, but Jane Doe sounds too scary."

"At least she doesn't throw feces at the staff on odd Wednesdays, like Mr. Parker," Phyllis replied, sitting down at the chipped formica table. "Mrs. O'Malley is more my type. She conducts an invisible orchestra all day. Of course, she strangled her son and grandson with piano wire. She looks like a sweet little old lady, but don't let the act fool you."

Maria caught her bottom lip between her teeth and pressed on with her original subject. "No one's ever seen Jane Doe that I've been able to find out. All the news about her is old... nothing recent, all rumors and no facts. It's weird. Dr. Freeman won't talk about it, either."

"Hmph." Phyllis finished her coffee. "Lansing might have been able to tell you something, but she was a secretive old biddy. Hardly ever opened her mouth, and never talked about Seven. What I find strange about Miss Doe is that she has no patient records. None. Believe me, I've checked."

"They keep her locked in that padded room all day and night. She gets no meds or treatments. There's not even an observation port; just a steel door. How can one woman be so dangerous?"

"I have no idea." Phyllis checked her watch. "Anyway, she's too violent for us to handle, or so Dr. Freeman's told me. Don't let it get under your skin. Help me with the night medication, will you?" She wore a jingling ring of keys around her waist. Going over to the drugs cabinet, she opened it and took bottles down from the shelf, while Maria laid out small paper cups on a tray.

"Lithium, chlorpromazine, imipramine," Phyllis said, dropping colored pills into the cups as Maria reeled off patient's names from a nearby clipboard, "a nice dose of meprobomate for Mr. Parker. Extra thorazine for Miss Bailey - she's been a very bad girl lately, keeps biting the other patients. How is Mr. Frank, by the way?"

Maria shivered. "Dr. Freeman has him put down for electroconvulsive therapy tomorrow. I hate that. They scream an awful lot."

"I"m glad I won't be there," Phyllis said. "Mr. Frank doesn't like shock treatments. The last time, he nearly broke my arm trying to get away. He fought the gag, too, and ended up with a cracked jawbone."

"I know. Didn't Mr. Frank keep a butcher's shop before he came to Ashpool-St. John?"

"Uh-huh. Fourteen people missing, and not a body found. But there were all those lovely sausages in the freezer." Phyllis finished her task, put the medication bottles away, and locked the cabinet. "His poor wife... she changed her name and moved to California."

Maria gagged. "I swear, these stories are horrible enough to drive me insane."

"This isn't a pediatric ward, dear." Phyllis patted a stray lock of blonde hair back into place, and checked her reflection in the shiny aluminum cabinet door. "I know you just joined the staff a couple of weeks ago. It'll take some time to adjust. I suggest you familiarize yourself with the patient records as much as possible. If you have any questions, come to me."

"Maybe I'll have some coffee after all. To steady my nerves."

"You do that." Phyllis patted Maria's hand and picked up the tray of medication. Pills rattled in the cups. "I'll be in Three if you need me. Look, Seven is completely locked-down during the night shift. The inmates know when there's anybody new on the floor; don't ask me how, they just do. Somebody may try and fool you into opening his door by pretending to have an emergency. Don't fall for it. If you think that a patient's in genuine distress, check through the observation port first. Whatever you do, don't unlock the cell door when you're alone. Call for help, okay? That's what big, burly, hundred-and-eighty pound orderlies are for. If in doubt, call me on the intercom, or hit the panic button, and don't get so rattled you make a mistake."

"I will. Thanks, Phyllis. I appreciate the advice."

"Just remember, hon... these people aren't in an asylum for the criminally insane 'cause they think they're Napoleon. All of them are violent offenders who wouldn't think twice about hurting you. Sevens are the worst of a bad bunch. Don't take any chances. Your safety comes first."

"Will do." Maria smiled in relief. "I really appreciate this."

"No problem. This is your first night on Ward Seven, so being nervous is understandable. It'll be okay, as long as you obey the rules and stay smart. And stay away from Jane Doe." Phyllis left the staff room, shoes squeaking on the floor with every step. Maria glanced at her watch. It was time to start her shift. Coffee could wait until her official break in a few hours.

At night, the hospital was mainly quiet, the corridors lit by dimmed bulbs that cast strange shadows on the institutional green walls. Ashpool-St. John had been originally built a hundred years ago as a private residence, and converted into an asylum by the State of Alabama in 1927. Maria knew there had been a fire in 1933 which had destroyed Seven. It had been rebuilt exactly as before, right down to the speckled linoleum. She thought that the pattern of dull crimson splatters on a white background looked disturbingly like spilled blood.

Ward Seven was on the lowest floor of the west wing, in what had been the building's basement. At the beginning of the long hallway, just opposite the stairwell, was a nurse's station - desk, intercom box, file racks, typewriter. On the wall behind the desk was a series of wires that crawled down the cracked plaster and terminated into a plastic box with a yellow button. This was the so-called 'panic button.' One punch would set off alarms throughout the hospital. A duplicate box was fastened to the wall next to an iron-barred door. Beyond this door were the cells.

There were twelve small rooms, ten feet by ten feet, all of them padded. Thirteen, if you counted the cell at the end of the corridor, where the mysterious Jane Doe resided. The patients here could not be trusted to sleep in dormitories like the rest. Every morning, the doors would be opened with almost military precision, doctors dispensing medication and orderlies standing by with rubber truncheons, wet towels and a fire hose. When they were tranked to the eyeballs, Ward Seven inmates would be permitted to mingle in the recreation room or garden under close supervision. All except Number Thirteen, which stayed closed and locked all the time.

Maria sat down at her desk, then jumped up and softly tested the barred door. It was fastened tight. The key was attached to the desktop with a steel staple, on a chain just long enough to reach the lock.

A separate key was required to unlock the door at the top of the stairs (which only opened from the outside). That key was kept at the front desk; the Head Night Nurse - Phyllis, in this case - had another. Maria was locked into this place as completely as the patients. When break-time came, someone would be sent to fetch her.

A tiny bathroom with toilet and sink had been provided for calls of nature. It was in the space beneath the stairs. Maria crept across the floor, trying hard not to make a sound. Flickering fluorescent light sprang into life when she touched the switch. The smell of disinfectant was particularly strong here; the astringent odor hit the back of her throat, making her cough.

She froze, heart beating frantically in her chest, waiting for... what? A roar like feeding time at the zoo? Rattling chains and demented screams? Nothing happened and Maria calmed down, feeling very foolish. Of course the patients couldn't hear her. Their cells were completely padded.

"Next time, I'm bringing a good book," Maria muttered to herself, crossing over to the desk. The scarred laminate top was set in a heavy steel frame. A corner was completely broken off, showing grimy chipboard. She sat down, opened the top drawer, and began to rummage. Old pencil stubs, pens, rubber bands, paper clips, yellowed newspaper scraps... nothing of real interest, except for a ring of keys to the cells. There were three file drawers on the side. She checked those, too. Miscellaneous folders, crossword puzzle books, bobbypins lost in the depths for who knew how long, and a small stack of fashion magazines that were years out of date.

Suddenly, someone screamed.

It was a long, drawn out howl of pure grief and rage, climbing up the scale until Maria had to cover her ears with her hands. That set off the other patients, who began to wail and yowl and curse. Jesus! she thought, pulse pounding again.

The inmates kept up their muffled shouting for a while. Maria shut herself into the bathroom, feeling somewhat guilty. After what seemed like hours but was probably less than ten minutes, she ventured out again. The noise level had abated completely. This time, it was only a raspy woman's voice that came floating down the corridor. "Please, is anybody there?"

Maria stepped back over to the desk, reassured by the presence of the panic button. She did not answer, but sat back down again and resolutely picked up a magazine.

The voice said, "Please, I know you're there." A sob, and she continued, "Help me."

Maria steeled herself. She was not going to carry on a conversation with a dangerous lunatic. She couldn't tell which cell housed the voice, but she wasn't going to investigate.

"Help me, please. I don't deserve to be in this place. I haven't done anything wrong."

"Go to sleep," Maria called loudly. "Be quiet and go to sleep, or I'll have to send for the doctor to give you a shot."

There was another sob, more heart-rending than the last. This subsided, until an eerie silence pervaded Ward Seven.

Maria flipped through the magazine pages, not reading a single word. She didn't know what was worse - listening to the sound of her own breathing, or waiting to hear something worse.

After a while, she felt horribly alone, confined, almost as if she had been buried alive. There was a damp, pervasive chill down here, the kind that crept into her bones and ran clammy fingers over every inch of exposed skin. Next time, if there was a next time, she would be sure to bring a thick sweater.

The atmosphere was oppressive, like the walls were permeated with decades of fear-sweat, urine, boiled cabbage and screams. It would be easy to lose your nerve, to go off your head and start yelling yourself, just to hear another human voice... Maria shook her head. I am a trained nurse. I've worked in other hospitals. There's nothing here more dangerous than my own imagination, so reel it in, girl, and act like a professional.

She jumped when the voice came again. "Help me. Oh, God, won't someone help me?"

"Shut up," Maria said, suddenly cross. She stood up, but had forgotten that the bottom drawer was still open. It fetched her a crack across the bottom of her shin. She cursed, hopping in place while she felt the damaged leg. No blood, but her stocking was torn, and there would be a hell of a bruise later. "Dammit!"

"Help me..." More gasps and sobs, which trailed off into a choked sniffle.

"I said, be quiet!" Maria was half inclined to unlock the iron-barred door and deal with whoever was whining. Phyllis' cautions kept her from acting too hastily. "If I have to come in there, it isn't going to be pleasant. I'll have lots of doctors and orderlies with me. Be good and quiet and go to sleep."

Silence.

Maria was still angry - at the anonymous patient, at her own impatience and clumsiness, she didn't know. She reached down and slammed the drawer shut. The loud bang echoed off the walls, followed by a strange, fluttering rustle.

She frowned, anger forgotten. What was that?

Experimentally, Maria opened the drawer and closed it again. Nothing. But there had been something, she was sure of it. A sound like paper falling...

She opened the drawer all the way and stuck her hand inside, feeling around the back. Her fingertips could just brush against what felt like a thick sheet of paper, gritty and coarse. Grunting at the effort, Maria strained to reach the mysterious object. After a prolonged struggle that made her shoulder sore, she managed to get hold of it and pulled it out.

It was paper - a sealed manilla envelope, slightly discolored with age and dirt. Maria put it down on the desk and turned it over. There was a typed label on the outside. It read:

KEELER, BELLA
PATIENT #128-W7-13
INV, FR, SD
DOC: 6/14/33
DEC'D: 7/4/33

Who is Bella Keeler? she thought. Intrigued, she examined the hospital codes on the label, which fortunately had not changed much in the intervening years. Involuntary commitment at family's request for sexual deviancy. Date of commitment: June 14, 1933. Deceased: July 4, 1933.

The patient number meant nothing to her. Maria sat down, blowing dust off the envelope. Well, whoever she was, she wasn't at Ashpool-St. John's for very long before she died.

Sexual deviancy was a catch-all term which meant exactly nothing in psychiatric terms. However, Maria had heard of young girls who'd gotten themselves in 'boy trouble' and become pregnant. Sometimes, the family would have the girl placed in an asylum with the help of their family doctor. He ensured that the scandal was handled privately. The illegitimate child would be placed for adoption, and the wayward daughter returned quietly to her family. Maybe this was a similar case.

Maria slit the envelope open with a nail file she found in the desk. There was a bundle of papers inside, clipped together at the top with a black and white picture. She studied the photo first.

The subject was a young woman, perhaps in her twenties. She was very pretty, with hair cut into bangs over big eyes, an oval face with a straight nose. Her mouth, though... it was set into a thin, serious frown, very severe, as if she was terrified and trying desperately to hide that fact. The expression did not suit her. She should have been smiling.

Poor Bella. That picture had to be taken somewhere in the hospital. She's wearing a cotton gown.

The next page contained personal information. Maria skipped over most of it - place of birth, parent's names, etc. - and went straight to the physical description. Strawberry-blonde hair, green eyes, athletic build... Bella Keeler sounded like a typical healthy young woman. Maria wondered what she had done to be committed to the hospital.

Doctor's notes at the bottom of the page were a near indecipherable scrawl, words mixed with starry ink blots from an inexpertly wielded fountain pen. Maria squinted and looked at it sideways, an old nurse's trick.

Subject brought to hospital by father and mother. Concerned by daughter's inappropriate sexual practices. History of perversity - active lesbian tendencies, open defiance of parental authority, sexual maladjustment. Possible psychosis and hysteria, resulting from morbid masturbation? Recommend treatment of disorder via standard practices. Euthanasia of homosexuality via surgical procedure as last resort.

"Standard practices" included warm and cold hydrotherapy, sensory deprivation, forced feedings and induced insulin coma. Maria saw that she had been given heavy doses of paraldehyde - a cheap, foul-smelling sedative that was usually mixed with orange juice. Bella Keeler had drunk quite a lot of orange juice during her brief confinement.

Maria sniffed. There was a ripe, nasty odor in the air, powerful enough to cancel out the normal disinfectant reek. It blossomed around her suddenly, as though the scent was being blown into her face by an invisible aerosol can. She nearly retched. Greasy banana oil and gasoline, strained through dirty socks and fermented with antique cat's droppings...

Paraldehyde.

As soon as the thought struck her, the odor was gone. She inhaled cautiously. Nothing but the usual sharp scent of a hospital, lightly overlaid with damp. Maria wondered if she had imagined the whole thing. "Power of suggestion," she muttered, going back to the file.

Bella had fought the doctors and staff with every ounce of strength she had, necessitating punishment restraints and constant sedation. During her few lucid periods, she had stubbornly refused to admit that her behavior was depraved and abnormal. Bella had also withstood the pressure to name her 'accomplice in felonious sexual activities.' Homosexuality was a punishable federal offense in the 1930's, and even now some states continued to prosecute under local anti-sodomy laws. Her family was eager to bring her lesbian lover to justice, but Belle thwarted them to the last.

Maria saw that Bella's untimely death had saved her from surgical correction, as it was called. Back then, the procedure meant removal of the thyroid, adrenal and other endocrine glands, as well as the uterus and ovaries, to bring the brain back into balance. Thank God we've come out of the Dark Ages, she thought. Now we cure severe pathological sexual misidentity by a simple clitoridectomy. I wonder if they do that here? No. Phyllis told me that Dr. Freeman won't allow it.

She continued to read Bella Keeler's file. Most of the notes were in the primary physician's hand (Dr. Cooper), but a few towards the end were made by Dr. Richard Freeman. Maria was startled. She'd had no idea that Dr. Freeman was a member of Ashpool-St. John for so long. There was nothing exciting here, merely routine observances.

The final page was a copy of Bella's death certificate. 'Respiratory failure' was all it said. Dr. Freeman's looping signature was at the bottom.

"That's odd," Maria said to herself. "Okay, that might have been the cause of death, but what caused the cause?"

There was no autopsy report.

Is this all?

Something rustled in the top drawer of the desk. Mice, she thought, drawing back a little. The asylum was old, walls full of nooks and crannies that defied modern pest control methods. Maria slipped off a shoe, slowly got out of the chair, and slid the drawer out. She was poised to strike, although the chances of actually hitting a running mouse were nil.

No gray-streaked blurs came flying out, so Maria lowered the shoe. Instead, her eye was caught by different sort of movement.

When she had checked the desk earlier, she had pushed aside some yellowed scraps of newspaper, torn and ragged around the edges. Now she realized that the pieces were fluttering ever so slightly. Stirred by a breath of wind? Clammy damp she could feel, but no breezes. The ward was in a windowless basement, for Christ's sake! Ventilation came from grills along the ceiling...

Maria held her breath, reached out and barely touched one of the newspaper clippings. Instantly, the movement stopped. A prickly sensation started, racing up her entire body until she tingled from toes to scalp. Gently, as if they might explode, Maria took out the scraps and laid them on top of the desk. Her shoe dangled forgotten in her hand.

ASYLUM FIRE KILLS ONE, INJURES FIVE, said a bold headline. It was dated July 4, 1933.

In the early hours of the morning, the Ashpool-St. John Asylum for the Criminally Insane was
damaged by a fire which broke out in the basement, an area designated as Ward Seven.
The padded cells in this ward are reserved for female patients suffering from a variety of hysterical
complaints. Dr. Felix Cooper, the hospital's chief resident psychologist, explained that the practice
of restraining these patients in padded cells promotes calming, especially during the evening hours,
when it is believed that the insane are susceptible to lunar influences and may become further agitated,
doing damage to themselves and staff members who strive to treat the symptoms of madness.

Chief Fire Marshal Leroy Good has investigated the blaze and pronounced it accidental.
"There was some electrical work being done on the premises - the installation of a new security system.
Wiring was laid behind the cell walls, and the padding replaced. As it was Fourth of July weekend,
workers completed the electrical wiring and left without testing it." It is Good's opinion that
a faulty connection started the fire in cell Thirteen, where Bella Keeler, age 22, was being held.
The young woman died of smoke inhalation, according to Dr. Cooper's report.

"Oh my dear sweet Jesus," Maria whispered. She could almost see the scene in her head. Bella would have been sedated, of course, and probably in a straight jacket which was strapped to the floor. Did she wake up when the smoke began choking her? Or when the flames were roasting her alive? If there was any mercy in the world, Bella would have been unconscious the entire time and not suffered at all.

Then again, Maria had been a nurse just long enough to realize that God's idea of mercy was sometimes horribly obscene.

Maria sorted through the other clippings, and found the rest of the story.

The Fire Marshal and hospital officials have commended the swift action of Nurse Carlotta Lansing,
who was on duty in Ward Seven during the tragic events. Lansing, age 28, an employee hired by the hospital only a
few days earlier, braved flames and suffocating smoke to evacuate the patients, receiving severe burns to her
hands and arms in the process. As the door to Ward Seven can only be opened from the outside, and since
the newly installed security system was inoperable, Lansing used the desk at her nurse's station
as a battering ram, somehow carrying it up a flight of stairs by herself. Dr. Freeman, a junior member
of Ashpool-St. John's staff, attributes her extraordinary deeds to 'hysterical strength in the face of
life-threatening circumstances." She was sedated at the scene and taken to Mercy Hospital in Beaumont,
where she is expected to make a full and complete recovery. The five patients who were injured
in the fire were also taken to Mercy Hospital, suffering from minor burns and mild respiratory damage,
thanks to Lansing's quick action and extreme courage.

Bella Keeler's funeral will be held on July 8th at the Calvary Cross Cemetery.

Nurse Lansing! That name was familiar. Maria remembered Phyllis mentioning the woman's scars, and the fact that she had held this shift in Ward Seven for many years. 'Since the Stone Age,' was how Phyllis had put it. Maria wondered why she had returned to this place. The night of July 4th, 1933 had to have been a scene straight out of Hell.

She could imagine it - choking on thick, black clouds that made your lungs shrivel, blinded by heat and ash, crawling on scalded knees to each door while flames belched around you, hair crisping, uniform smoldering, skin blistering and burning while the patients screamed... Maria rubbed the broken corner of the desk and shuddered.

"Oh, God... I smell smoke."

Maria jumped, scattering the newspaper clippings on the floor. It was the voice again. Only this time, there was a thread of absolute terror in it that made her flesh crawl.

"It's so hot in here... Lottie? Is that you? Baby, can you hear me?"

Then Maria smelled smoke, too.

Unbidden, her eyes were drawn to the iron-barred door. She was frozen in place, tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. From somewhere beyond that door, in number Thirteen, there was a faint crackling noise. Trickles of heat were threading their way down the corridor. She could feel it. The voice was coming from there. Number Thirteen. It couldn't be, and yet...

"Lottie? Lottie, where are you? Jesus! I'm burning, Lottie! I'm burning! Help me, oh God, help me! I'm burning!"

Maria pressed herself tightly against the wall, cold sweat gushing from every pore, stink of acrid smoke tickling the back of her throat. A sound of footsteps coming down the stairs - precisely, softly, with the confident authority of a trained nurse. But there was no one there. The door had not opened. She would have heard the clang of the bolt being drawn back.

Suddenly, it materialized out of thin air. A tall woman, black hair drawn back into a coiled bun, blue eyes set in a face that was severely beautiful. Maria gasped, hand rising to her throat, shoe dropping unnoticed to the floor. The... the woman wore a nurse's uniform with a nameplate stamped: Lansing.

"Never again." That cold whisper rang 'round the room, never gaining in strength but always remaining an eerie echo. Maria whimpered in atavistic terror and tried to disappear against the wall. The figure was almost real, save for a certain opaque quality about the woman's skin. Hair-thin lightning bolts crackled around Lansing's outline.

Invisible keys jangled and the barred door swung open of its own accord. Maria watched in wide-eyed horror as the entity drifted down the corridor. When it reached number Thirteen, that door opened as well and Lansing disappeared inside. Immediately, the smell of smoke was gone, as was the heat she had felt. Numbing cold descended, so intense that Maria could see her breath. Her teeth chattered.

"Lottie?"

"Yes, baby. I'm sorry it's taken so long."

"I couldn't find you. I called you, but you didn't answer."

"I know, Bella. I've been here every night, though. But now it's over."

"I was burning, Lottie. It hurt, I couldn't get away..."

"I know. I tried to get to you, Bella. I tried so hard."

"Can we go now?"

"Yes, baby."

"The doctors said it was all right?"

Maria was paralyzed with fear. She could not have moved a muscle if her life had depended on it.

After a moment of heavy silence, Lansing's reply came drifting back along the corridor:

"Bella, the doctors won't ever hurt you again. Ever. I swear." The pronouncement was flat and final as a tombstone.

"I love you, Lottie. I never told them who you were, no matter what they did."

"I love you too, baby. And I know you never told. They had no cause to do what they did, but it's finished now. No more suffering, no more waiting. It's been long enough. Let's go home."

Two figures emerged hand in hand from number Thirteen. One of them was Lansing; the other, Maria recognized from her picture in the file. Bella Keeler. Jane Doe.

She never leaves her cell... it's dangerous... no records... we've got orders not to disturb her...

Rumors and stories and lies and legends, make-believe fantasies to explain a cell that wasn't really empty, except of a living body. Bella Keeler's soul had been trapped here, reliving her death endlessly, night after night... and Carlotta Lansing had stayed here to relive it, too.

Carlotta was Bella's lover. Maybe she came to the hospital hoping to break Bella out, or at least be close, but the fire got started and Bella died. Carlotta was here. Every night. She listened to Bella dying, screaming, every night. She smelled the smoke. She felt the flames. Every night for... how many years? She didn't save her. She tried, but it wasn't enough. Her scars were more than physical. They went all the way down into her soul.

Dr. Freeman knew. He had to have known. He made her stay here all this time.

The iron-barred door clanged shut behind the lovers. They glided to a stop and embraced. The tiny, sane part of Maria's mind noted that she had never seen such happiness, never experienced such joy as the reunion between these women who had been separated for such a very long time.

Jesus!

Cinnamon-scented wind lifted their hair, tangling it together, strands of inky black mingling with red-gold... molten sapphire eyes melded into emerald, star-sparks bursting in the shared smile...

I love you.

At Maria's feet, yellowed newspaper clippings and a patient's file swirled together and burst into flames.

She screamed, throwing her hands over her head, squeezing her eyes shut to blot out the the impossible sight of dead Carlotta Lansing kissing dead Bella Keeler. Maria screamed and screamed until her throat was raw, and the taste in her mouth was coppery blood.

Someone slapped her, then slapped her again. Maria cowered, her shrieking turning into whispered pleas. "Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it!"

"Nurse Flynn! For God's sake, nurse, get hold of yourself!"

Maria cracked an eye open. The round, florid face of Dr. Freeman was staring back at her. She had never been so glad to see another person in her life.

"Oh! Doctor, I saw them, I saw them, they were here, both of them," she babbled, part of her aware that she sounded like a lunatic herself.

"I know," Freeman replied. He ran a hand through thinning silver hair. "I was afraid something like this might happen. I came to check up on you."

"What? What's happened?" Maria half shouted, grabbing at the collar of his shirt. "What happened in number Thirteen, doctor? Tell me!"

He clucked at her and removed her hands, holding them tightly in his own. "Calm down, nurse. Take a deep breath."

She shuddered and began crying. "I think I'm going mad," Maria said in a hurt little voice.

Dr. Freeman sighed. "Come here. Sit down." He handed her a handkerchief. "Wipe your face. There's nothing to be afraid of, Nurse Flynn. Not anymore."

"I read Bella Keeler's file," Maria said, feeling that if she could just stick to one point, somehow things would turn out all right. She sniffled and dabbed at her tears. "It was hidden in the desk. You were there."

"Yes, yes, I was there." With Maria finally seated in the chair, Freeman leaned his ample hip against the edge of the desk. He glanced down the corridor. The door to number Thirteen was open. Inside, the cell was a wreck of fire-scorched padding, streaked with black mold. The crumbling remains of a straightjacket could be glimpsed in one corner.

"That's how Carlotta was injured," Freeman said conversationally. "Belle was kept under heavy sedation, like all the patients The administrators had ordered the panic buttons installed, you see. This was the last ward to be wired. Everything was supposed to be safe, but it was the Fourth of July. The workmen were in a hurry. A single spark was all it took. By the time poor Bella woke up and managed to call for help, it was already too late. Cell padding was very flammable in those days."

Maria stared at him.

"The fire started behind a wall. Carlotta managed to get number Thirteen open when she finally heard Bella screaming. The door was extremely hot. She had the impression of the bolt seared into her palm." Freeman was very calm. "The fire came right at her face when the door opened. Ate straight through her shoes and stockings, burned off her hair... Carlotta had to have been in agony, but she didn't stop trying to get to Bella. Ran right through the flames, holding an arm up to save her eyes. That arm was burned down to the bone.

"The buckles on the straightjacket were red hot. Bella was dead, but Carlotta couldn't stop. She dragged her out anyway, went back and saved everyone else, too. I was supposed to be on duty in Ward Three, just opposite the stairwell. I'd slipped out to meet a nurse that I thought I was going to marry. Carlotta cried for help, oh, I don't know how long, and finally used the desk to break the safety lock out. Even if I'd been there, though, I couldn't have done anything for the Keeler girl.

"When she found out Bella hadn't survived, she went completely to pieces. I didn't know they were lovers then. It was after, when Carlotta was having surgery... sometimes, anesthetic makes people talkative. The surgeon told me. I went to see her at the hospital. I couldn't really blame her for wanting to help her lover escape the asylum. By then, of course, we'd started having trouble with number Thirteen."

"What kind of trouble?" Maria croaked. She was not sure she wanted to hear the answer.

"The Fire Marshal's men were the first to notice it. Anybody who went into that cell... well, there wasn't enough money in the world to make them want to do it again. After the repairmen ran out and refused to return, I went in there myself." His jowls quivered. "The whispering was bad enough. And the screams. And the cold fingers touching your face. But then you started burning..."

"Sweet Jesus weeping on the cross..."

"See, the doors are very thick. But that voice carried clearly - much more clearly than it would have on July 4th. Carlotta blamed herself, but frankly, there's no way she could have heard Bella calling for help then. Not in Bella's weakened state. I doubt she could have talked much above a murmur, until panic forced the sedative out of her system. By that time, the smoke had done its work."

Freeman smoothed his hair again in a nervous gesture and continued, "Carlotta insisted on coming back. She insisted on being assigned the night shift in Ward Seven. She wouldn't hear any objections. I'm not a monster, you know. But until she recovered, no one would stay down here. Nurses quit. Orderlies quit. Dr. Cooper himself had a breakdown. I was the only one left who knew the truth. There never was any Jane Doe. I started the story, to explain why number Thirteen was... vacant. Why that door had to be kept closed. Why the 'patient' was never to be disturbed. Some things are best left alone. The staff made up their own stories over the years. That's human nature, especially after our accreditation changed and we began taking in the violent offenders.

"I gave Bella Keeler's private file to her. Let the dead rest in peace, I thought. But there wasn't any peace, was there? Not really. For twenty-two years, Carlotta sat down here, with her uniform and her scars and her secret, and listened to Bella's ghost crying. I asked her why, once."

"What did she say?" Maria's heart was a cold, heavy lump of lead in her chest.

"She looked at me and said, 'Doctor, I couldn't save Bella in life. I can't save her in death. The gulf is too wide and I can't cross it yet. But by God, I'm not going to leave her alone. I owe her that much, even if she never knows.'" Freeman rubbed his face. He seemed tired and old, not like his usual good-humored self. "Carlotta was not a martyr. She was... well, I believe she was marking time until..."

"Until she could join Bella. And everything would be fine." Maria glanced at the handkerchief crumpled in her fist. Slowly, she forced her aching fingers open. "Carlotta Lansing died last night of a heart attack."

"Yes. That's why I had you assigned to Ward Seven. I'd hoped that it would be finally over."

"It is now."

The doctor and the nurse looked at each other, in silent communication that lasted a few moments. "They loved each other so much," Maria said. "Could that be wrong?"

"Carlotta made arrangements to be buried next to Bella." Freeman sighed again. "I've tried to be a more humane man since then. Tried hard to understand." He hesitated. "They were the sanest women I ever knew. Do you... do you suppose, Nurse Flynn, that it's ever too late to apologize?"

Maria shook her head. She was exhausted; every bone in her body felt as if it had been shattered and patched back together with an inexpert hand. But there was still something she had to do.

As she moved from behind the desk, her bare foot trod on something hard and unyielding. It was a name tag. Lansing. Around the printed rectangle was a hospital bracelet, old flaking plastic covering a typewritten strip of paper. Keeler, Bella.

Maria bent down carefully, every movement deliberate, and picked up the pieces.

Dr. Freeman used his private key to unlock the iron-barred door.

There was a hint of cinnamon in the air, and of happiness long delayed and finally fulfilled, as doctor and nurse placed the name tag and bracelet inside.

Cell Thirteen - with all its memories, true and false - was closed and barred forever.

Somewhere, two lovers were smiling.

And all was quiet once more in Ward Seven at the Ashpool-St. John Asylum for the Criminally Insane.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

by Nene Adams ©1999 - All rights reserved

But the third sister, who is also the youngest!
Hush! Whisper whilst we talk of her!
Her kingdom is not large, or else no flesh should live;
but within that kingdom all power is hers.
Her head, turreted like that of Cybele,
rises almost beyond the reach of sight...
She is the defier of God.
She also is the mother of lunacies and the suggestress of suicides...
She carries no key; for, though coming rarely amongst men,
she storms all doors at which she is permitted to enter at all.
And her name is Mater Tenebrarum -- Our Lady of Darkness.
-----Thomas DeQuincy

Heather-scented winds rush down from the mountains, ruffle the serene and darkly mirrored face of the tarn that laps against the ancient stones of my ancestral home, and trail icy perfumed fingers through my hair and across my tear-stained cheeks as I wait - oh, so impatiently! - for the voice of my lost love, my beautiful Jenny Dolorosa, to call me into her cold and comfortless arms for a final embrace.

Oh God, what have I done? What has my pride, my hubris, my overweening vanity, finally wrought?

Into what hellish existence have I trapped my lost and lovely Jenny Dolorosa...

And to what terrible revenge does she summon me now?

For I hear her, like a raven-feathered angel, singing sweetly - oh, so sweetly! - and whispering a maddening melody that wraps in coils around my fevered brain, binds my blood and bone to her will in delicate threads of music that are nevertheless stronger than cables of steel. She calls and I have no choice but to answer.

With hesitant steps and bitter blackness seeping into my soul, I go to join her - my lady of darkness whom I murdered as surely as if I had plunged a dagger into her breast.

My burning, bright and deadly love... my Jenny Dolorosa.

My name is Lady Mary McN-- and I am the last scion of a once noble Scottish clan. All that remained of my ancestor's greatness was a crumbling castle and its lands but, despite my family's penurious state, Father spent much of my childhood regaling me with gilded tales of the McN-- clan's glorious past and even more rapturous future until I came to believe that someday, I would restore my house to the rank of kings, wear a coronet upon my white brow and vanquish our enemies as of old.

My sex was a grave disappointment to Father, who had depended upon a son to resurrect his tarnished dreams, and I suppose he never gave up hope that it would all turn out to be some grand mistake on the midwife's part. Despite my female state, I received a university education; it was in my third year that Father finally died, and the burdens of estate and title - not to mention bills and mortgages - settled firmly on my shoulders. I left school and embarked on a Continental Tour, determined to make my mark upon the world before I must at last return to the dank heap of watermarked stones that was my ancestral home.

I was a painter, a portraitist of uncanny skill - or so it was said - and full of youthful pride and arrogance, I believed it so. T'was said that I could capture the sitter's soul upon my canvas, and soon after I gained the attention of several noble patrons, it seemed all the blue blood of Europe came knocking on my door.

I became fashionable, I suppose. I did not bow and scrape to my patrons; I bullied and insulted them, tormented them by insisting on elaborate, heavy costumes and awkward poses from which they could not move an inch, lest the painting be ruined. Surprisingly, they bore it well and returned for more helpings of the acid-bitter fare I dished out. They were wealthy, I was not. They lived comfortably, with servants and plate and carriages; I had a garret apartment with an iron bed and cracked washstand for company, my only future prospect a mountain of creditors. I hated them, with their glittering gowns and diamond buckles, ruby lips and high-piled powdered wigs. So I poured glowing coals of envy on their heads and they lapped it up, delighted at the novelty, which only made me hate them more.

My situation became a little better and I moved to Paris, City of Lights and Love. Many were the court beauties, the bold, coquettish girls with pale faces and bulging, tightly-laced breasts, who swooned and fluttered into my studio, cradling flowers, spoiled dogs and equally spoiled pages against their rustling silk gowns. In truth, I was growing weary - oh, so weary! - of the never ending parade of perfect china doll faces that were all the same, and the dull, dull murmur of their flirting chatter filled every daylight hour. I was stagnating, smothered in perfume and bon-bons...

And then I met my lovely Jenny Dolorosa.

That was not her real name; she was French, of course, maidservant to one of the noble ladies whom I had grown to abhor. But to me, she was Jenny Dolorosa, and the moment I saw her, I knew my heart was no longer my own.

She was tall and slender, with hair the color of a raven's wing and eyes that were pale sapphires set into the perfect frame of her sad, serious face. She did not walk but floated; she did not speak but sing. I was captivated and captured, my soul burning and writhing in bonds of exquisite torment. I had to have her, my lovely Jenny Dolorosa. I had to possess her or die.

I wooed and cajoled, seduced and sighed, used all the lover's cunning wiles to win this beauty that I could not resist. When, at last, she surrendered so sweetly - oh, God! how sweetly - to my embrace, all the glories and wonders and riches of Heaven could not have drawn me out of her arms. Ah, Jenny!

Our love was kept secret, for such liaisons are forbidden in nearly every country. So by day, I painted Jenny with oils and brushes, but at night I painted her skin with feverish kisses and cunning caresses that made her cry out, lifted on fiery wings to the vault of the star-sprinkled sky, a rainbow of jeweled brightness bursting against her closed eyelids, a sound like a dying swan's note rising from the ivory column of her throat. Her fingers clutched and held me tight, my Jenny Dolorosa, and sometimes she would weep from the sheer beauty and wonderment of it all.

Inevitably, we were discovered, and forced to flee to my home in Scotland. I was determined to continue my career and scheduled a showing at a gallery whose owner had not yet gotten wind of the scandal we'd left behind in France. I would work day and night if I had to, with Jenny as my only model. She was the only woman I would paint from now on; any other face, I felt, would only taint the canvas.

I made a lonely tower of the castle into my studio with a sleeping chamber above. But I rarely slept and when I did, dreamed only of picking up brush and oils once more. Wonderful woman that she was, Jenny never complained but sat and stood and posed at my bidding, staying rigid for hours at a time, forsaking rest and even food if I wished. We spent all the summer, autumn and winter in this fashion and the grand passion we shared never waned.

One day, in the middle of winter, with snow sweeping down from the mountains, I devised a painting that I was sure would be my greatest masterpiece. I was inspired to undreamed-of heights, my brain overflowing and bubbling with the muse's touch. I could not wait but immediately snatched up my paints and began the portrait, every now and then glancing up from the canvas to the figure of my Jenny, whose lovely pale eyes, full of love and trust, gazed upon me steadily.

A dab of ochre here; a dash of rose madder; a splash of azure and gold. I hurled paint upon the canvas, unheeding and blinded to all else but the burning urge of creativity. As I worked, I did not notice the chill wind that crept through crevices in the stone. I did not see the gradual bluing of her lips; I did not hear the gentle chattering of her teeth. I did not notice the shadow that fell across her face - a sweep of vast, midnight wings that coldly whispered of guttering candles, weeping stone angels and drooping fringes of yew trees. I was blind to the fevered glaze that brightened her eyes, the falsely hot scarlet that blossomed on her cheeks. I existed only for the portrait that grew beneath my brush strokes; nothing else mattered. Oh, God! Would that I had never allowed this seed of madness to grow!

Finished at last, I looked up and cast a kindly eye upon my poor Jenny. The portrait had perfectly captured the dark wings of her brows, the hair that spilled like ink over her shoulders, the glow in her pale sapphire eyes. The image was so life-like that I almost expected it to smile and speak. I had never painted better and while I was exhausted, I felt my bones glowing in triumph. A masterpiece, indeed! Daubs of paint, no matter how skillfully rendered, could never really reflect the creamy tint of her complexion, the glints in her hair, the expression of love that went beyond mere muscle and skin, mirroring the beauty of her soul - but I had done it. With my own hand I had created a miracle. It was as if I had taken the living woman and somehow translated her onto the stretched canvas. This was a magic that I could never hope to duplicate and I took a perverse pride in that fact.

Night had fallen; small drifts of powdered snow were batted to and fro along the floor by an icy breeze. I had not felt the cold, so heated had I been by my labors, but now I began to shiver. When I spoke, the white froth of my breath billowed around my face like a cloud.

"T'is done, my love! Come and see... it is you to the very life, I swear!"

There was no answer from the model's dais. I stepped out from behind my easel and lit another candle. The flame flickered and danced. Jenny did not move.

"My love...?"

I drew closer.

The candle fell from my hand as I shrieked, a spiraling cry of horror and pure disbelief that reverberated into the silent, snowy night, wrenched from my throat and piercing my sanity like a dagger. I staggered backwards, still screaming a denial.

My Jenny was dead! Frozen to the dais like a mannequin, small pyramids of snow covering her wide open, sightless eyes.

My lady of darkness was dead!

My lovely Jenny Dolorosa was gone, snatched from this world by the cruel talons of angels, her song forever silenced! I had never noticed her slipping away, this child of summer and light, condemned by my pride and arrogance, murdered by snow and ice.

I swooned, too overcome by grief and madness to do more than whisper her name.

A month after her funeral, it began.

I had burned my paints and canvases, tossing them in a frenzy on a great bonfire. But the portrait I kept, hanging it upon the wall in my bedchamber; this picture was all I had left to remind me of my lost love. At night, when I tossed and turned in sweat soaked sheets, burning with a furious melancholy I could not fight against, I would open my eyes and stare into hers, sometimes burying my face into the pillow we had shared in the hopes of discovering some faint trace of the spicy fragrance she had worn.

From disbelief to grief, from sadness to depression, I alternately turned in lunatic circles, always and forever unable to forget my lovely and carelessly lost Jenny Dolorosa.

Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!

Then, one night when curtains of dark clouds had been swept away from the face of the moon, and ripples of pale light washed across the canvas that both tormented and comforted me, I heard Jenny's voice, calling.

At first, I was convinced it was a dream, a hallucination brought on by too little sleep and too much weeping. But I heard it again, more insistently than before, and almost against my will slowly - oh, so slowly! - focused my gaze on the portrait.

As I have said, the image was Jenny to the life, so real seeming that the viewer could almost see the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed. It was a full-length portrait of my love in all her natural glory, set against a tangled garden of vines and flowers and fruits, such as the magi say grew in the Garden of Eden. Jenny was my Eve, my Lilith; my temptress, friend and lover, and I missed her with such force and sorrowful fury that I could have breached the very gates of Heaven or the fiery pits of Hell in my quest to regain her love.

I looked at the painting, icy perspiration gushing from every pore, my hair stirring and trying to rise as I gazed into the face of my Jenny Dolorosa... and saw the painted lips begin to move, forming words whose sound was no more than a muttered hush, the arms rising and extending beyond the canvas, beckoning me to anguished doom.

She called me, my lost love, and sang a pitifully sweet melody that I could not understand. It drove hooks into my soul, lashed my brain with terror and I fled, screaming, from the room.

Her vengeful spirit had returned to the one responsible for her untimely death.

Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!

Still screaming, I ran out into the night.

Every evening it was the same.

For some time I avoided the tower, even though it was the most habitable place in the ruined castle I was forced to call my home. But no matter what hidden corner or secret chamber I chose, when the moon cast its watery beams of light across the landscape, I would hear the voice of my Jenny Dolorosa, calling and calling in sad, tear-laced tones that made me shudder uncontrollably. I wept and begged for mercy but what pity could she have for a monster such as me? I finally understood what I had done.

Somehow, during that final, terrible night, with my brushes and paints, uncanny skill and muse-wrought madness, I had not only captured the image of Jenny... I had unwittingly stolen her soul, imprisoning it forever within the portrait. Trapped by her murderer's hand, unable to rise to Heaven or sink to Hell, I could not blame my love for wanting revenge.

Days passed and Jenny's song grew stronger and clearer, though I still could not make out the words. It didn't matter; I already knew the imprecations and oaths she was doubtlessly heaping upon my head. Having destroyed the woman I loved beyond all life - oh! what had my cursed pride and vanity done! - I could, in the end, do nothing but meekly submit to whatever punishment she desired.

Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!

So now I make my way to the tower one last time, the siren song of Jenny Dolorosa drawing me closer and closer, blotting out even the loud lapping of the dark tarn waters against the walls of the castle.

I can no longer avoid my fate.

One by one, I mount the steps that lead to the bedchamber where the portrait of Jenny still hangs upon the wall.

One by one, my heartbeats falter until the slow, steady thudding of my pulse beats in a false and erratic rhythm.

My blood boils in my veins; my soul is heavy with the weight of sorrow and bitter regret.

Jenny Dolorosa calls. I must go on.

The heather-scented wind now claws and screeches at the stones. My hair, once a shade that Titian would have envied, has grown dull and brittle, and lashes at my eyes, making them sting.

The bedroom is as I left it. The portrait - oh, God! that cursed, cursed portrait! - is fastened to the wall opposite my bed. Moonlight illuminates the canvas, washing out the bold and brilliant colors, lending an eldrich dusting of silver across Jenny's painted skin.

I stand directly before the painting. Jenny's pale sapphire eyes bore into mine.

I am no longer afraid. I say, "What is it, my love? What will you have of me?" and wait for the answer.

The face, composed only of ground pigments and oils, stares down at me. Slowly, ever so slowly, the lips begin to move, the arms to rise. I stand unflinching, waiting for the pain I know will come, patiently surrendering to the deadly will of my lost and lovely Jenny. I am prepared for anything for I know what torments I deserve.

A flash of lightning gives a febrile bluish tint to her complexion. The arms begin to extend beyond the frame, the canvas stretching impossibly, molding itself to her ghostly form like a well fitting glove. The lips are still moving; although her song is stronger than it has ever been before, I cannot make out the words.

Her fingertips are reaching for my cheek.

I close my eyes, unable to suppress the shudders that wrack my frame.

Just as those painted fingertips brush the surface of my face, I hear her voice clearly for the first time.

"I forgive you," she whispers.

My eyes fly open. It is a trick, I think to myself. A teasing taste of mercy to be snatched away before the real pain begins.

"I forgive you," she insists.

No! I cannot, will not, believe this!

"I forgive you," she sighs, caressing my cheek. Her fingers are warm and soft.

And finally, seeing only love reflected in her pale eyes, I surrender. Sobbing, tears flowing like a summer storm, I fall on my knees, kissing that unreal hand over and over again, the stains of grief and madness washing away from my soul.

Through my stifled moans, I hear her say, "I love you." and then, "Goodbye."

Immediately, I look up and with blurred vision see the figure of Jenny moving backwards, further into the background of the portrait. Her hand withdraws from mine and more quickly than I could have imagined, she is being swallowed up by the jungle of Eden.

"No!" I scream. "No! I will not lose you again!"

Another lightning flash. I snatch the portrait from the wall and clutch the frame so tightly it creaks. Thrusting my face against the canvas, I shout, "Jenny! Don't leave me again! Please!"

The expression on her face is one of sorrow but she does not halt her retreat. I can just make out the silvery tracks of tears on her cheeks.

"Noooo!" I howl. Sheer desperation gave me an idea. I shove a hand directly at the portrait, half expecting the tough surface to rip and tear, but instead...

It yields.

My arm dives into the world I created, this painted garden of paradise. I can feel crisp green vines rubbing against my skin, cup a round orange in my palm.

I no longer care what the consequences might be. Metaphysics and religion do not not enter into it at all; I am simply determined not to lose my love again.

Holding the portrait upright in both hands once more, I lift my right leg and push it through. Cool earth, moist and fecund, tickles the sole of my foot. The other leg quickly follows.

Grabbing my journal, I hasten to scribble down these last few words of explanation for those who may come after, seeking to solve mysteries that are beyond the reach of human understanding. Once finished, I will leave these ink-blotted pages to serve as the final memorial of a love that will endure until the throne of ages crumbles into dust.

My Jenny Dolorosa calls...

And joyfully I answer her song.

FROM THE OFFICIAL REPORT OF COLONEL HENRI de BRANARD

January 21, 1678

Monsieur le Director:

As per my orders, I and my men made our way to Scotland, following the trail of the criminals Lady Mary McN-- and the French girl known as Jenny, in an attempt to bring them back to face French justice for unnatural depravity and perversion, as specified in the arrest warrant. It was some months before we had even a trace of a lead; the natives of this benighted land are unfriendly and dour, unwilling to surrender one of their own even to His Glorious Majesty's duly appointed servants.

At long last, having found the ruined castle of the McN-- clan, it was the middle of winter. Snow was falling heavily and some of my men were succumbing to the fierce cold. How the Scottish barbarians withstand this terrible weather in their little skirts is beyond my understanding!

The bulk of the castle is completely unhabitable, an utter wreck and ruin. However, one of the towers is reasonably solid and it was here that I first concentrated my efforts.

I regret to inform Monsieur le Director that the castle proved to be empty with no trace of the two women to be found. I will therefore be forced to widen the circle of my search; it could be that they have fled to the Continent once more.

However, Monsieur, do not think I come away empty-handed from Scotland. It is clear that the artist and her paramour lived here for some months, for I have found the most wonderful portrait, fallen from the bedroom wall and lying carelessly on the floor. Fortunately, it was not damaged. The floor is scattered with a wet pulp of papers from which the ink has long ago been soaked; I suppose it was this cushion which protected the painting in its fall.

It appears to be a self portrait of the artist, Lady McN--, accompanied by the girl. They are embracing in a wonderful garden, a true fantasy of flowers, fruits and vines. Really, Monsieur, the quality of the work is so exquisite that you would swear the women were alive! It is uncanny. Their eyes seem to follow one around the room and this morning, I was almost certain that the girl winked at me! Such skill comes only from the hand of God, Monsieur... or the Devil.

I shall have the portrait shipped to you at once. Frankly, I can no longer stand looking at the thing. It frightens me. I'm beginning to imagine I hear them laughing and talking, although I know it is just this terrible weather that is getting me down.

Monsieur may also wish to know that the title of the piece has been burned into the back of the canvas, etched in a fine hand. It says, "For love of Jenny Dolorosa." An interesting choice, I think.

Expect the portrait to be on the next ship to Paris.

Your Servant, Respectfully,
Colonel Henri de Branard

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
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by Nene Adams ©1999 - All rights reserved

This story contains graphic violence, including the depiction of child abuse as well as other scenes of a violent nature, the depiction of a non-graphic romantic relationship between two adult women and some adult language. This story also contains religious references -  Catholicism - within a historical context that may be deemed offensive by some persons. If you are one of them, stop reading now.

Prologue

For now we see through a glass, darkly,
but then face to face;
now I know in part, but then shall I know
even as I am known.
--- I Corinthians 13:12, King James Bible

12th Century, Anno Domini
Somewhere off the coast of Ireland

Inky darkness, black as sin, completely enveloped the Isle of Niamh; the island's sole inhabitants, the Sisters of the convent of St. Ailbe, were huddled in their stone cells, unable to sleep because of the storm. Strong gusts smelling strongly of salt lashed at the convent's stone walls, clawed and scrabbled at wooden doors and shutters, hissed through every crack, every crevice. Rain splashed down in an endless cascade; lightning sizzled and popped, providing brief flashes of pure pale illumination.

This was no ordinary storm; there was a fury behind it, a purpose that could only be from the hand of the Lord. Not the forgiving, loving Father; no, this was a manifestation of the wrathful God that had destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, slain the first born children of Egypt, flooded the world to destroy the wicked.

All of the nuns stayed on their knees in prayer, the clicking of  rosary beads and softly murmured litanies soothing despite the furor outside. Candles flickered as stray puffs of air threatened to snuff them out altogether; the bobbing, golden lights cast gigantic shadows on the walls, skewing ordinary shapes into unfamiliar, grasping demons.

On such a night, all of the women prayed... except one.

In the small Hall of Novices, a girl slept peacefully beneath her coarse, woolen blanket, her dreams for once undisturbed by nightmares. As the only novice - for few girls would have been willing to submit to so much isolation and hardship as St. Ailbe's offered the potential Brides of Christ - she had the Hall to herself. Some might have been lonely, wept for the family they had left behind, wondered if they had the strength to endure so harsh a vocation.

But the one who was the youngest of the convent, she who was known as Aislinn of the Dreams, slept with a mind untroubled by doubt, if not by pain. Aislinn had been found on the rocky shore of Niamh when she was a dirty-faced child of eleven years; the nuns had taken her in despite knowing nothing of her origins, family or clan. Only three things were clear  - first, the gold cloak brooch she had clutched in her fist suggested a link to nobility; second, her name given simply as Aislinn; and third, the girl was completely blind. Those marvelously wide, emerald green eyes saw nothing; could not even distinguish between darkness and light. The infirmarian, Sister Keely, had found no disease, no evidence of injury past or present that could account for such a loss.

It was as if God Himself had drawn a veil across Aislinn's eyes for some unfathomable purpose of His own.

The Abbess, Mother Bebhinn, thought that Aislinn might be some nobleman's unwanted by-blow, tossed up on Niamh by chance or purpose. The girl herself had no idea how she had come to be there or why. In fact, her early memories seemed to have been erased and privately - considering the old scars that laced Aislinn's back, buttocks and thighs - the Mother thought that might be no bad thing.

Over the years, the scrawny, green-eyed girl with red-gold hair had developed into a young woman of such heart-breaking beauty that Mother Bebhinn regularly thanked God and the Virgin Mary that the only regular contact the community had with men was the weekly visit of Father Paul from the Benedictine chapterhouse on the mainland, and he was an ancient relic of a priest whose vision was more firmly fixed on Heaven than on Earth. Aislinn was such an innocent that she would have been easy prey to unscrupulous men in the outside world... or so Bebhinn thought.

Who Aislinn was remained a mystery, but the Sisters accepted her, even to a certain extent the sour-tempered prioress, Sister Cliodna; no one who knew her could resist being drawn by her goodness, by the joy that was palpable in her soul... nor could they help but recognize the strain of melancholy and sadness that lurked just beneath the girl's happiness.

By dawn, the storm was over and the women gathered in the chapel for Prime, their voices raised in sanctified song. After the psalms and prayers, the Sisters hastily gulped a scanty breakfast and left the convent to assess the damage to their gardens, crops and animals. The catastrophe they feared didn't prove to be so terrible - Sister Keely's herbs were flattened but salvageable; the vegetable plots were fine; the chickens scattered but quickly rounded up; the sheep and cows found and brought into the barn. After this, the daily round of chores could begin.

Following Prime, Aislinn was one of the few women who remained behind. She caged a small loaf of bread and a cup of milk from Sister Enda in the kitchen and made her way to the workshop where she spent most of her days.

Despite her blindness, Aislinn was a sculptor of uncanny skill; her sensitive fingers coaxed hauntingly beautiful and graceful shapes from clay - small figurines of horses, birds, bulls, dogs, deer and especially wolves. Some, including Sister Keely, thought that Aislinn's preoccupation with wolves was a tribute to their own St. Ailbe, who had once saved a wolf's life and thus tamed the wild beast so that it ate from his table for the rest of its days. Aislinn herself did not know why she found these animals so fascinating - but it was a fascination born of dread, not of love. She could not control the compulsion; it controlled her to such an extent that her dreams were often filled with frightening images of running wolves, their hot breath scorching the backs of her heels as she fled through an eldritch forest towards the pounding of the sea.

She was known as Aislinn of the Dreams because of these nightmares and their consequences - night sweats, screaming awakenings, an aversion to dogs that made her terrified even of the convent's toothless old hound - as well as the oft-repeated visions she had of a cruel-eyed man in a wolfskin coat, sneering at her from a great height.

But last night she had slept peacefully for the first time in several sevendays - thank the Blessed Virgin.

Her workshop was nothing more than a small hut attached to the larger herbarium in Sister Keely's garden. Rows of shelves held lumps of clay wrapped in moist rags, a few shaping tools and a collection of imperfect pieces. A little wood-fueled stove was used to fire Aislinn's figurines; afterwards, they cooled on other shelves until there were enough for Father Paul to collect and take back to the mainland. The pieces were hardly larger than a thumb-length and sold well at fairs and feasts, providing a welcome income to the convent.

Not yet willing to disturb the peacefulness of the day, Aislinn tarried and took in a few breaths of air; the breeze was scented by the sweet smells of Sister Keely's crushed herbs - thyme, rosemary, lavender, beebalm. The Prioress' prize roses had blown apart beneath the onslaught of the storm and heaps of petals were scattered everywhere underfoot; each time Aislinn took a step, the cloying perfume was nearly overwhelming.

She ate as she walked the winding path through the herb garden, eating Sister Enda's good honey bread and sipping still warm milk; her feet never faltered nor did she lose her way. She might have been blind but in the eight years that she had dwelled here, Aislinn had wandered throughout the gardens, convent proper and even the island itself. She knew every inch intimately, that precious knowledge soaked down into her very bones. She no longer even used the stick that one of the Sisters had made to help her find her way and avoid falling over obstacles that she couldn't see. Niamh and the convent were as familiar to her as her own skin.

Finally, when the warmth of sunshine told her that she'd been outside long enough, Aislinn entered the workshop, depositing the kitchen cup on a shelf to be returned later. Sitting down and unwrapping a piece she had been working on yesterday, Aislinn lost herself in the enjoyment of her craft and allowed her mind to wander.

Aislinn enjoyed the feel of clay in her hands; pinching, prodding, smoothing and shaping until she could feel the figure coming alive in her fingertips. When she'd been a child and newly arrived at the convent, old Sister Ornat - she of blessed memory! - had created the convent's pots and vessels in this very room, working with clay just as Aislinn did now. But Sister Ornat hadn't had a drop of creative artistry anywhere in her ancient soul; her pieces were pedestrian and useful. When she'd given Aislinn a lump of clay one day as a way of distracting the child, the nun had been amazed when the girl had quickly shaped it into a recognizable figure of a deer. True, it was rough and childish in design, but the Sister had realized that there was talent lurking there - a God given gift that needed only a bit of encouragement to blossom full grown.

Aislinn had soaked up all the knowledge Sister Ornat had to offer and demanded more. An arrangement had been made for her to study with one of the Benedictine monks, Brother Michael Brecc, whose big freckled hands created elegant pottery from the meanest of materials. Brother Michael had been astonished at the scope of Aislinn's raw talent and had done all he could to teach her the necessary tricks of the trade. Under his tutelage, Aislinn had become a true artist whose modest fame had already spread across the mainland of Eire.

She could remember being able to see at one time; she could envision trees, plants, animals, colors, even strange faces to which she could put no name. But in spite of Sister Keely's ministrations, her eyes remained veiled and the light of the sun never dazzled her vision again.

Suddenly, Aislinn was brought out of her musing by the fact that her hands were still. It was often thus; while her fingers plucked and smoothed the clay, her mind was set to wandering, only recalled when the body rested once more.

The finished piece was in her lap; she allowed her fingertips to caress the clay, seeking to build an image in her mind by the contours and details she could feel. As the vision took shape, Aislinn's bottom lip trembled and she began to shake.

Not again!

It was the same, exactly the same as others she had produced more and more frequently in the last few months. Oh, Mother of Mercy, she prayed silently, why have You allowed this to happen once more?

In her heart, Aislinn had hoped that the Virgin Mary would have granted her prayer... but proof of the Holy Mother's indifference lay in her lap, bold as brass and as comforting as a spearpoint.

A girl lay on her back, mouth open in a silent scream, ragged skirts bunched up around her waist. A wolf straddled her body, lean muzzle parted in a snarl, a ruff of fur standing out around his head. It was so real, so lifelike despite its small size, that a peasant would have been excused for thinking the figurine was an actual representation of a wolf attack victim. Someone who was more worldly would have seen the sexual suggestiveness in the wolf's dominant position and the girl's reluctant, submissive pose. It seemed to be a representation of the most bestial kind of rape imaginable and to Aislinn, this image was horribly disturbing in a way she could not consciously understand but loathed with every fiber of her being..

She was sickened to the point of wanting to vomit. As her fingers dug into the still pliable clay, crushing the terrible figurine into a shapeless mass, she felt faint; cold sweat beaded on her forehead and upper lip, her stomach churned and she tasted bitter acid on her tongue.

Her hands clenched so tightly together that clay squeezed out from between her fingers, Aislinn staggered up from her stool then dropped to her knees. Ignoring the blobs and smears of wet earth that dirtied her robes, she raised her clasped hands and silently pleaded with God the Father, Christ the Son, the Virgin Mary and all the saints to take this nightmare away from her; she would rather lose her artistic gift altogether than endure one more day of never knowing when her personal demons were going to strike.

She was frightened, feeling physically ill and trembling; she did not know why the image of the wolf and girl should so disturb her, but she was beyond rational thought, able only to react to the emotional distress.

Aislinn began to babble the first prayer that came to her head. "Per signum crucis de inimicis nostris libera nos, Deus noster. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti..."

By the sign of the cross, deliver us from our enemies, Thou who art our God. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit...

Over and over she whispered the Latin words, her eyes tightly closed in reflex, rocking back and forth while tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks.

 It was thus that Sister Fiona found her nearly two hours later.

"Merciful God, Aislinn!" Fiona clucked, helping the exhausted girl to her feet. "If you wanted to pray so much, why didn't you join us for Nones? You missed the noon meal as well, and you as scrawny as a plucked hen already! Well, that's for naught, now. Mother Bebhinn sent me to look for you."

The Sister looked at Aislinn with a critical but not unkind eye. Fiona was plump and motherly; her cap of shorn salt and pepper curls was hidden beneath the white cloth of her wimple but a few wisps had escaped to frame her round, friendly face. She surveyed the trembling, white-faced young woman and sighed. "Whatever your trouble, child, it will have to keep. The Abbess wants you to come to her study; we have a visitor!"

"W-w-what?" Aislinn stammered, wiping her wet face with the back of her hand.

"You heard me, child!" Fiona scolded gently. "I happened to get a glimpse of the stranger - such finery I haven't seen since the Bishop visited some fifteen years ago. And Prioress Cliodna, that whey-mannered, cat-footing busy-body - may God in His infinite mercy forgive me - was standing there with her ear pressed to the Mother's door. Tcha! Sister Keely caught her and gave her a tongue lashing but you know Cliodna - a more righteous individual never graced the good Lord's earth." While she spoke, she dusted off Aislinn's robes, exclaiming over the clay smears that had now dried to an unshakable stain.

"St. Brigit! Well, there's nothing for it but you'll have to be changing before you hie off to Mother Bebhinn's study. We can't have you greeting some important visitor looking like the sheep dragged you in on its tail."

Aislinn was still confused. "But why has Mother Bebhinn sent for me?"

Fiona glanced right then left but they were alone. Pulling the girl closer to her, she breathed in Aislinn's ear, "T'is that the stranger's come for you or so Cliodna thinks. All a-flutter in the kitchen with half the convent hanging on her lips, telling everyone who cares to hear it that your family's come to claim you after all this time and what's to be done without the silks and such we buy with the money you earn. Who's to make the Brother's altar cloths?, she minces. Tcha! From the way Cliodna's carrying on, you'd think she'd been stabbed in the dark with a dull needle and that's no mistake!"

Family? Come to claim... me?

On top of the emotional trauma of the morning, it was all suddenly too much. With a sigh, Aislinn slumped over in a dead faint and Fiona caught her beneath the arms before she fell to the floor.

A few moments later, Aislinn was awakened by the sharp stench of a burning feather waved beneath her nose. As soon as the girl mewled and waved her hands, Fiona took the feather away and crushed it in her palm.

"Are you ill?" the nun asked.

Aislinn coughed. "Nay," she replied faintly. "Help me up. To keep Mother Bebhinn and her visitor waiting would be a sin."

"Are you certain?" Fiona said, hauling Aislinn to her feet and holding her arm as she swayed unsteadily.

Taking a deep breath, the girl nodded. "Take me to her," she said, feeling a slight wave of strength return to her chilled limbs. Whatever awaited her, she would have to face it bravely - Christ Himself and the Blessed Martyrs had done no less.

Sister Fiona didn't know if Aislinn was referring to Mother Bebhinn... or the stranger whose presence on their quiet island was already causing an uproar. Heaving a heartfelt sigh, Fiona bustled away with the girl in tow, leading blind Aislinn to her fate.

Mother Bebhinn, Abbess of the Convent of St. Ailbe, surveyed the visitor. Her sharp brown eyes took in every detail, drawing conclusions with lightning speed.

Despite the fact that the stranger was dressed as a man in tunic and trews, "he" was obviously a woman. Or at least, obvious to those who had the wits to see, Bebhinn thought. Her name, too, was a dead giveaway - Dunlaith, which meant "brown lady." There was earth in her coloring; Dunlaith's shoulder length hair was raven black, pulled away from her face by a silver ring; her eyes were a pale and intense blue that was complemented by the sun-kissed color of her skin. But there was no trace of earth in her nature; no, this one was all fire, her passions smoldering just beneath the surface - Bebhinn thought that as well controlled as Dunlaith's flames were, it would take no more than a single breath to set them alight.

She was dressed richly in a doeskin tunic, dyed dark green and embroidered all over in silver thread; the wide cuffs of her gloves sparkled with tiny jewels and the two legs of her trews were laced up the sides with silver cord. The brooch that held back the flap of her cloak was gold; the large oval bore running wolves all around the rim and a smoky cairngorm in the center. That she was a warrior in private service was in no doubt - the sword she carried on her back had seen hard use and judging from the set look on her face, Dunlaith was definitely a woman to be reckoned with.

Bebhinn smiled in what she hoped was a friendly manner and said, "I apologize for Aislinn, Dunlaith. I can only offer the excuse that when she is in a creative mood, it is sometimes difficult to rouse her."

Dunlaith nodded. "I am in no hurry. You've been kind enough to offer the convent's hospitality while I carry out my Lord's instructions."

Just as Bebhinn was casting her mind about frantically, trying to come up with some innocuous small talk to fill up the silence, there was a discreet rap on the door. Sending up a mental hallelujah, the Abbess called, "Enter."

The door opened and Aislinn was thrust inside, propelled by a friendly push from Fiona. The plump Sister lingered near the open door, hoping to be forgotten so she could be privy to these momentous events, but Bebhinn knew her charges well. "Thank you, Fiona. You may go; please shut the door behind you."

Aislinn stood there straining her ears, but her heart was pounding so hard she could hear nothing except the throbbing of her own pulse. She didn't realize Mother Bebhinn was speaking to her until the Abbess called sharply, "Child! Have you been listening to a word I've said or are you lost entire in that head of yours?"

Aislinn gulped; her mouth felt like it had been scoured out with wool and it took her a few moments of frantic working to draw up enough saliva for speech. "My sorrow, Reverend Mother. I was..."

"It's all right, Aislinn," the stranger said. Her voice was a husky purr that sent electric tingles down Aislinn's spine. "I am Dunlaith of Breanda. My sorrow if I have kept you from your art."

The name meant nothing to the girl. Instinctively, her face turned towards Dunlaith and the woman drew a breath. Aislinn was beautiful; her skin creamy and smooth, eyes like glowing emeralds set in the perfection of her face. The Abbess had told her of Aislinn's handicap; to know that those marvelous eyes were useless except as pure ornamentation made Dunlaith's heart contract in pity.

Dunlaith rose from her chair; she was as tall as a man and leanly muscular, top-filled with deadly grace and an economy of motion that spoke of hard warrior's training over many years. She walked over to the waiting girl and smiled, a gesture meant to soothe that was wasted on Aislinn's blindness. "May God watch over you, may the Virgin light your path and may the Great Good Christ lend you His strength in time of trouble," Dunlaith said formally. "I greet thee, Aislinn of the Dreams."

"And I greet thee, Dunlaith of the Burning," Aislinn replied, for the warrior woman's name meant just that in the Gaeloch. Mingled excitement, fear and apprehension made the girl's stomach churn. She held out her hand and as Dunlaith covered it with her own, Aislinn realized in horror that her palm was damp with sweat and clammy. She fervently hoped the honored visitor wouldn't notice her nervousness, much less comment on it.

Dunlaith knew Aislinn was afraid; she curled her fingers around the girl's hand and brought it up to her face, placing the slightly sticky palm on her cheek. "Since you cannot see me smile, ainnir, perhaps you will be able to feel that there is no need for fear between us."

Aislinn blushed but did not remove her hand from the other woman's face. Instead, she traced Dunlaith's face with her fingertips, smoothing her thumb over the warrior's forehead and cheekbones, allowing her palm to slide across mouth and chin, building up an image in her mind. The exercise calmed her, as Dunlaith had guessed it would.

"What color are your hair and eyes?" Aislinn whispered; the artist in her soul needed to have each detail complete. Realizing it was an inappropriate question to ask a stranger, she blushed again and lowered her hand.

"Black and blue," Dunlaith whispered back; a small smile quirked up one side of her mouth. "Which would also be the color of my skin, could the Reverend Mother's glare deliver the blows her eyes are sending in my direction."

Aislinn felt flustered and knew her cheeks were glowing like coals. "My sorrow if this foolishness of mine has kept you from your business with Mother Bebhinn," she said loudly enough for the Abbess to hear.

Bebhinn shook her head and sighed. "T'is of little moment, inion," she said, calling Aislinn 'daughter.' "As you already know, this lady is Dunlaith of Breanda; she is a laoch in service to Lord O'Ciaran. You may not know that the O'Ciaran has been blessed with a plenitude of daughters - seven, in fact. His youngest, Lady Eala, has just reached her thirteenth year and it has been decided to dedicate the girl to the Church. Dunlaith will be staying with us for a little while, to see if St. Ailbe's is an appropriate place for young Eala to retire from the world."

Aislinn was unable to reply; she was too stunned for words. So this woman was not kin come to take her away? Part of her was so relieved she wanted to sink down on her knees and sing a hymn of praise to the Merciful Jesu; another part of her felt like keening in disappointment. Still, she had not yet learned why Mother Bebhinn had sent for her, so she bit her lip and waited.

Dunlaith watched the mixed emotions cross swiftly across Aislinn's face and was quick to explain. "Since you are the only novice here at the moment, I wanted to spend a bit of time with you, ainnir. See how you spend your days, learn about the Isle of Niamh and the convent, the Sisters, the whole business of living here as you do."

She lowered her voice so the Abbess could not overhear and leaned down closer to Aislinn. "My lady Eala comes with a substantial dowry to be donated to the convent, as well as a relic of the Blessed St. Colman of Dromore. You understand why this is important to the Reverend Mother, do you not?"

Aislinn nodded. For one, the girl's dowry would enrich the convent's coffers, notwithstanding the percentage that must be sent to their motherhouse in Dalriada as well as to Rome. Furthermore, since St. Colman was a summer saint - that is, his feast day was June 7 - and male besides, it would be inappropriate to house his relic on Niamh. So Mother Bebhinn would probably "gift" the Benedictine monastery with the relic, which would endow the convent with raised status within the Church community as well as precipitate the giving of many generous favors from the Benedictines.

Oh, the moldering bones of saints was a large business - imagine the number of pilgrims who would travel to the monastery to view St. Colman's relic, bringing with them plenty of offerings in coin and other niceties. Summertime was a pleasant period to travel; the Benedictines could look forward to a brisk and profitable feast day on St. Colman's.

All of this went through her head in a flash. Aislinn said softly, "I see."

Dunlaith continued, "I would not want the Reverend Mother's wrath to fall on your head, ainnir, but neither should you feel compelled to endure my company if you cannot. My word that I will not be an unpleasant companion; if you wish to be alone you have only to raise your smallest finger and I will vanish like a windblown leaf. I can tell stories if it's amusement you're wanting or stay as silent as the grave. And I sing like an angel. What say you? Have we a bargain, we two?"

Aislinn considered a moment before answering. While it was true that she cherished the solitary moments she spent in her workshop, perhaps it would be no bad thing if she stopped working for a little while and allowed herself a brief respite. Besides, she already felt a bond with Dunlaith, the first tentative stirrings towards what might be a solid friendship.

Mother Bebhinn observed the interaction between the warrior and the foundling; it looked as if Aislinn was hesitating at something their visitor had said and the Abbess was eager to make sure Dunlaith's visit went as smoothly as possible. It had been nearly ten years since the convent had fostered a novice and the daughter of one of the richest Lords in Eire was a plum that her fingers itched to pluck. "Inion, I ask that you make Dunlaith welcome in every way. Show her our home, introduce her to the Sisters, walk her around the isle."

Aislinn knew the Abbess' politeness was more of a direct order. Still, she had already made up her mind and said without further hesitation, "Yes, Mother, I will do as you ask. Glad am I of the chance to show Dunlaith how well we live here."

Bebhinn breathed a sigh of relief and surreptitiously made the sign of the cross. Although possessing an inherently sweet nature, Aislinn could be more stubborn than a white-eared mule at times.

"Very well," the Abbess said. "I will have Sister Eodaoin prepare the guest quarters..."

"Nay, if it please you," Dunlaith interrupted. "With your permission, Reverend Mother, I think it best that I sleep in the Hall of Novices; after all, that is where my Lady will be staying if she comes to St. Ailbe's. Also, I beg you not to put yourselves out on my account; my report to Lord O'Ciaran must be as accurate as possible and he will raise his eyebrows to the clouds if I tell him I feasted on fine foods and wines every night."

"So be it," Bebhinn replied. She placed her hands flat on the table in front of her and pushed herself to her feet, reaching for the walking stick she used. A bad break in her left leg many years ago had left the woman with a permanent limp. "Do you take Dunlaith about and let the Sisters know her," the Abbess said to Aislinn. "Afterwards, show her the dairy, the infirmary, the herbarium and the gardens. To that end, I excuse you from attending Compline after supper but I expect to see both of you tomorrow morning at Prime."

"Yes, Mother," Aislinn answered diffidently.

Dunlaith knew a dismissal when she heard one. She linked her arm through Aislinn's and said cheerfully, "Shall we go then, ainnir?"

Although the long, hard length of the warrior was nearly a handsbreadth away, Aislinn still felt the other woman's body heat. Her heart fluttering in her chest, the blind girl led the way out of Mother Bebhinn's office; part of her concentrating on Dunlaith's chatter - but the other, secret part of her soul savoring her mental image of the warrior again and again.

Dunlaith proved as good as her word. She was a delightful companion, willing and eager to lend a hand to any task, no matter how mundane; she knew many stories and songs, and her beautiful singing voice could make the angels weep. When Aislinn required solitude, Dunlaith knew without being told and would slip away... but when the blind girl craved companionship, the warrior was instantly there with a comradly arm and a smile that Aislinn traced with her fingertips.

The girl felt her bond with the warrior growing day by day. She took a certain guilty pleasure in being addressed as ainnir  - "maiden" - as though Dunlaith was courting her. It made Aislinn feel like a princess, with the warrior as her faithful knight-champion.

The days went as they had for so many years... but now the nights sang to a different rhythm. Just before she fell asleep, Aislinn would snuggle beneath her blanket and listen to Dunlaith's soft, slow breaths. At last, content and relaxed by the presence of the woman in the other bed, Aislinn would sink into calm darkness.

Only once had she dreamed since Dunlaith's arrival; she'd woken up drenched with sweat, panting so hard that her head was spinning, heart trying to claw its way out of her breast. The warrior had been there, her strong arms encircling Aislinn, hands gently soothing the terrified girl. Aislinn wasn't able to explain her nightmares - her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth when the subject came up - but Dunlaith didn't demand answers. Instead, she offered silent support and understanding... and the girl was content to let it be so.

But despite Aislinn's increased regard for Dunlaith, there were those who cast a jaundiced eye on the tall, lean warrior...

Especially after the sheep started dying.

Mother Bebhinn looked at Sister Damhnait. "Could it be a wild dog?" she asked. "Though how one should come to Niamh passes my understanding. Still, through the grace of God, all things are possible."

The shepherdess shook her head. "Nay, it be not wild dog," she answered. "It be wolf, no mistake."

"That is impossible!" the Abbess exclaimed, shifting her grip on her walking staff. The pastureland for the convent's small herd of sheep lay in a protected valley almost in the center of the island; it was a far walk for Bebhinn and her leg ached unmercifully. "There are no wolves on the isle, else we should have seen proof of them before now."

Damhnait squatted and grabbed the dead sheep's head. "Look!" she said, pointing to the ragged wound in its throat. "T'was no fall that did this, nor yet a dog, besides. Were you thinking of Old Camm? He's not got a tooth in his head, Lord bless him. And we've had no visitors of late who might have lost a hunting animal." She thrust out her lower lip and repeated stubbornly, "It be wolf that done this, Mother. I cared for my father's sheep when I was a girl, before I came to St. Ailbe's, and I've seen these wounds before."

Bebhinn sighed. Old Camm was the convent's hound; a toothless beggar who spent most of his time napping beneath the table in the kitchen. He couldn't possibly have done this kind of damage. "Very well, Damhnait. If it's a wolf, where did it come from?" She waved a hand through the air. "Did it fall from the sky? Did it fly here on swan's wings? No animal can swim all the way from Eire; the sea is too rough. Are you certain there is not another explanation?"

Damhnait folded her arms across her chest. "Nay. T'is wolf and the beast'll kill again, mark my words. Got a taste for blood, now. As to where it came from... well, I've an idea on that score!" she continued darkly.

Bebhinn drew herself up to her full height and, risking her balance, raised the walking staff and poked Damhnait in the chest with it. "Not another word!" she commanded coldly. "You've no proof that this sheep's death was anything but an accident."

"But Mother! This is the third sheep we've lost since she came!"

"Not a word more, Damhnait!" The Abbess' sharp brown eyes flashed.

"Mother Bebhinn... have some of us not heard the beast's howls? Did not Sister Grainne tell you she was frighted by a wolf with red eyes that appeared from the shadows when she was visiting the jakes? Have you not seen with your own eyes the marks of the beast upon my best sheep? I tell you, that Dunlaith is cursed by God and she'll bring naught but sorrow and rue upon us if she stays!"

"Sister Grainne has been known to indulge in the sin of drunkenness. Do you not recall the time when she stole the keys to the cellar and drank nearly a full bottle of spirits-of-wine? The poor woman swore she had the Devil himself and all the sinners of Hell dancing on her brainpan," Bebhinn countered. "As to howling... that noise was naught but the wind."

"But my sheep!"

"Sheep are creatures of God, Sister, and as such are subject to His will."

Damhnait muttered sourly, "So, t'is God Himself that killed my sheep. Did the Holy Spirit give him aid, d'you think?"

"That's enough!," Bebhinn exclaimed. She poked the shepherdess with her staff again. "If I hear so much as one whisper among the Sisters, Damhnait - a single word of gossip against our guest - you'll be on cold water and stale bread until Lent. Am I understood?"

Damhnait nodded reluctantly. "Aye, Mother," she said, twisting her lips in disgust. "I'll not a word to them."

"Good!" Bebhinn began to struggle up the crooked path that led back to the convent. Halfway up, she stopped and turned around. "Clean and dress that sheep, Sister, and do you deliver it to the kitchen. I've a taste for mutton this night, I think."

Without replying, Damhnait drew the long knife she wore at her belt and began the task of gutting the carcass.

Satisfied, Bebhinn continued her journey... unaware that the entire episode had been witnessed by one who could hardly wait to impart it to her fellows.

As soon as the Abbess was out of sight, Sister Cliodna extricated herself from the thick gorse bush she'd been hiding behind and began hurrying back to St. Ailbe's, her heart pounding with excitement at the terrible news she had to deliver.

At the evening meal, the women were unnaturally quiet. Although some other convents strictly enforced a vow of silence, Mother Bebhinn did not, preferring the nuns under her care to be allowed to voice concerns, news or anything else that came to mind. Besides, the Abbess found the gentle, murmuring chatter of the Sisters to be very soothing after a hard day's work.

But tonight, there was no chatter. Instead, a pained and painful silence had descended over the group. Even Sister Enda, a bird-like, nervous woman who normally kept her tongue flapping non-stop throughout the meal, was quiet. Bebhinn frowned; something was wrong and she had a sneaking suspicion that she knew exactly what the problem was.

Dunlaith and Aislinn sat side by side, sharing a slab of trencher bread and a cup. The two of them had their heads together, virtually ignoring everyone else in the room. That wasn't surprising; the Abbess had noticed the warrior and the blind girl growing closer together every day, until it seemed that they were joined together at the hip and about as inseparable. It would be a great pity when Dunlaith left the convent; Aislinn would feel the warrior's loss keenly.

Still, that was in the future and Bebhinn had more pressing problems now. She opened her mouth to speak and was interrupted by Sister Teath's nasal tones resonating throughout the high-ceilinged room.

"Did you know we've a bloodthirsty great wolf on Niamh?" the Sister asked Dunlaith.

The echoes of that indiscreet mention seemed to reverberate in Mother Bebhinn's skull, leaving in its wake a headache of monumental proportions.

For a moment, Dunlaith did not respond; indeed, she hadn't even noticed that the question had been directed at her. When Aislinn murmured something, the warrior put down the strip of mutton she'd been gnawing on and leaned an elbow on the table. "Do you now?" she answered with a polite smile. "And how'd such a beast get to the isle, hmm?"

"On a boat," Sister Teath answered with a broad grin. Across the table, Sister Cliodna turned scarlet with embarrassment and wished she'd insisted that the less than intelligent Teath be taken from the room when she'd told the other Sisters about Damhnait's suspicions.

"Is that so?" Dunlaith's smile faltered; beside her, Aislinn could sense the increase of tension in the room but had no idea what could be causing it.

"Has there been trouble?" Aislinn asked loudly.

"Three sheep killed," mumbled Sister Silbhe. "And Grainne was attacked by a monster wolf."

Every eye turned to the elderly nun and Sister Grainne beamed; she was seldom the focus of so much rapt attention. Cliodna, whose mouth had opened so she could relate the incident herself, closed it with a click when Grainne interrupted.

"Oh, aye," she chortled, "blowing hot breath clean in my face, he was, all glowing and with hellfire aflame. T'was only my rosary that kept the beast from tearing out my throat; though I was near to browning my robes in fear, I placed my trust in the Blessed Jesu and thrust the crucifix between his sword-sharp fangs. I prayed; oh, Sisters! how I prayed for the armor of God to protect me!"

Most of the nuns at the table had heard the story already from Cliodna but they sucked in breath anyway at the drama of Grainne's narrative.

Encouraged, Grainne continued, "His eyes were like burning brands, full of hate. But the Lord God was with me, for I felt a rush of strength within my veins; my crucifix turned to purest gold and I heard the angels chanting hymns. He snarled and backed away, but then rushed at me again, all slavering jaws and snorting fireballs..."

Sister Cliodna snorted. "Aye," she said sourly, "perhaps this wolf of yours also belched brimstone and issued thunderbolts from out his arse?"

Some of the nuns tittered; Mother Bebhinn rose from her place at the table and fixed them all with a glare. "All right, that's enough!" she commanded. "The meal is over. You may all retire to your cells until it is time for the evening office."

Grainne looked shame-faced and blushed.

Slowly, the Sisters exited the dining hall and left Bebhinn, Aislinn and Dunlaith alone.

As soon as the room cleared, the Abbess said, "Dunlaith, I beg you to excuse the Sisters. Living here as we do, with few visitors, they sometimes dramatize trivial events all out of proportion."

"What events?" Dunlaith asked. Beneath the table, her hand grasped Aislinn's and the girl was surprised by the coldness of the warrior's palm.

Bebhinn sighed. "There is a wild dog on the isle that has killed three of our sheep. No doubt a stray escaped from a fisherman; I will ask Sister Damhnait, our shepherdess, to set out some traps."

"And the wolf that Sister Grainne spoke of?"

Bebhinn waved her hand in dismissal. "A figment of her imagination. Though it shames me to admit it, Grainne is rather fond of wine and has been known to indulge sinfully."

"Ah." Dunlaith was silent a moment, then replied, "I suppose this explains things." She did not sound sure.

Aislinn spoke up. "I'm sure there is naught to fear." She squeezed Dunlaith's hand and felt an answering pressure that caused her cheeks to color in pleasure.

Mother Bebhinn sighed. "Nay, there is no fear here. Only be watchful if you should go to the jakes in the night. In the meantime, if the dog attacks continue, I will send to our brother Benedictines for guidance."

Dunlaith's pale blue eyes narrowed and she seemed on the point of saying something, then the impulse subsided. "Very well," she replied. "We will take care, Mother. Rest assured on that score."

From the look of resolve on the warrior's face, Bebhinn felt a small shred of pity for any animal that might try to confront such a fierce woman in the midst of the night.

A hushed quiet had descended; tendrils of salt-scented wind crept through the cracks and crevices of the convent's stone walls but apart from the occasional gust that flapped the tapestries, all was still as the Sisters slept.

In the Hall of Novices, Aislinn of the Dreams lay beneath her blanket in a deep sleep. Random images floated through her mind, disconnected to any cohesive narrative - the man in the wolfskin cloak; a woman with sad green eyes; a swordblade cleaving through the air - for in her dreams, the girl was blind no more.

Abruptly, the kaleidoscope visions ended and she was in the forest. A blue-white light turned the misty landscape into a nightmare of shadow and unearthly forms. Aislinn felt cold, chilled to the bone. She glanced around but saw only the twisted shapes of leafless trees. Suddenly, she heard a sound that made her blood freeze - the howling of a wolf.

It came from behind her. Aislinn felt panic rise, a hot flush that brought with it a kind of strength; her stomach cramped and she swallowed past the enormous lump in her throat. Snatching at her skirts, she began to run, as fast as she could, ignoring the twinge of sharp stones and sticks that crackled under her bare feet.

As she ran, she could hear the animal behind her; instinctively, she knew it was a wolf. Fear engulfed her and she put on a burst of speed that left her gasping for breath, feeling as if her heart was going to shatter beneath the strain. But no matter how fast she ran, the wolf was always on her heels, so close she could feel threads of hot spittle splattering on her legs, hear his harsh, rasping pants.

Thus far, this was the same nightmare she'd had over and over again; it was frightening but familiar. She could hear the pounding of the sea just ahead, could smell the crisp tang of salt in the air. A sharp pain stabbed her side; she labored for breath as if heavy rocks weighed down her chest. But still Aislinn ran...

Until with a chilling howl, the wolf leaped, bearing her down to the ground.

Aislinn tried to scream but her voice had been snatched away by fear. She rolled over, her eyes widening as she came face to face with her worst nightmare - a silver maned wolf that stood above her, his huge paws pinning her in place. As she trembled, the wolf's muzzle gaped into an ivory fanged snarl; his eyes were an emerald green that echoed her own.

The wolf's head darted forward and his fangs fastened into the flesh of her shoulder, grinding and tearing. Blood began to flow and with it came searing pain. Aislinn found her voice and screamed Dunlaith's name...

And woke up, sobbing.

Aislinn was confused; wind whipped at her hair and she was lying naked on the cold ground. Her shoulder throbbed and burned; she could feel something wet and warm trickling over her arm. Aislinn was blind once more; the darkness that surrounded her was complete and despite her chill, she sweated with fear.

Hands grabbed her; she struggled, feeling a burst of white-hot agony from her shoulder that made her head spin. A voice said urgently, "Aislinn! It's me, Dunlaith! Shhh... softly, ainnir. You're wounded."

Dunlaith? With a shuddering sob, Aislinn clutched at the warrior, feeling warm, firm flesh beneath her questing hands. "It hurts!" she wailed. "What happened?"

Another voice came from the darkness - Mother Bebhinn's. "She's bleeding! Can you carry her to the infirmary? I'll fetch Sister Keely myself."

"Aye," Dunlaith replied. She glanced down at Aislinn; in the light of the torch she'd thrust into the ground, the girl was as pale as snow, face greasy with cold sweat. "I'll do that. Come, ainnir; this may hurt a bit but not for long, I swear."

The warrior gathered Aislinn close and stood, easily hefting the girl in her strong arms. Aislinn gasped; she felt the lacerated skin of her shoulder tear open a little more, allowing a further gush of warmth to spread down her arm, trickle from her limp fingertips. Still, despite her pain, the girl clamped her good arm around Dunlaith's throat and buried her face in the warrior's hair, inhaling the comforting scents of woodsmoke and lavender that she associated with the other woman. She whimpered and felt Dunlaith's arms tighten protectively around her.

They were in the herb garden. Dunlaith shifted her burden and then strode purposefully to the infirmary, her powerful legs making nothing of the distance. Mother Bebhinn looked after them a moment, her brows drawn together in a frown. Then she snatched the torch up from the ground and bustled away, her heart and mind troubled by questions and doubts...

For what had the warrior been doing with Aislinn alone in the herb garden in the middle of the night?

Why were both of them mother naked?

And what in God's name had attacked the girl?

The Abbess felt a chill creeping down her spine; the small hairs on the back of her neck rose in tingling waves and her skin seemed to crawl.

What had attacked Aislinn...

Or who...?

She hurried to Sister Keely's cell, suddenly aware that the night was fraught with dangers.

Not the least of them their honored guest - the warrior, Dunlaith of the Burning.

Sister Keely knotted off a last stitch. "There's an end to that, child," she said soothingly, laying aside the bone needle.

Aislinn had mercifully passed out when the infirmarian had begun examining her shoulder wound, but unfortunately, she'd revived in the middle of Keely's stitching. Dunlaith had held her hand and sang an old hymn to comfort her while the Sister plied her agonizing trade.

Keely grabbed a wooden bowl and began dropping items into it from a nearby tray, muttering to herself. "Dried marigold, coltsfoot root, spiderwebs, bread mold..." She quickly mashed the ingredients together, adding a drop of well water to the mixture. Then she slathered the musty smelling poultice on Aislinn's shoulder and bandaged it in clean linen rags.

"Give her something for the pain," Dunlaith said in a low tone. She had hastily donned a sleeveless vest and a pair of breeches at Keely's insistence; now she sat beside the cot on a stool, hunched protectively over the injured girl, her fingers entwined with Aislinn's.

Keely bristled; she did not like to be ordered about in her own territory. The infirmarian shot Dunlaith a scolding look but the warrior met that glare with a pair of eyes that seemed to burn with pale, fierce fires. Taken aback and sensing she was treading on thin ice, Keely dropped her gaze and mumbled an affirmative, not willing to challenge the warrior. Muttering beneath her breath, the Sister hurried to a long table that ran half the length of the infirmarium and began mixing a soothing potion with expert skill.

On the other side of the cot, Mother Bebhinn sighed. "Did you see anything?" she asked Dunlaith.

Was it her imagination, or did the warrior hesitate a split second before answering?

"Nay," Dunlaith replied slowly. "My sorrow, Reverend Mother, but I had eyes only for Aislinn. When I reached her, I saw she'd been sore wounded." The dark-haired woman tenderly smoothed a lock off Aislinn's forehead. "Did you see what happened?"

Bebhinn's sharp brown eyes narrowed; were those lines of guilt that furrowed Dunlaith's brow? "I saw only you," the Abbess answered, alert to any nuance in Dunlaith's body language. "In the dark, kneeling over Aislinn, who was bleeding. T'was no knife that caused that wound - my inion's been mauled by a dog... or a wolf."

Dunlaith stiffened. "T'would seem so," she said cautiously. "But how can a wolf come to Niamh?"

Bebhinn leaned forward slightly; her long nose seemed to twitch, as if she were a hunter who could sense her prey coming very, very near... and what the Abbess hunted was a guilty conscience. "Perhaps you will be the one to answer that question," she said. The bait had been cast; she would pray to God that Dunlaith swallowed the hook.

Dunlaith's mouth opened... then closed and she licked her lips. "What could I know of such matters?," she replied shakily. Her gaze dropped to focus on Aislinn's face. Abruptly, she ignored Bebhinn and asked the girl, "How are you feeling, ionuin?"

Bebhinn kept herself from gasping only with the strongest effort. She was sure it was but a slip of the tongue, but Dunlaith had just called Aislinn ionuin - "beloved." With a thrill of horror, she realized that her fosterling and the warrior had become closer and closer over the past two sevendays... just how close had they become?

Much to the Abbess' relief, Aislinn did not seem to notice Dunlaith's slip. "I am well enough," she answered in a tired little voice.

"Can you tell us what happened?," Dunlaith asked.

"I was dreaming," Aislinn said. Her emerald eyes stared sightlessly into space. "The dream..."

Bebhinn and Dunlaith exchanged a glance. "The dream about you being chased by a wolf in the forest?" the Abbess asked.

"Aye," Aislinn said. The hand that the warrior still grasped seemed to grow colder. "He caught me. I could feel him... his fangs, his breath. He hates me... he was trying to kill me!" She began to weep in quiet desperation and fear. Bebhinn sighed.

"This was no dream, child," the Abbess said. "You've been wounded and though my eyes are old, they are still keen. T'was a wolf that did this and it is a wolf that has been killing our sheep." She fixed her eyes on Dunlaith. "I did not - could not! - believe it but now I wonder. These things have happened since you came here, laoch. I am not the only one who has noticed the coincidence. And tonight I find you covered in Aislinn's blood with the girl in your arms."

While Dunlaith's face paled, Bebhinn stood. She had taken the time to don her robes after rousing Sister Keely; clad in the armor of her authority, she faced the warrior unafraid. One hand gripped the heavy silver crucifix of her office. "My sorrow if I offend you, Dunlaith, but I must know; for the safety of my children and especially this child here - are you the author of these troubles?"

The warrior snatched her hand away from Aislinn's grip, heedless of the girl's whimper of protest. Sweat beaded on her upper lip and she licked it away. Her eyes flickered as she searched from side to side, as if seeking escape, but the imposing figure of the Abbess remained fixed in place as firmly as if God had rooted her in the soil itself.

Dunlaith's shoulders slumped in defeat. Her head dropped down and she refused to meet Bebhinn's eyes. Aislinn, knowing only that her beloved protector was in some kind of trouble, cried out, "What is it? What's wrong? Please, Dunlaith... in God's name, tell me!"

"I lied to you!" Dunlaith almost sobbed. "May God forgive me! A curse has come to this good and holy place through me... oh, sweet Jesu! What have I done?!!"

Bebhinn quickly moved around the bed to stand at the warrior's side, looming above the stricken woman. "What have you done, laoch?" she asked. "What curse do you speak of?" When Dunlaith shook her head, the Abbess said urgently, "Speak, woman! I cannot help you if you will not speak!"

Dunlaith did not answer; instead, she whispered, "What have I done to my ionuin?"

Bebhinn sucked in an angry breath, prepared to get to the bottom of this business once and for all...

When the situation was snatched out of her control by the crashing of the infirmary door as it flew open, admitting a crowd of angry, frightened women whose hands were filled with weapons.

"Cliodna!," the Abbess shouted. "What is the meaning of this?"

"We've come to kill the barguest!" Cliodna replied through clenched teeth. She hefted the iron meat skewer she'd taken from the kitchen and shuffled forward a little, the other nuns crowded behind her. Due to the prioress' increasingly persuasive tales, the women had become convinced that Dunlaith was a demonic monster of ancient legend who took the form of a black dog in order to terrorize and murder the innocent.

Dunlaith leaped up, putting herself between Aislinn and the mob. Her sword had been given into the care of the Abbess for the duration of her stay, but she reached down and pulled a long knife out of her boot. "Stay back! I've no wish to hurt any...," she began, but was interrupted by Sister Cliodna.

"Silence, creature of hell!," the nun exclaimed dramatically. "We've come to put an end to your wicked ways and send you back to the Devil where you belong!"

The women behind her murmured their support but none were willing to make the first move. Instead, they waited for their leader... who had more righteous indignation behind her than real courage. Cliodna made a tentative swipe at Dunlaith with her meat skewer and the warrior didn't bother ducking - the half-hearted blow missed her by a good yard.

Bebhinn joined Dunlaith, putting a restraining hand on the warrior's broad shoulder. "Have you all gone mad?" she inquired mildly, but her brown eyes flashed. "Sister Teath, please tell me in God's name, what are you doing with that ax? Put it away, woman, before someone gets hurt!"

Sister Teath smiled broadly, her eyes lighting up with innocent glee. "Cliodna said we're having an adventure, Mother!" she replied happily. "I'm supposed to help get rid of the wolf!"

Sister Damhnait, the shepherdess, came forward. "I did not tell them, Mother, so I cannot be accused of breaking my oath to you. T'was Cliodna who warned the others. First our sheep slaughtered, then poor Aislinn nearly killed this very night... and the one who did it stands beside you! If you've no wish for the mortal sin of killing to be on our hands, at least allow us to lock up the monster before she kills us all!"

The other nuns murmured in agreement. Cliodna's face showed a touch of dismay; she hadn't whipped up a mob in order to be reasonable. She'd seen Dunlaith carrying Aislinn into the infirmary and listened in on Mother Bebhinn's hurried conversation with Sister Keely; it had taken very little time for her to wake the rest of the nuns and manipulate their fears until they had raided the kitchen for weapons and come to destroy the barguest. Now, her moment of triumph was threatening to turn to dust in her hands, and she was desperate to retain control.

"NO!" Cliodna shouted. "We can't allow it to live! Don't you understand?" She pointed a trembling finger at Dunlaith. "As long as that unnatural creature remains among us, we are all at risk - body and soul! It must die so that we can be saved!"

Sister Keely stepped quietly away from her work table; in her hands she carried a pottery bowl. "Cliodna," she warned, "if you even think about harming Dunlaith in my infirmary, I'll tear out your throat myself. Quit being such a cloth-headed idiot and get yourself - and these other fools - back to bed."

Aislinn could stand no more. The thought that her friend - the woman she had come to love, who was as dear to her as kin - was being threatened with death was too much to bear. She had to do something!

The blind girl sat up, wrenching her shoulder and gritting her teeth against the explosion of pain. With force of will alone she managed to swing her legs off the cot and stand up; she swayed back and forth and her hand reached out, scrabbling at the air, seeking Dunlaith.

When the warrior felt a touch on her back, she whirled around, grabbing Aislinn in time to prevent her from falling. Wrapping an arm around her waist, Dunlaith braced her feet and supported the girl, the muscles in her arms shifting and bulging beneath the skin. She still held a knife in her free hand. "What in Jesus' name are you doing out of bed?" she exclaimed.

Aislinn ignored the throbbing pain in her shoulder as well as Dunlaith's question; her face turned towards the gathered nuns and her eyes, though sightless, glittered in anger. "How dare you?" she hissed. "Stay away from her, all of you! She is goodness and kindness itself! She is no demon or monster!"

"Then what killed Sister Damhnait's sheep? What attacked you?," Cliodna asked sarcastically. She hefted the skewer again. "What will attack all of us if we give it a chance? Out of our way! You, too, Reverend Mother!" The emphasis on Bebhinn's title made it more of an insult. "We intend to kill the beast tonight, and we aren't going to let a pair of old hens and a cripple get between us and justice!"

Plump Sister Fiona had not only been listening, she had been watching Dunlaith as well as Aislinn. Now, she pushed her way to the front and confronted Cliodna. "If she's a barguest," Fiona asked reasonably, "then why hasn't she turned to her wolf shape and killed us all by now? Or do you honestly think she's afraid of a meat skewer, a dull ax and a few paring knives?"

Sister Enda waved an iron cooking pot. "I have this, too!"

Fiona gave her a disgusted glance and turned back to the prioress.

"We are clad in the armor of God's righteousness," Cliodna said tightly. "Our faith shields us from harm."

"Well, I think this is a fool's errand entire." Fiona tossed down the long bladed butcher's knife she'd carried. "I say we hear Dunlaith and Mother Bebhinn out before we make a mistake we'll regret."

The other nuns looked at one another. Their fiery mood had passed and they all felt a little foolish. Sheepishly, they allowed their makeshift weapons to clatter to the floor and huddled together like a flock of crows in their black robes.

Cliodna was furious. "What are you doing?" she demanded. "I thought we agreed!"

"No," Fiona said, confronting the prioress. "You decided and we, empty headed as we are, went along with your scheme." She stepped forward to stand in front of Bebhinn. "My sorrow," she continued. "I have faith in your judgment, Reverend Mother. If you say Dunlaith is a child of God and bears not the stain of Aislinn's blood on her soul, then by the Compassionate Virgin, I - and all these others - will be your obedient children and do heart-felt penance for this night's sinning."

Bebhinn was torn. On the one hand, she did not want to see a guest of the convent slaughtered like a Michaelmas goose; on the other, she had no proof of Dunlaith's innocence. Nor her guilt, either, her conscience insisted. Only suspicions... but unlike that thick-headed and sly Cliodna, she was willing to give the benefit of the doubt.

"My children," she said finally, speaking to all the nuns, "Dunlaith's guilt or innocence remains unproved." There were murmurs at this and Bebhinn raised a hand for silence. "However, terrible deeds have been done. Our novice, Aislinn, has been attacked without provocation by some beast. Our sheep have been killed and the wounds on Aislinn's body are similar to those on our poor animals. Clearly, something is causing these things to happen."

Cliodna's lips parted and Sister Laigen, the convent's burly blacksmith, raised a fist that resembled an oak knot, waving it beneath the prioress' nose. "Let the Mother speak," she rumbled. "I've had enough of you this night, Cliodna the Fey. Open that cesspit you have above your chin once more and I'll stuff my hammer inside." The other nuns tittered and Laigen continued hastily, "May God forgive me but I mean it!"

Cliodna subsided; she knew when she was beaten. The meat skewer fell from her nerveless hands and she pressed her lips together into a thin, tight line.

Bebhinn sent up a mental prayer of thanksgiving. Although Sister Laigen's methods were deplorable and certainly unsuitable for a Bride of Christ, nevertheless she was grateful that the blacksmith had said the very thing she'd been wishing she could say herself.

"All right, Sister Laigen," the Abbess said. "That will be all. In fact, that will be all from everyone. Take the knives, pots and whatever else you took from the kitchen and return it there. Then, you may retire to your cells and try to sleep; the cock crows soon and there are chores to be done in the morning."

Cliodna could not keep silent. "But what of Dunlaith?" she said shrilly. "What of the barguest?"

"I will investigate these matters, as is the right and prerogative of my ordained office," Bebhinn said forcefully, reminding the prioress of her position. "You, Sister Cliodna, have no business inciting these women to riot and behaving in a way that is willful, sinful and prideful. You took matters into your own hands rather than trust me to do what was right and proper."

Realizing that the immediate danger had passed, Dunlaith put away her dagger, eased Aislinn back down on the cot and crooked a finger at Sister Keely. The infirmarian hastened over to offer her potion to the sweating girl.

Bebhinn continued, "I will deal with you in the morning, Cliodna. Go to your cell and pray; pray for the salvation of your immortal soul from the sins you have committed, including the mortal sin of near murder. Ask for God's guidance and try to allow some of His forgiving goodness into your heart. In the meantime, have faith that I will get to the bottom of this business... and I will take whatever action that I believe appropriate."

Cliodna nodded dully. She had lost and she knew it; she also knew that her days of lording it over the other nuns in her position of prioress were probably over. She'd be lucky not to be transferred to a leper hospital. She shoved her way through the crowd of Sisters, and after she was out of sight, the rest of the nuns left as well. Some of them came to the Abbess to beg her forgiveness, but she told them instead to pray for God's and sent them away.

Having dealt with one problem to her satisfaction, Bebhinn squared her shoulders and prepared to tackle problem number two. She took a deep breath and turned around; Aislinn was stretched out on the cot again, with Dunlaith seated beside her. Sister Keely, observing the glint in the Abbess' eyes, made a hasty excuse and fled the infirmary.

"Well, Dunlaith of the Burning," Bebhinn said. "You are no longer in danger of being skewered by an iron jack or beaten to death by Sister Enda's pots. So, the time has come for you to answer my question."

Dunlaith looked up at the Abbess; her pale blue eyes were filled with sorrow but she did not speak.

Bebhinn pressed, "Did you do these things? Are you responsible?"

Aislinn squeezed Dunlaith's hand. The potion Sister Keely had given her was dulling the pain in her shoulder and she felt a bit more clear headed. Although she could not see the warrior's expression, she could sense that there was something wrong. Her own heart ached in empathy. "Please," she said. "I know you are a good woman; nothing can change that."

"Oh, no?" Dunlaith exclaimed. "You do not know me, Aislinn! You know nothing, none of you!"

"Then tell us," Bebhinn replied calmly. She hooked a stool with her foot and dragged it towards her, then sat down with regal dignity, spreading out the black skirts of her robes. "I will listen with an open mind and heart. You will find no judgments here; only compassion and understanding."

"How can I speak of such sin to one as holy as you?" Dunlaith whispered, distressed almost beyond bearing. She buried her face in her hands and her shoulders shook.

"We are all daughters of the world," Bebhinn said. "I was not born in a convent, you know. I lived for nearly twenty years, was married and had children of my own. But God calls and we must answer, despite our earthly ties. You cannot shock me, Dunlaith. Speak and be eased of your burdens."

Aislinn held her breath, trying to project silent support to the warrior.

At last, Dunlaith raised her head; tears glittered on her cheeks. "Very well," she said. "It is true that I am in service to Lord O'Ciaran. I did not come here for his daughter, however; I came to St. Ailbe's on a mission of my own. Eight years ago, I was a laoch in the service of Connal, Earl of Ciardha, the Faoil of the Forth..."

As the two women gasped, Dunlaith continued, "and his little daughter - Aislinn."

This bombshell burst into the stillness of the room with all the subtlety of a lightning strike.

Dunlaith stood, wiping away the wetness on her cheeks with the heel of her hand. "Aye, Reverend Mother. The child you have fostered all this time is the daughter of the wickedest man in Eire. When he was alive, he denied Aislinn's parentage, but you've only to look at her with your wit intact to realize whose blood she must be. She has his eyes, his hair - she looks more like Connal than her poor mother."

"The Earl of Ciardha?" Bebhinn hastily made the sign of the cross. "The Wolf of the Forth? Sweet Jesus protect us!"

Even Aislinn had heard of Connal the Wolf. "He... he was my father?" she asked, feeling faint. According to every tale she'd heard, the Earl was an evil beast of a man who reveled in bloodshed, rape, mutilations and torture. He'd even been accused of serving human flesh at a banquet given for his enemies. A legend in his own lifetime, Connal was part man, part animal and all demon.

"Aye," Dunlaith said. She began to pace up and down the room, hands clasped together behind her back. "Your mother was Isleen the Swan. The Earl treated her badly, as he abused everyone who had a hair less power than himself. When it was found that she was with child, Connal swore it was none of his; the blame fell upon some poor wandering minstrel named Kael. What happened to him is a tale to frighten even hardened warriors. At any rate, Isleen was locked up in the peel tower of Castle Faoiltiarna and when her time came, she gave birth to Aislinn."

Aislinn swallowed. The tale was getting too fantastic for belief but her curiosity got the better of her. "Where is my mother now?"

"My sorrow, ionuin, but Isleen the Swan died shortly after your birth." Dunlaith stopped pacing and looked down at Aislinn compassionately. "The Earl put about t'was childbed fever took her - I have my doubts. I was not in service to him at the time but I heard some of the older warriors speak of... well, they told me of terrible things endured by your mother at Connal's hands."

"What things?" the girl asked, although a large part of her did not really want to know.

"That is for another time," Dunlaith said wisely. The rest of her sorry tale had yet to be related and she did not want to cause Aislinn any more sorrow than necessary. The story that concerned the girl was terrible enough.

Mother Bebhinn began rolling her rosary beads between her fingers; she had a feeling that the warrior's revelations were about to enter the realm of nightmare.

Dunlaith continued, "I came to Connal's service nine years ago. No one knew his wife had born a child - he kept the matter a closely guarded secret, claiming Isleen's baby died with her mother. The peel tower where his wife had ended her life was believed to be haunted; strange cries and screams could sometimes be heard, and none were allowed to enter save an old woman who was in the Earl's pay. In honesty, most of us thought little of it; we obeyed our Lord's orders and that was enough. But I... I was young and curious, a woman much in the company of men; proving my bravery to them was a constant challenge.

"So, one night when the moon was high, I answered one of my fellow's dares and climbed the forbidden staircase to the tower room where Isleen the Swan was said to walk restlessly still..."

Dunlaith paused; there were no rush torches or cresset lamps in the stairway, and the stump of a candle she held wouldn't shed its light for very much longer. Above her, in the thick and musty darkness, the spirit of a woman eleven years dead haunted the dusty environs of the tower room, secured behind an iron-studded door.

The only person she'd ever seen entering the tower was the Earl's serving woman, an old hag named Mebh. Sometimes Mebh had been observed by others as she trotted up the winding stone stairs, carrying wrapped bundles that most assumed were things being stored in the unoccupied room. There were darker whispers, however... tales of human sacrifices or witch's talismans being taken to appease Isleen's restless ghost.

Dunlaith crept up the rest of the stairs, her feet making scarcely a whispered sound. At the top of the stairway there was a large wooden door of heart oak; the planks were reinforced with iron straps and nails that had turned red with rust. In the uncertain candlelight, those spots and stripes of crimson looked uncannily like bloodstains.

The door was locked but the warrior had a key. Mebh drank heavily and Dunlaith had found the old woman passed out in the vegetable pantry, sprawled amidst the turnips and snoring. It had been an easy task to cut the dirty string that tied the key to Mebh's skirts and just as silently as she had come, vanish away with prize in hand.

Outside the door, Dunlaith paused, listening. Satisfied that the room was empty - except for who knew what kind of supernatural horror - she gently inserted the key in the lock and turned it, wincing when the ancient mechanism squealed and groaned.

At last, she cautiously opened the door a crack, pressing her face to the narrow slit. Within the room, a rush torch cast ruddy light onto filth strewn floors, the haphazard arrangement of broken furniture... and the two occupants of the room.

Dunlaith's eyes widened as she recognized the Earl. He was a thin, fragile-looking man who cultivated an enormous mustache and a bushy head of red-gold hair. Despite his frail physique, he was a demon with the sword and his temper was legendary... as was his penchance for torture. Every Lord had a dungeon and most employed professional torturers - for who could say that an enemy spy might not need severe persuasion before he spoke of plots and plans? - but Connal, Earl of Ciardha, known as the Wolf of the Ford, preferred to use his own hands and imagination when it came to such sordid transactions.

She'd heard stories from the older warriors about how Connal had abused his pretty wife, Isleen the Swan. Although it was a man's right and privilege to punish his wife if matters so required, according to Church law he could do so only with a stick no longer than his arm nor thicker than his thumb. The Earl had preferred to use his fists, feet and the occasional whip to correct Isleen's faults.

Now the Earl stood beside a crook-legged table; he was naked and the rushlight turned his skin to gold, all the fine hairs on his arms, chest and thighs sparkling like pale rubies. "It's time," he said in an almost lazy tone. Only those who knew Connal well could have detected the note of genuine excitement in his voice.

Dunlaith swallowed hard. There was a nude girl on the table, a child of perhaps ten or eleven years. She was scrawny; every rib showed, her arms and legs were stick thin, her skin gray with dirt. The girl's head lolled listlessly and a mass of greasy, dark red hair spilled over the edge of the table. She wasn't bound; she lay there unresisting with a blank look on her face. As her head turned in the warrior's direction, Dunlaith saw to her shock that the child's large eyes were a brilliant emerald green... the same color as the Earl's.

Connal continued, "It's time to give me what your bitch mother cannot, Aislinn." His manhood twitched and swelled against his thigh. "I paid good money for that whore and how did she repay me? By throwing a bastard and dying without allowing me the satisfaction of revenge for the slight. You've paid for her sins, haven't you?"

When the girl didn't respond, he reached out and pinched her thigh viciously, giving a tight smile of satisfaction when she whimpered. "I've waited for this moment patiently... now its time to repay me for all the kindness I've shown you. I intend to get many year's use out of you, child... many more than your mother ever gifted me."

Dunlaith couldn't believe what she was seeing... or what she was hearing. Did the Earl mean what she thought? Did he truly intend to...? The thought was so heinous she wasn't able to finish it.

The Earl bent over and clasped the girl's wrists, drawing her hands above her head and clamping them there. With his knee, he nudged apart her thighs. His eyes glittered. "You are mine," he half whispered in a gloating tone. "I paid good money for your mother and she betrayed me. Now I'll get my gold's worth out of you, sweet Aislinn. Every coin, every drop. You belong to me so you'd best get used to your new duties; I'll be visiting more often now that you've grown."

Dunlaith was sickened to the core. This child was Isleen's daughter, the baby who'd supposedly died with her mother. It was clear that Connal had kept her concealed within the tower... and it was equally clear that he'd abused her and was intending to compound his crimes with the worst kind of rape. Supposedly, the girl was a bastard but Dunlaith doubted that story now; those eyes that stared blankly were so like the Earl's that there could be no mistake - Connal was going to rape his own daughter and continue the cycle of violence that had begun with poor Isleen.

It was the girl's choked scream that snapped Dunlaith out of her horrified trance. Connal was on top of her, his weight crushing Aislinn, mouth covering hers in a devouring kiss.

Dunlaith did not think; she reacted instinctively. Others might have weighed the security of their position against interrupting the Earl at his pleasure; still more would have crept away and tried to forget. But Dunlaith did not stop to ponder the consequences - instead, she acted.

Drawing her sword, she hit the door with her shoulder and bounded into the room. Grabbing the surprised Earl by the back of his head with her free hand, she ripped him away from the girl and heaved him halfway across the room. He staggered, roaring in anger, as she positioned herself between him and Aislinn. When he recovered, he found himself confronted with the steady point of Dunlaith's sword.

"What is the meaning of this, laoch?" he asked in a dangerously soft tone. "How dare you draw your weapon against your lord!"

"My lord no longer," Dunlaith said evenly. "I serve no animal that would so harm his own kin."

The Earl's nostrils flared. "This is no child of my flesh!" he said angrily, taking a step forward. Dunlaith's sword never wavered and with a snort of rage, he backed away again. "Her whore of a mother betrayed me. This little bastard is mine - I paid for her! She belongs to me, to do with as I wish!"

"You may lie to yourself, Connal the Wolf, but even I can see the resemblance." The warrior woman risked a glance over her shoulder; Aislinn lay so still that for a moment, Dunlaith feared she was dead. A quick, reassuring touch proved the girl's flesh was still warm.

The Earl struggled to choke down the angry words that bubbled to the surface. He was used to instant obedience from his servants, not debate or accusation. Still, he was in control of himself enough to realize that this warrior would not be moved if he lost his temper. "What is the trouble here?" he asked in a friendly voice, as if speaking to an old comrade. His hands spread apart. "Have I mistreated you in some way? Are you not satisfied with your position?"

Dunlaith moved around the table to the girl's side but kept her sword at the ready. "What you contemplate here is a sin of the most terrible kind. I will not allow you to do this."

"And what do you intend, laoch?" Connal asked, his face flushing in fury. "To hold me at bay for all eternity?"

"Nay," she answered. "I am taking my leave of your service, my lord, and the girl comes with me. Be damned if I'll let you touch her again."

It was here that Connal made his first mistake. He assumed Dunlaith to be a man; certainly, dressed as she was in warrior's leathers and armed, it was easy to overlook the subtle signs of her femininity. "Why be so hasty, laoch?" he asked with a wide, knowing smile. He thought he understood why his servant had turned on him; the warrior was greedy and wanted to keep the little whore's charms all to himself.

"I'm not adverse to sharing," Connal continued. "Surely, the baltai has enough for two men of appetite. Care for some leathair streachailt, hmmm? Give me the privilege of opening her first... you may have her when I'm finished. After, we'll toss dice for seconds. How's that sound? Surely, much better than fighting over some bit of unimportant flesh."

Dunlaith had thought she'd seen the worst, but the Earl's words made her feel like vomiting. Referring to his own daughter as a baltai - a cunt - and assuming she would want to "stretch leather"... the very idea of abusing such a young girl sexually, not to mention the insult of thinking the warrior capable of such behavior, only fueled Dunlaith's anger.

Her voice shaking, Dunlaith replied, "You are the foulest demon of hell, surely. Can you not see that Aislinn is your flesh and blood? What sort of father treats his child so?"

"It matters not if she is of my get," Connal said airily - his second mistake. "Do you not think I've sired children before? Puling, mealy-mouthed brats whose only reason for life is to serve me... in whatever capacity I desire. Aislinn is not the first... nor will she be the last. Come; put aside your sword and stop this foolishness. I will forgive your zeal if you turn about and leave now."

Dunlaith shook her head, tossing black bangs out of her eyes. "Go to hell," she spat. "I'll not stand aside while you work your ill on this child."

Deeming diplomacy a failed option, Connal rushed forward with a shout, hoping to surprise the warrior and disarm her - the final error that compounded all the rest. Dunlaith automatically brought her sword swinging down; the edge bit into his hip and dark blood spurted. He fell heavily to the floor, groaning in agony, a scarlet pool forming on the floor beneath him.

Dunlaith bit her lip; she hadn't intended to wound him but his attack had left her small choice. With a muffled exclamation, she quickly stepped over his body and scooped the child up from the table. Aislinn made no protest, only wound her arms around the warrior's neck and nestled trustingly against her.

Dunlaith hastened out of the room and made her way down the spiraling stone staircase, her sword still naked in her hand. As she half ran to the stables, a plan was already forming out of the chaos in her brain. Determination to save Aislinn dominated everything now; the warrior had made her choice and knew in her heart it was the right thing to do.

Dunlaith fled... and soon, after Mebh found her lord lying wounded on the floor and the girl vanished, the alarm was raised.

By then, the warrior and her precious burden were long gone.

" I rode that horse to death and stole another. We found refuge at Lord O'Ciaran's - he and the Earl were long time enemies." Dunlaith's pale eyes were squeezed shut in pain as she continued her tale.

"My sorrow but our sanctuary did not last long - four months, which was enough for me to understand how much Connal had hurt his daughter, and I do not only mean the scars on her body. I was determined to destroy the Earl for what he had done. The blindness of the man - denying Aislinn's parentage when the evidence of her sire stood clearly before his vision. Cleaned up and dressed properly, she was the very picture of Connal, but thank God! The resemblance went no further than the physical. I ached for her, truly, this innocent girl who had suffered at the hands of those who should have protected her. And I... well, as long as I lived, she would never suffer again."

"How did Aislinn come to Niamh?" Bebhinn asked.

"Connal sent a force after us and I fled again, taking Aislinn with me as well as a serving woman named Ean, who had grown fond of the girl and wanted to take care of her. The Earl's men were mounted on fast horses; we could not outrun them. I sent Ean and Aislinn on ahead while I stayed behind to defend them. I hoped they could reach the coast and escape, for I'd made arrangements with a local fisherman to have a boat waiting. Aislinn cried so on leaving me; my heart wept but there was small choice."

Mother Bebhinn made the sign of the cross. "Merciful God!" she exclaimed. "You against so many warriors... how did you survive?"

Dunlaith opened her eyes and gave the Abbess a rueful smile. "God was on my side, Reverend Mother," she replied simply. "Any road, I knew that if I failed, Aislinn would die. T'was incentive enough."

Aislinn's mind was a morass of confusion. Try as she might, she couldn't remember any of what Dunlaith was relating. Her childhood remained tantalizingly out of reach; it was like a ripe pear hanging just beyond the range of her hands. If only she could devour that fruit of knowledge, consume what had been forgotten, make it hers once again... then perhaps she could understand her dreams, comprehend the strange feelings she harbored for this brave and beautiful warrior. But then again, this story of Dunlaith's was difficult to swallow whole.

Dunlaith continued, "Ean managed to get to the boat and put Aislinn inside, but one of Connal's warriors slipped past the fighting and followed her. She was shot with a crossbow bolt, poor woman, but with her last, dying strength, she pushed the boat from the shore and prayed the winds would blow Aislinn to sanctuary. When I got to the beach, Ean was dead and all I could see was a tiny coracle being carried out to sea. I gave Aislinn up for dead, returned to O'Ciaran's and swore allegiance to him, vowing revenge against Connal the Wolf.

"God must have had His hand on you that night, Aislinn. You were blown to Niamh and while the boat wrecked on the rocks, you were cast up unharmed. You even had the cloak brooch I'd given you to remember me by - aye, I can still hear you crying my name as Ean ran with you into the woods towards the sea."

"How can this be?" Aislinn whispered. "How can I have suffered so much and yet lived... and living, not remember?"

Mother Bebhinn sighed. "When you were found, inion, you had with you a gold cloak brooch. It has been in my safekeeping all these years. Earlier tonight, guided by God, I brought it forth for study, wondering if I had missed some clue to your identity." She reached into the pocket of her white robe and pulled out a round disk of gold. "It is identical to the one Dunlaith wears now. She speaks the truth, Aislinn... you are the daughter of Connal, Wolf of the Forth."

Aislinn reached out a hand and Bebhinn put the brooch into it. She gently traced the upraised figures on the cool metal and at last, nodded in acceptance. She was familiar with Dunlaith's brooch and Bebhinn was right - they were identical.

"Blessed Virgin, pray for me," Aislinn whispered. Tears seeped between her closed eyelids and rolled down her cheeks, spilling into her hair. "Will my father try to claim me, now that I'm found?"

Aislinn had at last accepted Dunlaith's story as truth. The evidence was clear - she was the daughter of Eire's biggest monster. His blood ran warm in her veins; it was not surprising that God had punished her by taking away her sight. She wept and felt Dunlaith's sword callused hand clasping her own, those strong fingers caressing her palm in a reassuring way. As never before in her life, Aislinn wished she could see and cursed the blindness that kept her shrouded in darkness... she felt helpless and only the bulwark of Dunlaith kept her from utter despair.

"Ionuin, your father is dead," the warrior said. "Shortly before I came here, chasing a rumor of a beautiful artist who lived among the Sisters at St. Ailbe's, Connal the Wolf died. I may have done you more harm than good but I swear by Almighty God, I wished only to see with my own eyes if you had survived, nothing more. And now, through me, he has found you."

Bebhinn stirred. "What do you mean? Tell me plainly, laoch. Aislinn - and indeed, all of us - are in mortal danger. Speaking in riddles is no aid."

Dunlaith rubbed her forehead with her free hand. "You wish me to speak plainly? Very well, Reverend Mother. It is as simple as this - Connal has returned from Hell, seeking to destroy his daughter. He is a taibhse, a vengeful ghost, who has taken the form of a spectral wolf, the better to create fear and terror. Somehow, he must have followed me from Eire - my presence in the convent has brought this doom upon you. If the wolf is not stopped, he will succeed... and Aislinn will be dead. Have I put it plainly enough to satisfy you?," she asked angrily.

Bebhinn sucked in a breath but was interrupted by Aislinn.

"I know now," the blind girl said. "Dunlaith is all truth and there are no lies in this room tonight. What attacked me could have been no natural creature; the hate I felt can come only from a black soul such as my father possessed." She sat up, despite the warrior's protest, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "I cannot stay here and endanger you all. Come the morrow, I will leave Niamh."

Bebhinn snorted. "And how will you accomplish this feat, inion? Fly? There is no boat..."

"Then I will swim!" Aislinn said forcefully. Her face turned in the Abbess' direction. "My sorrow, but if I remain here, he may begin attacking the other Sisters. We already know he is prepared - nay, eager to kill. What will stop him from destroying my protectors one by one until this isle is bare of life? I must go, Mother. I must!"

Dunlaith put a hand on Aislinn's shoulder. "If you run, he will find you," she said. "Even I cannot protect you for long against such a foe. At least here, you are surrounded by God's protection."

"And if he lures me out again through dreams?" Aislinn shuddered. "He has done it once... what is to stop him from doing such again?"

"Me." Dunlaith's quiet confidence made the girl pause. "I'll not close my eyes in sleep but stand over you with drawn sword if necessary."

"Can steel truly defeat such a beast?" Bebhinn asked reasonably. "Has your sword been blessed?"

"Nay," Dunlaith admitted. "But what alternative is there?"

Bebhinn rose with a rustle of white skirts. "Do you stay with Aislinn and speak to her further; I'm sure she has many questions to ask about her past. It could be that something you say triggers her memory and returns it to its place. I will spend the day in prayer and study, seeking a solution to our troubles. No one - and I mean this, children! - no one is to leave Niamh without my permission. Have I your sworn words on that?"

"Aye," Aislinn said somewhat bitterly. "Though you have me swear to your doom."

Dunlaith smoothed the girl's shoulder. "Fret not," she said to Bebhinn. "We go nowhere without your leave. I, too, will pray that you find the answer."

"The Lord will provide," Bebhinn said. She left the infirmarium; in a few moments, her footsteps ceased to echo on the stone floor and all was quiet once more.

Sister Keely poked her head out from a small room next to the main treatment area. "Is all well?" she asked.

Dunlaith sighed. "Well enough," she replied. "I will watch Aislinn, Sister. You get some rest; the cock crows all too soon."

"Aye, bless you," Keely said. "Should you need aught, merely call."

Keely bustled away to seek her bed.

Dunlaith sat down next to Aislinn and caressed the girl's red-gold hair, comforting and seeking comfort as well during the long, slow hours until morning.

Eventually, fatigue claimed Aislinn. Despite her fears and confusion, despite the swirling questions that still bedeviled her brain, she found herself slipping reluctantly into sleep, lulled by Dunlaith singing a soft, soothing lullaby.

The simple melody was like a blanket drawn over her senses. As Aislinn's eyes closed, she found herself tumbled directly into the dream; the unexplained vision that had plagued her for years. But suddenly, the forest was not so frightening; she knew this place as well as she knew Niamh. It was as if she were no longer a participant in the dream, but an invisible observer. She could clearly see a young girl standing with a middle-aged woman in the midst of the woods and willed herself to drift closer. This was new and different; oddly enough, Aislinn did not find it frightening at all.

A woman with brown hair and hazel eyes looked down at a girl with a worried frown. "Come along, child; we have quite a walk to the beach and we must hurry."

"Where is Dunlaith?" Aislinn heard a voice asking. The young girl had red-gold hair bound up in two braids and her enormous emerald eyes were darkened by unshed tears. Aislinn felt a chill; she was looking at a younger version of herself.

The woman - Ean! - bit her lip and tugged the girl's hand. "She will follow us soon. Hurry, Aislinn! We must go!"

Another voice: "Listen to Ean, hmm? Be a good girl and do as she tell you."

"Dunlaith!" The girl turned around and leaped into the warrior's arms. "Aren't you coming with us?"

Aislinn studied Dunlaith; the warrior was younger, not as hard as she was now, and her black hair had been shorn off at the shoulder. There was still a trace of puppy-fat in the lines of her face, but Aislinn knew that would disappear and leave the warrior's jawbone and cheeks as clearly cut as a knifeblade beneath the skin.

The girl snuggled closer to Dunlaith. "Why must you leave me? Can you not come with us?"

"Nay," the warrior answered, and Aislinn was taken aback by the love she saw reflected in Dunlaith's face. "There is a task that must be completed before I can join you."

The girl frowned. "I won't go without you," she said.

"Listen to me, Aislinn." Dunlaith hugged the girl close. "You must go ahead. Your father has sent warriors against us and the O'Ciaran cannot be involved in a war just yet. So you and Ean must run, as fast as you can, to the sea. A boat is there that will take you to a safe place. Understand?"

"I'm safe with you!" the girl wailed, and Aislinn's heart almost broke to see such grief. "I don't want to leave! Please, don't send me away!"

In the distance could be heard the faint call of a trumpet. Dunlaith snatched something from her cloak and pressed it into the girl's hand. "Keep this in remembrance of me," she said, kissing the girl's forehead.

To Ean, the warrior said, "Take her and go! Don't stop, no matter what you hear. And don't let Aislinn look back, either."

Ean nodded in understanding. Grabbing the  girl's wrist and tugging her away from Dunlaith, the older woman began to walk rapidly away, heaving the grief stricken child along the path by main strength.

"No!" the girl screamed. "No! Dunlaith, don't leave me! Please!!"

"Blessed Jesu keep His hand over you, Aislinn." Dunlaith spent a few precious moments watching the struggling, hysterical girl being dragged away by Ean.

Then she shrugged the cloak from her shoulders and unsheathed her sword. Planting herself directly in the center of the path, the dark-haired warrior waited for the horsemen who would come.

Silver tears coursed over her cheeks as Dunlaith prepared to defend an innocent girl's life... and to die safe in the knowledge that Aislinn's father would never harm his daughter again.

Aislinn the observer was moved to tears herself. She reached out a hand and touched Dunlaith's shoulder in an unconscious gesture. As soon as her fingertips brushed the warrior's shoulder, it seemed as if she were picked up by a violent whirlwind.

Swirling winds lifted her up and tumbled her over and over. Screaming, Aislinn covered her face with her hands and shuddered as freezing tendrils of air lashed at her like stinging whips. She was raised to a great height, so high she could clearly see every detail in the face of the round moon, and then she was falling, the earth rushing back at her so quickly it was a blur.

Abruptly, Aislinn became her younger self. No longer was she separated from the events; she lived them once again, the child and the woman blending together until they were one.

Grasping Ean's hand tightly, Aislinn turned back when the clashing of swords and yelling voices sliced through the quiet of the forest. "Dunlaith?" she whimpered.

"Aislinn, come! We have no time!" Ean jerked the girl forward another step. "Come along, girl!"

Aislinn shook her head. "I'm going back," she said. "We shouldn't have left Dunlaith alone."

Ean grabbed Aislinn's shoulders in a tight grip. "Dunlaith holds off your father's men to give us a chance to escape. She sacrifices her own life so that you may live! Now, come, or it will all be for naught!"

Dunlaith dead? Aislinn was stunned; automatically, her body followed Ean for a few steps until the terrible implications hit her. She dug in her heels. "No!" she screamed in denial. "No! We have to go back! We have to!"

Ean briskly slapped Aislinn's face. "Don't be a fool!" she hissed. "That brave women is being cut to pieces by your father's warriors and all for you. Don't be ungrateful and throw that life away!" A sudden crashing in the bushes just behind them made the woman jump.

"Run!" Ean shouted. "Run!"

"But what if it's her?" Aislinn asked. She loved Dunlaith as she loved no other being in this life; the first faint stirrings of hope she'd ever felt in her breast had been at the vision of the warrior standing with drawn sword between her and Father. Following that miraculous escape, she had placed all her trust, all of her dreams, into the woman who had saved both her life and soul. Aislinn had already decided that when she was old enough, she would marry Dunlaith; the precise mechanics of this romantic dream were vague, but in her bones she knew that if she wanted it badly enough, it would come to pass.

Now her adolescent dreams were being shattered beneath the reality of steel; her knight was being slaughtered by the instruments of her father's revenge and Aislinn's world tottered on its foundations.

"Dunlaith!" Aislinn howled. "Don't leave me!"

A warrior staggered out of the brush. His face was stained with blood and he held a double headed ax in his hands. Pushed back onto his forehead was the fanged wolf's mask helm that was the signature of the Earl of Ciardha's men. "Over here!" he shouted. "Everyone! They're over here!"

Terror seized Aislinn entirely. She was unable to move, paralyzed with fear, heart pounding so hard she felt dizzy.

The warrior rushed at her, ax held high, lips peeled back from his teeth in a snarl.

Aislinn raised a hand in a futile gesture. Ean had already run a few steps; now she turned and leaped upon the girl, bearing her down to the ground, covering Aislinn's body with her own. Both of them waited for the blow that would end their lives.

Before the ax could sweep down, the warrior groaned, blood spilling from his lips, and he fell heavily to earth, missing Aislinn and Ean by mere inches.

Dunlaith stood there, panting. Her dagger protruded from between the fallen man's shoulderblades. Her tunic was rent; crimson stains bloomed on the leather. The sword in her hand was covered in blood; drops spilled off the point to splatter on leaves.

Aislinn looked up; her eyes widened and although her mouth opened, no sound came out.

"Get out of here!" Dunlaith commanded, shaking the sword in their direction. Drops of blood splashed on Aislinn's face and she flinched. "Go, damn you! Go!"

Another warrior leaped upon Dunlaith and she ran him through. Kicking his body off her blade, Dunlaith looked directly at Aislinn with eyes that burned. "Go!"

More of the Earl's men came out of the brush and met Dunlaith's sword. As skilled as she was, however, the warrior woman was quickly overwhelmed.

Aislinn's mouth opened again and still nothing emerged. Dunlaith was dying and she was helpless to stop it.

Ean scrambled up and pulled Aislinn to her feet.  The girl looked desperately over her shoulder; the last sight she had of Dunlaith was the woman's face drenched in blood, teeth clenched tightly together in a grimace of effort as she fended off her attackers.

Ean and Aislinn began to run as fast as they could through the forest, the girl clutching the cloak brooch Dunlaith had given her in a grip so hard that the golden rim cut into her palm.

As they ran, they could hear the pursuit behind them, almost feel the sharp swords of the wolf-masked warriors slicing through the air at their backs. They ran towards the sound of the sea, the cool salt spray that promised sanctuary. Aislinn ran and as her footsteps pounded down the earthen path, she could hear her heart beating to a rhythm she'd never felt before...

And that compelling rhythm was the sound of a dying warrior's name.

Part of her shriveled and died; she screamed, a wild, skirling howl of purest grief and agony that shook the pillars of the world...

Aislinn ran towards her destiny with eyes that were blinded with tears.

With a gasp, Aislinn woke. As soon as her eyes opened, she immediately squeezed them tightly shut again. The light!

Dunlaith heard her whimpering in pain and immediately came to the young woman's side. "Aislinn?" she asked. "What troubles you? Is it your wound?"

"Nay," Aislinn said. "Only the brightness..."

"Brightness? It is the morning light..." Dunlaith stopped, astonished. "You can see?"

"I know not," Aislinn replied in a voice that shook with emotion. "Only that my eyes are burning."

"Sister Keely! Come quickly!" Dunlaith shouted, the joy in her voice evident. "Aislinn can see!"

"Merciful God!" the infirmarian exclaimed, hurrying over to the cot. "It's a miracle!"

For the next few hours, as the Sisters flocked to the infirmary to marvel at this new evidence of God's mercy and as Keely tested Aislinn's fragile new sight, Dunlaith found herself pushed to the background. Joyous nuns sang a spontaneous hymn of thanksgiving or dropped to their knees in prayer. The Abbess, summoned from her studies, sat on the edge of the cot and questioned Aislinn closely to determine which saint - if any - had caused this miracle to take place. Such matters were of great importance to the Church and Bebhinn would have to write a report to the Motherhouse.

Finally, when Aislinn was utterly exhausted by the emotional turmoil of at last having faces to put to familiar voices, her newfound eyesight almost strained by drinking in each tiny, insignificant detail of the infirmary, the women, even the knotted threads of the blanket on the cot, Sister Keely shooed everyone away and threatened to lock the door if they did not give the poor girl some rest.

Aislinn let her shoulders slump in relief. Although she loved the Sisters, having such a large group clucking about, shouting questions and hallelujahs, was tiring. Still, there was a profound sense of accomplishment that filled her soul, both for the restoration of her sight and the re-emergence of her memory. For the first time in so very long, Aislinn felt whole.

A voice from behind startled her: "Are you well, ionuin?"

It was Dunlaith. Aislinn smiled as she replied, "More than well, my friend. I am healed. Complete at last."

Dunlaith eased down on the cot beside the young woman. "To see you smile fills me with joy."

"I am joy," Aislinn answered. She turned to face Dunlaith and gasped; the passage of years had done nothing to dim Dunlaith's loveliness, only honed and refined it. Dark hair, black as ravens wings, spilled over muscular shoulders, framed a strong, lovely face. Mouth with full coral lips; black brows arched over eyes the color of pale seas.

"Is aught wrong?" Dunlaith asked, touching Aislinn's shoulder.

"Nay," she replied. "I had forgotten how beautiful you are."

Dunlaith flushed. "You flatter me unduly," she began, but Aislinn interrupted her. There was a question burning in the back of her throat and it could not wait to be asked.

"Why do you call me by such a name?"

"By what name?" the warrior asked, confused.

"You call me 'beloved.' Why? It has been eight years since we parted and when last we were together, I was no more than a girl." Aislinn felt her breath catch; the answer to this question was more important than Dunlaith could have guessed. With the returning of her memory, the childish love that Aislinn had once felt for the warrior had merged with her adult emotions, strengthening her bond of attachment to the point where the young woman truly felt that Dunlaith was a part of her soul.

The old, blind Aislinn was gone; in her place was a mature young woman who knew exactly what she wanted; she just wasn't sure how to get it.

"I... my sorrow, Aislinn, if I've offended you." Dunlaith scooted away a few inches, in danger of falling off the cot entirely.

"Nay, speak me no apologies," Aislinn countered, sliding closer and closing the gap between them. "Answer my question."

Dunlaith was a good enough warrior to know when to surrender. "Very well," she said. Her eyes refused to meet Aislinn's. "When you disappeared, I carried an image of you in my heart. As the years passed, so did my image age and change. I imagined how you might live, what you might be doing, the paths that your life might have taken. I thought it only a fool's dream to comfort my grief and guilt at losing you. Then, when I saw you again... well, that poor gilded vision could not compare to the purest gold of your face, the jewels of your eyes. From child to woman I had watched you grow in my imagination... t'was the reality that smote me like a thunderstroke to the soul."

"Go on," Aislinn urged. Despite the teachings of the Church and even despite her own ignorance, the young woman knew - somehow - that this was one of the most important moments of her life. She did not understand how or why but she loved Dunlaith, and her feelings were not those of a sister or solely a friend. There was no shred of doubt in her heart that Dunlaith was the one.

Many of the Sisters in St. Ailbe's had once led secular lives, including the Abbess. Although Bebhinn rarely spoke of the life she'd left behind, Aislinn had heard others reminisce about worldly pleasures and the marriage bed. Sister Laigen, the blacksmith, had left a female lover when she'd answered the Church's call; while the big woman talked in circular, euphemistic terms about her former life, it was enough to allow Aislinn to understand that two women could, indeed, enjoy one another's company in a way that was perceived as sin.

But Aislinn cared nothing for sin. There was an ache behind her breastbone that pulsed in time with the frantic beating of her heart. Her mouth was dry and she found herself fascinated by Dunlaith's face; she eagerly traced the curve of the woman's lashes as they fell on her cheek, the smoothly sculpted lines of her cheekbones, the tiny shadow beneath her bottom lip.

Dunlaith shifted, uncomfortable with the intensity of Aislinn's gaze. "I did not mean for you to know," she said plaintively. "I thought we could be as sisters..."

Aislinn waited, her eyes locked on the warrior's face.

"Mother of God!" Dunlaith exploded. She got off the cot and knelt down on the floor, taking one of Aislinn's hands between her own. "My sorrow, ionuin. My feelings for you are much stronger than is proper. I loved you when you were a child, but that was the affection of a kinsman; I saved and protected you because something within you called to me and I couldn't deny that force. Later, my love was tinged with sorrowful regret at having lost you. I was like a man who has held a great treasure within his hands, only to have it snatched away by ill fortune. Then, when I found you again... my love was again changed. I do not love you purely, Aislinn - I cannot see you as an innocent child anymore. You are a woman full grown and it is as a woman that I love you. Can you understand, Aislinn of the Dreams?"

Much to Dunlaith's astonishment - for the warrior expected tears, hysteria or perhaps even anger - Aislinn smiled and she glowed with happiness. "I love you as well, Dunlaith of the Burning," she replied breathlessly. "I loved you as a child, for you were the greatest hero in the world to me. I grieve that God chose to remove my memory, otherwise I should have cherished your image as you have mine. But from the moment I heard the sound of your voice, the very second I felt your face beneath my hands, I knew we shared a common destiny. I remember everything, Dunlaith. My life has returned to me and with it... you."

"Do you mean...?" The warrior trembled on the knife edge between tears and joy.

"Yes," Aislinn said. She leaned forward until her face nearly brushed Dunlaith's. "I love you, my champion. I have loved you always but now... now, my feelings for you fill my heart with happiness, lift my soul on wings. I love you so..."

Dunlaith bent her head and covered Aislinn's hand with kisses. The young woman buried her face in the warrior's dark hair, at last feeling some sense of completion in her life. With Dunlaith at her side, there was nothing she could not face, no fear that could not be defeated. Her past was unimportant; all that mattered was the love that blossomed between them. More practical concerns took second place to the all consuming rapture of two souls coming together, never to be parted again.

Both women jumped when someone cleared their throat close to them. Dunlaith looked up guiltily and Aislinn blushed. It was Mother Bebhinn, and from the look on the nun's face, she wasn't too happy about the scene that had confronted her in the infirmary.

"I will not ask what this display is about," the Abbess said. "Aislinn, you are a novice and have yet to take final vows; you may leave us if you wish and none will say you nay. But you, laoch... I beg to remind you that you are on holy soil and surrounded by the Brides of Christ. Even the contemplation of sin must be avoided in order to keep from harming the Sister's progress towards God. Am I understood?"

Aislinn and Dunlaith both nodded.

"Very well," Bebhinn said. "Now that the excitement has somewhat passed, I came to inform you of the results of my studies. You do remember the taibhse, I trust? Or has Aislinn forgotten that she was nearly killed by an unholy spirit last evening?"

"Oh, no, Mother!" Aislinn said hastily. She snatched her hand out of Dunlaith's slack grasp and smoothed the skirts of her robe unconsciously. "We had not forgotten. In fact, along with my sight, God has chosen to return my memory. I know who I am, where I came from... and I recall my father well," she added, curling her lip in disgust.

"Praise be to God," Bebhinn said dryly. From the glow that still remained on Aislinn's face, and from the position she'd found them in, the Abbess supposed that her novice was in love with Dunlaith, and she with her. Bebhinn could not say that she was surprised by this turn of events; she'd suspected as much for a while. Although she could not give them her blessing - the Church considered such liaisons a damnable sin - still, she was not too old to remember being in love herself. And besides, if Aislinn was happy, then she would wish them well in the privacy of her heart and pray that the benevolent God would bestow His forgiveness.

Bebhinn continued briskly, "A second miracle and it is not yet noon! I am glad that your memory has been restored, inion. You must remember to tell Sister Keely; no doubt she will pester you with medical questions until the angels weep. You may tell me about it later; this restoration must be included in my report to Dalriada."

Dunlaith got to her feet and fetched a stool for the Abbess. When all were settled down, the nun began to speak. "I have news of my own to impart, my children. The vengeful ghost will continue trying to complete his task; he can find no rest until the object of his hatred has been destroyed. Aislinn, you are safe within the convent walls, for the holiness of this place keeps him at bay. But once you remove yourself from the protection of God...  well, we have already had a vivid demonstration of this taibhse's hell-wrought powers."

Aislinn nodded; her hand crept over and grasped Dunlaith's. The warrior gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze.

Mother Bebhinn's sharp eyes caught this gesture and she suppressed a sigh. "We have already seen that he can manipulate Aislinn in her dreams. I doubt even so superhuman a warrior as Dunlaith can do without sleep for very long, and her steel is yet unproved against the beast. So, we must perform an exorcism."

"An exorcism?" Dunlaith blurted. "Will it not take too long for a priest to come from Eire? Do not forget, Reverend Mother, that monster will return tonight!"

"I have forgotten nothing, laoch," Bebhinn replied calmly. "This is a very old ritual that goes back to the beginnings of the Church. It requires only twelve participants and none need have aspired to the priesthood. We three and nine others will lay the taibhse and send his soul back to judgment."

"Nay, not Aislinn!" Dunlaith said forcefully, putting a protective arm around the young woman's shoulders. "She is in the greatest danger of all. I will not allow..."

"Shhh," Aislinn interrupted. "Let me make up my own mind. Tell us what must be done, Mother."

Dunlaith made as if to protest again and Aislinn pressed a fingertip against her lips. "Let Mother Bebhinn speak."

Dunlaith subsided reluctantly and the Abbess smiled. She had a feeling that the warrior was in for quite a few surprises. Aislinn was not as biddable as some might think; there was a broad streak of stubbornness in the girl as well as a hidden font of strength that was pure cut-steel.

"Well, then, my children... here is what we must do...," Bebhinn began.

Both warrior and young woman listened to Bebhinn's words... and when she was finished, their first fight began.

"What is it you wish of me?," Dunlaith shouted. "You have my heart... would you have my heart's blood as well?"

Aislinn felt her temper beginning to fray. This woman could be so stubborn! "You heard Mother Bebhinn! If I am not there to lure the taibhse, then all will be for naught."

"Connal tried his best to kill you when you were a child! Or have you forgotten that fact?"

"I've  forgotten nothing!," Aislinn retorted, stung to the quick. "But you heard what the Mother said... I am Connal's closest blood kin. I am the knot that binds him to this earth. If I'm not there, who knows what he may do in anger? Please, Dunlaith... you saved me from him once. This time, t'is my task to confront the monster."

Dunlaith grabbed a double handful of her dark hair and yanked in frustration. "I did not find you only to lose you again!"

"You have not lost me," Aislinn replied. She slipped an arm around Dunlaith's waist and laid her head on the warrior's breast. "You will never lose me. Come; let us go down and join the Sisters at dinner. The bell has rung long since and Mother Bebhinn will be angry if we tarry too long."

"I like this not," Dunlaith growled. "The taibhse will kill you given half a chance. And will this ritual really work? Twelve candles seem a poor weapon against Connal the Wolf."

"T'is not only candles but the purity of our prayers. Listen to me, Dunlaith. Even if I should perish - nay, shake not your head! - should I perish tonight, know that my love for you will live in here." She touched Dunlaith's chest. "I will always be with you... my love."

The warrior sighed and her arms came up, clasping Aislinn close. "T'was my swordstroke ruined the Earl's life," she said softly. "Half crippled, he lost control of his men and became a bitter recluse, hating the world and everything in it. Especially, he hated you. Glad am I that you prospered beneath the Sister's protection... but my sorrow forever that I brought him to this isle."

"Who's to say it was or wasn't?" Aislinn replied. "Perhaps he would have found me even without your coming. Perhaps t'was me who drew him here. Do not be so proud as to take blame where none exists."

"Must you do this thing?" Dunlaith asked. The first flash of her temper had subsided, leaving an ache behind. The thought of Aislinn dying was more than she could sanely bear.

"Aye," Aislinn said. "I must."

"I still like it not," the warrior said. "But as stubborn as I am, I can see necessity when my nose is rubbed in it. Promise that you will stay by my side; I will defend you with steel, prayers or any other weapon in my power if it keeps you safe from harm."

"Aye," Aislinn agreed. "I feel safer already."

The late afternoon sun cast its pale, golden glow into the room as the two women held one another close, murmuring promises and reassurances and declarations until the last vestiges of light slipped away entirely, leaving the convent and Niamh isolated in the diamond-starred darkness.

Mother Bebhinn looked around at the circle of faces. The nine Sisters who were participating - including Fiona, Keely and Laigen - were all dressed in immaculate black robes, their hair concealed beneath crisp wimples. The Abbess wore her most splendid white robes, the sleeves lined with heavily embroidered scarlet satin. After nodding in satisfaction at the other women's appearances, Bebhinn shot a disapproving glance at Aislinn; while her lips thinned, she did not say a word.

The young woman wore a pair of Dunlaith's trews, the long legs rolled up and secured with twine to accommodate her more petite stature. One of the warrior's linen shirts with sleeves rolled up to the elbow and a wide belt completed Aislinn's wardrobe. She finished pinning up her red-gold hair and gave Mother Bebhinn a shy little smile. "T'is the best I can do till we go to Eire," she said.

Bebhinn sighed. "Are you determined on this course, inion?" she asked.

Aislinn nodded. "Aye, Mother. My sorrow, but once the taibhse is laid, Dunlaith and I are for Eire. I'm grateful for everything you've done for me..."

"And we are equally grateful that God chose us to succor you in your time of need," Bebhinn interrupted. "Although we shall miss you when you go. Should you ever feel the need to retire from the world, child - or even if you wish to visit those who love you as kin - you know where you'll be welcomed."

"Thank you," Aislinn replied softly.

Bebhinn fiddled with the big silver cross that hung around her neck. "Well, enough standing around," she said with a sniff. "Where's that laoch?"

"Here am I," Dunlaith said, coming into the room and giving Aislinn a smile. Despite her worries, the warrior seemed calm and confident. She made a minute adjustment to the baldric that supported the scabbard at her back and then bent her head to give Aislinn a peck on the cheek.

Only Bebhinn's needle-sharp glare kept the nuns from commenting, although Laigen was heard to breathe a loud sigh at this little display of affection.

The women had gathered in the infirmarium to prepare themselves before going out into the garden to confront the taibhse. Sister Keely opened a casket of fat candles made of virgin beeswax and began distributing them. As each candle passed from person to person, Bebhinn murmured a prayer and touched the wicks with a coal she carried in a bronze box, setting the candles alight.

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum," Bebhinn droned in Latin.

Our Father Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy name...

"Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra." the other eleven women chanted quietly, including Dunlaith.

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven...

Bebhinn and the others finished the Oratio Dominica in unison. When the prayer was finished and all the steadily glowing candles held by the women, the Abbess took a deep breath.

"My children, the time has come when we must do battle against the darkest evil that threatens to destroy all that we hold dear. I urge you to search your hearts, banish any fears you may have, for this beast preys upon such graceless emotions and grows stronger. Gird yourself in the armor of God and become an instrument by which His might may work its miracles this night against the very powers of Hell."

"Amen," everyone murmured in response, making the sign of the cross.

Bebhinn continued, "This taibhse is cunning. He knows that as long as a single candle remains alight, he will be defeated. He will try and seize hold of your minds, to make you retreat from God's work, but you must remain firm in your determination. Stay within the circle of the light and he cannot harm you. Do you all remember what is to be done?"

They all nodded, eleven somber faces staring at the stern expression of the Abbess.

Surprisingly, in such a grim moment, Bebhinn smiled, her brown eyes twinkling. "Very well, my daughters. What are we waiting for?" She opened the back door of the infirmary and gestured with her candle out at the dark garden. "Let us march forth and do battle for the glory of God!"

"Amen!" came the chorus. Filled with purpose, the women marched out one by one. As she passed the Abbess, Dunlaith placed a fist to her heart in salute and grinned. Bebhinn's smile grew wider.

In the garden, all was eerily quiet and still. The only light was the frail flickering of the women's candles and a faint hint of watery moonglow that turned the landscape to a shadowy world of blues and grays. They moved together as a group, with Aislinn in the center. Directly behind the young woman was Dunlaith; now that they had left the protection of the convent's walls, the warrior was armed - candle in one hand, sword in the other.

A piercing howl came from the left. Mother Bebhinn's smile faded; she hitched at her skirts with her free hand and said, "It is time. Be not afraid, Aislinn; we will stay close by, though you see us not."

Aislinn swallowed hard. The candle in her hand trembled a little. "I know what to do."

Dunlaith squeezed the young woman's shoulder. "I will be right behind you," she said. Her eyes were magnified by the candlelight into huge pools of shadowy blue and her lips were curled downward in a worried frown. "Be careful."

Aislinn hugged the warrior close. "I swear," she replied.

With a quick kiss on the young woman's forehead, Dunlaith joined the nuns in concealment, crouched down behind the bushes. The sickly scent of rotting rose petals was nearly suffocating. The tiny points of light on their candles burned steadily, yet were hardly visible in the all encompassing blackness of the garden.

Alone, Aislinn peered around, starting at every leaf crackle, every insect drone. Hot wax spilled over the side of the candle and splashed on the skin of her hand; she gave a little scream of surprise and nearly dropped the fat taper.

Suddenly, a hot, stinking puff of wind from behind made Aislinn stiffen. Slowly, she turned around, emerald eyes widening as sheer terror made her heart stutter. Cold sweat broke out on her face; the hand that held the candle shook violently; hot wax dribbled and splattered on her arm but she didn't notice.

He was there, standing wide-legged behind her, his green eyes luminescent as pools of poison and just as deadly.

The taibhse, the ghost of the man who had in life been called Connal, Faoil of the Forth, had taken the form of an enormous platinum-furred wolf. His back was curved like a crescent moon and bristled with hair; his face was malformed, with a long, lean snout that seemed mostly razor sharp fangs. Those fangs dripped with strings of saliva; his breath steamed in the air until it seemed the beast blew clouds of brimstone-scented smoke. His emerald green eyes held a terrifying, gloating intelligence... and a bottomless pit of hate.

Oh, Aislinn could feel the hate that emanated from the creature; it was like a red-hot mist that engulfed her from head to toe, making her skin tingle and crawl. The spectral wolf panted and growled, muscles coiling and uncoiling in shuddering waves.

Aislinn was beyond terror, her mouth wide open in an O of utter dismay. She shrank back a step, cowering. To her horror, it seemed that the wolf's form shifted and wavered, becoming a vision of her father as he had been all those years ago. Her perspective shrank and dwindled until he loomed hugely over her, a hungry light in his eyes that she found all too familiar. She was no longer in the garden; instead, the damp, moldy smell of the tower room seeped into her nostrils.

"Come here, bitch," he said. A thin strip of leather in his hand whistled and cracked as he flicked it towards her, almost but not quite brushing her cringing flesh. "I think you need another lesson."

Instinct screamed at her to scuttle away, out of his reach, but fear kept her locked in place. Her mouth dry, stomach flip-flopping and filling the back of her throat with thin acid, Aislinn could only stare up at the figure of the Earl in a fascination born of dread.

The whip cracked again. "I said come here!" he commanded. "Don't defy me, girl, or t'will be the worse for you, I swear."

Aislinn crawled forward, one tiny step at a time. He was a dreadful giant, a god who must be obeyed. Her flesh remembered pain; her skin sizzled with the ghostly remnants of agony past. A smile of satisfaction crossed the Earl's handsome face. She quivered as light glittered and sparked on the whip he held high  - the knotted leather strip had been wound with iron wire.

"On your belly," the Earl said, licking his lips. "Get down and put your face in the floor, baltai. Just like your whore of a mother."

Aislinn doubled over, whimpering, trying to present as small a target as possible. She felt the cold, wire-wound leather caress her back lightly.

"When I'm through with you, do you know what I'll be doing next?," the Earl asked. His tone was casual, almost pleasant. Then it changed to a hate-filled hiss. "I'll strip that unfaithful harpy of a warrior of mine down to the bones! Aye, and I'll enjoy every drop of blood she sheds almost as much as I enjoy yours."

Dunlaith?

She looked up at him. She'd felt so helpless, so weak... ties of fear and childish obedience had kept her bound, like chains around her heart and soul. But now a tiny crack broke through the terror. The Earl was threatening Dunlaith, her hero, her love...

"Does that not please you?" the Earl said, thrusting out his lip in a pretend pout. He twitched the whip against her side. "I think I'll let you watch and listen to Dunlaith's screams while I work. T'would be interesting, hmm? To hear your lover beg for her life... and beg for death, eventually."

Aislinn panted; that tiny crack was growing wider, splintering apart as raw rage bubbled up. The thought of Dunlaith being tortured by this monster was threatening to shred her sanity.

The Earl didn't notice. He kept flipping the whip idly as he continued, "Perhaps I should bind you two together face to face. That way, you'll get the full benefit of watching your lover die. Two little whores... just wait until I'm finished with the whip." He looked down at her and leered, rubbing his crotch with his free hand. "Then you'll get a real treat."

Aislinn shook, but not with fear; a white-hot fury engulfed her entirely. She leaped up with a shout and shoved the astonished Earl away. "You'll not touch her!" Aislinn screamed.

The Earl seemed to shrink a little but he rallied. "Don't you dare strike me!" he said angrily. "Get back down on your belly, bitch!"

"Never!" Aislinn shrieked, rushing at him. Her fists rained blows upon the giant; with each strike, he grew smaller and smaller. "Never!" she screamed. "Never again!"

The Earl howled in wrath and flapped his hands at her. "Get away from me, you little whore!" He blustered and swore but his emerald eyes were filled with fear.

"Never! Never! Never!" Aislinn cried. Tears streamed down her face but her teeth were clenched in a grimace of rage. "I hate you, Father! I hate you! I loved you but you hurt me. Why couldn't you love me back, Father? Why? Why?!!"

Under the barrage of punishing blows, the man had shrunk in size until he was nothing more than a tiny mannikin that piped and whistled. The giant who had punished Aislinn so cruelly was revealed for what he truly was - a small-souled bully of a man whose pleasure in other's pain was the only way to make himself feel big.

Aislinn stopped raging, although she still trembled. Taking a deep breath, she swiped a hand across her cheeks and stood with her foot poised over the little image of her Father. "I loved you once," she said mournfully. "Why couldn't you have just loved me instead of hurting me?"

The little figure sank to its knees, hands upraised in a beseeching gesture. A flash of insight came to the young woman - her Father was a coward at heart, concealing his fear behind a mask of cruelty. Like all bullies, if confronted with an opponent stronger than himself, he cowered and groveled. He'd used her terribly, but only because she'd been a child, weaker and unable to defend against his punishments.

This realization was the final, fatal blow against her childhood terror. All her fears evaporated in that instant.

Aislinn stared down at the mannikin; she could crush him like a bug and it would be no more or less than he deserved. Her foot hovered for several heartbeats... and then drew away.

"You've ruled me long enough," Aislinn said hoarsely. "I stopped loving you a long time ago, but I won't let hatred sour me as it did you. You cannot - will not - harm me anymore. Never again, Father. Never again."

The mannikin screamed in unendurable agony as the fragile threads that bound it to Aislinn were irrevocably severed by the young woman's resolution.

He could never hurt her again.

She turned away...

And the dream was ended. Aislinn catapulted back into the garden, snapping into herself and the present with astonishing speed.

She and the other women were in a circle, the taibhse in the center. Twelve points of golden candlelight seemed to enlarge and weave together into a brilliant net as they chanted the prayer of Perpetual Light.

"Domine, da mihi, rogo te, in nomine Iesu Christi Fili tui, Dei mei, illam quae nescit cadere caritatem, ut mea lucerna accendi sciat, exstingui nesciat; mihi ardeat, aliis luceat..."

O Lord, in the name of Jesus Christ, Thy Son and my God, I ask Thee to give me that love that never fails so that my lantern may always be lighted, never failing, burning within me and giving light to others...

In desperation, the wolf began to huff, attempting to blow out the candles. Sister Laigen's was the first to be extinguished; although she flinched, she remained steady and kept chanting.

One by one, the taibhse managed to extinguish all of the candles - except one. Encouraged by his success and eyes shining with confidence, the wolf turned to confront the last obstacle between itself and freedom. The women closed ranks and continued to chant the Latin prayer.

Aislinn stood there, the candle held in front of her like a shining sword. The golden, twisting flame exploded upward as she sang, becoming a pillar of shimmering fire. Her eyes held no triumph; instead, she looked almost sad... but  did not waver. She was a bulwark of strength, a righteous instrument filled with the glorious might of God.

Chanting, "Et aquae multae non potuerunt extinguere caritatem," Aislinn swept the fiery sword down, straight across the taibhse's back.

Many waters have not been able to extinguish love...

The wolf's platinum hair was set ablaze; as the fire burned, consuming it entirely, it howled and struggled but could not break free. The other women calmly re-lit their candles from the conflagration in Aislinn's hands and continued the ritual; it was as though they were moving through the formula of an antique dance, each motion fraught with meaning and controlled with grace. Even Dunlaith felt caught up in the moment; she felt as if she were a puppet being guided gently by a higher power. As her gaze was drawn skywards, she could have sworn she saw a blue-white glow that was suggestive of vast wings, sweeping across the horizon and brushing the sea.

The wolf tottered in Aislinn's direction, snarling. His head emerged from the fireball and he snapped at her, missing by inches. The young woman did not notice... but another did. With a shout, Dunlaith flipped her sword into the air and caught it by the blade. Interposing her own body between Aislinn and the taibhse, Dunlaith flourished the makeshift crucifix and said loudly, "Fillean meal ar an meallaire!"

Evil returns to the evil doer...

The wolf screamed in anguish, flinching away as the warrior's sword burst into flames.

Dunlaith's pale eyes widened; flames licked around her hand but she could feel no heat. She continued to drive the beast back step by step until it shuddered and shrieked in the center of the circle once more. Shafts of light sparkled down and the warrior stepped adroitly aside. As the light thinned into strands and wove together into a net that settled over and around the blazing monster, the flames on Dunlaith's sword died as abruptly as they had appeared. She returned to her place among the women and her strong, beautiful voice added to the melody as they sang.

Other voices seemed to join the chorus in delicate harmony. An invisible orchestra played, though that otherworldly music had been rarely heard upon this earth. A sweet scent wafted down, enveloping the women in a celestial incense that stiffened their spines with martial resolve - the odor of sanctity perfumed the night breeze.

The taibhse's outline was a mere silhouette in the midst of flames and was crumbling rapidly. He scrabbled weakly at the ground and for a second, his emerald green eyes met Aislinn's. The young woman did not falter at the expression of unrepentant hate and agony in those luminescent orbs; instead, she firmed her resolve to adamantine and said, "Rest in peace, Father."

The wolf screamed, knowing his hold on Aislinn had been dissolved forever.

The women's song gained power and strength until the earth trembled beneath their feet.

"Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nune, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen!"

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever. Amen!

That final word echoed and re-echoed, reverberating higher and higher as it spiraled into the night. With one last, choking cry, the taibhse's flaming form shivered and collapsed. The fire whirled upward, golden flickering flames separating into ruby slivers that glowed like embers, sparkling and dancing as they were carried upon the wind. The shimmering net of light faded bit by bit until there was nothing left save the memory of brilliance in the women's eyes.

Then all was silent and still again. The women blinked, looking around at one another. The brilliant conflagration shrank until it was but a small, glowing flame that stuttered on the wick of Aislinn's candle. Darkness descended once more but it was a peaceful, comforting blackness that held no fears or tribulations. The world turned as it should and Hell was the richer by one more wicked soul.

All eyes stared at the little pile of smoking ashes and bone that was heaped in the center of their circle. Thrusting her candle at Sister Fiona, the Abbess knelt down and carefully brushed the remains of Connal, Earl of Ciardha and Faoil of the Forth, into a small brass-bound box.

As Bebhinn scooped up the Earl's ashes, Aislinn said softly, "I will pray and light candles for the salvation of your soul, Father."

Dunlaith stepped to her side and put an arm around her waist. "Are you well, ionuin?" she asked.

"Aye," Aislinn replied wearily. She allowed the taper she held to drop to the ground. It rolled on the grass and came to rest against Bebhinn's foot. "It's over." She laid her head against Dunlaith's breast. "Take me home, my laoch, my love."

Dunlaith led her away but they only took a few steps together before fatigue overcame Aislinn, turning her muscles to water.

The warrior scooped Aislinn up into her strong arms. "Is it truly finished?" she asked, her pale eyes searching the young woman's face.

There were layers of meaning in that question and Aislinn was too tired to explain fully. Instead, she nodded. "He is at peace... and so am I."

Arms tightening around her beloved, heart near to bursting with the fullness of love, Dunlaith strode away...

Everyone was too consumed with emotion to notice the glitter of relieved tears in the warrior's eyes.

"Where will you go?," Bebhinn asked quietly.

Aislinn watched Dunlaith negotiating with the boat captain. "I know not," she replied. "Perhaps to Lord O'Ciaran's castle; she has a place there, after all."

"The taibhse is laid to rest," Bebhinn said. "I have placed the box in a niche in the altar; perhaps our prayers and hymns will comfort your father's soul."

"He can harm no one any longer, least of all me," Aislinn said. "I'm free of him and his evil. When we reach Eire, I will pay to have Masses said in his name. T'is the least I can do in Christian charity."

"Speaking of charity..." The Abbess sighed, thrusting her hands into the wide sleeves of her robe. "The Church does not approve of your union with Dunlaith," she said bluntly.

Aislinn's eyes slid over to Bebhinn's face. "I know," she said. "I do not take that lightly, believe me. T'was here at St. Ailbe's that I found a sense of peace for the first time in my life. I was content with my lot... until Dunlaith came and my world was changed."

"Torn apart?" Bebhinn suggested.

"Nay, rebuilt in a new image," Aislinn answered with a defiant tilt to her chin. "I am changed, Mother. I am no longer what I was. And I love Dunlaith with all my heart. If the Church deems such as sin and says I am damned for it, then I will gladly risk Hell. I would rather dwell in Dunlaith's arms for a single moment than enjoy the pleasures of Heaven for eternity."

"Strong words from one so young." The Abbess' sharp brown eyes gazed at Aislinn compassionately; she was not a judgmental woman and was inclined to let God do His job while she was occupied with her own responsibilities. "Well... I've spoken my piece, inion. I wish you and the laoch well. The Church may not give you her blessing but I'm a sentimental old woman."

She reached out her arms and drew Aislinn into an embrace. "Be well, child," Bebhinn said, a hand caressing the young woman's red-gold hair. "I hope you find happiness."

Aislinn answered, "I already have."

Dunlaith was waving; Aislinn tore herself out of the Abbess' arms and pressed something into her hand. Bestowing an impulsive kiss on the nun's cheek, she ran lightly down to the beach and joined her lover.

Bebhinn watched them settle down into the boat together. The oarsmen pulled away from the shore, bending their strong backs against the current. Sunlight shone on two heads closely together; one dark as the feathers on a raven's breast, the other bright as newly kindled flames.

The Abbess opened her hand and stared down at the object in her palm.

It was clay, molded into the shape of a wolf. But this wolf, far from the menacing creatures that Aislinn had crafted before, bore a crooked smile on his muzzle and a chapel of ribboned flowers on his head. A child sat upon his back, laughing with glee, a chubby fist entangled in the wolf's rough coat.

Bebhinn felt a stinging in her eyes that might have been tears.

She lifted a hand in a gesture of farewell as Aislinn and Dunlaith sailed away from Niamh...

And towards their joined destiny across the sparkling green waters, to a land that beckoned with hope, love and happiness forever, and ever, and aye.

The End

AUTHOR'S NOTE: While there is no such ritual of exorcism in the the Catholic Church, I have borrowed this technique of ''laying'' evil spirits from Irish folklore. I have also borrowed Latin prayers and used them where I deemed appropriate, rather than in their proper context.

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

by Nene Adams ©1999 - All rights reserved

This story (sequel to Through a Glass Darkly) contains graphic violence as well as the depiction of a loving relationship between two mature, adult women and some adult language, plus some sexual content. This story also may contain religious references - specifically to Catholicism - within a historical and semi-fictional context which may be deemed offensive by some persons. If you are one of them, please stop reading now.

Prologue
This is now bone of my bones,
And flesh of my flesh:
She shall be called Woman,
Because she was taken out of Man.
----- Genesis 2:23, King James Version

12th Century Anno Domini
Somewhere on the mainland of Ireland

The Eating Hall at Caer Loughnashade, the Castle of the Lake of Jewels and principal seat of Lord O'Ciaran, was every bit as elegant and graceful as the lord's wife, Elaine Lilymaid, could make it. Stone walls were softened with colorfully embroidered tapestries; fat tallow candles were held in sconces the shape of dolphins; the rushes underfoot were sweetened with rue, lavender and meadowsweet. Most rare and costly of all, a pair of large rectangular windows set near the ceiling, which ran the length of the room on both sides, were of stained glass, imported from Florence at great cost and divided into panels depicting God's creation of the world.

Aislinn sat on one of the long wooden benches, staring up at the east window. The final panel showed God taking a rib from Adam in order to create Eve.

And so causing more sorrow and trouble than even the Dark One himself ever dreamed, Aislinn thought. The sun was rising and the jewel-like colors of the window - crimson, emerald, azure, imperial purple - were striped in bands across her face, dyeing her red-gold hair a garish orange.

She glanced down at her hands, folded together in her lap. I know not what to do. I love Dunlaith, I truly do! But what is between us now cannot go on forever.

It had been a year and a day since the laoch had come to the peaceful island of Niamh, home of the convent of St. Ailbe's, and shattered the only world the orphaned Aislinn had remembered. The girl had been blind then, her emerald eyes unseeing as a result of the horrifying abuse she'd suffered at the hands of her father, those memories suppressed and buried. But though dead, the Earl of Ciardha, known as the Wolf of the Forth, hadn't finished torturing his daughter. Returning as a taibhse, an evil spirit, he'd been exorcised by the nuns and ultimately destroyed by Aislinn herself, who had faced her fears, winning freedom and sight back at last.

Leaving St. Ailbe's was hard but contemplating life without Dunlaith harder still. Aislinn's love for the dark haired laoch was as steady as her own heartbeat and she had no doubt she was loved as much in return. She had gladly followed Dunlaith to Caer Loughnashade, where the laoch was in service to Lord O'Ciaran as captain of his privy guard. The future had been unknown and unsure, but she'd willingly tossed caution aside for the sake of love.

The O'Ciaran's wife, Elaine, treated Aislinn as a foster daughter, as did the lord himself. The pair were very fond of the beautiful young woman, having no children of their own, and were delighted to do what they could for her. For her part, Aislinn found their attentions embarrassing and quite overwhelming. She had been offered a fine suite of rooms in the castle proper; instead, Aislinn had asked for a little room at the top of the westernmost tower to share with Dunlaith. They'd tried purchasing her costly gowns; Aislinn preferred to cut down Elaine's cast-offs, so as not to cause jealousy among the lady's other servants. After a while, Elaine and the O'Ciaran, understanding Aislinn's modesty, disguised their gifts and took care not to be overly extravagant or show too much affection in public.

The lord and his lady still had no true idea of the real relationship between Dunlaith and Aislinn. They knew, of course, about the young woman's parentage and the laoch's past. They'd been told as much of the story as Dunlaith thought necessary and prudent, but the true nature of the love shared by Aislinn and the warrior was kept secret. Elaine Lilymaid was a very devout Christian who would have probably taken holy orders had her father not been in need of making a marriage alliance with a powerful lord. Her household attended Mass twice every Sunday; the castle's chapel had a priest in permanent residence and everyone was encouraged to make confession as often as they could. There was no moral slackness here; maids who were indiscreet or got themselves with child were pensioned off, as were the fathers of their children. Elaine intended that there be no sin within the walls of her home; she kept to the strict moral guidelines she'd set and expected everyone else to, besides.

Dunlaith had feared to lose her place if the Lilymaid knew the truth. The fact that she'd known Aislinn in childhood had helped disguise the real reason why the two women shared such affection between them. As far as Elaine knew, Aislinn and Dunlaith were like close sisters who, having been separated, could not bear to be parted again. The fact that there was far more to their relationship never occurred to the lord's lady. As long as the two maintained an appearance of innocence, all would be well.

Aislinn hadn't like the deception and still didn't. That is was for her own benefit was even more galling. Dunlaith had no money of her own, no family connections, and Aislinn was just as poor. Without an occupation and a place to stay, the two would have become prey for robbers, slavers or worse. Trying to take service with a more open-minded lord was out of the question; few men in this time would have willingly accepted a woman warrior, much less allowed her a command.

So here we are, so careful, so cautious, so discreet it makes my teeth itch! Aislinn thought bitterly, ignoring the blaze of color that saturated the air around her. Always fearing the tiniest shred of gossip might be our downfall, always making sure there are no witnesses lest we be seen sharing even a kinsman's kiss. Lies piled upon lies; to choose the lesser of two evils is no easy thing!

This public role-playing put a great strain on their relationship but an even greater stress came from within.

No need for such pretending lately; t'is been a while since we touched at all, even in our privy chamber. Dunlaith is distant, almost cold and terrible cruel; she no longer shares a bed with me, preferring a pallet on the floor. I understand why she does this, for have I not offended her grievously? T'was my fault, mea maxima culpa, all my guilt and shame. Merciful Father, is this my punishment for sinning against Thee? Aislinn turned her emerald eyes up to heaven imploringly.

In the beginning, Aislinn had accepted Dunlaith's caresses joyfully. The laoch was careful not to push the young woman further than she could go; they had shared kisses, embraces, little touches and gestures but no more than that. Dunlaith was patience itself, slowly coaxing Aislinn to trust, hoping one day to consummate their love, to teach Aislinn about the pleasures of the marriage bed. She sensed hidden fires smoldering beneath Aislinn's skin and knew that once unleashed, theirs would be a passionate coupling that would quake the very earth and unite them in bonds that could never be broken.

Slowly, slowly, with the care and infinite patience of any general planning a campaign, Dunlaith seduced Aislinn with all the powers at her command. Just getting Aislinn to sleep with her in bed, warm bare skin against skin, was a major undertaking. At last, Dunlaith had judged the time right and began her wooing in earnest. Far from being disgusted or frightened, Aislinn had accepted the growing intensity of Dunlaith's caresses with delight. Then... disaster.

While brilliant swatches of gold, verdant green and fiery crimson wheeled around the walls, Aislinn closed her eyes, bitter tears slipping from beneath the lids, able to recall that terrible night as clearly as if it had happened yesterday...

And so could Dunlaith, who had slipped into the Eating Hall and was watching Aislinn through half-closed eyes. The tall warrior leaned against the wall, arms crossed protectively across her chest, her face expressionless, but behind that calm facade roiled turmoil, doubt and a heavy soul's burden of guilt. Dunlaith shook black bangs out of her eyes and her mouth stretched into a thin, tight line. The memories were etched with acid on her brain and she cursed herself without pause. Part of her wished she'd never met the girl, never known such sorrow and such a coil of trouble as now made their lives miserable; but another part of the laoch ached with bitter regret.

The warrior watched Aislinn and could not help remembering a time, not so very long ago...

Dunlaith glanced around in satisfaction. Although the room she and Aislinn shared was small, it commanded a spectacular view of the lake that adjoined the O'Ciaran's castle. The dark waters were covered in tiny ripples which glimmered in the twilight like diamonds, mirroring the stars above and giving the lake its name.

The furnishings in their room were simple but comfortable - a rope bed with a deep feather mattress, boasting tapestries that could be drawn against the evening chill; a pair of wooden chests, heavily carved and inlaid with copper and brass; a small table and two rush-seated chairs. Since the jakes were so far away, a close-stool was set into a niche in the stone walls, this necessary luxury surrounded by a screen of woven reeds that Aislinn had decorated with bits of ribbon and brocade.

Dunlaith had lit candles and stuck them to every surface, so that the bed was surrounded by glowing, flickering, golden light. The linen sheets on the bed were fresh; the mattress had been aired and turned; the floor rushes scattered with rose petals. Everything was in readiness for the night to come.

The laoch smoothed a hand across her shining black hair and raised an arm, sniffing. She'd taken a bath earlier, dousing herself in expensive orangeflower water that had been a gift from Elaine, but she was nervous. This evening, she and Aislinn would reach the culmination of all her careful plans; she would initiate the younger woman fully into the pleasures of lovemaking and they would, at last, be together as a truly bonded couple.

It had been no easy task and Dunlaith had exercised every ounce of patience she'd possessed getting them this far. Now, she waited for Aislinn to come to their chamber, their private world away from prying eyes, and felt no fire in her loins at all. She wanted Aislinn desperately, that much was true, but at the moment, desire took second place to anxiety. She so wanted everything to be perfect...

The door creaked open and Dunlaith glanced up, pale sapphire eyes glowing at the sight of her love.

Aislinn walked inside, shutting the door behind her. She was dressed in a barley colored robe, tied shut with a sash at the waist, and the length of her red-gold hair rippled to her knees. The soft light in the room emphasized her eyes, making those brilliant green orbs seem enormous. Aislinn scrubbed her hands on the front of her robe and looked shyly at her lover.

"By Jesu, ionuin," Dunlaith breathed, calling Aislinn 'beloved' as was her habit. "I vow you grow more beautiful by the hour."

Aislinn gave her a nervous smile. "My sorrow to disagree, a chroi, but you are the loveliest to me."

Dunlaith glowed; Aislinn had taken to calling her a chroi, meaning my heart, and every time that phrase fell from the young woman's lips, the laoch felt as if her breastbone would split from sheer affection. "Ah, sweetheart... come and sit with me, if you will."

She led Aislinn over to the bed and sat down with her upon the edge. Aislinn's palm was damp with sweat, which only endeared her to the laoch more. Dunlaith clasped her hand and said, "We've been through much together, you and I. We've dwelled beneath this roof, slept in this bed, kissed and embraced. You know I want more that that, for we've discussed it, have we not?"

Aislinn nodded, still too shy to speak. How could she explain the strange sensations that rocketed through her veins, the breathless feelings Dunlaith had caused her to experience with each little touch, the longing ache that seemed but a promise of better things to come. She wanted this moment with all her heart, wanted to give herself to the warrior she loved completely and freely, craved the pleasure she would find when she became a woman in Dunlaith's arms. She wanted all these things so much, but...

There was still a shadow of fear, a black thread that ran through her happiness. She trusted Dunlaith with her life and couldn't understand why she should feel like drawing back sometimes when the laoch touched her intimately; why she should suddenly, without warning, feel panic rising, choking her until she wanted to scream aloud. Aislinn had managed to control these occasional reactions so well that Dunlaith hadn't suspected there was a problem.

Nor would she, Aislinn vowed. Dunlaith is everything to me and I would sooner cut off my own right arm than hurt her with my foolish fears. Truly, what right have I to be so frightened of the one I love? She does nothing save love me in return and want me to be whole. So... leave off acting like a child, Aislinn of the Dreams! You know there is naught to fear with your beloved. Once this thing is done, once we have come together as in marriage, then all will be well. T'is naught but a bride's nervousness and you know full well that she would never cause you harm.

Dunlaith began slowly, capturing Aislinn's lips to share slow, deep, voluptuous kisses. Her hands, sword callused but sensitive, touched and teased, stroked and caressed, until Aislinn whimpered for more. Soon, the two cast aside their robes and lay on the bed together, limbs entwined; the smoke from the herb-infused candles was a misty haze that coiled among the tapestries, charged with perfume so heavy and sweet it made their heads spin.

Aislinn lay on her back, eyes half-closed, body thrumming as Dunlaith's clever hands and lips brought sensations she'd never felt before. She gasped, twisting in shocked pleasure, when the laoch did something with her tongue that was terribly sinful, wickedly wonderful and unbelievably good. Her hands came down of their own volition and tangled themselves in Dunlaith's silky dark hair. Sweat-slicked skin was gilded with candlelight, washed by bars of milky moonlight, patterned with dappled shadow.

Then, so swiftly and suddenly that Aislinn could not control it, that sickening feeling of panic and mortal dread began to rise. Her head tossed from side to side and she bit her lip, trying to force it down, but it was as though a demon had entered her body and taken over. Swamped with fear, breathing faster and faster, she tried to push Dunlaith away but the warrior misunderstood and clasped her closer, locking her strong arms over the girl's thighs. Now feeling utterly trapped, helpless to prevent the wave of pure terror that washed over her, Aislinn struggled, vision narrowing to a single pinpoint of light at the end of a tunnel of darkness, breath rasping in and out of oxygen starved lungs, her last shred of conscious control snapping with an almost audible twang. She began to scream thinly, the sound almost a high-pitched whistle, and struck out in pure panic, trying desperately to get away, get away, GET AWAY! Wrenching her legs out of the warrior's grasp, kicking and flailing, Aislinn was caught in the inexorable grip of pure animal instinct, fighting to survive without even comprehending her enemy.

Dunlaith was startled and reacted without thought. She avoided Aislinn's blows and, hauling herself up the bed, clamped a hand tightly over the young woman's mouth. Aislinn's eyes were wide emerald pools of fright, glistening with tears, and she struggled harder, whimpering and trying to bite. Dunlaith threw her body over the girl's, holding her down with sheer force, grabbing both of Aislinn's wrists in her free hand and pinning her to the bed. She hissed, "By Jesu! Do you want every guardsman in the castle to come a-running? Hush, now, hush!"

Aislinn's eyes rolled back in her head and she bit into the meat of Dunlaith's palm, earning a scalding oath from the laoch, who snatched her hand away from the girl's mouth. Shaking and convulsing, Aislinn began to wail in between great gulping gasps of air, a piercing, heart-wrenching sound that nevertheless scoured the warrior's already wire taut nerves rawer still.

"Calm yourself," Dunlaith said forcefully, giving Aislinn a little shake. Her strong fingers were like steel bars, locking the girl's wrists together, bruising the tender flesh. "Be calm and stop this! Now!" The warrior was getting angry and no little frightened herself. She certainly didn't want Aislinn's screams to rouse the guard - their position was compromising at best and such a confrontation would most likely end in them both being thrown off O'Ciaran lands.

She didn't understand what was wrong with Aislinn, why she was reacting so hysterically, and wondered wildly - and with no small amount of guilt - if it was something she'd done that had caused this attack. She was beginning to panic herself and the situation wasn't helped by the heavy thumping of boots on the staircase. Alerted by the noise, the guard had been roused and was coming to investigate. Dunlaith panted, the hammering of her heart echoed by the crashing thuds of men's fists upon the door. Muffled voices were raised in shouts, demanding to know if all was well.

Consequently, caught in the grip of her own mounting hysteria, Dunlaith reacted with less sensitivity and more expedience than she might have if their situation hadn't been so precarious.

Releasing Aislinn's hands for a second, she drew back and slapped the screaming girl smartly across the face, following that with a brisk backhand blow.

Rocked by the crisp slaps and already close to unconsciousness, Aislinn gave in to the blessed peace of oblivion and fainted, body relaxing bonelessly, eyes fluttering closed, that frantic breathing slowing down, returning to the normal rhythm of a deep and dreamless sleep.

To appease the guards with a story of Aislinn suffering from nightmares was the work of a moment. After they'd gone away, Dunlaith stared down at Aislinn's slack face and cursed herself for a hard hearted bitch, already regretting her actions but knowing that they couldn't be erased, would always lie between them like an unsheathed sword.

She'd struck her beloved, her ionuin. She'd raised a hand against the woman she loved. She'd hurt Aislinn more than just physically, there had been severe emotional damage as well. The trust between them was broken, never to be repaired. Although the laoch cowered to admit it, she knew their love was gone as well. It had to be. That was the only proper punishment for her crime.

All her fault, her grievous fault, her sin and everlasting shame. Mea maxima culpa.

Dunlaith knew she could never forgive herself...

And decided that Aislinn could never forgive as well.

These visions of the past were shattered by the present when a voice said softly, "Ionuin?"

Aislinn's eyes snapped open and she beheld Dunlaith standing near. She gave an involuntary start and rose from the bench, ignoring the warrior's politely offered hand. Aislinn stood with her back absolutely straight, fingers twitching the folds in the skirt of her gown into place, and stared at the floor as if it was the most fascinating thing in the universe. The laoch still called her 'beloved' and each time that word slipped unthinkingly past Dunlaith's lips, Aislinn felt as if her soul was being scourged by barbed whips.

The perversity of it was that while she hurt immeasurably, she still derived a modicum of comfort from that endearment. It was a slender thread that Aislinn hung onto as if her life and sanity depended upon it. Unable to be Dunlaith's beloved in truth, at least she could be so in habit.

The two women stood in the hall for some moments in silence, Dunlaith's manner as stiff and unyielding as a swordblade, Aislinn torn between wishing the warrior far away and hoping desperately for some sign of affection, no matter how small.

The young woman was sorely disappointed when Dunlaith cleared her throat and said, "My sorrow for disturbing you, but the lady Elaine sent me to say that she wishes you to join her in the solar as soon as it is convenient. A visitor has come to Loughnashade and she requires you to greet the honorable guest." The laoch's voice was cool and utterly neutral, as was the expression on her face. Aislinn risked a peek from the corner of her eye and this fresh evidence of indifference on the warrior's part broke Aislinn's heart all over again.

The young woman blinked back tears. Suppressing a suspicious quaver in her own voice, Aislinn replied, "Many thanks for the bringing of the message. I will join Lady Elaine now."

Without meeting Dunlaith's eyes, fearing what she might see in those icy blue orbs, Aislinn scurried out of the room as if the hounds of hell were snapping at her heels.

The warrior watched her go and sighed, slumping back against the wall. She avoided the young woman whenever possible during the day and only spoke to her if it was absolutely necessary, but Castle Loughnashade was relatively small. Confrontations could not be avoided forever and it seemed that every time Dunlaith turned around, she was tormented by the sight and sound of the woman she still loved beyond all else.

She knew Aislinn feared her - how could she not believe the evidence of her own eyes? Did not Aislinn shrink away from any contact, even the most casual? Did she not weep quietly at night when she thought the warrior was asleep? Did she not avoid meeting the laoch's eyes, cringing away as if she were a beaten hound? And when the warrior called her 'beloved', did not Aislinn flinch as if she'd been struck a savage blow? Oh, the girl concealed her terror well but not enough to keep it secret from the warrior's eyes.

Dunlaith castigated herself bitterly day and night; lying on a cold and comfortless pallet in the tower room, that room where they'd once been so happy, not more than a few feet away from her beloved but unable to act, to make things right between them, the warrior had often felt like opening her veins with a knife and ending the torture then and there.

She did not fear the fires of Hell that greeted a suicide's soul - no torment the Devil could dream up would be equal to the agony she already endured. No, however much Dunlaith craved the peace of the grave, she could not commit suicide and leave Aislinn alone, friendless and defenseless in the harsh world. The protection of the O'Ciaran was unsure; what if he and his lady had a child and cast Aislinn aside? Besides, the girl was sensitive and might do an injury to herself in misplaced blame.

I deserve to suffer as I have made Aislinn suffer. I am no coward, to shirk just punishment and flee at the first sign of trouble. I will live as I must and endure what I must. T'is the only way.

Dunlaith could not bring herself to speak; she was too ashamed of the way she'd acted, the harm she'd done. So she retreated into a chilly politeness, showing Aislinn a face of ice... but within she burned and writhed in the fires of guilt.

Elaine had noticed the sudden coolness between the two and commented upon it to Dunlaith. The warrior had conjured a thin lie from the air, blaming it on a quarrel and assuring the lady that all would be well. Elaine had been satisfied but Dunlaith knew that it would never, ever be well again.

I have lost her, the laoch thought, closing her eyes against the endless throb of pain. My ionuin is lost to me as surely as if she were dead. But though I grieve, I must never allow her to see my true feelings. Aislinn's nature is so sweet and brave that she would come back to me out of pity alone, swallowing her fear and trying to hide the fact that she finds me repulsive, a disgusting monster that does not deserve to be loved. I cannot do that to her. I cannot!

I cannot live with her nor can I live without her. Truly, I am caught between the mountain and the sea!

Dunlaith welcomed the agony that ripped her soul asunder. She knew she deserved worse for what she'd done.

She scrubbed her face with a hand and shoved unruly black bangs out of her eyes. She hadn't been eating much the last few weeks; her already lean frame had become scrawnier, ropy muscles laced with prominent veins that snaked just beneath the skin. Dunlaith had put aside her sleeveless leather vests in favor of long-sleeved, loose tunics that concealed how much weight she'd lost.

To the men she commanded, the laoch had taken on the aspect of an aesthete; a thin, pale figure whose eyes burned like pale blue flames as she drove them to the edge of exhaustion in the practice field, shouting until she was hoarse, wielding sword, spear and shield until she was on the point of collapse, insisting on perfection and turning savagely on any warrior who was not capable of achieving it. As grueling as the pace was for her men, Dunlaith was twice as hard on herself, setting up impossible, dangerous tests and pulling them off by the skin of her teeth.

Only after she'd drained the last dregs of energy did Dunlaith crawl painfully up the tower stairs to collapse on her pallet, too tired to drink, eat or think, falling into sleep only to waken to the sound of Aislinn's weeping.

Dunlaith sighed. She felt weak, her knees barely able to support her weight. Her skin felt greasy, her teeth and tongue covered with a layer of foul tasting scum. She knew she stank, too, having been too tired to bathe last night. Stale perspiration and salt made her itch and she was too apathetic to scratch, couldn't even muster up the energy to curse. Her tunic was stained and torn; the knees of her trousers ripped; the soft leather shoes she wore indoors had been gnawed by dogs and were in a disgraceful state.

The laoch was absolutely miserable...

And felt she deserved every second of it. Suffering was her meat and drink now; if she starved on such a meager diet, so much the better.

Pushing herself away from the wall with an effort, Dunlaith sought the baths. Their visitor was a highly ranked lord and she could not disgrace the O'Ciaran's household by appearing like a scruffy, scrawny scarecrow. Still, she could not help but think how Aislinn had once admired her; could not help but remember how the young woman's emerald eyes had filled with the light of love when they'd caught sight of her. Dunlaith sighed again. Those days were past; she was a martyr now, her sole purpose in life to pay for her sins.

If she could just make sure that Aislinn was taken care of, that the girl's place in life was assured, that she had a protector who could shield her from the world. Only then could Dunlaith seek to ease her suffering with a mercy stroke.

If only...

If only...

The solar was the one part of the castle claimed by Elaine Lilymaid alone. The big chamber was surrounded on three sides by windows, but the panes were scraped sheepskin instead of costly glass. Still, the translucent parchment allowed enough sun inside to ensure the room was filled with a mellow, amber glow. Carved oak chairs, deep and comfortable, were softened by plump cushions in bright colors; tables, cabinets, chests, looms and embroidery frames were masterpieces of the craftsman's work, painted and inlaid with ivory, sandalwood and cedar. The fireplace was surrounded by a silken screen from the far Orient, brought back to Loughnashade by the O'Ciaran's Crusader father, and the floor, unlike the rest of the castle, was covered not by rushes but with an intricately woven rug, also spoils of the Saracen.

It was here, in the privacy of her solar and surrounded by her women, that Elaine ran the household, saw to the weaving of cloth, the sewing of tapestries and clothing, acted as advocate in servant's disputes, and performed the all important function of hostess to her husband's guests and kin.

Aislinn slipped inside quietly, her feet making not a sound on the thick rug. Elaine and her ten serving women had drawn up chairs and stools into a rough circle; from her position, Aislinn could see the Lilymaid but nothing of the mysterious guest except the back of his head. She came further into the room but remained on the periphery, too shy to thrust herself forward. Elaine looked up and called her over; the young woman had no choice but to obey.

Elaine Lilymaid was well named; although she was past the age of eight and twenty, she was still as lithe and slender as a maiden, her skin milky white and pure as an Easter blossom. Her chestnut hair was worn in a trio of braids that fell to her ankles and her eyes were the warm blue of a summer sky. When she smiled, fine lines arched from the sides of her nose to her mouth, and a fan of faint wrinkles decorated the edges of her eyes, but she was still considered one of the most beautiful women in Eire.

Elaine gestured to Aislinn, indicating a place at her side. One of her women, Eadaoin, glared at the pretty red-head and yielded her chair with ill grace. Elaine chose not to notice.

"Ah, at last! My lord, this is Aislinn, of whom I have been speaking." The Lilymaid beamed with pleasure and patted the girl's hand. "A chara, this is Lord Cairbh Gaduigh of Rath Meargach, which is in Mug's Half. He is recently widowed, poor man, and will be staying with us a little while."

Aislinn kept her eyes cast politely downward but peered at the man from beneath her lashes. She couldn't put her finger on what his name signified but she was sure that he came from noble, honorable stock. His lands were in the southern half of Eire and called the Fortress of the Green Spears; this, too, was vaguely familiar. Altogether she had the feeling that she ought to know Lord Cairbh and was mildly embarrassed when she couldn't place how or when she'd met the man before.

The lord's appearance was unforgettable and befitting the scion of a wealthy house. He was richly dressed in a brocade tunic and velvet trousers, all of a smoky plum color and embroidered in black with touches of bronze. His hair was bright gold and worn as long as a woman's, bound up into a single braid that swung near the backs of his knees, and a sheaf of curls bobbed over one eye. His face was fine boned, the skin a pure ivory that reminded Aislinn of fresh cream, and his crimson lips were sensuously full. When he spoke, he revealed teeth that were whiter than new snow, and the scent that wafted from his skin was like wildflowers and musk. Lord Cairbh was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen; he had a languorous air about him, a lazy grace that was both feminine and feline, and Aislinn's heart began to beat faster when he clasped her hand and gave her greeting in a high, sweet voice that sent chills down her spine.

When she brought herself to look him in the face and return his greeting, she nearly gasped and had to suppress the urge to snatch her hand from his grasp. Lord Cairbh's eyes were... strange. Pale as winter-blasted bilberries, a washed out violet veiled in the misty beginnings of cataracts, they were rheumy and bloodshot, the lids covered in crepey skin and innumerable wrinkles.

Sensing her disquiet, the beautiful lord said in his sweet voice, "My dear mistress Aislinn... forgive me for startling you. I suffer from an inherited weakness of the eyes, you see. I hope I did not frighten you too much." He gazed at her dreamily and she felt her heart melt with pity for this poor young man, so perfect in every aspect yet possessing a such cursed flaw.

Her gaze transferred to his hand, which was curled around hers in a cool and gentle welcoming embrace. He wore no gloves; his hands were small with long, narrow fingers that bore rings of gold set with glimmering jewels. The nails were immaculately manicured, smooth and polished until they gleamed like diamonds; it was clear that Lord Cairbh had done no heavy physical labor in his life.

He pursed his lips and said, "Lady Elaine did not exaggerate, mistress. I had heard that Eadaoin Nemthenga is reputed to have the most beautiful eyes in all of Eire but the reports were mistaken. T'is the lovely bright emeralds that God has given you which entrance me utterly, Aislinn."

Aislinn blushed and pulled her hand away. He continued to stare at her and she felt her cheeks beginning to burn under his steady regard. "I thank you for the compliment, sir, but in truth, t'is more than I deserve."

"Nonsense!" the lord said, much to the fuming Eadaoin's fury. "Lady Elaine... do you not find mistress Aislinn's eyes to be perfection itself? The color, clarity, size... all wonderfully wrought. I vow I could search through all of Eire without catching a glimpse of eyes half so fine."

Lady Elaine beamed upon her visitor, clearly bewitched by his charm and womanish good looks. "I must agree with your lordship," she replied. "Aislinn is indeed a beauty and much beloved by both my husband and myself."

"Are you not married, then? Have you no sweetheart?" Lord Cairbh teased, making Aislinn blush brighter. "Why, I fancy every handsome rogue on the island lies panting at your feet, mistress. You cannot take a step out of doors without tripping over some ardent young swain, or visit the jakes without finding a flower bearing hopeful lurking in the brush!" He laughed, a rippling giggle that was more like the notes of a flute than any human noise.

Aislinn felt herself warming to the lord despite her embarrassment at his flirtatious attentions. "Nay, lord, I am not yet wed," she said softly. "Nor have I any man's sole regard."

Lord Cairbh smiled in a lazy, feline fashion and relaxed more fully into his chair. "T'is a shame no man has captured your heart, a chara, though t'is not for lack of trying, I think." He lifted up a hand and toyed with a stray golden curl that had escaped his braid. "I am surprised some rich and handsome lord has not yet snapped you up."

"I have no dowry, lord," Aislinn replied. "And my blood is... well, t'is not as good as it could be."

"A peasant! Good Lord!" Lord Cairbh goggled in an exaggerated fashion, earning peals of laughter from the women. Even Aislinn was forced to guffaw at the silly expression on his face. "Oh, dear. I shall have to burn this coat, much to my tailor's wrath, for he just finished it a fortnight ago!"

Elaine shook her head. "Nay, my lord!" she said, laughing still. "Aislinn comes from noble stock, I assure you, though she is an orphan now." The lady had the glimmering of an idea; if Lord Cairbh was interested enough in Aislinn to propose a marriage alliance... well, that would be a fine thing, indeed. The mere contemplation of a matchmaking coup such as this made Elaine almost giddy with delight.

Looking at Aislinn's glowing, smiling face as she continued chatting and gently flirting with Lord Cairbh, Elaine felt almost as if she was swelling with satisfaction. By Jesu, it could be a love match! The lord was intrigued, that much was certain. But if that could be turned to infatuation...

Elaine sat back, watching and plotting and scheming. If her husband found out about her meddling, he would be infuriated, but she would risk his wrath for Aislinn's sake. It was high time the girl was married; she was certainly of an age to begin her own household and her training with the nuns of St. Ailbe's would stand her in good stead. And the lord was handsome and charming enough, and acted like the sort who would spoil his wife beyond measure. Aislinn would be very happy with him, she was sure of it. And they would certainly make beautiful children together...

The Lilymaid cleared her throat, interrupting the couple's chatter. "Aislinn, a chara... p'raps you can show the lord the gardens and the grounds. T'is a fine, sunny day with no rain in sight, and I've heard that taking a walking turn before dining is good for the digestion."

Lord Cairbh rose, making a little bow in Elaine's direction. "Quite right, my lady," he purred. Extending a hand, he helped Aislinn to her feet. "Although I am sure that no flower in the lady's garden is as beautiful as you, mistress, we should nevertheless take this good advice. And besides, I am eager to see the grounds of Loughnashade, which I've heard are worthy of great praise. Shall we?"

Aislinn nodded and led him from the room. Elaine watched them go - the petite and pretty red-head with the tall, slender and inhumanly graceful golden-haired lord - and her smile grew wider still as she began to calculate the cost of a grand wedding.

Even Eadaoin's mean-spirited complaints about Aislinn's conduct couldn't spoil the Lilymaid's good humor.

If she had her way - and if the Holy Mother answered her prayers - Aislinn would be married before the new moon's turning.

Cleaned up and wearing a brand new set of clothes, Dunlaith felt better physically but she still ached emotionally. She smoothed the front of her peacock blue tunic with a hand; scrolling bands of racing deer had been embroidered around the collar, cuffs and hem, all Aislinn's handiwork. Her trousers were in a blue, brown and yellow plaid, decorated with bronze buttons and gathered below the knee with ribbons. With her black hair pulled away from her face with a silver ring and a massive silver torq around her neck, Dunlaith was the picture of a valued servant of a powerful lord.

She missed the weight of the leather baldric she habitually wore but her scabbard and sword had been put away in the guard's quarters at the orders of the O'Ciaran. With such a noble guest in residence, the lord of Loughnashade did not want to risk offending the man with a show of arms. Dunlaith had seen this Lord Cairbh from a distance and thought it odd that he'd had no escort, as befitting a gentleman of high rank, but she'd shrugged it off as unimportant.

Crossing the gardens on her way to the postern gate, Dunlaith was startled to see Aislinn walking with the strange lord. Their heads were close together and she could clearly hear the young woman's laugh. The sound was almost foreign to her; she hadn't heard Aislinn's voice raised in mirth since...

Dunlaith thrust the thought away. Creeping to a nearby hedge, she concealed herself behind it. Illogical as it was, the laoch felt as if she was intruding on a private moment; jealousy rose up, swamping her common sense and all but turning her vision green. She suddenly wanted to know exactly what was going on between Aislinn and Lord Cairbh and as she watched them laughing and talking as if they were the most intimate of friends, the grinding of Dunlaith's teeth was nearly audible.

Her pale blue eyes narrowed when the lord drew nearer, making a joke in a drawling tone that infuriated the jealous warrior. This fellow is more a maiden than Aislinn, the warrior thought in disgust. Soft as a rabbit's belly, faugh! and pretty as an unbreasted girl. I'm thinking he prefers a good stiff pole to a wet fur muff in his bed when the lust's upon him!

She grinned at the thought but her smile faded when Aislinn sat down on a nearby bench and patted the stone surface in a clear invitation to the lord to sit down. He did so, placing himself so close that their thighs touched. They spoke seriously for a while and from the snatches of conversation that Dunlaith could hear, the lord was gently urging Aislinn to tell him of her history, her family.

To the laoch's shock and surprise, Aislinn did just that. She omitted the real nature of the relationship between herself and Dunlaith but that was the only subject she didn't touch upon. After a while she began to weep quietly and Lord Cairbh put an arm around her shaking shoulders. Dunlaith couldn't hear what he was murmuring to her but it seemed to give the girl comfort. Shaking her head, Aislinn continued until he'd heard the entire story from beginning to end.

The sun was dropping down towards the horizon when the young woman finished. By then, Dunlaith's legs were frozen with cramp and there were shooting pains in her back from holding her position so long. At last, Aislinn and Lord Cairbh hugged and the warrior's heart almost burst asunder.

The two walked out of the gardens, back to the castle, and Dunlaith blew out a breath and rolled over, massaging her calves. Her jealousy drained away in an instant, leaving her cold and numb. Although they'd just met, Lord Cairbh had already wormed his way into Aislinn's affections, and it was clear that the girl hadn't minded his attentions at all. Why, she'd behaved as if they were old friends... or long time lovers.

The laoch felt tears welling up in her eyes but in a way, this new attachment of Aislinn's was a relief. She knew the lord was recently widowed, although precisely how she'd come by that information the warrior couldn't say. Dunlaith knew that beside his stunning beauty, fashionable clothes and refined manner, she would appear an uncouth oaf; she was no match for the man in any way. And he was rich, with good lands, well able to support a woman in comfort and style. It was clear that Cairbh had come to Loughnashade to go a-wifing and it was equally clear that his choice had fallen upon Aislinn. The two had a connection, an instant ease with one another that was rare.

Was Aislinn in love with Lord Cairbh? It was too early to tell but Dunlaith felt sure that such a declaration was not far off. After all, hadn't she hurt the girl to such an extent that any feelings Aislinn might have felt for the laoch were dead?

If she chooses another, the blame falls squarely upon me. T'was I that destroyed our love, betrayed her trust, Dunlaith thought. She stared up at the sky and blinked away tears. She couldn't abandon Aislinn but if the young woman married... well then, t'would be a good thing for my ionuin and myself, besides. If I were sure she'd be taken care of, wanting nothing, I could p'raps begin to heal. Or mayhap I'll lay down in my grave and die of sorrow.

She rolled her head from side to side. No matter. T'is best that I watch and wait. If the lord's intentions are honorable, then so be it. T'is fated to be so and I cannot blame Aislinn for turning to another.

Dunlaith felt resolved. For the first time since that terrible night, she was focused, her goal clear. Although the idea of losing Aislinn cut like a jagged sword, she would do what was best for the girl. She loved her still, would always love her, but Aislinn's happiness meant more to her than anything else.

If she loves him, she will go with him, and none will say her nay. I swear it!

Although there was a certain amount of satisfaction and relief in this resolution, Dunlaith still felt as if she'd swallowed broken glass.

In her room at the top of the tower, Aislinn shut the door and whirled around, pressing her back against the solid wooden surface. Her face was flushed and she couldn't stop grinning. Lord Cairbh was the most fascinating man she'd ever met in her life. Granted, she hadn't had much experience in the world, but still, the way he spoke; the good breeding apparent in every chivalrous gesture; the compliment of his undivided attention; his sensitivity and charm... Aislinn had never experienced anything like it and she felt dizzy, happy and in such high spirits that she wanted to shout, laugh and dance, all at the same time.

Sadness had been her constant companion lately; the sheer relief of being somebody's cherished companion was so great that it made her giddy.

She hadn't meant to blurt out her life's story; after all, they'd had barely an hour's aquaintance. Yet under the lord's gentle persuation, she'd found herself telling him things that she'd kept secret for so long. Her father's abuse, the escape engineered by Dunlaith, her loss of memory and life with the nuns... everything except what had happened between herself and the laoch. That much, at least, she kept to herself. Every other aspect of her life was given to him freely; she'd unburdened herself with few reservations and by St. Brigid! He'd not only lent a sympathetic ear and a strong shoulder but had seemed to understand, to accept without judgment.

Aislinn already considered him a good friend.

If Lord Cairbh wasn't a man, I'd say I've finally found the sister I  always wanted! Aislinn thought with dizzy delight. She flung herself onto the bed with a squeal.

It was such a relief to be able to talk to someone again. She sorely missed the closeness she used to share with Dunlaith, and Cairbh filled that void perfectly. She'd been too overawed to speak to Lady Elaine familiarly and the serving women were a closely knit lot who resented outsiders. The lord was a godsend to the lonely young woman who'd felt friendless for a long time.

He's so pretty, much prettier than I am. And so well bred!And so clever! He's already promised to pick out the fabric for a new gown for me and he'll design it as well. Aislinn's face ached with smiling but she couldn't stop. All thoughts the warrior had been driven clear out of her mind until she suddenly found herself thinking with a giggle, T'is a sure bet that Dunlaith wouldn't like him...

That sobered her quickly enough.

She still loved Dunlaith will all her heart and nothing - not even a man as fascinating as Lord Cairbh - would ever change that. But the laoch no longer loved her; that much was certain.

Does she not avoid me at every turn? When is the last time that we've exchanged more than two words together? I ache for what we used to have but the ease of our loving is gone. I did this; I drove her away with my stupid fears. I blame Dunlaith not; nay, not even for the blows she struck. T'was no less than I deserved, acting like child frightened into fits by a shadow. Were I saddled with such a silly cow for a lover, my regard would wither, too.

It hurt - oh, by St. Brigid it hurt! But Aislinn was too ashamed, too fearful that the trouble between them was a direct result of their sinning against God. For all her brave words to Mother Bebhinn when she'd left St. Ailbe's, the girl still couldn't help but feel that the disasterous turn their love had taken was the curse of a vengeful Father.

I cannot help myself; I must love her or die! Still... she loves me not. I am a burden weighing her down, useless and foolish and oh! if only I could leave. Then she would be free to find another. T'is only her honor that keeps her tied to me.

If only...

If only...

The next fortnight was pure hell for Dunlaith and a taste of heaven for Aislinn.

The beautiful Lord Cairbh was attentive to the point of near slavishness, insisting on sitting next to Aislinn at the evening meal and sharing her trencher, goblet and salt roll, cutting her meat and complimenting her at every turn. He followed her into the garden every day, carrying a shawl in case she grew cold, a fan should the day prove too warm, sweetmeats in the pocket of his coat should she be hungry and a flask of honeyed wine to quench her thirst. He was the first to greet her with a tray of milk and cakes in the morning and carried the nightcandle to her chamber when it was time to retire. Lord Cairbh was sweet, eager to please and so very appealing that Aislinn began to forget the strangeness of his old man's eyes, seeing them only as a familiar part of a face that grew prettier and more desirable every day.

She didn't love him, not in the way she loved Dunlaith. But the laoch was avoiding her and Cairbh was there every day, almost smothering her with his affection, his attention, his absolute adoration. Each time they were seen together, the Lady Elaine grew more swollen with satisfaction and had already made tentative overtures to Aislinn, trying to determine whether the girl favored a match with the widowed lord.

Now Aislinn was in her room in the tower, sorting through some embroidery thread. She had pleaded a headache to Lady Elaine and Cairbh, wishing to be alone for a while. It had taken all her powers of diplomacy to convince the doting lord that she wished for no company or medicines or food or amusements; it seemed the lord was determined not to be parted from her and it was only with the greatest reluctance that he'd acquiesced to giving her an hour or two of peace and solitude.

Earlier that afternoon in the garden, Cairbh had fallen to his knees with a passionate proposal of marriage, going so far as to press his dry lips to her mouth and clasp her tightly in an embrace that was oddly cool for such intimacy. Aislinn had been shocked; not by his presumption but by her reaction. She'd felt nothing at all, no spark, no fire - just sudden revulsion and the desire to thrust him away. Aislinn had suppressed that urge, willing herself to feel something, anything, for this beautiful, rich and powerful man who was her friend.

Nothing. In the circle of his arms, with spicy perfume rising from his skin, that lyrical voice murmuring endearments and promises, his soft and golden curls tickling her cheek, all she'd felt was cold and dead inside. She'd barely been able to gasp a polite excuse and tear herself away from him, fleeing to the kitchen garden and vomiting behind the hedge. Afterward, Aislinn had been sick and dizzy, feverish and frail. Her ghostly pale face, with two hectic spots of color burning on her cheeks, had been enough to convince the Lilymaid of her indisposition.

She did not love him and it sickened her that she might have led him to believe otherwise.

What sort of evil dwells in my soul? Aislinn thought, savagely tearing at the tangle of thread in her lap. That poor man... what am I to do?

It was clear that Lady Elaine wanted this match to come about. In rejecting Cairbh, Aislinn would not only hurt the lord but also disappoint a woman who had been generosity itself. She had no idea how the O'Ciaran felt but was sure that he'd be happy to have the responsibility for a kinless foundling off his shoulders.

Aislinn felt trapped. On the one hand, she did not want to disappoint anyone. But on the other... there was Dunlaith to consider.

Sweet Jesu! My heart trembles at the thought of leaving her. I cannot say and I cannot go... Aislinn of the Dreams I was, but now should I be called Aislinn of the Sorrows.

The door opened and she looked up from her task, brightly colored threads wound around her fingers and trailing in the folds of her gown.

Dunlaith came into the room; the laoch's face was pale and shone with sweat. Her pale eyes glittered with some strange emotion and her hands trembled.

Aislinn sucked in a breath, preparing to make her apologies and leave, but was forestalled by the warrior's upraised hand.

Dunlaith's face contorted with rage. "You little whore!" she spat, and Aislinn was so shocked she could not make an immediate reply. The laoch slammed the door shut behind her and stalked into the room.

"I've been watching you and that lord," the warrior seethed. Her lips drew away from her teeth in a snarl. "Aye, you harlot! I saw the two of you together in the garden, sharing kisses. What else have you given him, eh? What have you given him that you could not give to me?!!"

Aislinn hastily shoved the embroidery thread onto the floor and stood, measuring the distance between herself and the door. But Dunlaith was between the girl and freedom, and for the first time, Aislinn began to feel an icy fear of the laoch welling up..

Dunlaith was far from finished. "Whore, by Christ! You lift your skirts and spread your thighs for that pretty, poxy boy-chaser! Jezebel! Whore! Damnu ort!" With each expletive she came closer, forcing Aislinn to retreat further into the room.

Aislinn twisted her skirt between her hands and stammered, "It wasn't what you think! I swear it!"

Dunlaith sneered. "Filthy liar! I saw you! Or p'raps you're thinking my eyes are liars as well!"

"Nay, I swear!" Aislinn was close to weeping. "He asked me to marry him!" she blurted, flinching as the laoch's hand swung up to deliver a blow. "T'was naught but a kiss and he wants to marry me!"

Dunlaith's face paled even further and her eyelashes fluttered. "W-w-what did you say?" she croaked, stepping back a pace.

Aislinn was crying in earnest now, tears sliding down her cheeks. "He asked me to marry him!" she wailed, sinking to her knees and bowing her head.

The laoch stood over her, mouth working. At last, Dunlaith said hoarsely, "Did you accept?" When Aislinn didn't answer, the warrior bent over and screamed, "Did you accept him!!?"

The frightened maiden sobbed louder.

Cords stood out in the laoch's neck and a vein began to throb in her forehead. She grabbed the girl by her upper arms and hauled her up off the floor by main strength. Aislinn screamed and struggled but Dunlaith held her in place and shook her until her teeth rattled.

There was an insane light in the warrior's blue eyes and it struck absolute terror into the girl's heart.

"Did you accept him?!!" Dunlaith roared.

Terrified almost out of her wits, the red-haired girl gulped and cried hysterically, "Yes! Yes! YES!!"

Dunlaith dropped her as if she'd turned red hot. Aislinn landed on her hands and knees; she glared up at the frozen figure of the warrior and hissed, "Yes! I'll have him as husband! For God's truth, he loves me and would never, ever strike me! He's more a gentleman than you, Dunlaith of the Burning! And I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!"

Aislinn broke down into weeping once again, huddled on the floor with her skirts pooling around her knees, head in her hands and loosened strands of red-gold hair spilling over her shoulders like flames.

Dunlaith stared at her for another heartbeat, then turned around and walked out of the room without another word.

Aislinn cried until her sides were sore and her heart felt like bursting. She cried until there were no more tears and her body was racked by dry, heaving sobs. She cried until it felt like the misery of the world was gnawing at her soul. She cried because she knew she could no longer deceive herself - the love of her life was gone, never to return.

Aislinn mourned for shattered illusions and the death of dreams. She had made her decision; she could no longer live with a woman who loathed her as much as Dunlaith.

She would marry Lord Cairbh... though the thought of such a union brought little joy to the utterly wretched, broken hearted girl.

Dunlaith paused on the landing of the stone stairs and scrubbed at her face with the long tail of her shirt. Although the wooden door was closed behind her, she could still hear Aislinn's sobs.The warrior had thought the worst moment of her life had been when she'd spied her love and Lord Cairbh embracing in the garden that afternoon. Now she knew better. Standing over the girl, prepared to beat the truth out of her, jealousy like acid eating into her heart, Dunlaith had been further enraged by the words Aislinn has thrown at her like daggers.

He wants to marry me...

Those words had pierced the laoch to the core, fanning the flames of fury like nothing else. The idea that the lord had put his hands on Aislinn had been enough to drive Dunlaith into a killing frenzy but the rest of the girl's answer had extinguished anger in an instant, leaving the warrior frozen and numb.

I'll have him as husband... he would never strike me... I hate you!

Dunlaith pushed a lock of black hair off her forehead. She'd never been so angry in her life as when she'd come barreling up the tower stairs to confront Aislinn. The laoch closed her eyes. She was past rage now and felt so weary she could've died on the spot.

Oh, Aislinn! I am a monster! Dunlaith thought. What have I done to you, my inouin? You who are my life... I've hurt you worse this time than before. My oath to God, I cannot blame you for seeking the love of another. Cairbh will take good care of you... and you were right. He loves you and would never raise a hand to you in anger. Unlike me.

The warrior swallowed, feeling faint. It is better this way, she thought. Better that Aislinn should marry, keep her own household, bear children and watch them grow. I can never give her these things. Nay, she deserves to be spoiled, pampered and protected. Better Cairbh than an ill tempered wretch like me. I love her... so I must let her go.

The more she thought about it, the more she sought arguments to convince herself, the more Dunlaith came to feel that she was right. Marrying Cairbh and leaving Loughnashade was the best thing for Aislinn...

Even if that joining made her heart break into a thousand bitter pieces.

Lord Cairbh almost wept when Aislinn met him privately to tell him she was accepting his proposal.

"Oh, my dearest mistress!" he cried, sinking to his knees despite the girl's protests. His rheumy violet eyes swam with moisture and he clasped her hand tightly, pressing his dry lips to her palm. "You have made me the happiest man in Christendom!"

Aislinn endured the clammy embrace. "When shall we publish the banns?" She couldn't bring herself to look him in the face; she was not marrying Cairbh for love and feared he might sense her reservations, no matter how carefully she hid them.

Still, he is happy. The O'Ciaran and his lady will be happy. And Dunlaith... Aislinn caught her breath and squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden pang. My warrior will be happier when I am gone.

She already regretted her angry outburst but knew that the words, once spoken, could not be taken back. God help me, the girl thought. If ever Dunlaith harbored the smallest feeling for me, then that is dead, slaughtered by my stupid pride and willful tongue. T'is true my marriage is a lie but p'raps in time I will learn to love him.

Aislinn glanced down at Cairbh, who was staring at her in adoration and kissing her hand. At the very least, I will make him a good wife. He will never have cause to complain. I will shut my feelings for Dunlaith away, bury them deeply and try to forget. In honor, I can do no less.

After her acceptance, there was a whirlwind of activity as preparations were made for their joining. Contrary to custom, the lord decided that there was no need to publish banns in church and wait a further three weeks; he wanted to be wed as quickly as possible so he and Aislinn could begin the long journey to his lands. Oddly, Lady Elaine and the O'Ciaran made no objection; instead, they followed Cairbh's lead and allowed him to have his way in all things.

As neither bride nor groom had any living family, no guests were invited save the lord and lady of Loughnashade and whatever retainers wished to attend and witness the ceremony. Aislinn's wedding gown was crafted from one of Elaine's old dresses, cut down and altered with trimmings of ermine around neckline and long, pointed sleeves. The rich, crimson brocade fabric suited Aislinn's coloring and the tightly laced bodice made the most of her womanly curves.

A bare two weeks after Cairbh's proposal, Aislinn stared at her wavering reflection in the precious pier-glass mirror in Elaine's bedchamber and could not believe her eyes. A bride looked back at her with sad, emerald green eyes; the thin white veil that covered her hair, held in place with a crescent diadem of gold, reminded her of the nun's habits worn at St. Ailbe's. She turned away, thrusting frozen hands into the deep sleeves of her gown, and began taking deep breaths to ward off tears.

After a soft scratch on the door, Lady Elaine poked her head into the room. "Are you ready, a chara?" The Lilymaid was splendidly dressed in a rich gown whose black satin sleeves had been slashed to show the scarlet underlay beneath. Loveknots of gold braid looped over the bodice and hem; as jewels, she wore the diamond and heart-shaped ruby buttons that her husband had given her, sewn in a straight line down the front of her dress and decorating the wrists and shoulders.

Aislinn nodded; her gown was heavy and she should have been sweating but all she felt was cold to the core. "Yes," she whispered.

Lady Elaine thrust a prayer book into the girl's hands. "The priest is waiting in the chapel. Do you want some warm wine before we go?"

Aislinn shook her head.

The Lilymaid smiled and touched Aislinn's face. "Don't be affrighted," she said. "All virgin brides are nervous. But the marriage duties are no hardship, believe me. Just do as your husband bids you and all will be well."

The girl could not reply; what was there to say? T'was her hand that had crafted this coil and there was no turning back. Clutching the prayer book so desperately that her nails left crescent shaped scars on the leather binding, Aislinn followed Lady Elaine to the chapel, where her husband-to-be waited impatiently.

The ceremony went by in a blur. Among the sweet scent of summer flowers and the smoky odor of incense, with the priest's voice droning in her ears, Aislinn knelt when she was told, repeated the priest's words in a cool little voice, tilted up her face to receive her new husband's kiss. She felt nothing. It was as if her body was being driven by an outside force while her mind was wrapped in cotton wool.

Leaving the chapel arm in arm with Lord Cairbh, Aislinn was jolted from her reverie by the sight of Dunlaith's strained, white face. The laoch stood behind a small knot of well wishers, stooping slightly and trying to be inconspicuous, but the woman's unusual height made her stand out all the more. The new bride stopped dead in her tracks, earning an annoyed frown from her husband.

Aislinn blinked. Turning to Cairbh, she said with a trembling smile, "I beg you to excuse me, my lord." The words nearly stuck in her craw but she knew she'd have to get used to addressing Cairbh in a properly wifely manner. "I see someone I must speak to. Please... t'will take but a moment and I will join you at the wedding breakfast."

Cairbh's lips drew tight for a bare second and then the lids of his eyes lowered. "Very well, wife," he replied without a trace of anger in his sweet fluting voice. "But mark me, we leave directly after the breakfast. Do not be late. I vow, I will not eat a bite of food unless I have your precious eyes to gaze upon."

Aislinn stayed where she was until he had gone back into the castle, accompanied by Lady Elaine and the O'Ciaran. As soon as he'd disappeared, she walked over to Dunlaith; the laoch looked left and right, as if seeking a means of escape, then sighed with resignation and stood firm.

The warrior looked terrible; her eyes were bloodshot, the rims raw and red. "I wish you joy," Dunlaith croaked. She'd lurked in a dark corner of the church during the ceremony, telling herself over and over again that the marriage was in Aislinn's best interests. Despite these intentions, the warrior had still wished the ground would gape apart and swallow her whole. Sweet Mother Mary! She loved Aislinn and always would.

I must let her go, Dunlaith thought, forcing herself to be calm and in control. T'is better this way. Once she is gone, I can learn to live without her. All the thoughts she'd once harbored about suicide were gone.

I am a warrior trained to bear the sharpest pain and should not be acting like a child who leaps from a cliff to avoid a bee sting! I am strong as a river and flexible as a willow; this storm will pass over and though I be not whole in heart or soul, I will still have life and breath enough to see my natural end of years. To take the coward's way is not in my nature.

I am strong. I will endure.

From somewhere, Dunlaith found the courage to straighten up and smile slightly.

Aislinn took a deep breath. She had precious little time and did not want to waste a second. "I have something for you," she said. Reaching into one of the voluminous sleeves of her gown, she withdrew a small flat package wrapped in linen and handed it to Dunlaith. "We're leaving after breakfast; my lord says that his lands are several days travel away and he wants to get started as soon as possible."

Dunlaith nodded. Her fingers picked nervously at the linen wrappings until she'd unveiled Aislinn's gift. Nestled in her palm was a silver chain with a crescent moon pendant attached. Closer inspection revealed the pendant was actually a lock of Aislinn's red-gold hair, wrapped in silver wire.

The girl continued, "You've been a good friend and I wanted you to have something to remember me by."

Dunlaith's lips trembled. She raised her eyes and there was such anguish in her face that Aislinn had to look away. The laoch rasped, "My thanks. T'is beautiful." She struggled to suppress a sudden rush of tears and cursed herself inwardly for being so weak.

Aislinn felt a tearing ache in her chest. With the little money she'd taken with her from St. Ailbe's, a gift from Mother Bebhinn, she'd bought the chain and had the pendant made by a traveling goldsmith. She'd intended to give it to her beloved warrior at their joining, a symbol of her love. Now that they were parting, the giving was bittersweet, indeed.

Dunlaith put the chain over her head and centered the pendant on her blue tunic. "My sorrow but I've nothing... wait." Drawing a dagger, she grabbed a thick lock of her black hair and sawed at it with the blade. Then she laid the piece of hair into the linen square and tied the corners together, making a little bundle which she presented to Aislinn.

"T'is not so grand as yours but the thought's the same. To remember me by," Dunlaith said.

Aislinn bit her lip and tucked the package into the bodice of her gown. "I must go," she whispered, unwilling to leave yet knowing that her duty lay elsewhere. This part of her life was drawing to a close; her new husband would be waiting.

Dunlaith leaned down and her lips brushed Aislinn's cheek. "Luck to you, ionuin," she said softly.

Almost trembling and unable to bear anymore, Aislinn whirled around and fled to the castle, crimson brocade skirts flying around her ankles, her white veil billowing about her face.

The warrior watched her go, a hand on the silver pendant that lay upon her breast.

There were no more words to say, no more gestures to make; the thing was done, the lovers parted.

Much later, when Aislinn was being helped up on her horse by her new husband, she looked in vain for Dunlaith among the crowd that had gathered to wish the couple good-bye.

She was surprised that it hurt so much that the laoch was not there.

Dunlaith spent the rest of the day in a fog of misery, barely tasting the great feast that the Lilymaid and her husband had ordered. Afterwards, instead of enjoying the minstrel's music and the storyteller's tales like the rest of Loughnashade, she made her weary way up the tower steps to the room she'd shared with Aislinn.

All of the girl's things were gone, including the chest that had held Aislinn's dresses. With a small cry, the laoch noticed a wooden comb on the bed; she'd carved that with her own hands as a Midwinter gift and had taken much pleasure in watching Aislinn pull the comb through her long, red-gold hair. It had been forgotten in the rush to pack everything for the wedded couple's leave-taking.

The warrior was suddenly tired, so very tired...

Dunlaith collapsed on the bed and curled up into a ball around the comb. The scent of Aislinn's skin, a sort of spicy musk, still permeated the sheets and rose up into a faint cloud around her. She wriggled out of her tunic and crumpled it up into a ball, which she shoved under her head. The heavy silver pendant was cool between her breasts and she closed her fist around it.

The laoch missed the soft silky warmth of Aislinn lying next to her, of the girl's back nestled against her breasts. She missed the  feathery caresses, wine-spiked kisses and gentle murmurs in the dark.

Her ionuin no longer.

As the sun slowly sank behind the hills, igniting the diamond glitters of the Lake of Jewels, Dunlaith fell into an exhausted sleep, dreaming of twining Aislinn's hair around her fingers and losing her soul to a bewitching pair of emerald green eyes.

Awakening the next morning, Dunlaith shook her head gingerly and rolled out of bed. She didn't remember drinking at all the previous evening but by Jesu! she felt as if she'd fairly wallowed in hippocras and drowned in uiscebeatha, the potent water of life.

Knowing Aislinn was gone forever made her feel no better. She would never love another the way she loved her red-haired ionuin; Dunlaith's emotional wounds still bled but at least she would have the chance to heal, no matter how imperfectly. Love was lost but life went on.

She lifted the pendant to her lips and kissed it, tickling her lip with the lock of Aislinn's hair that was wrapped within its silver prison.

To remember me by...

With a sigh, Dunlaith ran her hands through her dark hair and decided it was time to start living again.

After splashing a little cold water on her face and donning a fresh tunic, Dunlaith made her way downstairs, trying not to moan as each step she took made her head feel as if it was going to explode.

Judging from the slow way the servants were moving as they went about their tasks, as well as the green faces and bloodshot eyes, the laoch knew she wasn't the only one who'd indulged too much. She nodded carefully to one Lady Elaine's women, who was carrying a shallow dish of porridge with an averted face. "Fine wedding, wasn't it?"

The woman gave her an astonished look. "What are you talking about? We've had no wedding at Loughnashade, not since the Lilymaid was joined to our lord these many years ago. Faugh!"

This response shocked Dunlaith into speechlessness. Before she could gather her scattered wits and formulate a question, the lady-in-waiting was gone, sashaying down the corridor to Lady Elaine's bedchamber.

Dunlaith grabbed an old man by the arm. "Was there not a wedding here yesterday?" she demanded.

The ancient retainer blinked. "Nay, nay, my lady." He wet his lips nervously and glanced at his arm, where Dunlaith's fingers were biting into the flesh. "Not 'less you mean my Milly weddin' Josh the shepherd's boy, but that were three years ago, praise God."

The laoch let him go and turned away; the old man scurried away, casting frightened glances over his shoulder, but she did not notice. Had the world gone mad?

Had she?

The lord of Loughnashade was walking towards her, a slight frown upon his face. His chestnut hair was swept up off his forehead and clipped short in the back, emphasizing his high forehead and bull neck. The chief of the O'Ciaran clan was a short, thickset man whose muscles had acquired a layer of fat from good living but he was still solid, quick and a good hand with sword or lance. Although he preferred plain, dark brown homespun to the sumptuous materials the Lilymaid flaunted in her dresses, there was still enough braid, embroidery and gold trim on the dagged sleeves of his tunic to indicate his high rank and importance within his own walls.

"My lord!" Dunlaith called, hastening up to him.

His mild hazel eyes looked at her with polite inquiry. "Yes?"

The warrior wiped beads of sweat from her forehead. "Did... I mean, was there..." She stopped and swallowed while the lord made encouraging noises. Finally, she blurted out, "Was there a wedding here yesterday? Between Aislinn and Lord Cairbh Gaduigh?"

The O'Ciaran's brows drew together in a frown. "Do you mean to insult me, laoch? But no... t'is the wine talking, I wager. We were all a bit baiht 'sy jough last night. Go and cool your head, get something in your stomach besides drink, eh? I'll be wanting to speak to you later about the northern border. There've been a few bandit raids that are making my yeomen quiver in their breeks."

He started to walk away but Dunlaith adroitly stepped in front of him. "My lord... are you certain of what you say?"

"Do you name me liar?" It was clear that he was getting annoyed at her importuning.

"Nay, my lord. Of course not." Dunlaith moved to one side to allow him to pass, calling after him desperately, "You know no one named Aislinn? None named Cairbh?"

The O'Ciaran stopped again and chuffed through his nose. "Dunlaith Breanda, you have served me faithfully and well for many years, and if it were not that I know you are still tipsy with drink, I would have you beaten for insolence. I know none who bear the name of Aislinn and furthermore, I am not yet so desperate or dishonorable that I would call a corpse thief my friend. Now go about your duties, laoch, and try my patience no further till you're sober."

Dunlaith watched him go, her heart beating rapidly. Corpse thief! That was the meaning of Cairbh's name! She could have kicked herself. Why hadn't she realized that sooner? Unless...

A heavy sense of dread settled in her breast.

Oh, sweet Mother of God! Dire enchantments! What terrible coil have I driven my ionuin into?

Discreet inquiries among the servants and guards of Loughnashade revealed that no one remembered either Aislinn or Lord Cairbh. They did not recall a wedding; instead, their sketchy memories were of some kind of celebration but none could say why the castle had thrown a feast. They could describe the food and drink in detail; a few were able to conjure up fuzzy images of the minstrel and storyteller. But of the wedding itself - and of the bride and groom - all professed ignorance.

Dunlaith was nearly driven out of her mind by fear and frustration. Despite the fact that Aislinn had lived at Loughnashade for more than a year, none of the people, from highest to lowest, were able to remember her. It was as if she never existed.

Only the laoch could recall the beautiful young girl with emerald eyes and hair like a Beltane bonfire.

Stranger still, all recollection of the pretty, languorous lord with the golden hair, sweet voice and salt white teeth had vanished from the people as well. He had been a guest of Loughnashade for more than a fortnight yet he, too, had been banished into the collective forgetfulness that was affecting the castle folk.

By mid-afternoon, Dunlaith was exhausted, her nerves worn to raw shreds.

In the name of God, what is going on here? Why do I alone remember what the others do not?

Her hand reached up and caressed the pendant absently as she considered these questions. All at once, the answer came to her and the warrior was so stunned that she had to sit down.

Something to remember me by...

She alone wore a talisman of sorts, the lock of Aislinn's hair set in a silver wire frame. Somehow, that had protected her from Cairbh's spell, for Dunlaith had no doubt that the so-called lord was a powerful sorcerer of some kind.

An enchantment had been woven in Loughnashade to purge the people's memories. Precisely why this had been done, Dunlaith had yet to figure out.

But no doubt t'is for an evil purpose. Oh, God! Aislinn!

Dunlaith thought back to the past fortnight, ever since Cairbh's coming, and realized that everyone had been behaving oddly. It was as though some portion of their characters had been intensified to the point of near madness. Lady Elaine's sudden obsession with matchmaking, the O'Ciaran's uncharacteristic indifference, Aislinn's fascination with the pretty lord, her own jealousy and rage. Not to mention the fact that everything she knew about Cairbh had somehow been implanted into her brain; she could recall no one actually telling her anything at all. Instead, the information had just been there and she hadn't questioned it.

No one had questioned anything at all.

We all knew the same things about him, Dunlaith thought, in nearly the exact same words. He is a widower and his castle, Rath Meargach, is in southern Eire. Beyond that, and the evidence of his riches in his clothes and his high-born manner, we know nothing else.

Which was passing strange as every family of high rank was intimately familiar with the others, either through kinship, marriage alliances, friendship or blood feuds.

Something else occurred to her and the hairs on the back of the warrior's neck stood on end. If this Cairbh was so powerful, why go through the farce of a marriage? He could have just kidnapped the girl and been done with it; no one would have been the wiser. What did he want from a wife that he could not get from any other woman?

Dunlaith stood up, shook her head and briskly brushed her hands against the back of her breeches.

The time for consideration was done. Aislinn was gone, married to a foul sorcerer and traveling blind into a life threatening situation. What evil plot he was engineering, the laoch didn't know or even care. It was enough that her ionuin was in danger. Of all the questions and confusions that swirled through her brain, the warrior was certain that Aislinn's life would be forfeit if she did not reach her in time. They had only left yesterday morning; it should be possible to catch up to the pair if she rode hard enough.

Where and how I will find him, God alone knows. But I will find him. I must!

And first, I must steal a good horse...

Within the hour, Dunlaith set out on a gelding, following Cairbh's trail. She'd left no word with the O'Ciaran, just quietly slipped away with her saddlebags full of food and the few possessions she owned. The horse wasn't the best from Loughnashade's stables - neither was it the worst - but the price of it was more than she could earn in a lifetime. She'd left behind a tiny bag of mixed coins - her entire savings - but the laoch knew her honor and good name were gone forever. She'd branded herself a horse thief and there were few worse crimes in all Eire.

The O'Ciaran would hang me for the offense, she thought as the horse picked its way through the forest, could he but catch me. My life is forfeit. By Jesu! Everything I have fought and bled for is lost to me now; I am clanless, kinless and without friend or protector. No matter;  if I can save Aislinn, t'will be worth any price.

The warrior was dressed in a leather jerkin covered in iron studs, with a chain mail shirt beneath; although heavy, the shirt and jerkin would provide protection against light sword stroke or knife. Against javelins or arrows, she carried a small round shield of boiled leather stretched over oak; the hammered steel boss came to a wicked point and could be used as another weapon in combat. A helmet was fastened to the saddle and swung near her knee; her sword was sheathed at her back, supported by a baldric that crossed her chest from shoulder to hip.

Dunlaith gathered the reins in her gauntleted hands and brought the gelding to a stop. The horse put his head down and began to lip at the sparse clumps of grass growing beneath the trees while she slid off and examined the trail she'd been following.

Two horses and four mules had passed this way, heading south. There was something odd about the hoofprints, however. Granted, they were more than a full day ahead of her... but the tracks they'd left weren't as fresh as they should be. Instead, it was as if Aislinn and her husband had ridden over this trail a full week ago.

We've had little rain, Dunlaith thought, poking at a dry hoofprint in the dirt with her gloved finger. And none these past two days.

A little ways further down the path she discovered the remains of a fire and evidence that Cairbh and Aislinn had spent the night there. Once again, the laoch was not entirely happy with what she found.

This fire's as cold as a witch's tit, she thought, sifting through the gray dust. T'was not doused but allowed to burn out. Yet even if they left camp at dawn, there should still be some warmth here. St. Brigit! Has the man warped time itself to hasten his way?

Dunlaith swung herself back up on the gelding's back. It was getting late; the sun was sinking in a blaze of scarlet and gold, igniting the sky, staining the clouds with gilt and rich vermilion. The laoch intended to ride through the night, always heading south, and hope to pick up their trail again in the morning. But she had a feeling that no matter how hard she rode, Cairbh would always be ahead.

Sooner or later he would turn off the public path and make his way towards his castle. Dunlaith had no idea precisely where Rath Meargach was located and doubted that a sorcerer of his ruthlessness would blaze a trail directly to his door. Somehow, she would have to find the Cairbh's fortress without relying on her tracking skills.

Judging from what happened at Loughnashade, I very much doubt the folks hereabouts have ever heard of the bastard, she thought, giving the gelding his head. Still... it cannot hurt to try. The next village I come across, I'll seek out a wisewoman or a healer. Such a woman would be more likely to see what is hidden than a common peasant.

A waft of smoke drifted across her face, stung her eyes. Dunlaith jerked the reins and the gelding bucked a little; she spent a moment calming him down while she scanned the surrounding woods.

A fire burned somewhere... but where? Whose? A charcoal maker, perhaps? Or a yeoman drying meat for the winter? Or was it something else...

Suddenly, she knew. This was no honest wood smoke, as came from oak, ash or pine; someone was burning branches of rowan. Dunlaith stood up in the saddle, sniffing, trying to pinpoint the source of the fire.

She believed that help might be closer at hand than she'd thought.

For Aislinn, it seemed as if she and her husband had traveled for days instead of hours, their horses clipping along at a fast pace while she held on grimly and jounced in the saddle until her head felt fit to burst. Her mare had an irregular, teeth-rattling step and a habit of painfully jerking the reins out of her hands whenever Aislinn's attention wandered. She'd asked Cairbh if they might stop so she could put on a pair of gloves to protect her hands, but he'd shook his head and urged her to more speed. He was eager to reach Rath Meargach as quickly as possible and had no intention of stopping unless it was absolutely necessary.

By the time he called for a rest, it was late afternoon and Aislinn was close to weeping in exhaustion and pain. Her palms had been wealed by the mare's willfulness; every muscle in her body was so stiff that when she slid out of the saddle, she collapsed on the ground, legs unable to support her. The mare, a gray appropriately named Succubus, took the opportunity to step on her helpless mistress'  loosened hair and pin her to the grass, grinding Aislinn's face in the dirt while she spluttered futilely.

Once he noticed the girl's plight, Cairbh came to her assistance, clucking as he pulled the mare away and hauled Aislinn to her feet, half carrying her to the fire he'd built. In the short time since they'd stopped, not only had the lord managed to find wood and start a campfire, he'd unloaded a few rugs from the mules and made a relatively comfortable sitting place. While she sat down in a half daze and started picking clumps of dirt and grass out of her hair, he gave her a jerkin of lukewarm wine and a loaf of manchet bread, split down the middle and stuffed with thick slices of cheese.

He sat down beside her, sharing the wineskin, eating his bread and cheese in quick, neat bites. The meal might have been sawdust and water for all that Aislinn cared; she hurt too badly and in too many places to enjoy a single bite. When he'd finished eating, she asked if they'd be staying the night there.

Cairbh gave a short, sharp bark of laughter. "Nay, sweet wife," he said, and never had there been such a streak of cruelty in his beautiful voice. "We'll be moving on in a moment. There'll be plenty of time to rest when we've reached my... our home."

Aislinn bit her lip to stifle sudden tears. When he made to rise, she laid a hand on his arm. "My lord," she said humbly, hating to complain but feeling she could not go another step, "I am unused to such hard travel. Please, I beg you, let me rest for a little while."

When that argument didn't seem to sway him, she continued desperately, "What of the horses? We brought no other mounts save the mules. What if they founder from weariness and we are left  without a way to continue?"

Cairbh snatched his arm away and leaned down to peer directly into Aislinn's upturned face. His pale violet eyes, which had always been watery and mild, blazed with unconcealed fury. "Get on your horse," he snapped. "And keep your whining complaints to yourself, woman. We will ride until I say our traveling day is done. If you cannot ride, I will tie you to the saddle and lead your mount, but we will go on!"

Shocked by this display and fearing to rouse his anger further, Aislinn quickly braided her hair with trembling fingers, thrusting wooden pins into the twisted tresses to hold them in place on her head. While she worked, Cairbh rolled up the rugs and put them back on the mules, then stood by the horses, tapping his foot impatiently at her delay. At last, she was ready, although he had to help her up; he did this with such impatience that she was sorry she'd asked.

As he was pushing her up onto the mare, a linen packet fell out of the bodice of her gown. He swooped down on it immediately, scooping it up and holding it between two fingers.

"What is this?" he asked with a sneer. "A love token, perhaps?" He undid the knots and looked at the lock of black hair, his brows knitting together in anger.

Aislinn felt a chill. She settled herself into the saddle, wincing as sore muscles protested. "T'is nothing, my lord," she answered as casually as she could.

Cairbh sucked in a breath. "Whose is it?" he hissed, grabbing her stirrup. "Do not lie to me! Whose heart-gift do you carry, sweet wife, for I know it is not mine!"

He looked like a high born woman in an absolute rage, his features sharpened to a razored brilliance that was terrifying in its beauty. "My lord, you are mistaken!" Aislinn tried to gather her scattered wits.

If he knew the truth about Dunlaith, he'd probably kill me.

The lord's lips drew away from his strong, white teeth and he shook the stirrup he held. "The Lady Elaine swore you were a virgin and untouched. Now I find you hiding a gift from your lover. Tell me his name, damn you! Tell me!"

Aislinn frantically sought some explanation that would appease her husband's wrath. Then with Cairbh's words, an idea came to her. "T'is no man's, my lord! I swear it! I have had no man as a lover!"

Cairbh did not notice the girl's evasion. He deflated a little but his cheeks were still red. "Then whose is it?" he asked gruffly.

"Her name is Dunlaith, a laoch in service to Lord O'Ciaran. Surely Lady Elaine told you we were close, as close as kin?"

"Yes," Cairbh said, stroking his chin. "I seem to recall the name."

Aislinn felt almost like fainting with relief. "She has known me since childhood, my lord. When I was to be wed, she gave this to me as a token of affection, to remember her and the love we bear one another."

"Hmph." The lord seemed satisfied by this explanation, but when Aislinn reached for the linen square, he held it out of her reach. "Well, since this is so important to you, we'd best keep it safe in your saddlebag. If you were to lose it, no doubt I'd have to endure endless begging to search for it and we'd be further delayed."

He quickly knotted the hair back into the packet and stuffed it into the leather pouch behind her.

They continued their journey shortly after that incident; as Cairbh was not a man given to much conversation while journeying, Aislinn found herself alone with her troubled thoughts.

What has happened to the man I married? Aislinn forced her weary body to accept more of the mare's punishing gait and tried to ignore the throbbing in her head. His gentleness is gone; instead of soft compliments, his tongue spits nothing but acid, when he speaks at all.

The rage in his horrible old man's eyes made her shiver. She'd never imagined such venom existed in the fascinating, feminine lord.

Sweet Mother of God! How could I have been such a blind fool, believing him unlike other men! Oh, my warrior... what have I done to choose this over you?

Before she could pursue these gloomy thoughts any further, Cairbh guided his stallion next to her. "My sorrow that I frighted you so, wife," he said warmly, a charming smile lighting up his face. "I am so eager to show you the delights of Rath Meargach that my impatience gets the better of my manners! I do hope you will forgive me."

Despite her reservations, Aislinn nodded. "Of course, my lord," she replied. "I understand."

Cairbh leaned over and pressed something into her hand. When the mare decided to take the opportunity to jerk the reins once more, he reached out his arm and thudded his fist hard between the horse's ears. This so surprised the gray mare that she almost stopped, thought the better of it, and continued on, greatly subdued.

Aislinn breathed a sigh of relief. "This mare is very headstrong, my lord," she said. "I hope she'll behave better now."

"Don't fret, wife," he said, giving her another smile. "Had you told me you were having such trouble, I'd have gladly helped you before. Now, no tears; you'll spoil your pretty green eyes. Women's eyes are so unattractive when they cry." He added something beneath his breath, a burst of gabbled words in a strangely lyrical language that flowed like water over stones.

Aislinn found herself irresistibly drawn to the object he'd given her. It was a sweetmeat of glazed oranges and spice, squeezed together into a sugared cake. They were imported from Spain and while she'd only had one once at a Midwinter celebration, she knew they tasted of concentrated sunshine and were absolutely delicious.

All at once, her troubles were forgotten. The sweetmeat glistened on her palm, a confection of jeweled orange and cinnamon, and her attention was drawn to it completely. Delighted as a child, she nibbled the little cake, savoring the taste, concentrating on the burst of flavors that showered her tongue.

As soon as she'd swallowed the last bite, a strange, languorous sensation flowed through her veins. She relaxed, eyes fluttering half-closed, and her fingers loosened on the reins. Her body, with all its aches and pains, seemed very far away, separated from her mind by a cloud of mist and fog. She could not think anymore. She could not feel. All memory of Loughnashade - and a certain dark haired warrior whom she loved - retreated behind a barrier, inaccessible and hidden from conscious recall.

Cairbh smiled to himself; his spell had struck. With Dunlaith's token put away and now forgotten, nothing protected Aislinn from his enchantments. The drug he'd given her in the sweetmeat had done its work, dropping her mental barriers and leaving her vulnerable. Cairbh briefly wondered how such an innocent girl had managed to shrug off his potent magics.

Only true love could have defeated his enchantments but she had no lover, no mate of the soul. He'd feared that the lock of hair she carried so close to her heart might have been from such a man; if that had been the case, all his careful preparations and plans would have been for naught. But Aislinn's explanation had a ring of truth and besides, he remembered the black haired warrior women from Loughnashade. Females were such silly, sentimental creatures; exchanging locks of hair with one another was a common ritual at partings.

No, he decided, Dunlaith was no real threat to him.

Cairbh shook his head and decided that Aislinn's resistance to his spell wasn't important. Perhaps he'd been in a hurry when casting it, left out a line, transposed a syllable. Such things had been known to happen even to the most careful of sorcerers.

There was no sense dwelling on the past. The problem had been taken care of and now, he had to concentrate on getting to his fortress as quickly as possible. Clucking to his stallion, he drew power from the earth to speed their way; the ground flowed past the horses' hooves as if they were flying.

Aislinn's eyes glazed over and a small smile froze upon her face.

Nothing troubled her anymore.

Nothing at all.

Dunlaith tethered her horse to a gorse bush and slipped silently through the woods, guided by the smell of smoke. Her feet made no sound on the leaves and grass. Smoothly gliding over fallen tree trunks, slick moss beneath her hands, branches catching in her hair, the laoch kept her ears cocked, alert for the smallest sound. She carried only her sword; helmet, gauntlets and shield had been left upon her mount.

At last, she heard voices and quickened her pace, though still maintaining strict silence. Soon she came to a small clearing within a circle of giant oaks; within this grassy space, three nude women sat around a fire, roasting meat on wooden spits. Dunlaith crouched down behind a tree trunk and watched, unwilling to make her presence known.

One of the women was young, a maiden who had yet to blossom. Her coppery hair was worn loose about her shoulders, a tumble of curls that rippled around her naked body like a shawl. Her arms and legs were scrawny but the flesh was smooth and white; she wore clashing bangles and rings of silver on both wrists and ankles. A small wavy tattoo, done in blue woad, arched across her face from left to right, just beneath the eyes and over the bridge of her nose. The girl's wide eyes had three irises - the colors green, gold and bright scarlet in rings around the pupil  - and her features were sharp, reminding Dunlaith of a fox. When she smiled, she revealed prominent white teeth that looked almost pointed.

The next was a mature woman who resembled the girl enough to have been her mother, including the green, gold and scarlet eyes. Since the woman wore her dark auburn hair pinned up in braids, her body was revealed in all its lush glory; Dunlaith saw the marks of childbearing on the woman's rounded belly and full breasts. She was plump and ripe as a summer peach, made all the more beautiful by the evidence of her fruitfulness. Like the girl, she bore a woad mark across her face, but her jewelry was crafted of gold.

The last was an old woman, shriveled like a winter blasted apple. Her empty, wrinkled dugs flopped on her stomach and the loose flesh beneath her upper arms swayed like banners when she moved her meat away from the fire. Her face was sunken, as if she had no teeth. The crone had only one eye - but that triple irised like the rest - and the intricate jewelry she wore was made of steel. Her white hair was broadly streaked in pale red, held away from her face by combs. The tattoo on her face was nearly obscured by the lines and marks of age.

The hair on the back of Dunlaith's neck rose and she shivered with sudden chill. These were cailleach, witches, but whether white or black was unknown. The warrior wondered if she should slip away before they noticed her lurking near their ritual place.

As soon as this thought crossed her mind, the three women looked up and their eyes focused straight on her hiding spot. "A burning one comes," the youngest said.

The mother nodded. "She is on fire from within and without."

"Has she the courage to join her flame to ours?" the hag cackled.

Dunlaith swallowed and put a hand on her sword. Slowly, she stood up and moved away from the tree, stepping a few paces into the clearing.

The three women stared at her. The laoch looked from one face to the next and realized that, except for the difference in their ages, the cailleach were virtually identical. It was as if she viewed the same woman at three stages in her life - fresh virgin, fertile mother and withered crone.

"What do you seek, one who burns?" asked the maiden in her clear, fluting voice.

Dunlaith cleared her throat and replied, "I seek a man, a sorcerer known as Cairbh Gaduigh, the corpse thief. His home is the Fortress of the Green Spears."

The mother laughed and rolled her spit, sending sizzling drops of fat into the flames. "Are you sure it is a man whose trail you follow?"

"I must find him," the warrior said, gripping the hilt of her sword tightly. "Will you help me or not?"

"Oh, we can help, to be sure. We know where the thief of beauty rests his head, do we not, sisters? But will you share our meat as willingly as you wish to share our sight?" the crone countered, smacking her lips.

The three stared at her avidly while the meat charred and the fire popped.

Dunlaith was momentarily taken aback. She'd been taught to eat no meat and drink no wine offered by a cailleach, lest she lose her immortal soul to the witch's enchantments. On the other hand, the laws of hospitality so sacred to the Celts required that a guest never refuse refreshment offered by the host. This was a very serious matter; clan feuds lasting for decades had been started over such an insult.

Besides, if she rejected the women's offer and offended them, she might never find Cairbh and Aislinn would be lost to her forever.

I have given up enough of my honor for one day, she thought. I will not break the guest law, too. If the cailleach want to devour my soul along with their meat, then so be it! As long as they leave enough strength in my bones to save my ionuin.

Dunlaith let go of her sword hilt and knelt down by the fire. "I accept your hospitality and I thank you," she said formally, nodding to each woman and settling herself cross-legged with her hands on her knees.

The maiden giggled. "We do not want your soul."

"But there is a price," the mother warned.

"Whatever it is, I will pay it," the laoch answered.

"Faugh! Be not so hasty," the crone replied. Her single eye gleamed as she peered at Dunlaith. "A man once wished for all the wisdom of the world; the price was his sanity, so that he roamed a madman and none believed the profound answers he offered with every breath until he died."

"A woman begged immortality for her only son," the mother said calmly, flicking a wrist to make her golden bangles chime. "She paid for it with both their lives. At one-and-twenty, he died a hero on a blood drenched battlefield, his body hacked to bits by many swords... and his mother perished of a broken heart. But the bards sing of his bravery still and he will never be forgotten, for fame is the only eternity that never tarnishes."

The maiden turned to the frowning warrior. "Consider your words carefully, Brown Lady of the Burning. The cost of our aid may be too high to bear."

It did not surprise the laoch that the witch knew her name. "If I do not find Cairbh, the life of my love will be forfeit." Dunlaith wiped beads of sweat from her chin. "I was foolish enough to lose her once; I will not do so again. Once more I say, whatever your price, I will pay it. I swear."

"So be it!" the crone declared. She accidentally kicked her spit and the chunk of meat tumbled into the middle of the fire, where the flames burned the hottest. She stared at it mournfully then turned to Dunlaith. "Fetch me that meat," she said, pointing. "That is the price I demand."

Dunlaith couldn't believe pleasing the cailleach would be so easy. "All right," she said, reaching for a branch, intending to rake the blazing meat onto the cooler coals.

"Nay!" The old woman snatched the branch away. "Use only the tools God gave you." She indicated the warrior's right hand. "Since you are a warrior, your sword arm is the most handy."

The laoch looked at the maiden and the mother; both women nodded.

Dunlaith began to sweat in earnest. She got on her knees and scooted closer to the fire. The heat was tremendous, as if she stood in the midst of a raging bonfire instead of a modest blaze. The skin of her face felt tight; her eyes began to tear. She tentatively extended her hand and immediately jerked it back; the flesh was scorched scarlet and a blister was rising on her palm.

"Do you fear the flames so much?" the young girl whispered. "You need not perform the task. We will not force you. Just give up."

"It is easy," the hag said. "Get on your horse and ride away. Forget about your quest."

"There is no blame if you fail," the mother said, smoothing her rich auburn hair.

"Only everlasting shame and sorrow," Dunlaith replied, glancing at her burned palm. The crackling of the fire became a roar as flames soared so high they seemed to lick at the sky. A hot wind blew against her face, fluttering her black bangs, and the heat was so intense she had to flinch back.

I am a warrior, she thought. It is the essence of myself, the path I have chosen. All my life has been dedicated to the sword.

She was certain that if she did this, she would be badly injured, possibly lose the use of her arm. It would take her long years of training to transfer sword skills to her left hand, and even then, few lords would hire a one-armed soldier. She had already thrown away her honor, reputation and good name for the sake of love. The witches asked a heavy price; they wanted her to sacrifice of the last things that defined who she was.

Where are all my brave words now? Dunlaith thought.

She spent a long moment in thought. When she looked up, her blue eyes burned with determination and courage.

"I cannot turn away, I cannot fail," she said simply. "Aislinn is my soul. Better to lose my life than my ionuin."

Squeezing her eyes almost closed and taking a deep breath, Dunlaith thrust her hand into the very heart of the fire. As her fingers tried to close around the sizzling meat, she could feel the skin of her arm burning and flaking away, the flesh beneath crisping to black, the bones bursting into flames. The pain was excruciating; she was being burned alive and fiery threads of anguish lanced from shoulder to fingertips. Despite her effort, the meat was just out of reach. Cords stood out in her throat as the warrior howled in agony, but her will was stronger than the animal instinct to pull away.

Think of Aislinn! urged the part of her that was still capable of conscious thought. Focus on your love! You cannot fail your love!

The laoch's eyes rolled back into her head. "Aislinn!" she wailed, shoving her arm further into the fire. Her dark hair was frizzing and smoking from the heat. This time, she successfully grabbed the chunk of meat, her fingertips sinking into the charred surface and holding tight.

Dunlaith pulled the meat out of the fire and dropped it on the ground in front of the crone. Panting, she cradled her arm against her chest, unwilling to look at it and see the damage for herself. The pain was easing a bit but she wasn't fooled. She'd seen men burned before - by oil, tar and fire arrows - and was all too familiar with the numbness that comes from wounds that had been eaten by fire down to the bone. She thought she could smell the distinct sweet odor of cooked human flesh and was immediately nauseous.

The old woman poked at the smoking meat with her spit. "T'is burnt," she observed casually. The blackened crust had split open, showing the bloody red flesh beneath.

Dunlaith fought the urge to vomit. She knew that was probably what her arm looked like. "I've paid your price," she croaked. "Give me what I want."

The young girl studied Dunlaith then grinned mischievously. "Of what use is a one-armed warrior in the world?"

The laoch gritted her teeth. "I'll play no more games with you!" she snapped. "You've gotten what you wanted. I'm a cripple and I'll probably die of these wounds but before I do, by St. Brigit, I'll find my ionuin! Now tell me - where is Cairbh?"

The mother gave her a gentle smile. "Look at your arm and tell me again if you are a cripple."

Unwillingly, Dunlaith gave her arm a quick glance... then stared in disbelief. It hadn't been touched; there was not a single mark upon her flesh except the blister on her palm and a little soot. Her mouth worked but she couldn't formulate a question; she was too caught up in wonder and confusion.

"T'was a test," the crone said. "You faltered the first time and got scorched for your pains."

The mother continued, "But then you showed true courage. By entering the flames whole-heartedly and enduring the pain, you have proven yourself worthy of our aid."

"By your willingness to give up everything for love, you have earned our help," the maiden said.

Dunlaith grimaced wryly, flexing the fingers of her right hand. The pain was entirely gone now; just a slight tingling remained. "You pick a harsh way of testing," she said.

"There is always a price," the mother replied. "Many speak of sacrifice, but few are actually strong enough when the time comes."

The fire had returned to normal. Dunlaith sat back and said, "You say I've earned your help. Tell me where I can find Rath Meargach. Tell me where Cairbh has taken my ionuin. Tell me what he is and what he plans to do."

The crone shook her head, making wisps of white hair fly into her face. "Some secrets can be told only through cold lips," she said cryptically. "But there are other secrets we are permitted to reveal."

The girl and the old woman moved until they were seated on either side of the mother, then placed their hands on the woman's plump, naked shoulders and bowed their heads. The mother held her own hands in front of her face, fingers curled over to form a tube through which she peered with one eye.

This was the imbas forasnai, the Light of Foresight, a way of seeking a lost person or possession.

"Travel south until you reach the Doire Scathach, the Grove of Shadows," the three women chanted in unison, their voices blending into a weird harmony. "Then you must turn east; follow the lesser river, not the greater, until you come to Linne Guileag, the Lake of the Swan's Note. It is here, after many days travel, that you will find the thief's fortress."

The mother lowered her hands. Her eyes of green, gold and scarlet seemed to sear into Dunlaith's soul. "Beware, warrior, for he is clever and ruthless, a dangerous man who has survived beyond his woven span of years. His magic has been the death of more than one."

The maiden and the crone echoed, "More than one."

"Pay heed to the cold questioners. Should any ask your design, answer honestly."

Again, the other two repeated, "Answer honestly."

The auburn haired mother held out her hand. Dangling from her fingers was a small key laced to a leather cord. Dunlaith took it and realized the object had been carved from bone and was covered in tiny symbols, predominantly spirals and stylized waves, and the tip came to a wicked point, almost like a dart.

"This is the key to his heart," the cailleach said. "Only by breaking his heart can you reive the unnatural life from his bones. Do not fail to use it when the time comes."

"Do not fail," the maiden and the old woman murmured.

As Dunlaith watched, the figures of the three women began to grow fainter, as if they were gradually fading away from existence. "What does he want with Aislinn?" she called. "Why do you call him the thief of beauty?"

The witches answered in unison, "Remember what we have said. Above all, do not doubt that your life is knotted to the Dreamer's; your fate and hers are a single cord. Trust in that love; it is your shield and your greatest strength. Put your faith in love."

Before the laoch could reply, the women had completely disappeared, leaving behind few signs that they'd been there at all. The fire had burned down to ashes and glowing embers; the meat they had been roasting was gone. Dunlaith glanced about; the sun was rising, not setting; somehow, she'd been there all night without noticing.

She rose to her feet and walked around the remains of the fire to shake the stiffness from her muscles, and wound the leather thong around her wrist, securing it with a knot. The little bone key hung reassuringly against her palm.

Dunlaith wasn't sure of the meaning of most of the cailleach's words but she would remember them. At the moment, it was enough that she had a definite direction and a means to find her destination. Once she located Cairbh's fortress, perhaps the rest of the witches' cant would sort itself out. Or not. She was too eager to be on her way to care.

The warrior was able to find her way back to her horse without difficulty; the gelding nickered, glad to see her. She rubbed his velvety nose with her fingers before swinging up into the saddle and turning his head towards the south.

It was time to move on.

Cairbh breathed a sigh of satisfaction when he finally sighted his home. Beside him, Aislinn sat on her horse and smiled blankly, a beautiful and mindless puppet lost in a haze of enchantment. 

The sorcerer glanced from the fortress to his bride and decided it was time to return some of the girl's sense. While they'd traveled, he'd needed all of his considerable concentration to maintain the spell that hastened their passage and he hadn't wanted to be distracted by the girl's complaints. But Aislinn figured largely in his plan; he had not gone to such trouble to find and claim her for nothing. There were a great many preparations he'd have to make before she could be used and he simply could not spare either of his servants to nurse her night and day. He would have to allow her to be functional and self-sufficient... within certain limits. 

Murmuring a few lines beneath his breath, the pretty lord was pleased to see some animation returning to her face, although she would still be pliable and easily manipulated. The recollections of her former life with the O'Ciaran - with the exception of the fact of her marriage to him - were safely locked away within her mind and she'd accept whatever he told her without question. That was the beauty of this particular spell, which had taken him years to master. Aislinn had been bewitched into complacency, much like the folk at Loughnashade. She would never question the gaps in her memory, believe what she was told, and obey his commands without ever wondering why. These were the only changes the spell made to her psyche; Aislinn would still be capable of some independent thought and action, and her personality would, for the most part, remain intact. 

There would be an unfortunate side effect, of course. Some flawed aspect of her character - whether it was a genuine vice or a hidden insignificant sin - would be intensified, gaining dominance in her thoughts and expressions until it became an almost lunatic obsession. This would happen gradually, however; he'd have plenty of time to put his plan into action before she went entirely mad. 

To Aislinn, being returning to herself was like waking from a dream, startled out of a deep sleep by sounds she couldn't quite identify. She roused herself with a jerk and stared with blurred eyes at the landscape around her. "Did I fall asleep? It doesn't seem possible. This mare's gait is so terrible I would have fallen off." 

"You were very tired, dear wife," Cairbh replied, smiling widely. "And you were never in danger. I was right beside you the whole time." 

The girl looked around her and yawned, rubbing her eyes with a knuckle. "Are we stopping for the night?" 

"Oh, yes," the pretty lord purred. "Tell me, wife, do you recall a person by the name of Lady Elaine the Lilymaid? Or O'Ciaran? Or how about..." His brow furrowed for a second in furious thought and then he snapped his fingers. "Ah! Do you know anyone by the name of Dunlaith?" 

Aislinn shook her head, bewildered. "Nay, my lord. I know them not. Why? Do you expect them as guests at Rath Meargach?" 

"I was but curious," Cairbh replied casually. She had passed the test and he knew his spell of oblivion was working. "They are old acquaintances. Do not concern yourself. In fact, perhaps t'is best you forget I asked altogether." 

"My lord, the sunlight is failing; should we not make camp?" Her husband's strange question already forgotten, Aislinn yawned again while the mare chewed impatiently at the bit and began picking a hole in the grass with her fore hoof. 

"No need for a camp. Look ahead; your new home awaits its mistress." 

They had stopped at the edge of a huge lake; groves of trees and meadows dotted the circular rim. In the center of the rippling gray water was a big, irregularly shaped island; on that grassy earth was a stone building, circular like an old earth mound fortress but far more ambitious in its construction. A pair of towers, about fifty feet apart, jutted from the front, and their pointed roofs rose straight up above the crenelated outer wall. The tower on the right had been built on a spit of land but the left hand tower was anchored in the water itself. Wind driven waves lapped at the solid walls of the left tower, leaving dark stains of moisture wherever they touched, and strands of slimy water weed grew on the stones. 

There were regular gaps between the blocks of stone that made up the rim of the outer wall's roof. A forest of spears sprouted between these spaces; they had once been copper, but age and exposure to the elements had turned the metal verdigris green, giving the fortress its name. 

Aislinn gasped and rubbed her eyes again, this time in disbelief. Rath Meargach, the Fortress of the Green Spears, was more beautiful than she'd ever imagined. 

Cairbh nodded. "My family's home for five generations," he said proudly. "The waters are called Guileag Linne, the Lake of the Swan's Note, but I will tell you more of its history later. Come, sweet wife. We are both weary from our travels and I would delay our return no longer." 

She followed him around the edge of the lake until they reached a point directly opposite the front of the fortress. A large patch of gravelly rock led straight down into the water, where a log raft bobbed gently in the shallows, tethered to a stake driven into dry land. Dismounting, they led their horses and mules onto the raft; Aislinn held the mount's reins while Cairbh untied the rope tether. Immediately, the raft began to float across the lake towards the fortress isle; it was remarkably stable for such a craft and Aislinn wondered how it was driven, since there were no poles, oars, sails or rudder. 

"An ingenious device of my grandfather's," Cairbh replied, patting her shoulder. "Do not ask me to explain it to you; the mechanics of his genius would be far too complicated for your poor woman's mind to comprehend." 

Aislinn was not stung by this insult; instead she nodded in agreement, knowing somehow that his argument was proper and correct. "How many are in service to you, my lord? And who tills the land hereabouts? Is there a village nearby?" 

The lord gazed across the lake; a fresh breeze blew the golden curls from his broad, white forehead, while his old man's weak eyes squinted in effort, trying to bring his home into clear focus. "No village, no peasants, and I have only two servants, but they do their job exceptionally well and I have no need of others. However, as I am fond of luxury and comfort, you need not fear living in a swine's pen; my men are excellent laborers, exquisite cooks and maintain the grounds and home to perfection, as you will see." 

Although she knew that keeping a household properly was an enormous undertaking requiring many hours and many pairs of hands, Aislinn accepted Cairbh's outrageous statement as if it was gospel. 

He continued, "We are pretty isolated here and I have few friends or guests to disturb my peace, but I do considerable business with traveling merchants. Rath Meargach boasts all the luxuries you could ever desire and you will want for nothing, I assure you." 

Cairbh turned to Aislinn and placed two fingers on her chin, tilting her face up to the fading sunlight. "Sweet wife..." A wide smile crossed his beautiful face. "Did you know... in this light, your eyes are more glorious than ever? I envy you those eyes." 

Aislinn shyly returned his smile, mentally thanking God that He had sent her such a thoughtful and caring husband. 

Arriving on the island, Cairbh led the horses and mules up to the massive doors set into the wall between the two towers. They were taller than six men in height and wide enough to drive a team of oxen through. Made of wide oak planks decorated with hammered copper and bronze, this portal was the only way in or out of the fortress. The doors swung wide as soon as he approached; Aislinn followed him inside, eyes wide with wonder. 

The fortress was built around a pretty little courtyard garden in the center, while the space between the inner and outer walls provided living quarters. As they traveled through the portal, the girl gasped when she caught sight of two men standing in the courtyard; they wore black and silver livery and held  lit torches, but their appearance was so strange and shocking that Aislinn wondered if she was hallucinating. 

They were so alike they might have been twins. Both had blue-black skin, so dark it seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it, and their heads were shaven bald. Their eyes were black as well, with only the thinnest sliver of white surrounding the enormous iris, and their noses were thin and pointed as blades. Aislinn looked closer and  realized their hands had only three curved, claw-tipped fingers and a thumb; the skin was drawn tight against the bone and looked hard as horn. 

Cairbh chuckled at his bride's consternation. "My servants," he said. "Dubhghiolla and Bran." 

"Black Servant and Raven?" Aislinn eyed the two silent men. "Where do they come from? Are they Saracens? I've never seen men that color before!" 

"Few have," the lord said sardonically. "But do not fear them. They might be different but they are loyal enough in their own fashion. Do not think of their differences; consider only their virtues." 

The two black men came forward and bowed. One of them, Aislinn wasn't sure which, said, "Welcome home, master." 

She winced; his voice was harsh and rasping, reminding her of a crow's call. 

Cairbh handed the horse's reins to his servants. "Before you take them to the stables, unload their packs. My wife's things should be taken to her rooms." 

Taking Aislinn by the arm, he led her round the courtyard to an arched door. The wood was dark and stained with age; iron nails had been driven into the surface, forming a pattern. Since the heads of the nails had turned blood red with rust, the effect was somewhat like bright, swirling flames covering the surface. A gargoyle's head was bolted to the front, mouth gaping wide in a soundless leer; its out thrust tongue formed the door handle. 

"Look well, wife," Cairbh commanded. "Before you stands the door of the left tower, called Stuaid-leim, Leap of the Waves. Stuaid-leim is my private place and I allow no one - neither servants, wives, guests or kin - to disturb my peace." He squeezed her arm, grinding flesh against bone until she gasped and flinched in pain. "You are never, never, to open that door. You are never, never to step within. Not so much as the thinnest and finest hair of your head will slip through any crack, and not so much as a single breath from your lips will graze the dust on the lintel." 

Aislinn's eyes filled with tears. Her knees buckled but he held her upright. Thrusting his poisonously flawless face against hers, he hissed, "The freedom of the rath and its grounds is yours. Go where you will and do what you will. But this tower is mine alone. Do you understand?!!" 

The girl whimpered, "Yes, my lord." 

He shook her until she cried out with pain. "Say it!" 

"I am never to go within Stuaid-leim! It is yours alone!" Aislinn choked. 

"And you will not even lay a finger on the handle of the door?" 

"Nay, my lord! Please! I understand!" Aislinn wept. "Please, my lord! You are hurting me!" 

Cairbh's manner immediately changed. He helped her stand with tender care and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I think you will like the rooms I've chosen for you," he said, tucking stray strands of red-gold hair behind her ears while Aislinn snuffled and eyed him warily, rubbing her throbbing arm. 

He held out a hand and she shrank back. Cairbh said coaxingly, "Come, now... do you not wish to see more of your new home? I promised you delights, did I not? I think you will be well pleased." He was treating Aislinn as if she was a sulky child, offering a sweet to take away the sting of a well deserved rebuke. 

When the girl didn't respond, he continued with an air of saintly patience, "Women are ignorant, shallow, selfish creatures, their souls bound to earth rather than heaven, composed more of vice than virtue. That has been the way of things since Mother Eve tempted Adam with the apple. You're a convent girl; did not the nuns and priests teach you this? A little bruising will help you remember to curb your sinful curiosity. I act only in your best interests, sweet wife; whatever I do, I do out of love." 

Aislinn swallowed and composed herself. She had a vague recollection that he'd hurt her once before but couldn't remember how or when or why, and she supposed he was right - it was for her own good. She knew that the Church allowed a husband to beat his wife regularly, so long as he did not use a rod longer than his arm or thicker than his thumb. In fact, the practice was encouraged, for the word of God commanded that wives be submissive and obedient to their husbands as well as the Church. 

Obey them that have the rule over you, and submit yourselves... 

Likewise, ye wives, be in subjection to your own husbands... 

Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as it is fit in the Lord... 

Therefore, as the church is subject unto Christ, so let wives be to their own husbands in every thing... 

If he loves me enough to take the trouble to correct me, Aislinn thought, does that not mean he holds me in high regard? That he cares for the state of my eternal soul? This is the teaching of the Church, drawn down from God to the lips of His priests, that the instruction may turn women away from their naturally sinful natures. Truly, I am blessed. Sweet Mary, I thank thee for a husband who takes such care of an ignorant woman!

Wiping her face, she gave him a tentative smile and was rewarded by a beaming grin. 

"Come; I want you to see the rath before we eat supper," Cairbh said. 

Taking his offered hand, Aislinn allowed him to lead her into the place where she would spend the rest of her days. 

Every room he showed her was beautifully furnished; the high beamed ceilings were hung with colorful banners and flags, the walls lined with exquisite tapestries, the floors boasted woven carpets instead of rushes. 

Her own set of rooms was near the left tower - an enormous bedroom connected to a bathing chamber and her solar by a set of doors. The walls of her bedroom had been whitewashed, then painted with bright murals that depicted a hunting scene; the ceiling was painted to resemble a sky. The huge bed was so high that a set of steps had been provided; tapestries hung on rails around the bed and could be drawn against the night's chill. The sheets were delicately woven linen, soft as a cloud, and embroidered on the hems with scrolling designs of ivy and crimson berries; the blankets were fine wool; and as an added luxury, a heavy purple silk throw with a fringe of ermine lay folded at the foot of the bed. 

Delicate chairs were made comfortable with plump brocade cushions; the single arrowslit window was so deep that could also be used as a seat, and was furnished with a thick, quilted pad and a half dozen fat bolsters. There were spindly tables of pierced ivory inlaid with onyx, carnelian and amber; even an elaborately carved and gilded desk with inkpot, quills and parchment. A niche was lined with shelves that groaned beneath a load of precious books, all of them bound in soft calfskin leather and tooled with gold and silver. A dressing table, covered in cosmetics, beauty preparations and jewelry boxes, boasted a big round mirror of such quality and workmanship that Aislinn was astonished. 

Everywhere she looked there was more gilt, more tassels, more riches and more delights than she'd ever imagined the world to hold. 

"T'is yours, sweet wife," Cairbh drawled lazily. "All yours. I know a girl of your sensible upbringing must be overwhelmed, but I insist that you inspect everything now, to make sure you are truly pleased and there is nothing lacking." 

What an excellent idea! Bruised arm forgotten, Aislinn dashed from here to there, examining this and that, opening boxes and babbling in excitement and wonder. 

Cairbh's terrible old eyes narrowed as he watched his wife and he smiled to himself; there were enough distractions in this room alone to keep the girl occupied for some time. In fact, the entire fortress - except for his tower, of course - was designed to be a glittering labyrinth of rare treasures, each more fascinating and wondrous than the last. As Aislinn explored her new domain, she would find enough magical marvels to keep her happy and satisfied with her lot, a condition that had to be fulfilled in order for his plan to work. 

The enchantment he'd placed her under was not powerful enough to force her to feel true joy; that had to come from within and he'd learned from painful experience that ordering someone to be happy just didn't work. Hence, this fortress of delights he'd spent so much time and money creating. 

T'is not entirely for naught, Cairbh thought as Aislinn dashed about. When I am done with the curse that plagues me, I will remain here and enjoy the fruits of my labor alone.

Finally, he decided it was time to reveal more surprises. "You've seen but the smallest part," he said, guiding his bride to a series of four chests against one wall. "All of this is my wedding gift to you and there is yet more to come." He threw open the first and Aislinn sank to her knees, emerald eyes wide. 

The chest held gown after gown, carefully folded and sprinkled with lavender to preserve them from moths. Aislinn reached inside and began pulling the dresses out, smoothing them across her knees. They were finely crafted cotton, light silk and satin gowns for the summer months, all of them beaded or embroidered or embellished with gold scrolling or jewels. Some had slashed sleeves to show the contrasting lining underneath; others were decorated with ribbon loveknots at shoulder, wrist and waist. Aislinn had never seen so many gowns in her life and she looked at her husband with questioning eyes. 

"Aye!" Cairbh laughed. "T'is all for you, every one!" He indicated the three remaining chests. "Gowns for each season - winter, spring, summer and fall. You will be the most wonderfully dressed woman in Eire, I vow!" 

He reached out and pulled a dress from the heap in Aislinn's lap. It was forest green velvet with a high waist and squared neckline; the sleeves were tight from shoulder to elbow, then flared out to the wide, hanging point usually reserved for queens. The bodice was quilted with gold thread and picked out in pearls. Cairbh helped the dazed girl pile the other gowns back into the chest and then pulled her to her feet. 

He guided Aislinn over to the mirror; standing behind her, he held the green velvet dress in front of her body. "Do you not think it exquisite, sweet wife? It complements your eyes marvelously. Wear it to supper; I'm sure you will find some jewels in these boxes that will suit." 

Aislinn nodded; her eyes met his in the mirror. There was a strange expression on Cairbh's pretty face as he stared at his reflection and hers; a look of almost avaricious greed crossed his features like a spasm and the girl had the fleeting impression that he was imagining the dress held against his own body. 

By now, she knew enough not to ask any questions. 

Aislinn gently slid the gown away from his fingertips. "Will you be sharing this room with me, my lord?" she asked shyly. "We have yet to consummate the marriage rites and according to the Church..." 

Cairbh stiffened and drew back. "Certainly not! My bedchamber lies in my tower and that is where I spend every night." His horribly rheumy eyes flicked over her with obvious distaste. "Do you women think of nothing save the desires of the flesh? Faugh! I have no time for such nonsense. We are married in the eyes of God and that is enough; be grateful to have been spared the further sins of Eve. Now get dressed. I will wait for you in the hall. When you're finished, we'll have supper together." 

Aislinn blew out the breath she'd been holding as the golden haired lord left the bedchamber with his usual slinky grace. She hadn't known what to expect during her first night alone with her husband, but she'd expected it to be painful, bloody and humiliating experience. Still, marriage was a duty and not a pleasure - so said the Church. She'd been afraid but had been willing to do as her husband bid; now she was grateful that the terrible event seemed to have been postponed and she'd remain a virgin. 

He is so wise, such a good and considerate man! Aislinn sighed and began undoing her long, red-gold hair. He protects me from my own foul female nature so well. Truly, God has given me the best husband, a saint on Earth!

After staring at herself in the mirror for a moment, Aislinn quickly did as she'd been bidden. The velvet dress donned and adorned with emeralds and pearls, the maiden bride proudly joined her lord and master, sailing through the halls of Rath Meargach as if she were its true mistress... 

Instead of its prisoner. 

For Aislinn, the days seemed to rush away in a never ending blur of activity. She rarely saw her husband save at the evening meal, and while the fortress was kept immaculately clean and wonderful food was prepared on time, the two black servants were hardly ever seen or heard. But the girl was never bored and never felt the need for company; she was doing quite well enough on her own. 

Although each room offered fresh delights, new treasures and toys for her to admire and play with by the hour, eventually Aislinn became utterly captivated by the chapel. It was a small, intimately cozy room; the walls were lined with stained glass windows, all in shades of crimson, deep gold and black. Although the windows did not look upon the outside - they had been placed in niches carved into the outer stone wall - candles burned perpetually behind them, casting an eerie glow into the room. How those candles remained lit and maintained, Aislinn neither knew nor cared. She was far too focused on the main feature of the room. 

Four small pews of glossy black wood, elaborately carved with scenes of sinners suffering in Hell, faced an altar of such magnificence that Aislinn could hardly tear herself away. The stone altar was draped with a cloth-of-gold cover, skillfully embroidered with scarlet crosses, ravens and images of saints. Candle cups of alabaster, onyx and jeweled gold stood mingled with ornate relic caskets, goblets, crucifixes and a gorgeously illustrated missal in a pierced silver box. 

Fastened to the wall above the altar was the most beautifully carved crucifix Aislinn had ever seen. The image of the crucified Christ was almost life-sized; the lean bearded face, so eloquent in its depiction of glorious suffering, was painted with realistic streams and spatters of blood, running down from the crown of thorns that bound His forehead. The girl could kneel before this Christ forever, staring up at the convulsed features, and pray until she was hoarse, listening with all her soul for the still, small voice that would guide her towards salvation. 

Aislinn knew she was evil; the Church had condemned all her sex as temptresses and weak willed wantons, fit only to bear children to the glory of God. Gradually, she thought she could make out voices, just on the edge of perception; angels, saints and the Virgin Mary, pleading with her to redeem herself, urging her to suffer in payment for her sins, mortify her flesh to save her spirit from eternal damnation. 

So she ignored the aches and stiffness from kneeling on the stone floors for hours at a stretch; she kept a careful tally of each and every offense she committed against God, writing it all down in a little book that she kept concealed in her bosom. To avoid the sin of gluttony, she ate only bread and water; every minute that she wasn't sewing or reading the word of God, she spent in heartfelt prayer, to keep the sin of sloth at bay.  She refused to use her luxurious bed and instead, curled up to sleep on a heap of dirty straw she'd brought into her chamber from the stables. 

Aislinn had wanted to go further; she'd begged Cairbh for a hair shirt but he'd refused, ordering her to continue wearing beautiful gowns even though she felt that adorning her body was to wallow in the sin of pride. When he discovered that she was poring over her missal at night by the light of a single smoky candle until her eyes burned and refused to focus, he finally put his foot down. 

"You are to bathe regularly and use the perfumes I have provided," the lord commanded one night over supper, stabbing his two-tined fork in her direction to emphasize his words. "You are to wear the dresses and jewels you have been given. You are to eat regularly and remain healthy. And above all, no more of this nonsense about reading at night! You are not to strain your eyes!" 

"Aye, my lord," Aislinn replied anxiously. She'd lost weight; her face was too thin and pale, making her emerald eyes seem enormous by contrast. "But how am I to learn from God if I cannot read his words?" 

Cairbh banged the table hard with his fist, making the salt cellar and goblets jump. "I will not have you ruining your sight!" he shouted. "By Christ, woman, you will obey! You belong to me, from crown to heels and everything in-between. Those eyes you are so careless with belong to me as well. Do you understand?" 

"Aye," Aislinn said miserably. "I will do as you say, my lord." 

"Good." Cairbh picked up a slice of meat and dipped it delicately into a bowl of sauce. "I care not what you do in the daylight hours," he said carelessly. "Read, stroll in the garden or mew yourself up in the chapel if you please; wear your knees to bloody shreds on the flagstones if it takes your fancy. But when the sun goes down, you are to put aside your study and occupy yourself with some other pastime." 

Well, the side effect is stronger than I'd anticipated, the lord thought. The girl's obsession with God is becoming a nuisance and really, she is beginning to annoy me with all her whining and groveling. Still, I'll have done with wife and curse alike soon enough! I must endure just a little longer...

A sneer twisting his scarlet lips, Cairbh said aloud, "I will be leaving the fortress directly after supper and be gone for a few hours. When I return, I expect to find you sleeping, not praying." He dabbled his fingers in a dish of rosewater to cleanse them, wiped his hands on the white tablecloth and left, leaving Aislinn alone in the big, echoing dining hall with only her thoughts for company. 

She picked at the food in front of her. I must obey my lord. The word of God tells me this is so. But I want... no, I need to suffer, for my soul is rotten with transgressions and offenses, filled with the work of the Devil. If I am not allowed to suffer for my sins, how can I please the Heavenly Father? How can I turn aside His wrath? How can I erase the grief and disappointment I have caused to the saints and the Virgin Mary?

There must be some sacrifice I can make, some precious offering I can rejoice in losing, knowing that it will help me turn my mind more to Heaven than Earth. But what? Not my dresses or anything my husband has given me; it must be personal, more private.

Suddenly, it struck her. The saddlebags! They had been lying forgotten in her bedchamber all this time. Aislinn didn't remember exactly what was in them but she knew those leather sacks contained relics of her previous life, the time before she'd met and wed Cairbh. 

Yes, that's it! she thought, face beginning to glow with anticipation. I will look into those bags and see what they contain. Surely, I will find something to sacrifice for my salvation. Oh, sweet Jesu... truly, Thou art great and merciful!

Sliding back her chair, Aislinn hurried to her bedchamber, eager to relinquish her past and mollify the stern judgment of God. 

Dunlaith walked along the side of the lake; she'd tethered the gelding some distance away in order to approach on foot. Less noise, less fuss and less chance of alerting the sorcerer to her presence. 

She'd been traveling for nearly a fortnight; as each mile passed beneath her horse's hooves, the worry and anguish she'd felt about Aislinn had increased until the laoch was almost physically ill. Despite her internal turmoil, Dunlaith had continued her journey, following the cailleach's directions until she'd reached the Lake of the Swan's Note. 

The body of water was truly immense; she could barely make out the opposite shore. The wooded areas that surrounded the lake were thick and dense, but the rolling meadows were filled with sweet summer flowers and high grass that rattled in the breeze. The warrior carefully picked her way through a stand of tall reeds, thick mud sucking at her shoes, flinching with each squelching step. Who knew what kind of guards Cairbh might have stationed to guard his stronghold? 

It was early evening; the sun had disappeared behind distant hills but the light had not entirely faded. Dunlaith could see the fortress on its isle in the center of the water but it was still a long way off. So far, she hadn't found a way to cross the lake - no boats, docks or bridges - but she was certain it was there; she would just have to keep searching. She couldn't swim there, that was for certain; even if her mail didn't pull her down, she'd never learned to do so much as tread water. 

This Cairbh is no Jesus Christ, to walk on water as if it were dry land! she thought. There must be a way!

Suddenly, she heard a strange, melancholy sound close at hand. It was like the belling of a trumpet but much more melodic and haunting. She pushed aside some reeds and found herself face to face with a black swan. 

The bird was bigger than any she'd ever seen before, at least twice the normal size; its eyes were the fiery red of burning coals and its ebony feathers had a gleaming, oily sheen with hints of poisonous green along the edges. It flapped its wings and hissed, then drew back its head and trumpeted again. Glancing up, Dunlaith saw black dots on the surface of the lake coming rapidly her way; these vague dark blurs soon came into focus and she realized they were at least a dozen more swans. 

The one beside her hissed again and struck out with its beak. Its neck was as long and flexible as a snake's body and just as quick; it scored on the woman's leg, surprising her completely. The laoch yelped and leaped back, drawing her sword. The bird's beak had felt sharp as a dagger, piercing through her tough leather trousers as if they were fragile linen. She could feel blood trickling down from the wound in her thigh; what were these hellish creatures? 

Dunlaith scrambled out of the reeds, followed by the original swan. It trumpeted in triumph, wings flapping as it pursued the warrior. The other birds waddled out of the lake and joined the attack. 

To the warrior, it seemed as if the twilight had turned into a nightmare of shadowy feathers, razored beaks and flaming eyes. Silently she fought off the birds, sweeping her sword from side to side in a figure eight pattern to keep them at bay and protecting her throat with her small shield. She was bleeding from a half dozen wounds below the waist before she killed the first one, allowing a swan to cut her so she could lop off the head of another. The dying bird's head rolled to the edge of the lake, beak still clacking, but to Dunlaith's profound relief, it didn't rise to fight again. 

Good! she thought. They can be killed. I have a chance... if reinforcements are not summoned.

The idea of having hundreds or even thousands of these monsters to contend with made her blood run cold. 

She quickly decided on a tactic, ignoring the rest of the hissing, deadly mob, concentrating solely on one swan at a time and moving, always moving, to avoid presenting too easy of a target. The birds followed, trumpeting and slashing, weaving their heads in a hypnotic rhythm. By putting her shield to good use as a distraction, luring the birds into extending their necks then striking swiftly with her sword, Dunlaith managed to kill the rest but not without cost. Her legs, buttocks and back were covered with bleeding cuts and she had no time to assess her injuries. 

So, there is an end to one set of guardians, she thought, eyeing the feathered corpses heaped on the ground, and now I understand how the lake got its name. I wonder what other traps the sorcerer has set for the unwary?

The laoch made sure the little ivory key was still fastened to her wrist. Her arms and shoulders ached from the battle, and lancing pains shot up and down her legs, but her ordeal had just begun. Snatching up a handful of grass, Dunlaith used it to clean her sword, sliding the weapon back into the scabbard on her back when she'd finished. There was no time to rest; the ensorcelled birds may have alerted Cairbh to an intruder's presence. 

Blood running into her boots, the laoch continued her journey around the Lake of the Swan's Note, praying she wouldn't arrive at the fortress too late to save the woman she loved. 

Aislinn sat on the floor, the leather saddlebag over her knees. She was so excited that her hands shook; she'd asked one of the silently efficient servants to have a roaring fire built in her bedchamber, and she fully intended to send her offerings smoking straight into the lap of God. 

Oh, ye ministers of grace! she thought, casting her eyes heavenward and clasping her hands together beneath her chin. Heavenly Father! Sweet Mary, Mother of the Blesséd Christ! This is all that is left of my old life, my last connection to the world outside these walls. I freely sacrifice these precious reminders, these memories, to thy purifying flames. Make me holy, I beg you! Let me suffer in thy name so that I, a poor and sinful woman, might be saved from damnation eternal. I pray that you release me from the curse of Eve. Please, God! Make me worthy of my husband's  care and love.

The heat from the fire made her face feel hot and flushed. Without looking, she dipped her hand inside the bag and came up with a cheap wool undershift. Solemnly, she cast it into the flames and watched as the shift was consumed. Ashes and flaky embers flew up, swirling around her head, and she narrowed her eyes. 

The next item to be burned was a little clay figurine in the shape of an armed warrior. Aislinn had a vague recollection that she was responsible for its creation but couldn't remember who it was supposed to represent. She consigned it to the flames without a qualm. 

The bits and pieces of her life, from clean menstrual rags to a small bronze handmirror, were all cast into the fireplace. At last, Aislinn's fingertips touched the final thing - a square linen packet, the ends tied into a knot, crumpled into a corner of the saddlebag. 

She drew it forth, brows furrowing in thought, rubbing the package to determine what was inside. This was a complete mystery to her and she couldn't begin to guess what the linen concealed. She almost tossed it onto the fire but something made her stay her hand, some strange and sudden premonition that this packet contained something too important to be sacrificed unexplored. 

Wondering if she was committing the mortal sin of covetousness or the venial sin of curiosity, Aislinn slowly undid the knot. As soon as it was released, the four corners fell open, revealing a lock of straight, black hair nestled in the linen. 

She reluctantly touched the hair... 

And her entire world exploded. 

It was like a rushing wave passing straight through her body, changing everything it touched; she was filled with a cleansing light that grew brighter and brighter until it shone from her skin, radiating like a sun. She was blinded, deafened and made dumb; her soul was burnished like steel and from the ashes of the spell that had caged and confined her, she was reborn. 

She was Aislinn of the Dreams; her heart and soul belonged to a laoch named Dunlaith, the woman she had never stopped loving. 

Aislinn gripped the lock of hair in her fist, panting. She remembered everything now; all her memories had been returned and those that had been altered or confused were now crystal clear. 

"Dunlaith!" she moaned. "Oh, God... what have I done?" 

And then... "Sweet Jesus! What manner of monster have I married?" 

The girl scrambled to her feet, heart fluttering in her chest like a caged bird. She quickly reviewed Cairbh's conduct; now that she was herself again, she realized that he'd placed her under some kind of enchantment. He was a cruel, selfish and uncaring man, perhaps even the Devil himself, who had access to foul and eldrich powers. She found it hard to believe that she'd actually agreed to wed him and was horrified that she'd allowed herself to be manipulated, her judgment clouded by his superficial charm. 

She shuddered when she remembered the way she'd acted, obeying her husband without question, agreeing with his views, willing to supplant her will with his. Her fanatic obsession with God and the Church, even to the point of harming herself in His name, made her want to vomit. She'd always been devout but this had been madness! Even living at St. Ailbe's with the nuns, she'd never subscribed to the excesses of the overly zealous. 

What was I thinking? How did my mind become so twisted that I actually believed the poison Cairbh was spouting about women? Why was I convinced that I was so low a creature?

But Aislinn had no time to consider these perplexing problems; for now, it was enough to be certain that she'd been bewitched. She didn't know why Cairbh had married her on such false pretenses or what the warlock wanted with her but she didn't want to wait around and find out. 

She forced down panic. I must think clearly if I am to get out of this! she admonished herself. By St. Brigit, girl! Get hold of yourself and make a plan! Remember what Dunlaith always told her trainees  - while there is life, there is hope. But God also helps those who help themselves, so think!

The walls surrounding the fortress were of stone and perhaps rough enough to climb, but a fall from such a height would almost certainly prove incapacitating, if not fatal. The massive doors were too heavy for her to move alone and she'd never seen any apparatus used to open or close them. Cairbh had left a few times since she'd been there, but he'd always just stood and waited for them to open of their own accord. More evidence of his sorcery, she thought. 

Then again, she'd also seen Bran and Dubhghiolla going out to gather wild berries or vegetables from the nearby forest almost every day. They hadn't laid so much as a finger on the doors either. It was as if the portal was responding to some unspoken command. Once or twice in the days since she'd been here, she'd gone to the doors and waited in anticipation but they hadn't moved so much as an inch. When her husband had caught her at this game, he'd laughed and told her that the rath only obeyed its master's will. 

So there would be no escape from that quarter. She would have to think of something else. 

Although it gave her a pang, once again she considered Dunlaith and the woman's instruction to the soldier trainees. The warrior's words came to her, as strong and sure as if the dark haired laoch was speaking into her ear. 

"Consider the lowly rat... when cornered, he does not roll onto his back and submit meekly to his enemy. No! He fights until there is neither breath nor blood nor life in his body. He claws, he bites, he seizes every opportunity; he never gives in, for the rat knows to submit is to die. So, if you are disarmed on the battlefield, facing adversaries from every quarter, seek another weapon; even a handful of sand can overcome an enemy if cast in the right direction. If you are injured, get up and fight some more. Never surrender and never give in to despair; where there is life, there is hope." 

Just thinking about Dunlaith made Aislinn feel a little bit better. She knew there was time before her husband returned from his outing, so she would try and obey the laoch's instructions. 

All right... I must find a weapon. Where am I likely to find something effective against a sorcerer?

She snapped her fingers. Of course! Stuaid-leim, the warlock's tower! 

Tucking the packet of hair into her bodice so it would be close to her heart, Aislinn left her bedchamber and fairly flew through the halls of the fortress, determined to escape her terrible husband... 

Or die in the attempt. 

Dunlaith limped along the edge of the lake. It was full dark now; the only light came from the bars of milky moonlight reflecting on the waters. 

The ground underfoot began to change, from grass and dirt to small pebbles that crunched loudly with every step. The laoch saw something floating in the water near the shore; for a bare second, she thought it might be another of those God-cursed swans. Then she realized what it was and her heart lurched with relief; it was a raft! At last, she'd found a way to cross the lake! 

Dunlaith splashed through the water, wading towards the bobbing craft. The raft floated away, keeping just out of reach, and she was forced to pursue. She didn't notice that the depth of the lake was increasing until she was submerged to her chest; even then, she took another step forward, straining her arms and cursing beneath her breath. Suddenly, the bottom fell away sharply and she was ducked under the waves, cold water rushing into her mouth and nose, making her choke and splutter. 

Thrashing about and kicking, the iron weight of the heavy mail shirt she wore beneath her jerkin pulling her down, down into the dark waters, Dunlaith struggled, trying to pull herself up towards air and freedom. At last, just when the darkness before her eyes was shot through with thready sparks of bright color and her lungs were bursting, her head broke the surface and she sucked in great gulps of air. 

Her feet found the edge of the underwater shelf and she stumbled back towards the shallows, heaving and retching. Shaking wet strands of hair out of her face, Dunlaith glared evilly at the raft. It had floated innocently back to its original position, keeping a tempting distance just a hair beyond arm's reach. The laoch ground out a few horrific curses while she considered what to do. 

She began casually walking along the shore; the raft followed, keeping pace with her movements even while it stayed beyond her grasp. She made a sudden lunge and it hastily backed away, moving so swiftly it churned the water into foam. Dunlaith frowned. This damned craft acted as if it were alive and was proving harder to catch than a panicked hare. 

Turning her back, she trudged back onto the gravel beach and made as if to leave. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the raft bobbing just a bit closer to shore. Although it was an inanimate object, the laoch could somehow sense a sort of smugness projected from the thing, as if it thought she'd given up and was savoring its victory. Her lips stretched in an unfriendly grin. Hah!

She whirled around and pounded through the pebbles, then coiled her powerful legs beneath her and leaped, pushing off with every ounce of strength, body flying through the air in a flat trajectory, arms outstretched and face contorted into a grimace of effort. 

Dunlaith landed on the raft with a thud that blew all the breath out of her lungs. Her fingers gripped the logs convulsively and she spread her legs wide apart to secure her position. For a long moment she lay there, muscles knotted in anticipation of the raft's resistance to her boarding, her body braced for the struggle. Every sense were heightened; she could feel the rough splintered wood beneath her cheek, smell the slightly fishy odor of the water, hear little wavelets slapping against the underside of the craft. 

She waited for several heartbeats but nothing happened. 

Cautiously, Dunlaith raised her head. Still nothing. 

Looking around, she saw no sail, oars or pole, not even so much as a length of rope. She could probably paddle with her hands but that would take all night and she'd be exhausted when she finally made it to the fortress. 

Well, no doubt Cairbh's sorcery makes this thing go where he wills, she thought. P'raps it can be made to work for me as well.

She got to her knees and recited the Lord's Prayer, making the sign of the cross. The raft shuddered slightly. 

The warrior got to her feet. "I know not what foul magics command you," she said, "but t'is my wish to be carried to that island." 

The raft didn't move. 

Dunlaith drew her sword; the steel blade shimmered eerily in the moonlight. 

"Either you do as I bid or by St. Brigit, I'll chop you into kindling!" She dug the point of her sword into the logs and felt the raft shudder once again. 

She plowed up a few more gouges until she felt her point had been made. "Well? What is it to be? I'm mortal chilled after my ducking and a good fire's much to my taste." 

In answer, the raft twitched slightly, almost like a hiccup, and began moving smoothly in the direction of Rath Meargach. 

Dunlaith sheathed her sword and sat down with a weary sigh. 

There was still much to be done before she could rest. 

Aislinn, she thought, lifting her head to stare at the dark turreted silhouette looming before her. Endure, my ionuin. I swear I will redeem you... or revenge you. Either way, we will be rejoined soon enough.

The raft continued speeding towards the fortress, carrying the laoch to her destiny. 

Aislinn stood outside the door of her husband's tower, heart pounding, palms sweaty with fear and apprehension. Putting a hand on the gargoyle's protruding tongue, she felt gooseflesh rise along her arms and breasts; the metal was cold and clammy with a strange rubbery texture that reminded her of toad's skin. 

Taking a deep breath, Aislinn pushed the latch and quickly opened the door before she lost her nerve. Stepping within the forbidden tower, she shut the door behind her and stood with her back against the wood, glancing nervously around. 

Sconces in the shape of human arms protruded from the wall, following the curved line of the stone staircase on the right; the carved hands held rush torches that were already alight. Flames flickered and danced, creating strange shadows and patches of light, reflecting off the rough hewn surfaces of the stones. 

Aislinn gathered her skirt in both hands and began mounting the steps. There was no sound except the rasping of her slippers on the stairs and her own ragged breathing. The girl expected horrors to leap out of every corner, demons to come bellowing up from the floor, fierce dragons and yellow-eyed monsters to scream an alarm to their sorcerous master at any moment. 

Sweet Jesus protect me! Aislinn thought. As frightened as she was, she kept walking; her only hope of escape and life lay in discovering some weapon to use against her husband. 

She paused on the first landing. There was something strange about the wall here; a big patch of exceptionally dark shadow, possibly a hole. Fear swallowed mostly by curiosity, Aislinn crept closer, trying not to make a sound, and soon reached the area without incident. 

It was as she'd thought; a niche had been carved into the stone itself, so deeply that the rushlights on either side were unable to penetrate the blackness. Spiders had been at work here, weaving powdery webs across the opening so thickly that strings of dust and cobwebs hung down to the top of the step. Aislinn grabbed a torch and made as if to clear away the filth; at that moment, she heard a woman's plaintive voice, so thin and hollow it was like a breath of wind. 

"Are you the one?" the voice moaned. "The one I have awaited?" 

Aislinn began to shake. "Who are you?" she whispered fearfully, eyes darting here and there as she tried to discover the author of her fright. 

"Are you the one?" the unseen woman repeated. "The one I have awaited?" 

The girl spun around and the flames of the torch caught the cobwebs; they burned in an instant, leaving the opening of the niche clear. Almost despite herself, Aislinn leaned forward and peered inside. What she saw made her scream hoarsely, dropping the rushlight and ignoring the shower of sparks as it rolled down from stair to stair, scattering glowing embers everywhere. 

Aislinn backed away, hand to her mouth. Her emerald eyes were wide with terror. "Oh my dear sweet Lord," she gasped, fighting down nausea. She kept backing away until she bumped into something solid and warm. Tilting her head back, she beheld the beautiful face of her husband, Cairbh. 

He grinned and said, "Good evening to you as well, sweet wife." 

Aislinn screamed again as his hands gripped her shoulders, holding her into place. 

She knew now what her wanted from her... 

And that knowledge made her wish that she hadn't regained her sanity. 

Dunlaith contemplated the massive doors in front of her. She'd trotted all the way around the fortress and this was the only exit or entrance. There was no door handle or winch; she assumed that like most castles, the opening mechanism was only accessible from the inside, making it a difficult and back-breaking task for invaders to breach the outer defenses. 

She hadn't come with an army, rams or siege engines, though; her sword, wits and determination were her only weapons. The laoch took a few steps backwards and looked up, mentally estimating the height of the rough hewn stone walls. Not impossible to climb but very difficult; she'd have to cling like a limpet with fingertips and toes, haul herself up by main strength, and pray she didn't fall. 

The laoch sat down and quickly stripped off her boots. After a moment's hesitation, she peeled off her leather jerkin and chain mail shirt as well, leaving her clad in trousers and padded cotton gambeson. She'd have a hard enough time without bearing the extra weight of armor; Dunlaith could only hope that Cairbh didn't have a contingent of well-armed soldiers waiting behind the walls, slavering for a fight. 

Adjusting the baldric across her chest, Dunlaith made sure her sword was secure. Finished with her preparations, she stepped up to the base of the wall, flexing her fingers and rolling her shoulders. She reached out... and hesitated. Moonlight gleamed on the stones, picking out glinting highlights and washing the crevices with silver gilt. Something was not quite right; the warrior could see a slightly rounded depression just at the level of her eyes, the smooth surface a little lighter than the stone surrounding it. 

The hair on the back of her neck prickled in warning. The cailleach had said that Cairbh was a clever and dangerous man; could this be another trap? 

Backing away, Dunlaith  picked up a rock and cast it at the wall. The pebble struck the spot she'd seen with a dull clink... and an iron spike suddenly shot out of the wall in a shower of dust and thin flakes of rock, making her jump in surprise. Before approaching, she flung another pebble at the spike itself but there was no further reaction. Satisfied, the laoch examined this unusual defense. 

The spike was two hands in length and as thick as her first. It had been embedded into the wall and covered with a thin layer of limestone slurry; some pressure sensitive trigger would send it flying from confinement at a touch, to impale a climbing invader or splinter ladders to shreds. Whether magic or mechanics, Dunlaith didn't know, but it looked like the entire wall was another trap laid to catch the unwary. 

All at once, the warrior's lips stretched in an evil grin. 

One man's deathtrap can be a clever man's advantage, she thought. Cairbh's been a little too creative this time.

Now that she knew what to look for, Dunlaith began picking out the spots that concealed the spikes, blessing the brightness of the moon. Digging into the waistband of her trousers, she came up with the soft leather sling she kept always to hand. While useful in killing small animals for the cooking pot, right now the laoch had an entirely different prey in mind. 

There were many rounded pebbles scattered in front of the fortress. Dunlaith grabbed a handful, slipped one into the well worn pocket of the sling, and let the long lines slide through her fingers. With practiced snap of her wrist, she whirled the sling around her head, gathering momentum, aimed and let fly. The pebble smacked into another depression in the wall, triggering the spike. The warrior kept this up until she'd released a zig-zagging line of spikes all the way to the top of the fortress, creating a ladder of iron. 

Shoving the sling back into her trousers, Dunlaith began to climb, careful not to touch any other part of the wall. Her ascent was rapid and easy; as she pulled herself up rung by rung, she smiled wickedly to herself, heart swelling with unholy glee and triumph. 

I'm coming, Cairbh. By Christ, you cocky motherless bastard, I've got you now!!

Once she'd gained the top, squeezing through the standing copper spears, she surveyed her surroundings. The walkway here was very wide and she guessed that the living quarters must lie between the outer and inner walls. She'd brought no rope, so rappelling her way down into the courtyard wasn't an option. Still, this was where defenders would repel invaders, dropping hot oil, flames and excrement on their heads, so there had to be a way in and out. Those towers were probably the answer. 

The left tower had no entrance up here. Dunlaith quickly sprinted to the opposite side; the right tower did have a door and it wasn't even locked. Easing it open, the laoch entered the fortress like a thief, gliding on soundless feet through the shadows, every sense alert to sudden danger. As she picked her way through winter stores - sacks of grain, vegetables, hanging herbs - he found it odd that there were no people; no servants, guards or trace of any other human being. 

Where is everyone? Is the place entirely deserted?

The thought that Aislinn might already be dead and the fortress abandoned sent a shudder through Dunlaith's frame. She knew it was a possibility but continued to hope that she wasn't too late. 

The right tower was used for food storage and cooking; when the laoch reached the bottom floor, she found a kitchen and outdoor bakery with brick kiln. The next day's baking was rising in wooden bowls and a cauldron of thick pottage stew simmered on the coals. 

Poking the dough with a finger, Dunlaith estimated that the bread had been left not too long ago. So they aren't all fled! she thought with relief. Now, to find my ionuin and put a good yard of steel into the guts of that foul husband of hers!

The warrior crept out of a side door and found herself in the courtyard. The garden was crowded with flowers and shrubs; the scent of overblown roses was heavy and sweet. 

Dunlaith could make out many doors in the circular inner wall facing the courtyard, all of them probably leading to various rooms and who knew what sort of traps. Which was the right one? Which should she choose? 

Suddenly, the laoch's choice was made for her. A scream of pure desperation and fright split the night air, ringing and echoing off the stones. Dunlaith spat out an oath; that was Aislinn's voice, she was sure of it. Drawing her sword with a steely rasp, she made haste to the spot she thought the scream had come from. 

The left-hand tower. 

Aislinn stood rooted to the spot. Cairbh had dragged her to the topmost room of Stuaid-leim; as she'd been manhandled up the stairs, the girl had noticed seven of those niches carved into the curved walls and her husband had proudly shown her the contents of each. Six of them had contained things so horrifying that her mind shuddered back from remembrance, but she had a feeling that she'd see those grisly images in her mind's eye for the rest of her life... however short that might be. 

Cairbh rubbed his perfect hands together and smiled, showing his perfect teeth. "Well, sweet wife. How disobedient you've proven! Did I not specifically forbid you this place? But no matter now." He drew a finger across her cheek and she closed her eyes, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. 

"What's done is done and just as well," he continued in his sweet, fluting voice. "I was growing tired of you anyway. And since I was able to obtain everything I need tonight, I really see no need for further delay." He seemed inordinately pleased. "And I really don't mind that you managed to break my enchantment; your impetuousness saved me the trouble of having to do it myself." 

He'd searched her once they'd reached the room and discovered the precious packet of Dunlaith's hair. Knowing it was a woman's, his only comment had been, "Females form such strong attachments to one another. Quite disgusting, really." 

Aislinn opened her eyes; those emerald orbs were dazzling with hatred. "Do you plan to do to me what you did to the others?" 

"Oh, yes... the others." Cairbh paced the room with languid grace. "I did not lie when I said I was a widower." 

"Six times over?" 

"You don't understand, do you? None of those selfish bitches ever understood!" The sorcerer turned to glare at Aislinn. "Do you think I deserved my curse? I was blighted by that whore my father married after Mother died! I had to do something... I couldn't let Caoine win!" 

The girl glanced casually around the room. There were work tables and benches; wheeled tripods blazed with fire; strange crucibles and alembics bubbled with poisonously colored fluids. Laying on a nearby table was a stout iron poker, stained and pitted with acids; Aislinn began edging towards this weapon, trying to keep Cairbh distracted by talking. "What do you mean?" 

His rheumy violet eyes glazed over. "Caoine cursed me," he almost sobbed. "She was my father's second wife and a witch; she wanted her daughters to inherit. I was such a pretty child! Everyone admired me, doted on me, called me 'angel' and 'honeycomb', gave me everything I wanted. Every day I grew prettier and prettier - my mirror told me so! I spent hours having my hair combed, my skin oiled, my teeth polished; I was taught to sing by the finest teachers in Eire and was famed throughout the land for the sweetness of my voice. I had no equal in beauty and loveliness... until Caoine worked her ill." 

"What did she do to you?" Aislinn drew a little bit closer to the poker. 

"Caoine hated me, hated the fact that I was my father's heir, and wanted to destroy me. So she took away my beauty, blighted my promise, made me into a monster! My face was twisted and spotted like a leper's; my hair like wind-blown straw; my voice cracked and broken. Do you see my eyes, Aislinn? I once had eyes like yours - sparkling emeralds set into the perfection of my face. Caoine took that away from me... but I figured out a way to restore what was taken from me." 

"How?" 

"I found a teacher in the east who instructed me in certain ways of magic. It was a long and painful process but in the end, I knew it was worth every drop of sweat, tears and blood. I was gone for thirteen years; when I returned,  my father was newly dead, Caoine and her twelve daughters despoiling my inheritance. For them, I reserved a special punishment - I changed them all into black swans and forced them to guard this fortress. To restore my beauty, though, I had to steal it from others." 

"What did you do to those poor women in the stairwell? I saw the bodies you've displayed there, my lord. Could you not have granted them a Christian burial?" Aislinn turned so she was facing Cairbh, keeping her body between him and the poker. Slowly, she stretched out her arm until her fingertips touched the iron bar. 

"I found out a way to thwart Caoine's curse but there are very specific conditions. I can take only a woman's chief beauty; she must be my wife; she must be happy, content and free of enchantments until she comes to Stuaid-leim; she must be a virgin, her heart untouched by any man; and her body must never leave this tower. It has taken the lives of six wives to bring me to this happy condition; as you can see, bit by bit and piece by piece, one feature at a time, I have worked to restore what is rightfully mine." 

Aislinn curled her fingers around the poker, sliding it soundlessly off the table and allowing it to hang concealed behind her skirts. "Rightfully yours?" she snorted. "My lord, I think your features were being used by someone else before you stole them!" 

"Those bitches couldn't appreciate their beauty!" He smoothed his long golden tresses. "No woman can. Women use their faces and bodies to ensnare men's lust and destroy them. I deserve to be beautiful far more than they!" 

Aislinn gripped the poker tightly. "And what will you have of me, my lord? You have always made much of my eyes..." 

"Exactly." Cairbh tilted his head and gazed at her, licking his lips. "With you, sweet wife, my century-long quest is at an end. I will take those perfect eyes of yours and make them mine. I admit, when rumor reached me of a pretty girl with eyes like emeralds living at Loughnashade, I was not inclined to make much of it. I have searched many decades to find irises that possessed the color and clarity of the ones I lost. Imagine my surprise when I discovered my prize, wasted on a lowly peasant, a servant of no name, no clan! You were easy enough to dazzle, girl. And no one will regret your passing, I assure you." 

"What do you mean?" Aislinn began coiling her muscles in preparation for the blow. 

"Magic has its price and its power is not inexhaustible, but I've learned to make the most of what I have. As soon as we left Loughnashade, a powerful enchantment made the folk forget you ever existed. No one will mourn you, Aislinn of the Dreams, Aislinn of the Glorious Eyes. No one will remember you at all." 

He threw back his head and laughed; the girl swung the poker at his head with all her strength behind it, screaming, "Heartless bastard!" 

To her shock, the iron bar clanged off his head as if his skull were stone. The poker flew from her numbed hands and clattered to the ground. Cairbh chuckled at the expression of surprise on her face. 

"Do you think me foolish?" he chided good-naturedly. "Why, sweet wife, what use is eternal life and youth and beauty without invulnerability to go with it? My eastern mage taught me that secret as well. You had the right of it, you know." He unlaced the cords of his tunic, revealing pearly skin without flaw... and a gaping, empty hole bored into the center of his chest. 

Aislinn gasped, horrified. 

"I have no heart," he said simply. "None at all." 

Cairbh reached out and grabbed a handful of Aislinn's hair, pulling the girl towards him. She cried out, twisting in his grasp. "I cannot be killed!" he hissed. "My heart is safely hidden and as long as it remains so, none can harm me. None!" He licked her closed eyelids while she whimpered. "Now... where did I put that arrow?" 

Aislinn choked and hung from his hand. Finally, she worked up enough saliva to spit directly into his face. 

Cairbh wiped away the spittle and smiled. "I am going to enjoy this, sweet wife. I'm going to enjoy this a great deal." 

Struggling and clawing, Aislinn was pulled over a table and fastened there with leather thongs, one binding her wrists and the other her ankles. 

The sorcerer sprinkled black powder into a tripod and twisting lavender flames billowed up to the ceiling. With a feminine gesture, Cairbh flicked strands of golden hair away from his lovely face and looked at Aislinn through the smoke. 

"It won't be long now." 

Aislinn caught her lip between her teeth and kept struggling against the knots that held her fast. 

Time - and hope - were rapidly running out. 

Dunlaith yanked open the door of the left tower. Torches glowed from sconces on the walls and a stone staircase spiraled upward. Seeing nothing on the ground floor, the laoch began sprinting up the stairs. 

When she reached the first landing, she was startled by a whispery voice speaking directly into her ear, "Are you the one? The one I have awaited?" 

Dunlaith glanced around and saw no one. "Who are you?" 

The voice did not reply, merely repeated, "Are you the one? The one I have awaited?" 

"I have no time for this!" Dunlaith muttered impatiently. "Show yourself or go to the Devil!" 

Probably another of Cairbh's traps, she thought, shifting her sword from hand to hand. 

The breathy voice moaned, "Are you the one?" 

The warrior snorted and was about to continue her way to the top of the tower when she was stopped in her tracks, remembering the cailleach's instructions: 

Pay heed to the cold questioners. Should any ask your design, answer honestly.

Dunlaith turned around. Thus far, the witches had spoken true and the laoch had learned to trust their counsel. "I am Dunlaith Breanda," she said defiantly, addressing the air. "I doubt my coming is celebrated, uathach, for I come to kill the corpse thief and save my love." 

She gripped her sword tightly and waited 

"The one!" The voice now seemed to issue from a nearby niche carved into the wall. "The one who seeks the sorcerer's death is come! Free us! Free us!" 

The phrase "free us!" was taken up by a chorus of different voices, floating down the staircase and reverberating off the stones until Dunlaith was well nigh deafened. "Enough!" she cried. "Who are you? What do you want?" 

A blue-white glow, like a firefly's light, began dancing in the dark niche. It grew, spiraling and coruscating, until it resolved into the form of a young woman, an uathach. The specter was composed entirely of swirling mist with splashes of brilliance here and there; her colorless face was incredibly lovely - all  finely sculpted bones, voluptuous mouth and large sad eyes. 

"I was once Grian of the Sunny Countenance," the ghost said; invisible winds stirred her garments, made her long hair billow and curl around her shoulders. "First wife of Cairbh the thief, first of the murdered six. He enchanted me with glamours, seduced me with magics, slew me with a sword and stole my face to replace his own. I cannot go to the lap of God until what was taken is returned." 

A longsword, the blade stained heavily with rust, floated out of the niche. Dunlaith hastily sheathed her own blade and caught the ghost's weapon. Thin threads of energy crawled around her wrist but beyond a slight tingling, she felt no ill. 

"With this sword he took my life," the ghost of Grian breathed. "T'is my blood, unlawfully shed, that you see upon the steel. Use this on the thief and what was stolen will be returned." 

"Will it kill him?" Dunlaith asked. 

"Nay but t'will weaken him. To kill him, you must destroy his heart." 

"How do I do that?" 

"I know not," Grian replied regretfully, "but another might. Seek your answers further on." Her figure began to fade but the sword in Dunlaith's hand remained solidly real. "Free me! I have waited so long! For mercy's sake, free me!" 

The laoch hefted the blood rusted sword. "If I can, I will do it. I swear upon my soul." 

The ghost disappeared, shrinking to a single pinpoint of light that winked out like a snuffed candleflame. Dunlaith peered around the corner; another niche awaited on the next landing and blue-white light was gathering there already, as if in anticipation of her coming. 

The warrior shoved a stray lock of hair out of her eyes with her free hand and started up the stairs. There were five more ghosts to meet before she could face Cairbh... 

And the thought of Aislinn ending up like these poor trapped creatures made a cold righteous fury burn within her breast. 

By the time she reached the top of the stairs and stood before the closed door to the sorcerer's workroom, Dunlaith had collected six weapons from the ghosts of Cairbh's murdered wives, including the sword of Grian. 

From Sadhbh the Sweet Voiced, a stout oaken spear with a point that glittered like ice. 

From Faitbe the Mouth of Pearls, a hempen noose twisted into a hangman's knot. 

From Fionnchaomh the Golden Haired, an razor sharp obsidian dagger with a hilt of bone. 

From Damhnait the Clever Fingered, a short hafted, double headed ax. 

And from Aiobheann of the Moon-Kissed Skin, a small glass vial sheathed in pierced copper, bearing the remnants of some foul poison. 

As each weapon was used on the sorcerer, the spells he'd used to steal his wives' beauty would be shattered. Feature by stolen feature he would be reduced and weakened... but not killed. 

Although all of the ghosts had repeated that she must destroy Cairbh's heart in order to end his foul existence, none of them had known precisely how she was supposed to do it. Dunlaith fingered the little ivory key, still attached to the leather cord wound around her wrist. 

The cailleach said this was the key to his heart, she thought grimly. But I have no more time to answer riddles. My Aislinn is behind this door; by Christ Almighty, I swear I will save her though my own life be forfeit!

Grasping Grian's sword tightly in both hands, with the other weapons hung about her person, Dunlaith drew three quick, deep breaths, drew back her leg, and smashed her foot into the door with all her strength behind it. 

The wooden door split apart under the force of her blow and swung wide... 

The laoch screamed, "Aislinn!" and leaped inside the room... 

Only to find a scene from her worst nightmare swimming before her eyes. 

Cairbh approached the bound girl, flourishing an arrow with a wickedly barbed point as long as his hand. "Unfortunately, the spell requires each of my wives to be sacrificed with a different weapon, so this will not be completely painless. My sorrow that you will suffer but t'is for a good cause." 

Aislinn panted, still struggling against the tight leather knots. When she'd been tossed onto the table, a glass jar had broken and a large shard lay conveniently near her head. While the sorcerer had been busy making his preparations, she'd been sawing at the thong around her wrists with the ragged edges of the fragment. She'd missed more than once and blood slicked her hands from numerous cuts, but she was nearly free; the shadows here were thick enough to conceal her work from Cairbh's eyes. 

To buy herself more time, the girl said scornfully, "A good cause? You have murdered, my lord, and practiced black magic to steal your pretty looks, but you are a monster, as hideous and horrible within as you are beautiful without. You have no heart and no matter what you do, you will never be anything more than miserable." 

"Of course I have no heart, sweet wife," Cairbh said with a white-toothed smile. "Nothing - not even your pitiful barbs - can harm me at all. I keep it safe and close by, tucked away like a miser's treasure. The key I threw away years ago, traded it to an old hag in exchange for an hour's tumble with her daughter. All safely lost and forgotten... as you will be, Aislinn of the Dreams." 

He drew a step closer and she desperately tried to think of something to distract him. "My lord, spare me a bit longer so that I may pray! Surely you would not deny me the comfort of prayer, to commend my soul to God!" she cried, squirming slightly and thinking, Almost there. Just a moment longer...

His filmy violet eyes narrowed. "God cannot help you now, girl." The arrow twitched like a live thing in his hands, aimed directly at her defenseless breast. He moved closer, looming over her, his thighs pressed against hers. She could smell the nauseatingly sweet scent of his skin, the cool perfume of his breath. 

"My lord Cairbh!" The tough leather parted soundlessly and Aislinn wrapped both hands around the jagged chunk of glass, ignoring the sharp sting as her palms were lacerated deeply. "If you care not for the state of your own soul," she said shakily, "then at least do not condemn me to eternal damnation. You have waited this long... what matters a heartbeat or two more? I beg you, my lord... let me confess my sins before God and go to Him cleanly. Allow me that comfort at least!" 

Cairbh chuckled. He took the arrow and drew the point lightly from her chin to the heaving mounds of her breasts, bulging over the top of her bodice. "Prayer cannot help you, Aislinn. God has abandoned you. The O'Ciaran and his wife have abandoned you. Even your precious warrior friend has left you to your fate. Accept it, wife. Your time has come... and you are utterly, completely alone." 

He was so close and Aislinn could feel the sharp point of the arrow pressing into her breast, drawing a pinprick of blood. Sucking in a deep breath, she let it out in a howl as she shot up, driving the thick shard of glass into his face with all the strength she possessed. 

At that precise moment, Cairbh thrust the arrow into her chest, driving the barbed head deep into the soft tissue... 

And Dunlaith burst through the door in time to see Aislinn with splotches of bright blood spreading and staining her gown and arms, the fletching of an arrow just visible, jutting from what looked like the front of her gown. 

"Aislinn!" the warrior screamed in anguish. 

The glass hadn't cut Cairbh but the force of the girl's stunning blow made him stagger back several paces. Aislinn immediately doubled over and began tearing at the thongs on her ankles; adrenaline surged through her veins, blotting out the pain of her wounds. Surprised at her attack, the sorcerer had missed his goal; instead of skewering her heart, the arrow had slipped and plowed through the flesh above her breast and a little to the side, almost in the pit of her arm. 

When the laoch burst into the room, Aislinn looked up, emerald eyes wide with shock. "Dunlaith!" 

"Bitch!" Cairbh spat at the pretty red-head. His pretty face twisted into a malevolent mask and a vein throbbed in his forehead. "Look what you've done! Didn't I tell you I was invulnerable? Now I'll have to fetch another arrow!" 

Dunlaith's gaze flitted from Aislinn to Cairbh and back again. She hefted her sword to shoulder height, holding it as if it were a javelin. "Are you...?" she asked the girl, unable to finish the question. 

Aislinn answered, "T'is not mortal." She didn't know how the laoch had found her but questions could wait. Her feet were numb and she could barely walk but she lurched a few paces towards the door. "Now run before he kills you, stupid woman!" 

Dunlaith shook her head. The sword in her hand was excellently balanced. When Cairbh turned to face her, the warrior cried, "I bring a wedding gift for you, lord... in remembrance of Grian and the rest!" 

Uncoiling the powerful muscles in her arms and back, Dunlaith cast the sword straight at the sorcerer. It seemed to catch fire as it flew across the room, drawing bright sparks from the air, and it struck the center of Cairbh's chest with a meaty thunk. He fell backwards, hands clutching the hilt, a look of complete surprise on his face, and lay there unmoving. 

Aislinn almost sobbed, "He has no heart! He cannot be killed that way! Flee before he awakens!" The girl was in an agony of terror; while the prospect of her own death had been bad enough, the thought of watching Dunlaith die made her belly clench with pain far sharper than that which was beginning to gnaw her breast. "Get out now! T'is me he wants!" 

The laoch drew the ax from her belt. "I know," she replied calmly. Dunlaith unwound the thong around her wrist and tossed the tiny ivory key to Aislinn. "This will open whatever secret place holds his heart, ionuin. Find it." 

Cairbh rose slowly from the floor, drawing the sword from his torso with a dull sucking sound... and both women recoiled. Framed by lovely golden curls was a face to frighten the bravest into fits. The skin was reddish in patches, flaking and puckered, the rest a sickly, leprous white. Weeping sores ate into his drooping cheeks, dotted the broad forehead; his chin sagged like molten wax, dangling almost to his collarbone. He lifted his hands and felt his face with trembling fingers. 

"You bitch!" he fluted; that sweet voice coming from such a vile countenance was almost obscene. "What have you done with my beautiful face?!!" 

For answer, Dunlaith hurled the ax at his head, splitting his skull almost in half; his horrible eyes glared at the laoch from either side of the broad iron head and he wrenched the weapon out with clawed and twisted fingers. The tight flesh of his knuckles bulged, threatening to burst open; the skin of his hands was purple spotted and wealed. "I'm going to kill you, whore!" 

He tossed the ax to the floor and his cloven skull drew back together seamlessly. The laoch yanked the spear out of her baldric and made ready to cast. 

Aislinn  looked wildly around the room. Tucked away like a miser's treasure, he'd said. The tables that lined the walls of the room were covered in strange instruments of glass and iron, jars and pouches and bundles, heaps of dried herbs, powders and grinding stones. She scanned the bewildering array of objects and her heart began to sink; she'd never find Cairbh's hiding place in time. 

Suddenly, her eye lit on a small, brass-bound chest that lay nearby. While most of the room's contents were coated in a thin layer of dust, this coffer was clean, the metal polished lovingly to a muted shine. Someone had spent a great deal of time and care with that small coffer and the girl thought she knew why. 

Yes... miser's lock their treasure away, Aislinn thought, but keep it close at hand; their greatest joy is to gloat over their possessions in secret, spending hours caressing their hidden gold.

Praying she was right, Aislinn scrabbled at the brass-bound coffer. The key was so tiny yet bristled with points, and it had to be inserted into the lock with hair-fine precision to work at all. Sweat ran into her eyes, making them sting, and her bloody hands shook; she felt weak and sick, wanting to collapse but knowing if she did, all would be lost. Aislinn cursed beneath her breath and bit her lip hard, trying to concentrate on the task at hand and ignore the sounds of combat behind her; precious seconds would be lost if she turned around but she was still dying to know if her warrior was all right. 

Blessed Virgin Mary, keep Dunlaith safe, Aislinn sent silently. Sweet Jesu, hear my prayer!

Dunlaith hurled the spear into the sorcerer's shoulder, then drew the dagger and threw it in one smooth underhand motion, burying it to the hilt in his throat. With a choked roar, Cairbh snatched the weapons out of his flesh. The glowing, golden curls were gone, replaced by straggling hanks of limp white hair, scattered at random over a shiny, liver spotted skull. The melodious voice had turned into a rasping, harsh and cracked baritone. 

"You will suffer for this, I swear." He took a shambling step towards the waiting warrior. "I will use my arts to keep you alive, make your every waking moment a torment until you beg for release into Hell!" 

"Then come, old man!" Dunlaith taunted, keeping him distracted, forcing him to focus his attention on her instead of Aislinn. "Do your worst!" 

Still sweating heavily, Aislinn fumbled with the key and felt like weeping in relief when it slid into the lock with a faint click. Throwing back the lid of the chest, she was horrified at what she saw there and started back with a thin scream. 

Resting on faded red velvet was a blackish, dried lump of flesh that continually oozed a foul smelling pus. Aislinn choked, retched, and covered her mouth with a hand. 

In the meantime, Dunlaith gestured to the furious sorcerer. "Why do you not use those much vaunted powers on me, old man? What holds back your hand?" Her pale blue eyes snapped with malice. "Oh, my sorrow but I've forgotten. You haven't proper hands anymore, have you... cripple!" 

Cairbh screeched, his face turning bright scarlet with ire. He drew back his fist then thrust it forward, crying words in an unknown sibilant tongue. Crackling purple light crawled around his clenched fingers, gathering momentum and speed until it shot towards the laoch like a crossbow bolt. 

Dunlaith confronted this threat with perfect calm. The cailleach had told her that love was her greatest shield and strength, and she held those words within her mind like a shining beacon. The sorcerer's magic struck the silver pendant around her neck, drawn to that symbol of Aislinn's love as if pulled there by a lodestone... and exploded in a shower of harmless lavender sparks. 

Cairbh's rheumy eyes went wide. "How...?" 

The laoch gave him a fierce grin, pulling a coil of hempen rope off her shoulder. "Powerful as you are, old man... even you cannot defeat true love." 

The sorcerer bared his still brilliant teeth at her in a snarl. "You speak in riddles, bitch. But I'll kill you yet!" 

He rushed towards her with outstretched arms... and as soon as he got within range, Dunlaith tossed the noose over his head and darted behind him, pulling the rope strangling tight. He clawed at the heavy knot behind his ear, mouth gaping wide in a soundless scream, tongue protruding between the now blackened and rotting stubs of his teeth. The laoch planted a knee into his back and heaved with all her might while he choked and struggled, tearing his own tunic into shreds in an effort to reach the woman who tormented him.. 

Dunlaith wrapped a length of rope around her forearm and kept it taut. She dug the other hand under the tied waist of her trousers, coming up with the vial of poison. Working off the glass and copper plug with her teeth, she reached around and rammed the vial into the sorcerer's open mouth, tilting it to tip the poison down his gullet. He wheezed, spraying a cloud of spittle and vile green droplets that speckled the warrior's arm and face. She kept her lips pressed tightly together and hung on grimly. 

His body shape began to change, slumping into a hunched rack of bones barely held together by dangling ropes of  sore-riddled skin and warped tendons. The pale and perfect complexion of his torso darkened to a greenish-violet hue, as if he was covered with bruises. All of the beauty he had stolen was gone, vanished entirely... leaving him to wear his real shape, a true reflection of his nature - that of a monster who had traded his heart for superficial loveliness and immortality. 

Dunlaith could barely hang on any longer; Cairbh had been weakened but his unnatural life continued, fueled by the blackest of magics. "Destroy his heart!" she called to Aislinn. "Do it now!" 

Aislinn reached for the horrible, stinking thing... and hesitated. She could almost feel the rotting flesh squelching between her fingers and the very thought made her gorge rise. 

Hope dawned in the rheumy violet eyes of the monstrous sorcerer. He shook himself like a dog, sending Dunlaith flying; the laoch's body hit the wall with a crack and she slumped down to the floor, dazed. Viscous strings of drool hung from his jaws, spilled down his flabby chin. He turned to regard Aislinn. "Sweet wife," he growled. "Come away from there. You don't want to touch such a nasty thing, do you?" 

The girl's mouth flooded with saliva and she gulped, fighting the urge to vomit. As she gazed into the casket, she saw white maggots squirming through the blackened flesh of Cairbh's heart. It cracked open, yawning wide with corruption, and the putrid smell increased tenfold. 

"Come away," Cairbh crooned in his rough voice. "Am I not your husband?" He tore the noose off his neck and cast it contemptuously in the stunned warrior's direction. "Have I not given you everything you've desired? Come away, Aislinn of the Dreams. Come away and I will gift you with delights beyond measure, shower you with the treasures of the earth, share the secrets of my power." 

Aislinn reached into the brass-bound chest but couldn't bring herself to touch the sorcerer's heart. A fresh horde of maggots burst from the soft center of the corruption and she shuddered. 

"Come away, come away, sweet wife." Cairbh took a few steps towards the hesitating girl. "My form may not be pleasing but that can change; oh yes, that will change." 

Aislinn stood stock still. 

Then the sorcerer made his fatal mistake; assuming he had already won, he said just a little too much. 

"Sweetest of wives, I ask you..." He spread his hands wide apart and sneered. "Why continue this foolishness? Why not join me in killing Dunlaith? Murder is the sweetest joy of all and I am eager to teach you. Besides, what can that poor, penniless warrior woman give you that I cannot?" 

Aislinn's head rose and she speared Cairbh with her glittering emerald gaze; he was stunned by the fierce hatred he saw there, as well as the equally fierce protectiveness that was reflected beneath. Her lip curled in scorn and she spat, "What can Dunlaith give me that you cannot? Love, my lord. Love!" 

She grasped the rotting heart in her hand, drawing it out of the box and flinging it to the floor. Cairbh shouted, "No! Wait!" but there was not an ounce of mercy left in her soul. 

Determination radiating from the eyes that Cairbh had coveted, Aislinn raised her foot and brought it down upon the heart, grinding the corrupted organ into dust beneath her heel. 

The sorcerer screamed... 

And began to collapse inward upon himself, flesh slowly crumbling into powder and grayish ash. Aislinn continued to twist her foot upon the ruins of the heart while Cairbh shrieked and babbled, disintegrating like a child's mud toy left in the rain. The last to dissolve was his head; his lips moved soundlessly for a moment, eyes swiveling wildly... and then his skull fragmented piece by piece, each bit joining the dust of his body until there was nothing left save a pile of powdery rubble stirred softly by the evening breeze. 

Aislinn watched Cairbh's destruction impassively, as if it touched her not at all. When it was done, she turned to Dunlaith. 

The laoch got to her feet, rubbing the side of her head. "Are you well, ionuin?" Dunlaith asked anxiously, then wanted to kick herself for the sheer stupidity of the question. 

The girl shook her head, sending red-gold locks cascading down her shoulders. "Nay," she answered breathlessly, "I think t'will never be well again." 

With that, Aislinn collapsed into the warrior's strong arms, happy to embrace the peaceful darkness of oblivion... and half wishing that she'd never wake up again. 

Dunlaith tossed another length of wood into the fire and sighed. T'is three days since Cairbh was sent to a deserving hell and she's not spoken two words to me yet.

The sorcerer's death had wrought some changes in Rath Meargach. To her delight, she'd discovered that the massive entrance doors were so well balanced that even though they were no longer enchanted, they could be opened with a fingertip. And she'd found the skeletal remains of thirteen women in the place where she'd destroyed the vicious black swans;  Dunlaith had buried these unfortunates together with the bodies of Cairbh's wives, hoping that their poor souls would be at rest and finally find the blessed peace of God. 

Aislinn had told her the story of the swans - one of the few pieces of information the girl had volunteered. She'd also mentioned two weird black servants but Dunlaith hadn't been able to find a trace of them; the two women were alone on the island with only a pair of oversized ravens for company. 

And those ill omened birds are far more talkative than my ionuin, the warrior thought moodily. 

Dunlaith poked at the fire with a long stick. She wants to stay here, make her home in the fortress; she said she's earned this inheritance and I cannot but agree. Bad memories aside, t'is easily defensible, well built and uncommon luxurious . And if Aislinn carries out her plan and sells a few of Cairbh's treasures, t'will be enough to found a convent and monastery, especially if she donates the grounds as well. Where the Church is, the people will come; in a few years, all the land hereabouts may be under the peasant's plow, and Aislinn will make a better landlord than most.

As for me... well, not a word has she spoken in invitation but she has offered me gold to pay my honor debt to the O'Ciaran. Aye, t'will clear my name but even so, if Aislinn believes I will meekly take her payment and retire from the field like a bought lackey, she knows me not at all!

Just then, Aislinn entered the room. She was still pale; her arms and hands wrapped in linen strips, dark violet bruises bloomed beneath her eyes. Catching sight of Dunlaith, the girl turned around and made as if to leave. 

Dunlaith rose, dusting off the back of her trousers. "Nay," she called. "Stay, please, and evade me no longer. There is much we need to talk about, Aislinn, and I'm determined to have my say even if I must shout it after you as we run about the fortress." 

The girl came slowly into the room. Her left arm was in a sling and the laoch had to suppress a shudder at the sight. Getting that barbed arrowhead out of Aislinn's flesh had been a messy, bloody and painful experience; although the girl hadn't even whimpered much, the agony on her face had made Dunlaith feel weak and faint. In fact, as soon as the operation had been completed, the warrior had been noisily and shamefully sick in a nearby close-stool. 

T'is far easier to physick a man under your command than the women you love, Dunlaith thought. I'd rather chop off my own right hand than go through that again soon.

Aislinn waited, her emerald eyes hooded. 

The warrior cleared her throat. "First," she said, "there has been much ill between us... even before Cairbh." 

A tiny spot of color began to burn in Aislinn's cheeks but she said nothing. 

Dunlaith continued, "Now, busy as I might have been at the time, I heard what you told the sorcerer before you crushed his heart." 

What can Dunlaith give me that you cannot? Love, my lord. Love!

Both of them vividly recalled those words. 

"T'was but the moment's heat," Aislinn began to say softly but was interrupted by the laoch. 

"Deny it if it gives you comfort," Dunlaith said. "But hear what answer I would give before you speak." She walked towards the girl and stopped a hands breadth away, so close that Aislinn could measure the taller woman's heartbeat by the rapid pulse in her throat. 

"Aislinn of the Dreams," the dark haired warrior said, "I love you. Nothing can or ever will alter my feelings for you; my soul is not my own for I gave it to your care long ago, nor will I ask its return while I have breath or life." 

Aislinn opened her mouth to reply but Dunlaith stopped it with a finger to her lips. "Let me finish," the laoch said. "My  profoundest sorrow for the pain I caused you in the past; if t'was within my power to wipe it clean away as if it never existed, I would. Believe me when I say I would rather die than hurt you again, ionuin; I swear by my sword that if you wish to take retribution, I will submit myself to any punishment you name... as long as you do not drive me away entire. Wherever we go in this world, I want us to go together. You see, I cannot live without you, my beloved, my heart." 

Dunlaith took Aislinn's hand, clasping it gently in her own. "I desire you, t'is true; I will not deny that I wish us to be lovers. But I should have had more patience and I curse myself for a thick-headed fool; you were frighted and I did nothing but add to that hurt. I understand..." The laoch swallowed and continued thickly, "If t'is your wish that we live as sisters, close as kin but no closer, then I will respect your decision... as long as you allow me to stay by your side." 

"So..." Aislinn shot the sweating warrior a glance from beneath her lashes. "You wish to stay with me. What if I say thee nay? How then, Dunlaith? Will you force me to endure your presence if I do not wish it?" 

Dunlaith swallowed again. Pressing a fervent kiss to the girl's knuckles, she choked, "Nay... if t'is your true desire for me to go, I will do it, though it breaks my heart. Ionuin, I am nothing but your servant; do with me as you will." 

Aislinn turned away, taking her hand out of Dunlaith's grasp, and the laoch almost cried out. But the girl didn't leave the room; instead, she moved closer to the fireplace but kept her back to the tall woman. "For a while, I forgot you," Aislinn said quietly, "but then I remembered you again. I never loved Cairbh; he never touched me, never roused in me the strength of feeling that you did. I married him because I both loved you and feared you. I understand that now, and other things besides." 

Moving to face the still, silent warrior, Aislinn continued, "I love you still, Dunlaith of the Burning, and I will be forever shamed of the way I treated you. My fear was no fault of yours. Nay, listen!" she said when the laoch protested. "This touches both of us and before decisions are made, you must hear what I have learned." 

Dunlaith subsided and kept her pale eyes locked on the slight figure before her. 

"I have spent much time in thought," Aislinn said, clasping her bandaged fingers before her, "and realized why your touch, once so delightful, came to be such a source of pain. You see, the nuns taught me too well; they raised me to be devout, to serve God and to fear Him, to eschew sin in all its forms and turn my face solely to the light of Jesus. Despite my words or brave intentions, despite even the longings of my heart, when we came together flesh to flesh I knew, deep within, that we sinned. That God would turn His face away from me, condemning me for all time because I loved unnaturally... and you would be condemned as well." 

"Christ Almighty," Dunlaith breathed, taking a step forward. "You carried that within you all this time? Why did you not speak to me of this before?" 

"Because I could not put in words what was hidden so secretly in my soul! It is only recently that my understanding has increased and what was once my inner shame can now be spoken openly." Aislinn sighed. "All sinners fear Hell... but t'was my worst fear that I had seduced you, as Eve tempted Adam, and caused you to fall. I was so ashamed and terrified that when we tried to be lovers, I pushed you away... and I have been pushing you ever since. My marriage to Cairbh was intended to free you from my woman's wiles, allow you to find your way back to the favor of God." 

"There is no shame in loving," Dunlaith said, coming another step closer. "The Church may say otherwise but I do not put my belief in a God so terrible and top-filled with malice that He would so condemn two people's love, no matter they be man and wife, wife and wife, or husband and husband. My God is made entirely of love for His children and no priest may convince me otherwise." 

"You and I are not the same," Aislinn said passionately. "Do you understand why I felt I must release you? Do you understand why I left? Do you understand why I acted as I did? Why I denied our love? Why I hurt you and broke both our hearts?" 

Dunlaith nodded. 

The girl's emerald eyes filled with tears. She took a deep breath and said in a very small voice, "Can you ever forgive me?" 

The laoch swept Aislinn into her strong arms, hugging her fiercely. "There is nothing to forgive." She pressed a kiss on the top of the girl's head. "T'is both our faults that we were separated from each other, mine no more than yours. I struck you, you struck back and we blindly wallowed in regret and pity and tears enough to drown the world." 

"We wanted to hurt ourselves as much as we had hurt each other," Aislinn murmured. 

"Well, that is past now." Dunlaith pulled away, holding the smaller woman at arm's length. "What I wish to know is this: what is our future, ionuin? Do you still feel our love is mortal sin?" 

Aislinn shook her head. "T'is like I had some great wound in the depths of my soul, an injury that festered and bled and I nurtured it all unknowing. But now I feel... well, almost cleansed, in a way. I want you - by Jesu! how I want you, woman! - and I am willing to try. All I ask is patience..." 

"You need have no fear of losing me," Dunlaith interrupted, "even if we are never lovers. Whatever your wishes, I will respect them and I swear by my sword, my honor and my life that I will never again cause you regret or pain. As long as I am at your side, I am content... it is enough." 

The look of relief on Aislinn's face made the warrior's throat swell under the weight of unshed tears. 

"I can promise nothing," the girl said, "but that I will always love you." 

"As I said, it is enough." 

They kissed, dark hair falling and mingling with red-gold; a long, sweet meeting of two souls that had been parted, but now came together again in utter joy and complete understanding. 

Whatever the future held, no matter where they would go or what they would do... 

Love would be enough. 

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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by Nene Adams ©2003 - All rights reserved

Revenge is a dish best served cold - Anonymous

It was an unusually warm spring day, and the St. Sebastian Shelter on 77th Street was fairly deserted. Later, the regulars would come in for a hot meal, perhaps a bed for the night. From runaway teenagers to runaway wives, to the homeless and hungry, the Sisters of the Sacred Heart and their volunteers turned no one away from the door.

Sister Winnifred Dooley, the newest member of the staff, had a rare moment of free time. She went out of the back door, into a tiny patch of grass that was surrounded on three sides by high walls, and sat down. Winnie tilted her round face into a stray beam of sunlight and sighed, enjoying the heat.

Like the other nuns, Winnie covered her cropped auburn hair with a white-edged black veil. Her order did not wear habits, having converted to simple modern dress - white shirt, calf-length denim skirt, a gold cross pin on the collar of her blouse, sensible shoes. She was young, though not the youngest in the order.

Winnie had made her perpetual vows just six months ago, after serving two years as postulant and another two years in her novitiate. She had gone to college previously, earned a degree in Education. Winnie had thought she might be a teacher, until she'd answered God's call. From Augustine Women's University to the Sisters of the Sacred Heart... her parents had been both thrilled (they were devout Catholics) and appalled.

She had been working at the shelter for two weeks, not long enough to really get to know the people who came there for help, but their suffering served to firm her commitment. Winnie's belief in God's goodness and mercy was unshaken by the grim realities of street life. God knew what He was doing, if only His children had faith. For the moment, Winnie felt the sunshine, listened to a breeze ruffling through the grass, closed her eyes, and relaxed.

Thank You, Lord, for Your beautiful works, she thought. What a blessing is a sunny spring day!

A shadow fell across her face. Winnie opened her eyes. A woman was standing there, swaying a little on her feet. She was dirty; her skin had an unhealthy pallor where it was not gray with ingrained grime. Matted dark hair hung to her shoulders, hacked away unevenly at the ends. A nasty scar sliced across her cheek, ending at the corner of her mouth. Blue eyes were set deep in bruised sockets. Despite the warmth of the day, the woman wore several layers of clothing beneath an old Navy pea coat.

Winnie had never seen her before. She stood up, brushing off the back of her skirt. "I'm Sister Winnie," she said, holding out a hand and smiling.

The woman did not respond, merely stared at her.

"Is this your first time at St. Sebastian's?" Winnie attempted. She noticed the woman's hand was bleeding, knuckles badly scraped. "Are you hurt? There is a clinic nearby..."

"No doctor," the woman said. Her voice was low, husky.

Sister Bernadette, called Sister Bernie, bustled towards them. She was tall, big-boned and brawny, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal beefy forearms. "Ah, that'll be our Eleanor," she said to the woman. "How are you, Eleanor?"

"Fine, Sister Bernie." Eleanor regarded Winnie. "She wasn't here last time I visited."

"Sister Winnifred is new, but I'm sure you two will get along." Bernadette flashed Winnie a warning look that said, be quiet, we'll talk later. "Why don't you go in and have a sandwich, Eleanor? Sister Jean is in the kitchen."

With a last glance at Winnie, Eleanor drifted back inside.

"I guess she must be one of your regulars," Winnie said.

"Yes and no. Eleanor - that's the name we gave her - is a drifter. She appears every year around this time." Bernadette clasped her hands together, rocking back and forth on her shoes. "We don't know much about her, not even her real name. She's been coming to St. Sebastian's for ten years. Eleanor will stay about a week, then be gone again."

"I see. Shall I assign her a bed?"

"Yes... and Winnifred? Please limit your interaction with Eleanor."

Winnie blinked. "Why? Is she dangerous?" Some of the homeless were former mental patients. While they weren't homicidal, it was wise to exercise caution.

"I don't..." Bernadette removed a rosary from her pocket, began running the beads through her fingers. She licked her lips. "Eleanor is a troubled soul. Deeply troubled. She has paranoid delusions. I don't want you to get sucked into her fantasies."

"I'm sorry, sister, but I'm not sure I understand."

Bernadette leaned closer. Winnie could smell peppermint toothpaste on her breath. "A few years ago," Bernadette whispered in a gust of sickly mint, "one of the older sisters spent a great deal of time with Eleanor. They had long talks. The sister became unbalanced. She developed eisoptrophobia - a morbid fear of mirrors. The matter ended when this sister walked through a full-length mirror and cut herself to ribbons. She nearly died, but was saved by the grace of God."

Winnie's eyes were wide. Bernadette leaned closer, until they were almost nose to nose. "There was no proof that Eleanor was involved. But I know she was, somehow. My instinct tells me to be careful around that one. I don't know Eleanor, or what brought her to this pass, or why she comes to St. Sebastian's only once per year, or why Mother Superior allows her to stay. I do know that I'm not going to let her to drive another nun mad. So do what I tell you, Sister Winnifred, and stay away from Eleanor. Obedience is more than a virtue - it's a necessity. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sister Bernadette." Winnie's stomach fluttered with nervousness. Sister Bernie was a formidable woman, and it was unwise to cross her. Besides, obedience to the order's rule was one of her holy vows. "I understand."

"Good. Now I suggest you occupy yourself with some task until the kitchen is ready to prepare dinner. Idle hands are the Devil's work. If you need anything, I'll be in my office catching up on paperwork." Bernadette marched away, Winnie following at her heels.

While Bernadette worked, Winnie occupied herself straightening up the shelter's common room. Battered sofas and chairs were clustered around an ancient television set. The picture was only black-and-white, the reception poor at best. She saw no sign of Eleanor, whom she assumed was in the kitchen eating.

George Strand, an elderly black man who was a regular, came shuffling into the room. His grizzled head was covered by a greasy baseball cap, his pants were too large and held up with a piece of knotted string. Without glancing at Winnie, George plopped down in his favorite chair, ready to watch re-runs of the Twilight Zone on television. The host, Rod Serling, was introducing the episode as usual, except for occasional static interruptions that warped his image. At the moment, sparkling zig-zags separated Ron's head from his body at an eye-watering angle.

"Hi, George," Winnie said softly.

"Shhh," George said, not taking his eyes from the screen. His hand wandered down, pushed inside the waistband of his pants.

Winnie intercepted his wrist firmly. "We talked about this, George. You have to behave, or Sister Bernie will put you on the banned list."

George withdrew his hand, lower lip pushing in and out. He had no teeth, and the shelter had stopped giving him free dentures because he'd trade them on the street for a bottle of muscatel. Sister Bernadette kept George's last pair of dentures in a locked drawer in her desk. He could have them to eat with, then they had to be cleaned and returned. "I found a dead bird yesterday," he said. "Under the boardwalk. It had no eyes."

"That happens, George. It's part of nature, God's work." Winnie turned away, tried to fluff a limp throw pillow. There was an afghan on one of the sofas, a knitted horror in brown, orange and lime green.

A couple women came in, chattering to each other. On television, Rod Serling had finished his introduction, and the drama began. The women sat down side-by-side, muting their conversation at a look from Winnie. George tried to feel himself again, Winnie stopped him, and he finally desisted, content to watch a young William Shatner's melodramatic performance.

Sister Philomena's voice came from the doorway. "I hear Eleanor is back," she said. "Did Sister Bernie talk to you?"

Winnie nodded. Sister Philomena had come to the Sacred Heart from a convent from Armenia more than sixty years ago. She was in her eighties now, her skin collapsed in soft wrinkles, hands liver-spotted, gnarled with arthritis. Her voice bore no trace of accent. Philomena was sharp-minded, good-humored, a favorite with novices.

"How are you today, George?" Philomena continued, shuffling into the room. She nodded at the two women. "Rhonda, Patricia... are you well?"

"Yes, Sister Phil," they answered. George mumbled something that Winnie didn't quite catch, but hoped was polite.

"Good, good. Oh, dear. What a terrible picture! The roof antenna needs adjustment again." The elderly nun wore a black habit whose long skirts fell to her ankles. Despite Vatican II and the loosening of convent strictures, Sister Philomena had no intention of joining the modern world. She sat down, a painful process since her hip had been broken in a fall three years ago. Once seated, she clapped her hands together and prepared to rise again. "I've forgotten my glasses. They're in the lavatory."

"Please don't get up. I'll fetch them, Sister Phil," Winnie hastily volunteered. She whispered to George, "Behave yourself, or I'll tell Sister Bernadette," and left the common room.

As she started down the hallway, she nearly ran into Eleanor. "I'm sorry," Winnie said, squeezing past the taller woman.

Eleanor nodded, then suddenly grabbed Winnie's upper arm. Her fingers dug deeply into flesh, hard enough to leave marks. Winnie was shocked by the power of her grip. "Word of friendly advice," Eleanor said, blue eyes glowing with a strange light. "Looked at yourself in a mirror lately, Sister Winnifred?"

"Vanity is one of the seven deadly sins," Winnie replied, trying to pull her arm away, but not succeeding. She wondered if she should call for help. Eleanor was very strong, and obviously far healthier than she looked.

"Deadly is right," Eleanor said harshly. "Stay away from mirrors. Got that?" She gave Winnie's arm a little shake. "Best advice I can give you, 'cause you're too young and pretty to die."

Winnie sucked in a breath, prepared to yell as loud as she could. Sister Bernadette's office was nearby, as was the shelter's handyman, Henry, who had a workshop there.

Eleanor released her swiftly, retreated several paces down the hall. "It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you. Just watch your back. Don't end up like Dolores." A flickering flourescent bulb cast patterns of shadow and light across her face, creating a sinister aspect. "God forbid you should see Mary. That's what happened to Dolores. She saw Mary, and it damned near killed her."

In spite of her earlier fear, Winnie's curiosity was roused. "The Holy Virgin Mary? What do you mean?" And who's Dolores? she added silently.

"Unholy bitch! She stole my angel!" Eleanor clapped a hand to her mouth, shook her head from side to side.

Winnie walked slowly forward, towards the stricken woman. "What do you mean, Eleanor? You can talk to me. I won't tell anyone."

Eleanor shook her head more violently. "No!" Her voice was muffled. "Just stay away! Leave me alone!" She spun around and disappeared up the passage.

Winnie tried to follow her, but Eleanor ran outside and was swallowed up by the lunchtime crowd. St. Sebastian's was only a few blocks away from the heart of the downtown area; many business people patronized the restaurants and sandwich shops around the shelter. She glanced around; unable to locate her quarry, Winnie went back inside.

Sister Bernadette's warning, now Eleanor herself... what in the world is going on here? She did not know Eleanor at all - why would the woman single her out that way? Did Eleanor bear some imagined grudge against the Virgin Mary? Bernadette had said that she suffered paranoid delusions. But if that was the case, why would she want to visit a Catholic shelter, even briefly? Winnie supposed that someone suffering from such a delusion would avoid Catholic structures at all costs. There were pictures of blue-clad Mary on the walls, statuettes here and there, even a bottle of Lourdes water in a plastic Mary-shaped bottle.

What did she mean by calling Mary an unholy bitch? Accusing Her of stealing an angel. It doesn't make sense. Of course, people who were mentally unbalanced often did not make sense. They had an internal logic that was to the far left of reality. Still, Winnie thought Eleanor had sounded quite lucid, if furious. No, not entirely angry. There had been a world of pain in her voice, an injury still agonizing even after the passage of years.

And who is Dolores?

While she was thinking, Winnie found Philomena's glasses. Returning to the common room, she saw that George had left. Rhonda and Patricia were sharing a cigarette, flicking ashes behind the sofa. When Winnie appeared, they flinched guiltily. St. Sebastian's had a strict non-smoking policy, which had more to do with fire insurance rates than second-hand smoke concerns.

"Please dispose of that properly," Winnie said to them, handing the glasses to Sister Philomena.

The old nun beamed at her. "Thank you, my dear. That's much better."

Patricia and Rhonda got up and exited together, the smoldering cigarette clenched between Rhonda's fingers. Winnie hoped they would take it outside, before Bernadette smelled smoke. She searched for a can of air freshener that usually stood on a side table, next to a bunch of plastic flowers in a jelly jar. Unable to find it, Winnie wedged the single window open a crack. The frame had a tendency to swell in wet weather, and they had had some rain recently.

"Sister Phil," Winnie said, sitting on the edge of the sofa near the older woman's chair, "do you know someone named Dolores?" She spoke softly, almost hesitantly. Bernadette had been emphatic about her not getting involved with Eleanor. On the other hand, Winnie thought, surely it can't hurt to try and clarify a mystery. It's not exactly breaking my vow of obedience to ask. After all, Sister Bernie didn't tell me not to talk to Sister Phil. This was a Jesuitical rationalization, and she knew it. Perhaps Sister Phil knows nothing, in which case, no harm done.

"Dolores?" Behind the thick glasses, Philomena's watery pale eyes were hugely distorted. "I've known a few in my time."

"Was there anyone named Dolores who had a connection to... Eleanor?" Winnie hated bringing her up, but felt she had no choice.

"Oh, that's the way of things, is it?" Philomena smiled. "Trying to wriggle out of Bernadette's injunction, are you?"

"I'm sorry. It's just that... well, I saw Eleanor in the hall. She said some things." Winnie hung her head, slightly ashamed. "I didn't mean to talk to her. Really! It just... happened."

"I see." Philomena's gnarled hands smoothed the skirt of her habit. She had a rosary around her neck, a beautiful thing made of silver and Austrian crystal that glittered in the light. "Curiosity isn't a sin, Winnifred. Disobedience is, but I know you're a good girl, and you mean well."

"Thank you."

The old nun sat back, settling herself as comfortably as she could. At her age, limber joints were a distant memory, pain a constant companion. She toyed with the tiny silver crucifix at the end of her rosary. "I've a good mind to give you a lecture on the merits of self-control and patience and obedience."

Winnie sighed internally. "Yes, Sister Phil."

"Now, don't be sulky. I know all about curiosity, my dear. It's like a burning itch that can only be satisfied by one thing, especially when you're young and impatient. If God grants you as many years as mine, you'll learn that only He knows the answers to all questions. You can pray for understanding, but have faith that He knows what He's doing."

"Yes, Sister Phil."

Philomena's smile turned into a broad grin. Winnie was startled by the almost naughty expression that was on the older woman's face. When Sister Phil grinned like that, it was possible to tell what a beautiful woman she had been once.

"Bernadette means no harm," Philomena said. "She may act like a particularly crusty saint of the martial variety, but she does care and she is concerned. She has your welfare in mind. However, I can see that if I don't satisfy you somehow, you'll get yourself into further mischief. Don't bother to deny it, my dear. Temptation is hard to resist at your age."

Winnie tried to protest. "Sister Phil, I would never..."

Philomena held up a hand. "Never say never. I'll tell you what I know, and we won't mention our conversation to Bernadette or anyone else. And you will refrain from further contact with Eleanor. I don't think she's dangerous,but we don't want to distress Sister Bernie. And one other thing, Winnifred - you won't forget to confess your little lapse to Father McGoldrick and do penance."

"Yes, Sister Phil."

"Good girl." Philomena sat in silence for several long minutes.

Winnie was afraid she had fallen asleep. She started to touch the older woman.

"I'm fine, dear," Philomena said. "Just trying to decide where to begin. About seven years ago - before your time - there was a Sister Dolores Theresa Lucerna assigned to the shelter from our sister convent in Spain. She was a lovely dark little thing who was studying psychology, wanted to get into the peer counseling program. Dolores became interested in Eleanor. They had long talks in private. Bernadette thought Dolores was using Eleanor for practice, analyzing her illness. Then Dolores began to act very odd."

This clicked with what Bernadette had told her. "Did she develop..." Winnie could not remember the word, "...a mobid fear of mirrors?"

"Yes, she did. Dolores put cloths over every mirror in the shelter. She was even afraid of her reflection in a spoon! By that time, Eleanor had already disappeared. She was not here when Dolores threw herself through a full-length mirror, may dear God forgive her. Bernadette said she'd had an accident, tripped and fell into the glass."

"Because Bernie was afraid the diocese might think it was suicide."

"Exactly so." Philomena nodded. "Poor Dolores was confused, her mind unstable. I'm certain she did not mean to commit suicide." She crossed herself. "I was here the night it happened. Who knew such a tiny woman had so much blood in her? I'd had some medical training, put a tourniquet on her arm where she'd ripped the artery open. Dolores was taken to Holy Cross Hospital to treat her wounds. Later, she was transferred to Mount Olive Psychiatric."

"But why? Why would Sister Dolores do that?"

"Only God knows the answer to that question, my dear. Dolores was babbling about the Queen of Scots trying to kill her. Personally, I think Sister Dolores was already suffering from mild dementia when she came here. Nothing overt, just the sort of harmless eccentricity that many people have from time to time. Something Eleanor told her may have triggered a violent attack. What that was, we'll never know."

"Sister Bernie clearly thinks that Eleanor drove Dolores to it somehow."

"Bah! Mental illness is not contagious. Eleanor denied all involvement, although the way Bernadette was grilling her - like some tough detective in a Phillip Marlowe book - I don't blame the woman for staying silent. At any rate, there was no evidence that Eleanor had anything to do with Dolores' lapse. Pure coincidence that Dolores' interest in Eleanor happened to occur when she was already on the brink of a mental breakdown. Bernadette sees it differently, of course, and she's entitled to her opinion."

"Eleanor said that Dolores saw Mary, and it almost killed her." Winnie picked at a loose threat on the sofa arm. "I thought she meant the Virgin Mary."

"Well, Dolores was shouting about 'Bloody Mary,' and I've always assumed she was referring to Mary, Queen of Scots, who bore that nickname." Philomena frowned, finally shook her head. "No, she couldn't have been talking about the Mother of God. And it was only a delusion, anyway."

Winnie debated whether or not to tell Philomena about Eleanor's 'unholy bitch' statement, but decided to keep it to herself. She had too much respect for Sister Phil to expose her to shocking language. "Thank you, Sister," she said. "I appreciate your explanation."

"Dolores is still at Mount Olive, by the way. And you're welcome, Winnifred. Since our talk has cleared the air somewhat, I trust you'll obey Bernadette's suggestion and avoid Eleanor's company?" Philomena's lips curled into a smile.

"Of course." Winnifred had also decided not to tell Sister Phil about Eleanor's strange warning. She was certain there was nothing to worry about, and didn't want to upset the old nun. "I'll just go to the kitchen, shall I, and help Sister Jean with dinner?"

"Excellent idea. I hope she isn't serving creamed corn again." Philomena made a face, her wrinkled countenance giving her a simian appearance. "Twice this week, and I can't abide the horrid stuff."

"Perhaps that's your penance for a past sin," Winnie suggested with gentle humor.

"No, I'm a martyr to Jean's unimaginative cuisine. I should pray to Martha, patron saint of cooks, for relief."

"Or St. Jude of lost causes."

Both nuns laughed. Jean was not a very good cook, but she was the only one who understood how to deal with the shelter's temperamental commercial stove. Her kitchen privileges were jealously guarded. Neither could really blame Jean for the dull menu, however; St. Sebastian's relied on donations from bakeries, supermarkets, charity groups and private parties.

"Go on, then, and see if Jean needs an extra hand," Philomena said, sinking deeper into her chair. Light from the television and the window reflected off her thick glasses, sent a sparkling ray into Winnie's eyes.

She shielded her face with an uplifted hand, got up, and went to the kitchen.

Some of Winnie's questions had been answered, but she had a feeling that much remained to be uncovered.

The next morning, Winnifred rose at 5 a.m., washed her face and hands, made herself presentable, and spent about fifteen minutes in private prayer. Then she walked to the chapel to attend the usual morning assembly. The order owned an old hotel close to the shelter, which had been converted into living quarters for the nuns. Each woman had her own small room with attached bath. The chapel was located in back of the main lobby; a games room was next door, with pool table, television, and card tables for evening entertainment. Most of the nuns loved bridge and canasta; Winnie had a hard time remembering the rules, so she usually read a book.

Besides running St. Sebastian's, the Sisters of the Sacred Heart also organized fund raisers for neighborhood Catholic churches, provided hospitality for visiting nuns and laywomen, supported missionary work, and ran an infant daycare center. On Wednesday and Saturday evenings, they held crafts classes in the converted hotel's basement, teaching needlepoint, embroidery, weaving and knitting for a small fee. Postcards featuring old sepia photographs from the order's archives were for sale, both on-line and in their tiny gift shop.

Two nuns answered telephone calls during the day, taking prayer requests and reminders for prayer cards; they also used an aging computer to make newsletters and inspirational mailings. During quiet times, many of the sisters sewed beautiful vestments and altar cloths. Roses from St. Agatha's were dried and fashioned into beads for handcrafted rosaries. In this way, everyone worked to support themselves, and the community at large.

Some of the nuns were teachers at St. Agatha's Convent, located upstate, on spacious wooded grounds. It was a girl's college preparatory school for grades eight through twelve. Those sisters lived in the dorms with students, coming home to Sacred Heart only during extended holidays. Winnie was hoping that, once her time at the shelter had ended, she might be permitted to take up duties as a teacher at St. Agatha's.

In the meantime, she thought, quickening her pace down the concrete stairwell, I'd better not be late, or Mother Superior will think I'm not responsible enough for reassignment.

Mother Superior Francis Darling was a vigorous, raw-boned woman in her late fifties. Bushy iron-gray brows arched over blue eyes; a jutting chin, sharp cheeks and proud beak of a nose gave her a stubborn look. Mother Francis ruled like a benevolent despot, dispensing kindness and discipline with an equal hand. Everyone respected her, including Father McGoldrick.

When all the nuns had assembled in the tiny chapel, kneeling on cushions, Mother Francis raised her hands for silence. "In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, I will begin this day," she said, beginning Matins, or the morning office. "I thank you, Lord, for having preserved me during the night. I will do my best to make all I do today pleasing to You and in accordance with Your will. My dear Mother Mary, watch over me this day. My Guardian Angel, take care of me. St. Joseph and all you saints of God, pray for me."

The lines were repeated by everyone standing there, a soft sussuration of echoes, whispered belief.

Mother Francis went on with the Daily Offering prayer, ending with the Morning Consecration to Mary: "My Queen, My Mother, I offer myself entirely to Thee. And to show my devotion to Thee, I offer Thee this day, my eyes, my ears, my mouth, my heart, my whole being without reserve. Wherefore, good Mother, as I am thine own, keep me, guard me as Thy property and possession."

Sister Bernadette joined Mother Francis on the podium. She led the nuns through the Magnificat, and the Litany of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Winnie was reminded of Eleanor each time she gave the response to Bernadette's recitation. Afterwards, the women prayed in unison for the souls in Purgatory. From a typed index card, Mother Francis read the names of those who had telephoned, asking to be included in the nun's devotions. The women  told their rosaries, murmuring the familiar words as beads slipped through their fingers.

Once prayers were finished, Mother Francis dismissed them for breakfast.

Sister Jean read aloud from the Psalms as the women sat down at a long table. She had breakfasted earlier, her privilege as the chief cook. Every nun had the same thing - a bowl of cereal with sliced banana and milk, a muffin, hot tea or coffee, and orange juice. Dishes of stewed prunes were scattered along the length of the table for anyone who wanted them.

Winnie had gotten a daring idea during the night. After finishing her breakfast, she approached Mother Superior Francis. "I have a free day on the schedule," she said diffidently. "May I have permission to go to the public library?"

Francis eyed the younger woman, while Bernadette - who sat next to Mother Superior - scowled. Francis said, "Are there not books enough in our library to suit you?"

"I had stopped studying for my teaching certificate," Winnie replied, "and I'd like to resume so that I can take the test next year." She reminded herself that this was not a lie. She did need reference materials from the public library. That she also wanted to take advantage of their newspaper archives was an omission. Okay, a lie of omission, as Father McGoldrick will tell me at confession. A sin, but Winnie could not resist the lure of the mystery that was Eleanor.

Bernadette was suspicious, as always. "Does this have anything to do with that homeless woman?"

Francis raised her brows. "What homeless woman? Sister Bernadette, all of God's children have names. The moment we stop thinking of people as human beings, and instead label them like objects, our mission will utterly fail."

"Yes, Mother Francis. However, you should know that Sister Winnifred was... accosted by Eleanor yesterday in the hallway. I have forbidden her to have anything to do with that woman."

Winnie put on her most innocent expression. It was difficult to maintain in the face of Mother Francis' cool examination. The nun's blue eyes crawled over her, seemingly inch by inch, seeking any chink in the young woman's armor. Winnie felt as though her sin was blazing like a star, obvious to everyone. She resisted the urge to squirm, and tried to stay calm.

Finally, Francis said, "I do not see how the one thing connects to the other, Bernadette. Sister Winnifred, Sister Nancy is taking the car to the airport today. She will drop you off at the library, and pick you up at four o'clock. I expect you to check out any books you may need. Do you have your card?"

Winnie nodded, containing her jubilation with an effort. There was no need to make Bernie any more suspicious than she already was. Mother Francis continued, "I hope you're sincere in your desire to be a teacher, Sister Winnifred. I can help you with your studies, as can some of the other sisters."

"Thank you, Mother."

"All right, child. You had better do your chores, then go back to your room and get ready. Sister Nancy leaves at ten o'clock."

Winnie wanted to run, jump and skip with glee. She did none of those things. Feeling Sister Bernadette's gaze burning a hole in her back with every step, Winnie walked sedately back to her room.

Knowing where to begin was not difficult. Winnie found a librarian, asked for the microfiche records of The Daily from eleven years ago. Eleanor had started coming to St. Sebastian's ten years ago, according to Sister Bernie, so she thought this might be as good a place to start as any. Winnie might find nothing, but she had to try.

Shortly after scrolling through several month's worth of back issues, Winnie found an article that immediately grabbed her interest. It was accompanied by a grainy black-and-white picture of Eleanor - clean, well groomed, dressed in fine clothing. Her face was not scarred. Another woman was with her, clinging to Eleanor's arm. It was impossible to make out many details, but the other woman seemed lovely and vivacious, her head thrown back, teeth exposed in a beaming smile.

MILLIONAIRE MYSTERY CONTINUES
Police continue to investigate the disappearance of Angel Latimore, companion of multi-millionaire Sophia Quinn.
Latimore, 29, vanished from the apartment she shared with Quinn, leaving only bloodstains behind. Quinn was also
injured in the attack, which police say could have been drug related. Sophia Quinn was held for questioning after a
hospital stay, but has been released pending further investigation. Angel Latimore's whereabouts are still unknown.
Police are treating the matter as a homicide, as no ransom demands have been forthcoming. The FBI has
withdrawn from the case, lacking evidence of kidnapping. Latimore is, at this time, presumed dead. Quinn's attorneys
protest her innocence, while Quinn herself remains in seclusion, unavailable for comment.

Winnie dug further back into the archives, taking notes. Sophia Quinn and Eleanor were the same person - that much was clear. Sophia was a very rich woman, having inherited millions from her father Timonthy Quinn, the publishing magnate. Angel Latimore was not only Sophia's companion... the two were lovers, sharing a decade-long relationship. Winnie was surprised, but not shocked. Love the sinner, hate the sin. She would pray for Eleanor, as well as her lost love. It was not her place to judge.

Her attention went back to the microfiche film. Sophia denied any knowledge of the events that left her scarred, her lover missing. A front page splash in the beginning, the story crept further and further into The Daily's interior. Interest waned quickly. Two weeks after the disappearance, Sophia Quinn and Angel Latimore scarcely rated a paragraph. Two months later, with Angel still presumed dead, Sophia herself vanished. That created a brief flurry before the story died again, supplanted by a political scandal.

Winnie wished she could read the police report on the incident, but such documents were not in the public domain. She did not know anyone on the police force, so no favors from that area would be forthcoming. Winnie continued to search, and found only one item that piqued her curiosity. The warehouse that St. Sebastian's occupied had been owned by Sophia Quinn. Sophia had donated the space to the church shortly after Angel's disappearance.

She glanced at the clock, hurridly put her notes away. Sister Nancy would be back in a few hours, and she had to select some appropriate research books to check out.

Back in her room in the converted hotel, Winnie read through her notebook, and could not suppress a shiver. What if Sophia had murdered Angel? The dead woman's body could be in the shelter, hidden in the walls, buried beneath the floor. This was a terrifying thought. Mother of God, to be so lost and alone!

Was Sophia capable of murder? Winnie supposed any imperfect being could kill, and all humans were imperfect in God's eyes. But why would Sophia kill Angel? They had seemed happy enough in the newspaper photo. Jealousy, love turned to hate, revenge - all good motives, but she did not know enough about Sophia Quinn to make an educated guess. Of course, I'm probably overreacting, Winnie thought. I have no proof of crime, only my own morbid imagination.

There was a knock on the door. Winnie put the notebook in her dresser, straightened the veil that covered her hair. "Come in," she called, grateful that her order permitted a modicum of privacy. In some convents, the nuns were not allowed to have doors on their cells.

Her visitor was Sister Bernadette. Immediately, Winnie's spine snapped straight - Sister Bernie was a stickler for good posture.

"How was your visit to the library?" Bernadette asked.

"Fine, thank you, Sister. I was able to find several books that I think will be useful." Winnie pointed to a stack of books on the little table that served as her desk.

"Good. And you have heeded my instructions regarding Eleanor?"

It was on the tip of Winnie's tongue to tell Bernadette what she had learned that afternoon, but she firmly squashed the temptation. Instead, Winnie assumed an innocent expression and replied, "Yes, Sister."

Bernadette came into the room. Her formidable figure seemed to take up a great deal of space. She loomed, which Winnie found intimidating. "Somehow, I fail to believe you," Bernadette said. "I'm the Mistress of Novices, Sister Winnifred, which means I have a great deal of experience with young women. You may not be a novice any longer, but I still feel that you require guidance."

"I don't know what you mean, Sister." There was a nervous quivering in Winnie's stomach. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"I'm not calling you anything," Bernadette said, eyeing the dresser. It was a solid oak piece, painted white, with an embroidered cloth across the top. Not pretty but servicable, as was most of the nun's furniture.

Bernadette continued, "Sister Phil told me that you asked her about Eleanor and Dolores, after I had specifically ordered you to drop the subject. I've known Philomena for many years, and the two of us keep no secrets from each other. She had to tell me. You may think I'm being irrational and petty, but your welfare is my primary concern."

"Am I being accused of something?"

"Only of being young and foolish." Bernadette crossed to the dresser, pulled open the top drawer. Winnie's breath caught in her throat. The older nun drew out Winnie's notebook, thumbed through a few pages. "I thought your library trip was a little too convenient."

"Sister Bernadette..." Winnie began, but was interrupted by Bernadette. "My child, I hoped that you would accept my authority and curb your curiosity. I see now that this is impossible. Well, I'm to blame. I should have known better. Eleanor's mystery was too potent."

Winnie blurted, "Her name is Sophia Quinn, not Eleanor."

"I can read for myself." Bernadette quickly skimmed through Winnie's notes. "You may think that I was born in the dinosaur age, Winnifred, but I do have some understanding of modern technology. I've used the newspaper archives at the library a time or two myself." She closed the book with a snap. "You lied to Mother Superior."

Mutely, Winnie again pointed to the stack of books she had checked out. Bernadette smiled. "A lie of omission is still a lie, my child. Even a Jesuit would find it difficult to rationalize his way out of that one."

What would Sister Bernie do to her? Winnie wondered. She could not be turned away from the order - that would require a much greater sin than a small lie - but she could be disciplined. Mother Francis favored confinement to one's room for a period of time, with a rule of silence to better aid meditation on one's sins. It was not an unendurable punishment, but... if Mother Francis knows I've breached her trust, so much the worse! She began to feel very guilty.

"I will not inform Mother Superior at this time," Bernadette said, much to Winnie's surprise. "However, I am going to confiscate this," she held up the notebook, "and assign you to kitchen duties in the shelter. Beginning now, in fact. If you hurry, you'll be in time to help serve the evening meal."

"This is supposed to be my free day," Winnie replied nervously.

"No free days for three months. When you're not working with Sister Jean in the shelter kitchen, or in the chapel for prayers, you'll be here in your room studying for your teaching certificate. I will also put you on the visiting roster for Mount Olive Psychiatric." Bernadette grew grim. "Yes, you'll get a chance to see poor Sister Dolores, but don't expect much. She hasn't been rational for a long time. Perhaps if you view her condition first-hand, you'll realize that my apparent pettiness is motivated by concern for your well-being - physical, mental, emotional and spiritual. I told you once that obedience is a necessity. I expect to be obeyed on this matter. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sister Bernadette."

"Good. I hope we will not have to repeat this conversation. Steer clear of Eleanor. Do not approach her in any way. Avoid this fascination with her as you would the Devil's own temptation. Can you not see that your curiosity has already led you into sin?"

"I don't..." she began, but in her heart, Winnie knew that Sister Bernie was right. She bowed her head. "I understand."

"Then go to St. Sebastian's directly. I'll make the necessary changes to your work schedule." Though she wore a white shirt and denim skirt instead of a black habit, no one could have mistaken Bernadette for anything other than a nun - a martial nun, used to command, confident in her abilities, secure in her faith. Against such authority, Winnie had no defense. Besides, she knew that she was in the wrong.

"I'm sorry," Winnie whispered as she went to the open door.

"So am I," Bernadette replied. "I will pray for you, my child. And you should pray for yourself, as well."

The St. Sebastian Shelter was busy. The weather was fine, with no forecast of rain, so many homeless people came for a hot meal rather than a bed for the night. Sister Jean and several volunteers were dishing up baked chicken legs, mashed potatoes, green beans, brown bread and applesauce. The meal had been cooked and donated by a Church charity group. To nourish souls as well as bodies, another volunteer - Winnie knew her as Mrs. Ellen Marks, a devout Catholic widow - read aloud from the Book of Psalms. She spoke loudly enough to be heard over the buzzing conversations at the tables.

"Hear me when I call, O God of my righteousness: thou hast enlarged me when I was in distress; have mercy upon me, and hear my prayer," Mrs. Marks said. "Lord, lift thou up the light of thy countenance upon us. Thou hast put gladness in my heart, more than in the time that their corn and their wine increased. I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety."

Before Winnie could approach Sister Jean, someone came up behind her and touched her arm. She whirled around and saw Eleanor. Sophia Quinn, her mind prompted.

"I'm sorry," Sophia said, trying to smile. The scar that sliced through her cheek had paralyzed that side of her mouth. The lopsided expression was grotesque, but not threatening. "I'm very sorry, Sister Winnifred."

"Why are you sorry?" Winnie could not help responding.

"You remind me of her. My Angel."

Now Winnie knew that Sophia was referring to an actual person - Angel Latimore - rather than a spiritual entity. Curiosity welled anew, but she recalled Sister Bernadette's injunction and sighed. If anyone saw her questioning Sophia, there would be hell to pay. Or at least, Sister Bernie's version of Hell, which is not altogether different save in degree. "I have to go," she said to Sophia gently.

Mrs. Marks continued her reading. "Lord, how are they increased that trouble me! many are they that rise up against me. Many there be which say of my soul, "There is no help for him in God." But thou, O Lord, art a shield for me; my glory, and the lifter up of mine head. I cried unto the Lord with my voice, and he heard me out of his holy hill."

Winnie agreed. Lord, hear me! Be my shield against temptation, I pray! She turned to go, but Sophia stopped her with a hand on her arm.

"You have her strength," Sophia said, cocking her head to one side. Her hair was clean. It was blue-black and fine, with floating tendrils that clung to her face. She had taken a shower at the shelter, and was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans that she must have gotten from the donation bin. The former was too big; it ballooned around her emaciated frame, the sleeves hung past her elbows, the hem nearly to her knees. "You have my Angel's strength. You aren't afraid."

"I fear many things," Winnie said, trying to disengage her arm without angering Sophia. "Please, let me go."

"It's too late. Well, maybe not." Again, Sophia gave a lopsided grin. "I think you'll do."

"Do what? Please, Sophia..." As soon as she said the name, Winnie knew she had made a mistake.

Sophia's eyes narrowed, her smile faded. "What did you call me?"

"Nothing." Winnie glanced around frantically, but no one except a homeless woman noticed her plight. She contemplated screaming. That would bring immediate help... except that Sophia was holding a knife in her free hand. Light glinted off the edge, which seemed razor sharp.

"I warned you, but you couldn't let it be. I didn't want to do this. I wanted another way." Sophia tugged Winnie's arm, drawing her towards a door at the side of the dining room. "Just be quiet and don't give me any trouble, Winnifred. I'm a desperate woman with nothing to lose. Remember that. A lot of people could get hurt if you don't cooperate and I'm forced to defend myself. Do what I tell you, and I promise that no one will be harmed."

Winnie suddenly thought about rape. Could a woman rape another woman? She supposed was possible, and she did not really want to find out. Sophia suddenly chuckled. The blade came up, touched Winnie's throat. "Don't flatter yourself, Sister. What I want from you isn't remotely sexual. Besides, I'll answer all your questions. Wouldn't you like that? I pegged you as a nosy little girl from the first moment we met."

Abruptly, Winnie's fear changed to indignation. "I'm hardly a little girl." She resisted the impulse to push the knife away. There was no point in risking Sophia's anger. The woman was unbalanced, unpredictable. Did she kill Angel Latimore? Her theory was gaining credence in the light of Sophia's willingness to commit violence. Perhaps she had been too impertinent. Antagonizing Sophia would only make matters worse.

Commending her soul to God, Winnie said meekly, "Do with me what you will, but please spare the others."

"A proper martyr's attitude." Sophia lowered her blade, until it hung at her side. "Now come along, Sister. We're going to the attic."

The attic? Winnie was not aware the shelter had such a feature. She said nothing, merely allowed herself to be led without resisting.

Sophia took her to a disused storage room that contained little besides boxes gathering dust. She pointed at a short piece of rope dangling from the ceiling. "Pull the ladder down," she said.

Winnie tried, but could not reach the rope. "You're taller than I am," she said. There was dust on her skirt, dust on her shirt, a light powdering of the stuff on her veil. Some got into her nose and she sneezed.

"I warn you, don't try to escape or I'll forget my manners," Sophia warned. She reached up easily, caught the rope, and gave it a good yank. A panel in the ceiling swung down, and a ladder unfolded from the space beyond. "Climb up."

Winnie glanced at the ladder, then towards Sophia. "I'm wearing a skirt," she said.

Sophia was amused. "So what? I'm not interested in sins of the flesh. We're both adults, we've seen it all before." When Winnie stubbornly refused, Sophia continued, "This is childish. If I give you my word not to look at your panties, will you go ahead? I'm not going to stand here and argue with you all night."

Oddly, this promise gave Winnie some measure of relief. She started up the ladder. When she entered the attic, she had a brief notion of finding something she could use as a weapon and attacking Sophia with it. Winnie abandoned the idea, however. She had put herself in God's hands, and had to trust that He would protect her. All according to Your divine will, Lord, and in obedience to Your plan.

Sophia climbed into the attic behind her, pulled the ladder up and locked the access panel. "Over here." She gestured with the knife. "Be careful. The floorboards are uneven in places. I wouldn't want you to twist your ankle."

Winnie went where she was told. The attic did not contain much - a few trunks, a lot of spiderwebs, a dressmaker's dummy, a broken rattan birdcage. Dim light filtered in throgh a filthy, round glass window. In the corner was a tall object, covered by a sheet. Sophia stopped her. "Sit down on the floor. Don't move. Don't think about escape. I have some preparations to make."

"You said that you'd answer my questions."

"So I did," Sophia answered, opening a trunk and rummaging through the contents. "What do you want to know?"

"What happened to Angel Latimore." Winnie sat down, legs folded to one side for decency's sake.

"Oh." Sophia lifted something from the trunk. It was a seven-day candle in a glass container, the front painted with a depiction of the Virgin Mary. "I thought you knew the whole story when you called me by my real name."

"Only what I read in the papers." Winnie quickly gave the gist of what she had learned. "I know that you and Angel were lovers. She disappeared. You were suspected."

"For a while, but with my money, I could afford the best lawyers." Sophia lifted the candle's twin from the trunk, making a pair. "I could afford the best. What I couldn't do, for all my money and resources, was get Angel back."

"Back from where?"

Sophia closed the trunk and sat down on it, oblivious to dust and spider webs. "Why don't I start at the beginning, eh? Save you the trouble of playing Twenty Questions. We aren't likely to be disturbed for a while." She consulted a watch strapped to her wrist. Winnie saw that it was an expensive Rolex, and wondered how she had kept it from being stolen while living on the street. Then she looked at the knife, and realized that no one stole from Sophia Quinn with impunity.

"Angel and I were a couple for nine years. We loved each other deeply, although we had different interests. Angel was... well, she was very much into the occult. Not practicing witchcraft, mind you, but the study of the arcane. Knowledge rather than practical application." Sophia began flipping her knife up and down, catching it expertly by the hilt. "I didn't think much of it. Anyway, she started researching for a book on folklore and magic, to be published by my company. That's the point when Bloody Mary entered our lives."

"Who's Bloody Mary?"

"Depends on who you talk to. Ever heard of Mary Wails?"

"Oh, yes!" Winnie shivered. "She's an evil spirit, Satan's bride. We used to scare each other to death at school with stories about Mary Wails. I heard that some girl at St. Agnes had her face scratched off in the girl's bathroom a long time ago..." She stopped, eyes opening wide.

"Something like that." Sophia used the point of her knife to tap the scar on her face. "I'm not that girl, by the way. Your version of the folklore is common. Mary Wails is also known as Mary Worth, Bloody Mary, Hell Mary... the legend has many variations, but a kernal of truth remains. There is an evil entity that uses mirrors as portals. If properly summoned, Bloody Mary has the power to interact with our reality."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"You will." Sophia rose, took the candles and set them on either side of the sheet-wrapped object. "To continue my story, Angel was intrigued by the legend of Bloody Mary. You might say that she became obsessed, oblivious to any danger. I was too busy with my own problems - a company takeover which had to be averted - to notice that her obsession was verging on the dangerous. Besides, I didn't believe the occult was serious. Just a lot of mumbo-jumbo that could do no harm. Jesus, how wrong I was!

"I came home one night to find Angel in front of a mirror. There was this thing with her, a horrible monster that was pulling her into the glass. I tried to stop it. Bloody Mary - the unholy bitch, as I later discovered - slashed me across the face. I was blinded by blood. The next thing I knew, I was alone. Angel was gone. The room was a wreck. I managed to dial 911 before I passed out again. When I woke up in the hospital, I thought it was a nightmare, but Angel was really missing. I couldn't tell the police the truth. They'd have locked me away for good."

Winnie realized that Sophia sounded more lucid than usual. She commented on that fact tactfully, and Sophia snorted in response. "I am not mentally ill," she said. "I played a part, that's all. Or do you think I've been wandering the streets for more than ten years?"

That was precisely what Winnie believed, and she said as much.

"Oh, no. I have to come back to St. Sebastian's every year, on the anniversary of Angel's abduction," Sophia said. "The rest of the time I live on a private estate in Europe. That's why I donated this building to the Church, to be specifically used as a homeless shelter. I knew I'd need access when required. Another stipulation was that the attic be left alone. Any violation means that the property reverts back to my company, and I do have people who check from time to time."

"Why the charade?"

"Angel's case remains open. If the police knew I was in town, I'd be followed everywhere, because they haven't found a suspect, other than myself, who fits their theory. If they knew I was coming here, they'd get a sympathetic judge to issue a warrant to tear this shelter apart, looking for Angel's body. I need to work without harrassment. This was my best solution."

Winnie's toes were growing uncomfortably numb. She shifted slightly; the floorboards creaked in response.

Sophia glanced at her, suddenly wary. She pointed the knife at Winnie. "I will do anything to get Angel back. I know she's still alive, somewhere in the space behind the mirror, captive of an evil entity. I've spent the better part of a decade going around the world, learning everything I could, paying for and sometimes stealing information. I've consulted witches, shamans, sorcerers, and magicians both black and white; from Nepal to Mexico, Siberia, Africa... I've spent a lot of money. I've done things that will haunt me for the rest of my life. I've spilled blood. The price I've paid is worth it, if I can save Angel."

"You could have trusted in the Lord," Winnie said.

"It wasn't God that stole Angel away from me." Sophia crossed to another trunk, took out a velvet bag. "I have no faith, Sister, except in myself. God helps those who help themselves."

"Even the Devil can quote Scripture," Winnie countered.

Sophia laughed. "You think I'm delusional."

"I'm sure you believe that everything you've told me is the truth." Winnie shifted again, accompanied by more creaks. She decided to speak her mind. "However, a simpler explanation would be that you killed Angel Latimore - whether by accident or design - and suffered a mental breakdown, crafting an elaborate delusion to avoid your guilt. That is rational. Talk of the occult, of evil spirits and mirrors, doesn't make sense."

"Your Church believes in demonic possession, doesn't it?"

"The Church does not lightly indulge in exorcisms."

"Yet the Vatican issued updated exorcism rules in 1999. The Pope himself performed an exorcism in 1982."

Winnie acknowledged this was true, and added, "But Bloody Mary did not possess Angel. According to you, Angel was taken bodily into a mirror. I find this difficult to believe."

"You won't take it on faith? I'm sorry, Sister. I admit, the story is difficult to swallow. You'll have proof soon enough." Sophia took a piece of chalk out of the bag, with which she proceeded to draw a circle around the seated nun.

No, not a circle, Winnie thought, as Sophia added strange symbols around the outer rim. "What are you doing?"

"Protecting you. You're going to play a part in the rescue."

"If I refuse?"

Sophia's blue eyes turned to the color of cold steel. "I advise against it."

Winnie subsided. It was probably better to let Sophia's fantasy run its course, as long as no one was hurt. When nothing happens, will she release me? Or kill me in frustration? It was difficult to have confidence that this was all part of God's eternal plan, and yet... Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me.

When the protective circle was finished, Sophia found a box of matches and lit the candles. From her velvet bag, she drew out a folded sheet of newspaper and a few tacks, which she used to cover the attic window. The room was completely dark, except for the faint candle glow.

A small book was thrust into Winnie's hands. "The page is marked," Sophia said.

Winnie could hardly see the words on the pages. The handwriting was crabbed, uneven, blotched with ink. She leaned forward, to put the book into better light.

"No!" Sophia pushed her back, but gently. "Stay in the circle."

"But I can't see to read."

Sophia turned around, found another candle in the trunk, lit it, and placed it inside the circle near Winnie. "Anything else?" she asked.

"I want to know what you're doing."

"I'm going to summon Bloody Mary. Where she is, Angel will be. And then I'm going to fight her, destroy her, with your help."

"You are mad."

"Quite right, Sister Winnifred." Sophia squatted down, her face very close to Winnie's. "I'm as angry as you can get without going completely insane. You would be, too, if the love of your life was kidnapped by a fiend from Hell. Hardly a day has passed that I haven't been tormented by the notion that there may have been omething I could have done to prevent it. Do you have any idea what it's like to have your life destroyed in an instant? To stand by, helplessly watching while the most precious part of yourself is ripped away? That wound has never healed. I'm bleeding internally, Sister. Every moment without Angel, I bleed a little more. I die a little more."

Sophia paused, wiped her face, and continued, "I will get Angel back, or I'll die trying. We're going to be together, one way or the other. It's as simple as that. I really don't care if you believe me. I don't care if you think I'm steeped black with sin. You're entitled to your opinion, Sister. However, you are going to help me."

"Very well," Winnie replied, feeling a surge of compassion for the woman's obvious pain. "I will do whatever you require, so long as it does not endanger anyone's soul. Including yours."

"Thank you for your concern." Sophia stood up. Flickering candles threw patches of shadow and light across her scarred face. For a moment, Winnie caught a glimpse of the vibrantly beautiful woman that she had been.

"That book you're holding was written by a Spanish priest in the late 1700's," Sophia said. "He was particularly adept at exorcisms. It's said that he wrestled with the Devil himself, and sent the Evil One howling back to Hell. Father Miguel Fidencio also fought Bloody Mary - Maria Sangriento, he called her - for the life of a nobleman's daughter in Madrid. I'll spare you the details, but if you're interested, Father Miguel's personal journal is in the Vatican library. The point is... the priest faced Mary and defeated her. We can do the same."

Winnie looked at the book. "We are not priests."

"You have faith. I have knowledge."

"That may not be enough."

 "It will have to do."

Winnie had a sudden suspicion. "Is that what you told Sister Dolores?" she asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"What?" Sophia grimaced. "You've got it wrong. I made the mistake of telling Sister Dolores the truth. She seemed genuinely interested, and to be honest, it was a relief to share my burden with another person. Unfortunately, I told her a little too much. She took it upon herself to summon Bloody Mary, and she wasn't ready for it. The confrontation destroyed her mind. I regret that, I really do." She sighed. "Poor Sister Dolores. I had no idea what she was going to do. If I had, I'd have stopped her."

"Will I..." Winnie swallowed, then went on, "will I end up like Dolores?"

"No. You're protected, remember?" Sophia pointed at the chalked symbols on the floor. "If anybody's at physical risk here, it's me. Bloody Mary will take no more innocent victims if I can help it."

"What do you want me to do?"

"When I tell you, simply read from the book. Begin at the top of the page and continue until the end." A thought occurred to Sophia, and she added hastily, "You can read Latin, can't you?"

"Yes." Winnie glanced at the page. "What will happen if we fail?"

"I'll be dead. You'll be alright as long as you remain in the circle." Sophia ran fingers through her dark hair. "I've already waited long enough. Let's begin." She reached up and whipped the cloth off the large object in front of Winnie.

It was a long cheval mirror made of carved mahogany. The frame sported little cherubs, all chubby cheeks and curls and dimples. "Angel found it in an antique store," Sophia said. "I had it brought here after the incident."

Winnie was starting to sweat. The attic was airless, stuffy and overly warm. She blinked salt from her eyes.

"Well, no time like the present," Sophia said. She lifted the knife, quickly slashed her palm Speaking a few words in a tongue that Winnie did not know, she pressed her bleeding hand against the glass.

Winnie was not prepared for what happened next.

The mirror turned into a silver liquid, a mercury pool impossibly supported by its vertical frame. Sophia's hand sank down beneath the surface. Droplets of blood rose and scattered, swirling, inside the pool. "Bloody Mary," she chanted, calling the spirit's name, "Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary!"

A wind sprang up, blowing Winnie's veil forward, over her face. She flipped it back with a shaking hand. Terror made her mouth dry. Her heart lurched painfully in her chest, and she was having difficulty breathing. It's real! It's not a delusion! Jesus, protect us!

Sophia said another few words in the strange language, and withdrew her hand. Instantly, the mirror changed from silver to red - scarlet and crimson and vermilion waves rippling from side to side. A shadow appeared in the center. Sophia tensed, raising her knife.

The shadow resolved into a nude woman - tiny but exquisitely formed. The woman's image grew larger and larger. Winnie realized that the spirit, or whatever it was, was walking towards them. She began to pray fervently, but silently. O Divine Eternal Father, in union with your Divine Son and the Holy Spirit, and through the Immaculate Heart of Mary, I beg You to destroy the power of Your greatest enemy.  Cast this evil spirit into the deepest recesses of Hell and chain it there forever.

Winnie was clutching her rosary with one hand, the book in her other. Sophia did not spare her a glance. Her attention was solely on the woman in the mirror. "Angel! Angel, come on!"

Angel's red-blonde hair was whipped by the same wind that clawed at Winnie's veil. Her eyes were green as emeralds, and sparkling with tears. "Sophia! Thank God!"

"Come on!" Sophia extended a hand... and something struck at it so viciously, her index finger was sheared off. Winnie choked back a scream as the bit of bloody flesh bounced into her lap. She looked up to see that the figure of Angel had vanished, replaced by a visage more terrible than anything she had ever imagined.

Bloody Mary had finally made her appearance.

"Read the book!" Sophia screamed. When Winnie failed to respond, she reached back and smacked the nun on the side of her face. "Read the book, damn you!" Warm blood splattered from the stump of her finger, dripped off Winnie's chin.

Winnie was paralyzed with fear, mesmerized by the unholy vision in the mirror. Bloody Mary's skin was stretched achingly tight over sharp bones. Her mouth was wide, stretching all the way back to her ears, and filled with row upon row of jagged teeth. Her fingers were tipped with iron claws. It was the eyes that held Winnie fast, or rather, the not-quite-empty sockets where her eyes should have been. Those sockets were ringed with tiny fangs. The demon blinked, and the toothy lids clashed together hungrily.

"Mother of God!" Winnie gagged as the smell of rotten flesh poured into the room.

Bloody Mary swiped at Sophia, who countered with her knife. Steel and iron clashed with a shower of sparks. "Read the book! Read the book, Winnifred!" Sophia repeated. She blocked another blow, but there was little room to maneuver in the close space between the mirror and the seated nun.

Preserve me, O God: for in Thee do I put my trust. Winnie seemed to hear Mother Superior Francis' voice inside her head, quoting from Psalms. The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust; my buckler, and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower. I will call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised: so shall I be saved from mine enemies.

Strength flowed back into her, warming her veins, heating her blood. She felt calm now, as if sheltered from a savage storm. Whether she lived or died was not important. Only God knew her fate, and He would decide. All doubts were cast aside in the purity of simple faith.

Winnie wrenched her gaze away from Bloody Mary and opened the book. "Deus, in nómine tuo salvum me fac, et virtúte tua age causam meam," she recited, the Latin prayer flowing from her lips as she began the exorcism ritual that Father Miguel had written so long ago.

Bloody Mary screamed, a triple chord that came from mouth and eyes. Blisters began appearing on her face. The wind continued to howl, but the candle flames were steady. Sophia slashed at the demon's throat, opening up a great rent that did not bleed.

Winnie continued to read aloud. Sweat trickled down her forehead. Bloody Mary's voice insinuated into her thoughts: Submit to me, O daughter of Eve, and all the treasures of the world shall be yours. I will give you beauty everlasting. Men will worship at your feet. Power to fulfill your every craving, every desire... this I will do, if you submit to me.

The demon's voice was smoky and seductive, compelling, nearly irresistable. Yet it left Winnie feeling as if she had been violated by some slimy, rotting thing that crawled and slithered inside her head. Without pausing in her recitation, she cast back: Vade retro Satana! Nunquam suade mihi vana! Sunt mala quae libas. Ipse venena bibas!

Begone, Satan! Never tempt me with your vanities! What you offer me is evil. Drink the poison yourself!

Bloody Mary screamed again. Angel slipped around the side of the demon, reaching out from the mirror. Sophia snatched at her hand, but the demon was faster. Long claws tore down Sophia's arm, leaving deep wounds. Angel was sobbing, struggling to get through. The demon's hand - impossibly huge - came out of the mirror, knocking Sophia aside, flexing towards Winnie. She ignored the threat, continued to read aloud. The claws passed within an inch of her face, but the nun did not flinch, nor could the demon get any closer. Denied her prey, Bloody Mary snarled and gave Angel a backhanded blow across her cheek that sent the blonde woman sprawling.

That act infuriated Sophia past the point of sanity. "You bitch!" she screamed, brandishing her knife. "Leave her alone!" She made as if to enter the mirror herself.

Winnie knew, somehow, that this was exactly the wrong thing to do. The knowledge seemed to come from a place outside herself. That same source suggested a solution. She held up her rosary and thought: Crux sacra sit mihi lux...

May the holy cross be my light...

And immediately, the small crucifix began to glow with a white-hot light. Where the beams struck Bloody Mary, the demon's flesh began to bubble and blacken. Bloody Mary shrank back, giving Angel a chance to dart back towards Sophia. The women's hands met, and Sophia began to pull Angel out of the mirror. The undulating crimson surface gave way reluctantly, clinging to Angel's skin, trying to hold her back within itself. Bloody Mary hooked a claw through Angel's leg, and she let out a shrill agonized cry.

The exorcism prayer was nearly finished. As Bloody Mary's screams echoed through the small attic, Winnie called upon the power of St. Michael the Archangel, Chief and Commander of the Heavenly Hosts, vanquisher of rebel spirits, guardian of souls. Divine grace flooded her soul. She was filled with light, a gloriously divine light that threatened to crack open her skin and illuminate the world. In her mind's eye she could see a blue-robed woman, her face so full of compassion and love, Winnie nearly wept. Mary, Queen of Heaven, Queen of Angels...

What happened next was something that Winnie would never forget.

The room was filled with the sound of rushing wings. Feathers brushed her cheek, warm and alive. The air was filled with a sweet perfume that was a balm to her senses. A glowing figure stood before the mirror, an androgynous but beautiful youth clad in burnished gold armor, a shining sword in its fist. The sword rose, then fell downward, shearing off Bloody Mary's claw with a single stroke. The demon screeched, Sophia pulled Angel completely out of the mirror, and the youth vanished.

Winnie stood up. Her body was limned in fire. Her eyes flashed, bright as summer lightning. She commanded, "In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, by the power of the Holy Spirit, through the powerful intercession of the blessed Virgin Mary, of the angels and saints, in the blood of Jesus, evil spirit, we cast you back into Hell, and may you be chained there until the day of judgment! Vade retro Satana!" Her voice rose to a roar. "Begone! Begone! Begone!" and she hurled the glowing rosary into the mirror.

For a moment, there was a hushed silence, as though the earth itself was waiting breathlessly for the outcome. Then Bloody Mary's image began to crack. Crazed lines appeared, zig-zagging upwards with a sound like shattering ice. Bloody Mary was frozen in place, fanged eye sockets agape, mouth open in a voiceless shriek. The image of a crucifix glowed on her brow. The liquid surface of the mirror turned black and bowed inward, sucking the demon down into unimaginable depths. A thin wailing could be heard - the lamentations of the damned - and the angry bellows of the King of Hell.

The mirror suddenly exploded outwards, sending a spray of silvered glass everywhere. Winnie instinctively covered her eyes with her arm as she was blown off her feet by the violent explosion. Shards rained down, slicing into her clothing, stinging her flesh. Her head was filled with a rushing noise. Winnie lay still, unable to move, hardly able to catch her breath. When the showering fragments stopped falling, she rolled laboriously onto her side.

The last image burned into her brain was that of Sophia and Angel clutching one another, oblivious to their wounds. A fierce embrace that left no doubt as to their love for one another - a love that had endured Hell itself. Murmuring words of comfort, their tear-slick faces nevertheless glowed.

Winnie smiled.

Finally, mercifully, the nun surrendered herself to oblivion, sinking into peaceful darkness with a little sigh.

Sister Bernadette was not a happy woman.

The homeless woman Eleanor (Sophia Quinn, as she had discovered) had disappeared three weeks ago - around the same time they had found Sister Winnifred unconscious in the shelter's attic, covered by the remains of a shattered mirror. Bernadette had feared the worst; an attack, a madwoman gone homicidal, attempted murder. To her surprise, Winnifred had suffered no worse than superficial cuts and bruises.

Since that time, Sister Winnifred had become almost inhumanly serene. She went about her business with a soft half-smile that seemed rather suspicious. Bernadette had kept an close watch on the young nun, but could not catch her doing anything wrong. It was very frustrating, as she knew that there was something going on.

Mother Superior Francis had extensively interviewed Winnifred following the incident - a private interview to which Bernadette was not invited, but Father McGoldrick and Bishop Donohue were. Bernadette did not think it was right to keep secrets from her. As Mistress of Novices, she had a right to know, even if Winnifred was technically not a novice anymore. Complaining to Mother Francis had been most dissatisfying. Bernadette had been told, in no uncertain terms, to mind her own business. Winnifred was not to be punished or questioned. Instead, the girl was to be sent to St. Agnes school next year, to take over teaching the Catholic Faith and Justice course.

The situation was very frustrating.

It was almost enough to drive her insane.

Especially when Winnifred received a postcard from Paris. The card had a picture of the Eiffel Tower on it. A simple inscription on the back read: "We're fine, thanks to you. Revenge is over; now we can live again. May God bless you, Sister, and your unfaltering faith." No signature. Bernadette had carefully checked the card, even going so far as to steam off the stamps, in case there should be a secret message hidden beneath. When she found nothing, she had no choice but to give the thing to Winnifred.

The young woman had read it, and without making any comment, slipped the postcard inside the pages of a burnt and blackened book. Bernadette's fingers twitched at the memory. She was absolutely positive that there was a mystery here, if only she could unravel it.

At last, Bernadette could not contain her curiosity any longer. She cornered Sister Winnifred in the hallway and asked bluntly, "What happened in the attic? Tell me, child. I must know."

And Winnifred had the nerve to quote Psalms to her!

"Thou hast proved mine heart; thou hast visited me in the night; thou hast tried me, and shalt find nothing; I am purposed that my
mouth shall not transgress," the young nun murmured. Slipping past brawny Sister Bernie, Winnifred had gone to the kitchen to help Sister Jean prepare the evening meal.

Bernadette grimaced. She could not go further, not when there was a possibility that Winnifred might complain to Mother Francis. It was beginning to look as if she would never find the answers she wanted.

Oh, it was all so unfair!

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

by Nene Adams ©1999 - All rights reserved

April 21, 1905
Rue de Madeline
Paris, France

My dearest Charles:

How unfortunate that this missive should reach you after you have, no doubt, already heard the dreadful news from other, less sympathetic or well-informed sources. Can you imagine my grief? My melancholy? My empathetic response to what must be, for you, the very worst of times? Your own sister fleeing from the gendarmes, her life's work and reputation in ruins, the prospect of an old-fashioned hanging looming large in her future! My poor brother, my heart bleeds for you. 

Those tedious journalists can be so tenacious, digging for every scandalous crumb with the stubborn willfulness of a bull terrier. And half the time they manage to get everything wrong, for they will assign such motives as please them, rather than subject the public to the truth. I really should pay a visit to the editorial office of the Times one of these days. Wouldn't that cause much wailing and gnashing of teeth! But here, sweet Charles, I will not keep you in suspense any longer. It is time you heard the story from my own lips. The unvarnished truth will not provide you with much comfort, alas! but when the time comes, you will be glad, I think, to have this written shield to protect you and yours from the slings and arrows of Dame Gossip and Lady Rumor. 

Before I begin, however, I feel I owe you an apology. I swear I would have written to you sooner, but my position is not - as you can well imagine - conducive to such civilized conduct. And I pray you to excuse the poor quality of the paper, as well as the unfortunate stains here and there. The previous owners of my hiding place were quite objectionable to harboring a fugitive in their midst, and I fear I was forced to be quite strict with them. But there you have it; one cannot make an omelet without breaking eggs... or in this case, a more apropos saying might be, one cannot find refuge without spilling a bit of blood. 

Well, in all honesty, it was more than a bit. 

But that is, I believe, quite enough of my unwilling hosts, Monsieur and Madame Polllinard. 

Casting my mind back over the past torturous months, I can point out to you exactly when the whole troublesome business began. As you know, I came to Paris following my exhibition in London; oh, how the biting remarks of the critics stung! Like fearsome, vindictive wasps that constantly pump their poison into the veins of artists, seeking to destroy them... can you imagine, they had the temerity to call me mad? To say that my magnificent paintings were nothing more than tormented visions of death most horrible, springing from a sick and delusional mind! 

My chiefest sin was, in their eyes, to use the faces and figures of some of London's prominent citizens, men and women who had - at some time or another - offended me in some way. My vengeance was to break their bodies in ingenious ways - but only in my paintings. Although I admit, I had burned to revenge their slights with more concrete methods, but my Muse's head was much cooler than my own. It was she who had inspired me to sneer at them, destroy them in oils and brushstrokes, grind them to bits on a canvas. And for this I was called mad! 

Faugh! I was tired of London and it's officious, priggish, prim and proper ways. I longed to get away, to cleanse my soul of the city's bleakness, to lick my wounds in a more congenial atmosphere. So off to Paris I went, determined to start afresh among the Bohemians of Montmartre. 

I obtained a flat in a rather filthy little building run by an odious landlady who, regardless of the French national propensity for gossip and prying, showed no interest in her tenants' business beyond the limits of their purse. I soon established myself with canvases, paints, brushes and all the paraphernalia so dear to an artist's heart, and settled myself down to pay heed only to my Muse. 

My first attempts were too feeble to bear; my spirit had been lashed to the core and bled nearly dry by the London critics and their petty jealousies. Nevertheless, I persevered, and soon had a small collection of finished canvases scattered throughout the flat, waiting to dry. You would have been proud of them, dear Charles. My Crucifixion Series was well on its way to becoming the most important work I had ever produced. How unusual to portray two women affixed to their cruel wooden crosses, one dark, the other fair! I labored far into the night, heedlessly burning handfuls of expensive candles as the Muse spurred me on. When I tired of crosses, I began imagining other fates for my twin beauties; tortures rare and sublime, their bodies broken by a black clad executioner whom it pleased me to portray with my own face and form. Exquisite! 

All too soon, however, my passion dried up, my wellspring of inspiration died. I looked at what I had wrought and despaired. Can you conceive of how heart-wrenching this was for me? I looked in vain for a shred of inspiration from my Muse, but she remained silent and uncommunicative. I wept bitter tears and came close to slashing my paintings to shreds, so deep was my despair. I shouted to the heavens, I raged and beat my breast... nothing. The depth of my gloom and depression was beyond my poor ability to describe. The voice of my Muse - that cool, mocking voice that had guided me from childhood - was gone. When I closed my eyes, I saw only spangled darkness; those delicious visions had disappeared. I could not paint, I could barely function without my Muse. She who had been my mentor, who had selflessly taught me the ways and methods of revenge, who had provided me with the strength to defeat my enemies, who had instructed me in the ancient secrets of our house, whose very name I bore... the Muse wrapped herself in silence and refused to answer my pleas. 

O, beloved, why did you desert me? 

My desperate cries went unheeded. 

But then, just when I was on the verge of self-destruction... it happened. 

I was taking my usual morning walk down the Place Pigalle, to fetch a few croissants for breakfast, when I saw Her. 

She was standing on the corner, a shawl covering her head, her long skirt of an unfashionable dark green and tattered to boot. I dismissed her from my conscious mind - the streets are full of these whey-faced waifs - when she removed the shawl from her head. At that precise moment, a shaft of sunlight pierced the early morning gloom; as if directed by a heavenly hand, this bright light shone directly upon her and my heart skipped a beat. 

Her hair was reddish gold and the errant sunbeam burnished those luxurious locks to jeweled brightness, creating an aura of such beauty that I was dry mouthed in wonder. I stopped in my tracks, ignoring the rudely muttering pedestrians who brushed past me with impatience, and frankly stared at this unexpected picture of sizzling glory. When she turned around to face me, I nearly fainted, such was the intensity of my feelings. For this girl was the very picture of my visions! 

Her eyes were emerald green; her face sweet in its curves and planes, her generous lips tinted a becoming blushing rose. She looked this way and that, and her eyes fell upon me. Again, I nearly swooned! Oh, Charles... she was perfection itself, and for the first time in so very long, I heard at once the voice of my Muse whispering in my ear: "This is the One." 

Taking firm hold of my seething emotions - chiefest among those, relief! - I hastened up to this wonderful creature and made so bold as to introduce myself. We struck up a conversation, during which I learned several facts which I shall now relate to you. 

One: her name was Gabrielle d'Orsay and she had been born in a small village in Provence. Hating the repressive atmosphere, she had fled to Paris to seek her fortune. 

Two: she had no family in Paris, nor friendly contacts, nor even bare acquaintances. Her few pitiful possessions had been confiscated by her landlady when Gabrielle had proved unable to pay her bill. All she had left in the world were the clothes on her back and a few centimes concealed in a shoe. 

Three: she was in such desperate straits that she had come to the Place Pigalle that morning in order to solicit whatever sordid employment she could find from such men as pay for their pleasures. 

To say that I was ecstatic would be an understatement! 

I immediately offered to put her up in my flat. I could see that she hesitated, but my air of confident friendliness, my fashionable clothing, my unmistakable aura of financial security, finally drove all doubts from her mind. With a smile, she accepted my offer and I inwardly rejoiced! This was the One! 

I carefully cultivated the innocent Gabrielle. I hid my paintings - for I knew the subject matter would distress her - and was all sisterly solicitude. I pretended to be a worldly Englishwoman of means who had come to Paris to experience "Life." This rather vague explanation satisfied Gabrielle and she never expressed curiosity about my former state. I introduced her to the fact that I was a painter and she was delighted by my profession, although somewhat taken aback by the fact that I had no completed canvases to show her. Nevertheless, several days passed in contented bliss - Gabrielle happily taking on domestic duties and I sitting in my corner, watching her and savoring each graceful movement, every bubbling laugh, each moment of simple delight. 

Gradually, I began to work my wiles upon her sympathetic nature. I pretended to be dolorous, heaving great sighs and rolling my eyes up in an act meant to convey despair. When she finally asked me what was wrong, I sighed some more and refused to speak of it. She pressed; I retreated. In such a way, I lured her into "forcing" me - her benefactress - to confess my troubles. 

With great reluctance, I told her that my painting was, sadly, at an end. Lacking a suitable model, I was unable to continue. I moaned and made much of the fact that if I could not paint, I would have to return to London. Then I subsided and waited; having thrown out the bait, I patiently allowed my gullible girl to swallow the hook. 

Gabrielle tried to hide her distress but could not; her feelings were transparent. If I returned to London, she would be out on the street once more. Besides that, she had grown fond of me and would miss me terribly. So, with many blushes and tremblings, she shyly asked if, perhaps, I thought she would make a suitable model. 

It was difficult to hide my glee. I affected to be surprised and reject her offer. As I predicted, Gabrielle persisted, and finally, I pretended to resist no more. I put on a serious mien and explained to her that I only painted nudes; would she feel comfortable exposing herself in such a bold fashion? 

I could see that this information caused more blushing and more trembling, but eventually, my sweet Gabrielle overcame her natural modesty and agreed. I congratulated her for being so selflessly sacrificing, but inwardly I gloated. From step to step, I planned to guide the One along the course I - and my Muse - had determined. Slowly - ever so slowly and carefully - she would be led to further boldness. I would break down the walls of convention which her provincial upbringing had installed; I would, with as much painstaking patience as a sculptor - mold her into the perfection of my choosing. She would be eventually be broken and reformed by my hands, by my art, by whatever means necessary. Gabrielle d'Orsay would cease to exist; only my creation would remain, forever bound to me, forever subservient, always obedient. She would be mine; I would own her soul, her heart, her mind and her body as surely as if I'd purchased her in the old slave markets of Alexandria. A living work of art, an abject Galatea to my triumphant Pygmalion. How sweet it was! 

And my Muse chuckled in approval at the thought. 

At first, I insisted she remain draped with a cloth while I stood behind the canvas, wielding brush and oils with skill. I painted her as a maiden of old Greece wearing virginal white; I created imaginary landscapes of blues, golds and coppers, lush greens and yellows, and set her down within these settings as if I were placing a valuable jewel in a platinum frame. These paintings I showed to her and seethed in secret while she gushed with praise. Wait until she saw my true colors - crimson and scarlet, ruby and vermilion; the acid green of corruption, the flat black of despair and the searing white of agony. But I cautioned myself to go slowly... it would not do to affright my prey and lose her so soon. 

So I bore all her foolish babblings and excitement, forcing myself to smile when I really longed to slap her silly face. Sometimes my hands shook, so strong was the desire to punish Gabrielle for her unthinking ignorance. My Muse aided me in maintaining my composure. I created several insipid paintings in this manner; I nearly retch to think of how pretty, how bucolic and uninspired these works were! 

Soon, however, my self-imposed torture was nearly at an end. I began introducing darker elements into my painting, coaxing Gabrielle to exhibit herself more and more shamelessly, punishing her with my displeasure and coldness when she balked at some particularly offensive pose. She would plead with me tearfully but finally surrender to my wishes when it became clear that I would brook no rebellions. With my Muse constantly whispering, I worked from dawn until deep in the night, forcing Gabrielle to maintain her poses until the girl shivered and wept, suffering from cramps and exhaustion, her naked flesh slick with sweat and salty tears. Bliss! 

I prided myself on the fact that there were no bonds holding her to me, no chains, no locks. She remained of her own volition and I quickly realized that she was beginning to enjoy my forcefulness, my sadistic disregard for her comfort, my expectations of instant obedience to my wishes. For why else would she cringe in servitude when I barked my orders? Why else would she cast her eyes down, fearing even to glimpse the power in my own? Why else did she creep about the house like a frightened mouse, silently performing her duties until it was time for her to pose again? Why else would she ask my permission - in the most timorous of voices - to allow her to go on simple errands to the market? 

My corruption of the innocent Gabrielle was proceeding apace; my enjoyment knew no bounds. 

 It was at this moment of supreme delight that some outside force crept in, threatening to destroy my paradise. 

It so happened that I had graciously granted Gabrielle permission to leave the flat and go on some errands. However, in the past few days, I had noticed some alarming changes in the girl. Resentful glances when she believed I paid no attention; a certain slowness in her obedience to my commands; an air of almost defiance when she reluctantly, finally obeyed. I was determined to curb this outbreak of independence, but only after I'd determined the source. 

It was to this end that I followed Gabrielle discreetly, observing all she did and in particular, those she spoke to... or those who seemed to take a more than business-like interest in my succulent morsel. 

After gathering a few vegetables in her reed basket, she tripped daintily along to the boulangerie to obtain a loaf of fresh bread for dinner. It was here that she had an encounter with the baker's boy - a weedy, horse-faced idiot who seemed all knees and elbows and bulbous brown eyes. 

My precious, perfect Gabrielle - oh! how I grind my teeth in rage to think of it even now! She smiled, she simpered, she dimpled at his stammering conversation; she bestowed glance after glance of her emerald eyes upon that gangling fool. That he was thoroughly charmed and besotted, I had no doubt. And when she walked away with her bread, he came out from around the wooden counter to watch her go. I turned pale; I blushed crimson. My hands itched to fasten themselves on the boy's throat and squeeze the life out of him right then and there! My Muse supplied me with a few visions of his eyes bulging even further from their sockets as I slowly, ever so slowly, crushed his neck between my hands; in the depths of my imagination, I could even hear the rattle of his final breath as it fled his dying lungs. Knowing I could not yet act, I remained in my place of concealment for another moment, allowing the anger to simmer in my breast. 

It was clear to me that Gabrielle's infatuation with the baker's boy was the reason for her defection. I did not place the blame on her, however; clearly, this boy had woven some sort of spell around her, a kind of hypnotic link, using arcane powers which I could not perceive. While he did not look the part of a Svengali, nevertheless... to free my property from his thieving clutches, it was clear that I would have to destroy Jacques Serre. 

Next, I followed Gabrielle to the charcuterie, where she purchased a nice piece of lamb. To my astonishment, the girl who helped her - a winsome blonde whom I knew to be the butcher's daughter - was lively, talkative and extremely flirty. The dirty little slut was actually flirting with my Gabrielle! And to make matters worse, Gabrielle was flirting back! Swinging her head and gesturing, smiling so broadly that her emerald eyes nearly disappeared... even caressing the blonde slut's finger when she handed her a package! I saw it with my own eyes, and the sheer gall of the butcher's daughter made my blood fairly boil. She, too, would have to be eliminated. I would rip handfuls of her explosively curly blonde locks out of her scalp; I'd claw those brown cow's eyes out of her skull; I'd tear open her chest with my bare hands and drink deeply of her life's fluid before she died. Oh, yes... the dirty butcher's slut, Mademoiselle Effané, had to go as well. 

And the same fate awaited the patisserie owner, a dark haired and dark-eyed solemn man named Pierre Dykous who nevertheless managed to make Gabrielle laugh; a youthful seller of oranges, Zoe Lonne, whose bone-straight blonde locks gave him a girlish air; the older gentleman - Monsieur M. Leager - who sharpened knives and scissors in his tiny market stall; a buxom brunette harlot called Mademoiselle Aponén who sold harticots verte and apricots; the mad beggarwoman who believed she was a Queen, whom they called Madame Lowsa; the suave cut-purse with the magnificent mustaches, Otto Le Kus - they would all pay the price for attempting to lure my Gabrielle away. 

I crept back to the flat and when Gabrielle returned with her full basket, I listened to her breathless babbling as she recounted the usual gossip and market news. Then, again as was my usual wont, I instructed her in the day's work, using my harshest and strictest tones. She scurried about to obey... was that a trace of fear I saw reflected in those green eyes? I smiled to myself in satisfaction and felt my painting that day went exceptionally well. Then, when I at last released the exhausted girl and allowed her to seek her narrow bed, I washed my brushes, blew out the lights... and stepped out into the moonlight, accompanied only by my Muse, to seek out those who had offended me and work my particular brand of justice upon them all. 

I returned home just as the sun was creeping over the horizon, banishing the comforting velvet darkness which had been my friend for so long. I was bone weary, covered in filth, but my self-appointed task of removing all obstacles between myself and Gabrielle had begun well. Only three had been dispatched, owing to my propensity for imagination over expedience, but my Muse told me I had done a good night's work and I was content. 

If my sweet morsel wondered why I was so tired, content merely to recline upon the couch and sip absinthe while perusing the day's papers, she did not inquire. Instead, after finishing her chores, she again requested my permission to visit the market. I granted it absently, pretending to be absorbed in the newspaper, but the moment she stepped out of the house, I was on her heels. 

My list was growing longer by the moment, for it seemed as if the entire world had congregated in the marketplace for the sole purpose of stealing away my prize. My Muse bade me take heart; although the task of eliminating my rivals may have seemed impossible to complete, nevertheless I could rely on her strength, cunning and support. My Muse had never failed me, and as her whispers soothed away my aches and weariness, I became more determined than ever to vanquish those who were not respectors of other people's property. 

A farm girl named Lyla, fresh from the countryside, selling honking geese, accompanied by her mother and father, Hecubé and Hero Dautis - I noticed Gabrielle avoided them, even going so far as to cover her head with a shawl and scurry away, so I assumed they must have done something to hurt her (and that privilege is mine alone!). Then the raddled tavern keeper's wife called Madame Sirén, who had been a great beauty in her day, gave my thirsty girl a tankard of ale and thus earned herself a place on my rapidly expanding list. Then Gabrielle turned a corner and... oh, Charles, I can hardly speak of such disaster!! 

A woman was standing there, obviously waiting for Gabrielle. She was wearing a simple blue dress and cowled cloak with the hood thrown back to reveal her features. For the second time in my life, I was stricken dumb, paralyzed and nearly blinded with shock and astonishment. This mysterious woman, whose night-black hair swirled around her shoulders... whose eyes were so pale and intense a blue as to be patently impossible... she, too, had been shown to me by my Muse! It was she who had been Gabrielle's companion in agony in my paintings, she who had haunted the tantalizing visions I received from our ancestress. 

Gabrielle tripped up to the stranger, her face wreathed in smiles. While I seethed and writhed in jealous rage, she greeted the dark-haired woman in a manner that indicated an amount of familiarity - dare I even say intimacy?! - that made me grind my teeth in frustration. Only the intervention of my comforting Muse prevented me from making the hideous mistake of rushing upon her immediately. 

The two of them, hand in hand (oh, horror!), chatting and smiling, went to the stranger's flat. A bribe to the landlady ensured both her complicity and her silence as I stealthily followed the pair. They were obviously not strangers to one another; indeed, considering the easy way they touched and spoke, little casual gestures that might never have been noticed except by me, it was clear that my property had been usurped, snatched from beneath my very nose, by the tall, beautiful woman. 

I took the additional liberty of crossing the landlady's palm with more francs in order to obtain information on the dark beauty. Her name was Xena Labrousse, a painter of some little renown, who had recently relocated from Calais to Paris. Unmarried, of peasant stock, coming from a background devoid of social prominence, wealth or title of any kind. More francs were exchanged and the landlady informed me that she had seen Gabrielle going up to Mademoiselle Xena's flat on several occasions over the past few weeks. The unpleasant leer on that fat French hussy's mole-speckled face when she spoke these words made it perfectly clear what she believed the two women were doing. 

Emptying my purse into the landlady's greedy palms, I was able to obtain the key to the flat next door to Xena's. The landlady gave me a knowing wink when she imparted, with much shoulder shaking and obscene gestures, that there was a strategic hole that had been drilled into the wall between the two main rooms of the flats. As I trudged up the grimy stairs, my stomach twisted and burned as if I had swallowed hot coals, such was the level of my rage at being betrayed. 

I wasted no time entering the filthy, cockroach ridden pesthole and applying my eye to the hole. I had a clear view of Xena's flat, there being only a single room which must serve as bedroom, dining room, parlor and kitchen. She had few possessions - a brass bed held together by string, a thin quilt thrown across to serve as both sheet and coverlet; a battered kitchen table with one chair; a dresser, upon which I observed a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese; and an easel. A number of canvases were scattered here and there. Holding my breath, I strained to make out the image that had already been partially painted on the otherwise pristine canvas propped up on the easel. 

To my astonishment and utter, choking fury, Gabrielle - with no hesitation whatsoever - promptly removed her clothing, draped herself in a demure pose on the bed, and indicated that she was ready. Xena began to paint rapidly, with what I grudgingly admitted was a master's touch and an uncanny eye for color, shadow and light. Her sure strokes filled the canvas, creating an image of Gabrielle, draped in wispy silks and crowned with flowers, her eyes half-closed as if in ecstasy, lower lip caught between her teeth, a shower of rose petals floating down to the tigerskin she lay upon. 

Although I found the subject deplorable and pedestrian, I could not help but admire the way Xena had captured what I called the "essence" of Gabrielle; that indefinable luminous quality that emanated from her soul, danced within her glorious green eyes, made her smile a veritable slice of sunshine. Using common oils and the cheapest of brushes, Xena had created an image of her living subject that seemed so real, it nearly breathed. 

Only the eyes of love can see so deeply, my Muse said in her insinuating whisper. Only love. 

With those words, sudden comprehension flooded my entire being; it was as if I had been struck by lightning. I blinked my eyes, utterly dazzled, nearly reeling in drunken enlightenment. 

Xena loved Gabrielle! 

She dared! 

She could not! 

She did! 

Horror upon horror piled up and I suddenly felt ill to the core. Those individuals already on my list - those who had sought to steal my Gabrielle away with their wiles and smiles - were as nothing compared to this new threat. My property was being seduced before my eyes by a vile, poisonous beauty whom I now realized I hated - yes, hated! - with my entire being. 

I had seen enough. 

I left as quietly as I had come, the only witness to my shame being that horrible landlady, whose greasy chuckle echoed in my memory long after I had returned to my own home. She, too, would suffer at my hands someday. I swore it. 

But what to do about Xena? Should I destroy her now, before Gabrielle was entirely tangled in her snares? Or should I wait, plan and plot her demise with all the cunning at my command? I beseeched my Muse for the answer. 

Her reply took me aback. 

Can't you see, fool?, she said in a whispery tone that nevertheless stung. Both of them must die! Xena dared to claim Gabrielle... and the little slut went willingly. Oh, yes... Gabrielle was ripe for it, her kind always are. Between the two of them, they've destroyed your honor, they've mocked you with their love, rubbed your nose in it and you stood there doing nothing! Stop sniveling and get rid of them! NOW!

As her crackling presence faded from my brain, I barely heard her final words: 

Kill them before they destroy you... like they did long ago to me. 

I pondered my Muse's words all the rest of the afternoon. When Gabrielle returned home, my distracted air and silence led her to inquire dully about the state of my health. I nearly laughed in her face and controlled myself with a mental wrench. Instead, I found myself studying her as she puttered around the flat, humming a song in her off-key manner. 

Those features I'd once found so beautiful were now completely repugnant to me. I despised her so much that, when our fingers accidentally touched as she handed me a cup of coffee, I wanted nothing more than to spit on her in disgust. My flesh crawled... I now hated Gabrielle as violently as I'd once loved her - if you care to call it that - and had to strangle my impulse to do her serious harm. 

I had no heart even to paint. She had taken that away, too. 

Treachery! 

Betrayal! 

Oh, Charles, is there nothing so perfidious as the infidelity of woman? 

But I was clever. I concealed my dark emotions behind a facade, maintaining all my usual customs and airs, even making her pose for me and utilizing some pretty little toys I'd had made up by a nimble-fingered craftsman in the leather trade. I pretended to paint... I smiled and smiled... her cringing attitude and subservience to all my whims made me physically ill but I acted as if all was well. 

And while the days rolled past, one after the other, I methodically took care of the members on my list, carefully crossing their names off when I'd finished delivering my retribution. The newspapers were full of contradictory accounts of a mad murderer stalking the streets of Paris; even Gabrielle felt sufficiently alarmed by this news to come scurrying home long before the sun was extinguished by night. 

I returned a few times to that dingy flat and observed Gabrielle and Xena together, the Dark and the Light. 

They were getting closer; the touches lingered in softness and sighs, there were sweet kisses and whispered endearments. 

Raw anger stormed within my veins; my jaws hurt from clenching; I was sickened by what I saw but could not take my eyes away. 

Enjoy your rendezvous. Coo like turtledoves and sweeten the world with your sugary love, I would think to them while I observed. Savor each little argument between lovers, every kiss to make up for hasty words. Paint and pose; drink wine; feed one another crusts and think them the finest pastries, crammed full of earnest, enduring, everlasting love. 

Faugh! 

The day of reckoning was coming. 

Eat your fill of love, I murmured quietly. Stuff it into your bellies and brains until the surfeit makes you dizzy. 

My sweet Charles! How vile, how loathsome, how disgusting, nasty and hateful is love! 

And soon Gabrielle and Xena would pay for their crime, oh! Very, very soon. 

They who were together in love would be together in death. 

The bare thought of it made me so excited I could hardly contain myself. 

If you wonder, darling Charles, why Gabrielle continued to remain with me when her spirit had not been broken, when she had found comfort and escape in Xena's arms, then you do not know me as well as you thought and you have absolutely no conception of human nature. But you always were a rather dull boy, you know. 

I had swept Gabrielle off the street when she'd been in a desperate situation and despairing of her future. By alternating kind treatment with cruelty I kept her off balance; by reminding her of her obligations to me, I engaged her sense of honor, decency and "doing one's duty" - those tedious traits owned by most citizens of Britain. I would bring her an enormous bunch of roses one day, and the next berate her sharply over some trifle. I charmed her then rebuffed her. Mine was a courtship of extremes that rocketed her from gratitude to despair and back again with such rapidity that she never knew what to expect. Her fear of me was genuine and total, but so was her fear of abandonment, poverty, starvation. I was the rock to which she had clung in those early days; I was the one who had saved her from death or worse when her future had seemed so uncertain. In her mind I was a savior to whom everything was owed. She would never abandon me... or at least, not unless the intolerable situation in which she found herself was remedied by the interference of fate. 

I give you here her own words, spoken to Xena when the two of them were engaged in a lover's quarrel. Xena, who by now had become Gabrielle's complete confidante, was appalled by what she deemed my cruel disregard for her lover's feelings and welfare. She urged my property to run away, right now, this very instant, and they would find shelter in some other town, far away from Paris and its dangers... which of course, included me. 

Gabrielle tore herself out of her lover's embrace and said: You don't understand. She's kind to me, in her own way. And without her, I'd have died of hunger or been raped or killed. I owe her, don't you see? I owe her my very life! 

But you're so afraid, Xena coaxed. So afraid all the time... 

That's my own problem, Gabrielle replied. She's a very passionate artist. Her work consumes her entirely. If she's rude, or snaps at me, then it's my fault because I interrupted her thoughts. If she forgets how uncomfortable I am when I pose for hours, that's because she's so caught up in her painting. She's a true genius, Xena. I must forgive her eccentricities; I must try and understand her moods, anticipate her whims, attempt to smooth her way so she can be free to work. Besides, she's been so very good to me... I must at least stay with her until she finished this series she's working on. I'm her only model and I can't desert her while she needs me. Maybe later... 

So you see, Charles, how thoroughly I had indoctrinated my property. 

Indeed, I had to clap both hands across my mouth in order to stifle my laughter. 

Oh, Xena urged Gabrielle to flee, and the girl just as stubbornly refused. I wonder how long this state of affairs might have lasted had I allowed it to continue upon its course. Even as I write this letter, I speculate that perhaps Xena might have tired of Gabrielle and her inexorable stance... but of course, that would have changed nothing. My Muse was determined that they both should die, and I found it impossible to forgive Gabrielle's trespasses. 

It wasn't easy to conceal the depth of my hatred. Whenever Gabrielle posed for me, and I looked at her sweaty, trembling flesh, took in each detail - the shadows that fell along the contours of her body, the leather bindings that chafed her tender skin, the wooden bit that distorted her pretty mouth - I felt emptied of any traces of affection I might once have harbored. I dreamed only of her destruction, and as my brush flew over the canvas, elaborating in broad swatches of color on the torturous theme, my Muse planned and schemed, pondered and plotted. 

When I'd worked before, in the period before Gabrielle had entered my life, I'd been driven by the need to see my completed vision before me, laid out in meticulous lines and miraculous detail. I painted furiously, positively driven and hounded, tormented by my Muse's inspiration, spurred on until I dropped from exhaustion. 

Now, however, my painting did not have such a desperate quality. Rather, my hands wielded the brush outside of my own volition while I dreamed of blood, rivers of blood, and such screams as the world has never heard. Vengeance is mine and it would be sweet. 

Finally, the day came when I was finished. Twenty-four canvases had been completed. I knew that my time together with Gabrielle could be measured in hours; I could see she was gathering up the courage to tell me she was leaving. 

I treated her oh, so very kindly. One could almost say I wooed her, paying delicate compliments, insisting on accompanying her to the marketplace, treating her as if she were a lady of substance and I, her most devoted cavalier. My gorge rose on many occasions when she smiled in grateful confusion, flattered by my attentions. She had no opportunity to slip away and seek Xena's company - I made quite sure of that. She was relieved by the cessation of my former strictness and did not question my intentions. Indeed, so soothed was she by my playacting that she even made overtures of her own, although hesitantly, attempting to probe my sincerity, determine the boundaries of acceptability. When I received her careful gestures of friendliness with joy - or so she thought - Gabrielle rewarded me with the widest of smiles. 

In her mind, all conflicts were resolved. Fear was replaced by friendship. I was extremely careful not to shatter the fragile illusion I had created; I maintained the loathsome facade until Gabrielle was quite at ease with me. No doubt she attributed my former manner to the pressures of genius. 

Smile and smile, and be a villain... 

Little did she know that the end was near. 

One morning I put down the newspaper and told Gabrielle that I had to return to London for a few days in order to make arrangements for my upcoming exhibition. This was, of course, a ruse. I casually asked if she would care to accompany me; I would be glad to put her up in a fine hotel, show her the sights - perhaps even a trip to the dressmaker's shop might be in order. I was not surprised when, with much blushing and stammering, Gabrielle rejected my kind offer, making excuses so feeble that even the most naive and trustworthy soul could not have believed them. Nevertheless, I graciously accepted and her relief was so palpable that I itched to box her ears. 

Instead, with outward calm and inward gloating, I saw to the packing of my bags and set off to the train station, where I parted from Gabrielle - who had insisted on seeing me off - with many promises of postcards, a fond embrace and a few tears. 

I watched Gabrielle walk out of the station... and abandoning my bags, I followed her at a discreet distance. 

True to my predictions, she made a beeline for Xena's flat. 

Although I had expected no less, I still burned at this evidence of her complete betrayal. 

Nodding to the landlady as I walked up the steps, I entered the empty flat next to Xena's and settled down to watch and wait. It was only early afternoon; it would take all of my patience and forbearance to wait until darkness before making my move. I observed them for a little while - two sickeningly sweet lovebirds who billed and cooed after their enforced separation because Gabrielle had been too cowardly to leave me and Xena too honorable to confront me directly. 

Faugh! 

They were both nothing more than sheep, blindly following conventions and morality instead of adopting their own mores, as I had done. 

Sheep! 

Baaa, baaa, baaa! 

Soon, I promised, soon little sheep, you'll be led to the slaughter. 

Oh, bliss!! 

The minutes ticked by; the sun slowly - ever so slowly - crept towards the horizon, as if it knew of my murderous intentions and was determined to tantalize and tease me while I chafed at the bit. I had fallen asleep for several hours and woke up feeling refreshed and ready for my work. My Muse buzzed and whined like an annoying insect in my ear, gobbling horribly about retribution, justice and revenge. She showed me breath-taking vistas of death and decay, hot golden flames that licked and spat, splatters of rich, crimson blood. I could hear the screams for mercy reverberating in my head and had to stretch my lips in my cruelest smile. Mercy might droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, but tonight the skies were clear. No quarter given! 

In further visions given by my Muse, steel swords slashed right and left, mowing down my/our enemies, for by now my Muse's vengeance against her ancient foes and my own quest had merged into one, single goal: the mortal punishment of Xena and Gabrielle. 

At last, however, the silvery curve of the moon hung low in the sky - twilight. Not long now, and so I applied my eye to the peephole in order to ascertain what had been happening while I'd slept. 

Xena and Gabrielle were seated at the table, sharing a glass of wine and some crusty bread. Or rather, Xena sat in the sole chair with the red-headed chit perched in her lap. I gagged as I watched Xena hand feed a morsel of bread to Gabrielle, who showed every evidence of pleasure and contentment. They kissed - sweet, brief minglings of affection; deeply passionate declarations of the soul. They murmured, their heads together, black tresses mingling with red-gold. Gabrielle had her arm about Xena's neck, and the dark beauty caressed Gabrielle's knee through the fabric of her skirt. 

Such cozy domesticity! 

Dearest Charles, this proof - absolute, undeniable evidence - of Gabrielle's total disaffection to the enemy camp was all the impetus I needed. If I had ever harbored doubts, if there had been even the single most infinitesimal thread of affection remaining, this sight would have killed it on the spot. 

My limbs tingled as if they'd been electrified; my pulse thundered in my ears, as martial a sound as war drums beating soldiers to battle; my eyes opened wide as I panted for breath. Hatred - utter, implacable hatred - consumed me entirely. My Muse crowed her delight as I fetched the weapons and other tools I had brought in a small carpetbag. A selection of knives; a coil of rope; a packet of needles; candles; several of the more exotic toys I'd had my special leather worker create. I did not intend to kill them immediately; no, Xena and Gabrielle would suffer first. They would experience such pain - such sheer, scarlet-tinted agony - that they would wish for the surcease of death, but I would deny them that until I'd extracted every succulent drop of revenge possible. 

At last, I was ready. The moon had risen, sailing majestically onto her heavenly throne, accompanied by her sparkling handmaidens, the stars. One last peek - Gabrielle and Xena were entwined in one another's arms on the narrow bed, sleeping peacefully. I shivered with delight and anticipation. This would be my finest hour, my greatest and most glorious achievement and I meant to savor it to the last. 

As silently as a mouse I crept out of the flat and tried Xena's door. It was unlocked and I briefly sent up a heartfelt thanksgiving to Dame Fortune, who had so smiled upon my venture. Easing the door open, I slipped inside, a quiet ghost who was nevertheless composed of the most serious and horrifying substance. My Muse hissed instructions, cautions, imprecations and other nonsense; I firmed my concentration and ignored her for the time being. 

The carpetbag swinging from my hand struck something in the gloom - the corner of the dresser, I think - and the items within clinked and clanked. I froze, my gaze never leaving the two figures in the bed. Xena stirred slightly; she had taken the outside of the cot and Gabrielle cuddled close to her on the side nearest the wall. I waited in an agony of impatience, every muscle taut, until I judged the danger had passed. 

Reaching into my bag, I withdrew a fat length of ebony, polished and smooth. Leather thongs had been wrapped around the narrowest end to make a handle. I weighed the instrument in my palm for a moment, savoring the hefty feel. I planned to club Xena into unconsciousness - she was, I believed, the most dangerous of the two and the most likely to put up a fight - and then take care of Gabrielle. 

A shaft of milky moonlight fell upon their faces. Gabrielle's sweet features were relaxed in sleep; the clear planes of Xena's face reminded me of the best Grecian art. I carefully placed my carpetbag on the floor and held my ebony club high. My first strike would have to count and I meant to make it my best. I did not want to damage Xena - not yet! - and so had to calculate the harshness of the blow in order to render her unconscious instead of dead. 

The club swept down with a goodly portion of my strength behind it. My teeth were gritted, my eyes opened wide. My Muse shrilled and shrieked in excitement. I already imagined Xena trussed and at my mercy. Anticipation made me fairly glow. Then... 

Disaster! 

Xena's hand came up; the club landed with a fat smack in her palm. Her eyes opened and fastened on me. 

Good evening, she said insolently, wrenching the club from my surprised grasp and bounding out of bed. 

I backed up several paces, licking my lips in surprised consternation. 

Behind her, Gabrielle awoke and gasped. What's this?, she asked, rubbing her eyes. 

Xena's teeth were bared as she let the club bounce on her palm in a suggestive manner. She did not speak to Gabrielle, but addressed her remarks to me. 

I've been following you for days, she said. Watching your every move. I knew you were in the flat next door, spying on us. I also know you're responsible for the deaths of all those people. Murdering scum! 

Gabrielle gasped again. No!, she said. What are you talking about?! 

Xena was wiser than I thought; she obviously knew I was a formidable opponent and so kept her gaze locked to mine rather than be distracted by her lover's bleating. 

She explained that she suspected I might have had a hand in the killings and so, to either verify or allay her suspicions, had taken to following me. Noticing that I, in my turn, followed Gabrielle, she realized that I had to have known all about their affair. Xena had a good grasp of my character stemming from the beginning of her association with Gabrielle and, with lightning deduction, had decided that I meant the two of them heinous harm. 

My trip to London may or may not have been a ruse, so she'd followed Gabrielle and I to the station. Seeing me leave, she knew I had no intention of traveling. It had been a trick and, armed with that knowledge, she'd set up the scene in her flat, playing like a maestro. Gabrielle had remained ignorant of Xena's plan, the better to act naturally and not give the game away. 

I saluted Xena's perspicacity. My Muse whispered desperately, urging me to action. My hand was concealed within a fold of my skirt and I carefully - how carefully! - inserted it through a slit in the seam. Strapped to my thigh was a long, razor sharp blade. I eased it out while Xena pontificated. 

She continued to speak, telling me that she had made arrangements with the gendarmes. A group of them had concealed themselves outside and were watching the sole window in the flat. While she spoke, she crossed the room - keeping me in clear view all the time - lit a candle and passed it thrice across the window, explaining that this was the pre-arranged signal. The Paris policemen would now come up and arrest me. 

I admit, I was scornful. Arrest me for what? Gabrielle and I were known to live together and I was a woman of some means. If I explained that I had come to the flat to escort Gabrielle home after she'd posed for Xena, then who was to say nay? The two of them had hardly enough clout with the authorities to make them accept their word over mine. I curled my lip and dared them to go ahead with the sordid business; I would be released in no time. 

Xena's black brows drew together in a frown. Gabrielle seemed alarmed. But then Xena's eye lit upon my carpetbag. 

Here's evidence enough, I wager!, she cried. 

This slight distraction was enough. I thrust my knife at Xena, catching her high on the shoulder. Another inch and I'd have sawn through her neck. As she fell to the floor, I drew back my foot and kicked her hard in the stomach. Stooping down, I grabbed a handful of her hair and brought the knife to her throat, prepared to slice through that pulsating column of flesh. 

The one thing I did not anticipate was my undoing. Seeing her lover's life so threatened, Gabrielle rocketed off the bed like a shot, fastened herself to my back and began beating me with her fists. Her teeth were small but sharp, as I learned when she sank them into my upper arm. Her nails scored my cheeks and her heels drummed painfully on my ribs. 

I tried to throw the annoying red-head off but she stuck like a leech. I managed to give her a long scratch down her leg with the point of my knife but that was all. 

In another moment, a squad of gendarmes burst into the room, blowing their tin whistles fiercely. 

Galvanized by fear, I hurled Gabrielle to the floor and leaped out of the window. Xena's flat was on the third floor and I might have been killed, but a friendly hedge saved my life. Scratched, bitten, defeated and sore, I slunk away and vanished into the night. 

Now, I lick my wounds and drink the late Pollinard's excellent coffee while writing you this letter. My carpetbag, left behind in extremity, did indeed contain important evidence. My list was within, as well as the weapons I had used on my enemies. I'd also taken a few souvenirs from their bodies, which I preserved in small jars filled with alcohol. I read in the morning's newspaper that I am quite the wanted woman, so I suppose I will have to adopt some disguise in order to leave the country. 

As for Xena and Gabrielle, I assume they are both recovering from the wounds I inflicted - mental, emotional and physical. My Muse has remained silent, a harsh punishment for failing. The canvases I created using Gabrielle as my model have been burned at Xena's instigation. And to add insult to injury, she and my betrayer have - following all this sordid publicity - been offered a gala exhibition at one of Paris' premier galleries. 

Faugh! 

One cannot trust journalists at all. 

So, my darling Charles, you have had from my lips - so to speak - a genuine account of the troubles plaguing your sister. What are my future plans, you may ask? For the moment, I have none, except to get as far away from Paris as possible. Hempen nooses are so chafing, don't you think, when fastened tightly around one's neck! 

I do not, however, intend to allow Xena and Gabrielle to escape scot free. My Muse, once she recovers from her sulks, will no doubt devise a cunning plan. We shall have our revenge! We will not be denied our just retribution! We will stalk them to the ends of the earth if necessary, march to the very gates of Hell! Our rage is not diminished, nor our hatred; as long as Xena and Gabrielle exist, so we will, too, be born again and again to dog their footsteps, spill their blood. 

Vengeance is ours! 

Not time, nor distance, nor circumstance shall stop us. 

We are as eternal as Love! 

The only people on my list who escaped me were the goose girl, Lyla, and her parents. They live in Provence, I understand, in a small village. Perhaps, if I can get out of Paris, I will pay them a visit. 

I will write again if I can. 

Be well, my darling Charles. In those moments that are not consumed with plotting and revenge, I will think of you. 

Your beloved sister,
Daughter of the House of Cuisse,

Callissa

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

by Nene Adams ©2001 - All rights reserved

Author's Note: Although Robert Johnson is a genuine historical person, his words and actions come purely from my own imagination. All other characters in this story are fictitious. This text contains violence and the depiction of a loving relationship between two adult women.

These women loving each other,
you know they ain't thinkin' about no man
They ain't keepin' secrets no more,
they playing a wide open hand.
-----Johnny Winter, Bad Girl Blues

Susan Finch pulled a little tape recorder from her purse. The shiny steel case, not much bigger than her palm, looked incongruously modern when viewed against the faded cabbage-rose gentility of Mrs. Emmeline Hawkins' house on Route 44 in rural Alabama.

Fiddling with the recorder, Susan glanced at the owner of the house, sitting across from her in a battered rocking chair. The old woman resembled an African idol fallen to ruin, but some of the sharp bone structure of her face still showed, blades pushing against the soft wrinkles and deeply scored lines that covered her dusky skin.

Before Susan could say anything, Mrs. Hawkins raised a pink-palmed hand. "I done told ya on the phone, Miz Finch. I ain't got nothin' to say 'bout Comfort McCall. That's over and done with, and best forgotten." Her voice was faintly slurred but deeply resonant, a molasses drawl that was pure Deep South.

Susan squared her shoulders and took a deep breath, pushing a strand of shining blonde hair off her face. "Please, Mrs. Hawkins. I don't..." She stopped and leaned forward, her tone almost pleading. "I came across a reference to Comfort McCall when I was researching for my thesis, and I couldn't get it out of my head. There's so little known about her, few recordings of her songs, just some maddening hints here and there."

"Just the way it ought to be," Emmeline replied stubbornly. "Some things ain't meant to be dragged up into sunlight. Best if ya leave 'em in the grave, like the good Lord intended."

Susan toyed with the recorder, clicking it on and off unconsciously. She had been traveling for a long time, following one vague clue after another in her pursuit of a phantom. She was obsessed with uncovering the truth about Comfort McCall. Her existence had become an endless quest - she was Don Quixote, forever tilting against the shrouded past of an enigmatic blues player.

As a scholar interested in pure history, she was also offended by the veil of superstition that surrounded McCall. Her hand would be the one that pulled aside the lies and half-truths, and exposed the pure heart of the matter once and for all. Susan was ambitious, and not above manipulation if it served her cause.

"I've just got to know," Susan said as earnestly as she could. "It haunts me day and night. That woman got under my skin somehow, and I can't rest until the whole story's told. I've been chasing rumors and trying to make some kind of sense out of the senseless. You're my last hope, the last living witness to McCall's final performance. Took me almost six months of searching, but you're the end of the road. If you don't want to talk about it, that's okay. I understand." She gave Emmeline a crooked grin. "But I sure do hope you'll change your mind, if only to let me get some sleep at night."

Emmeline studied the young girl for a long moment, obviously considering. Finally, with a sigh of surrender, she gestured to a sweating glass pitcher on the table between them. "Pour us out a glass of tea, Miz Finch. Lord, but story tellin' sure is thirsty work, and I got a feelin' we gonna be here for a while."

Susan's smile, which had begun to fade while she waited for Mrs. Hawkins' answer, now blazed across her face. She reached for the pitcher, hands shaking with excitement. "Thank you so much, ma'am..." she began, but Emmeline waved her to silence.

"Don't thank me so quick. Ya gonna hear some things that ya ain't gonna believe, ain't gonna want to believe, but my hand to God, every word is gospel truth." Emmeline pulled a handkerchief from the vast recesses of her bosom, using it to wipe a thin sheen of sweat from her forehead and throat.

It was July and the ancient air conditioner was broken.  A window had been wedged open but very little breeze circulated inside the room. Still, despite the stifling heat, Susan felt a chill in her bones that had nothing to do with the weather. She had a feeling that this was the place where all her questions would be answered.

"I'm a Christian woman, Miz Finch," Emmeline continued, taking the glass of tea that Susan offered."Even so, I seen things in my life that ain't of God, and ain't of the Devil, neither. They just is. Comfort McCall was one of them things. Now turn on that fancy machine and settle down. I reckon ya 'bout as impatient as peanuts on a hot griddle, so let's get started."

Susan quickly pressed the record button, checked to see that the miniature tape was spooling properly, and set it down on the wooden table near Emmeline. "Please go ahead, Mrs. Hawkins. And thank you, ma'am, for helping me. I mean that with all my heart."

"Like I said, ain't no cause for thanks just yet." Emmeline settled deeper into the rocking chair. Her rheumy eyes fluttered shut, and her bottom lip pushed in and out as she concentrated.

"I reckon the whole mess started in 1938," the old lady said after a long pause, "down in Roosterfoot, which was smack dab in the middle of no-place, nowhere. T'weren't Georgia, t'weren't Alabama, but near enough to both as to make no nevermind. Some railroad men - my daddy was one, a porter on the Southern Crescent - used to have families in Roosterfoot. There was a Methodist church, a Baptist Church, a grocery store, school, doctor, soda fountain, beauty parlor and a post office in the drugstore. We weren't rich, but every family had a radio, a house, meat most times a week, and at least one man bringin' money home."

Susan leaned back in the sagging sofa, keeping her gaze locked on Emmeline. She was wearing shorts, and beneath her thighs, the pink nylon throw had gathered little pools of wetness. Outside, just underneath the window, a wild tangle of roses swayed in a breath of wind. The drowsy humming of bumblebees complimented the black woman's drawl.

"Thing was," Emmeline continued, "when a man wasn't workin', he wanted somethin' more excitin' than momma and a passle of  young'uns hangin' on his shirt tails. All that time on the train in them days, the men was shufflin' like good boys, Uncle Tommin' and sayin', 'yessir, nossir' to the white captains and their ladies. Had to, ya know, else they might finish up on the wrong end of a rope. There was powerful resentments and bad feelin's just cookin' under the skin, so when they got to home, the men went lookin' for some trouble. Child, there weren't no bigger trouble in Roosterfoot than Big Daddy Bone.

"Big Daddy Bone was big - taller, fatter and stronger than any three men put together. He had a white Cadillac convertible that got washed every day. He always wore white, three-piece suits and a big hat with a crow feather in it. He had two gold teeth and his shoes was spit-shined 'till you could see yo' face in 'em. Most imporant of all, Big Daddy had more poison in him than a full barrel of rattlesnakes.

"He had a barrelhouse down by the depot, on the side of them railroad tracks. Every Friday and Saturday night, the joint was jumpin'. He brought in jazz and blues, dice and cards, cheap whiskey and cheaper women. For a dollar you could take your pick of Big Daddy's gals - and there was mattresses out back, or so I heard tell. And ain't nobody said nothin' to Big Daddy  'bout all this sinnin'. Nobody dared.

"Big Daddy Bone, he ruled Roosterfoot like a king.

"He had the Devil written all over him, and black conjure power of such strong evil, none could oppose. Anybody what tried to cross him in word or deed came to a bad end. Like my daddy's friend, poor old Willis Hatchett..."

"Man, you crazy as a shithouse rat!" Big Daddy Bone spat, his little piggy eyes blazing with ire. One of his boys shaved his head every morning with a cutthroat razor. The tightly stretched, blue-black skin of his skull, glossy with sweat, looked like a bowling ball. He held his signature hat in his left hand, and a long malacca cane in the right. "What you mean, comin' in here and talkin' to me like I was trash?"

Inside the barrelhouse, a handful of women in loose wrappers drank coffee and kept to themselves, clustered together at a corner table like a clutch of hens. Lafayette Bone, Big Daddy's nephew, stood behind a counter made of two by fours and empty whiskey barrels, counting money out of a cigar box. A lone wasp made lazy circles around a plate of congealed pork ribs near his elbow. Every now and then, Lafayette took a swig from a lukewarm bottle of beer. No one paid attention to the confrontation between Big Daddy and Willis Hatchett.

The man who was the focus of Big Daddy's fury did not flinch, but continued to stare up at the man with an air of apprehensive defiance. Willis Hatchett was short, squat and thick all over, with overdeveloped shoulders, a bow-legged stance, and a jaw that jutted stubbornly forward.

He licked his lips and repeated, "I said, ain't gonna pay no tab. I hadda go down to Doc Ready's 'cause one of yo' whores done gimme a dose. My old lady gonna kill me, she finds out I been sneakin' honey outside the pot, so I didn't have no choice. Way I figures it, we 'bout even."

"Ain't nobody gets away wit' cheatin' me outta what's owed," Big Daddy said, his fury diminished not one whit. "From where I'm sittin', you owes me twelve dollars, an' most of dat's on the dice. No cure costs twelve dollars, Willis."

"That's rightly so. Doc Ready's cure cost me three dollars cash money." Willis used the sleeve of his denim shirt to wipe his streaming face. It was hot inside the barrelhouse and he felt like he was broiling alive inside his own skin. "But the way I figure it, you owes me somethin' for my trouble. B'sides, you don't want me goin' around, tellin' everybody yo' girls got bad cootchie."

Big Daddy's lips curled, showing the glint of gold on his two front teeth. "I'm a respectable business man," he growled. "My black berries got the sweetest juice around. Everybody know dat."

Willis glanced at the seated women in disdain. "Ha! You peddlin' low down, dirty jellyroll and passin' it off for fresh. You a cheatin' scoundrel, Mistuh Bone, dat's what you are. Now, are you gonna give me back my IOU or do I hafta start warnin' my friends? And mebbe you better throw in a beer, 'cause all this talkin's made me mighty damn thirsty." He was getting cocky, facing off with the most feared man in Roosterfoot. Half a bottle of Red Dog whiskey had bolstered his courage. He thought he had Big Daddy by the short hairs.

Never had a man been more wrong.

"You know what, Willis Hatchett?" Big Daddy's voice had gone silky and cold. From behind the counter, Lafayette kept counting bills with dogged determination. "You ain't nothin' but a little ol' yellow jacket, a-buzzin' 'round a bull. All talk - buzz, buzz, buzz! - but you ain't got no sting worth mentionin'."

His malacca cane shot out, thin and whippy, quick as a lick of lightning, and slapped the counter near Lafayette's elbow. In the confines of the barrelhouse, the sound was like a gunshot. Willis jumped, his dark face suddenly gone murky gray. Lafayette did not move. He knew that he had nothing to fear.

Beneath the ivory-capped end of the cane, a wasp convulsed and struggled, humming its distress, bobbing its head up and down in a blind dance of agony. Slowly, Big Daddy increased the pressure, all the while watching Willis closely. There was a series of sharp cracks, the hum took on a painfully shrill note, and finally there was a loud crunching noise, as if a brittle stick had been twisted in two. The yellow jacket stopped twitching altogether. Its legs froze into position, then relaxed and curled inward to rest on the ruptured carapace.

Big Daddy flicked the dead wasp off the counter towards Willis, who took a nervous step backwards. The crushed insect landed near his foot.

"So what's it gonna be, Mistuh Wasp-man? Huh?" Big Daddy smiled. The expression was terrifying, a predator's grin of anticipation. He poked Willis in the stomach with his cane. "C'mon, Wasp-man. You be buzzin' all dis time 'round my bull's head. Buzz, buzz, buzz! Ain't you got nothin' more to say?"

Willis stepped backwards again. His bravado drained away and absolute terror took its place. The menace in Big Daddy's piggy eyes, always bubbling just under the surface, had emerged and was focused on him. Shadows in the barrelhouse seemed to gather together in blustering clumps, growing blacker and more substantial by the second. His bladder tightened against a hot flood. Willis Hatchett was looking his mortality dead in the face, and now he knew it in his bones.

Big Daddy leaned closer. "Don't come buzzin' 'round my black berries no more, Mistuh Wasp-man. Don't be buzzin' yo' nasty lies in town, tryin' to take my business away. Don't be messin' wit' dis bull, understand? Now git yo' sorry, fat-mouth self on back home, Wasp-man, before I swat you like the bug you are."

The cane poked again, hard enough to make Willis suck in his breath with a whoop.

Big Daddy's lips stretched wide. "Git!"

As Willis turned and ran out of the door, the cane caught him a stinging blow on the back of his thigh. The impetus drove him forward, bare feet thudding in the dirt, and he kept running until he was out of sight.

Lafayette finished counting, wrapped a dirty rubber band around a wad of bills, and put them back into the cigar box. Reaching behind his ear, he pulled out an unlit cigarette and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. Unlike his flamboyant uncle, Lafayette's eyes were dead and soulless as a shark's. The only thing Lafayette Bone cared about was money.

Big Daddy, on the other hand, cared mostly about prestige.

"Dat boy's momma sure didn't raise him right," the huge black man said, shaking his head in mock sadness. "Imagine, comin' in here and talkin' such trash 'bout my sweet berry girls. Well, can't have dat shit goin' around."

He sighed and made a 'come along' gesture at his nephew. "'Fayette, I reckon we gonna have to give Mistuh Hatchett a lesson in manners."

Lafayette nodded and looked bored. The women, who had stayed at their secluded table, kept their gaze carefully averted from Big Daddy Bone.

Whenever he got that 'cat stole the cream' look, somebody was sure to die.

Unlike Willis, these women weren't wrong about how far Big Daddy Bone would go.

Later that same day, Willis Hatchett was found dead on the front porch of his house, his body grotesquely swollen by hundreds of wasp stings.

There was a mojo bag found on the floor, rattling with stones and bones and powdered herbs. A crushed wasp was mingled with the rest. Someone discovered a bowl of blackberries next to the overturned chair. Dew still glistened on the soft, succulent fruit.

There were bloody welts on Willis' belly, like he had clawed at himself in a desperate attempt to set free an agony from within. Curls of dried skin were found beneath his fingernails. He had also scratched his face and throat so many times, it looked as if he had been attacked by an enraged housecat.

A discreet investigation by the mortician at the Shady Fields Funeral Home revealed that the victim's esophagus, stomach, mouth and especially tongue all bore a high concentration of stings. Fear kept the mortician quiet, but not quiet enough. The awful news spread rapidly. Big Daddy's terrifying reputation gained another notch.

The mojo bag was quietly burned at a nearby crossroads. The porch was washed down and the bowl of berries thrown out. Willis' hysterical widow was given a tranquilizer shot by Doc Ready. She kept insisting that she'd seen yellow jackets boiling in a cloud out of her husband's mouth... not into it.

Within hours after the discovery, the local feed n' seed store sold out of Red Devil lye. Residents of Roosterfoot could be observed digging holes at the four corners of their homes, planting their cans in the dirt to ward off evil.

Willis Hatchett's death was officially recorded as an accident.

And Big Daddy Bone, a law unto himself - judge, jury and executioner - just smiled and smiled.

Susan quickly changed the tape, stuffing the completed mini-cassette into her purse. "Shall we take a little break?" she asked, unpeeling herself from the sofa.

Emmeline snorted, levered herself up from the rocking chair and padded out of the room. "C'mon back to the kitchen and get somethin' to eat. I reckon yo' stomach thinks yo' throat's been cut. I know mine does."

Susan snatched up her recorder, followed Emmeline, and settled at a scarred oak table in the kitchen. One of the table legs, shorter than the rest, had been propped up with a faded matchbook. The old black lady bustled between refrigerator and counter, and very shortly plunked a chipped china plate in front of her guest. She sat herself opposite Susan and gestured to the plate. "Go on and eat. Ain't nothin' important gonna happen in the next ten minutes."

There was a sandwich of avocado, tomato and sweet red onion on wheat bread, liberally slathered with mayonnaise, plus a cold chicken leg and a scoop of potato salad. Susan took one bite and her eyes rolled in ecstasy. She hadn't tasted food so good since the last time she had visited her own grandmother. Cholesterol, be damned.

They ate in companionable silence, stopping only for Emmeline to fetch a jug of lemonade, ice cubes and two mason jars for glasses. Gnawing on the drumstick, Susan asked, "Did the people in Roosterfoot really think Big Daddy Bone killed Willis Hatchett, that it wasn't an accident? I remember you said something about him having some kind of power..."

Emmeline's lip curled and she put down her sandwich. "Uh-huh. Big Daddy had the conjure power, all right. I seen other root doctors in my time - some doin' only good, others workin' both for good and bad  - but he didn't do nothin' but the darkest kind of work. He was a black hoodoo man, usin' the Devil's magic to put the hot foot on ya, or cross ya up unto death, or hex ya to misery. Big Daddy didn't need no guns. He had goofer dust and graveyard dirt, crossin' powder, jinx makers, war water and rattlesnake powders. God help ya if Big Daddy decided to lay down a trick; that man could steal the breath outta yo' body in a finger-snap, just like he did to poor Willis Hatchett."

Susan stopped eating. "You don't really believe in all that, um, stuff, do you?"

"You was 'bout to say 'nonsense,' huh?" Emmeline gave the young woman a pitying smile. "Yo' sittin' there thinkin', this here's one old woman who done lost her mind! But hoodoo' ain't nothin' but the truth. I seen it work. I seen the way folks'd step off the curb so Big Daddy could pass, bowin' and scrapin' like he was God Almighty Himself. I seen healin' and cursin' come to pass. What he did was real. Don't matter if it was natural or unnatural. Folks thought it was true, and so it was."

Susan nodded. The tattered remnants of Comfort McCall's legend were steeped in the occult traditions of the Deep South. Some of the men she had talked to in her travels were conjure doctors, dispensing flannel bags of roots and magical herbs that they called mojo hands. People wanted to believe in their power to cure or curse - and she knew that unquestioning belief could be a powerful weapon in the arsenal of an unscrupulous man.

Most myths have supernatural elements, Susan thought. I'll just have to sort through all this dross later and hope I can find some nuggets of truth. Dammit, the things I'm going through to get a lousy degree!

She ducked her head and apologized sweetly to Emmeline, who accepted with great dignity.

"It ain't all that important." She went to the counter, cut off two slices of strawberry cake, and sat back down again. "Ya better put that box back on, 'cause I'd better get on with this story or we gonna be here all night. Now, where was I?"

Susan turned the recorder on. "Willis Hatchett had died, and people thought Big Daddy Bone did it with conjure power," she prompted. Despite her misgivings, she was determined to hear the rest of the tale.

Emmeline nodded. "Just so, just so. Well, the same night Willis Hatchett was stung to death, Comfort McCall stepped off the 10:15 train and into Big Daddy's barrelhouse down by the railroad tracks, just outside of Roosterfoot.

"Just so's ya know, Comfort weren't too womanly lookin', if ya get my meanin'. Flat as an ironin' board all over, but built hard in her body like a field mule. And she was what we called back then a 'high yeller.' Mulatto, kinda sallow, like somebody done rubbed her skin with saffron spice. Some of them mulattos got real light eyes, ya know? But Comfort, she had one eye brown like normal, and t'other blue as a peacock's behind. Right witchy, that was. Most everybody thought she was some kinda feller at first, 'cause she wore a raggedy man's suit, and a skinny tie, and an old bowler hat jammed on top of her head.

"That guitar she carried was old. Real old, dark wood, with bitty silver stars. And the strings was silver, too. She had a black cat bone on a thong around her neck, and she reeked to high heaven of Hoyt's Cologne and Double Fast Luck soap. That woman was charmin' as a snake-oil salesman when she was of a mind, but mostly she meant serious business.

"Lord, but it sure lit a hateful fire in Big Daddy's heart when Comfort McCall rode into town..."

Comfort McCall glanced casually around the barrelhouse. The thin pine walls still oozed a sticky sap, which had discolored the tattered calendar pages and advertising signs that someone had stuck up haphazardly. Bent nails on support posts held kerosene lanterns. A crude counter with an assortment of bottles and jelly jar glasses stood to the right; the rest of the room was filled with tables and chairs knocked together from orange crates.

Outside, a barbeque made from a halved oil drum was being tended by a scrawny old man and two small boys. They dipped short-handled mops into a bucket of strong-smelling red sauce, then slapped it onto chunks of meat and butterflied chickens, sending vinegar/cayenne scented smoke straight through the door.

Comfort shifted her guitar so that the carrying strap wasn't biting into her shoulder. "Hey, ya'll," she said huskily to the six women and two men inside the barrelhouse. "I hear tell ya been lookin' for singers and players."

"Uh-huh." Big Daddy assessed the scarecrow figure with quick flick of his piggy eyes. "What's yo' name?"

"Comfort McCall." The brim of her hat cast a shadow over her face, but her peacock-blue eye gleamed in a stray beam of sunlight.

Big Daddy snorted. "Hmph. And wit' dat and a dime, I can buy me a soda pop. Ain't never heard of no yeller music man by dat name."

"I prefer to keep my light under a bushel." Comfort's lips quirked. "Ya want me to play or not? 'Cause if ya don't, I gotta train to catch."

There was something in the slender person's attitude that Big Daddy didn't like, an indifference to his high status that rubbed him the wrong way. "Do I want to hear dis uppity sass-mouth, come into my own place and disrespect me?" he asked the room in general. "Hey, 'Fayette, you want to hear a no-good ramblin' man play?"

Lafayette lit a cigarette and tapped his fingers on the counter. "Not particularly."

Big Daddy laughed. The chair he sat on creaked beneath his bulk. "Well, listen to the man, Mistuh Sass-Mouth. I reckon you best be on yo' way, before I kick dat yeller ass so hard, yo' teeth gonna land in next week."

"I wanna hear her." This came from a young woman sitting by herself at a table, nursing a bottle of orange Nehi. "C'mon, Daddy Bone. Let's hear her play."

"Hush yo' mouth, girl." Big Daddy's tone was oddly gentle, but he took a new look at the stranger with the silver stringed guitar. He had assumed that McCall was a man.

Comfort removed her bowler hat, revealing a shock of rusty red, nappy hair that stood straight up, untouched by grease. "I'll gladly play for ya, honey, if that's all right with Mistuh Bone here."

The young woman giggled. Her name was Maybell Pearl, but everybody called her Pretty. She was the only daughter of the late Reverend Pearl, who had died in a car crash last year. Nineteen years old and lush bodied, her kittenish good looks might have attracted the attention of Roosterfoot's boys, except that Big Daddy had his covetous eye on the young beauty. He had unofficially adopted her after Reverend Pearl's death, and acted like a generous, loving uncle. But everyone except Pretty could see that this benevolence was a sham, thinly veiling violent lust and terrifying intentions that the mind shuddered away from.

Nevertheless, Pretty was allowed the run of the barrelhouse, and no one dared to lay a finger on her. To the women of the town, this state of affairs was a hissing scandal, but nobody voiced their disapproval out loud.

When it came to Big Daddy Bone, discretion was the better part of valor.

Pretty Pearl had no idea why Big Daddy spoiled her. She simply accepted all that happened with the unquestioning joy of a child - completely, blindly innocent. She had also forgotten her father, or so it seemed, and abandoned her Christian upbringing to consort with blatant sinners. In fact, Pretty hardly remembered her father at all. She knew, in a vague sort of way, that her real daddy had been a church man. And he was dead, which did not upset her as it should, but she never wondered about it, nor did it worry her unduly. She was content to remain muffled in Big Daddy's protection and that was all that mattered.

"Please," Pretty begged in a sweet, little girl's voice. "Please, let's hear her play."

Despite his instant dislike of McCall, Big Daddy decided to let Pretty have her way. "All right, sugar. Whatever you want," he said to the girl, then turned to Comfort and shrugged his massive shoulders. "What can I say? Go ahead and play yo' heart out, Miz McCall. Ain't payin' nothin' for the privilege, mind. Do yo' best and den we see what's what."

Comfort nodded, unslung her guitar, propped her foot up on a nearby chair. She spent a few moments tuning. Every now and then she cast a discreet look at Pretty Pearl, assessing something that only she could see. When she was ready, she strummed her callused thumb along the silver strings and began to play.

Pretty's sloe eyes were filled with excitement. The young woman's skin was the shade known as teasin' brown, and no make-up marred the perfection of her cafe au lait complexion, not even a dash of lipstick. Big Daddy had been very firm on that score, and Pretty had an overwhelming need to please her Daddy Bone.

The other women in the barrelhouse were chattering softly together, ignoring Pretty - whom they hated with a jealous passion - and Lafayette, whom they feared almost as much as Big Daddy. They also paid no heed to the strange man-lady with her guitar, until Comfort began to play in earnest. Then they fell silent and stared, gossip forgotten.

A glittering series of notes fell into the quiet like a shower of crystalline stars. Clear and cool, the melody swept through the room, driving the oppressive atmosphere away and leaving a spring-like freshness in its place. Pretty frowned and shook her head as the music drove away the cobwebs that had filled her skull since her father's death. She couldn't even recall attending his funeral. Something had taken those memories away and wrapped them tightly in cotton wool, leaving a hazy place inside her mind that she'd never questioned, never even thought to question. Now, Pretty began to remember...

Big Daddy opened his mouth, about to protest. He could feel his hold on Maybell Pearl beginning to slip. The binding ritual he had worked on the girl after the Reverend's death was supposed to last forever, blinding her to all others, keeping her solely fixed on him. He had kept her innocent because it suited him to do so, and her wide-eyed, childlike ways amused him. Someday he had planned on removing her virginity himself, breaking her, making Pretty his slave. That would be amusing, too, and it was a moment to be savored, which is why he had put if off as long as he had. But somehow, his spell was beginning to unravel. He suspected this stranger had a lot to do with it. When she began to sing, his suspicions were confirmed.

Comfort's voice was husky, like honey and bourbon and smoke, and her mismatched eyes gleamed at the ill-concealed look of baffled rage on Big Daddy's face.

"I see me a woman, she's teasin', pleasin' brown," Comfort sang, turning to face Pretty:
"I'm a honey dripper, got the best biscuit in town.
She don't need no mojo, don't need no goofer dirt,
'Cause I'm her honey-dripper, don't want to see her hurt.
Gonna cut those ties that bind her, that bind her all around,
Seven times seven, cut the knots that keep her bound,
Ain't no hand of power, no hex or conjure bone,
Can keep me from commandin' that the tricks leave her alone.
By High John the Conqueror, return to her what's right,
Give her back to herself, her own mind day and night,
'Cause I'm her honey dripper, gonna give her all my light."

The tune abruptly changed, swooping down into a minor key, notes dripping like tears from silver strings. The prostitutes could sense the change, and the lachrymose melody touched their shriveled hearts. For Pretty, it was devastating. Suddenly, memories flooded back of her father - their life at home, church socials and gospel songs, fishing in the river, long Saturday afternoons on the porch, the smell of his bay rum aftershave. She began to weep, aching for her father's strong arms. All thoughts of Big Daddy were exorcised in a glorious sweep of music that removed the taint she'd been living under for over a year.

Big Daddy glanced from Pretty to Comfort, obviously furious. He reached into the pocket of his blinding white jacket and brought out a small, amber glass bottle. As if she had eyes in the back of her head, Comfort turned around to confront him before he could open the bottle and throw his unholy Crossing Powder in her direction to confuse her efforts. To his surprise, Big Daddy found himself paralyzed and pinned into place by the malevolent, witchy flash in the woman's peacock blue eye. She sang in a powerful, ringing voice:

"Keep yo' Crossin' Powder, keep yo' jinxing water, too,
Keep it close and closer, that's what you better do.
Make yo' spells and mojos, and make yo' evil curse,
And every trick you lay on me will only be reversed."

The sensation of fine, strong hairs wrapping themselves tightly around Big Daddy's face made him want to scream in frustration. The hairs dug down into the skin, down into the flesh, right down into the bone and cut so deep, he was surprised not to see droplets of blood staining his jacket. They weren't real, of course. It was binding magic, a spell to control and contain him, and it was surprisingly strong. He cursed himself for allowing this woman into his establishment. A moment's weakness, that's what had blinded him to her true nature. Weakness for a fool girl who wasn't worth a plugged nickel. Damn Pretty Pearl for cajoling him into this rash act, and damn Lafayette, too, for not helping his uncle!

Comfort saw the magic take hold and was satisfied for the moment. The binding might not last long, especially on a man like Big Daddy Bone, but for now it was enough. She stopped playing and walked over to Pretty, who was still crying.

"C'mon, honey," she said, holding out her hand to the young woman. "I reckon there's a boardin' house 'round here. Why don't ya show me how to get there?"

Pretty snuffled miserably. "Uh-huh." She took the offered hand and slowly exited the barrelhouse, Comfort in tow. Neither woman so much as glanced in Big Daddy's direction.

Big Daddy Bone raged silently, struggling against the enchanted bonds that held him powerless.

Nobody stopped the two women as they made their way out of the door and into the healing sunlight.

"My Lord, but time sure flies in the summertime," Emmeline said, shifting around in the wooden kitchen chair and taking a sip of lemonade. She held a paper fan, advertising the local Baptist church. She applied it languorously, just a twitch of the wrist to create a bit of breeze. Across the table, Susan eyed the fan with envy and wished for rain to break the intolerable heat of the day.

The young blonde woman pushed strands of hair off her sweaty face and dabbed her forehead with a paper napkin. "So Comfort McCall also had magical powers." Her tone was flat with a slight edge of irritation. All this supernatural talk was getting on her nerves.

"Maybe so," Emmeline replied with a shrug of her heavy shoulders. "Or maybe she just shook Big Daddy up real bad and made him think he lost a fight in his own mind. She was a mighty clever woman, ya know. What's the truth? I don't rightly know my own self. I'm just tellin' ya what happened a long time ago."

"That's all right, Mrs. Hawkins. I didn't mean to sound skeptical, and I apologize if you thought I doubted you. Please, go ahead."

Susan was a rational, logical woman, who came from a world in which magic and hoodoo were deemed the superstitious beliefs of ignorant, uneducated and gullible people. Nevertheless, sitting here in this humid kitchen, with shadows lengthening on the yellow painted wall, and Emmeline's syrupy drawl soaking into her brain, she felt a creeping coldness running through her veins. The small hairs on her arms and the back of her neck struggled to rise. Her grandmother would have said that a goose was walking over her grave.

The reaction annoyed her, even though she understood it. An atavistic response to cultural preprogramming, she thought. The lizard brain senses danger and the body responds accordingly. It's the reason why we humans love to get the bejesus scared out of us on roller coasters, bungee jumping and parachuting. The adrenaline rush makes us feel alive. Well, I want to stay objective and focused, dammit. I'm not going to get sucked into the fantasy, no matter how attractive it is. I want the truth and nothing but the truth.

Emmeline blinked and pursed her lips. After a long pause, punctuated by the swishing of her fan, she continued,  "Well now, McCall and Pretty Pearl got real close. Comfort hung 'round Roosterfoot a while, playin' on Main Street for dimes, and doin' a little root doctorin' here and there on the sly - mostly love charms and uncrossings, ya know. Pretty never did go back to church. I reckon she was mightily shamed of the way she acted after her daddy's passin', tho' that weren't really her fault. Still, she felt it deep enough to keep her head down and avoid most folks, exceptin' Comfort.

"Anyhow, Comfort got a room over Euphemia Duvall's grocery store, and Pretty stayed with her. Fact is, them two women was pert near joined at the hip after a while. Always seen 'em holdin' hands, whisperin' in each other's ear, huggin' and kissin', little sister pecks on the cheek, sweet as rock candy from dawn to dusk, and all times in-between."

Susan cleared her throat. "Were they lovers?" she asked, half-afraid of offending the old lady.

To her surprise, Emmeline let out a sound somewhere between a cough and a throaty laugh. "Oh, child! I weren't nothin' but a pig-tailed girl back then. And times was different, too - more innocent, not so quick to judge. Us country folks didn't much use words like 'bulldyke' or 'lesbian' or whatever ya call such things today. But Comfort sure did woo that Pretty Pearl just like any beau. Used to pick her wildflowers down by the river, buy penny chocolates and ice cream malts, sing her love songs. Did that make them lovers? I don't rightly know. What them gals did in private weren't nobody's business but their own.

"What I do know is when Comfort and Pretty looked at each other, ya got the feelin' that there weren't nobody else in the world but them. Like they was two stars that fell outta heaven, and by great good grace, found themselves together, ya know? It ain't easy to explain, but I do believe that Comfort and Pretty was just plain meant to be. If they did sin in the Lord's eyes, that was between them and God."

Susan flicked a drop of sweat off the end of her nose. "I suppose Big Daddy Bone wasn't too happy about that."

"Would a snake be happy if somebody come along and stole his dinner?" Emmeline whipped the fan more vigorously. "Ha! He tried everythin' he could to curse that high yeller woman. Poundin' graveyard nails and sprinklin' goofer dust into Comfort's footprints. Makin' poppets with rusty pins in their eyes. Buryin' hex bottles in her path. Ain't nothin' worked. And the more he tried and his hoodoo didn't work, the crazier Big Daddy got."

Susan thought she had a good idea of why Big Daddy's so-called hoodoo did not work against Comfort McCall, but kept it to herself. Two witch doctors canceling each other out in psychological warfare. "What did he do? Did he resort to physical violence?"

Emmeline shifted again and sighed. "Any fool can use a gun, if he's got brains enough to figure out where to point it. No, Big Daddy was too proud. He was a hoodoo master, not some cheap hood. If he'd-a shot her, he would've lost all his standin' in Roosterfoot. It had to be the Devil's work that undid Comfort, not man's. Understand?"

Susan did, and nodded. Emmeline continued, "So when his magic weren't powerful enough to cross Comfort McCall, he called in a friend what owed him a favor, figurin' a stranger might succeed."

"A friend?" Susan leaned closer, elbows propped on the table. "Who was that, Mrs. Hawkins?"

"Man named Robert Johnson."

The name was familiar to her. It took a few moments for Susan to make the necessary connections in her mind. "You don't mean the Robert Johnson, do you? The blues player who did Stones in My Passageway, Sweet Home Chicago, and Cross Road Blues?"

Emmeline nodded. "I mean the very same. Maybe ya heard 'bout how Johnson was s'posed to have sold his soul to Satan?"

"I always thought that was just a legend."

"Legends have a way of bein' true," Emmeline said darkly, her rheumy eyes boring into Susan's.

The younger woman shivered, and briefly wondered if Mrs. Hawkins had read her mind.

Robert Johnson was a small man, slightly built, with overlarge hands and long fingers that could tease impossible chords out of his guitar. A childhood disease had given him a "sleepy" eye - the left eyelid drooped slightly, lending his features a slightly sinister look. His skin was the color of dark chocolate, and he was rarely seen without a cigarette smoldering in the corner of his mouth.

There was a certain wounded charm about him that was very attractive to women, but they quickly found out that this was just a facade. In reality, Johnson was cool all the way through, from the cold gleam of his gaze to the icebound heart that pumped beneath his ribs. The only thing that thawed this chill was music. When he played, it was like the shock of watching a dormant volcano suddenly begin to spew flames.

Although not yet thirty, Johnson already had an eerie reputation. A few years ago, he had been a third-rate musician who had mysteriously disappeared without a trace, only to turn up months later with amazing guitar skills and a knack for writing songs that left his audience stunned. Most people believed he had met the Devil at the crossroads, exchanging his soul for musical genius. The fact was that Robert Johnson had not really met the Prince of Darkness - he had instead hooked up with Big Daddy Bone. There wasn't much difference between the two.

Johnson owed Big Daddy, and now it was time to pay.

"What ya want with me, Mistuh Bone?" Johnson asked, cigarette ashes falling unheeded onto the lapels of his brown coat. "Ya ain't said how come I had to be here, only that I s'posed to beat feet, so here I am."

"We gonna fight fire with fire," Big Daddy replied cryptically, smacking his lips. A big plate of barbequed chicken was in front of him, red sauce dripping from his fingers and the folds of his double chin.

Johnson sat his guitar case down by his feet, obviously impatient. "Hey, Mistuh Bone... I been flaggin' the train since Monday mornin', all the way from Dallas, 'cause ya said it was important. Just cut me a record and man, it was so damn hot in there, we was sittin' 'round in our drawers. Ain't had no chance to cool off or nothin'. I'd appreciate it if ya'd get to the point."

"Ain't dat grand!" Big Daddy exclaimed with false heartiness, tossing a well-gnawed chicken bone over his shoulder. "It does my heart good to see a no-talent darkie gettin' on in the world, makin' records and such. My, my, ain't dat a humdinger." He fixed the waiting man with his glittering piggy eyes.

"I got considerable interest in yo' career, baby boy," Big Daddy continued. "There was talk of payment down by dem crossroads, and I'm callin' it in right dis minute. Don't even think about squelchin' on yo' debt, 'cause I can flat-out promise ya dat what Big Daddy gives, Big Daddy can take away like that." He snapped his fingers for emphasis. "Now sit down and be respectful-like when yo' betters is talkin', else there ain't gonna be no more records. And dat's an eighteen karat fact, boy."

Johnson knew that whatever this man wanted, he would have no choice but to give. Before he'd met Big Daddy Bone, he had nearly given up music, almost given up on life itself. The blues meant his ticket out of a piss-poor sharecropper's life. Although he had taught himself to play the harmonica fairly well, the guitar had eluded him. He had been at a crossroads in Mississippi, near Hazelhurst where he'd been born, full of misery and wishing he could die. Big Daddy had driven along in his white Cadillac, full of promises and hope, and at first Johnson had deemed the man an angel.

Now he knew better.

Black magic had been done that day. Oaths had been sworn, blood had been shed. There was no getting out of it now.

Johnson sat down on a chair, plucked the cigarette end out of his mouth just before the coal could burn his lip, and tossed it carelessly away. "I hear ya, Mistuh Bone. Ain't gotta make no threats, nossuh. I hear ya loud and clear."

"Dat's mighty kind of ya, Bobbie." Big Daddy pushed his plate away and signaled Lafayette to bring over some bottles of beer. "Now listen... I got me a monkey on my back, name of Comfort McCall. Ever heard of her?"

Johnson pulled a fresh cigarette out of a crumpled pack and lit it with a match, considering. "Seems like dat name is familiar... ain't she related to dem Seven Sisters outta N'awlins?"

"Is she?" Big Daddy was surprised but hid it well. The Seven Sisters of New Orleans were famous conjure women known throughout the Mississippi Delta. "Hmph. Maybe so, maybe no, but it don't make no nevermind. Now, dis woman done disrespected me to my face, stole my gal, and I don't hold with dat. She got the hoodoo power, Bobbie. Does it through her guitar. I figured yo' mojo is good enough to handle her all right, 'cause ya'll got the same kinda instruments and such."

"How come ya ain't handled her yo'self?" Johnson drawled. Lafayette slapped a cold beer down on the table in front of him. The blues players wrapped his long-fingered hand around the bottle.

Big Daddy's tiny eyes, sunk into folds of fat, narrowed even further until they nearly disappeared. "I thought a boy like yo'self would be thankin' me for all the help I done give him," he growled. "How come ya ain't grateful for the chance to put yo'self square, huh? Be a free man with no more obligations. I don't want no sass. I don't want no questions. I just want a yes or no."

Ask no questions, get no lies, Johnson thought. He knew Bone well enough to realize that the big man would never admit to being defeated by anyone. Still, it seemed like a cheap and easy way of working off his debt, a small price to pay for the fame that he craved. There were things he had learned that night at the crossroads. The melodies Johnson wrote were tinged with a whiff of brimstone, his battered guitar made a conduit for demonic forces. He was sure that he was more than a match for a lone woman.

Aloud, he said, "Yessuh. What ya got in mind, boss?"

Big Daddy explained his plan.

Johnson listened. When Big Daddy Bone finished, he grinned openly. The cigarette stayed in the corner of his mouth as if glued there, and more ashes spilled down onto the front of his suit.

"If I does this for ya, Mistuh Bone, ya says we be finished, right?"

"Right."

"Ya got yo'self a deal."

Both men smiled, a mirthless shark's grin.

Outside the barrelhouse, the sun began to sink behind the pines.

Susan called, "Can we stop just a minute? I need to change the tape."

"Sure, Miz Finch," Emmeline replied. She got up and flipped on the lightswitch in the kitchen. A low wattage bulb came to life, and only then did Susan realize how dark it had gotten.

"Oh! How late is it?" Susan asked, automatically checking her wrist and discovering she'd left her watch in the hotel room. I hope the cleaning lady doesn't steal it. Then again, I doubt a Timex knockoff is any great prize. If she touches my laptop, though, I'll kill her.

"I reckon it's gettin' nigh onto seven of the o'clock." Emmeline put down her fan. "It'll be cooler now."

"I'm sorry this is taking so long, Mrs. Hawkins. Maybe I could come back tomorrow..."

"I'd rather get this over with tonight, if ya don't mind. But if ya has another appointment or somethin', I understand."

"No, no, not at all, ma'am!" Susan hastened to reassure the old woman. The last thing she needed was to go away with only half the story. Emmeline might just change her mind, or drop dead of a heart attack. "I just thought you might be getting tired. I've been taking up an awful lot of your time."

"A woman my age ain't got nothin' but time, Miz Finch." Emmeline gave her a placid smile. "Well, I still got half a chicken in the icebox. If ya gets hungry, just sing out. I purely hate to see a hungry person at my table."

"I'm fine, really, but thanks for the offer." Susan checked the recorder. It was running, shiny black tape spooling from one tiny reel to the other. "Now, I guess you were about to tell me what Big Daddy Bone and Robert Johnson had planned. This is absolutely fascinating stuff, by the way. Why haven't you ever told anyone else?"

"I was waitin' for the right listener. Anyhow, you 'bout ready to go on?"

"Yes, ma'am." Susan was really engrossed in the story, despite her dislike of all the occult references.

"Well, then... Big Daddy knew that Comfort was a gambler 'cause she'd buy Hoyt's Cologne and Fast Luck Soap, and kept a black cat bone 'round her neck for luck. Back then, lots of folks was into dicin', cards, horses, cockfights, playin' the policy numbers - even tho' it was against the laws of God and man. Big Daddy reckoned that if he spun the right web, Comfort would fall right into it, 'cause it weren't in her nature to ignore a challenge.

"He started advertisin' a blues contest at his barrelhouse, and put the word out all over town. The winner got five hundred dollars, cash money. That was a lot in them days, Miz Finch. A powerful piece of bait that few could resist, includin' Comfort."

"Surely she realized it was a trap? Nobody could be that reckless or naive."

"Of course she knew!" Emmeline slapped the top of the kitchen table with her palm, making Susan jump. The old woman fixed the younger one with a fierce glare. "She weren't stupid, Miz Finch. But puttin' a challenge before Comfort McCall was akin to wavin' a red flag in front of a bull's nose. She just couldn't back down. Stubborn as a mule and proud as a peacock, that one. Pretty Pearl didn't much like the idea, but Comfort reckoned Big Daddy's was callin' her out, and she weren't gonna say no. Runnin' from long odds ain't her style a-tall."

"It was like a duel, then." Susan slowly relaxed again in her chair. An evening breeze, scented with roses and lilacs, drifted through the kitchen window above the sink. "Did she know about Robert Johnson?"

Emmeline pursed her lips together and thought a moment before answering, "I don't rightly know. Could be, but it don't really matter."

"The people of Roosterfoot must have been excited."

"Scared silly, more like. It weren't nothin' like Big Daddy to go throwin' good money away. Anybody what was dumb enough to try and enter that contest got short shrift from Lafayette Bone. In the end, it was Comfort McCall and Robert Johnson at the barrelhouse to play, with Big Daddy, Lafayette and Pretty Pearl, plus bunches of other folks. Big Daddy wanted plenty of witnesses to carry back the tale, 'cause he figured this was gonna be Comfort's downfall."

"Mrs. Hawkins..." Susan knew she had to phrase this question carefully if she didn't want the old woman to get her back up. "You said before that you were a 'pig-tailed girl' when all this was going on, but you know so much, including the details of McCall's last public performance in Roosterfoot. With your Christian upbringing, I don't suppose your parents would have allowed you to go to a place like Big Daddy's barrelhouse..." She paused to decide how she was going to continue, but Emmeline interrupted.

"Miz Finch, my momma would've whaled the tar outta me if she'd caught me hangin' round that Sodom and Gomorra. My daddy would've skinned me alive, too." Emmeline let out a short, breathless chuckle. "I was the youngest child of a big family. Didn't get much attention, considerin' how my brothers was always raisin' cain, and I ran wild. So long as I was home for supper and they thought I was in bed after dark, ain't nobody raised a question.

"Now, I used to sneak down to the barrelhouse and peek through a knothole in a board in the side. I liked the music, ya see, and all them pretty dresses the ladies wore. Liked the dancin', too. Ain't nobody noticed me, which I reckon is a mighty good thing. That's how come I seen the big fight between Robert Johnson and Comfort McCall all them years ago."

Susan smiled. "I see. Thank you, Mrs. Hawkins. I admit that I was wondering."

"I don't blame ya. Now, ya 'bout ready for me to go on?"

"Yes, ma'am. Please do."

"Well, then... when Big Daddy held that contest, his joint was packed tighter'n mackerel in a tin can. Most of the men in Roosterfoot, 'cept them what was still workin' the trains, made it their business to come down. I seen my own daddy there, too, wearin' his Sunday suit and whoopin' it up with the boys. A lot of 'em come 'cause Big Daddy was offerin' a free beer on a hot night, but that didn't make no nevermind.

"Pretty Pearl was there, sweet as always, and couldn't hardly keep her eyes off that yeller woman. She knew that Comfort wasn't just battlin' over five hundred dollars. No, child. Comfort was fightin' to preserve Pretty's body and soul from the grasp of a man who was probably Satan himself in disguise..."

Robert Johnson gave Comfort an appraising glance. Her guitar emanated with magic; to his uncanny sight, an aura of blue-white light, like lightning bolts, hovered around the instrument. His own ebony-painted Kalamazoo guitar had a brick red supernatural 'skin', shot through with streaks of pulsating black. Although this brief assessment showed that Comfort was a woman of power, he was confident that she could not match him.

The barrelhouse was full. All the tables were full occupied and latecomers were squeezed against the walls or sitting on the floor. The crowd consisted primarily of men. Those few women among them were Big Daddy's employees, perched on laps or draped around the shoulders of those who could afford their company.

The fat man himself, lord of his domain, was dressed in his usual white three-piece suit. He had dispensed with his trademark hat and malacca cane, and was seated right up front, close to the tiny, hastily constructed stage. Lafayette was behind the bar, busily opening bottles of beer and pouring shots of whiskey or locally produced corn liquor. Although the door was open, the room was stifling hot, the press of bodies almost unbearable. A stinking fog of cigarette and cigar smoke hung close by the ceiling, and the place reeked of cheap cologne, sweat and spilled beer.

Big Daddy stood up, his huge shadow falling across the stage. "Everybody, hush up!" he shouted. He didn't have to speak twice. Immediately, the raucous chatter and laughter ceased, and the room fell silent.

"I want to thank ya'll for comin' out tonight," he continued with a wide smile. "Dis here's what ya might call an historic occasion." Big Daddy reached into a pocket and drew out a wad of money, secured by a rubber band. "I got five hundred dollars here, and every penny is gonna go to the best blues player in Roosterfoot."

There was some scattered applause, which Big Daddy acknowledged with a slight bow. In the kerosene lantern light, his bald, blue-black skull gleamed as if oiled. "We got two dat's gonna be fightin' 'gainst each other - Mistuh Robert Johnson, and Miz Comfort McCall. I reckon Mistuh Johnson oughta go first, 'cause he just cut himself a record in Dallas, Texas, and I reckon he deserves the honor. The rules is dead simple - ya'll keep playin' till ya can't play no more. Last man standin' is the winner."

He sat back down again and put the bundle of bills on the table in front of him. All eyes glittered with greed at the sight of so much money. A few men might have considered a quick snatch-and-run, but no one really had the courage to steal from Big Daddy, no matter how desperate or reckless they were. Big Daddy Bone's vengeance was like the Lord's - swift, sure and utterly without mercy.

Robert Johnson splayed his unnaturally big hand over the strings of his Kalamazoo, and after a dramatic pause began to play. A walking bass line, with choral movements that would have been impossible for someone with normal-sized fingers to reach. The melody was insistent as a drum beat, with a boogie-woogie edge that made the audience shift in their seats.

Comfort immediately began playing harmony, fingers shifting with liquid ease across the silver strings of her guitar. She wove in and out of Johnson's song, sparkling notes that quickly took the lead, forcing Johnson to follow her instead of the other way around. Without visible effort, Comfort had switched from harmony to melody, and Johnson gave a growl at this display of skill.

He broke off, slapping the guitar strings with the flat of his hand to produce a jangled discord. Comfort picked a jaunty 'shave-and-a-haircut, two bits' that earned a guffaw from the audience. Big Daddy scowled. Pretty Pearl, who was standing as close to the stage as she could get, clapped her hands together in pride.

Johnson was shorter than Comfort by a head. In a rumpled black suit, with his sleepy eye and hunched shoulders, he resembled a vulture waiting to pounce. In contrast, Comfort stood tall and easy, the freckles on her saffron-hued nose looking like flecks of ink in the uncertain lamplight, an explosion of russet hair standing straight up from her head.

He began the opening bars of a song, this time calling upon the powers that dwelled in his innermost darkness.

"Knife and razor gonna cut ya to the bone,
Can't duck yo' fate, girl, can't leave this one alone.
Butcher man's a-comin', steppin' lightly to the game,
Gonna cut ya, girl, then another one the same."

Because she was standing closest to her lover, Pretty was the only one who noticed a long cut opening up across Comfort's cheek. She let out a cry of dismay and gave Johnson a hate-filled glare.

A crimson trickle immediately ran over Comfort's face and dripped off the side of her jaw. She was startled, both by the pain and because Johnson had begun using such offensive tactics so early in their magical duel. Even as she countered with a bright flurry of music, blood welled from another cut in her upper arm. She did a quick healing chant, and the deep gashes healed over, leaving pink scars in their places that rapidly turned to silver.

Her peacock-blue eye glinted ominously as Comfort turned to Johnson. He opened his mouth, about to sing another charm, but she took a deep breath and got in first.

"Fire below ya, burnin' hot and flamin' quick,
Can't see the fire, but ya know this ain't no trick.
Burn, man, burn, like a little candle wick."

The cigarette that dangled perpetually in the corner of Jonhson's mouth suddenly fell out, bounced off his shoulder, and in an improbable disregard for the laws of physics, came to rest in the gap between his waistband and shirt. The cheap cotton garment burst into flame. He yelled and smacked the tiny fire, but only succeeded in causing the blazing cigarette to fall down inside his pants. Gyrating like mad, he began slapping his crotch and shaking his legs.

The audience, who had no idea of what was really going on, thought Johnson was dancing. "Do the Georgia Crawl!" someone cried in a drunken slur. "Naw, the shimmy!" another suggested.

Finally, Johnson managed to put the fire out. The spent cigarette rolled out of the bottom of his pant's leg. He was sure he had at least one blister on his scrotum, and a painful burn on his belly.

The audience did not notice that this was anything other than a contest between two musicians. They chatted, cheered and paid only nominal attention as long as the drinks kept flowing. Big Daddy and Pretty Pearl were the only ones in the room who saw and understood the potent forces that were being unleashed.

Johnson was really furious - not so much because he had been wounded, but because he had been humiliated. Comfort strummed her guitar with a callused thumb and played a complicated jazz line, obviously preparing to hit him again before he could get his defenses up.

The best defense was a good offense, and Johnson knew that better than most. Rather than shielding himself from next attack, or sparing time to heal his wounds, his fingers skittered across his guitar, plucking a counterpoint that sliced through her song like a red-hot blade. Icy needles spun out of thin air and leaped across the space that separated him from Comfort, burrowing into her flesh.

She gasped and nearly dropped her guitar. The silver stars inlaid into the ebony wood began to flare. Creeping cold spread outwards beneath the skin, congealing her blood. Her teeth began to chatter. Her heartbeat stuttered.

Pretty saw that her lover was in trouble and quickly hopped up on stage. Johnson was too busy enforcing his spell to notice the young woman. From beneath her skirt, Pretty produced a flannel bag that had been fastened with string to the top of her garter belt. It was a Nation Sack, the female version of a mojo hand. Tearing the drawstring top open, Pretty pulled out a folded paper tube, ripped it open and flung the contents into Johnson's face.

This was Hot Foot Powder, a concoction used mainly in footprint magic. Besides its jinxing qualities, the powder was a potent combination of sulfur, salt, dried chili peppers and other ingredients that made Johnson's eyes immediately swell and burn as if touched by a branding iron.

Johnson ignored the agony and blindness. With a roar like a maddened bull, he clawed at the Kalamazoo, producing notes that he bent until they wailed. The torturous sound was a hammer blow, knocking Pretty to her knees. Despite her own pain, Comfort played a series of meandering chords that were smooth as silk. The music twined around and through Johnson's cacophony, dominating the pattern. His attack was not so much blown apart as it was drained of malice. He stopped, tears streaming down his cheeks. Pretty gave Comfort a reassuring smile and crawled off the stage.

The duel continued.

Hot licks created invisible lines of force that whipped out to catch and strangle. Johnson countered with a saw-edged whirlwind that succeeded in slicing the woman's knee before she could stop it. The combatants were injured and healed in rapid succession. Magical point and counterpoint echoed the music that came from the depths of their souls.

Big Daddy watched the battle with a furrowed brow. It seemed that Johnson had met his match, and he could not predict the winner. He did not like unpredictability. Comfort was more powerful than he'd bargained for, but Daddy Bone preferred to hedge his bets.

He made a 'come-along' gesture to Lafayette, who walked over from the bar. It took only a moment to whisper instructions, and Lafayette returned to his busy station, putting off thirsty customers with a shrug.

Big Daddy Bone stood up and held out his hands. Johnson and Comfort broke off, each panting and sweaty. "Dat's some mighty fine playin'," he said expansively to the clapping crowd. His gold front teeth gleamed in the lantern light. "I reckon we oughta give these two a break, let 'em wet their whistle. What ya'll say?"

The audience greeted this idea with enthusiasm. Lafayette emerged carrying two bottles of beer, already opened. They were ice cold; water droplets drizzled down the amber glass sides. Big Daddy smiled, nodded and sat down. Pretty Pearl grimaced in suspicion. She knew what the fat man's satisfied smirk meant - big trouble for somebody else.

Lafayette started to hand one to Johnson, but Comfort grabbed the bottle first. "Thank ya kindly," she rasped. "I was feelin' a mite parched."

Johnson raised an eyebrow and glanced at Daddy Bone. The quick wink he received in return was subtle enough to escape everyone's attention. Satisfied that foul play was being done to his benefit, Johnson snatched the other bottle and began to drink. His throat worked as the level of beer dropped rapidly. In no time, he had finished and was wiping foam from his lips. The empty bottle was tossed back to Lafayette, who caught it adroitly.

Lighting another cigarette, Johnson was surprised to see that Comfort was not drinking. Instead, she gazing at the bottle in her hand with an amused expression. Immediately, an alarm began to sound in Johnson's mind. Something was wrong. He shot a startled look at Big Daddy, who started to rise from his table again.

Comfort let the glass container fall. It shattered at her feet, wetting the toes of her shoes with hops-scented suds. There was another smell, too - the distinct odor of bitter almonds. Daddy Bone subsided, and Lafayette scowled. Their crude poisoning attempt had been detected.

The woman's peacock blue eye had a nasty glimmer in it. Before Johnson had a chance to swing his Kalamazoo back into position, she played a thumping, low-down and dirty beat that fastened him so securely in place, it was as though his heels had been nailed to the floor.

"Cheatin' ain't beatin'," Comfort sang,
"And I'll beat the cheaters, too.
Whatsoever ya does to me, let that be done to you.
Not this day or tomorrow,
But comin' three times more,
You'll reap what you've sown, man,
And meet the killin' floor."

Johnson rolled his head from side to side, willing his body to obey. Comfort's spell sank down into his skin, igniting a fire in his stomach that he knew would never die until he was cold in the grave. Muscles twitched in uncontrollable spasms. He appeared to be having a fit.

Big Daddy had a sheet of yellow paper in front of him, covered with writing that resembled chicken scratchings. The big man was sweating heavily, white suit gone limp and stained. His fat fingers danced over the paper, sprinkling a fine black powder, and he muttered without pause. Those nearest to his table drew back, suddenly afraid. The members of the audience, though drunk, were beginning to realize that this was no lighthearted party. A current of fear swept through the room, and they all fell silent.

Lafayette had gone back to the bar. From behind the counter, he withdrew a shotgun. Daddy Bone's nephew, tired of his uncle's preoccupation with his hoodoo reputation, had decided to settle matters the old-fashioned way. "Stupid old man should'a done this before, goddammit," he muttered, bringing the gun to his shoulder and aiming at the stage. "Simplest way's the best. One shot, and there ain't no problem no more."

Pretty Pearl screamed. The sound cut through the tension-rich atmosphere like a cutthroat razor.

Suddenly galvanized and in complete panic, the men of Roosterfoot stampeded towards the door. Lafayette pulled the trigger and the shotgun went off with a deafening roar, cutting down two people who had blundered into his path. The whores began to scream, too, several of them liberally splashed with blood. Rich crimson splattered the wall, the floor, the nearby tables. A crush of bodies tore the doorframe out of the pine wall, and a howling mob swept into the night.

Lafayette cursed and started to reload. Robert Johnson collapsed and curled into a ball, his fingers stiffened into claws. Static sparks snapped from his hair with loud crackles. Streaks of electric blue lightning snaked in and out of his eyes.

Big Daddy Bone was unfazed. He continued to chant while the barrelhouse emptied. An untouchable aura had surrounded the fat man, which had left him undisturbed by the mob.

Pretty Pearl jumped onto the stage and grabbed Comfort's arm. "Ain't we better get outta here?" she asked.

Comfort stood her ground. "I ain't done yet," she replied firmly, "and neither is he." She strummed her silver-stringed guitar while staying focused on Big Daddy. If she had noticed Lafayette, she didn't show it. "One of us has got to go, honey - me or him. Ya'd better scoot on home where it's safe."

Pretty was not going to hide in a corner while her lover got shot. Realizing that there was no time to warn Comfort about the danger or convince her to leave, she leaped off the stage and made for the bar. Lafayette was fumbling another shell into the chamber of the gun. Pretty snatched up a chair that had remained miraculously unbroken, and smashed it into the man's face. It was made of cheap orange crates, and flew apart without doing much damage.

Lafayette blinked at her in astonishment, then pure rage made his lips skin back from his teeth in a snarl. "Ya little bitch!" he spat, drawing back the shotgun stock. He sent it slamming down with all his strength behind it. Pretty had no chance to duck. The solid maple stock hit her face dead on, crushing her nose into bloody pulp. With a gurgling cry, she fell backwards. Distracted by her lover's distress, Comfort wrenched her attention away from Big Daddy. The music she was crafting ended in a jangled chord.

"Pretty!" she yelled. Comfort made a movement towards the young woman, who lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Lafayette had reloaded the shotgun, and was aiming both barrels at the tall, stocky figure on the makeshift stage. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Comfort's mouth went wide open in a shout of incoherent rage. She grabbed the neck of her guitar, holding it like a sword, and a surge of blue-white lightning lashed out of the instrument. Silver stars pulsated, glowing like tiny suns. The flashing power caught Lafayette around the throat. His eyes bulged out of their sockets, and his hair began to smoke. Impossibly, the shotgun stock melted, hot liquid wood flowing over his hands and searing them to the bone. Lafayette tried to scream, but all he could get past the constriction in his throat was a hoarse whisper.

Johnson, finding himself free of the worst of his opponent's binding, dug into his pocket and drew out a switchblade. The drooping lid over his sleepy eye twitched. Violence smoldered in his glare. He hauled himself up silently, a hunch-shouldered and menacing form. The poison in his stomach, transferred there by Comfort's spell, made him nauseous with pain, but it would not kill him yet. According to the charm she had sung, he had time before it was fully activated.

Poison was insignificant next to revenge. Johnson wanted to slice out her heart and eat the dripping slices before her dying gaze.

Comfort hopped off the stage, still holding Lafayette in a supernatural grip. In the unnaturally brilliant light that limned her body, her saffron skin was more golden, her hair a crown of blood-dipped wire. One eye was copper, the other iridescent blue. Her profile was hawk-like, every angle thrown into sharp relief. Comfort's fierce expression promised death to the one who had harmed her lover.

Lafayette's feet scuffled in a tragic hanged man's dance. His tongue lolled out, and a vessel burst in his forehead with a fine spray of crimson. Urine drizzled into the sawdust behind the bar. Comfort twisted the guitar in her hands, causing the energy noose to corkscrew. The pressure wave of sizzling lightning flew past its tether point and across the room, to swell behind the man's ear. After a moment, Layette's neck snapped with an audible crack and he went limp. She let his corpse drop. The magical wave subsided, reeled expertly back into her guitar. Light faded until the room was in semi-gloom once more.

The killing of Lafayette Bone had taken less than a minute to accomplish.

In the newly created hush, Comfort knelt down beside Pretty, who stirred and moaned. "Ya gonna be alright, honey," the musician murmured. "I'm here, and ya gonna be alright."

She helped Pretty get to her feet, and steadied the young woman's swaying body. Pretty gave her a weak smile, wincing as Comfort gently touched her broken nose. A look of profound love was shared between them. They appeared to have forgotten the world existed. Without Comfort touching the silver strings, her guitar began to play a sweet melody in a minor key. Pretty caressed her lover's cheek. The pain of her injury was soothed away by the musical strains.

Big Daddy Bone chose that moment to strike his own blow. He was aware of his nephew's fate, but decided not to intervene. Lafayette's fate was unimportant. What mattered to the fat man now was the total destruction of his enemy, and he did not care to count the cost. He saw Johnson looming behind the couple, a switchblade in his oversized hand.

He pointed a thick black finger at the two women. On the table, the yellow paper caught fire. "I curse ya, Comfort McCall!" Big Daddy screamed. "I puts my curse on ya, Maybell Pearl!" In his free hand, a ball of murky light started to form. He continued,

"Hungry for yo' blood,
Hungry for yo' breath,
As close in life,
Together be in death!"

Pretty's sloe eyes went wide, and a startled expression crossed her face. She let out a sigh and slumped. Alarmed, Comfort snatched at her lover before she could fall. A stain of blood was spreading across the back of Pretty's dress. The musician looked around in agony and disbelief. Pretty had been stabbed, and her life was pumping out of the wound.

As Comfort turned, Johnson raised the switchblade with a triumphant grin. The knife swept down and buried itself in the tall woman's chest. At the same moment, Big Daddy Bone released his curse.

Tendrils of orange-tinged fog immediately wrapped around the two women. Thunder boomed. The melody that had been playing took on a harder edge, notes tumbling together and increasing intensity until the shack quivered. Tin signs popped off the walls. Beer bottles shattered. Furniture began to slide around the floor. The concussion knocked Johnson off his feet and sent him sprawling back on the stage.

Comfort cradled Pretty in her arms. The young woman had a froth of bloody foam at the corners of her mouth. Comfort bent her head and whispered something to her dying lover. Pretty nodded. The handle of the switchblade in Comfort's chest throbbed up in time to the beating of her damaged heart. She did not seem to feel it. Their flesh took on a translucency as Big Daddy's magic consumed skin, muscle and bone. Orange fog swirled and crawled around them like a nest of vipers, the misty coils finally enveloping the two entirely from head to toe. The only evidence left of their existence was the faint twanging of a guitar.

A long, sly grin spread across Big Daddy's round face. He pulled a cigar from his pocket and took his time lighting it with a match, keeping his balance easily against tremors that continued to shake the barrelhouse. It was clear that he thought he'd won.

The fat man laughed - a deep, mocking, nasty chuckle that had echoes of hellfire in it. On the stage, Robert Johnson sat up slowly, rubbing his head.

"Look-a here, Bobbie," Big Daddy called, gesturing grandly with his cigar. "Ain't dat just about the sweetest thing ya ever did see?"

Johnson gave him a feral grin. "Yassuh," he agreed, picking up his Kalamazoo guitar and checking for damage. "I reckon we done fixed them bitches but good."

"We?" Big Daddy Bone regarded him with exaggerated surprise. "Did I hear ya right, boy? I ain't seen yo' sorry self doin' nothin' tonight 'cept causin' me trouble. Dat hoodoo witch was gonna cook yo' hash. If I ain't jumped in, Mistuh Bobbie be layin' there with poor 'Fayette, stone dead."

Johnson opened his mouth to protest, but whatever he was going to say was swallowed up by a crashing chord. Both men stared at the cloud of vapor that had eaten the women alive.

A thread of real gutbucket blues drifted into the air, growing stronger by the second. Unrestrained and earthy, the rhythm carried hints of Memphis and Mississippi, Harlem and heartbreaks. There were hot tears on a humid Delta night, salty sweat, muddy smell of fields beneath the sun, cigarette smoke and bourbon. Miles of highway ribbon unspooling in sun-blurred vision as a bus rumbled along. Fading scent of magnolias. Black and white photographs smeared with lipstick kisses.

A darker, minor key wove in and around the melody: insinuating visions of red murder, screams in the dark, gunshots, passionate grappling overshadowed by jealous rage. Sorrow and joy, love and lust, life and death - all were mingled in a singular explosion of music that blasted the fog away.

An entire constellation of silver stars wheeled across the ceiling, illuminating a pair of ghostly figures who were not entirely human. Comfort McCall and Pretty Pearl were not dead, nor were they living. Instead, the women had been transformed, their very flesh becoming the stuff of magic. This was the true crossroads - not an intersection of country lanes, but a threshold between two worlds. Here was the place of power. The fat man's curse had deprived the lovers of one existence, but gained them another.

Big Daddy was about to reap what he had sown. He found himself paralyzed, unable to move at all. Johnson whimpered and clutched his guitar as if it was a shield.

Comfort's peacock-bright eye shone with sappharine fire. Pretty's gaze was equally confident and implacable. Their injuries were gone, and the bar counter could be glimpsed behind their opaque bodies. Thin filaments of blue-white light slithered through the women's unearthly skins. The splintered remains of Comfort McCall's guitar were scattered around the room, broken strings tarnished and black. She no longer needed a focus to summon occult forces and tame them to her bidding.

Big Daddy started to bleed. Scarlet droplets oozed from every pore, trickled from every orifice, blossomed with exotic brightness on his white suit. As the song reached its crescendo, the women began to sing in harmony, Pretty's glassy soprano blending perfectly with Comfort's huskier tones.

"Yo' so hungry, boy, can't satisfy ya none,
Now yo' starvin', and yo' soul is on the run.
All that flesh like water, runnin' straight down to the sea,
Better dig a grave, man, 'cause ya ain't runnin' from me.
Big Daddy Bone ain't the biggest man in town,
Send him back his curse, and he'll swallow it right down.
Nine times the curse, nine times it's worse."

Big Daddy's piggy eyes were wide open in terror. Near his polished shoes, a small patch of dull orange fog appeared. He could hear sharp teeth grinding and gnashing, a demonic voice slobbering in anticipation, the wail of an insatiable hunger that would never be satisfied. He squealed, windmilling his arms in a fruitless effort to get away. His legs would not obey, but remained solid and immovable as oak stumps planted into the floor.

Johnson watched from the safety of his vantage point, heart stuttering in fear. Great serpent coils of smoke wound around Big Daddy's legs, crept up his torso, wreathed him to his wobbling chins. His mouth was engulfed, cutting off his screams. Only the man's horrified gaze and gleaming skull were visible.

Horrible crunching noises and muffled grunts made Johnson cover his ears. Blood drizzled onto the pine boards. Steaming viscera slid into view, loops of pink and gray-tinged intestine plopping haphazardly to the floor, slipping and sliding together until they, too, were consumed by the fog. In a few heartbeats, the dirty mist began to contract, growing smaller and thinner until only a few tattered remnants floated in the air. They, too, dissipated quickly. What was left of Big Daddy's skull rocked to and fro on the ground - the untouched eyes were milky, the upper row of teeth still glinted with gold, and beneath the polished dome of blue-black skin was an empty cavity. Nothing else remained of the fat hoodoo man who had ruled Roosterfoot like a king.

Johnson turned his head and vomited.

The music ceased. Outside the barrelhouse could be heard the chirping of frogs, an owl's triumphant shriek, and the soft pattering of raindrops.

One by one, the lanterns were smashed, as though struck by an invisible hammer. Johnson was left in the dark with only nightmares for company.

Comfort McCall and Maybell Pearl kissed while the world held its breath, then vanished in a blink of light.

Susan shook her head. She could not believe that she'd come all this way, taken so much trouble, just to be fobbed off with an imaginative but gory fairy tale. "And you were a witness to all this?" she asked Emmeline, not bothering to hide the disappointment in her voice.

"Yes, Miz Finch," Emmeline bridled. "I told ya the story weren't so easy to believe. I ain't no liar. That's 'xactly what happened, so help me God."

"You did warn me. I'll give you that." With an irritated twitch of her finger, Susan shut off the tape recorder. "And I'm sure you told me precisely what you think you saw. I do appreciate the time you've taken to help me." Even if it was another goddamned wild goose chase, she added silently. Not much new here at all but some exaggerated details.

"Like I said, old lady like me ain't got nothin' but time." Emmeline glanced at a clock on the wall. "Gracious me! Look at that! Lord, here I been natterin' on, and I'm sure ya just been itchin' to get back to yo' hotel."

Susan gave her a sickly smile. It was hard to be gracious. She had hoped that this witness would at least have a little substantiated meat, a few facts that would point her in a productive direction. Instead, it was the same old legend, dressed up in the worst excesses of a slasher film. Her pet theory was that Comfort McCall had, for reasons of her own, changed her identity, living anonymously until her death. She would find no confirmation here.

An idea suddenly struck her. Maybe the woman's story was not so crazy after all. "Robert Johnson did die of poisoning," she said, thinking aloud. "In Greenwood, Mississippi, in 1938. Supposedly, his married lover gave him strychnine-laced whiskey. I suppose the investigators could have been wrong, and the death caused by cyanide."

Emmeline snorted. "Ha! Comfort's curse finally caught up with him," she replied. "T'weren't no more or less than he deserved."

Susan was getting excited again. Perhaps there were golden nuggets buried deep in Mrs. Hawkins' narrative. Her explanation of Johnson's death was a flourish tacked on to the myth, but a portion of truth lay behind it. What if Comfort had murdered Big Daddy Bone and his nephew? Not by magic - a ludicrous suggestion - but by knife or gun. Wouldn't that provide sufficient impetus for her subsequent disappearance?

She had never heard of Roosterfoot before today. Susan's sources had given McCall's last performance as being in either Georgia or Alabama, usually in small towns on the border between the states. It would take some time, but if she could find Roosterfoot and examine the county records...

Of course, this is just speculation, but my God! Everything I know about McCall suggests that she would not have shrunk from violence. Why she did it is unimportant right now. A quarrel, a lover's spat, a drunken brawl, who knows? I have to get back to the college as soon as possible. This is the breakthrough I've been waiting for. Roosterfoot, here I come!

Emmeline cleared her throat and stared pointedly at the clock. "I reckon ya be wantin' to get back on the road."

"Oh! Yes, yes, absolutely." Susan jumped up, scraping limp tendrils of hair back behind her ears. She felt galvanized by new energy, and no longer resented the old lady's embellished story. "Thank you, Mrs. Hawkins. Thank you so much!"

"Yo' surely welcome, Miz Finch." Emmeline smiled and chuckled. "Come back anytime and visit, hear?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'll definitely keep that in mind." Susan shook the old lady's hand. The flesh was loose and felt powdery soft, but there was still strength in the gnarled fingers. "Thank you again for your hospitality."

"Been my pleasure. Have yo'self a good night, now, and safe journey, Miz Finch."

Susan grabbed her bag, waved, and went out onto the porch. The screen door banged shut behind her. She breathed deeply, inhaling the sweet scent of roses on the night air. Her car was parked in the yard - a bright red Honda that seemed black in the faint moonlight. Susan dug into the shoulder bag and pulled out her keys. The rose perfume changed, turning sour with a hint of mildew and ash. She frowned and shrugged.

Starting down the steps, the blonde paused with a curse. She had left her precious tape recorder in the house.

Susan turned around, and her heart leaped into her throat with shock.

It was not the same place she had entered all those hours ago. That had been a neat, clapboard house painted silvery gray, with a wide verandah attached to the front. A bit shabby and old-fashioned, but scrupulously clean. This was a ruin.

It had been gutted by fire, and recently, too, judging from the crumbling beams and joists that had once held the structure's walls upright. The exposed earth was scorched, heaped with cold embers and ash-coated debris. In the center of the destruction was a table and two chairs, oddly untouched. Her tape recorder was there.

Susan stood there, completely dumbfounded, her mind chasing itself in little circles. Her first coherent thought was that she had been drugged. She picked her way to the table, rewound the recorder, and switched it to 'play.' Her own voice sounded tinny and high, but where the old lady's replies should have been, there was nothing but hissing static.

A light touch on her shoulder made her jump and turn around with a scream. The recorder dropped, forgotten in her fright.

A young man was there, holding a flashlight. His skin was so dark, all that could be seen of his face was a pair of shining eyes. When he swung the light up, making Susan blink, she could see a resemblance to Mrs. Hawkins in his high cheekbones and proud demeanor. "What ya want here?" he rumbled. "Ain't nothin' to steal, and yo' trespassin' on private property."

"Who... who are you?" Susan looked from him to the burnt-out shell. Her pulse was pounding, her mouth dry as dust. It was hard to get the words out.

His brow furrowed. "George Hawkins," he replied. "This here was my grandma's place. We lives 'crost the way." George pointed to the other side of the dirt road. There was a house there, brightness blazing from every window. Susan had not noticed it before. "Now what ya doin' here, miss?"

"My name's Susan Finch," she said, desperately trying to make sense of this crazy situation. "I was interviewing Mrs. Hawkins..."

"Mee-maw?" George was surprised. "Hey, yo' the lady she been waitin' for! The lady from up north! Damn, Mee-maw been fussin' all day 'cause you ain't showed up. Where ya been all dis time? Did ya get lost?"

Susan rubbed her aching temples. "Look. I was here, right here, talking to Mrs. Hawkins all day. Who the hell is Mee-maw?"

George's tone was kindly, as if he realized that the young woman was in some kind of distress. "Mee-maw is my grandma, Emmeline Hawkins. I ain't rightly sure what ya talkin' about, ma'am. There ain't nobody been here a'tall. I only come over 'cause when I was outside havin' a smoke, I seen ya in the yard."

"I don't understand!" Susan nearly yelled in frustration. "I swear, there was a house here. I was in it. I ate food here, for Christ's sake! I was with Mrs. Hawkins all damned day! Where did she go? Where did the house go?"

"Ma'am, there ain't no way ya been talkin' to my Mee-maw. She been over to my place for a week, 'cause dis place got hit by lightnin' and burned up." The whites of his eyes gleamed. "Come on and see for yo'self."

He led the way and Susan followed, her knees weak. As they approached George's house, Susan gasped, snatching the flashlight from his hand.

The back wall of the porch was covered with old signs and advertising posters in cracked frames. George Hawkins stopped as well. "Mee-maw made those firemen save all dis junk," he said in explanation. "She calls 'em her 'recollections,' from back when she used to sing wit' one of them jazz bands. Old Mee-maw went everywhere in them days, and got pretty famous."

Susan played the beam back and forth. Disbelief warred with madness in her brain.

See Big Daddy's Dixieland Band! screamed one poster. Hot! Hot! Hot! in Lafayette this Saturday night.

A tin sign proclaimed, Brown Beauty's Cosmetics Will Make You Pretty as a Pearl! Just ask Mrs. Emmeline "The Negro Nightingale" Hawkins. Works like Magic!

Maybell and Doc Willis Hatchett - Comfort McCall - Robert Johnson - Euphemia Duvall and her All-Girl Orchestra - together for one week only at the Delta Hoodoo Barrelhouse.

Reverend Bone and his Gospel Quartet, featuring Emmeline Hawkins! Famous throughout Georgia and Alabama.

Shine-O-Bright, Makes Suits White!

Drink Crowfeather Whiskey.

Cadillac Mills presents Gold-Tooth Ready's Boogie-Woogie Band.

A dried chicken's claw was nailed to one of the porch's support columns. George nodded at it. "Bein' a Christian woman, Mee-maw don't hold no truck wit' dat stuff, but my daddy always had a rooster foot hangin' on the porch for good luck."

Susan's mouth opened and closed. Here it was - almost every name in the story had been plucked from the ephemera of long-dead advertisements. It took an effort of will before she could speak coherently. "When Mrs. Hawkins was a child, did her family live in a place called Roosterfoot? It would have been a railroad community."

"Naw," George replied, puzzled by the question. "Mee-maw was born and raised right here, in dat old place on t'other side of the street. Dere's railroad tracks right behind here, but dey ain't much used...."

He broke off when Susan started running. She stumbled once going around the side of the house, but picked herself up and went on. In the distance, she could hear a train whistle, shrill and plaintive. She was obeying a frantic impulse that came from somewhere deep inside, an instinctive command that she could not ignore.

When she got to the tracks, Susan halted.

The train seemed to move slowly, piercing the darkness with a brilliant beam that grew bigger and bigger as it approached. Susan's teeth chattered. Her pulse thundered in her ears. The ground beneath her feet shuddered. A hot, muggy wind began to blow, rustling nearby kudzu vines until the sound became a whispering voice, repeating over and over...

Comfort and Pretty... Comfort and Pretty...

Susan swallowed past a gritty obstruction in her throat. The fine hairs on her arms started to rise. She squinted into the brightness, feeling faint and weak.

Roaring past her, the train was a juggernaut of iron and steel that threatened to snatch her into its wake. Susan fought to stay erect against that unstoppable force. Another whistle nearly deafened her. Car after car jolted by at breakneck speed, clattering in a dizzying rhythm that mimicked the beating of a heart. The last boxcar door was open, and as it swept along, she had enough presence of mind to point her flashlight into its depths.

The split-second view was burned into her brain. She would never forget that sight as long as she lived.

Two women stared back at her. One of them was very pretty, brown-skinned with a Josephine Baker hairstyle. Black sloe eyes glittered in her kittenish face. The other was a solidly built mulatto, whose shock of russet red hair stood straight up on her head. They were holding hands.

Together, together, forever, forever, whispered the vines.

What Susan could make out most clearly was the mulatto woman's eyes. One was the color of chocolate, while the other... blue as a peacock's behind, she thought crazily.

The eyelid closed, hiding that disconcertingly sapphire orb, then sprang open again, completing the wink. That was all Susan saw. Clacking wheels rolled the boxcar out of sight. In its wake came a riff of soulful blues, poignant and triumphant at the same time. With a final whistling wail, the train disappeared, and the kudzu vines fell silent.

Susan swayed. The flashlight fell from her nerveless hand. Neither dead nor alive, her mind recalled. Transformed into the stuff of magic. Together forever.

Who had she been speaking with from morning to evening? An illusion? A ghost? A legend that was neither flesh nor spirit, but something greater than both?

Some mysteries were not meant to be solved. "Leave 'em in the grave like the Good Lord intended," the false Mrs. Hawkins had advised.

She wished to God that she had.

George Hawkins arrived barely in time to catch Susan Finch as she fainted dead away.

THE END

<~~~~~Return to the Library

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

by Nene Adams © 2004 - All rights reserved

What happened to end Jack the Ripper's reign of terror in Whitechapel, London, 1888? The killings just stopped. The murderer was never apprehended. What happened to this madman? The world may never know...

"I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled.
Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal."
-----From Dear Boss letter, attributed to Jack the Ripper, 1888

Jack was calm, perfectly calm, as he examined his nails by the light from a nearby pub window. He'd gotten most of the dried blood out, scraping with a sharp knife until his fingers were sore, but there were still black flakes here and there. Mary Jane Kelly - his latest and greatest Work of Art - had required a great deal of attention to detail, and Jack was a hands-on craftsman extraordinaire. Certainly, whoever had the privilege of entering her squalid hovel in Miller's Court could not help but admire the meticulous way he'd achieved his peculiar vision. He'd made Mary Jane fall to pieces... literally. A messy business, but oh so very necessary. Yes, indeed. From worthless to Work of Art in a few strokes of a very sharp knife.

He chuckled. Actually, it was more like dozens of strokes. Jack didn't much care for skin. He was a curious lad; he liked to see what Things looked from the inside out. The slippery, jiggly bits always left him flushed with excitement.

It was the first time he'd had the privacy and time to really let himself go. Tonight's Work had left him satiated, bloated with satisfaction, fulfilled. The other Works had been done in too much haste, Jack thought, to be considered his best. Brief encounters in filthy alleys, gin stink of their breath, raddled whore-Things pickled in cheap spirits and despair.

Mary Ann Nichols - his first, and he could still recall the stunned ox expression on his face as he strangled her. Saucy Jack strangled all his Works first, to ensure silence and cooperation. Death wasn't important; it was what came after that elevated it to Art. He'd had to keep an eye out for witnesses, which had made him somewhat nervous. Not a Work of pure genius, to be sure. Jack had gotten better, though. Practice made perfect.

Then came Annie Chapman, Dark Annie... he'd been able to take away the best bit of all, carried her womanhood in an oil paper sack under his arm. He'd put it in a jar of alcohol, which he kept under his bed. Wouldn't the landlady be astonished to find out what trophies Jack kept concealed in the dark?

Long Liz Stride. Hmph. Jack was almost ashamed to admit her into his gallery. A man had interrupted him before he'd been able to begin the Work properly. So he'd fled and sought another, Catherine Eddowes. He had meant to flay her face off, but the lure of those slippery bits inside had distracted him. Jack took a kidney and part of the birth chamber, adding these items to his growing collection.

A pair of singing drunkards brushed past him, startling Jack out of his reverie. He checked the oilskin package in his pocket, to be sure nothing had been disturbed. His fingers came away clean. Mary Jane had not given Jack her heart - he'd taken it as his reward for an excellent night's Work.

The evening was fairly cool. Jack buttoned up his wool coat and wound a scarf around his throat. It was time to return home. He walked along the dark streets, boot heels clicking on the cobblestones, with the supreme confidence of a man who knows the night holds no terrors greater than himself. Men-Things stood in the shadows with beefy arms crossed over their chests, bulldog jaws champing on cigarette ends and pipes. They withdrew deeper into their private conversations when he passed them by, one predator recognizing a superior sort and taking discretion as the better part of valor.

Whore-Things in shawls and bonnets sat gossiping and drinking in the doorways of gloomy pubs. Shops were closed. Somewhere, a baby wailed. A couple argued, glass shattered, and there were screams.

Jack inhaled deeply, savoring the stale, musky scent of Whitechapel. Spoiled cabbage, urine, stench of unwashed humanity, effluvia from overflowing gutters... it was a perfume that wafted straight from Hell.

That was when he saw them, just as he was about to cross the road.

There were two of them, standing with studied nonchalance beneath a flickering, hissing street lamp. Pale light cast strange shadows on their dresses. The women wore no hats or bonnets and Jack was able to see their faces clearly.

The taller of the two had dark hair, lightly tanned cheeks and intense blue eyes. He could feel her measuring glance, sense the coolness as she evaluated him. She was rather beautiful, but Jack wasn't interested in physical appearances. She seemed solidly fleshed and much younger, fresher than the Things he usually encountered in Whitechapel.

Her partner was somewhat smaller but in superb health. Strawberry blonde, my favorite flavor, Jack thought to himself with a mental giggle. This Thing was pretty, with flashing emerald eyes and a dress that matched.

Could he do it? Three in one night? Of course, he wouldn't be able to take the same care of them as he had with Mary Jane Kelly. That Work was special, and he hoped to repeat the experience soon. If he took these two, he'd have to be quick. Still, his palms began itching, and a special voice inside his head started urging him to try. The knife was in his coat pocket, all gleaming and clean except for a lovely crustiness where the blade met the hilt.

His mind was quite made up. Saucy Jacky was gone a-hunting. Whistling softly beneath his breath, Jack approached the Things that were about to become Works of Art. His knife would make certain of that, as long as he wasn't interrupted.

Behind them was a dark alley. Jack liked the festering, oily blackness that squeezed against his eyeballs and slithered down his throat. He would not be able to see the blood, but he could feel its warmth against his hands... the same hands that would explore the contours of a Thing's body, seeking the soft bits that made him feel very naughty, indeed. There would be just enough light for him to make out the flesh, and collect the memories that would comfort him later, when the voices shouted in his brain.

The smaller Thing nudged her partner and said something he couldn't quite catch. When he came nearer, the taller Thing smiled. "Good evening," she said, head cocked to one side. Her blue eyes (oh, wouldn't they make a wonderful trophy! Only he thought the color might fade) examined him from top to toe.

"I wonder if I might offer you lovely ladies a drink?" Jack said. His fingers closed around the knife in his pocket. He might be saucy on occasion, but Jack could be very charming when he needed to be. "You seem lonely and craving for company."

"Judith and I are busy," the taller Thing said. Her voice had gone flat and commanding, as if she had just made a decision. "I suggest you go home, sir. The streets are dangerous at night."

"I'm not too worried about that." Jack swallowed a mouthful of saliva. The knife hilt was searing his palm.

"You should be." This was the smaller Thing, the one called Judith. "I smell blood on him, Polly. He's the one."

"I smell it, too." Polly shifted her stance. "What was her name, then? The one you killed."

"I haven't killed anybody," Jack said, thoroughly nonplused. "You must be mad to suggest such a thing."

Judith growled. The sound was shocking, a pure animalistic vibration rising up from her throat. "You're not a hunter. Just a common murderer."

Jack took an involuntary step backwards. Suddenly, he drew his knife. The blade was long and narrow, ground down to a sharp edge. Beads of sweat pearled on his brow. "Get into that alley!" he commanded, desperate to take control again. "Go on! You're just meat, the both of you. Hot meat! I can smell it on you, no matter how much you try to cover it up with perfumes and powders. Meat! Hot meat!"

Polly shrugged. "He's mad. And a murderer."

"Yesssss," Judith hissed. The light caught her face. It had changed, becoming all angles and spears of bone, jaw lengthening and narrowing. Her red-gold hair had escaped its confines, writhing about on her shoulders. Polly calmly reached over and pulled something on the back of Judith's dress. The green gown fell away, revealing white skin that was twisting, muscles and sinews forced into new positions. A silken rustling, and dense fur sprouted from every pore, covering her in a swift moving wave. Judith fell on all fours, transformation complete.

The huge wolf looked at Jack with emerald eyes. Her muzzle split open, revealing a smile like a mouthful of razor blades. Claws raked the cobblestones, drawing sparks.

Polly smiled, too. Dainty fangs glinted.

Jack's knife clattered unnoticed to the ground.

"It's a perfect arrangement," Polly said. She raised a hand, and his feet were rooted to the spot. "I take some blood... and she gets the rest. Or, at least, as much as she can eat. And Judith has quite an appetite. We aren't all bad, though." She leaned closer, so close he could smell the rank, coppery stench of her breath. "We're very choosy about our prey."

The cords in Jack's throat tightened. His eyes rolled about, seeking help, a policeman, anybody! But there was no one there. A sudden warm feeling in his trousers told him that he'd lost control of his bladder.

Polly said, "We were here first. You came hunting on our grounds without permission, wasting prey, killing for the sake of killing rather that to survive. That's despicable."

Impossibly, Judith-the-wolf said in a somewhat oddly choked voice, "That's human."

"Not for long." Polly caressed the side of Jack's face. He had never noticed that her fingernails were long and pointed. "Do you know what happens when a predator goes insane?"

He couldn't shake his head. He couldn't move at all. All he could do was make whimpering noises.

"The other predators put him down." Tiny pinpoints of flame twisted in Polly's pupils. "Without mercy. Without considering mitigating circumstances. Without hesitation."

Suddenly, she wrapped herself around him, hot mouth buried in his throat. He cried out once. "Mother! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean..." A harsh, bubbling gasp, and the Artist was silenced forever.

Polly lowered the silent figure to the ground and dragged it into the alley. She was followed by the wolf.

Somewhat later, they emerged carrying a small bundle of clothing that was dripping. Judith changed and put her dress back on. Polly wiped her lips with a cambric handkerchief, and pointed out a smear on her partner's chin. The bundle was heaved into the Thames. Satiated, bloated with satisfaction and fulfilled, they went home just as dawn was twinkling on the horizon.

What was left of Jack the Ripper sank down into the muddy river bottom. After a few weeks, when the murders ceased, Whitechapel began to breathe freely again.

Polly and Judith chose their prey very, very carefully.

It was a perfect arrangement, after all.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

by Nene Adams ©1999 - All rights reserved

Prologue

We - and by that I mean my father and myself - live in the Carpathian Mountains, in a schloss or castle that rears its proud Gothic head above the dark forests that surround its stone walls. My father is English and I bear an English surname, but I have never visited that country, although my father has often urged me to travel the land of his birth. My home, the true place of my heart and spirit, is here in the wildness and fastness of mountains that my mother loved so much.

My mother was related to the once proud and noble House of Dragomir, that clan whose roots ran deep within the blood and bone of Romania, but the ancient line of Dragomir died long ago. Mother perished in my infancy; my father gave me her name - Gabriella - in remembrance of the woman who had been so very dear to him that he had wandered far from home and family to be at her side.

Our schloss is located in a peculiar position; to the north, the craggy mountains thrust their snow-rimed shoulders to the sky. In the south, there is nothing for many miles save forests and a few rude peasant's huts. The nearest village, Patradornei, is fifteen miles to the east, and my father's good friend, General Alexandru Voinea, owns a schloss of his own nearly twenty miles to the west. Thus, you can see, I lived an isolated and lonely life. Too isolated for the young girl I was; I longed for friends, and any new face or the promise of a visit was a matter of joyous celebration and weeks of anticipation. 

The events I will now relate to you happened twelve years ago, yet it seems to me - so crystal clear are my recollections - that they might have just taken place. You will find my tale difficult to believe, so fantastic and terrible are the circumstances... yet I implore you to have faith in my honor and truthfulness. There were other witnesses, to be sure; but no other heart beat as wildly as my own, no other's blood sang with an ardor as great as mine, no other eyes were subjected to the otherworldly brilliance and beauty that was my Irina. 

But I get beyond myself. Let me tell the tale properly... and then perhaps you will understand. 

CHAPTER ONE

It was in the spring of 1781 that my father came to me when I was walking in the terraced garden behind the castle.

"Gabriella!" he called. "I have sad news to relate. General Voinea will not be able to visit us as he planned."

I was very disappointed and I suppose this showed in my face; Uncle Alexandru, as I called him, had promised to bring with him his niece and ward, Mademoiselle Cristesci, a young girl of about my same age. Her arrival - and the two week visit to follow - had been the subject of my fondest daydreams for some time.

Father sighed; putting an arm about my shoulders, he led me around the garden. "My poor little bird," he said, plucking a rich, crimson poppy as we passed and thrusting it into my hair. "I received a letter from Alexandru in the post. In a way, I am glad you never had the opportunity to meet young Mademoiselle Cristesci."

I wondered at that statement and begged Father to enlighten me as to what he meant.

"The poor girl has died," he replied. "May God Almighty rest her soul."

"But Father!" I exclaimed. "In Uncle Alexandru's last letter, her illness did not seem so dire or dangerous; that was only two months ago!"

Father sat me down on a nearby bench. "Read his letter for yourself," he said, offering me a much folded piece of correspondence.

I read it through once, then again - so strange and contradictory were the contents that I could scarcely comprehend it.

The letter read thusly:

"My dearest friend:

It is with deepest sorrow that I write to you and report that my daughter - for such as I thought of that bright angel, she who was my niece! - has, after a lingering illness, been taken from us most cruelly.

I curse and blame myself for this; I nurtured a serpent in my bosom when I believed I was providing gaiety and companionship for my beloved Natalia. That vile and monstrous creature who has stolen the soul of Natalia is the beast I have now sworn to destroy at whatever cost!

Know that I shall visit you in a few months time, in order to relate to you that which I dare not commit to paper. In the meanwhile, I will gather what information I can among the learned gentlemen, possibly even going as far as Vienna or Brussels.

Do not think me mad, my friend. My mind and my mission are clear. Take care and may the blessings of an old, repentant sinner keep you and yours safe from this present darkness.

I remain as always,
Your obedient and loving servant,
Gen. Alexandru Voinea"

I was aghast; strongly mingled with my sympathy for Uncle Alexandru's loss, I also felt a keen disappointment that made my eyes burn with tears. And yet I had a certain sense of curiosity and dread that made me wish to know more of poor Natalia's unfortunate circumstances. Father was at a loss to explain the General's strange words and references to monsters and serpents; he supposed that his old friend was naturally overcome with grief and had succumbed to hysteria.

Just then, all at once, without any warning, a fierce cold wind sprang up. Black stormclouds, swollen with fury, rolled in from the mountains, unleashing lightning and heavy, stinging rain from their ponderous bellies. Before my terrified gaze, a serpent's tongue of lightning lashed down from the heavens, striking a nearby tree and blasting it into smoking splinters that hissed and sizzled in the downpour.

Father and I dashed towards the safety of the schloss. Soon, we were marveling at our scant escape from the wrath of nature while white-faced servants hastened to bring dry clothing and hot drinks.

That storm, the wind, the hot lightning that struck again and again while we sat in comfortable ease, protected by our ancient stone walls - they were all portents, ill omens of things to come... had we only been wise enough to see.

CHAPTER TWO

It was later that evening, when the first fury of the storm had passed, that we were startled from sleep by a heavy, rhthymic banging on the iron-studded doors at the front of the schloss. 

I threw a knitted shawl about my shoulders and had to flinch back into my room as our housekeeper, Madame Bochinsky, flew past me down the hall, making for the great circular stair that spiraled up the center of our home. Father was hot on her heels. 

I have mentioned before of the isolation in which we spent our lives; visitors were few and far between. So I headed down the stairs, wondering what dire emergency had brought this mysterious and as yet unknown person (or persons) to the schloss. For such I deemed it must be; the peasants hereabouts are a superstitious and backward lot, much given to fancies of demons and devils that lurk in the night, and rarely venture from their rude huts after sunset. 

Arriving downstairs, I beheld quite a sight. A giant of a man stood there, drenched to the skin and dripping wet; puddles of icy water ran from his clothes and hair, puddling at his feet. In his arms he carried a slender, pale bundle; at first glance, I took it for a bunch of old clothing... until it stirred and I saw a graceful arm extend in a pleading gesture. 

It was a woman! 

I hurried over to the scene. Father, who had received some medical training while in service, was directing the giant to carry the poor, half-drowned girl to the parlor. In a few moments, servants stirred up the fire, others sent to fetch blankets and the like. With his own hands, Father poured the girl a dram of brandy and tenderly held it to her lips; her throat worked as she swallowed thirstily. 

I was fascinated by that throat; so swan-like, slender and delicate, the skin as pure and white as new ivory, so fine that a tracery of thin blue veins could be clearly seen. The arm matched the owner, for it too possessed grace and purity of line. I noticed that her fingernails were rather long and came to a wicked point... but then all conscious thought fled when the flickering light of the fire at last illuminated her face. 

Her face! Never will I forget that first, shocking view. My heart fluttered in my chest; I gasped and trembled, caught in the grip of a strong emotion that I did not consciously understand; to this day, I still do not comprehend why I should have reacted as I did. 

Nevertheless, I shall attempt to describe her to you, although mere words are not enough; it would take the genius of a master to capture her image in ink and oil, and I cannot claim such artistic eloquence in my poor prose. 

As Father peeled back the layers of cloth that surrounded her, I could see that she was older than myself but still quite young. Her hair was incredibly long and thick, of such a shade of purest black that I marveled. As wet and slick with rain as it was, that hair clung about her face and shoulders like an inky shadow. 

She was the most beautiful girl I have ever seen; never have I met her match in looks or bearing. Her eyes, fringed by long sooty lashes, were of a color that is difficult to describe. To say that they were blue is not adequate. Have you ever looked deep into the heart of a candle flame and seen the brilliant, fiery blue that flickers there? And seeing that, have you looked still deeper and discovered that within those azure depths, there lies a further shade - a pale and glacier blue that is cool, and yet suggests a passionate conflagration that is far hotter than pure white heat. 

That was the color of her eyes. 

Father chafed her wrists and fussed about her, draping blankets and clucking like an old hen. My governess, Mademoiselle Daumier, stood nearby with a bottle of smelling salts, and Madame Bochinsky directed the servants with her usual bustling and commanding air. 

I tore my eyes away from the girl and focused on the giant, who stood patiently waiting. Having gotten the girl settled to his satisfaction, Father began to question the man, whom I recognized as being a wolf hunter who lived in a hut near the ruins of the old Dragomir estate, some three miles distance from our home. 

In halting French - the sole language we had in common - the hunter explained that he had been returning from checking his traps and had gotten caught in the storm. Struggling against the wind and rain, he thought he heard a high, thin voice calling for help. Following the sound, he came upon the unfortunate girl, who had apparently been attempting to cross the Bistrita River via an old wooden bridge; the river waters had risen significantly, swollen by the rain, and swept the bridge away. The girl had crawled out onto the bank and lay there, barely conscious, frozen to the bone. 

Our schloss was closer than the village; not wishing to bring the girl - whose delicacy and beauty suggested high birth - to his own hut, the hunter made the journey here, carrying her in his own arms the entire way. 

Father rewarded the hunter; I saw the gleam of gold pass between their hands. The hunter made his phlegmatic thanks and then disappeared back into the night, leaving only the whiff of moldering wolfskins behind him to remind us that his presence had not been a dream. 

The girl was carried carefully up the stairs and installed into a guest room; I burned to go to her but my governess forbid it. 

"She has been through enough," Mademoiselle Daumier said, drawing me aside with a firm grip. "Satisfy your curiosity in the morning. Too much more excitement, added to what she has already suffered, may be detrimental to her nervous state." 

I agreed reluctantly and sought my own bed. 

But throughout the remainder of the night, I tossed and turned until my sheets were twisted into knots about my restless limbs. I could not sleep; the beautiful face and eyes of the mysterious girl burned in my vision like a beacon... and I could not help but surrender myself to waking dreams until at last, the sun rose and released me from torment. 

CHAPTER THREE

As soon as I finished a hasty breakfast, I hurried to the girl's room.

Father was there already; upon seeing me, he drew me outside the bedroom and closed the door behind him. "Irina has suffered through a great ordeal," he began.

Quite forgetting my manners, I interrupted him rudely. "Oh! Is that her name, then? Irina?"

"Yes." Father stroked his mustache with a forefinger, as he was wont to do in moments of serious contemplation. "However, she has very little memory at the moment. She recollects her Christian name, that her family is a noble one, and hardly anything else. I suspect that the traumatic events of last night - and she does not remember how she came to be at the river or why she is in this country alone and unescorted - have erased a portion of her memory. Irina says she can clearly recall events from her childhood but her own mother's name is a mystery. She is quite understandably upset by all this; I urge you to be cautious in your dealings with her and refrain from adding to her emotional burden."

"Will she be staying with us?" I asked eagerly. Although I was certainly sympathetic to the unfortunate circumstances in which Irina found herself, I admit that the thought of having a companion staying at the schloss - even for an indeterminate period of time - was exciting to the lonely girl that I was.

Father nodded. "Yes, she will be staying. I can hardly turn her out into the forest, you know! I shall send a letter to the village doctor and also to the local authorities; perhaps someone will recognize her description and come forward with information."

He left me and I stood alone before the bedroom door.

I reached out slowly for the brass knob; once again, the strange emotion that had flooded my being on the previous night was sending shocking thrills through my veins. Irina! How very beautiful, how exotic it seemed. I repeated it quietly to myself a few times, enjoying the way the sound of her name passed across my lips like a soft caress.

Smiling and trembling a little in anticipation, I entered the bedroom, taking care that my footsteps did not clatter unpleasantly on the stone floor.

She was sitting up in bed, wrapped in one of Mademoiselle Daumier's quilted silk dressing gowns. Her hair was down; now dry, it swirled in intricate patterns across the bank of pillows that was propped behind her back, and continued to flow in an inky stream over the embroidered linen sheets.

I introduced myself, noting as I did so that her eyes seemed to gleam with appreciation and something else... was it hunger that I noticed there? But then the fleeting impression was gone; in its place was a melancholy sadness that seemed out of place in so young a girl.

After welcoming her properly, as I had been taught to do, I took my place on a stool beside the bed. By daylight, she was even more astonishingly beautiful; her cheeks were prettily tinted in a rosy hue, her crimson lips moist and glistening. She sat with a peculiar languorous grace, a sensuous and lazy pose that I would soon learn was her natural bearing. Irina's eyes were half closed, black lashes resting in shadowy curves on her cheeks. But suddenly she opened them wide and focused straight on me; I felt my heart thump crazily as I stared into those pools of impossible blue.

"Why, you delightful creature!" she purred. Her voice was husky, but still pleasing and musical in its tone. "If you were less pretty than you are, I believe I should be quite afraid. I am, after all, unwell; far away from home and family - at least, I assume I am far away as I have no recollection of either! - and alone in the midst of strangers. Still... I feel as if I know you. I am certainly drawn to you, Gabriella. In fact, I am positive that we shall be the best of friends."

She sighed and those incredibly pale eyes gazed passionately at me.

The truth is that I felt 'drawn to her' as she had said; the sense of strong attraction was unaccountably immense. But mingled with this was an ambiguous feeling of dread, as if she threatened me by her very presence. But Irina was beautiful, engaging and fascinating; as we chatted, I soon lost any apprehensions and fell entirely beneath her charming spell.

All too soon, however, I perceived a state of exhaustion stealing over her. I made as if to take my leave, saying, "I see you are tired and should probably rest. Father believes you ought to have a maid sitting up with you, at least for the next few days. It will only take me a moment to fetch her."

She stopped me with a gesture. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed, shuddering a little. "I simply cannot sleep with another person in the room. I suffer from a terror of robbers; once, when I was a child, thieves entered our home and murdered two of the servants, so I always sleep alone with the door locked. It is a habit of mine; I do hope you'll forgive my silly little mania."

Irina held out her pretty arms and wound them about my neck in a warm embrace, whispering in my ear, "Darling girl, I hope to see you later this evening, after I have rested a bit. Oh, but it is so difficult to part... the only reason why I do not weep is because I know I shall see you soon again."

Her lips burned a little kiss into my cheek. I blushed; this close to her, I could smell her unique scent. It reminded me of sweet night lilies, the kind that only bloom beneath the full of the moon.

I stammered some sort of reply and left, casting a final backward glance over my shoulder. Irina smiled... and with that loveliness stamped into my memory, I stumbled away and went about the day's business.

CHAPTER FOUR

Although Irina joined us at dinner that evening, she did not eat much. She explained that she suffered from the most delicate of constitutions, requiring little in the way of sustenance to maintain body and soul. Irina nibbled delicately at a biscuit and drank a half glass of wine, but that was all.

Instead, she seemed to consume, even thrive, on conversation. She sparkled, charming Father and myself; Mademoiselle Daumier was most impressed with Irina's French, proclaiming that the beautiful girl spoke with the purest Parisian accent she had ever had the privilege of hearing.

Afterwards, she and I took a walk in the garden. I pointed out the lightning blasted tree; once a flourishing elm whose spreading branches had provided welcome shade in the summer heat, it was now a blackened, irregular stump that pointed like an accusing finger to the stars.

She sank down on a bench; I sat beside her. Taking her hand in mine, I exclaimed in surprise. "Why, Irina! Your poor little hand is chilled through; it seems positively icy! Shall I go fetch a shawl?"

She shook her head. The moon had come out, a silvery eye that shed an eldritch brilliance on the flowers and shrubs. "My blood is thin and weak," she replied. Irina lifted up our joined hands and laid the back of mine against her cheek. "Please do not go, do not leave me alone. Put your arms around me and we will share our heat."

I did so and she rested her head against my breast, her soft breath tickling the side of my throat.

I have said that she was a charming and fascinating creature; I have remarked upon her beauty and bearing. But aside from all this, I cannot say precisely why I felt so close to Irina. After all, we had only just met, but I already felt a sense of intimacy with her, as if we were two lost souls who had finally, after a separation of centuries, come together again.

Young people love or hate on impulse; we carelessly assign our hearts without consideration, learning discretion only when we gain sufficient age and maturity. The attention she gave me was flattering; the affection she had already shown towards me was delightful. I was impressed with the confidence and ardor with which she had received me. That we were destined to be good friends seemed a certainty.

She was taller than I, nearly as tall as Father, but her pliant body fitted itself against me perfectly. We gazed at the moon for a while in silence before returning to the schloss and thence, to bed.

I escorted Irina to her room; she paused before entering. Raising her hand, she briefly caressed my face and then gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. "Good night, darling Gabriella," she said.

"Good night," I replied. I gave her a brief hug; one last opportunity to savor the tantalizingly, lily sweet scent that seemed to emanate from her very pores.

She glided gracefully within and the door closed. I heard the key twist in the lock... a sound of finality, and I could not help but long for the sun's rising, so that I could once more bask in the melancholy beauty that was Irina.

Days passed and we grew closer, as two young girls do when they are thrust together without the benefit of any other company. No, it was more than that; as I spent more time in the company of Irina, I began to feel more and more attracted to her. Even my dreams took on strange and almost frightening tones; I dared not speak of my feelings, not even to the source of those unfamiliar and disturbing emotions. 

Irina commonly stayed abed until one o'clock in the afternoon; when she finally rose from slumber, she would usually accompany me for a walk in the yew alley, where we would speak of this and that. I would hold her hand or sometimes put a friendly arm about her waist, and it always thrilled me when these little gestures of mine were returned. 

She was not a terribly active girl; she preferred to recline on the tapestried divan in her dressing room, holding court with me in attendance as her willing slave. I would fetch books so she could read aloud to me; I would bring small treats like chocolates or fruit as she required. 

Irina acted like a queen, accepting my service readily; although we never spoke of our respective roles, I knew instinctively that where she would lead, I would gladly follow. 

Forever. 

CHAPTER FIVE

Although I tried to follow my Father's injunctions and not upset Irina unduly with questions about her past, I sometimes could not help but express my curiosity as to her origins, family and the like.

She would sigh, her gloriously pale eyes seeming to darken as if clouds of sadness were passing over a bright summer sky. And she would change the subject with a marked coldness that seemed far beyond her years, although she often blessed me with a melancholy smile meant to take the sting away.

I could not find it in my heart to be offended by her; instead, I was fascinated, drawing closer and closer to her. If I had only known what fire I was toying with! But even writing as I do, after an interval of nearly twelve years, I can honestly relate that - had I known the truth about Irina - I would have acted no differently.

There were times when a mysterious mood would seize her; drawing me down into her arms, laying her cheek against mine, she would murmur in a voice that sent trembling chills down my spine, "Gabriella! Darling! My sweetest, my dearest, my only one! I live now in your warm life but soon, you shall sweetly die in mine. I cannot help it; my love for you is too great to be denied. Oh, swear it, Gabriella! Swear we will never part again!"

And I, intoxicated by her scent, dizzy with an almost painful pleasure as her soft lips placed glowing kisses along my cheek and throat, would whisper some half-considered reassurances and sink down further into her adoring caresses, losing myself in the rapture of her embrace. I did not understand the meaning of her words but the emotion behind them was clear - Irina loved me and that was all that mattered.

Irina spoke and acted with the ardor of a lover in these moods and I... well, I doted upon her, and not a day passed when I did not with nervous anticipation long for the familiar smile, the nod, those outstretched and eager arms, the slender body that welcomed my hesitant and clumsy caresses so beautifully.

Sometimes she would whisper while stroking my hair, "You are mine! You and I are forever one!," and she would turn those impossibly blue eyes upon me in a languid but passionate gaze that nearly took my breath away.

All of this was conducted away from the eyes of my Father, Mademoiselle Daumier and the servants; I needed no urging from Irina to realize that we must be discreet. Adults, with their hidebound and formal ways, could never understand. We were as secretive as star-crossed lovers and even had our own little rituals, like leaving romantic notes for one another in the trunk of the burned oak tree.

Had he known, could Father have prevented the terrible tragedy that was to follow?

Perhaps. But again, I leap ahead of my story.

To continue my narrative in its proper course, I should relate that Irina and I were walking one day in the high grass at the edge of the forest. She was picking wildflowers and braiding them into a coronet. As we passed to and fro, we saw a funeral procession come winding out of the forest; a group of peasants carrying a wooden coffin.

I knew of the death; Father had told me that the pretty young daughter of a local swineherd had died unexpectedly of some type of fever. The girl had complained of being attacked in the night by a wild beast and nearly strangled; after steadily weakening over the course of a week, she finally succumbed. Father had insisted upon examining the body himself to ensure that the girl had not died of the plague.

As the peasants walked past, they began to sing a hymn with an intricate and beautiful harmony. I listened with pleasure until Irina grabbed my arm, squeezing it quite painfully. I turned to her with a reproach on my lips, but that impulse died the moment I saw her. The twisted expression on her face spoke of considerable pain; her eyes were wild and fluttering. She clung to me and I exclaimed over the extraordinary strength of her grip.

"Take me away from here," she whimpered. Putting my arms about  her slender waist, I realized she was quivering in agitation.

I led her away from the scene, murmuring soothing nonsense. When we reached the schloss, she sank down gratefully on a garden bench; I held her until the seizure had passed.

She stirred in my embrace weakly. "How terrible!" she said in a soft little voice. "Such disconcordance! It affected my nerves horribly. I simply could not withstand it another moment."

I was amazed and replied, "But it was really quite sweet. I don't understand why you thought the singing so terrible."

Irina glanced at me from beneath her lashes and I fancied her eyes flashed with irritation. "I have never cared for church hymns," she murmured. "The religion of my ancestors is a different one from your own. That peasant singing - ugh! How ill it made me feel. Hold me, darling Gabriella... hold me. I feel so very faint."

I tightened my arms about her, pressing her head down upon my breast until the tremors ceased once more. 

CHAPTER SIX

I wondered at her unusual reaction but decided not to mention the subject as it seemed to upset her. Instead, I ventured to begin a conversation by asking, "Do you suppose we are in for another plague of fevers? This is the third person to die in the month; I heard one of the maids telling my governess that the peasants believe it is being caused by a ghost."

"Don't speak to me of ghosts, darling," Irina said, although she did not draw away from my embrace but instead pressed herself more closely to me. "If you do, I'll not get a wink of sleep tonight."

An imp of mischief seized me; hiding my sudden grin in her hair, I said, "Ah, but this is a terrible ghost indeed! All pale and thin, with the shape of a woman, the peasants say it is the vengeful spirit of Rinia, Countess of Dragomir, come to revenge herself on those who killed her demon lover."

I laughed in what I supposed was a sinister fashion. Her reaction surprised me greatly.

Irina gave a strangled scream. Tearing herself out of my arms, she said vehemently, "What do those filthy peasants know? What can they know?," and she fell to her knees in the grass, sobbing wildly.

To say I was alarmed would be an understatement; I immediately flung myself down beside her and gathered her close to me, stammering apologies over and over again. At last, she fell silent, her face covered by stray locks of black hair.

"Leave me," Irina said abruptly.

I was aghast; berating myself for my foolish behavior, I begged her not to send me away. Still without looking at me, keeping her face averted, she said, "Please, darling. I am over my fright and I would not have you see me all tear stained. Go back to the house and wait for me; I will join you in a little while."

I had no choice. I left her there in the garden, and when I had reached my own room, I threw myself down on the bed and wept myself to sleep.

My worst fear at the time was that Irina would have nothing further to do with me after my backfiring jest; to my great and heartfelt relief, the opposite was true. 

Rather than pushing me aside, she welcomed me with further protestations of love, more caresses, more time spent in the comforting and pleasurable circle of her arms. I gradually forgot about her strange reaction to the funeral hymn and contented myself with drowning in Irina's fragrance, willingly mesmerized by the husky music of her voice. 

Once, she asked me, "Are you afraid to die?" 

Twisting a lock of her hair between my fingers, I answered in an off-hand manner, "Isn't everyone?" 

"To die like lovers - to be together forever - wouldn't you find that glorious rather than frightening?" 

I shrugged and replied, "Does it matter? Everyone dies in the end." 

Suddenly, Irina's fingers bit into my shoulders, her wickedly sharp nails searing into my skin like brands. I flinched and she immediately released me. "Have I hurt you, darling? Let me see," and carefully drawing down the bodice of my gown a little, peered at my 'wound.' 

"A scratch," was her verdict. "Only a tiny bit of blood, just a drop really. But still..." 

Before I could say anything, I felt her lips fasten upon the flesh of my shoulder. I quivered; a sensation like a red hot flame passed through my body. Dimly, I heard her say in satisfaction, "There, it's all clean. You can't be too careful, Gabriella. Even the tiniest wound can fester and make you ill." 

I felt her clever fingers readjust my bodice. When I came to my senses, I could see that her crimson lips were curved in a small, almost gloating smile. 

I was frightened, perhaps even a bit repelled, but I smiled in return. 

"I think you're right," I said, my voice shaking a little. "To die for love is surely the greatest thing of all." 

Irina smiled again, approval and satisfaction radiating from her eyes. Lazily, she lay back on the divan and beckoned with a graceful wave of her hand. "Come to me," she purred as I settled down beside her; the sweet lily scent of her body rising about me like a dizzying cloud. "We will be together forever, my darling, dearest Gabriella. Nothing will ever separate us again... neither life nor death." 

She stroked my hair, and any fears or confusion I may have felt vanished as I surrendered once again to the seductive spell of Irina. 

CHAPTER SEVEN

I had taken to emulating Irina in locking my bedroom door at night; I do not know why I should have done this, only I suppose that I adored her so much that I wished to follow her in every sense. 

The night after my strange conversation about love and death with Irina, I suffered from a terrible dream. I call it a dream, because I do not know how else to describe this singular event; at the time, the experience was to me both a terrifying nightmare and an all-too-real occurrence that was not entirely unwelcome. 

But you shall make your own judgment. 

The evening was unusually warm, so I had thrown open the window to catch any stray breeze. I had no fear of robbers; my bedroom was on the third floor of the schloss and it would take an unusually clever and agile thief to make the perilous journey up the ivy-wound walls. 

I wore my thinnest cotton nightgown, a pretty thing of frills, ribbons and lace, which Irina had much admired. When at last I fell asleep, my peaceful slumber was disturbed by a nightmare; so frightening and seductive it was that even now, my hand trembles to write of it. 

It seemed that I lay in my bed; a thin stream of watery moonlight pooled on the floor beneath the window. Suddenly, a dark cloud passed through the open casement; it seemed like some great, black cat that prowled silently back and forth, casting its head to and fro as it searched for any sign of its prey. 

It lifted its head and I was paralyzed at the sight of its enormous, luminous eyes; eyes that burned with a pale blue flame which both mesmerized and repelled. Before I could shake off my terror, the beast leaped upon me; I could feel the prickle of its claws upon my shoulders. I closed my eyes, terrified beyond belief, but utterly incapable of making a sound or moving so much as an inch. 

My nightgown slid from my shoulders smoothly, then was pulled down to my waist, exposing my flesh to the beast's hot gaze. All at once, I felt a stinging pain as if two cold and razor sharp needles had been inserted deep within my breast. I drew a shuddering breath and my hands flew up in protest. But instead of the dense fur I expected, beneath my palms I felt a familiar form - Irina's long black hair and the fine shape of her skull. 

My eyes opened and met the passionate gaze of Irina. She lay atop me, her face buried in my breast, eyes rolled up to meet mine. The icy pain I had felt melted smoothly away and in its place came a warm, liquid sensation that flooded me with transports of delight. I groaned, I think, and caressed her hair. 

But the delicious feeling passed away all too quickly. Irina lifted her head and licked her crimson lips; they seemed even redder in the pale moonlight, as if she had smeared them with rubies of blood. She kissed my mouth lightly and whispered, "Together, my Gabriella, my love. Forever." 

Then she seemed to float away and vanish. 

I awoke with a gasp; the room was empty and I was alone. 

I was loathe to discuss the dream with anyone, including Irina. Indeed, I had almost forgotten the details. Father remarked that I seemed a little wan and pale when I came down to breakfast, but I was saved from telling him a lie by the arrival of the greasy-haired and pock-marked son of the picture cleaner, who had come all the way from Baiamare, driving a horse and cart laden with large, flat packages. 

Baiamare is a long way from Bucharest, but it is still far larger than our own little village of Patradornei. Whenever anyone from the town had occasion to visit, it created a sensation; we all crowded the halls, eager to hear the latest news. Isolated as we were, it was easy to forget that another world existed outside our vast forests and mountains. 

The cases were brought into the hall of the schloss, my Father on hand with a list. The schloss had many fine, ancient paintings, nearly all portraits, and all of them coming to us from my poor late mother, whom I have already mentioned was descended from the old Dragomir line. These paintings had been sent away to be cleaned and renovated months ago, their canvases having been dreadfully obscured by the dirt, smoke and filth of ages of neglect. 

As the artist unpacked his crates, Father read numbers aloud from his list. The artist then rummaged among the paintings, producing the matching work. I do not know if they were good or not; the portraits mostly depicted men and women in strange, exotic costumes, smothered in flashing jewels and cloth-of-gold. The only thing they had in common was the look of glittering pride each one radiated in both bearing and expression. The Dragomir line was a haughty tribe from the look of it; I was glad that there was no chance of my meeting one of those uncommonly proud and richly dressed people. 

Father frowned, consulting his list. "I haven't seen this one yet," he said, then read the number aloud. As the artist searched, he continued, "It is framed in gilt. In one corner, as nearly as I could make it out, was the date 1631 and a name - Ryna Dragomir. I am curious to see how it came out, since it was one of the most damaged pieces." 

Irina, who was present, watched all of the proceedings with a listless smile, her elegant body draped languidly upon a settee. I had declined her invitation to sit beside her; I was too keenly interested in seeing the picture cleaner's work. I remembered all these paintings as mere vague blobs of shadow and ochre smears, and was eager to see how well they had been restored. 

The artist produced the aforementioned painting, holding it respectfully between his fingertips. I remembered that this was a small picture so blackened by age that it had been impossible to glean any details save those Father had mentioned. 

When I saw the portrait, I was electrified. I gasped and flushed with surprise. 

For portrayed there on the canvas was the face of woman from one hundred fifty years ago... 

And it was none other than Irina! 

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Irina!" I exclaimed. "Why, it is your very likeness! How amazing! Father, what does the inscription say?" 

He took the painting from the artist's hands and examined the upper corner. "Well, the date is certainly 1631 but the name is not as I thought. See, a small gilt crown above and below? The inscription reads 'Rinia, Countess of Dragomir.' Are you perhaps related to that line, Irina? The main branch is extinct but my dear departed wife was connected through a distant relation." 

Irina's lips stretched in a lazy smile. "I cannot remember," she replied. Her body shifted on the settee; it seemed to mold itself more fully to the curved seat. "There is still a great portion of my memory that remains a mystery to me. I can say that such a connection is likely; my family, as I have said before, is an ancient and noble one - of that I am sure." 

Father looked at her in sympathy. "Poor girl," he murmured. 

I touched his wrist. "May I have the painting, Father? I want to hang it in my room." 

"Why, of course!" he answered. "It is a pretty thing, isn't it? The cleaner did some extraordinary work..." and here he broke off, turning to the artist and discoursing with the man about the portraits. After I gently tugged on the arm of his jacket, Father absently handing the picture to me. 

It was not terribly large, only two foot square, but I was amazed at how much detail had been revealed. The face of the Countess - even the eyes had been captured in all their pale and fiery blue glory! - was so like Irina's. I touched the crackled varnish reverently. 

Irina joined me; looking over my shoulder, she said, "Are you really related to the House of Dragomir?" 

"Through my mother," I answered. "Although the connection is quite a distant one." 

She nodded. "Let us hang this picture in your room," she said, linking her arm through mine and guiding me to the staircase. Leaning over and putting her mouth next to my ear, she whispered, "Then you can dream that I watch over you in your sleep... and can see everything you do in that bedroom of yours." 

The way she emphasized the word "everything" made me shiver with excitement, mingled with a cold little trickle of apprehension that wound its way down my spine. 

Before I went to bed that night, I examined the wound on my breast. I call it a wound, but it was hardly more than a scratch; two tiny marks surrounded by a bluish bruise. 

I had already thrust the dream from my waking mind; a defense, I suppose, against the accidental revealment of an unwelcome truth. I loved Irina, she loved me... thus, she would never, could never, harm me. So I blocked certain details of that visitation from my mind, remembering only a childish nightmare about a cat-beast with glowing eyes. 

I decided that when I'd pinned my shawl, I must have accidentally caught some flesh within the pin. It seemed a reasonable enough explanation, so I gave the matter no more thought and went to my bed. Before blowing out the night candle, I looked once again at the portrait of the Countess; Irina had insisted on hanging it so that the woman's face peered into mine directly across the room. 

Sleep did not come lightly or easily, but at last, exhausted, I tumbled into a deep slumber. 

Again, it seemed as if I dreamed of the black cloud that passed through the stone walls like a mist. I saw once more the beautiful face of Irina; I felt her slim and clever fingers caress me with smooth, soothing strokes that became ever bolder and more confident.  Twin agonies of icy needles stabbed into my breast... and again, after the pain I experienced that strange but pleasant feeling of lassitude and oily warmth. But this time, the feeling grew stronger and stronger until I felt as if hot lightning ran in my veins; my breath rose and fell faster, my heart thumped crazily until I knew it must burst. 

Then, as I stared into Irina's beautiful eyes, I reached an unknown pinnacle and fell, passing through burning universes and spinning stars that lashed my flesh with rapturous sensations, thrummed in vibrations of sweet and pleasurable pain that left me gasping for air, my hands tangled in her long dark hair. At last, I lay still, my sweat-beaded body covered and embraced by hers. 

While we lay together, she whispered to me of things wonderful, bizarre and so passing strange that I could hardly contemplate them. But I listened, stroking her hair and her back, while she spun her fantastic tale. 

I, young and innocent though I was, knew that I had somehow passed a point of no return; no matter what lay ahead, I had made my choice, chosen my destiny... and that destiny was Irina.

CHAPTER NINE

 We lay together, Irina and I, in my bed, our bodies washed by milky moonlight.

"We have been together forever," she whispered, her head pillowed on my breast. The small wound I had noticed there earlier now stung and burned a little. "From time immemorial have the gods permitted us to join and rejoin in life after life. We crawled from the sea together, where all creation began; our souls will remain entwined in singular destiny until the earth itself is no more."

I listened in silence, the husky music of her voice, the growing warmth of her flesh, that sweet lily scent that was so uniquely hers soothing me like a lullaby.

Irina continued, "Do you remember, darling Gabriella? Do you remember the fatal night when you were lost to me? When my foolish mistake nearly cost us the promise of eternal unity? Oh, Gabriella... how I have longed for you through all the lost, lonely years! I have prayed for your forgiveness; I have beseeched the silent and unreachable gods to bring you to me. And at last, when my hope had nearly vanished, I found you once more."

Finally finding my voice, I spoke. "I don't understand these past lives you speak of, but I do know... in this life, and in any other, I love you, Irina."

She tenderly placed glowing kisses in the hollow of my throat. "Will you stay with me forever? Will you sacrifice everything to be with me?"

I nodded.

"There is no love without sacrifice and no sacrifice without blood." She lifted her head and stared at me solemnly. "Do you know what I ask? Can you know?"

When I gave a hesitant shake of my head, Irina began to explain. In my lethargic state, I accepted the things she told me without question. She would never lie to me, of that much I was certain. When she finished, I took a deep breath, steeling my resolve, and said, "I would follow you into death and beyond. I would die for you, I would live for you. Where you lead I gladly follow."

The cock crowed, announcing the arrival of dawn. Irina sighed; gazing at me passionately from beneath her thick, dark lashes, she said, "I must go now and make preparations. I will come again to you, my dearest love, my finest treasure. Wait for me."

And giving me a final kiss from those wet, crimson lips, she glided away and vanished.

But this time, when the spell had dissipated and I came to my senses... I knew far more about Irina - and myself - than I ever had before.

Before I relate to you the incredible events which were to follow, I will - in the interest of my narrative - tell you Irina's tale. You will think me mad; you will call me delusional and hysterical, to believe such dramatic nonsense as her story seems, but I implore you to have faith in my veracity and listen with an open, if skeptical, mind. 

Irina confirmed that she was indeed Rinia, Countess Dragomir. Not the reincarnation of that noble lady from a century and a half ago, but Rinia herself. I still find it hard to connect my darling girl with that - so it was believed - long dead woman, so I will continue to call her Irina, for that is the name under which she came to me and the name I learned to love. 

She told me that she had lived with and loved a distant cousin named Tereza, member of a family clan related by blood - however thin - to the Dragomir line. Irina and Tereza, once meeting and recognizing within one another that timeless and destined connection of souls, became lovers and more. They dwelled with complete and utter happiness in Castle Dragomir, which Irina had received as an inheritance from her departed mother. 

Irina gave many great balls and parties for the nobility, some coming from as far away as Bucharest and Hungary to attend the Romanian Countess' famous soirees. At one of these balls, a masquerade dance, she met a stranger who was to change her life - and poor Tereza's - for the worst, destroying that which the women held so precious and dear. 

The stranger introduced herself as Elisabetha, Countess of Bathory. 

CHAPTER TEN

"You cannot be the Blood Countess," Irina said to her. "She died seventeen years ago, walled up in Castle Cachtice in punishment for killing over 600 peasants." 

The stranger smiled. All that could be seen of her features, since she wore an elaborately feathered mask in the shape of a raven, was her curious smile; she possessed a pair of thin, needle sharp upper teeth that gave her a sinister feline expression. "Ah... reports of my death were highly exaggerated," she replied, fluttering her fan. "I am indeed Countess Bathory. But you, my dear Countess Dragomir, may call me Elisabetha." 

Irina was delighted by the woman's boldness and would not hear of her being ejected, as some of the more pretentious guests had suggested. She and the mysterious Elisabetha flirted and sparred throughout the evening; Tereza had not been able to attend the ball, having come down with a slight fever. Irina was bored and lonely, and the interaction she had that evening with the self-proclaimed Hungarian Countess was, to her, the most diverting and entertainment moments of her life. 

But the choice to allow the stranger would turn out to be the most terrible and unfortunate decision she could have made. 

Irina found Elisabetha intelligent and extraordinarily beautiful, with the whitest skin she had ever seen and an engaging pair of brown eyes that sparkled and flashed with a light that seemed half insanity, half cunning. Her hair was the very color of summer sunshine, a pure spun gold that caught the candlelight and created an aureole around her head like a halo. In Irina's words, this Elisabetha had the look of a sinful saint, the face of a fallen angel, and more than enough wit to match. 

As the evening progressed, Irina began to feel some type of connection with this woman; as she told me in a voice half-choked with grief, "I felt something for her. Not the love I had for Tereza; no, this was different. Attraction and repulsion, fascination and disgust. All at once. I did not know why then, but I do now. It may sound strange, but Elisabetha captured me somehow, entranced me with those half-mad eyes of hers, put me under some kind of spell. I came to find out  - too late! - that she is an ancient enemy of the Dragomir line, seeking always to destroy that which the gods have decreed united. Oh, if I had only known!" 

But Irina, having fallen completely beneath Elisabetha's spell, readily accepted the Countess' coy invitation to rendezvous the following night. They came together breathlessly, a clash of lightnings and storms, an orgy of raging lust and maddened desires that could not be denied. And afterward, Irina was sickened... but when Elisabetha beckoned a second time and then a third, Irina could not resist returning again and again with the Countess' dangerous fire. 

Thus began a dance of seduction and sensuous spells, with Elisabetha weaving her dark web ever closer around Irina. Tereza, still ill, never suspected that her dearest lover was caught in the grip of infatuation with another. At last, when Elisabetha's witchcraft held Irina firmly in its grasp, this Hungarian enchantress - who was indeed the universally despised Countess Bathory - took Irina's life in an orgy of blood and death... but within that death were planted the seeds of un-life. 

For Elisabetha was a vampyr. 

As Irina explained it to me, a vampyr is a revenant, the soul of a deceased person trapped forever within their unliving but animated flesh. They suffer from the hunger, the irresistible craving for human blood, and will do anything to obtain it. If they deny this terrible thirst, then after descending into hellish agonies and torments, they revert to an animalistic state and kill anything they can find before coming to their senses. 

Elisabetha, Countess of Bathory, had been visited by a vampyr after she had languished for three years in her sealed and lonely prison. Seduced by its promise of everlasting youth and captivated by idea of killing without consequence, Elisabetha eagerly accepted the revenant's embrace and disappeared from history's view. 

Surely, you ask, if Elisabeth wished the utter destruction of House Dragomir, she would not have made one of its members a virtual immortal like herself, thus creating a vengeful enemy who was just as strong and powerful as she! 

True... therefore, allow me to make the circumstances clear to you. 

Irina told me that Elisabetha did not intend to make her a vampyr. You see, the only way one of these creatures can create another of its kind is by draining the blood of its victim to the very brink of death and then forcing the victim to drink some of the dark substance that runs within the vampyr's own veins. 

On the fateful night, the two women had agreed to an assignation in the woods outside Castle Dragomir, a mile away from the estates. Irina knew of a little cottage there, run down and abandoned but still not without its comforts and charm. So Irina, all innocent of Elisabetha's true intentions and palpating with scarcely contained excitement, made her way to the hut. It was there that she found, not the lovely and fascinating woman whom she expected, but a ravening beast that leaped upon her, needle-like fangs burying in her throat. 

When the monster attacked, Irina stabbed at it with a small knife she always kept concealed between her breasts. Thus, as the Blood Countess drained her of life, a trickle of the vampyr's blood passed between her lips and she unconsciously swallowed. Then she fell into a deep, dreamless stupor. 

When Irina regained consciousness, three days had passed. Raging with an uncontrollable thirst and nearly insane with need, she killed a deer and drained its body in a moment. But that was not enough to satisfy the hunger that stabbed and twisted in her belly like razor sharp knives. A passing woodsman was her next victim; the peasant fellow never knew what attacked him there in the thick woods. 

Coming to herself once gain, Irina was appalled at what she had become. In Romania and other parts of the world, where our so-called civilization has not taken a firmer hold, the old superstitions are still discussed and believed with a fervor like that of a priest to his Church. So Irina knew she had died and been reborn into the non-life of a vampyr. 

Elisabetha of Bathory was gone; no trace remained and Irina never saw her again. 

In the first few moments of consciousness, Irina considered suicide, killing herself rather than face the consequences of her foolish actions. She was consumed by guilt; she had failed Tereza, the woman she loved; she was condemned to an undead and undying existence that could last for centuries and beyond. 

The only way she and Tereza could remain together was if she damned her beloved to the same undeath she now experienced. 

Irina was truly in Hell. 

But the desire for life - even unlife - burns within all of us, a force outside of our control. Self-destruction was no real answer. She must live, hiding her secret from all, concealing that which she had become. 

For a time, the deception worked. But soon, Tereza became suspicious and began to wonder why her lover disappeared nearly every night, returning home only just before dawn. There was a fear of plague beginning; many of the peasants who lived in the forest surrounding Castle Dragomir were dying of a mysterious wasting fever, sometimes passing away between one night and the next. 

Tereza, believing Irina was guilty of some sin - no doubt adultery was among her suspicions - followed Irina one evening, carefully tracking her through the forest. 

Once, she lost the trail, but soon picked it up again. Rounding a corner, she saw Irina... and her heart stopped with horror. 

Irina, covered in blood from chin to knees, was kneeling beside her victim - a young girl, daughter of the local blacksmith. The child was lifeless and Irina nuzzled at her throat, seeking further sustenance. 

You can guess the end of the tale. Tereza, nearly insane with horror at the monstrous sight of her lover - the great and all consuming passion of her life  reduced to an undead and damned creature, the dreaded vampyr - ran wildly back to the castle. Before she could be stopped, Tereza hurled herself from the upper battlements, seeking to obliterate that searing and soul-shaking sight in death. 

And Irina, mad with grief, slew all who served or walked within Castle Dragomir's walls, and left Romania to travel for many years in the countries of the world... seeking always for her lost Tereza. 

Me. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

There was a great to-do when Irina's disappearance was noticed. Where had she gone? What was to be done? A letter was found beneath her pillow and I delivered it to Father, pretending to be disappointed and worried that she had left without a word. 

Father read the letter, stroking his mustache. "It says that she feels she has impinged upon our hospitality enough; she thanks us quite prettily for the trouble we have taken and hopes that we are blessed for taking a poor and injured girl beneath our wing. Irina goes on to say that her memory has recovered sufficiently to cause her to recollect that her father has family in this country; she has made arrangements to leave by the postal coach from Patradornei in order to seek them out. She apologizes for leaving so suddenly but feared that we might feel obliged to lend her escort or money, and she has no need of trespassing on our generosity any longer." 

He put the folded bit of paper down beside his plate; he was in midst of breaking his fast. A thing I may not have mentioned about Father is that he is a very deliberate and careful man; when others race about, losing their heads, Father sits quietly and contemplates the circumstances until he has arrived at a favorable solution. 

I had earlier anointed my handkerchief with sal volatile; I now held it to my face and inhaled. The acrid fumes nearly choked me but they produced sufficient tears. "Oh!" I cried, feeling very much the stage performer, "Why did she leave without a word! I thought we were friends!" 

And with other protestations and exclamations of dismay, leading Father to recommend with a concerned air that I go immediately to my rooms and lie down to calm my nerves... I gladly went upstairs to dream of my beloved Irina. 

Two days after Irina had gone, we received an unexpected visit. General Alexandru Voinea - Uncle Alexandru, as I called him - arrived in the company of a strange gentleman. 

Uncle Alexandru introduced the gentleman as Baron Oktov Grosskopf, an Austrian philosopher and doctor of no little repute and learning. 

My dear uncle was haggard; his wavy dark hair now branded with two wide streaks of silver at his temples. We greeted him and his guest with enthusiasm, offering much love and sympathy for the loss of his niece. 

Greetings finally over, we all retired to the formal parlor for refreshments. Over cold meat, cheese and bread, he began to tell us of the death of his ward, the lovely Natalia Cristesci. 

Uncle Alexandru spoke of a sudden storm which had whipped up out of nowhere. Some of his horses escaped from their paddock; my uncle prides himself on breeding the finest racehorses in the country and sent some of his servants to fetch them back before they could be injured. His servants returned after a few hours, the horses successfully retrieved... and bearing as well a slender and elegant girl. 

The girl claimed to have no memory, other than her Christian name of Raini. Natalia was delighted with her and begged Uncle Alexandru to allow her to stay. Soon after, Natalia began to waste away, often complaining of nightmares and a sensation of being drained. The morning Natalia died, the girl Raini disappeared. 

You will have already seen a connection between Uncle Alexandru's mysterious guest and the circumstances of Irina's arrival to our own schloss. My Father, a clever man, was just as quick. 

"That is a familiar tale!" he cried. 

Baron Grosskopf wore spectacles perched on the end of his long, thin nose. Now they flashed in Father's direction. "Oh?" he asked casually. "How so?" 

Father told them of Irina... and soon, all eyes turned towards me. 

"I know no more of her than you do," I said, feeling the uncomfortably piercing gaze of three sets of eyes. 

Father snapped his fingers. "I recently received a shipment of old portraits that I had sent out to be cleaned...," he began, turning back to the two gentlemen. 

I immediately knew in which direction this observation was heading. Comparing the portrait of Countess Rinia with his visitor, Uncle Alexandru would know the truth. 

I made a hasty excuse and left the parlor, fleeing up the stairs to my bedroom. 

Once there, I tore the picture from the wall and held it clutched to my bosom, looking this way and that for a hiding place. All too soon, I heard booted footsteps echoing up the stairway and down the hall. I had to do something! My heart thudding with fear, I thrust the portrait beneath the bed and sat down at my dressing table, pulling the pins from my hair with fingers that trembled. 

A knock sounded at the door. Controlling my voice with an effort, I called, "Come in!" as cheerfully as I could. 

Around the corner peered the concerned face of my Father. "May we come in, Gabriella?," he asked. "The General and the Baron wish to see that portrait of Countess Dragomir that you have." 

"Portrait?" I asked with a little laugh as the three men entered. "Oh, that old thing!" I wrinkled my nose and began to brush my hair. "I gave it to one of the servants because I was tired of being stared at all night." 

Baron Grosskopf frowned. His face was creased with care; deeply carved lines in his high, broad forehead became deeper still. "Are you certain of this, Miss Gabriella?" he asked. 

"Do you doubt me, Baron?" I retorted. 

I admit I had not reckoned on the cleverness of my opponents - for such as I thought of them. Uncle Alexandru, his sharp eye spotting the nail where the painting had hung, looked around the room, seeking likely hiding places. Suddenly, he knelt on the floor and thrust his head beneath the bed. 

I leaped up from my seat. "Get out, all of you!" I cried, shaking my hairbrush in agitation. "You have no right!" 

"On the contrary," Uncle Alexandru said, backing away from the bed and standing up. In his hands he held the portrait; Countess Rinia's face - so beautifully and lovingly restored - reminded me so much of Irina that I felt a sharp pang behind my breastbone. 

Uncle Alexandru continued, "I have every right... for you see, here is the face of the fiend who took my darling Natalia's life! The monster, the blood maddened murderess who insinuated herself into my home and hearth, and in gratitude, sucked the very soul from my daughter!" He pointed at the picture with a shaking hand. "I knew her as the girl Raina, but what I see before me now is none other than the damned undead... a vampyr!" 

I drew in a deep breath and fought to keep from fainting. 

CHAPTER TWELVE

Baron Grosskopf removed his spectacles and cleaned them with an immaculate handkerchief. I could see now that he had watery blue eyes that protruded a little; those eyes, combined with the lines and folds of his cheeks and forehead, gave him the look of a benevolent toad. "May I speak to you a moment?" he asked Father mildly, drawing him aside. 

Uncle Alexandru stood blankly in the middle of the room, holding the Countess' portrait and mumbling to himself. He looked so lost and alone, dazed and filled with helpless, frustrated anger. Part of me longed to go to him, to soothe his distress. But another part of me, a dark and cunning place that I had never known existed, remembered Irina and stayed watchful and silent. 

Baron Grosskopf conversed with Father for many long minutes; Father listened gravely, sometimes nodding his head and asking a muffled question. I could not hear what was being said, so I sat back down at my dressing table and began pinning up my hair, maintaining an air of calm despite my inner tremblings. 

Quietly, so stealthily that I never heard them, Father and the Baron approached me. I glanced up; seeing Father's face reflected in my mirror, I smiled, although I also started with a bit of surprise. Suddenly, I felt his strong hands bite into my shoulders! I protested but he held me all the stronger, pushing me down into the chair and holding me there by force. 

I screamed and struggled but he was adamant and nodded to the Baron, obviously a pre-arranged signal. I felt the Baron's pudgy fingers fumbling as they unbuttoned the high neck of my gown. Oh, how I fought! Like a wildcat, spitting and nearly howling with rage and indignation. But Father's grip held me firm. 

Baron Grosskopf finished, having unbuttoned my dress just to a little below my collarbone. Drawing apart the sides, he grabbed my chin and peered at my throat, first one side and then the other. At last, he released me with a sigh. Father let go of me as well;  I sprang up from the chair, panting and quivering with fury. 

"She bears not the mark," the Baron said with, I thought, a touch of disappointment. 

Father apologized for his conduct; Baron Grosskopf had considered the examination necessary but had insisted on not forewarning me. 

I re-buttoned my dress, glaring at the both of them. Uncle Alexandru laid the portrait down on my bed; tears sparkled in his eyes but did not fall. "Gabriella must be protected," he said. 

"I agree completely," the Baron replied with a flash of his spectacles. "Young lady, I apologize as well for the rudeness, the rough and ungentlemanly way in which we have treated your person. I implore you to believe that we had only the best of intentions, as well as your safety, in mind." 

I controlled my anger with an effort. "Oh?" I said coldly. "Pray, what were you seeking? What did you think you would find?" 

"The answer to that I will relate shortly," Baron Grosskopf said. "I suggest we all retire to the downstairs parlor and have a drop of brandy to calm our nerves. Then I promise, all will be made clear." 

As I passed the bed, I picked up the portrait and laid it on a table next to my writing desk. Uncle Alexandru looked at me with glittering eyes; I knew he wondered why I had hidden the picture. Before he could voice his speculations, I said with an air of complete unconcern, "The servants here can be lazy sometimes. You have found it so yourself at home, I suppose? No doubt the wench put the picture beneath the bed, rather than getting rid of it as I requested." 

That seemed to satisfy him. 

We retired to the parlor, to await Baron Grosskopf's explanations. 

"The vampyr or revenant," the Baron began, thrusting his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat as if he were lecturing a classroom full of medical students, "is not a living creature. Nor is it entirely dead; instead, it is an unrestful soul who though some circumstance - sometimes suicide, sometimes the attack of a revenant - becomes trapped within a 'living' corpse. They sustain this unnatural existence only by the consumption of human blood. 

"I have studied all of the lore - the Magia Posthuma, the Philosophicae et Christianae Cogitationes de Vampiris, the Augustinus de cura pro Motruis - these and a thousand other literary and learned works all provide discourse on the vampyr. I know that they must rest on the soil of their birthplace to regain their strength; that they can change their form, metamorphisizing into a mist, a wolf, a bat; that they often exude a curious fragrance that seems to emanate from their pores, a scent that has been described as being closest to that of Oleaceae jasminum grandiflorum, or moonflower; so named for its habit of blossoming only at night. 

"The vampyr despises running water and will avoid it if he can. The rushing, elemental life force of water drains his powers, leaving helpless and weak. 

"Despite superstitious beliefs, the vampyr does not resemble a corpse in his complexion. They appear to be quite beautiful and graceful, although they often exhibit a certain lassitude or languor during the daylight hours." 

The Baron paused to take a grateful swallow from his glass of brandy. Wiping his small and bristling mustache with a finger, he continued his discourse. 

"The vampyr fears only three things - holy water, the crucifix and garlic. Holy prayers or hymns when recited aloud can weaken him. And the only way to ensure the total annihilation of the creature is to drive a stake through his heart, cut off his head, and after burning the remains, scatter them into a river or running stream. Only thus can we be sure that the vampyr will not return." 

Hearing all this, I felt dizzy and somewhat sickened. I turned my head and met Uncle Alexandru's gaze; seeing concern as well as suspicion there, I steeled myself. It would not do to show any sign of weakness in this company. 

So, that was the fate they intended for my beloved Irina? 

I swore in my heart that I would die first.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Speaking to Father, Baron Grosskopf said, "I do not understand why the vampyr has not yet attacked Gabriella. But it is clear, after studying the Countess' pattern, that this dear girl is intended to be her next victim." He patted me on the hand in what he obviously thought was a comforting gesture. 

"Do not fear, little miss," the Baron continued. "We will keep you safe. Certain precautions will have to be taken; I will direct your servants in the matter... with your permission, of course." 

"Of course," I replied, forcing a quaver into my voice. "I do not know what I should do or how I should feel! She has been here all this time, pretending... she acted like a sister to me... oh!" I artfully buried my face in my hands, so they could not see how I smiled - yes, I smiled because of the tremendous sense of self-satisfaction and triumph I felt at fooling these so-called wise men. 

I did not dare give them the slightest hint of how I truly felt... instead I sniffled and sobbed like a child who has lost her dearest friend. 

They took it for an hysterical outburst; after patting me on the back, offering a snifter of brandy and handkerchiefs, the general consensus was that I should retire to my rooms and rest. 

I obeyed their instructions, even going so far as to help the servants hang swags of garlic around the windows; when Uncle Alexandru gave me a little gold crucifix on a chain, I allowed him to hang it around my neck and thanked him prettily with a kiss on his whiskered cheek. 

The Baron muttered prayers and holy incantations, designed to keep a vampyr at bay. 

At last, expressing themselves satisfied, the three men - Father, Baron Grosskopf and Uncle Alexandru - bid me good-night with many reassurances. They would have insisted that a maid stay with me but I wept with such abandon at the thought that they hastily reconsidered and instead, installed her in a chair outside the door. 

They never knew that I went to my bed that night with a sigh of complete happiness and content. 

They had no need of keeping Irina out... for it was I who would go to her when the time was right. How different things would have turned out had the old men concentrated their efforts on keeping me in! 

You will recall that I once mentioned that Irina and I would leave letters for one another in the trunk of the lightning blasted tree in the garden. It was here, during that time when we were apart, that I would surreptitiously leave notes, retrieving her answer in the evening after dinner on the pretext of taking a turn in the garden. Sometimes a few days would pass between my letter and her answer, and those delays caused me a great deal of worry and consternation. 

Fortunately, Father and the rest took my agitation for nervousness regarding the threat that hung over us - so they thought! - and did not press me for explanations. 

I will not relate you the contents of our letters; the private communication between lovers, filled as it is with little codes and phrases that mean nothing to outsiders, would not interest you. It is enough to state that we renewed our vows, she and I; when she summoned me to come to her - revealing at last the place where she concealed herself, making ready my future transformation - I would come to her, though hell itself bar the way. 

I did not know how long Irina's 'preparations' would take or what they consisted of; I only knew that the depths of my love knew no bounds and I was willing to wait as long as necessary, trusting that I had not been abandoned or forgotten. 

Little did I know that events were conspiring against us; even as we fretted and moaned in our letters - chafing at delay and assuring one another of love received and returned - stormclouds were gathering, conspiracies were afoot. 

For Baron Grosskopf, Uncle Alexandru and Father were plotting together to destroy my life, my love, my destiny... my Irina! 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Several days had passed since the Baron's rude examination of my throat. I still slept in a chamber filled with the nauseating  fumes of garlic and dutifully wore my little gold crucifix. The men muttered amongst themselves, always huddled together in a congenial knot by the fireplace in Father's study. 

One evening, just after supper, I happened to be passing by the study. I assure you that my presence there was entirely innocent; I was on my way to the library, which lay on the other side of Father's private rooms. 

As I passed the door, I noticed it was ajar and I could hear the distinct murmuring of voices. Suddenly, a name caught my ear, then two words that snatched at my absent attention like a barbed hook: "Countess Rinia must die." 

I immediately stooped down beside the crack in the door and listened intently. 

"We know the vampyr must recuperate her powers upon the soil of her birthplace," Baron Grosskopf was saying. Although I could not see him, in my mind's eye I still imagined his stout figure striding up and down the room, spectacles flashing. "We know, through Herr Voinea's testimony, that the vampyr which took the life of his niece was the Countess Rinia of the House of Dragomir. Therefore, I suggest - since the revenant is reluctant to come to us - that we seek her out in the ruins of Castle Dragomir. There is a crypt, is there not?" 

Father replied, "Yes... the old chapel which was once attached to the castle. Only the alter and a few broken stone walls remain but in the back, there is a vaulted room which holds a staircase; these stairs lead down into the Dragomir family crypt." 

Uncle Alexandru burst out in agitation, "Why haven't we confronted this demon yet? Why delay another moment? I do not fear her! Let us go to the crypt tonight and destroy her now!!" 

The Baron replied soothingly. "As I have already explained, my good General Voinea, to beard the vampyr in her den is extremely dangerous. It is there that her powers are at their peak. Believe me, she is capable of killing ten or more men without exhausting herself; even the full light of day would not be enough to protect us. It would be better if we could have lured the Countess away from her birth soil but..." A shrug was evident in his tone of voice. 

"My messenger is on his way with your trunks," Uncle Alexandru replied grudgingly; I could tell that he did not like to wait and would have preferred to plunge in regardless of the danger, but deferred out of his respect for Baron Grosskopf. "He should arrive soon, within the next day or so. I sent him to Castle Voinea yesterday morning." 

"Excellent!" The Baron voice contained an odious sense of triumph. "We must gather together all the men we can. My trunks contain the necessary equipment for ensuring the vampyr's destruction; as soon as they arrive, we will make a foray into Castle Dragomir in order to destroy the Countess and put an end to the vampyr's curse once and for all! Are we agreed?" 

They all murmured in consent. I reeled back, horrified and shaken to the core. 

I wandered away, my mind whirling in a jumbled confusion. How could I stop them? What could I do? 

I left the schloss to walk in the garden and think undisturbed. 

Uncle Alexandru's home was twenty miles away; assuming good weather - curse these sunny summer days! - his servant could have the Baron's trunks within two or three days if he made a determined effort. And I was certain that he would; my uncle was determined to be revenged for his niece's loss and would stop at nothing to see that the deed was done. I had already lost a day; the messenger could be halfway to Castle Voinea already. 

If I communicated this information by the usual method, Irina might not receive it in time. I did not know when or how often she checked our secret postbox... and a delay in this instance could prove fatal. 

After I had calmed myself and given the matter grave consideration, I realized only one answer was possible. 

I must go to Castle Dragomir and warn Irina myself of her impending doom. 

I knew where the ruins lay, three miles from our schloss; although I had never been in the forest at night - and I would not be able to manage both horse and torch - I trusted that the moon's light would provide sufficient illumination. Also, I had a great fear of wolves; those shaggy, savage beasts had been known to kill a human being when their hunger overcame their natural caution of man. 

I made a mental list of the things I would need and firmed my resolve until it was as strong and inflexible as adamantine. 

I would save Irina... or die in the attempt. 

Everything I needed was in the pocket of my gown - candle stub, tinderbox, one of Father's revolvers and a few spare bullets. If I met with wolves along the way, I would have some means of self defense. 

I crept out of the schloss, tip-toeing past the snoring maid, and made my way to the stables. Our own horses were there, as well as Uncle Alexandru's carriage team. I usually rode a bay mare whom I had named Mignon. And she was pretty, although a bit high spirited, but before Irina came into my life, I doted and spoiled Mignon terribly. 

I had brought an apple with me; while Mignon chewed on the sweet treat, I quickly saddled and bridled her. I had done this so many times before that it was easy for me to perform this task, even in the dark. I dared not strike a light, for fear of alerting anyone who might be awake in the schloss and, seeing a light where there should be none, raise an alarm. 

I led the mare out of the stable, then swung myself up into the saddle and guided Mignon out of the paddock, down the path that meandered away from the schloss, meeting with the main road at the bottom. Then, letting the mare have her head - for she saw far better in the dark than this poor, night blind human - I guided her into the forest, following a small track that led eventually to the ruins of Castle Dragomir. 

I was terrified; moisture beaded up on my face and beneath the arms of my gown; I could smell the strong and acrid scent of fear emanating from me in waves. 

But I did not turn back. I could not. 

For I knew Irina waited for me at the end of my perilous journey. 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The voyage to Castle Dragomir did not prove to be as dangerous as I'd thought. Although I did hear the howling of wolves, the blood curdling wailing came from far away, in the direction of the mountains. But still, I flinched and waved my pistol each time an owl hooted or a mouse rustled in the thick carpet of last year's leaves that had gathered on the edges of the cleared path. 

Mignon knew her way, of course; I often rode her to the ruins, for I loved to play and pretend that I was an unhappy princess being rescued from durance vile in one of the destroyed towers. Great blocks of stone littered the site, along with half-burned timbers and scraps of wood; the great split staircase still wound part way up, but ended abruptly in a mass of rotted splinters. Ivy - of so deep a green as to appear almost black - crept up the dismantled walls, draping itself in long festoons and swags as if it were an elaborate mourning cloth. This was all that remained of the castle where once the mighty Dragomir clan had ruled with an iron fist over much of Romania. 

The chapel was in slightly better shape than the rest of the estate. True, one of the walls had collapsed entirely, the rest were in none too upright shape. But the ceiling, that breathtaking arch of cunningly wrought stone, still spanned the top of the building, and the sacred alter - crafted of snowy marble now marred with streaks of brackish mold - still stood firm. 

Behind the altar, a door led to a room which was still mostly intact. It was here that the priests, in those long ago days, stored their robes of office... and if rumor would have it, also conducted rites involving blood and sacrifice that had nothing to do with Holy Communion. Another door at the back of this room opened into a stone staircase that led down into the Dragomir crypt. It was here that I would seek Irina. 

I left Mignon tethered to a bush, where she was well content to nibble on the lush grass. Fumbling with my tinderbox, I eventually got my candle stub alight. Shielding the frail flame with my hand, I picked my way carefully into the chapel, not wishing to take a tumble over any of the scattered debris. 

There was a small wooden door; despite the years of neglect as well as the fire that had destroyed the castle long before my birth, the wood was still strong and firm. I opened the door and discovered that it could be barred from the inside. This I did as a matter of course; I do not know why I should have done this, only that since locking doors had become my habit to protect privacy and secrets, I hauled the stout oak beam into its iron braces with scarcely a thought before continuing on my way. 

As I crept my way down the crumbling stairs into the crypt, small stones rolled and skittered beneath my feet. Cobwebs clung to my face and hair like ghostly fingers but I pressed on. Finally, at the bottom, the narrow space opened up into a vast, underground vault; the tombs of the Dragomir ancestors - huge marble sarcophagi adorned with Gothic flourishes, scrolls, beasts and effigies of their proud, blind faces - lined up on either side of an arrow straight hallway that disappeared into the distance. 

It was but the work of a few moments to locate Irina's tomb. The top of the marble box had been carved into a perfect likeness; it seemed that she rested on her stone bed with a small contented smile. I called to her, my voice echoing hollowly; there was no reply. Sticking my candle into its own grease on a close-by tomb, I picked up a fist-sized rock and banged on the lid, calling Irina again and again. My efforts were not met with success; if she was there, she was not answering me. 

Depressed and shivering, clammy and damp from the unhealthy atmosphere of the crypt, I let my rock fall to the floor and wrapped my shawl more closely about my shoulders. I stood there, gazing at the stone Irina's face. My fingers reached out involuntarily, tracing the line of her unmoving cheek, caressing those cold, marble lips. 

Suddenly, I felt a hand grip my arm; I shrieked, flailing about, and knocked over the candle. 

I was plunged into darkness with an unknown assailant! 

"Gabriella? What are you doing here?" 

I drew in a great shuddering breath, almost weeping with relief at the sound of that familiar voice. "Irina!" I exclaimed, turning around and coming into contact with that fragrant, pliant body I knew so well. "Oh, I am glad to see you!" 

There was a sizzle, then a flash, and the candle shed its feeble light once more. Irina stood before me, the tinderbox dangling limply from one of her hands. "Why are you here?" she repeated, flinging the tinderbox away. It struck her tomb with a clatter and I involuntarily flinched. 

I gazed into those impossibly blue eyes and melted. That is the only way to describe the sensation that flooded my bones and blood with languorous warmth and a longing like an ache that only one opiate could ease. Irina! Boldly, I embraced her, my face tilted up, begging for a kiss. 

She obliged eagerly, her crimson lips traveling over my face and throat, burning the sensitive flesh like embers. I sighed happily, content to be within the circle of her arms once more. 

Irina put her mouth close to my ear and said, "Gabriella... what has happened? I told you to wait." 

The plot!

Hastily, stumbling over my words, I outlined what I had overheard, the calculations I had made. When I finished, tears ran down my face. "What will we do?," I asked, desperate for a solution to what seemed an insurmountable problem. "They want to kill you!" 

Irina laughed. Her slender fingers caressed my loosened hair, my back, my shoulders. I leaned against her, arms wrapped around her waist, my head cradled on the softness of her bosom, still weeping but hopeful that now we were together, we could somehow find a way to make everything right again. 

Suddenly, she wound a fistful of my hair into a painful knot and jerked my head backward. Her eyes glowed like pale flames. "Do you still love me?" she asked fiercely. 

I gasped out, "Yes! Yes! With all my heart and soul!" 

She released me with a painful kiss; her sharp teeth drawing a trickle of blood from my lip. "You know what I am, what you will have to become." Irina searched my face, seeking signs of revulsion or disgust. She found none; I was eager - oh God! you cannot know how eager! - to leave my poor and lonely life and join my destiny with hers. 

I could do no better than quote her own words back to her. "Love requires sacrifices," I said. "And there is no sacrifice without blood." 

I drew my finger across my bloodied lip and held it out to her. "Do what you must," I continued solemnly. "Death holds no fear for me, so long as I am with you." 

Gently, she drew my finger into her mouth and sucked the blood from it, her tongue sweeping it clean in long, sensuous strokes that left me trembling in every limb. I kept my eyes riveted on hers; you could not have pulled me away from my beloved Irina had you used a team of cart horses. 

She said quickly, almost thoughtlessly, "We will have to flee immediately afterward. I have booked us passage on a ship that is bound for America; we will travel to Bucharest by coach and thence to Varna, catching the ship at the port. Then..." Irina broke off and looked at me again; I thought I detected something in her face, something I had not seen before. 

I looked carefully, for I had attuned myself to Irina's every nuance and gesture. Was what I saw there true? 

Yes... I was sure of it. 

The expression that haunted her beautiful face was... fear. 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Why are you afraid, dear Irina?" I asked. 

She abruptly tore herself from my embrace and stood a little ways apart, panting. 

"What is the matter, darling?" I said, desperate to soothe whatever troubled her mind. "Are you angry that I came to you so suddenly? I had to, don't you understand?" 

Irina shook her head violently; strands of black hair tumbled across her white face. She looked at me with something approaching horror dawning in her eyes. "Gabrielle...," she whispered. "Tereza... my lost ones..." 

To my extreme consternation, I saw a single tear begin to track its way down her cheek. It was dark red; I realized it must be blood. No wonder she had hidden her face from me in the garden after she had been injured by the peasant's hymn that day! 

"Irina, please tell me what is the matter?" I exclaimed. I extended my hands towards her and started forward, but she drew back, gesturing that I should remain where I was. 

"No!" she choked. "Please... I can't bear it. I can't!" 

I was confused and hurt by her protests. Why should she now reject me? Did we not belong - in the truest, most infinite sense - to one another? 

"You are so like her!" Irina said. More dark and bloody tears bathed her face and she wiped them away impatiently with her sleeve. "Your hair is the same shade of golden red; I used to compare Tereza's to the crackling flames of the hearth. Your eyes the same sunny green. Your face, your body... even your hearts beat to the same rhythm! Your flesh bears her scent... if you only knew how much I have longed to bathe myself in that wonderful, spicy fragrance! A hundred and fifty years I have waited, despairing that I would ever find you; creating plan after plan, using every ounce of intelligence and cunning that I have learned down through the years, so that having been reunited with you at last... I would never lose you again. And now I cannot!" she wailed, sinking to her knees. 

I did not understand her outburst; I thought that perhaps in her absence, she had compared me to her lost Tereza and found the girl Gabriella wanting. I sobbed desperately, "I love you, Irina! Is that not enough?" 

Irina looked up at me in despair. "I love you, Gabriella." She held out her hands. "I cannot damn you as I have been damned. I cannot condemn you to this half life. I will not! No... you must leave. Now! Return home. I will go away, far away..." Her voice trailed off and she stared at me. 

I could read her soul through those impossibly blue eyes. I saw fear and despair; I also saw passion and raw hunger, but most of all, I could see the love she bore for me reflected there like a beacon, drawing me to her as a storm-wracked ship follows that night-shattering light to the safety of harbor and home. 

I sank down to my knees in front of her; with my own hands I unpinned my shawl and cast it aside. Then I loosened the bodice of my gown, letting it fall around my waist. Kneeling there, I said, "Don't deny me, Irina. It's too late for that. Our love transcends all boundaries; even time and death itself could not keep us apart! How can you presume to do so? I know my heart and my will is made up. My dearest... take my blood, take my life, my soul, my very existence, take it all! Do with it what you will! I have been yours from the beginning;  there is no part of me that you have not touched and changed. You claimed me once with a kiss; kiss me again and let us be together... forever." 

She looked at me; I could see questions and denials in her eyes. But she shook her head; clasping my hands and drawing me closer to her, Irina said, "I kissed you here, once," and pointed to my breast, to the tiny wound that had already healed, leaving behind a pair of silvery pinprick scars. 

I nodded and she continued, "If I kiss you truly, on the throat..." She cleared her throat, seeming uncomfortable. I remained silent but tried with all my might to project understanding and acceptance. 

At last, she continued, "Well, you must know all; it would not be fair to keep anything back from you now. I have already told you how a vampyr makes another of its kind, by draining its victim to the brink of death before allowing them to swallow some of its own blood. To do that, I must feed" - she stressed this word, I think, to make sure I understood precisely what would happen - "from your throat. Once I taste that rich stream, there will be no going back. You understand this, Gabriella? The scent and taste of that blood will bring all my predatory instincts to the fore; I will have to battle mightily against those instincts in order to stop in time. You will not be able to change your mind in the middle; if you struggle, I might kill you without conscious thought. Do you understand?" 

I averted my eyes and whispered, "Yes." 

Her hand reached out and caught my chin; raising my face so that my eyes met hers, she said again, "Do you truly understand, Gabriella? Are you absolutely sure? If you have any doubts or fears... well, now is the time to voice them." 

"You kissed me here before," I said, indicating my breast, "because you did not want to kill me?" 

"Yes." Irina leaned forward and said softly, "As a vampyr, all humans are prey to me. They will become so to you as well. Are you strong enough for this kind of life? Can you bear it?" 

"If I am with you, I can bear anything," I replied with the bravado of youth. 

Her eyes glittered in the feeble candlelight; she drew her lips back from her teeth, exposing two thin, needle-sharp fangs. "There will be pain; death will lay his icy grip on your heart and you will feel yourself slipping away. Your breath will falter; a cold mist will seem to gather, stealing away all the warmth of your life." 

I swallowed and said bravely, "And when I wake, I will be as you are now?" 

"You will." Irina pulled me into her lap, nestling me close to her. Her mouth touched my ear and she whispered, "I cannot deny you, Gabriella. I love you so..." She brushed a stray lock of hair away from my neck. 

I looked up and touched her beautiful face with the palm of my hand. "I am not afraid, my beloved. This is what I want with all my heart - to be with you forever. If I must die to live, then kill me sweetly; let me breathe my last breath into your mouth, knowing that there is no heaven or hell... only Irina." 

"You are sure?" 

"Everything I am is your possession." I kissed her slender hand. "I have never been so certain of a thing in my entire life. Make me entirely yours, dear one. Drink of my life and love, feast upon my bones and make a bonfire of my heart! Take me so deep within yourself that we will truly be one mind, one soul. My love for you is too great, too all consuming; it runs too hot and boldly for one girl's body to contain. To be at your side throughout eternity - I can conceive of no better fate!" 

Irina sighed as well. "Gabriella... do you know what you ask of me? You will die..." 

"Yes!" I sat up a bit, flinging an arm about her neck. "I will die in your arms and you will rebuild me in your image. What is death but a little sleep? What is life but an inevitable journey towards a single destination - death! I cannot live without you, Irina. So I must die for you. Can you not see the logic in that?" 

"I never dared dream this moment would come," she said slowly, hope beginning to dawn in her marvelous eyes. She looked at me with a kind of wonder. "There is no love without sacrifice," Irina said. 

"And there is no sacrifice without blood," I concluded. My heart swelled with triumph; I would be hers at last! 

I fancied her fingers trembled a little as she pushed my head to the side. One of her hands held my chin firmly; the other curled around mine and squeezed gently, careful not to dig in with her razor sharp nails. I grasped her fingers and held on, drawing in a breath and screwing up my eyes. My heart pounded; I felt clammy sweat spring out on my brow and trickle down my naked shoulders. 

She kissed me with those crimson lips; each touch was a glowing brand imprinted upon my flesh. I whimpered, I quivered, I panted with suspense and need. I was spread out before her like a feast and I eagerly waited for her to devour me entirely. 

Suddenly, I felt those needle-like teeth dent the skin of my throat. 

With an effort, I held myself still, although my first primeval instinct was to flinch away. She paused, waiting for my reaction. 

I knew that this was the moment; all of our arguments were passed. Irina was granting me a final opportunity to withhold myself, to turn back from this perilous course. 

Instead of pushing her away - as she obviously expected me to - I let myself to limp; putting a hand to the back of her head, I pushed down, encouraging her to feed. 

This was the signal she had been waiting for. Now sure of my acceptance, all doubts erased and answered, my beloved Irina nuzzled and kissed the sensitive skin at my throat... 

And I nearly screamed at the sheer, undeniable pleasure when her fangs drove into me, piercing not only my flesh... but also my soul.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Although I have, over the years, attempted to recall those precise moments when Irina possessed me fully for the first - and last - time... I cannot. The whole episode seems to me a gigantic dream, a hallucinatory vision of blurred images with flashes of meaningless clarity; a place where vivid colors evoked the music of the spheres. I floated in a vast ocean of alternately caressing waves and angrily lashing seas; I froze and burned as pallid, ghostly flames licked across every inch of my sensitive flesh. I breathed the sanctified perfume of Heaven and was bathed in the brimstone stench of Hell. Above all, I felt as if my life were a slender silver cord, once stretched taut and anchoring me to this world, now increasingly unraveled and picked apart by Irina's blood-drenched touch. 

All at once, in the midst of my transports of ecstasy and bone-numbing agony, I seemed to feel a conflict, some disturbance that rippled and twisted like a saw edged blade, suddenly tearing me away from my dream. I resisted with all my strength, clinging to that comforting, all encompassing mist which slowly but surely slipped through my fingers like wisps of thinning smoke. I whimpered, opening my eyes with an effort that left me gasping for breath... and saw Irina. 

She stared down at me, pale eyes wide and glazed; other than the scarlet gore that bathed her chin, her face was absolutely colorless. "No...," she whispered in a voice so full of grieving madness that my heart ached. 

Suddenly, she lifted her head, cords standing out in her neck. Her mouth worked violently; it seemed that she choked on some raw passion that had crawled up from the depths of her soul and was pounding frantically for release. I was paralyzed, incapable of moving or uttering a protest, but I watched her as she struggled. 

At last, when I feared she would die if her inner agony was not released, she threw back her head and howled in tragedy, despair and insane, fruitless longing - "Noooooo!!!!!" 

The reverberations of that wild, chilling scream of denial rang hollowly again and again, the stone walls of the crypt tossing back the sound back until it was deafening. My bones vibrated from the sheer force of Irina's cry and I felt tears spring to my eyes. 

"What is it?" I asked when all was quiet once more. "Why have you...?" 

Irina looked down at me once again. Her hair straggled across her face; her eyes were dimmed by sadness, a fertile melancholy that spoke eloquently of emptiness and ashes, of a life once full of promise suddenly destroyed, turned to ghostly embers and thin shadows; a pale echo of what was and can never be again. 

"No," Irina repeated dully, turning her face away. "I will not wrong you as I was wronged. I can't steal that bright innocence of yours; I will not be the thief of your life. I could not do that to Tereza; I will not do it to you." She pushed me off her lap and rose; her shoulders slumped, her entire posture indicating defeat and unconditional surrender. 

I did not understand; I felt weak and dizzy; although I had little strength in my arms, I struggled to push myself up. "Why?" I sobbed. "Why?" 

She looked at me solemnly. The brilliant flame of personality that had once surrounded her, drawing me as a moth to candlelight, was extinguished, snuffed out; all her grace was gone. In its place was a wooden caricature that resembled my beloved Irina but was, to my eye and perception, a gloomy stranger. 

"Why?" Irina repeated, parroting me. 

She began to pace back and forth; as she moved and talked, to my relief she seemed to gather back some of her old languorous energy; she began to shine once more. "Because I love you, you fool!" she raged, eyes flashing passionately. "I love you too much to watch you die! I love you too much to condemn you to living death!" 

I wept in disappointment; I am ashamed to say that I behaved like a child denied its favorite sweet. "But Irina!" I cried weakly. "Please!" 

"Do not!" she almost screamed in reply, covering her ears. "Do not implore me! Can't you understand how hard it is? How difficult for me to endure?" 

While I wept, she continued in a softer tone, "I will not see you become what I am... I cannot endure seeing you so debased; it would kill me. Oh, Gabriella... you must live - you must! The only life I have is through you; the only light in my eternal darkness is the brilliance of you; my sole reason for existence, my one hope and prayer, my impossible dream. You must live, my love... or else I must die." 

I sobbed, feeling very much alone and unloved; I felt cheated, as if I had been forced to lose something very precious and dear - which I had. 

She knelt down beside me. Through my tears, I could see that she had wiped the blood - my blood! - from her face. "My darling, my dearest love, my own," she said, gathering me into her arms and holding me tightly. 

After she had soothed me for a little while and my wild storm of tears diminished, she said softly, "We can be together, Gabriella." 

I hiccuped, swiping at my wet face with the sleeve of my gown. "What is that?" I asked; hope warred with cynical disappointment in my breast. 

"I must be the one who dies," she replied simply. 

I gasped in horror. I reeled. Irina dead? 

No!! Never!! 

Not while I still had life and breath! 

For I knew that I could not live without my beloved Irina. 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I was immediately galvanized by sheer, desperate terror; grasping her shoulders, I exclaimed wildly, "No! No! I will never consent to that! Irina... tell me you don't mean it! Please!" 

"I do." She kissed me lightly and stroked stray locks of hair from my forehead. "It is the only way, Gabriella." 

She shook her head sadly against my denials and continued, "Listen to me... listen!" 

I muttered, "We could still go away together... I would live anywhere so long as it was by your side." 

"No, my love," Irina said. "You would eventually grow to hate me; for you, time marches in an inexorable beat, bringing with him the promise of old age. I am eternally young; that is part of my curse. I cannot grow old with you; you would eventually envy my youth and become bitter." 

"But why?" I asked, already feeling bitterness and some anger warming my veins. "Why must you die?" 

"It is the only way we can be together. Gabriella... I cannot endure another century or more waiting endlessly for you and having to bear this agony again. I hate this unrestful half life of mine!" 

She rubbed her temples and sighed. "All this time, I have carried on, enduring the endless round of slaughter and blood, the never ending hunger that drives me to kill. Yes, kill! I am a foul murderer, a creature that brings nothing but horror and death in her wake. I have endured a waking nightmare, only remaining in this horrible existence in the hope of finding you. Well, to make you as I am is impossible; I will not do it! Our only recourse now is if I die... then I will be released, free at last from my nightmare, free to be reborn with you in the fullness of time... free to reunite with you in some other, happier life." 

Some other life? Abruptly, I remembered what she had told me before; that we were two separate souls with but one destiny, and that our fate was to be together in life after life, time and time again, in a never ceasing cycle of death and rebirth. 

To Irina, the solution to our problem was simple. To me, however, it was appalling. 

I could not accept it. I pleaded and begged; I abased myself shamelessly. But she was stronger than I; Irina was crafted of pure cut-steel, inflexible and adamantine in the face of my tears. At last, when my childish outburst had ceased, she said, "You must decide, Gabriella. Quickly. There is not much time. I can hear them already..." 

"Whatever do you mean?" 

"Listen." 

I strained my ears; all I could hear at first was the faint moaning of some chill breeze, the skittering of rat's claws down the dark stone corridor. But all at once, I made out something else. Faint and high, barely discernible, the sound filtered down into the crypt from the ruins of the castle above. I shivered when I recognized that call: "Gabriella! Gabriella!" 

It was my father's voice. 

I looked at Irina in pure panic. "They have missed me and come searching!" I cried. "Oh, what will we do?" 

"You have a difficult choice," she replied calmly. "They will come here looking for us, you know that. There is no place for me to flee, no escape. They have come in force with many men; I can defend myself against them but they will eventually overpower me. You know what they will do to me... you heard them yourself." 

"Yes," I acknowledged miserably. "They want to kill you. I won't let them!" 

"You cannot fight them all," Irina said reasonably. 

Even now, I marvel at her strength, her calm acceptance. I think she welcomed that unexpected threat; if I could not perform the action to release her soul, these determined men would take the decision out of my hands and end it once and for all. 

"Either you do it or they will!" she said fiercely, gripping my shoulders and shaking me a little. "I will either die by the hand of love or by the hand of hate, but I will die this night! Gabriella... release me, I beg you! If you truly love me, give me peace!" 

I was shaken; I did not know what to do. I sat there, listening as the men's agitated voices grew clearer; I heard the distinct crunching as they battered on the barred crypt door. 

Irina gazed at me as I sat in frozen silence. Then, she kissed me once more and murmured, "Very well. Let them do what you cannot. I'm sure they come prepared for the worst. For your sake, I will not fight them; there has been enough death and ruin. I will go quietly and die as befitting a Dragomir." 

Even through my daze, I recognized the quiet pride in her voice. I think it was this more than anything else that finally shook me free from the grip of paralyzed inaction. 

"No," I said, at last accepting the inevitability of our situation. The maelstrom of doubt, anger and denial was finally gone; in its place was a sort of icy calm that muffled my wilder emotions. I would do as she asked; there was no other choice. I, too, was descended from the House of Dragomir, though that connection was feeble at best. Still, something of their nobility and pride must have been sleeping in my blood, for I roused myself and discovered the steel in my spine, the martial warrior spirit that throbbed in rhythm with my heart. 

"I will do it," I continued, kissing her. "Come; tell me what is to be done." 

"Are you strong enough?" she asked. 

I could hear the crypt door giving way beneath the men's frantic battering. My father called, "Gabriella! Hold on, my child! We are coming!" 

I looked at Irina. "I will be strong enough!" I insisted fiercely. "I must!" 

She scrabbled in the folds of her gown and withdrew a wooden statuette from a hidden pocket. It was carved into my likeness; the lines of my face were so clear and distinct that I was momentarily astonished. "It is Tereza," Irina explained. She touched the lips of the figure reverently. "I have kept it with me all these years... to remind me of what I lost and what I hoped to regain." 

The men's voices were getting louder; the clattering of their boots upon the stone staircase seemed like angry thunderclaps. 

Sudden determination swept across her features and Irina slapped the statuette down upon the stone floor; it split in half with a sharp crack. She was now left with two horizontal pieces, one of which came to a wicked point. 

Handing me the sharp stake she had made, Irina said, "You must drive it into my heart. It is the only way." 

She draped herself across my lap, her long dark hair spilling around my legs. I placed the sharp point of the stake on her breast, above her heart. She clasped her hands over mine in encouragement. 

I sweated; it seemed like I was bleeding inside from a mortal wound. My stomach cramped, my heart hurt with such bitter agonies that I felt faint. But I steeled myself by looking into her marvelous eyes and seeing love and quiet acceptance reflected in those pale depths. 

Honey-gold beams of torchlight intruded into the darkness of the crypt; the men shouted, "We are almost there! Hurry!" 

We were out of time. 

I bent my head and kissed Irina one last time, savoring the coppery taste of her crimson lips, wishing I could merge my soul with hers and never be without her again. "No love without sacrifice," I said, kissing the corner of her mouth, feeling her body tremble. 

Her hands wrapped themselves more tightly about mine. She whispered, "No sacrifice without blood. I love you, Gabriella. Always." 

I could feel warm tears cascading down my face but my voice was firm. "I love you, Irina. Now and forever. Wait for me; it will only be a little while until we meet again." 

She nodded; a single dark and bloody tear slid across her perfect cheek. "Release me," she choked. "Give me peace." 

"You will live in my heart; I will never forget you. Be free, my beloved," I sobbed, "Be free at last..." 

And with all my strength plunged the makeshift stake straight into her heart. 

Irina gasped; her body spasmed and I held her. Her eyes dimmed, the light slowly fading and turning to darkness. With her last breath, she said, "Thank... you..." and then after a pause, "Oh! it's so beautiful..." 

Then she went limp, the unnatural forces that had kept her alive were blown away, leaving only a husk behind. My beloved Irina was gone; she had finally found the peace she had sought for so long. 

And she left me alone - so very terribly alone! - with only the remembrance of love to sustain me in the dark years to come. 

I closed her eyes and held her, rocking back and forth, weeping with desperation and loss, as the men flooded the crypt with torchlight and confused shouting, scattering all the shadows away. 

They had to pry me away from her body; I numbly watched them desecrate her, striking off her head and burning the remains, scattering the ashes into the river. 

I stood there, allowing the ashes and embers to swirl around me, breathing in the smoke as if I could somehow recapture the magic that was my lost Irina. 

I wept and they did not understand why. 

I grieved and they called it "hysteria." 

Oh, those foolish, foolish men... 

They could never comprehend the beauty, the majesty, the nobility and pride... the sheer breadth and depth of melancholy tragedy and heartbreaking loss that was my Irina. 

EPILOGUE

Twelve years have passed since the night I killed the woman I love. 

I love her still; I will never recover from that loss. 

To the peasants hereabouts, I am a hero. To the men who came to rescue me that night - Father, Baron Grosskopf, Uncle Alexandru and the others - the tableaux they had seen had but one explanation. Having fallen beneath the vampyr's spell, I had made my way to her crypt in a sort of trance. Coming to my senses at the moment of her attack, I somehow found the strength and courage to beat her off and kill her before she could complete her bloody deed. My reactions afterward were the result of shock and horror at the trauma I had been forced to endure. 

They called me a brave girl; they toasted me with champagne and showered me with congratulations and compliments. 

I told you they could never understand. 

The true nature of the events I have kept to myself; although it hurt me beyond measure to hear my love described as a "monster" and a "damned creature from Hell," I remained silent. Let them believe what they wished; in my heart, the truth lived and sang with every breath I took. 

The fools.

It does not matter any longer. For twelve years I have lived a solitary and lonely existence, here in the schloss where I was born. Father died a few months after Irina; his poor heart never recovered from the exertions of that night. I refused the many offers of friends to come and stay with them; I would rather live here, where the stone walls have absorbed Irina's memory, where I can sit in the garden beneath the lightning blasted oak and dream of her. 

But, as I said, it does not matter. The doctors have told me that it will not be long now; the growth they detected months ago will surely kill me before the year is out. 

I once lived for life; now I live for death, waiting patiently for the moment when I draw my final, feeble breath and sink down into the welcome embrace of oblivion. 

For I know that when death does come, it will not be an angel whose soft footsteps I hear coming ever closer; it will not be a croaking raven or the shade of some departed relative who will guide my sleeping soul to what lies beyond. No... when that moment comes, I know that I will look up with eyes that are already hazed and dimming... 

I will look up and see the beautiful face of my beloved Irina smiling down on me, her hand outstretched and waiting for a glorious embrace that will at last reunite two lost souls into the destiny of perfect, everlasting love that should have been theirs all along. 

THE END

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CHAPTER ONE

The woman was driving east from Beaumont, making for Lafayette and hoping to get there before dawn. Her meeting had run late; she'd expected to be on the road by nine o'clock and now it was nearly midnight.

The road she'd chosen - an old and nearly forgotten stretch of blacktop optimistically built in the 1950's during the highway boom - was two lanes of empty, limitless darkness that stretched on and on, interrupted only by the occasional marker sign that proclaimed "Welcome to the John C. Cofflin Highway 13 - Proud to Serve the Louisiana Community Since 1956."

Personally, the woman thought they could have served her better by putting up some lights, dammit, the road was a deathtrap especially on rainy nights when visibility was nil; traffic - what little of it there was - had to cross over two bridges, neither of which had been built to accommodate anything broader than an anorexic VW.

If you slipped, it was a long drop straight down to Bayou Nezpique and into the welcoming arms of smiling, sharp-toothed gators. She'd heard stories about some of the grisly accidents that had taken place on Highway 13. The locals - and she was one of them - called it Coffin Alley, a play on the official designation of what was little more than a backcountry road.

But Coffin Alley was more convenient than the backed up, clogged, frustratingly busy mainstream arteries that were full of drunk drivers, assholes and people with more gall than common sense. Better to take the long, scenic route; the night was clear, the moon was out and the worst she could look for was running over a turtle.

She hadn't seen another car since coming onto Coffin Alley and that suited her right down to the ground. It was summer and muggy as hell; she stomped on the gas, cranked down the windows and drove fast enough to blow blood-hungry mosquitoes right back into the swamp.

The radio was blasting - Do You Love Her Madly by the Doors - and she was feeling mighty damn good, no worries, big fat order of computer hardware that was going to feed the mortgage... all in all, very much worth the trouble of driving all the way to Beaumont and doing a personal demonstration of her company's goods to a roomful of ignorant, suspicious businessmen who might have learned their negotiating skills from the cast of "Deliverance."

Xena Bonchance shook her long dark hair and pushed the wild, wind-blown locks out of her face impatiently. Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel in time to the music; her pale blue eyes were narrowed against the continual blast of warm, humid air that brought with it the scents of decay, murky green rot and stagnant water.

She had just safely crossed over the second bridge, an unnamed chunk of rusting steel and concrete that arced over the tail end of Bayou Nezpique, and was already anticipating a hot bath, a glass of whiskey and her warm bed. Xena hummed along with the radio - this time, it was Sympathy for the Devil by the Rolling Stones - and relaxed, slouching down in the leather covered seat, guiding the old Chevrolet with bare touches of her hands and a well placed knee.

Lights piercing the suffocating darkness, illuminating the pitted asphalt road, gnarled trees that were swagged with dripping fringes of Spanish moss, the thick underbrush peppered with small glowing eyes of nocturnal animals, the girl in the white dress standing in the middle of the road...

Girl??!

Shit!!

Xena slammed on the brakes and wrenched the wheel around, knowing even as she did so it was too late. She braced herself for impact, already anticipating a hideous crunch as the heavy old car ground the girl's body to splintered hamburger or, miracle of miracles, missed the suicidal bitch and instead hurtled into a tree.

No time for action just reaction. Brief flashes of vision careened through her mind - the girl's white face, those wide green eyes - as she struggled with the wheel, each second flowing past with supernatural speed and yet at the same time seeming to linger. The car wobbled, thought about skidding into a spin, then lurched to a halt almost reluctantly, engine ticking over in a scolding cadence that could scarcely be heard over the pounding of Xena's pulse.

 Xena panted; the world was suddenly very, very quiet except for the Chevy's engine and the creaking chirp of love-stricken frogs calling to one another in the swamp just beyond the road. She shook her head, peeling her fingers slowly off the steering wheel, and tried to gather back the shattered fragments of the last several seconds.

Then as her heart began to slow and the world steadied in its course, she remembered something, that vital memory slamming back into her whirling mind with the force of a sledgehammer.

The girl!

Xena scrabbled at the door handle, finally managing to get the damned thing open and vaulted out onto the road, staggering and nearly falling in her haste. Pure instinct made her reach for the flashlight she carried under the seat and she flicked it on; the bright, pure light caused her to flinch, as if she were somehow intruding on the alien stillness of the night..

Almost afraid to look but knowing she had to - no choice! - the tall woman cautiously made her way back down the dark road, eyes wide and searching the underbrush for... what? A swath of blood splattered white cloth? A broken body flung like a ragdoll and lying limp, accusing eyes turned up to heaven? Or worse, a battered wreck of a human being, miles away from medical assistance, who'd die in her arms...

Hardly breathing, Xena strained her eyes and ears, knowing she'd seen a girl (flash of powder pale face, green eyes, white dress) directly in front of her car, illuminated at the last second against the midnight darkness.

Half of her was afraid of what she'd find, the other half knew she just couldn't turn her back and run. If there was any chance at all that the girl was still alive - and she hadn't felt an impact though God knew the whole accident happened so fast it was almost a blur - then she'd stay and keep searching until she was sure, one way or the other.

Xena was so intent on her own thoughts that when she felt a light touch on her shoulder, she leaped backwards several inches with a yelping scream. "Aiiii!"

A pale form swam up out of the darkness; Xena trained her flashlight on it, the yellow beam bobbing up and down with jerky flashes as her hand trembled violently.

It was the girl, standing there in her white dress, staring gravely with those luminous green eyes at the tall quivering woman.

Xena swallowed and pressed her free hand to her thumping heart. Two scares in one night was two friggin' many! "Jesus Christ!," she blurted, feeling beads of warm sweat rolling down the back of her neck and soaking her shirt. "Ya okay? I saw ya back there and thought... Jesus! You scared the shit outta me, cher!"

The girl's lips - was it the flashlight or were they as pale as the rest of her face? - curved upwards in a slight melancholy smile. "I been waitin' for somebody," she replied in a breathy little voice.

Xena frowned; that voice seemed to echo hollowly, as if the speaker was communicating from the bottom of a well. She didn't remember hitting her head but... well, accidents sometimes did strange things. If her hearing didn't clear up on its own, she'd go see Doc Lesombre.

She looked the girl up and down; she didn't seem to be injured. "Ya doin' okay, cher? I musta just missed ya."

The girl nodded. "I'm all right," she said in a Cajun drawl; that musical trace of slurred French in her accent was a dead giveaway. "I been waitin' for somebody," she repeated.

Xena wiped her face with the back of her hand. "Hotter'n hell," she mumbled. "Listen, cher. C'mon back to my car and sit down, okay? Lemme make sure ya ain't hurt or nothin'."

Demurely, the girl followed Xena back to the car and allowed the taller woman to settle her inside.

Xena took her first good look at the mysterious Cajun girl. Her all-white dress was off the shoulder, sweetheart neckline, with a broadly pleated skirt that was ballooned out further by at least a half dozen stiffly starched crinolines. Definitely old fashioned; in fact, the dress reminded Xena of something her mother had worn to her high school prom back in the 50's.

The girl's hair - which seemed in the dim light of the car's interior to be a sort of ruddy blonde - had been pinned back in a simple chignon, and an orchid corsage was fastened to the broad chiffon swell of her bodice. The girl seemed shy; answered Xena's questions in as few words as possible, kept her extraordinary green eyes lowered and didn't look at the taller woman if she could help it.

After ascertaining that the girl had no physical injury that she could detect, Xena asked, "What ya doin' here in the middle of the night, cher? Little thing all by yourself could get in trouble."

That faint smile again. "I been waitin' for somebody," she said enigmatically for the third time.

Xena impatiently blew a lock of black hair out of her face. "Okay, okay, whatever ya say, cher." She had been squatting down in the road by the open passenger door, checking the strange girl for scrapes, cuts or even grass stains. Nothing; the white satin was as spotless as the gloves that covered the girl's hands to the wrists.

"What's your name?" Xena asked, suddenly aware that they were two strangers on a lonely road and nobody else was likely to introduce them. "I'm Xena Bonchance, president of Bonchance Hardware Ltd."

The girl offered her hand; Xena grasped it gently and gasped. Even through the glove, the girl's hand was so cold it might have been carved of ice. "Gabrielle St. Martin," she said.

"Well, Gabrielle," the dark haired woman said, delicately squeezing the girl's hand, "Can I drop ya someplace? I hate to leave ya in the middle of nowhere; it's a long way to the nearest town and lemme tell ya, it ain't safe for a young girl to be out here all by her lonesome."

For the first time since they'd met, Gabrielle looked directly at Xena; that emerald gaze seemed to be searching, probing strongly for something indefinable, a sharp and penetrating glance that cut all the way down to the bone and exposed the soul.

Xena felt uncomfortable and squirmed a little, but Gabrielle's inspection didn't last long. Whatever she was looking for, she apparently found it; Gabrielle settled herself down more firmly in the seat and said, "Take me home."

The tall woman closed the passenger door and walked around the car, noting absently that several moths were flying in ecstatic loops, entranced by the bright beam from the car's headlights.

Once more behind the wheel, Xena flashed her passenger a bright smile. "So, whatcha doin' all the way out here, cher? You live in Bayou Nezpique or somethin'?"

Gabrielle nodded. "For a long time," she said in her musical lilt.

Xena started the car and was relieved that the engine turned over. Her old Chevrolet might have been a gas guzzling land yacht, but it was still a hell of a lot more reliable than those pieces of imported fiberglass crap-on-wheels most people drove.

"Where can I drop ya?" she asked, putting her foot on the gas and picking up some speed.

The girl was silent for a moment and simply stared out of the windshield. Then she replied, "I'll tell you when we get there, if you don't mind."

Xena's ebony brows drew together in a frown but she decided not to comment. Privately, she thought Miss St. Martin must be from a Cajun family, probably swamp dwellers; very proud, extremely independent. That dress the girl was wearing... must've belonged to her mother, Xena thought.

"Ya been out dancin', cher?" the dark haired woman asked. "Pretty dress; white suits ya."

Gabrielle sat straight up in her seat, her gloved hands folded in her lap. "I was out dancin' with my boyfriend," she answered after a pause.

"So where's this boyfriend of yours, huh? How come he ain't drivin' ya home?"

Gabrielle stared straight ahead, looking neither left nor right. "He left me," she said unhappily.

Xena nearly stomped on the brake. Her indignation was such that she struggled to speak; finally, she sputtered, "What the hell...? Ya mean the dirty bastard left ya out here in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere and just took off? Sunnuva bitch!" Her mouth worked and she fought the urge to spit out of the window.

This time, Gabrielle looked at Xena; her wide green eyes were sad and glistened with what might have been tears. "He hurt me," she said.

"What?!!" Xena couldn't help it; she was so pissed off that her hair was nearly standing on end. She reached over and switched off the radio, cutting off Led Zeppelin in mid-guitar riff. "Whatcha mean, he hurt ya? What 'd he do, cher?"

Gabrielle didn't answer; instead, she turned her gaze back to the windshield and remained silent.

Xena didn't know what to say; her heart bled for the girl, even though she'd just met her. There was something familiar about her, a touch of deja vu that kept insisting she knew Gabrielle even though they'd just met. There was a sense of vulnerability about the petite redhead; a melancholy vibration that roused all her protective instincts and made her want to rescue the girl from the world.

Strange, all things considered, but there it was. Sometimes you met a person and something immediately clicked.

Xena said more gently, "Look, ya don't wanna talk about it, that's okay. I don't know nothin' about it, but I tell ya, cher, any boy that hurts ya and leaves ya alone like that can't be no good. Ain't my business but there it is."

Gabrielle didn't say a word but Xena noticed a silvery tear glistening as it slid down her pale cheek.

The dark haired woman sighed. "I gotta tell ya, I had my trouble with men, too. Give up on 'em, in fact. Guess I ain't cut out to deal with all the bullshit."

She gave a nervous laugh. "Anyhow... I dunno why I'm tellin' ya this, but I finally figured out I like girls better. Fact is, I'm a woman who loves women, if ya get my meanin'. Ain't found a grand passion yet but I keep lookin'. Ain't givin' up, either. There's somebody out there for me, I know it; I'm just waitin' for her to come along."

Gabrielle's head turned; her emerald gaze focused on the woman beside her. "I been waitin' for somebody, too," she said softly.

"Yeah, cher, so ya said." Xena drove in silence for a moment before continuing, "What's this boyfriend's name?"

"William Lacroix," Gabrielle answered. "We're in school together."

"Uh-huh." Xena knew the boy's name sounded familiar but she couldn't put her finger on why. She'd think about it some more later. "Ya'll go out tonight to dance?"

"Yes." Gabrielle toyed with something in the folds of her skirt; out of the corner of her eye, Xena could see it was a little beaded purse. "He's a popular boy, him. I don't really like him much but I couldn't say no 'cause the other girls'd talk."

"School girls can be a buncha bitches," Xena said. "I say, do what ya feel like doin' and screw what everybody else thinks. Can't run your life worryin' about what folks might say or think about ya; just do it and to hell with 'em. How old are you anyway, cher?"

"Seventeen."

"Well, you're young yet, still a baby. Got a lot to learn about life, I 'spect. How'd this boy hurt ya, cher? Did he say somethin'?" She swallowed but kept her tone casual with an effort. "Do somethin'?"

"He hurt me," Gabrielle repeated.

Xena blew out an impatient breath. Prying answers out of the girl was about as easy as pulling teeth with blunt pliers. "Did he...?" She didn't know how to ask the question delicately and Gabrielle seemed so fragile, she hated to be blunt.

If Gabrielle understood the other woman's hesitation, she didn't acknowledge it. Instead, she turned her face to the side and stared out of the window.

Xena decided to drop it. She figured that Gabrielle probably had girl friends to talk to, maybe somebody in her family. Then again, if she was Catholic - and the probability was high - then that might be a whole 'nother can of worms.

"Ya know, cher, sometimes its easier to talk to a stranger than a friend," Xena began coaxingly.

Suddenly, the girl interrupted and cried urgently, "Stop! Right here!"

There was such fear and deep seated pain in her voice that Xena instinctively obeyed, bringing the car to an immediate halt.

As soon as the car stopped, Gabrielle began fumbling with the door handle, as if she were in a hurry to leave.

"Whoa there, cher! Ya sure this is the right place?" Xena looked around; they were across from the remains of the old Resurrection church; the place had burned down in the '60's and only a shell remained, draped in green-black vines and nearly hidden by weeds. A sagging iron fence outlined the boundaries of a small cemetery next to the church; the stone and brick houses of the dead were falling down, crumbling to bits beneath the onslaught of time and neglect.

Gabrielle nodded. "Thank you," she said breathlessly, finally managing to get the door open and stepping outside. "Thank you so much. I got to get home now."

Xena thought about getting out herself but instead, leaned her head through the open window. "Hey!," she called to the girl, who was walking rapidly away, her pale form barely visible in the darkness. "Be careful, okay? Take care of yourself, cher!"

The last sight she had of the mysterious Gabrielle was a barely visible blur quickly disappearing into the old Resurrection cemetery.

Xena sat there a minute, wondering if she should go after the girl. Finally, she shook her head and drove away; although she felt sorry for Gabrielle - certainly she wished she could've gotten the girl to talk some more about her sorrow and hurt - still, it wasn't her business. She could only wish Gabrielle luck and get on with her own life.

She continued to drive down the lonely highway, lost in thought. Absently, Xena reached out and turned the radio back on. Immediately, she recognized the song that was playing, a Kiss ballad, oddly enough:

"If ever I'd met you... If ever I'd seen you cry... you'll be a hard luck woman, a hard luck woman, baby till you find your man..."

Bubba, Xena thought as the long road stretched out in front of her and she was wrapped in humid darkness, you don't know the half of it.

The night swallowed her up until even the crimson taillights of the old Chevy had faded away; all that was left was the memory of rock n' roll and unspoken regret echoing through the smothering heart of the swampland.

CHAPTER TWO

A week passed...

Xena looked for what was perhaps the hundredth time at the small, beaded purse sitting on her kitchen table. She'd found it in her car after she'd given a lift to Gabrielle, a Cajun girl with whom she'd felt an immediate and inexplicable bond.

She had to go back to Beaumont; the new equipment had been delivered and there were problems that only she could smooth over. Sometimes, she wondered why she'd decided that being her own boss had any appeal; when you were at the top of the business food chain and what should have been a simple installation turned into a flaming FUBAR, there was literally nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

She drained her glass of whiskey and opened the purse again. The first time, she'd been almost afraid of what she'd find; it had also felt as if she expected some heavy hand to descend upon her shoulder and some authority - heavenly or secular - accuse her of theft or worse. Now, with the finesse of long practice, she drew out the purse's contents and examined them once more.

A compact, gold plated brass, the plating almost worn away; a lipstick in a shade of pretty, pale pink, quite appropriate to young ladies - or so Xena's mother would have remarked; a sturdy handkerchief embroidered with the initials "G. St. M."; and a book of matches from a dance club called the Jump'n Jive.

She'd tried looking up the club in the Yellow Pages without much success; a friend of hers had suggested she go to the library and try a reverse directory. Xena hadn't known any such thing existed but she'd taken the advice. The librarian had been quite helpful in explaining how to look up an address and find the phone number of a person or place. Unfortunately, the address wasn't to be found there, either.

Finally, curiosity gnawing incessantly, Xena had driven to the address on the matchbook; it was in a sleepy, slightly shabby little town called Oysterville. It had once been a fairly good-sized and prosperous place, settled in a sheltered cove on the Gulf, where the fishing had been plentiful and a nearby oil derrick had provided jobs and security. A monster wave in '74 had pretty much wiped Oysterville off the map, leaving behind a flooded wreckage of lives and property that had never really recovered.

The sole law officer of Oysterville - a white-haired old man whose hands shook with palsy - had told Xena that the Jump'n Jive had closed down in the '70's, but in its heyday it had been a popular juke joint that had drawn party seekers from all over the southern part of Louisiana.

The address proved to be an empty lot, overgrown with brittle weeds and heaps of trash.

But the matchbook looked new; even all the matches were intact, never been used at all.

No matter how often she turned it over in her head, Xena couldn't make sense out of this riddle. But she kept trying; God knew she was stubborn as hell - once she got her teeth into a problem, she hung on and refused to let go.

Well, she thought as she scooped the contents back into the purse and got ready to leave for Beaumont, on the way back I'll swing through Coffin Alley like I did before. I don't reckon I'll see Miss St. Martin standin' on the road again but maybe I'll spot a house or somethin' when I drive by. I see anythin', I can return her purse and maybe look in on how she's doin'.

On that optimistic note, Xena left her house and slid behind the wheel of her Chevy, laying the small beaded purse on the seat beside her and giving it an unconscious pat for luck.

Don't go out tonight, it's bound to take your life, there's a bad moon on the rise..."

Xena sang along with CCR, tapping the beat out with her fingertips on the steering wheel. Once again, it was nearly midnight - she'd spent all night tearing at her hair and doing her damnedest not to scream bloody murder at some poor S.O.B tech who'd been near tears himself. The installation was finally, finally underway; the clients had wanted some customized features but of course, hadn't told her or anyone else about it, figuring the relatively cheap modules they'd purchased could be transformed on-site with a magic wand into high powered, cutting edge technology.

It had taken all of Xena's self control not to strangle each and every one of those stupid bastards.

Now Xena was on the way home, blasting through the night, letting the muggy stench of swamp and rot clear her head of frustrations. She was driving down Coffin Alley, although in the whirlwind of nail biting and teeth clenching she'd endured today, she'd already forgotten why she was taking this longer route back to Lafayette.

Until she saw a flash of white loom up into her headlights; the sight jolted her from her reverie with all the subtlety of a lightning strike.

This time, however, there was no near miss. Gabrielle was standing forlornly by the side of the road, still wearing that white satin dress, gloves covering her slender hands, red-blonde hair in its chignon nestled at the nape of her neck.

Xena stopped the car. "Hey! Gabrielle! 'Member me? Xena Bonchance?"

Gabrielle looked in her direction lazily, almost as if she didn't care who or what she saw there. When she spotted Xena, however, her attitude changed to one of fairly eager anticipation. "I been waitin' for somebody," she said, walking up to the car.

"Yeah? 'Nother fight with the boyfriend? Hop in, cher. Lemme give ya a lift home." Xena leaned across the seat and opened the passenger door.

Gabrielle climbed inside without a murmur, settling down in the leather covered seat, hands folded primly in her lap.

Xena clicked off the radio and began driving again. "So, cher... it's one helluva coincidence, seein' you out here again."

Gabrielle nodded.

Xena frowned; was it her imagination or did the girl's voice sound hollow again? Maybe it had something to do with the acoustics inside the car or maybe she was just imagining things.

"How ya been?" the dark haired woman asked.

"I been waitin' for somebody," Gabrielle repeated.

"I gotcha the first time, cher. I hope whoever you're waitin' for shows up."

Instead of answering, Gabrielle turned her wide green eyes on the woman beside her. That luminous gaze made Xena feel as if the girl expected something from her and was disappointed that she hadn't reacted properly.

Xena smiled in what she hoped was a friendly manner. "You doin' okay, cher? Last time we met, your boyfriend had dumped ya. Ya'll still fightin'?"

"He hurt me," Gabrielle said.

Xena frowned. "Ya said that last time." She risked a glance at the girl and was startled to meet Gabrielle's thoughtful and penetrating gaze. For a timeless moment, pale blue and emerald met, a sizzling, breathless contact that left Xena feeling as if she'd fallen from the stars and drowned in a sea of tears.

She knew this girl, knew that faint scent of roses and cinnamon, could remember soft, supple flesh beneath her questing hands, could somehow recall the way Gabrielle smiled or laughed, cried in anger or in pain, heard in her mind's eye a spiraling cry of passion and desire fulfilled... Xena knew this girl in an almost atavistic sense; an unthinking, instinctive yet bred in the bones and coming up from the gut feeling of endless time and timeless eternity that stretched before and behind. That sense of infinite destiny engulfed Xena in one sweeping moment of flames and ice that left her covered in sweat and gasping for air.

"Jesus!" Xena exclaimed, tearing her eyes away. She gulped, willing herself to concentrate on the road. Her heart was pounding so hard she was afraid it would jump out of her chest.

Gabrielle said nothing; she merely picked up her little purse and held it in her lap, her eyes now turned towards the windshield.

Xena's mouth was dry; she swallowed several times, trying to force down the lump in her throat. Finally, when she could talk, she didn't know what to say.

The... experience... had left her dazed. Her mind scurried around in circles, trying to find a rational explanation for what had just taken place. If she couldn't find a comfortable familiarity, a hint of normality in all this, she just might go mad.

Gabrielle's voice came to her, that lilting drawl piercing Xena's heart and cutting through the fog of confusion. "He hurt me," she said. "I can't rest, can't go on. I been waitin' for somebody to help me get home. Things just stopped and it's gotta be put right. He hurt me and I been waitin' so long..."

Xena swallowed again. "Where's home, cher?" she asked thickly.

Gabrielle looked at her; Xena averted her eyes, keeping them fixed firmly on the road. After a pause, the girl said, "You know. You been waitin' for somebody, too."

Did she mean...? Xena shook her head. "I don't know whatcha talkin' 'bout, cher," she lied. She had more than a sneaking suspicion that she understood Gabrielle all too well... but right now, that mysterious knowledge was better off unacknowledged.

"There ain't nobody to wait for unless I get home," the girl said. "Then we'll have next time and all time. He hurt me and I been waitin' and waitin'." Her voice dropped to a barely discernible whisper and Xena couldn't make out what she was saying.

"What did he do to you, cher? What did William do to you?"

"He hurt me." Gabrielle spread out the skirts of her white satin dress; a bloodstain was growing there, tendrils of crimson creeping across the fabric like the petals of a ruddy rose.

The stain bloomed until it engulfed her bodice, dying the delicate chiffon in scarlet waves. The girl's face appeared to sink in and gather up the shadows until it seemed that she turned empty eye sockets in Xena's direction; her lipless mouth grinned helplessly, a skull of polished bone framed in an incongruous swirl of red-gold hair.

Xena bit her lip and fought to keep from screaming. The hair at the back of her neck prickled; despite the heat, the flesh of her arms rose up in goosebumps. She gripped the steering wheel in desperation, knuckles white, every muscle in her body rigid.

Gabrielle was continuing, "It's got to be fixed or nothin's gonna be right again. You gotta fix it, Xena. I been waitin'..."

Xena shook her head again, as if she could dislodge the girl's words by sheer physical effort. With a start, she realized they weren't moving; the car had come to a stop directly opposite the Resurrection cemetery.

The dark haired woman blinked; she was dripping with sweat, the stench of fear rising up off her body until she felt she was suffocating. She breathed deeply and warily slid her eyes towards the passenger side of the car.

Gabrielle was gone.

Xena blinked once more and looked out of her window. An indistinct blob of white was drifting into the cemetery, seeming to pass through the iron gates as if it had no substance, only a faint, swirling mist of white and stark red.

Unable to think, unable to do anything except react in a raw, primal way to the events she had just been exposed to, Xena jammed her foot down on the gas and took off in a choking roar of fumes and smoldering rubber, the back end of the Chevy shimmying a little as she fled in terror from the twin specters of destiny and the ghost of a murdered girl named Gabrielle.

CHAPTER THREE

After letting a few days pass and the first vivid flush of fear to subside, Xena began to do a little checking at the local newspaper office.

She still couldn't believe what had happened; still hoped in some corner of her brain that it had all been a hallucination brought on by too little sleep and too much whiskey, but in her heart she knew it was true. That was the hellish part, the constant reliving of those terrifying moments that snatched her from sleep and made her waking moments seem more unreal than dreams.

After hours of scrolling through microfilm, Xena finally found what she was looking for - a newspaper article dated June 2, 1962.

The article stated that Gabrielle St. Martin, the seventeen year old daughter of Pierre and Marie St. Martin, had disappeared following a date with her boyfriend, William Lacroix, son of Robert Lacroix, the millionaire oil baron.

William had told the police that he and Gabrielle had had a fight on the way home from a dance in Oysterville; at her insistence, he'd dropped her off on Highway 13, close by the Resurrection church. That had been the last time she'd been seen by anyone, including the priest of the little community church, Father Joseph Bouvier, who claimed to have been witness to nothing that night except his book of prayers.

Xena searched the rest of that year; in the beginning, Gabrielle's disappearance had been greeted with suspicion by the police and William had been a suspect. But lack of evidence and no body had eventually caused the case to take a backseat to more urgent investigations. The newspaper articles tapered off from there; the last one was a sparse, three paragraph mention in 1963 on the anniversary of Gabrielle's disappearance.

Now Xena knew why William's name had sounded so familiar. His father Robert had died four years ago in 1981, leaving son and heir William in charge of the family business. Lacroix Enterprises had dropped most of its oil interests in Louisiana and was now a huge, multi-national firm with diversified interests ranging from sheep ranches in Australia to radio stations in Alaska. William was listed as one of the ten richest men in America; his net worth was the size of some country's annual budgets.

And this rich boy killed Gabrielle. Maybe raped her first, Xena thought, nauseous with rage at the memory of that obscene bloodstain spreading across the girl's pristine white dress.

She rubbed aching eyes with the knuckles of her hand and clicked off the projector.

When Xena had gotten home that night - the night when she'd discovered the true nature of her pretty Cajun passenger - she'd rushed to the toilet and puked until she thought her toenails were coming up, then dry retched and heaved until she felt faint. She'd staggered to bed and collapsed, feeling sick, sore in every muscle and stricken by a malaise that had left her weak and almost crying.

That had been in the beginning. But gradually, as the knowledge soaked in; as the things she'd experienced were gone over again and again in her mind, becoming familiar instead of strange, heart-breaking instead of frightening... her attitude changed.

Now she was angry; so filled with righteous fury that her employees tip-toed around her, cringing at every flash of her pale and incandescent eyes.

Rationally, there could be no logical explanation for what had happened. So Xena decided to go with her gut; every instinct she had was screaming at her to do something, do it now, goddammit! She knew, somehow, that Gabrielle was "the one" - the woman she'd been waiting for all her life. But because of that prick William Lacroix, because of his actions, she'd been cheated out of something precious, a destiny that had been shattered by this asshole's interfering presence in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Yes, that's exactly how she felt - cheated! Everytime she thought about the situation, it enflamed her further. If things had run their course, then Gabrielle would have been a little younger than she was now but not by much. They might have met at a bar, or maybe at a concert or a restaurant, an introduction from mutual friends, whatever. They would have been together, two souls making a vital connection with one another, continuing the cycle of rebirth and eternal love.

That had all been ruined by William Lacroix. From what Xena had read, ghosts or "spectral entities" were restless souls, unable to find peace or go on to the next level of consciousness because of unfinished business that kept them tied to the earthbound plane.

Gabrielle had been murdered and her killer gotten off scot free, leaving her body in a shallow grave somewhere, so it was obvious that Gabrielle's soul was unable to tear itself free and continue on its never-ending journey. Lacroix's actions had separated them, damning Xena to a lonely existence and her destined lover to shadowy limbo in the realm of the dead. They'd never be together again... unless things were "put right."

It wasn't fair, dammit!

She found herself reacting as if Lacroix really had murdered her dearest love. Despite the fact that the only physical contact she'd had with Gabrielle had been brief and almost unreal, still... her guts twisted in pain and there was an ache behind her breastbone that just wouldn't go away.

Xena had to do something! She itched to confront Lacroix and kill him in a spree of murderous revenge. Part of her was frightened by the bloodthirsty monster that lurked within, ready to spring out and rend with fang and claw; but another part of her welcomed that beast, for it fed from her rage and grew strong... God knew she'd need all her strength if she was to put destiny back on its intended course.

Unfortunately, despite the fact that killing Lacroix would provide some small bit of personal satisfaction, that wasn't the answer she needed.

Xena left the newspaper office and went back home... unaware that her research had been observed.

William Lacroix's office was located on the top floor of the Lacroix building, an enormous skyscraper that dominated the horizon of New Orleans. All black, chrome and glass, decorated with priceless artwork and museum quality artifacts, it was a testament to a powerful businessman who could afford to flaunt his wealth because he dwelled in the rarefied stratosphere of the super rich.

When the telephone on his desk rang, Lacroix was busy going over the financial reports of a television station conglomerate he was considering purchasing... or rather, absorbing into his own empire by means of a hostile takeover. Lacroix considered himself a modern day pirate, leaping into the fray with cutlass and stock options in hand, taking down his unsuspecting prey in an orgy of corporate bloodletting.

While wealth had brought with it a certain amount of power, the thing Lacroix cherished above all else was his sterling reputation. He'd dined with presidents and queens, been cited on honors lists, had a roomful of trophies and plaques from grateful charities and other institutions. Lacroix was very, very careful to keep his public reputation untainted by any hint of scandal or impropriety; keeping certain things about his business practices and personal life under wraps and away from public scrutiny was one of his biggest obsessions.

And his shining reputation was the one thing he'd kill to maintain.

He reached for the buzzing telephone without taking his eyes away from the reports he was studying. "Yes?" he snapped.

His secretary - a buxom blonde whose husky, breathless voice practically oozed with the promise of unbridled sexuality - said apologetically, "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mister Lacroix. I have a woman on the black line and she insists on speaking with you personally."

Immediately, Lacroix pushed the papers away and sharpened his focus. The black line! A private telephone line - so private it wasn't even listed in the phone company's records - that he used for his more shady business dealings, transactions that either skirted around the law... or broke it entirely.

"I'll take it in here," he said, putting down the receiver.  He waited while his secretary switched the call, drumming his fingers impatiently on the top of the desk.

Lacroix was a fit and healthy forty-one, his physique sculpted by hours of aerobics and exercise with a personal trainer, his glowing tan achieved by the careful application of UV rays in an exclusive and very expensive salon. His wife was a well-preserved former debutante from an old money Creole family, a gracious hostess whose days were consumed with charity work, and his mistresses were discreet, beautiful and willing to accommodate his every desire, no matter how bizarre or degrading.

William Lacroix's biggest fear was that someday, something he had done - an illegal act, a sexual deviation - would come back to haunt him.

Although his stomach fluttered with a mixture of apprehension and excitement, he wasn't really prepared for the voice he heard when he picked up the buzzing phone.

"Mister Lacroix?" the voice said. It was an old woman's whispery croak, a cracked tone that spoke eloquently of too many cigarettes and too many slugs of bourbon disguised in a china teacup. "This is Harriet Vondredei. I don't know if you remember me or not, but I work for the Lafayette Gazette in the newspaper morgue. You know, back copies on microfilm and such..."

Lacroix grunted. "Get to the point, Ms. Vondredei," he said ungraciously. He didn't know this woman, had no idea where she'd gotten this number, and was beginning to get angry.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mister Lacroix, but some years ago you asked that I inform you privately if certain information was accessed by the public or if someone showed an interest in a certain subject. Those little bonuses you send me every month sure have helped..." The woman's voice was fawning and irritated Lacroix further.

"What information? What subject?" Lacroix barked. "I don't know how you got this number but..."

"Why, the disappearance of Gabrielle St. Martin back in '62!" Vondredei replied. "I'm only callin' because I had a woman in here a little while ago..."

Lacroix let the receiver fall from his ear; it dangled from his hand while he sat there, stunned and unable to respond. Gabrielle St. Martin! He hadn't thought about her in years; now, to hear her name mentioned out of the blue, to have that memory forced out of the darkness of two decades, made his heart skitter in fear, his sphincter clench against the sudden liquid heat that roiled in his bowels.

He'd been so young then. Just eighteen, a cocky rich kid who'd never been denied anything he ever wanted. Spoiled and proud of the fact. He'd wanted Gabrielle, despite her background of poverty, despite her shyness and reserve. He'd wanted her because she was beautiful and fresh, unspoiled and virginal... and because she'd turned him down several times before finally consenting to go out with him.

They'd gone to the Jump'n Jive, a popular juke joint, riding there in his brand new Jaguar. He'd consumed beers, whisky, vodka, whatever the bartender felt like pouring, drink after drink tossed down his inexhaustible maw. Gabrielle had danced with him a few times before he'd become too drunk to stand up straight, and the rest of the time had sat at the table, sipping her cola and turning wide green eyes on everything and everyone... including himself.

Even after the passage of years, Lacroix could still remember those eyes, staring at him, judging him and finding him wanting. That was what had fueled his teenage rage, pricked the pride of his burgeoning manhood; this girl, this nothing little swampie whose family didn't have a pot to piss in, daring to judge him! Daring to find him unsatisfactory! Daring to say no!

That's what had set him off, of course. On the way home, he'd stopped the car and told Gabrielle it was time to pay up. He'd taken her dancing, bought her drinks and showed her a good time, and now it was his turn to collect.

She'd refused, calling him names, slapping his face. That had caused his fury to flame higher and higher... and the angrier he became, the more aroused, until he'd attacked her in shameless, unthinking rage.

Gabrielle had struggled while he'd kissed her; fought and whimpered when he'd slid his hands under her dress and fingered her dry unwilling flesh. He'd torn at her clothing, panting and bestial with the need to prove himself, the need to wipe that look of cool disdain from her face and show the bitch that he was the man!

He didn't have to take any shit from her, she was nothing but a thing to be used, even abused, and she'd better take it, take it all, every last pounding inch, everything he had to give her and more. There! Take it, bitch! Take it all, whore! Cunt! Goddamn bitch! Who's superior now, huh? Who's better? Who's the best? Say it! Say it! You'd better not... goddammit! Stop that fucking screaming, you miserable whore, or I swear to God I'll kill you...

Lacroix blinked and shivered, pulling himself out of the past and back into the present. He put the receiver to his ear; Vondredei was saying, "Hello? You still there?"

"Yes," he croaked, then coughed to clear his throat. "Who was accessing the articles? Did you get the woman's name?"

"That's what I've been telling you, Mister Lacroix," Vondredei said in a scolding tone. "The woman's name is Xena Bonchance. I did some checking in the files; she owns Bonchance Hardware Ltd, out of Lafayette."

"I see." Lacroix noticed that drops of water were scattered on the top of the desk; he put his hand up to his forehead and realized he was sweating heavily. "Thank you for your help, Ms. Vondredei."

"I'll still get my money, won't I?" the woman shrilled. "You promised to keep payin'..."

"Yes, yes, of course." Lacroix spent a few more moments reassuring Vondredei, allowing the practiced phrases to fall from his lips without conscious thought. He was so lost in his own concerns that several minutes passed before he realized that the woman had hung up and the phone was beeping in his ear.

He hung up the receiver then buzzed his secretary. "Order the helicopter for four o'clock today," he said. "Cancel the rest of my appointments; call my wife and tell her I have some emergency business down in Lafayette and won't be home for a couple of days. Then call our Lafayette office and tell them to arrange some accommodations for me, I don't care where."

"Yes, Mister Lacroix," the secretary answered. He'd hired her not only for her impressive 46DD bust but also because she was efficient, did what she was told and never asked annoying questions.

Lacroix leaned back in his chair, thinking...

Then he unlocked a drawer in his desk, reached inside and pulled out a loaded .38 revolver. After checking to make sure the safety was on, he placed the gun inside his briefcase and as an afterthought, tossed in a box of ammunition..

For a man in William Lacroix's position, it always paid to be prepared for anything.

CHAPTER FOUR

Xena's anger and heartsick rage didn't dwindle; instead, it transformed into a cold and icy fury that swirled deep within her soul, a bone-chilling storm that left her emotionally frozen but still capable of calculated plotting and thought.

The first step, she knew, was finding evidence against William Lacroix. Unfortunately, she couldn't go to the police; if she told her wild story to the authorities, they'd be more inclined to stick her in a straightjacket for psychiatric observation than to believe.

Where to go? What to do?

She was walking down the sidewalk, lost in thought and chewing the inside of her cheek, body automatically guiding her around the people who had crowded into downtown Lafayette for shopping, dining and whatever entertainment they could find to ease the boredom of yet another weekend.

Xena was headed for The Weird Sisters, a bookstore run by a trio of drag queens, to pick up some books she'd ordered a month before. A chore she'd rather not have been distracted with, but Scat, one of the "girls" who ran the shop, had been calling rather insistently; Xena was tired of making excuses and listening to Scat's bitching. After she collected her order, she'd head straight home, eat some take-out Chinese, and think some more about Gabrielle.

Xena spent a lot of her time thinking about Gabrielle these days, trying to recapture the essence of the unknown, mysterious but still familiar lover she'd "lost."

She'd just reached a corner and was about to step off into the street when a big, black limousine rolled to a smooth halt, effectively blocking her way.

Xena was about to go around the car when two men exited; big, expressionless, with identical crewcuts and Armani suits, they flowed up to flank her without saying a word. The hairs on the back of Xena's neck prickled but before she could make a move, they grabbed her and without ceremony, tossed her into the back of the limo.

Xena landed on a plush seat, her mouth open in protest, body already in motion, ready to leave. The door slammed, almost in her face, and the car peeled away from the sidewalk. She tried the doorhandle; it was locked and the smoked glass windows were almost certainly bulletproof.

The entire event happened so quickly and smoothly, she hadn't even gotten off one good punch or a single scream to attract the attention of witnesses.

The interior of the limo was dim and cool, scented with rich leather, expensive cigars and what could only be described as "money." Xena hadn't realized that money had a distinctive smell; but the unidentified fragrance that permeated the atmosphere, a sort of odor of rarefied sanctity that reminded her of the crisp ozone snap of the air following a lightning strike... that could only be caused by the presence of wealth and power.

A man's voice came out of the gloom, startling her. "Ms. Bonchance, I presume?"

She focused her gaze and saw that there was indeed another occupant of the limo, seated opposite and nearly indistinguishable in the semi-darkness. "Who the hell are ya?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest and rubbing the gooseflesh.

"William Lacroix," he answered. An interior light snapped on and Xena saw him for the first time.

First time in the flesh, she said to herself. I've seen him on TV before and in the papers. She narrowed her ice-blue eyes. So this is Gabrielle's killer...

Lacroix continued speaking. If he noticed the animosity and anger that made Xena's pale eyes flare, he refrained from mentioning it. "My apologies for the somewhat rough handling, Ms. Bonchance, but I thought it would be better if we met in person and with as few witnesses as possible."

Warily, Xena nodded. "What's this all about?" she asked.

"I'm hoping you can tell me," Lacroix said with a charming smile, spreading his hands apart. "I've been reliably informed that you've been delving somewhat into my past, Ms. Bonchance. Perhaps you have something you'd like to say to me, some request you'd like to make?"

His tone was teasing, but the dangerous undercurrent that ran through his voice proclaimed the man a rabid junkyard dog rather than a pampered Pekinese; a dark hint of a practiced mankiller with razor sharp fangs, ready to tear flesh from bone when his victim was at its weakest.

Xena shivered slightly but it wasn't from fear. Lacroix was an extremely dangerous man, she could feel that knowledge seeping up from the primal reaches of her brain. However, this smug bastard was the murderer of her beloved and the sight of him made her want to spit.

"I dunno what you're talkin' about," she countered calmly.

Lacroix chuckled, relaxing in his seat. "Now, now, Ms. Bonchance," he replied expansively, "You've been checking into my past; specifically, you've been sniffing around the unfortunate circumstances of Gabrielle St. Martin's disappearance twenty-three years ago. I know all about what you've been up to; you can accept that as gospel. What I fail to understand is why the president of a computer hardware firm has become interested in such an old tragedy?"

Xena leaned forward slightly, unconsciously finding her balance and tensing her muscles, ready to spring. She fought the urge to let her upper lip curl, exposing her teeth like a wolf at bay. "That ain't none of your business," she said in her hardest tone. "Now let me outta here."

"I'm so sorry, Ms. Bonchance. But I really must insist on you telling me why you find Gabrielle St. Martin so interesting." Silently acknowledged between them was the unvoiced threat behind Lacroix's words; if Xena didn't comply, she might not leave the limo... unless her exit was feet first.

Xena's hackles rose. "Like ya said, that was a long time ago," she said. "What bug crawled up your ass, Lacroix? Ya ain't got no right..."

"I have every right," Lacroix spat. His genial mask faded, replaced by a look of pure hostility. "Gabrielle St. Martin's disappearance almost ruined my life. I was hounded by the police; me, Robert Lacroix's son! Even after the official investigation was dropped, I was still haunted by whispers and rumors. I've worked for years to put all that behind me and I'll be damned if I'll allow some piss ant bitch with an agenda to dredge that foul business up again!"

He was breathing hard and sweating. Xena noticed his slightly protuberant brown eyes were laced with prominent red veins and his face looked old, crumpled with lines and creases she hadn't noticed before. His pouting bottom lip and quivering cheeks reminded her of a spoiled, nasty child who has been denied another's child's coveted toy.

"What makes ya think I've got an agenda?" Xena asked, every sense alert, her body coiled and ready for action if required.

Lacroix wiped his face with his hand. "What else could it be?" he replied in an almost whine. "I've dealt with people like you before, Bonchance. People who know I have a position and a reputation to maintain and protect. Leeches who crawl around in the scum, trying to dig up dirt and hope I'll pay them to keep silent."

Xena didn't respond; the cold shell she had surrounded herself with was beginning to crack. She didn't know how Lacroix had found out about her investigation in the newspaper office but it was clear that he thought she was dredging for blackmail material.

The flames of anger began to glow in her belly; she pushed a stray lock of black hair out of her eyes and snapped, "I don't want no money, ya sunnuva bitch! There ain't nothin' ya got I want, not a goddamned thing! Now stop this car right now and lemme out or I swear to God I'll make ya regret it!"

Lacroix's nostrils flared and he chuffed out a breath. His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you threatening me? Not too smart, girl. I've dealt with problems like you before."

Xena didn't say anything; she was wrestling with an internal conflict. Half of her wanted to kill Lacroix on the spot; the other, cooler half hoped he'd give her enough rope to hang himself.

Lacroix licked his lips. "Gabrielle wasn't nothin' but a whore, Bonchance." His eyes glistened and he made an obscene gesture. "A little tramp from the swamps. The cunt was a tease, too; pretending to be so goddamned innocent when she'd do it for a pack of gum or a soda pop. Whatever happened to that red-headed whore, she deserved it. Deserved it right on down to hell."

That did it.

Xena's hard won control snapped. Her eyes ablaze with rage, she threw herself at him, hampered by the close confines of the car but still determined to silence his filthy lies.

There was a brief scuffle, then silence broken only by the quiet panting of Xena and the grunting of Lacroix. She was beside him, his body bent and twisted over her lap, her strong arms wrapped around his neck and pushing his straining head at an awkward angle. The pressure on his throat made it impossible for him to cry out; Lacroix tried hitting her thighs with his fists until she applied a bit more force. He bit his lip and ceased struggling.

"I could break your neck right now," Xena hissed. "Now listen to me, Lacroix. Stop the car and don't say nothin' to the driver, ya hear? Or I'll do ya, I swear!"

Lacroix nodded as best he could, ignoring the fiery lances of pain that coursed from neck to shoulders. He felt the pressure on his throat ease off; he coughed and carefully reached out to the intercom button.

"Stop the car, Perkins," he said hoarsely. "We're dropping off our guest."

"Yessir, Mister Lacroix." The limo immediately began easing over to the curb.

Xena suddenly wrenched at Lacroix's head violently; he felt tears gather in his eyes from the pain. "I know what ya did to Gabrielle St. Martin," she said in his ear. The temptation to break this bastard's neck was so strong, the woman was quivering with the effort of controlling herself.

"I know," she insisted coldly. "I'm gonna find evidence and you're gonna pay for what ya did. Understand? You're gonna pay, ya dirty bastard!"

The limo stopped smoothly.

Xena released Lacroix and opened the door. As she exited, she flashed him a look of complete contempt and absolute hatred from her pale eyes; the man felt as if splinters of ice had entered his heart.

"Believe me, she'll have her revenge... and so will I!" Xena spat as she exited the limo, slamming the door shut behind her.

The gleaming black car drove on and Xena watched it leave, oblivious to the stares of passers-by. Her chest rose and fell as she panted; her hands were trembling.

She took a deep breath and forced calm on her vibrating nerves. When the car was out of sight, she began looking for street signs; she was still in downtown Lafayette, so they must have been driving around in circles. Xena oriented herself and began walking back to her car.

It wasn't until she reached the old Chevy that she realized her face was wet; she'd been crying.

She wiped the tears away impatiently, jumped in the car and drove home; while her tires hummed on the asphalt, Xena thought about Gabrielle's words.

"He hurt me."

And her heart contracted with a mixture of grief, rage and the animal urge to howl her sorrow at the uncaring sky.

Lacroix was shaken; he sat back in his seat and smoothed his hair with his hands, struggling to regain his equilibrium.

That bitch had laid hands on him! Threatened him!

His neck still ached where she'd wrenched at it.

He rubbed the side of his throat and slowly calmed himself. He'd learned over the years that panicking didn't solve problems... cold-blooded calculation did.

As he thought and considered, two questions were immediately apparent:

How did she know? and What would she do?

It was painfully obvious that blackmail wasn't her scheme; Lacroix didn't pretend to understand the emotional excesses of hysterical women but Xena's reaction to his taunting had proven that she had some sort of personal agenda to pursue.

Specifically, revenge.

Well, Lacroix knew all about revenge. He'd taken great pleasure in hiring many of his fraternity brothers to various positions within his companies, only to snatch their dreams of golden parachutes and stock options away when they'd gotten fat and comfortable and least expected it. He'd never forgiven them for the humiliating "initiation rites" they'd forced him to perform in college and had waited for years for the opportunity to bring them low.

Lacroix was a man who never forgot a slight; his grudges were set in stone and cemented in place. But he wasn't impulsive, either; he'd wait patiently for a chance to devastate his victim, even pretending to be a friend if necessary - smiling, congenial, all handshakes and favors - until the moment came and the unfortunate was stricken down with all the swift viciousness of an attacking shark.

Oh, yes... revenge was an indulgence he enjoyed to the last, bitter drop.

He now regretted he hadn't brought his gun with him in the limo. He'd left it in his hotel suite, confident that his position and wealth would protect him, just as it had in the past.

Foolish! Foolish!

He berated himself; he should have known better. Lacroix also knew that whatever he planned to do about Xena Bonchance, he'd have to do it himself. That was another lesson he'd learned - always do the dirty work yourself, if possible. All the money in the world wasn't enough to pay someone to true silence; only the grave never gave up its secrets.

He relaxed in his seat and lit a cigar. After a moment, he ordered the driver to take him to the best seafood restaurant in town.

Deciding the solution to a sticky problem always gave him an appetite.

Especially when said solution involved... murder.

Lacroix puffed on his cigar and stretched his legs out in front of him.

After dinner, he'd have one of his men go out and fetch him a prostitute. An experienced woman, ready to do whatever it took to satisfy his jaded tastes.

He felt his growing erection and smiled. The thought of killing Xena Bonchance had him very excited, indeed.

CHAPTER FIVE

"Hey, boss lady! Where y'at?"

Xena turned her head. The speaker was Christopher Jean-Baptiste, a young dark-skinned man who was one of her most gifted salesmen. With his glib tongue, large liquid brown eyes and a sunny smile, Christopher could charm and cajole even the most recalcitrant customer into melted contentment.

"Nothin'," Xena answered shortly, slamming the phone book closed. She'd been looking up the addresses and phone numbers of psychics; although she inwardly quailed at the thought of consulting someone who was a potential fraud - no, let's be realistic; a fraud, period! - she had come to a dead end in trying to figure out a way to help Gabrielle.

Christopher frowned and sidled over, perching a buttock on the edge of Xena's desk. "Don' look like nothin' ta me," he said, running a finger over the closed phone book and giving her a wink. "Need some help in your love life, boss lady? Want your fortune told?"

Abruptly, Xena exploded. She'd already been angry; the confrontation with William Lacroix yesterday hadn't helped. Frustration and raw, adrenaline fueled rage suddenly took over; although Christopher didn't deserve it, he got the brunt of Xena's bad mood.

"Sunnuva bitch!" Xena hollered, banging her clenched fist down on the desk and making the young man jump. "Ain't ya got some work to do, Jean-Baptiste? Or are ya hangin' 'round here 'cause there ain't no customers to be sellin' to, and we ain't got no customers 'cause my fuckin' staff's sittin' on their goddamned asses drawin' salary and wonderin' about my love life?"

Christopher flinched but stood his ground. "Hmph," he asked, "somebody didn't get laid last night?"

"Jesus Christ!" For a bare second, Xena considered strangling him. "Will ya get the fuck outta my goddamned office?"

The young man grinned. Besides being boss and employee, he and Xena had been friends for a long time. In fact, when she'd started the company, he'd left his more lucrative position at another firm in order to help Xena get her business off the ground. "Maybe I better check my calendar, me," he replied. "It about time for your 'tite cousine to visit?"

Xena's face turned beet red; a vein throbbed in her forehead. She drew a deep breath, prepared to blast Christopher out of her office by the force of her shout alone, but then the young man winked again and blew her a kiss.

Her bad mood evaporated as suddenly as it had come and she laughed. "Shit, Chris! No to both your questions, ya goddamned snoopy bastard! 'My little cousin' don't visit for another two weeks, if it's any of your business."

"Oh, but it is," Christopher replied. "We all check our calendars, believe me. Ya get so nasty when the moon's comin' up high, I think ya got the loup-garou in ya!"

Xena laughed again and this time, Christopher joined her.

When they had both sobered a little, Christopher said seriously, "Ya got troubles, boss lady? Somethin' I kin help ya with?"

"I doubt it," Xena said, her smile already transforming back into the worried frown she'd worn for a couple of weeks. "Ain't nobody can help me 'cept myself."

"Maybe so, maybe no," Christopher insisted. "Tell me about it, cher. 'Least I kin do is listen."

Despite her earlier conviction that no one would believe her story, Xena found herself pouring out her heart to this young man who was one of her oldest friends. When she finished, he stared at her with what she recognized as sympathy in his dark eyes.

"I dunno what I kin say to that," he replied after a moment. "Ya got some hardship on ya, I b'lieve. Listen... ya want help, maybe I know somebody. My family been here a long time, cher; long time since workin' canefields but some t'ings never change, if ya know what I mean. My momma's sister, she kin help ya, I think."

"Who?" Xena asked. To her surprise, although tears had trembled on her lashes, she hadn't cried. In fact, she felt almost relieved to have finally shared her burden with someone who didn't mock and seemed genuinely concerned.

"Lemme make a call," Christopher said, sliding off her desk. "I got an idea, me."

Xena waited while Christopher went to his own desk and dialed a number; after speaking for several minutes, he hung up the phone and came back to her office.

"All set," he said with a smile. "She'll see ya at three. But I gotta warn ya, Tante Marie don' like it when folks is late. She a bit of a martinet, her. All us kids was scared of her when we was little, but she got a good soul. You'll like her, I think."

"Tante Marie? Jean-Baptiste, are we talkin' 'bout voodoo here?"

Christopher sighed. "Tante Marie is a mambo," he said. "She got a shop on Pompano Boulevard; if anybody kin help ya, she's the one."

A mambo? Xena knew that meant a priestess; one could hardly live in Louisiana without being exposed to the amalgam religion of West African, Haitian and Catholic influences called voodoo or vodun. Although she'd been raised a Catholic and had lapsed in her faith as an adult, she'd never held much belief in what she preferred to think of as the superstitions of voodoo but... Christopher would hardly steer her wrong; he knew - he believed! - and wanted to help.

"Okay," Xena said to Christopher's relief. "If ya think it'll help, I'll go see your Tante Marie."

Christopher smiled, leaned down and gave her a brief hug. "Bon chance," he whispered. "Good luck, cher. And be careful, boss lady... Lacroix like a poison snake crawlin' in the sugarcane. Ya got one chance to cut off his head or he'll strike back, him."

Xena returned Christopher's hug and whispered back, "Merci, ami. Thank you so much."

The young man's grin stretched from ear to ear. "Oh, don't thank me, boss lady. Wait till you see mon tante formidable! She more scary than Lacroix, I tell ya!"

Xena smiled... and for the first time in what seemed an eternity, felt her heart begin to sing a little with newborn hope.

Pompano Boulevard was in a rundown part of town, the sort of place that used to be referred to as the "wrong side of the tracks." Xena drove through the area, keeping her eyes peeled for the youth gangs who hung around on corners, drinking beer and selling drugs when they weren't trying to kill each other. They often thought it was funny to hurl bricks through the windshields of unknown cars.

She checked the address again; Christopher had written it down on a scrap of paper. More quickly than she would have liked, she soon found herself getting out of her car in front of a dirty-windowed little shop that looked as if it was being held together by spit and baling wire.

The window bore faded gray lettering that read: "Marie Jean-Baptiste: Pharmacie & Tarot by Appt."

Xena swallowed her misgivings and went inside, pushing open the screened door; a small bell tinkled, announcing her presence.

The interior was dim and amazingly cool for a hot summer day. A long, scarred wooden counter ran the length of the room on the right; behind the counter were shelves of bottles and jars, and an old fashioned brass cash register gleamed dully in the uncertain light.

A young girl with dreadlocks and a twisting scar on one blue-black cheek was standing behind the counter, idly tossing a handful of chicken bones down on the surface. When Xena entered, she didn't bother looking up. "We closed," she said in a thick Cajun accent.

"I have an appointment with Mrs. Jean-Baptiste. Tante Marie," Xena stressed. "Her nephew Christopher sent me."

The girl spat, the gobbet of spittle landing just short of Xena's shoes. "G'wan, git outta here, white trash bitch! We don' wan' ya here!"

Xena was momentarily taken aback by the hostility, then considered reaching over the counter and shaking the girl until her teeth rattled. Before she could act on her inclination, a woman's voice boomed from another room: "Valentine, ya foolish child! No use cursin' dat one; her soul stronger dan la magie noire!"

The girl looked up and her lips pursed. A spate of Creole was answered by the unseen person who kept herself hidden behind the beaded curtain. With a shrug, the girl called Valentine swept her bones from the counter, gave Xena another evil, narrow-eyed glare and then swaggered out of the shop, letting the door slam closed behind her.

Xena leaned an elbow on the counter, keeping her eyes turned towards the beaded curtain that hid a dark doorway. After a moment, the curtain was swept aside and a woman entered the main part of the store.

Her tread was so heavy it shook the floorboards, making jars rattle on their shelves.

This could be none other than Tante Marie; the aura of confidence and pure powerful personality that surrounded her was unmistakable. She was tall, an inch or so taller than Xena, and while she had run somewhat to fat, the arms that were exposed by her sleeveless blouse bulged with muscle.

Her skin was the color of rich chocolate and beautifully smooth; only the deep lines that ran from the side of her nose down to the corners of her mouth betrayed the ravages of time. A bright crimson scarf, heavily fringed in gold, was wound around her head, concealing her hair, and her flounced skirt jangled with gold, silver, bone and ivory ornaments.

The thing Xena immediately noticed was that while Tante Marie's left eye was milky and clouded with a cataract; her right eye was deep brown and focused on her with a penetrating gaze.

"Mademoiselle Bonchance," Tante Marie said. "My nephew Christopher called me about ya. He say ya gotta problem wit' de spirits."

Xena nodded. "One hurtin' spirit," she began, but the black woman held up a hand to silence her.

"Come wit' me an' we'll talk private, child," Tante Marie said; from the tone of her voice, it was a command which she confidently expected to be obeyed.

Xena soon found herself seated at a wooden table in the back of the store, which was outfitted as a kitchen. A pot of spicy file gumbo simmered on the stove, filling the air with its mouth-watering scent. Tante Marie bustled about, handing Xena a mason jar full of iced tea and sliced lemons, then plunking down a steaming bowl of the strongly pungent stew.

When Xena protested, Tante Marie said, "Eat, child. Ya needs strength for de soul an' body. No use starvin' both."

 While Xena ate, she told the mambo why she had come, omitting no detail, however insignificant. She found herself telling Tante Marie things she herself hadn't remembered; when she remarked on this, the black woman smiled and shrugged.

"De memory's a funny t'ing, mademoiselle. We t'ink we know all but sometime, we only remember what we want an' leave de rest. C'est la vie! Day come when we learn everythin' dere is to know, dat gonna be de time when the world quit turnin' 'cause dere won't be no reason to go on."

Xena felt an immediate liking for this confident, intelligent woman. She knew that Tante Marie could help her, could suggest a solution to the torment and anger that continued to make her nights sleepless and her days full of unexpected emotional turmoil.

When the dark haired woman finished her recital, Tante Marie frowned, the creases beside her nose and mouth becoming so deep they looked like bloodless knife slashes scarring her cheekbones and chin. "For dis," she said seriously, gazing deeply into Xena's pale eyes, "we got to call on some of de Guede. Dey ain't easy, dem, and nobody - no mambo or houngan or boucour - asks for de Guede's guidance wit'out payin' a heavy price."

"Who are these Guede?," Xena asked, pronouncing it "Gaddy" just as the mambo had done.

"Baron Samedi - loa of de dead, who may break open tombs an' free souls for his biddin'. Maitre Cimetiere - loa of de cemetery. Madame Brigitte - guardian of graves. Carrefour keeps de gate between worlds. Maybe even Marinette-Bois Cheche, she who is vengeance."

"These loa, they're what? Demons? Gods?"

"Gods, certainly," Tante Marie nodded. "Spirits of great power dat we all must serve, willin' or not. Gimme your hand, child."

Xena obediently gave the black woman her hand and Tante Marie began tracing the lines in her palm with a callused finger.

"Hmph," the mambo muttered, giving Xena a sharp look and releasing her hand, "Your z'etoile - de star of destiny - is broken, dat for sure. No fixin' in dis lifetime but maybe in de next, if we act wit' wisdom an' look for justice, not revenge. But not to worry, child. We gonna do what we can to free Gabrielle; it just ain't gonna be easy."

"I need to talk to her again," Xena said, surprised by the note of desperation in her voice. "I've been back to the cemetery but she wasn't there. I thought..."

Tante Marie chuckled. "Ya thought dat ya could call upon de restless dead an' it come when ya whistle, eh? Child, ya got a lot to learn." She shook her head, making the many golden hoops in her ears clash and jangle.

"What can I do to free her?" Xena asked. "Tell me what I need to know, please!"

"For dat, we must speak to Gabrielle herself but not in de place of hurtin'. Ya see, child, dis spirit dwells in a nightmare not of her makin'. She cannot break free because of pain an' sufferin'; it holds her tight wit' chains she cannot loose. We must break her free of dat curse, even if only for a little while, an' bring her to a place where she can speak wit'out fear an' evil bindin' her tongue. But it ain't gonna be easy; powerful forces keep her dere, an' I only attempt dis because of de Guede who can lend me strength an' power.

"Her ti-bon-ange and gros-bon-ange - de soul forces - are tangled up an' twisted by de hatred of another. Her z'etoile is broken as well. De one who did dis t'ing must be punished, but dat is for de loa to decide. Our task is clear; we must speak wit' Gabrielle an' she will tell us what she requires for peace."

The mambo leaned forward, pinning Xena into place with her good eye. "Ya must not falter, mademoiselle. Ya must not give in to despair, temptin' though it be. Listen, while I tell you what must be done..."

Eagerly, Xena drank in all of Tante Marie's instructions a nd left the little shop with a lighter step, the tiny kernel of hope she had dared to nurture beginning to blossom full blown.

CHAPTER SIX

That night, Xena found herself outside the hounfort of Tante Marie and her societe; part of the building was open walled but roofed, with a floor of beaten earth and a center post decorated in bands of bright color. There were other rooms but they had been closed off and sealed, the doors chalked with strange designs and sealed with wax.

The hounfort seemed crudely built but it was strong enough to have weathered hurricanes and the passage of decades. Sequined, technicolor flags had been tacked to the roofpoles and every solid surface covered in painted, lacy designs. A cement altar covered in candles, flowers and other offerings sat at the base of the centerpole; Xena had placed several bottles of white rum there earlier in the evening.

Religious ceremonies usually took place inside the hounfort, but since they would be invoking the Guede of the Petro loa rather than calling upon the more benevolent Rada, the ceremony was not being held within the sacred confines of their temple.

Xena and the others were outside in the yard where a ritual fire burned. Hollow gourds hung from trees surrounding the property, which was located about fifteen miles outside of Lafayette in the middle of the swampy Louisiana wilderness.

The earth was splashed and daubed with blood; two white goats had been sacrificed. Like the others, Xena was dressed in scarlet from head to toe, with a red scarf to cover her hair, and she was barefoot. She danced and swayed in place, almost entranced by the sharp, off-beat and frenzied drums that pounded such an insistent beat she couldn't help but allow the rhythm to sink in and nearly take her over.

Tante Marie, presiding over the ritual with an air of command that was palpable, leaned down and began drawing a design on the ground with a handful of white powder - a cross-like pattern with elegant swirls and scrolls that Xena had learned was called a veve. This was the lodestone that would call a loa to earth; before they could call upon the Guede to come and select a cheval to possess, they must first make an invocation to Papa Legba as the opener of the way. Without Legba's permission, no other loa could pass through the astral to the material world.

"Papa Legba, ouvri barrie pou nos passer!" the mambo cried, blowing the remains of the white powder to the four cardinal points and shaking her gourd rattle.

To Xena, the clicking rattle of the asson was like a call to arms. She shivered despite the extreme heat; the sweat that covered her body seemed cold as ice.

Tante Marie laid a flag upon the ground; it was colored in dark hues and upon the fabric was drawn a stylized coffin. She danced, taking mouthfuls of rum and spraying them at the men and women of the societe; some of them began to shake and mumble. The women of the hounsi canzo, the sacred chorus, swayed back and forth, fluttering their scarlet skirts and chanting to the loa to draw them down to earth.

Xena saw one of the women begin to stagger around in a circle, throwing out her arms and spasming. A couple of hounsis grabbed her before she could fall into the fire. She had been possessed by a powerful loa, her body mounted like a horse by the as-yet unknown spirit.

The cheval grunted and suddenly stood erect, shaking off the hounsis.

Tante Marie said loudly in satisfaction, "Baron Samedi!"

To Xena's vision, it seemed that the cheval stood far straighter and taller than her formerly petite stature could have possibly accommodated. She blinked; another figure was superimposed over the cheval's - that of a elegantly slender and tall gentleman dressed in dusty black clothing, a top hat perched jauntily on his head. A cigar smoldered between his fingers and when he grinned, she realized that his face was a naked skull.

"You seek a soul!" Baron Samedi announced, the deep, baritone voice coming incongruously from the girl's lips. Xena could see the skull's jawbone moving up and down in time with the words. This double vision was disconcerting and beginning to give her a headache, but she didn't dare tear her eyes away.

Tante Marie spoke at length to the cheval, periodically offering the possessing loa long drinks of rum from the bottle she held. When she finished, Baron Samedi spoke again. "What do you offer me?" he asked.

Xena cleared her throat and stepped forward out of the concealing shadows, allowing the firelight to illuminate her face. "What do you desire?" she countered as Tante Marie had coached her.

The Baron stood silently, puffing his cigar. Then unexpectedly, he threw back his head and laughed. "We desire what you desire!" he cried. "A servant of bones, a gros-bon-ange that belongs to the darkness rather than the light. Your work brings us closer, mademoiselle Bonchance. We aid you because it serves our interests rather than yours."

Xena sidled closer to Tante Marie. "What does he mean?" she asked in a hushed whisper.

The mambo offered the loa of the dead another drink and replied, "Never mind, child." A mysterious and chilling smile spread across her strong features. "De cost ain't to none of us but to another."

All around them, other members of the societe were staggering in the beginning stages of possession. Xena stepped back again to watch. Again, each time a cheval was mounted by a loa, she could "see" the new figure of the spirit superimposed over their human "horse."

A weeping woman dressed in floating white rags whose eyes burned with a strange, twisting fire; an old man who hopped about with a crutch; another woman whose hair was a mass of spectral flames that seemed to reach out and lash members of the societe, who fell down and cried out as if they had been burned.

Tante Marie said to Xena out of the corner of her mouth, "Madame Brigitte, Carrefour and Marinette-Bois Cheche," and nodded at each of the chevals in turn.

Another figure danced by; this one gnawing at a broken bottle, the glass crunching noisily as his jaws worked.. Xena exclaimed but the mambo stopped her instinctive move with a gesture. "He is possessed by Cinq Jour Malheureux, de Guede of five day's misfortune."

Xena grabbed Tante Marie's hands. "What? Why is he here? I thought they wanted to help!"

"Come wit' me," the black woman said, pulling Xena towards the quiet of the hounfort. Xena struggled but Tante Marie was just as strong as she appeared.

Having gotten the distraught woman away from the frenzied ritual and leaving her two assistants in charge, Tante Marie pushed Xena down onto a stool.

"She's comin'," the mambo said, her words cutting through Xena's protests like a knife. "De loa are bringin' her here. We must prepare."

The dark haired woman couldn't repress a shiver of mingled excitement and apprehension at the thought.

"Why a loa of misfortune?" Xena insisted on asking.

Tante Marie finished drawing a circular symbol around them with more chalky powder before she answered. "Ya must not take everythin' ya see as personal. De loa come as dey will; no man or woman can force dem to answer or keep dem away if it is dere desire."

The mambo lit several candles and indicated that Xena was to sit on the floor directly across from her, their knees touching. They were within the circle the black woman had drawn; one side was unfinished and Xena noticed that Tante Marie had a heap of powder conveniently at hand.

Before Xena could voice her questions, however, Tante Marie cocked her head to one side. "She comes," the mambo said, closing her eyes.

Xena held her breath. It seemed that a bubble of silence had descended, cutting them off from the outside world. The frantic beating of the sacred drums was distant and muted; the chants of the societe muffled and indistinct. There was a feeling of tremendous pressure, as if the very air were thickening; the tension was wire-taut and almost unbearable.

Tante Marie was gripping Xena's hands tightly. The dark haired woman felt a choking sensation, as if she were being suffocated; after a moment's panic, she remembered to breathe. Every indrawn breath was an effort that made her tremble; it grew so cold inside the hounfort that Xena thought if she cried, the tears would turn to ice immediately.

The mambo began to moan, her face contorted with effort. "She fights us," Tante Marie said with a long, drawn out groan. "Call to her... quickly! She fears an' will trust only de one she loves!"

Xena sucked in some air. "Gabrielle!" she called; her voice sounded faint and hollow, as if she were speaking from a great distance. "Gabrielle! Don't fight, cher! Come to me! Come to me!"

Tante Marie shuddered. "De bonds are loosened but dey won't remain so for long!"

 The pressure became greater; it seemed as if a giant fist was crushing her chest. Xena gasped, sweating profusely despite the chill.

Suddenly, there was a *pop* and Xena's ears cleared; she could breathe much easier, too.  It was like the bubble that enclosed them had been subject to immense forces, both inside and out, and now a slight tear had equalized things to the point of becoming bearable once again.

A misty white substance began to coalesce inside the circle. As soon as it manifested, Tante Marie let go of Xena's throbbing hands and grabbed the white powder, quickly drawing a line and completing the circle. Now, whatever was within would stay there until she allowed it to leave.

The form wavered uncertainly. Xena squinted, staring up at it; oddly enough, she didn't feel afraid at all. She could just make out Gabrielle's features; the spirit's face and form were blurred, as if a sheet of rippled glass stood between them.

"Help me!" Gabrielle said in her lilting drawl. The voice echoed slightly, the infinitely repeating words almost too faint to hear.

"What can I do, cher?," Xena asked. "Tell me what to do!"

"Find me." The ghost blinked out and immediately reappeared. "Find me."

Tante Marie groaned again. "Hurry!," she urged. "I cannot hold it much longer!"

"What d'ya mean, find ya? Please, Gabrielle!" Xena fought the nearly overwhelming instinct to wring her hands in distress.

"Find me," Gabrielle repeated. For a second, her eyes flashed with emerald fire then faded out again. "He hurt me. Find me and give me peace!"

"Do ya mean your body, cher? Your... bones?" Xena hated to say the words but knew it was necessary to find out all she could.

"Yes," Gabrielle replied. "Yes. Find me. Give me peace."

The wavering form began to flatten out and unravel.

Xena cried desperately, "Gabrielle! Don't go, cher! Please! Don't go!"

As the misty figure began to fade, Gabrielle's voice came once again, so low and distant that Xena strained to hear. "Three oaks," she said. "Follow me. Find me. Tomorrow."

And then it was over. Gabrielle disappeared like a snuffed candleflame, leaving nothing behind.

Tante Marie panted; her eyelids drooped and she was so weary with the massive effort she had undergone that her hands shook. Xena looked down at the circle; the mambo had rubbed out a section when it had become too difficult for her to maintain contact.

Xena swallowed. She could feel that the cloth around her head was dripping with sweat; so were her clothes.

Tante Marie gave the dark haired woman a slight smile. "Ya know what to do," she mumbled. It was clear that speaking was difficult. "Call my societe; the rites are over."

Xena blinked again. She got up and nearly fell over; her knees were weak and her legs were shaky. "Thank you," she whispered.

The mambo waved her away weakly.

Xena felt drained, as if she'd just run a marathon, climbed a mountain and stayed awake for a week. The drums were silent; as soon as she exited the hounfort, the members of the societe filed within, not sparing her a glance or a word.

The fire still burned outside.

Xena picked her way across the dark yard, headed for her car. She had to go home and get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow night, she'd have a lot of work to do.

CHAPTER SEVEN

William Lacroix scowled at the man who stood in front of him.

"Dammit, Pierce! Remind me why I'm paying your fees if all you can come up with is this crap!" Lacroix said angrily, tossing a fistful of papers up into the air.

Ignoring the fluttering pages floating to the floor, Anton Pierce said evenly, "You asked me to follow Xena Bonchance and report on her movements. That's it. She left work, went to a mambo named Marie Jean-Baptiste, went home, drove to a location outside of Lafayette and then participated in a voodoo ceremony of some kind. I wasn't able to keep complete surveillance on her there but I did catch that she was planning to do something tomorrow night. I haven't had time to tap her phone or plant some listening devices in her house, but give me a few days..."

"I haven't got a few days!" Lacroix raged. "Get out! Just get out! Useless, worthless, gutless son of a bitch!"

Anton Pierce, one of the best private investigators in Louisiana - and a man whose high fees were justified by his skill - coolly lit a cigarette and allowed the smoke to trickle from his nostrils. "If you'd tell me why you're in such a hurry..."

"Just get out, goddammit!" Lacroix picked up a paperweight from the desk and held it menacingly.

Pierce didn't get where he was by being a fool; he knew when to beat a tactful retreat. "I'll send you my bill," he replied as he exited, refusing to sacrifice dignity for haste.

Lacroix let the paperweight drop and rubbed his aching temples. Events were moving faster than he'd anticipated. He'd hoped to have at least a couple of days to come up with some kind of plan for dealing with Bonchance but now she'd forced his hand. He would have to handle this problem quickly or it could balloon out of his ability to control.

He got up and walked across his hotel suite to the bar, pouring himself two fingers of bourbon over ice. He sipped his drink and slowly calmed himself.

He'd gotten Anton Pierce involved because he needed someone who could be trusted to keep his mouth shut to follow Bonchance and report on her movements. Professionals like Pierce were discreet and willing to overlook coincidences if the person they'd been following suddenly disappeared, or ended up in the hospital or dead.

So, Bonchance is into voodoo, he thought to himself, wondering if this could be an angle he could use. After a little consideration, he discarded the idea; Louisiana might have been a God-fearing state on the surface, but beneath the piety ran a strong thread of superstition and the worship of dark African gods. Threatening to expose her religion wouldn't faze a woman like Bonchance; in fact, it might even enhance her reputation with her customers.

The whole thing had his mind running around in circles, chasing supposition and assumptions. Why would Bonchance go to a voodoo ceremony? There was nothing in the woman's past to indicate even a passing interest in the subject. Did she tell the Jean-Baptiste woman anything? Would this mambo become another problem?

Lacroix finally sighed; he'd confront the mambo if and when it became necessary. Right now, Xena Bonchance was the crucial disruption in his well-ordered life; a minor annoyance whose mysterious actions and intentions had turned her into a serious threat.

He poured himself another bourbon and drank it down while he pondered his choices.

It was clear that Bonchance was going somewhere tomorrow night. Perhaps she was meeting with someone? She never said she had evidence but would she have confronted him like that if she hadn't? Was she meeting with someone from the newspapers? TV? Or, God forbid, one of those expose programs that would gleefully plaster his sins on televisions from coast to coast?

Lacroix shuddered and poured some more alcohol into his glass.

At last, after consuming most of the bottle and running the emotional gamut from panic to false confidence to the bloody determination of a cornered rat, he decided on a course of action. Bolstered by bourbon and mortal fear, William Lacroix staggered to his bedroom and rummaged around in the briefcase he had brought with him.

After a little drunken fumbling, he came up with a .38 revolver gleaming dully in his hand.

He checked the ammunition, then checked it a second time before putting the gun and a handful of bullets into the inside pocket of his trenchcoat.

He'd make arrangements for a car in the morning...

Follow Xena Bonchance to her meeting...

And kill anything that moved.

With that resolution firmly entrenched in his mind, William Lacroix fell into bed, a beatific smile wreathing his features as he slipped into sleep, to dream of Xena's pale eyes opened wide as he blasted her again and again, hot bullets forcing the bitch into silence once and for all.

Xena waited until full darkness descended before leaving her home en route to Highway 13 and the old Resurrection cemetery.

She'd set the radio to an oldies station and now a soft harmony filtered through the car:

"Heavenly shades of night are falling, it's twilight time..."

With the windows rolled down and no fear of speed traps - the police never cruised Coffin Alley if they could help it - Xena put her foot down on the gas and sped towards her destiny. As the old Chevy roared through the night, Xena began to drift away from concentrating on the road and instead, other thoughts crowded her brain.

She'd have to find the three oaks first. Xena assumed they must be near Resurrection; once she'd located them, Gabrielle would lead her somehow to the decades-old corpse - or so the spirit had seemed to indicate. Xena didn't know how Gabrielle would accomplish this feat - Neon signs? A trail of ectoplasm? Breadcrumbs? - but she felt confident that before the dawn came bursting over the horizon, she would have freed her love from torment and in the process, taken down her murderer.

She had a shovel in the trunk of the car; leather gloves, a couple of flashlights and a Coleman lantern completed her equipment. Under the circumstances, Xena was as prepared as she could be. Going into an unknown situation made her a little nervous, but the thought of seeing Gabrielle again, of gazing one last time into those emerald eyes and hearing that musical voice, made Xena's heart pound with anticipation as well as dread.

She chewed the inside of her cheek; her fingers tapped the rim of the steering wheel.

Her pale blue eyes gleamed as memories flooded unbidden to the forefront of her mind: the sweet curve of Gabrielle's lips when she smiled, the glory of her red-blonde hair when it spilled down over her white shoulders, the unique scent of roses and spice that was the rarest incense in the world...

She didn't know how she could possess such delicious reminiscences, vignettes of a life they'd never shared together, but they seemed so vividly real that Xena couldn't question, was unable to deny. If she had still harbored doubts, they would have been washed away by the purifying and heart-breaking memories of her precious, lost treasure... Gabrielle.

She could almost feel Gabrielle's breath upon her skin, a tantalizing, whispered puff that smelled of honey and cloves. She could feel the strands of Gabrielle's hair slither through her fingers like silken rope. She could taste the other woman's fire, a shiver of delight and magic that dissolved on her tongue, a priceless pearl of memory that conjured up further images of love and loving that made her sigh with longing and regret.

Gone. Gabrielle was gone.

Fate's web had been shattered.

Tears threatened and were blinked away.

She must be strong, must not falter... for the sake of Gabrielle and herself.

If she succeeded, there was still hope, of a kind. Her life would go on until the inevitable end and then she and Gabrielle would be reunited to live and love again.

If she failed...

A yawning eternity of nothingness, loneliness and searing emptiness loomed before her.

Xena clenched her teeth. She would not fail!

She drove on absently, navigating with the unconscious skill of instinct, thoughts and images running riot in her head...

And never noticed the black Lincoln that purred along at a discreet distance behind her, its lights sensibly darkened, an ebony assassin glistening wetly as it focused on its goal.

Xena thought she was the hunter... but she was actually the prey.

William Lacroix squinted, following the dim red taillights in front of him.

Beside him, laying on the leather seat, was the loaded revolver. He reached over and caressed it, enjoying the slick gun oil that spread across his fingers.

He was alone. His lips stretched, exposing his teeth in a humorless grin that was more the snarl of a predator who catches the scent of his victim.

Lacroix was patient; he would follow the Bonchance woman for as long as it took, to hell if necessary, just as he had waited outside her home all day, unwilling to let her out of his sight for a moment.

She was his and he was determined to kill her, no matter what.

It was the only logical solution, he reassured himself.

He clicked on the radio, noting proudly that his hands weren't trembling at all.

"Even the stars at night are calling, it's twilight time..."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Xena walked up the road, shovel in one hand and lantern in the other. In the pockets of her ankle length leather duster, she carried the other tools she had brought.

The Chevy was parked up the road a little ways, the headlights shining but the yellow beams scarcely pierced the surrounding darkness.

All around her was a quiet hush, as if nature itself was holding her breath. The night was humid and Xena had already begun to sweat; a wind suddenly sprang up out of nowhere and on that cooling breeze the woman could detect the distinct tang of storm scent.

As if in answer to her thoughts, a few drops of rain splattered on the asphalt around her. Xena whispered a curse, looking up at the sky in a futile attempt to see the fat, thunder-bellied clouds that had boiled in from the Gulf. The ground was already wet; she'd have a hell of a time digging up the soft Louisiana muck even without the added difficulty of rain.

Something slid past the corner of her eye; she whipped her head around, lantern held high. The wind gusted strongly, lashing her dark hair across her face and bringing tears to her eyes because of the stinging pain. Xena shook her head and tried to refocus.

Lightning illuminated the landscape for a heartbeat, coloring everything around her in shades of gray and brilliant blue-white. At last, she recognized the sign she had been seeking - a trio of gnarled oak trees, twined around one another in a tortured embrace, their branches sagging with Spanish moss.

She picked her way off the road and into the woods, pushing aside grasping branches and trying hard not to trip on roots and vines. A sharply pointed finger seemed to scrape across the back of her neck hard enough to draw blood; Xena sucked in a breath and then let it out with a sighed obscenity. Just another goddamned man-eating tree, she said to herself, untangling her collar and moving on.

A flicker of white caught her attention. It glowed against the jungle landscape, luminous as a pearl. Xena shook wet hair out of her eyes and followed, stumbling and tripping, catching herself on tree trunks, heart in her throat. It had to be Gabrielle, leading her as she'd promised.

"Gabrielle! Cher! Wait for me, goddammit!"

The rain began in earnest, lightning stuttering and thunder booming, water cascading down as if the heavens had opened their floodgates. The wind howled, picking up speed and fury. A branch smacked against Xena's face; for a moment, she was blinded by the pain and the fiery stars that sprinkled her vision. Putting up a hand, she discovered that her cheek was bleeding. She wiped it impatiently on her sleeve and looked around. There was no sign of white anywhere.

"Gabrielle! Where are ya, darlin'?"

Xena ducked beneath some more branches and swore when her lantern crashed against a tree trunk, breaking the glass and extinguishing the light. Instantly, she was plunged into suffocating darkness and the hairs on the back of her neck rose in atavistic response.

Another flicker of white, this time closer than it had been before. Not close enough for Xena to make out anything except a blur but in her heart she knew it was Gabrielle.

"I'm comin'!" Xena yelled. "Hang on, cher! I'm comin'!"

She pulled out the biggest of the flashlights she'd brought and clicked it on. The light was pale and insignificant but it was still a comforting beacon that held the inky night at bay.

The luminous light began moving away...

"Goddammit!" Xena ground out. "Wait for me, will ya?!"

Xena followed, finesse forgotten in her haste not to be left behind, moving at a half-trot and nearly falling down a dozen times, only catching herself short and avoiding breaking her neck by dint of her excellent physical condition and almost supernatural sense of balance.

Finally, Xena stumbled into a clearing, out of breath and panting hard; the black hair plastered to her face and skull resembled runnels of spilled ink.

She fell to her knees, dropping the shovel. Rain dripped into her eyes, momentarily blinding her; she dashed a hand across her face and stared.

Gabrielle stood there, a glowing figure in the center of the cleared space. She looked so real, as if she were flesh and blood; her dress with its belling crinolined skirts and chiffon bodice was pure white again. She turned to face Xena, her green eyes incandescent as emerald flames.

"Find me!" the spirit urged; her voice, while faint, was still audible over the wind. "Please! I been waitin' so long..."

Xena scrambled to her feet and grabbed the shovel, drawing a breath that was almost a sob.

Lightning flashed and the woman's heroic figure was silhouetted against the night.

With determination and devotion, Xena began to dig.

The mambo howled, her firelit features screwed up into a demonic mask. "Pour les Morts! Pour les Morts nommes!"

All around her, the area where the societe danced and chanted was dry despite the fact that outside their supernatural circle of protection, the storm raged. Thunder growled angrily, lightning crawled across the sky then corkscrewed to the ground, a serpent's tongue of destruction.

Tante Marie screamed again, her deep, low pitched voice sending shuddering vibrations through the dancers. "Pour ceux dont les noms sont ouldies au passage du temps! Pour ceux dont les os sont sous et dans cette terre!"

One by one, members of the societe began to spasm in the beginning stages of possession, the women of the hounsi canzo moving in to restrain them.

Tante Marie threw back her head and laughed, shaking a fist at the roiling sky. "Triumphe!" she called loudly. "Come; take what is your due!"

A surge of power concentrated itself on one of the swaying dancers; the girl called Valentine fell to the ground, writhing and twisting, foam flecking her lips.

After several convulsions and growls, she suddenly lay still as if she had been stricken dead. Then, without any warning, she sprang up with a terrible scream, her blue-black skin glistening with sweat and the scar on her cheek seemed to glow like a livid brand. Her eyes had changed into the golden yellow of a hunting leopard's. With a snarl, Valentine leaped into the midst of the chevals, batting at them with hands that were curved into claws, herding them into a small circle that was centered on herself.

Valentine licked her lips and her eyes sought out Tante Marie. When her hot yellow gaze met the mambo's, she nodded once and then threw her arms out wide, seeming to gather more power to herself with each turning spin of the chevals who danced around her, with each throbbing beat of the drums.

The fabric of reality shimmered and vibrated; Valentine seemed to grow and she wailed, the cords in her neck straining, her grasping hands reaching out for something...

Lightning forked down, a blue-white bolt of pure energy that sizzled into Valentine's hands. The circle of protection was shattered; rain drenched the dancers and the roaring wind centered itself in a whirling maelstrom around Valentine and the chevals. The noise was almost unbearable; it seemed loud enough to shake muscle from bone, a sound so all encompassing it made the dancers clutch their heads and scream. The ground seemed to shake, the air to catch aflame; it was as if the centuries-old dead were raised from the embrace of their tombs and their empty eyes rolled towards heaven, seeking the redress of their wrongs by the gods themselves.

Lightning coursed down again and again, the bolts arriving so quickly there was no time to think, no time to seek shelter...

Tante Marie shielded her eyes with an upflung hand; when the flashes finally ended, she looked around and blinked.

Valentine and the chevals were gone. Disappeared as if they had never existed; not even a smoking stain remained on the ground.

The remaining members of the societe stumbled around in a daze; the drummers had collapsed over their instruments. Some of the hounsis had fallen to the ground; others wept and scrubbed at their soaked skirts with shaking hands.

The mambo allowed a satisfied smile to spread across her face. Ignoring the pelting rain, she took a long swig of rum and sighed, then let the bottle drop from her nerveless fingers.

The storm was moving away, chasing a tangle of lightning through the sky.

Payment was due and the loa always took exactly what they were owed.

Xena grunted; she was down on her knees, scraping away handfuls of dirt, the shovel discarded behind her. Her face was strained, lips drawn back in a grimace of effort. She panted, oblivious to the rain, the wind, the mud and filth that splattered her from head to toe. She moved in a mechanical rhythm, the pounding of her own pulse filling her ears and blocking out anything else.

At last, her questing fingers felt a solid, rounded shape. Xena scrabbled in the dirt, pushing aside the sodden earth that clung stubbornly to the grisly treasure it concealed.

Slowly, the mud yielded and Xena snatched up her flashlight, training it on the hole she'd dug.

A skull grinned up at her, its eyesockets filled with dark loam that was rapidly dissolving into sludge.

Tossing aside the flashlight, Xena began frantically clearing away the rest of the dirt, using her arms to push it aside, desperate to uncover the rest. In the depths of her fatigue-fogged mind, she was afraid that Gabrielle was smothering beneath the weight of her grave, the girl calling to her with a painful supplication that she could not disobey. Mouth open wide as she gasped, body shaking and muscles cramping, Xena fought to free her love from the earth's moist embrace, not stopping until the pitiful collection of bones was fully exposed.

Tears flowed down her face to mingle with the rain and mud.

She sat back on her heels and tried to control the wrenching convulsions that threatened to burst her chest.

As Xena trembled and shook, something in the grave caught her eye: a bright metallic glint that winked up at her from the bones of the corpse's hand.

Xena picked up the flashlight again. Her heart in her mouth, she reached out and carefully retrieved the object, wincing when the fingerbones of the skeleton tumbled apart.

It was a gold tieclasp, the solid metal still brilliant even after all these years. Xena scrubbed it on the front of her coat to clear off some of the encrusting dirt and then trained her light on it.

Tiny diamonds were set into the surface of the clasp; they spelled a name: William Joseph Lacroix.

Xena's hand closed into a fist; ignoring the sharp edges that bit into her palm, she whispered, "Gotcha, ya bastard."

Suddenly, she heard Gabrielle's voice clearly, as if the girl stood right beside her. "Look out!"

Xena's head tilted up and her eyes narrowed into slits.

Lightning flashed; William Lacroix was standing directly over her.

Somehow, Xena wasn't surprised by his presence. "See this?" she said, too angry to be cautious. "Take a good look, ya bastard!" She thrust the tieclip at him and laughed, a touch of hysteria that startled her. "Ya killed her, murderer! Murderer! You're gonna cook for sure!"

Lacroix didn't reply. Instead, he swept his arms down and a dark shape hurtled through the air, sweeping straight towards the laughing woman.

When the shovel crunched into her face, Xena collapsed without another word or thought, sent straight into oblivion by the enemy she had underestimated all along.

CHAPTER NINE

When Xena came to minutes later, it was to see the scowling face of William Lacroix bent over her, rain dripping off the end of his nose and splashing into her face.

Her nose was a blazing flare of agony and when she ran a tongue around her mouth, she could feel a couple of loosened teeth. The coppery taste of blood made her nauseous. She squeezed her eyes closed and opened them again; Lacroix's image blurred and shifted, doubling over itself.

Despite her faulty vision, Xena did her best to glare at him, trying to send every ounce of pain, rage and hate arrowing into the man she despised beyond all rational limits.

Lacroix straightened up with a grunt. He stepped back a pace and pulled a gun out of his pocket, aiming it at the woman on the ground.

"Good-bye, Bonchance," he said snidely. "Give my regards to Gabrielle when you meet her in hell!"

Unbelievably, the storm had gained strength. Rain smashed into the earth, balls of lightning skittered across the pitch black sky, the wind screamed with the force of an express train. Lacroix staggered as a particularly vicious gust whipped around him, nearly tossing him off his feet.

Xena struggled to bring Lacroix into focus; she gathered her legs under her and prayed she'd be strong enough. There was only one chance and she knew that if she missed, she'd die there and join Gabrielle, the two of them rotting together in a final embrace.

She shifted her position, watching Lacroix. He seemed to be having difficulty maintaining his balance. His feet slipped and slid in the mud; he windmilled his arms and tried to stay upright while the baleful wind tugged at his hair and clothes, threatening to send him sprawling.

Xena coiled her body and sprang up from the ground, hoping she hadn't misjudged the distance. She crashed into Lacroix, her shoulder striking his belly with enough force to drive the breath out of him, and they fell to earth, both of them grappling for the gun.

They struggled, rolling on top of each other; their battle was silent, punctuated only by gasps and the crisp smack of exchanged blows. This wasn't a polite brawl; this was two animals fighting for survival with bared teeth and bubbling fury. The only rule in this muddy arena was kill or be killed; each of them was determined to destroy the other, even if it cost them their own life.

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out, that sharp crack echoed by a rolling peal of thunder. Xena fell off Lacroix with a groan, clutching her arm with one hand. The bullet had broken the bone in her upper arm and dark blood welled up from between her fingers.

Lacroix staggered up, snatching the gun from where it had fallen. He trained it on the bleeding woman; his face was smeared with wet earth and rain, his eyes wide and pupils fully dilated. "Time to die, bitch!" he shrilled, his finger tensing on the trigger.

Xena rolled her head to the side. Gabrielle stood there; an electric aura crackled around her form. Her hair uncoiled from its demure chignon and lifted from her shoulders, the red-gold strands billowing outward like tongues of fire. Her eyes burned with hate but instead of watching Lacroix, her gaze was focused on the sky. Her hands curled into fists and she seemed to be waiting for something... or someone.

The howl of the wind was deafening; trees were bending backwards with crunching groans beneath that unstoppable power.

Lacroix, alerted by a sixth sense to the danger, looked up as well. His clothing was torn; one eye was swelling rapidly and a trickle of blood ran down his chin. Suddenly, the gun dropped from his hand and he fell, mouth open in a scream of denial and disbelief.

A funnel was reaching down from the clouds above; a swirling vortex of wind that dropped down into the clearing and hovered there, the cone twitching back and forth as it were seeking something.

Xena lay on her back and stared up into the whirlwind. Shadowy figures danced there, the winds buoying them up as they capered around and around.

Baron Samedi, she thought to herself, dazed. Madame Brigitte. Carrefour. Marinette-Bois Cheche.

All these and others, but paramount among them was a yellow-eyed woman whose scorching amber gaze threatened to set the trees aflame. She stared intently at Xena for a moment, then turned those incredible leopard eyes on the trembling figure of William Lacroix. The loa within the storm danced and laughed, but the woman was silent and serious. Suddenly, she smiled; Xena's heart contracted at the cruelty and delight in the yellow-eyed loa's expression.

Lacroix was on his knees in an attitude of prayer, gibbering in terror. "Please, God, help me!" he pleaded, weeping and groveling in the mud.

The unknown female loa's smile grew broader. She pointed a finger at the shivering, terror-stricken man. "It is time!" she announced in a surprisingly deep voice. "Come and serve your new masters, dog!"

The other loa floated up to join her; they stood in the eye of the storm, unsupported by anything except their own power.

Xena noticed Baron Samedi in the group; he removed the cigar from his mouth, doffed the hat from his head and gave her a solemn bow.

His words swam up unbidden: "We desire what you desire... we aid you because it serves our interests rather than your own."

And then the voice of Tante Marie: "De one who did dis t'ing must be punished but dat is for de loa to decide."

Xena smiled. It was a cold and chilling grin; had Lacroix seen it, he might have had a heart attack on the spot.

The funnel descended and Lacroix began to scream as he was enveloped in whirling winds and sizzling bolts of light. His scream seemed to grow thinner and fainter, as if it were being stretched across an immeasurable distance of space and time. Xena kept her eyes on the maelstrom but Lacroix was completely hidden from view.

After a moment, the twisting whirlwind ascended again, sucked back up into the sky by whatever power had caused it to appear. The spot where Lacroix had knelt was empty but his final protesting cry still echoed thinly until it died altogether, submerged into the sounds of an ordinary rainstorm that was already beginning to die.

Xena closed her eyes. It was finally finished; the quiet pattering of raindrops calmed and soothed away her aches and pains.

A glowing light close to her made the insides of her eyelids shimmer with red fire. Xena cracked her eyes open and looked straight into the beautiful face of Gabrielle.

The spirit knelt beside her; a look of complete peace and happiness had settled across her features. She reached out and brushed aside a matted lock of Xena's hair; the woman felt a tingle in that brief contact that made her blood sing.

Gabrielle leaned closer; Xena could see her own face reflected in the girl's emerald eyes. She could smell the sweetness of her love's hair, could almost feel the heat of Gabrielle's body. A tuft of chiffon tickled her cheek and Xena had to bite her lip to keep from crying.

Soft, warm lips pressed against her own; for a timeless moment, they were together, body and soul united in a bond that had at last been mended. Two souls made one; a silver ribbon stretching across infinity, melding one into the other until it was impossible to tell where Xena began and Gabrielle ended. It was more than a kiss; it was a bridge between worlds, a promise that when Xena was ready, her love would be waiting with open arms to welcome her to the other side.

Slowly, the pressure on her lips faded; Xena reached out and grasped at empty air. Her eyes flew open and she almost cried aloud when she realized that the spirit was no longer visible.

"I been waitin' for somebody," Gabrielle's voice whispered.

And then she was gone, the chains that had bound her to torment on earth finally dissolved. Freed to cross over; the stranglehold of fear and hate had been severed and now nothing held her soul in bondage. Gratefully, Gabrielle stepped into the light...

Xena lay there and wept, the pain of her injuries as nothing to the agony of her soul. She wept in mingled grief and profound happiness...

She was still sobbing like a child when the highway patrol officer who had noticed her abandoned car finally stumbled into the clearing and radioed for help.

CHAPTER TEN - EPILOGUE

Xena stood beside the coffin; she'd bought the finest mahogany box with solid silver handles that were elaborately chased with a pattern of vines and flowers. Gabrielle's bones had been released by the police department, along with a rusted and pitted compact made of brass and a blackened tube of metal that was once a lipstick case. Since no family members had come forward to claim the body, Xena had offered to give the long-dead girl a decent burial and had spared no expense in making sure the body of the woman she loved would be interred with suitable dignity and ceremony.

The dark haired woman ignored the droning voice of the priest and cast her mind back over the last several weeks. Her left arm was supported in a sling, the broken bone slowly mending from Lacroix's bullet. She rolled her shoulder, settling the sling into a more comfortable position.

The initial story she'd told the police had been a half-garbled and heavily censored account that had borne more than a touch of hysteria. The skeleton, with the golden tieclip miraculously restored to its bony grip, the gun, Xena's wounding, and the body of William Lacroix discovered tangled in a tree a few hundred yards from the scene hadn't contributed to a clear view of the half miraculous, half demonic events that had occurred that evening.

Fortunately, some of the scattered dwellers in their backwoods homes had seen the stormclouds and the tornado funnel; their testimony, together with the gleaned evidence, supported Xena's story.

When she'd woken up in the hospital following surgery to remove the bullet and repair her shattered arm, Xena had found a senior police detective waiting.

His name was Frank Duval and he'd been one of the officers who had originally investigated the disappearance of Gabrielle St. Martin twenty-three years ago.

Duval was an older man, nearing retirement but still very well respected; his cap of wooly curls was threaded with gray and his skin was a pale lemon yellow. His eyes were small and murky brown, the muddy iris blending into the red-veined white.

He had questioned her keenly, missing no nuance or hesitation on Xena's part. At last, due perhaps to fatigue and the gnawing ache in her arm, Xena began to tell him the entire story, from its beginnings on Highway 13 to the fantastic end of Lacroix at the hands of voodoo gods in the woods near Resurrection cemetery.

Her voice was raw; at times she wept uncontrollably, hand picking at the cool sheets. She had sense enough to keep the true nature of the relationship between herself and Gabrielle a secret, but the rest spilled from her lips in a bitterly tinged flood. She already missed Gabrielle and knew that the sharp pang in her heart would never go away entirely.

When she'd finished, Duval had sat and looked at her a long time with those blurred eyes, turning his pork-pie hat around and around in his hands.

At last, he'd sighed and shaken his head.

Xena had thought that this was the end; she might be arrested for something like grave robbery or obstruction of justice while the police tried to tie Lacroix's death to her neck with fabricated evidence that would be substantial enough to get her tried, convicted and sentenced to death.

It had happened before. She wouldn't be the first scapegoat to be executed by the State to silence public criticism and garner votes.

But Duval had surprised her.

She'd stared at him with wide eyes when he'd told her certain facts that had been uncovered by the police in 1962 and never released to the newspapers.

The fact that Gabrielle St. Martin had been undergoing initiate training in voodoo under the guidance of a houngan, Christian Espirit - and her companion in this training had been Marie Jean-Baptiste. The two girls had been best friends and confidantes, holding one another in the same affection as sisters, despite their very different backgrounds and against their families' protests.

The teenage Marie had refused to cooperate with the police, claiming that the loa they both had served would take care of Gabrielle - and anyone who had harmed her - in their own time.

Gabrielle's own mother, Nicole St. Martin, had been a voodoo priestess of some renown, famous for her eyes - which were an unusual amber yellow. Nicole had died when Gabrielle was a little girl and now the mother was worshipped by some societies as Madame L'ame Rasoir - the Razor of the Soul, a figure of motherly affection who nevertheless defended her children with the blood-hungry zeal of a lioness.

And then Duval had shown Xena something astonishing.

He'd reached into his back pocket, drawing out his wallet. From among some crumpled bills and tobacco-sprinkled papers, he had withdrawn a folded bit of white paper and handed it to her.

With hands that were none too steady, Xena unfolded it...

And saw her own face revealed there in a pencil and ink sketch.

Duval's laconic comments caused chills to skitter up and down her spine.

"Miss St. Martin drew that," he'd said, nodding to the paper in her hands. "I had to search the girl's private things to see if there was any evidence to support the theory that she was a runaway. When I showed it to Marie Jean-Baptiste, she told me that this was a face I should remember - it was the image of a Serviteur de Les Invisibles, a ku-bha-sah to strike down the enemy - in other words, a sword in the hands of the loa. Someone destined to find Gabrielle and lead her out of bondage.

"I admit, I didn't understand Marie's words; I just thought she knew much more than she was admitting. I had this face wired to every police department, every sheriff's office in Louisiana and Texas - and came up with nothing. Eventually, I gave up searching - there were other crimes, other criminals. But I never forgot Gabrielle St. Martin... and I kept this to remind me of a young girl whose life was cut short by someone, somewhere."

Xena had handed the paper back to him but he'd waved her away, getting up from his seat and thrusting his hat back onto his head. "I can't say that I understand it all, but I do believe. Yes, ma'am, I believe. But... well, if you want my advice, Ms. Bonchance," Duval continued as he walked out the door, "you got enough bumps and bruises to make a good case for concussion. A wise woman would claim not to remember much and keep that wild story to herself."

He pointed a stumpy finger in her direction. "I know you're a pretty damn wise woman, Ms. Bonchance. I'm wise, myself." Duval said. "If it's any consolation, I think you done all right."

You done all right...

Those words had been one of the few bright spots in the days that followed, when Xena had been interrogated by all and sundry, including lawyers representing the Lacroix family interests, sniffing around for possible grounds for lawsuits or compensation. She'd been hounded by newspaper and television reporters, had to change her telephone number to an unlisted one, and had eventually moved to a hotel to get away from the firestorm of publicity.

It had died down a great deal after the official police report had been issued. The coroner's verdict boiled down to "act of God" in the matter of William Lacroix. And the bones Xena had found were positively identified as those of Gabrielle St. Martin; cause of death: possible strangulation. The tieclip was circumstantial evidence, but the tireless newshounds sensed blood in the water and began to do their own investigating.

Slowly, William Lacroix's crimes and shady business dealings were being exposed to the light, much to his enemies' satisfaction and his wife's consternation.

A tugging on the sleeve of her jacket pulled Xena abruptly from the past. The priest was staring at her impatiently; it was clear that she'd missed her cue and he was waiting for her to say her piece.

She cleared her throat. Gabrielle was being buried in a plain marble tomb that stood next to Xena's own; she'd inherited both plots from her mother and thought it fitting that since she and Gabrielle had not been able to connect in life, they should rest side-by-side in death.

Xena laid an armful of white roses on the top of the coffin. The sun was shining brightly, the sky a clear and crystalline blue that was reflected in the dark-haired woman's eyes.

She licked her lips, unsure of what to say. She laid a hand on the coffin lid, the wooden surface hot against her palm.

Before she could speak, however, a breeze sprang out of nowhere. The cool eddy of wind swirled around Xena, snatching at her clothes and ruffling her black hair like the caress of a lover. In her ear, a faint voice drawled in a musical Cajun lilt:

"I was waitin' for somebody... and that was you."

A spectral kiss brushed against her mouth, a feathery tickle like butterfly wings...

"I love you. I'll wait, my heart. I'll wait forever. I swear."

And then it was gone as swiftly as it had come.

Xena stood there, the heat of the sun beating down on her head, and whispered, "Sleep peacefully, cher. Oh, baby..." Tears began to trickle down her cheeks. "Rest awhile and wait for me."

She stayed a moment, locked in grief, head bowed and shoulders shaking; that final ghostly kiss was burned into her memory, to be recalled a thousand times in the lonely days and empty nights to come...

And finally Xena nodded, stepping away to allow the coffin with its burden of pale roses to be slid into its rack in the little stone house of the dead.

THE END

<~~~~~Return to the Library

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by Nene Adams ©2002

The woman was dry-eyed, but her face showed the haggard traces of grief. "Will you do this for me?" she asked.

"I will do what I can," the witch replied. She was young and pretty - too pretty, perhaps, for the dire employment that had brought her to the mansion in the woods.

Felicity's tangled hair was a whit darker than the flames in the fireplace, and her swollen eyes were hard as green agates. She smoothed down the front of her dress and said, "I will pay any price."

"Be careful what you offer. The price might be higher than you imagine." The witch, whose name was Daphnis, grinned as she spoke. She had a round face, pert as a kitten's; her little greedy mouth was the color of ripe plums. Long brown hair hung loose to her ankles, and she was barefoot.

"I said I'll pay your price, whatever it is." Felicity's lips twitched. "You have a reputation as a hard bargainer, Daphnis. I didn't expect your services to come cheaply. Now, shall we begin?"

Daphnis gave a mocking little bow. "Don't you want to hear my price first?"

"I don't care." Felicity turned to a table, picked up an ivory inlaid box. "Here are the materials you required."

Daphnis opened the lid. Inside were several pieces of bone, a folded sheet of what appeared to be soft leather, a heavy lock of hair, bound with a black ribbon, and a glass vial filled with some dark clotted fluid. "From the source?" the witch inquired.

"With my own hands."

Again, Daphnis bowed, this time out of respect for Felicity's iron nerve. It was not everyone who dared to visit a dead beloved's grave site in order to violate the corpse. She took the box out of Felicity's hands and closed it. "I must return to my home in order to make certain preparations. When I'm finished, I will return."

"No. You will stay here until the task is completed to my satisfaction."

"I think not."

Felicity's teeth were clenched together. When she spoke, it was in a dreadful voice, like the tolling of a great iron bell. "You will remain, for I abjure and bind thee by the power of thy true name!" Before Daphnis could interrupt, Felicity recited a name that caused the curtains to billow outward, as if whipped by a powerful wind - but the windows were fastened shut.

Daphnis' eyes narrowed. The curtains fluttered weakly, then fell limp. "Clever. That information would have been very expensive to obtain. Very expensive, indeed."

"Money can buy many things, witch. I have my sources. What do you think led me to you?" Felicity tapped the box with a finger. "Do what I require, and I will set you free."

"Is my freedom to be the price for my services?" Daphnis drew herself up proudly. "I cannot be compelled to practice my arts."

"I have sworn to pay whatever you ask, and I will do so. The binding is a precaution. You've tricked others, but I'll not be cheated so easily. There's a workroom in the cellar. If anything is lacking, it will be provided. You will not leave this house for any reason until the ritual is complete, and I am satisfied that the requirements are met. Then, and only then, will you receive your payment and your freedom. Is that understood? Deceive me, and I'll ensure your punishment fits the crime."

Daphnis looked into Felicity's face, read the implacable expression, and sighed. "Your desire has become my desire. Show me to this workroom of yours. I warn you, the preparations will take more time if I'm imprisoned here."

"Take all the time you need." Felicity turned towards the door. "I'm in no hurry, and neither is she."

For the third time, Daphnis bowed, this time in acknowledgment of Felicity's temporary mastery. Gathering the box close to her bosom, the witch followed her captor down into the cellar, bare feet pattering on the floorboards.

It was three months before Daphnis stood in front of Felicity again. "The first part is accomplished. Behold, the simulacrum!"

Daphnis stood something on a nearby table. It was an exquisitely crafted and detailed human figure, about eighteen inches tall. The skin was tinted so that blue veins could be traced on the inner arms and breasts. Glossy black hair swept back from the forehead to the shoulders. Tiny curls surmounted the juncture between its thighs. Its face was superb, with black brows arching over wide brown eyes, parted lips revealing ivory teeth.

Felicity fetched a magnifying glass and examined the simulacrum closely. She was amazed at the craftsmanship; there were even discernible fingerprints, and fingernails and toenails like slivers of nacre. She straightened up, took a deep shuddering breath. "This is her. This is Alida."

"Of course. Her skin, her bone, her blood, her hair - as you know, having gotten the items yourself." Daphnis' greedy mouth curved in a smile that was almost grotesque. "From a graveyard at midnight, beneath the weeping yews, while shadows covered the moon. Did you have any trouble breaking into her coffin? I favor a crowbar myself."

"Enough, witch. I will ask the questions. You will answer." Felicity put the magnifying glass away. "Did you have any trouble with the crafting?" she asked

"Heart of garnet, engraved with enchantments," Daphnis said. "A jewel for every organ, each bearing the most powerful spells at my command. Every bone in its proper place, carved with my hand from her own bones. Veins and arteries of incorruptible gold, filled with her blood. Her hairs rooted in place, one by one. The eyes are smoky topaz, the teeth made of pearl. The skeleton covered with her own skin, flayed from the corpse with a necromancer's knife. It requires only a ritual to complete the work."

"And when shall that be?"

"Tonight, I dance." Daphnis' hands described a series of graceful curves in the air. "Tonight, Alida shall live again."

Felicity nodded. "Then you need to prepare, and so do I." Giving the simulacrum one last look, Felicity walked out of the room.

Daphnis cocked her head to one side, reached out and ran a fingernail down the figure's back. The witch let out a breathy little laugh, her gaze glittering with malice. She would give Felicity what she wanted... but the price would be high, indeed.

The room had been cleared of furniture. Daphnis covered the wooden floorboards with sigils drawn in some reeking liquid she had concocted in the cellar. The symbols glowed faintly, a bluish-green phosphorescence that reminded Felicity of rotting mold. Light was provided by candles on the mantelpiece; the flames in the fireplace had been allowed to die to crumbling embers and ash. The candles smelled faintly like roasting pork. After a moment, Felicity realized that they were made of human fat. She did not know whether to be horrified, or admire the witch's theatrical sense.

When she was finished with her preparations, Daphnis put the simulacrum in the center of the floor. She stood up, pushing back her long veil of hair to reveal her nude body. The only ornaments she wore were a belt of silver bells around her waist, and tiny bird skulls strung on threads wrapped around wrists and ankles. The palms of her hands and soles of her feet were dyed red with henna. Thick kohl around her eyes gave Daphnis a wild look.

She cast a handful of incense into the dying fire. The smoke was thick and musty; it made the back of Felicity's throat itch.

Felicity sat where she had been told, in a circle of blue-green sigils somewhat apart from the rest. She was not nervous or afraid. In her quest to restore beloved Alida, she had seen and experienced things far beyond the normal mortal boundaries. In Siberia, she had witnessed a shaman flying to the underworld on the back of his spirit helper in an unsuccessful effort to retrieve the dead woman's soul. From a Romany witch in Hungary, to a mountain sorcerer in Nepal, Felicity had traveled the world seeking to restore the love that had been cruelly snatched away from her.

There was no act too vile, no price too high, no avenue too far afield to be explored. Alida was dead, and without her, Felicity could not live. Every waking moment was a maelstrom of sorrow and loss. Felicity could not, would not, let Alida go without a fight. Daphnis the witch was her last resort.

A tinkling sound roused Felicity's attention. She lifted her eyes to behold Daphnis striking a pose. One leg extended, the other supporting her weight, both arms raised above her head. The witch began to twitch her hips. Each time she did so, the bells at her waist jingled. Her hands came together to mark the beat - three staccato claps, followed by four measured beats. Felicity took up the rhythm while Daphnis danced.

The bird skulls rattled as Daphnis whirled around the simulacrum, feet flickering in a complicated pattern . Her long brown hair flew out in a circle - first revealing, then concealing, her pale body. She thrust out her arms again and again, beseeching some unseen presence. Her nipples were hard; sweat glistened on her flanks. A thin line of blood snaked down her thigh. She spun faster to the counterpoint of bells and bones.

Daphnis cried out in a guttural tongue, a language that Felicity did not know or understand. Although at first not apparent, Felicity realized that the simulacrum was growing in fits and starts. Reaching to Daphnis' knee one moment, the next it had shot up so that the crown of its head was even with her waist. The growth continued, until it was a few inches taller than the witch. Now it resembled a human being, except that it was patently not alive. A mannequin made of leather and jewels - a thing rather than a person.

Felicity could scarcely breathe. Incense fumes constricted her chest, smoky coils winding tighter and tighter until she was light headed. Tears coursed down her cheeks.

"Fire!" Daphnis said, reaching towards a candle. The flame bobbled, leaped from the wick to set her fingertips ablaze. She inscribed a symbol on the simulacrum's forehead with the same hand. Fire dripped and sizzled, scorching the floor. The simulacrum blinked. A rosy flush infused the skin.

The witch danced to Felicity. "Water!" She flicked two tears from Felicity's face; they landed on the simulacrum's breasts. A pulse throbbed in its throat.

"Air!" Daphnis blew on the simulacrum, her breath turning into a mist that crept into the figure's nostrils. It inhaled, then exhaled.

Finally, Daphnis thrust two fingers between her thighs. When she withdrew them, her fingers were smeared with blood. "Earth!" she said, painting crimson dabblings on the simulacrum's belly.

There was a flash of light, a howling wind that clawed at Felicity's face until she had to close her eyes or risk being blinded. Heat seared her skin. She fancied she could smell the stink of scorched hair.

"It is accomplished!" Daphnis screamed, her voice cutting through the noise. The light flickered out, the wind died. When Felicity opened her eyes, Alida was smiling at her.

It was Alida. The knowledge came straight from Felicity's heart. She gasped, choking on a swell of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her.

"Where have you been?" Alida asked, looking at Felicity with a touch of confusion in her eyes. "I've been looking for you."

"It doesn't matter," Felicity answered huskily. The effort to speak was almost too much. She stood up, holding out her arms. Alida came to her, warm and willing and smelling of spice. Alive again.

Daphnis gazed at the reunited lovers, venom evident in her steady stare. "It is accomplished... almost," she whispered, turning on her heel to exit the room, leaving Felicity and Alida alone.

The next seven days were a paradise for Felicity. From the depths of a personal hell, she had climbed to the heights of ecstasy and joy.

Alida had no memory of the accident that had claimed her life. She did not recall being dead for nearly five years. She accepted a lie about a coma, her curiosity held at bay by the fierceness of Felicity's loving. The two scarcely left their bedroom. Servants brought chilled champagne, ripe strawberries, pheasant, lobsters flown in from Maine - all the delicacies that money could buy. During this time of celebration and reunion, Felicity completely forgot about Daphnis the witch.

On the eighth day, however, Felicity woke up to find Daphnis seated beside the bed, nibbling a strawberry. Red juice stained her lips, dribbled down her chin.

"What do you want?" Felicity asked, anxious not to awaken Alida.

"I've come to claim my price," the witch answered. Her greedy little mouth nipped at the strawberry, consuming it bite by bite until there was nothing left.

"Now?"

Daphnis spread her hands apart. "Is there a better time? You have what you wanted. Give me what I want, and I'll go away."

Alida woke up. When she saw Daphnis, she gathered the sheet to her breasts instinctively. "Flick, who's that? Is she one of my doctors? I seem to remember..."

"Never mind," Felicity said, getting out of bed hastily. She snatched up a robe, put it on, and gave Alida a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, sweetheart. Just some business that needs my attention. I won't be long."

Alida settled back on the pillows. Her dark hair was delightfully mussed, a confusion of curls that framed her face. She looked so beautiful, Felicity's heart lurched in her chest. "All right, Flick. I'll wait right here for you," she said.

Felicity bent down, kissed Alida's cheek. "I'll be back soon, I promise."

Daphnis laughed silently, and led Felicity out into the hall.

"You said that you'd pay any price," Daphnis said, as soon as the bedroom door was shut. "Any price at all."

"Yes, I did." Felicity pushed stray auburn tresses behind her ears. "What do you want, witch? Money? Gold? Jewels?"

"Nothing so mundane as that."

Felicity raised an eyebrow. "My first born child?"

Again, Daphnis laughed silently. "Hardly. We both know the likelihood of that happening."

"My soul?"

"Your soul belongs to another."

"Look," Felicity said impatiently, "I've had enough of your games. Just tell me what you want."

"And you will pay my price of your own free will? Whatever I ask?"

"A bargain is a bargain." Felicity glanced at the closed door. "Alida means everything to me. Everything! I would gladly give my life for hers, if that's what will satisfy you."

"You're a rich woman. What if I demanded all your wealth?"

"I'd give you every cent I owned."

"What if I desired your beauty? Would you live as a maimed, scarred monster, knowing that Alida could not possibly accept you? Would, in fact, flee screaming from the very sight of you?"

Felicity shuddered, but answered bravely, "Take it. Leave me blind, deaf, halt and mute; make me the most hideously ugly woman on the planet. I'll be content knowing that Alida is alive, even if I can never see her again."

"What if I were to do just that? Steal your senses, leave you aware inside a broken shell that can never respond to Alida or anyone else."

"Do what you will, witch. I said I'd pay your price. Stop toying with me and do it!"

Daphnis wrinkled her pretty nose. "Very well. My price is... a single kiss."

Felicity was taken aback. She could hardly credit what she had heard. "A kiss? That's all?"

"A kiss. That's all." Daphnis flipped back her long brown hair. As before, she was naked except for bells and bird skulls. She gave Felicity a smoldering look. "A single kiss, given freely and without reservation."

"Fine." Felicity moved closer. "If that's what you really want." The witch smelled of anise and lemons, hot sugar and plums ripening beneath a summer sun.

"That is my price. Pay it, and our business is finished." Daphnis pressed herself against Felicity, arms winding around her neck like silken serpents. Her eyes flashed black fire. The bells around her waist tinkled, then fell silent.

Felicity had no time to prepare herself. Suddenly, the witch's greedy little mouth was crushing against her own, a wet tongue sliding between her lips. Without thinking about it, Felicity opened her mouth, let Daphnis inside. It was difficult to concentrate with so much firm, sweet-smelling flesh under her hands. The witch's perfume was dazzling. The arms around her neck were pulling her down, down into velvet softness, into warmth and darkness.

Then she felt it. Something slippery, semi-solid, coated with slickness. Pushed into her mouth, propelled by Daphnis' tongue. Felicity's eyes opened wide. She tried to pull away, but the witch's grasp was stronger. Rancid bitterness invaded, so powerful it made Felicity gag. She could not close her lips. She was paralyzed. A rubbery oval slid across her palate, eased down her throat. It blocked her airway, and Felicity began to convulse.

She heard Daphnis say. "My price is paid in full."

Felicity fell to the floor, unconscious.

When Felicity awoke, Alida was hovering anxiously above her. "Thank God!" Alida said, when Felicity's eyes fluttered open. "You've been out for three days, Flick. How do you feel?"

"Tired," Felicity croaked. She gratefully accepted a glass of water. Other than a slight headache, she seemed unharmed. "Where's Daphnis?"

"Who? Oh, do you mean that woman with the hair?" Alida made a face. "She said you fainted in the hallway. The doctor guessed it was some kind of delayed shock, or perhaps exhaustion. You've been stretching yourself a bit thin."

"Where did Daphnis go?" Felicity was having a hard time remembering exactly what had occurred between herself and the witch. Daphnis had demanded a kiss as payment, and then... but the memory was blurred, too difficult to recall.

"She left about ten minutes after I called the doctor." Alida helped Felicity sit up, piling pillows behind her for support. "Who was she, anyway?"

"Not important. A business associate."

"Well, I'm glad she's gone."

Felicity took one of Alida's hands, kissed the knuckles one by one. "So am I."

That night, the women were watching an episode of The Twilight Zone on television. A black-and-white Rod Serling smirked his way through the introduction, while Alida snuggled closer to Felicity.

"I was lost," Alida murmured, "but you found me again."

"What?"

"When I was in that coma. I don't remember, of course. I just have a feeling that you were always there, trying to guide me home."

The lights were off. The only illumination in the room was provided by the flickering television screen. Felicity ignored the program, turned her attention to Alida. "You're back, and that's all that matters."

"Is it?" Alida's eyes turned yellow. Her canine teeth elongated, becoming fangs. Cruelly hooked claws burst from her fingertips, sank into Felicity's flesh. "I'd say, the only thing that really matters is a good meal."

Felicity screamed... and woke up.

Beside her, the real Alida was propped up on an elbow, staring down at her, brows furrowed in a frown. "I didn't realize you were asleep, Flick. Were you having a nightmare?"

On television, Rod Serling was smirking at her again, a cloud of smoke wreathing his saturnine features. Felicity groped for the remote control and clicked the set off. She was covered in cold sweat, and her mouth was dry. "I'm fine," she lied. "Just tired."

"Oh!" Alida was suddenly pushing at her, rolling Felicity onto her side. "How did that happen?" she asked.

"What?" Felicity craned her neck to see. Four shallow cuts curved along her ribs, barely bleeding. She remembered the dream, and shuddered.

"Poor thing," Alida crooned, getting up to fetch a towel from the bathroom, "you must have scratched yourself in your sleep."

"Yes. I suppose so," Felicity answered, vividly recalling the hungry vampire-like creature in her dream. For the first time, she felt a faint thrill of mistrust. When Alida returned to clean her scratches, it was all Felicity could do not to flinch away from her lover's ministrations.

She must have been looking at Alida strangely, because after a few moments, the dark haired woman put down the towel and stared back at her. "What's wrong, Flick? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Felicity told herself firmly, It was just a stupid dream. This is Alida, the woman you love. She would never hurt you.

An unwanted voice inside her mind insinuated: This is Alida, the woman you rose from the dead. Or is it? Seeing that Alida was still concerned, Felicity forced herself to smile and say, "It's nothing, sweetheart. A nightmare. I'll get over it."

Alida tossed the towel on the floor and got back into bed, tucking herself against Felicity's suddenly chilled body. "I hope you have sweeter dreams," she whispered, her face buried in the side of her lover's neck.

"So do I. Good-night." Felicity put her arm around Alida and tried to relax.

Sleep, when it came, was all too brief before the morning came rushing in.

The dreams continued, but now they were mostly confused impressions: leathery wings brushing her face, distorted water-smeared images, like looking at pictures through a glass filled with crimson liquid. Felicity woke up even more exhausted. as if she had been wrestling with an adversary all night long. Secretly, she checked her body for marks, but could find nothing,  not a scratch, or puncture, or cut that might lead her to an unwelcome conclusion.

Felicity also felt bloated, her body too swollen to be contained by her skin. It made her irritable and snappish, unable to concentrate. Loss of appetite added to her frustration. Alida bore this ill humor with a tenderness that caused Felicity to see-saw between shame and gratitude, to a deep resentment that she could barely conceal.

Alida's trust and understanding never wavered.

It was about this same time that the deaths started to occur.

The first to die was a young woman that Felicity employed as an administrative assistant. Her name was Bonnie; she was married, and pregnant with her first child. Since Bonnie had recently become estranged from her husband, Felicity had given her permission to sleep in one of the mansion's extra bedrooms. Bonnie spent a lot of time at the mansion anyway, and had planned to keep working until just before the baby's birth. The arrangement suited them both.

The second week after Alida's return, Bonnie was found dead, apparently having miscarried sometime during the night. The bedsheets were soaked in blood, especially between her thighs. No trace of the child's body was found, however. The police suspected an abortion gone wrong, but out of respect for Felicity's position, put it down to natural causes.

Felicity paid for the funeral, which both she and Alida attended.

Twenty-eight days later, another young woman died, wife of a Congressman who kept a summer home about a mile away from Felicity's mansion. Staying there alone except for servants, she had bled to death from a hemorrhage. An autopsy report provided the shocking news that the woman had been twelve weeks pregnant. No one had known except her doctor.

Felicity wondered, what if Daphnis' magic brought a demon to life, instead of the real Alida? In the beginning, the notion was repugnant to her. Yet as her sleep continued to be disturbed by unsettling dreams, Felicity became more and more convinced that Alida was the author of these troubles. Not her Alida, of course, but the thing that Daphnis the witch had conjured with her unclean enchantments.

That was how she began to think of Alida - the thing. Felicity could not forget watching Daphnis animate a doll made from her dead lover's bone and skin and hair. She could not forget scraping spadefuls of earth from the grave, wrenching open the coffin to behold the grinning corpse. A musty damp odor, stale dirt mingled with the faint scent of decay that had to be denied at all costs to maintain her sanity.

Felicity had removed Alida's body, brought it back to the house in secret. Flayed the skin from her back, cleaned it, tanned it to suppleness. Pulled fingernails and toenails and bones from the softened, slightly discolored flesh. She had steeled herself, blotted out the horror of what she was doing, and gone on with the job in a detached manner. Only once had Felicity allowed the true nature of her business to intrude upon her awareness. After retching until she brought up blood, she had picked up her tools and continued desecrating her lover's body cruelly, as if punishing the corpse for her own lapse.

At one time, Felicity had believed that getting Alida back would soothe the hellish grief, make the pain subside, dilute the memories. The agony of being left behind had made her contemplate suicide, until another option presented itself. Losing Alida was like having half of her body amputated, yet the phantom pain tormented her every waking moment. The hope of real resurrection kept her sane, although some would have argued that obsession begat its own set of mental problems.

Having gone to all the trouble and suffering and expense, Felicity now felt cheated.

What if I killed her? Felicity asked herself. Would it really be murder? After all, she's just a thing... that thing. Made by a witch from a dead woman's corpse. A witch who swore to bring Alida back to me, but by God, I've been cheated. Not my Alida. It never was. It never will be. Demon, monster, killer. How I hate that thing! How I wish it was dead!

Right after the third fatal miscarriage in as many months, Alida looked at Felicity across the dining table. "Flick, I wonder if you can get a copy of my medical records? I'd like to see them."

Felicity did not answer, except for a sullen glance. Her fork stirred the contents of her plate around and around, but she did not eat a bite.

Alida continued, "What hospital? Which doctors? How did I fall into a coma in the first place?"

"I'm trying to eat. Can't we discuss this later?" Felicity growled.

Alida put down her fork and knife. "The servants don't know anything about my illness. I had a little talk with poor Bonnie right before she died, and she said..."

Felicity banged her fist on the table. "Dammit! How dare you question my employees?"

"I'm sorry," Alida replied, clearly taken aback, "I was just curious." Her mouth tightened into a stubborn line. "I have a right to see my own medical files, you know."

"Rights?" Felicity sneered. "Don't talk to me about rights. Things don't have rights."

"What do you mean?"

Felicity was suddenly cautious. Who knew what that thing might do if it knew the truth? With a slyness she did not know she possessed, Felicity smiled and said, "No, I'm sorry, sweetheart. I've had a lot on my mind, and I'm taking it out on you. I didn't mean to snap your head off. We've been having trouble with the Cathcart account. You know how it is."

But Alida was not easily swayed. "You're keeping secrets from me, and I don't like it. Why haven't we gone anywhere together? I'm cooped up in this house all day like a prisoner. You've been acting very strangely, too. Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately?"

Before Felicity could stop her, Alida went to the sideboard and picked up a polished silver tray. She held it in front of Felicity and demanded, "Look at yourself, Flick. What's wrong with you?"

Felicity raised a hand to smash the tray aside. Alida skipped back a step, then forward again, shoving the polished surface in her face. Unwillingly, Felicity was confronted with her reflection.

Her eyes were sunk deep in bruised sockets, her once luxurious auburn hair gone dry and frizzy. Her skin was stretched tightly over bones so prominent, they appeared to be sharp as knives. Her lips were chapped and cracked. Felicity touched her cheek; the flesh had the texture of coarse leather. She stared at herself in a kind of wonderment.

"You're not well, Flick," Alida said gently. "You won't eat. You've told me that you're having trouble sleeping. You've lost weight. I'm worried, baby. I don't want to lose you."

I don't want to lose you. Those were the exact words that Felicity had said in the emergency room, when Alida lay dying. She recalled that moment clearly... and the one before, when their car had skidded on the ice, the truck rushing towards them shockingly fast. No time to react, not even time enough to pray. All she remembered about the impact was a violent blow, like falling from a height onto hard earth. Afterwards, just the blood, the glass, the stench of gasoline. Alida laying on the street, a broken doll on a bed of scarlet slush.

A series of photographs was stored in her memory - the paramedic's bearded face hovering over her; the ceiling of the ambulance; the emergency room, where she had pushed back her own pain to rise from the bed, snatch back the curtain and see Alida lying there in the next bed, surrounded by machines and shouting doctors and frantic nurses. Beeping equipment, squealing flatline on a heart monitor, plastic tubes and everywhere the blood. Always the blood. The nauseating reek of it. They had cut into her chest in a last-ditch effort to save her life. Felicity had seen Alida cracked open like a slaughtered animal.

I don't want to lose you, she had whispered, swaying on her feet. From somewhere, Felicity had found the strength to scream, and keep on screaming, begging, demanding. Finally, a needle in her arm. Blessed unconsciousness... until she had woken up to find the nightmare had only gotten worse.

Alida was dead.

What stood before her was only a thing. The thing.

"Do you want to know the truth?" Felicity said, righteous indignation rising in a tide that threatened to choke her. Caution was forgotten in the need to vent. She shoved the tray away and stood up. "The truth is, sweetheart, that you died five years ago." She spat the endearment, and found some satisfaction in seeing Alida back away from her.

"There are no medical records. There was no coma," Felicity continued. "You died in a car accident. Or I should say, Alida died, because you're not her. Not really."

"You're crazy," Alida said, her face as pale as milk.

"Am I? Let me tell you something..." Felicity came closer. A vein throbbed in her temple; the taste of bile in the back of her throat made her want to vomit. "Alida has been dead for five years, ever since our car skidded out on Route 16, right before Christmas. Hit a truck - bang!" Her hands clapped together, and Alida flinched. "I lost my love that day. For a while, I wanted to die myself. God, despair is a bitch! Then one day I got a letter from a phony psychic, claiming she could raise the dead. Oh, it was an obvious scam, but it got me thinking: what if there really was a way to bring somebody back? Not as a spirit, but a living body animated by the life energies - the soul - of the departed."

Alida repeated softly, "You're crazy."

Felicity ignored her. "I traveled around the world, hunting necromancers, shamans, sorcerers, witches... anybody who could give me what I wanted. What I learned is that real magic has its own price, and there are damned few people willing to pay it. Most of these people were fakes, but there were a few..." She shook her head. "Nobody could do it, until I heard about Daphnis."

"The woman with the long brown hair," Alida said.

"Daphnis the witch. Found her in the Philippines. She told me what had to be done before she came here." Felicity's eyes stretched wide in remembered horror. "I dug up Alida's body. Daphnis needed bone, skin, nails and hair to do the spell. Gathered with my own fair hands. Hah!" The horror disappeared, replaced by a hatefully sly look. "I got her true name, bound her here to do the work because I didn't want to be cheated. Daphnis didn't think I knew any magic, that stuck-up bitch. I learned a few things on my travels, though. Wasn't she surprised!"

Alida pressed a hand to her chest. Her cheeks were bloodless; she was breathing in quick, shallow jerks. "What did you do?" she whispered.

"Daphnis made a doll, a simulacrum of jewels and bits of Alida's corpse. The ritual was a success... or so I thought." Felicity laughed, as though something delightful had just occurred to her. "Everything's gone completely wrong! I wanted Alida back, and instead I got this thing that isn't her at all, but it looks like her. Acts like her. Talks like her. Cries like her. Smells like her. But it's just a goddamned magic doll! For this, I paid a kiss!" She gasped, still laughing, and reached for Alida. "A lousy kiss for a lousy doll."

The dark-haired woman drew herself out of reach, her back pressed against the door of the dining room. "You're not Flick," she said in a choked little voice. "Stay away from me."

"Goddamned doll." Felicity stopped laughing. She gazed at Alida from beneath lowered brows. "Goddamned thing."

Alida's hand groped for the doorknob. She found it, opened the door, and sprang out of the room, pelting down the hallway. "You're not Flick!" she screamed over her shoulder. "You're not Flick!"

"And you're not Alida, so I guess that makes us even," Felicity called after her. She closed the door gently, sat down, and toyed with a glass of wine. She felt full, although she had not eaten anything.

"Goddamned thing," she muttered.

Felicity stayed there while an hysterical Alida ordered a cab, threw some clothes into a suitcase, and left the mansion.

When a servant came creeping into the dining room to inform Felicity of Alida's absence, the lady of the manor simply shook her head and laughed until he fled, terrified.

Felicity's mansion was in an exclusive area, surrounded by the homes of other wealthy people, but with enough woodland to give a feeling of total seclusion. Many of her neighbors employed Filipino maids, nannies, cooks and gardeners. These people began showing up to work wearing bright gold and silver jewelry to protect themselves, so it was said, against demonic attack. They clustered together at sandwich shops and bus stations, whispering and making sidelong glances at passers-by.

Several days after Alida's defection, Felicity woke up to find her skin peeling off in strips and tatters. It did not hurt, not anymore than a bad sunburn, and the flesh beneath, while a bit tender, seemed healthy. Felicity took a shower, scrubbing herself hard with a loofah, and got out feeling quite refreshed... until she realized that her hair was falling out, too. Great clumps of limp auburn hair clogged the shower drain. She pulled it from her scalp in painless fistfuls, let damp strands scatter on the floor. Her eyelashes, eyebrows, pubic hair - all gone in about an hour. Strangely calm, Felicity put on a robe, wrapped a towel around her head, and ordered her housekeeper to call a plumber.

By the time the plumber finished unclogging the pipes in her bathroom, Felicity's hair had grown back.

When the man had packed up his tools and gone, Felicity removed robe and towel, examining herself in the cheval mirror in her bedroom. What she saw pleased her greatly. The reflection she had confronted days earlier was that of a sun-dried scarecrow, a tattered hag. Now her skin was like fresh cream, absolutely flawless. Her hair was glossy, her emerald eyes sparkling. She looked years younger, firm and toned and filled with the glow of health. Felicity snickered, admiring her new, improved self. Her stunningly beautiful self.

"That thing doesn't know what it's missing," she said, smoothing her fingers across her taut stomach. A wicked laugh rang out. She licked her lips and smiled.

That evening, another pregnant woman in the town miscarried and died. As with the others, no trace of the fetus could be found.

On the same evening, a Filipino maid claimed to have seen some kind of monster licking her shadow as she waited for the bus. She died of a stroke the next day.

Three months passed, three more miscarriages, one of them further afield in the next town. Several more Filipinos also died of strokes. Felicity's neighbors were having trouble keeping their mansions staffed.

Felicity was in her bedroom, cocooned in silken sheets. She had discovered that naps taken during the day were devoid of the troublesome dreams that plagued her at night, and yet she had no trouble sleeping the evening through. There was no possibility of being disturbed, since the servants had quit en masse several weeks before. Having no desire for company, Felicity was content. Her lack of appetite was proving convenient, as she no longer had to leave home to buy food. Indeed, she did not leave the house at all; company business was conducted over telephone, fax and computer.

She murmured drowsily, burrowing herself deeper into the sheets... and snapped awake as something slithered over her cheek. Immediate panic made Felicity try to roll over. A damp cloth was pressed to her face, covering mouth and nose; acrid fumes made her eyes water. She clawed at the smothering cloth, at the fingers pressing it down, tighter and tighter.

Rocketing stars burst in her vision. Felicity screamed through the muffling layers, but the sound of her own pulse drowned out the noise. Through the tears, she could make out Alida looming above her, blurred but still recognizable. Her head was reeling; she was dizzy, and cold as though her bones were made of ice. At last, Felicity fell headlong into unconsciousness.

When she woke up, it was early evening, perhaps a half-hour until full dark. Felicity was aware of a few unpleasant sensations. She was naked. Her skull was aching so hard, even her teeth seemed to be throbbing in sympathy. Her lips felt blistered. There was a tearing agony in her shoulders and wrists. Still somewhat groggy, Felicity raised her head and looked up. Her hands were bound together with a stout piece of rope. The rope was looped over a tree branch, and tied off to give her just enough slack to stand. She managed to stagger to her feet, and the pain in her shoulders immediately eased.

Alida stood in front of her. "I'm sorry it had to be this way, but I was sure you wouldn't consent," she said, squatting down to feed a small fire in a nearby brazier.

Felicity did not reply, simply glared at the other woman. She was not afraid. Felicity was consumed by a blazing rage that blotted out all other concerns. Lips pulled back from her teeth in a snarl, she began pulling on her bonds.

"I did a little research after I left," Alida said, unbuttoning her shirt. "I still had access to the bank accounts, so money wasn't a problem. Do you remember how you mentioned the Philippines that night? Well, after a little investigation, I ended up on Siquijor, an island east of Dumaguete. Interesting place."

Felicity tried to pull her wrists down close to her face, with the idea of gnawing the rope apart. She was growling like a trapped animal, but the sound seemed natural. In fact, she enjoyed it. Growling made her feel powerful. That thing may have trussed her up, but it could not dominate her. Straining, she raised herself up a few inches, until her toes left the ground, but she still could not gain sufficient purchase on the rope with her teeth. Felicity's growls turned to those of frustration.

Alida went on, "I couldn't find Daphnis, but I ran into a woman - a mananambal, healer-magician of the isle - who knew all about her."

She drew her shirt off, folded it, and laid the garment on the ground. Her single black braid hung over her shoulder, the curling end tickling the nipple of her bared breast. "Daphnis is a witch, and a powerful one," Alida continued, "but she owed a favor to an aswang. Know what that is? A type of vampire. Stunningly beautiful by day. At night, the aswang's body splits at the waist, and the upper part grows wings so it can fly around in search of prey. Prefers pregnant woman as victims."

The sky with smeared with streaks of rusty oranges and golds. Felicity panted, resting from her struggles. It was getting difficult to think. She did not want to be rational. She did not want to listen to that thing's voice. She wanted to be free, not bound here when cloudy shadows crept across the ground. She wanted to curl up and sleep, sink down into leathery-winged dreams. Scarlet-tinged dreams.

"The aswang's tongue is thin and hollow, with a needle-like tip." Alida stood up to remove her jeans. She sounded calm, as if delivering a lecture in front of an audience of rapt students. "It perches on the roof of a house, and worms its tongue through cracks and crevices until it locates the sleeping victim. Here's the nastiest part, by the way. The preferred victim isn't even the mother. It's the child inside of her. That tongue slithers into the womb, and crushes the fetus into an edible slurry while the mother is rendered paralyzed by the aswang's power. The poor woman bleeds to death. Can you imagine anything more horrible?"

Felicity snarled defiance, twisting her body this way and that in an effort to loosen the rope that held her. She was no longer human, merely a collection of impulses and instincts. Alida was not even identified as that thing anymore; the beast-Felicity thought of her as a nameless enemy who had to be destroyed. She was no longer capable of asking herself why, no longer capable of logic or reasoning. The sun was disappearing, and with it went her humanity.

Alida peeled off her jeans, laid them on top of her shirt. She was now as naked as Felicity. "It can also kill by licking your shadow, but that's strictly for kicks. What I found most interesting was the way an aswang reproduces. It lays a black egg, which it then forces a mortal woman to swallow. In a while, the woman transforms into an aswang herself." Alida bent over, opening a bag at her feet.

"I'm not sure if can understand this right now, Flick, but when Daphnis asked for a kiss, it wasn't because she had the hots for you. She saw a way to pay off her debt to the aswang, and get revenge against you at the same time. Binding Daphnis to the mansion must have really pissed her off," Alida said, standing upright again. She had a coiled whip in her hands. This was not a toy, but made of glistening black strands plaited together to form a flexible, formidable leather length.

The moment Felicity saw the whip, she began to howl mindlessly.

"I'm sorry, Flick. You see, I know you were right when you called me a thing." Alida's lips curved in a wry smile. "I've seen the records from my last emergency room visit. Out of morbid curiosity, I even went so far as to open my own grave before I left for the Philippines. It was very kind of you to return my remains when you were finished with them. They were still recognizable, too. I was dead, even if I don't remember the other side. You should have left me there."

She shook out the whip and crossed behind Felicity, who turned to follow her progress, howling all the while.

Alida sighed. "You sold your soul for me. Innocent babies and their mothers have because I live again, thanks to Daphnis' magic. People have died. I don't want this, Flick. Neither should you." She came forward, stroked Felicity's cheek. The woman stopped howling, snapped at her like a vicious dog. Alida barely managed to snatch her hand away in time.

"I love you. That will never change. Do you hear me?" Alida leaned in close, careful to avoid clashing teeth. She could see herself reflected in Felicity's eyes, but the image was inverted - another sign of demonic possession. "I love you, and I'm going to save you," she said. "When the spell is broken, the aswang will be dead... and so will I. Daphnis planned it that way, I guess. Maybe she didn't think I'd be strong enough to give up a second chance at life. She was wrong. I know what I have to do, and what it'll cost me."

Alida stepped back, a sorrowful but determined expression in her brown eyes. "Remember that you aren't responsible for the deaths, Flick. That was the monster inside, controlling you. I think that perhaps you retained just enough of yourself to try and drive me away, save me from the aswang, or it could be because you haven't fully transformed. Either way, I hope you know how much I love you, and how grateful I am for the chance to say good-bye."

Foam dribbled from Felicity's lips.

There wasn't much time left. When the last rays of sunlight were swallowed up by darkness, the aswang would emerge in all its foul glory. Alida whispered, "Forgive me," raised the whip, and began.

Sharp leather slashed across Felicity's back, stomach, breasts, buttocks, raising red stripes that puffed into tender welts. Stroke after stroke rained down until the welts opened and bled. Felicity squealed, feet scrabbling in the dirt, trying to avoid the whip. Her wrists were chafed raw where the rope cut into them.

Alida continued beating Felicity. Her jaw was clenched tight, her arm never faltered though tears spilled down her face. She had learned this from the old woman on Siquijor, how to drive the aswang's egg from its human host, if the transformation had not gone too far. This was a brutal cure, but necessary if she was going to save Felicity. If it did not work, Alida would have to kill the woman she loved. She would have to chop off Felicity's head, then cut the body into pieces with the hatchet that was hidden in her bag. That would probably not be enough. The mananambal had told her that adult aswangs were almost impossible to destroy.

It was dusk. Rusts and golds were fading into deep purple, a blaze of magenta in the west marked the sun's final glory. The sky was carpeted with faint stars, and a glimmering sliver of moon already rising. Alida whipped faster, harder, showing no mercy. Between one stroke and the next, a deep crack opened on Felicity's back, just above her waist. Moist, dark but bloodless flesh within the cavity, from which a pair of leathery wings were unfurling. The wings were damp and crumpled, but exposure to air made them flutter feebly.

Alida cursed, and whipped Felicity more desperately. The crack yawned wider, spidery black lines running from both ends, across her back and over her hips, to meet below Felicity's navel. The lines thickened, grew bolder. Her mouth opened, showing a tongue that was thinning and lengthening, coming to a sharp needle-like point. For a moment, Felicity's eyes met Alida's.

Alida realized that the aswang was not totally in control. Felicity whimpered. In that bare second, her human self managed to throw off the beast long enough to send a silent message to her lover. That message was written clear in her suffering gaze: Please kill me, because I love you, and if you do not, I will be your death. Save yourself. I'm already damned.

"No!" Alida said between gritted teeth. Her arms were aching, muscles cramped into knots, but she aimed the whip at the emerging wings. Snap! Snap! Snap! The hardened tip of the whip caught the wings, and Felicity let out an agonized shriek that echoed through the woods. The aswang assumed control once more.

But it was weakening, Alida saw. The separation had halted. Was it her imagination, or was that horrible black crevice getting smaller? She continued striking the bat wings, blow after blow. There was no visible damage, but they quivered as though trying to escape the whip. Sweat stung her eyes, but Alida did not stop.

Snap! Snap! Snap! A particularly vicious stroke made Felicity scream, an impossibly shrill sound that wavered on and on. The wings pulled back into the protection of her body. The crack closed up, flesh knitting back together until her body was perfectly whole again. Even the whip marks vanished, leaving not a scar behind.

Felicity began to retch, convulsions racking her body. Alida dropped the whip, ran to support her. Vomit spewed out of Felicity's mouth like a fountain, splattered on the ground between her feet. It was a disgusting mess of pulped flesh and blood, a wet mound of pinkish-gray fragments that stank abominably. Alida had to control the urge to vomit herself. At last, Felicity finished and sagged in her bonds. On top of the foul steaming heap was a glistening, slimy black egg.

Alida quickly scooped up the egg and ran over to the fire. It was rubbery, jelly-like but firm, and altogether nauseating. She threw the egg into the brazier. Flames ate at it greedily; the egg sizzled and popped, accompanied by a thin keening that was barely audible. Alida watched until it was completely consumed, and collapsed into glowing ash. The aswang's threat was finished. After the ordeal she had been through, the end seemed almost anti-climactic.

She was tired, oh so tired, but there was still something she had to do.

Her heart thumping more slowly in her chest, Alida moved back to Felicity. She used the hatchet to cut her loose, and managed to drag the half-conscious woman away from the tree to a patch of soft grass. It was almost dark; twilight time, when soft gray light fell like a muffling blanket over the earth.

Felicity roused herself, touched Alida's face. "Don't go."

"I have to go back. It's over, Flick." Alida lay back stiffly. Her skin was tightening, her flesh shrinking as unnatural life seeped out of her. Daphnis' magic was dying.

"But I love you!" Felicity began to weep, a hopeless sound that cut Alida to the core. "I love you so much..."

"And I love you. Let it be, honey. Let me go. Don't bring me back again. The price is too high. I'll wait for you, I swear."

Felicity kissed Alida's face over and over, desperately clinging to a body that was growing colder, harder, smaller. "I can't live without you."

"You will. You must." Alida's voice was getting fainter. In the gray twilight, her face was rigid, her eyes like stones. "We'll be together again, someday."

Felicity cried, "What will I do when you're gone?"

Alida made a supreme effort. She raised a creaking arm, touched the back of her fingers to Felicity's wet cheek. "Just... live, Flick," she breathed. "Forget death a while. Just live."

And in an eyeblink, she was gone.

Felicity cradled the lifeless doll in her arms, covering it with tears.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

by Nene Adams ©2004 - All rights reserved

Losing my reason
I was driven to such behavior;
illusion?
I don't know--
let someone else decide.
-----Ariwara no Narihara (825-880)

Tokyo, the 22nd century

The woman was beautiful, as only those who have endured extensive body sculpting can be. A life-sized doll in tinted wax and plastic, flawless, breathtaking, and completely unnatural. Someone's fantasy made flesh. A rich man's toy.

She was nude.

She was also dead.

Makiko looked around the apartment. Hair, fibers, trace DNA, air samples had been taken already - the Department's sniffer 'bots were very thorough. Holographs of the crime scene were already being examined by human experts as well as AI's. Fingerprints were logged. Techs had come, collected evidence, and trotted back to the office with their prizes. Within an hour, the dead woman would have few secrets left.

Now it was Makiko's turn to pry what she could from the cold flesh.

The woman's body, sealed in a stasis field, lay in situ on the floor. Arms at her sides, legs spread, eyes wide open and fixed on the ceiling. Mottled bruising was present around the lower half of her face. Her lips were raw, slightly parted. The pose was disquietingly sexual.

Makiko glanced at her partner, Abby Sullivan. "What do you think?" she asked.

Abby wrinkled her nose. "That this place costs more in a month's rent than I make in a year." Her hands were shoved in the pockets of her uniform coverall.

"I know what you mean." Makiko shook her head. "Looks like she paid the price, though."

"It was her choice."

"The mannequin job, perhaps. But not this. Not death."

"You're the expert, 'Kiko. I'm just along for the ride." Abby punched a button on her com, activating the small hover-cameras that would record their part of the investigation. "You ready?"

Makiko knelt down beside the dead woman, pushing her hands against the stasis field. It was invisible, but she could feel pressure against her palms. Slowly, Makiko forced her fingers through the field, until they touched the corpse's forehead. Generated electrostatic tingled against her wrists, made the hairs on her arms stand up and quiver. "I'm ready."

"Good to go. We've got real-time upload."

Makiko closed her eyes. To her physical vision, Abby was sturdy, auburn-haired and gray-eyed. Comfortably solid. A no fuss, common sense presence in a chaotic world. Psychically, Abby was surrounded by a shimmering green aura, tinged with orange, yellow, and lilac. Tendrils thrust deeply downward, anchoring her to the earth. Abby was the most well-grounded person Makiko had ever known. That they were lovers had nothing to do with her admiration.

She focused her attention on the victim. Chi, qi, bioplasm, prana, kundalini, shakti, vitality, life force, chakra, akasha, aura - whatever the term, it referred to the bioelectric impulses which were present in all living matter. Death released the majority of this energy back to the global etheric body. The personality or consciousness did not survive, although many religions continued to believe it did, despite advances in Kirlian field technology.

Some traces of these energies usually remained in the human body, lingering hours after brain wave cessation. These could be read by gifted psychics, especially in the case of violent death. 'Recorded' impressions, images, sounds, scents - memories created in a last, desperate struggle to stay alive - were there to be retrieved, if one had the ability.

Makiko specialized in gleaning broken pieces of information from the dead.

From a distance, she heard Abby murmuring.There was a brief sensation of spiky reds, murky pumpkin and brown. Their supervisor, Chief Egami, had arrived.

She tightened concentration, making a connection to the murder victim. Life energy was present but dissipating. Makiko would have to do this quickly. She opened herself up, mental shields dropping. Immediately, she began to feel dizzy, a touch nauseous. There was a strong smoky odor, which she tentatively identified as incense. A rustling sound, like beating wings. The smell grew stronger. A series of images flashed through her mind, one after the other, so swiftly that her dizziness increased.

Vermilion peonies bursting open, petals unraveling from the center

The moon/chopsticks stuck upright in a bowl of rice/the number four

Irregular shape blotting out the ceiling, fluttering, too big to be a moth, wrong shape, swooping down

Feel of something soft against her face. Too tight. Can't breathe.

Peonies

Yin-yang symbol, black and white, dissolving into the moon

Residual empathy blocked Makiko's throat. She coughed, so caught up in trance that she did not realize it was affecting her physically. The flickering pictures were repeating, faster and faster, appearing and disappearing like playing cards flicked by a practiced thumb.

Chopstick/rice/moon/four blood red peonies/a black poppy

A woman's voice said: "Hyakki yako."

Makiko took a shuddering breath, then gagged. She was viewing through a tunnel, bright pinpoint of light at the end of gathering shadows. A stinging sensation in her nose was followed by the taste of blood in her mouth. Makiko couldn't breathe. For the first time, she felt panic, but it was too distant to rouse her to action.

A brilliant explosion of white light sent her reeling backwards, breaking contact with the dead. The stasis field snapped away from her hands. Sparks flew, burning her fingertips. Makiko fell heavily on her side. Years of training made her automatically raise her shields. As soon as she did so, the pressure on her throat subsided, and was gone. She sucked in air, fighting the urge to vomit.

Slowly, Makiko realized that her partner was kneeling down, putting a pulse monitor on her wrist. Her head throbbed. Her nose burned. There was blood on her lips. She swallowed. The salt and iron tang made her tongue feel raw.

"You came close to flatlining," Abby said. "I had to hit you pretty hard to knock you out of it." She was an exceptionally powerful telepath. Office legend said that she'd once 'shouted' at a would-be rapist so loudly, his ears had started bleeding. Makiko could believe it. Abby's mind-voice had an impact like a sandbag, when she chose to exercise it.

"Do we need Medivac?" Chief Egami asked. There was stern disapproval in his tone.

Makiko flushed, feeling sick and stupid. What had happened was a newbie error. Experienced investigators knew better than to get trapped in a cycle. Death energies faded fast; the instinct was to chase after them, grasping at smoke that trickled through one's fingers faster than it could be gathered. Go too deep, and you could die. Slip away into darkness while your heart stops. It was a gentler ending than most - an absent-minded type of suicide - but she should have been more cautious. The nosebleed was a warning that she had ignored, almost to her peril.

Residual empathy was another problem - the inability to separate yourself from the victim's psyche. Cellular memory was far stronger than most people realized. It took time for the body to forget trauma. Readers were clairvoyant with minor empathetic gifts. They could get sucked in, experience the trauma as if it were first hand. There were stories told in the Department about Readers catching fire while probing arson victims, or having wounds appear, or limbs fall off, or any of a thousand gruesome cautionary tales. While the details might be exaggerated, there was a kernel of truth in them all.

Makiko had been a Reader for ten years. This shouldn't have happened. I've never had an Incident Report, not even during training. It was something of a shock to find out that she was fallible after all.

Egami hovered above her, scowling. His tie was askew. "What am I touching in my pocket?" he asked.

Makiko smiled. He was giving her a simple test for psychic burn-out. "A card with an infinity symbol on it."

"And now?"

"A condom. Cuttlefish flavor. Ribbed for extra pleasure."

"Can this wait?" Abby slapped an endorphin patch on the side of Makiko's neck. "I think she should have a full medical work-up."

"I'm fine. What I need to do is make my report, while the information's still fresh." Makiko sat up. Abby put an arm around her shoulders.

Egami's scowl deepened. "Officer Makiko doesn't seem to be in shock," he said to Abby. "Take her back to the Department.  I want her examined tomorrow, even if she doesn't exhibit further injury."

Abby nodded. "Can you stand by yourself?" she asked Makiko.

"I think so." Makiko slowly got to her feet, leaning heavily on Abby's arm. Her nosebleed had stopped. The headache was beginning to fade, thanks to the 'dorphins. "Will you both stop talking about me like I'm not here?"

The coroner's assistant came in, followed by an auto-gurney. He used the manipulator arms to load the body, stasis generator and all, onto the flat steel platform, then left as silently as he had arrived.

Abby steered Makiko out of the apartment to the express elevator. As soon as they stepped inside, a sultry male voice said, "Thank you for visiting Tokugawa Tower. May I offer you a complimentary hot towel, cool refreshing beverage, or chakra adjustment? I have a degree in from Dr. Bardo University. Are you still paying off bad karmic debts? I can help. Easy rates."

"Lobby," Makiko ordered shortly. Interactive systems were bad enough, but there was no need for personality-programmed elevators. Especially overly educated ones with a consumer fetish.

The doors did not close. There was an air of expectant waiting. Finally Abby, chuckling at the look on Makiko's face, said the magic words: "Lobby, please."

"At your command, gentle beings. Enjoy your stay aboard Tokugawa Tower's patented Long Neck Passenger Car 323. My friends call me Lenny." The elevator doors shut. No discernible movement accompanied the start of their journey, but a holographic geisha in the corner began chirping numbers. The geisha's kimono was displaying the latest adverts, mixed with a montage from samurai splatter flicks.

As if this wasn't bad enough, a nozzle emerged, spraying a gentle mist over both women. Abby sniffed, clearly amused. "Flora Flora Flora. The world's most expensive perfume. Attar of nectar roses, grown only on Orbital Colony Four."

"Perhaps you would prefer a different scent?" Lenny asked. "I have genuine Jokhang temple smoke, imported this morning. Or Eau de Lawrence, the distilled essence of pure British stableboy pheromones, available in our gift shop. I also carry a selection of the finest sex toys. Try them now, no extra charge. Rubber mats provided by Otsuki-Vishnu, a subsidiary of Tokugawa, Inc."

Makiko groaned. "Do you have another 'dorphin patch, Abby? My headache's getting worse."

The latest hit song from Cat Shit Pie: The Musical began playing. Lenny recited, "Specially selected for your enjoyment and amusement. Tickets may be purchased at the online Box Office, please enter cash transfer code."

"Forget the endorphins. Just give me something sharp, so I can end my misery now." Makiko leaned her head against Abby's shoulder.

"Poor baby. It's almost over. Hey, Lenny, do you have stimulant drinks?" Abby jumped slightly when a tray popped out near her waist. She rummaged among plastic containers, chose one, and popped the seal tab. "Try this."

Makiko took a swallow. The liquid was cold, tasting faintly of lemons and honey. "Not bad." A second drink was an explosion of synthetic strawberry. "Eww!" A third, tentative sip produced aniseed and a fishy flavor she suspected might be trout. She eyed the container. Micro-Bead FlavoRama: One Hundred Tastes for One Hundred Tastes. A different refreshment in every mouthful.

Makiko turned to Abby with a mournful expression. "Am I being punished for something?"

"Sorry. I thought I grabbed Fujiyama JavaMocha."

"You know I hate canned coffee."

"How about..." Abby grabbed another contained, squinted at the label. "...Brain Food Super X with Real Herb Droppings? Huh. I wonder who Herb is. Doesn't say."

"I hate you, too." Makiko tossed the container of Micro-Bead over her shoulder. It passed through the holo-geisha, landing with a wet splash in the elevator's hastily extruded recycler bin.

Abby shrugged. "I love you anyway. Ah, looks like we've finally arrived."

The holo-geisha bowed, flickered and vanished. Lenny the elevator said, "Lobby level. Please wait for doors to open before attempting exit. Visit me again! Or you can contact me personally: LennyLongNeck323. Join my fan club! Special offer, this week only - buy one club membership, get the second for half-price." The doors opened to a trumpet fanfare. "It is my fondest wish that we meet again, in this life or the next. Enjoy your evening, and grateful good-byes from Tokugawa Tower."

Makiko restrained herself from putting a foot through the elevator's brainbox. Instead, she hopped out and muttered to Abby, "Stableboy pheromones?"

"Don't ask." Abby took her arm, leading her across the lobby. "You seem to be feeling better."

"Actually, I'm hungry."

"We'll stop on the way back." Abby stopped, turned Makiko around to face her. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes, momma-san." Makiko sighed. "Really, I'm not injured or distressed or suffering burn-out. I got a nosebleed. That doesn't mean I'm about to blow a cerebral vessel."

"You'd better not." Abby kissed her forehead. "Want to tell me about the Reading?"

"Not right now."

"Fine."

The car was a standard model, nothing special - two seats, barely enough leg room for a pygmy, and an onboard computer system with satellite link-up. Abby got Makiko strapped in, then punched in their destination code to Tokyo Central. The car smoothly pulled into traffic, following magnetic lines embedded in the street. Colorful adverts swirled through the air, winked from the sides of buildings, blazed across the night sky. Pedestrians scurried on the sidewalks in protective clumps, constantly harassed by gang members, religious cultists, and purveyors of everything from fake celebrity DNA to the latest black market software. Neon and grime, business and crime.

Makiko closed her eyes. "A hundred demons march at night," she said. "Hyakki yako."

"Is that from your Reading?"

"Among other things." Makiko shook her head. "Leave it for now. I'm just thinking out loud." She settled back, ignoring the sprung seat spring that was slowly grinding its way into the back of her leg. They always seemed to get assigned the crappiest vehicle from the motor pool.

The car slowed and finally stopped. Makiko remained quiet while Abby ordered food from the drive-through vendor. She opened her eyes when the other woman thrust a waxed cardboard carton into her hands. Steam curled up from the vent in the lid. She pried it off with a thumbnail, revealing ramen in salty pork broth, covered in green flecks she hoped were scallions. Makiko snapped plastic chopsticks off the side and started slurping noodles, holding the carton under her chin to catch drips. Every now and then she dipped into the bag of fried tempura crusts that Abby had placed between their seats. The rest of the journey to the Department was carried out in silence as they ate.

The Department of Order was located in downtown Tokyo, in an out-of-date plascrete building. It was a squat black box lacking nano-pixels on its outer shell, making the Department an ugly duckling compared to its neighbors. Seiko-Nintendo headquarters had a skin that changed constantly, screening classic films like Yojimbo or I Spit on Your Grave to admiring crowds below. Even the ultra conservative Sony building used haiku written by its corporate AI, elegant if gigantic hiragana characters scrolling from rooftop to ground level. The Department remained the same - silent, inartistic, grim.

Makiko thought the look was well suited to what went on behind its scarred metal doors. No glitz, no glamour, no sparkly glitter-fest to make you 'ooh' and 'aah'... just plain old death. The ultimate party downer.

From the parking garage, she and her partner took the thankfully silent elevator to the forty-sixth floor. Egami was waiting for them. "We have an I.D. on the victim from Tokugawa Tower," he said. This week, his dreadlocked hair was dyed magenta, a color that contrasted nicely with his shiny yellow rayon suit. "Her name is Perdita O'Toole. Worked at Equilibrium in the Ropponji district."

Abby whistled. "Living in that apartment with that mannequin job, she was working in a Ropponji sleaze club? No way she could make enough in salary and tips to live so high."

"Perdita's lifestyle certainly suggests her income was being subsidized by a wealthy person."

"Who probably had her body sculpted to his specifications."

"Most likely. At this stage, the investigation remains open. You'll find a copy of the preliminary reports in your data terminals. Officer Makiko, I would appreciate the results of your Reading as soon as possible."

"Of course, Egami-san." Makiko peeled the spent 'dorphin patch from her neck and dropped it in a recycler bin. "I got mostly visuals, with one aural retrieval and one scent. I think it was incense, but I don't recognize the brand."

"Abby, spread that scent around to the other 'paths," Egami said. He wanted her to read Makiko's mind and share the scent impression with the rest of the telepaths in the Department. "Maybe somebody can identify it before we have to search the whole city. Could save a lot of trouble. Now, what about the aural retrieval?"

Makiko said, "A woman's voice saying, 'hyakki yako.' One hundred demons march at night. Could be Perdita's voice. Do we have any recordings for comparison?"

"I'll find out from the techs." Egami straightened his tie. "Visuals? I'll take an oral report now and wait for the official version."

"Peonies. Very red... red as blood, if you'll forgive the obvious metaphor. A full moon. Yin-yang symbol. A bowl of rice with chopsticks sticking straight up in it."

"Extremely bad luck," Abby noted. "A funeral offering to the dead."

"There was something else, too." Makiko paused. "It's difficult to describe."

Egami seized her elbow, drew her to a chair in an empty cubicle. "Does it have to do with the unknown subject or the victim?"

"The killer," Makiko answered without hesitation. "The unsub. That's when I started getting residual empathy problems."

"Go on."

Abby knelt down, put a hand on Makiko's knee. Comforted by her partner's presence, Makiko said, "Very difficult to say exactly what it was. A sensation of something flying, but not with wings. Irregular. Like a moth or a butterfly. But it wasn't. The shape wasn't right. Kind of long, almost rolling through the air, over and over. It swooped down. There was pressure against my face, and I couldn't breathe."

Egami exchanged a glance with Abby. "Perdita O'Toole died of suffocation, according to the autopsy report. She had recently had sex - probably within a couple of hours before the murder took place. I'm waiting for lab and technical analyses to be processed through the database."

"I don't suppose you could give us the unsub's name, address and communication access number, Officer Makiko?" Abby joked.

Makiko snorted. That was the oldest jest in departmental history. The public might have the idea that 'psychic cops' were able to pinpoint criminals with the merest flexing of their mental muscles, but the truth was far more prosaic. It was only combining psychic talent with forensic investigation and hard work that achieved results. Sometimes, however, despite every resource, a murderer really did get away with it.

"Go read the reports. Get back to me as soon as you can." Egami pointed a finger at the seated woman. "Schedule yourself for a medical check. And go home as early as you can. Take a day off tomorrow. Relax. That's an order."

"Yes, Egami-san."

He scowled. "Don't pay me lip service. Just do it."

"I'll see that she does," Abby said. Makiko's automatic protest was cut off by Abby's hand over her mouth. Egami stalked away, muttering to himself.

On the way to their office, Makiko stopped at a vending machine and bought a pack of cigarettes - genetically modified, carcinogen free tobacco. The brand she chose, Bungadab, was of Indonesian manufacture. Polite Flower, with a picture of a pretty girl on the stiffened paper box. She reached for the pack and stopped. "What am I doing?"

"That's what I want to know. You don't smoke." Abby had her arms folded across her chest.

Makiko stared at her own hand, frozen in mid-air. Her gaze shifted to the cigarettes. "Should I be worried?"

"Probably." Abby leaned over and took the Bungadab box out of the vending machine slot. "Any reason why you suddenly felt the need for 'fragrantly flower-spliced soul smoke?' Twenty New Yen's worth, at that."

Flowers? Makiko snatched the pack from Abby's grasp, peered at the illustration. The pretty girl had a crimson blossom behind her ear. A peony? She tore the box open and sniffed. Bitter whiff of tobacco with a thread of cloying sweetness. Not the scent she'd gotten during the Reading. "Okay. I am definitely wondering what the hell is going on."

"'Kiko, let's go see the docs." Abby's auburn brows drew together.

Makiko stuffed the cigarettes into the pocket of her coverall. "I'll do the report first. You'd better get that scent memory from me and distribute it like Egami said. The sooner we get started, the sooner we'll be finished. Then we can go home, drink some Tsingtao beer, and go to bed."

Abby laid her hands gently against either side of Makiko's face. "Drop your shields."

Makiko did so. There were few people she trusted enough to allow unlimited access to her mind. Abby was one of them. She barely felt the probing mental touch. While she remained in contact with the other woman, she could sense Abby's concern - a dark red blotch marring her usually placid aura.

"All done," Abby said, removing her hands. Her eyelids quivered for a moment. She exhaled, a long breath that made Makiko's hair flutter around her shoulders. "And sent to the 'paths on duty tonight. Sammy says 'hi.' His cat had kittens. Do we want one?"

"Absolutely not. Bubbles doesn't like cats." Makiko referred to their only pet, a guppy whose tank was located next to her prized collection of antique Powerpuff Girls merchandise. "I'm not going to let our fish get turned into kitty sushi."

"Ah! Confirmation that you haven't lost your mind after all."

When the partners reached their shared office, Makiko settled in to program search parameters into the departmental computer. She was looking for images that matched, as closely as possible, her Reading of the victim. She put a data-band around her forehead, adjusting the holo-projectors so that they were the correct distance from her eyes. A click, and tri-dee pictures appeared, floating in front of her face. Makiko continued to refine her search, murmuring commands into a throat mike.

Abby was busy reading the preliminary reports, until she noticed Makiko had absently removed the Bungadab pack from her pocket. She watched in dreadful fascination as Makiko put a cigarette into her mouth, made the motions of lighting it. Inhale, exhale, tap imaginary ashes into a non-existent ashtray.

The pantomime continued until Abby said, "That's enough, 'Kiko."

Startled, the cigarette fell from Makiko's fingers. "What was I doing?" She stared at her partner, horrified.

"I'm not sure." Abby tapped her keyboard, scanning scrolling text. "Did you know the victim smoked Bungadab?"

"Perdita O'Toole smoked this brand?" Makiko ripped off the headband. "This is crazy."

"No, crazy is when a trained, experienced, empathetic Reader goes so far into a dead person's residual memories that they start displaying secondary personality characteristics of the Read. Oh, wait. That's you." Abby stood up. "I'm calling the duty doc. Do not argue with me, 'Kiko."

"I'm not arguing."

Abby angrily flipped her auburn braid back over her shoulder. "I'm so glad to hear it." She hit the medic alert button on the com unit. A man's face swam into view on the small monitor. "Doctor Howe? Abby Sullivan, section 42. My partner, Makiko, is showing SPC transfer symptoms." In response to a question that Makiko could not hear, Abby continued, "Yes, she did a victim Reading about two hours ago. A hot op." Meaning the case involved violent homicide.

Makiko felt her eyes burning, the precursor to tears - part distress, part anger, part embarrassment. I've worked hundreds of cases, most of them nastier than Perdita O'Toole's murder. Serial homicides, suicides, the torso killings last year... why am I being affected now?

Abby disconnected her call. "Doc Howe says to come up right away. He'll run some tests."

"But my report..."

"I distinctly remember telling you not to argue with me. Chief Egami can wait." Abby's gray eyes flashed ire. "Do I need to drag you there by the hair?"

"I'm coming, momma-san." Makiko started to pick up the cigarette pack as she rose. "Shit! I'm doing it again." She crumpled the box in her fist, crushing it. Flakes of tobacco rained down on her desk. "Shit!" Panicked tears began to flow in earnest.

Abby hurried over. She gathered the shuddering woman into her arms. "Shhh, sweetie. It'll be okay, I promise."

Makiko buried her nose in Abby's ample bosom. It was a supremely comforting feeling, holding and being held by her lover. Having intimate knowledge of the warm, solid flesh beneath the uniform.  "I don't know what to do," Makiko said. "I'm scared."

"We'll go see Doc Howe. I'm sure it's just stress." Abby put on a smile, meant to reassure. "Okay? You with me, 'Kiko?"

"Uh-huh." Makiko groped for a tissue on the desk behind her.

Abby produced one, and waited while Makiko blew her nose.

"That better?" she asked.

Makiko nodded.

"Good." Abby wiped a stray tear from her partner's cheek. "Doc Howe's waiting."

The Department's medical facility was located in the basement. Makiko walked past the silent surgery, isolation cells, a sensory deprivation tank, and a freezer unit where egg and sperm samples of all employed psychics were kept. Hefty bonuses were paid for office romances leading to viable offspring, whether the children showed talent or not. Gifts were known to skip generations. It was rumored that upper management ran a secret breeding program, pairing up genetically compatible candidates.

Makiko wondered if that was why Sammy Huatare kept trying to give her gifts. Like sweet fluffy kittens. Or chocolates. Or that flimsy nightie he claimed was a joke. Abby liked it, though. She sighed. I'm a lesbian, dammit. Sammy might be cute, but I am not even remotely interested. Management knows where they can put that bonus. I donated my posterity for posterity. That's as far as team playing goes.

Before she knew it, they were in Dr. Shen Howe's domain. He was tall, skinny to the point of emaciation, with skin the color of chicken fat. In a bizarre piece of elective surgery, Howe had had all his teeth pulled and replaced by clear lucite implants. The sight of his transparent smile could make sensitive souls reach for a tranquilizer.

"I understand you're having a little problem, Officer Makiko?" Howe flashed his awful grin.

Makiko was calmer now. She told him about the O'Toole Reading, and the later episodes with the cigarettes. Abby added her impressions. Howe listened intently. When they finished, he waved Makiko towards a scanner bed. "Undress, hop up and I'll take a look."

Howe attached electrodes to different parts of her body, while barking instructions into a throat mike. Various machines awoke, hummed, buzzed and pinged. He left the scanner bed to consult a bank of monitors along one wall. "Intellectually, your biorhythm is entering a peak period, while physical and emotional are down-cycling. I advise you to avoid operating heavy machinery, initiating new relationships, or watching tri-dee soaps in excess."

"Not a problem," Makiko dead-panned.

"According to Lobsang's Virtual Karma, you are entering an unlucky phase." Howe was oblivious to her sarcasm. "Contact with the dead should be limited. This is supported by the fact that you were born in the Year of the Ox. Astrology forecasts for Ox this month indicate that bad fortune can be expected. You've had too much yang in your diet, not enough yin. Fire and Water must balance for good spiritual health."

He moved to a monitor that showed pictures of three ancient Chinese coins, spinning against a black background. "Ah, the I-Ching oracle says K'uei, hexagram 38. 'Watchful ancestor's eyes. Special grasses, arranged specially. Strange signs in heaven and earth.' Officer Makiko, you are definitely under an influence of some kind."

Abby sat down on a stool. "Is it SPC transfer?"

"I'm getting to that," Howe said testily. He clacked his lucite teeth together for emphasis. "I detect no sign of physical trauma. There is a slight anomaly in her brain wave pattern, but it's well within normal parameters. Judging from the symptoms described, the officer is likely suffering a mild case of SPC transfer, which should dissipate of its own accord in a few days. I'll prescribe a tea that will help."

Makiko made a face. The doctor's herb teas were infamously noxious and bad tasting. She had to admit, though, that they did work. Even if they do make you feel like puking up your toenails at first gulp, she thought.

"I want a full Kirlian analysis," Abby snapped. "You're not going to send her off with sack of dried snake heads because you've got dinner plans with your mistress. Do your job. And yes, I read your mind, you didn't have adequate shields, so don't complain."

Howe showed her his most intimidating smile, but she remained adamant. He murmured an insult in Mandarin, to which Abby replied sweetly in the same tongue, "That would greatly surprise my mother. Unless, of course, she knows your sister that well."

Defeated, Howe gave his computer the necessary orders. A rectangular slab of metal emerged from the ceiling, directly over Makiko's prone body, and lowered until it was about an inch away from her nose. She closed her eyes, as did Abby and the doctor. A hum was generated from somewhere beneath them, then a bright flash that left sparkling after-images on the backs of their eyelids. The metal slab withdrew, leaving Makiko free to sit up.

"Wow," she said. "Now I know what looking at the sun feels like, just before your eyeballs go poof." Makiko was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, white panties and socks. Perched on the edge of the scanner bed, legs crossed at the ankles and swinging back and forth, she resembled a teenage schoolgirl. Young, innocent, vulnerable, and with immense naughtiness potential, all at once.

Howe shook his head. "I hope you're not wasting my time, Officer Sullivan."

"There's no point in doing a medical work-up unless you're going to be thorough," Abby said. She quoted from Lao Tse, "In the perception of the smallest is the secret of clear vision."

"I'd make a pithy remark about teaching grandmothers to suck eggs, gweilo, but I see the Kirlian is ready." Howe sniffed, turning back to his monitors. "What have we here... hmph. What a surprise. Completely standard."

"Allow me." Abby shouldered him aside. Makiko hopped off the scanner bed, joining her partner.

Kirlian analysis was accomplished via a device that could detect and record electromagnetic emanations. These appeared as bands of color surrounding the body - like an aura, but a far more detailed display of living energies. Abby pointed to a section. "What's this?"

Howe leaned forward, following her finger. "Nothing of importance."

"It's black."

"So what?" The doctor clicked his teeth together. "A thin black line, cutting horizontally through the Kirlian bands. Probably an interrupt in the pattern display, a computer glitch. The software is obsolete, you know."

"Can we enhance it? Here... this looks like a white butterfly."

"Only if you squint. This is the best you're going to get." Howe glanced at Makiko. "Have you recently suffered an extreme shock? Could be you've lost one of your hun or po." At the women's uncomprehending expressions, he added, "Every human has three souls - the hun - and seven po animations. One can be driven from the body in a moment of shock or terror. This leads to sickness."

Makiko was suddenly exhausted. "Just give me the tea so I can go home," she said. "I was over-confident and careless. I admit it! The Reading went badly. First residual empathy, now SPC, but it's not fatal, right?"

"Of course not." Howe and Abby spoke simultaneously. After a brief glare match, Abby subsided, allowing the doctor to continue, "As I said before, the symptoms will fade in a few days of their own accord. I recommend supervised rest and medicinal tea, which does not contain dried snake heads."

Abby shrugged, unaffected by his sharpness.

There was an ebony cabinet standing near the scanner bed. The top was shaped like a pagoda, all five levels ornamented with brass dragons that breathed green smoke. Hundreds of tiny drawers filled the interior. Howe took a sheet of rice paper from a lower shelf, quickly folding it into a cone shape. He filled it with mysterious leaves, roots and other ingredients from the drawers. When finished, he twisted the cone closed.

"Take this tea three times per day for the next three days," Howe said, handing the packet to Makiko. "Drink plenty of water. Eat only 'cool foods' such as steamed vegetables, noodles, fresh fruit, tofu, green salad, shellfish or duck meat to increase your yin. You may also consider a reiki session for energy healing." He took an interactive business card out of his pocket.

Makiko took it with both hands as etiquette required, thumbs and forefingers pressing the bottom corners. This activated nano-pixels on the card. A multi-colored mandala burst into view. Black kanji characters scrawled across the front, as though written with an invisible brush: Dr. Chuck Lam-Magillicuddy, Reiki Specialist. Free MicroBead Flavo-Rama with each visit. She resisted the impulse to toss the card on the floor and stomp on it.

Abby was talking to Dr. Howe. "Leave a red tag on her file for your shift replacements, just in case there's trouble and we have to come back."

"Eggs, the grandmothers sucking thereof. I think your emotional attachment to Officer Makiko has affected your judgment. You're blowing this out of proportion. I see mild cases of SPC transfer all the time. It's not serious. Stop worrying. Your partner will be fine."

Behind the doctor's back, Makiko delicately slid the card into his pocket before putting her coverall back on. Tightening the velcro fastenings on her shoes, she said, "I'm for home and bed. Who else is coming?"

"Okay, okay." Abby threw her hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I'm just a mother hen with one chick who can't tell the difference between healthy concern and obsessive anxiety. Fine. If the doctor will kindly send a copy of his non-findings to Chief Egami..."

"I will do so immediately, if that gets you foreign devils out of my office," Howe replied.

The partners left, but not before Abby said something over her shoulder in Mandarin that made Howe flush bright red, his transparent teeth grinding together audibly.

Makiko insisted on delaying their departure long enough to send her partial report to Egami. "I haven't matched the pattern on the rice bowl yet, but the peony I saw is nearly identical to a breed called Sword Dance that's native to Japan. Can't quite figure out what the rectangular flying shape was, but I need to run an in-depth search. Maybe I can do some work at home tomorrow."

"Don't get too esoteric," Abby cautioned. She wasn't a Reader, but partnering one gave her certain insights. "The simplest and most obvious explanation, remember? Dying people don't have time to get fancy. Impressions should be judged at face value."

"You're quoting the Operations Manual to me?" Makiko closed down her terminal. "That's really momma-san behavior."

Abby rubbed her forehead. "What else can I do? Dammit, you seem almightly cool and collected for somebody who was bawling in my arms not half an hour ago."

"Temporary freakiness tolerance overload. I'm new to Reading trouble. In ten years, I've never experienced even a trace of SPC. I guess I thought I was immune."

"Well, you're not."

Makiko presented her partner with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'm sorry. For what it's worth, I believe Doc Howe. This'll blow away in a few days and I'll be my normal cranky self again."

"You're never cranky." Abby returned the smile. "Unless I play with your Powerpuff Girls action figures," she concluded slyly.

"Ack! You'll ruin the finish!"

"Gotcha."

Makiko slumped in relief. "I think all three hun and seven po just flew out of my ear."

"They probably went home, where we should be going. You done?"

"Yes." Makiko jumped when the com buzzed loudly.

Abby clicked it on. Egami scowled from the monitor. A blinking case number in the corner showed this was a recording sent to every member of the investigation team.

"Update from forensics," he said. "Male DNA recovered from victim's body and apartment has been positively identified as Ito Akashi, owner of several Ropponji clubs including Equilibrium. Ito's file includes charges of criminal assault, organ smuggling, illegal psycho-software, drug peddling, and chemical enslavement. He has never been convicted. Ito is a known member of the Godo yakuza family."

"We can forget about questioning Ito. He's got too much juice," Makiko commented.

"The Godo family? They own half of Tokyo. More money than all the gods rolled together. Even if you caught Ito standing over the victim's body with a signed confession in his hand, he'd get off." Abby rolled her eyes. "C'mon, 'Kiko. You can listen to the rest later." She disengaged the com, cutting Egami off mid-sentence.

Abby and Makiko lived in Qing City, a business district on the fringes of the Tokyo sprawl. It was an urban neighborhood occupied mainly by Chinese immigrants, with Indonesian, Ethiopian and Indian illegals who lived in the basements and alleyways. Qing was always noisy, busy, bustling day and night. Slum factories hummed. Entrepreneurs pushed carts that sold cheap food. Prostitutes pushed cheaper sex. Black market surgeries flourished. A healthy kidney was worth five thousand New Yen. Many illegals - especially poor women with children to feed - were minus non-vital organs, and plus a few scars.

Their rooftop apartment was cozy, but it had a small glass conservatory attached to the back. Makiko had filled the space with plants and installed a hot tub right in the center. At night, sitting in the tub, surrounded by rustling leaves, gazing up at the sky, Makiko knew peace for a while.

"What else was in the preliminary report?" she finally asked, breaking the silence that had persisted since their arrival home.

Abby slid down further in the water, until her chin touched the steaming surface. "Do we have to go into this now? I was just starting to relax." Auburn hair, released from its braid, swirled around her shoulders.

Makiko leaned her head back against the rim of the tub. "Okay. It's your turn to get the beer."

"On second thought..." Abby sat up. Water slopped over the cedar sides. "Perdita O'Toole, twenty-four, born in the Kansas-Oklahoma-Texas arcology. No formal education. No criminal record. Came to Tokyo two years ago on a work visa, sponsored by Shi Enterprises. Huh. Inauspicious name. I can't believe that's a local company."

In Japanese, shi was the number four. However, the word for death was pronounced almost identically. Hospitals in particular, and businesses in general, avoided using the numbers 24 (ni-shi, double death), 42 (shi-ni, to die), and 43 (shi-zan, stillbirth) on their rooms. Temples did a thriving business in charms and amulets to ward off evil, proving that superstition was alive and well in the digital ultra-interactive age.

"My mother never served eel and melon at the same meal," Makiko said. "She never whistled at night, because that meant a snake would get into the house."

"When I first came here, I was warned by my boss not to enter a tunnel under construction. It might anger some mountain goddess, who would cause disaster. And to tuck my thumbs into my palms if I saw a hearse, to protect my parents from death." Abby picked up her plastic beer carton, shook it hopefully. She grimaced upon finding it empty. "Who's crazy enough to name their company Shi Enterprises? That practically guarantees nobody'll want to do business with you."

"I need another Tsingtao." Makiko rose from the tub, water trickling from her naked body.

"Bring some of those wasabi peas. I just bought a new bag," Abby said shamelessly. It really had been her turn to fetch more beer, but Makiko was not inclined to call her on it.

The Japanese woman padded into the apartment, which was actually a small house constructed on top of the building's roof. In the floors below them were single-room flats whose Turkish occupants had spawned a rug weaving industry, and an Ethiopian coffee shop. She loved the aroma of roasting coffee beans that filtered up every morning. It temporarily blotted out the stench of factory emissions that hung in a fog over Qing City.

The kitchen consisted of a cooler unit, a tiny sink/recycler, solar hot water tank, and a set of shelves that Abby had pieced together from plastic crates. Nano-pixels embedded in the material still remembered their programming. Colorful gods rode giant carp, white cats beckoned, anime figures fought and flew and fucked with silent intensity. The slogans of a dozen different products crawled along each shelf. Makiko had found the display fascinating at first. Familiarity, however, had rendered her immune. She hardly spared the wriggling, flickering show a glance.

Retrieving two beer cartons from the cooler, Makiko reached for the sack of wasabi peas on a shelf.

Perdita O'Toole suddenly appeared in front of her. Not with the disheveled hair and limp wrists of a traditional Japanese ghost, but as she must have been in life. Tawny gold hair rippling to an impossibly tiny waist. Swell of hips and breasts. Heart shaped pubic mound, neatly clipped. Smooth taut flesh, tanned to perfection. Oval face with rosebud mouth, gilt eyebrows arched over big blue eyes. Inhumanly beautiful. A living doll.

Although they not alike physically - two more different women could hardly be imagined - Makiko had the eerie feeling that she was looking in a mirror. Oddly, she was not afraid.

Sheer terror hit when something wrapped around her face, cutting off her air.

Beer cartons hit the floor, splattering their cold contents on her legs. Makiko let out a muffled scream, immediately choked off. She clawed at the tightly wound fabric, struck out heel and elbows, hoping to make contact with her assailant. Nothing. Her eyes were wide, filling with tears. She reached back, groping for hair, clothing, anything she could grab. Still nothing. Makiko spun around, skidded on spilled beer, and fell heavily on her side. Something cracked.

She thrashed, rolling over. The white hot spike of pain in her ribs was a minor problem compared to the burning coals that were her lungs. By chance, her foot struck the shelving unit. It fell over with a crash. Raw sticky rice poured out of a broken bag. From the conservatory, Makiko heard Abby say, "Sweetie? You alright?"

Her vision was blurred, a pinpoint of light at the bottom of a dark tunnel. Makiko struggled, legs kicking, chest heaving. Her pulse was a deafening tsunami-beat that threatened to rupture her eardrums. She dropped mental shields, screamed for help in the silence of her mind. A red mist descended over her eyes. She was dying.

Then she was alive. Makiko drew a deep, shuddering breath. Oxygen-starved airways protested violently. She coughed, retched, and brought up the Tsingtao she'd drunk earlier. Hearing returned in time to catch Abby saying, "God!"

Abby's hands supported her, holding Makiko's head out of the mess. "Computer, medical emergency," she snapped. "Hang on, 'Kiko. Hang on!"

Makiko could not speak. It was all she could do to stay conscious.

After a moment, she couldn't even do that anymore.

Makiko woke up in the hospital.

Abby was sitting next to the bed, clutching her hand. "Sweetie? How do you feel?"

"Like Toshiro Mifune and Gojira just beat the crap out of me." Makiko tried to smile. Her face felt too tight, her lips chapped and close to cracking. There was an ache in her side that warned against moving.

"God give me strength!" Abby exploded. She had bruised circles beneath her eyes, a sure sign of stress. "You scared the shit out of me. What happened?"

"I'm not sure."

Abby rarely lost her temper. When she did, it was awe-inspiring. "This is the second time you've nearly died in less than twelve hours," she said. There was a deadly razor-sharp edge to her voice that could make a yakuza assassin cower. "Tell me everything that happened from the moment you left the hot tub until I found you half-dead on the floor."

Makiko obeyed. Not out of fear - Abby would never hurt her, that fact was as sure as the sun rising in the east - but because of the pain and dread in her partner's expression. Abby had been terrified. She could only imagine how she'd feel if anything happened to the woman she loved.

"I saw Perdita O'Toole," Makiko said. "She was standing right in front of me. In our kitchen. She just appeared."

"And?"

"And something was on my face. Wrapped tight. A cloth. I couldn't see it, but I felt it." Makiko held out her hands. "You'll probably find fibers under my fingernails."

"I already did. They match the fibers found in the victim's throat. Forensics did some further testing after Egami lit a fire under their asses. Whatever cotton material the assailant is using as a murder weapon, it's nearly four hundred years old." Abby sat back down. Her eyes were stormy gray. "Screw the Department. When we find this unsub, I'm going to make his brain bleed out of his ears."

Makiko felt a brief pang of sympathy for the killer. Abby never made empty threats. "First we have to catch him. Or her. How did the unsub get into our house?"

"Nobody can figure that out. No sign of forced entry. Nothing on security cam. No strangers witnessed in the building. You know our neighbors. The Ataturk  women are in and out of each other's flats all the time. Their kids play in the stairwell. Menalik and Yeshi on the ground floor have their big guard dog in the back. Who could've gotten past that without being eaten alive?"

The Ethiopian couple owned a savage rottweiler/bull mastiff, guardian of the coffee shop after hours. The animal had jaws like a great white shark, a temperament like well-aged dynamite, and a hefty grudge against strangers. Only once had a burglar attempted to break into the shop; what remained of the unfortunate criminal idiot could have been buried in a matchbox. Word spread quickly in Qing City.

"I take it that Son-of-Bitch hasn't devoured any vital evidence, like invisible assassins?" Makiko was only half-joking.

Abby frowned. "No such luck. Our doors and windows were locked. The house computer hasn't been hacked - I had John Po'okela do a complete systems check. There's more weirdness, too."

Makiko nodded for her partner to continue.

"I went over the security footage from Tokugawa Tower," Abby said. "Track by track. Every inch of that building is under surveillance, except the apartment interiors themselves. No one came near O'Toole's door, except Ito Akashi. He was admitted at eleven p.m., left at eleven fifty-eight. There's a beautiful shot of a very much alive Perdita O'Toole holding the door open as Ito walks out. And calling 'thank you' as he goes down the hall. Unless she's got an identical twin sister whose voice print is also identical, Ito couldn't have killed her. Whoever did must have flown to the three hundredth floor and squeezed through a sealed window."

"Could our unsub have tampered with the time index?"

"Tokugawa Tower is run by their corporate AI. Really hefty security. The kind that backtraces a hit, then sends polite vat-grown ninjas to the hacker's house in order to eliminate him, his family, friends, pets and casual acquaintences. The footage is pristine."

"Has Ito been questioned?"

"Egami spoke to him and a flock of lawyers over the com. Ito admits he was paying the victim's expenses. They were lovers. He met her at a convention, sponsored her over here. The mannequin job was part of their deal. When he left the apartment, she was alive. That's confirmed by building security. And before you ask, the Department hasn't been able to trace any personal connection between Ito and the Tokugawa corporation."

"Shi Enterprises?"

Abby shrugged. "Ito Akashi - or I should say, his legal advisors - claim Shi Enterprises is a legitimate business, licensed to operate clubs and bars in the greater Tokyo area. Ito is the CEO, but Godo owns 51% of stock." She stopped. "What the hell do you mean, invisible assassins?"

"Took you long enough." Makiko chuckled at the look on Abby's face, then gasped, turning pale. The ache in her side had turned into excruciating agony. She could swear there were iron jaws grinding on her bones.

"You've got two broken ribs, dammit. Take it easy."

A panel swung open near the bed, and a scorpion 'bot crawled out onto Makiko's shoulder. Shiny chrome, marvelously articulated, with a red cross enameled on its flat head. The tail quivered, a drop of liquid welling at the needle-like tip. It struck swiftly, driving the stinger deep into Makiko's arm.

Makiko sighed in relief as the pain killer took effect. The 'bot hesitated a second before withdrawing back into its housing. The panel closed.

Sensing her partner's unspoken question, Abby said, "You're in a very expensive clinic in the Shinjuku district. Non-human staff, fully automated, virtual docs, gourmet catering, the works. Egami's going to swallow his tongue when he sees the bill."

Makiko plucked at the cool white sheet that covered her body, finally pushing it down. Her torso was covered in a transparent cast, running just below her small breasts to her slender waist. Bruises bloomed darkly on her skin. She knocked the cast experimentally with a knuckle. "Is this necessary?"

"Do you want a punctured lung?" Abby countered. "It stays on for ten days."

"I can't bend."

"You don't have to. That's my job. Now quit stalling and tell me about this invisible assassin."

Makiko described her terrifying experience in the kitchen. She concluded, "Nobody was there, Abby. Nothing human, anyway. No flesh and blood attacker. Just me and a wet floor and raw rice and a piece of cloth that was suffocating me. It was soft, dense, heavy. Exactly what I felt when I did the Reading on Perdita O'Toole. Don't tell me I was hallucinatin or that this is another SPC episode. I had fibers under my damned fingernails! You said they matched the ones recovered from the victim. You want weirdness? I saw the woman. O'Toole was standing right in front of me. Then the same thing that killed her was on my face."

Abby was silent. "The moon. The number four. Yin-yang. Red peonies. A funeral offering," she said at last.

"There has to be a connection to Shi Enterprises." Makiko thumped her fist into the mattress. "Shi. Number four. Death."

"Could it be some kind of remotely operated murder device?" Abby ventured. "No. That would require real-time surveillance. Pre-programmed coordinates? DNA tracer?"

"Made out of 400-year old cotton? I didn't feel wires, power links or control boxes. Just cloth. Am I losing my mind?"

Abby had obviously prepared herself. Consulting a mini digital display strapped to her wrist, she said, "Well, I may be able to talk, but I sure as heck can't drive."

"Season one, 'Bubblevicious.' The talking dog."

"I wasn't born a super-villian chimp with an oversized brain, you know."

"Still season one, 'Mr. Mojo's Rising.' Mojo Jojo." Makiko couldn't help it. She snickered. "I can't believe you're quoting Powerpuff Girls."

"The best test I know to determine your mental state. Although your perverted devotion to big-eyed pastel super-heroines remains questionable, 'Kiko."

"Hey!"

"I love you despite your funny little ways."

Makiko smiled, but the expression turned serious after a moment. "I am not staying here. The unsub - whoever or whatever that may be - tried to kill me once. In our home, Abby! Since I'm obviously not safe anywhere, I'd rather be working."

"What makes you think the unsub will attack again?"

"Why not? None of this makes sense, anyway."

Abby folded her hands together in her lap. "The Department's precogs haven't picked up anything yet."

Makiko rolled her eyes. Precognition was an unreliable talent at best. "Find me some clothes or watch me parade through Tokyo naked."

"Fine. But when broken ribs start making mush out of your internal organs, don't come crying to me." Abby got to her feet, clearly disapproving but equally aware of her partner's stubborn nature. "Promise you won't push yourself too hard, or I'll beat you unconscious and leave you here."

"Powerpuff Fan Club oath of honor." Makiko raised a hand, palm out. "Do you want me to sign it in blood?"

"Not necessary. I'll be back soonest. There's a boutique on the ground level. I'll buy you something trendy and charge it to Egami's expense account." Abby left the room.

While she waited, Makiko found a room service menu. After letting out an involuntary curse at the prices, she decided to place an order anyway. Machines can detect pain, but they don't have a clue about appetite, she thought, pressing the interface. Five minutes later, a catering cart wheeled in, stopping next to her bed. The domed cover folded back. A tray bearing a black lacquer bento box extruded across her lap. There was also a pot of tea and a carafe of water.

She admired the golden pinwheels and mother-of-pearl chrysanthemums inlaid on the lid's glossy surface. A genuine antique. Edo period, Makiko guessed. Nothing but the best for the clinic's clientele. There was a hot towel in a dish beside the box. The sight made her shiver involuntarily.

Ignoring the towel, Makiko inspected the bento box's contents, divided into six compartments - thin slices of raw Kobe beef, steamed rice, radish pickles, grilled scallops, teriyaki salmon, and vegetable tempura. Soy sauce for dipping. The chopsticks were made of chestnut wood. She smiled at this subtly ironic touch. When given as a gift, chestnut chopsticks were meant to attract wealth to the recipient.

Black persimmon, rare as jade, means long life. Cypress for hope. Pine for good fortune. Superstitions. The more modern the times, the more people clung to ancient deep-rooted beliefs.

Makiko ate carefully; her mouth was still sore. She suspected she had the same sort of facial bruising that had been evident on Perdita O'Toole's body. Nevertheless, she enjoyed her meal immensely. At a thousand New Yen per gram, this would be the last time she'd ever eat Kobe beef. Makiko finished every bite with guilty glee. Abby's going to kill me when she finds out I didn't save her any. And Egami will really kill me when he sees the bill.

Abby returned as Makiko was drinking a cup of tea. "I bought you the simplest thing I could find," she said, stopping short of the bed. A bag swung from her hand. It did not have the usual nano-pixel display rioting from its  paper sides. Instead, calligraphy-brush kanji proclaimed simply: Lotus Zen.

"That bag looks like pure money," Makiko said, pushing the tray to one side.

"Yeah, really expensive shops don't have to stoop to vulgar consumerism." Abby snorted. "The boutique assistant was so polite, it almost verged on rudeness. Still, I managed." She pulled a knee-length tunic out of the bag. It was lilac silk, long sleeved, with a darker plum collar and wide cuffs. Micro-projectors woven into the fabric broadcast a swarm of white butterflies around the wearer. Loose trousers in lime green silk and a pair of sturdy slippers completed the outfit.

"Ma! This is supposed to be simple?" Makiko stared.

"Believe me, the other outfits were much more elaborate. They had this dress - a Devi original, no less - that projected a holographic singing, dancing, sari-wearing Bollywood chorus line. Complete with funky masala mix soundtrack. Very retro-chic. The price would've made me gnaw off my tongue, except I saw something twice as expensive on the next rack." Abby pressed hard on a tunic button, and the butterflies sizzled out of existance. "See? On/off switch."

Makiko sat up, hissing between her teeth. The movement had been accompanied by a warning twinge. "Get me up and get me dressed."

Abby put the outfit on the edge of the bed. As she was helping Makiko stand, the tunic slipped unnoticed to the floor. Abby stepped on it, and suddenly a host of white butterflies began flitting around her. "Shit. I hope it isn't torn." She steadied her partner, who was swaying slightly. "Sweetie? What's wrong?"

Makiko's face had turned pale. "Superstition," she whispered.

"What?"

"White butterfly," Makiko said urgently. She clutched Abby's forearms. Her eyes were wide open, fixed on an empty point just beyond the other woman's shoulder. "Do you remember when Dr. Howe did my Kirlian analysis?"

"How could I forget? What does that have to do... oh, wait. There was a shape, like a butterfly."

"In Japanese superstition, white butterflies are the souls of the dead."

Abby grimaced. "Are you sure oxygen deprivation didn't damage your brain?"

"Listen to me." Makiko shifted her gaze, dark eyes boring into her partner's. "A white butterfly connected to me by a black line. The cigarette episode. My vision of Perdita O'Toole. I'm not suffering from SPC transfer. I'm being haunted."

"There's no such thing as ghosts," Abby said flatly.

"Oh? Two hundred years ago, people with psychic talent were thought to be frauds, freaks, or pathological liars. There was no Telekenitic Olympics, no Department of Order. Telepathic and psychometric evidence wasn't accepted in a court of law. Feng shui, chakra adjustment and reiki were not government sanctioned manipulations of living energy. I-Ching, tarot and astrology weren't recognized precognative tools."

"So-called channeling and mediumship is the product of a minor Reading talent with more imagination than actual skill. This has been proven."

"Elementary physics - energy can neither be created nor destroyed. It merely converts to another form."

"Consciousness does not survive death. While the bio-essence is released, the personality - the collection of life experiences that molds us into unique individuals - dies with its creator. Elementary psychics."

"What if it did survive? Not always. Just... sometimes."

Abby gripped Makiko firmly. "We all enjoy a good ghost story. That doesn't make it true."

"I want to go to the Equilibrium club." At Abby's thin-lipped expression, Makiko continued, "Look, I think Perdita's spirit is trying to make contact. She's trying to tell me something."

"Hearing voices in your head is a sign of schitzophrenia. Auditory hallucinations."

"Can you explain the four-hundred year old fibers under my nails? The unsub who doesn't exist, as he leaves no DNA trace, and apparently walks through walls? And can fly? How victims get suffocated by a cloth with a will of its own? Dammit, Abby! I thought I could trust you!"

"You can." Abby released one of Makiko's arms, bent over and picked up the tunic. She clicked the butterfly projection off. "I believe in rational explanations, not fairy tales. However, I also believe in you. So I'm willing to see this thing through with an open mind, if we can make a deal."

Makiko realized that she was shaking. "All right," she said, forcing her trembling muscles to still.

"Since you insist, we'll go to the club. If the victim is really connected to you - if you're truly being haunted - then I want proof. I'm not asking you to start blowing ectoplasm out of your nose. Just get your hitchhiker to show me something that I cannot explain using rational deduction. I still think this is some exaggerated from of SPC, but as I said, I'll keep my mind open."

"What if nothing happens and you aren't convinced?"

"Then you will voluntarily go to the Farm," Abby said grimly.

Makiko closed her eyes. The Farm was a special medical institute for psychics. Talent was not exercised without cost. Nervous breakdowns, psychoses and other psychological problems were a hazard of the job. Going there wouldn't necessarily end her career in the Department, but it would mean less chance of promotion. Supervisors were skittish about giving too much responsibility to an employee whose mental stability was uncertain.

I can't guarantee that anything will happen. I have no control. That was a terrifying thought. Makiko lowered her shields a trifle, hoping Perdita would give her a sign. Hello? Anybody out there?

No reply.

She tried again. Hello? Ms. O'Toole? My girlfriend thinks I'm insane. She doesn't believe in you. Please... I want to help, but you must help me first.

Abby said aloud, "Sweetie, this is the most pitiful thing I ever overheard. Close your shields before another 'path wanders by and thinks you've gone over the edge."

Makiko threw her shields wide open instead. The first thing she sensed was Abby's aura. Not so comforting now, the deep-rooted green energies gone murky, swirling clouds of melancholic blue, agitated reds, worried oranges. As she watched, the field went completely black from one instant to the next - the most extreme form of psychic protection.

Shocked, Makiko's eyes flew open. The first thing she noticed was Abby's pinched white face. Then she realized why.

The room was cold, freezing cold. Ice crystals had formed on every metal surface. Abby's breath issued in a fog past bloodless lips. Her teeth were chattering. A tear slid from the corner of her eye, ran sluggishly down her cheek, and dripped off her chin. The droplet froze in mid-air, shattering when it hit the floor.

Makiko felt cold, too, but dimly. Muffled as though body, mind and spirit were insulated against outside interference.

"C-c-close your s-s-shields," Abby stammered. "Do it!"

In a kind of daze, Makiko pulled free and walked stiffly across the room, towards a mirror that stood above a porcelain sink. She used her hand to wipe away a thin layer of hoarfrost. Her familiar reflection stood in the silvered surface. Same high cheekbones, same old scar slicing through her left brow. Fresh bruises dappled her jaw. Crusted scab on her lower lip. Her almond-shaped eyes were supposed to be dark brown.

But the eyes looking back at her were blue.

Perdita O'Toole. Somehow, although science said it was impossible, there she was. A dead woman clinging to existance, connected to Makiko's body. A thread spun into her soul.

The mirror cracked, then shivered into a hundred pieces.

Abby grabbed her arm, spun her around. "Close your shields, dammit!" The woman's other hand came around in a slap that connected solidly with Makiko's bruised jaw. Simultaneously, Abby used her telepathic 'voice' to broadcast the same command.

Bright light exploded in Makiko's head. A solid decade of training made her shields snap closed. Headache pounded her temples, a relentless drum-beat echoed by her pulse. Her whole face hurt abominably.

The temperature in the room was normal again. Water dripped, pooling on the floor. A maintenance 'bot glided into the room, began mopping and polishing. Abby was still pale. "Holy shit! What the hell was that?" she asked.

Makiko lifted a large mirror shard out of the sink. She held it up, so that she could see her eyes. Dark brown. The impossible blue color was gone.

She let the shard drop, where it shattered against the slivers already piled in the porcelain basin. "Your proof," Makiko said. "Perdita O'Toole wants to go to the club. She needs our help." She paused, added, "Now do you believe?"

"I don't... I can't..." Abby swallowed. "Okay. I can't explain what happened here. You're right. SPC transfer would not account for this phenomena. We'll go to the club. I'm not admitting anything. I'm keeping an open mind."

"Fine. Just as long as it isn't so open your brains fall out." Makiko took an endorphin tab from a nearby dispenser, peeled off the backing, and stuck it on her neck. "Science doesn't have all the answers yet. Sometimes, humans need to operate on faith."

"If you start staring at your navel and mumbling sutras, I'm going to kick your ass," Abby said.

"Sorry." Makiko wrapped her arms around the other woman in a fierce embrace. "I'm so sorry. I wish..."

Abby rubbed her cheek against Makiko's. "Put some clothes on, woman. We'll figure this out, I swear."

"We'd better. I'm not sharing my Powerpuff dolls - or you, for that matter - with a ghost."

"I'm not reporting this to Egami. He'd lock me up in the Farm right next to you." Suddenly, Abby shuddered, her control gone. "God! Your eyes were blue, 'Kiko! Blue!"

"I know." Makiko held her partner close. Stroking hands on her back, wordless solace like a mother to a frightened child. Soothing. Taking away the pain. That was Abby's usual role in their relationship. The healer. Rock-solid, well-grounded, roots planted deeply. Was it only last night that her aura had been a wholesome living green?

I'll be the strong one, even though I'm so terrified, I'm close to soiling myself. I can't let her break. She's my anchor to the world. If anything happened to Abby, I'd be lost.

After a while, Abby raised her head. She was not the sort of woman who cried elegantly. Her nose was brilliant crimson, her eyelids swollen, cheeks blotchy. She sniffled. "Sorry. I'm a mess."

"No, you're not. Well, yes, you are, but I love you anyway." Makiko smoothed a strand of auburn hair from the other woman's forehead.

"Even more than your digitally restored season seven PPG collection on super mini-disc?"

She must be feeling better if we're playing The Great Game. "Even more than my rare copy of Powerpuff Girls vs. Long Dong Silver," Makiko sighed. "The one dubbed in Tagalog."

Abby stirred in her arms. "Your limited edition quartz watch with glow-in-the-dark dial?"

"Even more than that."

"How about the mint-in-box Buttercup doll with real k'ung-fu action?"

"Now you're pushing it." Makiko smiled. Be strong. "Do you think they'll let me into the Equilibrium club dressed like this?" She indicated her naked form.

"Sweetie, they'd fight for your right to do so. So would I, and that's pure love talking." Abby disentangled herself, walked over to the bed. She picked up the lilac tunic. "Dressing 'Kiko, take two."

The Ropponji district was young, brash, and bright. Hostess clubs, cocktail bars, cabarets, restaurants, snack shacks, gambling dens, brothels, arenas - all had holo-signs designed to draw in customers and cash, gigantic jellybean colors projected against the night sky. Music blared. Lights flashed. Gladiator sumo warriors did blood-soaked battle every night, right next door to virtual tea ceremonies, cock fights, pachinko and family fun palaces. Street theater and theme park, with a splash of red-tinted violence to spice up the masala mix.

Makiko walked around a pair of earthquake phobics, dressed in their signature inflated suits. From neck to toes, they were swathed in pink plastic, blown up like beach balls, arms and legs sticking out stiffly. The couple bounced from foot to foot with exquisite coordination, holding hands, crash helmets almost touching. Abby whispered in Makiki's ear, "Isn't that sweet?"

"They'd better be careful in this part of town. Youth gangs like to snatch 'quake phobes and drop them off buildings. Will they rebound or go splat?"

"And there will be tsukkomi working the gaping bystander crowd, taking bets," Abby said, referring to the loud, pushy, one-man betting operators who lived and worked on the streets. They wore high wooden geta to raise themselves above the crowd, and were infamous for stomp-kicking competitors. The word literally meant 'bully. Makiko thought they must have some precognitive ability. Tsukkomi could get to the scene of an accident and start laying odds on victim survival well before peace agents arrived.

An aidoru and her retinue breezed across the street, ringed by security 'bots. A curious news float swooped down, camera eye angling for a shot of the pop singing idol. It jinked to one side to avoid laser flash from a 'bot, skimmed the street in a shower of sparks, then zoomed away in search of more tidbits to feed its live link-up subscribers. The aidoru gathered her boy toy's leash with a jerk and went on.

The Equilibrium club's entrance was in an alley. Makiko and Abby had to squeeze past a group of nude Butoh performers who appeared to be standing completely still. They were actually moving, but so slowly and subtly, the illusion of motionlessness was almost unbroken. A Thai vendor was selling fried banana fritters from a portable wok nearby. Bored, the vendor flicked sizzling oil droplets onto one dancer's bare buttocks. He did not flinch, but Makiko saw the promise of future pay-back in the Butoh's black eyes.

Further down the alley, Abby stopped in front of a blank wall. There was a sand-filled iron pot that held bundles of lit incense. "That's the scent I got from the Reading," Makiko said. Somehow, she was not surprised.

"I did a little research on this place." Abby dug a fistful of Hell money from the pocket of her coverall. "You have to make an offering to get in." She touched a corner of the brightly printed currency to an incense stick. When it began to burn, she tossed it into the pot. Makiko noticed that the sand was littered with ashes and bits of unburned paper.

Funeral offering, Makiko thought, for the Festival of Hungry Ghosts. Spirit cash. Chinese custom, but the theme of death seemed to be continuing.

The wall shimmered. A series of images formed, disappeared, and re-formed. Nuclear explosion, corpses laid out in a row,  skeletons. Close-up of a bloody birth, head crowning between splayed thighs. A laughing child playing with a puppy. A bride in white kimono. Superimposed over it all was a spinning yin-yang symbol. Makiko blinked. The display ended with an almost comical fizzle, a string of cartoon firecrackers popping in slow motion with muted bangs. The door was revealed, and they went inside.

Inside, the decor was dark, walls showing grainy clips from a classic pinku eiga. Softcore porn in flatscreen dimness, the actress suffering a lengthy bondage session with her sexually voracious captor. On stage, the action was carried out in much more explicit detail by a masked androgyn wielding dildo and bamboo rod on his/her hapless victim. A thumping musical beat with thunderous synth-melody was intercut at random intervals with selections from Verdi's Aida.

Silk banners hung from floor to ceiling - Makiko and Abby had to negotiate their way through the slithering fabric to find a table. As soon as they were seated, a woman appeared. She was nearly seven feet tall, lean to the point of emaciation, and her bald head was covered with garish tattoos. Belled ankle rings chimed with each step she took, as did threaded bells on the chains linking pierced navel, nipples, nose and ears.

"Judith Moon," she said, giving a slight bow. "How may I serve you this evening?"

Makiko noticed that Moon's fingernails were six inches long, covered by protective sheathes that ended in sharp points. They looked as dangerous as the woman's hip bones, revealed by a low-slung sarong. "Pink gin," she said.

Abby made a 'yuck' noise. "What's the house special?"

"Kamikaze cocktail with a shot of taurine, animo acids and guarana," Judith Moon replied. "Purity guaranteed."

"Leave off the sidecar," Abby said. "Energy buzz keeps me awake."

"Is there any other service I can provide?" Moon's voice lowered to a seductive purr. "Paper fetish wear? Shiatsu massage? Neural aphrodisiacs? Sexual compatibility horoscope?"

"No, thank you." Makiko was firm. Moon gave her a professional smile, put a woven reed basket on the table, and undulated away.

Abby pulled the top off the basket. "Fried grasshoppers and cassava chips. Oooh, what's this?" She pulled two tiny bottles from the interior. "Flavored oxygen samples. Ginseng/deer antler or black licorice."

It was Makiko's turn to make a 'yuck' noise. "If you use either of those, you're sleeping on the couch for a week."

"We don't own a couch."

"Then you'll have to sleep on someone else's."

Abby returned the bottles to the basket. "By the way, I'm carrying a panic button." This was a tiny transmitter that was stuck to the skin over her heart. If her pulse and respiration accelerated or slowed beyond an acceptable level, the Department would receive a priority red-alert. "Egami knows we're here, but he thinks we're still on the investigation."

"We're not? That's news to me." Makiko took a crispy grasshopper, crunched it noisily. "When did you call him?"

"From the car. He's a 'path, remember? Egami's not too excited about it. The language he used was vivid." Abby smiled slightly in remembrance. "I told him that you'd had a mild premonition."

"I'm not a precog."

"Talent develops talent. You could be latent. It wasn't quite a lie."

Judith Moon returned with their drinks. "Is there anything else you desire?" She wet her bottom lip with her tongue.

Makiko swirled her pink gin around in the glass. "Did you know Perdita O'Toole?"

Moon's mouth dropped open. She recovered quickly. "Who?"

"Perdita O'Toole worked here. Did you know her?" Makiko persisted.

The woman drew herself up to her full height, a hand pressing the ridged bones above her breasts, nail sheathes digging into her throat. "I can't talk about it."

"Can't or won't?" Abby removed a card from her coverall pocket. "Officer Abigail Sullivan, D.O.O., Special Branch. I'm a trained telepath questioning you in the course of my duties. Should you refuse to answer, I am authorized to retrieve the information without your consent. You're impeding a murder investigation, madamu Moon. I suggest you cooperate."

"I can't!" Moon was almost frantic. "Ito-san will have me killed if I tell you anything."

"Ito Akashi has a very good alibi. He's not under suspicion right now." Makiko nodded towards her partner. "Abby won't kill you, but a mental search-and-seizure is fairly painful."

Moon dropped her hand, leaned closer to Makiko, bending in half to reach the seated woman. "You want to talk to Peony," she whispered. "She's a dancer."

"And?" Makiko whispered back. She had just enough empathy to tell if someone was lying, or if they were holding back the entire truth. She didn't need to drop her shields to exercise that touch.

"She's from Tokyo, a wajin. I don't know her real name. People say she practices black magic. Everyone's afraid of her." Moon swallowed hard. "Except Perdita. They used to do an act together, until Perdita broke it off."

Abby and Makiko exchanged a look. "When was this break-up?" Abby asked.

"About a week ago. Their act was really hot, brought in a lot of regulars." Moon frowned. "Funny. Ito wasn't angry. He was pretty happy about it. You'd think he would've committed VR seppuku when he lost his top draw."

"Where can we find Peony?"

"She's here tonight. Not working, though. I saw her in the back room. Now I've got to go. Leave me out of it, okay?" Judith Moon's bells jangled, and she was gone, lost among the banners.

Makiko took a big gulp of her drink. Gin and angostura bitters, her father's favorite. He'd gotten a taste for it while stationed in New London. "What do you think?" she asked.

"I think we should find madamu Peony. My curiosity is killing me." Abby finished her cocktail. "Black magic? Is this more superstition?"

"Peony is a Tokyo native, ethnically Japanese," Makiko said. "She could be practicing onmyo-do."

Abby widened her gray eyes. "That's a new one."

"Taoist sorcery and astrology, some Shinto, some esoteric Buddhism. Also called 'Yin-Yang Way.'"

"More superstition. Or religion?"

"Some would say there is no difference."

"Yeah, some would also say that there is no difference between illusion and reality." Abby shook a fist in mock threat. "More facts, less Zen."

"There are stories, legends about an onmyo-ji named Abe no Seimei who lived in the 10th century. His shrine still exists in Kyoto." Makiko stood up. "Technically, I don't believe in black magic. But I didn't believe in ghosts, either, once upon a time. Still keeping an open mind?"

"I'm trying like hell." Abby rose, stretched, and snagged a cassava chip before joining her partner. "Shall we go?"

"After you, momma-san."

Compared to the front, the back room of Equilibrium was unnaturally subdued. Roving spotlights illuminated vertical tanks where customers were submurged in a solution of medical-grade perfluorocarbon. Fluid breathing. A return to the womb. On the other side were old steel autopsy tables, each bearing a silent occupant. Men and women experiencing clinical death via chemical injection before being automatically revived by medi-bots. A trio of Tibetan lamas in maroon robes jostled each other nearby, taking notes on prayer-wheel interfaces.

Abby and Makiko were greeted by five hostesses - all Nordic blondes, quadruplet clones with sleepy bedroom eyes, dressed  in white Nehru jackets. "Life or death," they chanted in unison.

Prompted by instinct (or possibly Perdita's influence), Makiko said, "Life and death."

"An ever-turning wheel," the hostesses replied. "Beginnings and endings. This way, please."

The partners were shown to a door. Hanging on it was an eight-sided Taoist mirror. After the hostesses retreated, Abby opened the door and walked through, Makiko on her heels.

The room was empty, except for a table and chair. Light came from halogen inserts in plain plascrete walls and ceiling. There was a woman seated behind the table, watching them. She was dressed entirely in blood red - breastband and baggy trousers, soft-soled slippers. A peony of the same hue was behind her ear.

"Is your name Peony?" Makiko asked. Beside her, Abby tensed.

The woman's eyes narrowed to slits. "What if I am?" She shook a cigarette from a box, lit it with a slim gold cylinder.

Bungadab. The same brand Perdita smoked. "If you are, we'd like to ask you a few questions about your friend, Perdita O'Toole. She was found dead last night in her apartment."

"I was nowhere near Tokugawa Tower." Peony inhaled, exhaled a long smoke plume. It smelled flowery, almost sweet. "And I was not friends with that whore." There was a great deal of venom in her voice.

Abby said, "Officer Sullivan, D.O.O., Special Branch. I'm a telepath. And you're lying."

Makiko could sense darkness in Peony, a pool of negative energy crackling behind her pretty face. She tried to see further, but was limited because of her shields.

Peony flicked ashes on the floor. "I used to know Perdita. We had an act together." She did not seem daunted by Abby's observation. "We were lovers, if you must know. But I haven't been with her in... oh, about a week. She decided we shouldn't see each other anymore."

"Did this have anything to do with Ito Akashi?" The words popped out before Makiko could consider their wisdom.

"Yes!" Peony hissed. She tossed the cigarette down, ground it out beneath her heel. "I loved Perdita. I thought she loved me. We had something special together, only Ito was paying her bills. Perdita liked her apartment, loved the clothes, the luxuries, the lifestyle. I couldn't give her any of those things. She made a choice." Bare shoulders shrugged. "So be it."

Peony pressed a console panel beneath the table. A section of the wall swung out, revealing shelves. Glass apothecary jars held powders, dried herbs and roots, bizarre things suspended in oil or colored liquids. Wooden swords. Ink and brushes, yellow paper, a stack of white silk robes. Rolled scrolls. A vase containing four blood-red peonies. Edo-era hina dolls, male and female courtiers dressed in stylized court fashion. Smouldering incense in a pierced brass box.

Black poppy, whispered the ghost in Makiko's mind. Same as the musky, tangy incese used outside.

The wall behind the floating shelves was papered with scroll illustrations. Makiko recognized the sections as copies of Hyakki Yako Zu, the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons by Takemura, early 20th century.

When she turned her attention back to Peony, the room had changed. Crisp tatami mats on the floor. Shoji paper doors, a gilded copper teakettle on a charcoal brazier. Thatched roof with blue oil lanterns hanging from the beams. Peony, too, was transformed. She wore the flowing robes of a Heian lady, crimson and vermilion and white. Her eyebrows were shaved, smudged beauty marks like commas painted high on her powdered face. Peony's hair was longer, flowing free to her heels. She smiled, showing blackened teeth.

"Immersive environment," she said. "Fully interactive. This is one of my favorite programs."

Abby stared down at herself with an angry scowl. She was wearing virtual samurai fashion, an illusion of wide-legged trousers, green yakuta and happi coat surging with Hokusai waves. "We didn't come here to play games," she said. When she spoke, cherry blossom petals fell from her lips in a pink-white shower. "Very funny."

Makiko's appearance remained unchanged. "You're an onmyo-ji," she said to Peony.

The woman made a mocking bow. "Correct. Black magic is akin to a computer virus, infecting the human psyche rather than a network. One need only know the proper codes to re-program or destroy the mind." She laughed softly. "Demon. Death curse. Spirit possession."

Superstition as viral code, Makiko thought. Our deepest lizard brain instincts resist rationality. Nightmares are as much a part of human programming as reproductive urges. As breathing. Peony is a hacker of the soul.

Abby snorted. "You call this magic? I've seen better graphics in Dreamtime VR at half-price hour."

Makiko put a hand on her partner's arm. "Don't." She had  a yawning feeling in the pit of her stomach. There was something groping at the edge of her shields, intoxicated moth wings beating against a paper lantern. A memory surfaced, grew clearer.

Her mother and father had had a tradition of hosting a party for their friends every summer, where people gathered around one hundred blue candles and told ghost stories. After each story was recited, a candle would be put out. The scariest tales were saved for last, when the candles were few, and everyone huddled together around the diminishing circle of light. Like Peony, Makiko was wajin - a Japanese whose cultural roots reached deep into her people's collective consciousness. She had absorbed legend and myth and history with her mother's milk.

"Why are you still alive?" Makiko asked, still restraining Abby. "Your shikigami failed to kill me."

Peony was so stunned, she momentarily lost control of the program. Her robes flickered, her face went through a series of transformations, from withered crone to a grotesque hannya she-demon. She recovered quickly, however, lips creeping up in a sly grin. Peony's blackened teeth were tiny as a child's. "You must be mistaken."

"Oh? You didn't conjure a monster to kill me? Smother me in my own kitchen?" Makiko pressed. Abby turned to her with a frown, but she silenced the other woman with a tap of her finger.

Peony sucked in a breath. Makiko continued, "It's funny how things you thought you'd forgotten sometimes surface at odd moments. I always enjoyed a good ghost story when I was a child."

Abby was looking from one to the other with clear impatience. "Will someone please explain to the ignorant gaijin what all this means?"

"Onmyo-ji - sorcerers - can use their magic to create a supernatural servant called a shikigami," Makiko said. "They take different forms, can possess animals, even people. Shiki are often used to assassinate rivals. They consume a lot of their master's power, however, and are difficult to control." Her attention shifted back to Peony. "Four-hundred year old fibers in Perdita O'Toole's nose and throat. Under my fingernails, too."

"But why would my ittan-momen attack you?" Peony muttered. "I don't know you. I've never met you." She seemed genuinely confused. "How did it escape?"

"I've had just about enough of this." Abby put out a hand, reaching for Peony. The woman made a tiny gesture. Abby bit off an exclamation, ruefully withdrawing bleeding fingers.

"Keep your distance," Peony warned, flourishing the fan she had pulled from her sleeve. The edge glinted, razor sharp. Not an illusion, but a real weapon concealed behind a brocade facade.

"Ittan-momen? A length of cotton cloth?" That was the literal translation. Makiko glanced at Abby's wounds. They were minor cuts, already closing.

Peony darted to a box that lay on a nearby table. Cedar wood with iron straps, a circle of mother-of-pearl inlaid on its lid. The moon, Makiko thought.

"My servant killed Perdita," Peony said. "I loved her. Now I hate her. 'Dita deserved to die." She lifted the lid, and an impossibility slowly emerged.

Meter of white cotton cloth, rising vertically, ripples moving all along its surface. The ittan-momen floated in mid-air, undulating gently. A simple article, almost contemptibly familiar, yet possessed of terrifying purpose.

A lightning-fork whiplashed down Makiko's spine, pure adrenal reaction - the lizard brain perceiving danger before rational mind caught up to the present. Her fingers moved, forming the Tarjani mudra, a Buddhist gesture to ward off evil. Pinky and forefinger extended, middle and ring fingers folded under, with thumb holding them in place. Another throwback to childhood, and a religious mother.

"What the hell?" Abby waved a dismissive hand "Parlor tricks. We're in an immersive environment. You want to start farting thunderbolts, too? Ride a cloud like Monkey King?"

Makiko said, "Use your talent, Abby. That thing is real."

A heartbeat later, Abby staggered backwards. "Shit! It's intelligent! Not human but..."

"Evil," Makiko finished. "Do you happen to know the Heart Sutra? Or Emptiness of Forms?"

"No, and I don't have any sticky rice, either," Abby retorted, drawing on her limited knowledge of Hong Kong occult comedies. Her hand stole up, stroked an area that corresponded roughly to her heart. Manual activation of the panic button. Probably not necessary, since she was close to hyperventilating.

Makiko knew that Department agents would be ill-equipped to deal with a living myth. Her stomach quivered.

Peony's smile widened. "Now you see, madamu Sullivan? Now do you believe?"

Makiko's shields were vibrating beneath psychic blows. Not from an outside force, but from within. "Are you certain you know the truth, Peony? Do you know what to believe?" She closed her eyes, mental shields thrown entirely open - another instinct that she prayed was correct. "I love you, Abby."

"Dammit!" Abby cried. "You're vulnerable, 'Kiko!"

Several things happened simultaneously.

Ito Akashi walked into the room. The ittan-momen struck, coiling around Makiko's face. And the ghost of Perdita O'Toole appeared.

The temperature plummeted to freezing.

Abby let out a mental shriek that could have melted glass. Ito went down on his knees, clutching his head.  A gush of blood flowed from Peony's nostrils, staining her elaborate robes. In spite of the agony that the 'path's scream must have caused, her eyes remained locked on Perdita's perfect form. "You! You're dead!" she spat.

Makiko couldn't breathe. The demon squeezed, cutting off her air supply. She could hear Abby in the background of her mind, a slush of white-noise gibberish. Explosion of red in her eyes, blood vessels succumbing to pressure. In desperation, Makiko scrabbled through her own aura, searching fluctuating energy fields for the one thing she thought might stop this madness - the link to Perdita O'Toole's soul. That was why the ittan-momen continued to attack her. Perdita was a parasite, feeding on her bioplasm, contaminating her aura. In spiritual terms, the living and the dead had become Siamese twins.

Wait, Makiko heard in her mind. She knew it was Perdita's voice. I need you. A moment longer, and it's done.

Abby was tearing at the wrappings. Close your shields! she ordered. Her fingernails scrabbled at the cloth, inflicting no damage at all.

"I love you," Perdita told Peony. Her voice was high, fragile as a tern's call. "I never stopped loving you. But Ito... he swore he'd kill you if I didn't break it off. I had to hurt you to save you."

"Lie!" Peony's eyes were filled with tears. She blinked them away.

"The truth. Only the truth. I'm sorry, love." Perdita's exquisite face was filled with sadness. "I was afraid. I couldn't run. Ito would have found us. It was the only way."

Peony reached out. "Don't go," she pleaded. "I'm sorry. I thought..." Snow flakes trembled on her lashes.

"I can't stay. But I love you. Forever."

"No!"

Perdita said to Makiko, Set me free.

With the last of her failing strength, Makiko snapped the connection. She sagged into Abby's arms, barely conscious.

Ito pulled a flechette gun out of his jacket. He shot twice at the fading ghost. "I own you!" he said. "You belong to me!" The darts burst through Perdita's form, buried themselves in Peony's chest with meaty thwacks. She let out a half-cough, half-scream, blood bubbling over her lips. The immersive environment program ended; both she and the room returned to their normal appearance.

Perdita's ghost vanished. The ittan-momen released Makiko, climbed into the air, spiraling aimlessly. Abby spared another telepathic whiplash that made Ito's head rock back on his shoulders, his finger spasming on the gun trigger. Two more darts popped from the barrel, shattered on the floor. Oily yellow fluid amid the wreckage showed the flechette rounds were poisoned.

Abby put Makiko on the floor, slapped her face lightly. "C'mon, sweetie. Breathe!"

Makiko's chest heaved up and down in quick shallow jerks. Her face was colorless, lips as blue as lost Perdita's eyes. Abby inhaled, covered her partner's mouth with her own, and exhaled. The kiss of life. "Dammit, 'Kiko!" she raged between breaths. Accidently activated, holographic butterflies danced around their faces.

From her position high above the room, Makiko watched the auburn-haired woman's efforts. She had slipped the surly bonds of flesh, her spirit floating free. She felt regret at leaving Abby, sympathy for her mate's sorrow. But those emotions were tempered with fascination - in her newly altered state, Makiko was more able to appreciate the life energies that swirled in kaleidoscopic glory around her.

Perdita was visible, a silver butterfly that slowly leeched onto Ito's spiky reds and dull yellows. The demon was a gray thunder-bolt, circling the unsuspecting man like a hyena scenting a meal. Peony herself was a collage of color that flashed into pure white as she died.

Makiko saw butterfly-Perdita insert a coil of black into Ito's aura, delicately as a surgeon's needle. Sipping his prana, contaminating his chi, creating a bond not unlike the one she'd shared with Makiko. But now the butterfly had a deliberately poisoned sting.

The ittan-momen zeroed in on Ito, drawn by Perdita's tasty bait. She oozed her spiritual wings to ragged thinness, cloaked Ito's own energies with her own. That was all the demon needed. It struck, pouncing on the man with horrid eagerness.

Abruptly, Makiko was aware of Peony standing next to her. The onmyo-ji gave her a beatific smile. I did wrong, she said, communicating without words. Makiko could understand her perfectly, however. You were never meant to be drawn into this. I went mad for a time, I think.

Makiko silently agreed with her.

Peony continued, We're both free. Another flash of purest white, and Ito was gone. So are you.

The demon was a spent force, crumpled on the ground, a steel-hued nasty bleeding into nothingness. Incense smoke in a hard wind. Scent of burning poppy seeds.

Makiko felt a push that turned into a hard shove. Butterfly wings filled her vision, rustling gossamer, brittle yet strong as spider silk. She grasped at them in wonder. Iridescent luster, like perfect Mikimoto pearls. Sensation of falling, spinning in space like a maple leaf, downward until she landed with a thump... back in the land of the living. Re-embracing flesh. The saring pain in her lungs as she drew a deep sweet breath with a sound that was almost a sob. Her eyes were wide open, skin covered in cold sweat, burn in her ribs. The air hurt, biting cold but returning to normal.

Abby was not crying, but her cheeks were wet. "Goddammit, 'Kiko! You ever pull anything like that on me again, I'll burn your Powerpuff collection, I swear!"

Makiko gasped, "You do and I'll haunt you, I swear."

Reinforcements arrived, bursting into the room with drawn weapons. Egami was right behind, scowling like a bakemono ogre, magenta dreadlocks practically standing on end.

"I love you anyway," Makiko whispered. A black tunnel opened up and she fell through, straight to oblivion.

For the second time in as many days, Makiko woke up in a hospital.

The first thing she saw was Abby, smiling. "I sold the dancing/singing Storytime Blossom interactive doll to pay your medical expenses."

"Very funny." Makiko spotted Chief Egami, lurking behind her partner. "Konnichiwa, Egami-san. How's business?"

"Inscrutable and unknowable, much like the rest of life." Egami tugged his tie into place. Today's suit was plaid, manga characters racing along each line with bewildering speed. "Madamu Peony - her real name was Oyama Kaou - was found dead in the Equilibrium club. Tetrodotoxin poisoning. Delivered via two flechette darts fired by Ito Akasi, who was himself suffocated to death. Fabric remains we found are identical to the weapon used to kill both Ito and Perdita O'Toole."

"Do we have to talk shop?" Abby asked. "She just woke up."

"Remains?" Makiko was puzzled.

"The towel collapsed into dust when the techs tried to move it," Abby said, giving her partner a warning glance.

Egami found a stool and sat down, legs spread, hands on his thighs. "Officer Sullivan has given me a report, which I'm prepared to accept. Precognitive intuition on Officer Makiko's part - confirmed by her earlier Reading of the victim - led the investigators to the Equilibrium club, where they subsequently learned about O'Toole's intimate connection to a woman named Peony. During questioning of the suspect, Ito Akashi entered the room. Clearly disturbed, he became violent and attacked both Officer Makiko and Peony. During the struggle, Peony was shot and killed, but not before she somehow smothered him to death." He stopped, head cocked expectantly.

Makiko nodded. "Hai, Egami-san. That is correct."

Abby gave her a slight nod of encouragement.

"Perdita O'Toole was killed by Ito in a fit of jealous rage," Egami continued. "How he managed to elude the building's security sensors is unknown. Perhaps he bribed a smart elevator named Lenny?"

Makiko cut a quick peek at Abby, who shook her head imperceptibly. "Of course not," she replied with all the false confidence she could muster.

"Well, we'll never really know. That information died with him. It's too bad you were injured and unable to do a Reading. By the time a Department Reader arrived, Ito's energies had completely dissipated."

"Yes, very bad," Makiko said, "but it's an old story, isn't it? Crime of passion."

Egami adjusted his tie again. "Ito also attacked you at home, but fortunately he was frightened off by Officer Sullivan's arrival. A truly disturbed individual. His motive is unclear, but I suppose he may have learned of your involvement and feared discovery."

"Hai. A reasonable explanation."

"Tell me, Officer Makiko... why do I have the feeling that you're not telling me everything you know?"

"I don't know what you mean, Egami-san." Makiko gave him her best 'no idea whatsoever' expression.

"Unanswered questions. Your behavior lately has been erratic. Worrisome, to say the least."

Abby spoke up. "Makiko has been under a great deal of stress. She's been injured twice - no, three times - in the course of her duties. She may also be developing new precog talent, which is a strain. Doctor Shen Howe did a medical and psychic examination, and he's under the impression that she needs rest."

"And medicinal tea which does not contain dried snake heads," Makiko said, trying to be helpful. "I'm pretty sure I have all my hun and po, too. But I need to eat more yin. Lots and lots of yin, good for health." She winked at Abby, who blushed and rolled her eyes.

Egami was oblivious to their by-play. "I received the doctor's report. Mild SPC transfer. Which probably explains the strange energies other Readers have been complaining about. Strong energy patterns lacking a familiar signature, attached to you, Officer Makiko." He waited for a response.

"Do you believe in ghosts, Egami-san?" Makiko asked.

"Absolutely not."

"I had SPC transfer, sir. I'm better now."

"I hope so." His hand started to make a mudra, then stopped with a twitch. "There are some Tibetan lamas eager to speak to you. They have questions about your experiences in the chi kha'i bardo, as they call it. Did you see wrathful dieties, saints, and so forth. They were taking bioplasm readings as part of a study for Dharma-U."

"You died," Abby explained. "Your pulse stopped. I thought I lost you."

"I came back." Makiko sighed. "And I'm very tired."

"Rest," Egami said, standing up. "Have some more Kobe beef on me. Just don't make a habit of near-death experiences, eh? My expense account can't afford it." He squinted at her, moved closer to the bed. "Maybe I should say, near-life experience. What did you see, 'Kiko?"

Abby was also watching her expectantly. Makiko said, "Butterflies. Two beautiful white butterflies, dancing together." There was nothing else to say.

Egami scowled again, clearly not understanding. "Oxygen deprivation." He studied the mini-digital display on his wrist. "Two weeks off on medical leave. Don't come back until you've gotten an okay from Doc Howe." He left the room.

As soon as he was gone, Abby sat down on the edge of the bed. She picked up Makiko's hand, entwined their fingers together. "I still don't believe in ghosts. I don't believe in demons walking at night. Mutual hysteria, mass hallucination, short-range neural control... I'm not sure. There's got to be a rational explanation. Chemically induced insanity. Or maybe Peony was a rogue 'path, and we were dragged into her delusions."

"Maybe."

"What happened there, 'Kiko? What's the truth?" Abby searched her partner's face for answers.

Makiko smiled. Abby was so very beautiful, so solid, so comforting. "Moonlight and blood red peonies, momma-san. Strange signs in Heaven and Earth," she said, and closed her eyes.

Outside, it began to rain.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

by Nene Adams ©2003 - All rights reserved

When Lily walked into a room, all conversation ceased.

Not because she was beautiful. Lily was the most famous model in the world. Her face was perfect, with a purity of line and angle that could make a camera swoon. Her cheekbones were sharp enough to shave ice. She stared out at the world with cold feline eyes from a dozen magazines every month. Lily looked like blackest sin wrapped in an angel's skin. With a shrug of her soft white shoulders, she could reduce both men and women to helpless reverence.

Not because she was cruel. Lily took lovers and tortured them, destroyed them, devoured them bite by exquisite little bite. There was nothing personal in these exercises, nothing spiteful. Lily took no apparent pleasure or disgust in her actions. She was never hateful; merely callous, supremely indifferent to an inhuman degree. She was a pallid vampire, bewitchingly lovely yet somehow also repulsive. Evil lingered in her presence, a suggestion of depraved appetites and vile hungers that were best left unnamed. Yet she was impossible to resist. Even as her victims abhorred her, they adored the cold colorless goddess. They trembled in fear and delight. They gave themselves up on the icy altar of her desire, and no one knew what took place behind the closed doors of Lily's mansion. Those poor slaves never spoke of the horrors they may have glimpsed. Some took their secrets to the grave; others, the madhouse.

Not because she was a mystery. There were no public records, no driver's license, no Social Security number, no birth certificate, no baby photos, no family or kin of any kind. Lily had, apparently, sprung full grown from the head of some anonymous god. She answered no questions about her past. She was an enigma, a puzzle, a challenge. Rumors circulated, each more fantastic than the last. The truth, however, remained elusive.

All conversation ceased because when Lily walked into a room, a numbing chill descended that left the other occupants paralyzed, mesmerized by the pale, slender, impossibly beautiful specter gliding into their midst. Speech dribbled to a halt. It became difficult to breathe, much less think or act. People paused and gaped, unable to escape. When Lily passed out again, it was like a spell had been lifted. Heads shook, hands were lifted to faces as though to brush away cobwebs. Everyone felt exhausted, dull, drained of energy and life. Parties broke up swiftly afterwards.

Regardless of her reputation - or perhaps because of it - she was showered with invitations from society matrons, eager to boast that they had played hostess to the incomparable Lily. She deigned to grace these events with her presence on occasion, but never gave notice. When she did appear, it was always when the party was at its height, when liquor had freed tongues and minds from self-restriction to the edge of hysteria.

It was at one such soiree, given by the Honorable Mrs. Theodore Jones-Haygarden, that the unthinkable happened.

The party was regarded as the success of the social season. All the corporate and political giants were in attendance; a sprinkling of media and fashion celebrities were there to liven the mix. Mrs. Jones-Haygarden was swollen with triumph. When frost-glittering Lily arrived, it was the final flourish to an evening that had covered the matron in glory. Like the rest, she was dumbfounded in Lily's presence, wrapped in a stupor that numbed every sense she possessed. It was both comforting and horrible, like being wrapped smotheringly tight in a swan-feather shawl.

An unknown woman pushed through the crowd. She was small and lean, dark and sullen, apparently unaffected. The woman took hold of Lily's arm and said, "Murdering bitch! You killed Caroline!"

Lily shrugged and smiled.

"Caroline Chamberlin! She never did anything but good and you killed her!" the woman sobbed. She held something tightly in her free hand. "You sucked her dry and spat her out like trash. I loved her and she might as well be dead!"

Lily's soft white shoulders moved again. Her feline eyes narrowed, then widened, and she let out a low laugh.

The woman controlled herself with an effort. "Two years," she said with dreadful intensity. "Two years it took to figure it out. But now you're going to pay. I know your true name... I know what you are!"

She opened her hand, revealing the object she was carrying. A small round mirror, thin as a soap bubble. She thrust it in front of Lily, capturing the inhumanly lovely, pallid and cold face in its surface for a brief second. Then the woman closed her hand, crushing the mirror in her palm. Bits of glass floated into the air.

Lily's mouth parted in a silent shriek.

Thin cracks began to appear on Lily's face, like the crazing of antique porcelain. Black lines zig-zagging across chin, cheekbones and brow, breaking that pale perfection apart. Lily stared, disbelief and terror in her feline eyes. She was frozen in place, a hand raised in supplication or command. It was too late for mercy, too late to work her wiles.

The cracks widened. With a tinkling crash, the pieces of Lily's shattered face suddenly slid to the floor in a cascade of white and red and black. They exploded into smaller fragments as they struck the hard marble. Stiff as a statue, Lily toppled over sideways and smashed apart with a ear-splitting din that was reminiscent of dropped china dishes.

There was silence, then the screaming began.

The small, dark, sullen woman was never seen again.

In her padded cell at the expensive private asylum, a woman who had once been Caroline Chamberlin, beloved and lost and now redeemed, sucked in a sobbing breath and began to cry.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

MURASAKI MIDNIGHT
by Nene Adams ©2004 - All rights reserved

Murasaki Orbital Station, LaGrange Point V
A corporate enterprise owned and operated by Nippon Aerospace
(a subsidiary of the Sony/Akuma keiretsu)

The 22nd century

~~~ooo0ooo~~~

Inspector Nandita Okalani consulted her data pad and chewed on the end of her stylus. She was standing in front of docking bay 34, level D. The airlock door was sealed and red-lighted. According to Murasaki Control, this bay was occupied by the Genji, part of Aerospace Nippon's commercial space transport fleet. However, the lock on the ship's side was still engaged. It was a serious offense against regulations; as soon as Control confirmed that the docking clamp was secure, Genji's crew should have cycled the airlock and waited for inspection/clearance. That they had not followed standard procedure was very troubling.

She checked the light again. Still red. Until it turned green, the door could not be opened except by manually overriding the safety protocols. A cargo and passenger inspector like her did not have the authority to do that.

Nandita read the ship's manifest one more time. Genji was a chartered flight; fourteen passengers only, all of them top-level executives from Nakamura Corporation, plus four geisha air hostesses and the cockpit crew. She could not imagine why someone aboard Genji was not raising hell at the delay. Even more troubling was the fact that if everyone on the transport had become unconscious for some reason, the ship’s automated computer system ought to have broadcast a universal m’aidez on every channel.

Nandita activated her throat mike. "Control, this is Inspector Okalani."

"Go ahead, Inspector." The voice issuing from the micro-bead in her ear had a tinny, insect-like quality that never failed to raise goosebumps on her arms.

"Confirm docking status secure on Aerospace Nippon flight 323, Genji, out of Tokyo outbound to Baburu Resort via Murasaki Orbital Station."

There was a pause. "Secure status confirmed."

"Patch me through to Genji's cockpit. Captain John Cheung."

"One moment." There was a further pause. The operator’s voice returned and said, "No reply. Repeat, no reply. Systems analysis confirms life support and communications are functioning. Switching you to Security."

Nandita turned cold. Last month, a terrorist group had tried to smuggle a vial of genetically modified, military grade Hansen's Disease to the station inside a cargo vessel. The vial had broken en route, killing the entire crew. They had quite literally fallen apart. A decontamination team had carried the bodies - or rather, the pieces of bodies - out in sealed biohazard bags. The alarm had been raised by an inspector who, like herself, was unable to enter the craft or contact the cockpit crew.

"Security," said a new voice in her ear. It sounded like a woman. "Commander Tomiko. State the nature of the emergency."

Nandita roused herself. "Inspector Okalani. I'm at docking bay 34, level D." She went on to explain the situation , ending with, "I am standing by for instructions."

Commander Tomiko's crisp orders came as a relief. "Move at least fifty yards away from the airlock but stay within visual range. Do not approach the airlock or allow anyone else to do so. I'm sending the closest hot-squad to your location. A decontamination team will arrive shortly. And Inspector Okalani?"

"Yes?"

"If I find a single member of the press near that ship before I get there, I'll kick your sweet ass back to Earth the hard way. Understood?"

"I understand, Commander." Nandita, who had been trembling with fear, now trembled with rage as she walked away from the airlock. What kind of person did this Tomiko think she was? Some inspectors did take bribes from the news services on Murasaki Station. Inspectors were, after all, among the first to spot new arrivals or get fresh scuttlebutt and scandal straight from the transport crews to feed to the tabloid journalistas and digital paparazzi. However, she did not, and felt that Tomiko's threat was personally insulting.

Only a few minutes passed until a security squad arrived, dressed in the familiar indigo uniforms and helmets. All of them were armed with flechette guns and shock-rods capable of delivering 50,000 volts or more. They set up a line of shatterproof shields and waited, weapons at the ready. Not one of them spared a glance at Nandita.

A tall woman in Security blues came towards her. Nandita noticed the stars emblazoned on the shoulders of her uniform and realized this must be Commander Tomiko.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Inspector Okalani," Tomiko said. She had a broad forehead, tapering to prominent cheekbones and a small chin. Her almond shaped eyes were sharp, glittering like black gems. "The decontamination team is on the way. I'm sure you have a very busy schedule, so you can return to your normal duties." The phrasing was polite, but had the briskness of an order that was expected to be obeyed.

Nandita shook her head. She was not about to be bullied. "Genji is my responsibility. It was assigned to me by Control. I will not leave until I'm satisfied that this isn’t just a mistake brought on by human error or equipment failure."

"I see." Tomiko tilted her head to one side. Her hair was cut off straight at the shoulders, dyed an impossibly flaming red that clashed with her sallow complexion. "If you thought this was a simple mistake, why did you call Security?"

"Like you, Commander, I'm required to follow protocol." Nandita left it at that, hoping the woman could not discern the real reasons she wanted to remain. Part of it was curiosity, plain and simple. She wanted to witness the events with her own eyes, rather than hear about it second- or third-hand. The other reason was a stubborn refusal to back down in the face of someone who had insulted her.

"Besides," Nandita continued impulsively, "I didn't call Security. Control did." She winced even as she said it, realizing how childish she sounded.

Tomiko's mouth curved in a small smile. She bowed slightly from the hips. "I stand corrected, Inspector Okalani." Her gaze shifted. "The decontamination team is here. Please excuse me. You may do your duty and remain as witness, but continue to maintain your distance. Do not interfere with our operation." With that, she swung away, headed towards the newly arrived group wearing distinctive yellow plastic suits and hoods.

It did not take long for the decontamination team to gain entry into the Genji once the door’s security encryption was hacked and overridden by Murasaki Orbital’s own AI in a direct downlink. After a short while, the team emerged, the leader pulling off his hood. From where she was standing, Nandita clearly heard him say, "No biohazards, Tomiko, but there's wall-to-wall corpses in there. You'd better get Medical here fast. We've got one live body, but I'm not sure how long she'll stay that way."

Tomiko issued commands into her throat mike. Within moments, paramedics arrived to whisk the sole survivor off Genji. Close on their heels came a full forensics team, laden with equipment. Nandita was politely asked to leave by a Security squad member. As she walked out of the docking bay, Nandita caught a last glimpse of Tomiko. The tall woman was standing in the midst of controlled chaos, her flaming red hair like a beacon in a sea of indigo blue. A news spy-eye hovered above, sending streaming live video directly to its subscribers.

Nandita wiped the data pad with the chewed end of her stylus. Security would be issuing their own report on the incident; her’s could wait. Her shift was over, so she went home, hoping to catch more details on the 24/7 news broadcast.

~~~ooo0ooo~~~

Nandita lived in an usagigoya apartment, literally, a "rabbit hutch" - a rectangular room with white plastic walls (stain and paint resistant), just big enough for a bed and a tiny bathroom with shower, sink and toilet. The space opposite her bed contained a fold-down desk/table, and a Sony monitor with pull-out keyboard for computer access. Niches for storage were carved out of the other walls, along with a narrow closet.

The room was bland, functional and cold - exactly the same as thousands of others in the Murasaki employees' complex. Unless she managed a major status upgrade, Nandita was condemned to remain in what was nicknamed The Warren. Cramped as it was, living in an usagigoya was better than being without shelter at all. She could not have afforded better on Earth, and at least here, her power and water were provided as an employee benefit.

Like most station dwellers, Nandita had tried to personalize her space. A colorful blanket made of Indian silk sarees was tossed over the foam mattress. Embroidered pillows were heaped on the bed. In the storage niches were a dwarf azalea bonsai, a pile of entertainment discs, a tanto blade in a bamboo sheath, cans of incense spray and ginseng flavored oxygen; also packets of roasted green peas, rice crackers, spicy Indonesian peanuts and wasabi flavored shrimp chips. A scattering of holo-photos in fiber optic frames cycled through a random selection of family and friends’ pictures from her native Oahu.

She sat cross-legged on the bed, wearing a simple green yakuta robe. The color matched her eyes. Nandita was hapa, a child of mixed ancestry, both Pacific islander and haole. Her mother was Indian/Chinese/Caucasian, while her father was African-American/Japanese/Russian, with some Indonesian and Malay added to the blend. As a result, Nandita had skin the color of milk chocolate; her hair was a cloud of dark brown frizz. She had wide Slavic cheekbone and only a hint of an epicanthic fold at the corners of her light eyes. Nandita was not fat, but like many islanders she was solidly plump and muscular.

On the island Oahu (part of the Independent Hawai'ian States), the hapa, though proud of their ancestry, considered themselves simply Hawai'ian - the sum total of their birth, rather than a piecemeal conglomeration. Like soup, her mother had told her. Nobody calls it meat-vegetables-broth... it's just called soup. So you're just you, Nandita Okalani. Not African, American, Indian, Russian, Chinese or haole. Just Hawai'ian.

Conservative Japanese called her esunikku, an ethnic - an insulting term that hinted of mongrel status. Fortunately, Nippon Aerospace had a liberal hiring policy. While Nandita would never get into top management (those positions were reserved for pure Japanese stock, following the usual tradition of nepotism and favor trading), she could still advance quite high. Nandita intended to stay at Murasaki Orbital until she could go no further, then possibly transfer to the International Lunar Base after its completion in five years.

She nibbled a handful of roasted peas, watching the news broadcast with interest. Security's investigation of the Genji massacre was proceeding, with no real leads developed. A nurse in Medical had sent clandestine on-line video of the sole survivor, who seemed small and crumpled against the white bed-sheets, like an abandoned doll. Nandita pulled out the computer keyboard and joined a station-wide chat for more information.

She learned that the survivor's name was Izumi Sato. Some enterprising hacker had already pulled up the woman's vital statistics and posted the form at a public access site. Izumi was a Japanese national trained as a geisha air hostess at Aerospace Nippon's prestigious school in Kyoto. Within a few seconds, Izumi's photograph was uploaded to the site. She was pretty and petite with a round face, bow lips and the wide-eyed innocence of a child. Nandita studied the picture for a moment, wondering how and why this fragile-seeming porcelain doll had survived when the others had not.

Nandita was interrupted by a buzz and a flashing icon on her monitor. It was Security. She quickly wiped her screen and answered the call. "Moshi-moshi, this is Inspector Okalani."

An image blinked on; it was Commander Tomiko, on a live video conferencing feed. "I apologize for the intrusion, Inspector."

Nandita stared at the screen, nonplused. She had not expected to be contacted for her statement so soon. "What do you want, Commander? I'm off duty."

"I realize that, but something has come up in the investigation. Since you were the first person at the scene, I need you to answer some questions. Don't worry, Inspector Okalani. You'll be adequately compensated for your time." Tomiko said the last as if it were a distasteful notion or possibly a disgraceful one.

"What do you want to know?" Nandita controlled her temper with an effort. Dealing with Commander Tomiko is no worse than confronting an irate passenger who can't understand why I won't let him to bring a crate of fighting rats into the station, she told herself. Don't let her get to you. Ho'omanawanui! Have patience and endure. For some reason, Tomiko rubbed her the wrong way. Nandita took a deep breath and waited.

"Would you come to my office on B-level?” the commander asked. “I would rather not pursue the matter over an unsecured line."

Nandita counted to ten in Cantonese, then once more in Hindi. At last, she answered, "I haven't eaten yet."

"You can order whatever you like in my office. On my credit account," Tomiko offered. Her harshly angular features seemed to soften a bit, and she actually smiled slightly. "And I'll see to it that you're paid double-time for the inconvenience."

Suddenly, Nandita realized that Tomiko was a very attractive woman. The smile utterly transformed her face. A second later and she realized what the commander was offering. Dinner and double-time payment? Yes! "I'll be happy to cooperate," Nandita said. “Be there in twenty minutes."

"Thank you." Tomiko severed the connection, and Nandita's monitor went blank.

She pushed the keyboard back, pulled off her yakuta, and opened the narrow closet to find some clothes. Five minutes later, Nandita left her apartment, wearing wide-legged, saffron-dyed cotton trousers and a sleeveless white undershirt. As she walked to the grav-lifts, she pulled her hair back from her face, fastening the frizzy mass with an elastic band. A chrome identification card hung on a chain around her neck.

Commander Tomiko's office was on B-level, near the central hub, part of the big Security complex. The glass walls were really liquid crystal displays, showing a mix of advertisements, public service announcements, crime re-enactments and 'Top Ten Most Wanted' lists. Inside was a buzzing, chaotic hive. Indigo uniformed officers grappled with suspects, tonight mostly a large group of caterwauling, kimono-clad prostitutes and their clients - a contingent of sumo wrestlers who had gotten drunk enough to go looking for thrills at the quasi-legal brothels on G-level. From the blood-streaked look of them, the huge men had either been fighting amongst themselves or had resisted arrest.

Nandita made her way to the front desk with difficulty, squeezing past screaming women in cheap rayon robes, shouting sweaty wrestlers, and harassed Security officers. The sergeant glanced down at her with disinterest. He was eating a cup of ramen noodles and watching an Australian soccer broadcast on a big monitor attached to the far wall.

"Inspector Okalani to see Commander Tomiko," Nandita said, offering her I.D. card.

The sergeant shook his head. "Commander Tomiko is busy. Come back tomorrow, or make an appointment."

"But I'm here at her request."

"Sorry, Inspector." He slurped up a mouthful of noodles and turned his attention back to the game.

Nandita reached up and knocked loudly against his desk. "Call Commander Tomiko right now and tell her I'm here. She's expecting me."

The sergeant's eyes narrowed. He put down the cup. "Look, I don't take orders from..." He broke off and turned pale.

Nandita knew Commander Tomiko was standing behind her, even before she heard the woman speak. "Sergeant Maksim, why are you eating dinner on duty?" Tomiko asked.

"Sorry, ma'am." Maksim fumbled the cup of noodles under his desk.

"Don't be sorry, Sergeant. Just do your job properly."

"Yes, ma'am." Maksim cast an aggrieved glare at Nandita. "Commander, an Inspector Okalani is here to see you. She claims you sent for her."

"So I noticed." Tomiko's voice was dry, the sarcasm barely veiled. "And had you bothered to verify, Maksim, you would have discovered that I did, indeed, ask the inspector to pay a call. Next time, don't keep my guests waiting. If you'll follow me, Inspector Okalani, we’ll take our meeting in my office." Tomiko said over her shoulder as she led the way. The commander did not have to push anyone out of her way; they naturally gravitated out of her path, as if she was projecting a psychic bulldozer.

Nandita stayed close to the taller woman, glad that she did not have to fight her way through the press a second time.

The Security commander's office was quiet, the plastic walls reinforced with sound-proofing material. The floor was a well polished bamboo laminate that also absorbed noise. Tomiko's desk was a mass of steel and glass, very modern, almost bare but for an antique red lacquer writing box and a complicated looking communication console. Except for the desk and a set of chairs, the room was empty of furniture and eerily silent.

Tomiko sat down and waved at a chair. "Please sit down, Inspector Okalani."

Nandita did so, trying to relax. Tomiko studied her with glittering black eyes. Finally, the commander said, "We seem to have a problem regarding the Genji."

"Only one problem?" Nandita said, raising her brows. "I would think the count is closer to twenty."

"True. Twenty dead, one survivor." Again, a ghost of a smile touched Tomiko's lips. "First things first. I promised you dinner. What would you like?"

"Teriyaki krill steak and sweet potato frites," Nandita said immediately. She was quite hungry, having worked up an appetite on the way to B-level.

Tomiko got up, went to the Digi-Chef on the wall, and punched in the order. "How well do you recall the cargo manifest?" she asked while she was waiting.

Nandita thought about it. "Nothing unusual springs to mind, but I didn't... wait a minute. There was something. I remember making a note of it on my data pad."

"A cat, perhaps? "

"Yes! Listed as the personal companion of Goro Nakamura." Nandita closed her eyes, and opened them again after a moment. "A genetically modified feline, designation 459-X, developed by Nakamura Bio Systems' R & D department. The animal's passport, veterinary certification and proof of sterilization were on file with Control."

"You have a good memory, Inspector." There was a chime from the Digi-Chef. Tomiko opened the hatch and removed two covered dishes. She walked back to the desk and put one dish in front of Nandita.

Nandita removed the cover and allowed teriyaki-scented steam to wash over her face. The steak looked like genuine beef, grilled and served in its own juices. A mound of fried sweet potato strips accompanied the meal. "It even smells like the real thing," she said, unwrapping knife and fork. "We don't get this kind of quality in The Warren's cafeteria."

"I'm not one to stand on ceremony," Tomiko said, unveiling her own dinner - a plate of gyoza filled with pork-flavored tofu and vegetables. "Will it disturb you to talk while we eat?" She held her chopsticks poised over a pan-fried dumpling.

"Not at all." Nandita cut into her steak and lifted a piece to her mouth. Ono-licious! Her opinion of Commander Tomiko was improving. She didn't have to buy me an expensive dinner, Nandita thought. The cost of this meal was more than her day's salary. Lower level employees had access only to the company cafeteria, where the food was more filling and nutritious than tasty. Nandita ate at the cafeteria out of necessity and supplemented her diet with snacks purchased at the Harajuku Bazaar and occasional care packages from home.

Tomiko picked up a gyoza, dipped it in soy sauce and levered the dumpling delicately into her mouth. After chewing and swallowing, she said, "The cat is missing."

Nandita almost choked on a sweet potato strip. "How did that happen? The animal's crate should have been securely locked."

"It was. Someone opened it." Tomiko reached beneath her desk and brought out two plastic bulbs of liquid. She handed one to Nandita. "Did you see a cat at the scene?"

"How could it have gotten out of the transport? The airlock was sealed." Nandita punctured the bulb with the straw provided, and sipped. The liquid was some kind of mineral water, crisp and citrusy. "Nothing could have exited the ship."

"But did you see anything out of the ordinary?" Tomiko pressed.

Nandita ate another bite of steak. "I'm sorry, Commander. I saw nothing and no one until your squad arrived."

"I see." Tomiko remained silent until she had finished the plate of dumplings. Nandita ate rapidly, not willing to waste a single morsel of the best meal she'd had since arriving at the station two years ago.

"Do you know anything about the survivor, Izumi Sato?" Tomiko asked, pushing her empty dish aside.

"Nothing beyond common knowledge," Nandita answered carefully.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to prosecute you for illegal downloading of classified material. I just wondered if you knew her personally."

"To be honest, I've never seen her before." Nandita held up a hand to forestall Tomiko's next question. "I'm just one transport inspector out of many. There are dozens of passenger flights in and out of Murasaki Orbital every day, not to mention commercial shuttles between Earth, this station, the other LaGrange stations, and ongoing construction of the International Lunar Base. We get everything here from workers to tourists, corporate visitors, ambassadors, government reps, trouble makers, manufacturers and vendors. I can't be expected to know every person on every transport. It isn't possible. Furthermore, my circle of friends is limited to local personnel. Flight crews tend to stick together."

Tomiko acknowledged the truth of Nandita's statements by nodding her head. "I had hoped..." she began, and trailed off. "Never mind. Should you happen to find a stray cat, please contact my office at once."

Nandita sensed the interview was at an end. What she could not understand is why the commander had taken the trouble to invite her here and feed her such a magnificent meal instead of pursuing the inquiry over the communication system. No information had been exchanged that was unduly sensitive in her opinion.

As if she read her mind, Tomiko said, "I like your attitude, Inspector. Not many people will stand up to the head of Security." She smoothed back her flaming red hair and continued, "On a personal level, I find you attractive. I want to get to know you a little better. I hope my honesty has not shocked or offended you."

"Not at all," Nandita replied. So, the commander has feelings after all! This could be interesting. "May I ask a nosy question?"

"Certainly."

"Why do you dye your hair such a vivid color?"

Tomiko's lips quirked upwards. It was clear that she had not anticipated the question. "In order to be seen in a crowd, so that my officers can find me quickly when they need to."

Nandita regarded the other woman from beneath lowered eyelids, and smiled broadly. "I didn't like you much earlier today."

"I noticed."

"I think I've had a change of heart."

Tomiko gazed back at her, a serious expression on her face. "Would 2100 hours suit you for tomorrow?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"Dinner, dancing, cocktails, pachinko, karaoke, digital gladiators, Kabuki theater, chanbara eiga films..." Tomiko spread her hands apart. "Your choice."

Nandita shrugged. "You choose. Surprise me."

"I think I might."

They exchanged smiles. At last, Nandita said, "If there's nothing else, I'd better get back home. Thank you for dinner."

"It was my pleasure." Tomiko rose and started to accompany Nandita to the door, but her communication console buzzed loudly. "I'm sorry..." she said, glancing at her desk.

"It’s okay. See you tomorrow night."

Nandita hardly noticed the shrieking prostitutes or bellowing sumo wrestlers on the way out. In fact, she was barely aware of her surroundings until she found herself standing outside her apartment door. She inserted her identification card into the slot, waited for the door lock to cycle open, and stepped inside.

Sitting on her bed was a black cat.

Nandita started, a hand pressed to her breast. The cat hissed, leaped off the bed, and streaked out into the corridor. By the time she regained her equilibrium and went to look, the animal had disappeared. She closed the door, not sure if she had really seen a cat at all. I was distracted. It's late. Maybe I imagined a black popoki sitting on my bed. There's no sign of the thing now.

She decided to tell Commander Tomiko about it tomorrow.

There was a loud knock, and Nandita jumped again. "Who is it?" she called cautiously.

"E Kalani!" chirped a female voice. "Let me in, cuz!"

"E komo mai!" Nandita called, opening the door. "Hey, Kalani, howzit?"

Kalani Ahmona was also Hawaiian; in fact, she was Nandita's second cousin, and the two woman had grown up together in the same huge house. In spite of being close as sisters, they did not look anything alike. Kalani was slender as a boy, almond-eyed, with dense black hair that she cropped off close to her skull. She had multiple piercings in her lower lip, and her right ear fairly bristled with silver rings.

"I heard you were assigned the Genji," Kalani said, gliding into the apartment, "so I thought I'd come over and talk story with you."

"Yeah, yeah," Nandita said, closing the door and engaging the lock. "You know as much about that as I do. But I do have some other news."

"Geev'um!" Kalani made grabby motions with her hands. "Oh, I almost forgot. Mama Ahmona sent us presents from home. Onion and pepper marlin jerky for you." She reached into the pocket of her grey coverall and pulled out several flat, paper wrapped packages. "I got ling hing mui cracked seeds and rock salt plums. Wanna share?"

"You lolo? Mo bettah I share, 'cause Mama Ahmona gimme the stink eye next time we're Earthside if I don't." Nandita slipped into the pidgen her family spoke at home.

Kalani produced two more packages from her pocket. "Maybe she give you dirty lickin's, too!" she laughed, threatening to spank Nandita with an upraised hand.

Nandita went out briefly to get two waxed cartons of beer from the dispenser in the hall. Although she and Kalani were close, their work schedules often conflicted and they did not see each other socially very often. When she returned, Kalani was sitting cross-legged on the bed, munching a piece of jerky. "Now talk story, cuz," she said, puncturing her beer carton with a straw. "Gimme da scoops."

"Bend yo' ears, sistah, here's the haps..."

"Ha’ah?" Kalani said, after Nandita had told her about Commander Tomiko. "You're kidding. Dat’s one mean wahine, eh?"

"Don't talk stink." Nandita enunciated with difficulty as she was sucking on a rock salt plum and her mouth was full.

"She gave you a great dinner, a little smooth talk... now a date. Next thing, you knockin' boots with her." Kalani made a long-suffering sigh and untangled the drinking straw from her lip piercings. "Then she push you out wikiwiki and get a new honey to squeeze."

Nandita shook her head and spat out the plum stone. "Aiyah! You don't even know Tomiko."

"I know the type. Love 'em and leave 'em, cuz. Break the heart. Not the settling down." Kalani finished her beer. "You want me fix you up with a real honey? Little blonde wahine from Gdansk, fresh off the transport, very cute. She's in my department. I can put in the good word for you."

"No, thanks. I already have a date."

Kalani shrugged. "Your loss."

"Better not tell Mama Okalani or Mama Ahmona or the rest of the ohana. You know how they gossip, and I don't want the whole island talking about my business."

"Kay den. That's fine, cuz. When you need a shoulder to cry on, gimme a buzz." Kalani got up and tossed her empty beer carton into the recycler hatch. "Hey, I gotta bag. Early day tomorrow for me."

"Thanks for the stuff, sistah. Don't be a stranger." Nandita gave her cousin a hug.

"And you be careful." Kalani frowned and paused in the act of unlocking the door. "Hey, cuz... you know somebody got a cat on station? Black popoki?"

Nandita froze in place. "No. How come?"

"I saw one when I was walking to your apartment. Took off like that!" She snapped her fingers. "Pretty strange, eh?"

"Yeah, funny kine. You sure?"

Kalani nodded. "Fo' real." There was concern in her almond shaped eyes. "Relax, 'Dita. You got some righteous chicken skin."

Nandita rubbed her prickling arms. "I have to call Tomiko. And I can't talk story about it, 'Lani. Maybe later."

"You okay? I can crash here..."

"No, no, go ahead. I'll be fine." Nandita opened the door. "If you see that cat again, call Security."

"Can do." Kalani hesitated in the corridor. "You need anything, you call me, eh?"

"Can do, sistah. Thanks." Nandita shut the door, sat down on the bed, and pulled out her keyboard to place a call to Security. Unfortunately, she got Sergeant Maksim. He took sadistic delight in denying her access to Commander Tomiko, instead insisting on taking a message. She told him about the cat sightings, emphasizing the urgency of her transmission. He smirked and ended the call.

When she wiped the monitor, Nandita was very tired. She lay back on the pillows, too exhausted to do more than push empty food wrappers off her bed, and fell asleep with her clothes on.

~~~ooo0ooo~~~

The next day after work, Nandita took a trip to C-level, to the Harajuku Bazaar that sprawled out from the hub. Shops, market stalls, pachinko parlors, vendor stands, video game arenas, peddler carts, tattoo boutiques, cosmetic surgery clinics, tea houses, strip clubs, Turkish, Swedish and Japanese baths - it was said that if you couldn't find what you were looking for in the Harajuku, it didn't exist. The deeper one penetrated into the heart of the bazaar, the more curious the goods offered and the more shifty the dealers became.

Nandita went to her favorite second-hand clothing store, the Bata-ya, run by a hard-eyed trio of Indonesian sisters. After rummaging through the racks for twenty minutes, she found something she liked – a white nano-fiber pantsuit, pre-programmed to display 'bourgeois icons,' as the tag stated. The color contrasted nicely with her milk chocolate skin.
She switched it on and held the garment at arm's length. Marilyn Monroe's mega-watt smile and bedroom eyes blossomed to life on the front. James Dean scowled from a leg. Sho Kosugi and Sonny Chiba crossed swords on the back. The idoru, electronica popera singer Black Cherry Butterfly, laughed silently on a sleeve.

The images were in a constant state of flux, changing from one familiar face to another. Rod Serling, Michelle Yeoh, Betty Grable, Jimmy Hendrix, Elvis Presley, Emperor Hirohito... some came and went so quickly, Nandita did not have time to identify them. She clicked the pantsuit's processor off and took it to the counter. Some spirited haggling with Sister Two and it was hers, but the price still made Nandita wince.

To go with the suit, she bought a new pair of soft-soled zori sandals. After eating a quick snack of tofu barbeque in a steamed bun, Nandita visited one of the Japanese baths. Following an hour's worth of treatment, she emerged with clean glowing skin and manicured nails painted gold. Her ginger-lemon scented hair had been pulled to the crown of her head and wrapped in wired paper ribbons to form three stiff ponytails that jutted backwards, a cloud of frizzy brown curls trailing from the ends. It was the latest fad from Tokyo, although Nandita had refused to have her hair dyed orange and black to complete the trend.

She walked along a busy concourse, automatically avoiding bumping into anyone in the milling crowd. Nandita made it back to her apartment in time to watch a re-broadcast of Novel of the Morning, a long-running and popular tri-dee soap opera, before it was time to get ready. Promptly at 2100 hours, the door chime rang.

When she answered the door, Tomiko smiled, visibly appreciating Nandita's efforts. "Very nice,” she purred. The commander was dressed in a traditional samurai kimono, dark brown with her family’s mon imprinted on the fabric. The crest was a stylized carp bowed into a circle. What looked like a genuine katana was thrust through the light blue obi, balanced by the shorter wakizashi on the other side. Tomiko’s unnaturally red hair was pulled up into a simple tea-whisk style at the crown of her head.

“I made reservations at Otaku’s,” she said, naming a hugely popular retro restaurant on the station’s uppermost level.

Nandita stared and paused in the act of locking her door. “I thought they had a twelve-month waiting list.”

“They do.” Tomiko led the way down the corridor, not quite moving in a ‘rough-stuff’ bow-legged strut but swaggering just a little, as befitted her status. “Cat Shit Pie is playing live in Otaku’s next week,” she said in explanation.

“Ah, and you’re providing security for the band, of course.” Nandita nodded and grinned. “Is there any way you can hook me up with some tickets for the gig? I’ll be the most momboosa popular wahine in Control and beyond.”

“We’ll see,” Tomiko said, but there was a sly look in her eyes that promised that something could be done. In the grav-lift, she stayed close to Nandita, a hand unconsciously straying to the hilt of her sheathed sword in a protective gesture that the other woman found rather endearing.

Otaku’s restaurant offered holo-entertainment in the form of pop culture sensations from the past, including interactive Sailor Moon, Hello Kitty, Yu-Gi-Oh, Samurai Pizza Cats and Pokemon characters that played between the tables and involved willing patrons in their games. The holographic cartoons were periodically joined by a random cavalcade of programmed figures including everyone’s favourite green, scaly and radioactive Gojira battling with gods and monsters in the domed ‘Heaven’ that formed the ceiling.

The menu was the most desirable aspect of the restaurant. Otaku’s chief chef was a former yakuza boss who made no attempt to hide the old-fashioned static tattoos that completely covered his skin from neck to ankles. He ruled his steamy domain with an iron fist; it was rumored that staff members who earned his displeasure had to cut off the first joint of their smallest finger in propitiation. The lopped-off digits were tossed into a pot of shabu-shabu that was kept perpetually on the boil and fed kitchen leftovers daily. It was a mark of the chef’s culinary mastery that even this dubious stew was reckoned delicious by everyone who received a bowl, including the staff themselves.

Chef Hikaru used his Earth-side connections to ship fresh foodstuffs like actual beef, seafood and vegetables to the station – an expensive proposition, considering every ounce of weight during space travel cost mega-Yen in terms of fuel. Eating at Otaku’s was equally expensive. Nandita was wondering how Tomiko was going to afford two meals on her inspector’s salary when Hikaru himself lumbered out of the kitchen to greet the woman as if she was an old and valued friend.

“Tomiko-san!” Hikaru said. His sleeveless white undershirt exposed the writhing dragons, ghosts and demons on his forearms. The man’s paunch strained against the stretchy fabric, round and solid as a ripe gourd. “I wondered when you were going to pay a visit.”

“I’ve been busy,” Tomiko answered. “This is Nandita Okalani.”

“Miss Okalani, welcome to Otaku’s.” Hikaru gestured for a servitor, who was dressed in a Monkey King costume. “Show these ladies to the best table. No menu,” he added, jutting his jaw out at Tomiko. “I’ll make your meal myself.”

“As long as it isn’t human shabu-shabu!” Tomiko laughed, and the chef scowled.

Nandita was impressed. Once they were alone at the table, she had no hesitation saying so to Tomiko. “So how do you know Hikaru-san?”

“We grew up in the same Tokyo neighborhood. Our families were poor but proud,” Tomiko said. “Hikaru started with the local yakuza as a delivery boy – designer drugs, pituitary extracts, illegal chi transfusions, counterfeit nanites, hacked corporate software, that sort of thing. He got into trouble with another gang. Long story short, I had been recruited by Sony/Akuma for security training and he came to me for protection.”

“What happened?” Nandita asked, a forefinger idly tracing patterns on the white tablecloth.

Tomiko shrugged. A gleam of laser light from a passing Sailor Jupiter character highlighted her prominent cheekbones and chin, and lent a touch of gilt to her sallow skin. “I helped him with his problem. We slum kids have to stick together.”

The Monkey King servitor was joined by a slinky holographic Red Tara, who made the mudra of supreme generosity with one hand, and showered the table with tri-dee scarlet and blue utpala flowers with the other. Monkey King laid out dishes of rice and various kinds of pickles as well as tiny bowls of miso soup as an appetizer. While he was serving, Red Tara was knocked aside by a cart-wheeling Vampire Princess Miyo and battle was joined. Tomiko placed a bet on the Tibetan goddess through the gambling console attached to the table, while Nandita laid a small amount of company credits on the anime princess. Much to her delight, Nandita won.

Following plates of thinly sliced raw Kobe beef, served with soy sauce for dipping, the women enjoyed thin pancakes topped with forty different varieties of sautéed mushrooms, then langoustines in a fermented yellow bean sauce. Hot chili-spiked rice balls filled with pork and egg came next. Dish after dish issued from the kitchen, more then ten in all. Nandita particularly enjoyed the playful dessert – tempura-fried candy bars with flakes of dehydrated ice cream that had been exposed to the vacuum of space.

Over miniscule cups of genuine Blue Mountain coffee – not the genetically modified, caffeine-free variety that was all-too-common – Nandita told Tomiko about growing up on Oahu, just one more child in a large, extended and close-knit family of brothers, sisters and cousins; mothers, fathers, aunts and uncles. Taking a job on Murasaki Orbital Station had seemed to Nandita like an excellent way of getting out of that claustrophobic atmosphere and having some privacy for a change.

She had not realized how lonely she would be, though. Nandita had friends and co-workers and acquaintances, of course, but she found herself enjoying Tomiko’s company enormously. The intimacy of having another person close to her, their attention focused solely on her, was what Nandita had been missing. They ‘talked story’ until the Japanese woman signaled the servitor to bring Otaku’s signature parting gifts of chocolate-dipped squid rounds. Nandita chewed the rubbery confection and waited until Tomiko and Hikaru finished their good-natured wrangling over the bill, then she followed Tomiko out of the restaurant.

Their next stop was a sumo basho that reeked of chamomile oil, spilled beer and yakatori from the vendors’ stalls. The raised ‘pure arakida’ clay ring had been imported at huge expense from the banks of the Arakawa River near Tokyo. Hugely fat men spat out mouthfuls of ‘power water’ to the auspicious east, threw purifying salt, performed their rituals and clashed together like Titans, using wrestling techniques that had not changed since feudal times. Tomiko bought wax-coated cartons of beer for them both and explained the finer points of the contest, much to Nandita’s fascination.

It was when they were leaving the hall that Nandita’s gaze was drawn to one side. The colorful chattering crowd suddenly parted, revealing a thin black figure standing alone in a pool of light cast by the open door of a pinku cocktail bar. From a distance, it looked like Izumi Sato, the sole survivor from the Genji, but that was impossible. The geisha qir hostess was, as far as Nandita knew, still unconscious in Medical.

She frowned and turned to Tomiko. “That can’t be Miss Sato, can it?”

Tomiko squinted in the appropriate direction. “Where?”

Nandita looked again. The figure was gone. “I must be seeing thing,” she muttered.

“Just a moment…” Tomiko was wearing a micro-bead receiver in her ear; a hair-thin wire led down into the breast of her brown kimono, and a second was attached to the ever-present throat mike. She murmured into the throat mike, paused, and murmured some more. “Miss Sato is still in Medical,” Tomiko said after a moment. “She has not regained consciousness.”

“Okay. I just…” Nandita rubbed her eyes, heedless of the damage to her make-up. “Maybe I’m tired or just plain lolo.”

“Do you want to go home?” Tomiko asked softly, putting a hand on Nandita’s shoulder and rubbing lightly.

The burgeoning headache vanished. Nandita moved into the touch, desire sparking low in her belly. She gazed up at Tomiko and said, “Only if you come with me.”

Tomiko chuckled, a low sensual sound. “Let’s go by the scenic route.”

Murasaki Orbital Station was built at LaGrange V, one of the most stable points in the Earth-Moon-Sun gravitational balancing act. The huge, perpetually spinning cylinder had to be inspected daily by maintenance crews for damage due to collisions with space junk and other detritus. There were a number of tracks built onto the outside skin of the station to accommodate bubble-shaped vehicles that were used to travel from the central hub to various inspection points. Always eager for profits, station management allowed the vehicles to be rented by anyone with enough New Yen to afford the price, but only when they were not in use by Maintenance.

At the rental kiosk, Tomiko had a few words with the attendant, then helped Nandita into the transport bubble. The vehicle’s poly-carbonate construction was sheathed in a thin, dark layer of frictionless protective material that shielded the occupants from radiation and solar winds; visuals were obtained via a flat-screen monitor that was connected to a tiny camera on the outside. The controls were very simple; the steering stick had a button on it that released compressed air, used to propel the bubble along the track. Other than that, the interior of the round vehicle was equipped with just a padded bench, a pre-programmed radio, and a pair of emergency survival suits with oxygen tanks.

Rummaging around, Nandita also found a handful of condoms stashed under the seat. She raised her eyebrows at Tomiko, who shrugged. “It’s popular with newlyweds,” the commander said, leaning over to adjust Nandita’s safety harness. “They call it the 60-Degrees Club…”

“Because Murasaki is located around the sixty-degree axis between the Earth and the Moon,” Nandita finished. “Very romantic.” She peered at the condom wrappers. “Cuttlefish, lemon-cactus and red bean flavors. What, no nacho cheese?”

“That’s disgusting.” Tomiko plucked the condoms out of Nandita’s grasp and allowed them to scatter on the floor.

“No, Camembert is disgusting, as is Brie. Nacho cheese is nice with jalapeño-and-sour cream lube.” Nandita pursed her lips. “You probably don’t like poi either.”

“I had poi once, when I was on vacation in Maui,” Tomiko said as the attendant pushed the transport bubble into the airlock. “I thought it was glue.”

“Yeah, well, haole don’t usually like poi. It’s an acquired taste.”

“Like nacho cheese condoms?”

“Something like that.” Nandita grinned and, greatly daring, laid a hand on Tomiko’s thigh. The cotton kimono felt cool beneath her fingertips.

The light above the airlock door burned green. Tomiko depressed the button on the steering stick to propel the vehicle out onto the track, and they were on their way, rolling around the curve of the station as if they were chasing the moon. It was only from space, Nandita reminded herself, that one could see the Sanskrit ‘om mani padme hum’ that was emblazoned on the side of the station. A chunky roll of Buddhist incantations block-printed on hand-made paper and blessed by His Holiness the Dalai Lama had been embedded in the central core during its construction, essentially turning Murasaki Orbital into a gigantic dharma wheel that spun continually, simultaneously generating gravity and spiritual merit.

Tomiko’s thumb stabbed the accelerator button. The bubble was flying along the track, held to the surface with electomagnets. Nandita kept her eyes on the monitor, watching the riveted metal skin roll past, the surface punctured by bowl-shaped satellites, antennas, airlock doors and other irregularities. Another transport bubble whizzed by in the opposite direction. The sensation of movement at high speed was exhilarating, even without the bonus of the wind in her hair. Tomiko flicked on the radio, twisted the dial, and to Nandita’s amazement found a classic instrumental lounge piece from ‘04, Kinobe’s Slip Into Something More Comfortable, that reminded her of home.

After checking with Control, the flame-haired commander used a bypass code that allowed the second protective skin on the bubble’s surface to retract a bit, giving them a view of space and the wheeling pinprick stars that took Nandita’s breath away. It was far too soon when Tomiko applied the brake and slowed the vehicle, preparatory to entering the airlock on B-level. Nandita had never been outside the station before, except when she had arrived in the crowded employee shuttle two years previously. Riding in the bubble was a great treat; in fact, the whole evening had been the most enjoyable that Nandita had spent in a long time.

Standing in front of her apartment door, Nandita felt ever-so-slightly awkward. On the one hand, she would like to invite Tomiko inside. She certainly desired the other woman and felt that desire was reciprocated. On the other hand, she felt it might be too presumptuous for a first date. Nandita was spared the decision when a couple of chi’ima gangsters sauntered down the corridor, apparently intent on harassing a group of doll-like, cosmetically enhanced bodikons, whose plasticized beauty was, for the most part, repellent rather than attractive. Nandita recognized a couple of the petite girls as workers in the G-level massage bars. Tomiko grimaced at the chi’ima boys, who apparently did not recognize the head of Security out of her normal uniform. They flashed her steel-toothed grins that spelled trouble.

“I’m sorry,” Tomiko said, leaning down to plant a gentle kiss on the corner of Nandita’s mouth. “May I call you tomorrow?”

“Do you want to meet for lunch?” Nandita asked. “There a snack bar near the Bazaar that isn’t bad; it’s called Bobana.”

“Yes.” Tomiko breathed the word on her lips, making Nandita shudder at the barest whisper of moist warmth against her flesh. “I’ll meet you at 1300 hours. Goodnight.” She backed away and hesitated, then quoted an old poem:

“A rock hinders and splits the stream
But the flow always joins again;
You and I will meet again
Just like the waters of the stream.”

Nandita’s pulse thundered in her ears. She keyed the door lock and went inside her apartment… only to stagger back out again when a shadow bearing Izumi Sato’s face reared towards her, swift and unexpected as a striking snake. She gasped and clawed at the air, shock driving the air from her lungs so that she could not make another sound, even though unuttered screams were piling up behind her ribcage and stacking in her throat until she was choking on them.

“Nandita! What is it?”

Tomiko’s voice cut through the terror-generated turmoil. Nandita opened her eyes – she had not realized they were closed – and looked at the other woman. She was on the floor (how had she gotten there?) and Tomiko was kneeling beside her, supporting her shoulders. “I’ve called Medical. Nandita, talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Nandita’s eyelids fluttered as her mind was assaulted by a myriad of blurred images, disconnected and jumbled kaleidoscope pieces that no sense. One image, however, burned more clearly than the rest: a black cat that yowled and hissed and leaped into Izumi Sato’s body, turning the geisha’s eyes from brown to gold.

“Izumi,” she whispered. “Kuroneko.”

And she lost consciousness as another flash of not-memory assailed her, bringing with it the unwelcome vision of blood and death, golden eyes and sharp white teeth, inside the space transport vessel Genji.

~~~ooo0ooo~~~

“Well?” Nandita asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Your biorhythm chart indicates that this is an inauspicious time for you to undertake new ventures,” Dr. Chang said. She was Chinese, as shrunken and shrivelled as a grasshopper, her eyes hugely magnified by thick, old-fashioned spectacles. Tottering about the office on artificially tiny ‘lotus’ feet, her thin body wrapped in a plain blue cotton tunic and trousers, she resembled an old auntie from a rural province who clucked and fussed but also slipped rice candy to the children when no one was looking.

“You should also avoid driving at night,” Chang continued, “eating spicy foods and the ‘Drunken Crabs’ sexual position. Furthermore, there’s an imbalance of wood and water in your system, which has led to qi blockage as well as a lack of vital jing substance. I recommend special Grieving Wind tea and digital acupuncture sessions twice weekly. You can schedule an appointment with my on-line avatar.”

Nandita pushed a cloud of frizzy brown hair off her face. “What was that… thing I saw? The vision?”

“I don’t know yet because I’m not finished. No wonder you’re in a state of disharmony! Impatience leads to many evils, including bowel dysfunction. You maybe want a five elements enema? No? Then hold still and be quiet.” Chang rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a curious object. It looked like a jeweler’s loupe with multiple lenses bristling from the end. The doctor took off her spectacles and fitted the astralscope to her eye; flick-flick-flick! she sorted through a number of lenses with her thumb. “Hmmm, looks like you were clipped in a spiritual drive-by. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Chang pulled a jack from the computer and plugged it into the astralscope that was still screwed into her eye-socket. “What I’ve got is ukiyo-e,” she said. “Mostly Yoshitoshi soul origami spliced with a good dose of Kurasawa-sama.” She took some digital pictures, which appeared fuzzy and unfocused on the liquid-crystal monitor. “There seem to be traces of a non-corporeal entity with mucho mojo, plus a definite disturbance in the global etheric field that has the hallmarks of a collectively shared cultural hallucination.”

“Well, it wasn’t the Night Marchers that slugged me in the head,” Nandita said, holding perfectly still as Chang continued the examination of her Kirlian field.

“No, but it wasn’t your cultural hallucination, Inspector Okalani,” Chang said. “It belonged to someone else.”

“Who?”

Change put the astralscope away and slid her spectacles back up her beaky nose. “A person of primarily Japanese extraction,” she said, nodding at the monitor.

Nandita looked at the display. At first, she could make no sense of the odd image. Issuing arcane mutterings about resolution under her breath, Chang fiddled with the computer using a fingertip mouse that was a replica of an antique gold-and-pearl fingernail sheathe used by the Empress Woo. Gradually, the image on the monitor sharpened and resolved into a woman’s mouth, painted leaden white except for a scarlet tint that formed a perfect little bow.

A geisha’s mouth.

“Eeee!” Chang exclaimed, waving the glittering sheathe/mouse under Nandita’s nose. “I’m going to refer you to the itako, Madamu Butterfly, on D-level. This is more her area of specialty than mine.”

A chill ran through Nandita’s blood, making her shiver. “What’s wrong with me?”

Chang shrugged. “Eh, drink your tea, slurp some noodles, get an exorcism from a Japanese shaman. You’ll live. Now get out of here, girl, before I change my mind and give you a high spirits colonic.”

Nandita hastened to get dressed.

~~~ooo0ooo~~~

Tomiko insisted on accompanying her to Madamu Butterfly’s residence in Botany Bay, the station’s hydroponics gardens. The itako’s place was located above an augmented houseplant shop run by Hairy Krishnas, Japanese aboriginal Ainu who had converted to Hinduism. One had to go through the shop to reach the staircase that led to Butterfly’s office and living quarters. Nandita adroitly avoided the attentions of an amorous Venus fly-trap and walked up the twisting spiral staircase, aware that Tomiko was right behind her and probably looking up her skirt.

The thought made her tingle pleasantly despite her apprehension. Nandita felt the shakti serpent coiled at the base of her spine begin to stir. The weight of Tomiko’s gaze brushed her intimately, causing psycho-sexual kundalini energy to surge suddenly upwards, blasting through her chakras until Nandita thought she must be lit up like a knocking shop on payday when the fleet was in. Madamu Butterfly certainly thought so. When she opened the door, the unusually tall Japanese woman shaded her eyes with a hand and squinted.

“Ma! Tone it down, ladies, please! Didn’t your mothers tell you that playing with the nin giz zida fire snake would make you go blind?”

“Gomen nasai,” Tomiko murmured, while Nandita said, “Please excuse me,” and blushed hotly.

“Hmph.” Butterfly grumped. “You had better come inside. For goodness’ sake, breath deeply from your hara and let go some of that sexual tension. You’re making an old woman jealous.” The itako’s face was broad and unlined; it was impossible to tell her true age. When she smiled, though, she showed her teeth and gums like a child.

Nandita found herself seated on a puffy ottoman while Butterfly donned VR goggles and used a qi kung reiki technique to cleanse and tonify her body’s vital energies. “Yes, there has definitely been a visitation from the spirit world,” the itako said; her long-fingered, slender hands were like white spiders, skittering here and there on Nandita’s aura. The black rubber Kodak VR goggles gave Butterfly an insect-like quality that was reinforced by her too-long arms and elongated torso. “We must make contact in order to resolve the conflict that is holding this spirit back from its next-life dharma path.”

After drinking glasses of ginko and spearmint tea, Madamu Butterfly sat cross-legged on a tatami mat and squirted clear lubricant jelly on her fingertips before teasing out her Konica ocular prostheses. Nandita found it very disturbing to see the disembodied brown eyeballs being handled in the itako’s spidery hands, thin interface neuro-threads running over her cheeks and disappearing beneath the wrinkled lids. Once Butterfly had obeyed the tradition of her calling and made herself blind by disconnecting the interfaces and tucking her prostheses out of sight, she began the ceremony to ‘summon the dead.’

She put a strung bow at an angle over her lap and chanted a spirit-talk sutra. The sleeves of her white kimono fluttered as she plucked the bowstring in time with the kuchiyose. From a hammered copper digitized scent box came the odors of sandalwood and frankincense smoke; these essential fragrances were uploaded daily to the station’s public access core from Rokuon-ji, the Golden Pavilion Temple in Kyoto. No actual flames were permitted aboard Murasaki Orbital; even butter-lamps in the Tibetan ‘neighborhood’ of Bhot-Mandir were projected to avoid contaminating the station’s delicate atmosphere.

The horn plectrum held between Butterfly’s fingers was a blur. Her voice rose in pitch and volume. “Bu setsu ma ka han nya ha ra mi ta shin kyo kan ji sai bo sa, gyo jin han nya ha ra mi ta ji, sho ken go un kai ku do issai ku yaku, sha ri shi…”

Tomiko gripped Nandita’s hand as if it was a lifeline.

In the air above the Digi-Scent box, a cloud began to form.

First, it formed the Tibetan antahkarana, a cube with 7’s graven on the surface of every face. The cube rotated, then began to spin rapidly. It transformed into what looked like a musical note, but the round-belly at the end of the staff was not solid but a spiral – the cho ku rei, a symbol of power that summoned universal energy and referred to the organization of consensual reality. A mandala was formed from the cho ku rei; after a moment, the colorful image was itself altered into the Eight Auspicious Buddhist symbols – white umbrella, golden fish, vase, lotus, conch shell, knot of eternity, victory standard and dharma wheel.

The symbols suddenly dissolved, leaving a woman in their place. The figure was tiny, floating on an invisible current of virtual incense smoke. Disheveled hair, limp wrists and a lack of feet proclaimed that this was a ghost, one of those shared cultural hallucinations common to folklore and superstitious beliefs. The truly shocking thing was that the figure resembled Izumi Sato, who was still alive.

Tomiko must have been surprised, too, because she requested a status update from Medical on the geisha air hostess. What she heard in reply through the micro-bead in her ear made her frown. “Miss Sato is still alive but remains unconscious,” she reported.

“Her soul was separated from her body,” Butterfly said, setting aside the catalpa-wood bow. She cocked her head to one side. “Kuroneko.”

Tomiko stiffened. “That’s what Nandita said. So the black cat is involved, the one that escaped from Genji.”

The spirit’s lips moved but no sound emerged. Butterfly said, “That is no ordinary cat. It’s an ancient evil spirit, a bakeneko that possessed Izumi Sato, displacing her soul and consuming her life energy as well as the lives of everyone on the transport.”

“What does this bakeneko want with Nandita?” Tomiko asked. Nandita’s mouth was too dry to articulate words.

“The black cat spirit has chosen Nandita Okalani as its next victim,” Butterfly said. “It is greedy to suck out her soul.”

Nandita’s hara clenched, leaving her completely breathless with horror.

~~~ooo0ooo~~~

“I don’t know if I can believe,” Nandita argued.

She and Tomiko were seated in a ‘outdoor’ café in Botany Bay. Their table was located under the spreading branches of a bodhi tree; pilgrims had left offerings of high-fidelity memory-stick recordings scattered around the tree’s roots – incense, talismans, prayer flags, Buddha statues, sacred mountains and temples, as well as other impedimenta. Brightly feathered parrots squawked and flew from branch to branch. The café provided wide-brimmed rice straw hats for their patrons as well as umbrellas to protect the tables from bird droppings.

“What about the kahuna? They can be found over the Independent Islands.” Tomiko said, referring to the priests of the native Hawai’ian religion. The kahuna were the keepers of wisdom and secrets, living RAM and ROM that stored the ancient knowledge of the islander’s ancestors. They also practiced special auric healing techniques, taught the sacred art of hula, and propitiated the myriad gods and goddesses as well as acting as legal go-betweens in clashes between natives and visiting haole.

“Are their beliefs and spiritual abilities any less genuine than an itako, or the priestess of a cyber-loa cult, or a Chukchee shaman?” Tomiko continued. “What about your own culture? Your people believe in spirits and ghosts. Are you saying that because this psychic vampire cat-spirit is Japanese instead of Hawai’ian, its existence is somehow invalidated?”

“I’m not a phasmaphobe,” Nandita protested. “The situation just seems a bit… well, manga to me. I am willing to try, though.”

Tomiko shook her head, scowling. “You’re a ‘phobe.”

Nandita reached across the table and touched Tomiko’s wrist. A hyacinth macaw flapped overhead, shedding electric-blue feathers that floated gently to the earth-covered deck like the softest rain imaginable. Beneath her wide-brimmed hat, the Japanese woman’s face was set into an unhappy mask, like a kabuki hannya without horns.

“An alien experience takes time to assimilate,” she said quietly, holding Tomiko’s gaze with her own. “If you were walking near Pu'u Ula'ula on Mt. Mauna Loa and saw a woman in a red mu’u-mu’u with a little white dog, you wouldn’t think twice about it. But me, I’d know it was the fire goddess Pele warning about an eruption, so I’d give her offerings of ohelo berries, ohia lehua blossoms, taro and kava root because when you live on a volcanic island, you don’t want to piss off the volcano deity. E ola mau, e Pele e! 'Eli'eli kau mai! Ee-o-la-mao e! Pay lay ee! E-lee-e-lee-ka-my!”

Tomiko blinked. “I see your point.” She picked up her coffee bulb and squirted some of the hot liquid into her mouth, expertly catching the stream on her tongue. “Necro-neko are damned difficult to exorcise, and the company isn’t going to pay for a month-long Shinto ritual, not to mention shipping up the necessary ‘thousand shrine’ priests from the gravity well, digitizing the haraijo and contracting the eight million kami-sama for live guest appearances. It would cost a fortune. However, I may have a solution.”

“Oh?” Nandita raised her brows.

“We’re going to try a different approach.” Tomiko suddenly grinned. “An anime-ted solution, of sorts.”

“More folklore?”

“Can you handle it, gaijin girl?”

Nandita’s answering smile was so broad, it made her face ache, but fear still blossomed like a morbid canker in her heart

~~~ooo0ooo~~~

It was midnight on Murasaki Orbital Station.

Nandita was in a little-used section of Level J, next to the sewage treatment plant. Bioengineered bacteria broke down the waste generated by humans and animals onboard the station, generating electricity and fuel via a special reactor; the leftover sludge was sterilized and used as fertilizer by the station’s agriplex and gardens, while the purified water was recycled. Other bacteria in the system gobbled up hydrogen-sulphide, which eliminated the rotten-egg stink of decomposing waste. Nandita was wandering around in the bowels of Murasaki Orbital – literally.

As she walked, she sang `Ala Nei E Mäpu Mai Nei, composed by the 19th century Hawai’ian queen Lili`uokalani:

“He `ala nei e mâpu mai nei There is a breath so gently breathing
Nâ ka makani lau aheahe So soft, so sweet, by sighing breezes
I lawe mai i ku`u nui kino That as it touches my whole being
Ho`opumehana i ku`u poli It warms me in my heart.”

Something rustled in the shadows that were pooled in the corners of the corridor. Nandita became quiet, keeping her breath shallow, although she was nearly deafened by the thunder-pulse of her own heartbeat in her ears. The walls were painted light grey, a color that absorbed the dim light rather than reflected it. Nandita glanced around.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” she breathed, and almost burst into a fit of nervous giggles. She stifled the sound with a hand clamped over her mouth. Nandita breathed through her nostrils and silently recited the latest hit song from Cat Shit Pie in an effort to calm herself.

The rustling grew louder.

Nandita touched a shark-tooth amulet on its thong around her neck. It was an old heirloom, said to be the physical manifestation of her family’s aumakua, a guardian spirit that took the form of a shark. She felt oddly comforted by the talisman’s presence. It was part of the shared cultural hallucination of the collective consciousness that all nations suffered; a consensual reality zeitgeist where gods and ghosts went hand-in-hand with fuzzy logic surfboards, designer embryos and past-life lawsuits where rotten karma in the current incarnation could be mitigated through the Sixth Bardo Court of Existence Appeals.

And also where a demonic entity in the form of a cat could roam a space station, seeking its next victim.

Tomiko had told her that morning about an attack reported to Security – a couple of male actors had been mauled by a feral cat on B-level as they were coming home from a play. Both men survived but a Kyrgyzstani masseuse was not so lucky. The woman had been torn apart, disemboweled and partially consumed, her remains left outside her apartment. Tomiko’s authority kept the on-line guerrilla journalistas from breaking the story - threatening to shove importunate reporters out of the nearest airlock was not, legally, considered censorship - but it was only a matter of time before a news-ghoul with more pretensions to cojones than sense uploaded the grisly truth to the public access ‘Net.

Nandita took a few more steps forward, ears straining. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…” she whispered.

Something moved in the shadows, slinky and dark and writhing near the floor.

“Do you think I’m afraid of you?” Nandita took a defiant stance. She may have been a child of mixed ancestry, but in her veins ran the blood of warriors who had crossed the warm turquoise sea; who had fought their enemies with weapons of wood and shell and stone. “Show yourself!”

A shadow detached itself from the other shadows, and a black cat stepped into light.

“So, popoki,” Nandita said, remaining outwardly calm despite the apprehension that chilled her to the bone, “what do you want with me, eh?”

The bakeneko reared up, its body stretching impossibly thin, and transformed into the semblance of Izumi Sato. The geisha air hostess was petite and very pretty, simpering behind an upraised sleeve. An artificial spray of cherry blossoms adorned her upswept black hair. She looked like a typical young Japanese woman; her eyes, however, were not brown but dull gold from corner to corner – inhuman and cold.

Nandita defiantly did a few movements of the traditional island haka, a war dance designed to intimidate one’s foe on the battlefield. She bent her arm and smacked her other hand against her elbow, then widened her eyes and thrust out her tongue, stomping from side to side. “Come on,” she taunted, moving backwards. “Take what you want, if you can.” With a last abrupt gesture, Nandita whirled about on her heel and ran down the corridor.

Yowling, the supernatural creature transformed itself back into a black cat and pursued Nandita’s fleeing figure deeper into the tangled labyrinth of pipes and hallways.

As it flashed past, a section of the wall blurred and stepped out into the open, the long steel length of a katana flashing overhead.

Tomiko was wearing a chameleon suit designed for optical camouflage; the weave of the reflective material contained micro-miniature cameras and projectors that constantly scanned the suit wearer’s surroundings and projected images on the fabric, processing the kinaesthetic shifts in real-time through a nano-processor. The effect was virtual transparency. Tomiko shook off the hood, leaving her uncovered head with its crop of flaming red hair apparently floating unsupported in mid-air.

The sword swept down at the same moment that Nandita released handfuls of paper streamers into the air. The ofuda were talismans made of consecrated rice paper, imprinted with blocks of kanji script that read akuryotaisan – begone, evil spirits! Several of the charms stuck to the bakeneko, freezing it in place. The katana struck dead center, cleaving the creature in half. The black cat fell apart, the two twitching halves flopping to the floor, bloody red meat and white bone contrasting sickeningly with fluffy black fur.

Despite repeated viewings of anime classics like Sailor Moon – the cartoons were too deeply entrenched in the Japanese consciousness not to be of use against a vampire cat-spirit - the women quickly realized that this was not the end of the matter as they had hoped.

The twin halves twitched harder and slid closer to one another. Tomiko jumped back a half-step in surprise. “It isn’t dead!”

“Weren’t the ofuda supposed to banish it or something?” Nandita asked, nervously eyeing the cat’s corpse, which was knitting itself back together again.

“Well, they’re supposed to be anti-evil talismans,” Tomiko said in disgust, shaking blood from her katana blade with a practiced flick of her wrist and sheathing it in the scabbard that was unconventionally strapped to her back. “Maybe the priest I bought them from didn’t…”

The cat blinked. One of its paws stretched out, claws splayed.

“Come on, ‘Dita-chan, we need to get out of here before it’s fully healed.”

“No.” Nandita was suddenly furious. “No, I’m not running. Not this time.”

Tomiko’s almond-shaped eyes were narrowed to glittering black slits. “We ought to regroup,” she said carefully, “try to think of another way…”

“No.” Nandita’s flesh burned where the shark-tooth talisman rested. Her skin felt hot and swollen, her eyes reddened by the current of pure rage coursing through her veins. “Hanau ka manô,” she said, feeling her hair lifted from her shoulders by a scorching wind. “The shark is born…”

“’Dita, what are you doing?”

Gods and demons and monsters…

“Nandita Okalani, what are you…” Tomiko’s breath was sucked between her teeth. “Nandita!”

The Japanese were not the only nation whose culture followed them into space.

A blue-green wave materialized at the end of the corridor, a frothing bubbling bobbing curl never touched by Hokusai’s ink brush. Riding the crest of the wave was a man who was also a shark. “Kamohoali’i,” Nandita said, her voice hollow, as if it came from within a coconut log.

“Buddha’s bouncing balls!” Tomiko exclaimed in shock.

Pele’s brother, the shark-god Kamohoali’i, came surfing towards the resurrecting demon cat, his long black hair flying from his shoulders and streaming behind him like a banner. The god wore a bracelet of ti leaves around his wrist; a coronet of ti leaves crowned his head . His broad flat feet were planted on the wave. Sharp white teeth flashed in his dark-skinned face – the hunting predator’s grin when it sights its prey.

“No'eau ka 'ihoe uli 'o Kamohoali'i,” Nandita cried. Behind her appeared ghostly dancers, hands inscribing graceful shapes through the air as the insistent thud-thud-thud of a shark-skin pahu drum vibrated against the walls. Her foot stamped the rhythm. “Honor to the skilful steersman, keeper of the water of life - the shark that walks upright!”

The wave rushed towards them, heralded by warm salt spray against their faces. Nandita’s eyes were wide open, the pupils expanded to the rim of the iris until her green eyes appeared black. The vampire cat, fully healed, crouched at her feet, ready to spring and rend and tear. Its muzzle dripped foam. zit hissed continually, exuding menace and malice. Nandita stood her ground, barely aware that Tomiko was standing beside her. Dark silhouettes swarmed in the waters, sharks gathered to feed on fantasy and flesh alike.

Kamohoali’i reached out and speared the bakeneko with his three-pronged na’ihe just as it leaped at Nandita.

Screeching and clawing at the fire-hardened wooden blade in its belly, the demon cat was carried aloft by the god – a gruesome trophy whose murky blood sizzled as it ran down the shaft and dripped into the water, sending the black-finned shark escort into a frenzy. As Kamohoali’i’s surf-propelled journey took him to end of the corridor, both god and wave and monster vanished, leaving not a trace behind except for the faint smell of salt water.

Exhausted, Nandita’s eyes closed and she fell forward, banging her knees painfully on the dry metal deck.

Tomiko’s hand cupped the back of her neck. “Or instead of running away from our shared cultural hallucination, we could just call for Hawai’ian take-out.”

Nandita giggled, then she howled until her stomach hurt and her ribs threatened to crack, while Tomiko licked the tears from her cheeks and held her in a tight embrace.

It was after midnight on Murasaki Orbital Station, and all was quiet at last.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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Between the Flowers and the Moon
by Nene Adams ©2006 - All rights reserved

For eighty years and more,
by the grace of my sovereign
and my parents, I have lived
with a tranquil heart
between the flowers and the moon.
-----Narushima Chuhachiro

Tokyo, the 22nd century

Master Takuan Soho of the Unfettered Mind said: The art of the sword consists of never being concerned with victory or defeat, with strength or weakness, of not moving one step forward, nor one step backward, or the enemy not seeing me and my not seeing the enemy. Penetrating to that which is fundamental before the separation of Heaven and Earth where even yin and yang cannot reach, one instantly attains proficiency in the art.

Katsumi paused in the act of lifting a skewer of grilled eel to her mouth. Attached to the unagi vendor's cart was a battered liquid crystal display that was broadcasting a streaming video feed. A CGI head with banana-yellow cartoon hair was superimposed over the scrolling real-time images. The head’s lips were moving but no sound emerged. Katsumi fixed her gaze on the flat screen, her face impassive, and jabbed a finger on the volume icon. The eel vendor hunched his thin shoulder but made no protest. He used chopsticks to turn over the skewers on his plasma grill while Katsumi remained absorbed in the news, her snack forgotten and dripping teriyaki sauce over her knuckles.

"Bindiya Bhattacharya," the announcer said, bobbing frantically to an inner gyroscopic jitterbug, "accused of the brutal slaying of her husband, Dr. Charles Li Fang, escaped just hours ago from Shimekazari Asylum. In an unexpected development, Department of Order psychics remain unable to pinpoint the alleged murderer's location. It seems that Bindiya-san is determined to continue her run of bad karmic debt! Let's download a call from the Koan Man in Ropponji, who thinks the good missus is just a harmless little lepidoptera dreaming that she's a killer queen bee..."

A rustling noise erupted all around, a sort of hushed sound that was like the sigh of silk against skin. Small objects dropped from the sky, a technicolor rain that bounced off the vendor's persimmon-dyed umbrella and landed in the street, thumping mutely on the plascrete surface. Katsumi recognized the genetically modified butterflies, each with an advertising message or company logo emblazoned on its wings. Like cultivated silk moths, these butterflies had no mouths and only survived a day or two before expiring.

Kastumi shook off the dying insects that had tangled themselves in her hair. Have you experienced enlightenment today? asked a faded ad on the wings of a butterfly that fluttered in its death agonies near her foot. Visit Dakini Web, your one-stop dharma shop!

She ate her grilled eel in three bites, then twirled the skewer between her blunt fingers. In a movement that was too quick to follow with the naked eye, Katsumi flicked the thin bamboo length through the air, spearing several of the falling butterflies; the shish-kabob landed on the vendor’s grill and began sizzling. He ignored her, his face shadowed by the wide brim of his woven reed hat. She walked away from the vendor, her wooden geta clattering loudly on the street. Each footstep also crunched the fragile insect bodies, making a noise akin to roasted rice being pounded in a mortar. Maintenance crab ‘bots scuttled from their lairs beneath the pavement, big claws snatching at anything their logic circuits deemed as trash. Katsumi carefully walked around one crab that threatened the hem of her hakama and continued on her way.

Shibuya ward was chaos, as always. Teenagers and young adults of every sex and no sex congregated here, lured by trendy shops, fashion outlets, anime clubs, digital-gladiator arenas and gaming parlors, all bubblegum colors and frantic, frenetic motion. A group of girls passed by, wearing pastel raincoats and eating green tea ice cream. They saw Katsumi and stared, eyes wide, before hastening to the other side of the street. She paid no attention to them. A muscle-grafted bodyguard with ugly metal bond-work on his teeth took a look at Katsumi, and chivvied his androgyn client into the safety of a Hello Sex Kitten club. Katsumi continued serenely in her course, never deviating, never reacting as pedestrian traffic flowed out of her way as though impelled by some invisible herald of doom that stalked ahead of her.

She stopped outside a multi-storied building whose nano-skinned sides displayed a mixture of advertisements and clips from popular chanbara eiga films. Huge samurai clashed above her head in operatically bloody combat while scrolling kanji proclaimed the merits of hemorrhoid cream and three-ply toilet tissue. Katsumi kicked off her wooden clogs and slid them into a receptacle, receiving a printed claim ticket in return. Entering the building, she was nearly run down by a delivery woman in a neon green nylon jumpsuit, who was balancing a stack of lacquered jubako on her shoulder.

Automatically, Katsumi used her senses to detect and catalogue each detail - the holographic logo of the Mongolian barbeque restaurant on the jubako, a whiff of cold mutton and spices, the clumps of dried mascara clinging to the woman's lashes. She took a breath through her mouth, tasting the acrid-sweet mélange of flavors that ghosted around the brilliant green figure and her lunch boxes. The ninja's analysis lasted a heartbeat. Nothing was amiss. She relaxed her hold on the knife up her sleeve, allowed the woman to zigzag around her, and padded on split-toed tabi socks towards the security guard's desk in the lobby.

Katsumi knew what the guard saw when he looked at her - a short, squat female with cold shark’s eyes in a broad flat face, dressed in an ash gray cotton gi, the legs of her hakama bound tightly to her calves with cords. Her glossy black hair was chopped off neatly and evenly just at the angle of her jaw, leaving a tattoo visible on her throat. Hiragana characters spelled out Property of Yoshitsune International in an elegant scroll across her skin. Katsumi was a lab created ninja, just as genetically engineered as the advertising butterflies. There were not many of her kind, since the cost was prohibitive - both in terms of practical expense and time, as well as the necessary government permissions and paperwork. Katsumi took some pleasure in being unique, as rare and precious as the Jomon pots and Ankor Wat heads that were displayed behind shatterproof polycarbonate in the building's lobby.

She returned the guard's bow and presented him with a origami frog. The hand-made paper was screen-printed in the yuzen style in a pattern of feathers and pinwheels. The man stared at her, nonplused. She touched the origami with her index finger. "Kero, kero," she croaked in imitation of a frog's sound, her mouth stretched in a smile that had no humor in it.

The guard blinked. Slowly, cautiously, as if he suspected he was moving in a dream (or being filmed by a crew of pranksters), he extended a finger and touched the folded paper amphibian. The instant he did so, a tiny dart shot out of the frog’s mouth and embedded itself in the meat of his palm. He went rigid and collapsed in a long backwards fall, muscles drawn so tightly that he bounced when he hit the floor. Katsumi nodded, pleased. She had coated the dart with a new acquisition - a modified textrodotoxin which paralyzed instantly, leading to death in a few minutes as the brain shut down from lack of oxygen. There was no way of knowing if the man was in pain, however, so Katsumi knelt next to his body and produced her knife. There was no pleasure in torture; a clean kill was preferred whenever possible. She rolled the man on his side, tugged on his uniform coat to expose the nape of his neck, and drove the knigr between the bony knobs of his vertebrae with a single powerful thrust.

Mission accomplished, Katsumi rose and patiently waited for the other security guards and assorted bystanders to scramble out of her way before she left the building. From a distance, she could hear the shrill sound of a police siren and estimated they would arrive at the location in approximately two minutes. This left plenty of time to retrieve her geta and leave before there could be any further confrontations. No doubt psychics employed by the police would discern the cause of the guard's demise, and the word would spread. Her employer, the Long Eyebrow tong, would be satisfied, as the dead guard owed heavy gambling debts and had been targeted to serve as an example. Katsumi did not fear arrest. She was, after all, a licensed and bonded ninja, duly registered as a corporate asset, and was, therefore, above the laws meant for those who had status as actual people.

Katsumi smiled at the distinction, causing a tattooed Maori bouncer outside a karaoke club to blanch, his face a study in black tribal stripes and apprehension-paled skin.

She took the subway to Nerima ward, where she had space above an abandoned writing brush factory near Toshimaen Amusement Park. A tribe of neo-pagan hackers lived in the rabbit warren of rooms and corridors beneath her, carving out their own space around the thick bundles of cables that snaked everywhere, providing power as well as access to the loas of cyberspace. When Katsumi came through the door, she nodded a greeting to the headman, whose platinum blonde dreadlocks were ornamented with antique computer chips. He cradled a sleeping infant against his bare chest and gave her an affectionate smile.

The air was sweet with ganja smoke, laced with ozone and cooking smells. She could hear the ever-present hum of computers, and track a number of flickering blue-white screens in the semi-gloom, each with its attendant priest. On the wall, a holo-projection of Maître Bandulu, sly god of data theft, winked and rolled its eyes. From somewhere near the back of the building came the insistent thud-thud-thud of African tribal dub, the melody twined with the haunting wails of hurdy-gurdy and shakuhachi flute.

One of the headman's wives, a thin woman whose shaven skull was peppered with chrome interface sockets, sidled over to give Katsumi a large wooden bowl containing portions of pumpkin stew, lentil daal, banana fritters, cauliflower curry, and several rounds of cassava bread called bammy, soaked in coconut milk and fried in ghee. The ninja bowed her thanks, which the wife did not acknowledge as it was forbidden for Sinsemilla women to make eye contact with anyone not born of their tribe. Katsumi started towards the stairwell, dinner in hand, and halted when the headman's fingertips brushed across her back. She did not turn to look at him, but inclined her head and waited.

“Hey, Steppin' Razor, no harm, yah? We heard from the Guédé today, from Maman Brigitte and Baron Dinki,” he said, naming the loas of the dead and obsolete, guardians of the universal bit bucket where lost or destroyed data - including the viral-ridden programs called humanity - could be found post-termination. The headman's accent was thick, his words barely understandable. A pinpoint of light gleamed on the interface socket implanted high on his temple. “Want to warn ya - watch out for the duppy, mah sistah; a pretty face wit' death inside. Gonna be a botheration in the here n' now, the priests say.”

“Hai.” Katsumi expelled the word in a huff of breath. Duppies were, as far as she could tell, the equivalent of yurei - restless spirits of the dead - or perhaps they were some sort of software glitch. It was difficult to be sure, since the tribe's consensus of reality was quite different from her own. These people made no distinction between the emergent collective reality, or cyberspace, the bardo, Amida Buddha's Pure Land, Jingoku or any altered state of consciousness. All was one, one was all. Katsumi respected the members of the Sinsemilla, and allowed them liberties that she would not have tolerated from others. They amused her, for the members had shown no fear from the beginning, simply accepting her as part of themselves and their strange world.

She continued, speaking gently, "Thank you for your concern. I will consider your words with care."

He shook his head, dreadlocks flying. The Nokia ophthalmologic implants that had replaced his eyes gleamed, iridescent as oyster shells. “Duppy's like a soul cracker, dig? A ghost in the wetware, not the hardware – not the machine.” The baby made a soft noise of complaint; he offered it a knuckle to suck. “Abnormal termination begets a vengeance-virus, say the Guédé, and not even a Steppin' Razor be safe. Mo’ better ya go n' grok in fullness, sistah, then we take ya to the balm-yard when the time come.”

Katsumi nodded without comprehending. Since it seemed he had finished, she continued to the stairs, her geta slapping hollowly on the concrete floor. She had to skirt around a couple lying together on a rag pallet, one atop the other; their faces were obscured by a flexible tunnel of black polyvinyl held in place by straps behind their heads. They were VR-interfacing as they writhed together, a slow dance of love and lust fueled by a shared fantasy and simulated stimulation. The masks gave new meaning to the antiquated term ‘sucking face.’ Blue-white light from a fluorescent bulb stuttered on their bodies, illuminating sweat streaks on pallid skin.

The ninja went to her quarters on the second floor, by-passing an offering on one of the steps – a heap of wilting marigold flowers, Red Stripe beer and bottles of rum, a scattering of fat hand-rolled ganja joints. Holographic prayer cards spilled in a fan across the step, all of them representations of Maman Brigitte - a white-clad figure whose head was all scarlet lips and open mouth and sharp teeth, her eyes hidden behind a wild tangle of hair. On every card, the goddess danced to a thrum of muted drums, the rhythm of the human heart. For some reason, it reminded Katsumi of the CGI announcer she had seen that afternoon, and the news story broadcast on the eel vendor's cart.

She opened the door to her living quarters and came upon a familiar face, glimpsed only a few hours ago on a liquid crystal display – Bindiya Bhattacharya, escaped murderer and supposed madwoman.

Zen master Ummon said, If you walk, just walk. If you sit, just sit. But whatever you do, don't wobble.

Serene as always, Katsumi entered her living quarters, shut the door behind her, and offered the bowl of food to her unexpected visitor. “Have you eaten dinner?” she inquired politely, not wobbling at all.

Bindiya gaped at her.

Katsumi catalogued the woman in an eye-blink. She was tall and possessed the figure of a fabled houri of Paradise - full breasted and wasp-waisted, her round hips and thighs and buttocks packed into a white T-shirt and matching pants that were two sizes too small. She wore cheap recycled-rubber sandals in a nauseating pink color, probably purchased from a vending machine at the same time as the nondescript clothing. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a haphazard ponytail at the nape of her neck; long tendrils had escaped and were stuck to her grubby, sweaty face. Bindiya’s almond-shaped eyes were set close on either side of a delicately bridged nose. Her mouth was wide and sensual, although the bottom lip was crusted with a scab. Katsumi’s evaluation included the information that the woman was unlikely to be trained in any of the martial arts. She did not hold herself like a fighter; her body language spoke of fright and exhaustion rather than preparation to defend.

“I will make tea.” Katsumi announced, removing her geta and placing them in a rack by the door. The bowl of food was set at Bindiya's feet. Katsumi accepted the woman’s unexpected presence as she accepted the quirks and twists of existence. Things happened. One acted or reacted accordingly. Shigata ga nai. There was no help for it; escaping one's fate was impossible, so there was no sense complaining or permitting expectation to cloud the future. Since Heaven had seen fit to deposit an accused killer on her doorstep, Katsumi would waste no time or energy fighting against it. Shigata ga nai - a most useful state of mind. Patience would bring understanding.

She went to the kitchen area, a space in the corner separated from the main room by a long bar; the plastic frame and sides were programmed to display random selections from the I Ching. The Wû Wang hexagram was currently scrolling past. Katsumi grabbed two self-heating cups of jasmine tea from the cupboard and popped the tabs on the lids to activate the exothermic reaction. While she waited for the tea to heat, the trigram caught her interest, so she spent a moment interpreting the divinatory symbols.

Freedom from insincerity, recklessness and selfishness will bring success. Noble virtue. Fortunate action followed by the stillness of deep waters.

Clipped to the side of an oil paper parasol that was suspended from the ceiling, a solitary spotlight winked on as the environmental computer sensed Katsumi’s continued presence in the kitchen, and assumed that she required more illumination. The remainder of the large living area remained swathed in the shadows of a rapidly deepening dusk. Despite the lack of light, the ninja’s genetically enhanced vision was quite capable of making out the figure of her unexpected guest.

Bindiya was hunkered down on her heels, scooping daal and pumpkin stew and curry out of the wooden bowl with torn pieces of bammy. The woman ate with the sort of grim desperation that spoke of a belly clemmed by true hunger. Katsumi picked up a tea cup; steam issued from the perforation in the lid, along with a faint flowery aroma. She sipped her tea and watched until Bindiya scraped the empty bowl with a last scrap of bammy and popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly as if, her immediate need satisfied, she was savoring the flavor. The scab on her lip was gone, no doubt torn away in the haste of consumption; a minor demonstration of self-cannibalism that had left a raw place on her mouth. Katsumi approached the woman, offering the other tea cup mutely.

“Th-thank you,” Bindiya said, accepting the cup. She took a cautious drink, just wetting her lips with the liquid, and sighed.

Katsumi cocked her head to one side. “May I know how you came to this place?” she asked.

“My husband...” Bindiya paused, took a deep breath, then gulped the tea down in a few swallows, her throat working. She licked her lips and continued, “Charles. Dr. Li Fang.” Katsumi nodded for her to go on. She breathed heavily for a moment. When Bindiya spoke again, her voice was roughened by unshed tears. “He was a bio-programmer who used to work for Yoshitsune International.” Her eyes rolled upward, her gaze locking onto Katsumi's face. “Help me. Please, help me.”

Katsumi did not respond. There was no need. Charles Li Fang was a name from the past, one which she knew very well. Something happened inside her head; long dormant biofeedback and subliminal programming unspooled from her subconscious, literally changing her mind. Unalarmed, she sucked down the remainder of her tea while she waited for the process to complete. The sensation was familiar; many of her memories included receiving data downloads in Yoshitsune's orbital laboratory. Her clever fingers peeled the label from the side of the cup. Katsumi folded the label into an origami crane when her neural pathways had settled. She pressed the paper bird into Bindiya's hand.

“I have red bean ice cream,” she said, “or cactus Pocky gelato if you still suffer from hunger.”

Bindiya blinked then lost consciousness, toppling over onto her side with another sigh. The origami crane fluttered to the floor. Katsumi glided away. The sedative she had put into the tea would wear off in a few hours, long enough for her to complete a few chores, including collecting her fee from the Long Eyebrow tong. She pulled a futon mattress from a tall Chinese lacquered cabinet, and flipped it open beside Bindiya. It was the work of a moment to roll the unconscious woman onto the futon and cover her with a knitted blanket.

Having made Bindiya as comfortable as possible, Katsumi squatted a moment beside the mattress. Her hand crept out; she brushed her fingertips against the woman's cheek. There was a bruise rising from the bone, moving upward through flesh like a Hokusai wave that would eventually break and flow violet-blue under her skin. Bindiya smelled of hospital disinfectant, cigarette smoke, the rusty iron tang of blood, a sharp/sour stink of stale sweat and adrenaline. She was flotsam, discarded and tossed on the sea of destiny, to be finally deposited on the shores of Katsumi's private island.

Fondness made a rare, real smile crease Katsumi’s mouth and touch her eyes.

***

Bindiya came back to herself abruptly, as if she had fallen from a great height. Her limbs jerked; her heart slammed painfully in her chest. For a moment she was back in the asylum, curled up in a corner of her padded cell while a woman who was/was not there shrieked endlessly – a sound that sliced through her skull and exploded against the backs of her eyeballs in showers of chrysanthemum fireworks sparks. Sweat prickled on her skin. Bindiya whimpered deep in her throat. A hand spread over her shoulder and shook her carefully - the barest vibration of flesh on flesh.

“Do you wish cha?”

The voice was cool but not cold, calm and soothing, yet possessed of great confidence. Bindiya's recollection was jolted back to the present. She was not in the asylum. She had escaped. She was... Bindiya struggled to think clearly. Where was she? Information flooded her consciousness. She was in the presence of a vat-grown ninja whose neural network was saturated with dangerous knowledge, a futuristic throwback who could kill her a dozen times over with an eyelash or a slice of toast. A warrior rumored to have the ability to become invisible, walk through walls, and utilize the esoteric black arts of kuji-kiri and saiminjutsu and yogen to paralyze her prey, enslave a person’s will, or rend a soul screaming from its host body. The ninja was a killer genetically altered and enhanced with recombinant DNA, making her deadlier than Yersinia pestis and hemorrhagic fever combined.

Bindiya's eyes fluttered open. She stared upward into a flat, impassive face and surprisingly, felt no fear. Some instinct urged her to trust. She did not know why, but so much had happened since her world had been chopped into bloody little pieces. How long ago was it? Time had no meaning when one dwelled in a perpetual nightmare. It had become easy to cast aside her education, her rationality and reason, in favor of some voodoo survival programming of the lizard brain. No, not easy. Necessary. After everything she had endured, putting her faith in this woman would be the tiniest and easiest of steps.

“I knew your husband once,” the ninja said conversationally, as though she was a sarariman’s wife sharing confidences at a corporate brunch. "On the space station. Is this how you knew where to find me?"

Bindiya uncurled from her fetal ball and sat up, taking it slowly since her head had apparently been hollowed out while she slept and filled with cotton wool. Why had she come to this ninja? What had prompted her to seek assistance from a person she had only read about in one of her late husband’s files? The last thing she remembered clearly was... Bindiya gasped, a flurry of images appearing and disappearing one-by-one inside her mind, quickly as a stack of flashcards flipped between thumb and forefinger.

The door of her cell opening, the sliver of blackness beyond the door that was relieved by firefly flashes from a guttering fluorescent strip. There were phosphene trails at the corners of her eyes, green-yellow threads against the red-tinged dark. The sour smell of acetic acid bloomed, the taste of chemicals on her tongue, the sound of shuffling wet footsteps and through it all, a steady dripping of water. Fast forward to a train station, shivering despite the heat, pushing New Yen bills into a vending machine’s slot. She did not know how she had gotten here, or even how she had known the ninja's exact location. It was not as though an assassin would be listed in the residence directory. Her presence here was another puzzle to pile atop the rest.

“I don't...”Bindiya stopped, and rubbed aching temples with the heels of her hands. The ninja - memory supplied a name, Katsumi - peeled a dermal endorphin patch off a strip and thumbed it firmly against the side of her neck. Bindiya licked her dry lips and groped for an answer to the question she had half-forgotten. “I was privy to my husband's files,” she said at last, a shiver creeping through her skin. “All of them.”

Katsumi nodded, clearly unconcerned. Bottomless black eyes regarded Bindiya. “You asked for my help.”

“Yes,” Bindiya gasped, fingertips digging hard into the futon mattress until her nails threatened to splinter. She was not safe, her world had teetered to a point that had been shifted far left of center, and she knew that life would never be the same for her again. At best, there would be an endless purgatorio of drugs, therapies, personality splintering and reintegration, memory wipes and mental reconstruction. At worst, she would be dead. The human animal was driven, at its most basic deepest level, to survive by any means necessary. Bindiya’s ego and id and superego were, for a change, in full agreement with the primitive mind. Despite the ninja's history, trusting Katsumi was imperative.

“Yes,” Bindiya repeated, her voice cracking. “Please, help me.”

“Very well.” The cool gaze returned to its contemplation of Bindiya’s face. A blunt-fingered hand reached down to her, and she took hold of it in a bruising grip. Katsumi did not flinch. She simply braced herself in place and hauled Bindiya to her feet. The knitted red-and-purple blanket stubbornly clung to Bindiya's shoulders, and she clung with equal stubbornness to the lifeline of Katsumi's hand.

Katsumi looked down at their joined grip. A tiny smile quirked the corner of her mouth. "Do you wish tea? Not drugged this time."

At long last, relief dissolved the barbed wire tension that had been coiled inside her what seemed to be an incredibly long time. She knew, with a certainty as inflexible and immovable as hard-cured plascrete, that as long as she remained with Katsumi, she would be safe. Those two words – “very well” - had sealed Bindiya’s fate. She would be protected; threats to her person would be removed efficiently and with minimum fuss.

Thank Shakti I’m safe, Bindiya thought. Thank the Mother goddess that Charles was fanatical about keeping duplicates of his case files and journals, and that my bump of curiosity was big enough to make me steal his password so I could pry into his affairs. Bindiya relaxed and rolled her tongue around her mouth to taste the faintest marshmallow/gun oil trace of a common trank. “How long was I unconscious?”

“Four hours.” Katsumi patted her arm in what Bindiya could only perceive as a friendly manner. “Would you care to bathe?”

“I don't... I don't have any clean clothes.” Bindiya forced herself to let go of Katsumi's hand and stretched until her spine crackled. The blanket slid off. She wrinkled her nose as her own sour scent wafted from the luridly colored material.

Katsumi gestured towards a leather sling chair; shopping bags were stacked on the seat. Bindiya looked from the bags to the woman standing next to her. Katsumi was a full head shorter, her figure broad and nearly square. She was not overweight by any stretch of the imagination; the woman looked heavy and solid, dense muscle packed on a stocky frame. She had taken off her uniform – no one wore ash gray gi except construct ninjas - and donned a forest green kimono paired with black-and-white checkered hakama. The starch-stiffened trouser legs stuck out like wings. Pure white tabi socks covered surprisingly slender feet.

“There is a communal bath in the building,” Katsumi said. “The Sinsemilla don't mind sharing.”

Bindiya blinked, apprehension making her mouth dry. “Those people...the ones downstairs...”

“They will not harm you. They will not betray you.”

Yet again, Bindiya was struck by the ninja's confidence. At one time in her life, she might have rejected such an absolute declaration as a matter of course. That was before. Before. The word was freighted with eldritch meaning. Her mind skittered away. It was enough to deal with the present. The ‘before’ would have to wait. Katsumi regarded her, an inquisitive tilt to her head, but remained silent. Bindiya heaved a sigh, scrubbed her face with her hands, and went to root through the shopping bags. The clothing was simple, comfortable, all natural fabrics. She chose multi-pocketed cargo pants, the dull red fabric imprinted with a vajrayana thunderbolt pattern, and a plain safflower-dyed shirt. Both items looked as if they would fit, unlike the horrid cheap clothing she had bought at the train station.

She paused. Vending machines carried garments that would fit her. Why were the clothes she was wearing two sizes too small? Why? Bindiya's hands were shaking. After enduring so much horror, this most trivial of mysteries was unbearable. Her nerve broke with a near audible crack. Her breath caught in a sob. She bit into her bottom lip and felt a small cut open under the pressure. Warm wetness tickled her chin. Tears burned. Her chest ached fiercely, filled beyond capacity with powerful emotions.

Katsumi hesitated a bare second then wrapped hands around her biceps and pulled her close. Bindiya found herself held against a firm warmth that smelled of plums and moss and salt. “Tell me,” Katsumi commanded softly.

Despite being the taller of the pair, Bindiya bent, burrowing her face into the dark hollow between Katsumi's neck and shoulder, and pressed her mouth against the taut tendon. Tell me. This close, the command was even more compelling. She could hear it, but also feel the vibrations of each word traveling from Katsumi's body through her own.

Bindiya took a breath and began.

***

Katsumi listened to the litany that spilled from Bindiya's mouth, punctuated by long shuddering breaths and whimpers. The narrative was rambling and incoherent in places, but not utterly incomprehensible. Katsumi spread her legs slightly, the better to maintain her balance, and cupped the fragile-seeming bones of Bindiya's shoulders in her palms. She had not meant to prompt this doleful flood, but it was necessary to gain a closer understanding of matters. Katsumi would act as this woman's shield, and also her sword, if necessary. Shigata ga nai. The ‘why’ of things did not matter; she only knew that it was meant to be. Her mental programming told her so.

“At the asylum, I saw her in the pool room, in the water. It was late, it was cold,” Bindiya babbled. “Charles had gone home early. We worked together, you know, but he went home to wait for me. But she was floating in the water, too cold, too cold. I heard her calling.”

The thread of the plot, tangled as it was, could nevertheless be unraveled with patience. That quality was one which Katsumi possessed in abundance.

Bindiya Bhattacharya and her husband worked on the staff of Shimekazari Asylum, a complex for the criminally insane. Five days ago, Bindiya had stayed behind in her office to finish editing an article submitted by their medical AI for inclusion in the hospital's in-house psychiatric journal. On her way out of the administrative area, she had heard a girl calling for help. Bindiya followed the voice to the exercise room. No one except staff was supposed to be there at that time. The lights had been off except for a single red emergency bulb that turned the water in the swimming pool to the color of fresh blood.

A body had floated on the surface, face down, arms and legs spread as if free-falling.

Acting on reflex, Bindiya had dived into the water, reaching for the still figure, believing she was already too late but compelled to try. Strands of long wet hair had insinuated into her mouth, on her cheeks, wrapped around her wrists, tightening and cutting into her skin. She had seen the girl's face underwater, so young, so cherubic... until shockingly, the eyes had popped open, and the lips parted, and a high-pitched scream had shattered her skull.

Bindiya had no clear recollection after that. Her memory of that time was a shoddy thing, blank in some places, tattered beyond recognition in others. She had woken up three days later - seventy-two hours vanished into the void, leaving very few crumbs of clues behind - as a patient in her own facility. A sympathetic judge had granted Shimekazari Asylum temporary custody, pending a murder investigation by the Department of Order. Dr. Charles Li Fang had been butchered with a pair of five-hundred year old Chinese butterfly knives that resembled cleavers. All the evidence pointed to Bindiya as the culprit.

There was no sign of forced entry in their home; the computerized security system had not been compromised. The house was in a secure residential compound patrolled by mutated Rottweilers trained to attack non-residents upon scent or sight. Her fingerprints and DNA trace were on the weapons used to kill Dr. Li Fang. Department of Order clairvoyants had captured scattered psychic images of the crime which tended to suggest that Bindiya was guilty, though their testimony was too unclear to serve as a legal indictment against her.

Bindiya herself had been found in the house, covered with blood, in a state of profound catatonic shock. It was circumstantial evidence yet damning all the same, and the fact that she could not remember anything in her own defense was the final blow - presumption of guilt by reason of insanity. Bindiya's colleagues had done their best for one of their own, using minimal pharmacological and cybernetic intervention until a proper diagnosis could be made. She had at least come back to herself in the company of friends; Bindiya could have ended up in any of the public hospitals, drugged and plugged into a virtual therapy program that was marginally better than no treatment at all.

The ordeal had not ended with her hospitalization. Bindiya had continued to experience hallucinations of the dead girl, both visual and auditory. Phantom screams burst agonizingly upon her eardrums, making her echo those screams until her throat was raw. Long bloody scratches appeared on her body. She never remembered making them, never found skin beneath her fingernails, and could only assume that she must have... disposed... of the evidence, a bit of self-cannibalism that was not nearly as disturbing as the inability to recall making the decision to do so in the first place.

“I don't remember! I can't remember!” Bindiya cried in anguished panic, spittle spraying the side of Katsumi’s neck. Shivers racked her body until her teeth chattered. The stricken woman balled up a fist, and made as if to punch herself in the side of the head.

Katsumi gently fended the blow away. She massaged the pressure points on Bindiya's wrists to help lower her blood pressure, then applied a firm touch to the area of her third eye to encourage proper ki flow. Katsumi stimulated some of the shao yin meridians to nourish the woman's heart, calm her spirit, and trigger endorphin release. When she was finished, Bindiya was relaxed against her, making wordless breathy noises of appreciation. Katsumi was pleased with the result of her ministrations. In the past, she had only used pressure points to kill or maim. Applying her knowledge to a more benign area was a new experience.

“How did you escape?” Katsumi asked, her lips against the woman's ear. She felt Bindiya's shudder, smelled a very faint trace of arousal, and filed that information away for future reference. All knowledge was valuable.

“I don't know,” came the answer.

Katsumi pulled back, monitoring Bindiya as she did so. The woman's heart rate was still elevated but no longer as irregular; her breathing had evened out. Bindiya's face remained mottled and splotched with the evidence of her distress. Katsumi produced a large white handkerchief from the sleeve of her kimono and used it to mop up the slickness of tears and spit and snot, careful of the purpling bruise on Bindiya's cheek. When she finished, Bindiya settled with a sigh against the bulwark of Katsumi's body. This was an unusual feeling for Katsumi, permitting the closeness of another. The shared intimacy of a close-quarters kill was different - less bodily fluids involved, if one was careful. Her neck was wet, the collar of her kimono soaked. She decided it was not entirely unpleasant. Nurturing did not come as naturally as killing. She had to work at it, but her newly engaged protective attitude towards Bindiya made her say, "You will bathe. You will eat again. You will have tea, then I will tell you what I have discovered."

Bindiya nodded, compliant and seemingly calm. She picked up the shirt and trousers that had fallen on the floor and blew a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. Katsumi led her to the door, stopping to pick up an object from a writing table. It was a sword - her own sword, in fact, a straight length of sharpened steel about as long as the distance from the tip of her middle finger to her elbow. The scabbard was quite plain; the metal surfaces had been blackened and dulled so as not to catch the light. There was nothing fancy about her ninjato. It was not an antique, nor was it particularly valuable. Katsumi felt none of the sentimentality that a salaried samurai displayed towards his inherited katana. Her sword, like herself, was an efficient killing tool – nothing more.

But… you are more than a tool, Dr. Li Fang had told her. Katsumi visualized the man's face, the deep lines scoring his flesh from nose to mouth, the thick eyebrows that nearly met in the middle, his skin the color of old parchment. He had worn his black hair cropped short on the top, the back left long and plaited into a dozen skinny braids that reached his hips. On Yoshitsune station, Li Fang had floated in null-gravity, his feet hooked through a rung in the wall. His thin braids had floated straight out around his head like Medusa's herpetological locks. She could conjure him in her mind's eye and hear his voice - so deep, so rich - as he manually re-programmed her, cracked through the defenses that had been built into her mind by her creators, and downloaded a soul-virus into her mainframe that had left one who was more than human… more human.

She turned her thoughts away from the past and back to the present.

Master Musashi said, Step by step, walk the thousand mile road.

Katsumi shepherded Bindiya down the stairs, carrying the ninjato in her hand. Some questions had been answered. Others remained elusive. Eventually, the truth would be uncovered and matters would be resolved. In the meantime, Musashi-san’s advice was apt – matters could only proceed one step at a time.

***

‘I'm sorry,” Bindiya said, subdued but now gloriously clean. She had put her hair up into a much neater ponytail tied with a paper ribbon. Dressed in new clothes and radiating a fragile calm, she looked and felt somewhat better. Bindiya was aware that her emotional state was still very brittle, likely to crack under the least pressure. She was grateful that Katsumi did not seem to mind being drenched with tears or subjected to hysterics. Indeed, the ninja had taken everything in stride - even going so far as to take charge in the bath house. Bindiya had been stripped, placed on a stool, then washed with lime-flower scented soap and a scrubbing bag filled with rice bran before being led to a furoshiki tub to soak in water almost hotter than she could stand.

Katsumi's touch was not impersonal, but not as intimate as a lover's, either. Comforting, not intrusive, somehow permitting no embarrassment or self-consciousness, as though Bindiya had regressed to childhood in the state-run crèche with her assigned amah. All she was required to do was relax and permit someone else to take charge. It had been a long time since anyone cared for her that way, and that included Charles Li Fang. She and Charles were never very close. Their relationship was more mentor and pupil than husband and wife. It had suited her needs at the time, but things changed. People changed.

Oh, how they change. Look at me. A week ago, just seven short days, I would never have conceived of feeling so safe in the presence of the ninja described by Charles in his journals. Now I can't imagine leaving Katsumi’s side. The idea frightens me to death. It isn't rational. Perhaps I am insane.

“I didn't mean to fall apart like that. Thank you for taking care of me,” Bindiya said aloud, shifting a bit in her chair and glancing shyly at Katsumi. The woman was seated lotus-fashion on a cushion on the floor, eating from a bowl of rice topped with meat, vegetables and raw egg - pibim-bbap delivered from a local Korean eatery. Bindiya had finished her portion and was toying with some sweet potato tempura.

Katsumi scooped the last of the pibim-bbap from her bowl, chewed and swallowed. She met Bindiya's gaze, her dark eyes unfathomable. “Drink your tea.”

Bindiya shook her head. “Will you tell me what you've found?”

“As you wish.” Katsumi put her empty bowl on the floor, chopsticks crossed and balanced on the rim. She arranged her hands just so - the right cupped over her right knee, fingers relaxed and pointing downward, and the left hand positioned palm up in her lap. Bindiya recognized a Tibetan mudra, a symbolic gesture named ‘calling the earth to witness,’ the bhumisparsha. “I have nothing new to add to our knowledge of the murder itself,” Katsumi said. “Do you?”

“Charles collected antique weapons," Bindiya offered. "The butterfly knives belonged to him. He bought them after the Hong Kong real estate bubble two years ago.”

She had a memory flash of her late husband's study, one wall covered with old swords and knives that he had bought from around the world. The weapons that had been used to kill him were Chinese in origin, five hundred years old, a matched pair of square chunky blades that resembled oversized butcher's cleavers. Bindiya closed her eyes and tried to breathe around the cramping knot in her chest. Another flash came - her husband's body, sprawled on the floor like a broken doll. The blood, so much blood everywhere - huge glistening crimson pools of it, streaks and splotches and sprays. Yet who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him? The vision was red and white, exposed muscle and bone. A fly crawled on his open eyeball. Bindiya gagged.

Katsumi was beside her in an instant, holding a cup of tea to her lips. Bindiya sipped delicately, unwilling to chance an upheaval. The ninja's fingers massaged her body here and there, and the nausea finally eased. When she was sure that she was no longer in danger of losing her dinner, Bindiya smiled her thanks. Katsumi moved back to her place on the floor, picking up her narrative as though the interruption had never taken place.

“As to your escape... the whole of it is unknown. Someone opened the door of your cell from the outside but no DNA trace was found on the keypad, no retinal scan was logged at the time. Shimekazari AI's spy ‘bots recorded no visuals in the corridor, no heat signatures, no anomalies of any kind, no lapses in the time recordings. Self-diagnostic tests and an independent scan showed no sign of unauthorized entry into the core. However, vid capture clearly shows the door of your cell opening.” Katsumi settled back down on her cushion. This time, she chose the bhutadamara mudra - hands crossed at the wrists, palm outward, ring fingers folded down to meet the thumbs. It was a ritual gesture to protect against evil. “Vid does not show you exiting the cell. You do not appear at all.”

Bindiya blinked. “What?”

“Your cell door remained open for one minute and forty seconds before closing of its own accord. No one entered or exited the cell.” Katsumi seemed amused. “No one exited the hospital. And yet here you are. You don't remember?”

“No.” Bindiya felt her breath hitch. She struggled to control burgeoning panic. Unbelievably, losing her memory was more terrifying than losing her husband.

Katsumi leaned forward and let her right hand move out, palm forward, in the mudra of compassion, the varada. "Did you kill Dr. Li Fang?" she asked.

Bindiya stood so quickly, the chair skidded back several inches. “No! I did not murder my husband!”

“You say you don't remember,” Katsumi pointed out, still aiming the varada at Bindiya. Her tone was non-judgmental, soft and soothing – in the manner that one might use to address an injured child. “How can you be certain?”

“I just... I don't...”

“All humans are capable of murder given the proper impetus. The possibility exists that you were responsible for Dr. Li Fang's death.”

Bindiya swallowed hard. She sat back down, elbows on her knees, head hanging. Her neck felt hot, the sinews humming under stress. “You're right, of course. The possibility exists... but I'll deny responsibility anyway.” She tightened her muscles, and loosened them one by one in a vain attempt to relieve the tension that threatened to make her fly apart. Silence stretched between them. Finally, Bindiya said, “There must have been some kind of tampering with the hospital AI's surveillance.”

“Unlikely, considering the high security safeguards used to protect the AI's memory core.”

“Then how do you explain it?”

Katsumi once again made the mudra of protection against evil.

“I don't understand,” Bindiya said. She had hardly gotten the words out of her mouth before the world exploded in white light.

She was deaf, she was blind, cut loose from the anchor of gravity and set afloat. Every nerve in her body was singing, a high-pitched mewling caterwaul that drilled through the center of her brain. Her stomach turned cartwheels. Gravity clicked back on and she was falling, falling, reaching terminal velocity and she felt no pain until... bam! Bindiya's vision cleared. She was on the floor, shaking hard, sweat pouring off her in an acrid flood that was tainted by adrenaline. Katsumi was hovering above her, one hand pressed to the back of her skull to protect it, the heel of the ninja's other hand jammed between her teeth. Bindiya sucked in a breath and tasted blood in her mouth. She closed her eyes and opened her jaws, allowing Katsumi to withdraw. There was something on her forehead. She reached up blindly, pulled off what seemed to be a thin, rectangular piece of paper and crumpled it in her fist.

“Convulsions?” Bindiya asked when her muscles had relaxed enough for speech.

“It resembled a grand mal seizure, except for this.” Katsumi lightly touched her arm.

Bindiya opened her eyes and found herself looking at a series of deep welts and scratches on her forearm. Something was familiar about the pattern. She swallowed a mouthful of bitter saliva and forced herself to concentrate. Suddenly, everything leaped into focus and she recoiled, as if the arm belonged to a stranger. “Mother Goddess!” she exclaimed in horror, unable to believe that this was real. Bindiya turned her head to judge Katsumi's reaction. “Do you see it, too?”

“They appeared spontaneously during your seizure. The phenomena is not without precedent,” Katsumi said, taking hold of Bindiya's wrist and turning her arm so that she could study the marks more closely. “Religious stigmata...”

“This isn't stigmata. I'm as far away from living sainthood as you can get and still be on the same planet. In the same universe. Sharing a journey on the same kalachakra, spinning on the dharma wheel.” Bindiya let out a weak laugh, the sound coming out of the depths of her body. She was perilously close to hysteria but was not inclined to do anything about it except surrender to the rising tide. “You think I'm some kind of homicidal dakini, a deva of long knives? What does that make you, O contract murderer... a karma killer?”

Katsumi assessed her with hooded eyes. For some reason, that made Bindiya laugh all the harder.

After a while, Bindiya wound down, giggles turning into tears. She held her arm stiffly away from her body, refusing to look at the damning marks upon her skin, the characters carved into her flesh that spelled the word, ‘guilty.’ A message from her subconscious, perhaps. She was aware of Katsumi leaving, bringing back a kit in order to smear the shallow wounds with ointment and wrap her forearm with gauze and tape, covering her shame.

From the corner of her eye, Bindiya could see the teeth marks she had made on Katsumi's hand; they were already scabbing over. The construct was blessed with a healing ability that was second to none, due to modified angiopoietin-related growth factor proteins produced in epidermal keratinocytes as well as in her internal organs. Cutting off her head might kill Katsumi... and on the other hand, it might just piss her off.

To give herself something to do besides fall back into an all-too-familiar state of disconnection, Bindiya uncurled her fist and examined the yellow piece of paper that had been on her forehead. It was such an odd thing; she thought it had been on the floor and gotten stuck to her face during the convulsions. She frowned, realizing that it was an ofuda, a paper talisman from a Shinto temple. The rectangular length of rice paper featured red stamps and a scroll of black calligraphy down the center. Her frown deepened.

As though this sort of thing happened so often that she had grown blasé, Katsumi sat back on her heels and said calmly, “I suspected spiritual possession. As soon as the ofuda touched your forehead, the episode ended and you came back to yourself.”

“That's not possible. Personality doesn't survive the death process," Bindiya protested. “This has been proven beyond doubt. The Price Experiments, the Bligh Invariance… so-called hauntings are just infrasound, or residual chi energies recorded in the global etheric body, or the manifestation of telekenetic ability at onset of puberty..."

“And the girl?” Katsumi interrupted. “The dead girl you saw in the swimming pool. You heard her screams.”

“It isn't unusual for mentally disturbed individuals to experience auditory hallucinations.” Bindiya gusted a weary sigh, sat up and tossed the balled-up talisman at Katsumi. She was taken aback by a burst of confetti hitting her in the face. She realized that the ninja had, incredibly, drawn her sword, reduced the ofuda to shreds mid-air, and sheathed her weapon in a single blurred motion too swift. The unexpected paper blizzard made Bindiya’s gaze snap to Katsumi's face. As a means of gaining her attention, the demonstration was absurd but effective, and after a moment's thought, awe inspiring. She must've cleared sword from scabbard in the split-second that the ofuda left my fingertips. Amazing!

“You are not deranged. Insanity cannot cause you to become invisible to digital surveillance.” Katsumi made the pronouncement with confidence. “Regrettably, there is no rational explanation for it. Please accept the fact that we are dealing with spiritual possession. Your flesh is being taken over by another force for some unknown purpose. Revenge is most likely, if the old tales are to be believed.”

Bindiya opened her mouth to rebut and closed it with a click. After a few moments of intense thought, she replied, “If I say yes, that I'll accept your supposition for now - mainly because I'm too tired for a prolonged debate - what do we do then?”

Katsumi bowed her head in acknowledgement. “First, we must determine the origin and identification of the yurei,” she said, and rolled smoothly to her feet.

Walking across the space with Katsumi, Bindiya took the opportunity to observe her surroundings. The apartment was huge by Tokyo standards, taking up the entire second floor of the old factory. The brick walls were pierced by narrow windows that were covered with accordion-folded mulberry paper shades. There was an eclectic mix of furniture; antiques and modern piece were placed at random. The only defined space was the kitchen area with its solid teak cabinets and the long bar that displayed hexagrams from the I Ching.

Bindiya followed Katsumi over to a new Sony liquid crystal flatscreen that hung on an inner wall. Below it was a computer interface deck and to one side sat a small butsudan. A bell sat on the altar, as well as a bowl of sand, a bamboo container of joss sticks, flowers, three pears in a dish, an offering of rice, a collection of origami animals, a Buddhist rosary and a digital display frame that scrolled slowly through a dozen pictures of men and women.

While Katsumi knelt in in front of the deck, Bindiya peered at the pictures. They were obsolete flat images, not holographic projections, of seven women and five men of varying ages who all appeared to be of pure Japanese stock. She recognized one of them - Dr. Murajiro, a geneticist whose pioneering work with recombinant DNA had increased the value of Kobe-Kline Laboratories stock nearly a hundred percent during his career. He had died eight years ago at the ripe age of one hundred forty-two. Bindiya had read that Murajiro-san attributed his longevity to Taoist breathing techniques and Fang-Chung, an esoteric sexual practice. She was more inclined to believe in the efficacy of cloned organ transplants, gene therapy, and illegal stem cell transfusions.

Katsumi noticed her interest and said, “My technical fathers and mothers - contributors of genetic material as well as my literal creators in the laboratory. They have all left this plane of existence and await rebirth in the Pure Land.”

“Do you really think of them as your parents?” Bindiya asked, curious.

“No, but it is customary to honor one's ancestors.” Katsumi put on VR interface goggles and data-gloves, and plugged them into the deck. She stuck a microdot near the corner of her mouth, and another on her ear; they were connected by a virtually invisible hair-fine filament, serving as microphone and receiver. Finished with her preparations, Katsumi began moving her fingers to establish a connection, air-typing as the data-gloves supplanted the need for a keyboard. Harsh actinic light burned under the edge of the goggles and limned the shallow curve of her cheek until it glistened like bare bone. The flatscreen remained blank for the moment.

Bindiya sat next to her, close enough for their shoulders to brush. She recalled reading that Katsumi was suspected of having killed all the scientists involved in her ‘birth,’ but not the people who had educated and trained her.

A fine distinction in assigning responsibility, Bindiya thought. Rogue ninjas don't happen. The deep mind subliminal programming is supposed to be unbreakable, ensuring complete loyalty and automatic obedience to the corporation or assigned individual. Charles cracked through her implanted neural defenses, cleared away the cortical blocks and set her anima free. Katsumi doesn't even have a safeword anymore. It was standard practice to implant a code word or phrase within a construct’s subconscious, meant to induce instant cataplexy and/or causalgia in the unlikely event that something went wrong. Charles Li Fang had eliminated Katsumi’s safeword, making her the most dangerous ninja alive.

The flatscreen suddenly sprang to life, startling Bindiya. She instinctively pressed closer to Katsumi. As soon as she realized what was happening, Bindiya moved away, unsettled. She had undergone a great deal of trauma in the last few days; it was understandable that she was feeling vulnerable, in need of protection. Why she found that instant sense of security with Katsumi was a mystery that she was not inclined to explore at the moment. At least the other woman did not seem to mind. Indeed, one of her gloved hands reached out to smooth down Bindiya's thigh in a comforting gesture before returning to its neutral upright position when the connection completed.

Katsumi navigated skillfully through the data streams, represented on the flatscreen as complex interweaving patterns, shapes and threads of colored light. Eventually, she crawled to a halt and, hands weaving, connected to a small unobtrusive node. After scrolling through a series of menus, Katsumi downloaded a program, then transferred it to a hand-held pad. She gave the pad to Bindiya. “Recognition software,” Katsumi said, sliding the goggles into her hair for a moment in order to make eye contact. “There are facial features stored in memory. Select those that appear to match the drowned girl. Once you have a picture complete, I'll run it through the Department of Order’s mainframe. Perhaps we will learn her name.”

Bindiya nodded and used the attached stylus to select some options on the pad. In the meantime, she also watched Katsumi. The ninja had put her goggles back on and was cruising a low-rent area, ablaze with advertisements for sex interfaces, tattoo parlors, and cheap body-modification clinics. Katsumi chose one of the latter. The virtual shop door writhed into intertwining dragon shapes as she entered. A curious collection of goods was displayed, ranging from dyed ostrich eggs in a rack to a sleeping tabby cat sprawled on a silk zabuton. Bindiya knew the objects were visual representations of programs that permitted interaction in cyberspace; function did not necessarily follow form. Katsumi gestured, knocking the lid off a blue-and-white ginger jar, and her avatar jumped inside.

The flatscreen showed a dismal corridor, illuminated by occasional pools of light. Due to a trick of perspective, the hallway looked endless, stretching into infinity. On either side of it were closed doors. Katsumi composed a text message and sent it winging off into the darkness. Splitting her attention between the screen and her pad, Bindiya missed reading the contents of the missive. A reply came in the form of a miniature dragon breathing fire kanji that glowed and disappeared in showers of ash and pearls too quickly for Bindiya to catch. Katsumi broke the connection, removing her goggles and gloves. “We have an appointment in three hours in Akihabara,” she said.

The techiya district? Bindiya glanced at the pad in her hands; the portrait was nearly complete. She poked the screen with her stylus, selecting a pair of eyes and moving them onto the face she had created. “Why Akihabara?"

“We must obtain something important there.” Katsumi shuffled around on her knees, so that she was facing Bindiya, about an arm's length away. “It will mean going out in public. Your appearance will have to be changed. The police will not harass me, but they will try to detain you if you are recognized. The resulting massacre will surely attract media attention and is, therefore, to be avoided if practical.”

“And if not practical?”

“Most regrettable but necessary.” Katsumi shrugged, her indifference clear.

Bindiya did not know whether to be horrified or pleased. Katsumi's willingness to kill on her behalf was frightening, like having the power of a goddess over life and death. Before she could say anything, however, there was a whoosh of air past her face. She heard the soft click of Katsumi's sword returning to its sheath. What felt like soft feathers slithered down her arms. Bindiya's eyes went wide in shock as the remains of a paper ribbon joined the severed locks of her hair on the floor. Her head felt strangely light, as though it might float away.

Katsumi frowned and rubbed a strand of Bindiya's now shoulder-length hair between her thumb and forefinger. “Pink, I think,” she said.

Bindiya stared at her in disbelief, then her mouth pulled into a thin, straight line of indignation.

***

Master Sun Tzu said, Invincibility lies in the defense; the possibility of victory in the attack.

They had come to the techiya district to make Bindiya invincible against ghostly possession.

Katsumi walked beside Bindiya, using the flat-footed, bow-legged stomp of a hired samurai bodyguard. She wore a pale blue rubber kimono and zori sandals, a freebie Nippon Airlines headband tied around her brow. Her ownership tattoo was hidden beneath a latex prosthetic that mimicked a patch of bubbly burn scars. Although there was a katana scabbard thrust through her sash, the lacquered bamboo sheathe actually contained her ninjato. She had other weapons concealed about her person as well. Katsumi rolled a simulated ivory toothpick around her mouth and guided Bindiya through the Akihabara crowd with a hand on the taller woman's elbow, scowling at anyone who was not quick enough to get out of their way.

After enduring Bindiya's displeasure - who knew that she would prove emotionally attached to hair or so inventive in her verbal abuse? - Katsumi had dyed what was left shocking pink, then used a static micro-generator to make the short-cropped strands stand out around the woman’s head like dandelion fluff. Bindiya's make-up was the latest retro-yamanba style - a strip of black paint sprayed across her eyes, white mascara and lipstick, white body paint coating every inch of the flesh that showed through an artistically shredded black T-shirt and transparent mini-skirt. Pink plastic boots, white cotton panties and black metal bangles completed the picture of a trendy young madamu, possibly the girlfriend of a Taiwanese mafia snakehead or one of the mag-lev motorcycle gangsters that plagued Tokyo by night. The fact that she was being escorted by Katsumi's seedy rent-a-samurai added verisimilitude to the disguise.

A strung-out sim/stim addict boogied past, headed for a manga cafe. In his haste, he brushed against Bindiya. Without breaking stride, Katsumi grabbed the back of his head where a mare's nest of cables ran from his VR goggles and the interface sockets on his skull down into the back of his sensor suit. A jerk and a twist and he was unplugged, disconnected from whatever full immersion program he was running, his reality shockingly shattered. The man let out a thin scream and fell to the pavement, flopping like a gaffed carp. Katsumi's heel smacked against his nose in passing; there was a soft crunching sound and a spurt of blood.

Bindiya's sidelong glance of disapproval did not make Katsumi regret the extra back kick, which she admitted was not strictly necessary. News of the incident traveled in some mysterious and silent way via the street telegraph, for they had no further trouble negotiating through the masses. Katsumi stopped at a vendor's cart and bought Bindiya a sack of crunchy fried grasshoppers sprinkled with a mixture of chilis and spices.

“Where are we going?” Bindiya asked, holding out the bag to share. Katsumi shook her head; a real hired samurai would rather dine on pride than admit to being hungry.

“An appointment,” Katsumi said, sucking on her toothpick. “It isn't much further.”

The Akihabara district was full of electronics shops, digital cafes, freelance hackers and crackers, data brokers, implant clinics, vendors of software and hardware and wetware. A veritable sea of humanity surged back and forth; the atmosphere was saturated with the buzz of business, deals being made and broken and re-made in an endlessly industrious cycle. Katsumi stopped at a corner where a dozen teenagers were crouched like gargoyles on a low wall. They had all undergone body modification of the same type - pointed ears tufted with fur, their mouths stretched grotesquely to the angle of the jaw. The gaki gang also had interface/processor plugs riding over their ears, black plastic curves studded with micro-splinters in every color of the rainbow. They appeared to be zoning on some quasi-lethal combination of software and cortical stimulation, lost in a collective wet-wired Zen trance.

Katsumi held out a hundred New Yen credit chip to a slack-faced teenager whose furred ears were bright orange. He stared blankly. She had to wave the money in front of him for a full ten seconds before he roused himself and focused.

His fingers stretched out to take the chip, but Katsumi held it just out of reach. He frowned, the expression nearly dripping off his face. “Hey, momma-san, what you want?”

“Are you Jubei?” Katsumi asked.

“Maybe so, maybe no.” His eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he said to a skinny girl squatting next to him, “Check ‘em out for dolby, Miko.”

The girl pulled a piece of equipment out of the waistband of her bicycle shorts. It was gray metal, shaped like a pistol with a wide, bell-shaped muzzle. She pointed it at Katsumi, pulled the trigger and peered at a readout on the hand-grip. “No eavesdroppers, no spy-eyes, no uplinks, no broadcast ‘ware,” she reported in a nasal voice, then repeated the process with Bindiya. “They're clean, Jubei-san.”

Apparently satisfied that the women were not wearing surveillance equipment, Jubei leaned out a little and grabbed the chip from Katsumi's grip. “Heki da yo, no problem. You got five minutes, momma-san,” he said, tucking the chip up the sleeve of his cartoon-printed jacket.

“You are the proxy for Tara Phuoc Trung,” Katsumi declared, memorizing the teenagers' positions and making contingency plans for defense against assault. She could remove three threats in the first three seconds with her sword alone. In her mind's eye, Katsumi played a sequence of events, altering weapon and attack vectors until she was happy with her calculations. This assessment did not interfere with holding up her end of the conversation. “I wish to make a special commission.”

Jubei let out a breathy little laugh, showing the whites of his eyes sidelong. “That'll cost you more than a hundred New Yen.”

“How much?”

Bindiya fidgeted with impatience while Jubei and Katsumi bargained, but for the ninja, the need to split her attention between the gaki punks, the woman beside her and their surroundings in general was not really difficult. She had been created to multi-task. At last, they reached an acceptable figure. Katsumi passed over a handful of colorful chips and in return, Jubei used his thumbnail to remove a bright green micro-splinter from his interface. He gave it to her, along with a muttered address.

Katsumi glanced at Bindiya's face as they continued their walk. The unfamiliar make-up, the shocking pink hair, made her seem to be a completely different person, confident and assured. That was only on the surface, however. Behind the cosmetics was the face of a woman whose control was shaky at best. Breaking into her thoughts, Bindiya squeaked and jumped and clutched at her arm when a man bawled loudly in her ear. Katsumi scowled her displeasure at the oshiya, a big-bellied man who was attempting to bully customers into his cyberware shop. He sneered back at her, unimpressed by a mere yojimbo-for-hire. Mindful of Bindiya's aversion to unnecessary violence (although Katsumi thought of violence as a useful tool, and impoliteness could not go unpunished in any case), she settled for launching her toothpick at him like a miniature dart. The sharpened piece of simulated ivory pierced his nostril and he bellowed in pain. Not wishing a further confrontation, Katsumi used the momentum of the crowd to carry her past his shop and down the street before he had time to react. She towed Bindiya alongside, the pair of them looking like a tug boat escorting a sleek but colorful cruiser.

After walking for several blocks, they came to a tattoo parlor. The storefront display contained an obsolete military-grade exoskeleton, the metal surface powdered with rust. A woman who had been goliathed lounged against the door. Extensive bone grafting and gene therapy had made her nearly seven feet tall; huge muscle grafts bulged in her shoulders, arms and thighs, like basketballs under darkly tanned skin. A Mossberg combat shockgun was cocked over her shoulder, the neon yellow jelly-charge visible through the clear polycarbonate barrel that was big enough to swallow a doubled fist.

Katsumi approached the goliath and offered the green micro-splinter she had gotten from Jubei. The woman looked disdainfully down at Bindiya, then further down to rake a scornful gaze over the ninja. She finally took the splinter, handling it carefully in her big hand, and inserted it into a reader hanging from her belt. After a few moments, she curled her lip and moved away from the door. Katsumi urged Bindiya inside and followed on her heels.

The room was brightly lit, although the rubber tatami mats on the floor were scuffed and grimy. Hospital screens concealed several work areas. A Tsuchiyama diagnostic bed was in the center of the space, illuminated by an adjustable light. As they entered, a small ‘bot in the shape of a scorpion scuttled near their feet and misted a fine spray of disinfectant. In the back of the store was a traditional bead curtain; it was swept aside as a plump woman barreled through and came to a halt, facing Bindiya. The look of naked calculation and sheer greed in the woman's expression was breath-taking.

“Konnichiwa,” Tara Phuoc Trung said, a smile wreathing her fat-cheeked face and squeezing her eyes into narrow slits. "Xin chào, bonjour, good afternoon, shalom, selamat pagi, howzit, g'day!” She was shirtless, exposing the dozens of tattoos that covered her torso. Lakshmi was sprawled across one breast. On the woman’s other breast was Kintaro, the red-skinned witch’s child, while over Tara’s chunky shoulders and down her arms, Coatlicue in her serpent skirt danced arm-in-arm with Wang Mu Niang-Niang and her peaches of immortality, refereed by Ereshkigal on a throne of bones.

“How may you be served in my establishment?” Tara asked.

“Not with an apple in my mouth, I hope,” Bindiya muttered faintly.

Katsumi inserted herself between Bindiya and Tara, forcing the tattooist to acknowledge her. “Custom interactive,” she said, “full body, single activation point.”

Tara's plucked brows rose. Her head was shaven, the better to display a winged serpent that coiled around and over her skull. “Expensive,” she replied, gnawing her bottom lip. Abruptly, her eyes went as hard as obsidian chips. “You're no hired katana, and I'll bet that she's no bosozuko's girlie-girl. You don't have the corporate stink, nor do you look like a pair of high-riders slumming down the gravity well.” She stood with arms akimbo, frowning. “What, exactly, do you want?”

“The Emptiness of Forms sutra,” Katsumi said.

“Eeee! Like Hoichi the earless!” Tara hooted in amusement, her rolls of fat jiggling.

Bindiya shivered; Katsumi could feel the vibration against her back. She reached behind, curving her hand over Bindiya's hip. “Let us avoid repeating the error,” Katsumi said. The story was familiar to all Japanese, who absorbed the tale with milk at mother's breast. Many gaijin like Tara and Bindiya could claim a familiarity with the story, as it was a popular subject for plays and 3D programs. Mimi-Nashi-Hoichi the blind biwa player-priest found himself haunted by angry ghosts of the Heiki clan. To save his life, his fellow monks inked his skin with the Emptiness of Forms sutra to make him invisible to the spirits, but forgot to mark his ears. Hoichi's ears, the only parts of his body visible to the ghosts, had been pulled off, leaving him maimed for life. That would not happen with Bindiya.

Tara laughed until tears trickled over her cheeks and dripped down her double chin. Finally subsiding into hiccups, the tattooist wiped her face and stepped back a pace, calculating once again. The expression in her eyes was practically an abacus. “For you or the long tall drink of sake over there?”

“My client’s wishes,” Katsumi said. Behind her, Bindiya inhaled sharply; she squeezed the woman's hip in warning and was gratified by a silent exhale. “Can you program a single activation point?” she asked.

Again, Tara's needle-sharp gaze swept over the pair. “Of course,” she said. “Slow spread? Patterned spread?”

“Speed is essential. Aesthetics are not.”

“I see.” Tara rubbed her nose, making the piece of steel in her septum waggle back and forth. “All right. Come back in two weeks.”

"Regrettably, the work must be done within the hour. We will wait." Katsumi was immovable on this point; delay could be fatal. Bindiya had to be protected as soon as possible, before the yurei could attack again. The woman could not go through life with an ofuda stuck to her forehead; that was too uncertain, as well as too conspicuous a solution.

There was nevertheless some debate, with Tara growing increasingly unpleasant until Katsumi considered doing something messy and lingering, solely as a warning to other tattooists who might be considering suicide-by-ninja. However, Tara Phuoc Trung was supposed to be the best of the underground interactive artists. More importantly, she did unregistered work for cash; illegal, since all tattoos and other body modifications were supposed to be registered with the Department of Order, along with DNA trace, retinal scan and a Kirlian aura analysis.

At last, Tara ran out of objections, possibly because Katsumi waved a credit chip in her face. The amount on the chip was impressive enough to make the woman's pupils contract. “The customer's always right,” Tara said, taking the chip and feeding it into a security box. When she was done, she tapped the bright red Kintaro tattoo on her breast. “Run out onto the ‘Net and fetch back a copy of the Emptiness of Forms sutra,” she ordered. The witch's child flexed its legs and leaped off Tara's skin, disappearing in a sparkle of static discharge as it dived into a wireless connection with a nearby computer deck.

“He'll be a few minutes,” Tara said. She opened a mini-refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer. “Sapporo or Asahi?” she asked. “I might have some Csarda, too.”

Katsumi shook her head.

The tattooist shrugged, popped the cap off the bottle and chugged until the bottle was empty. “Suit yourself, ronin-san.” She munched unselfconsciously from an open sack of curry-and-cuttlefish pretzels while they were waiting for her servant/avatar to return from its appointed task.

Bindiya bent down and whispered urgently into Katsumi's ear, "We need to talk. Now. In private."

Nodding to Tara, Katsumi allowed Bindiya to steer her towards a screened area of the shop.

***

We are both delusional, Bindiya thought. A folie à deux instigated by superstition, reinforced by visual and auditory hallucinations and false perceptions. In the consensual world reality, ghosts don't hijack a person's consciousness to enact some death-in-life scenario. That's a fantasy straight out of Yoshitoshi and Kurasawa X and kabuki theater and puppet shows. Fodder for the uneducated masses who clamor to see faces in indigo and black, limp-wristed and legless figures that are pathetic rather than frightening.

The lack of control over her own body was completely outside her personal experience, but explainable if one embraced science rather than voodoo. A part of her mind could not help but wonder about her apparent invisibility on hospital ‘vid, the paper talisman that Katsumi had put on her brow, the scratches and welts on her arm that spelled ‘guilty.’ The power of suggestion? Perhaps. The map of the human brain and its potential was not yet complete. Science went only so far. Bindiya could admit that. On the far distant horizon that was the vast collective experience of mankind, enigmas beckoned.

One of those enigmas was standing in front of her. Bindiya had been passively following Katsumi's lead, doing as she was told, going where she was led without protest. Now the ninja had gone a step too far. This was worse than the involuntary hair trimming, which she was sure she would be having nightmares about later.

“Why am I getting an interactive tattoo?” Bindiya asked, doing her best to loom over Katsumi in an alpha-dominance display. She was helped by the high heels on her boots; she could have rested her breasts on top of the other woman's head had she been so inclined. The next step to establishing dominance would be throwing leaves and sticks at the ninja’s head if one followed the classic primate model.

However, Bindiya was hindered by the fact that Katsumi refused to be threatened. In fact, she looked amused, the tiniest sparkle in her eyes. “To protect you from evil,” Katsumi replied in an ‘of course’ tone of voice.

Bindiya shook her head. Wisps of pink hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks; she brushed them away, sparks crackling on her fingers from the electrostatic micro-generator taped to the back of her neck. “I am not going to... no. No, no, no. This isn't happening.”

“It is.” Katsumi casually touched Bindiya's hip, much as she had a few moments ago in the main room of the shop. As before, Bindiya felt the imprint of the woman's hand burning through her clothing like a hot brand. She licked her lips and tried another mode of attack.

“I won't permit it,” Bindiya said, spearing the other woman with her best eyebrows-meeting-in-the-middle glare.

Katsumi smiled. “You will.”

Bindiya was momentarily stymied. Walking away was not an option. She needed Katsumi; perhaps not quite as much as she needed air, but close enough as to make very little difference. Katsumi seemed to know what she was doing, whereas Bindiya was stumbling around in the dark. Believing in ghosts is ridiculous, a pre-civilized fear-based response to the unknown. But I don't have all the answers, either. I doubt even Shakti has all the answers. The cycle of belief/disbelief was making her crazy... possibly literally. She had given in to Katsumi because she was tired, because she was terrified of herself, because her life had spun so far out of control that one more bit of lunacy would hardly be noticed.

Now Bindiya closed her eyes and wished she was anywhere but here, in a tattoo parlor with dirty floors, puke-green walls and what she was sure were bloodstains on the ceiling. The cloying smell of disinfectant had trickled down the back of her throat, making her feel sick to her stomach.. Katsumi’s hand on her hip began a gentle massaging motion.

“There will be a single small activation point,” Katsumi said, the warm voice breaking through Bindiya's anxiety and exhaustion. “Very small, hardly bigger than a pinhead. Not noticeable at all.”

Bindiya felt herself drooping a little, wanting to lean into that solid body mass. Why had she never consciously noticed how mesmerizing Katsumi's voice could be? “But I don't...” she began and stopped, unsure of what she wanted to say.

“This is necessary to protect you,” Katsumi continued, still soothing, still rubbing Bindiya’s hip in circular motions.

“I don't believe in ghosts,” Bindiya whispered.

Katsumi tilted her head back. Glossy black hair slid away from her shoulders like strands of silk. “They believe in you,” she said and smiled again.

Bindiya could not find the strength or the inclination to argue anymore.

The screen rattled as it was thrust back, revealing the tattooist. Tara said, “You two lovebirds ready? I don't rent space by the hour. Get your sucky-fucky thrills at a love hotel, huh? I got a business to run.”

Bindiya's whole body jerked as Tara's strident presence shattered the bubble that had built up between her and Katsumi.

“We are ready,” Katsumi replied. She slid closer and put an arm around Bindiya's waist, never breaking eye contact.

Bindiya sighed, shrugged a shoulder and relaxed minutely into the embrace. Some things were inevitable. Shigata ga nai - a most useful philosophy to adopt. She ought to bow gracefully to the demands of karma. “Yes,” she said, “we're ready.”

Tara rolled her eyes.

The blank tattoo forms were kept in an enzyme bath in the refrigerator. While Bindiya stretched out on the diagnostic bed (the surface was somewhat tacky and stuck unpleasantly to her skin), Tara prepared to inject the digital sutra into the new tattoo's matrix. It dangled from her fingertips like a sheet of clear jelly, benign and unthreatening. The instruments she used were very delicate, but she wielded them with workmanlike grace. A pince-nez magnified her eyes hugely. After forty-five minutes of labor, during which she muttered a continuous stream of invective under her breath, Tara was finished. She dunked the programmed matrix into a nutrient solution and held it up, dripping.

“Pull your shirt up,” Tara instructed, squinting over the pince-nez that gripped the bridge of her nose. Reflected glare from the steel bar in her septum and the sweat on her shaven skull distorted her features, blurring them like heat shimmer off pavement.

Bindiya complied, baring her stomach. Tara matter-of-factly swabbed a patch of make-up away and draped the cold slimy matrix on her flesh. She flinched, earning a growled order to stay still. The tattooist produced a charge baton, applied one prong to Bindiya's skin and the other to the clammy sheet on her belly. A worm of electricity twisted greenish-white. The jolting buzz made Bindiya yelp in mingled surprise and pain as ink-charged nanites were driven into her epidermis, thrust through the stratum basale, stratum spinosum, stratum granulosum and stratum corneum, burrowing deep between the second and third dermis layers. When Tara was finished and the remains of the sodden matrix were wiped away, all that remained was a little dot centered above her navel. If Bindiya had not known better, she would have sworn it was a mole.

Katsumi helped her rise and guided her to a full-length mirror screwed to the back wall. As Bindiya watched, Katsumi reached under her shirt and pressed the activation point firmly. She shuddered, the sensation of ants crawling under her skin almost too much to bear, but she was too fascinated to close her eyes. Lines of text scrolled around her navel, sun rays extending and rippling on her skin, outstretched serifs turning into individual symbols that marched in regimented fashion and settled into place. They could be but dimly glimpsed beneath the white body paint that still concealed most her skin. Bindiya looked more closely, trying to follow their progress. Shadowy characters moved under their own power, silhouettes like sharks swimming in murky waters if glimpsed from a height. She gasped, staring into the mirror. There was calligraphy on her eyeballs, spokes of wheels centered on her pupils.

Bindiya was speechless.

Tara grinned. “Good work, huh? Not exactly ichi-ban, but not bad for a rush job.”

Katsumi examined Bindiya closely, warm puffs of breath stirring the tiny hairs on her arms, her neck, her cheek. “It will do,” she confirmed.

“Avoid UV tanning booths, reiki healing and further body modification for two weeks,” Tara said. She turned away, headed to the front of the shop.

Bindiya felt rather than saw the clench of muscles, the tightening of tendon and sinew that signaled Katsumi's readiness for action. She grabbed the ninja's wrist, squeezing hard to abort the blitzkrieg draw/strike of ninjato. Tara, she was sure, had no idea how close she had come to dying. Bindiya tapped the activation point above her navel, causing the tattooed sutra to disappear from view. Later, she would ask Katsumi why she wanted to attack the tattooist; right now, it was important to get them both out of here.

Katsumi shrugged and slipped painlessly out of Bindiya's grip. She took four silent steps forward, sword already clearing sheath in a whispered hiss. Alerted by Bindiya's gasp, Tara half-turned, flinging up an arm in futile defense. Katsumi's ninjato sliced cleanly through radius and ulna, continuing in an arc that swept through the tattooist's neck, trailing blood splatter behind. Tara’s severed head sounded hollow as a ripe melon when it hit the dirty floor and rolled, coming to a rest beneath the diagnostic bed.

Bindiya bit down hard on a knuckle to keep from screaming.

“We must go,” Katsumi said, snapping her sword to one side to clean off the worst of the blood and re-sheathing it. She reached for Bindiya's elbow. Bindiya stumbled backwards, her mouth a round O of horror. So much blood...

The ninja made a clucking sound of impatience. At almost the same moment, the goliathed guard burst through the door. She was bent almost in half to clear the lintel, the Mossberg shock-gun swinging up to aim directly at them. Energy discharge crackled from the barrel. Katsumi whirled on her heel. Chunk! Chunk! Chunk! Chunk! Four straight-bladed shuriken sprouted from the guard's face and throat. The woman let out a choked roar and pulled the shock-gun's trigger. A jelly-charge exploded. Bindiya was in the line of fire but suddenly she was moving sideways, the sting of shrapnel a mild annoyance compared to the hydrostatic waves that were turning her bones to water.

Time slowed to a syrupy trickle. Bindiya was vaguely aware that someone was wrapped around her, a hand on the back of her head, another cupping her buttock. Plaster powder from the blasted wall irritated her eyes. She was flying without wings. Time snapped back to speed, the floor rushed towards her and she landed hard, a jolt that made her teeth clack together painfully. Bindiya was pushed into a fetal curl. Someone's knee was digging into her ribcage, someone's torso was pressed against the side of her face. She gulped for air; heated by the jelly-charge’s passage, it scorched her lungs.

The weight on her body was abruptly removed. Bindiya opened her eyes to see Katsumi dance up to the guard and hit her once, twice, three times with a naked hand. The oversized woman's snarl turned into a puzzled frown. She was holding the Mossberg over her head, preparatory to striking at the smaller figure of Katsumi. Instead, she slowly toppled over, her face turning an unhealthy shade of purple. A thin breath whined out past blued lips. Her eyes were huge, tear-filled, the eyelids fluttering. Katsumi took hold of a shuriken embedded in the woman's neck, twisted and pulled, severing the jugular vein. Fine blood spray dotted her rubber kimono and ran off in trails, leaving hardly a stain behind.

The entire sequence of events had taken about thirty seconds from beginning to end.

Katsumi held out her hand. “We must go,” she repeated, as though they had never been interrupted by explosions and death.

Bindiya shook her head, but reached for the beckoning fingers anyway and allowed Katsumi to pull her off the floor.

***

Master Musashi said, Pay attention even to trifles.

It was the absence of a tattoo that alerted Katsumi.

The witch's child, red-fleshed Kintaro, had vanished again from Tara's skin, presumably leaping back into the wireless ‘Net connection. Katsumi checked the tattooist's vital signs using her enhanced senses. Blood pressure was elevated, pulse rapid, the pupils contracted to pinpoints. The woman licked her lips, swallowed frequently and rubbed palms on her trousers, indicating a dry mouth and sweating hands - classic symptoms of nervousness. A micro-dot mic was taped to her cheek; she was sub-vocalizing, most likely in contact with the guard outside. While Bindiya admired her reflection in the mirror, Katsumi cocked an ear in the computer deck's direction and heard the faint grinding sound of an established connection. She pushed her vision two points, enough to make a quick visual scan of the monitor. It showed the pulsating gray/orange pyramid that was the Department of Order, Tokyo division. Finally, she saw Tara pick up the baton and adjust the setting to deliver an incapacitating charge. They had been betrayed.

Katsumi did not have time to explain her observations to Bindiya, nor was she inclined to indulge any non-violence squeamishness. She simply took care of the problem by eliminating Tara from the equation. When the goliathed guard came inside the shop, she was prepared to deal with her, too; the behavior was predictable. The big woman's decision to fire the shock-gun at Bindiya first rather than the more dangerous target - namely Katsumi - was tactically unsound. Nevertheless, the ninja made sure her companion was safe before she dealt with the guard. Pressure points could be destructive, and the human form was actually quite fragile despite modifications intended to make it less so.

When the threats were gone, she turned her attention to Bindiya, who was petrified; the stench of fear poured off her. Katsumi had learned that Bindiya was responsive to tactile sensation, so she cuddled the taller woman close to her side and rubbed circles on the small of her back, simultaneously leading her out of the shop's back door and into an alley. They surfed the Akihabara masses until Katsumi found a pinku bar wedged between a VR-avatar studio and a second-hand wetware clinic. The interior was cool and not very well lit, the walls crowded with interactive idoru posters that winked, simpered and wriggled in tantalizing soft-core displays. Katsumi chose a table in the back corner, paid the indifferent attendant for a handful of metal tokens and ordered drinks - sparkling dragonfruit cocktail with ginseng and shizandra for herself; cranberry juice with bee pollen and agave extract for Bindiya.

The top of the table was an LCD monitor and holo-projector protected by a thick polycarbonate shield. Katsumi fed a couple of tokens into the slot and chose an item at random from the menu. A live-action hentai program began playing, pigtailed young women in spandex being violated by mutant octopi-‘bots. The resolution was bad, the color registration off to the point of migraine, the sound muted. Katsumi kept Bindiya plastered close, their bodies touching from knees to shoulders. As soon as their drinks were delivered, she stabbed at the privacy button, raising a soiled curtain around their table. The uneven hum of a white noise generator came from hidden speakers in the floor.

Bindiya did not look at her. She drank her juice, making a face at the sour taste.

Katsumi remained silent, waiting for Bindiya.

“Why?” Bindiya asked at last.

“She was in contact with the Department of Order,” Katsumi explained. “There is no doubt a reward being offered for your capture.”

“And you were protecting me.”

“Hai. That is my purpose, after all.”

Again, silence. Bindiya finished her juice and set the empty glass on the table. “I don't want any more people dying because of me.”

“You are not responsible for Dr. Li Fang's death.” Katsumi was fairly certain on that score. Chopping up a man using cleavers took a strong stomach, not to mention great physical strength – neither of these traits seemed to be consistent with what she had observed about Bindiya. According to the reports, Li Fang had not been restrained or drugged, nor had the first blow been completely incapacitating. No skin cells had been found under his fingernails, no defense cuts. He had dragged himself around the house on hands and knees, enduring the attack and making no attempt at defense until blood loss rendered him unconscious. The strikes had been hard enough to splinter through bone, to sever limbs from the joints. As a professional assassin, Katsumi was not impressed with mere butchery.

Bindiya snorted and tossed her head, sending ripples through her pink dandelion-fluff hair. “You know what I mean. I don’t want you killing people just because you can.”

Katsumi took a pad from the breast of her kimono and plugged it into the deck. The hentai program was interrupted as she tapped keys to transfer a graphic from the pad. It was the composite picture of the drowned girl that Bindiya had made. “Should I have stepped aside and allowed Tara to electrocute you?” she asked.

“Of course not, but...” Bindiya's voice trailed off. After a moment's pause, she rallied. “You might have used a non-lethal method.”

“As non-lethal as the guard's shock-gun?” Katsumi did not bother concealing her amusement.

Bindiya smacked her fist against the table top. “This isn't a Zen riddle game!”

“I take full responsibility for my own actions,” Katsumi said, trying to mollify the upset woman. “You are not my legally registered owner, therefore you cannot be held accountable for anything I do.” She avoided the fact that she had not belonged to Yoshitsune for a long time, although no one – especially the company’s managers – would ever report her as a rogue. Rogues did not exist, could not exist with all the safeguards implanted in vat-grown constructs; to admit that Katsumi was not under corporate control would undermine public confidence in the company and also cause much loss of face for the directors. It was better to pay fines and accept official censure for Katsumi’s activities than lose stock points.

Sometimes she wondered how natural humans had survived the last ten thousand years. Their propensity for perversity was puzzling.

Katsumi logged on to the Department of Order's node and used the pad to introduce a small program she had gotten from the Sinsemilla, a worm that would open a back door into the department's database and allow her access to their internal search program. It would take a minute or so to complete the connection process.

“I asked for your help,” Bindiya said.

“And I chose to give it to you,” Katsumi countered. She reached up and patted Bindiya's cheek, unsurprised when the woman leaned into the touch. Beneath the make-up, she could still feel a slight swelling, the bruise that continued to mar her flesh. “We are walking the same path towards the same destination. Should we not join forces and complete that journey together? Let me protect you, please.”

Bindiya stared at her. Seated, their faces were on the same level. “Why?” she asked softly.

Katsumi blinked. The question was irrelevant. She posed one of her own: “Why not?”

The deck made a two-toned chime. Bindiya pressed her lips together, her eyes hooded. Katsumi checked the tiny pad screen; the worm had done its work. She uploaded the picture to the Department of Order's database and programmed search parameters. The results were returned quickly, along with the faint cybernetic stirrings of a routine low security probe. Katsumi ended the connection before a trace could be established, but she had already downloaded the necessary information. Bindiya watched silently, toying with her empty glass and stirring a fingertip around a snack-sized bowl of wasabi peas that appeared to have fossilized with age. The hentai broadcast flickered back to life, a girl with purple hair and cat ears being multiply violated by a Cthulhu clone.

“The drowned girl’s name is Esperanza Serjee,” Katsumi said, reading from the data scrolling on the pad, “a priestess from a religious commune on Penthesilea.”

Bindiya looked interested. "Isn't Penthesilea the all-female station at LaGrange IV?"

“Hai. There is a singular difficulty, however.”

“Oh?” Bindiya arched a brow. Her expression suggested that the entire enterprise had been fraught with difficulties; what was one more? “What’s that?”

Katsumi put down the pad. The news she had to deliver was disquieting, but not impossible if one believed old granny’s tales. “Esperanza Serjee is still alive.”

***

Bindiya glanced around the Chinese doctor’s office, which was located in a primarily Tibetan neighborhood. There were framed certificates on the walls with expertly crafted calligraphy. A square column (she supposed it housed pipes or electrics) had been mirrored all over to reflect the ‘poison arrow’ effect deleterious to good feng shui, and a small table-top fountain gurgled in the auspicious south-east corner. A huge old-fashioned apothecary’s chest dominated the space. Opposite the chest was a scarlet lacquered cabinet and a delicate scroll painting of a mountain. An altar occupied part of the room, the top covered by an oil lamp; a pair of candles; bowls of tea, rice and water; five bowls of fruit; heaps of paper talismans; a sword made entirely of antique coins; an eight trigrams mirror and a bell; sticks of burning incense… all the accoutrements of a ‘fire dwelling’ Taoist.

Dr. Zhang was old, her body withered and shrunk in on itself, the skin tight against bone except for the wattles of loose flesh at her neck. Her eyes were clear and bright, although the irises were the color of quicksilver – the hallmark of Ukrainian ophthalmologic implants. Dressed in a plain indigo cotton tunic and trousers, her little feet encased in black slippers, her hair screwed back in a knot, Zhang resembled an auntie from a rural province. Bindiya expected her to cluck and fuss, but the woman was briskly business-like.

“You biorhythm chart indicates this is an inauspicious time to dig wells, operate heavy equipment, plant rice or play Texas Hold ‘Em,” Zhang said, fixing her bright quicksilver eyes on Bindiya. She pulled a stool over with her foot and perched on it, operating a small lever that adjusted the stool’s height so that she was level with the taller woman. She took Bindiya’s wrist, her fingers pressed on the pulse point at the radial artery. “You should also avoid the Drunken Crabs as well as the Blow of the Sparrow sexual positions.”

Katsumi stood beside Bindiya, a comforting if quiet presence.

Zhang said after a while, “A knotted pulse indicates a significant imbalance of Wood and Water in your system which has led to pernicious qi blockage as well as a lack of vital jing substance. I recommend special Grievous Wind tea…”

“Tastes like dead cat,” Katsumi commented.

“Only little bit dead cat!” Zhang said emphatically. To Bindiya, she continued, “Also digital acupuncture sessions twice weekly. See my on-line avatar for appointment.”

“What about the haunting?” Bindiya asked. “The spirit is…”

“Ai-yah! Am I finished with my diagnosis?” Zhang exclaimed. “No wonder you’re in a state of disharmony! Impatience leads to many evils, including bowel dysfunction. You maybe want a Five Elements enema? No? Then be quiet and let me finish my examination.”

The old Chinese woman rolled the stool over to the lacquer cabinet. Rummaging among the cluttered shelves, she returned with a curious object. It resembled a lorgnette, although there were numerous multi-colored lenses bristling from the carved bone handle. “Pentium astralscope, best on the market, can get you a discount for home version,” she muttered, holding the lenses up to her eyes. She flicked through the lenses with her thumb, one after the other, squinting at a digital read-out on the handle. “Hmmm…” Zhang pulled a jack from a computer disguised as a statue of Laughing Buddha and plugged it into the end of the astralscope’s handle. A moment later, pictures of Bindiya’s Kirlian field were displaying on the liquid-crystal screen embedded in Buddha’s belly.

“There are definitely signs of spirit activity here,” Zhang muttered, examining the aura. “Disturbances in the global etheric as well as localized activity. Your ghost may still be alive but it’s hungry, all right. Such an appetite!”

Katsumi took Bindiya’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

Laying the astralscope aside, Zhang used a qi kung reiki technique to cleanse and tonify Bindiya’s energies. She wielded a geomantic compass, then chanted secret Taoist mantras, her gnarled hands forming mudras of protection and exorcism. She cast black dice against Bindiya’s white dice and made her burn Hell banknotes as an offering to the dead. She rubbed Bindiya all over with a chicken’s egg and made her drink a potion that tasted foul, like a blend of spearmint and dog shit. Bindiya gagged but managed to keep it down, mainly because Zhang’s severe expression promised a second dose if the first made a reappearance.

“This will only arrest the spirit’s progress for a short while,” Zhang said, going to the altar to burn more sticks of incense. “Whatever has happened to the woman’s living body, her spirit has been cast loose and seeks vengeance.”

“Like Lady Rokujo in The Tale of Genji,” Katsumi said, ignoring Zhang’s irritated snort at the interruption. “Lady Rokujo suffered from unrequited love for the Shining Prince as well as unreasoning jealousy of his other women. Her angry soul left her body at night while she slept and caused the death of his wife, Lady Aoi.”

Zhang snorted again. “That’s just Edo air-conditioning,” she said, referring to the Japanese tradition of telling ghost stories during summer to cool the body with fright chills. “For a soul to wander so far from the flesh, one must either be a master of meditation techniques, or existing in some other state of suspended animation. Rage is not enough, although it helps lubricate the spirit so that it can slip free,” she confessed grudgingly. “The woman who is haunting you has a strong will. She must be a Fire Horse woman, dangerous and headstrong, very bad fortune for a husband. Perhaps she is dying and seeks to avoid the next-life dharma path by remaining attached to this plane.”

“What can I do?” Bindiya asked. The scent of aloes and sandalwood filled the air as incense smoke made lazy curls around them.

“The conflict must be resolved. I suggest you locate this Fire Horse woman and speak to her, find out why she’s haunting you, work out a compromise.” Zhang shrugged, her quicksilver eyes gleaming. “Otherwise, find a ngakpa lama to perform a soul retrieval and learn to live with a pushy spiritual squatter.” A digital abacus appeared on the Laughing Buddha’s belly, the beads whirring and clicking. “Here’s my bill.”

Katsumi handed the doctor a credit chip. “We must go to Penthesilea station,” she said to Bindiya. “I will make the arrangements.”

Bindiya would have liked to disagree, but the taste of spearmint and dog shit lingered in her mouth, and she could see no other alternative than to beard the ghost in her den, so to speak. She had no arguments against any action at this point. She was tired, mentally and physically, not to mention spiritually.

Outside Dr. Zhang’s office, Katsumi and Bindiya took turns spinning the huge bronze prayer wheels that stood in a row down the street, watched by the sleepy ‘Buddha eyes’ painted on a whitewashed stupa that was nearby. Bindiya thought she could use all the good karma she could generate, even if it was for the next life. Strings of prayer flags flapped in the breeze, which was scented with hot oil from a toothless man frying bread in a doorway. After lighting butter lamps at the little temple (Katsumi dropped another credit chip into the donation box) and buying bottles of Lhasa Roof-of-the-World beer, the two women rode in a ‘bot driven taxi back to the writing brush factory.

Katsumi’s contacts within the Sinsemilla tribe proved fruitful. After an incomprehensible (to Bindiya) round of negotiations, the neo-pagans procured a new identity for Bindiya in a religious ceremony that had involved smoking ganja, then drumming and dancing by white-clothed celebrants while the priests/hackers plugged into cyber-space and broke into the Department of Security using a special Trojan horse program to overcome the database’s defenses. There was also the sacrifice of both a chicken and an antique Sony micro-processor on the altar of the Rainbow Snake, the loa of new life in the ‘meat ‘verse as well as virtual existence. Prompted by Katsumi and the blonde dreadlocked headman of the tribe, Bindiya had offered a bottle of rum, the Lhasa beer, a box of cigars and a handful of holo-Tamagotchi to Papa Legba Torvalds, the ‘opener of the way.’

Bindiya was now the possessor of a new passport and I.D. card, complete with a falsified past and genetic information that matched her own. The passport would not survive an extensive background check, but for the purposes of going off-world, it would do – if the gods and goddesses were kind. Bindiya Bhattacharya was now Jasalina Nayar, a mid-level employee of Garuda Multi-National Quality Entrees, Inc. Her hair was re-dyed a non-descript brown; her loose wide-legged salwar trousers were made of gold-spangled silk, while the accompanying knee-length kameez was vibrant orange with a hands-deep indigo border. A sequined bindi shimmered on her brow. The final touches were glass bangles, a gold nose-ring piercing one nostril, and spectacles with lozenge-shaped lenses. She could have been a clerk, an administrator, an accountant – any one of a dozen ordinary occupations for a woman of the vaisya/skilled worker caste.

She still did not understand how she was expected to get past the Department of Order psychics who were routinely stationed at airports and spaceports to scan travelers and weed out terrorists, wanted criminals or other trouble makers. True telepathy was single mind-to-single mind; it would be impossible even for a talented telepath to read so many people thoroughly. They would go insane trying. These departmental psychics skimmed the surface of the chaotic mind-muttering of thousands of people, alert for catch-words like ‘bomb’ or ‘guilty’ or ‘kill’ or any of a hundred other language cues that might pop into one’s head and betray one’s intentions. Being tagged as potentially dangerous by a psychic would earn her detention and a more complete examination, and that would be disastrous.

Beside her, Katsumi said, “Sing.”

Startled, Bindiya halted in her tracks. “What?”

“Sing a song,” Katsumi suggested. “An advertising jingle to distract your mind.”

That was a good idea. Bindiya glanced around, seeking inspiration. They were in the spaceport – actually the mobile anchoring platform for the ‘space elevator’- headed towards Concourse Four. Knots of people surged back and forth like a strange tide. Every few feet was a franchise store or snack booth; she and Katsumi were currently standing in front of a Mr. Noodle bar, where sararimen, off-world construction and maintenance workers as well as flight crews sat elbow-to-elbow and slurped from bowls of udon. Further up the concourse could be glimpsed the rival businesses Cappuccino World, Starlight Xpresso and Coffee-a-Go-Go, their doors guarded by heavily armed baristas against the threat of industrial espionage.

From their cardboard boxes shoved against the walls, squatters sold solar batteries, nootropics, low grade amps and endorphins, cheap souvenirs and cheaper electronics, Chinese vodka, grimy postcards, split-toed tabi socks, rubber zori, and biotech like mutated flish that burbled in their bamboo cages and flapped modified fin-wings. A black-suited priest of the Compassionate Church moved among the squatters, offering the use of his euthanasia machine and the eternal salvation that came with suicide.

Bindiya’s mind was a blank. Sweat sprang out on her brow as panic response set in. Her heart stuttered in alarm. It was a vicious cycle: the harder she thought about it, the less she could think. Suddenly, shockingly, Katsumi flashed the bhutadamara mudra at her and began to sing the infamous ‘Cat Shit Pie’ jingle – a jingle so subliminally insidious, a meme so hypnotically banal, an ohrwurm of such longevity, it had been banned in eighty countries and spawned a therapeutic industry for people who could not get the annoying song out of their heads. Worse, Katsumi demonstrated that as skilled as she was at dealing death and mayhem, she could not sing a note. “Eat a piece now/save a piece for later,” she warbled off-key. Around her, people shied away as if she had plastic explosives attached to her chest and a dead man’s switch in her hand. “With bananas, it has appeal!” Katsumi continued, striking a pose and crossing one eye in a kabuki actor’s mie.

Bindiya could not help herself; she forgot her nervousness and began to laugh.

Spaceport security hesitated, stymied. It was clear that Katsumi had to be stopped from committing an act of audio terrorism yet she was a corporate ninja construct, duly tattooed and therefore registered somewhere as a lethal weapon. Any show of force was likely to end in death – theirs, not hers. After some debate, during which Katsumi sang a few more lines, prompting a passing Taoist ‘black head’ priest to throw synthesized chicken’s blood at her in a futile exorcism attempt, a low-level guard was dispatched to make a polite request for her to stop. Katsumi did so, much to everyone’s relief. She took Bindiya’s arm and led her to the waiting room/staging area, away from a trio of psychics who looked as if they were suffering from a serious collective headache.

Bindiya went along, shaking her head at Katsumi’s tactics. She had to admire the ninja’s nerve. Humorous as it was, singing ‘Cat Shit Pie’ might spark mob violence if matters went too far. Introducing an ohrwurm into a public area was considered a serious offense. Bindiya supposed the directors of Yoshitsune International would be fined for the ninja’s performance. She herself was grateful that the scene had not become a bloodbath.

The hostess checked their tickets and passports, then nervously gave the women tiny bottles of chilled plum wine, hot towels and packages of barbeque flavored wasp larvae as if she expected one or the other of them to break into song. Feeling a bit giddy with relief, Bindiya was tempted to sing a few rounds of ‘The Good Ship Venus’ but she refrained out of respect for the presumably delicate sensibilities of her fellow travelers.

The staging area slowly filled with passengers, a bewildering variety of persons intent on riding the ‘space elevator’ that would take them out of Earth’s gravity well. At fifteen-hundred Zulu, the hostess opened the doors and passengers filed inside the transport pod, seeking their assigned seats. Katsumi had chosen business-class for their trip; they were seated together in the seventeenth tier, with enough leg room that Bindiya did not quite have to duck her knees under her chin. An androgynous attendant passed out magazines, chewing gum, ginseng tonic and anti-nausea patches. Bindiya took a piece of cherimoya-flavored gum, while Katsumi loftily ignored the attendant and his/her woven plastic basket of goodies.

Bindiya settled back in her seat, doing her best to ignore the hiss of recycled oxygen, the smell of too many people in a too-small space. She could feel it pressing on her, the weight of the people in front of her, behind her, on top and below her in the transport pod. It was like being trapped. She felt empathy for rats who, when cornered, viciously attacked anything (or anyone) they perceived as a threat. Bindiya registered Katsumi’s hand on her arm and took a breath, trying to settle her seething prana.

“I could render you unconscious,” Katsumi said, her voice pitched for Bindiya’s ear alone, “but then you would miss the view.”

“I may take you up on that offer,” Bindiya said, grimacing as the mag-lev pod began its smooth ascent up the platinum-plated carbon nanotube fiber ‘ribbon’ - popularly nicknamed the Beanstalk - that stretched upward from its Pacific-based mobile anchor to the lunar colony. She started leafing through a magazine, although her gaze kept shifting to the distracting view on the other side of the window, the voluptuous curve of the planet limned in gold sunlight, the blackness of space livened by a touch of indigo, the Earth itself a mass of white and blue so beautiful it hurt the eye.

For the purposes of their trip, Bindiya and Katsumi would be taking the Beanstalk only as far as a transfer-point platform where they would catch a fast shuttle to Penthesilea station. Bindiya turned away from the window. Fortunately, Long March Aerospace had provided plenty of distractions on board to alleviate the tedium of traveling with the masses. The ascending pod boasted restaurants, cafés, clubs, bars, nursery crèche, a ‘love’ hotel for non-first class passengers who wanted privacy for their affairs, an acupressure clinic, biorhythm specialist, pachinko parlors, a kabuki theater, 3D films, zero-grav ballet… all of the entertainment that credit could buy.

Bindiya tossed the magazine aside and stood up. “I need to stretch my legs,” she said, still feeling claustrophobic. Katsumi nodded agreeably and accompanied her to the escalator.

“Dr. Bhattacharya?” said a soft male voice behind them.

Her heart frozen in apprehension, Bindiya turned around. She did not recognize the man in the ash grey gi, but he could have been Katsumi’s womb-brother – stocky and solid, an ownership tattoo scrawled on his neck. His almond-shaped eyes studied Bindiya a moment, a flick-flick-flick of rapid-fire assessment before his gaze shifted to Katsumi. His face was expressionless. “I am Shigemitsu,” he said, giving Katsumi a miniscule bow.

Something clicked unpleasantly inside Bindiya’s head. No! Not now! was all the thought that Bindiya had time for before her vision exploded in a shower of crimson and black. She was surrounded by water; her screams were nothing but a stream of silver-tinged bubbles bursting out of her mouth. Liquid filled her burning lungs. She clawed at the yielding darkness without affect. A cherubic girl’s face appeared, the eyes open and staring into hers. The girl’s lips parted and a voice breathed, “Charles…” The name echoed and re-echoed in the vault of her mind, weirdly distorted by a train-whistle screech that grew in intensity until she was deafened by the skull-splitting noise and the pain it caused.

After a stomach-wrenching free-fall moment, Bindiya snapped back to the present to find Katsumi kneeling over her, a hand pressing on her belly. The sensation of insects marching in formation over her skin – hay foot! straw foot! – meant that her Emptiness-of-Forms tattoo had been activated. When she raised her own hand, she saw the ink characters scrolling and settling into place. Bindiya smiled up at the grim-faced Katsumi, ready to offer a reassurance, and saw the other ninja glide into her field of vision, his bland face appearing over Katsumi’s shoulder like a satellite moon. Before she could utter the scream that was building in her throat, Katsumi whirled around and attacked.

It was more than likely that the passengers witnessing the two ninjas fight had never seen anything close to the whirlwind combat that was almost too fast for the eye to follow. Katsumi and Shigemitsu exchanged blows, flowing together and breaking apart, two grey shadows that seemed too soft to inflict damage until they paused and one saw the forming bruises, the trickles of blood. Katsumi upped the stakes by whipping her ninjato from its scabbard; after a brief hesitation, Shigemitsu did the same. People who had remained close to the battle zone suddenly found an excellent reason to back away and press against the walls, giving the ninjas room to maneuver.

Bindiya climbed to her feet, watching in horror, not daring to interfere. Light rippled along the raised ninjato blades held by Katsumi and Shigemitsu. The two opponents circled each other, making minute shifts in their stances. Shigemitsu slid his tabi-clad foot forward two inches; Katsumi twisted her wrist to present the edge of her blade. He countered with a twitch of his shoulders. This subtle dance continued for several minutes, then suddenly Shigemitsu sheathed his sword and bowed to Katsumi. The bow was in the degree of equals. Katsumi returned the gesture. The ninjas walked away from each other, Katsumi returning to Bindiya while Shigemitsu insouciantly shouldered his way through the crowd.

“What was that?” Bindiya asked, grabbing Katsumi’s upper arm and dabbing at a cut on the smaller woman’s cheek with the sleeve of her kahmeez. The cut was already closing, the blood visibly clotting, but Bindiya had to suppress the inclination to fuss.

“Shigemitsu belongs to the Nokia corporation,” Katsumi said, re-sheathing her ninjato. She gave the lingering rubber-neckers a baleful glance, and the crowd dissipated. “He was testing me, to see if independence had affected my skill.”

“He knew my name!” Bindiya said, dropping her voice to a sotto voce whisper.

“That is not surprising. He recognized you from the Department of Order notices.” Katsumi straightened her rumpled gi. She pressed the heel of her palm onto the activation point on Bindiya’s belly, and the tattoo receded. “Your disguise was meant to fool casual examination, not an in-depth cranial-facial analysis. But Shigemitsu was no threat to you; had I believed so, I would not have toyed with him.”

Bindiya remembered the fast flick of Shigemitsu’s gaze. Reaction set in and she shuddered, but her terror had not been entirely for her own sake. She was aware of the cold dampness of her blood-dappled sleeve – Katsumi’s blood, rich with recombinant DNA. The ninjas had been playing with each other, like two sibling kittens mock-brawling until the fur flew. She had been so afraid for Katsumi, and she had also suffered spiritual possession again, the impossibility of being dogged by the ghost of a living woman. Her gaze fixed on the blood, turning darker as it dried. What genetic material had the designers on Yoshitsune station chosen to blend with homo sapiens sapiens to create the ninja construct? Whatever they had done, the process had made Katsumi either more- or less-than human. Suddenly, Bindiya did not care. A wrenching need to connect to the woman consumed her, and she let out a whimper. At once, Katsumi’s hands settled on her waist, pulling Bindiya close.

She wrapped her arms around Katsumi and leaning down, buried her face against the side of the woman’s neck, her lips brushing against the ownership tattoo. Bindiya fancied that she could trace the raised pattern of ink against her mouth. Salt, plum and moss, tainted by shed blood, were the familiar smells she could detect in Katsumi’s hair and on her skin. Bindiya had loved her husband. Their marriage had been a union of two minds rather than two bodies. What she felt for Katsumi was far more confusing and complex.

There was physical attraction, of course; Bindiya had never made a secret that she shaded closer to four than two on the Kinsey scale, and Charles had accepted that part of her, just as she had accepted his predilection for work instead of pleasure, his incessant business trips, his secret projects and scientific whimsies. It had been a long time since anyone had touched her with purpose. Katsumi was strong and fit, handsome and kind to her, even if the ninja was unthinkingly violent towards everyone else. It was impossible for her not to feel an attraction, a warm flush of desire that pinked her cheeks and settled low in her belly, a surge of psycho-sexual kundalini energy generated by the serpent chakra nestled at the base of her spine. Circumstantial evidence suggested that Katsumi felt similar stirrings. Other aspects, such as the instant connection between them, the astonishing level of trust, the easy acquiescence to Katsumi’s protection and authority – these things were troublesome to Bindiya, as they seemed far more than the mere neural mechanics of romantic attraction.

Was it spawned of gratitude, this affection, or something else? Was it benign or malignant? A natural function of the mammalian brain or… Bindiya went rigid. A tantalizingly terrible glimpse of memory shivered to the forefront: Charles Li Fang sitting in front of her, his voice murmuring instructions, a strobe-flash of light in her pupils, the tug of electrodes against her scalp, the bitterness of chemicals on her tongue.

Bindiya’s fingers curled into claws.

She did not quite remember this scenario, not really; there was a dream-like quality to it that made the experience elusive rather than immediate. Bindiya concentrated but the memory faded, slipping through her metaphorical fingers as if crafted of mist and retreating back into her subconscious. The accompanying sense-memory was even more disturbing; she could swear that she smelled the antiseptic tang of alcohol, could feel the spike of coldness as a needle slid into the vein in her inner elbow. She squeezed her eyelids shut and let Katsumi assume more of her weight. The stocky woman shifted her stance to accommodate without hesitation or complaint, holding Bindiya against the solidness of her body.

Bindiya wondered what Charles had done to her. He had specialized in bio-programming,– altering the workings of the human mind, from the highly specialized cerebral cortex to the deeper, murkier functions of the limbic system. Strangely, the thought did not cause alarm. When Bindiya probed at this new idea with the caution of testing a suspect tooth, the semi-expected pain of betrayal did not come. If Charles had tinkered with her mind, it was in her best interests. She trusted his motives.

Love could be quantified, after all, as no flight of poetic fancy but as measurable activity in the right ventral tegmental and prefrontal cortex areas of the brain, and attachment was driven by the hormones vasopressin and oxytocin. It was a natural function of the human animal. She loved Charles; she also loved Katsumi. There was no conflict. For a heartbeat, she thought she heard her husband’s voice telling her the same thing.

She was calm now, the reward signal of dopamine flooding her mid-brain with pleasure as a result of her acceptance. Bindiya dismissed further speculation as unproductive; dwelling on conspiracy – whether or not the conspiracy actually existed – would only drive her increasingly towards obsession, compulsion and eventual madness as her mind spiraled endlessly in an ouroboros of paranoia.

“Why did my husband liberate you?” she asked Katsumi, shuffling back a little and loosening her embrace.

Katsumi shrugged a shoulder. “He did not tell me.” She seemed unconcerned. “Does the song-bird ask why the cage door has been opened?”

Bindiya frowned. “He must have had a reason. Charles wasn’t an abolitionist or a Right-to-Freedom activist. He was a proponent of cloning, laboratory constructs and recombinant DNA research and development.”

Again, Katsumi shrugged. “Perhaps he relished the challenge.”

“Could he…” Bindiya paused, unsure if she ought to continue this line of questioning. Was Katsumi’s emancipation an experiment in how a construct might fare when deprived of her core programming and let loose in a world of contradictions, chaos and strife? Bindiya abandoned her inquiry. Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle was at work here; if she tried to grasp the truth, she would never understand it because the act of grasping itself would alter the truth in ways she could not predict. Her husband might be revealed as a cold-blooded manipulator who treated sentient beings like laboratory rats, instead of a good man who wanted the best for his test subjects. “Never mind,” Bindiya said.

Resolute, her insides quivering, Bindiya bent her head and kissed Katsumi, their mouths meeting in a movement that was fraught with awkwardness but also grace. She savored the sweetness of the lips beneath hers, then broke the kiss before Katsumi could respond and stepped onto the escalator that led further into the upper tiers of the pod. She was comforted by the unseen but nevertheless detectable solid presence of Katsumi behind her, close enough to touch. Fondness made a weight in her heart, and Bindiya sighed.

***

Located at Earth-Moon LaGrange point IV, approximately 384,000 kilometers from the moon itself and possessing a stable eighty-nine day orbit, Penthesilea station was a habitat wheel floating in the blackness between the stars. A laser ‘broom’ thrust out at the top and bottom of the hub, the beam sweeping the space around the wheel and the big solar collectors tethered to it to destroy micro-asteroids and debris. Penthesilea was unique among the other space stations in that it was not corporate-owned and/or government funded but the sole property of the founder, Molly Gattopardo Jane, heir of the mighty Jane shipping empire.

Katsumi kept herself open to the flood of new information that assaulted her senses as she preceded Bindiya through the Customs/Immigration section of the station’s dock. She was also keenly aware of the woman behind her. Bindiya had kissed her, and Katsumi was not sure how she ought to respond to that overture. Aggressively? Tenderly? She felt a protective affection for the woman but Bindiya’s feelings seemed stronger, more geared towards physical passion. Katsumi had no experience at ‘love’ – it was a null concept that required further study – but she supposed it would not be difficult to give Bindiya whatever she needed. In fact, she thought the attempt would make an interesting challenge.

The Tao Te Ching of Master Lao-Tzo said: Embracing Tao, you become embraced. Supple, breathing gently, you become reborn. Clearing your vision, you become clear. Nurturing your beloved, you become impartial. Opening your heart, you become accepted. Accepting the World, you embrace Tao. Bearing and nurturing, creating but not owning, giving without demanding, controlling without authority. This is love.

The few male visitors were shuffled off to the Sequestery, a small part of the station set aside for those burdened with an XY chromosome pair. Like the ancient women warrior’s nation, Penthesilea welcomed females only; the exceptions were eunuchs and the volunteers of Heavenly Greenpeace who served crew rotations on the old Rainbow Yong, trundling around the Earth-Moon-L4 route to clean up space trash that was hazardous to navigation.

Katsumi gave her corporate registration/importation visa to the Customs official and put her hand over the scanning plate, registering the barely-there pinprick as a hair-fine needle took a sample of her blood for DNA testing. The process of verifying her identity and sex took only a moment. The official pursed her lips and added holographic stamp on Katsumi’s visa, adding the proviso that ‘the goods in question were of a volatile nature.’ Katsumi stood aside and waited for Bindiya to present her falsified passport.

Once Bindiya had been cleared for entry, the two women consulted a map and took the people-mover to their hotel in Spoke Three, near Central Control in the hub. Katsumi was surprised at the amount of plant life inside the station: dark vines spilling over the hotel’s façade, tubs with miniature fruit trees lining the boulevard, blossoms everywhere, even circles and diamonds of green turf. Many of the women she saw were dressed in tunics that bared a breast, and most had flower wreaths on their heads. Some carried pinecone-topped thyrsus and wore leopard skins – likely tourists taking advantage of scheduled bacchanals and gyno-centric therapies designed to put them in touch with their ‘inner Amazons.’ None of them could have posed a serious threat to her or Bindiya, but Katsumi remained on her guard.

Their hotel was human-free, run entirely by hospitality ‘bots, which made for eerie silences but ultra-efficient service. Bindiya was unnaturally pale, but once they were in the room she tossed her spectacles in the recycling bin, marched over to Katsumi and pressed a kiss against her mouth. Katsumi sensed Bindiya’s anxiety, the thrum of nerves, the faint sheen of sweat that glazed her skin. Opening her lips to the tip of Bindiya’s tongue, she took hold of the woman’s wrist, rubbing her thumb between the ulna and pisiform bones at the shen men meridian to transmit energy to the heart. Bindiya let out a moan and pressed closer. Her free hand wandered, seeking Katsumi’s flesh. Katsumi catalogued the sensations for later analysis even as she reciprocated, following Bindiya’s lead.

The communications unit chimed. Bindiya shoved Katsumi away seconds before a holographic figure appeared in the center of the carpet. Katsumi allowed herself to surrender to momentum and fall back onto the bed. From the flaming embarrassment on Bindiya’s face, one might think she had been caught masturbating. Since the ninja was legally classified as an object, that was a fairly good analogy, and she found it amusing enough to want to share the observation with Bindiya when they were in private once more.

“Chem Bhattacharya, welcome back to Penthesilea station,” said the hologram, a red-haired woman with an athletic build and a bulldog jaw.

Bindiya’s bafflement was no show. “I’ve never been here before,” she said.

The woman frowned. Her face took on the far-away expression of one who was sub-vocalizing commands and receiving information via a subdermal transceiver implant. “Our records show that you were granted entry into the station six months ago with your co-mate, Dr. Charles Li Fang,” she said, smiling ever-so-slightly.

“You must be mistaken,” Bindiya replied. She was showing signs of renewed anxiety. Katsumi rose from the bed, responding to a threat not yet realized.

“I can show you the relevant documents and files, however it isn’t my purpose to open a debate. Chem Jane wishes to see you.”

Bindiya’s eyes widened. “I don’t… are you certain she wants to see me?”

“Yes. Will this evening at 1900 hours suit? A dinner engagement, followed by an audience with chem Jane. An escort will be provided to the House of the Ax, as well as formal attire if required.” For the first time, the woman’s gaze wandered to Katsumi.

“I’ll be waiting.” Bindiya seemed to regain some measure of confidence. “I think I can take care of my own attire. Please thank chem Jane on my behalf for her kind invitation.”

The holograph winked out, leaving a golden labrys sign hanging in the air before it, too, faded out in an ozone crackle. Katsumi waited a moment before turning to Bindiya, who was looking thoughtful. An audience with Molly Gattopardo Jane was a rare opportunity, a privilege over which the obscenely wealthy would sell their cryo-preserved grandmothers, and rabid journalistas would crawl over broken glass. Katsumi cared nothing for Chem Jane except as she may/may not relate to Bindiya. The claim that Bindiya had visited Penthesilea station six months previously was worth investigating.

Before that could happen, however, she had to take Bindiya shopping.

Bindiya did not care to inquire too closely as to where Katsumi’s seemingly inexhaustible credit resources had originated. She was only glad that credit appeared to be no object. When they entered the exclusive Golden Girdle haute couture salon, the sales clerks lofted their noses into the air, deeming Bindiya’s vaisya persona unworthy of their attention. That changed the moment Katsumi discreetly passed a credit chip to the chief clerk, whose purple sequined brow ridges shot up to her artificially lowered hairline at the amount of zeroes in the chip’s readout. Suddenly, Bindiya felt the weight of a dozen speculative gazes upon her. The sensation was, she imagined, akin to being a juicy chunk of Kobe beef dangled before a school of hungry piranha.

“Eep,” Bindiya breathed just before the clerks descended en masse, their eyes gleaming with a fervor borne of fifteen percent sales commissions. The glance saying ‘oh, please, for the love of Shakti, help me’ that she threw Katsumi went unanswered. The traitorous ninja simply backed away and left her to her fate.

The sonic exfoliator was ticklish but left Bindiya feeling cleaner than she had in her entire life, as well as several kilos lighter (although she was certain that was an exaggeration). It really was appalling how much dead skin was carried on the body, and how much dirt was engrained in that skin! Stylists were hastily summoned to take care of Bindiya’s hair, toenails, fingernails and cosmetics. Gowns were applied and rejected. Finally, after several hours of concentrated effort, Bindiya was led to a mirror to view the finished product.

She did not recognize herself. Her make-up was dramatic, big kohl-rimmed eyes and an airbrushed wave curling up from the lower half of her face; the rest of her skin was luminous, an effect achieved with a gilt cream whose cost had made her suck air through her teeth. A length of gauzy Madagascar spider-silk was wrapped sarong-style under her armpits, falling to the tips of her sandals. Holo-projectors on ankle bracelets created realistic-seeming swaths of clouds around her feet. The final touch was a gold crown that reminded Bindiya of a Babylonian ziggurat, with fresh flowers poking through the sides and top.

In the meantime, Katsumi had purchased an ash gray kimono with a subtle silver pattern of gossamer-tailed koi, which she wore paired with stiff-legged black hakama. Her hair was dressed with chamomile oil and pulled back from her face in a tea-whisk style topknot. The ninjato in its scabbard was thrust through her black-and-gray checked obi, the hilt conveniently at hand. Next to Bindiya’s finery, Katsumi appeared grim, a harbinger of efficient death rather than frivolity – a battle raven to Bindiya’s glistening peacock.

The promised transport arrived at 1830, a remote-controlled electric car that carried them both hub-wise on the public transport system, through a number of security checks to the Jane mansion, a multi-level building that resembled a corkscrew. The uppermost part of the building thrust towards the domed hub itself, terminating in a private elevator linking Molly Jane and her employees to Penthesilea station’s vital Control and Command Center.

They were met at the door by a chimera that appeared to have undergone serious genetic engineering of the sort that had been popular fifty years previous. The result was a vaguely potato-sack shaped primate about five feet tall whose arms that seemed twice as long, big hands resting knuckle-down on the floor. Tufts of bright red hair peeked out of the collar and cuffs of its tuxedo jacket. Tiny brown eyes surveyed Bindiya, then shifted to Katsumi and back again. “Be welcome, chem,” it said in a grating voice. Bindiya noticed a clump of something green between its prominent incisors. “On behalf of Molly Gattopardo Jane, be welcome to the House of the Ax,” it continued, shuffling aside to let Bindiya and Katsumi enter. The chimera’s feet were big and hairless, the toes clearly prehensile. Contrary to expectation, it smelled like strawberries and freshly mown hay.

Something butted into her leg, momentarily interrupting the projected clouds around her feet and making her stumble. Katsumi’s hand on her arm prevented Bindiya from falling. Regaining her balance, Bindiya glance down and saw a miniature elephant, complete with tusks that had been capped with gold sleeves. The knee-high pachyderm raised its trunk, flapped its ears and blatted angrily at her. Their chimerical guide ignored it and walked on; Bindiya and Katsumi followed suit.

The mansion’s entrance hall was huge, the ceiling held up with plascrete columns that had been molded and painted to resemble the columns of Knossos Palace on Crete. There were display cabinets everywhere, showcasing an unbelievable collection of embroidered silk lotus shoes, each pair just a few inches long and made for bound feet - the much-admired san tsun gin lian that had cost tens of thousands of girls untold agonies in the past. As if to continue the theme of suffering, lachrymosal madamu butterflies beat their huge wings against gilded cage bars, their iridescent bodies shedding strings of nectar-tears. Fanged orchids bloomed in unexpected places, snapping at unwary visitors. Bindiya skittered on her sandals, grateful for Katsumi’s silent presence amid this place of wonders and grotesqueries.

A high-speed transport tube led them up uncountable levels. The strawberry/hay scent of the chimera increased the higher they rose. It had not spoken again but hummed a tune deep in its throat, resting on its knuckles and occasionally casting glances at Katsumi and Bindiya from the corners of its eyes. At last, the tube glided to a stop, the doors opened, and the women exited in the middle of a chukka of elephant polo.

The miniature beasts thundered across the red stone floor, ridden by capuchin monkeys in jockey silks. Each elephant was bedecked in jeweled trappings, their tusks capped like the one Bindiya had run into downstairs. The monkey jockey perched on each saddle wielded a mallet in one hand and a silver ankus elephant goad in the other. Several dozen fantastically dressed people stood around the ‘playing field’ watching, applauding and groaning, exchanging credit chips or other goods as wagers were won or lost. Bindiya hesitated, unsure where to go or whom to seek.

A young blonde woman approached. She seemed no more than seventeen years old, simply dressed in a bronze-colored cheong sam that ended at mid-thigh, exposing a long length of coltish leg. “Welcome to my home,” she said, inclining her head. She wore a string of polished garnets around her throat, and a cloth bandeau held back her mane of blonde hair. “Thank you, Darwin, you may go,” she said to the chimera, who knuckle-walked away.

Bindiya stared, nonplused. Molly Gattopardo Jane was in her seventies. Gene therapy, cloned organ transplants, surgery, stem cells and other elective medical treatments could only do so much. Realizing that she was being rude, Bindiya bowed in return, although her mind was a-whirl with questions that were too impolite to ask. Another roar came from the crowd as an elephant slipped on a ‘steaming divot’ and skidded out-of-control, bowling over a gentleman who was wearing a tiny gilt loin-guard and nothing else.

“Let’s chat somewhere else,” Molly offered. “It’s a bit noisy in here.” She paused, and looked at Katsumi. “Do you know Momoko?”

“Momoko-san is a construct ninja belonging to Jane’s Shipping Incorporated,” Katsumi replied.

“I asked her about you. She had nothing to say. I found that odd.”

Katsumi hunched a shoulder fractionally.

Undeterred, Molly went on, “Did Dr. Li Fang buy your contract from Yoshitsune International? I had no idea he was independently wealthy.”

Again, Katsumi made a non-committal shrug.

“Well, let’s go,” Molly said after a heartbeat. Her expression did not alter, but it was clear to Bindiya that the old woman in the girl’s body was annoyed by Katsumi’s refusal to engage in a dialogue. She took them down a corridor that angled upward, a gradual incline that nevertheless made Bindiya’s calves ache after about ten minutes of steady walking. The walls were painted with a trompe l’oeil mural of windows open to a landscape of blue skies, humped green hills and rolling lead-gray surf. Molly opened a door and ushered them inside a room whose ceiling, floor and walls were coated with a weird shifting soap-bubble slick that was trapped behind seamless slabs of polycarbonate.

“One of our R&D teams created this beauty based on a bacteria strain an exploration team found on Phobos in the Stickney crater,” Molly said, pressing the flat of her hand against one of the clear polycarbonate covered walls. Shockingly, as if it was aware of her proximity, the slick stuff lunged against the barrier, more of it draining from other regions of the room and pooling towards the place where Molly’s palm was pressed.

“Quite vicious, isn’t it?” she asked, giving the surging liquid a fond smile. “And the Mathmos is highly acidic as well. A tablespoon will eat its way through organic matter – say, something the size of an average human – in less than a minute. It digested most of a fully staffed laboratory before we could get it contained. This is the only example in existence, and it’s always hungry. I’ve heard rumors that I feed my enemies to the Mathmos, but that would be foolish. The more it eats, the bigger it grows. If that was true, I’d need a containment facility the size of this station. And for all my faults, ladies, I am never foolish.”

Bindiya stiffened, certain that she was being warned in a round-about manner, but unsure what she was being warned against. Katsumi took the half-step necessary to interpose her body between Bindiya and Molly, as though she regarded the long-legged, blonde-curled Molly more seriously as a threat than the slick appetite of the Mathmos that was battering itself against the polycarbonate that sheathed the room.

Molly wrinkled her nose and widened her eyes in a way that was reminiscent of naughty anime schoolgirls. She almost, but not quite, used the edge of her hand to flip her hair back over her shoulder. The gesture turned into a slash through the air. “Enough digression,” she said. “Chem Bhattacharya, I wanted to offer my condolences on the death of your husband, Dr. Li Fang. He was a brilliant scientist.”

“Thank you, chem Jane.” It was all Bindiya could think of to say.

“He was invaluable in assisting me with a project dear to my own heart.” Molly’s glance turned coy, as if she was expecting a certain reaction from Bindiya.

For a moment, Bindiya was tempted to pretend she knew exactly what Molly was hinting at. “Actually, I’ve been… ill since Charles’ death,” she said. “I don’t remember being here six months ago, nor do I have access to his private files. Whether my memory returns or not cannot be determined.”

The coyness turned to granite. “Do you remember chopping him apart with a knife?”

Shocked by the rudeness, Bindiya gaped. Molly smirked unpleasantly; it was apparent that she was enjoying playing her nasty little game. Katsumi said nothing but her actions spoke more loudly than words. To Bindiya’s horror, she drew her ninjato in a single smooth movement and without hesitation, struck the polycarbonate shield that covered the wall.

Bindiya was grabbed and shoved out of the door just as a star-shaped crack appeared. The crack lengthened jaggedly towards the floor, accompanied by the crisp snapping sounds. A thick mother-of-pearl shimmering bead of the Mathmos oozed through, a slow but steady intrusion. Molly’s pretty seventeen-year old face turned ugly in distress. Katsumi pushed the woman through the door and slammed it shut behind her, trapping the Mathmos inside and preventing it from escaping into the corridor.

Molly leaned a hip against the painted wall. After a moment during which she was clearly regaining her composure, she said, “I’ll have to have nanites injected into the room to effect repairs. Very inconvenient.”

“More inconvenient,” Katsumi said evenly, “if I had left you in there.”

“Point taken.” Molly stared at Katsumi, then shook her head and smiled, turning her attention to Bindiya. “Penthesilea station does not have extradition treaties with Earth or any of her subsidiary colonies, so you needn’t worry about an arrest warrant being executed during your stay. Shall we go to dinner? I’m famished! I hear Cook’s made gazpacho.” She turned and walked away while a confused Bindiya gazed after her, feeling as if she had somehow taken a tumble down a rabbit hole.

***

Master Miyamoto Musashi said: Under the sword lifted high there is hell making you tremble, but go ahead and you have the land of bliss.

Katsumi’s instincts told her that Molly Gattopardo Jane was hiding something; she sensed this in the same way that she could have sensed a wound festering beneath a pristine bandage. There was the same barely detectible whiff of rot, the suspicion that something awful was lurking out of sight. Further, she had not liked the woman’s veiled threat in the room that had contained the Mathmos; it had seemed that Molly was warning them that she had the power to make her ‘enemies’ disappear, so it was best to stay friends and give Molly whatever she wanted. In return, Katsumi had given Molly a reminder of why it was not wise to threaten a ninja. Perhaps her response had been a trifle extravagant, but wealthy high-riders like chem Jane did not often appreciate subtlety. Katsumi supposed that Molly now comprehended that any attempt to harm Bindiya would result in abrupt termination

The day following their dinner at the House of the Ax (which had been dragonfly curry rather than gazpacho, served al fresco on a balcony with another hundred or so diners; Molly had ignored them throughout, making it clear that their interview was over) Katsumi tapped into the station’s database. She coaxed the hotel’s computer deck into making a info-dump about the religious community that Esperanza Serjee belonged to – the Order of Tanit, which claimed to be able to trace its origin to ancient Carthage.

“The high priestess is called Tophet,” Katsumi said aloud, kneeling on the floor in front of the deck. The VR goggles did not quite cover her entire eye; from out of the corner, she could see a naked Bindiya sprawled over the bed, watching a soap opera on the 3D set. The curve of Bindiya’s buttocks was interesting, a study in sacred geometry that would not have shamed one of the celestial maidens carved in the stones of Khajuraho temple. Katsumi returned the bulk of her attention to the information scrolling on the goggle lenses.

Bindiya clicked off the 3D set and rolled over, sitting up on the bed with her feet crossed over her thighs lotus-style. “Tanit… a lunar fertility goddess, one of the chief deities of Carthage,” she said. “Tanit was likely the equivalent of Astarte, the Great Mother Goddess of the ancient Near East. The tophet was a sacred precinct where still-born children and children who died in early infancy were ‘given back’ to Tanit and Ba’al Hammon, her consort – the parents making an offering of the child’s cremated remains in the hope that the gods would provide a replacement. There are other, darker interpretations, of course.”

“The Order of Tanit is privately funded,” Katsumi said. “There are sister chapters on Earth, but the mother temple is based on Penthesilea station. The Order’s function seems to be charitable; they run low-cost crèches and adopt abandoned or unwanted children. Each transport run, a female child is imported to the station from Earth and taken to the temple where she receives culture-appropriate care and education.” Katsumi plugged a second set of VR goggles into the deck and handed them to Bindiya, so that the other woman could experience the data-flow herself.

They watched a half-hour propaganda film about the Order of Tanit. At the end, Bindiya slid the goggles off her face and into her hair. “Somehow, I don’t believe…” she began, and stuttered to a halt as her eyes glazed over. Her muscles began to jerk.

By now, Katsumi had become familiar with the signs of possession. She ripped off her own goggles and flowed onto the bed, reaching for Bindiya’s belly where the nano-tattoo’s activation point was marked by a small dark brown dot. Bindiya was in a full-blown grand mal seizure, her whole body drawn tight, her spine arched like a bow, her eyes rolled back to show the whites. Bindiya’s lips were drawn back nearly to the angle of her jaw. Flecks of foam dotted her cheeks. Katsumi pressed the activation point, watching as text scrolled into being on Bindiya’s skin, the Emptiness of Forms sutra called Hannya-Shin-Kyo. The deep flat drone of the sutra rolled through her head, as if chanted by a thousand-shrine monk:

Bu Setsu Ma Ka Han Nya Ha Ra Mi Ta Shin Kyo Kan Ji Sai Bo Sa Gyo Jin Han Nya Ha Ra Mi Ta Ji…

Bindiya gasped, sweat pouring off her. She stank, but it was not the rank stench of fear or illness. Katsumi expanded her sense of smell. It was something charred and smoky, like burning spices, that was mingled with a sharp sour tang which she could not identify. Bindiya relaxed muscle by muscle, letting out a long sigh, until she finally lay flat on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Katsumi knew how distressing it was for Bindiya when her consciousness was invaded by hostile energies. An urge to nurture caused an unfamiliar ache in her chest. She shifted until she could put her thumbs under Bindiya’s skull, one on either side the spinal column, and applied gentle pressure. After several minutes, Bindiya sighed again and rolled over on her side, resting her head on Katsumi’s thigh. The tattoo disappeared from her skin, deactivated by Bindiya herself.

“I saw a bronze statue of a woman,” Bindiya said, her voice subdued, “so huge I could not see the face; it was too high above me and hidden in shadows. A fire burned inside the statue, but it wasn’t really fire. It was more like water, but it wasn’t.” Her expression reflected her frustration at being unable to articulate precisely what she had been shown. “Priestesses were putting children into the fire but they weren’t being consumed. They were still alive, and the fire was siphoning the life out of them…”

Katsumi did not understand the significance of Bindiya’s vision but she did not press for further details. The woman looked exhausted; there were purple stains beneath her eyes that had not been there before. Even with the protection of the sutra, each instance of possession was draining her strength, her vital ki energy. Katsumi wondered if it might not be better to leave Penthesilea and forget Esperanza Serjee. Bindiya could go to a lamasery in Tibet or to the haven of Shambhala station at LaGrange III to have herself purged of evil by red-hat nyimgmapa magics. Even as the idea occurred to her, she rejected it as unlikely to be successful. This living yurei would not cease haunting Bindiya until it had whatever it wanted. An exorcism would provide only a temporary fix.

“What don’t you believe?” Katsumi asked, recalling what Bindiya had begun to say before the attack, but the other woman had fallen asleep, her breathing heavy, her hand curled over Katsumi’s leg.

She waited until Bindiya had progressed into stage four delta sleep, then Katsumi extracted herself deftly from the woman’s grip, covered her with a blanket, and donned the VR goggles again, settling cross-legged in front of the computer deck. Entering the search terms Carthage, Tanit and child sacrifice, she watched the data-stream turn into a torrent.

When Bindiya woke up, Katsumi handed her a T-shirt with the legend ‘I Stuck My Finger in a Dyke at Spaarndam’ and pale blue cotton drawstring pants. “We have an appointment at the Order of Tanit’s headquarters,” she said, watching Bindiya get dressed.

“To see Esperanza Serjee?” Bindiya asked, bending over to pull on a pair of intelligent ankle boots that adjusted themselves to fit her foot.

“Perhaps.” Katsumi was being deliberately cagey. There was no actual appointment; in fact, the temple spokeswoman she had spoken to over the communication system had been quite hostile to the idea of visitors, which only increased Katsumi’s curiosity as well as her determination. Anyone who attempted to stop them would meet her sword or her fist; both were equally lethal, therefore the afternoon promised to be interesting. She looked forward to the exercise. Bindiya was gazing at her with narrow suspicious eyes, so Katsumi continued, “First, we must speak to the Tophet.”

There were no private transports on Penthesilea except those belonging to Molly Jane and her corporation, so Katsumi opted for the public mass transit people-mover. To save space – always at a premium – the magnetic levitation system ran on tracks built on the outside of the station. There were bubble-shaped transport cars sheathed in a protective layer of frictionless material that shielded the occupants from solar winds and radiation. Each car housed up to twelve passengers; the one that Katsumi chose was unoccupied. The moment the doors shut and the car began gliding on its track, Bindiya turned to her.

“We don’t really have an appointment, do we?” she asked.

“No, we do not.” Katsumi saw no point in further deception. She decided to reveal some of the information she had gleaned from the station’s database and from an uplink to the Earth-side ‘Net. “You and Dr. Li Fang did visit Penthesilea six months ago at chem Jane’s invitation. There is surveillance vid which confirms this fact. I cannot learn much regarding the reason for your visit, except it had something to do with the Order of Tanit.”

Behind Bindiya’s head, a flatscreen was projecting ad-blurts at full subliminal speed, images that came and went too quickly for even her enhanced vision to distinguish. She looked away, but not before something clicked inside her head. Her subconscious mind was flooded with information. Crimson light flared; her heartbeat stuttered, the semai or hesitant pulse that caused an unpleasant sensation under her skin, as if her bones were bamboo being scraped with a knife. An inner spark flared.

Bindiya’s face was weirdly elongated, her mouth open in a stretched oval that revealed teeth and tongue. Katsumi registered the cold greasy-feeling sweat that coated her skin, along with an odor very much like freshly spilled blood – hot, rank and sweet. The smell filled her nostrils, turning active thought into white noise.

For the first time in her existence, Katsumi lost control.

***

Bindiya tried to regulate her breathing but it was difficult. There was a ball gag in her mouth, and her arms and legs pinioned by artistically twined and knotted nylon rope. Panic fluttered in her stomach; acid reflux scorched her throat. She was terrified that she might vomit. If she did, she would choke. There was a sore spot on the side of her head, behind her ear, where she thought someone had struck her. It was the last thing she remembered until she had woken up in a strange room, bound and gagged.

The room seemed ordinary enough, a modest bedchamber decorated in blues and greens, very restful and calming. A fish tank on top of a plastic dresser held colorful guppies and water weeds. The bubbly sound of the aerator would have been soothing under other circumstances. Bindiya flexed against her bonds to no avail. She closed her eyes, willing her muscles to relax, hoping to avoid painful cramps. Where was Katsumi? The ninja would never leave her voluntarily, that was certain. The only explanation that made sense was that Katsumi was dead. Her throat was tight and aching. Tears threatened, and Bindiya sniffed them back fiercely; getting a stuffy nose now would be tantamount to suicide.

Katsumi!

They had been alone in the transport bubble, she was sure of it. She must be missing memories. The result of head trauma? It was possible. Her heart chakra was in the throes of a far worse agony, the clear green energies turned murky with grief. She felt like she was hemorrhaging on the inside, a melancholy bleed-out for which there was no treatment. Wet trails of saliva slipped out of the corners of her mouth, held open by the rubber ball. If it was possible, she would have screamed out loud. The gods were absent, the etheric planes desolate and there she was, trussed for sacrifice with only her bitterness to keep her company, shaken to the depths of her soul. The pain of losing her husband was still raw; to add Katsumi’s loss put Bindiya in a place of jagged-toothed darkness from which there was no escape.

Bindiya loved Katsumi, and now Katsumi was gone.

An indeterminate amount of time passed.

Without warning, the door opened.

A Japanese woman stood on the threshold. She wore ash gray gi and her neck bore the ownership tattoo of a construct ninja. Her flat face was impassive. “I am Momoko,” she said.

Bindiya closed her eyes. Her defenses, paper-thin at best since the madness had begun, were torn to shreds. Grief was too heavy. She could fight no more.

She let herself fall into oblivion.

***

It was all she had ever known, this regimented interior landscape.

Katsumi processed information the way she had been programmed. Her womb-mind had received the foundations of structure, then later, she had been taught to learn and to obey. She was used to the sensation of a previously unguessed-at seed blossoming inside her mind, growing to fruition and bringing with it change. This time, however, the change had been unwelcome, the alterations done crudely but effectively. She had been imprisoned inside her own mind, a hapless passenger bearing witness to her body’s hijacking by the bio-software virus that had ambushed her on the transport bubble.

Molly Gattopardo Jane’s doing, she thought, unable to control her body but still capable of experiencing the stream of data picked up by her senses. Katsumi’s vision scanned the entrance hall where she was standing, taking in the lotus shoes, the orchids, the butterflies and their nectar tears. The sound of people chatting and laughing came from nearby. She presumed Bindiya was in the House of the Ax as well. Katsumi had not been able to halt the viral download into her brain but the program had not used her as a weapon to kill Bindiya, just to incapacitate the other woman and bring her to the mansion.

Katsumi’s consciousness had been rendered redundant. Unlike other times in her life, she found the prospect disquieting.

Does the tool question its master?

The answer came to her in a flash, an insight that was as enlightening as polishing a tile to make a mirror - it does when the tool has a choice.

With that revelation, Katsumi chose to embrace the independence that Charles Li Fang had forced upon her. In a burst of self-discovery, she realized that she had been drifting since her escape from Yoshitsune. Finding a place with the Sinsemilla and accepting assassination jobs had been a way of marking time, treading water until… what? Until a new set of instructions was downloaded into her psyche. Until someone else took control and gave direction to her life. Charles Li Fang might have de-programmed and re-programmed her, but he had not given her a purpose. Or had he? It did not matter. Bindiya was her purpose, Katsumi decided. She would save Bindiya or she would avenge her. Perhaps she would do both. The future lay ahead, and it was full of choices.

Never had she felt so liberated, even if she was imprisoned.

Struggling against the program availed her nothing. Katsumi was a born killer, but fighting the mind virus was like wrestling with sorghum molasses. Confronting the thing that had imprisoned her only entangled her more deeply in its snares. Unlike the Sinsemilla, she did not have interface sockets that permitted her direct neural access to cyberspace, but she had listened to descriptions of the experience from hackers, the anti-hero console cowboys of the urban Sprawls. They had spoken of black ice, security countermeasures programs that could flat-line an intruder’s EEG and cause permanent brain damage. The virus that had invaded her was not as deadly as that but it was equally implacable.

Master Sun Tzu said: To win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the highest skill. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the highest skill.

Accordingly, Katsumi stopped fighting the bonds that secured her and concentrated instead, marshalling her forces. The virus manifested itself to her inner eye as rough-hewn stones held together with a strong mortar. Her legs were encased to the thigh in stone, as were her arms, leaving her spread-eagled in place. She recalled former lessons piped directly into her memory, the voice of a long-dead sensei’s preserved personality, uploaded to an AI node. Embrace the Void, the mushin-no-michi – the state of no-mind, where conscious volition gave way to the instinctive reaction of ingrained skills. Katsumi flexed her mental muscles carefully and deliberately, testing her bonds, seeking weaknesses in the viral structure.

There was a flaw in the virus’ design, she discovered; a crack in its defenses. Katsumi sidled to the wall, millimeter by millimeter, her non-existent ‘body’ more flexible than mere flesh. The language of bio-programming was dense, as rich as a Viennese torte. Strings of code dazzled her inner vision. Katsumi was no wetware wizard but she understood enough to begin the process of freeing herself. As she began to pry into the crack, the virus defended itself by sending pulses along her neural pathways that were interpreted by her thalamus and somatosensory cortex as pain.

The pain increased exponentially the more she attempted to infiltrate the virus. It felt as though she was on fire, the flames eating her skin, consuming the flesh beneath. Her body was blackened and crisped; smoke filled her vision and the taste of ashes filled her mouth. Katsumi continued, ignoring the agony that sang along every nerve. She persevered, aligning herself with the wall that blocked her from bodily control. Katsumi pressed herself against the stones. Freedom was a matter of integration rather than resistance.

Whatever rises must fall. Whatever lives must die.

She had to allow the virus to pass over her and through her but it was difficult. Too difficult, Katsumi found as the adaptive program shifted around her. She sought another way and found it in a protocol nestled in the code. Whoever had hacked her mind had left certain safeguards in place within the virus, confirming that it had been hastily modified program probably intended to do something else. Katsumi’s concentration redoubled. She reached inside herself in the way she had been taught, seeking the implanted trigger.

Just as Katsumi had some degree of control over her adrenal glands – making her stronger and faster when needed - she also possessed control over her body’s autonomous cardiac and respiratory functions. Ninja constructs were always programmed with a safeword that would shut them down in the event such a drastic measure was required. Charles Li Fang had removed her implanted safeword but the trigger was still in place, hidden deep inside yet nevertheless within her virtual grasp. The virus could not prevent Katsumi from delving into the recesses of her psyche. After a moment, she found the trigger and activated it.

Master Musashi said, The Way of the Warrior is resolute acceptance of death.

Vision faded first, then hearing. She was deafened by the sound of her own faltering heartbeat, then by the silence as her pulse ceased. Katsumi was not concerned; she had accepted the Way long ago. Although blind, she saw a face floating in the darkness. It was Esperanza Serjee. The girl’s skin was too white, an unnatural pallor that was enhanced by the dark strands of her hair that snaked around her head, the tendrils waving as if stirred by a tide.

The dead-who-was-not-dead beckoned to her. Within her mind, the virus engaged a forgotten safety protocol and began to immolate itself, code-strings blazing one by one in feverish self-consumption. On a wind that smelled of scorched spices, Katsumi flew away.

***

Bindiya awoke to a different room, this one decorated in dusty chintz. The red-furred chimera Darwin was there, resting on its knuckles, watching her with its little brown eyes. Bindiya was no longer gagged, but her mouth was too dry for speech. She tried working up some spit. Darwin came closer. The slap of its bare feet against the floor made her heart clench inside her chest. She inhaled, smelling the chimera’s strawberry/hay scent; the normally pleasant odor seemed cloying now, sickeningly sweet.

It shuffled over until its face was against the side of her neck. She felt its nostrils flaring, the tickle of its fur tufts sliding on her skin. The chimera snuffled wetly. Bindiya cringed. She was tied to a wheelchair, her ankles and wrists secured with plastic ties. A drooling tongue ran along her collarbone, a velvet touch she found repulsive. The chimera’s fingers were hard and callused in strange places. Impatient, it tore at the neckline of her shirt and nuzzled her breasts. Under the tuxedo trousers, she saw the tell-tale bulge of a sexually excited male. Bindiya jerked and rocked in place, consumed by horror, trying to evade the chimera’s tongue and fingers and the hard erection it was rubbing on her thigh.

She found enough moisture in her mouth to chant a denial, “No, no, get away from me, get away! Stop!”

Molly Gattopardo Jane appeared in the doorway. “Darwin!” she scolded.

The chimera leaped away from Bindiya, making the wheelchair rock back on its wheels. Bindiya forced a scream out through her raw throat. At Molly’s scowl, the chimera grinned at her, an apprehensive baring of teeth. It reached out an impossibly long arm to snag the wheelchair and slam it back down on the floor.

“Please excuse Darwin,” Molly said, coming into the room. “He sometimes forgets to be civilized when we have company.” She reached up and stroked a fingertip across one of the garnet beads she wore strung around her throat. Darwin grunted, shivering. It fell down abruptly, keeling over into a fetal position on the floor. Tremors shook its sturdy frame. “The mind can interpret sensation as pleasure or pain,” Molly said conversationally, but her eyes absorbed the light, black holes from which no compassion could escape. “My servants are all equipped with remote access wetware that allow me to punish or reward them, as the case warrants. I find it’s a very effective management tool.”

The pungent smell of urine filled the air when the chimera lost bladder control.

Her nose wrinkled in disgust, Molly jammed her finger harder on the bead then released it, and moved aside to allow her corporate ninja Momoko to enter the room. Momoko stepped over the puddle of fluorescent yellow urine, crossed behind Bindiya and took hold of the wheelchair’s handles/ Bindiya panted, trying to regain her breath. Darwin’s saliva dried sticky and itching on her skin. She twitched all over, her fingers curled over the armrests, nails digging into the pseudo-leather. Her hair had fallen over her eyes, a welcome obscurity. Momoko trundled the wheelchair out of the room, bumping it over the threshold.

Molly crooned as they passed, “Don’t worry, chem. I’m going to take care of you.” She caressed Bindiya’s cheek with the back of her hand. It was worse than the chimera’s touch, like being corrupted by something unclean, something filthy. Bindiya resisted the impulse to snap at the long, white, smooth fingers that skittered like spiders over her face.

Momoko pushed her down the corridor, with Molly walking by the wheelchair’s side. The chimera followed on the other side, whining softly to itself. They passed door after door, always headed downwards, a seemingly endless spiral that ended at a garage where a private transport vehicle was waiting.

“Let me go,” Bindiya said, pulling on the plastic ties until her chafed wrists began to bleed. She welcomed the pain; it meant she was still alive. “Please, just let me go.”

“You’re too pretty,” Molly replied, leaning over and licking the frustrated tears that spilled from the corners of Bindiya’s eyes. “You smell good, Pretty-Pretty,” she whispered. Her breath was warm, scented with clove and cassia.

Momoko opened the transport’s gull-wing shaped door.

Molly continued to whisper, “Oh, you’re so pretty, Pretty-Pretty… I can’t wait to taste you.” Her smile was a razor blade that sliced through the ragged remains of Bindiya’s defenses.

Bindiya’s mouth opened but no sound came out, not even the merest whimper of denial. Impassive and efficient, Momoko thumbed a micro-needle patch on her neck over the carotid artery. There was no sting. The drug passed into her blood, circulating through her body with every beat of her heart. Bindiya began to feel woozy, and thought it might be a sedative but she was not sure. Her head was too heavy for her neck to support, and growing heavier by the moment, then it was light as a balloon on the end of a string. Bindiya giggled.

Molly kissed her, and she went on giggling while Momoko loaded the wheelchair into the transport.

***

The Order of Tanit’s temple was oddly shaped, a stack of rhombuses that appeared to have been carved from volcanic basalt. At the very top of the temple was huge metal dish in which holographic flames danced. By the time they reached the temple, Bindiya had stopped giggling. The drug’s effect was short-lived and left her with a nasty headache that was compounded by the clove cigarettes Molly smoked, holding each one delicately between thumb and forefinger. Smoking was forbidden on the station – naked flames of any kind were a bad idea when one lived in a vulnerable pressurized environment – but Bindiya supposed that when one owned the station in question, one felt free to break the rules. Molly Jane did not seem to be the type to care much about safety regulations anyway.

Bindiya was wheeled inside, blinking as her eyes adjusted from the brightness outside to the dimness within the temple. The floor was made of a white translucent stone that was backlit, providing soft illumination. Women wrapped in red robes, their hair covered with black scarves, walked to and fro over the glowing floor, murmuring quietly. A middle-aged female with a bulldog jaw stopped in front of the wheelchair, looking down at Bindiya, who recognized that this was the woman had contacted her and Katsumi in the ‘bot hotel.

“Is this the one?” the woman asked.

Molly nodded. “Can we use her?”

“Perhaps. We’ll do a full analysis. It will take a little while.”

“I could just…” Molly broke off and looked little-girl sly. The woman shook her head.

“If you’re incompatible, that could be a major set-back. Have patience, chem Jane. The testing won’t take that long.” The woman’s keen glance raked Molly up and down. “Is it that bad? Has the last dose worn off already?” She frowned. “It seems to be taking less and less.”

Molly snarled, “Just do the damned test!” The command sounded odd coming from an apparently teenaged girl. Nevertheless, the woman bowed her head and glided away.

The door banged open and Katsumi strode inside.

Bindiya could not believe what she was seeing. Katsumi was dead! In her heart, she was still mourning her loss, still grieving for the other woman. The gods knew she had had enough hallucinations and inexplicabilities bleeding through lately to confuse Chuang Tzu’s butterfly as to the nature of reality. This could be a dream, or it could be… “Katsumi?”

“Konnichiwa, Bindiya-san,” Katsumi replied. “Are you well?”

The question was completely incongruous given her current state. “Not entirely,” Bindiya said, striving to match the ninja’s nonchalance. “I thought you were dead.” Her diaphragm spasmed, and she choked on the last word. Relief was co-mingled with dread. Momoko had come forward and stood in front of Molly, cool murder in an ash gray gi.

Katsumi took a step forward. Her own gi was rumpled and dirty; there was a stain that looked very much like blood on one sleeve. “I have seen Esperanza Serjee,” she said, speaking to Molly. “I know what you have done.”

Molly made a moue. The expression was ill-suited to the old woman staring out of her eyes. “I know what you have done,” she mocked. “Really? You’re so clever.”

Bindiya pulled against the wrist restraints, grunting each time the plastic bit into her scored and bleeding flesh. She wanted to be free. She wanted to slap spoiled selfish Molly Gattopardo Jane until her palm hurt. She wanted to touch Katsumi and reassure herself that the other woman was real, not a figment of her demented imagination. Katsumi had to be real, not like Esperanza Serjee, dead but alive – a conundrum and a riddle and an enigma that she did not care about solving. “Katsumi!” she called out.

The ninja seemed to do hardly more than shrug, but four shuriken were launched into the air. Bindiya had time for a single quick inhalation before the little blades sliced through the plastic ties with astonishing precision, barely whispering against her skin in passing and not injuring her at all. She tried to stand but her balance was gone and she fell back again, causing the wheelchair to roll backwards a few inches. A fifth shuriken was cast at Molly, but Momoko intercepted it with the blade of her ninjato, striking the dart at an oblique angle and embedding it harmlessly in the wall.

Priestesses fled.

Bindiya rose from the chair. At her full height, even in bare feet she topped Molly by a good six inches or more. She took one step, then another, and another as a measure of strength returned to her limbs. Molly sneered and pulled a flechètte gun from the waistband of her whispering taffeta skirt. Bindiya could not reach her quickly enough. Molly pointed the gun at Katsumi and pulled the trigger, sending a half-dozen darts towards the ninja’s back.

Katsumi bent radically backwards at the waist just before the first of the darts would have penetrated her flesh. This move also left Momoko exposed. She parried with her blade, sending five flechèttes flying in various directions but the sixth buried itself in her thigh. Molly stiffened. “Modified Hansen’s disease,” she said, her eyes gone round. Angry and filled with loathing, Bindiya knocked the gun out of the woman’s hand; it slid along the floor and came to rest against a wall, the plastic grip chipped by the impact.

Momoko ignored the dart in her thigh. She advanced on Katsumi, blade held high; her steps were made terre-à-terre as precise as any holo-ballerina’s. Katsumi moved to block, sweeping her own sword around. The two ninjas clashed, parted, and clashed again. A heavy scent hung in the air; Bindiya recognized incense smoke, charred spices and resins. Despite her apprehension, part of her wondered if the temple actually burned the stuff contrary to regulations, or if they imported the fragrance from a temple on Earth.

There was a wet plop as Momoko’s right arm suddenly detached from her body and fell on the floor. Soft white light made the blood seem dark, almost black as it oozed over the translucent stone. A fine spray of blood hissed from the wound. Katsumi backed away, her split-toed tabi socks flashing white under the hem of her hakama. Momoko gripped her ninjato in her left hand. Her right leg came off at the knee and more blood pooled on pale stone. She must have been in agony but not a hint of pain showed on her flat face.

Bindiya could not stand anymore. “Finish it!” she hissed at Katsumi.

Several of Momoko’s fingers pattered down, joined by an ear and a scattering of teeth. Her eye slipped out of its socket and hung on her cheek, a blob of bloodstained jelly tethered by the optic nerve. Molly Gattopardo Jane ran out of the room, disappearing through a shadowed doorway, her taffeta skirt whispering with each stride of her coltish legs. Momoko said nothing; there was no anguish in her steady gaze. Nevertheless, Katsumi delivered the mercy stroke. She whipped her sword through the air, an arc of glittering steel that sliced cleanly through Momoko’s neck. The blow was beautifully executed. Katsumi recited a few words in Japanese, which Bindiya thought might be a death poem. She recognized the words for ‘cherry blossoms’ – a typical poetic metaphor for the briefness of a samurai’s life. Dark blood drops exploded into a spraying crimson fountain as Momoko’s head fell off and bounced along the floor, leaving a messy trail behind it. The stump of her neck was liquid scarlet, contrasting with the stark white bone in the center.

Katsumi flicked her ninjato to clean the blade free of blood, then sheathed it. She held out her hand to Bindiya, who took it without hesitation and pulled the shorter woman into a fierce embrace. “I thought you were dead,” Bindiya whispered into Katsumi’s hair.

“I am yet among the living,” Katsumi replied. Her voice was unemotional but the pressure of her arms around Bindiya’s waist told another story.

Her throat was closed with gratitude and relief. It took a moment for Bindiya to speak. “What did you mean when you told chem Jane that you knew what she had done?” It was not what she had meant to say, and she surprised herself with the inquiry.

Katsumi pulled away and looked at her, an unreadable expression in her fathomless black eyes. “Technically, what you all have done. Dr. Charles Li Fang, Molly Gattopardo Jane and you, Bindiya Bhattacharya. Especially you.” Her hands curled over Bindiya’s biceps, holding her in place when she would have instinctively bolted. “You do not remember,” Katsumi continued, “because you wished to forget. It is time for you to confront the ghosts of your past. It is time to remember the Golden Immortal.”

Those two words struck Bindiya a hammer blow. She gasped as memory surfaced from the murky depths of her subconscious, as subtle as Carcharodon carcharias rising with open jaws from the deep. The Golden Immortal… the elixir of life. Penthesilea station. Molly Jane’s seventy year old face, wrinkled as a relief map, her mouth stretched in a greedy smile. A girl about twelve years old, with big eyes and scabby elbows. An exercise in the hypothetical becoming grim reality. Bindiya understood now what her husband had done to her with his bio-programming skills. The full horror made her want to vomit.

She would have fallen without Katsumi’s grip to hold her up.

***

Katsumi recognized the moment when Bindiya’s memories returned. She was prepared for any reaction, including the woman tearing herself from Katsumi’s grip and diving for the flechètte gun on the floor. Katsumi took hold of Bindiya and used the woman’s momentum to pull her around and prevent her from reaching the gun. “Death is not justice,” she told Bindiya, whose face was crumpled in an ugly grimace.

“I don’t… I didn’t mean…” Bindiya said, her voice broken.

“Vision without action is but a daydream,” Katsumi said. “You did not consider the implications of your work.”

“And then Charles…” Bindiya swallowed. She had turned pale; her hands trembled.

Katsumi nodded. She locked her fingers around Bindiya’s wrist and led her through the doorway where Molly had vanished earlier. There was no sign of the Order’s priestesses until they came to a place where the corridor led to a room that was empty except for three well-armed women who had been goliathed, their bodies made grotesque with muscle grafts and stainless steel teeth. Katsumi swept Bindiya behind her. Projectile weapons were forbidden to prevent an atmospheric breach, so the goliaths were armed with long knives. Katsumi made a quick calculation and spun on her heel, kicking out with one leg. She struck one woman in the chest, feeling her ribs cave in and her heart break apart under the impact. Moving swiftly, she snapped the second woman’s neck. The third put up a token resistance, but she was nowhere near as skilled as Katsumi. She, too, died.

Bindiya pressed a hand against her sternum as the third woman fell. Her breasts rose and fell with the force of her breathing. She swallowed. “I remember the way,” she said to Katsumi and stepped over the bodies, headed for a door. The temple was a labyrinth but Bindiya demonstrated that her memory had indeed returned by leading Katsumi unerringly down and across and up again through a winding series of corridors and rooms. She paused outside a door. “It’s in here,” Bindiya said.

There was no doorknob; access could be acquired only by inputting a code on a nearby keypad – old technology but still effective. Katsumi drew her ninjato. Bindiya touched her arm. “I remember this as well,” she said, punching buttons on the keypad. The door slid open. Beyond was a scene from Hell.

It smelled like pickles, amines and ozone. A line of clear polycarbonate-sided tanks took up most of the space. In each tank floated a naked young girl; they were suspended in a pinkish fluid, their limbs splayed like starfish. Black rubber tubes and bundles of cables snaked everywhere. Each girl had electrodes fastened to her hairless skull. Their eyes were closed but beneath the eyelids was movement, as if they were in the depths of REM sleep. The last girl was older than the rest. Katsumi recognized her; it was Esperanza Serjee.

“Liquid breathing,” Bindiya said, “in oxygenated perfluorocarbon fluid. The project was my idea,” Bindiya went on, a dreamy expression on her face. She walked along the damp floor, trailing her fingertips over the tanks where traces of condensation beaded the polycarbonate surfaces. “I thought about terminal patients, how they might benefit from transfusions of prana energies. Healthy people could volunteer to give a little of their vital force to help others. I thought about the benefits of life energy infusions, the healing that could be accomplished, the diseases that could be cured. The mental, emotional, physical and spiritual imbalances that could be redressed, including fluxes in the global etheric. A network of bio-energy banks, anyone able to make withdrawals and deposits, all for the benefit of humankind. Charles and I developed the technology over many years. It was Molly who funded our research. When we came here for the final stage and she called the project the Golden Immortal, I didn’t understand the significance until it was too late.”

Immortality was a Holy Grail for some humans, Katsumi thought. Her own ancestors had possessed an unparalleled grasp of the beauty of death. She could not comprehend the desire to live forever. Any activity, no matter how delightful, would ultimately pall over time.

Bindiya tapped a tank with her fingernail. “Molly wanted to live forever, be young forever, and she’s using these girls to do it. She’s draining them of their energies, transfusing herself with the elixir of life, the Philosopher’s Stone, and leaving them to exist in some nightmarish half-life, not truly dead but not alive, either. Charles and I were devastated but what could we do? For six months after we were politely escorted off the station, he tried to interest the authorities in Penthesilea and Molly Gattopardo Jane and the whole appalling situation, but the station is autonomous. Earth has no authority – no extradition treaty, remember? - and on Penthesilea itself, Molly is where the buck stops, period.

“He was desperate. We were desperate. This isn’t what we envisioned. It was sickening, the way she perverted…” Bindiya licked her lips. “Charles had a plan.”

Katsumi put a hand on Bindiya’s elbow, gently squeezing, testing the integrity of the joint while part of her marveled at how fragile the human body could be, and how strong the spirit in adversity. “He used his skills to program you to take vengeance.”

Bindiya closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said, and there was a wealth of horror in that single simple syllable. “I killed him. Suicide by proxy. He was old, he was tired, and he couldn’t live with the guilt. He chose the method of his death. He implanted information into my subconscious, false memories, you… my connection to you. He planted the seed deeply. He knew I’d need you to get to Penthesilea station, to fight Momoko, to stop Molly. The haunting… I have no explanation for that. It wasn’t part of his programming details.”

“Now we are here, what must be done?” Katsumi asked, avoiding the question of ghosts for the moment. This was a different Bindiya than the woman who had appeared in the writing brush factory, terrified and hungry and wearing clothing two sizes too small.

Master Deng Ming-Dao said: Some warriors look fierce, but are mild. Some seem timid, but are vicious. Look beyond appearances; position yourself for the advantage.

“We end it,” Bindiya answered, opening her eyes. She was a woman transformed, the former endearing mixture of confusion and fear sloughed away to reveal an adamantine purpose beneath. Black-skinned Kali Ma, the Mother of Darkness, danced in her pupils - the four-armed destroyer of ignorance, the destroyer of ego, the destroyer of that which disrupted harmony and created chaos. Bindiya shone with potential violence. Katsumi’s heartbeat quickened. Warmth trickled down her spine. Her mouth was dry. She had been created to follow this goddess of destruction; obedience to death was bred in her bones. Katsumi now understood what it was to love.

Beside her in the tank, Esperanza Serjee’s eyes opened, too.

“Don’t you want to play, Pretty-Pretty?” Molly said, coming around the corner. She did not seem to be armed with any weapon other than her own confidence. Her low-heeled pumps, encrusted with glittering garnets as red as blood, clicked loudly on the damp floor.

“It’s over,” Bindiya said. Her T-shirt was torn at the neck, showing her breasts down to a rosy slice of nipple, and her trousers were dirty. Her short dark hair was disheveled, bits of it sticking up and out at odd angles. Dirt streaked her face. Nevertheless, she was beautiful – as beautiful as an unsheathed blade. “It’s over, chem Jane,” she repeated.

“Do you honestly think this self-righteous ploy is going to make me melt into a gooey pile of regrets?” Molly tossed a lock of golden hair over her shoulder. “You and your husband took my money eagerly enough. You asked no questions.”

“Would you have lied?” Bindiya asked.

“Possibly.” Molly’s smile vanished, replaced by a sneer. “Why shouldn’t I benefit from the chi therapy? I paid for it.”

Bindiya jabbed a thumb at the nearest tank, where a girl who appeared to be of Mongolian extraction floated in the pink-tinged fluid. “No, they pay for it,” Bindiya said.

Molly shrugged a smooth white shoulder. “They’re unimportant.” At Bindiya’s scowl, she added, “Earth is practically flattened under the weight of the unwanted, my dear. ‘Girls are maggots in the rice’ - that’s the attitude that still prevails in parts of the world. What are a few disposables here and there? No one cares. Their own societies have abandoned them the same way their parents have. These girls are of use to me. I value their contributions. They’re part of the elite; they’ve been carefully selected to help more important people. I’m almost ready to go live and start sharing this wonderful breakthrough with anyone who can afford it. Think about it, chem. Think about immortality, the chance to live forever… or at least, as long as I can collect a fat fee or favors for the privilege.”

“It’s wrong,” Bindiya insisted.

“You and your husband were dreamers, chem Bhattacharya. Very impractical. You both failed to comprehend that humans aren’t good at heart. We’re downright mean bastards, greedy and selfish and prone to violence, ready to stab each other in the back as we scrabble for more than our fair share. We’re primates not far from the jungle, red in tooth and claw. Did you really think that the world was going to fall in line with your idealistic views?”

“You never gave us a chance.”

“No, you’re right. I didn’t.” Molly’s mouth tightened into a hard line. “The technology belongs to me, since I was the one who put down the cash. That’s in the contracts you signed. As for the girls… their parents and guardians were well compensated. My technicians have discovered that prana transfusions – you can call it qi, or chi, or ki, if you prefer – they only work with a compatible donor, like blood types, so I have to bear the expense of testing potential candidates, but the result is worth the trouble.” She smoothed a hand over the line of her youthful body. “My old shell was worn out but look at me now! I’ll stay this way forever sipping fresh prana straight from the source. Lovely, isn’t it?”

“As lovely as Erzébet Bathory, the Blood Countess,” Bindiya said, raising her hand to aim a tarjani mudra at Molly – a gesture with forefinger and little finger extended to form ‘horns’ and the other fingers folded inward, meant to bring about the subjugation of evil. “You’re a psychic vampire, stealing life that doesn’t belong to you to sustain an unnatural existence. You’re Lillitu without a spark of the divine!”

“I’m immortal,” Molly replied.

Bindiya continued to aim the mudra at her. “But not invulnerable.” With her free hand, she reached out, clearly confident that Katsumi would understand. Katsumi did. Yielding to the unspoken command, she drew her ninjato and placed the hilt in Bindiya’s palm, then bowed before the terrible purpose in Bindiya’s eyes.

Molly shook her head. She did not seem frightened of the shining steel blade that was pointed at her. “You think that if you kill me, the whole thing ends here? Copies of my consciousness have been stored here and elsewhere; money buys a lot of core memory. You can destroy this body but I’ll just wake up in another. I’ll still be in control. Don’t be more naïve than you already are. I’ve won and I’ll always win.”

“This has very little to do with you,” Bindiya said almost gently. She took the ninjato’s hilt in both hands. “It’s about dharma.”

Katsumi would have corrected Bindiya’s hold but held back, not wishing to interrupt the moment when the tall woman snapped the sword at one of the polycarbonate tanks, rolling her shoulders and concentrating her energy on a single point as if she had learned the move at sensei’s knee. The ninjato’s chisel-tip smashed through the side of the tank, shattering the acrylic. A gush of fluid exploded outward, flooding the floor. Molly screamed, a high-pitched sound that had nothing of fear in it, and everything to do with thwarted rage.

The Mongolian girl hung in mid-air, her wasted body supported by tubes and cables in a posture reminiscent of crucifixion. Above the broken tank, the green and red lines on a monitor began to fluctuate. A nasal buzz sounded. She was flat-lining.

Molly touched a garnet on her necklace. “Security to Level Thirty-Three,” she said, then the full force of her scorching gaze fell upon Bindiya. “Go on, then. You can’t save these girls. They’re almost drained. They’d have been dead soon anyway. I’ll just import others.”

“It’s about second chances,” Bindiya said, still gentle as though she was speaking to a child, as though Molly herself had not spoken. “It’s about the clear light and the dull smoke-colored light from Hell. It’s about rebirth and retribution.”

From the Tibetan Bardo Thodol, the Book of the Dead, Katsumi remembered a prayer to the Buddhas and bodhisattvas: O you compassionate ones, defend who is defenseless, protect who is unprotected, be her kinsman, protect her from the suffering in the depression of the bardo, turn her from the storm wind of karma, turn her from the great awe and terror of the Lords of Death, liberate her from the long narrow way of the bardo.

Bindiya took a deep breath. “It’s about death, not living death,” she said, and stabbed the Mongolian girl through the chest. The blade was well angled, Katsumi observed, to sever the major vessels. She would have advised against a heart strike; spasming muscles could trap a blade and make it difficult to withdraw promptly. Aiming at the throat was better; the inner thigh and its femoral artery were also excellent targets. She noted the slight awkwardness in Bindiya’s wrist movement as she slid the ninjato free from the girl’s body. Blood streaked the girl’s skin; blood-tinged bubbles frothed at her lips.

“Death is the only freedom I can give them,” Bindiya concluded. “Freedom from suffering. Freedom from manipulation. Freedom from the prison you’ve forged for them. ” Her gaze turned fierce. She clutched the ninjato’s hilt tightly enough to strain her knuckles white. She spat at Molly, “You can’t treat human beings like batteries!”

Molly rushed at her, fingernails poised to rend. Katsumi thrust out a foot and tripped the woman so that she fell sprawling in the mess of blood, polycarbonate shards and what looked disturbingly like amniotic fluids on the floor. Ignoring the woman, Bindiya moved to the next tank, and the next, and the next. Each occupant received the same treatment – the tank destroyed and a sword blade through the girl’s heart. More buzzers went off until there was an entire chorus of them, sounding like a fleet of Kong-sized mosquitoes broadcasting their annoyance in a rising skill-saw buzz.

Esperanza Serjee’s body twitched as if in anticipation. The woman’s eyes were open but blind, without a trace of intelligence of personality. She was a doll abandoned mid-play.

“Esperanza tried to stop me,” Molly said thickly. She lay on her back on the wet floor, legs apart as if she anticipated violation. The ends of her hair trailed in the blood and other fluids. “The stupid child felt sorry for my donors. She wanted to set them free. Security caught her trying her hand at sabotage, the little Luddite-in-training. I thought, if she wants to empathize with the girls so much, let her have some first-hand experience - you remember, don’t you? You and your husband were here. You tested the system on Esperanza. I told you she was a volunteer. Weren’t you the least bit suspicious? No?” Her salt-white teeth showed in a grin. “Esperanza tasted sweet, didn’t she? Sweet and delicious. You wanted more. A young girl’s life is more addicting than any drug. I’ll wager you still recall the piquancy of her karmic purity, don’t you?”

Bindiya smashed the tank, her face grim. “That’s true, but Esperanza Serjee’s will is stronger than either of us,” she said over the sound of fracturing polycarbonate and rushing water. “She found her own escape.”

Molly scrabbled to stand, her nostrils pinched with fury.

At the other end of the room, a door burst open and several women rushed inside, brandishing various edged weapons and flechètte guns. Katsumi ran lightly over the broken acrylic shards, drawing a tanto knife from her kimono sleeve. As she approached, she calculated angles of attack, deciding the most efficient way to dispose of the security team. Just before reaching the first guard, Katsumi launched herself into the air, pin-wheeling to avoid being made an easy target; her kimono sleeves and the legs of her hakama flared out, confusing the eye as to the true outline of her body. One woman raised a flechètte gun; Katsumi simply wrenched the gun out of her grasp and shoved the knife through her throat, severing jugular vein and carotid artery in a practiced stroke.

The fight was brief. The sound of steel grating on bone echoed in the chamber, as did whimpers and the choked wet gasps of her opponents as she eliminated the threat. Katsumi sustained no injuries. She felt contempt for whoever had trained these guards. They were obviously ill prepared to manage anything more serious than the odd drunken brawl. The course of wisdom would have been to stand back and shower Katsumi with neurotoxin-tipped flechètte darts. Of course, that would not have stopped her; Katsumi’s enhanced metabolism could easily deal with fugu and other poisons. Returning the tanto to a hidden sheathe strapped to her forearm, Katsumi turned back to where Bindiya and Molly were standing.

“Go on. End it!” Molly shouted. Her body was petite, her bones seeming as delicate as a bird’s. Blonde hair straggled over her pretty face. “Do it, you sanctimonious bitch! Get your dose of satisfaction. It will only last as long as it takes to activate one of my clones.”

Bindiya dropped the ninjato. The straight-bladed sword chimed when it struck the plascrete floor. “I don’t need to finish it,” she said. “They will.” Once again, her thumb jabbed at one of the wrecked tanks.

Molly’s chest heaved as she took in breath after breath. After a moment, she laughed. It was as scornful sound.

Katsumi’s hair fluttered, stirred by a spectral breeze, and the lights took on a cold unfriendly gleam.

Bindiya smiled.

***

Bindiya had forgotten what it was like to be without fear, to live without tension coiled painfully in her gut hour after hour, day after day. She remembered now. Her heart slammed against her ribs like an impatient fist battering a door, but she was not afraid. The insanity of the last few days finally made sense. She had unwittingly stolen a taste of Esperanza’s life, forging a link with the not-dead. The plans her husband had put in motion – the bio-programming and the series of events that had led to her meeting with Katsumi and all the rest - had intersected with Esperanza’s disembodied desires. Bindiya had been driven by two invisible forces straight towards this confrontation with Molly Jane.

She was the pale horse ridden by Death, the cheval of the Guédé, loas of the dead.

The mystical energy stream intensified, manifested by a shockingly chilling wind that whipped through the chamber where a dozen young lives had been taken. Bindiya was deafened by angry screams; she was buffeted by nails and fists that raked her to the soul. Rather than resist, she opened herself to it and let the rage flow through her, her body burning white hot. Her flesh was tattered, frayed by righteous fury. She was the center of a sun gone nova. She was Kali Ma dancing in her girdle of severed limbs, divine power unconstrained. She was the transformation of the self that came with dying.

Molly’s mouth sagged open.

Bindiya’s vision narrowed, the edges dimming until Molly was centered within a circle of brightness, as if she was being glimpsed at the end of a tunnel. Names came and went in her mind, attached to faces she had never seen until now – young girls whose lives had become fuel to feed a greedy woman’s dream to live forever.

Psychics would have people believe that the personality did not survive death, that ghostly phenomenon was caused by infrasound or ripples in the global etheric or by mental disturbances but Bindiya knew better. She had been haunted twice, her psyche trammeled by her husband in his quest for justice, and by Esperanza Serjee in her quest for retribution. She felt the lost ones and their anger; she was lost in the currents of their pain.

Marks appeared on Molly, deep scratches and tears in her skin, which was losing the sheen of youth. Molly screeched and batted at her invisible attackers. Gray invaded her blonde hair. Lines and wrinkles appeared on her face. Molly stumbled and fell to her knees. Bindiya stood above her, the eye in the center of a wind blown from Hell. Molly bled from her mouth, her nose, her ears; bloody teardrops left crimson trails on her crumpled parchment skin. Her screams were thin and high, a piping that grew shriller and fainter as her flesh shrank on her bones, the years she had stolen stripped away to reveal the old woman beneath.

Bindiya shivered, her blood running cold, then hot, then cold again. Esperanza Serjee whispered to her, a gabble of unintelligible words that sounded like a mantra; she could barely discern it above the rush of blood in her ears. A shower of intense blue and yellow sparks burst in front of her eyes, a spiritual Catherine wheel that dispelled the pall of gray and brown and white that had suffused the atmosphere. She looked down. Molly was wallowing in scarlet; she was streaked and dappled with it, her taffeta skirt soaked with red.

Sparks became stars, which in their turn became wheeling constellations. Bindiya’s head rocked back as a hammer blow struck her in the center of her brow - the seat of perception, the third eye chakra. The concussive force drove the breath from her body. Above her, the ceiling blew away to reveal the reeling Heavens, the moon like a pearl that was the eye of the warrior goddess, Durga - slayer of demons, preserver of order, the victory of virtue. The spirits of the dead girls flew around the goddess’ head, a vaporous honor escort mounted on wind-horses, accoutered in silver and gold. Durga leaned in, unimaginably vast and beautiful in her fierce aspect, shouldering the stars aside. Her trident pierced Molly through the breast, drawing an agonized cry from the old woman.

The trident withdrew. Wriggling on the center blade was a thing all white and black, a squalling demon with a red-rimmed mouth and a lolling tongue. Its hands clutched the trident where the weapon had pierced its belly. Durga lifted the monster high above her head, making it squeal angrily in protest. The swarm of girl ghosts descended. Their teeth were made of iron, their nails of bronze. Breathing the smoke of righteous vengeance, they tore into the wriggling soul of Molly Gattopardo Jane, rending it to quivering ectoplasmic shreds that were lifted on a scorching wind and abruptly scattered, black snowflakes and white ash, until they faded and disappeared from view.

Durga and the girl faded, too, as if they were stars muted by the approaching sun.

The force released her all at once, and she fell back to earth, hollow and exhausted. Bindiya became aware that she was laying on her back, her head cradled in Katsumi’s lap. The grave-faced ninja was staring down at her, a hand smoothing her hair.

“It is over,” Katsumi said. “Our task here is finished.”

Bindiya rolled her eyes to the side and saw Molly Jane’s body nearby. The woman was obviously dead. She looked shriveled and shrunken, as if all her vital juices had been sucked out. The mental image was disquieting. Details regarding Durga and the girl’s ghosts were already fading. It did not matter. Esperanza Serjee and the rest were gone, liberated from flesh and on their way to their next incarnations.

It was over.

Sighing, Bindiya closed her eyes, finding a measure of peace at last.

***

The department stores in Tokyo’s Ginza district were lit up brilliantly, each store competing with its neighbors over who could create the most obnoxious holo-display. At upscale Wako/GUM, a gigantic saurian Gojira stomped a miniature city to smithereens, indifferent to the ranks of tanks that fired ad-blurts in Japanese and Russian. Flying sword masters in Ching dynasty robes buzzed pedestrians’ heads in front of Sun Sun Company. Bee ‘bots scattered haiku-written coupons. A projected geisha giggled behind her fan as she strolled down the avenue, her kimono advertising a sale of fuzzy logic lingerie.

In the midst of the colorful pandemonium strode a squat powerful figure in an ash gray gi. Beside her was a tall dark-haired woman, her face half-hidden behind a pair of mirror shades, her stunning figure displayed by a tight black T-shirt and drawstring trousers. Neither of them seemed to garner much attention from the sea of passers-by that hurried to and fro, each person intent upon his/her/its own business. However, it was clear that this indifference was feigned. Although the pavement was crowded and collisions common, everyone gave the women a wide berth.

The display window at the Sony building held a dozen 3D projectors, each one tuned to the most popular evening broadcast for the benefit of sidewalk shoppers. A pair of polished-as-porcelain androgynous newscasters, their teeth white as tombstones, delivered the latest information updates with gruesomely bright bonhomie.

“…a spokesperson for the company has issued a statement that the various power surges which destroyed the back-up copies of Molly-san’s personality are under investigation. Yes, the wealthiest individual in the collective consensus – Molly Gattopardo Jane – achieved the dissolution of the five elements in her physical body last week. You go, sentient being! The funeral will be held on Penthesilea station. Our in-house lama Jamyang Rinpoche says Molly-san’s soul has achieved the second bardo stage, and urges spiritual travelers to lend their support as chem Jane continues her journey towards the five worlds of rebirth. In other news, an industrial accident at the Celebrity Flav-o-rama factory in has resulted in a total recall of all Elvis flavored crisps…”

The two women turned to one another.

In an upper corner of the broadcast, a goddess with scarlet lips and a wild tangle of hair over her eyes danced to the pulse-rhythm of a silent drum.

Master Ueshiba said, Foster and polish the warrior spirit while serving in the world; illuminate the path according to your inner light.

The ninja tilted her head back, offering her mouth to the taller woman’s kiss while life flowed around them in a ceaseless tide.

THE END

<----------Return to the Library

PICKER OF THE SLAIN
by Nene Adams ©2001 - All rights reserved

(Author's Note: In Old Norse poetry and sagas, kennings - or metaphorical compound words/phrases - were used to describe gods, people, animals, places and events in poetic fashion. Sometimes the description has a correlation with mythology, sometimes it has simply fallen into common usage. "Picker of the Slain" is a kenning meaning "Wolf.")

"We've got a problem."

Lt. Commander Amalthea Quint glanced up. Standing in the doorway was her fellow advocate and officer, Lt. Sean Yoltzin. He had a habitually doleful expression. Right now, his face was so sorrowful she half expected him to burst into tears. "What's wrong?" she asked.

Sean came into the office and sat down, waiting a moment for the responsive foam chair to mold itself to his body comfortably. "Com Center got a data-flash from Ifni." His frown deepened, threatening to swallow his thin black eyebrows altogether. "Haven't you checked your messages yet?"

"I was busy," Amalthea muttered, waving a hand over the crystal info-sticks piled on her desk. "I've got a trial in three days, defending that drunk-and-disorderly charge. Time is one thing I don't have, so give, Lieutenant, and quit looking like you found half a bug in your kelp salad."

"Ugh. That's nasty, Mal."

"But accurate, to a point." Amalthea touched a section of the desk top; a wafer thin screen emerged and began to glow. "Are you going to continue being mysterious and enigmatic, Sean? I hate guessing games."

Sean stood up and pointed to the screen. "Scuttlebutt says the past is coming back to haunt you. Read all about it," he said darkly, "but don't say I didn't give fair warning." As he exited, the chair hissed softly and returned to its original neutral configuration.

Amalthea made a face at his departing back. "What warning, you overacting drama king?" She sighed. "Okay, okay... let me see what all the fuss is about."

She had an implant in her jaw which allowed her direct access to the Avatar's AI. She subvocalized, "Access today's mail since 0500 hours, text only, normal speed."

Lines began to appear on the screen and scroll past slowly. At a certain point, Amalthea blurted, "Odin's Empty Eye!" feeling as if she'd been punched in the stomach. She asked the computer to replay the message, hoping she had misread it or misunderstood. She hadn't.

Her implant buzzed. "Lt. Commander Quint, report immediately to Captain Khulat in the Com Room." The AI's voice was a blend of male and female tones, laced with subliminal harmonics designed to get the recipient's immediate attention.

"Acknowledged. ETA five minutes." Amalthea rose and brushed a speck of lint from her uniform tunic, then left her office at a quick trot.

As she passed Sean, he waved and called, "Good luck. You're going to need it."

Amalthea grimaced and kept on walking.

Captain Khulat was physically unimpressive - short, slender as a whip, delicately boned and fragile seeming- but she more than made up for it in sheer presence. No one could ignore the captain when she was in command mode. Energy fairly crackled off her, even when she was standing still.

As Amalthea entered the Com Room, Khulat was in conference with Praise-to-the-Crescent-Sky Nym, Avatar's cultural and diplomatic specialist, and a native of Banjul. The captain was putting out enough spiritual electricity to shame a Catherine-wheel competition. She might have been mind-blind, but even Amalthea could sense white-hot fireworks in Khulat's aura. This did not bode well.

Praise Nym was saying, "...can send all the formal protests we want, but frankly, Ifni is in the right."

Khulat wore her thick bronze hair in braids. She had a habit of tugging on a plait when she was thinking hard, or nervous, or distressed. From the way she was yanking at her hair, the Captain was definitely all three at the moment. "Damned if we do, and damned if we don't. What we need is another option..." Khulat noticed Amalthea. "Ah, Lt. Quint, good of you to join us."

Amalthea's spine cracked as she snapped to attention. "Ma'am." She turned to Nym and bowed, low enough for her head to be level with his hips, as demanded by protocol. "Ser Nym, may I inquire as to the health and happiness of your offspring, marriage partner, and House?"

Nym was pleased. "You've made a good beginning in Banjul'ee etiquette," he replied, giving her a return bow that was one degree above superior-to-inferior. He studied Amalthea's tall form for a moment. "Yes, I might make a diplomat of you yet."

"Let's save this for later, shall we?" the Captain broke in. "Lt. Quint, what do you know about the situation on Ifni?"

Amalthea had to swallow against the sudden lump in her throat. "I only learned about it a few minutes ago. Details are sketchy, but I believe the basics are that Corporal Jezzibell Kay of the Fortunata has been accused of murdering an Ifni civilian."

"She's currently under arrest in the embassy." Khulat's golden eyes narrowed. "I believe you know Corporal Kay personally?"

"Yes, ma'am." Amalthea and Jezzibell had met two years ago when they were both assigned to the Fortunata. Their relationship had been torrid, but ultimately didn't work out. Because she was still in love with Jezzibell, Amalthea had requested reassignment to the Avatar. "But I haven't spoken to her in weeks, not since she went to Ifni. Communications blackout; personal messages aren't considered priority."

Praise Nym hissed softly to himself, and ran plump fingers through his mane of red-tinged hair. The brightly colored ribbons on his formal robe fluttered. "Do you know much about Ifni?"

"Not a lot, sir. It's a restricted planet, and most information is classified above my security level." Amalthea allowed a shred of her worry to show. "Will Jezzibell be all right?"

Khulat shook her head. "We don't know yet. Things are a fekkit mess on Ifni right now. They're an unaffiliated world, but a prime source for dragon scales, water jewels and other valuable gemstones. A recent change in government has created the possibility of alliance with the Confederation, and with it, near unlimited trade potential. Then this murder happened right in the middle of delicate negotiations. Hub-Gov, Corps Admiralty, merchant's guilds and independent traders are screaming. The kak is rolling straight down our necks."

"Excuse me, ma'am. Permission to speak freely?" Amalthea asked.

"Go ahead." Khulat studied the younger woman for a moment. Big but solid, round freckled face, butter yellow hair, blue eyes. Amalthea hailed from Yggdrasil, where generations of selective breeding had created warrior-types that were the backbone of Confederation Corps military services. Lt. Quint was much milder, much less formidable, almost meek compared to the usually hair-trigger Yggdrasilans. Like somebody crossed an accountant with a berserker, and the number-cruncher won. She was a good officer, though, and an excellent advocate.

"I knew Jezzibell very well. I do not believe her capable of committing cold-blooded murder." Amalthea held herself in rigid check. "The charges against her must surely be false. Is someone looking into other explanations?"

Nym coughed delicately. "It may have been a crime of passion."

Amalthea's blood froze in shock. Jezzibell wanted to be free, she said I was smothering her, so it shouldn't surprise me that she's had other relationships. This was a logical response, but had nothing to do with her aching heart.

Khulat was unsympathetic. "Now is not the time, Lt. Commander," she said firmly. "Suck it up and move on. You'll be representing Corporal Kay in an Ifnian court."

Amalthea's mouth dropped open. "You're sending me?"

"It's time to soldier, soldier." Khulat tugged on another plait. "The trial is scheduled for two weeks from today. Before you ask, we're not requesting Kay's extradition to a Confederation court, so you're stuck with Ifnian legal procedure. You've got an appointment in sickbay for a memsynth neural transfer in fifteen minutes. Pack your gear ASAP. I've got a transport pod standing by for departure in one hour. Memsynth will give you all the background information." She nodded at Nym. "Our diplomat has assigned one of his personal aides to the case. I suggest you take full advantage of his generosity."

Nym toyed with a ribbon. "Fey Lonyali has studied Ifnian culture for years. She's an expert and can be trusted absolutely."

"Listen to me carefully, Lt. Commander." Khulat leaned closer. "The outcome of this trial is vitally important to the Confederation and the Corps. Whether Kay is innocent or guilty doesn't matter. The Ifnians - our potential allies - think she did it.  This is a time of political expediency. There's a load of heavy juju behind this, and pressure is being brought to bear from the highest levels. It's been explained to me that we have to work for the greater good. In other words, the life of one junior officer is not worth losing Ifni's goodwill. Understood?"

Amalthea flushed. Her mouth opened again, then closed with a click. She understood, all right. She was being told to throw her client to the wolves so that a lot of merchants (and the politicians connected to those merchants) could strike it rich in the gemstone market. She was being told to do a hatchet job on the woman she loved. It was despicable. It was intolerable. It was...

"Lt. Commander. Quint, don't do anything now that you'll regret later," Nym advised, not unkindly. "You are an intelligent woman, yes? If not, you would hardly be given this assignment. Take this for what its worth - it is unwise to burn one's bridges before one knows what's on the other side of the river."

Amalthea was seething, but she clenched her jaw tightly shut. If she objected, they would send somebody else. A person who didn't know Jezzibell, and didn't care about right or wrong. By going to Ifni herself, she might be able to figure a way out that would satisfy all parties.

"Get in, do your job and get out," Khulat continued. "Fey Lonyali will help - she's been in this type of situation before. Both you and she are authorized by the Advocacy and Hub-Gov to take whatever actions you deem necessary to bring the situation on Ifni to a successful conclusion. It would be best to avoid a trial entirely, but I trust that you'll use your best judgment, since you know the Corporal so well."

"What does that mean exactly, ma'am?" Amalthea asked bitterly.

"As I said, Lt. Commander, you are do to whatever is necessary. I don't have to repeat myself, do I?"

"No, ma'am." Amalthea saluted, but the muscles in her jaw were throbbing.

"Listen to Fey Lonyali," Nym said. "She knows that you're in charge, but I urge you to pay heed to her advice."

"Aye, ser."

Khulat measured Amalthea again with her intense golden gaze. "A successful conclusion to this mission will go down a treat on your permanent record. There may even be a promotion in it, or a higher pay grade, maybe even your choice of plum assignments."

"Aye, ma'am." Amalthea's expression was cold, her tone icily correct.

"Well, what are you waiting for, a holo-engraved invitation?" Khulat asked crisply. "Dismissed, advocate!"

"Aye-aye, ma'am." Amalthea spun around on her heel and stomped away. She deliberately neglected to bow to Praise Nym - one of the nastier insults available to her in Banjul'ee. He chose not to take offense.

As soon as she was gone, Captain Khulat sighed. "Do you think we did the right thing?"

The Banjul'ee diplomat smiled faintly. "Oh, time will tell, captain... I do look forward to observing the outcome. Preferably from far, far away. The stubborn nature of Yggdrasilans is well known."

They exchanged a glance, and Khulat chuckled, shaking her head. "Not to mention the stubborn nature of one Yggdrasilan in particular. Well, let's hope your third option works, otherwise..."

"We're completely kakked." Nym spoke that sentiment aloud for both of them.

"Amen."

It wasn't until she reached the pod bay, head throbbing with a monumental headache from memsynth transfer, that Amalthea met Fey Lonyali.

Her rich cinnamon skin, black hair threaded with tiny bells, and spiral scars slashed into her cheek showed that Fey was a priest of Vashti, from the Tyvesh homeworld. A First of Fist, meaning she was of the martial priesthood - odd choice for a diplomatic envoy. Delicate claws glittered on her fingertips. "Lt. Commander," Fey said in a husky purr. "It is with great pleasure that I greet you in Vashti's name." She spoke the Universal language common to the Confederation with a slight accent.

Amalthea did not feel like returning the salutation. Besides, her cerebral cortex was still trying to organize and process the load of information that had been dumped into it, and her brain felt like scrambled eggs. The endorphin patches on her arm hadn't kicked in yet. She grunted, walked over to the transport pod, and tossed her bag into the cargo hatch. She noticed another standard-issue suitcase already inside, and guessed it was Fey's.

A white-suited technician joined them in the vast hangar. "We're good to go in ten minutes. Please secure yourselves in the primary chamber. Avatar AI will assist. Estimated time to arrival on Ifni is one hour, eleven minutes, forty-six seconds."

Fey and Amalthea strapped themselves onto glossy black couches with multiple-point harnesses, which the AI locked into place. The locks were programmed to release as soon as they reached Ifni. The pod's interior was featureless and smooth, with no windows or screens of any kind. As soon as they were in place, the door clanked shut, and Amalthea's ears popped when pressure was equalized. She avoided looking at Fey.

Transport pods were essentially sealed cubes, whose size ranged from two-person stripped units to massive boxes capable of holding an entire troop regiment and their supplies. These were sent from one world to another via hyperspace shifting, which involved hops, skips and jumps through extra-dimensional portals. It was an extension of the technology that allowed ships to travel the vast distances between planets outside the Hub Worlds.

Amalthea didn't understand the process, but she did know that most races could potentially suffer from shift psychosis - the reason why they had to remain strapped down during 'flight.' A seriously disturbed individual could compromise the door seal, killing everybody in the pod... or not, depending on which theroretical mathematician you talked to. Perhaps they still existed in potentia. Whatever. Amalthea figured that was a poor substitute for actual living.

The couch was comfortable, made of the same responsive foam as the chairs in her office. The straps were firm but not intrusive, covering ankles, knees, thighs, hips and chest. Amalthea took a deep breath, let it out through her nose, and closed her eyes. There was a slight jolt when the pod began its first transfer. She was a bit surprised; she hadn't noticed it being wheeled into the initiation core.

Fey's eyes twinkled. They were lime green, heavily fringed with dark lashes. "Shall we discuss Ifni, mem? Or do you prefer to sulk for the entire journey?"

Sulk? Amalthea turned her head, ready to blast the Tyvesh with an angry diatribe, then controlled herself. She had no intention of allowing Jezzibell to be sacrificed for expediency's sake; perhaps Fey Lonyali had information which prove useful to her. There was no sense alienating the priest when her mission had just begun. "I crave your pardon," Amalthea said. "Memsynth always gives me a ferocious headache. No offense was intended."

"Ah, that explains it." Fey's hairbells chimed softly as she shifted on her couch. "Do you know any Jongku meditation rituals? They may speed up neural synthesis and alleviate your pain."

"It is unncessary, but I thank you for the suggestion." Endorphins were beginning to soothe away the sickening ache. Amalthea was now able to access the information that had been dumped into her mind. Much of it was unrelated to the case, notes from cultural anthropologists who had studied Ifni. Nothing as recent as five years ago.

She kept searching and made an unwelcome discovery. Amalthea was dismayed to learn that no one had thought to include a complete briefing for the upcoming trial. She cursed the careless sickbay technician roundly. Fey listened with wide-eyed appreciation. When Amalthea ran out of obscenities, the priest said politely, "I could teach you some Tyvesh. Has a lot of sibiliants and hard consonants, very good for bawling somebody out."

"Maybe later." Amalthea was fuming. "Gods of my fathers, how the fekk am I supposed to help Jezzibell when I don't have all the facts? I could have gotten as much data from a tourist buzzbook!"

Fey chuckled. "If you wish, I can probably answer any questions you may have."

Amalthea throttled her swelling anger. It was important to remain in control. Otherwise, she'd be no better than her sibs, cousins, uncles and aunts who had temper tantrums at the drop of a pin. She would not succumb. She would not.  Control, control, control - that was her mantra. "Yes, please. Any background information would be appreciated."

"Very well." Fey thumbed a button on the side of her couch. A small globe light began to glow, brightening the dimness inside the pod. "Ifni is ruled by a God-King, who is all-powerful in theory. In actual fact, the sovereign relies on a parliament of appointed governors to handle the day-to-day decisions in government."

"A blend of theocracy and bureaucracy. Is this effective?"

"Very." Fey's cheek scars were silver, in contrast to the rich cinnamon hue of her skin. When she smiled, they nearly vanished. "Ifni is a xenophobic society. For the last forty years, the God-King and his government have permitted limited contact with the Confederation, with only a small scientific and military presence in a strictly controlled enclave. A few months ago, the former God-King died. His heir has much more liberal views. Pantelion IV wants to open Ifni to international trade, despite the strong objections of his governors. The parliamentary majority is not in favor of an alliance. A diplomatic team was working to assist Pantelion, then the incident with Corporal Kay happened."

"What exactly did happen?" Amalthea asked. "I've been given no details."

"Corporal Kay was part of a Corps security team assigned to the diplomatic party, which was staying in the royal palace at Pantelion's invitation. They had complete access to the God-King's personal quarters - an unprecedented honor, and completely against custom, by the way. It appears that Corporal Kay became involved in a relationship with one of Pantelion's minor wives, named Hatusu - the murder victim."

"How did Hatusu die?" Amalthea did not want to discuss Jezzibell's love life. She knew that she would eventually have to examine all the evidence, but for now, that was best left ignored.

"Multiple stab wounds with a non-energy weapon consistent with a Ginzan ceremonial dagger." Fey reeled off the particulars easily. "A joint investigation was performed by both Ifnian and Corps technicians. Corporal Kay was found in the same room, unconscious. She had been drinking heavily the night before, and there were traces of lotus weed in her system - a potent though non-narcotic drug. There were bloodstains belonging to the victim on her uniform. The dagger was in her belt, and the blood found on it was Hatusu's."

Amalthea frowned. "Jezzibell is Ginzan. She would never allow anyone to touch her dagger. If it was stolen, she would have made a huge fuss. If she lost it - very unlikely, considering she always wore it in a secure scabbard on her belt - she would have taken her own life in shame."

Fey nodded, chiming her hairbells. "Certain concepts of honor are taken seriously on Ginza."

"So the murder weapon is certainly hers. That's going to be difficult to get around." Amalthea pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. Something was nagging her... "Wait. There was blood on the dagger?"

"Quite a lot, according to the report."

"It had been put into the scabbard dirty. Hmph. I've personally seen Jezzibell spend hours rubbing and polishing when she had a hangover that would have made an Yggdrasilan cry. Never too tranked or pumped or torqued to disregard her sacred weapon. If blood seeps between the blade and the hilt, it can rust the steel and cause the blade to snap. That's a serious tabboo to a Ginzan."

"A point, mem. Now you need to know the worst."

"I'm not sure I can take more bad news." Amalthea sighed. "Go on. Tell me."

"The God-King Pantelion is furious. He has chosen to interpret Corporal Kay's alleged crime as an attack on his monarchy. The diplomatic delegation has withdrawn back to Corps base, pending the outcome of the trial. Relations are strained, to put it mildly. One of the most vocally outspoken governors, demiurge Otanishan, has been given the responsibility for prosecuting Corporal Kay. It doesn't look good."

"That's insane. What proof do they have?" Think like an advocate, not a jilted lover, Quint. "Is there evidence that Jezzibell and Hatusu were having an affair at all?"

"No proof to support their theory, but they can place Hatusu and Kay together. Kay has already admitted her relationship with the deceased. And there's a witness who's sworn that she was within ear-shot of Hatusu's room shortly before the murder took place, and heard them arguing together."

"Kak on a crumpet. Well, if this witness is an Ifnian, I might be able to discredit her in court."

Fey replied, "No, they're Corps, as a matter of fact."

"Kak, kak, and double kak. I want to interview her. And my client, of course."

"It will all be arranged." Fey dug into a hip pouch on her trousers and retrieved an info-crystal. "This is your special commission from Advocacy Command. It gives you some of the same plentipotentiary powers as a colonial governor-general."

Amalthea snorted. "They're sparing no effort, I see. Appearances are everything."

"I beg pardon," Fey said with a frown, "but I don't understand."

"Oh, I think you do." Amalthea was horrified to find herself lose control, but she couldn't stem the bitter flood. "I know a little about Tyvesh. You're a Fist of Vashti, right? Skilled in physical combat, armed and unarmed. Don't think I don't know what your purpose is here, mem. Command has sent you to make sure that Jezzibell conveniently dies, thus saving a lot of trouble to everyone involved. You call yourself a priest, but you're really an assassin."

"It is true," Fey replied calmly, "that I can harm with my skills. I need no weapon to dispatch another to Vashti's arms, should it be required of me. It is also true that Praise Nym hinted to me that Kay's demise would be desirable. However... all I do is in the name of Vashti. I would not dishonor my goddess with unneedful sacrifice. Like you, I've been sent to Ifni under a cloak of falsehood. I do not intend to sell myself, to cheapen my vows for gain. I will defy wrong, and strive for right. Justice is my only interest here." Her green eyes were cold. "Under any other circumstance, I would demand blood for such an insult as you've given me."

Amalthea was shaken. Fey's words were utterly sincere; there was no hint of deception. Amalthea prided herself on her ability to read people. It wasn't quite a psience, but she had never been wrong in all her years of advocacy. "I humbly apologize for offending you," she finally said, and meant it. "I will perform any ritual of expiation required by your custom."

Fey's lips curved in a tiny smile. "On Tyvesh, the penalty would be too severe for comfort. Let me abide instead by Confederation custom, and simply say, 'apology accepted.'"

Amalthea returned the smile. It was a fragile beginning, but there was hope. Somehow, that made her feel a tiny bit better.

As soon as they arrived on Ifni, a squad of heavily armed guards escorted the women to an office in the main complex. Amalthea glanced around as they walked through the Confederation enclave. Surrounded by high, electrified fences looped with razor wire, the camp buildings were simple pre-fab huts arranged in a loose circle. Gravel crunched underfoot. The air smelled sweet, like ripe peaches and nutmeg, with traces of burnt caramel and cardamom. Outside the fence, trees were crowned in yellow-green blossoms that fell in a gentle rain and sizzled against the hot wires.

Fey and Amalthea found Commander Zellinger in deep conversation with Chief Diplomat Worthy Tsang. Zallinger was typically Yggdrasilan - two-plus meters of tightly packed muscle over dense bone, gilt-silver hair cut in a military fade, and washed out blue eyes. He raked Amalthea with a glare, then barely skimmed Fey before returning to the taller woman. "Lt. Commander Quint... welcome to Heorot Base." He offered her a hand.

Amalthea clasped foreams with him in the Yggdrasilan fashion. A true warrior-guild officer. Uncomfortable furniture, antique weapons on the walls, and a holo-snap of his Blood-Hag Social Club momma hunting elephant birds on Rais. "I wish I could say this is a pleasure, ser, but it isn't."

"A nightmare, yes?" Worthy-Are-Thy-Works Tsang was Banjul'ee; like Praise Nym, he wore a formal robe with ribbons attached in so many eye-searing colors that he resembled a fat circus tent.

"Every trial has that potential, of course," Amalthea replied smoothly. She bowed to Tsang in the approved manner. Fey, who had more expertise in Banjul'ee custom, made an elaborate salutation.

"Fey Lonyali... I have heard a great deal about you from ser Nym," Tsang said, arching his reddish eyebrows. "I look forward to seeing you in action."

Fey pursed her lips together and did not respond.

"Let's get to business," Zellinger grumbled. "Corporal Kay is in custody, held incommunicado in a temporary brig. Her implant's been disconnected from Heorot AI. That's her situation. Here's mine. Every other day, some Ifnian functionary comes mincing in here. He makes a lot of polite noise about Ifnian rights, we listen to him politely, ser Tsang tells him to sit on an axe sideways politely, and we all make nasty-nice together until he goes away. I've got about fifteen dozen Confederation departments breathing down my neck, and the flash-lines are burning up from 'interested parties' who want to ensure that their fekkit interests on Ifni aren't jeopardized."

Cords in his neck were standing out. His face was turning crimson. Zellinger continued, "I am not a happy man, Quint. It is your job to make me a happy man again. I want this fekkit nonsense to go away so I can concentrate on my duties, which do not include babysitting an alleged murderer and being polite to civilians. As of now, I don't want to be bothered with it anymore. If I'm bothered, I'll be disappointed. You do not want to disappoint me, by Odin. Are you reading this clearly, Lt. Commander?"

"Aye-aye, sir." Amalthea snapped off a salute. "I respectfully request that sir order his staff to refer all individuals with business connected to this case to me. Sir will not be disappointed."

"I'm happy to hear it. Just bear in mind that it's your neck on the chopping block." Zellinger turned to Tsang. "I'm allowing Quint full access to all files relating to Ifni. I assume the diplomatic corps will cooperate?"

"Naturally, Commander," Tsang replied. His ankle bangels clashed as he turned to go. He said over his shoulder, "Come see me at your convenience, Lt. Commander. You, too, Fey. I'm sure we can come up with a strategy if we put our heads together." Then he disappeared around the corner, ribbons fluttering.

Zellinger grunted. "See my secretary, Ensign Keel. He's my point man - can't make a move without him. Hard to believe the boy used to do scut work in Corps rehab until I snaffled him out. A real jewel." He inhaled sharply and pinned Amalthea with a renewed glare. "In two weeks, Lt. Commander, I want to hear that this thing is wrapped up and tied with a bow. Understood?"

"Understood, sir." Amalthea gestured to Fey, and they left Zellinger's office together. Ensign Keel was waiting for them outside. He was Gizan, and wore a jewel-hilted ceremonial dagger on a belt around his uniform tunic. A chrome intelli-deck was in his hand. "If you'll follow me," Keel said. He wore his hair in a single inky braid snaking down his back. All Ginzans let their hair grow long - to their heels and beyond, if possible. It was considered a sign of maturity and wisdom. The absolute worst thing you could do to a Ginzan, Amalthea remembered, was cut off their hair.

Keel took them to a small pre-fab hut only a few meters away from the main building. The interior was plain but scrupulously clean. "I hope you don't mind sharing," he said, indicating the twin camp beds set up side-by-side. "We aren't really set up to entertain visitors, and I didn't think you'd want to bunk down in the BOQ. No privacy."

"It's fine, Ensign," Amalthea replied. Her bag was at the foot of one bed; Fey's was at the other. A desk and two chairs was wedged beneath the rectangular window. "Much better than the Bachelor Officer's Quarters, in fact."

Keel remained impassive. "I've already put you on the canteen schedule." He pressed the deck's screen a few times, and the internal printer extruded two plastic strips. "Here's your chits. You can draw on common stores if you need anything except personal firearms. Commander Zellinger has to give authorization for that. You've also got unlimited access to Heorot Base files. I can remote-link your implant to AI from here, ma'am." He pressed a few more buttons. "You should be connected now, Lt. Commander."

Amalthea heard a distant crackle, like static from the bottom of a well, then silence. Experimentally, she subvocalized, "Recognize: Quint, Amalthea, Lt. Commander, 3Y923-5BY67, authorization code Sleipnir's Eight."

"Recognized," Heorot AI acknowledged. Its voice was identical to Avatar's. "Temporary security access granted Level One. Proceed."

"End it." Amalthea focused on Keel. "Level One, huh?"

"Commander's orders, ma'am." The ensign turned to Fey. "I wasn't given any instructions regarding AI access for you, mem Lonyali. Shall I check with Commander Zellinger?"

"I have no implant," Fey explained. "My people prefer to communicate with our gods in less technical ways."

"You'll need to put on combat Skinz; they're in these packs." Keel did not react to the priest's joke. "It's orders - S.O.P. for hostile worlds." He indicated two rectangular black packages on the top of the desk.

"Fine." Amalthea was beginning to get impatient at the minutae of military life.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Lt. Commander?"

"Give me ten minutes," Amalthea said, "and then I want to see Corporal Kay."

"Aye-aye, ma'am." Keel saluted and marched out of the hut, his braid swaying from side to side.

Fey tore into one of the packs and picked up a Skinz. It hung from her clawed fingertips, a faintly glimmering net that looked like greased spidersilk. "How do you put this on?"

"You're never worn a nano-skin before?" Fey shook her head, hairbells chiming. Amalthea rolled her eyes, went to the door flap and stuck her head out. "Make that twenty minutes, Ensign." She turned back to Fey. "Okay. Take off all your clothes."

Fey grinned, making her spiral cheek scars disappear. "You could at least buy me dinner first," she said slyly. "That's a joke, yes?"

"That joke was old when Odin had both eyes." Despite her growing apprehension - how was Jezzibell holding up? Had she changed at all in two years? Does our love still stand a chance? - Amalthea grinned back. "Putting on a Skinz is easy. Just press it against you and wait. Embedded nanites are programmed to spread a microscopic lattice over your flesh from scalp to soles. You won't feel a thing, I promise."

"And what does it do?"

"Think of it as armor." Amalthea stripped off her clothing, folding tunic and trousers neatly over the footrail of a bed. Fey watched out of the corner of her eye. The Confederation uniform was deceptive. Clothed, Amalthea had seemed bulky, almost running to fat. Nude, she was magnificent. Smooth slabs of muscle beneath milk pale skin, chest and back covered in a wash of freckles. Not an ounce of spare flesh on her strong-boned frame. She was not self-conscious about her nakedness; Yggdrasilans had no nudity taboo.

Amalthea opened the second pack, withdrew the Skinz, and pressed part of the filmy net against her abdomen. It stuck there as if adhered, and began to spread. Amalthea put her arms up and closed her eyes. In a few moments, she was completely covered. It was unobtrusive, appearing to be no more than a sheen of oil over her freckled skin. She opened her eyes. "If force is applied to any section of the lattice - say, pressure wave from an explosion, or a projectile weapon - the nanites lock together to form a shield. Kinetic energy is transferred along the warp and weft to minimize damage to the flesh beneath."

Fey looked at the dangling Skinz in her hands. "Is it effective against plasma based weapons?"

"Not entirely." Amalthea opened her suitcase. There were several clean uniforms inside, sealed in stay-fresh bags. She selected one and began to draw it on. "The lattice is flame proof to a certain extent, but if somebody hoses you down with a plasma rifle, you're going to feel a little crispy afterwards. Oh, and the eyes aren't covered, so they're vulnerable." She had taken her attention away from Fey while dressing. As soon as she was finished, Amalthea glanced in the priest's direction.

Fey had removed her bright orange top and trousers. Her dark hair, entwined with silver bells, hung loose around her shoulders. Not as tall as theYggdrasilan, the top of her head came just to Amalthea's collarbone. She was lean, all whipcord muscle and dancer's grace. "Like this?" she asked, pressing the Skinz to her flat belly.

"Yes," Amalthea answered, momentarily fascinated. So exotic, that cinnamon red skin and lime green eyes... the way she moved was a sensuous symphony, Mali love poetry set to invisible music. Very different from Jezzibell Kay... Jezzibell! Amalthea turned around to hide a flush of shame. Her beloved, the woman she loved was in danger, and here she was daydreaming about a stranger.

Fey noticed her companion's red face. To avoid distressing Amalthea further, she quickly dressed. "I think I'm ready now."

"Let's go see Jezzibell. I want to hear her side of the story." Amalthea was brusque and business-like.

"Lead, and I shall follow your path in righteousness," Fey replied, quoting from the Book of Vashti.

"Let's go." Amalthea ducked through the door flap, with the priest right behind.

Jezzibell was behind bars. Literally. The front half of a big animal cage was spot-welded to the storage hut's crossbeams, creating a secure cell in the back half of the structure. There was a single armed guard with a needler. When Amalthea and Fey identified themselves, he verified through Heorot AI before leaving them alone with the prisoner.

"Hey, it's me," Amalthea said. Her stomach felt full of nervous butterflies. "How are they treating you, Jez?"

"Mal?" Jezzibell came forward in a rush, grabbed the bars with both hands in a white-knuckled grip. "Where the fekk have you been?" She was fine-boned and petite, her face kitten-pretty. Rage burned in her almond shaped eyes. "You're supposed to be a big-shot advocate, so get me out of here right now!"

"Calm down," Amalthea said, taken aback by Jezzibell's hostility. Then again, she's been through an ordeal, poor thing. "We need to talk first."

"Are you deaf, or stupid, or what?" Jezzibell spat. She rattled the bars. "I got no vid, no com, no VR console, no link to AI. I'm bored out of my mind, and you want me to rot here some more? I didn't kill anybody. That's a load of kak. It's a sick joke, and you'll notice I'm not laughing."

Amalthea could sense Fey standing right behind her, but the priest did not say a word. "You need to take this seriously, Jezz. The Ifnians are, the Confederation, the Advocacy, the Corps... they think you killed Hatusu, one of Pantelion's wives."

"I didn't do anything wrong," Jezzibell said stubbornly. "Okay, so I was sleeping with her. Hatusu was lonely, I was lonely - it happens. I bent the no-fraternization rules a little. No big deal. We weren't hurting anybody."

"Did... did you love her?" Amalthea forced the words out past stiffened lips. She did not really want to hear the answer.

Jezzibell laughed. "Gods, are you joking? Soppy, sappy, sticky stars-in-your-eyes love... no wonder I couldn't stand the sight of you after a while. Mind you, we had some fantastic sex - where did you learn to do that thing with your tongue? - but you're not Ginzan. Good for a giggle, all that love stuff you used to spout. Very funny."

Amalthea reeled. Two years ago, Jezzibell Kay had been the center of her universe. She had worshipped the ground beneath her little pink toes. Wrapped in a romantic fog, she'd been blind to Jezzibell's flaws. Absence had polished the mental picture to pristine perfection, glossed over offensive personality traits, made the other woman a goddess. Now she heard exactly what Jezzibell thought of her. It was like being kicked in the face. Her stomach plummeted and she thought she might be sick.

"To answer your question," Jezzibell continued, oblivious to Amalthea's hurt, "I was not in looove with Hatusu. She's a wog... excuse me, unaffiliated sophont. Yeah, I was with her the night she got terminated. We shared a couple of bottles of native wine, and I gave her some lotus weed. Not the first time, either. Don't look at me like that, Quint. A girl assigned to a backward planet's got to find her amusements where she can."

"Lotus weed is prohibited on on all military bases and vessels," Fey said, speaking for the first time.

"So?" Jezzibell shrugged. "I'll admit to the lotus, take my brig time. I got no defense against that, 'cause it would have shown up in my bloodwork. But no way am I having a murder pinned on me."

Amalthea struggled to control herself. She was torn between crying for the loss of the perfect woman she'd adored, and taking said woman by the hair and shaking her back teeth out. Concentrate on the facts, Quint. "Hatusu was killed with a Ginzan dagger. Her blood was found on your dagger, Jezz."

"That proves nothing. Do you know the effects of mixing lotus with strong alcohol? Total zone-out. I was tranked to the eyeballs. You could have marched a bugle parade through the room and I wouldn't have twitched."

"Do you recall what happened that night?" Fey asked.

Jezzibell glanced at the Tyvesh priest. "Mal, is she with you or the prosecution?"

"Just answer her, Jezz," Amalthea said wearily. "We're both here to help." And you're not making it easy, she added silently. Gods of my fathers, how could I have been so wrong about her?

"Well, it wasn't hard to sneak past the heed-ward in the women's quarters. Maftet takes kahfe laced with sunfire brandy after 2300 hours. Makes him too sleepy to guard the women effectively." Jezzibell let go of the bars, sat down on a cot in the corner. She began toying with the end of her long braid. "I got that tip from one of the boys in my unit. I wasn't the only horny soldier pussy-footing around, you know? Fortunata hasn't had shore leave in a long time. As long as the wogs are agreeable and nobody complains, who cares? Pentelion's wives don't get a lot of attention. They're starved for a little company."

Fey took hold of Amalthea's upper arm and steered her towards a chair. "Put your implant on record mode," she said softly. "We can examine the testimony more closely later."

Amalthea did as she was told, activating Heorot AI's records/storage. She sat there numbly, listening with half her mind. The other half was busy trying to reconcile her memory of honeysweet Jezz with this hard-eyed, harsh speaking woman behind bars.

Fey took over. "Go on," she said to Jezzibell.

"Hatusu was from some province to the west, a real country gal. Plump and cute as hayell, just like I like 'em." Jezzibell's eyes cut towards Amalthea, but the Yggdrasilan did not react. "Anyway, I never paid much attention to her conversation. I wasn't there to make small talk. I gave her a few hits of lotus. Gods, Hatusu loved that stuff. Couldn't get enough. I didn't know the wine we were drinking packed such a punch; tasted like candy but it knocked me flat on my ass before we could get to flesh pressing. Next thing I know, Commander Zellinger's standing over me with the face of doom, there's Ifnians screaming everywhere, and Hatusu is grade-A mince."

"There is an eyewitness who claims that you and Hatusu had an argument shortly before the murder took place."

"We might have exchanged a few words," Jezzibell admitted. "Hatusu was getting boring, all gimme-gimme and whining for attention. I calmed her down with some more lotus. End of story."

"Do you have any idea who could have used your dagger without your knowledge?"

For the first time, Jezzibell looked troubled. "I figure some quaishin came in when I was out, took my knife and did the deed. Do you have any idea the amount of ritual cleansings I'm going to have to undergo for that theft? The fasting? The weeks of celibacy? No booze, no smoke, no meat, no nothing. I'm going to have to use all my savings to pay the priests on Ginza for prayers and ceremonies, not to mention having to give up a good three, four inches of my hair to the sin doctors to get my honor back. It isn't helping that my dagger's been confiscated, so who knows how many quaishin are putting their dirty hands all over it? And it wasn't even my fault!" She was clearly outraged - not at the death of her lover, but at the inconvenience she was being put through.

Fey knew that quaishin was the Ginzan word for foreigner, carrying strongly negative connotations which were not apparent to the average offworlder. If Jezzibell had killed Hatusu, it was a very expensive murder. Corporal Kay would be considered unclean by her own people until she underwent the proper rituals, which would cost her dearly. For this reason alone, Fey was inclined to believe in her innocence. Jezzibell did not strike her as a person who put up with inconvenience patiently, nor was she likely to perform any action that did not serve her best interests.

"Where did you get the lotus weed?" Fey asked, moving away from the murder for a moment.

Jezzibell squinted at her. "Ol' Anvil-Jaw asked me the same question." At Fey's questioning look, she explained, "Commander Zellinger. He's torqued that there's all these regulation breaches happening under his nose. I didn't tell him a fekkit thing, 'cause I figured I'm in enough trouble already. I say nothing without advice from my advocate. Right, Quint? Isn't that the way it goes?"

Amalthea roused herself. Anger - both at her own foolishness and at Jezzibell's callous disregard - was beginning to burn. "Your rights as a Confederation citizen guarantee that you don't have to incriminate yourself. However, you can and should tell me where you got the lotus. I also want to know who told you about getting past heed-ward Maftet, and how you met Hatusu, and who else was breaking regs to get into the women's quarters. In short, Corporal Kay, if I'm to save your life, I want to know every single detail you can remember. Names, dates, everything. Hold back or lie to me, and I swear by the Hellhorn, you'll be on your own!"

Jezzibell opened her mouth, stared at Amalthea, and closed it with a click. She considered for a moment before replying, "I didn't know you were so bitter about our break-up. I mean, okay, I figured you were pretty serious back then, but I thought you'd gotten over it."

"I have gotten over it." Amalthea stood up as she made this pronouncement "One things we'd better get straight right now... you're in deep kak, Corporal. Very deep. Up to your chin and moving rapidly north. I don't want to hear anymore about us. There is no us, and I have no time to waste. So we're going to stick to the facts. Now start talking."

There was an unspoken, implied or else attached to Amalthea's last sentence. Jezzibell nodded. "Fine. Anything I tell you is protected under advocate-client privilege, right?"

"Absolutely." Amalthea moved closer to the bars. "I'm recording, Jezz. Go on."

Jezzibell took a deep breath and began.

Several hours later, Fey and Amalthea had finished cross-checking Jezzibell's testimony against official reports collated by the ever-organized Ensign Keel. Amalthea planned to interview the eyewitness, Lt. jg. Rujat Pan, during dinner in the canteen. The two women were standing outside, close to the fence; falling flowers dusted their shoulders, leaving streaks of sweet-smelling pollen.

"The blood on the knife was definitely Hatusu's," Amalthea said. She was wearing goggles, a banana curve of liquid pixels in a shatterproof frame that fit snugly over her eyes. Heorot AI was projecting documents and holo-pix of the crime scene on the goggles, according to Amalthea's subvocalized instructions. "There were no fingerprints on the dagger; it had been wiped clean. Keel directed the techs. When he worked in Corps rehab, he used to do lab analysis and he's had some forensic training. Didn't miss a step."

Fey preferred to use the display on a borrowed intelli-deck. "Our killer could have masked his presence somehow. Surgical static-gloves, for example."

"True, but..." Amalthea told the AI to superimpose an inventory sheet from base sickbay over the current image. "Sorry. There are sixteen pairs of static-gloves, all accounted for."

"Well, there's always an alternate explanation, if one looks hard enough." Fey's hairbells chimed. "There were twenty Corps soldiers in the women's quarters that night. Corporal Kay gave you a list. All of them are potential suspects."

"I'm more interested in why she's hiding the identity of her lotus connection. Well, I'll squeeze it out of her sooner or later." Amalthea silently reviewed the crime scene holos again. Hatusu had indeed been plump and pretty as hayel, until someone hacked her torso apart. The Ifnian's face was peaceful, in contrast with the violence of her death. "Autopsy showed no secondary injuries. Hatusu was conscious and facing her attacker, yet she made no attempt to defend herself."

"Curious. Did the wine and lotus not affect her as strongly as it did Corporal Kay?"

Amalthea glanced at the autopsy report again. "There were high histamine and serotonin levels found, indicating that her injuries happened before she died. Hmph. If Jezzibell was, quote 'knocked on her ass,' then Hatusu should have been similarly affected."

"And she was not. That is a question we should seek to answer." Fey moved two steps away, absently brushing pollen off her fringed orange shirt. "Perhaps we should ask an Ifnian healer... look out!"

Amalthea didn't have a chance to clear her goggles. Fey pushed her violently to one side, knocking them askew on her face. The Yggdrasilan fell backwards in an undignified sprawl. Blinking rapidly to bring her eyes back into focus, Amalthea saw Fey snatch something in mid-air, spin around on her toes, and slam it into the fence before leaping up and away. The resulting explosion made her ears ring. Fey landed on top of her heavily, and Amalthea's breath went out in a whoosh that left her gasping.

"What the...?" Amalthea wheezed. Fey jumped to her feet, grabbed the taller woman's wrists, and tugged her to a safe distance. By the time they reached the shelter of a hut, alarms were wailing across the compound.

"Needler," Fey answered shortly, scanning the immediate area. "That shot was aimed at your heart."

"Gods of my fathers, I'm wearing a Skinz. I wouldn't have gotten hurt."

"I don't put too much faith in technology. How would you say in Yggdrasil... better to be safe than sorry." Fey dusted some gravel off her trousers. She was holding something tightly in her fist. Behind her, technicolor sparks were flying from the damaged section of fence. One of the flowering trees was on fire; it stank of scorched caramel and bitter almonds. A suppression team came running, followed by an armed squad.

"Somebody better have a fekkit good explanation for this," Commander Zellinger said. He marched up, looming over both women with an impressive scowl. Ensign Keel trotted breathlessly at his heels.

Fey opened her hand, showing him a scorched but relatively intact piece of ammunition called a needle. It was about a finger's width and finned along its short length. The nose was crumpled. "Military issue, I believe. Non-standard, at that."

Zellinger took the needle between his fingers gingerly. After a moment of examination, a vein began to throb in his forehead. "This is from an experimental model," he said softly. Fey stepped back, almost tripping over Amalthea. An Yggdrasilan lowers his voice to raise his sword, went the proverb.

He continued, "We have a case of these in storage. They're designed to penetrate Skinz at close range. It's a good thing you shorted it out; X-models are hard-wired hunter/seekers that'll keep flying until they find a biological target."

"Odin's Empty Eye," Amalthea whispered. Such technology was rumored to exist, but she had no idea there were actually working models. "Thank you, Fey. That thing would have killed me." She got to her feet and had to clutch the priest's shoulder for support.

"Did you see the sniper?" Zellinger asked.

"I'm afraid not. May I suggest, Commander, that you immediately run a manual inventory check? Computer logs can be altered." Fey reached up and tugged the goggles off Amalthea's face. "I also suggest that you double the guard on Corporal Kay. If someone wants Lt. Commander Quint dead, then presumably Kay is also a target."

"I'll see to it." Zellinger issued some curt instructions to Keel, who sprinted away. The Commander tucked the dead needle into his hip pouch. "Perhaps I should assign some protection for the advocate as well."

"Unnecessary, sir." Amalthea stood up straighter. Her face was pale, but some color was returning.

"I'm going to get to the bottom of this. Nobody shoots up my base and gets away with it. When I find the svinzak who's responsible, I'm going to personally cut the blood eagle into his back and hang him up for a raven's feast!" Zellinger stomped away to direct the suppression crew.

Fey stood on tip-toe, the better to speak directly into Amalthea's ear. "No Ifnian could have acquired a Corps weapon like that. The base is too well guarded."

"Unless the quartermaster's been doing deals on the side with Confederation property," Amalthea replied. Fey was so close, she could feel the heat of the other woman's body, smell the spicy scent that wafted from her glossy cinnamon skin. "It's been known to happen."

"No. Whoever wanted you dead knew that you'd be wearing a Skinz, which is why they used a weapon guaranteed to circumvent your protection. Ifnian technology is not as sophisticated as yours. The assassin knows this base very well, is familiar with Corps armaments, and has the means to get what he needs. And is very resourceful."

"But why? The trial isn't for another two weeks. Even if I was killed today, the Advocacy would send somebody else to defend Jezzibell."

"This is connected to the case," Fey insisted. "We just don't know how yet."

"Too many fekkit things we don't know." Amalthea sighed. "All right. Let's finish our info-gathering expedition. We've got to interview Rujat Pan."

"There are ways of cunning murder even in public places like a canteen," the priest warned. "Until we identify and capture the assassin, you are still in danger."

"I'm not going to be scared off this case. Something is rotten in Ifni," Amalthea glanced at the smoldering fence, "and I'm going to find out what it is even if it kills me."

"By Vashti, I hope it doesn't come to that." Fey gave the taller woman a brief hug. "Tyvesh soothing gesture," she explained to the startled Amalthea, "meant to comfort."

"I think it's working." Amalthea felt herself grinning like an idiot, and did not care.

"Good." Fey smiled and released her. "I wonder what they're serving for supper?"

"Who cares? I've got a certain junior Lieutenant on my menu." Amalthea touched the scars on Fey's right cheek. "I'll say it again. Thank you for my life, Fey Lonyali. I owe you a debt which can never be repaid."

"You're welcome, Amalthea Quint."

"Call me Mal."

Fey's lime-green eyes widened. "You permit me use of your short-name? On Tyvesh, this would mean that we are friends."

"Yes. On Yggdrasil, too."

"Between friends, there are no debts," Fey said. Her smile was as brilliant as a sun. "We sail together, you and I, our journey-thread entwined, life-flames burning as one." Another quote from the Book of Vashti.

"I suddenly have a craving for Rujat Pan." Amalthea put the goggles in her hip pouch. "Let's go find that canteen."

Lieutenant jg. Rujat Pan was Muradeen. The harsh canteen light glittered on her iridescent facial scales, picked out blue-green highlights on her cranial spikes. Her eyes were set in protrubent scaled sockets, like a chameleon's. They swiveled independently, one focusing on Amalthea, the other on Fey, then her split gaze drifted here and there. "This person has given testimony already. Why question this person again?"

Amalthea was starting to get a headache, trying to meet both of Rujat's eyes simultaneously. She forced herself to concentrate on one at a time. The Muradeen habit of referring to themselves in the third person was also irritating. "I've read the testimony you gave Ensign Keel. I want to hear the story again from your own lips."

"This person will not be inconsistent," Rujat chirped. Her voice reminded Amalthea of a piccolo chorus. "Absolute truth was told and will be told again."

"Good. That's all we want to hear."

Rujat sipped her warm protein shake. "This person became aware that others were engaged in illegal activities while assigned to quarters in the Ifnian palace."

"Please confine yourself solely to Corporal Kay's activities," Amalthea said patiently. Another problem with Muradeens was that they tended to include every tiny, insignificant detail in a story. Ask a Muradeen the time of day, and you were likely to get a half-hour discourse on 4th dimensional theory, the space/time continuum, and hyperspace distortions. Very smart but very long-winded. You had to work to keep them on track. Ensign Keel had done a good job extracting the precise information needed for the investigation.

"This person will comply," Rujat said primly, eyes swiveling. She continued to drink her shake while reciting the facts.

Twenty-one Corps soldiers from Heorot Base had been assigned to the diplomatic party staying in Pantelion's palace; three junior officers, each responsible for six enlisted. Corporal Kay had been under Rujat's command. It was light duty, consisting mainly of standing around being decorative, and escorting diplomats around the labyrinth of the God-King's quarters. Three shifts per 24-hour cycle, eight hours each - the guard teams worked one shift on, two shifts off on a rotating basis. Fraternization with Ifnians was strictly forbidden.

Doing a routine inspection one evening, Rujat discovered that the two corporals assigned to Diplomat Tsang's rooms were absent without leave. She investigated the lapse with typical Muradeen efficiency. The AWOL soldiers were found participating in an unauthorized poker game along with several others who were supposed to be on duty in other parts of the palace. A scandalized Rujat decided to do a complete check of the entire team. Corporal Kay was the only one still missing after she'd rounded up the others.

Petty Officer Yerovah - no friend of Kay's, since he owed her money on gambling debts - made a suggestion as to her whereabouts. It seemed her illicit relationship with mem Hatusu was an open secret among the enlisted soldiers. At this point, Rujat made a report to Commander Zellinger's office, woke up the other two officers, and went in search of Kay herself.

"This person was in the second octagon, fourth level, near mem Hatusu's quarters, when voices were heard upraised in argument." Rujat finished her shake and set it aside. "A verbal transcript of what this person heard now follows."

HATUSU: Don't be cruel!

KAY: And you're being greedy. Relax. I said relax, Jinx take it!

HATUSU: Give it to me! I'm burning for it!

KAY: Let go! You ripped my shirt! *sound of flesh striking flesh* I don't like it when you get this way, baby.

HATUSU: You hurt me.

KAY: Good. Now quit whining. I'll give it to you when I'm good and ready.

HATUSU: *sounds of distress* Please?

KAY: That's better. Here, drink some more wine... *several seconds of silence* Wow. Tastes different this time. Take some of this, baby. It'll make you feel better.

HATUSU: You're so good to me. *heavy breathing* I can feel the heat already. Touch me... ah, yes. There. And again.

KAY: *heavy breathing, clink of bottle* Mmmm... *slurred* let the games begin...

"End of verbal transcription," Rujat said. Her tone was laced with disapproval over the indulgent sexual habits of her fellow sophonts. "This person was summoned to return. Commander Zellinger waited and wished to see this person without delay. It was this person's belief that Corporal Kay was unlikely to flee the premises."

"You left Jezzibell alone in Hatusu's room." Amalthea could believe this. Muradeen were obsessive-compulsives when it came to honoring their duties and obligations, absolute sticklers for protocol. Zellinger's message would have come first in Rujat's priorities. After all, disciplining a wayward soldier could be taken care of anytime; mollifying a commanding officer awakened in the middle of the night by bad news couldn't wait.

"Yes. There was no reason for this person to suspect that sexual misconduct would become violent." Rujat's wandering eyes snap-focused on Amalthea. "This person has done no wrong."

"I apologize if I've offended you," Amalthea said. "It was not my intention to imply blame." As she'd thought, Rujat had not deviated from the story she'd previously given. In fact, without checking the archives, Amalthea would bet the Muradeen had quoted herself word for word. She turned to Fey. "Do you have any questions?"

"Later, if you don't mind." Fey put her hands together and whistled, a shrill twin-tone that wavered, dipped and rose. Rujat was so impressed, she fluted in appreciation. Not many offworlders could sing Muradeen. In the concise, compressed tongue of Murad, Fey was asking, "Query: will it offend/discommode/inconvenience someone if someone requests for further slaking of data-thirst during the next nutrient ingestation period? Query ends."

The positive reply which Rujat made sounded like a snatch of melody for harmonica and pan-pipes, with a wheezing bagpipe chorus.

Fey smiled and returned to Uni-lang. "Thank you," she said to Rujat. "I know my accent is terrible."

Rujat waved away her modesty. "Difficult enough to learn and speak. The attempt is crude but worthy of art." Her eyes were swiveling in little circles, a sign of great respect. She let out a mini-sonata, and Fey chuckled.

Amalthea wondered what those two were getting so cozy about. "How about dinner?" she asked casually.

"I'd prefer to eat in our hut, if you don't mind," Fey replied. She whistled another line before getting up from the bench and heading towards the chow line.

Rujat kept one eye on Amalthea, while using the other to follow Fey's progress. "That one will go far," she commented.

"Especially if I pitch her off a tall roof," the Yggdrasilan muttered. She pushed the bench back, got up and joined Fey in line. Her implant buzzedwhile she was waiting to be served. Amalthea listened to the message, frowning.

"Something wrong?" Fey asked.

"Message from ser Tsang. Tell you later."

In the small pre-fab hut, Fey was sitting on her bed, devouring a plate of plankton steak with fried sweet potatoes. She had drizzled it with fiery sauce from a suspiciously pink bottle secreted in her travel bag. A holo-label on the front of the bottle declared, Dharma Bum's Tao of Seven Hells Sauce, It's Karma Kickin' Good. Amalthea declined to try it, preferring to stick to a pseudo-turkey sandwich on maizebread.

"Not bad," Fey said when she'd finished. "On Xipitec, I had to eat giant mealworms flambe at a reception once."

Amalthea had a strong stomach. She swallowed a mouthful of sandwich and replied, "Chili con lunacy made with concentrated hot peppers on Gamba. I cried for a week."

"Burned you coming and going, huh?" Fey pushed the plate away and stretched out on her stomach. "Deep fried lake bugs on Pontus Prime. With caramel sauce."

"Jellied eels in New London."

"Exploding brain fruit. Has to be eaten with a very long spoon."

Amalthea dropped the rest of her sandwich. "There is no such thing."

"There is!" Fey rolled over on her back. "It's considered a rare delicacy on Dante's Inferno."

"You got me there. Join the Corps, discover exotic cuisine that sometimes bites back." Amalthea was sitting at the desk. She shoved her half-eaten meal into the recycler bin.

"I wonder why the canteen food here is all reconstituted rations."

"No idea. Why don't you ask the kitchen boss?"

"Perhaps I will."

Amalthea took a deep breath. "Tomorrow, I have a meeting with demiurge Otanishan at the palace. Heed-ward Maftet will be there. So will God-King Pantelion. Does one bow to a God-King, or crawl on one's belly, or what?"

"One inclines the head, thus," Fey jumped up to demonstrate,"while simultaneously holding the hands at shoulder height, palms outward."

"Thanks for the tip. Diplomat Tsang will be accompanying me. He arranged the meeting." Amalthea bit her lip. "Tsang specifically requested that you not be attendance."

"I see." Fey narrowed her lime-green eyes. "Well, I'm sure I can find something to occupy my time while you're away."

"Fey, I don't feel right about this. You should be included. Tsang said that the Ifnians were concerned about Pantelion's safety, with you being a Tyvesh Fist. I think that's a load of kak."

"Don't be distressed on my account, Mal." It was the first time she used Amalthea's short-name. "As I said, I have plenty to do on my own. We can compare experiences afterwards."

Amalthea clenched her teeth together and rubbed her eyes. She was tired, exhausted really, and wanted to do nothing more than sleep. Preferably in her own bed on the Avatar. She did not want this case. She did not want to deal with Tsang. She especially did not want to see Jezzibell Kay anymore. Too many complications. Too much hurt. Amalthea knew it was over between them. Whatever fantasy romance she had created was just that - a fantasy. Reality had slammed down with the subtlety of a blunt instrument, shattering her dreams.

"Did you find anything odd about Rujat Pan's testimony?" The priest sat down cross-legged on her bed, facing Amalthea.

"Lt. jg. Pan came in on the end of the conversation, so it's incomplete. All her testimony proves is that Jezzibell and Hatusu were alone together shortly before the murder occurred." Amalthea stifled a yawn.

"Don't forget, Kay was found unconscious in the room next to the dead body. By her own admission, she has no alibi."

"Are you suggesting that she did it?"

"No." Fey tapped her scarred cheek, lost in thought. "She has no motive. Tell me, was Hatusu's body given a complete examination by Corps medics?"

"I can get you a hardcopy of the autopsy reports. Ensign Keel is a very organized young man. No wonder Zellinger can't do without him. "

"Not yet. I must meditate on this further."

"I wish you'd stop that!" Amalthea exclaimed, getting in the other camp bed. She had already undressed down to a thin cotton singlet. "Have I mentioned how much I hate mysteries?"

"Sleep well," Fey replied, smiling.

Amalthea snapped off the light, rolled over, and pulled the blanket up to her chin.

After a while, Fey's hairbells chimed softly. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" Amalthea mumbled. Her jaw was sore; she'd been grinding her teeth, thinking about Jezz.

"Your love affair with Corporal Kay."

"No. I don't have a fekkit thing to say about Corporal fekkit Kay."

Fey stared up into the darkness. She knew Amalthea was hurting; she could sense the pain washing off her in waves so palpable, she didn't need psi skills to detect it. "I was stationed on Ginza once," she said conversationally. "They seem to be nice people, until you really get to know them."

"Ginzan culture stresses honor and personal responsibility." Amalthea turned over onto her back. The evening was warm, but she still felt chilled.

"Only to other Ginzans." Fey wasn't certain this would help. Although they had known each other a short time, she was beginning to like her Yggdrasilan companion. Amalthea Quint was a deeply honorable person, someone who assumed that others were essentially good. She did not see the evil in people very easily. "Quaishin literally means, one without honor. It's a word used for anyone who is not Ginzan. The attitude they have towards quaishin is usually masked behind a thin veneer of politeness, but don't be fooled. In their culture, you can lie, cheat, steal or whatever to one without honor - it doesn't matter. That's why you don't see many of them in the Corps, and none in diplomatic services. They have to treat fellow Ginzans respectfully, but quaishin are fair game because they're animals, not really human. That's what ginza means... human."

"I thought ginza meant honor." Amalthea was trembling.

"It does. 'Honor' and 'human" are the same thing. Do you understand that this is why Jezzibell felt able to treat you the way that she did? In her culture's terms, a sexual encounter with a quaishin has no real meaning, no emotional attachment. You heard how she felt about Hatusu."

"I thought she loved me."

Fey replied sadly, "You projected your own feelings onto her. I suspect you know that now. Yggdrasilans are passionate and unselfish by nature. You love to fall in love, and your culture doesn't place any taboos that limit your potential partners. On Ginza, it's different. Jezzibell probably assumed you knew this."

"I didn't. I thought..." Amalthea had to hold her breath a moment to fight back tears. "Okay. Maybe it was my fault. When you get your advocacy license, they give you memsynth basics for a lot of cultures you might encounter. Really basic, mostly focused on non-offensive behaviors. When I met Jezzibell, she dazzled me. We were so hungry for each other, I never bothered to do any further studying about Ginza. I thought I knew everything. I was a fekkit idiot."

"Culture clashes can be brutal." Fey reached out a hand. Their beds were separated by a tiny space, so she was able to touch Amalthea's wrist. She was careful of her claws, not wishing to damage but to comfort. "Don't allow it to destroy you, Mal."

"That which does not kill me makes me stronger." Amalthea quoted the ancient Yggdrasilan saying without a trace of bitterness. She tried to learn from her mistakes. "I had this shtupit vision of Jezz, you know? She was crying and looking so helpless, needing me to save her from the forces of evil..." To Amalthea's surprise, she began to giggle uncontrollably at the mental image. It was good; so good, in fact, that she could feel the hole in her heart starting to heal.

"Oh, and you'd come blasting in on your hover-steed to rescue the princess held in durance vile!" Fey giggled, too. "Mal, don't tell me you're addicted to holo-romances!"

"No." Amalthea wiped her eyes. "Opera."

"Let me guess... you're Seigfried and she's Brunhilde?"

"Gods of my fathers, my taste isn't that bad!"

"If it was, I'd have to sacrifice you." Fey scratched Amalthea's wrist lightly.

"Then it'd be a mercy killing for sure."

They howled together for a while, until Amalthea's sides were aching. Finally, she sniffled and said, "Well, that'll teach me to have an overactive imagination."

"May I give friendly advice without offense?" Fey withdrew her hand. "Next time you fall in love, learn everything you can about that person and where they come from. That might prevent misunderstandings."

"Very sensible." Amalthea strained to try and catch a glimpse of her companion in the dark; all she could see was the faint glimmering of the priest's eyes. "I hate mysteries, anyway."

"So you said. Sleep well, my friend."

"You, too." Amalthea rolled over. The horrible sickness she'd felt about Jezzibell's betrayal was nearly gone. In its place was a lightness, a cleansing made not with tears, but with laughter. When she closed her eyes, the image of Jezz she'd held in her mind was blurred, indistinct, fading.

In its place was cinnamon skin, exotic green eyes and the pleasing chime of hairbells. A warm smile. A graceful, caring soul.

You love to fall in love... Fey's observation lulled her to sleep.

*****

The next morning, after Amalthea left for the palace, Fey Lonyali walked into the canteen and strode through the doors marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY with complete disregard for the message printed in fourteen different scripts. These led into the kitchen, presided over by Master Sergeant Yasuda. He was squat, fat and furry, dressed in a sleeveless shirt and shorts combination. An unlit cigar was stuck into one side of his short muzzle. Yasuda's gleaming black-button eyes fastened onto Fey the moment she came within his line of sight.

The Master Sergeant - otherwise known as the Kitchen Tyrant, He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed - was obviously calculating where Fey might have fallen in the chain of military command. He concluded with disgust that she was a civilian. A growl issued from behind the cigar clenched tightly in his fangs.

"No civvies allowed!" Yasuda snapped, pointing a stubby but  imperious finger towards the EXIT. He may have spoken in Universal, but his choice of vocabulary was ripe. "This ain't no ladies tea party, and I don't care if your lawful mate's the ruler of a dozen worlds, and wipes his golden buttocks with spun rubies. Ain't even an Admiral Four-Novas can tell me what to do in my own chow hall. I don't give tours. Get it? Now get out!"

Fey paused beside a huge stove, where bubbling pots and pans emitted scented steam. When she replied politely, it was in pure Figmo Rusty, the Master Sergeant's planet of origin. "Do I look like I give a green rat's ass, you stinkin' gank? Like I would even waste my time in this piss-poor excuse for a barf bucket if I didn't hafta. You and me, we gotta chew the fat now, 'cause I ain't getting no younger and you ain't getting no prettier. "

Yasuda plucked the cigar from his muzzle. Although his face was covered with peach-brown fuzz, she could still make out an expression of atonishment. Several noncom workers stopped chopping, mixing and cleaning, in order to better lend an ear to the exchange. The Master Sergeant clashed his teeth together, turned to the kitchen in general and barked in Uni, "Whatcha staring at? Get back to work or I'll be serving you sorry svinzaks as the next chef's special! On toast!"

The threat spurred everyone back to industry. Yasuda regarded Fey once more. "Not bad for a jabber jockey," he admitted, using the unflattering term for a diplomatic envoy.

"Not bad for a knuckle-dragging hash slinger," Fey said. They had returned to speaking Rusty.

"Come into my office." Yasuda waddled out of the kitchen with Fey in tow, leading the way to a tiny room just off the main chamber. He sat down and poured himself a drink from a dark glass bottle. The cigar was placed reverently on his desk. He switched back to Universal. "Time to splice the mainbrace. The sun's probably over the yardarm somewhere. What can I do for you, mem?" Her knowledge of Figmo Rusty customs, where insults were considered the height of decorum, had earned his respect.

Fey rubbed her throat. The scratchy, gargling Rusty language wasn't easy to articulate. Now that the pleasantries were over, it was a relief to revert to an easier language. "I was having a conversation last night with someone who's been in the Corps for a while. I've traveled to quite a few military bases myself. Everywhere we've been, local cuisine is incorporated into the canteen menu. I wondered why that wasn't the case here."

"You gotta beef with my chow?" The glass was drained, the cigar replaced at a pugnacious angle. Yasuda refilled his drink and pushed it towards Fey. "Take it up with the pecker checker in sickbay. That'd be Lt. Virgil 'Gosh-Almighty' Gamble. When we were setting up shop, he comes over excited 'cause I wanted to know where was the local vittles I'd lined up. Gosh-Almighty put the nix on native produce, and I reckon he's still working on clearing meat for general consumption. Meanwhile, I'm feeding the line from stores and our mother lovin' grunts are moaning for variety. I tell you, it's a helluva amateur night around here."

"Did Lt. Gamble tell you why he wouldn't rate Ifnian produce as safe?" Fey took the glass and drained it in one gulp, earning even more respect from the Master Sergeant. Not many sophonts could swallow genuine Rusty hootch. She didn't turn pale or pass out, which he took as a good sign.

"Do I look like a techie scan-meister?" Yasuda's fur was bristling. "All I know is that there's some incompatibility that might make our grunts sick if they choke down the local lettuce or something like that." He let out a gusty, cigar-flavored sigh and picked up the bottle. "Refill?"

Fey shook her head. One was more than enough; she'd forgotten truly raunchy homebrewed hootch could be. "Thanks for the low down, neighbor."

"Hey, you see Gosh-Almighty, tell that gank he'd better not show his ugly face in my chow hall until I get some decent grub to work with." Yasuda bared his fangs. "Otherwise, I'm gonna hafta start serving slop-on-a-shingle three times a day if the re-supply ship don't come in on time. That'll really torque off the brass. Any kak comes down on me gets rolled straight onto his plate."

"No problem. I'll be sure to mention it." Fey handed him the empty glass. "Gotta haul ass," she said in Rusty. "Can't waste no more time jawing with low-life scum like you."

"Go drain your brain. I got better things to do."

"I'll give your love to Lt. Gamble."

"Hey, it ain't detachable!"

Fey laughed, shook her hairbells at the Master Sergeant, and sought the EXIT. She had to see Lt. Gamble, and she also had an appointment with the Muradeen, Rujat Pan.

Amalthea returned to base alone; Diplomat Tsang had elected to remain in the palace until sundown. Ifnian regulations required offworlders to travel in heavily curtained palanquins carried by muscular bearers in eyeshades, to shield them from the possibly traumatic sight of an offworlder. The palanquin swayed, rolled and dipped until Amalthea's stomach was imitating the motions with near disasterous results.

She was a definite shade of pale green when she finally got back to Heorot Base.

"You don't look well," Fey said when she caught sight of Amalthea's complexion. "Do you need a healer?"

"No, just some time on land that isn't moving up, down and sideways simultaneously." Amalthea smoothed her butter yellow hair with both hands and peered at the priest. "What have you been up to?"

"Some very interesting investigations," Fey replied. "How was your meeting?"

"Fairly exciting. Demiurge Otanishan was foaming at the mouth. He demanded the immediate execution of all non-Ifnians, war to be declared against the alien destroyers, etc. Otanishan's line of fiery rhetoric is going down well with his fellow governors, as Tsang told me later. God-King Pantelion didn't speak at all. Heed-ward Maftet kept looking at me and making signs to ward off evil. What I learned between the invective is this - a fair trial will be impossible, yet the Ifnians insist on trying Jezzibell themselves. Even if I mounted the greatest defense in history, she's still going to be found guilty. Otanishan isn't interested in justice; he's using this as an excuse to put himself in the #1 demiurge slot. Be the hero who faced down demons and won. If I hear the words, 'unholy Confederation plot' one more time, I'm going to scream."

"Well... I don't know about unholy, but there's certainly a plot behind Hatusu's murder." Fey let this bomb drop with a sly grin.

"You're yanking my yin, aren't you?"

"Would I do a thing like that without a proper invitation?" Fey rolled her eyes. "I don't know if it's a national trait, but it seems to me that Yggdrasilans are very impatient people."

Control, control, control, Amalthea silently repeated her mantra. Always control. You really don't want to strangle her, Quint. "Are you trying to say that you know who killed Hatusu?"

"Yes. Proving it is another matter, but I have some ideas on that score."

Amalthea was sure her eyes were bulging. "You've obviously been busy. What did you do, beat a confession out of somebody and forget to tape it?"

"Don't be offensive." Fey handed her an intelli-deck. "First, let me give you a lesson in biology."

"Didn't someone once say, 'you could at least buy me dinner first?'" Amalthea glanced at the display. "What's this?"

"The reason why Master Sergeant Yasuda - the kitchen boss to you - is unable to serve local cuisine in his canteen. I also had a chat with Gosh-Almighty Gamble, the base physician."

Amalthea was scanning the chemical symbols without comprehension. She looked up. "Are you planning to translate this gibberish into something an idiot like me can understand?"

"Briefly, most Ifnian vegatation contains a complex polysaccharide that's impossible for most non-Ifnians to digest. Consumption can cause a number of reactions, from hiccups to intestinal lesions. Hence the ban on native foodstuffs."

"What does this have to do with Jezzibell's case?"

"Ah, therein lies a fascinating tale." Fey tapped the deck's case with a claw. "I had an idea, a hypothesis. Since Gosh-Almighty still had samples he'd taken from the body at autopsy, he performed a series of tests at my request. The results were startling, to say the least."

While Amalthea listened grimly, Fey explained what she had learned. When she finished, Amalthea put the intelli-deck into her hip pouch. "I'll go and pin down Corporal Kay." Her shoulders were rigid with barely suppressed fury.

"Shall I fetch Commander Zellinger?"

"Please do. Ask him to meet us in the brig." Amalthea remembered an old Yggdrasil saying: Put your hand in the wolf's mouth and expect to get bitten.

To put yourself in the wolf's mouth meant to undertake something very hazardous in the hope of reward. Someone on base had a secret and was willing to kill to keep it. He was playing a dangerous game. His hand was in the wolf's mouth... and Amalthea intended to make him pay.

"Oh, and while you're at it," Amalthea said to Fey's retreating back, "you might remind Ol' Anvil Jaw about my plentipotentiary powers. There are a few others I'd like at our meeting - a certain diplomat and a pair of Ifnian natives. You know who I mean."

Fey waved a hand in acknowledgement, and trotted on.

Diplomat Tsang's ribbons fluttered in agitation. He was not used to obeying orders, but when those commands came from a huge, square-jawed Yggdrasilan commander of uncertain temperament, he obviously felt that discretion was the better part of valor. "I have persuaded demiurge Otanishan and God-King Pantelion IV to be here, but it took a great deal of convincing."

"We won't disappoint them," Zellinger replied, a steely glint in his eyes. "Welcome to Heorot base, gentle sophonts." He made the Ifnian greeting gesture stiffly but with perfect correctness.

Otanishan's return greeting was done in a series of angry jerks. "The God-King asks: why have you barbarians brought us into the presence of the unclean?" He indicated Jezzibell, who was still behind bars.

God-King Pantelion was so covered in veils, robes and shawls that no hint of flesh could be seen. Even his eyes were covered with an embroidered gossamer band. He looked like an animated laundry heap. A heavy gold scepter was clutched in one gloved hand. It was clear that he did not intend to communicate directly with the unholy Confederation.

"I beg your pardon," Amalthea said. "I thought it was important that all interested parties be present for this meeting. Please, if you'll take a seat, we'll begin."

Otanishan used a silken square to ostentatiously dust off a chair before guiding Pantelion to it. He sat at the God-King's feet, glaring around the room. Zellinger and Tsang sat down to one side. Fey stood next to Ensign Keel, who was recording the event.

"First of all, let me state for the record that Corporal Jezzibell Kay is innocent of Hatusu's murder." Otanishan started to protest. Amalthea held up a hand. "If you'll hear me out, I think I can prove it to your satisfaction."

"Beware of cunning tricks, O Radience," Otanishan urged Pantelion. "These destroyers will do anything to save their own."

Pantelion cut him off with a gesture, and nodded at Amalthea to continue.

"Thank you, ser." Amalthea clasped her hands behind her back. "Kay's trial was to be held in two weeks. I've been here two days, reviewing evidence and the like. I also talked to Lt. jg. Rujat Pan, the eyewitness. My problem is that the investigation was hampered by my own complaisance. I'll explain."

She began pacing back and forth. "When I spoke to the eyewitness, I was familiar with the penchant for Muradeens to be extremely long-winded. It's common knowledge. Therefore, I asked her to confide herself only to the facts as they related to the events she overheard. Muradeen are also literal minded. She did exactly as I asked. I assumed this was all I needed to know, and since it jibed with her original testimony, I didn't probe further. Another incorrect assumption. My partner, Fey Lonyali, interviewed Rujat Pan later in her own tongue. Some details emerged which made the nature of Hatusu's death a very different affair from the one we had supposed."

Ensign Keel started, then went still again. Fey watched him carefully.

Commander Zellinger's mouth drew into a tight, thin line.

Amalthea stopped pacing. "Assumptions are dangerous. If making them was a crime, the incarceration plants would be full."

"This is all very entertaining," Tsang said, "but are you planning to become less cryptic and more to the point?"

"My point is, honored Diplomat, that we all made incorrect assumptions. For example, we assumed that the murder weapon - a Ginzan dagger - belonged to my client. She was at the scene. She could be placed there shortly before Hatusu's death, and she is Ginzan. Logical, eh? But can we be certain that it was really her dagger in the sheath?" Amalthea turned to Jezzibell. "Did anyone ask you to identify the murder weapon as your property?"

"No," Jezzibell admitted. "They told me it was, but I never saw it."

"Another assumption. And then there's the matter of Hatusu's autopsy." Amalthea abruptly switched her attention to Pantelion. "Forgive me, ser, if I speak of things that are upsetting to you. It is necessary."

Pantelion waved at her to continue.

"After my colleague learned why Ifnian produce is verboten in the canteen, she formulated a theory and spoke to Lt. Virgil Gamble, the base physician. He performed some tests on samples taken from Hatusu's body. Now, lotus weed is a recreational drug, non-addictive and harmless... for most sophonts. Ifnians don't look that much different from Yggdrasilans or Ginzans or any of several dozen other races, but they do have a specially adapted physiology, uniquely suited to their world. I have copies of the report I can download for you, but the upshot is this - lotus weed contains chemicals that have a devastating effect on Ifnians. I speak of immediate addiction and eventual death."

Jezzibell let out a gasp. "I didn't know," she said. "You can't blame me for that. I didn't know. The kak-brained wog should've told me."

Amalthea ignored her. "Lotus is a powerful intoxicant to an Ifnian. The effects are disruption of brain chemistry, erratic heartbeat, hormonal flush, elevated blood pressure, increased sexual arousal. Withdrawal pain is severe, characterized by 'burning' sensations and an uncontrollable craving. With continued abuse, expect death by seizure, cardiac arrest or respiratory failure will occur within six months to a year. Lt. Gamble ran a series of projections that prove this conclusively."

"So!" Otanishan leaped to his feet and shook his fist at Diplomat Tsang. "A heinous plot! The unholy Confederation would destroy Ifni from within by use of this demon's drug!"

For the first time, God-King Pantelion spoke aloud. "Be silent, demiurge. Exercise logic, if you have any. Conspirators would not reveal themselves to the highest officials in a land they plot to conquer."

Otanishan's mouth dropped open. "But... but Your Radience!"

"I said, be silent." Pantelion inclined his veiled head towards Amalthea. "Your information shows my poor Hatusu was doomed before the knife fell. Why kill her then?"

"Because she was addicted." Amalthea's blue gaze swept from the God-King to Commander Zellinger. "Another assumption we've made is that Hatusu and Corporal Kay were alone together when the murder took place. I'm sure you've all seen the testimony given by Lt. jg. Rujat Pan. One thing she said stands out: after overhearing the argument, she 'was summoned to return.' Muradeen always speak very precisely. Why didn't she say she got a message over her implant? Fey Lonyali questioned her again, this time in her native tongue. It turns out that Muradeen-to-Uni literal translation can be problematic. What Rujat Pan meant was that a certain person joined her at the location, and issued an order for her to report to Commander Zellinger."

"Who?" Tsang blurted.

"The same person who recognized the symptoms of addiction when he witnessed Hatusu's behavior that night, and realized that he could make a great deal of money by supplying lotus to Ifnians - but only if the effects weren't known before he introduced the drug to the populace. The person who could get access to restricted technology and try to kill me. He didn't do this because I was close to the truth, but to cast more confusion on the case. He also concealed the fact that the murder weapon did not belong to Corporal Kay; it was a Ginzan dagger, all right, but they all look alike to us quaishin. Who's the only other Ginzan assigned to Heorot Base?"

Commander Zellinger stood up. It seemed to take a long time for him to reach his full height, and when he did, he loomed. "I trusted you, filthy nidhingr!" He was looking at Ensign Keel.

Keel dropped the recording device. In the same motion, he whipped a matte black needle gun from his hip pouch, too quick for Fey to intervene. "I'm no oathbreaker!" he cried. "What does it matter, they're just quaishin! Animals without honor."

"You used to work in a rehabilitation center," Amalthea continued, staring at him. "Drug addiction is something you know a lot about. As the commander's secretary, you've got access to files, records and stores without question. You were in charge of the tech team that searched Hatusu's room. You knew that Jezzibell would never name a fellow Ginzan as her lotus supplier. Only Ginzans are truly human, and humans stick together - until profit is involved."

Jezzibell shrieked an obscenity. "Jinx take you, Mahudar Keel! You let me rot! You'd let me die!" The abuse became spluttering incoherence.

Keel aimed the needler at Amalthea. "It's an X-model," he said, licking his lips. "Your Skinz won't protect you."

"What are you going to do, kill everyone in the room?" Pantelion asked gravely. "It's too late for that." Otanishan moved in front of him, a feeble attempt to shield his divine king. Tsang joined them, adding his bulk as additional protection.

Keel's eyes were wide open, white shining all around the black pupils. "Don't touch me," he warned. "Or I'll..." He never finished the threat.

In a blur of movement, Fey hooked her claws into his glossy braid and yanked his head back hard enough to make him screech. The nano-lattice of his Skinz made it impossible for her to wound him; his hair was the only vulnerable point he had - or so she thought. She used the braid as a handle, spinning him around. His finger tightened spastically on the trigger, but the needle impacted harmlessly against the wall.

"His eyes!" Amalthea called, cursing herself for being too slow. A sudden terror bloomed - what if Fey was hurt because of her hesitation? She started towards the battling pair. "Go for the eyes! They're not protected!"

Fey freed one hand and swiped it across Keel's face. Blood and fluid spurted, and the Ginzan screamed. He fired again, the needle landing in the floor by his foot. Amalthea got there just as Fey snatched his dagger from its sheath. The blonde Yggdrasilan grabbed his flailing arm, trying to wrest control of the gun. Zellinger had drawn his own needler and was bellowing for the guards. He couldn't get a clear shot.

Fey's lips curled back in a snarl. She chanted something in her own tongue and drove the dagger into Keel's unprotected eyesocket. He spasmed, nearly throwing Amalthea to the floor. The priest kept tight hold of his braid, winding its length around her fist. "Move away!" she barked.

As soon as the Yggdrasilan was clear, Fey tripped Keel, adroitly guiding his fall so that he landed face-down with a bone-rattling thump, force driving the knife hilt deeper into his brain. His toes drummed the floor for a moment, then were stilled. Slowly, a last breath in his lungs sighed out past stiffening lips, and Ensign Keel was dead. Amalthea kicked his needler away, just in case.

Fey clasped her hands together over her head, a ritual offering of the victim to her goddess. "The cycle is complete. As Mahudar Keel deprived Hatusu of life, so has he paid in kind. It is done, in Vashti's name."

"Never trust a weapon till it's tried, ice till it's crossed, or a liar till he's dead," Zellinger said, turning his head to one side and spitting. "No place in Valhalla for you, boy. They don't let genocidal svinsaks feast with heroes."

Amalthea stared down at the corpse. She had no guilt about her part in his death. He deserved it. Keel would have condemned a world to death for the sake of his greed.

She was just glad that it was over, and that Fey wasn't hurt.

"Tell me the story again." Fey was sitting cross-legged on her bed, facing Amalthea.

"You could read it on an intelli-deck. I filed the reports myself."

"I prefer to hear it from your own lips."

"Okay, Keel told Rujat Pan to report to Zellinger, which she did. Although she was the superior officer, Keel was known to speak with the commander's authority." Amalthea was laying on her stomach. "Once Rujat was gone, the ensign took a peek into Hatusu's quarters. At this point, Jezzibell was pretty much out of things from a combination of smoke and strong wine. Hatusu, on the other hand, was deep in lotus ecstacy. He worked for a Corps rehabilitation center before being assigned to Heorot Base. I think he probably recognized some signs of addiction - we'll never know exactly how he learned about its effect on Ifnians. Keel was a bright man. He immediately saw a business opportunity."

"Once people were hooked on lotus weed, they'd pay any price, do anything to get their next dose of drug. He could have made himself very rich."

"Short-term, until the law caught up with him. By then, he'd have made his fortune in jewels and gotten away." Amalthea reached out an arm to snag the beaker of hootch that Fey had smuggled out of the canteen, with Master Sergeant Yasuda's blessing. She took a sip, grimaced at the taste, and swallowed anyway. "Keel used his own dagger to kill Hatusu, and took Jezzibell's as a replacement. Only another Ginzan could have told them apart. He avoided leaving fingerprints like this." She slapped her free hand against the metal foot board.

"Ah, yes. The Skinz. A blow causes nanites to lock together to form a shield, which would have masked his fingerprints just long enough." Fey shook her head, hairbells chiming.

"He didn't use Jezzibell's dagger for the murder because that's heavy taboo to a Ginzan. Had to use his own for the blood letting. Didn't bother him to steal her sacred weapon and let her take the blame, though. Human customs are crazy!" Amalthea pushed the beaker towards Fey.

"Yes, they're all crazy!" Fey jabbed a clawed thumb at the side of her own head. "We all have our own customs, which can seem a bit mad to others. Keel wasn't insane, though. He knew exactly what he was doing. By the standards of his race, Keel's only crime was in abandoning a fellow 'human' to her fate." She picked up the vessel and shook it. "Maybe I should go to the canteen for a refill."

"My liver won't thank you." Amalthea made a face. "Jezz is going to get a general court martial for sure. Zellinger's seriously torqued. She's looking at jail time, possible dishonorable discharge. I've already flashed Advocacy Command, told them to pick another defense advocate."

"Some good did come of it. God-King Pantelion was impressed by your public demonstration and honesty. Demiurge Otanishan has decided that the Confederation isn't so unholy after all. The alliance will go through as hoped. Diplomat Tsang is full of praise."

"Speaking of praise..." Amalthea rolled over on her side, picked up the beaker, and set it on the floor beside the bed. "I think I was set up."

"What do you mean?"

"Captain Khulat and Praise-to-the-Crescent-Sky Nym. They led me to believe that Jezz ought to be sacrificed for 'the greater good.' Actually hinted she'd be better off dead, so diplomatic negotiations wouldn't be ruined. Hinted that way to you, too."

Fey's eyes sparkled with suppressed merriment. "Mmm-hmm. And?"

"Gods of my fathers, it's like they wanted me to charge in, full of righteousness and indignation, fangs out and hair on fire! Maybe they wanted me to stir things up. It got me motivated to prove Jezz was innocent before the trial. If I hadn't believed that I was the only one interested in saving her, I'd probably have waited until the trial to reveal the truth, rub their collective noses in it, do some grandstanding. That would have been too late, of course. The Ifnians would have found her guilty anyway. Otanishan wasn't interested in punishing the guilty."

"Yggdrasilan stubbornness is legendary." Fey touched Amalthea's arm. "So it is on Tyvesh as well. We make a good team, Mal."

"That we do." Amalthea felt the priest's claws prickling slightly on her skin; it wasn't an unpleasant sensation. There was a familiar warmth growing in her belly, a desire to find out what kissing Fey might be like. She resisted the temptation. Control, control, control... "You know, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Fey withdrew her hand, reached into her hip pouch. She handed the Yggdrasilan a crystal info-stick. "The complete cultural compendium for Tyvesh, glossary included." Her eyebrows raised at the dumbfounded expression on Amalthea's face. She quoted from the Book of Vashti: "Know your enemy, but know your friend even better."

Amalthea laughed. After a moment, Fey began to laugh as well.

When she got her breath back, Amalthea remembered something she'd wanted to ask. "What was it you said during the fight?"

"What?"

"You said something in Tyvesh. Was it a prayer?"

It was hard to tell if Fey blushed, but her cheek scars went from silver to pink. "I don't know if I should tell you."

"I can look it up in the glossary." Amalthea waited. Finally, she coaxed, "Come on, give. I won't be insulted."

"You might." Fey took a deep breath. "I told him, 'if you harm her, I'll ensure your torment lasts forever.' I was terrified he might hurt you, kill you. I couldn't stand it."

"Why?" Amalthea thought this might be the most important moment in her life.

"Because... well, because I'm extremely attracted to you." The Tyvesh priest fiddled with her fringed shirt. "In a romantic way. I would like to have an intimate relationship with you. But I assume..."

"Haven't we had enough assumptions around here?" Amalthea could almost hear her soul singing. You love to fall in love... aw, fekkit - take the plunge, Quint. You only live once. "We haven't known each other for very long, but I'd like to get to know you better. A lot better." She smiled nervously.

Fey's answering smile was incandescent. "Then let's start now."

"Do you think this is wise?" Amalthea asked. Fey lay down beside her, their faces barely apart. Her breath smelled like cloves and anise. Silver bells gleamed in the inky darkness of her hair.

"Wise? Perhaps not. But necessary, I think." Fey leaned closer, clawed fingertips of one hand resting on Amalthea's freckled cheek. Her lips brushed the other woman's mouth.

Amalthea made a muffled sound and pulled away. "Aren't you going to buy me dinner first?"

"That joke was old when Odin had both eyes... or so a beautiful Yggdrasilan once told me."

They kissed again, less hesitantly. After a while, Amalthea sighed. "Sweet. I've been wanting to do that."

"So have I."

"Really?"

Fey purred, "Since the moment I saw you pouting in the transport pod. Pale skin, pale eyes, pale hair... and all those pretty spots!"

"I should warn you, Yggdrasilans love to fall in love," Amalthea said breathlessly.

"So do Tyvesh. We've terribly romantic. Maybe I should buy you dinner first."

"Just shut up and kiss me again, mem. I'll start brushing up on Tyvesh customs in the morning."

"Good idea. We have lessons enough for tonight. And the first one is... how do I get rid of this fekkit Skinz?"

More laughter, which later turned to moans. Shadows moved on the walls, hairbells chimed a soft rhythm that followed the beating of their hearts. Two figures entwined on a bed, illuminated by golden globe light, cinnamon skin against milk-pale flesh, trembling and slick.

Outside, stars spun gently around Ifni's twin moons, and the bittersweet scent of yellow-green blossoms filled the night.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

MOUTH-TALE OF GIANTS
(Second in the Kennings Series; sequel to Picker of the Slain)
byNene Adams © 2001 - All rights reserved

(Author's Note: In Old Norse poetry and sagas, kennings - or metaphorical compound words/phrases - were used to describe gods, people, animals, places and events in poetic fashion. Sometimes, the description has a correlation with mythology, sometimes it's fallen into common usage. "Mouth-Tale of Giants" is a kenning meaning "Gold.")

The woman walking through the dining room was plump, generous flesh barely covered by a thin cotton dress. She was Tyvesh, her skin a faded russet that contrasted beautifully with the deep amber of her eyes. Silver ankle bangles clashed together with every step.

"What's a Heart of Vashti doing here?" Fey Lonyali muttered through a mouthful of salad.

"A what?" Amalthea Quint stared at her companion. "Is this a bad thing requiring flight or fight?"

"No." Fey chuckled, shaking her head. Silver hairbells entwined in her dark hair chimed softly with the movement. "I'm a Fist of Vashti, a fighting priest. That one's a Heart, a healing priest." She glanced around the restaurant. "Hmph. None of the patrons seem ill."

"Maybe she's after a decent dinner." Amalthea picked up her three-pronged fork and took another bite of spiced steak. Real meat, too, not the plankton-based substitute favored on Confederation ships. "You know, I'm glad we decided to take a leave of absence together. After that business on Ifni, I could use a holiday; gods know the Corps owes me down time."

"Mmmm... nothing nicer than cruising in luxury." Fey took a bite, swallowed, and narrowed her lime-green eyes in pleasure. "How much is this costing, by the way? I don't want to have to kill the maitre'd to avoid paying our bill."

"It's all taken care of," Amalthea replied smugly. "Praise-to-the-Crescent-Sky Nym felt guilty for setting us up, so he wrangled first-class accommodations, all expenses paid. We'll have to disembark when we get to Tyvesh, but it's worth it. That'll be at least four days." Traveling on an interstellar cruiser like Hy Brazil wasn't something a Confederation advocate got to do every day. "Want to see a zero-grav ballet later? Or there's VR fireworks on the promenade deck."

"Maybe." Fey slid her hand across the table, touching Amalthea's wrist with her clawed fingertips. Mellow globe-light deepened her cinnamon skin, highlighted the spiral scars on her cheek. "I'd rather see the view from our cabin... preferably in a reclining position."

Amalthea's round freckled face was suffused with pink. It seemed like forever since she'd met the gloriously exotic priest, but in reality, they'd been together barely a week. In that brief time, she'd learned that her infatuation with a Ginzan corporal had been nothing more than a delusion. That heartbreak was soothed by Fey; each hour she spent with her, Amalthea fell deeper and deeper in love.

"Pardon me." The strange Tyvesh woman had stopped at their table. She was looking at Fey. "Please forgive the disturbance of you and your kajalni. I am Siv Toryali, Second Heart of Vashti."

"Fey Lonyali, First of Fist," Fey replied. "And Lt. Commander Amalthea Quint of Yggdrasil, an advocate in the Corps."

Amalthea belatedly remembered her manners. "May Vashti's flame protect and guide you. Will you join us, mem?" She made a mental note to ask Fey what 'kajalni' meant when they were alone.

Siv brought a hand to her brow, flicking clawed fingertips to show respect in her homeworld's fashion. "Briefly, yes." Her dark hair was swirled up in a bun at the top of her head, skewered by gilded pins - a very different style from Fey's free-hanging locks. She sat down, the chair's responsive foam molding itself to her ample contours. "There is a difficulty aboard ship. I hoped you might be willing to assist."

"What sort of difficulty?" Fey pushed her salad away.

"There has been... hmph." Siv made a face. "I cannot speak of particulars in a public place. Can we go elsewhere for discussion?"

Amalthea sighed, gazing mournfully at the big slice of steak still left on her plate. Then she, too, abandoned her dinner. "Perhaps you can tell us whether the matter is personally connected to you, or if it's ship's official business."

"I was contracted by Hy Brazil's ownership consortium to provide healing services on board, therefore I must be familiar with the medical requirements of all guests. When the... incident occurred, I recalled there was a First of Fist on the passenger manifest, and a Corps advocate." Siv gave them both a tight smile. "Your deductive work on Infi has been the subject of many data-flashes lately. Solving a murder and preventing damage to an entire civilization... very impressive! I suggested to Captain Ning that you might be persuaded to help."

"I hate mysteries," Amalthea muttered in Yggdrasilan. Siv showed no sign of understanding, but Fey's eyes sparkled. She continued in the Confederation's Universal tongue, "Well, I can't see any harm in listening to your story."

"Nor can I." Fey dropped her napkin on the table. "Provided it is understood that we are private citizens on holiday, not representatives of the Confederation or the Corps."

"So noted." Siv stood, the chair hissing as it returned to a neutral configuration. "Will you join me on the bridge?"

Amalthea eyed the holo-menu card. She'd been planning on ordering cardamom-sunspice cream with chocolate sauce. I guess I can always call room service. Then she thought about Fey's naughty suggestion, and sighed again. "Let's go before I change my mind."

Fey leaned over to whisper in her ear, "I'll make it up to you tonight." There was a wealth of wicked promise in her gaze that made Amalthea's knees feel weak.

Siv put her hands on her hips. "Are you coming to the bridge or not?"

"Can't keep Captain Ning waiting." Amalthea rose to her feet, pulling Fey up with her. "After you, mem."

Siv led the way to the bridge in a continuous clash of ankle bangles. Fey's hairbells provided a chiming counterpoint. The ship's corridors were lushly decorated. Epiphyte moss carpet released a spicy odor as it was crushed underfoot; vines cascaded down the walls, giving way to water sculptures and neon holo-paintings. When they reached the bridge, Amalthea was relieved to see it was spare, plain and business-like, resembling a Confederation vessel's ops center. Gaudily uniformed personnel manned various consoles and displays.

Captain Pangalor Ning was a Muradeen male; his facial scales gleamed blue-green, but his skull was smooth, not covered with cranial spikes like a female of his race. Chameleon-like eyes swiveled independently in their protrubent sockets. "This person greets you in gratitude for your swift response." It wasn't clear who he was addressing; his left eye jerked between Fey and Amalthea, while his right focused on Siv. That was one thing that irritated Amalthea; the other was the Muradeen habit of referring to themselves in the third person.

"How may we assist you?" Fey asked. "Siv Toryali was hesitant about providing details."

"Hy Brazil is host to the Duchess of Banjul, a very important, very wealthy personage." Captain Ning looked a little pale. "Her mate is a High Counselor with much political influence." He stopped speaking, searching for a way to explain the situation in Universal - a deplorably unreliable language, as far as Muradeen were concerned - without taxing the women's patience. His own tongue was much more concise and efficient. "Duchess Sweet-in-the-Morning has many valuable jewels, including the hereditary ducal tiara. These jewels were stored for safe-keeping in the purser's office. They have been stolen."

Amalthea ran a hand through her short-cropped, butter yellow hair. "Well, unless you're missing escape pods or ship-to-shore transport vehicles, your thief must still be on board. Why don't you have your security personnel search passengers and their cabins? That'll be a good start. If you don't uncover the thief, start tearing the place apart. You'll find the jewels eventually."

"This person is forbidden by the ownership consortium to take any action that will compromise the comfort and safety of our guests." Ning rattled this off by rote. "Discretion and caution must be exercised to the fullest extreme."

"In other words, there are a lot of heavy juju sophonts cruising on Hy Brazil, and the owners are scared to upset the money flow." Amalthea snorted. "Typical. So what do you want us to do about it?"

"It was this person's hope that you and mem Lonyali might condescend to examine the crime scene. Perhaps a clue will be discovered that points to the thief's identity. Your work on Ifni is well known, and the ship's security personnel have no expertise in matters of this kind. Theft has never before occurred on this person's watch." Ning's wandering gaze settled on Siv.

The Heart priest spread her hands apart. "I, too, am bound by the consortium's orders, but we hope to have this issue resolved within six hours."

"And do you also want us to teach a pig to sing?" Fey scoffed. "You have our sympathy, but don't expect miracles."

"Your pardon," Siv replied, her amber eyes hooded. "In six hours, Duchess Sweet will attend a midnight ball. She knows about the theft, and is extremely distressed. An ultimatum has been issued. If her jewels are returned by the time the ball opens, she will do nothing. If they are not, she'll institute legal proceedings against the consortium, Captain Ning and the entire crew, even if her property is later recovered. There will be a great scandal. Duchess Sweet is a powerful woman whose resentment will mean ruin for all of us."

"And it doesn't help that the owners have tied your hands." Amalthea bit her lip, considering. She glanced at Fey; her lover nodded in agreement. "All right. We'll help, provided we can reach agreement on a few points."

"This person is regrettably unable to sanction any action which contravenes the ownership's wishes."

"I understand that. Will you set the ship's AI to record?"

"Done." Captain Ning issued the order and stood waiting.

"First, we require your authority to question ship's crew as we see fit. Second, Fey Lonyali and I are private citizens acting as amicus inquisitorus at your request. I'll upload a contract to your AI which indemnifies us against being held responsible for the outcome of the investigation, whether successful or not. I want the Duchess' personal guarantee. Last, I want complete access to the scene, all reports, personnel files, passenger manifest - in short, every scrap of data, relevant or not."

"This person agrees to your conditions. Will you permit mem Siv to show you the crime scene while this person informs Duchess Sweet? A copy of the signed contract will be logged in ship's permanent records, which you may access at any convenient time."

"Once an advocate, always an advocate," Fey murmured, while Amalthea subvocalized instructions to Hy Brazil's AI via her implant. She turned to Siv. "Where is the purser's office?"

"On Deck Nine, sub-corridor D."

"Sails filled with the breath of Vashti, our journey begins well," Fey quoted from the Book of Vashti.

Siv tapped her foot, causing ankle bracelets to clash together loudly. She countered with a quote of her own, "Speech is silver, deeds are gold."

"Then let's not waste any more time. Coming, Mal?" Fey followed Siv off the bridge. Amalthea finished her uploading and hastened to catch up.

Sub-Corridor D, Deck Nine was not far away from the bridge, and also within easy access of the deluxe suites occupied by those of rare fortune and influence. Duchess Sweet-in-the-Morning's rooms were only one level above. The door to the purser's office was open. It was solid, with only a small translucent panel set in the front. "Can anyone enter at will?" Amalthea asked.

Siv indicated a control panel to the left of the door. "From the outside, a retinal scan, fingerprint and DNA analysis, plus two passcodes are required to open the door. Codes are changed every day. Only our captain, first officer and purser have authorized access. Additionally, a laser sensor keeps track of how many people enter and leave. If one wishes to deposit or retrieve an item, they use the doorchime. If he's inside, the purser checks through the window, to see if he recognizes the guest before opening the door."

"Visual surveillance?"

"No." Siv shrugged her plump shoulders. "Strict confidentiality has to be observed. If guests cannot trust that their private business remains so, they'll choose another cruise liner."

Fey tapped her cheek scars thoughtfully. "You're a healer," she said. "How did you come to be involved in the matter?"

"The purser - Samozel Dix - didn't report for dinner at his usual time. I often dined with him in the crew canteen." Siv picked at a loose thread on her dress. "When I received no word and was unable to hail him on the com, I informed Captain Ning. He attempted to make contact, was unsuccessful, and the AI log showed Samozel was still in the office. Ning opened the door. Samozel was unconscious. He's in sickbay now."

"Was he attacked?"

"He was." Siv's russet complexion deepened to a more scarlet hue. Her eyes flashed angrily. "Someone used an aerosol anesthetic called Lethe. It doesn't render the patient unconscious; it alters brain chemistry and disables short-term memory, so that any sensory input is immediately forgotten. Lethe isn't used much anymore because the side-effects include temporary loss of most stored memories. Samozel won't be able to tell us what happened, nor does he recall anything after eating breakfast with me this morning. It will be at least a week before he recovers completely."

Amalthea thought that Siv's feelings for Samozel Dix were much stronger than she was revealing. The Yggdrasilan raised an eyebrow at Fey, who confirmed her suspicions with a nod.

Siv continued, "According to the AI log which monitors the laser sensors, Samozel was alone when he was attacked. He had been with someone shortly before, but they left."

"And we have no way of knowing who that someone might be." Amalthea peered at the doorframe. The two tiny laser emitters were intact and showed no signs of tampering. They were about six inches apart in the center, facing each other. "Was a can of Lethe found inside the room?" She didn't think there was anything wrong with the question, but Siv's reaction was immediate and explosive.

"How dare you accuse Samozel! He is innocent!" Siv turned to Fey and poured out a spate of aggrieved Tyvesh. Amalthea didn't know much of the language yet, but it sounded like verbal razor blades.

"Approximately translated as 'no,'" Fey eventually got in, when the Heart priest ran out of breath. "No Lethe was found, nor has it turned up in the recycler bin. Whoever used it must still have it."

"Fine, fine," Amalthea flapped her hands. "I meant no offense, mem Toryali, and I'm not accusing anyone. If we don't find the jewels, the authorities will be notified as soon as we reach Tyvesh. Believe me, they'll consider ser Dix the #1 suspect, and their questions will be a lot more awkward than mine. Losing your temper won't help him."

Siv had the grace to look abashed. "I apologize. It's just that... I'm very fond of Samozel. I would hate for him to be falsely accused." She smoothed back a stray lock of hair. "Before you ask, it is not possible for an individual to spray himself with Lethe and still be capable of disposing of the evidence. A second after inhalation, and he won't even remember he has a can in his hand, nor will he recall what it is or what it's used for from one moment to the next."

"Fair enough. Do you mind if we go inside the office?"

"Please."

Amalthea went through the door. She was wearing low-heeled shoes with her tunic and trousers, but Fey was barefoot. The Fist claimed to love the feel of moss carpet scrunching between her toes. Fey took a step inside, jumped, and let out a pungent exclamation.

"Gods of my fathers, what is it?" Amalthea knelt down and grabbed Fey's foot, turning it so she could examine the bottom. There was a sliver of glass in her heel.

"How often are the carpets cleaned?" Amalthea asked, gently easing the sliver out. Siv got down on her knees and took over, elbowing the taller Yggdrasilan out of her way. Fey stayed still while the healer manipulated the small wound so that it bled freely. Siv answered Amalthea's question while she worked. "General maintenance occurs once every eight hours, but nanites and cleaner 'bots work shipwide on a continuous cycle."

"When are the 'bots scheduled to clean this office?"

Siv looked up from her work. "In two hours, I believe. You'd have to check the duty logs."

Amalthea got up, staring at the shard in her palm. It was thin, slightly curved and mirrored on one side. She couldn't imagine where it had come from.

Fey tried to lean over, the better to see the article her lover was holding, and almost fell over. Siv hissed, "Stay still!" Amalthea took pity and held the sliver up between thumb and forefinger, so that it caught the light and sparkled.

"Any ideas?"

"None whatsoever." Fey grimaced. "Are you trying to remove my heel with a dull knife?" she asked the healer. "It's a tiny cut, for Vashti's sake."

"I needed to be sure it was clean." Siv let go of Fey's foot and stood up. "I can put a skin-seal over it. You'll have to come to sickbay."

"Unnecessary, but I thank you for your trouble." Fey stood up straight, glancing around curiously. "Where are the valuables stored?"

"Here." Siv pointed to a bank of metal storage boxes attached to the wall. Only one of them was open. The door faces were blank except for stamped numerals. Amalthea frowned and said, "No sign of forced entry. The thief not only knew which box the Duchess' jewelry was in, but also had the code to get into it."

"That indicates foreknowledge," Fey said.

"Or they were able to access the purser's files." Amalthea went over to the sole piece of furniture in the room - a desk with attached chairs. It ran the full length of the back wall. There was a wafer-thin computer screen connected to a pair of data-gloves on top of the desk. The screen was blank.

"Ship's records are protected by AAA+ encryption software, military version run by AI. Very secure." Siv began picking at her dress again. "Do you have further questions? I'd like to see Samozel."

"Go ahead. We'll call you if we need you." Amalthea watched the Heart priest leave, and put the piece of glass into her hip pouch. "Okay, let's reconstruct the crime. Our thief somehow gets past all that security and comes into the room. He sprays Dix with Lethe, breaks the encryption software and picks Duchess Sweet's jewelry as his target. He takes the code, opens the box, and carries away his prize. Or he already knows the box number and the code. All he has to do is secrete the jewels, wait until we reach Tyvesh, walk off the ship without being suspected, and hop another interstellar transport. That's a whole lot of speculation."

"Problem - how can he avoid detection? When we reach Tyvesh, the authorities have the power to detain this ship's guests and do a complete inch-by-inch search. You can be sure that with Duchess Sweet applying pressure, the owners won't be able to protect their clientele. So how can our thief possibly get away with it?"

"Good point."

"There is another explanation."

"I knew you were going to say that. I'd already thought about it myself."

"Samozel Dix knows which box belongs to whom, and what the contents are. He decides to steal a fortune in jewels." Fey began prowling around the room. "Dix waits until he's alone. He opens the box, hides the jewels somewhere, and sprays himself with Lethe to provide an alibi."

"Problem - no aerosol can. You heard mem Toryali."

"She could have been working with him. She was present when Captain Ning opened the door. Siv could have picked up the Lethe and hidden it."

"Hmph. It's plausible."

"What is?" The question came from an unfamiliar voice. Amalthea turned to see a thin, richly clad woman standing in the corridor outside the office. She was albino pale, her hair silver-white, eyes concealed behind big mirror glass spectacles. Her face was wet with tears, which she wiped carefully with a cloth.

"Who the hayel are you?" Amalthea blurted impolitely.

"Cardiwen of Zvartholm. I'm in the Duchess of Banjul's employ as a fourth Wardrobe Mistress, in charge of her jewelry collection." Cardiwen glided into the room, the long skirts of her gem-dusted gown rustling. "If you are the investigators employed by Captain Ning, my lady wishes to see you immediately."

Fey had no experience with Zvartholmers, but she had read a little on the subject. That world's axis was tilted oddly, creating areas of near perpetual darkness and perpetual daylight, except for a thin zone around the equator. The population lived in every zone, requiring gene-tailoring to deal with the extremes. Cardiwen, with her deathly pallor and shielded eyes, had to be a twilighter. Normal light would have seriously damaged her vision. Fey didn't know the proper greeting forms, so she stuck with neutral body language.

"I think we're finished here for now," Amalthea replied. "I'm Amalthea Quint. This is Fey Lonyali."

"Are you in distress?" Fey wondered why the woman was crying.

"A pollen allergy," Cardiwen answered with an apologetic smile. "A minor nuisance, not life threatening."

"Perhaps you should seek Siv Toryali, the ship's healer. Are you sure you're not being affected by light leakage? That could be dangerous."

"No, mem. Just an allergy." Cardiwen dabbed more wetness away and curtsied, sinking down in a billow of sparkling satin. "If you would be so kind..." she murmured, a hint that the Duchess was waiting.

They were taken to Duchess Sweet's suite, which was big enough to house a lap pool, separate apartments for her servants, a gourmet kitchen, and a spectacular view of the stars. There were no flowers; instead, huge vases held dried foliage from poisonous plants, each leaf sealed in thin plastic.

The Duchess was dressed as flamboyantly as most Banjul'ee, covered from neck to knees by a series of meandering ribbons in violent colors, with plenty of well-fed flesh on display. Amalthea thought numbly that one could have hidden a regiment in the Duchess' ample cleavage. The woman's red-tinged hair was a corkscrew explosion; her hands were covered in precious dragon-scale gloves. Every gesture caught the light and shattered it into garnet-black splinters.

"There you are!" Duchess Sweet trilled. "Well? Have you found my jewels?"

"Not in the last ten minutes, mem," Fey said, making the elaborate salutation necessary for Banjul'ee custom. Amalthea followed suit. Neither got the chance to inquire after the woman's House, offspring or marriage partner, which was normally part of the customary Banjul'ee greeting.

The Duchess' dark eyes narrowed. "Do you know who I am, you impertinent sophonts?" She proceeded to tell them in detail, listing her genealogy back to the founding colonists of Banjul, and detailing her husband's wealth and accomplishments. Amalthea quickly tired of impassioned speech; glancing around, she saw Cardiwen standing to one side, waiting patiently.

While Fey attempted to soothe the Duchess' ruffled feelings, Amalthea went to the Zvartholmer. "Do you wear those all the time?" she asked, nodding to the spectacles.

"Oh, yes," Cardiwen replied, "I'm a twilighter. Without them, I'd be blind." A tear slowly trickled down her cheek; she wiped it away absently.

"You could have surgery. Nikkon has an excellent range of artificial optics that are better than the real thing."

"No, I'll be leaving the Duchess' service soon and returning home." Mirrored lenses flashed as she turned her head towards Amalthea. "Thank you for your concern, mem."

"Are you listening to me?" Duchess Sweet exclaimed. "I'm not used to being ignored!"

Amalthea hastily bowed to the Banjul'ee, using profound inferior-to-superior mode. She squashed the urge to make a sarcastic reply. "Beg pardon, mem. You wished to know how our investigation is progressing?"

"I warned Captain Ning. I will not attend the ball without my ducal tiara." Duchess Sweet-in-the-Morning folded her arms across her chest - no easy feat. "That tiara is the symbol of my hereditary authority. Frankly, I'm appalled at the level of irresponsibility, unprofessionalism and lack of security on a vessel that was rated five-supernovas in Virtual Baedeker's. Hah! If my property isn't returned, I'll make sure Hy Brazil doesn't even rate a half white dwarf!"

"So we were given to understand," Fey said in her most unctuous diplomatic tone. Only Amalthea was in a position to see the amused glitter in her eyes. "In fact, mem - and please understand that I tell you this in the strictest confidence - it seems we are very close to exposing the thief."

Amalthea was surprised, but hid it well. Duchess Sweet's eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline. "Oh? And why haven't I been informed?"

"We are still perplexed by the lack of a single clue." As Fey explained the 'Samozel Dix is guilty' hypothesis they'd been discussing (leaving out Siv Toryali's possible assistance), Amalthea suddenly understood her lover's motive. Gods of my fathers, she thinks she knows who did it... and so do I.

She touched her hip pouch, careful not to cut herself on the glass shard they had found. Yes, we're taking a fekkit great chance doing it this way, but as we say on Yggdrasil, 'risk not, gain nothing.' That reminded her of another Yggdrasilan proverb: 'He who digs a grave for others, falls into it.' Amalthea hoped that she and Fey weren't making a terrible mistake.

"...but how did the purser spray himself with Lethe and then dispose of the aerosol can?" Fey concluded. "If only we could find this clue!"

"Have you searched his office?" Duchess Sweet huffed.

"We had only just begun before we received your kind invitation," Fey said. "The ship's security personnel are unfamiliar with criminal investigation procedures, so Captain Ning left the matter to us. I can say no more, alas. I fear we are overdue for an interview in sickbay with the suspect, but rest assured, we will make a thorough search of Samozel Dix's office." The Tyvesh priest put a hand to her brow and contrived to act sorrowful. "It will be difficult, tearing ourselves from your charming company, but catching the miscreant and retrieving your jewels must be our priority."

Don't overdo it, by Odin! Amalthea was appalled by Fey's theatrical dramatics, but the Duchess was mollified. She patted her corkscrew curls and simpered, "Such a well-spoken sophont! I confess I was wrong about you. One should never judge inferiors when one is in a temper. Things haven't be going right for ages!" She shot Cardiwen a glare. "I wish you'd stop dripping and get some medicine for that allergy. You've been crying since before the theft and my nerves are in pieces!"

"I'm sorry, mem." Cardiwen tried to wipe her streaming cheeks more discreetly.

Duchess Sweet made a face. "It's so hard to get decent help these days." She continued more graciously to Fey, "Should your mission be successful, you have permission to enter my presence and return the tiara personally."

"Such a magnificent boon! We are overwhelmed by your generosity, mem." Fey fluttered her lashes as if overcome by emotion.

Amalthea thought her partner was laying it on a bit too thickly. "Ah, please forgive us, Duchess. We really must be going." Without giving Fey an opportunity for more kak shoveling, she grabbed the priest's arm and escorted her out of the suite.

"Odin's Empty Eye!" Amalthea swore when they were safely in the corridor. "Okay, I'm pretty sure I know why you did it, but aren't you afraid our thief might get suspicious?"

"Perhaps." Fey leaned against the taller woman for a moment. "I"m sorry that I didn't have time to tell you my plan. It came to me in a rush."

Amalthea hugged her. "I don't mind being put on the spot, even if it's a potentially disastrous one. What's our next move?"

"To the purser's office. Can you contact Siv Toryali on that implant of yours?" Her clawed fingertips delicately touched an area on Amalthea's jaw, just in front of her ear. "She knows the medical requirements of everyone on board."

"Not a problem. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Fey smiled, which made her cheek scars disappear. She quoted from the Book of Vashti, "A flame cannot hide in the shadows, nor can darkness conceal itself in day," and disentangled herself from Amalthea's embrace.

"Right. I'll question Siv while we're walking." Amalthea kissed her lover's mouth. "No matter how it turns out, we'll stand together."

"Just as long as we don't have to grovel to Duchess Sweet-in-the-Morning again." Fey wrinkled her nose. "That woman's fashion sense is terrible!"

Amalthea laughed, gave Fey another hug, and led the way to the lift. "What do you want me to ask Siv?"

"Ask her about Zvartholmer allergies, and duplicate eyeshades."

"I knew you were going to say that."

The thief walked boldly to the purser's office, tightly clutching a can of Lethe. There was no need to hide; the thief knew that there was no surveillance here, and the investigators were in sickbay. This wasn't part of the original plan. That had not required a scapegoat to take blame for the crime, but the opportunity was too good to resist. Some of the globe lights were out, but 'bots were doing maintenance - it happened sometimes.

Suddenly, Amalthea darted out of the shadows and hit the thief's hand. The can dropped to the carpet with a soft thud. Amalthea put her foot on it, while Fey snatched off the pair of mirrored spectacles on the thief's face.

Cardiwen did not scream, nor did she try to shield her eyes when Captain Ning reactivated the globe lights. He had a sour expression on his scaly face. "Busted eggs and scrambled yolks!" he hissed. Fey flinched; she had never heard a Muradeen use such a strong obscenity before.

The Zvartholmer's sensitive eyes were protected by dark contact lenses.

Ning recovered his composure. "How did you know?" he asked, pointing at Cardiwen. She put her chin up and stared at him defiantly. Tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks - not of remorse, but a sign that the lenses were extremely irritating.

"We weren't sure, to be honest," Amalthea said. "Fey and I both thought Cardiwen might be responsible for the crime. We set up a trap by telling the Duchess about the missing Lethe, hoping it might lure the thief back here."

"A plausible alibi, if it wasn't for this." Fey held up the glass shard she had stepped on earlier. "Do you recognize it, mem?"

"I... I don't have to say anything," Cardiwen muttered.

"That's your right, of course." Amalthea turned to Captain Ning. "Fey got the idea that Cardiwen was responsible after connecting her spectacles to the piece of glass found in the office. These spectacles aren't damaged, but she's got several other pairs plus those lenses. Siv Toryali confirmed that the items are listed in her medical log. There's also another pair in sickbay, just in case."

"No Zvartholmer with common sense would risk being blinded. They always carry spare protection." Fey took up the explanation. "I wasn't sure about the lenses, though. My theory had to be tested."

"Here's how it happened. Samozel Dix knew Cardiwen by sight - she's a Wardrobe Mistress, and responsible for the jewels. She already knew the passcodes. He wouldn't have questioned her presence. She sprays him with Lethe as soon as he opens the door, walks in, opens the box and walks out with the jewels. Since she's part of Duchess Sweet's entourage, all she has to do is conceal the goods until we reach Tyvesh. Cardiwen could leave the ship unscathed, maybe by making an excuse about arrangements for the Duchess." Amalthea gave the silent Zvartholmer a tight smile. "My curiosity will be satisfied when you make your confession."

Ning blurted something in Muradeen song-speech. To Amalthea's ears, it sounded like a melody written for tuba and bass saxophone. He switched to Uni. "Not possible. There are laser counters that record each entry and exit. Samozel Dix was alone at the time of the theft. That is proven."

"A clever deception. If you'll permit me?" Fey took the spectacles over to the door. She applied pressure to the thin nosepiece, and the device snapped in half. "Each time the beams are broken, Hy Brazil's AI makes a record. However..." Fey swiftly but carefully slid mirrored lenses in front of each laser emitter, entered the room, and pulled them away again. "By reflecting a beam back at itself, the AI is fooled into believing it remains intact. No record is made. Cardiwen did this both times to conceal her entry and exit. Very simple but very effective. She made a single mistake; one of the lenses cracked as she was leaving - perhaps it struck it against the frame - and she failed to notice the splinter left behind."

"Those long skirts can hide a multitude of sins," Amalthea said to Cardiwen. "I wonder..."

The Zvartholmer stumbled backwards. "You can't search me!" she cried shrilly. "I'm a personal servant of the Duchess of Banjul!"

"She's not an official envoy, so Duchess Sweet's legal status doesn't include diplomatic immunity for herself or her servants." Amalthea reached for a handful of rustling satin gown. Fey stepped behind Cardiwen and forced her to stand still. Amalthea flipped up the gem-dusted skirt, to reveal a pair of cloth sacks hanging on either side of the woman's pale legs.

"Looks pretty heavy to me. Unless you've got a gravity deficiency, I'll bet those contain the stolen jewels." Amalthea unhooked the sacks and gave them to Captain Ning.

He opened one, let out a two-toned whistle, and showed them the contents. Necklaces, bracelets, rings - valuable ornaments of every description were piled together. The ducal tiara was on top; it was an ornate gold monstrosity that resembled a pierced cooking pot without a handle.

Fey shook her head, hairbells chiming. "Clever of you to keep them on your person," she said to Cardiwen. "Too bad your intelligence didn't extend to pursuing a less criminal line of work."

"What if I'd taken out my lenses? You could have blinded me with that ploy," the Zvartholmer replied.

"I admit it was a dangerous assumption," Fey answered, "but you said you had a pollen allergy. There aren't any flowers in public places on board, and none in the Duchess' suite. Your tears were caused by irritation from the lenses. As long as you were crying, I felt fairly certain that your eyesight was protected. Captain, I suggest you check Cardiwen's room as well as the recycler bin for a pair of damaged spectacles."

Cardiwen's silver-white hair was limp with sweat. "I've worked for that ungrateful snob for years," she sobbed. "That gold is fair payment for all the insults she's given me, all the kak I had to put up with! She's rich, she can afford more jewelry. I just wanted to go home!"

"I sympathize," Amalthea said, "but if I were you, I'd save it for the judge." She sighed and tried to catch Ning's wandering eyes. "Can I please go back to my dinner now?"

"This person is grateful," Ning said. "Will you delay your nutrient ingestion long enough to return the Duchess' property to her?"

"Absolutely not." Fey gave Cardiwen a push that sent her reeling into the captain's arms. "Let your security people deal with it. We have more important matters to attend to. A feast of love, as it were."

Amalthea grinned. "I knew you were going to say that."

"Mmm-hmm. A veritable banquet of delights."

"I'm working up quite an appetite myself."

Fey's lime-green eyes were incandescently bright. "Insatiable, aren't you?"

"I'm always hungry for..." Amalthea's voice trailed off. She whispered in her partner's ear. Fey began to giggle.

Captain Ning looked at both women as they walked away. He had a feeling that they weren't talking about food.

Held motionless in the Muradeen's arms, Cardiwen began to cry in earnest.

Later, Amalthea requested an update via her implant. She listened to the messages, rolled over in bed and reached for a plate on the side table. "Poached white peaches in spice meringue with warm Xipitec chokla sauce. Want some?"

Fey grimaced. "No, since I've been to Xipitec and know exactly where chokla sauce comes from."

"Don't tell me. I'm enjoying the taste too much, and I don't care if it comes out of a bug's butt."

"Okay, I won't tell you."

Amalthea's blue eyes were brimming with suspicion. "It does come out of a bug's butt, doesn't it?"

"You said you didn't want to know." Fey shrieked when Amalthea flicked the spoon, splattering sauce on her bare breasts. "I saw you subvocalizing, by the way." She wiped the chokla off with a corner of the sheet. "Any news?"

"Cardiwen has been locked in her room, pending our arrival on Tyvesh; she's under house arrest. The Duchess is telling anyone who'll listen about her harrowing ordeal - but we're being given credit for saving the day. Hy Brazil's ownership consortium had an emergency meeting and decided to hire us to head their security team. I refused for both of us. And Captain Ning has extended an invitation to fly free anytime, first class."

"What about Siv Toryali?"

"Ah, yes. Siv says 'thank you' for exonerating her beloved purser. She wants us to attend the wedding next year."

"How wonderful!" Fey sat up. "I hope Samozel Dix recovers fully. He'll need all his stamina for a Tyvesh wedding. The celebrations last for a full month."

Amalthea put aside her dessert. She had just recalled something. "Hey, what's a kajalni?"

"What?"

"That's what Siv said when she came to our table in the dining room. She called me your kajalni."

"Oh. It's a Tyvesh word. It means, 'spirit-flame.' It's our word for someone who has a close relationship with another."

"Like a lover?"

"Yes."

Amalthea stared at Fey for a long moment. "You missed a bit of sauce," she said casually, but her heart was singing. She loved Fey so much...

The priest's long eyelashes fluttered. "Are you still hungry?" Her body arched towards Amalthea in naked invitation.

"Come here, my kajalni." Amalthea's arm swept out and gathered Fey close.

They kissed and kissed again.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

RAVEN'S MEAD
(Third in the Kennings Series; sequel to Picker of the Slain and Mouth-Tale of Giants)
by Nene Adams ©2001 - All rights reserved

(Author's Note: In Old Norse poetry and sagas, kennings - or metaphorical compound words/phrases - were used to describe gods, people, animals, places and events in poetic fashion. Sometimes the description has a correlation with mythology, sometimes it's fallen into common usage. "Raven's Mead" is a kenning meaning "Blood.")

Amalthea Quint leaned her elbows on the balcony rail and sighed. She was wearing VR goggles, a liquid pixel display in a shatterproof frame that curved around the upper part of her face. In her hands was an intelli-deck, set up to receive a live data-flash. If she'd opened her fingers and dropped the deck, it would have fallen fifty feet to the courtyard below. Amalthea was sorely tempted.

An image of Captain Khulat, her commanding officer aboard Advocacy Command ship Avatar, scowled at her from the goggle's screen. "Lt. Commander Quint, you can choose to take this re-assignment, or you can choose to resign your commission. I'm sorry. You're an excellent advocate and a good officer. I wasn't asked for my opinion, otherwise I'd have told 'em to shove it up their kak-holes sideways."

"The Duchess of Banjul put the squeeze on some Hub-Gov heavies," Amalthea replied, "and they want to bump me up to special judge-advocate. What do these duties entail, exactly?"

"A roaming trouble-shooter with full authority to investigate criminal activities, at your discretion or at the request of others. You'll be a Commander first-class. Duchess Sweet-in-the-Morning was very impressed with your work, and that of your partner, Fey Lonyali. She dreamed this little plum up all by herself. Thought it was a 'suitable reward' for recovering her jewels on the Hy Brazil."

Amalthea and Fey had traveled to Tyvesh on a luxury cruise liner Hy Brazil, following the successful conclusion of a murder case on Ifni. It was supposed to be a holiday, but both women had been asked to intervene when the Duchess of Banjul's extensive jewelry collection was stolen. The perpetrator of that crime being unmasked without too much difficulty, Amalthea had settled in with Fey on the Tyvesh homeworld to finish their vacation in peace and quiet... until Captain Khulat's emergency data-flash.

"Did I mention you get to hand pick your own staff?" Khulat said. She had a habit of tugging her bronze braids when troubled; the smooth plaits were currently undisturbed. Amalthea figured the captain wasn't quite as upset about the situation as she pretended to be.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but you mean I can get Fey assigned to work with me?"

Khulat nodded. "And a small interstellar cruiser for your personal use. Duchess Sweet really pulled strings with a vengeance."

Judging from the Duchess' performance on Hy Brazil, Amalthea had thought the influential Banjul'ee woman too shallow, snobbish and self-centered to go to so much trouble for social inferiors. Before she accepted the admittedly generous offer, she'd have to talk it over with Fey. "Can I get back to you in a couple of days, ma'am?"

"Don't take too long," Khulat warned. "Otherwise you might appear ungrateful, and Corps Command might decide to assign you to the ass-end of nowhere, the Duchess' wishes notwithstanding. Understood?"

"Aye-aye, ma'am. I'll contact you in three days." Amalthea disengaged the intelli-deck's communicator; Khulat's image dissolved and winked out.

She pulled off the goggles and tossed them on a nearby table, followed by the deck. Abandoning the balcony, she went inside. Tyvesh was a sophisticated society whose natives preferred to keep technological intrusion to a minimum. All their buildings were made of dressed stone and hand-crafted tiles. They didn't permit implants that allowed personal communication with computer systems, and the systems themselves were disguised as artworks, or deliberately blended into the environment. Plasma or projectile weapons were verboten. At first glance, one might assume the Tyvesh were primitive sophonts, but that would be a mistake.

Amalthea glanced around the room. She and Fey were staying in a temple of Vashti, the Tyvesh supreme deity. Fey was a First of Fist, a high-ranking member of the martial priesthood, and had spent many years here in training. There were woven tapestries on the walls, depicting the goddess' many battles against evil. The floor was a glossy dark wood that had the sort of patina that comes only from centuries of loving care. Since Tyvesh preferred not to use chairs, flat cushions in subtle weaves were scattered everywhere, punctuated by low tables and a round bed heaped with blankets. Decorative oil lamps provided illumination. It had a certain rustic charm, but...

"Not a console, screen or control panel in sight," Amalthea muttered. "It's unnatural, I tell you. Even the spaceport  looks like a fekkit museum."

"Talking to yourself is one of the classic signs of lunacy," Fey said brightly as she came into their room. The silver bells woven into her black hair chimed with every step. Since the evening was warm, she wore a brief, pleated linen shift that ended mid-thigh, showing a great deal of firm cinnamon skin.

"Oh, we have places like this back home on Yggdrasil," Amalthea replied, turning to greet her lover with a broad grin. "We call them 'retreats' where people can go to experience the archaic past. You know, hunting down an animal with a spear, burning it to a crisp over an actual fire, battling with blood-sucking insects, not bathing for days at a time... it's supposed to be fun, but by Odin, I've never seen the point myself!"

Fey was immediately contrite. "Are you suffering that much? Should I make arrangement for us to leave?"

"No, I'm joking." Amalthea gave her lover a hug, and received a kiss in return. "Most of the modern conveniences are here, if only I could figure out how to operate them. So, what are we doing tonight?"

"Would you care to tell me about the flash from Captain Khulat first?" Fey ran a clawed fingertip over Amalthea's cheek. "Qan Miryali told me you got a call on the temple's intelli-deck."

Qan Miryali was the temple's Mother, an elderly though feisty priest who looked askance at Fey's relationship with an offworlder. A two meter tall, blue-eyed, milk-skinned, freckled, muscular foreigner from Yggdrasil, in fact. Amalthea made a face. "Mem Miryali still thinks I'm going to foam at the mouth and start wrecking the furniture any minute."

"She's having trouble accepting that you're an atypical Yggdrasilan." Fey chuckled. "Are your people really as foul-tempered as legend states?"

"Some of them are," Amalthea admitted. "My family has a long history of uncivilized behavior, and they're proud of it. If you go to a Quint reunion, you'd better have a good head for alcohol, a cast iron stomach, and plenty of armor. Uncle Ottar has a habit of tying women to the wall and chucking axes at their braids when he's had too much to drink."

"Goddess!"

"Why do you think I keep my hair cut so short? Fortunately, Uncle Ottar also has very good aim. We haven't lost a female cousin yet." Amalthea released the priest, and spun around in a circle to show off her new garment. "Did the tailor do a good job?"

Fey's lime-green eyes narrowed. She knew she was being distracted. Rather than insist upon being told about Khulat's flash, she decided to ignore it for now. "You look wonderful." Amalthea was also wearing a short linen shift, dyed dark gold at the hem and indigo at the top. The colors emphasized her blue eyes and butter yellow hair. "Come on; I don't want you to miss the festival."

Amalthea breathed a sigh of relief. She wanted to spend some time with the woman she loved, have fun, put off the future for a while. Besides, she wasn't sure if Fey would like the idea of leaving diplomatic services. What if she says no? Her heart nearly sank to her toes at the thought. Gods of my fathers, I don't want to lose her. I couldn't stand it!

"Is something wrong?" Fey had noticed the mournful expression on Amalthea's face. "Bad news?"

"No, no, just thinking." Amalthea forced herself to smile. "The festival's waiting. Are we going or not?"

Fey could also act when she chose. "Yes. I want to show you the sights. I think you'll like it."

"I'm sure I will."

Neither woman said much of anything else as they took the stairs down to the courtyard.

The Festival of Thieves was in full swing. Night had fallen, and a wealth of stars sparkled in the clear night sky. Fey had been teaching Amalthea some of the constellations. "Lesser Dreamsnake, the Plume, the Sword-of-Vashti," the Yggdrasilan murmured.

Fey pointed. "There's the Heart Embraced. See that small red star, near the top? We call it kajalni, the spirit-flame." She glanced at Amalthea from beneath her lashes. Kajalni was also a Tyvesh term for lovers.

"Have I told you lately how much I admire, adore, and love you?" Amalthea asked, her knees going weak.

"Perhaps you can demonstrate later." Fey quoted from the Book of Vashti,  "Speech is silver, deeds are gold."

Amalthea started to answer but was distracted by a group of Heart priests. They had their hair up in buns, skewered by gilded pins, and each woman wore silver ankle bangles. The more bangles, the higher their status. The senior Hearts marched past, laughing and talking, each stride accompanied by a deafening clash. One of them reeled up to Amalthea, waving a wineskin. Sunfire brandy dribbled from the opening. "Here!" the Heart cried. "Have a drink and who knows what will happen!"

"Don't you dare try to steal her!" Fey protested, putting a protective arm around Amalthea's waist. "Go pick on somebody else's lover!"

"Selfish!" The Heart crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, giggling. Her companions called to her and she staggered away.

"Maybe you should tell me more about this Festival of Thieves." Amalthea was wide-eyed. "Is it supposed to be one big orgy, or what?"

"Not exactly." Fey carefully untangled one of the stringed bells in her hair, then looped it around Amalthea's wrist. "That'll make you off-limits. If somebody tries to drag you away, show them this. Not even a Mouth of Vashti wants to tangle with an angry Fist."

Amalthea nodded. The Tyvesh religion was divided into four sections - the warrior Fists; Heart healers; Eyes were clairvoyant oracles; and Wisdoms, who had the most secular power of all. Wisdoms ministered to the faithful, preached Vashti's word, and held important positions in government. "What are we celebrating, by the way?"

"The purpose of the annual festival is two-fold." Fey led her down an avenue, where bonfires raged in giant bronze bowls, tended to by Tyvesh males in glittering loincloths. "First, it's a chance for everyone to get drunk, eat until they burst, steal other people's mates - always by consent, of course - and have a good time. Second, the religious aspect has to do with an episode in Vashti's life, when she stole fire from the stars to give to mortals. One can make an oath at the sacred flames; it is believed that such a vow can never be broken. Oh, and keep a hand on your hip pouch. Real thieves are permitted to steal without consequences during the festival, but they may not use violence. That would be in bad taste. Only skill is admired."

"How very civilized." Amalthea sniffed. The sweet scent of charred wood and incense drifted in the air, along with cooking fat, spices, hot sugar, roasting meats and spilled alcohol. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving." Fey took her to a portable stall, where a heavy-set man was grilling skewers of cubed meat, brushing them with a pungent sauce. She purchased two, paying for them with a small coin. "Try this, but be careful."

Amalthea bit into it hungrily, then nearly spat the mouthful back out again. "Hot!" she grumbled, sucking in air to cool her flaming tongue.

"This is a sub-tropical planet, Mal. We like plenty of chilies in our food. Heat is good for the digestion."

The man said something in Tyvesh, leaning over the stall. He was perilously close to burning his chest on the grill. Fey put her clenched fist against his brow, recited a short blessing, and led Amalthea away.

"He has a daughter who's off-planet, an ensign in the Corps," Fey explained while they ate. "Fists are considered good luck priests. He hoped some of it would rub off on him, and thence to his offspring."

A juggler was captivating the festival goers with a dazzling display, tossing a sheaf of daggers from hand to hand. Male and female sacred prostitutes from a sex cult did an erotic dance, their naked flesh slick with perfumed oil. Musicians wandered here and there, dogged by packs of thieves who worked the crowds they attracted. Near one of the bonfires, a storyteller squatted on a luridly patterned rug, surrounded by listeners. Fey stopped for a moment.

Amalthea whispered, "What's he saying?" She was studying the Tyvesh language, but hadn't gotten very far.

"It's the story of Vashti in the Wilderness," Fey replied quietly. "He tells it extremely well."

Although Amalthea did not understand the language, she recognized the beauty of the storyteller's poetry. His voice rose and fell in studied cadence, a song without music that was nevertheless irresistible.

"There is only one Yggdrasilan in the capital tonight," someone said from behind, speaking the common Universal tongue, "and only one First of Fist audacious enough to take a foreign giant as kajalni."

Fey whirled around. Her grimace became a delighted smile that made her spiral cheek scars disappear. "Bek Lonyali! When did you get home, sister of my mother?"

Bek embraced her niece. "In time to enjoy the festival. I missed it last year, and you, too, daughter of my sister." Tyvesh were a matriarchal race. In family relationships, none were closer than aunt and niece. By tradition, a girl's mother's sister was responsible for her education.

Bek Lonyali was slightly shorter than Fey, her skin a more aggressive cinnabar color, but her eyes were the same shade of startling lime-green. She wore the glory-robe of an Eye priest, white-on-white silk with touches of gold. Her skull was shaved clean. Glimmering gold bracelets on both wrists proclaimed her status as a First of Eye. She turned to Amalthea. "Have you met the rest of the family yet?"

"I think Fey is ashamed of me," Amalthea replied with a chuckle. "If I lost about a foot in height and dipped myself in red paint, she might think I was more presentable."

"Shame to your lips for the lie!" Fey exclaimed. "Bek, this is my crazy kajalni, Amalthea Quint. Please don't believe a word she says. I think Yggdrasilans feed their children bad manners with their milk."

Amalthea quirked an eyebrow at her lover. Fey didn't know she'd been practicing greeting customs in private. There was a special one for Eye priests. She took Bek's hand, bowed over it, kissed the palm and said in perfect Tyvesh, "Vashti bless this fortunate meeting. May Her flame guard and guide your vision, Her sparks light your path."

Much to her surprise, Bek answered in lightly accented Yggdrasilan. "My house, my sword, my shield are yours. May you never lack for ale and bread and salt, and may Odin always turn His blind eye towards your sins."

Fey laughed at the startled expression on Amalthea's face. "Bek Lonyali works for several interstellar corporations as a paid oracle. Her predictions are famous for their accuracy. She's been to Yggdrasil many times."

"Yes, and they keep me so busy I rarely have time to visit home." Bek gestured, bracelets jangling. "Will you join me for refreshment? There's a decent tavern on the other side of the bridge."

"If Mal doesn't mind..." Fey gave her lover a questioning look.

Amalthea shrugged. "Sounds fine to me. Unless you two would rather catch up on family matters alone?"

"Yggdrasilans are noted for their bravery," Bek observed, "but this one is exceptionally courageous." Flickering firelight softened her sharp features. "Forgive me, mem Quint, but you're a stranger at festival and unfamiliar with our customs. A prime target for thieves."

"We'd probably find you stripped down to naked teeth and toenails, like a newborn!" Fey shook her hairbells at Amalthea, who mock growled. She continued, "I think I know the tavern you mean, Bek."

The three women walked further down the avenue, then cut across an alley to reach the bridge that Bek had mentioned. They had to push their way through a drinking, eating and singing throng. More bonfires were dotted here and there. Flower vendors loudly cried their wares. Amalthea halted to purchase a long string of perfumed orchids, which she wound around Fey's neck. Aware that the aunt was an important relative of Fey's, and wishing to make a good impression, she also pinned a smaller single flower to Bek's robe.

"Many thanks," the Eye priest said, lifting the lavender-tinged orchid to her nose and inhaling deeply. "Although it is customary to give such gifts only to one whom you desire as a mating partner."

Amalthea blushed. Fey grinned. "You'd better start studying that Tyvesh compendium I gave you back on Ifni. Otherwise, who knows how many women you might propose to?"

"I'd be happy to act as go-between," Bek said with a grin of her own. "For a modest percentage of the dowry, of course."

"No offense intended," Amalthea said, still flushed. "Maybe we'd better get to that tavern in a hurry before I make any more mistakes."

"A charming error, I assure you." Bek stumbled as someone shoved her in the back. Without glancing around, she cuffed the clumsy offender on the back of his head, shook her robe into place, and walked on. A cry of, "Beg pardon, First!" was ignored.

They hadn't quite reached the foot of the bridge when Bek made a choking sound. Fey grabbed her arm, careful not to claw. "Sister of my mother, are you alright?"

Bek's eyes bulged, her lips stretched into a painful grimace. Raising both arms, she shook her bracelets, creating a mad jangle that somehow cut through the crowd's noise. Amalthea jumped to catch the Eye priest as she went rigid, bubbles of spittle at the corner of her mouth. She lowered her gently onto the pavement. "Do we need a healer?" the Yggdrasilan asked.

Fey knelt down beside her aunt. "It's a vision trance. The Touch of Vashti, we call it."

A Wisdom priest elbowed her way through the gathered bystanders. "Put this under her head," she said, thrusting a bundle of cloth at Fey. "The Touch sometimes brings convulsions, and she won't thank you for later bruises."

"I am grateful." Fey did as she was told, easing the cloth beneath her aunt's shaven skull. Bek twitched and moaned.

"Roz Sanyali, Third Wisdom." The priest hitched up her black-and-violet robe in order to squat at Bek's side. Roz's scarlet face was dappled with soot; her breasts were bare in order to expose belled nipple rings. Long dark hair hung loose to her waist. "If this continues, it might be best to move her into a temple."

Bek began to mumble. The words gradually became clearer. "Blood... blood... Vashti's vengeance strikes him down..."

Fey leaned over. "Who is it?"

"The goddess knows... so much blood!" Bek sobbed. "Farsil Hun! Mourning and blood!"

Roz put a hand on Bek's brow. The Eye priest subsided, muttering incoherently. After a moment, Bek blinked and relaxed, letting out a hissing breath. "Vashti's Touch gets heavier as I grow older," she whispered. A tear slipped down her cheek, to be hastily wiped away.

"Do you require a litter?" Roz asked. She raised clawed fingertips to her temples and flicked them in a gesture of respect. "My temple is not far."

"No, I'm fine." Bek sat up and returned the salute. Belatedly, Fey did the same. "Just show me to the nearest tavern. A glass of brandy will help."

Fey had a few quick words with Roz. The Wisdom trotted off.

Amalthea bent over, put her arms around Bek's waist, and simply lifted her to her feet. Yggdrasilans had superior musculature and denser bone structure than most sophonts. Over the priest's protests, Amalthea scooped Bek up and held her easily. "Point me in the right direction and let's go."

"Put me down, you unmannered heathen!"

Fey arched an eyebrow, remembering how absolutely thrilling it felt to be lifted by Amalthea's strength, a sensation of weightlessness rarely experienced after one achieved adult size. "Hush, sister of my mother. Be still and enjoy."

Amalthea caught a lot of shining grins and flicking fingertips from onlookers. Bek was a light burden, hardly noticeable now that she had stopped struggling. You'd think these people never saw anybody being carried before. By Odin, I hope I'm not violating another crazy Tyvesh custom!

"Who's Farsil Hun?" Amalthea asked, curiosity overcoming her apprehension. Fey made shushing motions, but she failed to take the hint.

Bek stiffened. "Farsil Hunyali is my mate." Her gaze traveled from Amalthea to her niece. "What did I say? I never remember afterwards. Is Farsil in danger?"

"Roz Sanyali has gone to check on Farsil at your home. The Wisdom will send word as soon as something is known."

Bek's complexion cooled from cinnabar to an unhealthy salmon pink. "What did I say during the Touch?" She began to tremble. Amalthea tightened her grip.

"You mentioned blood," Fey answered reluctantly. "And mourning. And Vashti's vengeance."

"Sweet goddess!" Bek squirmed violently. "Let me go! I must see Farsil!"

"Calm yourself," Fey began, but it was no use. Amalthea had to put Bek down or risk dropping her. As soon as she was upright, Bek darted away, robes flapping around her knees. Those unlucky enough not to get out of her path were cuffed and pushed aside.

"Kak!" Amalthea spat the obscenity. "Do we go after her, or what?"

"We'll follow, but there's no hurry." Fey rubbed her temples. "We can't possibly overtake her in this crowd." She began walking in the direction that the Eye priest had taken. "Farsil Hunyali and my aunt have been mates since before Bek was chosen to become an Eye. Farsil maintains their house while Bek travels; it's an arrangement that's worked for many years. I hope her vision was incorrect."

"I guess we'll find out when we get there." Amalthea frowned, taking hold of Fey's wrist so they wouldn't be separated. "What was all that about Vashti's vengeance?"

Fey sighed. "It's an old custom, fallen into disuse. Centuries ago, if someone seriously offended a priest of Vashti and did not repent, the priest had the right to kill that person. It was believed that Vashti's spirit 'enflamed' the priest to take revenge, thus making the action perfectly legal."

"Remind me never to insult you," Amalthea replied. Her head swiveled from side to side as she sought easier passage through the massed celebrants. It helped that she was a full head taller than the average Tyvesh.

"Oh, these days, we're much more civilized." Fey wriggled through a gap, pulling her lover with her. "I'd have the right to demand anything from an ounce to a pound of flesh, depending on the severity of the offense."

"Ouch!"

"Don't worry; it's surgically excised under anesthesia, and the Hearts are careful about retaining extremity function."

Amalthea bulled her way through a clump of loudly chanting drunks. "Have I told you lately how much I esteem, admire and respect you, O Fist of Vashti?"

"Groveling doesn't become you. Ah, here it is!" Fey darted up to a house. It was part of an unbroken front of homes that spanned the length of a street. A bronze oil lamp burned next to the door, which was painted bright turquoise. An alarmingly realistic eye was suspended in a clear glass globe that hung from the lamp's base. Amalthea half expected it to blink.

"Ceramic. Farsil is an artist." Fey had noticed her lover's involuntary shudder. She pounded on the door with the flat of her hand. It opened a few inches. "This should be locked. Sister of my mother, are you here?" she called, entering the house.

The first thing Amalthea smelled was blood. Blood had its own peculiar stench - a coppery, oily tang that almost coated the teeth. She was no stranger to violent death... but you always forget how badly it reeks until your nose is full of it again.

Fey did a quick search of the downstairs, calling Bek's name. There was no answer. Amalthea spotted a wooden staircase, half-hidden behind a screen of living vines. They took the stairs. Amalthea's heart was in her hair, as the saying went on Yggdrasil.

Roz Sanyali, Third Wisdom of Vashti, crouched on the landing, holding an unconscious Bek in her arms. Her soot-dappled face was wet with tears. "I was too late to prevent her from seeing it." She took a shuddering breath, nipple bells jingling - an incongruously merry sound. "He's in there." She nodded towards a darkened room. The door had been forced open; it half-hung from the splintered frame.

Fey went in first and stopped, holding up a hand. Amalthea nearly ran into her.

The floor was smeared with blood. It was still warm. Fey was barefoot; she didn't like to wear shoes when it wasn't strictly necessary. Her toes edged away from a liquid splatter.

Amalthea's eyesight took a moment to adjust to the gloom. An iron bowl on a stand held the the guttering remains of a fire. Incense sticks smoldered in a dish of sand. There were unfinished ceramic artworks, some still wet with paint, on several tables. The sole window was covered by a shutter, fastened tight.

Farsil was unmistakably dead. His body was huddled near a wall; he was curled on his side in a fetal position, naked save for a brief loincloth. Amalthea went over to examine him, noting the arc of crimson spray on the smoothly plastered wall, low down near the corpse. Farsil's throat had been cut from ear to ear. A glass beaded necklace was pulled up to just below his ears; in the man's open mouth was the gold pendant that was in the center of the string. There were deep scratches in the floor, and wood shavings beneath his claws.

From her position near the doorway, Fey asked, "Is he dead?"

Amalthea looked back over her shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"I'd better go and find a healer for Bek." Fey exited the room, her shoulders and back rigid with suppressed distress.

Amalthea sighed. She checked the shutter; it was locked from the inside. She checked the door; it, too, had apparently been locked before Bek presumably beat it off the hinges. The key was in the middle of the room, where it had fallen. A brief search of the room turned up no murder or suicide weapon; she doubted Farsil could have severed his own throat with the tiny knives he used in his work. Those were rolled up in a soft cloth and were clean.

"What happened?" she asked Roz when she came out. "Did you see anything?"

Roz shook her head. Bek was still unconscious. For the first time, Amalthea noticed that the Eye priest's robe was smeared with blood on the hem, across the chest, and her left sleeve soaked with the stuff.

"When I arrived here, the door was open. I called Farsil, then I heard Bek screaming. I ran up the stairs. There was a crash - that was Bek forcing the workroom door - and more screams. I got to the landing in time to see Bek come out. I couldn't understand what she was saying..." Roz blinked. Her turquoise eyes were dry now, though red-rimmed from weeping. "I looked inside. Goddess protect me! Bek fainted. I held her until you arrived."

"Did you see anyone else in the room? Anyone else in the house?"

"No." Roz's mouth tightened. "No one. It was only seconds from the time I came in to the time I saw..." She made a gesture, a convulsive motion of her hand as if shaking something nasty off her fingertips. "The ash-souled one who did this must be punished."

There was nothing else to do until Fey returned with a Heart priest in tow, followed by a senior Wisdom and her investigative team.

"So you don't have regular criminal investigators?" Amalthea asked out. She and Fey were watching from a safe distance. Bek had been taken to a bedroom by the Heart. Roz was with the senior Wisdom, Xan Lonyali - who happened to be Fey's mother. Farsil's body had been removed after a recording was taken. Now the robed women were noting forensic evidence. Their tools were so beautifully crafted, they hardly looked like state-of-the-art technology.

"Not as such. The Wisdom sect is responsible for these things." Fey shivered, and Amalthea embraced her from behind. Being held against the Yggdrasilan's strong, warm body made the smaller woman feel slightly better. "Murder is deemed an act by someone who is ash-souled - a person who has rejected the goddess given soul-flame. It is a religious sin rather than a secular crime. We have regular peace-keeping forces for lesser matters."

"Isn't it a conflict of interest, your mother leading up an investigation into her brother-in-law's death?"

Fey leaned against Amalthea, trying to relax. Her muscles were knotted; a headache thundered in her temples. "No. Xan Lonyali is the most experienced Wisdom in the capital, and the most dedicated to her craft. She is incorruptible."

Xan certainly looks formidable, Amalthea thought. I'd hate to tangle with her in a court of law. I'll bet she's the sort of expert witness who gives defense advocates nightmares.

Fey turned around, burrowing her head into Amalthea's chest. "I've known Farsil Hunyali all my life. He was a good man. I don't understand why anyone would want to do this to him." Her voice was muffled, but Amalthea detected a quaver that was nearly a sob.

"Fey, valkyrie-sweet, go ahead and cry." Amalthea stroked her lover's hair gently, making the entwined bells chime.

"I can't. I must not." Fey looked up at her, lime-green eyes brimming with unshed tears. "O flame, untimely dying - who has stolen your light? Ashes and woe for the thief, but mourn not the fire's passage. The ones left behind must remember, and go on," she quoted from the Book of Vashti. "My other relatives will be coming. I can't break down now. I have to be strong."

Amalthea was troubled. She did not want to add to Fey's worries, but felt she needed to speak. Better it comes from me than a stranger, but gods of my fathers, the last thing I want to hurt her. "The room was locked from the inside, with no way in or out except by the door. Mem Sanyali saw no one leave. She didn't actually see Farsil's body until after Bek had been in there." She stopped, unable to continue.

Fey wasn't angry. "I hear what you will not say," she sighed.

"So do I." Xan Lonyali had drawn near enough to overhear. "Mem Quint, please forgive this poor welcome. I had hoped to meet you under more pleasant circumstances."

Xan was painfully thin. Her collarbone looked knife-sharp. The breasts bared by her black-and-violet robe were nearly flat, although her bell-ringed nipples were prominent. Deep lines were carved into her face, from aquiline nose to the downturned corners of her mouth. Her expression was severe.

Amalthea released Fey, bowed over Xan's outstretched hand and said in Tyvesh, "Vashti's flame within you, burning brightly." It was the traditional greeting for a Wisdom priest.

Before Amalthea could straighten up, Xan grasped her by both ears, touched Amalthea's forehead with her own, and said a quick blessing under her breath.

Fey flicked her fingertips in respectful salutation. "Mother, this is my kajalni..."

"I know." Xan let go of Amalthea and examined her from head to toes. "So, you believe my sister is responsible for her mate's murder."

"Not really." Amalthea felt like she was back at university, being grilled by a particularly bloody-minded professor. Xan's eyes were as green as her daughter's, but without warmth. It was like being scoured by lime-green ice. "This is just a possibility."

"Perhaps you would care to enlighten me."

Not really, Amalthea repeated silently. I'd rather sit on an axe sideways. But Fey was waiting as well, so she cleared her throat. "Theoretically speaking, Bek could have killed Farsil. The blood is still fresh, the body still warm. He was obviously murdered moments before we arrived. We know that Bek got to the house right before Roz Sanyali did."

"But the door and window were locked."

"I'm getting to that. When we met at the festival, she said she'd heard that Fey and I were here in the capital. Bek may have wanted us to be witnesses to her alibi."

"Go on."

"Okay..." Amalthea smoothed her hair with a hand. "Bek fakes having a vision, which would make her insistence on returning home very plausible. She cuts loose from us, runs ahead, breaks down the door, cuts Farsil's throat, and pretends to faint. She didn't count on mem Sanyali arriving right on her heels, but this provides another handy witness to her shock upon 'discovering' her mate's body, not to mention that she had to force her way inside. She wouldn't have had much time to dispose of the weapon, though."

Xan cocked her head to one side. "Interesting."

"I don't know what possible motive she might have." Amalthea was getting more nervous at the chilling gleam in Xan's eyes.

Fey reached out for her lover's hand, squeezing it tightly.

"A simpler explanation would be for the yet-unknown murderer to kill Farsil, lock the door from the outside, and slide the key under the door. He or she knows that the investigators will assume the key was inside, and fell from the lock when the door was forced open. But whoever did it wouldn't have had a lot of time to make their escape." Amalthea cleared her throat again. "A few minutes, perhaps, before Bek and Roz came into the house."

"Also interesting." Xan remained as impassive as a statue.

"How did he die?" Fey asked.

"His throat was cut from left to right by a smooth, sharp implement. The killer knocked Farsil to the floor, grabbed his necklace from behind and used it to hoist up his head before inflicting the death wound. There are blood smears everywhere; Bek trampled a great deal of evidence in her haste. Perhaps deliberately, perhaps not. We shall see. The weapon has yet to be recovered."

'I didn't think of it, but has the house been searched?" Fey squeezed Amalthea's hand harder; the Yggdrasilan suppressed a yelp as her partner's claws dug into the meaty flesh of her palm.

Fey mimed an apology as Xan said, "By the time we arrived, there would have been ample opportunity for the ash-souled to escape. We've checked anyway, and found no sign. That doesn't mean a stranger wasn't here."

"Was anything taken?" Amalthea glanced at her palm; a single crimson bead oozed from a minor cut.

"That cannot be determined until Bek regains consciousness."

At that moment, a Heart-of-Vashti exited the bedroom where Bek was resting. "She is awake and asking for you," the healer said to Xan.

"Why don't you and your kajalni go to my house and wait?" It was more of a direct order than a question. Fey shook her head, hairbells chiming, and replied to her mother, "We will wait here."

Xan grunted, turned on her heel, and followed the Heart into Bek's bedroom.

"Your birth-mother is... well." Amalthea rubbed the back of her neck, which was aching with tension. "Scarier than happy hour at the Blood Hag Social Club on hammer juggling night, to be honest."

Fey let out a giggle and clapped a hand over her mouth. The investigating Wisdoms gave her disapproving glances and went back to their tasks.

"Sorry." Amalthea grimaced. "I'm making a big fekkit mess even worse."

"No, she can be rather intimidating." Fey got control of herself again. "I could use some fresh air."

"I thought you'd never ask."

Once outside, Fey's attention was drawn to the house next door. Light filtered from behind shuttered windows. "Looks like Win Pasyali is home. She might have seen or heard something. Shall we go and ask?"

"Would your mother approve?"

"I don't need to ask Xan's permission. I'm a grown sophont, thank you," Fey scoffed.

"I've noticed." Festivities on the street were still going strong. A fire-eater strolled past, plumes of brilliant flame roiling out of his mouth. Stilt dancers clad in feathered masks whirled to chanting and drumming. Nearby, a thief distracted a richly dressed merchant while her partner stealthily lifted the man's hip pouch. "Do you know mem Pasyali?" On Tyvesh, women all had single syllable first names, while men's were two syllables - that was how Amalthea knew that Win was female.

"She's a First of Fist, like me." Fey started towards the front door of the house. "She's lived here for, oh, twelve months. Good friend of Farsil's. She was teaching him how to do sword dancing; he was giving her lessons in ceramic crafts."

The door was painted cherry red, but otherwise Win's home seemed identical to Bek's. When Fey knocked, Win answered almost immediately.

Like Fey, Win was built like a dancer, lean and graceful. Her spiral cheek scars were silver, too, but her complexion matched the color of her door. Her eyes were so deep a blue as to appear almost black. She had obviously just taken a bath; her dark hair was wet and unbelled, clinging to the shoulders of her white shift. "Fey Lonyali, what a surprise!" Win exclaimed. The Fist did not look happy to see them, however.

"Vashti's blessings be upon you," Fey replied. They saluted each other in the Tyvesh fashion. Remembering what she had learned about her lover's customs, Amalthea held her empty hands out for Win's inspection and said, "Vashti's flame be your sword, Her breath your shield."

"And to you," Win said, but there was a sour twist to her lips. "Is there something I can do for you, mems? I was just on my way to festival."

"May we come inside?" Fey waited for an invitation, but Win merely stared at her. "We have news of Farsil that you will want to hear."

Grudgingly, Win moved out of the doorway, allowing them to enter.

Fey began to explain Farsil's murder, trying to be as tactful as possible. Win listened in stony silence, arms folded across her chest. Meanwhile, Amalthea glanced around curiously. A nearby wall held a selection of steel weapons, many of them with flame-shaped blades. A pair of sickle-swords called senjata were crossed together in the center. The floor was covered with sand colored tiles, right up to the wooden staircase. Stains on several of the tiles drew Amalthea closer. Neither Fey nor Win paid any attention to her.

Amalthea bent down and touched one of the red and sticky stains.

Blood.

Raven's mead, it was called in old Yggdrasilan sagas. Generous were the battle wands, in spilling of raven's mead, and champions fell in an Odin storm...

She did not notice Win had moved, coming to stand right behind her. "I thought I'd gotten it all," Win said calmly. "How very careless of me." The hairs on the back of Amalthea's neck prickled.

"Vasti-ah!" Win suddenly screamed, wrenching the senjata off the wall and swinging. Amalthea threw herself sideways, rolling and springing up in a smooth motion. Fey blocked Win's next swing, grabbing her wrists, but the woman's strength was doubled by rage. She pushed Fey away, breaking her grip with a twist. The crescent moon blades in Win's hands gleamed, the edges razor sharp.

Win was between Amalthea and the weapon wall. She snatched up a vase and hurled it at Win's face. The Fist swiped at the ceramic vessel in mid-air. It exploded, showering her in fragments and shards. While she blinked the debris out of her eyes, Amalthea jumped. She hoped her superior weight would pin the enraged priest down long enough to disarm her.

Fey's leg came around at an angle, hitting Win in the side of the neck. The priest stumbled, and Amalthea was upon her. Sickle blades flashed. Amalthea stepped back, holding her side tightly with both hands. Her shift was torn; a hot crimson gush spurted between her fingers. Fey's eyes opened very wide and she growled, claws poised to rend.

Win faced Fey. Her expression was bleak. "I loved him," she said. Her arms made intricate movements, drawing silvery blurs through the air. "I offered him everything, and he didn't want it. He wanted to stay with her. I couldn't allow him to go unpunished. In rejecting me, he rejected Vashti. The goddess must be avenged." Her facade cracked for just a second, showing white-hot hatred, an obsessed passion denied.

Fey focused all her attention on Win. She had to end this quickly. There was no telling how badly injured Amalthea was, and she dared not turn her back on the crazed priest. "I don't care why you killed Farsil," she ground out through gritted teeth. "But you've harmed my kajalni, and that I will not forgive. Vashti-ah!"

Win yelled and rushed at her.

Amalthea watched as the two Fist priests collided. They moved almost too fast for the eye to see. Seamless attack and defense, supple as snakes, blows and kicks and punches with expert precision and control. Win's senjata almost hummed, a deadly whirlwind of razored steel. Again and again, she came close to wounding Fey, but her opponent merely moved the few centimeters necessary to avoid being hit, and went back to the attack without pause. The string of lavender orchids around Fey's neck broke, scattering perfumed petals across the floor.

Amalthea panted. Her veins were full of ice, and her side was throbbing, beginning to burn but with a cold flame that sapped her strength. Even the blood flowing across her fingers seemed cold. Tiny pinpricks of light danced in her vision. She began to shiver. Don't faint, you useless shtupit cow, she said sternly to herself. Fey needs you! Get up and do something, Quint!

The fighting priests had moved away from the weapon's wall. Amalthea staggered over, reached up and snagged the first item she could reach. It was a small ax called a variss, with a hilt of pale wood, polished to a sheen. The variss fit comfortably in Amalthea's palm.

Still holding her injured side with one hand, the Yggdrasilan turned in time to see Fey break away from Win. There was a cut above her eyebrow; blood was running into her eye. She shook her head, scarlet droplets flying. Win raised her sickle swords to chest height, grinning in triumph. One of the blades was red along its edge.

Amalthea did not stop to think. All her life, she had denied the Yggdrasilan temper that was her legacy. Her people were warriors - proud, brave, battle-strong but very quick to anger. She had wanted to be better than that. Amalthea had taught herself control, but seeing the woman she loved was about to die... the painstakingly crafted bonds were shattered in an instant. A rush of raw fury bubbled up from the deepest recesses of her soul. Her mind went up in flames.

She screamed, an incoherent explosion of sound, and came at Win with the ax gripped tightly. Amalthea felt no pain, only glorious, savage anger. Win whirled to meet this new challenge. She was a First of Fist, but all the fighting skills in the world could not defend against a berserk attacker whose only concern was to obliterate her foe.

Variss ax clashed against a senjata and sent it flying. Win's wrist was broken; she hissed and skipped backwards, tried a kick aimed at Amalthea's face. The Yggdrasilan didn't even bother to block or avoid the blow. She charged onward, mouth bloodied, lips drawn back in a snarl nearly to the angle of her jaw. Amalthea's eyes blazed with madness. Win lifted the other senjata; it, too, was smashed away by Amalthea's ax. The blow numbed her arm to the elbow.

Amalthea's expression was terrifying to behold. Fey was stunned. She'd had no time to respond before - her lover's attack had taken mere heartbeats - but if she did not do something now, Win would die. There was no doubt about that. Fey hoped that Amalthea was not so far gone into berserkergang that she wouldn't recognize friend from foe.

The variss came up, started to swing down, aimed at Win's unprotected throat. Fey coughed, "Wait! Please, Mal! It's over. You don't have to kill her!" When that had no effect, she shouted, "I love you!"

At the last second, the ax reversed. Amalthea tapped Win's temple with calculated force, hitting her with the blunt end. The priest collapsed and lay still.

Amalthea let the variss drop. From waist to knees, her right side was soaked in blood.

Fey threw her arms around Amalthea, desperate to support her as the taller woman's knees gave way, and she slid to the floor.

"Don't you dare die!" Fey said, struggling to staunch the wound with her hands. "If you die, Amalthea Quint, I'm going to kill you!"

"I love you, too," Amalthea whispered through swollen lips. Her eyes fluttered closed... and Fey began to wail.

*****

"So Win Pasyali killed Farsil because she wanted to have an affair with him, and he said no?" Amalthea had an impressive black eye, a split lip and assorted bruises, not to mention the wound in her side. Fortunately, Win's crescent blades had not damaged internal organs or bones, so the healers at the Heart temple had sealed it tightly with a nano-med pack, transfused blood, and given her endorphins for the pain. After twenty-six hours, the injury was beginning to knit back together again, but was still tender. Amalthea had been strongly cautioned to limit her physical activity. She was just too stubborn to stay in bed.

"Not precisely," Fey answered, scowling. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to be wandering around the Festival of Thieves in your condition."

"Odin's Empty Eye! I was going crazy. Every ten minutes, some total stranger popped into the room to have a look at the incredibly stupid sophont who took on a First of Fist." Amalthea inhaled, winced, and put a hand on her side. "Nobody seems to believe that I survived the experience, much less came away mostly intact."

"I've had decades of martial schooling, beginning when I was three years old," Fey said. Without waiting for permission, she yanked up Amalthea's tunic to check the thick bandage for seepage from the wound. "I'm an expert in many forms of unarmed combat, not to mention all kinds of weapons. The level of training we receive is far above that of an average Yggdrasilan. Win should have been able to kill you without too much effort, berserkergang notwithstanding. You were lucky; her emotional distress superseded her training."

"Thanks." Amalthea pulled Fey's hands away and smoothed her tunic back down. "Stop fussing, will you? I thought it was my emotional distress that won the day." She sighed. "My relatives would be proud of me. They've worried for years about my lack of temper. Back home, the family used to call me the 'ice giant' - not a compliment, by the way. They'll be celebrating, now that I've finally bloodied an ax in a good old-fashioned rage."

"Well, my family thinks you're amazing." Fey smiled. "The visitors at the temple were mostly relatives sent by Xan."

"Are you planning on answering my question about Win, or are you going to evade me all night?" Amalthea grinned back.

The priest tapped her cheek scars with a clawed fingertip. "She went a little mad, I think. Her desire for Farsil was obsessive and unhealthy. Whether he knew the depth of her feelings is unknown, but I doubt he thought she'd turn violent. When he rejected her advances, she killed him. I'm not sure she really believed he had offended Vashti. Nevertheless, that's her excuse - the offense against a sworn Fist required revenge on the goddess' behalf."

"Will a Tyvesh court swallow that story?"

"Not a chance. That sort of nonsense was abandoned centuries ago. Had Win brought legal charges of impiety against Farsil, her own conduct would have caused her to be reprimanded, and she knew it. If you hadn't noticed bloodstains on her floor, and if she hadn't mentally snapped, Win might have gotten away with murder. Poor Bek... her vision was accurate. It just came too late to save Farsil."

Amalthea shook her head. "I hope Bek will be alright."

"She's moving back to my mother's house. Bek will heal, eventually. And Win will pay for her crime."

Although the festival was winding down, there were still bonfires attended by Wisdom priests and their male assistants. Amalthea took Fey's elbow and walked over to one. The heavy metal bowl was nearly full of ashes and embers, as well as blazing logs. The loincloth-clad assistant pushed more wood into the crackling flames.

The priest wore her black-and-violet robe with surpassing dignity. Soot dappled her features, and marred the silvery shine of belled nipple rings in her bared breasts. Her loose dark hair was streaked with ash. "Vashti welcomes all to her sacred fire," she intoned. "Be cleansed in the smoke of Her breath."

Fey saluted the priest with flicking fingertips. "I burn for Her light." Amalthea repeated the ritual phrase. The Wisdom nodded; her assistant poured a sparkling stream of incense upon the fire. Smoke billowed, smelling of nutmeg, anise and cloves.

"What are we doing here?" Fey whispered to her taller partner.

"You'll see." Nearly losing her lover had driven Amalthea over the edge. The thought of never seeing Fey again - never being able to touch or hold her - was too painful to bear. She had yet to say anything about Captain Khulat's offer. Amalthea wasn't sure if the other woman's feelings were as strong as her own, but she was determined to prove the depth and sincerity of her love. Fey was the mate of her heart, mind and soul. She would do anything, take any risk, to be with her. Bek Lonyali's heartbreak over the loss of her long-time partner only strengthened the Yggdrasilan's resolve.

Amalthea faced the fire. Heat reddened her cheeks; a spice-scented wind ruffled her short blonde locks. The Wisdom's assistant offered her a bowl full of obsidian splinters. She chose one, feeling Fey's eyes boring into her back.

"What will you ask of Vashti?" the Wisdom priest asked.

"To pledge a vow in Her name," Amalthea answered. Fey started to protest, but the words died in her throat. She closed her mouth and watched her partner's form silhouetted against the goddess' holy blaze.

"Vashti requires blood to seal the bond," the Wisdom said. "A sacrifice of life to Hers, a spark to her flames."

"So be it." The volcanic glass splinter was chilly, like it was made of ice. Amalthea raised a hand, palm out. The half-healed wound in her side pulled taut. She could feel the edges part slightly, and a warm trickle escaped. It didn't matter. Heady incense fumes made her dizzy. That did not matter, either. This was the most important moment of her life. She took the obsidian needle and plunged it deeply into her thumb, pulling it out immediately. A fat drop of blood welled up; she shook it off into the fire, where it sizzled and spat before it was consumed.

Standing in the smoke, Amalthea said, "Witness my oath, that cannot be broken: I pledge myself to Fey Lonyali, daughter of Xan Lonyali, of the House of Lon. My love, my trust, my faith is true." Her voice broke; she recovered, the gleam of tears in her blue eyes. "Thus speak I, Amalthea Quint - my life to hers, my heart to hers, my soul to hers, for as long as the stars shine."

Fey was suddenly standing beside her, an obsidian splinter in her own hand. She drew blood, offered it to the fire, and said, "Witness my oath, that cannot be broken: O goddess, I am burning for love of one called Amalthea Quint. She is stubborn but kind; dutiful and intelligent; occasionally maddening, but altogether good. Let us be united, O Vashti, our fates as one, our footsteps following the same path, till we return as ashes to Your flames."

Amalthea let her glass needle drop and crushed it underfoot. Fey did the same.

"Stubborn?" the Yggdrasilan said, raising a brow. Her chest ached with the need to whoop with glee; she suppressed it, trembling instead. "Occasionally maddening?"

"Acutely," Fey answered. "So... when were you planning to tell me about your promotion to judge-advocate?"

"Gods of my fathers!"

Fey looked smug. "Xan told me while the Hearts were working on you. Qan Miryali told her; the temple Mother keeps calls on the intelli-deck archived automatically. She thought Xan might like to dedicate some prayers of thanksgiving, that her daughter wouldn't be corrupted by an offworlder."

"Why am I not surprised? I should know better than try to keep a secret from you." Amalthea glanced at her sworn partner with a worried frown. "I was planning to tell you after the festival, but we got distracted. Um, will your mother be angry about us?"

"Not at all. The other Lonyalis were equally impressed. Remember, they were the ones who kept you up all night in the temple? Xan sent them over to take a look at her prospective daughter-in-law."

"My family has probably had a betting pool going on for years." Amalthea snickered nastily. "Mother always hoped I'd marry Cousin Snorri. Or Cousin Frieda, in a pinch. Hah! I can't wait to see the look on her face. She's going to kak and fall over in it!"

"We should visit Yggdrasil. After you accept your promotion, that is." Fey snaked an arm around Amalthea's waist and snuggled close.

"Do you mind? Because if you do, I'll resign my commission." Amalthea began to walk away from the fire. Her head was in the clouds, she was walking on air. If a small songbird had landed on her shoulder and twittered sweetly, she wouldn't have swatted it away. I love her, she loves me, life is good, better, best! "Frankly, I'd rather be with you."

"This is one of those times when you can have it all." Fey decided not to tell Amalthea about the wedding preparations. As an important figure in Tyvesh society, Xan would make sure that her daughter had the most elaborate, lavish and protracted pledging ceremony in recent history. Mal is the one who's going to kak and fall over in it! Ah, well. We have time, now. All the time in the world. "Accept the captain's offer. I think traveling together in a cozy stellar cruiser will suit me just fine."

"Let's go back to the temple so I can flash Khulat."

Fey gave Amalthea a look from beneath her lowered lashes that sent tingles down her spine. "That won't take very long. What will we do afterwards?"

Amalthea grinned. "I'm sure I can think of something."

"Have I told you lately how much I admire, adore and love you?" Fey tilted her head up for a kiss.

"Wait till we're in private, sweet." Amalthea brushed her kajalni's lips with her own. "Then you can tell me again... and again... and again..."

A thief watched the butter-blonde foreigner and the First of Fist wander away, entwined together and giggling. He looked at the sky, considered robbing them, and instead, bowed in the direction of the sacred fire. "Like rivers to an ocean, two souls flow as one," he said under his breath, quoting from the Book of Vashti. "Let your happiness be undisturbed."

The stars and the moon began to fade as dawn chased the night away. Bonfires died. Lovers sought their beds.

And the Festival of Thieves was finished for another year.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

FEAST OF EAGLES
(Fourth in the Kennings Series; sequel to
Picker of the Slain, Mouth-Tale of Giants, Raven's Mead)
by Nene Adams ©2004 - All rights reserved

(Author's Note: In Old Norse poetry and sagas, kennings - or metaphorical compound words/phrases - were used to describe gods, people, animals, places and events in poetic fashion. Sometimes the description has a correlation with mythology, sometimes it's fallen into common usage. "Feast of Eagles" is a kenning meaning "War.")

Amalthea Quint subvocalized through her implant, "Are you finished programming the hyperspace coordinates?" She scowled at the reflection of her round freckled face in the stellar cruiser's window.

"Yes, boss. Programming is complete. Shift will commence as soon as you and that hottiboombalatti of yours are in the cool room," the cruiser's AI answered aloud. 'His' name was Maximus. Amalthea privately thought of him as 'maximum pain in the ass.' His Turing personality was a bit too personal for her tastes.

Most Confederation ships were run by military AIs - high efficiency rated, low on the chit-chat, and as much real character as the average space traffic controller. Max, on the other hand, was full of little quirks that drove Amalthea up the wall. Such as his vocabulary.

"Ease up on the archaic colloquialisms," she ordered, unfolding her two meter length from the command chair. "That's mem Lonyali to you, not hottiboombalatti, sweet cheeks, or any of the other pet names you've been giving her lately." Her partner Fey thought that Max was charming; Amalthea did not.

"Yeah, but she's so hubba-hubba delicata delicious, I'm plotzing." A brief snatch of cloying music, heavy on the violins, issued from the concealed bridge speakers.

"Max!"

"Right-o, boss." The AI's voice was not in the least contrite, but the music ceased. "I'll secure you in the cool room when you're ready."

Amalthea muttered, "Gods of my fathers!" and stomped off the bridge.

The cruiser was a small personal craft - four cabins, a tiny kitchen, an even smaller cleansing/evacuation facility, and the bridge. Cargo space was limited. It had begun life as the toy of a wealthy man who was later convicted of antiquities smuggling. The Confederation confiscated Maximus Lucius, which is how newly appointed judge-advocate Amalthea Quint and her lover, a Tyvesh priest named Fey Lonyali, ended up with it as their personal vehicle.

"Ah, kajalni!" Fey purred as Amalthea came into the room. "Are we ready to go?"

Because of the danger of shift psychosis, all passengers had to be secured during transition. The cool room was a cabin with no windows, small cushions scattered across the floor, and a door that would be locked and sealed. Lights, holo-projectors, speakers and other controls were mounted flush to the walls behind unbreakable nano-lattices. Only when they reached their destination would the women be allowed to exit.

Amalthea smiled, feeling that melting, tingling sensation the raced through her from head to toes whenever she was with her beloved. Kajalni meant 'spirit-flame' in Tyvesh, Fey's homeworld. It was a term used by lovers. "Yes, we're good to go. According to Max's calculations, Yggdrasil is a hop, two skips, a sideways roll and a jump from here. Interdimensionally speaking, of course. About an hour and a half to arrival time."

"One hour, thirty-seven minutes, five point three seconds," the AI corrected smugly. "Oooh, boss, didn't your mother tell you not to make poochie faces? It might freeze that way."

"Kak on a crumpet!" Amalthea grimaced, thought about yanking Max's circuits, and instead settled for shaking a fist in the general direction of a spy-eye on the ceiling. "I swear, I'm going to get that fekkit brat wiped and install a sensible program."

"Oh, he's not that bad," Fey chuckled. "I find him a refreshing change from those frigid military programs."

"Spoken like a woman after my own heart - if I had one, that is," Max replied. Simultaneously, the cool room door slid shut with a hiss. "Hang on to your garters, girls. We are entering primary transition... now."

There was a slight jolt as the ship initiated the first shift. Amalthea rolled her eyes. "I wish you wouldn't egg him on, Fey." She sat down on a cushion, long legs extended in front of her. "He's supposed to run the ship, not entertain us. I think you forget  that Max is an AI, not a person."

"Shame to your lips! According to common law, AIs are sophont citizens, with attendant rights and privileges," Fey said.

"Not bad for someone who's never been through advocacy training," Amalthea said, ducking when Fey threw a cushion at her head. "Hey! I meant it as a compliment."

"Sweet cheeks, watching you in action makes my hardware tingle," Max said to Fey.

"Stop that, or by Odin, I'll take an axe to your logic matrix!" Amalthea subvocalized angrily. Her implant allowed her to communicate directly to the AI, and receive his responses in return.

Max made a rude noise through the speakers.

Fey was a First of First, a martial priest whose people did not believe in intrusive technology. "I believe we had an agreement, Mal. It's impolite to transmit with that thing in your jaw when I'm in the room. It's like talking behind my back."

"You're right. I apologize." Amalthea blew out a breath. Control, control, control... Yggdrasilan natives were bred to be warriors, and justly famed for their tempers. She tried hard to be different. "Max's comments make me a little crazy."

"Are you actually jealous of an AI?" Fey stood up, squatted next to her partner, and laid clawed fingertips gently against her brow. "Are you coming down with an illness? Jongku spotted fever? The purple plague?"

"Very funny." Running a hand through her short-cropped, butter yellow hair, Amalthea gave her a crooked grin. "Okay, so Max is a smart ass, and he acts like a horny teenager trying to impress his girlfriend, and yes, if he was flesh and blood, I'd probably punch his teeth down his throat. Is that jealousy?"

"I think it's sweet," Fey replied, touching Amalthea's smoothly muscled shoulder. They were both wearing knee-length, sleeveless tunics and trousers. The priest's skin was the shade of cinnamon, in contrast to her lover's milk-pale flesh. Fey's black hair was entwined with silver bells that chimed softly whenever she moved, and her eyes were a startling lime green. "Remember the oath we swore at Vashti's fire? Even if Max was human, I could never love him the way I love you. But he isn't, so there's nothing to fear. Agreed?"

"When you put it that way..." Amalthea brushed Fey's mouth with her lips. "Max, privacy mode."

"Awww, nuts!" The AI made another juicy rude noise. Amalthea growled. Max immediately responded, "Right-o, boss. Privacy mode enabled. I'm outta here."

Fey got up and fetched a pair of paper-wrapped sandwiches, along with a virulently pink bottle. "Food fuels the fun," she said lightly.

Amalthea glanced at the holo-label on the bottle and groaned, "Dharma Bum's Tao of Seven Hells Sauce? What next... are you going to start spritzing your meals with toxic waste?"

"My palate is more sophisticated than most sophonts," Fey replied, eyes sparkling mischevously. "On Tyvesh, we know how to spice our food."

"On Tyvesh, you've burned out your taste buds with those firecracker chillis." Amalthea accepted a sandwich and examined the interior. "Yeast cheese, kelp burger and... what's this?" She held up a dripping slice of grayish-green stuff. The acrid odor made her eyes water.

"Meelokulani pickles. My mother gave me a jar as a parting gift. Try it and stop being such a baby." Fey sprayed her sandwich liberally with sauce, closed the lid and took a bite, eyes closing in ecstacy.

Amalthea replaced the pickle and nibbled. She had to admit, it didn't taste half bad.

When she said as much to Fey, the priest snorted. "Told you so."

"Now who's being a baby?" Amalthea began to eat in earnest. She hadn't consumed more than half before Max interrupted her meal.

"Sorry, boss. Admiral Genjuso is on secure data-flash from Advocacy Command. He insists on speaking to you now."

Amalthea thrust the remainder of her sandwich under a cushion and automatically smoothed her hair. She reported directly to Genjuso in her role as judge-advocate. "The kak must be rolling somewhere," she muttered. "Okay, put him through."

Fey did not hold a military commission; she was rated an independent consultant on Amalthea's staff, having transferred out of diplomacy services to be with her lover. She kept eating.

A holo-image of Admiral Genjuso wavered, then snapped into focus about a meter away. A native of Figmo Rusty, he was short, furry and fanged, resembling a peevish teddy bear. The whiskers around his muzzle were bristling. Black-button eyes gleamed. "Commander Quint. Fey Lonyali. Why does trouble cling to you two gankinis like white on rice?"

"Get stuffed, you old svinsak," Fey muttered around a mouthful of sandwich. In Rusty culture, insults and rudeness were the height of decorum. They were speaking the Universal language for Amalthea's benefit. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"Naw, your sister," Genjuso replied, waving a stubby paw. His only concession to rank was the glittering, brass-laden hat perched between his upstanding ears. Otherwise, his curly red-gold fur was uncovered. "You broads are beatin' feet to Yggdrasil anyway, so you're gonna earn your pay. We gotta missing artifact - some big juju thing that's making the sword eaters go berserk. I want you to check it out."

"Uh, sir, do we have any idea what's missing?" Amalthea couldn't bring herself to be rude to a superior officer, no matter how many times Fey had told her it was the polite thing to do.

Genjuso crinkled his muzzle in disgust. "When you gonna teach blondie some manners?" he complained to Fey, who shrugged.

"You fallen in love with the sound of your own voice, or just got verbal diarrhea? Answer her so we don't hafta keep staring at your ugly face. It's ruining my appetite." Fey popped the last bite into her mouth, chewed, and winked at Amalthea.

Mollified, the Admiral replied, "Some relic is missing from a church. The forest stompers are kakking themselves over it. Quint, we're keeping a lid on this thing, but word's bound to leak. I don't want mass AWOL from Yggdrasilan regulars, going hysterical and jumping ship to head home 'cause of the crisis. Understand?"

Amalthea's mouth went dry. Oh my sweet gods and goddesses, it can't be... "Sir, is this about the Battle Banner of King Knut? It's been stolen?"

Genjuso consulted an intelli-deck. "Yep. That's the one."

Her heart was pounding. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead. Amalthea's blue eyes glazed over, and a sudden wave of nausea made her stomach roil. Fey put a hand on her shoulder. "Kajalni, are you unwell?"

"Oh, great... she's gonna hurl." Genjuso pointed a pudgy finger. "Get to Yggdrasil, find out what's happening, and report back to me. Or else there ain't gonna be enough barf bags in the whole Confederation to go around." His image winked out.

Amalthea was breathing deeply through her mouth. Fey glanced around, found nothing nothing useful, and snapped, "Max, I need a deep bowl or bucket now!"

"Sorry, honey bun. No can do. We're shifting, so you can't exit the cool room. If the boss blows, I can activate cleaner 'bots. Will that do?"

"No, it will not." Fey felt helpless, and that made her angry. "Mal is ill. She needs medical attention. Open the door immediately."

Amalthea swallowed, winced and croaked, "He can't. Not in the middle of a shift."

"We'll be exiting a portal in two minutes, thirty-four seconds," the AI said. "Once we drop back into normal space, I can unseal the lock. I'm already configuring a cabin to sickbay mode. Can you hold on, boss?"

"I'm fine."

Fey helped her lay down, visibly fuming. She spat out some vile Tyvesh curses, switching to Uni to add, "...shtupit insane regulations! What if you were seriously injured or dying?"

Amalthea did not answer for a moment. She closed her eyes, willing the dizziness to pass. "Then Max would broadcast a mayday to headquarters, get the coordinates of the nearest medical vessel, and do a mid-shift jump. Dangerous, but permitted for emergencies."

"Are you any better?" Fey had been seriously alarmed by her partner's reaction; her face had gone paler than usual, until the freckles stood out like fresh inkspots.

"Really, I'm okay. It was just the shock of hearing about Knut's banner." Amalthea raised a trembling hand to her brow. "Odin's Empty Eye! I can't believe it. Who'd be crazy enough to do such a thing?"

"Wait until we're halted, then you can tell me all about it."

"No!" Amalthea sat up, clutching Fey's arm for support. "Max, continue your course, do not abort. Acknowledge!"

"You sure, boss?" The AI sounded doubtful.

"I'm sure. Continue to Yggdrasil, maximum acceleration. That's a fekkit order!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, no need to get snarky. Aborting portal exit, continuing to next shift terminal, aye. Put the hammer on the floor, put the pedal to the metal, and kick in the afterburners, yee haw! Arrival now estimated in twenty-one minutes." Max played a calvary charge through his speakers.

Fey's lips quirked. "In Muradeen song-speech, what he just said was very rude."

Amalthea did not react to the joke. Instead, she got up from the floor, despite Fey's protests. "I need to think about this." She began pacing in the small confines of the room. The priest watched her carefully, ready to act if she relapsed.

"I have heard of this banner," Fey said. "Is it not a sacred relic?"

"The most sacred relic on Yggdrasil." Amalthea halted in her tracks, taking a deep breath. "You saw how I reacted. I'm not particularly religious. Many of my people are. Many also serve as soldiers. Imagine what will happen if news of the banner's theft becomes general knowledge."

Fey's spiral cheek scars changed from silver to bright pink as the implication struck. "Vashti's Flame! It would throw the Confederation into chaos."

"Exactly." Amalthea started pacing again. "A court martial is nothing compared to the destruction of Yggdrasil. Everyone from Admiral to ensign would do whatever it took to return home, including out-and-out mutiny. Necessary violence. Open revolt. If Hub-Gov tried to stop it, there would be extreme violence."

"Tell me more." Fey sat back, piling small cushions beneath her back for support. "Why the panic? Why such a strong reaction? I mean no offense, but it seems an out of proportion response to what I'd term petty theft."

"It has to do with Bowswayer's prophecy." Amalthea was not insulted. She knew that her kajalni was proficient in Yggdrasilan customs, but most likely had a smattering of the planet's history. "Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Not as well as you do." The priest made a gesture. "You're making me dizzy with all that turning. Sit down, please."

Reluctantly, Amalthea lowered herself to the floor. "Centuries ago, when the first colonists arrived on Yggdrasil, they were divided into clans. Family units, each with its own generational ship. There were thirteen of them. Every native can trace their descent from one or more of the original clans."

Fey said nothing to prompt the story, realizing instinctively that any interruption might halt it entirely. She settled down to listen quietly, committing her lover's lesson to memory.

"From their number they elected a king, a warrior-skald named Knut Grimkell, and elected a council with representatives from all the clans. Knut's dearest friend, Bowswayer, was made chief of all his household." Amalthea had no need to concentrate. Every child of her world learned the tale by heart. "For a time, life was good. The colonists thrived. But then there were crop failures, a murrain of cattle, a plague. Some cried out against the king. Knut did what he could. Loki Minnovar - a rival chief who coveted Knut's position - began plotting against the king. Loki was cunning, a seducer who poured poisoned honey into the ears of men who were dissatisfied. Once he had gathered enough allies, Loki declared war."

It was the only war ever fought on Yggdrasilan soil. Brother against brother, sister against sister, every battle claimed its toll. Families were divided - some loyal to their king, others preferring to throw their lot in with the chief who promised to end their troubles. Loki used religion to his advantage, getting tame priests to declare that Knut was unfavored by the gods. In response, Knut re-dedicated himself to Odin. Bowswayer, a mystic of no small talent, caused a special battle banner to be made.

"The Battle Banner of King Knut... it flew at the head of the king's armies, and from that moment, he knew no defeat. Knut eventually met Loki at Mossbeard Ford. The rebel's blood was spilled, but Knut was also mortally wounded. With his last breath, he commanded Bowswayer to press the banner against his wound." Amalthea's face was shining with pride. "Knut promised that so long as the bloodstained banner remained on Yggdrasil, no enemy would ever conquer us. Bowswayer built the king's barrow-mound, and mounted the banner in a shine. Before he died, the mystic prophesied that if ever Knut's standard was lost or stolen, Yggdrasil would perish afterwards in flames and woe."

"And this banner is still in the temple?"

"Oh, yes. Right where Bowswayer put it." Amalthea scowled. "Until some svinsak thief came along. This is very bad. I can't begin to tell you how terrible."

Max made an announcement: "Establishing geosynchronous orbit around Yggdrasil, boss." The cool room doors hissed open. "Shall I open a channel to spaceport at Kevburg, requesting landing instructions?"

"Yes. I'm coming to the bridge." Amalthea got to her feet. Fey put up a hand to stop her. "Put on your uniform, kajalni. You're an officially assigned investigator," she reminded gently.

"You're right." Amalthea turned a worried gaze on her partner. "I just thought of something. My mother doesn't know I'm here. Furthermore, she doesn't know I'm pledged to a crazy Tyvesh priest." Worry turned to panic. "Gods! My mother is going to kak!"

"Surely this can't be worse than than the theft of Knut's banner?" Fey tried to put it in perspective.

Amalthea shuddered. "Oh, valkyrie-sweet... you have no idea!" She started to leave the room, saying over her shoulder, "I'd rather face Loki Minnovar resurrected and the Hosts of Hel than deal with my mother!"

Fey's eyes widened. Then she took her lover's abandoned sandwich and consumed it deliberately, bite by bite. She was a martial priest rather than a seer, but she had a feeling that she would need all her strength for an ordeal ahead.

Gerda Astrid Rannsdottir Quint, premier member of the Blood Hag Social Club, the Founding Mothers Association, and Free-Style Ax Throwing champion ten years running, was waiting at the spaceport. Gerda was taller than Amalthea but just as butter blonde, with cool blue eyes and a creamy complexion unmarred by wrinkles or lines. Imperfections didn't dare invade her skin. She'd have removed them as ruthlessly as she scrubbed all other flaws from her life.

Amalthea approached, trepidation apparent in every step. On the other hand, Fey came forward with every evidence of enjoyment, a huge smile on her face. Gerda greeted her daughter, then eyed the priest and asked, "Who is this?"

"Mooter, this is Fey Lonyali, a Tyvesh First of Fist." Amalthea steeled herself. "We're pledged."

"I see." Gerda's brows rose and she pursed her lips. "Welcome to Yggdrasil, mem Lonyali. Perhaps you have some insight as to why my daughter has avoided coming home for eight years, only to return with a barefoot foreigner in tow? After all the time I've wasted trying to find her a suitable companion."

Fey's grin turned feral. "Perhaps she did not wish to see rude relatives blunting their claws on her kajalni's hide."

Thrust and parry, a point scored by the priest. Having declared war with her opening statement, Gerda retreated behind a mask of icy politeness. "How very droll."

Turning her back on Fey, she continued to Amalthea in a rush, "Well, what brings you here unannounced? Tell me all about it. You couldn't, of course, flash me yourself - I can see that you've been too busy - but Cousin Freida who works in Spaceport Control kindly informed me of your arrival. Are you still dabbling in that advocacy nonsense? You should settle down here. You've done your duty to the Confederation."

Amalthea groaned. "I'm here on an official investigation. No, I can't tell you what it is. I'm sorry I didn't have time to flash you. Yes, I'm still an advocate. In fact, I've been promoted to judge-advocate. I like being an Admiralty officer. I am settling down... with Fey. I love her. We're going to be mate-bonded. Get used to it."

Gerda folded her arms across her chest. "We shall see," she replied through pursed lips.

Fey shook her hairbells, and ostentatiously burnished her claws on the front of her tunic.

Amalthea wanted to beat her skull against a nearby plexisteel wall. "Can I open my veins yet?" she muttered. More loudly, she said, "We have to go to the Primacy's residence. I don't we'll be able to join you for dinner."

"It isn't as if I've had sufficient time to muster a feast," Gerda sniffed. "But you've just come home. Surely you can spare an hour or two for your own family... your own kind." She glared venomously at the Tyvesh priest.

"Not today." Amalthea reached for Fey's upper arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I'll let you know if my business permits personal visits." Her mother stiffened, about to object. Amalthea kissed her on each cheek, said good-bye, and quickly tugged Fey away from Gerda. They walked through the concourse area in silence for a moment, the taller woman dragging their huge trunk by the handle. It had seemed wasteful for each woman to have her own luggage, so she'd purchased an enormous wood-and-leather wheeled antique on Tyvesh.

"Is your womb-mother always so...?" Fey was unable to complete the question in a way that wouldn't be offensive.

The tall blonde sighed. "You have no idea. I knew Mooter was going to be torqued, but she just jumped in swinging. Gods! Thank you for not killing her. She isn't really as xenophobic as she sounds."

"You could have fooled me," Fey murmured. She found Gerda's attitude amusing. What Vashti brought together, no mooter-in-law could tear asunder. "I will allow her a little leeway. After all, it must be shocking to find out that your daughter has been pledged without your knowledge. Particularly if mem Quint's been harboring secret hopes of her own."

"That's the problem. Mooter is descended from Yggdrasilan nobility - two or three AEthlings, the Eorl of Wyncarl, thegns and so forth. Chieftans by the score. Of course, her side of the family is a distant collateral branch, not directly in the ruling kinship, but that doesn't stop her from putting on airs." Amalthea rolled her blue eyes. "Mooter is convinced that her children are destined for greatness. Nobody is good enough, except maybe the royal brood. A foreigner of dubious lineage - impossible! Excuse me, but that's the way she thinks."

Fey side-stepped to avoid a clutch of jabbering tourists from Banjul. "Gerda is seeking to improve her own condition by advantageously marrying her daughters and sons to high Yggdrasilan society."

"Exactly. One of the many reasons why I left home, and why I stay away. Ah, here it is." Amalthea stopped at booth and spent a minute dickering with the attendant. When she returned, she was carrying a card-key in her free hand. "I rented a hover bike. It's the fastest way to get around Kevburg."

A hover bike? Fey wasn't sure she liked the sound of it. "Is it safe?"

"You have no idea." Amalthea grinned broadly. Now that she'd gotten Gerda out of the way (for now), she was feeling a bit easier. However, there was still the theft of the banner to consider. Her relief faded. In a feast of eagles, every man looks to the gods, went the old saying. Yggdrasilans were quite sophisticated by most sophont's standards, but in each there was each a core of unshakable religious belief. It doesn't really matter if Bowswayer's prophesy is right, and if King Knut's Banner really has the magical ability to protect or destroy my planet. Enough people think it does, and chaos will surely follow.

The hover bike was a marvel of artistic and engineering sensibilities. It was a two-person model in the shape of a black horse, all stylized lines and matte smooth enamel. Instead of reins, a pair of curved handles jutted from the horse's mouth. A cart was attached by tow-lines to the back.

Amalthea heaved their travel trunk into the cart and snapped the bubble lid closed. "You mount here," she said to Fey, pointing to the rear saddle seat, "and be sure the safety harness is secure. I'll drive."

She got the priest settled before climbing into the operator's saddle. Once they were both straddling the bike, Amalthea punched in a destination code on the on-board computer. The bike shuddered, then vibrated smoothly as they rose into the air. Fey clutched her partner's waist. "What happens if the anti-grav generator fails?" she shouted.

"Put your head between your knees..." Amalthea fiddled with the speed control. The hover bike stalled for a second, then shot forward like a bullet. "...and kiss your pretty ass good-bye!" she screamed into the wind whipping past her face.

Fey ducked her head, pressed closer to Amalthea, and hung on grimly. Other bikes, cars, hover shops, buildings and huge tourist floaters whizzed by. It seemed that her lover took great glee in near misses. The priest said not a word in protest. She recited a prayer under her breath until they finally slowed down. Almost gently, Amalthea brought the bike to earth just in front of the Primacy's residence - a church/monastery dedicated to King Knut.

Amalthea had a maniacal smile on her face. She shut down the engine and chuckled. "Fun, eh?"

Fey raised her head. "You have no idea," she replied dryly. One by one, she unhooked her claws from Amalthea's uniform tunic. Fortunately, the fabric was thick, otherwise she'd have left bleeding holes in her lover's sides.

"It wasn't that bad, was it?"

"Let me put it this way..." Fey grimaced. "I would rather be devoured from the toes up by carniverous caterpillars than endure such a ride again."

"Ouch!" Amalthea unhooked her harness and swung out of the saddle. "I thought I was a fairly good driver."

"It isn't your driving skills I object to. It's those pesky suicidal tendencies that make my heart leap into my hair." Fey shakily got off the bike. She shook out her clothing, a saffron dyed tunic and trousers combination, and curled her bare toes into the grass. The feeling of solid ground was reassuring. "Who do we see here?"

"I am Primate Cwen," said a male voice. Both women looked around. The chief priest was a giant, over two-and-a-half meters tall, with long ginger hair and light gray eyes. His nose was enormous, a true eagle's beak set among the strong bones of his face. He wore a simple brown robe, tied shut with a gilded belt. "You are Judge-Advocate Amalthea Quint?"

"I am." Amalthea put a hand on her heart and bowed. ""My house, my sword, my shield are yours. May you never lack for ale and bread and salt, and may Odin always turn His blind eye towards your sins."

Fey repeated the gesture and the greeting. Primate Cwen blessed them by dipping his fingers into a vial of oil on his belt, and touching their brows. The oil smelled salty and sweet, like seawater and ripe plums. "You come in good time," he rumbled. His voice was deep and slow. "Admiral Genjuso has told you of our troubles?"

"Only that a certain thing is not where it's supposed to be," Amalthea replied, taking care not to reveal too much information in a public place. Who knew if spy-eyes or listening devices were near? "May we see the shrine?"

"Naturally." With vast dignity, the man led them into the residence. Amalthea had been here before. Every Yggdrasilan made a pilgrimage at least once in their life to Knut's shrine, even if they were born and raised off-world. Fey had only seen holo-images. She found herself staring in fascination.

The outside of the building was rough and inelegant, made of crudely dressed stone and huge timbers. Additions had been made at various times, stuck onto the main structure haphazardly, and in various architectural styles. But the interior! Mural painted walls, gold tile mosaic floors, priceless artworks, fine silk hangings... only the best for King Knut's memorial. They walked through seemingly endless halls and rooms, each more glorious than the last.

Finally, Cwen led them to the innermost shrine, the holy of holies. This room was huge but simply decorated, with a massive domed ceiling supported by a forest of carved ironwood pillars. Plain dark wooden walls, scrubbed stone floor, a slab of gray granite for the altar... not a trace of precious metals or gems. Despite the lack of splendor, there was a brooding power about the place that impressed Fey even more than the expensive treasures she'd seen.

Amalthea breathed deeply. As always, the shrine had a peculiar, musty-tangy smell that reminded her of old blood. Her gaze went to a space on the wall behind the altar. It was here, protected behind a plexisteel grill and shielded by curtains, that the Battle Banner had hung. Nailed to the boards, she recalled, by Bowswayer's own hammer. Now the curtains hung open; the grill had been wrenched apart, and the banner was gone. Only a pale square on the darker wooden wall showed that it had been there at all.

Cwen cleared his throat. "There are no windows, no other means of access other than this door. At night, when the shrine is closed, the door is locked and barred. I have the sole key."

"Forgive me, Primate, but your security seems rather antiquated," Amalthea said. "No laser emitters, spy eyes, programmed cyber-wardens... not even modified animal guards."

"We have always taken great care to protect the banner," Cwen replied stiffly. "Casual vandalism by tourists or misguided off-worlders - that has been our main concern. Who would have thought an Yggdrasilan capable of such infamy?"

"An Yggdrasilan? Do you have a suspect?"

The chief priest nodded dolefully. "We are not as entirely old-fashioned as you seem to think, Judge-Advocate Quint. Every person who visits the residence is marked with a special ultraviolet dye that permits our house security to monitor their whereabouts. At the end of the day, a full scan of the building is performed to ensure all visitors have left." He spread his hands apart. "You see, only a monk could have entered the shrine so late at night and been undetected."

Amalthea was shocked. "Do you mean to suggest...?"

"I fear it is my duty, yes." Cwen bit his lip. "Much as I hate to admit it, the only person who could have stolen the Battle Banner of King Knut is a member of my own monastery."

A bell tolled somewhere in the depths of the building. Amalthea started feeling sick again.

Fey hovered near her partner's elbow while the door opened, admitting a flood of robe-clad monks.

The suspects had arrived.

The forty monks of King Knut's shrine were male and female, all Yggdrasilan. They wore their hair as long as it would grow, parted in the center and bound into plaits; men also braided their beards. Each was dressed a belted robe, but none carried a vial of sacred oil like Cwen. One of the women stepped forward briskly. She was a silver-blonde with small hazel eyes, delicately built in spite of her height. Indigo rune tattoos ran along her jawline and circled each wrist. She alone had a necklace around her throat, heavy gold with a gem-studded pendant in the shape of Yggdrasil itself, the world-tree that gave the planet its name.

Cwen called for her to come closer. "My bondmate, Sigona Heghaim. She is also Volu, a diviner."

On Tyvesh, Eye priests had oracular visions granted by the goddess. Fey knew that Volu used rune-carved stones to poke and pry at the future. She thought it was an inferior system, but held her tongue. One priest to another, she greeted Sigona politely.

Amalthea sketched through a formal greeting, then asked the woman, "Do you have any insights into the theft?"

Sigona made a negative gesture. "All pathways are closed. The Norn-fates reveal nothing."

That's a relief, Amalthea thought. Too often, Volu predictions were couched in such baffling riddles that they could only be figured out after the event they foretold had occurred. She addressed Cwen again. "I assume you've done your own investigation."

"Yes," he said. "Every monk has been accounted for, and all of them have alibis. We sleep two to a room in the monastary. The residence has been searched from top to bottom - every corner, every crevice, every room." He stopped, obviously hesitating.

His bondmate has no such reservations. She looked at Amalthea coolly and said, "Naturally, the search was not successful, because the banner never left this room. It was destroyed."

Amalthea's heart beat faster. "How do you know?"

"Ashes were found on the altar. I believe the thief burned it." Sigona's eyes were hooded. "Cwen disagrees."

"A sample is being analyzed by an outside laboratory," Cwen said. "In the meantime, I deemed it prudent to assume the banner is still intact, hidden somewhere in the building."

"No one has entered or left the residence since the theft was discovered?" Fey asked.

"We lock the shrine at night, and open it in the morning. As soon as I saw the banner was missing, I raised the alarm. Everyone who was here then is still here now. Sigona is too quick to believe the worst."

"Who knows about the crime?" Amalthea cast a glance at the other monks, all huddled together out of earshot.

"The brothers and sisters, of course. We have no outside staff. I was also obliged to inform Minister Nerton, head of Planetary Security, and Queen Vanadis. It was their decision to request the investigation be handled by a Confederacy judge-advocate." The chief priest gave his bondmate an anguished look. She turned her face away.

"It should be a purely an internal affair," Sigona said. "I think it's a mistake to involve an overly ambitious officer, who may use the situation to her advantage."

Amalthea protested, "I'm Yggdrasilan, too. I want this case solved successfully and the banner returned. There's no other agenda here."

"Oh?" Sigona's brows, carefully plucked into perfect crescents, rose to her hairline. "Don't think your family is unfamiliar to me, mem Quint."

"Don't drop hints, mem Heghaim." Amalthea put her hands on her hips. "Whatever you've got to say, just spit it out."

Cwen flapped his hands. "Please! I'm sure Sigona is not accusing you of any impropriety. We're grateful for your assistance."

"What about your mooter?" Sigona said spitefully, ignoring her bondmate. "That social climbing harpy who would sell her internal organs for a chance to ally herself with Queen and court. Is it coincidence that her daughter has been put in charge of the investigation?"

"I don't know what the fekk you're blabbing about. I received my orders from Admiral Genjuso, not my mooter."

Fey put clawed fingertips delicately on Amalthea's arm. "The theft is not generally known. Your Yggdrasilan queen and her ministers would prefer to keep it that way. Remember, you spoke to me of chaos? The Volu fears that family loyalty will lead you to disclose certain matters to Gerda that should remain secret."

"Gerda Quint would hammer this information into a sword to hold at the Queen's throat," Sigona broke in bluntly. "The Battle Banner has been destroyed. Our only hope is create a duplicate to take the place of the lost original. The fewer who know, the better. Thus will the Primate's honor be restored, and unpleasantness avoided. If she knows all, how can the secret be kept, except to stop Gerda's mouth with undeserved rewards."

"Silence!" Cwen hissed, appalled. "The matter is not to be discussed this way. We will find King Knut's banner. We must!"

Sigona slid a finger along her rune-tattooed jaw - a reminder of her seer's status. "I know it's gone," she insisted quietly. "You'd better open your eyes to necessity, Cwen. Survival must be our priority."

Amalthea's patience was at an end. "My authority comes from the highest levels of the Confederacy. My status is not in question. Nor, I might add, have I said or done anything to deserve your suspicions, mem Heghaim. Whether you like it or not, I'm in charge. Any complaints can be directed to Admiral Genjuso or Queen Vanadis."

"Speech is silver, deeds are gold," Fey quoted. "We will accomplish nothing by bickering and back-stabbing." Her lime-green eyes narrowed as she confronted the Volu. "I might ask why you're so certain the banner is burned, mem Heghaim, and why you seem intent on obstructing this investigation."

Sigona gasped. "You dare!"

"I dare much in the service of right," Fey answered.

"Everyone will be questioned," Amalthea said evenly, "because everyone is a suspect until I decide otherwise. Primate, I'll need a room where I can interview each of the monks - including yourself and your bondmate. This may appear to be a duplication of effort, but I want to hear your stories myself. Fey Lonyali will examine the shrine for forensic evidence."

She stopped, subvocalizing into her implant for a few minutes. When she finished, Amalthea said to Fey, "I'm having Max send over a mobile unit. It's fully equipped. AI will control the unit from the ship. If you need anything from me, Max will send a message."

"May Vashti enflame you to the truth," Fey said. She craned up on tip-toe to whisper near Amalthea's ear, "Don't worry, kajalni. Stay firm and focused on the facts. Whatever happens, I will stand beside you."

Amalthea turned her head in order to give Fey a light kiss on the mouth. "Be careful, valkyrie-sweet."

"I will." She moved away, a smile making her spiral cheek scars disappear.

"I'll begin with you, Primate Cwen," Amalthea said briskly, returning to professional mode. Raising her voice, she continued, "The rest of you will stay together in a monitored room until you're summoned. That means you, too, mem Heghaim."

She stood up straighter, suddenly conscious of her judge-advocate's uniform: dove gray trousers and tunic, with commander's pips on the narrow collar, and loops of braid around the cuffs. The tunic breast was covered in small embroidered patches - Corps service medals and conduct citations, with the occasional bit of twinkling gold.

There was a necessary ritual to perform. She felt a bit nervous and self-conscious, but maintained a rigid demeanor. For the first time in her new career, Amalthea said, "Sophont citizens of Yggdrasil: anything you tell me will be recorded. You are required to answer my questions truthfully and completely. Failure to cooperate will result in detention and possible criminal charges. If any among you are guilty, you are hereby enjoined to confess your guilt and request clemency." She paused, but no one came forward. The monks were clustered together more closely than ever.

"Fine." Amalthea tugged the bottom of her tunic, settling it into place. "Fey Lonyali, do your duty."

The priest had carefully studied her assistant's role. She called, "Hear all! Hear all! Court is convened. Judge-Advocate Amalthea Quint presiding. Primate Cwen, do you issue a charge?"

Cwen closed his eyes, then opened them again. "I accuse person or persons unknown of the deliberate theft of the Battle Banner of King Knut." He raised his right hand towards Amalthea. "Will you judge?"

"I will judge. " Amalthea touched the chief priest's palm with her own to complete the ritual. "The identity of the thief must be determined first; only then can I render judgement. I'll begin with interviews. Until I'm satisfied, no one will leave this building on pain of immediate detention. Repetition of the offense will result in punishment at my discretion. Is this understood?"

There was a general murmur of assent, except from Sigona. She stared at Amalthea, dislike written in every stiffened line of her body.

Amalthea gave Cwen a half-bow. "Lead the way, Primate."

Everyone paced out of the shrine, leaving Fey alone... but not for long.

"Ooooh, sweet cheeks! Long time no see." Max's voice issued from a speaker set in unit's front. Made of smooth-cast material beneath a black liquid polymer sheath, the mobile was an insectoid shape, six telescoping legs set on a fat round body. Max controlled it via a long-range relay. The unit was, in essence, a more moveable version of himself.

"Will you behave?" Fey chided gently.

Max skittered over to crouch next to the priest's leg.  "Alone at last," he crooned.

"I need your help, which means I do not require inappropriate conduct." Fey rapped the body with a knuckle. "Your scientific and analytical skills would be appreciated."

"Aw... all work and no play makes my hottiboombalotti a dull girl." Max straightened his legs to their full length. "But your wish is my command. I've been through all available data on Yggdrasilan religious customs, history, politics, etc. Quite a large file to digest."

"And?"

"To put it simply - the boss is in deep kak if she doesn't come up with the goods. At least she won't be alone, 'cause the whole Confederation will be be right there with her."

"So we must find this banner." Fey began to prowl around the room. "Max, it's been suggested that the banner was burned. Monks cleaned up the ashes, but see what you can find."

Max sent the mobile around the entire space on a spiral search pattern, all sensors working at maximum efficiency. After about two hours, he said, "Got it. Hey, I thought this banner thing was supposed to be ancient." The Tyvesh priest went to see what he had found.

"Several centuries, at least." Fey knelt on the stone floor, rubbing her finger against a soot smear.

"I've done chemical analysis on the sample. There's a heavy spike for trixavarium."

"Trixa-what?" The word was unfamiliar to her.

Max replied with a trace of smugness, "It's a black/dark brown dye originating from Mali, used primarily as a colorfast wood stain. Protective gear must be worn as it causes indelible marks on the user's skin. Only available in the last fifty-six years by common reckoning."

"That's strange. Cwen said he'd sent a sample to a laboratory and was waiting for results."

Max snorted. "If he did, they'd have been able to tell him it was post-Knut in about half a nano-second."

"Misdirection meant for... what?"

"Don't ask me, sugar lump. Motives aren't my thing."

"Go take a look at that grill," Fey ordered. "It seems to have been sliced open by a laser cutter. And tell me what you think about the wall."

"Do I have anything better to do?" Max quipped. He sent the mobile over to the shrine, examining it from every angle. "Laser cutter all right. A small hand-held as opposed to an industrial model. The kind of equipment you'd find in a hobby workshop or repair kit. The edges are clean, no hesitation, but careful to avoid damaging the article underneath. No genetic trace."

"Let's reconstruct the crime." Fey sat down on the floor. "The thief enters this room. He has his tools with him."

"Obviously," Max drawled.

"He goes to the shrine, pulls aside the curtain, and uses a laser cutter on the grill."

"Some kind of prying tool was employed to remove the banner from the wall."

"How was it mounted?"

Max stood up in order to emit a holographic image. A glow formed in the air just beyond the tips of her toes, resolving itself into a three-dimensional model. "The Battle Banner of King Knut," he said. "Actual size."

Fey studied the hologram. The banner was smaller than she'd imagined, less than a meter square. Crimson cloth with a black raven woven into the center, colors somewhat faded with the passage of time. Darker maroon patches showed where Knut's blood had soaked into it, all those centuries ago. Max rotated the image to show the backside. "Mounted on a thin piece of wood, which was in turn nailed to the wall behind the grill. The fastenings were pried out with a blunt tool."

"Why curtains?"

"Although this room has no windows, there are still light sources which damage antique fabrics," the AI explained. "Hence, curtains to shield the relic when it was not on public display."

"That makes sense."

"You bet your luscious patootie, O angel-cheeked wonder." The mobile when Fey aimed a swat at it. "Oooh, baby, I like it rough," he purred.

"I begin to understand why Amalthea wants to pull your logic circuits," she said, shaking her hairbells at him.

Max made a rude noise. "I'm a lover, not a fighter."

"At the moment, you're supposed to be a forensic scientist. Did you find anything else on your circuit of the room?" Fey glanced at the ceiling. The dome was almost hidden in shadows.

"Now that you mention it..." Max walked over to a section of wall on the east side. "There are minute amounts of fresh wood dust here." This was close to the place where they'd found the soot. "Also containing trivarium."

Fey got to her feet immediately and rushed to the spot, hairbells jangling wildly. She ran her fingertips along the wall. It was paneled in wooden planks to a height of three meters. The paneling had a black, almost greasy sheen. She could just make out seams, slightly darker than the surrounding material, where the planks were pegged together. An idea struck her. "Access all available data on the Primate's residence, the shrine in particular."

"Accessing complete."

Fey paused, wanting to frame her question properly. "Within the last sixty common years, have there been any incidents causing significant damage to the shrine? Fire, flood, vandalism?"

"There was a fire two years ago," Max said promptly. "A full account is contained in government records. The blaze was small, but it destroyed the entire east wall. Restoration was impossible, so that section was replaced to match existing architecture."

The priest straightened up and clasped her hands above her head in triumph. "Vashti, I give thanks for the clarity of Your flame," she breathed reverently.

Max put a splindly leg on her calf. "Mind clueing me in?" He sounded plaintive.

Fey's smile was blinding. "I know what happened to King Knut's Battle Banner. Now it falls to my kajalni to uncover the thief."

Max sat down in a huff. Although the mobile was incapable of facial expression, his body language was eloquently suggestive of pouting. "Are you going to keep me in suspense?" he wailed.

"You can figure it out yourself," Fey said. "I will give you one hint. A riddle." She grinned again, cheek scars disappearing. "What is the best place to hide something that you do not wish to be found?"

Max immediately set to checking and cross-checking references. A human would have found the task daunting, but he was a top-class AI. After an imperceptible delay, he played a triumphant trumpet solo through the mobile's speakers.

"Exactly." Fey winced. "And will you, by the Goddess, stop blaspheming in Muradeen! That was very rude."

The AI chuckled. "I know."

Fey rolled her eyes. "Put me through to Amalthea on live broadcast. And if you ever say anything like that again, I'll pay for a new personality program myself."

"Spoilsport."

"You have no idea."

Amalthea had begun her interviews with Primate Cwen, using an intelli-deck to make a holo-record of the proceedings. Judge-advocates dealt with both military and civilian legal matters; the banner's disappearance was a mixture of both. Although she had the right to conduct an immediate trial (if the responsible party was identified), Amalthea had already decided to transmit her report and recommendations to the Yggdrasilan High Court rather than exercise her privileges.

Cwen had very little to add to his original statement. Amalthea took him over the events step by step, patiently extracting what information she could. Sigona was next. The Volu radiated hostility, but answered questions in a clipped undertone. As she spoke, Sigona continually drew carved bone runes from a bag. At one point, she showed a rune to Amalthea.

"Thurisaz," she pronounced, tapping the small plaque with a fingernail. "Symbol of betrayal."

"It also stands for the destruction of powers that are hostile to order," Amalthea countered. "I won't tell you again, mem Heghaim. I'm not here to further my career, or advance my mother's fantasies."

Sigona shrugged. "What was it your assistant said? Speech is silver, deeds are gold."

"Then give me a chance to prove myself." Amalthea started when her jaw implant buzzed. "Please excuse me." She subvocalized a command to put the live call through, thinking it was Fey.

"Where are you?" Gerda's voice blared into the judge-advocate's ear. "Your Poppi is waiting to see you at home. So are all your sibs, their wives and husbands, Cousin Snorri, Cousin Ivar, Cousin Ethelreda, Uncle Ottar, Aunt Tity..."

Amalthea interrupted, "I'm working." She was getting seriously annoyed.

"Would you show so much disrespect for your clan? Even though you gave no notice, I've made a feast to welcome you back. Everyone's here... including Freyja Thanopax. Remember dear Freyja? You had quite a crush on her when you two were at university together," Gerda wheedled.

"Mooter, I already told you, I'll visit if and when my duties permit. Now don't disturb me on an official channel again." Amalthea remembered Frejya Thanopax. Vividly, in fact. The last thing she wanted was Gerda's ham-handed matchmaking attempts coming on top of an already stressful situation. "Give the family my apologies."

"What about Frejya? Such a lovely girl. Her blood's impeccable, a very suitable match. She's related to Queen Vanadis on the distaff side..."

Amalthea's last remaining nerve, stretched to the breaking point, finally snapped. "Gerda Astrid Rannsdottir Quint, terminate this line immediately. Do not contact me again. And get this through your fekkit thick skull - Fey and I are pledged. I am going to bond with her. You can either accept that, or lose a daughter forever. End it." The connection went dead, right in the middle of Gerda's outraged squawk.

Sigona was toying with another plaque. It was Ansuz, the rune of inspiration. Negatively, it meant manipulation by others, danger from malign influences. Amalthea snorted. "Too little warning too late," she said. "That was my mooter. Who has fangs out and hair on fire, trying to split me off from Fey."

"And?" The Volu's brows raised.

"I love Fey Lonyali, but if nothing else, I'm a woman of her word." Amalthea raised her hands. "I made a bond-oath. By Odin, I mean to keep it."

Sigona looked at her with a tinge of respect. "So there is honor in you after all."

To answer, Amalthea reached into the Volu's bag and drew out a rune, flipping the bone tablet over on the table. It was Raido, representing one who obtains justice by right means. She was surprised, but hid it behind a grim expression. "Do you trust the gods?"

"Yes." Sigona touched the rune. Her hazel eyes rose to meet Amalthea's gaze. "I am not too proud to admit a mistake, if one exists. Listen then, judge-advocate, and I will tell you all I know."

The tale was no more revealing than Cwen's, but revealed a hidden aspect. Sigona had done a rune casting the evening of the theft, receiving dire warning of an unknown threat. When the banner was stolen and ashes were found in the room, she'd thought King Knut's memorial had been burned.

"Cwen told me to send a sample of the ashes to Mount Wolfsang Royal College. Instead, I threw it away," Sigona admitted. "I believed the gods had given me the truth, and Cwen was blinded by fear. Our monastery is responsible for Knut's Banner, after all. My bondmate could not admit he'd lost such a sacred relic... but I'm not one who harbors false hopes."

"You wanted him to see that the only solution was to substitute a look-alike for the missing banner, before anyone noticed it was gone."

"Yes." Sigona inclined her head. The light in the room turned her silver-gold hair to purest platinum. "I believe in the gods, mem Quint. I'm also a practical person. I don't want my husband imprisoned or torn apart by angry mobs because a scrap of old linen went missing."

Amalthea leaned her elbows on the table between them, steepled her fingers together. "Did you taken Knut's Battle Banner?"

"No, I did not."

They stared levelly at each other for a moment. Finally, Amalthea leaned back. "I believe you. The question remains... who did?"

Before Sigona could answer, the other woman's implant buzzed for attention. Amalthea subvocalized angrily, "This had better be important."

"It is, kajalni."

"Fey! Have you found something?"

"Only the hiding place of the banner."

Amalthea stood up, a clenched fist thrust at the ceiling in jubilation. Her chair fell over with a crash. "Yes!" she cried aloud.

Sigona gasped. "Can it be?"

The butter-blonde shook her head for silence. "Where are you?" she subvocalized again.

"In the shrine. The banner never left it."

Amalthea chewed her bottom lip. "Are you sure? Do you have it in your hands?"

"Not as such, but I could get it. I thought you'd prefer to keep the knowledge to yourself... unless you've discovered the thief."

"Not yet. Tell me how it was hidden."

Fey quickly explained. When she finished, Amalthea felt her heart swelling with respect and admiration for her lover. First things first, however. "Send a data-flash to Queen Vanadis; copy it to Minister Nerton and Admiral Genjuso. Tell them that King Knut's Battle Banner is safe and at the Primacy's residence. I'll do a follow-up report later."

"As you command, thus do I obey."

"And by the way... I love you."

"My mind, body and soul are yours," Fey replied sweetly. "Now find that thief!"

"Yes, mem. End it." Amalthea turned back to Sigona, whose face was pasty white with shock. "Not a word to anyone, not even your bondmate Cwen," she said sternly.

The Volu nodded. Her indigo rune-tattooes seemed black in comparison to her ghostly complexion. "My casting was wrong," she said.

"No, it was correct to a point. Had we not found the banner, there would have been a disaster," Amalthea replied. "Now tell me, mem Heghaim... do you any skilled carpenters in the monastery?"

Sigona was puzzled by the question, but answered it promptly.

"Good." On impulse, Amalthea drew the chamois bag from between Sigona's hands and pulled out another rune plaque.

"Tyr," the Volu said. "Victory will be yours if you act wisely."

"Oh, I don't know about wisely," Amalthea said, "but I always act. There's no further need for questioning. Gather your brothers and sisters together in the shrine. It's time to unveil the past, as opposed to the future."

Still wondering at her meaning, Sigona glided away, the great gold Tree of Life around her neck jingling faintly.

Amalthea surveyed the group of monks. "As you all know, the Battle Banner of King Knut was stolen. Some believed it had been destroyed, and indeed, ashes were found that seem to confirm this."

There was a general muttering. The tall Yggdrasilan held up a hand, and Fey said loudly, "Order! Order!" Silence descended. Max's mobile unit crouched beside her, the barrel of a needle gun protruding from the top of its fat round body.

"This assumption was incorrect," Amalthea continued, "as subsequent analysis has confirmed."

Color drained from Cwen's face, then flooded back again strongly; the crimson hue clashed alarmingly with his ginger hair. "Thank Odin All-Father, Freya and Frigg!"

"Thank all the gods, but especially thank Vashti," Amalthea said.

"Who?" The chief priest frowned.

The Yggdrasilan woman put a hand on her partner's shoulder. "Vashti, the Illuminating Flame... a Tyvesh goddess of immense wisdom and penetrating insight. You were correct, Primate. The banner never left the residence. Indeed, it never left this room."

Sigona's fingers were locked around her bond-mate's upper arm. "How is that possible?"

"By a clever bit of misdirection." Amalthea walked over to the eastern wall. "What is the best place to hid something that you don't want to be found?" She made a fist and tapped a section of the wall. "The answer is... in plain sight."

Fey gave her a pry bar, taken from the residence's wood working shop. The taller woman shoved the blunt end into the seam between two panels, working it back and forth. The panel came loose from the wall with a loud crack. Amalthea carefully pulled it away and turned the meter length of wood over.

Cwen burst into tears. "The Battle Banner!"

"Yes." Amalthea could hardly contain her awe. The most sacred relic of her homeworld was there, cradled carefully in her hands. "King Knut's legacy, preserved by Bowswayer." Her face darkened. "Stolen by a person without morals or honor."

"I do not think the thief meant to cause an intergalactic disaster," Fey said. "He probably never considered the larger implications. Although this relic is priceless by Yggdrasilan standards, it would have a monetary value to specialist collectors."

"I'm sure that'll be considered at his trial," Amalthea remarked dryly. She gave the banner to Cwen, who clutched it to his chest protectively. "Here's how it was done. The thief - who has to be one of the monks, as no stranger could have entered at a late hour - came into the shrine. He took the banner from its place, knowing there was no conventional hiding place that would be overlooked in the subsequent search. Being a skilled carpenter, he carefully removed one panel from the eastern wall, which was damaged and replaced two years ago. He put the banner face-down in the hole and fastened it in, using trixavarium dye to stain the back to match the existing wall."

"So the banner vanishes." Fey picked up the thread, watching the monks' faces. "He burned the section he'd removed and left the ashes, hoping that would fool investigators into believing King Knut's relic was destroyed. At a later date, when the danger of discovery passed, he could simply take the banner from its hiding place and leave Yggdrasil."

Amalthea grimaced. "He cleaned up the evidence, but not well enough. Minute traces of wood dust and analysis of the ashes told the tale. Now we have only to learn the thief's identity."

Sigona was quivering with fury. She turned to the assembled monks, hazel eyes flashing fire. "Child of no father!" she spat. "Come forward and show yourself, nidhingr! Coward! How dare you put a sword over my bond-mate's head!"

"Oh, yes." Amalthea nodded. "That's another thing the thief never expected - the reaction of the populace when King Knut's banner went missing. Primate Cwen could have been charged with treason. Or lynched on his way to trial. Certainly, there would have been a long period of disorder and anarchy stretching across the Confederation. That isn't going to happen. So once again, as a judge-advocate, I enjoin the responsible party to admit their guilt and request clemency." She tilted her head to one side, waiting.

There was no response. The monks stared back at her, owl-eyed. "Very well," Amalthea sighed. "It happens that we can identity the guilty party. Trixavarium leaves indelible stains on clothing and skin. Everyone line up and show me your hands."

Fey walked up the line, peering at the offered hands. Suddenly, she pounced on a monk, and dug her claws into his shoulder when he struggled. "He is marked!" she called.

"Brother Rannir!" Cwen exclaimed. "There must be a mistake. He's been with us for two years..." His voice trailed off.

Sigona added, "He was one of the carpenters who helped replace the fire-damaged wall. Rannir said he was drawn to the monastic life and wished to join our order."

Fey marched the squealing Rannir closer to Amalthea. She poked him in the chest with a finger. "Why did you do it?"

"Hey, tell your foreigner to ease up," he bawled. "She's drawing blood!" Amalthea ignored him. She grabbed his flailing hands and examined them closely. There were a few black smears, already beginning to fade; she suspected he'd used a chemical cleanser but couldn't eradicate the stains entirely.

"I want a skin sample," she said to the waiting mobile. "Max, analyze it for trixavarium trace." Althougth Rannir struggled, Fey held him firmly so the AI could take a scraping. After a moment, Max said, "Trixavarium detected."

"Why?" Sigona demanded. "Why betray our trust? Why betray your own heritage?"

Rannir said sullenly, "I needed the money. The Primate... he could've just replaced it like you said. Nobody would've known the difference."

"Are you sure you're Yggdrasilan?" Amalthea asked in disbelief. "The Battle Banner of King Knut is sacred."

"What do you take me for?" Rannir looked at his fellow monks until his eyes reached Cwen's, then he flinched. "The banner would never have left the planet. There's a man in Thorshavn..."

"And you will give us his name, I'm sure," a voice said from the doorway. Everyone turned, and immediately got down on one knee - including Fey, whose diplomatic training left her well equipped to deal with royalty. Queen Vanadis, ruler of Yggdrasil, surveyed them with her stony gray eyes, her hair a river of liquid fire pouring down her back. She was flanked by a squad of royal guards.

Amalthea was the first to rise. "Your Majesty."

"Judge-Advocate Quint." Vanadis walked into the room. She was tall, even for an Yggdrasilan, and topped Amalthea by a full head. "I trust you have recovered our kinsman's banner."

"I have." Amalthea motioned to Cwen, who got up and showed the banner to the queen.

She glanced at it and said, "Excellent work." Vanadis' expression was perfectly blank as she turned back to the blonde woman. "What do you intend to do, mem Quint? It is your right to conduct a trial."

"I waive that right," Amalthea replied. She, too, had a neutral expression. "I believe it's best that ser Rannir be tried by the Yggdrasilan High Court. This has ceased to be a Confederation matter."

"I'm glad we're of a similar mind in that respect." Vanadis suddenly smiled. "Now that the banner has been found, a closed trial will be handled internally and discreetly. It's unnecessary for the news to be generally broadcast and create a panic. So I trust we will all keep this affair to ourselves?" She swept the room with an iron gaze. No one was inclined to argue, except Fey.

"With all due respect," the Tyvesh priest said, "how are you going to ensure a fair trial for ser Rannir if the details are kept secret?"

Vanadis raised her brows. "If he cooperates by supplying us with the name of his buyer, the court will offer him a palatable deal. The same applies to the man he mentioned in Thorshavn. If he does not... well, I'll crack that egg when I get to it. If you're still unsure that justice is being done, I invite you to be an official Confederation observer. Will that satisfy?"

Fey nodded, hairbells chiming. "Your offer is proof enough. I have no further objections."

Amalthea hastened to introduce her partner to the queen. "This is Fey Lonyali, a First of Fist, my pledged bond-mate and assistant. She discovered the banner's hiding place."

"You should be proud of such a mate," Vanadis replied while Amalthea blushed. "Wit, intelligence, beauty, courage... all the attributes one desires in a life partner." She momentarily turned her back to the pair while issuing instructions to her guards for Rannir's arrest, then gave them her attention once more. "Now, I wish to reward you both... as a token of gratitude, not a bribe," she said, quirking her lips in a smile.

The Tyvesh priest grinned in return. Max piped up, "Hey, what about me?" and received a knuckle rap from Fey.

Amalthea clenched her teeth together, fighting the urge to drop-kick the mobile into orbit. Suddenly, she was struck by a brilliant idea and forgot her ire altogether. "Your Majesty, there is something you can do for me, if it isn't too much trouble."

"Ask."

"Well..." She explained the situation, and the queen frowned.

"That's all?" Vanadis asked. "Nothing else?"

"Yes, Your Majesty." Amalthea waited for a reply.

Vanadis considered. At last, she said, "If it means so much to you, mem Quint, I would be happy to comply."

"You have no idea."

Fey had to cover her mouth with both hands to stifle an attack of giggles.

Sigona muttered in satisfaction, "It's nothing less than she deserves."

Amalthea couldn't agree more. And for once, Max had nothing to say.

Gerda Quint snapped at her bond-mate, "Orm, I wish you'd call your daughter and demand an apology for the way she's treated me."

Orm Quint, a big-boned, sandy-haired man, sighed in his beard. "She's a judge-advocate on business, not vacation. You shouldn't push her so much."

"She is blood of my blood," Gerda insisted. "I carried her for nine months in my own body, when I could have used an incubation womb. But no, I have old-fashioned values. I didn't get a nanny 'bot. I fed her, bathed her, clothed her..."

Drove her fekkit crazy, Orm added silently. His other two daughters were meek creatures, happy to dance attendence on their mother and obey her every whim. Amalthea was a rebel from the start. Orm was fond of his youngest child, but he knew there was more of Gerda than himself in the girl's personality. Probably why they clash like sword and ax all the time, he thought.

"Are you listening to me?" Gerda put her hands on her hips. "Why is she so difficult? There's nothing wrong with Freyja Thanopax. She'd make a perfectly acceptable mate. Why align herself with a foreigner, an off-world barbarian priest with Odin-knows what kind of heathenish ideas and standards. Hah! It will all come to grief. Mark my words, Amalthea will drown  in tears and it'll be no one's fault but her own."

Orm hunched his shoulders and toyed with a horn of ale. "Amalthea is different from our other children. She has to make her own way." That was as far as his defiance went.

"You've always favored her above the rest. By the gods, it was you who spoiled her, indulged her until 'Althea doesn't know her duty to family and clan," Gerda sniffed. "Look at the way she's embarrassed me! I go to the trouble of preparing a welcome feast, even after her behavior at the spaceport. I summon her relatives. And she has the audacity to insult and disconnect me! Is this gratitude? Is this the way she's been taught to follow? What will the ladies at the Blood Hag Social Club think of me?"

Before Orm could think of a reply, the doorchime rang. Gerda threw her hands into the air. "Now what?" She stomped off, muttering.

A few seconds later, a shriek made Orm vault from his chair and race into the entrance hall. He'd been a warrior in his day, and automatically noted the position of every spear, sword and ax that hung upon the walls. To his shock, Queen Vanadis was on the doorstep, looking bemused.

Gerda's face had gone crimson. She gobbled something incoherently, shaking from head to toe. Orm instinctively straightened his tunic, smoothed hair and beard, and stepped to his bond-mate's side. "Welcome to your longhouse, Your Majesty," he said. "How may we serve you?"

"May we come in?" Vanadis asked. She was perched on a ceremonial shield, held aloft by two beefy guards in full panoply of glittering armor, winged helmets and braided mustaches. The queen wore a glorious gown and breastplate, fiery hair in twin braids wound with jeweled threads. The diamond-studded crown of Yggdrasil, massive and golden, rose from her head like a turreted city wall.

Orm moved aside, realized that Gerda was frozen to the spot, and gently pulled her away from the door. "Please do."

By this time, the other relatives had come from various rooms to see what the commotion was about. Upon catching sight of their queen, all the cousins, aunts, uncles, siblings and relations gasped. Amalthea and Fey were right behind Vanadis, with a mobile unit skittering on their heels. It took a moment before anyone realized they were there.

The bearers carefully lowered the shield until Vanadis could step off. "Do I have the honor of addressing the Quint family?" she asked politely.

Prompted by Orm's elbow, a speechless Gerda nodded. Amalthea winked at her father, who nearly choked trying to swallow a laugh. He was as quick-witted as his offspring, and immediately guessed what was up.

"Your Majesty, may I present my mooter, Gerda Astrid Rannsdottir Quint, and my poppi, Orm Quint." Amalthea went through the list of present relatives. One by one, the awe-stricken family came to bow before Queen Vanadis.

When she was through, Vanadis nodded at Gerda. "You are the most fortunate woman on Yggdrasil," she said, reaching out a hand to draw Fey closer to her side. "Mem Lonyali is a paragon, a treasure beyond price. Today, she and your own daughter solved a problem of immense political importance to our world. I envy you, mem Quint."

"You do?" The color in Gerda's cheeks was fading back to normal.

"Yes." Vanadis lowered her voice. "By Odin, I wish I had an un-pledged daughter to offer. Such an alliance would bring untold prestige to my house. You do know that mem Lonyali's family are of the ruling class?" It wasn't a lie, as such. Fey's mother Xan was a First of Wisdom, and therefore possessed a responsible position in Tyvesh government.

Gerda didn't know anything about Tyvesh, but the words 'ruling class' made a huge impression. "Is that so?" She looked at Fey with new eyes. "My daughter never mentioned it."

"Ah, she's being modest." Vanadis had been coached, but she had a good instinct for melodrama. "Nevetheless, we all owe mem Lonyali a debt of gratitude, myself more than any other. Why, without her intervention, the consequences could have been devastating beyond all recovery... but you understand, I cannot speak further on this. Planetary security, of course."

"Of course."

Vanadis produced a gaudy gem-crusted bauble, which she pinned on Fey's tunic front. "Please accept this small token of our affection and thankfulness. You are a hero of the nation, and I'm proud to call you friend."

Fey bowed in acknowledgement. Amalthea also got a medal, to join the others on her uniform. She also received a royal accolade - a kiss on each cheek. While they were formally embracing, Vanadis bent her head to hiss in Amalthea's ear, "Have I laid it on thickly enough?"

Amalthea whispered back: "Yes. Thank you."

"It was worth it, if only to see the strangled-frog expression on your mooter's face." Vanadis released her, turning back to Gerda. "Cherish your daughter and daughter-in-law, mem Quint. They are a credit to your clan."

"I will, Your Majesty." Gerda made a fluttering curtsey.

At a signal, the guards lowered the shield so Vanadis could mount it once more. "Farewell, good people!" she called, waving. They exited, the sun striking sparkling highlights from the queen's hair and jewels. When they had gone, Orm slowly closed the door.

Gerda glanced triumphantly at the gathered relatives, and said to Orm, "I told you that mem Lonyali was something special, didn't I?"

Orm chewed on his beard and choked again. He was turning an alarming shade of magenta.

"'Althea, my child... doing service for the Queen herself! Why didn't you tell me?" Gerda whirled around and clasped her hands beneath her chin. "Oh, the Queen in my own household! Who could have imagined it! The honor, the prestige... none of the other Social ladies can boast that Vanadis visited them personally! She was so gracious. Oh, Orm! Why didn't you get the holo-recorder?"

"I take it there are no further objections to my mate-bond with Fey?" Amalthea asked, going over to pound her father on his back before he collapsed.

"When did I ever object?" Gerda scowled. "Foolish girl! Anyone with sense could tell that mem Lonyali is the perfect partner for you! She's a credit to our clan." She suddenly smiled brilliantly. "We'll have a huge ceremony, of course. And we'll invite Queen Vanadis, and her consort, and the rest of the court. By Odin, it'll be the event of the year!"

"Oh, gods... can I open my veins yet?" Amalthea muttered. Now recovered, Orm patted his daughter's shoulder. "Your mooter's got the bit between her teeth, youngling. I suggest you hang on and endure the ride."

She  kissed her father affectionately. Fey came over to whisper, "That's two ceremonies we'll have to endure. Are you sure you don't want to elope?" There was a mischievous twinkle in her lime-green eyes.

Amalthea enveloped her lover in an embrace. "Valkyrie-sweet, you have no idea."

Fey's laugh was smothered, but clear enough to lift Amalthea's heart.

"Hellooooo," Max called, sending the mobile skittering towards them. "Group hug! I wanna kiss the bride. Gimme some sugar, sweetie pie!"

Amalthea sighed, bent over, scooped up the unit and bussed it vigorously on one of its sensors.

Max waved his skinny legs feebly. "I meant the other bride..." Spitting, spluttering noises came from his throat speaker.

"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." Amalthea winked at Fey, who dissolved into giggles.

Life was good. No matter what the future held, they would face it together... and that was all that mattered.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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Azumaya: The Eastern House
by Nene Adams © 2001 - All rights reserved

PROLOGUE - Moon Rises, Cold Wind Chills

Mame de iyo                         Farewell... 
Mi wa narawashi no               I pass as all things do 
Kusa no suyu.                        Dew on the grass. 
                        -----Banzan

Nagatskui, Month of Long Days Turning (September)
Katsura-no-miyo, the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees
In Azumaya, the Eastern House
3 a.m., the second Hour of the Ox

Lord Genji Kanemori, fifth son of the Genji clan and a favored courtier of the Son of Heaven, lurched down the deserted corridor, singing loudly through his nose, punctuating his song with occasional sour wine belches. The tall gauze cap on his head was askew; he had discarded the various layers of robes he usually wore and his light silk underkimono gaped open, showing a bony, hairless chest. The wide, stiffly starched legs of his brocade hakama trousers rubbed together, making a sound like a striated cricket's call. 

He staggered, nearly falling through a paper screened shoji door, and cried a good-natured, drunken apology although he knew the room was unoccupied. "Gomen nasai!" he called with a giggle. "Forgive me, ghosts! Too much sake!"

This wing of the palace had not been lived in for decades, although servants still kept the dust and spiders at bay. Lord Kanemori wasn't sure how he'd ended up here; the last coherent thing he remembered had been a drinking game with some lovely peach-bottom boys in his private chambers. The lord's jade pestle throbbed when he recalled the luscious Kitten, all smooth white skin and flashing dark eyes and the soft, jiggling velvet surprises that lay beneath the boy's elaborate kimono. 

Perhaps Kitten had enticed him into a game of Catch-the-Fan. Yes, that was it! He had come seeking Kitten, who was probably hiding in one of these very rooms, waiting to be found and smothering his giggles behind a thin elegant hand. It was the Hour of the Ox; most of the palace courtiers had long since sought their beds and even the guards were nodding over late night sake. A perfect time to play without interruption. 

Lord Kanemori straightened up with a jerk, tugging at the waistband of his hakama. The tall gauze cap fell off his head and he kicked it out of his way, foot booming on the wooden floor, the dull sound echoing down the hallway. Beads of sweat cascaded down his forehead, making his eyes sting, and he thrust out his lower lip in a petulant pout. He would find Kitten and when he did, he'd use that peach bottom until the boy couldn't sit down for a week! 

The drunken lord staggered a few more steps and stopped. A whisper of cold breeze wafted down the dark corridor, curled around his neck and made him blink. "Kitten?"

There was no answer. Lord Kanemori belched again loudly and yelled, "Mou! Enough of this foolishness! Come out now, I command you!" 

Again, there was nothing but silence... and abruptly, the lord's skin prickled, making the hairs on his arms stand on end. The freezing wind whispered down the hallway, caressing his face, fluttering the hem of his kimono. He turned around. "Who is there?" he murmured, suddenly fearful and not knowing the reason why. "What do you want?" 

A blue-white light blossomed ahead of him. He squinted, blinded by the glare, and shielded his eyes with a hand. "What do you want?!" he shrieked. Fear made his bowels turn to water but he was frozen in place, unable to run. His hand scrabbled at his side but he'd left his daisho, the two swords of his rank, back in his chambers. 

The light grew in strength until it illuminated the entire corridor in ripples of azure and white; the wind blew harder and just at the edge of his hearing, the lord detected a whispery voice. "Onaka ga suita," it moaned.

I hunger.

Lord Kanemori was suddenly released from paralysis. He whipped around and began to run, the split-toed tabi socks on his feet making him slide on the smoothly polished floor. 

"Onaka ga suita..." 

His mouth gaped open wide and he sucked in air with desperate gasps as he slipped and slid, trying to run, nearly falling and catching himself upright again. The corridor stretched out impossibly long in front of him. Shoji doors began to rattle violently in their tracks. 

"Yamero!" the lord whimpered. "Stop this, please!" 

The brilliant ball of light behind him began to coruscate, pulsing in time to the frantic beating of his heart. The chill wind freshened, grew colder still, and the sweat on his face began to freeze. Lord Kanemori screamed thinly and cried, "I beg you! Let me go!" 

"Onaka ga suita..." 

Lengths of wide white silk suddenly shot out of the light and wrapped themselves around his legs, making him fall heavily to the floor. The breath was knocked out of him and the lord's fingers scratched frantically, seeking purchase on the wooden floor. Ice frosted his eyebrows, the stubble of his beard, mingled with the thin strands of black hair fallen from his topknot. "Please..." 

The silk wound around his legs from toes to thighs with a whispering sound. Something gave the silk a jerk, as if testing the firmness of his prison, then Lord Kanemori was hurtling backwards, splinters gouging his cheeks as his head bumped violently along the floor. He screamed again, arms windmilling, eyes nearly bulging from their sockets... 

And disappeared into the light. 

The corridor was silent once again; the brilliant light bobbed up and down slowly and its pulsing beat slowed as well. After a time, a dark line appeared, running down the center from bottom to top, and the ball split in half. Something fell with a rattling thud to the floorboards and the light winked out like a blown candleflame. 

Time passed. 

At last, a shoji door slid open and a pretty boy peered out of the room he'd been hiding in, rubbing sleep from his eyes with a knuckle. "My lord?" Kitten called. "Gomen nasai... I fell asleep. Too much wine, I think." 

There was no answer. 

"My lord? Are you there?" 

Still nothing. Kitten got up from his knees, swaying a little from side to side. The hem of his kimono was quite tight and he could only take tiny, mincing steps. He finally stepped up into the corridor and looked from left to right. 

Something was on the floor at one end of the hallway. Kitten squinted; the heavy lead makeup and rouge on his face had smeared, giving him the look of a melted china doll. "Kanemori-sama?" 

Kitten moved closer to the object, each step clattering on the floor; he'd forgotten to remove the high wooden platforms he wore and the geta clogs scraped up curls of dark varnish from the boards. Another moment and he hovered over the object. "Kanemori-sama? Did you fall asleep, too?" 

The boy bent his knees and leaned over, his balance precarious. A long sleeve of his robe brushed the huddled heap and came away wet. 

Whimpering now, Kitten struggled to make his eyes focus on the shattered thing. Abruptly, everything came into focus and he began to scream hysterically. 

Lord Kanemori's sightless eyes leered up at him from the broken ruin of his face. His limbs were twisted into limp knots and his torso gaped open, showing loops of intestine and white, jagged lumps of bone protruding from the oddly bloodless wound. In fact, except for a few broad spots of blood that slicked his bluish skin, all the vital fluids had been drained from the proud Genji lord. 

Kitten screamed again and again and again... 

Until the palace bushi, roused by the commotion, came rushing in with torches and swords to discover the latest victim drained of life and soul by the hungry ghost of the Eastern House.

CHAPTER ONE - Laughter in Hell

Nora ni saku                         Flowers of the grass 
Na wa kore made zo             Scarcely shown, and withered 
Kusa no hana.                       Name and all. 
                           -----Asei

In the Bathhouse of the Rushing Carp, Heian-kyo
Noon, the first Hour of the Horse

Ichijo Ayumi, samurai and retainer to the wealthy daimyo Inokuma Yorimachi, settled herself down on the low wooden stool in the Rushing Koi bathhouse. She had just returned to the capital of Heian-Kyo after spending a month chasing bandits in the daimyo's Issan province and her ragged, dusty appearance was proof of her exhausting labors. 

Five pretty maids, called bathhouse-hell-women, giggled behind their sleeves and rolled big cow eyes as they stripped the filthy samurai of her single kimono and hakama, both items so dirty and tattered that one of the girls made a show of holding her nose and carrying them away on the end of a stick. A brand new set of kimono, hakama and a short haori jacket had been laid over a bamboo frame in another part of the room; a brass incense pot smoked beneath, impregnating the cloth with the subtle scent of sandalwood. 

"Ma!" cried one of the girls named Yumiko, peering at Ayumi's naked body and affecting astonishment. "So big, so strong! I feel faint! But where's your honorable flagpole, eh? Did the bandits steal it?" She made a show of searching for the missing male organ, ducking her head between Ayumi's thighs and squinting, tongue caught between her teeth. 

The other girls collapsed with shrieks of laughter. 

"I keep it in my saddlebags," Ayumi replied with a good natured grin, gently pushing Yumiko away, "to protect my peerless parts from devouring nighthawks like you!" 

More peals of laughter erupted at this sally. The infamous yotaka, or nighthawks, were the lowest class of prostitute who solicited their customers at night under the shadow of a bridge, avoiding the moonlight that would illuminate their wrinkles, missing teeth and sagging skin. 

Exchanging jokes and banter, the girls brought bucket after bucket of steaming water and poured it over Ayumi's head. Tying back the long sleeves of their black and white checked kimonos with thin cords, they scrubbed the woman's body with bags filled with rice bran and soap while Yumiko shampooed her short cropped black hair. 

One of the few female samurai who followed bushido, the Way of the Warrior, Ayumi was in excellent shape. Smoothly rounded muscle bulged beneath the skin of her arms, shoulders, back and thighs. Her breasts were small and firm, her belly flat, legs bandy from a lifetime of horse riding. Old silver scars marred her flesh, particularly on her arms and torso. The cheekbones of her face were high and prominent, nose slightly crooked from numerous breaks; dark eyes set a shade too far apart for the current fashion. Still, she was young, strong, had all her teeth and was more than handsome enough for the present company. 

The scrubbing complete, the bathhouse women poured more hot water over Ayumi's head, rinsing away soap, dirt and dried sweat. A young girl named Peach brought a small curved knife and began paring the samurai's finger and toenails while the others trimmed Ayumi's hair with iron shears, used a pumice stone on the thick calluses of her palms and soles of her feet, and scurried to bring clay pipes, tobacco and hot sake. 

At last, the samurai allowed herself to be led to the big wooden tub of clean water; a wood fire beneath ensured that the water would remain at near simmering temperature. Ayumi lowered herself into the tub, sucking in her breath at the heat. Within a few moments, her skin began to turn scarlet and she relaxed, leaning her head against the wooden edge, stretching out her legs and resting her arms on the sides of the tub. 

Peach poured a dish of sake and handed it to the soaking woman with both hands. "I hear the kusojiji-sama has returned to the palace," she said lightly, pursing her crimson-painted lips. 

Ayumi nearly choked on a mouthful of sake. "Lord Old Fart" was the vulgar nickname of Fujiwara Saneyoshi, the Kanpuko or Senior Regent who ran the kingdom in the name of the child Emperor. "Best not even to whisper such a thing," she cautioned the bathhouse girl. "Do you want to be imprisoned for treason?" 

Peach blanched. "Gomen nasai!" she said several times, bowing rapidly. "Please forgive this miserable worm, Your Honor! I meant no harm..." 

"Mou... I will hear no more. In fact, I have heard nothing at all. Wakarimasu ka?" 

"Hai! Wakarimashita!" Peach bowed once more to signify her understanding and began to fan herself so hard that wisps of hair fluttered around her round face. It had been a narrow escape; Ayumi would have been well within her rights to arrest the girl for daring to mock the powerful Regent. There was a saying in Heian-kyo - Speak in a well today, hear in the street tomorrow. There were no secrets in the nation's capital and even a pretty bathhouse girl could lose her life if she offended the wrong person. 

Ayumi relaxed again and held out her dish for more sake. "Leaving old farts with the nightsoil  - which is where they belong - what other news of the palace?" 

Manami, a narrow-faced teenager missing a front tooth, took a puff from her pipe. "The Lady Hojo Masako has been divorced from her husband. It is said she was having an affair with a gardener who was really an oni in disguise." 

Another girl, Dragonfly, nodded sagely. "We talked of nothing else for days!" She clapped her hands together excitedly; the neck of her kimono slipped, showing an indecently wide swath of white shoulder, but Dragonfly didn't notice. 

She continued in a breathless rush, "They said Masako-sama was possessed. When she and the oni were separated and the devil banished back to Hell, the lady wailed and cried pitifully for her demon lover. The whole palace was kept awake by Masako-sama groaning for the return of the oni's jade pestle; she said her yoni was on fire for it! The Dowager Empress was so fearful of bad luck that she had priests reciting sutras and burning incense for days!" 

Just then, the owner of the bathhouse - a tall, solid, coarse-looking woman named Blue Carp - entered the room. "Dragonfly, we're not running a flowerhouse and you're not a third grade courtesan!" she admonished the girl. "Cover up before someone starts negotiating prices!" 

Dragonfly hitched at the neck of her kimono and adjusted it properly, a blush creeping across her full cheeks. 

Blue Carp wasn't finished. The towel tied around her head to keep back a shock of wild black hair was askew over one eyebrow, giving her a slightly sinister air. She pointed with the pipe in her hand. "Peach, Yumiko, Dragonfly, Manumi, Yodo - we have other customers waiting." 

Chastened, the five bathhouse girls bowed deeply to Ayumi, then to their mistress, and scuttled out of the room in a group, smoothing their hair and casting longing glances over their shoulders at the samurai woman. 

Carp puffed quietly on her pipe for a few moments. "More sake, my friend?" she inquired politely. 

Ayumi declined. "Iye. I have an appointment later and my lord does not like his retainers to become drunk." 

The coarse woman raised her visible eyebrow and scowled. "Hah! That miserable turtle-head master of yours would rather drink from a wine-sot's pisspot than pay for a gou of decent sake! He pinches every mou until it's thin as rice paper. I know for a fact you haven't seen one koku of your salary since the last Peach Festival." 

"Damare, Carp!" Ayumi chided affectionately. "Hush! Yorimachi-sama is not a miser; he is merely careful with the wealth Buddha has seen fit to bestow. I cannot let you ill-say my lord and besides, I have heard so much heresy spoken in your house today that my head reels!" 

"Iye! That's my perfume you smell, not imminent arrest." Carp squeezed her narrow eyes nearly shut and abandoned her pipe on a nearby table. 

"Oh? I thought it was the scent of your heavenly-fragrant jade gate that was making me dizzy." The samurai hunkered further down in the steaming water and closed her eyes. She often patronized the Rushing Koi bathhouse when she was in Heian-kyo; she and the owner had carried on a teasing, flirtatious, totally non-serious relationship for years. In truth, both women silently acknowledged that there could never be anything at all between them, but each was willing to play her role for the sake of friendship and the joy of the game. 

Changing the subject, Ayumi continued, "So, what news of the Son of Heaven's court? Has much happened while I was away?" 

"Nothing." Blue Carp shrugged. "Not much gossip out of the palace these days... unless you count the murders." 

Ayumi sat up with a splash. "Who has been murdered? When? Why?" 

With another chuckle, the bathhouse owner drew closer and took a seat on a stool near the tub. "As I said, no details have come from the palace, which is unusual enough - all people know that the noble monkey-samas don't squat on a pot without the entire city listening to the music of their divine farts. The only thing that is known for sure is that three high-ranking lords have joined Merciful Buddha within the past three weeks, probably at the hands of assassins." 

"Were ninja clans involved?" 

Another shrug. "Again, unknown. Could be poison, I suppose. Or maybe they all died from poetic excess!" Carp's tone was full of scorn; as a working member of the peasant class, she resented the nobility who lived their lives according to complex ritual, valuing elegance and refinement above all else. 

The coarse woman sighed and tied back the wide sleeves of her checked kimono. "But enough of the woes of the wealthy, my friend. Shall I send for tea? Or a meal?" 

Ayumi stood up, water cascading in a sheet down her body. "Iye! No, thank you," she replied ruefully, stepping out of the tub. "I feel too much like a steamed dumpling myself." 

Blue Carp eyed the samurai's wet, nude body appreciatively. From the base of her throat to her toes, the woman's skin was tinged scarlet from the heat. "You do look good enough to eat." 

"Ma! You're as bold as your hell-women!" Ayumi exclaimed with a laugh. "Another time, Carp. Your offer is tempting but I must report to my lord too soon. I'd hate to leave you unsatisfied." 

Both women bowed in acknowledgment of a well-played round of their favorite game. 

After toweling the samurai dry with a rough cloth, Blue Carp led her into the other room. While Ayumi stood still, arms extended from her body, the bathhouse owner applied a thin layer of rice powder over her skin, then took a rectangular length of cotton and tied it in a flat knot around her waist. Another width was drawn up between her legs and the ends tucked under the waistband to form a loincloth. Afterward, Blue Carp drew a simple cotton kosode over Ayumi's head. 

Leaving Ayumi clad only in the light underkimono, Carp brushed her cropped hair, anointing it with camellia oil. She pulled most of the locks to the crown of the samurai's head and secured the base with a flat paper ribbon; when released, the hair sprang out in a boy's jaunty tea-whisk style. Two long, smooth locks were allowed to frame the woman's face on either side. 

Satisfied with these preparations, the bathhouse owner began dressing the samurai in her other clothing - a pair of starched ochre-dyed hakama; a plain, unadorned silk kimono in a bright orange color; and over that a more formal robe with wide sleeves in a deep crimson patterned with big white fans. A brown, tasseled silk cord was wound around her hips six times and knotted in a butterfly bow in the front; this nagoya obi would keep the kimonos decently closed. 

Finally, Carp pulled the short, padded haori coat over Ayumi's kimono and spent a few minutes adjusting the fit. The haori was brown and printed all over with a pattern of small red and orange leaves, very appropriate to the autumn season. "Do you wish full court make-up?" Blue Carp asked. "I have a jar of white lead around here somewhere..." 

"No, thank you. I will not see the Son of Heaven today and my lord is a man who appreciates plainness, especially in his retainers." 

Blue Carp sighed and rolled her eyes at the perfidy of the noble class. 

After the bathhouse owner drew clean, white tabi socks over Ayumi's feet, she stood back and admired her handiwork. "Ma! By Buddha, the handsomest samurai in the land!" 

Ayumi tugged on the knot of her obi to make sure it was secure. "Domo arigato," she said, bowing her head in thanks. "I feel like a new woman." 

Blue Carp gave her a saucy grin. "You could feel a new woman," she said, waggling her hips. "Just reach out your hand, O Mountain of Love, and give this a squeeze!" She smacked her thigh and grinned wider. 

Ayumi slapped the proffered flesh medium-hard, making Carp jump. "Again, my thanks. If matters were not so urgent, I would not be able to resist such a ravishing beauty as yourself." 

"Oh, ravish me! Ravish me!" the coarse woman exclaimed, rolling her eyes and sticking out her tongue in imitation of an actor in a popular melodramatic play. "Or is it radish? Help! I'm being ravished by a radish!" 

Retrieving her two swords from the rack, Ayumi laughed. "Now I am reminded of why I love you so dearly, Carp. No other woman in Wa has a dirtier mind or a filthier mouth!" She thrust the swords - one long, one short - through her obi. 

Blue Carp smirked. "That's why you keep coming back for more." 

Ayumi tossed the bathhouse owner a paper packet, the ends twisted into flower petal shapes. Carp caught it in mid-air and expertly estimated the contents with her thumb. At least three silver mon, more than twice the usual cost of a bath. 

"Domo arigato gozaimasu. Generous as always, with everything except your love," Carp said with a deep bow, sliding back the paper screened shoji-door so the samurai could pass. 

"Shigata ga nai," Ayumi replied, allowing Blue Carp to escort her down the hall to the bathhouse's threshold. "It can't be helped. My sleeve has yet to touch another's and unmei cannot be avoided." 

"Don't speak to me of fate," Carp said with a grimace. "I have enough trouble as it is." 

Reaching the threshold, the coarse woman stood to one side and bowed again deeply, giving the traditional call, "Itterasshai!" which meant, "Go and come back again!" 

To which Ayumi replied with the equally traditional, "Ittekimasu!" - I will go and return. 

Blue Carp touched the samurai's shoulder. "Be careful, my friend," she said, a worried frown on her flat face. "These days, the palace seethes like a pool of iron-jawed pike at feeding time." 

Ayumi traced a fingertip across the woman's jaw. "Thank you." Stepping into her straw zori sandals, the samurai left the bathhouse, one hand on the hilt of her sword, back straight, striding across the bustling street with the typical, bow-legged warrior's gait. 

The bathhouse owner watched her go and hoped that the gods would be kind enough to lay their protection over the strong, handsome and oh, so desirable Ayumi-san... especially in the man-eating, treacherous, three-sided court of the child Emperor Kaika, his ambitious mother Lady Hisane, and the ruthless Kanpuko, Fujiwara Saneyoshi.

CHAPTER TWO - Stone Falls, Water Ripples

Tsuchi kane ya            Earth and metal...
Iki wa taete mo           Although my breathing ceases,
Tsukihi ari.                  Time and tide go on.
                -----Atsujin

Katsura-no-miyo, the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees
In the Hall of Plum Blossoms
1 p.m., the 2nd Hour of the Horse

The lady Fujiwara no Kimiko, widely acknowledged as one of the most beautiful, talented, intelligent and elegant young ladies at the Imperial Court, knelt before the mirror of her dressing table and stared at the boxes, jars, vials and brushes that comprised a noblewoman's beauty. 

They have hearts as false as their faces, Kimiko thought pensively. These noble ladies pretend to be loving sisters but all the while they wait in glee for a single misstep that will bring one of their rank crashing down. Just like poor Masako-san...

Her maid, a cheerful, moon-faced, middle-aged woman named Izumi, chattered as she lightly dressed her mistress' long black hair with scented camellia oil. "I hear Yorimachi-sama has summoned a certain samurai back from Issan Province," she said slyly. "This person is to appear in the lord's private audience chamber at the Hour of the Sheep. Perhaps one can catch a glimpse of this wondrous warrior if one were to take a turn around the Hall of Golden Finches about that time." 

Kimiko blushed slightly and cast her gaze downward, thoughts suddenly a-whirl. "Oh?" Despite her effort at casualness, her voice trembled a little. "Who is this samurai you speak of?" 

Izumi rolled her eyes. "Ma! Who has my lady been mooning after for the past month? Have you forgotten the warrior's name already?" 

The young lady raised her face and met Izumi's glance in the mirror. "Can it be? Has she truly returned?" 

The maid didn't answer immediately; instead, she thrust a stick of paulownia wood into a nearby charcoal brazier. As soon as it caught fire, she retrieved it and blew out the flame. Allowing the stick to cool off a little, Izumi used the charred end to smudge false, dark gray eyebrows high on Kimiko's forehead; the girl's real eyebrows had been shaved off according to custom. Next, a heavy layer of rice powder on face, throat and hands, to give a fashionable pallor to the skin, followed by crimson rouge painted on the lips in a petite bow shape. 

As she worked, Izumi said, "I heard the Number One Cook's third assistant, whose cousin is married to the undergroom's sister, talking about it this morning when I went to fetch your tea. Ayumi-san arrived in the city this morning and will be in the palace in a few hours." 

Kimiko sighed and quoted, "Oh, the foot drawn trail of the mountain pheasant's tail, drooped like a down-curved branch! Through this long, long-dragging night, must I lie in bed alone?" 

The moon-faced maid giggled, drawing a brush through Kimiko's hair and sniffing the delightful citrus fragrance that rose from the smooth dark locks. "If you wish to invite Ayumi-san to an assignation, your reputation will be safe as long as I remain to chaperone. And you know I am blind, deaf and dumb at your command." 

The lady was silent, thinking furiously while Izumi gathered her hair in one hand and wrapped a paper ribbon around it, about two-thirds down the length, allowing the long end to hang in a loose, bone-straight mass that coiled gracefully on the tatami-mat covered floor. Following this, the plump maid moistened some lampblack with water and used a tiny brush to draw a line at the base of the girl's upper lashes, extending it beyond the fold at the outer corner of her eyelid to give her the swallow's eyes so admired by the nobility. 

Finally, Kimiko turned to Izumi. "I have decided to walk in the Hall of the Golden Finches at the Hour of the Sheep," she ordered. "Fetch my finest junihitoe. Oh! and order some umeboshi from the kitchen." 

"Does the noble lady wish to upset her digestion?" Izumi wrinkled her nose and bustled across the room to fetch the girl's formal court robes. "Does she not remember the last time she ate salted dried plums and groaned with stomach devils for a week?" 

"They aren't for me." Kimiko blushed. "She likes them. I heard Lady Tokimune say so." 

The truth was that the girl had yet to really meet Ayumi or even speak to her; she'd only seen the bold lady samurai at a distance in court, attending the daimyo Yorimachi-sama. Youngest daughter of an impoverished clan, Ichijo Ayumi was becoming something of a legend at Emperor Kaiko's court; as one of the few martial warriors of the female sex, she was unusual and special. Her career was being watched with eager anticipation by jaded courtiers and retainers alike. 

Kimiko was absolutely positive that she was in completely, utterly, buttocks-over-crown in love with the fascinating, dangerous and beautiful samurai woman. 

She'd spent many sleepless nights since Ayumi went away, composing torrid poetry by the light of a single oil lamp. Just thinking about the samurai made her liver flutter, her palms sweat, her virgin yoni swell and overflow like a rain barrel in a summer storm. Kimiko was innocent of physical love; although she'd had many infatuations and affairs since coming to court, none had progressed beyond a few heated kisses and fumbling caresses. Whenever she fantasized about Ayumi, the girl had only vague notions of the actual act of Clouds and Rain but judging from the veiled allusions she'd heard from other ladies, Kimiko knew it would be the most wonderful experience in her life... and Ayumi was the one, she was sure of it. 

If only Ayumi would notice her! If only the samurai shared her passion! 

Kimiko's romantic notions were like something from a classical poem - a smoldering jewel in the moonlight, gauze curtains barely shielding two writhing bodies, declarations of eternal love whispered by night. She had just turned nineteen and had lived a sheltered life in the country before her father's death and her mother's retirement to a Buddhist shrine. Her uncle, Fujiwara Saneyoshi, had insisted she leave the estates she'd inherited and move to the Imperial Palace, ostensibly to provide paternal guidance and protection for his niece, but she rarely saw the busy Kanpuko and was mostly left to her own devices. 

Izumi chuckled as she laid out her mistress' ceremonial robes. She'd seen this all before; her precious Kimiko-chan was as vagrant in her affections as a wandering cloud. It seemed as if every week brought a new infatuation, a new fascination, a new overwhelming passion that the girl declared she could not live without. Yet the relationships never amounted to anything and the maid wasn't surprised. Kimiko was young, untried and still new to court despite having lived here for two years. 

Let her get married, Izumi thought fondly. Or at least, let her find a steady, reliable lover; an experienced, sensible woman is exactly what my mistress needs to settle her character.

Such liaisons were not unknown; in fact, a girl was encouraged to have sexual relations with other women before she was wed, as a means of gaining experience without losing her most precious commodity - her virginity. But such relationships were considered temporary and unimportant beside the duty one owed one's husband. 

At least little mistress has not followed in the footsteps of many court ladies and taken a male lover, the maid thought as she adjusted a thin, muslin bag over Kimiko's head to prevent the girl's makeup from smearing her clothes. Aiiie! That would be a disaster if kusojiji-sama found out! By merciful Kwannon, it is safer at her age to fall in love with women; there will be time enough after her wedding to accustom Kimiko-chan to the marriage bed and the differences between yoni and yang.

Kimiko was too absorbed in her own thoughts to wonder what Izumi was thinking. She stood in the center of the room, arms outstretched, while the maid dressed her in layer after layer of kimonos - twelve in all - for while she was a blood relation of the powerful Kanpuko, Kimiko was not yet so high in Imperial status and rank that she was allowed the full forty robes of a high status courtier. 

Izumi had chosen kimono in the autumn colors and designs, for it was vitally important that one follow seasonal fashion in the court. Thus, the first eleven layers of junihitoe that Kimiko wore were all in shades of gold, purple and orange that simultaneously complimented and contrasted one another, with a dark green cord obi wound around her hips to keep them all together. The last kimono, actually more of an open robe, was made of sheer cream silk with wide sleeves that nearly touched the floor; there was a band of gold around sleeve hems and neckline, and the whole surface was patterned with bronze chrysanthemums. 

As a final touch, the maid inserted an ivory folding fan into the lady's obi and tied a set of the small nesting boxes called inro through the sash. The inro contained paper handkerchiefs, a tiny mirror, a few slices of fresh ginger to keep her breath fresh and a string of copper cash to use as tips for maids when she visited other households. 

Deftly pulling the gauze bag off her lady's head, Izumi beamed and said, "Well, little mistress, I don't see how Ayumi-san could possibly resist plucking such a pretty blossom as yourself!" 

Kimiko minced over to the mirror and appraised her appearance. "Oh, Izumi!" she wailed, "I'm too thin! I look like a turnip sprout!" She poked miserably at her small breasts, concealed beneath the many layers of her robe and partially flattened by the tight obi. 

"Now, now," Izumi soothed. "Your breasts are like peaches, Kimiko-chan. Absolutely perfect for a girl your age." 

"And I have no hips! I might as well be a boy!" 

"My lady, after you bear children and grow as wide as a well, you will remember the slenderness of youth with affection." 

"I am too ugly, Izumi! As unformed as a tub of tofu. She will never love me." 

Izumi sighed patiently. "Little mistress, you are perfectly beautiful, fresh as a cherry blossom in springtime." Tears threatened in the girl's eyes and the maid hastened to say, "Do not weep, I beg you! Remember your makeup!" 

Kimiko snuffled and tilted her head back until the urge to cry dissipated somewhat. 

"Why do you not compose an invitation to Ayumi-san while I go to the kitchen?" Izumi coaxed. "When I return, we can arrange the umeboshi in a pretty box, eh? And I will also bring some tea and a plate of abura-age." 

These slices of crispy fried tofu, so crunchy on the outside and light as cotton pillows on the inside, were Kimiko's favorite snack, but rather than being pleased, the lady regarded Izumi with disfavor, a frown creasing her smooth forehead. "Do you wish to make me fat as a sweet-seller's wife? I cannot eat such heavy foods and hope to please my new lover!" 

The maid sighed again and bowed. "Iye, mistress! Of course not!" 

Mollified, Kimiko knelt gracefully down before her writing desk, buttocks settled firmly on her heels, back absolutely straight. Selecting a piece of delicate, pink-tinged mulberry paper, she opened a crimson lacquered box and mulled over her inksticks. "Get the plums for Ayumi-san, some tea, and on your way to the kitchen, stop by Old Kyuri's stall in the Court of the Flying Scribes and buy me another weasel-hair writing brush." 

"Hai, little mistress." Izumi bowed again, this time to conceal her look of disgust. Old Kyuri, 'the Cucumber', was the nickname of an ancient and doddering courtier who made his genteel living by selling writing supplies, calligraphy lessons and performing as a discreet go-between for high-class courtesans and their noble clients. Despite his honorable age and the perpetual limpness of his jade pestle, the old man was still lewd and lecherous, delighting in tussling with ladies' maids; the last time Izumi had visited him, Kyuri had left bruises on her breasts and buttocks that had lasted for a week. 

Nevertheless, giri was giri and duty must be obeyed, no matter how distasteful. "Shall I fetch some sembei for you to nibble on while you write?" the maid asked. 

Kimiko considered. Dry rice crackers, even flavored with seaweed, weren't terribly delicious but on the other hand, miso soup for breakfast had been a long time ago. She certainly didn't want to be mortified by her stomach growling for food when she was in the middle of romantic negotiations with Ayumi-san. "And a small bowl of sembei and perhaps some cha soba." 

"Ah, yes. Excellent choice! Cold noodles in tea broth and rice crackers. Very filling." Izumi wrinkled her nose; whenever her mistress fell in love, she alternately bewailed the slenderness of her figure and feared becoming fat. 

Kimiko shot her a look. "Will you stand there all day while I wait to join my unmei to Ayumi-san's? Our sleeves long to touch and be touched! Hurry, woman! Hayaku!" 

Izumi scurried away, rolling her eyes and hoping Old Kyuri would be napping so she could deal instead with his polite, soft-spoken and shy nephew who would never dream of laying impious hands on any woman... mostly because he preferred opening his back-passage to a rough warrior's spearshaft. 

Ignoring the maid's departure, Kimiko took a deep breath and composed herself, seeking to settle her churning ki. This could possibly be the most important note she would ever create and it must be perfect. 

Grinding the inkstick with water against her writing stone until it was the right consistency, Kimiko took up a brush, pulled the paper towards her and began to write.

CHAPTER THREE - Seven Fall, Eight Arise

Okuyama ni                     In the mountain depths 
Momiji fumiwake             Treading crimson leaves 
Naku shika no                 The wandering stag calls. 
Koe kiku toki zo              When I hear the lonely cry, 
Aki wa kaneshiki.             Sad - how sad! - the autumn is. 
                     -----Sarumaru Dayu

Katsura-no-miyo, the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees
3 p.m., the 2nd Hour of the Sheep
From the Gate of Meeting Hill to the Hall of the Golden Finches

Ayumi walked in a flat-footed strut through the maze of shoji-lined corridors on her way to the Hall of the Golden Finches. From the Gate of Meeting Hill - the single entrance/exit of the imperial palace accessible from the outside - she had been strolling for nearly a half-hour, following the discreet scroll-pictures of a yellow bird posted as sign-makers in the twisting, confusing labyrinth of corridors, courts and residences that made up Emperor Kaiko's ancestral home. 

Finally reaching the long Hall of the Golden Finches, where daimyo who did not live at court were granted the use of private audience rooms, Ayumi was accosted by a palace guard clad in the distinctive scarlet and silver livery of his office. 

"Your papers?" he asked abruptly, hand on the hilt of his katana. He was young, as evidenced by the scant fuzz on his upper lip; many of the ga-domen were attempting to grow mustaches in honor of their fierce and flamboyant commander, the jiechou Oshida Saburo. 

Ayumi regarded the young man impassively. "I am Ichijo Ayumi, retainer to Inokuma Yorimachi-sama, daimyo of Issan, Ote and Kamakura provinces. I have been summoned to attend upon my lord; let me pass." 

The ga-domen licked his lips. "Your papers!" he ordered, an arrogant expression on his pudgy face. 

The samurai woman glanced at a nearby table where an incense clock smoldered; the iron box's lid had an intricate, intaglio dragon pattern and powdered incense burned in the sinuous coils of the beast's body. She knew that servants recharged the palace clocks at the beginning of each hour and judging by the amount the box had already burned, it was nearing the second Hour of the Sheep. She was almost late for her appointment and that was completely unacceptable. 

As required by law, Ayumi's katana hilt had been bound to the lip of its scabbard by a twist of soldered wire, sealed with a blob of wax, as soon as she'd entered Heian-kyo that morning. To break the seal within the city walls was punishable by immediate execution; however, the palace guards had no such restrictions. That didn't stop the woman from replying impatiently, "You are making me fail in my duty! Stand aside and let me pass or I must fight you!" 

The ga-domen drew his longsword and held it at his side, the slightly curved blade pointed directly at Ayumi's narrowed eyes. "None may pass without the proper authorization." 

"By whose order?" 

"Mine! I, Ukita Goemon, have decided that security has been too lax in this area. By my own authority as a servant to the Son of Heaven, I have decided that no one may enter this sector without the proper papers!" 

A small crowd of noblemen, ladies and servants had gathered by this time. They watched with avid eyes, covering their mouths with their sleeves in eager anticipation of spilled blood. 

"Gomen nasai, Ukita Goemon. I am sorry that I must kill you in order to fulfill my lord's orders," Ayumi said with regret. "Would you like a moment to compose your death poem?" 

"How dare you threaten a retainer of the Mikado!" The guard charged, heedless of the danger to the closely clustered bystanders. His sword swept out and then across, intending to cut the arrogant samurai woman in half at the waist. 

Ayumi pulled the scabbard from her obi; she thrust it out in a parry that clicked against the ga-domen's blade and slid down the steel with all the force of her body behind it. The hard, heavily lacquered bamboo sheath struck the guard's knuckles, momentarily paralyzing his hand, and his katana fell, skittering across the floor, while the crowd scattered like chickens disturbed by a fox. 

Chuffing out a breath, Ayumi struck the guard across the face with her other hand, delivering a blow that knocked the small gauze cap off his head and sent him sprawling on the tatami mats. Her foot slammed down on the floor near his head, making the wooden boards shudder. "Do you yield in honor?" she asked. "Or do you require another lesson in good manners?" 

The ga-domen shook his head, stunned. A trickle of blood stained the corner of his mouth. "I am not permitted to yield to anyone." 

Ayumi leaned over and grabbed the young man's topknot, forcing his face up to meet hers. "I am not just anyone," she answered in a silky voice. "I am Ichijo Ayumi, who has enough patience and good nature in her soul to spare a foolish bakayarou whose pretensions outweigh his skill. Now get up and stop making a spectacle of yourself, Ukita-san, or else you may be demoted from ga-domen to onbou in a blink of your commander's eye." 

Although he burned under the insult of being called an asshole, the possibility of losing his coveted position of palace retainer and becoming a low class cemetery guard made the ga-domen scramble to his feet, tugging at his bright haori jacket. His face was flushed and his lower lip trembled. 

Ayumi retrieved the young man's gauze cap and thrust it into his hand. "There is no shame in being beaten by a more formidable opponent," she counseled kindly. "Even Suwa Jiro knows that." 

Leaving the abashed guard behind and accompanied by the twitters and soft fan clapping of the watching courtiers, Ayumi stomped away, holding her scabbard in her hand. 

Her heart was pounding and a fine sheen of perspiration dotted her forehead. Baka! she admonished herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Getting into a duel while Yorimachi-sama awaits!

By the time she arrived at the daimyo's delegated audience room, Ayumi had calmed somewhat. She knelt by the shoji-door and bowed her head, touching her brow to the mats and softly calling her name. 

The answer came immediately. "Enter!" 

The samurai slid back the shoji and stepped into the room, closing it behind her. Slapping aside the stiffly starched legs of her hakama, Ayumi knelt on one knee, the other leg stretched out in front of her; she used the heel of her out-thrust leg to pull herself along the floor, bending and rolling her leg until she knelt on both knees. Then she repeated the operation with her opposite leg, alternating until she reached her place before Yorimachi-sama's dais and performed the full kowtow, placing her hands on top of one another, flat on the tatami, and pressing her forehead to the backs of her hands. 

Yorimachi-sama grunted. He was a pot-bellied, gnarled monkey of a man; the white-lead makeup fashionable at court had soaked into the deep creases and crevices of his face, giving him the look of a wind-weathered, white-washed pine tree. His eyebrows had just recently been shaved and a tiny scrap of bloodied paper near his left eye was testament to the unskilled hand of the cheap groomer he'd employed. His robes were not the luxurious silken kimonos worn by the nobility; instead, he was clad in worthless paper imitations of imperial junihitoe, the garish colors already bleeding into his skin. 

"Were you successful?" he asked in his rough, staccato voice. Yorimachi-sama was as stingy with his words as with his not inconsiderable fortune and rarely wasted time with pleasantries. 

Still bowing, Ayumi replied, "Yes, my lord. As you suspected, the bandits in that region had organized themselves into a professional akuto band led by a ronin named Banrai." 

The lord's hairless brow ridges quirked upward. "Heavy thunder? Appropriate for a bandit chief." 

"Yes, my lord. As instructed, I challenged Banrai to a duel but he did not accept. Instead, he and his men fled while I followed. I was able to corner them at the wooden bridge south of Magoi village. There was a battle, Banrai and many of his followers were killed. The rest scattered to the four winds. I tracked them down, one by one, and executed them." 

"How many?" 

"Twenty, my lord, including Banrai. Eleven I killed at the wooden bridge; the rest were taken by the Lord Emma of Hell following public execution, as per your orders." 

"Excellent!" Yorimachi-sama closed his fan with a snap. "The punishment of slaves, I presume?" 

"Of course, my lord. As you had ordered." Unseen, Ayumi's lips twisted in distaste. The punishment of slaves was upside-down crucifixion, a shame that would taint the men's families for generations. Those nine, X-shaped crosses with their pitifully crying burdens would haunt her nights for many months to come. 

Yorimachi-sama settled himself more firmly on his threadbare cushion and poured himself a cup of lukewarm tea. "Have the heads been preserved in cedar oil and sent to my castle?" 

"Yes, my lord." 

"Good, good. I am very well pleased, Ayumi-san." He took a sip of tea and grimaced at the bitter taste. "When you entered my service three years ago, you were an untried, untested samurai just finishing your training. Many of my fellow daimyo thought I was a fool for employing a woman but I had faith in you. I am pleased to see that faith has been returned a hundred-fold." 

"Hai! Domo arigato, my lord." 

"Now, there is another matter we must discuss." 

Ayumi waited in anticipation. It had been more than a year since Yorimachi-sama had paid her salary, a measly twenty koku of rice from which she was expected to pay all her expenses for twelve months. Coming from an impoverished clan, she had no family wealth to fall back on and had been forced to put off bill collectors with promises, a very distasteful and shameful situation. The silver drops she'd given Blue Carp had been the last of the money she'd been able to scrape together. She hoped a bonus would be forthcoming for her bandit chasing expedition; Yorimachi-sama had hinted as much when he'd given her the assignment. 

"How shall I put this?" the daimyo muttered to himself, then continued aloud, "There is only one way to deliver bad news - straightforward and abrupt. So... Ayumi-san, I am dismissing you from my service." 

Sheer overwhelming shock squeezed the samurai's heart so hard that it stopped beating. Foulness gusted up from her bowels and for a moment, she thought she might vomit. Dismissed from service? 

Yorimachi-sama, oblivious to Ayumi's distress, went on, "This is no reflection on the quality of your service, of course. Revenue for the year has not been as high as anticipated; I simply can no longer afford your excellent services." 

Which means, Ayumi thought scathingly, that the old gold hoarder has enjoyed the benefits of a highly skilled and well trained samurai as a retainer, increased his own standing within the court and with his fellows, and managed this feat very cheaply - two years for the price of three. The woman had no doubt that the daimyo intended to cheat her out the rest of her rightfully earned pay as well. 

Sounding quite pleased with himself, Yorimachi-sama said, as if on cue, "Naturally, I cannot afford to pay your entire back salary, but here is a small compensation." He tossed four strings of copper cash in front of Ayumi and the bad taste in her mouth soured even further. This was barely a tenth of what he owed her. 

Ayumi ground her teeth together so hard that a splitting pain shot up her temple, struggling to remain in control. Being a masterless samurai was bad enough; she did not want to add to the shame by losing her temper, especially in front of a man she could have cheerfully chopped into a dozen or more pieces. 

Besides, true warriors were above the concerns of money and it was against the dictates of the Way to even mention such a distasteful subject. She knew it, the daimyo knew it, and she would rather kiss Lord Emma of Hell's back-passage than give this smug bastard the satisfaction of seeing her beg. 

With a fine sense of timing, Yorimachi-sama yawned behind his fan and ordered casually, "You may go." 

The woman considered leaving the strings of mon where the daimyo had dropped them but expediency was more important than pride. Instead, exuding every drop of dignity she could muster, Ayumi took her time gathering up the rolls of copper coins threaded onto knotted strings, one hundred mon in all, counting each coin slowly and deliberately, then placing the meager amount in her cloth wallet, which she tucked back into her kimono. 

The only gestures of contempt she allowed herself were neglecting to bow and exiting Yorimachi-sama's room by turning her back on the daimyo. A prouder man might have taken offense at her rudeness, but the miserly lord only yawned again and poured himself another cup of scummy tea. 

Once safely outside the audience room, Ayumi began to shake. 

She'd finally realized her dream of becoming a fully fledged samurai on the day Yorimachi-sama had accepted her pledge of fealty, giving her the chance to prove herself that every other daimyo had denied. It was commonly believed that women were emotionally incapable of following the way of bushido and Ayumi had been eager to prove that convention wrong. The lord had given her dangerous tasks - such as the recent bandit extermination - and expected her to succeed alone, without aid of any kind save her martial skills and wits. She'd done everything he'd ordered, obeying his commands and the dictates of giri as flawlessly as any warrior of old. Now her dream had shattered, crumbling into fragments like a stale rice ball. 

She was a ronin, no better than the bandit chief she'd killed. 

The worst of it was, no matter what Yorimachi's reason for dismissing her had been, she'd never find service in another lord's household. Everyone would believe that she'd failed, that her womanly weaknesses had at last brought her low... and many would say that it was no more than she deserved. 

Ayumi stared blankly at the clusters of pale faced men and women in gorgeous kimonos that floated up and down the hall, chattering and whispering behind their sleeves. Although she knew that the news couldn't have possibly gotten out yet, she still imagined that every glance, every unheard comment concerned her shame, and a crimson flush spread from her neck to her hairline. 

A young girl swayed close, her gorgeous robes of gold and orange and tan creating a dazzling kaleidoscope of color and patterns. Ayumi closed her eyes against the sickeningly sweet fragrance of lemon-scented oil that wafted in a cloud from the girl's sleek black hair. 

"Gomen nasai," the young lady said softly. Ayumi opened her eyes. From the rapid fluttering of her fan, it was clear that the child was flustered about something. The pretty girl continued in a rush, "Please accept this token from Fujiwara no Kimiko." 

She thrust a folded piece of paper into Ayumi's hand and scurried away so quickly that the embroidered heels of her slippers winked beneath the hems of her many-layered kimonos. 

Drawing a deep breath, the samurai gazed at the letter she'd been given. A twist of straw decorated with a spray of maple leaves had been tied around the tightly fan-folded paper. With a surge of grim amusement, Ayumi noticed that the girl had dry-brushed ink into the creases of the letter, ensuring that if it was opened, any tampering would be quite noticeable. 

While courtiers, ladies, courtesans, musicians and servants paraded up and down the hallway, creating a constant humming drone of noise, Ayumi found a tolerably quiet corner and settled herself on the floor before opening the letter. 

At first, she could make nothing of it. Although the handwriting was impeccable, very smooth and flowing, the contents were so full of poetic allusion and metaphor as to be nearly incomprehensible. Ayumi toyed with the idea of discarding the missive unread but decided that the intellectual exercise might calm her down somewhat. 

After nearly ten minutes of struggle, understanding began to dawn. 

"Tamoto ni kori," Ayumi muttered. "Have ice in your sleeve. That means, I think, read this letter privately." She scanned a bit more. "Oki naka bune... a boat floating in the river. If I remember my classics correctly, she desires to meet me secretly at the second Hour of the Ox. Hmmm..." 

Apparently the letter was a request for a romantic assignation. The girl's prose rambled on with references to mandarin ducks - a symbol of lovers; the rabbit in the moon - a symbol of physical lust and the Clouds and Rain; and other inspired flights of fancy pertaining to love in general and sex in specific. Ayumi didn't know whether to be shocked, angered or flattered, or pull out her shortsword and slit her belly immediately. 

"Baka!" she exclaimed aloud, startling a passing bonze. "Am I not tormented enough?! Why are the gods defecating on my head today?" 

The shaven-headed priest shook his head in disapproval. "When Heaven rains with luck and nightsoil, is not even the shit of the gods divine?" 

Meaning, whatever the deities see fit to bestow, good or bad, give thanks.

Ayumi chose to deliberately misunderstand his words and gave him an ugly scowl that made him step back a pace. "I don't need any more luck, honorable bonze. And I certainly don't need any more shit!" 

The priest shook his staff at her, the three brass rings in the top jangling, and fled while his dignity was still intact. 

Ayumi transferred her scowl to the letter in her hand. What was the girl's name again? Ah... Fujiwara no Kimiko. Try as she might, she couldn't remember meeting the girl in any of her visits to court. 

"This is ridiculous!" she chided herself, careful to keep her voice down this time to avoid attracting attention. "Today must be a very inauspicious time for me. First I get into a fight with a ga-domen, then I lose my position, and now some barely budded child wants me to share her pillow. Ma! Either I'm under a curse or I've somehow offended the entire pantheon and must bankrupt myself further offering incense and persimmons at every shrine in the Empire!" 

The sweet chiming of bells nearby broke her reverie. Ayumi glanced up and met the inscrutable gaze of a fortuneteller. 

The woman was dressed in saffron yellow robes that ended at her ankles, exposing bare feet and numerous silver ankle bells. The cotton cloth was printed all over with mystic symbols and edged at the hems in dark blue. Tattoos of dragons and other needle-ink charms covered her hands, including palms and fingers. There was an enormous, bowl-shaped straw hat on her head; her hair had been pulled through a hole in the top and allowed to flow down like a wild horse's mane. Very little could be seen of the fortuneteller's face except for her mouth and chin, but through a rectangular hole in the hat, her red-rimmed eyes burned with an odd fanatical fire. 

She shook a long bamboo vase that held slender beechwood sticks and intoned nasally, "Blessings of Benten on the kind stranger! A small donation ensures much luck for the donor." 

Ayumi snorted. Benten was the god of good fortune and to her mind, the woman couldn't have chosen a worse moment to invoke the notoriously skittish deity on her behalf. "Excuse me, honorable elder sister, but are you a fortuneteller or a nun? You beg as badly as a novice bikune!" 

The fortuneteller ignored the question and shook the joss sticks again; they sounded like dry bones rattling together. "The kind stranger who gives generously will have bad luck changed to good, ill fortune transformed into blessings of Heaven! Consult the Hundred Sacred Auspices of Benten!" 

"I am grateful for your concern," the samurai said tightly, "but I do not require your assistance." 

"A small donation ensures an excellent future!" the fortuneteller called loudly. "The Oracle of Tree-Giving-Life-Fortunes never lies!" 

People around them were beginning to notice. Reluctantly, Ayumi pulled the cloth wallet out of her kimono. 

"Very well," she said, "if I'm going to appease the Heavenly Masses, I might as well start with an important god. But your persistence in annoying me will not benefit you much, as you will discover." She removed two strings of cash, wrapped them in a paper square from her sleeve, and twisted the ends together. Then she laid the small packet on the floor and pushed it politely towards the waiting fortuneteller. 

The strange-eyed woman squatted and tucked the money into a bag woven from lengths of hair. She shook the bamboo vase until a stick fell out. "Number One Hundred!" she cried. "Rained-on ground hardens." 

Ayumi turned her head away and rolled her eyes, politely hiding her grimace behind a hastily raised sleeve. The well-known proverb meant, Adversity builds character. Since most people had trouble of one kind or another, this type of generalization would fit anyone's situation. 

The fortuneteller shook her vase again; another stick fell to the floor. "Number Eight! Overturned tea does not return to the cup." 

Don't cry over misfortunes you cannot help. Ayumi was beginning to think the fortuneteller and the loud mouthed bonze who had admonished her earlier were related. 

More shaking. "Number Seventy-Six! Hawk flies; frog hops." 

This one was a bit more esoteric than the others and Ayumi lowered her sleeve to glance at the slender sticks that were beginning to form a pattern on the tatami mat. The proverb meant that each person must seek a situation for which they are suited. The saying also carried the unspoken advice that losing one's position was not necessarily a bad thing; it provided an opportunity to find one's proper, Heaven-ordered place in the world. 

Another joss stick bounced out of the vase. "Number Fourteen! Sleeve touches sleeve as it is meant to, nothing more." 

Despite herself, the samurai was beginning to get intrigued. Lovers met because it was their unmei, their destiny, to come together. To say that one's sleeve had touched another's meant that one had found the mate of their soul, the nightingale-joy of two ki's in perfect harmony. Ayumi had never experienced this incredible happiness, although she'd hoped in the secret recesses of her heart she would... someday. 

The fortuneteller rattled the sticks, rolling them skillfully around in her bamboo container. Another fell. "Number Twenty-Eight! Your present affairs are like Saiou's horse." 

At first, Ayumi was inclined to scoff at this mossy old proverb but some inner instinct made her pause. The saying meant, Just because it looks like bad luck doesn't necessarily mean that is so, and concerned an old farmer whose horse runs away and is gone for several days. All the farmer's neighbors think that losing the horse is bad fortune, but then the animal returns with another of its kind, thus doubling the farmer's property and turning bad luck into good. 

She was startled out of her thoughts by the woman calling, "Number Forty-Six! A miser may hoard his cash but can never grasp the heart of true courage; no shame lies in one's surrender to fate." 

Ayumi was momentarily taken aback. She'd never heard of this proverb and it pertained so directly to her own situation that she wondered if the fortuneteller had had an ear pressed to the shoji-door when she'd been interviewed by Yorimachi-sama. She opened her mouth to ask a question but was forestalled by the woman shaking one last stick out of her bamboo vase. 

"Number Sixty-Four! New horizons beckon, drawn on wings of mulberry and ink." The fortuneteller's strange, mad eyes seemed to swivel in their sockets. She briefly examined the pattern made by the six joss sticks on the floor. "Fortune favors boldness. Exchange your sorrow for a pillow and be guided by a fountain. Divine Benten orders it so." 

The woman abruptly scooped up the thin lengths of beechwood and stood, ankle bells chiming. For the first time, Ayumi noticed that the joss sticks, which should have had tiny writing symbols engraved on them, were completely blank. She looked up in surprise and the fortuneteller smiled. "Remember my counsel," the woman said. "The Oracle of Tree-Giving-Life-Fortune never lies." 

With that admonition, the fortuneteller turned and began pushing her way through the crowd of courtiers. Ayumi jumped to her feet but in a matter of heartbeats, the strange-eyed woman was gone, disappearing like a soap bubble in the rain. 

The samurai had forgotten Fujiwara no Kimiko's letter; in her agitation she had crumpled it into a ball. Now she smoothed the mulberry pink paper out carefully. 

New horizons beckon, drawn on wings of mulberry and ink.

Sudden determination flooded Ayumi's soul as she came to a decision born of desperation and a fortuneteller's cryptic words. 

She would meet with this noble child Kimiko-sama and follow the unmei that had been laid out for her. Divine Benten had apparently ordered it so. There it was; shigata ga nai. 

"Just don't ask me to pillow with her," Ayumi murmured in the direction of Heaven. "My sword arm might be for sale, but my yoni is not!" 

And if the smiling, laughing god of good fortune heard her in his far-flung celestial palace, he didn't reply.

CHAPTER FOUR - BARKING DOGS AND MOONBEAMS

Michinoku no                    Like Michinoku prints
Shinobu moji-zuri               Of tangled fern leaves,
Tare yue ni                         It is because of you
Midare some ni shi             That I have become confused;
Ware naranaku ni.              But my love for you remains.
                 -----Kawara no Sadaijin

Katsura-no-miyo, the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees
In the Hall of Plum Blossoms
2:30 a.m., in the middle of the first Hour of the Ox

Ayumi swaggered through the palace corridors, making a slightly uneven bee-line towards the Hall of Plum Blossoms and her assignation with Fujiwara no Kimiko. In the hours since she'd received the girl's letter and made her fateful decision, she'd gone to the Court of Trembling Irises and visited a number of wine shops, swilling sake and avoiding payment by a combination of polite promises and blustering arrogance. The samurai wasn't falling down drunk; she had reached that pleasant state of inebriation called mikeneko meitei, three-colors cat drunk, because every movement was accomplished with exaggerated dignity and a highly concentrated awareness of one's self-importance... just like the feline for which the condition was named. 

At the entrance to the Hall of Plum Blossoms, Ayumi nearly tripped over a kneeling woman. The stranger was plump and not a youth; her features seemed crowded together in the round, doughy sphere of her face. She was dressed in a plain, navy blue kimono and wore a length of cloth wrapped around her hair, tied in a simple knot below her bottom lip - a maid's uniform. Sighting Ayumi, the woman bowed and knocked her forehead against the floor. 

"I am Izumi," she said quietly. "My mistress is waiting. Please follow me." 

She got to her feet with an effort - Izumi had been kneeling a long time in anticipation of the samurai's visit - and began leading the way down the long, shoji-lined corridor, an oil lamp in her hand casting a golden glow and deepening the shadows in every corner. Ayumi trailed behind, bemused; the maid's name meant "fountain." 

Apparently, Benten-sama loves riddles as a howling dog loves moonshine, the samurai thought, remembering the fortuneteller's injunction to "follow a fountain." 

Having decided upon this course of action in obedience to the luck god's enigmatic instructions, Ayumi had regained her emotional equilibrium to a certain extent. Shigata ga nai... there was no help for it. Her future was unknown, her destiny tangled like skeins of kitten-clawed thread, and there was nothing to do but accept it. Still, she'd felt the need to bolster her faltering courage with sake and now a pleasant wine fire warmed her belly, tingled her toes and pulled a comforting haze around certain unpleasant facts... 

Like how Kimiko-sama was going to react when she found out that Ayumi hadn't come for a romantic liaison at all.

Kimiko knelt before her dressing table, clad only in a misty, translucent kosode that enhanced her budding charms rather than concealing them. The neck of the underkimono had been pulled down dramatically at the back, leaving her most deliciously erotic parts - white shoulders and neck, the straight knobs of her spine - revealed almost to the dimples above her buttocks. Following Izumi's advice, Kimiko had forgone make-up; not even a touch of rice powder dusted the sheen of her creamy skin. 

The maid had spent hours preparing her mistress, dealing with hysterics, despair, terror and a flood of tears with equal amounts of coddling and common sense. In the time since Kimiko had boldly accosted the samurai in the Hall of the Golden Finches and delivered her passionate missive, Izumi had bathed her several times, dressed and undressed her in every combination of outfit from her extensive wardrobe, perfumed her, washed away the offending perfume, fetched basins and tea when nausea threatened, burned feathers beneath her nose when fainting seemed imminent, propped her up when she collapsed and ran every errand the girl could think of, even to the point of fetching a marriage-book from a neighboring lady. 

Now Kimiko sat waiting for Ayumi, gracefully arranged by the maid so that her body formed a pleasing curve. Her muscles were beginning to cramp from the artificial position but she would have died rather than move so much as a hair. The only thing she dared do was flip the pages of the marriage-book in her lap with a finger and occasionally suck in an awed breath. 

The marriage-book was called Night of a Thousand Fragrances and dealt frankly with sexual positions, ways of pleasing one's lover, advice and more information on the myriad combinations of pillowing than the girl could have ever dreamed existed. The book was actually a long sheet of thick rice paper, folded into leaves and sandwiched between two thin sleeves of gilded wood. It was difficult to keep open to the correct page without using both hands but Kimiko was managing, too fascinated by the subject matter to consider putting it aside. 

Even the woodcut illustrations were astounding. 

"Ma!" Kimiko exclaimed over a particularly impossible-seeming tangle of arms, legs and heads. "Is that a man or a squid?" She squinted but unwilling to break the statue-like perfection of her position, eventually gave up on deciphering the complex picture. 

Although such books were commonly given to girls of marriageable age in order to prepare them for the realities of the wedding bed, this was the first time that Kimiko had been exposed to such candid instruction. Although the Night of a Thousand Fragrances was mainly based on yoni/yang pairings, there were also sections dealing with female lovers as well as pleasing one's self and others with artificial phalluses called harigeta, which were of such amazing size that Kimiko could not imagine how one accommodated these imposing devices. 

On the other hand, just imagining herself and Ayumi embarking on even the simplest sexual liaison made the girl's heart beat faster, her yoni swell and burn with desire, caused her liver to flip over and quiver with excitement, longing and dread. 

I'm sure she's very experienced, Kimiko thought, palms suddenly slick with nervous sweat. What if I don't please her? What if she finds me unattractive? O Benzaiten-sama, goddess of love, lend your blessing to my venture and I promise two gold koban of incense to your temple tomorrow!

A sudden scratching on the paper screens of the shoji made her jump. A moment later she heard Izumi's soft voice announcing her long awaited visitor. 

Kimiko hastily shoved the marriage-book beneath the dressing table, still careful to maintain her cramping position, and to her eternal mortification squeaked, "Enter," in a voice like a mouse's fart.

The door slid open. 

Ayumi had arrived. 

Izumi had retired behind a finely woven bamboo screen in a corner of the room. Ayumi and Kimiko were, for all intents and purposes, left alone. 

They both cleared their throats at the same time and Kimiko suppressed a nervous hiccup. "Welcome to my home, honorable Ayumi-san," she said, lowering her chin in a minimal bow as befitting her higher rank. To her relief, her voice was back to normal. "A thousand times welcome. Come and sit, if it pleases you." 

Ayumi stomped closer but did not sit down. Instead, she loomed over Kimiko like a statue of Hachiman, the grim visaged god of war. "I wish to speak to you," she said gruffly. A wave of sake fumes gusted from her lips, nearly overwhelming the girl. "There is a matter which we should discuss. It is important." 

Kimiko noticed that Ayumi was staring owlishly at the exposed skin of her back and immediately wished she could make herself decent, toss the drunken samurai out on one ear, and retire to bed for a good cry. Instead, bolstered somewhat by the enormous love she felt for the other woman, the girl smiled and said, "Please sit, Ayumi-san. I beg you. Refresh yourself first; the morning is still far away and there is plenty time for talking." 

The samurai lowered herself to the tatami-mats carefully, as if she feared being bowled over. 

Kimiko sighed and unwound her body from its aching curve, her face showing no trace of pain as her muscles protested. She glanced at a brazier where a kettle of first grade sake was being warmed and decided that Ayumi had had enough wine for one evening. A small footed table between them held dishes of finger snacks - umeboshi, the dried salted plums she'd heard the samurai enjoyed; bite-sized rice balls filled with sweetened red bean paste; delicate cubes of deep fried tofu, each tied with a "ribbon" of spring onion, making petite and pretty packages; and a plate of peeled ginko nuts sprinkled with dried hibiscus flowers. Altogether, the perfect lover's feast. 

Kimiko offered the umeboshi first. "I ordered these especially from the kitchen, just for you." 

Ayumi didn't reach for the proffered dish. "My lady," she replied, clearly ill at ease. "Gomen nasai, but we must talk together now." 

Kimiko's hand trembled and a wrinkled plum spilled to the floor. "Perhaps you would prefer some tea," she said with artificial brightness. She could feel her beautiful romantic fantasies shredding like sun-tortured silk. "Izumi! O-cha o kudasai!" 

The maid rustled behind her bamboo screen and Ayumi leaned forward desperately. "Please, my lady! I do not want tea. I do not want food. I do not even want more sake!" 

Fragile control breaking at last, Kimiko wailed, "And you don't want me!" and burst into tears. 

There followed a scene that could have played in a country comedy as Izumi, finally realizing her mistress was in true distress, came barreling out from behind the screen like a mother water buffalo summoned to defend her only calf. Ayumi could only watch in acute embarrassment as the plump maid comforted the hysterical Kimiko, fetched paper handkerchiefs and cups of calming sake, and loudly scolded the insensitive samurai in language that would have done the crudest kago bearer proud. 

At last the storm passed and Kimiko stared at Ayumi with wet eyes and a sorrowful, hurt expression that reminded the warrior of a kicked puppy. "Sumimasen," the girl said in an attempt to salvage some shred of dignity from the situation. "Please excuse me. I did not... that is, you may have been mistaken about my intentions..." 

Ayumi took the girl's letter from her sleeve. The pleasant wine haze had passed and a headache of massive proportions throbbed behind her eyes. She had refolded the missive neatly and now offered it to Kimiko with both hands. "The fault is mine," she replied with a low bow that made her head swim. "No doubt I have misinterpreted your beautiful prose." 

"I am often praised for the elegance of my handwriting and the brilliance of my poetry," Kimiko said with a sniff, refusing to take the offered letter. "You must be very stupid to have misunderstood." Now that the weeping was over, a bright ember of anger was beginning to burn in her breast. There was more than a grain of truth in the old Heian-kyo saying - Better to embrace a viper than scorn a woman.

Izumi clucked and gave the samurai a poisonous glare. 

"Again, the fault is mine," Ayumi said. Things were going worse than she'd thought and she wondered if the luck god Benten-sama was up to his tricks again. "I regret that I have disturbed you, my lady. Perhaps it is best if I go." She stood up, tugging on her haori jacket, and made as if to leave. Kimiko's voice stopped her. 

"Wait!" the girl called. She stood up also; the open kosode gaped wide, revealing her pert breasts, flat belly and the soft, silky darkness nestled between her thighs. Kimiko blushed and quickly pulled the robe closed while Izumi hurried to bring a more proper cover. 

Decently clad in a simple cotton nightrobe called a yukata, Kimiko felt more confident and better able to deal with the politely waiting samurai. "What is it you wished to speak to me about?" she asked. Although the samurai's rejection still hurt, she felt compelled to clutch at any excuse to make the woman stay. 

Ayumi waved a hand. "It is not important, my lady. I wish you good night." 

"Don't go!" the girl commanded desperately. "I demand that you tell me about the matter!" 

Ayumi glanced at the child over her shoulder. Kimiko was very pretty; without the elaborate court make-up, she had an unspoiled freshness about her that was very appealing. The samurai's yoni gave an unexpected tingle as Ayumi realized that under different circumstances, she would have had no trouble at all pillowing with the maiden. 

Now I'm as bad as the rabbit in the moon, she thought ironically. All these troubles and my mind-of-its-own still acts like a monkey in heat.

Nevertheless, Ayumi realized that she owed Kimiko an explanation; it was the least she could offer since she'd disappointed the girl so severely. "Yorimachi-sama has dismissed me from his service," she replied bluntly. "In all honesty, my lady, my only purpose in coming here this evening was to obey divine instruction." 

"From Benzaiten-sama?" the noble lady squeaked in surprise. 

"Iye, the love goddess had nothing to do with it," Ayumi said with a touch of regret. "It was Benten-sama who directed me. I had an idea that if I obeyed, my luck would change, but now I see that I was mistaken. Please excuse me." 

Kimiko shook her head. "Please stay, honorable Ayumi-san." An idea was beginning to form, created from pity for the now masterless samurai and a strong desire to keep the woman as near to her as possible. Her hurt and disappointment began to fade under the excitement of a new consideration. There was a way she could bind Ayumi to her with ties stronger even than those of lovers. 

The young lady began to speak. "You may not know my situation, Ayumi-san. I am Fujiwara no Kimiko, niece to the Kanpuko and an orphan. My honorable father was taken by Buddha two years ago by the poppy-blooms disease and my honorable mother is now a nun. But besides that, I am heir to my father's fortune and very wealthy; my rank is high enough to permit me to accept the fealty of personal retainers... which I have not yet done." 

She gave the samurai a significant glance and waited for her reaction. A disbelieving Izumi made strong protests but was hushed by her mistress' command and subsided unwillingly, still pointing angry triangle eyes at the samurai and huffing in injured pride. 

At first, Ayumi wondered what Kimiko was talking about; her words seemed as nonsensical as the mutterings of a magpie. Then the enormity of what the girl was suggesting struck like a landslide and her brain felt as if it had exploded. 

"Do you mean...?" Ayumi began and stopped; her voice had failed. Clearing her throat, she tried again. "I beg your pardon, my lady, but do you mean to suggest...?" 

"Hai!" Kimiko exclaimed in triumph. "Swear loyalty to me as your new overlord. I will offer you a salary of one hundred... no, two hundred koku per year." 

The samurai sucked in a breath in astonishment. Two hundred koku was nearly the entire yearly revenue for some provinces. "My lady, I cannot accept such an enormous sum," Ayumi said modestly, startling herself by even considering the insane proposition. 

On the other hand, I have no further prospects, the warrior thought. Baka! I do not know whether I am a bigger fool to accept or reject the noble lady's offer.

Kimiko waved away any objections. "I require a strong retainer, skilled in the Way and of excellent reputation. As an unmarried woman, it is forbidden for me to have a man who is not my husband living in my chambers. You require a position of honor and dignity as befits your rank. This solution solves both our problems." 

Put like that, it made perfectly logical sense, although Ayumi still wondered if she was lying passed out in a wine shop and hallucinating the entire business. With a sense of amazement at the strange workings of unmei, she bowed to the inevitable and said, "Very well, my lady. I agree to your terms. If your maid will fetch a priest, we can see this thing completed immediately." 

Delighted, Kimiko sent the reluctant Izumi away to the nearest shrine to get a bonze who would act as witness to the brief ceremony. 

As soon as the plump maid had hustled away, Ayumi said stiffly, "Of course, my lady, you understand that there are some duties to which I cannot be ordered?" 

For a moment, Kimiko didn't know what she was talking about, then understanding dawned and she blushed. "Of course not!" she cried with offended dignity. "What do you take me for, a mackerel seller?" 

Ayumi wisely stifled a chuckle. "Mackerel seller" was the common nickname for married ladies who visited houses of male prostitution, paying for the pleasures their husbands could not provide at home. She was surprised that Kimiko even knew the term and made a light comment about it. 

"I am not entirely ignorant of such matters," the girl replied - not entirely a lie but not the exact truth, either. "There are a great many gossips in the palace and news travels faster through these hallways than... well, than a bonze's wind-breaking through a shrine." She said the vulgar expression defiantly, as if she expected to be corrected. 

Ayumi did no such thing. "I quite agree," she said politely. 

Having run out of things to say and far too excited to make small conversation, Kimiko maintained an awkward silence until Izumi returned, bearing with her a sleepy eyed bonze who rubbed the stubble on his shaved head and yawned widely until Ayumi rattled her longsword and barked impatiently, "Will you close the gaping hole beneath your nose and get on with it?!!" 

Startled into action, the priest scurried about, making the necessary preparations. 

Kimiko glowed with pride. She had a feeling that her days in court were about to become much, much more exciting, indeed. 

The ceremony was brief and almost anti-climactic after the emotional frenzy that had already taken place. 

While pots of incense smoked and beeswax candles burned in their holders, Ayumi knelt before the small, portable shrine of Hachiman and carefully pricked the forefinger of her right hand with a long needle. Three drops of blood were allowed to fall into the ink she had already prepared. 

Taking up a writing brush, Ayumi wrote on the rice paper with flowing strokes, declaring her desire to unite with Fujiwara no Kimiko as a retainer, pledging her unalterable loyalty unto death, vowing to serve her faithfully, obediently and without reservation, all according to the dictates of bushido. 

As soon as she'd finished, the bonze took the paper and presented it to Kimiko. The girl knelt on a makeshift dais of cushions; although her face was still devoid of make-up, she'd had the maid quickly dress her in elegant robes. She glanced at the document and nodded acceptance, whereupon the priest pricked her finger and added a single dot of blood to the bottom of the paper, blotting part of Ayumi's signature and symbolically representing Kimiko's new authority over the samurai. 

The edge of the document was set alight and the ashes stirred into a cup of fresh water on the altar. Impassively, Ayumi drank the mixture in a single gulp, then crawl-walked over the floor and bowed deeply to Kimiko, performing the formal kow-tow nine times as required by the ritual. 

Kimiko's face glowed with pleasure as she looked at her new retainer. Ichijo Ayumi, the girl thought, at last you are mine! She was not troubled by the servant/master aspect of their new relationship; she was absolutely positive that the love she bore for the bold samurai was true. Now they would be thrown together in daily contact and she was sure that eventually, similar passion would flower in Ayumi's heart. It was only a matter of time. 

The priest bowed low. "It is finished," he said. He had already gathered up the instruments of his calling and placed them within a big cloth bag. "Does the noble lady require anything else this night?" 

Izumi discreetly pressed a pouch of silver drops into his hand. "If the honorable bonze will follow me, I will be pleased to escort him back to the shrine." Giving her mistress a troubled glance that promised they would have a long, long discussion about this later, the maid led him away. 

Kimiko's good humor was undisturbed by Izumi's disapproval. "I will have Izumi prepare another futon for you," she said. "At the foot of mine, of course." 

"Of course, my lady" Ayumi replied dispassionately. Now that the deed had been done, she felt equal amounts of relief and nervousness, and hid this behind a mask of formality. It remained to be seen whether Benten-sama had thrust her into a treasure cave or a pile of pig dung. Shigata ga nai. 

Suddenly, the women's individual thoughts were interrupted by a shrill scream of sheer terror. 

"Help me! For the love of Buddha, tasukete kure!" 

Ayumi leaped up and plunged through the paper wall while Kimiko shrieked, "Wait! Wait!" 

What she saw in the corridor was enough to give even the bravest soul pause.

CHAPTER FIVE - Broken Lantern

 Hito koishi                  I long for people... 
Hito matsukashishi       Then again I loathe them: 
Aki no kure.                End of autumn. 
                   -----Chogo

Katsura-no-miyo, the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees
From the Hall of Plum Blossoms to Azumaya, the Eastern House
3 a.m., the 2nd Hour of the Ox

Standing in the corridor was a wailing, hysterical woman. Her pretty yukata of fresh green cotton was spotted in drips and dabs of dark crimson blood and the horrified expression on her face was closely akin to madness. 

"Help me!" she screamed, yanking on a double fistful of her disheveled hair until it threatened to come out in clumps. "For Buddha's sake, help me!" 

Shoji-doors were sliding open, wary occupants peeking out to discover the origin of the trouble in the corridor. Ayumi ignored the whispering, fearful audience and walked up to the woman, grateful that the palace wasn't under attack as she'd feared from the loud commotion. It was just an overwrought woman whose maid had probably cut herself on a pair of nail shears. 

"What is the matter?" she asked calmly, although her pulse was still racing in reaction to imagined danger. "I will help you." 

In the meantime, Kimiko scrambled inelegantly through the hole the samurai had made in her wall and was peering at the weeping woman in shocked recognition. "That's Lady Sakura-hime, one of the Son of Heaven's honorable and blessed nyogo." 

Ayumi's brow rose. What was an imperial concubine, a second 'small-wife' of the Mikado, doing out of her official quarters in the middle of the night? "Lady Sakura-hime," she said, gently pulling the woman's hair out of her clutching fingers, "what has happened?" 

Sakura-hime, a princess of the fourth rank, stared at the samurai with round, terrified eyes. "It killed him," she whispered. "I was there. It killed him, tore him into pieces like a wild animal and devoured his soul. My pretty precious Houfu, the baiwa player... oh, Buddha, he's dead and I did nothing but flee for my miserable life! My love! Come back! Come back! Don't leave me here alone!" 

Looking at the lady's blood spotted robe in new appreciation, Ayumi put a hand on her katana hilt. "Where did this happen?" she asked shortly, black gaze steady and intense. 

"There!" Sakura-hime screamed thinly, sinking to her knees and pointing a finger towards the shadow-draped end of the corridor. "It's there! In the Eastern House! Merciful Kwannon, save me! Return my Houfu!" 

Kimiko hurried over and attempted to calm the princess. "Stay here," she ordered Ayumi curtly, cradling Sakura-hime's head in her lap. "I forbid you to go to Azumaya without a detail of bushi. It's too dangerous and I will not risk you." 

Ayumi looked down at her mistress. "Whatever the cause," she answered grimly, "someone has apparently been murdered. I don't know if it's a human agent or not, but the matter must be investigated before the criminal strikes again. Kimiko-sama, the entire palace could be in danger... even the holy person of the Mikado himself! However, your safety is my primary concern and I cannot ignore the implications of a fatal attack so near your quarters. Stay here, my lady, while I take care of this and please - I beg you - close the honorable nyogo's mouth before she commits more public treason. Now... Izumi!" 

The moon-faced maid hastened to appear and Ayumi continued in a voice that brooked no denial, "Attend to your mistress." 

Kimiko frowned. "Don't ignore me! I insist you wait here until someone comes to help!" She thrust the fainting Sakura-hime into Izumi's arms. 

Ayumi chose not to hear the girl's order. Bushido demanded that her mistress' safety come before anything else and not even a direct order from divine Buddha himself could have made her disregard that rule. Giri was giri; if Kimiko didn't know that now, she would have to learn. 

Instead of replying to her lady, the warrior turned and pointed to a pair of horrified maids who had come in from another hall to find out what was happening. "You! And you!" Ayumi barked. "Go to the rooms of the Grand Chamberlain and tell him that the supreme and honorable Lady Sakura-hime is ill and has wandered to the Hall of Plum Blossoms. The blessed lady requires attendants and a physician. Well... why are you still standing here, eh? Go!!" 

The maids gasped, turned and fled as quickly as their tight, hastily donned kimonos allowed. Kimiko's mouth dropped open and she stared up in absolute adoration at the bow-legged, powerful figure of her samurai. Merciful Kwannon, Ayumi had the cutest nose! And the most irresistibly flashing eyes! She was so bold - so fearless - so magnificent - so commanding - so... so... gone!! 

Without another word, Ayumi had turned her back and was moving down the corridor at a swift trot, shrugging out of her bulky haori jacket and tying back the voluminous sleeves of her outer kimono with a length of cord. Within seconds, she had completely disappeared. 

Kimiko got to her feet, assisted by Izumi. "Stay and comfort Lady Sakura-hime until her own attendants arrive," she ordered breathlessly. 

"Where does my noble lady think she is going?" Izumi tried to scowl but only succeeded in looking very worried. "Ayumi-san said..." 

Kimiko snatched the ivory and paper fan out of her obi and flung it to the floor as if in challenge. "I am the master here, not the other way around!" she answered. "Send the palace bushi and ga-domen to Azumaya as soon as they arrive - too late, as usual! Bakayarou!" 

Hiking up the long skirts of her robes above her knees and scandalizing everyone in the hallway, Kimiko took off after Ayumi, determined not to leave her precious samurai alone for a second. 

Although Ayumi had gotten a decent head start, it wasn't difficult to discern the path she'd taken. Obviously frustrated at the twists and turns in the maze of hallways, she'd decided to take a more direct route... plunging directly through the paper screened walls of the suites and rooms that separated the Hall of Plum Blossoms from the Eastern House. 

Kimiko stared ruefully at the shattered wreckage of wood and paper. She could actually mark Ayumi's progress quite well. Heedless of the consequences, the woman had gone through one wall after another in a more or less straight line, leaving behind a trail of warrior-shaped holes in torn paper as well as fist shaking, cursing, or hysterical occupants. 

Taking a deep breath, the young girl began walking rapidly through the ruins, following in Ayumi's wake. As she scurried through what amounted to other people's homes, she averted her eyes and began a rapid-fire litany of "Gomen nasai! Gomen nasai! Please excuse me!" punctuated once by, "Oh! I didn't know you could do that with a duck! Gomen nasai!" until she reached the end of her retainer's devastation. 

Azumaya, the Eastern House, was a section of the palace that had not been occupied in decades. Kimiko wasn't sure why it was deserted, but the seed of the imperial residence Katsura-no-miyo in the capital of Heian-kyo had been created centuries ago by First Emperor Jemmu and added on to by each successive emperor since. The palace complex was a sprawling maze of courts, corridors, halls, storage and living facilities, kitchens, laundries, shops, gardens, houses and rooms. More rooms than there are white grains of sand on the beaches of Owai, went the saying, and it was very nearly true. Katsura-no-miyo was a city in and of itself, both the hereditary dwelling of the Son of Heaven and the members of his court, as well as the center of power in the Floating World. 

Even after two years, the girl had yet to explore more than a tiny percentage of its wonders. There were many abandoned places which even the rat-catchers dared not disturb. 

It was dark in the Eastern House. Essentially a long hallway with rooms on either side, it had a window at its further end and the moon shone brightly through, sending a wash of rippling, milky light onto the varnished floorboards. It was quiet; not even a whisper of wind vexed the tomb-like silence. As Kimiko tip-toed along, opening her eyes wide in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Ayumi in the shadowy blackness, her tabi-clad foot crunched loudly into something and she jumped back with a strangled shriek. 

Instantly, a warm presence appeared at her side. "My lady? This is no place for you. Please go back at once." 

It was Ayumi. Kimiko pressed a hand to her throat, trying to still the over-rapid fluttering of her heart. "What did I step on?" 

"A broken paper lantern." Ayumi moved away slightly and a bar of moonlight illuminated her face. "Kimiko-sama, please go back." 

"What is it? What has happened?" 

The warrior sighed. "I found the remains of the baiwa player, Houfu. Apparently, you were not the only noble lady with the Clouds and Rain on her mind tonight. He and Sakura-hime must have met here because it is very quiet and they were unlikely to be disturbed." 

"Was Houfu murdered?" Kimiko couldn't help darting her glance around the corridor, anticipating some dreadful, green-faced monster or giant claw to emerge from the silence at any moment. Or worse, a band of black-clad ninjas wielding esoteric weapons and poison smoke. 

"Yes, in a manner of speaking. Please, my lady... you do not want to see this." Ayumi put out a hand and wrapped it around the young girl's arm. "I will escort you back to the Hall of Plum Blossoms." She gently but firmly began to guide Kimiko away. 

The girl resisted. "Please, Ayumi-san... what has happened?!" 

The samurai sighed again. Her voice, when it came out of the darkness, was as reassuring as her touch, but the words made a chill race down Kimiko's spine. "The baiwa player has been devoured by a hungry ghost. There is nothing more to be done here. Let us return to light and life." 

Kimiko was frozen with horror. A yureii destroyed more than the body, it completely drained and consumed the vital ki energies, effectively eating the victim's soul and leaving an empty space on the Wheel of Rebirth. It was the most horrible fate imaginable and the girl reacted accordingly. "A hungry ghost? Here?" She whipped her head from side to side, trying to see everywhere at once. "Merciful Kwannon!" 

"Please do not overexcite yourself, my lady." Ayumi's voice held more than a trace of staid amusement. "Unless you are a middle-aged baiwa player with the sole virtue of possessing a jade pestle the size of a turnip, you have nothing to fear." 

Kimiko began to relax a little, although now she pretended to be frightened and slyly snuggled into the safety of Ayumi's arms. While a yureii was a terrible thing, they were still bound by certain limitations - a hungry ghost was only permitted to attack a specific victim for the purposes of personal revenge. 

"If it was only after Houfu, that explains how Sakura-hime escaped," the girl said, her words muffled against Ayumi's kimono. The cool silk felt wonderful against her burning cheeks, and the amazing contrast she could feel between the samurai's hard muscle and certain areas of womanly softness caused her to experience a chill of a different kind. 

Ayumi grunted as Kimiko's hands roamed indiscriminately and she politely disengaged herself from her mistress' clutching, groping grasp. "We need to return to your quarters before the palace ga-domen and bushi arrive." 

"I'm certain you could beat them all, imperial guards and common warriors alike," the girl murmured. 

The samurai rolled her eyes, knowing her expression couldn't be discerned in the dark. "Kimiko-sama, if you do not want to be arrested, we must leave immediately." 

"Arrested? We haven't done anything wrong!" 

"We are both witnesses; someone in authority will want to question us about what we've seen here. From what I remember of palace law, my lady, that is enough to detain us at the very least." 

"But we haven't done anything wrong!" Kimiko felt secure enough on this point to repeat it. 

Ayumi silently asked Buddha for patience. "My lady... one of the Mikado's concubines has had an illicit liaison with a commoner - that's high treason. His dead body is here - where we will be found. We are witnesses to both the princess' confession, if you care to call it that, and the unmistakable evidence of her lover's body - which is rigid in more places than one and has an imperial purple ribbon tied around his jade pole. It is not unreasonable to assume that someone, perhaps the Dowager Empress, might want this evidence of a concubine's infidelity suppressed, especially since the Mikado is so young and public executions are so messy. If such were the case, what do you think will happen to anyone unfortunate enough to get involved?" 

That made sense in a twisty political way but Kimiko still wasn't convinced. "My uncle will not allow..." 

"The Kanpuko will not be here. A group of hairy, ignorant, sleepy, half-drunk men with many sharp weapons will, and while I would gladly forfeit my life to save you from the humiliation of being publicly dragged to the Son of Heaven's dungeons, I think a little prudence will save us both a great deal of trouble." 

Ayumi was on the point of hoisting the stubborn chit over her shoulder and carrying her back to the Hall of Plum Blossoms when there was a sudden flood of lantern light. 

Kimiko opened her mouth to argue further... but the sound of sandals slapping rapidly on the floor and the roar of men's voices shouting commands to "Halt!" effectively drowned out anything she was going to say. 

It was too late to flee... 

Officers of the Mikado's law had arrived. 

Ayumi whispered, "Fortunately, your high rank will protect you from the torturer's art... I hope." 

Kimiko squeaked and stared, too frightened to make another sound... 

And the samurai smiled slightly, very well pleased by her new mistress' blessed silence, indeed. 

CHAPTER SIX - The Reflection of the Law

Yoizame no                   Autumn waters 
Kore ya konoyo no       Of this world wake me 
Aki no mizu.                  From my drunkeness. 
                 ----- Enryo

Katsura-no-miyo, the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees
The Wellspring of the Mirror, audience hall of the Kanpuko Fujiwara Saneyoshi
5 a.m., the second Hour of the Tiger

Fujiwara Saneyoshi, Kanpuko and the most feared nobleman in the Floating World, second only in rank to Emperor Kaika and his mother, the Dowager Empress, did not look like a man hastily roused from his bed in the early hours of the morning. 

In complete disregard for fashion - which dictated that kimono colors, patterns and even thicknesses be changed in strict accordance with the seasons - he was dressed in his usual thin, dark gray robes, the dull silk enlivened only by a discreet pattern of white feathers on hems and neckline. His overmantle had big, stiff black shoulder wings of cotton stretched over bowed bamboo that were likewise unadorned. 

As befitting his high station, the black gauze cap on his head was extremely tall and impressive, much higher than anyone else was allowed to wear, and the binding cord that crossed his cheeks and tied beneath his chin helped give him a stern, solemn expression. 

However simply he preferred to present himself, even Saneyoshi-sama had to bow to some imperial customs. Like all noblemen, his eyebrows had been shaved and his hairline artificially heightened by plucking, leaving him with a semicircular bald spot that stretched from his forehead nearly to the crown of his head. As a married man of high rank, he wore the most formal court make-up; his face was covered with a thick coating of white lead, enlivened by blue paint in the area of his tonsure; false eyebrows smudged on with paulownia ash high on his forehead gave him the much admired "surprise" look; and his teeth had been blackened. 

These necessary affectations may have given the Kanpuko the appearance of a high blooded fop but Saneyoshi-sama was far from that - he was a ruthless, expedient man who would rather have swallowed his own tongue than give up a single mote of the immense power he wielded. 

"You are Ichijo Ayumi, daughter of the Twin Waves clan," he said gruffly,  not asking questions but making statements of fact. He sat cross-legged on a flat cushion, staring down at the woman warrior from the vantage of a raised dais. "Despite your female sex, you are a martial samurai of the 2nd rank, hereditary class. You studied at the Diving Crows school and received your sword from your father. You are a retainer of the daimyo Inokuma Yorimachi." 

A pair of tough looking men dressed in plain brown kimono and hakama crouched behind him, left hands knuckle-down on the floor, their right hands on the hilts of their katanas, almost in an attitude of attack. They did not carry the shortsword because they were bushi rather than samurai, common warriors for hire. The Regent surrounded himself with a growling, posturing pack of these unsworn soldiers, who were nicknamed the kasojiji's dogs, as well as the more usual samurai retainers. 

Ayumi knelt on a tatami in front of the dais, staring down the hands clasped in her lap. Only the fact that Kimiko was waiting outside with a contingent of the imperial ga-domen kept her from insisting on not being separated from the girl she had sworn to serve. "I was a retainer of Yorimachi-sama, my lord," she said. "He dismissed me from his service yesterday." 

Saneyoshi-sama shot the woman a sharp glare, his mouth screwed up in a frighteningly fierce frown. "Then what were you doing with my niece in the Eastern House, ronin? Did you hope to take her for ransom? Did you think by threatening her life you could gain a fat blood price? Eh, masterless one?!!" 

"Iye, my lord! Gomen nasai!" Ayumi risked a glance; the Regent's face was as forbidding as an oni devil mask. "I would never do such a thing! It is true that my former lord abandoned me but I have since had the honor of having my services accepted by another." 

"Oh?" This pronouncement seemed to take Saneyoshi-sama aback. It was clear that his information sources hadn't caught him up on all of the night's events. He slammed his iron-ribbed fan down on the dais, clearly annoyed. "And who is your new overlord?" 

Ayumi tried to still her thudding heartbeat by will alone. "Gomen nasai. Your niece, my lord. Fujiwara no Kimiko." 

The Kanpuko's eyes widened... then narrowed into tiny slits. For a long time, he said nothing at all. Ayumi took in the fragrance of the man's favorite incense - a musky sweet, slightly acrid odor called Fires of Fuji - and waited, trying to calm her thoughts and ease the tightness in her chest by breathing exercises. 

Meanwhile, the Regent was thinking furiously. 

What has my scatter brained niece gotten herself into? he fumed silently. It is bad enough that the Dowager Empress - may devils gnaw her boil-poxed buttocks! - is insisting on Lady Sakura-hime's infidelity being covered up to spare the Son of Heaven the humiliation of his concubine being publicly executed. Now this!

He'd known that bringing the provincial girl to court would cause some trouble, particularly since she'd never been exposed to the deep, dangerous waters of Emperor Kaika's world. He'd been poised to hush up whatever minor scandals might erupt around Kimiko but to his surprise, the girl hadn't done badly at all, taking to a noblewoman's life as if she'd imbibed protocol and fashion with her wetnurse's milk. Kimiko was still quite naive and blissfully unaware of the darker side of palace life, but her wide-eyed innocence was considered charming instead of a disadvantage. She truly loved her uncle and had always come to him for advice on matters great and small, deferring to his instructions with a fine sense of filial obligation and respect. 

Now she'd apparently taken a personal retainer without his knowledge. Saneyoshi-sama's frown grew deeper. The Regent had plans for his niece... and they did not involve her suddenly discovering an independent streak or being encouraged to disobedience by the presence of this unorthodox samurai. 

"The ceremony was witnessed?" he asked finally. 

Ayumi kept her head bowed. "Hai, my lord. By a bonze from the temple of Hachiman and by my lady's maid, Izumi." 

"Ah, I see." 

The Regent thought some more. He could send for the priest and the maid, interrogating them to make sure the ritual ceremony had been legally binding, but he had a feeling that he'd find no discrepancies. How unlike his niece to take such a step without consulting him first! He briefly wondered if the woman warrior had worked some magic on Kimiko but dismissed the thought. She looked more the type to bludgeon someone into submission than use more subtle methods. 

He did not like this. He did not like this at all! A devious and dangerous man himself, Saneyoshi-sama always suspected the worst of everyone. He spent a while examining his niece's actions and assigning possible motives, running through dozens of scenarios and schemes, following each trail of supposition to its bitter end. At last, he decided that this Ayumi would simply have to be eliminated - it was the safest course of action, even if Kimiko's motives had been innocent. At the very least, it would serve to bind the girl more closely to him, make her more dependent on him for guidance and advice. 

It wouldn't be the first time that someone close to Kimiko disappeared. Saneyoshi-sama took great interest in his niece's friends and anyone who was in danger of supplanting the loving uncle in her affections made a sudden acquaintance with a knife in the dark. It was vitally important to his plan that the girl remain compliant and submissive to his wishes; he simply would not tolerate any other way. 

So used to being surrounded by servants whom he considered practically deaf and invisible, without realizing it the Kanpuko murmured aloud, "What has been witnessed can be unwitnessed." 

Ayumi looked up at this remark... and simultaneously, a row erupted outside the room. 

The lord's bushi looked at him for instructions but he shook his head. 

A moment later, the shoji-door slid open and Kimiko stumbled inside. 

"Kimiko-chan," the Regent said calmly, "did you grow weary of waiting for me in the corridor? So sorry, little one, but business must come before pleasure. I do hope you didn't permanently injure anyone in your rush." 

"Uncle-san, gomen nasai!" Kimiko seemed out of breath. One of the imperial ga-domen poked his head inside the room; his eye was bruised and swelling rapidly. The girl let the shattered remains of her fan flutter to the floor and bowed deeply. "I... I apologize for my impatience," she continued. 

Saneyoshi-sama nodded. "You may go," he coolly ordered the scowling ga-domen. The man's expression changed to one of abject fear and he immediately exited, closing the door behind him. 

Kimiko knelt on the mat in front of Ayumi. "Uncle-san, I suppose you've heard that Ichijo Ayumi is sworn as a personal retainer to me." 

He nodded again and she said in a rush, "A woman of my rank is entitled by law to personal retainers. I have chosen Ayumi-san." 

Saneyoshi-sama sighed. "Little one, you don't need to quote the law to me. Our ancestors created it." 

Kimiko stared at him defiantly although she felt sick and faint. This was the first time she'd confronted her uncle directly instead of meekly allowing him to have his way. She loved the Regent and was sure he loved her in return, although she was still more than a little frightened of the man. She was ignorant of some of his blacker exploits but had heard enough from court gossip to make her wary. Now Ayumi came first in her affections and she was determined not to back down. 

Her worry for Ayumi had grown while she'd been waiting in the corridor. Bribing one of the ga-domen to take a message to Izumi, she'd asked the maid to bring one of the court law diviners in case uncle-san proved to be difficult. When she'd heard his involuntary remark regarding 'no witnesses', she'd panicked and rushed in, certain her beloved samurai was on the verge of being executed. 

There was a polite scratching on the door. The shoji slid open and a voice announced, "Doctor Phoenix." 

The law diviner came inside and after bowing deeply to the Regent, settled himself on the mats with much creaking and stiffness. He was an old man, as evinced by the scanty white locks scattered over his liver spotted head, the toothless gums and trembling, gnarled hands. Doctor Phoenix wore a simple sleeveless robe in saffron yellow, which exposed the wrinkled, sagging flesh of his arms, and went barefoot. His feet were as warped and twisted as cypress knots and his toenails that had not been cut recently. 

While the laws of the Floating World were carefully written down and stored in the Thousand Year Shrine of Zenmai, no one wanted to plow through thousand upon thousand of scrolls seeking specific answers to their questions. The office of law diviner was a hereditary one, passed down from father to son, and involved memorizing every law of Wa, from common to obscure, and sharing their knowledge as required. This was a sacred and holy occupation; law diviners were exempt from taxes and military obligations, received a pension from the imperial household and their persons were inviolable on pain of immediate execution. As far as rank was concerned, the lowliest diviner held a social position above that of an emperor, for even the Son of Heaven must be obedient to the law. 

Doctor Phoenix had served the imperial household for forty years. His son, Little Phoenix, would take over the position upon his father's death. 

The octagonal mirror tied around the old man's forehead flashed as he eyed the silent occupants of the room. When he spoke, the two halves of his long, thin, drooping mustache quivered. "You summoned me, sire?" 

Saneyoshi-sama replied grimly, "No, most honorable. It is my niece who has disturbed your rest." 

Doctor Phoenix slowly turned to regard Kimiko. "Why have you called me, my lady?" 

Kimiko gulped, feeling the weight of her uncle's disapproving eyes upon her as well. "I have recently sworn a samurai into my service. I wish to know what the law says about such matters." 

"Is the noble lady unmarried?" 

Kimiko nodded and the diviner went on, "And this is the samurai in question?" 

Ayumi answered softly, "Hai, most honored." 

Doctor Phoenix looked again at the rigid figure of Saneyoshi-sama. "Do you wish me to instruct the noble lady in private, my lord?" 

"No," the Regent said with a twist to his lips. "Please go ahead." He could feel his plan slipping through his fingers; as long as he could have claimed ignorance over the samurai's true status, he could have eliminated her without a second thought. But now, after Kimiko had made such a fuss and dragged an honorable diviner into it, he would have to bide his time and wait for another opportunity. It wouldn't do to be caught flouting the law of the land; even the Kanpuko could lose his head over such a public mis-step. He hid a disappointed scowl behind his sleeve as the old man's quavering voice filled the room. 

Doctor Phoenix chanted nasally, "Gaze into the mirror and see reflected there the personification of the divine law of heaven!" - the traditional phrase which indicated he was ready to begin. 

As Kimiko listened attentively, the old man continued, "Noble lady, as an unmarried woman, you may swear four personal retainers to your service. These may only be samurai, of good clans and excellent reputation. We need not concern ourselves with the injunction against strange men since your retainer is unquestionably female." Doctor Phoenix drew a rasping breath. "The duties of your retainer are thus - to attend to your personal safety at all times without regard for their own, to obey your commands without question, to follow the tenants of bushi and never fail in their duty towards you." 

Saneyoshi-sama lowered his sleeve and asked abruptly, "What is the difference between common and personal retainers?" 

The diviner cleared his throat. "A common retainer may be either samurai or bushi, sworn in fealty with binding oaths to his lord, although he also owes allegiance to the lord's personal retainers; anyone above his lord in rank may command his services at will, providing their lord agrees, thus preserving the chain of command and duty that heaven has decreed. Now, a personal retainer may not be separated from his lord and cannot be commanded to obey another, no matter how high the other's rank. He is an extension of his lord's will, takes charge of his lord's personal security and other private matters, and commands his lord's common retainers." 

The Regent regarded Kimiko impassively. "Did you swear this woman as your personal or common retainer?" 

"Personal." Kimiko's tone could have almost been considered pert. The law was on her side and she was feeling quite a lot more confident, knowing her uncle-san couldn't take Ayumi away. 

For her part, Ayumi just wished it would be over. She was well aware that Saneyoshi-sama didn't approve of her link to Kimiko and everything she'd heard about the ruthless Kanpuko suggested that his solution to this problem would be expedient and bloody. She wished she hadn't been forced to surrender her swords before entering into this interview. On the other hand, Lord Old Fart's dogs owed their reputation more to bullying than actual skill; she had no doubt she could take both of them before the alarm was raised. 

Better to die as a warrior than live as a coward, she thought. Still, unless and until Kimiko ordered such action, or until the samurai decided it was necessary to save her mistress from danger, Ayumi watched, listened and waited. 

Saneyoshi-sama bowed low to the old law diviner. "Thank you, most honorable. We have taken up enough of your time." 

The ancient man unwound himself from the mats with difficulty and returned the Regent's bow. 

As soon as Doctor Phoenix had gone, the Kanpuko turned his attention back to his wayward niece. "I cannot change what has been done," he said a bit wearily. "Shigata ga nai. I can only say that I am disappointed in you, little one. Swearing a retainer is not done on lightly or on a whim and I wish you had consulted me first. You, too, have obligations and duties towards your samurai. I only hope you are mature enough to appreciate the honor and difficulty that attend your new role." 

Kimiko didn't smile but her face glowed. "Domo arigato gozaimasu," she said, touching her forehead to the floor. "Thank you very much, uncle-san." 

Ayumi said nothing and didn't move a hair. The immediate danger was past but she had glimpsed the brief, unguarded look of hate in Saneyoshi-sama's fathomless eyes. She would have to be careful not to call too much attention to herself and hope that the Regent's animosity would lessen in time. The samurai didn't know why he was so angry with her and thought, Perhaps I should seek a discreet source of information and discover what secrets our glorious Kanpuko has up his sleeve.

Kimiko sighed in pure happiness but Saneyoshi-sama wasn't finished yet. An excellent plan had just occurred to him, a way to get rid of Ayumi without compromising his position or reputation. 

I'd almost forgotten, he thought gloatingly. Oh, this is an elegant solution, indeed.

"The Dowager Empress has asked me to take care of a small problem which occurred last night - that business of Lady Sakura-hime and a baiwa player," the Regent said. "I speak of this so openly because you are already aware of the situation." 

Ayumi felt the small hairs on the back of her neck begin to rise and she involuntarily put a hand on the hilt of her longsword. Instantly, the bushi on the dais partially drew their katanas and stared at her intensely. 

Unperturbed, Saneyoshi-sama continued, "You are the only ones who saw the baiwa player's body and can link it to the concubine's ravings. Palace gossip has been satisfied by the invention of a sudden fever and Sakura-hime is confined to her quarters until the infection has passed, thus preserving the honor of the Son of Heaven. To make sure her divine child is spared humiliation and pain, the Dowager has given me secret orders to have any witnesses executed. Fortunately, I can use my discretion to save you, niece." He permitted himself a small, smug smile. 

To Kimiko's horror, her uncle-san then said, "Gomen nasai, but I cannot spare the samurai. You must order her to commit immediate seppuku." 

Ayumi tensed. 

The growling bushi whipped out their swords... 

And Kimiko stared in complete disbelief. 

CHAPTER SEVEN - Brief as a Cherry Blossom

Mika no hara              Over Mika's plain
Wakite nagaruru         Gushing forth and flowing free,
Izumi-gawa                 Is Izumi's stream.
Itsu mi kitote ka          I do not know if we have met:
Koishi karuran.           Why, then, do I long for her?
         -----Chunagon Kanesuke

Katsura-no-miyo, the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees
From the Wellspring of the Mirror to Kyudan,  Gathering Court of Wa
8 a.m., the first Hour of the Dragon to 10 a.m., the first Hour of the Snake

Shaking off her fear, Kimiko sucked in a breath, flung out a hand and cried loudly, "Machinasai! Wait!!!" 

The two bushi on the dais flickered their eyes towards her but did not relax their aggressive stance. 

Ayumi murmured, "Baka wa shinanakya naoranai..." - a fool is cured only by dying. The insult was directed towards the brown-clad Dogs who now held fully drawn swords in an outswept position, the slightly slanted tips of their katanas resting lightly on the floor. 

Kimiko hissed, "Don't be a fool yourself! Damare! Keep quiet, retainer, I so command!" 

Ayumi did not remove her hand from the wire-bound hilt of her longsword. "If I am ordered to join Buddha, my lady, I request a few moments to compose my death poem." 

"Damare!" Kimiko repeated. Her brain was whirling a thousand ri per second, trying to come up with a solution to this sudden, shocking problem. 

The Regent allowed himself a small, almost undetectable smirk. "Should you require any assistance in funerary preparations for your retainer, little one, I will be more than happy to assist." 

Ayumi was not afraid to die; few samurai lived to see old age and it was considered shameful to lose one's life outside of battle. But although she had only met Kimiko last evening, and under such embarrassing circumstances, she had already grown a little fond of her young, impetuous mistress. 

It is a pity, the samurai thought, that our time together has been so short. I thought we shared a common unmei; now that promise will never bear fruit. Truly, Benten-sama has a strange sense of humor.

The luck god had brought them together; now it seemed he was tearing them apart. Shigata ga nai. The ways of the gods were incomprehensible and sometimes Ayumi thought the universe was just a big practical joke to the deities who watched over the Floating World. 

For her part, Kimiko was stunned. She'd never really considered her uncle to be a bad man; a little ruthless, perhaps, more expedient than diplomatic, but she'd never known him to be deliberately cruel. However, she knew full well that if he wanted to, Saneyoshi-sama could extend mercy to Ayumi. She'd caught his imperceptible smirk and the realization that he was enjoying this came as a shock. 

Ayumi licked her lips. "My lady, perhaps you should not witness this..." 

The Regent interrupted with a snort. "Of course she will witness your death! It is part of her duty as your overlord." He turned to his white-faced niece. "And you will watch, Kimiko-chan, even if I must pry your eyelids open. You have insisted upon assuming responsibilities you are not ready for; well, let this be your lesson then. Giri is giri, little one, and cannot be escaped or denied." 

Ayumi bristled at the threat towards her mistress but knew she was powerless to address it. Instead, in an attempt to give some slight amount of comfort to the girl, she said, "Do not be sad, my lady. Life is brief as a cherry blossom and death more beautiful than a sunset. Do your duty and I will do mine." 

Kimiko rolled her eyes. She had the feeling that she was trapped in a nightmare and any minute she would awaken to the smell of fresh tea and the feel of sunlight on her face. Unfortunately, she also knew that this was reality and if she didn't think of something quickly, she would lose the woman she loved. 

"Be silent!" she commanded her lunatic samurai who seemed hell-bent on suicide. A desperate idea had occurred to her; not a solution but a means of buying time. "Uncle-san... I regret that I cannot immediately comply with your wishes." 

"Wishes?" The Kanpuko's bare brow ridges rose and he scowled. "Niece, I have given you a command in the name of the Dowager which I fully expect to be obeyed!" 

Kimiko bowed low, touching her forehead to the mats. "Gomen nasai, uncle-san. There are many preparations to be made first, as I'm sure you know. I must send to the Court of Flying Scribes for suitable paper for my retainer's death poem; I must purchase death kimonos appropriate to her rank; I must arrange services at the Shrine of Fallen Warriors; I will have to commission a red urn coffin and engage the services of a barber to shave her head; there will have to be perfumers to anoint her body, bonzes to prepare the cremation fire, bone-grinders must be brought in from the Unclean Village to reduce the corpse to ash, a holy blacksmith must perform the breaking-sword ceremony... oh! So many things!" 

Saneyoshi-sama's scowl grew more frightening. "Little one, we are talking about the death of one samurai of middling rank, not the suicide of an Emperor!" 

"But uncle-san! Is not my rank and blood of the highest in the land? Will not the perfection of Ayumi's death ceremonies reflect upon me?" Kimiko glanced up with glittering black eyes; she had inherited more than a little of the Regent's ruthlessness, although that part of herself had been long asleep. Now a dragon coiled around her spine, roused by love and desperation; the shy, weak-willed girl had been replaced by a cunning tigress who would stop at nothing to rescue her beloved retainer. 

She pressed her point home, continuing, "You are the most powerful man in Wa, barring the Son of Heaven. My actions reflect upon you, uncle-san. If I lose face because my retainer died poorly, will you not lose face as well?" 

The Kanpuko paused, gripping his iron-ribbed fan so hard it creaked. Face was a difficult concept for an outsider to understand; it combined pride, self-worth, ego and much more. To lose face was a great and sometimes lasting shame; many would rather die than suffer such an embarrassment... himself included. By appealing to this side of the Regent, Kimiko had unerringly hit her target. 

"Very well," Saneyoshi-sama yielded with poor grace. "You have until the second Hour of the Monkey." 

"But uncle-san!" Kimiko exclaimed. "That is only nine hours, not nearly enough time!" 

"Mou!" the Regent roared. "Enough!" He slammed his fan down and glared, face screwed up into a devil's mask of thwarted fury. "At the Hour of the Monkey, I expect to see your retainer in the Courtyard of the Magpie Bridge, fully accoutered and ready to obey her mistress' command. There will be no more arguments, no more debates, no more squirming! Little one, you will do your duty! Do you understand?" 

"Hai! Wakarimashita!" Kimiko bowed her head in acknowledgment. "The second Hour of the Monkey." 

Saneyoshi-sama ground his teeth together in frustration. Nothing was going the way he wanted! 

"Now, get out!" he almost shouted. "Go! Begone! I do not wish to see either of you again until the appointed time!" 

"Hai, uncle-san!" Kimiko rose and with Ayumi silently following her, fled out of the Wellspring of the Mirror and away from the furious Regent. 

Once in the corridor, Ayumi touched Kimiko's shoulder. "This delay serves no purpose," she said calmly, her face expressionless. "The Regent might be your blood relative, my lady, but if you enrage him enough, he might forget you are kin." 

That was as much of a warning as the samurai felt she could deliver; it was not her place to disillusion her mistress as to the Kanpuko's true character. Ayumi had heard enough stories from Blue Carp and others to know that Saneyoshi-sama was a power-hungry tyrant held in check only by the Son of Heaven and his fierce, protective mother, the Dowager. 

Kimiko sighed and laid a hand on her samurai's cheek. "If he had no affection for me, Ayumi-san, he would have ordered me dead as well. No, my uncle-san has a fine sense of family duty; I am in no danger from him. You, on the other hand... whatever possessed you to come to my uncle's attention so soon? I hoped to introduce you to him under better circumstances!" 

Ayumi prayed for patience and forebear to point out that their arrest had been Kimiko's fault. If she hadn't insisted on dawdling in the Eastern House, they would have gotten away and been spared all this trouble. Or perhaps not; who could understand the workings of unmei? Instead of answering the girl's unfair accusation, the samurai said dispassionately, "Forgive my foolishness, my lady." 

"Baka! Oh, well. Shigata ga nai. It can't be helped now. Come, we must hurry. I have another idea and the court will be opening soon; we must get changed and prepare for the imperial presence." 

Court? Ayumi opened her mouth to ask questions but Kimiko had already turned and was flying down the corridor as quickly as decorum allowed. 

The warrior followed in her bow-legged, flat footed trot. Shigata ga nai. 

She could only hope that her noble mistress' impetuous nature wouldn't get them out of the brazier and into the cooking coals. 

Kyudan, the Gathering Court of Wa, where all the nobility came together to bask in the imperial presence of His Majestic Highness, the Mikado, the Son of Heaven, Oho Wakai Yamato Nekohito Oho Bibino no Mikoto, known as Emperor Kaika... who was only nine years old. 

Every morning it was the same. At dawn, bronze and iron bells rang out in myriad towers, welcoming the sun goddess, Amaterasu, the ultimate grand-mother of the imperial dynasty, to another day of granting her divine presence and golden glow upon the earth. In the three sacred shrines attached to the palace, billows of incense smoke and the droning chants of priests competed with the deep, hollow booming of conch shell trumpets and the clashing of gongs. Servants wakened their mistresses and masters, the kitchens bustled, shops opened, couriers began their daily rounds of message bearing, and the hereditary palace of the Emperors of the Floating World resembled an anthill stirred with a stick as thousands of people went about a new morning's business. 

In the first minute of the Hour of the Snake, there began a grand procession into Kyudan, performed by all the nobles and their wives. After this came the lords' servants, entertainers, musicians, dancers, jugglers, poets and petitioners. When everyone had found their place - dictated by a custom that was stronger than law - the divine Emperor Kaika, his mother Lady Hisame the Dowager Empress, and the boy's nurse, Lady Butterfly, mounted the high dais at the end of the vast room and knelt on cushions to receive the ritual homage of their subjects. 

Thus did every day begin in Katsura-no-miyo and despite the excitement of the previous evening - not to mention the conspicuous absence of Sakura-hime, the supposedly feverish concubine - the court opening ceremony continued as usual. 

As Kaika was only nine years old, he was not expected to sit on the imperial dais for hours at a time; in fact, this public court only lasted as long as it took to burn nine incense sticks - approximately two hours. After that, the nobles scattered to their own pursuits and the child Emperor to his studies. 

Like the rest, Kimiko knocked her forehead against the floor three times to signal her obedience and reverence to the Son of Heaven. Behind her and slightly to the left, Ayumi did the same; although not of noble blood, the samurai's presence was allowed because of her status as the girl's personal retainer. 

Noble men and ladies knelt in serried ranks, the colors of their outer robes reflecting their rank. The Emperor and his mother were dressed in a purple so deep as to appear almost black; the Dowager's mantle and her son's hakama were a gorgeous gold brocade studded with pearls, the only jeweled ornaments permitted in open court. The first rank of nobles, those who bore the proud title of oshaku - Duke - were dressed in a lighter purple that  indicated their distant connection with the imperial line. Behind them knelt the lesser peers, clad in the dark scarlet known as 'the color of feeling'. The third row was a sea of charcoal gray; daimyos, the martial lords who were not royal but still the backbone of Wa, paid proud homage. And beyond them were the commoners who had come to entertain the Mikado; they and the servants of the hall prostrated themselves and moaned in humble supplication. 

The high abbot of Koreidan, the imperial shrine containing the bones of Kaika's ancestors, sang a nasal prayer and lit bronze bowls of incense in every corner of the room. There were twelve steps leading up to the Emperor's dais; on the fourth step squatted the Jijucho, the Grand Chamberlain, whose task it was to ensure that all the necessary rituals were completed successfully and smoothly. As soon as the abbot finished, the Jijucho nodded, a gong was rung, and the opening ceremony complete. 

Kaika was given a paper ball to play with while the Dowager Empress and his nurse looked on indulgently. 

Released from ceremonial restraint, the nobles and daimyos began talking amongst themselves. Because it was forbidden by protocol to speak aloud unless one was replying to the Emperor, everyone whispered behind their fans, exchanging gossip and news, making assignations, ruining reputations, planning outings, picnics and poetry contests or complaining about this and that. The soft susurration of noise surrounded Ayumi, who began to feel very uncomfortable. 

It's like being caught in a cricket cage! she thought, careful to allow none of her discomfort to show on her face. If my lady has to face this every morning before she eats her rice, it's no wonder she's slightly mad!

Kimiko caught the samurai's eye. Gathering the luxurious folds of her multi-layered, light purple robes, the girl began shuffling on her knees towards the imperial dais. Ayumi following, doing the more masculine crawl-walk. There was good reason why few, if any, walked on their feet in the imperial presence. It was taboo for anyone to take a position that was higher than the Emperor's head, and although Kaika sat on a high dais, it was still much safer to move about in an awkward shuffle than risk impiety and the Dowager's wrath. 

People politely made room for them to pass, although a few hissed their annoyance behind their sleeves. Ayumi marked these last as potential enemies, raising her flashing eyes and imprinting their faces on her memory. One daimyo who was arranging a courtesan for the evening took great exception to being interrupted... until he got a good look at the warrior's grim face. After he melted meekly aside, the women had no more trouble. 

It took quite a while to transverse the great hall but soon, Kimiko knelt at the bottom of the dais, arranging her kimonos gracefully and then making a profound bow. Ayumi, unfamiliar with high court protocol, followed her lady's example. 

The Dowager Empress, Lady Hisame, whose name meant "frowning woman", let her usually down-curved lips curl slightly upward in a smile when she noticed the girl. "Ah, Kimiko-san! How lovely that you join us. My son was asking about you the other day; he wondered when you were going to compose another wonderful poem for us." 

Kimiko bowed again. "Domo arigato gozaimasu," she said in thanks. "Alas, I regret that I have no poetry in my heart today." 

"What's this?" Lady Hisame wrinkled her forehead. "Can it be possible? What has happened, child?" 

The Emperor's nurse, Lady Butterfly, nodded wisely. "Thwarted in love, no doubt. She is young; such sadness passes away as quickly as a summer rain." The plain woman leaned forward and caught the Mikado's sleeve between two fingers. "Many regrets, Your Majesty, but I do not think it polite to strike Lord Oda with your ball." 

Kaika smiled, showing fashionably blackened teeth. He wore his hair in a child's tonsure, a semi-circle plucked between forehead and crown, with two oiled locks allowed to frame his face on either side. The back of his hair had been gathered at the nape of his neck with a gilt cord and allowed to hang down his back. "Please, Lady Kimiko, tell us a poem!" He clapped his hands and grinned more widely; the thick white paint on his face, along with the circles of rouge on his cheeks and lips, gave him the appearance of a doll. 

The Dowager tapped her fan against her upper lip and narrowed her eyes in thought. "Not today, my son. The lady has misplaced her happiness." 

Lady Hisame was an ambitious woman; as a fifth concubine of little rank, she'd been joined to the previous Emperor Asai when a young girl, bearing his only son and heir. Having risen to the second highest position in the land and gotten a taste for power, she'd had it all snatched away from her by the untimely death of her husband. Relegated to the background because the laws of Wa did not allow a woman to rule, she'd nevertheless used her will, wiles and ruthlessness to carve out her own considerable niche in the tangled intrigue that made up the politics of the Floating World. 

She intended to be a shadow empress, ruling Wa through her son. She and the Regent were blood enemies and she would go to any lengths to ensure that when the time came, Kaika would dance to the tune she played. Lady Hisame cultivated Kimiko because of the girl's link to the Kanpuko, intending to use that bond someday to further her ambitious plans. 

So, Saneyoshi-sama's niece has been touched by sorrow, the Dowager thought, correctly interpreting the implications of Kimiko's courtly phrase. I wonder what Lord Old Fart's done. She spent more than a few sticks of time in his audience hall this morning. The matter could be important; I must learn what has been going on.

"Come with me, child," Lady Hisame said aloud, surprising both Kimiko and Ayumi. "I think it best we speak away from the elephant ears of gossips." 

Every eye in the room was riveted to the commanding figure of the Dowager Empress and all conversation ceased. 

Rising gracefully, the Dowager walked down the steps of the dais while the Grand Chamberlain gaped in astonishment. "But Your Highness!" he protested, so strongly that the tall gauze cap on his head quivered like a willow tree in a gale. "You cannot leave yet! Court has not been dismissed!" 

He dared not scold her for ignoring protocol and standing in the presence of her divine son; all men knew that trying to stop the Dowager from following her own will was like breaking wind in a typhoon. Still, as the person responsible for court functions, the Chamberlain felt some small protest was necessary. 

Lady Hisame gave him a smile that was more like a shark's hungry grin. "Please get out of my way, honorable Jijucho, before I am forced to use your neck as a stepping stone." The threat was unmistakable and the portly, middle-aged man scrambled to clear a path for this powerful woman. 

Pausing beside the kneeling forms of Kimiko and Ayumi, the Dowager said, "Rise and walk with me, children. My bones have no wish to spend the next hour knee-walking through this pretty tomb." 

Exchanging a glance, the lady and her samurai quietly got up and followed the glittering, gorgeous Lady Hisame as she swayed in her weighty robes towards a private chamber nearby. 

Behind them, the crowd inside the Gathering Court burst into a frenzy of whispering. 

Emperor Kaika batted his paper ball with a fan, oblivious to his mother's machinations. "May I have another rice cake?" he asked. 

Lady Butterfly suppressed the urge to snatch the child up and press him protectively to her broad bosom. The poor little boy, a guppy in a pool of pike. So many plots, so many threads of deception! Shigata ga nai. That is his ordained path but I still feel sorry for the child.

She wiped away a tear with the corner of her sleeve and offered the Emperor a plate of his favorite snacks while the whispering around them rose to a discreet but frenzied roar. 

CHAPTER EIGHT - Paper Tiger Dreams

Moromoro no               Tender winds above the snows 
Nayami mo kiyuru         Melt many kinds 
Yuki no kaze.                Of suffering. 
                 -----Kyutara

Katsura-no-miyo, the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees
From the Vista of Falling Leaves to the Hall of Plum Blossoms
11 a.m., the second Hour of the Snake

The Dowager Empress led them to a spacious room just off the Gathering Court. Called the Vista of Falling Leaves, it was built onto a small courtyard filled with stunted maples, a few good rocks and a koi pond. The furniture was simple - four rice-bran cushions covered with simple red cotton, a low table of polished ebony and a sample of the late Emperor Asai's calligraphy on a scroll pinned to a wall. It was the Dowager's private audience chamber and Kimiko was awed at having been granted such a rare honor.

Lady Hisame gestured to her guests to seat themselves on cushions and took her own place on a slightly raised dais. As soon as the Dowager settled herself, one of her maids entered with a tray of tea and a small dish of peeled, overripe fruit. Kimiko and Ayumi both accepted cups from the Dowager's own hand and spent some minutes sipping the hot beverage before getting down to business.

"Tell me everything, Kimiko-chan," the Emperor's mother said, parting her lips and bestowing another tiny smile. Lady Hisame had lost her teeth shortly after giving birth to Kaika; her husband, saddened by the loss and still very much in love with his lovely Empress, had commissioned a set of fitted dentures made of black pearls. Utterly impractical for eating, the shining, gleaming jewels with their rare dark sheen had been slavishly imitated by the nobles of the court ever since, who used lampblack and squid ink to dye the teeth of husbands and wives.

Kimiko bowed her head and wished, not for the first time, that unmarried girls were permitted to blacken their teeth. It looked so exotic, those nuggets of shining darkness glinting through rose petal lips! Then she glanced at Ayumi's set face and mentally scolded herself. Will you take your mind off fashion for a moment, stupid woman! Your beloved's life is in the balance! Baka!

The Dowager Empress' oily black eyes were beginning to narrow in impatience and her fan went tap, tap, tap on her knee. Kimiko hastily got hold of herself and coughed softly to cover her lapse before replying to the lady's command. "Please forgive me, Your Highness. Gomen nasai. Why should one so high concern herself with the troubles of a miserable worm like me?"

Well pleased at Kimiko's flattering diplomacy, the Dowager forgot to be annoyed by the girl's delay in answering. She inclined her head and spoke in her most motherly fashion. "Please, Kimiko-chan. Do not concern yourself with rank or station. We are all friends here... save perhaps for that handsome samurai who acts like your shadow. What happened to his divine nose? Was it perhaps stepped on by an ox?"

Kimiko flushed. "This is Ichijo Ayumi, my personal retainer."

Lady Hisame's lampblack-lined eyes widened. "Saa! Is that so?! The famous woman warrior herself?"

Kimiko's cheeks reddened further. The Dowager's tone reeked of disbelief. "It is true, Highness," the girl said with a touch of defiance. "She was abandoned by Yorimachi-sama and swore fealty to me last night."

Involuntarily, the Dowager exclaimed, "Ma!" in astonishment. This was an entirely unexpected turn of events and she couldn't pretend to be anything but pleased. Anything that drew Kimiko further out from underneath the callused buttocks of her uncle was an excellent turn of events. "I must say I am very pleased at this show of independence, child. It's about time you took on the privileges and duties of your rank. I have heard many good things about Ayumi-san and I'm sure you could not have chosen a better retainer."

"Thank you very much, Highness." Kimiko bowed. "I do have a problem, however, and I hoped to have the benefit of your wisdom and advice."

"Of course!" The Dowager clapped her hands together and poured them all another cup of tea.

Taking a deep breath, Kimiko quickly related the events of the previous evening... including their visit to Azumaya and discovery of the baiwa player's body. Lady Hisame's round but beautiful face grew more thunderous with each word and by the time the girl was finished with the sorry conclusion - the Regent's insistence on Ayumi's immediate seppuku - the Dowager Empress was positively glowering.

"So!" Lady Hisame cried. "The scoundrel hides his actions behind my robes!" It was true that she'd given the Kanpuko his secret orders to eliminate any witnesses to Princess Sakura's infidelity but she had hoped he'd use them with a little more discretion. I should have known not to trust that son-of-a-kago bearer! she thought furiously. He cannot even take care of the simplest task without complicating it beyond all endurance!

And a serious complication it was. Kimiko was clearly asking for immunity for her retainer. To refuse meant risking all the good will the Dowager had worked hard to build up and would almost certainly lead to the girl's being driven further into her uncle's clutches. On the other hand, granting such a request would mean openly admitting such secret - and highly illegal - orders existed, which Lady Hisame could never do. Even she was not above the law and such a confession would have serious consequences.

I did not labor on my back all those years under the belly of that fat pig Asai, nearly die in labor giving birth to my son Kaika, and spend so much energy safeguarding my throne only to be forced into retirement to the most distant shrine in Wa because of that bakayarou Saneyoshi! Buddha! Who knew his niece would be involved? Had things been different, the sword-of-information that I hold over his head would have been enough to ensure his silence on the matter. I must burn more incense and offer a rich gift to the luck god if he sees fit to untangle me from this net!

To gain time to think, the Dowager didn't answer Kimiko immediately. Instead, she poured them more tea and gnawed carefully on a mushy piece of fruit. She never took her pearl teeth out in public and would rather have died than appear less than perfect at all times.

How Ayumi felt about all this, Lady Hisame neither knew nor cared. The wishes of a mere samurai, even one belonging to a high ranking lady like Kimiko, were unimportant.

Keeping silent and impassive, Ayumi was worried only for her young mistress.

I hope my lady will not be punished for her forwardness, the samurai thought. The Dowager is no paper tiger, fierce on the outside and soft as a ricepaper handkerchief within. The Emperor's mother is a real tigress who will sharpen her claws on anyone who displeases her!

Ayumi thought all this fuss was only postponing the inevitable. Better for me to die now and save everyone a lot of bother.

But Kimiko was clearly fighting, had not given up but gallantly risen to challenge every obstacle. Her strength of will was astonishing and the warrior felt amused respect. My lady is no paper tiger, either! Well, I will live a few more hours yet. Who knows what will happen? Shigata ga nai.

The Dowager cleared her throat and Ayumi instantly snapped back to attention. 

"I have given this matter careful thought," Lady Hisame said as she turned her tea bowl around and around in her plump, pretty hands. "First of all, Kimiko-chan, I must admit ignorance as far as these so-called 'secret orders' are concerned." 

Kimiko went rigid. If the Dowager denied knowledge of her own orders, that meant uncle-san could essentially carry through on his intention to have Ayumi commit seppuku. It was a very sly and cunning move on Lady Hisame's part. 

But the Emperor's mother was still speaking. "However, I share your distress. I can understand Saneyoshi-sama's concern about Princess Sakura's lapse; we would all wish to spare the Son of Heaven the distress of knowing one of his beloved concubines was... ill." The way she emphasized this word made Kimiko understand the way the game was being played. 

I know - that you know - that I know that Sakura-hime isn't really ill and she's really been enjoying playing a treasonous song on a commoner's jade flute, the girl thought crazily, but I also know - that you know - that I know it must be covered up as quickly and quietly as possible. Wrap the stinking truth in linen like a rotting corpse and bury it in a tissue of deceit. Baka! How could I have dreamed that the Dowager would be any different from my uncle-san!

Lady Hisame went on, "I know you are a clever and discreet girl who would never dream of concocting a filthy lie about baiwa players and infidelity. Am I correct?" 

Kimiko nodded. She might have come from a provincial background but she had not been at court for two years without learning something about intrigue. So, my silence on this matter buys Ayumi's life. Not such an unpleasant deal. I like Sakura-hime and would not care to see such a pretty girl on the executioner's block.

"Unfortunately," the Dowager said, bestowing another rare smile, "I cannot countermand the Regent's orders, not without good reason. So I am afraid that your retainer must prepare her soul to meet Buddha... unless..." 

Kimiko wilted a bit and waited for the ax to fall. Things were much deeper than she'd assumed and she had no confidence in her ability to blackmail Old Lady Spider, as the Dowager was known privately. 

"What can be done, Your Highness?" Kimiko asked. "I humbly beg you to bestow your wisdom upon this poor, miserable worm." 

Lady Hisame acknowledged this further flattery with another graceful inclination of her head. "I will be blunt, child. Houfu the baiwa player is not the only person to lose his life to a yureii in the Eastern House." 

This was news to Kimiko. Ayumi had already heard of three other murders in the palace from Blue Carp and wondered if her wits were slipping, since she hadn't made the connection between the bathhouse owner's gossip and the dead musician. There weren't that many killings in the imperial palace! 

The Dowager explained, "In the last two months, Lord Satsuma Uji, Duke Okubo and Lord Genji Kanemori have all been devoured by the hungry ghost. Houfu was the spirit's most recent victim. All efforts to have Azumaya exorcised have failed. Even the mountain priest I summoned was no use." 

Ayumi was impressed at the yureii's endurance. The fierce yamaboshi, the hairy mountain priests of the Shinto religion, were formidable exorcists and monster slayers. It must have cost Old Lady Spider more than a few handfuls of gold koban to pay for such a man... how she must have gnashed her pearl teeth when he failed to get rid the ghost! Hah!

Kimiko was wide-eyed. "Four have been victim to the ghost's hunger? Ma! And I've heard nothing of it!" 

"Yes," the Dowager said, "We have been keeping matters quiet. The Regent has assigned guards to keep people out of Azumaya but they invariably fall asleep or are lured away by a noise. This entire thing is very, very bad luck and I fear my son will be tainted by it!" 

Kimiko murmured some sympathetic platitudes while Ayumi stifled a snort that quickly turned it into a cough when Lady Hisame's oily black eyes gave her a sharp look. 

The Emperor's mother continued, "Here is my bargain, child. I will send a letter to the Kanpuko, asking him to delay carrying out his plans for your retainer until tomorrow, at the second Hour of the Snake, when the Gathering Court is released. At that time, you and Ayumi-san will present yourselves before myself and the Regent and give me a full report of your findings." 

"Findings? What do you mean, Highness?" Kimiko was confused. Ayumi looked grimmer than ever; she had a sneaking suspicion of what Old Lady Spider had in mind. 

The Dowager picked up another slice of soft fruit; a single runnel of juice inched down her fingers, glowing golden where sunlight struck it. "Simply, you and your retainer will uncover the mystery surrounding this yureii. Find out why it has come seeking revenge on four such unconnected men. Discover its former identity. And finally, get rid of it. Tomorrow, at the second Hour of the Snake, I expect my questions answered and the hungry ghost destroyed... or, so sorry, the brave Ayumi-san will be gathered to the bosom of the Rainbow Buddha and there is nothing I can do about it." 

Kimiko wondered if she had gone mad... or if the world itself had sunk into a hell of insanity. Not knowing what else to do, she bowed and said, "Hai! It shall be as you have ordered." 

Lady Hisame wasn't finished. "Shigata ga nai, child. I hope you have no hard feelings towards me." She tried a patently fake sniffle. "I am a woman alone, a poor widow, and I could not possibly pit myself against so powerful a man as the Kanpuko without showing that your samurai has performed some extraordinary service for my son and is thus deserving of mercy." 

Kimiko gulped and said softly, "I understand." She glanced at Ayumi, unshed tears glittering in her eyes, and mouthed, "Sorry." 

Ayumi shrugged. She was getting used to the gods pissing on her head. 

The Dowager clapped her hands again and said, "More tea, anyone?" 

Old Lady Spider was so very pleased at her own deviousness that she could have burst with gloating joy.

Glossary ~~~o0o0o0o~~~ Next Page

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Hotaru: Fireflies
by Nene Adams © 2001 - All rights reserved

PROLOGUE - Firefly Secrets

Amatsu kaze                     If the divine winds
Kumo no kayoiji               Would blow the cloudy corridors closed,
Fuki toji yo                        I would be able to
Otome no sugata               Keep these pretty girls
Shibashi todomenu.           For a little while.
                 -----Abbot Henjo

Kanatzuki, the Month of No Gods (October)
Katsura-no-miyo, the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees
The Courtyard of the Green Willow
9 p.m., the second Hour of the Dog

"To you, Cricket! Hai!"

Two little girls, swathed in colorful, wadded silk robes, were playing hanetsuki in the garden, batting a paper ball back and forth with unfolded fans. According to custom, the girls' heads had been shaved from forehead to crown in a wide circular tonsure, the remainder of their hair pulled into a rolled butterfly twist at the back, ornamented with gold lacquer combs.

Despite the darkness of the late hour, the children could see well enough to play. Big stone lanterns squatted in various strategic locations, providing some illumination. The remainder of the soft, golden light came from paper lanterns hung from branches of the dwarf willow trees that gave this secluded garden its name.

The older of the two, a thin nine-year-old named Cricket, swatted the descending ball and mocked her sister with a shrill, "Hi-ya, Moth! Can't beat me so easy!" Despite the muffling layers of clothing they wore, both girls were able to run about and play with the unthinking abandon of the young.

Moth made a face and stuck out her tongue, helplessly giggling. This cost her a point; absorbed in mocking her older sister, she missed the ball and it bounced on the grass, eventually rolling into a nearby bamboo thicket.

"Ma!" exclaimed Moth in annoyance, not caring that her nurse disapproved of such common language. At seven, she considered herself old enough to not have to listen to Nurse Miya all the time, even if the woman was her "little mother." She didn't drink milk anymore, anyway, and thought Miya was very vulgar to keep offering those bulging, purple-nippled, milk swollen breasts to her at every meal. Still, what could one expect of a peasant? As Father said, hoping for refinement from the lowborn was like expecting a pig to recite sutras.

It had been a stroke of good luck when Mother had decided that slow, dependable Miya was needed at her party to look after their honorable newborn brother. This decision provided a rare opportunity for the two sisters to play without supervision for a while and made them feel very grown up... although not adult enough to scorn a fun, vigorous game of hanetsuki.

"I'll get it!" Moth cried. Snapping her fan shut and with a look of serious concentration on her pumpkin-round face, she hiked up the skirts of her kimonos and waded into the dense thicket, soon disappearing from sight.

Cricket sighed. "Hayaku, Moth! Hurry up! You know Honorable Nurse will be thinking of us soon and we'll have to go to bed."

Suddenly, she heard the dry bamboo rattling fiercely, a sound that reminded her of fortune-telling sticks rolling back and forth in a celadon vase. At the same time, Cricket felt a cold shiver traveling up her spine, making the hair on her arms and neck prickle in alarm. There was no wind; the air was perfectly still and calm.

Maybe it was an animal...

Cautiously, Cricket said softly, "Moth? Is that you?"

A strange, choked murmur came from the thicket, almost like the deep, belly rumbling growl of a beast.

"Moth? Stop trying to fool me, little sister. I'm not afraid."

The only answer was a breathy moan, almost a whimper. Thin bamboo canes whipped together in a frenzy, broad leaves lashing themselves to pieces with such fury that the air was full of shredded splinters and glittering dust motes. The clicking rattle was like desert-dried bones tumbled together in a cask; the sound grew louder and louder until it was almost deafening, splitting the night like a rolling drumbeat of thunder.

Cricket was growing more frightened by the second. Half of her wanted to run for help; the other half was mesmerized by the display, feet rooted to the ground as she waited in breathless anticipation for the suspense to end. Her heart fluttered in her chest like a caged bird. "Moth?" she whispered.

Just as suddenly as it had started, the bamboo became still again, quiet and motionless, but the silence was ominous and oppressive. This was more frightening than its fierce activity moments ago.

"Moth?"

Cricket tentatively put out a hand and touched the plants with her fingertips, holding her breath.

Nothing happened.

Feeling bolder now, as well as sheepish for her earlier fright, Cricket squared her shoulder and pushed into the bamboo thicket, laughing under her breath. "That was a good joke, Moth. Just wait until tonight. I'll get you back for this, you'll see."

Dazzling balls of fiery light burst from the thicket, one of them narrowly missing Cricket's nose. She screamed, stumbling backwards, and fell sprawling on the grass. Looking up in a terror induced daze, she watched the flickering, flame-engulfed balls whirl about in a stately dance, reminding her of nothing so much as a swarm of summer fireflies.

Cricket's throat worked. Her mouth opened but nothing came out.

The fireballs zipped back and forth in complicated patterns, leaving trails of ghostly pale light that wavered in the air for a heartbeat before fading. They bounced erratically, bumping into one another and changing direction, droplets of sizzling flame melting away from the orbs like candlewax, dripping onto the scorched garden earth and barely missing the terrified girl.

Without any warning, just as suddenly as they had appeared, the flaming spheres were gone, vanishing silently and without a trace, save for some patches of smoldering grass and wisps of smoke that smelled strongly of cheap, acrid ansoku-ko incense.

Cricket whimpered, unconsciously gouging up clots of earth with her spasming fingers.

Finally, two tears slipped over her round cheeks, squeezed from wide and staring eyes.

Sucking in a deep breath, Cricket began to scream. "Oni-bi! Oni-bi!"

Demon fires... 

The girl continued to scream long after adults came running to see what was wrong; long after her weeping mother smothered her in caresses and comforting murmurs; long after her brave and clench-jawed father waded into the silent bamboo thicket... 

And returned with a blood-stained paper ball balanced on his unfolded fan. 

CHAPTER ONE -  Clouded Thoughts

Katsura-no-miyo, the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees
The Court of Golden Koi
9 p.m., the Hour of the Dog

"I will not marry him and that is final!"

"Of course, my lady," soothed Izumi, her full moon face perfectly tranquil. "We can always move back to our old quarters; it will be no trouble at all. Here; have another cup of cha."

Kimiko took the cup absently. "Uncle-san thinks he can force me into marriage with that horrible wife slayer, eh? Ha! I'm only nineteen and he's at least forty! It is a disgrace! And I don't like this apartment, anyway. Does uncle-san think he can buy my obedience with finer quarters, like a child who must be tempted with sweets before a dose of nasty medicine? Ha! I would rather kiss Lord Emma's black buttocks than marry Suwa Denbe! I would rather pillow with the Great Stone Monkey! Saneyoshi-sama makes a grave mistake if he thinks I will be traded against my will to that grasping turtle-head like... like... as if I were a cud-swallowing buffalo cow! Giri is giri and clan business is clan business, but I don't have to like it! And I'm not going to!"

"Of course not, my lady," Izumi murmured. "Would you care for some sembei?"

Kimiko wrinkled her nose and waved away the offered dish of rice crackers. "This is not to be borne! I will shave my head and join the lowest temple in Wa before I will pillow with that red-nosed son of a baboon!"

Ayumi cleared her throat with a polite, "Ano!" and held out her cup for more tea. The samurai knelt in her usual position to Kimiko's left. "I think that is not entirely wise, my lady," she murmured after taking a sip. "Unless, of course, you plan to follow the example of  Faceless Fusako."

This gave Kimiko pause. Slowly, she turned her head to glare directly at Ayumi, who had assumed a carefully blank expression. Lady Fusako had been a celebrated beauty in her day; rather than marry, she'd wished to retire from the world while still young and spend the remainder of her long years in service to the Merciful Amida. Rejected by the priests, Fusako had taken a red-hot poker to her incomparable face, mutilating herself in devotion to Buddha, and was accepted as a wandering nun for her sacrifice.

Kimiko felt no such compelling vocation. She'd only been airing idle threats; Kimiko was young, pretty, intelligent and in no way wanted to lock herself away from the world in a bare cell, counting beads and droning sutras until she was a withered old crone. Complaining loudly, at great length and with as much dramatic theater as possible made her feel slightly better about the dreadful situation and she'd expected her retainer to know that. "Have you a more practical suggestion to make?" she asked Ayumi coolly.

"Gomen nasai, my lady," the samurai replied without a trace of a smile on her lips, although her black eyes may have twinkled, "I meant no offense."

Kimiko turned away with a sniff.

Izumi glared at Ayumi, who shrugged and set her cup down.

While the three women sat closely together, their thoughts were worlds apart, even if they centered around a single subject.

Kimiko was fretting about the impending marriage with Suwa Denbe, a universally acknowledged madman who was older, steeped in vice and probably riddled with debt. Her uncle, the Kanpuko Fujiwara Saneyoshi, had arranged the marriage without her knowledge or consent. Under the law she was free to refuse, but such an act would be considered unfilial and dishonorable to the memory of the clan's ancestors. She would be stripped of her ancestral lands; the wealth she'd inherited from her father would be confiscated; she would have absolutely nothing, not even a good reputation, to sustain her.

Trapped between the boar's tusks and the devil's blade, Kimiko had sought the advice of the Dowager Empress, Lady Hisame. That interview had been most unsatisfactory; the Dowager hadn't had the least interest in helping Kimiko out of her situation. Instead, the hateful woman had carefully mashed soft fruit with her black pearl teeth, cackled with ill-timed glee, and offered marriage-bed advice that would have made a back-passage whore of the fifth rank blush with shame. There would clearly be no escape from this route.

The trouble was that no one, with a few exceptions, felt the marriage was at all inappropriate. Most girls her age were already wed, with families on the way and discreet love affairs on the side. Kimiko wouldn't be Denbe-san's principal wife, after all - only his second. First wives were more mature than their husbands, capable of running a complicated household. Kimiko's position would be below Lady Ryoko, Denbe-san's principal wife, but above any concubines he might take later. It was considered a good, sensible match for a nineteen-year old who was too precocious for her age and station.

Still... the marriage ceremony had not yet taken place. Indeed, the traditional "three visits" had not been scheduled, either. Kimiko shuddered. Merciful Kwannon, have pity on your daughter! she prayed silently but fervently. Make Denbe-san's jade scepter shrivel like a mushroom in the sun! Make my yoni close as tightly as a miser's chest of gold! Let my breath turn as sour and rancid as spoiled rice! Anything, O Merciful One, anything would be better than spending three nights with him in my bed and my body! It isn't fair! Oh, oh, oh! I will do my duty but it is not fair!

Her love was reserved for Ayumi; night and day she burned for the samurai's embrace. She was absolutely positive that the gods had tangled their unmei together; it was only a matter of time before their sleeves touched and they began to tread the path of common fate as lovers and more. Why, oh why, did her hateful uncle have to try and spoil it all? And why, oh why, wasn't Ayumi doing something about it? The samurai's apparent indifference to Kimiko's trouble made the situation all the more heart-rending.

Kimiko stared into her teacup and swallowed against a rush of hot tears.

The maid Izumi eyed her silent mistress and sighed. Many girls feared marriage and her lady was no exception. It will be good for her, Izumi thought. Buddha forgive me, but my lady can be as flighty as a flock of young sparrows. A husband will steady her, make her more sober, and cleanse her blood of that samurai's heat. True, Ayumi-san has behaved in an honorable fashion, as is proper... even so, it is one thing for my lady to seek pleasure with another woman, and another entirely for her to pine and waste her young soul's measure of love on such a person.

Izumi did not feel as if she were behaving disloyally. Giri was giri, after all, even if she did look upon Kimiko as her own child. If there had been any sane objection to Lord Denbe's suit, she would have been the first to leap to her lady's defense. His other second wives all had bad karma, the maid thought. Nothing to do with Denbe-sama. He is a perfect husband; is old enough to have patience, old enough to spoil her without losing face, and old enough to put up with her tempers without losing his. All around, an excellent match.

It was not a question of supporting her lady's wants; in Izumi's mind, the issue was to fulfill Kimiko's needs, even against her own wishes. Having decided that Kimiko would be better off marrying Lord Denbe than continuing in her present virginal (and therefore unsafe) state, Izumi sat back on her heels, offered a plate of steamed buns, and wisely kept her own counsel. No sense disrupting the harmony of the household with arguments and tears. She knew she was right and that was enough... for now.

In anticipation of Kimiko's ultimate acceptance of her fate, Izumi had already scheduled Lord Denbe's "three visits." The bridegroom had to sample the charms of his intended bride before the wedding could take place.

It was a most sensible arrangement, satisfactory all around... except, perhaps, for Kimiko.

Ah, my lady will come to her senses eventually, the maid thought. It is really for the best. Court gossip is nearly always untrue and I am sure he is a fine gentleman.

Meanwhile, Ayumi rolled her eyes and fought the urge to beat Kimiko with the flat of her katana in the vain hope of pounding some sense into the girl. Didn't her lady understand that she only had to give the word and Lord Denbe's head would roll in the dust? Of course, such an action would result in the samurai's immediate death as well, but that was of little importance. She weeps, rails against the gods, and burns enough incense to suffocate an entire village instead of simply ordering the man's death, Ayumi thought sourly. Baka!

Izumi thrust a plate of buns under her nose and Ayumi took one, biting into the soft white dough and barely tasting the spicy vegetable filling.

Ayumi was feeling a little put out by Kimiko's attitude, which was why she'd taken to teasing the girl instead of offering open sympathy. It was insulting that her lady had not yet comprehended that Ayumi would never allow anyone - not even a lawful husband - to offer her the slightest harm. The moment Denbe-sama raised the smallest finger towards Kimiko with evil intent, he would find himself lacking both hand and head.

And then there was the matter of Kimiko's infatuation with her, which had not abated and showed no signs of doing so. It was all Ayumi could do to keep their relationship a proper one between mistress and servant without giving offense. Kimiko flirted shamelessly, took every opportunity to prance around in the flimsiest garments, used any excuse to touch and caress Ayumi's body until the samurai's liver flopped over and she began to sweat. Their sleeves had not yet touched but it was only a matter of time before they were exchanging pillows and chasing the Clouds and Rain.

Ayumi wanted to put off that time as much as possible. Not that she didn't find Kimiko attractive - far from it! - but she didn't want to disappoint the girl. I cannot return her love and it would not be fair. Although I am quite fond of her. Very fond, in fact. Very, very fond...

Baka! Apparently, I suffer from a state of extreme fondness, the samurai fumed.

I dare not tell her now; my lady is the type to think shinju is an oh, so romantic option to marriage with Denbe-sama. Double lover's suicide - stupid! I will die for her but I will not let her throw her life away on a scarred, flat-nosed, flat-footed samurai like me. She must marry Denbe-sama out of duty - I will not add to her regret by professing my affection. Besides, Ayumi thought, it is good for my lady's karma to be forbidden something she wants from time to time. It is good for my self discipline to be denied an anticipated pleasure. No doubt we will both be rewarded with better fortune in another life. Then again... maybe not.

She risked a glance up to Heaven.

Which one of you honorable monkey-san gods is pissing on my head these days?

As usual, there was no reply. Not surprising, considering the gods were meeting in Izumo Shrine in Shimane province this month to decide the fate of all people and the world for the coming year, but it would have been nice to get some sign from the pantheon. A rain of chamberpots, perhaps.

Ayumi glared at the bun in her hand and took another savage bite.

Kimiko rose, smoothing down the blue-and-white cotton yukata she wore. She was tired of sitting there with her own thoughts and desperate for a distraction. "I think we will attend Lady Ryoko's moon viewing party after all. Due to all this dull silence, I suddenly find meeting my betrothed husband's first wife a pleasant alternative to being bored to death. Well, what are you waiting for with open mouths? A swarm of flies? Help me get dressed at once! And Ayumi-san, please wear the outfit that matches my new robes. Hayaku!"

Izumi got up as quickly as dignity allowed and scurried off to the clothes trunks, wondering what demon had possessed her lady. Then again, perhaps this was the first step towards acceptance of the inevitable and all those sutras she'd paid the priests to chant were doing some good in Heaven, after all.

Kimiko lifted her chin proudly and stared down at Ayumi. "Do you have anything to say about it?" she asked defiantly.

"Gomen nasai, my lady," Ayumi answered, strangling a chuckle into a smothered cough; she would have slit her belly open before hurting Kimiko's feelings but that didn't mean she couldn't apply some gentle sarcasm. "This miserable worm has absolutely nothing to say at all."

From across the room, Izumi suddenly sneezed.

Kimiko looked at Ayumi suspiciously. Everyone knew that a sneeze meant someone was telling a lie.

The samurai smiled and shrugged, face a perfect picture of  innocence.

The girl couldn't help but have the feeling that some god, somewhere, was laughing at her.

CHAPTER TWO - White Sand, Red Blood

Katsura-no-miyo, the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees
The Courtyard of the Green Willow
11 p.m., the second Hour of the Boar

Lady Ryoko had a face like a razor-edged hatchet. It was as though at birth, the midwife had grasped the infant girl by her soft facial features and yanked outward. Ryoko's narrow slitted eyes were set so close to her long, needle-sharp nose that she could practically stare up her own nostrils, and her chin protruded so far that it was a wonder she could eat without dribbling like a toothless ape. Her forehead was too low and her hairline grew down almost to her shaved eyebrow ridges. Rather than use the thick, leaded  make-up that was fashionable at Court, she merely blotted her complexion with a layer of rice powder. Some of the powder invariably wore away, leaving unattractive blotches that gave the impression of dirty ground peeping through cracks in an otherwise flawless snowdrift.

Despite being unattractive, Ryoko had a reputation for serenity, smiling calmness and quiet acceptance of fate; she was graciousness itself and never lost her temper, even with the clumsiest servant. The gods had not seen fit to allow any of the children of her womb to survive - she'd had five miscarriages since her marriage to Denbe-san - but she was raising the daughters of her husband's deceased second wives as well as taking on the responsibility for his illegitimate son by a courtesan. Lady Ryoko never complained and if she suffered at all, she hid it well. 

Which made it all the more shocking when Kimiko and Ayumi arrived at the Court of the Green Willow and beheld the chaos that reigned in those once quiet rooms. 

The place was in an uproar with servants scurrying mindlessly about, nobles whispering behind their sleeves, maids weeping copiously and beseeching Heaven, priests waving burning incense and droning prayers, and the Dowager Empress herself trying to comfort a dry-eyed and red-nosed Ryoko. Lord Denbe stood in the middle of the central space pulling violently on the little wisp of beard that decorated his chin; other than this nervous gesture, he appeared relatively calm and collected. 

Kimiko shuffled on her knees towards the dais at one end of the room, where the Dowager knelt on a plump cushion, futilely offering cups of warm sake to Lady Ryoko, who stared dully and ignored the bustle around her. 

"Gomen nasai, Your Highness. This miserable worm has only just arrived." Kimiko bowed deeply to Lady Hisame, folding her hands flat on the tatami mats and knocking her forehead three times against the floor as protocol demanded. Nobody forgot to kowtow to Old Lady Spider twice. "Is there anything I can do to help?" 

The Dowager Empress, Lady Hisame, whose name meant "frowning woman," peered at the bowing girl, then beyond her to the stone-faced female samurai who attended her. "It is not an auspicious evening, Kimiko-chan. Ryoko-san has lost a child; her youngest daughter called Moth." 

Kimiko sucked in a breath. "Is there illness in the palace? I had not heard the plague bells." 

"Iye! Of course we are not troubled by sickness demons, child." The Dowager Empress had an unpleasant habit of clicking her false pearl teeth in and out of her mouth in times of great stress; she did so now with gross liquid noises, oblivious to the disagreeable spectacle. 

Glancing down at Lady Ryoko, whose head was pillowed in her lap, the Dowager slurped her teeth back into place and commanded sharply, "Chigau! Don't be ridiculous. Plague, indeed! Don't wish ill luck on your betters, child." 

Kimiko gasped softly and trembled, stomach knotting in sudden panic; behind her, Ayumi unconsciously grasped the hilt of her sword, face screwing up into a fearsome grimace. 

"Gomen nasai, Your Highness. Please forgive me!" Kimiko bowed profoundly, face ashen. 

The Dowager spat over the edge of the dais, a gesture meant to avert evil and one which betrayed her peasant class roots. Around them, some of the nobles ceased their whispered conversations and drew away from Kimiko, pulling the trains of their robes around their feet as if to avoid guilt by association with the condemned. 

Lady Hisame was terrified that her young son, the Emperor, would die before she had a chance to rule the Floating World from behind his throne. To ensure his continued health and well-being, she spent a fortune on amulets, charms, prayers, potions, incense, blessings and special sutras; her cunning and icy ruthlessness kept the scheming nobles and daimyos in line. She was the most powerful woman at court and didn't scruple to wield every ounce of her political might like an ox driver's whip. 

She was also a deeply superstitious woman. The Dowager was convinced that once something bad was spoken aloud, the sentiment was likely to come true, and there was only one way to avert manufactured misfortune. The entire palace, from servants to the highest nobles, guarded their tongues with care; a chance remark in Lady Hisame's presence or in the presence of her spies was likely to result in a sudden, unwanted familiarity with red-hot brands and burning pincers. 

Noting the girl's frightened reaction with satisfaction, the Dowager decided to overlook Kimiko's exclamation. Although she would never admit it, even to herself, Ayumi's fiercely scowling countenance and the way the samurai fingered her sword hilt significantly contributed to Hisame's decision to be merciful... this time. 

The Dowager allowed her lips to curve slightly upward in as much of a smile as she permitted herself and said in a pleasant tone, "It's all right, I am not angry with you, child." 

One of her hands, lily white and criss-crossed with snaky veins, absently caressed Lady Ryoko's hair. "You are still young and foolish, Kimiko-chan; with age will come wisdom." She sharpened her gaze; her next words were sheathed in menace. "One hopes that you will live to see such age and such wisdom. It will not come to pass if you continue to allow your mouth free reign without consulting your mind." 

Kimiko let out the breath she'd been holding and Ayumi relaxed a trifle. During the dramatic pause, Ayumi had been noting various exits and mentally mapping a route through the palace, calculating how many of the palace bushi and ga-domen she'd have to kill in order to get her mistress out alive. 

Conversation resumed with a buzz. 

Lady Ryoko stirred. Her narrow eyes darted from side to side and she asked in a slurred whisper, "Where are my children?" 

The Dowager continued to stroke her hair. "Cricket and Little Brother are with their nurse. They are safe, I assure you. Do you think you could drink a little sake? It will help warm you." 

"No." Ryoko struggled weakly to sit up. "Where is Moth? I had a dream, a terrible dream..." 

The Dowager's eyes flashed at Kimiko in clear warning. "The captain of the ga-domen and his men are still searching. They will find her, never fear." 

Ryoko's lips were cracked, her face paler than a spring moon. "I must find her. The dream... I saw a dog. A dog!" Her voice rose into a high-pitched screech. "Monster! What have you done to my daughter!" 

Bystanders sucked air between their teeth and smiled widely in embarrassment at Ryoko's lack of emotional control. Some laughed, burning inwardly at the shame of a noble lady who had lost so much face by her breakdown. It would have been better if Ryoko had endured stoically in public and wept in private, which was the proper way of dealing with such things in the Floating World; as it was, Ryoko lost a great deal of respect from people who would never allow her to forget this lapse. 

As the Dowager tried to calm the hysterical woman, Kimiko wondered what interest Old Lady Spider could take in the wife of a relatively minor lord. After a moment's consideration, she had the answer. In the days before her concubinage to the old Emperor, Lady Hisame had a younger sister named Plover, who'd married a low-ranking daimyo. Although Plover was long dead, victim of one of the terrible fevers that periodically swept across the island, her daughter was named Ryoko, making Hisame the woman's aunt. 

Well, that also explains why Her Highness doesn't object to my union with Denbe-san, Kimiko thought angrily. Her nephew-in-law getting a connection by marriage to the Fujiwara clan is quite a coup; no doubt her spies are even now settling into Denbe-san's home in the hopes that I will reveal my clan's secrets. But uncle-san must have known about the Dowager's relation with my betrothed husband. Hmm... he must hope that I will remain loyal to my clan and act as his spy in Old Lady Spider's household. More intrigue!! Why do I feel as if I am playing a game of go without all the pieces on the board?!

Then Kimiko noticed something that snatched her thoughts away from the gloomy subject of her upcoming marriage. Lady Ryoko's layered kimonos - about thirty in all - were in various shades of dull scarlet and tissue gold. The beautiful brocade overrobe she wore was heavily embroidered in a cranes motif, cream against purple and copper, bound with a tasseled obi of deep bronze silk. Her ensemble was tasteful and elegant, crafted with the deceptive simplicity that only a trunkful of gold koban could buy. However, the hem of the overrobe was considerably darker than the surrounding material; the fabric appeared to be wet and the moisture was creeping up to Ryoko's knees. 

With a thrill of horror, Kimiko realized that the woven tatami mats Lady Ryoko was sitting on were smudged with spots and splashes of bright crimson. 

She glanced behind her at Ayumi and saw from the samurai's expression that she had noticed it, too. 

Before Kimiko could act, Ayumi rose on one knee, the other leg stretched out in front of her, and used the heel of her out-thrust leg to pull herself along the floor, bending and rolling her leg until she knelt on both knees. Then she repeated the operation with her opposite leg, alternating until she reached the edge of the dais, where she bowed. The crawl-walk was much more masculine than the graceful shuffle most ladies performed, but it was also more efficient, and Ayumi did not care what might be whispered about her personality or sexual proclivities behind her back. 

Looking up, she met the Dowager's flat, hostile gaze. Keeping her hands away from the hilt of her sword, Ayumi said quietly, "The honorable Ryoko-sama has been injured. Shall a doctor be fetched?" 

Startled, Hisame bit back whatever cutting remark she'd been about to make about the samurai's boldness, and looked at Ryoko carefully. Finally, she nodded. Hiding her mouth behind a raised sleeve, the Dowager said softly, "Discreetly, if you please. Send a message to the steward of my household; he will know what to do." 

Ayumi bowed. Crawl-walking away, she rolled her eyes at Kimiko to let her know that all was well, and within moments had dispatched a reliable looking maid to the Dowager's wing of the palace with a verbal message to the steward. Selecting a pair of strong, broad-shouldered female servants, she led them to the dais, where all bowed once again to the Dowager Empress. 

"Since Lady Ryoko is feeling unwell," Ayumi said loudly, attracting the immediate attention of everyone in the room, "I will help her to her room where she may rest a while." Standing up swiftly and gathering the unresisting, sobbing Ryoko into her muscular arms, Ayumi made sure to tuck the lady's robes well around her lower limbs to catch any more tell-tale blood droplets. In her characteristic bow-legged, foot-slapping stomp, the samurai led the two servants to a back room, where Ryoko was deposited onto a two-futon bed with great care. 

As Ayumi disappeared into the other room, the Dowager called, "Poor woman. Keep her there for a while; she is really too delicate of temperament to be subjected to such terrible strain." 

Kimiko glanced from Lady Hisame to the back of her vanishing retainer. Only the sternest control kept her jaw from dropping. Suwa Denbe appeared suddenly, kneeling before the dais and offering his kowtow to the powerful woman and completely ignoring the girl he was supposed to marry. From his calm demeanor, it seemed the lord had recovered from his earlier hysterics. 

"Gomen nasai, honorable auntie! I trust my wife's unfortunate weakness does not inconvenience you?" 

The Dowager bestowed a rare grin on the man. "It does not inconvenience me but your appreciation is gratifying, Denbe-san. Will I be granted the privilege of one of your incomparable poems to commemorate the occasion?" 

Denbe bowed again at the compliment. He was beyond the first flush of youth; at fifty, he was a mature, slightly pot-bellied courtier who wore exquisite clothes, paid excruciating attention to detail and fashion, read all the latest poetry, and affected a round-eyed, grimacing expression that made him look like a constipated frog. He had lost the tall, gauze cap of his rank and Kimiko could easily see the blue-painted area of his scalp revealed by the semi-circular tonsure that swept from forehead to the crown of his head. A fat, oiled topknot fastened with a paper ribbon had been folded over and arranged in the center of this bald space. 

Kimiko thought the rolled bundle of hair resembled a fresh dog turd and she wrinkled her nose in disgust. 

Denbe slewed his eyes towards his prospective bride but did not acknowledge her presence in any way. That would have gone against protocol, which demanded that betrothed couples could not meet socially until the first of the traditional "three visits." 

Instead, he kept his gaze fastened on the Dowager and plucked the fan from his obi. "I will begin work on my new poem as soon as the ga-domen bring word of my daughter." 

In sharp contrast to his wife's behavior, Denbe's eyes were dry and his face was calm. He acted as though the disappearance of his daughter was no more than a minor inconvenience. This was only right and proper. Each of the nobles who looked upon him felt their breasts swell with admiration at the excellent way he hid his grief and pain behind a wall of seeming indifference. 

The Dowager said, "It is very sad that your moon viewing party had to be interrupted. I was looking forward to the poetry competition. I even had some special incense made up for you - it is called Precious-Moondew." 

Kimiko bit her tongue and decided to join Ayumi and Lady Ryoko; she had seen the Dowager's personal physician and his helpers arrive, discreetly sliding into the apartment and oiling their way quietly through the crowd. She bowed to the Dowager, with a slightly shallower bow to Denbe-san - neither of which was acknowledged - and shuffled away, pushing through the kneeling nobles and using her fan to poke the most stubborn obstructers in semi-sensitive areas. 

It took only a few moments before she reached the area where Ayumi had taken Lady Ryoko. 

The doctor was a shrunken but still vigorous old man, whose bald pate was the color and sheen of fine mahogany. He wore billowing, saffron-yellow robes, belted with a hemp cord, and simple rice straw sandals. He had a huge mole growing by the side of his nose, from which two long hairs dangled; Kimiko fought the urge to grab those silvery hairs and pluck them out. 

One of his assistants knelt on the floor, a big wooden medicine box strapped to his back. Another boy twirled burning incense sticks between his fingers, while yet another banged bronze cymbals together and droned healing chants through his nose. A cloud of overly sweet smoke drifted into Kimiko's face; she coughed and waved a hand. Oil lamps cast a faintly golden glow over the proceedings, although the doctor held a candle in his trembling, liver-spotted hand as he puttered around his patient, peering at Ryoko's legs and muttering into his thin, wispy beard. 

Ayumi glided to her lady's side. "Honorable Ryoko has a leg wound," she muttered out of the corner of her mouth. 

"How did that happen?" 

Rather than say she didn't know, Ayumi merely replied, "The doctor is examining the injury now." 

Kimiko looked up at her retainer; Ayumi's crooked nose and square jaw were limned in shadow, throwing these features into prominence. With her short black hair drawn up into a jaunty tea-whisk style topknot and the fierce grimace she usually wore on her face in public, the samurai was so handsome that Kimiko felt as if her belly was melting, dissolving like barley sugar in a hot saucepan. 

The doctor finished his poking and prodding. Ryoko whimpered but did not move; her body was as rigid as a wax doll's. 

"It appears that the Most Honorable Lady has suffered an attack by some sort of animal. Possibly a dog," he concluded. "There are definite tooth marks. I will apply a poultice; the wound is not very large or deep and should heal cleanly." 

Ayumi raised an eyebrow. A dog?

Kimiko shuddered. She remembered Ryoko's outburst on the dais. She said she'd dreamed about a dog... 

On the bed, the lady whispered, "I had a dream..." 

Kimiko suddenly felt faint. 

CHAPTER THREE - Life is Fleeting

Kirigirisu                               The cricket cries 
Naku ya shimo yo no            In the frost. 
Sumu shiro ni                        On my narrow bed, 
Koromo hatashiki                  In a folded quilt, 
Hitori ka mo nemu.                I sleep alone. 
   -----Fujiwara no Go-Kyogoku, Regent

Katsura-no-miyo, the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees
The Courtyard of the Green Willow
12 a.m., the Hour of the Rat

Ayumi's wrapped her hand around Kimiko's upper arm. "Are you feeling unwell, my lady?" she asked. Although the girl's dead white make-up prevented any hint of her complexion from being seen, there was something about the tight set of her lips that made Ayumi feel very concerned. 

Kimiko leaned into the samurai, grateful for her strength. She felt as if someone had doused her spine in icy water; chills made the small hairs on her arms twitch as if struggling to rise. "I am well," she replied softly. "Only..." 

Ayumi leaned down a little so she could look her mistress directly in the eyes. "What is it? What do you feel?" 

"Something is... not right." Kimiko shook her head. "Gomen nasai, Ayumi-san. I suppose I am feeling bad because poor Ryoko-san has lost a child. The Dowager did not tell me precisely what had happened, though." 

Ayumi had already gotten the pertinent parts of the story from a gossiping servant. While the doctor gave detailed instructions to Ryoko's maids, she put her mouth close to Kimiko's ear and said, "The honorable lady's daughters, Cricket and Moth, were playing in the garden of the apartment next door - the Court of the Silver Bamboo - since their father was hosting a moon viewing party. Some creature attacked Moth but there was no body left behind - only a small pool of blood. No trail, either. The palace guards are conducting a search but all they have found is a single footprint going away from the scene." 

"The girl's?" Kimiko whispered. Ayumi's breath in her ear tickled and thrilled at the same time. She suppressed the urge to turn her head and steal a kiss; such a whim was inappropriate to the time and circumstances, although the girl wished it was otherwise. 

"Iye, my lady. It looked like the footprint of a dog. A big dog, not a noblewoman's pet." 

"Where was Lady Ryoko when this was going on?" 

The samurai scratched the side of her crooked nose. "The Honorable Ryoko was suffering from a headache and retired to her room to rest. She was asleep; two maids were sitting outside the door in case she awoke and needed anything." 

"So how did Ryoko-san come to be bitten by a dog? This is very strange." 

"I agree." Ayumi shifted her weight on her feet. "Perhaps there is some sort of enchantment on the honorable lady? When her daughter was attacked, she bled from the wounds?" 

"But where is Moth?" Kimiko wrinkled her brow in thought. "And what is the significance of Ryoko-san dreaming of a dog and then clearly being bitten by one?" 

"When questions are many," quoted Ayumi from an old folk tale, "seek the three impossibles." 

"An honest fortune teller, an attentive god or a priest who has no lust in his heart," Kimiko replied, finishing the ancient saying. She glanced at the samurai from the corner of her eye. 

On the bed, Ryoko muttered, rolling her neck on the wooden stand that served as a pillow. The doctor hastened to wet her lips with black liquid from a small vial. 

"What is the Dowager up to?" Kimiko asked. "Why try and keep Ryoko's wound a secret?" 

Ayumi said quietly, "Honorable Ryoko is the Dowager's niece. That is enough of an explanation." 

Kimiko thought about that for a moment and made a face. She knew all too well how the game of palace intrigue was played, and Old Lady Spider was a champion. Of course, Hisame-sama wouldn't want speculation scattered around the court like rice grains before a windstorm. Her niece's child disappears in mysterious circumstances, leaving only a pool of blood and a canine footprint behind. The child's mother, supposedly sleeping alone when the attack came, has a wound that could have come from a dog. What if Ryoko is involved somehow? There is a door in this room that leads to the verandah and the garden, and maids have been known to fall asleep. Denbe-san's guests would have been gazing at the moon and writing poetry. Servants would have been attending braziers and sake bottles. It would have been easy for Ryoko to slip away, and the lady's hysteria could be misinterpreted as guilt.

Kimiko sighed. This is the sort of scandal that the Dowager would want to squash like a mosquito before it breeds gossip and rumor that could damage her power at court. Truly, Hisame has a mind more crooked than a dog's hind leg.

"I am afraid for her," the girl said finally, nodding her head in Ryoko's direction. 

Ayumi raised a brow. "Why, my lady? Old Lady Spider will protect her." 

Kimiko looked gravely into the samurai's face. "That is exactly what I'm afraid of," she murmured. "We can do nothing else here. Come with me into the garden; we may find more information there." 

Ayumi shrugged. She did not know why her lady was getting involved in this affair - did Kimiko-san not have enough troubles to ruin her sleep? - but a samurai was born to obey. If poking into other people's business made the girl happy, why not? Life was too fleeting for misery. After all the tears the lady had shed over her upcoming marriage in the past few weeks, Ayumi would have painted her buttocks blue and capered like an ape if it brought a smile to Kimiko's lips. 

Indulging her mistress' curiosity without too much fuss was the least she could do. 

The samurai just hoped this wasn't the prelude to more rains of chamberpots from Heaven. 

How much incense would it take to purchase a spiritual umbrella, she thought idly, following Kimiko out onto the verandah. 

Behind them on the bed, Ryoko muttered indistinctly while the doctor stroked the twin, silvery hairs of his mole and signaled for a vial of stronger medicine. 

Oshida Saburo, newly appointed jeichou of the palace ga-domen, stroked his mustache and made a face like a demon mask, screwing up his mouth and scowling so fiercely the men around him flinched. "And you say there is no blood trail?" he asked in his booming voice. 

The guard who knelt on the ground in front of him kept his eyes fixed on the commander's sandaled feet. He appeared to be fascinated by the bunions, gnarled toes and jagged yellow nails that were exposed by Saburo's disdain for tabi socks. "There is no trail at all," the guard said, "and the bamboo is only disturbed in the area around the blood pool. Some grass has been scorched, as if by fire, but no other plants have been damaged. There is no sign of the girl." 

"I see." Saburo was a big-bellied but solid middle-aged man, squat and powerful, who disdained the colorful, multi-layered kimonos of the nobility and preferred to wear lacquered bamboo armor strapped over a black, formal five-crest robe. His hakama - also black -  were made of the coarsest grade cotton and heavily starched. He ate plain food and lived as simply as possible. While Saburo had heard of subtlety, he strongly disapproved of the notion, believing that any problem could be solved if you threw enough common sense at it. 

The guard trembled slightly; the involuntary motion was barely perceptible but Saburo had very good eyesight for a man his age. "You may go," he said gruffly, dismissing the man, muttering under his breath, "Weak livered spawn of a moon-crazed toad. You and your soft-palmed kind are as useless as tits on a mountain boar." 

The commander stroked his mustache again. The ferociously bristling mustache hung over his upper lip, almost obscuring his mouth, and the tips curled around almost to his ears. Saburo's rank entitled him to wear a small, four-sided gauze cap but he preferred a helmet, the neck guard dangling loosely down his back. He spread his legs apart to ease the ache in the small of his back and wished that the Emperor had not forbidden torture as a means of obtaining confessions. The jeichou was positive this case could be solved in heartbeats if servants, maids and other lowly persons had been subjected to persuasions of the bamboo splinter and plaited whip variety. They are all guilty of something, he thought glumly. 

A woman's voice beside him made him pause. "Have you questioned the other child, Saburo-san?" it asked. 

Saburo turned his gaze towards a petite and pretty lady of the nobility, who smiled gently and bowed her head. She was unmarried - the girl's teeth were salty white instead of gleaming black - and the thick lead make-up and rouge on her face failed to disguise the lady's obvious youth. 

He cleared his throat. "I am Oshida Saburo of the Standing Cranes clan," he said politely. "Commander of the palace guards, protector of the Son of Heaven - may he live ten thousand years. Gomen nasai, my lady, I mean no offense, however... might one ask who you are and what is your interest in this unfortunate matter?" 

The girl might have flushed - it was difficult to tell. "I am Fujiwara no Kimiko," she said. "Lord Denbe is my betrothed husband." 

Saburo's eyes flickered. This Kimiko-sama was clearly related to the powerful Kanpuko, Fujiwara Saneyoshi. Much as he disliked civilians thrusting themselves into his investigations, especially noble monkey-samas with more breeding than brains, he had not gained his position by acting like a fool. She would have to be tolerated... for now. Should the chit's interference escalate to annoying proportions, he would assign some handsome and vacuous young guardsman to keep her occupied - in bed and out 

"Please forgive my ignorance," he said, giving the girl a low bow. "How may I be of assistance, Kimiko-sama?" 

"The missing girl's sister, Cricket... have you questioned her?" 

Saburo raised his eyebrows. "The child is ill," he replied. "I understand the attack frightened her so much that her soul is wandering." 

Kimiko frowned. "Gomen nasai, honorable commander, I do not wish to tell you how to do your job..." 

"Then do not," he suggested firmly. "I assure you, we will find whatever - or whoever - has done this terrible thing. I do not tolerate murder within the palace walls." 

"Then you believe Moth is dead?" 

Saburo shrugged. He'd had enough of this impertinent lady's questions already. "The child is gone. Probably attacked by an animal that dragged the body away, some wild beast..." He shrugged again. "Shigata ga nai." 

Another voice spoke up - also female, but with a deeper, more resonant tone. "You found a dog's footprint." It was not a question but a statement of fact. 

The woman who had spoken strutted up to the commander in a bow-legged, stomping stride that put him in mind of the cock that ruled the dungheap. She had two swords, long and short, thrust through her obi, and her nose looked like it had been stepped on by an ox. "Who are you?" Saburo asked, chuffing air through his mustache. 

"Ichijo Ayumi," the female samurai said with a bow, "of the Rising Waves clan." 

"My personal retainer," Kimiko chirped helpfully. 

Saburo regarded the samurai with initial disapproval. A quick flick of his gaze revealed that the hilt of her katana had been bound by wire and sealed in wax to the scabbard, as required by law. Her clothing was no less rich than that of her mistress, if much simpler. A persimmon red overrobe in a subtle leaf pattern was held closed by a knotted gold cord; the thinnest line of a pumpkin colored kosode worn next to her skin was revealed at throat and wrists. Her hakama were gold brocade, so stiffly starched they could have stood by themselves. Ayumi-san looked like one of those prosperous, useless samurai who composed poems to their swords and couldn't wield one properly to save their lives. 

And yet... there was clearly muscle beneath the silk. Her eyes burned with a true warrior's passion. That katana was not an ornamental blade but clearly a practical weapon. Judging from her attitude - how could one swagger while standing still? - Ayumi-san knew how to use it. Saburo suddenly had the feeling that this was one samurai he wouldn't want to offend... not unless he was tired of the world and felt a craving to visit Buddha's country until the Wheel turned 'round again. 

"Gomen nasai," he said, keeping his hands well away from the swords in his obi. The soft wire binding the woman's katana was a symbolic gesture and not really meant to keep her from drawing it. Of course, it was death to do so within the city walls but she looked fanatic enough not to care. "Hai, Ayumi-san, you are perfectly correct. A dog's footprint was found. It means nothing." 

Ayumi cocked her head to one side. "Please forgive my ignorance, honorable Saburo-san, but does the footprint not suggest that Moth was attacked by some sort of dog?" 

Saburo shook his head. "Alas, no. Many of the noble women have pets who are permitted free reign of the palace grounds. Ill-tempered beasts but hardly capable of killing anyone, including a child." 

"I see." Ayumi glanced at Kimiko and pretended to be satisfied with the commander's answer. Saburo was concealing the fact that the footprint could not have belonged to a court dog; they were bulging eyed, curly tailed Chin who lacked in height what they made up for in sheer yapping stupidity. The samurai had found out about the size of the print by servant's gossip. Fairly reliable at this moment but given human nature... 

By nightfall tomorrow, Ayumi thought, that single piece of evidence will have been transformed into a fifty foot tall, fire belching, lightning farting monster and there will be at least fifty witnesses who will swear they saw it swallow Moth in one gulp and then fly away to rattle the Rainbow Buddha's nightsoil bucket, shitting snakes and pissing sake all the while. Baka! 

"Some of the guests have told me that they heard Cricket crying out about demon fires," Kimiko said, quickly changing the subject. "Could a fox spirit have been involved?" 

Saburo crushed the urge to roll his eyes impatiently. "The Abbot of Kashikodokoro has already assured me that no supernatural or magic influences have been at work. Perhaps a wild beast has escaped from the Son of Heaven's menagerie. I have some of my men questioning the keeper." 

Kimiko bowed. "It is a pity that Cricket's soul has wandered away from her body. I suppose it was the shock." 

"Hai," the commander replied, catching the eye of a ga-domen who was trying to be noticed without interrupting his superior's conversation. "The Abbot took the child to the shrine; I suppose he hopes to cure her with healing prayers and rituals. If he is successful and revives Cricket from her sleep, I will certainly ask some questions about the younger sister's death." 

Saburo bowed to indicate the interview was over. "If you will excuse me, please." A wave of his beefy arm brought the ga-domen scurrying over. 

"Gomen nasai, honorable commander," the guard said breathlessly, dropping to his knees and bowing low. His robes were askew, the gauze cap on his head hanging down his back from its cord. He had clearly been running. "There is news from the Hall of Moonflowers." 

Kimiko did not have to strain her ears to listen; Saburo had not moved away, just turned his back on the females he had dismissed. That part of the palace houses the courtesans of the nobility, she thought. I wonder what has happened?

"Yes?" Saburo rumbled, finger going up to rub his mustache, the type of gesture a man might make when stroking a lucky charm. 

The ga-domen bowed again and kept his face turned to the ground. Delivering bad tidings to one's superior was the most dangerous part of his occupation. "Something has happened in the Hall of Moonflowers," he said, his voice slightly muffled. "An honorable 'one night wife' has disappeared." 

"So?" Saburo felt relieved. "She is merely kuragae, a change of saddles. Probably packed her jewels and ran off with a smooth tongued clerk who will pillow her like a crazed rabbit and dump her in the nearest brothel. Why do foolish women always confuse lust with love?" He sighed. "Pick five other men, go down to the city guardhouse and see the captain - you do know Honorable Shrike, don't you? - and coordinate a search with his men. Alert the gate guards as well. You should be able to find the stupid whore before her lord gets wind of the affair." 

The guard kept his head down. "Please forgive me, honored commander. The courtesan called Small Water Dragon has not run away." He gulped and Kimiko had to strain to hear his next words. "It is believed that she has been murdered." 

Saburo stared, mouth dropping open, mustache suddenly limp. 

Ayumi bent over and hissed in Kimiko's ear, "What is the name of Denbe-sama's courtesan?" 

Kimiko blinked. "I... I think it is Small Water Dragon," she whispered. 

The women looked at one another. 

Things were looking very inauspicious for the house of Suwa Denbe.

CHAPTER FOUR - Dancing Teacups
Na mo kaesu              I give my name back
Hana jo jodo e           As I step in
Yado hairi.                 This heaven of flowers.
                 -----Inseki

Katsura-no-miyo, the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees
The Court of Golden Koi
2 a.m.,  the Hour of the Ox

"Come, my lady," Izumi said soothingly. "Sit down and I will comb your hair. "

Kimiko and Ayumi had returned home after a brief visit to the Hall of Moonflowers. The courtesan Small Water Dragon was indeed missing; a few small spots of blood and a torn scrap of white silk were the only clues to her disappearance. Of course, the woman could have run away, but her connection to Suwa Denbe and his very recent misfortune made that possibility unlikely.

While Kimiko gratefully shed her cumbersome kimonos and allowed Izumi to run a comb through her knee-length locks, Ayumi squatted on the floor beside a charcoal brazier and stirred up the fire with a pair of long brass needles. When the coals were glowing hot crimson through a layer of crumbling ash, the samurai reached into her sleeve and withdrew a bit of cloth.

Kimiko had been watching with slitted eyes; now she opened them wide. "I thought Saburo-san took that!"

Ayumi shrugged. "He thought he did, too." Her tone was slightly smug. The ragged piece of white silk had been found near the verandah door in Small Water Dragon's tiny room. Saburo might have thought he had thrust the clue into the breast of his kimono, but the samurai's clever fingers and light touch had liberated the scrap from beneath his very nose, so to speak.

Now she held the fabric up to the brazier and squinted. "Hmph." There was a look of fierce concentration on Ayumi's face. "This is unexpected."

"What is it?" Kimiko was rapt.

Ayumi looked up, distracted. "Hmm? It is nothing, my lady. Nothing of consequence." She looked thoughtfully at the white silk and then it seemed her fingers lost their grip. The little white rag blew into the brazier, there was a tiny puff of flame, and a few black cinders swirled out of the burning charcoal.

"Oh, no!" Kimiko wailed, hand reaching towards the brazier. It was too late.

"Gomen nasai," the samurai said, bowing her head. "The fault is mine. Please forgive my clumsiness."

Kimiko frowned. Ayumi couldn't have done that on purpose... could she?

"Well, my lady, would you like a nice cup of tea before retiring?" Izumi asked brightly, getting up with a smothered grunt and straightening her plain blue robes. "I will fetch one for you as well, samurai."

Ayumi raised an eyebrow in surprise but decided not to comment.

Kimiko hid a huge yawn behind her hand, deciding she was too tired to pursue the issue of her samurai's suspicious clumsiness tonight. She did not see Ayumi take a clay vial out of her sleeve and quickly down the contents.

Izumi returned shortly, carrying a tray. "Here you are, my lady," she crooned, kneeling down with stiff kneed grace. She poured two cups of tea and, when she thought no one was looking, dropped a small white tablet into each vessel.

"Tea is very soothing for the nerves," Ayumi said in a friendly manner, "and we have all had a long day. Please, Izumi-san, have some yourself."

Kimiko nodded. "Yes, Izumi, I insist you join us."

The moon-faced maid glanced at Ayumi, whom she trusted no further than a pig could fly. The samurai's expression showed no trace of suspicion. It really is for the best, Izumi thought, pouring herself a cup of steaming green tea. My lady will sleep through the first visit, just as I told Denbe-sama, and the drug has no ill effects. The lord has promised to be gentle but my lady is so fragile, so frightened... it is better that he pluck her 'barrier blossom' when she can feel no pain. The next time, after her yoni has stretched, his honorable eel will find its nest easier and she will be able to enjoy the game of Clouds and Rain.

She also had no qualms about drugging Ayumi. That samurai will only cause difficulty. Now she will get a good night's sleep and be none the worse for it tomorrow.

Three identical cups sat on the tray. Tendrils of steam curled softly into the air. Izumi reached for one and was forestalled by Ayumi. "Please allow me to serve," she said with a smile.

"It is my duty to serve the mistress," Izumi hissed.

"You have much on your mind," Ayumi replied reasonably. "Wedding rites, the feast, my lady's robes, gifts... it has been a busy time for you lately, Izumi-san. Let me do this for you, please, as a token of gratitude for your excellent service."

Put that way, Izumi could not refuse. She settled back with ill grace, seething as she watched Ayumi distribute the cups - giving Kimiko the one that had not been drugged.

Thinking fast, the maid looked over her shoulder and cried, "Oh! What a beautiful moth!"

Ayumi and Kimiko turned to look, and Izumi quickly exchanged cups with Kimiko.

When both women transferred their gazes back to the maid, she shrugged and smiled. "I must have been mistaken. How foolish of me! I am not getting any younger and my eyesight is not what it used to be. Please forgive this poor old woman."

"You might be going blind," Ayumi replied, "but has your nose fled the waking world as well?" When Izumi gave her a blank look, the samurai continued blandly, "I smell smoke, oh honorable elder. Your sleeve is on fire."

Izumi snatched the smoldering sleeve of her kimono from the brazier with a blistering oath.

Kimiko giggled.

Ayumi yawned.

The maid pulled the edges of her slightly charred sleeve through her fingers and considered. While she'd been distracted, had she perhaps heard a soft clatter - the sort of tell-tale whisper of a sound, just on the edge of perception, that might, just might, indicate two cups quietly exchanged by a samurai with more predictability than cleverness? Was there perhaps a trace of self-satisfaction in Ayumi's oh-so-bland expression? 

Izumi decided that this was exactly the case. "Do I hear someone creeping onto the verandah?" she asked calmly, once again switching cups with Kimiko. She didn't need to think about whose cup to take; of course Ayumi would want to protect her mistress by taking the drugged tea herself. 

Ayumi reached out and took the cup in front of her, holding it in both hands. "I am afraid, honorable elder, that your hearing has fled this vile world as well. It was only the wind." 

"Ah." Izumi bowed her head. "Please forgive this miserable worm." 

The samurai smiled. "Let us drink our tea and retire. I have heard that chill winds love nothing better than to gnaw on old bones and I would not see you become a feast for the elements." 

The maid flushed slightly. Ayumi seemed too confident, too amused. Something was wrong. 

"Oh! Let me take that!" Izumi exclaimed, deftly plucking the cup from Ayumi's fingers. "There is a crack in the rim. You could have cut yourself!" 

Kimiko burst out, "For Buddha's sake! Here!" She grabbed the offending vessel from Izumi, shoved her own cup at Ayumi, and drained the tea she was holding in one gulp. "I am tired and I wish to prepare for bed without listening to the two of you bicker like the nightsoil collector and his wife. Damare!" 

Izumi gathered the shreds of her dignity around her and said, "Of course, my lady." She drank her tea, got up from her knees, and went to a beautifully lacquered chest to bring out the bedding. 

Kimiko glared at Ayumi, who quirked her lips into a half-smile and hastily slurped the cup of lukewarm tea in front of her. "It is a fine night," the samurai said. "I think I will sleep on the verandah." 

Izumi whirled about, a look of dismay on her full-moon face which changed in a heartbeat to one of smug triumph. 

Ayumi pretended not to notice. 

Kimiko yawned again, this time her mouth stretching open so wide that tiny tears sprang from the corners of her eyes. "Sleep where you please," she said grumpily. "Just don't wake me up with the roosters. Izumi! Is my futon ready yet?" 

"In a moment, my lady," the maid replied, rolling out the thick mattress and flipping a quilt in the shape of a kimono over the top. Kimiko's wooden pillow, a block with a half-moon cut out of the top to accommodate her neck, was placed on the floor at the head. 

Kimiko could barely keep her eyes open. Izumi hardly had time to peel off her saffron yellow kosode before the girl literally fell into bed, asleep before her body hit the futon. 

The maid carefully covered her up and shoved a charcoal brazier closer to Kimiko's feet. "Sleep well, little mistress," she said softly. 

Ayumi stroked her upper lip. Her eyelids fluttered and the muscles of her jaw contracted, as if she was stifling a prodigious yawn. "I, too, will retire," the samurai said with a strangely nasal undertone to her voice. 

Izumi nodded. The drug was working, just as she'd planned. 

Ayumi stumbled out of the room and onto the verandah, closing the shoji-door behind her. 

Izumi yawned. It had been a long day but the night would be even longer. She would wait for Denbe-sama's visit and make sure all went well. 

She settled herself on her knees, hands together in her lap. 

The flames in the brazier flickered, drawing her gaze. 

Silence except for the pattering of raindrops on the roof. 

A heaviness settled in her breast, drawing her downward. 

Dimness... 

Slowly, slowly, became darkness and... 

Oblivion. 

Suwa Denbe glided through the garden, adjusting his tall gauze cap of state. He wore his most colorful set of robes, including a new silver tissue overrobe, and all of his kimonos reeked of the clove incense he preferred. His plump face, adorned with a ridiculous tuft of hair on his chin, was slathered in greasy white lead cosmetics, with dots of scarlet rouge on lips and cheeks, and his eyebrows had been shaved off. Denbe's hair was newly dressed with camellia oil and blue make-up filled in the bald area of his tonsure from forehead to crown. 

He was the very picture of a pampered court dandy and the way he strutted up to the verandah outside the Court of Golden Koi showed that he knew it, too. 

He stopped on the steps, smoothing his robes and checking to see if the bottoms of his high platformed geta were clean of dog shit. 

Suddenly, he paused, drawing in a quick breath. Cold steel pressed against his throat, the razored edge dimpling his tender flesh. 

"Dame duso," a voice said in the darkness directly behind him. "A very bad idea, thief." 

"I..." Denbe cleared his throat and the sword bit sharply, almost but not quite drawing blood. "I... I am no thief... I am..." 

"Silence!" the voice hissed. "Anyone who creeps on cat feet through a lady's garden and prepares to enter her rooms without being announced is definitely a thief. Do you know what I do to thieves?" 

"N-n-n-no..." 

"Neither does anyone else. They just disappear - poof! - like a fart in a windstorm." 

Denbe thought about this a moment. Knees knocking together, he gulped and said, "M-m-m-may I go now?" 

The voice said thoughtfully, "Now, if I were - for the argument's sake - a lord who was visiting a girl he hoped to marry..." 

"Yes?" Denbe sounded hopeful. 

"And I came to her house, thinking to share her pillow and wet my jade pole in her maidenly juices..." 

"Yes?" 

"Then I would go home right now, write a nice 'morning after' letter and spend the rest of the evening contemplating my navel in the hopes of eventual rebirth as something higher than a cockroach." 

"Oh..." 

"And I would not, if I valued the attachment of my head to my shoulders, want to be mistaken for a thief again. Do you understand me?" 

"Ah." 

"I think you do." 

The sword withdrew. A shadow stepped to the side, within Denbe's range of vision. He could not make out a face or form. 

"Good night," the voice said. "Please remember that I guard my lady's chambers night and day, and I am always very watchful of thieves." There was a movement which may have been a bow. "I hesitate to mention this, but if I were this questionable lord and I thought of canceling the marriage over such a trivial matter as this, thus causing shame to the lady and dishonor to her house..." 

"Yes?" 

"Then I might find comfort in contemplating the little fishies swimming past my toes because I will have foolishly thrown myself into the Kamo River chained to a stone anchor. How long did you say you could hold your breath?" 

"I see." And he did. Despite his foppish appearance, Denbe was not a fool. He clearly understood the threat and wondered if this guard was in the pay of the Regent. Preventing him from despoiling his niece - even under the auspices of ancient tradition - was something Saneyoshi-sama would do if he felt it necessary. After all, Denbe could cancel the marriage if he did not find Kimiko pleasing in bed, and that would make the chit less desirable to other suitors. According to custom, refusing to send a 'morning after' letter after the first visit would sever his betrothal... and then he was sure he would suffer the wrath of Kanpuko and Dowager alike. 

If I do not marry this little bitch, those two will cut me to pieces and feed me to the dogs, he thought. I dare not refuse, even after such an insult. I will have to suffer this humiliation silently... and when we are truly wed, Kimiko-san will feel the weight of my displeasure, I swear.

"I have a letter to write," Denbe said, seething inside but outwardly as cold as a kappa's backside . "I am sure this lord of whom you speak would never dream of violating a young lady's hopes by refusing marriage even under such unusual circumstances." 

"I am so glad we understand one another. Sleep well and be careful on your way back. The palace guards are not known for their discretion." 

Denbe gave a shallow, jerky bow and stumbled off the steps, thoroughly enraged by his inability to act. He comforted himself with the thought that when the marriage was consummated, Kimiko would pay for her uncle's interference. 

I will keep her pregnant and exiled to the country, he raged to himself on the long walk back to the Courtyard of the Green Willow. I will dress her in rags, make her beg for every grain of rice and brick of charcoal. I will make sure her house is poor, the paper screen full of holes, the floors resounding with the scurrying of rats and roaches.

In the end, she will beg me to allow her to shave her head and become a nun!

I, Suwa Denbe, thus swear!

CHAPTER FIVE - Scorpion at the Tori Gate

Katsura-no-miyo, the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees
The Court of Golden Koi
8 a.m.,  the first Hour of the Dragon

Izumi groaned, rolled over and opened her eyes with a shudder. Buddha!

Ayumi was mending a sandal; when the plump maid groaned again and made thrashing motions as if to rise, she put the zori aside. "Do you require assistance, honorable elder?" she asked with raised eyebrows.

Izumi snapped a foul oath and rubbed her forehead. "Ai-eee! Oni demons are dancing in my skull, wearing needle studded geta!" she complained, managing to heave her stiff body into a sitting position.

"Then I had better mix some Four Mystic White Tiger Water for Kimiko-sama," Ayumi said, referring to a popular hangover remedy imported from mainland Kara. "Judging from your condition, our lady will need it when she wakes."

"Did some lecherous priest pour sake down our throats while we were asleep?" Izumi asked, digging the heels of her palms into her temples.

"No," Ayumi replied calmly, putting an iron kettle of water on the charcoal brazier to heat. "It was the sleeping drug you got from Old Kyuri. Only a fool buys medicine from a pimp and expects it to be first quality."

Izumi's eyes opened wide. "Oh! My lady! The first visit!" she exclaimed, and made as if to rise. Ayumi grabbed her sleeve and forced her to sit again.

"Kimiko-sama is fine," the samurai said with an angry glint in her eyes.

"But the lord! It is past dawn... he must return to his quarters..."

"He already has."

"I must have fallen asleep. I was not even awake to greet him properly..." Suddenly, Izumi's eyes narrowed as she recalled Ayumi's earlier words. "You!" she spat. "How did you know about the drug? And what have you done?!"

Ayumi's face was set like stone and despite her anger, Izumi flinched slightly at the terrible look in the samurai's black eyes. "Of course I knew about the drug, old woman. I am in charge of our mistress' security; nothing escapes me!"

Izumi stared in increasing disbelief while Ayumi went on, "I pay the Old Cucumber a few mon a week for the names of those who buy his drugs... just in case someone tries to add a surprise to Kimiko-sama's morning rice."

"You switched cups..."

"No, I didn't, but you obviously thought so." Ayumi shrugged. "The first time I distracted you, I added a sleeping potion to your cup."

Izumi's mouth opened and closed a few times.

The samurai continued, "That business of switching teacups was nonsense; they were all drugged. You were very clever, though, with all your distractions. I was very impressed."

"You drank it, too!"

"Of course! But I took the precaution of swallowing oil beforehand to coat my stomach, then I stuck a finger down my throat when I went outside." Ayumi shuddered. "I beg you, woman, do not make me have to do that again. Tea is pleasant going down but tastes terrible coming up!"

Izumi shook her head. "What happened with Denbe-sama?"

"We had a very pleasant chat. He decided that custom could be waived; there will be no more 'visits' until after the wedding. I found my sword to be an excellent argument against a cruel tradition."

"Hateful, shameful woman!" Izumi hissed. "You only did this to keep my lady's innocence for yourself! You act like a bitch in heat with no thought for duty or honor. If my mistress suffers for your selfishness, I will..."

Ayumi interrupted, "Make no promises you cannot keep." Finished with the sandal, she carefully wound the rest of the thread around the needle and placed it in her sleeve. "I did what I thought was best for Kimiko-sama, which is more than I can say for you."

"What?! How dare you!" Izumi screeched. "My lady is making an excellent match with a well respected lord. This marriage will bring honor to her clan and happiness to her life. How dare you suggest I behaved improperly! Everything I have done is to Kimiko-sama's benefit."

"Are you certain of that?" Ayumi held the sandal loosely in her hand. "Do you know anything at all about Denbe-san or were you blinded by the brilliance of his title and birth?"

"I did not..."

"He has heavy gambling debts. He is also a frequent visitor to the pleasure quarter, where he is notorious for despoiling virgins of both sexes. Denbe-san despises his poor principal wife; it was an arranged marriage and you must admit the lady is not a great beauty. I spoke to the midwife who was in attendance during Ryoko-san's miscarriages; she told me that he beat his wife until she lost the babies. Then he was cruel enough to give his wife the care of three children by his second wives and a cheap courtesan. Is this truly the type of man who is right for Kimiko-sama?"

Izumi lowered her eyes. She had not bothered investigating the lord's background; indeed, she'd not been interested at all. The fact that Kimiko's uncle desired the match had been enough. And, if truth were to be acknowledged, the maid feared her mistress' growing attachment to Ayumi. Such relationships were dishonorable and invariably led to tragedy.

"I have tried to protect our mistress in the best way I could," Izumi said quietly. "It does not matter if Denbe-sama is right or wrong, cruel or pleasant. She must be married; her uncle desires it, the Dowager desires it, and it is a woman's lot to suffer a husband. I only thought to spare Kimiko-sama any pain in the beginning; she will learn the reality of the bedchamber soon enough."

"Agreed." Ayumi shifted on her knees. "I do not like the way you went about it, though."

Suddenly, the samurai tossed the mended sandal to Izumi, who caught it in one hand.

The water in the kettle began to boil. Steam poured from the spout, a tumbling cloud of hot white mist.

Ayumi's hand drifted to her sword. There was a startling chink as the wire tie binding hilt to scabbard was sent flying, the samurai deliberately re-breaking the hasty repair she'd made earlier. The wax seal fell to the floor.

In a movement so lightning swift that the eye could not follow, Ayumi rose up on one knee, drew the sword and struck, exhaling with a hard chuff of breath, and in the next split second returned her katana to its scabbard. Her hands were folded together in her lap and a bead of sweat trickled down the side of her bent nose.

The sandal in Izumi's hand fell apart, split in two perfect halves. Her flesh was untouched.

The maid shook.

This was a demonstration of iaido, the skill of quickly drawing and cutting from a seated position. It was one of the most difficult arts to master. Had Ayumi desired, she could have sliced Izumi in half as easily as the sandal, and the maid would not have had time to blink in protest.

"There are two types of people in the world," the samurai said quietly, plucking the wax seal from the mat and tucking it into the bosom of her kimono. "There are human beings and there are kuso - shit. I try not to kill human beings; it is bad for my karma. However, I have no problem ridding the world of shit."

Izumi could not reply. She stared at the remains of the sandal and gulped.

Ayumi rose gracefully. "You would do well to keep yourself in the first category, old woman." Her tone was friendly. "I do not appreciate people going behind my back. I do not appreciate people trying to be clever at my expense. And I especially do not appreciate those who attempt to harm my lady, even though they do it out of misguided goodness."

The samurai pulled a haori coat from the bamboo rack and slipped it on. "I must go out for a while. Give our lady the headache remedy when she awakens."

Izumi roused herself from her trance. "Where are you going?" she asked, unconsciously rubbing severed bits of rice straw between her fingers.

Ayumi shot her a sharp glance and the maid lowered her eyes. "I must see to the state of my soul," she answered cryptically. She opened the shoji-door and started to leave, but stopped and looked over her shoulder. "The kettle is boiling dry," she observed, and then was gone.

Izumi touched the handle of the kettle and snatched back burnt fingers.

Her hands shook as she used a rag to remove the scalding iron vessel from the brazier.

Behind her, Kimiko stirred. "Oh!" she moaned. "My head has been trampled by kago bearers! What in Buddha's name happened last night? Izumi! Cha, please!"

The maid began preparing a cup of the Karan medicine...

And after a moment's thought, stirred up a second for herself.

It was going to be a long, long day.

Ayumi walked through the palace corridors in a flat-footed, bow-legged stomping trot, keeping a hand on the hilt of her katana to conceal the fact that the wire seal had been broken - an offense punishable by death, should it be noticed. 

The hour was too early for the usual crowd of nobles and courtiers; instead, servants and acolyte priests haunted the hallways, scurrying to and fro on errands for their masters. Fortune tellers squatted along the walls, rattling their begging bowls and crying out to attract business. A wandering priest of the fertility goddess Amanouzume had set up a portable shrine and was doling out pregnancy prevention charms to nervous maids. A sorcerer, clad in impressive black robes and a high peaked, lacquered silk cap, stood nearby, sleeves filled with tiny vials of exotic medicines. 

Ayumi headed in a southerly direction, towards the main imperial gardens. Besides the usual plants and flowers, this thirty acre site boasted an ornamental lake large enough to hold boat races, a field for archery contests, beautifully sculptured rock gardens, and a tiny river that snaked around the outskirts, complete with miniature waterfalls and stocked with ribbon-finned koi. 

The imperial garden also contained the only Shinto shrine within the palace walls. 

There was a small forest on the easternmost edge; pines, oaks and maples had been allowed to grow unchecked for centuries, creating a dense mass of trees that was home to tame deer, foxes and hares. It was used mainly by nobles who wanted to experience the thrill of hunting without the inconvenience of actually chasing wild game. 

Ayumi slipped unnoticed into the woods and without hesitation turned her course away from the established trails and struck out to the north. Soggy dead leaves squelched underfoot; autumn might have meant a colorful display from the trees but it also brought heavy rainfall and the ground was saturated with water. 

After walking much further than she'd expected, she arrived at the tori gate that indicated the presence of the shrine. It resembled a doorway, with two straight posts supporting a third that lay horizontally across the top. Swags made from the grain heads of unripened rice were draped around and over the gate, offerings to the kami spirits that dwelled here. 

The shrine itself was only a few steps away from the gate. It was a simple, almost crude affair, built of cedar planks and apparently held together by moss and optimism. As Ayumi approached, a woman came out of the building. 

She was dressed entirely in white - kimono, hakama and obi. To Buddhists, this was the color of death, a deeply inauspicious hue that was never worn by the living. In Shinto, white was sacred; albino animals were held in deep regard, as evidenced by a pair of pale, pink-eyed snakes that were coiled around a clay bowl of milk in the courtyard. 

The priestess' head was shaven except for a small forelock and a long, braided tail at the base of her neck. Her skin had absolutely no color at all; the tracery of blue veins in her hands, arms and face could be clearly seen. Like the snakes, her eyes were an eerie pink, lashes and brows so colorless they were nonexistent. 

She bowed deeply. "I am called Snow Fairy," the priestess said. Her voice was deep and melodious. "How may I serve the honored one?" 

Ayumi gave her a brisk bow. "Please excuse me for interrupting your worship. I have come on behalf of Lady Ryoko. I assume you have heard the news?" 

There was no expression on Snow's face. "I live here, far away from the palace," she replied coolly. "I fear my calling is not fashionable enough to permit me the luxury of gossip." 

Ayumi cocked an eyebrow. This was no real answer but she hadn't expected anything else. "May we go inside to discuss the matter? I am very weary from my long walk." 

"Alas! Please forgive me, honorable samurai. My house is in great disorder and I would not subject you to such rude accommodations." She bowed as if to conceal her shame, straightened up, and waited expectantly. 

The two women stared at one another in silence. 

Ayumi suddenly knelt, grabbed the hem of Snow's robe and pulled it forward. The kimono was rough cotton, a subtle white-on-white snowflake pattern woven into the fabric... and it was completely intact. The samurai released the robe and stood. She'd been so sure that the scrap found in the Hall of Moonflowers had belonged to this woman and to be wrong about such an important thing was very humiliating. 

The type of cotton worn by the attacker is exactly like this, Ayumi thought angrily. Snowflake pattern and all. This priestess is too poor to own more than one robe, so I must be mistaken. Baka! How many Shinto shrines in the city must I search now?

"Gomen nasai," she mumbled, frustration bringing a flush to her face. "I thought I saw a scorpion." 

Snow raised her brows in polite disbelief. There were no scorpions in the Floating World. "Have you discovered that which you were seeking?" 

"Iye. It seems I must seek elsewhere for answers. Please forgive me for disturbing you." 

Ayumi turned to go. Snow's lips twisted and she flung out a hand. "Please wait." 

The samurai looked over her shoulder. 

"I must tell you that your mistress is in grave danger," the priestess said swiftly, glancing around as if afraid of being overheard. "I will not... I cannot say more." 

"Thank you for the warning," Ayumi replied gravely. She hesitated and finally asked, "Do you know of any Buddhist sects that wear white robes?" 

"No." 

"Ah. Well, that lessens my task by half at least." The samurai strolled away, thumbs tucked into her obi. 

Snow watched Ayumi leave, a small smile curving her lips. 

"I like that one," she whispered to the snakes. "She will go far, I think, although I wonder if she is willing to go far enough." 

The snakes hissed a warning. 

Within the darkness of the temple... something moved. 

CHAPTER SIX - Magpie Rice

Kasasagi no                   If I see that bridge 
Wataseru hashi mi          That is spanned by flights of magpies 
Okushimo no                  Across the arc of heaven 
Shiroki o mierba             Made white with a deep laid frost 
Yo zo fuke ni keru         Then the night is almost past. 
                -----Chunagon Yakamochi

Katsura-no-miyo, the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees
The Courtyard of the Green Willow
10 a.m.,  the first Hour of the Snake

Lady Ryoko's condition had worsened. Trapped in the unrelenting grasp of a deep fever, she sweated and raved while priests droned sutras, costly incense smoldered, and the doctor tried everything from acupuncture to burning cones of powdered spice on the lady's skin in an effort to drive the illness from her veins. 

Kimiko patted her forehead with a square of linen. The foul tasting remedy Izumi had given her for the headache seemed to be working but her stomach felt a bit delicate. The morning rice gruel hadn't settled well and it felt as if her breakfast was lodged in one big lump just behind her breastbone. The girl burped delicately into her sleeve and settled down to watch as the exasperated doctor called upon the Myriads of Myriads to witness that Ryoko's continued illness was not his fault - he now believed the woman was suffering a spiritual attack by demons. 

This was the signal for the priests to take over. Representatives of various sects filed into the small, smoky room, each vying to out-chant the others. Kimiko, the servants and several of the Dowager's maids-in-waiting were squeezed into a corner, their view blocked by saffron robes and sandaled feet. 

Kimiko rolled her eyes as the Bishop of Onkei's fat, pimpled and tone deaf acolyte bawled magical spells in a screeching falsetto that reminded her of a cat with its tail caught in a meat grinder. 

She had been ordered to attend Ryoko by the Dowager's command, a duty she could not avoid. Left to her own devices, unable to escape and wishing she were anywhere but here, Kimiko folded her hand together in her lap and cast her mind back to the previous night. 

Ayumi's transparently deliberate destruction of the scrap found in the Hall of Moonflowers both troubled and surprised her. The obvious explanation had to do with her own security but Kimiko had no idea how she could be connected to Small Water Dragon's disappearance. 

Like the difference between ripples and deep water, the girl thought. If you cannot find the truth on the surface, look beyond.

That bit of white cloth must have been an important clue, pointing directly to someone or something. Ayumi was protecting... who? Or what? 

Only the Shinto sect wears white as a matter of course, Kimiko thought. Either that or someone in mourning. Or... could a walking corpse be involved? Was the scrap from a shroud? But why would Ayumi-san wish to save a foul kyuketsuki from destruction? This makes no sense!

Clouds of perfumed incense smoke threatened to choke everyone in the room. Kimiko snapped open her fan to a chorus of stifled coughs from the other attendants and waved the offending fumes away. 

The girl spent a few minutes running through a mental list of all the palace inhabitants whom she knew were mourning the death of a parent, spouse or child. This list included Lady Naisho and Kimiko permitted herself a small smile, forgetting the vexing problem of Ayumi's motives for the moment. 

Naisho-san is the worst gossip at court, she thought. Ma! She lives, breathes and eats rumor and innuendo. Her spy network rivals my uncle's and even the Dowager's! She has eyes everywhere and I know half her income disappears into the grasping paws of indiscreet servants. It is a very good thing that Naisho-san is fond of me... otherwise I'd have never found out about the sleeping drug!

Remembering the antics of her maid and retainer the previous night made Kimiko tighten her lips against a chuckle. I wonder how long they would have played dancing teacups if I had not grown tired of the game?

Fearing a poisoning attempt, Lady Naisho had been eager to inform Kimiko of the maid's purchase as well as Ayumi's bribery of Old Kyuri. Kimiko had been touched by her samurai's concern and impressed by Ayumi's thorough attention to duty. She had also felt a flush of love at this evidence of Izumi's devotion and care, slightly tempered with annoyance. 

I thought Izumi would try to ease me into pillowing with Denbe-san. Giving me a potion was a nice touch and very considerate of her; she was worried that I might be harmed. But there had better not be a next time! Of course, I hoped that Ayumi would intervene... which I suppose she did since I am not walking like a duck this morning, although I did have to drink the drugged tea. Yada! I wonder exactly what happened last night; Denbe-san's poem was not very illuminating but it seems that the marriage will still take place.

In his 'morning after' letter, the lord had written in beautiful calligraphy: 

"Like the dew of life 
To a parched flower 
Were your fine promises; 
But now autumn passes by 
With stilled regret." 

Kimiko understood that he regretted not pillowing with her but beyond that, his words were just that - words. It was not a rejection but nor did his poem contain any allusions to love, passion or desire, the usual courtier's themes. 

I will have to make Ayumi-san tell me what she did, the girl thought. It is very annoying that she left this morning without waiting for me to rise. And what was that nonsense about seeing to the state of her soul? She is about as devout a Buddhist as... as...as a Shinto priest.

An explosion of illumination suddenly flooded her brain. Of course! That is the answer!

Ayumi must have gone to the old Shinto shrine to question the priestess there. She destroyed the cloth because if the priestess - what is her name? Think, stupid girl! Ah... yes - Snow Fairy. That's it. If Captain Saburo suspects the Shinto sect is involved, if he believes Snow Fairy is the killer, that will cause great shame to the Emperor. He is considered the father of Shinto and the kami spirits' representative on earth; the common people believe that the Son of Heaven is the only barrier between them and disaster, which is why he must perform important Shinto rituals in addition to Buddhist rites.

If Saburo-san suspected that a member of the Emperor's sect was guilty of murder, not only would it cause our beloved Mikado to lose face, but it might cost him his throne! He has a brother by an imperial concubine.... ha! Old Lady Spider lost no time in getting rid of that one when the dying Emperor drew his final breath! Prince Takashi is in retirement at Zenpoji Temple and may have no allies at court, but he could be easily recalled in such a situation.

Seen in this light, Ayumi's puzzling action made perfect sense. 

Saburo is not a fool. He could use this information to damage the Son of Heaven... and benefit my uncle as well. If Kaika-sama is forcibly retired, his mother would have to seek employment as a nun, and Takashi would be powerless in uncle's hands. I wonder if the Captain is in Saneyoshi-sama's pay? This sounds like exactly the kind of plot that Saneyoshi would engineer.

That brought up a new question. Was the cloth a real clue? Or had it been planted at the scene? 

Ayumi-san must have believed it was real. I must learn more about Oshida Saburo. That will be my task for this afternoon.

A loud wailing snapped Kimiko from her mental exercise. 

The priests melted away with the sound of faintly jingling bells, and a new person entered the room, sweeping towards the ailing Ryoko with such energy and confidence that it was if  the gloomy atmosphere had been invaded by a glittering sun. 

With a clash of cymbals and an ululating scream, the court exorcist had arrived. 

Three Sun Moon, the exorcist, regarded his patient and absently shook a gourd rattle attached to his sash. "Have the necessary preparations been made?" he asked gravely. 

The doctor nodded. "Hai! Her bed has been covered in rice to the depth of one knuckle..." 

"You have used the special sticky rice from Kara?" Moon interrupted. "Any other type could prove fatal." 

"Of course! And the priests are ready to throw more rice as well as demon quelling beans when required..." 

"Red beans? Not the black!" 

"Of course!" The doctor began shoving vials and pots into his medicine chest. "Do you take us for fools, learned sir? Black beans would increase the poisoning effect. Any village idiot knows that!" 

"The eight-sided mirrors..." 

"Have been fastened to a nine-fold screen, the mirrors adjusted to reflect the honorable patient's body. We also have two cocks, brass bells, paper sickness dolls and your temple's No. 1 Oni-Repelling incense ready should they be required. I regret we did not have time to send for a yamabushi; those mountain priests are fierce demon fighters." 

Sun Moon drew himself up proudly. "Do I look as if I need the assistance of a filthy mountain dwelling priest?" 

The doctor gazed impassively at his spiritual colleague. Like all exorcists, Sun Moon preferred to announce his profession as loudly and flamboyantly as possible, pushing the boundaries of taste to the limit. Layers of black, dull crimson and purple brocade silk covered his lean frame, every inch woven with figures of dragons, phoenixes, bats and other auspicious symbols. The wide, exaggerated sleeves of his overrobe had seven cuffs, all in gold or silver, and long tassels depended from the points, swinging near his knees. Sun Moon's gauze cap, shaped like a box with a high front and short sides, was firmly tied to his head with a cord that passed under his lower lip. Mirrors, packets of powder, mysterious pouches, gourds, cymbals and a rooster feather fan were fastened to his obi. 

"Gomen nasai," the doctor said ironically, closing his medicine chest with a loud snap. "I can see that you are a very successful man. How stupid of me to suggest you might require assistance to defeat demons which are so powerful that they dare attack a member of the Dowager Empress' family! It is obvious that you will terrify them by your appearance alone." 

To himself, the doctor added under his breath, "Arrogant peacock." 

Sun Moon smiled benevolently. "It is true that I have a terrifying reputation in Hell." He glanced around. "Where is my medium?" 

A fat girl with downcast eyes, dressed no less magnificently than her master, glided soundlessly into the room. Her hair was caught up at the sides with a curved lacquer comb and the remainder allowed to fall to the floor behind her in a cascade of straight black locks. At a gesture from the exorcist, she knelt on a small cushion next to the bed and, pulling a length of white silk from her sleeve, tied her feet and legs together with a strong knot. When the devils were cast out of Ryoko and took possession of her, the medium might thrash about and the silk bindings prevented her from exposure to the witnesses' eyes. 

"I am ready to begin," Sun Moon intoned, dipping into a pouch and scattering handfuls of rice about the room. The doctor, receiving a full load of rice directly in his face, made haste to haul the medicine box upon his back and make a dignified exit, spitting grains and mumbling. 

Kimiko was fascinated. At other ceremonies, she'd had to be content with a back row seat and limited visibility. This was the first exorcism she'd attended with an excellent view of the proceedings and she was determined not to miss a single thrilling detail. 

When Sun Moon began chanting incomprehensible spells in a deep throated growl and brushing Ryoko's body with his rooster feather fan, Ayumi pushed her way through the crowded mass of onlookers at the door and glanced around, obviously seeking her mistress. 

Kimiko hissed quietly and waved her fan. The ladies kneeling next to her gave the girl a glance of disapproval but she ignored them. 

Ayumi managed to slip into the room without treading on anyone's toes or knees, and wriggled her way into the tight space next to Kimiko. "What is happening?" she asked quietly. 

"Lady Ryoko is possessed by demons," Kimiko whispered back, suddenly conscious of the sweaty, musky smell emanating from the samurai's skin. Delicious! "That is Three Sun Moon, an honorable exorcist; he is attempting to drive the devils into his medium so he can communicate with them." 

"Why? Is this Sun Moon character going to exchange eel recipes with them?" 

Kimiko playfully smacked Ayumi's nose with her fan. "Mou! Enough! Have you never seen an exorcism before?" 

"No." 

More rice rained down upon them and Kimiko brushed it off her clothes impatiently. "The exorcist will drive the devils into his medium. Then he will force them to identify themselves; this is so he can recite the appropriate spell to send them back to Hell." 

"Ah. That is interesting." 

Kimiko gave her a strange look. "Is it anymore interesting than what went on last evening?" 

Ayumi opened her mouth to reply... 

And at that precise moment, all hell broke loose.

Glossary ~~~o0o0o0o~~~ Next Page

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Onna Yugao - Lady of the Evening Faces
by Nene Adams © 2001 - All rights reserved

PROLOGUE - THE EMPTY PLEASURES

Baka wa shinanakya naoranai.  -----  A fool is only cured by dying.

Shimotsuki, the Month of Falling Frost (November)
In Hanamachi, the Flower District outside Heian-kyo
The Nishikigi Shoshi (The Brocade Tree) - a brothel
11 p.m., the Hour of the Boar

Ashida Itaru, a petty merchant's son, considered himself the most fortunate person in the Floating World. A wealthy uncle had died, leaving the young man a fortune, which he began promptly squandering on gambling, drink and women - much to his father's sorrow. But Itaru cared nothing for his family's disapproval; he was intent upon working his way through the brothels in the pleasure district until he either ran out of money or his honorable one-eyed eel wore away like soap in a rainstorm.

Now comfortably entrenched in the famous Brocade Tree flowerhouse, Itaru belched and reached for another cup of hot sake. He did not intend to get drunk; he had paid a whole gold koban for this unforgettable evening with a young, beautiful asobimi and by Buddha, he was going to get his money's worth!

The lady in question sat demurely on the opposite side of the table. Unlike the comfortable nest of cushions in which he wallowed, she had been kneeling upright on the tatami-covered floor while he polished off a hearty meal and a half-dozen jars of best quality sake. Over the hours, she had told jokes and suggestive stories, sang erotic songs, played games and generally kept Itaru amused, never revealing her discomfort for a moment.

In the next room, several women were entertaining a famous sumo wrestler and their boisterous laughter could be heard clearly through the paper-paned wall. Itaru scowled in annoyance and banged his cup on the table. "Urasai, kono bakayarou!" he shouted. "Shut your fucking faces, assholes! How can I enjoy my pleasures if I'm deafened by yours?"

The asobimi blushed and hid her mouth behind a hastily raised sleeve, shamed by this display of ill-bred vulgarity. Money might have allowed the weedy youth to ape his betters in appearance, but Itaru's lack of manners and refinement broadcast his peasant origins as loudly as taiko drums beaten by a crazed monk.

Itaru misunderstood the reason behind the lady's flush. "Ah, you've noticed my mighty weapon, eh?" He shrugged out of his sole garment - a thin silk underrobe - and pointed to his naked crotch. "A bigger and better weapon than any samurai can boast. Once a pretty kitten like you has a taste of my jade pole, she'll never be satisfied with another man again. What do you say, willow girl? Care to make the Clouds and Rain with a real man for a change?"

The lady smiled politely and offered more sake - a diversion to give her time to think, for Itaru's blatant invitation meant that she would have to come to a rapid decision. Unlike the lower courtesan classes, an asobimi was not required to have sex with her clients. Those men who paid dearly for her company could only expect a few hours entertainment - they rented her mind, not her body. She would take a princely lover at her own discretion, choosing him because his class and rank reflected upon herself, thus bringing honor to both parties.

Ashida Itaru was a crass dungeater who hurled cash in all directions to make up for the deficiencies of his birth. He was utterly unimportant, a low-born nobody, and sharing a pillow with him would actually damage the asobimi's reputation, bringing great shame and loss of face to her house. That he actually believed himself worthy to touch sleeves with her was beyond laughable - it was contemptible in the extreme. She would have to be insane to sleep with this oaf. It would be far less humiliating to pillow with a flea-plagued dog. 

Her choice was obvious.

"Ma!" the lady cried, pretending astonishment at his less-than-average endowment. "Was your honorable mother raped by the ox god? Surely you jest, my lord, for that formidable sword of yours would never fit my modest sheath." Her dazzling smile and lash-fluttering flirtation indicated that she had made a shocking decision - Itaru would be allowed to remain.

Itaru swelled with gloating pride, too ignorant to appreciate the unprecedented honor that was being done to him. So, it's true what they say about high class lilies, he thought. Their gates of Paradise fly wide open in lust when they have a horse-hung peasant to play with instead of those damned nobles and their tiny water-makers. 

"Have no fear, kitten," he smirked, shaking his penis at her. "My jade staff will fly you to Heaven faster than the Rainbow Buddha."

The asobimi untied her sash, allowing the magnificent brocade robes she wore to gape open, exposing her white skinned body. Although several charcoal braziers gave out a steady amount of heat, the tiny nipples of her breasts stiffened into points. "Who knew that Paradise could be so close?" she purred, igniting a stick of incense and thrusting it into a bowl of sand. "Truly, my lord, you have been blessed." Sweet smoke curled up around her perfectly oval face, caressed the lady's loose flowing hair.

Itaru's grin grew wider and he licked his lips. "My blessings come from Putai himself," he said, referring to the god of pleasure, "but I am not a selfish man. Eeee! I am happy to share my good luck with beautiful women like you."

"Oh, I am indeed the most fortunate of women!" She leaned over and blew out a pair of oil lamps, plunging the room into semi-darkness, then removed her clothing with seductive slowness. "Stay at your ease, my lord. Allow me to make a humble pilgrimage to your mighty altar and worship as you deserve."

"I saw something once in a spring pictures book," he said, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of her naked body. It was difficult to make out very much in the smoky gloom, and the incense smell made his senses reel. The single remaining oil lamp flickered, casting weird, shifting shadows on the paper walls. "It was called Phoenix Flying Over the Peak. Do you know that one?"

"Perhaps you will be willing to teach me," she replied, slowly shuffling towards him on her knees. Her dark eyes flashed passionately and she caught her lower lip between her teeth as if anticipating ecstasy. The lady's fluid movements, as well as the expression on her pale powdered face, reminded him of a hunting tiger that has finally found its prey.

Itaru blinked and rubbed his face with both hands. Was it a trick of the poor light, or was her flesh taking on a darker tone? Thick shadows wreathed her lower body like a cloak.

"As high priest of the temple of love, I am always glad to tutor a willing student." Itaru replied, squinting in puzzlement. How much sake had he taken? He could swear that the blackness sheathing the asobimi's legs was swelling, getting fatter and fatter as she came closer. There was a weightiness and substance about it that he found disturbing. And as for her locomotion... was she shuffling or scuttling like an insect? He shook his head and wondered if the sushi he had eaten for dinner had been tainted.

He continued, "You should have your chef beaten for incompetence. My gut feels like the fish he served is trying to swim upstream..."

Itaru broke off with a shrill scream.

Something reared over him - something horrible that stared out of the lady's infinitely black eyes and moved her red-rouged lips in a smile . Next door, the sumo wrestler and his courtesans were playing a noisy game of Naked Islanders - no one heard his cry.

The creature said, "Believe me, you will not suffer long, my lord." It caressed his face with a cold limb and struck with startling speed.

She was right. More quickly than he could have imagined, Itaru felt nothing.

Nothing at all.

CHAPTER ONE - Fairy Catching and Catching Up

Hotoke no kao mo san do made ----- Even the Buddha's face until the third blow.

Thousand Pine Forest
10 ri from the northern face of Mount Hiei and nearly 50 ri from Heian-kyo

"Bukkoroshite yaru zo!" Ayumi shouted, brandishing a razor sharp katana. "I am going to kill you!"

The enraged samurai was a terrifying sight. Dressed in formal armor, including a scarlet lacquered bamboo breastplate and iron studded hand guards, her martial appearance was heightened by the flush of fury on her face and throbbing vein in her forehead. The woman's black eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets; her lips were drawn back so tightly over her teeth that they were pale and bloodless.

Snow Fairy, the albino priestess, held out both hands in a supplicating gesture. Unarmed and untrained in the war arts, her sole hope for survival lay in reasoning with a woman driven to the edge of blood madness.  "Please stay calm, Ayumi-san, I beg you."

The samurai grunted, then swept her sword towards the other woman in a killing stroke. Snow Fairy side-stepped to avoid the blow and shouted, "Mou! Enough! I can explain this if you allow it!"

"You have caused me to forsake my duty," Ayumi grunted, circling to the left. "Because of you, I abandoned my lady in a time of crisis, and made my oaths a mockery. How can I permit you to live when my honor is destroyed?" She took another cut at the priestess, slipped on a tree root, and barely missed.

Recovering her balance, the samurai continued bleakly, "When you stole me away from my lady, you killed everything that held meaning for me in this fleeting world. Before I slit my belly in atonement, I swear you will join Kimiko in death."

Astonished, Snow Fairy opened her mad pink eyes to their widest extent. "Gomen nasai, honored one, but what you believe is false."

In answer, Ayumi let out a yell and charged the priestess, barreling into her and knocking them both down. Snow sprawled on the cold ground, gulping air desperately, the samurai's weight close to crushing her chest. The edge of the katana pressed against her throat, drawing faint beads of blood.

They were so close, Snow could see the pores in the skin of Ayumi's crooked nose. She gasped out, "Kimiko lives." There was a flicker in the depths of the samurai's steady gaze and the priestess repeated breathlessly, "I swear by my hope of rebirth, Fujiwara no Kimiko lives."

Slowly, Ayumi levered herself off the other woman's body. Squatting with the katana across her knees, she said bleakly, "My lady was accused of murdering her husband and arrested on the Regent's orders. She is dead. Of course, she may be reborn by now, but that is a slippery priest's argument."

"Hai, but I tell you she is still alive." Snow sat up, rubbing her bruised ribs and coughing.

The samurai mulled over this statement for a moment, then abruptly sheathed her sword, dropped to her knees and bowed, knocking her head against the forest floor. "Gomen nasai," she mumbled. "Please accept my humblest apology. I have been unforgivably rude."

Snow offered a tentative smile, somewhat confused by this abrupt turn of events. "I understand your anger..." 

She broke off when Ayumi stood upright and interrupted, "You understand nothing. I will allow you a few moments to pray and prepare yourself for death. It is the courteous thing to do. I regret we have no incense to perfume your head, but I hope you will excuse the lack of proper preparation."

The priestess stared. "Have you not heard anything I've said?"

"Of course, but everyone knows that priests have no honor. What you tell me is impossible, therefore you must be lying. Such fear is shameful and you should not tell pathetic untruths to save your own skin," Ayumi said with a touch of contempt.

Snow regarded the samurai with disbelief. Ayumi seemed calm and perfectly at ease, but her gaze was like black ice. "Perhaps Buddhist priests have cloven tongues, but I do not. Kimiko-sama is alive and I can prove it, if you allow me."

Ayumi shook her head. "Even if my lady is alive - and I don't believe it! - this changes nothing. I must still execute you for interfering with my giri. My ending will be an atonement for abandoning her. It's the right thing to do. Shigata ga nai."

"And what if your lady has need of you? What good will it do her if your bones lie moldering in the moss?"

"I will search for her in Hell." Ayumi smoothly drew her katana and took a wide-legged stance. "I will search for her in Heaven. We will not be separated again."

There was a small, irregularly shaped pool of water nearby, nestled between the gnarled roots of a tall pine tree. Snow gestured towards it. "If I can prove that your lady still lives, will you reconsider?"

"Why should I? Kami-magic tricks will not save you, and I have had enough deception for one day. Now stop squirming like an eel on a hook and die with dignity!"

"Can you doubt the evidence of your own eyes? Watch!" Snow dipped her fingers into the water and swirled them lightly. The pool began to glow, illuminated from within, and dancing yellow light sprayed upwards before settling down into a distinct image.

"Well, honored one?" Snow asked between gritted teeth. Her magical reserves were so exhausted even this simple viewing spell was an effort. "See for yourself if I lie."

Fascinated despite herself, Ayumi came closer and knelt down, peering into the pool. An image of Kimiko floated in the center of the water. She reached out a hand but withdrew it when Snow shook her head.

The young woman was sitting at a dressing table, staring into a mirror. She was talking to someone out of sight; although her lips moved, there was no sound.

Ayumi examined the vision hungrily, greedily, like a ravenous man tormented by the smell of cooking rice. Even though she had been wrenched away from Kimiko only minutes ago, the keen agony made it seem as if they had been divided for a thousand years. "Gomen nasai, my lady," she said softly, wishing with all her heart that she could reach through the water and pull Kimiko to her side. "Samishii - I miss you."

All thoughts of committing seppuku fled before the sight of her beloved mistress; madness vanished when the lady's beauty struck Ayumi like a blow, easing the pang in her breast. The samurai's worst nightmares were not realized - Kimiko-sama was not languishing in a filthy dungeon or kneeling by the executioner's block. She appeared to be in rich surroundings, dressed in elegant robes, obviously cared for. Relief made Ayumi almost faint.

Snow extended her senses through the mesh of the spell, trying to determine the noblewoman's location, among other things. When the information she sought resonated through to her consciousness, she broke off the magical vision with a gesture. Light faded and with it, the picture of Kimiko shimmered into nothingness.

"What are you doing?" Ayumi shouted, plunging her hands into the now still, dark water. "Bring her back! Do you hear me, priestess? Bring her back now!"

"Hear me, Ichijo Ayumi," Snow replied, straightening her back and pulling her white kimono together at the front. Although exhausted, as if she had run non-stop for a hundred ri, she spoke with such dignity and confidence that the samurai's attention was reluctantly drawn away from the silent pool.

"Know that I had a vision before you came to visit me in my temple the first time - the kami revealed that your life and the life of Fujiwara no Kimiko are irrevocably intertwined. If one surrenders to death, the other will follow - this knowledge is as certain as the turning of the seasons. You two have a special unmei, a fate ordained by the gods of Shinto and Buddhism alike, and only together can this destiny come to pass."

"Then why have you taken me from her?" Ayumi was shaking, trying hard to control unwanted tears. Relief and the last vestiges of rage had been consumed by a grief so profound, she thought her liver was shriveling into a knot. "If our sleeves are fated to touch, how dare you interfere?"

"If you'd stayed, both of you would have died," Snow explained confidently. "Putting distance between you and Kimiko-sama was the only way to save your lives, and protect the future. I do not know precisely what the gods have planned, honored one, for my vision was incomplete, but of this I was certain. Now you must go to her, as is your duty, and I will not interfere again." 

The samurai scrubbed at her face, ignoring the harsh rasp of iron-studded gloves against her skin. "Where is she? Did Lord Old Fart forgive her? Is my mistress in the Palace?"

"No." Snow scrambled to her feet, ready to run again if necessary. The news she had to relate was terrible, indeed. "She has been condemned to Hanamachi."

Hanamachi! Ayumi clenched her teeth against a cry of shock and surprise. "How can this be? How was she taken to the pleasure district so quickly? We were on the Roof of Red Gods no more than a half-hour hence..." The look on the priestess' face made her suddenly suspicious. "What have you done?"

Snow Fairy swallowed convulsively. "It has to do with the nature of the transportation spell I used. I did not precisely move us from one physical point to another. Rather, I moved us both briefly through time, into the future, when you would no longer be in immediate danger."

"How much time?" When the priestess did not answer right away, Ayumi sprang to her feet, gripping the hilt of her katana so tightly that her knuckles were whitened by the strain. She did not care how the impossible act had been performed; she had more pressing concerns. "I said, how much time?"

"Three weeks." Snow took two steps backwards, out of close range.

"Chikuso! You thrice-damned daughter of a baseborn turtle-head dungeater! Bakayarou!" Ayumi shouted obscenities, making the forest ring with scorching invective. Losing control once again, she stomped around in rage, mindlessly hacking at innocent trees and shrubs, until spots danced before her eyes and her breath came in great, heaving gasps.

The priestess winced but kept silent, not wishing to draw attention to herself.

Finally, the samurai stopped. Burying the point of her katana in the dirt, she leaned on the hilt, panting. Sweat dripped from the fringe of hair that had escaped from her topknot. "If you have danced us through time, sorceress," she said, nostrils flaring as she tried to control her breathing, "explain why we are so obviously not in the Imperial Palace anymore." 

Snow Fairy looked up; the dappled sunlight caught her eyes, emphasizing the strange pink irises and making her pale lashes gleam like silver points. "Please excuse me, but I doubt you'd understand. The spell's workings are very esoteric."

"Attempt to enlighten this ignorant worm," Ayumi commanded flatly. 

"The world is like a ball which revolves around Amaterasu-sama, the sun goddess," Snow Fairy said slowly. "But it also rotates in place, like a spinning wheel. Hence, we have seasons changing in their proper moment, as well as night and day. When one uses magic to leap from time to time, one also jumps from one location to the next. That is the simplest explanation, or so my sensei taught me." 

Ayumi sneered. "Your master must have been drunker than a frog in a sake barrel to make up such a tale. Anyone with sense knows that if you stand atop a spinning wheel, you'll get thrown off. If the world was as you say, we would all be tossed into the fiery arms of Amaterasu and be burned to ashes, or be devoured by cloud dragons up in the sky. Baka! Why not admit that you don't know how your magic works and be done with it? All priests, Buddhists and Shinto alike, dabble in things best left alone."

She shook her head and continued, "I have no more time for children's stories. I don't care how you did it, and I don't give a shriveled rat's turd about the gods, you, the world, unmei, the Regent, the Emperor or anything else. My sole concern, my only duty, is to save my mistress. Kamawan! Do you understand? I don't care!" 

Snow Fairy put a finger to her lips in a shushing gesture, but it was too late. 

Ayumi lifted her sword and shook it towards Heaven, howling in frustration, "Go on, hurl your chamberpots! Piss on my head, fart in my nostrils and shit on my face, divine monkey-samas! Do your worst to me! Kamawan! Take this so-called destiny and shove it up your asses sideways! I am not a go stone to be placed at your whim! I serve only one - do you hear me? Only one holds my heart, loyalty and soul - and it is not you! Fuck fate! Fuck all unmei and fuck you, too! Kamawan! I give warning to all gods - if you place so much as a single stumbling stone between me and my mistress - if you permit harm to so much as the smallest hair on her body - I will carve you up into food for miserable maggots, I swear!" 

Snow Fairy's mouth dropped open in awe.

A sudden clap of thunder made the priestess jump. It was so loud that her eardrums popped in protest.

Spectacular sheets of rain cascaded down from the cloudless sky, soaking Ayumi to the skin in seconds. She stood there until she was absolutely drenched, water running out of her armor and mud squelching up beneath her straw sandals. She was blinded, deafened and muted by the furious waterfall that pounded her head like a hammer. Each breath the samurai took was so saturated by moisture that she was drowning on dry land. 

Just as quickly as it had started, the shower ended. The forest was dead quiet except for the pattering of droplets from leaves. The air smelled faintly of ozone. A tree toppled with a dignified crash, split in half by a lightning bolt. It missed the two women by inches.

Ayumi lowered her katana and sneezed. The priestess stared with round eyes, completely aghast, too startled and terrified to speak a word.

A crazy grin crept across Ayumi's face until it stretched from ear to ear, crinkling her eyes into narrow slits. "Well, the Myriads Upon Myriads have spoken." She seemed almost cheerful.

Snow Fairy nodded, still stricken speechless.

Continuing to smile, Ayumi flicked her sword to one side to remove rain droplets and sheathed it with a professional flourish. Sitting down on the wet ground, she began shucking off her armor. "Where did you say we were?"

"T-t-thousand Pine Forest," Snow stammered.

"Ah so desu ka?" Ayumi cocked her head to one side, her fingers nimbly untying the cords that held her breastplate in position. "Is that so? We're about fifty ri from the capital on the wrong side of Mount Hiei, then."

She stood up, piled her precious armor into the dubious shelter of a tree root, and covered it with handfuls of leaves. Dressed only in a wet cotton kimono and hakama trousers, she adjusted the set of her two swords and stamped a few times to settle them correctly in her obi, flinging up spatters of mud.

"The quickest way would be to climb the mountain, straight up and over, then take the Nyodo Trail to the Great Gate of Hanamachi. It shouldn't take us more than two days, three at the most. Unless you can use kami magic to take us there instantly? No, I thought not."

Snow Fairy blinked rapidly. "I regret that is not possible; the spell is very strong and it will take me some time to recover."

"It is just as well. I doubt I can afford to lose more time to your addled sorcery." 

Ayumi was in such good humor that the priestess had to exert strict control not to turn and run in the other direction. As important as the samurai and her mistress might be to the future of Wa - or so the kami had indicated in her vision - anyone who dared the gods to do their worst was not just asking for trouble; they were holding out a begging bowl and demanding a piled-high portion of it sprinkled with tears. 

"Don't look like you've eaten dirty rice," Ayumi said, gently smacking Snow Fairy on the shoulder. "This is not the first time I've suffered the notice of Heaven."

"Then why are you smiling?" Snow Fairy didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Don't you realize what you've done?" 

"I was tired of being pissed on," the samurai replied with a shrug. "The gods play stupid games and I've had enough. Now we all know where we stand. I am going to get my lady out of Hanamachi. No force can stop me, and if the Pantheon gets in my way, we'll see how many of the eight million are left when I'm finished chopping through the divine ranks." 

"Defying the gods? You are truly insane." 

"I am a samurai. And I am in love. Is there a difference?"

The priestess' mouth opened and closed a few times in sheer astonishment.

Ayumi set off in a bow-legged, stomping trot. She took a few steps and said over her shoulder, "Don't worry so much, priestess. Be happy, like me. Or do you not enjoy a challenge?" Without waiting for an answer, she strutted on.

Snow Fairy's mind was awhirl. In love? A challenge? Is the whole world out of balance? Her thoughts were so disordered, she felt like a lunatic herself.

Finally, she took a deep breath and said softly, "It is as it shall be. Shigata ga nai. I will reunite two souls severed by my act, and behave according to duty and obligation. But oh, spirits of my ancestors - kami of rock, cloud, rain and flame - why did you saddle me with such a pig-stubborn, battle crazed, giri-bound, liver-twisting samurai, who is mad as a wasp-stung badger? At least, if she killed me, I'd have some peace!"

Snatching up the hem of her robe, she ran after Ayumi shouting, "The path is that way, honored one! That way!" 

The two women began toiling up the rock-strewn trail, headed for the top of Mount Hiei. 

CHAPTER TWO - In a Flower's Mouth

Kuchi wa wazawai no kado ----- The mouth is the front-gate of all misfortune.

Hanamachi, the Flower District outside Heian-kyo
The Brocade Tree, a brothel
2 p.m., the first Hour of the Sheep

Fujiwara no Kimiko turned away from the mirror and sighed. Her padded outer robe of Karan brocade had tiny silver bells sewn onto the crimson sleeves, and they chimed whenever she moved, reminding her of how far down she had come in the world. 

From aristocrat to prostitute in one blow, she thought gloomily. Not that it matters. Without Ayumi, my life is as empty as a cloud, and just as meaningless. Oh, my love... I miss you so.

Picking up a pair of brass needles, she stirred the glowing coals in a charcoal brazier 

Her maid, a nine-year-old girl named Plum, politely coughed, "Ano!" to gain her attention. Kimiko focused on the pretty child. She had been sold to the brothel at the age of five by her peasant parents for a pair of silver drops - enough to keep a poor family of six in comfortable means for a year. If Plum's beauty was not marred by moxa or other diseases, she could be initiated into the third-rank courtesans in a few more years. 

"Please, elder sister," the maid chirped, "You should eat something." She slid a lacquer tray onto a low table and bowed. "Auntie Dragonfly is concerned because you sent back the morning rice gruel." 

Plum looked worried. It was her task to serve Kimiko's needs; if her mistress became ill, the maid would be beaten for allowing sickness demons to enter the house. This was just a minor consideration, however. Plum was extremely fond of Kimiko, who did not shout, or slap, or prick her with hairpins, but instead acted with affection and patience, winning the child's loyalty and devotion in a short time. 

"Auntie Dragonfly never wets her sleeve about anything except her money trunk," Kimiko replied, pursing her lips. 

The owner of the Brocade Tree was a notorious miser who pinched every copper mon until it squealed. It was rumored that she still had the first koban she had ever earned, and many more besides, buried in a cedar chest in the garden - along with her heart, conscience and humanity. 

Seeing Plum's distress, Kimiko relented. "Very well, little sister. If it pleases you, I will try and eat. What have you brought me?" 

Plum presented the bowls of food, grinning to show the space between her front teeth. "Daikon no sake-ni," she said. "Special from the chef at the Broken Comb teahouse." 

Kimiko eyed the stew and sniffed; white radish chunks bobbed in a broth flavored with sake and soy, topped by crisp triangles of deep fried tofu. The delicious smell made her stomach growl. 

It annoyed her deeply that instead of pining away and expiring from melancholy, like a broken-hearted woman should, her treacherous body refused to obey poetic convention. Despite her sadness, she still had an appetite that would have astonished a kago bearer.  Sending back her breakfast had been an act of will, but now Kimiko's mouth watered. 

"He also sent hot udon noodles with shrimp tempura, a grilled yam cake, and pickled eggplant. And white rice, of course." Plum swallowed hard, trying not to drool. 

Kimiko was startled to realize that she was already holding a pair of chopsticks. Baka! she said to herself firmly. How can you think of filling your belly like a ravenous sow when the one you love is gone?

But even invoking the specter of Ayumi did nothing to quell her hunger pangs. Kimiko was nineteen years old and healthy - her body craved nourishment. Despite her intentions, once she bit into a crunchy tofu triangle and the creamy goodness melted on her tongue, she found herself eating heartily. 

Halfway through the udon, however, she stopped and pushed all the bowls aside. "You may take the rest," she told Plum. Kimiko knew the maids were kept on a starvation diet and had deliberately saved half the yam cake, some of the daikon, noodles and a portion of rice for the child. 

After a delighted bow, Plum inhaled the remains of her mistress' meal with such enthusiasm that the china dishes gleamed as if freshly washed. When finished, she removed the tray, plucked a kettle of water from a charcoal brazier and poured hot water into a jug. Kimiko delicately cleansed her hands and mouth, drying both on a towel, before emitting a genteel belch of satisfaction. 

"Please go and ask Elder Sister Cobweb if I may visit her in two sticks of time," Kimiko requested. "When you return, I will need fresh robes and my hair must be arranged. Also, bring more coals for the brazier..." 

A strident voice from the doorway interrupted her. "More coals?" Auntie Dragonfly's brows rose to her hairline. She had entered the room stealthily, as was her habit. "I may have granted you asobimi status as a favor to your uncle, but I will not allow a spoiled court beauty to bankrupt me!" 

Kimiko nodded to Plum. "You may go." The maid slipped away, squeaking past Auntie's stout form and hurrying down the corridor. 

"Gomen nasai," Kimiko said to the brothel owner. "Forgive me for neglecting to invite you inside. A devil must have prevented me from hearing your announcement." There was more than a trace of sarcasm in her voice. 

Auntie sneered. "Lord Old Fart stepped on your neck and now you're no better than the rest of us, so don't push your buttocks high, little girl. In case you've forgotten, I own you for the next... let me see... eleven months or so, and slaves have no pride." 

Kimiko's eyes flashed with suppressed ire but she kept silent. Technically, brothel workers above the sixth-rank were not slaves but legal apprentices. However, because flower house owners charged exorbitant rates for food, clothing and shelter on top of the indenture price, the bulk of women never paid off their debts and remained in Hanamachi until their death. 

"Shall I tell the Kanpuko about your disrespect?" Auntie continued, scratching her chin with the stem of her pipe. "Perhaps he'll have that precious nurse of yours publicly crucified." 

Kimiko knew that her uncle had paid Auntie Dragonfly a fortune to keep her imprisoned here. The unearned asobimi status kept her from being raped or worse, and afforded her some protection under the law, but the potential for abuse was still high. Offending or disobeying Auntie brought punishment - usually a good beating on the soles of the feet with a bamboo cane, since the old woman did not like to mark delicate skin. 

Kimiko remembered the first such treatment, just three weeks ago on her arrival. Auntie had administered ten hard blows to drive home the fact that she was no longer a member of the nobility and her former rank was no shield. Unaccustomed to such brutality, the lady had been shaken to the core. 

The bruises on Kimiko's soul lasted far longer than the ones on her heels. She had submitted only because of the threat against Izumi, which the brothel owner held over her head every day. 

So long as the Regent holds my nurse's life in his hands, I must endure. If Auntie gives him a bad report of my conduct, Izumi will be punished in retaliation. My duty is clear - I must obey. The familiar litany helped a little. 

Smoldering with resentment, Kimiko nevertheless bowed her head and attempted to placate the woman. "Please forgive me. This miserable worm did not mean to cause distress and I humbly apologize." 

"Ma! That's better," Auntie gloated, her eyes like jet beads sunk deep in the sockets and just as cold. "A flower should be silent. I see I will not have to teach you the lesson again today." 

Once a great beauty, Auntie Dragonfly had long ago lost her looks to sake and hard use. Her skin was lumpy and the color of chicken fat, all yellowish and waxy. She cropped her real hair short and wore bear-fur wigs that stank of rancid oil. In spite of these deficiencies, she still wore magnificent kimonos and flirted outrageously with the customers, who called her "Old Pisspot" behind her back. 

"I have an excellent offer for your mizuage," Auntie said casually, leaning against a post. "I strongly suggest you consider it. The gentleman is elderly but still vigorous; he will be patient enough with your faults and not make too many demands, unlike some young bucks I know." 

Kimiko's heart stopped and an icy flush ran through her body. Although she had agreed to no such thing, Old Pisspot was already taking bids to auction off her virginity. Mizuage might be commonplace among the regular brothel inhabitants, but surely uncle-san does not want my virtue compromised! He would never be able to find a husband willing to make marriage alliance with me if I returned to the Palace as spoiled goods!

"Has my asobimi status been revoked?" Kimiko asked, fighting down a lump in her throat. 

"Don't be silly. Do you think I could get such a high price for a street whore?" 

"By law, you cannot force me to do this. I have the right to refuse." 

"Mochiron!" Auntie exclaimed sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "Of course you do, little girl! No one dares suggest that you should have been opened years ago!" 

Kimiko struggled to remain calm. "Gomen nasai, honored Auntie, but I do not think the Regent would approve." 

The brothel owner laughed harshly and waggled her unshaven eyebrows. "Who do you think suggested it? For someone who's supposed to be clever, you've been acting like a naive fool since you came here." 

"I will not allow this. You may beat me, starve me, torture me... but I will not submit this time." Now that she had caught her breath against the shock, Kimiko firmed her will into steel. "I will not." 

"And what of your nurse, eh? Would you abandon her?" Auntie tsked. "Such an ungrateful child. You shame me." 

"You shame yourself." Kimiko locked eyes with the old woman, deliberately showing her contempt. Openly defying Auntie gave her a heady feeling; ever since Ayumi had disappeared, she had felt out of control, driven to despair, abandoned and alone. Now outrage swelled in her breast, fueled by frustration, misery and pride. 

She was not some back-passage whore of the fifth rank - she was Fujiwara no Kimiko, member of one of the most illustrious clans in the Floating World, connected by marriage and birth to the Sun Throne itself. Her ancestors had been daimyo and respected courtiers since the founding of the Empire. Her own grandmother had been an Imperial wife. The blood of ten thousand proud nobles flowed in her veins, and it was time she remembered who she was and where she had come from. 

Yes, by Kwannon! I will show her who she deals with!

"That threat cuts both ways, Old Pisspot," Kimiko replied haughtily. "If anything happens to Izumi, I am free to act as I please. Do you imagine I will allow you to squeeze more gold from my flesh then? Blades may not be allowed in Hanamachi, but the determined soul always finds a way." 

Auntie was startled, but rallied quickly with a sneer. "You are too young to contemplate suicide. Youth always prefers life over death." 

"Will you test me?" Kimiko gestured violently, making her sleeve bells jingle. "Do you dare?" She was only partially bluffing; death was preferable to some things, but she still harbored a slim hope of finding Ayumi someday. 

"I will beat you bloody for this," Auntie hissed. "Insolent girl!" 

"Please do so. You may break my body, but you will never break my spirit." Kimiko summoned all her disdain and loathing, molded it together with needle-fine hatred against those who had caused her situation, and honed the result into a verbal dagger, which she thrust home without regret. 

She spat, quivering with icy rage, "Now bow down, you pathetic bitch! Bow down and apologize for spewing your poison in my presence! Do you hear me? Put your face against the mats like the miserable peasant you are and do not forget who I am! By Buddha, I said bow down!" 

Centuries of social conditioning made Auntie fall to the floor, abasing herself with instinctive terror clawing at her heart, overwhelmed by Kimiko's tone and attitude. In a world where a samurai could legally kill a peasant just to test the edge of a sword, the low always deferred to the high as a means of sheer survival. Ingrained in the depths of her mind was automatic deference to the upper ranks as well as the fear of generations, and she reacted without conscious thought. 

Kimiko did not feel triumphant; she still burned with righteous fury. "Get out," she said flatly, "and do not threaten me again." 

Auntie Dragonfly raised herself up and retrieved her pipe, attempting to regain some modicum of dignity. She knew that she had lost all face, and shame ate at her narrow soul like acid. "You will never survive. I will make certain of it if others do not." 

"What others?" 

Realizing she had said too much, Auntie fled the room, nearly running over Plum. 

The maid's mouth hung open in amazement. "Is honorable Auntie being pursued by oni? I have never seen her run before. Never! Not even the time when a drunken monk set fire to the toilet house!" 

Kimiko took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and clasped her hands together in her lap until they stopped trembling. "Never mind, little sister. Please come and arrange my hair." 

While Plum bustled about, gathering combs, camellia oil, paper ribbons, pins and ornaments, Kimiko thought quickly, anger dissipated by a sudden pinprick of caution. 

What did the Old Pisspot mean? Why does my uncle endorse a mizuage for me? Oh, how I wish Ayumi was here! she wailed internally. I vow never to touch sleeves with another; my flesh and spirit crave only you. If you can hear this, please pray for me, my beloved. I will do whatever necessary to endure until we meet once more in Heaven, Hell or earth. I would fly to you now were it not for the giri that binds me here.

She sniffed back threatening tears. It served no purpose to dissolve into hysterical longing. Her samurai was gone; she could rely on no one but herself. 

I cannot wait for rescue, like some silly heroine in a novel. Baka! Think, woman! Think! Stop all this purposeless regret and use the brain Buddha gave you. What wheels are turning, what plots are hatching? Who is behind it and what do they want? Think!

Auntie Dragonfly was right about one thing. 

Youth clings to life, especially where love is involved. 

CHAPTER THREE - The Foot-Drawn Trail

Yabu wo tsutsuite hebi wo dasu ----- Poke a bush, a snake comes out. 

Somewhere on Mount Hiei to Katsura-no-miyo, the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees

Although the sun was sinking and the temperature had dropped, Ayumi trudged onward and upward, making for the peak of Mount Hiei with single-minded determination. Snow Fairy followed behind, concentrating on keeping up with the samurai. 

Something loomed out of the shadows to her right and Snow stopped in her tracks. "Ayumi-san! Look there." 

Ayumi halted and peered at the dilapidated structure the priestess had indicated. "Probably a hunter's hut," she said gruffly, "long abandoned from the look of the thing. Let's go; this is not a seeing-sights pilgrimage and we have no time to gawk at every ruin on the path." 

Snow Fairy grabbed the samurai by the sleeve before she could walk away. "Do not be so quick to judge, honored one. Let us at least search the inside." 

"Why? Don't act like a bakahito, woman. If your feet are sore, rest here and I will continue alone." 

"Look at yourself!" Snow Fairy cried, exasperated. "Look at me! The Kanpuko's Dogs will be watching for a Shinto priestess and a female warrior! The Regent is not a merciful man - do you remember that he ordered your death? - and surely, his spies and Imperial guards have our descriptions. Their eyes are everywhere. Saneyoshi-sama has had three weeks to tighten his fist around the city and turn Hanamachi into an armed camp. Brazenly walking into a trap will not serve your interests, or mine." 

"Woman, you could drive Buddha to murder with all this unending chatter!" Ayumi exclaimed, smacking her thigh with a fist. "In general, I agree with what you've said, but what does any of it have to do with a falling-down wreck?" 

"Perhaps we will find something within that we can use as a disguise." 

"We are more likely to find bird droppings, fleas and a hundred generations of spiders than costumes." 

"Our situation will not be altered by a short delay. Besides, we cannot continue after full dark; if we lose the trail, it may take us hours to regain our way in the morning." 

The samurai mulled this over. She burned with impatience, grudging every moment spent until her reunion with Kimiko. There was another reason why she was so reluctant to enter the place, but it was a private concern and none of the priestess' business. 

Despite her misgivings, Ayumi had to admit that Snow Fairy had a point. While she did not believe for a moment that they would find anything useful in the abandoned hut, it would provide minimum shelter until sunrise. 

"Very well. I agree, but we will only stay until Amaterasu shows her face, wakarimasu ka?" 

"Hai. I understand." 

It was not as bad as Ayumi feared. The interior was larger than the outside suggested, with a stone-lined fire hole scraped from the dirt floor, and a few bird's nests tucked into the eaves, draped in dusty cobwebs. There was no furniture except a rickety plank table and a narrow wooden platform covered with dead leaves. Two cracked clay pots sat beside a rusting iron hibachi grill, and a small supply of charcoal leaked from a battered reed basket in the corner. Snow Fairy glanced about and clapped her hands together in delight. 

"I was not always a priestess," she explained. "Before I pledged myself to the kami, I was born into a family of vagrant actors." Snow knelt down and thrust her hands into the gap beneath the bed platform. When she pulled them back out again, she held several flat packages wrapped in oilcloth. "Because they are forbidden by law to stay at public inns, all troupes build places like this for shelter and make them look deliberately forlorn, to discourage thieves." 

"Does this place belong to one of your relatives?" The samurai was obviously annoyed. "Why didn't you say so in the first place instead of making excuses?" 

"I suspected, but wasn't sure until I saw this." The priestess pointed to an unobtrusive sign carved into the wood of the sagging doorframe. "It is the mark of the Amazake clan, one of the best kabuki groups in the Empire. I hope they left us something useful." She tore open the oilcloth packages and spread out the contents. 

Ayumi grunted in surprise. A plain lacquer box held a variety of cosmetics; another contained compact pouches of rice, dried fish and fruits, obviously emergency rations. Snow held up a pair of padded jackets. The blue cotton cloth was rough and marked on the back with a Buddhist blessing, just the sort of thing peasants wore when making a pilgrimage. Patched and faded black hakama with raveling hems, plain gray kimonos, thin towels, ribbed fingerless gloves and strips of fabric completed the outfits. 

"It is sometimes necessary for actors to disguise themselves as villagers, to avoid the Emperor's travel taxes and be able to purchase supplies," Snow said, popping a slice of dried pear into her mouth. "Also, troupes bury extra costume trunks under the floor and retrieve them when they tour the region again. My own family had caches concealed in most of the provinces; very convenient when the government does not allow you any mode of transportation save your own two feet." 

"The more I come to know you, the more I realize that you are no typical priestess," Ayumi replied, sitting cross-legged near the fire hole. Her calves were cramping from the steep incline they had just walked up, but she ignored the gnawing pain. "I do not regret trying to kill you - it was my duty! - but I am glad that I didn't succeed." 

The albino women shrugged. In the burgeoning twilight, her face was a pale silvery blur. "He who fears death dies a thousand times, while the brave suffer only once," she quoted, knowing this was as close to an apology from the samurai as she was going to get. "The matter is forgotten." 

There was a moment of silence before Snow continued, after clearing her throat, "By disguising ourselves as peasant pilgrims, we stand a much higher chance of getting into Hanamachi alive. After that, it is in the hands of the gods. We should eat, though, and try to sleep a few hours while it's quiet. There is probably a stream nearby; I will go fetch water. Can you light a fire?" 

Ayumi grinned. She was in a much better humor now that the odds of her actually reaching Kimiko had improved a hundred fold. "I should think so. My former lord had me chasing bandits out in the wilderness for months, and only an evening fire saved me from becoming uncivilized. You will probably not enjoy my cooking, though. I am the only person I know who can burn tea!" 

Snow Fairy smiled in return. "Alas, there is no tea! We will have to make do with charred rice." 

"That, at least, I can manage." 

They stared at one another for a moment, each realizing that they had made tentative steps towards true friendship, then Ayumi turned away and said, "The light is fading fast. You had better go." 

"Hai," Snow agreed softly, scooping up both clay pots and cradling them against her hip. "I will return shortly." 

Despite the promising beginning, each woman was occupied with her own thoughts and very little was said for the rest of the evening. 

Fujiwara Saneyoshi, duly appointed Regent for the child Emperor, and the most powerful man in Wa, sipped tea in his private chambers, avoiding looking at the person who crouched nearby. 

"Please excuse me, most exalted lord, but should we not discuss the terms of the contract?" the person inquired politely. 

Saneyoshi-sama snorted, blowing a fine spray of tea onto his dark gray kimono. "Silence, worm!" he commanded harshly. "How dare you speak without permission! Filthy ninja... you do well to keep to your place and curb your tongue." 

The ninja kowtowed, knocking his forehead against the floor. He was dressed as a maid, with a plum colored kimono, dull russet apron, and a white towel tied over his head. Skillfully applied cosmetics gave him a pretty doll's face, with round red cheeks, bow lips and fragrant white skin. "It is you who have summoned me once again," he murmured. "I respectfully remind the exalted lord that the Shideyama clan owes obedience to no man." 

The Regent scowled at this impertinence and slammed his cup on the table, shattering the fragile porcelain into a dozen pieces. His visitor looked amused. Struggling to regain perfect control, Saneyoshi bit his lip so hard that his teeth cut into the tender flesh. 

Ninja were utterly without honor or loyalty. Unlike noble samurai, they acted as sneak thieves, assassins and spies, and could not be trusted at all. Anyone who hired these despicable killers to do their dirty work was considered a traitor to their class - if Saneyoshi's involvement came to light, the entire daimyo ranks would forget their differences and unite against him in war. Not only that, but the ninja themselves would surely eliminate him for exposing their secret connection. 

"Have I not treated your clan generously in the past?" Saneyoshi-sama asked brusquely, concealing the icy flush of fear that made his sphincter tighten. 

"Of course, exalted lord. Which is why we eagerly anticipate serving you once more." The ninja showed ink-blackened teeth in a charming smile. 

The coppery taste of blood in his mouth made Saneyoshi-sama faintly nauseous. That was not the only cause of his discontent, however. He had come to a certain decision in the past three weeks that, while necessary, certainly soured his stomach. 

Kuso! I cannot believe that after all my efforts and plans, everything has turned to dog shit in my hands, the Regent thought. My wayward niece has become a serious liability - almost as much of a hindrance as her idiot father.

Fujiwara Masanori, his younger brother and Kimiko's father, had been an unambitious scholar, content to rot in provincial obscurity in faraway Edo. Unworldly as he was, Masanori had nevertheless disagreed with Saneyoshi's plans for imperial dominance. 

For nearly a century, the Fujiwara clan had virtually ruled the Floating World by making marriage alliances between their daughters and the highest men in the Empire, even managing to secure ties to the throne itself via concubinage. The situation was helped by the frequency of child Emperors who could be easily manipulated. 

Modern times were different, however. Two circumstances threatened Saneyoshi's position: first, Emperor Kaika was protected by his clever and opportunistic mother, the Dowager. The imperial government now relied on a balanced tripod of power - Lady Hisame, Saneyoshi and the daimyo warlords. Not having complete control was galling, and the Regent immediately began scheming to reach the heights once more. 

This led to his second problem. Having only worthless sons and no daughters himself, Saneyoshi-sama had focused on his brother's daughter, Kimiko. Pretty, lively, sweet tempered, smart and malleable - or so he'd thought - she would have been the perfect pawn. He'd planned to marry her advantageously, and when the time was right, make sure she became a widow. 

When Kaika began to show a real interest in girls, Kimiko would be the right age and have the proper experience to make an excellent Imperial concubine. He had been certain that she would obey him and twist the Emperor to his bidding, thus putting the Dowager completely out of the picture and allowing the Fujiwara clan to rule from behind the throne once more. 

Alas, his idealistic brother had refused to cooperate. 

Masanori-chan, why did you have to be such a stubborn, single-minded fool? the Regent thought. Why could you not just give up your daughter for the good of the clan? Did you truly believe that our blood tie gave you the right to defy me to my face? I did not want to kill you, but you left me no choice.

That had been the first time Saneyoshi-sama used the ninjas of Shideyama clan - to assassinate his own brother so that the deed could not be traced to him. After the act, further luck came his way; Masanori's wife declared the murder to be an accident, shaved her head and entered a Buddhist monastery, thus leaving his niece Kimiko without protection. 

Unfortunately, his plans for Kimiko had gone completely awry. It was stupid of me to accuse her of murder in such a public fashion. Lady Hisame could have used the situation to her advantage and I sought to minimize the damage to my position without considering all the consequences. Now, not even the lowest and poorest noble in Wa will marry Kimiko. Her reputation has been too soiled, and the Dowager's tongue spreads further evil on a daily basis. My niece will never be able to gain access to the Emperor, not even as a chamberpot cleaner - the nobility would never accept it. The Son of Heaven united with a murderess? Hah! Oxen will sprout wings and fly to Sacred Fuji before that happened!

The decision he had come to was based on cold, clinical reasoning rather than emotion. Kimiko has become a liability, just like her father. Old Lady Spider will let no one forget that I, her uncle, sponsored the chit to court and arranged that ill-fated marriage. Her popularity has vanished and she is universally dishonored. My misjudgment has cost me too much face already; if I do nothing, my allies will believe me weak and fall away. In this life I have chosen, there is no room for softness or sentiment. Shigata ga nai. The girl must be eliminated. 

As I cannot trust that grasping bitch Dragonfly to do the job properly, and none of my retainers have the subtlety of a stampeding buffalo, I must rely on professionals. Let Old Pisspot get what she can from my niece's body while she is able; all too soon, Kimiko will be fit only for a maggot's feast.

Saneyoshi glanced at the patiently waiting ninja and grimaced. He hated giving up, hated having to admit his efforts had been wasted, but the Kanpuko was also practical enough to know when to cut his losses and move on. Cold blooded and ruthless, perhaps, but success required sacrifices - he had absorbed that lesson with his mother's milk. 

"My niece, Fujiwara no Kimiko, is in Hanamachi, dwelling as an asobimi in the Brocade Tree brothel," the Regent said. "Hear my will - in three days time, the Shideyama clan will ensure that she disappears from that place and is never seen or heard from again." 

"Does the exalted lord require proof that his command has been successfully implemented?" 

"Hide-e!" Saneyoshi-sama said sarcastically. "How terrible would be my misfortune if the girl's body was discovered in my private apartments!" 

"Gomen nasai. Of course you are correct." The ninja toyed with the end of his sash, pursed his rouged lips and looked speculatively at the ceiling. "Perhaps a small trophy would be sufficient, merely to verify the target's identity and provide mutual satisfaction on a job well done." 

"Do as you think best, but discretion is required above all!" Saneyoshi felt exhausted; he wanted the ninja to leave so he could rest. "Remember, three days. No sooner, no later. I will be making a pilgrimage to the Ise Shrine later today and will return after the mission is completed. It is important that no suspicion of any kind be attached to me." 

"Wakarimashita. I understand completely, most exalted lord," the ninja drawled, bowing gracefully and rising to his feet. "Rest assured, all shall be as you desire." 

"It had better be," the Regent growled. "Here is one-half of the payment as agreed." He pulled a pouch from his sleeve, counted out several gold koban, and laid the coins on a piece of paper, folding the sides to form a package and twisting the ends into a flower-petal design. Scooping up the payment with his fan, he offered it to the ninja, unwilling to allow the man close enough to touch him. 

The man took his money and bowed once more. "Domo arigato gozaimasu," he chirped, expertly altering his voice into a young woman's soprano. "Thank you very much." His body language, expression and gestures were so completely feminine that Saneyoshi-sama felt his jade pole stiffen in an unconscious response. 

Angered at being betrayed by his body, the Regent grunted, "Ikinasai! Go now and obey, as you value your life." 

The ninja turned and sashayed to the door, stepping into wooden geta and glancing over his shoulder flirtatiously. "Should you need anything further, master, you have only raise your knuckle and I will come running at your summons." 

He slid open the shoji-door and walked out between the guards, hips rolling and buttocks squirming, smiling widely and bobbing his head - the perfect image of a young maid looking to get ahead in the world by pillowing instead of hard work. 

Saneyoshi-sama shook his head and shouted for a servant. When that unfortunate appeared, the Kanpuko commanded coldly, "Bring me fresh tea and hot food at once, you bakahito! How dare you allow your master to perish from hunger and thirst!" 

The deed was as good as done. 

Now the Regent needed something to take the foul taste out of his mouth.

CHAPTER FOUR - The Weaver's Song 

Jigoku de hotoke ni ota yo da ----- Like meeting a Buddha in Hell

Hanamachi, the Flower District outside Heian-kyo
The Brocade Tree, a brothel
3 p.m., the second Hour of the Sheep

"We meet, we part, we regret, 
By Heaven's mercy we are united once more; 
Sleeves briefly touch, a cup of sake, 
And our paths divide. 
Left waiting, still meeting, parting again - 
such are the brief sorrows called life." 

The asobimi called Cobweb vibrated her throat on the last part of her melancholy song, bringing tears of appreciation to Kimiko's eyes; the woman's achingly high soprano voice was well suited to the traditional "autumn rains melody." Cobweb thrummed the strings of her koto in a final flourish and bowed her head, allowing the music to gently subside and mingle with the patter of raindrops falling in the garden outside. 

Kimiko wiped her wet face with her sleeve. "Please excuse me. I have never heard such a beautiful song played so skillfully." For a moment, she was completely overcome by memories of Ayumi; it was a difficult task to swallow her grief and push the unbearable longing aside. Her breast ached with the effort. 

Cobweb nodded, pulling ivory plectrums off her fingers and placing them in a small box. "We have all suffered disappointment in love, little sister," she said compassionately. "It is our fate, and only rebirth will take away the sting. But enough of sadness! Please join me for tea and we will chat only of light affairs. O-cha, Ogawa-chan!" 

The asobimi's maid, a skinny adolescent with an old scar on her forehead, hastened to place a tray with fresh tea and snacks on a low table near Kimiko. Cobweb gently pushed aside the koto and shuffled on her knees to join her visitor. 

Holding the sleeve of her elaborate overrobe aside while she poured tea, Cobweb asked slyly, "I have heard that Old Pisspot scurried from your chambers as if pursued by a horny priest! I wonder what could have happened to put a spasm in that one's stone liver?" 

"Gomen nasai. I don't know what you mean." Kimiko was reluctant to confess the truth. 

Cobweb was one of two asobimi in the Brocade Tree prior to her arrival; the other was called Bikei - a nickname meaning "Beautiful View." Neither woman had greeted the news of a new first-rank courtesan with cries of joy, but Bikei was openly hostile to the idea of a possible rival. Cobweb, on the other hand, had mellowed to Kimiko and become genuinely friendly, taking her courtesy title of "elder sister" seriously enough to offer gentle advice and counsel. 

Even so, Kimiko was still not sure whom she could trust, especially after Auntie Dragonfly's tongue-slip. She tried to look innocent and repeated, "I really cannot say why Honorable Auntie behaved in such a strange fashion." 

"Ah so desu ka?" Cobweb raised her thick black eyebrows in polite disbelief; unlike other inhabitants of Hanamachi, she did not slavishly follow the fashions of nobility and shave her forehead clean. "Please forgive me for prying into matters that are not my concern. I meant no offense." 

Kimiko accepted a cup of tea and shook her head. "Shigata ga nai. It is nothing." She sipped the steaming green liquid and allowed familiar bitterness to soothe the lump in her throat. While she drank, she studied Cobweb obliquely, trying to determine if the asobimi was as trustworthy as her appearance and attitude suggested. 

Both women wore their floor-length hair in an acceptable courtesan's style - the sides and top gathered into a knot above the center of the brow and pinned into place with jeweled ornaments, while the rest was pulled into an elaborately twisted bun at the back. Scented camellia oil kept the lustrous black locks smooth, but while Kimiko always had a few wisps escaping untidily around her ears, Cobweb never had a hair out of place. 

The asobimi was classically beautiful - slightly rounded oval face, long narrow nose, elongated swallow's eyes that could flash with passionate fire, or brim with sympathetic tears. Her skin was as pale as rice powder, without a blemish, and she never used cosmetics. Cobweb's clothing was deliberately cut in an old-fashioned style, utilizing antique Karan brocades and embroidered silks in muted shades, decorated with pearls, jade buttons and silver charms. Although fashion reigned supreme behind the walls of Hanamachi, Cobweb chose elegance over peacock flaunting, and stood out from the rest of her fellows as a consequence. 

When she moved, every gesture was as graceful as a dance. She did not walk, but seemed to float an inch above the ground. Everywhere she went, the scent of costly Dew-on-the-Mountain-Path incense perfumed the air. She was the uncrowned queen of the flower district - a woman so legendary that hushed mobs dogged her steps, and men fought for the privilege of bowing to her. Even other asobimi, who should have gnashed their teeth in jealousy, accorded her an astonishing amount of respect. 

However, despite her obvious refinement, Cobweb still retained one habit that pointed to a peasant background. 

Weaving, Kimiko thought. No courtesan has true wealth, but with the richest men in the Empire lined up like so many dogs to lick her hand and give expensive presents, Cobweb could command a wardrobe fit for an Empress. Not only that, but most kimono makers in this district would kill each other in a frenzy to display their wares on her back, and she wouldn't have to part with a single copper mon. 

But Cobweb preferred to weave fabrics for her unique robes on her own loom, using dyed silk thread delivered on a weekly basis. She was an undisputed expert; the products she made were so exquisitely crafted they could have come from the finest weaving houses in Wa. Kimiko had grown used to hearing the clack of the woman's flying shuttle at all hours of the day and night; the sound was soothing, almost hypnotic. 

At first feeling that such an occupation was unsuitable for a woman of Cobweb's position - not to mention somewhat strange - Kimiko had decided that the eccentricity suited her somehow. It was clear that the asobimi was never happier than when kneeling before the loom and creating a work of art with the skill of her hands alone.

Only helping her new friend Kimiko navigate the confusing maze of a courtesan's life seemed to give Cobweb as much satisfaction. 

She has been so nice to me that I almost feel we are blood siblings. I am so exposed in this place; as dangerous as it was, at least the Imperial Court was familiar ground. Do I dare leap into the void and accept Cobweb as an ally? Kimiko felt her doubts fading. Do I dare reveal to her the truth?

Cobweb leaned forward slightly and tapped a fingernail on her teacup, making the porcelain chime like a bell and startling Kimiko out of her thoughts. "Something troubles you deeply, little sister. You are too silent, too withdrawn. I can tell there is no happiness in your soul. Can I not persuade you to confide in me? It will go no further, I swear." 

"Excuse me." Kimiko bowed her head. Might as well be killed for a salmon as for a sprat, she thought. What do I have to lose? If nothing else, I will at least be able to unburden myself to someone who might care. 

She continued after a pause, "While I appreciate your kindness, I hesitate to inconvenience you with my petty burdens." 

"Nonsense!" Cobweb shuffled around the end of the table until she knelt right next to her friend. "I never had family of my own, but you are like my very own baby sister. If there is anything I can do, I won't hesitate. You know that." She lowered her voice and raised her hands to either side of her face, cupping her temples; her long sleeves hung down on each side like a privacy curtain. 

In a whisper, she continued coyly, "Is it a love affair? Old Pisspot never told us why you came here, but I can see you must be one of the highborn. Have the clouds not covered the moon for you? That's the only reason I can think for someone like you to be here." 

Kimiko blushed. The asobimi was asking if she was pregnant; "clouds covering the moon" was a genteel euphemism for a woman's monthly cycles. "Iye!" she exclaimed, putting up her own sleeves to shield her face, the way one did when about to exchange secrets. "I've never pillowed with anyone before." 

Cobweb looked both relieved and startled. "Ma! Well, you can't be as innocent as you claim, little sister, or you would not be here." 

Kimiko wrinkled her nose and sighed. "It's true that I have family problems, but not those, thank the Myriads." 

"No? Then please, tell me, what is it that threatens you?" 

Having finally made up her mind to trust Cobweb - (why not?, an inner voice urged, she is beautiful, kind and caring, and you are alone) - Kimiko told the asobimi about her situation, leaving out no details and not attempting to remain incognito anymore. 

When she learned that her friend's uncle was the powerful Regent, Cobweb's mouth dropped open and she shivered. "So many powerful enemies! Merciful Kwannon, little sister, you do nothing by halves!" 

"It appears so," Kimiko agreed ruefully. "Now you know the truth. What can I do? I have no way of gathering information or protecting myself. It appears that Auntie Dragonfly as well as these invisible 'others' are plotting against me. I must assume they mean to have me killed." 

"Can you not appeal to your parents for assistance?" 

"My father died two years ago during a plague. My mother shaved her head and entered the temple. Saneyoshi-sama is the leader of our clan, and he is the one who put me here! No, elder sister; I cannot look to anyone for help." 

Cobweb's eyes narrowed and she asked slowly, "You were to be punished in Hanamachi for one year only, correct? Why, then, would your honorable uncle sanction a mizuage? That will ruin you for any marriage alliance when you return to court." 

"Unless he does not intend for me to return at all."

"Why would he do that?" 

"That is a question I cannot answer... yet." Kimiko made a face. "My uncle has a mind as crooked as a cat's hind leg. Cut off from the Palace, I have no way of getting information about his movements or plans. It's bad enough being shackled to this brothel, but I've been blinded and deafened as well. How can I plan a defense when I don't know what bolts may fly from Heaven?" 

Cobweb lowered her hands and poured them both more tea. "We might be sequestered here but that does not mean we are entirely cut off from the outside world," she said carefully. "The blind shampooers, tradesmen, porters, kitchen staff, delivery boys, musicians, waitresses, maids... all of them collect gossip the way a spider catches flies." 

Kimiko nodded. "I imagine the honorable gentlemen you see are also full of news." 

"Worse than old ladies gossiping over their washing tubs!" Cobweb munched a handful of rice crackers. "When a man believes himself in love, he opens his heart and scatters secrets to the winds. Did you know some first and second rank courtesans are also Imperial spies?" 

Kimiko gasped in surprise. "Ma! They work for the Naishi!" 

"Oh, yes." The asobimi grinned, pleased at her friend's reaction. "Many a loose lipped nobleman has gone to bed with a pretty girl and wakened the next morning alone, except for a box with the yellow silk dagger." 

Receiving a knife with the hilt wrapped in saffron-dyed silk was a symbol of the Imperial command. In obedience, the recipient immediately committed seppuku, often ignorant of what crime he had committed. 

"Members of the spy network report directly to the Kanpuko," Kimiko said thoughtfully. "No wonder I feel as if his eyes are everywhere. They are!" 

"I know someone who regularly goes between Hanamachi and the Palace," Cobweb offered. "A doctor. He can be trusted, if there is anyone you wish to contact...?" She left the rest of the sentence unspoken. 

For a bare second, hope thrilled in Kimiko's heart. Cobweb was offering to smuggle a letter out - a very dangerous favor, considering that the asobimi and her contact would be executed if the clandestine activity were discovered. 

If only she could get a message to Ayumi! After a brief moment, however, that fragile dream died beneath the weight of reality. Even if she knew where her samurai was, she would not risk Ayumi's life against such terrible odds. 

Kimiko took a deep breath, hung her head and replied dully, "I fear there is no one, elder sister. The one I love is far away; I doubt I will ever see her again in this lifetime. If she knew where I was, what was happening... but there is little profit in regret." 

"She?" Despite the seriousness of their conversation, Cobweb let out a charming giggle - more a squeak than a true laugh. "Do your feet prefer to travel the Nyodo Road instead of the Shudo, little sister?" 

Startled out of her gloom, Kimiko flushed brightly. The Nyodo and Shudo roads were popular paths that traveled from Heian-kyo to Hanamachi, but Nyodo also meant "Way of Women" while Shudo, "Way of Boys." The bawdy double-meaning was embarrassing. 

"Sleeve touches sleeve because it is meant to," Kimiko countered, still blushing. 

"True, very true. We cannot fathom the ways of the gods." Cobweb shot her a sly glance. "Did you know that Bikei follows the Way of Women in private? That is why she hates you so. Her lover is Yukan. You know her, don't you? The cross-eyed third-ranker?" 

Kimiko smothered a chuckle. Yukan was not only cross-eyed, she was thin as a needle, wore too many cosmetics and put on hateful airs. The other servants could not stand her. "This does not explain why Bikei's liver ties itself into a knot when we cross paths." 

It was Cobweb's turn to look surprised. "Did you never notice the way Yukan melts with passion when she gazes at you? She's like a moonstruck ox! Beckon to that one with your smallest finger, and she would fall into your futon as if kicked in the buttocks by Benzaiten-sama! Yukan has spent a fortune in incense at the love goddess' temple, bawling prayers loud enough to deafen the ears of any unfortunate within three ri!" 

Kimiko nearly choked with laughter. "This is terrible! I had no idea!" 

"I keep waiting for her to sneak on to your verandah in the night and sing love songs. That would bring the exorcists running! Yukan has a voice like a cat with its tail caught in a meat grinder. Old Pisspot will think we're being invaded by demons." 

"Yamero! Stop it! My belly hurts!" 

The asobimi was not finished tormenting her friend yet. "It could be worse," she proclaimed dramatically. "Yukan could be sending you... bad poetry!" Her thick eyebrows waggled fiercely and she crossed one eye like a stage actor. 

Kimiko toppled over in helpless convulsions. Several minutes later, she sat up, wiping her aching face and sniffling. 

Cobweb smiled. "Good! You needed a release, little sister. I hope you feel better now." 

Oddly enough, Kimiko did. She knew her pressing problems had not been solved, but it seemed like the burden had been lightened somewhat by their merriment. "Domo arigato, elder sister. Life has been too serious lately." 

"I agree." Cobweb winked and got back to business. "Now, I will do what I can to find out what is happening in the Palace. And if Honorable Auntie has anything exotic planned, it is certain she will not do it herself. There are certain men in Hanamachi who take care of troublesome girls; I will find out if they have been recently contracted for a removal." 

Kimiko nodded. "We must be careful and discreet." She touched the asobimi's hand. "I appreciate all your help and would not want to put you in danger." 

"A little danger adds spice!" Cobweb squeezed the girl's fingers. "Speaking of spices... you had better instruct your maid to pick up your meals from the teahouse herself. You must not eat anything from the kitchen here. Auntie's not above slipping a few pinches of poison into your dumplings if she gets the chance." 

"Hai. What about spies? Is there a chance my uncle is watching me?" 

"As far as I know, there are none working in the Brocade Tree and we rarely mix with girls from other places. That is not to say the Naishi have not recruited the nightsoil collector and the fugu chef! We must think of an excuse so that our meetings will not be suspicious." 

Kimiko's gaze roamed around the room. "Ah! I have it! Elder sister, I humbly beg the privilege of studying the koto with you whenever it is convenient." 

Cobweb let out another squeaky giggle. "Excellent! I will inform Old Pisspot of our arrangement and let her know that I will be summoning you at all hours. She will, of course, extract the cost of tuition from your boarding fee." 

"Naturally." Kimiko rolled her eyes. "And when I am dead, she will no doubt sell my corpse to a sorcerer's assistant for a few silver drops." 

"Chigau! Don't be ridiculous! Auntie will cut off your hair and nails and sell them to other courtesans as false pledge gifts. There is more profit that way." 

When hair and nails were cut, the trimmed bits were burned in a hot fire to ensure they could not be stolen by evil magicians and worked into deadly charms. Giving such items to one's lover was a potent expression of trust. Kimiko was a little shocked to learn that most prostitutes bought these things (taken from the dead) to give as gifts to their lovers in the hope of extracting more money from the men without endangering themselves. 

"It is bad enough that people want to kill me," Kimiko muttered, shaking her head, "but now they want to defile my corpse!" 

"Do not despair, little sister. The world is a strange place, true, but working together, we will foil the forces at work against you. It will be great fun!" 

Kimiko suddenly felt a surge of doubt so strong, she nearly choked on it. The Brocade Tree - indeed, all of Hanamachi - was a deathtrap. There was literally nowhere to hide, no weapons at hand, no one to come running at a call for help. She was like a turtle without its shell, walking across an open plain with hawks circling overhead. Counting on a courtesan for help was sheer madness, the ultimate folly. 

What was I thinking? Have I gone insane? Cobweb can't possibly understand what she faces in allying herself to me! Oh, she has good ideas, but can anyone be dependable who speaks of thwarting the Regent as if it were a game?

"My uncle is not a petty merchant seeking to destroy a rival with stone-fist tactics," Kimiko said aloud. "He is a dangerous and powerful man who dances with against the Dowager Empress and the daimyo on a daily basis. Do not speak of him so lightly! This is not 'fun', elder sister. It is deadly serious." 

"I understand that, Kimiko-chan." It was the first time Cobweb had called her by her name. "We play a game of very high stakes - life and death. You know that courtesans are extremely skilled at gambling, and I am one of the best." 

Uncertainty still gnawed at the girl, reinforced by Cobweb's frivolous attitude. "Perhaps I should have said nothing at all. Uncle-san is as subtle as a spider, and just as poisonous. I think you are too ignorant of the real world to comprehend my situation." 

Cobweb frowned darkly, all the sweetness chased from her features in an instant. "Little sister, it is you who displays her ignorance. Do you believe that the Flower District is so different from the Palace? Here, women destroy their enemies with the only weapons they have - beauty and wits. There is more intrigue in the average brothel than in the Imperial house itself! You speak of spiders... well, the biggest are to be found here, squatting in the middle of a web of lies. Pretty girls with venom in their veins and hearts as solid as jade. How do you think I clawed my way to the first rank, eh? By being nice?" 

Kimiko jumped when the asobimi pounded her fist onto the table, making the tea things jump. "I am a survivor!" Cobweb exclaimed vehemently. "To live and prosper in this place, you must be as tough as uncured leather and meaner than a badger with piles! You must be willing to do anything, step on anyone's neck, even kill to move upwards. Beauty is only half the story, little sister. The mirror may reflect a soft, sweet natured lady, but beneath the skin you will find a soul of pure steel and all the morals of a blood-crazed fox." 

Kimiko was speechless. This was a side of the elegant courtesan she had never seen, and it took her breath away. 

Cobweb continued more calmly, "You think I know nothing of the real world? This is the real world. The Palace is an illusion. Keep that reality between your ears and stop deluding yourself. Now, I am willing to help you because I think it would be a good thing to have a noble lady in my debt. Keeping you alive is a necessary part of the bargain. Someday, I expect the favor to be repaid. Wakarimasu ka?" 

"Hai! I understand." 

"Good." Cobweb smiled. "Do not worry, little sister. Nothing is ever as hopeless as it seems. As long as you are under my protection and follow my advice, all will be well." 

A gong rang from another part of the house. The asobimi glanced up and concluded, "We have no more time to chat. I must change my robes and get ready for the evening. Thank you for coming to me with your troubles. I swear you will not be disappointed. Shall we schedule a 'koto lesson' for tomorrow at the Second Hour of the Snake? I should have learned something by then." 

Kimiko blinked. This sudden change from a languid, soft-spoken friend to crisp, no-nonsense business woman made her mind reel. Which was the real Cobweb? 

As if reading her thoughts, the courtesan chuckled. "Remember that a comely face does not always reflect the soul within, Kimiko-chan. I like you, that is true, but I never let friendship get in the way of business. This is double good fortune for me; not only will I have a court connection who owes me her life, but I will also put a spoke in the Regent's wheel! Eeee! What could be better!" 

Kimiko realized that she had been fooled by Cobweb's generosity and gentle manner. All along, the courtesan had worn a mask, hoping to lure her into a confession which she could use. Anger at her own stupidity warred with shame. She sat silently for a moment, allowing the emotions to pass so she could look at things from a more detached perspective. 

Finally, the girl asked, "Have you known all along who I am?" 

"Rumor flies more swiftly than a lightning bolt," Cobweb said. "Before you had shaken the sand out of your sandals, the whole of Hanamachi knew your identity. It is a good thing you have decided to place yourself in my hands. You may not like it, little sister, and I know this dares your anger, but I expect you to act as your birth dictates and accept the debt honorably." 

Kimiko knew she could do no less. "The risk is greater than the reward," she said pointedly, having run several scenarios through her mind. "My wrath is not really a consideration, is it? After all, I am virtually powerless. But should I return to court, it is doubtful I could be of real use to you." 

Cobweb wrinkled her nose. "Who can say what is useful and what is not? That is my concern, not yours." 

"Gomen nasai, but I think it is very much my concern." 

The two women stared at one another, eyes probing for any sign of weakness. Kimiko had once considered Cobweb a lightweight, a creature of gossamer and sighs, child-like and naive. She was swiftly learning otherwise. The atmosphere of gaiety and playful conspiracy between friends had disappeared like a summer mist, blown away by Cobweb's deliberate unmasking. The idea that she had been deceived still stung, but Kimiko refused to let her mind be lulled into complacency again. She was determined to survive, to live and search for Ayumi, and she would strike whatever devil's bargain necessary. 

Kimiko let the steel in her soul show through her gaze, and at last, the courtesan looked away. "If Lord Old Fart loses enough face," Cobweb confessed in a low voice, "the Honorable Dowager may notice me. It would not be the first time a concubine has been chosen from the low born and risen to the heights." 

Kimiko understood Cobweb's game instantly. "So... you save me from uncle-san, he loses some support in the Palace as a result of this embarrassment, Lady Hisame falls upon you weeping with gratitude, and you get a chance to play Clouds-and-Rain with the Mikado as soon as he sprouts a man's grass. High stakes, indeed." 

"Whether you know it or not, you have friends among the daimyo," Cobweb said. "They will support you when the time comes. You must tell the Dowager how I courageously aided you against the Kanpuko, doing this for the good of the Empire. Tell her how I, a frightened and foolish courtesan, saved the life of Fujiwara no Kimiko. Insist she grant me an interview. Use your influence with the daimyo and the nobles - and your marriage obligations to the Dowager - to push her into accepting me as an Imperial concubine. After that, you will owe me no more." 

The scheme was more than plausible - it had a very good chance of working. The only problem was that Cobweb obviously had no idea that Kimiko was not in Lady Hisame's good graces. Quite the opposite, in fact. But Kimiko was not going to reveal this tidbit. 

If she knew my influence with Old Lady Spider was nonexistent, she would drop me like an ember-baked yam. As much as I am disgusted by her selfish plan, the fact is that I still need an ally - and Cobweb, while not perfect, will have to do.

Kimiko bowed. "I accept your assistance and your price," she said. "Should fate decree that we both remain in this world, I will do as you've asked. When we meet again, I expect you will have some information for me?" 

"Of course." Satisfied that she'd won, Cobweb tossed her head and smirked. "Stay close to me, little sister. I have much invested in your safety now." 

Kimiko did not reply. Instead, she bowed once more and made her way back to her own rooms. When she nearly bumped into Auntie Dragonfly in the corridor, she merely grunted an apology and kept walking, too absorbed in her own thoughts to pay attention to the older woman's scowl. 

Off of the grill and into the cooking fire. Shigata ga nai. Ayumi was right. When the gods start hurling chamberpots, they certainly don't spare the rain of divine dung.

CHAPTER FIVE - The Peasant's Path

Kono ya wa kari no yado ----- This world is but a travelers' inn

Thousand Pine Forest
10 ri from the northern face of Mount Hiei and nearly 50 ri from Heian-kyo

Ayumi came slowly out of a deep sleep, her senses numbed, eyelids so heavy, it felt as though they were weighted with chains. For a moment she lay there quietly, gathering back the pieces of herself that had drifted into the kingdom of dreams and were reluctant to return. 

When she finally felt coherent enough to open her eyes, she was surprised to realize it was still dark. False dawn had washed palest gray across the sky, blotting out the stars - that much Ayumi could glimpse through the open door - but the sun goddess still hid her blazing face behind night's mantle. 

What had awakened her, then? 

Years of combat training and practical experience had left the samurai with extremely good instincts for danger, and an uncanny ability to react without conscious thought. Once, when chasing bandits for her former lord, Yorimachi-sama, she had been sound asleep when a cut-throat attacked. The samurai had woken up in a defensive squat with her sword in her hand, the man already dead, and the camp decorated with his entrails. 

Ayumi strained her ears, listening intently for... what? The stealthy footsteps of thief or assassin? A faint chiming of metal on metal? The subtle hiss of a knife drawn from its sheath? 

All she heard was a cricket chirping, "Chiyo! Chiyo!" as he blessed the coming day, the muted buzz of Snow Fairy's snoring, and the wind rustling dead leaves outside. 

Her eyes darted back and forth, struggling to make sense of the hut's interior. Was that a pile of clothes or a kneeling man? Was the sullen glint of embers in the brazier being obscured by a shadow that shouldn't be there? What were the ill-defined lumps that crouched in every corner - ordinary objects obscured by gloom or enemies making ready for the slaughter? 

Ayumi squinted, allowing her hand to stray to the hilt of her katana. Something was near - she could sense it - and her muscles coiled in preparation for immediate action. As soon as the threat was identified, it would be eliminated. 

Suddenly, she felt a touch on the side of her face. A feather light caress, just barely skimming the surface of her skin and raising goosebumps on her arms and legs. Sweat beaded up on her forehead. With agonizing slowness, the samurai rolled her eyes to the left and tried desperately to focus on whatever was an inch away from her. 

The touch came again, this time with more confidence. 

Her vision cleared. 

With a blood-curdling yell, Ayumi sprang out of bed, going from horizontal to vertical in a single spastic movement. She began laying about with her sword, dancing from foot to foot, slashing at the straw mattress with all her strength. 

Snow Fairy, roused by all the commotion, rolled off her pallet by the brazier. Digging her knuckles into her eyes, she suppressed the panicked urge to be in six different places at once and instead shouted, "What is it? Are we under attack?"

Ayumi grunted and continued to hack at her former resting place. Shredded bits of straw floated up and fell in a snowstorm flurry around her naked form, sticking to sweating skin and tangled hair. "Filthy, disgusting, horrible!"

The priestess blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of things. She could sense no danger here, and briefly wondered if the gods Ayumi had insulted earlier had driven the samurai mad. Hooking her fingers together, she summoned a trickle of kami magic and breathed a single word - "Fire." 

Instantly, the brazier roared to life, flames billowing and roiling towards the ceiling. Snow Fairy quickly glanced around the room, but could see no human opponents. "What is wrong with you?" she cried. "Ayumi-san, talk to me!" 

Ayumi continued to hop around and slash violently at an invisible enemy. Abandoning the gutted mattress, she pursued her foe outside, ignoring the icy frost that burned the bottoms of her feet, and began stomping an innocent clump of pampas grass flat. 

"Yada! Yada! Yada!" the samurai squealed in disgust. "Horrible!" 

Snow Fairy doused the fire with a muttered command and hurried out into the cold. She dared not lay hands on the apparently insane woman - that katana was sharp, and who knew what delusions Ayumi was battling? Rather than suffer the same fate as the mattress, Snow decided to watch and wait. 

Dawn finally came, a slender crescent of light that seemed to hesitate, then spill like a waterfall over the side of the mountain. Broad ribbons of pink, gold and magenta curled across the sky, painting the tall trees with iridescent color. Ayumi's nude flesh glowed; for a moment, Snow Fairy was dazzled by the sight of the samurai's firm breasts, nipples gilded by pure sunlight, and the play of muscles in her buttocks as she jumped up and down.

At last, Ayumi stopped. Triumphantly, she pointed to a small, dark stain on the grass. "Got him, the filthy kisama!"

Carefully, Snow stepped over to the samurai's side and politely peered at the object of Ayumi's destructive wrath. "A spider?"

"Hai!" Ayumi stripped a handful of leaves from a nearby bush and began cleaning her sword. "Nasty, horrible things!" She shuddered. "I hate spiders!"

The priestess sucked in a breath and bit her lip. "Please excuse me, honored one, but do you mean to tell me that all this fuss was about a tiny, harmless spider?"

Ayumi frowned. "Tiny? That thing was the size of my head!"

Snow twitched, trying to control the laughter that threatened to pour from her throat. All her efforts were fruitless, however. In moments, she was giggling uncontrollably. "Unless the gods have shrunk your head to the size of an orange seed...," she gasped, and then was unable to continue. 

Somewhat sheepishly, Ayumi glanced down at the squashed remains and her lips quirked up in a smile. "You're right," she admitted. "It is somewhat ridiculous." 

"Ridiculous!" Snow howled. "I wish you could have seen yourself, leaping around like a monkey in heat!"

Ayumi began to chuckle. "It was walking on my face!"

"And you thought that the mother of all web walkers was about to devour your liver! Eeeee! I've never seen anything so funny!"

It was the mental picture that did it. Imagining what she must have looked like - one raving, naked warrior against a small spider - made Ayumi howl as well. Both women fell to their knees, pounding the ground and wheezing.

"I thought you'd gone mad," Snow confessed, breaking into a new spate of giggles every few seconds. "There you were, acting as if we were being attacked by Black Emma himself!" She stood up, grabbed a stick and struck a martial pose, chest out and shoulders squared.

"Against such an inhuman foe," the priestess declaimed in a deep voice, sweeping one foot in front of the other, "the samurai could only act valiantly. In fear of her life, the brave Ayumi-san took up the sword and began to fight, using all her skills and knowledge. I could tell you how long the battle raged - how first one side, and then the other, seemed to conquer, only for their triumph to be reversed. But what's the point?"

She crossed her right eye and grimaced theatrically, imitating a well-known kabuki actor. "In the end, honor and valor saved the day!" 

Ayumi laughed and smacked her hand against her thigh. "Very good! With an act like that, you should've never abandoned the stage for the temple." 

Snow bowed and dropped the stick. "Domo arigato. Now, since dawn has arrived and we have many ri to go before we reach the other side of the mountain, may I suggest we get dressed and eat now? Unless you'd rather spend the time doing cremation ceremonies for your vanquished enemy."

"Iye! I apologize, honored priestess. A samurai should never show fear, but spiders!" Ayumi shivered violently. "I hate spiders!"

Snow grinned, a hint of mischief sparkling in her pink eyes. "I used to think you had no weaknesses, honored one, but I'm glad to discover that you are human after all."

Ayumi made a face and stood up, brushing dirt and grass from her buttocks. For a moment, when fear-induced hysteria had sought release in laughter, she'd almost forgotten their desperate mission. Am I so heartless, so dishonored, that I would put Kimiko from my mind with such ease? How can I smile and be gay when the woman I love is in danger of her life?

The thought sobered her immediately. She felt deeply ashamed, not only for the ridiculous spider-killing display, but for losing sight - just for a moment - of her lady's plight.

"Let's eat and go," Ayumi said abruptly. "My feet are itching to be on the road."

Watching the samurai stalk back to the hut with enormous dignity, Snow Fairy sighed.

She had a feeling that it was going to be a very, very long day.

Dressed in peasant's gear and trudging up the steep path, Ayumi checked Snow Fairy's appearance out of the corner of her eye. 

The priestess had blackened her silvery brows with ashes, and rubbed her skin with dirt in order to conceal its pallor. She had shaved her head completely, losing forelock and rat-tail braid. To cover her baldness, Snow wore the bottom of a straw basket perched atop her crown like a hat, held in place with a thin strip of cloth pulled tight and tied beneath her chin. 

Like Ayumi, she wore plain kimono, hakama and a blue padded jacket. Both women had spent a few minutes roughening the new clothing with rocks and splashes of mud to make it look more worn. Fingerless gloves hid their hands from casual inspection, and their trousers were tucked into tight leggings of heavy ribbed cotton, which bulked out their calves. 

The samurai had let down her shaggy hair and tied a towel over it, fastening it in place with a knot beneath her lower lip. The folds of the towel over her cheeks altered the shape of her face, although Snow Fairy complained that her typical cock-of-the-dungheap walk and direct, icy gaze were sure to alert a guard to their disguises. 

"Peasants scurry, they don't strut," Snow said. "You must keep your eyes on the ground, bow in the presence of authority - especially samurais! - and for the love of the kami, don't forget to kowtow to daimyo or nobles!"

Ayumi was not feeling very comfortable. Part of this had to do with the haramaki wound tightly around her body from belly to upper chest; poor folks wore this long strip of cloth to ward off colds, but the samurai suffered it to bind down her small breasts. Her torso, back, shoulders and arms were muscular enough to allow her to pass as a young man, but she hated the sensation of being constantly constrained by the haramaki. 

Her disquiet was also created by the fact that she could not wear her swords. Snow had argued for them being left behind in the hut - no peasant could carry arms on penalty of death, and a villager caught with daisho would be executed on the spot - but Ayumi had refused to entertain the notion at all. A samurai's soul was guarded by the twin swords of their rank, and abandoning them was anathema, against every tenet of sacred bushido. 

Now, in the furoshiki bundle she carried on her back, the swords were wrapped up in several layers of clothing and hidden amongst their meager supplies. The big square of cloth also held Snow's ragged priestess garb, a fire starting kit, some dried food and extra straw sandals. Neither woman had any money.

In lieu of a real weapon, Ayumi carried a slender bamboo walking stick. The iron cap of the stick could be removed, exposing a sharp spear blade about the length of a man's hand. Bandits thinking to rob two helpless peasants would be in for a nasty shock.

When they reached the top after several hours, Snow Fairy stopped and let out a sigh of appreciation. From their vantage point, she could see the entire city of Heian-kyo spread out on the plain below. Two rivers flowed on either side of the town, and the Imperial Palace reared up at one end and sprawled outward, like a lazy dragon basking its bones in the sun. Off to one side, the walled compound of Hanamachi blossomed as colorfully as a poisonous flower.

The other side of Mount Hiei was dotted with temples, many carved directly into the stone of the mountain. These were the retreats of the awesome yamabushi, demon quellers and slayers of monsters. Although ostensibly a Shinto sect, the yamabushi were, in reality, little better than bullies who used their occult powers to blackmail the Emperor into supporting their lavish lifestyles. Periodically, they swept down into Heian-kyo, burning and looting, as an object lesson and warning to the court. The daimyos' armies could not stop them, and in four hundred years, no one had ever found a way of vanquishing these mountain priests permanently. 

Ayumi sucked in a deep breath and adjusted the furoshiki on her back. "I do not think the yamabushi will molest pilgrims. I say we walk boldly around their temples, and not creep from bush to bush like frightened rabbits."

"Who knows what the mountain priests will do these days?" Snow replied, licking her lips. "They are unpredictable. We have no coin to offer in tribute, either." 

"I'm not going to waste my time trying to placate men who are supposed to be holy. Kamawan, remember? If the gods aren't going to get in my way, what makes you think I'll tolerate interfering yamabushi? Let them try; I'll kick their fat backsides straight into Hell." 

Snow Fairy opened her mouth, and after a moment's pause, closed it again, a pained look sweeping across her face.

Ayumi noticed the priestess' expression and demanded, "What is it? You look like a speared frog!"

"Konnichiwa, honorable pilgrims," a strange voice answered.

The samurai spun around, swallowing a shout of surprise and rage. A yamabushi stood on the path with them; the man's hair, uncut since his vows, hung in a wildly tangled mass down his back. A bristling beard clawed its way down his cheeks, leaving only his eyes exposed. He was firm fleshed and clad in the white and red robes of his office; a tiny, hexagonal hat was perched on his head, just above the brows.

The priest continued, "I am Brother Oyu." He bowed shallowly, hands thrust into the sleeves of his robe. "It will greatly please our temple if you will condescend to pay a visit and worship at our shrine."

Ayumi contemplated the wisdom of unsheathing her spear and sticking it into his belly. Something of this thought must have shown itself in her face, for Oyu bared his teeth in an unfriendly grimace and jerked his head forward. Instantly, several other yamabushi appeared from the bushes, completely surrounding the women. All of them were armed.

The samurai surveyed the glinting circle of sharpened steel with narrowed eyes. She might be able to disable some of them, enough so Snow Fairy could get away and rescue Kimiko, but that was about as unlikely as the sky raining gold koban. On the other hand, the great Musashi had written: "If your enemy thinks of the mountains, attack like the sea; and if he thinks of the sea, attack like the mountains."

Accordingly, Ayumi decided to change her strategy. Direct force was not a good option; perhaps guile was. If Brother Oyu had overheard her conversation with Snow Fairy, her plan wouldn't work. However, if he had not, then she could only hope the priestess was quick enough on the uptake to play along.

She let the pole slide from her grasp and stood, shoulders hunched, head cocked to one side. Letting her lower lip protrude in an exaggerated pout, she deepened her voice and mumbled a few nonsense words, absently scratching her crotch.

To her relief, Snow immediately grasped her intention. "Please excuse my elder brother," she said hastily, grabbing Ayumi's arm and pulling her forward. "He was hit in the head by a rock a few months ago; we're making a pilgrimage to Ise Shrine to see the healer there. Yumo, make your bow to the priest."

Ayumi bowed jerkily, letting her eyes roll in their sockets and drawing her lips back in a grotesque smile. Oyu gazed at her keenly and toed the fallen bamboo walking stick. "Is Yumo violent, my child?"

Snow shook her head, still bowing - up and down, up and down, like a puppet being controlled by an overzealous amateur. "Oh, no, "she cried, "please forgive my poor, stupid brother. He's strong but harmless as a baby, really. Aren't you, Yumo?"

Ayumi mumbled some more and let her hands tremble slightly. She'd seen similar symptoms in a ronin who had suffered severe head injuries.

"He's our father's only son, you see," Snow babbled. "Father sent me with him, to keep Yumo out of trouble. If the Merciful One grants our prayers for healing, then I will take vows at the temple. Please, kind brother, we haven't any money. It wouldn't be right for us to worship at your shrine without making an offering. Iye, it wouldn't be right. Yumo, bow to the priests like a good boy." 

After another minute's contemplation, Brother Oyu gestured and the yamabushi's weapons snapped away. Stepping close to Ayumi, he grasped the samurai's chin and forced her head up, trying to meet her gaze. Ayumi fidgeted, jerked and murmured frantically, flapping her arms and shuffling in place while Oyu's keen eyes probed suspiciously. As a finishing touch, the samurai bit her tongue and allowed a thin stream of saliva mixed with blood to dribble down her chin. 

Finally, the priest let go of the supposed idiot and stepped away, wiping his hand on his robe. "I will offer prayers for Yumo's healing," he said, lip curling in disgust. "Keep to the path, pilgrims, and do not stray." He sketched a blessing symbol in the air, turned around and led his followers back down the side of the mountain, taking a hidden trail that swallowed them up in moments.

Ayumi waited for them to be completely out of sight before she stopped whimpering and jerking. Snow Fairy stalked over and wiped a finger across her chin. "The blood was a bit overdone," the priestess said critically.

"There were too many to fight," Ayumi replied with a shrug, scooping her bamboo pole from the ground, "and I was fairly certain that you could not rescue Kimiko alone."

"Not bad for a beginner." Snow put her hands on her hips and grinned. "However, I think we should be a little more cautious in the future and try to avoid the yamabushi altogether. I don't think they'll be fooled twice."

Ayumi nodded in agreement. "Why do you think they had guards up here? Is this usual?"

"Not when I was here last. I wonder what has changed?"

"We will keep our ears open as we go. Perhaps we will learn something of interest." 

"Like how to throw the most extravagant fit since the actor, Danjuro-san, had a hornet fly down his hakama during a performance?" 

"Mou! Enough teasing, more walking!" Ayumi settled the bundle of belongings more firmly on her back and started down the path.

Snow laughed softly but was nevertheless troubled.

What were the yamabushi up to? 

As she hurried to catch up to the rapidly disappearing samurai, Snow couldn't suppress a shiver of mingled anticipation and dread. 

CHAPTER SIX - Night Visitors

Kwaho wa, nete mate ----- If you want good luck, sleep and wait

Hanamachi, the Flower District outside Heian-kyo
The Brocade Tree, a brothel
3 a.m., the second Hour of the Ox 

Squatting in the fork of a persimmon tree in the Brocade Tree's garden, a pair of Shideyama ninjas waited patiently for the right time to strike. 

The brothel was built in the same style as the Karan aristocracy - four low, rectangular buildings joined at the corners, with a garden in the open center. Verandahs ran the entire length of each side; every room opened to this private paradise, which also housed a small bathhouse and smaller toilet. 

Even at this late hour, lights glowed through most of the shoji doors; muted music and laughter mingled with passionate cries. The ninjas kept their glittering gazes fixed on one room in particular, where the screens were dark, the occupant silent. 

Finally, the ninja in charge signaled to his subordinate; they both swung down out of the tree and ghosted across the garden, skillfully keeping to the darkest shadows, striving to remain unseen and unnoticed. It had been impressed upon them by the Master that there were to be no witnesses to this event. 

Both ninjas froze into place when a drunken samurai reeled out onto the verandah, parted his kimono and began pissing with grunts of satisfaction. The yellow flow steamed gently, pattering like hot raindrops mere inches away from their faces. One of the assassins pulled a blowpipe from his dusty gray jacket and put it to his lips, but this precaution proved unnecessary. The samurai returned to his party and slid the door closed behind him, oblivious to the presence of death amid the frost-blackened azaleas and tree peonies. 

Rather than continue their journey immediately, the ninjas stayed concealed, just in case there were more interruptions. The subordinate, named Kayoubi, hissed softly in his superior's ear, "Please excuse me, Taro, but you never answered my question. Why are you here at all? I could have taken care of this job myself, if the Master had given me a chance." 

"To ensure you do not make mistakes," the elder ninja answered, just as quietly. 

Kayoubi swelled with indignation, although his voice never rose above a gentle whisper. "Are you saying I'm incapable of eliminating one unarmed, untrained, helpless girl? That's insulting!" 

"You have a big mouth," Taro warned, "and you talk too much. Kill the Fujiwara girl alone, if it means that much to you, but do it in silence." 

"Perhaps I will." Kayoubi drew a twist of rope from the hidden pocket in his trouser leg. It had wooden handles at each end and could be slipped over the victim's head from behind with fatal results - in the younger ninja's estimation, a perfect tool for silent slaying. "You stay here; it won't take me more than a few moments to eliminate the target." 

Taro would have preferred a knife - slashing a victim's jugular was a much quicker method - but he acquiesced to the younger man's confident enthusiasm. "Go, then," he replied sourly. "Don't take too long or I'll leave for Death Mountain shrine without you." 

A rustle in the bushes to their left made both men freeze, listening intently. 

After a moment, they relaxed... only to tense up again as the subtle rustle was repeated, this time much closer. 

Suddenly, something reared above them - a grotesque vision illuminated by moonlight that would have stopped a lesser man's heart and reduced him to gibbering insanity. Despite their mutual horror, the ninjas reacted instinctively. Taro, the more level-headed professional, tossed a handful of poison powder straight into the monster's face with no result. Kayoubi dropped his garotte, drew his short sword and was crushed to pulp in a heartbeat by one of the creature's hairy limbs. 

Grimly, Taro blinked his companion's blood out of his eyes and tried to reach his own sword, but it was too late. A single blow smashed him to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. 

He lay prone, staring up at a creature born of nightmares in dazed disbelief. The monster straddled his body and thrust its face against his, advising in a hiss, "It is not wise to interfere with another predator's prey. Return to your Master and tell him that the Fujiwara girl is claimed by another." 

Taro nodded. His eyes rolled to the shapeless mass of bone and bloody tissue that had been Kayoubi, and the creature laughed. That soft susurration, barely audible above the whispering wind, made his bladder release its contents in a stinking gush. 

"Spare no more thought for your friend," the monster said in a strangely musical voice. "Consider his death as just payment for disturbing my slumber." 

"Hai," Taro managed to force out through chattering teeth. "I will so inform the Master." 

A shrewd gleam came into the creature's eyes. It tore the hood from Taro's face with a jerk. "You may also inform the Kanpuko that he need not yet arrange his niece's funeral." 

The ninja's face, which was already pale, blanched further. "How-how-how did you know?" The Regent's connection to the Shideyama clan was one of the best kept secrets in Wa. 

"I was not sure, until you told me just now." The monster released him and scuttled backwards. "Now go, and don't fail to deliver my warning. If the Master wishes to test my prowess by sending more fools against me, then I shall welcome them with open arms... and a hungry belly." 

It smacked its lips and rubbed its distended abdomen, then scurried over to Kayoubi's crushed remains and began feasting with chilling efficiency. 

Taro needed no second invitation. Scrambling up from the ground, he fled into the night as silently as he had arrived, thanking Amatsu Mikaboshi-sama, the August Star of Heaven, for deliverance from being eaten alive. Facing his Master's rage and disappointment were as nothing compared to that fate. 

Behind him, he thought he could still hear the soft slurping sounds of the monster at its banquet. It was an illusion that lent wings to his feet. 

The ninja hoped he would be granted a swift death for his failure. 

Anything was preferable to living with that awful sound ripping his soul to shreds night after night in his dreams. 

Yukan, cross-eyed maid to the asobimi Bikei, stifled a shocked gasp and ducked back inside the toilet. The events she had just witnessed rippled like flames across her mind. 

The dungpit stank, though not as terribly as in the heat of summer, but she took comfort in the familiar reek of ammonia and musty waste. It meant that she was awake, not laying on her thin pallet listening to Bikei moan in pretended passion at the fumblings of a doddering daimyo.

She recognized the monster in the garden - its form may have changed radically, but the still beautiful face was unmistakable. How could she have lived here for eight years and never noticed? Eight years dwelling in ignorance of a demon! Ma! She would have to burn incense immediately and make a suitable offering to the gods for protecting her so long.

That thought led to another and Yukan's heart contracted in fear. It was bad enough that ninjas were seeking her wonderful Kimiko-san's life, but a demonic threat on top of this one was enough to make her frantic. She wished they could flee together, run away and leave poisonous Hanamachi forever! But that solution had as much substance as an opium dream. 

Yukan shook her head sadly. Kimiko would never return the love of a lowly maid, let alone leave the comforts and luxuries to which she had become accustomed. No, Kimiko-san was as far above Yukan as the stars to a miserable worm. The maid rasped her work reddened hands together, wishing with all her might that there was some way she could save the precious lady. 

A bold idea suddenly presented itself and she gasped at its audacity. 

Everyone knew that demons had the wealth of the earth at their fingertips. A monster that dared threaten ninjas was powerful, indeed, and presumably also very rich. Why it would choose to take a courtesan's disguise was unknown, but what mortal could understand the ways of Hell? It was enough that woman clearly desired concealment of her true form and purpose. 

Yukan's crossed eyes narrowed. An opportunity like this came but once in a lifetime, if it came at all, and only a fool ignored the possibility to better one's life at the expense of another's. 

She went to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out into the garden. The monster was gone, as was the body of its victim. She waited for fifteen tense minutes, but it did not return. Breathing a sigh of relief, Yukan slipped out of the toilet and made her way back to Bikei's room. 

Her step was full of purpose, her soul a-brim with cunning. 

She would hold her information over the monster's head like a sword, receive payment for her silence, then spirit Kimiko away to another, better place. The lady and her devoted maid would live together happily on Hell's gold, and nothing would ever threaten them again. Meat twice a day and all the love in the world, ripe for the plucking. In her estimation, the dangers were negligible for so great a reward. 

The more she thought about it, the more her dream seemed to come closer and closer to her grasp. Yukan clutched this beautiful plan to her bosom with secret glee, already tasting tea-smoked duck and Kimiko's kisses. 

For once, the miserable were going to triumph over the mighty. 

Wasn't life a wonderful thing?

Glossary ~~~o0o0o0o~~~ Next Page

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Shorogajo: The Weeping Maid
by Nene Adams © 2002 - All rights reserved

PROLOGUE - A Woman at the Well

In the town of Sakashita, the seventh station on the Chrysanthemum Road
Shihasu, the Month of Poor Looking Winter (December)
2 a.m., the first Hour of the Ox

The garden was thick with weeds and untended ferns. Long tendrils of dying pampas grass rippled in the evening breeze. Broken stones, bearded with moss, broke through drifts of brittle leaves. In the center of the devastation was an abandoned well.

Tangled masses of wild orchids nearly hid the mouth of the well - a wide-gaping hole that moonlight could not penetrate. The rounded rocks around the opening were covered in black, slimy mold that was faintly luminescent, and smelled sickly sweet, like rotting flesh. A weeping willow bent its branches protectively over the crumbling structure.

Protected on three sides by a well-kept house, and on the fourth by a bamboo wall, it was strange that this garden was in such a state of decay. Lamps made golden points of light through the paper-paned walls of the dwelling, and from within could be heard the faint piping of a flute. Dark shadows crossed from room to room. Colorful kimonos had been hung out to air on the verandah rails. An odor of charcoal fires and burning incense floated on the air.

A full moon danced high among the clouds, shimmering roundness set in smoky tendrils that grasped and uncurled around the stars. It illuminated a bronze guardian lion, his muzzle drawn back in a snarl, neck hung about with fluttering Shinto charms and withered sheaves of rice.

Suddenly, an icy wind whipped through the garden in spirals of invisible force, flattening the grasses and throwing up a blizzard of leaves. From the depths of the well came a soft sound, almost like a sob. Inside the house, the flute player broke off with an unmusical squawk and put aside his instrument. Scuffling figures paused. The night held its breath.

The sobbing grew louder and louder until the house shook on its foundations. It was as though Nai-no-Kami, the Catfish god who carried the Floating World upon his back, was shuddering and the earth quaked with his throes. A roof tile slid away and shattered on the bronze lion's back. Two shoji doors jumped out of their tracks. Someone screamed a prayer to the gods.

After a few moments, the deafening roar cut off abruptly, and the earthquake ceased. A stillness more profound than death engulfed the garden as the mouth of the old well began to glow. Rays of blue light shone up through the dark opening, and tiny sparks of fire glittered where it met the moon. Slowly, the ghostly outline of a woman drew together in the center of the sapphire aura, and snowflakes began to fall.

She wept as though her heart was broken. Tears streamed down her plump cheeks, dripped from her chin, soaked the sleeves of her simple robe. She was pretty, but her long hair hung in a tangled mass across her shoulders, and her skin was pocked with moxa scars. Her body was translucent, all colors faded and tinged with blue. Floating in midair, this sad spirit seemed the very essence of tragedy.

"Ichi," she gasped, wringing her hands together and continuing to cry. "Ni... san... shi..."

One, two, three, four...

The apparition continued counting until she reached kyu - nine. Then she let out a thin, blood-curdling wail that went on and on, gaining in strength until the house was shaken again. More tiles popped off the roof. Several kimonos slipped into the dirt. One of the pillar posts that supported the verandah roof began to warp, the solid wood twisting until it snapped in half.

The blue light flickered, the sound cut off, and the girl disappeared. The garden was plunged into darkness and silence once more.

After a long moment, a shoji slid open, and a samurai came out onto the verandah, his face screwed into a hideous scowl. The sash of his yukata robe was unfastened, revealing the powerful physique of a trained warrior. A naked sword was in his hand.

Behind him, several women's voices were raised in either protest or prayer. The samurai ignored them. He walked down the steps and paused, his foot held just above the weedy ground.

The samurai's eyes narrowed. He gulped a lungful of air, then another. Veins throbbed in his forehead as he shouted in rage, "Okiku! I order you to go back to Hell! Do you hear me, Okiku? Go to Hell!"

There was no reply. The moon beamed down serenely on a ruined garden where nothing moved. Snow continued to fall.

The samurai huffed and went back up the stairs..

Not once had his naked foot ever touched the garden ground.

CHAPTER ONE - Riding the Knee-Mare

Outside the town of Minakuchi, fifth station on the Chrysanthemum Road
8 a.m., the first Hour of the Dragon

For a hardened samurai, Ayumi's tone was curiously gentle. "Are you certain, my lady?"

"Hai." Kimiko sounded firm, but also a little nervous. "We have waited long enough. It is past time this thing was done. Do you not agree?"

The two women were kneeling close together beneath the dubious shelter of a gnarled pine tree. A few snowflakes had littered the earth, but they were already beginning to melt in the morning sun. Their breakfast - soup flavored with miso and dried salmon flakes - bubbled in a small iron pot buried in the coals of the fire.

Ayumi bit her lip and hesitated. "I am not forcing you into a disagreeable act?"

"You are not. Please, Yumi-san, I want this with all my heart." The glance that Kimiko gave her samurai was very appealing. "Do it." She pulled the kimono off her shoulders, which left her bare from the waist up. In the chill air, her nipples puckered, and goosebumps formed on her skin.

"You are bajin, a virgin still," Ayumi replied, ignoring the diminutive as she usually did. Kimiko had begun calling her 'Yumi' almost immediately after their flight. This did not suit her dignity, and she wished her lady would desist - although the samurai would never voice this objection out loud.

Ayumi continued, "Once it is done, there will be no turning back."

"Overturned water returns not to the tray." Kimiko quoted the familiar proverb with a shaky smile. She was not as confident as she appeared.

Ayumi heaved a great sigh. She was so close to the other woman that the outblown breath fluttered a lock of Kimiko's hair. "What if you wish to marry in years to come? Your husband will not thank me."

"I have no desire to marry," Kimiko answered, turning pale. The bad memories of her almost-marriage to an evil lord had not yet been exorcised. She would never forget the way his first wife had begged for death. Aiding Ryoku's honorable suicide had gotten rid of a murderous hannya, but the aftermath had split her apart from the samurai that she loved.

The next weeks spent alone in the brothel quarter, except for the company of a (then unknown) courtesan spider, had been a nightmare. She had nearly lost her life, and would have met a fate worse than death if Ayumi had not miraculously appeared. She would never be parted from her samurai again. Kimiko would rather have the living heart cut from her body than endure another moment separated from Ayumi.

She laid her hand on the warrior's arm. Hard muscle flexed beneath her fingers. "You know how much I love and trust you. Must I truly beg?"

Ayumi could not meet the lady's gaze. Her pulse began to pound. She loved Kimiko, but that first declaration of her affection had been made when she thought they were both going to die. Now that the bird was out of the cage, she was having trouble reconciling love and duty. Ayumi was the lady's sworn retainer, and, as a samurai, giri had to be her priority. Romantic obligations were something she had no experience with, and it was hard to know how to act or what to say.

The impropriety of their relationship was driven home every day by Kimiko, who delighted in this new facet of their relationship. Ayumi coped as well as she could. Sometimes, though, she couldn't help wishing that the gods would get fatal constipation.

"Are you certain?" Ayumi repeated.

"Instead of asking, I could just order you to do it," Kimiko said. "It would be your duty to obey."

This was undeniably true. Ayumi was relieved. Orders from a superior were something she knew how to deal with. "Very well. Let me build up the fire first, and then I will..." She could not finish the sentence.

Kimiko nodded. As the samurai went about her task, she frowned, suddenly troubled. "Will you... will your love for me be unchanged... after?"

Ayumi grunted. "Can you doubt me?" She realized that she sounded too gruff, and added in a softer tone, "No matter what happens, you will never be less than perfect in my eyes."

As soon as the words came out of her mouth, the samurai smiled. This romantic soft-stuff is not so difficult, after all. The smile became a frown. But if she starts reciting bad poetry, I will fall on my sword.

It was not quite the torrid declaration of desire that Kimiko longed to hear, but it would suffice. She gave the warrior an approving nod. Getting Ayumi to speak aloud about her feelings was like trying to move Mount Fuji - impossible by brute force, and only accomplished through divine intervention or the passage of time. Schooling herself to patience, she sat back and waited for the samurai to return.

Ayumi was back quickly. "It would be better if we had some incense." A hand squeezed Kimiko's naked shoulder. "Perhaps we should wait..."

The young lady let out a strangled cough. "Iye! Absolutely not!" She looked into Ayumi's face, and thought once again about how adorable the woman's crooked nose was. "I will not wait another moment. Do it now!"

Since Kimiko was so resolute, Ayumi surrendered without further quibbling. She caressed her lady's shoulder once more, then dared to press her lips to the hollow of Kimiko's collarbone. It was a bold gesture, and Ayumi was nervous. She handled Kimiko as if she were made of delicate porcelain, terrified that precious flesh might be bruised or torn.

Kimiko flushed hotly, a blush of scarlet that spread down to her breasts. This is more like it, she thought with a mental purr, pleasure coursing through her veins.

As her mistress trembled in her arms, Ayumi gathered the long, black length of Kimiko's hair in her hand. It was warm and yielding, heavy as a length of fine satin. When unbound, as it was now, it reached past the lady's heels. A bewitching scent of jasmine wafted from the silky locks. Ayumi steeled herself to act. "Gomen nasai," she whispered.

There was a sound like ripping silk, and Kimiko pulled away. Despite her resolve, tears shimmered on her lashes. The pain of loss was nearly physical. "Oh!"

Ayumi looked at the iron shears she held, and at the dismay on Kimiko's face. In her other hand was the bundle of hair she had just cut away. "It will never grow that long again," the samurai said ruefully. "Only nuns have shorn heads."

"Apprentice warriors do not grow hair to their ankles," Kimiko said, touching her now short hair. It barely reached her shoulders. Her head was oddly light, as if it might float away. "This feels strange."

"We will both get used to it. This is going to stink when it burns, but we can't leave it here. An enemy could use your hair to make curses against you." She touched Kimiko's cheek. "Are you crying?"

"No." Kimiko put on a tough face and shrugged, although she did feel like mourning. A woman's hair was considered her greatest glory, and no lady of the court did more than trim the ends once or twice a year. Losing her hair felt like losing her beauty. "Kiss me to prove that you still love me, even if I look like a boy."

Ayumi obeyed without stopping to think about it. After a breathless moment, she pulled away, suddenly embarrassed. The samurai became all business to cover her emotions. "You were right about cutting your hair," she said briskly. "We've been courting danger, trying to hide you beneath a hat. The first checkpoint at Seki is coming soon, and if we were discovered..."

"It will mean death." Kimiko knew that her uncle, the Regent of Wa, would stop at nothing to kill her and her retainer. They were also being sought by vengeful mountain priests, and possibly by a ninja clan. Whether or not they were also being targeted by the gods was a continuing source of debate between herself and Ayumi.

Since leaving Heian-kyo by the Sanjo Bridge, they had managed to pass four stations or towns that lined the great Chrysanthemum Road. Progress had been slow because Kimiko was unusued to the rigors of travel, and the half-healed weal on her hip was still very tender. Ayumi had massaged the lady's aching legs every night, insisted on frequent rest stops, and tried to stretch their meager supply of coins to supply what comforts she could.

Another reason for the delay had to do with Kimiko's fashionably shaven eyebrows. Until they grew back in, her face betrayed her noble origins, as well as her sex.

To the samurai's surprise, Kimiko adapted quickly. The young woman's former life had consisted mainly of gentle ceremony and being waited on hand-and-foot, yet she never complained. Her muscles grew strong, her skin toughened, and Kimiko learned to emulate a swaggering boy's strut. The furnace of physical hardship was not destroying the court butterfly, but transforming her into hardened steel.

Ayumi now intended to step up the pace. A horseback rider could complete the entire route in two weeks. It would take them at least two months on foot to finish their journey.

There were still forty-eight stations to go before they reached Edo. The guard presence on the road had been doubled. There was sure to be extra vigilence at the first official checkpoint in Seki - only three towns away. The other two checkpoints were at Arai and Hakone.

Unless they obtained travel permits, however, they would never be able to get through Seki, much less Arai and Hakone. Identity papers were always scrutinized carefully, and those without permits were arrested. That was something that would have to be dealt with when they got there.

Without further comment, Ayumi went to the fire and tossed the heavy sheaf of hair on the flames. The bundle caught immediately, and the stench made her sneeze. Behind her, Kimiko choked.

"Merciful Buddha!"

Ayumi looked up, hand going automatically to the hilt of her katana. She saw nothing, and glanced around wildly for the source of the alarm. Getting up on a knee, she half-drew the sword from its sheath. They had camped several yards away from the road, but she had a clear view and could see no travelers.

Kimiko raised a hand to her mouth. "In the smoke," she whispered.

Scowling, Ayumi backed up a pace. The smoke from the fire had thickened, turning into a swirling ball of black filaments shot through with ash. A man's face peered back at her from the midst of the supernatural cloud. "Gaki!" Ayumi spat.

"Which kind?" There were many insatiably hungry spirits condemned to wander the earth. Some were dangerous, like blood or flesh gaki which sucked the life from their human prey. Incense, tea or tattoo gaki were more or less harmless - they devoured vapor and ink. Kimiko hoped this one was the less deadly variety.

Ayumi shook her head. "I don't know." Her sword was raised so that the chisel tip was pointed at the gaki's grinning face. More of its body appeared in the smoke. The spirit resembled a short, fat monk with a shaved head and elongated earlobes. "Get a writing brush and some salt."

Kimiko hastened to comply. Their travel basket lay to one side of the tree, so she circled the fire to stay out of the gaki's reach. "What are you going to do? We have no sutras or demon-quelling herbs."

The smoke-spirit's grin grew wider. It unfolded its arms, put its hands together and bowed politely. When it spoke, the voice was breathy and high. "Gomen nasai. I apologize for frightening you. Please do not exorcise me. I am sent with a message from honorable Snow Fairy."

Kimiko sat back on her heels with mingled astonishment and relief. The writing brush and pouch of salt dangled from her hand. Snow Fairy was the Shinto priestess who had helped them, and she had not thought to hear from the woman so soon.

"Speak, then, or be destroyed" Ayumi snapped, walking backwards with her sword still aimed at the gaki. When she reached Kimiko, she stopped. "Dip the brush in salt and give it to me." She held out her free hand, and the lady put the instrument into it.

Ayumi spit on her thumb and wiped it along the edge of her katana, leaving a thin line of blood and saliva. This was followed by the brush. Powdery white salt crystals caked the cutting edge of her sword - it was an old folk charm used to exorcise evil. The samurai was a seasoned traveler, and well-versed in the necessary lore.

"Such a disagreeable welcome!" the gaki scolded. "Is this how you treat all your guests?"

"Deliver your message and leave us in peace," Ayumi replied resolutely, "or I will send you screaming back to Hell."

The gaki pouted. "If you insist," it said. A brief gust of wind blurred the spirit's outline. "Honorable Snow Fairy says thus: in Minakuchi can be found a puppet master named Hikaru. He is loyal to Shinto. If a rude samurai and a pretty boy-maiden wish to pass the checkpoint at Seki, they should join Hikaru. If not, crows will feast on their eyes."

During the recitation, Ayumi had not moved but stayed alert for treachery. Kimiko peered around her legs. "Is that all?" the lady asked.

"Hai. I have fulfilled my obligation," the gaki said, looking smug.

"Is that the full message?" Ayumi asked. "I doubt Snow Fairy would insult me or my lady, so I suspect you are not fully bound to obedience."

"Some level of independence is required, otherwise I would have never found you." Soft billows of smoke trickled away from the spirit's torso and bloated its skull. Soon, a huge monk's head hovered above them. Blind eyes focused on the two women. "Perhaps I have held something back. Perhaps not. Or perhaps I have lied and there is an ambush waiting. Would you care to commit suicide now? Hell is not so bad, and I know many games we could play together."

"When I see that priestess again, I'm going to kick her buttocks until her teeth fall out," Ayumi grumbled. "Only a fool uses tricky gaki to send important messages. Why didn't she write a letter and post it to Minakuchi?"

"Probably because anything written down can be intercepted," Kimiko said evenly, "and Snow Fairy did not know exactly where we are." She wrinkled her nose. "Now what?"

"I say we kill the creature." Ayumi paced forward until the salt-laden katana was within inches of the gaki's brow. "Perhaps in its next incarnation, it will learn not to play games with rude, angry samurai."

The spirit shrank back, evidently fearing Ayumi's charmed sword. "You should show kindness and pity to gain karmic merit," it replied nervously.

"The same kindness and pity you have given us?" Kimiko stood up and spoke boldly. "Swear by Shoki-sama, Destroyer of Demons, and by Black Emma, Lord of Hell, that you have spoken the truth and not twisted Snow Fairy's words. If you do not, my samurai will end your miserable existence. Perhaps if the gods are merciful, you will be reborn as a cockroach."

The gaki hesitated. Such an oath could not be foresworn by any supernatural being. Under the threat of destruction, however, it decided that life as a hungry spirit was better than the unknown fate of rebirth. "I vow by Lord Emma-O and Shoki-sama that I have delivered the message which I was given, save only for a few insignificant words which I added to insult and annoy you. Honorable Snow Fairy has said that if you join Hikaru's players, you can pass the checkpoint safely. No instruction was omitted. If I lie, may I be banished to the Hell of Screaming Sinners for all time."

They waited a moment, and nothing happened. Ayumi gave her lady a questioning glance. Kimiko put on her noble manners and said haughtily to the gaki, "You are dismissed." Her attitude suggested that she meant to be obeyed without question.

The spirit nodded and let out a sly chuckle. A blast of cold wind blew through the smoke, shredding the gaki's form until it disappeared into the air. Tattered rags of black vapor lingered for a moment, then were gone. The only trace left of the fire was a heap of sizzling embers, and a small iron pot that had been knocked over by the spiteful entity.

"Oh! That little kisama ruined our breakfast!" Kimiko cried, stamping her foot.

Ayumi pulled a paper handkerchief from the breast pocket of her robe and used it to wipe down her sword before returning it to the scabbard. "If you will get dressed, my lady," she said, staring pointedly at Kimiko's exposed breasts, "we will go into Minakuchi. I'm sure we will find something there to satisfy your appetite."

"But not all my appetites," Kimiko drawled with a wicked glitter in her eyes. The gaki was dismissed from her thoughts for now, as was their spilled soup. She had been trying to seduce Ayumi without much success. The samurai avoided sharing her pillow, instead dispensing shy, hesitant caresses, going no further. It was ridiculous and frustrating. If Kimiko had her way, things were going to change very soon.

She deliberately flaunted her nakedness by taking a paper ribbon out of the basket, raising her arms, and taking a great deal of time to put up her shorn hair, while Ayumi pretended not to watch. Kimiko's sleek torso gleamed like polished ivory in the sun, with contrasting patches of tanned skin on her arms and throat. The loosened robe around her waist slipped over her hips, revealing the bright pink scar where she'd nearly been killed by Cobweb, the courtesan spider in Hanamachi. She spread her legs apart to keep the kimono from falling to the ground.

Finally, Kimiko decided she had teased long enough. With a few twists, she secured a topknot at the crown of her head. Then she hitched up her dove-gray kimono and tied it shut with a yellow- and-black tiled obi before pulling on a padded jacket. Of all the luxuries she had left behind, Kimiko really missed the sensuous feel of fine silk next to her skin. The robe she had put on was second grade cotton, and seemed rough as hemp. Ribbed cotton trousers, fresh tabi socks and straw zori completed her costume.

I wish we could travel openly, she thought. It would be much nicer to go to Edo in style and comfort, instead of riding the knee-mare like retainers of a miserly lord. A glance at her hands - callusus were already forming on her palms - and she added with a mental shrug, I could have stayed with my uncle and obeyed him. He would have let me choke on luxury and palace games until my soul rotted, or my life was forfeit. This path that I've chosen may mean death, but at least it will be a death with honor. I follow where my duty leads me. Shigata ga nai.

In the meantime, Ayumi scrubbed out the pot with a handful of leaves, and repacked the travel basket. A few well-placed kicks scattered dirt over the remains of the campfire.

The samurai waited until her mistress was ready. Hefting the basket onto her shoulders, she turned her steps to the Chrysanthemum Road. Kimiko followed behind, sandals slapping on the compacted soil. The only burdens she carried were a round straw hat, an oilpaper umbrella, and a deerskin bag that contained their food supply.

Together, they set out to find Minakuchi, and the bunraku master Hikaru.

CHAPTER TWO - Pulling the Strings

The town of Minakuchi, fifth station on the Chrysanthemum Road
10 a.m., the first Hour of the Snake

Like many stations that lined the great Chrysanthemum Road, Minakuchi was dedicated to serving the interests of travelers. Tea houses, inns, temples and shrines, public baths and shops lined the main avenue that led through town. There was also the usual complement of gambling dens, brothels and warehouses.

Minakuchi sat at the mouth of the Yokata River, where the Road left the mountains and fell into the Kansai plains. A stone castle on a crag loomed over the bustling streets, for the lord of this province had made himself rich on taxes from the famous Minakuchi cane-works. Cane weaving was the local specialty, the "name-thing" that gave the station its reputation. Outside the gateway stood a bobana, or long-nose pole that marked the entrance. The name of the station was written on its side in big black brushstrokes.

Ayumi approached the gate with a frown. Armed warriors came and went frequently, usually on errands for their lords. No one would question another samurai. The majority of the populace considered samurai dangerously unstable, highly volatile and likely to erupt in violence over the slightest trouble. Temper tantrums usually resulted in lost heads. People kept their distance. Still, Ayumi was cautious.

The guard wore an Imperial dragon badge on his bamboo breastplate. He was clearly one of the Regent's men. As she came closer, he bowed with perfect correctness. "Konnichiwa, sir. Welcome to Minakuchi. I regret the inconvenience but to enter, it is required that you lodge your name, family clan and affiliation with me."

Ayumi gave him a return bow. "Thank you for the greeting. I am Yoshio of the Long Eyebrow clan. My lord is Egami Ikuo." This was a daimyo with a hundred-koku domain in Kyushu province - too insignificant to be well known, and too far away to confirm credentials.

The guard frowned. "You are incognito, Yoshio-san."

"My lord has commanded me to wear unmarked robes," Ayumi answered. Unlike most samurai working garb, there were no badges on the shoulders and back of her plain kimono. "The mission is a delicate one, regarding precious jade, clouds and rain." She winked at him, and the man relaxed.

"A matter of the ladies, eh?" He chuckled. "Eeee! Our lords take the most beautiful blossoms, and leave us with the withered vines! Tell me..." His voice lowered to a confidential whisper. "Is the lucky lady married?"

Ayumi nodded and rolled her eyes, bringing another good-natured laugh from the guard. "Who accompanies you?" he asked, pointing at her companion.

Ayumi made a gesture that brought Kimiko scuttling to her side. She patted the lady's backside with a proprietorial air. "A beautiful flute player. His music helps while away the hours when I go about Ikuo-sama's business."

"When a man cannot have cherries, he must settle for ripe peaches," the guard replied. "This boy's peaches look very ripe, indeed!" The jest was crude, but Ayumi joined in the laughter.

At last, the guard was satisfied. "I will not detain you any further. Enjoy your stay! If you go to the Gourd Vine Inn and mention Sato, you will receive a discount. "

"Thank you very much," Ayumi said, wishing she could punch this grinning idiot in the face. No doubt he received a kick-back from the innkeeper for referring guests to a flea-riddled, rat infested cesspit where hospitality was given at the point of a knife.

She led Kimiko through the gate. The lady immediately took a ragged piece of rice paper from her robe, tore a bit off and put it in her mouth. She offered some to Ayumi, who shook her head. Kimiko chewed vigorously, then spat a wet wad of paper towards a statue that stood to one side of the gate. It was red-painted granite in the form of Chimata-sama - god of roads, paths and highways. The god's serene face was peppered with pellets, and many dried scraps littered his carved sandals.

Good luck came to the pilgrim who observed this ritual, and Kimiko was not loathe to ask for fortune wherever she could get it.

"Are you sure Chimata-sama is going to give you good fortune instead of a face full of shit?" Ayumi asked when the lady had finished. They moved on as others came to spit their offering to the god.

Kimiko shrugged. Before she could answer, she was distracted by the sight of a food stall. "Inari-zushi!" she called happily.

Ayumi fingered the near-empty money pouch in her sleeve. They did not have much to live on, and she estimated that if they stayed on short rations, they might get by for another three days. She followed Kimiko to the wooden stand, where a middle-aged man with a huge wart beside his nose was simmering tofu packets in sweetened soy sauce.

The triangles were stuffed with vinegared rice, and shaped like a fox's ear. The delicious smell made Ayumi's mouth water. A thin towel tied around the man's head proclaimed, Twice-Blessed by the Rice God! in uneven calligraphy, and his kimono was printed with running foxes. At his feet was a child, a boy about four years old, who fanned the flames beneath his father's iron pot with a little fan.

Kimiko stuck her hands into the sash of her robe, and put a tough expression on her face. It was amazing to Ayumi how she managed to swagger while standing still. "Konnichiwa," she said to get the man's attention. "How much?"

He looked up and did not see the samurai behind her. His gaze dropped back down to the ladle in his hands. "More than you can afford," he grunted impatiently, noticing that the youth was not wearing swords and was poorly dressed. Besides, he had a bad tooth, which made him very testy. Another indolent peasant boy trying to ape his betters, he thought.

"If you're hungry, go home and suck your mother's teat," he suggested, hiding a wince as the rotten tooth throbbed.

Kimiko was completely mortified. Her face burned. She had never been spoken to so rudely in her life. Her first impulse was to slink away, but after a moment, indignation replaced shame. Ayumi was standing closely at her heels. With one command, her samurai would chop this insolent man into dog meat without hesitation.

Did she really want him dead? No. She would not orphan the little boy who was staring at her in childish curiosity. But it was her face, her dignity, that had been offended. People were watching curiously, waiting to see what would happen. Kimiko had to react appropriately, or risk being unmasked.

She snapped a hand up and caught hold of the long hair that grew out of the man's wart. He squealed and dropped his ladle. "Do you dare insult me, dungeater?" Kimiko hissed. She put on a demonic grimace, which she'd learned from watching Ayumi, and swelled her chest to appear more threatening.

"Baka!" she shouted, giving the hair a jerk that made the stall owner squeal again. "You stupid turtlehead! How dare you talk to me as if I was a filthy eta!" Kimiko rolled her eyes in rage that was only half pretense. She was angry, but the terrified look on the man's face was giving her a twinge of guilty pleasure.

Although the young woman's grip was painful, the stall owner finally caught a glimpse of Ayumi. The bandy-legged samurai scowled back at him, and a hand drifted to the sword at her side. This was what caused his heart to stutter in pure fright.

He had made a dreadful miscalculation. The pretty boy screaming insults at him was not a peasant, but an apprentice samurai whose bandy-legged, broken-nosed master was standing right there. There could be no doubt of their class now. No one outside the nobility had such arrogance. Judging from the cruel expression on the master's face, the best he could hope for was a swift death.

He tore his head away, ripping the hair out by the root. It hurt, but pain was nothing. Frightful visions of his head rolling in the dirt made his liver contract into a shriveled ball. His children would be orphaned, his wife made a widow, his parents become homeless. Oh, why had he ever opened his mouth? The man started bowing and apologizing breathlessly.

"Sumimasen!" he whimpered. "Please forgive me, your worship! I am a fool!" A silver of best quality incense to Merciful Kwannon if she deigns to deliver me! Aloud, he continued, "I beg you, your worship, have mercy upon me. Some devil must have entered my brain, or a demon clouded my vision. Woe! Woe! A thousand miseries may I suffer, for the crime of harming your honor!"

Kimiko had to bite down on a smile. "Enough!" she commanded gruffly. She stepped back a pace and pretended to consider, all the while making frightful faces at the man.

Ayumi tapped Kimiko on the shoulder. Leaning close, she whispered, "Do not overdo it, my lady. He is already on the verge of soiling his loincloth."

She was pleased at Kimiko's handling of the situation. The lady was playing the part of a proud-prickly boy apprentice with great skill. Junior samurai were not yet permitted to wear daisho, but what they lacked in weaponry, they made up for in sheer attitude. Kimiko had absorbed her lessons so well, it was almost uncanny.

Ayumi was also aware that the stall owner was terrified of her, not Kimiko, but she decided not to tell her that. It wouldn't be fair to spoil her mistress' fun.

"What can I do to atone for my regrettable mistake, your worship?" the man stammered.

"This food smells dreadful," Kimiko answered with a sniff. "Blessed by the rice god - ha!"

The stall owner let out a nervous chuckle. He was beginning to think that he might survive after all. "Hai, I am a very inferior cook," he said. Actually, his inari-zushi were famous in Minakuchi, but it was considered impolite to praise one's accomplishments. "Nevertheless, perhaps your worship will honor me by accepting this pitiful offering?"

From a pile next to his pot, he took a pair of bamboo leaves that had been split and intricately folded to make shallow dishes. Using a new ladle, he deftly scooped out tofu triangles onto each plate, and offered them to Kimiko with a bow.

She took both dishes, passing one to Ayumi. "We will probably be poisoned," she complained with mock severity, inhaling the fragrant steam. Her stomach rumbled audibly.

"I am deeply ashamed," the man replied, keeping an eye on the master. When the samurai appeared to be pleased, he exhaled in relief. His karma was better than he deserved; he was not going to die today. "The poor offerings of this miserable worm cannot possibly atone for my rude behavior."

"You are correct," Kimiko said. She plucked two pairs of chopsticks from a container on the narrow counter. "But letting you live is an act of kindness to everyone in Wa. Since you eat this terrible stuff yourself, your corpse would probably pollute the rice fields from here to Edo. Also, if I kill you, I will be forced to fill out paperwork until the Petrified Monkey is worn away to a pebble, so I have decided that you're not worth the trouble."

"Domo arigato gozaimasu!" the man said in gratitude. "Thank you, your worship. Thank you!"

She gave him a nod, and walked away with a flat-footed stomp. Kimiko was proud of her imitation boy's strut. It was a far cry from the graceful glide that had been drilled into her from childhood. She stuck her elbows out, slapped her sandals against the ground, and followed her "master" through the busy crowd.

Ayumi accepted the chopsticks that Kimiko gave her. "You should bully shopkeepers more often," she commented, squatting in the shadow of a restaurant verandah. "I think you have a talent for it."

In the middle of taking a bite, Kimiko giggled and began to choke. Ayumi helpfully slapped her on the back until she recovered. "Ma! Did you see the look on his face?" the lady wheezed. "Like he'd swallowed a live carp! Oh, that felt good!"

The samurai chewed a few more bits of food before she asked, "What do you mean, my lady?" Her tone was casual, but Ayumi was a bit alarmed by her lady's exuberance.

"I mean this freedom!" Kimiko bit into a triangle, letting creamy bean curd melt on her tongue, followed by the sharpness of vinegar rice, and then soya sweetness. Delicious!

She swallowed, and continued in a quieter voice, "At court, there were so many rules, so many strictures and intrigues, so many traps to avoid. Even when I lived at home, I was a dutiful, obedient daughter. Until we met, I did not know that I was caged. I could not see the shackles. I've learned better. All this - traveling, sleeping under the stars with a grass pillow, being with you in the real world - is a freedom I've never experienced. I like it!"

"The freedom to insult a peasant?" Ayumi put down her chopsticks. "Have you never scolded a gardener or maid servant? What an unusual mistress you are!"

"You misunderstand, and I think you do so deliberately." Kimiko stopped eating, too. "I wasn't only referring to that impolite peasant. What are you trying to say?"

"Do not be carried away by enthusiasm," the samurai said bluntly. "True, you no longer have to crawl on your belly to the Son of Heaven every day. You wear the simple robes of a warrior, instead of costly silks. Protocol no longer rules your days. You can move, and breathe, and walk the Chrysanthemum Road, and yell at dungeaters, and cut off their heads all day if it pleases you."

Kimiko nodded in agreement.

"But..." Ayumi pointed a long finger at her lady and adopted a stern expression. "The obligations of a samurai are just as binding as that of a noblewoman. We all serve as we are bid, and have little will of our own - even the Emperor has to answer to the gods. All worlds are hazardous in their own ways, and no world is without rules. Therefore freedom is a dangerous illusion. You are still required to do your duty, as I am required to do mine. Gomen nasai, Kimiko-sama, but this needs to be said - don't let an illusion go to your head."

"I know." Kimiko finished her breakfast and laid the bamboo leaf dish aside. It was just a light snack, though, and she was still hungry. "This sense of liberation is just exchanging one cage for another. If I seem giddy, you must blame love, not thoughtlessness. My mind understands, and I have not forgotten my purpose. My obligations have changed, but giri is still giri." She grinned. "Nevertheless, men do have more freedom than women, eh?"

"Being able to piss while standing up is certainly an advantage," Ayumi replied, with a rare answering grin of her own. "You enjoy playing the boy very much, but I advise you not to take the role too far. If you start picking your nose in public, farting in the bathwater, or pinching waitress' bottoms, I'll disown you!"

She rose and stretched while Kimiko giggled some more. A mendicant nun in ragged robes was sitting cross-legged across the lane. Ayumi wandered over and placed the remains of her breakfast in the bikune's begging bowl. The nun's droning prayers never ceased, so Ayumi gave her a polite bow and walked back.

"Priests gossip like old women at a well-side conference," she said to Kimiko, "and I'm sure someone at a temple will have heard about bunraku players in Minakuchi. Shall we see if we can find this Hikaru, my lady?"

"I should take an offering for my father." Kimiko stood up. "It has been too long since I offered incense to his spirit. I will also pray for Izumi, who died bravely for my sake." She had not forgotten the sacrifice of her loyal maid, who had committed seppuku in protest against the Regent's actions.

The two women bought ripe persimmons and bundles of Blossom Showering incense before entering the small temple. Ayumi did not begrudge the cost, although it reduced their tiny resources even further. Honoring the dead was too important to quibble over a few coins.

Inside, the gloomy atmosphere was so thick with scented smoke that it was hard to breathe. A statue of Kwannon, goddess of mercy, held pride of place on an altar scattered with offerings. The gilt figure was very tall, her crowned head coming within inches of the blackened roof beams. In Kwannon's upraised palm was a lotus flower.

The samurai and her lady rinsed their mouths out with water, and washed their hands in a chipped pottery bowl set aside for that purpose. Now ritually cleansed, Kimiko laid the persimmons down on the altar, then lit her bundles of incense in a flaming brazier. Thrusting them securely into a sand pot, she folded her hands before her face and began to pray.

Ayumi noticed a saffron-robed priest lurking in the shadows. She excused herself quietly and went over to talk to him. Kimiko registered the absence without comment and continued praying. After several minutes, she opened her eyes.

The familiar ritual did not bring her the usual sense of peace. Until she avenged her father's dishonorable murder at the hands of his own brother, until her duty was fulfilled, her soul would remain troubled.

The future seemed impossible to fulfill. Her uncle, the Kanpuko, was an evil man, but as Regent he held the reins of power throughout the Floating World. With all the might of the Empire against her, how could she expect victory? Would any daimyos join her cause? Could she persuade her father's old chief retainer to help? Thus far, the only allies she had were a Shinto priestess, a single warrior, and the dubious assistance of the kami.

Some might have despaired, knowing their quest was futile, but it was not in Kimiko's nature to surrender so easily. I will not give up on seducing my shy samurai, either, she thought. I refuse to die before our sleeves have touched! The rest is up to the gods. Shigata ga nai.

A touch on her shoulder made her start. It was Ayumi. "I thought the old man would never stop talking," the warrior said wryly. "Ask a simple question, get the entire history of the city in return."

"Did you find out anything about Hikaru?"

"There are bunraku players at the Golden Teacup inn," Ayumi replied. "Please excuse me, I didn't mean to disturb you."

"I was finished praying, but your presence always disturbs me," Kimiko said, flashing the samurai a passionate glance. Her voice lowered. "Particularly, my jade gate trembles whenever you are near."

"Please, my lady. We are on holy ground." Ayumi was embarrassed as usual by her mistress' not-so-subtle affection. It was bad enough in private, but unbearable in public. "And that priest might be blind, but I'll wager he has ears like a fox."

Kimiko began humming under her breath. Ayumi actually blushed when she realized it was a popular folk song, "Sipping Dew from Jade Petals." She wondered where Kimiko had heard such a bawdy tune.

"Might your humble servant suggest that such melodies are more appropriate at drunken orgies than in temples?" Ayumi said, trying to scowl but failing miserably.

Kimiko laughed. She loved teasing the reticent samurai. "I could sing the verses, if you wish. They're very instructive."

"Iye! You act like a monkey in heat! Great Buddha, have you been possessed by a lust demon?" Ayumi eased the straps of the heavy basket on her shoulders.

"No, but I wouldn't mind being possessed by you." Kimiko fluttered her eyelashes, earning a groan from Ayumi.

"I am not possessing anyone today. I am going to the Golden Teacup to find Hikaru," Ayumi said firmly.

"I will follow your footsteps," Kimiko said, giving the samurai a bow and a wink. "Especially if they lead to the path of Clouds and Rain."

Ayumi growled in frustration. She knew that Kimiko wanted to pillow with her. That fact was made painfully obvious every single day. If the truth was to be admitted, Ayumi could hardly control her desire to make love to the beautiful woman that she served.

There is a time and a place for everything, she scolded herself. Right now, we need no further distractions. Survival must come before all else. Playing love games is not a priority. No matter how tempting, you must stay focused.

Logically, her decision made sense. Emotionally, however, Ayumi was still caught between the mountains and the sea. Didn't Kimiko realize how difficult it was, not to snatch her up and silence her flirting with a hard wet kiss?

The old priest glided up to them, his wrinkled face screwed up into a grotesque leer. "I believe you are gentlemen of the world, eh? May I interest your honors in some very special, very unusual pillow books? A modest donation ensures your future encounters will be lively and more satisfying than ever!"

He cackled and pulled a folded picture book from his bright saffron tobe, displaying an extremely graphic illustration of two men under a mosquito net. What they were doing would have taxed the greatest Karan contortionists. Ayumi felt her eyes bugging out. Kimiko covered the lower half of her face with her sleeve, but her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

Gritting her teeth, Ayumi took hold of Kimiko's sash and pulled her out of the temple.

CHAPTER THREE - Seven Herbs

The town of Minakuchi, fifth station on the Chrysanthemum Road
11 a.m., the second Hour of the Snake

The Golden Teacup Inn was so busy, customers were leaning against the verandah rails, slurping noodles and chatting. The doors that made up the entire front of the structure had been slid all the way back on their rails, affording an excellent view of the interior and making the bustling restaurant seem less crowded. A staircase led to the upper floor, where private rooms were located. Off to one side was the kitchen, where a fat cook was juggling pans over a brazier and yelling comments at waitresses and patrons alike.

Ayumi and Kimiko gave their zori to the doorkeeper. The old man would clean the sandals while they were inside. In return, they received a wooden claim tag which Ayumi put into the breast of her kimono. She left their travel box with him as well, but did not remove her swords.

A waitress bustled up to them, her face wreathed in a smile. Her hair was covered by a towel, fastened with a knot beside her ear. "Irasshaimase!" she chirped in a high-pitched voice. "Welcome, your honors! How may I serve you?"

"We seek a bunraku player named Hikaru," Ayumi said. She had no idea what the man looked like, and hoped someone in the Golden Teacup might know him.

The waitress' smile slipped a little. "I hope there will be no trouble," she said. 

"Oh?" Kimiko leaned closer. "What sort of trouble?"

"Just last week, a pair of female impersonators were apprehended by Imperial guards!" The waitress lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. She thought the older samurai rather foreboding, but the younger was very handsome. "The oyama were killed when they resisted arrest, and the soldiers were punished for their error. I've heard they are seeking two women traveling together - Ma! No female is safe! And the Emperor's soldiers are worse than rampaging barbarians. They are idle most of the time, so they demand free sake, free food, free girls... it's a real disgrace!" 

"Hai, I agree." Kimiko noticed that the young woman was making eyes at her. 

The waitress giggled. "I am called Miss Seven Herbs. My sister and I are related to the innkeeper, so we stay here at night. It can be so lonely, sharing a futon without a man to help keep us warm."

Kimiko was surprised. Was the waitress flirting with her? She wasn't sure how to respond. 

"Will you gentlemen be requiring a room for tonight?" Miss Seven Herbs asked. "My sister would be grateful to ease your master's devil-eye horn," she said to Kimiko with a broad wink. "You and I can be together, should you find the idea pleasing. If your honorable jade pestle is as well-formed as the rest of your parts, then we will have much pleasure, I'm sure." 

Ayumi ground her teeth together. She was on the verge of kicking Miss Seven Herbs across the room when she heard Kimiko say, "That depends on whether or not our friend Hikaru is here. If he is not, pressing business requires us elsewhere." 

After some hesitation, Kimiko had decided to try responding to the waitress' overtures. What could it hurt? And she thought it would be a good test of her boy's disguise. 

Miss Seven Herbs giggled again, all aflutter. "Ah, Hikaru-san is a favored patron of the innkeeper, since he always stages a free show here whenever he's in town. It's good for business." 

Kimiko gave her a soulful look. "Take us to Hikaru, please, before my grumpy master decides to leave. Afterwards..." She let the word trail off and moistened her bottom lip suggestively with her tongue, thinking that perhaps she was going too far. To her gratification, however, it worked. 

"Hai! At once, your honor!" Miss Seven Herbs bowed. As she turned to lead them into the inn, she whispered to Kimiko, "I will save a place in my futon for you, sir." The waitress deliberately brushed her ample breasts against Kimiko's arm. 

Ayumi quelled her immediate response to the provocative exchange; tearing Miss Seven Herbs into a thousand pieces with her bare hands would be too conspicuous. Instead, as they approached an occupied table, she hissed in Kimiko's ear, "My lady, I definitely think you've been polluted by a lust demon! After we find Hikaru, I'm taking you to an exorcist." 

Kimiko merely winked and sauntered away, leaving the astonished samurai staring after her.

Ayumi growled and hastened to catch up.

Miss Seven Herbs bowed to the middle-aged man kneeling at the table. In spite of the crowded conditions, he was alone. "Hikaru-san, here are two friends eager to join you."

The bunraku master gazed at them with hooded eyes. "Please, will you sit and take tea with me?" His manner was carefully neutral. The women knelt opposite him, with the samurai on the outside, to be between Kimiko and any potential threats.

Ayumi snatched at the waitress' sleeve before she could disappear. "Bring three pipes, tobacco and a firepot along with the tea," she ordered.

"Hai, your worship." Miss Seven Herbs melted into the crowd, skillfully bumping customers out of the way with her hips.

When she had gone, Hikaru said, "Gomen nasai, but how do I know you are the ones I'm waiting for?" He was very skinny, with a mop of unruly hair that hung to his shoulders. An old burn scar began under his right ear, looped over his jaw and disappeared into the collar of his dark red kimono. Several patches of silvery skin with the texture of badly cured leather dotted the backs of his hands.

"When a crazy Shinto priestess sets her pink eyes on a goal, she stops at nothing to achieve it, including using gaki as messengers," Ayumi said softly.

He instantly recognized her description of the albino priestess, and let out a sigh of relief. "In these perilous days, a man must be careful, even when it gives offense. Thank you." Hikaru fell silent as Miss Seven Herbs returned, bearing a tray which was carried high over her head, to avoid contaminating it with her breath. 

The waitress fussed with the tea and other things, using any excuse to flirt with Kimiko, until Ayumi's temper was frayed to the breaking point. Miss Seven Herbs had pulled down the collar of her kimono in the back, in order to display her most erotic part - the soft and tender flesh at the nape of her neck. The skin was pale, freshly shaved and and powdered. She lost no opportunity to twist and turn in order to present the tantalizing sight. 

Finally, the samurai snapped at the waitress, "Stop acting like a fifth rank whore, you shameless woman, and leave my apprentice alone! If you hitch your robe back any further, you'll be bare to the ankles!" 

Miss Seven Herbs sniffed, pulled up her kimono, and marched off, but not before giving a few erotic wriggles for Kimiko's benefit. The noble lady spluttered at the fierce glare she received from Ayumi. 

"It was only a game!" Kimiko protested, trying not to raise her voice. "If I hadn't pretended to like her, we wouldn't have met Hikaru. Or would you rather have shouted his name in front of all these people, and made a spectacle of yourself? I thought we were trying to avoid unncessary attention." And it was good practice, she added silently. Subtle seductions aren't working on you, Ayumi-san. I may have to be more blatant in the future.

Ayumi inhaled deeply, counted slowly to ten, and at last said calmly to Hikaru, "I apologize for the interruption. You were saying that these are perilous times?" 

"Hai." Hikaru picked at one of the scars on his hand. "But I am a loyal servant of the kami. A thousand-shrine priest gave me a message several days ago, and I've been commanded to aid you. I do not know your names, or why you require my help to pass the checkpoint at Seki, or why you have no travel permits of your own. I don't need to know any details. I assume you must be wanted for something by the authorities, and what I'm undertaking is very dangerous. Still, I will obey - up to a point." 

Kimiko poured tea, while Ayumi picked up a clay pipe and put a pinch of tobacco in it. Using bronze tongs, the samurai picked up a piece of glowing charcoal from the firepot and lit her pipe. Three puffs, and the tobacco was spent. 

"Before we go any further," Ayumi said, toying with her cup of tea, "perhaps you might share news with us. We have been traveling for a while, and have had no opportunity to hear what is going on in the world." 

Hikaru took a sip of tea. "Honorable Snow Fairy has begun some kind of religious movement. All Shinto priests have deserted their shrines and become wanderers. No one can guess at their purpose. Many believe this is a sign from Heaven, signaling the kami's displeasure with the Emperor. It's causing some unrest, particularly in the provinces." 

Hikaru went on to tell them about Ono Narahira's withdrawal from Heian-kyo back to his northern fief in Fukushima. "What this portends, no one can say. Rumors fly as thick and fast as raindrops in a summer storm. Some believe there will be war between Narahira-sama and the Emperor. Others think that it means nothing. Whether it is connected with the sudden increase of soldiers on the Chrysanthemum Road, or the search for the Regent's niece, I do not know." 

"What have you heard about the Kanpuko's niece?" Kimiko asked. Ayumi nudged her, but the hint was ignored. 

Hikaru shrugged. "A spoiled monkey-sama who ran away from her family. Nothing to tell, really. Who cares? She must be a little mad, because she was unfilial enough to accuse Saneyoshi-sama of hiring ninja to kill his brother. Chigau!" He rolled his eyes. "As if our divine Emperor and the gods would allow such a dishonorable person to represent them on Earth! Ridiculous!" 

He ordered three bowls of noodles from a passing waitress, and continued to his guests, "Lowborns like me have little to do with the upper classes. We don't really care what the nobility does. All we want is to live our lives peacefully, eat our daily rice, and raise our children. That's what the Fujiwara girl should do. Stop causing trouble, get married, and have babies!" 

Before Kimiko could angrily refute this statement, Ayumi pinched her arm hard enough to leave a bruise. She stifled a yelp and turned hot eyes on the samurai, who gave her a warning glance.

"Hai, I understand your views perfectly," Ayumi said to him. "Each man must hold his own beliefs, according to his rank and his place under Heaven." 

"Exactly!" Hikaru agreed. "You cannot expect a peasant to worry about the lofty concerns of noble monkey-samas. That's as far above me as wind-blown clouds on Fuji-yama." 

Their noodles arrived, and Kimiko stared at hers for a long moment, still seething about the man's comments. The dish was kitsune-udon, one of her favorites: thick, chewy wheat noodles sprinkled with fried bean curd and silvers of green onion.

Ayumi leaned over and said, "A warrior knows to fill his belly at any opportunity, for meals may be few and far between." She picked up her bowl by hooking her thumb over the rim - a habit meant to prevent an attacker from slamming the dish's edge into her nose. She used the chopsticks in her other hand to shovel noodles into her mouth.

Kimiko shook her head. Marry and make babies, eh? What a bakahito! Has he no concept of honor at all?

Seeing that the lady was not eating, Ayumi murmured, "Remember what I told you earlier about all worlds having rules? If you do not understand now, I will make it clear later. In the meantime, please enjoy your meal. Hikaru will be insulted if you refuse his hospitality." 

Annoyed, Kimiko cleaned her bowl. 

When they had finished, Hikaru belched politely and said, "I have sent two of my scenery changers home, and you will be their replacements. The people in my troupe know that you will be leaving us after Seki, but I have not told them why. They will not ask questions. Please do not involve them any more than necessary."

"We are grateful for your assistance," Ayumi replied. She rubbed the side of her crooked nose. "You said before that you would obey Snow Fairy's wishes to a point. How far does your willingness extend?"

The bunraku master settled back on his heels. "Please understand... I'm a simple man who does not wish to offend. I honor the kami and respect their priestly representatives. Nevertheless, I have a requirement - a payment, if you will - in return for providing shelter and the necessary papers."

"Wakarimashita. I understand. Please continue." Ayumi thought he might demand money. Let him ask. He cannot squeeze blood from a stone, and my purse is nearly empty.

Kimiko would have liked to tell the man to go to Hell and kiss Black Emma's backside, but she held her peace. Although she disliked him, she still needed his help, and trusted that Ayumi would keep their best interests at heart. 

Hikaru took his time filling and lighting a pipe before he answered. His face flushed scarlet, making the grotesque facial scars stand out in pale streakl. "I had a daughter once, named Okiku. A sweet girl - not the brightest blossom on the tree, but she had no malice in her. She worked for a family in the town of Sakashita." 

He paused, and Ayumi urged, "Go on, please." Outside, it began to snow.

"My little Okiku died last year. She was just seventeen. The family told me it was suicide, but I do not believe she died by her own hand." Hikaru's fingers tightened on the pipe stem, and it cracked in half. The pieces fell unnoticed to the table. "I believe Okiku was murdered. I've had such terrible dreams! My child cannot rest until her unjust death is avenged."

"What do you require?" Ayumi asked. She had a sinking feeling in her liver. 

The bunraku master stared at her. Finally, he blinked. "I want you to kill General Heike Jiro," he stated flatly. 

Kimiko's mouth dropped open in astonishment.

CHAPTER FOUR - Clapping Hands Together

The town of Minakuchi, fifth station on the Chrysanthemum Road
11 a.m., the second Hour of the Snake

Ayumi let out a short bark of laughter. "You want me to kill Old Fire Yam?" That was the general's nickname. He preferred drinking shochu, or sweet potato spirits, to more civilized rice wine. The evidence of his coarse, peasant-like nature did not make the daimyo very popular at court, although he was greatly respected by most samurai.

"Absolutely not!" Kimiko interjected. She did not want her samurai involved in a duel with the legendary general. Ayumi might be killed!

Hikaru looked surprised at her commanding attitude, so Kimiko continued more humbly, "I mean, my master will refuse your request, of course. Jiro-sama is a great man. He would never act outside the dictates of bushido." 

"You mean Old Fire Yam is such an honorable person that if he did kill my daughter, he had a lawful reason?" Hikaru replied angrily. "Baka! Go ahead and chop me to pieces if you want. I'm just another good-for-nothing dungeater. I do not deserve to live. That's what you think, is it not? What's the harm if there is one less peasant, eh? I know what you call us... maggots! A waste of rice! Okiku was not a waste!" 

"Take care," Ayumi warned. "Grief speaks with the tongue of madness, so I will forgive your impetuous speech this once. Control yourself, Hikaru. Remember who you are, and remember who I am." She deliberately showed him the scabbard of her katana - a potent reminder of her rank.

"Please listen to me," the bunraku master said, forcing himself to calm down. "I have had many dreams about Okiku. She weeps and sobs so terribly, the earth itself is torn apart. Her sadness rips at my soul. Help her find peace, and I will do everything in my power to aid you." 

He turned to Kimiko. "I am aware that a samurai may kill any member of the lower classes with impunity. In fact, my former wife - who was somewhat deaf - was cut in half one morning when she was out gathering firewood, because she couldn't hear a samurai commanding her out of his lord's way. Shigata ga nai. I do not dispute the law. My life may be forfeit at any hour, on any day. Such is the will of Heaven. However, I love my daughter. I want her spirit to be at peace, instead of remaining tormented on Earth." He sighed. "Do not forget, your honor - even a worm an inch long has a half-inch soul." 

Kimiko had not meant for her words to be taken that way. True, Hikaru was a peasant, and therefore below her station, but he was also a father in mourning for a beloved daughter. Her anger towards him trickled away. 

Ayumi cleared her throat. "While I admire Old Yam, I have no objection to sparing him the shame of dying in bed. However, are you certain that this killing will accomplish your purpose? If Jiro-sama is not the focus of Okiku's discontent, then his death means nothing, and your dreams are only shadows without substance."

Hikaru ran both hands through his disordered mop of hair. "It is difficult to find out any facts in the case. I have had to rely on Jiro-sama - or rather, the general's steward, an oily turtle-head named Makoto. I was told that Okiku threw herself into a disused well and drowned."

"Forgive me, but suicide is common, particularly when love affairs go wrong," Ayumi said. 

"My father's heart tells me that Okiku did not take her own life." Hikaru would not be swayed from this point. 

Kimiko had an idea. "Have you consulted an itako?" she asked him. 

"A witch?" Hikaru grimaced. Itako were blind spiritual mediums, always female, who performed the difficult ceremony of speaking to the dead. "They were outlawed by the Regent three years ago." 

Ayumi shrugged. "It is not as easy to regulate such matters in the country as in the capital. Saneyoshi-sama disapproves of fortune-tellers, too, but they are still to be found throughout the Floating World." 

"I wouldn't know where to look. If there is a witch in Minakuchi, she won't be practicing beside the station gate. She'll be well hidden from strangers." 

"Excuse me," Kimiko said, "but I may know someone who can help." Her gaze swept out over the crowded tea house, settling on the figure of Miss Seven Herbs, who was chatting with a customer. 

Ayumi followed her lady's line of sight. "Iye! Absolutely not. I forbid it." She folded her arms across her chest and thrust out her jaw pugnaciously. 

"You forbid me?" Kimiko scoffed. "Do you have a better idea?" 

"I could beat it out of her." Ayumi's expression made it clear that she would not regard it as a chore, but a pleasure. 

"In that case, Miss Seven Herbs would probably die of fright. Please excuse me." Kimiko got up and squeezed past Ayumi, who refused to stand. "I will return shortly." She made her way to the waitress, with the samurai staring after her. 

Hikaru cleared his throat. "Your apprentice is young, but his intentions are good. I beg you not to punish him too harshly for disobedience." It was an incredibly bold suggestion. Interfering in the master-apprentice relationship was dangerous. Ayumi would have been well within her rights to turn on him. 

Instead, she set her shoulders and turned her face away from the spectacle of Kimiko flirting with Miss Seven Herbs. She could hear their giggles. A worm of jealousy was gnawing on her heart. "It is nothing," she said harshly. Hikaru bowed his head and drank more tea. 

Kimiko is free to love where she pleases, Ayumi thought. Our sleeves have not touched. The samurai poured herself a cup of tea, pleased that her hand was steady. Shigata ga nai. What will be, will be. What has not been ordained, will not come to pass. For once, the words brought no comfort. She was angry, both at herself, the waitress and her mistress. She did not show it, though. Ayumi remained stoic, outwardly calm. Inside, she seethed. 

"Kiss me to prove that you still love me..." She remembered Kimiko saying that, this morning when she had cut her hair. The worm in her heart bit more deeply, until she felt breathless, choking on helpless anger and pain.

After a few moments, Kimiko returned, flushed with triumph. "There is an itako who lives beside a rice warehouse near the signpost." 

"With what coin did you pay for this information?" Ayumi asked, her eyes hooded and distant. 

Kimiko pursed her lips. "Empty promises," she said, hands on hips, "and a few coppers." What is wrong with her? she thought. Can she truly be jealous of that waitress? Ma! Wait until I get you alone, 'Yumi-san!

Hikaru shook his head. "Even if the itako can raise my daughter's spirit, what good will that do? I know who killed her." 

"I will not promise to challenge Old Yam to a death duel unless I'm sure he is responsible." Ayumi pushed her tea cup to one side. 

"Please be reasonable," Kimiko coaxed. 

"Reasonable!" The bunraku master picked at the wide scar on his neck until it bled. "Okiku is dead. Revenge is not reasonable, your honor. Whoever killed my daughter must pay - that is my price. If you do not wish to pay it, then we have nothing else to dicuss." 

"You will come with us to the itako." Ayumi's tone made it clear that this was an order, not a suggestion. "If Okiku's spirit names her killer, I will deal with him myself. If not, I will certainly question Jiro-sama. If he proves guilty, I will avenge her. You have my oath on it." 

"Do you swear?" 

"I vow it so. May Hachiman the war-god hear my words and act as witness."

"Good. And I swear to ensure that you and your apprentice pass the Seki checkpoint safely." Hikaru clapped twice to show his satisfaction with their deal.

Kimiko murmured, "Please excuse me. It is time to return the tea." 

"There is a 'short-visit' house in the garden," Hikaru said. 

"Gomen nasai, I will accompany my apprentice. My back teeth are swimming. Please go ahead and we will join you in the street." Ayumi got up and escorted Kimiko away, while Hikaru called for the reckoning.

The toilet facility was small but scrupulously clean, screened by a thick mat of leafless wisteria vines that were powdered with snow. Inside the woven bamboo structure was a deep hole, with wooden blocks on either side to aid balance. Ayumi stood guard outside while Kimiko went in.

She pulled down her hakama, squatted and did her business mechanically. Like all travelers, she kept a supply of soft paper in the breast of her kimono. When she'd finished, Kimiko stayed there a moment, thinking. Soft snowflakes drifted down between the roof slats, settling on her shoulders and shorn hair. 

Ayumi loves me. She knows I love her. Why would she believe me so shallow, that I would abandon her for someone like Miss Seven Herbs? Baka!

The door opened and Kimiko stood up hastily, snatching at her trousers. It was Ayumi, and she relaxed. "Am I taking too long?" she asked, pulling up her hakama and knotting the waist string. The samurai shut the door.

"I must speak to you briefly," Ayumi announced. She held herself rigid, a hand clutching the hilt of her katana.

"Yes?" Kimiko stepped away from the hole and moved close to the other woman. "What do you wish to say, Yumi-san? Is this about Miss Seven Herbs?"

The name brought a flush to Ayumi's cheeks. "Is it your intention to play hummingbird in the waitress' spring garden?" she asked bluntly.

"And if I want to sip dew from her jade petals?" Kimiko replied with an airy gesture. Hah! I smell jealousy! Let us see how deeply it bites. "What is that to you? You say you love me, yet you stay aloof. You refuse to touch my sleeve, share my pillow - you kiss me like you find it disgusting. Why shouldn't I take advantage of other lovers, if my loyal samurai refuses to take what I've been offering?"

Disgusting? Couldn't she understand? Ayumi alternately burned and froze in a personal hell. It was wrong, so very wrong of her to love Kimiko this way. The feeling went against tradition and custom, flew in the face of bushido. How could she dare love her mistress, crave to hold her, to pleasure her? She was a broken-nosed, bandy legged samurai of no particular worth. If their ranks had been equal, Ayumi would have had no doubts, no fears, no hesitation.

Seeing Kimiko's interaction with Miss Seven Herbs had brought the truth of her situation glaringly into the light. She could command no loyalty from Kimiko, nor did she have the right to expect any such thing. Her mistress was free to make her own choices. It was not Ayumi's place to give love and desire it in return. Her only duty was to serve.

Kimiko watched and waited for an answer. Ayumi stood there, dumb as a beast, her face more mask-like than ever. Finally, the lady could stand no more. She grabbed a handful of Ayumi's hair and hauled her down for a kiss.

Ayumi was too startled to fight. She felt Kimiko's mouth upon her own, lips opening like a flower. The taste was sweet. Arms snaking around her neck, her hands of their own volition going to circle Kimiko's reed-slender waist. Warm and wet, the kiss deepened until they were melting, aching with need.

Kimiko pulled away to say huskily, "Do you think I want another? All my life has been spent waiting for you."

The samurai made a token protest. Her defenses were weakening beneath an onslaught of soft flesh pressing close to her, thin layers of clothing the only barrier between them. "I am a servant, lady. Beneath you..."

"When we are alone, you can be beneath me, on top of me, side-by-side... I don't care. You are mine, Ichijo Ayumi!" Kimiko's gaze was fierce. "And I am yours. Say it."

"You are mine..." The words spilled out, pulled directly from her soul. "I am yours." You can't fight fate. Shigata ga nai. Accept the inevitable. There was joy and freedom in knowing that your life was not your own. Ayumi's fears were gone, replaced by calm acquiescence. Love might be wrong, but it was unavoidable. Accept the inevitable. The samurai surrendered without much of a struggle. Her resolution, once made, was unshakable. She would never doubt again.

"Good. Now remember that the next time you think your liver is turning green." Kimiko shook her head. "Stupid woman!"

"Hai. I will not forget."

"You must not be afraid to touch me, Yumi-san," Kimiko continued, a light of mischief in her eyes. "I'm not made of sugar, and I won't melt in the heat!"

"I will not forget that, either," Ayumi replied with one of her rare smiles. Abruptly, the expression was wiped away and she was serious once more. "Will you permit me to practice, my lady?"

Kimiko frowned. "Practice? Practice what?"

"This..." Ayumi pulled her close and kissed her again. Kimiko started to laugh, but the samurai's insistent embrace soon changed the muffled giggle into a moan. Emboldened, Ayumi slid her fingertips inside the other woman's kimono, brushing the backs of her nails against Kimiko's breast. The young lady jumped slightly, then pressed herself more tightly against Ayumi.

A sudden loud knock made both of them leap away from each other.

"Hey!" a voice shouted from outside. "Other people need to make a short visit! What are you two doing in there?"

Another cried, "It's wrestling moves!"

"Oh, is that what you call it?" some wag asked. "I thought I heard the sound of peaches being split with a jade sword!"

When Ayumi and Kimiko emerged together, there was a line of about twenty people waiting. Most of them were laughing behind their sleeves. 

The samurai rolled her eyes, muttering, "More chamberpots!"

Kimiko pulled the edges of her over-robe back together, tightened her obi, and went to reclaim their zori and travel box from the porter. Her cheeks were flaming, but she looked neither left nor right.

Ayumi followed behind, her rooster-strut stomp more emphasized than usual. She put all thoughts of flesh and fancy behind her. Later, she promised silently. Later, you and I will play the Clouds and Rain.

As if she heard these thoughts, Kimiko turned around and flashed a grin before disappearing into the inn. Hikaru glanced from samurai to apprentice, shrugged, and went back to picking at his scars.

CHAPTER FIVE - Incense Smoke

The town of Minakuchi, fifth station on the Chrysanthemum Road
11 a.m., the second Hour of the Snake

The itako's house was hardly more than a battered lean-to, shoved in a narrow alley between a rice warehouse and a gambling den. A soiled curtain across the front was painted with badly drawn characters that read: Lady Doctor, Birth Charts, Exorcisms.

Hikaru made a face. "She doesn't look very successful to me."

"If a dove dwells among hawks, does he not seek to hide his nature?" Ayumi retorted. "If she lived in a palace, she would be too big a target to miss."

Kimiko went and squatted next to the curtain. "Ano!" she coughed politely, to get the occupant's attention. There was no response, and she remembered what the palace maids used to say when entering someone's rooms. "Gomen kudasai? Excuse me, may we come inside?"

A voice from within said, "Enter, if you seek my help. If not, move on."

Holding back the curtain (and wrinkling her nose at the rank smell coming from the dark interior), Kimiko motioned Hikaru inside. He was followed by Ayumi, with Kimiko going last. The curtain rippled closed behind her. The lean-to was very dark; the only light came from weak sunshine filtering in through cracks in the old board walls.

Someone lit an oil lamp. Kimiko blinked. The itako was revealed as a middle-aged woman dressed in clean white garments, her hair twisted inside a white towel - the color of death and mourning. Her eyes, too, were white from corner to corner, covered by the milky sheen of cataracts. Like all shamans, she was blind. "What is your will, your honors?" the itako asked.

"We desire to speak to the dead," Ayumi replied.

The shaman drew back as if surprised. "I am an astrologer and exorcist, trained in the use of Karan medicine techniques."

"You are a witch," Hikaru countered angrily. He was clearly ill-at-ease. "Some people think that you have the power to bring the dead back from Hell."

"Perhaps." The itako sniffed, head cocked to one side. "A bunraku man accompanied by two... samurai. How very interesting."

The hesitation was not lost on Ayumi. She'd heard it said that the blind sometimes develop extra sensitivity in other senses, to make up for the loss of vision. Could this woman know that she and Kimiko were female? It was possible. If a threat came, she would deal with it. "We are not police or Imperial guards. We don't care what laws you might have broken. Can you speak to the dead, or not?"

"I can." The white-clad woman smiled. Her teeth were tiny and stunted, like a toddler's set in adult gums. "But do you want to speak to the dead, or do you want the dead to speak to you? There is a difference."

Hikaru ran an impatient hand through his wild mop of hair. "My daughter... it is said that she committed suicide. I believe she was murdered." His mouth clamped shut with an audible click.

The itako stared blankly in Ayumi's direction. Her thin hands were folded together in her lap. "Normally, I enter a trance, using special music and sutras. Thus can dead souls speak through me and give messages to the living. But I think Mr. Bunraku has doubts. Hai, his disbelief is clear! Do you think I am a fraud?" She lifted a hand, rattling the Buddhist beads wound around her wrist. "In my own way, I am a better priest than those who shave their heads and eat no meat in public, but gorge on flesh in private."

"What can you do?" Kimiko spoke up. "There are false priests, and there are those who serve with a whole heart. How can we judge, other than by your deeds?"

"Please sit down, your honors." The sightless woman's attitude became brisk and business-like. "Your need is clear. I am bidden to do all within my power to help you."

"Bidden by whom?" Ayumi was suspicious.

"By those whose interests I serve with all my heart." The itako grinned again. "I am called Oya. This is my apprentice, Gourd."

Someone stirred behind the shaman. It was a young girl about twelve years old, who came creeping into the circle of lantern light. She was skinny and sullen, a rash of pimples dotting her cheeks. Her eyelids were red and swollen, lashes matted with yellow discharge. If she wasn't blind now, she would probably lose her sight soon, Ayumi thought. Gourd said nothing, merely dragged a drum between her legs and waited.

Oya picked up a bronze bell, laying it on the tattered staw mat in front of her. Next, she stirred the coals in a nearby firepot, and reaching into the shadows, withdrew a ceremonial bow. It was made of catalpa wood, strung with silk. Gourd began beating the drum, a slow pulse-rhythm punctuated by slaps on the rim with her palms.

Hikaru reluctantly knelt; Ayumi and Kimiko followed suit. The dwelling's small size meant that they were shoulder to shoulder. The samurai cleared her throat and nudged Hikaru. It was vulgar for one of her class to talk about money, but in this case, necessary. "Ask her how much," she whispered.

The itako plucked the bowstring, creating an eerie resonance in counterpoint to the drum. "You need not pay until you're satisfied," she said. "And then you will give me what you think the message is worth."

Hikaru opened his mouth, then closed it again. Oya nodded. "You will see what will be seen. You will hear what will be heard."

She continued to pluck the bowstring, and began droning the Heart Sutra through her nose. Her eyes fluttered shut. For a while, there was no other sound in the lean-to except drum and bow and voice monotonously reciting the Buddhist prayer.

Ayumi composed herself, hands on her knees, facing straight ahead. Beside her, Kimiko watched avidly, wondering if this was going to be as good a show as an imperial exorcism. Hikaru shifted, sighed, and toyed with the ragged end of his obi.

Finally, Oya reached for a box on a sloping shelf. Gourd's drumming continued. "This is Hangon-ko," she said. "Spirit Recalling Incense, made in the Karan district of Tso-Chan." She pushed the box towards Hikaru. "You must cast a handful of Hangon-ko into the burner and concentrate your memory on your daughter's face and form. Remember how much you loved her. Recall her voice, her way of walking, her laughter. Form a desire to see her again. Keep this firmly in your mind."

Hikaru took a pinch of powder from the box and smelled it. He made a face. "This is dung!" he cried.

Oya shrugged, the bow lowered into her lap. "It is whatever you imagine it to be."

Ayumi leaned over and smelled it, too. "Sandalwood," she opined. Kimiko did the same, but her judgment was, "Lotus and pine."

"Okiku is dead!" Hikaru insisted, wiping his scarred hand on the mat in disgust. He thought the two samurai must be as crazy as the witch. "None of this matters."

"Do it," Ayumi ordered. "What do you have to lose?"

With a violent gesture, Hikaru scooped up some incense and flung it into the charcoal burner. Immediately, a choking cloud of smoke arose. It was both acrid and sweet, with a sour plum edge that caught the back of the throat. Kimiko found herself nearly gagging on the strong scent. Instead of dissipating, however, the cloud remained stationary, rotating in space, gathered to itself until it formed a bubble.

Ayumi was reminded of the gaki who had appeared in their campfire that morning, manifesting in the smoke. She discreetly loosened her katana in its scabbard, ready to draw and strike, if necessary.

Hikaru sneered. "It stinks of corruption."

"Your daughter's flesh is no more, but her spirit struggles to enter this place." The itako's fingers were curved like talons; again and again, she twanged the catalpa bow's string. "Focus on Okiku. Call her to you."

Deep within the misty ball, a tiny figure was growing. At first, it was fuzzy, the outline unclear. Hikaru said half-heartedly, "Okiku!" He was sure this was a cruel deception. If the samurai were not there, he would have left. He had seen better conjuring by magicians at cheap country festivals.

Oya swayed, shoulders moving to the beat of Gourd's drum. The image in the smoke wavered. "Call her!" came the shaman's imperious command. "Your daughter is bound by filial duty to obey. Summon her now, for I cannot hold the curtain back for long."

Torn between disbelief, grief, and the overwhelming desire to see his daughter again, Hikaru wanted to kill the woman. How dare she mock his loss? Well, he would show the witch that he wasn't some naive peasant to be fooled by clever games. "Okiku! I order you to appear!" he snapped, fully expecting some trick he could expose.

Instead, the image snapped into focus. Kimiko gasped. Standing in the incense smoke was a tiny young woman. Perfectly formed, exquisitely doll-like, yet so real she almost reached out a hand to touch it. Hikaru was the most affected. His face went as white as the itako's robe. "Okiku?"

The little figure answered, "Father?" in a piping tone. Hikaru obviously recognized his beloved daughter's voice. He reared up on his knees, shock mingling with hope.

Gourd stopped pounding her drum. Oya made a convulsive gesture. "Speak to her, ask what you will, but quickly. When the smoke fades, her soul must return."

Okiku was pretty, if pale, her long black locks disarranged and hanging loose down her back. Moxa scars marred her face. "One, two, three, four..." she said sadly. "Father, there are only nine."

Hikaru ignored the statement, but Ayumi was taking note of everything the spirit pronounced.

"Are you with your mother, child?" he asked.

"Mother isn't here. I can't go to her. I'm caught." Okiku hung her head. Her hands wrung together constantly, fingers rubbing and knotting together. "There are only nine."

Hikaru bit his lip so hard it bled. "Who did this to you?"

"The green dragon took one away. I didn't break it. Five, six, seven, eight... there are only nine." Okiku wept, crystal tears dripping down her chin. "The green dragon."

Her father was clearly at a loss. Frustration and rage at his own helplessness made him turn to the itako. "What does she mean?"

"That is for you to decide," the shaman said calmly. "Make haste. The time is nearly done."

Kimiko saw the smoke was starting to thin. "Why?" she blurted to the spirit.

For one second, naked animosity gleamed through Okiku's tears. "I saw him in the courtyard, I saw him by the well. The well! Now there are only nine. The dragon shouldn't have taken it. He came to me, and I remember flying..." Her words trailed off. The spirit faded, color draining away until she was gray as the smoke.

"Iye! No, stay with me! Okiku, come back!" Hikaru begged. He snatched at the box, ready to dump more incense into the burner. Oya leaned over and held his wrist. "Let her go."

Tears were in his eyes. Okiku's spirit blurred again. "The well... the dragon..." Her voice faded. The bubble in which she stood suddenly blew apart into feebly roiling vapor, and was gone. All that was left was a lingering scent of cold ashes.

"Bring her back!" Hikaru demanded. "I must see her again."

Oya released him, shaking her head. "It is done." She put the bow back into its place. Reverently, the itako picked up the box of Hangon-ko and closed the lid, cradling the magic incense in her hands. "Okiku has returned to the Grey Shores."

"Witch! I command you to..." he began, and stopped when Ayumi whipped up an arm like an iron bar across his chest. "Enough," she said, not unkindly. "It is done."

Hikaru glared at the samurai, then lowered his eyes. "Hai, my daughter's existence is over. But what of my revenge?"

"May I suggest we continue this conversation outside?" Kimiko asked diffidently. Gourd, the apprentice with the crusty eyes, held out a hand for payment. When Hikaru made no move, only knelt and glared at Oya, Ayumi pulled out her money pouch.

She gave a couple of precious silver coins to the girl, not bothering to wrap them in paper as she might for a more legitimate merchant. Hikaru finally sighed, his fingers going absently to pick at the scars on his neck. "Arigato," he told the shaman. "I loved Okiku very much. She was all I had left of her mother."

"This life is a vale of tears; every moment of joy must be repaid with a lifetime of misery," Oya replied. Her cataract-blinded gaze turned to Kimiko. "Do you wish to speak with a lost soul? I sense a burden on your heart, a giri yet to be fulfilled."

Kimiko was speechless. For a moment, as the implication turned over in her mind, she was sorely tempted. The itako was offering to raise the spirit of her dead father, killed by the Regent's treachery. Until she avenged his dishonorable death, Masanori-san would never be reborn. His spirit would be trapped in Hell for eternity.

The opportunity to talk to him again, see his face, hear that beloved voice... then Kimiko remembered how Okiku's soul had looked. Pale, tormented, drenched in tears. Is that how I wish to remember my father? No, she decided. Let him find what comfort he can in the afterlife. I won't add to his unrest. If karma permits, the Regent will be dead, and Masanori-san will fly to Buddha-hood. From Heaven, he can see that I fulfilled my duty.

She declined the shaman's offer politely. Ayumi had been watching out of the corner of her eye, and was impressed by her lady's self-control.

Oya let out a startling cackle. "As you wish, your honor. Remember old Oya, should you change your mind." Her broad smile revealed those too tiny teeth, and Kimiko shuddered in sudden, atavistic revulsion.

On their way to the gate, Ayumi and Kimiko dropped behind Hikaru, to have a private conversation. "About General Jiro-sama," the lady asked, "are you really going to fight him?"

"If it proves necessary. The Heike and Ichijo clans are closely related, although the Heike prefer sea battles to land. Jiro-sama's wife is my great-aunt. I should have no difficulty paying a visit, even if I haven't been to Sakashita since I was a baby."

"He will not betray you?" 

"Old Fire Yam has no great love for Saneyoshi, and he owes me the courtesy of kin. At the very least, he would not summon Imperial guards until I left his house." 

Kimiko scowled. "I wish you wouldn't get involved. It's too dangerous."

"Would you rather watch me be crucified by the Regent's men? We need travel permits to pass three checkpoints, not just the one at Seki. Hikaru is our only option. Besides, it may not come to actual fighting. Seventeen-year-old girls are overly romantic, and think love suicide is the answer to all their petty problems."

"What about the green dragon and the well?" Kimiko wasn't sure what Okiku's words meant. "Do spirits lie?"

"You know as much as I do about that." Ayumi screwed her face into a horrible grimace and shouldered a pair of town toughs out of her way. The men started to protest, noticed her well-used scabbard, and slunk away, unwilling to pick a fight with such a dangerous samurai. "I'll visit my uncle's house and take a look around. The purpose is two-fold."

"Oh?"

"I told you that Old Yam has no love for the Regent. He might be persuaded to join your cause. If the Heike clan spurns Saneyoshi, other daimyo will follow. At first in secret, then in open revolt as our strength increases."

"Shigata ga nai," Kimiko said. "Do what you can, 'Yumi." She missed Masanori. The day of her father's death was among the worst in her life. And my uncle is to blame.

"Hai." Ayumi looked left and right, to be sure they were not overheard. "Remember, we fight not a single man, but against an empire. We must be prepared for war, or we will perish before our goal is accomplished."

"You will do what you can, and I will do what I must." Kimiko permitted herself a tiny smile. "But I hope it won't come to open warfare. If we show a hand of strength, he may back down without a fight."

Wishful thinking, the samurai thought privately. The Regent's the type to hang onto power with his teeth and toenails, plotting all the way to Hell. I wouldn't believe that one was dead until I saw the body, and even then I'd have my doubts.

Before she could reply, Kimiko pointed. "That must be the troupe. Well, it's a long walk to the next station, eh? A journey of a thousand ri begins with a single step," she quoted.

Ayumi believed that they had already come a long way on their personal journey... but they had an even longer way to go before the end - good or ill.

CHAPTER SIX - Paper Deception

The town of Minakuchi, fifth station on the Chrysanthemum Road, to Tsuchiyama, sixth station
Noon, the first Hour of the Horse

The members of Hikaru's bunraku troupe were sitting near the town's rear gate. One of them, an elderly man with a thin silver beard, held the reins of a placid ox hitched to a loaded cart. "We are ready to depart," he called when Hikaru came into sight. "If the gods permit, we'll reach Tsuchiyama by nightfall."

The scarred master waved at Ayumi and Kimiko. "These gentlemen will be accompanying us to Seki as scenery changers."

Everyone bowed as courtesy demanded. There were fifteen men in the group, and no women - like kabuki theater, bunraku puppet plays allowed no female members. Ayumi was impressed with Hikaru's command of his people; no one asked questions or blinked an eye at what must have been a decidedly odd occurrence.

"My feet are itching for the road," the old man said to Kimiko. Despite his age, he looked healthy and strong, if scrawny. He wore a shaggy straw cloak against the cold, as did most of his fellows. "Chiyo is my name. Shall we talk while we walk, young sir?"

He did not wait for permission, but led the ox to the road outside the gate. The rest of the troupe shouldered bundles wrapped in colorful cloth and followed him, walking easily on their wooden geta. A few spared a glance at the two strangers, but most simply walked past without comment. Kimiko paced beside Chiyo, knowing her samurai retainer was at her back.

Hikaru fell into step beside Ayumi and said, "I have a place to hide your swords. Obviously, you cannot travel openly as a samurai. There would be too many questions."

Ayumi grunted an agreement. "It had better be a safe place. I do not like giving up my katana, and will want to get at it quickly if an emergency arises."

The ox cart rumbled on the packed earth track. On either side of the road, trees began to give way to the tea plantations that made the area around Tsuchiyama famous. The sky was steely gray, sun covered by tattered clouds. Snow fell lightly, melting moments after it hit the ground. Thankfully, there was little wind, and few other travelers to slow their progress.

As they walked, Chiyo began to explain the art of bunraku to Kimiko. She had, of course, seen puppet plays before, but the inner workings were a mystery. Three operators were required for each puppet: an omozukai, who operated the body, head and right arm; a hidanzukai for the left arm and props; and an ashizukai for the legs. Bunraku puppets were about three feet tall, crafted by experts with a lifetime's experience. The manipulators were so skilled, they could make these dolls apparently come to life. 

"Simple people think it is magic," Chioy said with a cackle. "Not so, young sir! Hikaru, our chief omozukai, has been studying the art since he was a babe. Not many can match him. The real magic lies in subtle movements of hand, fingers and arm. Observe!" 

He tucked his free hand into his sleeve and gathered the fabric into his palm. Kimiko smiled. This was like a child's toy, a simple puppet made from a tabi slipped over the hand that could be made to talk.

Chiyo moved his fingers and knuckles, and suddenly the crude puppet became a lovely woman's face. Kimiko could see the eyes, nose and mouth, the smooth cheeks and delicate chin, created from folds of cloth. The woman smiled, and transformed into a hideous oni devil with horns. An ancient peasant, a proud warrior and an effete nobleman rapidly followed.

"Ma!" she exclaimed. "That's amazing!"

Chiyo shrugged, although he beamed with pride, and shook out his sleeve. "A trick that all apprentices learned in my day. Now your task with us is much simpler. The scenery pieces slot together in order, and can be put up or taken back down rapidly. We will be performing 'Invincible Sword Fairy' tomorrow afternoon, so you'll have plenty of time for practice. Just do as I say, young sir, and all will be well."

Hikaru called a halt. Pulling a big trunk down from the back of the cart, he gave Kimiko and Ayumi each a padded cotton jacket with his name written on the back in large characters - a way of advertising his troupe. They also received geta, wide-brimmed hats, fingerless gloves and short straw cloaks. When they had finished donning the garments, he called Ayumi over to him.

"Sometimes, even I need a discreet place to hide things," the scarred man said. He tapped the trunk hard in a certain place, and a concealed drawer slid out of the bottom. The space was just big enough to hold Ayumi's two swords. "No one will find your daisho there."

"Show me," the samurai commanded. Hikaru indicated the secret spot, and watched while Ayumi tapped it several times until she was satisfied that she knew the exact location. Then she put her weapons inside. "Good. Guard that trunk with your life, Hikaru. If anything happens to my swords, I'll tear your throat out with my teeth." 

"This miserable worm would never dare neglect your worship's honor," Hikaru said, sliding the drawer closed. He heaved the trunk back into the cart, and took a set of folded papers from the breast of his kimono. "Here are your travel permits. They will be sufficient to allow you to pass the Seki checkpoint, and my people will not betray you. I have your word; you have mine. If you avenge Okiku's death, I may be able to get counterfeit passes that'll take you all the way to Edo."

Kimiko drifted back to Ayumi's side. She had tied the cord of her hat beneath her lower lip in a jaunty butterfly knot. This made her seem younger than ever. "Let me see," she said, and her eyes widened when the samurai opened one of the permits. "Oh!"

"What is it?" Ayumi looked closely at the thick white paper. It seemed authentic to her, right down to the temple seal affixed to the bottom. Any common person wishing to travel beyond the boundaries of their home province had to obtain permission from either their local lord, daimyo or temple abbot.

"I know that handwriting," Kimiko whispered. She turned to Hikaru. "Where did you get these?" she demanded.

Hikaru bristled. "There is nothing wrong with them. Do you question my sincerity?"

"Tell me!" Kimiko shouted, her face mottled with crimson. "Where did these come from?"

Sensing trouble, the rest of the troupe, except Chiyo, moved behind their master. A couple of the younger men pulled short clubs from their cloaks. The clubs were made from heavy knots of cypress - a peasant's weapon, since they were forbidden to possess steel.

Ayumi let the travel basket slide off her back. "What is wrong?" she asked Kimiko. Keeping her eyes on the group, she carefully moved to interpose her body between the hostile players and her mistress. Unfortunately, the bunraku-men were between her and the ox cart. She could not reach her sword.

Kimiko did not answer her. Instead, she glared at Hikaru. "Answer my question, or I will have your head!"

Ayumi started to sweat. Her eyes darted from man to man, and she unconsciously positioned herself to meet an attack. "So much for compassion," she said out of the corner of her mouth. "My lady, why did you start a pissing match after I put away my katana?"

The players began to mutter, and one young man cried, "Don't you dare threaten our master! We will defend him to the death!"

"Don't be stupid!" Chiyo said loudly. "Stop this right now before someone gets hurt!"

Hikaru realized that, even unarmed, the samurai was capable of killing quite a few of his people. He took a deep breath and waved for silence. "There will be no killing today," he announced. To Kimiko, he said, "I obtained the permits from a friend."

"What is his name?" Kimiko was still angry. The bunraku-men backed off a pace, but Ayumi did not relax.

"He is the oyabun of oyabun, highest chief of the bakuto factions," Hikaru explained. "I know him as Oishi."

"Usatsuki!" Kimiko spat. Ayumi groped for the hilt of her nonexistent sword. Calling someone a liar was one of the deadliest insults in Wa.

Hikaru remained calm, but his lips were set into a thin, straight line. Chiyo restrained a hotter-headed member of the troupe by tripping him up and sitting on him.

Ayumi said to Kimiko quietly, "If I'm going to die trying to save you from being ripped into five separate parts by an angry mob, I would like to know why." 

Bakuto were criminals organized into gangs under the control of a single leader. They dealt in prostitution, gambling, smuggling, money lending and other unsavory activities. Ayumi did not know why the mention of an oyabun named Oishi would make her lady so upset.

"You dare accuse him of turning into a criminal lord?" Kimiko tore off her hat and hurled it to the ground. "Usatsuki!"

"I speak the truth. In the last few years, Oishi and his followers have virtually taken over all bakuto operations throughout the Floating World. He is a ronin, but I know nothing of his past. I met him in Edo. Sometimes he asks me to transport things secretly to avoid Imperial customs. I do favors for him, he does favors for me." Hikaru flushed, and the scars stood out in silvery contrast. "The permits are forged but they will pass inspection. Last month, two of my men had their papers confiscated because of a drunken brawl. Oishi was kind enough to provide me with replacements."

He glanced at Ayumi. "What accusation is your apprentice trying to make? I've done nothing wrong."

Ayumi shrugged. "I have no idea."

Kimiko was breathing hard. Finally, she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

Hikaru let out a pungent oath. "First witches, then hysterical children! Bah! Go ahead and cut off my head. It would be less painful."

Ayumi said, "Please excuse us. No one is accusing you of being unworthy or a liar. You know how emotional young boys can be, eh? They have not learned to let head rule over heart. Let me talk to him while you go on. We'll catch up."

"Very well." Hikaru turned his back on the samurai and growled at his group, "Hayaku! What are all you gaping idiots waiting for, a personal invitation from the Son of Heaven? I said, hayaku! Chiyo, stop resting your withered buttocks on that man's head and get the cart rolling!"

He stamped off down the road, shedding bits of straw with every step. 

Ayumi picked up Kimiko's hat and shook her head. "Now tell me, my lady, what is happening here? Why are you so angry? Hikaru is no threat to you. If he was, I'd kill him myself."

Kimiko's cheeks were wet. "I told you, I recognize the handwriting. This oyabun Oishi, who is nothing more than a common thug... he is really Kuranosuke Oishi."

"Your father's chief retainer?" Ayumi was so astonished, she had to sit down on a nearby log. "Not the one they used to call 'Seven Virtues!'"

"The very same," Kimiko replied bitterly. "When I knew him, he was like a god. Benevolent, honorable, courteous, intelligent, sincere, loyal and pious - Oishi-san was the essence of bushido. The perfect samurai."

"Yet he chose not to follow your father into death."

"Why would such a man refuse to do his duty? He even persuaded forty-six others to become ronin rather than commit seppuku. I had hoped..."

Ayumi turned the hat over in her hands. She knew her lady's mind well. "You hoped Oishi-san was plotting revenge. Why, Kimiko-sama? As far as he knew, Fujiwara Masanori died of an illness. That is what the rest of the world believed." 

"I thought that my mother told him the truth." Kimiko patted the front of her kimono, frowned, and began to wipe her wet face with her sleeve. Ayumi handed her several soft sheets of paper. "It was the only explanation that made sense to me, the only reason why Oishi-san would want to surrender all face and live as a ronin. If Mother told him the real cause of Father's death, he would want to see the stain on Masanori's honor wiped out with the Regent's blood." 

"Hmph. If your honored mother knew the truth, and if she confided in her husband's most loyal retainer, then I suppose Seven Virtues might delay his suicide long enough to try and cut the Saneyoshi's throat. And you were going to ask him to join you." 

"Hai. Who better to lead our cause than Oishi-san, the Perfection of Bushido?"

"I agree. He had an excellent reputation, and many samurai respected him as a true hero. But since he has sunk so far into depravity, there's no use trying to contact him."

Kimiko blew her nose. "My cause was his, or so I thought. I was counting on Oishi-san to fight for us. He would have given confidence to the daimyos and their armies, and brought some to our side."

"Heaven has ordained otherwise," Ayumi replied. She stood up and handed the hat back to its owner. "His downfall is regrettable, but there's nothing to be done. We must not let our vision stray too far into the future. Only the gods know what has been fated to be. Stay focused and all else will fall into its proper place at the proper time." She shrugged.

"Shigata ga nai - how I hate those words!"

Ayumi wished she could take her lady's pain away. "Believe me, it does no good to rail against the gods. I've tried it, and all I got was a lightning bolt for my pains."

"Ah so desu ka?" Kimiko put the cord around her neck, and let the hat hang down her back. Despite the sickening disappointment, she would struggle on. The river of life rarely runs smoothly, she thought, and said aloud, "Well, tell me about it while we add more road dust to our geta."

"Do you want to discuss Oishi-san anymore?"

"No. Forget the Seven Virtues. They have lost their beauty and become Seven Sins instead. Let's hope Old Fire Yam will agree to strike against the Regent... if you don't have to end his life to revenge Okiku's death. Ma! The ways of fortune and the gods are very strange." Kimiko resolutely walked in the direction Hikaru and his troupe had taken.

Ayumi walked beside her, and they quickly rejoined the bunraku players.

CHAPTER SEVEN - Ten Dishes

Tsuchiyama to Sakashita, seventh station on the Chrysanthemum Road
8 p.m., the first Hour of the Dog

The evening performance of "Invincible Sword Fairy" went very well. Everyone involved in the production wore black, close-fitting outfits that covered them from head to toe, including veils and hoods to obscure their faces. This rendered them "invisible" to the audience, who did not pay any attention to the kurogo at all. The only exception was Hikaru; as chief omozukai, he was permitted the distinction of leaving his head visible. 

Under Chiyo's direction, Ayumi and Kimiko built the set - a miniature but exquisite replica of the Pagoda Palace in mainland Kara, with backgrounds on sliding rails so that they could be changed quickly. During the periods when action was taking place, both women knelt to one side and enjoyed watching the masterful puppetry. All bunraku playwrights based their tales on old legends and myths. The classics were so well beloved, they had been performed for centuries without significant change. 

The next morning, after a night's rest in the second-best inn Tsuchiyama had to offer, Ayumi retrieved her swords and traveled to Sakashita alone. Kimiko would stay with Hikaru, and travel with the rest of the troupe that day. The samurai knew her mistress would be safe. She'd had a talk with Hikaru, and he harbored no strong resentments, promising to keep her 'apprentice' out of trouble until they joined her at the seventh station.

The general's house was situated in a pretty but quiet section of town, off the main thoroughfare. A high gate surrounded the dwelling, and a pair of samurai guards loitered out front. Frost covered the earth, and her geta crunched noisily down the unswept path.

Ayumi bowed. "I am Ichijo Ayumi," she announced clearly. "I wish to see my relation by marriage, Heike Jiro."

One of the samurai eyed her up and down in a skeptical fashion. The other picked his teeth with an ivory splinter. "One moment, please," the first one finally replied. He went inside, and shortly returned.

"Jiro-sama bids you enter," he said. His bow was much more shallow than convention demanded. 

Ayumi set her jaw, but did not want to kill him before her interview. The guard thought she was a poor relative, come to beg for favors, and his contempt for her impoverished condition was showing. She dismissed the impoliteness from her mind, and kicked off her geta on the verandah, placing them in a special rack beside the door. 

A servant showed her into the house, where Jiro was waiting in a small, musty room at the back. He was a powerfully built older man, with traces of silver in his otherwise dark hair. Like most warlords, he preferred to leave off elaborate Court attire at home, and was wearing a simple black-and-gold yukata. 

Jiro's eyes were set a touch too closely to his hooked nose. Deep lines carved into his forehead and around his mouth gave him a stern aspect. Ayumi knelt on a tatami in front of the man and kowtowed, touching her brow to the tattered mat.

"Ichijo Ayumi," Jiro said. His voice was a surprisingly light tenor. "I have not seen you in twenty years. Is your family in good health?" 

It was still fairly early in the day. His perfumed robe could not conceal the acrid fumes of shochu that lingered in the room. Ayumi pretended not to notice. "My mother and father are well," she answered. "How is the health of my great-aunt, Wisteria?" 

Jiro was silent for a few moments. At last, he roused himself to reply, "She spends her days copying the Lotus Sutra, writing letters and praying."

This did not sound like the vivacious, bustling woman that Ayumi remembered from her childhood. "Twenty years is a long time. I regret not having visited you sooner."

"Do you think I don't know why you're here? You are being sought as a traitor." The lines around Jiro's mouth tightened. "I've only agreed to see you because of our clan connection. Otherwise, I would cut off your head."

"Do you love the Regent so much, then?" Ayumi asked.

"I have no great affection for Lord Old Fart." Jiro shifted on his cushion. "However, to go against the Emperor is to defy Heaven."

"The Son of Heaven is a child, who is too young to don the trousers of manhood, much less rule the Floating World. We all know who controls the government, and Saneyoshi-sama is no saint."

"Nevertheless, I cannot help you. I have too many troubles of my own," Jiro said gruffly. "Return to your mistress. For the sake of the love between Wisteria and your mother, I will forget you came."

Ayumi stayed where she was, as immovable as a mountain. That answers one question. Old Yam has lost his fire, and will not join our cause. "Actually, I have a piece of business with you that cannot be delayed. It concerns a serving girl who committed suicide here last year. Her name was..."

"Okiku!" The general was instantly enraged. "She is the cause of all our woes! By Buddha, I wish I'd never allowed her to set a foot inside my door."

"I have an obligation to her father. I must determine how and why Okiku died. He is not satisfied with your steward's explanation."

"Damn that dungeater's impertinence!" Jiro reached to one side, drew out a ceramic bottle, and took several deep swallows of shochu. When the vessel was empty, he tossed it over his shoulder. "Okiku has ruined the Heike clan. She drowned herself in the back-garden well to pay for her crime. There is nothing more to tell."

Ayumi was puzzled. "How could a simple-minded peasant girl cause your downfall? You are not the richest or most powerful clan, but not the poorest, either."

"Do you not recall the great luck of my house? Ten gilded plates, given to the founder of the Heike by Benten-sama, the luck god. So long as those plates remained undamaged, our clan would prosper. If one was broken, our fortunes would be just as shattered." 

"And Okiku broke one of these plates," Ayumi guessed. 

"Hai." For a moment, the stern expression left his face, and he seemed almost sad. "I was fond of the girl. She was not the prettiest, or the most intelligent - her birth was very low as well - but she had a very sweet nature. I am not a young man anymore. Okiku would have suited me well, and I was going to raise her position in the household."

"You were thinking of making Okiku a lesser wife? Ma! How did Wisteria feel about that?"

"Your great-aunt is more concerned with Amida than worldly old sinners like myself. Besides, the girl was no threat to Wisteria's authority." Jiro sighed. "But then the stupid child decided to test my regard. She got some notion into her head that my affection was turning away from her. She deliberately smashed one of the Good Fortune plates. When I heard about it, I was angry. Okiku may have overheard me losing my temper. The next thing I knew, my steward came to tell me that she had drowned herself in the old well." 

Suddenly, he bared his teeth in a grimace. "Now my house is cursed. Every third evening, Okiku's spirit returns to the garden and shakes the house with her cries. Wisteria prays ever more hysterically. The servants only stay because they fear me more than a ghost. I have summoned the finest exorcists in the land, but they are useless. In the meantime, ill fortune dogs my steps. My neighbors mock me behind their sleeves. Soon, the Heike will be no more." 

Ayumi understood why Old Fire Yam had taken so heavily to drink. It was the only way the general could cope with this shameful haunting. "Have the exorcists proclaimed why Okiku's spirit lingers here?" 

"No, and I dare not confront the angry ghost myself. The first time she came, I went out into the garden to try and chase her away. The next day, one of the servants slipped and crushed his skull. Again, I stepped to the well. Our storehouses in Edo were destroyed in a fire. Now I stay within the house, only venturing as far as the verandah steps, although we grow poorer by the hour."

"Indeed, this is most unfortunate." Having experienced the destructive powers of the undead, Ayumi was sympathetic. "Before I leave, might I speak to your steward? He may have something to add which will satisfy Okiku's father." 

Jiro snorted. "You may speak to him all you wish, Ayumi-san. Buddha knows I rarely see the man; he is usually busy with clan business. His name is Makoto. When you are finished, please leave. Heike has problems enough without harboring a fugitive among them." 

Ayumi bowed her thanks, then went in search of the steward. She found the man in the kitchen, eating rice cakes flecked with dried seaweed and salt. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Ichijo Ayumi, great-niece to Lady Wisteria. Are you Makoto?" His hair was in a typical samurai tonsure, but he did not wear the two swords. Ayumi was unsure about his status. 

He sneered, showing a missing tooth. "I am Makoto-san." The steward stressed the honorific to show that he was of the samurai class, despite his shocking lack of daisho. "How may I serve you?" 

"I wish to ask you about the serving girl, Okiku, who died last year."

"A foolish dungeater." Makoto shrugged. "She deliberately broke a Good Fortune plate. I caught the wench red-handed, and told Jiro-sama. Then the girl drowned herself in a disused well behind the house."

"Did she tell you why she did it?"

"Oh, some feeble excuse about testing the general's affection. Shortly after informing Jiro-sama, I heard a cry and a splash. A younger gardener was lowered down on a rope, and he discovered the body."

"Was a funeral held?" 

"Of course!" Makoto put down the rice cake. "Are we barbarians? She was cremated with all the ceremony due her station. Good incense was burned, and prayers were commissioned. The remains are at Sakashita Temple. Jiro-sama laid out a fair amount of cash, considering Okiku was nothing more than a clanless peasant." 

Ayumi noticed the steward's garments for the first time. He wore multiple layers of fine silk in shades of deep plum-red and garnet. Jade buttons and gold brocade outlined his sleeves, and a costly jade bracelet adorned his wrist. Everything was done in the best possible taste, right down to his crisply starched lavender hakama. She had seen courtiers dressed less fashionably. It seemed strange that, with the fortunes of his clan in such disarray, Makoto should appear so prosperous.

"I have urged the general to leave this house," the steward sniffed. "His drinking never ceases. Why, he has begun to claim that Okiku's ghost is haunting him! I think he is delirious, and his behavior is influencing Lady Wisteria. He may even harm himself, or the lady, if he continues to drown himself in shochu. I pray to Buddha that the evil day never comes."

"Jiro-sama told me that Okiku's spirit visits every third evening, and she brings earthquakes with her."

"I have seen no such thing." Makoto rose, tweaking his kimonos into place. He was as fastidious about his appearance as any nobly bred fop. "As I said, the matter is very straightforward. Jiro-sama is not in his right mind. He is still my master, though, so I must continue to serve him as best I can. Now please excuse me. I have many duties to attend to."

He bowed and bustled away. Ayumi stood there for a moment, considering. A voice from behind made her whirl around. 

"Konnichiwa, Ayumi-san." The woman was in her forties, but looked a decade older. She had recently lost a great deal of weight, as evidenced by sagging jowels, and the looseness of her kimonos. Her long hair was held back with a sandalwood comb. "May Amida Buddha protect you from the ill omens that surround this house." 

"Good afternoon, Aunt Wisteria," Ayumi replied, bowing. "I hear you are not feeling well."

Wisteria tottered closer and snatched up one of the steward's abandoned rice cakes. "I would shave my head and become a nun, but my honorable husband needs me." She took a great bite, flecking her robes with crumbs. "Our fortunes have decreased since the clan was cursed. I can only afford asuko-ko incense to burn in offering to Buddha - the cheapest kind, suitable only for peasants and beggars! Oh, that the once great Heike are reduced to this!" She gobbled up the rest of the cake.

Ayumi wasn't sure how to respond to her relative's lament. In fact, she found such a self-pitying attitude acutely embarrassing.

Wisteria went on, "We've been reduced to eating radishes and unhusked rice. Is it any wonder I've lost my looks? And poor Jiro-sama..." Her voice sank to a conspiratorial whisper. "He drinks far too much shochu these days, but that's just as well. I was once embarrassed that a daimyo preferred sweet potato wine to sake. I thought it showed a coarseness of spirit, a lack of refinement. Now we couldn't afford sake anyway!"

"Hide-e!" Ayumi exclaimed to show her pity. "How terrible!" She picked up a rice cake and sniffed. It was fresh, so she stuck it into her sleeve for later. "I know it's considered vulgar to speak of money matters, Wisteria-san, but how has this happened? Heike weren't the richest clan in Wa, but they weren't the poorest, either."

Wisteria shrugged her heavy shoulders. "When the Good Fortune plate of Benten-sama was smashed, our luck poured out like rice through a torn sack. We've barely enough money to pay creditors, who grow bolder every day. If it weren't for Jiro-sama's daimyo status, those hungry rats would turn us out of our own home. He has appealed to the Regent without success. It is only a question of time, niece, before news of our ruin becomes generally known. My husband will commit seppuku, of course, to avoid dishonor. I will retire to a temple and atone for my sins."

The samurai's ears perked up. So, Saneyoshi has refused to aid Old Fire Yam! The general might yet be turned, but how? With this thought came others. Wisteria continued bemoaning her loss, but Ayumi didn't listen. Her mind was awhirl, knitting disjointed observations together into a coherent whole. Suddenly, she knew why the Heike were on the edge of disaster, why Okiku had died, and who murdered her. The theory would have to be proven. Ayumi believed she knew the perfect way to do it.

"Do not trust a skinny chef, a weeping woman, or a fat steward." She murmured the old quotation to herself. Wisteria frowned. "What did you say?"

"Please excuse me, aunt." Ayumi said. "I must speak to Jiro-sama again before taking my leave."

"Oh, go on!" Wisteria shook crumbs from her kimonos irritably. "I'm sure a young person like you has had enough of an old woman's foolishness."

The samurai bowed and hastened out of the kitchen.

"Ah, the manners of youth are disappearing," Wisteria muttered to herself. Spying the remaining rice cakes, she took them and tottered back to her own rooms.

Kimiko was sitting on the verandah of an inn in Sakashita with old Chiyo. "Are you and that broken-nosed samurai very close?" he asked, puffing on a pipe. The weather was clear and cold, but it had snowed earlier, so there was a charcoal brazier under the table between them.

"Hai," Kimiko replied absently. Her hands were resting in her lap. Without thinking, she rasped thumbs across the calluses on her palms, feeling roughness where once the flesh was lily smooth.

His eyes twinkled beneath bushy white brows. "Your master treats you well for a lowly apprentice," he observed. "He didn't even beat you for that temper tantrum on the trail yesterday."

"No, he is good to me."

Chiyo tapped spent ashes out of his long-stemmed pipe and refilled it, tamping down the pinch of tobacco with a finger. "Would he have made you a gift of Hikaru's head if you so desired? Or would he have considered that his duty?"

Abruptly, Kimiko realized she was on dangerous ground. The old man was casually probing for information, but what was his purpose? Warily, she answered, "I doubt it. My master loves me, but it is my duty to serve him, not the other way around."

Chiyo made a scoffing sound. "Admirable, if you were a real apprentice. We both know you are not."

"Has age softened your wits?" she retorted, trying to bluff him.

"I wish you no harm," he said. His voice lowered to a husky whisper. "You are the lady Fujiwara no Kimiko who travels with Ichijo Ayumi."

Kimiko felt her heart beating faster and faster, whirring wings that threatened to burst out of her ribcage. She covered momentary panic by pretending a coughing fit, then drinking some tea. While she held the cup to her lips, she studied Chiyo over the rim. He stared back at her solemnly.

"Why would you claim such insanity?" she finally asked. "Fujiwara no Kimiko is a fugitive."

He spread his hands apart. "There are many clues to be seen, if one has the eye. I've spent a lifetime studying faces and mannerisms among every class of people for my art. You may try to act like a boy - and the disguise is fairly good! - but I'm not deceived. When I look at you, I see a noble woman with a protective female samurai, a pair who evade Imperial security and have no papers. I've heard of the renegade Fujiwara girl. What else am I to conclude?"

Kimiko took a deep breath. "When did I betray myself to you?" She would not make a direct admission.

Chiyo chuckled. "When you were on the verge of ordering your samurai to kill Hikaru. Eeee! Such fire! Your spirit does not appreciate being hidden beneath humility. I suggest you practice more." He pointed the mouthpiece of the pipe at her. "Gomen nasai, my lady, if my advice is presumptuous. I thought you might like to know, in case you run into any more old villains like me during your journey."

He winked at her, and at that gesture Kimiko felt herself relax. Chiyo was not threatening, merely sharing his knowledge and opinion. "You won't tell the others?"

"Me? Of course not! A secret is kept by two only if one is dead. And I don't want to get Hikaru-san into trouble." He poured himself some tea. "Ah, speak of demons and they appear like flies on shit. Konnichiwa, Hikaru-san."

"Have you heard from your master yet?" the bunraku master asked Kimiko, ignoring Chiyo's greeting, as well as the rude comment that preceded it. "We will have to perform without him if he doesn't come back soon."

Ayumi had told Hikaru that she had some personal business in Sakashita, but not what that business entailed. Kimiko shook her head. "I'm sure my master will join us shortly."

Hikaru knelt down at the table. His unruly hair was more disheveled than ever. He rasped at his scars with a fingernail, then said abruptly, "Forgive me if I offended you regarding Oishi. I don't know what I did, but..."

"Please say nothing more." Kimiko put her cup down forcefully enough to make the sturdy clay vessel crack. "It is forgotten."

Chiyo put out a restraining hand. "Some matter of honor, perhaps. Leave it lie, Hikaru-san. It doesn't involve peasants like us."

"Very well." Hikaru peered outside, while Kimiko stared at the cracked cup. Seven Virtues becoming Seven Sins, she thought angrily. Oishi-san, in losing your honor, you betray my father's memory.

A pine branch was thrust over the railings towards Kimiko. "A message, your honor!" a boy said. There was a knotted piece of paper thrust into the fork at the end of the branch. He was shabby but clean, head shaved except for a child's side-lock.

Kimiko was surprised out of her contemplation of the traitor Oishi. She took the letter and called down, "Who is this from?"

The boy shrugged. "A samurai gave it to me. He wasn't very young, and had a broken nose."

"Are you supposed to return with a reply?" She glanced at the knotted paper. It was plain undyed mulberry, with ink scrubbed over the folds to show it had been unopened. Kimiko considered the implied symbolic meaning of the pine branch, the paper, and the youthful messenger. Taken together, they could say: Although our circumstances are poor, my newfound regard for you will never end.

With a snort, Kimiko abandoned this train of thought. Ayumi is not a courtier. She hasn't spent years studying classical poetry and the art of aesthetics in order to impress me with her erudition. This must be important.

Even as her fingers busied to unfold the letter, the boy said, "No reply, your honor."

She began to toss him a few coppers as a tip, and he shook his head. "You're as pretty as the samurai said you'd be. I wish my sister could see you. She'd fall in love!" He grinned, showing a gap where his front teeth should be. Before Kimiko could say anything, he skipped away, his geta kicking up rooster tails of muddy slush from the street.

"Terrible child," Chiyou muttered through the pipe stem clenched between his teeth.

"What is it?" Hikaru asked curiously.

Kimiko quickly scanned the message. Ayumi's hand was workmanlike, crisp and efficient, with none of the forced elegance she'd seen at court. It was said that one could judge another's character based on their calligraphic style. Her liver flopped over, her yin twitched, and her palms started to sweat. Despite the lack of passionate declarations, she seemed to discern Ayumi's desire in every line.

"What does it say?" Hikaru inched closer as if to read over her shoulder.

She pulled the letter closer to her face. Kimiko thought she could detect a slight whiff of her samurai's scent on the paper. With an effort, she pushed distractions aside and took in the import of the words. Involuntarily, she exclaimed, "Mother of Mercy!"

Hikaru sat back. "Love poetry, no doubt," he said to Chiyo. "The apprentice is pleasantly shocked at his master's passionate nature. Perhaps he's been instructed to buy a new copy of A Hundred Paths to the Peach Paradise."

"Or The Great Mirror of Manly Love," Chiyo replied, naming a more recent book of homoerotic stories and poetry.

"This is serious," Kimiko said. "Yumi... I mean, my master believes he knows who killed Okiku and why. It is not Heike Jiro, but a member of his household."

Hikaru grimaced and slammed his fist down on the table, making the teapot jump. "Who did it? Who killed my daughter? I'll send him to Hell with my own hands."

"Control yourself," Kimiko warned. "This man is of the samurai class. He cannot be accused of murder, since he killed a peasant. Gomen nasai, Hikaru, but you know it's true. If you seek revenge on your own, you will wind up crucified on the execution field."

"The boy makes a good point," Chiyo said.

"I don't care. Okiku will suffer eternally unless her death is avenged. How can I, her father, turn my back and do nothing?" The bunraku master was fairly vibrating with frustrated rage.

"Did I say we will do nothing?" Kimiko asked sharply. She hadn't considered the parallels before, but his situation reminded her of her own. "Listen to me, Hikaru. My master has a plan to expose the killer and make him betray other crimes he has committed. Crimes for which he can be brought to justice. Do you understand? Are you willing to help? The plan cannot succeed without you."

Hikaru stared at her for a long moment, black eyes brimming with a mixture of anger, denial and a hope long suppressed. Finally, he sighed, shoulders slumping. "I will do anything for Okiku. Tell me what your master desires. If it's within my power, it will be done."

"Here, then, is the plan..." Kimiko quickly outlined Ayumi's scheme.

Chiyo's pipe fell from his lips when the recitation was finished. "Ma!" he exclaimed in awe. "That's brilliantly diabolical."

"Do you agree, Hikaru?" Kimiko asked.

He nodded slowly, then with growing enthusiasm. "Hai! We'll roast that bastard in his own guilt. Chiyo, you'll need to outfit some dolls, while I coach the players and the narrator..."

The rest of the afternoon was a flurry of activity. By the time Ayumi joined them at the inn, they were ready to perform a brand new play.

The Green Dragon and the Well.

CHAPTER EIGHT - In a Garden

Sakashita, seventh station on the Chrysanthemum Road
The house of Heike Jiro, the General known as Old Fire Yam
8 p.m., the first Hour of the Dog 

Heike Jiro scowled and took another swallow from his jug of shochu. "I can't believe you talked me into this!" 

Ayumi was kneeling beside him on the rear verandah of the house. Below her, the unkept garden had been taken over by bunraku players. Torches burned here and there, but the men were nearly invisible in their head-to-toe clothing. Even Hikaru had elected to cover his face for this special performance. 

On the General's other side was his steward, Makoto. The man simpered and toyed with the costly jade bracelet he wore. Ayumi noticed Makoto was turning the bracelet around and around on his wrist. The piece was in the shape of a coiled dragon. "Why must I be present, Jiro-sama?" he complained. "Such entertainments are tedious at best. I should be working on your behalf instead of wasting my time." 

Ayumi gave him a poisonously sweet smile. "Makoto-san, your master has ordered you to attend. Do you find his command unworthy of obedience?" 

The steward sneered in her direction. His outer kimono was plain russet silk, but gold-embroidered robes peeped out from beneath. 

"Where is your companion?" Jiro asked Ayumi. 

"My apprentice is keeping Lady Wisteria company this evening." She glanced at Kimiko, who knelt to one side of her great-aunt. The young lady had a tanto knife up her sleeve, nearly eight inches of cold steel blade with a wooden hilt. Kimiko would use it to defend Wisteria or herself, if matters came to that. 

Jiro tossed aside the empty shochu jug. "Remind me again why I have puppet masters in my haunted garden." 

"I consulted a fortune-teller on your behalf," Ayumi replied smoothly. "She said that to lift the curse, Okiku's spirit must be pacified by the performance of a very special play. Your house retainers are required to attend in order to be cleansed." 

Makoto's sneer grew wider. "Superstitious nonsense. There is no curse, Jiro-sama. You're paying these beggars to swindle you." 

"Perhaps," Jiro said. He narrowed his eyes and stared straight ahead. "I've tried everything else. Why not this? It is my money, isn't it?" 

The steward shot an ugly glare at Ayumi before bowing his head to the General. "Of course, sire. I meant only to offer my advice." 

"It's been offered. Now be silent." Jiro continued to watch the preparations in his garden. 

Ayumi said nothing. Old Fire Yam knew the truth; she had explained her reasoning to him privately. Having experienced Okiku's supernatural presence himself, he was more than willing to believe in the itako's ghost-summoning. 

I hope this works, she thought, glancing at the steward. I've assumed so much, and the rest is merely a riddle from Hell. If her spirit finds satisfaction, if that thieving bakahito confesses his guilt, then the curse may be lifted. In that case, Old Yam will defy the Regent and join my lady. This was the deal between them. For Kimiko's sake, she prayed it would succeed. 

And as for you meddling gods... stay out of it! Or I'll put my sandal up your divine backsides!

Kimiko was nodding automatically throughout Wisteria's droning laments, although she scarcely registered a word. She was too busy watching Ayumi. 

The narrator and the shamisen player arrived on the verandah, each wearing dull green-and-black kimonos. Tsuji, the narrator, did not kneel on the floor. Instead, he crouched down, sitting on his heels, with a low stool behind for additional support. This posture freed his abdomen from pressure and aided his breathing. Tsuji would perform not only the accompanying narration, but all the dialogue and monologues as well. The shamisen player, Young Pheasant, sat near him in a cross-legged position, the instrument poised on his lap. Together, they would create the play's atmosphere through spoken word and music in harmony. 

Young Pheasant strummed a chord and began to play. All the watchers fell silent, eyes fixed on the garden. Tsuji let out a blood-chilling wail that wavered up and down the scale, breaking off just as Pheasant's jangling melody ended with a dramatic thump. 

"The Green Dragon and the Well," Tsuji intoned, using his best 'hollow voice from the underworld' vocal trick. The shamisen was a subtle accompaniment. "We are in a garden, at the house of an important daimyo. See! In the center of the garden stands an abandoned well." The evening was quite cool but clear; white vapor puffed from his lips as he spoke. 

One of the black-clad helpers brought a torch, pushing it into the earth near the old well. 

"In the house lives an honorable daimyo, a fine general, who has fallen in love with a pretty but simple serving girl." 

Hikaru now revealed his mastery of the art. All afternoon they had practiced this play without ceasing. Certain puppets had to be altered. Now Hikaru and his two assistants slowly raised a three-foot high doll, tilting its face so that it could be seen by everyone. Old Yam gasped; Wisteria clutched Kimiko's arm; and Makoto froze into shocked stillness. 

The puppet bore Okiku's face. 

Chiyo and two others played the General. This puppet resembled Jiro. The narrator spoke their dialogue, while the dolls moved and interacted in life-like fashion. Tsuji eerily captured Old Fire Yam's bluster, while his Okiku was achingly sweet. 

General: "I have decided to grant you the honor of becoming my minor wife. I'm old and rough, set in my ways, but I can take care of you... if you consent." 

Okiku: "The honor is overwhelming, sire. I am a peasant. You are a daimyo. Why not choose a worthier wife?" 

General: "You're pretty and pleasing, full of youth and innocence. Spring to my winter, yin to my yang, water to my fire. Will you consent? I swear, I'll never give you cause to regret your decision. When I'm gone, I'll make sure you're cared for. You won't lack for anything." 

Okiku: "My father will be pleased. But what of your honorable First Wife?" 

General: "Her mind is fixed on Buddha. She will be pleased to have a little sister in the house." 

Okiku: (bowing) "Then I accept, sire, with all my heart." 

Tsuji adopted his hollow voice again to continue his narration. "Thus the wheel of fate was set in motion. The young girl - innocent and trusting - would wed the daimyo general. Alas! Unaware, a serpent glided through the garden, full of poison and treachery." 

Chiyo put aside the General puppet and picked up another. This one was male, clad in gorgeous silk robes, a green dragon bracelet on its arm. As he raised it up, everyone saw it resembled Makoto. 

Ayumi watched the steward, waiting for his reaction. The man had stopped playing with his jade ornament, was staring straight ahead, beads of sweat dappling his brow. 

She detected a pale glow out of the corner of her eye and turned her head, then went rigid with surprise, hand groping automatically for the hilt of her sword. It wasn't there. She bit back a curse. Hikaru and his bunraku players weren't aware of her true identity, or her connection to Heike Jiro, and she'd wanted to keep it that way. Her katana was still locked up in the trunk on Hikaru's ox cart. 

Tsuji and Young Pheasant were outlined with a thin thread of blue fire. Both men appeared to be in a trance. Ayumi looked down into the garden, suddenly aware of an icy wind ruffling through her hair, clammy tendrils trailing across her cheeks. The bare branches of the willow tree near the old well began to slither and rub together, providing a counterpoint to the shamisen's plucked melody. 

Beside her, Jiro's mouth fell open. "It's her!" he choked. "It's Okiku!" 

Wisteria began to sob. Hikaru and his assistants fell backwards, too shocked to scream. The Okiku doll lifted from their hands of its own accord, standing in mid-air. "My daughter," Hikaru breathed. 

The doll's porcelain face took on a blue tinge. She did not acknowledge Hikaru, nor seem to be aware of anyone else in the garden. She moved, walking on air, until she reached the edge of the verandah, near the bronze guardian lion. Here Okiku waited, peeping out from behind the statue. 

"I saw the master's steward taking gold koban from a locked box in his room," Tsuji chanted in a girlish lilt. "I didn't mean to spy, but I wondered what it meant, so I followed him and watched." 

Ayumi gritted her teeth. "I hate spirits," she muttered. 

Kimiko discreetly left Wisteria, who was weeping into her sleeve, and settled behind Ayumi. She slid the tanto out and offered it to her samurai, knowing the other woman was unarmed. Ayumi took it just in time to stop Makoto, who was about to slink away. She half-rose and put the point of the dagger at the sweating man's throat. "Going for an exorcist?" she asked. 

Jiro barked, "Sit down, by Buddha's balls, or I'll have you bound in place!" Several of his watching retainers moved forward, ready to enforce their master's order. 

Clearly reluctant, Makoto knelt, grinding his forehead into the floor. "Please, sire, I beg you, do not give credence to this display of mountebanks..." 

"Silence!" Jiro's command was thunderous, rising above the shamisen music and the rising howl of the wind. 

There was more supernatural movement in the garden. The Makoto puppet had also taken on a blue-fire life of its own. Wind rippling across expensive robes, he minced over to the well, looking this way and that. Satisfied that no one was watching, he moved aside a rock, revealing a brightly gleaming treasure of gold and silver coins. Making a show of putting more koban inside, the doll replaced the rock and patted it with a proprietary air. 

Hikaru, Chiyo and the rest of the puppeteers had scrambled to the verandah steps, not daring to rise any further without permission. Meanwhile, Tsuji said in a precise imitation of Makoto's voice, "Greedy for gain, willing to lie and cheat for cash am I, the Green Dragon. My master is over proud, too much the samurai for business, and trusts me to supervise his dealings. If only he knew that I've been draining the clan's resources for years! Soon I will disappear and make a new life with the wealth that I've stolen." 

The Okiku puppet put a hand to her mouth in horror. She rose from hiding, apparently about to dash into the house. The Makoto doll whipped around, spotted her, and hurried over. Its mouth moved in cadence with Tsuji's words. "If the girl goes to my master, I am ruined. She must be silenced!" 

Ayumi grabbed a handful of the living steward's well-oiled hair, forcing him to face the eerie tableaux. His eyes remained squeezed shut. "Witness your sins," she growled, "or I'll cut your eyelids off." 

With a whimper, Makoto opened his eyes in time to see the puppet-steward drag the Okiku doll to the well, strangle her, and toss the body inside. Faint sobs began rising from the depths. 

Jiro leaned over, until he was practically nose-to-nose with Makoto. "You broke the Good Fortune plate to conceal Okiku's murder. Traitor! Oath-breaker!" 

An explosion of blue light spilled from the well, accompanied by a blast of wind that snuffed out all the torches. Okiku's spirit glided upward, tears dripping down her face. There was a smell of rotting flesh, so strong that several samurai gagged. 

Wisteria stopped weeping and clawed at her garments in a frenzy. Kimiko rushed over to the stricken woman. "What are you doing?" she shouted over the howling gale, trying to imprison Wisteria's hands before she could damage herself. 

"Help me! Help me get it out!" the general's wife panted. Her outer robe gaped open, and the inner kimonos had been thrust aside to reveal a bundle of rags tied around her torso. Wisteria scrabbled at the bindings. "Help me get it out!" she repeated. 

Kimiko glanced over her shoulder, but Ayumi was preoccupied with Makoto. At Wisteria's continued urging, she reluctantly aided the older woman, picking apart knots until the bundle could be pulled away. She cradled it in her palms while Wisteria unwrapped it, hissing between her teeth. When the final layer was raised, Kimiko saw the shattered remains of a gilded plate. A faint luminescence played around the jagged edges. 

Meanwhile, Jiro rose to his feet. He drew his sword in a smooth, supple motion. "Makoto, you betrayed me. I will not offer you the honor of seppuku. Instead, you will die like the traitorous dog you are." 

"Kill me!" the steward cried, baring his teeth in a snarl that was half-terror, half-rage. His eyes rolled in bruised sockets. "Kill me and be cursed forever! My soul will thirst for revenge!" 

The verandah began to tremble, vibrating like a plucked string. Okiku wept, sobbing loudly enough to rival the wind. 

Jiro's samurai retainers began muttering amongst themselves, clearly frightened by Makoto's threat. It was well known that if a person died bearing great resentment towards another, their soul could return to wreak vengeance. It was even possible that the steward could be transformed into an oni devil, or a vampire, or another type of monster. They had already experienced what mild Okiku could do as a spirit; no one wanted to deal with Makoto's evil. The men edged away, much to Jiro's disgust. The lines around his mouth deepened, giving him an extremely severe expression. 

Ayumi fought her way up and whispered in the General's ear, clutching his sleeve to keep from being blown over. Old Yam nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching, but when he turned back to Makoto, his face was stony. "I don't believe you!" he shouted. "A cringing thief won't have the stomach to defy Heaven and remain earth-bound. Hah! You always were a boasting fool." 

"I'll show you!" Makoto twisted the green jade bracelet from his wrist and tossed it away, narrowly missing the huddled players on the steps. "I've bowed to you for the last time, Old Yam! When next we meet, I will rain misery upon your house. I will not rest until the Heike clan is destroyed, root and branch!" 

"I don't believe you," Jiro said icily, looking down his nose at the crouching man. "It isn't easy to escape Hell's clutches. These are empty threats! My morning dung is more terrifying than a cowardly killer of girl-children." This last was said with all the disdain he could muster. 

"I'll show you!" Makoto vowed, nearly frothing at the mouth. "I'll show you!" 

In the garden, Okiku began to count. "One... two... three..." With each word, the wind rose higher, the verandah shook more fiercely. Kimiko clutched Wisteria, trying to support the older woman, while Jiro spread his legs and rode out the storm like the seasoned sailor he was. Ayumi was almost pitched over the railing; she dug the point of her tanto into a wall and hung on grimly. 

"Very well. Do you see that stepping stone?" Jiro used his sword to point into the garden. "After your head is cut off, if you can bite that stone, I'll believe that you'll return to haunt me." 

"Oh, you'll see, Old Yam!" The steward laughed, a hair-raising, staccato giggle. 

"Four... five... six..." Okiku counted mournfully, tears dripping from the sleeves of her translucent robe. A number of roof tiles slid off and smashed to the ground. 

Jiro grabbed the back of Makoto's collar and hauled him, stumbling and laughing, into the garden. When she saw what her husband was doing, Wisteria shouted, "No! Please return! Remember the curse!" 

The steward knelt, facing the stone. "I will bite it!" he gabbled, nearly incoherent. His eyes shone with the light of pure insanity. "I will bite it! I'll show you, then you'll believe!" 

Old Fire Yam wasted no time. He was still tough, wiry muscles not entirely softened by drink. Back went the katana over his shoulder; he brought it around in a sweep of glinting steel. There was a sound like shorn silk, then two great jets of blood pumped from Makoto's neck. His body slumped over. His head thumped to the ground, rolled, and suddenly bounded up, grasping the chosen stone between its teeth. It hung on with a desperate grimace, then let go and dropped off, stilled by death. 

The retainers let out gasps and shouts of horror. 

"Seven... eight... nine..." Okiku counted. 

The entire house was in danger of collapse. Support beams crackled, fissures appearing as they groaned beneath the terrible strain. More roof tiles shattered. The stairs separated from the verandah, bunraku players sprawling in the debris. It was like being caught in a terrible earthquake. Wisteria gasped prayers and clung to Kimiko. 

Ayumi let go of her dagger and vaulted over the rail, springing into the garden. She snatched the green dragon bracelet and hurled it into the well. "Ju'u!" she shouted. "Ten!" 

The quaking stopped. The wind died down to a whispery moan. From her position above the well, Okiku stopped weeping. "Ten," she agreed. The blue-white light grew thinner but brighter. A sizzling beam shot out, aimed at the broken plate near Wisteria's knees. Kimiko held her breath. 

One by one, the pieces slithered together, each to their proper place. As they were joined, the golden luminescence grew brighter and brighter, until Kimiko had to squeeze her eyes almost shut against the glare. It finally faded to a soft glow, a warmth that seemed to caress the weariness from her bones and lighten her heart. "Ma!" she said, blinking with astonishment. 

Wisteria gathered the newly mended plate to her bosom. "Domo arigato gozaimasu," she said, bowing to the peasant girl's ghost. "Thank you, Okiku-san. I will place your funeral tablet in my family's altar, and offer incense to it daily." 

Jiro also bowed to Okiku - an unprecedented honor from daimyo to lowborn. 

The ghost suddenly smiled and laughed. It was a tinkling, joyous sound. Blue-white changed to yellow, deepened to ochre and gold. Around the old well, wild orchids bloomed in defiance of winter. Hikaru sat up and watched with a white face. "My child," he whispered, "now you are at peace. Join your mother, and know that we will all reunite as fate decrees." 

Okiku beamed happily. She began to spin, gathering motes of light into herself until she glowed, surrounded by dancing stars. The ghost faded slowly, still laughing, until there was nothing left but a faint shimmer and the fainter echo of her laughter. 

Then that, too, was gone, and the garden was silent once more. 

Chapter Nine - Expect the Unexpected

Sakashita, seventh station on the Chrysanthemum Road
The house of Heike Jiro, the General known as Old Fire Yam
9 p.m., the second Hour of the Dog 

Jiro stood staring at the spot a moment. He finally flicked blood from his sword, pulled soft paper from his kimono and wiped it clean. "Remove that trash," he ordered, jerking his head at Makoto's body. "Put it on a garbage heap to be burned." 

One of his retainers knelt, banging his head against the verandah floor. "What of the steward's curse, sire?" he asked. 

The General snorted. "Hah!" He raised his voice so that everyone could hear. "It is well known that a person's spirit can return only if the resentful mind is focused on that purpose alone. Well, I tricked Makoto into focusing his purpose upon biting the stone, not returning as a vengeful ghost. As he was able to accomplish his goal, I think that's the last we'll ever see of that bakahito." 

The retainers murmured, impressed by their lord's cleverness. Old Fire Yam winked discreetly at Ayumi, who nodded her head slightly in reply. She wouldn't tell him that this trick was part of the Invincible Sword Fairy story that the bunraku players had performed. 

Chiyo approached Ayumi, brushing crumbs of dirt from his black clothing. "They say there is wisdom in old tales," he said casually, picking up the steward doll. It was now limp and lifeless. 

"Hai," Ayumi replied. "They also say there is wisdom in silence." 

"Who would believe an old man's foolishness?" Chiyo tweaked the doll's costume. "I saw nothing, I heard nothing, I say nothing." He wandered away to retrieve the rest of his props. 

Ayumi caught Hikaru's sleeve as he passed. "Are you satisfied?" she asked. 

"Hai. My daughter is avenged, her spirit is at peace." The scarred man bowed deeply to her. "The one responsible has been punished. I will keep my end of the bargain. Seki is the next station; we will see you safely past." 

"Good. My apprentice and I have some business with Jiro-sama. We will meet you at the inn later." Ayumi returned his bow with a nod, and Hikaru walked away. 

After Manoko's body had been dragged away by his retainers, Jiro invited Kimiko and her samurai into his house. A grateful Wisteria disappeared to fetch hot sake and food. 

"Your cleverness has rid me of a traitor and a curse," Old Yam said to Ayumi. He turned to Kimiko and continued, "Regard the Heike clan as your ally against the Regent. I put myself under your command." 

"Do nothing yet," Kimiko replied, trying to appear quietly confident, although her nerves were singing. "I must gather all my forces first, Jiro-san. Are there any other daimyos you can persuade to join us?" 

"Perhaps. I will certainly try." The General looked up as Wisteria returned, followed by maids with trays. His wife laid out the meal and discreetly disappeared. Jiro settled himself more firmly on his cushion. "Toyotomi Hideyoshi may be sympathetic. He's of royal blood, but too distantly connected to claim the throne." 

"Yes, he hates Lord Old Fart," Ayumi remarked. "The Regent once humiliated him in a poetry contest. Hideyoshi-san is too young and impetuous, though." 

"His mother is not. Miwako rules the Toyotomi with an iron fist," Kimiko said, drawing on the knowledge she had gained during her stay at the Imperial Court. "Her son may think he makes the decisions, but Miwako is the true head. If you approach her, Jiro-san, as one daimyo to another, she may listen." 

"What of Shoda, Someya and Sotomura?" Ayumi asked, naming three greater clans, none of which had any reason to love the Regent. 

"Again, perhaps." Jiro drew his hands apart and shrugged. "Here is news that you may not know - Ono Narahira has returned to his fief and is openly gathering an army. It's no secret that he intends to strike against Saneyoshi." 

"Ono-san was my father's friend!" Kimiko exclaimed. Her pulse quickened. "Can you get a message to him?" 

"Hai. I'll send it by official courier as soon as the ink's dried. Do you need money? Clothing? Supplies? I have no horses but I can have some purchased for you." 

Ayumi said, "Money, yes. My purse is empty as a dried gourd." 

Jiro pulled a fistful of coins from a box near his side; this was the stolen cash his retainers had retrieved from Makoto's hiding place in the well. He poured it into Ayumi's hands. "If you require more, leave a message at any road station near a seaport. I will have my captains check daily." 

He paused, considering, and glanced at Kimiko keenly. "If your goal is Edo, perhaps you'd care to sail there instead of walking. It would be a faster journey." 

Kimiko knotted her fingers together to control their sudden trembling. She knew that despite the older man's agreement, if she did not appear worthy of being served, he would abandon her without a second thought. That was the way of things. No one serves an inferior master unless he is inferior himself. It would take every scrap of her courage and cunning to make proud rulers like Jiro and his peers see past her youth and sex, and allow her to command them. 

I've chosen a difficult road, she thought, but... when eating poison, lick the plate! All or nothing. If I cannot convince Old Fire Yam that I'm more than a foolish girl, my cause is already lost.

"You know we're being pursued. It would be best not to leave messages at stations, in case they are intercepted. No doubt ships are being searched as well. However, the port of Ejiri may suit our purposes," she said finally. "Imperial inspectors there are notoriously slack and easily bribed. I've heard it's a smuggler's haven." Court gossip again, but nobles were usually correct in their recounted scandals. 

"It is," Jiro replied. He leaned back slightly, satisfied with her answer. "Ejiri is the thirty-fifth station. If you manage to get there on your own, I'll have a ship waiting. The Water Pearl, mastered by Wasaburo." 

Ayumi let out the breath she'd been holding. Old Yam's question had been a test of her mistress' determination and wisdom. Not one of the daimyos had gotten to their positions by relying on someone else. Kimiko needed to prove herself, and she'd gotten off to a good start. Jiro would keep his word. He would also recruit others. Heike might be a small clan, but it was well respected. Our enterprise is truly begun. 

"How will we stay in contact, if it becomes necessary?" he asked, reaching for a rice ball. 

"Shinto priests," Kimiko answered promptly. "They will act as messengers." 

Jiro hid his surprise with a grunt. "Very well. When I have news, I will send it to you. There are always a few cloud-and-water priests wandering the Chrysanthemum Road." 

Kimiko kept her expression neutral, although she wanted to run around the room, clapping her hands and grinning like an idiot. "My thanks, Jiro-san," she said with great dignity. 

At that moment, the shoji door slid back with a loud rattle. "Please excuse me, sire. There is trouble at the gate," said one of Jiro's samurai breathlessly. He knelt on the floor outside the room, his topknot askew. "Guards bearing the Imperial seal." 

Ayumi wasted no time. She grabbed Kimiko's sleeve in one hand, using the other to unsheathe her katana. Both women rose with more haste than grace. Heike Jiro lumbered to his feet. "Go. I will delay them as long as necessary." 

Kimiko reached over and snatched the tanto out of Ayumi's obi. She fancied the wooden hilt was still warm from the samurai's body heat. A roar from close by made her head snap up. There was the distinct ring of steel on steel. Old Fire Yam spat out a curse and kicked the kneeling retainer out of his way. 

A few slashes of her sword, and Ayumi tore through the wood-and-paper wall on the other side of the room. She leaped through the hole, dragging Kimiko with her. Kimiko had barely enough time to register several servants dressed in plain blue, cowering on the floor next to an altar, before they cut their way through to the kitchen. 

This may not have been the best route, Kimiko thought, gripping her knife. There were two soldiers here, their uniforms bearing the Imperial dragon mark on shoulders and back. The men were menacing Lady Wisteria, but their weapons had not been drawn. 

Ayumi released her sleeve, moving forward in a rush. One of the soldiers had time to whip out his katana and meet her sword in time to deflect a blow to the face. "I order you to submit to His Majesty's authority!" he shouted. Instead of obeying, she cut at him again, forcing him to scuttle backwards, away from Wisteria. 

The other soldier, who had glanced at Kimiko and dismissed her (an apparently weedy boy) as an opponent, got the shock of his life when she screamed shrilly and ran at him, tanto held professionally low. Simultaneously, Wisteria snatched an iron kettle from its nest of glowing charcoal and flung it at him. The kettle smashed into his nose and mouth with an ugly crunch, while boiling water drenched his chest. He reeled away, spitting blood and teeth. 

Kimiko followed, thrusting the knife between his ribs, but failed to reach his heart. He pulled out his sword, elbow striking her hard in the throat. Suddenly, she could not breathe. Gagging, eyes watering, she fell against Wisteria, her tanto still lodged in his flesh. 

Ayumi was watching from the corner of her eye. She blocked an inexpert cut, turned about on her heel, and hacked at the second soldier. The chisel tip of her katana slid through his arm, severing muscle and tendon, grating on bone, and emerging from the other side. She used the momentum to whirl around just as her opponent was aiming a slice at her head. 

Jodan no kamae... her sword went up and back, tip pointed towards the rear, leaving her exposed. This was a moment of mu shin - no mind, no intention. One does not wield the blade; steel chooses its own moment to strike. Time slowed. Ayumi focused on the soldier in front of her. She could see every detail of the man's face clearly. A mole on his cheek, the tuft of stray eyebrow on the bridge of his nose; yellowing teeth, big as funeral tablets, filling his wide open mouth.

Without her volition, her katana swept out in a glittering arc, arrested in mid-air, and darted downward towards his legs. The sword went deep into the inside of his thigh, ripped through, continuing its motion until it bit into his second thigh. There was a hissing sound. Ayumi yanked the katana away. The soldier's expression was puzzled, as if he could not grasp what had happened. His torn trousers were getting darker, wetter... the hissing turned into a loud splash as blood flooded out of severed arteries. He collapsed, splattering hot crimson fluid everwhere.

Meanwhile, Kimiko was still having difficulty catching her breath. She was on the floor, with Wisteria shielding her head, as the second soldier kicked them both, screaming imprecations. The oaths stopped abruptly when Ayumi hit him in the side of the neck with her clenched fist. He went down, skidding on the spreading pool of blood, and landed on the tanto. The soldier stiffened, clawed at his chest, and died.

Kimiko gasped, holding her throat. Ayumi knelt and pushed her hands away, feeling the injury carefully. If the larynx was dislocated... that happened sometimes, she'd seen it before... but it had to be treated immediately, or the victim's brain might be damaged. After a moment, the samurai sagged a little, relieved. "Bruised," she said. "Do not panic, my lady. That makes it worse. Try to breathe normally. Did you bite your tongue?" That could be a problem if it swelled.

Kimiko shook her head. Her mouth moved, but she was unable to make a sound.

"Hurry!" Wisteria said anxiously. "You must go now!"

Ayumi wiped her sword on the dead man's kimono before sliding it back into its sheathe. Then she hauled Kimiko to her feet. "Send me word, if you can. Jiro-san knows."

"Merciful Amida! Just go!"

Half-dragging, half-carrying her mistress, Ayumi fled. 

Later that evening, Ayumi sat in the inn, quietly drinking sake. The bunraku players were outside, betting on cockfights, along with a group of Imperial soldiers. Inside, a table full of merchants had gotten to the drunken stage where inhibitions disappeared. 

One of them wrapped a towel around his head, fluttered a fan, and minced around singing, "When I die, bury me beneath a sake barrel; with any luck, the cask will leak!" Another loudly extolled the talents at a local pleasure house. 

Kimiko came into the dining area, spotted Ayumi, and went to sit next to her. The samurai shifted over to give her room. Kimiko had a poultice wrapped around her throat. She made a noise and tried to smile. 

"Don't speak," Ayumi said. "You must allow your voice a chance to heal, unless you want to sound like a frog for the rest of your life." She signaled the waitress, who hurried over. "Rice soaked in green tea." Kimiko made another sound. Ayumi added, "With sweet bean jelly." 

As the waitress left, Ayumi asked, "How can you eat that?" She shuddered in disgust. 

Kimiko shrugged, but her smile grew wider. 

There was a brazier beneath the table. Kimiko warmed her hands over it while she waited. When her meal arrived, she scooped up the sloppy mixture with a ceramic spoon. It hurt to swallow, but she no longer felt so light-headed. Breathing was easier, too. 

"They could not have known we were there," Ayumi said finally. "If the Regent's men had come to Old Yam's house to arrest us, we would not be sitting here in peace while a dozen of them watch cockfights just outside." 

Kimiko nodded agreement. She opened her eyes very wide and raised her eyebrows. 

"I don't know why," Ayumi said, correctly interpreting her lady's expression, "but it has something to do with Saneyoshi." 

The waitress had returned to retrieve Kimiko's bowl. She inhaled sharply at this mention of the Regent's name. "Ma! You haven't heard then, your honor?" 

"Heard what?" Ayumi snapped. 

The answer made her turn white... as pale and colorless as the snow that was gently drifting down from a starless sky.

Chapter Ten - Dog Eats Dog

Katsura-no-miyo, the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees, in Heian-kyo
to the Chrysanthemum Road, between Seki and Kameyama (8th and 9th stations)
The Pearl Chamber, in the presence of the Regent
8 p.m., the first Hour of the Dog

Saneyoshi smoothed the sleeve of his simple green robe. "Welcome, my lady," he said, making a polite obeisance to the Dowager Empress. The thick white coating of court make-up on his face was perfectly applied, and the tonsure on his head was newly plucked. "I regret that our meeting has been so unfortunately delayed. Gomen nasai, but matters of state have kept me from enjoying your divine presence." 

Lady Hisame, mother of the child Emperor, acknowledged the Regent with a curt nod. She was dressed in elaborate, multi-layered junihitoe, in combinations of brown, gold and deep plum. A padded Chinese jacket kept her warm. Because of her high rank, she knelt on the dais facing him, instead of being forced to stay on the floor below.

When she spoke, her black pearl false teeth clicked together slightly, lending an odd background to her words. "Ah so desu ka? Is that so? You have not yet captured your niece," she stated bluntly, disregarding the formalities. She was angry that he had been putting her off with excuses, and did not scruple to reveal it. "Letting her escape was a serious blunder."

"The girl will be found," Saneyoshi-sama said, equally blunt. He dropped a pellet of incense into the nearby charcoal brazier. In a moment, the acrid scent of Fires-of-Fuji filled the room. He knew that she preferred sweeter, gentler fragrances. This was his way of showing subtle displeasure at her attitude.

Hisame was no fool. Instead of complaining, she inhaled deeply and showed every evidence of enjoyment. "Your taste in incense is impeccable, my lord. Alas, you do not show as much delicacy when it comes to traitorous members of your own family!"

"And is your family so auspicious?" the Regent countered, showing a trace of the rage that consumed him. He decided that naked antagonism was preferable to two-faced courtesies and hidden meanings. For once, all knives would be out in the open. "Iye! Do not think me ignorant of your schemes."

The Dowager Empress let her mask drop as well. "Baka!" she spat. "You have shown yourself so weak that you cannot control one girl child. And did you think that news of your dishonor would be greeted with acclaim? If you had to kill your brother, you did not go about it very cleverly. Masanori-san did not care for court, but he had friends among the daimyo. Ono Narahira is mustering his army as we speak. Or do you believe that he has returned to his fief in order to count the rice harvest?"

"That letter is a tissue of lies written by a deluded young woman. No man of reason believes me capable of such a vile thing. Furthermore, I will not sit here and be insulted by a harpy who rose to nobility on her back!"

"My son is the chosen of Heaven, divine ruler of the Floating World!" Hisame balled her hands into fists. "I will not sit still and watch his empire be destroyed by civil war!"

"There will be no war," Saneyoshi replied coldly. He sat up straight, his expression calm. "I have already taken steps to ensure that any treasonous actions will not go unpunished."

The Dowager was suddenly suspicious. "What have you done, and why have I not been consulted?"

"I am the designated protector of the Son of Heaven. It is not necessary to obtain your blessing on every decision." Saneyoshi made a gesture. One of his hired soldiers, a common bushi, came forward from the corner of the room. Lady Hisame was startled. She had thought they were alone in the Regent's private apartments.

The bushi crawl-walked to the dais, and kowtowed three times to his master. He ignored the Dowager's presence - an unpardonable breach of manners.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. A trickle of fear turned her spine to ice.

"I know you have been in contact with Narahira-san," Saneyoshi explained flatly. "I know you have been urging other daimyos to revolt against me. I know you plan to install a puppet Regent as soon as I am dead, and intend to take the reins of government yourself. The situation with my niece is just an excuse for rebellion."

Hisame bared her black pearl teeth in a hateful grimace. "The Fujiwara have oppressed the Empire for long enough! Once, you were law-givers who brought order to chaos, and helped unite the warring clans to build an empire. Your family was happy to serve the Mikado, and the only reward expected was the gratitude of a nation. How your honorable ancestors must weep to see their aims thus perverted!"

"Times change, and the wise man changes with them." His gaze was hard as stone. "Any move against the lawfully established government is considered treason."

"You do not dare!" The Dowager shivered in mingled fury and fright. "I am the mother of the Emperor!"

"High or low, the law must apply to all." Saneyoshi allowed a small smile to curve his lips. "For your own selfish reasons, you have plotted against me. This is nothing new, of course. Ordinarily, I would forgive you, because you are such a worthy opponent. I have greatly enjoyed the games we've played."

Hisame drew herself up proudly. She knew what was coming, and would not disgrace herself by begging for mercy. She thrust her hands into her sleeves to conceal their trembling.

Saneyoshi continued, "The empire is in crisis. I cannot permit anyone to openly defy me, not even you."

"Your problems will not be solved by my death," Hisame said. "Killing me will only encourage the daimyos to reject you. "

"Have you spoken to your co-conspirators recently? No? I thought not." Saneyoshi was almost purring in satisfaction. "The wives and offspring of all members of the daimyo class will be taken hostage by my orders. My edict has been publicly posted. Even now the women and children are being moved to Edo Castle, where they will be kept safe under the eyes of my personal retainers. Those who remain loyal to me have nothing to fear. But if a daimyo rebels, I will see to it that his family dies horribly."

"Disgusting! You will be vilified in the streets!"

"Ah, but at least I will keep the country from flying apart. You'll be given a fine funeral, and I will personally guide Emperor Kaika in his prayers for your soul." Saneyoshi nodded to the waiting bushi.

Hisame held herself quite still as the man came up behind her. He seized her hair, and let out an oath when the luxurious wig came off in his hands. Beneath it, her once black locks were thin and heavily peppered with gray. This final humiliation did not break the Dowager Empress. Instead, she raised her chin and stared defiantly at the Regent. "Fujiwara Saneyoshi, this deed will not go unpunished. I swear it, and call upon the gods to witness my oath!"

He made a face. "Do your duty, man!" the Regent barked.

The bushi drew a cord out of his kimono. Wrapping it several times around Hisame's throat, he put a knee in her back and pulled with all his strength. It was impious to spill a single drop of Imperial blood, so he was careful not to cut her neck. Her eyes bulged, her tongue protruded, but her fingers remained wrapped tightly around her wrists. Hisame did not try to fight or resist. In a few moments, the stench of releasing bowels and bladder overcame the strong incense fumes. Saneyoshi wrinkled his nose. The soldier kept up the pressure until he was certain that his victim was dead. 

"Take her body into the garden outside her quarters," the Kanpuko commanded. "Clean her, dress her in white robes, tie her legs together and cut her throat. Leave the dagger in her hand, to be sure it resembles a proper suicide."

The bushi bowed. "And afterward, my lord? Do I return here for my payment?"

Saneyoshi had promised the man five thousand gold koban in return for his services. The bushi did not know that a team of the Regent's samurai were waiting for him in the garden. There was no need to stage a suicide. They would kill him, and the story would be put about that Lady Hisame had been attacked and strangled by an unknown, insane assailant.

Such a terrible tragedy! the Regent thought, mentally rehearsing his reaction. It did not matter if anyone actually believed the story he'd concocted. As long as appearances were maintained, few would question where they might be overheard. 

"Hai," Saneyoshi replied aloud. "You do that. I will wait for your arrival."

When the Dowager's body was bundled up and carried away, he smiled widely, showing fashionably blackened teeth. The daimyo were under his thumb, Imperial forces were wiping out the ninja threat, and it would only be a short time before his niece was captured or killed. The scheming Dowager Empress was gone, leaving a child Emperor in his total control. At this moment, he was not just the Regent - he was the sole source of power in the Floating World.

Someone scratched the paper panes of the shoji-door, then it slid open a mere half-inch. "My lord," a servant said respectfully, "the daimyo are waiting for you in the Room of Lightning Dragons."

Saneyoshi grunted. It was time to inform the warlords that their throats were bared to his blade. 

He had a very busy evening ahead, but the Regent was well pleased at the way it had begun.

Ayumi plodded along, pausing only to shift the weight of the travel basket on her back. It was made heavier by the food she had purchased in Seki, just before parting company with Hikaru and his men.

Passing the checkpoint at dawn with the bunraku troop had been simple. The guards were barely glancing at travel permits. No one paid particular attention to them. Everyone was buzzing with the news that high-ranking prisoners were being taken to Edo. She had overheard that the old daimyo of Kameyama Castle had committed seppuku rather than surrender his family to the Regent's care. Ayumi suspected there would be many more protest suicides.

At least Old Yam and Aunt Wisteria escaped, she thought. The hastily written letter he'd sent to the inn last night was in her sleeve. Jiro-san had fled to the north, hoping to make contact with potential allies. And Old Lady Spider is dead. Ma! I'd have thought that Hell wouldn't have her. Emma-O is probably regretting her presence in his kingdom even now. I'll wager that Hisame's soul will be reborn very quickly.

A group of white-clad pilgrims passed them, making haste despite the steepness of the road. It led up to the Suzuka Mountain pass - a very difficult part of the journey - and there was a river to cross at the bottom. Ayumi hoped the ferries were still running. Getting across in winter would be nightmarish enough, and swimming was impossible. Although sweet Suzuku River water made excellent sake (not for nothing was it known as one of the 'Three Beautifuls'), it was a raging torrent even on the mildest spring days.

Kimiko tugged her sleeve. Ayumi turned her head and waited. At the lady's impatient signal, she stopped. After a second's hesitation, she pulled them both to one side of the road - it was common courtesy not to block the way for others.

An Imperial messenger thundered by on a horse, his brilliant costume of crimson and purple the only warning of his status. No one opposed his passage, on pain of death. The women turned their backs. Their straw cloaks were whipped by the wind of his passage. People scrambled to get out of the way before they were run down.

When the messenger had gone, Kimiko croaked, "Saneyoshi has gone too far."

Ayumi sighed. "Gomen nasai, my lady, but I'm just a common warrior. Your subtleties are beyond my simple brain's grasp. Could you please explain?" She stamped her feet against the cold and looked longingly up the path. In Kameyama, there would be an inn. Charcoal braziers, quilts, a bed, a hot tub. The prospect of a warm and naked Kimiko curled against her skin. She sighed again. More chamberpots. Why does life have to be so complicated?

"Do you not understand what this edict means?" Kimiko forced the words out through her bruised throat.

"The Regent has put a naked blade against the neck of every daimyo in the land." Ayumi scratched the side of her crooked nose, then continued bluntly, "Not only do they have to kiss his ass, they have to eat his shit, too. And loudly proclaim that it tastes of gold."

"He thinks he's won. He thinks they won't resist."

"Marriages are made for convenience and alliances, not for love, but no man wishes to risk the wrath of his in-laws by condeming his wife to torture. And heirs are not to be tossed on a dung heap, either. I don't see how the daimyos can resist."

Kimiko scrubbed her hands. Like Ayumi, she wore fingerless gloves made of ribbed cotton. "Some will spit in Saneyoshi's face. Others will bide their time. It doesn't matter. My uncle has signed his own death warrant." She blinked a snowflake out of her eye. "He has spared no one, not even his own supporters. And he's murdered the Dowager Empress - another mistake. Many nobles and warlords respected him only because he's the protector of the Mikado. Now the Emperor himself may not be safe."

"Perhaps you should speak plainly and to the point, my lady." Ayumi tried not to sound too impatient.

"Saneyoshi has alienated everyone, including his allies," Kimiko said. Her voice was improving slightly. "Our beloved Emperor is in the hands of a man who has murdered twice in underhanded fashion." She snorted. "No one will take the story of the 'madman in the garden' seriously. Everyone knows what really happened to Hisame. So... the moment Saneyoshi's threat is removed, he has no power over the daimyos. They will not respect him anymore. What will they do?"

Ayumi thought about this for a few minutes. "Yes, I see your point. It isn't wise to annoy powerful men with private armies. However... I think it is very possible that the daimyos will piss their strength away fighting amongst themselves. It's a good time to betray old enemies, pay back old grudges. All the Regent need do is pick his time and place, go in with Imperial troops, and mop up the survivors."

"I already know who will be Shogun." Kimiko gave the other woman an innocent smile.

"Shogun?" Ayumi's eyes bulged. "There hasn't been a supreme general in four hundred years!"

"I think you'll make a magnificent one," Kimiko said, patting the samurai's back. While Ayumi stared at her in horror, she continued, "All we have to do is go to Edo, break into the castle, and rescue the hostages. Surely this will convince the daimyos that you have Heaven's favor! They'll give you the title by popular acclaim, you'll lead their combined armies against Saneyoshi, and crush him like an insect." She beamed, very happy with her plan.

Ayumi didn't know where to start objecting first. "Edo Castle is the most heavily fortified fortress in Wa," she said finally. 

"We'll find a way around that," Kimiko replied.

"There will be hundreds of guards."

"I'm confident in our ability to handle them."

"I'm not a divine hero! Only a divine hero can be Shogun." Ayumi folded her arms across her chest.

"Heroism and divinity are a matter of interpretation. One need not claim ancestry with the gods." Kimiko mirrored her samurai's stubborn stance. "You only have to perform some deed impressive enough to convince the daimyos that you're supremely favored by Heaven. Rescuing hostages from Edo Castle sounds very impressive to me. Surely no ordinary mortal could do it."

"I am an ordinary mortal! I'm a common warrior, an efficient killer - nothing more."

"So was the first Shogun, Hosokaya. He wasn't of noble birth, yet he single-handedly defeated a hundred Karan soldiers at the Battle of Reed Moor. It was Hosokaya's bravery that turned the tide at Cloud Bridge, when most of the generals had been killed. He rallied the soldiers, turned defeat into victory when all had nearly been lost."

"Hosokaya didn't have to storm a fortified fortress with an army of one," Ayumi retorted. She knew history just as well as her mistress. "Nor did Fukuguchi, Takata, or Ushima," she said, naming the other three supreme generals.

"Are you afraid?" Kimiko asked coyly.

"Of course not! If you order it, my lady, I will attack Edo Castle with my bare hands." Ayumi set her jaw.

"I don't think that will be necessary. Remember, my clan's hereditary fief contains Edo. The castle was built by my great-great-great grandfather."

"With the help of oni devils he defeated in combat. The walls are supernaturally strong. The hallways contain traps. The moat is said to contain monsters that devour the uninvited."

"There is a bridge."

"There are also spikes where traitor's heads are displayed."

Kimiko set her jaw, too. "Ichijo Ayumi, I order you to rescue the hostages from Edo Castle!"

"Hai, my lady." Ayumi bowed low in assent, a hand resting on the hilt of her sword.

"What? No further argument?" Kimiko peered at her suspiciously.

"My mistress has commanded, therefore it will be done," Ayumi said with a perfectly neutral expression.

Kimiko was not sure if the samurai was secretly laughing at her or not. "So we will go to Edo as planned. To the Castle. And rescue the hostages."

"That was your desire." Ayumi stamped her feet again, knocking snow off her sandals. "Shall we continue on our way? Regrettably, we will have to walk to Edo, as I doubt Edo will come to us."

"Now you're mocking me." When Ayumi did not reply, Kimiko continued, "There are stories, legends passed down through the Fujiwara family. There is supposed to be a secret exit in the castle, from the lord's chamber to a place beyond the city walls. It was used in time of siege, in case the daimyo had to be smuggled out to safety."

"You know where this is?"

"Not exactly," Kimiko admitted reluctantly. She rallied. "But I'm sure we can find it!"

Ayumi had serious doubts about her mistress' plan. It sounded like something out of a romance, one of the cheaply printed books that idle noblewomen amused themselves with. However, in the short time she had known Kimiko - and grown to love her - they had been involved in a number of situations that seemed impossible to survive. Against the odds, they had.

Vengeful ghosts, demons, monsters, a jealous spirit, deadly machinations of the Imperial court and the Regent... Kimiko-san has the gods' own luck, she decided. Evil fortune sticks to her like dog shit on a geta, but good fortune washes bad away again.

"What are you thinking, 'Yumi-san?" Kimiko asked.

"If we live, we live. If we die, we die. Shigata ga nai."

Kimiko nodded. "Shigata ga nai." She glanced towards the sky. "More snow coming."

"Then we had better continue." Ayumi settled the travel basket on her shoulders, preparing to step back onto the road.

The younger woman stopped her with a hand on her sleeve. "I still love you."

Ayumi looked deep into Kimiko's eyes. "Success, defeat, life, death... these things do not matter. Our love exists now. Live in the moment, 'Miko-san. That is all we can do." She brushed her thumb across Kimiko's lips, then turned and walked away.

Kimiko blinked back another snowflake - or was it a tear? - and hastened to join her samurai.

Epilogue - Criminal Duty

The Chrysanthemum Road, Miya (14th station) 

"Forgive me for disturbing you, sire." The man kowtowed, knocking his forehead against the floor. "I have a message from Lady Cat."

Oishi, oyabun of oyabun, supreme leader of the criminal bakuto throughout Wa, said nothing. Sitting in the humid warmth of the bathhouse, he was nude, his exposed skin made colorful by the wealth of tattoos that covered him from neck to knees. Scarred hands rested on thighs illustrated with scrolling waves and demon faces.

The messenger kept his face pressed to the damp wooden planks. "Lady Cat sends word that the Dowager Empress is dead. Saneyoshi-sama has issued an edict, forcing all daimyos to surrender their families as hostages. They are being taken to Edo Castle." He waited, nearly trembling. The oyabun was not a man to be taken lightly. His ascension to the top leadership was the stuff of nightmares, even among the ultra-violent bakuto.

"And the Fujiwara girl?" Oishi's voice was deep, resonant.

"There has been no new information since her disappearance from Hanamachi. However..." he paused, swallowing.

Oishi made an impatient gesture. The messenger continued, "The minor daimyo, Heike Jiro, has fled to the north. It is said that several Imperial guards were killed by a samurai and his apprentice, but neither were in Jiro-san's employ."

"A ronin, perhaps, and his young lover."

"Iye, sire. The samurai was recognized by one of our people, a cook in the Heike household. It was Ichijo Ayumi."

The effect of these words on Oishi was electric. He leaned forward, staring intently. "Is this certain?"

"The cook is a loyal member of the Three Peony faction. She has worked for the Heike for years, but before that, she was a peasant on land owned by the Ichijos. She is familiar with the family. Gomen nasai, sire, but it is well known that Heike and Ichijo are related. Jiro-san is married to Ayumi-san's aunt."

Oishi nodded, drawing back. He understood the connection, and its possible significance. Ever since Fujiwara no Kimiko had lodged her accusing letter at Ise Shrine, the Floating World was in an upheaval. Rebellion was in the air. The girl and her retainer were being sought as traitors. Why shouldn't a samurai seek aid from her relatives? "And the apprentice?"

"Unknown, sire."

"Yet where a female samurai goes, is her mistress not close behind?" Oishi closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. The bathhouse smelled of white sandalwood. That had been Lord Masanori's favorite scent. He could see still Masanori in his mind's eye, mouth blackened and burned by ninja poison, his tall eboshi hat askew. He had smoothed the lord's tangled robes to order, giving Masanori back the dignity that death had taken away. I failed him. Now I dwell in Hell.

Oishi's eyes snapped open. "Send for Moonhawk and her sisters."

The messenger crawled away.

Time passed. The sun slowly sank behind the horizon. A servant entered to light oil lamps. Another brought sake and food. Oishi sat silently, patiently, until a shadow fell across his face.

"You sent for me, sire?" The female voice came from a corner of the room. Oishi had neither seen nor heard anyone enter. Ninja were famous for their ability to go where others could not.

"Moonhawk, you are to locate Ichijo Ayumi. She may be traveling disguised as a man. She will have a boy with her. The full resources of your Shadow-Wheel clan are needed. Use whatever means necessary to find them," Oishi said without turning his head.

"And then? A removal, perhaps?" This was a different woman's voice - highly sensual, the tones ripe and thrilling.

"Detain them." Oishi felt no inclination to glance over his shoulder. He had seen Moonhawk and her two sisters when they were not veiled by shadow. "Alert me at once when they've been captured. I will question them personally, so be sure they live long enough to answer." 

A third voice, chirping childishly: "The payment?"

Oishi grunted. "Our usual agreement."

The barest waft of breeze against his cheek indicated that the Ninjas were gone.

He whispered to himself, "A rock hinders and splits the stream
But the flow always joins again;
You and I will meet once more
Just like the waters of the stream."

Oishi got up, addressing a shrine in the corner. "Forgive me, master," he said. A funeral tablet and a bronze urn had incense burning before them. "Your daughter was ignorant of your true ending. That was to keep her safe. Now it seems little Kimiko-san is getting in the way of our revenge."

He bowed. "I will kill her gently, painlessly, with my own hands. It is my duty. I will not fail you again."

Incense smoke drifted up, mingling with steam. 

Here ends the first Tale of Giri. The story will continue in the next Tale of Giri: Kayouki - Madness

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NUKEKUBI: FLOATING HEADS
by Nene Adams © 2004 - All rights reserved
(Written for the Academy of Bards Halloween Invitational 2004)

Fujiwara no Kimiko sighed, sat down on a large flat rock that stood on the side of the road, and kicked off her woven-straw sandals. The zori were looking distinctly battered, as were her feet. She sighed again, remembering a time when her maid had daily rubbed scented oils into her flesh to keep her skin soft and white and sweet-smelling. Kimiko had not had calluses when she lived in the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees. It was astonishing how quickly one’s complexion and the quality of one’s skin deteriorated when one traveled rough on the Chrysanthemum Road.

As for her hair... it was better not to contemplate that horror too closely. The whole glorious blue-black length of her hair had been chopped off, leaving her with just enough to pull up to the crown of her head and secure with a paper ribbon in a young man’s ‘tea whisk’ style topknot. She was disguised as a boy, after all. Kimiko had not thought herself a vain woman but sometimes, it was difficult not to contrast her former graceful and fashionable appearance with her current incarnation as a samurai’s apprentice.

She had actually had to let her eyebrows grow out!

She sighed a third time when her ‘master’ – actually her sworn retainer and the love that made her liver squirm deliciously – hove into view. The squat, muscular woman’s sandals slapped rhythmically against the surface of the road. Ichijo Ayumi walked with the typical bow-legged, rooster-on-a-dungheap strut of a samurai, one hand on the hilt of the katana that was thrust through her sash. The longsword was balanced by the scabbard of the shorter wakizashi blade on the other side; both weapons constituted a samurai’s daisho, worn only by the martial caste of the island nation of Wa. Ayumi’s black hair was slightly longer than Kimiko’s but she also wore it pulled into a topknot.

Like Kimiko, Ayumi was dressed in a plain blue cotton kimono and hakama trousers, the utilitarian garments enlivened only by a red-and-orange checked obi that was tied around the middle. The large cloth bundle of a furoshiki - which contained their supplies - was fastened to a bamboo frame and strapped to her back. Kimiko had a similar furoshiki, but her burden was much lighter in consideration of her more delicate build.

Kimiko pulled off her straw hat. It was the end of autumn in the Floating World; there was a certain crispness in the air that foretold frost to come. Her stomach growled. Kimiko’s thoughts were drawn away from her aching feet and onto ‘hot tub vegetables’ – chunks of radish steamed in miso soup – and filled dumplings and soba noodles and all manner of good things to eat. Ayumi stopped beside the rock and looked down at her with a faint smile. Kimiko’s mind skipped from one appetite to another.

The samurai’s crooked nose – the result of one too many breakages – actually made Ayumi more handsome in Kimiko’s eyes. She looks as if an ox stepped on her face, but I think of her as divinely beautiful. Kimiko fanned herself with her hat and glanced side-long at her companion, who was now frowning and squinting at a distant figure toiling up the road.

Ayumi was not tall but she was broad and very strong, and incredibly skilled in combat. Kimiko’s gaze roamed over the samurai’s form and her mouth watered almost as much as her virgin yoni, even though they had not yet pillowed. The two fugitives slept huddled together in whatever shelter could be contrived. Ayumi did not like to stay in inns if it could be helped; the Regent’s agents were still actively searching for the renegade samurai and the Kanpuko’s runaway niece. If they were caught, a swift beheading would be a merciful end, but that fate was not likely given the Regent’s desire for vengeance. He would make them suffer first.

During a night in Ayumi’s arms, her young body desperate and throbbing for completion, Kimiko would not have cared if her uncle and the Rainbow Buddha himself, accompanied by a fleet of dragons and all the nightsoil of Heaven, came crashing down on her head, so long as Ayumi’s hand would just wander there and rub there and a little harder there and oh, oh, oh! But the samurai was infuriatingly reasonable and refused to do more than lightly massage stressed muscles at the end of the day. Kimiko wanted more – to be precise, she wanted to share the exquisite moment of Clouds and Rain with Ayumi – and she was determined not to allow her samurai to delay much longer.

The first night we spend under a roof, Kimiko thought, absently watching the figure in the distance as it moved closer, I will seduce ‘Yumi-san and we will play with each other’s jade gates until we burst! She could imagine Ayumi writhing under her ministrations, reduced to panting moans and guttural instructions forced through a throat that was too tight with desire. In the darkness, she would be blind and forced to learn her lover’s body by touch. Kimiko imagined her fingers gliding along the samurai’s flesh, investigating each slightly raised scar, feeling the contrast between silken skin and the hard muscle beneath. She sucked in a breath, her body tingling with anticipation, her mind-of-its-own swelling with a wet heat that itched most pleasurably.

It was regrettable that the next village was so many ri away! She and Ayumi would be spending the night outside… again. Kimiko knew she could count on no more closeness than to be allowed to leech some of the samurai’s heat when they lay together on a pine-branch bed. Her lower lip thrust out in a pout, Kimiko slapped her hat back on her head and stood up. Although one could not help the machinations of fate – no mortal was proof against unmei – it did seem unfair that she had to wait so long to consummate her love.

“Shigata ga nai,” Ayumi murmured, reaching out her free hand and rubbing Kimiko’s shoulder. It appeared the samurai had read her mind, or at least, understood the cause of her frustration. “It cannot be helped, Kimiko-san. You know that my affection for you is unchanged, but I refuse to pillow you hastily on the side of the Chrysanthemum Road as though we were unfeeling animals. You deserve better, which is why we wait.”

Kimiko shrugged and echoed, “Shigata ga nai.” What else could she do but bide her time? Sleeve touches sleeve as it is meant to, nothing more. The nightingale-joy of merging her body and soul with Ayumi’s would come soon enough. She was simply suffering the impatience of youth.

Ayumi gave her a last caress, then the samurai’s posture stiffened. The figure was now close enough for them to see that it was a woman tottering along on high wooden geta. The stranger’s indigo and lavender kimonos were good quality, although a highly-ranked female would have never taken a step outside her home without being accompanied by retainers.

As the woman approached, Ayumi drew her katana half out of its scabbard and called loudly, “Moshi-moshi!” This was the traditional greeting exchanged between travelers, since it was well-known that hungry ghosts, while they could assume the physical aspects of a living human, could not pronounced the syllables ‘mo’ and ‘shi.’

“Moshi-moshi!” the woman trilled in return. She proved to be middle-aged and handsome rather than pretty, although in the interests of fashion her eyebrows had been shaved off and replaced by smudges of ash high on her forehead. The woman bowed low to Ayumi and said, “Noble sir, you have been sent by the gods!”

Kimiko was used to being ignored by the people they met; as a mere samurai’s apprentice, she was not important enough to notice. It suited her well on most occasions, since she could fade into the background and observe, watching for suspicious behavior. The Regent’s spies were everywhere, and some of them were very clever.

“What do you mean?” Ayumi asked, sheathing her katana. Her manner was gruff but that was to be expected from a samurai, even though her low rank could be surmised by the plain kimono and her lack of a proper tonsure.

“I am a widow named Tomoko,” the woman said, hiding the lower half of her face behind her raised sleeve, as if she was a coy maiden. The flirtatiousness of the gesture was blatant, as was the way she half-turned and hitched at the collar of her kimono, to show the nape of her neck – a woman’s most erogenous part.

“My house lies not far from here,” Tomoko continued, “where I live with my aging mother and my daughter. Since my husband died, we’ve fallen on hard times. Our servants ran away and I have no one to protect me from bandits when I go out to gather roots from the forest. I’m so afraid of being robbed or worse! Oh, how I have prayed that the gods would send a strong, handsome man like you to escort me home!”

Kimiko resisted the impulse to sneer as scornfully as possible. Could Tomoko be any more obvious? The woman’s story was almost as much of a cliché as the ancient, hoary joke about the rice farmer, his three beautiful daughters, and the traveling Buddhist monk. Ma!

To her surprise, Ayumi actually appeared to consider Tomoko’s suggestion. She certainly seemed to be admiring the shaved and powdered nape of the woman’s neck. Kimiko’s hackles rose. For the purposes of her disguise, she was not armed with a katana like a proper, fully trained samurai would be; an apprentice had to earn the right to wear daisho. She did, however, have a tanto knife up her sleeve. The blade was long enough to pierce Tomoko’s thieving heart if she slid it in between those particular ribs, just so…

“We would be honored to escort you home, Tomoko-san,” Ayumi said, and Kimiko gave a moment’s sincere consideration to the notion of stabbing the woman she loved instead. Not fatally, of course; a small painful wound that would prevent Ayumi from doing stupid, thoughtless things like panting after the widow like a dog in heat.

Kimiko trudged after Ayumi and Tomoko, thinking very dark thoughts.

Tomoko’s house was set a little ways off the road, in the midst of a persimmon orchard. A gnarled wisteria tree grew beside the entrance, shading the veranda. Standing at the bottom of the steps were two more women – one older, with silver streaks in her hair (obviously the mother), and a young girl whose hair was styled in the girlish shimada-seventeen style.

“Welcome home, Tomoko-san!” said the older woman, bowing. Her kimonos were plum and orange and pink – an odd combination that somehow managed not to clash. In spite of her age, the woman’s hands were plump and white, with only a few liver spots to betray her years, and her face was hardly lined.

The girl echoed her grandmother’s greeting, adding, “Mother! You’ve brought visitors!” Her cherry-red and pale green robes swirled as she clapped her hands together once in excitement before remembering her manners and blushing prettily.

“This handsome gentleman is Azuma-san,” Tomoko said, using Ayumi’s pseudonym. She did not introduce Kimiko. “Azuma-san, this is my mother, Satomi, and my daughter, Hanabi.”

Ayumi made the short, shallow bow that politeness demanded. The women encircled the samurai, chattering like magpies, admiring Ayumi’s thick-set muscular body and bowed legs, paying extravagant compliments, and generally behaving like three mid-ranked whores whose easily flattered customer had a fat wallet and no head for cash.

Kimiko fumed silently. Had Tomoko put a hand down Ayumi’s trousers to squeeze the samurai’s supposed peerless part (hah!), she would not have been surprised. She felt that white smoke ought to be puffing out of her ears, thick as the clouds of steam generated by a salt kiln. Kimiko would have liked to put her sandaled foot to Ayumi’s backside for nodding and smiling in the face of the women’s false-faced pleasantry. Failing that, she would like to consign Tomoko, her mother and her daughter to the Hell of the Upside-Down Dung Eaters.

Turtle-head! Kisama! Baseborn devourer of dirty eels!

A drop of water falling on her head distracted Kimiko from her inner diatribe. She glanced up; fat iron-grey clouds were boiling in the sky. A chill wind had sprung from nowhere. Gooseflesh rose on her arms and pebbled the flesh of her breasts, making her nipples spring painfully erect. Kimiko shivered, more in fear of a soaking then actual cold.

Nevertheless, Ayumi must have noticed because she said, “My apprentice and I would be grateful if you would consent to shelter us for the night, Tomoko-san.”

Tomoko simpered. “Oh, of course, Azuma-san! We would be honored.”

“Yes, we’re greatly honored to have such a handsome, strong samurai as our guest!” piped up old Satomi, rubbing her plump white hands together.

Hanabi bowed, seemingly too choked by glad emotion to articulate her gratitude.

Kimiko thought the entire situation stank like a bonze breaking wind in a shrine but she was determined to follow Ayumi’s lead… or at least, she would keep her objections to herself unless it seemed that they were in danger of more than a crude seduction attempt. Ayumi was directed inside the house and Kimiko followed on her samurai’s heels.

The place was very dusty; the hems of the women’s kimonos had swept trails through the dirt that had accumulated on the wooden floorboards. Most of the paper-paned shoji-doors and screens were broken. Wind whistled through cracks in the outer walls. Tomoko showed them to a room that was miraculously clean, the screens intact.

The widow and her daughter fetched a futon and a brazier filled with charcoal, which Ayumi lit with flint and steel so she and Kimiko could warm their fingers and toes. After a few moments, Satomi came in with a big bowl of autumn rice with shiitake mushrooms, chestnuts, sweet potatoes and radish sprouts, sprinkled with sesame seeds; also a dish of sansai – hot udon noodles cooked with spinach, mountain bracken and bamboo shoots – and a pot of steaming green tea. Hanabi followed her grandmother with a plate of crunchy tempura crusts and bowls of pickled vegetables.

Kimiko might have hated their hostesses with every fiber of her being, but she was young and her appetite was keen. She dug into the food eagerly, savoring every bite. Ayumi was more circumspect but she, too, enjoyed the meal; Kimiko could tell by the slight crinkling at the corners of the samurai’s eyes that betokened good humor.

A discreet rustling outside the door could have been mice but Kimiko would have wagered that it was the trio of women spying on them. She cast her eyes over the shoji-door and found three little holes in three paper panes. Kimiko was so intent on not-watching the watching women (yet keeping those holes in the shoji within her peripheral vision) that she almost jumped out of her skin when Ayumi cleared her throat.

“Unroll the futon,” Ayumi said in her curt samurai’s voice-of-command that the lowly apprentice had better obey, “and get ready for bed.” She punctuated these orders by pouring herself the last cup of tea and drinking it in a single long gulp.

Kimiko played the part of the meek, obedient boy apprentice, understanding that Ayumi also knew they were being watched by their hostesses. She shook out the futon – wrinkling her nose at the musty smell – and dug into her furoshiki to find a couple of lengths of cloth that were normally used to cover their pine-branch or haystack beds. These she put over the futon, tucking the ends under, then lit an aloeswood incense stick to help drive away the damp odor that permeated the room. When she was done, Kimiko unbound her cropped hair; the ends still curled slightly upward, as if astonished to be free of their former weight. From Ayumi’s pack, she took out two extra-thick quilted cotton kimonos for them to use as blankets, and pulled the brazier closer to the futon.

“Master,” she said, bowing to Ayumi, “will you come to bed?”

Ayumi stuck her feet out; Kimiko pulled off the woman’s split-toed tabi socks. Once the samurai was settled in their cozy nest, she joined Ayumi under the kimonos. The room was illuminated by a single clay oil lamp, which she left burning in the corner. The only sounds that penetrated the oppressive silence were the faint rustling noises still coming from the corridor and Ayumi’s breath, hot against the back of her neck. Kimiko squirmed as puffs of air tickled her ear.

“Tomoko and her family are listening and watching,” Ayumi said, her voice barely audible, “waiting for us to go to sleep.”

Were the women robbers who murdered their sleeping victims? It was a possibility; in these troubled times, when daimyos were declaring their independence from the Kanpuko’s corrupt government and civil war threatened on the horizon, lawlessness became the rule rather than the exception. Kimiko grunted an acknowledgement; the grunt turned into a squeak when Ayumi’s hand fastened over her breast.

“Would you like to give them something to watch and listen to, Kimiko-san?” Ayumi breathed in her ear. The samurai’s body seemed to radiate heat. Kimiko began to sweat.

“Here? Now?” she asked, still squeaking in the most humiliating fashion.

“Here,” Ayumi answered, her tongue tracing the shell of Kimiko’s ear. “Now.”

Kimiko let out a strangled moan. She flipped herself over in a single convulsive movement; now she and Ayumi were face to face. “Why?” Kimiko asked. She immediately regretted the question, since the samurai stopped touching her.

“Because I love you,” Ayumi said after a long pause. Her voice was soft; her eyes were filled with affection and a burning spark of desire.

“And also because Tomoko would expect a virile samurai to play the peach-splitting game with his apprentice,” Kimiko replied, just as softly. “I wonder why Tomoko-san didn’t offer to pillow with you herself, since she made such a great effort to bring you within her walls.” A smile took the sting out of her words.

“Are you jealous?” Ayumi sounded amused. Her hand touched Kimiko’s cheek and slid upward to pass over her forehead. “I don’t feel any horns.”

Kimiko pressed her body against Ayumi’s and fumbled at the knot on the other woman’s obi. “Perhaps you should look elsewhere,” she husked.

Ayumi’s hands glided back down Kimiko’s cheeks and were followed by a hot wet tongue swiping along her collarbone, and teeth nibbling the tendon of her neck. Kimiko arched into the caress, whimpering deep in her throat. There was a sweet, sweet ache centered between her thighs, and a heaviness in her belly that, perversely, made her feel lighter than air, as though her bones were hollow as a bird’s and she might take flight if not tethered by the strength of Ayumi’s arms.

Kimiko became aware that Ayumi was speaking but the words made no sense. She shook her head. The scents of female musk and sweat rose from the space between their bodies. Kimiko could taste the bittersweet flavors mingled faintly on her tongue.

“Turn over,” Ayumi said, nipping her earlobe; the sharp pain penetrated the sensuous fog and made her pulse flutter in excitement.

Turn over? Kimiko did not understand but she did as she was told, lying on her belly with her head propped on her folded arms. Ayumi nudged at her thighs until she spread them wide apart, still bemused. This was nothing like the positions she had seen illustrated in a pillow-book for one to adopt with one’s female lover. It was more like…

Oh!

Ayumi settled between her spread thighs, careful to keep the extra kimonos over their lower bodies to camouflage their true actions from the spies. Kimiko closed her eyes; her heart was beating so rapidly, she actually felt more dizzy and sick than lustful. Her stomach – treacherous organ! – turned cold and hollow when Ayumi undid the ties of her hakama and lowered the back part, exposing her buttocks. One of the samurai’s hands burrowed beneath her body, sliding under the waistband in the front of her trousers to press hard against her aching jade gate and the coral pearl that lay within.

Kimiko bit back a gasp and rocked her hips a little, rubbing her slick, tender flesh against the almost unbearably rough sword-calluses on Ayumi’s palm. Pleasure spiked with a sensation that was close to pain flared through her and became a steady throbbing heat. Panting, she braced her knees and ground her yoni down into Ayumi’s hand. The samurai grunted, her weight pressing Kimiko into the futon and giving her almost no room to move.

Ayumi began thrusting her pelvis against Kimiko’s buttocks to simulate sex; the sensation forced the younger woman to slide back and forth over samurai’s hand. She spread her legs further apart and tried to meet the rhythm of Ayumi’s thrusts. It was maddening, it was terrifying, it was wonderful and what did the poets know of love, anyway? They spoke of touching sleeves and elegant assignations in the moonlight, not this. Not this meeting of sweaty skin and raw sensation; not this place where she hovered, transfixed on a cresting wave of pleasure that grew and grew and grew until she frantically worked her hips and chewed her bottom lip ragged to keep from screaming.

At last, Heaven was merciful and granted her release. The wave came crashing down into the place of Clouds and Rain, carrying Kimiko with it; her limbs trembled and shook, the futon muffled her cries. She was distantly aware that Ayumi was biting and licking the back of her neck. An aftershock coursed through her veins and she let out a weak moan. A heartbeat later, Ayumi’s roar of false completion rang through the air. Kimiko could only lay quiescent, soaked and exhausted, while Ayumi used a paper handkerchief to gently wipe clean the evidence of Kimiko’s climax.

The samurai re-tied their hakama and arranged Kimiko’s limp body so that she was laying on her side. Ayumi spooned up behind her and smoothed strands of hair away from Kimiko’s sweaty face. “Well?” she asked.

There was the tiniest hint of gloating in Ayumi’s voice but Kimiko could not find the strength to take umbrage. Instead, she let the silence grow between them until the samurai had begun to shift in discomfort, then Kimiko whispered breathlessly, “Adequate, I suppose.”

She did not have to see Ayumi’s face to know that outrage had replaced the imagined smirk. Kimiko giggled and snuggled back against the other woman. Joy bubbled in her bloodstream until she felt quite giddy.

Ayumi’s hand stole over her mouth. The samurai whispered, “Pretend to sleep, ‘Miko-chan.”

Kimiko nodded and closed her eyes, relaxing bonelessly against the bulwark of Ayumi’s body. She was not sure how much time had passed – she was not even sure that she had not actually fallen asleep, since pillowing left her surprisingly drained and inclined to drift – but she stiffened when she heard voices in the corridor. It was Tomoko, Satomi and Hanabi.

“You may have the boy,” Tomoko was saying.

Hanabi’s answer came in a carrying whisper, “Why must I have the boy? I want the samurai!”

“The samurai belongs to the elders of this clan,” Satomi said. “Don’t sulk; you’ll ruin your pretty face. The boy is young; his blood will be sweet.”

“But his spirit has not yet ripened into manhood,” Hanabi said with the suggestion of a pout in her voice. “His blood is not mature.”

“Considering the way that Azuma-san was praying at the boy’s inner sanctum, I’d say he was mature enough,” Satomi cackled.

“His chrysanthemum seat was well used tonight,” Tomoko added. “Come, clan-sisters. It is almost time. Let us prepare to take our prey.”

When the sound of the women’s departure died away, Ayumi prodded Kimiko’s shoulder, silently urging her to roll over. When they were nose-to-nose, the samurai said, “Those women are nukekubi. I saw the mark on Tomoko’s neck.”

Kimiko came close to swallowing her own tongue in shock. Her pulse began to pound in apprehension. Nukenubi were monsters who had the ability to bloodlessly detach their heads from the rest of their bodies. They looked like ordinary mortals, except for a thin red line of glyphs at the base of the neck. At night, the floating heads flew through the air in search of victims, whose blood they drained. Their bodies remained inanimate, which was the nukekubi’s sole vulnerability. If the body was destroyed, or if for some reason the head could not reunite with the rest of its flesh by dawn, the monster would die.

Ayumi stretched her arm and pinched out the oil lamp’s flaming wick, plunging them into suffocating darkness.

“You must find the bodies,” Ayumi said, pushing the clay lamp into her hands. “Douse them with oil and set them alight. I will deal with the heads.”

“I don’t… I don’t want to leave you,” Kimiko replied, trying to hide her unhappiness and failing miserably. Nevertheless, she rose to her knees and checked to be sure her tanto knife was still in her sleeve. The velvety darkness seemed to press on her at all sides. Her heart was in her throat. The sound of her own breathing seemed inordinately loud.

“I trust you, ‘Miko-chan,” Ayumi said, bestowing a nuzzle to the side of her neck. Kimiko realized, somewhat dizzily, that when the samurai gave full reign to her affections, she did not do so in half-measures. “Besides, I don’t intend to end my cherry-blossom days in a monster’s belly, and neither do you.” Her voice lowered to a rich, deep tone that Kimiko had never heard before, and which turned her knees to water. “When the nukekubi are dead…”

Ayumi did not have time to finish the sentence. Alerted by her well-honed warrior’s instinct, she leaped from the futon, katana arching from its scabbard. Kimiko was knocked over by the passing samurai; her hands scrabbled on the tatami mats, searching for the dopped lamp before all the oil was spilled. She found the clay vessel and staggered up. On her right, she heard a meaty thwack which she interpreted as Ayumi’s sword finding a target; from the noise, she would guess that the samurai had batted one of the floating heads out of the air.

Kimiko left the room by the simple expedient of crashing directly through the shoji-screen that served as a wall, and found herself in the corridor. A lit lamp at the end of the hall provided subtle illumination. She made for the light, her tabi-clad feet slipping on the dusty floorboards. A hiss from behind made Kimiko glance over her shoulder; she saw Hanabi’s disembodied head floating in mid-air, the glossy length of her black hair swirling as though stirred by a spectral wind. Upon spotting her, Hanabi hissed again, showing teeth like ivory needles, and flew towards her.

As far as she knew, nukekubi heads were virtually indestructible; only prayer could forestall an attack and not for very long. Kimiko began reciting the Thousand Hand sutra as she raced towards the end of the corridor. Hanabi shrieked, the shrill sound piercing Kimiko’s brain as though an ice-cutter’s pick had been thrust into her ear. She continued gasping the sutra, however, and kept moving through the pain. If she hesitated, Kimiko knew she would die.

She slid the last arms-length to the flaming lamp, lit the wick of her own, turned and hurled the blazing vessel at Hanabi’s floating head. The body of the lamp shattered on impact, dousing the nukekubi in oily flames. Hanabi’s shriek became a thin whine of agony and rage. Not waiting to witness the outcome of her attack, Kimiko snatched the other lamp from its stand and ran into the room on the left side of the corridor, staggering through the shoji-screen wall.

In this room she found some human skeletons piled into the corner, the bones rat-gnawed and yellowed with age. Fighting through thick dusty cobwebs, Kimiko burst into the next room, which was empty except for a broken loom. She heard someone coming behind her and slid the tanto knife out of her sleeve, holding it with the hilt in her fist and the blade flat against her forearm. Whirling about on her heel, Kimiko prepared to strike and was barely able to check the blow when she recognized Ayumi.

The samurai’s face was dappled with crimson flecks of blood. “Please move your peerless ass, ‘Miko-chan!” Ayumi ordered, pointing the chisel tip of her katana at the wall. Kimiko obeyed, going shoulder-first through the shoji and landing on her feet in a hail of torn paper and shattered bits of wood.

She glanced around the room, noting a lack of human remains, although she did see a few rats scurrying along the edges of the ragged tatami. Satomi’s head flew through the large hole in the screen, silver-streaked hair flowing behind her with the speed of her passage. Tomoko was right behind her nukekubi clan-sister, a pair of curved fangs jutting from her bottom jaw. The fire-blackened head of Hanabi floated in last, one eye baked in its socket to an unwholesome pale jelly and the other glaring balefully.

Ayumi took a stance, legs apart for balance, her katana held in one hand with the tip pointed towards the nukekubi. To Kimiko, she said, “Go on. I’ll hold them here.”

Kimiko desperately wanted to stay at Ayumi’s side and fight the monsters together. What if I never see you again? she screamed in the silence of her mind. What if you die and leave me alone? Unshed tears burned; she shook her head to banish this sign of weakness and put on a tougher countenance. Kimiko knew that if she chose to remain, Ayumi could not stop her. They might be lovers, but the samurai was also her retainer, sworn to obey her commands.

To her astonishment, Ayumi winked at her and said, “What keeps you, boy? Or do you linger for another taste of my devil’s eye horn?”

Somehow, that impish wink made Kimiko feel faint with relief. Unless the gods chose to start hurling more ill-luck from Heaven – and accepting the hospitality of a trio of blood-sucking monsters already qualified as a divine turd of the lowest quality - they might just live to love another day. She grinned at Ayumi and jumped through the open window onto the veranda before the hungry floating heads could rally for another attack.

Once outside, Kimiko made for the persimmon grove, reckoning that the trees would provide an excellent hiding place for the nukekubi’s vulnerable bodies. She risked a glance back at the house. The flying heads were darting around Ayumi, the clash of their teeth blood-chillingly audible.

The samurai’s expression was blank; she had clearly entered mu shin, no mind – a trance-like state in which the conscious mind was set aside to allow her warrior’s training full reign. The katana went back then swept forward, chopping at Tomoko and drawing blood before arching around in a glittering circle to spear Hanabi with the tip. The nukekubi’s faces were becoming less human, more oni-like, their hellish origins evident in the horns the heads were sprouting. Their skin turned a sullen scarlet, and their screams were horrifying.

As Kimiko watched, Satomi’s head, now fully transformed into an ugly devil’s mask, flew at Ayumi with such speed, the samurai could not fully guard against the strike. Satomi fastened her teeth into Ayumi’s kimono sleeve. Despite the samurai beating the nukekubi with her sword hilt, Satomi would not let go. Realizing they had little time left, Kimiko ran into the persimmon grove, lighting her way with the oil lamp she had taken from the corridor. Her last sight of Ayumi sent chills down her spine and froze her liver with terror – Satomi was chewing her way through the cotton sleeve, seeking Ayumi’s flesh. If the nukekubi managed to bite Ayumi, it would be over.

Stumbling and cursing, Kimiko came close to knocking herself unconscious by running into a tree. When the stars cleared from her vision, she became aware of two things. The first, that she had bitten her tongue deep enough to draw blood; the second, that she had found the bodies of the three nukekubi.

The headless bodies looked like decapitated dolls; the neck stumps were smooth as a healed-over wound. She recognized Tomoko’s indigo and lavender kimonos, Satomi’s plum, orange and pink combination, and Hanabi’s cherry-red and pale green robes. The skirts and sleeves spread out over a carpet of fallen persimmon leaves made a beautiful kaleidoscope of colors that Kimiko did not stop to admire. She scouted around a moment, kicking up a whirlwind of leaves in her haste, and found a pair of short, thin branches.

Using her improvised chopsticks to pull the flaming wick out of the lamp, Kimiko carefully sprinkled the oil over all three bodies. It was less dark now, more gray than black, and there was a pale streak of mauve low in the sky that foretold the rising of the sun. The stars were already fading. Dawn was not far away.

Kimiko dropped the flaming wick on the oil-soaked bodies.

Whoomp!

She fell backwards, her face stinging, having underestimated the flammability of nukekubi. Flames roared high, licking at the tops of the trees with appalling eagerness. A handful of ripening fruit sizzled in the heat and finally exploded, a shower of sweetness that stank of burned sugar. Kimiko lay on her back, trying to blink away the bright after-images that pinwheeled in her vision. From the house came a hideous screeching. She scrambled to her feet, drawing her knife; the metallic taste of blood was in her mouth.

The fire consumed the bodies far more quickly than was natural. Kimiko heard a whirring close-by, like pheasant’s wings, and hurried to hide behind a persimmon tree. The floating heads appeared in the grove, bobbing through the air and shrieking loud enough to make more fruit fall from the trees. All three mouths were wide open, black holes filled with fangs in a scarlet demon’s face.

As Kimiko watched from her hiding place, the first rays of the morning sun crept over the horizon and trickled down into the orchard, slow as liana syrup. The nukekubi’s movements became more frantic, their wails more piteous. Sunlight spilled over the still-burning bodies, which had already been reduced to vaguely human-shaped charcoal. The three heads flew here and there, gnashing and screeching and swooping around in circles that were centered around the fire.

Golden sunlight spilled over Tomoko; the nukekubi’s face froze in an anguished grimace. The head dropped to the ground and tumbled over and over before coming to rest against a tree root. Tomoko’s fangs champed uselessly at the air, then all motion ceased; her eyes glazed over and rolled back to show the blue-tinged whites. Satomi and Hanabi screamed their terror but there was no escape. They met the same fate as their clan-sister, the cleansing sunlight destroying the floating heads even as fire completed the task of destroying their bodies.

Breathing hard, Kimiko dug her fingers into the tree bark. A sharp agony was lodged under her ribs, and it cut more deeply into her with every gulp of air she drew into her lungs. Part of her wanted to race back to the house and find Ayumi, to tell her that their plan had succeeded; another part held her paralyzed in place, dreading the discovery of her lover’s dead body. When eating poison, lick the plate. One by one, Kimiko peeled her fingers away from the persimmon tree and forced her reluctant body to walk out of the grove. She did not know what she would find.

Before she reached the house, however, Kimiko heard a heavy body crashing through the orchard and she called, “Ayumi-san?” Oh, please, Merciful Kwannon, let it be!

“’Miko-chan!” Ayumi bellowed like a female water buffalo that had caught sight of its lost calf. The samurai was bounding in Kimiko’s direction as quickly as her bowed legs could carry her. As soon as she was close enough, Ayumi grabbed Kimiko with her free hand; the other still clutched her blood-smeared katana.

“Were you bitten?” Ayumi asked. When Kimiko did not immediately answer, she shook the younger woman hard enough to make her teeth rattle. “Were you bitten?”

“Iye!” Kimiko responded at last. “Were you?”

Ayumi held out her tattered sleeve for inspection.

Kimiko was gratified to find the flesh beneath unmarred. She let out a breath and touched her scorched eyebrows, strangely relieved to find them mostly intact. “Buddha! I was afraid you were…”

“As was I,” Ayumi admitted. She flicked the blood from her katana in a practiced movement, then sheathed the weapon and bowed. “My apologies, Kimiko-sama, for placing you in danger. I was not thinking of your safety when I accepted the nukekubi’s invitation. In my arrogance, I believed that I could take care of the matter myself and keep you safe.”

Recognizing that her samurai required a mistress now – not a lover – Kimiko drew herself up and asked in a formal tone, “What was your purpose?”

“My purpose was two-fold,” Ayumi said, holding the bow. Her knuckles were white on the hilt of her sheathed longsword, and she sounded grave. “Firstly, I wished to destroy the nukekubi so that they would not harm any more innocent travelers on the Chrysanthemum Road. It is my duty to rid the Floating World of hell-spawn when such action does not interfere with the giri owed to my mistress, though I should have asked your permission.”

“Yes, you should have asked.” Kimiko paused to let Ayumi stew for a moment, then asked, “And second?”

“It was my wish to pillow with you, Kimiko-sama.” Ayumi glanced up, her black eyes gleaming. “I thought that if I killed the nukekubi, we would have their house to ourselves for a few days before we had to move on.”

Kimiko’s jaw muscles were aching with the effort to hold back her smile. “Well, we did reach the Clouds and Rain,” she said thoughtfully, tapping her lips with a finger. “Or at least, I did. It’s a good thing that you don’t have a jade pestle, ‘Yumi, or this peach-bottom would have been split in half from the roughness of your riding.”

Ayumi straightened from her bow, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Am I forgiven?” When Kimiko did not answer at once, the samurai offered diffidently, “I found a hot tub. There is plenty of wood. And after you soak your bruises…”

“After?” Kimiko purred. The horrors of the night were receding, leaving behind the sweet memory of pleasure. Ayumi was correct; with the nukekubi gone, they would have free use of their house. To be alone, under a roof, without worrying about spies or monsters or the Regent’s agents or robbers… bliss!

The samurai reached into the breast of her kimono and drew out a folded book – one of the cheaply printed ‘spring pictures’ books that were popular among lovers. “Perhaps we might try Dew-on-the-Mountain,” Ayumi said, pointing a blunt finger at the appropriate illustration.

Kimiko sucked in an awed breath. “Ma!”

Ayumi nodded. “I’ll start the water heating at once.”

Kimiko followed her samurai, her lover, to the house where the scent of wisteria was already replacing the musty odor of death. Her greedy little yoni was tingling in anticipation. Saliva gathered in her mouth and she swallowed.

There was another illustration she had glimpsed in the book that looked even more intriguing than Dew-on-the-Mountain.

She wondered where they could find a gourd at short notice.

Ayumi motioned for her to hurry, and Kimiko ran to catch up to the warrior that she loved.

THE END

Glossary ~~~o0o0o0o~~~ Return to the Library

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YUKI ONNA: SNOW WOMAN
by Nene Adams © 2004 - All rights reserved
(Commissioned by Mary Pardo for the Buy-a-Bard Auction II; archived here by her kind permission)

“I breathe in the cool incense smoke from the metal brazier,
While thinking about a poem for my dear friend Lu Wa.
My sandalwood-hearted companion spits out plum blossoms of smoke,
Looking like the cloudy fog of the other world.
Perhaps it's the soul of my friend the old mountain man
In the smoke's dense patterns.” --- Kan Po (memoriam)

~~~~xooo0ooox~~~

Wind howled, bringing with it pellets of hard snow that stung like thrown stones when they struck the face and hands. More snow was heaped in smoothly rounded banks on the sides of the Chrysanthemum Road. The surface of the road itself was clear, kept that way by stones bearing Shinto spells that lined the track as it meandered over fields and forests and mountains. Branches of pine trees overhanging the sides of the road were laden with snow and ice, a dripping burden that dipped and swayed as the storm grew in strength and viciousness.

Ichijo Ayumi and Fujiwara no Kimiko struggled along side-by-side, bent nearly double against the wind. Both women wore heavy quilted kimonos and hakama; their calves were bulky with knotted cloths, and scarves were wrapped around their heads under straw hats. For additional protection, Ayumi and Kimiko were wrapped in mino, peasant-style cloaks made of layers of hay and straw.

It was still cold enough to make their teeth chatter.

Astonishingly, the sky was clear and the moon shone blue-white against the snow and the mountains and the trees. At this elevation, the wind was sharp enough to cut through their layered clothing like a barber’s razor. Plumes of breath-smoke issued from the women’s mouths. Kimiko blinked snow from her eyelashes and took a firmer grip on her walking staff.

The furoshiki pack on her back was heavy and getting heavier by the moment. She felt frozen to the core, as though there had never been anything in the world except snow and wind and ice. Her bones ached; her muscles burned. Kimiko dreamed of hot tea and rice, sweet potatoes in broth, chewy udon noodles and dumplings and soy-simmered bean curd. She dreamed of warmth, of steam curling from the spout of an iron kettle, of the scent of burning charcoal in a bronze brazier. Kimiko sighed and smiled, thinking about soaking in the scalding waters of a hot tub – heat, glorious heat, melting her flesh until the sheer pleasure of it wrung involuntary whimpers from her throat…

A stinging smack across her cheek made Kimiko gasp and open her eyes.

The only thing she could see of Ayumi’s face, muffled as it was in a scarf, was the samurai’s dark eyes. Kimiko blinked again, confused. White flurries snatched at her cropped black hair; her hat was gone. She was laying on her back in a snowbank with no idea how she had gotten there. Cold crept under her skin until she was shivering.

“Get up!” Ayumi screamed, raising her voice to be heard over the wind. “You cannot sleep. We must go on!”

Kimiko’s jaw-splitting yawn took her by surprise. “I’m tired,” she whispered.

Ayumi’s hand drew back and rushed forward in a blur. The impact against her face rocked Kimiko’s head backwards. “On your feet!” Ayumi commanded. She grabbed Kimiko’s arm and heaved, putting her weight into it.

Impelled by the samurai’s strength, Kimiko rose from the snowbank and sagged limply in Ayumi’s embrace. “Tired,” she repeated. She was no longer shivering. “So tired…”

“We must go on!”

“No,” Kimiko protested weakly. “Sleepy.”

No longer hazy, the blue-white moonlight sharpened to crystalline clarity. The wind died; an unnatural silence descended over the scene. Glittering snow and ice and eerie light was punctuated by shadows huddled here and there against the banks like wild animals curled nose-to-tail. A yawping wail cut through the stillness; Kimiko identified it as a fox. The sound cut off abruptly, which made the renewed silence all the more deafening. An owl flew soundlessly through the air, all soft feathers and a brilliant golden gaze.

In the space between one eye-blink and the next, a woman appeared.

She was beyond beautiful; she was perfect in the way that a hina doll was perfect, without a single blemish to mar the porcelain paleness of her oval face. Her eyes were narrow black slits; her eyebrows had been shaved off to leave her brow smooth. The woman’s aquiline nose led straight to a kou-itten mouth, the center of the lips touched with scarlet to emphasize delicacy and femininity. False eyebrows were smudged close to her hairline in the style of the imperial court. Her lips parted in a tiny smile, showing black-stained teeth.

Her knee-length hair was worn long and straight, caught up at the sides with paulownia wood combs. The woman’s kimonos were completely white – shocking, really, since white was considered the color of death and mourning. She did not so much walk as she glided over the surface of the snow. It took Kimoko’s ice-muddled mind a moment to realize that the strange woman did not leave any footprints or sandal tracks behind her. Even then, the realization meant nothing. She was flying away, lighter than owl feathers, flying to the moon where it was warm…

Someone was shaking her. Kimiko’s teeth rattled. She did not care.

“Sleepy…”

The woman’s kimono hem did not drag on the ground. Nevertheless, little snow flurries billowed with each step she took. The moon cast indigo highlights in the fluttering fringes of her hair and turned the hollows in her cheekbones blue. Her outer kimono was striped with an irregular pattern of cerulean light. As she came closer, the woman pursed her lips as if she was going to give Kimiko a kiss.

Kimiko closed her eyes and turned her face to the side.

Yuki Onna – the Woman of the Snows, the storm spirit of the mountains – would kiss her with that cold, cold kou-itten mouth and steal her soul. The tiny rational part of her mind shrieked against her surrender, but Kimiko was too exhausted to muster the energy to fight. She was sorry that her samurai would be left alone, sorry for the things left undone and unsaid, but she was so very, very tired. All Kimiko wanted to do was rest…

And Ayumi let her fall.

Kimiko landed with a thump on the road; the pain racing up her spine momentarily overwhelmed her desire to sleep.

Ayumi’s katana cleared the scabbard in a flash of moonlight on steel. The samurai whirled about on her heel, aiming a cut at Yuki Onna’s head. The woman simply flowed out of the way and continued her inexorable progress towards Kimiko, who finally sensing the danger she was in, began to inch backwards, scraping her buttocks along the road surface. Ayumi was not done, however. Face set in a grimace, she chopped at the storm spirit, striking from the hip, and again, Yuki Onna avoided the blows.

Snarling openly, Ayumi swung the katana in an overhand arc of jodan no kamae that changed direction, striking towards the storm spirit’s arm. The blade connected, tearing through Yuki Onna’s kimono sleeve and into the flesh beneath.

There was a sound like shattering glass, and Ayumi’s katana shivered into a thousand needles of ice-rimed steel.

Shock, horror and disbelief chased across the samurai’s crooked-nosed face. Ayumi stared at the jagged stump of the sword in her hand, her mouth dropping open in an expression that might have been comical under less serious circumstances. Kimiko could only watch helplessly as Yuki Onna’s perfect porcelain face cracked and crackled, rearranging itself into a frown worthy of a kabuki mask. The spirit’s breath exhaled in a cloud of blue-tinged frost that enveloped Ayumi until the samurai’s squat muscular figure was entirely consumed and hidden from view.

Kimiko screamed in denial and scrambled to her feet, energized by the eminent threat to her lover. The hay cloak shredded around her, ripped apart by her haste to save Ayumi. Kimiko wrenched herself towards the storm spirit, hands outstretched, scream after scream of rage and apprehension torn from somewhere deep in her soul. Glimpsed through the cold blue fog, the figures of Ayumi and Yuki Onna came together and dissolved into one… which disappeared quietly, without fanfare except a billow of snowflakes.

She burst through the dissipating cloud, her frantic motions turning the mist into tattered blue wisps. Kimiko keened like a wounded animal, searching for any trace of her samurai or the creature that had taken her. There was nothing to be found, aside from the relatively small sections of snow that Ayumi had churned up.

Ayumi was gone.

Despair drove Kimiko to her knees, heedless of the sharp splinters of steel on the road all around her.

The wind began to blow again.

A fox yawped and wailed in the distance as the hunting owl floated silently through the moonlit sky.

~~~~xooo0ooox~~~

“When the gods hurl dung, grow rice!”

Kimiko raised her head. She had been struggling along the road, each step more difficult than the last. The freezing air bit harshly into her lungs. Her muscles trembled with the effort of forcing herself to move. She had paused for a moment – just a single moment, Buddha willing – to rest beneath the outspread branches of a pine tree when a male voice had surprisingly issued from above.

She glanced up and met the slit-eyed gaze of a tengu.

The mountain goblin looked like a court official from the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees. Perched just above the middle of his forehead, his tiny hexagonal yamabushi hat of black lacquered wood was held on by a red cord that tied under his chin. The tengu held a feathered fan; his sumptuous brocade kimono layers were slit in the back to allow his stubby crow’s wings to protrude. Like all mountain goblins of his tribe, his nose was uncommonly long and his face was bright red, punctuated by silver eyebrow tufts. He squatted on the branch easily, as unconcerned about the uncertainty of his perch as a bird.

“Konnichiwa, uncle!” Kimiko said through chattering teeth. It never paid to be impolite to tengu, who could be either helpful or mischievous, depending on their mood. “Thank you for the advice.”

The tengu fluttered to a lower pine branch and cocked his head at her. “You’re tolerably well spoken for a human child.”

Kimiko leaned against a nearby cryptomeria tree trunk and tried to catch her breath, but it was difficult with the wind blowing so briskly. The fact that her mino cloak had been destroyed did not help. There were still bits of straw and hay blowing along the road. “And you seem very friendly for a mountain goblin,” she replied.

The tip of his extraordinarily long nose quivered. The tengu made a gesture with his feather fan and the wind was cut off. Another gesture and a miniature whirlwind swirled into being. It danced over the road, gathering up the torn pieces of her cloak while Kimiko watched. A third gesture made the whirlwind weave the mino back together and deposit it at her feet before exploding in a shower of snow. Kimiko shook the snow from her hair and picked up the mended cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders and bowing to the tengu.

“Thank you, ojisama ,” Kimiko said. “It is regrettable that you can’t do the same thing for my friend’s sword.”

“Your friend the samurai?” the tengu asked, his little black eyes glittering. “Do you speak of your retainer Ichijo Ayumi, who is now a guest of Yuki Onna?”

Kimiko gasped. “Do you know where she is? Please, uncle, tell me!”

“Follow me!” the tengu cried, and hopped from his perch to the next tree, his stubby wings fluttering. He continued to hop from tree to tree while Kimiko stumbled on the ground, plowing her way through the snow, her gaze fixed on the bewinged mountain goblin with his miniscule hat and incredibly long nose.

Was Ayumi alive? Could she be still be saved from Yuki Onna? The barest shred of hope made Kimiko go on despite her exhaustion. While there was an ounce of blood and breath in her body, she would never give up the search for her beloved samurai. Would the capricious tengu help her in that quest? Kimiko was determined to do anything, even grovel and beg, to gain the creature’s supernatural aid.

The tengu led her deeper into the forest until they came to what looked like a wood-cutter’s hut. Kimiko went inside at the goblin’s invitation, wary yet relieved to be out of the cold. A fire burned in the central round hearth made of pounded earth, and heated an iron pot of red miso soup. She investigated the contents of a large covered bowl near the fire and found udon noodles in broth with yam cakes and mountain bracken. In spite of the freshly prepared food and the fire, the hut seemed otherwise unoccupied.

“Sit and eat, human child,” the tengu grumbled as he shuffled inside, shaking snow off his wings. “The story I must tell you is an important one.”

“Will you have a bowl of soup, uncle?” Kimiko asked politely. She helped the tengu remove his quilted outer kimono, then knelt and took off his wooden geta and wet tabi socks. Kimiko used a bronze ladle to scoop hot coals into a brazier and brought it to him as he sat cross-legged on a mat near the hearth. She also served him fragrant miso soup, curbing her own appetite as the heady scent made her stomach clench with hunger pangs.

The tengu patted her head as if she was, indeed, a favored niece. “Sit and eat,” he repeated, smiling benevolently. “There is time, Fujiwara no Kimiko.”

Obediently, she took the bowl of noodles and yam cakes. The first bite was heavenly, as was the second and third and fourth. In no time at all, Kimiko was startled to find the bowl was empty. At the tengu’s invitation, she continued the meal by drinking several bowls of miso broth, then made tea for them both, whisking the green macha powder into hot water from the kettle in the elegant manner she had learned at court.

Appetite satisfied, Kimiko looked sidelong at the tengu, wondering why he wanted to help her. It was not entirely unknown for the goblins to aid humankind. In her father’s generation, the Tengu King of Mt. Kutama had befriended the great warrior Minamoto Yoshitsue. For the most part, however, tengu preferred to mislead humans and play tricks on them, especially arrogant Buddhist priests.

“I have heard of your feud with the Regent of Wa,” the tengu said, turning his teacup around in his hands. “It occurs to me that we can help each other.”

Kimiko asked humbly, “How may I help you, uncle?”

He stared into the flames, his eyebrows and stubby wings occasionally twitching. “First, you should know there are two clans in these mountains – the Red and the Blue. I am Sagigake, leader of the Red Faces. My rival is Hyakutake, leader of the Blue Crows. The Blue Crows are allied with Yuki Onna, the Woman of the Snows. As a consequence, the Red Faces have suffered severe losses this winter… including my young daughter, Otome.”

Kimiko bowed her head in a wordless gesture of sympathy and support.

Sagigake continued, “Otome was taken by Hyakutake as a war-bride. I wish her to be returned to me. Since her mother’s death, I have come to cherish Otome greatly. If she had desired to be bonded to Hyakutake, I would have swallowed our rivalry for the sake of my daughter’s happiness. However, she is being held against her will and that I cannot abide.

“I would lead a sally of my remaining warriors against Blue Crow village but I cannot justify wasting such a force for the selfish reason of freeing my daughter. How can I, when so many Red Face sons and daughters have already been lost? You see my predicament.”

“I do, Sagigake-san. Again I ask – how may I help?”

“In a gorge nearby lives a witch who guards a magical golden naginata ,” the tengu said, turning to face her directly. “Forged from the fires of Amatsumara the smith god, this naginata is the only weapon that can defeat Yuki Onna. When the snow woman is no longer aiding the Blue Crows, my remaining warriors and I will attack the village and defeat Hyakutake once and for all.

“You must gain the naginata from Old Dragonfly the witch. It will be a contest of wits,” he said, “which I do not doubt a child of the Imperial court will win.”

Kimiko took a deep breath and leaned forward until her forehead touched the mat. “I will endeavor to succeed,” she said. Curiously, she felt no fear at the prospect of confronting a witch powerful enough to keep the tengu at bay. Shigata ga nai. What will be, will be; her fate, and the fate of her samurai, were in the gods’ hands. “And Ayumi?”

She felt rather than saw the smile blossom on his long-nosed face. “When you have the naginata, you must go to Yuki Onna’s house in the mountains and draw her into combat. I will make a new sword to safeguard your samurai’s soul. This will be a contest of wills – yours against the ancient Woman of the Snows – which I do not doubt the supremely obstinate nature of a human child in love will win.”

“Hai, uncle,” Kimiko said, rising from her bow. “I will not fail.”

His eyes glittered. “No, I suspect you will not,” he said. Reaching behind himself, he plucked a feather from his stubby wings, grunting at the momentary discomfort. “Hold this and say ‘haoto’ and you will be transported to wherever you will. Do not release your grip or you will fall to your death. If you lose the feather, you will be unable to find your way back here. Wakarimasu ka?”

“I understand,” she said, taking the mottled grey-and-white feather from the tengu. “Is there anything else I should know, ojisama?”

“Beware of Old Dragonfly,” Sagigake said. Firelight gleamed on his crimson face and turned his tufted eyebrows to purest silver. “She is very clever but she also has a cold nature.”

Kimiko squared her shoulders. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to rescue my retainer,” she said. “I am very grateful for your assistance.”

“You had better go, human child, for Old Dragonfly is waiting... as is your samurai lover.” With that, the tengu turned back to his contemplation of the fire and poured himself another bowl of miso soup.

Kimiko stepped outside and held the grey-and-white feather aloft. “Haoto!” she cried. Instantly, she was lifted from her feet and hurtled through the sky at a terrific rate of speed; the wind of her passage whipped her hair back and brought tears to her eyes. Her teeth clenched together until her jaw was aching. Kimiko’s grip on the feather never slackened. In a very few moments, she found herself alighting in a soft patch of snow in front of a house with a long veranda in the front.

She inhaled deeply a few times before thrusting the feather into her obi and calling loudly, “Old Dragonfly! I, Fujiwara no Kimiko, challenge you for the golden naginata!”

The shoji-door slid open and a white-haired woman stepped out onto the veranda. Her dark grey kimono was as plain as a nun’s robe. “I am Old Dragonfly. You are young, Fujiwara no Kimiko, to wish to depart this cherry blossom life.” At Kimiko’s involuntary start of surprise, the witch went on, “Oh, yes. If you fail to defeat me, your life is forfeit.”

Old Dragonfly rubbed a hand over her wrinkled, nut-brown face, which was flat as a plate except for the round bulb of her chin. “It has been many years since a pretty maid challenged me for possession of the naginata,” she went on. “I will steal your beauty, girl, before you die. I will feast on your youth.”

“So be it, but you must kill me first,” Kimiko said bravely, standing her ground as she imagined Ayumi might, if the bow-legged samurai had been present.

“Enter, young Fujiwara,” Old Dragonfly said, bowing. “It will be an honor to engage in a contest with someone of wit.”

Kimiko went into the witch’s house, which looked very ordinary except for the long, dark varnished wooden shaft of a naginata that was propped against the far wall. The blade was covered by a cloth, but even so, she could see through the fabric that it shimmered softly.

Old Dragonfly knelt on the tatami mats and gestured for Kimiko to kneel opposite her. The white-haired witch produced a bowl of sand and several sticks of first quality incense – the black, sweet, smoky type called Evening Plum. “I will ask you riddles for one stick of time,” she said, tying her sleeves out of the way with a green cord. “If you fail to answer, the contest is mine. If you answer all my riddles, young Fujiwara, then it will be your turn to ask and mine to answer for one stick of time. If you confound me, the contest is yours.”

“And if we are evenly matched?” Kimiko asked, pulling off her cloak and laying it aside. She arranged her kimono skirts neatly and smoothed her cropped black hair. She had left the furoshiki pack in its bamboo frame at the tengu’s hut. If she succeeded, there would be time to retrieve her belongings. If not… well, clothes and bags of bonito shavings and rice, a pot and a cracked ivory comb were no use to the dead.

“Then we will continue the contest until one of us emerges victorious,” Old Dragonfly said, unperturbed. Her glance was keen. She took an incense stick and lit it in a charcoal brazier, then stuck it upright in the sand bowl between them. “Soonest spoken, it is broken.”

Kimiko restrained her impulse to scoff at the simple riddle. “Silence,” she answered.

“Rash fools and reckless men I trap; dark woe is found in the dregs of pleasure.”

“Sake.” Kimiko had spent many a long hour in Katsura-no-Miyo, the Imperial palace, playing the game of riddles with other court ladies. There was very little else to do except compose poems and try to entertain one another through the long, dull hours between ceremonies and visits. She had prided herself on being clever; now that pride was being tested in the most serious fashion imaginable.

“No son will seek vengeance on my slayer when battle-foes encompass my death.”

That one caused Kimiko some thought. “A sword,” she finally answered. It was the custom during war that when one daimyo defeated another, the fallen man’s katana was ceremoniously broken and the pieces sent to a temple to be prayed over, lest the dead man’s spirit return as a vengeful hungry ghost.

And so it went, riddle after riddle – some simple, some much more complex and difficult to solve. Old Dragonfly never faltered. Incense smoke drifted up in a lazy spiral. Kimiko was sweating freely by the time the stick was burned down to ashes in the bowl.

Without ceremony, Old Dragonfly lit the second stick of incense.

Kimiko straightened her spine. “Mind my measure and feed me with a careful hand, for grim reward awaits one who would allow me to run wild.”

“Fire,” said the old witch with a broad grin that had nothing humorous in it.

“A man’s shoots onto the road while a woman’s sits alone.”

“Piss,” Old Dragonfly replied disdainfully.

“Only useful when I am full, yet full of holes am I,” Kimiko said.

“A fisherman’s net,” came the answer promptly.

And so it went, riddle after riddle, until the second stick of incense was reduced to ashes. Kimiko dabbed sweat from her brow with her sleeve. Her knees were aching, her back spiking with pain; her throat was dry and wisps of hair clung unpleasantly to her wet face and neck. Even her mind seemed to hurt at the effort she had been making. In contrast, Old Dragonfly appeared cool and perfectly composed.

The silver-haired witch produced another incense stick. “We will now take turns,” Old Dragonfly said.

Kimiko nodded in agreement. What else could she do? Her gaze strayed to the naginata – the weapon that would free Ayumi from Yuki Onna’s grasp. She had to have it. The only way to get it was by defeating Old Dragonfly.

“Born without a skin, when I come into this world I loudly fly away,” the witch said.

“A fart,” Kimiko answered at once, then said, “Glittering points that thrust downward and never rust.”

“Icicles.” Old Dragonfly paused a beat and gave the next riddle: “At night, they come without being fetched; by day, they disappear without being stolen.”

Kimiko was tired. Her eyelids fluttered. The smell of the incense was strong and sweet as the meat of honeyed plums. She could almost taste it on the back of her tongue. Her vision was blurred, but she could see Old Dragonfly’s smile turn into a shark’s grin. Kimiko jerked herself awake and blurted the answer to the witch’s riddle, “The stars.”

Was it her imagination, or did an expression of disappointment flit across Old Dragonfly’s age-creased face? Kimiko folded her hands into the sleeves of her kimono and pinched herself hard enough to leave bruises. The pain helped her feel more awake but she knew that sleep was still lurking close-by, waiting to envelope her in its muffling folds. To succumb would mean death for herself and for Ayumi.

She stifled a yawn – her jawbone cracked with the effort of not opening her mouth – and said after a moment, “Lighter than air or water, ten thousand men cannot lift me.”

“A bubble,” said Old Dragonfly. “Have it, want to share it; share it, don’t have it.”

“A secret.” Kimiko was feeling somewhat desperate. How much longer would they have to exchange riddles? “Grumble the dead, silent the living.”

“Leaves. The more you have, the less you see.”

Kimiko answered, “Darkness.” Oh, Ayumi, she said silently, I have tried and I fear that I will fail. Fragrant incense smoke spiralled to the roof rafters. The memory of her samurai made her think of another riddle. What had Sagigake said? The witch’s nature was cold Without giving it much more thought, Kimiko said, “Burns without fire, consumes without burning, can be slain but rarely dies.”

Old Dragonfly paused. Her eyebrows came together in a huge frown that swallowed up her eyes in wrinkles. Her lower lip thrust out. Her hands clutched her knees.

A fingertip length of grey ash dropped from the incense stick.

Kimiko held her breath.

More ash fell.

Old Dragonfly remained silent.

Evening Plum smoke perfumed the air.

At last, when the final bit of the incense stick had burned to nothingness, the silver-haired witch bowed, leaning forward until her forehead touched the tatami mat. “I concede the match,” she said. “The naginata is yours.”

Kimiko rose shakily to her feet. Her legs were cramping in protest but she did not care. “The answer to my riddle,” she said, “is love.”

Old Dragonfly sat up; her mouth worked a moment. “Because you’ve played fairly, I will give you fair warning,” the witch said. “The naginata’s blade is made of divine fire, brighter than the sun. It will blind anyone who looks directly at it. Also, the weapon must be returned to me before dawn gilds the peak of Mt. Fuji. If it is not returned, you will be consumed by the god’s fire until your body is wasted to nothing but ashes, just as these three incense sticks.”

“I understand,” Kimiko said, bowing and putting on her cloak. She took the naginata, testing the heavy weight of the weapon in her hands. The shaft was smoothly polished and felt warm. The blade remained covered by the well-wrapped cloth. Now she had the means to save Ayumi, and she had never lacked courage in her life; Kimiko would do what was necessary, even if it meant joining her lover in death.

She stepped outside and took the tengu’s mottled grey feather in her free hand. “Haoto!” Kimiko cried, keeping a firm grip on both items.

Once again, she flew swiftly through the air, the frost-tinged plume of her breath streaming behind her. Kimiko’s cheeks and nose were scoured nearly raw. Her blood was sluggish in her veins. Clouds boiled beneath her feet and stars pulsated above her head in the indigo of the night sky. A shadow passed over her; she glanced up and saw a red-tailed hawk chasing the moon.

Kimiko was deposited on a mountain peak. Cut into the living rock was a house with a blue tile roof, all silver and stone. She tucked the feather into her obi and hefted the naginata in a two-handed grip. Like all the daughters of samurai families, she had been taught the use of this weapon and was comfortable wielding it. There was, however, one last thing before she went inside. Kimiko tore a strip from the hem of one of her kimonos and bound it around her eyes, then unwrapped the naginata’s blade.

Even behind the blindfold, she sensed the brilliant, sun-like light that burst into being from the head of the weapon. Kimiko walked forward in the direction of the house, straining her ears for every sound that might provide a clue. Her sandals crunched on the snow. A thin wind whistled on the peak, driving dry flurries of more snow ahead of it. She balanced the naginata over her shoulder and held out her other hand to feel her way.

She knew the moment when she entered the house; her footsteps echoed hollowly on the stone floor, the sound bouncing from walls and ceiling. Kimiko stopped after a few steps and cried, “Yuki Onna! I am Fujiwara no Kimiko and I challenge you to a duel!”

“Foolish child,” hissed a cold, cold voice, “do you know who I am? I am the spirit of winter itself.”

“And when spring comes upon the land,” Kimiko answered boldly, “winter dies!”

A blast of freezing air struck her face as the spirit screamed its spite. Kimiko turned in that direction, swinging the naginata in a downward stroke. She imagined the blade slicing through that kou-itten mouth with its touch of scarlet. The weapon was heavy; her wrists and shoulders protested and the muscles in her forearms burned at the unaccustomed strain. It had been a long while since she had used a naginata and she had forgotten how difficult it was to control while the shaft was at full extension.

The expected jar of blade against flesh and bone did not occur. Yuki Onna must have moved out of the way. Kimiko cocked her head, listening. There was a faint scratching sound, just at the edge of perception. She remembered how snowflakes had been generated by the hem of Yuki Onna’s kimono. Whirling about on a heel, she struck out at what she thought was the source of that sound and felt a glow of satisfaction when the blade connected. Another blast of icy wind sent her rocking back two steps before she dug in her heels and refused to budge another thumb-length.

Kimiko moved her head from side to side, tracking minute shifts in the air. Fighting blindfolded was really a skill learned by fully fledged samurai and ninjas; she had not been trained in it. Nevertheless, Kimiko persisted. Mizu no yo ni, she thought. Moving, be like water. Still, be like a mirror. Responding, be like an echo.

There! A subtle tapping sound and a change of air pressure alerted her. The naginata shaft slid through her palms as she swung the weapon up into furiage-men-uchi – the blade brought overhead, then coming straight down with the strength of her back and shoulders put into the strike. Kimiko made a wordless spirit shout as she also focused energy from the very core of her being into the attack. Letting go of anger and fear and thoughts of vengeance, the young woman’s mind, body and soul were united.

Kiai!

A hideous screech made her ears ring. A turmoil of snow gusted against her body, soft as owl feathers, hard as pebbles, sharp as needles. It was like standing in the midst of a taifun, a divine wind that slammed against her flesh and knocked her backwards. Kimiko fell, her elbow painfully striking the stone floor. In her mind’s eye, she saw Yuki Onna’s mouth falling open, blackened teeth exposed, tongue like a blue worm protruding from between the kou-itten lips. She saw that perfect oval face shattering and crumbling into a thousand shards.

After a crash that shook the foundations of the building, silence descended like a veil.

Kimiko sat up, fumbling in her obi for the cloth. She managed to slip the length over the naginata blade, although her fingers were made clumsy by cold and haste. Only when the weapon was safely covered did she reach up and tear off the protective blindfold.

There was no sign of Yuki Onna except for the torn remnants of white kimonos that were scattered over the floor, as well as a large pile of melting, blue-tinged snow. Kimiko searched the house room by room, her heart lodged in her throat with apprehension. Where was Ayumi? She had to be here! Kimiko would never stop looking; she would never surrender the hope of finding her samurai alive, because love could be slain but rarely died.

At last, she slid aside a shoji-door and there was Ayumi. Kimiko let out a glad cry and ran to embrace her lover… whose body, she discovered, was frozen and cold, her skin tinged with blue. Ayumi’s black hair was gelid, the ends stiffened with ice. Her lips were barely parted. Kimiko framed the woman’s face in her hands, ignoring the frigid nip on her palms. It was like embracing one of the winter snow-Buddhas that children made by rolling snow into large balls and stacking them on top of one another.

“Ayumi! ‘Yumi-chan, can you hear me?”

The samurai did not answer. She stared, unblinking, into the distance.

Kimiko hauled a hand back and slapped her.

Ayumi did not respond. The samurai might have been a statue of compassionate Jizo, widely dilated eyes forever fixed on a distant, invisible horizon. Kimiko shook her, pleaded with her, even hit her again and yet Ayumi remained as still as stone, as unreachable as the divine panoply in Heaven.

Kimiko closed her eyes against incipient panic. Running around in circles tearing at her hair like a madwoman would solve nothing. It was obvious that Yuki Onna’s spell had not ended with the storm spirit’s vanishing. The back of her neck prickled as she recalled what Old Dragonfly had said about returning the weapon. Leaving Ayumi for the moment, Kimiko raced outside and looked towards the west, where sacred Mt. Fuji reared in majestic splendor, then towards the east… where the sun was rising, rosy fingers of light spilling across the land.

She was almost out of time.

Kimiko bit her lower lip and spent a precious moment considering her options. Making a decision, she hurried back inside, going to the room where Ayumi stood unmoving. Closing her eyes tightly, Kimiko whipped the cover off the naginata and used it to blindly hack away at the outside wall until she thought she had made a big enough opening. After rewrapping the naginata blade, she opened her eyes and assessed her handiwork. An irregular hole had been torn out of the wall, framed by splintered wood.

Grasping the naginata shaft in one hand, she took the tengu’s feather out of her obi and held it between two fingers, while knotting her remaining fingers in Ayumi’s kimono. “Haoto!” Kimiko cried.
Sunlight trickled over the snowy landscape as Kimiko and Ayumi flew through the air. The moon was already obscured and the stars had vanished from the lightening sky. It was actually quite beautiful, the way the indigo color faded to violet and lavender and a broad streak of startling pink that somehow managed to dye the rounded humps of snowbanks and snow-laden tree tree branches with gold and orange.

Kimiko’s eyes watered. She tightened her grip on Ayumi’s robe and on the mottled feather, unwilling to lose either. Fortunately, the magic that impelled them was also responsible for bearing both women’s weight. Kimiko could not have supported the samurai with her own strength alone.

It was while they were rushing over a deeply yawning mountain pass that Kimiko felt her grip on Ayumi begin to slip.

She could not drop the tengu’s feather; that would kill them both. If she let go of the naginata, then Kimiko would die, burned to ashes and dust, but neither would she release Ayumi. Kimiko gritted her teeth. If it came to a choice, she would drop the naginata and accept the consequences, as long as she succeeded in getting Ayumi to Sagigake-san.

Her grip slipped a little bit more.

Kimiko silently urged the feather to more speed.

Her fingers protested the strain; the bones were being bent in a way that nature had not intended. Desperate, Kimiko hooked an ankle around Ayumi’s leg to maintain contact. The soft grey light turned slowly gold around them. Kimiko turned her head, the short strands of her hair lashing at her eyes. The thin layer of ice around the samurai was beginning to thaw. Ayumi blinked once and Kimiko had to bite her lip to keep from shouting her joy aloud.

And then, without warning, the shoulder of Ayumi’s kimono shredded apart, breaking her grip entirely. Kimiko was helpless to do anything except watch as the samurai’s body pin-wheeled through space, arms and legs outflung, and landed hard in a snowbank, throwing up a cloud of powdery white crystals that sparkled in the weak dawn light. Kimiko began to breathe again; she had not realized that they had dropped so low, so Ayumi should be all right if she had not landed awkwardly.

She saw Old Dragonfly’s hut and swooped towards it, hauling the naginata back as though it was a javelin. Kimiko grunted as she let the weapon fly straight through the wall just as the peak of Mt. Fuji was struck by a shaft of sunlight. Heart pounding, Kimiko waited to be immolated; as the seconds passed and her flesh did not burst into flames, she sighed in relief and flew down to join Ayumi.

The samurai lay on her back in the snowbank, blinking rapidly, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. When she spotted Kimiko leaning over her, Ayumi frowned. “Where is my sword?” she asked, hand grasping at the empty scabbard thrust through her obi.

“It was broken by Yuki Onna,” Kimiko answered. “However, our ojisama, Sagigake-san, is making you a new one.”

Ayumi’s frown deepened, drawing her eyebrows towards the bridge of her oft-broken nose until they almost met in the middle. “When did we acquire an uncle?”

Kimiko made a rapid-fire explanation of the events that had occurred since they were attacked by Yuki Onna. It surprised her that only a few hours had passed, since it seemed as though she had been busy for days. During her recitation, Ayumi climbed out of the snowbank and brushed her kimonos and hakama clean. Although her movements were a bit stiff, it appeared as if Ayumi had not suffered from her enchantment too much.

When Kimiko had finished, the samurai nodded. “I am under an obligation to Sagigake-san,” Ayumi said. “Can the feather take us to Blue Crow village? If I can, I must help our new uncle recover his daughter and defeat his enemies.”

“Of course.” Kimiko had expected no less. She stepped close to Ayumi, so close that their bodies were separated only their clothing, and wrapped her arms around the squat woman’s waist. “I missed you,” she said simply.

“We will be out of the mountains soon,” Ayumi replied, ducking her head to press her cold nose against Kimiko’s neck. “At the next inn, we will take a room and pillow and write poems and drink tea until spring breaks the back of winter.”

“Hai, ‘Yumi-chan.” Kimiko pulled her head back enough to look into her lover’s face. “I am suffering from a state of affection for my retainer,” she said, lips curving in a smile.

Ayumi snorted and quoted an old proverb, “One kind word can warm three winter months.”

“I must not praise you too often, or your pride may swell too fat for your legs to carry.” Kimiko’s smile turned into a cheeky grin. “Hold on to me and don’t let go,” she commanded, holding the tengu feather aloft. “Haoto!”

The two women rose into the air and flew away. At first, Ayumi held onto Kimiko with a white-knuckled grip that made the young woman’s ribs creak in protest, but after a few moments, the samurai accepted the unusual form of transportation and relaxed. They arrived at their destination within a few minutes; as Kimiko and Ayumi touched down on the ground, the white-and-gray mottled tengu feather fell apart, wisps drifting on the wind.

Ayumi’s glance fell on Sagigake; the mountain goblin had exchanged his sumptuous court robes for a set of crimson lacquered armor whose color matched his face. “Domo arigato, Sagigake-san,” Ayumi said, bowing low in the manner of a subordinate to a superior.

He returned her bow, superior to subordinate. “So this is the infamous Ichijo Ayumi, the samurai who dares defy the Regent of Wa.”

“I follow my mistress,” Ayumi said, “even to Black Emma’s mansion in Hell.”

“Hmph.” Sagigake’s beady little black eyes narrowed further still as he studied the samurai woman. “Perhaps you will prove useful after all.” He gestured with his feather fan towards a tent that had been erected behind him. “You will find a sword in there,” he said dismissively, as if the matter was unimportant.

Ayumi made another bow, knowing that the tengu would understand her gratitude without it being necessary for her to articulate it. With Kimiko at her heels, she went to the tent. The interior was empty except for a sand tray, some weapons piled in a corner and a sword stand. Ayumi knelt and took the katana from the stand, turning the blade towards the morning light streaming through the door slit.

The chisel-tipped sword was beautifully made and flawless, perfectly proportioned along its entire length. The wavy pattern in the grain of the steel was the type called ‘three cedars,’ achieved only by the best swordsmiths - those called living gods because of their mastery of the art. Deep in the heart of the katana was a thin, shimmering gold line of characters that ran from the tip to the cord-wrapped ray-skin hilt.

The samurai laid the sword back on the stand and kowtowed three times in profound respect. This was no ordinary katana; this was a meibutso, a sword so special that it required its own name and was considered to harbor a soul of its own. Ayumi knocked her forehead against the back of her folded hands, which were pressed to the floor.

“I will call you Kusanagi, the Grass Cutter, if that is agreeable,” Ayumi murmured. She sat up and waited a moment, then took the sword and slid it into the empty scabbard in her obi. Getting to her feet, she searched through the assorted pile of weapons until she found a broad-bladed spear.

“You will need this,” Ayumi said to Kimiko, “in case the Red Faces are overrun.”

“I’m going with you,” Kimiko said, determined to argue the point, but her protest was interrupted by Ayumi placing gentle fingers against her lips.

“You have never fought in battle, ‘Miko-chan,” Ayumi said, “and I cannot remain focused on the fight if I must be concerned about your safety. A moment’s inattention may mean that the debt to our ojisama goes unpaid. Please stay here and wait.”

Kimiko blew out a breath, frustrated, but she understood the logic behind the samurai’s wishes. “Very well,” she said finally, “but I insist that you do not allow yourself to be killed just yet. I have further need of your service.”

Ayumi bowed solemnly, although a smile tugged at her lips.

Sagigake and his long-nosed Red Face tengu army stood on the field facing the Blue Crows, who were humanoid except for the large beak that took the place of their nose and mouth. Their faces were also light blue. Ayumi stood next to Sagigake; in the absence of the storm, she had put off most of her kimono layers and tied her sleeves back with a cord. Watching from a safe distance, Kimiko’s was swollen with affection and love. Her samurai cut quite a martial figure!

Stubby wings a-flutter, the red and blue tengu armies came together with a clash of arms that shook snow from distant mountain peaks. Ayumi was in the forefront, her new sword licking down upon the enemy goblins in lightning fast strokes, mowing the blue tengu’s lives as if they were dried grass in a field.

Ayumi’s katana flicked up, scattering blood droplets, and swung down, arresting in mid-air and changing direction to deliver the ‘Two Wheels’ blow that cut a screeching blue goblin in half just above the hips. Confronted by two tengu with rice flails, she snapped Grass Cutter to the side and then forward in a pear-splitter swing that ended in a double decapitation, the tengu’s beaked heads flying amidst gushing fountains of dark blood. The churned-up snow was dappled with scarlet; Ayumi’s face was speckled with it.

A Blue Crow raced towards the samurai, his short-bladed sword held high. Ayumi took three steps back, leading with her left foot and dragging her right. Her katana was held obliquely, the tip pointing down. At the last possible second, she swept the sword up in the tsuki, a powerful thrust that took the goblin through the throat, cleaving the soft tissues open and ripping through the carotid artery. A rooster tail of blood spray coated Ayumi’s bare arms as she turned away; the tengu’s eyes were glazed by death even as he fell.

Kimiko clutched the spear, excitement warring with apprehension in her spasming liver, the seat of human emotion. Ayumi was the living embodiment of bushido, a warrior without peer on the battlefield. She loved the samurai and loved watching her, especially when Ayumi entered a state of mu shin – ‘no mind’ – when her well-trained body reacted without her conscious awareness. Enemies fell beneath the choppy, powerful blows. Ayumi’s bow-legged body moved with deadly grace, weaving among the blue-faced goblins. Wherever her sword struck, feathers and blood flew, and death followed.

At last, the leader of the Crows, Hyakutake, was killed by red-faced Sagigake. The surviving blue tengu broke and fled, pursued by the triumphant Red Faces, whose long noses bobbed as they ran. Ayumi flicked the blood from her new sword with a practiced movement, then slid it back into the scabbard. Her rooster-on-the-dungheap samurai’s strut had an extra bit of swagger in it that was, as far as Kimiko was concerned, well earned.

Kimiko waited until Ayumi was close before she bowed, giving honor to her lover. “As always, you were magnificent,” she said.

Ayumi’s eyes twinkled. “I was not prepared to write my death poem.” Her gaze transferred to Sagigake, who had joined them. A young seeming female tengu was with him; Kimiko assumed it was his daughter, Otome.

“Thank you, ojisama,” Kimiko said.

“Well done, human child,” the tengu replied, the tufts of his silvery eyebrows bristling. “Without Yuki Onna to help them, our enemies have been defeated and my daughter rescued. Your retainer is a formidable warrior and you, Kimiko-san, are a formidable opponent in wits and in battle. Consider the Red Face tribe your allies.”

“Thank you, uncle,” Kimiko said.

He put his hands together and bowed. “Yuki Onna is not dead but merely defeated for a while; still, you should be cautious in the mountains. One never knows when a storm will blow from nowhere.”

With a wave of Sagigake’s feather fan, all of the long-nosed tengu vanished, leaving behind only the bodies of the dead and a heap of discoloured snow.

Kimiko regarded Ayumi and sighed. “I lost my furoshiki,” she said mournfully.

Ayumi shrugged. “We will purchase another.”

“And my cloak.”

“You can share mine.”

Kimiko moved closer. “The tent is still here,” she pointed out with a sly smile.

“So it is.” Ayumi affected a theatrical mie in the manner of a kabuki actor, striking an exaggerated heroic pose and crossing one eye. “I am suffering from a state of affection for my mistress,” she boomed in the notorious ‘rough-stuff’ style.

“Come with me,” Kimiko said, tugging on Ayumi’s sleeve. “I can cure your illness.”

“I hope not,” Ayumi muttered, allowing herself to be pulled along.

Kimiko grinned.

Sometime later, the wind picked up. Another storm began to blow. The sides of the tent fluttered and snapped like a battle banner. Kimiko snuggled down into Ayumi’s warm embrace and sated, fell asleep to the sound of snow falling from the clouds.

THE END

Glossary ~~~o0o0o0o~~~ Return to the Library

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Table of Contents

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Stand and Deliver

Truth in Love: A Solstice Tale

Heaven in Her Face

All That Glitters

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

I Dream of Genies

Claws and Effect

Room for One More

Dead as a Doornail

Appetite

Lulu and Butterbean On the Road to Nowhere

Lulu and Butterbean Go to Perdition

Lulu and Butterbean: Teased to Death

Lulu and Butterbean Wake the Dead

ulu and Butterbean Cheat the Devil

Crybaby Bridge

Bark at the Moon

Hell Come A-Walkin'

Come Dawn

Spirits White as Lightning

Lulu and Butterbean: Scrump-Deadly-Icious

Lulu and Butterbean Face the Music

Lulu and Butterbean Go House Haunting

Lulu and Butterbean Get a Wild Hair

Thirteen

Dolorosa: Our Lady of Darkness

Through a Glass Darkly

Flesh of My Flesh

Best Served Cold

"I"of the Beholder

Sweet Comfort Blues

Rip-"Her"

For the Love of Irina

Resurrection at Rest

Living Doll

Moonlight and Blood Red Peonies

Lily White

Murasaki Midnight

Between the Flowers and the Moon

Picker of the Slain

Mouth Tale of Giants

Raven's Mead

A Feast of Eagles

Azumaya: The Eastern House

Hotaru: Fireflies

Onna Yugao: Lady of the Evening Faces

Shorogejo: The Weeping Maid