The Mistress of Illusions

by Michael D. Resnick

  “That seems a reasonable assumption,” agreed Raven.

  “I would hope so, but how can one know, given what he becomes at night?”

  One more line like that and I’m going to have to start asking questions, thought Raven.

  “Well, I hope everyone’s defenses are up,” he said.

  “How does one defend against dozens of monsters on horseback?” she replied. “You just hope they’re after someone else, or that you’re so difficult to find that they go after easier targets, or—”

  “I get the idea,” he said, reaching out and holding her hand. He half expected her to shudder, or at least tell him to let go, but instead she looked at him and smiled.

  “We’ll survive,” she said. “We were fine before Wickham and his horde discovered Meryton, and we’ll be fine after he moves on to greener pastures.”

  “Or until someone stops him,” said Raven.

  She looked at him and offered him a sad little smile. “If someone could, they’d already have done it.”

  He spotted a small tea shop across the street, put a hand in his pocket to make sure he had money, and resisted the urge to see what two-century-old currency looked like.

  “Come on,” he said, offering her his arm. “I’ll buy you a cup of . . . tea.” Damn! Gotta watch it! Almost said “coffee.”

  She took his arm and they walked to the tea shop, then sat at a small table by a window.

  “If you’d like something else, or something more, you’ve but to ask,” he said, hoping he sounded like a civilized country gentleman.

  “Tea will be quite sufficient,” she replied.

  He signaled to a servant, they ordered, and then he closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated.

  If you’re there, Rofocale, I could use some help, or at least some advice. What the hell am I doing in a Jane Austen novel?

  If she is right about Wickham and his creatures, it’s not a Jane Austen novel, came the answer.

  You’re awake! thought Raven excitedly.

  Briefly.

  What the hell am I doing here, and how do I get back to my New York and the real Lisa?

  There are some things I can’t tell you, Eddie, replied Rofocale, and some I won’t tell you. You have skills and abilities of which you remain unaware, which you haven’t yet drawn upon—and you have a unique destiny.

  What are you talking about? I’ve been a Munchkin and a wizard and a monster. How the hell much more unique can my destiny be? Can’t you at least tell me why this is happening to me?

  Telling you would not help, Eddie.

  Why don’t you tell me and let me decide?

  All will become clear to you before too much longer. In the meantime, to borrow one of your own expressions, you must play it by ear.

  You’ve got to tell me a little more than that, demanded Raven.

  But there was no answer, and somehow he knew that, unlike the last few times they’d been in contact, Rofocale hadn’t passed out or gone back into a coma, but had simply chosen to break the connection.

  “Are you quite all right, Mr. Darcy?”

  He blinked and looked across the table, where Lisa/Elizabeth was staring at him with some concern.

  He grimaced. “Daydreaming,” he said. “A bad habit. I apologize.”

  “I’m just glad to know you’re all right,” she replied. “You had me quite concerned for a moment.”

  “I’ll try not to do it again,” answered Raven.

  The servant arrived with the tea.

  “Thanks,” said Raven. “How much will it be?”

  “The usual,” was his answer.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out a bill, and handed it to the waiter.

  “Thank you, sir!” said the waiter with a huge smile.

  Oh, shit, thought Raven. Next time I’d better look—but what the hell do I know about what any denomination is worth in this era?

  “One of the things I admire about you, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth, “is that you are generous with both your time and your money. So many men in your position hoard what they have, when it is capable of bringing so much joy to so many without doing any noticeable harm to your own standing.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. You know, he found himself thinking, this is a beautiful little town, a much simpler era, I’m filthy rich, and whatever she calls herself, she’s my Lisa. I could stay here forever.

  Then he remembered that forever could be ending in another eight or ten hours if he didn’t make preparations to survive Wickham and whatever constituted his hordes.

  Ah, well, we’ll kill all the bad guys, especially the one who shot you back in New York, and then live happily ever after.

  “I wish it was as easy as you make it sound.”

  He stared across the table. “Did you say something, Lisa?”

  “No,” she replied. “And it’s Elizabeth.”

  Rofocale, I know you don’t want to talk, but just tell me: Was that her?

  Possibly, came the answer.

  8

  “It’s getting late,” noted Raven. “We’d better be going. I think we can defend ourselves better at Pemberley.”

  She shook her head. “That would feel like I was deserting my parents and my sisters,” she said.

  Suddenly they heard wild, inhuman screams from no more than a mile away.

  “That settles that,” said Raven. “We’d better find someplace to hide right here and hope they’re not looking for townspeople.”

  “They’re looking for anyone,” she replied, frowning. “You know that.”

  “True,” he said quickly. “I was just hoping aloud.”

  “I understand Mr. Bingley had some business in town today,” said Elizabeth. “Perhaps we can join up with him.”

  The screams came closer, and Raven shook his head. “There’s no time to go hunting for anyone,” he replied. “Let’s get out of sight.”

  He stood up, held out his hand, and led her to the kitchen, where the cook and the waiter stood trembling.

  There were more screams, and then they heard a body crash against the front door. Raven cracked open the kitchen door and took a look. A blood-spattered young man lay in the doorway, breathing his last.

  Suddenly they heard a rifle shot.

  This is crazy, thought Raven. There’s been more violence in the past two minutes than Jane Austen put in her entire literary output.

  “I know you’re in there, Darcy!” cried a voice.

  “Wickham!” whispered Elizabeth.

  “What the hell does he want with me?” wondered Raven aloud.

  “You exposed his sins and weaknesses to my family when he was courting my sister,” said Elizabeth. “He’s never forgiven you for it.”

  “You come out, Darcy, or my creatures will burn the place—and everyone who’s in it—down.”

  “Shit!” muttered Raven. He turned to the cook and waiter. “Anyone got a gun?”

  They both shook their heads, too frightened to speak.

  “Okay,” he said. “How about a butcher knife?”

  The chef reached for one, grabbed it, and handed it to Raven.

  “You’re not really going out there, are you?” asked Elizabeth.

  “No choice,” answered Raven. “If I don’t, he kills all four of us.”

  “Don’t go!” she said.

  “I have to.”

  “Please, Eddie.”

  Suddenly he froze. “You called me Eddie!”

  “Please stay!”

  “I’ll be back,” he promised, and walked out of the kitchen. He made his way through the restaurant, avoiding the dead body, and stepped out into the street.

  Facing him was a lean, well-groomed, well-dressed man on a chestnut horse . . . and forty creatures, all on their bare m
isshapen feet, all ashen-white, all with cold, dead eyes and discolored pointed teeth, who may once have been men, though certainly not in years, probably decades.

  “I knew I’d find you here, Darcy,” said Wickham, clearly enjoying his moment of triumph.

  “Even you aren’t stupid enough not to find me in a village this size,” replied Raven. “Now what do you and your pets want?”

  “Did you hear that?” yelled Wickham to his horde. “He called you my pets!”

  “You give orders and they obey you,” replied Raven. “Isn’t that what pets do?”

  The creatures began looking uneasy.

  “Of course,” continued Raven, “you can beat them and belittle them and abuse them, and they’ll still obey you. I mean,” he added, “it’s not as if they can, or even could, think for themselves.”

  The creatures began muttering uneasily.

  “Listen to him!” yelled Wickham with a harsh laugh. “He thinks he can argue you into disobeying my commands!”

  “Of course not,” said Raven. “Why should they disobey you? I mean, hell, when all is said and done, you hold the power of life and death over them.” He paused, and the hint of a smile played on his lips. “Don’t you?”

  Now the muttering began in earnest.

  “Be careful not to get him mad,” continued Raven. “He’s just the type who would be happy to poison your food if you enrage him—and of course he has access to every last piece of it. I mean, he does feed you and pay you and give you all kinds of rewards for the service you render him.” And in case there were any French creatures in the group, he concluded with a smile and a “N’est ce pas?”

  “Shut your mouth, Darcy!” screamed Wickham. “Or I’ll cut your tongue out of your mouth before I kill you.”

  Raven smiled and addressed the horde. “Is that why none of you talk back to him? Is he a tongue collector? Think he’ll collect your eyeballs next?”

  He could tell they were considering what he said. He fell silent for a moment, not because of Wickham’s threats, but because he doubted the creatures could assimilate any more.

  “You’ve been begging for this, Darcy!” growled Wickham, sword in one hand and war club in the other.

  “Begging for it?” said Raven, frowning. “I’m been in this world half a day.”

  “And after I cut you into ribbons and feed you to my troops, I’m going to do the same thing with your lady.”

  Raven turned to see Elizabeth’s reaction, but she just stared at Wickham with an expression, not of loathing, but rather extreme distaste, as if he was too low on the evolutionary scale to elicit any stronger reaction.

  “And when I’m through with her,” continued Wickham, “I’ll feed her to my noble army!”

  “There’s not all that much of her to begin with,” said Raven to the creatures, “let alone enough to share in forty or fifty equal portions. If I was looking for a bigger, better meal, I’d look over there.” He jerked his thumb in Wickham’s direction.

  There were some mumbled assents, and Wickham began twitching nervously.

  “Are you going to listen to him, or to the noble leader who has led you time and again into glorious and victorious battle?” he screamed.

  “He’s got a point,” agreed Raven. “And surely he’s shared the spoils of battle with you. I mean, you all have fine new weapons and uniforms, don’t you? And you walk barefoot on unpaved and rocky roads while he leads you on horseback.” He paused. “I mean, he does lead you into battle, doesn’t he? He doesn’t hold back while you kill the most dangerous of the enemy’s army.”

  Now they began muttering in earnest again.

  Raven grinned and turned to Wickham. “Seriously, wouldn’t you rather go home and think about it for a while?”

  “I’ve been thinking about killing you for more than a while,” muttered Wickham.

  “Why?” said Raven. “What the hell have I ever done to you?”

  “You mean in this life?” shot back Wickham. “You tried to break up my pending marriage to one of the Bennet girls—the good-looking one.”

  “What kind of answer is that?” demanded Raven. “In this life? How many lives have you got?”

  “Enough,” muttered Wickham. “And I loathe you in all of them.”

  Raven frowned and stared at the man. There was something vaguely familiar about him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. But it wasn’t in this guise, in this milieu.

  Rofocale, are you there?

  No answer.

  Rofocale, this is important. Look through my eyes and tell me where I’ve seen this guy before.

  There was no answer.

  Thanks, was Raven’s bitter thought. It would have been nice to know who the hell he is before he butchers me.

  Raven tightened his grip on the knife and took a step forward.

  “Okay,” he said grimly, trying not to compare the knife with Wickham’s weapons. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Suddenly he heard a female voice scream.

  “Oh my God, Eddie! He’s the shooter from Mako’s!”

  Wickham muttered a curse, one never before heard in that century, and vanished. One instant he was there, swinging his sword; the next instant he was gone.

  Raven turned to the source of the scream.

  “Lisa?” he half said, half whispered.

  She nodded and held out her hand. “It’s time to go, Eddie.”

  “Where?” he asked, taking her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.

  “Anywhere but here,” she said just before they vanished.

  9

  Raven experienced a moment of utter cold and darkness. Then he opened his eyes and found himself back in his apartment. He looked around for Lisa, but she wasn’t there.

  He phoned the hospital, learned that she’d been released, and dialed her number, only to be told by an electronic voice that no such number existed.

  How could I forget it?

  He hunted up the phone book and looked for her name. It wasn’t there. Then he tried Information, which was unable to help him.

  “What the hell is going on?” he muttered.

  In quick order he tried to find a listing for the Eddie Raven Detective Agency and the underworld bar where he and Lisa had gone as Frankie and Euryale. No luck.

  He walked into the bathroom and stared at the mirror.

  “Same face I’ve seen since I was kid,” he said. He continued staring intently. “I don’t look crazy.” He sighed deeply. “But what sane man spends time as a man-made monster and an elegant Jane Austen character, to say nothing of the ones that came before? Damn it, Lisa, right at the end you knew the answer. Where are you now?”

  Well, if you can’t give me the answers I need, there’s one person who can—always assuming he’s still alive and hopefully awake. Raven frowned and concentrated. Rofocale, are you there?

  No response.

  Damn it, Rofocale—wake up, or come back to life, or whatever. I need some answers.

  He sensed that Rofocale was there—wherever there was—but he couldn’t elicit a response.

  He tried the phone book, and Information, and got the same response he’d received when asking for Lisa.

  So am I stuck here until I’m transformed into something else that makes no sense—or until someone or something tries to kill me?

  He sat perfectly still, eyes shut, fists opening and closing as his hands rested on the desk.

  Maybe, just maybe, there’s another way to go about this. This guy’s got to be on record somewhere, if only as a physical freak.

  He had a friend who worked for the police check to see if a Lucifuge Rofocale was wanted anywhere. The answer was no. He called the Secret Service and asked if they wanted a lead on the whereabouts of Lucifuge Rofocale. They’d never heard of him. Finally, he activat
ed his laptop, brought up Google, and typed in the name Lucifuge Rofocale.

  And even after all he’d been through, the response still startled him: Lucifuge Rofocale is the head of Hell’s Government—named by the Dark Prince himself in recognition of The Rofocale’s competence.

  Raven half frowned and half grimaced. “You’re kidding!” he muttered. Then he thought back over the last couple of weeks—his incarnations in Casablanca and Oz and Camelot and Africa, as a detective and a monster and a British gentleman—and he realized that the computer wasn’t kidding at all.

  “But why me?” he muttered. “I haven’t lived a perfect life, but I’ve never hurt anyone, at least not knowingly, I haven’t committed any felonies, I’ve just been a goddamned clothes merchant in the Garment District since I quit college. There’s got to have been a mistake!”

  I don’t make mistakes, Eddie, Rofocale’s thought came to him, weak but identifiable. Not of that magnitude.

  “What the hell do you want of me?” demanded Raven, half shouting into the empty room.

  You’ll know soon enough.

  Soon enough isn’t soon enough, thought Raven. Tell me now, damn it!

  He felt a mental chuckle at the other end of the connection.

  Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to curse at a demon, Eddie?

  Just tell me what the hell is going on, and what I have to do with it, or what it has to do with me!

  Patience, Eddie.

  Raven could tell the connection was broken.

  He spent a couple of minutes considering his options. When he eliminated those that were clearly not viable, he was left with only one: walk over to Rofocale’s room and find some way to get answers out of him, by clever questions if possible, or by physical force if necessary.

  He got to his feet, walked to his closet, and pulled out his jacket.

  “Damn it!” he muttered. “I always thought I was one of the good guys. Am I a demon, too?”

  “Never forget,” said a familiar voice, “that a demon is merely a fallen angel.”

  He turned and found himself facing Lisa, who was dressed in an elegant, flowing white gown.

  “Don’t be afraid, Eddie,” she said. “I am here to assuage your fears, not to exacerbate them.”