Then she turned, and found Buk approaching from the bushes.
“Not bad,” he admitted, as Arulla removed the helmet and shrank back to her normal form. “How did you know it would work?”
“I remembered you and the others back at the temple,” Arulla said. “The transformation scared you all silly.”
Buk grimaced. “That’s different,” he said. “We’re men; it’s a dragon. Why did you think it would react the same way?”
Arulla smiled sweetly.
“Because it was just as obnoxious as you are, brother dear,” she said. Then she threw him the Helmet of Justice’s Balance and began the long walk home, her hips swaying, comfortable in her own shape.
CHAPERONE
“It’ll be easy,” she’d said. “Just keep an eye on them, that’s all. Make sure they don’t spike the punch, that sort of thing. They’re kids trying to act grown up—nobody’s there to cause trouble.”
He snorted at the memory. Seventeen-year-old kids didn’t need to try to cause trouble. Seventeen-year-old kids are trouble. They were bad enough in the classroom, with all the structure and discipline in place; give them money and fancy clothes and a chance to grope each other in public and you were just asking for disaster.
But it was his turn. He’d been teaching at Pierpont for eight years now, and had never yet chaperoned a dance or prom; he’d always found excuses before.
This year the excuses had run out—every other male faculty member had taken a turn or two, and he hadn’t; no one else wanted the job; and as Ms. Jonas had explained, at least one male chaperone was required in case real muscle was needed, and to make periodic sweeps through the men’s room.
So here he was, wearing his best suit, on his way to stand guard over the Pierpont Senior Prom to try to keep the public lewdness, alcohol poisoning, and general depravity to a minimum. He pulled into the hotel parking lot, found a space, then marched through the lobby to the ballroom.
It was a pleasant enough ballroom, with plastic chandeliers lighting the dance floor and red-flocked wallpaper half-hidden by the official “decorations.” A glittering banner reading “Congratulations Class of 2000!” hung on one wall. The caterers were moving back and forth along the buffet, but so far as he could see they weren’t actually doing anything, just making sure everything was in place. The photographer had set up a plastic floral arch in one corner at the opposite end of the room, and was sitting there looking bored; in the other corner at that end the band was unpacking their equipment. He watched the musicians for moment, wondering just how bad they would be, but then Ms. Jonas came hurrying up and grabbed his arm.
“Ken! Good, you’re here! We need you to go take a look around, make sure no one’s hidden anything in the halls or men’s room.”
“Hidden anything?” He eyed her warily. “Like what?”
She blinked at him. “Like liquor, of course. Or anything, you know, illegal. Or handcuffs. Anything like that.”
His eyebrows rose. “Handcuffs?”
She waved a hand dismissively. “That only happened once, and she wasn’t hurt.”
“You said you weren’t expecting trouble!” he protested.
“I’m not expecting it,” she said, exasperated. “I’m trying to prevent it. Right now, though, I’m busy here with the set-up, so would you be a dear and please take a look behind the fire extinguishers and in the men’s room and so on?”
It was something to do other than stand around, so he agreed, still grumbling for form’s sake.
He took his time about it, rambling through the entire hotel, checking every odd corner and every stall in every men’s room—after all, if anyone objected to his absence, he could say he was doing as instructed. He found three cigarettes and half a can of beer in a potted plant at the entrance to the hotel pool, but nothing else at all suspicious.
By the time he returned to the ballroom the first kids had arrived and were milling about aimlessly—one couple was determinedly waiting for the photographer, who was nowhere to be seen, though his assistant was sitting by the arch looking worried. The band was tuning up, and so far didn’t sound as bad as he had feared. Ms. Jonas had set up a receiving line at the entrance, greeting couples as they arrived and directing them to the souvenir keychains.
Ken watched a couple work their way in—Alex Pettigrew and Cherisse McAllister, he uncomfortable in a tux, she right at home in a stunning low-cut ice-blue dress. He knew them both from class, and was startled to see them together—he had known that Cherisse had broken up with her thug of a boyfriend, Ray Kowalski, but how had Alex ever managed to snag her for the prom? Ken had thought Alex was beneath Cherisse’s notice, and besides, he’d been keeping company with Ginny Vogtman.
Kids were full of surprises.
Then someone tugged gently at his sleeve. “Mr. Harris? Ms. Jonas asked me to get you…”
A moment later Ken found himself in charge of distributing keychains displaying the school logo and the gold caption, “Beyond the Fields We Know.”
That wasn’t quite as trite a theme as one might expect from a prom, but then there had been a great deal of fuss about this being the last senior prom of the twentieth century, with traditionalists pitted against futurists in choosing a theme; this had been a compromise.
Ken rather liked it, but the keychains were still astonishingly ugly. He had been told his job was to make sure no one grabbed more than one, but he couldn’t imagine why anyone would want more than one.
But he did as he was told.
The band started playing, opening with a fairly slow number he didn’t recognize, presumably a recent hit; the first dancers wandered out onto the floor.
The kids looked good, he noticed—better than he had expected, and far better than their rather tacky surroundings. A few boys were still not up to the challenge of a tux, and a few girls had overestimated their skill with make-up or misjudged how best to display their figures in choosing their dresses, but most were amazingly elegant and quite adult in their appearance. Rudy Ballenger’s hair was combed for the first time in Ken’s memory; Yuriko Yagama actually had a bosom when not wearing a grubby sweatshirt.
It was all illusion, he knew; next week they’d be back to their old selves. For now, though, the students parading past him could pass for sophisticated young adults.
Then Alex Pettigrew and Ginny Vogtman stepped up to get their keychains, and Ken blinked. He turned and glanced over his shoulder at the growing crowd of dancers.
“Didn’t you already get one?” Ken asked Alex.
The boy blinked slowly, just once. “No,” he said. “That must have been someone else.”
Ken was quite sure it hadn’t been anyone else, that Alex had already come past with Cherisse McAllister, but when he saw the kid’s blank expression he decided not to press it. He shrugged. “Must have been,” he agreed.
He watched as the two of them headed for the buffet, then turned to look at the dancers.
Sure enough, there was Cherisse, dancing with Alex Pettigrew—or someone very much like him.
And Alex had noticed Ken’s attention. He stumbled, then apologized to his partner and led her to a table. Once Cherisse was settled and looking only slightly disgruntled, Alex hurried over to Ken.
“Mr. Harris,” he said, “I saw you looking at us. Is something wrong?”
“You tell me,” Ken said. “Look at those two at the buffet first, though.”
“You mean Ginny and her date?” Alex said, without bothering to look.
“Yeah. Do you have a twin we don’t know about, Alex?”
“Sort of.” He looked furtively around and lowered his voice. “Listen, Mr. Harris, can you keep a secret?”
“Depends what it is. I think you’ve gone far enough now that you better tell me anyway.”
Alex hesitated, then said, “My Aunt Margaret’s a witch.”
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“A witch?”
“Yeah. A real witch. She does magic.”
Ken prided himself on being open-minded, and put aside for the moment the question of whether there really were witches. “And this has what to do with your mysterious double?” he asked.
“Aunt Margaret made him. He’s a doppelganger, a copy.”
Ken stared at Alex for a long moment before deciding the boy was serious.
“Why?” he asked.
Alex glanced uneasily over his shoulder at Cherisse, who was waiting impatiently. He leaned forward, almost whispering.
“I’ve had a crush on Cherisse since ninth grade,” he said. “I mean, look at her! Who wouldn’t?”
Ken refrained from saying that he wouldn’t—Cherisse was too brassy for his tastes. “Go on,” he said.
“I always figured I never had a chance, but when she broke up with Ray, I thought that this might be, you know, that window of opportunity, that one time you have to grab for the gold ring…”
“This isn’t an essay question, Alex. You can cut the bull.”
“Right. Anyway, I asked her to the prom, and she said no, but she was nice about it, so then I asked Ginny, because you know, she’s been my friend for years, and then Cherisse called up and said she’d changed her mind, and I couldn’t say no when I’d asked her, could I? And I didn’t want to hurt Ginny’s feelings, but I couldn’t be in two places at once. So I went to Aunt Margaret for advice, and she said I could be in two places at once—that she could summon up this spirit and make it look like me. And here we are.”
“So you’re the real one, and you’re with Cherisse, and Ginny gets the phony?”
Alex blushed. “Well, yeah,” he said. “I guess it’s kind of scummy, isn’t it?”
“Kind of,” Ken agreed.
“But Mr. Harris, I’m stuck now! And if they find out we’ll all be miserable, so can you please help me keep it quiet?”
Ken sighed. He wondered whether this was any better than booze or handcuffs; at least it was different. “I’ll try,” he said.
“Thank you!” Alex grabbed Ken’s hand and shook it, then turned and hurried back to Cherisse.
Ken watched for a moment as the band began a new, much louder and faster tune, then looked down the other end of the room, where Ginny and the other Alex were standing.
This was going to be interesting, seeing whether they could avoid each other. He wondered just who Alex’s Aunt Margaret was, and how she had managed it—he had never heard of a modern-day witch who could do such a thing.
Then he turned his attention back to distributing souvenir keychains.
He looked up a moment later, glancing at the ballroom door to see whether any end to the stream of arrivals might be in sight, and blinked in surprise.
Alex Pettigrew was standing there, talking to Ms. Jonas.
Ken quickly turned and spotted Alex and Cherisse waiting in line for the photographer; he turned again, and saw Alex and Ginny making their way toward the dance floor. He took another look—and not only was Alex talking to Ms. Jonas, another Alex was in the hallway outside the ballroom door, talking to a couple of other boys.
“Excuse me,” he said. He quickly motioned for Ms. Liaw the biology teacher to take over the keychains and headed for the photography line.
“Excuse me, Ms. McAllister,” he said, pulling Alex out of line by one elbow, “but I need a word with your escort.”
“What is it?” Alex said, going pale.
Ken didn’t say anything; he just pointed, carefully keeping his hand where Cherisse couldn’t see it.
Alex looked, and went from slightly pale to bone-white.
“I have to get Cherisse out of here,” he said. “If she sees she’ll kill me!”
“I doubt Ginny will be thrilled, either,” Ken said drily.
“I can explain to Ginny,” Alex said, “but Cherisse…!”
“Suit yourself,” Ken said. “If I were you, though, I think I’d want a word with Aunt Margaret.”
Alex swallowed as he stared at the door; Ken turned to see yet another Alex ambling in.
“At least those three came stag,” Ken said. “You’d spend the rest of your life hiding from your dates otherwise.”
“Mr. Harris,” Alex said, “I have got to get Cherisse out of here! Could you call my Aunt Margaret? Please? And ask her what to do?” He rummaged in the pocket of his tux and pulled out a crumpled slip of paper. “Here’s her number.”
Ken hesitated. This wasn’t really any of his business. He was supposed to be here to keep out booze and break up fights, not mess around with witchcraft gone wrong.
But on the other hand, those surplus Alexes might well start a few fights, and he was desperately curious to hear what Aunt Margaret would say. He took the paper.
“Thank you!” Alex gasped; then he turned back to Cherisse and said, “I need some fresh air—could we go outside for a moment?”
Ken saw her jaw drop. “But we’re in line,” she said. “We’ll lose our place!”
Alex looked helplessly at her, then glanced at Ken. Ken shrugged. Then he turned toward the door.
Ms. Jonas was glaring at two of the Alexes. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing…” she began.
“I do,” Ken said, coming up behind them and grabbing an Alex with each hand. “Come on, you two—the real Alex told me all about your little prank.” He leaned over and told Ms. Jonas, “They don’t even go to Pierpont. I’ll take care of them.” Then he hustled them out the door.
They put up no real resistance; in the lobby they passed two more Alexes.
“You!” Ken said. “Come with me.”
The others ignored him, but he was able to herd the two he held out to the parking lot. There he released them and said, “I know who and what you are, but I’m not going to try to convince anyone of that; instead, I am going to maintain that you are pranksters with forged I.D. who have no right to attend this prom. Now, go away!”
“I need to find Ginny Vogtman,” the right-hand Alex said, in a curiously flat voice.
“So do I,” said the other.
“No, you don’t,” Ken said. “One of you is already with her, and that’s plenty.”
“We were summoned and bound, and instructed to accompany her here in the guise of Alex Pettigrew,” the left-hand doppelganger said.
“That was a mistake. One of you was supposed to accompany her, not five.”
“There are nine of us in all,” the right-hand Alex said.
“Nine,” Ken said. “Nine?”
“I do not think we should speak with you further,” the left one said. “We must find Ginny Vogtman and see that she has a good time.”
“If all nine of you find her,” Ken said, “she won’t.”
Neither Alex replied, but their blank faces made it clear they weren’t convinced, and Ken, uncomfortably aware that there were six more superfluous Alexes around, all presumably in pursuit of Ginny Vogtman, decided he could not waste any more time on these two.
“Go away,” he said, shoving them. Then he turned back to the hotel entrance.
They followed him in, but he ignored them and hurried to the hotel desk.
“I need a phone with an outside line,” he said. “It’s an emergency.”
A moment later he stood, receiver in hand, listening to the phone ring on the other end of the line and watching half a dozen copies of Alex Pettigrew arguing with the door guards, while a crowd of puzzled promgoers gathered around them, waiting for the blockage to be cleared.
“Hello?” A woman had picked up. She did not sound at all like the traditional cackling Hallowe’en witch.
“Hello; I’m Ken Harris, one of the teachers at Pierpont High. I’m trying to reach Alex Pettigrew’s Aunt Margaret,” Ken said.
“That’s me
,” the voice on the other end replied. “Something’s gone wrong, hasn’t it?”
“You don’t know?”
“Not what went wrong,” she said. “But it didn’t feel right.”
Ken hesitated, then decided to be blunt. “Alex tells me you’re a witch, and that you summoned up these nine copies of him that are causing trouble here.”
“Nine?”
Ken noticed she didn’t argue with any of the rest of the bizarre accusation. “Well, at least half a dozen, and one of them said nine.”
“Oh, damn. I said ‘spirits’ when I meant ‘spirit,’ but I didn’t think…nine?”
“Yes. And they’re causing rather a stir here—they all insist on finding Ginny Vogtman. Now, could you please tell me how to get rid of them?”
“They’ll all disappear at dawn—they’re spirits of the night, and the sun will dissolve their material forms.”
“Dawn?” Ken looked at his watch; it wasn’t quite ten o’clock. “Isn’t there any way to get rid of them sooner?”
“Let me think,” Margaret said. “I told them to accompany Ginny Vogtman, to treat her well and see that she has a good time, not to harm her, not to start any fights or drink anything alcoholic…if you can force them to break one of those orders, that would break the spell and free that spirit.”
“In other words, as long as they behave themselves, there’s nothing I can do?”
“Nothing I can think of,” Margaret said unhappily.
“Well, thank you,” Ken said. He hung up abruptly as he realized he didn’t know Margaret’s last name and was past the point he could gracefully ask for it.
No fighting, no alcohol—if he could just get a little booze into them, that should do it. But they wouldn’t voluntarily disobey orders; he’d need to get them to drink without them realizing what they were drinking until it was too late.
If the punch were spiked…
But he had orders from Ms. Jonas to make sure the punch was not spiked.
Well, this wouldn’t be the first time he disobeyed the principal’s orders. Now he just needed something to add to the punch. The hotel bar was closed and locked—Ms. Jonas had insisted on that. The nearest liquor store was miles away.
The Lawrence Watt-Evans Fantasy Page 16
