But there were a couple of hundred high school seniors here to party—someone would have booze.
And he could guess who. He hurried back to the ballroom, and pushed his way through the gathered hordes at the door, where he found his way blocked by a collection of Alex Pettigrews.
“Alex!” he said.
He counted seven heads that turned toward him—which meant one surplus Alex was already inside. That could be bad.
“We’ll let you in, one at a time, in a few minutes,” he said. “Ginny’s inside. But we’ll do this in an orderly fashion, according to the rules!”
They stared silently at him.
“First, you need to let everyone else through. When they’re all inside, you get your turn. Not before.”
The seven stepped aside, in a shuffling mass of tux-covered elbows and knees. The crew guarding the door stared at him in amazement, then hastily began admitting eager prom-goers.
Ken slipped inside himself and looked around.
Cherisse and the real Alex were still in line for the photographer—but only one more couple was ahead of them.
And at the far end of the room Ginny Vogtman, close to tears, was standing between two blank-faced Alexes a few steps from the punchbowl. Ms. Roshwald was standing guard over the punchbowl itself, watching Ginny and her dates, but doing nothing to intervene—she obviously considered protecting the punch her first duty.
Ken scanned the rest of the crowd, and spotted his target—Ray Kowalski, chatting with two of his buddies while their three dates stood nearby, looking rather disgruntled. Ken strode over.
“All right, Ray,” he said, “hand it over.”
Ray blinked at him, startled. “Hand over what, Mr. Harris?” He glanced at his pals, who were stepping back, pretending they didn’t know him.
“The bottle. Gin, right?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking…”
“Oh, come on, Ray. Hand it over now and I won’t tell anyone—no cops, no call to your parents, you can go on as if nothing happened. I’ve got enough to do without ratting on you.” He looked meaningfully at the other two. “If it’s one of you who has it instead, and that’s why Ray’s playing innocent, speak up. This is your last chance to get off clean.”
“I don’t know anything about it, Mr. Harris,” Sparky Boone said.
“Give it up now and I won’t check your cars,” Ken said.
The three boys exchanged glances, and Ray reluctantly produced a Perrier bottle from under his tux.
“It’s vodka,” he said. “Not gin.”
“Good enough,” Ken said, taking the bottle. “And I won’t check your cars, but play it smart, okay? Don’t do anything that’ll draw the cops. And don’t drive again afterward until you’ve sobered up.”
“Yessir.”
Ken turned away, the bottle in hand—as a chaperone he could carry a Perrier openly, without drawing suspicion. Behind him he heard Sparky say, “Hey, that was pretty cool of him. For a teacher.”
Ken made his way to Ginny; he walked up to her and asked, “Are you all right?”
She stared at him helplessly, and gestured silently at the two copies of Alex that flanked her. Both of them stared blankly at Ken.
“Aren’t you supposed to be seeing that she has a good time?” Ken asked.
“Of course,” one of them said.
“She doesn’t look happy to me,” Ken said.
Both Alexes turned to stare at Ginny, who looked ready to burst into tears.
Ken tapped the nearer one on the shoulder. “You look thirsty,” he said, holding out the Perrier bottle. “It might cheer her up if you took a swig of this.”
The thing looked at Ken for a moment, then accepted the bottle. “Would this please you?” it asked.
Ginny looked to Ken for a sign, and Ken nodded vigorously.
“Yes,” she said.
The Alex lifted the bottle and drank—and vanished with a sharp crack and a puff of bluish smoke. Ken dove forward to catch the bottle before it hit the ground, and managed to only spill a little.
“Damn firecracker startled me,” he said loudly. “Who threw that?”
A score of surprised faces turned to stare, including Ms. Roshwald—but Ms. Roshwald stood by her post at the punchbowl.
“Come on, who was it?” Ken demanded.
His audience retreated, and he grabbed the remaining imitation Alex by the arm. “Was that you, Pettigrew?”
Ginny was staring at him, astonished—but she seemed slightly less upset. That was good. It was almost certain that at least one girl in attendance would wind up crying before the night was over, but Ken was in no hurry to see it happen.
“I did not throw a firecracker,” the other Alex said.
“Then who did?”
“No one.”
Ken pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I think it was you.”
Alex didn’t answer, and Ken moved on. “So, Alex,” he said, offering the bottle, “would you like a drink?”
“No,” Alex said. “It’s not allowed.”
Ken nodded; he had expected as much. These things weren’t very bright, but they could learn from observation.
“You wait right here, then,” he said. “Ms. Vogtman, you’ll see that he doesn’t slip out, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Ginny said, looking uneasily at the remaining Alex.
Ken released him, and took a few quick steps to Ms. Roshwald.
“Ellie,” he said, “how long has that slavedriver had you posted here?”
“Oh, not that long,” Ms. Roshwald protested. “Not more than an hour.”
“I’ll take a turn,” Ken said. “You go take a break, then take a turn at the door, why don’t you?”
“Thank you,” she said. “I could use a break. Do you know, I was seeing double for a moment?” She looked at Ginny and Alex. “I thought I saw two of him. It cleared up when that firecracker went off, though.”
“Funny how that can happen,” Ken said. “You go ahead and get a little rest.” He gave her a friendly little shove—and a moment later the punchbowl was his.
He clattered about with cups and the ladle to cover pouring the remaining vodka into the punchbowl.
He was committing one of the cardinal sins a chaperone could commit, but at this point he didn’t care; he just wanted to get rid of the extra Alexes before they mobbed poor Ginny. And a pint or so of vodka diluted by a punchbowl that size wouldn’t be enough to impair a healthy teenager, in any case.
When he had finished his maneuvers, including refilling the Perrier bottle with ginger ale from the supplies under the table, he straightened up, brushed himself off, and called, “Ginny!”
Ginny was already watching him; he beckoned.
She came, with Alex following close behind.
“Have some punch,” Ken said, holding out a cup.
Ginny took it and sipped. Her eyes widened.
“And I think your boyfriend wants some,” he said.
“Yes,” Ginny said. “Have some, Alex.”
Alex hesitated, and asked, “No one has spiked it?”
“There’s been a teacher guarding it every minute,” Ken said. “How could anyone spike it?”
Alex nodded, accepted a cup, and sipped.
This time Ken didn’t catch the cup; it clattered on the floor, spilling its contents, but did not break.
“All right,” Ken bellowed, striding forward, “who’s throwing those firecrackers? Whoever it is, when I catch him—well, you may not all be graduating on schedule!”
No one confessed; after a moment of belligerent posing, Ken shrugged and turned back to Ginny.
“Mr. Harris,” she said, “what’s going on? Who were those two? What were they?”
This had obviously gone beyond the point a
t which deception was any use. “Have you ever met Alex’s Aunt Margaret?” Ken asked.
Ginny’s eyes widened. “The witch?”
Ken glowered; why had everyone known about this witch but him?
But that wasn’t fair, he realized; Ginny was Alex’s close friend. They’d hung out together for years. If anyone would know, she would.
“Yeah, her,” Ken said. “Alex couldn’t make it, so he asked his Aunt Margaret to conjure up someone to come in his place. Only she messed up and sent nine of them.” He pointed at the door. “They’re all out there, waiting, and they all have orders to find you and make sure you have a good time.”
“Nine of them?” She glanced uneasily at the door.
“Well, seven, now—they can’t drink alcohol. It breaks the spell. Those two who got in here are gone.”
“So you spiked the punch?”
“Someone had to.”
Ginny giggled nervously.
“Look,” Ken said, “I’m going to let them in, one at a time. You feed each one a cup of punch, and then I’ll send the next. You can keep the last one, if you like.”
“Where’s the real Alex?” she asked.
“Not coming,” Ken said. “It’s a long story, and I’ll let him tell you himself on Monday.”
Ginny frowned. “He isn’t here? Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. Let’s get these imitations dealt with, okay?”
Ginny gulped and straightened up—which did interesting things to the bodice of her dress, but Ken tried not to notice that. She nodded.
“Good!” he said, as he headed for the door.
After reassuring Ms. Jonas that he knew what he was doing, he leaned out into the hallway and pointed to one of the waiting Alexes. “You,” he said. “You can go in. Ginny’s by the punchbowl.”
The spirit-creature did not offer any thanks, nor smile, but headed directly in the indicated direction.
A moment later he heard a snap.
“Another firecracker,” he said to Ms. Jonas. “I hope nobody blows off any fingers.” Then he leaned out into the hallway. “Next!” he called.
It didn’t take long to dispose of the rest—but after the first three the delay before the telltale crack grew longer each time. Somewhere around the fifth one the band stopped playing.
When he admitted the last one Ken followed it in and watched.
As he had expected, the false Alex made a beeline for Ginny—but then it paused, a few feet away from her, looking around warily. The things were stupid, but not that stupid—it must have realized, when it saw none of its companions, that it was walking into a trap.
It was also walking into full view of a good-sized crowd. Ginny stood alone by the punchbowl, but just about everyone else at that end of the room had collected into a circle around her, watching.
Ken frowned. He should have expected that. The cover story about firecrackers was all very well for the sound, but someone must have seen a false Alex vanish and pointed it out.
The final Alex walked into the circle and said, “Hello, Ginny.”
“Hello, Alex,” Ginny replied calmly.
“Where did the others go?” Alex asked.
“I sent them away,” she said. “You’re supposed to make sure I have a good time, and I don’t like crowds, so I gave them some errands to run.”
“I didn’t see them go.”
Ginny shrugged. She ladled out a cup of punch. “Join me in a drink?” she said.
Alex approached cautiously, accepted the cup she offered, then lifted it to his mouth—and sniffed it warily.
“I think it’s been spiked,” he said.
Ginny glared at him. “What if it has?” she said.
“I’m not supposed to drink alcohol.”
“And what if I insist?”
Alex hesitated.
Ginny glowered at him, then said, “I am not in the mood for any more of this.” She swung a fist, and knocked the cup up out of Alex’s hand, spraying sweet red liquid all over his face. He opened his mouth to speak, and punch dripped in.
He popped and vanished, leaving a curl of smoke.
Ginny turned and spotted Ken. “Mr. Harris,” she called, “are there any more?”
“Nope,” Ken said cheerfully. “That was the last of ’em.”
“Then what about this one?” demanded a voice from the crowd.
Ken and Ginny turned to see Cherisse shoving Alex forward into the cleared area.
“We came over to see what was happening,” Cherisse said. “Imagine my surprise!”
“Alex,” Ginny said. She stepped forward and grabbed Alex by the lapel. “Are you the real one?”
“Uh…”
“Give him some punch!” someone called from the gathered audience.
Ginny dragged Alex to the punchbowl. “Drink,” she ordered.
Alex obeyed; his hand, as he filled the ladle, was not steady, but he managed to get half a cup of punch. He drank it down in a single gulp.
He did not vanish in a puff of smoke.
“I’m the real one,” he said miserably. “Ginny, I…”
Ginny interrupted him. “You’re the real Alex?”
He nodded.
“You got your Aunt Margaret to whip up those phonies so you could bring Cherisse instead of me?”
He nodded again.
“Then I’ve got another punch for you,” she said, as she hauled off and punched him.
She was aiming for his nose, but he tilted his head back at the sight of her approaching fist, so the blow caught him square on the chin. His head snapped back and he fell back, slamming into the table and sending table and punchbowl crashing to the floor.
Ken smiled. Now he wouldn’t need to worry about anyone else drinking the spiked punch.
“Clean up!” he called. “We need some clean-up here!”
No one paid any attention; instead the gathered observers burst into applause. “Yeah, Ginny!”
“Atta girl!”
“Good one!”
“You go, girl!”
Ginny stood, waiting, her hands on her hips, as Alex managed to disentangle himself and get slowly back to his feet. He looked at Ginny, then turned his head to look at Cherisse.
She was gone.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He turned and began shuffling toward the door, dripping candy-apple-red as he walked.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Ginny demanded.
“I’m not looking for Cherisse,” Alex said. “She’s probably just as mad as you are.”
“So where are you going?”
“Home, I guess.”
“Oh, no, you aren’t! You invited me to this prom, and you are not about to stand me up now!”
That elicited another round of applause.
Just then a squad of volunteers arrived, armed with sponges and paper towels, and attacked the mess. That added a new dimension to the chaos, and for a moment Ken lost sight of Alex and Ginny.
Then the pair emerged from the crowd. Ginny had a death-grip on Alex’s arm and was guiding him.
“I have been standing here by this stupid buffet dealing with those idiot replicas for hours,” she said, “and I have had enough of that. Now we’re going to go get our picture taken, and no, you may not change out of that tux, I want to remember you just as you are, and after that, when the band remembers they’re supposed to be providing music, we are going to dance, Alex Pettigrew, and you damned well better lead!”
Alex blinked wordlessly as he was dragged past.
Ken watched them go, and smiled.
That was taken care of.
Now he had to get on with his regular duties, and make sure Ray didn’t get another bottle of booze in, that nobody spiked the punchbowl once it was refilled…
&nb
sp; After all, seventeen-year-old kids didn’t need to try to cause trouble. Seventeen-year-old kids are trouble.
OUT OF THE WOODS
Jenny slammed on the brakes and prayed the car would stop in time; the man who had stumbled onto the road in front of her showed no sign of moving out of the way, he was just standing there.
The tires squealed, and the car slewed sideways and came to a stop—and the man wasn’t there. Jenny kept her hands locked on the steering wheel as she turned her head and stared out the passenger-side window.
She saw only empty road, huge dark trees, and drifting wisps of mist.
Had she imagined it? These English roads were narrow and winding and made her nervous, and the thick surrounding woods were spooky, but she hadn’t thought she was far enough gone to be hallucinating.
Getting out of London for at least a few days of her month in Britain had seemed like a good idea, but right now she wasn’t at all sure it hadn’t been a major mistake.
The rental car had stalled, and she decided against trying to start it right away; instead she turned off the ignition and got out, pocketing the key.
She looked around, at forest on either side, at the empty road curving out of sight in either direction.
And then a muddy shape rose up out of the roadside ditch, not a dozen feet away, and she almost screamed, but at the last moment managed to turn it into a gasp.
It was the man, the man she had almost run down—he must have flung himself into the ditch at the last instant.
“Are you all right?” she called, once she’d caught her breath.
“Aye,” he said.
Jenny grimaced. Only in rural Britain would anyone who spoke English say “aye” instead of “yeah.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t see you sooner,” she said. “Do you need a lift somewhere?” The rental car company wouldn’t like it if she got their upholstery all muddy, but she was paying enough that they could afford to clean it, and she had almost run the fellow down—a lift seemed like the least she could do.
“How do you say, lady?” the man replied—or at least, that was her best guess at his words. It might almost have been “lad” instead of “lady,” but she gave him the benefit of the doubt.
The Lawrence Watt-Evans Fantasy Page 17
