by P. R. Frost
“I haven’t won yet.” I didn’t go on to say that this regional writers conference award didn’t carry a lot of prestige. Yet. If they continued to put on a top quality conference like this weekend, it would gain in importance.
“Who’s your competition, Tess?” Penny asked. Her eyes moved constantly, weighing and assessing everyone in the noisy crowd. She looked a little more careworn and dowdy than the first time I met her, more like the aging woman with more bills than income that Mom had described.
“A mystery writer and a historical romance writer,” I replied, pointing out the man and woman in question at different tables.
“Lightweight stuff,” Gollum muttered.
I tilted my head in silent question.
“I read them both. You’re a shoo-in.”
“When did you read them?” I asked. He hadn’t known he was coming until Thursday.
“On the plane Thursday night. I read yours, of course, when it first came out. Got my first edition hardcover autographed, too.” He cocked me a grin that warmed my heart.
And suddenly I knew that I loved him. My heart seemed to swell until surely it would burst. My gaze locked on his, and the room faded to insignificance.
I just knew that my heart was safe with Gollum. Donovan could back me up in a fight, to keep me from physical harm. But Gollum protected me.
I squeezed his hand beneath the table, promising . . . I didn’t know what precisely I promised, only that we would talk.
My heart skipped a beat. But not from Gollum’s gentle caress of his thumb across my palm.
My body knew before my mind did, that Donovan walked into the room.
He looked magnificent, as always, freshly showered and shaved, wearing a custom tailored black suit, gray shirt, and silvery tie. The white slashes at his temples added distinction to his already noble profile. Every woman in the room, and quite a few men, riveted their attention on him as he wove through the tables. Quiet and calm followed in his wake.
Gollum immediately withdrew his hand from mine. He seemed to shrink inside himself as well.
I grew cold inside.
Mom didn’t need to wave to catch Donovan’s attention. He zeroed in on us—or me—the moment he passed through the door.
I heard a few sighs of disappointment as he bent to hug my mother with one arm. “You look lovely, Genevieve. I hope I get to hear you sing later.” His eyes met mine above her head. Cold, yet burning with resentment.
Penny and her date shifted to allow Donovan to sit next to Mom. At least I didn’t have to look at him across the table. Or feel his body heat beside me.
Instinctively, I edged my chair closer to Gollum so that our thighs touched. Our hands found each other again like magnets to iron.
Only two places left to fill at our table. The pretentious romance writer who wanted to rest on her laurels claimed the seat next to the agent. “I’m thinking of changing agents for my next project. Are you interested?” she demanded before she finished sitting.
“Talk about rude,” Penny said, rolling her eyes.
The writer didn’t seem to hear anything but the agent’s mumbled comments about needing a formal query and proposal.
“I’m an established writer. You need only look at my previous success,” she humphed and shifted her chair.
“In this business you are only as good as the next book,” the agent insisted and turned his attention to a writer at the table behind him.
The editor waved over Jack Weaver, the gentleman I’d met the first night who wrote police procedural mysteries. Obviously a friend, or client.
Did we have enough critical mass to overcome the negative vibes coming off Donovan and the romance writer?
Any further discussion was interrupted by waiters in formal livery bringing salads and taking drink orders.
Fortitude flew in, scouting the room. I didn’t dare follow his progress by turning my head and looking up. No one else could see him.
But I did check out the door, a normal action. Both Sancroix men stood, waiting and assessing. They wore suits that needed pressing with their ties loosened. From the flush on Junior’s face, I wondered if he’d been drinking.
Then I spotted a squarely built woman behind them. She wore an ill-fitting and dated gray taffeta dress that matched her bluntly cut short hair.
Sister Gert. Sancroix had suggested an old relationship with her. I thought I’d seen her in the distance at the St. George and Dragon. Something was up. Something strange.
And Scrap wasn’t around to scout for me.
Gert’s imp, Juniper, remained firmly on her shoulder. Maybe it was just the shadows but he looked darker than I remembered.
“I’d go greet Breven and his new wife, but I really don’t want to talk to Junior,” Mom whispered.
“New wife?” I nearly choked.
“At first I thought he was courting me, very attentive. Then I realized he was merely making me more comfortable singing in Junior’s hotel.”
“Hey, Tess, you going to sing tonight?” Jack Weaver interrupted. “I really enjoyed that victim song.”
His question distracted me from the newcomers. They took seats in the corner, their backs defensively to the walls. The two imps took up positions near the ceiling, two dark smudges against the white-and-gold scrollwork decorations.
“My Fairytale,” I corrected Jack, forcing my attention to my immediate companions. I gave him enough information to find the CD on-line.
“Yeah. That was really fun. I’ve been doing some web searches. I may have to change genres just so I can go to SF conventions and do more filk.”
“Actually,” his editor interrupted. “We’re starting a new imprint of SF/F mysteries. If you could set one of your usual styled stories on a space station and extrapolate forward some forensics gadgets, we might be able to open you to a new market and keep the old one.”
“I’ve been wanting to try out a scanner that would pick up from an eyeball the last thing a victim saw . . .” Jack mused. “I’d have to find a way to prove it’s reliable. Then I could get someone to screw with the settings or implant the wrong image . . .”
“SF readers tend to be pretty omnivorous,” I added. “Once they discover you, they are likely to cross over and read your backlist.”
“Then I can legitimately go to cons and enjoy more filk!”
Gollum took up the thread. He had a nice light baritone and filked with me at cons.
Donovan, however, avoided the free-for-all song fests. Though we’d met at High Desert Con last autumn, and he professed to be a fan, I’d only seen him at one other, in the Bay area when he and a family group dressed as bats.
At that fateful con in the high desert, my best friend from college had died tragically and unnecessarily. Gollum had stayed with me and helped me deal with the aftermath. Donovan had gone off to coddle and hide the children of some half-demon clients who had actually struck the killing blow on my friend.
I was better off with Donovan out of my life.
But I still needed his help getting that ring, and maybe the extra body to rescue the dancers.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of animated conversation and decent food. It was an awards banquet, after all. The food was standard fare, but nicely prepared and not overcooked.
Then Tanya, the organizer, took her place behind the podium. A nervous hush fell over the crowd. After the usual speeches and introductions, the guest editors began handing out the awards: cover art, short fiction, small press fiction, and lastly “Best Genre Book of the Year.”
Mom took my hand and held on tight.
Gollum took my other hand and pointedly kissed my palm.
Donovan continued to glower.
I lost to the historical romance writer. This was largely a romance-oriented crowd after all. Resignation rather than disappointment filled me. Fatigue crept up my spine.
“Well, now I can get back to work,” I muttered. I flicked my gaze to both Donovan and Gollum, s
o they’d know which job I intended to get back to.
They both nodded.
“After I listen to my mom sing, of course,” I added.
We all laughed and adjourned to the lounge.
Tess has settled in with Gollum. I am so happy. He’s the man she belongs with, not Mr. Stinky who never has smelled right, even for a fallen gargoyle. Stone and copper and desert sage and something rotten at the core don’t add up. I knew those scents never came from Lincoln Cathedral like he claimed. Now I know they come from the Citadel. There is more. Much, much more to learn.
I’d also like to know what Fortitude and Juniper are up to. Somehow, they don’t belong here, and not together.
The next window in time I find in the chat room, only a few years have passed since Lucia bartered sex for the ring. As I look over an ancient villa in Tuscany, I sense that the young blacksmith is no longer in the picture, either as far as the ring is concerned, or in Lady Lucia’s life.
I zero in on a walled garden. A gnarled old tree props up the western wall. Graceful benches of sunwashed stone rest beneath the shady boughs. A central fountain shows a nude nymph pouring water from an urn.
Long shadows fill the garden as the sun drops behind the western hills.
Lady Lucia, now a more mature and full-figured woman (she’s like twenty now by my calculations) plays with a blond toddler, probably a boy. A strand of pearls graces her neck—a typical wedding gift. Most pearls look alike to me, I haven’t studied them like I have that diamond on her hand. Something in this strand whispers to me that I should recognize them.
The little boy screams in delight and chases dandelion fluff she has blown for him. I guess he might be three. I do not know human children. They grow more quickly than imps. But they die sooner than we do, too. Unless the imp faces a murderous sibling. Then we die quite young.
Or should, if the murder goes as planned and doesn’t backfire.
But I digress.
A very angry count paces the garden. His dark hair and olive shin have little or nothing in common with the child. He’s at least forty, maybe older.
Lucia seems very unconcerned for the amount of rage pouring out of her husband.
“Send the child away. I will not look on him.”
“I prefer to keep your son close.” Lucia brings the child into a tight hug that ends in a tickle. He laughs delightedly, finding much joy in life and in his mama.
Oh, that I had ever known such joy and love!
“That is not my son,” the count spits. He is in a towering rage now. Spittle forms at the comers of his mouth. His swarthy skin takes on red hues from too much blood. He looks like he could stroke out at any moment.
“You acknowledged the boy at his birth,” Lucy reminds him.
“I did not know then what I know now. Who is his father?”
“I have slept with no man since our marriage,” Lucia spits back. I think she’s actually telling the truth. “Not that you have taken me to your bed very often. You seem to find the boys in the scullery more to your taste!” Now she’s mad, too.
Ah, he’s a man after my own heart, but a bit too long in the tooth for me. I like my men young and firm and strong. He might have been a soldier once, but now he’s had too many years of soft living and frequent loving. His belly sags and his jowls flop when he walks.
The babe senses the anger and begins to cry. Both parents ignore him. He runs to his mama and beats on her lap, demanding she fix this upset.
“But what of before our marriage?” the count yells. “You pushed for a quick wedding after your father and I agreed on the marriage contract.”
“I will not dignify this discussion by answering you.” She rises gracefully and gathers the child to her bosom. He cries pitifully against her shoulder.
“The villagers already whisper that I am cuckold.” the count sneers.
“Better a live cuckold than a dead vampire. They also whisper of that. They compare you to some ancient Carpathian who dined on the blood of his enemies.”
The count has the grace to grow pale with fear. “ ’Tis not me they call vampire—but you. You and the changeling child!”
“Only because you feed their fears and direct them away from yourself toward me.”
Before he can respond, angry shouts from the front gates spill into the closed courtyard. There is only one escape from here, through the villa. While they argue, the sun sets and the quarter moon rises.
I smell fire. Fire within and fire without. The villagers surround the villa. The walls may be of stone, but the floors and ceilings are old wood. Rotting wood. The once rich furnishings are brittle with age. One torch thrown through a window left open to catch the evening breeze begins an inferno.
The count tries climbing a wall.
The villagers catch him and drive a stake through his heart. Then they pour over the wall in search of his mate.
Lady Lucia twists the diamond-and-filigree ring on her finger. She twists and twists as she prays for deliverance.
A door opens in the air. She does not question it, does not look back. She takes with her only the clothes on her back, the pearls around her neck, and the child in her arms.
And just before she steps through, I see the pointed ears, elongated teeth and folds of bat wings beneath her arms.
Some distant, very distant, ancestor of hers was a Damiri demon; the same as Donovan’s foster father Darren, and apparently Tess’ husband Dill.
Chapter 33
Even though summer temperatures soar to 110 for days on end the average daily temperature in Las Vegas is only 66.3 degrees, due to relatively cool winters.
THE AWARDS CEREMONY seemed to adjourn en masse to the lounge. The winner and her friends needed to celebrate. The losers and their friends needed to commiserate. Drinks flowed fast and furious.
Mom ran through a series of upbeat show tunes before crooning a trilogy of bluesy torch songs. Once again, she managed to make her last note a long, haunting, melancholy memory. This was more than faery magic. It was Mom magic. My mom.
Her audience seemed almost in shock, on the verge of poignant tears. They’d go home with that note lingering in their minds for a long time.
I wished I knew how to do that with words at the end of a novel.
While Mom took a breath and a sip of water, my table mates pushed me toward the stage. “What do I sing?” I asked Gollum.
“ ‘Bimbo.’ What else?” We both laughed. The crowd was well populated with book people. They’d appreciate the greatest filk song ever written.
Easy enough to get Mom’s accompanist to play “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain.” Looks of puzzlement passed around the crowd.
And then I sang, soft and jazzy, imitating my mother’s caress of the microphone, “There’s a bimbo on the cover of my book.”
A slow ripple of laughter beginning with Gollum and Jack Weaver spread outward in ever wider ripples.
By the time I got to the verse about a rocket ship on the cover that isn’t in the book, I had them all laughing and clapping.
Good thing the audience picked up the chorus for me. I nearly choked at the sight of Lady Lucia, resplendent in a fringed red sheath straight out of the Roaring Twenties. She sparkled and glittered, the waving fronds of her dress shifting like waves on the sand. Her entourage of pale young things in black leather faded into the background. Lucia’s fangs gleamed in the spotty light almost as bright as the long strand of pearls dangling from her neck.
But those modern cultured pearls couldn’t hold a candle to the luster of the shorter strand of older, Mediterranean pearls on my mother’s throat, about an inch and a half from Lucia’s mouth.
In three steps I was at my mother’s side, thrusting the mike into her hands and pushing her back to the stage, away from the red menace.
“Stay away from my mother,” I snarled. “She’s innocent and off-limits to your games.”
“What about you, cara mia? Are you off-limits, too? What about you
r boyfriend?” Her gaze lingered on the angry pulse in Gollum’s throat.
“I’ll complete your mission on time. Then we are done.”
“If thinking that makes it easier for you to do as I requested, then go ahead and believe it.” Lucia pouted prettily and left abruptly. Her followers had to hastily down their drinks, or place them unfinished on tables to keep up with her aggressive stride.
“How have you managed to avoid getting killed in a car accident?” I asked Gollum as I clung to the hand rest above the passenger door of the SUV he’d rented.
“What do you mean? I’ve never had a ticket. I’m a good driver!” he said as he drifted across the center line of the northbound freeway to the accompaniment of honking horns and flipping fingers.
“When you pay attention and don’t speed.” This relationship might go nowhere fast if he got us both killed. “Scrap’s not around to whisk me out if you crash this thing.”
“Oh, okay.” Dutifully, Gollum checked his mirrors, put on his turn signal and crossed over to the righthand lane of I 15. Within a few minutes his speed had crept back up to fifteen miles an hour over the speed limit.
I sighed and made sure my seat belt was snug.
“You can come back anytime, Scrap. Donovan’s not with us,” I called into the ether.
Um, babe, how badly do you want that ring?
“Why? What did you find out?” I translated for Gollum.
Um, only that it’s yours by right of inheritance according to some very ancient laws. Lady Lucia had no right to sell the ring to feed herself and her child.
“Scrap, if she was totally broke and starving, I think that’s an excellent excuse to sell the ring, especially to feed her child.”
“Wait, a minute, did he say Lucia had a baby? Vampires can’t have children,” Gollum interjected.
“Depends on the timing,” I said. “If she had the child before she became a vampire.”
“Scrap, did you find out if the ring will help me complete this mission?”
No answer.
