A Host of Furious Fancies

by Mercedes Lackey

  “That’s what we’re here for,” Jimmie said with a sigh. She held her cup near her face, inhaling the steam. “And since you’ve been so open with me, I’ll pass on a little information in return. The reason we were out last night is that a bunch of people are turning up dead—street people. More than usual, even in this weather, and all with something kind of . . . funny about them. Paul thinks it might be a case of serial possession, but it doesn’t quite feel right for that. And then there was this kind of . . . blippy thing. Like somebody was powering up and then just . . . stopping. Kind of hard to figure out—not really like anything any of us has seen before, and if Paul can’t pull a parallel out of his books or the Internet, it’s got to be some kind of really exotic mojo. So we were trying to run down leads half the night, and coming up with nothing. This helps a lot. Now we know one of the things we should be looking for.” She finished her coffee with a flourish and tucked the last bite of pastry into her mouth.

  “The important thing from your point of view, I guess, is that my guy’s going to be trying to get his hands on anyone with Power to draw on them to build the Nexus, and my teacher thinks that means he’s going to be going after humans with the Gift, but from what you’re saying, what you folks were following doesn’t sound like Sidhe work. Even if he does have a way to find the Gifted, he’d have to drain—kill—thousands, maybe millions, of ordinary people to get enough power to open a Gate here, and I know it sounds awful to say, but that’s just too much like gruntwork for their tastes. And . . . the other thing is, last night I ran into an old friend. Only I don’t know for sure whether she was there or not—and if she was there, I’m not sure what she wants—or if she’s tied up with him.”

  Briefly Eric sketched the details of Ria Llewellyn’s appearance and disappearance from the concert, explaining that while it wasn’t impossible for Ria to have been there—or for her appearance to have been a coincidence—he wasn’t completely sure of what it might mean.

  “It’s just that she’s, well—ruthless. And pretty self-involved. She isn’t the type to count casualties if you get in her way.”

  “Sounds like a real executive type,” Jimmie commented. “But not like the type who’d want to be a street soldier for someone else from all you’ve said about her. At least from what you say there isn’t already a local Nexus, so she isn’t likely to be out there trying to buy it up to bulldoze it. Not that anybody’d notice if she did. This is New York, after all, the land of Donald Trump and combat-strength urban renewal.”

  “Yeah. I’d kinda figured that out for myself.” Eric thought about telling Jimmie about his dream, and hesitated. Just what could he say? He’d had a vision? A premonition? A guided tour of a place that he wasn’t sure existed outside his own mind? He knew it had been a warning, but the Guardians were already on alert, and he’d passed on Dharinel’s warning. They wouldn’t be any more careful just because he told them he’d dreamed of a New York in ruins, presided over by a baleful elvish tower.

  And Greystone hadn’t sounded any warning when he’d had the dream. That was the main thing. So whatever had been the source of his dream, it hadn’t come from outside Guardian House.

  Or Greystone hadn’t considered it a threat. . . .

  “Well, I just thought I’d mention, and to let you know that if there was anything I could do to help out,” Eric said hesitantly.

  “No!” Jimmie said, too quickly. “I mean, you’re a nice guy, Eric, and a helluva magician from what Greystone tells me, but you didn’t come to New York to join the Guardians and fight evil. You know what they say about old age and treachery overcoming youth and skill? We’ve got a few tricks up our sleeve that’ll probably come as quite a shock to somebody from the Old Country,” she said, sounding just a bit pleased with herself.

  “And most of all, if four Guardians need help, Eric, the people of New York are in more trouble than we thought. But I’ll pass the word to the others,” Jimmie said, smiling at him. “Maybe the two cases’ll end up tying in together. Sometimes they do. But I hope not.” She glanced down at her watch, and got to her feet in a hurry. “Aiee! Two o’clock already and I’m on duty at four—that leaves me just about enough time to get downtown and get suited up.” She held out her hand, and Eric took it, standing as well. “I’ve enjoyed this, Eric. It isn’t that often I can find somebody to talk to. You know how it is.”

  “Me, too,” Eric said. “Meanwhile, I’ve got a paper to write, and I guess ought to be writing it. Thanks for the coffee. And the conversation.”

  “We’ll do this again,” Jimmie promised.

  “It’s a date,” Eric answered warmly.

  He walked the few blocks back to his apartment in a far better mood than he’d been in when he left it. Jimmie Youngblood was definitely a nice lady and a good cop, and Eric hoped he’d be able to see more of her. Not romantically—Jimmie’d made it clear she wasn’t looking for anything like that—but as a friend. How many people were there, after all, that he could talk about the magical part of his life with and have them accept it so matter-of-factly? Not many, and you could take that to the bank.

  The phone was ringing as he opened the door to his apartment, and Eric dived for it without thought.

  “Hello? Hello?” Just my luck this will be someone trying to sell me aluminum siding or The New York Times. . . .

  “Eric? This is Ria Llewellyn.”

  Pure surprise held him speechless for a moment. He had almost managed to convince himself that the Ria he’d seen last night had been a ghost, some kind of illusion, or at the very least a non-recurring phenomenon. But the rich sultry sound of her contralto was like a blast of concentrated yesterday, whirling him back to his mooncalf idyll—in her home, in her bed—when she had tried to turn him from a knight to a pawn, nothing more than a reservoir of Power to be tapped . . . just as Perenor had meant her to be.

  Or maybe into something more?

  “Hello, Ria,” Eric said, his voice slightly cool.

  In her own way she had cared for him, Eric knew. Fought for him, tried to protect him, turned on her father in the end. For him? Or for her own freedom?

  “‘Hello, Ria,’” she echoed, her voice languidly mocking. “After all this time, that’s all you have to say? I admit, I’d expected more.”

  “I saw you at the concert last night,” Eric said flatly, still too rattled to dissemble. He’d managed to pick up a number of the courtly arts with which the Elvenborn wiled away their time Underhill, but the whole business of saying one thing while meaning another—all in the most elliptical fashion—had eluded him completely, to Kory and even Beth’s amusement.

  “You were very good,” Ria said. “That solo piece at the end—your own work?—was most impressive. And all done without magic. That somehow makes it even more exceptional.”

  “You didn’t call me up just to congratulate me,” Eric said, sinking down into the chair in front of the stereo with the phone cradled on his lap.

  “No. Not really. I called to see if you’d be my guest for dinner this evening.”

  There was a long silence. When Ria spoke again, her voice in his ear was just a shade less confident.

  “Eric?”

  “I’m still here.” He was thinking fast, trying to figure out what she meant, not just what she was telling him. In all of his experience with Ria, she’d never been absolutely underhanded. She might try to influence him, overshadow his power with her own, but she wouldn’t lure him into a blatant trap. “Yeah, sure. I’d love to.” Almost as much as I’d love to know what you’re really up to, lady. “Just let me know the time and place.”

  Candlemas was the new hot restaurant in the Triangle District. What had formerly been the Meat-Packing District was gentrifying rapidly, high-priced boutiques and luxury condos driving out the artists, drug dealers, and fetish clubs that had flourished here in low-rent days. The restaurant and its five-star CIA5-trained chef had recently been anointed by Gotham’s reigning foodies, and as a result, even on
this raw Saturday night there were people lined up halfway down the block waiting for tables.

  Eric had dressed carefully for this meeting. Fashion was, after all, just another form of warfare . . . and if this wasn’t precisely a war, it bore more than a passing resemblance to that gentle art. Back before he really knew what either Power or Bardcraft were, Ria’d frightened him into lashing out at her—and that had terrified them both. She’d seen him as an enemy and driven him away. He hadn’t seen her again until Beth had broken a guitar over her head at the final battle, destroying Perenor’s access to her power and gaining the day for the Sun-Descending elves.

  And now she was back, pushing her way into his life once more.

  Why?

  Like the man says about the afterlife: sooner or later you will KNOW. So let’s see what the lady has to say for herself.

  Ria must have been approaching their “reunion” in much the same spirit—why else pick a place like this to meet? A venue more calculated to put the old Eric nicely off-balance could hardly have been better chosen.

  Too bad I’m not the same guy she used to know. Eric grinned wolfishly. Beneath his duster-length topcoat he was wearing one of the suits Beth had helped him choose—wild silk, in a shade just this side of true black, paired with a collarless linen shirt in a deep rich cream. Instead of a tie, he wore a small elvenmade brooch at his throat: silver, set with a large, almost transparent opal. A clasp of the same design held his hair back from his face.

  Once, Eric would have completely distrusted such an outfit, seeing it as somehow dishonest. Now he wore it as if it were second nature, knowing fashion for what it was: a tool, nothing more.

  Which is great. But how am I going to get past that crowd at the door or find Ria once I do? I could be standing out here for hours.

  As he hesitated on the curb—the weather was bad enough that he’d come in a cab instead of bringing Lady Day—a man in a chauffeur’s uniform came up to him.

  “Mr. Banyon?”

  “That’s me,” Eric said a little warily.

  “Ms. Llewellyn’s compliments, sir. She asked me to tell you to go on in. She’s already seated.”

  “Thanks,” Eric said. If she wants to overawe me with an ostentatious display of wealth and power . . . well, let’s say I appreciate the show.

  The chauffeur retreated to the fender of a glorious vintage maroon and cream Rolls Royce Silver Ghost—a stand-out ride even by New York standards—and Eric made his way to the door of Candlemas. Getting inside was a bit like swimming upstream to spawn, but he finally made it. The next obstacle was the official greeter, a slender black man who advanced upon Eric with an openly disdainful expression.

  “Good evening, sir. Welcome to Candlemas. Do you have a reservation?”

  “I’m joining someone,” Eric said. “Ria Llewellyn?”

  The man’s demeanor changed at once from arrogance to subservience, though the change was so subtle as to qualify as magery in its own right.

  “Yes sir. Right this way. May I have someone take your coat?”

  Eric handed the garment over, and received a discreet coat-check token in return, before following the maitre d’ farther into the restaurant.

  The interior of Candlemas made no concessions to currently-voguish Manhattan industrial chic. Whatever this space had been last month, it now gave the impression of being an out-take from a particularly decadent Tuscan chateau. The lighting was fashionably low, and the walls were hung with a pleated, amber-colored velvet a few shades lighter than the deep-pile carpet. Gilt medallions anchored the fabric, and light spilled out from behind them in sunburst patterns, drawing a faint shimmer from the deep nap of the fabric. The velvet walls softened the ambient noise to a muted background, like ocean surf. The tables on the service floor were swathed in a creamy brocade and set far enough apart to give the diners at least the illusion of privacy.

  Around the edge of the room there were half a dozen recessed alcoves, like the private boxes at the opera. They were even curtained to give the diners more privacy. Somehow Eric wasn’t surprised to be escorted toward one of them. Ria always traveled first class.

  She was waiting for him at the table. Her eyes widened slightly as she saw him, and Eric smiled to himself. He might have been Underhill, but time hadn’t stood still for him . . . though it seemed to have for Ria. She was still the woman he’d first spotted in a crowd in L.A.—pale blond hair, cat-green eyes, ruthless mouth. Whatever injuries she’d suffered from her coma weren’t evident tonight, and Eric looked carefully, his shields warily in place against any magic—though the magic Ria was deploying was of a far older and more fascinating sort.

  She was wearing a dark-green dress with an old-fashioned portrait neckline, with a necklace of cloudy green stones around her throat—jade?—that only served to accentuate the flawless whiteness of her skin.

  Eric felt his throat close in a purely masculine acknowledgement of her beauty. She was as fair and fey as the unfading moonlillies that bloomed in Underhill.

  “Satisfied?” she asked, and Eric only just stopped himself from blushing. The maitre d’ seated him, giving him a moment to recover.

  “You’ve . . . changed,” Ria said, favoring him with a sphinx-like smile.

  “This is my cue to say you haven’t. But I know you’ve got a mirror. And I remember that you hate people being obvious,” Eric said boldly.

  “I’m easily bored,” Ria admitted, with a throaty mock-seductive purr in her voice. If you could put what she had in a bottle, Eric decided, there wouldn’t be any reason for anybody to ever be lonely again.

  “So—without being obvious—it’s good to see you. You’re obviously well.” He was surprised to find that, when he spoke them, the words were true. Seeing Ria again was like . . . was like having the answer to a question he’d been asking for a very long time. “You gave me quite a start when I saw you in the audience last night. If you’d called ahead, I would’ve gotten you tickets.”

  “You concealed it admirably. Your performance was wonderful. Shall we order? Or would you like a drink first?”

  There was a glass of white wine in front of her, in one of those huge tulip-shaped glasses that restaurants used for everything from Chardonnay to frozen daiquiris. Eric shook his head.

  “Just water for me, thanks. Evian if they have it.”

  Ria raised an eyebrow, but made no comment. She must have signalled somehow, because a hovering waitperson instantly appeared to take Eric’s drink order and bestow upon both of them leather-backed menus only slightly smaller than the surface of a coffee table.

  “Have you eaten here before?” he asked, scanning the menu. Candlemas seemed to run to Continental Fusion fare—Eric hesitated over the medallions of venison with kiwi and mango, smirking faintly. But what the heck—if people wanted to put stuff like that in their bodies, at least it was better than drugs.

  “No. My assistant suggested the place. These days, my idea of dining out is usually takeout at my desk. And I don’t get to New York that often.”

  But you’re here now, Ria. Why?

  “There are a lot of good restaurants here,” Eric said noncommittally. He decided on the chicken in balsamic vinaigrette as being a safe choice, one that wouldn’t offer too many surprises. Ria would be surprise enough this evening.

  “Oh, I don’t deny that New York has its attractions. Some of the best schools in the world are here, for example.”

  Eric sipped at his water. If this was Ria’s opening gambit, it was an awfully mild one. They both already knew he was attending Juilliard.

  “Yes. I didn’t appreciate it much the last time, but I think formal training has a lot to offer, don’t you?”

  Her eyes widened slightly as she took his double meaning. When they’d last clashed, Ria was an accomplished sorceress, and Eric barely knew what magic was. Now he was a Bard . . . and Ria had always been a political animal, raised amid Perenor’s plotting. He didn’t know what contacts with the elves she still
had . . . or wanted.

  In fact, he decided, they’d both changed a great deal. And suddenly it was very important to Eric to know who Ria had become.

  “So. Tell me everything. How are Kayla and Elizabet?”

  “Well, when last I saw them,” Ria said, accepting the change of subject smoothly. “Kayla will be going away to school, soon. She won’t have to worry about tuition—I’ll see to that—but neither Elizabet nor I feel that the child needs a free ride through life. And she can’t earn her living as a Healer. The medical establishment doesn’t take kindly to people working miracles without a license. And Healers need a lot of downtime in order to function without burning out, so it isn’t likely she’s going to go for an M.D.”

  “Computer programming, maybe? Or web-designer?” Eric suggested, thinking of Paul Kern. If anyone needed a flexible schedule, it was a Guardian. “Those are both professions with a lot of built-in privacy. I’ve got a friend who could suggest some good places to study.”

  “We may take you up on that. I know she wants to come to New York. Says the San Fernando Valley’s too quiet for her tastes.”

  Eric laughed, thinking of the scrappy little punkette he’d met at the Dunkin Donuts the morning of the battle for Elfhame Sun-Descending. A greater contrast with the stately, dignified Elizabet could hardly be imagined, but Elizabet’s apprentice had the true Healer’s gift—as well as more street-smarts than anyone Eric had ever known, and a tongue that could strip paint off a wall at sixty paces.