But to see the dumbfounded expression on Beth’s face when she’d come into the kitchen that morning and found it full of popcorn had been worth it. Eric smiled reminiscently.
The gargoyle (who normally spent most of the day on the cornice ledge just outside Eric’s apartment) strolled into the living room, still chuckling. Though as much a creature of magic as any Sidhe, Greystone had been anything but isolated from progress during his long life. He’d been a constant eavesdropper on and observer of life in the big city from the time that the building was erected during the late 1800s, and often (if the occupant of “his” apartment was a Guardian or other user of magic) a participant in the ordinary life of a New Yorker—insofar as anyone Greystone would be hanging out with ever had an “ordinary” life, that was. Greystone knew as much about appliances and the amenities of a modern apartment as Eric did.
More, actually. We’d been on the run for so long by the time we went Underhill that I’d gotten out of the habit of being a techno-junkie, and Elfhame Misthold isn’t exactly your local Circuit City.
Greystone had been delighted to discover that Eric wasn’t the type to freak out when a stone gargoyle came to life and tapped on the window. The gargoyle often spent the long hours of late nights watching television in Eric’s living room—but he never, ever imposed. Having him around was rather like having a congenial roommate with none of the disadvantages roommates often brought with them.
And he’s alphabetized my CDs and DVDs. How cool is that?
Greystone cocked his head to the side. “They’re on the way up,” he announced, though Eric heard nothing. “Can I stick around?”
“With Bethie dying to show off Maeve to the world? No question!” Eric said. He was surprised at how relieved he felt.
Beth and Kory already knew about Greystone—they knew about Guardian House as well, at least what Eric knew; that the House had been built to shelter the Guardians of New York, a kind of magical police force set up to protect ordinary humans from those who would use magic against them—or from inadvertently stumbling into the path of the supernormal entities who shared their world. There were never fewer than two and seldom more than four Guardians living here at the same time—Eric wasn’t yet quite sure how one became a Guardian, as that was a subject upon which the Guardians themselves were rather reticent—and the House itself selected those other “normal” people who would live here. If Guardian House wanted you, you saw a “Vacancy” sign in the super’s window. If it didn’t, you didn’t. It was all as simple as that.
Most of the “regular” tenants were artists, dancers, and musicians. Most of them were quietly, but devoutly, religious, although the House didn’t care what their religion was. Most of them had no idea that the Guardians were the sole reason for the House’s existence, that the Guardians even existed, or that they supplied a positive and energetic “atmosphere” for the Guardians to live in.
But a few of the House’s civilian tenants, like Eric, were true magicians, and they knew. They served as a kind of unofficial auxiliary force to be called on in an emergency.
But though the Guardians were powerful and far more knowledgeable than the average human, Eric had found that they didn’t know everything. They hadn’t known, for instance, that there were such things as Bards—or that elves, the real Sidhe of legend, actually existed. Hadn’t, that is, until Eric moved in.
Then they’d found out in spades.
A light tap on the door told Eric that Greystone, as usual, had been right. He flung it open for two figures in motorcycle leathers and helmets, the tall one in blue and the short one in red, with a tiny baby in a matching red leather carry-sack slung across her chest.
Beth pulled off her helmet and shook out her long hair with a sigh of pleasure. She was still keeping the auburn tresses Kory had engineered for her when the Feds had been on their tail—her original hair color had been black, but the auburn suited her. Her skin still glowed with the hormones of her recent pregnancy, and her brown eyes no longer showed that peculiar “haunted” look that had been in them for so long. Instead, there was a softer, more contented expression on her face, especially when she glanced down at baby Maeve.
“Well, Banyon, are you going to keep us standing in the hall all day?” she asked, handing him her helmet. Eric grinned, stepping back to allow them to enter the apartment.
There was the usual moment of kissing and hugging and congestion in the doorway, while Greystone stood aside and grinned. Kory, as usual, looked every inch the Elven Knight, even though he had a motorcycle helmet under his arm instead of a helm, and leathers instead of armor. Tall, muscular, blond as a child of the sun, if any fashion photographer in the world had gotten a look at him, he could have named his price—except, of course, for the pointed ears and green eyes, with their vertical-slit pupils like a cat’s. All elves had those eyes and ears; their natural hair color was blond as well, but not all of them stuck to the natural color. After all, just about anything was possible for an elf, even shape-shifting. Eric had seen elves with heads of pink, blue, and purple hair that would make a punker or raver drool with envy; he’d even seen elves sporting hairdos of feathers, leaves, or tiger stripes. He’d seen them with the gauzy wings of Victorian fairies, or batwings, or feathers—all functional, if not actually capable of supporting flight. Tails, horns, hooves—nothing was impossible, which might account for the sightings of so many kinds of creatures in myth and legend. Kory, however, preferred to keep to the “natural” form—blond hair, slitted green eyes, pointed ears, and otherwise looking human.
Eric carried an armful of leathers and helmets into the bedroom while Beth unpacked Maeve and made sure the baby had survived the trip unscathed. When everyone had settled in the living room, Eric made his introductions.
“Greystone, this is Beth Kentraine and Sieur Korendil, Elven Knight and Magus Minor of Elfhame Sun-Descending. Beth and Kory, meet Greystone.”
“I’ve heard so much about you,” Beth said, smiling. “And this is Maeve.” She held up the baby in her arms, and then, to his horror, offered her to Eric. He had no choice but to take her—it was that or run, and Beth would have slain him on the spot.
Maeve’s flushed face, surrounded papoose-like by a fleecy wrap, didn’t excite much in Eric but apprehension.
“She looks like Winston Churchill,” he said dubiously, looking down at a face with eyes screwed tightly shut and contorted into a disagreeable grimace. A faint whiff of baby powder and milk came up to his nose as she opened her mouth in a silent (for the moment) protest.
“Eric!” Beth exclaimed indignantly, while Kory looked puzzled, tucking his blond hair behind his sharply pointed ears. Elves loved children.
The baby scowled at Eric. Beth had said she was beautiful, but to Eric she was looking more every minute like a wizened old man in a temper. She mewed. It sounded as if she was thinking about howling.
Now what do I do? he wondered, just a hint of panic arising. She seemed to be all knees and elbows, writhing muscularly in his arms as if she very much did not want to be there.
“Don’t be daft, Bard, she’s lovely,” Greystone scolded. “And you’re holding her all wrong. Give her here.” He held out his hands summarily, and Eric, not at all loathe, handed the baby quickly to the gargoyle. Maeve might be his—or rather, he was Maeve’s biological father—but there was no feeling of parental bonding there so far as he was concerned. He’d never been around babies when he was growing up, and they were almost as scarce on the RenFaire circuit as they were Underhill.
With relief he saw Greystone cuddle the tiny creature in sturdy arms that seemed to understand instinctively how to make the baby comfortable.
“There’s a lovely little lady,” the gargoyle crooned, wiggling one finger in front of Maeve’s nose. “Boojie, boojie, boojie wooooo.” The baby looked up at him with blank, blue eyes, but lost that disapproving expression and even made a tentative gurgling sound.
“I think she likes you, Greystone,” Eri
c said, a little surprised.
“Of course she likes me, ye gurt idiot,” Greystone retorted with fond indignation. “Never saw a baby that didn’t, and I’ve been nanny to every Guardian’s child here since the House was built.”
Eric took the opportunity to beat a tactical retreat, heading into the kitchen to gather plates, cutlery, and the cartons of Chinese food Greystone had left in the oven. He arranged them on a tray and added drinks—designer water for Kory and Greystone, tea for Beth—before carrying the meal out into the living room on a tray. Greystone and Beth were both bent over Maeve, clucking and cooing at her while Kory looked on proudly. The domestic tableau left Eric feeling a little unsettled, as if he were being shut out of something he really didn’t want to be a part of. It was a peculiar feeling.
“Luncheon is served,” he intoned, deliberately breaking the mood. He set the tray down on the coffee table and began setting out the plates.
“Not much Chinese carryout Underhill, huh?” Eric teased, watching Beth and Kory inhale his offerings with a fine appetite while Greystone amused Maeve, holding her in one massive arm while scarfing egg rolls with his free hand.
“They still haven’t got the knack of making or even kenning and creating it, and when it comes to carryout, the Fairegoers would rather have pizza anyway,” Beth replied around a forkful of moo shu chicken, “And for some reason I didn’t want anything like this until after the munchkin came. Then I thought I would kill for lo mein.”
Eric and Kory exchanged a wordless masculine look of complete incomprehension. Kory mouthed a single sentence—just a few words, really.
Honey-nut bread and cabbage soup.
Ah, so that was what Beth had craved during her pregnancy! Eric nodded with sympathy, though he privately thought that Kory’d had it easy. Maybe the meals he’d shared with Beth were monotonous, but at least the ingredients were easily obtained Underhill. What if she’d wanted sushi—or bird’s nest soup—or some other weird delicacy?
On the other hand, cabbage soup, while being—ah—fragrant, wasn’t exactly the aroma-of-choice that Eric would have picked for dinnertime. And it did tend to linger.
Finally, the hunger aroused by a long ride from the Everforest Gate to New York City assuaged, Kory and Beth declared themselves sated and Eric cleaned away the plates.
“Bethie, ye can count on me for babysitting any time you’re Overhill,” Greystone announced, handing Maeve back to her mother. He looked up now, and raised an eyebrow like a cliff cornice at her as she beamed at him. “How are ye feeding her, then? Just breast?”
Somehow, Eric had noticed, whenever the gargoyle was around Kory and Beth, his Irish—or pseudo-Irish—accent got thicker. Why a gargoyle should have an Irish accent, and not a French one, he couldn’t fathom. It was just one of those New York mysteries, he guessed. Or maybe the apartment’s first tenant had been Irish. Greystone had to have learned his English somewhere.
Beth blushed. “Well—not entirely. I’m not exactly—well—a Holstein. The healers concocted a formula that Maeve likes; Kory can magic it up for us when we need it.”
Elves, even minor mages like Kory, could always ken an object or substance and conjure more of it up later. That was why Eric himself was, for as long as he was in school, financially solvent—Dharniel and Kory had supplied him with enough gold Krugerrands (which, conveniently enough, completely lacked any identifying serial numbers) to give him a fat and very golden nest egg.
Eric wasn’t surprised that Kory was helping to supplement Maeve’s feeding magically, since as was vividly obvious in the tight motorcycle leathers, Beth’s figure was back to her pre- pregnancy slimness, probably in no small part due to a little help from elven healers Underhill.
And we could make a fortune out here in the mortal world if we could just bottle that! No need for the Jane Fonda Pregnancy Workout if you’ve got the Sidhe on your side.
“Well, good.” The gargoyle grinned. “You can just be leavin’ the little angel with me tonight while ye have some fun out in the city, an’ I’ll be givin’ her the bottle while ye’re gone.”
“Oh, would you?” Beth exclaimed delightedly, and then blushed again. “Oh, that sounds awful, but—”
“But what’s the harm in you havin’ an evenin’ out for a movie or summat?” Greystone countered quickly. “’Tis time for a little holiday, I’m thinkin’, and the wee one will be fine here. ’Tis many a nappie I’ve changed in me time—” he chuckled, a sound like rocks grating together “—and it’s a fine thing for me that I’ve no sense of smell to speak of.”
Better you than me, Eric thought, but didn’t say out loud. He’d been worried that their evening plans might have to be adjusted to include a baby—or worse, that Beth wouldn’t want to go out at all. Before she could change her mind, he went straight for the computer and logged on to the net, pulling up the New York Times entertainment web pages.
“Here’re your choices,” he called over his shoulder, while Beth was still protesting that Greystone didn’t have to be a babysitter and Greystone was insisting it would be a fine treat to have a baby in his arms again. Kory got up to peer over Eric’s shoulder with interest—computer technology had changed a lot since the last time Kory’d seen a computer—while Beth paused in mid-sentence, then shrugged and laughed, acknowledging defeat.
“Okay, Banyon. I’m sold. What’ve you got for us this evening, then?”
After some discussion, they decided on The Lion King—it was finally possible to get tickets after months of nothing but sold-out performances, and it was the show Eric thought Kory would enjoy the most.
Movies they could always see later; with help from Elfhame Fairgrove in Savannah, the most technologically sophisticated of the hames, a limited amount of human technology had been brought Underhill for the benefit of Beth and other humans who had sought shelter there. One of those bits of technology was a DVD player—which worked better than the VCR they’d originally had down there did, for some reason. They were still trying to work out how to bring in satellite TV, according to Kory—right now when anyone from Fairgrove wanted to see NASA Channel, Headline News, or (most especially) Speedvision, they had to retire to one of the Fairgrove buildings Overhill.
Eric booked their seats through Ticketron Online—one of the perks of carrying an AmEx Platinum card—and for the first time in a long time, the three of them went out onto the streets of a city, to spend an evening together, as they once used to.
“That was great,” Beth sighed, much later, after peeking into the portable crib set up in the bedroom to make sure Maeve was all right. Babies, Eric had discovered, needed about as much support gear as the average astronaut, but fortunately Beth, unlike most mortal moms, had a portable hole to carry it in. The amount of stuff she’d unpacked from it before she’d been willing to leave Maeve with Greystone had been purely mind-boggling.
“That was fantastic, in fact.”
They’d made the curtain without any trouble, walking most of the way so that Beth and Kory could get a taste of New York. After the show they’d stopped at Luchow’s for dessert, and were home by midnight.
Kory nodded, his green eyes still shining—literally!—with pleasure. “I forget, sometimes, just what a marvel mortal creativity is,” he said, clearly without thinking who he was with. “Imagine creating something that has never been before, just with the power of the mind!”
Eric laughed. “So what am I, chopped liver?” he asked mockingly, and Kory flushed.
“Nay, Bard, I didn’t—” the elf faltered.
“I know you didn’t! I’m just teasing you!” Eric laughed—but behind the laughter was an inescapable thought. When it was the three of us alone together, he wouldn’t even have put that into a thought, much less words—he’d have wondered, maybe, when I would create something that would be on a stage. Now I’m “Bard,” not “Eric”—and he forgets what I am. As if our life together never happened.
“Listen, something really fantastic happened
today,” he said quickly, to drive away uncomfortable thoughts. “I met another Bard!”
The other three settled down to hear the story—though Greystone, being telepathic by nature, already probably knew at least some of it. But like the tactful guest he was, he never flaunted that very useful ability, and in fact, Eric wasn’t really sure how much of his regular thoughts Greystone actually heard.
He told them all about meeting Hosea, about realizing what Hosea was, and about the two of them playing together in the subway. Then he told them about his plans to get Hosea on his feet. He realized he didn’t know why Hosea had come to New York—he was becoming enough of a New Yorker himself to just kind of take it for granted that of course everyone who could would want to come to New York, the center of the world for so many things.
He couldn’t help but get excited about the prospect of playing with the banjo-Bard again. Gigging with another good musician was one of the things he liked to do best, but gigging with another Bard had been an experience so enchanting that he couldn’t wait to do it again. Kory nodded his understanding, and the more enthusiastic Eric got, the more pleased Kory looked—but Beth was frowning.
“I don’t know, Banyon,” she said slowly, her brows furrowing with unease. “This could all be a setup. I don’t like it—I mean, you don’t know anything about this guy—not really! Isn’t it just a little too convenient that he’s busking at your subway station just as you get out of class?” She put down her tea and shifted uneasily in her seat on the couch.
It was hard, now, to remember what Beth had been like when he first met her—hard to remember what he’d been like, come to that—but he knew she hadn’t been this suspicious, jumping-at-shadows paranoid. Since Griffith Park, and everything that followed after, every year Beth seemed to be darker, more intense, more focused—and not entirely in a good way, either. It was as if the person she might have become had been destroyed by this other self—and equally true that she had always held the potential to become either one. He supposed it bothered him more because he’d been counting on Maeve to erase all the scars and make Beth the person she’d been at twenty. But that wasn’t ever going to happen. Done was done, and living things changed.
A Host of Furious Fancies Page 35
