by David Grace
Mara slipped her right arm around Grantin's waist and cuddled her body against his. Again Grantin became acutely aware of the rips and tears which Hazar had so strategically placed in her costume.
"And what of me, Grantin? Are you going to abandon me homeless and penniless?"
"Abandon you? How could you say such a thing? Only an unfeeling cad, an insensitive rogue, would do such a thing."
"Then, even knowing that I was Hazar's enchantress, you still want me?" she asked, pressing her ample figure even more tightly against his body.
"Want you?" he exclaimed, increasing the pressure of his arms. "How could any man not want you? Your past means nothing. It is the future which is important. A future which belongs to us. Naturally you will stay with me. My uncle's properties must, of necessity, come under my control during the period that he is indisposed, no matter how burdensome the administration of so much wealth might be."
"You mean it, then? You are sincere? You want me to come with you, live with you in your house, minister to your needs?"
"I absolutely require that you live with me and minister to my needs," Grantin replied fervently.
"I don't know what to say, Grantin. You truly love me, then? I will give you this one last chance to change your mind. Tell me what you wish me to say to you."
"Yes," Grantin moaned as he nuzzled Mara's left ear.
"Very well, then, I accept your proposal. I will marry you."
Chapter Fifty-One
In some indefinable way Greyhorn's stodgy old manor house had changed over the preceding six months. It now seemed lighter, airier, washed with more brilliant colors, adorned here and there with subtle feminine touches.
From his position just inside the second-floor broom closet Grantin could hear the clatter of Mara's retreating steps. She had searched for him in the kitchen, the parlor, and Greyhorn's downstairs study, and now she was making a tour of the second floor library where the adventure had all begun. By now Grantin could detect the subtle echoes of frustration in the snap of her steps and the thumpings which accompanied her movement of the chairs as she searched beneath the library table on the off chance that he might be hiding there.
Three weeks before, Grantin had discovered the false panel in the broom closet. During the intervening days he had made good use of the hidey-hole for those increasingly frequent occasions when Mara had dreamed up another task for him to perform.
Initially he had not minded cleaning the manor house, the occasional repair here and there, but of late Mara's ambitious homemaking had pushed him to the brink of his patience. Dear, sweet woman that she was, she had an annoying ability to formulate tasks whose number always exceeded by one those which Grantin could perform during normal waking hours. As a result, except for last Trueday evening when he had managed to slip out before dinner, and, of course, Amisday when he had sent Mara on an errand, and then Playday afternoon while she was out picking berries (but that didn't count since it was a day of relaxation anyway), Grantin had been unable to spend sufficient time in the local taverns and gaming rooms to make even a small dent in the prodigious income from Greyhorn's many properties. Why, it was getting so he had to spend five or six days out of ten working like a slave, and he a moneyed and respected wizard and landowner and the savior of the Hartford kingdom.
Grantin slid back his panel and peeked down the hallway. The coast seemed clear. Holding his sandals in his left hand, he tiptoed on stockinged feet to the library and slipped noiselessly inside.
Grantin wandered back to the window through which he had begun his adventure into the Gogol empire. Before him spread the green and golden afternoon landscape, serene and lovely. Off to his right just a few miles over the rolling hills was the easygoing community of Gist where Castor and Chom probably still reclined at their ease.
After their perilous journey Grantin had naturally invited his friends to remain in Greyhorn's manor house, and for a while they had accepted his invitation. After the wedding, however, the situation had changed. Soon both took their leave to visit surrounding Hartford communities.
"Stay, stay. There is room and food enough for all of as. Let me show you the countryside. We could have a jolly time of it."
"Thank you, friend Grantin, but things are different now. You have a new mate and you should spend your time with her. We will learn more on our own, in any event."
"You're staying together, then?"
"Yes," Castor answered, "I would like to visit my fellow Ajaj who live among the Hartfords, but I would feel more comfortable traveling with a stalwart companion."
"And I have not finished my trip of life. There is much more that I must learn about humans before I can return to my community. Castor and I are well suited to each other. I feel that our relationship will be an harmonious one."
"But you will come back and visit with me. We have been good comrades, all. This is no time to break up a fine friendship after what we have been through together."
"Of course we will come back. We have planned a great circular route, first south, then east, then north, and then back this way. In a few months we will return to Gist for the biannual fair."
And so they had left. Now the fair was only two days away, but Mara was proving obstinate.
"Let you go to the fair alone, so that you can drink and carouse with those tavern friends of yours? Why don't you take me to the fair? Is there some reason why you can't be seen in public with your own wife?"
"No, my darling, of course not It's just that. . . well, a man enjoys a chance now and again to get together in the company of other men. You would feel out of place, I'm sure."
"The company of other men, is it? You wouldn't be thinking of some of those bar wenches, now, would you? I've seen the way you look at that serving girl at the tavern. I'm not going to let you run loose on a binge to Gist even if there weren't a fair going on. You, taverns, celebrations, and money in your pocket are not a good combination. We can go to the fair together next Trueday and see who wins the ribbon in the jelly competition."
"Yes, my dear," Grantin had mumbled meekly.
What was that? Did he hear a sound in the hallway? Quick as a snake Grantin sprinted around the table and peeked through the crack in the door. No, all was quiet. Grantin turned away from the portal and then stubbed his toe on an obstruction. Looking down, he saw that in her fanaticism for cleanliness Mara had again moved poor Uncle Greyhorn out of position.
Grantin bent over and shifted his uncle's body six inches away from the door. Over the past six months by dint of great effort Grantin had been able to unlimber Greyhorn's two arms, which now protruded straight up, the fingers spread open. On the little finger of the left hand hung Grantin's stylish new beret. No doubt about it, Greyhorn made an extremely functional hat rack. Who knows, perhaps in another year or two his legs might be unbent to the point where the wizard would be able to serve as a life-size sewing dummy for Mara's domestic pursuits.
Grantin gave his uncle a jolly salute and made his way to the bookcase against the left-hand wall. As quietly as possible he removed a heavy leather bound volume and carried it over to the table by the window. He quickly found the spell he needed.
In a hushed whisper Grantin recited the appropriate incantation, then stared into his ring's scarlet stone. In only a few seconds shapes began to take form. Shortly he was able to make out Chom's and Castor's visages. His two friends reclined in soft comfortable chairs on a sunny patio. A great circular umbrella shaded them from the harshest of Pyra's rays. At their elbows stood tall, foaming mugs of beer. In the background Grantin thought he spied an enchanting hostess.
Without conscious thought Grantin's fingers leafed through the volume of spells. Unbidden, his eyes leaped down a weathered wrinkled page to one special incantation: Spell of Magnificent Transport.
"Through the use of this spell an accomplished sorcerer may be transported quietly, safely, and in absolute comfort to any nearby location which he can clearly visualize. The greater the p
ower of the wizard, the more distant the destination, or the more rapid the speed of transition. To call up the vehicle one must embark upon the following steps in order...."
Grantin greedily scanned the page and convinced himself for at least the tenth time that he had properly committed the spell to memory. Guiltily he closed the book and replaced it on the shelf before returning to the window.
Outside, the golden sunlight painted a lovely picture of peace and harmony. How easy it would be to slip away to Gist for a visit with his old friends. Perhaps in their travels they had discovered other wrongs which needed righting. For a fact, Grantin's recent life, which a year ago he would have deemed idyllic, now seemed somehow stale.
But what about Mara? Could he just run off and leave her like that? Grantin felt a pang of guilt. He really did love the girl. He couldn't just abandon her. What if she took solace with another man in his absence?
Still, still . . . absence makes the heart grow fonder. A few days away from her, a week or two, would not be so bad. He could leave her a note so that she would not worry.
In the distance Grantin heard Mara's heels clicking up the stairs. He turned back to the window. Straining his eyes around the edge of the castle, he hoped to catch a glimpse of a plume of smoke or the glitter of sunlight on glass which would mark the location of Gist. He still had time to recite the spell.
What should he do?
About The Author
David Grace has written ten novels. To see a list of his other books and to read free excerpts from them, visit his website: WWW.DavidGraceAuthor.Com.
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Here is an excerpt from David Grace's novel:
Fever Dreams
Chapter One
The wall outside my office held an imitation mahogany plaque inscribed with gold-colored letters: "Raphael LaFontaine - Special Inquiries - Licensed Private Detective." When I reached the top of the stairs I discovered a pink-cheeked little man wearing a thirty-year old brown wool suit standing outside my door.
"Mr. LaFontaine?"
"Who are you?"
"Stuart Willoughby, attorney at law." The little man held out a fleshy palm.
"What's this about, Mr. Willougby?"
In my almost five years on the Baltimore PD I had learned to distrust lawyers to the same degree I was wary of strange dogs and wandering snakes.
"Could we go inside?" Willoughby turned toward the door but I didn't move. "My client needs your services," he said. "I have a case for you."
I gave Willoughby a long, careful look, then unlocked the door. My office is a single fifteen by twenty foot room. The desk, fronted by two Office Depot chairs, faces the door. There's a couch along the right-hand wall, file cabinets, a fax-printer-copier-scanner combo and shelves of office supplies along the left. A cheap PC crouched on the floor. Willoughby gave the room a quick once-over and settled into one of the client chairs.
"Very compact, very efficient," he said with a polite smile as he handed me his card. I glanced at it and tried to suppress a frown. The address was in Carroll County, about thirty miles north-west of the city.
"You're a little way from home."
"A referral from an old client. The foundation of my practice is the personal touch."
I took a close look at Willougby but he remained something of an enigma. Somewhere north of sixty and south of eighty, he dressed like a manikin out of a post-war Sears catalog. Defeated, I gave a little shrug and grabbed a memo pad.
"So, to business," Willoughby agreed. "My client is a lady who lives here in Baltimore. She dated a gentleman who wanted more from the relationship than she did. When she tried to break it off, he refused to take 'no' for an answer."
"Has she contacted the police?"
"That would present something of a problem. She considered it, briefly, then called me. . . . You see," Willoughby continued after a brief pause, "the gentleman in question is a Baltimore police officer. Frankly, I'm concerned that a formal complaint to the BPD might cause more problems than it would solve."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I've heard that you have an excellent rapport with BPD and I hoped that a friendly word from you in the gentleman's ear, without any official intervention, might prove a more, uhhhm, tactful solution." Willoughby gave me a plastic smile.
"What, exactly, has the guy done?"
"Oh, more or less the usual in this sort of a case -- watches her house, follows her around, leaves little things on her doorstep. At first it was gifts, a box of candy, a cheap bracelet, an unsigned card. Then the . . . deposits became more problematic. The last one was a dead rat."
"Is there any proof that the culprit is the boyfriend?"
"Ex-boyfriend. And no, nothing that would hold up in court. We tried a surveillance camera but he was skilled enough to avoid leaving an identifiable image. Just an adult male in a bulky jacket, a turned-up collar and a baseball cap."
"Have you gotten a restraining order?"
Willoughby frowned.
"Without evidence I'm loath to file an action against a serving member of the police. Again, I was hoping that a friendly talk with one of his own might convince him that the lady is sincerely uninterested in resuming the relationship."
I stared blankly at the wall behind Willoughby's shoulder, then picked up my pen.
"Okay, what's his name?"
"Officer Victor Manchuko. I believe he serves in the Northeast Division."
"Description?"
"Caucasian, almost six feet tall, mustache, no glasses. Brown hair, brown eyes. About thirty-five. He told her he was divorced but, well . . . ." Willoughby let the sentence hang.
"What's the client's name?"
"Carolyn Simpson, 5691 Fortis Avenue. You can call her on her cell, 410-555-6739. She doesn't want anyone at work to know about her personal problems."
"When can I meet her?"
"Is that really necessary? I'm fully authorized to act on her behalf."
"I never take a case without meeting the client."
Willoughby gave me a long stare then a little shrug.
"Of course. I told her to be available in case you might call."
I punched in the number. The phone was answered on the second ring.
"Ms. Simpson? This is Raphael LaFontaine. I'm here with your attorney, Mr. Willoughby."
"Yes, Mr. LaFontaine. Thank you for taking my case."
"I haven't taken it yet. I'll need to talk with you directly before I can start any real work on your problem."
"I was hoping that you could handle all this with my lawyer."
"No, I can't. Where are you right now? If you could come to my office, the three of us---"
"No, that's impossible. I'm working a split shift. I won't be free until after ten."
"What about sometime tomorrow?"
"Uhh, that's not good either. Could we meet later tonight, someplace public? A restaurant or something? Maybe around ten-thirty?"
I paused and studied Willoughby's pudgy face.
"I usually collect a retainer before I start a new case."
Willoughby pulled a pile of bills from his inside pocket and counted out ten one-hundred dollar notes on the edge of the desk.
"All right, ten-thirty tonight at La Boehme Café on Franklin. We can have coffee on the terrace. Ask for me at the hostess station. Do you want directions?"
"No, I'll find it."
The line went dead.
"I'll give you a receipt," I told Willoughby and picked up the bills, counting them a second time.
* * *
I left my apartment a little after ten and headed for the gravel parking lot behind the building. There was barely a sliver of a moon and I negotiated the stepping stones by memory. As I emerged from the path I sensed an onrushing presence and jumped to my left. A blinding pain seared across my ribs. Already falling I flailed at my attacker and a second man grabbed me from b
ehind and then the world vanished in a thick, black fog.
Chapter Two
For most of my early life I didn't realize that my dreams were not like those of normal people. I thought that when people dreamt they saw colors, felt textures and experienced an alternate existence almost as real as that of their waking life. It was only when my father, Remy LaFontaine, began training me to concoct dream potions and cast dream jinxes that I became interested enough in the topic to borrow a psychology primer from the school library. The chapter on human dreaming was a revelation. Most people had no sense of touch or smell in dreams? Some rarely dreamt in color? And the content of their dreams -- vague, disjointed events that upon waking vanished like mist on the water? By comparison my dreams were a study in order and precision. Each was a little play, some from my past, some depicting things that might have been, and a few portraying events that might yet come to be.
With increasing frustration I had flipped the psychology text from page to page looking for explanations of dreams like those that I experienced. Eventually, I realized that I was different from "normal" people in many fundamental ways. During my years on the run, living out of flea-bag hotels and squatting in abandoned buildings, I would pass the dreary, solitary hours by reading books I had picked up at garage sales and a swap meets. Often my studies were little more than an attempt to understand myself. It's a work in progress.
The logical part of my mind told me that the herbs and infusions, the teas and potions that my father and mother had both imbibed before and after I was conceived had altered me in some fundamental way, cracked the chains of my DNA and warped my glands until my own peculiar hormonal soup was contaminated beyond repair. But then I thought about my brother, Zion, whose name my father claimed was ordained in a vision from the Spirit Gael, and I wondered if hoodoo and magic, demons, spirits and spells might have some reality of their own.
