“Oh, no, baby, we're not done yet.” He helped her sit up. She swayed to the music in her head while he poured her another drink which he laced with another dose of acid.
“Don' wanna . . .” she said, as he held the cup to her lips.
“Come on, baby, you're doing really well. Everyone loves you.”
“Not Lloyd.” Robbie's face contorted. Tears filled her eyes.
“Yeah,” Ken said. “Him, too! He loves the way you're making this all work. Come on. Make a big purple monster just for Lloyd. When he sees what you can do, he'll forget all about Fionna.”
“Forget . . . her,” Robbie said. She squeezed her eyes closed, concentrating. Her hands played up and down on her invisible controls.
“Is it a really big, purple monster?” he asked encouragingly. “With lots of teeth and scales and long, ba-aad claws?”
“Yes,” Robbie said.
He leaned back on the grass and whistled. “Baby, you are the best.”
* * *
The taxi dropped Beauray at the end of Toulouse where the railroad tracks crossed it. As the car bumped the last hundred feet and came to a halt, Boo-Boo worried that Lewis had poor Robbie hidden away someplace he'd never find her. Once the skyrockets had started to go off inside the Superdome he hadn't really needed the phone call from Tiger to tell them where Lewis and Robbie had gone. He remembered about the fireworks festival that was being sponsored by WBOY.
His greatest concern was that they might not be on the Moon Walk itself. The riverfront was lined with old warehouses that had plenty of windows open to the northeast from which she could see the fireworks but not be easily seen by anyone else, like him. He didn't have much time. Night had already fallen, and the embankment park was hundreds of yards long. If he didn't spot his quarry pretty quickly he would have to ask the local police to help him search the surrounding buildings. Fortunately, most of the police were friends of his; he wouldn't have to make the request official.
Whistling and a loud boom! heralded the eruption of a gigantic globe of colored sparks that pattered lightly down into the Mississippi to the accompaniment of cheers from the thousands of bystanders crowded on the brick-and-concrete walk to watch. Boo-Boo pulled out his little phone and hit the speed dial.
“Liz? Did y'all just get a purple chrysanthemum in there?”
“Yes, Beauray, we did,” the British woman replied very slowly and deliberately. She sounded like she'd downed a whole economy-sized bottle of Valium. That was real professionalism for you. Underneath it all she must have been twitching like a freshly caught fish. The sounds of the concert behind her almost overwhelmed her voice. “Where are you?”
“Down by the Moon Walk.”
“The Moon . . . of course! The exhibition we heard announced at the radio station.” The gal had a great memory. Too bad she had that ol' stuffy accent that made her so hard to understand. “Have you found our subject?”
“There's probably about as many people here as there are where you are,” Boo said, scanning the area around him, “and most of them are standin' up.” A family of obvious tourists pushed between him and a stainless steel sculpture, being careful not to touch him. “It's also pretty dark. The street lamps distort things a little. This is goin' to be a challenge. I'll try a findin', but I don't know how it'll do. I'd better not run down the phone battery. I'll get back to you when I find 'em.”
“You do just that,” Liz said, calmly, as though she was asking him to tea with the Queen. The connection ended. He switched off the telephone and stuffed it back into his pocket.
The finding spell he liked to use best took a good pinch of lodestone powder. Boo-Boo felt around in his coat for the various packets and bundles of cloth he kept handy. He had a bad feeling that he might be short on lodestone. The call from Washington hadn't left him much time to stock up before he had to meet the jet. His fingers explored the threadbare recesses of the inside lining of his jacket, coming up with little bits and pieces. Here was henbane, holy basil, a small bunch of chili peppers tied with red thread, and a whistle. There was that last bite of beignet left over from the stop he'd made at the Café du Monde with Liz and the group. He chewed on the stale chunk while continuing to sort out the contents of that deep pocket. If lodestone powder was anywhere, it was there. In the meanwhile, he recited the words of the incantation to himself. It helped if he got it right the first time.
Nothing in his preparations required that he stand still. He kept moving, hoping to catch sight of Robbie. There was half a hope that Ken Lewis wasn't with her anymore, but Boo-Boo couldn't rely on that. His profile of the missing Ms. Unterburger still would not stretch to make her the mastermind that had engineered small psychic attacks on Ms. Kenmare, let alone sabotaging a whole concert. A pity they hadn't looked closer at the quiet Mr. Lewis. Now that Boo-Boo thought about it, there might have been an offensive cantrip going on to keep them from paying much attention to him. And all that time Boo thought it had been the man's aftershave.
The park had its own soundtrack going. Jazz belted out of the loudspeakers clinging to trees and light poles. You could see people walking along sort of bouncing to the beat. That was healthy, he thought. It was just like he'd been telling Elizabeth Mayfield. Give in to the rhythm, and let it move you with it. Too many tourists came to New Orleans and just brought a bubble of their own homelands along with them. They never got to feel what the city had to offer. Of course, Liz's circumstances were extraordinary. It wasn't often he got to work with an agent from any other department, let alone a foreign national. Kind of nice for a change.
The next fusillade of Roman candles filled the black sky with their lines of white fire. The noise surprised his ears a moment later, almost making him drop the minute bundle in his fingers. He imagined that if there was a correlation going between this display and the mayhem being visited on the Superdome, they'd have a kind of delayed reaction, too. A shame that the delay wasn't enough to give much notice to Liz what was coming before it happened.
There was barely enough of the vital component left for the spell. He had a hair and a little fluff from the upholstery of Robbie's chair that he mixed in with it, all the while chanting the ancient words, with a few new twists that the government researchers had worked out over the last fifty years. Passersby saw him talking to himself and playing with pocket lint. The other local practitioners would understand, but strangers would leave him well and truly alone. That kind of anonymity was what the Department required of its agents, part-time or full-time.
Eighty percent of the people in the park were stationary, having staked out a good place to watch from. The other twenty percent strolled around. Kids with sparklers ran around sketching glittering arcs in the air. Made a pretty good disguise for the glowing witchlight of the finder spell once he got it going.
Strangers in the thick crowd made plenty of room as he wandered past them. He guessed he was describing such an irregular path that they thought something was wrong with him. He had to look carefully into each of their faces. The kind of heady magic he was pursuing could interfere with perception.
He gave them a reassuring kind of smile, but they backed off anyway.
Within a few moments he located a trace. This might be easy after all. He followed it back to the concrete steps where the two must have entered the park, but from there the trail meandered around and around. Boo didn't like the crazy psychic vibes that he picked up as he went. The girl was messed up somehow. Probably had a lot too many drinks somewhere, making her far too suggestible. Boo-Boo winced as the sky filled with fireballs, picturing the same thing happening back at the Superdome. He followed the silver pointer wherever it went, hoping that his meager supply of lodestone would hold out until he located his quarry.
This was no time to trust exclusively to magic, particularly not when counterspells and black magic were at work. Whenever he spotted an acquaintance in the crowd, he showed them the photo of Robbie. None of them had seen her, but they all promised to
watch for her.
Keeping a positive attitude also helped keep the spell strong. There were so many people that he had to dart his head around like a snake to see everyone. Plenty of fellow psychics abounded. All the local fire-worshipers were out in force. They gained strength from a display like this one, and each new surge pulled his magic finder off-line towards one of them. He didn't dare miss the trace he was looking for. He felt sorry for the girl, wherever she was. She wasn't getting anything out of this but grief.
If he had to take an educated guess, he would say that Ken Lewis would have to make his move by the end of the concert. He had an hour to find them—no, forty minutes.
It had better be enough.
* * *
“That's good,” Ken said, shaking the sagging Robbie. “More rockets! Fill the sky with them! Beautiful explosions. Aren't they gorgeous? That's what everyone wants. Fire one!” he said, as a huge green blaze lit the sky. “Fire two! Fire three!” Robbie, her muddy brown eyes fixed on the sky, nodded. Her hands seemed to be working invisible controls. “Ready a barrage . . . and . . .”
“What's a barrage?” she asked, muzzily.
“Twenty-five rockets,” he said quickly. Yeah, one for every point in a pentagram, squared. “Twenty-five in a row.” That'd shake 'em up in the front rows.
“What color?”
“Red. Blood red.”
“But this is a love song,” Robbie said.
“Love hurts, baby.”
“Oh. All right.” Her hands fumbled in the sky, reached for the imaginary laptop computer to one side and put in the instructions. She held her finger poised.
“Now!” Ken shouted as Roman candles popped over their heads. “What are you doing?”
“Time for the laser show,” Robbie said. “Can't be late again. Fionna gets so mad.” Tears leaked out of her eyes.
“She won't get mad,” Ken said, soothingly. “Give her a little spin around. She'll love that.”
“Oh,” Robbie said. “All right.”
* * *
“Aaagh!” Fionna shrieked, spinning on her axis like a top. She'd been interrupted in mid verse. That, after the sudden series of explosions that nearly sent Nigel Peters straight through the roof with hysterics, and the imps made of green laser light that threatened the fans nearest the stage. The audience adored the deafening bangs, but the crew backstage was worried about the possibility of fire. The roof was only soft plastic. The danger of deadly fumes and falling, molten globs of plastic began to look like more and more of a possibility. The crew for the Superdome's fire truck had been scrambled to the main floor by order of the Master Control Room operator, who also began to ask if they shouldn't halt the concert and evacuate the building. Hugh Banks, looking years older than he had at 7:30, relayed the message to Liz.
“No!” Liz said, alarmed. Shouts of disapproval came from the arena floor as the fans picked up on her disturbed state of mind. Quickly, Liz took firm control of her feelings. “We can't stop now. There is a psychic buildup of epic proportions brewing out there. That gigantic hall out there is full of power. If we halt prematurely it may be set off. I cannot even begin to tell you what might happen. The best thing would be if we could force it to dissipate naturally. Give my associate time.”
Banks spoke into his headset, and nodded at her. “We're all with you. How can we help?”
“Keep the music going, no matter what,” she said. “Let the concert come to its natural conclusion. Maybe, just maybe the power glut will fade on its own. In the meanwhile Mr. Boudreau will try to stop the effects.”
The organizers weren't satisfied. Liz wasn't surprised. They were accustomed to being in control of every facet of an event. To have an outsider dictating terms to them on top of all the disasters they had faced before would be intolerable if they decided not to face reality. If she kept her head all would be right. She hoped it would be all right.
Liz forced herself to keep a lid on the power in the arena. It was fighting her. What kind of spell was she fighting? It was strong. Malign influence was pouring into the crowd and giving feedback. Thanks to her grandmother and MI-5 her training was equal to the situation, but she simply needed more power to control than she had. A whip and a chair was no use against a hurricane.
She grabbed at her purse. The augmentation powder that Boo-Boo had left for her was right in front. She tore open the first packet she touched. Cough drops bounded to the floor, followed by the sandy remains of a spell to prevent drowsiness. No problem. She wouldn't need that. And as for the first, if she lost her voice, she'd just whisper the words to the incantations until her tongue fell out.
“This is a disaster!” Nigel Peters wailed behind her, tearing at his hair. “What can we do?”
“You can help,” Liz said briskly, too busy to be polite. She simply began to remove everything in her purse and piled it in his hands until she found Boo-Boo's packet. “Ah!”
Government regimentation of magical and psychic phenomena might have seemed to be a foolish enterprise, but when they did something, they did it right. The instructions on the side were in very clear, legible print. Liz held the envelope underneath the nearest spotlight to read. Augmentation powder needed to be applied to the area where enhancement was required. It worked by the Law of Contagion. To her delight she saw there were instructions for group use. That ought to be the answer to her power problem. She stuffed everything back into her bag and set it on the floor. She opened the envelope and very carefully sprinkled it all over herself.
“They're going crazy out there,” Peters said.
Liz opened her arms up and held them in the air. The force gathering around them was like a balloon pressed against her face, suffocating her. It was nudging against the walls, beginning to uproot the supports. If this didn't work, the whole building could come down on them.
“Nigel,” she said. “Calm yourself. Put your hand on my arm and just concentrate on being open. That's all you need to do. Can you do that?”
“I don't know if I can just open up,” Nigel said, backing away a pace. “My analyst says I have commitment problems.”
That tore it.
“Do you want my old friend to continue to be your meal ticket?” Liz bellowed. Nigel, startled, halted in place and nodded. “Then, do it!”
“Can I help?” Laura Manning asked. “How about the others?”
“Anyone who can,” Liz said, grateful for the makeup artist's take-charge attitude. “Touch me.”
“Come on, you lot!” Laura shouted, waving her arm at the others. “Group hug!”
Roadies and stagehands gathered from all over the backstage area. In between renewing her incantations, Liz barked orders at the others who crushed into the cramped space between the speakers.
“If you cannot reach me, then put your hand on the shoulder of the person nearest you. Keep calm. Meditate if you need to. Do not panic! It is necessary to remain calm. If you can't do that, then please move away. Thank you. That is all.” She started chanting again.
The others bundled around, trying to find a comfortable handhold. Liz was tugged and pulled in so many directions she felt like the last cashmere sweater at a jumble sale. She tried to catch her breath to protest. Suddenly, Lloyd loomed over her. He bellowed at the group.
“'Ere, all of you! Sort yourselves out now.” The tugging and pulling stopped. “What do you want me to do?” he asked Liz.
“Join us,” she said. “I could use your strength.”
“Anything for Fee,” he said. “I do love her, you know.”
Liz smiled. “I know.” The big man put one arm around her from behind and gestured to the others. In no time, he had them arranged in a nice, orderly, spider-web huddle, with more people gathering in.
The cluster of humanity with Liz at its core made Michael do a double-take on his next turn around the stage, but he continued on as though nothing unusual was happening. Bless him, he was an angel. Even after getting a hotfoot from little fireballs that had filled th
e stage, even after getting chased by laser-light monsters, he still kept his head. He trusted her. That gave Liz a warm feeling deep inside.
She was grateful to the rest of the crew as well. Even some of the ones who had been frightened before by the magical demonstration she and Boo-Boo had been forced to perform earlier had dared to join her. The rest were just grateful to have someone to hang onto while scary things were happening. She didn't mind having a friendly shoulder nearby herself. This was the single biggest magical exercise of her life—perhaps the largest on earth at that moment. She must not fail. She must not. The lives of thousands—not to mention her job—depended upon it.
Liz exerted herself to calm the group around her first. They were full of nervous excitement. If she broadcast the tension they were feeling, then the whole place could go up for grabs. She had a lucky moment while Michael performed a guitar solo at the front. While everyone focused on him, she drew in the blanket of peace for just one moment from the arena to wallop her crew into order. Their shoulders relaxed visibly. As soon as they were properly softened up, she opened up and threw her new, totally revamped and much more powerful calming charm over the crowd of fans.
When she did, she felt evil in the air. The magical charge that built up during a joyful event should be benevolent, or at worst, neutral. There was no doubt at all now that something within reach was trying to change that goodness into malignity. Stay pure, she urged through the link, radiating out to the very edges of her web of influence. Beauty. Justice. Generosity. Calm. Dark influence licked at the edges of the mass enchantment like a black flame. She must not let it catch in the fabric of it.
The others in her little group, even the least sensitive among them, seemed to feel the pull towards unity and leaned inwards, squeezing the breath out of Liz. The only protest she could make was a squeak. Lloyd heard the faint noise and shoved hard at the nearest offenders, making room for her. Liz gasped in lungfuls of air.
She began to feel hopeless. Though she was grateful for everyone's help, she had little chance of stopping an onslaught of these proportions herself. In spite of the efforts of the band, the malign quality that had crept into the music earlier had taken a firm toehold. While not a deep-seated fan of Green Fire's music, Liz had had to admit that they knew about composition, structure and creating mood. Except for the songs meant to scold, their repertoire tended to uplift, even liberate, the listener. What went into the microphones was positive. What came out of the speakers was growing steadily more negative. Liz found herself fighting a battle she couldn't keep winning for long.
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