- Chapter 5

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# Chapter Five:
Chase Around The Windmill

Hosea had stopped by Eric's apartment when he'd gotten home from work at five, but Eric still wasn't back from his trip to Boston—or if he was, he wasn't home. Hosea sighed. He hoped it had gone well—or at least not too badly. Being on the outs with your kinfolk was a sorrowful thing, no matter what sort of people they were.

Not finding Eric in, he went on down to his own place.

He'd taken over Jimmie Youngblood's apartment after her death, inheriting not only her position as Guardian and her apartment in Guardian House, but everything she owned, for Jimmie'd had no living relatives by the time she died to pass her possessions to. Over the next several months, he'd helped Toni with the painful task of going through Jimmie's things, destroying personal papers, giving mementos to those who would value them, donating her clothing to charity. When they were done, the apartment was considerably emptier, but it still didn't feel like his.

Repainting helped. Jimmie'd favored cool blues and greens, colors that weren't to Hosea's taste. He'd felt a little guilty, repainting the place in warm creams and yellows—it had been Eric, surprisingly, who'd told him it was for the best.

"It's not a shrine. She's gone. It's your apartment now."

With the apartment repainted in more congenial colors, it had been easier to see what else should go. The large framed photos of wilderness scenes that Jimmie had decorated the living room with: beautiful, but not his style. He'd taken them along to one of the Basement Parties and given them away, along with a couple of the smaller pieces of furniture that just didn't seem to suit now.

And slowly, he'd begun to accumulate his own things to fill in the gaps. The long bookshelves that filled the front hall—emptied now of Jimmie's books on police procedure, forensic science, and criminal law—were beginning to fill with his own books, plus those of hers, mostly fiction and poetry, that he'd kept. The day after the Basement Party where he'd given away all the photographs, Tatiana had showed up at his door with a pair of Thomas Canty prints that she said needed a new home. He'd hung them over the couch, and they looked mighty fine there. Funny, that. When he'd come to New York, he hadn't known who Thomas Canty was, and though he'd admired the covers the man had done for science fiction and fantasy books, most of the books themselves hadn't been to his taste, so he'd never bothered with finding out who the artist was. Now, divorced from those books, he could admire the covers as artworks in their own right.

There had been other gifts along the way. Eric had given him a story-quilt—he used it to cover the couch, which had looked proper in a blue room but not in a yellow one—and Ria had presented him with a fine hard-rock maple rocking chair, just right for a man his size.

"It stands to reason that a man with a banjo needs a rocking chair," she'd said with a smile on the day she'd brought it. "Please accept it as a housewarming gift. In New York, everyone's your neighbor."

And he did have to admit that a rocking chair made any place seem a bit more like home.

* * *

After he'd showered and changed, Hosea thought about calling Eric again, and decided against it. Eric would call if he needed him, and more than likely he'd just want to be left alone. And to be perfectly fair about things, Hosea had his own plans for the evening.

For the past several months, Hosea had been seeing Caity Tambling, a children's book illustrator who lived on the floor below. He'd met her at one of the informal Basement Parties the inhabitants of the House threw every few weeks, and they'd taken to one another pretty quickly. Caity was a shy, soft-spoken young woman from the mountains of West Virginia, born and raised not too far from where Hosea had grown up, in fact. She had a mop of white-blonde hair that was constantly falling in her eyes, and was plump in a way that Hosea liked to see in a lady, though Caity had been doubtful, at first, in accepting his compliments.

He checked his watch, frowning at the time. She'd said she'd meet him here, but it was already a quarter of six, and she'd been going to meet him at five-thirty. She'd probably sat down at her drawing board to do just one little thing and fallen in. Hosea grinned to himself. He'd better go down to her place and roust her out, or they'd never have time for dinner before the movie.

* * *

"Hosea!" Caity said, opening the door. She looked wide-eyed and jittery, and for a moment Hosea was sure she'd forgotten all about their date.

Her hair was scraped severely back from her head and pulled into a tight ponytail—not a particularly flattering style, as it made her face look very round. She was dressed in clothes he'd never seen her wear before: a stark black velour tunic top and pants that looked oddly like a uniform.

"If something's come up . . ." he said gently.

"No, no, no . . . come in. I was just—with a client. Last-minute thing. It ran later than I expected. Come on in. I need to change, then we'll go. Is that okay?"

"Of course it's okay," Hosea said reassuringly. "Take your time."

Caity skittered off toward the bedroom, and Hosea followed her in, locking the front door behind him. In a moment he heard the sound of running water.

Caity's apartment was a mirror image of his, but the living room had been set up entirely as a studio and workroom. The walls were covered with art in all stages of execution from concept sketches to proof pages and a few finished book covers. Most artists these days worked on computer, but Caity still worked on paper and canvas, converting her work to IRIS files only at the last step before she turned them in. She said the paper and pigments talked to her, and the computer didn't.

Her work was lovely—if her drawings were anything like what Underhill looked like, Hosea was surprised that Eric had ever wanted to leave. Plump graceful unicorns with iridescent coats; small winged fairies that still managed to be cheerful and dignified, not sappy; forest brownies with all the happy innocence of puppies . . . this was the Enchanted Forest without its darkness, as was suitable for the young readers who would see her works. She was known for her whimsical animals as well. He looked at the titles of some of the finished books on the shelf: Strawberry Tea, Earl Ferret Goes To Town, The Cat Who Sang Opera, Tea With Mice. . . .

Caity was a special lady, which was hardly surprising. Guardian House chose all its tenants. Not all of them were magicians like Eric and the Guardians, but all of them were special in some way. All of them had what Hosea's grandmother would have called "a touch of the 'shine.' " Most of them were artists in one way or another—either actual artists, like Caity, or writers, dancers, musicians, poets and the like, even if they had to work other jobs to support their art. He wandered around the room for a few minutes, revisiting favorite pieces. Most of Caity's professional work was in colored inks and ink wash, with a lot of fine linework, but occasionally she would do a piece "just for me" and then she would paint with brush and pigments. Some of these were wildly abstract—Caity sometimes claimed that nobody who couldn't draw a cow that looked like a cow had any business doing nonrepresentational work, but that sometimes it was fun to let go of pure shape—some were representational, but almost Expressionistic. None were framed.

The lights were on over her drawing table. He wondered what she was working on now. He went over and looked down. Pen and ink, a blur of colored lines, but so many lines, so much dense cross-hatching, that it almost looked like an engraving. He took a closer look, and frowned. If this was for a children's book, he'd hate to meet the children it was for.

At first he'd thought it was an abstract piece, a "just for me" piece, despite the medium. But her other abstracts were light and playful, in love with color and light, not this dark muddy thing. And the longer he stared at it, the more he seemed to see figures appearing out of the squalid blur of cross-hatching. Red-eyed, angry figures, with long wicked claws . . .

He looked away with a faint shudder of distaste. There was a sketchbook laying on top of the taboret beside the drawing table. With a faint sense of guilt—this was snooping, and he knew it—he picked it up and paged through it quickly.

More sketches, some obviously studies for the work on the table, others different, but with the same feel to them.

If this was a new direction for her art, he really didn't care for it.

And he wondered why she'd fibbed to him about where she'd been this afternoon, because unless she'd been meeting her client down at the local Catholic church—or some other place where they burned a lot of frankincense—she hadn't just come in from any business meeting. Her clothes and hair had reeked of the stuff. He knew the smell perfectly well from Toni's apartment. And he also knew that Caity wasn't herself any kind of a Catholic—most folk from her neck of the woods were some flavor of Baptist or Pentecostal, and he knew Caity well enough by now to know that she wasn't especially churchly.

Not my business, Hosea told himself firmly. Less'n she makes it my business. Guardians didn't interfere in the affairs of ordinary folk unless asked for help. Paul and Toni had dinned that into his head thoroughly. Guardians didn't meddle unasked, hard as it might be to stand back and watch somebody head down the greased road to Perdition while you did nothing. The most a Guardian might do was offer help—but if that help was rejected, there was an end to it.

"Always remember this, Hosea," Toni had told him. "You can't save the whole world. You'll find you have enough to do just trying to save the people who ask you for help. And you won't always be able to save even them."

"All ready?" Caity asked brightly, coming out of the back. She'd taken the time for a quick shower, and to put on the blue dress he'd told her he especially liked.

She saw him looking at the picture on the drawing table, and the bright smile dimmed, just a little. "Oh, that," she said, switching off the Tensor lamps over the table. "I should have put that away. It's nothing, really. Come on, we'll be late."

But Hosea, holding her coat for her as they prepared to leave, could not rid himself of the notion that the painting on the table was just a little bit more than "nothing."

* * *

The apartment was not what he intended to become used to, the man known to his followers as Fafnir, Master of Treasure, told himself. It was certainly not as much as he deserved. But at least it was free, courtesy of one of his so-called Inner Circle. They fell all over themselves to give him things—money, electronics, living space. It was funny; the more things people handed over to you unasked, the smarter they thought they were. And if they weren't yet . . . sufficiently appreciative . . . well, he had plans to take care of that.

It wasn't much of an apartment—a small one-bedroom in an area that had been known in less-gentrified days as Hell's Kitchen—but at least he hadn't had to ask for it. To ask was an admission of weakness, and Fafnir had no intention of ever appearing weak. He'd dropped a few well-placed and properly subtle hints around the time that Andrew had gotten so pissy about him being behind on the rent, and Juliana had just offered it to him. That was the beauty of this whole deal. He never had to demean himself by asking for anything. That would ruin the whole aura of mastery.

The room was lit solely by dozens of white candles in glass jars that stood clustered on tables and along the walls, and the air was heavy with incense smoke from the three tall antique censers that burned in three corners of the room, constantly replenished by one of the Faithful. In fact, one of his minions was going around tending to the censers and candles at the moment. By now the ceiling had been tinted a shiny dark umber by the pounds of frankincense that they'd burned since they'd begun meeting here. The scent permeated the rugs, the drapes, the walls, everything in the room. His supervisor at work had complained about it once or twice, until he'd started keeping his work clothes in double layers of plastic bags in the back of the closet, and showering just before he left for work. That cut the smell, and he'd gotten no more complaints.

It was nice to be able to bank most of his salary. Nice to be able to afford to buy anything he wanted, and to make an occasional show of wealth to impress the sheep (of course they had no idea about the job. That wouldn't go at all well with his aura of mystery). Nicer still to be able to get his Faithful to buy everything he needed or wanted, and have them urge him to accept these gifts to aid him in his Work.

The best sort of cons were the ones in which the mark fleeced himself.

It was Andrew who'd given him the first hint, back when they'd still been friends, back when he'd still just been plain Freddie Warwick. One night a few years ago Andrew had gotten spectacularly drunk on a bottle of Scotch a grateful client had given him for getting him out of a tax mess—Andrew wasn't much of a drinker—and had told Freddie about something that had happened to him when he'd first come to New York, when he'd sublet an apartment for a rent that had seemed too good to be true.

It turned out—so Andrew had said—that it was. The apartment was haunted by a succubus—a spirit that drained the life-force of whoever slept there. Andrew couldn't figure out what was wrong. Neither could his doctors.

Fortunately, the computer consultant at Andrew's office could. Paul Kern, Andrew had said his name was. He'd figured out Andrew's problem, and gotten rid of the succubus. Andrew had gone on to enjoy one of the cheapest apartments in New York for years, until the leaseholder finally figured out that if he wasn't dead, it must be safe to evict him.

And while solving Andrew's problem, Paul had told him a little about himself. Paul was a Guardian, someone who protected people like Andrew from things like that succubus. While he hadn't said much, Andrew had been pretty impressed. Apparently this Paul Kern could do some pretty amazing things, things just like Dr. Strange in the comic books Andrew had read as a kid.

Andrew wasn't really forthcoming the next day once he sobered up. He tried to pretend he'd just been goofing, pulling his roommate's leg, and refused to talk about it any more. But Freddie had known better than to believe that. Andrew had about as much imagination as the average accountant. So Freddie had gone to a comic book store and bought a bunch of old Dr. Strange comic books.

If Paul Kern could do even half of what Dr. Stephen Strange, Master of the Mystic Arts, could do . . .

At first, it had all seemed completely unbelievable, but he applied Occam's Razor to the situation and finally decided to suspend his disbelief and assume that all of this psychic magic crap was real and investigate it as such.

He'd cruised the 'net, now that he knew there was something to look for, and found a few more references to Guardians. From that he picked up a few facts that Andrew had missed, or maybe hadn't known.

There was more than one, for example.

And when one died, another was created.

But most important, the more he found, the more certain he became that all this was real. There were Guardians, they had amazing abilities, and for that reason, they were working very hard to keep their existence a secret.

Now he had a new ambition. He wanted to become a Guardian. But he wouldn't waste his Guardian power going around saving losers like Andrew from demons. No. He'd do really cool things with it. And he would certainly not squander his time and effort on anyone but himself.

And he bet there were a lot of other people who felt the same way he did.

That was how he got his second idea.

His very own cult. But not a bunch of bottom-feeder losers, whose day jobs consisted of asking "Would you like fries with that?" No, his cult would be for the elite, or at least those with ambition and aspirations in that direction.

His Faithful gathered at his feet now, looking up at him expectantly: Juliana, and Neil, and Gregory; Luke, Vanessa, Quinn and Faith and Sarah. The flower of his searching, the cream of the crop. Well-to-do, well-educated, well-bred. Young, competitive, fast-tracked New Yorkers, looking for a little something more in their lives to help them make sense of it all, and just maybe, help them along to the fast track. And, down where it really mattered, not smart enough, not educated enough, and just a little too trusting to save themselves from people like him.

"Now, my Inner Circle, we have dismissed the Outer Circle to the mundane world. It is time to unveil the Eye of the Inner Planes," Fafnir said.

A sigh of expectation traveled around the circle of eight men and women who sat at his feet.

"Neil, it is your turn to fetch the Eye," he said.

Neil got to his feet and crossed the room, coming back with a large wooden box. He set it at Fafnir's feet. Fafnir opened it reverently.

Inside, on a bed of black velvet, lay a perfectly clear sphere of quartz crystal the size of a softball. It had cost over $7,000. Fafnir hadn't paid for it, of course. He had merely remarked idly that such an object would be the perfect vehicle to focus Inner Plane Energies for the Work of the group. And it had appeared, presented to him as a gift.

He lifted both the sphere and the tray out and set them on the floor. "See how it glows?" he said, knowing that everyone in the room would be willing to believe that they saw it glowing, though it was nothing more than the natural property of crystal and reflected candlelight, plus a little hypnotic suggestion.

"It feeds on your energy, storing it for its work. In the presence of the False Guardians it would turn black and shatter. Once they are destroyed, you will see it glow so brightly you will be able to read print by it." The power of suggestion was a wonderful thing.

"And your powers will be restored to you," Gregory said, in a combination of reverence and awe, with just a hint, just a touch, of resentment—but not resentment aimed at Fafnir.

Fafnir smiled faintly and said nothing. He never claimed powers for himself, not explicitly. He let others do that for him. It was much more effective that way, he'd found.

"The False Guardians are very powerful," he said in warning tones. His voice became deeper, his words slower, as he retold the old story—the central myth of the Inner Circle—once again. "Their first act, upon seizing power, was to shackle the True Guardian, and render him powerless on this plane. They felt that humanity, deprived of its only remaining defender, would be easy prey."

At the familiar words, the eight sighed deeply, gazing raptly at Fafnir's face. Though he told this story openly and completely now, it had been months before he'd allowed them to know it, forcing them to piece it together out of hints and unfinished sentences, and even now he told it only in the third person. It made him sound so much more humble and self-effacing that way, so much more the innocent and noble victim.

"It did not occur to them that the True Guardian, even though mortally wounded, would seek out others with a spark of the latent Guardian power, would gather those potential defenders about him, would painstakingly impart what knowledge he still could to them, so that—when the time was right—he and his Inner Circle could rise up—together—and overthrow, not only the False Guardians, but the shackles that bound him. When the False Guardians are destroyed, and their power restored to its rightful possessor, the True Guardian shall be the founder of a new order of Guardians, imparting his power to all his loyal followers, so that all of them can take up the task of protecting humanity from supernatural evil. . . ."

The storytelling ritual came to a close, and the sheep sighed contentedly, not one of them seeing that there were holes in his story that you could drive a truck through. If the False Guardians were as evil as all that, why wouldn't they simply kill the True Guardian? Wouldn't that make a lot more sense than leaving him around to cause the same kind of trouble that Fafnir was causing now?

But they wanted to believe in his fairy tale, and they weren't going to ask any questions that might make it go away.

And when the False Guardians—oh, well, why not be honest, if only in his own mind—when the Guardians, or at least one of them, was destroyed, wouldn't the closest suitable person become the next Guardian? That was the way it went, according to the Internet. The power passed from one Guardian to the next. And he'd be the closest suitable person, right? Because he'd be right there. And then he'd have the Guardian power. And the rest of the Guardians just better watch out then.

Along with the rest of New York.

"Now, friends, it is time to work. Let us gaze into the Eye of the Inner Planes, and see what it tells us about what we must do next. Breathe with me. . . ."

After a few moments of deep breathing and staring into the stone, they were in a light trance, ready for his suggestions of what he saw in the crystal. Not that he ever actually saw anything, of course. Fafnir was interested in molding his followers into a weapon for his wielding, not having actual visions.

He'd told them the truth, too, more or less. He had every intention of overthrowing the Guardians, and taking their power for his own. With the backing of both his Inner and Outer Circles—and what he was planning should be enough to arrange the wholehearted cooperation of both—he should be strong enough for that. He wasn't entirely a charlatan. He had some power of his own—as much as anybody could gain through rudimentary hypnosis. It wasn't much, but it gave him enough for him to know that he wanted more.

But as for the rest of it . . . there'd be no sharing, no founding a new order of Guardians. He called these witless dupes gathered at his feet his Inner Circle, and they certainly thought they were, but there was room for only one person in his Inner Circle, and that was Fafnir, Master of Treasure.

"Here, my faithful, do you see what I see? The image is becoming clear now. . . ."

* * *

Eric and Greystone had stayed up late, watching all the old Bogart movies in Eric's library, while Eric planned what to do next. He felt a great deal better about things after his visit to Ria, knowing that Magnus was not only alive, but on Eric's home turf. New York was a rough town to survive, but all of Eric's resources, both magical and mundane, were right here. If Magnus was in trouble, this was the best place on Earth for him to be in trouble in. And the Everforest Gate and Node was less than an hour away by elvensteed—much less, in fact—if they had to get him Underhill in a hurry.

And Ria had been right about the other thing as well. He supposed it was what Oriana would call a "breakthrough." His parents were jerks. They'd always been jerks. They'd proved themselves jerks—twice over. He supposed he should be just as glad they couldn't have a third child. . . .

In the morning he'd hit the street and start looking—but not, he thought, as Eric Banyon, suave young Bard-about-Town. That would be a good way to get himself mugged, and scare off the very people he needed to get close to as well. No, he needed to fit in, and that meant looking homeless and down-at-heel himself.

* * *

In the morning he was up early, too keyed up to sleep. A quick cup of tea—skip the shave; he needed the unshaven look for his plans—and he was on his way.

His first stop was a secondhand clothing store down on Canal Street. Not one of the trendy "vintage" places, but an actual secondhand store. There he picked up a pair of frayed khakis, an old Air Force sweater, a trench coat, and a watch cap, all items absent from the current fashionable Eric Banyon wardrobe. Paying for his purchases, he wandered about looking for the other item on his shopping list. There ought to be one in this area. . . .

Aha. There it was.

He walked in through the door of the pawnshop, blinking at the sudden transition from light to darkness.

All around him were the leftovers of other people's lives: everything that somebody might be induced to loan money on, or buy outright. Some of them were pretty strange—cuckoo clocks and mangy animal heads, for example. Others were the usual stock-in-trade of places like this: rings, watches, jewelry. Musical instruments.

"Can I help you?" the proprietor asked.

"I'm looking for a flute," Eric said.

He'd been a homeless street musician before. He figured it made pretty good sense to go back to being one now. But he'd need a flute for that, and it would be way out of character to go around with the $8,000 Miyazawa Boston Classic that he'd bought to replace the flute that Aerune had melted. It didn't raise an eyebrow at Juilliard, where parents routinely took out a second mortgage to give their kids the most expensive instruments money could buy—not that money was a problem for Eric, with Underhill bankrolling him—but out on the street his regular flute would look far too new and expensive to go with his cover story.

"We have several to choose from. Over there." The proprietor pointed casually and returned to his reading.

Eric walked over and regarded the selection. There were six of them, all displayed in open cases, all looking rather battered and certainly well-used. All of about the caliber you'd expect to find being used by a high-school marching band, really. Any of them would be suitable. It hardly mattered which he chose, but Eric still hesitated, gazing at the array of tarnished silver as though sight alone could tell him something of their history and quality.

Was it his imagination, or did one of them look just a little more wistful than the others, just a little more ashamed to be here . . . ? Like the dog in the back of the cage at the pound, knowing that no one would ever take him home, but longing just as fervently for a home as the pup that was performing a complete gymnastic routine at the front of the cage.

"That one," he said, pointing at the flute nestled against the rusty-brown velvet. "I'll take that one."

* * *

Returning home with his bundles, he dutifully left a message on Oriana's answering machine, letting her know that he needed to talk to her, and went to inspect his new purchase. He'd probably been a fool to buy a pawnshop flute at random, but after all, it was really little more than a prop, and he had a kit here to make minor repairs. Only minor repairs; anything else would need an expert—but he could change broken springs and replace worn-out pads.

Though he was anxious to start looking for his brother, common sense told him it was still too early to begin. Though he and Ria hadn't been able to find Magnus last night by scrying, Eric still thought he stood a good chance of locating his brother—his brother!—by magic, if he could only get close enough. The question was, where was he? Manhattan was a big place. He'd been shielded last night. Those shields were probably around wherever he slept, and Eric knew from Hosea that street children were mostly creatures of the night. Wherever Magnus was, he was probably still asleep. Eric would have the best chance of finding him once he was up and on the move, and that wouldn't be for a couple of hours yet at the earliest.

That left Eric plenty of time to get ready for his masquerade. He turned his attention to the flute, not expecting very much.

But when he assembled it and blew into it experimentally, the tone was surprisingly good. The silver warmed beneath his hands, as if grateful for the attention, and Eric tried a practice run. That showed him a few stuck keys, and he got out his tool kit.

He'd just gotten everything working properly when the phone rang.

"Eric?"

"Dr. Dunaway." He hadn't expected a call-back this quickly.

"So formal," she said chidingly. "Now." Giving him no more leeway.

"Oriana, I did something really stupid," Eric said, and launched into an explanation of Tuesday. By now, after having explained it already to both Greystone and Ria, he was able to get through it fairly quickly and lucidly.

"I see," she said when he'd finished. "I think you already know that we should talk about this. Unfortunately, my schedule is very full today. Can you possibly come in tomorrow morning, before my regular hours? Or would you rather wait for our regular session?"

Eric sighed. Before regular hours meant eight a.m., and he'd never been a morning person at the best of times. On the other hand, he really thought he needed to talk this out with somebody who knew the whole story. "I'll be there," he said, with resignation.

"Good," Oriana said warmly. "I'll see you then."

Eric hung up the phone, feeling as if he'd attached another lifeline, somehow. He looked down at the flute, and then at the bundle of shabby clothes—his new uniform.

He carefully disassembled the flute again, and took the coil of Magnus' hair out of his wallet. Pulling a single strand free, he coiled it carefully around the mouthpiece of the flute where the join to the body was and fitted the pieces back together. Now the flute was bound to Magnus. As he played, it would search for him, and find him.

And then. . . .

What then?

Worry about that when you get there, he told himself, pulling off his shirt.

* * *

With his new flute, his busker's license (no sense being a damned fool about things), and a few dollars in his pocket, unshaven, disheveled, and dressed in somebody else's discards, Eric Banyon reentered the world he'd left (though he hadn't quite realized it at the time) the moment he'd met an elf named Korendil at a RenFaire a few years before.

It was a place where you begged for money while trying not to attract attention. A place where you weren't sure where your next meal was coming from. A place where you weren't sure where you were going to sleep that night—or any night. All right; granted that he had been good enough and personable enough even when he'd been a lush, that he'd usually had an apartment of his own and was able to keep the lights on and food in the fridge—but he acknowledged now what he had resolutely ignored then, that he had been hovering on the edge of that other world, and it would have taken just a little more booze and grass to push him into it. He wandered slowly downtown and eastward, knowing, both from personal experience and from hearing Hosea's tales of his work in the shelters, that he was heading for the part of town where runaways often gathered.

He did not move purposefully, but drifted, stopping every once in a while to play, leaving the flute case open at his feet. The day was bright and cold, and he realized that he'd forgotten gloves—well, he wouldn't tomorrow. And a little warmth was easy enough to summon, even if he did feel a pang of guilt while doing it.

No one stopped to reward his playing with money, but that was hardly the point. He was hunting, not busking.

He found a few hints of his brother's presence, but the magic told him they were old, many days old. And the harder he tried to trace them, to get a sense of Magnus' movements, the fainter they became, though Eric tried every hunter's trick he knew. It was as if there was a veil over his magic, and the harder he pushed, the thicker the veil got.

And slowly, a new fear was added to all the others.

If he's got this much grasp of magic . . . to be able to cover his trail this well . . . to know to cover his trail this well . . . who taught him?

If Magnus had allies, who were they? And more to the point, what did they want with him?

* * *

In a small office in a nondescript building in Washington, a man regarded a desk full of reports. They were unsatisfying.

Parker Wheatley was not a happy man.

Everything should have been going his way—this was the perfect time to alert those in power to the existence of a heretofore-unsuspected menace right within their own borders. But at the time he most needed his Otherworld ally, Aerune mac Audelaine wasn't returning his calls.

Served him right for trusting an elf in the first place.

Fortunately Wheatley'd had the great good sense to stockpile a number of Aerune's little toys when Aerune had still been willing to dispense them—the green fabric that rendered humans invisible to Spookies and impervious to their powers; the parasympathetic energy detectors that looked like wristwatches and could detect "magical" energy at a distance; the sheets of transparent material that screened out Spookie illusions. Other items, like the zip guns that threw the slugs of Cold Iron so distasteful to elves, were easy enough to build here.

But he did mourn the loss of the larger items, like the flying car. That had disappeared in Las Vegas, along with a number of fine field operatives, just after they'd lost contact with Aerune. They'd never been able to duplicate it. It was irreplaceable. As were the agents, of course, but the agents hadn't cost several million black-project dollars squirreled away from the Department of Defense to create.

Well, there was no use crying over spilled Spookies, Wheatley told himself with a flash of cynical humor. They could make do with what they had for quite some time, even without Aerune's help. And if they could actually manage the Holy Grail of the Paranormal Defense Initiative, a live capture . . .

Then they could either parlay that into a truly satisfactory budget—for a change—

Or perhaps their new elf would be more cooperative and forthcoming than Aerune had been. He wasn't averse to another interspecies partnership, Parker Wheatley told himself. Only this time he'd be sure to make sure that everyone involved was straight on where the real power in the arrangement lay.

He was actually more inclined toward seeking out a new Elven partner at the moment than toward pinning his hopes on displaying a live capture. Despite the early reports last year from Vegas that there seemed to be a whole nest of Spookies running around loose out there, subsequent searches had uncovered nothing, Vegas elves had proved as elusive as Vegas Mafia, and time was running out. The climate on the Hill these days was conservative. Everybody was pulling in his horns, pushing for interagency cooperation and the elimination of deadwood and redundancy . . . and without results, the PDI was headed for the chopping block.

Wheatley was an experienced game player. He could read the writing on the wall as well as anyone. And he knew that Aerune had seduced him into overcomitting himself to the PDI over the last several years. It would be very hard to back out now, to distance himself from the program and try to blend in elsewhere.

No. He needed results. And if Aerune wasn't going to answer whatever Spookies used for phones, that meant Parker Wheatley had to find someone who would.

His intercom buzzed.

"Yes, Gail?"

"Mr. Nichol just called. Your appointment is here."

"Good. Let him know I'll be down in just a minute."

"Very good, sir."

Wheatley smiled. Gail was a good girl. A fast hand with a burn bag, and absolutely loyal. He got to his feet, reaching for his suit jacket.

* * *

Marley Bell was scared. Not just getting-your-tax-return-audited scared. Nobody who ran a small business was a stranger to audits. But might-be-going-to-die scared.

Everything had been fine this morning. He'd gone down to Bell Books to open up, thinking this was just another ordinary day in his life. Bell Books was an occult book store—not a fluffy New Age shop selling candles, glitter, and unicorns, but a real bookstore, selling new and used occult books, some of them extremely rare. Most of his business was mail order, and many years he was lucky to break even; without the trust fund, he'd have had to pack it in years ago. But he was a member of a fine old Baltimore family, with fine old Baltimore money to match. The bookstore had been in the family for three generations, though it had been Marley who had changed the focus to match his own interests and studies. Scholars flew in from Europe just to consult the books on his shelves!

He wondered if he'd ever see any of his beloved books again.

He'd just gotten the shutters up and the front door open—thinking about a nice mug of coffee from the French press he kept in the back of the store—when this big government car had pulled up in front of the shop. The store wouldn't be open till ten, and it was only a little after eight, but he always came in early to check his e-mail and fill orders.

There'd been three of them, all dressed alike. One stayed behind the wheel, while the other two got out of the car: one out of the front seat, one out of the back. They'd been wearing green trench coats, the color so offbeat, bordering on bizarre, that he hadn't taken them seriously for a moment.

That had quickly changed.

"I'm sorry, we're still closed," he'd said, turning in the doorway to face them.

"Yes, you are," one of them said.

They'd walked right up to him, crowding him. One of them had taken the key ring right out of his hand, while the other one had taken his arm and started pulling him toward the car. He'd been too shocked to protest for a moment, until he'd heard the sound of the first one behind him, relocking the door of his shop.

He'd tried to struggle then, but it was too late. He wasn't quite sure what the two of them did—everything got a little hazy—but when he could think clearly again, he had a ferocious headache, and he was sitting in the back seat of the car between the two men in the green coats, and the car was heading in the direction of D.C. Neither of them had spoken to him again.

And now he was alone in here.

"Here" was a small room with a table—bolted to the floor—one chair, and no windows. It looked like the holding cells you saw on television in police shows. He'd been brought in through an underground garage, up an elevator, along a deserted corridor. He'd seen no one.

Why? He'd done nothing wrong, broken no laws. He didn't use drugs, didn't cheat on his taxes . . . he didn't even jaywalk, in the name of all that was holy. He was an only child, never married, his parents were dead, he had no close relatives, he didn't date anyone of any sex. All of his close personal relationships—such as they were—were conducted by mail and over the Internet, and all of them referred exclusively to either the Art or rare books.

Why was he here?

After a while, nervous tension gave way to a kind of numb despair, a growing horrified realization that, no matter how innocent he was, no matter that the men who had kidnapped him seemed to belong to his own government, anything at all might happen to him. And no one would know.

Finally there were sounds of a key in the lock, and the door swung inward. Marley sprang to his feet with a cry, knocking the chair in which he'd been sitting over backward with a crash.

Two men entered.

One was one of the men who'd kidnapped him, wearing a business suit the exact same color of lurid green as his trench coat. The other, Marley was relieved to see, looked normal. He was wearing a plain, charcoal-grey three-piece suit with a burgundy tie, and his thick silver hair was swept straight back from a widow's peak. He looked like an expensively groomed Washington insider and, paradoxically, that reassured Marley. Career politicos had plenty to lose. They would not throw it away on foolish mistakes.

Mistakes. That's what this is, a mistake. They'll tell me this is a mistake, and I can go home . . . .

"Good afternoon. My name is Wheatley. Mr. Nichol you already know. And you are Marley Tucker Bell. Bell . . . Bell . . . you wouldn't happen to be a relation to Miller Stevenson Bell, by any chance?"

Marley felt a disappointment too deep for words as his last hope of this being a mistake was crushed. They—whoever they were—had picked him, chosen him by name. But the dictates of good manners were strong. "He was my great-uncle, sir."

"Ah." Wheatley smiled. "I thought you had the look of the family. He was a fine politician, still fondly remembered, and by all accounts, an excellent preacher. How sad he'd be to discover that his great-nephew had grown up to be a black magician."

Shock does make you light-headed, Marley decided with a faint sense of discovery. He reached down, picked up the chair, righted it, and sat down on it. His hands trembled, and he knew he looked as frightened as he felt.

"Perhaps you would be so good as to allow me to call my lawyer," he said, summoning up the last of his defiance.

And a psychiatrist for yourself, he thought, but did not say. He'd long since grown beyond responding to such petty schoolyard taunts. So Wheatley knew he was a student of the Art Magical. That was disturbing—hell, it was terrifying. But studying magic wasn't illegal. And he was no Black Magician. He harmed no one and nothing in his practice of the Art.

"Oh, come now, Mr. Bell," Wheatley said. "You've done nothing wrong. Why would you need a lawyer? We simply require your help. And you're going to provide it."

Marley stared at him in baffled horror, unable for a moment to think coherently. This was the stuff of nightmares, of bad movies. All it lacked was the Nazi uniforms to make it complete.

"What do you want?" he said at last.

He drew the tiniest of comforts from knowing that his paper files were sanitized, his computer was secure . . . they'd get his mailing list, but very little more than that; and if he didn't log in to his system within 72 hours, it would format itself and that would be lost as well. And his important files and correspondence were triply password-protected and encrypted, on a system designed by a Brother of the Art. Bless Ray for that; there was no one better, and even Ray didn't know the passwords and encryption he'd chosen.

The only weak link in the system was him. He had no illusions about his ability to stand up under duress.

Wheatley smiled benignly down at him.

"You're a magician. I don't really care if you're black, white, or purple. You're a good one. The best. I checked. You can conjure up all sorts of things, I'm sure. So conjure me up an elf."

Marley blinked; at first he was certain he must have misheard, then he wondered just what sort of insane thoughts were going on in this man's head. You've got to be kidding!

But the man was deadly serious, Marley knew. To laugh would be fatal, though the tension in his soul screamed for release. Irrationally, he felt relief—he had not been brought here to inform on his colleagues. Fleetingly, he wondered who had given Wheatley his name, and dismissed the speculation. It wasn't important now.

He took a deep breath, thinking hard. What the hell was it that this mundane actually wanted? And what were the penalties for guessing wrong?

"Many grimoires concern themselves with the formulae for conjuration and evocation," he began, speaking slowly and watching the madman's face for any clue. "The entities which can be summoned are various, from the embodiments of the Elemental Powers of Earth, Air, Fire and Water, to lesser Elemental Beings—woodland spirits, genus locii, aspects of the anima mundi, to Greater Powers such as demonic or angelic forces—"

"I'm not interested in any of that," Wheatley snapped, glowering. "You heard me, Bell: I want an elf."

Helpful. But he's not going to like what he hears next.

"—but if what you wish to summon is one of the Princes of Faerie, the Lords of the Hollow Hills, then the matter becomes more difficult." Talking actually made him feel better. This was what he knew best; his life's work. But if they'd just wanted information, why hadn't they come and asked? "There's only one book that deals with that sort of conjuration in any detail at all: De Rebus Nefandis—'Concerning Forbidden Things.' It was set down around the year 900 by an Icelandic monk who was deploring certain shamanistic practices among his new converts, who had apparently used to have a rather extensive magical system related to the conjuration of svartálfar and ljósálfar, or what we'd call Dark and Bright elves."

"Well get it, and get to work," Wheatley said irritably.

Marley allowed himself a small smile of triumph. "Unfortunately, there's only one copy, and the Vatican has it. I don't think they'll sell."

Wheatley leaned over the table, bringing his face very close to Marley's. "I don't think you understand your situation here, Mr. Bell. I want results. I want them fast. You can bring one of your fairy princes here, or you can send him a message that I want to see him. I do not care which. But I do know that nobody is going to miss you. And I know that pain makes a man very eager to please."

Marley tried to push his chair back, to get away from Wheatley, but the other man had moved around behind him while Wheatley had been speaking, and was pushing the chair forward, until the edge of the table pressed painfully against Marley's stomach.

And that was the least of what they were going to do to him. He was, alas, entirely familiar with the psyches of the ruthless, ambitious, and mad. There were certain Nazi occultists who had fit that profile—and he had read their diaries. The look he saw in Wheatley's eyes matched the picture he had built up in his mind.

"Please—don't—oh, God—please—"

He couldn't do it. No one could. But he knew he'd try, because if he didn't, they were going to kill him slowly and horribly.

"That's what I like to see," Wheatley said, patting him stingingly on the cheek. "Now, you just let Mr. Nichol here know everything you need. I'll be along to check on you in a day or so."

Wheatley straightened up and left.

"Well, now, Marley, what shall we do first?" Nichol said brightly from behind him. "How about some lunch?"

* * *

By the time it was dark—and much colder—Eric was frustrated and fed up. The trail was worse than cold; it was as if every time he got the ghost of a lead, there was a sudden psychic brick wall in his way.

Could Magnus really be doing that all by himself? Or could he have found help already? If he had, Eric hoped it was the right kind of help, and not some modern-day Fagin, protecting kids only in order to exploit them himself. . . .

Not that that would be anything new.

But right now he was tired, and hungry, and cold. He'd covered a lot of miles today, and all on foot, and he had to get up early tomorrow to keep his appointment with Oriana. But after that, he'd have the whole day free to search. Reluctantly, he had to admit there was nothing more he could do right now.

He needed to check in with Hosea, tell him about yesterday, and get some ideas about how—and where—to look for Magnus. From his work in the shelters, Hosea was a lot more plugged in to the city's runaway population than Eric was these days. He'd have a better idea of where the kids hung out. Maybe Eric would be able to strike a fresh trail that way. And most of all, if he happened to run into Hosea while he was out wandering around, he didn't want Hosea recognizing him and blowing his "cover."

Besides, he knew that he couldn't spend more than another day, two at most, playing the Lone Ranger. After that, he'd have to call Ria and let her put her specialists on the case, much as his instincts cried out against it. At the very least, he should give her a call later and find out what she'd learned about that Dorland his parents had hired.

As if to underscore the rightness of his decision to go home, when he got out of the subway at his stop, he saw it had started to rain. Only a little rain—more a heavy mist than a real rain, but it made the street slippery and the air even colder. Another few weeks, and this would be snow that stuck; even now, there were a few white flakes mixed with the silvery drizzle, though they melted before they reached the street. Last winter had been unseasonably mild; this one obviously planned to make up for it.

By the time he'd walked the three long blocks to the apartment, Eric was thoroughly damp; whatever waterproofing his trench coat might once have possessed had long departed.

"Nice threads, Banyon."

The familiar voice came just as he reached the stairs. He turned at the sound. He'd been so focused on getting inside, warm, and dry, that he hadn't seen Kayla come up the steps from her basement apartment.

Kayla was just finishing her first year at Columbia, majoring in web design. She was a Healer and an Empath, but neither skill paid the rent, and for someone whose Gift could make close proximity to other people actively painful, it was good to develop money-making skills that would let them spend a lot of time away from people. Especially now. She'd spent the months of September and October of 2001 practically in a cocoon.

Kayla walked across the foyer and inspected him critically. "This a new look for you?"

"Um, look, Kayla, I—"

"No," Kayla said flatly. She stood regarding him pugnaciously, hands on hips.

Eric blinked at her in surprise.

"Do not come up with some fool dog-and-pony story about leaving your other clothes in a taxi while you were kidnapped by space aliens. Jesus, Eric, this is me. You've got two choices here, the way I see it: you can tell me the whole truth straight up or I resort to blackmail, and that takes longer."

Eric smiled in spite of his tiredness. "What kind of blackmail could you possibly use?" he found himself asking, out of a detached professional interest.

Kayla grinned impishly up at him. "Well, either everybody else already knows what you're up to, or they don't. If they do, I bet I could get the truth out of Too-Tall Songmaker in a New York minute . . . or I could just follow you the next time you go out. But why not cut to the chase and level with me? You look like you're trying to pass for street—so why not consult an expert? Which would be me, of course."

Eric had to admit that she looked street—upscale street, but still street. Kayla's look tended to change with the seasons; at the moment it was less Goth than paramilitary, with laced jump boots, the same leather jacket she always wore (all the glitter of its previous incarnation had been sanded off), baggy parachute pants, and a skintight camo-print camisole.

"C'mon," she said, sensing his hesitation. "Let's get you upstairs and out of those wet clothes before I catch cold."

* * *

Taking over his kitchen Kayla made cocoa—grumbling over the lack of coffee as usual, but Eric had given her his espresso machine as an apartment-warming present, so she had no real cause for complaints—as Eric changed into dry clothes. When he came out, she was waiting implacably.

"Spill it," she said, handing him his mug. Eric was careful not to touch her fingers when he took it from her, or she might have gotten the whole story at once—and not in a terribly pleasant way, either. There were certain rules of etiquette in dealing with Empaths.

He sighed. "There's no way to explain this that doesn't sound really stupid," he said, and launched, once more, into the explanation about how he'd come to find out about Magnus. He was starting to wish he'd gathered everyone together and told all of them the story all at once; he still had Hosea to tell, and it was starting to feel as if he'd told this tale a thousand times already. At least it seemed to hurt a little less each time he told it.

It was new to Kayla, though. She stared out the window for a long moment after he'd finished, her face very still.

"You know, Banyon, even having no parents—or parents that dump you because you get weird, like mine did me—is better than having parents like yours. Some people shouldn't even be let to raise houseplants!" she said at last.

"I know," Eric said gently. Somehow, having someone else upset about it made it easier for him to deal with. "But this isn't about them. Or me. It's about Magnus."

Kayla sighed, and seemed to shake herself all over.

"Right. We've got to get him off the street and under cover before they find him. And that means the next time you go looking, I'm going with you."

"But—" Ria would kill him and hang his scalp in the LlewellCo boardroom, no arguments, if he put Kayla in a dangerous situation. When she'd come East to go to school, Elizabet had made Ria Kayla's unofficial guardian.

Kayla had been supposed to live with Ria, actually. It was Kayla who'd decided that her talents were better utilized at Guardian House, and she'd been proved right a couple of times already. Since the House itself had no objections to her staying—and there was a studio apartment available in the basement—Kayla had moved in, decorating it to suit her own Gothgrrl tastes. And, Eric had to admit, she was a lot more thoroughly watched over by Greystone and the House than she would have been staying with Ria.

"See here, Banyon. Bringing me into this only makes sense. One—" Kayla held up a finger. "I'm a lot closer to Magnus' age than you are. So I can get closer to him. Two—" Another finger. "I've lived on the street a lot more recently than you have—in fact, you never lived on the street the way I did. Three— If you go approaching a bunch'a street kids alone and try to get in with them, you'll read as a predator. You may not be as old as you ought to be, but you're too old. Trust me. So we go around together. You find him and point him out. I can get next to him alone and get you in, or he'll accept you 'cause you're with me. And hey, how much trouble can I possibly get into with you right there to keep an eye on me?" she added, with a wicked grin.

Plenty, Eric thought, with the wisdom of long experience. But he had to admit that all of Kayla's points were good ones. He looked like he was in his twenties. That was too old to get in with the crowd he was trying to infiltrate, and if Magnus was using magic—or was being protected by someone who was—using a glamourie to lower his apparent age enough to pass would be like posting a red warning flag above his head.

But Kayla was still in her teens, and looked younger than her age. She'd fit right in. And she was right about being more streetwise than he was.

Besides, trying to keep Kayla out of something once she'd made up her mind to "help" was a losing proposition, as he knew from long experience. . . .

"Okay. Fine. You've got a deal," he said with a sigh.

"Yo! Homes!" Kayla whooped exultantly. "Where do you want to start?"

"I'm going to go see Oriana tomorrow morning—early—and take my lumps. I should be done about nine. Why don't you meet me there? Then we can head downtown. I'll buy you breakfast, and we can figure out where to go from there."

"Sounds like a plan," Kayla said. "Well, better run. There's a Rutger Hauer retrospective over at the Gaiety, and I promised some friends I'd check it out. See you tomorrow, Morning Man."

"Be good," Eric said, winning himself another smirk.

* * *

After Kayla left, Eric made himself an unsatisfactory dinner—he'd been eating out far too much, and getting behind on his grocery shopping, and there really wasn't much in the refrigerator but leftover takeout that was way past its "sell-by" date and the usual assortment of designer water. He finally opened a can of soup, and settled down for some channel-surfing. With expanded cable, he had his pick of almost 500 channels, including several international ones, so he could shop for things he didn't need, watch soap operas or game shows in languages he didn't know, catch up on the latest in sports from sumo matches to Australian football, or learn how to renovate and rewire his nonexistent house.

None of it held his attention for very long.

He realized that he was putting off something he needed to do, and it wouldn't be fair to make this a late night for Hosea. Hosea's days tended to start early—and Eric's day tomorrow was going to start early as well. He stretched out his arm, and snagged the phone.

* * *

A few moments later he presented himself at the door to Hosea's apartment. Hosea opened the door. The rich vanilla smell of baking wafted out into the hall.

"You knew I was coming so you baked a cake?" Eric asked, startled.

"Ah'm baking cookies for the shelter," Hosea said, in his slow mountain drawl. "You can have a few, if you're good. C'mon in."

Eric walked down the long hall, following Hosea. The bookshelves were filling up nicely, he saw, and he noticed a few new additions to the art gallery since the last time he'd visited, as well—a large framed poster of Daybreak by Maxfield Parrish, and a couple of small drawings of banjo-playing mice that managed to bear an odd resemblance to Hosea—he remembered that Hosea was dating the children's book artist who lived down on Four. What was her name? Kathy? No, Caity.

"Jest set for a spell, I've got to get this last batch out of the oven, and I'll be right out," Hosea said. He disappeared into the kitchen, while Eric wandered around the living room.

Jeanette was there, lying in her open case. Eric gazed at her, wondering, as he often did, just how present she was when Hosea wasn't actually playing the instrument she inhabited. He knew that at those times she could see what Hosea saw and hear what he heard, and that she spoke to Hosea through the music, and that only Hosea could hear her. Those were the terms of the original spell that had bound her to "haunt" the banjo until she had expiated the evil she had done in her life. But he did wonder what it was like for her—was she "there" the rest of the time, or just asleep? He'd never asked, though—it seemed sort of intrusive, somehow—and Hosea hadn't said.

Hosea came in a few moments later with a colorful tin tray that bore an old Rockingham teapot and a plate of golden sugar cookies, still warm from the oven. The tray was one of Hosea's many "urban scavenger" finds: New Yorkers threw out the most amazing things, and many city dwellers had furnished entire apartments from curbside scavenging. Most of the items—from furniture to dishes—only needed minor repairs, or a little elbow grease, to make them perfectly usable. You had to know the right neighborhoods, and get up early, to find the best items, but Hosea was a morning person anyway. Hosea kept some of his finds, and donated the rest, after repairing them, to others who could use them. Somehow, he always seemed to know someone who needed just that thing.

Hosea set the tray down on the coffee table and gestured for Eric to sit. "I was hopin' you'd drop by and tell me how yesterday went for you," he said mildly.

"Well, I made a real dog's breakfast of it—to borrow one of Greystone's favorite phrases—but nobody's dead, and my parents don't even know I was there. But wait. There's more," Eric said. He knew he sounded flip, trying to distance himself from the pain with sarcasm, but what else could he do?

"Have a cookie," Hosea suggested, pouring tea.

Between bites of cookie and sips of peppermint tea flavored with wild honey, Eric told the story: that his parents, having lost one trophy child, had decided to make another one. That this second son—far more rebellious, by all accounts, than Eric had ever been—had run away from home. And was now in New York. Somewhere.

"And I can't find him. Ria can't find him. It's like he's wrapped in some kind of magical cloak of invisibility. I spent all day trying to trace him, and I just kept getting more and more muddled. The harder I looked, the less there was to find. And . . . well, you see a lot of runaways," Eric added hopefully.

"That I do," Hosea agreed. "Do you have a picture?"

Eric pulled the bus pass out of his pocket. Hosea studied the picture for a moment, then shook his head. "He hasn't come around when Ah've been there, but most of those kids are wild as jackrabbits, specially if they think somebody might be out to drag them back home. And even the older ones are spooked by La Llorona. Some of 'em'll come around for a meal, sometimes, but only if they can be durned sure we won't turn 'em in. If you want to copy this, Ah could show it to Serafina and the others, so they could look out for him."

"Thanks," Eric said. "I'll do that."

* * *

"Have you talked to Oriana about this?" Hosea asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. The last thing Eric needed right now was pity; he'd rarely seen his friend and teacher so brittle, not even just after they'd returned from Chinthliss' domain, when he'd been trying to cope with Jimmie's death, and the battle with Aerune, and—in its own strange way, though she'd died thousands of years before—the death of Aerete the Golden. Not even after the Towers fell, when everyone was in what his Grannie would have called "a State."

He'd found out more tonight about Eric's childhood than he'd ever known before, and none of it good. It was bad enough to have parents who'd bred and raised him with no more love—less, in fact—than a farmer would give to a pig he was fattening for slaughter, but then to find that they'd repeated the sin was a double blow. Because a brother—even a brother he hadn't known about until the day before—wasn't just some stranger. He was family, and Eric's responsibility. And then to find that he not only existed, but was lost somewhere in New York. . . .

Well, it was a heavy burden.

"I'm seeing her in the morning," Eric said, with a crooked smile. "And she'll probably read me the riot act, but hell—if I hadn't gone when I did . . . Magnus would still be out there, only I wouldn't know to look for him."

"There's truth to that," Hosea agreed. "You stop on by the shelter tomorrow morning. Ah'll have talked to Serafina by then. She knows a lot of the places those kids den up. If you check enough of them, you should find him. But when you do find him, Eric . . . ?"

"I'm not sending him back to Boston." Eric's voice was flat and uncompromising. "Maybe . . . Underhill? I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead. Ria said the first thing was to find him."

"Well, Miz Llewellyn surely has the right of it. But it's a puzzling thing that yore shine ain't helping you any."

"Or not much," Eric said with a sigh. "He's in Manhattan, that's as much as I know for sure. If I could just get close enough, I'm sure I could break through whatever protective spells he's got wrapped around him. Ria's suggested hiring specialists—mundane ones—to look for him, and if I don't turn up anything in a day or so, I'll do that. But I'm afraid that if he does realize somebody's after him, he'll run again."

Hosea nodded. "There is that possibility. And he's just the least bit safer when he's not running than when he is, not that being a runaway is any kind of safe at all, bad as the homes some of them run from are. Ah'll do everything Ah can to help. We all will."

"Thanks," Eric said, meaning it. "And maybe I'll get lucky tomorrow. I'll be bringing in a sort of native guide of my own. And Ria would flay me alive if she knew."

"Uh-huh," Hosea said, decoding the sentence without effort. "Stands to reason that Little Trouble would figure a way to stick her nose in. Well, looks like you're going to have yourself a busy day tomorrow. You'd best get your rest."

* * *

After Eric had left, Hosea picked up Jeanette and sat down in his rocking chair, plucking the banjo's strings idly.

"What're we going to do, Jeanette?" he said aloud.

:Let 'em all fry,: the banjo suggested.

"Now you know you don't mean that," Hosea said mildly.

There was a sulky listening silence from the banjo, and finally a defeated sigh. :Is he turning tricks? Running with a gang? Somebody knows where he is, and trust me, big fella, they'll be happy to give him up for a hundred bucks cash.:

"Well, now," Hosea said mildly, his fingers continuing to weave glittering patterns of sound in the silent apartment, "Ah don't doubt you, but the question is, who do we offer the money to?"

:Let me think about that,: Jeanette answered. :I never had any particular connections in New York, and what I did have are years out of date now. You go walking into a Saint clubhouse, and you'll be dead before you can explain yourself.: Another brooding silence, while Jeanette thought about things. :Your problem is, you want him alive and in good condition.:

"That Ah do," Hosea admitted, with a heavy sigh. "Well, we'll both sleep on it. Might could be something will dawn on one or both of us. Good night, sweetheart."

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