Divine Knight Page 4

  "The thing is," Dawn explained, "everything is on the Internet. Stayn and I are searching for the rest of the Hunt on the Internet." She glanced at Stanzer and something flashed between them.

  "What?" Angela demanded. "Have you had some success?"

  "We've...made contact," Stanzer said. "We're doing some research and following up, but they contacted us through the web site Dawn designed."

  "So if inter-dimensional royal exiles can use the Internet, why not magic saboteurs?" Dawn said.

  Angela had to agree. She hoped Dawn would find all the books on the Internet, on sale by and to people who had no idea what those books contained and what they could do in the wrong hands. Sometimes ignorance was a safeguard. The alternative was that whoever took those books knew exactly what they wanted to do and how to use those books, which meant they would never appear anywhere, not even in a vague reference to books stolen from a curiosity shop in the middle of the night.

  When she went to bed that night, after being awake for almost two days straight, Angela had vague, innocuous dreams, and found she was disappointed. Dreams were her torment, yes, but they were also her clues and answers.

  And this battle was not over. She sensed it had barely begun.

  * * * *

  "Maurice." Asmondius Pickle--head of the Fae Disciplinary Council that had exiled him to Earth, to Neighborlee, to Divine's Emporium a year-and-half ago, shrunken, with wings--faded into view inside the Wishing Ball. "How are you, lad? Not getting itchy at this late date, are you?"

  "Forget about me." Maurice snarled under his breath as his wings snapped into chop-and-liquefy speed. He clenched his fists and put all his control into calming them and folding them back out of the way. This was just another sign of how the pressure lately had messed him over. "It's Angela. I gotta know what's happening back home, and if it's coming after her."

  "Coming after her?"

  The Wishing Ball turned opaque, and then divided into two solid rainbow-swirled balls. One floated across the counter and over the edge, to drop to the floor and expand, while the other rainbow ball stayed in place and returned to normal Wishing Ball condition. The first expanded until Asmondius could step through it. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter.

  "What has been going on back home?" He leaned over Maurice for three seconds, then sighed and snapped his fingers, and vanished in a shower of sparks, to reappear standing on the counter, eye-to-eye with Maurice. "That's better. What's this about something coming after Angela?"

  "I figure, with all the fuss over Mellisande dying and the anti-hereditary royalty loonies running around, and a bunch of different ministries hunting for who poisoned the chocolate, and figuring it came from Earth and carob-tainted chocolate, and taking so long to let Epsi out of the holding tank to help hunt and... Well, maybe some of the real extreme morons want to cut off all ties with the Human world." Maurice shrugged. "Can't stand Fae politics. It's even worse than what the Humans are going through, and that's saying a lot."

  "Hmm, yes, there's been some upheaval lately. Can't say I mind, actually. Helps us pinpoint the troublemakers, cut out the rotten elements before they infect the whole, that sort of thing. But I don't countenance our housecleaning spilling over and hurting our friends outside the Fae realms." He snapped his fingers and two easy chairs appeared, with an oval table between them, loaded with chocolate cookies and pitchers of hot chocolate.

  Maurice whistled, impressed. This was obviously going to be a long conversation, and Asmondius knew enough to take his concerns seriously.

  "Tell me what happened with Angela, first," Asmondius said, as they settled down in the chairs and poured their first cups. "She's been through enough down through the centuries, for our sake as well as her own sad history."

  "She has a sad history? Like what?" Maurice sat up, nearly bobbling his cup before he took his first sip.

  "Later, lad."

  Maurice knew that frown meant business. Asmondius had been a family friend, and he had learned early to gauge the seriousness of the situation by the wrinkles on the elder statesman's forehead. Right now, he wagered he could scrub an entire football team's worth of socks on those ridges. Taking a deep breath, he gathered up his magic and shot it at the Wishing Ball.

  Normally by this late in the evening, especially after all the work he had been doing, trying to help solve the mystery of the intruders and stolen books, he wouldn't have more than enough magic to turn on the protective net around the shop before he went to bed. However, the Wishing Ball was as aware as a centuries-old magical object could be, without having a trapped soul inside it, needing the kiss of a prince or princess to break the spell. The Wishing Ball cared about Angela as much as Maurice did--evidenced by its eager cooperation when he wanted to contact Asmondius for a serious conversation.

  Now the Wishing Ball cooperated again, and the images of the night Angela was pushed through the painting flashed across its surface. Maurice nearly laughed aloud when the image split into four, showing different angles and vantage points in the shop, from late in the afternoon of the incident, up until he pulled Angela out of the painting and the intruders left the shop, using Holly to get through the magical protective net that tried to keep them inside. Obviously the net and the Wishing Ball had been conferring, and they had picked up some tricks from Guber's monitoring gizmo.

  Even with the advantages of fast-forward and judicious editing--also borrowed from Guber's gizmo--it took nearly two hours to show everything to Asmondius. All the hot chocolate was gone, and he hadn't hesitated to snap his fingers and bring in the really strong stuff: jars of hot fudge sauce, and spoons to eat directly out of the warmed jars. Maurice appreciated that, but this sign of how seriously Asmondius took all of this put off his appetite.

  "There are a number of Fae living in this town now, are there not?" Asmondius said, after the images faded from the Wishing Ball, and he had continued to sit staring at the darkened surface for another ten, fifteen minutes. He didn't even look into the jar of hot fudge as he scraped the sides and thoughtfully sucked the spoon clean.

  "Yeah. Angeloria--she married a Changeling, Brick. He's still learning the tricks. Then there's Harry and his Halfling wife, Bethany. They're in town right now, but she has to leave soon for a movie she's starting. Then there's Guber and Epsi. They're working on solving the whole poisoned chocolate riddle. And there's the super-friends."

  "The who?"

  "No, they're on tour in..." Maurice grinned, not at all repentant at confusing Asmondius with his Human-cultural references. He had to be feeling better, to start making wisecracks again. "There are some kids in this town with powers. Not magic, actually. Angela calls some of them Guardians. There are dimensional gates here that aren't Fae and aren't magic. At least, not the kind of magic we know."

  Quickly, he ran through the list of the not-quite-Human allies in Neighborlee, and their gifts. Lanie, who retained her telekinesis after she broke her back and landed in a wheelchair. She also sometimes had flashes of future events, and could tell if people lied to her if she touched them while they talked. Kurt had a gift for mechanical and electronic things. Felicity gave off EM bursts and had a talent for befriending--and calling, if necessary--every dog within an eighty-mile radius. These three had grown up together, foundlings dumped in the Neighborlee Children's Home.

  Then there was Jane, Kurt's girlfriend, who had been called The Ghost in the last town she lived in. Her gift let her phase out so she was invisible and could walk through walls, and fly. Bethany, Harry's wife, was the daughter of another foundling with powers, who had been a Guardian working with Angela--and died years ago protecting the town from an inter-dimensional attack. On her father's side, Bethany had Fae blood. They were still trying to figure out exactly what that made her and what she could do, or should be able to do.

  Then there were John Stanzer and Dawn Dover. They knew they came from another dimension or planet, and were looking for the rest of their friends, who they called t
he Hunt. They had trans-dimensional guardians called the Hounds of Hamin, which manifested as big black dogs with silver eyes, who could get really nasty when the children in their care were threatened.

  "Think that's enough to protect Angela from whatever's going on?" Maurice asked, while watching Asmondius take notes on everything he had told him.

  "We won't know until the time comes, will we?" he murmured, glancing over the tops of the thick horn-rimmed glasses that had settled on the tip of his nose when the big notepad and quill pen appeared.

  "Considering you know a whole lot more about what's threatening her than I do--"

  "No, lad. That's the problem. It could be Angela's curse and her ancient enemies have awakened. It could be, as you said, trans-dimensional invaders. They know Divine's Emporium holds together all the fraying strings of the... Well, let's call it the drawstring bag that keeps Otherness from popping through into the Human realms. There are many such spots throughout this world, and many Humans who have been recruited through the centuries to work with us and guard and hold everything together.

  "The problem is that Earth is a nexus point. Many different dimensions and worlds converge here. Realities that even the Fae don't know about. It could be something even we can't see or touch or hear or smell, trying to come through here. Something is targeting Angela--or perhaps not Angela, but this house, this entire town.

  "Neighborlee nearly drips with magic and alternative-magical energy. That makes it a tempting target. It could be something or someone very nasty, who merely wants to absorb all the power and potential that has been absorbed into the very fiber and foundation of Neighborlee. It or he or she or they couldn't care less about actually invading and dominating this world. That makes them even more dangerous than an enemy trying to take over, trying to use Neighborlee as a gatehouse to other dimensions."

  "Why?"

  "Do you care what damage you do to a bar of chocolate when you eat it?" Asmondius nodded slowly when Maurice swallowed down a surge of nausea at the mental image that provided. "At least with a magical despot, he wants to keep his new territory as much in one piece as possible, because he will need to use it in the future. Or in more mercenary terms, he wants to preserve as much profit as possible."

  He sighed and put down the empty hot fudge jar. "Well, lad, I can't say I'm glad to have this to think about, but I am glad you were worried enough to consult me on this. We will put our heads together back home and see what we can do from our side of reality. You'll contact your friends and get to work on this?"

  "You betcha."

  A moment later, Asmondius vanished in a soft shower of green and blue sparks, taking everything with him except the plate of uneaten cookies and the fifth jar of untouched hot fudge sauce. Maurice smiled crookedly at that. Things had to be pretty serious for Asmondius to leave that for him. As in, provisions for a siege.

  * * * *

  Ethan Jarrod sat back in his creaking swivel chair and contemplated the notes haphazardly thumb-tacked to the big, slightly grimy blank wall on the opposite side of his narrow office. He half-closed his eyes and let the disparate bits and pieces of his current investigative job mix and mingle in his subconscious, waiting for a couple puzzle pieces to slip together, for that flash of insight to make sense of unrelated bits and pieces and solve the puzzle.

  A house bathed in moonlight, with gables and towers and narrow windows and flickers of sparks dancing along the eaves, surrounded by trees...

  Muffling a curse, he sat forward, opening his eyes and slamming his hands flat on his cluttered desk pad calendar. He reached for his cold mug of coffee. Why did those completely useless fragments of three nights of dreams keep intruding when he had work to do, important things to fill his mind?

  They weren't memories. There was no gut reaction, no sense of recognition. Still, Ethan knew he would recognize the building again if he ever saw it in the light of day--and outside his dreams. Victorian, full of gingerbread trim, with gold and olive paint and a sign that read "Divine's Emporium." A sensation of warmth and welcome seemed to reach invisible arms, beckoning for him. He had awakened aching for something at least twice each night, but with no clues to help him remember what he had dreamed. Until now, when the fragments of his dream, like shards of glass, kept intruding into his work as a private investigator.

  Too bad dreams never came true.

  They used to, when he was a child. If he had ever been a child. What felt like centuries ago, he had thought he saw sparkling, winged creatures hovering at the edges of his vision. Sometimes he had heard them promising to help him and make all his wishes come true.

  But there were some things even magical creatures couldn't handle. Hunger and loneliness and nightmares among them. Most of his past was darkness, his only memories ones of being alone and empty and hunting. It felt like lifetimes.

  Ethan had learned to ignore the whispers of advice and promises. Longer ago than he could remember, the colors and sparkles faded to nothing. Like his dreams of being a knight and rescuing his ladylove from dark bondage.

  Just like these bits of dream would fade, in time. That hurt, for the first time in years, but he was too busy for dreams.

  Ethan retrieved the lost--things and people. To do that he had to pay triple attention to reality. He exhausted his imagination--to the point that when he did dream, it was always related to work, except for recently--to put together disparate, unrelated clues and pieces to form pictures that solved puzzles.

  He was good at what he did. Talented. Legendary. Some people even dared to tell him he had a magic touch. Ethan met their smiles with a cold, stony glare and silence and waited for them to change the subject.

  He shoved the dream out of his consciousness and focused on his work. Another pot of triple-strong coffee, a few hours of working on the Internet, asking odd questions of strange connections, and an incipient headache helped free him of the disturbing interior interruptions.

  But the dream--of hidden passages and treasures, doors and windows that opened into other worlds, and toys that danced and played by themselves in the moonlight--didn't fade and leave him alone. Six more nights in a row, Ethan ran through the big old house-turned-curiosity-shop, exploring and feeling like he still believed in magic and fairies and happily-ever-after.

  The seventh night, she came into the shop and welcomed him with a smile. He knew her as if they had always been together. She said nothing, but he knew her voice was low and rich, sweet as honey and cream. Her hair streamed down her back and over her shoulders, to her waist, in a waterfall of gold and faint streaks of strawberry where the sun hit it just right. Big blue eyes gleamed like jewels. Not that he paid much attention to her eyes r her hair. He stood still for what felt like hours, staring at her mouth, trying to remember what those raspberry-colored lips tasted like, felt like against his mouth.

  Ethan woke up aching and hungry in body and soul. If he didn't know better, he would have sworn his heart ached, but he had put his heart away years ago. It was the only way to stay safe. And sane.

  His last open case resolved itself the next morning. The philandering wife he was following got into a three-way catfight with the wife and the girlfriend of her current lover. All three women ended up in the hospital. It would take months to determine who to charge with assault and who was the real victim.

  Ethan's client, the suspicious husband, did a complete turnaround and went into white knight mode to protect his wife and put all the blame on the other man. He paid for copies of all the records of the past three months of investigation and to have them wiped from Ethan's records, plus a bonus if Ethan laid low and pretended not to know what was going on if anyone came snooping. Plus another bonus promised if he needed to testify in court to turn his investigation into a defense.

  Ethan took the money, promised to keep quiet and out of sight, and shook his head yet again at the obliviousness of some of his clients. Then he put it out of his mind. Long ago, he had come to terms with the ugly truth that
he wouldn't be in business if people weren't self-blind, foolish, overly idealistic, greedy, proud, and made a regular habit of doing the opposite of common sense. He solved their problems, found their lost treasures and missing puzzle pieces, without passing judgment, without getting personal even as he got inside their minds and souls. He was the best, recommended in whispers and innuendos and business cards discretely passed along, because he knew how to investigate without anyone realizing what he was doing, or sometimes even who or what he was chasing. It was almost as if he had magic at his disposal, to hide his presence and blur his footprints.

  But Ethan didn't believe in magic.

  With this investigation wrapped up several days sooner than he anticipated, he was currently without anything to occupy his conscious thoughts. Not that he was worried. Work always seemed to find him as soon as he had more than half a day of idleness and freedom to relax, read a book, or pay attention to the rest of what the world had to offer. As if some power out there in the shadows wanted to make sure he didn't know what was going on in the world.

  He briefly contemplated a change, looking for steady work as a freelancer for a corporation, such as an insurance agency. Perhaps offering his assistance to someone who wanted to make his name as the new Perry Mason.

  Then John Stanzer called. Ethan had never heard of Stanzer, but there was something about the man's voice, the way he introduced himself and got right down to business, that appealed to him. He agreed to look over the materials before he took time to investigate the man. The job offered him, outwardly simple, sounded interesting. Old, rare books had been stolen and the owner suspected the thieves had taken them to use the contents of the books, rather than to sell them again and make a small fortune. Even more interesting, Stanzer insisted on sending the materials by courier rather than as an email attachment.

  The courier delivered the package of photos the next morning. By then, Ethan had investigated John Stanzer, P.I. He had a good, solid reputation. Nothing flashy, no run-ins with the law--until last summer, when he got tangled with a federal investigation. He came out of that in good odor, with official thanks from the agents involved and a notation to contact Stanzer if anything with similar characteristics showed up again.