There was a jarring moment of discontinuity, then she was back in the hospital room again, staggering back against Hosea.
"Whuh . . . what?" Kayla gasped. She coughed, and took a deep breath, realizing she hadn't been breathing for a little too long. Nausea made her shudder.
"Come over here and sit down," Hosea said firmly. He led Kayla over to a chair and pushed her into it, then reached into his backpack and took out a bottle of apple juice. "And drink this."
Kayla gulped down the apple juice thirstily. Being jarred out of a Healer's trance was no fun, but she suspected the alternative would have been worse. "What happened?" she asked hoarsely, handing the empty bottle back to Hosea.
"Not much from where Ah stood, until you stopped breathing," he said soberly. "Right then Ah figured it was time for you to come on home. Ah called to you, an' you didn't answer me, so Ah yanked you loose. Ah'm sorry if Ah hurt you some, but you weren't lookin' any too good."
"I'm glad you did," Kayla said honestly. "I think I went a little too far. But it still wasn't far enough."
She explained where she'd been, and what she'd found.
"So I think that Eric's somewhere on the other side of that door. But I don't know what the door means, or where it goes. And from what you say, trying to find out nearly killed me."
"Hmn." Hosea made a noncommittal sound. His fingers moved over the strings of the banjo, raising faint echoes of melody. He cocked his head, as if listening. After a moment, he raised his head.
"Jeanette says you should let her try," Hosea reported. "She says she's dead already, so going down there won't hurt her none."
"Let her try? How?" Kayla demanded.
"Let her go through you into Eric," Hosea answered. Absently, his fingers began picking out a soft counterpoint on the banjo's silver strings.
"Can she do that?" Kayla asked dubiously.
"There are records of ghosts temporarily possessing the living. I suppose this situation would be analogous," Paul said, speaking up from his position by the door for the first time.
Kayla grimaced. She didn't like the idea of just letting a ghost walk into her, much less the semi-reformed ghost of Jeanette Campbell.
But what choice did they have? She could try getting through that door again herself—and fail, get hurt, or possibly do serious damage to Eric. If Jeanette failed, they probably wouldn't be any worse off than they were now.
"I guess it's worth a try," she said reluctantly.
Hosea smiled just a little. "Jeanette ain't any more eager to do this than you are, if it makes you feel any better," he said.
"Not a lot," Kayla admitted. "What do I have to do?"
"Let down your shields and give her a link to Eric," Hosea said. "Show her where you went. But . . ." Hosea hesitated, "you'll need to keep the link tight, whatever happens. If it breaks while Jeanette's all stretched out like that, Ah don't know what'll happen to her. Or to Eric, for that matter. Nothin' good, seems to me."
Kayla thought about it. It was a risk. But it was a risk either way. They couldn't just leave Eric like that.
Sure, there were other things they could try. They could wait for Ria to get back, maybe have her cast a spell to yank Eric back from wherever he was. Or Paul might be able to do it.
But either of them would be working blind. And Kayla wasn't sure it would be a really good idea just to yank Eric out of wherever he was, without seeing just where that was. They might do even more damage that way.
Sending Jeanette in might be the best thing. At least Kayla could see what she was doing. And she wanted to make up for her past, so it wasn't as if she couldn't be trusted to do her best.
"I can handle it, Too-Tall. You just concentrate on your ghost-wrangling. Well, here goes . . . something," Kayla muttered, taking a deep breath and getting to her feet again. "But if this doesn't work, I'm taking up tatting."
She resumed her position at the head of the bed, taking Hosea's hand again. His free hand, she noticed, he kept firmly pressed over the banjo's strings.
She touched Eric's forehead again. There was a spark of contact, but she waited, not letting it pull her down inside this time.
And then cold. Colder than anything she'd imagined. She felt cold flow through Hosea and into her; through her, and into Eric.
Don't break the link. If you do, they're both toast.
But all her instincts screamed at her to let go, not to follow them down into death; Elizabet had warned her. . . .
And then she was there.
"Well, come on, where do I go?" an irritable voice said from behind her.
Kayla turned around. She was back in the darkened apartment again, inside what was currently passing for Eric's consciousness.
And there was Jeanette.
The only time Kayla had seen Jeanette Campbell alive, her body had been completely reshaped by Aerune mac Audelaine's sorcery into that of a half-Elven sprite; his hellhound. She'd Seen Jeanette once after she'd died, but that had been in Aerune's dreamworld, and the connection hadn't been really good. There Jeanette had been mostly a blur, her image flipping back and forth between her hellhound form and what she'd really looked like in life.
This, Kayla guessed, was Jeanette as she really had been: a moon-faced woman in boots, jeans, and a biker jacket, her long light-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.
"Get with the program, would you?" Jeanette said impatiently.
"Come on," Kayla answered, hefting her flashlight.
"Down those steps. There's a door at the back. It's locked. I think he's somewhere on the other side, if you can get through."
"Nothing to worry about there, kid. I brought the key along." Jeanette patted her pocket.
Kayla didn't ask what she had in there. She had a feeling she'd rather not know. "Do you, uh, want to take the flashlight?"
Jeanette looked surprised that she'd asked. "Don't need it. Every place looks the same to me now."
She went through the smaller door and disappeared.
Kayla stared at the doorway, although she was pretty sure it wasn't going to do anything interesting. What do I do now?
And how long do I wait?
This was the best year the Faire had ever had. The weather had cooperated—not too hot, not too cold—and the travelers had been generous; he'd made enough to buy a new shirt and a pair of those fancy custom boots he'd had his eye on for as long as he could remember. There were good parties every night, and he never, ever, had a hangover.
Eric was having a great time.
Sometimes he wondered if there was something he was forgetting. In the moments before he was quite awake some mornings, he was sure there was. But he could never quite remember what it was—and now that he'd moved into Karen's big tent, there weren't a lot of mornings that he got to spend time in quiet reflection. Karen was definitely a morning person. Eric was not.
On the other hand, there were advantages. Coffee. Breakfast. Not missing Morning Parade. And those were just the G-rated ones. . . .
But . . .
Had the Faire always used to go on all week? He couldn't remember going back to the mundane world once since he'd gotten here.
It was hard to think about something so irrelevant during the day, and the evening parties had their own logic, but Eric had finally remembered to ask Karen about it one evening, when they were gathered around the fire with some of the Wild Northern Celts and the rest of the German Mercenary Wenches.
"Hey, Ian!" she'd shouted. "Eric wants to go back to Mundania!"
"What would he want to do that for? We come here to get away from there!" Ian had shouted back merrily.
"Faire isn't good enough for you, Banyon?" someone else had called amiably out of the darkness.
Someone played a mocking trill on a pennywhistle. There was a ruffle of a bodhran; whoever had it actually managed something that sounded perilously close to a rim shot. There were cheers and scattered applause.
The wench on Eric's other side—a brawny lady named Hulda—had elbowed him robustly in the ribs, nearly making him spill his tankard of mead. "If you're bored, Banyon, we can think up a few more distractions for you. . . ."
He'd never really gotten an answer. But he guessed it didn't matter. The Faire was the Faire, and how it ran was Admin's business, not his.
It wasn't like there was any other place else he was supposed to be, after all.
And the weather was good.
The perfect Faire.
The perfect summer.
So this is what's behind the door.
Jeanette pulled it open—it wasn't locked, no matter what Kayla had said—and stared.
On the other side was . . . summer.
Summer, and . . . a parking lot? An open field, actually, though the cars were parked in neat rows, hundreds of cars. Jeanette noted, even though some of them were obviously new, none of them were recent models.
I can see—and feel!
Everything was real again, as real as it had been when she was alive. Jeanette stepped through the doorway, taking a deep breath. She could smell summer and dust, and hear wind, birdsongs, and distant traffic. When she looked down, she could see herself—and feel her leather jacket beneath her hands.
It was like being reborn.
The world was in color again, a thing of shape and depth, experienced through her own senses, not in stolen glimpses through Hosea's eyes and thoughts.
If she had this much reality here, no wonder the kid had nearly died. Any place that was good for ghosts couldn't be good for the living.
She took a moment just to feel the sensation of sun on her face—why didn't people appreciate things like this before it was too late? To be able to feel her lungs fill when she took a breath, to be able to feel the wind pass over her face, to be able to feel the warmth of the sun; the living could experience those things every day of their lives, and they didn't care. . . .
But she had work to do. And no matter how real this felt, it wasn't. It was somewhere between a dream and an illusion; either way, it was bad news for somebody.
It would have been easy to get sucked in, if she hadn't been what she was and—even more—who she was. If she hadn't gotten every dream she'd ever had twisted and used against her by a mad Sidhe Prince. After Aerune, no pretty little paradise was ever going to suck her in, because her experience told her that no matter what she saw, there was always going to be something nasty lurking under the surface.
Maybe that was why the Secret Stories hit her right in the gut she didn't have anymore. No matter how rotten her life had gotten—a lot of which was her own fault, she could see now—at least she'd been able to keep some of her secret dreams intact almost to the end. Those kids Hosea worked with had gotten theirs shattered before they got two digits in their ages.
Jeanette walked on, into the open field, looking around curiously. There were people driving up and getting out of cars, and walking toward a destination in the distance. She could hear faint scraps of music on the air, something sort of medieval. All the signs for the parking were done in antique script as well. There were bigger signs in the distance, welcoming visitors to the Southern California Renaissance Faire.
Very bizarre.
A gleam of sunlight on chrome off to one side caught her attention. There was a big cream and maroon Harley touring bike parked under one of the few trees here in the field. It looked oddly familiar. She walked over to admire it.
The word "Mystery" was written on the gas tank in flowing gold script.
That's my bike!
"What the hell are you doing here?" Jeanette said aloud. The Harley had been her pet, her one self-indulgence when she'd gone to work for Threshold and there'd been good legal money coming in for the first time. She'd lost it somewhere in Flyover, West Virginia, when Elkanah had kidnapped her, and never known what had happened to it. Stolen by someone, undoubtedly.
So what was Mystery doing here? This wasn't her fantasy world.
She automatically groped in her jacket pocket, not surprised to find that she had the keys.
If she just took her bike and rode away, where would she get to?
Was it any place she wanted to be?
She looked toward the gates of the Faire, then back at her bike. But she was supposed to be looking for Eric Banyon, and if Eric was anywhere, he was probably in there.
And it might seem like paradise—someone's paradise, anyway—but there was probably a nasty surprise waiting somewhere around here the moment she let her guard down.
She sighed, and turned away from Mystery. Maybe she'd see her best girl again in Heaven, in the unlikely event she ever qualified for that particular destination.
Hunching her shoulders, she strode toward the gate.
A Renaissance Faire, Jeanette quickly discovered, was a bizarre place full of annoying losers dressed in weird costumes who simply lived to make fun of people by talking like Shakespeare.
Full of people—where had they all come from? Most of them were tourists, and she didn't think Eric would be one of them. But there were a lot of people dressed in costumes. Some of them were wandering around playing instruments, or juggling, or giving impromptu puppet shows. Others were selling things in booths.
Unfortunately, she suspected that shooting them with the gun she discovered that she'd brought with her wouldn't help things along.
She hadn't thought she'd have to talk to people to find Eric. Jeanette hadn't had very good social skills while she was alive, and death really hadn't improved them. And finding herself in someplace that looked so . . . real . . .
Was this some kind of spell? An actual place, like Underhill? A disused part of Eric's mind? Did it, in fact, actually matter, so long as she found him and got him back out and up those stairs again before Kayla got bored standing around?
Probably not.
What would happen if the link with Kayla did get interrupted for any reason was something Jeanette preferred not to think about. Would she just vanish? Or would she be permanently stuck here in La La Land's version of Shakespeare in the Park?
No, that was too much to hope for. What happened would probably be whatever was most horrible. Not that she didn't deserve it, she supposed, after what she'd done in life, but that didn't mean she was going to go racing toward her karma with open arms.
She wandered through the crowds, hoping to spot Eric. He had to be here somewhere, didn't he? Or why was she here?
Finally she spotted a booth that looked promising. It had a large sign over it that said Information—lost and found.
Well, Eric was lost. And she was trying to find him.
"I'm looking for a guy," she said, coming up to the booth.
"What's his name?" the woman behind the counter said. Despite the fact she was dressed like something you'd see on PBS, she seemed to be efficient enough.
"His name's Eric Banyon. I was supposed to meet him here," Jeanette said, stretching the truth only a little.
"Is he a traveler or a player?" the woman asked.
Jeanette stared at her. Riddles? Next she'll be asking me, "What has it got in its pocketses?"
The woman smiled. "Does he work at the Faire, or is he just visiting?"
"Oh." I hate people. Even people who don't exist. "He's a player. He's got a flute."
"Oh, sure an' ye'll be meanin' O'Banyon the Irish Rogue! Friend of his?" For some reason the woman suddenly had a thick Irish accent, but to Jeanette's relief, she quickly dropped it.
"Kayla said he'd show me around the Faire," Jeanette said, unable to think of anything else to say but a version of the truth. Apparently this made sense to the bimbo in crushed velvet, because she pulled a sheet of paper out from somewhere Jeanette couldn't see, and made some marks on it, talking all the time.
"He's on the Main Stage right now, but the show's about over. You should be able to catch him when he comes off. Here's a map. I've marked the Main Stage. Good luck!" the woman said, smiling cheerfully.
She handed Jeanette a sheet of paper with a map of the Fairesite on it, with the Main Stage circled in yellow Magic Marker. Jeanette took it and walked off.
She found the Main Stage without much difficulty. The woman said there was a show, so Jeanette followed the map until she heard music, then followed the music.
The Main Stage was a raised platform with a curtained backdrop, facing enough benches to seat maybe seventy very friendly people. Up on the stage, what looked like a cross between the cast of Robin Hood and the cast of Riverdance with a few walk-ons from Braveheart thrown in were making an almighty Celtic racket. It was a lovely sound. Jeanette stopped, so enchanted by the music that she forgot for a moment to look for Eric.
I miss the music most. Why couldn't Hosea play a guitar or something sensible instead of that damned banjo?
Then the sound of a flute soared up through the opening notes of "Banish Misfortune," and Eric Banyon stepped to the front of the stage.
Yes, that was him. He'd looked different the last time she'd actually been able to see him—and she'd been in too much pain, then, to really care—but that was definitely him. Younger, she thought. Longer hair. But him.
She stood and watched for a few minutes. She'd heard Eric play often, of course, whenever he played with Hosea, but this was different. Better. Sure, the costumes were dorky, but the music. . . .
Couldn't we just stay? Jeanette thought wistfully. What's out there that's so important, compared to the music?
But she knew they couldn't. It would be wrong. Eric was needed back in the Real World. She was here to bring him back. That was all.
Besides—
It occurred to her that if this was Banyon's dream, there was absolutely nothing keeping it from becoming his nightmare. And she'd be trapped here with him.
She blinked, as the thought settled into place with a sense of solid rightness. Yes. That was the nasty surprise just waiting to spring up out of the ground and bite her in the ass. And she did not want to see what Eric Banyon's worst nightmare could be like. She already knew he'd faced down a Dark elf-Prince as well as assorted unpleasant things and people associated with the Threshold Lab, and those were by no means the only horrors he'd dealt with, according to Hosea. So if his worst nightmare incorporated any of that—
No. She very definitely did not want to be trapped here when the pretty dream turned into a nightmare.
Going wasn't only right, it was necessary. And the journey had brought enough rewards.
I got to see my bike again, and hear this. More than I deserve, I guess.
I know I haven't come anywhere near to paying what I owe. Not nearly. Hosea'd better plan on having kids to pass me on to. But when I do . . . will I know?
There was no point in wondering about something that might never happen. What Hosea did wasn't all that safe. It was far more likely she—or more precisely, the banjo that held her—would be destroyed before she could complete her atonement.
Or maybe we'll all get careless, the Healer kid'll blink, and it'll be over tonight. She shrugged the thought aside irritably. Worrying about things you couldn't affect was a quick ticket to the boneyard, whatever that meant for someone like her.
When it seemed like the show was winding up, Jeanette started moving around the edge of the crowd, toward the back of the stage, where the performers would come out when the set was finished.
It had been a good show—one of the best. The audience had been right with them, and everything had gone off without a hitch. Eric was feeling really good about everything, right up to the moment that the strange traveler walked up and called him by name.
"Eric."
He turned toward her. She was nobody he'd ever seen before, but it wasn't like he was exactly anonymous. He gave her his best bow and a charming smile.
"O'Banyon the Irish Rogue at your service, milady. And what is it that I can do for you this foigne Faire day?"
She stared at him as if she'd never heard anyone speak Faire cant before.
"I'm Jeanette Campbell. You don't recognize me. Kayla sent me."
Now it was Eric's turn to stare.
She frowned, clearly annoyed. He couldn't imagine why. "Don't give me that doe-eyed gaze! You've got to remember them! Kayla, and Hosea, and all those other people you left hanging back in New York—"
That was all Eric needed to hear. "New York" meant only one thing to him. Juilliard. His parents. The people who wanted to drag him back to a life he'd sworn he was never going to have anything to do with ever again.
He pushed through the crowd of players around him and took off running.
After a stunned instant Jeanette followed. What the hell—? He'd gone pale as chalk the moment she'd mentioned New York. Damn, damn, damn. And she absolutely guaranteed he knew this dreamworld better than she did.
She was keeping him in sight—just barely—as he fled up the hill and toward what her map told her was the edge of the Faire. In a tiny part of her mind, she wondered if she could corner him, or if they'd both run forever.
"Where do you think you're going?"
A woman dressed in furs and armor stepped out of a would-be tavern right into Jeanette's path. Jeanette tried to dodge around her, but the woman grabbed her by the arm, dragging her to a stop.
Jeanette kicked out expertly—not that engineer boots could do much against iron shin protectors—but the damage had been done. Eric had gotten away, and two more Babes in Armor had shown up. All three of them looked like they ate weights for breakfast, not just lifted them.
"I need to talk to Eric," she said sullenly.
The first woman grinned nastily, not letting go. "Well, if it was Eric I just saw lightfooting by, I'd say Eric doesn't want to talk to you, Traveler."
"And you make all his decisions for him, do you, Big Chunk?" Jeanette snarled. "He's needed back in New York. I was sent to tell him so."
"And who could possibly need Eric in New York?" the woman sneered. "You?"
"I want to talk to Eric," Jeanette repeated, with what passed, in her, for patience. "It's important. Eric will agree that it's important. I came a long way to talk to him, and if I don't get to talk to him, people are going to die who shouldn't have to die, okay? People who are sitting in a hospital in New York right now."
"Oh, wow," said one of the other Babes, "you mean you want to talk to him about, like, donating a kidney or something? My cousin donated a kidney last year. But he might not be a good match."
"I need to talk to him," Jeanette repeated, wondering if this might be Hell already, instead of Heaven. "I've come a long way to talk to him. Now we can do this the easy way, or I can go and find whoever's running this insane asylum and rope them in. Your call."
"Come inside then," the woman who'd originally grabbed her said, letting go reluctantly. "Someone will go look for him. And no funny stuff."
Funnier than sending a dead drug dealer to go looking for the soul of a Bard in a coma? Hard to beat that.
But Jeanette allowed herself to be led into the back of the tavern, and sat down at one of the benches. Jeanette waited nervously. How long could she spend here? What if she couldn't manage to convince Eric to be reasonable?
Finally, an idea occurred to her, straight out of one of those old Twilight Zone reruns she'd used to watch. But it was the only thing that occurred to her. She had to break through, get him out of this reality and into the—ah—"real" reality. He didn't want to go, and she guessed she could see why—but maybe if she could lead him back to the door she'd come through—if it was still there, and visible—it would jolt him enough to make his memories come back.
Eventually Eric arrived, flanked by two guys in kilts. He looked as wary as someone arriving at his own execution. He scanned the room until he saw the Babe, and came over and hugged her.
"Thanks, Karen," he said. He looked at Jeanette, his expression hostile.
"She says she just wants to talk to you," Babe Karen said.
"Privately?" Jeanette said.
"I guess," Eric said reluctantly. "Don't go too far, okay?"
"We could just throw her out," Karen said hopefully. "Accosting one of the players?"
Eric sighed, shaking his head. "They'd just send somebody else. Might as well get it over with."
He stood across the table from Jeanette, not bothering to sit down. "Well, go ahead."
Jeanette hesitated, but she'd played to tougher audiences while she was alive. "Nothing about this seems at all odd to you? And you don't remember Kayla, or Hosea, or Ria? Being a Bard? Your brother, Magnus?"
"I don't have a brother," Eric said. But he sounded doubtful, and he'd started, just a little, when she'd said Magnus's name.
"Okay, here's one: tell me your home address."
A stricken look crossed Eric's face, quickly masked. "Look, are we done here?"
She shook her head, and decided to give her crazy idea its best shot. "No. I could give you the whole explanation, but if none of those names mean anything to you, the explanation won't help either. But I know one thing: you really want me to go away and never have to see me again."
"You got that right," Eric said feelingly.
"Okay, here's the deal. You walk out of the Faire with me, across the parking lot. There will be a doorway. If it's there, you walk through it with me. You can bring anyone with you that you like as far as the doorway, but only you and I go through. Deal?" Jeanette said.
Eric had a strange expression on his face. "Um . . . Jeanette, right? There isn't a doorway out in the parking lot. And we're not supposed to leave the Faire during working hours."
She hardened her expression. "This is the deal, Eric. You want me to leave. Do this with me and I will. Look, down inside you know you aren't supposed to be here. You know there's something wrong. It won't hurt to go look. I can't wait until the Faire shuts down for the night. We don't have that long. And don't give me the official party line. You know they won't miss a couple of you for a half hour or so."
"Why should I trust you?" Eric demanded.
What are you, deaf as well as paranoid? "I'm not asking you to trust me," Jeanette pointed out in exasperation. "I'm asking you to walk across the parking lot with me and trust the evidence of your own eyes."
"And if the door isn't there?" Eric said cannily.
Then I'm in big trouble.
"Then I leave. You go back to the Faire. You'll never see me again." Because if the door isn't still there, I'm going to take Mystery and ride as far as I can before whatever's going to happen catches up with me.
"And this . . . Kayla? How do I know she won't just show up next?" Eric asked.
Jeanette was losing the small amount of patience she'd started out with. Her voice was curt as she answered. "She sent me because she couldn't come. Stop wasting time. Do we take a walk?" Or do I have to see if I have a hope in hell of getting you out of here at gunpoint? It was something she didn't want to try. It would definitely put a hole in his reality—but it might be the kind of hole that would turn dream into nightmare.
"What the hell," Eric said, shrugging. He turned away and went over to talk to Karen for a moment. She looked puzzled as he spoke, and kept glancing over at Jeanette, shaking her head vigorously.
Jeanette got to her feet. "Come on, Eric. You think I've got a van with the A-Team in it waiting for you outside the gate? Get real. If you see anything like that, run. We're just going for a walk. And I guarantee: whoever you think sent me, didn't."
"You do anything to hurt Eric, and I will break every bone in your body," Karen hissed, walking over to Jeanette and leaning in close.
"Fine," Jeanette said. Just try it, and we see how well guns work in the Faire. "Can we go now?"
Karen and her two girlfriends went with Eric and Jeanette. All three of them were armed with knives, swords, and axes: Jeanette had no idea of how well they knew how to use any of those things, but she did know that all three women were bigger and stronger than she was, and their furs and armor would get in the way of some of her better bar-fight moves, and maybe even stop a bullet.
She really hoped it wouldn't come to that.
They didn't go out through the Main Gate. Eric said that would attract too much attention, and Jeanette supposed he cared about that, still thinking this place was real. He took them around through the Faire and then out through a side gate that led through what looked like a campground. There were tents in all shapes and sizes.
"This is where we stay when the Faire shuts down for the day," Eric said.
"You don't have to talk to her, Eric," Karen said edgily.
Jeanette looked around, wondering if all this ever had been real, some where-and-when. It actually looked like it might have been fun, she thought grudgingly.
They passed through the camping area and worked their way through the players' parking and out into the main parking lot.
"Where's this 'door' of yours?" Karen demanded. "I don't see it."
Fine talk from a figment of somebody's imagination.
"It's on the other side of the parking lot," Jeanette said, not slowing down. I hope.
She spared a longing glance for Mystery as they passed the bike again. Maybe someday, girl.
The door was right where she'd left it, an impossible hole in reality.
Eric stopped as soon as he saw it.
"Come on, Eric," Karen said nervously. "It's time to go back."
"There's the door, Eric," Jeanette said harshly. "Right where I said it would be. The door back to the real world. Where you have people who love you, and a brother who needs you. This is a fantasy. It isn't real."
Eric took a hesitant step forward.
"Eric!" Karen wailed.
"Is this a dream, Karen?" Eric asked, turning to face her. "Is that why everything here is so perfect? Why the Faire never ends? Why the sun is never too hot, why it never rains, why the travelers never get drunk and ugly, and there's always a good take in the hat? Is this Neverland without Captain Hook? Am I a Lost Boy?"
"You're happy here," Karen said pleadingly, not answering him directly.
"It isn't real," Jeanette said. "You know it, down deep inside. Face the truth."
"I am happy here," Eric said slowly. "But—" his face twisted, and if it hadn't been so sad, it would have been funny. "But it isn't real. So I guess . . . I have to see what's on the other side of that door."
"No," Karen said, a pleading note in her voice.
Suddenly the air seemed charged, as if a storm was brewing, though the sun shone down pure and changeless.
"Don't make me get real, bitch," Jeanette said, stepping between Karen and Eric. She slipped her hand into her pocket, closing her fingers over the pistol. "Get going, Eric."
But suddenly Karen's face crumpled into tears, and she turned away. Her two friends put their arms around her, soothing and patting as they led her back toward the Faire.
When she was sure Karen was going to keep going, Jeanette turned back. Eric had walked away. He'd almost reached the door, and Jeanette didn't know what would happen if he went through it without her. She ran until she caught up with him.
"Tell me . . . what happened?" he asked, hesitating on the threshold of the open doorway. "What made me come here, I mean?"
His brown eyes were wide and troubled, searching her face for some hint of hope or reassurance.
Jeanette felt something twist inside her. He looked so vulnerable, so young and lost. No wonder Karen had wanted to keep him! She had to tell herself that this Eric wasn't real, any more than the Faire that she'd dragged him out of was real. He was a shadow of his true self, a shadow inhabiting a shadow world.
"You got mugged. You're in a coma. But you'll be okay. Through the door, up the stairs, and you're home," she said gruffly. And you'll never be as happy again as you were here, I bet.
And if they'd met in real life, someone like Eric would never have looked twice at someone like her.
"You're sure about this?" Eric said dubiously. "Because I don't—"
Losing the last of her patience—with herself and him—Jeanette shoved with all her strength, pushing him through the door, and followed him through.
Kayla's fingers were icy cold in his. Her face was white and drawn. Beads of sweat trickled down her face, and shudders of chill wracked her body, but she never moved. A faint halo of blue light, difficult to see in the fluorescent illumination of the hospital room, played over her fingers and Eric's face. Her breathing was deep and raspy, but at least she was still breathing, thank the Good Lord.
Hosea kept glancing from her face to the banks of machines monitoring Eric. One green line for heartbeat—a steady jagged pulse—another for brain activity, flat and ominous. The steady thump of the ventilator, breathing when Eric could not.
Suddenly Kayla began to cough and twitch, like a hound chasing rabbits in his sleep. Her fingers jerked and twitched in his grasp. At the same moment, Hosea felt a wave of freezing chill wash into him.
Jeanette was coming home.
The EEG monitor eeped and began to mutter to itself, its display showing spiky patterns. At the same time, the blue glow in Kayla's hands expanded and brightened, covering Eric's entire body. Hosea felt the last of the cold pass from her fingers, through him, settling safely back into the banjo again.
"Kayla!" Hosea said sharply.
Kayla's eyes fluttered open. "Not . . . done," she said, in thick ragged tones. Her voice sounded slurred, and he wasn't entirely sure she knew where she was.
"Stop now," Hosea commanded firmly. "Now."
"But—" Kayla sounded plaintive.
"Stop," Hosea repeated, putting all the authority he could muster into that one word.
Kayla lifted her hand from Eric. The azure glow around his body faded and died away. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her knees buckled. Hosea barely caught her in time.
He picked her up and deposited her in the chair, though—if truth were told—his own knees weren't as steady as he'd like. Gently he felt her wrist, scanning her face apprehensively. She was breathing normally and her pulse was strong. She'd just overextended herself, or so he hoped.
Once Kayla was settled in the chair, he ran his fingers over the strings of the banjo. "You okay, Sweetheart?"
:Leave me alone!: Jeanette snarled furiously.
Hosea smiled faintly and began detuning the banjo. By the time he had the instrument locked away safely in its case again, he felt better, and Kayla was sitting up.
"Don't you move, now," Hosea warned her. "You keeled over, and Ah don't want you doing it again."
"Hah," Kayla said a bit groggily. "Eric?"
"According to the medical equipment, Mr. Banyon is doing much better," Paul said, coming over to inspect the readouts. "Brain function is well within normal parameters."
"Then how come he ain't awake?" Kayla demanded, trying to get up.
Hosea pushed her back down into the chair without effort. He pointed over his shoulder at some of the bags dangling beside the bed. "Ah'd say that the mess o' painkillers they've stuck him with might have a little bit to do with that. Now you just rest here for a few minutes and have some more to drink. Then we're goin' home."
Kayla opened her mouth to argue. Hosea held up a finger.
"You're in no shape to finish Healin' him up tonight, and that's the plain and simple truth. And even if you did, it'd be sure to cause more'n a bit o' talk. They can explain away him comin' out of a coma to their satisfaction, but not broken bones that heal overnight."
"I guess," Kayla muttered sullenly.
"Now drink up," Hosea said, handing her another bottle of juice. "You're just tetchy from doing all that work."
A few minutes later, Kayla felt strong enough to stand up, though she was pretty sure she wasn't going to feel really warm any time soon. I bet I've got ghost prints on my liver. She stood up carefully, leaning on Hosea for support.
"Ready to go then? All right," Paul said briskly, unlocking the door and pulling it open.
Kayla cast a last longing glance back at Eric.
"Later," Hosea said firmly. "Now walk—or be carried."
"Bully," Kayla muttered, heading slowly toward the door.
Eric's night nurse was just coming back up the corridor as they walked out into the hall.
She walked into the room. A moment passed as the other three watched and listened, invisible, in the hall.
The call light went on over the door.
An aide came over to the door and stepped inside.
"Get the doctor on call now. Mr. Banyon's come out of his coma."
Hosea got Kayla home and made sure she ate something before letting her go to bed. He saw that she was tucked up warmly before letting himself out of her apartment and taking the stairs up to Eric's.
Just as well Miz Llewellyn wasn't around. She'd have his hide for a rug if she knew what he'd got up to with Little Bit tonight.
But there hadn't been any way to test Jeanette's idea. Only to try it.
And it seemed to have worked. Eric was back in one piece—or back in one place, anyway. And Little Bit could take care of the rest, over time.
Now Beth and Kory would be wanting to know the good news, and Hosea owed it to them to let them know as soon as possible. It was already late. A few more minutes before he got to bed wouldn't make any difference.
He let himself into Eric's apartment and switched on the computer. Hosea's own finances didn't quite stretch to one yet, but he borrowed Eric's from time to time, or used one of the many public Internet connections available in the city.
He dug around in his backpack until he found the scrap of paper on which he'd written Beth's e-mail address, and logged in to his Hotmail account. Typing her address into the "To" field, he began composing his message.
"I want to go back to New York," Ria said, pacing back and forth restlessly in the living room of her suite. Her two bodyguards watched her incuriously. There was another one on the outside door. Ria ignored them. They were a fact of life under the current circumstances.
"It isn't that easy, Ria," Zachary Standish said patiently.
He was a well-groomed and formidably efficient legal shark; she'd wooed him away from private practice to walk point for LlewellCo in the wake of the Threshold debacle, and had able to keep him busy ever since. Her competitors had been astonished—Standish had made his name by suing corporations, not working for them—but Ria had dangled an irresistible bait.
"Fair dealing, Mr. Standish. No compromises. Ethics and responsibility. I can always use another still small voice of conscience on my staff. And with what I'm going to pay you, you'll have the resources to go after a lot more pro bono work, I'd imagine."
"Even if it touches on a LlewellCo company, Ms. Llewellyn?" he'd asked.
"Threshold was a LlewellCo company, Mr. Standish," she'd answered implacably. "I'm cleaning house. Want to help?"
Neither of them had yet regretted the partnership.
Zachary had flown down from New York yesterday with his entire staff. They were occupying most of the rest of the floor, and a considerable amount of the resources of Gotham Security as well. Ria had no intention of seeing any of her people take a bullet for her.
"Zack, if it were easy, I wouldn't be paying you the enormous amount I do. I need to get back there. A friend of mine's in the hospital. I want to sit by his bedside and wring my hands. Do something."
Though her words were light, they did little to conceal Ria's frustration. It had been almost a full day since she'd heard about Eric's condition, and everything she'd been able to do since then—for him and for herself—had done little to take the edge off her anxiety.
She'd changed hotels, and surrounded herself with round-the-clock security. She'd thrown up a thornbush of law around herself, including Zachary Standish.
She'd put Anita on the case back in New York to take the heat off Kayla, and arranged for Eric's transfer (as soon as circumstances would permit) to a small private hospital that she used frequently. The staff there was very discreet. She was also having a room in her apartment outfitted as a fully functional sickroom, in case it would be possible to have him transferred directly there. The report on his condition that she'd gotten from Anita wasn't good, but it didn't particularly worry Ria; she'd seen Kayla work miracles before. None of Eric's physical injuries were a real problem—hell, all of them could be fixed mundanely with enough time and money.
Except for one . . .
"Get me out of this city, Zack," she repeated, stopping and staring down at him imperiously. "You're my legal counsel. Do something legal."
"I am. I'm advising you to stay put. You're in a very tenuous position here. Breaking and entering—"
"You've seen my statement. I was in the car the whole time."
"Kidnapping—"
"I assisted in the rescue of a kidnap victim."
"Assault with a deadly weapon—"
"Exactly who am I supposed to have assaulted—and with what? All my entirely legal handguns are still locked up in my safe in New York. Where are you coming up with this nonsense?"
"From a counter-brief Parker Wheatley filed with the Justice Department this morning, accusing you personally of murder, pillage, arson, impersonating a Federal Marshal, and a few things I actually had to look up. My specialty is corporate law. You need a criminal lawyer, Ria."
"He's blowing smoke," Ria snapped. Whether Wheatley's accusations were true or not didn't actually matter as much as whether he could drum up political support for them. Did he still have friends in high places—or not?
"Maybe. But it's going to take time for the smoke to clear away," Zack said.
"Oh, I don't think so. Either the smoke goes away, and I go home . . . or I go public. I'm sure the Great American Public would really like to hear that the U.S. Government is spending tax dollars kidnapping and torturing harmless bookstore owners and planning to put tea-leaf readers into concentration camps because it's taking the UFO menace so seriously." She smiled coldly.
Zack winced. "I really don't think you should do that, Ria. If . . . there's a possibility you might find yourself detained as a material witness," he said carefully.
"Sent to jail for shooting my mouth off, you mean?" Ria began to pace again. "I don't have to be available to break this story, and I'd be a fool to make a threat they could neutralize by just locking me up. I came to them, Zack. If I hadn't, Wheatley would still be going his merry way. I don't expect either gratitude or a long memory for past favors, not in this town. I just expect special treatment now. Tomorrow can take care of itself."
She sat down on the couch, suddenly tired.
"I need to get back to New York—which was still, last I heard, a part of the U.S. I'm not going any farther than that. They'll have my full cooperation—including my silence, if that's what they want. Or my testimony. Their choice. I'm not a flight risk, because I'm not a criminal. Just a concerned citizen and campaign contributor. But I have to get home. Now for God's sake, Zack, go find someone to explain that to before I have to renew acquaintance with my friends over at the Washington Post."
Zack got to his feet, closing his briefcase. "If you're sure that's the way you want to play it?"
"Yes, Zack, that's the way I want to play it," Ria answered, her voice flat.
The ringing of the telephone jarred Kayla awake sometime—not long enough—after she'd gotten to bed. She opened her eyes. Daylight. Must be morning, then.
The phone continued its annoyingly cheery chirping, until Kayla finally located it—she'd gone to sleep clutching it, for some reason. She fumbled at it until she hit the "On" button.
"Hello? Kayla?"
"Ria? What's wrong?" she croaked.
"Things are going right for a change, not that I need to tell you. Anita called a few hours ago, but I thought I'd let you get some sleep before I touched base; it sounds like you had a busy night. The official story at the hospital is that Eric has made a miraculous recovery from his coma and is doing much better. They should be willing to transfer him to my private clinic day after tomorrow instead of the end of the week, and then you can really get to work on him," Ria said.
"Yeah. We did all right." Kayla sat up and ran a hand through her hair, still groggy. And ravenous. She wondered what there was in the fridge that didn't need cooking. Maybe she'd go out. "I wasn't there for most of it."
"Weren't there? Where were you?" Ria sounded confused.
"I was sort of there. But he was stuck off someplace I couldn't get at, so we had to send Jeanette in after him."
"You sent Jeanette Campbell in to find Eric?" Ria was almost sputtering suddenly, and Kayla would have thought it was funny if she still hadn't been so tired.
"Yeah. Trust me. It was the only way. I still don't have all the details. It was kinda late when we finished up." And linking up with a ghost really takes it out of you. "Ria . . . where are you?"
"Still in Washington. I've got a few more things to straighten out here—unfortunately—but I'll be home as soon as possible. If I'd known this was going to take this long—and what was going to happen up there while I was gone—I might not have come, but it turns out it was a good thing I did."
"Yeah, go all cryptic on me," Kayla said, and Ria laughed harshly.
"How's the other matter coming?" Ria asked.
Magnus, she means.
"I'm going to go up and see Eric," Kayla said, "then I guess I better go check out that place Hosea mentioned and give them some money. Then tonight I'm going to go back up to The Place and see if I can't get the three of them to go over there." She was just as sure as Eric had been that Magnus wouldn't move without Ace, and neither one would stir a step without Jaycie. So it looked like all or nothing.
"It sounds like a good idea," Ria said. "Don't overwork yourself."
"Like I could, with all the yentas I've got looking over my shoulder here," Kayla said, only half joking. And sometime before the end of my so-called vacation, I've got to make some time to hit the books. I've got a couple of papers due. "Don't worry, Ria. I'll be fine."
"I'm counting on it," Ria said. "Take care."
"You too," Kayla said.
Looking at her watch after she closed the phone again, Kayla discovered it was already 2:00 p.m. Better get moving, then. Respectable for her to visit to the hospital and Somerset House, then back here to grubby up to go back to The Place. Kayla wasn't really looking forward to another night spent on unheated bare floors, but the way she felt now, she could sleep on a bed of nails, and she really couldn't afford to spend another night away. She'd manage.
She still had her visitor's pass from her previous day's visit to Gotham General. You were supposed to turn them in when you left each day, but she'd kept hers. It was a lot faster that way than having to wait in line at the Admissions Desk.
But when she got up to Eric's room, it was empty.
Not empty as in "he was temporarily somewhere else and would be right back." The bed had been made up, the life support machines were gone, the room was obviously waiting for a new occupant.
Kayla headed for the Nurses' Station at a dead run.
"Hey! You!"
The nurse behind the desk looked up from her paperwork with a frown. "Can I help you?"
"The patient in 2418. Eric Banyon. Where is he?"
"2418?" The woman consulted her charts. "I'm sorry, there's no one in that room."
I know that! "Was he moved?"
"What was the name again?"
"Eric Banyon."
The woman consulted her charts with maddening slowness, then checked the computer. "I'm sorry. There isn't an Eric Banyon in this wing."
But he was here yesterday! And last night!
Seeing Kayla's stricken expression, the nurse smiled gently. "This is a big hospital, and a lot of the floors do look alike. And patients do get moved, and sometimes it takes a little while for the system to catch up with them. Why don't you check with the front desk? I'm sure they'll be able to find him for you."
I don't think so.
But because she couldn't think of anything else to try—other than checking every room on the floor, and she knew she wouldn't get very far with that—Kayla went back down to the front desk.
"I'm here to see a patient," she said.
"His name?" the woman behind the desk said.
"Eric Banyon. Room 2418," Kayla repeated.
She waited, hoping against hope that the woman would say that Eric had been moved, would say it had all been a mistake, a computer error. But instead, after frowning at the computer for several minutes, what she said was: "I'm sorry. We have no patient by that name here. Are you sure you're in the right hospital?"
This is bad. She wasn't quite sure how bad, or in what direction, but she knew it was bad. Kayla found herself out on the sidewalk, walking aimlessly away from the hospital. She didn't know where she was going. It hardly mattered now.
She wanted to cry. She wanted to hit something. She settled for finding a diner and calling Ria.
"Hello?" Thank all the Gods, real and unreal, that Ria answered her phone. If she hadn't, it would have been the very last straw.
"Ria? This is Kayla. What time did the hospital call you to say that Eric was better?"
"What's wrong?" Ria demanded, instantly suspicious.
"I'll tell you in a minute."
"Let's see. Anita called them this morning about nine-fifteen and talked to Dr. Rodriguez. She talked to him for about ten minutes and called me just after that."
So Eric had been at Gotham General—had existed—at nine-fifteen this morning. At least Ria still remembered he'd been there. Kayla felt a faint sense of relief at that. At least she wasn't the only one in the world who remembered that Eric was supposed to be in the hospital.
"Well, I was up there around three. He wasn't there. Furthermore, they said he never had been there. No such patient."
"I'll take care of it." There was a tone in Ria's voice Kayla had never heard before.
"Ria?" She'd been scared a moment ago. Now she was really scared.
"Listen to me, Kayla. It doesn't take magic to produce effects like that. Computer records can be changed. People can be bribed. I'm involved with . . . some rather annoying people just now. Anybody backchecking me might turn up Eric and decide to get to me through him. Call Anita. Tell her to look into it. And . . . it might be a good idea for you to drop out of sight until I get home. That, or go on up to my apartment and let me call in a security team for you."
"Just what are you doing down there?" Kayla demanded.
"Opening a nastier can of worms than I expected to, apparently," Ria answered, her voice distant and cold. "But if they've harmed Eric, I guarantee that when I'm through with them, they'll think Lord Aerune was one of the Backstreet Boys."
"Now you're scaring me," Kayla said nervously.
"Good. Then you'll be careful. Now call Anita. Warn Hosea, just in case. Will you go to my apartment?"
Kayla thought about it. But that would mean staying out of sight until Ria showed up again, and she'd already been out of touch with Magnus and his friends for too long. A day was a lifetime when you were on the street. Anything could happen. Anything might already have happened.
"No. There's things I gotta do that can't wait."
Ria sighed, acknowledging defeat. "Then play least-in-sight for another twenty-four hours or so."
"Are you sure about this?" Kayla demanded.
"Better safe," Ria said cryptically, and hung up.
My life has just become a John Grisham novel, Kayla thought, staring at the silent phone. Who were these people that Ria thought were after Eric and might be after her? What can of worms?
What the hell was going on?
It was a safe bet that nobody here on Sixth Avenue was going to have any answers for her. She stirred more sugar into her coffee.
Dutifully, Kayla called Anita, telling her that Eric had disappeared from the hospital and, as far as anyone at Gotham General was willing to say, had never been there in the first place. Anita promised to check into it. Kayla told her to call Ria if she found out anything—much as she wanted to hear the answers herself, it wouldn't do her street cred any good to have her phone ring while she was playing Homeless Street Kid.
After that she called Hosea, who didn't carry (or for that matter, own) a cell phone. She thought it over, and left a message on his answering machine, stressing the fact that she was safe, that Ria thought Eric's disappearance from the hospital might be related to her problems in Washington and not really to do with Eric at all, and that because of that, Ria wanted everyone connected with her to keep a low profile until she could get back.
Kayla was pretty sure she'd covered everything in the phone message. But it would be just as well to see Hosea and give him the message in person. She knew his schedule varied, but he might be down at the homeless center. It was worth a shot, anyway.
But she was closer to Somerset House than she was to Jacob Riis, and if she was going to try to talk Magnus and the others into going there, she'd better go and drop off one of Ria's checks. She dug through her backpack, looking for the notebook in which she'd written the address.
Somerset House was on the Upper West Side. It looked like a perfectly ordinary apartment building, except for the fact that there was a desk in the lobby with a book for signing in and out, and a woman with a name tag sitting behind the desk.
"Can I help you?" the woman asked, as Kayla approached.
People keep askin' that lately, and the answer always seems to be "No."
"Um . . . a friend of mine down at Jacob Riis referred me here. He said you might have vacancies?"
The woman pressed a button under her desk. In a moment, another woman entered the lobby. "If you'd come this way. . . ?"
Kayla followed her into a bright and cheerful office that had once, obviously, been a ground-floor apartment.
"I'm Miranda Sherwood. I'm in charge of Admissions here. What do you know about our program?"
"That it's private, that it costs money, that you don't send kids back to their parents or tell their parents that they're here, that they have to be clean and sober and follow the rules. It's not for me. I'm here to pay for three other kids to come in."
Miranda raised her eyebrows. "I thought I'd heard everything. Where are they?"
Kayla hesitated.
"Please don't lie, Ms. . . ."
"Smith." Abruptly, Kayla realized how that must sound. "No, really. Kayla Smith. It's my real name. I can show you ID."
"Maybe that would be a good idea," Miranda Sherwood said consideringly.
Kayla hesitated, but everything she could sense from this woman told her that Miranda Sherwood could be trusted. And she was going to have to trust somebody, sooner or later, even if only a little. She dug around and pulled out her Columbia student ID. Miranda studied it for a moment and handed it back.
"So, Kayla Smith, what's your interest in these 'three other kids'?"
"I want to get them off the street before they die," Kayla said bluntly. "There's no possibility they'll go home. I think I can get them to come here." She hesitated. "Not if they know I had anything to do with paying for it."
"Ms. Smith, it costs us over a thousand dollars a month per child to keep this place going. You don't think the kids come in with that kind of money, do you? As soon as they have jobs, they contribute to their upkeep, but—"
"Actually, LlewellCo's paying for it," Kayla said.
"Ria Llewellyn?" Miranda said, sounding surprised and dubious. Kayla nodded. She wasn't surprised that Miranda Sherwood wasn't buying it. She didn't exactly look like the kind of person who hung with Ria Llewellyn.
"Is this some kind of a joke?" Miranda said, starting to become angry. "Because if it is—"
"Fifty thousand dollars," Kayla said quickly.
"I beg your pardon?" Miranda said.
"You've got openings right now, don't you?"
"Yes, but—"
"I'll give you a check from Ria Llewellyn for fifty thousand dollars," Kayla said. "You take the kids. Call her bank. Better yet, call her personal assistant. I've got her number right here. Her name's Anita Sheldrake."
"Could you wait outside for a moment? There are chairs in the lobby."
"Yeah, right."
Kayla went outside and sat down. Miranda was probably calling the police right now. They'd come and arrest Kayla on suspicion of making an eccentric charitable contribution.
She rested her head on her knees, wishing she were still asleep in her bed. She wished Eric was here. She wished Ria was here. Either one of them could have finessed this operation a whole lot better than Kayla just had.
But if either one of them'd been around, she wouldn't've been in this situation in the first place.
Eventually she sighed and sat up. Feeling sorry for herself wouldn't get her anywhere. She couldn't do anything for Eric right now, but Magnus, Ace, and Jaycie still needed her help. If Miranda Sherwood would just cooperate, maybe there was something she could do for them.
While she waited, she saw a number of kids coming in and out, singly and in groups. All of them stopped at the desk to sign in or out, showing their IDs as they did.
Kayla bit her lip. Could she talk the kids into coming to this place? Would they think the street was better and safer? Kayla knew it wasn't, but she had the benefit of a couple of years and a lot of experience.
And you had to get clean and stay clean to be here. She knew Ace and Magnus qualified. But Jaycie?
Kayla could clean out his system; sweep out whatever junk was in there. But she couldn't repair the emotional damage that had led him to choose that form of escape.
"Ms. Smith?"
Miranda was back. She was smiling, and her aura read puzzled.
Kayla followed her back into the office.
"I just spoke to Ms. Sheldrake. She described you in detail. We had a . . . very interesting conversation."
I just bet.
"Apparently Ms. Llewellyn's offer is on the level," Miranda said. "And Ms. Sheldrake indicated that LlewellCo would not be averse to providing additional funding to our program beyond your initial contribution."
"Yeah. That's the kind of thing Ria does a lot of. So you'll take them?" Kayla said with relief.
"We'll be happy to. But they won't receive any special treatment. We don't force anyone to stay here, and if they break the rules, they have to leave. So: no drugs, no drinking, no tobacco, nothing illegal—and that includes sex."
"Sex is illegal?" Kayla asked, surprised. Not that casual sex was a big item in the future of a Empath. But she always liked to know when she was breaking the law.
Miranda smiled. "If you're under eighteen it is, and almost all of our residents are, except for a few special cases. Here, let me give you a couple of brochures. They've got our address on them, in case your friends want to come in on their own."
"And you'll keep my name out of things?" Kayla said quickly.
"We have a policy of not lying to our clients, because it's very important to us to build a trust relationship with them, but as far as I'm concerned, Ria Llewellyn has made a generous donation to our facility that has made it possible for us to accept your friends. I can't say I won't ever tell them, but I certainly won't volunteer the information, and I don't really think it will come up immediately. Now, I believe you have a check for us?"
A few minutes later Kayla was back out on the street, having signed over the contents of what Anita had called Ria's "slush account" to Somerset House.
She hoped she'd done the right thing. But now, this way, at least Magnus and the others would have a safe place to go, and could stay as long as they wanted or needed to. And if they didn't come here, Miranda Sherwood could certainly put the money to good use helping a lot of other kids.
She was exhausted, thinking longingly of her apartment and her bed. She stopped on the street to phone Hosea's apartment, but he still didn't answer. She supposed she'd better head on down to the shelter. At least they'd give her coffee.
She walked over to the A train and caught it all the way downtown. It was getting into rush hour now, so the trains were running more frequently, and she made good time. The trek across town woke her up a bit; it was already dark when she got back up onto street level, and getting colder. And she was hungry again. Well, she'd taken a lot out of herself in the last twenty-four; had to pay it back one way or another, calories or sleep. She bought some dried apricots from a street vendor and ate them as she walked across town, toward the shelter.
Gotta feed the beast.
She was a block away from the shelter when she saw the last person she would have expected to see.
It had been risky—she'd been scared to death the entire time—but it'd been worth it, even with having to get down here at noon to be sure of having a place in line, the long wait, and then being afraid her things would be stolen. But if she'd left the important stuff back at The Place, she could be almost sure it wouldn't be there when she got back, the way things were there these days. So with much hesitation, Ace had brought the money along. There was quite a bit of it, even with Jaycie not bringing in as much as before, and the other kids holding out because they knew she'd pay for food and things.
But being able to take a shower . . . ! To be clean, really clean, all over, and warm, even if it was only for a little while, and wash her hair. Even though she'd had to get right back into the same dirty clothes she'd come in, she still felt better. And she was sure she smelled better, too.
And Hosea Songmaker hadn't lied. Nobody had given her any trouble. And everything had been right where she'd left it.
She'd better hurry now. She'd had to wait a long time in line to get in. It was already dark, and she didn't like being on the streets after dark. She didn't like leaving Jaycie alone for very long these days, either. Magnus was there, but sometimes he didn't see things quite the way she did. He still thought Jaycie was doing okay, when Ace knew he wasn't. And whether Magnus was willing to see it or not, things were getting worse all around up at The Place.
The three of them had to get out of there. That fight with Chinaka and Shimene and the others last week had been bad—and when Eric had just disappeared, and then Kayla, they'd accused Ace of going behind their backs and getting the two of them to leave. Now Chinaka wanted the two of them to leave—they'd want to keep Jaycie of course, but they had another think coming there. But where were the three of them going to go?
She was walking back toward the subway when she saw a familiar figure walking toward her.
"Kayla!"
Kayla stopped. It was Ace.
Busted.
She glanced down at herself. Same jacket she'd been wearing the last time Ace had seen her, and she supposed the rest of her outfit would pass muster if someone weren't too suspicious.
Only she knew "suspicious" was Ace's middle name. And last, probably.
"Hi," Kayla said resignedly.
"You're too late to get a shower. All the slots're filled," Ace said.
Kayla shrugged. Shower? "Next time, I guess."
"So," Ace said, a little too casually, "are you and Eric coming back?"
She wants us back, Kayla realized with surprise.
"Can't find him," Kayla said honestly. "Been looking all over for him. Guess he took off without me."
"Too bad," Ace said sympathetically. She seemed sincerely disappointed, which puzzled Kayla. "Guess it's just you, then. We kept your stuff."
"Sure," Kayla said, falling in beside her and turning away from the shelter. What does she want?
She hated the thought of missing the chance of talking to Hosea, but he might not even be there anyway. The message on his answering machine would have to do. And hooking up with Ace was more important.
Hosea returned home around seven, having played for the subway crowds. He could shower and change, go up and see Eric during evening visiting hours, then maybe head back down to the shelter and see if he could do a little eavesdropping on the children to try to pick up the last missing pieces of the Secret Stories.
Bloody Mary's True Name was the key—he was sure of it. But what could it be? What sort of demon could a four-year-old child imagine that was terrible enough to frighten God Himself?
The answering machine message light was flashing spastically when he got in. He hurried over to it to play back his messages, thinking that perhaps Caity had called.
But no. It was Kayla. She'd had to call several times to leave her full message, because the machine kept cutting her off.
Eric had vanished from Gotham General sometime this morning, and no one there remembered he'd even been there. Miz Llewellyn thought it was connected to her problems in Washington. Kayla intended to disappear until Ria got back. Hosea might be in danger himself.
"What . . . a . . . mess," Hosea said, at a loss for words. "Greystone?"
After a few moments there was a scrabbling on the fire escape, and Hosea's bedroom window opened. Greystone came clumping into the living room, his carven simian face grave.
"Trouble, boyo?" he asked.
"In every size and shape you care to name," Hosea said grimly. "Listen to this." He played back Kayla's messages.
"Well," Greystone said, "the lass sounds half-demented, and who's going to blame her, with Eric gone missing again." The gargoyle sighed. "And things were going so well, too."
"What am Ah goin' to do?" Hosea said. "Ah don't have much to worry about—it's not likely anybody'd be comin' after me, and Ah can take care o' myself, what with bein' a Guardian and all. But Little Bit's got more confidence than common sense, sometimes. An' Ah don't know where she's gotten herself to. But you do," he said, fixing Greystone with a level blue-eyed stare.
"Ah, now, laddie, sure an' you wouldn't be askin' me to trespass on the sacred bound of confidentiality," Greystone said, taking a step backward.
"If somethin' bad happens to Kayla because Ah don't know where she is, Miz Llewellyn is going to turn you into driveway gravel—and Ah might be persuaded to help her," Hosea said meaningfully. "Right now Little Bit's the only one who knows where Eric's brother is. That don't do anybody any good."
"You're right." Greystone sighed. His wings drooped. After a long pause, the gargoyle spoke. "The kids are holed up in a condemned tenement up near Harlem—hold still and I'll show you where it is."
Greystone concentrated, his features contorting in a grimace of concentration. A picture formed in Hosea's mind, and suddenly he knew where The Place was, and exactly how to find it.
"You aren't planning on making any bull moves, are you, laddiebuck?" Greystone asked anxiously.
"Ah guess not," Hosea said slowly. He felt better knowing where Kayla was. Not the best neighborhood in Manhattan, but her empathic abilities should give her the ability to avoid trouble if she could. And somebody had to keep an eye on Magnus. "Ah just wish Ah knew where the devil Eric was."
"Aye, don't we all?" Greystone agreed somberly.