License Invoked

Chapter 13

"Oh, well," Nigel Peters was saying gamely, "they say that a bad dress rehearsal presages a good opening night."

If that was the truth, then the Green Fire concert was going to surpass any performance in history by the Three Tenors, Barbara Streisand, the Boston Pops or Kylie Minogue. Anything balanced between going right and going wrong tilted and fell over into wrong. Lighting filaments popped and went black. Speakers refused to function, or wouldn't turn off when disconnected. People went for unexpected slides on patches of floor that were perfectly dry. Costumes tore, guitar strings sprang, and synthesizer keys were silent one moment and blaring out of tune the next. The front doors to the Superdome arena popped open by themselves and refused to stay locked. A guard had to be called in from his day off to keep the ticket-buying public out in the lobby. Liz knew that half of them blamed her and Boo's presence for the run of bad luck.

"Bloody government," more than one crew member had muttered as they went past her. It was difficult to hide out of sight on a round stage, but she was as self-effacing as she could be. She and Boo stood among the coils of cable behind one of the huge speakers. They weren't in anyone's way, and they still had the best possible view of the action, but she could feel the resentment aimed her way from every direction.

So far it had been a disaster. Green Fire hadn't made it all the way through the first song yet without at least one major blowup, and they'd been rehearsing for an hour. Liz put down part of the problem to sheer exhaustion. She knew she was reeling on her feet.

Last night's late rehearsal had been everything that anyone could have wished for. Boo's shamaness friend's temporary fix had turned the trick. Fionna had come in on a musical high that carried everyone else up into the heavens with her. She had been in her best voice, and knew how good she looked and sounded. All the special effects had gone off on cue, the lights were where they ought to have been, and the musicians played all their numbers without a single hitch. Even the fussy Guitarchangel hadn't been able to find anything to correct. He had just smiled his enigmatic, pre-Raphaelite smile as his long fingers wove music out of his instrument's strings. Liz and Boo had walked the entire perimeter of the Superdome without finding so much as a sniff of malign magic. They had all been in good spirits when they broke up. If they'd filmed that performance and showed it on those gigantic screens that hovered over the stage like doomsday, they'd have been better off than they were now.

In celebration, Fionna promised to buy everyone a drink. The entire company had poured out into the French Quarter, chattering on about how well it had all gone. Buoyed up on the energy of success, Fee led her merry band from bar to bar in the French Quarter, until they simply ran out of places they hadn't been to yet. While out on the road they seldom got a chance to enjoy the city sights.

"Might as well hold concerts out on a desert oasis for all we see of one place or another," Eddie Vincent had complained, with a touch of bitterness. The others had agreed.

"Oi'd do anythin' to have an afternoon's shoppin' here," Fionna had said wistfully, as they passed by dozens of closed stores, "so this'll have to do me." Liz wasn't happy about such an unstructured outing, but she understood the poignant urge. And, as Beauray pointed out, there was nothing she could do to make Fionna go back to the hotel.

"It's best just to tag along and take it easy," Beauray said. "Who's going to attack her with so many people around?"

"Numbers could make an attack easier, not harder," Liz grumbled. But Boo-Boo was right: it was just best to follow along with the crowd. Liz couldn't defend against a negative. Until the mysterious malign force surfaced again, there was nothing she could do. She had kept on glancing into alleys and up onto the omnipresent balconies. Was everyone in New Orleans but her having a good time?

Wherever they had stopped, Nigel Peters had ordered drinks for everyone. Voe Lockney had fallen in love with Sazeracs. The band and crew put a serious dent in the Quarter's supply of good whiskey. They sang along with every song they knew, and applauded the performers with drunken abandon. Robbie Unterburger stared with mooncalf eyes at Lloyd, who ignored her. Patrick Jones did humorous imitations of the people they saw walking in the street. Sooner or later, they wandered into the open-air coffee shop named the Café du Monde and ate square doughnuts frosted a quarter-inch deep in powdered sugar. Liz watched it all, staying awake on adrenaline, sugar, and the odd-tasting coffee Boo told her was flavored with chicory.

Dawn hadn't been far off their heels by the time everyone finally went to bed. By the time the technical run-through had gotten under way, noon had come and gone.

Chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes, Nigel Peters had confided to the two agents that only with luck would they finish in time to take a decent dinner break and a rest before the concert itself. Everyone was on edge, but Fionna was in the worst mood possible. Her temper was beginning to affect everyone else.

"All right then," Michael announced in his clipped voice from the center of the stage. His forehead was creased as though he had a headache. He probably had. "We'll just take it from the top again. And we'll do so until we get it right. If we can get the programme moving, the rest will follow more easily. Understood?"

Mutters and groans met this announcement. Liz wondered if he'd ever been a schoolteacher. Fionna automatically trudged back to the short flight of steps at the rear of the stage. Later on, darkness would cover what was going on around her, but for now Liz could see everything. Laura Manning touched up Fee's wild makeup. Fitz, on his knees, fussed with the hem of the new green silk dress that was pinned to the shoulders of Fionna's black crop-top T-shirt. Because she would have to be sewn into the skin-tight sheath later, Fitz didn't want to have her wear it until then. Judging by the intricacy of the design and the handsome beadwork that outlined the LEDs, Thomas Fitzgibbon must have spent the rest of the night on his creation. He looked reluctant to get more than a few paces away from his creation, lest it burst into flames like the last one. His overprotectiveness was irritating Fionna. He kept getting in the way of her arm movements.

As her cue came, Fitz started to follow her on his knees, holding the hem of the dress up so it wouldn't catch on the floorboards. She swept her hand down and accidentally smacked him on the head. The two of them jumped at the contact. Fionna stopped to give him a glare that would have frozen mercury solid.

"All right, enough!" Fionna snapped out. "Go away. Now."

He halted, and retired to the edge of the stage, hands fretting with the tape measure slung around his neck. Laura Manning gave him a wry look, professional to professional.

"And, mark!" announced Hugh Banks, the stage manager, moving around the perimeter. "First sparklers start at six points around the stage. Six, isn't it, darling?" he asked, putting a hand to the headset he was wearing. He nodded. "And, off." The musicians carried on what they were doing.

Liz and Boo-Boo were on guard with every piece of magical paraphernalia at their disposal. Both of them had been reluctant to let the other know what he or she was carrying, but Liz had pointed out that they'd only get in one another's way if they started popping off spells at random. Not until she opened her own bag of tricks and dumped it out to the seams did he relax and let her examine his arsenal. She was impressed, though she didn't let her emotions show, and hoped he felt the same way. It wouldn't do for the British Empire, however reduced, to be superseded by its former colony in any way. She matched him defensive spell for defensive spell, truth-finders, serum for healing burns (always vital to have on hand when one did a lot of candle work), concealment spells to protect covert movement, and so on.

"Start again!" Fionna shouted, as the song they were playing fizzled noisily. "I can't stand these bleedin' crowds. Everyone who doesn't belong on stage, get off!"

In particular, she turned to glare at the two agents. Nigel Peters started toward them, but Boo had taken Liz's arm, and was already escorting her down the stairs. Liz backed off through what would be the mosh pit to the closest possible vantage point where she could see the expanse of the stage. Peters gave them a grateful glance. He looked haggard, as though he hadn't slept all night.

The looming Jumbotron hung further down from the ceiling than it had the night before. The barrels of stage lights and clusters of black-painted boxes were arrayed around the bottom of it. Liz guessed the mysterious boxes were part of the special effects equipment. Hanging from the lip of the Jumbotron on each side was an enormous poster of the band, concealing the lighting frame from the view of punters in the auditorium seating. Each enormous graphic showcased a different member in the center. Privately Liz thought the one featuring Fionna made her look like the bride of Frankenstein. Same open-mouthed, horror-struck expression. Liz grinned.

A dozen men and women in blue jeans moved purposefully throughout the room with blackened aluminum boxes hoisted on their shoulders. Liz didn't recognize any of the people, and pointed them out to her fellow agent.

"Television camera operators," Boo-Boo said.

Liz was appalled. "They aren't broadcasting this concert, are they? Not when we have so much else to deal with? It could be a disaster!"

Boo-Boo was happy to reassure her. "It's not being broadcast anywhere, although they're tapin' it for themselves. Those cameras have long zoom lenses. Mr. Peters said they want to cover the stage from a half-dozen points around the interior and show some of the good stuff on the Jumbotron screens. They don't want the folks in the cheap seats to miss the dramatic expressions, and all."

"What a good idea," Liz said, appreciatively. "Those screens are a real benefit when the length of a football field separates fans from the stage." She remembered that from the control room alone the band looked smaller than figures on a wedding cake, and wondered how concertgoers felt about it. Nonetheless, she still felt nervous about the Jumbotron. The gigantic box hung perfectly steady on its moorings, but she didn't trust it a bit. It hovered over them like the cloud of doom.

"Morning, Agent Boudreau," said a smooth voice from behind them. They turned to see Mr. Winslow, the building manager, dapper in his white suit. He came up to shake hands with Boo-Boo. "Just checking in... to see how things are going. Pretty well, eh?"

"Well..." Boo-Boo began.

Eddie Vincent brought his hands down flat on his keyboard, producing a discordant organ sting that blasted out of the speakers like the whistle at quitting time on a construction site. Everybody winced.

Mr. Winslow's face contracted into a mass of pained pleats. "Well, I won't stay long. I don't want to be in the way."

"I'm sure the band won't mind," Boo-Boo said.

"Truth is," the manager said, with a wry grin as he retreated backwards toward the corridor, "this stuff hurts my ears. You young people... must like it, though."

Boo put a forefinger to his lips and tapped it conspiratorially. "Well, I'm sorry to mention it, Mr. Winslow, but the two of us is supposed to keep a pretty low profile, so I'm goin' to say excuse me for now."

"Oh! I understand," Mr. Winslow said, with the wide-eyed expression of someone pleased to have wandered into a real-life spy adventure. He shook hands with Boo again. "Nice to see you, Agent. And your... lovely assistant. Good afternoon, ma'am. We sure appreciate your helping out here." He gave Liz a half-bow.

"Assistant! I'm not..." Liz began, eager to correct his misapprehension, but Boo-Boo's hand closed over her wrist.

"Let him go, Liz," Boo said.

"But he thinks I'm your assistant! Why won't you let me—?" Mr. Winslow made a left turn out at the end of the corridor, heading for the long escalators that led to the lobby. She could just catch him.

"It doesn't really matter what he thinks, does it?" Boo asked, interrupting her.

Liz jerked her hand loose, but she was suspicious. She regarded Boo with narrowed eyes.

"All right, why did you want that man to get out of the way so quickly?"

"I don't know whether y'all noticed it," Beauray said, casually, "but Mr. Winslow has this little trick of waitin' in the middle of a sentence until you meet his eyes. That means if we have him standin' here havin' a nice conversation, we can't keep watchin' the set."

Liz's eyelids flew up in surprise. "Why, you're right. I apologize. But the next time I see him, I'm going to set him straight. I am not an assistant."

"I was tellin' the truth when I said we had to keep a low profile, wasn't I?" Boo asked, his blue eyes innocent.

"Yes, but..."

"Well, I'm helpin' you keep your cover," he said, in his easygoing way, as if that should settle everything. Liz glared at him. In any case there was no way to call Mr. Winslow back. Beauray had scored on her once more. She was not going to let that happen again.

The music had started again. Spotlights, faint in the brilliant noon sunshine, played around the interior of the stage. Michael came up the back stairs, and a pale golden light hit him, setting fire to the metal of his guitar strings, turned the flesh of his hands and face to incandescent ivory, and gilded his black hair. He looked so beautiful Liz forgot for a moment to breathe.

Lights came up on the other two musicians, setting halos playing in their long hair. Michael started forward, but the spot stayed where it was. Michael frowned down, then up.

"Hold it," he said. "Hold it!" The music died away. "What's wrong with the lights now?"

Just as everyone looked up into the flies, a gigantic flash of light burst overhead. Liz almost threw a spell to protect the people on the stage. Only well-honed reflexes kept her from crushing the components in her hand when she realized it was just a light popping. Sparks showered down onto the stage. The stage crew threw their hands up over their heads. Only Michael stood there in the rain of fire, looking authoritative and indignant. "Was that my key light?"

"Someone check!" shouted the stage manager, setting his staff into a flurry of motion.

Boo took a firm but not dangerous hold of Liz's wrist, and pried her fingers open. She stared at him in surprise as he picked up the fragile wax shell she had been clutching. "Y'can't use that in here, Liz," he said.

"And why not?" Liz asked. "It's perfectly safe. It's a fire-prevention cantrip."

"You'll have to forgive me sayin' so, but it don't have the range to cover the area of the stage."

"I could double the amount," Liz said, indignantly. "That would be more than plenty."

"Well, then it will be too heavy to have the range you want, no matter how loud you chant. What if you're not as close as you are right now?"

"And I suppose you have something better?" she asked, peevishly.

"Sure do," Boo said, companionably. "I checked with HQ this mornin'. They said I can give you these." He handed her a couple of sachets. Liz glanced at them dubiously. They smelled strongly of myrrh and purslane, a protective herb traditionally ruled by the element of water. She had to admit they were beautifully constructed, the edge of each fragile paper envelope sewn shut with corn silk. "You can have the formula later on. If these give satisfaction, that is."

"Oh, thank you," Liz said, trying not to sound sarcastic. Helping the poor cousin, she thought, furiously. Thought he knew it all. Their government could obviously pay for higher quality than her government. Another way of shamefully showing off. "This isn't the spell you think it is," she said, now ashamed of the irregularly-shaped bubble containing a cluster of damp crystals like a handful of bath salts sealed in waxed paper.

"Well, actually, I think it is," Boo said, returning the components to her between cautious thumb and forefinger. "Our intelligence is pretty good."

"We've made improvements, and..." Liz stopped just short of telling him she was a hereditary witch and knew how to put together a workmanlike spell, dammit! With dismay she realized he probably knew all that, too. Annoyed at her own outburst, she reasserted her professionalism. There was a job to do. She'd give him a piece of her mind later. With grace, she accepted the spell components and his instruction on how to chant the incantation.

"Bimity polop caruma?"

"Caruna," Boo corrected her. "It's an `n.' " Liz nodded. It was ironic that though the Americans claimed to believe less in magic than the British, their department produced a better line of counterspell that they didn't believe would do anything to counteract the occurrence that they didn't believe could happen.

"Quiet!" shouted the stage manager. Liz looked up, startled, wondering if they'd been overheard. But they hadn't been the only ones making noise. Liz just became aware of the last faint echoes of a mechanical screech, as the huge box overhead swayed slightly. She felt giddy just looking up at the Jumbotron. She had enormous sympathy for the workers who had to climb the narrow iron catwalks twenty-six stories above the ground to maintain it.

Hugh Banks walked out to the center of the stage, accompanied by a representative from building maintenance, a heavyset man in khaki coveralls. They looked up at the grid. The burned-out spotlight was a black dot at the edge of the framework.

"One of those posters of yours was touchin' the light," the supervisor said, with an experienced nod. "Coulda started a fire. Lucky just the one light went out."

"We need that spot functioning again," the stage manager said, reading from a complex diagram. "Can you fix it?"

"We'll just have to replace that light filament," the supervisor said. "Have to raise the Jumbotron to do it. It can't be done while it's lowered."

"Wait until after the rehearsal," the stage manager said, with a sigh. "Five o'clock, all right?"

"No problem."

"This is supposed to be the technical rehearsal," Michael Scott said, peevishly. "What about the cues?"

The stage manager spoke into his headset again.

"We're on it," Ken Lewis's voice echoed over the public address system in the vast room. "I'll swap another spotlight as Michael's key light for the time being."

"Good?" Banks asked Michael. The guitarist nodded, not happily.

The group began again. And again. The third attempt was interrupted by the arrival of the backup singing trio and the hired percussionist, Lou Carey.

"Very sorry we're late," Carey said. He was a razor-thin black man with a razor-thin mustache under his narrow nose. "We got the time wrong."

"All right, then," the stage manager said. "Get in your places."

"Should we get our costumes?" one of the singers asked. A tiny girl with huge brown eyes, she had a thrilling contralto voice that resonated pleasantly even without amplification.

"You'll have to get dressed during the break," Michael said. "We're delayed enough as it is."

"Places for the fourth number, please!"

Michael started picking out a moody and frustrated melody. Liz recognized it as Green Fire's well-known rant against environmental destruction. It was powerful and disturbing. She knew every note, swaying slightly with the music.

The others joined in. The latecomers hurried toward their assigned spots, eager to catch up and join in. Eddie Vincent brought his hands down onto his synthesizer keyboard for a crashing crescendo that imitated a rising gale. Fionna's voice would rise out of the music like whitecaps on the crest of a foaming sea and tear the soul out of the audience.

Just then, the lights went down. Eyes accustomed to the glare of the spots and the brightness of noonday were temporarily blinded. In the momentary dimness, there was the sound of stumbling feet, a thud, a clattering. The wild music died away in a whine like deflating bagpipes. Liz felt a wrench in her chest from the unfulfilled promise of the song. Eddie Vincent's deep voice reeled out a string of profanities.

When the lights came up a moment later, a spotlight highlighted the unfortunate percussionist flat on the floor with his feet tangled in a mass of cables. Several of the stagehands leaped forward to help him up.

"He pulled the power cords out of my rig!" Eddie shouted.

"I didn't do it on purpose, man!" Carey said, his cheeks glowing with embarrassment. "I was nowhere near your stuff! Somebody pulled me—or something. The next thing I knew, I was on my face."

"Get out of here," Eddie said, angrily. "Move it. Nigel!"

"Eddie, he couldn't have done it on purpose," the manager said, striding up the stage steps. "We all saw it. He was going toward the opposite side of the stage. He must just have gotten lost in the dark."

"What dark? It's noon! He got lost walking across a wide-open stage?"

"I didn't get lost. Someone pulled me into the cables," Carey insisted. "Someone took hold of my arms and yanked me over that way. It just happened."

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Eddie snarled. "What kind of story is that?"

"I couldn't see, man! I'm sorry!"

Hulking roadies in T-shirts and jeans began to gather around the keyboards, looking menacing. Liz couldn't tell whether they were prepared to defend Eddie or the other man. She sensed a measure of ill will in the room, but not necessarily between the two groups of stagehands. The energy simply didn't feel normal. She was uneasy, but couldn't put a finger on just what was bothering her.

"Please, guys," Nigel said, holding his hands up for attention as he pushed in among them. "This gets us nowhere. We've got to get through this, or there'll be no time to rest before the concert. I don't know about you, but I could sleep for a year."

"Look," said Hugh, "he said he was sorry. Forget it, eh?"

Eddie lowered his thick eyebrows at the newcomer, but shook his head. He managed to find a smile somewhere among his dour looks. "All right, man. Just keep clear, all right?"

"No problem," said the musician, backing away with his hands up. The unlucky man was glad to escape and take his place among his fellow temps, two more guitarists, a violinist, a flautist, a harpist and a woman playing the uilleann pipe. The harpist, a very tall man named Carl Johnson, gave him a sympathetic look. Eddie went back to frowning over his instruments.

Fionna, having thrown off Fitz and his paroxysms of fashion, appeared in her second costume, a white dress that consisted almost entirely of long fringe over a flesh-colored sheath. It was fabulously effective, even sexy, but at the same time Liz thought it made Fee look like a white Afghan hound. She wasn't quick enough to suppress a snort of laughter. Unfortunately, the outburst came during one of the rare moments of silence. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at her. Liz felt her cheeks redden.

"And what the fokkin' hell do you think is funny?" Fee demanded.

"Sorry," Liz said.

"Pack up and move it the hell out of here!" Fionna shouted. "Go on with you!"

Boo pulled Liz further away from the stage and bent his head close to hers. "Don't stir her up. There's something wrong here."

"Can you feel it, too?"

"Yes, I can. Like sittin' on a powder keg, and everyone throwin' lit matches. It's makin' everybody touchy, but I can't find a source for it. Keep an eye peeled. I just feel somethin's goin' to happen. Don't know what, yet."

Fionna burst vehemently into song. The musicians caught up with her a line or so later, weaving their threads with the instrument of her voice. It was an angry song about injustice and killing the innocent. Unlike the quiet hurt the folk song had engendered the first night in O'Flaherty's, this one grabbed the listener by the ears and made him despise the abusers. Liz felt fury crackle in the air. The magic Green Fire were making was a dangerous kind. Fionna stalked from side to side of the stage, exhorting the invisible audience to join with her in hating the oppressors. She flung an arm around the microphone stand at the east side of the stage and screeched a verse into that one. The fringes whipped around the metal pole, but didn't drop back when she let go. As she took one whirling step away, the microphone followed her. It leaned dangerously for a split second, then crashed at her feet. Swearing a blue streak that could be heard from every speaker in the room, Fee stood and quivered with rage while the grips and Fitz jumped forward to help her free.

"Cut the damned fringe off the damned sleeves," Fionna's order echoed throughout the arena. Ears stunned by the level of the rock music, Liz couldn't hear Fitz's side of the discussion, but his pleading expression was eloquent. "I do not bloody care. I'm not a fokkin' snake charmer like St. Patrick!"

The costumer's face stiffened. Nigel Peters fairly leaped up the steps to make peace.

"Oh, no!" Fionna exclaimed, in answer to an unheard plea from her manager. "Do you think I want to have me own clothes making a fool of me?"

Nigel looked up toward the northwest and made a throat-cutting gesture at the booth. Fionna's microphone was turned off, rendering her inaudible to the rest of the people in the arena. She, Nigel and Fitz engaged in a three-sided pantomime row, only a few syllables loud enough to be understood. Nigel tapped his watch. As an argument, it was absolutely unassailable. There wasn't time to fuss. The show must go on. Sadly, Fitzgibbon produced his scissors and barbered the trim on the sleeves to three inches in length. A stagehand appeared with a broom. Fitz watched him sweep up the cuttings with the same dismayed expression a mother might watch her child's first haircut. Without looking back at him, Fionna returned to her spot at the east edge of the stage. The musicians struck up. Fionna grabbed the microphone and opened her mouth.

A mechanical shriek blasted out. Everyone jumped as steam started pouring upward from the pipes lined up in a long frame at the edge of the stage. Fantastic green figures swam upward along the insubstantial curtain. Snakes and birds twisted into Celtic knotwork, created with laser lights; Liz let out an admiring gasp, but it stopped everyone else dead.

"What in all the saints' names was that?" Fionna asked, recovering her wits.

"That effect isn't supposed to go until the sixth song!" came the despairing cry of the stage manager. "What's going on up there?" He seized the mouthpiece of his headset in one hand and started gesticulating with the other hand.

"Sorry," came Robbie's tremulous voice over the intercom. The steam ceased rising. "My hand slipped and pushed the cursor too far ahead on my instructions. It won't happen again."

"It had bloody not better," everyone on the stage muttered, almost in unison.

But it did. Little things continued to go awry. Effects happened late, or went off on the wrong part of the stage. Liz watched with the feeling that she was seeing a building being demolished a few tiles at a time with the debris falling on innocent passersby. The wonderful feeling that had pervaded the arena early that afternoon was gone without a trace, leaving behind it deep gloom. Much of it could be laid at Robbie Unterburger's feet.

"The girl is just plain off," Boo commented, not without sympathy, watching Fionna dodge tiny explosions that had been laid on the floor of the stage like an unlucky cowboy ordered to "dance" by a rival gunslinger. If Robbie wasn't clearly so apologetic, it would look like she was deliberately trying to make Fionna look bad.

"Do you think she senses the foreboding that's growing in here?" Liz asked. "She might be affected by it." The thought interested her greatly for a moment. "Is Robbie a sensitive? Could she be a possible recruit for either of our departments?"

Beauray's fair eyebrows rose high on his forehead. "Never thought of that, ma'am. She might be just what you say, but I'd doubt whether she'd be interested. You have to admit our wage structure don't sound as appealin' when you know what these people are paid."

Liz nodded. If it weren't for the call of patriotism she'd have been sorely tempted by the pay scales she saw listed on the FYI document in her briefing packet. She prided herself on her competence; she would probably do very well at one of these jobs—if it hadn't meant dealing with egos like her old school chum's.

The drummer struck a downbeat, and the rehearsal resumed. The band managed to get through a couple of numbers unhindered, for which everyone looked grateful. Protective spells at the ready, Liz maintained her vigilance, but she would have had to be lying to say she didn't enjoy having a rock concert virtually to herself. A small part of her missed the camaraderie of the crowds. In spite of the pushing and the occasionally impaired view, the people who attended an event like this one shared in a special kind of symbiotic energy. It came from the performers, but it was amplified a millionfold by the audience and given back again. At a really good concert, the transfer back and forth lifted the performance from enjoyable to stellar. Fionna and her players were certainly capable of lighting that kind of fire in their fans. They exalted, they comforted, they challenged, all at the same time. Liz stood rocking to the beat, watching Fee and Michael dance toward one another in the center of the stage, then whirl outward again, like a pair of electrons in a very active molecule. Michael, all in black, dignified, powerful, stepped backwards toward the north end of the stage, watching his fingers stirring the strings of his guitar. Fee, feminine, excitable, vibrant, reached the south end and turned in a wide circle. The flying fringes on her dress caught the lights in slashing sprays of white. She halted, standing straight as a candle. With the air of a priestess of a long-ago culture, she pointed down at a crystal formation the size of a pumpkin. And waited. She stopped singing.

"Hold it!" she shouted. "Right now!" As the music died, Liz felt a sense of loss equal to that of someone snatching her teddy bear away. Fionna clapped her hands to her hips and glared up at the control room booth.

"When I am standing here and singing the cue line," Fionna shouted in a rising tone that threatened to end in a banshee shriek, "I expect to have the green lasers meet at me feet and light up that bloody crystal that is sitting right here. It is not a tiny little rock. It is a monstrous, great chunk of rock. I should think," her voice reaching to every corner of the Superdome, "that even up there you might be able to see it! Excu-use me!"

The technical director's soothing voice came over the loudspeaker. "Sorry, Fee, darling. Robbie was just a little behind on her cues. Other than that it was perfect. Wasn't it, loves? Can we try it again? From the last mark."

Moodily, Michael Scott took up his station at the north end of the round stage, nodded his head at the other musicians. Voe Lockney beat his sticks together over his head. One, two, three, and the band began to play. Fionna, who had withdrawn with her arms crossed over her chest, listened, waiting. There was a feeling of anticipation, not happy. Liz would like to have enjoyed herself, reminded herself that this was a job, a still-unsolved mystery. The two dancers made their way toward one another, body language seducing, drawing inward toward one another and out again. Michael withdrew toward his dark fastness. Fionna stepped, whirled, and glided toward the gleaming crystal.

The laser beat her there. Green fire shot down from the overhead grid and sent knives of rainbow glory streaking outward to strike the farthest walls of the arena. Fionna stood bathed in the green light, rigid, with her hands by her sides.

"I have had more than enough," she screamed. "Is me whole performance to be made a mockery because one incompetent little bint can't keep her fokkin' mind on her bleedin' job?"

"Now, Fionna," Nigel said, hurrying toward her, in full placatory mode. Fionna was in no mood to listen. She shouldered past him and kept going, right off the stage, down the steps and out of the arena. Nigel trotted along behind, almost wringing his hands as he tried to reason with her. He might as well have tried dealing with a hurricane in full blow.

"I am goin' to tear her stupid head off her stupid shoulders and put it on me mantelpiece!" Fee raged, flinging her arms in grand gestures. "I am goin' to bake her in a pie and serve her to Shakespeare repertory audiences!" Even though she was wearing six-inch stiletto heels, anger helped her outpace everyone except Lloyd Preston. His long legs had no trouble closing the distance to bring him to her side, and he kept the rest of them at bay.

Liz and Boo hurried at their heels like a pair of terriers. In all their years of school, Liz had seen Fee Kendale go off like this only once. It had also been on the occasion of a matter of incompetence, but it showed how stretched the other woman's nerves were that she was reacting like a spoiled schoolgirl. The cacophony they made clattering through the hallway surprised a tour group on its way around the Superdome. A couple of the tourists recognized Fionna. One of them reached for a camera, but one glare from the ever-vigilant Lloyd distracted her from taking a picture until it was too late.

Not having had time to scope out the passage before Fionna set foot in it, Liz employed a little Earth power to sense around them, making certain there were no booby traps planted in their path. Luckily, the unseen enemy would have no reason to expect Fionna to come tearing out of the arena in that direction. Or would he?

Emotions were already high in the control room when Fionna burst in. The object of her fury cowered in the station behind the complex special effects board, eyeglasses gleaming owlishly in the fluorescent lights. Liz guessed from her red cheeks that Robbie had already been dressed down by Gary Lowe. Fionna marched up and glared down at her.

"Did you get up this mornin' and say, `Today I think I'll screw up everythin' I touch'?" Fionna asked, in a tone so saccharine that it made Liz's teeth hurt. "Here we are, with only hours before the biggest crowd we've seen in a year comes marchin' in here, and you're behavin' as if you've only seen the equipment for the very first time!"

"I'm sorry," Robbie began, but she didn't stand a chance against the might of Hurricane Fee.

"There's a lot of people you're inconveniencing here, most of whom are pretendin' they're not as annoyed as they are. I've given you a lot of chances. You've broken the rhythm of the rehearsal. Do you know what that does to the band? To me? No, you haven't a clue, have you? How did you ever hold down a responsible job before this?"

Someone snickered.

"And the rest of you needn't think I'm forgettin' about you," Fionna said, spinning on her heel. She was right, Liz observed. Sheila Parker, at the sound desk, had a half smile curling up one side of her mouth that vanished when Fee glared at her. It was only human nature to be thankful at the discomfiture of others, as opposed to suffering it oneself. It was only a small step from there to enjoying the process. Fee was determined that no one was going to enjoy the lecture. "I know you're tryin', but it isn't enough. You're all professionals. We've got no time for screwin' up. There's a show in less than four hours! I'm countin' on you all. This is a grand opportunity for the lot of us. A whole new audience, seein' us live for the first time. Maybe for some this is the first concert that they've ever seen. Doesn't that mean a thing to you? We want this to be right. We want to dazzle them; make it an event they'll never forget."

Liz was as caught by surprise as the rest of them. It was such a reasonable argument, appealing to their pride, their better nature, not the flat-out dressing down that she would have assumed Phoebe Kendale would have handed out. She'd grown up. Fionna Kenmare sounded like the CEO of a multinational corporation. Liz realized, with surprise at herself, that that was exactly what her old school friend had become. Green Fire's music was sold in every country that had radio. Their revenue had to run to millions of pounds a year. Lord Kendale wasn't too pleased with his daughter's choice of causes to espouse, but he ought to be proud of the way she occupied the position she'd made for herself.

Fee was sweet and reasonable but stretched to the breaking point with everyone except the special effects coordinator, for whom Fee wouldn't soften under any circumstances. The star swiveled back again to glare at Robbie. "That is, if you can manage to do your job when it really matters."

"I know every cue in the concert," Robbie said, who had been pushed all the way through fright to defiance. Her voice shook, but she stood her ground. "I know them forwards and backwards."

"Yes, and so you've been telling me," Fionna said dismissively, lifting a hand to study the green polish on her nails. Robbie's complexion went from red to purple. It was an ugly contrast. "Too bad you've decided to do them backwards."

"I'm sorry I've been messing up. I'll make it right."

"You bloody well better!" Fionna said, dropping her hands onto the back of the other woman's chair and glaring at her. "Your job is to add to the spectacle, not be one. When you foul up you call attention to yourself. If that's what you want to do, join the circus. I hear they're always lookin' for another clown."

Robbie gasped. She looked around at the others watching her, hoping for a kind face. Her eyes brimming with hope, she met Lloyd's gaze. He locked eyes with her, but kept his face carefully expressionless. Liz could tell he didn't want to be part of this argument. No one sane would have. Robbie appealed silently to him, brows lifted.

"And you keep off Lloyd," Fee added, not missing a thing. She interposed herself between the special effects engineer and her bodyguard. "He's here for me, not you."

That shot hit home. Robbie's face flushed even redder. The girl seemed really to have thought no one else had noticed. Liz felt very sorry for her.

"We get along," she said stoutly. "It's not against the law for him to be nice to me."

"So you don't deny you've been trying to steal him!"

Robbie saw the trap, but much too late. It was unwise of her to attempt to justify her feelings. If she'd been smart, she wouldn't have admitted to them at all. It gave Fionna another grievance she could level. Robbie shot out of her seat, standing as tall as she was able, but her voice betrayed how flustered she was.

"You're wrong! I don't have to steal him. I mean, I'm not trying to... There's nothing you can do if there's feelings involved! He only works for you. It's a financial arrangement. Not like..."

"You're trying to make out that there's more going on than there is, you silly creature," Fionna said, almost pityingly. "That in a minute I'm going to turn me back, and he's going to sweep you off your feet like Prince Charming and ride away in a Lear jet, leaving me to weep. Well, you're not a princess, missie. Nothing like."

"No! If anyone's the princess around here, it's you!" Robbie shouted. "You waltz around like the high priestess of something, but you jump if a shadow crosses your path. I'm trying to do my job!"

"You are trying?" Fionna exclaimed, her eyes widening as her brogue thickened. "You can't stay on cue! Your job is almost totally mechanized and you still screw it up! This is the dress rehearsal, damn yer sorry arse!" She flung a hand at the girl. "To hell with you. Those thousands of people are coming to hear my voice. Yer window dressin'. We'll do it without effects if we have to!"

Turning like a model on the runway, Fionna stalked magnificently out of the room, followed by Lloyd. Nigel offered an apologetic glance to the crew, but he couldn't look at Robbie.

With the agents and her bodyguard on her heels, Fionna strode back down the ramps to the arena door where the rest of the company was waiting for her. Their astonished expressions told her they had heard every word. The PA system had been switched on in the booth.

"Let's try it again," she said, calmly. She smiled at them, serene again but very, very firm. "Once, all the way through, no stops. All right?"

Everyone rushed to their places, unwilling to be the next to receive Fee's own brand of personal attention.

Liz shot a glance at Boo-Boo. His wary expression told her he felt the same magical buildup that she did. The pent-up energy that had been pressing at the edges of her magical conscious was reaching an overload. It could burst out at any moment.

She had no idea it would strike so soon. Fionna had no sooner stomped back onto the round stage when an explosion overhead made everyone's heart stop. The crew and band ran for cover, but they were in no danger from the debris. The snowstorm of colored dots fell in heaps directly on the cowering figure of Fionna. She shrieked and batted at the rain of trash.

"Who put confetti up there?" Hugh Banks demanded. "This isn't a parade!"

It wasn't confetti. The gigantic poster of Green Fire attached to one side of the Jumbotron had shredded itself into tiny bits. The huge faces on the three remaining posters seemed to mock the crew.

"Ah, no," the stage manager moaned, clutching his head. "It must be the one near the light that burned out!"

The falling flakes of paper whirled and twinkled under the beams of the intact spots. Liz was about to thank heaven that this wasn't another fire attack, when suddenly the ruins of the poster burst into flames. Fionna screamed, but stood helpless in the middle of the rising fire, like St. Joan at the stake.

"Somebody do something!" she cried.

This time, Boo-Boo was ready. He leaped forward, hands moving in a blur, and lobbed a handful of blue powder in the direction of the stage, chanting all the while. Between one shrill outburst and another, the powder spread out into a cloud that momentarily hid the star from view. The mass settled a moment later, revealing Fionna standing with her arms flung up to protect her face. The colored dots lay in half-singed piles around her feet. Her second cry for help died away as she stared around her. Lloyd shoved his way through the crowd and looked her over carefully. Then he took her into his arms. Fionna collapsed against him limply. She was too astonished to speak. Thomas Fitzgibbon broke the silence.

"This wasn't... this wasn't the lasers this time, was it?"

"What the hell did you do?" Michael Scott demanded, rounding on Boo-Boo and Liz, as Nigel Peters and Hugh Banks began shouting at everyone else to clear the stage. The stagehands swooped in with brooms.

"Just fire control," Boo-Boo said. "Government issue." He showed the packet, which featured the eagle of the United States holding a fire extinguisher in each outstretched claw.

"That wasn't just a chemical reaction," the guitarist said, with a wary eye. "What are you?"

"Government agent," Boo-Boo said simply, producing his ID. "It's not over yet, sir. Let's all just remain calm." But Michael and the others were anything but calm.

"I want to know what is going on!" the guitarist demanded. "Are you responsible for these outbursts?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Liz said, in an even voice. "I'm afraid we can't discuss details..."

"Don't `sir' me," Michael said, raising his eyebrows alarmingly. "You've been underfoot for two days. I've heard Fionna's complaints for the last months now. We've all heard them. The things that are happening to her are real, aren't they?"

Liz was saved having to reply by Fionna herself. With a wild scream, Fee started turning around and around, slowly at first, but faster and faster until the white fringes on her dress stood straight out.

"Now, don't play around, love," Lloyd said.

"She's not doing it, Mr. Preston," Liz said, removing a white silk cloth from her handbag. "Look at her feet." They weren't moving. Fee appeared to be spinning on her own axis with no visible means of propulsion.

"Fee, honey, don't make a fool of yourself," Lloyd said. He put his arms around her to stop her, and got taken up in the vortex. "Hey!" He whirled around and around until his feet lifted off the floor. Fionna was going too fast for him to hang on. With a yell, the burly security man went flying. He landed several yards away, rolling over and over, missing Eddie Vincent's precious keyboards by a foot. Lloyd lay on his back, shaking his head to clear it. Liz clicked her tongue. Too impetuous. That was no way to pull her out of a spin.

Liz held out the white cloth in the air by its center, and began to chant, drawing power from the earth as she went. It would take a lot of Earth power to take Fee away from the Air element that had claimed her. With a swift glance at the people around her, she lowered her voice to a mutter for the last words of the spell. With the final word, she dropped the cloth to the ground. Fee stopped spinning so suddenly she staggered.

"Thank heavens," Fionna said, swallowing. "Now, I—"

But whatever had Fee in its grasp was not through with her yet. The spinning began again, faster than before. Alarmed, Liz picked up the cloth and dropped it again and again. No response. Fionna became a green and white blur that lifted into the air. In a moment she'd bump into the Jumbotron. The enormous magical power building in the Superdome was not to be quelled by a simple dampening spell.

The band and crew were taken completely by surprise. Even the imperturbable Michael stood gawking up at Fionna with his mouth hanging open. Even as she worked to quell it, Liz was dismayed. Spinning she could explain away. An exploding poster turning into party favors could be put down to natural causes. Even it bursting into flames had the potential to be excused under the circumstances. The manifestation of a flying dervish appearing in a public location was going to be much harder to excuse as not being supernatural.

Liz thought for a moment of making everyone clear the building. Unless they did, their secret was out. She and Beauray would have to employ their government-issue spell paraphernalia in full view of the public. But she mustn't wait. One look at Fionna's nauseous face told her that in a moment the star was going to be very sick, and she'd never forgive Liz if she spewed her guts out in front of a crowd of dozens. The agents couldn't wait, either. The huge reserve of power growing almost directly under their feet threatened to blow, and Fionna herself had lit the match.

Telling herself it couldn't be helped, Liz scrabbled deep in her bag for components to cast the biggest dissipation spell she had at her disposal. Clear the air, and perhaps they could get to the bottom of this whole disturbance. There was the candle and the lighter. Good. The incense was in a secret compartment of her powder compact, hidden from the view of casual observers. Where was the athame? Oh, why did just the thing one needed most always end up in the remotest corner of one's handbag? A sharp point pricked her finger. Ah, there it was. Heedless of the pain, Liz pulled out the pink aluminum knitting needle that served her as a working tool for invocation and dissipation. A standard athame was forbidden on commercial aircraft and tended to excite commentary on London streets. The needle was a reasonably good substitute. No one ever said boo to a knitter.

"Mr. Ringwall isn't going to like this," she said. Peevishly she thrust the candle at Boo-Boo, lit the wick and handed him a pinch of incense.

"My superiors won't like it much, either," Boo-Boo admitted. "But only if we don't succeed. It can't be helped. Ms. Fionna's goin' to rise right through the roof in a moment. C'mon, positive attitude, Liz!"

"It's all very well for you to say so," Liz grumbled. "You Americans like the spotlight." Liz held the knitting needle over her head in casting position, pointed toward Fionna. She hesitated, conscious of every eye on her. Chin up, Mayfield, she told herself. No time for stage fright. Straightening her back, she began the incantation.

"I call the whirling winds to cease, depart from her, from us, in peace," Liz said, putting as much force into her words as she could. Boo-Boo held up the candle. The wind whipping Fionna around flattened the flame, threatening to extinguish it. He shielded it with his hand while trying to keep the pinch of incense between his fingers from igniting too soon. "To calm the raging winds that spin... oh, drat, I can't think of the next line!"

"Go out from here as you came in." Boo really did know her grimoire, Liz realized. The Yanks certainly had their sources in her department.

Together they chanted the old spell. Liz tossed the incense into the flame, and put every erg of Earth power she had into concentrating on bringing Fee down.

With a whoosh! a cloud issued forth from the flame, enveloping the stage, people and all. She could feel Boo's influence alongside hers, aiding and strengthening. He really did know his stuff. Whatever they were fighting was stronger than she could have taken on alone. Melding their talents, they had enough power to do what had to be done.

Liz hoped the non-initiates hadn't heard precisely what they were saying. She'd have to put a forgetting on them later. It was a harmless technique that worked very specifically on the memory of words in certain combinations. A technique that OOPSI had originated that would be of great use to MI-5 and MI-6, except that they didn't believe in it. OOPSI barely believed in it themselves. On the other hand, a trained magical technician would be required, and one might not always be available in those pinches. Liz had seen the budget, and knew there was no funding for training.

Fionna sank toward the floor. The spin slowed gradually until when her feet touched down she was facing the agents. Lloyd was there to catch her. He held her tight.

Liz glanced at the half-burned trash around their feet. There was some power left over after casting the spell, power that ought to be used up before it joined the well of fierce magic that underlay everything here. She muttered a cleaning cantrip that gathered all the papers together in a tidy heap on the side of the stage. So she might get in trouble with the unions. It was a small price to pay.

Lloyd came toward them, white-faced, clutching Fee around her waist.

"I've never seen anything like that in my life. You... she... you... I don't even know what happened!"

"We helped," Liz said simply. "That's our job."

"I didn't know the government could do anything like that!" he exclaimed. "I apologize for having doubted. I didn't know!"

"Quite all right," Liz said. "I hope you'll continue to accept our assistance."

"In a minute! Cor, with you there's nothing that can touch her!"

Liz smiled. She liked the newly-cooperative Lloyd. He was a professional, after all, and his main job was to keep Fee safe. It had to be frustrating to him that he couldn't. He was genuinely glad to discover that Liz and Boo-Boo would be of some use after all.

Liz had been so intent on her work that she never thought what would be the immediate reaction from the rest of Fee's people. She glanced around. Everyone seemed frozen in place, staring at Fionna and the heap of confetti. As her eye fell on a handful of the roadies, they flinched and started running for the door. Liz sighed.

The drummer came up to them with his eyes wide.

"That was awesome, man," Voe said, impressed, "but your lyrics suck!"

"We've got to follow it just the way we learned it," Boo-Boo said, apologetically.

"Bummer."

The others ranged from fearful to openly admiring. Liz was pleased and embarrassed by the fact that the Guitarchangel was one of the latter. He wanted to know all about it.

"Would you like to sit down some time and have a talk?" he asked eagerly. "About the parts you can talk about, that is." From his careful phrasing Liz understood that he did know something about real magic. He regarded her with shining eyes.

"I would love to," she said, feeling as though she could purr, in spite of the danger of the situation, "but right now we must concentrate on Fionna. Now that we know who is at the bottom of these attacks, I think we can work with her and solve the problem."

"Who?" Fionna demanded.

"It's Ms. Robbie," Boo-Boo said. "She's the source of the disruption. She doesn't mean to be, but she is. Liz and I intend to go up and have a little talk with her."

"That bitch?" Nigel Peters asked, in surprise, walking up onto the stage. "I fired her."

Liz and Boo-Boo shared a brief, horrified glance. "That was not a good idea," Boo-Boo said. The two agents hurried out, heading for the control room.

Nigel Peters looked around at the circle of shocked faces, then at the ruin of the burned poster on the ground. "Say, what just went on down here?"

"What happened?" Nigel asked, jogging to keep up with the two agents.

"You must be the only one who didn't see it," Boo-Boo said, over his shoulder, his pleasant face perfectly serious for once. "In a way, you're the one who lit the match. Y'all have just been treated to an exhibition of a sorta grownup poltergeist. Ms. Robbie's too afraid of Ms. Fionna to snap back at her in person the way she'd like to, so she's been manifesting it in a different way."

"Let's just hope she won't go up like a rocket now that there's nothing left for her to lose," Liz said. Fear was closing in like a cold hand clenching her stomach.

Her dread was justified. The special effects station was empty.

"Where is she?" Liz asked. The technical director, Gary Lowe, had half a dozen people with clipboards around him. He glanced up, then back at his notes. He had to try to rearrange the show without special effects, with only three hours to go.

Sheila Parker detached herself from the group to come over to them, looking apologetic for her previous smirk.

"Gone," Sheila said.

"When?" Liz demanded.

"Almost right away. After Fionna left, Nigel stayed here," she said, with a guilty glance at the manager. "He pulled Robbie over into a corner so the rest of us couldn't hear, but we all knew what was coming. She was pale as a ghost. The conversation started out quiet, anyhow. Then the two of them started screaming at each other. Gary said something like, hey look down there! We all started watching the stuff going on on stage. I kind of got distracted," Sheila added, embarrassed, "but I heard Nigel say, you're fired. Robbie was crying. As soon as he stamped out of here, she took off. Was any of that stuff real?" Sheila asked, with interest, looking from her to Boo-Boo. "We were trying to guess how it was done. It was really cool."

"This is a disaster," Liz said, turning to the others. "If she had stayed we could have contained her. Now she's on the loose."

"Sorry," Nigel said. "I didn't know. I believe, you know that, but Robbie Unterburger, of all people! Who'd figure a sad creature like her for a sorceress or a telekinetic? She was screwing up so much I thought it'd be less trouble if she was gone."

The agents looked at one another.

"We'd better find her," Boo-Boo said. Leaving Nigel Peters fretting, they made for the exit.