Princess of Wands

Chapter One

The picture on the flat-screen projection was of a pretty young woman, slightly overweight, with black, obviously dyed, hair, lying on her back with her throat cut from ear to ear. Her lips and eyelids had been painted in black and there was a symbol painted on her right cheek in what appeared to be permanent marker.

“Victim Number Nine, Sharon Carter,” Special Agent in Charge Jim Halliwell said. “Age, sixteen. Home, Newberry, South Carolina. MO standard for case R-143-8. Found in a remote, wooded, area. Anal, vaginal and oral sexual assault. Markings drawn on the body with magic marker. Marks of stakes in the ground and remnants of military parachute cord ties. Ligation marks on hands and ankles. Biological tracings of a white male with brown hair. Footprints indicate somewhere between five foot seven and six feet in height. Stake marks are of a military type stake. Perpetrator may be current military or of military background.”

“So, basically, we’re where we were with victims four through eight?” Agent Donahue said. “All the clues in the world and no idea who the perp is?” Greg Donahue’s six foot four, heavy-set, frame was leaning back in his chair, frankly sprawled, in contrast to the other six agents watching the briefing, all of whom were sitting erect with every sign of attentiveness. They put Halliwell in mind of a group of well-trained Dobermans with one sprawled St. Bernard in the middle.

“Not quite,” Halliwell replied with a note of satisfaction. “Agent Griffith might have an idea,” he added, gesturing at the young man at his side.

Griffith was twenty-six, medium height and overweight with brown hair that was already receding. Unlike everyone else in the room his clothing was rumpled and his tie pulled down and askew. The FBI liked clean-cut agents with an almost military bearing. But over the years they had learned that certain types of personalities did not grow on trees. So for the Griffiths of the world, an exception was made.

“I’ve been comparing known similarities in all the cases,” Griffith said, throwing up a complicated chart. “All of the victims have been in their teens, female, all the rest. However, what got me was that most of them had a ‘Goth’ look to them.”

“Victims four and seven didn’t,” Donahue pointed out.

“Goth?” Agent Laidlaw asked.

“Black eye make-up,” Donahue answered. “White face powder, black clothes and hair. Sort of a vampire look. Really common with disaffected middle class suburban kids of a certain type. Generally they’re a bit more intelligent than the norm in their school, don’t fit in very well, tend to not be druggies but try to set themselves off. If they read much, it’s vampire stuff like Anne Rice.”

“Anne who?” Laidlaw asked. “I’m getting lost here.”

“Rice,” Donahue sighed. “Interview with the Vampire? Ring any bells?”

“No,” Laidlaw admitted.

“So a lot of them were Goths,” Donahue said, giving up. “What’s the point?”

“Well, it was a point of similarity,” Griffith said. “So I ran it down. It turns out that all of them had attended a con within two months of their deaths.”

“Con?” Laidlaw asked.

“A science fiction, fantasy or gaming convention,” Griffith answered. “Actually, in seven of the nine cases, it was a science fiction literary convention. One media convention and one gaming. Each of them, though, has had a horror track and LARPing.”

“Goth LARPers?” Donahue asked, frowning. “Horror fans?”

“Maybe,” Griffith answered. “Since we just got the connection, we haven’t run down all the leads. I don’t know what they were engaging in at the cons. Might be LARPing, might have been gamers, might have been general con-goers.”

“What in the hell is a LARPer?” Laidlaw asked. “Now I’m getting totally lost.”

“LARP,” Donahue said, sighing again. “Live Action Role Play. Basically a role playing game where people wander around the con playing it. Goes on all night and all day, damned LARPers sitting outside your room at four in the morning talking about how to ambush the werewolves or whatever. It’s a pain in the ass.”

“You’ve been to cons?” Griffith asked, surprised.

“A couple,” Donahue admitted, shrugging. “Mostly to get signatures from authors I like. And, hell, there are people there that you don’t have to explain who Anne Rice is,” he added with a chuckle. “Or Robert Heinlein or Poul Anderson.”

“We’re trying to build a suspect list based on this connection,” SAIC Halliwell said. “The profilers think we’re looking at a person between the ages of eighteen and thirty. With the other items, hair color, skin color and height, we can begin building a suspects list. If we can find out who has been attending the cons. Besides the victims, obviously.”

“Depending on the con, you could be looking at anywhere from six hundred to forty thousand attendees. That doesn’t narrow it down much. Even if you just look at the ‘white males with brown hair.’ ”

“It’s more than we had,” the SAIC said.

“No traces of makeup left by the perp,” Donahue pointed out. “So our perp might be mildly intelligent and not dressing the part. Or he might not be a Goth. Goths generally hang out with Goths.”

“Which is why I’m thinking LARPer,” Griffith argued. “Goths interact with non-Goths more in LARPing than anywhere else. And there are non-Goth look people that hang with the Goths.”

“Hell, all of the conventions will have lists of who attended,” Donahue said, shrugging. “Get those and you can narrow it down quite a bit.”

“We tried that,” Halliwell admitted. “The first problem is the people that run the conventions were pretty unwilling to cough up the lists…”

“I can imagine,” Donahue said, grimacing. “Con-goers and organizers tend to be… well, I guess it could best be put as either libertarian or liberal. Giving the FBI lists of their attendees has to really go against their grain.”

“The other problem is that most of them don’t have good records of people that just show up,” Halliwell said. “They don’t require ID for example. And although we had matches on people at several of the cons, no matches on all of them that met the description and profile of the perp. Also no across-the-board matches on hotel reservations.”

“So now what?” Donahue asked.

“We’re going to insert agents at cons,” Halliwell said, shrugging. “Undercover, obviously. Their task will be to try to ID suspects that meet the description and profile. Pictures and names when possible.”

“We’ll be looking for people that are ‘day-trippers,’ “ Griffith pointed out. “Most of the cons have a different badge for that. But it’s not guaranteed; they might be rotating names some way. Someone who is interacting with the Goths but may not be dressed as one.”

“Each of you will be assigned a con,” Halliwell said. “And we’ll keep sending agents to others, trying to build a list, until we close the case or the con angle proves to be a bust.” He paused and frowned then shook his head. “Donahue, Griffith, you got any suggestions on how to go undercover to a con?”

“Yeah,” Laidlaw said, grinning. “Where do we get our Klingon outfits?”

“What you wear doesn’t really matter,” Donahue said, frowning. “But you have to have a reason to be there, other than to laugh at the geeks. Or you’re going to stand out like a God damned sore thumb and blow the investigation. Just the FBI look is going to make you stand out. The clean-cut, short-hair, erect bearing is going to peg you as a military guy, maybe cop, right away. You’d be amazed how many of both go to the cons — about half the guys who wear Storm Trooper armor are local cops for example — but they generally try to keep a low profile in that area. And if you’re going to be going around asking questions, you’re going to have to have a reason for it. Depending upon the con, and who is going, I’d suggest an intensive reading course in one of the author guests. Or if it’s a media con, get familiar with one of the TV shows or movies that one of the guests was in. Get a book or a picture signed. Go to a couple of the panels. If you’re gothing, get to know some of the bands and understand the attitude, even if you don’t have it. If it’s a gaming con, you’re going to have to be able to game and that’s a skill I don’t know if any of you have. Don’t laugh at the geeks. Don’t go around with the ‘get a life’ attitude or, again, you’re going to blow the investigation. Laidlaw, you golf, right?”

“Sure,” the agent said, frowning.

“Can you explain why you go out to chase a little white ball around a course?” Donahue asked. “You get paid money to do that? No. You do it for fun. Your friends do it. When you’re done you get to hang out at the nineteenth hole and drink beer and lie about your game. That’s all that cons are. It’s where people with similar interests come together. They’re not your kind of people, they’re their kind of people. And they’re just as… disparaging of golfers as you are of them. And since most of them have a better vocabulary than you do, they can be disparaging better, trust me. Get that in your head, get some background, and you’ll be fine. Dress casual, really casual, and take good walking shoes.”

“There’s one other potential link,” Halliwell said. “An author called K. Goldberg has been a guest at seven of the nine conventions. You read any of his stuff, Donahue?”

“Her,” the agent said, shrugging. “No, but I’ve heard of her.”

“The next convention she’s at is in Greensboro in a month,” Halliwell said, correcting himself. “Read some of her books, bill them to the Bureau. That’s your con.”

“Great,” Donahue said, grumpily. “I’m supposed to infiltrate Goths. Why did it have to be Goths?”

Barbara Everette dropped Allison off at dance class with a sigh of relief and headed towards the Wal-Mart shopping center on the edge of town. She pulled onto Mississippi 15 and began weaving through traffic, pushing the Expedition up to well over the posted speed limit.

As she approached the Wal-Mart she looked at her watch and frowned, then glanced at the gas gauge. The Expedition had plenty of gas but it was time to check in.

She pulled out of the left-hand lane, inserting the vehicle into a small space between two pick-up trucks, and then whipped into a turn lane, pulling into a battered Quik-Mart. She topped off the tank with a couple of gallons of gas, then went into the store, picked up a Starbucks vanilla Frappuccino and headed to the counter.

“Hello, Mrs. Everette,” the dark-skinned owner of the store said, smiling. He took the twenty she gave him and made change for the Frappuccino and the small amount of gas. Part of the change was a gold coin that appeared at first glance to be a Sacagawea dollar.

“Thank you, Mr. Patek,” Barbara said, nodding. “Go with your god.”

“And you with yours, Mrs. Everette,” the man said, bowing slightly.

Barbara pulled back into traffic then drove to the Wal-Mart shopping center. Instead of getting out right away, she opened up the coin, wrestling with it slightly to get it to pop, and unfolded the note inside.

“Religious Retreat. Foundation for Love and Universal Faith, Women of Faith Division. Invitation and tickets by mail, Tuesday or Wednesday. Mission of one week plus duration to follow.”

She rolled up the note and tossed it in her mouth. The sugar- impregnated rice paper dissolved pleasantly on her tongue. When it was gone she walked into the Wal-Mart to pick up sundries, sipping on her Frappuccino to get the taste of ink out of her mouth.

“Agent Donahue,” Halliwell said as Greg entered his office. “Sit down, please.”

Donahue glanced at the visitor in the office as he sat down, then looked over at his boss.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“This is Mr. Germaine,” Halliwell said, gesturing at the newcomer with a frown. “He’s a… consultant on the R-143 investigation.”

“I wasn’t aware that we’d called in a consultant,” Greg said, frowning. The visitor was well dressed in a tailored suit. The FBI used a variety of consultants and Donahue mentally pegged him as a specialist in some forensic field.

“Greg, you’ve been with the Bureau… twelve years, right?” Halliwell said, with a hint of nervousness. “But most of that time in Robbery, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Donahue said.

“This is your first kidnapping investigation,” Halliwell added. “I’ve been in kidnapping and serial for over twenty years now. And… well, I’ve seen some things that, let’s just say they don’t make the news, okay?”

“I’m not following you, sir,” Donahue said, frowning. “What sort of things?”

“The term is ‘Special Circumstances,’ Agent Donahue,” the visitor said. He had a light accent, maybe British overlaid with something else.

“What does Special Circumstances mean?” Greg said, feeling like he was interviewing a suspect rather than having a meeting with his boss.

“It means the supernatural, Greg.” Halliwell sighed. “And before you decide I’m nuts, don’t. About the sixth investigation I was on turned out to be a vampire. A real, honest-to-God, bloodsucking, charming, stronger-than-human vampire. I am not shitting you, okay?”

Greg’s face bunched up, his eyes closed and he actually felt his blood run cold.

“You’re not joking, are you, sir?”

“No, he’s not,” Germaine replied. “When there is an investigation that has Special Circumstances, the FBI calls us in. They, in fact, keep us informed on all investigations that might have such circumstances. We’d been tracking R-143, mostly because the cabalistic symbols on the bodies are, in fact, the correct symbols for a particular form of necromantic rite. But we had hoped that it involved, let’s just say a normal psychopath. Unfortunately, we’ve recently been informed that such was not the case. We have reason to believe that the girls are being sacrificed to a particular lesser deity, call it a demon. Such sacrifices create power which can be used by the sacrificer. Furthermore, sufficient power can permit the deity to manifest on earth. We would prefer to prevent that from happening. Things get… remarkably ugly when that occurs.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Greg asked.

“We have far fewer agents available than the FBI,” Germaine said, smiling faintly. “On the other hand, we also have some techniques the FBI does not to narrow down the field of suspects. We believe that, of all the potential conventions, the one that you are going to attend has the highest likelihood of attracting your perpetrator. Therefore there will be a Special Circumstances consultant attending that con. They will probably accompany you to it. In the event that you find the perpetrator, I would recommend that you inform the consultant. It is possible that the person may have abilities that you will be unable to combat. By the same token, the consultant may need… back-up. Depending upon who is sent they may have an attitude of nonviolence towards all but the necromancer or entity. Therefore, if your perpetrator is not using ritual, or does not summon a manifestation, you and the local police may have to handle the capture.” Germaine paused and thought for a moment. “However, if there is manifestation, it is probably better if you let the ‘consultant’ handle it.”

“If it hadn’t been for the SC operative in that vampire investigation, I wouldn’t be here,” Halliwell said. “I’ve dealt with them several times over the years. Sometimes it turns out to be nothing, just your usual murdering madman. But when you need an SC operative, you really need an SC operative. Understand?”

“No, sir,” Greg admitted.

“Well, let’s put it this way,” Halliwell said, grimacing. “If the SC operative tells you to jump, don’t even ask how high. Just jump. Period. Or you’re liable to end up as a corpse.”

“And, I might add,” Mr. Germaine said. “A corpse whose soul now resides in hell as the plaything of the demon you were opposing.”

“Yes, sir,” Greg said, swallowing.

“One more thing,” Halliwell said. “Nobody finds out about SC unless they have to and they’re considered trustworthy. The very existence of Special Circumstances is top secret. You don’t tell anyone about it, you don’t admit to its existence outside of the circle who know about it. There is no ‘Special Circumstances’ department in the Bureau. It doesn’t exist, period. You cannot talk about the special aspects of this investigation with anyone except myself or the director. And, obviously, the SC operatives you may encounter in your career. You’re now on an inside track in the Bureau. It won’t get you promoted faster but… you’ll see things and know things that very few do.”

“Assuming you survive,” Germaine said, with another faint, secret smile. “Special Circumstances investigations are notoriously hard on regular agents.”

Chapter Two

As Barbara fixed dinner she considered how to broach the subject of her trip to Mark. She loved her husband and, as a good Christian woman, considered him to be the head of the household. And Mark was not going to want her to go. However, she also knew that the group she was involved with was, without question, doing God’s work. This was to be her first formal training session, not to mention first official mission, and she intended to be there when called.

She finished fixing dinner, fried chicken, mashed potatoes and broccoli, then set it out on the table, calling the family to feed. It took a while.

Allison was on the phone with a friend. Getting her to hang up involved threats to lose the privilege for a week. The first games of March Madness were on so dragging Brandon away from the TV practically involved oxen. Mark had already decided that he was just going to eat off a tray, so Brandon wanted to know why he couldn’t as well. Since Mark was ignoring the argument, Barb got no support from that direction. By the time she got Brandon over to the table and a TV tray on Mark’s lap, the phone had rung again and Allison was back on. Even Brook was hiding in her room so it took nearly fifteen minutes from the moment the broccoli was ready before they sat down.

They had just said grace, Barbara saying the prayer since Mark was glued to the Georgia Tech game, and settled down to their food when Allison made a face.

“This broccoli is cold!”

Barb counted to ten, slowly, then did it again in Fusian. If she didn’t she might say something… unChristian to her daughter. Demons were going to be a vacation!

Barbara waited until the break between the third and fourth quarter to spring her surprise.

“Mark?” she said, sitting down on the couch.

“Yeah?” he asked, distractedly, as the announcer ran over the highlights of the previous quarter along with what was going on in other games.

“I’ve been invited to a religious retreat with the Women of Faith Foundation,” Barb said. “I’ll be gone for about a week. And I may be going somewhere afterwards, I don’t know how long that will be.”

“Uh, huh,” Mark said. “I can’t believe they didn’t score that as a foul, would you look at that?”

“Mark,” Barbara said, with just a hint of impatience. “Did you hear me?”

“Uh…” Mark said, finally turning to look at her. “No?”

“I’m going to a religious retreat,” Barb repeated. “For a week. Then maybe somewhere after that, I don’t know how long.”

“A week?” Mark snapped. “Who’s paying for it?”

“The Foundation,” Barbara sighed. “And my plane fare.”

“Why?” he asked.

“It’s through the church,” Barbara replied, only half lying.

“Who’s going to… ?” Mark said, pausing.

“Cook? Clean? Do the laundry? Pick up the kids from school?” Barb asked. “Shop?”

“Yeah,” Mark replied. “I’ve got a job!”

“Brandon and Brook can stay in the after-school program. I’ll get someone to cart Allison to cheerleading. For the evening things, like karate and dance, you’ll have to do it. I’ll leave a list of chores for the kids and premade food for some of the nights. Then there’s take out and delivery. You’ll survive, I’m sure.”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic,” Mark said, sighing. “Why do you have to go I guess is what I mean.”

“A foundation is paying for me to meet with other women of faith in a dialogue on the nature of faith,” Barbara replied, admitting that it was only half of the truth. “It’s important, to me, to our church and to God. I’d hoped to get your blessings on it, not resistance.”

“Whatever,” Mark said as the game started up again. “Like you said, we’ll survive.”

“Thank you,” Barb said, but she knew darned well he hadn’t heard it.

The “religious retreat” was at a small facility in western North Carolina. Barbara could have driven, but the foundation had provided plane tickets to the Asheville airport so she found herself negotiating her carry-on through the small crowd and wondering who was going to be meeting her.

As she exited the restricted area she saw a short, plump, older woman with a face full of wrinkles and wearing a paisley dress who was holding up a sign that said: “Barbara Everette.” The woman’s silver hair was pinned up on her head with silver pins and she wore what, to Barb’s eyes, was an enormous number of necklaces, most of them silver and bearing both cabalistic symbols and other “fantasy” motifs. The centerpiece was a massive dragon’s head cast in silver that seemed to be roaring defiance. Her makeup was also… outré in Barbara’s opinion, heavily applied and very extreme, the eyeliner working up almost to the edge of her hair and making her look somewhat elfish.

Barb, who had dressed in a cream silk shirt, light maroon washed silk jacket, a matching skirt and heels and was wearing only a pearl necklace and her wedding ring felt that she was either over dressed or underdressed but that, certainly, they were going to make an odd pair. However, she approached the woman, holding out her hand.

“I’m Barbara,” she said, smiling. “Please call me Barb.”

“Sharice Rickels,” the woman said, lowering the sign and taking her hand. “Glad you could make it. I’m looking forward to talking.”

“It… should be interesting,” Barbara said, uneasily. “I have to pick up some checked baggage.”

“Not a problem,” Sharice said, depositing the card in the nearest trash and leading her over to the baggage claim area. “I heard, many of us have heard, how you were chosen to attend the Foundation meetings. We were, to say the least, impressed. Also impressed that a Christian would both be able to do what you did and not find the Foundation odd or impossible.”

“You’re not a Christian?” Barb asked, curiously.

“Oh, Lady, no,” the woman said, laughing merrily. “You’ll find few among our ranks. There are some Catholics, a few, but you’re the first Protestant I’ve met. Most of us are what you would term pagans. I’m a Wiccan, reformist — mind you, I don’t have the body for sky clad. Well, not anymore,” she added with a grin. “I had my days, lovey. But most of us are pagan. Wiccan, Hindu, Asatru, got a lot of Asatru…”

“I don’t even know what any of those are,” Barbara said, curiously. “And they’re all… members of the Foundation?”

“Yes,” Sharice said, shrugging. “There are… oh, I suppose you could use the term ‘politics’ even in the foundation. More like… theatrics, if you don’t mind the pun,” she added, grinning. “Power is a function of followers and interest on the part of the deity. Asatru is gaining in strength, not only in the foundation but in the world. They’re worshippers of the Norse Gods, by the way. Thus they’re increasing in power and that’s good. Of course, there’s the sub-branch that follows the chaotic tenets of the Jester and that’s a pain in the butt, as you can imagine. Hindus, of course, have great power, but it’s dispersed what with one thing or another. You think we have problems here, you have no idea how bad it is in India or other regions where Hindus are prevalent. We’ve been hoping for more Christians. America is an essentially Christian country and the power levels available to ardent Christians are just amazing. But the faith is so…” She paused and looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I was on a hobby horse.”

“I think you were about to say something like ‘closed minded,’ “ Barb said, shrugging. “I suppose it is.”

“But we do what we can with the power available to us,” Sharice said, brightly. “Really, the… other side is as crippled as we are. They have many worshippers in secret, but they can’t coordinate like we can.”

“There’s my bags,” Barbara said. “Could you maybe get a skycap? I’ve… got a few.”

“A few” turned out to be five, including her carry-on, which she added to the stack.

“I think we can get all of these in my car,” Sharice said, nervously. “I hadn’t realized you’d be bringing so many.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t have,” Barb admitted. “But I didn’t know what the meetings would be like, what to wear, and the last time I traveled I traveled so light I didn’t have the right clothes at all. So I sort of brought… everything I might need.”

“I’ll go get the car.”

Sharice’s car was a three-year-old Malibu, light green and… cluttered. The back seat was covered with books, bags and implements, some of which, like the skull-headed mace, made Barbara question if she was meeting the right person. The front seat held a large bag with a black knife handle and some candles peeking out, while the floor was filled with magazines, most of them with demons, dragons or fairies on the cover.

“I suppose I should have cleaned it out,” Sharice said, embarrassedly. “But I like to have clutter around me. It’s what’s called comfort clutter,” she added, hoisting her obviously heavy bag into the back. “And… I’ve learned to have my tools with me at all times.”

Between packing the trunk and the back seat they got all the bags in the car. Barb tipped the skycap, then got in the car, kicking the magazines aside to get some floor space for her feet.

“I understand you pack,” Sharice said as they pulled out of the front entrance.

“Yes,” Barbara said, unhappily. She’d left her .45 in the Honda at Birmingham Airport and had felt half naked ever since.

“Glove compartment,” was all Sharice said.

Barb opened it and smiled, pulling out the holstered H K USP .45. It was even the SOCOM model, much more accurate than the standard model she usually carried. She drew it from the holster, dropped the magazine and ensured it was clear then slid the mag back in and tucked it in her waistband. There were two more mags in the glove compartment and she put those in her purse.

“I’m not much into guns, myself,” Sharice said with a sniff. “I prefer to use my powers to change the surroundings for the greater good. Also, guns are rarely useful against the primary enemies.” She paused and shrugged. “But they are useful for dispensing with their agents here on earth.”

“I grew up with guns,” Barb said, returning shrug for shrug. “My father taught me to use them and made me start packing when I was a teenager. I suspect that a couple of times I probably would have been date raped if the guy I was with didn’t know I was armed, and more than capable of using it.”

“I see,” Sharice said, frowning. “I won’t contest your position. As long as each comes to good, that is all that matters.”

Barbara contemplated the scenery as Sharice drove the car up I-40 and into the Appalachian Mountains. She had lived in quite a few places, and visited others, but the Appalachians were one area she’d never seen. Most of the mountains in her experience were much higher and arid but the Appalachians were covered in trees and there were flashes of green and a few buds to relieve the brown-gray of the forests. It was a clear day and as the car turned off onto a side road she could see for miles. Many of the mountains had houses tucked into their sides in such a way that when the trees were full of leaves they must have been invisible. It was a place of quiet beauty and she hoped she would be coming back again.

She hadn’t paid attention to the route but she did when they turned onto a side road and up the side of a mountain. The road was poorly maintained and very twisty. They passed a couple of houses, vacation or retirement homes she was sure from the look, then cut up over a ridge and back down to a gated fence with a manned guard shack. On the left side of the gate was an embossed metal sign, about two feet square, that said: “The Foundation for Love and Universal Faith. Est. 1907.” The unarmed security guard waved at Sharice and apparently pressed a control because the gate started to open.

“We mostly depend upon working in the shadows,” Sharice said, as she drove through a section of tended white pines. They were tall but there was an understory of smaller cedars that cloaked whatever was beyond them from sight. “But everyone has to have one place they can go where they are fully secure. The Foundation is guarded by far more than a rent-a-cop, I can assure you.”

“I…” Barbara said, then stopped. “I can feel it.” And she could, a tingling like after a shower. It felt… fresh and clean as if the miasma of the world had dropped away.

When they cleared the pines she smiled, looking at the buildings of the “Foundation.” There were several of them, most resembling chalets but with a few using other architectures. She recognized some of it as Oriental and a small building that could be a mosque, but the rest was so eclectic as to defy even her knowledge. A small stream ran through the hollow that they clustered in and the buildings seemed to fit its pattern naturally. Scattered among them were a wealth of gardens, most of them brown at this time of year. But she could see that in the spring and fall they would be a riot of color.

“This is the hard time,” Sharice said, as if reading her thoughts. “The bad time, when the spirits of the winter, the spirits of darkness and cold, hold sway. Some of them are simply neutral, but many side with evil. From Samhaine to Beltane is when we are at our lowest ebb, when the spirits of the dark come forth to do battle and we must challenge them despite our relative lack of strength.” She paused and then grinned. “Or, maybe, it’s simply Seasonal Affective Disorder.”

She pulled the car around the back into a small parking lot that was mostly grass and trees with an occasional parking pad.

“You’re in the Gletsch Chalet,” she said, pointing at the building which was a more or less traditional Alpine chalet on the other side of the stream. There was a small bridge and the walk was not far.

“I guess I’d better start unloading,” Barb said. “What’s the dress code?”

“There isn’t one, sweetie,” Sharice said, smiling. “You can be as dressy as you’d like or just wear jeans and a flannel shirt. Nobody will comment.” She paused and frowned. “Some of the attendees at training… costume as their avatars. Especially on First Night. And you’ll probably find some of them… odd.”

“I can imagine,” Barbara said, shrugging. “I’ll manage.”

“I want you to try to understand, though, Barb,” Sharice said, firmly. “Most of those who are drawn into Special Circumstances are fringe people. People who are actually a little psychic as you would call it. They’ve mostly been outcasts in their lives. They’ve taken up the fringe lifestyle of groups that accepted them as they are, rather than trying to make them…” She paused and then gestured at Barbara.

“So, what you’re saying is, I’m the outcast?” Barb asked, lightly. “You’d be surprised how out of place I’ve felt most of my life.”

“But you adjusted to that mask,” Sharice said. “You put it on and you wear it well. These are people who, by and large, never could. You are what we call a ‘mundane.’ A person who can’t enter into the fringe or, at least, doesn’t enjoy doing so. And mundanes have made most of these peoples’ lives hell. They laugh at them for their oddity. By the way you act, dress, speak, you are… well, yes, you’re on our side. But you’re the enemy they have dealt with their entire social lives. You asked me how you should dress? Forget the pretty make-up, forget the nice heels, forget the washed silk. Put on a T-shirt and jeans and some running shoes and just… be yourself. As ‘yourself’ as you can manage. Or don’t. If yourself is dressed to the nines every single moment, dress to the nines. But understand that your fellow warriors aren’t the church lady teller at the bank.”

“Okay,” Barbara said.

“Dress however you want, look around and then make your decision,” Sharice said, sighing.

“Can I ask a question?” Barbara said.

“You just did,” Sharice answered, smiling. “But go ahead.”

“Have you ever been… ?”

“On assignment,” Sharice filled in for her. “Yes, but I’m retired.” She paused again and shrugged. “You get old. You get to the point where you just can’t run with the big boys. The knees are shot and sometimes the wisest simply — flee. You’ve seen too much and…” She shrugged again. “You just want to rest your weary bones and not hear the screams anymore.”

“You were… powerful,” Barb said, cocking her head to the side and really examining the woman for the first time.

“Still am, dearie,” Sharice chuckled. “Still am. And old and maybe I’ve gained some wisdom. Which was why I was asked to pick you up.”

Chapter Three

It took Barb fifteen minutes to haul her bags into her room and they just about filled it. She pulled out the dresses and hung them up, then unpacked the bags as she contemplated the schedule booklet that had been in her room. Registration opened at 5:30, then there was a “Get Together” in the Philosophy Center. There were two seminars in the evening: Advanced Demonic Identification and Cabalistic Symbols: They’re Not Just For The Bad Guys.

Her schedule had helpfully been marked up by someone, with certain seminars highlighted. She had a full schedule for tomorrow, starting with “Introductory Demonology” and running through “Introduction to Pan-Theology.” But other than registration and the get-together, which apparently was when dinner would be served, she didn’t have anything marked for today.

She considered Sharice’s suggestions on dress but simply couldn’t appear in public with these people for the first time in jeans and a T-shirt. So she chose a simple dress, cotton-polyester and patterned, and a pair of low pumps. She intended to bring along a down duster against the chill that hung in the air and that would get worse after dark. She contemplated her makeup and touched it up, stuck the pistol in her purse and went forth to find registration.

As she entered the Administrative Center, which was designed like a temple of some sort, she got her first real look at her fellow attendees. There were two Buddhist monks in saffron robes, a man with “punked” hair and a number of piercings on his face, two women in what she could only describe as “ceremonial” robes covered in what she supposed were “cabalistic” symbols and a number of other people that she categorized, aware that it was uncharitable, as “geeks.” Two of them were obviously a pair, possibly husband and wife, the man tall with dark hair and heavyset and the wife short and… okay, she could lose a few pounds.

She stood in line behind them, patiently waiting and, okay, eavesdropping.

“I’m worried that they’re going to assign us to the Lycaean case,” the woman was saying. “I hate New York.”

“Dartho said there’s a case going on at the cons,” the man said. “Maybe we’ll get that.”

“I could do cons,” the woman said, grinning. “At least we’d be able to fit in. I hate working directly with the Bureau. The damned agents are always looking down their collective nose.”

“I know,” the man said, frowning. “And it’s not like they can outshoot us or outthink us.”

“I’m sorry,” Barbara said, touching his shoulder. “I couldn’t help but overhear that you shoot.”

“Is there a problem with that?” the woman said, somewhat nastily.

“None at all,” Barb said, smiling at her. “It’s just the person that picked me up from the airport seemed very… down on violence. And I enjoy shooting. So I was surprised.”

“Oh,” the man said, trying not to look at her chest and failing miserably. “Well, there’s a range here. But, yeah, a lot of the operators are really down on guns. They seem to think that that’s what the cops we work with are for.”

“Part of it is a misunderstanding of the three-fold path,” the woman said, shaking her head. “Evil given returns three fold, you know? But using violence in the service of good is good. It’s not violence itself that stains the soul but the nature of the feelings when violence is used.”

“I see,” Barbara said. “What if… what if when you use violence for good you know that the… side of you that is doing that is not, essentially, good?”

“That can be a problem,” the woman said, earnestly, talking a bit fast so that the words ran together. “That is a crack that the Enemy can use to strike through to your soul. The best way to use violence is to be so steeped in the muscle memory that when you enter combat you simply respond, emotionlessly. Or so it seems.”

“Have you… ?” Barb asked.

“No, actually,” the woman admitted. “So far we’ve never had to draw our weapons. But we’re fairly new to all of this. My name’s Julie Lamm, by the way,” she added, smiling and holding out her hand. “And this is James, my husband. And you are… ?”

“Barbara Everette,” Barb said, holding out her own as she tried to keep up with the rapid patter of the woman’s voice. She had never realized it was possible to both have a southern accent and talk like a New Yorker.

“Crap!” James said, his eyes widening. “You’re Barbara Everette?”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Julie said, her own eyes wide. “And I take back any suggestions that I made.”

“I don’t see why,” Barb said, shaking her hand and James’. “I’m here to learn.”

“Learn what?” James asked. “You took down a sixth level avatar! There are only about three agents in the U.S. that might have been able to do that!”

“James, stop that,” Julie said, wise understanding in her eyes and her speech slowing. “Barbara, you have to understand that what you did is considered… amazing. I hadn’t known who you were or I wouldn’t have been so… definite. To simply hold your soul against such an adversary shows that your soul is very tough, very strong. Yes, using anger in combat might open up a channel to the Enemy. But it would take a strong avatar to use it, especially if Almadu was unable to do it. Almadu is one of the Children of Tiamat. A very ancient and powerful godling. If you were able to withstand his glamour, then it’s likely that your soul is… very pure.”

“I was protected by the hand of the Lord,” Barbara said, simply. “I… felt the… what did you call it?”

“Glamour,” Julie said. “It’s one way of saying a mental projection. They come in various… guises. But each tries to use the evil that you feel in your soul against you. If he was unable to…”

“Oh, but he did,” Barbara said, relieved that she could actually talk about her experience with people that didn’t think she was insane. “I… walked through… horrible visions. But then the Lord entered me and they… stopped. I could feel His light in my soul, shielding me.”

“I heard you had a full manifestation,” James said, interestedly. “Actual physical projection.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Barb said, humbly. “But I could not have done what I did without the shielding hand of the Lord over me.”

“Christian?” the man with piercings asked, somewhat hostilely. He had died black hair and blue eyes that were almost black. He was wearing a tattered pair of black jeans and a plain black T-shirt. Barbara realized that if you ignored the piercings he was actually good looking in a thin and hollowed out way. He had gotten his badge and it read simply “Dragon-Kin.”

“Yes,” Barb said, simply. “I’m an Episcopalian.”

“This is Barbara Everette, Dartho,” James interjected.

“Oh,” Dartho said, nodding. “Pleased to meet you. Good job in Louisiana. For a beginner.” He didn’t really sound as if he was pleased to meet her.

“Thank you,” Barbara said, dryly, cocking her head to the side. “I take it you’re not a beginner?”

“No,” Dartho said, turning and walking away.

“Wooo,” James said, shaking his head. “I hadn’t expected that.”

“Dartho’s a powerful adept,” Julie said, shaking her head. “And highly trained. Not one of the ones that think violence is only for the police, either. But probably not powerful enough to have done what you did. That has to grate on him. Especially since you’re…” Julie gestured at her and shrugged.

“Good looking?” Barb said, hotly. “Well dressed? Normal looking? A… what’s the term, a ‘mundane’?”

“Yep,” Julie said, grinning. “That would be it. Between who you obviously are, what you represent, and how much more powerful you are, as a newbie, he has to be sort of hot under the collar.”

“That is so…” Barbara said and stopped.

“Human?” Julie asked. They’d reached the head of the line and she nodded at the person handing out badges. “Julie and James Lamm.”

“Right here, Julie,” the woman said. She was heavyset with teased out red hair wearing a T-shirt captioned in Latin. “Good to see you again.”

“Glad to be here,” Julie said, sighing. “But there’s a lot of tension.”

“Barbara Everette is attending,” the woman said, nervously. “We’re all on pins and needles. I hear she’s a real…”

“Mundane?” Barb finished for her. “Barbara Everette,” she added, smiling.

“Actually,” the woman said, shaking her head ruefully. “I was going to say ‘Bible-thumper.’ “ She handed Barbara her badge and shrugged with a grin. “I think you’re the only Christian attending this time. We’d heard that you get your power from the White God and you don’t get powers like those without being steeped in faith.”

“You also don’t get them by simply going to church on Sunday and looking down your nose at everyone else the rest of the week,” Barb said, hanging the badge around her neck on a provided lanyard. “Or, for that matter, by looking down your nose at all.”

“That’s… true,” the woman said, rapidly reevaluating her.

“So I won’t be Bible thumping this week,” Barbara said. “Or standing in the hallways screaming at everyone that they’re going to hell.”

“Oh,” the woman said, chuckling. “Good.”

“Although I may point out that there is but one path to Heaven,” Barbara added, grinning. “Through the Saving Grace of Our Lord. But only if anyone asks.”

She turned to see that Julie and James had been waiting through the by-play and joined them.

“I can see that this is going to be an interesting week.” Barb sighed.

“You’re not what anyone expected you to be,” Julie said. “Some of the high-level adepts, like Dartho, tend to be sort of… stuck on themselves. That doesn’t interfere with their work, but I sort of expected you to be…”

“Pride is a sin,” Barb said, shrugging. “Sin destroys the soul and closes it to God. And I’m here to learn. I am a… newbie. What my dad would call an FNG. And… yes, I feel like a fish out of water. I hadn’t expected… this,” she finished, gesturing to the people in line. There were more weird outfits than she’d ever seen in her life. At least Julie and James were dressed normally. “But I have to learn if I’m to do this job to the best of my ability. And doing less would also be a sin against God.”

“Not to mention getting killed,” James said, frowning. “And getting your soul ripped out and tossed into eternal torment.”

“That too,” Barbara admitted. “There are things…” She stopped and shook her head at the visions. “My husband has been complaining about the nightmares I’ve been having. I can’t exactly tell him that I’m reliving watching a demon feeding on its worshippers. Not to mention trying to feed on me. Nor is there an analyst I can approach about it.”

“There are some here,” Julie said, leading them off. “And you might want to talk to them. What you’re suffering from is straight-forward post-traumatic stress. There are aspects of it that learning about help. There are probably things that you think about your experience that bother you. And those are, quite often, very normal and have a logical basis. Dr. Braun can probably help you quite a bit.”

“That would be nice,” Barbara admitted. “But I’m not sure I’ll have time this week.”

“Don’t worry, you will,” James said. “There’s only so much you can absorb at once. They’ll probably suggest that you take a heavy load at first, then trail off towards the end of the week. Besides, a lot of the learning in this field is what’s called institutional memory. You’ll pick up the theory in the seminars but you can only really learn by doing and then talking it over with more experienced operators.”

“Are you operational?” Julie asked as they left the building.

“I’m not sure what you mean by that,” Barb admitted. “But I was told I was going to be given a mission of something like a week’s duration at the completion of this week.”

“That’s operational,” Julie said, with a note of curiosity. “They generally pair a new operator with an older one. Do you know who you’re going to be with?”

“No,” Barbara said. “I very much hope it’s not Dartho, though.”

“He’s not that bad once you get to know him,” James said.

“Yes, he is,” Julie contradicted. “Stuck on himself doesn’t begin to cover it. His guardian is… weird. A Chinese dragon-god with odd tastes. If it weren’t for his actions I’d say that he was on the side of the Enemy. But he has done too much good to believe that.”

“I’m sort of following you,” Barb admitted as they crossed one of the many bridges, this one made of twisted bamboo.

“We’re heading for the First Night get-together,” Julie said. “They’re serving a buffet for dinner. It’s… traditional. We gather for the first meal and new people, like yourself, get introduced. You won’t have to make a speech or anything, just stand up and wave so everybody knows who you are.”

“Ah,” Barbara said. “I feel like I’m in a fishbowl already. This should be great.”

The Philosophy Center was the largest building in the facility. Barb didn’t recognize the architecture immediately, but she suspected it was northern European. Heavy logs made up most of the structure and they had been elaborately carved with looping abstract figures and staring faces.

“It’s based upon a long house,” Julie said, following her gaze. “An Asatru worship center. They call it the Philosophy House because it’s where people tend to gather to talk. And debate. Lots of debate.”

“What is there to debate?” Barbara asked as they entered the high entrance.

“Well, take what I said about anger,” Julie said, frowning. “The Asatru have a philosophy that is far away from Christianity or, to an extent, even Wicca. Their highest calling is to become berserker, angry beyond the level of control. To destroy their enemies as servants in Valhalla and, most important, to die courageously in battle. To die in bed sends you to the Cold Lands, Hel, rather than Valhalla. And the Cold Lands are rather boring. So anger is, to them, a manifestation of their gods rather than a weakness for the demons to exploit.”

“I see,” Barb said, looking around at the crowd in the room. “Oh, my.”

“Yeah,” James said, grinning. “People have a tendency to dress up on First Night.”

In one corner of the room where what she had to assume were the Asatru, a group dressed up in medieval clothing, some of them in partial armor and all of them armed with swords, axes and hammers. One of them definitely went for the “fantasy” version: a tall, statuesque redhead who could have been, might be, a super-model, in a chain-mail bikini with a sword slung over her shoulder. There were any number of what she had pegged as “druid” types, Wiccan probably, in hooded ceremonial robes. The two Buddhist monks were seated with a dark-skinned group she figured for Hindu in elaborate costumes, the women in saris, their hair pinned up with gilded combs, and the men in embroidered pajamas.

She saw Sharice near the front of the room, talking with a group of older women, some of them in outfits that she could only call “witchy.” And Dartho was surrounded by a group of even younger men and women, all of them pierced, spiked and tattooed.

There were more people in “mundane” outfits in the room than in “costume” but it was hard to realize. The costumers just stood out from the crowd. Probably one of the reasons they costumed.

“I underdressed,” she said to Julie, chuckling. “If I was going to dress as ‘myself’ for this, it would have been the little black dress, heels and the pearl necklace. My version of costume.”

“I could have worn my ceremonial robes,” Julie said, shrugging. “But they’re not particularly comfortable unless you’re sky clad underneath.”

“I take it you’re not Christian, either,” Barbara said as they made their way into the room. She still hadn’t asked what sky clad meant, but that description gave her a very good idea.

“No, we’re Wiccan,” Julie replied. “We were originally handfasted but we did the whole official marriage thing with a justice of the peace when we were buying a house. I’m a priestess. We’re both computer consultants in our ‘mundane’ life, which gives us time for the work of the Foundation.”

“I see,” Barb said, shaking her head. “I thought Sharice was a bit of a shock,” she continued, nodding in the direction of the woman.

“Sharice is a doll,” Julie replied, grinning. “She used to be a fifth level adept, a very high high priestess, one of the few that made it out alive, I guess you would say. And sane. Enormous power, you can feel it when you’re near her, and very wise in its use, wiser than I am. When the time came she just… walked away. Now she’s more or less permanently resident here. She’s… offended a lot of the major powers that we battle, so being in a stronghold is a good idea.”

Sharice had gotten up from where she was sitting and now strode through the crowd to the trio.

“I see you’ve found some friends,” Sharice said, hugging Barbara. Barb wasn’t a huggy person, too many people, even females, that wanted to hug her just gave off the wrong “vibes.” But she gratefully accepted one from Sharice, feeling the power that she emitted in this, to her, comfortable setting and basking in it for a moment. “That’s good. Julie and James are good people.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Barbara said. “I guess I really am a mundane, though. This is all a bit…”

“Weird,” Sharice finished for her, smiling broadly.

“I was going to say strange,” Barb admitted.

“Come meet some of my friends,” Sharice insisted, pulling her towards the table she had been occupying. “Of course, most of the people in the room are my friends, but we have to start somewhere.”

Sharice introduced her to a bewildering array of people with names like “Klandar” and “Persemon” and “Vashto” and she came to realize that all of these people cloaked themselves in alter egos. The names were almost like code names for spies and she suspected they had the same reason; a cloak to hide behind. Persemon, a woman in her forties with graying blonde hair, turned out to be a consultant in business administration. Barbara just knew that when she was working she was as “mundane” as it got, probably a bit of a ball-buster in a businesslike skirt-suit. But here she could be… her other face. The face that she assuredly didn’t show to CFOs and CEOs. Which was more true might be the real question.

She was dragged over to meet the Asatru delegation. They ranged from factory workers to more computer consultants. The girl in mail turned out to be, yes, a model and “exotic” dancer named Janea. That threw Barbara for a moment, although she hoped that she hadn’t revealed her shock. She was beginning to be able to accept that her fellow… warriors of the Light, she supposed, were not all, or even at all, Christian. But one that was an exotic dancer was a bit hard to take. She had always pegged such women as, being frank, dumb, low-class sluts. But Janea turned out to be not only friendly and funny but wise and intelligent. She’d have liked to talk to her more, but she was dragged away to meet another group.

The buffet was opened without ceremony, the men and women who had been putting out the covered dishes joining into the crowd imperceptibly. Nobody rushed it; groups just got up from their talking to wander over and serve themselves. There was a keg set up in the corner, close to the Asatru delegation and probably why they’d chosen their seats there. In addition there were bottles of wine and at one point someone thrust a glass into her hand. It was a nice, light white, probably a pinot grigio, and she sipped it as she followed Sharice around, being introduced.

The reception at each group was interesting. Some were apparently friendly, but she could feel a strong defensive reaction from them. However, after a few words, when she didn’t immediately start telling them they were going to hell for being pagans, the defensiveness seemed to melt. Some were overtly hostile and that was harder to overcome. She could tell that Sharice had been right, these people were, by and large, outcasts from “normal” society and they didn’t like the intrusion she represented. But most got over it quickly and by the time she’d made the rounds of most of the room the word seemed to have gotten around that she was “okay, for a mundane.”

She also faced something that she had never dealt with before: hero worship. She was used to being automatically accepted and even admired for her looks. But this group mainly was interested in her battle with Almadu and the reactions to her brief synopsis ranged from awe to understanding but respectful nods. The Asatru delegation was especially enthusiastic, roaring in joy when she explained how she’d shot her way into the corrupted church and killed the high priest and his acolytes then blown it up, destroying the avatar. The Hindus touched their heads in honor while the monks, one of whom turned out to be among the top prelates of Buddhism, bowed to her.

She could feel it going to her head and brutally suppressed it. Pride, even in a difficult job well done, was a sin. She knew that her main strength in this group was her constant struggle with sin. And in that struggle, pride could come in on sneaky cat feet.

Julie and James had wandered off at one point but she and Sharice linked back up with them when they went to the buffet. Sharice led the way, talking as she ladled her plate.

“You are a very interesting person, Barb,” Sharice said, taking a spoonful of what looked, and smelled like, Szechwan vegetables. “Very wise for your years and very open at the same time. I can see why your White God has gifted you and called you to the field of battle.”

“It was an accident,” Barbara said, looking over the offerings. Most of the dishes were vegetarian and she had to admit that she still was a carnivore. And many of them were heavily spiced and she’d gotten a strong aversion to spice overseas. “Yes, The Lord worked through me, but my being there was accidental. I thank Him every day, though, for His blessings upon me. Not only the power to do His work, but the life He has given me.”

“You truly believe it was an accident?” Sharice said, chuckling. “Why didn’t you go to Gulfport, which was what you’d been planning for so long? How did you end up in a small town in the middle of nowhere, as far from what you’d been looking for as it was possible to be? How did you, a warrior of the Light, come to be in the one place you needed to be for the battle against darkness? And you believe it was an accident?”

Barb opened her mouth to reply and stopped. Put that way, it didn’t look like an accident.

“Some of us are recruited to this work,” Sharice continued. “I saw Janea at a Renn Faire and could feel the untrained, untapped power in her. I recruited her on the spot. It took a bit for her to realize that the situation was real. And if you think you have problems, imagine hers. She thought she’d gotten dragged into a very bizarre cult. That was, until her first mission. Then there are those among the fringe who have wrapped themselves so into the supernatural that they believed without proof. But those are, by and large, useless to our work. Anyone who really believes in vampires without having met someone who fought them is… essentially broken in a way that is useless. But the ones who are prepared to accept it, are powerful, are balanced — those are precious to us.”

“I wasn’t prepared to accept it,” Barbara said. “I was forced to accept it. It was that or ignore what all my senses were telling me.”

“And then there are those,” Sharice said, nodding. “Most, however, don’t survive. And a sixth order avatar! Good Mother of All! In my prime I would have hesitated at that. Understand, I know you are having a hard time accepting the adulation you are getting. But I am the only person in this room who would stand a chance against such a being. And your weapons skill, much as it pains me to admit it, was crucial. There is no way to have shielded a tac-team against the glamour. Only a high order adept who was also capable of fighting the acolytes and believers could have done what you did.”

“Xiao?” James said, curiously.

“He would have been Augustus’ choice,” Sharice said, nodding definitely. “However, at the time, he was in the hospital. Otillia was in New Mexico, tracking down a manifestation of the Coyote that was spreading bubonic plague. Hertha was in Los Angeles, dealing with a pack of windigo. He might have pulled her off of the latter and set someone like, oh, Dartho or Virdigar on it. Probably would have if Barb hadn’t taken care of it for us. But those are the only three that I can imagine would have succeeded. And now, four,” she finished, looking at Barbara, calmly.

“But you must learn where your power truly lies. Often, the gods will give great power to the believer who is facing their enemies. But it is a capricious thing and it is likely you would not be given as much again, in the same situation. You are going to have to learn to hold it, to use it and to know its breadth and depth. This is something that is rare in Christians, this working with the Power of God. Finding just how much your White God will Gift you, and how. There is more than just the power to do harm. The gods can send understanding of the situation, healing, protection and even a touch of foresight. You need to learn your powers, all of your powers, their extent and form, then blend them into a whole.”

“I wish I had had healing,” Barbara said, sadly. “Kelly literally died in my arms. I wish that I could have…”

“In time, perhaps,” Sharice said, nodding. “There is that in you, I can feel it. You are a very nurturing person, which is the first step to being a Healer. You are a violent one as well. It is a dichotomy that is hard to manage. You do so by revealing the nurturer and hiding the killer. Turning a face of love to the world while the bloody hands rend at your heart. I would say you need to be careful of the bloody hands, but, truly, you must be careful of both. Sometimes our adversaries are tricky to a fault and they will seduce you through your nurturing side if you let them.”

Everyone seemed to have gotten a plate and was eating or already done when a man stood up from one of the tables and walked to the front of the room. He was unassuming, a bit tall, with brown hair and regular features, wearing a long purple ceremonial robe covered in golden stars. Barbara had been briefly introduced but could not for the life of her remember his name.

When he reached the front of the room conversation slowly drifted off and he raised his hands above his head ceremoniously.

“Let the Light shine upon this gathering,” the man said. “Let the Powers of Good guard us and our counsels. Let us feel joy for our triumphs and grieve for our fallen, knowing that the battle goes on and will go on as long as the stars shine and the sun burns. And let us come to know our fellows as warriors of the Light.” He paused and looked around the room, apparently picking out faces.

“We only have three new persons to introduce this time,” he said. “Hsu Hsiu and Jiao Hicheng come to us from Nepal.” He gestured to the two monks and they rose, bowing deeply. “Jiao Hicheng is the Kotan Lama and Hsiu his apprentice. They have traveled here to brief us on some of the more esoteric deities which are being seen in modern China and which we can anticipate will eventually start cropping up in the immigrant areas. I would like to thank them for coming all this way.” He bowed in return and there was a brief spattering of applause as the monks sat down.

“And then we have our newest warrior,” the man continued. “Barb? Could you stand up? This is Barbara Everette, everyone. Most of you know the story and if you don’t I’m sure someone will relate it. Suffice to say that Barb manifested powers of an order that flatly floored everyone in the leadership of the Foundation. She has agreed to join with us in our battle for the Light and against Darkness. She, unusually, is a Christian, but as firm a believer as anyone in this room and a kind and gentle lady. A wise and loving addition to our group. However, anyone who can blast their way through a room full of Maenad worshippers, kill a high priest and acolytes and then destroy and dispel an avatar of Almadu, is far more than a pretty face and a nice smile. Do not get on her bad side.”

Barbara blushed and waved to the scattered chuckles and applause and then gratefully sat down. As she did she caught what could only be called a baleful look from Dartho.

“Well, that’s all I have,” the man said. “You’ve got your schedules. The highlighted panels are only suggestions, feel free to sit in on any that you prefer. There’s a previously unscheduled worship service for the Wicca contingent on Friday, that being the night of the gibbous moon. Sky clad is optional.”

With that he simply walked back over to his seat and the conversations started again.

Barbara touched Sharice on the arm and frowned when the woman turned to her.

“Would it be… unwelcome if I went over to talk to Janea?” she asked, diffidently.

“Mother of All, child,” the woman said, smiling. “That’s what this evening is for. Go! I could see that you two bonded.”

She covered the move by putting her plate with the other dirty dishes and getting another glass of wine. She usually only had one but she figured she could handle two if she nursed the second one. Then she wandered towards the Asatru delegation.

Two of the men were clearly drunk, roaring out an off-key song that had something to do with making people die. Several of the others, slightly less inebriated, had joined in. Janea was talking with a bear of a man, big, blond, bearded and hairy to the point that his back hairs were sticking through the weave of his light tunic. Barb came over and sat down, not interrupting.

“… wondered if we’d ever find it,” the man said. “The manifestation wasn’t a shape-shifter, but it was very good at make-up and it was stalking the costuming parties so it just looked like… a made-up human being.”

“What about the feet?” Janea said, frowning. “Its feet were reversed.”

“It had a prosthetic on that made it look as if it had clubbed its ‘normal’ feet and the others were for show,” the man said, shrugging and taking a drink of beer. “Of course, when the tac-team blew in the door, they were in big trouble. I’d warned the Special Agent that bullets weren’t going to hurt it.”

“Iron,” Janea said, frowning again in thought. “Fire. Cold steel?”

“Cold steel,” the man said, half drawing his sword. “One thrust, a jolt of power and it dispelled. Badly injured one of the tac-team members. Fortunately, it was HRT and they more or less expected it. They hadn’t been briefed on its resistance and they really tore the special agent a new one.”

“I still haven’t had a live one.” Janea sighed theatrically, then brightened, putting on the face of a little girl. “But the year is young!” she added with a giggle.

“You will,” the man said, turning to Barbara and grinning. “Just like the woman of the hour.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Barb said, firmly. “I’m here to learn. I’m learning just listening. What was it you were fighting?”

“A Tikoloshe,” the man said, shrugging. “South African. Preys on women, but most of the various demons do. It had been haunting rave clubs in the Baltimore area, probably summoned or brought by one of the immigrant witch doctors. We finally found its lair and, well…”

“You haven’t been introduced,” Janea said. “Hjalmar Johanneson, this of course is Barbara Everette.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Barb said, taking his hamlike hand.

“Likewise,” Hjalmar replied. “My mundane name is Quenton Barber. I used to work in a plywood mill. These days I do construction when the Foundation doesn’t have need of my services.”

“I take it… well, actually I don’t know,” Barb said, uncertainly. “Do you get paid?”

“Quite well,” Janea said, laughing. “The Foundation draws on various sources of funding. Quite a bit from churches that are aware of our mission for example. About a third from the Catholic church alone. But, of course, when we’re called in as ‘consultants,’ the Foundation is paid and then we get paid.” She paused again and bounced up and down in her chair so that her breasts jiggled like gelatin. “I’m saving up for a boobie job!”

“The one thing you don’t need is a boobie job,” Hjalmar said, shaking his head.

“I’d sort of been wondering,” Barbara admitted, still unsure if she got paid and if she did how she would explain that to Mark. “But to get back to the point. You knew it was susceptible to… what? Iron and fire?”

“Part of training,” Janea said, shrugging. “There’s a bunch of books you’ll be getting. Some of the information is…” She shrugged again.

“The thing about demonology,” Hjalmar said, scratching deeply at his beard, “is that most of the source books are… semi-fictional. Very few serious researchers realize that demons and such are real. And witnesses tend to be… well, any eyewitness is a poor witness. They generally can’t get their heads around the reality of demons, especially, and they see things that aren’t there even if there’s not a glamour. Or they miss things that are there. And as to dispelling methods and the like, normally demons are only engaged in battle. There have been very few captured and studied and those only by the Foundation and a few other groups. Then there’s the fact that they’re so… incredibly abundant in history. So you study these books, most of them more alchemical than scientific in nature, and hope like Hel the source book is right and your identification is right. Take the Tikoloshe, for example. The primary source book doesn’t list it as having reversed feet. But all of our case studies have recorded it as having reversed feet. Nor does The Book have it as susceptible to iron and fire. But it is. Cold steel, as well, if you add power to the equation.”

“So if HRT had used, say, bayonets?” Barb asked.

“Wouldn’t have worked,” Hjalmar said. “Unless they were meteoric iron. Well, pure elemental iron would probably work. I had to have Frey work through me to dispel the demon. Even then it was touch and go. I could feel its power working against the god’s and it had built up a lot of power in its killings. But we, together, were able to overcome it.”

“HRT has first class shooters,” Janea said. “But they don’t have anyone that channels. There’s some talk of rearming them, but they generally don’t do Special Circumstances and trying to explain why they’re taking courses in special entry techniques using, oh, swords and crossbows…” Pause. “ ‘Why, yes, Congressman,’ ” she said in very businesslike tones, “ ‘we’re quite serious about that line item…’ I can just see it now.”

“Generally if we know that we’re going to need heavy help, we can call on the experts,” the man said, grinning faintly. “Such as Opus Dei.”

“Opus Dei?” Barbara said, aghast. “That’s a Catholic religious group.”

“Yeah, sure,” Janea said, laughing. “That’s all. ‘Hallo,’ “ she said in a thick and bad Italian accent, “ ‘My name is Cardinal Enrico Sarducci. You killed my father. Prepare to die!’ ”

“Sure,” Hjalmar agreed, laughing. “That’s all they are. But when you see a bunch of guys in cassocks and collars carrying ballistic nylon bags show up, you know the shit has well and truly hit the fan. I think they might have called in Opus for Almadu, if they’d known how powerful he had become. But even Opus doesn’t have a channeler as strong as you are. They are, though, very well shielded by their faith and their sacraments. They could have, oh, cleared the way for a more powerful channeler. There are a few in the Church,” he admitted, grudgingly.

“The Wiccans seem to produce the strongest channelers,” Janea said, seriously. “But their strongest channelers are, as far as I know, exclusively nonviolent. Full up vegan, sky clad, the works. And really nonviolent. The top operators are all from fairly minor sects who have a strong connection to a fairly weak god. Take Dartho; his god is virtually unknown and not particularly powerful.”

“And very chaotic,” Hjalmar added, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.

“And chaotic,” Janea admitted. “He might even be a face of the Jester or Pan. But Dartho has such a strong connection to him that he can get more power from less source than some who have stronger deities as backing.” She paused and sighed, putting on a little girl face, mooning like at a rock star. “Ahhh, Darthoooo… he’s so… sick,” she finished, changing back to her “normal” personality. “His god, well, he’s really into pain. Voluntary, mind you, but so was Aztec sacrifice, certainly the greater sacrifices. You know what BDSM is?”

“Yes,” Barbara admitted. “Sort of.”

“Well, can you imagine a good sect based around BDSM?” Janea asked.

“No,” Barb said, definitely.

“I actually can,” Janea said. “But it’s a stretch. And that’s the… nature of Dartho’s sect, of his god. They feed the god with pain, voluntarily derived, and the god feeds them with power.”

“That’s sick,” Barbara agreed, glancing over at the table Dartho had occupied and finding all of “his” group gone.

“You do what you have to for power,” Janea said, shrugging. “And sometimes more,” she added in a husky contralto, wriggling sexily.

“Our gods have, for millennia, been weak,” the man said, frowning at Barb, then shrugging. “They were displaced by the White God.”

“Well, I didn’t do it,” Barbara said, wincing.

“No, of course not,” Janea interjected. “But it’s one of the reasons Christianity is a sore point. Especially Protestantism, which doesn’t recognize saints.”

“What does that have to do with it?” Barb asked, totally confused.

Janea and Hjalmar looked at each other for a moment as if trying to decide which one had to tell the little girl that Santa wasn’t real.

“Well,” Hjalmar said, blowing out. “You see, most saints are old gods that got… assimilated by the religion of the White God. Michael, for example, is probably an avatar of Mars and Frey, who are almost certainly the same god. There are others. But when the Protestants took away even those souls, those prayers, it truly bit the old gods in the butt. So they sort of tolerate Catholics and Eastern Orthodox, but they’ve got a bug up their butt about Protestants. And… some people tend to bring that annoyance along with them. I mean, most of us went in the direction that we took because we didn’t find normal society… normal. For us. Add to that, in this group, actual communication with their gods, and the gods having a case of the ass with Christianity and, well…”

“I’m not the most popular girl in town,” Barbara said.

“You’re not the most popular girl in town,” Janea agreed. “But… you’re clearly a woman of great inner strength and beauty. That simply shows through in everything you do and say. And you have a strong channel to one of the most potent sources of power on earth. From our perspective,” she added, gesturing around, “you are also a fell warrior. So we Asatru accept you as if you were our own, despite being a representative of the White God. For your warrior skills if nothing else. Dress her in a chain-mail bikini and she’d be the talk of the town!” she added, giggling like a schoolgirl. “Ooh, we could go around as a pair of twins! Twins always make more…”

“Not on your life,” Barbara said, laughing at the woman’s constant change of character. “I most certainly would be the talk of Jackson, if I ever wore something like that. Even in private,” she added, somewhat bitterly.

“But we are all one in this struggle,” the man interjected. “Don’t take the occasional odd reactions to heart. We know that you are a fellow warrior and accept you as such. It’s simply hard for some of us to grok your presence here.”

“Grok?” Barb said. “I feel as if half the time you’re speaking an alien language!”

“Well,” Janea said, laughing. “In this case, he was. It’s from a science fiction novel called Stranger in a Strange Land…”

“That’s from the Bible,” Barbara said, frowning.

“Many of Heinlein’s titles were,” Hjalmar said.

“I won’t get into the story,” Janea continued. “But, to grok means to understand something so completely that it is part of you. Reading Stranger was one of the things that made it easy for me to become a dancer.”

“I was wondering about that,” Barb said.

“I could sense your shock when Sharice told you,” Janea said, nodding. “You hid it well but part of my power is understanding and reading emotions that aren’t visible. But… well…” She paused and tried to figure out how to explain to this nice “church lady” why she did what she did. “There are several reasons that I’m a dancer. I’ve never even decided which is the most important. One reason, and the easiest to explain, is that it’s supplementary income to the Foundation. We get paid when we’re on assignment, but only then. So everyone has to have a ‘day job’ except the real pros like Otillia and Hertha, who are so busy it’s not funny. And it needs to be a day job you can take time off or simply walk away from. I’m a top dancer at several major clubs. When I tell the club owners ‘I’m going away for a couple of weeks on another assignment’ they don’t blink. And they don’t give me any hassle when I turn back up. And the money’s very good. I pull in a grand pretty much every night I’m working and more, sometimes quite a bit more, on some nights.”

“That’s a lot of money, but…” Barbara said.

“You’re worried about my soul,” Janea said, smiling. “Asatru does not hold the same things as sin that the White God holds as sin. My patron, Freya, can be seen as another face of Ishtar/Hathor, the God Mother, Aphrodite/Venus if you will, the All-Woman and Mother of Fertility. She is my patron and through my use of my body to bring pleasure, I worship her.”

“Okay,” Barb said, cocking her head and frowning. “Now, that I have a hard time with.”

“But can you accept it?” Janea asked.

“For you, perhaps,” Barbara said thoughtfully, after a long pause. “Not for me.”

“Of course not,” Janea said, nodding seriously. “Your White God would be most angry with you if you chose my path. But my path worships my goddess. I not only dance, I am a very expensive call-girl; a priestess of Freya should be paid through the nose as a form of worship. Men come into my hands, angry, upset, mad at their wives, having difficulty at work. I soothe them, I placate them, I bring them joy and teach them to bring themselves joy, and I don’t mean with their hand but with their spirit. When men come away from me, they take a mystical memory, but no sense of bonding. This, too, my goddess gives to me. And they return to their lives, to their mates, with a better sense of balance in the world.”

“Wait,” Barb said, closing her eyes and raising one hand. “You have sex with married men?”

“Very few unmarried men can afford me,” Janea said, laughing. “I’m neither cheap nor easy, honey,” she added in a credible Mae West imitation. “I adore the kindness of strangers. But I assure you I have saved far more marriages than I have broken,” she continued, seriously. “And those that I broke, needed to be broken. Parasitical marriages with one partner sucking the life from the other like a leech or an ugly succubus. I remember one partner I had, an older gentleman and quite sweet. His wife had died and he married a much younger woman. She was sucking him dry, emotionally, and giving him nothing, not even her body, in return. He came to me, suggested by a friend who knew me. And when he went away he divorced the little tramp and sent her packing.”

“Okay,” Barbara said. “Now that I can… grok.”

“Men who come to me are either very rich and in marriages where neither partner is truly bonded to the other,” Janea said, “or simply well-to-do and in dire straits. They pay through the nose for my time and in turn I give them… healing and understanding of where their hurts center. It is my gift. It was a gift I first practiced because of the dictates in Stranger, and other Heinlein novels, trying to be a ‘Heinlein Girl.’ But later I came to an understanding of my place in the world, and of my goddess. This gave it a spiritual dimension that had been… limited if not entirely lacking. And, in turn, it led me to this place, at this time, to explain this to you, who would make a wonderful hetaera. But I hope you never do, for your White God would surely turn his face from you.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Barbara said, shrugging. “He is merciful beyond reason or understanding. However, my own… upbringing would never allow me to be so… open…”

“Wanton?” Janea said, pouting theatrically, arching her back and stretching. “Sens-you-ous?” she added, raising an eyebrow and writhing in the chair.

“I’ll stick with… open,” Barb replied, grinning. “I can arch with the best of them, sweetheart! But, within me, if I felt it to be a sin, that would damage my relationship with God. I have enough demons to contend with; I don’t need more.”

“We none of us do,” Hjalmar said, nodding. “But, remember, they are different for the different creeds. Wicca is not so much different from Christianity as they would like. It is a constructed religion. Well, all neopagan religions are constructed religions. But Wicca is very much a constructed religion and they know it. And it was constructed in a very Christian environment and many of the ‘evils’ in Wicca are Christian evils, evils that never would have mattered to, say, the druids that they harken back to. Their demons are much like yours, the fear of anger and so on and so forth. But for the Asatru,” he said, standing up and flexing, “power is our highest calling. We are not a slave religion. Fear is our demon. Death in battle, our eyes red and staring, in anger so great it is transcendent, this is our calling,” he boomed, his face hard. He closed his eyes, suddenly, and breathed deep and long, his jaw flexing, until finally he relaxed, sighing.

“Thus easily does a god take one once you become fully open to your channel,” he said, sitting down, shakily. “I simply opened a channel to my inner aggression, to show you the true nature of Asatru, and Frey took me. I think, to take a look at you. But his warrior anger was filling me, calling me to battle even in this place of peace. Someday,” he said, wistfully, quietly. “Someday I will be called to a hopeless battle and my god will fill me and I will berserk into mine enemies and be slain. Then shall I be taken up upon the arms of the Valkyrie and ride with them to Valhalla for all eternity…”

“I think I finally understand why I came here,” Barbara said after a long pause.

“To hear the word of Asatru?” Janea said, grinning.

“Perhaps,” Barb replied, seriously. “I hold a great deal of anger in my soul. I’m very careful to not let it out, to Witness as a Christian should, every day of my life. And the anger at petty people, daily frustrations, I still feel that those are sins. Turn the other cheek is the right way to deal with those. But… I wonder if… if righteous anger, the anger of Samson in the temple and the anger of David, if this is not a facet of… God.”

“The White God has been a very angry and vengeful god on occasion,” Hjalmar said. “Sodom and Gomorrah come to mind.”

“But not since the Coming of Jesus,” Barbara pointed out. “Jesus was a man of peace and he brought peace wherever he went. Well… except to the moneychangers in the temple,” Barb admitted. “Even with the Devil he simply ignored his temptations.”

“True,” Janea said. “But what if the Devil had attacked the children who were listening to His sermon?” she asked, cocking one shapely eyebrow. “Those that he called forward to sit at his very feet. Would he have been so forgiving?”

“Probably not,” Barbara had to admit. “I’m surprised that you know the Bible that well,” she added.

“Well, it used to be a case of know thine enemy,” Janea admitted. “I mean, I generally work in the Southeast. I especially did when I was just getting started. And, well, the Bible-thumpers…”

“But you’ll also find that learning a lot of comparative religion is a good idea in this job,” the man said. “There’s no religion or myth you want to overlook. The foundation has an extensive library and I wish I could read absolutely everything in it but I don’t have the time.”

“I’ve read the Bible, the Talmud and the Koran,” Janea said, ticking off the list on her manicured nails. “Each in multiple translations. And the Apocrypha. And the Dead Sea Scrolls translations. As well as all the Vedas and shamanistic Buddhism tracts. And I still feel like I only scratched the surface.”

“America is a country of immigrants,” Hjalmar pointed out. “In, oh say Borneo, you’ll only find the spirits of Borneo.”

“Interesting choice,” Barbara said with a laugh. “I lived there once.”

“Yes, but Westerners are few,” Hjalmar corrected. “They don’t bring… northern European werewolves or vampires with them. Very few people are acolytes of the dark powers and they tend to stay in the U.S. if they’re from the U.S. Ditto Europe. But the immigrants that come to these shores… many of them are from the far places where evil still waits on quiet feet for the unwary. It is not only the workers and the farmers and the hunters that come to these shores, but the various shamans and priests that they support. And the acolytes of the dark powers that hide in their midst. Then there are all the idiots who buy a grimoire in Barnes and Noble and think they’re playing when they try to summon. Little do they know.”

“You can find summoning spells in Barnes and Noble?” Barb said, aghast.

“In at least one book that was published there is an accurate method for summoning a Persian daevas. It was a minor daevas, but nonetheless we were busy for a while and Ahriman was reinforced strongly by the souls of many… well, call them innocents. It was called the Green River Slayings.”

“I thought they caught the guy who did those?” Barbara asked.

“Well, he was one of the ones who read the spell, wasn’t he?” Janea said. “There have been several mass murders and serial killings driven by that particular daevas.”

“Fortunately,” the Asatru said, “we were able to get the second printing modified so the spell was wrong. And, of course, the summoner had to do certain rites that guaranteed their soul was tarnished. They also had to have at least a trace of power. But between the acolytes that come from other shores, where they had been in balance with shamans combating them, and the penchant for study that some Americans have-”

“We’re getting overrun,” Janea said, shrugging. “There simply aren’t enough operatives, especially high level ones. Expect to be busy.”

“Well, that should go over well with my husband,” Barb said, dryly.

Chapter Four

Barbara contemplated the previous evening as she made her way to her first seminar: Introduction to Demonology. The evening had turned into one long free-form discussion. History, mythology, legend, archaeology, particle physics and cooking had all entered in at one time or another. She had talked with the lamas for a time and been mightily impressed. They weren’t just yellow-robed mystics from the back of beyond. The lama had a Ph.D. in physics from Reading University and his apprentice was working on his masters in comparative religion. The lama admitted that he had obtained his degree before it was discovered he was the umpteenth reincarnation of the Kotan Lama. But both of them were well traveled; indeed it was the first time Barb had been able to discuss the Far East with anyone in a long time, let alone with someone remarkably intelligent and, yes, wise.

She had spoken with some of the Wiccans, who ranged from very down to earth to very… out there. Barbara knew now, beyond belief, that demons roamed the earth in many guises. But she was still pretty sure that crystals couldn’t cure warts, much less fend off demons. She did listen, however, to some of the more… functional members of the group, who gave her a series of small charm tips that could be used for minor household protections. When she wasn’t sure if the use of magic violated her faith, it set off a long discussion of same by people who had, she suspected, far more knowledge of the Christian Faith than the Reverend Dr. Jasper Winton Mulgrew, her minister.

She had gotten to bed very late, for her, her head reeling. The people had ranged from very strange to fascinating. All had been far more intelligent than the friends she and Mark had made in Jackson. And, generally, wiser. She had found herself having to rev her brain up in a way she hadn’t known since her university days, or before, simply to keep up with the flow of conversation. And she also found herself bewildered by a series of in-jokes that seemed endless. Of course, with a group like the Foundation, with everyone being “in” on the secret, in-jokes were only to be expected. But what in he… heck were space goats and why did they baaa every time Hjalmar opened his mouth?

There was a small group in the room when she arrived, some of whom she recognized from the night before. She took a spot near the front, nodding to a few of the people she recognized, and opened up the portfolio that had been provided. It was embossed with the “People of Faith” symbol and had a pen in the slot already. There were large boxes stacked in one corner of the room and from the labels on them she suspected they were boxes of books. If so, and if they were for them, she was going to need a book bag. There was also a covered easel with a flip chart of some sort. There were quite a few pages to the flip chart.

The teacher turned out to be Sharice, wearing another brightly colored dress. She bustled to the front of the room, dropped her load of books on the table and turned to the group with a smile.

“Good morning,” she said. “I don’t usually teach intro demonology so I hope you’ll bear with me while I get up to speed. Generally there’s a joke about now,” she added, smiling, “but I don’t know any jokes about demonology. Except one. How do you know the difference between a demon and an angel? We battle the one and we work for the others.” She looked around at the snorts and nodded.

“That is essential to keep in mind. Evil is defined by the environment, by the culture. The Mongols slew hundreds of thousands of people and considered that to be a good thing. Might makes right was their way of life. Modern Islamic fundamentalists consider the killing of innocents to be religiously justified in their Holy War. Are the manifestations that they create evil? The Aztecs ritually sacrificed thousands of human beings at a time, many of them volunteers for torture and ritual murder. Was that evil?” She looked around at the group and shrugged.

“By our modern lights, by our Faith, the answer is: yes. These actions are evil and the entities that support, encourage and revel in them are evil. Our patrons use us to battle those entities upon this plane. They use us to save souls from the clutches of their enemies and our souls are offered to them in return. However, that is what you have to grasp. The essential battle is for souls, for power. Our enemies have a desire to seize souls, through whatever means is available to them. Our patrons also desire to bring souls into their area of control and wish to prevent their enemies from securing them.

“It is without doubt that at one time many modern demons were gods who were worshipped and sacrificed to within a positive societal context. However, over the years most of them have been displaced by more positive gods, including most especially Yaweh and the White God, and the sacrifices once given to them have dwindled. From the perspective of anyone in this room, this can only be regarded in a positive light; the religions of Baal, of Kali, of Tzetzacoatl were abominations and their surviving acolytes are monsters. But demons and the bloody gods still continue to struggle to capture the souls of the innocent and they come to us in a variety of guises. And using physical sensory cues to identify them is what this class is about. Later, the use of secondary senses, related to your god-bond, will be covered.”

They were issued four books that, as Sharice put it, were simply primers on the subject, and then Sharice ran through a list of the more common entities they might encounter. Vampires and werewolves Barbara had heard of but some of the most common entities derived from faiths she had never heard of. Many of the demons and devils of Christianity were traced, as individuals or classes, back to Zoroastrianism and even to Babylon.

Most of the class seemed to consider the information extremely elementary but Barbara was entirely out of her depth. She had never really been interested in the occult and suddenly finding it central to her life was beyond odd. But she persevered, taking copious notes and flipping through pages in The Golden Bough and The Masks of God, trying to keep up.

By the end of the class she was sure she’d never be able to identify even the simplest manifestation and her head was swimming with names like “selkie” and “bunyip” and “daevas,” of which there seemed to be legions.

When the class was over she looked at her schedule and sighed. Next was “The Touch of God: Introductory Channeling.” She’d faced what she now recognized as “an intermediate godling” and channeled heavily to fight it. But right now all she wished was that she was back home, getting lunch ready for the kids.

She stood up, clutching her books, and stepped to the front to talk to Sharice.

The instructor finished talking to a mousey woman who nodded at Barb as she walked out and Barbara confronted the witch.

“You seemed to have left out Allah,” she said, quizzically.

Sharice paused and then shrugged.

“Allah is as much on the side of light as The White God,” Sharice said, frowning. “However, the current cultural expression by the majority of the active members of Islam is highly negative and in many cases involves interaction with negative intermediaries. Those who are using the name of Allah for their activities range from dupes to those who know very well the entities are enemies of their God. However… just as there are very few Protestant Christians among our ranks, there are very few members of Islam. Some day, perhaps, Islamics will adjust their culture and quit making pacts with the daevas and djinn. But, until then, I can’t in good conscience put the religion of Islam fully on the side of Light.”

“Are you sure that Allah is… I guess ‘on our side’ would be the way to put it?” Barb asked, diffidently.

“Oh, no question,” Sharice said, cautiously. “The fact is… it’s very hard to separate Yaweh, the White God and Allah as entities.” She looked at the expression on the woman’s face and nearly laughed. “Yep, all this horror is, in fact, being done in the name of the White God, whether they realize it or not. Trust me on this one. You’ll find out for sure some day. There is, as far as anyone can tell, not a shred of difference between the three entities. All the Children of the Book worship the same God. The One God if you will. And that One God is mightily pissed at the ‘fundamentalists’ from what we’ve been able to glean.”

“I see,” Barbara said, unhappily.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Sharice said, “from what we’ve got from history, there are various periods in each of the three major religions of the One God where the adherents, in fact, fell out of favor. The religious wars in Europe, the period in Israel when Jesus appeared, the crusades. All of them had the One God pissed. But…” She paused and frowned. “For some reason direct action on His part has become… almost impossible. The why of that has been a bone of contention in the Foundation for some time. Now all that He can do is work through his earthly supporters,” she finished, waving at Barb. “But when He does, he has a mass of power like none other.”

“I guess I can accept that,” Barbara said. “It doesn’t change my approach to Him. He is still the God that sent His only begotten Son to die for our sins.”

“Hold that thought,” Sharice said, seriously. “Faith is our armor. You’ll learn much here and some of it may shake that faith. Don’t let it. You have felt the power of God. That is beyond faith, beyond reason. Know that what you believe, how you act, is what your God is looking for in a believer. Dedicate your soul fully to Him and you will be armored against any evil. But know, too, that we all follow our own paths to Him. Each person’s path is unique to that person.”

“That takes some getting used to,” Barbara admitted. “My faith tells me that the only path to heaven is through the saving grace of Our Lord Jesus. That where two or more are gathered in His name, that there he resides.”

“How many names are there for God?” Sharice said, smiling. “When we Wiccans gather in our circle, we call upon the One. Is that some separate entity? Or is it, in fact, another face of the One God? Are four or more gathered in His name?” She nodded at the thoughtful expression on Barb’s face and then gestured at the door. “You have more classes to tax your mind and soul. Go to them. Learn. So that the next time you are called to God’s work you will be better prepared in knowledge. Let the spirit be your own.”

She had arrived on Monday and through the week she attended class after class on every conceivable subject. Some of them, like “Sexual Magic,” made her squirm. Others were so esoteric that she wasn’t sure what connection they might have to her Calling. But, as the week stretched out, the schedule lightened up. She read the various tracts that had been given to her and then dove into the Foundation’s library for more advanced reading. She found that researching the occult was fun in and of itself. And she began to see what Janea had meant by it being a lifetime study.

She also found out how much she was being paid in a short class called “Administrative Introduction.” If she worked full time, she’d be making more than four times as much as Mark. That took some adjustment. Even the training was being paid for, at her current rate as a “Class Three Adept.” She also found out that the highest rating was Class Five, of which there were only three in the entire group. From a side comment from Sharice she got the impression that if she had been graded purely on the basis of her performance with Almadu, she’d have been immediately promoted to Class Five. And Class Fives made more than twice as much as she was currently earning.

On Sunday afternoon, after attending divine services at a small Methodist church in the valley, she was sitting in her room, curled up with Joseph Campbell’s The Masks of God: Oriental Mythology, when there was a tap on her door.

“This is your welcome wagon,” Julie said, when she opened the door. The woman was, surprisingly, accompanied by Janea, who was dressed simply in jeans and a jacket. “All work and no play and all that. Time to go have some fun.”

“I am having fun,” Barbara said, holding up the book.

“Different fun, then,” Janea said, shaking her head. “Shoes you can get dirty. Jeans. Warm shirt and jacket.”

“That the uniform of the day?” Barb asked, but waved the two in. She had been dressed in sweats, but she changed quickly, shrugging on a jacket.

“Bring your piece,” Julie said. “We’re leaving the compound.”

They met James at the parking area, then drove out of the facility and down to the main road. There they turned right and up into the hills.

“Okay, where are we going?” Barbara asked.

“There’s a pretty good range up here,” Julie said. “It’s owned by the local NRA club, but the Foundation helps with the maintenance.”

The crack of firearms was clear from the parking area when they arrived and there were several vehicles she remembered seeing at the Foundation. The parking area was well away from the range and it was a bit of hike up the hill. Barb helped Julie carry the large ballistic nylon bag she was toting while Janea easily hefted a large rucksack. James had another nylon bag.

“We don’t have a range at the Foundation because of the wimpies,” Julie said, panting, as they reached the top of the slope. There was a gated fence and though the fence Barbara could see a half dozen people she recognized standing at a firing line. Others were to the rear, waiting to fire. There were a variety of targets, paper and metal, set up downrange and a large and solid berm.

“Good to see you, Barb,” Hjalmar said, walking over to the group. He was wearing a shoulder holster with a Beretta semi-automatic in it. “I understand you can shoot, but how briefed are you on range safety?”

Barbara hesitated then shrugged. “Well, I’m enough of a range safety nut that seeing a person walking around with a weapon in a shoulder holster, which points the barrel at anyone behind them, is making me nervous.”

“Oooo-kay,” Hjalmar said, chuckling. “I’ll give you a pass on the range safety briefing, then.”

Barbara drew her sidearm and cleared it, then set it on the table to the rear. There were boxes of ammunition stacked and she ensured that there was plenty of .45. After that she snagged a pair of earplugs and put them in.

In the meantime, Julie and James had opened up their bags and were setting out the contents. They clearly were more “into” weapons than she was. They had brought everything from a small caliber automatic that Barb tagged as an Astra .25 up to three assault rifles, an AK variant, a CAR-15 variant and one she didn’t recognize.

Most of the shooters she vaguely recognized, after she adjusted for “mundane” clothes, as Asatru. But there were a couple of women she thought were Wiccan and at least one guy who she was pretty sure had been part of Dartho’s group. He was shooting a Colt Python when they arrived and while he was there with everyone else he seemed subtly outcast by the group.

When the current group of shooters had completed their series, James and Julie waved her forward with Hjalmar following. Barbara noticed that the other stations had shooters, but they seemed to be waiting for her.

“We’re interested in your shooting,” Hjalmar admitted. “We’d heard about the shooting in Louisiana and…”

“You want to see if it was exaggerated?” Barb asked, smiling in a friendly and disarming manner.

“I guess,” Hjalmar said.

“Well, I got handed this piece on the drive to the Foundation,” Barbara said, setting the unloaded .45 on the shooting table. “And it hasn’t been zeroed. I’d been looking forward to an opportunity.”

“Go ahead,” Hjalmar said, setting up a five point target on a trolley and running it out to ten meters.

The target had one large central bull’s-eye and four more at the corners. In addition, there were “dots” running out from the bull’s-eyes in an X pattern. Barb carefully loaded and armed the .45. Then took up a modified Weaver stance, feet spread, one slightly forward of the other, two hands on the weapon with one arm nearly straight and the other cocked slightly. It was her most comfortable shooting stance. She’d tried various others over the years but always come back to the Weaver.

She carefully targeted one of the dots, rather than the bull’s-eye. The first round hit the outer left corner of the paper. Which looked like really lousy shooting, except she’d been aiming at a dot in the upper left corner.

“Flyer?” Hjalmar asked.

“Out of zero,” she replied, pulling a small screwdriver out of her purse and adjusting the rear sight to the left and down. She lifted the pistol again and targeted a different bull’s-eye, again targeting one of the dots. This time the round nicked it, low and to the right. She repeated the zeroing action and then shrugged.

“It’s in,” she said.

“You’re all over the target,” Hjalmar protested.

“You’re assuming I was aiming at the bull’s-eye,” she said, quietly. Then she lifted the pistol and fired five rounds, fast. Re-aiming she fired five more, then the last two in the clip, spaced. She dropped the clip, inserted another and slid the slide forward in one rapid blur. “Reel in.”

As the target approached it was apparent that there was a perfect four-leafed clover centered around the main bull’s-eye and the lower left one. The upper left and the upper right had rounds squarely through the X ring.

“Reel another one out,” Barb ordered.

This time she fired five rounds, fast, at the center bull’s-eye, then switched to her right hand only and fired another five at the upper right, then left-handed to the upper left, then switched to her third, and last, clip and fired the bottom two, one, handed. Last she fired five rounds, spaced, one-handed, switching from right to left in deft “gun-fighter” tosses.

When it was reeled in, the target had five almost perfect cloverleafs and a round through the cardinal points of the paper, outside the center bull’s-eye, with one additional on top. A couple of the outer bull’s-eyes were slightly out of position but given they were fast, one-handed shots, they were still phenomenal.

“Crap,” Hjalmar said, quietly. “I guess it wasn’t blowing smoke.”

“I’ve been shooting since I was eight,” Barbara said, calmly. “I’ve put more rounds though a USP than most SEALs I’ve met.”

“Why cloverleafs?” the guy with the piercings asked. “I mean, why not through the bull’s-eye if you’re that accurate?”

“I trained for combat shooting,” Barb said with a shrug. “If you train to put rounds through the same hole over and over again, you tend to hit the same spot on a target. You want to choose your spot, aiming for major arteries or nervous points. And if you’re taking more than one round to put your target down, putting the rounds in different spots.” She picked up the gun again, refilled a magazine and armed then targeted the metal post targets, each six-inch circles, putting all five down in about five seconds.

“The problem with going for really targeted shooting in combat, of course, is that your target is moving,” she added, placing the gun down on the table again. “And it’s harder to hit the point targets you’d prefer.”

“And you can high-level channel,” James said, breathing out in surprise.

“I’ve been gifted by God,” Barb said. “Training helps. I’m only starting to learn to control my channels. That has been interesting training. I’m also going to be interested in finding out the vulnerabilities of the enemies of God. I wish I’d had some idea where on Almadu there was a vulnerable point. As it was, I had to just fill him with lead and hope for the best.”

“Most constructs don’t have the vulnerabilities of natural beings,” Hjalmar said. “So it probably didn’t matter where you placed your rounds. But I have to admit that you’re the first time I’ve heard of channeling into your actual rounds. That, right there, is an amazing gift.”

“The gods never give gifts without reason,” Janea said, thoughtfully. “I wonder what your purpose is?”

“I’m sure that will be plain someday,” Barbara said, picking up a magazine and starting to refill it. “In the meantime, though, let’s have fun!”

Chapter Five

They spent about three hours out on the range, switching guns and seeing who was “range boss”, the best shooter on the range. After a while, though, it became pretty clear that Barbara was a hard match to beat.

“I think you could probably go to Camp Perry,” Hjalmar admitted after watching her put five rounds in the black at fifty meters.

“I wanted to go for the shooting team in college,” Barb admitted. “But then I met Mark. He… allows me to go shooting from time to time. But he doesn’t support it, strongly. Not strongly enough for me to consider something like that. And he is my husband, the master of the household. It is enough that God has granted me these gifts to use in His name.”

“Now that I have a hard time handling,” Janea said, disgustedly. “How you can just let him dictate-”

“We all come to God in our own way,” Barbara said, smiling at her.

“Uh…” Janea said, her mouth open. And then she shut it and grinned. “Hoist on my own petard.”

“By,” Barb corrected. “By your own petard. It was a name for a grenade. It means blown up by your own bomb. And… yes,” she added, grinning back.

She noticed that the “Dartho” type was having a hard time with one of James’ automatic rifles, the CAR-15, and slid over to his position.

“How are you doing?” Barbara asked.

“Not as well as you,” the young man said, shamefaced.

“Have you been shooting long?” Barb asked. “And I don’t think we’ve been introduced, I’m Barb Everette.”

“Ghomo,” the young man said, nodding at her. “And, no, this is the first time I’ve been shooting. I always wanted to but my parents were death on guns.”

“There’s more to it than just picking up a gun and shooting,” Barbara said, gently. “I got taught by my father as a girl and I’ve been doing it for years. There’s a lot to learn.”

“I know,” Ghomo said, sighing and plinking another round downrange. “But…” He looked around at the others and shrugged, setting the gun down. “I guess I really don’t fit in here.”

“Of course you do,” Barb said, angrily. “You are one of the Foundation. That is enough.” She looked over her own shoulder and sighed. “Okay, you’re probably right that people don’t immediately cotton to you. Dartho, I think, doesn’t have many friends outside his circle and you’re carrying that load with these people. But you don’t carry it with me. So why don’t we work on your shooting for a while. But let’s start with pistols.”

She ran him through stance and breathing control, then trigger control and sight alignment. After that she had him fire a series, talking about what had happened with each of his “flyers.” He had a tendency to jerk the trigger, among other things.

“You’re anticipating the recoil,” Barbara said, gently. “When you fire like this, you should try for a sort of Zen state of awareness. Do not anticipate, simply do.”

“You’re pretty strange for a church lady,” Ghomo said, reeling out another target.

“Not so strange,” Barb replied. “There are church ladies and church ladies. I have always refused to be Sister Bertha Better-Than-You.”

“Who?” Ghomo asked, setting the pistol down. “I’m sorry, my arms are getting tired.”

“Shooting is exercise,” Barbara said, nodding. “You should work out with barbells, working the muscles so that you can maintain accurate fire even after a long series. And one of the most important aspects of learning to shoot well is, well, shooting. Learning to fire properly and then drawing and firing over and over until what is called ‘muscle memory’ is developed. So that if you have to use your weapon, you do it in full alpha state, automatic actions like driving a car.”

“You know,” Ghomo said, smiling, “if there had been more ladies like you in my home town, I might have stayed a Christian.”

“I’m sorry that your experience of the faith was negative,” Barb said, honestly. “It happens. Especially to those who don’t quite fit in. Small town?”

“Yeah,” Ghomo said. “I grew up in Alexandria, Alabama. It was getting bigger when I left, but it was still pretty small-town. I was always the weird kid in school, all twelve years and kindergarten. I’d ask the wrong questions, you know? And my parents were real Bible-thumpers. One time they took me to one of those camps where the demons get cast out. All it did was make me angrier. And sadder, too. I just wanted to… fit in. But I never could.”

“Believe it or not,” Barbara said, smiling, “I understand. But for me it was moving all the time. I never quite fit any mold people wanted to put around me. I… learned to wear a mask. To be the mask, in a way. But even now, people consider me strange in my own town. I’ve learned not to ask the wrong questions at the wrong time, who I can trust to show…” she waved around at the range. “This. My stranger side, to them. Even though I live in a very conservative area, where the men all go hunting in deer season, nice ladies aren’t supposed to pack. Or shoot, for that matter, unless it’s something ladylike like a twenty gauge for bird hunting.

“And I’ve had my problems with churches. Not with my Faith, understand, but with the social expression of it. Sister Bertha Better-Than-You is a character in a song by Ray Stevens. But he was a good judge of character and knew the characters to be found in small towns. Every town has the Sister Berthas, the ladies who sit in the front pew and look down on those who sit in the back, who bite and scratch in their ladylike way to get the best social position. And the reverends that support them in that, for the funding they bring in and the weak power that being mean gives them. Small towns are small towns. They want everyone to fit in a nice neat little mold. And if you don’t fit in the mold, they try to break you. Because you challenge their image of what is fit and right. I’m sorry that it drove you away from the Faith, though.”

“You are really strange,” Ghomo said, sighing. “And you really get your power from… Jesus?”

“From God,” Barb said, nodding. “The power, I suppose, of the Holy Spirit working through my faith in the saving power of the Lord Jesus.”

“I can channel,” Ghomo said. “A little. I get my power from Qua-Lin. I give of my essence and he returns it at need. But…” He paused and shrugged, looking a bit ashamed. “It always feels… a little sick, you know? It doesn’t feel right. We of the faith of Qua-Lin work for good, don’t get me wrong. But…”

“Each of us comes to our Faith in our own way,” Barbara said. “Just remember, whatever sacrifice you give to your god returns to you manifold. He is your armor and your sword, as you are his. Hold hard to faith, whatever that faith may be, and you will be a warrior of the Light.”

“Okay,” Ghomo said, nodding. “But… I think I might explore some other faiths. It happens. I’m just not… comfortable with Qua-Lin.”

“Do as you must,” Barb said. “But if your forearms are rested, perhaps we should continue with your shooting lesson.”

They shot through another series and then Hjalmar called a break.

“James,” Hjalmar said, causing an outburst of “baaaa”s. “Cut that out. James, I was wondering, anything new in the demon killing line?”

“Oh, not that,” Julie said, hiding her face in her hands. “James, tell me that’s not what’s in the other bag.”

“Well, as it happens,” James said, grinning, “I just happen to have brought along…”

“You always do this to me,” Julie said, throwing up her hands in mock horror as James dipped into the still unopened rucksack.

What came out was the most bastard weapon Barbara had ever seen. An airtank backpack hooked up to… well, it had three magazines and a big barrel… She finally admitted she couldn’t make head or tails of it.

“James is our resident Q,” Janea said, grinning. “Let’s see what he’s got this time.”

“Well,” James said, laying out the weapon and extracting one of the obviously homemade magazines. “Barb doesn’t have much of the background here…”

“Ever since James joined us,” Hjalmar said, picking up the magazine and looking in it, “he’s been hoping for what we call a Hellmouth incident.”

“See, generally what we deal with is one minor entity, or a necromancer gathering power to summon one, at a time,” Janea interjected. “But sometimes… when was the last real outbreak?”

“1954,” James said, promptly. “It was dealt with by Steve Reeves, who used to play roles like Hercules and Tarzan. He had, quietly, converted to Zoroastrianism and had been drawn into the Foundation. There was a full outbreak in the Hollywood Hills and he and another actor…” He paused and frowned.

“Tyrone Power?” Janea asked.

“Somebody like that,” James said. “Anyway, there was a manifestation of Tiamat who began spawning her brood, as she is wont to do. And they had to fight the brood and her.”

“Fortunately,” Hjalmar said, “Tiamat’s got more enemies than Satan, if that’s possible. Reeves is supposed to have channeled an avatar of Gilgamesh, or maybe Enkidu, nobody was certain which it was. Real derring-do time. Lots of half-formed monsters, vampires and werewolves by the score, Hercules so filled with the power of multiple gods he was hyped up like, well, Hercules…”

“Not the score,” James said. “There weren’t more than three or four of each. And they attacked in daylight, during the dark time of the moon, so both weren’t at their best.”

“They went in with a group of stuntmen and such, fought their way through the brood, killed Tiamat by cutting off her heads, one by one, and burning them with fire, then killed her earthly body,” Hjalmar continued. “Lost a goodly number of the red shirts in the process, started a fire in the scrub that covered up the battle and got out. But ever since James joined us…” he said, waving at the weapon.

“Well, just in case,” James said, grinning. “I’ve been working on the ultimate Hellmouth weapon. This is the Mark Six…”

“Wait,” Janea said. “You showed us the Mark Three last time. What happened to Four and Five… ?”

“Don’t ask,” Julie snapped. “The dog’s never been the same since…”

“As I was saying,” James interjected, loudly. “This is the Mark Six. Based around a paintball system, it is a much superior weapon to the Mark Three…”

“Not to mention Four and Five,” Julie muttered. “Goddess, that was a lot of trouble to clean up…”

“In magazine one,” James continued, ignoring the commentary and inserting the magazine in Hjalmar’s hand, “you have your basic wooden stake.” He aimed at a human silhouette target and let fly. The stake managed to hit the target, at ten meters, in the right shoulder, just about out of the silhouette. But it was there for all to see, a wooden stake, stuck in a thin cardboard target.

“Not much penetration,” Hjalmar said, laughing.

“I’m working on that,” James shot back. “And then in magazine two, you have your general purpose stake.” He adjusted a series of controls and let fly again, hitting the target closer to the center. This time, however, whatever had flown through the air went right through the target.

“Not bad,” Hjalmar said. “But what was it?”

“This,” James said, stooping to the rucksack and pulling out what looked like a thick crossbow bolt with a wicked barbed head. “The bolt is ash wood, which is reported to be effective against most Northern European vampires. The head is steel plated with silver. Good against general targets or werewolves and other entities that are affected by silver. And last but not least,” he said, pushing back on the head and exposing an ampoule. “Holy water ampoule with silver nitrate suspended in it.”

“Wow,” Hjalmar said, grinning. “That’ll do a number on quite a few beasties. Fluffy bunny huggers strike again!” he shouted, raising a laugh.

“Okay,” Barbara said, holding up her hand. “That sounds like another in-joke.”

“Do the acronym,” Julie said. “Foundation for Love and Universal Faith. FLUF. A few years back, one of the FBI agents who was being supported called the Wiccan operative a ‘fluffy bunny hugger.’ Which she was, but very good at what she did. The rest of us, though, find it hilarious.”

Barbara looked over at Hjalmar admiring the bastardized paintball gun and had to admit he was anything but a “fluffy bunny hugger.”

“What’s in magazine three?” Ghomo asked, diffidently.

“Paintball rounds,” James said, adjusting more controls and firing a burst of blue rounds that splattered all over the target. “I like paintballing. And I’m trying to figure out how to manufacture them with holy water instead of paint.”

“I’ll take one with just the all purpose stake,” Hjalmar said.

“That will be the Mark Seven,” James admitted.

“Nine,” Julie said, shaking her head. “And what you did to the poor cat should be illegal…”

After a weapons cleaning party at the spacious longhouse most of the Asatru used, Barb took a shower and put on a “dressy dress” for dinner. It was the end of the conference and most of the members were going to be either going back to their regular lives or on to assignments. Barbara was in a bit of a limbo; nobody had assigned her to the mentioned mission but on the other hand nobody had suggested she go home.

She put on her duster and made her way across the compound towards the Philosophy House. However, as she crossed the bridge to it, making a mental note that running water was anathema to various malignant entities, she saw Dartho striding towards her with an angry set to his shoulders.

“Do not woo my acolytes,” he shouted at her as he approached. He pointed a finger in her face and continued in a near scream. “Do not shove your Christian mythology down the throat of my people, do you understand me?”

“I understand that you have three seconds to get that finger out of my face or I’m going to break it off and feed it to you,” Barbara replied, calmly. “As to wooing your acolytes, you probably should do that yourself. I take it you’re discussing Ghomo?”

“I don’t have enough male subs as it is!” Dartho shouted angrily, but withdrew the offending digit. “I can’t afford to lose one to your damned God!”

“Perhaps you should have considered that before he came to me for counseling,” Barb said, feeling a righteous anger building in her. “He is a fine young man who is questioning his faith. Do you support him in his faith, Dartho? Were you on the range teaching him? Where were you Dartho? What were you doing when he needed someone to talk to? Is this about him, Dartho or about you? He spoke of giving of his essence and, in return, getting a smidgeon of power. Where is the power going, Dartho? Are those acolytes you call yours, not your god’s, I notice, about worship of your god or worship of you, Dartho?”

“I am a high priest of Qua-Lin,” Dartho screamed. “Do not begin to try to understand the mysteries of my god, Christian! It would blast your tiny mind!”

“I don’t care about your mysteries, Dartho,” Barb snapped. “But if the worshippers are losing faith, perhaps their priest should do something about that! Not come screaming at someone who gave a person a moment’s thought, a moment’s help, a moment’s comfort! Perhaps you should have considered tending to your flock, priest, instead of whatever earthly pursuits you were practicing, priest! Christian I am and Christian I shall be. MY faith is not tested here, Dartho!”

“Whoa,” Sharice said, hurrying from the longhouse. “No religious battles in the compound. I could feel both of you from inside the Philosophy House.”

“Tell her to leave my worshippers alone,” Dartho snarled.

“I can talk to whomever I want,” Barb snapped. “I do not proselytize. I do not condemn. I simply Witness. And if Witnessing is causing your worshippers to reconsider their very faith, then maybe you should consider what that means, Dartho.”

“Both of you back off,” Sharice said, raising her hands and then parting them, her eyes closed.

Barb felt herself physically pushed back, away from the priest and onto the bridge, and a feeling of peace descended over her. Not in anger but in searing determination, she reached into her core and summoned her own channel, driving out the externally imposed peace and summoning her own patience and understanding to replace it.

Sharice’s eyes snapped open at that and she opened her mouth, closing it when she saw Barb’s expression of Zen-like stillness.

“I do not permit the power of another god within my soul, Sharice,” Barbara said, calmly. “My faith derives from the Lord Jesus Christ and I shall have no other before Him. But thank you for intervening.”

“Barb, you were going to supper,” Sharice said, just as calmly. “Dartho, were you?”

“No, I was looking for her,” he spat.

“In that case, please go away from the Philosophy House and let Barbara get her dinner,” Sharice said. “You’re leaving on assignment tomorrow. Until you do, you two stay away from each other.”

“I want you to tell her to stay away from my acolytes,” Dartho insisted. “I won’t have her wooing them over to her damned slave religion.”

“If you are speaking of Ghomo,” Sharice said, “he has not only talked to Barb. He spoke to me as well, and to Guinevere. He is questioning his faith. That, alone, will probably sever his link to Qua-Lin. He has potential and will either return to Qua-Lin or find another god. You cannot force a person to believe in your god, Dartho. Nor will you try. Is that clear?”

Dartho ground his jaw for a moment and then turned his back on the two women, striding away.

“That was… unpleasant,” Barbara said, stepping off the bridge.

“It happens.” Sharice sighed. “And when it does, those of the losing faith always blame others.” She paused and frowned, smiling faintly. “I think you scared him, as well. And he reacts to that with anger.”

“I can understand being upset,” Barbara said. “So am I. But why scared?”

“You’re aware that your eyes were glowing, right?” Sharice said, carefully. “They changed color, from blue to something like black, and they appeared to glow. Not as if you were channeling an avatar; it seemed to be something entirely in you.”

“Dartho takes the power that they give, doesn’t he?” Barb asked, ignoring the comment as they both walked towards the Philosophy House. She had been told that in times of extreme anger her eyes appeared to glow; it had nearly caused Mark to be shoved through a wall once. She hadn’t realized she was that angry at the priest and said a small prayer asking forgiveness. “The power that his acolytes sacrifice to their god. He takes it and uses it for his own purposes.”

“Yes,” Sharice said, simply. “But so do we all. Your power comes not from you, but from your God, from the Holy Spirit, if you will. And that power is supplied by thousands, perhaps millions, of True Believers such as yourself. So don’t castigate Dartho for drawing upon the power given to his god by his small handful of followers. He uses that power in the service of Good.”

“I’m not sure I completely agree,” Barbara said, frowning. “The power of God is…”

“The power of belief,” Sharice said, firmly. “The power given to God by the willing sacrifice of souls, dedicated to His purposes. That is the Power of God. Trust me.”

“God created the heaven and the earth,” Barb argued.

“Why?” Sharice asked, smiling. “Or, perhaps I shouldn’t ask the question. Hold to your Belief, Barbara Everette and I shall hold to mine. Each in her own way to the work of Good, yes?”

“Okay,” Barb said, troubled. She liked and respected Sharice and her words had been so… definite. But that was Sharice’s belief, not her own. She mentally nodded to herself and put the words aside to pull out some other time and examine.

“You’re being assigned as well,” Sharice said, sighing. “I was going to go over that this evening. You’ll only be here two more days. Wednesday evening you’ll fly to Virginia to meet your FBI contact and go out on assignment.”

“I was told that a more senior person normally travels with a junior,” Barbara said, diffidently.

“Yes,” Sharice replied, smiling, as they reached the doors of the longhouse. “You’re getting along very well with Janea. Would you accept her as your initial trainer? She’s not as experienced as I would like but… Dartho for example would not be a good match.”

“Janea is acceptable,” Barb said, holding up both hands in mock surrender. “But maybe… Hjalmar?”

“He’s taking an independent assignment to New York,” Sharice said, pausing in the entry area. “Julie and James are on the same assignment as you, but taking a different investigation area. There is a necromancer at work who is visiting science fiction and gaming conventions, or so the FBI believes. You are taking a convention in Roanoke. They are going to Georgia. There are other teams as well. This necromancer has killed seven girls, at least, and sent their souls to the nether hells. Someone needs to find him and put him in his place. Preferably six feet under. His demon can have that soul for all I care.”

Chapter Six

You ready to go?” Barbara asked, banging on the bathroom door.

She hadn’t shared a room with a female her own age in years and she had a hard time not coming on the Mom with Janea. When she’d examined the assignment, she’d managed to get down to two Pullmans and a carry-on. But Sharice had still needed a borrowed van from the center to get them to the airport. Janea had seven bags, which were now stacked around the room in the Holiday Inn Express in Dumfries.

She had gotten up early this morning, knowing that it was going to take some time for her to shower, shave her legs and armpits and do her hair and makeup. Janea, who “didn’t do mornings” had woken up much later and had been in the bathroom ever since. Barb had gone out to breakfast and returned, bringing coffee and some rolls, and as far as she could tell, Janea had been in the bathroom the whole time.

“Ready!” Janea said, throwing open the door. “What do you think?” she asked, posing.

Barbara had dressed in a conservative suit she had previously only used during her brief stint selling real estate. Pinstripe jacket and skirt, skirt falling to just below the knee, cream button-down shirt, fairly comfortable pumps in anticipation of a fair amount of walking. If more walking was required, she had a bag with cross-trainers in it.

Janea’s idea of “conservative” dress for a meeting at the FBI training facility in Quantico Virginia was: five-inch black spike heels, a black, pleated miniskirt, quite short while not being entirely scandalous, that gave the vague impression of being from a very naughty schoolgirl’s wardrobe and a white shirt so sheer it was impossible to miss the underwire, push-up bra. Especially since she’d unbuttoned the shirt far enough to show an enormous amount of cleavage and a hint of lace. Her hair and makeup were, however, superb.

“We’re going to be late unless we hurry,” Barb said, pushing up her sleeve to look at her watch.

“You don’t like it,” Janea said, crestfallen. “Is the shirt unbuttoned too much?”

“It’s lovely,” Barb replied, heading for the door of the room.

“I can change,” Janea said, following her. “I’ve got other outfits. Some of them might be a little skimpy for the FBI, but…”

“It’s not a problem,” Barbara said, “but I’m driving.”

“Oh, great,” Janea sighed, handing over the keys. She had driven them from Dulles to Dumfries in the rented Grand Am, the trunk and back of the car packed with luggage. She wasn’t looking forward to having the “church lady” drive, probably slowly in the left hand lane, as they tried to find their destination.

Barbara didn’t comment except to take the keys and get in the car. But the reason she was driving was that Janea couldn’t keep her mind on the road. She was usually all over the lane, if for no other reason than checking her makeup, couldn’t maintain speed and had a tendency to miss turns. They’d had to turn around three times to make it to the Holiday Inn, which was right off of U.S.-1 and not particularly hard to find.

When Janea was settled, definitely not wearing a seatbelt, they’d had that conversation yesterday, Barb pulled out of the parking spot and headed for the entrance, slowing only for the speedbumps. When she reached U.S.-1 she pulled out into a narrow slot in traffic, tires screaming and smoke rising from the asphalt.

“Freya preserve us,” Janea said, her eyes wide, grabbing at anything solid to hold herself in place as Barbara slid dexterously into the left-hand lane then back to the right, weaving through traffic. Despite rush hour traffic, she managed at times to get up to seventy in the forty-five mile per hour zone.

“We’re a tad late,” Barb said, calmly.

“Do you always drive like this?” Janea said as Barbara swerved into the turn lane to evade a car going the posted speed in the left-hand lane.

“Yes,” Barb replied. “More or less. Less when I’m on time. More when I’m in a hurry. I haven’t gotten into the oncoming lanes. Yet.”

She managed to avoid that fate, spotting the sign for Quantico’s main entrance and screaming through a narrow spot in oncoming traffic to make the left turn. She slid to a stop a few feet from the bumper of the car at the rear of the line waiting to enter the base and the Grand Am rocked for a moment on its springs. At the shriek of tires, the three Marines checking people into the base turned to look, their heads almost simultaneously tracking like turrets to identify the sound, note the Grand Am, then back to what they were doing.

“Thank you, Freya,” Janea said, breathing out finally. “We have arrived alive.”

“I’ve never had an accident,” Barbara said, calmly, a faint smile on her face.

“That’s incredible,” Janea replied, looking at her. “I’ve had, like, five.”

“Really?” Barb asked, moving the car forward as the line crept up to the gates. “Call it another gift. I am but a Servant of God.”

“Yeah, right,” Janea scoffed. “God tells you to drive like a maniac? There’s a real little devil hidden under that church lady exterior, ain’t there? Did your daddy teach you to drive, too?”

“No,” Barbara said. “A boyfriend. He was a stockcar racer.”

Janea collapsed into her seat theatrically and threw up her hands.

“I’d hate to be in the car if you were in a real hurry,” she said, digging into her purse for ID.

“It is interesting,” Barb admitted, rolling down the window as she reached the Marine guard. “Hi, Barbara Everette and…”

“Doris Grisham,” Janea said, leaning way over so the Marine could look down her shirt. She held out her driver’s license but it was a moment before the transfixed guard could remember to take it.

“We’re here to see Special Agent Halliwell at the FBI Academy,” Barb continued, handing over her own driver’s license.

The guard shook himself and consulted a clipboard then shook his head.

“If you ladies could pull over into the lane on the left,” he said, pointing to the appropriate spot. “Somebody will be with you shortly.”

Barbara pulled forward to the spot and parked the car, waiting as patiently as she could, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Janea dug in her purse, pulled out an emery board and began touching up her nails.

“He’s probably wondering when the FBI started calling in escorts,” Janea said after a moment.

“I certainly hope I don’t look like an ‘escort,’ “ Barb said, primly.

“When you’re with me you do,” Janea replied, grinning. “Or maybe my manager.”

Barbara just rolled her eyes and glanced in the rearview mirror. Two of the guards were heading their way.

“Heads up,” she said.

“I’m sure they are,” Janea answered, arching.

“Sorry about that, ma’am,” the sergeant said, nodding at both of them but looking down Janea’s shirt. “We had to call the FBI Academy to get verification on you. Could I see your ID again?”

Barbara handed over the IDs and ignored the fact that the other guard was looking past her as well. She wasn’t used to being ignored by men and she found it… annoying.

“There’s a thirty-five mile per hour speed limit on base,” the sergeant said, handing back the licenses as the private with him filled out a parking slip. “It’s strictly enforced.”

“I understand,” Barb replied, smiling at him winningly. It wasn’t worth the effort; his eyes were glued to cleavage. “How do I find building F-134?”

The sergeant went through a bewildering explanation for a moment and then shrugged at her expression.

“Just follow the signs to the FBI Academy,” he said, still having a hard time making eye contact. “You can find it from there.”

As they pulled out, Janea leaned back and put her license away, then looked at Barbara.

“I’m annoying you, aren’t I?” Janea asked.

“No, dear,” Barb answered, reaching over to squeeze the other woman’s hand. “I’m simply finding it a challenge in many ways I hadn’t expected. You are a very good friend and the challenges are good for my soul.”

“That’s another way of saying yes,” Janea said, leaning back in the seat. “I just get this way around men. It’s broken up so many relationships for me you wouldn’t believe. But I enjoy attention.”

“That is, I suppose, a goodly thing to your goddess,” Barbara said, ignoring the posted speed limit and cutting through the turns to the FBI Academy. “I, on the other hand, am realizing I’m not as perfect as others thought. Or even as sinless as I had thought. I hadn’t realized I was as vain as I am. It’s something I need to work on. So for that, if nothing else, I thank you.”

“You’re weird,” Janea said.

“You keep saying that,” Barb replied as she finally spotted building F-134. It was a brick building like most of the others on that part of the base, single story and long with several doors, most of them marked with blue signs. She hunted around until she found the door marked “Federal Bureau of Investigation Research and Analysis Lab” and then found a parking place.

When they reached the door she found it locked and pressed the button next to it, presumably a buzzer. After a moment the door clicked to the buzz of a solenoid and they went inside.

The entry room was hard tile floor, acoustic tile ceiling and bright fluorescent lights. There was a desk with a woman sitting behind it, a rather pleasant faced younger woman who looked like a receptionist.

“Barbara Everette and Doris…” She locked up on Janea’s last name for a moment, “Grisham. International Society for the Study of the Paranormal.”

“You’re expected, ladies,” the woman said, smiling. “Through the door.”

“Mrs. Everette?” the man on the far side said, taking Barb’s hand as she came through the door. “And Miz Grisham?”

“The same,” Janea said, smiling and bowing faintly as if to a courtier. “I prefer to be called Janea.”

“Janea, then,” the FBI agent said, virtually ignoring the way she was dressed. “I’m Special Agent in Charge Jim Halliwell. Let me take you back to the lab so we can get started.”

“I take it we’re not going to be working directly with you?” Barbara asked as they went down the long corridor. To the left were offices while to the right was a cube farm. As they passed one of the side corridors in the cube farm, an agent with his arms full of documents ducked back from Halliwell, then did a double take at the sight of Barbara and a triple take at Janea. By the time they’d reached the end of the corridor, there was a general buzzing from the cube farm and Barb looked over her shoulder to see various people, male and female, “prairie dogging” over the tops of the cubes.

“No, the agent assigned to your portion of the investigation is Special Agent Greg Donahue. He has the asset of having attended conventions previously.”

“And is he aware that there are… Special Circumstances to this investigation?” Barbara asked, carefully.

“Yes, he is,” Halliwell answered, opening the door to the lab.

The room had microscopes and various instruments with readouts on the front. Also a large number of computer monitors. And that was about all that Barb could determine from it.

“The FBI crime lab in D.C. does most of the direct crime investigation,” Halliwell said, leading them across the room. “This lab does research into oddball aspects of forensics. Trying to determine if the DNA from pollen on a victim can be traced to a particular area or plant, that sort of thing. It also handles most of the Special Circumstances… oddball aspects. Fortunately, the techs are rather closemouthed about what they do.” He pushed open a conference room door and waved the ladies in ahead of him.

There was a tall, thin man in a white lab coat and a larger man, both taller and much more heavyset, in the room. The lab tech, or doctor or whatever, was sitting very straight and still while the other had sprawled in his chair, hands behind his head. He sat bolt upright, though, as first Barbara and then Janea entered the room.

“Dr. Hannelore, Agent Donahue, Barbara Everette and Doris Grisham,” Halliwell said. “Miz Grisham prefers to be called Janea.”

“Mrs. Everette,” Donahue said, standing up and taking their hands. “Janea…” he continued, looking her up and down for a moment and then shaking his head. “I’m going to be working with… you two?”

“Better assignment than you expected?” Janea said, archly, sitting down and crossing her legs so they were in clear view of everyone on her side of the table.

“Uh…” Donahue said, his mouth open for a moment. “Yes, as a matter of fact,” he continued as he regained the capability for speech. “I was expecting… I dunno. A couple of little old lady psychics.”

“Guess again,” Barb said, placing her purse on the floor and then rolling her chair up to the table. “What do you have for us, Special Agent?”

“Dr. Hannelore?” Halliwell said, passing the ball.

“Seven victims,” Hannelore replied, dimming the lights and bringing up a picture of a young woman on the projection monitor. “Each of them killed by having her throat cut. Indications of sexual assault and ligations from binding. Each with these symbols,” he continued, showing a close-up of a stomach covered in a strange script, “marked on various portions of the body. We sent the symbols to an expert in these things and he identified them as…”

“A prayer to a Hebraic shedim,” Janea interjected. “Originally a Persian daevas called Remolus. Might be related to the brood of Tiamat but seems to be a lower ranking daevas than that. The writing appears to be early Fars but it’s not quite right. Hints of Sanskrit or maybe latter Sumerian. We hadn’t seen this particular script before but it’s interpretable according to our sources. I’m no expert in it myself. And clearly a summoning; he’s trying to summon Remolus and is probably channeling from him at the very least.”

“Remolus,” Halliwell said, stepping over to one of the workstations and typing. “It says here that he’s got no priors during our period of control of this area. ‘The Soul Eater’?”

“All demons are soul eaters,” Janea said, shrugging. “And the translation’s a bit off. Remolus’ major secondary name comes from an Aramaic inscription that translates as Soul Drawer or possibly Soul Sucker. As far as we know, there is no way that purely through necromancy he could possibly gather enough power to summon Tiamat. That takes enormous power. Although, if he did, that would be bad.”

“How bad?” Halliwell asked.

“Tiamat is a gate and the key to the gate between the worlds,” Janea said, frowning. “Effectively, if she stays in place for any significant time at all, and she is very difficult to kill, then you have a fully opened gate to… call it Hell. Demons can come through in swarms. Of course,” she added, looking over at Barbara, “the heavenly host is supposed to be manifest to battle them directly upon earth. However, the power levels would be so high…” She paused and shrugged. “It might be better to have a nuclear war.”

“Heaven forbid,” Barb said, softly.

“As you say,” Hannelore replied, looking at the dancer in interest. “The bodies had not been killed at the location. There is significant exsanguination. We’re not sure what was done with the blood, whether it was kept for necromantic purposes or dumped.”

“Probably burned as an offering,” Janea said, musingly. “That’s a common method with daevas. Properly there should be an effigy of the god or godling with a fire in the belly section and an open mouth. When the fire is hot, the blood is poured into the mouth, raising a fragrant offering to the god.” She paused and shrugged at the looks that got. “It’s a common motif. Any parts missing?”

“No,” Hannelore said. “The bodies were intact.”

“Odd,” Janea said. “Generally organs are added to the offering. It might be an indication of squeamishness on the part of the necromancer.”

“We have two of the bodies here in our morgue,” Hannelore said. “We’d appreciate it if you could… use your abilities to see if there’s anything you can tell us.”

“Of course,” Janea said, standing up.

“Can I get something straight?” Donahue asked. “Which one of you is in charge? I’d assumed it was Mrs. Everette, but…”

“I’m the more experienced,” Janea said, looking over at Barbara. “And I’ve had more training. But Barb is… the more powerful.”

“I think we’re both wondering that,” Barbara admitted, grabbing her purse and standing up as well. “Maybe by the end of the mission we’ll know.”

“That’s… a problem,” Halliwell said, seriously. “In a crisis, you have to know who is in charge. In the event of power manifestation, control of the situation automatically shifts to you two. Who does Donahue look to for decision-making?”

“If it’s informational, Janea,” Barb said.

“And if it’s…” Janea paused, not sure how to go on.

“Tactical,” Barbara interjected. “I guess that would be me.”

“Great,” Janea grumped. “And I’m the Asatru in the room. But, yeah, if it’s tactical, I’m going to just back Barb up. Not that she’ll need much help.”

“By tactical you’re referring to direct power fighting?” Hannelore asked, interestedly.

“And any other,” Janea said, shrugging.

“I’m sorry, I have a problem with that,” Halliwell said. “I don’t think a civilian should be engaging in any sort of direct combat. Among other things, it’s illegal.”

“Sir,” Hannelore said. “Case A-1674, the Bayou Ripper?’

“Oh, damn,” Halliwell said, closing his eyes. “Sorry about the language, Mrs. Everette. And sorry for not making the connection.”

“You’re… aware of that?” Barbara asked.

“Who do you think cleared you to get out of the hospital?” Halliwell said. “And sent Germaine to you. Yes, we’re aware of that. I just hadn’t made the connection. I concur. In a Special Circumstances tactical situation, control devolves to you, unreservedly.”

“Excuse me,” Donahue said. “What does… ?”

“You’re not cleared for that compartment,” Halliwell answered the unspoken question. “I’ll probably kick it open and see if I can clear you for the mission report. Let’s just say that if Mrs. Everette says: ‘Mine,’ back off and let her handle it.”

“Agent Donahue,” Hannelore interjected. “Mrs. Everette was previously involved with a Special Circumstances investigation in Louisiana. The analysis, for obvious reasons, had to be done carefully. HRT handled the combat analysis. Let me just say that one portion of the analysis stated that HRT was, quote, impressed by the combat training, armed, unarmed and of special nature, of the subject and would, unreservedly, accept subject for entry to HRT based upon analysis of combat actions. End quote. I don’t think I’ve broken any regulations by telling you that much.”

“Oh,” Donahue said, looking at her again.

“I’d like to make a point,” Janea said. “What we are dealing with, almost assuredly, is a person, a human, who is gathering power to create a manifestation. The person may have power, may be able to channel, but should not be truly ‘supernatural’ in nature. He may, however, be able to use powers to control an unshielded person, such as Agent Donahue. That is what we have to be cautious of.”

“Understood,” Halliwell said. “Did you get that, Greg?”

“I’m trying to,” Donahue admitted. “But what are you talking about, exactly?”

“Oh, something like this, perhaps,” Janea said, closing her eyes and smiling.

Donahue felt himself overwhelmed by an unstoppable wave of lust. What was bothering him the most was that it wasn’t even directed at Janea, but at Mrs. Everette. He closed his eyes and tried not to fantasize about what she would look like with her hair spread on a pillow, quite unsuccessfully. After a moment the feeling faded with only a lingering trace. He opened his eyes again and shook his head.

“That wasn’t exactly going to stop me from doing anything,” he said after he regained the power of speech.

“It was an aspect of my goddess,” Janea said, smiling. “Her control methods are more… subtle than some.”

“That was anything but subtle,” Greg said, glancing at Barb and blushing.

“The point I’m trying to make is that if the person uses power on you, you may not have any control,” Janea said. “You could be held against your will, at the very least, unable to take action to defend others. Or, possibly, depending upon the person’s level of power and control, forced to use your weapon against others or even yourself. Self preservation is a very deeply held instinct, though. It is hard to overcome through direct means. However, you are unshielded. If you feel control slipping over you, simply work your will as hard as you can to prevent your own death and let Barbara and me handle the rest. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Donahue said, glancing at Barb again. “Are you still doing it to me?”

“No,” Janea said, sighing. “But, unfortunately, the effects can have some lingering effect.”

“Thanks so very much, Janea,” Barbara said, acerbically.

“For the effects to last there has to have been some prior emotion,” Janea said, coyly. “Now, I think we were going to view a body?”

Chapter Seven

It was the same young woman that had been in the pictures. Despite those, Barb, who had until recently never seen a dead body before other than at a viewing, was surprised by the waxen pallor. The young woman looked more like a yellow doll than a corpse. She held onto that thought as the sheet covering her was drawn back. It seemed grotesque to be viewing the poor girl’s naked body like this, especially with the two men standing there, just looking at her as if she was a slab of meat or something.

“Okay, Barb,” Janea said, gently. “I know this is rough for you. But I want you to put your hands over her and open your channel. Search for feelings that aren’t yours.”

Barbara watched Janea place her hands over the girl’s midsection and close her eyes, then followed suit, holding them about six inches over the girl’s flattened chest.

“Can you feel it?” Janea asked, quietly. “I can, faintly. Like a trace of rot.”

“Like the smell of vomit,” Barb said, softly. “God be with us, it’s so strong!” She opened her eyes and drew back her hands, wiping them on her skirt to remove the ephemeral foulness.

“You felt it that strongly?” Janea asked, opening her eyes. “I could barely sense it.”

“I can feel it from here,” Barbara said, backing up. “It’s horrible.”

“Unfortunately you have to face it,” Janea said. “I’m sorry it’s so strong for you. But you have to feel it, sense it, taste it. If you felt it again, would you be able to recognize it? As distinct from other odors of foulness?”

“I’ve never felt anything like it before,” Barb said, shaking her head. “No, I have. From Almadu. But… that was stronger, filling me until the Lord came to my aid. Like this but… maybe not the same… scent.” She stepped forward again, holding her hands over the girl’s chest for a moment, her eyes closed and face twisted in a grimace. “I can’t do that for long,” she said, stepping back and rubbing her hands on her clothes again, unthinkingly. “But… I think I’d know it again.”

“We were wondering if you could perhaps go to where the bodies were found,” Halliwell said. “We know that wasn’t where the girls were killed. But if you can… feel anything that might help…”

“She was killed in a room,” Barbara said, her eyes unfocusing. “An unfinished basement, I think. There is a smell of mold. And… a gas flame?” She paused and shook her head. “I’m sorry, this is all very new to me. God has given me these gifts, but they are new and untried. I don’t know if I’m truly sensing something or if it is my imagination playing tricks on me.”

“You’ll learn,” Janea said, reaching across the body to touch her shoulder. “Let’s get out of this environment.”

“Wait,” Barb replied, looking around. The morgue had drawers for bodies on both sides of the room and she walked to the other, her hand out to the drawers until she stopped at one. “There is another who was killed by the same methods in here.”

“Yes, that is the other body we’re holding,” Hannelore said.

“But…” Barbara continued, walking down the row. “There is another…” She paused at one and gestured. “Here. Similar. Not… exactly the same. But… very similar.”

“Really?” Hannelore asked, confused. He went to the drawer to get a number and then brought the case up on a computer. “Hmmm… Case J-17389. Ohio. A male. No signs of sexual assault although there are ligations. And no symbols on the body. There was removal of organs, but that was assumed to be sexually predatory even without signs of sexual assault. And the throat was cut. But the MO wasn’t linked. It was brought here because we’re doing an analysis of the ligation marks and trying to get any minor DNA contamination that might have been on the body. You’re sure it’s the same?”

“The feel is the same, similar anyway,” Barb said, opening up the drawer and pulling it out. She paused when she saw the young man’s face. He could have been an image, slightly older, of her own son. “I am sorry for this, my son,” she muttered, holding her hands over the body. “Very similar,” she concluded after a moment, stepping back. “Not as strong, but very similar.”

Janea walked over to the drawer and held her hands over the body, shrugging after a moment.

“There’s a trace of necromantic residue,” she said. “That’s all I can tell. It is definitely a Special Circumstances killing, but more I can’t say.”

“The body was found a month before the first killing in Case R-143,” Hannelore said, musingly. “An early kill?”

“I think the killer hadn’t settled his devotional method,” Janea said. “Of course, the trace has faded over time. But I would guess that he didn’t find his true ceremony until recently. But I’d be surprised if it wasn’t the same killer, based on what Barb feels.”

“We’ll put it as possibly linked,” Halliwell said, nodding. “Based on MO and secondary, unspecified, evidence.”

“J-17389 was killed by a serrated edge,” Hannelore said, distantly. “Sawn down. The R-143 cases are all a long bladed, non-serrated edge, inserted on the left side of the neck and then cutting out with drawing strokes. Our killer has refined his killing technique, if they’re linked. Right-handed, by the way.”

Barbara suddenly felt it, being raped and the point of the knife entering the side of her neck to kill her. She reached up to touch it — the feeling was so intense she expected her hand to come away bloody — and shook her head.

“I need to get out of here,” she muttered, stumbling to the door.

Janea found her outside in the corridor to the lab, head bowed and hands clasped so hard her knuckles were white. She waited for the obvious prayer to finish and Barb to raise her head.

“I was calling for strength from the Lord,” Barbara said, lowering her hands. “I knew I shouldn’t have. This is something for which you have to find the strength within you. I don’t know if I have it. If this is what the minor touch of necromancy does to me…” She stopped and shuddered, shaking her head.

“Well, yes, in there,” Janea said. “You were opening yourself to the feelings. When you get into battle with the Enemy, your… sensitivity level goes down almost automatically. Or that’s what I’ve been told,” she added, shrugging. “I mean, I’ve never had to really face an enemy before.”

“Well, I need to get further away from the morgue,” Barb said, striding down the corridor. “I need to get out of this building. To take a shower. Slimy doesn’t begin to describe it.”

She exited the double doors to the morgue and then sat in a chair in the laboratory as the activity continued around her, willing herself to either ignore or suppress the continued miasma of evil. It was easier here but still seemed to be present and she wondered if she’d picked something up. She wanted to throw up, as if from sympathetic vomit.

“First time you ever saw a dead body?” one of the techs asked, grinning.

“That is not my problem,” Barbara snarled, then caught herself as anger welled up in her soul. “I’m sorry,” she added, trying to be calm. “But that is not my problem.”

“Are you all right?” Halliwell asked, coming through the door and closely followed by Hannelore. At the sight of the Special Agent in Charge and the director of the lab the grin slid off the tech’s face and he hurried away.

“I need to get out of this building,” Barb said as calmly as she could. “For a while at least. I’m sorry but… that was much more unpleasant than I could possibly have imagined. Or explain.”

“We were pretty much done here,” Halliwell replied. “Agent Donahue can take you to the sites that are near here.” He looked at Janea for a moment and shrugged. “You might want to change your shoes.”

“Whatever for?” Janea asked, batting her lashes. “They help keep me on my toes. Is Agent Donahue driving?” she asked, batting her lashes again.

“No,” Barbara replied. “I am. You can sit in the back. This time, wear your seatbelt.”

“There,” Donahue gasped, pointing to a narrow dirt road. “On the left.” He grabbed his seat with his left hand and the handle of the door with his right, anticipating the slew turn.

Instead, Barbara slowed and then turned in carefully. The road was heavily potholed and might once have been a logging road but now was used for illegal dumping and, she suspected, as a parking and partying area for local kids. The trees were mixed pine and oak with an understory of what she thought might be beech. Without the garbage dumped in corners it would be a pretty area. And without the reason they were visiting it.

Donahue directed her through a couple of turns and then she stopped when she saw the police tape. The area marked out, with tape around the trees, was about thirty yards across. It had, apparently, been turned over by animals.

“When we investigate something like this we tend to tear the place up looking for evidence,” Donahue admitted. Most of the pine and oak leaves from the area were gone, leaving empty loam.

“That also tends to make it harder for us,” Janea said, getting out of the car and looking around. “Where was the body?”

“Wait,” Barb said, following her out. She looked around the area, then ducked under the police tape, moving to a spot behind one of the larger oaks. “Here,” she said, pointing to the ground. “Right here.”

“You can still sense it?” Janea asked.

“Maybe I got sensitized,” Barbara replied, looking at the ground unseeingly. “She wasn’t covered, was she? She was on her back.”

“That’s right,” Donahue said. “But that was in the pictures.”

“There’s not much else,” Barbara replied, swallowing. “It’s like a strong… I hate to use the word but ‘psychic’ imprint. Not only of the necromancy but of the dead body. I hope I don’t start doing this for everyone who dies.”

“Anything about the killer?” Donahue asked. “We don’t even have a good tire track. We’ve got his DNA but…”

“No,” Barbara said, closing her eyes. “Just the… sad feeling of death with that ugly hint of necromancy. That’s weaker than the feel of death itself.”

“We can probably reach one more site today,” Donahue said. “But it’s older.”

“We’ll go there,” Barbara said. “See if there is anything.”

“Can I drive?” Janea asked.

“No.”

Even with a stop for lunch it didn’t take as long as Donahue expected to reach the next site. This one was right by a minor back road. Apparently the killer had stopped, dragged the body into the weeds just beyond the right-of-way and then driven away. The area was thick with high grass and blackberries and Janea hadn’t even bothered to try to crawl into the brush. However, it didn’t make much difference since Barb couldn’t even pick up the residue of the body.

“All the others are older,” Donahue said.

“I don’t think this is going to do any good,” Barbara said, pushing aside some high grass. “There’s hardly anything…” She paused and then stepped further into the grass. “You picked this area over?” She asked, turning her head from side to side, her eyes closed.

“Yes,” Donahue replied. “Should have, anyway.”

Barbara stopped and bent down, digging into a section of briars with a set expression on her face.

“Do you have a set of tweezers or a bag or something?” Barbara asked.

“Here,” Donahue said, handing over a long set of tweezers and a plastic bag. “Don’t touch whatever it is with your fingers.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Barbara replied in a strained voice. She reached into the brambles and carefully extracted something, dropping it in the bag. “I don’t want to be doing this, much less touching it.”

“Interesting,” Donahue said, taking the bag by the corner. “A gem?”

“Moonstone, I think,” Barbara said, wiping her hands on her skirt again. “And it’s steeped in that necromantic… stench.”

“Let me see, please,” Janea called, stepping up to the edge of the brush.

Donahue first put a small yellow marker in the briars, then gave Barbara a hand getting out of the scrub. Barbara didn’t complain; the aura from the moonstone was nearly as intense as from the dead girl. Certainly more concentrated. The hand wasn’t entirely unnecessary; she was shaken by being as close to the gem as she had been.

“That’s a moonstone, all right,” Janea said, taking the bag carefully. “And Barb’s right; the aura level is massive. I’d say that it was used as part of the rite. Perhaps a decoration on the althane or on ceremonial dress. I’d strongly suggest turning this over to Special Circumstances forensics. They have some ceremonials that might give us a better handle on what it was used for. I…” She paused, then shrugged and handed the bag back.

“This feels as if it has been used for a power repository. But I don’t know a ritual that does that, not at the levels I’m feeling from this. The writing was from an unknown source and this might be an unknown ritual. In which case, we really need to know about it; we’ve got a library of most of the true rituals out there.”

“I’ll leave that up to the SAIC,” Donahue said, pocketing the gem.

“Well, leave it in the trunk at the very least,” Barbara said, shuddering. “You have no idea what horror you just dropped in your pocket. Think of it as every concentrated scream, every concentrated plea, every drop of blood, every soul, in micro, there in your pocket.”

Donahue slowly drew it back out, then walked to the car and put it in a case in the back.

“Wait,” Janea said, digging in the small bag she’d brought along to hold her “necessary” cosmetics. She pulled out a scarf and handed it to the agent.

“Wrap it in that,” Janea said, backing away from the trunk.

Barbara, even without being able to see what he was doing, could tell when the thing had been wrapped. The aura of evil was abruptly cut off.

“What was that?” Barb asked as they got in the car.

“Silk,” Janea said. “I was so overwhelmed by the stench from that thing I forgot. But silk will stop most power emanations dead in their tracks.”

“I’m going to make some silk bags for investigations, then,” Barbara said, feeling much better with that… thing wrapped up. “And we need to suggest to the FBI that they invest in silk covers for bodies. I don’t think that being around that sort of necromantic power is good for anyone in the building, sensitive or not.”

They drove back to the Academy, dropped off the gem along with a description of where it had been found, then caught dinner at a steak house.

“I’d always heard of psychic consultants,” Donahue said, as the waitress left after getting their drink order. “And I’d always discounted them. I guess I shouldn’t have.”

“Well, the Bureau sometimes uses what we call ‘real’ psychics,” Janea said, chuckling. “At least, so I’m told. People who think they have the ability to feel psychic emanations. We don’t do that. We have a sort of connection to a god. The god, in turn, gives us certain gifts.”

“I hadn’t really realized I could do that until just today,” Barb said. “And now I wish I couldn’t. I can still feel the residue from that thing in the trunk and we haven’t really helped.”

“Oh, yes you have,” Donahue said. “Just that moonstone could be a major key. In this case, we have a solid case against some unknown perpetrator. The DNA is solid, there are various other pieces that are solid and, guaranteed, as soon as we know the perp there will be witnesses that put him and the victims, some or all, together. Just the DNA, these days, is good enough for a conviction. We just have to find him. And that moonstone could very well be the key.”

“Unlikely,” Janea said. “Moonstones are common in fandom and we’re thinking this guy is a fan, right?”

“Yeah,” Donahue admitted.

“Moonstone is relatively cheap and looks cool,” Janea continued. “You see it all over. I’d been thinking about the properties of moonstone. One of them is, yeah, the enhancement of power and power storage. But not at that level. If there’s a lost ritual that actually permits the stones to store power for a greater rite, then…”

“The stone was being used like a battery?” Donahue asked.

“Maybe,” Janea said. “That’s what some people do. But not that powerful a battery.”

“I want to know how it was attached,” Barbara commented. “Was it on a ring? In a setting? On a costume? What? I think if the… perp has whatever it was attached to at the con I’ll feel it. He… heck, I think I’d feel it if I was in the same county.”

“Unless it’s wrapped in silk,” Janea pointed out.

“The lab will be able to find that out by tomorrow,” Donahue said. “The con starts Friday evening in Roanoke. It’s small. In one way that will act in our favor; we won’t have as many people to try to sort through. In another, it will be a problem since we’ll tend to stand out if we don’t be careful.”

“Careful is my middle name,” Janea said. “Of course, it’s from my real name and I never use that.”

“I just don’t see you as a Doris,” Barb admitted, smiling.

“Hush your mouth,” Janea replied, waving a finger at her. “I hate that name.”

“Do we go together or separate?” Donahue asked and then looked at Barbara’s expression. “We’re staying separate, obviously.”

“Pity,” Janea said. “Hey, if I go with Greg, there’ll be more room for the luggage!”

“How much luggage do you have?” Greg asked, worriedly.

“A lot,” Barb said, frowning.

“You’ve got a rentacar, right?” the agent asked. “Why don’t I see if I can check out a Bureau unmarked Expedition. More room for luggage, more room for us.”

“And you can drive?” Barbara asked, grinning.

“That, too,” Donahue admitted.

“We can do that,” Barb said. “I’m not sure how we get back.”

“We can fly out of Roanoke,” Janea replied. “You can fly home direct. We’ll drop the rentacar off before we go down.”

“Let’s do that,” Donahue insisted. “Among other things, it will give you a chance to catch up on your reading.”

“More reading?” Barbara said, smiling.

“You’re going to have to be able to discuss the collected works of K. Goldberg,” Donahue said.

“Who?”

“She’s a horror and mystery writer,” Donahue said, handing over a book with a dripping knife on the cover. “You’ll want to read at least one book of hers before the con. You can keep that one; get it signed if you wish.”

“Great,” Barb said. “More homework.”

Chapter Eight

I’m not too sure about this,” Barbara said as they pulled into the parking lot. Donahue had managed to wangle an unmarked Expedition after he saw how much luggage was “a lot” and the drive down had been uneventful. But as they pulled into the registration area of the hotel and Barb saw the con-goers unloading, she got a little nervous. “I haven’t read science fiction in years. The only fantasy I’ve read is Lord of the Rings. And I’m only half way through Goldberg’s book and it’s the first horror I’ve ever read. I usually read romance novels for heaven’s sake.”

“You’ll be fine,” Greg said. “We’ve got two rooms, a double and a king. I couldn’t get them adjacent but they’re on the same floor and wing. Obviously, you two get the double.”

“And you’ll be with me,” Janea said. “Other than… you know, how much trouble can you get into?” She had chosen to wear a pair of hip-hugger jeans, stilettos and a halter top for the drive down. As she put it: “Comfortable clothing.” Barbara looked at her for a moment and shook her head.

“A lot?” Barb said, chuckling.

“Not at this con.” Janea sighed. “This is a lit-geek con. Now, you go with me to DragonCon or Arisia and we’ll burn the hotel down. I’ve got some costumes that would probably fit you…”

“No way,” Barbara said. “I’m not wearing a chain-mail bikini.”

“Okay, okay,” Janea sighed. “Jeeze. But… how about a corset?”

The hotel for the con was an old resort north of Roanoke off of U.S. 221. Time and highways had passed it by and it had fallen into disrepair before being purchased by an enterprising Hindu family. They had slowly fixed it up and then offered it as a getaway for corporate functions. Together with the occasional small gathering like the convention, and some solid work, it had begun to be regain its former glory. It was set well back from the highway up a steep and winding road through leafless trees. The check-in was smooth and with the help of a luggage cart they got all their bags up to the rooms. Donahue, in contrast to the girls, had only brought two small carry-on type bags.

Once in the room Janea started pulling out outfits.

“What do you think of this one?” she asked, holding up a midriff top and a miniskirt.

“Well, it’s definitely you,” Barb said, shaking her head. “But we could, you know, wear the same clothes to go register.”

“What’s the fun in that?” Janea asked, opening up another bag. “Or this?” she added, holding up a corset and a long, matching skirt with a wide slit up both sides.

“What are you going to wear over the corset?” Barbara asked.

“Nothing, of course,” Janea said, frowning. “What should I wear?”

“Janea,” Barb said, gently. “It’s freezing.”

“You’ve got a point,” Janea admitted, digging in the clothes. “I’ve got the perfect outfit.”

The “perfect outfit” turned out to be another pair of hiphuggers, these with laces down the side that left large, triangular gaps, a bra and a see-through shirt. She threw a leather coat over the ensemble and then posed.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I still think you’re going to freeze to death,” Barbara replied. She’d gotten into the spirit to the extent of changing from the skirt and blouse ensemble she’d worn down into a pair of relatively tight jeans, a blouse that showed a small amount of cleavage and one of her heavier “dressy” jackets.

“We’re gonna slay ’em,” Janea said, grinning. “But, really, I could loan you a corset. With that jacket over my green one, it would be really outstanding. All the guys would drool. They’re probably going to think we’re lesbians, anyway, and some guys really get off on-”

“Janea,” Barb said, tightly. “I’m not an acolyte of Freya. Try to remember that.”

“Oh,” Janea said, slightly abashed. “Sorry. Uhm… Greg’s probably wondering what took you so long, so let’s get going…”

When they got to Donahue’s room it took him a moment to answer the door.

“Sorry,” the agent said, waving them in. “I was checking my e-mail.”

“You get that much?” Barbara asked, stepping into the room cautiously. She had a vague feeling of uneasiness entering the room of a person, a male person, she wasn’t married to. Donahue hadn’t changed and except for opening up one bag to get out his laptop his bags were undisturbed. She mentally sighed at the amount of room he had compared to them; his room wasn’t crowded with luggage.

“I had a few,” Donahue admitted. “But I was replying to some and I called the lab. The moonstone was apparently part of a piece of silver jewelry. There were striations on the surface indicating that it had been set and traces of silver. It’s been sent on to the Special Circumstances forensics group to see what they can get off of it.”

“They’ll take it slow,” Janea foretold. “That’s a damned evil piece of rock. They’ll have to set up precautions to ensure the evil won’t spread or contaminate anything or anyone.”

“Well, it’s all we have so far,” Donahue said, shrugging. “That and the generic description of the perp. Have you two… felt anything?” he asked, uneasily.

“No,” Barbara replied, shaking her head. “Nothing.”

“Generally you won’t feel a necromancer,” Janea said. “Or so I’ve been told. Not unless he… It’s hard to explain. He doesn’t have to perform a rite but if he uses power you might sense it, Barb. And if he… sort of thinks about necromancy… if he starts to slip into the mental state where he’d be… stalking or hunting, he might give off a trace. But if he’s just… wandering around or gaming or something, we could walk right past him and not even notice.”

“I’d think that if he was carrying whatever had that gem on it, I’d feel it,” Barbara pointed out.

“I don’t know whether to hope he does any of those things at the con or hope he doesn’t,” Donahue said, seriously. “This assumes he’s even at this convention. But let’s go register and sort of look around.”

“Welcome to KaliCon.” They had been in the registration line for about half an hour and Janea had already collected a legion of followers; the male con-goers kept running into walls as they passed. It wasn’t a very long line but there was only one person giving out badges and “Black Kitty,” or so her badge read, seemed prepared to chat with each person or group. Black Kitty was a short, wide woman in her fifties with thin reddish hair and a broad smile that gave her face prettiness that was belied by her overall looks.

“Donahue, Janea and Barbara E,” Greg said. “We only registered last week.”

“Well, let’s hope we got them done in time,” Kitty said, digging into the box that held the badges. “Sure enough,” she continued, pulling out badges and slipping them into holders. “Have you been to the con before?”

“Not this one,” Greg said. “I’ve been to a couple and Janea has been to several. Barb is a con virgin, though.”

“I’m sure you’ll have a good time,” Kitty said, handing over the badges, which had pins to stick them on a shirt. “We’re a very laid back con. There will be some room parties you might enjoy, though.” She looked at Janea and a frown momentarily crossed her face. “There’s a DragonCon party on Saturday I hear.”

“We’re mostly here to see Miss Goldberg,” Barbara said, smiling. “I’d really like to meet her.”

“Well, stop by the Wharf Rats suite,” Kitty said, smiling again. “She spends a good bit of time around them and if she’s not there you might find out where she is hanging out. She’s very good about visiting with the fen. For the rest,” she continued, handing over a pile of schedules, “she has a couple of panels and a signing.”

“Is there a LARP going on?” Janea asked, smiling disarmingly. “I like to LARP.”

“It’s in the schedule,” Kitty said, nodding. “Underworld, I think.”

“Oh, good,” Janea said, bouncing in happiness. “I love being a Hunter! It’s like I live it!”

“Goldberg doesn’t have a panel until tomorrow morning,” Donahue said as they walked down the hallway. “And the Dealers’ Room doesn’t open until six. I think it’s time for dinner.”

“When’s the LARPing start?” Janea asked, seriously. “I’d like to take that side of the investigation and Barb might enjoy it.”

“There’s a meeting tonight at nine after opening ceremonies,” Donahue replied. “So do we eat in or out?”

“Well, I’m always up for eating in,” Janea said in a sultry voice, waggling one eyebrow. “But let’s eat out,” she added, more normally. “We’re probably going to be immersed in fandom for the rest of the weekend; one last normal meal would be prudent.”

“Okay,” the FBI agent said, looking at Barbara. “You okay for that?”

“For the time being, I’m just along for the ride,” Barb pointed out.

“Out it is,” Donahue said, heading for the parking lot.

There was a nearby Outback Steakhouse which wasn’t completely overflowing. However, they did have to wait. The interior was crowded so they wandered outside, despite the falling temperatures, ending up sitting between a group of obvious fen and a group of much more obvious mundanes, a pair of couples, the men in slacks and golf shirts and the women in informal dresses. The fen were chatting loudly about something that had happened at another con. Barbara couldn’t make heads or tails of it and she more or less tuned it out until the group got up to go to their table.

As the last of the group entered the restaurant one of the women next to Barb’s group shook her head.

“I wonder where the Klingon costumes are,” she said, cattily. “I don’t think they could fit in them anyway.”

“You gotta wonder what they do when they’re not here,” one of the men said, laughing. “I think I saw one of them working in a Seven Eleven yesterday.”

“Well, the balding guy in the leather jacket is a New York Times bestselling author and scriptwriter,” Greg replied, turning to look at the foursome. “One of the women owns a software development company that’s just short of Fortune five hundred. And one of them is an out-of-work graphic artist. I didn’t know the other three.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” the man said, sharply.

“No, but you were talking loudly enough to be heard by everyone out here,” Greg responded, coldly. “Ergo, you were trying to denigrate them generally instead of specifically within your group. What I’ve never understood is why.”

“Tribal instinct,” Janea answered, ignoring the group but speaking loudly enough that they couldn’t ignore it. “Also fear of social status. Maintenance of social status for a high status person is a full-time job. People like these four have status to maintain and these days they have to live in fear of the oddballs that control things like computers and information technology. Since suits can rarely figure out how to turn on their computers, much less do anything more complicated than a simple spreadsheet, they increasingly fear geeks.”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” one of the women snapped. “I can figure out a computer just fine.”

“Yes, but use the word ‘router’ around you and you think it’s something used in a woodworking class,” Janea said, turning to her and smiling thinly. “But primarily it’s a throwback to primitive society where the higher status got to eat the better parts of the mastodon. And they’d eventually get kicked out of status and end up eating the knees. Keeping people in their place was important for them. Now, they go through high school and college in a comfortable in-group and then, upon exiting into the real world, find that they’re dependent upon the people they denigrated in both areas. It has to be terrible for you,” she added with mock caring.

“I hadn’t realized you were with them,” the man who had made the Seven Eleven comment said, tightly. “Sorry.”

“We’re not with them,” Greg said, turning away. “But we are of them.”

“And what do you do?” one of the women asked Janea, smiling but with a very bitchy tone.

“Greg is an FBI agent, Barbara is a nice little homemaker from Mississippi who has somehow fallen in with evil companions,” Janea answered, smiling pleasantly. “Me, I’m a very expensive call girl. Don’t worry about me stealing your men, though. I’m far too expensive for anyone who dresses up to go to Outback. And I only do men like your husbands for free if they’re likeable,” she added, smiling happily and bouncing enough to cause a nice jiggle.

Barb half hid her face and shook her head as silence descended upon the area. Fortunately, the group of mundanes were soon called to their table.

“I hadn’t expected you guys to go picking fights,” Barbara said as the group left.

“I shouldn’t have,” Greg admitted. “But that sort of catting really pisses me off.”

“I’ve done it myself,” Barb admitted. “Trying to fit in to an in-group in a new school. Geek bashing isn’t really a full-time job for groups like that, they’re much more focused on cutting each other down.”

“Maintenance of status in any group is a full-time job,” Janea said. “You can’t believe the sort of status games you get in stripping.”

“I don’t work on it full time,” Barbara argued.

“Hah,” Janea said, grinning. “Look at the way you do your clothes and makeup. I bet you’re first in line for all the school bake sales and PTO chores, too.”

“Well…” Barb said, frowning. “I guess so.”

“Everybody does it,” Janea said, shrugging. “It’s normal and human. The question is the way that you do it. You can choose to cut people down or you can choose to raise them up. By raising them up, or treating them like equals, you don’t really reduce your status. Their admiration for how you treat them automatically raises your status.”

“Well, you cut them down,” Greg said, frowning. “I mean really sniped them bad.”

“I’m Asatru,” Janea said, smiling. “It’s my job to do battle, even verbal battle, for my tribe. And fen are my tribe. I just got God points. Especially by using sex as a weapon. Freya should be really happy. Most of her devotees come from tribes that find that tribe to be the enemy. I did battle and I kicked their ass.”

“I’m not sure,” Barbara said. “Call girls are automatically of such low status to people like that they can ignore you.”

“The men weren’t,” Janea said, archly. “And the women will know that, especially later tonight. Trust me, I kicked their asses.”

“You didn’t use power, did you?” Barb said, frowning.

“Nope,” Janea said, shaking her head. “Didn’t have to, I have these,” she added, in a little girl voice, bouncing and giggling again.

The rest of dinner was uneventful and afterwards they made their way back to the con.

“Opening ceremonies are at eight but I’d rather skip,” Greg said when they were back in the con area. “Most of the time it’s boring as hell to everyone but the con in-crowd. Most of the guests won’t even show up.”

“I’m headed over to the Dealers’ Room,” Janea said, grabbing Barbara by the arm. “We’ll catch up with you later. Where are you going to be?”

“I’ll probably stop by the Wharf Rat party,” Greg said, clearing his throat uncertainly.

“What’s wrong with that?” Barb asked, curiously.

“Well, it’s like being fen,” Greg said, shrugging. “When you’re in something like the military or FBI, you generally don’t want people to realize you’re into some of this stuff. I’m sort of a Wharf Rat, a lurker anyway.”

“Okay, what’s a ‘Wharf Rat’?” Janea asked. “I’ve heard of them but I’ve never paid attention.”

“Well, there’s this publisher, Pier Books,” Greg answered, shrugging. “They’ve got a webboard where people talk about their books and… all sorts of other things. The people that hang out on the board are Wharf Rats. It’s sort of an in-in group in fandom, those that go to cons. The outcast of the outcasts.”

“Why?” Barbara asked, chuckling. “Completely lacking in social skills?”

“Some,” Greg said, nodding his head in admission. “But mostly… fandom tends to be pretty liberal. The Wharf Rats… have some liberals but they tend to be into more old-fashioned SF and conservative. I hope you can handle cigarette smoke. And, I dunno, military types. They’re not very PC.”

“I think I might finally feel at home,” Barb replied.

The Dealers’ Room turned out to be a moderately large ballroom filled with folding tables. The offerings were eclectic. At the first table through the door was a comic book seller and next to him were a man and a woman selling silver jewelry and other knickknacks.

“Keep an eye out for moonstone jewelry,” Barbara pointed out. “I’m going to circulate counterclockwise.”

“You never seemed like the widdershins type,” Janea said, grinning. “But… okay.”

Barbara wandered down the east wall, checking out the selections. There were two booksellers, one specializing in signed and out-of-print books and the other with a vast assortment of newer titles. Barb stopped at the out-of-print seller’s booth and perused the titles as the dealer, a short, heavily endowed brunette, was completing a sale. Barbara hadn’t heard of most of the titles on display: being an SF con they were mostly science fiction and fantasy.

“Looking for anything in particular?” the dealer asked from over her shoulder.

“I’m just getting back into reading,” Barb admitted, turning to look at the woman. She was older than Barbara had thought at first glance, with fine lines by sharp green eyes. “I’m more into romance.”

“I’ve got a signed copy of A Civil Campaign,” the dealer said, pulling a book out. “It’s SF, but it’s really a Regency romance novel. Lois is an excellent writer.”

Barbara glanced at the price and blanched. With all the “homework” she had, she wasn’t sure when she could get to the book.

“A bit much,” she murmured. “Do you have anything about necromancy?”

“Hmmm,” the woman said, lifting an eyebrow. “Fiction or nonfiction?”

“I’d think that anything about necromancy would be fiction,” Barb said, smiling faintly.

“Well, there are books on the occult,” the woman replied, squatting to pull out a thin volume. “Mark Tommon’s Necromancy in the Western World for example.”

“Got that one,” Barbara admitted. “I think I’ll just look around.”

“Feel free,” the woman said, smiling. “I hope you find something interesting.”

“Oh, it’s all interesting,” Barb said. “It’s simply a matter of time. I’m taking a course at the moment and I don’t have a lot of time for pleasure reading.”

“A course in necromancy?” the woman asked.

“The occult,” Barbara said, generally. “It’s part of a… church program.”

“Ah,” the dealer said, her expression closing. “Christian?”

“Not… exactly,” Barb admitted. “More ecumenical, I suppose. Thank you for your time.”

“Not at all,” the dealer replied. “Enjoy yourself. First con?”

“Does it show?” Barbara asked.

“A bit,” the woman said, smiling. “But you’ll find you fit in pretty quick.”

A couple of booths down from the bookseller a dealer had a large selection of silver jewelry in glass cases, quite a bit of it with moonstone. The dealer handling the jewelry was a “pleasingly plump” brunette with long, dark-brown hair, but on the side of the booth was a massage chair where a short, heavily muscled man was painting henna on the arm of a teenage girl.

“If you see anything you like, just ask,” the woman behind the counter said.

“Thank you,” Barb said, closing her eyes for a moment and running her hand over the display. She stopped and opened her eyes, looking at a silver dragon brooch with a large moonstone in the breast. She had felt a definite twinge of power from the brooch, but not necromantic. It felt… sad but not evil. “That’s very nice.”

“Yes,” the dealer replied, her eyes wary and a touch sad. “I had a friend who died of AIDS. His avatar was the dragon so I made that in his memory.”

“I see,” Barbara said, carefully, unsure how to ask the question. “When you were making it…”

“I imbued it with my sadness, yes,” the woman replied. “You noticed.”

“It’s a gift of God,” Barb said. “It is very beautiful and very sad.”

“It was designed to draw sadness out,” the woman said. “But I think, instead, it brings the sadness with it. Not what I’d intended.”

“You’re a witch?” Barbara asked, interestedly.

“A bit,” the woman said, frowning. “I don’t think you are, though.”

“No, but I’m not a Bible thumper, either,” Barb replied, smiling. “I’m finding that there are many ways to God. Each chooses his or her own. And you make beautiful jewelry. Do you make custom pieces?”

“Of course,” the woman said. “Do you want one?”

“Thinking about it,” Barbara admitted. “But I’ll have to think about what.”

“When you’ve got a design in mind, call me,” the woman said, handing her a card. “My husband does the design work and I make the jewelry.”

“Thank you,” Barb replied, taking the card and inserting it in her purse. “Go with God.”

“Thank you,” the woman said, smiling. “I will.”

Towards the back of the room was a large freestanding booth just about covered in weapons, armor and leather accoutrements, some of which Barbara half turned her eyes from. The racks hid the center of the booth so she peeked in, letting out a startled squeak of surprise at the sight of the dealer. He was about seven feet high and skeletally thin, with long graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. His arms were covered in tattoos so old and faded they were hard to make out. But what was especially startling were his eyes, which had red irises and a vertical pupil.

“Contacts,” the man said in a deep baritone. “They’re contacts.”

“Oh,” Barb replied, embarrassed at her reaction. “Sorry.”

“I get it all the time,” the man said, grinning. When he smiled his formidable looks faded into the background. “Looking for anything in particular?”

“No,” Barbara said, taking a glance around the interior, carefully skipping over some of the studded pieces she suspected she knew the purpose of, and then stopping at a sword that was on display as a centerpiece. It was a katana, but something told her it wasn’t just a cheap knockoff. “Oh, my,” she continued, sliding past the dealer to look more closely at the sword. The price tag dangling from it told her all she needed to know about its authenticity. “…Murasaki?”

“Yes,” the man said, sliding past her in turn and lifting the sword down carefully. “For anyone who can identify it that quick, I’ll take it down.”

Barb took the sword in a perfect two-handed grip and examined the wavery light reflected from the dark steel. “Beautiful,” she said, turning it from side to side to look down the blade. It was perfectly balanced for her.

“I found it in a pawnshop,” the man said, shaking his head. “It was just about covered with rust. The guy thought it was one of the World War Two souvenir swords. I spent three years rebuilding it, working the blade inch by inch when I had time and the right energies.”

Barbara closed her eyes and opened her link, feeling for the sword. Then her eyes flew open.

“This sword has a soul,” she said, softly.

“The maker put his energies into it,” the man replied, just as softly. “That was why I only worked on it when I had the right energy.”

“You can’t give a soul,” Barb said, looking up at him.

“You can give of yourself,” the man contradicted. “The soul is ever refilling and the more you give of it, the more you gain.”

“Did you put your soul into it?” Barbara asked, comparing the feel of the man, which was deep and a tad dark, to the feel of the sword. The sword was… remarkably neutral.

“Not really,” the man replied, shaking his head. “I simply showed it that it was once again cherished and loved. It is not for me, though. Its soul and mine are not in full harmony. It is for someone else.”

“Not me,” Barb said, handing it back regretfully. “Not at sixty grand.” As the man placed his hand on it, Barb’s spasmed shut and she grabbed at her head as a wave of evil seemed to wash over the room.

“Are you okay?” the man said as Barb finally relinquished the sword.

“Fine,” Barb gasped as the wave passed. “Headache. I have to go now.”

She stumbled out of the booth and settled in a convenient chair. The wave of evil had passed but it left a numbing miasma behind it.

“Barb, are you okay?” Janea asked after a moment.

“Did you feel that?” Barb asked.

“No,” Janea replied. “What?”

“Our friend is definitely at this con.”

Chapter Nine

It was really strong,” Barb said. Janea had called Greg and helped her up to their room where they were met by the FBI agent. “It had a feel to it, like a predator. Like you look up and there are the eyes of a beast staring at you from a cliff. Not a clean beast, either, a horrible one. I think, maybe, he’d seen his quarry.”

“Then we need to find him, fast,” Greg said. “Before he leaves with her.”

“The girls haven’t been killed during the cons, have they?” Janea asked.

“No,” Greg admitted.

“Then he’s probably going to stalk her for a while,” Janea pointed out. “Hopefully, he’ll stay here for the full con. We’ve got time.”

“Any direction to this feeling?” Greg asked.

“Not really,” Barbara said, shaking her head and taking a drink of water. What she really wanted was a good, stiff drink of bourbon. “It was just… all around. He might even have been in the Dealers’ Room.”

“A dealer?” Greg asked. “That would narrow it down some.”

“There were lots of people in there shopping,” Janea pointed out. “I wish Barb had been a bit more fit; we could have looked around.”

“I didn’t get any feel from any of the dealers,” Barbara said. “Or any of the pieces, not a necromantic feel. One of the dealers was… a tad strange. But… he didn’t have the right feel, either. He was dark, but not evil.”

Greg considered her for a moment and opened and shut his mouth. Then he shrugged.

“The only thing I can figure out is to have you circulate,” Greg said, frowning. “Maybe if you meet him you’ll get a feel or whatever.”

“I’m not sure I’m going to be willing to be open enough to get a… feel the rest of the con,” Barb said, sighing. “But you’re right.”

“I’m going to the Wharf Rat party,” Greg said. “Janea?”

“I’m going to go LARP,” Janea said, definitely. “I’d give odds it’s a LARPer.”

“I’ll just wander around,” Barbara said. “People talk to me. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

“Everybody’s got cell phones,” Greg noted. “Janea, if you get a twinge, call Barb and me. We’ll gather and study. I’ll do the same. Barb, if you get a twinge, call me. Right away. I know you ladies are… experts with this. But the idea here is to make an arrest. Before we go I’m going to call in and let them know that we have a good probability of having the suspect on site. FBI Headquarters will get some back-up up here. Hopefully Hostage Rescue Team.”

“If it comes down to a duel of power,” Janea noted, “HRT will only be in the way. And they’d better not come on with ‘we’re the experts here’ because they’re not.”

“There are HRT members who are briefed for Special Circumstance,” Greg pointed out.

“I know,” Janea snapped. “But they’ve also been damned brain-dead about it from time to time. And then you’ve got soul-sucked and dead HRT guys on your hands and there are questions and problems and…”

“I take your point,” Greg said, swallowing.

“The same goes for you, Greg,” Barbara pointed out, quietly. “If whoever this is has built up serious power, or has a serious channel, you could be the liability here. If I tell you to leave, you leave, got it?”

“Got it,” the FBI agent said, unhappily.

“I’m sorry I got bitchy,” Janea said, putting a hand on his arm. “But finally getting a real target nearly in the sights gets me horny and I get a backache. Sorry.”

“Uh, that’s all right,” Greg said, swallowing.

“Freya can be a bitch that way,” Janea said, sighing sadly. “She gets more attached the hornier I get. What I really need about now is a good screw. But we’ve got work to do.”

“Yes we do,” Barb said, trying not to smile at the agent’s wide eyes. “But I’m going to change first. If I have to move, I don’t want to be doing it in heels. You can’t run in them worth a damn.”

“Oh, it’s just a matter of learning how,” Janea argued. “You get up on your toes and sort of dance like a ballerina. It’s not hard. Hell, I dance in higher heels than those all the time. And run. You just have to have the calves for it. And you look so good in heels.”

“Well, I don’t have the calves,” Barbara said. “So I’m going to change into running shoes. You can wear whatever you want.”

“Yes, Mother,” Janea said, grinning.

“I’m going to head out,” Greg said. “Especially if you’re going to be getting naked.”

“But guys look at me naked all the time,” Janea pointed out, reaching for the tie at her neck. “Don’t you want to?”

“Maybe later!” Greg said, backing out of the room.

“Damn,” Janea said as the door closed. “I was hoping for a quickie.”

“Not with me in the room,” Barb said, shaking her head.

“You only had to watch,” Janea pouted. “Besides, you’d be getting dressed and stuff.”

“What did I do to deserve this?” Barbara asked, pulling out her jeans.

“You needed somebody more experienced than you on the case,” Janea pointed out. “And boy did you get it!”

Barbara wasn’t sure what to do when she got downstairs. There were a few tables of gamers in the hallway outside the Dealers’ Room, which had closed for the evening. Janea had pointed out that it was unlikely the killer was a gamer. Most gamers just stayed gaming through the con and didn’t interact much. If the killer was stalking the cons for targets, the gamers were not the place to look.

Most of the rest of the people seemed to be gathered in small groups talking in corners. She passed out the double doors to the outdoor atrium that the hotel was wrapped around and found the smoking area. There were a couple of groups gathered on the steps down to the pool area and a larger group around a table on the north end.

It was cold outside but Barb had sensibly added a heavy jacket to the jeans and long-sleeved shirt. She stood outside uncertainly, just looking around, and tried to listen to the conversations around her while opening up her channel carefully. When she didn’t get any feel of evil immediately she closed her eyes and tried to mentally reach out.

“That’s impolite you know,” a girl’s voice said by her ear.

Barbara’s eyes flew open and she looked down into a round face by her shoulder. The person had sounded like a girl but was clearly a full grown woman, about five five with dark hair and… stout. She was wearing a heavy jacket and had a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other.

“You shouldn’t just go throwing power around,” the woman said, shaking her head. “Among other things there are people that would want to eat it. It’s very dangerous to let anyone know you’re powerful.”

“Perhaps I’m powerful enough I’m not worried by it,” Barb said, blinking in surprise.

“Nobody’s that powerful,” the woman said. “And just probing people is terribly rude.”

“I’m doing it for a reason,” Barbara replied, defensively.

“I didn’t figure you were just hunting for a good guy to get laid by tonight,” the woman said, grinning. “I used to do that at Sabbats. It’s a good way to figure out which guy’s likely to be worth it. Oh, you steer wrong sometimes, I know I sure did. I picked up one guy who was a real loser that way. I mean, he had power but he was such a slacker he never used it and when he did it was for all the wrong reasons. But I wish I’d known about it before I met my ex. I mean, I learned about power and auras while I was with him and when I really read his aura I was like: ‘What in the hell did I do?’ It wasn’t bad enough he wanted to have sex every fifteen minutes, and he wasn’t good at it I’ll tell you, but he just was so closed up. I mean, he had power, too, but he was so selfish it was like he held it in like a miser. It was the same as everything with him, he just used it for his own fun. He never cared if I had fun or not, I’ll tell you that, but it was all the time or he got really angry. Oh, my name’s Mandy. What’s yours?”

“Barb,” Barbara said, her eyes wide.

“I like the jacket, Barb. You don’t seem like a pagan, are you? You look like a mundane, I was really surprised when I read your aura. You’re right, you’re powerful and it’s god power. Who’s your god?”

“The Lord,” Barbara replied, calmly. “But I don’t go around Bible thumping and I get along just fine with pagans.”

“Wow! You’re a Christian? I’ve met some Christians who said they were powerful but it was all so much bullshit. They were so closed up it was incredible. I thought Christianity must suck power right out of you. I’d like to meet the pope just so I could see if he’s powerful because if he’s not nobody will be, right? But you’re powerful, I can see that. You have the most amazing aura, it’s very bright and light blue mostly. Light blue is really unusual, I guess it’s because you’re a Christian. There’s tinges of red, that’s usually a sign of somebody who’s not sure what they are but I don’t think that’s related to your religion, you seem really grounded in that. What do you do?”

“I’m a homemaker,” Barb said after a moment to catch up. The woman not only spoke nonstop she jumped all over the place and talked a mile a minute. And she didn’t seem to care much about what she talked about.

“What’s a mundane homemaker doing at a con?” Mandy asked. “I mean, we get all kinds but you don’t seem like the con type. Are you enjoying yourself? Not much happens on Friday night, Saturday is when it starts to pick up. Of course this is a small con, the big ones like Dragon and WorldCon start on Thursday usually and go until Monday. But even then it’s pretty slow on Thursday. Have you thought about going to DragonCon? You could really costume with those legs and tits; you’d look great in a chain-mail bikini or a corset. Yeah, a corset would really set off your looks. You should get a good corset. There’s a guy I know makes corsets, he’d love to fit you. Great hands, I wish I could afford his stuff, but it’s really expensive. He can make a corset for anybody, though. He made a corset for my friend Tracy and she’s, like, an M cup. And she’s got this condition called mastitis so her tits are, like, solid and they stand straight out. All the other guys that made corsets had tried and given up but Kevin made one for her. He’s down in the Dealers’ Room, you should see him tomorrow. Medium height, great head of blond hair, you should see the Eomer costume he made, he looks just like him. Norm would look great in an Eomer costume but we could never afford it. I mean I’m barely making anything dealing tarot and Norm can’t get a job. He’s a trained diesel mechanic but nobody will hire him cause his dyslexia is so bad. What’s funny is that he can read just fine if it’s right to left, you know, but regular writing just is like impossible for him. He’s really been helping me with my studies though. He used to be LeMay but he’s with the Goddess now but when he was LeMay he really got into some very hard readings and he learned a lot that he’s been able to help me with. He’s really smart but he reads so bad that he can never pass the tests they give him for reading so nobody will hire him. Which is really stupid since he’s a really good mechanic and he’s built all sorts of stuff for us at the house. We’ve got the best altar you’ll ever see and the whole circle thinks it’s great. So what are you doing at the con?”

“I’m here to see K. Goldberg,” Barbara said, her wide and staring eyes starting to glaze over. “I’m a big fan. Well, a fan. I heard she was going to be at this con and I decided to come get a couple of books signed.”

“Really?” Mandy said, turning around. “Hey, Kay? Fan here.”

“Excuse me?” Barb said, looking past Mandy’s shoulder. At the base of the stairs was a group consisting of two women and a man. The man was heavyset and had the look of a laborer. His clothing was worn and not particularly expensive to start with and he was wearing an old field jacket. One of the women was about Barbara’s height and age, slightly plump with a pleasant face and brown hair. The other was short, slender to the point of emaciation and much older, maybe in her sixties, with bright red-brown hair. All three were smoking, the man and taller woman holding beer bottles and the older woman what looked very much like a Mimosa.

All three looked over at Mandy at the interruption but the older woman was facing Barb as she looked up. She gave Barbara the fastest appraisal she’d ever experienced, starting at the shoes and working up to Barb’s face and hair. And her face was… hard and closed as she did it. Then it cleared, so fast that Barbara wondered if she’d really seen what she thought she saw.

“This is Barb,” Mandy said, going over to the group. “Kay, she’s a fan of your books,” the woman continued, gesturing at the older woman.

“Always a pleasure to meet a reader,” the older woman said in a soft Southern accent. Her face now had an expression of real pleasure as she held out a soft hand.

“Barb’s a homemaker,” Mandy continued. “And this is my old man, Norm, and this is Ruby, she’s the co-chair,” she said, introducing the other two.

As Barb expected, Norm’s hand was rough from work. Ruby gave her a smile that was wary and Barbara couldn’t figure out why.

“What is a… co-chair?” Barb asked.

“Con co-chairman,” Ruby said, regarding her levelly. “One of the two people running the con. I take care of dealing with guests and con-goer problems and my partner, Bill, handles operations and the con staff.”

“Oh,” Barbara said, blushing. “I understand. I’ve had to run some things, not this big. I can imagine the headaches. You’ve done an outstanding job; it’s a very well run con from what I’ve seen. It must have taken a lot to time on your part to do all the planning.”

“Thank you,” Ruby said, her brow furrowing. She seemed to be looking for something in the words besides graciousness and not finding it. Possibly to her chagrin.

“Somehow I hadn’t expected… uh, a big author to be just standing around talking out in the cold, Ms. Goldberg,” Barb said, looking at Goldberg.

“Call me Kay,” Goldberg replied, smiling and ducking her head shyly. “Everyone does.”

“Do you write full time?” Barbara asked, not sure what you asked a writer.

“Yes, but not mysteries,” Kay answered in a soft voice, ducking her head again. “I also write for the newspaper in Charlotte and I do some radio work.”

“Well, you certainly have a lovely voice,” Barb said, smiling.

“Tell her what else you do, come on,” Mandy said, grinning.

“Oh, Mandy,” Kay said, shaking her head.

“She writes football columns for the paper,” Ruby interjected, smiling at the slight woman. “And she does color commentary for Clemson.”

“Really?” Barbara asked, her eyes widening. “What an… That’s just delightful. I wish my husband could meet you. You’d probably have a lot to talk about; he’s a tremendous Ole Miss fan.”

“I’d rather talk mysteries,” Kay replied, shrugging. “At least here. I enjoy football but it’s good to get away sometimes. You’re not originally from Mississippi, are you Barb?”

“No, I traveled around as a girl,” Barbara said, her forehead furrowing slightly. “My father was what’s called a Foreign Area Officer. They go to embassies.”

“What branch?” Ruby asked.

“Air Force,” Barb said, looking at her in puzzlement. It was a lamentable fact that very few people she knew had much knowledge of the military.

“I was Air Force,” Ruby said, nodding. “An SP. So was my ex, in the Force that is. He was a bomber pilot.”

“So was my dad before he was an FAO,” Barbara replied, smiling. For a former military brat, finding even one veteran in a group like this was a relief. In a way, the military was a very extended family and she warmed to Ruby immediately.

“I was in the Marines,” Norm interjected.

“So was I,” Mandy added. “That’s where I met my ex. I met Norm later, thank the Goddess. He was a sending, I think I would have died if I hadn’t met him.” She grinned at the man who shrugged and smiled sheepishly. It was apparent who the big talker was in the twosome.

“I think this is as many military people as I’ve met since the last time I was at my dad’s house,” Barb said, grinning. “What about you Miz Goldberg?”

“I know a lot about the military,” Kay answered. “And please call me Kay. Mandy said you are a homemaker? Children?”

“Three,” Barbara said, sighing. “One of them, fortunately, old enough that she can do for her father. Mark’s never learned to so much as cook. Except grilling, of course.”

“All men can grill,” Mandy said. “It’s like something genetic. Get them around fire and they just have to cook something on it. But if you ever go to a Sabbat gathering you’ll find out how much you really can do on a fire. Norm’s great at cooking over a fire but I was at one where a lady held a full formal high tea, all of it cooked on fires. And it was perfect. She even had scones if you can believe it. I almost took Cheryl and I suppose I should have she would have, learned something from it. Actually, what with everyone who was sky clad probably taking a fourteen-year-old who already has a C cup chest wouldn’t have been a good idea. What did I ever do to deserve a daughter that has a C cup chest at fourteen? It’s not like I was a C cup when I was fourteen. She thinks it’s funny and so are boys and the way you can twist them around your finger. She keeps saying that she’s going to suck all their brains out with flying squids and make them her minions. I don’t know why it’s flying squids but she’s fixated on that. And taking over the world. She thinks girls should think big. I told her minions aren’t going to do you any good if all they can do is stare at your chest but she wouldn’t listen. But my ex has custody and I wasn’t about to try to explain it to him, he thinks Wicca is of the devil. Apparently wife beating is just fine by Jesus Christ — Oh, sorry!” she cut off, looking at Barbara.

“Christ is often used as an excuse for evil,” Barb said, waggling her head from side to side. “I personally believe in the rule that a man is the master of the house and the woman’s place is to obey. Up to a point and that point is when the actions are outside of Christian duty. The Old Testament has very little to suggest that a woman shouldn’t allow herself to be beaten. But the foundation of Christianity is not the Old Testament, it is the New, the words of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. And Christ was a man of peace who raised up even the fallen women. He was, assuredly, never a wife beater. And any man who raises his hand to a woman in anger is no Christian.”

“We get all sorts of trouble from Bible thumpers,” Mandy said, shaking her head. “I mean, so I read tarot, what’s wrong with that? It’s like they think we’re the Devil incarnate and they don’t even know what the Devil really is. I mean, the Christian symbology for the Devil is the Horned God who wasn’t evil at all, he was just a fertility spirit. Sometimes human sacrifices would be made to him but that was the ritual and it’s no different than transubstantiation if you think about it. Both of them involve human sacrifice and at least the worshippers of the Horned One didn’t eat their victims. Well, not usually and not in the later worship. By the time Christianity ran into the worship of the Horned One most human sacrifice had been eliminated which, let me tell you, really pissed the old guy off. But the Devil didn’t have anything to do with the Horned One. He’s just a modification of the shedim Shaitan. And Wicca doesn’t derive its powers from either the shedim or the Horned One though some call on the Horned One but I think that’s all about fertility, not that Norm and I have any problems in that regard but thank the Goddess he’s not like my ex. I wish he’d get sacrificed to the Old Gods. But they’d probably spit his soul back out.”

“Yet, the God of the Old Testament and the New Testament are the same God,” Ruby said, smiling and ignoring Mandy’s digression. “How do you justify obeying only one set of rules, especially when they’re at odds?”

“It’s corny,” Barbara said, shrugging. “But I really do ask myself ‘What would Jesus do?’ Not ‘What would Solomon do?’ I may sometimes feel the rage of David, but I only let it loose against persons who truly do evil, who live in it. Being rageful when… oh, somebody cuts you off in traffic or some woman is being snippy about whose daughter is smarter than whose, that’s not being a Christian. Nor is beating your wife.”

“And would that be being a Jew?” Kay asked, dryly. Barb noticed that her accent flattened out slightly. “Since that’s the Old Testament God?”

“I don’t know as much about Judaism as I would like,” Barbara admitted, carefully. “But the Talmud encompasses far more than the books that are found in the Old Testament. And the study of it is thousands of years old, with a great deal of interpretation, as I understand it. I’ve never heard that wife beating is common amongst those of the Faith of Abraham. Is it?”

“Not noticeably,” Kay replied, smiling. “Is this what you usually do, stand around and debate religion?”

“Oh, no,” Barb admitted. “Normally I have to stand around and make nice little comments about how gracefully a friend’s daughter fell on her face during cheerleading practice or trade casserole recipes. I much prefer this. The talk is much more… broadening.”

“You’d better watch that,” Mandy said with a laugh. “You’ll end up questioning all sorts of assumptions.”

“Not fundamental ones,” Barbara said, smiling. “Those are far beyond belief for me. For one thing, I clearly separate the social overlay of humanity from the Truth of the Risen God. I won’t preach, but the power of the Lord Jesus Christ is very real. As you should know, Mandy,” she added with an arched eyebrow.

“This is your first con?” Ruby asked.

“Oh, yes,” Barb said, laughing. “I… well, my husband thinks I’m at a religious retreat. And I was, but one of the ladies at the retreat was coming to the con and she knew I was a… reader of Miz Goldberg’s books, so she suggested I come along. I find it very interesting.”

“You’re also here with a gentleman,” Kay said.

“Really?” Mandy squealed. “Something else the hubbie doesn’t know?”

“He’s a friend of Janea’s,” Barbara said, primly. “I’m staying with Janea, I’ll point out.”

“It’s not a problem,” Kay said. “I was just wondering. Where did you study martial arts?”

“How did you know… ?” Barb said then paused. “My dad got me into it when we were in Hong Kong before the turn-over. I’ve been studying it ever since.”

“The religious conference,” Kay said. “Would that be the Foundation for Love and Universal Faith?”

“Yes,” Barbara said carefully. “You know about it?”

“A bit,” Goldberg replied. “What did you think of your fellow attendees?”

“They were a very… eclectic bunch,” Barb said, looking at Goldberg with more interest. She noticed that the accent had faded again, just a bit.

“And you came from there to here?” Goldberg asked. “To observe the con?”

“Yes,” Barbara said.

“Interesting,” the woman replied. “Well, it’s getting late and these old bones can’t handle the chill as well as they used to. I’ll bid you all good night.”

After a round of good nights she headed for the far side of the atrium and Barb bit her lip.

“I forgot to ask her something,” Barbara said. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute?”

She strode after Goldberg and caught her as she was waiting for the elevator. There were three young people in black waiting for the elevator and when Barb caught the word “vampires” she perked up. But a moment later she realized they were talking about a game.

“Miz Goldberg?” she said as the elevator arrived. “I was wondering…”

“How I know of the Foundation?” Kay asked as they got on the elevator.

“Uhm…” Barbara said then paused again since they were in the elevator with the teenagers. “Actually, I was wondering about you. It’s… something that Daddy taught me.”

“I’m just a writer, miss,” the woman said. “A very old one who is going to bed.”

The three got off the elevator at the second floor and as the door closed so did Barb’s face.

“You’re a hell of a lot more than a writer, Miz ‘Goldberg,’ “ Barbara said. “The way that you deflect questions is straight out of the manual on avoiding being pumped.”

“And you’re a hell of a lot more than a homemaker, Mrs. Everette,” Kay replied, just as hard. “What’s going on at the con?”

Barbara paused for a moment more then shrugged.

“There’s a serial killer,” she said as the doors opened again.

“Go ahead,” Goldberg said as they stepped out of the doors. “You’d be surprised what you can say at a con. I’ll just tell anyone who hears it that you were trying to sell me on writing an idea you had for a novel.” She stopped and sighed. “You’d be surprised how often that happens.”

“Well, this would make a good one,” Barb said as they reached the woman’s room.

Barbara explained the nature of their mission to the woman as the writer took off her shoes and rubbed her feet. When she was done, for the first time the woman really looked old.

“And Special Circumstances thinks the killer is one of my fans?” Kay asked, still rubbing her feet.

“You even know about that?” Barb asked, her eyes narrowing.

“You’d be surprised what I know, kiddo,” Kay replied, her accent entirely gone. If anything it sounded a bit New York. “Yeah, I know about SC. Is that old stick Germaine still in charge?”

“Yes,” Barbara said. “He recruited me.”

“You should have run screaming,” Goldberg replied with a sigh. She got up and went to the room’s refrigerator and pulled out a split of champagne and a bottle of orange juice. After pouring equal measures into a plastic cup she drank about half of the mixture before sitting back down and lighting another Virginia Slims. She took another sip, a long drag on the cigarette and then looked Barb square in the eye. “Special Circumstances eats people and spits them out as mangled husks. I hate them in a way. Oh, I know that they do the Lord God’s work. But they use their people like donkeys. No, even donkeys get some rest. I know most of the people that talk to me at cons by name. Young male?”

“Male anyway,” Barb said, shrugging. “Brown hair. He might wear silver moonstone jewelry.”

“I’ll come up with a list,” Kay said, thoughtfully. “You’re circulating looking for suspects?”

“I’m… I have some feeling for these things,” Barbara said. “It’s not very well trained, but…”

“If he’s halfway good, he’ll be cloaking,” Kay said, sliding up on the bed and plumping the pillows behind her. “You could walk right past him in the hall, you could talk to him and get nothing. If he’s cloaking and you’re not, he can see you, so to speak, and know you’re either a hunter or a target. He can get more power from someone like you than from just any old child. And if he’s gathering power in moonstones he can shield that from you with silk, so you won’t be able to feel his power source either. You know all that?”

“I… sort of,” Barb said. “I’ve picked up… a few of those things. But I’m new to this.”

“So why are you on such an important case?” Kay asked, her eyes narrowing.

“I’m strong,” Barbara said, firmly. “I am strong in my faith and the Lord’s hand shelters me.”

“You know that?” Kay asked. “He’s a flighty God, our God. And he is our God. Slightly different approaches but the same God. And He has quite a few items on His plate. You can’t depend on Him to always pull your chestnuts out of the fire. And you’d better be sure you are powerful if you go up against a necromancer.”

“I have… battled before,” Barb said. “Something more powerful than a necromancer. And the Lord sheltered me.”

“You’re lucky,” Goldberg said, mirthlessly. “I lost a tad of my belief when… well, that’s neither here nor there. You keep firm to yours, it is your shield and sword if you know how to wield it.”

“You were in Special Circumstances?” Barbara asked, curiously.

“Not me,” Kay said, shaking her head. “A… friend was involved in one of their investigations. He died.”

“I’m sorry,” Barb said, sincerely.

“So was I,” Kay admitted, looking at the far wall and into the past. “But a lot of friends died and, honestly, some of them for less reason. He was… a bit more special to me than the others. There is a reason I’m Miss Goldberg in other words. And all his faith did not shield him. Or, perhaps, it wasn’t as strong as he thought, as I thought for that matter. Hold hard to your faith in the Lord, young one. And I hope that His hand is over you always. Good night, Mrs. Everette.”

Chapter Ten

With nowhere else to go, Barbara went back down to the atrium. Mandy and the others had disappeared so she walked over towards the group by the table. Somebody was singing and she vaguely recognized the song. Her father had sung it sometimes when he was really drunk.

“As the wind shook the barley…” the man said, picking up his glass and taking a slug. It was dark with something and from the bottle of Glenlivet on the table Barb could guess what it was. He was probably in his fifties, good looking in a lean-boned way with dark hair shot with gray. The group around the table was clearly enjoying the song and most of them were smoking. She noticed that one of them was the bookseller she’d spoken to earlier in the day. She wasn’t smoking but she looked right at home.

Behind the group was a man sitting on a blanket, writing in a notebook and ignoring the goings on around him. He was tall from what Barbara could tell, distinguished looking with a long face and short gray-brown hair, clean shaven and dressed heavily against the cold. A woman with long silver hair was seated in a chair between him and the group, subtly blocking anyone from approaching.

“So now I’ll play the patriot game,” the man sang as a couple of others tried to chime in. “And I think I’ve forgotten the rest.”

“You’re just not drunk enough, Don,” one of the men at the table said, laughing. “You’ll remember after another bottle.”

“That I may,” the man said, picking up his glass and draining it. “And what is this lovely apparition I do see before me?”

“Back off,” the man who had said something about being drunk said. “I get the blondes, you get the dark ones. That’s the deal.”

“A base canard, laddy,” Don said, grinning at Barb as he refilled his glass. “For certain blondes I will make an exception.”

“I’m married,” Barbara said, sitting down at one of the open tables. “But you sing very well. You remind me of my father. He used to sing that to me.”

“A shot to the heart!” Don said, grinning nonetheless. “Once a girl says you remind her of her father you’re either shot down or into a very strange relationship indeed. However, your chastity is safe around me, lovely apparition without a name, for I do not bestow myself upon other men’s wives. And I had noted the ring.”

“Just anything else with a skirt,” the bookseller said, smiling.

“Nothing of the sort,” Don protested, taking another drink. “They must be of reasonable age and willing. And unmarried and unengaged. Other than that, yes, I am willing to grace their bed and they need not even pay me. Can any woman ask for more? What is your name, lovely apparition? And avoid the laddy across the table. He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing and far less moral than I. He prefers his own cooking but other men’s wives.”

“Barbara,” Barbara said, holding out her hand. “Barb Everette. And yours?”

“Donald Draxon,” Don said, shaking her hand and then bending over to kiss it. “Various appellations and honorifics on that, depending upon circumstances.”

“Like colonel,” the “laddy” across the table said. He was at least in his forties, slightly heavy but not fat by any stretch, with a look that said he’d once been in shape. He was smoking cigars instead of the inevitable cigarettes and Barbara found the smell refreshing. “And Esquire and up-and-coming writer if I have anything to do with it.”

“Ah, laddy, we’ll get there,” Don said. “Never fear, we will shake the publishing industry to its very foundations. What brings you to the con, Barb the Lovely?”

“I read Miz Goldberg’s books,” Barbara said.

“Goldberg?” Don asked, puzzled.

“Mystery writer,” the still unintroduced “laddy” said. “Lives in Charlotte. Short, Jewish, a bit zaftig if a tad on the old side. All else bears not repeating in nonsecure circumstances.”

“Forsooth, laddy, do tell,” Don said, filling his empty glass again. “We are among friends.”

“Seriously, Colonel, not in nonsecure circumstances,” the man said, firmly.

“Bloody security,” the colonel said, taking a deep drink from his glass. “I hates it, I hates it my precious, I does.”

“You’re really a colonel?” Barb asked, smiling and changing the subject. Although she also made a note to pick “laddy’s” brain.

“An instructor at the War College,” “laddy” said, smiling lightly.

“For my sins,” Don sighed, sadly. “All these bright young colonels and Navy captains being indoctrinated in PC rhetoric and me the only one trying to stem the tide. You know, Barb, it is perfectly legal to take hostages and hold them against the good behavior of the inhabitants of an area? And then kill them if the inhabitants aren’t good? I mean, if you do it right. Iron-clad legal.”

“He’s the instructor in the law of land warfare,” “laddy” said. “Which is a bit like giving Satan the keys to the Pearly Gates. Especially since he’s the most bloody minded, legalistically sneaky bastard the Army’s ever spit out.”

“I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced,” Barbara said, looking at the other man. The rest of the group was just watching the by-play between the two.

“Folsom Duncan,” the man said, bowing slightly. He was wearing a long black leather coat that had to be lined against the cold unless he was superhuman.

“And you’re a writer as well, sir?” Barb asked, curiously. She knew she had made a mistake when about half the group laughed.

“You see!” Duncan said, mock angrily. “What is it with this genre? I’ve got to start writing mysteries or that unicorn story or something!”

“He’s one of the biggest writers in science fiction,” the bookseller said, grimacing at Barbara’s faux pas. “At least based on sales. And he’s always lamenting that there aren’t enough good looking females reading SF.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Duncan said, waving his hand and wafting cigar smoke around. “It’s totally normal. I’m not by any stretch a household name. And the publishing industry is so diverse that readers of one genre rarely know another. Which is why I should write romances or teeny-bopper thrillers or Goth or something. That’s the way to get the chicks for free. And getting the chicks for free is the only true pursuit for a grown-up male. Before puberty, of course, it’s avoiding them like the plague.”

“You’re married,” Barb pointed out, noting the wedding ring.

“It doesn’t mean I can’t flirt,” Duncan said, smiling. When he smiled his face came alive and Barbara admitted that she did find him attractive. “I’m not quite as aggressive about it as Donald here, but I certainly enjoy the dance. It helps, however, to have the cachet of being a ‘published author.’ It sort of breaks the ice. Among other things, it skips right over the lousy pick-up lines. Women come up to me and say ‘So what’s your next book, Mr. Duncan?’ Very refreshing.”

“Well, not much,” the brunette said, laughing. “Mostly they say, ‘Who the hell are you?’ ”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Duncan said, sorrowfully. “I’m going to write a book about unicorns. Get surrounded by young lovelies that have to know what’s going to happen to ‘whatsername.’ ‘Well, young lovely nubile lady,’ I’ll say, ‘it just so happens that I have my latest work in progress up in my room. I’ll squeeze you in between nine and nine-thirty. I hope you can handle multiple orgasms.’ ”

“I have some problems with that,” Barb said, her eyes wide.

“Oh, so would I,” Duncan admitted, hastily. “Among other things, my wife would kill me and there’s all these laws and things about underage females. But it’s a lovely thought.”

“Women don’t like anything that’s got a scrap of science to it,” one of the men at the table said. He was a heavyset older guy with a thick gray-brown beard. “They only want to read horsey stories about dragons and unicorns.”

“Hey!” the brunette snapped.

“Most women,” the man corrected.

“Well, there’s a bit of a reality to that,” Duncan said. “I mean, market-wise it’s indisputable. But the question is, why?”

“Do tell us, laddy!” Don said, taking another heavy drink. “You’re the thinker in this lot.”

“Not the only one by a stretch,” Duncan said. “But there are a few known facts about the differences, physiologically, between male and female brains. One of them is that in fetal development, males get more separation between the two lobes of the brain. It’s actually a function of testosterone. That means they can separate logic from emotion more effectively than females. That gives them the ability to look at things with clearer logic, in general.”

“I think I’m pretty logical,” the brunette said. She didn’t seem as upset about his statements as she had been about the “scrap of science” comment.

“Ah, but you’re a bit odd, as a female,” Duncan pointed out. “You yourself have commented that you act more like one of the boys. And I, who find virtually any woman from fifteen to fifty to be worthy of a passing thought about afternoon delight, am not physically attracted to you at all. Because you do come across as ‘one of the guys’ and I am irresolubly het. I suspect you’ve got a bit less connections than most women, ergo you can deal with a situation with less emotional input. Now, me, I probably have a few more connections than your average bear, thus my gift of gab and a bit of ability to write.

“It’s not a hard and fast thing; human beings are individuals not groups. It’s more of a bell curve with males trending more to the ‘logic’ side and women more to the ‘emotion’ side. Now, the point to that is that each has strengths and weaknesses. I suspect that it’s why females gravitate, in general, to more emotional or nurturing professions. In business they tend more towards marketing rather than operations. In medicine they tend towards nursing and softer arts rather than, oh, surgery. And they bring strengths to those areas. It’s not a matter of better or worse. A coldly analytical SOB makes a great accountant and a fair operations manager but a lousy marketing guru. But it would also explain why they tend more towards fantasy rather than SF. And especially tend away from military fiction which is much more cold and brutal than most of the rest of the genre.”

“I’ve read a fair amount of military fiction,” Barbara said. “And I certainly don’t come across as one of the guys.”

“Not in the slightest,” Duncan said, waggling his eyebrows. “However, have you any military background?”

“My dad was in the Air Force,” Barbara said.

“Culture modifies nature,” Duncan said, shrugging. “You were inculcated in the military culture. It might be why you gravitated over here; it seems to happen. Military people just seem to turn up around us. I think it’s something in the tone of the laughter that says: ‘Really bad no-shit story being told over here.’ I suspect, however, that you’re not much of a science fiction reader.”

“No, not really,” Barb admitted. “I got forced to read some in high school, but I never really liked it.”

“Bleck,” Duncan said, sticking out his tongue. “Probably Bradbury or Ellison. Bradbury shouldn’t happen to a goat.”

“Hey, I like Bradbury,” the brunette said.

“I know, and I forgive you,” Duncan said. “You also like Ellison, which is a far greater sin against man and God. However, as the Lord said, let he who is without sin cast the first stone and I do admit to occasionally reading Asimov and enjoying it. Albeit, his very early work before he got full of himself. ‘Christmas on Ganymede’ was really the height of his writing oeuvre.”

“You’re a Christian?” Barbara asked, surprised.

“Catholic,” Duncan said, shrugging. “Sort of. I know the tune and can dance to it. I really think of myself as a fallen pagan of Christ.”

“What’s that?” Don said, screwing up his face. “That’s one I hadn’t heard before.”

“All the old gods got wrapped into the Christian pantheon as saints and angels and such like,” Duncan said taking a sip of his own drink. Barb had assumed from the color that it was whiskey as well, but she suddenly suspected that it was iced tea. Which seemed an awfully cold drink for such a freezing night. “My namesake, for example, is naught more than various war-gods absorbed by the early Christian church. And as a Catholic, I don’t have to pray straight to the Big Guy. I can use the chain of command, which works just fine for my brain. So in the very few cases where I think prayer is in order, and occasionally when it’s not but I think he might like a word or two, I pray to Michael. Certainly worked for me in Division.”

“How?” one of the men asked.

“When I was jumping I’d just pray over and over again: ‘St. Michael, Patron of Paratroopers, Protect Us,’ “ Duncan said, shrugging. “Over forty jumps and nary an injury. Only guy I know who had more than twenty and never broke anything. These days I just talk to him from time to time when I need somebody to talk to who doesn’t talk back.”

“You were military?” Barbara asked.

“Just a grunt,” Duncan said, shrugging. “Not a very good one. Now I’m a decent writer some people like.”

“This is his way of fishing for compliments,” the brunette said, smiling. “He’s actually quite good. If you like military stuff you’d probably enjoy his books.”

“Unfortunately, most beautiful, gorgeous, curvaceous, long-legged, fine-boned, well-dressed blondes do not,” Duncan said, winking at her. “Especially those between the ages of sixteen and nineteen and a half. Alas, my primary market is males between the ages of fifteen and fifty. And I’m so irredeemably het. It’s a shame, it really is.”

“So, basically, you’re screwed,” the man with the beard said, laughing.

“Or not,” Folsom said, sighing. “But I will triumph. Unicorns. That’s the ticket.”

“I-I’ve been th-thinking about a s-story,” one of the men at the table said, suddenly. He wasn’t smoking, Barbara noticed, and she wasn’t sure why he was out there. He was in his twenties, at a guess, with lanky dark brown hair that had been cut in bangs that just didn’t look right on him. “I-it’s s-sort of unicorns in outer s-space. Well, n-not really, th-they’re not really u-unicorns, th-th-th-they just look s-sort of like th-them, but not horse looking more like s-seals because th-they can fly in s-space and th-they make a s-sort of bubble of air around th-them. Well, th-they don’t usually but th-they can if th-they have to and th-these kids find s-some and… Well, not kids, probably teenagers, th-they find th-them, I haven’t figured out just why th-they’re th-there but I’m working on th-that and th-these kids, th-their parents are probably s-scientists because I don’t th-think th-that it would work with th-them being asteroid miners. I th-think th-that asteroid miners would probably be a bit red-neck, and th-these kids are pretty s-smart. Of course, th-they could have not really s-smart parents. Or th-the parents could be pretty s-smart because you’d probably have to be s-smarter th-than most people th-think to be an asteroid miner. Anyway, th-these kids find th-these s-sort of unicorn th-things and th-there’s a group of pirates. Well, maybe not pirates, th-they might be aliens th-that are trying to take over th-the s-system. And th-the kids use th-the unicorns to s-sort of foil th-them and th-that s-sort of th-thing. What do you th-think?”

“Lovely idea, Baron,” Duncan said, nodding. If he’d noticed the digressions and the fact that the entire thing had been delivered in a monotone, not to mention that the story idea was weak and the plot nonexistent, he didn’t show it. Nobody seemed to and Barb decided that since they all knew the person, they must be used to it. Which was more acceptance than she’d have expected from a group of clearly military oriented people. Most air force officers would have impolitely told him to shove off long ago. “And if it sold, young lovelies would be all over you like flies on honey.”

“They won’t be all over me,” one of the guys at the table said, grumpily. “But I really think my book has a chance.”

“So do I, Sean,” Duncan said, nodding. “Good story line, good characters. I think you’re a little long on the info dumps but what do I know? David certainly does well enough with them.”

“Still the wrong genre to fix my lack-a-nookie,” Sean replied. He was solidly built, probably in his twenties, with short hair and the look that said former military.

“Finally break up with Annette?” the bookseller asked.

“Ripped my heart out and stomped that sucker flat,” Sean said, bitterly. “Then she took out a restraining order. Now all my coworkers think I’m some kind of abuser.”

“Well, you do have a bit of temper,” Duncan pointed out.

“I never raised a hand to her,” Sean said, flatly. “I barely raised my voice. And that was only after I found her in my bed with her new boyfriend.”

“Sounds like you need to go back and reread the Iliad, laddy,” Don said, hiccupping. “Women are the root of all evil.”

“And men are the whole rest of the tree,” the brunette quipped.

“Well, I wouldn’t have fooled around on you,” a muffled figure said. The person was bundled up beyond belief in the cold. She had on a University of Tennessee jacket with the hood up, a scarf wrapped around her face and mitten-clad hands thrust into her armpits. Barbara could only guess she was a female from the voice and a tuft of blond hair sticking out of one side of the hood. Even her eyes were too shadowed to be seen.

“Thanks, Sadie,” Sean said, grinning. “But you’re taken.”

“We’re just friends,” the man next to her said, gruffly. He was probably in his fifties with a round face and body. With the beard and demeanor he looked like nothing so much as a rotund bear. He was the one who had made the comment about women not liking science. “And after two wives fooling around on me, I wouldn’t expect anything else,” he added.

“Men are naturally polygamous,” Duncan said, grinning. “Women, on the other hand, are simply designed to be unfaithful.”

“Now that’s an outrageous statement,” the brunette said, smiling. “Which means you have some backing for it, knowing you.”

“I’ll skip the men being naturally polygamous; it’s too long,” Duncan said, nodding. “But the ‘naturally unfaithful’ is easier. Study was done a few years ago. One group of women graded men on the basis of ‘hard’ or ‘soft’ looking. Then another group graded the men on their attractiveness, but it was calculated against their menstrual cycle. The closer they got to their menstrual cycle, when they were less fertile in other words, the more attractive the ‘soft’ looking men got. The closer they were to fertile, the more attractive the ‘hard’ looking men got. When asked to choose which they would prefer as a husband, for the long term, to raise children with, most chose the ‘soft’ looking males. The reason generally given was that the ‘nicer’ looking guys would probably make better fathers. More nurturing than those hard looking bastards.”

“Hah!” the round bear laughed. “I wonder how many ‘urban males’ are raising bastards?”

“Well, divorce proceedings are a bad random population,” Sean said. “But over thirty percent of the children that are tested in disputed custody cases turn out to not be the children of their supposed fathers.”

“Women are naturally unfaithful,” Duncan said, shrugging. “Once you’ve got that through your head everything else follows logically.”

“So are you one of the guests?” Barb asked, her eyes narrowing. Among other things, although he was somewhat older, the writer fit the parameters. He certainly didn’t seem to care much for women. She considered trying to read him, but wasn’t sure if anyone would notice. The shock she got when Mandy noticed still had her unsure.

“For my sins,” Duncan said. “Every year I turn and twist on the hook, and every year I seem to return.”

“And do you go to a lot of conventions?” Barbara asked, curiously.

“About four or five a year,” Duncan said, shrugging. “I enjoy them but they cut into writing time. But I need them, too. They let me get out in the mix of society and recharge the writing pool. I do a good bit of traveling for research as well. I’ve spent a fair amount of time in Virginia lately, researching another book. Again it gets me out in society; writing is a very lonely job. Helps with characters, too.”

“You might find yourself in a book someday,” the brunette said. “So watch out.”

“I call it soul stealing,” Duncan said, grinning.

Barbara got a cold shiver at that and decided that she just had to open up and see what she felt from the man. But there was nothing there. She reached out and felt the sort of mixed… grayness she’d come to feel from some people. But Duncan had… nothing. Not a feel of necromancy and not what her instructors had talked about with “shielding” or “cloaking.” This was more like some sort of anti-power shield or even total soullessness. He seemed powerful, and that shield certainly seemed to indicate that he was. But the power seemed oddly… familiar. She couldn’t be sure but she didn’t think he was evil. She wondered just how much he really talked to the saints.

“Well,” Barb said, standing up and smiling. “This has been a fun conversation, but it’s getting late for me so I’m heading in. If I end up in a book, I’d like to at least be informed.”

“I don’t know how to contact you,” Duncan said, widening his eyes and batting his lashes. “And I’m not about to ask for your number, it would probably be to a suicide hotline. But I shall give you a card. If you wish to contact me you may and I will tell you if you’re going to be used as a character. I make no promises about what the character goes through, however.”

“He turned me into a slave girl,” the brunette said, laughing.

“I’ve told you there was a perfectly reasonable explanation,” Duncan said, plaintively.

“Sure there was,” the woman replied, grinning. “I believe you!”

“If you didn’t trust me, why are we sharing a room?” Duncan protested.

“I didn’t say I didn’t trust you,” she replied. “I just said we had to have separate beds.”

“Conditions, conditions,” Duncan sighed, pulling out a card. “I hope to hear from you, Barb. Meeting you has made my evening.”

“It has been… enlightening for me as well,” Barbara said, nodding as she walked away. As she walked up the steps to the door she felt wetness fall on her face. Looking back she could see the snowflakes hanging in the lights of the atrium. She hadn’t seen snow like this in years but as she looked at the beauty she shivered. The snow could hide so much.

Chapter Eleven

As she was on the way upstairs she almost collided with Janea as she ran out the stairway door.

“Where is he?” Janea said, breathlessly.

“What?” Barb asked, looking around for threats. The dancer was clearly chasing someone with bloody intent.

“Skinny kid, wearing black!” Janea said. “Dark hair, pimples!”

“I didn’t see him,” Barbara said, still looking around. “Well, actually, that describes half the kids at the con… You’re sure it’s him?”

“Damn straight,” Janea said. “He manifested right in front of me, bold as brass. As soon as I… Ah hah,” she snapped, hurrying down the corridor at the sound of a door closing.

Barb followed as Janea ran to the far end of the corridor and turned into another stairwell.

“Listen,” Janea said, holding the door open. There was a sound of a door shutting but Barbara couldn’t be sure from which direction, up or down.

“Should we call Greg?” Barb asked, nervously. Wait, why was she nervous? She’d dealt with a demon, what was a necromancer to that?

“I think he went down,” Janea said. “But you go up. Call me if he’s up there.”

“I will,” Barbara said, darting up the stairs. She checked her piece on the landing and then darted up the final steps, throwing open the door at the top. There were three boys just outside the landing, one of them bent over gasping for air.

“She’s been chasing me like a hound,” the boy gasped, breathing in and out heavily. “How the hell can she run that fast in heels?”

“Well, between the three of us, we can take her,” one of the others said. He was taller and a tad older than the youngster who was hyperventilating. All three were dressed in black but the duster the man was wearing had several cabalistic signs on it. “She’s only a second level Hunter.”

“The hell you will,” Barb said, her hand still on her piece. “She’s not who you should be worrying about. Janea! Up here.”

“Gotcha!” Janea yelled from downstairs.

“Just stay still and don’t make any sudden moves,” Barbara said, pulling out her cell phone with her left hand.

“What the hell are you talking about?” the older boy said, looking at her askance.

“Gotcha,” Janea said as she skidded through the door. “Oh, holy shit!”

“Welcome to vampire central, Hunter,” the older boy said, maliciously.

“I’m outta here!” Janea said, turning around.

“Not so fast, Hunter,” the boy said, pulling out a card. “Let’s see your powers.”

“Damn,” Janea said, pulling out her own card. “I’ve built up sixteen defense points.”

“We’re unified in a circle,” the boy said. “That’s a total of twenty-five attack points.” He held up a fist and counted. “One, two, three.”

“Hah!” Janea said, holding two fingers up. “Scissors to your paper!”

“Damn!” snapped the boy who had been gasping. He’d managed to recover and now he looked like he wanted to spit.

“You can escape, Hunter,” the older boy said, putting away his card. “But you’d better keep your face out of sight by night. We know you now, Hunter, and we’ll be looking for you. All of our circle will be hunting you, Hunter.”

“Right, Barb, we’re leaving,” Janea said, taking her arm.

“You were playing a game?” Barbara nearly shouted as the door closed. “I was ready to draw on them!”

“Oh, hell,” Janea said, stopping and looking at her wide-eyed. Then she began to laugh so hard she ended up gasping like the kid who’d been run to ground. Finally she stopped and wiped her eyes, smearing her mascara. “Oh! Oh! God that’s funny.”

“It’s not funny,” Barb said, trying not to grin. “I was all set to call Greg and put the cuffs on him! And if one of them had made a move, they’d have been looking down the barrel of a .45!”

“Okay, so it’s not so funny,” Janea said, still chuckling. “Yeah, we were playing a game. Come on, let’s get over to the Hunter room and I’ll introduce you around.”

The Hunter room was a double just about filled with kids dressed in black.

“I had him dead to rights,” one of them was bemoaning. “I had the cross and the stake and everything. And he won the damned toss! So there I was, dead as a doornail.”

“Tough luck,” the girl he was talking to said. She was about fifteen if she was a day, pretty, overweight, and wearing at least another ten pounds of mascara and fifteen in silver jewelry. She looked like she probably had naturally light brown hair but it was dyed black and her eyes looked like a raccoon’s from all the black makeup. “But you can resurrect tomorrow.”

“I know,” the boy grumped. “But what am I going to do the rest of the night… ?”

“Barb, this is Timson,” Janea said, drawing Barbara over to a young man who was lounging on a chair at the back of the room. “He’s the Hunter leader. Timson, this is my friend Barb.”

“Nice to meet you, Barb,” Timson said, waving. He was tall and very fair, with light blue eyes and hair and a nice smile. If Allison brought him home as a date Barbara would be happy to let him go out with her. When she was a little older. He was dressed in what was apparently the required black, but it was limited to a black button-down shirt that looked vaguely clerical and black jeans. He had a black leather jacket slung over his shoulder. “Are you going to play? We’ve got two more Hunter slots open.”

“I’m not sure what I’m being asked,” she admitted.

There were three other teenagers hanging out with Timson and all three, and Janea, started to explain. It didn’t make heads or tails to Barb.

Apparently the game involved a three-way war between werewolves, vampires and Hunters who were humans with special powers. Everyone in the game had special tags so people knew they were playing around the con, but nobody was supposed to know which you were until you “encountered.” Then they would “battle” by flipping coins or playing, as Janea had, rock-paper-scissors and, based on some points that went right over Barbara’s head, you might be killed, or win, or be able to escape.

“It sounds interesting,” Barb said after the five minute explanation had wound to a close. “But I’m not sure it’s my sort of thing.”

“Well, why don’t you hang around and listen,” Timson said, grinning. “It’s really the most fun to be had.”

Someone had handed Barbara a Coke and one of the girls slid over so Barb could sit down. The kids were friendly at least.

“What do you do, Barb?” Timson asked.

“I’m a homemaker,” Barbara said, automatically. She just realized that what she really was was a Hunter. But in real life.

“I bet you’ve got kids our age,” one of the boys said, shyly.

“A bit younger,” Barb said, trying not to flinch.

“I wish my mom was cool enough to come to cons,” the girl next to her said with a sigh. She was skinnier than the girl who’d been commiserating with the “killed” Hunter but was dressed about the same. “But she’s so uncool it’s, like, crazy making! I had to beg to get the car tonight and she wanted me home by ten. I mean, nothing even starts until midnight. And she wouldn’t let me use the Beamer, I had to bring the Volvo! But with it snowing like it is, she told me I could stay over night.”

“We all have our problems in life,” Timson said, grinning.

“Are you all… teenagers?” Barbara asked.

“You mean living at home?” Timson asked, raising an eyebrow. “Most of the kids at the con are. I’m out of the house, though. I do survey work for a cable company.”

“I go to Virginia Tech,” one of the other boys said. “I’m taking computer engineering.”

“I’m going to college next year,” the girl next to her said. “I can’t wait to get out of the house.”

“Wait until you have to work for a living,” Timson said, grinning. “School sucks so you’re prepared for real life.”

“You don’t like your job?” Barb asked.

“I like it enough,” Timson said, shrugging. “It pays the bills. But if I had my druthers I’d con all the time.”

“This is real life,” one of the boys said, sighing. “We can be ourselves, here.”

“We don’t have to deal with stuck up sorority bitches,” the college boy said. “Or professors.”

“Try dealing with cheerleaders,” the girl said. “I’m sorry, black really does go with anything, thank you.”

“That was a… weird group,” Barbara said after they’d left the room and the group behind. “You really enjoy playing… that game?”

“I think of it as training,” Janea said. “And I was one of those kids when I was in school. I was the geek in the library with the glasses; I didn’t really start to bloom until much later. But I’d never heard of cons or LARPing or the rest of it.” She frowned and shrugged and Barb realized that she knew a lot about the people she’d met at the con, their lives and backgrounds. But she really didn’t know much about Janea.

“I suppose you could think of it as training,” Barbara replied. “But should your hobby be this close to your job?”

“I enjoy it,” Janea said. “And some of the kids are really bright. I’ve had good discussions about the occult with them. You should probably hang out with them more. Of course, some of them are better than others. Timson’s brilliant. I don’t know what he’s doing stuck in that job of his. He never finished college, though. He was working on a degree in anthropology but he said it just got too boring so he quit. He’s one of the ones that can talk about the occult all day and night. I mean, he knows the sixty-seven names of the known daevas and each of their special powers. He can even read ancient Persian as well as Aramaic, Greek and Latin. And he’s conversational in ancient Egyptian. I saw him translate Emily Dickinson’s ‘I’ve Known A Heaven’ on the fly into Egyptian and sing it to ‘Yellow Rose of Texas.’ Now that was bizarre.”

Barbara blinked at the image and then started at the very real sight before her. A man was walking down the hallway carrying, over his shoulder, a very large brown timber. Behind him was another man carrying an identical timber then a woman carrying a smaller… frame perhaps. Then more men and women dragging, rolling and carrying a variety of large boxes and bags.

“God, the snow’s bad!” the man in the lead said, maneuvering past the two women. “ ‘Scuse me.”

“Where are you setting up?” Janea asked, eyeing the second man in the line who was rather handsome and well muscled.

“Rooms three seventeen through twenty-eight,” the man said. “But you’re not my type, sorry.”

“Pity,” Janea said, arching an eyebrow.

Barb waited until the whole group was past and then looked at her “mentor.”

“What in that heck was that all about? And what were those big timbers for? They looked like parts of a cross!”

“They were,” Janea said, clearing her throat and for the first time in Barbara’s experience actually blushing. “They were for St. Andrews crosses.”

“And those are?” Barb asked, suspiciously.

“They’re… big crosses,” Janea said. “And that’s all I’m gonna say. But it’s pretty apparent the Black Rose has turned up in force. I know where I’m going to be hanging out.”

“I think I’ve had about all the bizarre I can take for one night,” Barbara admitted, shaking her head and trying to resist throttling her “mentor.” “I’m going to go see if there are any normal people around.”

“Wait ’til I drag you to DragonCon,” Janea said. “You’ll look great in a corset…”

“So what did you think of the Wharf Rats?” a woman asked as Barb walked down a second floor corridor.

“They were… interesting,” Barbara replied, stopping and looking the woman over. She was about normal height and only slightly plump with a pleasant face and blonde hair. The fuzzy reindeer horns were the only sign she was on the outside edge of normality. Compared to most of the people Barb had been dealing with all night she seemed positively normal.

“Try annoying,” the woman said, grinning. “Might makes right and all that.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that they think might makes right…” Barbara argued as a tall man walked up to the woman. He had long, mid-back length, slightly curly brown hair and was wearing a leather jacket heavy on the studs and buckles.

“You must be talking about the Wharf Rats,” the man said, grimacing. “If it wasn’t for Pier Books, none of those writers would get published at all. They’re fifth rate if that.”

“I’m sorry,” Barb said, smiling at him quizzically. “We haven’t been introduced.”

“I’m Larry Winston,” the man said, sticking out his hand. “I publish Zero Option, Dark Desires and A Bit of Mind.”

“Oh,” Barbara said, smiling and nodding. “I like your jacket.”

“Thanks,” the man said, frowning.

“I’m Angie,” the woman said, shaking Barb’s hand as well. “I’m sort of a gopher for the magazines.”

“Ah,” Barbara said, nodding. “I’m sorry I haven’t actually read any of them.”

“That’s okay,” the man said. “What are you at the con for?”

“I’m a reader of K. Goldberg,” Barb said.

“Oh, we’ve published Kay,” Angie said, happily. “She does wonderful dark fantasy.”

“That I can believe,” Barbara said with unintended humor.

“Why don’t you come down to the room?” Larry said, gesturing down the corridor. “We’re having a slush party.”

“What’s a slush party?” Barb said, uneasily.

“First con?” Angie asked, waving the way.

“Yes?” Barbara replied. It was unlikely that she was being lured away to be axed, but she also wasn’t used to being invited to a hotel room except by drunken businessmen who ignored her ring.

“Slush is the stories that are submitted to the magazine,” Larry said. “It just… piles up. There’s no way to stay ahead of it. So from time to time we bring it all to a con and invite people in to read it. That gets ninety percent, at least, thrown out. Then we can concentrate on the rest.”

“That seems a bit… brutal,” Barb said as she got to a half open door and followed Angie in. “I mean, people work hard on those stories. You just let anyone… toss them out?”

“Wait until you read some of them,” Angie said, laughing. “Larry has a favorite he reads every con, just to give an idea how bad they can get.”

There were about nine people in the room, sprawled on the beds, the floor and most of the chairs. Where there weren’t people there was paper or boxes of paper. There were at least ten file boxes stacked up against the wall, every single one of them overflowing with envelopes.

“Every submission’s supposed to have a self-addressed stamped envelope in it,” Angie said, picking one of the envelopes out of a box at random. She slit it open with a curved opener and pulled out the folded pages within. Sure enough, there was an envelope included with the sheets of paper.

“Incredible,” Angie said, grinning. “We only get about one in three that has an SASE. If there’s no SASE, be pretty sure it’s going to get thrown. We can’t keep track otherwise.”

She sat down on a partially clear area and opened up the tri-folded pages, then grimaced.

“Look,” she said, handing over the pages.

Barbara slid to the floor by Angie’s spot and started reading.

“ ‘When Gunor reached the feiry wastes of Thogrun he thought that his journey was at an end. But it had hardly beginning. Acrros the feiry wastes he strode, his acks Gomail on his brawny shoulder…’ ”

Barb struggled through the tedious prose, wondering when Gunor was going to do anything of note or, dare she hope, the writer would learn to run a basic spell-checker. After two pages, Angie looked over at her.

“You’re still reading that?” Angie asked.

“It seemed the thing to do,” Barbara said, trying very hard not to laugh at the prose. And she was still trying to find a plot in all the killing orcs and crossing feiry, sic, wastes.

“Good God, you’ve got a stronger stomach than I do,” Angie said, pulling the papers out of her hand. “Did it get any better?”

“Worse,” Barb admitted.

Angie picked up a form, filled in a line and then tossed the sheets of paper into a box filled with similar sheets.

“This is the rejection form,” Angie said, showing it to her. It had a standard “We’re very sorry your story, insert name here, does not meet our needs at this time,” message. Angie had already scrawled, somewhat illegibly, “The Journeys of Gunor the Great” in the space provided, which was too small so “the Great” was cramped into the space.

“Stuff it in the envelope,” Angie said, fitting action to words. “Lick and toss into the out box,” she said, sending the envelope skimming across the room into a box with “Kill Them All! Kill! Kill!” scrawled on it in Magic Marker. “Another tiny literary ego crushed by the evil publishing industry.”

“It does seem a bit heartless,” Barbara said, shaking her head.

“Do you see all that?” Angie asked, gesturing at the boxes. “That’s the inflow of just the last three months. And that’s just what we haven’t already read. Wait until you get to a really bad one.”

“That wasn’t really bad?” Barb asked, her eyes wide.

“Anybody got a really bad one?” Angie asked, raising her voice.

“I’ve got the pig story,” Larry called from the other side of the room, without looking up from the story he was reading.

“Not the pig story,” Angie said. “That’s in a category all its own.”

“Try this one,” a dark-haired man said, flipping some papers at her through the air. Half of them drifted off to fall on the floor as he flipped another envelope expertly through the air to hit the Kill box on the side.

Angie managed to snag the top page and grimaced.

“Look,” she said, handing the page to Barbara.

The page was lined paper filled with crabbed, nearly illegible, writing. There were numerous line-outs and scratch outs with words crammed in and over the sentences in no apparent order. And despite this careful editing, more than half the words were misspelled. The word “word” was misspelled, twice. From what she could glean of the actual story… there wasn’t one.

“Okay, that’s bad,” Barb said. “People actually think this stuff will get published?”

“Yep,” Angie said, tossing the paper on the floor to join the drifts. “And sometimes you’ll run into them at cons and they’ll ask you why they didn’t get published. Of course, as you can see, there’s no way to keep up with who they were. But they always have a bad photocopy of their original story. And you have to explain that it first has to be legible, then it has to be literate and last but most certainly most important it has to actually be a good story. Excellent prose, interesting characters, a theme that causes people to think.”

“Wouldn’t a plot be nice?” Barbara asked, smiling.

“Plot is sort of optional,” Angie said, frowning. “Some of the finest pieces of writing in the world don’t have what would conventionally be called a plot. Theater of the absurd for an example.”

“And a hook,” Larry said from across the room. He tossed the papers he was reading on the floor and picked up another from a pile. “It needs a good hook.”

“What’s a hook?” Barb asked.

“Think of it as a topic sentence,” Angie said. “A beginning sentence, or even phrase, that makes the reader want to know what it means.”

“ ‘Before the lobster blew up we were having such a good time,’ “ Larry said, still not looking up.

“ ‘I didn’t like being a leaf, but it was better than the alternatives,’ “ the dark-haired man belly-down on the bed added.

“ ‘It seemed that defenestration was the only solution to Ermintrude,’ “ one of the girls on the floor said. She was a college-aged Asian-American twisted up in a complex position that at first looked like yoga. Then Barbara remembered her own college years and recognized it as College-Study-Position Fourteen. “That’s a classic, of course.”

“I realized after fifteen minutes in the room that I had stepped through a looking glass without realizing it,” Barb said.

“That’s good,” Larry replied, looking up. “I don’t usually like first person, but that might work. What’s it from?”

“I just made it up,” Barbara said, dryly.

“Tits and a sense of humor,” Larry said, looking down again. “Unusual combination.”

“Hey!” Angie snapped.

“Well, there’s a reason I let you hang around,” Larry replied, equably.

“Sure, you get slave labor from my husband,” Angie said. “And you like my cookies.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever called them cookies,” Larry said, distantly.

“It’s just doing the time,” the brown-haired man on the bed said. “You stick with me. Someday they’ll say, ‘You remember when Angie and Eric were just lowly schlubs going to slush parties? Now look at where they’ve gotten…’ ”

“Bedlam,” a man propped at the head of the bed said. He was big and very heavyset with a thick beard and red-brown hair. But while being overweight, he gave the impression of having a good bit of muscle. “Bellevue. Momma Patrona’s House of the Seriously Mentally Infirm. God, that one was bad!” He crumpled up the manuscript, tossed it onto the floor, stuffed and skimmed, making it to the “KILL, KILL!” box despite it being across the room. “It was one of those that was so bad it was like a parody of bad. I kept thinking it was a joke and I’d get to the punchline. I couldn’t believe when I got to the end and realized he was dead serious.”

“Could he spell?” Larry asked, reading another manuscript.

“Yeah.”

“Good, send him a letter that we want to hire him as a slush reader.”

“I said it was bad,” the man said.

“Why should we have to be put through this?” Larry said, grimacing and tossing the manuscript on the floor. “That one doesn’t even deserve a rejection letter. It deserves anthrax in the envelope. Somebody hand me a bottle of foot powder. Teach him to submit that crap to me…”

Barbara read through a couple more of the manuscripts and found one that… wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good, but that might be taste. She supposed it was “combat science fiction” since it involved a fair bit of shooting. But she didn’t think much of the tactics and the characters seemed a bit flat.

“This might be okay,” she said, looking at Angie.

“Lemme see,” Angie said, picking it up.

Barb went back to reading and heard an occasional snort over her shoulder.

“Pier would love this one, Larry,” Angie said after a moment. “Get this, the enemy is radical greens…”

“Oh, God, not again,” Larry said, laughing. “Are they over-industrialized despite being serious environmentalists?”

“Absolutely,” Angie chuckled. “Wooden stock characters, big-titted women to be saved, not one bad guy with a clue and the prose is mostly banal at best.”

“We should send it to Pier with our blessings,” Eric said, looking up. “Give them all the rope they needed to hang themselves.”

Barbara frowned and opened her mouth, then closed it.

“You really think that environmentalists would hyper-industrialize?” Larry asked from across the room.

Barb sensed a test question but she couldn’t figure out the exact answer to give.

“I was thinking of the Soviet Union, actually,” Barbara said. “It was supposed to be a worker’s paradise, and it was anything but paradise. Hell is more like it. If Dante had seen it he would have written the Ninth Level differently. So, yes, I could see environmentalists acting in that fashion. Can’t you?”

“No,” Larry said. “Is it any good otherwise?”

“There’s a plot,” Angie said, shrugging. “And the grammar’s okay. But the characters are pretty flat and the prose is so-so. No real style to it. I wouldn’t have made it past the first page.”

“Toss,” Larry said. “The next thing it will be radical abortionists with an overpopulation problem.”

“Like China?” Barb asked, raising an eyebrow.

“China’s got its population under control,” Eric said, looking up. She suddenly realized that most of the people in the room had stopped reading and were looking at her.

“They’ve still got a higher growth rate than Europe or America,” Barbara said, ticking off items on her finger. “They have a huge imbalance in males, which will probably change that. But they’re already importing brides, which will tend to redress that in the long term. They have an official one child rule that’s regularly flouted by the privileged or anyone who can bribe the right officials and they have the highest rate of abortion in the world. They’re radical abortionists with an overpopulation problem. That is no more unlikely than radical greens with a pollution problem, which was really what was mentioned in the story.”

“Is it the population problem or the abortions that bother you?” Larry asked, frowning.

“The abortions,” Barb said. “When women abort babies just because they’re female, I have a problem with that. I, personally, have a problem with abortion, period. It’s simply infanticide a priori.”

“So you’d like to see Roe versus Wade reversed?” Angie said, a touch angrily.

“Roe was bad case law,” Barbara replied, shaking her head. “Let it be legislated.”

“A woman’s right to her body is inviolate,” the Asian-American girl on the floor snapped.

“So is the right of every person to live,” Barb snapped right back. “Including that unborn child in the womb. It’s a child. Infanticide, whether a priori as in abortion or after the fact as often happens in China is wrong. If you don’t want the child, give it up for adoption.”

“Some people can’t bear children well,” Angie said. “My sister-”

“If that’s provable, then it is different,” Barbara said, sharply. “But too often it’s used as an excuse. So you’re pregnant. Get over it. Have the baby and get on with your life. But you should let the child choose to do the same.”

“Hey, Barb,” the man on the bed said, getting to his feet. “Why don’t we take a walk?”

“Probably a good idea,” Barb said, coming to her feet.

“Especially since I’d never hit a lady,” Larry said, nastily. “Otherwise I’d kick your ass.”

“Really… ?” Barb said softly, then sighed. “Never mind. I’m sorry if I have caused you offense. Please excuse me.”

She turned and quickly walked to the door and out.

“I haven’t seen Larry that angry in a long time,” the bearlike man said, following her out.

“I can’t believe I lost my temper,” Barb said, breathing in and out for calm and saying a small prayer for forgiveness.

“Larry can get under people’s skin,” the man admitted. “I’m Bob Dorr, by the way.”

“Barb Everette,” Barb said as they got on the elevator. “So what do you do, Bob?” she added, punching for the ground floor.

“I’m an illustrator,” Bob replied. “General graphics and stuff. I do some of the illustration in Larry’s mags.”

“And I suspect you agree with him, politically,” Barb said.

“Generally,” Bob admitted. “Still looking for a fight? Or do I have to hold you off the ground until you calm down?”

“I think that was the thing that made me angriest,” Barb replied as they exited the elevator and she looked around. “The assumption that he could have kicked my a… butt. What ever happened to equality?”

“Well,” Bob said, carefully. “I think he was probably thinking that he out-weighed you by a good eighty or ninety pounds.”

“I suppose that must be it,” Barb said, pleasantly. “Isn’t there supposed to be a martial arts demonstration tomorrow?”

“Yesss…” Bob said.

“I don’t suppose Larry’s going to be attending?” she added, sweetly.

“Why?” Bob asked.

Barbara considered the question, then lifted into the air in the Dance of the Swallow, carefully missing Bob with all five strikes, then ruffling his hair before she hit the ground. The large man had barely been able to take a defensive stance before she landed on her feet and bowed mockingly.

“Because if he had decided that it was okay to hit a lady, that would have been… interesting,” Barb said, bowing again and then turning and walking away.

Chapter Twelve

What do you know about Kay Goldberg?” Barbara asked Greg as they were having dinner the next morning. She’d gone back to bed after the interesting talk the previous night and she tactfully didn’t mention that Janea had come in just after dawn. Or that Greg had a hickey on his neck.

Through the window of the restaurant she could still see the snow coming down. Conditions had come together to create the perfect snowfall and they were already closing roads all over Roanoke. Everyone assured her that they’d be open by Monday and they wouldn’t get stuck over in the hotel. But she was glad she was inside; it was seriously snowing.

“Not much,” Greg said, yawning and then taking a sip of coffee. “Why?”

“She knows about Special Circumstance,” Barb said, as soon as Janea had taken a sip of coffee. The dancer didn’t quite spit it out.

“What?” they both said, simultaneously.

“What I said,” Barbara replied. “And she’s got a background. At a guess, Shin Bet or Mossad.”

“You’re kidding,” Greg said. “She’s a sports writer who does some mystery. She’s from Charlotte.”

“She lives in Charlotte,” Barb said. “I live in Mississippi. I’m not from Mississippi. Five gets you ten Goldberg’s not her real name. And she’s a… what’s that term Daddy uses? Oh, she’s a player. Or she was. She’s going to give us a list of potential suspects sometime today. She knew I was with Janea, and you, and she knew my last name. I didn’t give it to her, I hadn’t mentioned it in public except to check in. But she knew it. What does that tell you?”

“Interesting,” Greg said, getting over his shock. “Do you think she has any connection to the investigation?”

“I hope not,” Barbara said. “Because I told her about it. I wouldn’t have if I had the slightest thought she did. I wanted to know if she had any ideas. All she said was that she knew a lot about her fans and would give us a list of potential suspects. You probably should have talked to her directly.”

“I might,” Greg said, thoughtfully. “After I call the Bureau.”

Not having anything else to do after breakfast, Barbara wandered back to the Dealers’ Room. She wandered over to the sword dealer’s booth but he was with a customer.

“I’d like to apologize for yesterday,” she said to the man when the customer had wandered away with a bag full of leather stuff she wasn’t willing to admit she recognized.

“It’s not problem,” he said, smiling. He was wearing contacts that made his eyes black except for silver irises. They were truly bizarre. “I get migraines sometimes, too. They can come on really quick. My name’s Mack, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Barb said, smiling back. “I did feel I needed to apologize, though. I almost dropped the sword.”

“Not even close,” Mack said. “More like you couldn’t let it go.”

“It’s a beautiful sword,” Barbara said. “And you do very good work. Take care.”

“You too, God lady,” Mack said.

“Why do you say that?” Barb said, pausing as she was about to leave.

“It’s nice to meet a Christian lady that’s not a Bible-thumper,” Mack said, smiling. “But you wear it like a skin.”

“Oh,” Barbara said, puzzled. “Well, thank you.”

She continued around the circuit of the room and saw the brunette from the night before sitting at her book booth reading.

“Hello,” Barb said. “We never really got introduced. That’s a lovely blouse, by the way, it really goes well with your eyes.”

“Thanks,” the woman said, tilting her head to the side and smiling at Barbara. “I’m Candice.”

“I enjoyed last night,” Barb said, a crease appearing in her forehead. “The conversation was interesting.”

“You should have stuck around,” Candice said. “Folsom was really depressed when you left. You were the perfect lady for him.”

“I’m married,” Barbara pointed out, again.

“So is he,” Candice said, frowning. “Not very happily, but… Anyway, his thing is he likes to find… how’s he put it? ‘The best looking, least available, woman at the con and monopolize her.’ ”

“I’m not the best looking woman at the con,” Barb said.

“No,” Candice said, “there’s a redhead wandering around who’s really spectacular. But she looks… more available. And you’re probably next and you’re not. And he’s not by any stretch boring to be around. I was once one of the ladies he monopolized and it was an interesting night.” She saw Barbara’s face and sighed. “Talking. We stayed up all night, in a public place, talking.”

“He certainly seems popular,” Barb admitted.

“And he got that way fast,” Candice said, gesturing at a bookshelf. “From nobody to best-selling with multiple books out in less than three years. The term ‘phenomenon’ comes to mind. He just says he made a deal with the devil.”

“Deal with the devil?” Barbara asked, her eyes wide.

“It’s an expression,” Candice replied, shrugging. “Actually, Pier is very good with promoting new authors. And he’s a good writer.”

“I’ve got… things to do,” Barb said. “Besides sitting out in the cold. Although… it was interesting.”

“Folsom’s very good at holding court,” Candice said. “He even puts up with Baron when everybody wants to strangle him or at least ask him to get to the point. He even puts up with Mandy when you want to stuff a sock in her mouth.”

“I met Mandy last night, too,” Barbara said, pausing. “She had a lovely skirt.”

“Yes, she did,” Candice said, her eyes crinkling. “And you always compliment people.”

“It takes nothing and makes people’s lives a bit brighter,” Barb said. “You can always find something to compliment in a person, even if it’s their shoelaces.”

“I’m not that nice,” Candice admitted. “In fact, I’m not nice at all.”

“Yes, you are,” Barbara said, definitely. “Or, rather, you may not be nice but you are anything but bad or evil.”

“I’m all bad,” Candice said, smiling.

“You’re lying, too,” Barb replied. “There’s not a touch of evil to you.”

“You don’t know me very well,” Candice said, shaking her head.

“You’d be surprised,” Barbara contradicted. “You’ve had a rough life, you’ve got quite a few people you’d be happy to see dead. But you’ve never actually tried to arrange it. And you didn’t tell Baron to shut up or at least get to the point. Which a less nice person would have done. What happens within your mind and soul is not the definition of your personal evil.”

“And you’re a mind reader?” Candice asked, glaring at her.

“No,” Barb said. “I’m just a very good judge of character. Aren’t I?”

“I guess,” Candice said, frowning. “But I’d hate for anyone to begin thinking I was nice. So don’t spread it around. It would ruin my reputation. And Baron is… Baron. He’s always going to be a Sad Sack. He is the consummate momma’s boy. Although, at least he’s gotten a job where he’s not living at home all the time anymore. If you call selling water filters a job. But he’s apparently making money at it; he’s been able to go to more cons anyway. And being on the road gets him out from under Mom.”

“He’s on the road a lot?” Barbara asked, curiously.

“From what I hear,” Candice said, shrugging. “He sells and installs water filters. He’s from Ohio but his territory is in Virginia so he travels all over the state. Who knows, he might even cut the apron strings some day. But he’s got good points. He really wants to be helpful; it’s not just an act. If you need help, Baron is always right there pitching in. And a lot of the writers like him because if there’s nobody else they recognize at the con, they can always talk to Baron. He just… doesn’t have many social skills. Being willing to be social should count for something, I suppose. And I think if he didn’t have fandom he’d probably hole up in a tower somewhere with a rifle.”

“Do you know Sean very well?” Barb asked, filing the whole description away.

“Not much,” Candice said, shrugging. “He’s a former Marine. Lives in Virginia Beach and does something with the Internet. Goes to a lot of cons, especially ones with Duncan or Draxon. He’d had a live-in girlfriend for a while, but I guess they broke up.”

“So do those two always hold court outside?” Barbara asked. “Duncan and Draxon, that is?”

“Pretty much,” Candice replied. “There or in the Wharf Rat suite. But there aren’t any smoking rooms in the hotel so they generally stay out and freeze. I couldn’t hang so I left not long after you did. Especially with the snow. It’s seriously snowing, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Barb said with a sigh. “They’re predicting over twenty inches just today. They say that it will clear by tomorrow and they can get the roads open, but right now we’re stuck. You’re a… Wharf Rat?” Barbara asked, changing the subject.

“That was a good slice of the Wharf Rats at the con,” Candice said. “I suppose I am, but I don’t really think of myself that way.”

“And the gentleman on the ground with the notebook?” Barb asked. “The one with the minder, it looked like. It seemed like the group was… subtly ignoring him while including him I guess I’d say.”

“Oh, that was David Krake,” Candice said, laughing. “He’s a big writer for Pier Books, been writing since the 1960s when, as he puts it, he escaped from the hell of being an attorney. He comes to the cons but he really doesn’t like to be bothered when he’s writing and he can get really… blunt. He writes hard-core military fiction, has for years. Former Marine, in Vietnam, so he knows what he’s writing about. He’s got degrees in history, ethnology and Greek. Recently, he’s been trying to break into the fantasy market but his books are sort of limping along. I don’t know why, they’re really very good. He does a lot of research — he’s known for that — and his fantasies are really based on historical characters and myth, mostly Sumerian. The last one sold well, though. Hit the New York Times list anyway so the big account buyers are going for it. From what I heard they more than trebled their sales on the last book, which is unusual. But it happens.”

“You seem to know a lot about the people here,” Barbara said, smiling.

“I go to plenty of cons. Not just ones that the Rats prefer. I won’t say I know everybody in Southeastern fandom, but it’s close.”

“Selling books,” Barb said, gesturing around.

“It’s what I do,” Candice said, smiling. “I don’t work very well in offices; can’t handle the politics. I’ve found I do better working for myself.”

“There are a lot of Rats who were military,” Barbara said. “Were you?”

“No,” Candice replied, shrugging. “My husband is, though.”

“Husband,” Barb said, looking at her unberinged finger. “And you’re sharing a room… ?”

“Plenty of people do that at cons,” Candice replied. “It saves money. Don’t read anything else into it. Although… there’s other things that happen. But not with me,” she added, smiling. “I’ve got a great husband.”

Barbara nodded and looked at her watch suddenly.

“I’m going to wander,” she said, smiling. “Talk later?”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Candice said. “Enjoy yourself.”

“Hi, Sean,” Barb said as she saw the Wharf Rat coming out of one of the panels.

“Hi,” the young man said, smiling broadly. His gaze flicked down to her chest and then forced itself back upwards. “We met last night, right?”

“Yes,” Barbara replied. “Where are you headed?”

“Nowhere right now,” Sean admitted. “There’s a panel in an hour I want to see on writing for art or market. I’m what I like to call an ‘aspiring author’ and most people call a ‘wannabe.’ “ He said the latter with a deprecating grin and Barb had to admit that he was rather attractive if a bit young for her. Maybe she should sic Janea on him. Then again, maybe not.

“I’m sorry to hear about your break-up,” Barbara said, sadly. She had subtly shifted him over to some padded benches by the door to the atrium and now sat down, waving to the seat beside her.

“I should have seen it coming,” Sean admitted, sitting down and looking at the far wall. “We’d been spending less and less time together and she always wanted to know when I was going to be home. Thursday was my range night; there’s an indoor range I go to and I usually went right from work to the range. But I’d forgotten to pack my guns so I went home to pick them up instead. And… there they were, right in our bed.”

“I’m sorry,” Barb said, honestly.

“I was, I thought, reasonably polite about it,” Sean said, looking over at her, then down to her chest, then back at the wall. “I just nodded at them, went in the closet, got out my gun bag and went back out. So when I got home, the police were waiting for me. I explained the situation, they politely took my guns away and explained that I couldn’t go back in my own apartment! I mean, it was my name on the lease! She moved out the next day and I moved back in.”

“Did they give you the guns back?” Barbara asked, smiling slightly. The story had been told with a sort of blunt-instrument intensity that seemed to be natural rather than a result of the encounter. Sean was one of the most intense people she’d met in a very long time.

“Yep,” Sean admitted. “But I had a hell of a job getting them clean; they’d been sitting uncleaned for a week.”

“So what did you do then?” Barb asked.

“Went back to work,” Sean said, shrugging. “I do remote installation on Internet lines. Mostly hardware work with some software troubleshooting. And the company does satellite uplink support, so I go out on those projects, too. It keeps me out of an office and mostly I’m working by myself. I don’t handle office politics very well. I guess I don’t really get along with most people.”

“You seem to fit in here,” Barbara said, her eyes narrowing.

“The Wharf Rats are sort of like an extended family,” Sean said, waggling his head from side to side. “And they’re mostly military oriented. They’re used to… military types. Civilians get all excited when you just tell them what to do and expect it to get done. They used to call me General Marshall when I was working tech support. So I don’t do tech support anymore. And being a field engineer pays better, anyway. Of course, it also meant I was out of town a lot. I’d guess that was one of the reasons… well…”

“Yes. Well.” Barb said. “Do you mostly work in Virginia?”

“Virginia, Pennsylvania and Ohio,” Sean said. “But things are looking up. I just got a promotion to shift supervisor so I’ll be spending more time close to home. More office time, too, but I can handle that.”

“How’s the girlfriend front look?” Barbara asked, smiling.

“Well, it’s looking up at the moment,” Sean said, smiling at her with a slight humorous leer. “Just joking. I’m not really looking for anything serious. I thought Annette was it. Now I’m not sure I trust women. Honestly, the whole thing with Annette really has me… disliking most females rather intensely. So I’m keeping what few encounters I have with them… limited in scope.” He looked over at her and shrugged. “You’re an obvious exception. You seem like a very nice lady. I’d say you remind me of my mother, but my mom’s a lot meaner. She and Dad were both Marines.”

“Saying that a lady reminds you of your mom isn’t a compliment, anyway,” Barb pointed out acerbically.

“I didn’t mean it that way!” Sean protested.

“I understand,” Barbara said, laying a hand on his arm. She used the opportunity to get a quick read of him and wasn’t sure what she got. He definitely had some very dark areas, but no sniff of necromancy. “Well, thanks for talking to me. I think I’ll be seeing you at that panel. That’s the one with K. Goldberg on it, right?”

“Yes,” Sean said, standing up. “I should say thanks. This has helped in a way.”

“I’m glad,” Barb said, pausing. “Sean, women are as human and fallible as men. Some of them less so, some more so. Don’t… put all women in the same category as your ex-girlfriend. In fact, don’t be so quick to condemn her. Christ tells us to forgive. One of the reasons that he tells us to do so is that until we can forgive others, we cannot forgive ourselves. Until you can forgive Annette, and other women that have hurt you, it will be hard to let go of the darkness in your soul. And it’s eating you up.”

Sean looked at her for a moment and then nodded.

“You’re a very odd lady, Barbara,” Sean said, clearly puzzled.

“So I’m told.”

Chapter Thirteen

The panel room had about twenty people in the audience and five members of the panel including Miz Goldberg, Folsom Duncan, Larry, the publisher from the slush party, David Krake and a redhead Barb didn’t recognize. It started by the five introducing themselves and the topic of the panel which was “Art or Marketing, How to Write.” The panel was moderated by the publisher she’d met last night and he opened the discussion.

“You can write for market all you want,” Larry said. “But if you want to actually get published, you’d better be thinking of your writing as art or you’re never going to get a single thing into print. If you just throw the words down on paper, it invariably turns out to be crap.”

“Larry, you’ve got your head so far up your ass you can see daylight through your throat,” Krake said, bluntly. “Bill Shakespeare didn’t give a damn about art. All he wanted was to get paid.”

That more or less set the tone of the panel and it was a pretty aggressive discussion. Goldberg more or less sat it out, only softly contributing that she thought art was important but so was getting paid and the two weren’t necessarily the same. Duncan felt that being superior in art was useful and he admired those who could write artfully but he just enjoyed telling the story and worried about “style and that” as a distant last after plot and characters. The fifth panel member, the redheaded woman, was firmly on the side of art but stated her position in such a garbled manner Barbara wasn’t sure she could compose a sentence much less a story. She also spent better than half her time promoting her writer’s workshop.

Krake, however, wasn’t hard to understand at all. He stated that anyone who thought first of “art” “might get published but only once and then get dumped into the trash bin.” Oh, and they were “flaming idiots” who would spend their lives “wandering from con to con teaching writing instead of actually trying the hard work of doing it.” The last might or might not have been pointed at the redheaded woman, but whether it was or not she looked poisonous at the comment.

Krake also had a bug up his butt about somebody named Robert who apparently wrote fantasy. Fantasy that was not, in the opinion of most of the panel members, very good. But it did, apparently, sell well, much to their chagrin. That was about the only point on which Krake and Larry the Publisher could agree. Actually, Krake, Larry and the redhead all agreed that this Robert fellow should have his fingers broken. Duncan and Goldberg were somewhat more restrained, Duncan making the point that you couldn’t support market forces and then ignore them when they disagreed with your taste.

She wasn’t sure what she was doing in the panel audience. She supposed that she should be observing her fellow audience members and trying to spot a suspect, but she didn’t have any idea what to look for. More than half the people in the room were male, most of them with brown hair. And she couldn’t tell who was a Goldberg fan and who was there to see the others. Some of the men she’d pegged as possible Goldberg fans seemed to be there to see Larry the Publisher and most of the rest seemed to be there to see the other male panelists. She finally realized that she and a couple of other females were the only ones interested in hearing Miz Goldberg’s opinion.

Of the five, however, she had to admit that the one she liked the most was probably Duncan. When he spoke he had an aura of authority. He never seemed to cut people down, except in the most humorous way, and when he spoke people tended to fall silent. The term she was looking for was “charisma.” He wasn’t particularly handsome or dominating, but he had a gift for presenting things in ways that people could understand and enjoy listening to. She thought he would have made a great teacher. A few of the people present seemed to absolutely loathe him and she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t what they said, the questions they asked, but how they said it. Most of the rest, those who clearly were his “fans” and others who clearly didn’t know him very well, however, seemed to really enjoy hearing his thoughts.

After the panel she waited to talk to him again. He was listening to a young man talk about one of his books. Barb couldn’t make heads or tails of what they were talking about and the young man… wasn’t charismatic. He tended to stutter and repeat himself but Duncan simply nodded and seemed honestly interested in what he was saying, even smiling at a couple of very lame attempts at jokes on the part of the fan. She realized that was part of what made him so interesting; he had the ability to listen as well as talk. To really listen and pay attention to what the other person was saying, to make reasonable comments that proved he was paying attention and cared about what was being said. She’d dealt with a few people who were relatively famous and they tended to only hear their own words and thoughts. It was clear that however well known Duncan was, and he was clearly famous at least within this group, he hadn’t let it go entirely to his head.

“You were very interesting on the panel,” Barbara said when the young man walked away clutching his signed book.

“I’ve got the Irish gift of gab,” Duncan said, shrugging. “It’s not much more than that.”

“Duncan’s not an Irish name,” Barb pointed out, smiling.

“Well, it’s from my mother’s side,” Duncan replied. “You didn’t say much in the panel.”

“I didn’t know what to say, or ask,” Barbara said. “I’m sorry, I haven’t read any of your books.”

“I always have a book for a beautiful lady,” he said, taking his computer bag off his shoulder and dipping into it. The cover of the book he handed her mostly consisted of a large-breasted blonde holding two large guns. The model didn’t know how to hold a weapon, either.

“Nice cover,” Barb said, dryly.

“They sell books,” Duncan said, shrugging again. “The core market, as I said, is males. Sex sells. This offends the hell out of those who think that the world should be perfectly PC and males shouldn’t care. That is not, however, reality.”

“You didn’t add ‘unfortunately,’ “ Barbara said, flipping open the cover and glancing at the blurbs.

“That is because I am not PC,” Duncan said, smiling broadly. “I like women to be women and men to be men. There are differences. Women who try to outdo males just to outdo males, who get all up in arms at having a door opened for them, who think males should think like women, and who get terribly upset at my covers, I think are… less than they could be. I think even less of the males who fall for their arguments.”

“You don’t like the modern ‘urban male,’ “ Barb said.

“I think that telling men that they should be women leads to most of the problems we’re dealing with these days,” Duncan replied, arching an eyebrow. “Males respond, by and large, to arguments that feminists despise. That women should be treated as special and specially protected. That it’s a male’s duty to be the first line of protection and that there’s a reason for ‘women and children first’ in a lifeboat situation. That honor and duty and loyalty are good traits and should be encouraged. Males are expendable, women are not. That may not be PC, but it’s how I feel and, demonstrably, more males respond to that sort of reasoning than ones that are essentially feminine. At the same time, women should be allowed to be whoever they are, without either males or females telling them who they should be. If a women is a superior warrior, then let her do her thing. If she’s sensitive and caring and unable to do battle, then let her do what she is called to. Ditto males. But don’t say that males should be sensitive and caring. Most of us are lousy at it no matter how hard we try. Males tend to make lousy women. Don’t create boxes and say ‘This is who you must be.’ Especially don’t create boxes that are designed counter to the way that most men and women truly feel. Feminists created Eminem and now they’re getting what they asked for, whether they realize it or not.”

“Strangely enough, I agree with most of that,” Barbara said, considering it carefully. “So what’s this book about?”

“Magic and dragons,” Duncan said, shrugging. “Actually, that series isn’t going all that well. I’d thought that it would really sell, both because my other series sold so well and because the big market is high-sales fantasy. But it’s just limping. I swear I’d sell my soul to get it off the ground!”

“You’re a very odd person, Folsom Duncan,” Barb said, frowning slightly at the expression.

“Ain’t I then?” Duncan said, grinning. “Check your assumptions at the door, as Lois Bujold would say.”

Barbara blinked for a moment and then sighed.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?” Duncan asked.

“It’s… hard to explain,” she said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“What’s so important?” Janea asked when she met Barb in the lobby followed by Greg.

“Timson,” Barbara said. “You said that he knows a lot about the occult. Right?”

“He’s blond,” Janea said, realizing where she was going right away.

“That’s what dye is for,” Barb pointed out, sharply.

“No, he’s blond,” Janea said, definitely. “Trust me on that one.”

“Oh,” Barbara said. “Damn.”

“Nice try, though,” Greg said. “I’m starting to agree with Janea that it’s probably a LARPer.”

“I’d already considered him, though,” Janea admitted. “And rejected him for just that reason.”

“So what do we have?” Greg asked.

“I’m looking at motive and opportunity, I guess,” Barb said. “There are several of the Wharf Rats that meet the criteria for suspects. Also a couple of people around Larry Whatsisname, the magazine publisher. One being Larry. Baron and Sean both have jobs that move them around the state and both have ties to Ohio.”

“The body that they found there,” Janea said, nodding.

“Sean’s got a real case of the bums at women at the moment,” Barbara continued. “He found his live-in girlfriend in bed with another man and then she took out a restraining order on him. So he’s not very happy with women right now. Baron’s… well, he’s more or less what I thought we were looking for. Not very socially apt, so having the power to compel women would probably be attractive to him. Both of them travel a good bit for their jobs. Eric and Larry both travel. Eric’s married, admittedly, but I’m not sure that discounts him. And he’s ambitious. Demons can tinker with earthly powers to aid in ambition. Larry… I just don’t like. But he also fits the profile.”

“There are at least six of the LARPers that fit the profile as well,” Janea said. “But not Timson. And from what I’ve gleaned about the Wharf Rats, I’d put Sean and Baron high on the list of suspects.”

“I’m interested in Duncan as well,” Barb said. “He has something very strange about his… soul. He’s like a power sink or something. If Remolus is a power absorber, then I’d expect his touch to be something like what Duncan has.”

“That’s… outside my territory,” Greg said. “But don’t get caught up on motivation and opportunity. Or clues. Before you know it, you’ll decide that it was done by a one-legged butler in the library or something.”

“I wish there was some way to go around getting DNA from all these suspects,” Barbara said, then paused, looking thoughtful.

“Ain’t gonna do it,” Janea said, shaking her head.

“It wouldn’t take all that long,” Greg said, grinning. He had another hickey on the other side of his neck.

“Says you, Flash,” Janea replied, shaking her head. “Some people take more than thirty seconds.”

“Hey!”

“You don’t know what I was thinking,” Barb protested.

“Bet you a dollar?” Janea said. “Ain’t gonna do it. What got you on Timson, anyway?”

“Somebody said to check your assumptions,” Barbara said. “Timson was such a nice guy, I wondered if it was all an act.”

“Oh, it’s a good bit act,” Janea said, fondly. “He can be a very bad boy if you know what I mean.”

“That wasn’t quite where I was going,” Barb said, tartly.

“Why’s it always about bad boys?” Greg said, sighing.

“I’m not sure what or who we’re looking for,” Janea said, seriously. “It could be one of the guys at the con that’s popular and can pick up the girls. Or it might be one who seems to be a total loser on the surface and is using power to attract them.”

“I guess we just keep looking,” Barbara said, sighing. “This sucks.”

“This is how most investigations go,” Janea said, shrugging. “At least this time we know the perp is here at the con. I’ve done three of these investigations and never gotten so much as a sniff.”

“We’re doing better than I’d hoped, frankly,” Greg said. “We’ve narrowed it down to no more than two or three dozen suspects because we know the necromancer is somewhere here in the hotel. That’s better than the millions we started with on Friday. Just legwork after the con will get us to the suspect relatively quickly. It would be nice, though, if we could narrow it down more. If worse comes to absolutely worst we could call in and see about locking the whole con down and doing DNA tests on all the males with brown hair. The ACLU would scream bloody murder, though, and it would be all over the press. We also would have a hard time showing probable cause, come to think of it.”

“Did you get in touch with the Bureau about Goldberg?” Barb asked.

“Yes, I did,” Greg said. “You’re correct; Goldberg is a pen name. They’re trying to track down her actual identity through her employer in Charlotte but since she’s not a suspect that might be hard if they get sticky. And they’re a newspaper; newspapers almost always get their back up when we ask them for information. I also asked about back-up. But with the weather the team couldn’t make it up. They’re stuck in Roanoke. The Bureau’s dispatching a helicopter to move them if we have to have help, though. It should be up there by sometime this afternoon.”

“I hope we can close this up quietly,” Janea said, looking out the window. “I was talking to the con-chair and one of the off-duty cops that’s working the con says even the sheriff’s department’s shut down until the snow stops. The stuff is coming down faster than they can plow it.”

“This is crazy,” Greg said, shaking his head. “Why’d this happen now? This is more snow than this area gets in three years!”

“That’s why they can’t keep up,” Janea said, shrugging. “This is, like, Buffalo snow.”

“So if anything happens we’re on our own?” Barbara asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Looks that way,” Greg said. “If it seriously starts getting nuts we can call in the HRT from Roanoke. But they’re going to be twenty minutes, maybe a half hour, away rather than five minutes. No way they can bring in a chopper in this. And even four-wheel drives are going to find it tough.”

“A lot can happen in a half an hour,” Barb said, shaking her head. “I hate doing this bits-and-pieces thing. I feel like I’m wrestling with fog.”

“You just keep tapping away until you find your suspect,” Greg said, shrugging. “There’s no other way to do it.”

“Well, there is,” Janea said, thoughtfully. “But it’s a bit of a risk.”

“What?” Greg asked, frowning.

“We push instead of pull.”

Chapter Fourteen

Hi, Mandy,” Barbara said, as she finally tracked the woman down. “Could I talk to you, privately?”

“Sure,” Mandy said.

Barb led her around the corner to a stairwell and cleared her throat.

“I don’t want you to think I’m a nut or something,” Barbara said. “And you can’t talk about this, okay?”

“Okay,” Mandy said. “But it’s okay if you’re a nut. We’re all nuts.”

“Well, this is serious and very real,” Barb said. “I’m not just a homemaker. I’m a consultant with the FBI. There’s been a series of serial killings and they think that the killer is here at the con.”

“Really?” Mandy said, her eyes wide.

“Really,” Barbara replied. “You can probably guess what kind of consultant.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mandy said, totally absorbed.

“I know that he’s here, somewhere,” Barb said. “I’m just not sure who it is. But I know you’re… sensitive. Pay careful attention to your creep-meter. We’d really like to find him before he kills again.”

“Is he going to attack someone at the con?” Mandy asked.

“No, we don’t think so. He seems to be picking out his victims from fen, though. So keep your eyes, all your eyes, open. And don’t tell anybody, okay? And be careful.”

“Okay,” Mandy said. “You be careful, too. Like I said, guys like that like women like you and me.”

“It won’t come to that,” Barb assured her.

“Well, I told the biggest gossip in the LARPers about it,” Janea said, grinning. They’d met in the women’s room to discuss their upcoming strategy. “Swearing her to secrecy, of course.”

“I talked with Larry,” Greg said. “He’s going to have it all over the con. Which means it will make the papers. My career is toast.”

“And I spoke to Mandy,” Barbara said. “Which means I think I’ve got you both beat.”

“The director is going to kill me,” Greg moaned.

“Yeah, but all we have to do now is look for somebody who’s running,” Barb said. “This guy has always struck at weak victims and tried to hide. He’s not a stand-up fighter, he’s a backstabber. There’s no place to hide, here.”

“And it’s going to be hard to run,” Janea pointed out, gesturing out the window. The snow was still coming down, hard, and the forecast had been updated for up to thirty inches. “HRT’s on standby, right?”

“Last I heard,” Greg admitted. “Cell phone coverage is getting spotty.” He reached into his computer bag and pulled out a set of short-range radios. “I brought these along just in case. I guess I’m glad I did. They’re encrypted so we can talk privately.”

“Great,” Barbara said, unconsciously checking her piece then taking the radio. “Let’s hope he…” She paused and grabbed at her head. “I think he just heard.”

“Strong?” Janea asked. “Yes, it is, I even got a twinge of it that time.”

“Angry,” Barb said, her face white. “Fearful, too. But very very angry. He never thought anyone would get this close. He’s… damn, it’s gone.”

“Cloaking,” Janea said. “He’s going to ground. Or running.”

“I’ll take the west entrances,” Greg said. “Barbara, you go east. Janea, take the lobby, that will have the most people around.”

“He knows who the Hunters are,” Janea pointed out as she stood up. “Be careful. The hunter can become the hunted.”

“Hi, Barb,” Timson said as he walked down the corridor. He looked at the woman, puzzled. “You waiting for someone?”

Barbara was standing where two corridors joined near the west doors to the hotel. From her position she could see anyone approaching the doors and a bit of the parking lot. So far nobody had gone outside except a couple of hard-core smokers.

“Just watching the snow,” Barb said, smiling. “I’m a bit conned out.”

“It can get to you, especially at first,” Timson said. “Taking some time for yourself is important. Drink, eat, sleep, game, that’s the ticket.”

“Where are you going?” Barbara asked, lightly.

“I’ve got an important meeting,” Timson said, his eyes wide in mock anticipation. “An informant among the werewolves that’s going to give us the location of their secret meeting. That way the Hunters can combine with the vampires and swoop down and wipe them out in one fell swoop! Bit of silliness, but it’s fun if you get into it.”

“I understand,” Barb said, smiling. “It’s no sillier than chasing a white ball around with a club and at least it can be done indoors.”

“He wanted to meet at the Waffle House,” Timson said, gesturing out the window. “And I told him to screw off. It’s damn cold out there. Take care.”

“Same to you,” Barbara said, smiling as he opened the door to the stairwell.

She nodded at a couple of young guys in trench coats as they stepped out the door. But they only went as far as the portico and pulled out cigarettes and lighters with already shaking hands. She grabbed the radio when it started to beep.

“Anything?” Greg asked.

“Nothing,” Barb admitted. “No feel, nobody trying to get out.”

“They could have gone out by the kitchen doors,” Greg admitted. “And there’s a door behind the offices. But I’d think that he’d try to just nonchalantly slip out.”

“I’m not sure he could get his…” She paused and grabbed her head. “Greg?”

“Are you okay?” Greg asked at the strained tone.

“Get Janea,” Barbara gasped then summoned her power, shutting down the feeling of horror in her soul. “I think we underestimated our target: somebody’s dead.”

Timson was slumped against the wall of the stairwell, his eyes wide and staring at nothing.

“Oh, Freya, be kind to his soul,” Janea said, looking at the boy. He had a look of utter horror on his face.

“He’s changed MO,” Greg said, straightening up with a frown on his face. The landing was right up by the roof, the door above locked. An out-of-the-way spot in a packed hotel, perfect for a quiet killing. “There’s not a mark I can find. At the least he wasn’t strangled or cut.”

“No,” Barb said, furious. “His soul was ripped from his body.”

“Are you sure?” Greg asked.

“Very,” Barbara said, shaking in anger. “It’s so strong I’m surprised you can’t feel it. I felt the power of the ’mancer’s gear and then the death.”

“I need to call in support,” Greg said. “We’re going to close down this con and shake it to the ground. This isn’t a game anymore.”

“He’s hunting, now,” Janea pointed out. “We can’t just try to cover the entrances. We need to run him to ground and take him out.”

“Why?” Barb asked. “He could have run even in this. At least out of the con. Why kill? And why Timson?”

“Timson’s powerful,” Janea said. “Well, was. He wasn’t an adept, but he could have been. He had a strong soul.” She suddenly looked intensively sad.

“It’ll be okay, Jan,” Barbara said, wrapping her arm around the woman’s shoulders.

“He had a strong soul,” Janea said, shaking her head. “One of the strongest and finest I’ve ever met. And to just have it…”

“We’ll find him,” Barb said, the righteous anger welling up in her again. “And we’ll bring him to justice one way or another. He will face the Lord and be Judged. And there can be but one judgment for such as he.”

“But you hit the nub,” Greg said, looking at the dead boy. “Why has he gone to killing? Instead of running? You’re the experts, you need to think.”

“Give me a second, okay?” Janea said, wiping her eyes. “He was a friend, okay?”

“I’m not sure we’ve got a second,” Greg pointed out. “Not if this guy is ripping souls from people’s bodies, now. Not if he can kill this fast and silently. Why is he killing? This is completely outside MO.”

“Power,” Barbara said, suddenly. “Oh, my God.”

“He’s building his power,” Janea said, nodding her head. “He’s preparing for a battle. With us.”

“That means Timson won’t be the last,” Barb said. “Greg, call for backup right now.”

“I would if I could,” Greg said, looking at his cell phone. “Do either of you have any signal?”

As it turned out none of the three cell phones had any signal at all.

“And I’ve already tried the hotel phones,” Greg said. “Even the Internet connection is out.”

“Well, we need to get hold of the local police, at least,” Janea pointed out, gesturing at Timson. “We’ve got a dead body on our hands.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Greg said, frowning. “You two stay here, I’ll go check with the management. For now, we’re not treating this as a homicide. There’s no indication of violence and that’s just fine by me.”

“This is terrible!”

The hotel manager was a tall, distinguished-looking Hindu. Barbara had seen him around the hotel dealing with problems and he’d always risen to the occasion. Now he was wringing his hands in worry.

“This will be terrible publicity!” the man moaned. “And so horrible for the young man and his family. This is very terrible! He must have overdosed, yes? I do not allow drugs in my hotel! I have a well-run hotel!”

“You have a very well-run hotel, sir,” Greg said, soothingly. “But we have to call the police and have them come in with this.”

“You are FBI, yes?” the man asked, his face working. “Can not you handle this? Quietly perhaps?”

“It’s a local jurisdictional matter,” Greg said, shrugging with the lie.

“But we cannot contact the police,” the manager said, his face working. “I have tried. The phone lines are out. I cannot call the 911, yes? The roads are closed with snow! And we cannot simply leave him here. It is very dishonorable. And if anyone else were to find him…”

“Jesus Christ,” Greg said, shaking his head.

“Another swear, please, Agent Donahue,” Barb replied. “We’ll need a camera, a good one. And some plastic bags, large trash bags. And the key to this roof door.”

“We can’t disturb a crime-scene like this!” Greg said, furiously. “It has to be meticulously recorded. Not just dump his body in a bag and shove it out the door!”

“Oh, really?” Barbara asked. “How long do we leave him here, Agent Donahue? What do we do, post a guard? The hotel security guard left last night when the snow started to get bad. Do we get somebody from the con?” She paused and looked Greg dead in the eye, daring him to force her to go on. Because she was pretty sure unless they tracked down the necromancer, fast, this wasn’t going to be the last body they discovered.

“You are with the FBI, too?” the manager asked, uncertainly.

“I’m a special consultant,” Barb said then gestured at Janea. “We both are.”

“Okay, okay,” Greg said, blowing out. “Yeah, we’ll need some big trash bags and a camera. And some time alone. Can you get that?”

“Yes, of course,” the manager said, nodding. “I go now.”

“And we’re eventually going to need a linen cart and a bunch more bags,” Janea said, gritting her teeth. “This is going to get bad, Greg.”

“We need to find this perp,” Greg replied. “Now.”

“I’ll go ask the LARPers if they knew who Timson was meeting with,” Janea said, looking one last time at her former lover. “I am seriously going to go full berserker on this guy when we find him.”

“And I’ll go ask if anyone saw him,” Barbara said. “Besides me,” she added, blanching. “He walked right past me to the stairs and then went up. To meet with… whoever it was.”

“Anyone go up the stairs before him?” Greg asked, frowning.

“No,” Barb said. “He was the only person I saw use them. Whoever it was must have entered from one of the other levels. I’ll go ask down there if anyone saw him or who he was meeting with.”

“How do we handle this?” Janea asked. “I mean… do we tell people he’s dead even?”

“Have to eventually,” Greg said. “Damn, I wish we’d never tried to smoke out this perp.”

“My idea,” Janea said.

“Yeah,” Greg said, grinning mirthlessly. “But I went along with it. As soon as I’ve done this crappy job cleaning him up I’ll go talk to the con committee and tell them what happened. But we want to keep panic down. We’ll just treat it as an unknown cause, might have been a fluke heart condition, and say there’s indications there was more than one person present. We want to find out who might have been meeting with him.”

“That will do,” Barbara said, nodding. “I’ll go down to the lower floors and check around.”

“This investigation is getting seriously out of control,” Greg said, shaking his head.

“No,” Janea said, shaking her own. “It’s simply got Special Circumstances. You don’t want to see ‘out of control.’ ”

Chapter Fifteen

There had been nobody at all in view on the third floor, directly below the landing where Timson had been found. On the second floor, however, there were several open doors and some room parties going on. Barb walked down to the first open door and poked her head through.

Despite the temperature, and the official no-smoking policy of the hotel, there was a window open and several people sitting by it filling the room with smoke. Among them was Folsom Duncan and she realized she’d found the Wharf Rat suite.

“Barb,” Duncan called from the back of the room. “Come in, come in. Have a drink! Have several. There’s dick all else to do!”

“You’re drinking tea,” Barbara pointed out, sidling into the room. She recognized several of the Wharf Rats from the rest of the con and nodded at people, exchanging greetings. Mandy and Norm weren’t there, she noticed.

“I didn’t say anything about alcohol,” Duncan said, smiling. “Although it’s around. As an alternative there are various soft drinks in the tub and for those with stronger constitutions I’ve broken out my stash of Indian black tea.”

“You don’t have any panels?” Barb asked.

“Not until tomorrow,” Duncan said, shrugging. “And very few people are going to them, anyway. The weather seems to have them huddling in.”

“That and the serial killer!” one of the Wharf Rats said, laughing.

“There’s that,” Duncan said, grinning. “Dare him to come in this room,” he added with a laugh.

“I don’t get the joke,” Barbara said, frowning.

“Oh, you seem cool,” Folsom said, smiling. “Are you bothered by weapons?”

“Not at all,” Barb said, her brow creased.

“George, get the door,” Folsom said, gesturing with his chin. When the Wharf Rat was standing by the door he nodded. “Wharf Rats… present!”

Just about everyone in the room reached behind a back, to a hip or into a purse and came up holding a weapon. And then everyone started checking and clearing them for safety. Barbara knew she was staring but it was a bit much. Especially when bags started being dragged out and the assault rifles started appearing.

“I asked if you were comfortable around weapons,” Folsom said, setting an H K SOCOM identical to the one in her purse on the table.

“I am,” Barb said. “When they’re in the hands of people I know are trustworthy with them.”

“Everyone who just drew a weapon has a concealed carry permit,” Duncan said. “In one state or another. And they all meet the minimum criteria to carry around everyone else in the room.”

“They all cleared their weapons?” Barbara asked, dipping into her purse and drawing, clearing and setting down the H K next to his.

“A lady after my own heart,” Duncan replied, grinning.

“Perhaps,” Barb said, picking the weapon back up, loading it and setting it back in her purse. “Could we talk for a moment, alone?”

“With you?” Duncan said, getting up. “Any time.”

“Where?” Barbara asked.

“The adjoining room,” Folsom said, gesturing. He led her into the room and shut the door. “You’re not bothered by that, are you?” he asked, cautiously, gesturing at the door.

“I’d be more bothered if you hadn’t asked,” Barb admitted. “Do you know Timson?”

“Can’t say the name rings a bell,” Duncan said. “But I’ll admit I’m lousy with names.”

“He was the head of the Hunters in the LARPers,” Barbara said. “He’s been found dead. Overdose, apparently.”

“Oh, I know who you mean,” Duncan said, his eyes lighting. “He’s a friend of Krake’s.”

“Really?” Barb said, surprised.

“He was on a panel with Krake on research in writing,” Duncan said, nodding. “He and Krake had been thinking of doing a series together since Krake’s specialty is Greek and Roman history and that guy… Timson? He’s an expert in really ancient writings, all the way back to cuneiform from what Krake said.”

“Well, there’s not going to be a series now,” Barbara pointed out. “He’s most sincerely dead.”

“And there’s a rumor,” Duncan said, his eyes narrowing, “credibly traceable to you, that there’s a serial killer at the con.”

“The body had no indications of violence,” Barb said.

“And what would a homemaker know about that sort of thing?” Duncan asked, exasperated. “I’m sorry, the next thing you’re going to tell me is that your name is Miss Marple.”

“What?”

“Agatha Christie? Never mind. Look, I don’t know who you are or what you’re playing around with-”

“I’m a consultant with the FBI,” Barbara said, throwing up her hands. “Okay? You know Greg Donahue is an FBI agent, right?”

“But he’s on leave…” Duncan said then paused. “He’s not, is he? He’s actually on assignment, isn’t he?” His face had gotten very blank.

“Yes, he’s on assignment,” Barb said, sighing. “And, yes, we spread the rumor to try to get the killer to bolt. But instead he’s changing MO. Timson looks like an OD, we’re… not sure how he was killed.”

“And you’re not a very good liar,” Duncan said, angrily. “Somebody already tried to call out and we can’t. Now you’re telling me we’re playing Ten Little Indians?”

“If you mean he’s hunting us, yes, it looks like it,” Barbara said, unhappily. “There’s an HRT team on standby at the Roanoke airport. But we can’t call them in. We can’t even get a sheriff’s car in here.”

“Shit,” Duncan said, standing up and pacing back and forth. “Herding cats…” he muttered.

“What are you talking about?” Barb asked.

“How to keep people alive,” Duncan snapped. “Greg’s worried about catching the perp and so are you, although from your eyes ‘catching’ probably isn’t what you’re thinking. Me, I’m trying to figure out how to cut down the casualties. And the first thing we need is solid police response. We need to get in contact with that HRT and get them in here. Get sheriff’s deputies in here. Seal this place down, vet every single person, pull out all the suspects and find out which one did the killings. Which means we need to get back in contact.”

“The roads are packed,” she pointed out. “And it’s a half mile to the nearest intersection. And there’s no guarantee that there will be anything there. Trying to move through this snowstorm is suicide.”

“We’ve got, among the Wharf Rats, a half a dozen people with serious cold-weather training and background,” Duncan said, shaking his head. “This isn’t a horror movie. We just get the experts in and let them run wild. And to get them in we send out a team with all the gear we can make or scrounge. If they take a few hours, if they take all night, whatever it takes. I’m thinking about what happens in the meantime.”

“What if he attacks the team?” Barbara asked.

“Hah!” Duncan laughed. “Let him. None of these guys learned about hiking by taking happy little walks in the woods. They’re all former military and they’ll all be armed. We’ve got, among the Rats present, at least six former infantry, two former Special Forces and a SEAL. And before you ask, if he’s one of them it won’t matter. They will be fully briefed. By Agent Donahue. There’s no way that he could take all of them out. Even if he’s on the team. They go to a phone, pass on Greg’s message and HRT gets in here if it takes calling out the National Guard with armored personnel carriers.”

“Well, actually…” Barb said, cautiously, just as there was a furious knocking on connecting room door.

“Miz Goldberg,” Duncan said, raising his eyebrows at the slight Jewish woman he saw when he opened the door.

“Where is she?” Goldberg said, striding past him and into the room. “You stupid-”

“I know,” Barbara said, shaking her head. “You don’t have to beat me up, I’m already doing that. All three of us are.”

“Whose stupid idea was it to try to flush him?” Kay said, ignoring the oblique plea.

“I think that throwing around recriminations is a bit late,” Duncan said, sitting back down in his chair after closing the door. “We need to get ourselves out of this cleft stick and then throw around recriminations. But, never fear, the Wharf Rat Rangers are prepared to go as far as necessary to find a phone. At which point we can call in a Hostage Rescue Team and we’re all saved.”

“That’s what you think,” Goldberg said, looking at Barb. “Are you going along with this?”

“I was just trying to figure out a way to explain,” Barbara admitted, sighing.

“It won’t work,” Kay snapped. “If he wants to take down your team he can. The only reason he’s not going straight to mass murder is either Barb or her friend.”

“Excuse me?” Duncan said, frowning. “Barbara’s a charming person, but…”

“Shut your fool mouth, youngster,” Goldberg snarled, her accent clearly Hebrew. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with here.”

“Clue me,” Duncan said, seriously.

“Who are you?” Barb asked, looking directly at Goldberg.

“That’s nobody’s business, but…” Kay said, frowning.

“Barbara Everette,” Duncan said, nodding in her direction and waving at Goldberg. “May I make your acquaintance of Lieutenant Colonel Hega Moshen, Israeli Defense Force and later Shin Bet. I believe your highest rank in the IDF was, in fact, major, correct, Colonel?”

“You were a colonel in Shin Bet?” Barb asked, surprised. She’d thought the tough little Jewish woman was probably a former sergeant or low-level Mossad agent.

“Yes,” Kay said after a long pause. “I was the Shin Bet commander for Israeli Special Circumstances.”

“Okay, I got all of that except that last bit,” Duncan admitted, waving his hand vaguely. “Hell, I knew all of that except the last bit. What’s Special Circumstances? Serial killings?”

“Special ones,” Kay said, looking at Barbara. “She’s SC,” she added with a jerk of her chin at the homemaker. “American SC.”

“Who was Goldberg?” Barb asked, quietly.

“Does anybody want to actually answer my question?” Duncan said, plaintively.

“My husband,” Kay said, just as quietly. “He was our top adept.”

“Ok-aaay,” Duncan said, shaking his head. “I did not just hear you say that. No, tell me I didn’t just hear you actually say he was an adept. Please?”

“Special Circumstances is the term used for supernatural investigations,” Barbara said, sighing and still looking at the old Jewish woman. “This person isn’t just a serial killer, he’s a necromancer. The reason there aren’t any marks on Timson’s body is that he ripped his soul right out. Pull the soul out and the body stops working.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Duncan said, trying to catch up. “I had this manager one time…”

“She is not joking,” Kay said, brutally. “I am not joking. If you send out a team, they would have no defense against the necromancer.”

“They would if one of us went with them,” Barb pointed out.

“You any good at hiking?” Duncan asked, smiling. “And if you’re gone, who’s going to protect me?”

“You’d accept me protecting you?” Barbara asked, grinning. “What was all that about women and children first?”

“I also said something about if a woman is a warrior,” Duncan said, shrugging. “I’m still working on the assumption that you’ve both been smoking too much peyote. But I’m also not willing to trust my skin on it. I’m attached to it. Very attached.”

“You would probably survive,” Barb said, looking at him carefully. “You’re… you’re not protected by your faith like I am, but you’ve got something. I’m not all that experienced, but I can tell that you’re powerful in some way.”

“You’re just seeing my natural sexual charisma,” Duncan said, avoiding her eyes.

“What aren’t you telling us?” Kay asked, sharply.

“It’s stupid,” Duncan said, shrugging. “I don’t believe in hocus-pocus.”

“Do you believe in God?” Barbara asked.

“Oh, maybe,” Duncan said, shrugging again. “I’m more agnostic. But…”

“But?” Kay asked.

“I’ve had a few girlfriends, before I was married,” he added, looking up at Barb. “Some of them were into witchy stuff. I didn’t pay it any mind as long as they were good in bed and didn’t nag too much. But one of the ones that… I suppose if you’re not joking she might have really been strong I guess. She’d never let me be around when she was doing a rite. She said I was something like a natural power sink. She called me black silk.”

“I’m not sure what that means,” Barbara said, uncertainly. “I’m really new at this. But I don’t think the necromancer could just rip your soul out. He might be able to kill you, but…” She paused and looked at him. “Can I try something?”

“You can feel free,” Duncan said. “As long as it’s not pulling my heart out and sending my soul to hell. I hate heat. I’ll take the Ninth Level, though. All that lovely ice…”

“No,” she said, reaching into her power base. She had found that there were two sources of power, one that was her channel and the other she supposed was just in her. She had a hard time figuring out exactly what to do, but after a moment she decided that God wasn’t going to condemn her for trying a compelling charm. She’d been told how to form one in class, but never tried it because it seemed intrusive. Now she just reached out and tried to compel him to draw his weapon and set it down.

“That was an odd feeling,” Duncan said, his face wrinkling. “Is it cold in here?”

“I’m not sure what I’m doing,” Barb said, desperately. “Colonel, could I…”

“Go ahead,” Kay said, nodding. “I’ll be the control if you wish.”

When she had tried to compel Duncan she had thrown power at him and had it simply… disappear. This time she just tried to compel the colonel to bend down and pick up a pen. Instead she hit something like a wall. It was strong but she knew she could overcome it if she tried.

“I could push past your resistance,” Barbara said, opening her eyes.

“I could feel that,” Kay said, opening her own. She looked worn. “Lord Yaweh, you’re powerful. Was that coming from your channel?”

“No,” Barb said, taking a deep breath. “Duncan, I don’t think anyone on earth could compel you.”

“You could,” Duncan said, smiling and batting his lashes. “Just by smiling.”

“I mean magically,” Barbara said, sighing. “It’s like punching fog.”

“That’s me,” Duncan said, shrugging. “I guess it’s because I’m never really in the present.”

“I’d love to know what it actually is,” Barb said. “I doubt it’s that simple. But you could make it out and be safe from the necromancer.”

“Unless the necromancer just killed him,” Kay pointed out. “A bullet kills you just as dead as being soul drained.”

“That would be who was faster on the draw,” Duncan argued. “I’ll take that chance.”

“He could use power to take your gun from you,” Kay said. “To make the bullets not work. To pull it apart. I’ve seen it, had it done to me. It’s… annoying. Stakes just aren’t my favorite weapon.”

“Oh,” Duncan said. “I wasn’t looking forward to a long walk in the snow anyway. Heart condition, donchaknow. Too many cigars.”

“You should quit,” Barbara said, automatically.

“That’s what my doctor keeps saying,” Duncan said, shrugging. “But chicks really dig it. We’re wasting time, here. We need to figure out some way to get people to cluster so we can keep an eye on them and protect them. The only problem with that is that a convention is like…”

“Herding cats,” Barb said. “You said that before.”

“And the way that you herd cats,” Duncan said, smiling, “is you offer them treats where you want them to go and then shut the door. Another thing a girlfriend taught me.”

Chapter Sixteen

Yes, Miss Ruby,” the manager said, waving his hands at the power outage. “The hotel is not with power. Most of the guests are with your convention. To be telling them we will open the restaurant and bar for occupancy. We have heat to heat those rooms, but all other rooms will be no heat.”

“This is insane,” Ruby said, tearing her hair then stopping and trying to be composed. “I’ll start circulating the word, but it will take time to even get the staff up to speed. When are you opening the dining room?”

“Now,” the manager said, waving his hands. “Is open! But should bring blankets, pillows. Is no maid service, none come to work today.”

“I keep saying we need to move this thing to summer,” Ruby muttered, darkly.

When she was gone the manager went back behind the reception desk, where angry guests were already lining up, and into his office.

“Is done,” he said, shaking his head. “My cousin is cutting power to all the wings. Is only power here in the lobby and in restaurant and bar.”

“Open the bar,” Greg said, the shook his head. “Not free but open the bar. That will give them even more reason to stick around. But we need to get people centered in one area.”

“Then, we hunt,” Barbara said, standing up and walking out the side door.

She stopped when she was out in the snow and looked up at the sky. The snow was just barely coming down, now, but it was thick and deep in every direction, mounded up in drifts along the north sides of the buildings. They’d be lucky if they could get out of here in a week.

“What are you doing?” Janea coming through the door behind her. “It’s freezing out here!”

“Thinking,” Barb said. “Why hasn’t he struck again?”

“I dunno,” Janea admitted. “He might be resting after the kill, sometimes that’s necessary depending upon the spell. Or he might be communicating with his demon.”

“We’d feel that,” Barbara pointed out. “Wouldn’t we?”

“Not if he’s using a circle,” Janea said. “And within it, which I wouldn’t do with a demon. But I don’t know how he’s dedicated himself. We don’t even know where he found the spell to build this much power. Usually with necromancy, you lose most of the power. There’s a rush that you can use, but then it fades. From that stone, he’s found a way to store it.”

“What’s he going to use it for?” Barb asked, frowning into the distance.

“A major summoning,” Janea said, shivering from more than the cold. “A really big one.”

“How many souls?” Barbara asked, sadly.

“Lots,” Janea said. “If it’s Tiamat, lots and lots. And after that…”

“All hell breaks lose,” Barb said, softly.

“You have to get me out of here,” the man said, turning away from the image of the demon.

“You will escape, that is our bargain,” the demon rasped. The sound was like the buzzing of wasps. “And you will live. If it is in my power to support you. But you must act. Now.”

“There is no way I can do this and not go to prison,” the man snarled, angrily. “There’s evidence, you stupid beast!”

“It can be changed,” the demon responded. “It has taken me time to research the new skills of this world. But it can be changed. Another will be made to be the killer. You will be one of the survivors. And you will be famous, which will make your sales even higher.”

“Myself and my friend,” the man said.

“No, only yourself,” the demon snarled. “The other will be a binding. I guarantee your survival but only if your… friend is gone. That is a liability. End the liability.”

“Agreed,” the man sighed after a moment’s hard thought.

“And a few will survive, besides,” the demon mused. “And the one who will be chosen to go to prison in your place. The minds of the humans will be changed, computers will be changed, paper will be changed. With the power that you will gather, there is nothing that cannot be done. My Mother will return.”

“Your binding holds, even upon her,” the man said. “I wrote it well; being a lawyer has its uses. There is no escape. You must keep me alive and make my sales the greatest in the world. Or I am freed.”

“It was agreed,” the demon said. “But now is the time to act. They are gathered for the slaughter. But you must get more power. At least twenty must die before you can do battle with the White God’s witch. The other is of no consequence; her goddess is weak.”

“What about guns?” the man asked.

“They are of no consequence, either,” the demon promised. “I have examined them as well. Simple alchemical properties, easily tampered with. But the White God’s witch is strong. She is your only true enemy. All others will fall before us and then… My Mother will be manifest on earth!”

“Come on, folks, let’s pack up the food and booze,” Leo said, lifting up a case of homemade beer. “If we’re going to be stuck in the restaurant we might as well have fun.”

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to handle being around all those people for… how long?” Sadie asked, picking up a case of chips.

“We can wander out,” Don said, picking up a laptop and a bottle of Glenlivet. “To smoke at least. But it’s going to be cold, lass. Best bring as much cold weather gear as we can gather.”

“We’ll do the S-starship Troopers th-thing,” Baron stuttered. “All p-pile up for heat.”

“In your dreams, Baron,” Sadie responded, sticking out her tongue.

“Go down the south hallway. When you get to the third floor, just pull the vest out of the bag. Hold it out for two minutes, then walk down the stairs and back to the room.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“And what are you going to be doing?”

“Being conspicuously present.”

“What are you doing here, Baron?” Barbara asked as she passed the entrance to the restaurant.

“I’m on s-staff, now,” Baron said. “I’m ch-checking people in and out. Th-there’s a list. You sh-should go in, m-ma’am.”

“I’m sort of on staff, too,” Barb said. “Anybody going out?”

“S-smokers,” Baron said, gesturing down the hallway. “And s-some of the guests won’t l-leave their r-rooms.”

“Okay,” Barbara said. “I’ll go see if I can round up any strays.”

“You’re a s-stray, ma’am,” Baron pointed out.

“Not hardly,” Barb said. “Can I look at your list?”

“I suppose,” Baron said, handing over the clipboard.

It had a list of all the con-goers and guests with the few “general” guests in the hotel appended to the bottom. She noticed a group of them, third floor end, that she assumed was the “Black Rose” society, whatever that was. Janea still wouldn’t explain but she said they weren’t the problem. And, demonstrably, they had turned up after the first twinge from the necromancer.

Most of the con-goers, guests and dealers were in the restaurant, bar and lobby area according to the list. Some of them had been ticked in and out and she recognized a few names.

“Thanks,” she said, handing it back with a wide smile. “Are you going to get relieved some time?”

“Yes, m-ma’am,” Baron said. “I’m only really filling in for someone.”

“Well, I’m going to go try to pry people out of their rooms,” Barbara said. She walked down the hallway to the outside door and looked out. Outside the door were a couple of kids who looked like gamers or LARPers, smoking, and a gaggle of Wharf Rats doing the same. She decided to brave the cold.

“Hi, Barb,” Sadie said, her hands shaking as she lifted a cigarette. “S… cold!”

“You sound like Baron,” Leo said, smiling. “It’s not that cold! It was colder at the Inchon Reservoir!”

“But you weren’t there, Leo,” Duncan chuckled, waving a cigar. “You were barely born.”

“Okay, it’s colder where I go hunting,” Leo said, shrugging deeper into his jacket. “What are you doing out here, Barb?”

“I’m sort of on staff,” Barbara said, looking at Duncan. “I’m trying to round up strays.”

“Just us out here,” Duncan said, shrugging and nodding at her significantly. “And as soon as we hammer a couple of coffin nails we’re going back in.”

“Okay,” Barb said, nodding back. She still was of two minds about whether he was on the list of suspects or not. She firmly believed he wasn’t a necromancer, but that strange shield bothered her immensely. “Where’s Don?”

“Dunno,” Duncan said, shrugging. “I knocked on his door but he didn’t answer. Probably sleeping it off. Don’t worry, he won’t freeze to death; too much antifreeze in his system.”

“I’ll check on him,” she said, frowning at Duncan. He shouldn’t be so flippant with what he knew. But maybe he was still thinking it was all a silly game or something.

As she walked back the hallway towards the lobby she saw David Krake talking to Baron earnestly. The former was wearing a long, heavy coat and had snow on his legs.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I can’t find Charlotte,” Krake replied, tightly. “She’s not in her room or in the restaurant. She’s not checked in on the list at all.”

“Can I suggest that you wait in the restaurant, sir?” Barbara said, politely. “I’m one of the people designated to round up strays. I’ll look for her, I really will.”

“You can suggest all you’d like,” Krake replied, tartly. “But I’ll find her myself, thank you. She said she was going to be here.”

Barbara looked at the list again, making some notes as he walked down the hall towards the smoking area. She also noted that Mandy, Larry and Angie were missing from the con-goers. Norm and Eric had been checked in, although both had been in and out, apparently. She hadn’t felt anything from the necromancer, so it was unlikely they’d been killed. But there was something bothering her about the pattern.

“Janea,” Barb said, walking a little bit away from the entrance and keying her radio.

“Go,” Janea said.

“Go pry the Black Rose people out of their rooms, will you?” Barbara asked, politely. “And while you’re up there, use the pass key to check 304. Donald Draxon is missing. See if he’s sleeping it off.”

“Will do,” Janea said. “What are you going to be doing?”

“I’m heading over to the west wing and see if I can find a few more strays,” Barb answered. “Greg?”

“Here,” the FBI agent said. He’d taken up position in the manager’s office. It had exits to the restaurant, the outside and the lobby so he could move in any direction to respond to trouble.

“You got that?”

“Got it,” Greg said, unhappily. “Be careful.”

“Of course,” Barbara said, crossing into the deserted atrium. Perhaps from the rumor of a murderer running around, the con-goers really were huddling together like sheep. And something bothered her about that as well.

She entered the west wing and started to take the stairs, then stopped and pulled out her radio.

“He’s here,” Barb said. “Somewhere in the west wing. Janea, get those Black Rose people out of there. I don’t care how.”

She hit the stairs and pounded to the second floor. She could only tell he was somewhere above her and to the west.

There wasn’t anyone on the second floor and she could tell he was still above her. But as she ran to the top floor the feeling… quit.

She burst out into the third floor corridor and looked to the end but there was nobody there. She did, however, hear the sound of the fire door closing on the far end.

She’d done that one before so she ducked back into the stairs and ran down to the second floor, darting out and looking to the far end. When nobody came out she headed down to the ground floor.

As she burst from the stairwell, she nearly ran down Duncan.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, sharply. He was just coming in the door from the atrium so he clearly hadn’t been on the top floor.

“I was getting another coat,” Duncan said, evenly. “I had a spare in my room.”

“You need to get in with the others, sir,” Barbara said, definitely. “Our friend is somewhere in this wing.”

“Interesting,” Duncan said, looking up at the wing. “But you said that he couldn’t charm me or whatever.”

“I don’t know that he isn’t you,” Barb said, bluntly.

“Well, I do,” Duncan replied, nodding at her. “I’m just going to get my coat, then go back. I’m sure I’ll be around plenty of witnesses if anyone dies.”

“Damnit,” she snapped, shaking her head. He went to the second-floor corridor and, with nothing else to do, she followed.

“Making sure I’m going where I said I was?” Duncan asked.

“Yes,” she replied, tightly.

Duncan stopped at a room and inserted a key, waving for her to enter.

“I’ll stay here,” Barbara replied, suddenly not sure if she was following him or guarding him.

He emerged a moment later with a couple of flannel shirts, a pair of waterproof pants and a Gore-Tex-and-fleece jacket.

“There, you see?” he asked. “All I said I was getting. Shall we be getting back?”

“I’ll follow you to the atrium,” she said. “The necromancer was somewhere in this building.”

When he went into the atrium she watched him cross then shook her head.

Not knowing quite what to do she walked to the far end of the first floor and looked out the exit door there. It was supposed to be locked, but it wasn’t. The lock had been taped back and there was snow on the floor and footprints outside. Recent footprints, at least since the snow had stopped falling.

She stepped out into the snow, noticing that the light was failing fast, and followed the prints around the building. They appeared at first to enter the building through the back of the kitchens but on the far side of the loading dock there was another set. It looked like more than one person and she broke into a run. She could feel it in her bones, that something wicked this way comes.

Chapter Seventeen

It’s done,” the woman said, running up with the bag in her hand. “But you have to stop this! Nothing is worth what you’ve been doing.”

“Thank you,” the man replied, smiling at her. “And I am going to stop. Very soon. And you won’t have to worry about it anymore.”

“Good,” she said, shaking her head. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” the man said, sadly. “That’s why I’m going to let you keep your soul.”

She barely caught the flash of metal as the knife punched up through her diaphragm and into her heart.

“Remolus said that you must go,” the man said, his face blank. “But he didn’t say that I had to take your soul. This one last thing I do for you, my love.”

He waited until the light had died in her eyes and then lowered her to the hotel room floor.

“Now to go kill that witch of the old gods,” the man said, reaching into the bag.

“Damnit, this is serious,” Janea said, shaking her head. “Put on some damned clothes and get down to the restaurant!”

“Oh, come on,” the man said, waving a whip. “You probably know how to use one of these! Join the fun. We’re keeping warm the best way, through healthy exercise.”

Most of the adjoining doors in the area had been opened and the rooms were more or less filled with mostly naked people engaged in… healthy exercise. Janea felt it was almost a sin not to join in, but there was a time for love and a time for battle. It did look like fun, though; a few of the men were pretty good looking and a couple of the women were just spectacular. And she had to admit that if they were all dedicated to the goddess, they would be raising some serious energies. She could feel them around her, through her link, and even tap into them to an extent.

“People, listen up,” she said, summoning a bit of energy and making herself… extremely attractive with a touch of dominance. Even the doms in the room were forced to pay attention to her. “There is a serious problem, here. Not just the heat. I’m a consultant with the FBI. We’ve tracked a killer to this con. He’s already killed seven women and now he’s killed a person at the con. The real reason that we’re gathering everyone in the restaurant is for your own protection. Now, I need you to gather up all your warm weather clothing and get the hell out of here!” The last was delivered in not only her firmest voice but with a hint of the goddess behind her. It promised no nookie for life if they didn’t obey.

“Well, jeeze!” the gay guy who’d been carrying the timber said, struggling in his chains. “Get these things off of me!”

Janea shook her head and stepped out into the hall, stopping at the sight of the approaching man.

“Are you still looking for…” she said then stopped as the man’s eyes began to glow.

Barb felt the power like a bucket of vomit dropped on her head. But her channel opened up, filling her with power as she began to run.

“Janea!” she yelled, keying the mike. “Janea!”

“The Light and Holiness of Freya fills me!” Janea boomed, her arms and legs spread wide. She could feel her channel filling with power but she blanched when the power of the necromancer hit her.

“Your goddess is weak,” the man rasped in a voice like wasps. His coat was drawn back to reveal a vest covered in moonstones that glowed red with power. “Remolus calls to you, come to him and your soul will be spared!”

“Death in battle is my highest calling,” Janea said, reaching behind her to draw her piece. “And even necromancers die from a bullet.”

But when she pulled the trigger, the hammer fell with a click. She knew it was loaded, she jacked it back in frustration anyway and fired again. Another click.

“Do you think that my lord cannot overcome earthly weapons?” the necromancer said with a laugh. He made a gesture and the weapon was ripped from her hands. “For that, however, I will take your soul.”

The man reached out one hand and the stones blazed as Janea felt a terrible drawing on her. She could feel the channel filling the void but it was as if all the power was plunging into a black hole.

“Remolus is the Soul Devourer!” the man rasped. “Your power simply feeds the blackness, priestess of a weak goddess! Every bit of power you draw, simply weakens your goddess to no avail!”

Janea could feel herself getting weaker, but she also heard the members of the Black Rose piling out of the doors with screams and gasps as they saw the backlash from the magical battle in the hallway. She fell to her knees and shook her head, crawling towards the necromancer, trying to do battle to the last.

“If I die to spare one soul, then I die well,” she said, panting as the blackness filled her. “My soul will rest forever in the Shin-”

Barbara burst onto the third floor and stopped, panting, then dropped to her knees.

There were two male bodies sprawled in the hallway. She didn’t even have to walk up to them to know they were dead. There was the same feel in the air as when she’d found Timson. Janea was on her face further down the corridor. Barb ran to her and rolled her over, hoping against hope that she was alive.

She felt at her throat and there was a faint pulse, but Janea was barely alive. Barb opened up her channel and reached to the woman, trying to feel what was going on with her.

There had always been a feeling of great… wonder to Janea. A brightness that was difficult to shadow. Now there was virtually nothing, as if her soul had been almost entirely stripped. Almost, however, was different than completely. And Barbara could feel a trickle of power coming from somewhere. She suddenly realized that Janea’s goddess was keeping her alive. By feeding her soul energies.

“Lord,” Barb said, holding her hands over the still body on the floor. “I know that this is not a woman who would be considered of the highest by most of your worshippers. But Your Son said ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.’ And she is a fellow warrior of Light. Please, Lord, give me the power to help her. I’m not sure what I’m doing here, so You may have to guide my hand as well. Blessed be Your name, amen.”

She placed her hands on Janea’s stomach and reached for her channel, willing power into the woman’s body.

She could feel the power flow through her, not as much as when she had faced Almadu, but power nonetheless. Janea gasped and arched as if she’d been hit by a jolt of electricity and her eyes flew open as she fell back, limp.

“I saw the Shining Lands,” the woman whispered, staring at the ceiling.

“Janea, who did this?” Barbara asked.

“They were so… beautiful,” Janea replied and then her eyes closed.

Her pulse was strong but the dancer was out of it. Even a few slaps couldn’t wake her. Unconscious, maybe a coma, maybe sleep. But alive, by all that was blessed.

Barbara looked at Janea and shook her head. After a moment she dragged her through the nearest open door. There were various… accoutrements set up in the room and a large St. Andrew’s cross by one wall. She finally realized why Janea had been reticent about explaining its purpose when she saw the shackles attached to it. But it gave her an idea.

The door closed with a thump as she left. Let him get in through that. On the other hand, it was going to be a job for anyone to get in.

“What’s going on?” Sadie asked as Baron came around the building.

“A b-bunch of n-naked people j-just ran into the l-lobby screaming about s-somebody fighting on th-the third floor,” Baron said.

“I wonder what that was all about?” Leo said, looking through the door. “Somebody might need help…”

“Ah, there you are,” the man said, coming around the corner behind Baron. “I was hoping someone would be out here.”

“There was someone fighting on the third floor,” Leo said, nodding at him. “Are you okay, sir? You look a bit…”

“With the power of the priestess, I only need ten more,” the man said, opening up his long coat and revealing a vest of moonstones. “You will be three. Sorry about this,” he added to Baron who was looking at him open mouthed. “You were always helpful. If a tad boring.”

“What are you doing out here?” Barb snapped as she came out the side door. Larry, Eric and Angie were standing outside in the snow.

“Angie’s smoking,” Larry snapped right back. “And the rest of us are avoiding being in a restaurant that’s been taken over by slope-brow, red-neck science-fiction fans.”

“People are dead on the third floor of this building,” Barbara growled, drawing her weapon and dropping the magazine. “Did anyone come out here?” She dropped the round out of the chamber and then dropped another one in.

“No,” Eric said, looking at the gun wide-eyed. “You’re not supposed to have one of those…”

“Shut. Up.” Barb ground out. She pointed the weapon off to the side and dropped the hammer. But it just clicked. She took the other round and dropped it in, and that one fired. “Damn!”

“What was that in aid of?” Larry asked.

“Get into the restaurant,” Barbara snapped. “Now! Or so help me God I will put a bullet in your head. If I see you wandering around, you will be terminated without prejudice. Do I make myself clear?”

“You’re joking,” Angie said, starting to laugh and then stopping at the look on Barb’s face.

“There is a killer running around,” Barb said. “I don’t know who it is. It may be you. You are present, here, when a killing has just occurred up there,” she added, pointing up. “Make up your own mind.”

“You can’t just go killing people…” Larry said.

“Stop me,” Barbara said, pointing the weapon at his head. “One. Two…”

“We’re going,” Eric said, grabbing Larry’s arm. “Come on.”

Barb was marching them down the corridor when she felt the wave of evil sweep over her.

“Okay, it’s probably not you,” she said, pushing them. “In which case, you’re targets. Now run!”

She passed them, despite their lumbering run, and turned towards the north side of the hotel. As before, the power appeared, spiked, and then disappeared, just as she reached the back of the hotel and burst out into the open.

Sadie, Leo and Baron were sprawled by the back door, with Duncan bent over them.

“Freeze!” she shouted, pointing the weapon at his head. She suddenly realized she’d never seen him with his jacket off. If it was lined with silk, it would mask anything he had under it.

“They’re dead,” he said, looking over his shoulder at her.

“I know that,” she said, still keeping the .45 pointed at his head. “Pull out your piece and put it on the ground. Now.”

“They’re just fucking dead,” Duncan repeated, softly, then turned to the side and vomited on the ground.

“I said, draw your piece and put it on the ground,” Barbara repeated, sharply.

“You got it,” Duncan replied, wiping his mouth, then drawing his weapon and setting it in the snow. “Who did this?”

“I’m trying to decide if it was you,” Barb admitted.

“Well, decide quick,” Duncan snapped, standing up slowly. “Because in a second I’m going to pick up that piece and go hunting myself.”

“Guns don’t work,” Barbara said, lowering her weapon and pointing it at the ground. “Janea’s bullets had been tampered with, somehow. They wouldn’t fire.”

“I take it you’ve decided I’m not the killer?” Duncan asked, turning around.

“Open your coat,” Barb answered, shifting her feet into a cat stance.

“What? It’s freezing!”

“Open your coat,” Barbara repeated.

Duncan looked at her and shook his head but he unbuttoned the coat and pulled it wide.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” Barb admitted, frowning.

“Can I c-close it now?” Duncan asked, teeth chattering.

“Go ahead,” Barbara said. “Then turn around and spread your arms and legs.”

“Oh, good, I’m going to get a pat down from a beautiful blonde,” Duncan replied, but he turned.

Barbara patted him down, looking for hidden gemstones. He had a lighter and a folding knife, but his only jewelry was his wedding ring.

“What was that all about?” Duncan asked.

“The killer has to be carrying moonstones,” Barb said. “Probably a lot. You don’t have any. So you’re probably not the killer. Now get in the restaurant. Let me hunt. I know what I’m doing, okay?”

“Well, I’m going to go brief the cooler Wharf Rats on what’s really going on,” Duncan said. “And get them to help me move these three. They shouldn’t be just left here. Guns don’t work. Okay. There will be something that will.”

“Do that,” Barbara said, nodding. “I have to go find this guy before he kills again.”

“Oh, it’s you,” Larry said as the man walked up through the snow. He, Eric and Bob had come back out into the atrium when they couldn’t stand the sight, or sound, of the Wharf Rats’ continuing party. “One of your minions was running around babbling about someone being killed.”

“My minion?” the man asked, blandly.

“The blonde, Barb I think her name is,” Eric said, frowning. “She’s one of your type.”

“She’s no minion of mine,” the man said, smiling in great humor. “Quite the opposite. She’s trying very hard to stop me.”

“What?” Bob asked, uneasily.

“I said she’s trying to stop me, you liberal moron,” the man replied, unbuttoning his jacket. “She wants to stop me from raising the power to call my demon. But she’s just about too late.”

“Holy…” Larry said as the glowing gems on the vest were revealed.

“No, quite the opposite,” the man said, waving a hand. The three were instantly held immobile, only their eyes moving. “Quite unholy…” he said as he drew the knife.

Barbara hadn’t particularly cared for Larry or his crowd. But they’d died hard; the blood and pieces were splattered all over the white snow. What he’d done to Bob was bad enough and Larry was worse. Poor Eric… well, she was pretty sure it was Eric. The pieces looked about right.

“He’s toying with me,” she muttered, looking around. The snow had been trampled in the area so she had no idea which way he’d gone. With all the blood from the bodies, he should have been splashed. But there was no blood trail.

He’d been running her around in circles and she was tired enough to just stop. Which seemed to be the thing to do, stop and think.

He’d nearly, but not quite, killed Janea. Why leave her alive? Because Barb felt him attack her and got there before he could stop to kill her? Did he not realize Janea was alive? He’d clearly taken his time with these three.

He was drawing souls. She’d felt the power flows when he’d fought Janea and if he’d simply drawn her soul it would have been over in no time. So he wasn’t drawing souls so much as power. And Janea had had enough power that he couldn’t draw it all?

Close, she felt, but not quite.

But if he could simply absorb the power of the priestess, even with a goddess behind her, then simply blasting him with power would fall right into his hands. It would feed him. But shooting him seemed out as well.

“Wizards can be killed with a dagger in the back just as well as with magic.”

She wasn’t sure where she’d heard that, but it seemed like good advice.

And there was only one thing better than a dagger.

He felt full, suffused, and the power from the gems had barely been tapped.

It was time for the Great Rite. Time to kill all these worthless fen and take his rightful place.

He dared that bitch to stop him as he headed for the restaurant.

Chapter Eighteen

“It’s a long way to Tipperary,

It’s a long way to go.

It’s a long way to Tipperary

To the sweetest girl I know!

Goodbye Piccadilly,

Farewell Leicester Square!

It’s a long long way to Tipperary,

But my heart’s right there.”

“I think the con’s better this way,” Sean said, pouring another glass of beer and looking around at the group in the restaurant. “Just party the whole weekend long!”

“That’s the ticket,” Duncan replied, frowning. “The only bad part’s the people dying.”

“Speaking of which, where’s Leo and Sadie?” Mandy asked.

“Sadie’s probably hiding in a room somewhere,” Sean replied, shrugging. “You know how she is with crowds.”

“Well, David finally decided to crash the party,” Norm said, waving at the entrance. The writer was unbuttoning his jacket as he entered the heated room. He had a slight smile on his face and his eyes…

“I think we’ve got problems,” Duncan said, rising to his feet.

“What’s the…” Sean replied and stopped, mute and staring as the power of the gems on David Krake’s vest blazed out in the room.

The closest people to the entrance were a group of gamers and Duncan watched as they toppled over. He’d seen a few dead people in his time and they were unmistakably dead. The rest of the restaurant had gone silent as everyone seemed held by some force. He seemed to be the only one unaffected.

“I see there’s another of you here,” Krake said, still smiling faintly. “I take it you’re one of those Special Circumstances types.”

“No, just… odd,” Duncan replied. Krake was all the way across the crowded room from him and he knew he’d never get a shot off. But there were other weapons. “I know you’re going to kill me, but can I at least ask ‘why?’ ”

“Never explain,” Krake said, reaching out a hand.

“Oh, come on,” Duncan snapped. “You know you want to tell somebody. And, since I’m going to die anyway…”

Krake appeared to consider that for a moment and then shrugged, looking for the first time slightly ashamed.

“Demons can give earthly power…” Krake said, then smiled thinly. “Even over book sales.”

“It’s that damned Robert Nile, isn’t it?” Duncan said, amazed. “You did all this just to… what? Get better sales? Corner the fantasy market?”

“I’ve been in this business for thirty years!” Krake shouted, his mouth practically frothing. “And the man writes tripe! What’s the justice in that? I’ve worked so hard. And he comes out of nowhere and sells a gazillion copies of complete crap! What’s wrong with my books? What’s wrong with people these days that they want unending series that never go anywhere? Nineteen pages on a harvest? Two hundred pages of every single step of every single character detailed? Are people insane?”

“So you’re going to kill all these people for better sales,” Duncan said, shaking his head. “I’d thought better of you, David.”

“Try being near the end of your career, you upstart bastard.” He reached out again and then paused, puzzled.

Duncan could feel… something. It was like a hand fumbling around in his chest. He stumbled forward, reaching for his knife, as the feeling grew.

“What are you?” Krake asked, puzzled.

“A warrior of God you son-of-a-bitch,” Duncan replied, drawing his knife and clicking it open. “Not some demon’s plaything. And I never liked your books! Saint Michael, Patron of Paratroopers protect us!”

Suddenly the knife flew out of his hands to clatter on the floor as Krake reached behind his back and drew out a pistol.

“Some warrior,” Krake said, smugly.

The last thing Duncan saw was the muzzle flash.

Krake finished scribing the runes on the floor and stepped back.

“Remolus, come to me,” he chanted. “Here is the power, here are the souls, be manifest upon this earth! R’gom h’bameen sul!”

He reached into Candice’s chest, ripping her living heart out and holding it up as the blood cascaded down his arm.

“The way is opened, the door is opened, the walls are breached, Remolus, come to me! R’gom R’mula! H’bamen sul!”

He could feel the stupid FBI bitch. She was nearby but too far away to stop the rite. She’d apparently never been taught how to cloak, and her power shown brightly. But not enough power; he was filled to the brim with the power of the souls he had stolen for Remolus.

“Remolus, come to me!” he shouted, just as the arrow entered his back.

He stumbled forward onto the runes, dropping to his knees and turning as another arrow thudded into him. Kay Goldberg, flanked by the FBI agent, was standing in the door of the restaurant. Kay was just fitting another arrow into a bow. She had a distant look on her face and he realized that he could barely feel her. But he reached out his hand and drew upon his power.

“This is for Benjamin,” the former Shin Bet agent said as she drove the third arrow into his face.

Barbara ran out of the Dealers’ Room and down the hall to the restaurant. She had felt the power and a brief battle, the deaths and the building rite like the prickle before a thunderstorm. But something had interfered.

As she turned the corner to the restaurant, though, there was a hoarse bellow that sounded as if a billion wasps had all cried out in anger.

Kay stepped back in horror as the body on the ground began to writhe and change. The skin on the writer’s face cracked and split along the line of the arrow, the bones showing through for a moment then being covered with something more like leather than skin. The body swelled, the legs bending and crackling as a mist rose that seemed to be steam swelling from within the body. The arrows blackened as if from an enormous heat, then burst into flames.

When the mist cleared, what was standing in the runes was not human.

She lifted the bow but before she could fire, it cracked in her hands.

“Thank you for opening the way for me,” Remolus said, in a voice like buzzing wasps.

Kay and Greg were sprawled in the entrance to the restaurant as Barb turned the corner. She didn’t have to even check to see if they were dead. Live people had heads attached to their bodies.

She skidded to a halt, though, when a wave of disorientation hit her. The “restaurant” was gone. The room seemed to shift and her sight zoomed in and out, searching for reality, as the walls faded into the distance. The floor had turned to dark stone flagging and the stone walls seemed to drip blood as distant voices cried out in pain and anger. There was a semicircular open area in the middle with a walkway raised above it about a meter on the back wall. The walkway had a stone railing that reached to about chest height, the balusters of the railing made from deformed statues that her mind recoiled from identifying.

She wasn’t sure if she was in another reality or if it was some vision of the past, or, horribly, perhaps the future. Faintly, she could see through the overlaid reality the windows of the restaurant with the snow still outside. But when she reached out to the wall beside her, dark stone with worn carvings her eyes, again, refused to recognize, she could feel its solidity. It was warm and buzzing as if from a distant engine. But in the midst of all this unreality, there was one solid form.

A huge demon was on his knees on the floor, scribbling runes onto the flaggings by the simple expedient of ripping bits off of the nearest bodies and wiping them on with dripping blood. The demon had to be at least fifteen feet tall, humaniform, with skin that looked thick and tough as leather. His legs were odd, they seemed to have an extra knee, and his head was surmounted by several horns. His toes and fingers were tipped with black talons that dripped blood from his harvest. At least a dozen fen were dead and the rest seemed paralyzed.

Barb darted forward as the demon stood and turned to her.

“Fight me,” the demon said, his voice a buzz. “Try to draw my power and I will suck your soul to the husk! Bring to me the power of your White God, witch of the Risen One!”

“I don’t think so,” Barb said, reaching behind her back. She slowly drew the Murasaki blade and took up a butterfly stance. “There’s more than one way to skin a demon.”

“Mortal blades cannot damage me,” the demon said, his face splitting in a grin that revealed triangular sharklike teeth and long tusks.

Barb closed her eyes for just a moment and felt for the soul of the sword. Then she opened her channel and poured it into the steel. When she opened her eyes again, the sword was glowing white.

“What about now?” she asked, springing forward and slicing in a fast X motion.

The blows should have cut the demon in half but his heavy skin was like iron. They did, however, slice down his chest, leaving a broad green X on his leathery skin. The demon’s ichor glowed faintly in the odd red light.

The demon bellowed and backed up, picking up one of the bodies on the floor and hurling it at her.

“The way is open!” the demon bellowed in anger. “You are in my lands, bitch! And I will use your soul to bring forth the Mother of All.”

Barb rolled away from the projectile, the gamer hitting the far wall and slumping to the ground bonelessly, then ran forward to close with the demon.

Remolus leapt into the air and over the wall at the back, landing on the railing, then leapt again through the air to the far side of the room, smashing through the apparently solid wall and disappearing.

Barb followed, tripping over sprawled fen as they began to awake from their paralyzed stupor.

“Out of my way, damnit!” Barb said, kicking one of them in the head, then jumping up to the railing. It was a hell of a jump and, unlike the demon, she had to clamber up onto the walkway. The walkway, however, was also packed with fen. She ended up running down the railing, balancing like a tight-rope walker to avoid the gathered fen. As she reached the far end of the divider the screams started and got louder as Remolus reappeared through the hole he’d smashed in the wall. He was carrying a two-handed sword, a claymore, wielding it one-handed. The blade glowed black.

Barb leapt off the railing into the center of the evacuating room, landing in a crouch and taking up a guard position.

“Okay, you wanna dance, let’s dance,” she snarled.

“When I have killed you, I will take your soul,” Remolus said, striding forward. “One of many to summon my Mother. No heaven for you, White Witch. No heaven for any in this room and Hell will be manifest on earth!”

“First you’ve got to kill me,” Barb said, sliding forward gracefully. “I’ll take my chances.”

The demon hammered the sword downwards, slamming into hers and she knew she had a fight on her hands. The beast was incredibly powerful and the blows were so fast she could barely block them. Each blow struck sparks from the blade, flickering away like silver lightning. She backed across the room, her feet searching for solid purchase in the red blood on the floor, but the demon followed her just as fast or faster, raining down blow after blow. He didn’t have much finesse, but with his reach and power he didn’t need it.

She was being backed into a corner and she knew it. She was more than halfway across the blood-strewn main floor and if she went much farther her back would be to the raised walkway. She also couldn’t do anything about it. The only good news was that the gathered fen had streamed out of the room like a herd of gazelle and the only people left in the room were herself and dead bodies. At the very least, he wasn’t going to be able to gather enough power to summon Tiamat.

She needed to either circle or get up on the walkway. Neither appeared possible, however. Each time she tried to dodge to either side, she found herself blocked by the demon’s long sword. And clambering up onto the walkway with him behind her… wasn’t an option.

Suddenly the demon bellowed and turned, clawing at his shoulder which had seemingly grown an arrow.

Janea was standing in the hole he’d made, a bow in her hand, just nocking another arrow.

“Freya fill me,” she whispered, pulling back on the string shakily. “Guide my eye and arm and bring to me the power of the gods!” The arrow sprang from the bow and left a trail of white light as it flew unerringly to impact on the demon’s side.

It was the best opening Barb was going to get. She cut down, slicing the demon’s hamstring, then up, taking off his right hand. The black blade clattered to the floor as the demon stumbled down to one knee, howling in pain and clutching at his wrist, which was spurting glowing black blood.

“In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ,” Barb said, hefting the glowing sword like a batter, “I banish thee back to the Hell which birthed you!”

Remolus’ head leapt from the spurting stump of his neck and rolled down the stairs. It rolled through the half-finished runes on the floor, smearing them into illegibility and only stopped when it hit the far wall.

Barbara again felt that disturbing shift in reality and dropped to her knees trying not to retch as it felt as if her insides were being twisted so they were outsides. She propped herself on her sword and closed her eyes, only opening them when the feeling passed. When she opened them, the room was, again, a hotel restaurant. With bodies and body parts scattered around it. The demon was still there as well, but already it had started to fall apart, turning liquid around the bones and then slumping into a putrid, stinking, mass.

She looked up at the doorway and was amazed to see Don Draxon standing in the door with one arm around Ruby and the other clutching a half empty bottle of scotch.

“Good Lord,” Draxon said, looking around at the blood-spattered room and the demon deliquescing before his eyes. “Ruby, my dear, I think we should go back to warming ourselves. This looks a bit too warm.”

But Ruby had fainted dead away.

Epilogue

It’s another fine mess you’ve left us to clean up,” Augustus Germaine said, looking out the window.

“Hmmm,” Barbara said, musingly. “The press are going to be all over it like… smell on poop.” She didn’t seem particularly worried and didn’t quit what she was doing.

“Mass murderer at science fiction convention,” Augustus said, shaking his head. “News at six.”

“And the people who saw Remolus?” Barbara asked.

“It’s amazing what people can ignore,” Augustus replied, turning away from the window. “And do you really think that the news media is going to believe a bunch of science fiction fans who say they saw a demon? Besides, there are ways to make people… forget.”

“I wish you’d do it for me, then,” Barb said, shaking her head and still not looking up.

“If I didn’t mention it, you did well,” Augustus said, sitting down across from her. “You and Janea. I had not anticipated a full manifestation.”

“Demons come, demons go,” Barbara said, still not looking up. “Do you think, with him dispelled, that any of those who died have a chance…”

“Heaven’s inscrutable about such things,” Augustus said, shrugging. “But… no. Whether their souls are in the service of Hell or not is unsure. But they are not going to be entering Heaven short of the Second Coming. Long may that day be forestalled.”

“Lord grant that in the end of all things they may find peace,” Barb replied, sighing. “I would that I’d been more able. No soul should be lost to that… thing. Can he… come back?”

“When he was banished, he lost all the power he had gained,” Augustus said, thoughtfully. “The moonstone vest was shattered, so all of that power was lost as well. Pity, I’d have liked to find out what spell they used. If it was not entirely bound by evil it might come in handy. And I’d love to know where Krake found it.”

“Apparently he was a pretty serious researcher,” Barbara said. “But I think it might have something to do with Timson.”

“Timson?” Augustus asked.

“He was the first person that Krake killed here,” Barb replied, shrugging. “Janea said that he was extremely knowledgeable. And Duncan said that he’d been collaborating with Krake on research. I think, if there’s anything to find, it’s going to be in Timson’s notes. If you can find them.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Augustus said, smiling slightly. “How much longer are you going to polish that?”

“I’m not polishing it,” Barbara said, running the silk cloth down the length of the Murasaki blade. “I’m sharpening it.”

Barb set her bag down by the door to the garage and took a deep breath. Home.

“Mom!” Brandon yelled, charging down the hallway followed by Brook.

She hugged her two younger children and looked around for Allison. She was probably pouting in her room.

After greeting the kids she walked through the kitchen and looked in the family room. Mark was installed in front of the big-screen, watching a replay series on ESPN.

“Hello, dear,” she said, smiling. “Miss me?”

“Yeah,” Mark said, not looking away from the TV. “How was your conference or whatever?”

“Enlightening,” Barb replied, her eyes dark with memories.

“Great. What’s for supper?”