Queen of wands

CHAPTER TWO

“Ms. Rickels,” Germaine said. “This is Lady Lithram, our local contact.”

Janea had been moved to a safe house not far from the hospital. The neighborhood was seedy, and Sharice would normally consider the location not particularly secure. However, Germaine had also arranged for four “executive protection specialists” from Atlanta to maintain security around the clock. In addition, there were nurses monitoring Janea at all times and an on-call MD. On the mystic side, the house was owned by Memorial Hospital, a Catholic hospital. Sharice felt mildly out of place only because the defenses of the house, which were formidable, were so clearly Christian.

When Germaine made certain phone calls to certain people, things could get done very quickly.

“Lady Lithram,” Sharice said, shaking her hand. Lady Lithram was stocky, with short blonde hair, blue eyes and a figure that spoke of manual labor. Her hands were roughly calloused. “I’d prefer traditional rites. No skyclad.”

“Of course, madame,” the Wiccan priestess said, nodding. “And may I introduce my husband, Lord Korgan?”

“Lord Korgan,” Sharice said, shaking the man’s hand. Lord Korgan was quite short, slender, and unusually for Wicca, black. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, but had ceremonial robes over his shoulder. “I’m glad to see that both poles are represented.”

“The universe is balance,” Lady Lithram said. “Light and dark, male and female. Only molds don’t need balance, and who loves mold?”

“Indeed,” Sharice said, grinning. “You’re a gardener.”

“We’re landscapers,” Lady Lithram said. “Which mostly means cutting grass to the level it would be shorn by grazers. But I do a nice flowerbed.”

“I suspect they’re better than the owners realize,” Sharice said. “Tell me about the local powers.”

“Very bad,” Lady Lithram said. “Very negative.”

“Negative or dark?” Sharice asked.

“Negative,” Lord Korgan said. “We have walked the dark paths. This is…different.”

“There are at least three long-term demonic residents,” Lady Lithram said. “And a very large body of supporters. Satanists,” she added, nearly spitting.

“They perform their black rites in Chickamauga Park,” Lord Korgan said, tiredly. “We oppose their powers as well as we can, but Wiccans…”

“Don’t fight well,” Sharice said, nodding. “Some, anyway. If we have major demons in the area, why weren’t we called in earlier?”

“They are generational possessors,” Lady Lithram said, frowning. “They live in families, some of the more powerful in the area. Chattanooga is a very strange place, one of the few medium cities that is still ‘owned,’ if you will, by a handful of families. Some of those, not all, are generationally possessed. They keep the city small and manageable because it suits their purposes. Then there are more outside the powerful inner circle, but controlling towns in the area. Again, we do what we can to turn aside their more evil essences, but the Madness killings have been long coming. Something is rising, perhaps by their action, perhaps against their wishes, but definitely linked to them.”

“We’re supposed to be here,” a loud voice boomed from the front of the house. “Check the damned list.”

“Ah, I see Hjalmar is here,” Sharice said, smiling. “Asatru.”

“We can deal,” Lady Lithram said, grinning.

“The reinforcements are here,” Hjalmar said, hefting his ceremonial axe. He was accompanied by another man, short, thin, black-haired and -eyed, and covered in tattoos.

“Hjalmar,” Sharice said, smiling. “Don’t tell me you’re going to join a circle?”

“The sacrifices I make for Frey,” the massive, blond, bearded man said, giving her a spine-cracking bear hug. “But I’m going to stand outside the circle. This is a very nonviolent coven; I’m afraid I would create a disturbance in the Force.”

“You are a disturbance in the Force,” Sharice said. “Drakon.”

The adept shook her hand abruptly and nodded sharply.

“I am here to assist as you need,” he said. “Please continue your conversation.”

“And the Lady-damned Satanists do not help,” Lord Korgan said, sighing again. “We cannot prove it, but we believe they have begun true blood rites using homeless. It’s possible some of the Madness killings are linked to them as well. They certainly perform animal sacrifice. There are times when parts of Chickamauga park are filled with the bodies of dead animals. No black cat is safe. And they try to pass themselves off as pagans!”

“Where we’re going is liable to be dangerous,” Sharice said. “Especially with that sort of spiritual atmosphere. Keep on your toes.”

“Wah-Keng will watch over me, Lady Darkfire,” the adept replied. “I should not require assistance.”

“Hopefully,” Sharice said.

“You’re Lady Darkfire?” Lord Korgan said, his eyes wide.

“Only when I put on a robe,” Sharice replied, grinning. “Until then I’m just Sharice. We need two more. Then we must go to your power center.”

“They’re on their way,” Lady Lithram said. “You know Wiccans…”

“Herding cats is easier,” Sharice said. “Well, let’s get on our game face. We’ve got a soul to save.”

“Doris, right?”

Doris turned and was surprised to see Folsom Duncan. She had been hanging around the cigar terrace half in anticipation of running across the only group she’d interacted with so far. But none of the people she recognized had been around. But it was still just past sunrise, so that wasn’t surprising.

“Sleep okay?” Duncan asked.

“Didn’t sleep at all,” Doris admitted. She could feel the fatigue tugging at her, but sleep hadn’t even been close to a possibility. She’d spent the whole night in one corner or another watching the congoers. It was more or less how she’d spent high school, watching all the kids socialize around her and never being able to break in.

“That will catch up with you, quick,” Duncan said, yawning. “My sleep schedule is totally off. I was up late and I should still be in bed, but it was not to be. Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes,” Doris said, quietly. The con suite had donuts and coffee.

“Well, let me get you a mocha or something,” Duncan said, leading her to the coffee shop in the corner of the hotel. “Given any thought to how you want to spend the con? I’ll admit I probably came on too hard. You can do anything you want, it’s your con, not mine.”

“I gave it a lot of thought,” Doris admitted. She’d had hours to think about it.

“I’m not sure it was worth a lot of thought,” Duncan said, laughing gently.

“No, it was,” Doris said. “I know who I am. I know why I am that way. I’m not sure it’s who I want to be. Or even who I should be. Does that make any sense?”

“Yes,” Duncan admitted. “People come to the Dragon for various reasons. Most come to have fun. Some come to see people, minor celebrities…”

“You?” Doris asked.

“I don’t classify myself that way,” Duncan said. “Some come to interact with friends they’ve made at previous cons. Costumers come to show off their talents. But a few, a special few, if you will, come to find who they truly are. They have been hammered into a certain mold, and it’s a mold with which they are uncomfortable. To the Dragon they are all one. They are all the children of the Dragon: the stormtroopers and the Leias, the Dawn contestants and the guys taking their picture are all equal in the eyes of the Dragon. There’s a song, probably before your time, about masks. The Stranger. We all have a face that we hide away forever, and we take them out and show ourselves when everyone has gone. Some are satin, some are steel, some are silk and some are leather. They’re the faces of the Stranger but we love to try them on.

“What some find from the Dragon is that the face of the Stranger is theirs. In your sleeplessness do you have any idea who you want to be?”

“Yes,” Doris said, pulling out the program book. “You were right. I want to be her. But you see that suit of armor behind her?”

“The one that she seems to shrink from or possibly draw upon?”

“Yep,” Doris said, looking at the cover. “I want to kick its ass. I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired of being…who I was. I want to be somebody better. Somebody stronger.”

“Then fortune may have sent you to the right corner of the con,” Duncan said as they reached the head of the line. “When you’re actually ready to start kicking ass, look me up. I have friends who can aid you there. I’ll take a venti mocha, no whip. Doris…?”

Sharice looked up at the blast of a car horn and darted across the road, making it to the sidewalk safely.

“Odin’s Eye,” Hjalmar muttered. “I think the spell went astray. This does not look like the Moon Paths.”

The threesome had manifested on a city street. On their side was the back of a large building with a vehicle pull-through. Some people were filtering out of doors at the back of the building and heading down to cross the street. On the far side of the street was a large Hilton hotel.

“Dragon*Con,” Drakon said, looking at the marquee for the Hilton. “We’re behind the Marriott. Downtown Atlanta. Wonder which day it is?”

“Dragon*Con, huh?” Hjalmar said. “Always wanted to get there. So are we on the Moon Paths or not? Or did we shift in space and time?”

“It’s the Moon Paths,” Sharice said. “I think it’s a metaphorical representation. An interesting one. I’m not sure who is generating the metaphor. It might be Janea. If so, I’d like to know why.”

“May be hard to find her,” Drakon pointed out as a statuesque redhead in high heels and a schoolgirl outfit walked past. “With the Dawn contest, there are about six thousand redheads at Dragon*Con.”

“Janea stands out in any sort of crowd,” Sharice said, biting her lip. “But that’s not the tough part. We need to figure out the rules of this place. Let’s go find someplace to sit down and consider.”

The hotel was already a bit crowded, but they found a comfortable conversation set of chairs and a table on the main floor of the hotel.

“I’ve been thinking,” Sharice said.

“That sounds ungood,” Hjalmar opined. “Do you think we can get a drink or something? I wasn’t expecting to be thirsty on the Moon Paths.”

“That’s the sort of thing I was thinking,” Sharice admitted. She had a purse and opened it up. “Any of you got any money?”

“Thirty bucks, more or less,” Drakon said, pulling out a leather wallet on a chain. It had a Chinese dragon embossed on it, to no one’s surprise. “And a driver’s license. That’s about it.”

“’Bout two hundred,” Hjalmar said, going through the pockets of his cargo pants. “And a driver’s license, Visa check card, and a room key in a pack with the room number on it. I’m here in the Marriott. 2738.”

“I’ve got about five hundred, a Visa and an American Express,” Sharice said. “Also a room key, 2739.”

She got up and walked over to a nearby ATM, used it and came back.

“And I’ve got five thousand in my account,” she said, sitting down. “Okay, interesting.”

“Power equals money?” Hjalmar asked. “Relative power is about the same. That’s a pretty simple metaphor.”

“But one that works in this environment,” Sharice said. “But we’re not going to want to get into any fights.”

“That sucks,” Drakon said.

“Because if we do, we get hauled to jail?” Hjalmar asked. “What happens then?”

“I’m not sure,” Sharice said. “But I think getting stuck on the Moon Paths is the least of your worries.”

“So who are all the people?” Drakon asked. “I hadn’t expected the Moon Paths to be so…crowded.”

“At a guess?” Sharice said. “The staff are representatives or one or another of the gods. The leaders of each department may be gods themselves. But this has to be some sort of a neutral zone and I’d guess the police and security keep it that way. That’s why we don’t want to get into any fights. The rest of them? Sleeping people caught in dream. The deceased who are stuck in a sort of limbo. Christian purgatory? Demons and spirits of one sort or another. Angels, for that matter. We’re going to have to think our way through this.”

“Blast,” Hjalmar said. “Maybe you should bring someone else.”

“I just have to hope there’s a reason we’re all here,” Sharice said, biting her lip. “So you’re stuck.”

“Speaking of which, how do we get back?” Drakon asked. “Normally you concentrate on your silver cord.”

“You can see it if you open to it enough,” Sharice said. “Hang on.”

She closed her eyes and a moment later started to yawn.

“I tugged at the connection and got tired,” she said. “I’d guess that when we sleep we’ll go back.”

“Isn’t that sort of backwards?” Hjalmar asked. “The astral plane is the world of the ka, the sleeping mind. The world of dream. We go back by dreaming?”

“Which is the dream and which is the reality?” Sharice said, grinning. “But that’s not getting us anywhere. We’ve got money, power, and a mission: Find Janea. Let’s get to it.”

“There’s just one problem,” Drakon said.

“Which is?”

“Are we preregistered?”

“Thor’s left testicle,” Hjalmar grunted. “Would you look at that line?”

Just as the Marriott had backed on the Hilton, the Hyatt backed on the Marriott. And running down the entire block was a line of people. Since they had been directed there to go to registration, they were apparently supposed to get in the line.

A police officer was directing traffic between the two hotels, and as he waved for people to cross, they headed over to the line.

“How long do you think it is?” Hjalmar asked.

“Long,” Drakon said. “One of the reasons I always prereg. Let’s go find the end.”

The end, as it turned out, was around the block, down the end, and nearly to the front of the hotel.

“Dude, I’m so going to preregister next year,” said the guy in front of them, a sallow kid in black clothes.

“Like, totally,” agreed his companion, a shorter guy with a dozen piercings. “Or come in on Thursday.”

“It’s been like this since last night when we opened,” a tall, dark-haired man wearing a headset said, handing them both tickets. “And this is the prereg line. Also day passes. That’s your place in line in case you have to go to the head or something. Line’s about three hours long. You’ll get there eventually.”

“Thanks,” Hjalmar said, looking at the ticket. “I hope that the number on here isn’t our actual place in line. It’s in the millions.”

“Doubt it,” Drakon said, chuckling. “There’s not that many people here.”

“How, by Odin’s eyes, are we going to find Janea in all this?” Hjalmar asked.

“I’ve been to Dragon a couple of times,” Drakon admitted. “Thing is, the way the hotels are laid out, just about everyone comes down the back steps to the Hyatt at one point or another. Most of the programming is in the Hyatt, especially the evening stuff, and it’s where all the parties are. Sooner or later, Janea’s going to pass that point. The thing is…”

“We’re going to have to watch it like a hawk,” Sharice said. “Take shifts. Someone’s always got to be there.”

“That is going to be buckets of fun,” Hjalmar said. “I’ll take first watch.”

“You got it,” Drakon said. “I’ll take second. By midnight or so it’s pretty pointless. We can crash then and get back to the mortal realm to find out what’s happening out there.”

“Since we’ve got the tickets,” Sharice said, “Drakon, go in and find a program so we can get some idea where Janea might turn up. Hjalmar…”

“Go stand by the back of the hotel and watch for Janea,” Hjalmar said.

“Right,” Sharice said as the line crept forward. She pulled out a twenty and handed it to Drakon. “Get us some drinks while you’re at it. I’ll hold our place in line.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Drakon said, grinning. “I know one place we’re definitely going to find her, though.”

“Where?” Sharice asked.

“The Dawn contest,” Drakon said. “It’s got a thousand-dollar prize. That’s power she can use. And she’s a natural.”

“But it’s not until Monday,” Sharice said. “The question is, can she survive ’til Monday?”

As Folsom entered the restroom, a massive black man in a Blade costume nearly ran him down coming out.

“Whoa,” Folsom said. “Nice costume.”

The man paused and nodded as if in thanks, then leaned forward and sniffed several times. He surveyed Folsom for a moment longer, turned to look outwards as if peering through the walls of the bathroom, then nodded and walked out.

Folsom lifted one arm and sniffed. He’d showered no more than an hour ago…

“Hmmm…” he said, looking towards the door. “Try Costuming.”

Doris knew she should be tired, and in a distant way, she was. But mostly she was interested. She’d gotten over to the Hilton early and then sat through four hours of programming on costuming. She was even starting to understand the lingo. An “appliance” was an accessory to the costume: a mask, for example. Raiding was digging stuff out of dumpsters. Since just about anything could be turned into a costume, raiding was an old and accepted practice.

And she knew more about uses of hot glue than she’d ever wanted to know. One of the panelists had at least a hundred suggestions for how to use hot glue. It was like she was hot-glue obsessed.

Most of the panelists were the same people, and by the end of the third panel, she had worked up the courage to go up and ask questions.

Bran Carlson was the head of the track, and while he was only “on” the first panel, she’d spotted him coming in and out of other panels. He came into the meeting room at the end of the third panel, so she screwed up her courage and walked up to him.

“Hi, I’m Doris,” she said, trying not to sound like a frightened newbie.

“Well, hello, Doris,” Bran said with just a shade too much familiarity. “And what can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure if you can do anything for me,” Doris said. “But Folsom said I should talk to you.”

“I must remember to thank him,” Bran said, grinning. “What’s up?”

“I’m…a newbie,” she admitted. “Con and costuming. But so far, three people have told me I should enter the Dawn contest. The thing is…”

“All you have are street clothes,” Bran said, his grin dying. “Right?”

“Right,” Doris said, trying not to wince. The people in the panels, both the panelists and most of the attendees, had clearly spent years, and thousands of dollars, building up their stock of costumes, materials, tools and appliances. What Doris was asking was for someone to simply step in and for no good reason help her out.

“Besides the fact that you’re pretty, why did Folsom suggest I help you?” Bran asked, all trace of flirtatiousness gone. He wasn’t rejecting, he was just suddenly immensely professional.

“I don’t really know,” Janea said. “He’s been talking about, well, finding myself, I guess. It sounds stupid, I know, especially with something like the Dawn contest. He says it better.”

“Oh, God, he didn’t trot out that horrid old Billy Joel song, did he?”

“Something about faces and masks?” Doris asked. “Yeah.”

“The man needs to get a life,” Bran said with a sigh. “But he has a point. The problem is…the problems are…Anita!”

“Yo, Bran?”

The woman was the hot-glue fanatic and on her way out the door, having shaken off the last questioner. Medium height, blonde and pleasantly plump, she was wearing a multi-colored, fur-trimmed robe and a pair of antlers.

“Folsom has seen fit to present me with a challenge,” Bran said. “This young lady is a newbie. A costuming newbie and a con newbie. She has no materials nor tools. She has, I suspect, very little in the way of available funds. Folsom wants me to get her ready to win the Dawn contest. In addition to running this madhouse of a track!”

“Are you going to?” Anita asked.

“Depends on how much help I can get,” Bran said. “Up for a challenge? Question…Doris. There’s a rather substantial prize involved. Are you planning on spreading the wealth if you win?”

“Of course,” Doris said. “I mean, I need enough money to get a ride home, but you can have all the rest.”

“Wouldn’t want that much,” Bran said. “But I do this professionally. We’ll come to an equitable arrangement. You in, Anita?”

“Maybe,” Anita said, walking around Doris and inspecting her like a prize steer. “She’s got the looks, I think. Hard to tell under the clothes. Attitude: two. Major work there. Doing Dawn takes a ten attitude. And then there’s the question of costume. The easiest would be…”

“No costume is no costume,” Bran said. “Disqualification.”

“Excuse me?” Doris said. “What’s that mean? I can’t wear street clothes?”

“You could, but you’d never win,” Anita replied. “What Bran was saying is that occasionally a contestant simply wears no costume. As in nothing. Au naturale. En dishabille. Naked. Gets a hell of a round of applause, but it’s a disqualifier. Security also gets involved.”

“Uh…” Doris said, blushing. “I don’t think I could…”

“There have been Dawn winners that were clothed so fully you could barely see they were female,” Bran said. “But they had costumes that were, well, too elaborate for any reasonable chance we could make them in the next couple of days. Not to mention the cost. So one thing you’re going to have to get your head around is that you’re probably going to have to walk out in front of eight thousand strangers, if not nude, then damned close. If you can’t consider that, we might as well quit now.”

Doris thought about that and shivered involuntarily. The thought terrified her and at the same time, honestly, thrilled her just a bit. She wasn’t sure where that tendril of exhibitionism was coming from. In her heart she’d always wanted to be the pretty one, the noticed one. She hid because every time she tried to be noticed it had meant pain-mental, generally, but occasionally physical. But a part of her…

Was that what Duncan had been driving at? Was that her Stranger? And was it a Stranger or her true self? Could she get up in front of thousands of people, how was it Bran put it? Damned near nude?

Yes, she could. She would. She would do it. Because she suspected that strain of exhibitionism was more “her” than the shrinking wallflower she was now. And if she didn’t, she’d never know.

But the truth was…

“If I had to do it tonight, no,” she said. “But I will do it for the contest. I can do it. Will do it. I just need…”

“Don’t say time,” Anita said. “Or you’re just stalling.”

“No, I need practice,” Doris said. “I need to work up to it. Look, I’m just getting over my fear of crowds, okay? I’m going to have to get used to being…damned near nude around people. Fast. Or you’re right, it won’t work.”

“So now you need more than one costume,” Bran said, frowning.

“Hey, we’re experts,” Anita said. “In for a penny and all that. But here’s the question. Do you have any skills in costuming at all? Or do you expect us to do all the work?”

“I can sew,” Doris said. “I can sew really well.”

“That is music to my ears,” Bran said, grinning. “Because we may lay out the costume and do some of the appliances, but the big time-eater will be the sewing. If you can really sew, this is doable.”

“Okay, you need a costume for tonight,” Anita said, walking around her again. “And that, we don’t have time to sew.”

“Despite the red hair, let’s go Oriental,” Bran said. “I’ve got a kimono that might fit her. That’s pretty full coverage up, just showing a hint of cleavage. That way you can get used to being seen without too much boob showing. It’s going to be short, though.”

“I can handle that,” Doris said, gulping. “But…can I have a mask?”

“Hot glue is your friend, there,” Anita said.

“Why did I know you were going to say that?” Bran asked, shaking his head.

“Thanks,” Hjalmar said, taking the bottle of water from Sharice. “Any luck?”

They’d gotten registered, finally. It was nearly four by the time they were fully in place to start searching, and so far he hadn’t seen Janea pass by. He’d seen two or three girls that had the same look, but none of them Janea. Three hours in the hot Atlanta sun were wearing on him but he wasn’t going to stop looking. Janea wasn’t just a friend, she was a gydia of his Hearth, and the Asatru did not leave a Hearth member stuck on the astral plane. He’d stand out here until he keeled over from heatstroke first.

“Nada,” Sharice said. “I cruised the Marriott then headed over to the Hilton to look through the Dealers Room and the Exhibitors Hall. Drakon has been covering the Hyatt and he hasn’t seen her.”

“Speaking of the Dealers Room,” Hjalmar said. “Are you absolutely certain we’re not going to get into a furball here?”

“I hope not,” Sharice replied. “There’s security everywhere. Mystically, if I’m getting the metaphor right, that means that if you don’t toe the line you’re going to get stuck in a lower plane. Hel or Niflheim, in your case. There are places on the Moon Paths like that, places where you tread lightly or not at all. Think of it as a no-PVP section of an online game. I’m not even sure you can attack another entity.”

“So we are not going to get attacked and she is not going to get attacked,” Hjalmar said. “You’re positive?”

“You’re not, I can tell,” Sharice said.

“Call it my Viking side,” Hjalmar replied, shrugging. “I’m seeing a lot of weaponry. Sure, most of it is totally costuming. I don’t know what the reality of a plastic stormtrooper blaster is in this metaphor. But somebody used one hell of a lot of astral energy to get her stuck here. And Janea wasn’t going to take that sort of thing lying down. She’s a second-level adept and an Asatru, not a fluffy bunny hugger. She went out fighting, guaranteed. So…I don’t see them, whoever them is, just leaving her alone. And why here? What’s the significance of us being here? Of her being here? Not only the ‘here’ of Dragon*Con, but this particular section of the astral plane.”

“You really want me to get into a discussion of astral synchronicity and potentialities?” Sharice asked.

“Uh…no,” Hjalmar admitted. “I leave that up to you Wicca types. We are more the ‘Can I kill it, eat it or screw it?’ types.”

“Okay, short answer,” Sharice said, frowning. “Janea was stuck in a hostile zone. She was under attack. We managed to stop the attack and push her out of the hostile zone into one where she’s not under some sort of constant attack. The nature of this metaphor might be generated by Janea or it may be a standing metaphorical zone. Given the number of gifted people who go to Dragon*Con, it’s possible that it is maintained virtually constantly through dreaming. Time probably is different than the outside. An hour here may be seconds and it may be days. We won’t know until we return. Did they intend for her to end up here? Probably not. Does it have anything to do with the plans of the unknown ‘them’ working the mundane side? Hmmm…Possibly. Quantum synchronicity would call for it.”

“Okay, you just said quantum, at which point my brain turns off,” Hjalmar said.

“Heh,” Sharice replied. “Think of the otherworld as being a giant web with thousands of interconnected threads. Kick Janea out of the hostile zone in which they’d put her, call it the place of spiders, and fate, the Norns if you prefer, could put her anywhere. But she was in opposition to those unknown ‘them.’ That…keys her to try to fight on this side. Thus she is going to be in harmony, synchronicity, with a thread that places her still on the battlefield. Hmmm…”

“Okay, so now you’re starting to use logic to go with my gut,” Hjalmar said, nodding.

“You’re right, but it should not, given what I’m seeing, be an actual physical battle,” Sharice said, frowning. “The battle should be a metaphorical one…”

“And if the other side starts to lose?” Hjalmar asked.

“They would have to be desperate to engage in combat in this zone,” Sharice said, her brow furrowing. “But if they were…”

“Smackdown time,” Hjalmar finished. “Since they put Janea here, they presumably don’t want her active in the mundane realm.”

“With Barb taking over, their problems have increased tenfold, whether they know it or not,” Sharice pointed out.

“Given,” Hjalmar said. “But they’re going to want to keep Janea out of play, stuck over here. So when we find her, they may try to prevent her from leaving.”

“Or there may be a deeper reason she’s here,” Sharice said. “Synchronicity.”

“Either way, they’re going to try to stop her from winning, for values of winning,” Hjalmar pointed out. “So…”

“You just want to weapon up,” Sharice said. “Admit it.”

“I’m Asatru,” Hjalmar snapped. “Being without a weapon is the closest thing we have to sin!”

“What do you want?” Sharice asked.

“I want to cruise the Dealers Room and the Exhibitors Hall. If this is a true metaphor of Dragon*Con, everything I need is going to be in one of those two places. Every major sharp-pointy-thing dealer comes to Dragon*Con. The problem is…”

“Money,” Sharice said. “Power. You’ll have to trade power for sharp, pointy things.”

“And I don’t think I have enough,” Hjalmar said. “I mean, to an Asatru there is no such thing as too much sharp, pointy weaponry. But I specifically don’t have enough money to buy what I consider a minimum if there’s any possibility of us getting busy over here. So, is the cleric willing to cough up some cash to armor up your fighter?” he added with a grin.

“Only if he avoids gaming metaphors,” Sharice said. “How much do you need?”

“Around or over five hundred,” Hjalmar said. “But if I use it all, I’m flat. I don’t think that is wise here.”

“Agreed,” Sharice said. “Okay, I’ll get Drakon to take over the stakeout and meet you in the Exhibitors Hall. The better weapons vendors were there. We should be able to leave it in our rooms and pick it up when we come back.”

“Works.”

“By the way, when we shut down the stakeout, meet me in the bar in the Hyatt.”

“Shouldn’t we have started in the tavern? I mean it’s meet up in the tavern, listen to rumors, buy equipment…We’re doing this all backwards!”

“Do you want your sharp, pointy things or not?”

“Shutting up now.”