"Friesner, Esther - Elf Defense" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

Esther M. Friesner

Elf Defense

Aloud he said, "Come on, Cass, trade places and take a

turn at the wheel. You heard Amanda: she wants me."

"She doesn't know what she wants. I have to stay back

here with her! You don't know all that must be done if we're

going to be safe. You might get careless. ..."

"I might drive this stinking car into a ditch if the rain

gets any worse! I can be just as careful as you, if you tell me

what to watch, but I can't see to drive as well as you can in

this storm." Another bolt of lightning flashed across the sky-

bowl, thunder answered, and the rain gusted harder against the

windows, as if to back up his words. "Please, Cass. You can

get us there faster. And we've got a long way yet to go."

A loud snort of disgust came from the backseat. "All

right, all right, I'll take the wheel. You've made your point."

Two doors opened almost simultaneously, though only Cass

slammed his shut once he was outside. He and Jeff circled the

car, exchanging places, while the windshield wipers continued

their hopeless task and Amanda pressed her knuckles against

her teeth until Jeff was beside her. She welcomed him joyfully.

Cass heard, and winced a little, in spite of all his good inten-

tions to leam self-control.

Jeff shifted noisily, sitting down on the thick sheet of

clear plastic covering the entire backseat and furled over most

of the floor. It was a painter's dropcloth, the biggest and most

durable they cound find. Amanda grabbed his hand and

squeezed it tight. Her grasp stemmed a stream of mild profan-

ity as he struggled to get comfortable on the clinging stuff,

made him forget all about his own minor discomfort.

"How are you, babe?" he asked. Nothing mattered but

easing her pain.

Amanda smiled a little and bent her head to rest on his

shoulder. His arm around her was all the shelter her soul needed.

"A little hot—all this plastic—but what can we do? It's necessary.

I'll be fine. We'll all be fine." She kissed him, then met Cass's

extraordinary blue eyes fixed on her in the rearview mirror.

"Please start the car, Cass. I'll tell Jeff what he's got to do."

"He's done enough already," Cass mumbled under his

breath. They didn't hear him. He turned off the overhead light.

The engine rumbled to life and the car rolled back onto the

road. The storm continued unchecked. There was even more

force behind the lashing wind now. The raindrops sounded like

hail against the windshield, but the car roared on as fast and

surely guided as if it had been full daylight and fair driving.

When they reached the small town of Jeff's memories, it

ELF DEFENSE                  3

was bedded down and boarded up. It wasn't hurricane season

yet, but the Gulf of Mexico was capable of spawning some

mighty nasty surprises. Wise Ploridians knew it. Here and there,

Cass glimpsed slivers of light from the buildings, shining cracks

beneath incompletely closed metal shutters. Mostly, though, he

saw the street lamps' fuzzy balls of brightness, silly little fire-

puffs hanging against the fearsome brilliance of the lightning.

"Now where?" he asked.

"Three more blocks—no, four—and hang a left. The

clinic's the pink house at the end of the street."

"All the way at the end?"

"Pass it, and you're in the bay."

"Are you sure it's still there? How long has it been since

you were in this town?"

"Five years; maybe six. Listen, I sent them a nice check

every Christmas, and none of 'em came back. It'll still be

there. The only thing that's changed might be the paint. Just

drive, Cass."

"Please, dear," Amanda put in gently.

Cass followed directions. He took the left turn a little

harder than necessary, but Amanda was making those strange,

terrifying sounds again. This time there was a note of imminent

panic in her voice. They were running out of time. The sharp-

ness of the turn made everything in the car shift left. Amanda

cried out as Jeff pitched up against her, sliding helplessly on

the plastic seatcover. In the front, the small furry shape sharing

space with Cass tumbled into his thigh. He felt claws sink in

deeply, a reprimand.

"Ouch! Cesare ..."

"Look!" Jeff thrust his arm over Cass's right shoulder,

pointing. "They've got their lights on! Someone's still in-

side!"

"We won't have to call. Oh, thank God!" Amanda

sighed.

They were there. Jeff leaped out onto the swamped gravel

drive and ran around to open Amanda's door. He offered her a

hand out, an arm to lean on.'

"Be careful, you idiot! What do you think you're do-

ing?" Cass was outside too, the rain plastering his long hair

to the sides of his face. The cheap dye left black smears on his

cheeks, stained the collar of his Hawaiian shin past hope. He

barred Amanda's way, refusing to let her out of the car. "Here,

I'll take care of her."

Standing side by side in the storm, the two worked to-

4                 Esther M. Friesner

gether. Next to Jeff's robust athlete's body, Cass looked thin-

ner than he was, almost sickly, all bones and promise. His

youthful fragility made Jeff seem much older by comparison,

certainly much stronger. But then he reached into the backseat,

swaddled Amanda tightly in the clear plastic sheeting, and

passed her into Jeff's waiting arms as easily as if she weighed

no more than a kitten. Jeff carried her up the walk, struggling

to keep the plastic in place, while Cass checked out the interior

of the car.

"No blood," said a sleepy voice from the front seat.

Cass looked up sharply. A gray brindled tomcat perched

on the back of the seat and regarded him with a superior smirk,

whiskers quivering.

"Why waste your time looking? Trust me, Cass. Trust

my nose, if you'd prefer. There is no blood, not a whit, not a

sniff. Not yet. You did a perfect job of keeping it under wraps,

but you're not through yet. Hurry up and go inside. You'll

have to be twice as cautious in there."

"I will be," Cass said grimly.

The cat yawned. "Good luck." His mouth did not move

at all when he spoke, yet the sound of his words filled the car.

"Midwives may let husbands in the delivery room, but I'll bet

they draw the line at snotty teens."

"They'll have to let me in!" Cass spoke fiercely as he

yanked a fresh plastic dropcloth from under the front seat, un-

folded it, and spread it to cover every possible inch of space in

the back. "I can help Amanda more than any of them ever—"

"How?" The cat looked amused. "By pulling rank, or

just a rabbit out of a hat? Oh, go ahead and try. You'll see I'm

right."

"Cats," Cass grumbled, backing out of the car. "Think

you know it all."

"That's because we do," Cesare replied smugly, but his

words were lost in the sound of the back door slamming shut.

He spread his six-toed paws and begain to rip hell out of the

unprotected front-seat upholstery.

The clinic door was locked. Cass pounded on it, then

leaned on the bell. A small roof overhanging the doorway af-

forded little shelter from the sideways-driving rain, but he was

already soaked. Impatience and powerlessness made him fran-

tic. He leaned on the bell again and didn't release it until the

lock clicked and the door opened.

"Now what is . . . ? Oh. You must be the son. Come

in." A plump young woman in nurse's whites, very harried,

ELF DEFENSE                  5

turned her back on Cass as soon as she summed him up and

asked him in.

He followed her into a square waiting room, the walls

painted pale salmon pink. "Have a seat," she said, waving

him to take his choice of two identical sofas, their waterlily

print upholstery genteelly faded. She kept going, heading for

the frosty glass-paneled door beyond.

"Wait!" He grabbed her arm. She glared, her expression

so full of burning outrage that it startled him. He saw the tom-

cat's mocking face overlay her scowl like a ghostly mask.

Ah! Yes, Cesare, you were right after all, he thought. A

snotty teen, that's how she sees me. How do I dare to detain

an adult like this? I forget myself. How do I even dare to touch

her? He dropped his hand, and the cat's face faded. The nurse

was just another human being who wondered what was wrong

with all these nervy kids.

"I'm sony." He tried to put a quaver into his voice and

bowed his head, doing his best to look awkward. It was easier

to be submissive than to feign it. "I—I just want to be with

my mother."

"Now?" The woman's look softened from anger to sur-

prise to compassion. Cass had pushed the proper buttons. "Oh,

dear, I wish I could let you, but it's out of the question."

"I won't faint, if that's what you're afraid of. I've seen

tapes of births before, in—in my mother's La Maze classes.

I'm sure she wants me with her. Hasn't she asked for me?"

The woman patted his arm. "Yes, she has honey." For

some reason, she didn't imagine that he might resent unasked

contact as much as she did. Given his apparent age, what he

liked and disliked were trivial as far as she was concerned.

"But we told her we don't have that big a space to work with,

here. Just me and Dr. Pine can barely move ourselves around

that table, and what with your daddy being in there too ...

Well, he's got a right to be there, I suppose, so long as we

don't get any complications—"

She caught Cass's look and hastily added, "Not that we're

going to have anything but a plain, easy birth here. Don't you

fret, child. We're just a little-bitty town clinic, but all the same,

we've helped birth more than a couple of infants when they

couldn't wait for the county hospital. Your Mama's going to be

okay. Now go sit and read a nice magazine. I've got to scrub."

Cass thought better of insisting. He could read people

more easily than he could wade through the pile of old Time

magazines in the waiting room, and he'd seen a stubborn streak

Esther M. Friesner

running clear to the bone in the little woman. She'd made the

decision to keep him out, and she'd defend it till dawn if he

talked back. Amanda needed her helping in the delivery room,

not arguing out here. He would just have to trust Jeff to oversee

matters in there. Reluctantly he settled down.

He heard the rain slacken off, but it didn't stop. Time

drifted over his skin like the breath of the sea. Then the woman

was back, smiling. A plastic cap hid her short black hair, and

a surgical mask dangled from her neck.

"You've got a little brother, honey; a fine, healthy little

brother."

They let him see Amanda right away. She was lying in a

long room whose three hospital beds were separated from each

other by cheery aqua curtains. Jeff stood to one side of her at

the head of the bed, a redheaded woman to the other. They were

grinning at Cass like a pair of brain-scooped baboons.

"Come in, come in!" Cass wasn't coming as fast as the

redhead would have liked. She strode across the room to drag

him nearer. "You must be Cass. I'm Dr. Pine. Come on and

say hello to your new brother."

Amanda smiled up at him. The baby was in her arms,

wrapped in a blue-striped white blanket. She pulled back a

comer of it so he could see the tiny face and hands, colored

the deepest rose.

The sound of wonder in his own voice surprised him. "I

... I thought they all looked like little red monkeys."

"Some do," Dr. Pine said. "Maybe you did, with that

snow-white skin you've got. What about it, Mrs. Taylor? Did

your big fella here look like that when he was bom?"

Amanda made a noncommittal sound.

"We're naming him Paul Henry," Jeff said proudly.

"After my father." He threw his arm around Cass's thin shoul-

ders and hugged him close, beaming. "Truth be told, we'd

name him after this fine young man right here, if we could. If

not for him and his driving, little Paui'd be named Subaru."

"Well, you can't very well name one brother after the

other," the doctor agreed.

Cass sidled forward unobtrusively and slipped his hand

beneath Amanda's blankets. Something crinkled.

"Are you comfortable. Mother?"

Amanda knew what he was really asking. "Yes, love. I

don't mind these pads at all. They're specially made water-

proof to protect the real bed linens, and they can be thrown

away so—"

ELF DEFENSE                  7

"Where?"

The question was sharp, urgent. Jeff heard it, and sud-

denly he too heard more than the simple word.

"Oh my God! The delivery room!"

He ran from Amanda's bedside with Cass after him.

Cass's keen ear just caught the doctor's confused questions,

Amanda's soothing double-talk: Well, you know how funny men

get at a time like this, doctor. . . .

The delivery room was clean. No one was there, though

the lights still burned. There was no sign of the recent birth.

Once more it was just another examination room where little

kids came for shots and grown-ups came for bigger, more mys-

terious reasons.

Jeff jammed his foot down on the wastecan pedal. It was

empty, smelling strongly of disinfectant. The plastic dropcloth

that had wrapped Amanda was nowhere around.

He looked miserable. "I—got so excited when my son

was bom . . . Cass, where do you think they put . . . ?"

"How should I know?" Cass snapped. "Find the one

who did this while you were supposed to be taking care of

Amanda. Fine care!" He laughed, his face frozen.

They found the nurse in the office, toweling her hair with

one hand while she typed hunt-and-peck with the other. She

smiled when she saw the two of them. "Still putting it down

out there, but not so bad as before."

Jeff grabbed her by the shoulders. Cass noted that she

didn't glower at him for taking such liberties. All she could do

was gape.

"Where is it?" Jeff demanded. He shook her once, just

a little, but it was enough to freeze her tongue. "Where is it?"

"The plastic tarp," Cass said quietly, laying his hand

atop Jeff's, making him let the nurse go.

"Well, I—well, what in . . . ? Well, I—I threw it out

with the rest of the things when I tidied up the room. I—look,

mister, are you fresh out of your mind? What the hell you want

to keep that old plastic sheet for? A goddamn souvenirT'

"Where is it?" Cass repeated calmly. He wasn't angry

anymore. Anger was useless now.

The nurse got some of her backbone back. She shook

herself completely free of Jeff, pushed her wheeled desk chair

away from them both, and retrieved the towel she'd dropped.

"The dumpster." She attacked her damp hair briskly. "What

do you think we do with trash? Can't leave a mess like that

hanging 'round a clinic room. We've got patients coming in

Esther M. Friesner

the morning, you know. Damn thing belled out like a sail, too,

in that wind. Have to get Lonnie to police the back parking lot

tomorrow, get all the bits and pieces blew free. Ugh." She

tossed the towel onto her desk. "Is that enough information

for you? Or do you want to call in the police, have me arrested

for stealing a mucked-up plastic sheet?"

Cass drew Jeff away. The budier man looked stunned. He

could only shake his head while Cass led'him out of the clinic by

the back way. The intermittent flashes of lightning from the de-

parting storm showed the dumpster's massive outline against the

rippling waters of the bay. White flutters of loose paper whirled in

the wind, pitched up against the roots of azaleas.

"The sea," Jeff said. His voice was flat.

"Yes. Some may have blown into the sea. Some touch

the earth, and earth and sea both house his messengers. He

knows. He'll come." Cass sounded resigned. He tugged at

Jeff's elbow. "Come on. We have to get Amanda and the baby

into the car and get out of here. He'll lose the trail if we're

quick."

Jeff's eyes remained fixed on the wavelets, the slowly

growing motion of the sea. He would not budge.

"And what will he do if we're gone when he gets here?

Go home?"

"You know better than that."

Jeff nodded. "He doesn't take defeat kindly." He jerked

his arm out of Cass's grip. His voice lost all fear, became pure

business. "Go get Amanda. The doctor'll try to stop you, but

do it anyway. Use anything you've got to do it."

"Amanda said I wasn't to—"

"Forget your vow. This is one time you can be a prince

again. No orders but your own,"

"What are you going to do?" Jeff's abrupt transforma-

tion was disconcerting. Pear of the unknown enfolded Cass's

heart in the petals of an icy rose. / will never understand your

kind, never!

"What do you care what I do?" Suddenly, Jeff was grin-

ning. "You'll have her all to yourself again; her and the boy."

Cass tried not to looked too shocked. Can they read minds

as well as we? He tried to sound cool as he replied, "If you

stay here, he'll kill you."

"He'll try. He's tried before. I have a few tricks left-

nothing like yours, of course, but maybe they'll do. And if we

all leave, he'll kill whatever scapegoat's handiest—the nurse,

ELF DEFENSE                  9

Dr. Pine ... I call that a might poor way to weasel out of my

medical bills." He chuckled. "The Simpson house is down a

couple from here, and they always keep a little motorboat tied

to the dock. They won't mind if I ... borrow it for a spin.

Think he'll come from the sea?"

Cass shrugged. This little mayfly man spoke so easily,

so casually about playing decoy in a hunt that would kill him,

barring a miracle. And for what? To save the lives of those

two women who'd just helped his son come into the world.

Servants; he would save the lives of servants. Who ever heard

of such a thing where Cass came from? By rights, he should

laugh at the futility of Jeff's ploy—fools were made for laugh-

ter—but he had never felt less like laughing.

It was hard to know that you had come to love the one

you once called enemy.

Jeff was speaking again. "You take care of my son." He

turned into the night.

Cass let him go ten paces before running after him and

hugging him so tightly that it nearly drove all breath from the

man's body. Jeff stiff-armed himself loose and stared at the

silver tears streaking Cass's face.

"Don't go, Jeff! She needs you more than she needs me.

You get her out of here. I'll"—his voice failed him for an

instant—"I'll be the one to face my father."

Jeff laughed in his face. "Man, sometimes I think your

whole race is nothing but the craziest sumbitches that ever were

spawned. You know you wouldn't last a minute if you had to

face off that old—ahhhhh, forget it. He's still your daddy."

He gave Cass a friendly cuff. "Go on, move it. Maybe if you

snatch Amanda and Paul, you'll get the doctor and nurse to

chase you. That way, when he comes, there won't be anyone

in the building." Cass stayed where he was. "I said move!"

Cass moved. Jeff's barked command snapped him into

action. He raced into the clinic, back to Amanda's bedside.

Dr. Pine tried to question him, but he shoved her aside. In one

scoop of his arms he snatched up mother, baby, blankets, sheets

and all, then turned to run again. Amanda screamed, more

from reflex than fear. The baby burst into a fresh-waked wail.

Dr. Pine said a lot of medically inaccurate words. She

tried to block the doorway and found herself flipping through

the air, slicker than a hotcake, to bounce down on the nearest

bed.

Anns full, Cass hadn't touched her. "How the hell... ?"

Dr. Pine asked the ceiling. She hollered for the nurse.

iO

Esther M. Friesner

Cass had to set Amanda down while he opened the car

doors. Her sheets and blankets fell into a puddle. She stood

shivering in the wind that gusted ever stronger and stronger

from the west, from the sea. Holding the baby to her breast,

she slipped into the seat, trying to control her trembling. She

was barefoot and wore nothing but the yellow cotton hospital

gown they'd given her at the clinic.

"Wrap yourself in the seatcover if you're cold," Cass

directed, gunning the motor. He took off so fast that Cesare,

still balanced on the top of the front seat, plopped over into

the back.

"Cass, wait! Where's Jeff?" Amanda's hand was on his

shoulder, a burning touch through his sodden shin. "We can't

leave without—"

"He made me leave without him!" The tears burst from

Cass's eyes again, shaming him. "He said we had to get

away."

"But what about him, Cass? What about him?"

"I'm telling you, he's the one who insisted. He's the

one who told me to take you and go!"

"Oh God, oh my God, turn back, go get him, don't

listen to him! For pity's sake, Cass, you can't let him stay

behind! You can't have hated him that much!"

He ignored her words and drove. In the rearview mirror

he saw the dwindling figures of Dr. Pine and the nurse. They

were getting into another car. Jeff had called that one well.

Would they give chase themselves, or realize how foolish it

was after a block or two and drive on to notify the sheriff? He

lost sight of them when he took the first turn.

Then he saw Amanda's face in the mirror: anguished,

accusing. He could tell her the bare truth of it from now until

the Unbraiding of Worlds, and she might never believe him.

There was no hate in her eyes; only pity, and the eternal Why?

Why have you done this soulless thing?

He drove on. They left the town, got back onto the su-

perhighway not too far north. He pulled over once, before

dawn, so that she might change her hospital gown for some-

thing more suitable. Cesare helped him dispose of it, and the

few pads Amanda had accumulated. The firespell clamped over

the plastic-swadled pile and devoured all, even its own smoke.

He was drained after that. The firespell's destructive

power always took so much out of him that he wasn't able to

use it frequently. He needed a rest, and a respite.

They stopped at a motel in Bushnell. Amanda went right

ELF DEFENSE                 11

to sleep on one of the room's double beds, only waiting for

him to cover it properly. The baby too seemed exhausted. He

propped it on its side in the crib with a rolled-up blanket. He

ached to stretch out too, but it was getting late, near closing

time for most stores. They needed things, and if he wanted an

early start next day, he had to do some shopping now. He went

out, leaving Cesare on guard.

He bought more dropcloths at a local hardware shop, and

some oilcloth table covers. In a big chainstore pharmacy, while

getting things for the baby, he found packs of the same plastic-

bottomed paper mattress pads the clinic used; he stocked up

ten boxes' worth, and an equal number of trashbags.

Some game covers its trail. His mouth curved in self-

mockery. We seal ours in plastic. It won't be so easy to catch

us again, my lord.

He was on his way back to the room with the supplies

when a quirky inner demon made him stop to buy a newspaper.

While Amanda slept on one bed, he propped himself up against

the headboard of the other, Cesare snoring at his feet. He

opened the paper and scanned it until he found the story he

dreaded finding, just a few column inches of filler: the puzzling

tale from farther south of the freak wave that had reared itself

out of the Gulf to crush a smalltown free clinic to fragments

of stucco and tile. No one was hurt—not in the wreckage of

the building—but the body of an unidentified man was found

floating in the bay.

That part of the hunt was done.

Cass closed his eyes. The paper in his hands began to

glow. The inky letters ran into a black whirlpool that spread

itself into a vision of the night.

Jeff, alone in the little motorboat, cutting across the bay.

He was smiling, so sure of his eventual escape, so proud of

the wits he 'd used to guarantee it. What was all the magic in

the world against man's ingenuity. Pride . . . pride . . .

The wave came up beneath the boat's keel, the silvery

curve of a horse's neck. It came out of nowhere, without warn-

ing, and pitched the craft over. Jeff tumbled into the water, his

smile gone.

But the water turned to glass under him. He crouched

on the surface and watched the wave ride on, ride in, mount

to a hammer of foaming green to destroy one house alone out

of all of those that lined the waterfront. Foam turned to drip-

ping fingers, water formed a blue-green hand, tightened to a

12                Esther M. Friesner

fist, sprouted into afire-spiked mace that smashed the clinic to

its foundations.

The vision trembled with the impact. Cass's fingers

clenched, tautening the paper, willing back a clear seeing.

In helmless armor, with the gem of sea and star on his

breast, a man-shaped figure grew out of the frozen sea, loom-

ing above the kneeling mortal. Sorcery robed his limbs in icy

golden fire. Jeff lifted his head and looked into a blazing face

that Cass remembered much too well. He had cringed before

its scorn, shuddered away from its anger, but this powerless

creature of flesh and blood met its gaze . . . and laughed.

A hand fell to grasp the hilt of a sword.

The seeing tore apart in a jagged chasm. Cass stared

stupidly at Cesare over the two halves of the ripped paper.

Shreds of newsprint still clung to the tomcat's paw. "No more,

Cass," he said.

No more. That was true. There would be no further sum-

mons of that seeing. There could be none, for each portion of

the past came only once to each summoner. Even a cat knew

that basic law of conjury. Unless some other seer made Cass a

gift of that segment of lost time, he would never know exactly

how Jeff had died.

"You don't want to see it," Cesare said. His smoky

yellow eyes held certainty. "You hate him enough as it is."

"Don't I have reason to hate him?"

The cat could not shrug, but he could give a good im-

pression of it. "My kind don't bother with such things. We

tolerate, or we kill, or we run away. I counsel the latter."

Cass crumpled the tattered halves of the newspaper to-

gether and rested his head on his updrawn knees. "We always

run away."

"You could try killing him, for a change." The cat

sounded hopeful.

"I can't."

"You can't, or you'd rather not?"

"Both."

Cesare's chuckle was disconcerting. Only the tips of his

whiskers quivered while the human sounds issued from his

tightly closed mouth. "Parricide can be hard to explain to the

neighbors. You wouldn't have these inconvenient nips of con-

science if you'd go back home. Contact with mortals has con-

taminated you atrociously, my Lord. Your people are so much

more civilized when it comes to assassination."

ELF DEFENSE                 13

Cass didn't answer, but his eyes strayed to the sleeping

woman and child.

"Ah," the cat said, nodding. "Capisco. Well, if that's

still your choice, shall we blow this pop stand?"

"Now who's been contaminated?" Cass skritched the

tomcat's ears. "I wanted to spend the night, but maybe we

need distance more than rest. I'll wake Amanda soon and we'll

go-"

"Where?"

"North, I suppose. Amanda told me she was from the

north, originally; Connecticut. Some little town no one ever

heard of called Godwin's Comers, all old Yankee farmers,

horse country. ..."

Cesare glanced at the baby. "Horse country. Good. Chil-

dren like horses. Better the brat should yank their tails than

mine. Shall we leave?"

"There's something I must do first."

Cass rose from his chair and went to the crib. He reached

into his jeans pocket and pulled out a tatty chain of dimestore

silverplate. A twisted strand of metal hung from it, the tangled

design the twin of the silver symbol Cass wore around his neck,

the iron one Amanda wore around hers. Carefully, lovingly he

slipped the chain over the infant's head.

"His name is Jeffrey," he said. White fire seeped from

his body, formed a halo of tender light that trickled down over

his hands to lave the sleeping baby. The black dye in Cass's

hair melted to ash, and the small vestiges of other disguise-

spells changing ears and hands and mouth and more fell away

from him. His borrowed mortal clothes also vanished in that

burning. Tall and supple, white and blue and golden, sharp-

featured and beautiful to the point of pain, he wore the mantle

of his power and needed no other garment as he called his

birthright magic home to bear witness at the naming of the

child.

"I name you Jeffrey Paul Henry Taylor. I call you

brother, friend, heir, knight-inheritor of your father's valiant

heart, and captain in the ranks of my most trusted servitors.

No harm in all the realms of air, fire, or water will touch you

while you wear this sign of favor, no spell of harm or evil

haunt you. To this I pledge my spirit and my name: Cassio-

doron, prince and lord of Elfhame Ultramar."

The brightness died away. The baby still slept. Cass

stepped away from the crib staring at his hands, the fingers too

Esther M. Friesner

long to be human. "It has been so long. ..." He shook his

head, as if to clear away a lingering dream.

Cesare's nose twitched. "Very pretty." Only a corpse

could have sounded more bored. "Nice gesture. Now if you're

quite finished, I suggest you change the captain's diapers and

we get out of here. And get some clothes on. Bushnell has a

city ordinance against naked elves."

He had just managed to wriggle into a new shin and

pants from his suitcase when Amanda stirred and woke.

"Cass?" she called, still drowsy. "Cass, what is it? Where

are you going?"

He was beside her in an instant, holding her hand. "Con-

necticut, Amanda; we're going to find your old hometown. I

remembered the name from all the stories you used to tell me:

Godwin's Comers," he said.

"Godwin's—oh, Cass! How clever of you! He'd never

know to look for me in Connecticut more than any other place.

And Jeff—Jeff can find us there. I told him about it so many

times, said I wanted to go home one day . . . He'll find us,

won't he?"

Cass evaded the question. "What's more important is

who won't find us; not ever. We'll be free."

"Free ..." She spoke the word like a prayer and em-

braced him. Only Cesare saw the longing in Cass's eyes as his

fingers stroked the dark blond richness of her hair.

"We must leave quickly, I'm afraid. My father's too

close for comfort." His voice was husky. "Can you be ready

to travel soon?"

Cesare curled himself into a ball of disdain as Amanda

swore that she would be ready right away.

"Ready for Godwin's Comers?" the cat grumbled, nose

under paw. "Mavron'! The question is whether Godwin's Cor-

ners will ever be ready for us."

Chapter One:

Ever         In

Connecticut

SS'Wou were moaning in your sleep again," Lionel said.

& Sandy rolled over to stare at the alarm clock. The scar-

let numbers said 5:36, which meant that homicide would be com-

pletely exonerated. She rolled back to glower at her husband.

"Times like this, Lionel," she said slowly, "I am very

glad I kept my maiden name. It will make the divorce that

much easier, and I won't have to spend a fortune getting all

the monograms on my sweaters changed."

Lionel looked put out. "I thought you were having a

nightmare. I only wanted to help."

Sandy ran a hand through her sleep-tangled red curls.

"Did I sound as if I were scared of something?"

"Well . . . you were moaning." Lionel was a firm be-

liever in self-justification by reiteration.

"People moan for a number of reasons. I have heard you

moan when you ate one slice of anchovy pizza over the line, when

they passed you over for tenure at Columbia, when I told you I was

going into labor a month early, and when I put on that little number

with the black lace, red feathers, and the panties without any—"

"All right! All right!" Lionel added a new moan to the

catalog then and there. "I give up. Never start an argument

with a lawyer.''

"Some lawyer." Sandy dug both arms under her pillow

and buried her face in it.

Lionel frowned. He'd screwed up, and he knew it. All

he'd wanted to do was back out of a no-win situation with as

much grace as possible, and he'd hit a sore spot.

Lately, though, it seemed as if Sandy was nothing but

sore spots.

Lionel began to massage her neck. He leaned closer, his

breath tickling her ear, his voice crooning consolation. "You

finished law school, didn't you? Without any background in

15

16 Esther M. Friesner

prelaw worth mentioning. And you passed the bar exam the

first time through."

"Big deal," Sandy grumped. At least Lionel thought

she'd said "Big deal." It was hard to tell with her talking into

the pillow. He put more feeling into the neck massage. He felt

her shoulders relax a little, then go totally limp. She turned her

face out of the pillow, eyes shut.

She moaned.

"Aha!" Lionel bounced to his knees, finger pointing ac-

cusingly in Sandy's face. "Now that's just how you were moan-

ing when I woke you up! In fact, you've been doing it off and

on almost every night since you passed the bar. Sometimes you

do it so loudly, you wake me out of a sound sleep. When you

snore—well, hey, I'm used to that—but before I lose one more

wink, I want to know what the hell you're dreaming about!"

Sandy propped her chin up on her hands. "Why? Afraid

I'm having more fun without you than with you?" She got out

of bed and began to get dressed, paying no further attention to

Lionel's complaints.

He was not to be ignored. As a teacher, he was used to

lecturing to indifferent audiences. Lack of attention never de-

terred him, in or out of the classroom. "Recurrent dreams mean

something. Sandy. Loud ones especially. I think you've got

some unresolved frustrations that are coming out in your sleep.

If you don't deal with them now, you might have problems

digging them out of your subconscious later on."

' 'I've yet to hear of anyone dying from ingrown dreams.''

Lionel persisted. "Maybe you'd like to talk to Dr. Kip-

ling about it."

"Dr. Kipling? Anything weirder than tennis elbow and

he freaks. He's no psychiatrist." Sandy yanked open a bureau

drawer and pondered her options. "More damn alligators than

the whole blamed Okeefenokee," she muttered at her shirts.

"He could refer you to one." Lionel made the bed while

continuing to fight the good fight. "Or a therapist, if you don't

want a shrink."

"I don't want any of this." Sandy slithered into one of

a dozen skirt-and-shirt sets, identical in every detail save color,

and slipped unstockinged feet into tasseled loafers. "You're

the one who thinks there's something wrong with me just be-

cause I make a little bit of noise at night."

"Look, what could it hurt to see a therapist? Maybe one

who uses hypnosis? Then you could get to the bottom of what

these dreams have been—"

ELF DEFENSE                 17

"Yeeaaagh!" Sandy screamed at the ceiling, then bolted

from the bedroom, leaving Lionel to babble on about the won-

derful things hypnotherapy could do these days. In the kitchen,

peariy gray light cast the slim shadows of maple saplings

through the bow window and over the butcherblock table. Al-

ready the leaves were tinged with autumn colors, though Sep-

tember had barely begun.

Sandy started the coffee and sat down to wait out the

longest minutes of the day, the time between hitting the BREW

switch and the moment when the first caffeine fix hit the blood-

stream running. She could still hear Lionel walking back and

forth upstairs. If she got her first cup of coffee into her system

before he came down, she might consider letting him live.

"Dreams ..." She leaned an elbow on the kitchen table

and stared out the window, chin in hand, "Can't he even leave

me my dreams?"

"Mommy?" Her voice still muzzy with sleep, a little

girt padded into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. Sandy took her

onto her lap and stroked her dark brown hair. The child's thumb

popped into her mouth with an audible slurp.

"How's my baby?"

"I'm not a baby!" The angry assertion came around the

thumb, still firmly anchored. Smiling, Sandy coaxed it out of

her daughter's mouth.

"I'll make you a deal, Ellie. When you stop sucking

your thumb, I'll stop calling you a baby."

Ellie's brows went up in a way that always reminded

Sandy of her mother. Five years old was too young to be such

a practiced skeptic. "I'll stop sucking my thumb if you stop

making all that noise," Ellie said.

"What noise?"

"You know. At night. You sound like you've got a bel-

lyache. Poor Mommy." Ellie shoved her thumb back in again

and nuzzled deeper into Sandy's arms, content.

Sandy was considering asking the child whether she and

her father were in cahoots when the guilty party himself

bounded in. His gray Harris tweed jacket was slung over one

arm as he made last-minute adjustments on his tie.

"No time for breakfast, we've got a faculty meeting this

morning," he announced.

"No time? But it's barely after six!"

"It's a big meeting, not just departmental; all-school."

He planted a kiss atop Sandy's curls, another on Ellie's head.

"That means we have to use the refectory, and that means we

Esther M. Friesner

have to clear out of there before they start serving the boys'

breakfast. My own I gladly sacrifice for God, for country, and

for the Godwin Academy, long may she wave. Bye." He was

off and running for the door. Sandy heard it swing open, slam,

then swing open a second time. He was back.

"Oh yes, I nearly forgot. I'm bringing my advanced me-

dieval and Renaissance studies class home for tea today at four.

Don't worry, you won't have to do a thing. We'll pick up some

cake and stuff on our way over here. Bye again." This time

the door slam was final.

"Why is Daddy always in such a hurry?" Ellie asked.

"He was born in a hurry."

The morning trickled away in a stream of lists. There

were people to call, meals to plan, laundry to do, errands to

run. Ellie watched "Sesame Street" and "Mister Rogers,"

then went upstairs and staged a battle for the conquest of the

universe. Barbie beat He-Man two falls out of three.

"She's bigger," Ellie explained when her mother came

up to ask what the devil all that racket was about. "And she

ran Battle Cat over with her convertible, so she wins."

Sandy contemplated the wisp-waisted doll's indelibly

charming smile. "Hooray for our side. Come on, Ellie, time

to get ready for school."

The place where Ellie attended afternoon session kinder-

garten was close enough for them to walk, but Sandy felt too

wrung out to suggest it. Only Ellie's loud, strategic whine when

Mommy said they'd be taking the car forced Sandy into surrender.

"I don't wanna drive! Do we hafta? All we hafta do

is cross the street, go up the hill, go through the church park-

ing lot, go down the hill, go through the green, cross the

street . . ."

Sandy knelt to straighten Ellie's hair ribbon. "But baby,

it'll only take us a minute if we drive."

"I DON'T WANNA!"

They walked. As they were cutting through the parking

lot of the Congregational church, Ellie asked, "Do you think

Jeffy will be going to school right now?"

Jeffy . . .?" Sandy squeezed her daughter's hand. "Oh,

so that's why you wanted to walk. Hoping to catch up with

your little friend?" Ellie allowed that this was so. "Is Jeffy

Taylor your best pal at school, then?"

"No. But he's real neat. He talks back to Miss Foster,

and he won't play in the playground at recess no matter what

she says, and he runs away and hides in his cubby every time

ELF DEFENSE                 19

she reads us a book, unless it's Dr. Seuss, and when the other

boys call him wimp he says that he's gonna get his big brother

to bum them all up with a magic spell or else he's gonna get

his cat to kill them, so they're scared and they leave him alone.

When I grow up," she concluded triumphantly, "I'm gonna

marry him."

"That's my girl," Sandy said quietly. "Always go for

the heroes." Ellie didn't hear her. She was still chattering about

all the neat things little Jeffy Taylor did to stir up Miss Foster's

kindergarten.

They did not meet up with the notorious Jeffy enroute to

class, but found him already there when they got to the kin-

dergarten building, a yellow clapboard house of eighteenth-

century vintage a stone's throw from the town green.

"I just love this old house, don't you?"

The question was squealed right in Sandy's ear a second

after she released Ellie to join her classmates at free play time.

She jumped, and came down facing one of Godwin's Corners'

only moving landmarks, Cecilia Godwin Haines. Sandy was

eternally amazed that this slim, bespectacled woman, mother

of three, five years older than Sandy herself, had first intro-

duced herself as "Yes, one of those Godwins, isn't it too de-

lightful? Call me Cee-Cee."

Delightful wasn't the word Sandy would have used.

It did not matter that Cee-Cee clung to a name more apt

for a Yorkshire terrier than a grown woman. Sandy thought. She

was a force with which to reckon if your universe ended at the

sign saying GODWIN'S CORNERS, EST. 1715. Veteran of a hun-

dred PTA fairs and bake sales, chief instigator of the annual fall

antiques show on the green, when Cee-Cee Haines talked, peo-

ple who were too slow to pull an unobtrusive getaway listened.

"Sandra, dear, I've just been speaking to Miss Foster

and she practically begged me to be room mother again this

year after all I did when Bitsy was in her class—how could I

say no?—and the first thing I think we should do is set up a

bake sale for the same weekend as the antique show. We can

sell just about anything halfway fit to eat to that crowd, so can

I count on you for a plate of cookies or—"

A loud shriek, part indignation but mostly pain, cut Cee-

Cee off the air. Every mother still in the vicinity of the class-

room came to immediate attention, and three more who had

been in the front yard came charging back inside.

"Duncan!" Cee-Cee forgot all about Sandy's halfway-

edible cookies. The victim was her son. He was sitting on the

Esther M. Priesner

20

floor with a large lump of blue Play-Doh smooshed firmly onto

his head. Cee-Cee threw herself to her knees beside him, si-

multaneously trying to quiet the screaming child and work the

gunk out of his hair without snatching him bald-headed. Miss

Poster hurried over to lend assistance and serve justice.

"Who is not being a good neighbor?" she demanded,

wagging a finger at the assembled tots.

So this is the KGB, Sandy thought, trying not to snicker.

Ve haff vays uf makink you talk, pipsqueaks. Confess, or ze

teddybear gets it!

At the table nearest the victim, humming happily, Jeffy

Taylor was molding a winged horse out of what remained of

the blue Play-Doh.

Sandy saw him at his occupation and wondered how long

it would take Miss Foster to catch wise. Circumstantial evi-

dence, Your Honor, is inadmissible. Witnesses have already

testified that Mr. Taylor's usual MO when dealing with his

peers is to threaten death by cat or immolation by elder broth-

er's sorcery. 1 move that the charges be dropped. Also the blue

Play-Doh. Preferably on Cee-Cee Godwin Haines's head. A

titter escaped her lips, but she tamed it to an imitation sneeze.

She sidled out the door just as Miss Foster noticed what Jefiy

had in his hands.

The afternoon had grown cooler. As she strolled down

Main Street heading for the coffee shop. Sandy kicked aside

the first stray fallen leaves. The elms lining the road all seemed

to turn color and shed their leaves in perfectly orchestrated

unison, as if they were under contract to maintain Godwin's

Comers' reputation for being tastefully picturesque.

"This whole town looks like one big college campus,"

Sandy told the leaves. "God, I miss New York!"

What do you miss? The crowds? The dirt? The craws?

Why don't you get honest with yourself/or once, Sandra Ho-

rowitz. It 'd make a nice change. You 're not homesick. You 're

scared.

"I am not scared," Sandy said aloud. It was an old habit,

arguing with herself, and one that passed unnoticed in New

York. In Godwin's Comers, however, she always checked the

environs for any potential witnesses. The gravest aberrant be-

havior the little town tolerated was voting Democratic.

Fortunately, she was still a couple of blocks from the

commercial center of town. She had the street to herself. The

only buildings here were architectural sisters of the kindergar-

ten, and like it, they had almost all been converted from private

ELF DEFENSE                  21

residences to more profitable properties. There was a dentist

and opthalmologist sharing space in one, a real estate agent

and interior decorator bunking down in another. Dr. Kipling's

practice doing a three-way split with a hot new dermatologist

and Cee-Cee's husband Dwight, allergist to all the right peo-

ple. Gwendolyn Dixwell, the town's family therapist ("spe-

cializing in divorce counseling and parent-child communication,

inquire about rolfing for juniors"), combined home and office in

her Federalist nest.

Then there were the lawyers.

Their shingles swung in the cool September breeze,

caught the dappled sunlight on their discreet gold lettering.

Once, when Sandy's law school diploma was still hot off the

sheep, she had tried to count the lawyers practicing in town.

She did it twice, to be sure. The tally came out higher the

second time, so she tried it a third. It was higher still. Every

time she counted them, they multiplied worse than dust bun-

nies. New shingles appeared with the spring peepers, or new

names added themselves to old signs.

Aha! Not afraid, are you? Bullshit, my sweet. Sandy's

inner voice could be an obnoxious know-it-all with impunity.

Lionel would never dare serve her the truth on a cold plate,

but there was no way she could throttle herself for doing the

same. All these lawyers in town already, and where's poor

Sandy going to fit in? You're afraid, all right. You're scared

witless of the competition.

"I am not." Head down. Sandy gave a small pile of elm

leaves a particularly vicious punt. "There's always room for

one more."

Is that what those replies to your job-hunt letters told

you ? Is that why all the local legals are at your door, begging

you to get into their briefs? Face it, woman. If you want to

practice law at all, you 'II have to find a city job. Try New

Haven.

"I don't want to commute that far. I'd have to put Ellie

in daycare."

It's that or set yourself up in practice on your own. If

you want to use your degree, that is. It's been a year since you

got it, almost that long since you passed the bar. Don't you

think three years' law school tuition is a bit much to pay for a

wall hanging?

Sandy walked faster. She'd only escape herself if she got

among other people. Already she was at the comer, and across

22 Esther M. Friesner

the street she saw Peggy Seymour waving at her. "I'll use it,

I'll use it," she muttered, hoping to get in the last word.

That's what you said about the twenty-dollar purple mas-

cara from Bendel 's, the voice concluded, and sank into smug

silence.

"I'm so glad I caught you, Sandra!" Peggy grabbed

Sandy by the elbow as soon as her feet met the curb. A clip-

board clung to Peggy's concave bosom like a lamprey. Unkind

friends claimed that she had been bom with a petition in one

hand and a Bic pen in the other, to make up for the absence of

a silver spoon in the usual orifice. She shoved the clipboard at

Sandy.

"What is it this time. Peg?" Sandy sighed. She scanned

the top sheet, noting that it was already covered with signa-

tures. There were three more pages beneath it. She assumed it

was something to do with animal rights. No other topic could

generate so much interest here.

"Come join me for a nice cup of coffee and I'll tell you."

Peggy linked her arm through Sandy's and dragged her off.

This too was part and parcel of Miss Seymour's mode of op-

eration, the old latch-on-and-tow. It served her well, for there

was something distinctly tanklike about the woman. She was

seldom seen on the streets of Godwin's Comers without a vic-

tim being trawled after her. Privately Sandy thought of her as

the Vampire Tugboat.

"Well, that's very nice. Peg, but I only have a—"

"Oh, this won't take but a minute, dear. And it's terribly

urgent. Enormously vital." Peggy plowed into the coffee shop,

nudged Sandy into a booth, leaned across the table, and whis-

pered, "It's satanic."

"What is?"

"Two cups of coffee." This was directed to the waitress,

and left Sandy nicely bewildered—was Juan Valdez in the pay

of the Prince of Darkness?—until Peggy explained: "It's those

boys at the academy. They're playing that game."

"Doctor?"

Peggy rolled her eyes. They were wintry blue and bulged

slightly, so the spectacle was quite amazing. "Don 'fjoke about

a thing like this, Sandra. You know what game I mean. With

those dice—"

"Oh, craps."

"—and those books, and pretending to be someone you're

not—"

"Charades"

ELF DEFENSE                 23

"—or even something, some creature that doesn't even

exist in a sane mind. And the worst of it is, they're doing it

with the help and consent of their teachers!"

"Oh," Sandy said. Her stomach wriggled into a granny

knot, then plunged into her shoes. Now she knew exactly what

had Peggy's ample bowels in an uproar, and her coffee took

on an acidic tang in her mouth.

"I'm getting oodles of signatures from longtime resi-

dents, people who count for something," Peggy said, self-

satisfied to the bursting point. "But I do think this petition will

have added clout if there's lots of names from the academy

staff too, to show the administration that the gown is right

behind the town."

"True, very true," Sandy replied cautiously. Especially

since what goes on at the academy is none of this pissant quaint

burg's business, her inner voice added. Of course a witchhunt

would be too preciously colonial for words. We could combine

the antiques show, the bake sale, and a public burning at the

stake. That'll get us a spread in Connecticut magazine if any-

thing will!

Peg pushed the clipboard at Sandy. "Then you'll sign?"

It was barely a question.

Sandy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "No."

She pushed the clipboard back.

"What?" the Vampire Tugboat blew her stack. "You

won't? Why not? Don't tell me you approve of this—this—so-

called game?"

"I don't approve or disapprove. I don't care either way.

I'm not into role-playing myself, but if the boys at the academy

find it fun—"

"I suppose if they started a drug ring up there and found

it 'fun,' you wouldn't care either?" The words were exces-

sively sweet, the tone reserved for dealing with village idiots.

"Really, Sandra, do you even know what they do during these

games?"

"Well, they don't do drugs. Not if they want to read

those teensy little pips on the dice, anyhow."

"They pretend they're not themselves! They abandon re-

ality! They behave as if they're in another world!"

Sandy had to laugh. "Peg, you've just described every

teenager ever born.''

"So you refuse to sign?"

"Since my husband happens to be one of the faculty

Esther M. Priesner

friends overseeing these imagination orgies, I think it'd be dis-

loyal of me, don't you?"

Peggy rose from the table, huffing audibly. "Well! This

puts quite another color on things, I see. You might have told

me. We're just trying to do the right thing in Godwin's Cor-

ners, especially for the sake of the children. Lord knows we

get no support from the people who should appreciate our ef-

forts most. Just don't come running to me when your own child

goes leaping off a cliff because she thinks she's a—a—an elf or

something."

Sandy's face froze. Slowly she stood up. "Elves don't

fly. Peg," she said. "They walk, the same as you or I, only a

damned sight more gracefully. Good-bye." She left Peg gawp-

ing after her.

Outside the coffee shop. Sandy leaned against the fake

half-timbered facade while her inner voice did a wild war dance

of victory. Oh, you've done it now, lady! Miss New York, do

you ? You 'II be back. What 'II you bet Peg's next petition is to

get you named visiting scholar at Bellevue? You almost made

it there once, you know, and it's never too late. . . .

"Oh, damn." Sandy's fists clenched, her teeth gritted.

"Damn it all. Damn New York. Damn Godwin's Comers.

Damn him!"

Damn him? The words were gentler now. That's one

curse you don't mean. I know your secret, Sandra Horowitz.

Damn him, when your dreams are full of him? When you 'd sell

your soul to return to him ? When you 'd pay the passage be-

tween worlds with your heart's blood if only you could be with

him again ? Damn him ?

The lowering sun struck a spear of reflected light from

the window of the dress shop across the street. It pierced the

leafy branches of the elms and dazzled Sandy's eyes. She saw

his face in the light, and the light melted time. She was young

again, caught up in a span of magic when one day she had been

an ordinary person—an art history major at Columbia Univer-

sity—and the next she had walked with legends. A dragon

stalked a city, a knight followed, and she and Lionel and a boy

playing squire all followed the knight into a world of wonders.

Her fists uncurled slightly, holding a remembered sword.

But that was long ago, wasn't it? That was far away,

and even the city has forgotten what happened there. And what

would it matter if New York remembered? New York's the other

end of the universe for the kind of people who live here. They

see it as a clutch of fine stores, extortionate restaurants, thea-

ELF DEFENSE                 25

ters, weirdos, celebrities, monuments. There's the stock ex-

change, of course, and some nasty sections that no one really

nice even thinks about if they can help it. But what comes

between all those markers . . . Ah! That's about as real as

dragons to them. Dragons . . . and other things.

The voice within her was a fading echo. Memory claimed

her. She stared into the glassy brilliance of the light, seeing

the face that haunted her dreams: sharp as a silver arrow, wine-

sweet, dawn-fair, beautiful as no mortal man could ever be.

He walked through a vanished forest, his quiver and bow on

his back, and not the slightest sound or movement of the wood-

land escaped the elfin archer Rimmon.

Elves? Peggy Seymour's high, nasal squeal burst into

Sandy's thoughts. Creatures that never existed in any sane

mind! And certainly not in Connecticut! Don't think you can

drag your schoolgirl daydreams into the flesh, Sandra. A

woman wailing for her demon lover is all very well in New

York—they 're used to worse down there—but we have zoning

laws in Godwin's Comers.

Sandy's heart protested: But it did happen! He was no

dream. He was real, my Rimmon, as real as—

Her fingers clutched the pendant of white rock whose

chain she still wore around her neck. Its intricately incised

pattern of alien flowers was never carved by clumsy human

fingers, and its milky heart cradled a bloodstone.

And who remembers, except you . . . and your husband?

Would he like to learn the real reason you wake him up nights ?

I do believe he 'd rather have you be insane. Rimmon is dead,

as dead as magic in this world. You 're a woman now, with a

husband, a child, a mortgage, a profession to follow, respon-

sibilities. . . .Why, you're even supposed to be taking on an

au pair girl this week, aren't you? Do you want her to think

all Americans are crazy? Grow up. Let no one ever guess you

had such silly dreams. Let your dreams go.

The coffee-shop door opened just then, and Peggy

emerged, blinking in the sunlight. Dreams could wait. Escape

was vital. Sandy made a break for the hills. Looking where

she was going was secondary to speed, and so ...

"Oh!"

"Ouch!"

"Excuse me, please, I was just—"

"My fault; I'm sorry."

The two women stopped and looked hard at each other.

"Aren't you Jefiy's mother?"

Esther M. Friesner

"Yes. And you're . . . Eleanora's?" Ellie's given name

sounded strangely musical on Mrs. Taylor's tongue. Sandy no-

ticed how strong the woman's accent was, the son of old Yan-

kee pronunciation more proper to dwindling backwoods towns

than to suburban Connecticut.

"I plead guilty," Sandy said with a smile. "I'm glad we

met, even if the introduction was a little rough." She indicated

the battered paper bag Mrs. Taylor clutche(i so tightly. It had

taken the brunt of the collision. "You know, our kids are thick

as thieves. You're looking at your future in-laws here, if Ellie

goes through with what she told me this morning. Said she's

going to marry your Jeffy."

"I see." Mrs. Taylor gave Sandy a dubious look. She

changed her grip on the little bag so that Sandy could see the

logo of a local jeweler. "I'm—I'm sure that's nice. I'm happy

Jeffy's made a friend. He hasn't much chance to play with

other children, except at school."

"Well, he could come to my house mornings if he wants

to play with Ellie. Or she could go to yours."

Mrs. Taylor's eyes went wide with alarm. "Oh no!

That's impossible, I'm sorry, I—I have to be going." She fled

like a frightened sparrow and ducked around the first comer to

hide from Sandy's sight.

"It's been great running into you!" Sandy hollered.

"Hmph!" The steamy snort down Sandy's neck an-

nounced that the Vampire Tugboat had recaptured her incau-

tious prey. "That Amanda Taylor; there's a queer bird. Keeps

to herself in that big old house, her and those two sons of hers.

Three years it's been since they came here, and no one sees

the boys except when they're in school. Nobody even knew

she had a second son until she showed up to register him for

kindergarten!"

"Jeffy's her second child?" Sandy hated to play up to

Peggy's gossipy nature, but Amanda Taylor intrigued her.

"Who's her first?"

"Oh, / wouldn't know his name. Ask your husband, if

he ever stops playing wizard. She put him into the academy

the week they moved here—don't ask me from where. They

have more money than God, and close with it? Not one soul

in this town has ever been asked inside her house! Afraid we'll

steal something, maybe." With a short, sarcastic laugh, clip-

board to the wind, the S.S. Seymour sailed on.

Loitering in front of the coffee shop was not the done

thing in Godwin's Comers. Sandy was on the point of wan-

ELF DEFENSE                 27

dering away herself when something sparkled at her feet. She

knelt to pick up a slink of fine silver chain with a charm the

size of a thumbnail hanging from it.

Hooves poised in midnight, wings drinking the wind, the

silver double of Jeffy's blue Play-Doh horse spun lazily back

and forth at the end of its tether.

The winged horse had to be a custom-made order, of the

if-you-ask-you-can't-afford-it price range. Remembering the

much-mauled condition ofAmanda's death-gripped bag. Sandy

guessed this treasure must have fallen when the two women

had their unscheduled meeting. It wouldn't take a very notice-

able tear to let something so delicate slip out. Fascinated by so

much beauty in such small size, Sandy lowered the charm into

the palm of her hand.

"Oh!"

The hooves moved. She felt them prick out a path across

her skin. The wings flapped up, then back, as the tiny head

lifted with rightful arrogance to meet her astonished eyes. Min-

iscule nostrils dilated and closed. The impossible creature shook

himself briskly, so that the chain holding him slipped forward.

The horse bit it once, and it snapped. Silver wings flashed, and

in a starry blur it was gone.

All Sandy held in her palm was a severed chain.

Chapter Two:

Tea For Three

dT^addy! Daddy! Daddy!"

U At his desk in the small study just off the entry

foyer, Lionel looked up from a sheaf of test papers. Ellie

dropped her mother's hand at the front door and ran into her

father's arms. He picked her up, grunting like a bear, and

threatened to eat her belly, after a thick spreading of belly-

jelly, of course. Ellie shrieked happily, pounded on the bear's

head, and recounted the deliciously awful thing Jeffy Taylor

had done to Duncan Haines that day.

"And even when Miss Foster made him sit in the think-

Esther M. Priesner

ing comer, the first thing he did when he came out was cal

Duncan all kinds of names, like Duncan Donut, and Dunca".

Haines Cake-Mix Face, and Infidel Dog, and—"

"You mean Devil Dog, don't you?" Lionel asked

smoothing back his daughter's wayward curls. "Your friend

seems to like high-calorie name calling."

"I dunno. But he ran away and hid in his cubby today

again too. Miss Foster read us 'Sleeping'Beauty.' "

"That bad fairy can be pretty scary." Lionel set the child

down.

Ellie shrugged. "I'm gonna play with my Barbie some

more." She started upstairs, then paused midway. "What's a

heretic geek. Daddy?"

Lionel blinked. "A what?"

"Oh, never mind." Ellie took the rest of the steps by

two and was gone.

"Did she just say 'heretic'?" Lionel asked Sandy.

Sandy didn't answer. She stood in the entryway, shoul-

ders slack, and stared into the eagle-topped mirror opposite the

front door. She saw no difference—a pale, pointed face with a

sprinkling of freckles, the tormenting hint of incipient crows'

feet at the eyes, a thread or two of gray weaving through hei

tightly curling red hair—but did your face have to change just

because your mind had kicked itself free of reality? She could

still feel the prick of tiny hooves pawing her palm.

"I've got to stop talking to myself so much," she told

the glass.

Lionel came up behind her and clasped her shoulders

"Arc you okay?"

It was a question Sandy didn't want to get into at the

moment. Instead she said, "It's past four. I thought you were

having a class over for tea."

"Something came up at school, so I asked them to come

by tonight after supper. You don't mind, do you, babe? We

can have the mad tea party for dessert. Will you join us?"

Sandy wished Lionel had chosen some other way to de-

scribe the planned get-together.

"Oh, have it without me. The boys won't want a woman

around, cramping their style."

Lionel raised one eyebrow. "Just how much do you know

about the style of seventeen-year-old boys?"

"You know what I mean. You told me yourself that you

like them to relax, to see that they can discuss academic stuff

outside the classroom too. How can they do that with me hang-

ELF DEFENSE                 29

ing around? I'll just sit there, not knowing what's going on,

and remind all of them of their mothers."

"They should be so lucky." Lionel's hands glided down

her arms, slipped around her waist, and pressed her close. His

lips touched her neck, tingling.

"Besides"—she lodged her conclusive bit of evidence—

"I'll be busy putting Ellie to bed."

"No you won't." Lionel took her hand and led her to-

ward the stairs. "That's the something that came up this after-

noon."

"Davina . . . what?"

"Goronwy," the raven-haired girl supplied. She had a

charming smile and extremely fine features. The pity of it was,

her dainty face looked as if it should be on another body. When

Sandy was growing up, she'd had a girl cousin with Davina's

build. The charitable way to describe it was "healthy," but

charity always took a backseat to accuracy when Sandy's

mother got her mouth on a topic.

"Low metabolism my eye. Your cousin Pamela eats like

a horse, which is why she looks like one," Mrs. Horowitz

remarked on more than one occasion. "The kind that pulls beer

wagons," she specified.

Davina Goronwy didn't remind Sandy of a Percheron,

but her short, sturdy body brought to mind Welsh ponies, Welsh

corgies, and overindulgence in Welsh rarebit.

"So—ah—where are you from in Wales, Davina?"

"My folk are from Caer Mab, to begin," the girl said

brightly, blue eyes dancing. Thick-set as she was, and seated

on the edge of a prim ladderback chair, she still gave the im-

pression of constant animation. "That's so small a town by the

sea near Harlech that you won't have heard of it. Smaller and

smaller it grew, and I doubt maps can find it these days. We

moved to Bangor not three years ago, and then of course I went

to London to study."

"Davina was accepted at the Royal Academy of Dra-

matic Art. She was one of the youngest students they ever

admitted." Lionel spoke of Davina's accomplishment as

proudly as if he had some personal stake in the matter.

"The RADA? That's something. But... you can't have

graduated already?"

"Oh, no, Mrs. Walters." The girl blushed true crimson,

and the blood lingered in her cheeks. Sandy had never seen the

30                Esther M. Friesner

like. Davina looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. "I

left."

Lionel came in quickly. "Well, Davina, we hope you'll

be just as happy in Godwin's Comers as you were in Lon—I

mean, in Bangor. You go on with your unpacking, and call us

if you need anything. See you at supper." He took Sandy's arm

and steered her out before she could say another word to the

girl.

Sandy didn't care for steerage. In the hall outside the

small spare bedroom she dug her feet into the carpet and re-

fused to take another step. "What do you think you're doing?"

She twitched her arm away.

"Come in our room. I've got to talk to you."

"What about?" she brushed off her arm in the traditional

New York manner that indicated she was ridding herself of his

"cooties."

"About Davina."

Sandy cast an appealing glance to heaven and followed

her husband into the bedroom. Once inside, Lionel shut and

locked the door.

"That's a surefire way to bring Ellie running," Sandy

said. "I swear, the sound of that latch clicking works on her

like a bell on Pavlov's dogs."

"Maybe she's determined to stay an only child." Lionel

grinned, but it shattered against Sandy's well-I'm-waiting stare.

"So ... Some surprise, huh? She came a week early and

phoned me at the Academy from JFK this morning. I had to

drive into New Haven to get her. How does it feel to have an

au pair girl at last?"

"Delightful." Sandy crossed her arms. "What's wrong

with her?"

"Wrong?"

"You hustled me out of her room and nearly dragged me

in here by the hair because you've got to tell me some deep

dark secret about Davina, so what is it? Is she into drugs? Is

she pregnant? Does she belong to a cult?"

"Come on, Sandy, a Welsh Moonie?"

"Maybe she's a Druid. We'll have to lock ourselves in

our rooms during the equinox, or whenever they sacrifice hu-

mans. What is wrong with Davina?"

"She's a dropout." Sandy's short burst of laughter made

Lionel shake his head angrily. "I'm serious. She left the

RADA. Quit. Dropped out. That's why she applied for an au

ELF DEFENSE                 31

pair job in the States. She wants to leave Britain far enough

away so she can think about what to do with her life next."

Don't I know the feeling! "Poor kid. Couldn't do the

work?"

"Are you joking? We got to talking in the car on the way

from New Haven. She told me all about it. She was doing as

well as some and better than most, but she kept getting typed

in ... well . . . matronly parts: Juliet's nurse, Gertrude, Oc-

tavia—"

"Who?"

"Mark Anthony's wife; the one he leaves for Cleopatra.

It wasn't the sort of career she had in mind. She wants to play

Cleopatra and Juliet and Ophelia, not the also-rans."

Sandy struck a pose reeking of righteous indignation. "I

think it's terrible that some people are too prejudiced not to

see past a person's appearance. If Davina can act the part, she

shouldn't be denied it just because she's—athletic-looking."

"When was the last time you saw a jowly Juliet?"

"Davina does not have—"

Lionel held up one hand. "Just a for-instance. I think

we both know what appearances count for in some fields; es-

pecially weight. We might not like it, but that won't make it

go away." He sighed. "Davina loved acting, and she was

good."

"It's not fair."

"It isn't. But what can we do about it besides keep off

the topic of theater, and London, and whether she's got any

plans for the future?"

Plans for the future. Sandy's dormant law degree flick-

ered across her mind's eye. She was fast becoming an expert

on avoiding the topic of future plans.

"—and above all," Lionel was saying, "we won't make

any comments about her weight."

Jason Penfield nudged Cass Taylor in the ribs, jerked his

head at Davina's retreating form, and snorted like a pig.

"What was that, Penfield?" Lionel cut short his exon-

eration of Lucrezia Borgia and pounced.

"I—uh—I must've swallowed some tea the wrong way,

Mr. Walters."

"Through the nose is hardly the best way to savor a good

Earl Grey. You are fortunate, gentlemen. You are the first of

my students to taste tea brewed as it should be, by the hand of

a young lady from Great Britain."

32                Esther M. Priesner

"Young truck," Jason whispered to Cass.

Cass leaned forward to pour himself a fresh cup. As he

settled back on the couch, he tipped the saucer. Hot brew

streamed down Jason's leg.

Jason leaped up, yelling. The other four boys wearing

the cadet-blue Godwin Academy blazer all jumped from their

places, too, as if in sympathy. While Jason's classmates of-

fered him their handkerchiefs and condolences, Lionel gave

Cass a thoughtful look.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Walters." Cass was on his feet, the

picture of flustered youth, eager to right what his clumsiness

had upset. "I'll get some paper towels to blot the rug."

"Fine, Taylor, fine. The kitchen's through the dining

room, back that way. If the towels aren't on the counter, look

under the sink. Watch yourself. The light's off in the dining

room and the switch is all the way across, next to the kitchen

door."

"I'll be careful, Mr. Walters." Cass went where he was

directed, doing his best to look more gangly than ever. He had

a number of nicknames at the academy, most referring to his

height, his thinness, and his way of never knowing where his

feet were from one minute to the next. No one would ever

imagine that what he'd just done with his tea had been on

purpose. Scarecrow Taylor was disaster on wheels.

No one except Mr. Walters. Cass's classmates often said

that there was something odd about that history teacher, and

they didn't mean just his New York accent.

These were the same classmates who saw nothing at all

bizarre in Twisted Sister, Ozzie Osbome, Weird Al, and Max

Headroom.

What would his classmates think if they could see Scare-

crow Taylor now, moving through the pitch-black dining room

with the deft grace of a hunting cat? In front of the tightly

drawn curtains, Cass danced with shadows. He danced with a

freedom he didn't dare use at home. It brought Amanda too

many painful memories. If anyone in the living room looked

his way, their human eyes would see nothing. He shared blood

with the night.

The shadow dance had to end at last. The class was wait-

ing. He walked the thread of glow seeping from beneath the

swinging kitchen door and balanced on the borderline between

bright and darkness.

He heard voices beyond.

"—lovely gown."

ELF DEFENSE                 33

"It's pretty, isn't it? Kind of silly to wear something so

nice looking when no one's going to see it." Silky cloth

swished.

"Someone will." Soft laughter, two pitches blending one

high and tittering, one deep and comforting as the sea.

That voice took Cass by surprise. It had the sweet lilt of

the lost lands, the dear heartspring countries that had borne his

race. It was a sound he thought never to hear any more in this

strange land, so rich with its ancient music. He could have

listened to it for hours, remembering, and the Hounds take him

if he cared what words it spoke. The other voice was more

monotonous, a little nasal, commonplace. He imagined it must

belong to the girl who had brought in the tea and cake. It would

suit her. She hadn't said a word when Mr. Walters introduced

her, only nodded and smiled. It would suit her. He tried to

remember whether her dress had been as attractive as all that.

He called back clumsy Cass and pushed the door open.

" 'Scuse me, but could we have some, uh . . ."

Both of the women at the wooden kitchen table turned

from their teacups, but one of them melted into air. The other

filled his eyes. He could not speak. He felt as maladroit as he

had pretended to be.

Oh, she was lovely! She was taller than Amanda, and not

so small-made. Under the shimmering royal blue of her gown

he saw how her body curved, promising more than any of the

willowy women of his own people could offer. Hate his father

as he did, Cass still understood a part of the passion that drove

him. Elfin women were air and darkness, the whisper of a

shadow, the sisters of dreams. This mortal was deep-dreaming

earth and silent flowing water and a fire in the soul that was

time.

Cass saw how time had already changed her, read what

she had been, knew how each second left its passing print on

her. It didn't matter. Where he longed to take her, with all his

heart, she would be shielded from the seasons and hidden from

the gray hunter of all mortals. For that gift alone, she would

love him. She would be a fool not to love him for that.

As Amanda loved your father? He pushed the question

from his mind. He wanted her, not questions.

Then he saw what she wore around her neck.

"Yes? Can I help you, dear?"

The voice was wrong, but that was a detail now. Cass

thought it a mighty poor way to run a world when this lovely

woman had a voice unworthy of her, while the sweeter song

34                Esther M. Friesner

came from a giri who was . . . well . . . healthy-looking

enough for a whole lacrosse team. He had upended his teacup

into Jason's lap for the form of gallantry, to avenge an insult

against a lady, but in his heart he was just as guilty of the same

affront.

"I'm—looking for the paper towels."

Sandy glanced at the sink where a whole roll stood in

plain sight on the counter. She fetched it for him, yet still he

lingered, holding the towels and gazing at her. Then, waking,

he mumbled some thanks and excuse and left.

He heard them plainly, even through the closed door.

"—the nerve! It's not as if I'm Dolly Parton or anything,

but still ..."

"You know how these young boys can be, Mrs. Walters.

It's the first he's seen a grown woman in her nightgown,

likely." The big girl had a merry laugh. Its sound had no fur-

ther power to enchant him.

He mopped up the spill on the living room rug automat-

ically. A bloodstone cupped in carved white stone twirled as a

trim star across his sight.

She has known us! She has known one of our kind! The

carving on that white stone—I can't place its tribe, but still

... Oh my lady! Then when I tell you what I am, you will

believe. There 'II be no need to convince you, to be afraid of

scaring you away, to go too slowly. You will know all I can

offer you, and you will welcome it quickly. That will be good.

Your breed don't have time enough for me to waste too much

in courtship.

"Uh, Taylor, I think you've got it all." Lionel motioned

for Cass to resume his seat. "We were discussing some pretty

juicy gossip about the papal family. Cesare did most of the

killings, or commissioned them, but Lucrezia got most of the

blame. Why do you think that was?"

"It's always more convenient to blame the woman. She

couldn't defend herself. ..."

Cass talked of Renaissance society and politics, but his

thoughts were elsewhere. It had just registered that the black-

haired girl had called the woman Mrs. Walters. Whoever had

been the giver of the lady's elfin token, he was gone. Why else

would she settle for a life shared with an ordinary man like

Lionel Walters?

Cass studied Lionel. As far as appearances went, he was

an acceptable comedown for a woman who had known an elfin

lover. The history teacher was one of those mortal men who

ELF DEFENSE                 35

aged well. Years made his face look rugged, not saggy, and

the few shots of silver in his dark hair only added interest. He

was almost worthy of such a wife.

Almost.

Cass smiled. This would be easy. Lionel caught his eye

and innocently smiled back.

Sandy found a rose on her pillow the next morning. It

glowed silver, flower and stem, but when she picked it up she

knew that it wasn't made of any metal. It nodded between her

fingers, thrilling with its own life, each thorn a caress.

This was no time to fool with contact lenses. She groped

for her glasses on the bedside table and read the note tied to

the flower's stem. A flush of gold drenched the blossom of the

rose the moment she touched the silk-strung tag. Her face was

reflected in every petal.

You are of us, my lady, and my heart is yours.

"Lionel . . .?" Sandy's voice was a squeak. The place

beside her in bed was empty. She looked at the clock. It was

past nine. Ellie should have been on top of her hours ago,

demanding breakfast. "Ellie?" she called a litle louder. She

wanted witnesses to see the incredible flower. Without them,

she had no way to prove she hadn't gone insane in the night.

Her bedroom door opened. Davina sailed in carrying a

footed tray arrayed with coffee, hot muffins, strawberry jam,

butter, and orange juice. "I've given the little one her break-

fast and dressed her for the day. So good and quiet she is,

letting you sleep late as I asked. Here's breakfast for you, now,

and I hope you like—"

"Davina, what do I have in my hand?" Sandy held out

the gold and silver rose. Her hand shook, but the flower swayed

back and forth to its own inner music.

"Holy angels above!" Davina set the tray rapidly down

on the bed, almost spilling the whole thing. Her blue eyes

showed white all around the iris. She reached for the rose.

When it passed from Sandy's hand to hers, the note van-

ished. Silver and gold turned to green and pink. It was a flower

like any other, and it stayed so even when Sandy took it back

from Davina.

The women looked at each other. Did you see? I saw.

Did you? Yes. The words didn't need to be spoken.

Sandy took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. "Either

we're both crazy or we're both sane," she said lightly, shifting

the breakfast tray onto her lap and helping herself to a cup of

T36                Esther M. Friesner

coffee. She felt wonderfully relieved, knowing that the none-

such flower really had existed. She would worry later about

where if had sprung from. For now, she just wanted her morn-

ing fix.

"I'd not speak too carelessly of sane or mad." Davina

suddenly took on the grave demeanor of a banker explaining

poor credit risk. "Madness is spun from the moon, and they

rule her with their dancings. They can play with a mortal's

mind the way a tyke toys with an India rubber'ball."

Sandy stirred in a spoonful of sugar. " 'They,' Da-

vina?"

"The Fair Folk, Mrs. Walters. I've a touch of the 'sight'

for knowing them, and this flower bears their mark as sure as

I'm living. The Good People have a special way with the magic

that governs flowers."

"What good people?" Sandy raised her cup to her lips.

"Elves."

Coffee stains being what they are, the blanket went to

the dry cleaner's that morning.

Chapter Three: