3
The Unfortunate Rake
Eric managed to pry one of his eyes open, and looked around blearily. God, I feel awful. This is getting to be a habit.
He pried open the other eye, and his head reacted with a predictable stab of pain.
Maybe I’d better think about changing my habits.
He sat up. Slowly.
Was there somebody here earlier, or did I dream that?
He succeeded in getting into a sitting position and realized that he’d been nestled in a snug little bed of leaves. I sure didn’t have the sense to do that. No, he was real. Guess he went back to Fairesite. His stomach lurched, and he lay back down before it could turn rebellious on him.
Wonder who the guy was? I didn’t recognize the voice.
He looked up at the darkening sky through oak branches above him. Sun’s setting. I must have been here for hours.
All right, Eric. Time to return to Reality. Or, at least, the Fairesite. He made a second attempt at mobility, a successful one this time, and staggered to his feet, wincing as he bent down to pick up his abandoned gig bag. Gods, I ache all over, just like I’ve been—
—drunk all weekend.
Yeah.
Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time . . .
He beat the dust out of his breeches, and walked—carefully—back towards the main grounds of the Faire. I wonder how badly I’ve managed to screw up. I did make my show before I went face down in the bean dip. I didn’t get drunk in a public place. But I wasn’t making the rounds. He sighed. Oh well. The worst they can do is fire me. Then I will have a reason to head north.
He entered the Faire grounds—cautiously. The boothies were packing up, carrying boxes to the cars and pickups parked in the narrow streets.
Andrea and Tom were loading up the last of their handmade costumes into Andrea’s Honda as Eric walked by. “See you guys next weekend,” he called to them. Andrea called out a goodbye to him; it got lost in the noise of one of the water trucks passing by, liberally soaking everything in its path with fire retardant. Andrea’s Honda joined the line of cars on the dirt road leading out of Fairesite, kicking up a small cloud of dust as it chugged up the bill.
Eric walked past a small covey of actors carrying their props, ungainly stuffed hobbyhorses embroidered in bright colors, then he saw Judy, struggling to carry her large hammer dulcimer.
“Need a hand?” he asked, catching up with her.
She flashed him a grateful smile. “Thanks, Eric. You’re a sweetheart.”
He took the dulcimer stand and her costume bag from her hands, knowing she’d rather carry the musical instrument herself. “So . . . did you have a good weekend?”
She sighed. “If you don’t count that drunken idiot who tripped over my Pass-the-Hat bowl, then threw up almost on my feet.”
Eric winced.
Judy gave him a very direct look. “But that was the only bad spot in an otherwise terrific weekend. I heard you weren’t so lucky.”
He shook his head ruefully. “Damn, but bad news travels fast around here.”
“A lot of people were really concerned about you, Eric. I remember what happened out at Texas Faire a couple years back . . . ”
He stiffened slightly. “Well, this is different. I’m handling it just fine.”
Just fine, half the weekend drunk off my ass, barely managed to do my shows, didn’t even play street at all. Yeah, that’s really handling it, Eric.
Judy set down the dulcimer on a hay bale outside the Turkish coffeehouse. “I’m meeting some folks here before heading out. Maybe play a few last tunes before returning to Mundania. Want to join us?”
Eric propped the dulcimer stand against the hay bale, the costume bag next to it. “No, I think I’m going to wander for a little longer, see who’s still hanging around the ’site. I’ll probably see you on my way out, though.”
He headed back into the main area of the Faire, not certain what he was looking for, or whom.
Looks like everyone’s packing it up for the weekend. I probably should, too.
Two of the Scotsmen were lifting up stacks of pikes, lashing them down in the bed of a faded Dodge pickup.
Hope they tie those down good. I sure wouldn’t want to be driving on the freeway behind them and suddenly see a dozen pikes flying point-first toward my windshield.
I can see the headlines now. Man Skewered by Runaway Medieval Arsenal? Killer Scottish Pike Strike Massacre?
Spear Today, Gone Tomorrow?
But I bet Maureen’s land-tank is tough enough to handle a pike assault. I’ll wager on a Chrysler any day against a Scottish brigade . . .
Oh, damn Maureen’s car—she was going to give me a lift home. I’m sure she isn’t coming back to get me. I’m stranded out here.
Terrific. One last lousy touch on a truly wretched weekend.
Maybe if I can catch up to Judy . . .
He hurried back to the coffeehouse. As he approached, he heard the faint sounds of hammered dulcimer, bodhran, and fiddle.
Well, that’s a break. I probably can talk Judy into giving me a lift home.
He recognized the tune “The Butterfly,” one of his favorites. Eric quickly pulled his flute case from the gig bag, and was playing along with the melody by the time he reached the jam session at the coffeehouse.
Judy was intent upon her dulcimer, hammers dancing lightly across the strings, but the four other minstrels smiled in welcome as Eric joined them.
The four Northerners, that’s right. Damn, but they’re really together, really tight. I’d bet my flute that they’ve done a lot of gigs together.
The dark-haired fiddler girl suddenly grinned impishly at the others and switched into a harmony that Eric had never heard before, beautiful and haunting. As the tune came back around for a second time, Eric smiled to himself and began playing counterpoint.
For a moment, it was almost as good as the melody he’d played in the grove, every note falling perfectly, the counterpoint transforming the music into something more than just a tune.
When it was over, the last note fading away, Judy was the first to speak. “Eric, that was nice.”
“Damn good playing,” the bearded bouzouki player said. He pulled a flask from his belt, offering it around the circle of musicians. Eric took a draught, smiling as the Irish Mist burned with a heartwarming fire all the way down his throat.
He handed the flask back to the man, then noticed that the drummer girl was gazing at him thoughtfully. “Where do you play? Are you touring with a band, or playing concerts?”
Eric shook his head. “I do Faires, street stuff. Haven’t been in a band on a regular basis in years, or played concerts . . . ”
. . . since the day I walked out of Juilliard. No more. Life’s too short. “Mostly I just sorta sit in.”
“Haven’t you ever thought of doing something more with your music than just busking? You’re a damn sight better than any flautist I’ve ever heard on the Faire circuit.”
He shrugged. “This is all I want to do. I’m happy. That’s all that matters.” He turned to Judy. “Listen, I came back because, well, my girlfriend was supposed to give me a lift home, and you know what happened with that . . . ”
“You’re in Van Nuys, right? No prob, although . . . ” Judy glanced up at the sun, barely visible above the hills. “. . . we should start out soon. The traffic’s going to be something fierce on 101.”
“But one last tune, Judy?” The fiddler’s fingers were twitching. “Not a Faire tune, we’ve been playing them all weekend. How ’bout something a little different . . . ?”
She raised her bow to the strings, and began the opening violin solo from “Danse Macabre.”
And stark terror reached out to grab Eric by the throat.
Oh my God, no, please . . .
He tried, but couldn’t block the memories rising up in his mind to drown him. He backed up without knowing he was moving; half fell over the hay bale behind him, landing on his knees in the straw and dirt, shaking and retching, unable to think or speak.
No, it’s just music, it’s nothing, it can’t happen again . . .
“Eric!”
“What’s wrong with him?”
He heard the concerned voices, somehow distant, unreal. The only things that were real were the bright lights of the stage and the shadowy darkness of the concert hall, and the nightmare stepping out of his mind and into reality . . .
It’s only a memory, it happened over ten years ago, it’s not real. Dammit, it’s not real!
But he could hear them, the whispering voices, could feel them closing in, calling to him, reaching for him . . .
Then he felt a human hand gripping his shoulder, yanking him back into the present. Judy, staring down at him with eyes that were wide and frightened, her hand clutched tight on his shoulder.
“I’m . . . I’m okay,” he said weakly, looking up at her. The others were gathered around him, worried. “Probably just food poisoning from that damn Hungarian pie booth,” he said, hoping that his voice sounded calm. That it didn’t shake the way he was still shaking inside. “I got sick after eating there opening weekend, shouldn’t have done it again today.” He took a deep breath, steadying himself.
He managed to stand up, the blond bearded Northerner helping him regain his feet. “Thanks, man. This hasn’t been one of my better weekends. I . . . I think maybe I should go home.” He tried to grin, but by the looks on their faces, it wasn’t convincing. “Is that all right by you, Judy?”
“Yeah, sure.” She quickly packed her dulcimer away in its case, slung it over her shoulder. “Let’s hit the road.”
Judy’s tiny car disappeared around the corner, leaving Eric alone on the street, the ominous bulk of his apartment building looming overhead.
Home to the concrete jungle. Maybe Maureen’s upstairs, waiting for me to get home, wanting to talk it over, work things out.
Not bloody likely.
He unlocked the security door, and the children playing in the courtyard stopped to look at him curiously as he headed for the stairs. Yes, kiddies, it’s the refugee from the 16th century, home from the wars.
Eric opened the door and walked into his apartment. He stepped into the living room, took one look, then wearily sat down on the battered couch.
No, I don’t think Maureen wants to talk things over . . .
With no more than a glance, he knew she was gone. The Beethoven statue, the Japanese flower vase, that “Ride of the Valkyries” poster with those funny little Vikings climbing all over it—she’s taken all of it. All of her stuff.
His record collection was neatly stacked on the floor next to a now-nonexistent record cabinet. He looked through them briefly—she hadn’t taken a single record of his, from what he could see, and she’d even left the ones they had bought together, over the last few months.
Like she didn’t want anything to remind her of me . . .
He walked into the kitchen, and saw the note on the fridge: “I took the cat. You don’t deserve her. Goodbye, Eric.”
Great. Terrific. At least that scrawny furball will have a good home. Now there really isn’t anything holding me in Los Angeles, not even that damn cat . . .
Maureen, how could you do this to me? Why?
He sank down into a chair, his head in his hands. Oh, Maureen . . .
Something clicked behind him, the sound of a door closing. Eric sat up abruptly, looking around.
My God, is someone in here with me?
Eric slid to his feet, quietly moving to the dish rack and palming a large sharp steak knife.
All right. I’ve been ripped off twice this weekend already, and this is it—if anybody’s in the apartment, they’re toast!
He slipped off his Faire boots, padding silently across the living room to the closed bedroom door. The knife clenched tightly in his fist, Eric suddenly flung the bedroom door open and leaped inside—
—and tripped on a pile of his clothes. He barely managed to avoid cutting himself with the knife as he landed face-first on the floor. He sat up slowly, gingerly rubbing the new sore spot on his chin.
Oh. That’s right, Maureen was the one who bought that standing wardrobe. I guess she decided to take that, too.
The bedroom window was open, the curtains fluttering in the breeze. That must be what caused that noise. There’s no one in here.
Just to be safe, he checked the closet. As he closed the closet door, Eric had the strangest sensation, as though something was moving just on the edges of his vision. He turned quickly, but there was nothing in the room but scattered clothes and the unmade bed.
My brain is draining—it’s turned to yogurt, and it’s draining. I’m seeing little green men who aren’t there. Bad booze, Eric.
He returned to the kitchen and opened the fridge, wondering if Maureen had cleared out half of the food as well. He reached into the freezer for one of the many identical stacked dinners of genuine frozen food-shaped plastic, and realized that the bottle of iced Stolichnaya was missing.
That was a low blow, Maureen. Sure, it was a Christmas gift from a friend of yours, but it was to both of us, remember?
Eric absently shoved the frozen dinner into the oven, turning on the gas, then leaned back against the cabinet, trying not to feel too much.
He took the carton of milk from the fridge, drinking straight from the container, as he sat down again at the kitchen table. Well, it’s not the end of the world. I’ve lived through this kind of thing before. I’ll live through it this time.
I always do, whether I like it or not.
His feet were chilled, bare skin against the cold linoleum. Eric reached down for his Faire boots, and—
—and his hand encountered empty air.
He looked down. No boots.
I think I’m losing my mind.
No, Eric, you’re not insane, just stupid. Okay, you must have moved them and not thought about it. Absent-minded. Pre-Alzheimer’s. And you drank too much this weekend . . .
He ate dinner in silence. No Maureen, to tell me all about the rehearsals at the Pavilion, all the little inside jokes and gossip. No damn cat, even, trying to steal my dinner. This is the most depressing meal I’ve had in a long time.
Eric finished the pre-packaged dinner, leaving everything on the table. I’ll clean up tomorrow. Right now, all I want is a hot shower, and a toke, and crash.
Half an hour later, drying his hair with a towel and wearing a second one around his waist, Eric returned to the kitchen for a glass of juice.
And the abandoned frozen dinner tray had vanished. The fork and knife were missing, too. After a moment Eric realized that they were in the dish rack, dripping wet.
This is very, very weird. I don’t remember washing the dishes. I hate washing dishes. And why in hell did I wash the tinfoil thingie?
He shook his head, and looked at the dish rack again, but the stuff was still there. Okay. Too much whiskey, too much stress, and not enough sleep. But, I can cope. Though maybe I’d better just call it a night now before I start speaking in tongues and telling the neighbors to find Jesus . . .
He returned to the living room, and sat down on the couch. On the low table were a carved wooden pipe and a small plastic bag.
At least she didn’t take the stash.
Eric filled the pipe with the fragrant weed, lit it, and smoked in silence for a few minutes.
Uncle Dan’s cure for heartbroken insomniacs. When I see him I should thank him for scoring this for me at such an opportune time.
He felt his head beginning to fog; the hurt inside started to seem less important. He always seems to come up with things I’m gonna need before I need them. I wonder if he knew what was going to happen? Wouldn’t surprise me—Beth, Allie, Dan, all those Spiral Dance crazies, they’re all a little strange that way.
The pipe went out, and he stared at it in mild surprise. Amazing how fast it goes. Huh. Just like the Bushmills last night. Now, say goodnight, Eric. Goodnight Eric.
He took pipe and bag and tucked them carefully into the nook under the corner of the couch frame. Paranoia never hurt. God. Thank God this weekend’s over . . .
He stood up, slightly unsteadily, and staggered to the bedroom. He had to wade through the piled clothing to reach the bed, and had barely enough cognizant thought left to pull the blanket over him before all of his sorrows faded away in a deep, dreamless sleep.
Dreamless? Well . . .
There was a voice in his head. Just a voice, though, and a presence that . . . comforted.
Heal, saddened one. You feel the song? It is yours; you have only to follow . . .
A non-dream like ones he’d had, a long, long time ago, when he was a child and music was spun of equal parts of melody and magic, and he could hear things in his sleeping mind that slipped maddeningly away when he woke.
Follow and find healing . . .
* * *
Oh God, it’s morning again. Eric blinked at the bright sunlight shining through the open window. He glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand. Well, almost afternoon, I think. Ten o’clock. I’d better start moving or I’ll miss the lunch crowd downtown.
He stood up, stretching, and looked around the room. And found himself smiling. Amazing. I actually feel good this morning. Almost human again. He rummaged through the piles of clothing on the floor, and found a pair of jeans and a T-shirt that were relatively clean and unrumpled.
Time to pay the rent, I guess. Energy filled him, and he discovered he was looking forward to getting out on the street with anticipation. He hummed as he laced a pair of ancient tennis shoes on his feet, and sang a little as he slung his gig bag over his shoulder. Five minutes, and he was ready to head out.
He grabbed a leftover donut from the fridge on his way out the door, whistling “Banish Misfortune” as he strolled down to the bus stop. This is really a beautiful morning, blue skies—well, bluish-brown, this is L.A. after all—and I feel terrific. Surprisingly good. I don’t even miss Maureen—
A lump in his throat suddenly sprang up and interfered with the passage of his donut.
Much. He swallowed donut and lump and resolutely grasped after his earlier cheer. Dammit, I am not going to let this ruin the rest of my life!
To his amazement, some of his cheer returned. Wow. Instant self-psychotherapy. I wonder if it was Dan’s grass?
He saw the bus approaching the corner and ran for it, his gig bag bouncing off his side. He caught up to the bus just as the driver started to close the door, and leaped inside. Just in time.
Maybe this is to make up for the weekend? Reverse Instant Karma?
Eric took the last seat at the back of the bus, propping his feet up and gazing out the window as the bus trundled down Victory Boulevard. Another day, another twenty-seven dollars and thirty-three cents. At least, that’s what I made on Friday. I sure hope this Instant Karma helps with the busking, too.
He got off the bus at Broadway over an hour later, with the steep hill ahead of him, the unmarked border between the crowded, dirty downtown area and the classy and immaculate business district.
He found his favorite busking spot and set down his gig bag on the bench. It was a street corner near the YMCA, with a small outdoor cafe and a small lawn area that was terrific for relaxing and wriggling your toes in the thick grass. Best of all, I’ve never had a single problem with the cops over here.
Most of the “suits” walking past didn’t even look at him as Eric set up for busking, “salting” the hat with a handful of dollar bills and quarters, positioning his sign just right: “Yes, this is my real day job. Please support the Arts.” But a few of the businessmen and women recognized him, and smiled or waved hello. Eric smiled in response as he fitted his flute together and played a few quick notes to warm up.
Then he began busking in earnest. Light, lively Celtic tunes, with the occasional phrase of a classical piece thrown in for kicks. The serious-faced suits walking past stopped to listen; when he finished the tune medley, there was a burst of spontaneous applause, and no few of them reached into their pockets for change to toss in the hat.
Hey, not bad for the first thing in the morning. And the lunch rush hasn’t even hit yet . . .
He began “Irishman’s Heart to the Ladies,” one of his favorite jigs. Several corporate types, apparently on their way to a meeting, stopped to listen, and one of the silver-haired businessmen kicked up his heels in an impromptu jig step. They moved on, but not before the older man dropped a five-spot in Eric’s hat.
Eric doffed his cap, grinning from ear to ear at the departing businessmen. All right! Let’s hear it for that kindhearted gent and the Instant Karma!
An hour later, as the lunch crowd thinned, Eric’s energy dropped as well. He began to play slower tunes, trying to find a spot on the corner that wasn’t in the bright sunlight.
Too damn hot. He stopped playing in the middle of one tune to wipe the sweat off his forehead. L.A. in May, it shouldn’t be this hot yet. This is almost as bad as Faire last year. A hundred and ten in the shade, and all of us doing shows on those blacktop stages . . .
He mustered the strength to play another fast tune, “Fox Hunt,” one of the best slipjigs he knew.
“Hey, Misty, listen! He’s playing the ‘Foxhunter’s Jig’!”
Eric looked up in surprise at the three suits gawking at him. He finished the tune with extra energy, adding a last trilling ornament and long, intricate run, then bowed elegantly as they applauded.
The blonde woman was shaking her head in disbelief. “A Celtic musician playing on the street! They’ll never believe this back home!”
“Where are you from?” Eric asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
One of the men smiled. “Tulsa, Oklahoma. We’re all Celtic music fans, but had no idea that people played Celtic stuff on the streets of L.A. This is quite a surprise.”
“Well, there’s not many of us,” Eric said. Winded by the fast-moving tune, he sat down to catch his breath. “Most everybody plays at the Faire or in bar gigs, but there’s a few of us that play street as well. There’s one lady, a terrific singer who lives in the South Bay, she sings traditional ballads. And a few others, like a fiddler that I know. There aren’t very many buskers in this town, not nearly as many as in San Francisco, but we do all right.”
“That’s really wonderful.” The woman smiled, then asked hesitantly, “Maybe . . . could you play ‘Rocky Road to Dublin’ for us? It’s one of my favorites.”
Eric nodded, and took a deep breath. It was one of his favorites, too—a fast slipjig that was difficult, but not impossible. He added in extra ornaments on this tune as well, and was very pleased by the wide smiles on their faces when he finished.
“Thank you, so much. You’ve made our trip out here something special.” The woman knelt down, setting a folded bill in his hat. “I really hope we’ll see you again.”
The younger man handed him a business card. “If you’re ever in Oklahoma, give us a call. Maybe we can help you get some gigs, introduce you to people.” He also slipped a bill into the hat.
“Thank you very much,” Eric said, pocketing the card. Well, that’ll be handy if I ever move to Oklahoma. God only knows why I’d ever want to do that, though.
The three walked away, leaving Eric alone on his street corner again.
Eric picked an easy tune to play next, “Fair Jenny’s,” as sweet as an Irish tune could be. A man in a five-hundred-dollar suit walked by, stopped briefly to listen, reached into his pocket and tossed two pennies into Eric’s hat.
Oh, that’s cute. Real cute. I bet you think you’re really clever, mister, tossing in your two cents worth. Give me a break. Eric sneered disdainfully at the man’s retreating back What a twit.
But those Okies, they were something. I wish there were more folks like that, in L.A. So good-natured and friendly . . .
Still, the local business suit types, they’re all pretty much the same. They think the world is theirs. And hell, who knows, they may be right. There isn’t much an individual can do against the corporations, the government, and the ones with the bucks. Not when they have the power and the cash to hold on to it.
He finished “Fair Jenny’s,” and began a fierce, angry rendition of “Tamlin’s Reel.” Yeah, look at the Faire, it’s going under because some corporation guys decided that the land would be terrific for a shopping mall. Sure, people are trying to stop them, but I’m betting on the corporation. They always win.
Well, I’ve got money for groceries, and a good start on next month’s rent. Might as well pack it in. Otherwise, this heat will do me in. I can just see the channel 13 news bulletin: Itinerant musician melts into puddle on downtown L.A. street. News at six, film at eleven.
Eric completed the tune, ending on a mournful, unresolved C sharp. Yeah, that’s how I feel today. Very unresolved. Though not especially sharp . . . He disassembled the flute, and replaced it in the case. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll try the busking outside Century city, haven’t played there in a few weeks. The business crowd around there is usually pretty good on tips, not like the tourists in Hollywood. He smiled, remembering the gawking faces of the Japanese tourists, doubtlessly trying to figure out why this gaijin was playing classical flute next to the Chinese Theater.
He walked down to the steep bill, toward a crowd of rookie cops learning how to direct traffic on the corner below. I’ve never seen so many cops in one spot in my life. But I bet somebody’s car could be ripped off fifty feet away and they’d never even notice.
Eric strolled past the Chandler Pavilion, with its endless glass windows and the huge chandeliers just visible inside. Maureen’s probably in there right now, rehearsing for “Traviata.” And probably listening to that crazy guest director endlessly scream things in French. I wonder if he’s figured out that none of them can understand him?
Somehow, though, thinking about her didn’t really hurt at all. He remembered when he first met her, not far from where he had busked today; a beautiful red-haired woman who listened to him play, then improvised a harmony to the old O’Carolan tune. How he joined her and her friends for lunch the next day at one of the hangouts the Pavilion people frequented, then went backstage with her, climbing around the high walkways above the stage. God, we had fun. Walking on Venice Beach, laughing as they dodged the kamikaze rollerskaters. He thought about the late nights they’d spent talking, singing impromptu duets, making love.
Eric tested the memories gingerly, like someone worrying at a sore tooth, and was surprised to feel no resulting heartache. Just memories, good memories of all the times we spent together. It doesn’t hurt anymore.
He smiled suddenly, clicking his heels in a quick jig step, and reverenced to the huge Pavilion building. Ave atque vale, m’lady Maureen. I hope you’ll find someone who’ll make you happy, I really do. Goodbye and good luck, my mistress of music.
The rookie cops looked at him suspiciously as he danced past, whistling. They probably think I’m on drugs. But I’m not. At least I don’t think I am, I just feel good. As though everything is about to change for the better—
He waited at the bus stop, and was surprised to see the RTD bus show up exactly on schedule. Hot damn, something is right with the universe. These buses are never on time . . .
He stopped briefly at the supermarket, picking up a sixer of Guinness, two cans of chili, a hunk of plastic-wrapped cheddar cheese, and a package of Hostess cupcakes—Yeah, I feel like celebrating tonight. A real feast. Today was a great day for busking, and I feel terrific. I think I’ve even gotten over Maureen.
But the moment he unlocked his apartment door, he knew something was wrong.
Eric glanced around the living room, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. I didn’t leave those books lying out on the floor, I know I didn’t. And my leather jacket, I know Maureen didn’t take that out of the closet. It was hanging there last night . . .
Moving quietly, Eric set the bag of groceries down by the door, and reached for the baseball bat, propped against the wall. I thought I was just imagining things last night, but I think there really was somebody in here. And I was too zoned to catch them.
Oh God. Maybe they’re still here now . . .
He glanced into the kitchen, then crossed to the bathroom, looking inside.
Nothing here.
He pushed the bedroom door open with his foot, carefully leaning inside to look around.
The clothes were sorted. By color. And stacked in careful piles along the wall.
But his bed was a mess, and he’d made it before he left.
Oh God—whoever was here—is here—is a serious loony. He tried to remember what drugs did things to your head like that. PCP? No. Acid, maybe. Acid and THC? Could be—He swallowed with difficulty, and gripped the bat a little harder. I could be in for a world of hurt here.
He backed out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.
The drift of cold air over his feet told him that his intruder had left the refrigerator door slightly ajar. He edged over to the fridge and opened the door enough to look inside.
There hadn’t been much in there in the first place—but now anything that had been left was useless. Because everything, everything in the refrigerator had had one neat bite taken out of it. Including the apple-shaped candle he kept in there as a joke.
If he’d had any doubts about there being an intruder, they were gone now.
Oh God. Oh God. I’m dealing with a real, genuine lunatic here.
He shut the door firmly and crept into the living room—
Where the first thing that met his eyes was his own Faire cloak, draped over a chair. Except it hadn’t been there when he came in.
He felt his jaw dropping open; stared at the sweep of wool—
And a red rage swept over him. Maureen’s gone—my purse gets cut—my cloak gets stolen—and then the bastard that steals it follows me home and eats my food and sleeps in my bed and makes a mockery out of me!
“Get out here!” he screamed, brandishing the bat. “Goddammit, I know you’re in here—you get your ass out here, you bastard!”
Sure, Banyon. Like he’s going to—a tiny, cooler corner of his mind thought—just before the young man stepped into the bedroom doorway, smiling shyly.
He was very tall, taller than Eric; he was very blond, white-blond, hair that was too silken and curled too tightly to be real. He was muscular, but slim—and he was wearing Eric’s clothes.
Eric’s jeans, Eric’s favorite Faire shirt and Eric’s black leather vest—
And my goddamn boots!
That was too much for flesh and blood to take. Eric charged him, swinging the bat. You lousy sonuva—
The young man flung out his hand in a gesture of warding—
And music. Hit. Him.
A wall of music. A chord so pure there were no overtones or undertones, no pulsings of harmonics. A progression of four notes of blue-white, crystalline clarity. Perfection.
Oh, he thought. A major.
And the floor rose up and hit him.
“Bard?” said the soft, frightened voice. “Oh please, Bard, I didn’t hurt you, did I? You startled me.”
I’m lying down. On my back.
Cool, slick surface under his right hand, his left lying across his stomach.
Umph. He took inventory without opening his eyes. Hide of nauga, with a lump just under my left kidney. I know that lump. Maureen complained about it often enough. I’m lying on the couch.
“Bard?”
With a nut-case bending over me.
Eric cracked his right eye open, cautiously. And was caught in emeralds.
Eyes, he told himself. Those are just eyes. You can look away—
Only he couldn’t, not until they blinked, and the generously sensuous mouth under them smiled in delight and relief.
Those eyes. They’re green. Like a cat’s—
Ohmigod.
“Bard?” said the owner of those green, slit-pupiled eyes, touching his face, gently.
Bad drugs, Eric. Really bad drugs. Serious bad drugs. This is a hallucination.
The hallucination bent lower, his face shadowed with concern. Tendrils of that unbelievably white-blond hair fell into his unbelievably green eyes, and he tucked them behind one pointed ear in an unbelievably graceful gesture of annoyance.
He used the same hand to touch Eric’s cheek—
Pointed ears?
The figment of his fevered imagination frowned, then bit his lip. “Bard? Can you speak?”
Pointed ears?
Another touch, the concern deepening in the hallucination’s eyes. But the almost-caress was no hallucination though it was the lightest of feather-strokes.
Pointed ears? Like—an elf?
Ohmigod. Eric blinked; then blinked again. Ohmigod. Either I’ve gone crazy, or there’s an elf coming on to me in my living room.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Please God, let it be crazy, and I promise I’ll never do drugs again . . .