5
Parcel of Rogues
The club’s name was “Diverse Pleasures,” but Beth and the band just called it the Dive. Not to the manager’s face, of course, but then even the manager must have a hard time justifying this place. Cheap and pretentious, that’s this joint.
Eric edged his way past the noisy crowd at the bar, trying not to inhale the overly-redolent aroma of cigarette smoke, cheap whiskey, and cheaper perfume—No wonder this place doesn’t have roaches; they have too much self-respect to hang out here—and narrowly avoided colliding with a barmaid carrying an overloaded tray of drinks. Eric smiled apologetically at her, but the bleached-blonde just sighed, casually sidestepping the drunk reaching for her thigh from the closest table.
Sure wouldn’t want her job, either . . .
Eric quickly escaped to the relative quiet of the backstage area, and the small offices that served as warm-up rooms for the bands that played the Dive.
Beth was tuning the Fender, the guitar propped carefully on her knee. She looked up, surprised, as Eric walked into the cluttered room, then grinned. “Hey, you made it! I was hoping you’d show tonight.” The smile faded. “Dan’s got the flu, so we’re down on electric bass tonight. Allie can try to cover with the DX7, and Jim says he’ll just pound the hell out of the drums, but three people isn’t much on stage, y’know?”
“Yeah, I know.” Eric sat down on a packing crate next to her. “How much time till we’re on?”
“Twenty, twenty-five. It’s a good crowd out there, for a Monday night. Bo promised to turn down the TV when we go on.”
“That’s nice of him. Not that anybody would be able to hear a damn thing once we start playing, anyhow.” Eric fished his flute case out of the gig bag, quickly fitted the pieces together. He played a practice run, and Beth grinned, echoing the line on the guitar. Even in the relative quiet of the back room, he could barely hear the trill of the unamplified electric guitar, but caught the touch of bluesy ornamentation that Beth tossed in with the run.
“Even without Uncle Dan, it should be a good gig tonight,” she said, setting the guitar down. ‘We’ll do a sound check in fifteen, okay?”
“Okay.” Eric stood up, his fingers moving absently on the flute keys, then set the flute back down on its open case. “I’m getting a drink, I’ll be back in a few.”
“Sounds good.” He started towards the door, and Beth called after him. “Hey, Banyon!”
He turned. “Yeah?”
“Thanks for showing up tonight. I really appreciate it. Honest to God.”
He nodded, a little embarrassed by the look on her face.
Beth Kentraine, looking grateful, like she actually needs me. I’ve never seen Beth look like that at anyone ever before. She’s always in control of the situation, always knows what she’s doing. Probably the most “together” person I know. One helluva lady . . .
A real changeling, too. Today, hard-rock lady, yesterday—
Oh yeah, yesterday. Standing on the Kissing Bridge with Beth Kentraine in my arms, now that was the one nice sideline to the afternoon. I wouldn’t mind it if that kind of afternoon became a permanent part of my life.
He felt a twinge of pain. I liked that. I liked that a lot. But that’s all she wants. A casual fling. That, and another permanent person in her band. Not necessarily another permanent person in her life.
And I could never go to bed with someone who only feels sorry for me.
At least tonight, I feel useful. Eric flagged down one of the barmaids, requested a Scotch and water, watched as the brunette shimmied back toward the bar. It feels right. And I’m glad I came. This should be a good gig tonight.
When the barmaid returned with his drink, Eric found a quiet corner of the club, sat back, and took a look around at the crowd. The Scotch burned a comfortable path down his throat, relaxing him, wiping away the last vestiges of stage fright.
I always feel nervous before a gig, don’t know why. God knows I’ve only done a few hundred performances, so far. But I don’t think that’ll ever go away.
Someone walked past him, laughing lightly at her companion’s words. Eric caught a glimpse of bright eyes, iridescent green beneath a tangle of black curls, before the young woman vanished onto the crowded dance floor with her friend.
Eyes, glowing; like a cat’s, emerald green—
No way. It can’t be.
How many people in this town are going to the same damned optometrist?
Eric stood up, moving towards the dance floor. The rock rhythm held them all in thrall. Even as he pushed past the swaying bodies of the dancers, no one even glanced at him. He moved in closer to one of them, a slender woman with a riotous mane of black hair, lost in the beat, trance-dancing with an inhuman grace.
Her ears . . .
Just visible through the dark curls. Delicate, curving, pointed ears.
What in hell is this, anyway? Some kind of fad?
He looked around the crowded club, the gathered circles of dancers on the floor, the tables with clusters of drinkers, laughing and talking. He began to count them, the different ones—
The clothing, wild and costumey; the hair done in more styles than he could count, like off the set of a sci-fi movie. The glitter of Jewelry: incredible jewelry, rings, belts, necklaces, and things he couldn’t define, like the dragon, with emerald eyes just like its wearer’s, that perched on one dancer’s shoulder, wings wrapping over her neck and shoulder and tail down her arm. Or the necklace that turned into a breastplate of chains that turned into a belt studded with thumbnail-sized gems.
This was not the Dive’s usual Monday-night crowd. Oh, they got some flashy customers, maybe as many as half a dozen—but half the club?
My God. They’re real. Or I’m nuts. Or both.
He stopped looking for them and began looking at them.
They move very gracefully, that’s for sure. Terrific dancers.
He noticed something else. You can spot them by the faces, too. Oval faces, fine cheekbones, sharp chin, and those eyes . . .
He stared at one table after another, silently tallying up the numbers.
Half the people in this club look like Korendil. Elves. Maureen couldn’t have gotten to this many people. One, but not dozens. Oh god. They’re real.
This club has been taken over by elves.
I wonder if the management knows that they’re catering to non-humans? He shook his head, afraid to believe what he was seeing.
That’s it; I’m going crazy. I’m losing my mind. Instead of pink elephants, I’m starting to see green-eyed elves.
But there’s a shopping mall here in Van Nuys, only a block away from this club. One of those older malls, where they decided not to cut down the trees but left them standing, a whole grove of old trees—oak trees—
What if I’m not crazy? What if that guy was telling the truth?
What if there really are elves, living in Los Angeles?
What if I’m completely utterly insane, and all this is my delusion?
I think I’d rather be insane. I think.
But—they’re so . . . beautiful—
He started shaking, and had to hold onto a support pillar for a moment to keep his knees from giving out under him.
Beth is going to kill me. I’m supposed to play the gig tonight, not have a nervous breakdown. Shit.
Eric found an empty chair, and sat down heavily, draining his Scotch in a single swallow.
Okay, so what if the club is filled with refugees from Middle Earth? I have to play a show. Right, Banyon. The show must go on. Afterwards, you can go crazy. Offstage, preferably.
He set the empty glass down on the table and headed backstage.
Another thrilling night at the dive. Beth adjusted the Fender’s strap, wishing that the band could find a better weekly gig than this club. It helps pay the rent, and we can use the practice, but I really wish we could find a better gig.
Maybe there’ll be a rich promoter sitting out there tonight, scouting for talent.
She sighed. Might as well wish for Eric Banyon to permanently join the band. That’s about as likely.
I shouldn’t think that way about him. Oh hell, I shouldn’t, but it’s true. He doesn’t seem to think twice about getting involved with any of his lady loves, but try convincing him to take on any other commitment, and he runs like hell.
He’s a damn fine flute player. I just wish he’d get his act together.
If he ever did—
No. Beth, you’d be crazy to get involved with a man like him. Give him your heart, and he’ll probably leave town the next day.
But, if he ever did get his act together—
She glanced at her watch. Strike that. I just wish he’d get in here! “Sound check!” she called to Allie and Jim, who were carrying the DX7 out from the practice room. She followed them out onto the stage, the Fender’s pickup line coiled in her hand. Dammit, Banyon, where are you?
She saw his face, the mop of unruly shoulder-length brown hair backlit by the dance-floor lights. He was walking quickly through the crowd toward the backstage door. For one moment, it looked as if he was glowing.
Right, Beth. Saint Eric. Fer sure.
She blinked again, and the glow was gone. She shook her head, made a mental note not to try the house brand of Scotch again—
Probably has diesel oil in it—
—and headed for the stage.
The Dive’s overworked electrician/sound engineer was checking a mike cable as Beth stepped up onto the stage. “Bo, we’ve got our flute player with us tonight, we’re using the AKG mike for him. I think I wrote down the board settings last time,” she said, plugging the Fender’s cable into the appropriate socket. Bo nodded, jumping off the edge of the stage and heading for the sound board controls.
Beyond the darkened stage, the crowd was only a blur, lit by the colored glow of the dance floor and the occasional flash of a cigarette lighter. The noise of Spiral Dance setting up their equipment was lost beneath the pounding beat of whatever Top Forty dance-rock song was currently playing over the speakers. No one even glanced up at the stage.
Well, let’s see if you can still ignore us when we start playing, hey?
At least there’s a good crowd tonight. I don’t know what pulled them in, but it’s almost twice our usual Monday night crowd. And they’re all dancing.
This should be a terrific gig . . .
Eric hurried onto the stage, flashing a quick smile at Beth. “Are we ready?” he asked, moving in front of the fourth mike, where Dan usually stood.
What the hell. Let’s see what the crowd really wants.
She glanced up at Bo, half-hidden in the shadows, and he gave her the thumbs-up signal. The Top Forty song ended, and the dance-floor lights faded away. The stage was still unlit, leaving most of the club virtually pitch black, completely dark.
Now, let’s have some fun . . .
Beth moved close to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen . . . we are Spiral Dance.”
Behind her, Jim began the drum line to “Missing You,” starting softly, then gaining in intensity. Allie followed him on the synth, minor chords building up to an impossible climax.
Beth hit the first notes on the Fender, just as the lights came up on the stage, blindingly bright. A moment later, Eric dived in with the descant, leading right into the first verse.
Lovely bit of work there, Banyon—
Then she leaned in close to the mike, and let the song pour through her. Hard rock, her voice nearly breaking on the high notes, but strong, the strongest she’d sung in a long time.
“Too long, too many nights,
no reason left to try,
Too far to go to see a glimpse of light.
Don’t tell me you don’t know,
don’t give me reasons why,
I don’t care, ’cause I’m missing you tonight . . . ”
Beth could hear Allie and Jim, their voices blending perfectly with hers on the chorus. Then she glanced up at Eric, who nodded. All yours, bucko—
Second verse, and Eric took the solo.
Eat your heart out, Ian Anderson! Beth couldn’t help but grin as the flute solo, first low and breathy, then building to a waning intensity as Eric caught the melody line, caught the audience and took them with him, high with the music.
The shouts and whistles after the solo almost drowned out the words of the chorus. Beth caught a glimpse of Eric, grinning like crazy, as the crowd cheered wildly.
Damn, but that was good!
The floor was overflowing with people dancing, some just standing by their tables instead of fighting for space by the stage. And one young man, very tall with flowing silver-blond hair, just standing near the edge of the stage, not dancing. Just staring at Eric.
It’s hard to see with the stage lights, but it almost looks as though his eyes are glowing green—no, that’s impossible, must he a trick of the lighting. Ye gods, I’m seeing everything in fireworks tonight.
She shifted position just a little, and caught a glimpse of something in his expression before the crowd swirled between them.
Need.
She started. Ye gods—was he—No, scratch that. It wasn’t sexual. Or at least it mostly wasn’t sexual. Not that Banyon isn’t a honey by anybody’s standards—
But this was something—desperate. What has our whistler been up to?
The song finished with a sudden chord, and the lights cut abruptly.
The applause was deafening, and she dismissed the question from her mind.
This is definitely turning out to be a fantastic gig . . .
As the lights came back up, Beth gestured to Allie, who began the first notes of “Come by the Hills,” an old traditional air.
“Come by the hills, to the land
where fancy is free . . . ”
This song was as gentle as the first rock song had been wild. Eric joined her on the first chorus, the flute weaving a bittersweet counterpoint around her voice. Then he took the solo again, a delicate melody line, beautiful and fey, and aching with unspoken longing.
It was hard for her to see the crowd, past the blinding lights, but something was happening out there—
They’re not dancing, they’re not walking away to the bar, they’re just standing there. Standing, and listening, and swaying with the music. Some of them holding hands, and all of them, looking up at the stage, at us, at Eric. Like they’re in some kind of a trance.
This is definitely the weirdest crowd we’ve played to in a long time.
Then a flash of movement out on the dance floor; a pair of gracefully dancing figures whirled elegantly across the floor, and the crowd moved back to give them room. Looks like some kind of waltz, but not quite—not ballet, either, but it’s close. Damn, but they’re good! I wish I could find out who they are—I’d love to see them dance when I don’t have to concentrate on the music. They’re truly lovely.
Slowly, other dancers joined the pair on the floor, until all Beth could see was the beautiful swirling patterns of color and movement, strange and wonderful. Something about their flowing clothing caught her attention for a moment.
God and Goddess—you don’t buy that stuff off the rack! At least not at J.C. Penney’s. This is not our usual draw. Not by a long shot. What in hell happened tonight? Did we just get discovered by the Rodeo Drive crowd?
What’s happening to us tonight? We’re so hot, the energy is so damn good, it’s incredible. It’s more than just having Eric jamming with us—it’s something else, something that I don’t quite understand—
Four songs later, though, she didn’t care about understanding anything. All I want to do is sit down. Just for a few minutes. She glanced around, and saw that Allie and Jim were also looking faded, though Eric looked like he could keep going on all night.
One corner of her mouth quirked up in a lopsided grin when she picked up on that.
Damn him, he probably could!
She signaled Bo, then spoke clearly into the mike. “We’ll be back after a break.” Then the stage lights darkened mercifully.
The break room seemed like an oasis of calm after the set onstage. Beth propped the Fender against one of the packing crates.
“I think I’m going to die,” Allie moaned, and slumped down on a wooden chair. “That far left stage light has been shining right in my eyes all night. I can’t see anything except purple and blue spots.”
“I’ll tell Bo,” Jim said, leaving the room.
“How are you holding up, Bethy?” Eric asked, sprawled on the floor.
“They’re really a demanding crowd tonight,” Beth replied thoughtfully. “Really alive. I feel like they’re taking everything we can give them and then a little bit more.”
And they seem to be focusing on you, my friend, though you’re too modest and unassuming to notice it. I really wish that you would join Spiral Dance for more than an occasional gig. Especially if all the gigs could be like this one.
“I think I’m going to die,” Allie said, staring at her hands. “There’s spots crawling all over my skin.”
Beth reached over and mussed Allie’s hair good-naturedly. “Close your eyes, hon, you’ll live. I played an all-night gig once, with bright green lights shining right in my eyes. I thought everyone in the audience was an H.P. Lovecraft Cthulhuoid after that.”
“I’ll get you a wet paper towel,” Eric offered. “You can lay that over your eyes, maybe that’ll help.”
“Anything,” Allie said mournfully. “But I won’t guarantee that I’ll still be alive by the time you get back.”
Eric opened the door, admitting a blast of noise and cigarette smoke, then closed it behind him, shutting out the bedlam outside.
Beth eased herself to her feet. “I’m going after a beer, Allie. Want anything from the bar?”
“Some Guinness to pour over this poor musician’s grave,” the keyboardist said solemnly.
Beth couldn’t help but laugh. “All right, I’ll snag you a Guinness. I’ll be right back.”
She stepped into the hallway, waiting a moment as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. And my lungs adjust to whatever in the hell is in the air tonight. Smells like weed—God, I sure hope the cops don’t bust this place while we’re playing! That’s all we need. A police record would be a real boost to our careers.
Someone was standing near the entrance to the hallway silhouetted by the flickering light from the dance floor. He caught at her wrist as she walked past.
“Excuse me,” Beth said, trying to be polite as she disengaged her arm from the strangers grasp.
“Hey, pretty lady,” the man said, his voice low and hoarse. “You sing real nice.”
“Gee, thanks,” Beth said, attempting to move around him. “You’ll hear some more in a few minutes.” Who is this guy? Jeans, boots, leather jacket—one of the usual crowd, and drunker than hell.
Wonderful. This is just what I need right now—
His hand tightened on her shoulder, refusing to let go even as she pried at his fingers. “Hey, we can go out back, have some fun, smoke a little. I’ve got some fine stuff, nice and dusted. You’ll like it.”
Smoke? With this guy? And pigs fly, my friend . . .
. . . dusted? Shit, he can’t mean—Oh God, get me out of this! He’s talking about PCP!
“I don’t think so,” Beth said carefully. This guy’s eyes are so dilated, he probably shouldn’t be able to walk. “That’s really not my scene. Listen, I’ve only got a few minutes before we’re starting again . . . ”
She glanced down the hallway. No one in sight. Shit. And this guy is dusted, I could break his arm and he’d never feel it. I can’t handle this alone—
Before she could move, the man suddenly shoved her away from him, knocking her off-balance into the wall. “Whaddaya mean, not your scene? You don’t like me or something?”
Oh shit.
The man moved closer, blocking Beth’s line of escape. She pressed back against the wall, looking for anything she could use as a weapon. Nothing in sight. Terrific. What now, Kentraine? If I break his instep with my heel he won’t even blink. If I give ’im a knee, he might get angry.
“Come on outside with me. We’re going to party, right? Have some fun.” The man’s fingers gripped her upper arm tightly, digging in. Beth knew she’d have bruises from that by tomorrow morning.
If I get to see tomorrow morning. If I live that long. He’s drugged out of his mind! If I shout for help, who knows what he’ll do? And if I give in, go outside with him—
Lord and lady, get me out of this!
Eric moved quickly through the crowd, trying not to drip water from the paper towel in his hand, and trying not to look intently at the people around him as he walked past.
Yeah, don’t stare at the elves, Eric, it isn’t polite.
I know I’m going crazy now.
Well, everybody thinks that musicians are crazy anyhow, right?
He dodged a drink-laden customer, staggering in the direction of the johns, and saw a vivacious redhead, eyes made up like a pair of iridescent butterfly wings, laughing merrily with some of her friends. Green-eyed, of course.
Damn, but there’s a lot of green-eyed people in the club tonight . . .
“Bard?”
Eric froze in mid-step. I know that voice.
No. It can’t be him again. It can’t. I can’t deal with this.
“Bard? I must speak with you.”
Eric steeled himself, and turned to face Korendil. The elf-actor was staring at him beseechingly, that impossibly blond hair cascading over his shoulders . . . and my leather vest! Damn it, he’s still wearing my clothes!
Be nice to the man, Eric. Or he’ll probably knock you into another wall.
“Uh, hi,” Eric said eloquently, very aware of the water dripping from the paper towel onto his jeans. “The name’s Eric, by the way. Remember?”
The blond man nodded quite seriously. “I know, Bard. I heard your name at the place-of-festival, when the beautiful witch was trying to aid you. And you told me again this evening.”
Beautiful witch? Do I know any beautiful witches? Who is this guy?
“Please, listen to me, Bard. I know you did not wish to see me again, but you must hear my words.” The—elf. He is. He’s an elf—spoke earnestly, his green eyes pleading with Eric’s, reaching out to him . . .
Green eyes—can’t look away—that man in the limo—
Eric broke away from Korendil’s gaze with an effort, shuddering at the memory.
What’s happening to me? I thought nobody could be hypnotized against his will!
“Look,” he said, trying to think of a way to get out of this conversation. “I’m in the middle of a show, I can’t talk right now.”
Korendil gestured at the hallway to the break room, and the back door beyond, where Beth was standing, talking to some guy. “Bard Eric, can we go outside to speak? Just for a few minutes?”
Eric shook his head. “Not ‘Bard Eric’ Just Eric. And no, I don’t want to go outside, I have to be back onstage in a few minutes.”
And if I have to talk to you, I want to do it where there’s witnesses. In case you decide to slam me into a wall again.
The elf—nope, dammit, he’s as human as I am, it’s just makeup and F/X—looked at him in shock. “Do you think I would purposefully hurt you? I would never do so, I promise. But I need your help. We all need your help.”
He really means it. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you? You’re an elf, and somebody’s trying to kill your people, and you need me to help you?”
Korendil nodded, gravely earnest. “Will you help us? Even as we speak, our enemy is marshaling his forces, preparing to destroy that which gives us life itself . . . ”
Eric tried to keep a straight face. Come on, Eric, you’ve got a few friends with—unusual—realities. This guy’s no worse than any of them. Besides, he’s trying to be nice, and you should be nice right back to him. Instead of laughing in his face, and then calling the cops
“I don’t know, I need some time to think about all of this, really.” Yeah, just get away from him, that’s the first step in dealing with a loon—
Something doesn’t feel right. A ripple of honest-to-God fear—fear with no cause—rolled down his spine. Something is very, very wrong—
Eric glanced over the elf’s shoulder, and suddenly what he had seen a moment before registered. Beth, cornered by a man near the back door, glint of shiny metal—oh shit, he’s got a knife! He’s holding a knife on Bethy!
Korendil’s eyes widened just as Eric gathered a breath to shout for help, and the blond man whirled—stared—
Less than a microsecond, Eric would have sworn to that. Surely not enough to have seen what was happening, much less think of anything to do. Yet suddenly he was crossing the distance between them and the hallway in a few quick leaps.
Eric dashed after him, pushing people out of his way. How in hell did he get through the crowd so fast?
He skidded into the hallway, just as the blond actor-elf?—dived between Beth and the stranger, shoving the man away from her. Eric caught a glimpse of her frightened eyes, then the man with the knife was on his feet again, facing Korendil, hissing words almost too low to hear.
“. . . mess with me, mister, you don’t . . . ”
The words suddenly faded away, as the man stared up into Korendil’s eyes. They seemed momentarily frozen, all of them: Beth, crouching back against the wall; Korendil, gazing in the man’s eyes; and the stranger, the knife only inches from Korendil’s face, not moving . . .
What in the hell is going on here? That guy’s still holding the knife, but he’s not moving, just standing there, staring into Korendil’s eyes. My God, isn’t he going to do something before the guy goes for his neck?
Then the man dropped the knife suddenly, the blade clattering on the floor. He staggered backwards, hitting the wall and sliding down into a sitting position, blank-eyed and shuddering.
Eric stared at the man, who was clutching his hand and whimpering, as Korendil moved to Beth, his voice quiet and concerned. “Are you all right, Lady? Did he harm you?”
Beth was shaking her head, wiping tears from her eyes. Bethy crying? I’ve never—oh shit, that guy’s about to—
Eric shouted a warning as the man on the floor suddenly moved for the knife. “Korendil, look out!”
The elf turned just as the man lunged with the knife.
Freeze-frame.
A flash of fire—no, a rope of fire—
Next frame.
Fire coiling, lashing out at the man’s wrist—
Music up.
A burst of melody, a discordant B-flat minor that could break your eardrums—
Resume speed.
—as Korendil’s fist slams into the man’s face, and the surprised look on his face as he falls—
And the thought, lingering in Eric’s mind: That can’t be real. But it wasn’t a special effect. That was real.
I’ve gone crazy, the whole world is crazy. I’ve completely lost it.
The stranger twitched once and then was still, sprawled unconscious on the floor.
Eric was suddenly aware of the dripping paper towel, forgotten in his hand. The blond actor—actor?—held Beth gently in his arms, murmuring something as he brushed away her tears. Beth was trembling, her hands shaking uncontrollably.
The break-room door opened suddenly, and Allie looked out blearily, blinking at the dim light. “What in the hell?”
Her eyes widened as Beth, half-carried by Korendil, staggered unsteadily into the break room.
“Beth?” She focused on Eric as he walked past her. “Eric, what—”
“I don’t know, some guy attacked Beth,” Eric said, watching as Beth, with Korendil’s help, sat down on a packing crate. “He’s out cold on the floor. This guy decked him.”
Beth, her face in her hands, tried to push Korendil away from her. The blond man shook his head, said something too low for Eric to hear and rested his hand on her shoulder again.
For a moment, Eric thought he could hear a faint melody, echoing from somewhere in the room.
Very classical, sounds maybe like a variation on the third Brandenburg Concerto—
Why am I thinking about music at a time like this?
“Beth?” Eric asked hesitantly, sitting on his heels at her feet, and looking up at her anxiously. “Are you okay?”
She nodded without looking up.
Then Beth took several deep breaths, and spoke quietly. “It’s all right, I’m okay,” she said. A moment later, her voice was stronger. “Allie, could you tell management that there’s an unconscious sonuvabitch lying in the hallway? They’ll probably want to call the cops.”
She’s starting to sound like herself again. Eric tried to banish the image of Beth Kentraine, crying, barely able to walk. She’s Bethy again, she’s okay now. Thank God.
Allie nodded silently, and walked out of the room. Eric shifted uncomfortably, looking at the way Korendil’s hand was still resting on Beth’s shoulder. “Listen, uh, Korendil, I, uh—” Might as well spit it out. “Look, Korendil, I still think you’re crazy, but—thanks for being here.”
He wanted to say something more, but the look in Korendil’s eyes stopped him short. Eric left the room quickly, but he could feel Beth’s and Korendil’s eyes intent upon him as he closed the door.
The L.A.P.D. officers hauled the man away, slumped between them. Eric watched from the edge of the hallway. Damn, but whatever that guy Korendil is, he sure knows how to deck somebody in one punch.
And whatever he did to disarm the guy—
No. That wasn’t real. You can’t hit somebody that way, not with fire and music. It didn’t happen.
Doesn’t matter what I thought I saw. It wasn’t real. It didn’t happen. It’s a drug flashback or something.
Or something.
Eric glanced at the half-empty dance floor, and noted the cluster of people over by the club’s restrooms.
Amazing, how many people suddenly had to go to the bathroom when the cops showed up. Eric snickered to himself. Sure hope they didn’t clog up the toilets with all the stuff they were flushing down ’em—
He walked towards the break room at the end of the hall. He stopped outside the closed door, hearing quiet conversation within.
“. . . what I can’t understand is how anyone could profit from something like that. I mean, they’d lose the magic, too, right?”
Beth’s voice.
She’s talking to that loon about—Oh, terrific. He’s probably telling her how I have to be the Great Savior of Middle Earth. What did I do to deserve this?
He opened the door. Beth and Korendil looked up. “Hi,” Eric said awkwardly, wishing he had knocked first. Beth and Korendil were sitting very close together on the packing crates.
Too close.
“Bo thinks we should start up real soon,” Eric continued, noting the way the elf’s—actor’s!—arm was around Beth’s shoulders. “Take everybody’s mind off all of the cops that just came through the club.”
Beth disengaged from Korendil and stood up, dusting off her black pants. “Sounds good.” She smiled at Korendil. “I’d like to talk some more, Korendil. Maybe after the show?”
Eric felt something tighten in his throat, at the warm way Beth and Korendil were looking at each other, so intense and intimate.
Damn it, it’s her life, none of my business—
But he’s an elf! Not even human I
No, he’s an actor, with good makeup, contact lenses, all of that. He’s just another guy. Another six-foot-five guy, blond, built like a dancer, and handsome. Even if I don’t swing that way, he’s damn handsome. I can see why she likes him.
It’s none of my business who Beth Kentraine gets involved with—it’s her life, not mine.
Maybe it’s just that I’m on the rebound, but it hurts, the way she’s looking at him—
“Eric, perhaps you could join us?” Korendil ventured, gazing at him with an intent, worried expression. “I would speak with both of you, if possible.”
Oh, great. Now the loon wants to flirt with Beth and drive me nuts at the same time. Very economical.
I can’t handle this.
“Maybe later,” Eric said, wishing he was anywhere else but here. Even Juilliard. At least when I was there, I had reasons for thinking I was crazy. “But we have to do the show now.” He started towards the door, not looking back.
Maybe if I wish for it hard enough, this guy’ll go back to Oz or the North Pole or Santa Monica or wherever he came from. It’s worth a try.
I just don’t want to think that I’ve gone completely, utterly insane, that’s all—
—and I don’t want this to be real.