Elementary school. The racetrack. Penney's at the mall. Barnes' Motor and Parts. Three—count 'em, three—fast food joints. No—she thought, watching with disbelief as Mac pulled into a Kentucky Fried Chicken, Make that four fast food joints.
"You sure know how to show a girl a good time, fella," Belinda muttered. "If this is how hot-dog race-drivers spend their days, I'll pass."
She'd never tailed anyone duller in her life. She'd spent her entire afternoon driving in circles around Fayetteville, watching Mac gorge on junk food and run apparently pointless errands. It was getting dark, she'd put monster miles on her little silver Sunbird, she had to go to the bathroom, and she was, for the second time, almost out of gas. Mac hadn't taken a potty break or fueled up his accursed Chevy once. Belinda would have given anything to know how he'd accomplished that second trick. Those beasts were supposed to guzzle gas, everyone knew that. His gas tank couldn't be that big.
He hadn't spotted her. She knew he hadn't spotted her. Except a suspicion kept nagging that nobody, absolutely nobody, could or would spend a day in such a boring manner unless he was trying to mislead a tail.
But finally, at about seven-thirty, Mac's aimless wandering ceased, replaced by apparent commitment to a single direction and increased speed. Now we're getting somewhere, Belinda rejoiced.
She had to fall further and further back as they left the center of Fayetteville and traffic thinned. For twenty minutes, they sped along roads that became increasingly deserted. Suddenly, on a narrow country lane, Mac left the pavement entirely, bounced along a sand two-rut through a fallow field, and screeched to a halt in front of a stand of stunted hardwoods along the field's back perimeter. There were no buildings anywhere around. There were no cars passing by.
This is going to be good, Belinda gloated. If he has something going on back there, I'll make sure he finds a nice little surprise waiting for him the next time he drops by.
Belinda saw him creep out of the Chevy and sneak into the woods. She turned off her headlights, drove in as close as she dared, then rolled down her window. She left the keys hanging from the ignition in case she needed to get out fast, crawled out of the window to keep from making any unnecessary noise, then trailed him on foot.
Bless him for wearing light colors, she thought. His white windbreaker nearly glowed in the dark. She edged past the Chevy—cautiously—she still couldn't explain the incident with Stevens and Peterkin—and slipped into the trees. She moved quietly. She'd had plenty of woods experience. Mac apparently hadn't. He sounded like a buffalo dancing on potato chips—she'd never heard such a racket from one person. She could have followed him blindfolded.
He worked his way up a rise and into a clearing. She saw him plainly. He stopped, illuminated by the light of the half-moon riding almost overhead. Then he turned. Fifteen yards behind him, she froze.
With preternatural clearness, she saw him look right at her. She saw him grin. His eyes fixed on hers, he mouthed the words "Hi, babe," and he waved at her—
Then he vanished. Poof. He didn't hide, he didn't move, he just—plain—vanished.
For one stunned moment, she couldn't think at all.
Then her mind started working again, beginning with a long list of things she'd like to call the sonuvabitch.
The boss, Belinda thought with some bitterness, ought to be thrilled by this.
From back where she'd parked, she heard a whinny and the sound of horse's hooves on dirt. She heard the "ding, ding" sound that could only be caused by someone opening her car door with the keys in the ignition. Still in a state of shock, she listened as a motor—her motor—kicked over.
What?
Mac had vanished and now someone was stealing her car!
Released from her trance, she turned and broke into a full-out gallop, screaming, "Get the hell away from my car, you thief!" as she ran. Branches slapped her face and tore at her clothes. Thorns ripped at her hands and tangled in her braid. Full-sized trees seemed to jump in front of her. She arrived in the field in time to see her car, headlights on, back out into the highway. The driver flipped the interior light on for a moment, just so she would be sure to recognize him. It was Mac. He waved, and tooted her horn, and drove off.
There was a light-colored horse running behind him. Pacing him, she'd have said.
"Give my car back, you bastard!" she shrieked. She pulled her gun out of her shoulder holster and fired one shot in sheer frustration. She heard the crack of shattering glass, and a laugh. Red tail lights disappeared in the distance.
Now her nice little rental car had a bullet hole in it. And a broken window. For which, no doubt, she'd be charged the worth of the entire car.
Shit! But, no—it doesn't matter. He stole my car, he didn't have anyone with him—therefore, he had to leave his. The Chevy. He'll have taken the keys—but I learned a lot from the P.D. I'll just hot-wire his damned Chevy.
She turned to walk back to Mac's car—and found hoof-prints and emptiness.
There was no car.
Mel Tanbridge grinned and fished out a pen and a yellow legal pad from his desk. He'd just mined a new sure-thing cash-crop angle out of his latest issue of Science News, and he wanted to get it down on paper while the idea was still fresh. The members of Nostradamus Project's auxiliary organization, Nostradamus Foundation International, paid well to get their pseudo-science delivered to their doorstep, and he worked hard to make sure it arrived full of juicy tidbits that would keep the money rolling in.
He looked over the SN article, which, in very careful terms noted a variance in the ability of rhesus monkeys to pick symbols shown on a computer screen when the symbols were chosen by a human researcher compared to random assignment of the symbols by the computer. The article, "High-Level Pattern Recognition in Rhesus Monkeys," noted that the monkeys picked the correct symbol from a random stream about 13 to 17 percent more often when the human researcher was choosing the symbols. The article noted that this happened even when the monkey was not able to see the researcher, eliminating the chance of visual cues from the human. The article suggested that the human researchers' attempts at randomness displayed a subconscious choice pattern picked up by the monkeys, and noted that the rhesus monkeys had a strong affinity for pattern recognition.
Mel snorted.
"Telepathic Contact Between Humans and Monkeys Confirmed In Independent Studies," he scratched down on the legal pad. "Rhesus monkeys are the first non-human species to demonstrate telepathic abilities—reading the minds of researchers in carefully controlled double-blind experiments conducted by—" He paused. One wanted to be very careful about naming names in these things. Some of his pet flakes, he suspected, also read Science News. "—by an independent simian research facility in Florida." He carefully copied in the statistics and a few, slanted quotes, referred to Science News as a "professional journal for scientists," and hit his pitch.
"Nostradamus Foundation International must raise—" He thought about it. How much did he want to raise this time? A couple million dollars would be nice. A couple million dollars would permit him to put out glossy four-color fliers and advertise in all his favorite magazines and expand his carefully cultivated list of fools who could be parted from their money. It would also permit him some breathing room to continue with his covert and highly illegal, but real, search to acquire a stable of TK's and other psi talents. "—two point four million dollars to continue its exciting research into projects like this." "Like" was an important word in Mel's vocabulary. He used it a lot. With that one little word, he could infer, without actually stating, that his foundation was involved in simian psychic research. My ass! Simian psychic research. What an angle. God, I love it.
"Finally, paranormal phenomena have become a legitimate domain of scientific exploration, and NFI is spearheading that exploration. Your participation has been essential to NFI's research in the past. We need your help now."
He drafted out a series of boxes, starting with twenty dollars and ending with a thousand, and noted that he wanted a place at the bottom of the fund sheet for "participants" to check "current areas of research" they would particularly like to see expanded, with a write-in line for "other." Those little mini-surveys were great. He'd been on the lookout for an animal project ever since some lady had written requesting that NFI expand into "telepathic research with other life forms." She'd added a long, handwritten letter (on pink cat stationery), with her check for twenty dollars, stating that she firmly believed her cats could read minds. Mel made sure she got a nice note back stating that NFI thought psychic cats were a good subject for research. He'd added "non-human psychic research" to his list immediately.
Mel loved New Agers.
He spun the soft leather executive chair to face out the window, leaned back, and laced his fingers behind his head. The taste of success was sweet. The last letter, scavenged from a National Geographic article on Eskimo shamans, had netted him about a million-five. This one, his instincts told him, was good for easily that much.
"Fran!" he yelled.
His secretary leaned in the door. "Yes?"
He indicated the legal pad. "Get Janny to set that up in bulletin format—yellow paper and black ink, a line drawing of a telepathic monkey—tell her to keep it understated and scientific-looking. Make sure the drawing is of a rhesus monkey," he added. He closed his eyes and sighed. "Some of these people might notice."
"Okay. Mel, do you want to look at your mail? You have a FedEx package, some bills, some junk, and a few responses from the last mailer."
"Bring 'em in." The bills would wait, the responses he loved to open personally—money in the mail was a wonderful thing. And the FedEx package ought to be Belinda's TK film. He felt a rush of adrenalin. There might be nothing to what she had—but Belinda wasn't one of the true believers. She thought the whole Nostradamus Project was a dodge. If she was convinced she had something real—
He suppressed that line of thought. No sense setting himself up for a disappointment. "Bring in the VCR from the conference room while you're at it."
Lianne opened the door, wearing an oversized pink t-shirt with Garfield on it and a pair of tight blue jeans, minus knees. Her deafeningly pink socks bagged around her ankles, and her hair was tucked behind her ears and held in place by barrettes. She looked about twelve. Mac had really been hoping she'd be wearing something from Victoria's Secret—or maybe nothing—but he hid his disappointment bravely.
"Hey'ya!" She looked him over and grinned. "You look like a man who expected to be greeted by a woman wearing Saran Wrap." She winked. "I don't go to the door that way, you know. If I did, my mom would be on the other side."
Mac squeezed her to his chest and kissed her passionately. "That wasn't what I was thinking at all," he lied. "I was just thinking you were the prettiest bag lady I'd ever seen."
He followed her into her apartment, admiring the way she walked, and kept close as she led him to her television set.
"I went for comfort, I'll have you know. I had a very bad day." Lianne gave him a wan little smile and a tight hug. "I'm glad you're here. I rented a couple of movies, got a huge bag of popcorn, and I've got all the makings for daiquiris—unless you'd rather have diet soft drinks—?"
"Decaffeinated?" he asked cautiously.
"Nah—I like my caffeine." She made a face. "Why have a cola without caffeine? You might as well not bother."
He answered her face with one of his own. "Whereas I like to sleep at night. No, really, I'm allergic to caffeine. Daiquiris will be fine."
She pointed out the bag on the TV cabinet. "So. Pick the movie you want to see and get it ready—I'll do the daiquiris."
She vanished into the little apartment kitchen. Mac pulled three clear plastic boxes out of the paper bag she'd indicated and studied the titles. He grinned as he peered at the first label. The Man With One Red Shoe.
He'd seen that one at least a dozen times. He closed his eyes, replayed the opening credits, recalled the slinking, skullduggerous beat of the score, and chuckled softly. Tom Hanks, Lori Singer, Carrie Fisher, Dabney Coleman, Charles Durning and Jim Belushi. A casting miracle, and a great script, and hilarious, too; elvish nominee for an all-time Oscar. He put the movie on top of Lianne's VCR. Probably that one, he decided.
Violent machinery sounds ground out from the kitchen. Mac's smile took on a bemused air. What was she doing in there? Was that making daiquiris? It sounded more like chainsawing down a Buick. He shrugged. The ways of humans were inscrutable.
He glanced at the next title she'd rented. He liked Bette Midler a lot, and Danny DeVito—nasty little man, in this one at least—was well cast. Ruthless People wasn't quite in the same league as her first choice, but on the whole, he approved.
When he saw what her third pick was, though, he dropped the other two movies back in the bag without another thought. He put that cassette into the VCR's slot, checked to make sure it was rewound—gloating all the while at his competence with human machinery—and flashed a Cheshire grin at Lianne when she came out of the kitchen with a mammoth bowl of popcorn balanced in the crook of her elbow and a bright pink daiquiri in either hand.
"Strawberry," she said. "Fresh strawberries my mom picked and dropped off yesterday."
"Sounds tasty." It did—and it smelled tasty, as well. The fresh strawberry-smell was mouthwatering.
She smiled at his expression. "I already tried mine. It's pretty good. I can't think of a better combination than strawberries and popcorn. So—what are we watching?"
He set the bowl of popcorn and one of the frothy pink drinks on her coffee table, and hit the on button of the remote. "Just wait and see." He favored her with a sly smile.
"I rented them, you doofus. I already know what the choices are." When he still wouldn't tell her, she rolled her eyes and snorted. "Mysterious men just give me goosebumps."
Belinda sat on the berm of the dark, lonely road, reloading the chamber of her handgun and wishing Mac were standing in front of her so she would have a target. Reloading was mostly an excuse to sit down for a minute. After all, she'd only used the one bullet. But she'd been hiking along the road for nearly an hour and a half. Her feet hurt, she was tired, she was pissed off, and she really would have liked to have taken time for a good long scream, but that wasn't practical.
Besides, police training had left an indelible mark on her subconscious when it came to firearms. She firmly believed that one empty chamber would be the one she needed—so it would never, never stay empty.
I hate him, she thought, rage coloring everything she did. If he wasn't worth a ruddy fortune to me alive, I'd kill that two-bit jock just for the fun of it.
But he'd proven to her that he was exactly the person she was looking for. His psychic tricks verged on the magical—that vanishing act, even more than the business he'd pulled with his car doors—had guaranteed his fate in Belinda's book. That slimy little shit Tanbridge would be willing to pay through the nose for Mac Lynn. And soon. Real soon—because her patience wasn't going to hold out much longer.
She sighed and got up. She was spending a lot of time walking on this job—something she would pay Mac Lynn back for. At least this time when he stranded her, she hadn't been wearing high heels and tight leather pants.
Ten minutes further down the road, after a wide detour past an abandoned house that would have to be repaired before it would even be suitable for ghosts, she spotted a gleam of silver off to her right, reflected in the moonlight. As she drew nearer, the gleam resolved into the shape of a Sunbird.
My car! she thought. I don't believe it!
Suspecting a ruse, she dropped into the woods and edged up to the vehicle from the passenger side, working her way through grass and weeds that reached to the Sunbird's door handles. He hadn't locked the car. She checked for booby traps, held her breath as she opened the passenger door, and—heart racing—eased herself onto the passenger seat and across to the driver's side.
My God, the keys are in it. And the tank still shows half full. She smiled, bemused. I'll be damned. Maybe I won't have to skin the soles of his feet with a rusty knife after all.
She turned the key in the ignition, and the motor kicked right over. She put the car in gear and gave it some gas. It moved—sluggishly—onto the pavement.
Flop-flop-flop-flop, flop-flop-flop-flop.
She hit the brake, turned the motor off, and leapt out.
She stared for a full minute at the car's tires, tires that had been completely hidden by the tall grass. Her anger grew to monumental proportions. In a blind fury, she kicked the door, and screamed "You son-of-a-bitch!" into the empty night.
"I'll kill you," she ranted. "I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll kill you! I don't need the money this bad—I don't need anything this bad. You bastard! You rotten, stinking, stupid, sneaking bastard!"
She stared at her car again, and hot tears of pure rage rolled down her cheeks. The tires—all four of them—were flatter than soggy pancakes.
After the ordeals of the day, Stranger watched the children with apprehension. They huddled, separate and isolated, in the darkness of the beautiful little-girl room and wept in silent, tearless rage. Her heart went out to them.
Och, if there was but a way to show them each that they are not alone—she thought.
She knew all of them—Anne, battered and abused, always angry, who lived only to deal with the Father in all his giant horror; Abbey, the sheltered, the brilliant, charming scholar who loved learning; Alice, the repressive puritan who hated everything that failed to meet her impossible standards of righteousness—and the silent, frozen, tortured husk that was all that remained of the original Amanda. Each of the first three would acknowledge her presence—none would admit that their "sisters" existed. The three-year-old Amanda was unreachable, hiding forever inside her frozen shell of fear. Amanda would never come out, without a miracle.
But they need each other sa' badly—if they could only come t'gether, they'd be whole again. And then—Stranger stared up at the milky reflection of moonlight on the wall—then they could fight back, couldn't they? For all that they're only children.
Well, then, it's up to me to introduce them, isn't it? A bloody nightmare that's likely to be, but best begun is soonest done.
Abbey was the easiest to reach. She stayed in the frilly pink bedroom, and did not ring her world with guards and traps. Alone of all the girls, she still retained the childish wish to please. She would listen to the ancient voice of Stranger.
:Abbey, can you hear me?:
Abbey, blue-eyed and blond, sniffled and nodded. :Yes, Stranger. Wh-what do you w-w-want?:
Cethlenn made her thoughts as gentle and persuasive as she could. :I have a surprise for you.:
Abbey perked up a little. :Is it good?: she asked hopefully. She alone of all of them retained the ability to hope.
Stranger reflected on the answer to that and sighed. Was it good that there were four little girls and one ancient Celtic witch living in the body of one child? Probably not—but it felt necessary. Stranger had come late to this little drama. She had her own ideas about what had shaped the weirdling child in whom she found her own spirit suddenly awakened. She had ideas, too, of what cures there might be.
:Och, it's good enough, I suppose. I've a giftie for you, little Abbey. Secret sisters, hidden from all the world save you. Would you like to be meeting them, then?:
The child pondered. :Are they little kids like Sharon?:
:Not at all,: Stranger assured her. :They are like you—almost magical.:
That was the key word. Abbey's eyes widened. :Oh, yes, Stranger. When can I meet them?:
Cethlenn, the Stranger, smiled grimly. :Come with me, child. I think now would be a good time.: She enveloped Abbey's spirit in her own, and with some difficulty slipped both of them through tiny cracks in the barrier that grew between the children. On the other side, Anne curled in a ball, silent, rocking back and forth, staring at nothing. Anne's world was unremitting gray, with all the shifting featurelessness of unformed nightmare—except for the walls. Everywhere in Anne's world, walls crawled up and up and up until the eye couldn't see any further. They were brick or stone or shiny black glass, but they were everywhere.
When Stranger and Abbey appeared, Anne looked up and shrieked with fear. Her eyes dilated, and she jammed herself up against one of her omnipresent walls.
:Anne, I've brought a friend for you,: Stranger said, her voice soothing. :You don't have to be alone anymore.:
Anne cowered and stared. :A-lone,: she crooned. :A-lone, a-lone, a-lone . . .: Objects materialized in the hazy space that surrounded the three of them and began to spin through the air. Lit cigarettes and burning matches, ropes and riding crops—all took up a stately waltz around Abbey's thin body, then darted in one by one, charging closer and closer to the other child's face. Abbey winced away.
:Stop it, Anne,: Stranger demanded, and moved next to the child under attack. :This is Abbey, your sister.:
:Sis-ter, sis-ter, sis-ter,: the green-eyed child chanted. :I—don't—want—a—sis-ter.:
The flames grew bigger, the coals at the ends of the cigarettes brighter and more menacing. The riding crops became bullwhips that cracked like thunder. The ropes coiled and struck out, serpents of hemp. All of them wove around Stranger and Abbey in a tighter and more lethal dance, faster and faster, until Abbey began to scream.
:Out!: Cethlenn commanded, and with the flick of her fingers, she and Abbey were through the barrier, back in Abbey's safe haven.
Abbey sat on her bed and sobbed, while Cethlenn sat next to her and stroked her hair. :I don't want any more surprises, Stranger,: the child told her gravely.
:No,: Stranger replied softly, :I rather imagine you don't.:
Cethlenn sat, the tearful child cradled in her arms, and stared off into space. Well then, lassie, she thought to herself, will ye be havin' any more bright ideas this evenin'? Let's hope not.
"I love The Princess Bride. I could watch the sword fight scene all by itself a million times." Lianne snuggled deeper into Mac's shoulder and munched popcorn. On the screen, the fight raged. Inigo made a remark about Bonetti's defense. The Man In Black laughed. The swordsmen battled across the rocks, near the cliff—Inigo switched the sword from his left hand to his right, and the tide of battle turned.
"Probably reminds you of your job," Mac drawled.
Lianne's left eyebrow flickered upward, and she snorted. "I should have it so easy. Even the Fire Swamp and the Rodents of Unusual Size would be a piece of cake compared to fifth grade at Loyd E. Auman."
Mac punched a button on the remote and the TV went off.
"Hey," Lianne yelped. "You can't turn off The Princess Bride!"
He turned to her wearing the most serious expression he could muster. "We've already watched the whole movie once and the sword fight three times. Lianne, I want to hear about what happened in your class today. This is important."
Lianne sighed. "I know, but . . ."
He shook his head. "No 'buts'."
She considered his expression, then stiffened her shoulders. "Okay. It just sounds ridiculous, but it was real. Stuff was flying around the room, Mac—books, chalk, pens and pencils, paper—it couldn't have been a draft or a breeze. I don't know what it could have been. I have no logical explanation for what happened."
"Life doesn't require a logical explanation, Lianne," he replied as persuasively as he could.
But she shook her head, violently. "Yes, it does. I refuse to sink to the level of the Shirley MacLaines of the world. I don't flitter after every goofball anti-intellectual guru who promises the keys to universe—no math required. I don't approve of all this New Age mumbo-jumbo. The real world doesn't need it. The real world needs mathematicians, scientists, artists, builders, writers, teachers, nurses—the real world doesn't need any more flakes." She drew a deep breath. "There are already enough of those."
Mac grinned wryly and hugged her closer. "Oh, I don't know, baby. I think the real world could use a bit of magic. You know, a few elves and fairies, some bogans to play the bad guys, some ghosties and ghoulies. . . ."
"Life's too short to waste on fantasy," she said, but he could tell she was weakening.
This, from a woman who watches The Princess Bride? "Life's too short to waste on math. Anyone who tells you otherwise is selling something." He grinned.
She frowned. "You'd make a great fifth-grader."
"The world will never know." Mac kissed her cheerfully on her nose, then took a more serious tone. "This morning you were as upset by your student, Amanda, as you were by the stuff flying around in your room. Why?"
Lianne rolled over and looked directly into Mac's eyes. "I want to understand what's the matter with her. As a matter of fact, I'm going out to her house on Friday to talk with her folks. You'd know the place, I'll bet. Kendrick's Bal-A-Shar Arabian Stables. I know it is going to sound silly—but you know what bothered me most today? I just had the craziest feeling, with that poltergeist business going on in my classroom, that Amanda was really the one responsible." She stopped and pursed her lips. She was watching him for a reaction. "Now I really sound nuts, huh?"
Mac brushed his finger along the line of her eyebrows and slowly shook his head. "Nope—you sound like you have good instincts."
"You think Amanda might have had something to do with—oh. Stupid me. You're humoring me." She turned her back to him, grabbed the remote control, and turned the TV back on. The Man In Black leapt from the cliff, did one great swing from a vine, followed up with a back-flip, and landed next to the sword he'd tossed point-down into the sand.
"Who are you?" Inigo pleaded.
The Man In Black smiled. "No one of im—"
—Click.
"Don't turn the TV off, Mac," Lianne snapped. "I want to watch this."
He snapped back. "Don't pout. I can't talk to you with the TV on, and I want to discuss this."
She rounded on him, fury in her eyes. "Well, I don't! I don't want to be patronized, I don't want to be humored—I don't want to be remembered as that amusing little schoolteacher you dated once upon a time who had a problem with poltergeists in her classroom and bats in her belfry! I'm going to watch the movie. If you don't want to do that, you can just leave."
I don't want to leave. I had a lot of other plans for this evening, Mac thought, and sighed, mentally. Give up on the child for a moment. Now that I know who and where she is, there are other ways of reaching her.
He slipped his hands under her giant t-shirt and nibbled gently along one side of her neck. He felt her shiver, then start to pull away.
"I wasn't making fun of you. I believe in poltergeists and fairies and—" he dropped his voice to a low whisper "—even elves. I think that part of the universe is real, even if you don't. But you're tired, and you probably want to forget about work for a while. I'm sorry I brought it up. Let's find something else to talk about."
"Like what?" she asked, suspiciously.
He breathed into her ear. "Oh, you—and me—and maybe a little snuggling."
Lianne smiled and rolled over against him. "I have a better idea," she whispered. "Let's skip the talking entirely."
It was painfully early. Mac stared at the dull green glow of the alarm clock, then rolled over to look at the woman asleep by his side. She slept on her stomach, the sheet tangled around her knees, her face buried in the crook of her left arm. Her breathing was soft and regular, almost inaudible. Even asleep, she glowed with vitality.
Fascinated, Mac stroked the soft skin of her back and lightly caressed the smooth curves of her buttocks.
She wriggled against his touch, moved closer—and her breathing told him she was awake.
"Hi, there," he chuckled.
She squinched one eye open, smiled at him, and sighed. "Hi, yourself," she said softly. "It isn't time to get up yet, surely?"
"Not really. And don't call me Shirley."
"Oh gawd. It's too early for Zucker jokes."
He softened his smile and caressed her cheek. "I was just watching you sleep."
"And so you decided to wake me up." Lianne giggled. She had a charming giggle. "Mac, you are such a fink. But, boy-oh-boy-oh-boy, I don't want to get up yet—"
An idea occurred to Mac. "Tell you what. I'm completely awake, and I won't get back to sleep again. Why don't you go back to sleep, and I'll put together a terrific breakfast for you—you can eat in bed, and then the two of us will take a nice long shower together, and then we'll go off to work. Okay?"
Her muffled response reached Mac through the baffling of her pillow, under which she had buried her face. "How could I refuse an offer like that?"
He laughed. "You can't, so don't try."
Mac rolled out of the bed and started to walk to the kitchen.
Lianne's voice stopped him.
"You didn't really mean it about the elves, did you?"
He looked back at her. She was propped up on her elbows, studying him intently.
"Mean what about the elves?" he asked carefully.
Her eyes were wary. "That you believed in them."
Mac grinned at her and winked. "Of course I meant it."
She snorted and buried her head back under the pillow. Mac laughed and went on into the kitchen.
Bacon, an omelet, hot croissants, some waffles—or maybe crepes covered with powdered sugar and fresh whipped cream—fresh-squeezed orange juice . . . mmmmm. Sausage. Link sausage. What else? Mac's imagination reviewed the possibilities. I think I'll do this one without magic. No point in wasting the power when there is a kitchen full of human food to use. He flipped on the light in her kitchen, wandered over to the fridge, and opened it. Wonder where she keeps the croissants.
None were evident. In fact, he didn't see any bacon or link sausages either. No waffles. No crepes. The orange juice was plainly marked, but when he tasted it, it most definitely wasn't fresh-squeezed. He found eggs, but the steps necessary to change them from raw egg to tasty omelet eluded him.
He did see a Betty Crocker cookbook. I've seen June Lockhart making breakfast for Timmy and his dad on Lassie. How hard can it be?
He picked up a cookbook at random, opened it, and paged through the index.
Eggs And Cheese—page 101. He thumbed through the pages until he found comprehensive descriptions on how to buy and store eggs, how to measure and use egg equivalents, and a mass of information on cheeses. There were pictures of a woman's hand over a big, flat pan, and instructions that described the making of poached eggs, shirred eggs, fried eggs, scrambled eggs, souffles, egg foo yong, and dozens of varieties of omelets.
Good enough. He rummaged through the kitchen until he found a pan that resembled the one in the picture. He put together as many of the listed ingredients as he could locate. He couldn't find any fresh green peppers, but he did find a jar labeled "Hot Red Chili Pepper—Ground." In the tradition of the cookbook, he substituted a cup of red peppers for the suggested cup of green peppers. Lianne had an eight-ounce can of tomato sauce in her cupboard, but it didn't have a pop-top on it, and Mac couldn't figure out how to open it, so, with the competent smile of a man who can adapt, he added eight ounces of tabasco sauce—which, he reasoned, was bright red and should be the same thing. He broke the three required eggs with enthusiasm, and very carefully picked out most of the pieces of shell. There didn't seem to be enough omelet for two people though, so he added another three eggs.
Satisfied, he stirred his ingredients around in the little flat pan, and following instructions, located the knob on the stove that said "oven," and checked the instructions. It was supposed to take forty minutes to cook an omelet, but he really didn't want to spend that much time on it. He thought for a moment. The instructions called for 350 degrees. If he doubled the temperature, he should be able to halve the time. But the oven wouldn't go any higher than 550. Well, actually, it did go to BROIL. That must be about 600–700 degrees. He turned the knob to broil. Carrying his embryonic omelet carefully by the pan's plastic handle, he placed it into the oven.
Nothing to that. I might as well see what else I can whip up.
He paged through the cookbook. Pictures of delicious roasts and beautifully prepared fowl caught his eyes. He read down the instructions for some of the dishes. I could do that, he thought, fascinated. The world of humans was amazingly accessible, if one simply knew where to look. Page after page of substantial human dishes—that anyone could make.
He became absorbed in pictures of London Broil and Sweet-and-Sour Meatballs, Broccoli-Tomato Salad and Swedish Tea Rings. The time slipped past.
The sudden shriek of the smoke alarm brought him out of his reverie. The kitchen was redolent with the stench of burning plastic. Smoke roiled from the front of the oven.
"Shit," Mac muttered, admiring the succinctness of human vernacular. With a glance, he silenced the smoke alarm. With another, he formed the smoke into a compact ribbon and sent it trailing out the entryway in a neat, steady stream. He pulled open the oven door, surveyed the melted ruins of the skillet handle and his prodigiously grown and dreadfully blackened omelet with dismay. He made a gesture of dismissal, and skillet, omelet, and mess vanished.
Lianne called from the bedroom, "Was that the smoke alarm?"
So much, he thought, for doing a fabulous breakfast the human way.
"That was your imagination."
"I suppose it's my imagination that I smell smoke, too."
"Absolutely. I'm bringing breakfast in now." To blazes with it. I'll do it my way. Mac visualized his own breakfasts from the hotel, and out of thin air and elven magic, recreated an exact duplicate of the best one he'd ever had, down to the little rose in the cut crystal bud vase. Then he doubled it. He lifted up the heavy silvered serving tray he'd materialized, and trotted into the bedroom with it.
Lianne rolled over and sat up, and her eyes grew round. "Wow! When you talk about breakfast in bed, you aren't kidding." She looked over the steaming croissants, the huge, cheese-filled omelet, the two steaks—broiled, medium rare, the big crystal glasses full to brimming with fresh-squeezed juice, and the bowls of fresh fruit. "And where did you get fresh cherries this time of year?" she asked.
Mac shrugged and grinned. "You like?"
"I like." She took one of the cherries and bit into it, and closed her eyes with ecstasy. "God, that's good." She looked at Mac with eyes that seemed to see right through him. "I'm beginning to realize why you believe in magic, though. The fancy trays and the cut crystal aren't a bad trick, considering I've never owned anything like them in my life, but these—" She indicated the little bowls of rich red fruit. "There won't be any cherries available around here till the middle of June. I know, because I haunt the grocery stores for 'em every year. If you found these—that's magic."
"You bet it is." Mac dug into his omelet and steak. "Stick with me, kid. You ain't seen nothing yet." He grinned at her. The wincing he saved for inside.
Carelessness like that, he thought ruefully, eyeing the out-of-season cherries, will blow your cover all the way to Elfhame Outremer. And beyond.