A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters (25 page)

“Back from where?”

I didn’t like the sound of that.

“Do you have to report to some authority?”

He nodded again. His skin turned more gray than green and paled.

“And what happens if the authority finds you lacking?”

“Sure about that?”

I let go his tail, confident that he’d tell me what he could before popping out.

In response he crawled up my arm to my shoulder and rubbed his face along my cheek. A mere whisper of a tingle on my skin reassured me of our bond.

“Promise to come back as soon as you can?”

 

Three hours later I’d written eight pages of a short story about a pen capable of killing a demon. Words flowed out of the pen almost faster than I could think.

The phone interrupted the next thought and made it flit into the autumnal humidity rising from the Willamette River below my third-story condo.

“Hey, girlfriend, what’re you doing tonight?” my friend, Holly Shannon, asked.

“Hadn’t planned anything more than popcorn and a schmaltzy romantic comedy on the classic movie station,” I replied.

“Such a deal I have for you,” she proclaimed on a forced, brittle laugh.

The hair on my nape stood straight up and my Warrior scar pulsed from my right temple to jaw.

“Should I pack my bags and run the other way?” I quipped, fishing for more information.

“No. Just come sing with me tonight.” She sounded serious.

“Sure.” Normally I’d jump at the chance of blending my soprano to her sultry contralto. Her Celtic harp added its own lustrous voice to our blend. “Why such short notice?”

“My backup cancelled. I need you. Please, I know I could wing this gig by myself, but it’s more fun bouncing off someone else.”

“Where should I meet you and when?”

“Kelly’s on the riverfront about seven. I go on at eight.”

“My favorite. Do they still have Riverdance pale ale?”

“Of course. It was so popular they moved it from seasonal fare to the regular menu. Since we’re performing, the first two rounds are on the house.”

“See you at seven.”

“With bells on.”

“Oh, it’s that kind of evening!”

We rang off and I tried to return to that short story. But the idea had fled. So I tucked the pen into the spiral of a notebook and set them inside my purse. Then I spent the next hour and a half deciding what to wear.

Seven o’clock came and went. I circled Kelly’s five times, expanding my search for parking by an additional block with each circuit. Saturday night at Kelly’s with Holly singing, I should expect something else? Wherever Holly sang her unique blend of traditional Celtic music, her own compositions, and upon occasion, parodies of science fiction/fantasy themes known as filk, she drew a capacity crowd.

I finally settled into a ten- level parking structure and forked over an exorbitant price for it. Then I had to trek through a less than savory part of town.

“Can you spare a buck for a cup of coffee,” a scruffy man whispered from a darkened doorway.

I hurried my steps past him and the sour wine and vomit odors of eau de neglect that permeated the neighborhood.

“Dear Scrap, wish you were here,” I composed a virtual postcard. I’m a Warrior of the Celestial Blade, trained in a variety of weapons. If I found myself weap-onless and couldn’t defend myself, I knew how to flee danger.

Yeah, right. When had I ever been prudent and fled?

I was on my own without a weapon. I had only the dubious pen and notebook in my purse, and my wits. Subtly I shifted the pen to my skirt pocket. Despite the cool of the evening it felt warm in my hand. An idea slithered around my brain. I scribbled it into the notebook as I walked.

The bouncer at the front door recognized me and passed me into the standing-room-only bar and grill. I was still scribbling when I spotted Holly discussing arcane equipment and settings with the sound engineer.

“Tess, you’re a lifesaver!” Holly Shannon said as she threw her arms around me. Tendrils of her bright red mane tickled my nose and threatened to curl into my mouth.

That edge of nervous laughter still clung to her voice. Her substantial body felt stiff and fragile in my arms. She clung a little too long for casual friendship, her fingers tight with anxiety.

“The crowd is really jumping tonight,” I said, looking around at the laughing patrons who raised glasses of beer and ate the excellent sandwiches, hamburgers, or corned beef platters. A series of loud guffaws drowned out the piped-in overly romanticized Irish ballads.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Holly said quietly into my ear. Not something to share with others.

I beckoned her to a tiny backroom. Cement walls muffled the noise to a dull roar.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, rounding on her as soon as I was sure of some privacy.

“Um.” Holly looked around warily.

“Spill it, Holly. We’re friends.”

A frisson of alarm climbed my spine and set my scar to throbbing. I don’t believe in coincidences. I land in situations like this for a reason.

And it had to happen on the one night in four years that Scrap had taken off for elsewhere.

“It’s been happening a lot around town. A musician gathers a larger than usual crowd. They start off pumped.” She hung her head, letting that fabulous hair swing forward, masking her face. (I’d give my eyeteeth for hair like that. Or hair that behaved. My short, dirty blonde, wire-tight curls never did what I wanted.) She forgot that at five-seven, she topped me by a good five inches. Dropping her face brought her closer to eye contact.

“What’s been happening? You should be thrilled with a crowd like this.”

“By the end of the show the crowd is listless, silent, dragging their feet, almost too tired to walk back to their cars.”

“Not good.”

“Last week a young man fell asleep at the wheel on the way home from my concert. He’s still in critical condition,” she wailed.

“Oh, my God!”

“The entire audience acted as if a vampire had fed on them. All of them!”

“There’s no such thing as a vampire,” I insisted, as much to reassure myself as her. “No one gets to come back from the dead.”

“Not a blood vampire,” she whispered. “A psychic vampire.”

I didn’t laugh. I hung out at the science fiction/fantasy conventions. Psychics got invited frequently. Where psychics gathered, so did those who needed to feed on their energy to fill a lack in their own personality or mental health.

This sounded like something more drastic.

Holly shook her head. A tear bubbled up at the corner of her eye. “If it happens again, I won’t sing any more. Not in this town anyway. But this is my home. My fanbase is here. This is the heart of my music. What am I going to do, Tess?”

I gulped. What could I do other than keep my eyes and ears open? Without Scrap’s nose for magic and otherworldly critters I was psychically blind.

“I won’t sing tonight, Tess. Not if that thing is out there.” She shook her head, the hair swishing back and forth reminded me of a horse flicking flies away.

That triggered a different memory that came and fled before I could latch on and reel it in for examination.

“You can sing, and you will, Holly.”

“But . . . but.”

“Let me be your eyes and ears. Let me prowl the crowd for the first set. If I see something, or it starts happening, I’ll tell you on break. If not, I’ll come on stage and watch from behind you. I can bang a tambourine and sing on the chorus while I watch for something unusual. Once I’ve identified the culprit I can get that hunky bouncer at the door to deal with it. Just don’t sing the battle song. That builds more energy than most humans can absorb.”

Or maybe I’d try something with the pen. I had to know the creature’s true name to make it work though.

From the main floor came a rhythmic thumping of feet followed by a chant of “Hol—ly, Hol—ly, Hol-ly.”

Holly checked her locket watch—nothing on her wrists to interfere with the harp. “Show time. Wish me luck.”

“Break a leg.” Superstitious? Me?

You bet your life I am.

Holly opened her set with some low- key ballads and love songs. A little melancholy, like her mood. The crowd stirred a little but didn’t become involved. A few sang the sweet choruses with her, eyes closed, imaginations running.

I circled the room three times, weaving a maze among the tables. I waved at an acquaintance here, nodded to a half-familiar face there. No one stood out as more avid than anyone else. My eyes slid over costumes, fairy wings, and elf ears, vaguely Renaissance and medieval garb. In Portland on a Saturday night, people embraced the weird. Nothing unusual.

The next time I came near the stage I nodded to Holly. She ramped up the tempo about three notches. Her fingers flew over the harp in a happy jig.

Someone pounded on a table, adding a drum beat to the dance music. Three couples stood up and began prancing along the aisles until they reached the open pit—the area just in front of the low stage. I’d seen all three couples do much the same thing at other of Holly’s performances.

A reel followed the jig, and then another lively dance tune. Four single women and a couple of men joined the dancing. I noted more gelatin elf ears and semi-costumes, knickers and vests, peasant skirts and flowing blouses. Part of the Keep Portland Weird movement. They showed up everywhere.

Holly signaled for me to join her. I skipped up the two steps to the stage and took my post to her right and slightly behind her. Then she handed me a mike and introduced me. At least I got a round of applause from the patrons who recognized my name.

I hummed as Holly played the opening chords to “Blowing In The Wind.” We leaned our heads together and crooned, “Where are all the aliens? Gone to Roswell every one.”

We got some laughs. I scanned the crowd. A young man with long black hair and white skin the color of my pearls almost rolled on the floor with paroxysms of laughter.

It wasn’t that funny.

I kept my eye on him as Holly launched a new round of bawdy sea shanties and drinking songs. Mr. Black Hair got up to dance this time. He reared his head so that his thick tresses flew back like a mane. His hands came up, elbows bent in imitation of a four legged critter standing on his hind legs, not knowing what to do with the front ones. I couldn’t see his feet, but he stomped and made a lot of noise as if he wore heavy boots.

The image of a horse rearing and prancing in glorious celebration of freedom on the open range flicked across my memory. This was the image I’d almost lost when Holly threw back her red tresses.

I banged a tambourine with a St. Brigid’s Cross painted on the front in vivid colors.

One by one, the other dancers returned to their tables, guzzling their tall glasses of beer and ale, then plunking down in their chairs to recuperate.

The prancing young man slowed but didn’t falter.

I flicked my fingers at Holly. Her gaze shifted to the dance floor. She nodded slightly, then changed the tuning on her harp and returned to the slow songs, a lament straight out of the Scottish Highlands.

The dancer with the black hair looked up bewildered.

“Pookah!” Holly mouthed.

Of course. That was the name of the creature we faced. Obvious now that I knew.

I shuddered. Sighting a black Pookah in horse form portended death. I had no idea what a Pookah in human form signified.

But one music lover fought death in the hospital after being around this Pookah.

I faded off stage into the shadows, tambourine held tight against my thigh so it wouldn’t jingle.

“Now if you’ll take your seats again, I have a new song to try out on you,” Holly said, a little breathlessly. She sipped greedily at her water bottle, then deliberately replaced it at her feet.

While her gaze was directed away from the audience, the few remaining on their feet either found places to sit or retreated to the perimeter and held up the walls. Including the young man doing a great imitation of a horse.

I snagged his elbow the moment he merged with the crowd.

He resisted.

“I’m a Warrior of the Celestial Blade,” I whispered into his ear. I had to stand on tiptoe and stretch high to reach that ear. It flicked back and front in acknowledgement.

“It’s not killing me you’ll be wanting,” he protested in a thick Irish accent.

“Not here I won’t. Your survival depends upon cooperation.” I tugged harder on his arm. He didn’t need to know my imp had gone walkabout. Without my imp I had no weapon. The St Brigid’s Cross on the tambourine might act as a ward.

I fingered the pen in my skirt pocket. I had a chance.

Light drizzle caressed my face and hair out in the alley. Drops glistened in the light of a lamp a block away.

“What’s your name?” I asked. Keep it casual. Just making conversation.

“I’m not supposed to tell,” he replied sheepishly.

Damn. A smart one who knew the rules.

“I can’t help you if I don’t know your name.” I fluttered my eyelashes in mock innocence.

“And how would you be knowing I need a wee bit o’ help?”

“You are out of your element.”

He hung his head and pawed at the ground with his foot. A hoofed foot, not boots. He blended perfectly with the Keep Portland Weird crowd.

I held the tambourine in front of me, cross facing out.

“Please, ’tis not be killing me, would you. It’s not hurting anyone I meant.” He crossed his arms in front of his face, palms out, fingers twisted in his own ward.