Ellen Under The Stairs (5 page)

Whatever it was the Mage had taken
out, this was her time to kill John-Lyon. Though he was leaving, he
could come back to hurt her any time he liked. Even without his
golden Crystal, he had great power!

Slipping from the shadows, holding the
knife behind her, John-Lyon was very much surprised to find her
there, saying he had not seen her in the room's shadows. While he
spoke, she was wondering how she could stab her knife into his body
so that he would die.

At last, thinking of a way to do that,
she had thrown herself in the Mage's arms, in turn, circling him
with her arms, ready to plunge the knife into his back when
....

When ... searching in the Mage's mind
... she could tell that the Mage ... cared ... for her. As she had
come to ... care ... for him. Surely, if he cared for her, he would
not harm her. Those were her thoughts. (To make certain of his
caring, she had then strengthened this caring in his
mind.)

It was then that John-Lyon kissed her,
the kiss making her ... dizzy. It was as if the Mage had reached
into her mind to strengthen her caring for the Mage.

Platinia had never felt such a thing.
Such a ... hunger ... for the Mage!

After that, she had thought the Mage
would carry her up the rope -- the Mage stronger than any other man
-- so they could escape from Pfnaravin like the rest. But John-Lyon
did not do that. Instead, he talked of the thing he had taken from
the secret hiding place. The ... machine. And before Platinia could
quiet her mind to think, he was twisting and twisting the machine's
... handle ... at the same time, having Platinia wrap her arms
around his waist.

Then she had felt it. The
transformation fluid. Running up her arms. Entering her head so
that her hair stood on end.

There was a crack! And she found
herself lying in silence in that small space, unable to move -- the
Mage beside her.

They were in the Mage's frightening
world! A world of Band Sickness!

The great weight of her body pinning
her to the floor, she was afraid again, like she used to be! Afraid
of the power of John-Lyon in his own world! For here, his power was
greater; her mind power, weaker.

Exiting the Mage-hole, though she was
as tired as death, she had tried to use her etherial power to pick
through the Mage's mind. To strengthen those thoughts of ...
caring.

But could not do it!

In this foreign world ... there was no
... magic.

Now, she heard footsteps! On the
stairs! The Mage was coming!

Should she pretend to be asleep? Would
it matter if she could fool him into believing that she
was?

She was so weak. Could hardly move.
But must be ready. She must not show how weak she had
become.

With a great effort, she sat up. By
using both arms, dragged each leg over the side of the bed, sitting
there, her feet too short to touch the floor. Trembling, she pulled
her robe around her, dirty as it was. For she had nothing else to
wear.

Had she understood the Mage to say he
would bring her another robe? She was not sure.

"You're awake."

He had come though the door, already
recovered from Band Sickness. The tall young Mage; his smile gentle
on his lips; his strange green eyes flashing through her body like
arrows in the heart!

She nodded. A great
difficulty.

"I think you'll like what I ... you.
Some .... And ...."

She was not understanding everything.
Only some words. Little words.

In the Mage's arms were ... bundles
wrapped in cloth ... yet not cloth, the non-cloth thin and smooth
like she had never seen.

John-Lyon, tearing the cloth, was
taking ... things ... from the bundle, things of cloth she did not
understand. Cloth in bright colors. Pretty ... like
flutterbys.

"First, you put on these," he said, in
words small enough for her to understand them all.

Looking up at him, he looked ... she
did not know how he looked. He looked ... frightened? Like after a
great ... confusion.

"After that, you slip on this
...."

He was holding up what looked like the
bottom of a robe.

"And this goes on top."

He took out another piece of
cloth.

"I also got you some ...."

By this time, he had put down the
cloth and taken out something else.

Yes! She knew what they were.
Shoes.

She had been right about the Mage
saying he would get her robes to wear, these ... clothes ... this
world's robes, strange though they were.

Platinia could breathe again. Could
rest her mind. For the Mage had not come to torture her or even
rape her. At least, not now.

The trouble of the moment was to
understand about the robe-parts.

Later, she would have time to do
something to be safe. What, she did not know.

* * * * *

Pushing his way through student
crowded halls after his last class of that Tuesday morning -- the
second day after his Band Sickness return -- John was exhausted.
All he felt like doing was slipping into his cubical of an office
and collapsing, John sharing the narrow space with Paul.

Paul Hamilton. A big voiced, bear of a
man. Department chairman to the quintet of Social Scientists
featuring Hamilton, Lyon, and the forgettables.

Trying not to stagger down the hall,
John keyed himself into the office and slumped into his
dark-stained swivel chair.

Leaning back in the old seat,
straining up a to-heavy leg to thump his heel on the desk, John
sighed. Looked out the dusty office window to see that even the sky
had turned to lead.

Colder tonight.

With a chance of snow.

Heavy feet thumping somewhere behind
him announced Dr. Paul, the chairman clumping up to squeeze his
giant's body through the human-scaled casement.

"How ya' feelin' son?" Reared in Iowa,
Paul took delight in butchering Southernisms.

"Tired."

"A cold will do that to
you."

Elbowing the door shut, tossing a
clutter of yellowed notes on his book piled desk, Paul sagged into
his groaning chair.

Dressed conservatively in a flowered
Hawaiian shirt and red golf slacks, Paul's "taste" in clothing
belied a fine mind.

"Actually," John muttered, wishing to
maintain the integrity of the lie he'd told the dean's secretary,
"laryngitis."

"One thing I learned from experience
is that laryngitis screws up the vocal cords for days."

"Which means ...?"

"That the age of miracles continues,
since you're in good voice today."

Paul's stare had been known to shrink
larger men than John.

"Another thing, is that a bad throat
doesn't make a person's arms hang down like weights on a
Grandfather clock. "So," Dr. Paul continued, smugly, "when did you
get back?"

"Back?"

"From the other world. And don't try
to look innocent. This is your wise old chairman talking. The only
other time I saw you this bushed was when I came over to your place
to hear your outlandish account of this other place, the night
after you'd returned."

"Yeah," John said,
defeated.

"I won't ask why you defied reason to
risk another trip -- because it's none of my business -- but I
would like to know you're all right."

"Just ... tired," John said, flashing
a guilty smile in Paul's direction. "I do have a little problem,
though."

"So ...?"

"So, could you come over this
evening?"

"Yep."

"And bring Ellen, of
course."

Paul scowled, worry lines gouging
their way across his increasingly high forehead.

"Possibly," he muttered darkly.
"Possibly. Ellen's doing a little better now."

Paul was talking about Ellen's
pregnancy.

His mind made up, he smiled. "You
paying for the baby sitter?"

"Sure."

"Not necessary. The question is, how
would it affect Ellen to hear about your jaunt to someplace else?
Hell! How would it affect anyone to hear there is another
place?"

"I don't know. This is your
call."

The last thing John wanted was to
upset Paul's wife. If Ellen belonged to John, he'd protect her with
attack dogs -- John quickly stopping that unprofitable line of
thought.

"It's just that I'd like her opinion
about something."

"The woman's touch," Paul said
beatifically.

"I wouldn't ask you to bring your wife
except there's another person involved."

"Oh?"

"Someone I ... brought
back."

"Brought back? As in brought back from
the other world? From ... Stil-de-grain?"

Hawaiian shirted Paul might look like
a beach comber from hell, but he had a never-fail memory. Though he
and John had hardly talked about the other world, Paul had
remembered the name of the band that contained Hero
Castle.

"Afraid so."

"Who?"

"Platinia."

"Platinia," Paul mumbled, running the
big fingers of both hands through what as left of his hair. "The
girl."

"The girl."

"And here I was thinking that --
living like a monk -- you didn't like girls all that
much."

"I like girls," John said, careful not
to sound defensive, Paul partial to humorously lewd suggestions
about how John might improve John's love life.

"Platinia," the big man said to
himself, using the name to trigger memory. "She the waif of a girl
you looked after?"

John nodded.

"The one you thought might have
magical control over you?"

John nodded again, at the same time
waving a heavy hand to show doubt about Platinia's alleged
powers.

Paul swivelled his protesting chair in
John's direction. Grinned. "So what you're telling your department
chairman is that you've got a little chickie stashed away at
home."

"I wouldn't put it that way
..."

"I'll just bet you wouldn't!" Said
with a good natured snort.

John shrugged. As stupidly as he'd
handled things, he deserved to be kidded.

Grunting, Paul made up his mind.
"Unless I call to say otherwise, we'll be at your place at
7:00."

"You sure?"

"If Ellen ever found out I'd kept
something this juicy from her, I'd be sleeping in the
streets."

Vintage Paul. Enjoying
himself.

So it was settled. Paul and Ellen --
at 7:00.

* * * * *

The three of them, plus Cream who was
allowing Ellen to hold her, were in the living room, the Hamilton's
sitting side by side on the near end of the divan, John in a
pulled-up "face" chair opposite them, the coffee table in between.
Paul was at his wrinkled best in a bilious green, Western style
shirt, tucked into the same bright red pants he'd had on that
morning. The way he looked, a distant drunk was apt to report him
as a traffic-light-gone-wrong.

Decidedly pregnant, Ellen looked
lovely as always, a touch of lipstick glossing her full lips, her
golden hair brushed into a gamin's helmet. She was wearing a dark,
baby-hiding dress with a white, school-girl collar.

Platinia?

At least for now, John was letting the
girl hide upstairs.

The Hamilton's were seated where
they'd been at John's house-warming, the night John learned from
Paul that the house was haunted.

My God, Ellen was gorgeous! In spite
of the baby-bulge, had the fashion model look you didn't see on
"real" women.

Everyone settled, Ellen asked the
critical question. "What's the big mystery?"

Low, lush voice.

"Mystery," John replied, not ready to
confess just yet.

"The reason for this evening's
pow-wow. And don't tell me this is just another night of old folks'
fun." Ellen smiled her sleepy smile. "I know my man," she
continued, reaching out to touch Paul. "A woman can tell when
something's up."

"You going to tell her, or must I,"
Paul growled, pretending to be unaffected by his wife's agonizing
nearness.

"I will," John said, still unsettled
about how to begin."

Before Paul and Ellen had arrived,
John had laid a fire. Had brought in the bundle he'd carefully
prepared.

"This will sound strange," he started
slowly. You remember the last time you and Paul were here? The
house warming party? Just the three of us?"

"And Cream," Ellen added, nodding,
running her fingers through Cream's white coat, the cat's purr
audible above the crackling of the fire.