Chapter 1 

 

"Damn it to Hell anyway!" 

 

Hearing the utterance of these words by the head of the United States 
Secret Service, his aide materialized in his office like a genie 
answering a magical summoning. 

 

In actuality, the simile was not that far from the truth. The men had 
been together for years (a professional, working relationship, of 
course. It's not that kind of a book!) and the aide had long since 
learned that on the rare occasions his chief resorted to swearing, it 
was best to stand by even before being called. Even then it would 
sometimes be too late. 

 

"Trouble, sir?" he said. 

 

"Where have you been?" the chief snarled. 

 

(See what we mean?) 

 

"Sorry, sir. It won't happen again," the aide replied, deliberately 
bland of countenance. 

 

Washington, D.C., was a city of power, both built on and undermined by 
petty tyrants and obscure pecking orders. One did not survive there 
being thin-skinned. 

 

"I can't believe we're getting this dumped on us!" the chief raved. 
"And in an election year, too!" 

 

The aide waited patiently. Eventually the vital points of information 
would be forthcoming. Trying to rush it would only focus attention on 
himself. 

 

"Every no-name power monger in Washington up for re-election bugging us 
for protection . . . not to mention the 'equal treatment' demands from 
their opponents . . . and now we're supposed to provide protection for 
some foreign nut touring the U.S. And with our limited budget, we can 
barely -- " 

 

"Excuse me, sir, but providing protection for foreign dignitaries is a 
normal part of our department's function." 

 

"Dignitaries, yes," the chief said. "Ambassadors, royalty. But this 
falls well outside that description. Did you ever hear of a rock group 
called Green Fire?" 

 

"Yes, sir." 

 

"You have?" For the first time in the conversation, the chief abandoned 
his mad long enough to look directly at his aide. 

 


"You forget, sir, I have two teenagers at home," the aide said with a 
smile. "Green Fire is currently all the rage in the younger set. An 
Irish group, I believe." 

 

"Well, those are the 'dignitaries' we're supposed to be providing 
protection for," the chief said, returning to his tirade. "At least for 
their lead singer. What's her name . . . ?" 

 

"Fionna Kenmare," the aide supplied. 

 

"That's the one. Anyway, the group's about to start a performing tour 
of the U.S., except the lead singer has been getting threats and had a 
couple unverified attacks on her. Normally, I'd try to dodge it, but 
the Brits are taking it seriously and sending along a protective escort 
of their own. That means we're stuck. There's no way we're going to let 
someone from a foreign agency wander around over here without someone 
from our side tagging along." 

 

"Excuse me, sir," the aide said with a frown. "Did I understand you to 
say 'unverified attacks'?" 

 

"That's the kicker." The chief nodded. "It seems the threats she's been 
getting, as well as the unconfirmed attacks, have been of a psychic 
nature. In short, magic. Real bibbity-bobbity-boo stuff. Just what we 
need to help us with our leisure time problem. We're already spreading 
our manpower dangerously thin and -- at are you smiling at? Did I say 
something funny?" 

 

"As a matter of fact, sir, you've already solved your own problem." 

 

"I have?" 

 

"Yes, sir. You have. As soon as you mentioned 'bibbity-bobbity-boo.' It 
reminded me that there happens to be another department you can 
delegate this whole problem to." 

 

The chief began to smile, too. 

 

* * * 

 

No one could remember exactly how Department BBB got its designation or 
what BBB was originally supposed to stand for. It might as well have 
stood for "Bibbity-bobbity-boo," however, because that's how everyone 
referred to it. That is, everyone who knew of its existence . . . or 
remembered it at all. 

 

Department BBB got its start back in the '60s, roughly about the same 
time the CIA was conducting its clandestine experiments on the possible 
military uses of LSD. "Red phobia" was rampant, and all one needed to 
do to get funding for a department or project was to report (or 
speculate out loud) that Russia was already channeling resources into 
research of a similar vein. The thought that the U.S. might drop behind 
the Russians in yet another field (people were still wincing over 
Sputnik) loosened governmental purse strings on countless strange and 
dead-end endeavors, most of which, thankfully, the voting, tax-paying 
public remained blissfully ignorant of. Department BBB was one such 
project. 


 

Anything weird and not already nailed down by another department (like 
Telepathy and Telekinesis) got delegated to them for investigation or 
experimentation. Everything from crystal power to totem animals, secret 
names to ethereal spirits, came across their desks or ended up in their 
voluminous files. They imported "experts" from every accredited earth 
religion (and from most that were deemed "crackpot" even by the loosely 
wrapped) to assist them in their quest. All in all, a good time was had 
by everyone concerned. 

 

In the '70s and '80s, however, the Department fell on hard times. 
Waning interest in the supernatural, as well as countless exposes and 
investigations into needless government spending, forced major cutbacks 
in the program, until its survival seemed to hinge almost entirely on 
its anonymity. 

 

Currently, Department BBB consisted entirely of only two full-time 
employees: Sherry Meyers, a middle-aged woman who used to be the 
mistress of a senator until he bought her silence by appointing her to 
the chairmanship of Department BBB; and Don Winslow, her male secretary 
and occasional lover. (We aren't going to try to kid you that nobody in 
Washington, D.C., has lovers!) These were the administrators, whose 
main function was to answer the phone and deal with the endless 
paperwork associated with running a government office. Any actual 
assignments were delegated to a handful of "agents" they kept on 
retainer. 

 

Even though romantically involved in a haphazard, casual sort of way, 
the administrators were not so engaged when their phone rang. To be 
specific, Don was reading a current bestseller while Sherry was 
updating her address book. 

 

Neither looked up when the phone rang. 

 

It rang again. 

 

"Aren't you going to answer that?" Sherry said. 

 

"You're closer," Don replied from the depths of his novel. 

 

"Yes, but you're the secretary and I'm the boss -- " 

 

Don looked at her over the top of the book. 

 

" -- the boss who signs your pay vouchers and approves your raises," 
Sherry continued pointedly. 

 

The secretary heaved a sigh of martyrdom and rose from the sofa where 
he was comfortably reclined. 

 

"It's probably a wrong number, anyway," he said darkly, timing his 
comment so it would be over before he lifted the phone from its cradle. 
"Department BBB. Can I help you?" 

 

He listened for a moment, then raised an eyebrow. 

 

"May I say who's calling, please?" Sherry looked up at the tone of his 


voice. 

 

His other eyebrow elevated to join the first. 

 

"Just a moment, I'll see if she's available." 

 

He artfully punched the "hold" button and turned to Sherry who was 
already on the alert, having tracked the progression of his expression 
during the exchange. 

 

"It's for you," he said, needlessly. "The Secret Service, no less." 

 

"No fooling?" Sherry asked. 

 

The question was rhetorical. Even though Don had a bent for practical 
jokes, he never sounded a false alarm when it came to the working of 
the department. If nothing else, he felt that to do that would be so 
easy it would be beneath him. He shook his head. Sherry's eyes widened. 

 

"Sherry Meyers here," she said, punching in on the call. "Yes, sir. I 
see . . ." 

 

She began to quickly scribble some notes on the legal pad on her desk. 

 

"And when will they be arriving?" 

 

More notes. 

 

"Do you have a description on the agent who will be with them?" 

 

A few more notations and the pencil was cast aside. 

 

"Very well, we'll get on it right away . . . Don't mention it. That's 
what we're here for . . . Thank you. Good-bye." 

 

She replaced the phone on its cradle and sat staring at her note pad. 

 

"I take it we have something other than a senator's wife seeing a ghost 
or having a dream that needs to be interpreted?" her secretary said, 
urging her gently. 

 

"Here's where we justify our budget for the year," Sherry responded, 
snapping out of her trance. "It looks like we have a full-blown 
assignment for a change, Donald. There's an Irish rock group, Green 
Fire, that's about to start a tour of the U.S. It seems one of their 
members has been getting threats and even suffered a couple attacks. 
The rat in the woodpile is that the threats and attacks have been of a 
psychic nature. That makes it our problem." 

 

Don began to smile. "The kind we can solve without leaving the office? 
Good. Who's the target?" 

 

"Fionna Kenmare." 

 

"Fionna Kenmare? Their lead singer? Isn't she the one with the green 
hair?" 

 


"I guess." Sherry shrugged. "I don't keep up with that world much." 

 

"What kind of attacks are we talking about here?" 

 

"Mysterious illnesses, disembodied voices, and cuts appearing on her 
arms when there's no one around." 

 

"All of which could be staged for publicity," the secretary said with a 
frown. "The Secret Service is taking it seriously, though?" 

 

"The Brits are," Sherry said through tight lips. "They sent someone to 
check it out, and that person is out of the running with a mental 
breakdown. Because of that, they're sending along an agent of their own 
to watch over Ms. Kenmare while she's on tour." 

 

" . . . And if there's one of theirs tagging along, there has to be one 
of ours tagging along as well, right?" 

 

"You got it in one." The department head grimaced. "Run a quick check 
for me, will you? Have we got anyone in New Orleans, or do we have to 
air-drop someone in?" 

 

"I think . . . Let me check." 

 

The secretary ran his finger quickly through the Rolodex on his desk. 

 

"Here we go . . . Oh boy!" Don said, dismayed. 

 

"What is it?" Sherry was suddenly concerned by the change in his voice. 

 

"If you're ready for this, our agent in the New Orleans area is none 
other than one Beauray Boudreau." 

 

"Beauray . . . Oh God! You mean Boo-Boo?" 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2 

 

"Mayfield!" Ringwall shouted. 

 

Elizabeth put down her copy of Paranormal magazine. "Sir?" she said, 
springing to her feet. Director Ringwall peered out of his office at 
her, his plump-cheeked face glowing pink. He was beaming. 

 

"In here, please, Mayfield," he said. 

 

"Yes, sir," she said, keenly aware of the curious glances shot her way 
by the other agents of the Office of Paranormal Sightings Investigation 
branch of MI-5 as she scurried in. 

 

Ringwall gestured to her to shut the door. Elizabeth stood, breathless, 
on the threadbare rag rug in front of his desk. What was so exciting 
that it could make her notoriously moody boss smile? 

 


"Mayfield, I don't have time to make this long. Have you heard of 
Fionna Kenmare?" Ringwall asked, snatching up a sheet of fax paper from 
his desk. 

 

"Er, yes, sir." Elizabeth immediately drew a mental picture of a skinny 
woman with weirdly cut hair and Halloween makeup. She racked her brain 
for specific details. "Irish. Sings what she calls acid folk rock. 
Something to do with magic, sir." 

 

"That's right, magic," Ringwall said, with savage delight. "Puts it 
right into our field, doesn't it? I've got an assignment for you. We 
got a call, from, er . . . Upstairs. I don't need to tell you how far 
Upstairs. Truth is," he said, leaning over the desktop toward her and 
lowering his voice, "I can't. I don't know. But this is a very 
important mission. There is reason to suspect that this Fionna Kenmare 
is under some kind of psychic or magical attack. She's reported seeing 
bleeding cuts appear on her skin when there's nothing sharp nearby. 
Suffers mysterious illnesses. Hears voices. In other words, the lot, 
and all gloriously unproven." 

 

Elizabeth made a face. "The cuts could be self-inflicted, sir. As for 
the rest . . . it'd make good publicity, wouldn't it?" 

 

"Right you are," Ringwall said, with a curt nod. "It's certain to be 
nothing; it always is, but because it might have to do with the 
paranormal, it's us instead of the fancy boys with their big budgets 
and their Porsche automobiles. But not this time." 

 

OOPSI took precedence over the other branches of British Intelligence 
when the mission had to do with its special field of expertise, 
although that garnered them no extra respect from the other agents. 
Paranormal investigation was still regarded as a bit of a joke. They 
took all the calls for the hauntings at stately houses, apparitions in 
churchyards, bogeys at Wookey Hole, and so on. The other agents called 
them the "Ghostbusters," but not with the kind of affection that meant 
they respected the department. Elizabeth took the slight personally, 
although she tried not to. 

 

"What do you need me to do, sir?" Elizabeth asked, starting to take 
fire with the idea of putting a finger in the eye of the high-profile 
boys. They'd be in the headlines for a change. 

 

Ringwall ran a finger down the fax. "Kenmare and her group are about to 
embark on a tour of the United States, starting in New Orleans. I need 
you to keep close tabs on her, at all times, from the moment she 
touches down in Heathrow, until she's safely on her way back to Ireland 
after the tour is over. How can I say this without getting the gender-
equity people down my back? I want a female agent on this case, because 
you have to be able to go anywhere she does, any time. A male agent 
can't barge into the Ladies', no matter what credentials he's carrying. 
Do you follow me? And if the attacks should prove to be coming from a 
supernatural agency, then it's a cockadoodle for us. And for you." 

 

"But why us?" Elizabeth asked, not wanting to have this fabulous plum 
snatched away from her, but at all costs she must be professional about 
it. "Surely she's an Irish citizen." 

 


Ringwall pushed a fingertip toward Heaven. "Ours is not to question 
Upstairs, Mayfield." 

 

"No, sir," Elizabeth said, letting her mouth snap shut on her next 
question. She was agog with excitement. "Please go on." 

 

"The whole thing is absolutely hush-hush. We are not to appear to be 
working in this matter. Only Kenmare and her immediate intimates are to 
know the British government is involved. You'll be working with an 
American agent." When Elizabeth inadvertantly made a face, Ringwall 
actually looked sympathetic. "Sorry, lass. The Yanks insisted on having 
a finger in the pie. But it's your pie. You decide how far they can 
push it in." 

 

"Yes, sir!" Elizabeth said. Her pie! How marvelous that sounded. Well, 
she'd be very careful about anyone shoving in an unwanted digit. 
Ringwall stood up and extended a hand. 

 

"Your briefing is being prepared now. I'll have the courier meet you at 
your flat to deliver it. Jump to it! You've got two hours to pack and 
get to the airport. You'll receive your ticket at the information 
desk." He picked up the telephone and dialed an internal number. "I'm 
calling a car for you from the motor pool. You'll never get a cab at 
this hour of the afternoon." 

 

"No, sir," Elizabeth breathed, watching with awe as he spoke tersely 
into the mouthpiece and replaced the receiver. "Thank you for giving me 
the chance, Mr. Ringwall." 

 

"I'm sure you'll do well," Ringwall said, nodding significantly and 
touching the side of his nose with his finger. "We're all counting on 
you, Mayfield." The director put out a hand to her. Elizabeth shook it 
energetically. "Good luck." 

 

"Thank you, sir," Elizabeth said. Her head was quite spinning with joy, 
fear, and lists. She had so much to do. In only a little while she'd be 
on her way to her first international assignment! What should she pack? 
How much could she take with her? 

 

Ringwall's voice penetrated into the whirlwind of speculation bumping 
around in her mind. She looked back. 

 

"And, Mayfield, don't let the woman out of your sight, whatever you do. 
As I told you, this assignment comes from Upstairs." He pointed toward 
the ceiling. Elizabeth nodded reverently. 

 

"What's all that about?" asked Michael Gamble, springing out from the 
wall behind Ringwall's door the moment Elizabeth emerged. He was a 
fellow agent, nice to look at with his shock of dark hair a la Tom 
Cruise, but prone to popping up almost under one's nose. He trailed 
behind her as she hurried to her desk. 

 

"I've got to follow an Irish singer around and see if she's being 
haunted by something from the unknown," Elizabeth said, yanking open 
her desk drawer for her purse and briefcase. She might as well tell 
him; he'd uncover it soon enough from office gossip as soon as she was 
gone. 


 

"What, not another alleged poltergeist?" Gamble laughed derisively. 
Elizabeth made a face at him. "Is her boyfriend beating her up, eh? 
Sifting through her purse while she sleeps?" 

 

"Need to know, Gamble!" Ringwall's voice roared from the office door. 

 

"Yes, sir," Gamble said, disengaging without a trace of guilt, and 
sliding smoothly back into his desk chair. "Bugger all. Good luck, 
Mayfield." 

 

"Thanks, mate," Elizabeth said. With her possessions in her arms, she 
bumped her way out toward the lift to wait for the car. 

 

Gamble's attitude was similar to the others in the small branch, and to 
everyone else in British Intelligence. The government most fervently 
did not believe in magic. They felt there had to be a mundane 
explanation for anything that happened. Even that which was completely 
inexplicable was told off as having a cause that they were not yet able 
to ascertain, just that it wasn't and never could be magic. Well, they 
were wrong. 

 

Elizabeth often wondered what Mike and the others would say if she told 
them that she knew poltergeists and visitations and, indeed, magic, 
were real. An admission like that would tag her as a genuine loony, and 
she'd lose the credibility she had established painstakingly over the 
last six years. Salaries in the public sector were by no means 
generous. She needed to stay on the promotable track in these budget-
conscious days. So she laughed when the others laughed, and made 
disparaging comments about the trippers who mooned around Stonehenge 
and Britain's other mystic sites. All of them had their government-
issue wands, bells, and censers, and an officially sanctioned grimoire 
full of exorcisms, invocations, and exhortations that everyone used but 
considered to be a huge joke. The spells didn't work for most of them. 
Any actual effect was put off to coincidence. 

 

If the official word was that these things did not really exist, it was 
fine with her. Some day the opportunity might come along that would 
prove to the scoffers once and indisputably for all that magic was 
real. The best way to do that would be to find some real magic and 
bring it to her superiors' attention. But her superiors, like the rest 
of the world, did not really want her to find any. It was much more 
comfortable to keep the department going on speculation, hope and fear. 

 

She hoped sincerely that the Irish singer was not really mutilating 
herself, or being attacked by another person whom she was shielding. In 
order to justify OOPSI's actions -- and budget -- Elizabeth needed to 
produce results of some kind, but on that point the department was 
torn. To uncover magic would justify their funding forever, but they 
were not prepared to handle the publicity attendant on proving that 
magic existed. It was a conundrum. Elizabeth wanted to succeed in her 
mission. She half-hoped she could offer up a magical result, so that 
there would be less scepticism around the office, opening the door so 
that one day she could come out of the broom closet, so to speak, as a 
genuine practitioner. She suspected that her q.v. in the office files 
included mention of her grandmother and female ancestresses stretching 
back to the Ice Age, but nothing official had ever been said to her 


about it. The others were mostly here because they were fans of 
speculative fiction or wanted a cushy government position that didn't 
require much work except to visit suspected sites and look knowing. 

 

In the meantime, she was on her way to her very first international 
assignment. Though it was only logical to use a woman to protect a 
woman closely, giving her the job still meant that the brass believed 
in her ability to do the job. She was very proud. 

 

Proud and astonished, when, instead of the usual antique, miniature 
Peugeot minicab, the car that pulled up to carry her to Heathrow was a 
long, black limousine, the kind used to convey senior officials to 
white tie dinners at Buckingham Palace. The driver, an older man in a 
peaked cap, leaped out to open the door for her. Feeling like royalty, 
albeit royalty in a hurry, she jumped into the back seat. As the car 
pulled away, Elizabeth got a glimpse of her co-workers gazing enviously 
down from the office windows. This piece of luck boded well for her 
mission. 

 

 

 

"Just five minutes, miss, or you'll be late for the arriving flight," 
the driver said as he double-parked at the kerb outside of her flat. 
Elizabeth hopped out the door. 

 

"I'll hurry," she said, giving the limousine door a pat as she closed 
it. It was so nice to be given a bit of luxury. She glanced up and down 
the street. No sign of the courier as yet. It would probably be some 
spotty youth wearing a Day-Glo tabard and mounted on a motorbike who 
could negotiate the traffic faster than her car. No doubt he'd be 
waiting when she came down. 

 

Although she had always regretted not being able to have a cat in the 
apartment, this time she was grateful. Now she had no need to call a 
friend or relative to come and feed it, unable to explain how long 
she'd be gone. At last, Elizabeth experienced the excitement she'd 
always pictured when she first joined the service. She was the agent in 
charge of a high profile international case! She was still quite 
breathless over the suddenness of it all. 

 

Elizabeth ran upstairs, mentally sorting out her wardrobe. She had no 
idea what kind of clothing she'd need in New Orleans, a place whose 
name she recognized, but had no actual knowledge of. She had a vague 
idea that it was hot there. That would be a welcome change from the 
chilly London spring where it had yet to rise above 15 degrees Celsius. 

 

She sorted through the built-in closets in her tiny, well-lit bedroom. 
Very little of her everyday wardrobe was suitable for high 
temperatures, and she didn't think that the colorful bandanna skirts 
and halter tops she wore on Costa del Sol holidays would be appropriate 
for an MI-5 field agent on the job. Still, on a high-profile assignment 
like this she could surely cadge a clothing allowance out of the 
accounting department, the better to fit in with the locals. In the 
end, she stuffed her suitcase full of clean knickers and all the 
protective spell impedimenta that would fit. Always pack your own 
underwear, Elizabeth told herself virtuously. She stripped off her 
dress, and put on her most wrinkle-resistant suit, a very upper-class 


skirt and blazer of a cream-colored fabric that looked like linen but 
wore like iron. That was the way she must appear to those she 
encountered: neat and approachable, but inwardly tough. There, she 
thought, pleased at her reflection. Ready for anything. 

 

With a last backward look at the photograph of her grandmother, who'd 
taught her everything she knew about the unseen world, she locked up 
her flat. 

 

The limo driver hooted his horn when he saw her coming. 

 

"Hurry up, miss!" he shouted. 

 

"Did the courier come?" she asked. 

 

"Not a sight of 'im," the man said, pinching out the cigarette he was 
smoking. He got out of the car and opened her door for her. "Stuck 
'alfway between here and Marble Arch, I'll bet. 'E'll catch up. Come 
on, 'op in." 

 

"Just one minute more," Elizabeth pleaded. She made for the bare bit of 
garden between two forlorn London trees that stood before the building. 

 

Undoubtedly the limo driver had thought her quite mad standing there 
barefoot in the patch of earth with her arms to the sky, but she 
couldn't take the trip entirely unprepared. Ignoring him, she 
concentrated on reaching her mental roots deep into the earth and far 
up into the sky, making herself a conduit to gather together the two 
halves of energy that made up Earth power. It took a moment to ground 
and center herself. The familiar, warm tingle rushed along her limbs, 
feeling like the terror and pleasure of a steep roller coaster ride 
where they collided in the middle of her belly. Elizabeth took a deep 
breath as she joined the two elements together. She wound it into a 
skein of power deep within her that she could unreel at will. 

 

Unlike the driver, her neighbors were accustomed to seeing Miss 
Mayfield in the garden patch recharging her magical batteries. While 
she stood there, feeling mystic, the power of nature flowing into her 
body from the earth and sky, one of the little old ladies who lived 
next door tottered by with her arthritic Pekinese. 

 

"Good afternoon, Miss Mayfield!" 

 

Elizabeth replied without letting go of the strands of energy. "Good 
morning, Mrs. Endicott. Lovely weather, isn't it?" 

 

"Oh, it might be a little warmer, mightn't it, dear? Off somewhere?" 

 

"An assignment. Official business." 

 

"Ah," the old woman said, pulling her dog away from sniffing 
Elizabeth's ankles. "Have a nice time, dear." 

 

"Thank you." 

 

Mrs. E. tottered away. Thanking heaven for the native British tolerance 
for eccentricity, Elizabeth finished up storing as much Earth energy as 


she could take on a brief "charge," and sealed it into herself with a 
few more words to prevent any from dissipating unnecessarily. She'd 
need it to ground herself. It wouldn't do at all to find the 
"batteries" empty if she was forced to do any magic-working on the fly. 
With a smile at the driver's puzzled expression, she gathered up her 
small suitcase and purse, and climbed into the rear seat of the car. 
Now she was ready for anything. 

 

Her triumphant mood didn't last long. She was prepared, but prepared 
for what? She didn't have a clear idea of what she had to protect 
Fionna Kenmare from. The courier remained conspicuously absent while 
they drove the rest of the way to Heathrow. Elizabeth kept turning 
around in her seat to look behind her. No motorcycle. No official car. 
Her heart sank. 

 

Traffic was horrible as usual. Three miles before the turnoff for the 
airline terminal, the limousine slowed to a creep, then a halt. 
Elizabeth looked around frantically for any signs of movement. 

 

"Afternoon rush hour," the driver said, sympathetically. "It'll get you 
every time." 

 

Elizabeth looked at her watch. Forty-five minutes to go before the 
Irish flight arrived. Perhaps she could hurry things up just a little 
bit. She generally balked at using magic for personal gain, but this 
was in service to OOPSI, wasn't it? Rationalizations a specialty, she 
thought wryly, trying to recall if there was an appropriate cantrip in 
the office grimoire. No, of course not. Flushing poltergeists out of 
cottages, yes. Bringing up secret writing, naturally. Opening up 
traffic jams, of course not. 

 

Time for a little impromptu poetry. "Let all cars move to there from 
here," Elizabeth said in a low voice, trying out the chant, "open the 
way to my goal clear." Not brilliant, but it should do the job of 
persuading everyone to hurry up just that much more. It was risky, but 
she could not miss meeting that flight. Repeating her chant, she 
released a little of her stored-up Earth power, feeling it worm its way 
forward along the lanes of traffic. It seemed as though it would work 
when the tiny psychic thread smacked into an overwhelming strong 
counterforce as firm as concrete that stopped it cold: England itself. 
Do not interfere with the status quo, the presence said. Nice girls and 
boys don't make a fuss. 

 

Elizabeth groaned. One couldn't be well-mannered all the time, not with 
a schedule to keep. The push-push-push of greater London, as unlike the 
surrounding country as an ambitious nephew was from a staid great-aunt, 
lay behind her to the east. She appealed to it for assistance. All she 
wanted to do was get where she was going without inciting road rage or 
using up her carefully hoarded store of power. 

 

Whether England relented or London succeeded, traffic began to break 
up. The taxi joined the lane of cars rolling towards Terminal One. 

 

To her dismay, no messenger was waiting for her there. She whipped out 
her small cell telephone and punched in the office number, all the 
while looking for a chartreuse tabard. 

 


"This is Agent Mayfield," she said, turning her back on a young 
businessman in a very expensive suit who kept giving her interested 
glances, and raised his eyebrows when he overheard her identify 
herself. "The courier didn't meet me at my flat, and I still don't see 
him anywhere." 

 

"Sorry, love," the receptionist said, her voice tinny on the line. "His 
bike broke down, so he's on the Tube. We just heard from him. He's 
stuck at Acton Park. He'll meet you in time to brief you at the ticket 
desk for the American flight. Mr. Ringwall says you're to meet the 
subject from flight 334 from Dublin. You'll be able to board the U.S. 
flight at the same time as her party, and you'll sit beside the subject 
until you arrive in New Orleans. You're not to let her out of your 
sight under any circs. Read me back, love?" 

 

"Not in a secure location," Mayfield muttered back tersely, peering 
back over her shoulder at the businessman, who was leaning as close as 
he could but trying to look as if he wasn't. 

 

"I'll take it as read, dear," the receptionist's voice quacked in her 
ear. "Good luck." 

 

* * * 

 

Don't let her out of your sight, the big boys said. Well, they hadn't 
taken luxury travel perquisites into account. Elizabeth ran along the 
endless corridors, and into the satellite gates in Terminal One just in 
time to see the famous green suede-cut, surrounded by a dense shell of 
fans and reporters, emerge from the jetway at gate 87, and sweep down 
the narrow corridor. The rest of her group, Green Fire, emerged one by 
one, and the crowd erupted into a frenzy. Elizabeth tagged helplessly 
along all the way to Terminal Three, determined to stay as close as she 
could. She couldn't draw nearer without actually using some of the 
unarmed combat training that she had been required to learn for her 
job, and she wasn't perfectly convinced some of the fans didn't know 
martial arts, too. They looked a tough lot. 

 

As soon as Fionna Kenmare and her party reached the American ticket 
desk they were ushered through check-in and baggage inspection by a 
member of the airline staff. Elizabeth had no choice at that moment but 
to abandon her vigil, because she had to find the information desk and 
pick up her ticket. 

 

Only two people were in the queue at the desk, but they looked to be 
there for the next decade: an old lady with a very low voice who had 
some trouble with her luggage, and a large American man with a 
shockingly loud voice whose luggage had been scratched by the baggage 
handlers. As soon as a new clerk appeared from the tiny room behind the 
desk Elizabeth waved him over, showing her ID card in her cupped hand. 
The man's eyes lighted with recognition, and glanced from side to side. 
Neither the woofer nor the tweeter paid any attention. 

 

"Yes, madam, we've been expecting you," the clerk said, very quietly. 
He reached under the desk for an envelope, and offered her a clipboard 
with a document from Central Accounting to sign. It had been faxed only 
moments before. Talk about cutting things close. 

 


"Thank you," Elizabeth said briskly. She opened the envelope to double-
check the flight details. "Just a moment," she said, putting out a hand 
to stop the desk clerk from walking away. "This is for Economy Class." 

 

"I am following the instructions to the letter, madam," the clerk said, 
looking hurt. He showed her the place on the document where "3rd" had 
been checked off, instead of "1st." 

 

"But, this is wrong! I need to be in First Class." 

 

"I'll be happy to alter it if I receive further instructions from the 
head office," the young man said hopefully, sounding exactly like a 
junior agent in a 007 picture, which is undoubtedly what he hoped. 
Elizabeth was in no mood to coddle him. She gave him a wan smile from 
the teeth out, and hurried to check in. She could not leave Kenmare 
alone for long. She'd have to phone from the other side of the barrier. 

 

With the greatest of good fortune, Kenmare's party was still in the 
ticket hall. Elizabeth joined the mass of fans and photographers 
milling slowly toward the departure gate. 

 

They sauntered, in no kind of hurry, through the express passport 
control, and down the hall toward the VIP lounge, still accompanied by 
those fans who were actually holding travel tickets. Now was the time 
Elizabeth must catch her and identify herself, before something else 
happened. She snatched up her purse from the rollers as it exited the 
X-ray machine, and ran toward the lounge. Just as she got there, the 
door was slammed firmly in Elizabeth's face. Fionna's fans, 
disappointed, scattered into the Duty-Free shopping area, leaving 
Elizabeth standing alone in front of the door. 

 

Airport security was admirably tight, but she ought to be in line-of-
sight contact with her subject. She knocked on the burgundy wood door. 

 

Her quiet conversation at the desk inside the club did nothing except 
to create a feeling of smugness among the staff. They weren't about to 
let a lowly Economy passenger into the sacred confines even to 
forestall a death threat. If Elizabeth had official credentials to back 
up her claim, they might consider allowing her to remain in the 
corridor. Because of the security order keeping information concerning 
the mission to "need to know," Elizabeth knew she wasn't permitted to 
show her MI-5 badge, so she was forced to retreat out into the Duty-
Free area, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She found a point 
where she got a decent signal on her telephone yet could still see the 
door, and made her third call to HQ. 

 

"Sorry, Mayfield," Ringwall said, ruefully. "Economy measures all 
round, you know. I'll try to get Accounting to alter that for you 
before you board, but you know what they're like. They absolutely 
choked at the thought of four thousand pounds for one agent's 
transportation. Do your best. Don't let the woman out of your sight." 

 

"She's already out of my sight, sir," Elizabeth said, desperately. 
"She's inside the first-class lounge, and they won't let me in with an 
economy-fare ticket." 

 

"Dammit, do what you can," Ringwall said. "You're an Intelligence 


agent. Be resourceful." 

 

"Yes, sir," Elizabeth said, with deep resignation. "I still haven't 
seen the courier yet, sir." 

 

"He'll be there. Probably meet you at the gate. Best of British luck, 
and keep us posted." 

 

Elizabeth hung up the phone. Well, if she couldn't get in, she must 
monitor all those coming and going from the club, and hope the courier 
would arrive with her credentials so she could go inside before things 
went bad. She took up a position across the pedway in a bookshop with a 
good view of the door of the lounge. At all costs she must look like an 
ordinary tourist, interested in ordinary tourist things. 

 

The magazine racks were protected by a dense wall of fellow passengers, 
all intent on the rows of glossy color covers. She located the fan 
magazines, and started to look for Fionna Kenmare's name, deciding that 
she would read up on her charge, and steal a march on the tardy 
courier. Evidently, the woman was more famous than Elizabeth realized. 
Articles about her appeared in every single one of the magazines. 
Elizabeth chose five magazines with the highest ratio of words to 
pictures, hoping that they would contain some actual information 
instead of pure public relations hype. 

 

A couple of huge men stood up from the floor where they had been 
kneeling in front of the computer magazines, blocking her view, and 
began to discuss hard drives and RAM. Elizabeth all but dove over them 
to reestablish sight of the burgundy door. They gave her a hard glance, 
and she had to show an intense interest in the rack of crossword puzzle 
books to throw off any hint of suspicion. She liked puzzles, but 
there'd be little time for such amusements on the plane, not with an 
eight-hour babysitting job to get through, and a weeklong protection 
assignment at the other end of the flight. She chose three anyhow, and 
moved on to the next rack nearer the door. 

 

An hour passed. Elizabeth felt her stomach rumble. She'd had nothing to 
eat since breakfast, and it was getting on towards lunch. The clerks in 
the bookshop were showing signs of nerves at having her hovering about 
for so long. They couldn't have missed her staring at the club entrance 
like a vulture. To calm them and her hollow stomach, she bought a 
handful of chocolate bars, all the while darting her head around to 
keep an eye on the corridor. She must be the very picture of a security 
risk. 

 

Sure enough, a pair of gigantic men with that indefinable air of 
confidence appeared at her elbow. Plainclothes police. The cashier must 
have pushed the silent alarm. Elizabeth smiled up at them with innocent 
puzzlement on her face as she walked up the checkout, and moved away 
from the shop with her purchase. She sat down on the farthest chair 
that would allow her to see the length of the corridor, and unwrapped a 
Yorkie bar. The bobbies, satisfied, drifted off. The clerk looked 
unhappy that Elizabeth hadn't actually gone away, and kept shooting her 
worried glances. Elizabeth ate her chocolate hungrily, and hoped that 
the courier would arrive soon. There'd be decent refreshments in the 
club. Maybe even a cup of tea. 

 


An unintelligible announcement came over the tannoy, ending with the 
words, "boarding at Gate 21." She looked up at the overhead video 
screen. The word BOARDING was now flashing next to the flight for New 
Orleans. Only a half hour remained before departure, and there was one 
more security checkpoint to pass through. If she was too late they 
could deny her boarding. Wasn't Kenmare ever coming out? 

 

As if in answer to her anxieties, the door burst open, and the mass of 
the Irish entourage surged out. Elizabeth sprang to her feet and shoved 
the remains of her third candy bar into her handbag. 

 

The moment Fionna Kenmare appeared, the gang of fans converged upon her 
from all over, clamoring for photo opportunities and autographs. A 
slight, balding, middle-sized man in a very expensive dark suit, 
probably her manager, chided them jovially as he gestured them away so 
the star could walk. Elizabeth panicked. Could she get nearer? Now 
would be an ideal time for an assassin to strike. Any one of a million 
handbags or shoulder bags could conceal a weapon or magical 
impedimenta, without the least concern for all the innocent civilians 
between hunter and prey. Elizabeth tried to push her way through the 
group to the center, and got twenty elbows in the ribs before she'd 
moved five paces. Stuck between a tall young man in an Army surplus T-
shirt and a woman in a rust-colored, silk Armani business suit, 
Elizabeth could see flashes of the long, manicured hands as the star 
scribbled a few tributes on ticket envelopes and magazine covers. 

 

The mass of people gradually moved down the hallway and through the 
glass doors. At the gate, Fionna Kenmare and her people were winnowed 
out of the crowd by the airline personnel. She swept through passport 
protocol and onto the plane, a privilege of a First Class ticket and 
her famous face. Elizabeth tried to follow her, but the staff stopped 
her at the barrier. 

 

"May I see your ticket, madam?" asked a nice young man with dark hair 
and blue eyes. 

 

"Here," Elizabeth said, desperately trying to see over his shoulder. 
"But I must get on the plane now." 

 

"Yes," the attendant said, very patiently. "We all saw her. But you'll 
have to wait for a while. Economy Class boarding will commence shortly. 
Will you please take a seat in the meantime?" 

 

Elizabeth looked past him at the jetway, feeling at a loss. Every 
moment Kenmare was alone, disaster could strike. She thought about 
showing the staff her MI-5 warrant card, but that would lead to other 
questions which she could not answer. And the airport authority would 
demand, quite rightly, to know why no one had notified them that there 
was a "situation" in progress. Protests would be filed with the 
Ministry of Transport, the Secret Service, the Metropolitan Police, and 
there might even be embarrassing questions asked in Parliament. Mr. 
Ringwall would be cross. Elizabeth winced involuntarily. 

 

She moved away from the crowd and opened her telephone. 

 

"Sorry, love," the receptionist said, halfway between sympathy and 
amusement. "Your man's still stuck somewhere between Hatton Cross and 


the International Terminal. Track delays. You'll have to go it alone. 
Your briefing is being faxed to the FBI. Your contact will bring it to 
you at New Orleans." 

 

"So I've got to sit an entire flight without knowing the full nature of 
the threats? In Economy Class? Damn all horrid bureaucrats," Elizabeth 
said irritably, and then remembered too late that all incoming phone 
calls were taped. 

 

The receptionist chuckled. "Double on that, Agent Mayfield. Good luck." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3 

 

The gate attendant announced boarding for Business Class, and a dozen 
passengers queued up to pass through the barrier. Elizabeth blew a 
strand of hair out of her face as she paced, hoping she looked like no 
more than a typical nervous traveler. She ought to feel proud. The 
brass had never given her an international assignment before. This was 
a promotion, she reminded herself. There'd been such envy on the faces 
of the others in the Whitehall office that she was being sent off on a 
mission, with its tantalizing whiff of influence from High Places and 
Mysterious Danger, instead of someone with practical experience in 
dealing with kidnapping and anonymous threats. But all she could do was 
worry. Elizabeth felt a headache coming on. She had no aspirins with 
her. To get them she would have to go out the door through security 
again, leaving her post. That wouldn't do at all. She massaged the 
knotted tendons at the back of her neck. 

 

The female staff member politely asked Economy Class to board. 
Elizabeth presented her ticket with hardly a look at the attendant, and 
ran down the passageway to the jet. She had to wait ages at the door 
for the cheerful women and men in uniforms to stow baggage and coats 
for their First Class charges. Standing on tiptoe, Elizabeth managed to 
spot the back of Fionna Kenmare's green-dyed head as the woman leaned 
over to tap champagne glasses with a big bruiser of a man across the 
aisle from her. Gad, why would anyone do that to her hair? The suede-
cut was the very next thing to being shaved bald. Elizabeth supposed 
the style went with the makeup. As Kenmare turned to signal the flight 
attendant nearest her for a refill, Elizabeth got a full look at the 
star's face. A fine-featured head with good cheekbones had been used 
like a billboard for graffiti-like makeup. From the eyelids to the 
hairline, she wore white eye shadow overpainted with what one presumed 
were mystic symbols. She had slashes of red-orange blush along her 
cheekbones, and if that wasn't enough of a visual headache, her lips 
were sharply painted with fuchsia to clash with the rest of the 
ensemble. 

 

"Why doesn't she just hang a fireplug from her nose and complete the 
picture?" Elizabeth muttered, as the flight crew politely but firmly 
steered the Third Class passengers down the aisle toward the rear of 
the aircraft. It wasn't as if the woman was even much of a singer. 


Elizabeth could remember hearing Fionna Kenmare on the radio many 
times. She had a pretty voice, but seemed more to be shouting her 
lyrics than singing them. What good did it do her fans if they couldn't 
understand the words? Or didn't that matter to fans any longer? 

 

* * * 

 

Elizabeth had to make direct contact as soon as possible now. Once the 
pilot had turned off the seatbelt light, Elizabeth sprang up from her 
seat. She excused her way out of the tight row, smiling at the man in 
the aisle seat, who gave her a puzzled look. 

 

"Some people have the tiniest bladders," he muttered to himself. 

 

Elizabeth felt her cheeks redden. Let him think what he liked. It would 
suit her purposes. She was working for the good of the British Empire, 
and such personal considerations as ego ought to be of secondary 
importance. It still stung. She wriggled her way up the narrow aisle 
toward the front of the plane. Too much time had gone by. An unknown 
enemy might already have struck. 

 

Nothing in the jet made her natural sensitivity to magic come alive. 
The only good thing about being on board a plane was that Cold Iron 
would chase off the Fay. If Fionna Kenmare was under attack by one of 
the Fair Folk, whom Elizabeth had never seen but in which she firmly 
believed, she'd be safe as long as they were airborne. 

 

The chances were much more likely that an unknown enemy was as mortal 
as she was, and might take advantage of the proximity and easy access. 
Elizabeth wound up just a tiny fragment of Earth power around her 
fingers and held it ready. 

 

Using the force of her will and just a little magical misdirection, she 
persuaded each of the flight attendants in her cabin to look the other 
way as she slipped past the curtain into Business Class. 

 

There were only six or seven people in the middle cabin. One of them, a 
well-dressed woman in her thirties, gave her a dirty look as she 
sauntered in. Territoriality, Elizabeth thought. She sent a fragment of 
'fluence toward the woman, who forgot her presence and turned away to 
look out the window through the clouds at the fast disappearing island 
of Britain. 

 

Business Class had as many attendants as Economy, but for a fraction of 
the number of passengers. Elizabeth had to move fast, tossing cantrip 
after cantrip with little flicks of her wrist, to keep the people from 
noticing her. So far, so good. 

 

Things began to go awry as soon as she reached the curtain separating 
First Class from Business. She distracted the first uniformed man and 
put a neat double whammy on the next two, but she simply missed the 
fourth attendant, who came out of the galley just as Elizabeth reached 
Fionna Kenmare's row. The young woman hastily interposed herself 
between Elizabeth and her subject. 

 

"Madam, please return to your seat," she said. She was British, blond, 
and solid, with the sort of no-nonsense manner one associated with 


school prefects and hall monitors. 

 

"I just had to speak to Miss Kenmare," Elizabeth said, trying to sound 
friendly but just as firm and not at all lunatic. She didn't want the 
woman to put her into the category of insane fan. Elizabeth knew 
perfectly well that airlines now carried plastic straps they used as 
handcuffs for passengers who proved themselves dangerous. She'd never 
hear the end of it back in the office if she spent the flight tied up. 

 

"I'm sorry, but that's not possible," the flight attendant said, with a 
practiced mix of steel and cordiality. At this moment, the other cabin 
staff woke up to the intruder among them, and began to move towards 
her. "Please return to your seat at once." 

 

The green-headed singer turned idly to see who was leaning over her. 
Without interest, she went back to her drink, her magazine, and her 
stereo headset, without saying a word. The blond woman looked from 
Kenmare to Elizabeth with her lips pressed together in exasperation. 
Elizabeth suddenly thought it was better to retreat than explain. 

 

"I'm so terribly sorry," she said. "I thought it would be all right." 
She turned on her heel and marched with dignity toward the back of the 
plane. A better opportunity would come along later. 

 

* * * 

 

"Oh, God, not you again," Fionna Kenmare said in an amused whinny, when 
Elizabeth reappeared next to her an hour later. With her slim, blunt-
tipped fingers, she picked up a cocktail napkin, one with a ring in the 
center from where her drink had been resting, pulled a pen out of her 
pocket, and signed it. "I'm after giving you points for the Lord's own 
tenacity, lady dear." She extended it to Elizabeth, who reached for it 
automatically, then was outraged at herself and at the ego of the woman 
who assumed she had stormed the barricades for an autograph. 
Reasserting her professional persona, Elizabeth summoned up the words 
of a protective cantrip her gran had taught her as a child, hoping it 
would come out sounding like embarrassed gratitude. It would at the 
very least alert her if something happened to Kenmare. All she needed 
to do was touch the other's skin. . . . 

 

As soon as her fingertips closed on the damp morsel of paper, the First 
Class attendants abandoned the caviar cart and champagne bottles, and 
converged upon Elizabeth. 

 

"Madam!" the British woman exclaimed. 

 

Distracted, Elizabeth sprang upright, still holding onto the seatback. 
The attendants, accustomed to dealing with intruders, expertly pried 
her loose. Elizabeth, vainly trying to complete the words of the spell, 
thrust out her free hand to reestablish contact. The first woman, a 
British woman about ten years older and an inch shorter than she, took 
her wrist firmly and turned it aside. The burst of power misfired. Now 
Elizabeth had offered protection to the seat beside Fionna Kenmare's. 
The big man had been holding her hand. Would the Law of Contagion, an 
ancient principle of magic, extend the benefit to Kenmare because of 
the touch? 

 


"Now, madam, this won't do at all," the attendant said. She tucked a 
hand around Elizabeth's upper arm and steered her backwards. "Please 
return to your seat at once." 

 

"But . . ." Elizabeth said, attempting to break free, realizing that no 
argument that followed would be as convincing as the first word. 

 

"We are very sorry, but this area is reserved for our First Class 
guests," said the taller attendant, a black American woman with 
exquisite cheekbones and pale hazel eyes, in which Elizabeth could see 
blunt determination behind the affable exterior. "We are sure you 
understand." 

 

"But . . ." 

 

"This way, madam," the older woman said, holding onto her as she moved 
inexorably in the direction of the gray curtain. Elizabeth glanced back 
over her shoulder. The green head had disappeared back into the gray 
leather cocoon. Fionna Kenmare had already forgotten her existence. No, 
that wasn't true. She was sharing a merry laugh with her seat companion 
over the persistent intruder. At least the woman was unharmed, and 
amused. 

 

Her captors urged Elizabeth into the Business cabin. Once she was in 
their jurisdiction, two more attendants took charge of her at once. 
They had a sharp word with the woman at the head of the Economy cabin, 
whose cheeks turned a discreet but definite red. That flight attendant 
marched Elizabeth back to her row and lectured her while she sat down 
and buckled herself in. Elizabeth was to stay in her seat, except when 
nature absolutely dictated that she rise. Then, she was not to pass 
beyond the curtain. She would only use the lavatories at the center and 
back of the section. If she tried to get through the curtains again 
they would invalidate her ticket and send her back to London on the 
first turnaround flight. 

 

"Yes, madam," Elizabeth muttered, trying to retain some dignity, but it 
was impossible. Unhappily, she conceded the battle, and settled down 
for good between her smugly grinning seatmates, and snatched a magazine 
out of her bag to shut out their grinning faces. 

 

Bother the attendants for chasing her off Kenmare. If she tried it 
again the airline would assume she was some sort of threat herself, and 
she'd have to go home. What would her bosses say when they knew she 
hadn't been able to keep her subject under her eye, even though it was 
absolutely, positively not her fault? The aborted cantrip tingled at 
the end of her nerves like the irritation from a plucked-out hair. Her 
fists clenched in reaction. She looked down, and a smile spread slowly 
over her face. Never mind. She had the napkin that Fionna Kenmare had 
signed. By the Law of Contagion, she had made all the contact with her 
subject that she needed to. 

 

She uncrumpled the square of paper and touched the squiggle of green 
ink. Yes, there was enough of a link to build upon. Thank all powers, 
but the point of a pen was a great focus for the soul, however little 
conscious attention Fionna Kenmare had put into the autograph. 
Elizabeth put a fingertip down on the end of the last wild flourish and 
concentrated. Reaching into the reservoir of power inside her, 


Elizabeth brought to mind the words that would form a protective ward 
to send past the curtains to hover around Fionna Kenmare until they 
landed. It was a very minor magic, as fragile a line as the one drawn 
with the pen. She felt it catch, and concentrated deeply. Faint as a 
heartbeat, she sensed the other woman's emotions: worry, excitement, 
but boredom overwhelming all else. Elizabeth urged the little spell to 
wrap itself around Fionna and keep her safe. The trace of worry 
lessened slightly, as the cantrip took effect. 

 

Elizabeth put the napkin away. She had done the best she could, under 
the circumstances. The only thing that comforted her was if someone was 
threatening Fionna Kenmare, unless he was flying in First Class, he 
didn't stand a chance of getting to her until they landed in New 
Orleans. 

 

* * * 

 

With nothing else useful to do, Elizabeth began to read the fan 
magazines. She had little hope of getting a clue as to the peril facing 
Fionna Kenmare that had caused Upstairs to take such immediate action 
from the full-color public relations hype, but it was worth a try. 
Opening the first one, she began doggedly to read. 

 

Fan digests were as disgustingly simpering as they had been when she'd 
been buying them as a preteen. She thumbed past photo after 
undistinguished photo of unwashed hair, made-up faces, and pierced 
outcroppings of flesh, until she found the article she wanted. 

 

The "real-life, totally true" bio of Fionna Kenmare sounded like a load 
of rubbish, not even as good as the cover stories MI-5 made up for the 
agents going on undercover assignment, which were always unlikely in 
the extreme. And they dealt very delicately with the subject herself, 
suggesting she was worthy of the reader's sympathy and admiration. 

 

Fionna, one columnist tenderly offered, was orphaned as the result of a 
blast from a bomb during the sectarian troubles in Ireland. Elizabeth 
tried to remain unbiased, but an opening like that raised her hackles. 
Fionna was raised by a poor, disabled auntie in a cottage that didn't 
have running water or electricity until the girl was ten. Her first 
instrument had been an old penny whistle that she taught herself to 
play by listening to the birds singing outside their window. Without 
glass, no doubt, Elizabeth thought, snorting, as she turned the page. 
No doubt the mattresses were stuffed with straw and discarded 
Superquinn bags. 

 

As a child, Fionna earned a meager supplement to their family 
assistance grant by playing pipe music outside the pubs and stores. She 
had found her first guitar on a dump. The strings had been chewed by 
rats, but she swept and cleaned house for a music teacher for six 
months to earn a new set. Elizabeth frowned, doubting sincerely that 
strings cost that much. By dint of sheer talent, Fionna Kenmare had 
pulled herself up from direst poverty and into the eye of the world. 
She'd dyed her hair green so she would always remember her roots. 

 

And leaves, too, Elizabeth decided, eyeing the shocking green pate in 
the accompanying portrait. Sympathy was an emotion unlikely to be 
roused by the image of the aforementioned star wearing a mystic robe 


cut from khaki camouflage material and wearing a tongue-out grimace 
that would have scared away space aliens. But what was the source of 
the mysterious threats inferred by her supervisor? 

 

"Magic has always been so important in Fionna's life," gushed the 
columnist in the second magazine's article, accompanying an even more 
weird photo. In this one the star clutched a dissipated black cat and a 
cross-looking black rooster with a red comb. 

 

Magic important, eh? More so perhaps than even Fionna anticipated, 
Elizabeth thought. But she didn't know why MI-5 was involved at all. 
All of the complaints Mr. Ringwall had told her about could have been 
the result of drug-induced hallucination. The problem seemed more like 
a matter for Interpol or a good therapist. Chances were that she'd 
never know who or why was sending down pressure from Higher Up. 

 

"Hey, that's Fionna Kenmare," said her seatmate on the aisle, who was 
an American man about her age. He aimed a thumb at the picture and 
spoke to Elizabeth out of the corner of his mouth. "I thought I saw her 
get on the jet. Did you see her, with the makeup and the hair and all 
that? Cool, huh?" 

 

He grinned at Elizabeth, who smiled weakly back. Should she confirm the 
star's presence, like any other fascinated passenger, or ought she to 
keep the information to herself? After all, this man might be part of 
the unknown threat. 

 

"I don't know," Elizabeth said, affecting an innocent expression. "You 
see, it looked like her, but it could be anybody under that makeup." 

 

The man brightened. "You mean, like Kiss? Wow, what if that's her 
double, and she's traveling incognito? Wouldn't that be something?" 

 

"That'd be something, all right," Elizabeth said, and wished with all 
her heart that the Service had thought of it first. Draw attention away 
from the target, and give them something else to look at. But 
misdirection wouldn't fool a magical foe. Probably the attacks on 
Fionna Kenmare were part of a great big publicity stunt. That wouldn't 
wear well Upstairs, since they'd been forced into acting sub rosa, and 
committing a field agent plus the requisite monetary outlay. If it 
turned out to be a hoax, she, Elizabeth, would be the scapegoat because 
the office had to spend half its meager budget on a trip to America. 
She'd better not go too far on her new wardrobe. Having swallowed the 
obligatory camel, the department was likely to choke on a gnat, no 
matter how fashionable or appropriate. 

 

She tried listening up the cantrip-formed link, to find out if anyone 
was meeting Green Fire in New Orleans. No luck. All she got was a kind 
of psychic static. Too much Cold Iron and too many people were in the 
way. She was lucky that the spell had fired up at all. Not three hours 
on assignment, and Elizabeth had already lost control of the situation. 
No more. The moment they landed in New Orleans, she was taking charge. 

 

 

 

 

 


Chapter 4 

 

As 9:00 P.M. Central Standard Time approached, the preliminaries of 
touchdown seemed to go on forever. Out of the constricted portholes, 
Elizabeth watched twilight advancing slowly across the flat, flat 
plains of the central United States. The chief flight attendant showed 
a lengthy video on the wild night life in New Orleans, followed by an 
information film on how to pass through Customs and Immigration into 
the United States. By the time the landing gear crunched and ground its 
way out of the belly of the plane, Elizabeth was wriggling in her seat 
with impatience. She forced her way out into the aisle as soon as she 
could, and hurried off the jet in the wake of tired business people and 
families pulling rolling suitcases. 

 

The First Class passengers, Kenmare among them, were far ahead of her 
in the gateway. The VIP treatment began again at once. A jeeplike 
transport was waiting for the star and her entourage. With a roar and a 
honk, the car zipped into a U-turn and sped away down the tiled 
corridor of the terminal. Elizabeth ran along behind, but it swiftly 
outpaced her and vanished into the crowd. More bollixing. Wait until 
she got that London courier alone. She'd make sure he wished he'd never 
been late for anything in his life! 

 

She didn't manage to catch up with the party until past Immigration, 
when Kenmare and the others were waiting for a limousine at the curb 
outside in the hot, sticky evening. The American courier must have 
missed her, too. She'd have to face the singer without her credentials. 

 

"So it's you again," Kenmare said with high good humor as Elizabeth 
arrived at her side. "I'm sorry to be inhospitable, but it's been a 
long flight and I drank far too much. I'm too tired to socialize just 
now, lady dear. I'm glad to know such a perseverant fan as you, and I 
hope I'll see you at a concert some time." And with that she turned her 
back. 

 

Frustrated, tired, and disheveled, Elizabeth stalked around her until 
she was face to face. She didn't know how prissy she sounded until the 
first words were out of her mouth. 

 

"Miss Kenmare, I am Special Agent Elizabeth Mayfield. I have been 
assigned to you by the British government as your security escort for 
the duration of your tour through America. I believe you were told to 
expect me. I would appreciate it if you would stay within reach of me 
at all times. I have been informed you have been the victim of certain 
attacks. I can't protect you if you will not cooperate. You must 
understand that I speak with the full force of the British government." 

 

Fionna Kenmare stared her squarely in the eye, while her whole body 
swayed slightly, as if that focused gaze was the only thing holding her 
steady. In an entirely different voice, devoid of the folksy Irish 
accent, she said, "God, you're the same shirty prig you were back at 
University, Elizabeth. Will you never get over being hall prefect?" 

 

Elizabeth goggled. With the utmost self-control, she pulled her jaw 
back into its upright and locked position. 

 

"Phoebe? Phoebe Kendale?" she hissed. "Is that you under that awful 


paint job?" 

 

Suddenly, everything became clear. Elizabeth knew who it was Upstairs 
that had set the wheels in motion and put the pressure on from 
Whitehall: Phoebe's daddy. Lord Kendale, one of the very great muckety-
mucks in the Ministry of Defense, wouldn't hesitate to call in favors 
from companion services to protect his only daughter. Fionna Kenmare 
had a legitimate Irish passport, but Elizabeth was able to make a 
shrewd guess how she got it. Phoebe's mother was Irish. Under laws 
which had only recently been changed, Phoebe was entitled to apply to 
the Irish government as the immediate descendant of a citizen. She must 
have changed her name at the same time. It wasn't illegal, so long as 
she wasn't defrauding anyone. Her father must have been mortified that 
his child had thrown over her allegiance to the Queen while he was a 
trusted member of her very government. Fionna Kenmare was vocal in 
interview and song as favoring Irish independence. Lord Kendale would 
have insisted on that veil of secrecy that was drawn over Fionna 
Kenmare's past. No wonder the bio had read like something out of Girls' 
Own Adventure magazine. The reporters hadn't a clue. 

 

Fionna/Phoebe looked at her in horror, realizing that she'd let her 
secret slip. 

 

"Shh!" she said, clapping her hand over her mouth and whispering 
through her fingers. Her ridiculously made-up eyes were huge. "Secret 
identity. Come on, be a sport, Liz. Don't tell." 

 

"I won't," Elizabeth whispered back, "but you do have to cooperate with 
me. I'm here to protect you." 

 

"Protect away," Fionna/Phoebe said airily, fluttering both hands. The 
accent came flowing effortlessly back, and the consonants rolled 
together on her tongue. She had so ingrained herself with the Irish 
persona that not only didn't the accent slip when she was drunk, it 
became even more flowery. "I'll not stop you. In fact, I love a party. 
I love all mankind, all the world." She was three sheets to the wind, 
Elizabeth realized, and taking on more sail all the time. The bodyguard 
took a few steps forward to catch Fionna and hold her steady. She 
leaned back against him and caressed his cheek with a languid palm. 
"And Lloyd will look after me, won't you, looove?" 

 

Lloyd Preston wrapped one arm around her lean waist. Elizabeth saw the 
possessive look on his face, and knew she had to get him on her side if 
she was expecting not to be locked out of dressing rooms and stage 
wings, accidentally on purpose. In all the wide angle photographs of 
Fionna, the dark-haired, thick-eyebrowed man had been an aggressive 
presence hovering at her shoulder or in the background. 

 

"You do understand that I've got to investigate any threats," Elizabeth 
said over Fionna's head to him. "I'm just here to do a job, same as 
you." 

 

The man growled. "I know about you. I can do all the protecting she 
needs. Go home." 

 

"That isn't possible," Elizabeth said. She cleared her throat and 
pitched her voice higher. "I will be riding with Fionna and you in your 


car to the hotel." 

 

"Not a chance, sunshine," Preston said flatly. 

 

Elizabeth fixed him with the stare that she had perfected in years of 
cadet service to teachers and school librarians. 

 

"I know who you are," she said with great confidence, although all she 
had to go on was the information she had gleaned from reading the 
glossies. "You've been with Fionna for two years now. It's been . . . 
rewarding, hasn't it? If something happens to her, that'll be the end 
of it for you, won't it? You can't guard her against supernatural 
attacks." 

 

"And you can?" Preston regarded her with suspicion and dislike. The 
feeling was mutual. Elizabeth knew his type. He was the kind of big 
brute who got loud and dangerous in pubs, and waited for his mates to 
quiet him down so the police wouldn't have to come in and arrest him 
when he beat someone bloody. The short, dark-haired woman with the 
peculiar eyeglass frames standing with the roadies was keeping a close, 
anxious eye on them, and looked as if she was going to rush in at any 
moment. The good-looking, brown-haired man at her side put a hand on 
her arm. They must be familiar with Preston's blustering. 

 

"Come on, children!" the manager said, clapping his hands together to 
break them up. "We're all tired. Here are the cars. Fionna, Lloyd, and 
myself in the first car . . ." 

 

"And me," Elizabeth said. 

 

"And who the hell are you, duckie?" the manager said, wheeling on her. 
He was a dark-haired, well-built man with a clipped beard. He looked 
about twenty-eight, except for the fine creases in his skin next to his 
eyes and mouth, which suggested he was actually in his middle forties. 

 

Elizabeth pulled him away to a handy overhead streetlight, and showed 
him her badge from OOPSI. 

 

"Ah," the manager said, his eyebrows climbing high on his forehead. 
"I'm one of those people who doesn't need to be hit on the head with a 
brick, love. I believe. I absolutely believe. Of course you'll join us. 
I'm Nigel Peters, ringmaster of this circus. Glad to have you here." He 
clapped his hands again. "Everybody! The band in car two. Everyone else 
in car three. Anybody else will have to cab it, I'm afraid. I think 
these bloody hearses only seat sixteen." 

 

There was a strained guffaw from a couple of the roadies, each of whom 
had charge of what looked like a container-load of baggage. Elizabeth 
hadn't properly appreciated how much of an entourage or how much 
equipment a musical group needed on tour. She suddenly realized that 
every luggage cart on the pavement belonged to Fionna's group. The 
manager snapped his fingers, and the porters started loading the 
parcels and cases into the boots of the limousines. With little shooing 
motions, he steered each person toward his or her assigned car. 

 

Elizabeth had much to think about as the limos arrived, each stretching 
on and on like a clown car at the circus. My heaven, but American cars 


are BIG, she thought. With the hall-monitor training foremost, she 
managed to help shift everyone in the parties into the cars, got 
Fionna, her bodyguard, the manager, the publicist, and herself into the 
first, and away they went. As soon as the car was moving, Fionna 
slumped into the corner of the plushy seat, and reached out a languid 
hand. Lloyd Preston automatically dug into his jacket pocket and 
brought out a cigarette and a fancy gold lighter. 

 

"Thanks, dearie," Fionna said. Elizabeth studied her. 

 

Well, well, Fee Kendale. She and Elizabeth hadn't seen much of one 
another since coming down from St. Hilda's College, Oxford. They'd been 
friends then, but had lost touch immediately after graduation. Her 
family said she had gone abroad. How interesting that it had turned out 
to be true, although she wasn't as far away as her father had made it 
sound. What's more, it easily explained what must look to an outsider 
like a coincidence. Lord Kendale knew Elizabeth was in the Secret 
Service; he even knew which branch. She ran into him occasionally in 
the corridors of power, and he always remembered to have his secretary 
send her a card on Christmas and her birthday. She only hoped that he 
hadn't exaggerated the nature of the threat just to get an agent on the 
case whom he knew he could trust. And he'd known perfectly well where 
Phoebe had been all these years she was supposed to have been "abroad." 
Elizabeth wondered how many of Fionna's entourage knew that their rebel 
star was really a British debutante of the most drearily respectable 
antecedents. Well, mostly respectable. They had been up at St. Hilda's. 
Elizabeth grinned. 

 

Phoebe had been intractable even as a child, always going her own way 
no matter how much her father pleaded with her. It was going to be 
hellish keeping Fee from slipping away from scrutiny when it became 
onerous, but now Elizabeth had a weapon she might be able to use over 
her to keep her in order: her deeply dark, secret past. 

 

As the airport disappeared from view, Elizabeth realized with a shock 
that she had forgotten to look for her U.S. counterpart. After the 
Phoebe/Fionna bombshell, it was small wonder, but the omission was 
devastatingly unprofessional of her. Still, no one had attempted to 
contact her. Oh, well, too late to go back now. Her connection would 
have to catch up with them at the hotel. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5 

 

"Will you stay off me bleedin' heels?" said the slim, green-haired 
woman, rounding drunkenly on the blonde woman in the crumpled suit 
behind her. 

 

A big, dark-haired man wearing a white linen sports jacket over an 
immaculate T-shirt and jeans cut between the two of them and put an arm 
around the tall woman, who was recognizable anywhere as Fionna Kenmare, 
the acid folk rock star. The blonde woman, shorter by several inches, 


had a good, strong chin and steady, gray eyes. She looked as if she 
could put up a good fight but was choosing not to. 

 

Beauray Boudreau watched them make their way from the file of 
limousines that had pulled into the underground garage of the Royal 
Sonesta Hotel on Bourbon Street. Fionna Kenmare staggered over the 
threshold into the hotel, and the large man steadied her. Behind her, 
the woman in the suit maintained a calm expression, but her eyes 
sparked to show that she was fuming mad. Boudreau followed them inside, 
past the uniformed doorman, who stared with open admiration at Fionna 
Kenmare all the way up the stairs to the lobby. The star tottered 
toward the deep armchairs upholstered in cherry pink. She flung herself 
into one and stretched out a languid hand to the dark-haired man in the 
expensive suit. 

 

"Nigel, be a dear, sweet man, and check me in, will you?" 

 

"Of course, Fee, darling," Nigel said, with nannylike solicitness. He 
asked the woman on the other side of the desk. "Sweetheart, can someone 
get my friend there a drink? And one for me, too. It's so bloody hot 
here we're evaporating." 

 

"I'll have a waiter come by right away, sir," the young, black woman 
said, smiling. 

 

* * * 

 

It took Elizabeth a moment to sift the hotel clerk's words into a 
sentence she could understand. The honey-sweet, slurred accent was no 
easier to understand than broad Irish. The clerk behind the dark-
stained wooden desk picked up a phone and tucked it into the angle of 
her neck and shoulder while she flicked through the sheaf of 
reservation slips Nigel Peters handed to her. 

 

Yawning into her hand, Elizabeth stood back a little ways to keep an 
eye on Fionna while the group checked in. She'd get a room, take a 
quick shower to sluice off the grime of travel and wake herself up, 
then call in to HQ. It'd be nearly four A.M. at home. No one would be 
there, but the switchboard operator could take her message. She cringed 
at the notion of stepping back out into the saunalike atmosphere, but 
she needed to connect with solid earth. Now that she was back on the 
ground she needed to recharge her magical batteries. It would take 
special intervention to keep from falling asleep while she set up 
security for Fionna/Phoebe's room. A handsome porter in green livery 
and a white stock at his neck came over to smile and gesture toward her 
small suitcase. 

 

"I'll keep it, thanks," she said. He nodded and dipped his head in a 
little bow as he moved on to the next person in the party, the slim, 
balding man, who gestured toward a heap of document cases. 

 

A tall, good-looking blond man emerged with alacrity from the offices 
behind the desk and bore down upon Fionna, who had absorbed her first 
drink and was waiting for another. 

 

"Miss Kenmare!" he said. "I'm Boaz Johnson, the evening manager of the 
Royal Sonesta. How do you do?" 


 

"I'm well, thank you so much, dear man," Fionna said graciously, 
offering him a languid hand. 

 

Johnson beamed. "We're so happy you're here. We'll make sure your stay 
is just as comfortable as we can." 

 

"I'm sure you will, you dear man," Fionna said. "Nigel! Mr. Johnson, 
this is Mr. Peters, my manager. The two of you work out the knotty 
details, won't you?" 

 

"Why, of course," the manager said, shaking hands with Peters. "I'd be 
honored to take care of your arrangements personally." 

 

The pretty desk clerk smiled with a quirk of her head that might have 
been a shrug. Every Englishman loves a lord, Elizabeth thought wryly, 
and every American loves a celebrity. 

 

Elizabeth could not believe how hot it was in New Orleans. Intent on 
her mission she'd been almost oblivious to the first blast of steaming 
air as she had set foot outside the airport terminal. Compared to the 
interior of the air conditioned limousine, the street and the hotel 
lobby were sweltering. She picked at the sodden collar of her suit 
while she looked at the people around her. She'd never been to America 
before. All she knew about New Orleans was what she'd seen in movies 
like The Big Easy and Interview with the Vampire, both insufficient 
research, no matter how you looked at it, for the actual place. 

 

It was curious. In London, home of the punk movement, Fionna Kenmare's 
weird makeup stood out a mile. Here in New Orleans, she was just 
another passerby. On the drive through the French Quarter from the 
highway exit to the hotel, Elizabeth had already seen men with 
multiple-color-dyed hair, women wearing gaudy body painting and not 
much else, and at the last intersection, the limousines were halted to 
allow passage to an entire jazz band dressed in rose-colored suits, led 
by a man carrying a frilly parasol. The lobby was full of local color, 
too. Elegant businessmen and businesswomen rubbed shoulders with odd 
characters dressed in tie-dyed scarves and picturesque rags. 

 

Fionna received her second drink and her square plastic key, and rising 
to her feet with balletic grace hammered into her by lessons from Miss 
Felsham at Congreve School, swept toward the lifts, followed by the 
hulking form of Preston. Elizabeth started after her, her mind full of 
cantrips and hotel security codes. Peters caught up with her within a 
few steps. 

 

"Give the girl some privacy for a while, can't you?" he asked in a 
whisper, tucking his head down next to hers. "It's been a long flight." 

 

"I can't," Elizabeth said, just as quietly. "Not until this mission is 
over and she's safely back home." 

 

Peters sighed. "I figured not. Good enough. Look here, I'm putting your 
room next to hers. Second floor. Separated only by a wall, all right?" 
He held out a key to her. "On us. What do you say? Otherwise this lass 
can't guarantee you're even nearby. We've blocked the whole wing." 

 


"Very good of you," Elizabeth conceded, accepting it. She could almost 
certainly have bullied her way onto the same floor with the help of her 
American connection, wherever he was, but Elizabeth was grateful that 
Fionna's manager, at least, was cooperating willingly with 
Intelligence. It would make things far easier in the long run. She 
could save what was left of her energy for making security 
arrangements. Mr. Ringwall would probably be pleased at the cost 
savings. The room tariff was remarkably expensive, even by London 
standards. 

 

Preston, the security man, was still shooting daggers her way. Her very 
presence was an affront to him. Well, if he could scare away bogeys, 
she wouldn't be here! 

 

Her legs felt heavy and tired as she followed Fionna toward the lift 
alcove. She watched the singer saunter with ease, as if she had not 
been up all night, had not spent nine hours cramped in a plane. Of 
course, one of the two of them had been in a First Class couch, with 
attendants to rub her feet, while the other had been stuffed into a 
lightly-padded sardine can with two other people. Her old school chum, 
Elizabeth thought with amusement. Who'd have thought it? 

 

She was not the only person watching Fionna make her grand way through 
the lobby. Suddenly, one of the odd characters appeared at Elizabeth's 
elbow. He gave her an engaging grin. 

 

"One weird lookin' mama, ma'am," he said. Elizabeth gave him a weakly 
polite smile, and continued walking. Fionna vanished around one of the 
faux marble pillars flanking the far end of the lobby. Elizabeth 
hurried to catch up. 

 

"How long you think she takes on painting up every morning, huh?" the 
character persisted, striding alongside her. "Every little line like 
that takes time." 

 

"Look," Elizabeth said, spinning on her heel. She gave him the full 
headmistress's voice, starting low and threatening to rise to the 
painted plaster ceiling. "If you do not leave me alone I'll summon 
hotel security, and have you thrown out of here." She glanced toward 
the desk, where the young woman was already helping someone else to 
check in. 

 

"Oh, you don't want to do that, Liz," he said, shaking his head, 
stepping up so he was level with her. "Make things rougher for you and 
me." 

 

Liz? Elizabeth stared. "How do you know my name?" 

 

The man put out his hand. "Beauray Boudreau, ma'am. Call me Boo-Boo. 
I'm supposed to be working with you. Didn't they tell you?" 

 

"You?" she asked. The man had very intense blue eyes that beamed with 
sincerity and savvy. His sharp cheekbones and nose outlined a mouth 
that was thin-lipped but quick to smile. His wrists and neck were 
whipcord thin, and they disappeared into a disreputable, ragged hunting 
jacket that might once have been khaki. His jeans were untidy and 
threadbare, and he wore sneakers without any socks. His blond hair was 


very short, but the severe cut didn't lend him an iota of 
respectability. "You're with the FBI?" 

 

"Yes'm," he said. 

 

"Oh! Well, yes," Elizabeth said to this apparition, trying to collect 
her thoughts. "They did tell me there'd be someone working with me, but 
they didn't say what -- I mean, who." 

 

Boudreau laughed heartily. "Don't blame you none for being skittish. 
You're new around here. I know a lot of visitors think all of us 
Americans must be gangsters or hillbillies, but we're more than we 
seem. We're kinda used to it. Oh, by the way," he reached into one of 
the dozens of pockets that made up -- nearly held together -- the body 
of the hunting jacket. He presented her with a manila envelope that had 
been folded twice to fit in a pocket. "Here's your dossier. They said 
you'd be wantin' that first off." 

 

"Thank you," Elizabeth said, examining it surreptitiously to make 
certain there were no insects clinging to it. She glanced quickly back 
toward the reception desk to see if there was any reaction to her and 
her odd escort. No one was paying any attention. New Orleans must see 
people like Boudreau slope in and out every day. She started to open 
the envelope flap, keeping the edge close to herself so Boudreau 
couldn't see in. 

 

"Some mighty interestin' readin' in there," he continued, 
conversationally. "I'll just look forward to chewin' it over with you, 
when you've had a chance to clean up." 

 

Elizabeth noticed the adhesive strip had already been broken. She 
stared at him, outraged. Putting a finger in her pie without 
permission! "How dare you read my briefing before I do! I'll tell you 
what I think is appropriate for you to know." 

 

"Ah." Boudreau tipped his head back and half-lidded his eyes so they 
glinted with blue fire. He no longer looked like an innocent street 
lunatic. He looked like a fully aware and possibly dangerous street 
lunatic. "I'm so sorry, ma'am. I thought we was supposed to be sharin' 
information. I'll just be sure to remember that for gettin' you around 
the city and all, tellin' you only what you need to know." 

 

Elizabeth was instantly contrite, and wary. She didn't need to have his 
meaning spelled out for her. Cooperation. Hands across the water. 
Special relationship between Great Britain and the United States of 
America. She was in a strange city, and she needed this strange man to 
help her complete her mission. He knew it, and she knew it. She took a 
long breath. Time to start over. 

 

"I am so sorry," she said. "I am not thinking. I'm exhausted, and it's 
been a trying day. HQ threw me in at the deep end. I was assigned to 
this only just before the flight left." 

 

"And it's wrong of me to be so inhospitable," Boudreau said, bowing low 
so that the frayed end of his sleeve brushed her shoes. "We'll get your 
bag up to your room. You have a chance to wash up, and then we'll tell 
each other things." 


 

* * * 

 

"This is Mr. Boudreau. Mr. Boudreau, Mr. Nigel Peters," Elizabeth said, 
effecting introductions in the hotel bar an hour later. They had taken 
a very private table in the Mystic Den, and she had searched it 
carefully, using the bug detector from Q Division, her training from 
OOPSI, and native talent inherited from her grandmother. 

 

"Call me Boo-Boo," the American agent said, shaking hands with both of 
them. He had a grip like a bench vise, Elizabeth thought, carefully 
counting her fingers when she got her hand back. "I'm what you might 
call a free-lancer for the Bureau, Department BBB." 

 

Elizabeth felt her brows go up. "A free-lance agent?" 

 

Boo-Boo leaned back in the elegant brocade-covered chair, looking like 
a bedraggled cat toy at a cotillion ball. "Works out good for all of 
us, ma'am. I got some trainin' from the best people down here; an 
interest of mine, even a natural talent, you might say." A meaningful 
glint from those very blue eyes, and Elizabeth thought she understood. 
"The Department can use that, and they don't have to keep a permanent 
office. That's good for their budget. They keep me on retainer, and 
that does me some good. I keep an eye on things for them down here, and 
they call me when they need me. I'm a sworn agent." 

 

"Yes, well," Peters said, clearing his throat. He lit another cigarette 
off the end of the first and stubbed out the butt. Elizabeth could tell 
he didn't have much confidence in the American's professionalism. 
Neither did she, for that matter, but necessity ruled in this case. 

 

"I think we oughta go over security arrangements," Boo-Boo said. He 
pointed at the envelope at Elizabeth's left hand. "We don't need to 
discuss what's in there. All of us already know." 

 

The British agent nodded. She had read the dossier while changing 
clothes in her charmingly elegant room, and then got immediately to 
work. Everything that she had guessed was confirmed by the confidential 
briefing. Lord Kendale was concerned for his daughter's safety, based 
on Fionna/Phoebe's complaints of magical attacks. He would not, could 
not dismiss them, and neither should the agency. The report had been 
updated while she was on the plane. 

 

The one thing about the case that Mr. Ringwall had not mentioned that 
really worried Elizabeth was that there had been an MI-5 agent assigned 
to the Kenmare group before her. Twenty-four hours before, he had been 
found wandering half-naked up Dublin's Grafton Street, babbling about 
little people -- odd, but not inexplicable. The agent's . . . 
indisposition was the reason Elizabeth had been sent on in such haste. 
There still was no explanation as to what had struck him mad in the 
middle of the Dublin shopping district. Tests so far had turned up no 
traces of drugs or physical trauma. Elizabeth gulped. The mission was 
already sounding more dangerous than she had feared. Was she up to a 
mission like this? Peters and Boudreau were both studying her, waiting 
for her input. She must continue to present a professional mien, no 
matter what. 

 


"MI-5 has no conclusive information as to the source of the attacks on 
Ms. Kenmare," Elizabeth said, "but we are prepared to protect her to 
the extent of our powers." 

 

"Us, too," Boo-Boo said. "Even if it turns out to be a wild goose 
chase. Better that than real trouble, although my superiors won't like 
it much." 

 

"Look," the manager said tentatively, eyeing them, "I don't know what 
I'm getting into now. I don't want two governments angry at Fionna, but 
I don't want her hurt, either. Do you think the things that are 
happening are real, or not?" 

 

The two agents exchanged glances. 

 

"Won't know until they strike again," Boo-Boo said. "We've got to keep 
an open mind about that until we see for ourselves." 

 

"Whether the attacks are of paranormal origin or not," Elizabeth said, 
"if we are to believe her, and I am inclined to do so, someone or 
something has targeted Fionna Kenmare." 

 

"Right," said Peters grimly. "Then, security's the main concern." 

 

"Right," Elizabeth echoed. She accepted a gin and tonic from the 
waiter, and paused until he was out of earshot. She turned to Boo-Boo. 
"You already know how many people are with the party. Three band 
members, twelve permanent roadies, Mr. Peters here, her personal 
bodyguard, publicist, special effects woman, technical director, the 
costumer, and the makeup artist. None of them appear to have any 
connections with the United States other than professional contacts in 
the business, particularly Michael Scott, who is known as the 
Guitarchangel. He had quite an independent career going earlier in the 
decade, two platinum albums, and all," Elizabeth finished hastily, 
lowering her face so the others couldn't see it. She had hardly had to 
refer to her notes for Michael. She'd been a big fan for years. Working 
in proximity to him was going to be distracting. 

 

"The keyboard player, Eddie Vincent, was well known in the American 
group Skywatch, a Christian rock band. He began to play with Fee -- 
Fionna around five years ago." Better be careful about her old friend's 
secret identity. There was no telling whether she had enraged someone 
by her masquerade as a starving Irish waif and what they might do if 
they found out she was no such thing. "Voe Lockney's only been with her 
for two years. He replaced her last drummer . . ." 

 

"Former boyfriend," Nigel said, dismissively. "They broke up, and he 
couldn't handle being around her. Too bad. He was stellar." 

 

"How many other newcomers?" Boo-Boo asked. 

 

"Because of the labor laws, we've had to hire most of our backup staff 
here in the States," Nigel said, taking a healthy gulp of his drink. 
"It's all I've spent the last three weeks doing. Six musicians, three 
backup singers, a couple dozen grips and technicians. They're really 
out of the picture. Most of them haven't even met Fee yet. They've been 
working with our stage manager, who's been here on site for a week with 


most of our techs. Only the key personnel flew in with us this 
evening." 

 

Elizabeth dismissed the newcomers from her calculations. If they'd had 
no contact with Fionna Kenmare in Dublin, they could not have been 
responsible for the previous attacks, or the mysterious indisposition 
of the other agent. 

 

"The costumer," Elizabeth read from her jottings, "Thomas Fitzgibbon, 
came to her from the West End theater scene. Did a lot of work for 
Andrew Lloyd Webber's Really Useful Company. Kenneth Lewis, lighting 
engineer. A New Yorker, he last worked in some off-Broadway theaters. 
Laura Manning, the makeup artist, is also from the West End. The 
special effects designer is a woman, too, Roberta Unterburger." 

 

"Call her Robbie. She hates Roberta," the publicist advised. 

 

"Yes," Elizabeth said, writing it down. "She's from Marin County, 
California, three years ago. They've all been with her for at least two 
years, predating the first attack by at least fifteen months." 

 

"We didn't hear anything from our end, either," Boo-Boo said. "Any 
problems on your end, Nigel?" 

 

"None," the manager said. He leaned forward, placing his open hands 
palms up on the table in appeal. "They're all good people. They like 
being part of the Fionna phenom. She's got something special. People 
gravitate towards her. She's been sort of protected by her fans." 

 

"It sounds as if someone loony has broken through that cordon," 
Elizabeth said, matter-of-factly. "Possibly someone with special 
abilities. That's yet to be determined. I'm here to see that nothing 
more happens." 

 

"What can you do?" Peters asked, his fists closing reflexively. 
Elizabeth shook her head. 

 

"If someone tries to get to her again, we can detect him, or her, or 
it. I've examined her room. There are four doors to the suite itself, 
the one from the hallway on each floor, and one from the suite to a 
balcony and the pool on the third floor. One of those doors leads into 
my room, and I'm prepared to repel attacks. I've seen to it the other 
doors are securely locked, and warded." 

 

"What'd you use to ward?" Boo-Boo asked. 

 

Elizabeth eyed him, wondering just how far she could trust him. "Who 
brought you in?" she asked, suddenly. 

 

Peters looked from one to the other, puzzled. "The FBI brought him in, 
you know that." 

 

"No, that's not what she means." Boo-Boo gave her that easy smile, his 
eyes glinting. He understood. "She wants to know how I qualify to ask 
her questions." He leaned over so that his mouth was close to 
Elizabeth's ear. "A welcoming woman who smiles," he told her. She 
closed her eyes, relieved, and continued the litany. 


 

"Where was it?" she whispered. 

 

"In the heart of the world," Boo-Boo said, formally. 

 

"Where was the moon?" 

 

"Shining over our heads. And her name was Elmira." 

 

"All right," Elizabeth said, relaxing. She recognized the name. Boo-Boo 
was not only qualified to help the department, he knew something about 
her grandmother's ancient tradition of magic as well. It would be 
easier to confide in him, because she wouldn't be breaking solemn oaths 
to tell him. She sat up. "I'm so sorry," she told the manager. 
"Department business. I used an . . . Earth-Fire ward, tapping into the 
hotel's electrical system." 

 

Peters looked bewildered, but Boo-Boo nodded. If he was up on New 
Forest magic, he'd have recognized the reference to a Ward of Vulcan, 
from the Trilistene Grimoire of 1585, with modern variations that 
obviated the need to burn charcoal or use a focusing lens to provide 
the fire power. 

 

"That'd give anything trying to pass it a mighty hotfoot," he said 
approvingly. "I mighta put down an Earth-Water combo, but that could 
get messy. What about the windows?" 

 

"No problem. I left them so they can still open -- it's so bloody hot 
in this city -- but air's the only thing they'll let in." 

 

Boo-Boo grinned. "You should see it come summer, ma'am. This is just 
warming up." 

 

Nigel Peters reflexively unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. "Warm! If 
it were any hotter you'd have to mop me off the pavement." 

 

Elizabeth referred to her notes again. "There wasn't time to bring much 
from the department, so what I have with me is rather a hodgepodge of 
government equipment and personal tools. What OOPSI does run to is a 
decent line of general issue psychic monitors. I've left some concealed 
amongst Fionna's personal effects to warn us if anyone is staging an 
attack using her own possessions. I've also been down to the kitchen to 
arrange for food analysis before any room service order is taken up to 
the suite. The only employees who will have contact with any of the 
band or the stage crew will be ones I have vetted personally. You can't 
concentrate on the arcane and overlook the mundane. Have I missed 
anything?" 

 

Boo-Boo's slow smile spread across his face. "No, ma'am. You're plenty 
efficient." 

 

With a smile for the compliment, Elizabeth read off the last of her 
shorthand notes. "And, finally, escorts to and from the New Orleans 
Superdome. I'll need the limousines here at least twenty minutes ahead 
of time to examine them for traps or tricks." 

 

"As you wish," Peters said. "But that's not until tomorrow. Fee's 


itinerary doesn't have her doing anything until the morning, and that's 
just publicity. I'll have the cars here for you to inspect ahead of 
time. No trouble there. Until then, there's nothing more for us to do. 
She'll be perfectly safe here in the hotel overnight." 

 

"Oh, I don't know about that," Boo-Boo interrupted them, rocking his 
chair back and forth on its rear legs. "While I was waiting for you all 
to come down, I saw her and that big fellah turn out the door and light 
out down Bourbon Street." 

 

"What?" Elizabeth and Nigel exclaimed in unison, leaping to their feet. 
Boo-Boo didn't move. 

 

"Why didn't you stop them?" Elizabeth demanded, staring down at him. If 
this was an example of American agents, then they were sloppy, 
haphazard, and careless. No wonder they were always having troubles 
over here. 

 

"Nothing strange by me," Boo-Boo said, looking up at them with a hurt 
expression. "Most folks who come to town want to see the Quarter, and 
all. Plenty of interesting night life. Finest music in the world. Any 
bar you go into probably has at least one live musician. Usually a 
band." 

 

Elizabeth felt herself swaying slightly with exhaustion. "But it's past 
twelve," she said. "The bars will be closing." 

 

Boo-Boo shook his head. "Ma'am, bars around here don't close until at 
least dawn. Some of 'em don't open until midnight." 

 

"We've got to catch up with them!" Elizabeth had a vision of Ringwall's 
ruddy face turning more purple than usual. "Right now!" 

 

Boo-Boo rose slowly to his feet, shaking his head at the haste with 
which out-of-towners seemed to move. 

 

"Well, all right, ma'am. Whatever you want." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6 

 

Elizabeth had barely taken three steps outside before she was drenched 
in sweat. The heat and humidity of New Orleans wrapped itself around 
her like a hot, wet blanket, all prevailing and merciless. 

 

Pausing in an attempt to orient herself while fighting off a sudden 
wave of dizziness, she turned to her companion, only to find him 
chatting with the doorman she had passed without really noticing. 

 

"Hey, Boo!" the uniformed man said. "How ya doin', man? Ah didn't see 
you come in." 

 


"Came in off Conti," Beauray was saying, all the while exchanging a 
bewildering series of handshakes and palm slappings with him. "No sense 
fightin' the crowds if you can walk inside." 

 

"You got that right!" the doorman responded, throwing his head back in 
an exaggerated laugh. 

 

"How's that pretty lady of yours these days?" 

 

"Mean as a snake, and that's a fact!" 

 

"Umm. Mr. Boudreau?" Elizabeth began. "I hate to interrupt, but . . ." 

 

"Be right with you, darlin'," Boo said, holding up one finger in 
restraint. "Say, Willie. Did you see a cute little thing come out of 
here a while back? Green hair?" 

 

"Hard to miss her," the doorman said, nodding. "She and the folks she 
was with headed up Bourbon towards St. Anne. Lookin' to party would be 
my guess." 

 

He made an offhand gesture to indicate the direction. 

 

"'Preciate it, man," Boo said, holding up his hand for a parting palm 
slap. "Got to roll, now. You tell your lady that Boo said, 'Hey,' 
hear?" 

 

"Later, Boo!" the man said, waving, then returned to his duties with an 
aloof, deadpan expression. 

 

"Sorry 'bout the delay," Beauray said, putting a hand lightly on 
Elizabeth's back and steering her into the street. "I figured it would 
be worth the time to be sure we was lookin' in the right direction." 

 

Thus began one of the strangest, most memorable walks of Elizabeth's 
life. 

 

The world-famous Bourbon Street was closed to vehicular traffic at this 
hour, but was nonetheless choked with pedestrians. At first, Elizabeth 
was overwhelmed by a kaleidoscope of apparently random noise, music and 
lights. 

 

"NO cover charge! NO minimum drinks!" 

 

" . . . feelin' tomorrow, just like I feel today!" 

 

"Spare change?" 

 

"Oooh, Darlin'! Lookin' GOOD!" 

 

" . . . Can't touch this!" 

 

"Lucky Dogs! Get your Lucky Dogs! Right here!" 

 

Within the first block or so, however, a certain order became apparent 
to her in the seeming chaos. 

 


Most of the crowd were tourists or sightseers. They traveled in groups 
or pairs, lugging their cameras or hand-cams with them like identifying 
badges. While some of them wore three-piece suits that marked them as 
conventioneers, the majority were decked out casually in shorts, new T-
shirts sporting New Orleans designs ranging from the silly to the 
obscene, and some of the most ridiculous hats it had ever been her 
misfortune to see. They moved at a leisurely pace, stopping often to 
look in windows, listen to the music radiating forth from various bars, 
or to take pictures of each other standing next to street signs, the 
little tap dancing kids, or even trash cans. 

 

"Table dances! World famous love acts! NO cover charge!" 

 

"Crawfish! Best eating in the Quarter!" 

 

" . . . Hey now. Jump in the river now . . ." 

 

"ICE cold. Get your ICE cold Coca-Cola here!" 

 

In the space of a few blocks they had walked from Conti, Bourbon Street 
featured at least eight bars with live bands and/or singers, eight more 
with recorded music blaring from speakers, six shops featuring exotic 
dancing or other delights ("wash the girl of your choice!"), more than 
twelve souvenir shops selling masks and feather boas, coffee and 
beignet mixes in yellow cans, hot sauce with health warnings printed on 
the labels, metallic-covered plastic beads in a rainbow of colors, and 
the ubiquitous tasteless T-shirts. Every one of the shops overflowed 
with tourists. 

 

Overhead on the first- and second-floor balconies (second and third 
floors here in the U.S.; Elizabeth realized they counted things 
differently here), stood crowds of men and women brandishing plastic 
cups full of beer. People in the dense crowd below shouted up to them, 
and threw bead necklaces up to the women on the balconies. When one 
flushed girl in her twenties had collected an armful of necklaces, she 
hiked her shirt up to her neck. She wasn't wearing anything underneath 
it. The crowd erupted in cheers of joy. New Orleans was more wide open 
than Elizabeth had ever dreamed. 

 

This part of the city resembled an undermaintained amusement park. 
Worn, broken pavement, cracking paint, wrought iron twisted like lace 
and painted in muted colors. Men held up signs that advertised psychic 
readings, draft beers for $1.00, or that the end was near. Walls 
sported unexpectedly bright colors, yellow, purple, moss green, 
Venetian red. Buildings proudly displayed brass or ceramic plaques 
describing their origins, name, function, and first owners often dating 
back two hundred years or more. London could take a cue from the Big 
Easy's excellence of labelling. World War II had been over for more 
than half a century, yet the city seemed still to be trying to 
misdirect invading Nazis. 

 

There were others in the crowd besides tourists. Some, like the shills 
outside the restaurants and topless bars or the couples selling roses 
from pushcarts, were obviously workers, not unlike the mounted, 
uniformed police who sat at each intersection like watchtowers in the 
flow of humanity. More subtle were the gaudily-dressed individuals who 
strutted stylishly up and down the street, stopping occasionally to 


pose for pictures with the tourists in exchange for tips. Also workers, 
but self-employed, not salaried. Then, there were what could only be 
thought of as "locals," making their way through the crowds with bags 
of groceries or baskets of laundry, obviously running household errands 
even at this late hour. It was an interesting reminder that the French 
Quarter of New Orleans was a functioning community where people lived 
and worked, rather than a planned, constructed amusement park. 

 

Even more noticeable to Elizabeth, however, was that of this latter, 
non-tourist population, it seemed that at least two out of every three 
knew her escort. 

 

"BOO-RAY! What's happenin', man?" 

 

"Hey, Boo! Where y'at, bro?" 

 

"Boo, darlin'! When you comin' by again?" 

 

Every five or six steps, Boudreau was pausing to wave at someone or to 
exchange handshakes or greetings. Despite her impatience to be on their 
mission, Elizabeth could not help but be impressed with how well-known 
Beauray was, though she was a bit taken aback by the volume of the 
hailings . . . by both meanings. That is, they were not only numerous, 
they were loud! 

 

People down here seemed to do all their conversing, not to mention 
their casual greetings, at the top of their lungs. If they happened to 
be across the street, on one of the everpresent wrought-iron balconies, 
or half a block away, it didn't really matter. They just reared back 
and shouted a little louder, neither minding nor caring that dozens of 
total strangers were forced to listen in to every word. It was 
completely different than anything in England, even in weekend street 
markets. Elizabeth put the fault down to the French influence that had 
founded New Orleans in the first place. 

 

"Do you think we'll be able to find them?" Elizabeth said, making an 
effort to wrench Beauray's focus away from his friends and back onto 
her and their assignment. 

 

"That depends. Do you happen to know if the folks we're lookin' for 
have eaten recently?" Beauray asked, leaning close to her so she could 
hear him over the street racket. 

 

"Not really, no," Elizabeth said. "Why?" 

 

"Well, it'll be rough findin' 'em if they've holed up in a restaurant 
somewheres," he said. "There're almost as many restaurants as bars in 
the Quarter, and it's hard to see into most of them from the street. If 
they're just wanderin' or stoppin' off once in a while for a drink, we 
should be able to find 'em with no problem." 

 

"They seemed to have virtually ongoing food service in First Class, but 
that was hours ago," Elizabeth said. "I don't know what they had to eat 
up there, but the food in Economy Class was pretty ghastly. I ended up 
making do with a few candy bars, myself . . ." 

 

Beauray halted in his tracks and cocked his head at her. 


 

"Is that what's wrong?" he asked. "I must be goin' crazy, forgettin' my 
manners like that. Here I am draggin' you up and down the street, and 
all the while it never occurred to me to ask if you was hungry. I 
thought you were lookin' a mite peaked." 

 

"I'm not really all that hungry," Elizabeth protested, embarrassed by 
the sudden attentiveness. "I don't think my stomach will catch up with 
me until tomorrow." 

 

Beauray squinted at her, the blue laser beams boring into her eyes. 
"You sure?" 

 

"I'm fine. Really," she insisted, though touched by his concern. "Tell 
you what. If it will make you feel better, I'll have another candy bar. 
They do sell them here, don't they?" she asked, playfully. 

 

Beauray studied her for a moment, then shrugged. 

 

"Well, as soon as your stomach catches up with you, you've got to 
promise to let me treat you to some of our fine N'Awlins cookin'. In 
the meantime, though, if it's a candy bar you want, I've got just the 
thing for you." 

 

Taking her by the elbow, he steered her off the street and through the 
door of one of the numerous T-shirt shops that prospered between the 
bars and dance clubs. 

 

The icy blast of the shop's air conditioning was such a welcome relief 
from the saunalike streets that for a moment Elizabeth thought 
seriously of asking Beauray to continue the search alone while she 
waited here. A few breaths later, however, her sense of duty and her 
companion returned to her at the same time. 

 

"Here. Try one of these." 

 

He thrust a cellophane envelope into her hands, containing what looked 
for all the world like a light brown cow pat . . . from an unhealthy 
cow. 

 

"What is it?" she asked, trying to keep the suspicion out of her voice. 

 

"They're called pralines," he said. "It's a favorite candy in these 
parts. Go ahead and try it. They're good." 

 

Unable to think of a graceful evasion, Elizabeth unwrapped his offering 
and took a cautious bite. 

 

It was heaven! 

 

Like most of her countrymen, Elizabeth had an incredible sweet tooth, 
and the candy she was now sampling was like nothing she had ever had 
before. It tasted almost like pure turbinado sugar, but with a smoother 
texture; like a very sweet toffee, but soft, and had a goodly dollop of 
chopped pecans mounded in the center. 

 

"Are you sure you wouldn't like something more solid to eat?" 


 

Beauray's voice brought her back to her senses, and she realized 
guiltily that she had wolfed down almost the entire praline in a very 
few bites. 

 

"No. This is fine," she said hastily. "You're right. They're quite 
good." 

 

Her companion frowned at her for a moment more, then shrugged. 

 

"All right. If you say so," he said. "I surely do want to see you some 
time when you do have an appetite, though." 

 

Elizabeth was inwardly writhing with embarrassment over her brief 
display of gluttony as they made their way back out onto the street. 
She was not, however, so uncomfortable as to fail to mark the location 
of the store in her mind. Before her stay in New Orleans was over, she 
planned to stock up on a few boxes of those pralines. Delicately, she 
licked her fingers, and smiled blithely at Beauray. Maybe they even had 
a mail order business so she could order more from England. A few of 
these would go a long way toward sweetening Ringwall's sour temper when 
she gave her expense report. 

 

* * * 

 

Music, music was everywhere in this city. Fee drifted from door to 
door, borne on an energy wave that carried her along the street without 
feeling its cobbles under her feet. The crowds were thick, but no one 
bumped into her. Fee found herself walking to the beat of the music 
pouring out of doorways, down from balconies, unexpectedly around 
corners from impromptu groups who had sat down wherever the muse had 
struck them, never paying attention to the people passing by. She might 
have been alone in this mob of people who were simply enjoying 
themselves. 

 

She almost wished she was. 

 

"Wait up," panted Robbie-cursed-Unterburger, striding to catch up with 
Fee and Lloyd on her short little legs. They'd almost lost her in the 
last crowd clustered around the entrance to a blues bar. They hadn't, 
more's the pity. 

 

All of them were toddling along back there, her band, Green Fire, and 
her chief techies, but Fee resented Robbie most of all. She was so wet. 
The girl wanted to get close to Lloyd, and it killed her that she 
couldn't. You could see the pain and frustration in her eyes. Too bad. 
Lloyd belonged to Fee. Such a hunk, and so good when it counted. Like 
later on, if the music continued to turned her on as it was doing right 
now. 

 

The blare of horns and pounding of drums and pianos pouring out of 
storefronts interrupted the eternal argument going on between the 
members of the band. They were always getting into it. You would never 
know that they were the best of friends, the way they sniped. It was as 
though Fee had three little brothers, though every one of the men was 
older than she. She was their leader, literally, figuratively and 
spiritually. She liked to think of herself as guiding them -- although 


this was where she and Eddie disagreed the most. He could be so . . . 
Christian sometimes, positively pushing all the guilt buttons from her 
Church of England upbringing. 

 

She let the sounds of New Orleans carry her along. This was so 
primevally strong, almost cavemanlike, smooth and rough at the same 
time, like the best whisky. The music filled her head. She scarcely 
felt the pavement under her feet. She breathed it in like the air, 
letting it take her where it willed. 

 

"Let's go in somewhere," Fitzgibbon protested. 

 

"No, Fitzy," Fee said, holding up her hand like an Indian scout. "Not 
until I find the right place." 

 

"I want a drink," Voe said. 

 

"You always want a drink," Eddie complained. He was such a Puritan, 
worse than Lizzie Mayfield. How very strange to have her appear out of 
nowhere. It was like old times having her around. How things had 
changed. Back then, they were earnest young women trying to earn 
degrees, and pretty good friends, really. Now Fee was rich and famous, 
and Liz was -- what, a spy? But they still had something in common: 
magic. Fee pouted. Not that Liz truly believed in the connection. Not 
yet. But she would. 

 

"Come on, my feet hurt," Pat Jones, the publicist, complained, falling 
a few feet behind on the narrow pavement. Some of the others joined in 
the grumbling. 

 

"Enough!" Michael ordered them, spinning around quick as a snake 
striking. "You know there's no hurrying her." 

 

A long way off, a plaintive note rang in the hot, moist air. Fionna 
raised her head, like a hunting dog hearing the horn. She smiled at the 
faint sound. "That way," she said. 

 

* * * 

 

It may have been due to the sugar rush from the pralines, or just that 
she was starting to relax a bit in this new, strange environment, but 
soon after merging onto the street again, Elizabeth found herself 
seeing the Quarter in a whole new light. To be accurate, she found 
herself feeling it differently. 

 

There was an energy here, a pulse of life that blended with the beat of 
the ever-present music, at the same time exciting and relaxing. Attuned 
to Earth Magic as she was, Elizabeth was startled to find herself 
involuntarily drawing power from the streets . . . something that she 
rarely if ever could do in a city. She had been prepared for New 
Orleans to be different, even frightening. This new aspect, however, 
took her completely by surprise. 

 

"My grandma and your grandma . . . Sittin' by the fire . . ." 

 

"Gotta cigarette, man?" 

 


"Carriage rides! Right here, folks!" 

 

Even the scattered fragments of music and street pitches were taking on 
a different sound to her. Rather than sounding like random noise, they 
were like the fleeting bird calls in a heavily wooded area. True, they 
were still uncomfortably loud, but no longer the jarring, almost 
threatening cacophony it had seemed at first. She would have liked to 
relax and enjoy the experience, if not for the fact they still hadn't 
found Fionna. 

 

"Either we've missed 'em, or they turned off somewhere," Boo said, 
coming to a sudden halt. "Let's double back and see if we can sniff out 
their trail." 

 

Elizabeth realized they had reached the end of the brightly lit section 
of Bourbon Street. Beyond where they stood, the bars and shops gave way 
to shadowy private dwellings and dark storefronts. Definitely not an 
area she would choose to walk in alone at this time of night, and 
therefore a doubtful section in which to look for their wayward 
charges. 

 

Nodding her agreement, she turned and let Beauray lead her back the way 
they had come. 

 

He was still pausing occasionally to talk to people on the street, but 
now she was seeing more of a pattern to it. Some people who hailed 
them, he simply waved to without breaking stride. A few he would 
deviate from their path to approach by himself with greetings or 
questions. Only rarely in their stops would he introduce her to 
whomever he was speaking to, like the slender black man with a 
feathered cowboy hat and a carved, decorated walking staff, or the 
short, heavyset woman wearing a voluminous dress and long, braided 
hair. Amidst all the apparent freewheeling casualness of the Quarter, 
she could now see there was a closely defined pecking order. In many 
ways, the loud, raucous greetings masked a very subtle rendering of 
passing honors and acknowledgment of status. From what she could see, 
her companion was generally held in high regard in this colorful, 
close-knit community. With this awareness came a new resolve on her 
part to take closer note of those he made a point of introducing her 
to. 

 

* * * 

 

Close to the river, the mist swirling around their feet in the yellow 
lamplight, Fee heard the mellow strains of a fiddle and the plunk of a 
guitar swim up through the constant undercurrent of jazz pouring out of 
the storefronts. It was an omen. Irish music welcoming her to New 
Orleans. An omen. Fee was a great believer in portents. She turned 
right into a brick arcade. The flyers and maps on the cool walls 
definitely spoke of Fenian sympathies. Little pamphlets advertised 
talks by noted Irish philosophers and historians, as well as 
performances by Celtic musical groups. 

 

Halfway between the entrance and a white fountain in a courtyard were 
two doors. To the left she saw a bar, with men in T-shirts watching a 
television set. It was from the right that the music was coming. 

 


She pushed open the door just as the lights in the large room were 
coming up. A handsome, brown-haired man was sitting in the stage area 
with the guitar on his lap, singing in a warm tenor a song full of 
poignant longing. From the door, Fee joined in, lifting her high clear 
voice even over the amplified instruments of the rest of the players. 
The musicians stopped, surprised. The house lights came up, 
illuminating the bright green hair and black silk tunic blouse of the 
woman at the door. A murmur ran through the audience as they recognized 
her and the band. 

 

"Mind if we sit in?" Fee asked. 

 

* * * 

 

"I think we've got 'em, now." 

 

Beauray turned from a quick conversation with one of the corner hot dog 
vendors. 

 

"According to Steve, here, they headed down Toulouse toward the river. 
Says he didn't see 'em stop at the Dungeon or Molly's, so I think I've 
got a pretty good idea of where they're goin'." 

 

He gently took her elbow in his hand and steered her through the crowds 
on the sidewalk and down one of the side streets that crossed Bourbon. 

 

It was remarkable. A scant half block off Bourbon, the whole makeup of 
the streets changed. Instead of crowds and music, bars and souvenir 
shops, the atmosphere was quiet nearly to the point of being 
meditative. There was only a light scattering of people, mostly walking 
slowly in couples or sitting on balconies talking in low tones. The 
streets were lined with clothing stores displaying handpainted fashions 
in the windows, small, comfortable-looking restaurants, and lots and 
lots of antique shops. Still, the energy she had felt on Bourbon was 
present, only mellower and more low-key. 

 

She finally remarked on this to Beauray. "I'm surprised," she said. "I 
wouldn't have expected to find a creative power like this in such a 
famous tourist area." 

 

"Oh, it's here, all right," Boo said, seeming pleased that she'd 
noticed. "It's my personal belief that a lotta folks are drawn here 
because of the spiritual energies, whether they know it or not. It's 
probably why we have so many writers and artists livin' here, not to 
mention all the musicians." 

 

He gestured back the way they came. 

 

"'Bout five or six blocks from here is Congo Square where Marie Leveau 
used to hold her big voodoo celebrations. Two blocks to our left is 
Jackson Square and the St. Michael's cathedral, that the pope visited 
back in the '80s when he was tourin' the U.S. And, of course, there's 
the river." 

 

"The river?" 

 

"The Mississippi River," Beauray said, with a smile. "The biggest in 


the U.S. It's about two blocks ahead of us now. If it were daytime, you 
could hear the calliope music from the paddle-wheelers playin'. I'll 
tell you, New Orleans is full of history and ghosts, but where I feel 
the energies most is standin' up on the Moonwalk there and watchin' the 
river roll by. That water has more history and energy in it than we can 
ever hope to imagine or draw on." 

 

Their quiet conversation was interrupted by a group of noisy youths who 
rounded the corner heading toward Bourbon, laughing loudly and 
brandishing their plastic cups while supporting a comrade between them 
who appeared to be unconscious or grievously ill. 

 

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose in distaste as she watched them pass. 

 

"Doesn't that bother you?" she asked. "I'd think the people who live 
here would be outraged at the number of tourists who just come here to 
drink." 

 

Beauray glanced back at the group as if seeing them for the first time. 

 

"Naw. They're just havin' fun," he said. "You see, folks come here to 
have a good time. If they drink a little too much or sing their way 
down the street, it's no real problem, so long as they aren't hurtin' 
anyone. Besides, tourist dollars are what keep the Quarter green. If 
you think that's bad, you should see this place durin' Mardi Gras." 

 

"If you say so," Elizabeth said. "I'm still surprised at how tolerant 
everyone seems to be." 

 

Her companion threw back his head and laughed. 

 

"Heck, the French Quarter has a history of nearly two hundred years of 
carousing, kept women, pirates and duels. It's a little late for us to 
start pointin' fingers, don't you think?" 

 

Not knowing quite what to say to that, Elizabeth changed the subject. 

 

"Where is it exactly we're going?" she asked. 

 

"Well, knowin' the general direction they headed, I'm playin' a hunch," 
Boo said. "There's an Irish pub just up ahead called O'Flaherty's. It 
has live music . . . very ethnic -- Celtic -- and the entertainers are 
real friendly about invitin' other singers up on stage with 'em. I'm 
bettin' that if your crew is lookin' to have a drink, it's a natural 
place for them to stop." 

 

Almost as if summoned by his words, the faint sound of guitar music 
reached them, followed closely by a ringing female voice raised in 
song. 

 

"I think you're right," Elizabeth said, quickening her step. "That's 
Phoebe . . . I mean, Fionna's voice now. I'd recognize it any -- " 

 

She broke off suddenly and came to an abrupt halt as the lyrics of the 
song became clearer. 

 

"But my sons have sons . . ." 


 

"What is it?" Boo asked, peering at her carefully. 

 

Elizabeth said nothing, but stood listening in frozen outrage until the 
last few lines of the song had finished, to be replaced by enthusiastic 
applause. 

 

"Are you okay?" her companion pressed. 

 

"It's nothing," she said finally, shaking her head. "It's just . . . 
that song. It's an old IRA song. Very seditious. It's called 'Four 
Green Fields,' and it talks about the Irish rebellion, essentially 
promising that it will never end. Considering how many people have died 
in Northern Ireland, both Irish and English, it's generally considered 
to be in poor taste and is seldom sung publicly. I'm surprised that 
it's something Fionna would sing." 

 

Or, more accurately, that Phoebe would sing, she thought, but held her 
silence on that score. 

 

"I guess we're a bit more liberal about our singin' over here," Beauray 
said, obviously uncomfortable. "I'm sorry if it upset you. If it makes 
you feel any better, folks sing songs about pert' near anything around 
here, includin' our own wars." 

 

"As I was sittin' by the fire . . . Talkin' to O'Reilly's daughter . . 
." 

 

The music had started again, but this time it was a bouncy drinking 
song. 

 

"It's nothing, really," Elizabeth said, forcing a smile. "Come on. 
Let's go in and join them." 

 

As they sat at the bar in the back of the club keeping a leisurely eye 
on their charges at play, however, Elizabeth found it wasn't as easy as 
she hoped to shrug off the shock of hearing Phoebe Kendale singing that 
inflammatory song. How could people do that, she asked herself over and 
over again, dwell on bitterness and hurt? Peace was being negotiated in 
the province, to the delight and relief of both sides. Why constantly 
encourage people to vengeance and killing when the same energies could 
be channeled into healing and calming? 

 

The warm energy she had been feeling while walking through the Quarter 
had fled. Instead, she felt cold and alone, despite the people at the 
tables and her companion sitting next to her. She tried to be glad that 
Fee was safe. Her old friend was very good at what she did. Funny how 
their lives had taken such different turnings. Fee's couldn't be more 
public, and Elizabeth's couldn't be more private, but there they were, 
joined together because of magic. She frowned. 

 

"She's safe here," Boo said, only slightly misinterpreting her 
thoughts. "You don't have to worry about anything gettin' at her in 
here." 

 

"I know," Elizabeth said distractedly. She pushed aside her feelings of 
discontent and concentrated on her job instead. The place was safe. How 


Fee had chosen it Liz couldn't say, but there was a measure of 
benevolent magic cast over the bar. They played fine music, and the 
drinks were good, too. The only disturbance present was what she had 
brought along with her. 

 

* * * 

 

Long after midnight, the group staggered out of O'Flaherty's and turned 
down Toulouse heading back toward the faint thread of music on Bourbon 
Street. Elizabeth had tried several times to beard Fionna/Phoebe, but 
the singer had been on stage with the musicians almost nonstop. On the 
way back to the hotel, Elizabeth tried getting her attention. 

 

"Fee, listen to me," Elizabeth said. "You must stay put in the hotel in 
between rehearsals. It's for your own safety." 

 

The other woman paid little attention. She was tripping along on air. 
Her performance had been a triumph. Another good omen for New Orleans. 
She was so glad she'd come. 

 

"Fee!" 

 

"It's Ms. Kenmare to you, Mata Hari," Lloyd said, nastily. 

 

"She . . . she gave me permission to call her by her first name," 
Elizabeth said, keeping her promise to Phoebe in mind. Lloyd might have 
overheard their earlier conversation at the airport, but there was no 
reason to let all the city know Fee's secret. The streets were by no 
means empty even at that late hour. "Fee, you can't go walkabout in a 
strange place. What if something had happened?" 

 

"Something did happen," Fionna/Phoebe said, seizing Lloyd's hand and 
swinging it like a child. "I was great! We were all great. I had a 
wonderful time. Didn't we, boys?" she called over her shoulder. No one 
answered her. Voe looked like he had a headache. Eddie grimaced 
disapprovingly, and Michael was above it all, striding along with a 
proprietary glance in each of the establishments they passed as though 
sizing them up for purchase. Elizabeth tried again. 

 

"In future please let me know before you go out," she said, just as Fee 
swung into an enveloping embrace with Lloyd in the shadow of a barred 
doorway lit by neon. Elizabeth dodged around a man wheeling a double 
bass down the sidewalk to remain close to her. "I have to accompany 
you. I can't protect you if you persist in skipping out of the places 
I've checked. Things could have gone very badly back there." 

 

Fionna and Lloyd snuggled together bonelessly into a single mass as 
though they were made of putty and started kissing. Elizabeth felt 
embarrassed interrupting. Fee wasn't listening anyhow. With a sigh, 
Elizabeth dropped back a few paces. 

 

"Never mind," said Beauray. "You can't keep her in a glass case. We'll 
just have to keep a closer eye on her. That's why you have me." 

 

That wasn't very much comfort. Mr. Ringwall would have expected a 
British agent to cover every eventuality personally. She was afraid she 
wasn't holding up her end very well, though she was glad to have 


Beauray around to help. 

 

When at last she had seen her charge stowed away and the door warded 
with every seal at her disposal, Boo-Boo escorted Elizabeth to the 
hotel restaurant for a well-deserved bedtime snack. 

 

"C'mon," he said. "I know the night cook. It'll perk you up." 

 

Over a soothing bowl of jambalaya and some intensely good coffee in the 
nearly empty dining room, they discussed amulets and the physical 
component of spells, things that were covered neither by promises to 
her grandmother nor the Official Secrets Act. 

 

As Elizabeth had suspected, Boo's myriad pockets were full of little 
bits of this and that. They reminded her of her grandmother's living 
room cupboard with the hundred tiny drawers. As they talked, he 
produced thread, feathers, pens, chunks of rock, even a dried lizard. 
Most of it was just what it appeared to be, but various small packets, 
wrapped in hanks of dirty cloth or folded in worn envelopes, gave off 
an intriguing glow to eyes that could see it. In the spirit of hands 
across the water, Elizabeth turned out some of the contents of her 
handbag for his inspection, all personal goods, but kept back the 
government-issue spell components. She suspected Beauray was doing the 
same. 

 

"Y'know, if we're goin' to be workin' together so closely, I think you 
ought to call me Boo-Boo," the American agent said, putting away a 
couple of anti-clumsiness amulets made of copper and white thread. 

 

Elizabeth gulped coffee, feeling it revive her a little. "If you wish, 
Boo-Boo." 

 

"And I'm goin' to call you Liz," he continued. When she looked at him 
sternly, he smiled. "Elizabeth takes too long to say, 'specially if we 
get ourselves in a jam." 

 

"It's not the usual thing," Elizabeth began. She almost said that this 
was her first big field assignment, but bit back the words. She was 
supposed to be in charge of the operation, after all. He might not 
respect her as much if she admitted her inexperience. "This is an 
important mission for me. I can't just . . . loosen up." 

 

"You're in N'Awlins now," Boo-Boo said, winningly. "You just about have 
to. Y'all ought to take it easy. Go on. It'll be easier than you 
think." 

 

"Well, all right," she said dubiously, rolling the name around on her 
tongue. "Liz." But she liked it. She hadn't had a nickname since 
school. "Yes, why not?" 

 

"That's the spirit," Boo-Boo said, leaning back in his chair. "I think 
we're goin' to get along just fine." 

 

Elizabeth decided it was time that she set a few things straight. "So 
long as you understand that I am in charge of this mission. Fionna 
Kenmare's case was assigned to me." 

 


Boo-Boo's eyes glinted their fierce laser-blue at her though his voice 
stayed mild. "I hate to correct a lady, but you don't have any 
jurisdiction here without my say-so." 

 

"What? My government asked for your assistance, not to take over!" Liz 
heard her words echo against the far walls of the room and dropped her 
voice. "This is my case." 

 

"Well, y'know, there's national sovereignty to consider," Boo-Boo said. 
"If it was happenin', say, in the British Embassy, that'd be one thing. 
But we're right here in my city. If y'all want to go home on the next 
plane it'll be tomorrow afternoon. 'Course, y'all will miss the 
concert, and that'd be just too bad." His blue eyes flashed with fire. 
Liz realized that he could make good on his threat. Mr. Ringwall would 
go apoplectic if she was sent home. She took a deep breath. 

 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Boudreau," she said. 

 

"It's Boo-Boo," he said, the lines of his thin face relaxing. "We 
shouldn't be fightin', Liz. We both want the same thing." 

 

Yes, Liz thought. Control. "Yes, we do." The last word ended in a yawn. 
"Oh! I'm sorry." She found herself unable to stop yawning. 

 

"I apologize. Y'all must be frazzled. Are we friends?" Boo-Boo asked, 
rising to help pull out her chair. 

 

"Certainly," Liz said, rising with a smile for him. He was really quite 
nice. She'd fight the fight over dominance in the morning, when she had 
her wits about her once more. 

 

* * * 

 

Before dropping her off for the night, Boo produced one more surprise 
from his pocket. 

 

"You're goin' to need this," he said, placing a cellular telephone the 
size of a pack of gum in her hand. "Courtesy of Uncle Sam. Yours 
prob'ly don't work here. You can call home on this, but mostly it's to 
keep in touch with me." He switched it on and showed her the controls. 
"My number's set on speed-dial one. G'night, ma'am." 

 

* * * 

 

Liz glanced at the clock on her nightstand and did some math. Still too 
early in London to call in her report. She got into her nightdress, 
clicked off the lamp, and slid into the blessed embrace of smooth, 
cool, clean sheets. Sleep ought to have overtaken her like a race car, 
but she found herself staring at the ceiling in the darkness. She 
groaned. She shouldn't have drunk that coffee, or she ought to have had 
a gallon more and just foregone sleep for the night. 

 

Fee Kendale might have been a spoiled brat, but why would anyone 
seriously want to hurt her? The thought stayed with Liz all that night, 
and kept her from falling asleep, troubling her even more than the 
coffee did. What if magic was involved? When, in desperation to 
distract her brain, she turned on the room television, it was no help. 


Picking her way through the multitudinous channels available, she found 
herself watching a chat show where the host and the audience seemed 
more interested in taunting and shouting at the homosexual guests than 
in listening to what they had to say. When the host actually rose from 
his seat to punch one of his guests in the face, knocking him 
sprawling, she turned it off in disgust. 

 

Hugging her pillow, she drifted off to a troubled sleep, haunted by 
images of shouting faces contorted in hate. 

 

* * * 

 

The dour-faced male announcer stared into the camera lens. "SATN-TV, 
'The Voice of Reason in the Wilderness,' is now concluding its 
broadcast day. Thank you for watching. And now, the national anthem." 

 

Over the familiar whine of the horns, the control room engineer, Ed 
Cielinski, began slamming tapes into the machines to cue up for the 
morning. The nighttime talk show looked like any one of three hundred 
others produced anywhere else in the country, but with one big 
difference. All the trappings were there, the host, the comfy chairs, 
the audience, but on stage there was also an altar in the shape of a 
pig. On its blood-red back was an upside-down pentacle, broken crosses 
and stars, a mangled crescent, plus black candles in holders. The aim 
of the show was to cause bloodthirsty controversy that almost always 
broke out in violence. 

 

The police had finally dragged that night's combatants off the studio 
floor. A couple of them wanted to keep the fight going. The defender -- 
designated victim, if anyone had asked Ed for his opinion -- was being 
loaded onto a stretcher by paramedics with his neck in a brace. The 
host of the live broadcast, Nick Trenton, smug expression back firmly 
in place, got up, wiped the blood off his chin and straightened his 
tie. He strode out of the room. All in a day's work, thought the 
engineer. Trenton would never so much as glance backward at the 
problems he caused. It was all good for the ratings, Ed thought sourly. 

 

Ed waited until the camera operators and lighting crew were gone, then 
turned out the spotlights. The last one, at the rear of the stage, over 
the gigantic enlargement of the rock group led by the lady with green 
hair, faded slowly to black. The next designated victim, Ed thought, 
not without a measure of sympathy. He slapped down the audio monitor 
switch as his employer, Augustus Kingston, the owner and station 
manager, walked into the room. 

 

"Everything work okay?" he asked Cielinski. 

 

"Yes, sir," said the engineer. "The frequency didn't interfere with the 
picture a bit. Went out nice and strong." 

 

"How's reception on that special transmission line?" 

 

"Nothing big. We haven't heard from our contact out in New Orleans 
yet." 

 

"That won't be for a day or two," the old man said, rocking back on his 
heels in anticipation. "Let 'em get settled. Got to give it all a 


chance to build." He pulled a cigar out of his pocket. The engineer 
winced on behalf of his machines as his boss lit up and blew a plume of 
cloyingly heavy smoke towards the ceiling. 

 

"Yes, sir, it's like casting your bread out on the waters, Ed," he 
said, laughing heartily. "You get it all back threefold. When we start 
casting that there bread out there, we're going to collect plenty back 
again. Them godless, magic-loving pagans won't stand a chance, now, 
will they?" 

 

The engineer gulped quietly to himself. "No, sir." 

 

The old man stopped for a leisurely puff, and stared into the ember of 
his cigar with a pleased look on his creased face. "No. No, they won't. 
And the justice of it is, they'll do it to themselves." 

 

 

 

Chapter 7 

 

In the morning, Elizabeth waited with barely veiled impatience while 
Nigel Peters and Laura Manning went in to drag Fionna out of bed. Her 
old schoolmate had gone to sleep in her cosmetics, and the ruin of her 
mask made her look like the end of a horror picture. Boo-Boo appeared 
at the door in his ratty army coat, but he looked positively pristine 
compared with Fionna. 

 

"Is she gonna make it?" Boo-Boo asked, with concern. 

 

"With hydraulics or high explosives," Elizabeth said, stepping aside so 
he could see. 

 

"Come on, ducks," Nigel said coaxingly, helping the makeup artist haul 
the somnolent singer back and forth from bathroom to bed, where they 
talked over her head as if she was a child. Fionna sat slack between 
them, her eyes half closed. "What do you think, Laura, the green 
sharkskin?" 

 

"Hell, no, she'll sweat herself to death out there," Laura said, 
flipping through the hangers in the closet. "Have you stuck your nose 
out the door yet?" 

 

"I'm dreading it," the manager admitted. "All right, the black gauze. 
It'll look great with your hair, Fionna, love. Lots of jewelry, now." 
He pointed at the box on the table. 

 

"I'll get it," Elizabeth said, pleased to get her hands on Fionna's 
personal effects without anyone being the wiser. She turned over 
various necklaces and bracelets, trying each against the touchstone of 
her memory for protective characteristics. Not surprisingly, everything 
was a protective amulet of some kind. Fionna'd been doing a little 
reading up on her own. Again, not surprising, since as Phoebe she had 
taken a first-class degree. She understood research, and here was the 
fruit of it. Based on what was in the box Liz was beginning to feel 
that Fionna, at least, believed herself in real danger. Intuition was 
nothing Liz could put in her daily report to Mr. Ringwall, but it 
satisfied her that Fee was not merely crying wolf. Liz handed over 


several silver chains, all charmed for safety and peace, one at a time, 
and Laura arranged them around Fionna's neck. As for a colored piece to 
set it all off, a bulky carnelian necklace looked the best with the 
mystical outfit they were shoving Fionna into, but it was a fire 
magnet. Not the best omen, in Elizabeth's opinion, but it could channel 
outward as well as inward. She dropped a friendly cantrip of protection 
into the carved orange pendant just as the piece was snatched from her 
by Laura Manning. 

 

"Just the thing, love," Nigel said as the necklace was fastened around 
Fionna's neck over the silver threads on the breast of the dull black 
tunic. He pulled her arm across his shoulder and stood, forcing her to 
her feet. She dangled loosely against him. "All right, Fionna, up we 
get. We'll be meeting the public in twenty minutes." 

 

The magic word "public" was just the kind of impetus Fionna needed. 
Elizabeth was amused to see the rag doll turned suddenly into a dynamic 
superheroine on the short drive from the hotel to the broadcast 
facility. Patrick Jones and Lloyd Preston joined them in the limo. The 
hulking security man, dressed all in black like Frankenstein's monster, 
gave Elizabeth a slightly resentful look as he sat down beside Fionna 
in the rear of the car, but he didn't utter a word through the entire 
trip. Patrick sat close to Fionna on one side and drilled her on the 
upcoming interview while Laura sat on the other side and touched up the 
wild paint job on the star's face. Boo-Boo and Elizabeth sat jammed 
side by side at one end of the padded bench opposite the manager, who 
was sharing his seat with a box of equipment and tapes. 

 

"You're meeting a woman called Verona Lambert," Patrick Jones said, 
reading out of a well-worn binder. "She's been at WBOY ten years, Fee. 
She's a real fan. I've got a sheaf of photos for you to sign for her 
and the crew. Be a good girl and do all of them, won't you?" He held 
out a large manila envelope. 

 

"Right," Fionna said, holding her hand out. Patrick slapped a fine-
point permanent marking pen in it. Fionna opened the envelope and slid 
out a stack of black-and-white enlargements of her clutching a 
microphone in taloned hands. The image of her face was a pale canvas 
for the dramatic makeup that brought out her eyes, lips and cheekbones 
in chiaroscuro. Liz nodded her head in approval. Just the kind of photo 
fans would love. Fionna signed her name through the bottom right corner 
of the photo over the back of the left hand and wrist, circling the 
capital F around a Claddagh hands-and-crowned-heart ring on the 
forefinger. "Verona Lambert. Have we got the other names?" 

 

Patrick read them off from his list. Fionna personalized each picture 
in turn. Liz, reading them upside down, realized that Fionna was making 
each dedication a little different than the others. A real pro, she 
thought with surprise. She'd been judging too much by the appearance. 
Green Fire ran like a machine, and Fionna was truly part of it. 

 

Elizabeth admired the staff. They were organized, genuinely concerned 
for Fionna's well-being, but very businesslike. Nigel had a cigarette 
for Fionna, but held it out of reach until she drank a repulsive, 
thick, pink shake he offered in his other hand. 

 

"Brain food before you ruin your lungs, darling," he said, waving the 


glass under her nose. "Come on. You can't do an hour on an empty 
stomach. The cook in the Sonesta made it up just for you." 

 

"Ugh, it's horrible," Fionna sputtered, after downing the shake in 
three or four gulps. She seized the cigarette, lit it from the flame 
Nigel held out to her, and drew smoke deep into her lungs. Liz scented 
fresh strawberry before it was drowned out by the stink of tobacco. 
"It's a sad thing when nicotine tastes better than something to eat. 
Thank God they let you smoke in this city. I thought it'd be another 
San Francisco." She blew a plume of smoke out of the corner of her 
mouth toward the ceiling. "Anything else I have to know, Pat?" 

 

"That's all about the staff," said Patrick Jones, with his palms 
pressed together like an altar boy's. "Verona has the gen on the 
concert itself. All you have to do is talk about you. Now, remember, 
Fee, not a word about the attacks. They don't exist, right?" 

 

Fionna took a deep breath, and clasped a hand around the carnelian 
necklace and placed the other hand in Lloyd's. He clenched it 
possessively, and shot an expression of triumph toward Liz. She refused 
to react. Let him protect her on this plane. Liz's job was to deal with 
the Unseen, not the Seen. "Right. Let's go in there." 

 

* * * 

 

"So what brings you to N'Awlins, Ms. Kenmare?" Verona Lambert asked, 
her voice as smoky as the studio air. She was a chocolate-brown-
skinned, plump woman with round cheeks, round eyes, and a huge pouf of 
straightened brown-black hair flattened over the top of her head by the 
earphone set she wore. The party was jammed into a small, dim room with 
pinholed acoustic tile on every surface but the floor. There were only 
three chairs, one for Verona, one beside her for Fionna, and one for 
the sallow-complected, thin, male producer/engineer who sat across the 
cluttered, beige console from them. Lloyd Preston inserted himself in 
between a couple of high consoles so he could stand next to Fionna. 
Occasionally she reached up to hold his hand. The rest of the party 
stood against the walls, not more than a couple of feet away. Square 
plastic cartridges stacked on a floor-to-ceiling rack jabbed Elizabeth 
in the back. The room was so close and hot she wondered if she might 
pass out. Her white, raw silk jacket was already sodden with sweat. 

 

"Call me Fionna, me lovely. I think it's one of the finest places I've 
ever seen," Fionna said. Her accent made the word "foinest." She looked 
Verona straight in the eyes while she talked. If she wasn't sincere, 
she was one hell of a good actress. "Music's me life. I've got to love 
a place where it's on every street corner every night, where everybody 
plays or sings or listens to something every day. Music broadens your 
soul. I could click into this scene like I was born here." 

 

"Do you find much in common here with your music?" Verona asked, with a 
lift of her brows. "N'Awlins is a kind of a mix of Acadian French style 
with Afro-Caribbean rhythms. Jazz is like nothing else in all the 
world, honey. I have all Green Fire's recordings, Fionna, and you'll 
forgive me for saying so, but they don't sound a thing alike to me." 

 

"They all come from the same place," Fionna said, pounding her fist to 
her chest. "The heart. I've seen some people here, they've got nothing 


at all in all the world but their music. It's lovely. It's the same way 
I was as a child. I had nothing else, so I put my heart into the beauty 
I could hear." 

 

That was rich, Elizabeth thought. For someone who'd gone through 
finishing school, Oxford University and at least fifty thousand pounds 
of Daddy's money, Fionna/Phoebe was very convincing as a North Dublin 
waif. She talked touchingly about her fictional childhood, her poverty, 
and the spirit that she felt that wouldn't let her stop until she could 
share her songs with the rest of the world. 

 

The radio presenter took it all nonjudgmentally, though, and led Fionna 
through a good interview, bringing out interesting facets of her career 
and the founding of Green Fire. She'd certainly done her homework. At 
five minutes to the hour, Verona looked at Fionna confidingly. 

 

"And now, I've got to ask you, darling, why all the magical themes in 
your music? Is it a sincere interest on your part, or just a little 
something you throw in to please the fans? Because, I warn you, 
N'Awlins is a very magical place. If you fool around with the spirits, 
they're goin' to gitcha." 

 

"It's sincerely meant," Fionna said, her large eyes wide with something 
akin to alarm. She certainly was very superstitious. Elizabeth thought 
her hands trembled. "I have a great respect for the powers that be." 

 

"Wise words," said Verona, turning back to her console. "We've been 
talking to Fionna Kenmare. Remember, everyone, that's Green Fire at the 
Superdome at 7:30 on Saturday night. Hey, same time as the fireworks 
display over the river sponsored by WBOY. Tough choice, folks," she 
said, with a wry wink at Fionna. "Me, I'll be at the concert. I'll be 
back right after these words." 

 

The engineer pointed to Verona, and hit a square button. Verona took 
off her headset. "Very nice, Ms. Kenmare. Thank you so very much for 
coming. I'm looking forward to the concert. Will any of us be able to 
sneak backstage and congratulate you afterwards?" 

 

Fionna looked at Nigel Peters. "Should be, love," the manager said, 
noncommittally, shaking the announcer's hand and turning to the 
producer. "We'll see you're on the invitation list for the party to 
follow. Thanks for a good show." 

 

Fionna rose and graciously offered Verona her hand. "Thanks, lovely. 
You made me feel very welcome. I hope the rest of the city's as warm as 
yourself." 

 

"We're happy to see you, darling," Verona said, standing up and tossing 
her headset onto her desk. "And you!" She turned to Boo-Boo. "It's been 
a long time, you good-looking man. Where've you been?" She enveloped 
him in a huge hug. 

 

"Oh, I've been around," Boo-Boo admitted. 

 

"Do you know everyone in this city?" Elizabeth asked, with a wry grin, 
as they left the studio. 

 


"Near abouts," said Boo-Boo. 

 

Clinging to Lloyd, Fionna swirled ahead of them in a cloud of gauzy 
black skirts, and looked plaintively over her shoulder at Nigel. "Can 
we get something to eat? I'm hollow." 

 

Nigel looked at his watch. "Pat, Laura and I have got to get over to 
the Superdome, but there's no reason you can't find yourselves a meal, 
my dear. Perhaps Mr. Boudreau will oblige?" 

 

"I'd be delighted to," Boo-Boo said graciously. 

 

* * * 

 

"You are supposed to be our native guide, aren't you?" Lloyd asked, 
striding along in Boo-Boo's wake after they'd left the limo at the curb 
near the Royal Sonesta. "So where can we get a bite to eat before we go 
over to the arena?" 

 

Liz winced at the barely concealed sneer in Lloyd's voice, but Boo 
didn't seem to notice. 

 

"There's a pretty good restaurant right in the hotel you're stayin' at. 
It would give the ladies a chance to freshen up before -- " 

 

"We're going to be living on hotel food through most of this tour," the 
security man interrupted. "I rather hoped you could do better than 
that." 

 

"Well, we do have one or two pretty nice eatin' places here in the 
Quarter," Boo said with a shrug. "Let's see if I can't find somethin' 
that'll suit you." 

 

He started off up the street with the others trailing along behind. 

 

"Something a little different, I hope," Lloyd said, raising his voice 
to get in the last word. "Lord knows we have enough ordinary 
restaurants in England and Ireland." 

 

"I think I know just the place," Boo called back over his shoulder. 

 

"Not too far away, I hope," Liz said, stepping up beside him. "I still 
can't believe how hot it is down here." 

 

In truth, she was having difficulty even thinking straight. Within half 
a dozen steps of their leaving the studio's air conditioning, she was 
drenched in sweat, and things seemed to weave and swim in the bright 
glare. It was like wearing a hot, wet, sweat suit in a steam bath . . . 
a very bright steam bath. 

 

"Don't you worry none, darlin'," Boo reassured her. "We'll have you 
back inside in a jiffy. It's just around the corner up ahead." 

 

"I feel I should apologize for Mr. Preston," Liz said, lowering her 
voice slightly. "He's being a bit of a prig. Not all of us are like 
that." 

 


"We get people from all over down here." Boo smiled. "Both as visitors 
and them that settle down here. Near as I can tell, a certain 
percentage of people are light on manners, no matter where they come 
from." 

 

In spite of her discomfort, Liz had to smile. 

 

"I never thought of it that way, but you're right. I guess I just worry 
too much." 

 

"No harm in worryin'," Boo said. "Just so long as it doesn't interfere 
with thinkin'." 

 

Liz shot him a glance, but her partner's face was bland and guileless. 

 

"That's it up ahead," he said, turning to the pair behind them. "It's 
new and folks say it's the latest thing. It's called Lucky Chang's." 

 

He started to reach for the door, but Lloyd slid into the doorway ahead 
of him and barred their progress with his body. 

 

"Okay, here's how it is," the security man said firmly, glaring down at 
them. "I know you're just trying to do your jobs, but the lady here 
would just as soon have a quiet meal without too many people hovering 
around her. She's going to have plenty of that once we reach the 
Superdome. Why don't you two find someplace else to have lunch, and 
we'll meet you back at the hotel." 

 

"Now just a minute . . ." Liz began, but Boo laid a restraining hand on 
her arm. 

 

"Works for me, he said. "You're sure you can find your way back to the 
hotel by yourselves?" 

 

"Positive," Lloyd said, holding the door for Fionna. "If we get lost, 
we'll just take a cab." 

 

"Okay. You two enjoy your meal now," Boo called, but the door was 
already shutting behind the pair. 

 

"Well I never," Liz fumed. "I know we were just talking about manners, 
but that was rude no matter how you look at it." 

 

"I'd have to say we're lookin' at it the same way, then," Boo said, 
taking her by the arm. "C'mon. Let's get you somethin' to eat. There's 
a place just across the street here I think you'll like." 

 

Liz glanced at the white-fronted building Boo was steering her toward, 
then pulled up short as she caught sight of the sign. 

 

"Antoine's?" she said. "I think I've heard of this place." 

 

"It's been around for a while," Boo agreed, pointing at a sign that 
read SINCE 1840. New Orleans seemed to have the same gift of 
understatement as Scotland, where a "wee while" could be four hundred 
years. 

 


"But isn't it kind of fancy?" Liz hesitated, glancing at Boo's somewhat 
bedraggled outfit. 

 

"You forget, darlin'. The Quarter lives on tourist money. Not many 
places will turn business away just because they aren't dressed right." 

 

With that, he led the way into the restaurant's cool interior. 

 

Liz still felt slightly ill at ease as she surveyed the rows of tables 
with their spotless tablecloths and more than spotless waiters. It 
certainly looked like an upscale place. 

 

"Boo-ray! What brings you out in the daylight?" 

 

One of the waiters swept down on them, pumping Boo's hand vigorously 
with one hand while pounding him on the back with the other. 

 

"Hey, Jimmy. Just showing the young lady here a bit of the Quarter," 
Boo said. "She wanted to see the most overrated restaurant we've got, 
so naturally I brought her here." 

 

"I'm going to tell Pete you said that," the man said, hastily seating 
them at a window table. "You just sit here while I go tell him you're 
out here." 

 

"Say, Jimmy. Before you do," Boo beckoned the man closer, "could you do 
me a little favor? Call Michelle across the street and tell her to give 
the couple that just came in special treatment. She can't miss them; 
the lady has bright green hair. Tell her particularly to pull the 
explanation sheet out of their menus." 

 

Jimmy retreated, grinning. 

 

"I take it you're known here," Liz said. 

 

"I drop by once in a while," Boo said with a shrug. "Like I told you, 
most folks in the Quarter know each other." 

 

"What was that bit with the 'special treatment' for Lloyd and Fionna?" 

 

"Don't you want them to have a nice meal?" Boo's face was a picture of 
innocence. 

 

"Don't be evasive, Boo," Liz insisted. "We're supposed to be working 
together, remember?" 

 

"Well, I believe I mentioned that Lucky Chang's was different. Well, 
it's not the Chinese/Cajun menu that makes it different." 

 

"Could you clarify that a bit? What is it about the place that requires 
an explanation sheet?" 

 

"Mostly, it's the help. Did you get a look at them at all?" 

 

"Just a glimpse, but they all seemed to be attractive young ladies." 

 

"You're right. That's what they seem." 


 

Liz frowned, then her face brightened with a mischievous smile. 

 

"You mean . . ." 

 

Boo nodded. 

 

"That's right. The waitstaff may look female. In actuality, though, 
they're some of the most practiced cross-dressers and drag queens in 
the Quarter. I think it could get downright interestin' if your friend 
Lloyd makes an after-hours date with one of 'em." 

 

They were still sharing the laugh when a black-haired cook dressed in a 
crisp, white apron emerged from the swinging doors and approached their 
table. 

 

"Hey, Boo! Where y'at?" 

 

"Pete, how many times have I got to tell you that you'll never get that 
'yat' accent down well enough to convince anyone?" 

 

He quickly introduced Liz, who was still chortling. 

 

"So, what can I get you folks to eat?" 

 

"Actually, we haven't seen a menu yet." 

 

"Shucks, Liz," Boo put in. "Just tell Pete here what you feel like 
eatin', and if he can't cobble it together in that kitchen of his, 
he'll just order out for it." 

 

Suddenly the tensions of the morning slid away from Liz, and she 
realized she was ravenously hungry. 

 

"You know," she said, "I think what I'd really like is some of the hot 
Cajun cooking I keep hearing about." 

 

"Darlin', Gen do that for you in a flash," Pete said, charmingly. "How 
does a bowl of gumbo sound?" 

 

"Make that two," Boo said. "And be sure to make mine extra-extra 
spicy." 

 

"Mine too!" Liz nodded. "Extra-extra!" 

 

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Boo asked as the cook disappeared 
into his realm. "I though you British liked your food kinda bland." 

 

"Don't believe everything you hear," Liz said with a smile. "Haven't 
you ever heard of the English Raj? We invented vindaloo curries. I 
believe there's more Indian restaurants than Continental in London 
today. And lately Thai food has been all the rage in England. We adore 
hot spices." 

 

"Well, all right, ma'am." 

 

True to her word, when the food arrived, she proclaimed it delicious 


and finished every drop, though in actuality she found it a little 
disappointing. There wasn't enough spice in the mix to raise a sweat. 
Still, she felt it would have hurt the cook's feelings to complain or 
add seasoning, as he had hovered over their table anxiously through the 
whole meal. Both he and Boo watched her as though they expected her to 
burst into flames. They looked almost sorry that she didn't seem 
discomfited. It would have been rude if she hadn't reacted, so she 
fanned her face with her hand. 

 

"Oh, my," she said, echoing one of her elderly aunts who, it would have 
astonished both men to know, had lived in India with her army officer 
husband, and had come home from her years abroad with a book of curry 
recipes and a trunkful of chilies. Both men relaxed, satisfied, and 
Liz, with a secret smile, finished her lunch. 

 

Walking back to the hotel, she found herself in a surprisingly pleasant 
mood. Lunch, with the jokes and the prank on Lloyd, had left her 
feeling well-fed and relaxed. Even the heat didn't seem as oppressive 
now. She mentioned as much to Boo, and enjoyed watching his ready 
laugh. 

 

"It's the Big Easy," he said as he held the door into the hotel lobby. 
"That's why they call it 'the city that care forgot.' Once you get into 
the pace of things down here, you can just kind of float along and 
believe that whatever happens, it will all be all right." 

 

"Speaking of that, " Liz said, looking around, "didn't Lloyd say they 
were going to meet us here after lunch?" 

 

Boo-Boo shrugged. "Well, 'after lunch' isn't really a precise time down 
here. Hang on a second and I'll check with the desk to see if they left 
a message." 

 

Despite the fact that she had just eaten, Liz found herself idly 
studying the posted menu for the hotel restaurant as she waited. It was 
extensive and delightfully varied. She guessed that Boo was right. 
Eating really was a major pastime down here, and the more you got into 
the pace of things . . . 

 

"Sorry, darlin', but we've got problems," Boo declared, materializing 
at her elbow. "We've got to get over to the Superdome fast." 

 

He had her out the front door and into a taxi before she could collect 
her wits. 

 

"What is it?" she asked, following in his wake. "Was there a message?" 

 

"They didn't bother to leave one for us," Boo said grimly, "but the 
desk clerk remembered the message that came in for Lloyd and Fionna. It 
seems that one of Fionna's costumes burst into flames. This time it was 
on stage in front of half the crew and the band." 

 

 

 

Chapter 8 

 

Liz and Boo pushed their way into the mob of people crowding the 


barrier set up by the firefighters across the rear entrance to the 
Superdome. Three fire trucks, surrounded by miles of unreeled hose, 
flashed their revolving lights weakly in the oppressive New Orleans 
sunshine. An equal number of chunky white vans bearing parabolic dishes 
on top announced the arrival of the media. Reporters were clustered to 
one side by a police officer, but it was clear the cordon wouldn't last 
long. 

 

Liz and Boo showed their backstage passes to the sweating security 
guard at the door. Very reluctantly, he let them crawl underneath the 
barrier, while shouldering aside a couple of rabid fans with cameras 
who tried to follow. After the press of the crowd, the soaring, 
concrete room seemed cavernously empty, all the better to pick up the 
noises coming from far down the passage. The roar of voices behind them 
grew louder. Liz spun on her heel. 

 

"Oh, no," Liz groaned, as the media came jogging toward the entrance, 
turning the cameras their way. "We don't need this." 

 

"Cheer up," Boo said, waving to the reporters over the security guards' 
heads. "You can tell your mama you were on American television." 

 

"My super told me not to attract any attention!" Liz said. 

 

"He's not here; how will he know?" 

 

"They have cameras!" Liz said. "Our images will be on the evening news 
all around the world . . . never mind." 

 

Boo seemed utterly unconcerned about security. He was even enjoying the 
attentions of the press. He waved to an attractive, blonde woman 
holding out a microphone. She shouted something at him, but he held his 
hand behind his ear, pretending he couldn't hear her. With a sigh Liz 
reached into her pocket for the strands of yarn she carried there, and 
twisted them together. The cantrip should fuzz her image sufficiently 
so it would be difficult to identify her. Ringwall still wouldn't be 
happy, but at least the damage was under control. Now to see what had 
caused all the to-do. She grabbed Boo's arm to turn him. 

 

The steel-and-glass doors were pinned wide by dumpsters rolled up from 
the nearby loading dock. Boo hopped over lengths of hose flung 
everywhere in the corridor. Liz followed him, wishing she had worn 
lower-heeled shoes. A couple of people hung out of the dressing room 
doors, gawking at the two agents as they ran by. Everyone was yelling 
over the alarms, sirens, and crackling radios. 

 

"Where'd it happen?" Liz called to Boo. He skipped nimbly over a 
twisting section of hose fifty feet ahead of her. Watching him, she 
stumbled on the same length and cursed her high-heeled shoes. 

 

"Just follow the trail, I'd say," Boo said, stopping to wait for her. 
He grabbed her arm, and pointed ahead toward the double stage doors, 
braced open with crates. Half a dozen firefighters in yellow rubber 
coats, shouting to each other, rushed past them with extinguishers and 
axes. The two agents ran to catch up. 

 

When she reached the stage, Liz stopped beside Boo to stare. 


 

"What happened?" she asked. "With all the equipment they've brought in 
I thought the entire Superdome was coming down!" 

 

After the round-shouldered cramping of the hotel and the restaurant in 
the Quarter, the chamber before Liz was vast. It engulfed the forty 
people on the raised stage at its heart like gnats in a multicolored 
bathtub. Yellow-skinned insects dragged long strands of hose behind 
them here and there through glistening puddles and heaps of overturned 
equipment. A bright yellow fire engine a third the size of the ones on 
the street sat beside the stage, its emergency lights rotating while 
men in coats and boots scrambled all over it. At the center of all the 
hubbub stood a single, tiny, forlorn, dripping figure. Two of the 
firefighters dragged a still writhing hose away from him. It was Thomas 
Fitzgibbon, the costumer, drenched to the skin. He saw the two agents 
and waved a hand weakly toward them, dribbling a stream of water from 
his sleeve. 

 

"I can't explain it," the costumer said, when they reached him. He 
moved locks of his curly hair out of his eyes, and plucked at his wet 
shirt. He looked close to tears as he held out a scorched wisp of green 
cloth. "I brought Fee's dress out here on stage to see how it looked 
under the lights. The sleeves are gauze, like dragonfly wings. They 
would be so beautiful. Then suddenly, poof! Flames everywhere! It 
happened so quickly I didn't have time to move. I thought I'd be burned 
to death." The thin man's eyes were huge with fear, but he appeared to 
be uninjured. "And then someone pulled the fire alarm." 

 

"Was anyone hurt?" Boo asked, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket 
and offering it to the man. Fitzgibbon looked at the grimy square and 
shuddered. 

 

"No, but the dress is ruined. I can't stand it." He turned woefully to 
face Patrick Jones, the publicist, who was jogging toward them up the 
main aisle of the theater. Fionna, dogged by a grim Preston, strode 
behind him. Jones started to speak, but Preston pushed by him and shook 
a fist in Liz's face. 

 

"What I want to know is, you think you call this taking care of the 
problem?" 

 

"Shush, Lloyd," said Jones, patiently. "Can anyone tell us what 
happened? You, sir?" He snagged the arm of a passing firefighter, 
dressed in rubber coat and boots. "Are we in any more danger? Can we 
stay here?" 

 

"The fire seemed to be localized right here," the man said. His dark-
skinned face gleamed with sweat, and Liz empathized with him for having 
to wear a heavy costume like that in the middle of the hellish heat of 
the city, let alone a conflagration. "We're examining the rest of the 
scene right now." 

 

"Well, can't you speed it up?" Jones asked. He looked peeved, but was 
trying to remain reasonable. "We've got a show to do." 

 

"Sorry, sir. These things have got to be done in the right order," the 
firefighter said, patiently. "You don't want hot spots to break out. 


Burn the place right down." 

 

"Oh, marvelous," Jones said, throwing his hands in the air. The fireman 
walked in an ever-increasing circle around the center of the stage, 
studying the floor, and occasionally stooping to touch the wooden 
boards. Jones watched him go with an expression of worry. Liz felt 
sorry for him. This would be a very public public-relations nightmare. 

 

Other firefighters searched around in the outer reaches of the 
Superdome, clambering up into the tiers of multicolored seats. Liz 
spotted the ant-sized figures in their yellow protective gear, and 
marveled at how large the arena was. Without figures to compare for 
scale, it seemed no larger than a circus tent, but it was fully as big 
as a football stadium. Which, she recalled wryly, it was. 

 

A few of the band members and some of the security staff were following 
the firefighters around, asking questions. The rest were frozen in a 
huddle on one side of the stage, staring at the sodden costumer. 

 

Liz surveyed the scene, puzzled by the lack of evidence. When the 
accident, or attack, or whatever it was had occurred, there had been a 
blast of some kind. Fitzgibbon stood in the center of a ring of ash. It 
was marked by footprints of every size, left by firefighters, the 
members of the band, and now her and Boo. The pattern radiated outward 
from the costume itself in a complete circle, interrupted only where 
the costumer's body had blocked the burst. But it must have been a 
remarkably mild explosion. Fitzgibbon was unhurt, though badly 
frightened, and she couldn't say she blamed him. 

 

"Who was near you when it caught fire?" Liz asked. 

 

"No one!" Fitzgibbon exclaimed. He was still clutching the soggy 
remains of the dress. "I was standing here, holding up the gown for the 
lights. Robbie can back me up on that. Can't you, sweetheart?" he 
called to the special effects coordinator, who was sitting on a folding 
chair at the stage rim with her hands and knees together and ankles 
apart like a little girl. 

 

The special effects coordinator nodded her head solemnly. She looked 
puzzled and worried. 

 

"Take me through it," Liz said briskly to Fitzgibbon. "Just what 
happened?" 

 

The costumer threw up his hands. "Nothing! I came out of the dressing 
room with the green number for the ballad at the end of the first set. 
The crew can tell you. Some of the spotlights were moving up and down, 
and I saw some laser lights flashing. Fionna's key light was pointed 
down onto the center of the stage. I went into the beam to see how her 
costume would look. That's all. Then, whoosh! Look at it! Those 
perfect, filmy sleeves, reduced to ashes. I don't want everyone blaming 
me. I didn't do anything!" His eyes filled with tears. "It was supposed 
to match her hair." 

 

"Now, now," Boo-Boo said soothingly, patting the costumer on the back. 
"No one's callin' you names. Could anyone have booby-trapped that 
dress?" 


 

Fitzgibbon looked indignant. "Certainly not. I had just finished 
tacking the hem. I had the whole thing inside out on my cutting table. 
If there had been any . . . infernal devices, I would have seen them. 
There was nothing there!" 

 

"I told you all this was real," Fionna spat, striding up with Nigel 
Peters trotting behind her. She glared at the publicist. "Now do you 
fokkin' believe me?" Jones held up his hands to fend off her fury. 
"Things like this have been goin' on again and again. I'm at me wits' 
end!" Fionna turned to Liz and Boo-Boo. "Yer supposed to prevent this, 
right? Why didn't yer fancy machines tell you this was happenin'? 
Didn't you bug everythin' I own in the world?" 

 

Liz marveled that Fionna's accent stayed intact even under stress. "You 
weren't injured, Fee -- Fionna," she said, stumbling deliberately over 
the name. The look of suspicion in her old schoolmate's eyes verified 
that there would be no more hysterics, or Liz might let her secret out. 

 

"This dress didn't exist until an hour ago, sweetheart," Peters said, 
soothingly. "Fitzy's only just finished it." 

 

"I haven't even been here yet, and they're already trying to kill me!" 
Fionna shrilled. "And you've done nothing!" 

 

"We couldn't prevent an attack until we knew where it was coming from," 
Liz said, looking at Boo-Boo for support. The American was on his 
knees, scooping ashes from the floor into his hand. 

 

"And where is it coming from?" Fionna demanded. 

 

"It's coming from . . . beyond," the costumer said, clutching himself. 
His eyes were wide with horror. "Oh, my God, what if all the green silk 
is cursed? Couldn't we, you know, call in a priest to bless it and make 
it benign? Otherwise, I refuse to work with it. Heaven knows what it'll 
do to my sewing machines." 

 

"Will you calm down?" Peters snapped. "The fabric is not cursed. 
There's a perfectly sane explanation for what just happened. Right, 
Liz?" 

 

"What are these things?" Boo-Boo asked, standing up with wires trailing 
from his hand. 

 

"They're from the LEDs. They were arranged in mystical symbols sewn 
into the cloth. They light up on stage. There's no power source, 
though," the costumer said, suddenly looking worried. "We hook Fionna 
up with a battery pack before she goes on." 

 

"We've done it a thousand times," Fionna said, her eyes wild. "There's 
no earthly reason why the dress should have gone up in flames. 
Someone's trying to kill me!" She turned and, finding herself in Lloyd 
Preston's arms, allowed herself to shiver. Robbie Unterburger glared at 
her from the sidelines. 

 

"Could the dress have been exposed to any flammable substances? Or high 
temperatures?" Liz asked. "Could the spotlight have set it off?" 


 

"We're in that spotlight now," Robbie said, pointing upward. Liz stared 
up into the blinding glare. It focused into a single point, far in the 
back of the amphitheater. "It's no more harsh than strong sunshine." 

 

"It don't look like these two busybodies can do a thing," Preston said, 
hulking over them all as usual. Liz turned a high-power glare towards 
him, then dismissed him. "I'll look this place over myself. Fionna's 
security is my business." He stalked off to confront one of the 
firefighters. 

 

"What about those laser lights?" Boo-Boo asked. "Could that ignite the 
fabric?" 

 

"You couldn't even light a cigarette with them," Robbie said, 
scornfully. "There's stronger lasers in a food store checkout. Besides, 
the laser never touched this stage. I was testing it on the far wall." 

 

"All right," Liz said. "I'd like to talk to everyone who was here when 
it happened. One at a time, please." She turned to the publicist, who 
looked as if his ulcer was kicking up again. "Can we use one of the 
dressing rooms?" 

 

Everyone protested at once. "We've got work to do, lady!" Robbie 
Unterburger said. "Tomorrow's the show!" 

 

"That's enough," Nigel Peters said, wearily. "There'll be no show if 
there's any danger to Fionna, so we have to let these people ask their 
questions, right? A little cooperation, please? God, I could murder a 
cup of tea." 

 

"Could you make us all some tea?" Liz asked the costumer. "It'll give 
you a chance to calm down." 

 

"I'm a highly paid professional, with respect throughout the entire 
music industry," Fitzgibbon protested, head high, but Liz thought he 
looked grateful for something ordinary to do. He threw up his hands. 
"All right. Tea." 

 

"I'd rather have a whisky," Fionna said, crossly. 

 

"You had four drinks at lunch," Liz said. 

 

"Well, I need one now! And how the hell did you know that? Have you got 
a bug on me now?" Fionna demanded. 

 

"She's already got one up her . . ." Robbie muttered to one of the 
other stagehands. Fionna couldn't hear her, but Liz could. Tactfully, 
she pretended she hadn't. She didn't want to revisit the matter anyhow. 
Fee would have had furious hysterics all over again if Liz had 
explained the psychic monitor she'd planted on her for security. 

 

"Come on, sweetheart," Laura Manning, the makeup artist, said, putting 
an arm around Fionna's narrow shoulders and leading her away. "I've got 
a bottle in your dressing room. We can wait for the tea there." She 
glanced back at the two investigators. "That's where you'll find me. 
I've got things to arrange for tomorrow." 


 

"We all have," Michael Scott complained, his blue eyes flashing with 
indignation. The other members of the band added their voices to his. 

 

"This won't take but a short time," Boo-Boo promised him. "We just want 
to know where everybody was when the dress went up. We don't even have 
to go down to a dressing room. We can talk right here." 

 

Eddie Vincent frowned. "I don't like this. You're accusing us? Us? 
We've been with Fionna for yonks, mate." He planted a finger in Boo-
Boo's chest and poked it a few times for emphasis. "Now, she may not be 
the world's easiest broad to live with, but we back her up in more ways 
than one. Got it?" 

 

"Everybody's gettin' so bothered," Boo-Boo said mildly, but Liz saw the 
glints in his eyes. He walked back to the instrument setup. Almost 
involuntarily, half the crowd of roadies and musicians followed him. He 
stopped beside the open square of keyboards. "You was here when Fitz 
came out? Rehearsing?" 

 

"No, I was dancing on the ceiling with Fred Astaire," Eddie said, 
sneering. "'Course I was. Len saw me." 

 

"Yeah," Len, one of the lighting crew, stepped forward. "I was fixing 
everyone's key lights." 

 

"Good!" Boo-Boo beamed. "See how easy this is?" 

 

Liz admired the way his easygoing manner helped to soothe the ruffled 
feathers of Fionna's entourage. After a surprisingly short time, their 
voices softened. Several people began to add their accounts, 
interrupting each other, helping to reconstruct the moment of the 
attack now nearly two hours past. Boo caught Liz's eye over the 
shoulders of the others, and she nodded back, understanding him. While 
he was charming everyone, Liz sauntered casually over to the keyboard 
setup, and sent a tiny tendril of Earth power through the floor where 
Eddie Vincent must have been standing. 

 

Everyone's backs were turned when the glitter came to life on the dusty 
boards, showing pairs of footsteps overlaid on one another again and 
again, when Vincent was playing, turning from electric piano to organ 
to multi-synthesizer and back again. It looked like some bizarre Arthur 
Murray quickstep pattern. The air around them was empty of even a 
single spark of magic. Whatever had happened, the musician was innocent 
of the attack. Liz had just enough time to wipe the glamour away when 
Vincent broke out of the pack and came over to see what she was doing. 

 

"Quite some instruments," she said, idly. She started to run a finger 
along the top of the synthesizer console. He reached over to slap her 
wrist. She snatched her hand away, staring at him in astonishment. 

 

"Never touch my stuff again," he said, flatly. He aimed a finger at her 
nose. "Never handle anyone's instruments, do you hear? Anybody could 
tell you've never been within a mile of a band." 

 

"Why would I need to?" Liz asked sweetly. "Anybody could hear you 
playing from a mile away. I'd never need a ticket." She was surprised 


at herself. Being peevish was not what the office expected of its 
agents. She ought to be acting like an adult in this crisis. "I'm 
sorry," she said. "We're all under a bit of a strain." 

 

Vincent grunted wordlessly. Apology accepted. Liz turned and walked 
back to join Boo-Boo, who was standing with Voe Lockney. The drummer 
was explaining his drum set with enthusiasm, picking out rhythms with 
quick dabs of brush and stick. 

 

"Anything?" Boo-Boo asked her out of the side of his mouth. 

 

"Not a thing," she said. 

 

"Do me now," Michael Scott said, coming over to loom over them. He was 
the tallest of the band members, and his blue eyes burned into Liz's 
like Green Fire's lasers. "I've plenty to get on with." 

 

For a moment Liz was reduced to a quivering blob of adoring teenage 
fan. Here was the Guitarchangel, close enough to touch, and twice as 
handsome as any photo she had ever seen. Those sharp cheekbones, and 
that long, black hair! But her Departmental training shoved the 
adolescent firmly into a mental cupboard and locked the door. 

 

"We are sorry for the inconvenience," she said, briskly. 

 

"You sound like a sign on the London Underground," Scott said, the 
corner of his mouth twitching. Could that be the hint of a smile? "Get 
on with it. I was playing at that edge of the stage." He pointed. Liz 
and Boo turned to look. Liz noticed the blast pattern, much attenuated. 
It outlined a semicircle in ash where the guitarist had been standing 
when the dress went up. "I didn't see the fire start. I had my back to 
the center. I was starting my solo." 

 

"Right," said Jones, joining in. "The lights are down at first. Fee 
comes on in the darkness. Her dress starts flashing the symbols, then 
all lights come up at once. The musicians whirl around to see her. The 
spotlights start wigwagging across the stage. Lasers! Smoke! It's 
smashing. You'll love it at the concert." 

 

A brass fire hose nozzle slid noisily behind his feet, and Jones 
jumped. 

 

"If we ever get to the damned concert," Robbie Unterburger complained. 

 

* * * 

 

Green Fire's dressing rooms were under the stage beyond a security door 
that was held ajar with a rubber wedge. Nearby was a reception room 
that must be used for parties and interviews. At the moment it was full 
of equipment in and out of battered, black travel cases. Most of the 
gear was unfamiliar to Liz. She assumed a good deal of it was special-
effects equipment, under the direction of Roberta Unterburger. An angry 
young woman, that. Every time Fee reached out for Lloyd Preston, Robbie 
flared up as if she could light the show without benefit of laser 
beams. Liz was sorry for her. Unrequited love might have been nice in 
poetry, but it was hell in practice. She wondered why the woman didn't 
quit her job, if she couldn't stand the realities of the situation. 


Then she thought about it -- who wouldn't want to work for a world-
famous rock band, no matter how hard it was on your heart? On Robbie's 
side, though, Kenneth Lewis kept staring at her the same way she did at 
Preston. He watched her when he thought she couldn't see, and turned 
his head away when she glanced his way. There was a neat little 
triangle going on, or quadrangle. All it needed was Fionna having 
unreturned feelings for Kenneth to really make a mess of the situation. 

 

Fionna's dressing room was the largest and best appointed. The concrete 
floor had been carpeted over with a rich green plush, a compliment to 
her band and her hair. Instead of the acid fluorescent lights, she had 
floor lamps with restful low-watt bulbs. The singer herself was 
enthroned in a big armchair with Laura Manning on one side and Nigel 
Peters on the other offering her drinks and cigarettes. Someone had 
unpacked Fionna's possessions and arranged them around the room. 
Costumes of garish silks or black lace and tulle hung along the walls. 
The lighted mirror in the wall over the dressing table was supplemented 
by a double-ended magnifying mirror and a folding mirror, plus enough 
amulets arrayed along the rear of the table to open a shop. A couple of 
them did have the sniff of magic about them. They glowed feebly, to 
Liz's experienced eye, like a child's nightlights. 

 

Enjoying an audience with Her Majesty was a plump man with a dapper 
summer-weight jacket slung over his shoulder by one finger. 

 

"And there you are at last!" Fionna carolled. Her voice was a relaxed 
trill. The promised whiskey had obviously met a few friends on its way 
down her throat. "Meet Mr. Winslow. He's a true darling." 

 

"Building management, ma'am, er . . . sir," the man in the white suit 
said, turning to offer a hand. "When I heard about this . . . 
regrettable accident I just had to come down and offer my support. Are 
you . . . with the show?" he asked, looking Boo-Boo's attire up and 
down. 

 

"No, sir," Boo said. "I'm with the Department." He patted down several 
of his tattered pockets and came up with a shiny leather billfold. He 
flipped it open. "My credentials, sir." 

 

Winslow's eyes widened as he examined the card and badge. "I see. I'm 
glad to see Miss Fionna has some . . . strong protectors. The fire 
marshall is upstairs now. They had to break in through the front doors, 
which will be replaced this afternoon, Mr. Peters," Winslow added, 
turning an eye to look over his shoulder. 

 

"I'm glad to hear it," Peters said. "My people will offer every 
cooperation." 

 

"Was there anyone strange in the building when the dress caught fire?" 
Boo-Boo asked the manager. 

 

"God only knows. This place is the size of a palace, but everything was 
locked up. The rear doors were locked from the outside only. We had a 
grip stationed there to let our people in, but no one else. I suppose 
someone could have slipped in, and planted a booby trap." 

 

"Which your Mr. Fitzgibbon . . . didn't see," Winslow pointed out. 


Peters looked disconcerted. 

 

"Er, yes." 

 

"I don't think it's too likely that what caused the trouble was in the 
dress itself," Boo-Boo said. 

 

"It came from a distance, then?" Peters asked, uncomfortable. 
"Something was shot at him?" Fionna sat bolt upright in her chair with 
her lips pressed together. Liz wondered what Boo was thinking, but he 
gestured to her not to speak. He looked amiably at the building 
manager. 

 

"Well, no. All that flash powder hovering in the air, and those laser 
lights, there could have been a little accident." 

 

"Good!" Winslow exclaimed, then looked guilty. "That's good, isn't it?" 

 

"Well, apart from Mr. Fitzgibbon having to make another dress." 

 

Laura Manning waved the idea away. "Oh, don't worry about Tommy. He's 
probably in there at this moment inventing a new confection in silk and 
lace. He lives to suffer. Ask him. Why, he's even accused me of ruining 
his dresses with my nasty foundations and rouges. Greasepaint isn't up 
in that lofty sphere with haute couture." 

 

"Excuse me, Mr. Winslow?" A man in firefighter's rig with a clipboard 
appeared at the door. "Fire marshall. Everything seems to be under 
control. The building's all right. The crews are withdrawing. You've 
got a mess up there, Mr. Winslow. Sorry about that, sir." 

 

Winslow was gracious. "You're doing your very worthy job, Marshall. My 
thanks. My maintenance people . . . will already be on the job, Miss 
Fionna." He offered her a courtly little bow. 

 

In sharp contrast to the courtesy of the building manager, Lloyd 
Preston pushed his way in, a scowl on his face. He stood over Fionna, 
who reached out a thin and, Liz thought, dramatically trembling hand to 
him. "Everything's okay. We can get right back to work." 

 

"But," Liz began to protest. Everyone in the room turned to look at 
her. 

 

"But what?" Lloyd demanded. Fionna sat bolt upright in her armchair, 
ready to flee the scene at the sound of a threat. 

 

"But," Boo said loudly, drowning her out, "we'll be keeping an eye on 
things." He nodded knowingly to Fionna, who shot them a look of relief. 
"We'll get right on it." He took Liz's arm and hustled her out of the 
dressing room. 

 

 

 

Chapter 9 

 

Liz pulled Boo to a halt just outside the door. 

 


"What was all that about?" she demanded, in a fierce whisper. "Don't 
you want to keep the place under lock and key until we can have a 
thorough look around? This place is the size of a city!" 

 

"There's no time," Boo said. "We don't want them cancelling the 
concert, which they will if they think there's some kind of assassin 
out there." 

 

"There may be an assassin out there!" 

 

"I know," Boo said, apologetically, "but it's the concert itself 
that'll bring him out in the open. If y'all whisk Miss Fionna away to 
the next stop on the tour, or cancel it altogether, it'll just start 
over again, and we'll never get a handle on it." 

 

"No," Liz said, thinking hard. She hated to admit it, but he was right. 
"That's true. Very well, then. We'll need to question the grip if he 
let anyone in he shouldn't have. Someone carrying a device or the 
wherewithal to cause that kind of long-distance conflagration." Boo 
shook his head. 

 

"We don't have to do that. He's clear. Of anyone toting magic, anyhow." 

 

Liz gawked. "How do you know that? We didn't speak to him." 

 

"Oh, well, there wasn't a sniff of magic in that whole corridor when we 
came in," Boo explained. 

 

Enlightenment dawned as Liz recalled Boo's antics at the entrance to 
the Superdome. "Ah! So that was the meaning of that whole performance 
for the TV cameras. You were taking a reading." 

 

"And settin' a detector," Boo said, with satisfaction. "Are you 
familiar with the Acardian Gate theory?" Liz nodded, wondering if he 
meant the original theory, or the update that had come down from the 
research boffins in the last six months. "Well, now, let's take a look 
at the rest of the Superdome. I want to see where they stove in the 
front doors, before they clean it up." 

 

* * * 

 

Now that Boo-Boo was out of sight of the others, Liz could tell he was 
impatient to get back to the arena. Liz made him wait before they went 
upstairs so she could set a protective cantrip over Fionna's dressing 
room. Not knowing where the attack might be coming from, if there was 
to be an attack, she drew power from the air around her and laid a 
spell on the door. As she gathered up the ball of energy, she could 
feel the tension permeating the Superdome. She disliked making personal 
magic in an unwarded space, but the cantrip itself was comforting, like 
a warm cat curled on one's lap. As old as time, the little spell 
couldn't stop anyone physically, but it would repel anyone of malign 
intent. It was layered with a fillip of her own invention that would 
alert her like a siren if something went wrong. She tied a knot in the 
energy and let it go, feeling it twang against the dressing room door. 
She hoped Fee wouldn't stir from there until she got back from their 
perimeter walk of the building. 

 


Boo took Liz's arm and hurried her up the long ramps and escalators to 
the stadium level. 

 

The fire department was withdrawing its equipment. The hoses which lay 
everywhere slithered underfoot as they were being rolled up. Liz saw 
Hugh Banks, the stage manager, trip over a coil that snaked around his 
foot. He got up, swearing, and went back to dressing down some of the 
stagehands. 

 

Microphones were being brandished under the noses of the band members 
still on stage. 

 

"Looks like a few of the reporters sneaked in," Boo said easily. "Can't 
blame 'em. Probably used police department credentials to get past the 
door." 

 

"We need to get them out," Liz said, feeling frustrated that she 
couldn't manifest a huge broom and sweep them all towards the exit. 
"They couldn't have been here when the fire occurred, but we do not 
want them in the way." 

 

It was time for Boo to look startled. "Why are you so sure none of them 
could be responsible?" 

 

Liz tried not to look superior. "They'd have had to hide for hours. Can 
you imagine any of them waiting patiently in the wings before pouncing 
on their prey? Look at them!" The reporters were doing a fair 
impression of sharks shoving their way into a netful of bleeding tuna 
parts. 

 

"They do kinda have that Christmas mornin' wrapper-tearin' thing goin' 
on," Boo said, with a grin. 

 

Just in case Liz had misjudged one of them, the two agents did a quick 
walk-by of as many of the reporters as they could. None of them paid 
either Liz or Boo more than a cursory glance to make sure they weren't 
famous. Liz did a light magical frisking on them. None was imbued with 
more than a good luck charm's worth of magic, though there were many 
such charms, amulets and mascots tucked away in purses, pockets, and 
backpacks. Liz had never seen so much superstitious paraphernalia 
outside of the Avebury Stone Circle gift shop. New Orleans was steeped 
in awareness of the supernatural. What a place for Fionna to have 
planted herself! If there was a malign magical presence it might well 
be camouflaged by the locals. 

 

Green Fire was living up to its name. The musicians were trying to be 
patient and gracious in the midst of the turmoil. They weren't 
succeeding. The reporters were relentless, trying to wrest any details 
they could about the attack. Eddie Vincent stood at the open side of 
his keyboards like a sentry, preventing entry to his sanctum sanctorum, 
and steering all questions toward the subject of the tour itself. 

 

"Yeah, we're really happy to be here in New Orleans. I've always wanted 
to come here. The music's got its own soul, like. Fee has this vision 
of gathering up the spirit of the United States for the album we're 
cutting when we get back home . . . No, man, I don't know what 
happened. I was just setting up my boards. Sound good in here, don't 


they?" His long fingers danced up and down the keys, sending a weird, 
discordant wailing echoing through the auditorium. "Yeah, it's a thing 
I'm trying out for this gig. I think it's a new sound. Can't wait to 
see what they think of it in San Francisco." The music attracted the 
attention of the other reporters on stage. Like rats to the Pied Piper, 
they turned away from other victims and crowded in on Vincent, who 
played more eerie-sounding music to the rapt crowd. 

 

Liz grinned. Vincent had a little benevolent magic of his own. Nigel 
Peters, Lloyd Preston and a cordon of security guards swooped in. They 
rounded up the protesting group of reporters and escorted them toward 
the door, talking all the while to distract them. Very quickly, the 
Superdome was cleared of members of the press. Green Fire seemed to 
breathe a collective sigh of relief. Liz followed Boo into the boxes 
surrounding the stage. The two of them split up and went in opposite 
directions. 

 

The tiers of seats were raked steeply and the space between them was 
alarmingly narrow. Liz hated to admit it, but she was afraid of 
heights. Her heart pounded every time she stumbled, grabbing for the 
metal railing to keep herself from plummeting down the concrete stairs. 
There was no way for her to watch what was going on down on stage and 
walk at the same time. If she was to concentrate on magic-sniffing, it 
was better for her acrophobia not to be able to see how far up they 
were. She kept her gaze on the few feet of floor immediately in front 
of her, and listened. 

 

She began to understand why Green Fire had chosen the Superdome as a 
concert venue. The acoustics were surprisingly good. Voices carried 
well into the bleachers from the stage. Over the racket created by 
grips dragging equipment to its places, the tuning of instruments, and 
the pounding of feet on the hollow platform, Liz eavesdropped on the 
crew and the band. They all sounded impatient and resentful of the long 
interruption of their jobs. 

 

" . . . my opinion, Fitz won't admit he had a cigarette in his hand 
under . . ." a deep male voice rose out of the hubbub. " . . . set fire 
to it himself and . . ." 

 

" . . . silk goes up in a puff . . ." another man's voice agreed. 

 

" . . . filmy sleeves . . ." one of the stagehands drawled, scornfully. 

 

" . . . really an attack on Fee?" piped a woman's voice. Liz recognized 
Laura Manning. 

 

"No!" "Maybe." "Yes, and by whom?" echoed around the stage. 

 

" . . . one of us?" asked Lockney's voice. 

 

"No!" came the immediate protest, but other voices chimed in. "Maybe." 
"Could be." "Who?" 

 

"Who knows?" Michael Scott's clear voice cut above the noise. "Let's 
get this done." 

 

Who indeed? Liz wondered, as she reached the end of the tier. She had 


not sensed any magical evidence whatsoever in the circuit. She glanced 
across the open arena at the sea of multicolored seats, but she 
couldn't see Boo-Boo. If it wasn't an accident, perhaps the prank was 
the work of an earthbound stalker trying to make Fionna's life 
miserable. In that eventuality Liz would have to turn the case over to 
the FBI. Ringwall wouldn't like that, but he'd be relieved. Anything 
that smelled of the mystical worried the ministry. On the whole he 
would be happier if Liz could prove a negative instead of a positive. 
You open the floodgates, she thought wryly, and that let in all the 
bogeys down the coal cellar, the walking ghosts, and before you know it 
Panorama and 60 Minutes are doing a special on you. 

 

A dark-skinned man in a plain gray guard's uniform sprang up out of 
nowhere in front of her. Liz jumped in surprise and clutched for a 
handhold. 

 

"Can I help you, ma'am?" he asked, his warm brown eyes serene but 
watchful. The temples of his black, curly hair were a distinguished 
gray. Liz showed him her credentials, which he examined with raised 
eyebrows. "Well, isn't that interesting. Welcome to America, ma'am." 

 

"How is it going, Captain Evers?" Liz asked, reading his name tag. 

 

"Under control, ma'am," the man said, taking a side glance down at the 
stage area. "We're clearing out the rest of the city folks. Pretty soon 
it'll just be us chickens in here. There's no damage we can find, no 
signs of a break-in. I guess they were right about that flash powder 
causing the fire in the first place . . ." 

 

Liz found she was only half-listening to him. She was aware of a 
looming presence overhead, like a storm cloud. She glanced up at the 
large, square box hovering over the stage, a huge cube covered with 
lights, screens and speakers. 

 

"What is that?" she asked, cutting Evers off in the middle of his 
explanation. His eyes followed hers upward. 

 

"Oh, that's the Jumbotron, ma'am." 

 

"What's it for?" 

 

"She raises and lowers so you can watch the screens. They use her all 
the time during concerts and games, to show the scores, instant replays 
and so on." 

 

"Good heavens," Liz said, gawking at its size. "What does that thing 
weigh?" 

 

"Seventy-two tons, ma'am." Evers sounded proud. 

 

Liz frowned. "Could it be detached?" she asked. "Is there any possible 
chance it could come down on anyone?" 

 

Captain Evers looked very worried until Boo leaned around from behind 
her. "She's with me, Abelard." 

 

The dark-skinned man's lined face relaxed into a wide grin. 


 

"Boo-Boo, is that you?" Evers asked. He rocked back on his heels, and 
stuck out his hands to clasp the American agent's. "You young rascal, 
how you be?" 

 

"Not as good as you look, old man," Boo said, grinning back. "Now, tell 
the lady what she wants to know." 

 

Evers turned to Liz with an air of apology. 

 

"Well, no, ma'am, the Jumbo can't come down; not without a lot of help. 
She's anchored to the steel girders holding up the roof. The roof's a 
soft plastic, not very heavy." 

 

"How do they control it? Do you have to go up there?" Liz shuddered. 
Evers's eyes lightened mischievously. 

 

"Oh, there's catwalks, ma'am," the captain said, his eyes crinkling. He 
seemed unable to resist teasing an obvious acrophobe. "Way high up. 
Yes, ma'am, you can climb up right inside the ceiling. But don't fall 
off those catwalks, or you'll come right through. Do you want to go up 
and see?" he offered, the impish grin returning. "It's just about two 
hundred sixty feet above the floor." 

 

Liz, feeling green, shook her head weakly. She thought of the fall from 
such a height, and swayed slightly on her feet, holding onto the 
banister with a firm grip. "Not unless there's an alternative." 

 

"Abelard!" Boo looked at the man with a wry smile. 

 

"Well, you don't have to," the guard captain said, releasing his 
prisoner reluctantly. "They work her from the control room with a 
couple of buttons. It's as easy as raising your garage door." 

 

Boo took her arm in a firm and reassuring grip as he helped her to the 
next level. 

 

"Find anything?" he asked. 

 

"Not a whisker," Liz said. "It's beginning to look as if it's a job for 
the Men in Black, not us." 

 

Boo came up alongside her as she reached the top of the steep stairs. 
"I have to admit I'm kind of hoping not," he said. 

 

"Me, too," Liz said. Though she would far rather not have to deal with 
a supernatural menace and it would be a relief if Fionna's troubles 
turned out to be a set of coincidences and accidents, the department 
needed all the credibility it could get, and this was her first solo 
mission. Negative results were no way to earn promotion. 

 

They went out into the broad, tiled hallway. Names of corporations were 
engraved on plaques set into the metal doors on her left. Those must 
lead to the luxury skyboxes she saw from the stage level. Boo steered 
her toward a set of blank doors. Scraping sounds shook the floor, and 
sirens echoed through the corridors. Liz looked around in alarm. 

 


"That's just the loading bay doors, opening to let the fire truck out," 
Boo explained. "Come on, let's take a look in the control room." 

 

He rapped on the blind door, and a bearded man in T-shirt, jeans and 
headset let them in. Inside the cramped, glass-fronted room the crew 
was in a frenzy of activity. The technical director, Gary Lowe, stood 
shouting into his headset behind a man and a woman seated at the 
console. Behind him, the event director was talking simultaneously to 
Lowe and to the floor director down on the stage. Robbie Unterburger 
glanced up from her high-tech keyboard, and cocked her head to beckon 
them over. Her hands flitted from one control to another, tweaking 
levers, knobs and keys. 

 

"This is a fantastic setup," Liz said, staring at the control panel as 
she tried to figure out what any of it did. "You aren't running all 
your machinery, are you?" 

 

"No," Robbie said, tossing her straight, brown hair, "this is a dry 
run. I'm just following my cues this time. I'll test everything, and 
we'll have one live technical run-through just before showtime 
tomorrow. These are the triggers for the lasers, and here are the 
joysticks for each one. I can run them manually or program the whole 
thing to run by computer. They did not go off and set Fitzy on fire." 
Her dark brows drew down as she dared the agents to say otherwise. 
"This is the control for the smoke pots," she said, pointing to a bank 
of a dozen switches, "and here's the hologram projectors that show 
images on the clouds. It's fantastic." Robbie's eyes sparkled as she 
turned one of four small screens toward them so they could see the 
turning figures of constellations and mythical beasts that were cued up 
and ready to run. Liz found the change from sullen child to lively 
effects wizard a charming transformation. Liz caught Ken Lewis glancing 
at her out of the corner of his eye. He saw Liz looking at him and 
swiftly turned away. "The firing mechanism for sparklers and fireworks 
is disabled just now; we're not permitted to use it unless the fire 
engine is on standby. Pity. This is a great place for flash and bang. 
The bigger the better." 

 

"Do you mind?" the technical director barked, cupping his hand over the 
microphone on his headset. "Excuse us, we're doing a show here. Sorry," 
he said to Liz and Boo. Boo put a finger to his lips and nodded to Liz. 
They retreated to the rear of the control room to watch the crew 
prepare. The female sound engineer shouted into the microphone set in 
the console in front of her. The lighting engineer gestured with both 
hands as he talked into his headset. Lowe gave Liz and Boo a brief 
glance, and then forgot about them as the disembodied baritone of stage 
manager Hugh Banks boomed out of the speakers overhead. 

 

"All right, people! That's the last of the firemen and the cleanup 
squad out the door. Everyone's gone. Let's get to work." 

 

Down below on the stage the miniature figures of the band took their 
places and lifted their instruments. Michael Scott flicked his long 
fingers down and over the strings of his guitar in the fanning gesture 
Liz had seen in a dozen concert videos, drawing forth a glissando like 
a harp. As always, the ripple of sound made her quiver with delight. If 
this case wasn't so serious she would be thrilled to be here with her 
idol. Voe Lockney beat his sticks together over his head, then attacked 


his drums with a frenzy. The other two joined in. Liz could hear the 
music begin to echo and thrum outside, but it was much muted here in 
the booth. The sound engineer's hands flew over the controls. 

 

Fionna appeared at the edge of the stage in a flame-red sheath dress 
that could have been painted on her. Her eyes, cheeks, and lips were 
tinted the same bright shade. What with her green hair close-cropped 
against her skull Liz thought she looked like a shapely match. Liz 
wondered why she hadn't detected Fionna leaving her dressing room. She 
counted back in time, and decided the cantrip alarm must have gone off 
while Captain Evers was teasing her about the Jumbotron. 

 

The tiny, brightly colored figure stopped at the edge of the stage, 
while a couple of men in security uniforms ran around the open platform 
like questing hounds. 

 

"All right," Lowe said, leaning forward with his hands on the 
chairbacks. "Cue the spotlights, cue Fionna, and . . . what the hell is 
the matter with her?" 

 

The music died away, and all the band turned to look at Fionna. 

 

"Come on, down there!" Lowe growled. "What's the hang-up now?" 

 

"She wants them to check for bombs, sir," an overhead speaker crackled. 
"She says she's afraid of being attacked again." 

 

"Bombs! Hell and damnation!" the technical director shouted, pounding 
on the engineers' seat backs. They sat rigidly, watching the screen. 
"We have a show to do! Get those men off the stage, or carry Fee over 
to her mark yourself. We haven't got any more time to waste." He 
flopped down into his seat, between Robbie and the sound engineer. "I 
wish that Fee had been in the damned costume when it went up, and then 
we'd have a reason for all this fuss! Let her writhe in agony! Let 
those rotten 'filmy sleeves' burn to ash! Now, let's get a move on! Get 
her on stage!" 

 

Below them, a man in blue jeans and a headset went over to Fionna, and 
pulled her into place in the center of the stage. Fionna held out her 
hand in appeal. From the edge of the platform, the bulky form of Lloyd 
Preston came over to stand beside her. Next to Liz, Robbie let out an 
audible growl. 

 

The band struck up again. Fionna grabbed her microphone in both hands, 
closed her eyes and emitted a piercing ululation that softened and 
resolved into a mellow warble that rose and fell like folds of silk. 
The technicians' shoulders relaxed visibly. Even Lowe stood back, arms 
crossed, to watch. Boo touched Liz's arm, and they slipped out of the 
room. 

 

"No magic," Boo said, as they went through the next set of double doors 
on the level. This was the press box, another large area like the 
control room, with a broad, curved window looking down on the stage. 
Facing it were tiers of desks with microphones and places for computer 
terminals to be plugged in. Toward the rear of the chamber, television 
and radio transmission lines ran from a labeled console into the 
ceiling. Several video screens showed different camera angles of the 


stage, a necessary innovation to supplement the view, unless the 
reporters were carrying binoculars. At this distance the figures of the 
band were tiny, almost featureless. 

 

Down on the stage, Fionna was making love to her microphone like a 
torch singer. She and the guitarist started to step toward one another, 
intent with passion. Liz felt a shiver of delight, waiting for them to 
close the distance and begin their duet. 

 

"Nothin'," Boo-Boo said, bringing her back to the present with a 
disappointing snap. "Nothin' but what we brought ourselves. It's 
lookin' as if the cause was somethin' natural or physical. That'd be a 
job for the local police, not for us." 

 

"My chief will be happy," Liz said, resignedly. "He'd always rather 
prove a negative. Less difficult to explain to Upstairs." 

 

Boo-Boo grinned engagingly. "Y'all got one of them, too?" 

 

"Don't we all?" Liz asked, smiling back. 

 

She found in spite of her earlier misgivings she was beginning to like 
this American. No matter how unconventional his approach, nor that he 
looked like a bag of rags, he was a good investigator and an effective 
agent. She was convinced he was right. Nothing more here than an 
accident, and accumulated paranoia of a spoiled rich girl with powerful 
connections. Liz had no idea what would account for the Irish agent's 
difficulty. Possibly he had been drugged by someone who recognized him 
as MI-5. There were more strange chemicals floating around in the 
underworld than even most of the department was permitted to know. 
There'd be grumbling in Whitehall about her spending thousands of 
pounds to fly here to investigate, but at least Lord Kendale would be 
happy. 

 

The music rose toward a crescendo. On the stage Fionna stood in her 
place under the lights, trembling. Her hands had fallen to her sides, 
but they were slowly lifting with the music. Michael Scott stood behind 
her, back bowed as he tore the notes out of his guitar. Liz enjoyed the 
rich psychic waves this song put out. It felt as though power was 
rising through her. She stood almost on tiptoe waiting for Fionna to 
shout out the last line, when the music would crash around her like 
waves against a cliff. 

 

And then, Liz felt it. Or smelled it. Or just knew, in that way her 
grandmother always told her she would. There was evil here. Powerful 
evil. But where was it coming from? 

 

"Do you feel that?" she started to ask Boo. Suddenly, there was a flash 
of light on the screens. Fionna let out a shriek of agony, throwing her 
arms up against the blaze. 

 

Liz wasn't prepared for another attack so soon, but her training kicked 
in without hesitation. Never mind where the fire had come from, put it 
out! Liz summoned up every erg of magic she had, down to the reserves, 
and threw it through the glass at Fionna with both hands in a 
smothering spell that would have extinguished a house fire. The force 
of the spell knocked all the wind out of her for a moment. She 


staggered backward, staring. The huge pane of glass seemed to shiver 
and sing dangerously, threatening to break. The little figures on the 
stage swayed and ran towards one another. She had no time to consider 
the consequences when she was flung to the floor by a blast that came 
from Boo's direction. 

 

"Clear!" he yelled, too late. Automatically, the analyzing part of 
Liz's brain recognized the effect as a containment field to suppress 
any other occult activity in the area. Liz was impressed. She didn't 
know the Americans had been working on anything so sophisticated. Boo 
glanced over at her. "Seems like we were wrong." 

 

Liz scrambled to her feet and made for the door, the American half a 
step behind her. 

 

"Rapid deployment, eh?" she asked, as they ran down the stairs toward 
the stage. 

 

"Finest kind," Boo said. 

 

"If you'd thrown that thing one second sooner you'd have blotted out my 
spell!" 

 

"I saw what you was doin', ma'am," Boo said, peevishly. "I waited. Now, 
let's see what happened." 

 

* * * 

 

Liz shoved her way through the crowd of people that had gathered on the 
stage. The fire alarm was blaring overhead. Nigel Peters's voice cut 
through the noise. 

 

"Someone shut that blasted thing off!" he raged. "We don't want 
everyone down on us again!" 

 

At the center of the mob, Fionna had sunk into a heap on the floor. 
Lloyd huddled over her, frantically trying to bring her around. Nothing 
seemed to be wrong with Fionna apart from red, angry skin on her bare 
arms. 

 

"A hell of a lot of help you were," Lloyd snarled at Liz. 

 

All Fionna could say over and over as they bandaged her arms was, "Now 
you'll believe me." 

 

And Liz had no choice. The stink of malignity rose from her skin like 
cheap perfume. 

 

"You say the hair on her arms caught fire?" Liz asked, wondering if she 
had heard incorrectly. "Not the sleeves?" 

 

"That's it," Laura Manning said, examining the skin carefully. "There 
were no sleeves. Left her smooth as a baby's bottom, apart from the 
burns, that is. Shh, honey. I've got some cream downstairs." 

 

"We can't have any more delays," Patrick Jones cried, pacing up and 
down. "My God, if the reporters get hold of this. I'll kill myself." 


 

"Oh, that'd be good press," Eddie Vincent growled. Nigel Peters tore 
his thinning hair. 

 

Liz focused immediately on finding the source of the power. "Did anyone 
see where the fire came from?" she asked, but every face in the circle 
was blank. To them it was just another freak accident, one of many. 
Only Liz had felt the anger and hatred fill the arena just before the 
attack. It was fading quickly. They would have to work fast to find the 
source. 

 

"It's symbolic that the fire was centered on Fionna's sleeves," she 
said under her breath to Boo-Boo, who knelt beside her near Fionna. 
"She didn't have any in this dress, but that's what everyone was 
talking about just before the blaze. That meant the energy had to have 
come from somewhere in here." 

 

"How many people could hear the stage manager?" Boo asked. "Let's ask 
everyone again, one at a time. I can do that. I'll bring them back to 
what they were thinkin' of at the last moment before it happened." 

 

"No, that's a waste of time," Liz said sharply. Fionna's eyes 
fluttered, and she sat up. Lloyd immediately pushed the agents away and 
cradled his girlfriend in his arms. "We have to examine the site at 
once, before the influence dissipates." 

 

"I think," Boo said, in a low tone, "you're forgetting that this is my 
turf. You're my guest. I'm in charge here." 

 

"Not this again," Liz hissed. "We asked for your help. It's my case." 

 

"It's our country," Boo said loudly, his eyes glowing with the light of 
battle. "You can't operate here without our permission. You might as 
well pack it up and go home." 

 

"Never! My government will never take a back seat to yours!" 

 

"We tossed you out once. We can do it again!" 

 

"Knock it off or leave!" Lloyd shouted. "Look at her. She's hurt! Let's 
go downstairs, love." 

 

Liz looked down at Fionna, who was holding onto the bodyguard like a 
drowning swimmer to a float. She was ashamed of herself. It was the 
second time that day she'd caught herself behaving in a nonprofessional 
manner. Two black marks, Miss Mayfield, she thought, shaking her head. 
Lloyd helped Fionna to her feet. Fionna tottered toward the stairs to 
her dressing room, with Lloyd and Laura Manning in attendance. The 
crowd parted to let them pass. Liz and Boo-Boo followed behind. 

 

"We've got to work together on this," Liz said, after a moment. The 
tension in Boo-Boo's shoulders relaxed. She knew the two of them were 
thinking the same things. Here was a case where she could produce proof 
of an actual magical attack. If they solved the mystery this could 
spell credibility for their departments, assuring the budget for next 
year, not to mention putting Lord Kendale in their debt. It would put 
the Department and OOPSI into the headlines. Horrified, Liz stopped her 


flight of fancy. If this made the headlines the furor would never die 
down. The general public was not ready. They already suspected the 
government of prying into their everyday affairs. If they knew about 
the departments devoted to the paranormal, there would be open rioting 
out of naked fear. 

 

Boo-Boo was thinking the same thing. "We've got to solve this and keep 
it quiet," he said, guardedly. "Miss Fionna needs us, ma'am. Both of 
us." 

 

"It won't be easy," Liz said. "To say we have different styles is an 
absolute understatement, but I'll try if you will." 

 

"It's a deal," Boo-Boo said, holding out his hand for hers. They shook 
on it. 

 

"The first thing to do is talk to our crime victim," Liz said, briskly. 

 

Instead of occupying her grand throne, Fionna was curled in Lloyd's 
arms on the couch at the side of her dressing room. She had her knees 
drawn up protectively, like a little girl. 

 

"They're here," she whimpered. "They're listenin' to me. They're comin' 
for me." 

 

"Who's they, honey?" Lloyd asked, rocking the trembling woman in his 
arms. 

 

"Let me see the burns," Liz said, starting to sit down at Fionna's 
other side. 

 

"Piss off," Lloyd snapped, glaring at Liz. "I don't want you within 
yards of her. This is all your fault." 

 

"All our fault?" Liz asked, blinking at him. "Are you mad? How?" 

 

"This has been going on all along," Lloyd said, his face stony. "She 
tried to tell you." 

 

"We needed proof," Liz said. 

 

"To hell with your proof," Lloyd said. "I'm calling this all off as of 
now. You're out." 

 

"It's not so easy as that," Boo said. 

 

"Oh, yes, it is!" 

 

"Oh, no, it isn't!" Liz said. "You might have believed her, but what 
could you do to help?" 

 

* * * 

 

As they argued over her head, Fionna clutched herself in fear. She had 
felt herself hauled to her feet from the stage, and had obediently 
followed Laura and Lloyd downstairs, while angry voices rang in her 
ears. She didn't follow half of it, didn't want to. With her eyes 


closed, she felt her arms stretched out. Something cool was swabbed 
along them, and the familiar feeling of gauze and sticky tape touched 
her skin. Fee was having a hard time keeping from raving out loud and 
crying for police protection or an exorcism. She might be Fionna 
Kenmare to millions of fans worldwide, but underneath the wild, Irish 
persona beat the upper-class English heart of Phoebe Kendale. Where 
Fionna delved into the supernatural with alacrity, Phoebe still thought 
it was a little naughty, something to taunt the Aged Parents with, who 
didn't like her choice of career or friends. She'd always known in her 
heart something bad would happen if she started to play with magic. 
Always. She'd been cautious. She'd followed every rite of protection 
she could find to counteract the dark forces just outside the light, 
just in case. Just to make sure. Never step on a crack. Never spill 
salt without tossing a pinch over her shoulder. Always wish on a star, 
a fallen eyelash, a candle flame. Don't let black or white cats cross 
one's path. But the evil had started to press too closely in the last 
few months. That was why she had come to New Orleans, in hopes of 
finding stronger magic than she had. But the bad ones had found her 
here, first. They were coming for her, just like before. She started to 
rock back and forth, worrying. 

 

The strong arms surrounding her helped to push the bogeys away. All her 
friends were gathered around her. They wanted to help. They were the 
grownups, there to protect her from the darkness. She felt as if she 
was a little girl again, crying in the nursery when the lights went 
out. They'll make it better. But they couldn't help. They didn't 
understand. She had followed every one of the superstitions to the 
letter, even the ones that made her feel silly. It wasn't enough to 
keep her safe. She drew a ragged breath and burst into tears. 

 

Oh, I want my mummy. 

 

Fionna sobbed uncontrollably. The evil was here. It had followed her 
here. The emotional storm inside her rose to hysterical proportions. It 
was hard to breathe. 

 

She felt herself being shaken. A calm voice, a familiar voice, cut 
through her misery. 

 

"Fionna. Fionna." 

 

Oh, it was that imperious prig, Elizabeth Mayfield. Forgot to set the 
tables again, or was it some equally tedious House task? 

 

"Fionna." 

 

Go away, she willed the calm, insistent voice. Go away. Elizabeth was 
just another manifestation of the evils that surrounded her, haunted 
her. She tried to shut them all out, using the ward chants she had 
learned from the books. Go away, pesty voice. 

 

"Fionna." 

 

She put her fingers into her ears. Two strong hands grabbed her sore 
wrists and pulled them away. She yelped, and went back to chanting. 

 

"Fionna," the voice continued, in an urgent whisper, sinking lower and 


lower and becoming more and more intense until it burned into her very 
being. It was a mere breath upon her ears. "Phoebe Kendale, if you do 
not open your eyes right now and snap out of your sulk I will tell 
everyone here how you jumped naked off Magdalen Bridge into the Isis 
River at dawn on Midsummer Day five years ago." 

 

Fionna's bloodshot green eyes flew open, glaring into Liz's serious 
blue ones. "You wouldn't! Of all the officious, interferin' candy-arsed 
bitches who ever walked the earth on hind legs . . ." 

 

Liz stood up and nodded to Nigel Peters. "She'll be all right now," she 
said. 

 

"My God, how did you do it?" Peters asked, staring at his star in 
amazement. Fionna stopped raving and tensed up. 

 

"Departmental secret," Liz said curtly. But she gave Fionna a look that 
said if she indulged herself in another screaming fit the secret would 
be out. The singer crossed her bandaged arms and stared her defiance. 
Liz shook her head. Fionna/Phoebe was as stubborn as the day they had 
met. She left the woman to the ministrations of Laura and Nigel, who 
began to argue about whether to put Fee to bed or to go on with the 
rehearsal. 

 

"Let's get back to it," Voe Lockney said, fidgeting with his 
drumsticks. "We need the run-through." 

 

"No," Lloyd said, cradling Fionna closely as if possession was nine-
tenths of the law. Her eyes were closed again. "Call it off. Fee's 
frazzled. Let her rest this afternoon." The band and the crew 
immediately broke into protests. 

 

"Oh, no," Michael Scott said, his blue eyes ablaze. "We'll be rusty 
enough. I have to hear the acoustics of this place." 

 

"Is she going to fold in the show?" Voe Lockney asked, looking at 
Fionna with bewildered eyes. 

 

"I don't see what all the fuss is about," Robbie Unterburger said, 
sourly. "I've had worse burns from flash powder." 

 

At the sound of the word "burns," Fionna nestled closer into Lloyd's 
meaty arms. Robbie's lips pressed together as if seeing the couple like 
that hurt her. Eddie Vincent gave them a disapproving look. 

 

"Godless," the keyboard player muttered. "Marry him already, woman!" 

 

"The evil feeling has dissipated now," Liz said, as soon as she and Boo 
were out of earshot of the others. "Where did it go?" 

 

"Where did it come from?" Boo asked. "We've checked all over this 
place. The portals were cleared. Everyone was clean. We missed a leak 
somehow. It'd have to come in a vent, or on a breach in the walls to 
the outside. Malignity has to be invited into a neutral space. The only 
psychic doodads here belong to Miss Fionna. That kind of thing leaves a 
mark on people. No one has any deep-seated stains I can see." 

 


"Too deep for you?" Liz asked. 

 

Boo gave her a glance full of meaning. "Not for our detection methods, 
ma'am," Boo said mysteriously. "Can't say more'n that." 

 

"This isn't like anything I've ever had to deal with before," Liz said, 
pushing departmental rivalry aside until later. "Is she really under 
attack from some kind of malign spirit that follows her around?" 

 

"I dunno, ma'am," Boo said. "We need some special expertise here. I 
know people. We can have a couple dozen specialists here in an hour. 
There's a Santeria priestess I know. The local wiccans will want to be 
in on it, and there's the Evangelical healers. Maybe a shaman or two." 

 

Liz only gawked. "Is there anyone in this town that you don't know?" 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 10 

 

The clean-shaven, heavyset man leaned into the SATN-TV camera lens. He 
was wearing a plain black tunic and breeches with white bands at his 
throat and wide white cuffs. The costume, coupled with the truncated-
cone-shaped hat, evoked an image of a Puritan settler, but his speech 
had no relation to the founding fathers' simple message of religious 
freedom. 

 

"Hate," he said, with all the flourishes and dramatic pauses of his 
profession, "liberates you. Hate sets you free. The ultimate freedom 
comes when you allow yourself to reach inside and draw out the burning 
fires within, to destroy your enemies and vanquish them into the 
netherworlds. Hate creates power." 

 

Behind him was a clutch of stern-faced women dressed in a similar 
style, straight out of The Crucible. They were throwing handfuls of 
powder onto a fire that exploded in a flash and puffs of noxious, 
yellow smoke. 

 

"Are you getting passed up for promotions because the boss likes a 
different candidate more than you?" the man asked. "Then, curse your 
rival! Curse the boss, too! There's no reason for you to take ill-
treatment like that without calling down eternal wrath upon those who 
do you wrong. Join our congregation! We'll be happy to offer a ritual 
for you. All you have to do is send us a donation of $100, and we'll 
invoke Satan in your name. Watch our show, and add your prayers that 
vengeance will be yours. Now, here's that address. Send $100 to SATN-TV 
. . . ." 

 

The slim man in khaki trousers waited until the announcer had finished 
with his spiel. "Cut! Speaker Downey, come on. How come you're not 
going to show some skin? I thought Satan worshipers were, you know . . 
. naked girls on the altar?" 

 

"How dare you?" the head Puritan said, coming toward the producer with 
a face like an angry thundercloud. "Private worship is not for public 


display!" 

 

"We could guarantee you a hell -- sorry, Speaker -- a heckuva lot more 
viewers in the prime time slot if you would make your pitch, you know, 
a little more adult-friendly?" 

 

"You mean, washed in sin!" Downey stormed. 

 

"I mean, that's what people want to see," the producer said, 
imperturbably. "What you're doing now is strictly daytime -- bored 
housewives and unemployed people with the tube on for background noise. 
The real money is in the evening, if you wanted to cater to the public 
a little, or after midnight for really hot stuff. Sheesh! Some of the 
evil you guys espouse is obviously sadomasochism! You ought to . . . 
let it show a little." 

 

One of the women sidled up to him, seductive even in the heavy-skirted 
costume. "You're a follower?" 

 

"I . . ." the producer began, uncomfortable even while he was starting 
to look interested. 

 

"We prefer to keep our show in the light of day," Downey said, angrily. 
"Night is for the creatures of the dark, like . . . like that druid's 
wench!" He pointed at a poster of Fionna Kenmare and Green Fire that 
was being carried onto the set by a couple of grips. "The fire of our 
Master keeps us strong! Darkness surrounds her. Many of our viewers 
have called down curses upon her and her minions, but they bounce back 
at us. She is trifling with things beyond her ken! More power is needed 
to bring about her downfall!" 

 

"Now, now," said Augustus Kingston, coming out of the shadows and 
throwing an arm over Speaker Downey's shoulders. Only the ember of his 
cigar end had given away his presence to the others. As he got closer 
the producer could smell the tobacco over the sulphur from the 
brimstone incense. "Don't you get all het up about Miss Kenmare. She's 
gonna get what's coming to her." 

 

"She wastes the otherworldly power, brother," Downey said, shaking his 
head. "Her motives are suspect! What fool would use magic and not 
employ it for personal gain?" 

 

"Well, you are so right, my friend," Kingston said, smoothly. "And if I 
have not said it lately, I, and all of my people here," he pointed the 
cigar at the producer, trailing along behind them like a worried 
watchdog, "appreciate your help in dealing with wrongheaded women like 
Miss Kenmare, there. Yes, she's got wards around her. There're some 
busybodies interfering with right-minded people like yourself who quite 
rightly want to see her blasted into the underworld, but in the end 
those won't be a barrier. No one can stand against the might of pure 
evil." 

 

Downey's eyes gleamed from underneath the brim of his antique hat. "We 
will continue the fight, brother." 

 

"We sure will. You all run along," Kingston said, with an avuncular 
smile. "We've got to set up for the afternoon telethon now." 


 

"They just stand there," the producer complained, watching the black-
clad worshipers file out of the studio. "I could get more interest out 
of an oil painting." 

 

"But they bring in the money from the grass-roots viewers," Kingston 
said, transfering his cigar to the other hand and taking the producer 
by the upper arm and leading him out into the noisy foyer, where a 
young, redheaded woman in a headset was punching the controls of a 
computerized switchboard set. "Look at that. The telephones are ringing 
off the hook. You just let them do their business, and concentrate on 
making it look as interesting as you know how. We've got our prime-time 
specials all locked up for this week. Might have a special special for 
you later on. Keep up the good work." 

 

The producer looked doubtful. Kingston slapped him on the back and 
headed for the rear office. 

 

The man was right, though. It would have helped a lot if they could 
have raised the kind of power Kingston dreamed of through normal 
operations, but they couldn't, not in a puny backwater like this, far 
off in the northwest states. But Kingston, and some of his 
acquaintances had a plan to put themselves on the supernatural map -- 
and that goody-goody little singer was going to help them do it. 

 

"SATN-TV, please hold," the operator said, poking the flashing button 
with the end of a pencil. "SATN-TV, please hold. SATN-TV, yes, Mr. 
Mooney! He's expecting your call. I'll put you right through, sir." She 
jabbed the HOLD button, and cleared her throat. "Mr. Kingston, Mr. 
Mooney on line three." 

 

* * * 

 

Kingston sat down in a huge, black, leather swivel chair in his office 
and swung it away from the monitors trained on Studio One. "Eldredge, 
nice to hear from you." 

 

"Is this going to happen, Augustus?" Eldredge Mooney asked. His voice 
was a low growl, like a bear awakened prematurely from hibernation. 
"People are beginning to ask me questions. They want to see results!" 

 

Kingston kicked back and put one polished black shoe on his solid, non-
sustainably harvested mahogany desk. "Yes, Eldredge, it's going right 
on schedule. We all ought to be getting one powerful charge in the 
batteries tomorrow night. I can't wait for the rest of the Council to 
see the setup. I'm looking forward to having you all here." 

 

"This is the first major test of the system, you know." 

 

"Of course I know it! It's an honor to be the one to push the button, 
so to speak, and I am sure it's going to be a big success. I was just 
watching some of our faithful who are providing the charge that primes 
the pump, so to speak. This technology's just plain brilliant. The 
machines have been ticking over just fine on the reactions we're 
getting to the nut fringe. The indicators say we're already showing 
about eight percent feed, and that's without any input from out of 
town. Technology's wonderful, Eldredge. I don't know why we didn't have 


access to something like this before. And what with the Internet 
channels coming in line, we'll be able to blow anything we feel like 
right out of the water, so to speak. And, since naturally that's what 
we have in mind here, it's going to work like a charm." 

 

"It only works if you have direct access to the subject," Mooney 
objected. 

 

Irritated, Kingston puffed on his cigar, surrounding himself with a 
fiendish aureole of smoke. It was clear that they were underestimating 
SATN and the planning skills of its chief of administration. 

 

He had little direct contact with Mooney and the rest of the 
influential circle he represented. He'd met them on-line, in a private 
chat room on a black-magic website. Kingston had been amazed to 
discover that so many like-minded individuals turned out to live in his 
neck of the woods, although Mooney was the only one he had met in 
person so far. The others were holding back, waiting until he proved 
himself worthy of being one of them. Membership in the Elder Council of 
Deepest Evil, as they called it, was held out to him as a carrot -- 
although a heavy stick was poised to fall on his back if he blew the 
chance they were giving him. 

 

Kingston was doing his best to make sure he wouldn't. He wanted to be a 
part of their number in the worst way. His fondest daydreams, even as a 
child, involved world domination. As a grownup, he'd be content just to 
increase his dominion to absolute power over those under his control, 
and that was what the Council promised. These men were the real deal. 
The satanists, cursers, death-talkers, all the wrongdoers who made CNN 
were pigeons compared with his long-distance comrades. These evil 
worshipers had discovered the power of high tech. The one inescapable 
problem was power. They needed it. The easy way to raise it was from a 
strong emotional surge from as many people as possible all at once. 
Fionna Kenmare put on a mighty powerful show. He'd seen one himself. If 
at a climactic moment something happened to her, the power released 
would be tremendous. That was what Mooney and his friends wanted, and 
he was poised to give it to them. 

 

"We've got direct access, Eldredge, I told you. We've got the perfect 
conduit to Fionna Kenmare. Our person on the scene guarantees that the 
link has been made. Has been for some time. We've been running little 
tests, and I've got to tell you, they've all worked." 

 

"Wonderful," Mooney gloated. "We can claim that she's being attacked 
because she espouses magic, never knowing that those attacks were just 
trial runs, and have nothing to do with her own wretchedly limited 
beliefs. Can the conduit be associated with you in any way?" 

 

"Our focus person picked the perfect accomplice, Eldredge. No one will 
ever be able to trace it back to us . . . or you. It's all so perfectly 
hands-off." 

 

"This will mean big things for all of us, Augustus, especially you." 

 

Kingston sat back and put his other foot up on the desk, and blew a 
long stream of smoke at the ceiling. He liked being appreciated. 
"That's the general idea, Eldredge." 


 

"Well, I want an update later," Mooney said, trying not to sound as 
though he doubted Kingston's word. Kingston knew the Council didn't 
want him to walk away at this point. Not with so much at stake. 

 

"You'll get it," Kingston said. "And, oh, Eldredge, keep CNN turned on 
tomorrow night. They've always got the most current coverage of late-
breaking events. Nice hearing from you. Say hello to the missus for 
me." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 11 

 

That evening Elizabeth circulated through the room, smiling and nodding 
to Beauray's arriving "specialists," all the time aware that she was 
experiencing another facet of the surprisingly complex world that 
existed within the bounds of the French Quarter. While she had seen 
examples of "gracious Southern living styles" in various old movies, 
and had experienced a minor taste of it in her own room, she 
nonetheless found it impressive. 

 

For one thing, the surroundings were far more sumptuous than at any 
meeting she had ever attended outside of a great house or palace in the 
United Kingdom. Beauray had somehow gotten the use of a suite at the 
Royal Sonesta. (When she asked about how he could arrange it so 
quickly, Boo-Boo had simply shrugged and given what she was now 
beginning to recognize as his trademark answer: "I know someone on the 
staff.") It reminded her of the nicer kind of private London clubs, but 
decorated in lighter colors. The main area was roughly the size of a 
volleyball court, and luxuriously furnished with overstuffed sofas and 
chairs as well as small cocktail tables draped with white brocade 
cloths. Heavy drapes framed the large windows which looked out onto the 
hotel's massive inner courtyard, and soft light was provided by several 
bright crystal chandeliers. An ebony baby grand piano stood underneath 
the window at the room's far end. 

 

The others in attendance seemed to take it all in stride, giving the 
room and its furnishings little notice and even less comment, choosing 
instead to focus on the well-stocked bar situated beneath a painting 
the size of a bed. She was pleased to see the bar herself. Comments 
from other friends who had come to American dos in the past had 
complained that Yankees threw big parties, but neglected to provide 
alcoholic refreshment in favor of soft drinks, as if all their guests 
were still underage. Fionna/Phoebe's eyes would probably have gleamed 
at the sight of the warm, mahogany counter lined with bottles of every 
size and shape, but she was locked up, shivering, in her suite with 
Lloyd. Elizabeth was sorry she was so frightened, but it kept her 
behaving. The issue was not only what outside forces would inflict upon 
her, but what Fionna could do to herself, given a free hand. For once 
she would have to settle for room service, and like it. 

 

As they waited for the last few stragglers to arrive, Elizabeth could 


not help but study those already present with a mixture of curiosity 
and amusement. 

 

In her own home offices of OOPSI they held occasional staff meetings, 
and sometimes brought in outside consultants. There, however, the 
consultants were invariably either dusty academics or blustery 
bureaucrats. The main challenge was staying awake through the drawn-out 
lectures and discussions of procedures. This gathering, appropriately 
enough for New Orleans, had more the appearance of a costume party. 

 

Elizabeth accepted a sweet-smelling drink the uniformed bartender 
identified as a "Sazerac," and surveyed Boo's gathering allies. 

 

"A few of my friends," Beauray had said. Elizabeth tried to imagine 
what life would be like with friends like these. If she went back 
through her entire life of memories and catalogued every strange 
character she had ever met or come into contact with, the list would 
not be half as large or varied as the group assembling in the room. 

 

There were a large number of Blacks, both men and women, present, 
standing singly or sitting in small groups of two or three. One group 
was garbed in bright purple robes, while others were dressed in white 
and wore head scarves folded in elaborate patterns. From the night 
before she recalled the slight gentleman in blue jeans and a leather 
vest who carried an intricately carved wooden walking staff and wore a 
straw cowboy hat, ornately decorated with long feathers. 

 

The Caucasians in the room presented no less variety in their dress. 
Two middle-aged gentlemen who stood talking quietly together wore 
conservative business suits that would have fit in anywhere in the 
Central Business District. Others more casual in their dress sprawled 
on the sofa, their beards and embroidered tunics making them look as if 
they had just wandered in from a medieval festival or stepped through a 
time warp from a Viking mead hall. One statuesque blonde woman in a 
floor-length black dress glittering with sequins seemed to have come 
directly from a Mardi Gras ball. Also scattered about were a few 
individuals whose olive complexion, long dark hair, and bead necklaces 
hinted of the Great Plains Native Americans. 

 

The other noticeable thing was that, while they all might be friends of 
Beauray, there seemed to be little love lost between the various 
groups. Dark glares and muttered comments followed by unnecessarily 
loud laughter were increasingly frequent as more and more people 
arrived until Elizabeth began to worry that outright hostility would 
erupt if the meeting did not start soon. 

 

As if reading her mind, Beauray stood up and moved to the center of the 
room, clearing his throat loudly. In response, the crowd ceased their 
conversations and focused their attention on him. 

 

"I guess we might as well get started," he announced. "Even allowing 
for N'Awlins time and being fashionably late, I figure anyone who isn't 
here already has either decided not to attend or got caught up in 
something more pressing." 

 

There was a low murmur as everyone craned their necks to survey the 
room, doubtlessly speculating on who hadn't shown up as opposed to who 


hadn't been invited. 

 

"First, let me express my thanks and appreciation for those of you who 
have chosen to attend, and especially on such short notice. I'd have 
liked to give y'all more time, but there isn't any. Most of you know 
each other, at least on sight, and I don't suppose it's a big secret 
that not everyone in the room likes each other or agrees with some of 
the disciplines represented here. The fact that I would see fit to 
place you in this potentially awkward position should be an indication 
of how serious I feel the problem is, and how little time we have to 
try to come up with an answer." 

 

That seemed to get everyone's attention, and they leaned forward in 
their seats, focusing intently as Beauray continued. 

 

"In a minute here I'll introduce my colleague from England, Miss 
Elizabeth Mayfield, but first let me give you the bare bones. There's 
an Irish rock singer, Fionna Kenmare, who's in town to give a concert 
at the Superdome tomorrow evenin'. There have been reports that she has 
been sufferin' from psychic or supernatural attacks, though there's 
some question as to whether or not they were simply publicity stunts. 
Anyway, Elizabeth and I are supposed to be checkin' it out, and 
protectin' her if the attacks are real. I don't know if y'all think 
it's good or bad news, but they are real." Some murmuring met this 
announcement. Boo-Boo raised his voice slightly. "We've seen it happen 
ourselves. The problem is, what we've seen so far doesn't match 
anything Ms. Mayfield or I have run into before, so I thought we'd 
bounce it off you folks to see if any of you have some knowledge or 
experience that might help us. 

 

"First, though, I'll let Elizabeth tell you about what we've 
encountered so far. Elizabeth?" 

 

Originally Elizabeth had resisted the idea of her handling this part of 
the briefing, fearing that her accent would hinder communications, but 
Beauray had insisted, and as she enumerated the details of the 
afternoon's events, she found herself warming to the subject and to her 
audience. It was rare that she could speak as freely as she did about 
apparently supernatural or unexplainable events and have it accepted 
and considered seriously rather than having to fight to overcome 
scepticism and disbelief. To her relief and delight she saw many of her 
listeners nod to themselves as she reached various points in her 
narratives where she described but did not identify by name the magical 
processes she and Beauray had used. 

 

If only Mr. Ringwall could see her now! 

 

When she finished, there was a period of silence as the assemblage 
reflected on what they had heard. 

 

"You say this group is Irish and the first attacks happened in 
Ireland," one of the men in business suits said finally, in an 
easygoing but ponderous way of speaking. "Is there any chance she's 
gotten sideways to some spirit over there that's followed her here?" 

 

"I thought about that," Beauray said, "but I haven't picked up any 
signs or feelings of an extra presence around the group or around the 


Superdome." 

 

"Too bad!" quipped the black man in the straw cowboy hat. "Otherwise we 
might be able to convince it to stay. The Saints surely could use the 
help." 

 

That brought a round of laughter from the whole room. 

 

"How about a curse?" asked a stout black woman wearing a floor-length 
caftan and a plain, dark purple turban. "Maybe someone gave her 
somethin' that she's carrying around that draws trouble without her 
even knowin' about it." 

 

"Naw," said one of the long-haired Caucasians, with a gesture of scorn. 
"I never heard of no curse that could make anyone or anything burst 
into flames. It could make 'em sick or real unlucky, but to have 
something catch fire like that in front of a bunch of witnesses? That'd 
take some real heavy mojo." 

 

"And you don't think the spirits are capable of setting fire to a 
sinner?" asked an old, old teak-colored man in a neatly-pressed suit. 
Elizabeth noticed a well-worn bible on the table near his elbow. 

 

"Now, now," Beauray said, holding his hands up peaceably. "No one here 
is calling Miss Fionna a sinner. At least, no more than usual." He 
managed to raise a chuckle from the warring groups. "Let's just put our 
heads together and see if we can come up with an explanation that rings 
true." 

 

From there the talk broke down into a group discussion. Individuals 
began comparing notes, and various groups merged, then split and 
remerged with other groups as possibilities were posed and discarded. 
Boo was pleased to see that they could set aside their individual 
philosophical differences to concentrate on a problem. Even though only 
one person was in peril, and an out-of-towner at that, the greater 
matter concerned them all. He'd often thought that a council like this 
would be of great help to the Department, although the bean counters in 
Washington weren't too receptive to the idea. They wouldn't know how to 
catalog the expense. Too bad. This group was no weirder than any of the 
other think tanks going on in other places. Someone caught him by the 
arm. 

 

"Hey, Beauray," said the tall Native American woman in the embroidered 
chambray blouse and silver-and-turquoise jewelry, "have there been any 
visible manifestations, apart from the fire and the scratches? Spirits? 
Faces?" 

 

From there the discussion broke down into specific details. Elizabeth 
and Beauray were both cross-examined numerous times on what they had 
experienced and witnessed, as well as asked to give their own views on 
some of the theories being broached. 

 

"Think someone's got a voodoo doll of this gal?" a voice rose above the 
crowd from a very stout woman in a flowered dress. 

 

"They never heard of voodoo over there in Europe," another voice 
exclaimed, shouting down the first. It was a man, red-eyed with 


indignation. He felt in his pocket and came up with a yellowed scroll. 
"Demons, though. She might have a demon following her. Look here, I got 
a list . . ." 

 

"What you think you're doin'?" a woman with café-au-lait skin exclaimed 
with concern, rounding on him from a small group nearest the bar. She 
whisked a cloth bundle out of her purse and sprinkled a pinch of pale 
dust from it on the paper. "Even the names have power. You brought them 
in here!" 

 

The man and woman immediately fell into an argument, paying no heed to 
the others around them. The rest regrouped and began to talk among 
themselves. 

 

Elizabeth went from one cluster of people to another, listening and 
taking notes while she answered questions. Several forms of attack that 
Elizabeth had never even heard of before were all aired and reviewed by 
the gathered specialists with the seriousness of doctors consulting 
each other on a puzzling diagnosis. She made a mental note to ask 
Beauray about some of the terms they were using, but for the time 
being, the focus had to remain upon Fionna and her problem. Time was an 
issue. 

 

After nearly two hours, the larger of the two men in conservative suits 
set his glass down on a table with a sigh. He raised his voice to get 
everyone's attention. 

 

"I'm hittin' the same dilemma over and over again, my friends. For a 
force to be powerful enough to have the effect Beauray is talkin' 
about, there must be some trace or indication of its direction or 
source. It's a case of conservation of energy, y'understand? Big 
effects call for big energy, and I don't see where it's comin' in, 
here. Nor why." 

 

"That's the problem, isn't it?" Elizabeth said. "In real life, even the 
wizard Merlin could not simply wiggle a finger and move a mountain. 
There's far more to the equation than that. Both Mr. Boudreau and I 
should be sensitive enough in our own ways to detect any energy source 
strong enough to produce those spectacular results, but neither of us 
could pick up the faintest whiff of anything even fractionally powerful 
enough." 

 

"Well, let's call a halt to the proceedin's," Boo said, glumly. "I want 
to thank y'all for comin' today. I'd appreciate it if you'd try to 
think of anythin' we haven't covered. Y'all know how to reach me. And 
keep your eyes open for any display of energy that strikes you as new 
or unusual." 

 

"We'll do what we can," the café-au-lait woman said. She rose from the 
wing chair, laid a sympathetic hand on Boo's arm, and shook hands with 
Elizabeth. Her grip was firm, dry and comforting. 

 

"I'll tell everyone I know to intensify their personal alertness," said 
the other man in a business suit. "We'll pin this thing down, Beauray." 

 

"Thanks, Bobby Lee," Boo said. "Thank y'all for comin'." The room 
cleared quickly, as the peace of the watering hole was broken, and 


lifelong rivals hurried to get out before the shadow of the others fell 
on them. 

 

"I must say, that was a new experience for me," Elizabeth said after 
the last of their guests had left. "Your friends were really quite 
helpful." 

 

"Not helpful enough," Beauray said, almost to himself. 

 

"Excuse me?" 

 

"Hmm? Oh. Sorry about that, Elizabeth. I'm just a bit disappointed is 
all. For all the drinkin' and talkin', we still don't have any clearer 
idea of what's goin' on than when we started. I guess we just have to 
stay on our toes and hope for the best." 

 

* * * 

 

Lloyd Preston put his hand over the phone and turned to Fionna, who was 
sitting anxiously on the big bed on the upper floor of her suite. 

 

"That was Kenny Lewis, wants to know when you're coming back to finish 
rehearsal." 

 

"Not yet -- not yet!" Fionna said, holding out her long-nailed hands. 
"I can't face them. It's been just too awful. I feel if I pull down one 
more disaster that it'll kill all of us!" 

 

Lloyd spoke to the phone. "Maybe later, Ken boy. She needs a break. 
We're going to stay here for a while." 

 

Fee's keen hearing picked up the tone of the grumble coming through the 
wire. She knew the others were upset with her, but she didn't know what 
else to do. Blast that Elizabeth Mayfield! She was always right -- 
always had been. Fee started pacing around the sitting room, its 
dimensions suddenly too small. She flung herself into a chair and 
reached for a cigarette. Lloyd automatically dug into his pocket for 
the lighter before he even hung up the phone. She smiled up at him as 
she blew out a plume of smoke. He was so good to her. 

 

"They're stopping for dinner, love," Lloyd said. "Mr. High-and-Michael 
wants you there for the evening run-through even if you're on your 
death bed." 

 

Fee shuddered and let her head drop back against the cushy damask of 
the armchair. "I wish he wouldn't put it like that!" 

 

She was too agitated to chant any of her spells of protection. How did 
she know they would do any good, anyhow? She had no way to tell. The 
books she'd bought from the occult antiquarian might be phonies. She 
hadn't read Latin at school, and had to rely on the translations. Liz 
seemed to be another deep believer, though, and she'd nosed around in 
the suite. Fee ought to be safe here. She wished she felt that way. 

 

When the knock came at the door, Fee was unaware how long she'd been 
sitting and staring up at the ceiling. She shot a nervous look at 
Lloyd, who got up from the table where he'd been reading a book. He 


returned with a couple of large paper bags in his arms, and Robbie 
Unterburger trailing behind him. 

 

"Hi, Fionna," Robbie said, timidly. Fee only raised an eyebrow at her. 

 

"She brought us some dinner. Thank you, love. It was really thoughtful 
of you." 

 

Robbie simpered as Lloyd set the bags down on the table and began to 
take clear plastic containers out of it. Something crisp-fried. 
Something stewed -- two stewed somethings. A chunk of bread in a waxed 
paper bag. A mass of slightly wilted salad. The unfamiliar yet savory 
smells wafted toward Fee's nose, but couldn't work their magic on her. 
She was too tense to enjoy them. Unable to bear the sight of food, or 
Robbie, Fee looked away and stared at the curtains, conscious that the 
girl was staring at her. 

 

"Thanks," she said. After a time, she heard the shuffle of footsteps. 
The girl was going away. Thank heaven. 

 

Lloyd muttered something, and the hall door snicked shut. He came 
around Fee's chair and stared down at her. 

 

"What's the matter with you? She just did you a favor!" 

 

"I'm sorry," Fee said, with sincere contrition. "I'm just too worried." 

 

"You could have sounded like you meant it when you said thanks," Lloyd 
said, his dark brows lowering to his nose. 

 

"The girl's such a nosebleed," Fee said, more snappishly than she 
meant. "She's talented, but her personality . . ." 

 

"She's nice enough," Lloyd said. 

 

Fionna eyed him. "She'd be yours if you let her," she said, shrewdly. 

 

Lloyd, just as shrewd, knew better than to walk into that kind of 
emotional mine field. He shrugged noncommitally. "Who, her? You're 
worth fifty of her." 

 

Fionna hugged herself. Though it was good to have Lloyd say so, she 
felt uncertain whether she was worth all the trouble and the 
compliments. She had used to be so confident, back when she and Liz 
Mayfield were at school. She was a superstar now. She ought to feel on 
top of the world. What had happened to her? 

 

Lloyd was about to administer another scolding, when they heard a 
gentle rap on the door. Fee looked at the clock on the mantlepiece. 

 

"Oh, that's me appointment, darlin'. Will you let her in?" 

 

The thin woman with a face like old, wrinkled leather in the hallway 
raised a bone rattle and shook it under Lloyd's face. She waited until 
he stepped aside to cross the threshold, then shook it all around the 
perimeter of the door. Fee stood up and watched her with fascination 
and alarm, as the woman rattled in every corner of the room. She 


stopped, and suddenly pointed at the containers on the table. 

 

"Did you eat any of that?" she demanded. 

 

"No!" Fee said, alarmed. 

 

"Good," said the shamaness. "Fried food is bad for your aura." She 
turned to eye Lloyd up and down. "You can eat it. Won't do you no harm, 
and the donor is favorably disposed to you anyhow." 

 

Fee smiled. The old woman had his number. She was the real thing, just 
as Fee had been promised. There seemed to be nothing special about the 
healing priestess's outward appearance. Her yellow dress looked just 
like those of the other ladies out in the street. Hanging over her left 
wrist was an ordinary-looking leather handbag with a gold clasp. "What 
should I be eating?" 

 

"When is your birthday?" 

 

"January. January twenty-seventh." 

 

"Fresh fruit and vegetables. Greens and bacon for security. Okra and 
black-eyed peas for luck. Alligator." 

 

"Alligator?" Fee asked. "For courage?" 

 

"No'm," said the shamaness, with a sly, dark-eyed look. "Tastes good. A 
little fatty, but you need some meat on them long bones of yours. 
Y'ought to try some jambalaya. Not that stuff," she said, with a 
dismissive wave at the table. "There's better in the Quarter. Ask 
Willie downstairs. He'll steer you to the good places." 

 

Fee cleared her throat. "I didn't ask you here for restaurant reviews, 
er, Madam Charmay." 

 

"I know," the old woman said. "This curse. It's still troubling you?" 
Fee nodded. "Whole cure takes maybe eight, maybe nine days. I've got to 
find me a black rooster and some other things. Won't cost you too much 
for the components, but you ought to be generous to the spirits all the 
same. You're lucky the full moon is coming, day after tomorrow. 
Otherwise it'd take a month and a week." 

 

"I don't have eight or nine days! I've got to give a concert tomorrow." 

 

"Oh," Madam Charmay said, cocking her head. "Then, you need the quick 
cure. All right. Stand you there. In the precise center. That's it." 

 

For Fee to stand in the middle of the room, Lloyd had to move the 
table. Fee stared up at the ceiling as the old woman walked in ever-
tightening circles until she could feel the slight heat of the other's 
body. All the time Madam Charmay was chanting quietly to herself. 
Occasionally the rattles punctuated a sentence with their exclamation 
points. Fee concentrated, wishing she could feel something, anything, 
to prove that she was connected to the great beyond. But nothing 
stirred the atmosphere except the freezing blast of the air 
conditioning. There was another rap at the door, this one businesslike. 

 


"Oh, for heaven's sake, this is getting to be like a drawing room 
comedy," Fee said, in exasperation. "Look, are you finished?" 

 

"I am now, lady," Madam Charmay said, putting her rattles into her 
purse. "I can come again." 

 

"Yes, please," Fee said, grabbing her small purse, little more than a 
wallet on a string. She riffled through the wad of American notes that 
she'd been given by Nigel and came up with three twenties, which she 
held out to Madam Charmay. The old woman regarded the money with 
distaste. 

 

"No, do not give it to me. Give it to charity. This night. Without 
fail." 

 

"I will," Fee said in surprise, ashamed of herself for not asking about 
the protocol of paying healers for their services. "Thank you so much." 

 

"It is all in God's name," Madam Charmay said, with dignity. "I will go 
now." 

 

* * * 

 

Lloyd's face turned beet red when he opened the door and saw Liz and 
Boo-Boo in the hallway. 

 

"May we see her?" Liz asked politely. She hadn't a hope of making this 
jealous man an ally, but at least she would keep from enraging him 
further. She had felt her ward alarms go off twice. There were, or had 
been, two strangers in the room. One of them was still there, yet Liz 
sensed no danger from the presence. 

 

As if in answer to her unspoken question, a slender, little woman with 
a worn face and ineffable majesty was stepping daintily toward them. As 
she came through the door, she traded speaking looks with Boo-Boo. He 
raised his eyebrows, and the old woman shook her head very slightly. 
There was the ghost of magic in the room. Benevolent but very strong-
minded. Concerned, Liz bustled toward Fionna, who was standing under 
the light fixture in the center of the room, eating jambalaya out of a 
carry-out container with a spoon. 

 

"I don't care what the old darlin' said, this tastes wonderful," Fionna 
said indistinctly, around a large mouthful. "Oh, there you are, you 
two! I can't believe how hungry I am, and all. Have some." She held out 
the container. The food smelled good to Liz, but it looked awful. Thick 
pieces of sausage pushed up through the brownish gravy like monstrous 
fingers emerging from a swamp. 

 

"Thank you, ma'am, but we've had our dinner," Boo said. "We came to see 
if you'll be all right to come down for the late rehearsal. Your people 
are kind of countin' on it." 

 

"Oh, without a doubt!" Fee said, managing to trill the words without 
spraying food on anyone. She scooped up one last bite and held it up in 
the air before eating it. "We're going to do such a show tomorrow, me 
darlin's!" She licked the spoon tidily and set it into the empty lid. 
"Come on, then! Lloyd, me love, get us a taxi?" Liz noticed that she 


was already wearing her purse. 

 

"Who was that woman we saw?" she asked Boo as they followed in Fionna's 
wake. 

 

"Friend of mine from the Quarter, a Cajun healer. The real thing. 
Willie on the door told me Miss Fionna asked for a recommendation. I 
made sure they didn't send her no charlatans." 

 

"Did she cure Fionna?" Liz asked, with interest. 

 

"Naw. I can tell. There hasn't been time to really get to the roots of 
what's goin' on. She did the stuff she does for visitors. A little 
chantin', rattlin' to drive away the bad spirits. Short-term fix, but 
you can see it's cheered her up a lot. Half of healin's mental, 
y'know." 

 

Liz sighed. "At least the show will go on." 

 

Boo tilted his head and gave her a little smile. "Don't worry, ma'am. 
We'll catch whoever's behind this." 

 

 

 

Chapter 12 

 

At 10:00 P.M., the SATN-TV host pointed into the camera lens. 

 

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you, yes, you! You can keep your children 
from falling under the influence of wrong-thinking people like this 
woman and her ilk." The camera pulled back from him to show the poster 
of Green Fire. In the amber spotlight, Fionna Kenmare's dark eye makeup 
looked sinister and terrifying, and the male musicians hovered like 
thugs. "Tonight we show you ways to combat the insidious influence of 
so-called white magic and rock music. We've got a lot of guests tonight 
I know you'll enjoy. Stay tuned!" 

 

Augustus Kingston watched the screen with his eyes slitted like a 
pleased snake. This show was SATN's bread and butter. The average 
pollster from the FCC or either of the two big services would have been 
very surprised if they ever took a survey in this area of the country. 
Never mind your late night reruns of situation comedies. Never mind 
your home shopping networks. The big deal in this part of the woods was 
the Hate Your Neighbor show, hosted by Nick Trenton. In the last five 
years Trenton had shown a genius for raising hackles among his guests, 
half of whom had something to do with evildoing, and the other half who 
were the subject of their rants. It was a poor night when there wasn't 
one good fistfight. You could raise a contact high of black magic just 
sitting in the audience. The sponsors would see to it that it ran 
forever. They said that the evil that men did lived after them. 
Augustus Kingston could have thought of no better monument to himself 
than an everpouring fount of dark power that bore his name, although he 
intended to live a very long time and enjoy it. 

 

That night's programming was setting up to be a good one. They had 
rounded up a handful of wiccans, a man and four women, and coaxed them 
to come on the show to promote their peaceful nature cult. They were on 


the set already, looking nervously at the black candles and the pig-
shaped altar. What they didn't know was their fellow guests were 
unconstructed right-wing megaconservatives who didn't believe women 
should even be taught to read. Kingston turned down the audio monitor 
as he picked up the phone and punched the internal extension. 

 

"Ed, how's that test running?" 

 

"Pretty well, sir!" the engineer shouted over the noises in the control 
room. "I don't know what you've got at the other end, but the needles 
are showing almost fifteen percent feed coming in on the line. Wow, 
almost sixteen percent! . . . Sir, can I ask what kind of transmission 
this feed is?" he asked in a worried voice. 

 

"No, Ed, I'd rather you didn't," Kingston said, in a paternal voice. He 
pulled a Cuban cigar out of the walnut humidor on his desk. 

 

"Well, sir, if it's radioactive . . . I don't want to make a fuss, but 
my wife and I want to have kids one day." 

 

"I promise you, son," Kingston concentrated on getting the end clipped 
off to his satisfaction. "This is nothing that would ever show up on a 
Geiger counter. You still don't want to stick your fingers in it, 
though." 

 

"No, sir." 

 

"Good boy. You got that transmission going in to the special power 
storage like I told you?" 

 

"Yes, sir," Ed's voice said, resignedly. 

 

"What's the reading?" 

 

"Almost sixteen percent." 

 

"Very nice. I'm proud of you, son. Keep me posted." Kingston glanced up 
at the clock as he depressed the plunger and dialed the operator. 
"Charlene, I'm expecting a long-distance call. Put it right through, 
won't you, honey? And don't listen in. If you do, you're fired." 

 

* * * 

 

The watcher's call came through on schedule, at a quarter to the hour. 
Kingston had never met the man on the scene. He had been hired by the 
friend of a friend of a friend. At least it sounded like a man. It 
could have been a woman with a deep voice. It was hard to tell, because 
the voice was distorted by one of those gizmos that they used on crime 
shows. Kingston didn't care, as long as the person made the scheme 
work. Everything he was hoping for depended on it. 

 

"Mr. Kingston?" the voice buzzed in his ear. 

 

"That's me," the station owner said. "How's it going at your end?" 

 

"All the technology is in place. There was no problem hiding the 
mechanisms in among all the other electronics. What's two or three more 


boxes or cables?" 

 

"Exactly," Kingston said. He felt pretty pleased. This friend of a 
friend had picked a smart one. "You need a feed from us this evening?" 

 

"A short one, just to test the mechanism again," said the voice. "I 
need to rewire the transmission lines in the control room." 

 

"Don't they already go there?" Kingston asked impatiently. 

 

"They go to the switcher," the voice said. "I'm hooking it into my 
conduit's chair." 

 

"Ahh," said Kingston. "I was wondering how you were making a direct 
connection. The Law of Contagion says they have to touch." 

 

"The first connection was too general. It blew out. This one will be a 
lot better. I'm waiting until full dress rehearsal tomorrow afternoon 
for a full test. By then, it will be too late for the concert to be 
cancelled. After that, you can let the full power transfer rip. I 
promise you you'll get a return feed beyond your wildest hopes." 

 

"Marvelous," Kingston gloated, foreseeing his own power rising like the 
sun. "The pipeline will bring in clouds of evil that will feed our 
evil, and make us immortal! . . . Er, you didn't hear me say that." 

 

"No, sir." 

 

"How many people you say are coming to that concert?" 

 

"A maximum of ninety thousand tickets. They're not all sold yet." 

 

"You know," Kingston said, easing back in his chair, "I consider every 
one of those empty seats a lost opportunity. Now, you're sure your 
conduit doesn't know what it is we're doing?" 

 

"Not a clue." There was a hesitation. "Well, we've got one possible 
hiccup. There's a couple of government agents on the job. They actually 
suspect magic," the voice dropped to a whisper, "and it looks like they 
know some, too." 

 

"Really." Kingston's eyebrows went up, but he kept his voice from 
reflecting the dismay he felt. Chances were slim that these 
practitioners were his kind of people. "Don't worry. Give me a full 
description of them." 

 

The voice ticked off the physical details of a prim, blond Englishwoman 
in a two-piece suit and a Southerner who wore ratty clothes that were 
half hippie, half ex-GI. Kingston took notes. 

 

"Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh," the owner said at last. "I'll take care of 
it. Get back to me tomorrow." He hung up the phone and sauntered into 
the control room. 

 

The Trenton show was well under way. The male wiccan was trying to 
defend his congregants from the leering megarightists. The women had a 
few things to say for themselves, but kept getting shouted down by the 


audience. One of the opposition was out of his chair, hefting the 
overstuffed piece of furniture as if judging whether he could actually 
throw it. It looked as though the first fight was about to break out, 
when Trenton signalled for a station break. Kingston grinned. That'd 
keep the television audience glued to their seats. They'd have to stay 
tuned to see if punches flew. 

 

After the police had cleared the combatants off the set, Trenton 
stepped into the audience. Time for the night's rail against Fionna 
Kenmare. 

 

" . . . Do you really want a woman like this evil person influencing 
your children?" he asked them, his voice smooth and suave. He pointed 
at the poster of her on stage above the pig-shaped altar. In no time he 
had them worked into a frenzy. "She's horrible! She's a goody-goody! 
She believes in white magic!" 

 

Some of the audience were out of their seats chanting, "No! No! No!" 
Kingston smiled. 

 

The new transmitter-receiver near the switcher panel was sparking up. 
It looked like it had come straight out of Frankenstein's laboratory. 
The red digital indicator on the front read "16," ticking occasionally 
to "17." Kingston's mystery connection was right. The chosen conduit 
was one heck of a powerful transmitter. Good thing that neither the 
conduit or anyone else suspected what was going on. A lot of people's 
abilities were stifled when they became aware of what they were doing, 
or in this case, being led to do. It'd be one fine Saturday night. 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 13 

 

"Oh, well," Nigel Peters was saying gamely, "they say that a bad dress 
rehearsal presages a good opening night." 

 

If that was the truth, then the Green Fire concert was going to surpass 
any performance in history by the Three Tenors, Barbara Streisand, the 
Boston Pops or Kylie Minogue. Anything balanced between going right and 
going wrong tilted and fell over into wrong. Lighting filaments popped 
and went black. Speakers refused to function, or wouldn't turn off when 
disconnected. People went for unexpected slides on patches of floor 
that were perfectly dry. Costumes tore, guitar strings sprang, and 
synthesizer keys were silent one moment and blaring out of tune the 
next. The front doors to the Superdome arena popped open by themselves 
and refused to stay locked. A guard had to be called in from his day 
off to keep the ticket-buying public out in the lobby. Liz knew that 
half of them blamed her and Boo's presence for the run of bad luck. 

 

"Bloody government," more than one crew member had muttered as they 
went past her. It was difficult to hide out of sight on a round stage, 
but she was as self-effacing as she could be. She and Boo stood among 
the coils of cable behind one of the huge speakers. They weren't in 
anyone's way, and they still had the best possible view of the action, 
but she could feel the resentment aimed her way from every direction. 


 

So far it had been a disaster. Green Fire hadn't made it all the way 
through the first song yet without at least one major blowup, and 
they'd been rehearsing for an hour. Liz put down part of the problem to 
sheer exhaustion. She knew she was reeling on her feet. 

 

Last night's late rehearsal had been everything that anyone could have 
wished for. Boo's shamaness friend's temporary fix had turned the 
trick. Fionna had come in on a musical high that carried everyone else 
up into the heavens with her. She had been in her best voice, and knew 
how good she looked and sounded. All the special effects had gone off 
on cue, the lights were where they ought to have been, and the 
musicians played all their numbers without a single hitch. Even the 
fussy Guitarchangel hadn't been able to find anything to correct. He 
had just smiled his enigmatic, pre-Raphaelite smile as his long fingers 
wove music out of his instrument's strings. Liz and Boo had walked the 
entire perimeter of the Superdome without finding so much as a sniff of 
malign magic. They had all been in good spirits when they broke up. If 
they'd filmed that performance and showed it on those gigantic screens 
that hovered over the stage like doomsday, they'd have been better off 
than they were now. 

 

In celebration, Fionna promised to buy everyone a drink. The entire 
company had poured out into the French Quarter, chattering on about how 
well it had all gone. Buoyed up on the energy of success, Fee led her 
merry band from bar to bar in the French Quarter, until they simply ran 
out of places they hadn't been to yet. While out on the road they 
seldom got a chance to enjoy the city sights. 

 

"Might as well hold concerts out on a desert oasis for all we see of 
one place or another," Eddie Vincent had complained, with a touch of 
bitterness. The others had agreed. 

 

"Oi'd do anythin' to have an afternoon's shoppin' here," Fionna had 
said wistfully, as they passed by dozens of closed stores, "so this'll 
have to do me." Liz wasn't happy about such an unstructured outing, but 
she understood the poignant urge. And, as Beauray pointed out, there 
was nothing she could do to make Fionna go back to the hotel. 

 

"It's best just to tag along and take it easy," Beauray said. "Who's 
going to attack her with so many people around?" 

 

"Numbers could make an attack easier, not harder," Liz grumbled. But 
Boo-Boo was right: it was just best to follow along with the crowd. Liz 
couldn't defend against a negative. Until the mysterious malign force 
surfaced again, there was nothing she could do. She had kept on 
glancing into alleys and up onto the omnipresent balconies. Was 
everyone in New Orleans but her having a good time? 

 

Wherever they had stopped, Nigel Peters had ordered drinks for 
everyone. Voe Lockney had fallen in love with Sazeracs. The band and 
crew put a serious dent in the Quarter's supply of good whiskey. They 
sang along with every song they knew, and applauded the performers with 
drunken abandon. Robbie Unterburger stared with mooncalf eyes at Lloyd, 
who ignored her. Patrick Jones did humorous imitations of the people 
they saw walking in the street. Sooner or later, they wandered into the 
open-air coffee shop named the Café du Monde and ate square doughnuts 


frosted a quarter-inch deep in powdered sugar. Liz watched it all, 
staying awake on adrenaline, sugar, and the odd-tasting coffee Boo told 
her was flavored with chicory. 

 

Dawn hadn't been far off their heels by the time everyone finally went 
to bed. By the time the technical run-through had gotten under way, 
noon had come and gone. 

 

Chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes, Nigel Peters had confided to the 
two agents that only with luck would they finish in time to take a 
decent dinner break and a rest before the concert itself. Everyone was 
on edge, but Fionna was in the worst mood possible. Her temper was 
beginning to affect everyone else. 

 

"All right then," Michael announced in his clipped voice from the 
center of the stage. His forehead was creased as though he had a 
headache. He probably had. "We'll just take it from the top again. And 
we'll do so until we get it right. If we can get the programme moving, 
the rest will follow more easily. Understood?" 

 

Mutters and groans met this announcement. Liz wondered if he'd ever 
been a schoolteacher. Fionna automatically trudged back to the short 
flight of steps at the rear of the stage. Later on, darkness would 
cover what was going on around her, but for now Liz could see 
everything. Laura Manning touched up Fee's wild makeup. Fitz, on his 
knees, fussed with the hem of the new green silk dress that was pinned 
to the shoulders of Fionna's black crop-top T-shirt. Because she would 
have to be sewn into the skin-tight sheath later, Fitz didn't want to 
have her wear it until then. Judging by the intricacy of the design and 
the handsome beadwork that outlined the LEDs, Thomas Fitzgibbon must 
have spent the rest of the night on his creation. He looked reluctant 
to get more than a few paces away from his creation, lest it burst into 
flames like the last one. His overprotectiveness was irritating Fionna. 
He kept getting in the way of her arm movements. 

 

As her cue came, Fitz started to follow her on his knees, holding the 
hem of the dress up so it wouldn't catch on the floorboards. She swept 
her hand down and accidentally smacked him on the head. The two of them 
jumped at the contact. Fionna stopped to give him a glare that would 
have frozen mercury solid. 

 

"All right, enough!" Fionna snapped out. "Go away. Now." 

 

He halted, and retired to the edge of the stage, hands fretting with 
the tape measure slung around his neck. Laura Manning gave him a wry 
look, professional to professional. 

 

"And, mark!" announced Hugh Banks, the stage manager, moving around the 
perimeter. "First sparklers start at six points around the stage. Six, 
isn't it, darling?" he asked, putting a hand to the headset he was 
wearing. He nodded. "And, off." The musicians carried on what they were 
doing. 

 

Liz and Boo-Boo were on guard with every piece of magical paraphernalia 
at their disposal. Both of them had been reluctant to let the other 
know what he or she was carrying, but Liz had pointed out that they'd 
only get in one another's way if they started popping off spells at 


random. Not until she opened her own bag of tricks and dumped it out to 
the seams did he relax and let her examine his arsenal. She was 
impressed, though she didn't let her emotions show, and hoped he felt 
the same way. It wouldn't do for the British Empire, however reduced, 
to be superseded by its former colony in any way. She matched him 
defensive spell for defensive spell, truth-finders, serum for healing 
burns (always vital to have on hand when one did a lot of candle work), 
concealment spells to protect covert movement, and so on. 

 

"Start again!" Fionna shouted, as the song they were playing fizzled 
noisily. "I can't stand these bleedin' crowds. Everyone who doesn't 
belong on stage, get off!" 

 

In particular, she turned to glare at the two agents. Nigel Peters 
started toward them, but Boo had taken Liz's arm, and was already 
escorting her down the stairs. Liz backed off through what would be the 
mosh pit to the closest possible vantage point where she could see the 
expanse of the stage. Peters gave them a grateful glance. He looked 
haggard, as though he hadn't slept all night. 

 

The looming Jumbotron hung further down from the ceiling than it had 
the night before. The barrels of stage lights and clusters of black-
painted boxes were arrayed around the bottom of it. Liz guessed the 
mysterious boxes were part of the special effects equipment. Hanging 
from the lip of the Jumbotron on each side was an enormous poster of 
the band, concealing the lighting frame from the view of punters in the 
auditorium seating. Each enormous graphic showcased a different member 
in the center. Privately Liz thought the one featuring Fionna made her 
look like the bride of Frankenstein. Same open-mouthed, horror-struck 
expression. Liz grinned. 

 

A dozen men and women in blue jeans moved purposefully throughout the 
room with blackened aluminum boxes hoisted on their shoulders. Liz 
didn't recognize any of the people, and pointed them out to her fellow 
agent. 

 

"Television camera operators," Boo-Boo said. 

 

Liz was appalled. "They aren't broadcasting this concert, are they? Not 
when we have so much else to deal with? It could be a disaster!" 

 

Boo-Boo was happy to reassure her. "It's not being broadcast anywhere, 
although they're tapin' it for themselves. Those cameras have long zoom 
lenses. Mr. Peters said they want to cover the stage from a half-dozen 
points around the interior and show some of the good stuff on the 
Jumbotron screens. They don't want the folks in the cheap seats to miss 
the dramatic expressions, and all." 

 

"What a good idea," Liz said, appreciatively. "Those screens are a real 
benefit when the length of a football field separates fans from the 
stage." She remembered that from the control room alone the band looked 
smaller than figures on a wedding cake, and wondered how concertgoers 
felt about it. Nonetheless, she still felt nervous about the Jumbotron. 
The gigantic box hung perfectly steady on its moorings, but she didn't 
trust it a bit. It hovered over them like the cloud of doom. 

 

"Morning, Agent Boudreau," said a smooth voice from behind them. They 


turned to see Mr. Winslow, the building manager, dapper in his white 
suit. He came up to shake hands with Boo-Boo. "Just checking in . . . 
to see how things are going. Pretty well, eh?" 

 

"Well . . ." Boo-Boo began. 

 

Eddie Vincent brought his hands down flat on his keyboard, producing a 
discordant organ sting that blasted out of the speakers like the 
whistle at quitting time on a construction site. Everybody winced. 

 

Mr. Winslow's face contracted into a mass of pained pleats. "Well, I 
won't stay long. I don't want to be in the way." 

 

"I'm sure the band won't mind," Boo-Boo said. 

 

"Truth is," the manager said, with a wry grin as he retreated backwards 
toward the corridor, "this stuff hurts my ears. You young people . . . 
must like it, though." 

 

Boo put a forefinger to his lips and tapped it conspiratorially. "Well, 
I'm sorry to mention it, Mr. Winslow, but the two of us is supposed to 
keep a pretty low profile, so I'm goin' to say excuse me for now." 

 

"Oh! I understand," Mr. Winslow said, with the wide-eyed expression of 
someone pleased to have wandered into a real-life spy adventure. He 
shook hands with Boo again. "Nice to see you, Agent. And your . . . 
lovely assistant. Good afternoon, ma'am. We sure appreciate your 
helping out here." He gave Liz a half-bow. 

 

"Assistant! I'm not . . ." Liz began, eager to correct his 
misapprehension, but Boo-Boo's hand closed over her wrist. 

 

"Let him go, Liz," Boo said. 

 

"But he thinks I'm your assistant! Why won't you let me -- ?" Mr. 
Winslow made a left turn out at the end of the corridor, heading for 
the long escalators that led to the lobby. She could just catch him. 

 

"It doesn't really matter what he thinks, does it?" Boo asked, 
interrupting her. 

 

Liz jerked her hand loose, but she was suspicious. She regarded Boo 
with narrowed eyes. 

 

"All right, why did you want that man to get out of the way so 
quickly?" 

 

"I don't know whether y'all noticed it," Beauray said, casually, "but 
Mr. Winslow has this little trick of waitin' in the middle of a 
sentence until you meet his eyes. That means if we have him standin' 
here havin' a nice conversation, we can't keep watchin' the set." 

 

Liz's eyelids flew up in surprise. "Why, you're right. I apologize. But 
the next time I see him, I'm going to set him straight. I am not an 
assistant." 

 

"I was tellin' the truth when I said we had to keep a low profile, 


wasn't I?" Boo asked, his blue eyes innocent. 

 

"Yes, but . . ." 

 

"Well, I'm helpin' you keep your cover," he said, in his easygoing way, 
as if that should settle everything. Liz glared at him. In any case 
there was no way to call Mr. Winslow back. Beauray had scored on her 
once more. She was not going to let that happen again. 

 

The music had started again. Spotlights, faint in the brilliant noon 
sunshine, played around the interior of the stage. Michael came up the 
back stairs, and a pale golden light hit him, setting fire to the metal 
of his guitar strings, turned the flesh of his hands and face to 
incandescent ivory, and gilded his black hair. He looked so beautiful 
Liz forgot for a moment to breathe. 

 

Lights came up on the other two musicians, setting halos playing in 
their long hair. Michael started forward, but the spot stayed where it 
was. Michael frowned down, then up. 

 

"Hold it," he said. "Hold it!" The music died away. "What's wrong with 
the lights now?" 

 

Just as everyone looked up into the flies, a gigantic flash of light 
burst overhead. Liz almost threw a spell to protect the people on the 
stage. Only well-honed reflexes kept her from crushing the components 
in her hand when she realized it was just a light popping. Sparks 
showered down onto the stage. The stage crew threw their hands up over 
their heads. Only Michael stood there in the rain of fire, looking 
authoritative and indignant. "Was that my key light?" 

 

"Someone check!" shouted the stage manager, setting his staff into a 
flurry of motion. 

 

Boo took a firm but not dangerous hold of Liz's wrist, and pried her 
fingers open. She stared at him in surprise as he picked up the fragile 
wax shell she had been clutching. "Y'can't use that in here, Liz," he 
said. 

 

"And why not?" Liz asked. "It's perfectly safe. It's a fire-prevention 
cantrip." 

 

"You'll have to forgive me sayin' so, but it don't have the range to 
cover the area of the stage." 

 

"I could double the amount," Liz said, indignantly. "That would be more 
than plenty." 

 

"Well, then it will be too heavy to have the range you want, no matter 
how loud you chant. What if you're not as close as you are right now?" 

 

"And I suppose you have something better?" she asked, peevishly. 

 

"Sure do," Boo said, companionably. "I checked with HQ this mornin'. 
They said I can give you these." He handed her a couple of sachets. Liz 
glanced at them dubiously. They smelled strongly of myrrh and purslane, 
a protective herb traditionally ruled by the element of water. She had 


to admit they were beautifully constructed, the edge of each fragile 
paper envelope sewn shut with corn silk. "You can have the formula 
later on. If these give satisfaction, that is." 

 

"Oh, thank you," Liz said, trying not to sound sarcastic. Helping the 
poor cousin, she thought, furiously. Thought he knew it all. Their 
government could obviously pay for higher quality than her government. 
Another way of shamefully showing off. "This isn't the spell you think 
it is," she said, now ashamed of the irregularly-shaped bubble 
containing a cluster of damp crystals like a handful of bath salts 
sealed in waxed paper. 

 

"Well, actually, I think it is," Boo said, returning the components to 
her between cautious thumb and forefinger. "Our intelligence is pretty 
good." 

 

"We've made improvements, and . . ." Liz stopped just short of telling 
him she was a hereditary witch and knew how to put together a 
workmanlike spell, dammit! With dismay she realized he probably knew 
all that, too. Annoyed at her own outburst, she reasserted her 
professionalism. There was a job to do. She'd give him a piece of her 
mind later. With grace, she accepted the spell components and his 
instruction on how to chant the incantation. 

 

"Bimity polop caruma?" 

 

"Caruna," Boo corrected her. "It's an 'n.' " Liz nodded. It was ironic 
that though the Americans claimed to believe less in magic than the 
British, their department produced a better line of counterspell that 
they didn't believe would do anything to counteract the occurrence that 
they didn't believe could happen. 

 

"Quiet!" shouted the stage manager. Liz looked up, startled, wondering 
if they'd been overheard. But they hadn't been the only ones making 
noise. Liz just became aware of the last faint echoes of a mechanical 
screech, as the huge box overhead swayed slightly. She felt giddy just 
looking up at the Jumbotron. She had enormous sympathy for the workers 
who had to climb the narrow iron catwalks twenty-six stories above the 
ground to maintain it. 

 

Hugh Banks walked out to the center of the stage, accompanied by a 
representative from building maintenance, a heavyset man in khaki 
coveralls. They looked up at the grid. The burned-out spotlight was a 
black dot at the edge of the framework. 

 

"One of those posters of yours was touchin' the light," the supervisor 
said, with an experienced nod. "Coulda started a fire. Lucky just the 
one light went out." 

 

"We need that spot functioning again," the stage manager said, reading 
from a complex diagram. "Can you fix it?" 

 

"We'll just have to replace that light filament," the supervisor said. 
"Have to raise the Jumbotron to do it. It can't be done while it's 
lowered." 

 

"Wait until after the rehearsal," the stage manager said, with a sigh. 


"Five o'clock, all right?" 

 

"No problem." 

 

"This is supposed to be the technical rehearsal," Michael Scott said, 
peevishly. "What about the cues?" 

 

The stage manager spoke into his headset again. 

 

"We're on it," Ken Lewis's voice echoed over the public address system 
in the vast room. "I'll swap another spotlight as Michael's key light 
for the time being." 

 

"Good?" Banks asked Michael. The guitarist nodded, not happily. 

 

The group began again. And again. The third attempt was interrupted by 
the arrival of the backup singing trio and the hired percussionist, Lou 
Carey. 

 

"Very sorry we're late," Carey said. He was a razor-thin black man with 
a razor-thin mustache under his narrow nose. "We got the time wrong." 

 

"All right, then," the stage manager said. "Get in your places." 

 

"Should we get our costumes?" one of the singers asked. A tiny girl 
with huge brown eyes, she had a thrilling contralto voice that 
resonated pleasantly even without amplification. 

 

"You'll have to get dressed during the break," Michael said. "We're 
delayed enough as it is." 

 

"Places for the fourth number, please!" 

 

Michael started picking out a moody and frustrated melody. Liz 
recognized it as Green Fire's well-known rant against environmental 
destruction. It was powerful and disturbing. She knew every note, 
swaying slightly with the music. 

 

The others joined in. The latecomers hurried toward their assigned 
spots, eager to catch up and join in. Eddie Vincent brought his hands 
down onto his synthesizer keyboard for a crashing crescendo that 
imitated a rising gale. Fionna's voice would rise out of the music like 
whitecaps on the crest of a foaming sea and tear the soul out of the 
audience. 

 

Just then, the lights went down. Eyes accustomed to the glare of the 
spots and the brightness of noonday were temporarily blinded. In the 
momentary dimness, there was the sound of stumbling feet, a thud, a 
clattering. The wild music died away in a whine like deflating 
bagpipes. Liz felt a wrench in her chest from the unfulfilled promise 
of the song. Eddie Vincent's deep voice reeled out a string of 
profanities. 

 

When the lights came up a moment later, a spotlight highlighted the 
unfortunate percussionist flat on the floor with his feet tangled in a 
mass of cables. Several of the stagehands leaped forward to help him 
up. 


 

"He pulled the power cords out of my rig!" Eddie shouted. 

 

"I didn't do it on purpose, man!" Carey said, his cheeks glowing with 
embarrassment. "I was nowhere near your stuff! Somebody pulled me -- or 
something. The next thing I knew, I was on my face." 

"Get out of here," Eddie said, angrily. "Move it. Nigel!" 

 

"Eddie, he couldn't have done it on purpose," the manager said, 
striding up the stage steps. "We all saw it. He was going toward the 
opposite side of the stage. He must just have gotten lost in the dark." 

 

"What dark? It's noon! He got lost walking across a wide-open stage?" 

 

"I didn't get lost. Someone pulled me into the cables," Carey insisted. 
"Someone took hold of my arms and yanked me over that way. It just 
happened." 

 

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Eddie snarled. "What kind of story is that?" 

 

"I couldn't see, man! I'm sorry!" 

 

Hulking roadies in T-shirts and jeans began to gather around the 
keyboards, looking menacing. Liz couldn't tell whether they were 
prepared to defend Eddie or the other man. She sensed a measure of ill 
will in the room, but not necessarily between the two groups of 
stagehands. The energy simply didn't feel normal. She was uneasy, but 
couldn't put a finger on just what was bothering her. 

 

"Please, guys," Nigel said, holding his hands up for attention as he 
pushed in among them. "This gets us nowhere. We've got to get through 
this, or there'll be no time to rest before the concert. I don't know 
about you, but I could sleep for a year." 

 

"Look," said Hugh, "he said he was sorry. Forget it, eh?" 

 

Eddie lowered his thick eyebrows at the newcomer, but shook his head. 
He managed to find a smile somewhere among his dour looks. "All right, 
man. Just keep clear, all right?" 

 

"No problem," said the musician, backing away with his hands up. The 
unlucky man was glad to escape and take his place among his fellow 
temps, two more guitarists, a violinist, a flautist, a harpist and a 
woman playing the uilleann pipe. The harpist, a very tall man named 
Carl Johnson, gave him a sympathetic look. Eddie went back to frowning 
over his instruments. 

 

Fionna, having thrown off Fitz and his paroxysms of fashion, appeared 
in her second costume, a white dress that consisted almost entirely of 
long fringe over a flesh-colored sheath. It was fabulously effective, 
even sexy, but at the same time Liz thought it made Fee look like a 
white Afghan hound. She wasn't quick enough to suppress a snort of 
laughter. Unfortunately, the outburst came during one of the rare 
moments of silence. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at 
her. Liz felt her cheeks redden. 

 


"And what the fokkin' hell do you think is funny?" Fee demanded. 

 

"Sorry," Liz said. 

 

"Pack up and move it the hell out of here!" Fionna shouted. "Go on with 
you!" 

 

Boo pulled Liz further away from the stage and bent his head close to 
hers. "Don't stir her up. There's something wrong here." 

 

"Can you feel it, too?" 

 

"Yes, I can. Like sittin' on a powder keg, and everyone throwin' lit 
matches. It's makin' everybody touchy, but I can't find a source for 
it. Keep an eye peeled. I just feel somethin's goin' to happen. Don't 
know what, yet." 

 

Fionna burst vehemently into song. The musicians caught up with her a 
line or so later, weaving their threads with the instrument of her 
voice. It was an angry song about injustice and killing the innocent. 
Unlike the quiet hurt the folk song had engendered the first night in 
O'Flaherty's, this one grabbed the listener by the ears and made him 
despise the abusers. Liz felt fury crackle in the air. The magic Green 
Fire were making was a dangerous kind. Fionna stalked from side to side 
of the stage, exhorting the invisible audience to join with her in 
hating the oppressors. She flung an arm around the microphone stand at 
the east side of the stage and screeched a verse into that one. The 
fringes whipped around the metal pole, but didn't drop back when she 
let go. As she took one whirling step away, the microphone followed 
her. It leaned dangerously for a split second, then crashed at her 
feet. Swearing a blue streak that could be heard from every speaker in 
the room, Fee stood and quivered with rage while the grips and Fitz 
jumped forward to help her free. 

 

"Cut the damned fringe off the damned sleeves," Fionna's order echoed 
throughout the arena. Ears stunned by the level of the rock music, Liz 
couldn't hear Fitz's side of the discussion, but his pleading 
expression was eloquent. "I do not bloody care. I'm not a fokkin' snake 
charmer like St. Patrick!" 

 

The costumer's face stiffened. Nigel Peters fairly leaped up the steps 
to make peace. 

 

"Oh, no!" Fionna exclaimed, in answer to an unheard plea from her 
manager. "Do you think I want to have me own clothes making a fool of 
me?" 

 

Nigel looked up toward the northwest and made a throat-cutting gesture 
at the booth. Fionna's microphone was turned off, rendering her 
inaudible to the rest of the people in the arena. She, Nigel and Fitz 
engaged in a three-sided pantomime row, only a few syllables loud 
enough to be understood. Nigel tapped his watch. As an argument, it was 
absolutely unassailable. There wasn't time to fuss. The show must go 
on. Sadly, Fitzgibbon produced his scissors and barbered the trim on 
the sleeves to three inches in length. A stagehand appeared with a 
broom. Fitz watched him sweep up the cuttings with the same dismayed 
expression a mother might watch her child's first haircut. Without 


looking back at him, Fionna returned to her spot at the east edge of 
the stage. The musicians struck up. Fionna grabbed the microphone and 
opened her mouth. 

 

A mechanical shriek blasted out. Everyone jumped as steam started 
pouring upward from the pipes lined up in a long frame at the edge of 
the stage. Fantastic green figures swam upward along the insubstantial 
curtain. Snakes and birds twisted into Celtic knotwork, created with 
laser lights; Liz let out an admiring gasp, but it stopped everyone 
else dead. 

 

"What in all the saints' names was that?" Fionna asked, recovering her 
wits. 

 

"That effect isn't supposed to go until the sixth song!" came the 
despairing cry of the stage manager. "What's going on up there?" He 
seized the mouthpiece of his headset in one hand and started 
gesticulating with the other hand. 

 

"Sorry," came Robbie's tremulous voice over the intercom. The steam 
ceased rising. "My hand slipped and pushed the cursor too far ahead on 
my instructions. It won't happen again." 

 

"It had bloody not better," everyone on the stage muttered, almost in 
unison. 

 

But it did. Little things continued to go awry. Effects happened late, 
or went off on the wrong part of the stage. Liz watched with the 
feeling that she was seeing a building being demolished a few tiles at 
a time with the debris falling on innocent passersby. The wonderful 
feeling that had pervaded the arena early that afternoon was gone 
without a trace, leaving behind it deep gloom. Much of it could be laid 
at Robbie Unterburger's feet. 

 

"The girl is just plain off," Boo commented, not without sympathy, 
watching Fionna dodge tiny explosions that had been laid on the floor 
of the stage like an unlucky cowboy ordered to "dance" by a rival 
gunslinger. If Robbie wasn't clearly so apologetic, it would look like 
she was deliberately trying to make Fionna look bad. 

 

"Do you think she senses the foreboding that's growing in here?" Liz 
asked. "She might be affected by it." The thought interested her 
greatly for a moment. "Is Robbie a sensitive? Could she be a possible 
recruit for either of our departments?" 

 

Beauray's fair eyebrows rose high on his forehead. "Never thought of 
that, ma'am. She might be just what you say, but I'd doubt whether 
she'd be interested. You have to admit our wage structure don't sound 
as appealin' when you know what these people are paid." 

 

Liz nodded. If it weren't for the call of patriotism she'd have been 
sorely tempted by the pay scales she saw listed on the FYI document in 
her briefing packet. She prided herself on her competence; she would 
probably do very well at one of these jobs -- if it hadn't meant 
dealing with egos like her old school chum's. 

 

The drummer struck a downbeat, and the rehearsal resumed. The band 


managed to get through a couple of numbers unhindered, for which 
everyone looked grateful. Protective spells at the ready, Liz 
maintained her vigilance, but she would have had to be lying to say she 
didn't enjoy having a rock concert virtually to herself. A small part 
of her missed the camaraderie of the crowds. In spite of the pushing 
and the occasionally impaired view, the people who attended an event 
like this one shared in a special kind of symbiotic energy. It came 
from the performers, but it was amplified a millionfold by the audience 
and given back again. At a really good concert, the transfer back and 
forth lifted the performance from enjoyable to stellar. Fionna and her 
players were certainly capable of lighting that kind of fire in their 
fans. They exalted, they comforted, they challenged, all at the same 
time. Liz stood rocking to the beat, watching Fee and Michael dance 
toward one another in the center of the stage, then whirl outward 
again, like a pair of electrons in a very active molecule. Michael, all 
in black, dignified, powerful, stepped backwards toward the north end 
of the stage, watching his fingers stirring the strings of his guitar. 
Fee, feminine, excitable, vibrant, reached the south end and turned in 
a wide circle. The flying fringes on her dress caught the lights in 
slashing sprays of white. She halted, standing straight as a candle. 
With the air of a priestess of a long-ago culture, she pointed down at 
a crystal formation the size of a pumpkin. And waited. She stopped 
singing. 

 

"Hold it!" she shouted. "Right now!" As the music died, Liz felt a 
sense of loss equal to that of someone snatching her teddy bear away. 
Fionna clapped her hands to her hips and glared up at the control room 
booth. 

 

"When I am standing here and singing the cue line," Fionna shouted in a 
rising tone that threatened to end in a banshee shriek, "I expect to 
have the green lasers meet at me feet and light up that bloody crystal 
that is sitting right here. It is not a tiny little rock. It is a 
monstrous, great chunk of rock. I should think," her voice reaching to 
every corner of the Superdome, "that even up there you might be able to 
see it! Excu-use me!" 

 

The technical director's soothing voice came over the loudspeaker. 
"Sorry, Fee, darling. Robbie was just a little behind on her cues. 
Other than that it was perfect. Wasn't it, loves? Can we try it again? 
From the last mark." 

 

Moodily, Michael Scott took up his station at the north end of the 
round stage, nodded his head at the other musicians. Voe Lockney beat 
his sticks together over his head. One, two, three, and the band began 
to play. Fionna, who had withdrawn with her arms crossed over her 
chest, listened, waiting. There was a feeling of anticipation, not 
happy. Liz would like to have enjoyed herself, reminded herself that 
this was a job, a still-unsolved mystery. The two dancers made their 
way toward one another, body language seducing, drawing inward toward 
one another and out again. Michael withdrew toward his dark fastness. 
Fionna stepped, whirled, and glided toward the gleaming crystal. 

 

The laser beat her there. Green fire shot down from the overhead grid 
and sent knives of rainbow glory streaking outward to strike the 
farthest walls of the arena. Fionna stood bathed in the green light, 
rigid, with her hands by her sides. 


 

"I have had more than enough," she screamed. "Is me whole performance 
to be made a mockery because one incompetent little bint can't keep her 
fokkin' mind on her bleedin' job?" 

 

"Now, Fionna," Nigel said, hurrying toward her, in full placatory mode. 
Fionna was in no mood to listen. She shouldered past him and kept 
going, right off the stage, down the steps and out of the arena. Nigel 
trotted along behind, almost wringing his hands as he tried to reason 
with her. He might as well have tried dealing with a hurricane in full 
blow. 

 

"I am goin' to tear her stupid head off her stupid shoulders and put it 
on me mantelpiece!" Fee raged, flinging her arms in grand gestures. "I 
am goin' to bake her in a pie and serve her to Shakespeare repertory 
audiences!" Even though she was wearing six-inch stiletto heels, anger 
helped her outpace everyone except Lloyd Preston. His long legs had no 
trouble closing the distance to bring him to her side, and he kept the 
rest of them at bay. 

 

Liz and Boo hurried at their heels like a pair of terriers. In all 
their years of school, Liz had seen Fee Kendale go off like this only 
once. It had also been on the occasion of a matter of incompetence, but 
it showed how stretched the other woman's nerves were that she was 
reacting like a spoiled schoolgirl. The cacophony they made clattering 
through the hallway surprised a tour group on its way around the 
Superdome. A couple of the tourists recognized Fionna. One of them 
reached for a camera, but one glare from the ever-vigilant Lloyd 
distracted her from taking a picture until it was too late. 

 

Not having had time to scope out the passage before Fionna set foot in 
it, Liz employed a little Earth power to sense around them, making 
certain there were no booby traps planted in their path. Luckily, the 
unseen enemy would have no reason to expect Fionna to come tearing out 
of the arena in that direction. Or would he? 

 

* * * 

 

Emotions were already high in the control room when Fionna burst in. 
The object of her fury cowered in the station behind the complex 
special effects board, eyeglasses gleaming owlishly in the fluorescent 
lights. Liz guessed from her red cheeks that Robbie had already been 
dressed down by Gary Lowe. Fionna marched up and glared down at her. 

 

"Did you get up this mornin' and say, 'Today I think I'll screw up 
everythin' I touch'?" Fionna asked, in a tone so saccharine that it 
made Liz's teeth hurt. "Here we are, with only hours before the biggest 
crowd we've seen in a year comes marchin' in here, and you're behavin' 
as if you've only seen the equipment for the very first time!" 

 

"I'm sorry," Robbie began, but she didn't stand a chance against the 
might of Hurricane Fee. 

 

"There's a lot of people you're inconveniencing here, most of whom are 
pretendin' they're not as annoyed as they are. I've given you a lot of 
chances. You've broken the rhythm of the rehearsal. Do you know what 
that does to the band? To me? No, you haven't a clue, have you? How did 


you ever hold down a responsible job before this?" 

 

Someone snickered. 

 

"And the rest of you needn't think I'm forgettin' about you," Fionna 
said, spinning on her heel. She was right, Liz observed. Sheila Parker, 
at the sound desk, had a half smile curling up one side of her mouth 
that vanished when Fee glared at her. It was only human nature to be 
thankful at the discomfiture of others, as opposed to suffering it 
oneself. It was only a small step from there to enjoying the process. 
Fee was determined that no one was going to enjoy the lecture. "I know 
you're tryin', but it isn't enough. You're all professionals. We've got 
no time for screwin' up. There's a show in less than four hours! I'm 
countin' on you all. This is a grand opportunity for the lot of us. A 
whole new audience, seein' us live for the first time. Maybe for some 
this is the first concert that they've ever seen. Doesn't that mean a 
thing to you? We want this to be right. We want to dazzle them; make it 
an event they'll never forget." 

 

Liz was as caught by surprise as the rest of them. It was such a 
reasonable argument, appealing to their pride, their better nature, not 
the flat-out dressing down that she would have assumed Phoebe Kendale 
would have handed out. She'd grown up. Fionna Kenmare sounded like the 
CEO of a multinational corporation. Liz realized, with surprise at 
herself, that that was exactly what her old school friend had become. 
Green Fire's music was sold in every country that had radio. Their 
revenue had to run to millions of pounds a year. Lord Kendale wasn't 
too pleased with his daughter's choice of causes to espouse, but he 
ought to be proud of the way she occupied the position she'd made for 
herself. 

 

Fee was sweet and reasonable but stretched to the breaking point with 
everyone except the special effects coordinator, for whom Fee wouldn't 
soften under any circumstances. The star swiveled back again to glare 
at Robbie. "That is, if you can manage to do your job when it really 
matters." 

 

"I know every cue in the concert," Robbie said, who had been pushed all 
the way through fright to defiance. Her voice shook, but she stood her 
ground. "I know them forwards and backwards." 

 

"Yes, and so you've been telling me," Fionna said dismissively, lifting 
a hand to study the green polish on her nails. Robbie's complexion went 
from red to purple. It was an ugly contrast. "Too bad you've decided to 
do them backwards." 

 

"I'm sorry I've been messing up. I'll make it right." 

 

"You bloody well better!" Fionna said, dropping her hands onto the back 
of the other woman's chair and glaring at her. "Your job is to add to 
the spectacle, not be one. When you foul up you call attention to 
yourself. If that's what you want to do, join the circus. I hear 
they're always lookin' for another clown." 

 

Robbie gasped. She looked around at the others watching her, hoping for 
a kind face. Her eyes brimming with hope, she met Lloyd's gaze. He 
locked eyes with her, but kept his face carefully expressionless. Liz 


could tell he didn't want to be part of this argument. No one sane 
would have. Robbie appealed silently to him, brows lifted. 

 

"And you keep off Lloyd," Fee added, not missing a thing. She 
interposed herself between the special effects engineer and her 
bodyguard. "He's here for me, not you." 

 

That shot hit home. Robbie's face flushed even redder. The girl seemed 
really to have thought no one else had noticed. Liz felt very sorry for 
her. 

 

"We get along," she said stoutly. "It's not against the law for him to 
be nice to me." 

 

"So you don't deny you've been trying to steal him!" 

 

Robbie saw the trap, but much too late. It was unwise of her to attempt 
to justify her feelings. If she'd been smart, she wouldn't have 
admitted to them at all. It gave Fionna another grievance she could 
level. Robbie shot out of her seat, standing as tall as she was able, 
but her voice betrayed how flustered she was. 

 

"You're wrong! I don't have to steal him. I mean, I'm not trying to . . 
. There's nothing you can do if there's feelings involved! He only 
works for you. It's a financial arrangement. Not like . . ." 

 

"You're trying to make out that there's more going on than there is, 
you silly creature," Fionna said, almost pityingly. "That in a minute 
I'm going to turn me back, and he's going to sweep you off your feet 
like Prince Charming and ride away in a Lear jet, leaving me to weep. 
Well, you're not a princess, missie. Nothing like." 

 

"No! If anyone's the princess around here, it's you!" Robbie shouted. 
"You waltz around like the high priestess of something, but you jump if 
a shadow crosses your path. I'm trying to do my job!" 

 

"You are trying?" Fionna exclaimed, her eyes widening as her brogue 
thickened. "You can't stay on cue! Your job is almost totally 
mechanized and you still screw it up! This is the dress rehearsal, damn 
yer sorry arse!" She flung a hand at the girl. "To hell with you. Those 
thousands of people are coming to hear my voice. Yer window dressin'. 
We'll do it without effects if we have to!" 

 

Turning like a model on the runway, Fionna stalked magnificently out of 
the room, followed by Lloyd. Nigel offered an apologetic glance to the 
crew, but he couldn't look at Robbie. 

 

With the agents and her bodyguard on her heels, Fionna strode back down 
the ramps to the arena door where the rest of the company was waiting 
for her. Their astonished expressions told her they had heard every 
word. The PA system had been switched on in the booth. 

 

"Let's try it again," she said, calmly. She smiled at them, serene 
again but very, very firm. "Once, all the way through, no stops. All 
right?" 

 

Everyone rushed to their places, unwilling to be the next to receive 


Fee's own brand of personal attention. 

 

Liz shot a glance at Boo-Boo. His wary expression told her he felt the 
same magical buildup that she did. The pent-up energy that had been 
pressing at the edges of her magical conscious was reaching an 
overload. It could burst out at any moment. 

 

She had no idea it would strike so soon. Fionna had no sooner stomped 
back onto the round stage when an explosion overhead made everyone's 
heart stop. The crew and band ran for cover, but they were in no danger 
from the debris. The snowstorm of colored dots fell in heaps directly 
on the cowering figure of Fionna. She shrieked and batted at the rain 
of trash. 

 

"Who put confetti up there?" Hugh Banks demanded. "This isn't a 
parade!" 

 

It wasn't confetti. The gigantic poster of Green Fire attached to one 
side of the Jumbotron had shredded itself into tiny bits. The huge 
faces on the three remaining posters seemed to mock the crew. 

 

"Ah, no," the stage manager moaned, clutching his head. "It must be the 
one near the light that burned out!" 

 

The falling flakes of paper whirled and twinkled under the beams of the 
intact spots. Liz was about to thank heaven that this wasn't another 
fire attack, when suddenly the ruins of the poster burst into flames. 
Fionna screamed, but stood helpless in the middle of the rising fire, 
like St. Joan at the stake. 

 

"Somebody do something!" she cried. 

 

This time, Boo-Boo was ready. He leaped forward, hands moving in a 
blur, and lobbed a handful of blue powder in the direction of the 
stage, chanting all the while. Between one shrill outburst and another, 
the powder spread out into a cloud that momentarily hid the star from 
view. The mass settled a moment later, revealing Fionna standing with 
her arms flung up to protect her face. The colored dots lay in half-
singed piles around her feet. Her second cry for help died away as she 
stared around her. Lloyd shoved his way through the crowd and looked 
her over carefully. Then he took her into his arms. Fionna collapsed 
against him limply. She was too astonished to speak. Thomas Fitzgibbon 
broke the silence. 

 

"This wasn't . . . this wasn't the lasers this time, was it?" 

 

"What the hell did you do?" Michael Scott demanded, rounding on Boo-Boo 
and Liz, as Nigel Peters and Hugh Banks began shouting at everyone else 
to clear the stage. The stagehands swooped in with brooms. 

 

"Just fire control," Boo-Boo said. "Government issue." He showed the 
packet, which featured the eagle of the United States holding a fire 
extinguisher in each outstretched claw. 

 

"That wasn't just a chemical reaction," the guitarist said, with a wary 
eye. "What are you?" 

 


"Government agent," Boo-Boo said simply, producing his ID. "It's not 
over yet, sir. Let's all just remain calm." But Michael and the others 
were anything but calm. 

 

"I want to know what is going on!" the guitarist demanded. "Are you 
responsible for these outbursts?" 

 

"I'm sorry, sir," Liz said, in an even voice. "I'm afraid we can't 
discuss details . . ." 

 

"Don't 'sir' me," Michael said, raising his eyebrows alarmingly. 
"You've been underfoot for two days. I've heard Fionna's complaints for 
the last months now. We've all heard them. The things that are 
happening to her are real, aren't they?" 

 

Liz was saved having to reply by Fionna herself. With a wild scream, 
Fee started turning around and around, slowly at first, but faster and 
faster until the white fringes on her dress stood straight out. 

 

"Now, don't play around, love," Lloyd said. 

 

"She's not doing it, Mr. Preston," Liz said, removing a white silk 
cloth from her handbag. "Look at her feet." They weren't moving. Fee 
appeared to be spinning on her own axis with no visible means of 
propulsion. 

 

"Fee, honey, don't make a fool of yourself," Lloyd said. He put his 
arms around her to stop her, and got taken up in the vortex. "Hey!" He 
whirled around and around until his feet lifted off the floor. Fionna 
was going too fast for him to hang on. With a yell, the burly security 
man went flying. He landed several yards away, rolling over and over, 
missing Eddie Vincent's precious keyboards by a foot. Lloyd lay on his 
back, shaking his head to clear it. Liz clicked her tongue. Too 
impetuous. That was no way to pull her out of a spin. 

 

Liz held out the white cloth in the air by its center, and began to 
chant, drawing power from the earth as she went. It would take a lot of 
Earth power to take Fee away from the Air element that had claimed her. 
With a swift glance at the people around her, she lowered her voice to 
a mutter for the last words of the spell. With the final word, she 
dropped the cloth to the ground. Fee stopped spinning so suddenly she 
staggered. 

 

"Thank heavens," Fionna said, swallowing. "Now, I -- " 

 

But whatever had Fee in its grasp was not through with her yet. The 
spinning began again, faster than before. Alarmed, Liz picked up the 
cloth and dropped it again and again. No response. Fionna became a 
green and white blur that lifted into the air. In a moment she'd bump 
into the Jumbotron. The enormous magical power building in the 
Superdome was not to be quelled by a simple dampening spell. 

 

The band and crew were taken completely by surprise. Even the 
imperturbable Michael stood gawking up at Fionna with his mouth hanging 
open. Even as she worked to quell it, Liz was dismayed. Spinning she 
could explain away. An exploding poster turning into party favors could 
be put down to natural causes. Even it bursting into flames had the 


potential to be excused under the circumstances. The manifestation of a 
flying dervish appearing in a public location was going to be much 
harder to excuse as not being supernatural. 

 

Liz thought for a moment of making everyone clear the building. Unless 
they did, their secret was out. She and Beauray would have to employ 
their government-issue spell paraphernalia in full view of the public. 
But she mustn't wait. One look at Fionna's nauseous face told her that 
in a moment the star was going to be very sick, and she'd never forgive 
Liz if she spewed her guts out in front of a crowd of dozens. The 
agents couldn't wait, either. The huge reserve of power growing almost 
directly under their feet threatened to blow, and Fionna herself had 
lit the match. 

 

Telling herself it couldn't be helped, Liz scrabbled deep in her bag 
for components to cast the biggest dissipation spell she had at her 
disposal. Clear the air, and perhaps they could get to the bottom of 
this whole disturbance. There was the candle and the lighter. Good. The 
incense was in a secret compartment of her powder compact, hidden from 
the view of casual observers. Where was the athame? Oh, why did just 
the thing one needed most always end up in the remotest corner of one's 
handbag? A sharp point pricked her finger. Ah, there it was. Heedless 
of the pain, Liz pulled out the pink aluminum knitting needle that 
served her as a working tool for invocation and dissipation. A standard 
athame was forbidden on commercial aircraft and tended to excite 
commentary on London streets. The needle was a reasonably good 
substitute. No one ever said boo to a knitter. 

 

"Mr. Ringwall isn't going to like this," she said. Peevishly she thrust 
the candle at Boo-Boo, lit the wick and handed him a pinch of incense. 

 

"My superiors won't like it much, either," Boo-Boo admitted. "But only 
if we don't succeed. It can't be helped. Ms. Fionna's goin' to rise 
right through the roof in a moment. C'mon, positive attitude, Liz!" 

 

"It's all very well for you to say so," Liz grumbled. "You Americans 
like the spotlight." Liz held the knitting needle over her head in 
casting position, pointed toward Fionna. She hesitated, conscious of 
every eye on her. Chin up, Mayfield, she told herself. No time for 
stage fright. Straightening her back, she began the incantation. 

 

"I call the whirling winds to cease, depart from her, from us, in 
peace," Liz said, putting as much force into her words as she could. 
Boo-Boo held up the candle. The wind whipping Fionna around flattened 
the flame, threatening to extinguish it. He shielded it with his hand 
while trying to keep the pinch of incense between his fingers from 
igniting too soon. "To calm the raging winds that spin . . . oh, drat, 
I can't think of the next line!" 

 

"Go out from here as you came in." Boo really did know her grimoire, 
Liz realized. The Yanks certainly had their sources in her department. 

 

Together they chanted the old spell. Liz tossed the incense into the 
flame, and put every erg of Earth power she had into concentrating on 
bringing Fee down. 

 

With a whoosh! a cloud issued forth from the flame, enveloping the 


stage, people and all. She could feel Boo's influence alongside hers, 
aiding and strengthening. He really did know his stuff. Whatever they 
were fighting was stronger than she could have taken on alone. Melding 
their talents, they had enough power to do what had to be done. 

 

Liz hoped the non-initiates hadn't heard precisely what they were 
saying. She'd have to put a forgetting on them later. It was a harmless 
technique that worked very specifically on the memory of words in 
certain combinations. A technique that OOPSI had originated that would 
be of great use to MI-5 and MI-6, except that they didn't believe in 
it. OOPSI barely believed in it themselves. On the other hand, a 
trained magical technician would be required, and one might not always 
be available in those pinches. Liz had seen the budget, and knew there 
was no funding for training. 

 

Fionna sank toward the floor. The spin slowed gradually until when her 
feet touched down she was facing the agents. Lloyd was there to catch 
her. He held her tight. 

 

Liz glanced at the half-burned trash around their feet. There was some 
power left over after casting the spell, power that ought to be used up 
before it joined the well of fierce magic that underlay everything 
here. She muttered a cleaning cantrip that gathered all the papers 
together in a tidy heap on the side of the stage. So she might get in 
trouble with the unions. It was a small price to pay. 

 

Lloyd came toward them, white-faced, clutching Fee around her waist. 

 

"I've never seen anything like that in my life. You . . . she . . . you 
. . . I don't even know what happened!" 

 

"We helped," Liz said simply. "That's our job." 

 

"I didn't know the government could do anything like that!" he 
exclaimed. "I apologize for having doubted. I didn't know!" 

 

"Quite all right," Liz said. "I hope you'll continue to accept our 
assistance." 

 

"In a minute! Cor, with you there's nothing that can touch her!" 

 

Liz smiled. She liked the newly-cooperative Lloyd. He was a 
professional, after all, and his main job was to keep Fee safe. It had 
to be frustrating to him that he couldn't. He was genuinely glad to 
discover that Liz and Boo-Boo would be of some use after all. 

 

Liz had been so intent on her work that she never thought what would be 
the immediate reaction from the rest of Fee's people. She glanced 
around. Everyone seemed frozen in place, staring at Fionna and the heap 
of confetti. As her eye fell on a handful of the roadies, they flinched 
and started running for the door. Liz sighed. 

 

The drummer came up to them with his eyes wide. 

 

"That was awesome, man," Voe said, impressed, "but your lyrics suck!" 

 

"We've got to follow it just the way we learned it," Boo-Boo said, 


apologetically. 

 

"Bummer." 

 

The others ranged from fearful to openly admiring. Liz was pleased and 
embarrassed by the fact that the Guitarchangel was one of the latter. 
He wanted to know all about it. 

 

"Would you like to sit down some time and have a talk?" he asked 
eagerly. "About the parts you can talk about, that is." From his 
careful phrasing Liz understood that he did know something about real 
magic. He regarded her with shining eyes. 

 

"I would love to," she said, feeling as though she could purr, in spite 
of the danger of the situation, "but right now we must concentrate on 
Fionna. Now that we know who is at the bottom of these attacks, I think 
we can work with her and solve the problem." 

 

"Who?" Fionna demanded. 

 

"It's Ms. Robbie," Boo-Boo said. "She's the source of the disruption. 
She doesn't mean to be, but she is. Liz and I intend to go up and have 
a little talk with her." 

 

"That bitch?" Nigel Peters asked, in surprise, walking up onto the 
stage. "I fired her." 

 

Liz and Boo-Boo shared a brief, horrified glance. "That was not a good 
idea," Boo-Boo said. The two agents hurried out, heading for the 
control room. 

 

Nigel Peters looked around at the circle of shocked faces, then at the 
ruin of the burned poster on the ground. "Say, what just went on down 
here?" 

 

* * * 

 

"What happened?" Nigel asked, jogging to keep up with the two agents. 

 

"You must be the only one who didn't see it," Boo-Boo said, over his 
shoulder, his pleasant face perfectly serious for once. "In a way, 
you're the one who lit the match. Y'all have just been treated to an 
exhibition of a sorta grownup poltergeist. Ms. Robbie's too afraid of 
Ms. Fionna to snap back at her in person the way she'd like to, so 
she's been manifesting it in a different way." 

 

"Let's just hope she won't go up like a rocket now that there's nothing 
left for her to lose," Liz said. Fear was closing in like a cold hand 
clenching her stomach. 

 

Her dread was justified. The special effects station was empty. 

 

"Where is she?" Liz asked. The technical director, Gary Lowe, had half 
a dozen people with clipboards around him. He glanced up, then back at 
his notes. He had to try to rearrange the show without special effects, 
with only three hours to go. 

 


Sheila Parker detached herself from the group to come over to them, 
looking apologetic for her previous smirk. 

 

"Gone," Sheila said. 

 

"When?" Liz demanded. 

 

"Almost right away. After Fionna left, Nigel stayed here," she said, 
with a guilty glance at the manager. "He pulled Robbie over into a 
corner so the rest of us couldn't hear, but we all knew what was 
coming. She was pale as a ghost. The conversation started out quiet, 
anyhow. Then the two of them started screaming at each other. Gary said 
something like, hey look down there! We all started watching the stuff 
going on on stage. I kind of got distracted," Sheila added, 
embarrassed, "but I heard Nigel say, you're fired. Robbie was crying. 
As soon as he stamped out of here, she took off. Was any of that stuff 
real?" Sheila asked, with interest, looking from her to Boo-Boo. "We 
were trying to guess how it was done. It was really cool." 

 

"This is a disaster," Liz said, turning to the others. "If she had 
stayed we could have contained her. Now she's on the loose." 

 

"Sorry," Nigel said. "I didn't know. I believe, you know that, but 
Robbie Unterburger, of all people! Who'd figure a sad creature like her 
for a sorceress or a telekinetic? She was screwing up so much I thought 
it'd be less trouble if she was gone." 

 

The agents looked at one another. 

 

"We'd better find her," Boo-Boo said. Leaving Nigel Peters fretting, 
they made for the exit. 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 14 

 

"Where are you going?" Lowe asked Ken Lewis. The lighting director had 
risen from his station and was heading for the door of the control 
room. "We've got to keep on with this miserable rehearsal." 

 

"I've got to make a call," Ken said, very casually. He didn't even 
bother to take his headset off, just unplugged it from the console. 
"Family emergency." 

 

Lowe narrowed an eye at him. "You'd better not be calling the press," 
he said. 

 

Ken held up his hand in a Boy Scout pledge. "I solemnly swear this is 
not going to be a call to a reporter or anyone who will call one." 

 

"All right, then," Lowe said, not mollified. "Hurry up and get back -- 
" 

 

Ken didn't wait to hear the rest of Lowe's speech. Keeping an eye on 
the tiny screen of his cell telephone, he walked until he got an 


indication for a clear signal. Hitting the memory redial, he fidgeted 
uncomfortably until the call was answered on the other end. 

 

"SATN-TV," the voice of the receptionist said brightly. 

 

"I've got to talk with Mr. Kingston," Ken said. He drummed his fingers 
on the wall, then glanced around to make sure no one was overhearing 
him. "Mr. Kingston, we have a problem." 

 

* * * 

 

Augustus Kingston listened intently. His mystery employee had been 
channeling the energy SATN was sending via satellite transmission lines 
through their conduit to see the results. They'd been spectacular, but 
not exactly what they wanted. "I was just trying a few little tricks 
during the rehearsal, to make sure it would all work tonight, and the 
girl went out of control. She was too nervous, and there were other 
things going on . . ." 

 

"Cut to the chase, young man or young woman, whatever you are. Let's 
hear the worst." 

 

Ken chose his words carefully. He didn't want to explain the love 
triangle. He knew that the boss he'd never met wouldn't care about the 
emotional entanglement or the jealousy. 

 

In retrospect, once he'd become aware of those issues, maybe he should 
have realized Robbie Unterburger hadn't been the best choice for the 
job. It had been just too tempting to take advantage of such a natural 
magical channel. She'd responded so well when not under personal 
attack, but the moment she drew attention to herself, she became 
flustered, and hit out with everything she had, including SATN's 
precious power storage. Ken had been lazy, and he was paying for it. 

 

" . . . Between one thing and another, it was more than I should have 
made her handle before the big moment." 

 

"Well, what's done is done," Kingston said, calmly. "There's not much 
time left. My, er, friend assured me you could handle the job. There's 
a lot riding on it. Bring that girl back and make this work." 

 

"She's split," Ken said, sullenly. "She's vanished into the city." 

 

"You find her and bring her back. I thought you had a leash on her." 

 

"I do," Ken said, sullenly. He wasn't used to having his competence 
questioned, but he had to admit Kingston had reason to be upset. "I 
have a tracer that picks up the energy she emits. It's an electronic 
dowser." He took the device out of his pocket. It looked high tech 
except for the Y-shaped piece of wood attached to the top. He'd made it 
himself. New technology, not like his dad's old means of water-witching 
with a plain hazel switch. 

 

"Well, I don't care if it's a sign that says 'You are here.' Use it. A 
lot depends on this working out right. Go on! Go get her!" 

 

"What about those agents?" Ken asked. 


 

"That matter's taken care of," Kingston said. "Didn't I tell you? Now, 
call me when everything's back in place." There was a click at the far 
end as the other man hung up. 

 

Irritated, Ken switched off his phone. He looked back toward the 
control room, then past it to the door of the press box where the 
transmission lines into which he'd tapped ran into the building. His 
connections were still open. He ought to close them, or the evil power 
transmitted from SATN that acted as a catalyst for Robbie's outbursts 
would continue to leak into the arena like gas. Little might be left 
over for the concert itself. The event was still hours away. Torn, he 
wondered whether he should go back or head out after Robbie. Suddenly, 
he heard the control room door open, and footsteps clap on the concrete 
walkway. 

 

" . . . Better see where Ken is," said the technical director's voice. 

 

Ken started running for the escalators. 

 

* * * 

 

"Hey, Ben," Boo-Boo hailed a gray-haired black man in a guard's uniform 
standing at the guard station on the ground level. "You see a little 
thing go by, brown hair and glasses? She woulda been in a little bit of 
a hurry." 

 

"Yeah, I saw her, Boo-ray," Ben said. He exchanged complicated 
handshakes with the FBI agent. "She flew out of here in a big hurry. 
Came out of the main door and practically jumped down the escalators." 

 

"She get a taxi?" 

 

"Nah, she just went right straight out of here on foot," Ben said, 
pointing. "Crossed Poydras without lookin', and kept on moving. Looked 
like she was preoccupied, I'd say." 

 

"Thanks, Ben. I'll be seeing you." Boo-Boo looked worried as he took 
Liz's elbow and hurried her out the door. 

 

"What's wrong?" Liz asked. 

 

"She's on foot. I'm guessin' she's gonna try to get back to the French 
Quarter," Boo-Boo said. "She doesn't know where she's goin'. It's that 
way, but that's not the best neighborhood. It's got some lonely 
stretches, where nobody sees nothin', if you understand me. Most people 
don't go walkin' through it alone. A stranger, walkin' fast, not payin' 
attention to her surroundin's, is just askin' for problems." 

 

Liz's eyes widened. "We'd better catch up with her." 

 

* * * 

 

Two shadows peeled themselves away from the side of the Superdome, and 
fell into step a dozen yards behind Boo and Liz. 

 

Liz held out the psychic detector that she carried with her in her 


purse disguised as a box of breath mints. The faint traces of energy 
that she could find on the sidewalk opposite the Superdome verified the 
security guard's statement that Robbie had come this way, broadcasting 
a blue streak, so to speak. The girl had been moving fast, but still 
left behind a distinct trail. Liz shook her head at her own blindness. 

 

"How could we have missed seeing the obvious? Robbie has had a 
longstanding grudge against Fionna, and she must have been with the 
company while it was in Dublin, the scene of our other agent's attack." 

 

"One or two things are still botherin' me," Boo-Boo said, after 
exchanging a word with an old man eating a late lunch on a park bench. 
"Robbie Unterburger doesn't strike me as the kind of person who would 
take out the kind of revenge on a rival that she's been wreaking. In 
fact, she seemed kind of freaked out by the effects. And yet, there 
don't seem to be any doubt that she's the source." 

 

"Could we be witnessing the birth of a rogue talent?" Liz asked. She'd 
read of such things in the departmental archives. Mass destruction 
often accompanied the emergence. Not that the reports lent any credence 
to the occurrences, citing instead natural catastrophes such as 
lightning storms and earthquakes. 

 

"That'd be one good thing that came out of this situation," Boo-Boo 
said. "That is, if we can catch up with her before she hurts herself or 
someone else too much just to be able to walk away. We could get her 
some trainin', anyhow." 

 

"It's not personal," Liz said. Beauray glanced back at her with his 
brows drawn up in a question. "I have the strongest feeling that Robbie 
still doesn't really want to hurt Fee. With the amount of power she's 
slinging, she could have killed Fee any time. That gigantic poster 
might have come down in a single piece, but she caused it to explode 
into little paper flakes. She doesn't mean any harm. She's venting 
frustration, or so it seems to me. She just can't control herself." 

 

"That amount of power in an untrained practitioner just didn't seem 
natural," Boo said. "I've been thinkin' about it myself. We woulda 
detected it if that girl was buildin' it all up inside herself. You get 
some spillover even in experienced people. It's almost as if she was 
channelin' it from somewhere. I'm more curious about that. Where's it 
comin' from?" 

 

"We won't know until we catch up with her," Liz said, grimly. "So far, 
she's managed to blend in far too well. She could stay hidden until it 
is too late." 

 

"Not really," Boo said, encouragingly. "This is the Vieux Carré. It's a 
community. We're aware of strangers. Someone will know where she went." 

 

In reference to strangers, Liz had taken note of a couple of large, 
muscular men walking behind them on the other side of the street. 
Wearing the usual working uniform of button-down shirts and twill 
pants, they could have been a couple of bouncers on their way to work, 
or a pair of musicians going anywhere, but she noticed that they kept 
pace with her and Beauray, although taking care to remain at least a 
dozen yards behind them. They turned when she turned, crossing the 


nearly deserted street in the middle of the block to follow them along 
a narrow street that ran parallel to Rampart. Once they crossed Canal 
into a rundown street that led between a huge yellow brick building 
with boarded up windows and an empty lot, it became an undeniable fact 
that the two men were following them with a purpose in mind. A glance 
at her companion told her that he had noticed them, too. His hands, 
deep in the pockets of his ratty coat, were working. 

 

Liz paused very casually to dig into her handbag, coming up with a 
handkerchief under which she concealed one of her government-issue 
containers. As though she was freshening up her lipstick, she unscrewed 
the small vial and dribbled a little of the powder into her palm. The 
men had no choice but to saunter slower, and pretend to study the 
elderly brick building. As they came within a few yards, Liz put her 
handkerchief to her nose and blew a few grains of the dust toward them. 
The grains, part of a sensing cantrip she had learned in her first year 
at the department, revealed no magic in particular about their 
pursuers. Ordinary common-or-garden thugs. Well, she'd heard there was 
street crime in New Orleans. She should be prepared. And she was not 
alone. That was good. She started walking again, faster. The two men 
behind them picked up the pace, too. 

 

As they neared the center of the lonely street, she readied the 
chamomile-and-gunpowder mixture that would stun or knock out an 
attacker. 

 

What she couldn't have foreseen was that there were four of them. The 
other two heavies were waiting at the head of the narrow street where 
it came to a dead end. As Liz and Boo-Boo came within a few paces of 
the cross street ahead, they stepped out from the brick doorway where 
they had been concealed. 

 

The surprise nearly spoiled her aim, but Liz reminded herself the 
British Secret Service was made of tougher stuff than street muggers. 
With amazing clarity of mind that surprised even her, she turned and 
lobbed the sandy mixture at the large man farther to the right. A flash 
of light erupted from Boo-Boo's hands, hitting the left-hand pursuer 
square in the chest. Both ruffians went flying several feet. 

 

"Have you got any more of those?" Liz asked. He grabbed her arm and 
started to hustle her back the way they had come. 

 

"'Fraid not, Liz," Boo said. 

 

"Pity." They started running. 

 

The second pair, seeing their quarry escaping, put on a burst of speed 
and ran after them. The first two had not been knocked completely 
unconscious. Liz dodged around the first one, who lay partly across the 
cracked sidewalk. He made a grab for her ankles. In evading his grasp, 
she nearly tripped over the second thug, who was on his hands and 
knees, shaking his head like a stunned steer. He wrapped an arm around 
her leg and hung on. Liz let out a squawk. Time to see if those unarmed 
combat lessons she had paid for had done her any good. 

 

Boo-Boo, who had made it nearly all the way back to Canal, turned at 
the strangled sound. Liz was now surrounded by all four of the 


ruffians. One of them had snatched her purse and held it away from her, 
while two of the others grabbed her arms. The third one hovered over 
her menacingly, drawing back a fist. Boo-Boo ran back to help her, but 
arrived just half a second too late. In the blink of an eye, Liz 
squirmed loose from one man, kneed another soundly in the crotch, and 
was chanting with intent as her free hand worked in a hazy pattern Boo-
Boo recognized as a confusion spell. She was pretty good, now that he 
had to admit it. The trouble was that her attention was divided between 
more than one person. Even if she succeeded in clouding the mind of one 
man, the other two would still be threats. 

 

He circled the tableau, wondering where to jump in. Liz'd done an 
admirable job of getting herself out of a jam, but she wasn't free yet. 
The three men feinted toward her, trying to catch her off balance by 
drawing her attention. She hadn't much time before she had to cast her 
spell or let it fade. The fourth man had gotten over the radiating pain 
and was climbing up from the ground, angrier than ever. Though he would 
have been curious to see how his efficient British counterpart would 
handle the situation, it was time to intervene. 

 

Boo pulled a bag of dust out of his pocket. With only a cursory glance 
to make sure it was the right one, he slammed it down on the ground in 
the midst of the group. Billows of noxious green rose around the group. 
They wailed miserably, clawing at their faces and one another. Boo-Boo 
felt a twinge of guilt. He hated to use that stuff because of what it 
did to people -- the residual effect gave them nightmares for days, 
sometimes as much as years after exposure -- but it was really 
effective. It was comprised largely of graveyard dust and bile, but it 
had half a hundred other ingredients. One man cried out in alarm and 
struck out with a fist, smacking his nearest comrade in the ear. The 
man he struck responded with a wild yell and began flailing with both 
arms, dropping Liz's purse. Things were getting just a little too 
dangerous in there. 

 

Pulling the lapel of his ragged jacket over his mouth and nose, Boo-Boo 
reached into the roiling green smoke and pulled Liz free. He helped her 
over to lean against the wall of the derelict department store while 
she coughed the powder out of her lungs. 

 

Chanting the counterspell in a whisper so it would only affect her, he 
kept an eye on the four men while she recovered her sanity. 

 

"What was that?" Liz demanded, coughing. 

 

"Fear dust," Boo-Boo said. "Local product. Effective, isn't it?" 

 

"Very." Liz watched the men screaming and struggling, fighting against 
invisible opponents and hitting the others in their frenzy. "Will they 
recover?" 

 

"Sooner or later," Boo-Boo said. "They're fightin' with their inner 
demons just now. I'll give 'em a moment before I stop the effect and 
ask 'em questions. It's amazin' how cooperative they get when the 
terror stops. They see nightmares, monsters, all kinds of terrible 
things. I hate to use it, but it works." 

 

"You're right," Liz said, shuddering. "It does." 


 

"What did you see?" 

 

"Mr. Ringwall." 

 

Boo-Boo grinned. "Hey, now, hold on. I know those two." He pointed at 
the two men who had been waiting concealed at the head of the street, a 
white man with a handlebar mustache and a shaved head, and a black man 
with a grizzled beard clipped to a point. "One of them works as a 
bouncer for one of the jazz clubs on Bourbon. The other is security in 
the state museum buildings. They're not the kind who normally go in for 
muggin'." 

 

Over Liz's protests, Boo-Boo pulled them out of the miasma and 
counterspelled them. The first pair, startled at the sudden movement, 
cowered, throwing up their hands. The eyes of the other two stopped 
whirling. The men shook themselves like large dogs coming out of a 
lake. The bearded man's mouth dropped open. 

 

"Beauray! Hey, man, what happened?" 

 

"Oh, just a little thing, Samson. Whatcha doin' hangin' out in this 
neighborhood?" Boo asked. "Gets kinda dangerous in the evenin' around 
here." 

 

Samson and his companion looked sheepishly at their feet. "Sorry, man. 
Din't know it was you. Sorry, ma'am. If you're a friend of Boo's, we're 
pleased to meet you. I'm Samson. This is Tiger." 

 

"Eliz -- er, Liz," she said, holding out her hand to them. Her fingers 
were swallowed up in their vast handshakes. 

 

"You gonna tell me why you're standin' on street corners scarin' 
strangers?" Boo-Boo asked, in his easy way, but there was steel in his 
bright blue eyes. 

 

"They hired us," Tiger said, in a basso growl. "Said there was some 
bad-ass who needed a little kickin' around. Thought it was a good 
cause. We had no idea they were puttin' a mark on you. I woulda known 
better than to try. You want us to mess 'em up a little?" 

 

"No, thanks. I'd rather talk to 'em," Boo-Boo said. "I need to know why 
they hired you." But when he turned to the others to undo his whammy 
they shied away from his moving hands. Before he or Liz could do 
anything, they ran away down the street, shrieking as if the fiends of 
hell were after them, which, for all he knew, they might be. "Left it a 
little too long," he said apologetically to Liz. The spell would work 
itself out in a few hours. "You fellas have any idea what was goin' 
on?" 

 

"Not a clue," Samson said apologetically. "They're from out of town, 
that's all we knew. We thought there was some big problem they needed 
help with. They sounded like nice fellas. They had some money. We had 
some spare time. We sure are sorry, ma'am. Can we do anything to help?" 

 

The sudden surge of courtesy did little to calm Liz's temper. So much 
time had been wasted! She produced the picture of Robbie she had taken 


from Nigel Peters. 

 

"We're looking for this young woman. We were in pursuit of her from the 
Superdome when you interfered with us. Any assistance you can offer 
would be greatly appreciated." She knew her voice sounded cold, but the 
men didn't seem to mind. They looked at one another, and nodded. 

 

"This girl's not much to look at," Tiger said. "But we'll keep an eye 
out. If she comes into the bar tonight, I'll let you know." 

 

"I'm on night shift," Samson said. "If she comes through Jackson 
Square, I'll see her." 

 

"Don't make a fuss," Boo said, genially. "We just want to know who 
she's drinkin' with. We feel kinda protective of her, you understand?" 

 

And the men seemed to. 

 

"We'll spread the word," Samson promised. "You can count on that." 

 

"Thanks," Boo said. He felt around in his coat pockets for a grubby 
notebook and pencil, tore out a page and handed half to each man. 
"Here's my cell phone number. And if you see those guys again . . ." 

 

"You want us to mess 'em up a little?" Tiger asked, hopefully. 

 

"Not right away," Boo said. "We need to know who hired 'em." 

 

Tiger crossed his huge arms. "We'll find out for you. Least we can do." 

 

"In the meanwhile," Liz said, "we'd better resume our search for 
Robbie. Time is running out." 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 15 

 

Ken Lewis followed the pointing fork attached to the top of his 
direction finder as he trudged slowly along Bourbon Street. This stupid 
city smelled. He was tired of the pervading odors of mold and spice and 
old paint. The river behind him was a power presence in its own right 
he couldn't ignore, and far too big for him to deal with. His feet were 
so hot and sore he wanted to go soak them in the Mississippi and tell 
Mr. Kingston to hell with him and his project. Trouble was, he knew it 
would be to Hell with him if he failed. Kingston wasn't the only person 
who had a vested interest in its success. Ken was part of only a 
distant outer circle of the Council, but he, too, had hopes of 
ascendance one day. If he didn't make this work, he was cooked. 

 

He'd run up and down half the crumbling streets in that section of the 
French Quarter, only to find every track he followed belonged to a 
total stranger, and some pretty weird strangers at that. Who the hell 
knew there were so many people in this city giving off magical vibes? 
Voodoo priests, shamans, witches, clairvoyants -- the place was full of 
practitioners and talents. Why did he have to lose a sensitive in the 


middle of all this? Why couldn't Green Fire have had its all-important 
concert in, say, Cleveland, Ohio? 

 

He'd had a heck of a time extracting himself from the last place, the 
sitting room in a private home on a little side street. The green-robed 
woman with the long henna-dyed hair had closed her door behind him and 
didn't want him to go. Only by promising to come back after dark did he 
persuade her to open the door. He had no intention of keeping that 
promise. If he managed to pull this job out of the toilet, he intended 
to spend the hours after midnight getting very drunk in a hotel room. 
He was still sneezing sandalwood incense out of his nostrils. 

 

This Halloween town had some advantages. The sight of a man walking 
down the street with a dowsing rod should have had people following 
him, or calling the cops. Here, nobody stopped him or asked what he was 
doing. That one big, old, black man in the pressed shirt and trousers 
back there around the corner had shown some knowledge, and wanted to 
talk about the device. Ken put him off, too. He ought to send his 
father down here for a vacation. These were his kind of people: total 
weirdos. 

 

He turned off the main street just west of the river and headed inland 
again towards Bourbon Street. It was a long shot, trying an area so far 
from the Superdome, but he'd covered nearly every street from Poydras 
to the Quarter without finding a trace of Robbie. He had no choice but 
to keep trying. She was the linchpin in the whole system. He couldn't 
run it without her. How he'd get her into the Superdome again later was 
a problem he'd figure out when he had her back. 

 

The little hazel fork rotated on its spindle and pointed toward the 
storefronts on his right. By the strength of the reaction, Ken was 
pretty sure he had found the right trace at last. It took a little 
backtracking to figure out which doorway was the right one. He was in 
luck. It was a bar. He'd found her. 

 

He peered into the dim room, lit only by a television set and some 
track lights over the mirror behind the varnished serving counter. Sure 
enough, the slender figure of the special effects engineer was hunched 
up on a stool with her elbows on the bar all the way in the back. 

 

Ken switched off the electronic dowser and put it into his pocket. It 
had worked like a charm. Well, the rest of his act had better work, or 
he might be finished. He sidled up and sat down next to his quarry. 

 

She'd been drowning her troubles. Pretty understandable, considering 
she'd been humiliated in front of everyone in the building. A tall, 
stemmed glass stood in front of her, half-emptied, but it couldn't have 
been the first one. Drying rings of neon-colored liquid glistened on 
the honey-colored wood in the muted light. 

 

"Hi, Robbie," he said, gently. The television audio warred with some 
good jazz music coming from an overhead speaker. "Where'd you go so 
suddenly?" 

 

Robbie Unterburger started, but she didn't look at him right away. The 
bartender, a white woman in her early fifties, appeared only a few feet 
away. She gave him a wary glance. Ken guessed she wondered if he was 


the cause of her customer's misery, and if she'd have to throw him out. 
He smiled at her, and she returned it, friendly but businesslike. 
Carefully, but not ostentatiously, she drew a Louisville slugger 
baseball bat out from underneath the bar so he could see it, nodded 
meaningfully at him, then put it back again. Ken gulped. Message 
received. 

 

"I'll have whatever she's having." 

 

"All right, sir," the bartender said, in a musical voice. "One 
Hurricane, coming up." 

 

Unhesitatingly, she moved to an array of bottles on the back counter, 
and started to mix the drink. Ken noticed she kept a close eye on him, 
either directly or in the mirror on the wall. Long experience enabled 
her to prepare his order and serve it without looking at it, but not 
missing an ingredient or spilling a drop. The tall glass she set down 
in front of him was filled to the brim with Day-Glo red liquid and had 
a toothpick with a cherry and a slice of orange in it. Ken blanched, 
but he put ten dollars down on the bar and pushed it toward the server. 
He hated sweet drinks. The bartender left him his change, still wearing 
a warning expression. Robbie was watching him now, so he took a good 
sip, and smiled at her. 

 

"Are you okay?" he asked. "You took off out of there so quickly." 

 

"I got fired, remember?" Robbie said, bitterly. She drained her glass 
and held up her finger for another one. With a glance at Ken to make 
sure he was watching, the bartender poured another Hurricane and set it 
down in front of the young woman. "What did I have to stay around for?" 

 

Ken almost said, "to see the fireworks." He patted her on the shoulder. 

 

"You didn't have to take off like that. Nigel's not such a bad guy. He 
knows you're a stranger in this city. He was going to arrange for you 
to get home again. He was going to exchange your ticket." 

 

"He was?" Robbie asked, amazed. 

 

"Yeah! Swear to God," Ken said, hoping she wouldn't notice that he 
stuck his hand into his pocket so he could cross his fingers. No sense 
in giving the Other Side anything it could use against him. He might 
practice black magic, but he was honest about it. 

 

"Oh, Ken," Robbie said. Her hazel eyes, slightly rimmed with red, fixed 
on him. They filled with tears. "You're so nice." 

 

"I'm your friend," he said. Robbie drained her glass in a few gulps. 
This time Ken signaled for the next one. "Come on, everybody gets fired 
a few times in their life. There's more bothering you than that. You 
want to tell me about it?" 

 

"It's nothing," Robbie said, hunching over her drink. 

 

"It's Preston, isn't it?" Ken said gently, patting her wrist in a 
fatherly way. Robbie nodded. "Oh, come on, you could do better than 
him." 


 

"No, I couldn't," Robbie muttered. "He's the one I want. No offense, 
Ken, because you're really a great guy." She regarded him blearily. 
"And you're good-looking, too. But Lloyd's the sexiest man I've ever 
seen. I feel so . . . It's like lightning running through . . ." She 
began again, blushing more than ever. "When I'm near him, I just want 
to throw myself at him. But I can't." 

 

"And he'd like you, too, if it wasn't for . . . Fionna." Ken put all 
the scorn he could into the name, and was pleased to see the young 
woman straighten her spine and glare at nothing. 

 

"Oh, yes," she said, decidedly. "I wish the bitch would fall on her 
face." 

 

"Maybe she will. Have another drink?" Ken said. They had the back 
corner of the bar to themselves. The bartender had other customers to 
look after, and no one could hear them over the combined noise from the 
speakers. "C'mon, you can tell me all about it." 

 

* * * 

 

The French Quarter seemed more crowded that late Saturday afternoon 
than London during the legendary January sales. Boo and Liz struggled 
through knots of happy people with stacks of beer cups, and skirted by 
acrobats performing in the middle of pavements, psychic palm or tarot 
readers speaking intently to their clients at little tables under beach 
umbrellas, and artists painting or sketching in chairs set against 
walls or fences where their wares were displayed. Countless tourists 
clogged the streets, drinking, taking pictures of one another, diving 
into bars and shops, and emerging with plastic cups full of beer and 
armloads of sparkling plastic beads. As the sun tipped westward, the 
neon on the buildings looked more garish and threatening. 

 

Everywhere, Boo reached out to tap a local man or woman on the arm and 
chatted for a moment before bringing out the photo of Robbie. No one 
could remember having seen her. All of them promised they'd keep watch, 
but they didn't hold out a lot of hope. Liz's heart sank at the 
enormity of their task. It wasn't going to be as easy to find an 
ordinary-looking woman in blue jeans and a T-shirt on her own as it had 
been to locate Fee with her short green hair and personal entourage. 
Even that search hadn't been simple. If it hadn't been for Boo-Boo and 
his connections . . . which weren't doing them a lot of good just then. 
His friends were observant, but they'd have to be superheroes to pick 
out one nondescript stranger in this scrimmage. 

 

They came away from speaking with a very limber Jamaican man in Jackson 
Square who was trying to fit himself inside a small glass box. 

 

"We coulda just missed her, or she's on the move," Boo-Boo said, 
putting the photo into his pocket as they left the square. "Robbie's a 
stranger in town. I'd say she could be anywhere, but there aren't too 
many places that she'd feel comfortable about goin' to if she was in 
trouble." 

 

"The hotel," Liz said, as a thought struck her. "Perhaps she just went 
back there. She might want to go directly to the airport or the bus 


station. We should find out if she's taken her luggage." 

 

Boo raised his fair eyebrows. "Maybe that ought to've been our first 
stop. I wasn't even thinkin' when we came running' out of the 
Superdome." He looked so chagrined that Liz felt sorry for him. 

 

"To tell you the truth," Liz said, "neither was I. That can't be helped 
now." Boo-Boo recovered quickly, and gave her his brilliant smile. They 
were equals again. Partners. A small benefit to come out of this awful 
mission. Only, he had to remember that she was in charge. 

 

* * * 

 

The tall, blond manager of the Royal Sonesta Hotel came bustling out to 
greet the two agents waiting at the lobby desk at the summons of one of 
the uniformed clerks. 

 

"Does one of our guests need help?" he asked in a discreet undertone as 
soon as he reached them. "Does . . . she need help?" 

 

"Not she," Liz said, "but one of her employees. Ms. Unterburger. 
Roberta Unterburger." 

 

The manager and the attractive clerk behind the desk frowned. 

 

"I'm not certain I recall her," the clerk said. 

 

"She's kind of an everyday-looking person," Boo explained, producing 
the photograph. "It's important that we find her pretty quickly." 

 

"She might be ill," Liz explained, hoping they wouldn't ask for 
details. 

 

"Well, we'll be happy to call a doctor if she needs one," the manager 
said, friendly and ready to help. 

 

"It's a serious condition," Liz said hastily, thinking of the poor 
doctor who might encounter a wild magical talent without warning. 

 

"We have some fine medical facilities in this town," the manager said. 
"Why, Tulane Univ -- " 

 

"Can we check her room?" Boo-Boo asked. "As I recall, she's sharin' 
room 2153 with another woman who works for Ms. Kenmare. She might have 
come in without anyone noticin' her. She's kind of a shy young lady." 

 

"Certainly," the manager said. He disappeared into his office and 
emerged with a set of passkeys. "Just in case she's collapsed." 

 

Liz shot a look at her associate. They couldn't be that lucky to find 
Robbie present and unconscious. 

 

They stopped a maid in the hallway to ask if anyone was in room 2153. 
The woman shook her head. The manager knocked on the door. When no one 
answered, he used his passkey to open the room. Liz was relieved to see 
the ordinary clutter of two women sharing temporary living quarters. 
Heaps of garments stood on the bed and the dresser. The luggage piled 


in the closet seemed of sufficient quantity for two. Liz checked the 
name tags. Some of them belonged to Robbie. Liz opened them, and found 
them empty. Thank heavens, the girl hadn't packed up her bags and 
disappeared out of town. Not yet. 

 

The manager was watching with keen interest as the two agents inspected 
the room. Liz finally had to admit there wasn't a single clue that 
would tell them where Robbie would go if she felt troubled. 

 

"I think we've learned what we can," she said. "Thank you for your 
assistance." 

 

"Always happy to be of service to our guests," the manager said, with a 
bow, but Liz knew he was thinking of Fionna. 

 

"We need to get Ms. Robbie to a specialist. Just let us know if she 
comes back here." Boo grabbed a pad of paper and a pen from the 
nightstand, and scribbled his cell telephone number on it. He handed 
the slip to the manager. "We shouldn't let her leave on her own. It 
could be very serious. If you'll just have her call us the moment she 
shows up." 

 

"I'd be happy to," the manager said, tucking the piece of paper into 
his breast pocket. "You can count on us." 

 

"I never doubted it," Boo said. 

 

Boo left the same message and his telephone number with the doorman. 

 

"That's about all we can do here," he told Liz. "Should we keep on 
searchin'?" 

 

"The concert isn't long from now," Liz pointed out, checking her watch. 
"We'd better go back to the Superdome. We know the target is Fee. We 
ought to be there to protect her." 

 

"And hope there aren't any fresh booby traps waitin' for us when we get 
there," Boo said, raising a hand for a taxi. 

 

* * * 

 

Feeling considerably more comfortable under the influence of alcohol 
and Ken's friendly overtures, Robbie reeled off into a catalogue of 
adolescent complaints about Fionna. Her looks, her habits, her money 
and fame were all reprehensible and unfair. How dare she be tall and 
beautiful and rich and talented? What right did she have to get all 
those clothes handed to her as though she was some kind of princess or 
something? What could fate have been thinking, sending all those 
millions of people to swoon at her feet? Especially a man like Lloyd, 
who ought to see past the makeup and the phony exterior? Didn't he know 
that that green hair was dyed? 

 

Ken nodded and smiled at the right places, all the while keeping one 
eye on the clock. He had to get her back into the Superdome, reconnect 
with the machinery somehow and get it turned on and running, and avoid 
getting thrown out until he caused the chaos he had been hired to 
cause. Mr. Kingston had a lot at stake, and he wasn't going to take any 


excuses if Ken failed. He ought to get her moving soon. Not yet, he 
thought, but soon. She was still too skittish to react the way he 
wanted her to. In the meantime, he needed to keep her talking. 

 

"If Fionna was out of the way, then he'd notice you. You're . . ." Ken 
swallowed, trying to think of a compliment. He had never really studied 
her before as a person. He hadn't thought much about her except how 
easily she responded to suggestion and magical manipulation. Robbie 
didn't inspire poetry, or even much thought beyond plain existence. She 
wasn't exactly pretty. Her voice was unremarkable. She didn't exude 
sexuality or sensuousness like Fionna did. " . . . You're smart. You do 
everything right. I've noticed that about you. You study your cues, and 
your timing is usually exactly right on. You've got a great memory. 
That's really special." 

 

"Yeah," Robbie said, her voice breaking. "I'm efficient. Big deal. 
Except I left all my stuff hooked up when I left. The board is still 
hot, and all the switches are armed. Can you believe it? Normally I 
turn everything off. I'm so stupid! It's like Dublin all over again, 
when that poor man got knocked out during that rehearsal." Her 
shoulders heaved. Ken was afraid she was going to cry. The last thing 
he needed was an emotional outburst, and he didn't want her mouthing 
off about that nosy guy in Dublin. That had been a mistake. If it was 
ever connected to him, he was in big trouble. You never knew who was 
listening to you. Robbie started to cry, her shoulders heaving in deep 
sobs. He had to control her. He put his hand onto her wrist and 
squeezed sympathetically. 

 

A tingle crossed between them, like a spark of static electricity. 

 

Ken jumped up with surprise, then sat down again, trying not to show 
his eagerness. Robbie was still chock full of magical energy coming off 
the transmitter from the SATN-TV satellite feed. The Law of Contagion 
was still in force! She'd made the connection, and she was still 
channeling power. Maybe he could make the situation work without having 
to go back to the Superdome. 

 

He glanced out the door to make sure the two agents weren't in sight. 
They could queer the whole thing if they turned up unexpectedly. Mr. 
Kingston had promised to do something about them, but he hadn't said 
what or when. In the meantime, the bar was wide open to the public. 
Anyone who came in could see them. Did he have any of the materials he 
needed for an obfuscation charm? He started feeling in his pockets. He 
couldn't improvise. Ken knew he wasn't much of a natural magician. He 
thought of himself more as a technical operator. 

 

Robbie was talking, and looking at him as if she expected a response to 
what she was saying. Ken nodded whenever Robbie paused for breath. He'd 
only hope Ms. Mayfield and her grubby friend would keep chasing their 
tails until he'd managed to do what he needed to. 

 

"Under the circumstances, I understand how you left everything 
running," Ken said, inwardly exalting. "It was pretty intense back 
there. It won't do any harm. If no one touches anything, it will all 
still be intact later. Come on, cheer up. Hmm?" He gave her a hopeful 
smile and chucked her under the chin. The tap was still open on the 
power feed from SATN. By 7:30 tonight, the full force of their stored-


up energy would be coming down those transmission lines and trickling 
into the chair at Robbie's station, ready to spread out into the full 
arena. He eyed the girl speculatively. He had an idea. It was possible. 
It could work. He toyed with his glass, wondering how to begin. 

 

Robbie watched his fingers. Her eyes looked solemn as an owl's behind 
her thick glasses. 

 

"You have really long fingernails," she announced. "I think that's kind 
of creepy in a guy. It makes me think of that scene from Rosemary's 
Baby. Those scratches on her back." She hiccuped. "I'm sorry. I must be 
getting really drunk. I would never say something like that normally." 

 

"It's all right," Ken said, somewhat put out by the comparison. The 
blather that those two agents had been making about Robbie being a 
sensitive was more true than they'd ever know. He wondered if she could 
smell the brimstone incense he burned at home, and whether it was 
affecting her perceptions. "You know, you're a really nice person, 
Robbie." 

 

She hiccuped. "Creak, creak, creak," Robbie said suddenly, tilting her 
head and staring at the ceiling. "Do you hear that? It sounds like a 
rocking chair." Ken glanced up. He didn't hear anything. Whatever she 
was tuned into, it made him uncomfortable. Hastily, he brought the 
subject back on track. 

 

"You know," he said, "Lloyd's such a perfectionist. If Fee made a total 
fool of herself, like screwing up the concert, he'd reject her." 

 

"You think so?" Robbie asked. 

 

"I'm sure of it," he said almost casually, making a spinning gesture. 
"Throw her out flat on her tush. If she was out of the way, he'd go 
crazy for you." 

 

A crafty expression appeared on her face. He made a note of it as he 
reached into his pocket for a small package he kept there. When the 
bartender brought the next installment of drinks, Ken slipped a tablet 
of LSD into Robbie's. 

 

"Come on," he said. "Let's drink to watching Fionna fall on her face." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 16 

 

"Where the hell have you two been?" Fee snarled as Liz and Boo-Boo came 
into the dressing room. "There's only minutes left before the concert 
starts!" 

 

"We know it," that annoying Elizabeth Mayfield said, in that 
maddeningly calm voice of hers. How could she and Fee have been such 
close friends once? "We're here now." 


 

Fionna paced up and down, smoking cigarette after cigarette. The tight, 
green dress caused the wires sewn into it to rub against her skin. The 
itch made her frantic. She wanted to tear the dress off and run naked 
out of the place. Hmmm, she thought, that might make good headlines. 
Then she dismissed the idea. The last thing she wanted to do right now 
was draw extra attention to herself. The monsters could come out of 
nowhere and get her. What a comedown! New Orleans ought to have been 
the saving of her. Instead, she was more uncertain of herself than 
ever. New evils were popping up all over, ones she'd never heard of 
before, and people were walking out on her all over the place. Even her 
assigned minders had gone on a tour of the town! 

 

She took a long drag at her cigarette and breathed out twin plumes of 
smoke at the agents like a dragon in pre-toast mode. "You're supposed 
to be protecting me!" 

 

"We were looking for Ms. Robbie," Boo-Boo said, calmly, "but we're here 
now. You look very nice, ma'am. The dress matches your hair just 
exactly." 

 

Seeing nothing but a blandly pleasant face, Fionna threw up her hands 
and started pacing again. Lloyd came to loom over them, expressionless 
as a golem. The security man was clad in black turtleneck and slacks, 
topped off with a charcoal jacket that set off his broad shoulders and 
concealed who knew what else. He looked devastatingly effective, very 
masculine and completely dishy. Elizabeth understood what attracted Fee 
to the man. 

 

"Has everything been going all right?" Liz asked Lloyd. 

 

He nodded. Liz admired his ability to be a total professional when the 
occasion called for it. Now that he had accepted the situation, he was 
willing to be cooperative. "Show's ready to go. I haven't let her out 
of my sight, not even in the toilets. Did you find the silly woman?" 

 

"No," Liz sighed. "We lost the trail." 

 

Lloyd frowned. "Shouldn't you still be looking?" 

 

Liz shook her head. "Our place is with Fee. If there's going to be 
another attack, we need to be right here with her, not out looking for 
Robbie." Lloyd nodded curtly. He didn't fuss over what couldn't be 
helped. 

 

"That makes sense." He flipped open a radio and spoke into it. "No sign 
of her, Mr. Lemoine." 

 

The mild voice of the Superdome master control operator came from the 
small speaker. "I'll let Security know, Mr. Preston. Everybody's on 
alert." 

 

Lloyd flipped the unit shut. "If she shows her face, she's ours." 

 

Fionna lit another cigarette off the first one, dropped the stub and 
ground it into the tiles with a silver-lame-stacked-heel shoe. 

 


"I hate the waitin'," she said. "I've always hated it." 

 

Fitz stood by the wall of the dressing room with sewing supplies at the 
ready in case Fionna's dress needed last minute repairs. He regarded 
Boo-Boo and Liz with an open-eyed stare of wonder blended copiously 
with fear. Liz gave him a smile meant to be reassuring. His hand groped 
in a pocket. Liz, with every sense tuned to its highest chord, sensed a 
small touch of magic within the cloth, probably a good luck charm for 
protection against the unknown. 

 

They might need that little bit of good luck to help get them through 
the night. She herself had grounded firmly in Earth power and filled up 
her personal batteries as far as they would go before entering the 
Superdome. She wished that they'd been able to find Robbie. So many 
questions were left unanswered. Was she working for anyone else, and if 
so, who? What was her motive? Why attack Fionna, whose music espoused 
largely benevolent causes? 

 

Nigel Peters came into the dressing room, looking haggard. He headed 
directly for Fionna and took the cigarette out of her fingers. 

 

"Give me that!" she wailed. "I need it." 

 

"Don't constrict your voice with smoke, darling," he said. "Here." He 
handed her a drink instead. Fionna gulped it greedily. Laura Manning 
stepped forward and deftly made up Fee's mouth again with bright orange 
paint. Fionna didn't even notice her. She was too preoccupied. 

 

"What'ch you starin' at, Ms. Mayfield?" she demanded, brogue on full 
red alert. 

 

"I . . ." Liz stopped herself from sounding too familiar with all these 
people here. "What's the matter? I know you've done hundreds of these 
shows. This isn't even your largest crowd. You couldn't possibly have 
stage fright." 

 

"It's not that." Even under the heavy makeup, Fionna looked white-eyed. 
She refused to make eye contact with Liz. 

 

"Don't be a fool," Liz said briskly, stepping right in front of her to 
get her attention. "You've proved that there really is bad magic 
attacking you. It's real." 

 

"Oh, that really helps!" Fionna exploded, glaring at Liz. But the 
attack of bad temper did help her. It helped her forget how frightened 
she was for a moment. Curse Elizabeth Mayfield and her Yank scarecrow. 
They were right much too often. 

 

The scarecrow had something to say as well. 

 

"It's better to be afraid of real things, Ms. Kenmare," he said, aiming 
those blue, blue eyes at her. "You can do something about 'em. 
Meantime, you just give 'em the best show you know how. You'll be fine 
once you're out there." 

 

"And what the hell do you know about show business?" Fionna demanded, 
shooting looks of hate at both agents. 


 

"Apart from small parts in school dramas, nothing," Liz said, 
cheerfully. "But you're an old pro, Ms. Kenmare. These are your fans. 
They love you. All you need to do is go out there and . . . er, wow 
them. There's nothing new for you in that." 

 

"This," Fionna said tightly, "is the first time in two years we've done 
a show without any effects." 

 

"I see," Liz said. And she did. Fionna herself was on show, as she 
hadn't been for ages. Once upon a time, Phoebe Kendale had been a part 
of those same small school productions as Liz. Those were as bare bones 
as any skeleton, but she'd shone as a natural performer, drawing every 
eye. Once she'd gone into music, Green Fire had been a small group that 
played coffee houses and small venues. In part, it had to have been her 
charisma that rocketed them into the view of some unknown talent-
seeker. Since they had made the big time Fee had hidden behind all the 
fancy touches available to her. She's forgotten that her talent means 
something, Liz thought sympathetically. She considered reassuring Fee, 
but realized how stupid it would sound coming from a secret service 
agent who supposedly had never met the star in all her life. And Fee 
probably wouldn't be grateful for it anyhow. 

 

Lloyd was underimpressed. "This is what they pay you for, from my tax 
dollars? Pep talks?" 

 

"If that's what's needed," Liz said. "And now, if you'll forgive me, I 
have to concentrate." 

 

She withdrew to the side of the dressing room to ready the arsenal in 
her handbag. Everything had been replenished from the suitcases in her 
hotel room and augmented by materiel from Boo-Boo's bottomless pockets. 
She flicked through them, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen 
packets, plus whatever charms she knew that didn't require a physical 
component. The most important tools she had were likely to be the 
litany of her memorized spells of protection. She started muttering 
them to herself, readying a framework to weave around Fionna. It was a 
shame they hadn't found the girl. It was a shame they hadn't had time 
to go over the facility again before the concert began. All they could 
do was concentrate on the focus of every attack so far. 

 

Fee went back to pacing. It was hard because the damned floor was 
parquet wood. Every little crack broke her mother's back. She was 
afraid of causing bad luck to her mother, or anyone else! That kind of 
thing rebounded upon one. Instead of wanting to run out into the 
street, she wanted to find a tiny, enclosed place and hide in it until 
this was all over. Ten minutes. Eight minutes. Six minutes. 

 

Liz watched Fee twisting her feet to fit inside the narrow boards, and 
guessed what was going through her mind. Little acts like that didn't 
do much good, not when there was so much power floating around. Fee had 
a right to be nervous. The heady feeling she had sensed earlier was 
greater than before, growing as the Superdome filled with people 
excited about the upcoming concert. 

 

The assistant floor director appeared at the door of the dressing room. 
"Ready for you in five, Ms. Kenmare. Will you come upstairs with us 


now?" 

 

"This is it, darlings," Nigel Peters said. He came up to clasp Fee's 
hands and lead her toward the door. Fitz caught up the train of her 
green dress and followed like a royal courtier. The others fell into 
step behind them. 

 

The tunnel at the top was dark. The only light was provided by tiny 
laser flashlights directed at the floor by stagehands invisible on 
either side of them. Liz could feel those thousands of people out there 
all waiting excitedly for the moment when the show would begin. The 
crew was taut with anticipation, too. The red dots shook as they guided 
the group safely to the curtained enclosure behind the north end of the 
stage behind the huge speakers. The rest of the band, musicians and 
singers waited there, concealed in the dimness. Spotlights went on, 
shakily, Liz thought. Hugh Banks was invisible in his circle of video 
monitors just behind the stage, but she could hear his calm voice 
counting out, "Ready in three, two, one." 

 

The unseen crowd erupted in a thunderous roar as Michael, looking like 
an angel in shining white silk, led the band out onto the stage. As 
they appeared, each man and woman was encased in a spotlight's beam, 
transforming them from people to tall, white church tapers. He raised a 
hand as the others took their places, and brought it down across his 
guitar strings in a deafening thrummm. One, two, three beat Voe's 
drumsticks, and the music leaped to life. It filled Liz's ears, and 
caused her ribcage to hum. 

 

She hung back with Fionna, standing on the first step, eye level with 
the bottom of the stage. She had the impression of a mosaic of faintly 
gleaming dots in the middle distance. Faces. Thousands of faces. All 
these people had come to see Green Fire, to see Fionna. Every seat was 
packed. So was every square inch of floor right up to the foot of the 
stage. The tunnel behind them was an artificial lifeline to the empty 
spaces behind the scenes. She could well understand why Fionna might 
want to flee, but why she couldn't. The very force of their 
anticipation took hold of her, pulling her, making her want to go 
forward into the spotlight. She could go out there, in a pale, slinky 
blue dress, burst into song, and make them love her! Her, Elizabeth 
Mayfield! 

 

Oh, yes, of course, she corrected herself wryly. What would she sing? 
"Happy Birthday"? "God Save the Queen"? 

 

She became aware that Fee was clutching her left forearm. Lloyd loomed 
over both of them from behind her. 

 

"Stay where I can see ye, all roit?" Fee asked, in a breathy whisper. 
Just for a moment, Liz's old school friend peered out from behind the 
bright face paint. 

 

"We'll be with you the whole time," Liz assured her. She drew a circle 
over the other woman's head, dropping the net of protection over her 
and closed her hands to seal the spell. Fee nodded once, then she was 
gone. Glowing Celtic knotwork appeared in midair, the product of Tommy 
Fitzgibbon's careful tailoring, then another candle appeared on the 
stage, a green one. Fionna's key light flashed on, revealing her to the 


audience. The shouts and cheers grew louder. 

 

Borne forward on the crowd's acclaim, Fionna Kenmare sailed straight 
out to the center of the stage, where a dozen lights hit her all at 
once. She threw her head back, and with a wild scream, leaped straight 
into her song, landing between one note and another. Liz held her 
breath. She was fantastic. They were all fantastic. Rehearsal had been 
a much-diluted image of what was to come. No matter how scared Fee had 
been, she would give them a terrific show. 

 

A hand encircled her elbow, startling her out of her reverie. She 
glanced to her left. Boo-Boo stood there, a grin on his face. He 
brought his mouth very close to her ear, to be heard over the 
incredible din. 

 

"Wish we could just stand here and enjoy it," he said. 

 

Ah, yes, Liz thought, with regret. They were on guard, and their 
unknown perpetrator was still on the loose. Boo nodded forward. After 
exchanging glances with the stage manager, the two agents slipped into 
their watching post, in among the gigantic speakers. Lloyd was already 
on stage, an ominously large presence in self-effacing charcoal among 
the thick cables that snaked up a decorative pillar to a platform 
containing now-to-be-unused special effects materials. His head turned 
as the agents appeared. He regarded them for a moment, then the head 
swiveled back to continue the ongoing surveillance of the arena. 

 

Invisible to the crowd, Liz and Boo stood in reflected darkness while 
the show went on only feet away from them. The arguments and 
disagreements that occurred during rehearsal had dissipated, and were 
forgotten. No disharmony existed in the circle of the stage. No mental 
or emotional space separated the hired musicians and backup singers 
from the band itself. They were all one in an uplifting tornado of 
sound. The natural magic arising from Green Fire's fierce music was 
benevolent. They loved their fans, and their fans loved them. The stage 
was surrounded by a sea of tossing hands as the patrons in the seats on 
the arena floor got up to dance. 

 

Fionna circulated about the big stage, one hand clutching the 
microphone, the other beckoning, exhorting the audience to get into the 
spirit of song with her. Vibrated nearly off her feet by the rhythm 
pounding out of the towering speakers, Liz almost wished she'd worn 
earplugs, but then she'd have missed the way that the whole sound came 
together. The contact high of magic was heady. She drew on it, keeping 
her protective spell strong. 

 

As Fee rounded the west side, heading for the rear, her eyes were 
scanning. Liz wondered what she was worrying about. Had she spotted 
Robbie in the crowd? When they settled on Liz and Boo-Boo in the 
shadows, her shoulders relaxed visibly. Elizabeth relaxed, too. Fee 
just wanted to make sure they were keeping their promise to stay with 
her. Across the way, Lloyd shifted. Jealous again, Liz thought, though 
the man's face was the blank mask he assumed on duty. Liz felt a 
certain amount of sympathy for him. He couldn't protect her from this 
kind of danger, and he hated that. 

 

Michael stepped forward, coming up beside Fionna. The two of them 


circled, challenging one another line by line with the melody. Liz 
watched his fingers fly with fascination, then gave herself a mental 
slap on the wrist. She was not to fall into a trance, no matter how 
wonderful it was to have the Guitarchangel playing only steps away. Her 
job was to protect Fionna. 

 

Which was not too difficult at present. Robbie had not turned up again, 
according to Hugh Banks, the floor director, who was hovering around 
behind the scenes, whispering orders into his headset. Liz was 
concerned with the steady buildup of magical energy in the hall, but 
perhaps the threat would not be realized, since the antagonist who 
might have misdirected it was gone. 

 

She had been trying all this time to work out the ramifications of a 
magical onslaught against someone like Fionna Kenmare. What purpose 
could it possibly serve? She was famous, but there were hundreds of 
music stars with household name recognition. It had to be because of 
the magic. She was associated with it. No one would blink an eye if 
tomorrow he or she read a headline that said there had been a magical 
blowout at a Green Fire concert. But what was the international 
connection? No foreign presence had been remarked upon at the site of 
the previous attack in Dublin. Only an insider could have recognized 
the undercover agent for what he was. 

 

The biggest puzzle was why Robbie? -- and, more to the point, how? How 
had she channeled her natural though untrained knack for magic into a 
formidable, focused weapon without it showing up on the radar of either 
Boo-Boo's department or Liz's own? The incantations involved must be 
new, powerful and far-reaching, the product of some heavy-duty 
research. That made Liz nervous. The department had a watchlist of 
hundreds of fringe groups that called themselves Satanists or black 
magicians. It would be horrifying to find one that had actually found a 
means to attain massive quantities of power. She sighed. She didn't 
relish bringing up such a suggestion in her next report to Mr. 
Ringwall. He was having enough difficulty accepting the notion that 
magic or other inexplicable causes were actually to blame. Her reports 
were probably the talk of Whitehall right now. 

 

Colored spots and lasers arced over and around the stage, creating 
patterns of light and shadow through which Fee and Michael moved as 
though they were the Fair Folk dancing in the woods. The lighting 
effects that had been arranged to take the place of the pyrotechnics 
looked amazingly good considering Liz knew they had been put together 
in haste. Michael slipped past them, his long black hair plastered to 
his head. Time for his first costume change. Fionna, accompanied by the 
traditional Irish instruments and the backup guitarists, was giving the 
audience a ballad of frustrated love. Her voice soared to the dome. 

 

Liz touched Boo-Boo on the arm. When she caught his eye, she tilted her 
head toward backstage. He nodded. She wanted to check around. He 
crossed his arms, and continued a dispassionate scanning of the stage 
and the audience. 

 

Liz moved into the dark space. The stagehands were busy with a piece of 
the set, a tiered dais that went in the middle of the stage for one of 
the numbers. Hugh Banks was still there, shouting into his headset 
mike, but now he was red-faced with frustration. Something was not 


going well. 

 

Michael shot back through the tunnel, now clad in black leather pants 
and gleaming black silk shirt, hair flowing and dry again. He clapped 
Liz on the shoulder with an encouraging pat. The roadie nearest the 
entrance handed back his guitar. Michael stepped onto the stage. His 
key light hit him within a few paces, but it was late. Liz winced, 
knowing how picky the guitarist was about timing. 

 

As soon as he appeared, Fionna backed away from center stage, ready to 
change into her white silk dress. Her light didn't turn off quickly 
enough. Fee gave a snort of frustration as she came off stage into the 
capable hands of Fitz and Laura. 

 

"They love you, me darling," Laura shouted at her. "It's going 
marvelously." Liz followed them downstairs to the dressing room, where 
the costume change was accomplished within moments. Fee stood and 
stared at nothing while they ripped the green silk off and zipped her 
into the peach-nude sheath. She gulped a tepid mineral water and strode 
upstairs, fringes flashing in every direction. Her retinue followed in 
silence, not wanting to break her concentration. 

 

The crowd roared with delight as Fee reappeared, all in white under the 
lights. She twirled, letting them see the new dress. Did Liz imagine 
the tiny stumble? That uneasiness Liz had sensed while observing the 
stage manager continued to build, small mistake piling upon small 
problem. Liz felt rather than heard when Voe slipped a beat, throwing 
everyone else off just slightly. Eddie's fingers fumbled a note, 
flattening a chord. The audience didn't seem to care. The rapport had 
been established. The magical give-and-take between them and the 
performers that Liz so loved was beginning. Energy was building like 
the Pyramids. 

 

"Ready to cue the cascade of rainbow light," Banks said to his headset. 
"This replaces the Roman candles over the conclusion of this number. 
Yes, maybe. We'll go to a short instrumental break after this, give Fee 
a chance to breathe. Somebody make sure she has something to drink on 
hand when she comes off. God knows she'll need it. She must be sweating 
buckets. Ready? And . . . cue!" 

 

* * * 

 

In the bar, Robbie was getting nicely suggestible. 

 

"Why, if Fee wasn't in the picture," Ken said, "you could just lift 
your little finger, and Lloyd would come running right to you." 
Involuntarily, Robbie's little finger raised itself off the surface of 
the bar. "Yeah, you could give him a little wink, and the guy would be 
on his knees." Wink. Ken grinned. He could go on like this all night. 

 

That magical electricity Robbie was generating had aroused Ken's hopes. 
If his supposition was correct, his idea could fulfill the conditions 
of his assignment and save his butt. 

 

"Hey," he said casually. "It's seven-thirty. Time for the concert to 
begin. Boy, if we were back in the Superdome, the first number would be 
beginning right now. Michael likes everything to start right on the 


dot." 

 

Robbie seemed to understand some kind of response was called for, and 
stirred herself out of her drug-and-alcohol-induced haze to make it. 
"He's very prompt." 

 

"That's right," Ken said. "You'd be heating up your stuff right now, 
wouldn't you?" 

 

"It's already ready," Robbie said, and giggled at the rhyme. "Already 
ready. To go. Everything. Lasers. Lights. Rockets." 

 

"Lots of rockets," Ken agreed, keeping his voice low and smooth, like a 
snake creeping up on an innocent prey. "I know you've got all your cues 
on computer, but you don't really need the list, do you?" 

 

"I" -- hic! -- "memorize everything," Robbie said, unsteadily. 
"Otherwise, I couldn't take my eyes off the screen. Got to do my job. 
My job!" Tears started leaking from her eyes. "All gone." 

 

"No, baby, no," Ken said lightly, mentally crossing his fingers. 
"You've still got your job. You've got to do the special effects for 
the concert. Everybody's counting on you. Look out the window. Down 
below, there are eighty thousand people in the dark waiting for the 
show to start. Are you ready? Cue the first effect. Wait for Gary to 
tell you to go on three, two . . ." 

 

"No," Robbie interrupted him, growing agitated. "Nigel fired me. He 
doesn't want me to do it." 

 

"Sure he does, baby." 

 

"No! He threw me out. Hates me. Hates me!" She was crying, digging at 
her eyes with the side of her fist like a little girl. Her nose turned 
red. 

 

Ken was keenly aware that the bartender was keeping an eye on them. She 
had noticed Robbie's distress and was starting to walk toward them with 
intent. Gulping at the thought of the baseball bat under the bar, he 
pulled a handful of money out of his pocket and slapped it on the bar. 
Very gently, he helped Robbie to stand up. 

 

"Let's go for a walk," he suggested. He put his arm around Robbie and 
helped her off the bar stool. Casually, he strolled with her out into 
the neon-glazed night, with one final glance over his shoulder to make 
sure the bartender wasn't picking up the phone to call the police. 

 

"Okay," Ken said, steering her out onto Toulouse. "I know a good place 
to go." 

 

"Okay," said Robbie, biddably, her sorrows forgotten. The drugs were 
taking effect at last. Ken held out his free arm and gestured toward 
the sky. 

 

"Now, the lights are coming up. Michael's already out on the stage with 
the band. You're sitting behind your console. Your hand moves toward 
the control board. . . ." 


 

* * * 

 

Upstairs, in the empty press room beside the control room, a finger of 
green-tinged power crept out of the metal box containing the 
transmission lines, down the cables snaking from it to the room next 
door. Everybody in the control room was too busy to notice the tongue 
of flame dancing along the black cables. It rippled over to the special 
effects station, which hummed into life. 

 

"Tone down the mikes on Voe's drums, Sheila," Gary Lowe, seated at the 
lighting station, was saying. He slid several pots and hovered his 
finger over a button. "We want to hear Dijan's bodhran here. Bring up 
Carl's harp. Lovely. And . . . cue the cascade." 

 

The green fire blazed into life. The readout on the laptop computer 
beside the special effects station began to scroll down its long list. 

 

* * * 

 

Liz squirmed back into her place next to Boo-Boo. The American seemed 
troubled. 

 

"Do you hear that?" he asked, pointing vaguely up toward the ceiling. 
"It ain't exactly music." 

 

Liz listened intently. A chord had added itself to the topmost 
registers of the music, a disturbing harmonic that set her teeth on 
edge. Fee and Michael both heard it, glanced at each other, wondering 
what it was. Michael gestured at the techies with a flattening hand, 
ordering them to do something about it. They all shrugged. Alarmed, 
both singers glanced backward to where Liz and Boo were concealed. Boo-
Boo waved his hand, showing them there was nothing to worry about. 

 

"What is it?" 

 

"Dunno. Bad mojo on the way. Any minute now, I'm guessin'." 

 

"Then why did you tell them to go on?" 

 

Boo-Boo's blue eyes glinted at her. "It'd be worse if they stop." 

 

Hastily, Liz started chanting the protection cantrip over and over. She 
hadn't begun a moment too soon. The cascade of colored lights had just 
ended, changing Fionna's white dress to every color of the rainbow. 
Without warning, there was an explosion at the south end of the stage. 
Brilliant pillars of white and gold roared up practically under 
Fionna's nose. The Roman candles were launching! With shrill whistles, 
fingers of flame shot up halfway to the ceiling. They burst into sparks 
that showered down on the wildly yelling crowd. Tiny red embers fell 
over Fionna's head, but bounced harmlessly off the bubble provided by 
the spell. 

 

No one noticed the effect but Lloyd, who glanced toward the agents and 
gave them a surreptitious thumbs-up. He approved. 

 

Fee looked nervous for a moment, then took the reappearance of the 


pyrotechnics in her stride. She stretched out an arm toward the fire as 
though she was invoking power from it. As the rockets launched, she 
matched them scream for scream. The crowd loved it. 

 

"I thought they were doing this without effects," Liz said, watching 
the rockets zip around the huge arena. Mentally, she ticked off the 
sequence of events as they each appeared on schedule: rockets, lasers, 
smoke, more lasers, light show. It was as though Robbie had never left. 

 

"Maybe the guys found another special effects technician here in town," 
Laura Manning speculated, huddling in behind them to watch Fionna 
dance. "After all, she left her cue sheet program and all the 
equipment. Good thing, too. Gary Lowe's had just one headache after 
another. It's bad enough that the lighting director took off, too." 

 

"What?" the agents asked in unison, turning toward her. 

 

The makeup artist looked from one surprised face to the other. 

 

"Nigel didn't tell you? Yeah, right after he canned Robbie Unterburger, 
Kenny Lewis disappeared. Went out to make a phone call, Sheila said, 
and has never been seen again. I thought he had feelings for Robbie, 
but she couldn't see he was alive with the eye magnet over there," 
Laura nodded in Lloyd's direction. "Poor Gary's running the lights 
himself." 

 

Boo and Liz exchanged glances. 

 

"I thought that young lady wasn't doin' all this on her own," Boo said, 
his mouth set in a grim line. "It just seemed out of character. Now, 
him I could believe." 

 

"We'd better check upstairs and make sure," Liz said. 

 

Hugh Banks thought it was an odd question, but he grabbed his headset 
mike and inquired. His face was troubled when he looked up. "You're 
right. No one's at Robbie's desk. The whole thing is working by itself. 
Is it a ghost in the machine?" 

 

"Could she have mechanized it to work off the cues?" Liz asked. "She 
had everything listed on a laptop computer." 

 

"Possibly, but why didn't she tell us she was doing that?" Banks asked. 
He turned to the manager, who looked shocked. 

 

"Can they turn it off?" Boo asked. Banks muttered to his microphone 
again. His usually ruddy face turned pale. 

 

"No." 

 

"It's going by remote control," Liz said, feeling icy fingers gripping 
her stomach. "She's making it all happen by remote control." 

 

"But nothing bad has happened yet," Nigel Peters said, hopefully. 

 

"I wouldn't take no bets on it stayin' that way," Boo-Boo said. Liz 
agreed with him. "Can't do anythin' now but stay on guard, and hope we 


can handle what he throws at us." 

 

Nigel tore at his thin hair. "This is all my fault. I should have kept 
the silly girl where she was." 

 

"Should we stop the show?" Banks asked. Boo-Boo shook his head. 

 

"Just do your job, and let Ms. Fionna do hers." 

 

The star was responding magnificently to having the fireworks and 
lasers running, however unexpectedly. Privately, Liz thought she must 
be vastly relieved. No need to show her bare face, so to speak. 

 

The exciting rock number was ending. After a halt of a few beats, the 
tempo changed to the challenging rhythm of Green Fire's diatribe 
against hostile occupation of one country by another. The plaintive 
wail of the uilleann pipe began to snake in and out of the melody. 

 

The music itself began to sound sinister to Liz. During rehearsal she 
had put it off to the subject matter of the song. It was a violent 
protest against partisan hatred, a touchy subject to one of her 
nationality, yet there was more to it than the theme itself. Something 
was wrong in the fundamental sound of it. A destructive force seemed to 
be taking hold within the Superdome, but how was it happening? The girl 
was not there, had never entered the building at all. Every security 
guard there had her picture and was on the lookout. Ken Lewis hadn't 
been seen either. Neither one was on site, yet it was undeniable that 
the feeling of the concert had changed. No matter how benevolent the 
meaning of the lyrics, it was being perverted somehow into bad magic. 
The figure of a rampant lion etched in green lasers leaped up out of 
the steam and roared at the crowd. 

 

"Cor! Effects are getting better all the time!" Laura Manning said, 
wonderingly. "I didn't know they could do anything like that." 

 

"They're not," Liz said. Cupping her hands around an imaginary bubble 
of air, she strengthened the ring of protective energy around Fionna. 
Who was at that moment launching herself forward, toward the front of 
the stage, step by step, following the lyrics of the song. Liz felt as 
though she wanted to race out there and pull her back. 

 

It was too late. One more lunging step, and Fee kept moving, right off 
the end of the stage. Instead of falling into the crowd, she was 
hoisted up into the air by invisible hands. Her singing turned into 
more of a scream than usual. The dangling white fringes of her dress 
went into frenzied shimmying as Fee kicked at the air. Rockets began to 
blast off again, practically going up her skirts. 

 

The question of how Roberta Unterburger was doing this, with or without 
Ken Lewis, would have to wait. Other things, like saving Fionna and the 
band, were more important. The singer was floating higher and higher, 
until Liz feared she would crash into the Jumbotron. Four gigantic 
images of her frantic face were being projected on the screens, thanks 
to the roving cameras in the crowd. 

 

Liz sent an alarmed glance toward Boo-Boo. She couldn't stop the 
protection charm. He nodded and stepped forward with his arms 


outstretched. 

 

"Spirits of the air, release. Let your hold on this one cease," he 
recited. He tossed out a pinch of the feathers he always carried in his 
pockets. They were caught up in the maelstrom that engulfed the singer 
and whisked out of sight in a twinkling. "To earth softly let her feet 
return . . ." 

 

"Oh, my God, she'll crash and burn!" Laura Manning cried, wringing her 
hands. 

 

"Do y'all mind?" Boo-Boo asked mildly, with a look of reproof at the 
makeup artist. "I'm chantin' here . . . and let her then in peace 
sojourn!" Boo-Boo threw a handful of energy up towards Fionna. Sparks 
engulfed the woman in white and settled around her waist like a 
celestial belt. The crowd oohed, thinking it was part of the special 
effects. 

 

"Technically this here spell doesn't work, y'know," Boo said to Liz, 
hauling an invisible cable down hand over hand. Fionna dropped toward 
him with a shrill cry that echoed out of every speaker in the hall. Boo 
resumed pulling, but more gently. "But in point of fact it does, in the 
hands of real magical folks like ourselves. It's about as close to 
telekinesis as departmental regulations go. I'll show you how if you 
like." 

 

"I'd enjoy that," Liz said, watching with admiration. "Can I help?" 

 

"Just hang on in there protectin'," he said. 

 

Liz redoubled her chants. When Fionna looked about frantically for 
them, Liz caught her eye and mouthed, "Keep singing!" Fionna responded 
like a champion, putting everything she had into her lyrics. Liz felt a 
rush of affection for her old school chum. She was showing the stuff 
St. Hilda's girls were made of. 

 

The pipes hissed, producing a huge cloud of steam. A dragon etched in 
laser fire stretched up from it and spread gigantic wings that extended 
beyond the wisps of steam. Uh-oh, thought Liz. The energy here was 
beginning to take on a life of its own. 

 

The line-drawing dragon nipped at Fionna's heels. Descending toward the 
floor through Beauray's efforts, she was being drawn right into its 
jaws, bubble and all. It shot out a line drawing of red fire that 
licked around her legs, causing the fringe on her dress to singe. She 
kicked at the dragon. Her foot disrupted some of the lines, kicking up 
sparks. The dragon roared an angry protest. It leaped up, reared back 
its head, and closed its jaws around her. The protective shell cast by 
Liz reacted to the attack, blazing up like a light bulb. The dragon 
burst noisily into a thousand flecks of fire. Tiny flames hissed down 
onto the stage. The audience, thinking it was all part of the show, 
screamed with delight. Liz sighed, relieved. Her spell had held. Fionna 
was safe. Soon, this would be all over, and the concert could proceed 
uninterrupted. 

 

Fionna kept singing gamely while Beauray continued to haul her down 
from the air. When she was only a few feet from the floor, there came 


an audible snap! Fee squawked as the invisible cord broke. She shot up, 
stopping herself from banging into the Jumbotron with her outstretched 
hands. 

 

"For pity's sake," she shouted, shoving herself away from the multiple 
grimacing images of herself and the band. "Get me down from here! I'm 
not a bleedin' kite!" 

 

"Well, I'll be," said Boo, shaking his head. "It's not strong enough. 
Whatever that Robbie is pumpin', it is some powerful mojo." 

 

"Do somethin', you sufferin' fools!" Fionna shouted, her accent 
thickening. "I can't do me dance steps up here!" 

 

The band stopped playing to stare at their lead singer hovering over 
their heads. When the music died away, the crowd let out cries of 
protest. In the upper stands a few people started to chant. 

 

"No! No! No! No!" 

 

"Oh, no, we can't have that," Liz said in alarm. "They'll start a 
riot." She leaned out of the shelter of the speakers, heedless of 
whether the audience could see her. "Start playing!" she ordered the 
band. Voe and Eddie looked at each other uncertainly, but Michael 
strode forward into the center of the round stage, and struck a 
forceful chord on his guitar. 

 

Bless him, Liz thought. 

 

Automatically, the other musicians followed suit and began to play. 
Fionna, still hovering above them, started singing again. As the 
positive side of the energy began to reassert itself, Fionna dropped 
slightly, lowering to within twenty feet of the stage. The audience, or 
most of it, cheered. 

 

Not all the protesters stopped complaining. In the area around the 
apron of the stage, some of the fans began to fight. A skinny man in a 
T-shirt yelled as he was hoisted up and tossed onto a crowd of 
bystanders. They threw him off and went to beat up the people who had 
flung him at them. Up in the stands, more fights were breaking out. 

 

Fed by the anger building in the arena, monsters leaped forth from the 
steam pipes. Each new creation was larger and more fearsome-looking 
than before. Each pulled angrily at its roots, achieving a little more 
distance from the curtain of vapor. It looked like soon they would be 
able to sustain their reality without touching it. The crowd's own 
energy was making the threat worse. These new creatures were drawn in 
multiple colors, disgusting hues of sickly green, blood red, decay 
brown. Fans near the stage retreated, shrieking, as the beasts struck 
out at them. The creatures were still insubstantial, but that could 
change any moment. 

 

"What's going on?" Lloyd demanded, appearing at their shoulder. "Make 
it stop! Get her down from there!" 

 

"We are trying to," Liz said. "Robbie is employing an astonishing 
amount of psychic energy." 


 

"What? I thought she couldn't do anything if she wasn't here." 

 

"Somehow they're using a kind of remote control," Boo-Boo said, 
regarding the security man with reproachful eyes. 

 

"Man!" Lloyd said, crushing his huge hands together. "If I'd known that 
foolish little bird was capable of causing trouble like this . . . !" 

 

"She's not to blame, Lloyd." Liz took a chance using his first name, 
since he'd never given them permission. "She's being used. Ken Lewis is 
behind this." 

 

That put an entirely different complexion on the situation. Lloyd's 
face darkened with angry blood. 

 

"I'd strangle that bloke if I had him here. Have you called the cops?" 

 

"And tell them what?" Liz asked, reasonably. 

 

"Dammit," Lloyd raged. "Do something! Fee's afraid of heights!" 

 

He stormed off to his post and began to talk into his cell phone. Liz 
understood his frustration. She felt it herself. 

 

"Try something else to get Fionna down," she asked Boo. "In the 
meantime, I'll try to put a lid on this outburst." 

 

Everyone was getting too excited. The protection spell would have to 
look after itself for the moment. 

 

Calm, she thought, opening her arms wide and leaning back with her eyes 
closed. Summoning the first lessons she'd learned in the use of power, 
she called upon the element of Earth to spread out among the crowd. 
Calm. Serenity. Pleasure. She felt herself floating above all the 
people, settling down like a hen on the world's largest nestful of 
eggs. Everyone must calm down. This kind of outburst was unseemly even 
for a rock concert. Everyone had to get hold of their emotions and calm 
down. We are not barbarians here. We are adults at a public 
entertainment. 

 

It was no easy thing soothing 80,000 people. She tapped all the way 
down into the bottom of her reservoir of magic to touch the outermost 
rows of the audience. It was a technique she'd learned from her old 
grandmother, to scotch negativism at its source by appealing to the 
need for order within, something within each human being. She urged her 
mood of calm on the thousands of people, chivvying them to release 
their harmful emotions in a positive way. For just a moment, 
everybody's shoulders heaved up, then relaxed as they let out a huge, 
collective sigh. 

 

As if to field-test her enchantment, a new laser-born monster, more 
horrible than before, with glowing red eyes and huge tusks rose up out 
of the steam pipes, its claws reaching for fans in the first sixteen 
rows. Liz was rewarded when, instead of screaming in fear, the audience 
erupted with glee at the exquisite complexity of the special effects, 
applauded appreciatively, then settled down into a quieter enjoyment of 


the music. 

 

"Good God," said Boo-Boo. "Some of 'em are even foldin' their hands." 

 

"I had some good training," Liz said, with satisfaction, "as a room 
monitor at a girl's school." 

 

"That's mighty impressive," Boo admitted. "But they're tied to your 
emotional state now. If you get frightened or excited, sure enough, the 
crowd will do the same. We'd have a bloodbath." 

 

Liz shook her head. "I am capable of retaining my cool," she said. "I 
am an Englishwoman." 

 

She viewed the scene with deliberate detachment. The visions in the 
laser works had ceased to be bloodthirsty monsters with scales and huge 
fangs. Instead, green-edged horses, rabbits and other natural animals 
sprang about on the misty gray wall, as though the programmer had 
tapped into a benevolent nature show. Dragons appeared, too, but they 
were friendly dragons, with softer muzzles and not so many spines on 
their tails. The crowd reacted with polite applause and shouts of 
"Hurray!" 

 

"Ain't that a little bit of overkill?" Boo-Boo asked, beginning to 
ready his next incantation. 

 

Liz shook her head. "I've only grabbed hold of the edge of this blanket 
of energy. It could still explode into . . ." 

 

"Explode" was the operative word for what came next. From the 
frameworks on either side of the stage that held the Roman candles, 
huge cylinders launched toward the ceiling. Popping in time with the 
music, they burst overhead into stars of color that filled the whole 
room. The crowd burst out in cheers of delight. Clouds of gold spangles 
expanded under the light plastic ceiling like dandelions opening on 
time-lapse photography. Fionna dodged this way and that, trying to 
avoid the onslaught. Liz stopped meditating on peace to renew her 
protection spell around her old school friend. The sparks might scare 
her now, but they couldn't hurt her. 

 

"I don't remember seeing this kind of sophisticated fireworks on 
Robbie's list," she said, puzzled. "It looks like Guy Fawkes Day up 
there." 

 

"Y'mean like the Fourth of July," Boo-Boo corrected her. "You're in the 
U.S. of A. right now, ma'am." 

 

"Don't argue," Liz gritted through clenched teeth. The crowd was loving 
what they saw as unique special effects, but they were getting more 
excited the longer the display went on. Fights were breaking out again, 
and she heard some angry shouts. "The power is growing. Help me dampen 
it down." 

 

Her American counterpart was already chanting. A feedback loop of some 
kind was at work here in the arena, transforming the positive energy 
flowing out from the fans into negative power. That influence had to be 
coming into the building from somewhere or someone. She wished she 


could pull away to search for the source, but that was impossible. 
Until the concert ended, she had to maintain her post and keep the 
audience in order. If she left now, noisy chaos would follow within 
moments. It wouldn't matter if she found what she was looking for, 
apprehended the perpetrators, and managed to solve the mystery that had 
led across two continents and at least three countries. She'd be too 
busy explaining to HQ why she allowed a riot to begin when she could 
have stopped it. 

 

Calm, she instructed herself. Mustn't let maybes and coulds interfere 
with the here and now. Most of the audience was responding well to her 
determined serenity. 

 

But such high-minded platitudes didn't help when the level of power was 
rising higher all the time. Liz threw her entire soul into keeping the 
peace. The laser pictures displayed a placid beauty now. Landscapes. 
Waterfalls. Eagles soaring above the clouds. A dove with a budding 
branch in its beak. Perhaps, Liz was forced to admit, not a perfect fit 
with the wild, acid-rock song Fionna and the others were performing. 
She heard some unhappy voices not far away to her left, criticizing the 
mix. Liz worried that someone might begin to panic and set the whole 
thing off all over again. Her shoulders sagged. She was getting very 
tired. 

 

Beauray moved behind her and put his hands over the hollows just 
underneath her collarbone. Before she could ask what he was doing, she 
felt a rush of energy flow through her. He was very good at 
multitasking, being able to continue his own spell-working and at the 
same time feeding her more Earth power. Liz perked up as she felt her 
psychic batteries recharging. And only just in time. More fireworks 
filled the air, exploding in multiple colors. The next boom! shook the 
building. She sent out a burst that pacified the pockets of unrest 
beginning to break out in the east quadrant. The audience let out a 
collective "Ahh" of pleasure. 

 

Nigel wailed behind them. "But we don't have any chrysanthemum 
skyrockets! The fire marshall wouldn't approve them! Or those spinning 
Catherine wheels! Where are they coming from?" 

 

It was just bad luck that Michael was passing close enough to the rear 
speakers for Nigel's frantic voice to be picked up on his guitar mike 
and carried throughout the auditorium speakers. The band paused for 
half a beat, not knowing what to do. The audience heard and felt the 
hesitation, and shuffled uncomfortably. The rowdy ones picked up on the 
uncertainty, threatening to start rioting again. Liz felt control slip. 
She dug deep into the new power reserves, refreshing the protection 
spell around Fionna and keeping the peace. 

 

On stage, Michael gave the musicians a stern look. They were to carry 
on and pretend nothing was wrong. Even though their lead singer was 
hanging in midair kicking like a hooked salmon. Even though they were 
surrounded by rockets as though they were on a battlefield under 
attack. The Guitarchangel whipped the band into a musical frenzy, using 
gestures and shouts. He strode around the stage, urging the audience to 
clap along with the beat. 

 

As he passed Liz his next circuit around, he hissed, "Do something!" 


 

"We're trying!" she growled back, frustrated, not wanting to interrupt 
her multiple chants for long. 

 

Boo's cell phone rang, somewhere deep in his pockets. Liz shot him an 
exasperated look. 

 

"You'd better answer it," she shouted. Boo scrabbled for the little 
box. He popped it open. 

 

"This is Tiger," the tinny voice in his ear said. "I think I've seen 
your lady, man. She walked by with some guy a little while ago. I 
couldn't get to the phone until now." 

 

"Which way they goin'?" 

 

"Toward Decatur." 

 

Boo reached into Liz's shoulder bag and felt for the little cell phone. 
He turned it on and tucked it into her neck. 

 

"I know where she's gone," he shouted. "Keep things together here." 

 

Leaving Liz chanting, Boo-Boo trotted out of the Superdome arena, out 
the back door onto Giraud Street. 

 

A taxi swung into the curb at his wave. Boo-Boo clambered into the back 
seat. The young black man behind the wheel twisted around to exchange 
hand slaps with him. 

 

"Hey, Boo-Boo, where y'at? Where you want to go?" 

 

"The Quarter," Boo-Boo said, settling back against the seat. "Run the 
lights. I'll make it right later." 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 17 

 

Ken Lewis held Robbie cuddled against his chest on the grass in the 
shelter of the gazebo overlooking the riverfront, hoping passersby 
would take them for a pair of overamorous lovers in the dark enjoying 
the fireworks display along with the thousands of other people hanging 
out along the Moon Walk. At least, he was enjoying it. He doubted 
whether Robbie was truly aware of them in any intellectual way. She'd 
had quite of few hits of LSD and one or two of Rohypnol. The "date 
rape" drug made her easier to manage. She reacted to exterior stimuli, 
including his voice, without conscious will power. It was too bad he'd 
had to drug her so heavily, but he couldn't let that strong moral 
backbone of hers interfere with his last chance to make his plan work. 
No matter how he played up the provocation she had been suffering, she 
didn't really want to hurt anyone, not even Fionna. Who ever heard of 
somebody with the perfect opportunity to take revenge on a hated rival 
without consequences who didn't take it? 

 


On the way to the park he had picked up a bottle of tequila and a 
couple of glasses, and he had more acid in his pocket, all the better 
to make sure she didn't regain control of her faculties before the show 
was over. He splashed some of the booze into her glass and held it up 
to her lips. 

 

"Had too much," she said, her voice slurred. Tequila dribbled out of 
the corners of her mouth. 

 

"No, you haven't," Ken said, wiping up the spill with the cuff of his 
shirt. "The night's just beginning." 

 

"Oh, all right," Robbie said. She swallowed and made a face as the 
liquor burned its way down to her stomach. "Oooh." 

 

"Now, concentrate," Ken said. He squeezed Robbie's face between thumb 
and forefinger and held her head up, making her look at the pulsing 
waves of white-hot light shooting up into the night. "Follow the 
sequence exactly. Can't you hear the director? He wants the flames to 
rise higher. Higher. Higher! Yes!" 

 

Robbie's chin sagged slackly against his palm, but her muddy-colored 
eyes were fixed on the starbursts filling the air over the river. 

 

"Like that?" 

 

"Wonderful, baby. You're the best. Keep it up. More. Yes, more!" 

 

He caught the indulgent smile of an older couple sitting close by on 
the grass. So what if they thought he was talking about sex. This was 
better than sex. This was better than anything. 

 

Ken kept up the description of what he wanted to go on in the arena. 
Robbie acted as if she could see what he was talking about, responding 
to cues as he gave them. It was like leading her in a guided meditation 
minute by minute through the concert, except with added explosions and 
starbursts and a special surprise ending. Inside her head, the stage 
was laid out before her. Her slide pots and push buttons were 
underneath her hands. When she operated her controls, the special 
effects came to life in her mind. Yes, if he could keep her going like 
that, he could bring her to cause a disaster when the audience was the 
most worked-up and the power was at its highest level. 

 

He'd forgotten about the fireworks display. Pure serendipity. To Ken, 
it was just Satan's way of telling him he was in the right place at the 
right time. 

 

He found it hard to believe that he could be working magic without any 
physical contact. He felt naked without the familiar technology 
surrounding him. But doing sorcery by remote control was definitely the 
way of the future. The satellite feed from SATN-TV had helped to prime 
the pump, and now the pump was running full strength. By the time he 
lowered the boom on the concert center, he'd be able to send Mr. 
Kingston a bolus of magical energy not just threefold, but three 
thousandfold. It ought to blow the roof right off SATN. Ken watched the 
fireworks, feeling smug. He ought to hit Kingston up for a bonus on top 
of his fee. It would have been worth it just for locating Robbie in the 


first place. 

 

What a conduit she was. He could feel the edge of the power as it 
poured through her body. She almost crackled with it, but at the same 
time was totally unaware of it. She didn't know any more than the paper 
a message was written on knew its contents. Roberta Unterburger, 
special effects engineer, was a special effect in herself. The perfect 
dupe. He and she had sat there in the midst of Green Fire's company for 
months waiting, while Ken had plotted and planned for just exactly this 
moment. No one had suspected a thing. Now it didn't matter if they knew 
the whole story. Nothing they could do would stop the destruction of 
Fionna Kenmare, and everyone in the Superdome with her. There'd be 
headlines all over the world tomorrow morning, but only three people 
would ever know who was responsible: him, Mr. Kingston, and Mr. Mooney. 

 

Ken could even monitor the havoc he was causing. It was a shame he 
couldn't watch, but now and again he could hear through the earphone on 
his headset. The audio only seemed to arise in momentary bursts, maybe 
coinciding with bursts from Robbie exerting her psychic gift and 
causing something to happen, but Ken felt as if he was sitting at his 
console in the control room in the Superdome, listening to the chatter. 
The disconnected cord hung down on his chest, but thanks to Robbie's 
gift, through the Law of Contagion the headset was still a part of what 
it had touched. As much as he was having fun giving Robbie ideas, he 
really enjoyed those little glimpses into the pandemonium at the 
concert. The crew was going nuts. In the background he could hear the 
roar of the crowd. They sounded scared. No one understood what was 
happening, not even those nosy secret agents. The effect was better 
than he could have hoped. 

 

"Okay, you see those red fireballs?" he asked, lying back on the grass 
and pointing to the sky. Robbie nodded obediently. "Let's make 'em 
chase the band around. Give 'em a little hotfoot. It won't hurt 'em," 
he assured her as she started to writhe uncomfortably. "You have my 
solemn word on it." She relaxed. 

 

"Okay," Robbie said. "If you're sure." 

 

Ken grinned wickedly above her head, out of her line of sight. He 
enjoyed feeding her suggestions. "I'm sure, baby. Go for it." 

 

He heard a blaze of static in the earpiece. It cleared to reveal the 
businesslike mutter of the technical director's voice giving 
instructions to the crew. Then -- 

 

"What the hell . . . ?" Lowe demanded. The connection cut off. Too bad, 
Ken grinned. They were making headlines. He'd have to read all about it 
in the morning. 

 

Robbie started to sag backward against his chest. 

 

"Oh, no, baby, we're not done yet." He helped her sit up. She swayed to 
the music in her head while he poured her another drink which he laced 
with another dose of acid. 

 

"Don' wanna . . ." she said, as he held the cup to her lips. 

 


"Come on, baby, you're doing really well. Everyone loves you." 

 

"Not Lloyd." Robbie's face contorted. Tears filled her eyes. 

 

"Yeah," Ken said. "Him, too! He loves the way you're making this all 
work. Come on. Make a big purple monster just for Lloyd. When he sees 
what you can do, he'll forget all about Fionna." 

 

"Forget . . . her," Robbie said. She squeezed her eyes closed, 
concentrating. Her hands played up and down on her invisible controls. 

 

"Is it a really big, purple monster?" he asked encouragingly. "With 
lots of teeth and scales and long, ba-aad claws?" 

 

"Yes," Robbie said. 

 

He leaned back on the grass and whistled. "Baby, you are the best." 

 

* * * 

 

The taxi dropped Beauray at the end of Toulouse where the railroad 
tracks crossed it. As the car bumped the last hundred feet and came to 
a halt, Boo-Boo worried that Lewis had poor Robbie hidden away 
someplace he'd never find her. Once the skyrockets had started to go 
off inside the Superdome he hadn't really needed the phone call from 
Tiger to tell them where Lewis and Robbie had gone. He remembered about 
the fireworks festival that was being sponsored by WBOY. 

 

His greatest concern was that they might not be on the Moon Walk 
itself. The riverfront was lined with old warehouses that had plenty of 
windows open to the northeast from which she could see the fireworks 
but not be easily seen by anyone else, like him. He didn't have much 
time. Night had already fallen, and the embankment park was hundreds of 
yards long. If he didn't spot his quarry pretty quickly he would have 
to ask the local police to help him search the surrounding buildings. 
Fortunately, most of the police were friends of his; he wouldn't have 
to make the request official. 

 

Whistling and a loud boom! heralded the eruption of a gigantic globe of 
colored sparks that pattered lightly down into the Mississippi to the 
accompaniment of cheers from the thousands of bystanders crowded on the 
brick-and-concrete walk to watch. Boo-Boo pulled out his little phone 
and hit the speed dial. 

 

"Liz? Did y'all just get a purple chrysanthemum in there?" 

 

"Yes, Beauray, we did," the British woman replied very slowly and 
deliberately. She sounded like she'd downed a whole economy-sized 
bottle of Valium. That was real professionalism for you. Underneath it 
all she must have been twitching like a freshly caught fish. The sounds 
of the concert behind her almost overwhelmed her voice. "Where are 
you?" 

 

"Down by the Moon Walk." 

 

"The Moon . . . of course! The exhibition we heard announced at the 
radio station." The gal had a great memory. Too bad she had that ol' 


stuffy accent that made her so hard to understand. "Have you found our 
subject?" 

 

"There's probably about as many people here as there are where you 
are," Boo said, scanning the area around him, "and most of them are 
standin' up." A family of obvious tourists pushed between him and a 
stainless steel sculpture, being careful not to touch him. "It's also 
pretty dark. The street lamps distort things a little. This is goin' to 
be a challenge. I'll try a findin', but I don't know how it'll do. I'd 
better not run down the phone battery. I'll get back to you when I find 
'em." 

 

"You do just that," Liz said, calmly, as though she was asking him to 
tea with the Queen. The connection ended. He switched off the telephone 
and stuffed it back into his pocket. 

 

The finding spell he liked to use best took a good pinch of lodestone 
powder. Boo-Boo felt around in his coat for the various packets and 
bundles of cloth he kept handy. He had a bad feeling that he might be 
short on lodestone. The call from Washington hadn't left him much time 
to stock up before he had to meet the jet. His fingers explored the 
threadbare recesses of the inside lining of his jacket, coming up with 
little bits and pieces. Here was henbane, holy basil, a small bunch of 
chili peppers tied with red thread, and a whistle. There was that last 
bite of beignet left over from the stop he'd made at the Café du Monde 
with Liz and the group. He chewed on the stale chunk while continuing 
to sort out the contents of that deep pocket. If lodestone powder was 
anywhere, it was there. In the meanwhile, he recited the words of the 
incantation to himself. It helped if he got it right the first time. 

 

Nothing in his preparations required that he stand still. He kept 
moving, hoping to catch sight of Robbie. There was half a hope that Ken 
Lewis wasn't with her anymore, but Boo-Boo couldn't rely on that. His 
profile of the missing Ms. Unterburger still would not stretch to make 
her the mastermind that had engineered small psychic attacks on Ms. 
Kenmare, let alone sabotaging a whole concert. A pity they hadn't 
looked closer at the quiet Mr. Lewis. Now that Boo-Boo thought about 
it, there might have been an offensive cantrip going on to keep them 
from paying much attention to him. And all that time Boo thought it had 
been the man's aftershave. 

 

The park had its own soundtrack going. Jazz belted out of the 
loudspeakers clinging to trees and light poles. You could see people 
walking along sort of bouncing to the beat. That was healthy, he 
thought. It was just like he'd been telling Elizabeth Mayfield. Give in 
to the rhythm, and let it move you with it. Too many tourists came to 
New Orleans and just brought a bubble of their own homelands along with 
them. They never got to feel what the city had to offer. Of course, 
Liz's circumstances were extraordinary. It wasn't often he got to work 
with an agent from any other department, let alone a foreign national. 
Kind of nice for a change. 

 

The next fusillade of Roman candles filled the black sky with their 
lines of white fire. The noise surprised his ears a moment later, 
almost making him drop the minute bundle in his fingers. He imagined 
that if there was a correlation going between this display and the 
mayhem being visited on the Superdome, they'd have a kind of delayed 


reaction, too. A shame that the delay wasn't enough to give much notice 
to Liz what was coming before it happened. 

 

There was barely enough of the vital component left for the spell. He 
had a hair and a little fluff from the upholstery of Robbie's chair 
that he mixed in with it, all the while chanting the ancient words, 
with a few new twists that the government researchers had worked out 
over the last fifty years. Passersby saw him talking to himself and 
playing with pocket lint. The other local practitioners would 
understand, but strangers would leave him well and truly alone. That 
kind of anonymity was what the Department required of its agents, part-
time or full-time. 

 

Eighty percent of the people in the park were stationary, having staked 
out a good place to watch from. The other twenty percent strolled 
around. Kids with sparklers ran around sketching glittering arcs in the 
air. Made a pretty good disguise for the glowing witchlight of the 
finder spell once he got it going. 

 

Strangers in the thick crowd made plenty of room as he wandered past 
them. He guessed he was describing such an irregular path that they 
thought something was wrong with him. He had to look carefully into 
each of their faces. The kind of heady magic he was pursuing could 
interfere with perception. 

 

He gave them a reassuring kind of smile, but they backed off anyway. 

 

Within a few moments he located a trace. This might be easy after all. 
He followed it back to the concrete steps where the two must have 
entered the park, but from there the trail meandered around and around. 
Boo didn't like the crazy psychic vibes that he picked up as he went. 
The girl was messed up somehow. Probably had a lot too many drinks 
somewhere, making her far too suggestible. Boo-Boo winced as the sky 
filled with fireballs, picturing the same thing happening back at the 
Superdome. He followed the silver pointer wherever it went, hoping that 
his meager supply of lodestone would hold out until he located his 
quarry. 

 

This was no time to trust exclusively to magic, particularly not when 
counterspells and black magic were at work. Whenever he spotted an 
acquaintance in the crowd, he showed them the photo of Robbie. None of 
them had seen her, but they all promised to watch for her. 

 

Keeping a positive attitude also helped keep the spell strong. There 
were so many people that he had to dart his head around like a snake to 
see everyone. Plenty of fellow psychics abounded. All the local fire-
worshipers were out in force. They gained strength from a display like 
this one, and each new surge pulled his magic finder off-line towards 
one of them. He didn't dare miss the trace he was looking for. He felt 
sorry for the girl, wherever she was. She wasn't getting anything out 
of this but grief. 

 

If he had to take an educated guess, he would say that Ken Lewis would 
have to make his move by the end of the concert. He had an hour to find 
them -- no, forty minutes. 

 

It had better be enough. 


 

* * * 

 

"That's good," Ken said, shaking the sagging Robbie. "More rockets! 
Fill the sky with them! Beautiful explosions. Aren't they gorgeous? 
That's what everyone wants. Fire one!" he said, as a huge green blaze 
lit the sky. "Fire two! Fire three!" Robbie, her muddy brown eyes fixed 
on the sky, nodded. Her hands seemed to be working invisible controls. 
"Ready a barrage . . . and . . ." 

 

"What's a barrage?" she asked, muzzily. 

 

"Twenty-five rockets," he said quickly. Yeah, one for every point in a 
pentagram, squared. "Twenty-five in a row." That'd shake 'em up in the 
front rows. 

 

"What color?" 

 

"Red. Blood red." 

 

"But this is a love song," Robbie said. 

 

"Love hurts, baby." 

 

"Oh. All right." Her hands fumbled in the sky, reached for the 
imaginary laptop computer to one side and put in the instructions. She 
held her finger poised. 

 

"Now!" Ken shouted as Roman candles popped over their heads. "What are 
you doing?" 

 

"Time for the laser show," Robbie said. "Can't be late again. Fionna 
gets so mad." Tears leaked out of her eyes. 

 

"She won't get mad," Ken said, soothingly. "Give her a little spin 
around. She'll love that." 

 

"Oh," Robbie said. "All right." 

 

* * * 

 

"Aaagh!" Fionna shrieked, spinning on her axis like a top. She'd been 
interrupted in mid verse. That, after the sudden series of explosions 
that nearly sent Nigel Peters straight through the roof with hysterics, 
and the imps made of green laser light that threatened the fans nearest 
the stage. The audience adored the deafening bangs, but the crew 
backstage was worried about the possibility of fire. The roof was only 
soft plastic. The danger of deadly fumes and falling, molten globs of 
plastic began to look like more and more of a possibility. The crew for 
the Superdome's fire truck had been scrambled to the main floor by 
order of the Master Control Room operator, who also began to ask if 
they shouldn't halt the concert and evacuate the building. Hugh Banks, 
looking years older than he had at 7:30, relayed the message to Liz. 

 

"No!" Liz said, alarmed. Shouts of disapproval came from the arena 
floor as the fans picked up on her disturbed state of mind. Quickly, 
Liz took firm control of her feelings. "We can't stop now. There is a 


psychic buildup of epic proportions brewing out there. That gigantic 
hall out there is full of power. If we halt prematurely it may be set 
off. I cannot even begin to tell you what might happen. The best thing 
would be if we could force it to dissipate naturally. Give my associate 
time." 

 

Banks spoke into his headset, and nodded at her. "We're all with you. 
How can we help?" 

 

"Keep the music going, no matter what," she said. "Let the concert come 
to its natural conclusion. Maybe, just maybe the power glut will fade 
on its own. In the meanwhile Mr. Boudreau will try to stop the 
effects." 

 

The organizers weren't satisfied. Liz wasn't surprised. They were 
accustomed to being in control of every facet of an event. To have an 
outsider dictating terms to them on top of all the disasters they had 
faced before would be intolerable if they decided not to face reality. 
If she kept her head all would be right. She hoped it would be all 
right. 

 

Liz forced herself to keep a lid on the power in the arena. It was 
fighting her. What kind of spell was she fighting? It was strong. 
Malign influence was pouring into the crowd and giving feedback. Thanks 
to her grandmother and MI-5 her training was equal to the situation, 
but she simply needed more power to control than she had. A whip and a 
chair was no use against a hurricane. 

 

She grabbed at her purse. The augmentation powder that Boo-Boo had left 
for her was right in front. She tore open the first packet she touched. 
Cough drops bounded to the floor, followed by the sandy remains of a 
spell to prevent drowsiness. No problem. She wouldn't need that. And as 
for the first, if she lost her voice, she'd just whisper the words to 
the incantations until her tongue fell out. 

 

"This is a disaster!" Nigel Peters wailed behind her, tearing at his 
hair. "What can we do?" 

 

"You can help," Liz said briskly, too busy to be polite. She simply 
began to remove everything in her purse and piled it in his hands until 
she found Boo-Boo's packet. "Ah!" 

 

Government regimentation of magical and psychic phenomena might have 
seemed to be a foolish enterprise, but when they did something, they 
did it right. The instructions on the side were in very clear, legible 
print. Liz held the envelope underneath the nearest spotlight to read. 
Augmentation powder needed to be applied to the area where enhancement 
was required. It worked by the Law of Contagion. To her delight she saw 
there were instructions for group use. That ought to be the answer to 
her power problem. She stuffed everything back into her bag and set it 
on the floor. She opened the envelope and very carefully sprinkled it 
all over herself. 

 

"They're going crazy out there," Peters said. 

 

Liz opened her arms up and held them in the air. The force gathering 
around them was like a balloon pressed against her face, suffocating 


her. It was nudging against the walls, beginning to uproot the 
supports. If this didn't work, the whole building could come down on 
them. 

 

"Nigel," she said. "Calm yourself. Put your hand on my arm and just 
concentrate on being open. That's all you need to do. Can you do that?" 

 

"I don't know if I can just open up," Nigel said, backing away a pace. 
"My analyst says I have commitment problems." 

 

That tore it. 

 

"Do you want my old friend to continue to be your meal ticket?" Liz 
bellowed. Nigel, startled, halted in place and nodded. "Then, do it!" 

 

"Can I help?" Laura Manning asked. "How about the others?" 

 

"Anyone who can," Liz said, grateful for the makeup artist's take-
charge attitude. "Touch me." 

 

"Come on, you lot!" Laura shouted, waving her arm at the others. "Group 
hug!" 

 

Roadies and stagehands gathered from all over the backstage area. In 
between renewing her incantations, Liz barked orders at the others who 
crushed into the cramped space between the speakers. 

 

"If you cannot reach me, then put your hand on the shoulder of the 
person nearest you. Keep calm. Meditate if you need to. Do not panic! 
It is necessary to remain calm. If you can't do that, then please move 
away. Thank you. That is all." She started chanting again. 

 

The others bundled around, trying to find a comfortable handhold. Liz 
was tugged and pulled in so many directions she felt like the last 
cashmere sweater at a jumble sale. She tried to catch her breath to 
protest. Suddenly, Lloyd loomed over her. He bellowed at the group. 

 

"'Ere, all of you! Sort yourselves out now." The tugging and pulling 
stopped. "What do you want me to do?" he asked Liz. 

 

"Join us," she said. "I could use your strength." 

 

"Anything for Fee," he said. "I do love her, you know." 

 

Liz smiled. "I know." The big man put one arm around her from behind 
and gestured to the others. In no time, he had them arranged in a nice, 
orderly, spider-web huddle, with more people gathering in. 

 

The cluster of humanity with Liz at its core made Michael do a double-
take on his next turn around the stage, but he continued on as though 
nothing unusual was happening. Bless him, he was an angel. Even after 
getting a hotfoot from little fireballs that had filled the stage, even 
after getting chased by laser-light monsters, he still kept his head. 
He trusted her. That gave Liz a warm feeling deep inside. 

 

She was grateful to the rest of the crew as well. Even some of the ones 
who had been frightened before by the magical demonstration she and 


Boo-Boo had been forced to perform earlier had dared to join her. The 
rest were just grateful to have someone to hang onto while scary things 
were happening. She didn't mind having a friendly shoulder nearby 
herself. This was the single biggest magical exercise of her life -- 
perhaps the largest on earth at that moment. She must not fail. She 
must not. The lives of thousands -- not to mention her job -- depended 
upon it. 

 

Liz exerted herself to calm the group around her first. They were full 
of nervous excitement. If she broadcast the tension they were feeling, 
then the whole place could go up for grabs. She had a lucky moment 
while Michael performed a guitar solo at the front. While everyone 
focused on him, she drew in the blanket of peace for just one moment 
from the arena to wallop her crew into order. Their shoulders relaxed 
visibly. As soon as they were properly softened up, she opened up and 
threw her new, totally revamped and much more powerful calming charm 
over the crowd of fans. 

 

When she did, she felt evil in the air. The magical charge that built 
up during a joyful event should be benevolent, or at worst, neutral. 
There was no doubt at all now that something within reach was trying to 
change that goodness into malignity. Stay pure, she urged through the 
link, radiating out to the very edges of her web of influence. Beauty. 
Justice. Generosity. Calm. Dark influence licked at the edges of the 
mass enchantment like a black flame. She must not let it catch in the 
fabric of it. 

 

The others in her little group, even the least sensitive among them, 
seemed to feel the pull towards unity and leaned inwards, squeezing the 
breath out of Liz. The only protest she could make was a squeak. Lloyd 
heard the faint noise and shoved hard at the nearest offenders, making 
room for her. Liz gasped in lungfuls of air. 

 

She began to feel hopeless. Though she was grateful for everyone's 
help, she had little chance of stopping an onslaught of these 
proportions herself. In spite of the efforts of the band, the malign 
quality that had crept into the music earlier had taken a firm toehold. 
While not a deep-seated fan of Green Fire's music, Liz had had to admit 
that they knew about composition, structure and creating mood. Except 
for the songs meant to scold, their repertoire tended to uplift, even 
liberate, the listener. What went into the microphones was positive. 
What came out of the speakers was growing steadily more negative. Liz 
found herself fighting a battle she couldn't keep winning for long. 

 

It helped her a lot to have other people's energy to throw at the 
building wave of darkness, yet what they had to offer was limited by 
their lack of training. As Nigel had said, he had commitment problems. 
Others were blocked for just as many reasons. There just wasn't enough 
power. If she could have made contact with audience members, she might 
have been able to channel them into creating a more positive cycle. She 
was afraid to try. Such an action could backfire hugely if word of 
trouble started going around the auditorium. One whisper of black 
magic, and 80,000 terrified people would stampede for the doors. 

 

All the people gathered around were depending on her, and her alone. 
She wished that Boo-Boo was there with her. It was a frightening thing 
to be left to her own meager devices. She wanted desperately for her 


mission to succeed. She gave a short, bitter laugh. Yes, she wanted to 
save the world. Willingness must count for something. 

 

Not enough, she thought forlornly. If Boo-Boo failed to stop Robbie and 
Ken, all was lost. She sensed the bottom of the well in what the others 
had to give her, and drew hard on her stored fund of Earth power, the 
last drops of which Boo-Boo had fed her before he went away. Once again 
she felt herself tiring, almost falling back into Lloyd's strong arms 
as she surrendered even the last ergs of her own life-force to stop the 
evil from taking over. She was sorry for Fionna. It must have seemed 
like an amazing bit of good luck for her to have an old friend assigned 
to protect her. Too bad that Ringwall hadn't seen fit to send a more 
able and experienced agent to her rescue. 

 

In a moment Liz would lose her grip on the containment spell, and the 
whole maelstrom would wind itself up into the largest force of darkness 
that this city had ever seen. She started to feel dizzy as the drain 
leached away her very consciousness. In a moment she would collapse 
like a deflated balloon. 

 

Softly, a trickle of psychic energy began to creep up through the soles 
of her feet into her body. Liz felt it rise from the floor, running 
along her legs and body, straightening her spine and flowing out of her 
hands and her mouth. It couldn't be coming from Boo-Boo. He wasn't this 
powerful. Liz grew concerned as a mental probe she sent to feel for the 
bottom of the well of energy dove down for ages. There was no bottom. 
It felt gigantic. Endless. What incredibly powerful person could have 
arisen out of nowhere to help her? It couldn't be anyone in the 
company, nor a member of the audience, yet it poured from a single 
source. Who was her mysterious benefactor? 

 

Suddenly, she realized she knew its identity. Not a who, but rather a 
what. The power was issuing from New Orleans itself. It didn't like 
this intrusive darkness being pressed down upon it, like a thumb in the 
eye. It wanted to bottle up the intruder to prevent it spoiling the 
ease of the Big Easy. As much as pure power could be, this was flavored 
with spice and lilting voices -- and music. The city, and the French 
Quarter particularly, was protecting itself from outside malignity. It 
saw Liz as the means to protecting itself, and offered the wealth of 
its own influence to that end. Liz offered herself gladly as a conduit. 

 

Energy coursed through her every vein, came out of every pore. She was 
afraid that it would surge through her with the force of a fire hose 
striking a tissue paper wall and tear her fragile body into pieces, but 
it didn't want to destroy her. It wanted to carry her along, make her a 
part of it. She opened up like a camera aperture, wider and wider, 
until the whole calm, easygoing identity of that unique city was coming 
in through her feet and out through her fingertips. Let les bonnes 
temps roulez. The city itself, with the driving backbeat of the 
Mississippi River in the background like Voe's drumming, provided the 
overwhelming music Liz lifted herself on. It was as though Bourbon 
Street itself raised up and tied around the Superdome like a gigantic 
ribbon of sound. Not only the goodness of rock and roll, but the cool 
breath of jazz, the warm embrace of soul, the heart of the blues, the 
edgy ribs of zydeco and the wry glue of Irish folk music wove together 
under her hands to form a leak-tight, flexible basket. The music of 
this great place stood against the evil infecting the acid-folk rock -- 


the ultimate battle of the bands. Her enormously heightened sense 
allowed her to hear all of these pulses, the good outside holding the 
bad inside. She could contain the malignance, for now. But she couldn't 
hold it forever. Sooner or later one of these people was going to want 
to go home. 

 

Oh, Boo, do something! she pleaded mentally. 

 

* * * 

 

Boo-Boo felt as though he was feeling his way blind in the dark. Ken 
Lewis had shown a distinct talent for concealment. Boo checked with 
friends, but neither he nor they had seen a good-looking man with a 
plain girl in blue jeans. When he stopped to consider his throbbing 
feet, he must have walked up and down the length of the riverfront 
twice already. He hadn't spotted either of his subjects. The trail 
wound around too many places. He was frustrated. Liz was back there 
alone trying to calm a nuclear bomb with a cup of chamomile tea. This 
exhibition would end pretty soon, as would the concert. Once the crowd 
broke up, his chances of finding two people in the mob dropped to parts 
per billion as everybody would make for his or her favorite bar. And 
that was just to start the night off. 

 

It was beginning to look as though he would have to ask for a search of 
the waterfront warehouses. His heart sank as he counted the myriad 
windows reflecting the flying sparks of color. Robbie could be behind 
any one of them. 

 

He'd give the Moon Walk five more minutes, and then call in the forces. 
Where could he get a view with some perspective? 

 

The band shell, a modern gazebo, was raised about five feet above the 
cobblestone path. If he stood on the railings he would be able to see a 
good section of the walk. As he made his way through the crowd towards 
the structure, the magic detector started flashing as it picked up one 
mighty strong trace. Boo followed it, hoping he had found them at last. 

 

When he had taken no more than six paces, the last of the lodestone 
powder ran out. The witchlight fizzled and went dark. Boo came to a 
halt, staring at his empty hand in dismay. 

 

A little boy nearby on the grass looked up at him with sympathy in his 
large brown eyes. 

 

"Aww," he said. "Here." He offered Boo one from his box of sparklers. 

 

"Thanks, little brother," Boo-Boo said, giving the child a pat on the 
back. Might do in a pinch. He lit it and held it toward the gazebo, 
chanting the Words of Finding. 

 

The silver flame ran down the length of the wire and exploded outward 
in a single, blinding blast. Pay dirt! He ran toward the gazebo, 
shoving past dozens of holidaymakers with their faces to the sky. Just 
in the shelter of the slanted roof on the far side he saw a couple of 
familiar profiles. 

 

Boo-Boo stabbed the auto-dial button on his phone. "Liz!" he cried. 


"I've found 'em!" 

 

* * * 

 

Ken Lewis rolled back on one elbow, watching Robbie operate her 
invisible equipment. Now and again in his earphone he heard the crackle 
of confusion coming from the Superdome. He might have had a hard time 
in the beginning getting the sabotage under way, but now it was going 
so easy he was sorry he couldn't do it all over again. 

 

He could cause anything to happen that he could get Robbie to 
visualize. That opened up the range of possibilities for mayhem to well 
. . . everything. But there wasn't much time left. Once the power had 
been converted the way Mr. Kingston wanted it, he needed to cause a 
massive reaction to make it go back into the transmission line and sent 
off to SATN-TV. A devastating disaster would cause the appropriate 
reaction. 

 

How best to end the concert? Ken wondered dreamily as tantalizing 
possibilities danced before his eyes. Should he set fire to the roof 
and let it cascade down on the thousands of fans in the audience? Blow 
up the stage and launch goody-goody Fionna into space? Collapse the 
walls into a black hole? As long as Fionna Kenmare bit the big one, Ken 
could do what he liked. That had been the only non-negotiable 
stipulation Kingston had thrown into the contract. A mega-superstar 
knocked into eternity at the height of her powers and popularity ought 
to launch boatloads of fear and terror back through the link. And the 
publicity! Ken could just see the headlines. Every newspaper and 
television service would carry the story tomorrow. It'd be a blow 
against good magic all over the world. That ought to be good for 
another bonus. Plenty of extra hate and fear to feed the Greed Machine. 
Maybe Robbie ought to set off a ton of fireworks right on the stage 
itself, and blow them all to pieces. 

 

Wait, he knew the perfect conclusion: the Jumbotron! What if Robbie 
dropped that on the band at the end of the concert? Everyone would be 
squashed flat, bang! 

 

"Honey," he said, very casually, leaning forward over Robbie's 
shoulder, "you know that big box hanging over the stage? It's in the 
way. Gary wants you to take it down, right onto the stage." 

 

"Won't it fall on people?" Robbie asked. 

 

"Well, maybe a few," Ken said, picturing the headlines on the paper the 
next day: Rock Star Crushed to Death in Freak Accident. "Fionna, for 
one. C'mon, do it, baby. Just one big tug, and it'll all be over." 

 

"No, I don't like that idea," Robbie said. "It's dangerous." 

 

"Robbie, it's in your instructions," Ken said. "You have to." 

 

"No, the fire marshall will never go along with it." 

 

She was growing more agitated. 

 

"Shake it, baby!" he ordered, into a sudden silence on the riverfront 


in between jazz numbers coming over the loudspeakers. People turned 
around to look at him. He gave them a sheepish smile. They went back to 
watching, and he turned to glare at Robbie. She shrank away from him. 

 

"All right," she said, in a very small voice. Ken heard the gratifying 
crackle of confusion in his earphone. She might not like it, but she 
was doing it. 

 

* * * 

 

"Oooh," the crowd breathed. 

 

"What's going on out there?" Liz asked, from inside her cocoon. She 
sensed a frisson of excitement tinged with fear breaking out from 
inside the mass enchantment. The building began to rumble underfoot. 

 

Lloyd leaned back and peered out between the huge speakers. 

 

"More of the usual monsters," he said, as though he was telling her the 
weather. "Michael just stomped a red rocket underfoot. The punters 
loved it. Hmm." 

 

"What?" 

 

"That 'ere box is moving around." 

 

"Which box?" Liz asked. She experienced a moment of alarm, which was 
quickly mirrored by her support group. Deliberately squashing her 
feelings, she let her gaze follow Lloyd's pointing finger straight up. 
The Jumbotron! It swayed and moved backwards and forwards on its 
moorings. Fionna, still in midair, had noticed its movement, too, and 
was waving frantically at Liz. 

 

Liz stood frozen in the midst of her support group. She had always had 
a horrible feeling that the Jumbotron might fall down. Her worst 
nightmare seemed on the verge of coming true. If the power continued to 
rise, not only the band, but hundreds of concertgoers near the stage, 
could also be crushed by it. 

 

"Boo-Boo," she whispered, "hurry!" 

 

* * * 

 

"I don't want to make trouble for anyone," Robbie said, her fingers 
twisting in knots. She had gotten to the weepy stage. Time for a little 
more liquid courage. Ken poured another splash of tequila in her glass 
and added a double dose of drugs. "This has been the best job of my 
life, working for Green Fire." 

 

"Come on, honey," he said, holding out the liquor, "they're no good to 
you." She drank it without paying attention. She was numb. 

 

"Oh, yes, they are!" she insisted, muzzily. "Lloyd is always wonderful. 
Nigel is great. I really love Nigel. He called in those secret agents." 

 

"Those spies are there to get you, baby," Ken said, looking into her 
eyes seriously. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot. 


 

"They can't be," Robbie said, shaking her head. The action was grossly 
exaggerated. Ken caught her just before she fell over. "They're too 
nice." 

 

"They're here to take you away," Ken insisted, whispering in her ear. 
"The government thinks you're a freak. They're evil. They'd lock you up 
in a little lab if they could. Run tests on you." 

 

"Oh, no!" Robbie protested. "That's what you told me about the nice man 
in Dublin. He wasn't a spy. What happened to him, Kenny?" 

 

"You told him to go away," Ken said, with major satisfaction. The guy 
had been a basket case the last time he'd seen him, slumped outside St. 
Stephen's Green shopping center off Grafton Street. No more sticking 
his nose into the Council's affairs for him. Robbie, annoyingly, picked 
up on his triumph, and started crying. 

 

"I did something to him, didn't I?" 

 

Hastily, Ken offered her more tequila. "Here, baby. Here's something to 
make you forget all about it." 

 

"Don't wanna forget . . ." Robbie said, fighting him. She shoved away, 
put her hands on the ground unsteadily, trying to get to her feet. He'd 
pushed her too far. Let her relax a little, and work her back to where 
she could create the big effect he was hoping for. 

 

"Come on, baby," Ken urged her, pulling her down beside him. She 
slumped into a boneless heap, staring at the sky. "You can't leave. The 
show's not over yet. You know what I want. Do it. Do it!" 

 

Robbie's voice was almost completely indistinct. He lowered his head to 
hear her. "The Jumbotron belongs to the Superdome. They'll get upset if 
we move it." 

 

The fireworks changed tenor as the music shifted from the jazz piece to 
a martial march. Ken took her face between his hands and turned it 
toward the show. 

 

"Never mind the Jumbotron. Look at all those pretty flowers!" he said. 
"Picture ones just like that happening in the Superdome. Big, fiery 
flowers, with petals that burn the people they fall on. Burning your 
enemies to cinders. Picture them falling, falling, right on Fionna. 
Look at them!" 

 

A tongue of light sizzled up into the sky and burst right over their 
heads into a purple star twice the size of a football field. Robbie 
screamed and hid her head in her arms. 

 

"They're coming too close. Too close!" 

 

Bad move, Ken thought. He'd given her too much. He held the squirming 
woman in his arms, trying to keep her from burrowing into the grass. 

 

Some of the passersby had turned around at the frantic scream. 

 


Ken looked at the crowd apologetically. 

 

"Sorry," he said. "She just accepted my proposal. We're engaged!" 
Indulgent smiles all round, left them alone. Decent people, giving 
decent privacy. They wouldn't be so nice if he told them what they were 
engaged in. 

 

But he'd miscalculated how much Robbie's system could hold. Her body 
lay limp on the ground, but her hands were frantically picking at the 
grass. 

 

"No no no no no no . . ." she murmured. 

 

"Hey, baby." Ken turned her over. She drew her knees up to her chest 
and screwed her eyes shut. 

 

Ken heard activity nearby, the sound of hurrying footsteps, and looked 
up to see the agent dressed like a bum heading his way. He shook Robbie 
by the shoulder. 

 

"Robbie, you've got to finish off the concert hall right now!" 

 

"No no no no no no!" She started kicking and lashing out with her arms. 
Agent Boudreau was getting closer. He mustn't get Robbie. Ken tried to 
gather her up, intending to carry her away from the Moon Walk. 

 

She smacked him in the face with a wild swing. 

 

All right, so Ken had created a monster -- but she was his monster! He 
couldn't let the agent take her away. Ken wasn't a natural 
practitioner. His superiors had equipped him with a few easy spells in 
case of emergency. The disappearance charms were all used up. No way to 
vanish handily into the crowd. Instead, he had to rely on offense. 

 

He sprang to his feet and assumed a martial arts stance. 

 

* * * 

 

Boo-Boo saw him assume a bent-knee crouch with his hands out at right 
angles. He'd been waiting for something like that. Ken had little 
magical ability of his own, or he wouldn't have needed Ms. Robbie in 
the first place. In a moment the agent had taken his opponent's 
measure. Ken Lewis had wrestled, most likely in high school, and had 
maybe a little storefront karate. He was no match for Boo-Boo in any 
way that the American agent could think of. 

 

From his pocket Ken whipped out a white envelope and flung it down on 
the ground between them. It burst with a puff of white smoke. 

 

"Spirits dark, hear me call you, hold my foe still like a statue!" 

 

Boo-Boo almost scoffed out loud. Standard immobilization spell, only 
you were supposed to hit the one you wanted to freeze with the powder 
to make it work. Ken had wasted it on maybe an ant hill or a passing 
caterpillar. Boo-Boo wasn't impressed. The guy was so jumpy he was 
making stupid mistakes. 

 


But Ken was a dirty fighter. Under the cover of the white cloud, he 
rushed to close with Boo-Boo, pounding him over the kidneys with his 
fists. Luckily for Boo-Boo, his old friend of an army jacket, padded 
with years' accumulation of odds and ends, absorbed most of the force. 
Boo-Boo twisted out of his hold just in time to keep his ear from being 
bitten in half. Ken Lewis must have gone out of his mind. Boo-Boo 
grabbed his wrist and flipped it up behind the other man's back. 

 

"Now, you just hold still," he said. He turned his head to look for Ms. 
Robbie. 

 

The poor young woman was lying on the ground, mumbling and writhing, 
her hands waving in the air. Her eyes were fixed on the fireworks, the 
effect of which she must still be transmitting to the Superdome. 
Drugged or bespelled, it was hard to say which. 

 

"What did you give her?" Boo-Boo demanded, shaking Ken's wrist. The 
other gasped but didn't speak. "What have you done to her?" 

 

An urgent beeping sounded nearby. 

 

"Beauray," Liz's voice, much muffled, came from the depths of his 
pocket, "what is happening out there?" 

 

Ken took advantage of Boo-Boo's momentary distraction to kick out 
viciously. Boo-Boo took a healthy blow to the shin, but let his weight 
drop forward. He ended up sitting on Ken. 

 

"Now, what you're doin' is wrong. Y'all want to make it stop before 
anyone gets killed." Boo looked down at Ken, who was gnashing his 
teeth. "Or is that just exactly what you want?" He pulled a pair of 
handcuffs from his hip pocket and snapped them on Ken's wrists. 

 

The everchanging crowd had by now noticed that a fight had been going 
on in its midst. A few men jumped forward to pull Boo-Boo off his 
quarry, no doubt thinking he was an insane vagrant. With regret, he 
stood up over his prisoner and produced his billfold with his 
Department credentials. The men stood back, surprised. 

 

"Folks, this fellah's in possession of an illegal shipment of pixie 
dust," Boo-Boo said amiably but with fire in his eyes that showed he 
meant business. "Y'all want to move along now. Everythin's under 
control." To back up his statement, he made a few quick mystic passes 
of the "These aren't the droids you're looking for" variety. 
Distracted, the crowd went back about its business. Boo-Boo was 
relieved. 

 

He had let his guard down too soon. 

 

In the darkness he missed the foot sweeping out from underneath that 
caught him across the shins. Boo-Boo went flying onto the grass. The 
cuffs were now around his wrists. Pretty slick, he thought. 

 

Ken sprang up. Pausing only to kick Boo-Boo once in the ribs, he fled 
into the crowd. 

 

Boo gasped, catching his breath around the pain in his midsection. 


Lewis was gone, but he was not the real problem. Boo-Boo crawled over 
to Robbie, who was lying on her back with her hands and knees in the 
air, kicking like a dying fly. Her hair was tangled into a rat's nest, 
and her clothes were stained and torn. She looked as though she'd been 
assaulted, but it was all from flinging herself around on the ground. 

 

"Ms. Robbie, can you hear me?" 

 

"Beauray!" his pocket screamed. 

 

Uh-oh. Couldn't let Liz get hot under the collar. The lives of 
thousands depended on it. Awkwardly with his pinioned hands, he fumbled 
for the cell phone. 

 

"I'm here," he said. "I've got Ms. Robbie. She's freakin' out somethin' 
awful." 

 

"And Lewis?" Liz's voice was already calmed down again. The lady was a 
real pro. 

 

"He's gone." 

 

"Things are still going on here, Beauray," Liz said. "Whatever he has 
done is running on its own now." 

 

"You still getting the full fireworks treatment?" he asked. He 
whispered one of the Words of Unbinding, and the cuffs leaped free. His 
shoes untied and his pants button popped open at the same time, but 
that was pretty much normal for the course. He refastened them. 

 

"And laser monsters," Liz said, enumerating a list for him. "And 
fireballs with attitude. And carnivorous rainbows. One of them just bit 
Mr. Lockney on the arm. But what is troubling me the most is that the 
Jumbotron is moving. It looks as though it could come down at any 
moment. You must persuade her to stop before she tears it off its 
moorings." 

 

Boo-Boo looked at Robbie. She didn't see him. That girl was one 
powerful channel, but she wasn't in control at all. He had to try and 
guide her back to reality. 

 

Robbie reeked of liquor. Boo-Boo crouched down beside her and sniffed 
her breath speculatively. Tequila. Yes, here was the bottle beside her 
on the grass. But that wasn't enough to cause her to twitch like that. 
Lewis had to have been feeding her drugs. In spite of those mental 
obstructions, Boo-Boo had to get through to her. He didn't have much 
time. 

 

"Ms. Robbie?" he asked. "D'you know me? Beauray. You know me. We got 
along real well back at the Superdome. Can y'all hear me?" 

 

The girl looked at him without seeing him and rolled over, her legs 
spasming. He picked her up under the arms. Her hands flailed out and 
hit him in the face. 

 

"Hey, there," Boo-Boo said, trying to catch her arms. 

 


Some well-meaning citizens in the milling crowd on the pavement saw him 
do that. 

 

"Hey, you!" a large black man said, jumping up the three concrete steps 
to the grass. "Get your hands off that girl!" 

 

He attracted the attention of other people who must have decided that 
Boo-Boo didn't have any business trying to talk to Robbie. He'd better 
scare 'em off quickly. 

 

"Any of y'all know CPR?" he asked, putting a healthy measure of panic 
into his voice. "'Course she's foamin' at the mouth. Dunno if she's got 
somethin' catchin' or not. Anyone want to help?" 

 

That did it. The ones that hadn't melted away when he mentioned CPR 
vanished like genies when he suggested Robbie might be diseased. Even 
the first man to speak was suddenly nowhere in sight. The Good 
Samaritan wasn't dead these days, but he was worried about incurable 
illnesses. In a moment Boo had the area near the gazebo all to himself. 

 

"Now, Ms. Robbie, listen to me. You're causin' all kinds o' trouble 
back along at the Superdome. Y'all got to stop that. Can you hear me? 
Nod your head if you understand." 

 

Instead, she flung herself at him, pointing at the sudden explosion of 
pink and gold stars over the river. Boo-Boo grabbed her and started 
probing her mind gently, using a mind-touch technique he'd gotten the 
idea for from Star Trek. He thought he felt a spark of recognition. Her 
eyes suddenly met his. 

 

"Ms. Robbie, do you know me? I'm Beauray." 

 

She nodded. 

 

"Good. D'you know where you are? Good," he said when, after a brief 
hesitation she nodded again. "Can y'all shut down the fireworks at the 
Superdome?" She nodded. "Good. Can y'all do that right now?" She 
nodded. Her bleary eyes drifted away from him and focused on the 
fireworks display. Boo picked up his cell phone. 

 

"That do anything?" he asked Liz. 

 

There was a pause. "No change. That horrid box is still moving." 

 

Boo-Boo helped the girl to sit up. She stared at him wildly. Spittle 
flecked her lips and she mumbled nonsense. Her hands moved of their own 
volition, performing a bizarre dance in midair. 

 

"Look, Ms. Robbie," he said reasonably, "if you don't cut off what 
you're doin', thousands of people are goin' to get hurt. Some of 'em 
could die. It'll all be your fault." 

 

He could almost see the words bounce off her ear. He had to break the 
connection between Robbie and the Superdome. 

 

"Nothin' personal, ma'am," he said. He cocked back an arm and caught 
her under the jaw with a solid right. Robbie dropped to the grass in a 


boneless heap. Boo crouched over her, keeping passing couples from 
walking on her. He clapped the cell phone to his ear. 

 

"I just knocked her out. Did that help?" 

 

"No, it made it worse," Liz said, briskly. Boo could tell just from her 
voice how difficult her task was. "If she is the only one in control, 
that just set off everything she was thinking of. We have monsters, 
rockets, musicians in flight and the Jumbotron. How is she doing all of 
that?" 

 

Boo looked down at the unconscious woman sprawled at his feet. "Well, I 
can't ask her just now." 

 

"But what can we do to turn her off?" Liz asked, and he could tell how 
she was straining to keep her cool. "The building itself won't take 
much more. There is only so much power any one structure can contain. 
This one is more flexible than most, but, oh, Boo-Boo!" 

 

"I know, darlin'," he said, slumping beside Robbie with his head in his 
hands. He could try force-feeding the girl a Mickey Finn, but if a 
stiff uppercut didn't work, a knockout drug wouldn't have much more 
effect. Besides, she was dosed to the eyeballs with something strong. 
He was afraid to try mixing more chemicals into her system. Who knew 
what kind of subconscious horrors would swim up from delta-wave sleep? 
What about a lobotomy? Could cutting off the prefrontal lobe squelch 
the violent emissions of her brain? An operation, or even a spell to 
the same effect, would take too long. Time was running out. The 
quickest solution might be a bullet to the head. He hated to take a 
life, but he had to balance one girl against the thousands and 
thousands of others trapped in the Superdome. If someone popped that 
bubble of power now there'd be a massacre. He glanced out over the 
river. Maybe sinking the barge with the fireworks would do it. 

 

Thankfully, the fireworks stopped before he could put that into effect. 
There was a smattering of applause, and the crowd began to break up. He 
was left alone on the steps of the gazebo with Robbie slumped beside 
him. 

 

"The show's over. Did that do it?" he asked the phone. "Did the effects 
stop?" 

 

"No," Liz said. "The place is still shaking itself apart." 

 

Boo-Boo's heart sank. "Then it's all goin' on in her head." 

 

"How can we turn off her subconscious? There are only a couple more 
numbers to be played. Everyone is going to want to leave soon, and the 
place is a hermetically sealed drum full of power that will blow if 
someone breaches the walls." 

 

Boo-Boo's eyebrows went up. He had an idea. The girl had pretty much 
been following her cues in the beginning. Maybe her subconscious would 
continue to do it. He hoped he could connect with those ingrained 
reactions. 

 

"Let's try and reestablish her connection to the show," Boo said. "Hold 


the phone toward the band." 

 

* * * 

 

Liz nodded to the roadie holding the phone to her ear. He pulled it 
away and prepared to turn it off. 

 

"No, don't do that," she said. "Hold it out between the speakers so it 
picks up the music." 

 

Whatever the concertgoing audience thought of seeing a disembodied hand 
with a telephone at the top of the stage Liz couldn't guess, but Boo-
Boo was right. After a few falters, the special effects began again, 
this time following the cue sheet that the astonished stage manager 
held in his hand. Robbie certainly did know her work backwards and 
forwards. Lasers touched the stage. A few Roman candles popped into the 
air in sequence. The steam box played. At last the show was going 
according to the plan the producers wanted. The gigantic box overhead 
stopped swaying. Liz was able to relax her stance for a moment. 

 

It had taken her a short while to appreciate the skill of the young man 
who had been holding the phone up for her. Not once did he let the 
instrument slip off her ear or jam it too tightly against her head. He 
was watching her, moving when she did, and adjusting his grip 
accordingly. He must also have muscles like iron. Her arms were getting 
tired being held aloft for hours, and she was trained to hold that 
pose. It had taken a great burden off her, not having to worry about 
the telephone slipping off her shoulder and falling down because she 
couldn't spare a hand for it. 

 

"You are very observant," she told him, and was rewarded with a smile. 

 

"In this business you have to be, ma'am," he said. "You're pretty good 
at what you do, yourself." 

 

Liz smiled. "I'm beginning to find that out." 

 

Everyone was being so very cooperative. Over the last hour they had 
formed a special bond. United at first by necessity, they were now 
freely enjoying all the positive energy running throughout the room and 
one another. She knew how many people were in the huge auditorium. She 
knew them all intimately, every emotion, every urge. How many were in 
tune with the music. How many of them under her overlay of calming 
magic were excited, terrified, angry, in love, afraid, relieved. How 
many of them were heading for the lavatory, and how many were coming 
back. No one was bored. 

 

With the cool beat of jazz running through her veins like blood, she 
could do anything. The final song was a rocking ballad in a minor key 
that sent chills up the audience's collective spine even while it 
thrilled and elated them. The lyrics were an allegory about a mystical 
underground power that rose up from beneath the earth to destroy 
humanity because it was destroying nature, but decided to give it one 
more chance because humans cared about music. If they could understand 
one kind of harmony, it could learn to appreciate the other. It was a 
warning, but it had a happy ending. Liz fervently hoped that Robbie 
could hold it together just a little while longer. 


 

"This is the last number, Beauray," she said into the phone. 

 

* * * 

 

"I hear you," Boo said. He shifted Robbie and cuddled the phone closer 
to her ear. Pretty soon it would be all over. 

 

A tiny, faint beeping began. He realized it was coming from his cell 
phone. Oh, no! The battery mustn't die now! 

 

It wouldn't. He leaned in close to the receiver. 

 

"Liz, send me a little of that power," Boo said in a very calm voice so 
as not to alarm Robbie and set her off. She was still out, but her 
eyelids fluttered, and she was drooling down her chin. He wondered 
again how much of those drugs Ken Lewis had given her. "Just a tickle." 

 

A tickle was all he got. The small phone grew warm in his fingers. He 
held it just far enough from Robbie's ear to see the miniature screen. 
Battery full. Whew. 

 

The music coming from the tiny speaker reached a thrilling crescendo, 
and died away. 

 

"Okay," he whispered. "Fade to black." 

 

"Beauray." Liz's calm voice issued forth from the earpiece. "It has 
stopped." 

 

"Whew!" Boo-Boo slumped down on the concrete steps with the unconscious 
woman in his arms. "Thanks, darlin'. I'd better get this poor young 
lady back to the hotel. See you at the party." 

 

He pocketed the phone, stood up and hoisted Robbie into his arms. 

 

* * * 

 

The park emptied out swiftly. The FBI agent passed within a couple of 
feet of him. Ken could have reached out and touched his shoulder, but 
contact with Beauray Boudreau was the last thing he wanted. Or the 
second last. Ken waited until Boo-Boo had stopped at the street corner 
with his limp burden, then insinuated himself into a large crowd of 
happy merrymakers heading north along the riverfront toward a bar near 
the French Market. He needed a very large drink. 

 

The last thing, really the last thing, Ken wanted, was to have to tell 
his employer that he had failed. Mr. Kingston wasn't going to like what 
happened. And neither was the Council. They'd find out sooner or later, 
but not from him. 

 

He ripped off the headset and stuffed it into the nearest garbage can. 

 

 

 

As the final number concluded, Liz watched Fionna settle back to earth 
as lightly as a feather. Michael ran up to her and threw his arms 


around her. The two of them spun around the stage, laughing. The fringe 
of Fionna's dress flashed in the spotlights like electricity made 
physical. Voe Lockney launched into a fusillade of drumbeats that ended 
with a crash of cymbals. The sound died away. The Jumbotron stopped 
rocking. It was over. They'd survived. 

 

The lights dimmed to the sound of wild applause and cheering. Green 
Fire took its curtain calls. The four members of the band stepped 
forward to take individual bows, and pointed out the guest musicians 
and singers for recognition. The applause went on and on. 

 

"Encore! Encore! Encore!" the crowd began to chant. 

 

The musicians looked at one another. Michael shook his head firmly. No. 
Instead the band waved and bowed to their fans, picking up flowers and 
small presents that came sailing onto the stage from the audience. 
Fionna, a huge bouquet of roses balanced on her arm, waved to the 
teeming crowd like a beauty contestant crowned queen. The band took one 
bow after another. The crowd didn't want them to leave. 

 

The crew backstage cheered. They'd survived, too. 

 

"It's all over," Nigel Peters said, with relief. He dropped his hand 
from her shoulder and flexed his arms. 

 

"Not quite," Liz said, keeping her pose. 

 

Peters looked at her in alarm. "What?" 

 

"The question that must be answered immediately is what to do with all 
the raw, tainted power still swirling around the concert hall. The 
doors would be thrown open in a moment. We must rid ourselves of the 
gigantic overload to avoid letting it spill out into the streets of New 
Orleans." 

 

Peters frowned. "How do you get rid of used power?" 

 

A perfect solution had just occurred to her. Liz smiled, charmed at the 
simplicity of the answer. 

 

"Why, we'll send it back to the givers, of course," she said. "A 
tradition of magic says that whatever one does comes back threefold. 
The concertgoers certainly deserved to have all the love they projected 
given back to them in triplicate." And whoever was behind poor Robbie 
being used as a tool deserved what was coming to them, too. 

 

"Attention, please!" she called, as the group around her began to break 
away. "We're not quite through yet. We need to clear the air before 
anyone tries to leave the Superdome. 

 

"Aww!" some of them complained. 

 

"Can it!" Lloyd shouted. "Do what she says. Now." 

 

They returned readily to their original positions. Liz looked around at 
all of them. They weren't really all that eager to give up their chance 
to have touched real magic. She was their leader in wonderworking. 


Every eye was on her. 

 

"Now, everybody breathe in. Take in all of the power that has been 
raised here tonight that we've shared. Keep only what you need for the 
health and strength of everyone here. Then -- breathe out. Push the 
rest of it back where it came from. Send it back. Send it all back. 
Ready? Inhale. Now, push!" 

 

Liz thrust her arms out in front of her. All the others followed suit. 
The huge glut of energy went rushing away from them in a hurricane 
gale. Anything not nailed down swirled in the breeze, sheet music, 
programs, posters, cables, but the roadies and stagehands weren't 
afraid this time. They were a part of it. A grand tornado touched at 
the edges with green seemed to rise up from their nucleus, opened out 
to the very edges of the arena, and disappeared into the walls. The 
power was gone, back where it belonged. Liz let out a sigh of relief. 
The ordeal was over at last. 

 

Everyone grinned at each other like idiots and slapped one another on 
the back or caught one another in energetic embraces. They all picked 
up Liz, passing her from one to the other for hugs. 

 

"All right, people," Nigel Peters said, holding his arms up in the air. 
"Party time!" 

 

"Yay!" the crew cheered. 

 

The band came off stage, holding up weary hands in victory salutes. The 
roadies leaped forward to take instruments or microphones and hand out 
drinks as the group headed downstairs to their celebratory party. Liz 
felt triumphant. She'd succeeded, against the wildest odds, at the 
first really important assignment she'd ever been given. She fell in 
with the band and found herself beside Fionna. 

 

"I've never been so tired in my life," Liz said. 

 

"And ye didn't do a thing except stand back here and wave yer arms," 
Fionna complained. "We're the ones who did all the real work. Look at 
me! I had to sing all me numbers hangin' in the air like the week's 
washin'! And I didn't get to wear all my costumes!" 

 

 

 

Chapter 18 

 

"Ken Lewis was your problem all along," Liz told Nigel Peters the next 
morning in the private corner of the Mystic Bar as they waited for the 
rest of the company to come down for a belated brunch feast. "He'd been 
using Robbie as a power conduit to attack Fionna. All the things Fee 
told you about scratches appearing on her skin and unexpected knocks 
were true." 

 

"I feel awful not believing Fee," Nigel said, running nervous fingers 
through his thinning hair. "It's just not the sort of thing you run 
into every day." 

 

"You were right to be skeptical," Boo-Boo said, in his easy way. "It's 


not an everyday thing. But once the attacks started comin' in public, 
he didn't have much of a chance of escapin' notice." 

 

"Lewis was trying things out, working toward the grand climax of this 
concert, when the main attack would come," Liz said, seriously. "I 
believe he really meant to kill Fionna. Robbie was unaware of his true 
intentions, or she wouldn't have gone along with it. She's not evil, 
she's just . . ." 

 

"In love," Nigel said, sighing deeply. "I know. It's totally hopeless. 
Everyone can see it, poor kid, but Lloyd's got enough sense to stay 
where his bread's buttered." 

 

"It's none of my business," Liz interrupted, "but there are real 
feelings between them. I was . . . rather in a position to know, last 
evening." 

 

"I guess you were," Nigel said, a little uncomfortably. "Er, how long 
did Ken have Robbie, er . . ." 

 

"Under his spell?" Boo asked, with a smile. "Most likely's been movin' 
in on her since he started workin' for you. Lots of your people thought 
he had it bad for the young lady. His interests in her were purely 
unaltruistic." 

 

"How do we . . . uh," Nigel's voice dropped to a confidential undertone 
as he drew the agents aside for a moment, "how do we keep this from 
happening again? I gave Robbie her job back, but what you were 
nattering on about this Law of Contagion . . . She hasn't got anything 
that's catching, has she?" 

 

Liz and Boo exchanged glances. 

 

"Not precisely," Liz said. "But it won't happen again. We've seen to 
that." 

 

And so they had. Boo-Boo had dragged an exhausted Liz to a little store 
in a dark street to get the materials they needed for a protective 
amulet to prevent her from being taken over by malign influences ever 
again. Both agents were impressed and worried by the different levels 
of spells they had to delve through when clearing her aura. Robbie was 
fairly well disenchanted herself, with Ken Lewis, Lloyd Preston, and 
men in general. For the time being. She might not be vulnerable to love 
for a while, but she was a vulnerable young woman. 

 

"We have amulets for the entire company," Liz said, indicating a pile 
of Carnival bead necklaces. "Just to make certain such attacks cannot 
come through another conduit." 

 

"Here," Boo-Boo said, handing Nigel a string of garish, metallic blue 
beads, which the manager accepted with a nervous laugh. "This one's for 
you." 

 

"A little bright, isn't it?" 

 

"The more garish the better," Boo-Boo pointed out, "to scare away bad 
spirits, y'know." 


 

As the members of the company filed sleepily into the bar on the way to 
the dining room, Boo-Boo stepped forward to loop a necklace over each 
of their heads. Liz handed him fresh ones as each new person arrived. 

 

"Souvenir of N'Awlins," he said, pleasantly. "What we call a lagniappe, 
a little somethin' extra. Enjoy." 

 

"Hey, thanks, man," most of them said. 

 

"Is this extra special?" Laura Manning asked, with a wicked glint at 
Boo-Boo as he placed a bright gold necklace around her neck that went 
well with her dark skin. 

 

He grinned at her. "Y'all might say so." She leaned over and kissed 
him. 

 

Liz had an armload of protective necklaces in every color imaginable 
for Fionna to wear with every outfit. When the star finally arrived, 
Boo-Boo lavished amulets on her until the exhausted star looked like a 
carnival float. Liz held back a couple of the leftovers to take home to 
HQ for analysis. It never hurt to have more examples of protective 
magic in the grimoire. 

 

"You're all safe now," Liz assured Nigel. 

 

"At least from an attack like that one," Boo-Boo said, genially. Nigel 
didn't look reassured by Boo-Boo's qualified promise. 

 

"But how did Lewis get a nice girl like Robbie to work for him?" he 
asked. 

 

Liz looked grim. "She believed that Ken was doing magical work on her 
behalf, ostensibly to help her gain Lloyd's love. She didn't catch on 
as to why she wasn't winning her man. She put it down to Fionna's 
stronger magic. Frustration was why her power levels could build so 
high." 

 

"That wasn't all her, y'know," Boo-Boo pointed out. "She was gettin' a 
power feed from somewhere else. An untrained practitioner like herself 
couldn't generate that much without bein' detected. That was why it 
took us so long to figure out it was her. Now, she'll just have to work 
out her love troubles in some other way. She might still be jealous of 
Ms. Fionna, but she won't be wired into a negative-energy pool any more 
by an unscrupulous bastard like him, y'all will excuse the language." 

 

"Poor kid," Nigel said. "But what was it all for?" 

 

"Power," Liz said. "Eighty thousand bodies' worth. When you have that 
many like-minded people in a room, they generate psychic energy that 
can be tapped by someone who knows what he's doing." 

 

"Like radiation?" 

 

"Sort of," said Boo-Boo. "Ken had a hookup to a satellite receiver 
feedin' into the control room, wired to Robbie's chair. Since the 
energy had touched her once, it would continue to have an effect on 


her. It was attached to the transmission lines in the press room, right 
next to the control room. We were in there, and never connected what 
was happenin' to what we were lookin' at." 

 

"This is still too fantastic for me," Nigel said, shaking his head. 
"Dark sorcery, beamed here via modern technology. And we'll never know 
who was behind all this, huh?" 

 

Liz held her tongue. Boo-Boo had kindly shared with her the early-
morning report of the very bizarre destruction of a television station 
in the northwestern United States. The agent, a stringer named Ed 
Cielinski, reported that some new equipment installed at SATN-TV that 
gave off evil vibrations had been acting oddly over the last few days. 
Some time after he'd gone off duty the night before, the whole place 
was trashed, like a rock group's hotel room. His employer was 
discovered sitting on the floor in the middle of the ruins muttering to 
himself. So far as he knew no one had been hurt, but the place was a 
mess. The department was investigating, and would share its results 
with OOPSI. 

 

"I'm afraid not," Liz said at last. 

 

"I had no idea we were harboring a dangerous criminal," Nigel Peters 
said, shaking his head. "We were lucky he didn't turn up for the 
concert itself." 

 

"He did almost as much damage by remote control as he would have if he 
was right there," Boo-Boo said. 

 

"You can say that again!" said Gary Lowe, coming over to hand Nigel a 
drink. "We had everything planned to work without Robbie's effects, and 
he went and bollixed it all up by vanishing. It's a good thing I know 
how to run a light board, or the whole thing would have come off in 
darkness." 

 

"In more ways than one," Boo-Boo said. 

 

Gary Lowe gave him a puzzled frown. "Well, it made my job twice as 
hard, doing that along with overseeing everything else." 

 

"The concert was wonderful," Liz assured him. 

 

"Thanks. One vote of confidence, anyhow." 

 

"Well, I've fired Lewis in absentia," Nigel Peters said. "He'll never 
work in the industry again." 

 

"You can't really tell future employers why," Liz said. "This matter is 
now covered by the Official Secrets Act." 

 

Nigel gave her his nervous smile. "In this biz, honey, all I have to do 
is say he's too weird. I don't have to explain myself." 

 

"That's mighty convenient," Boo-Boo said. "Weirdness covers a wide 
range of sins, don't it?" He felt through his pockets and came up with 
a grubby square of pasteboard. "If he does turn up at all while you're 
in the United States, call my department." 


 

Nigel took it with gingerly fingers. Liz produced a card of her own, 
pristine white and snapped it into the manager's palm. "The same goes 
for our territories and the EU," she said. "He's a wanted man, now. On 
both sides of the ocean." 

 

The others in the bar were discussing the concert, sharing their 
impressions of how things had gone. Instead of being frightened from 
having been in the presence of incomprehensible magic, the roadies and 
members of the band had taken it all in their stride. Some of them 
seemed honored that it had happened to them, their band. Liz marveled 
at the elasticity of human nature. Of course, Boo-Boo had had a lot to 
do with it. He'd jumped right into the thick of the conversation, 
making jokes. 

 

"I wish it would happen all over again," one of the stagehands 
exclaimed. 

 

He was shouted down by his fellows. "Oh, no, you don't!" Robbie 
Unterburger insisted. 

 

The special effects technician had come out of her experience feeling 
as though she'd had her aura washed. Refreshed after a night's sleep 
and a good detoxification treatment by Liz and Boo-Boo, she looked 
prettier and happier than Liz had yet seen her. She was transformed, 
laughing and joking with her peers. 

 

"Oh, you were a lot of help, taking off like that," the others teased 
her. Nigel had been purposely vague in describing Robbie's part in the 
magical attack to the others. "You didn't see what happened." 

 

"There's seven cities left on the tour," Robbie said, defending 
herself. "I dreamed up some new effects that will knock your socks 
off." 

 

"We're not so sure we want to hear about your dreams," Hugh Banks said. 
"We've seen what your nightmares look like." 

 

"So that's that, now," Fionna said, appearing at Liz's shoulder. Fee 
had deep circles under her eyes carefully covered by concealer stick. 
The green in her close-clipped hair had been freshly touched up to 
enhance the vivid makeup job on her face. Liz wondered if Laura Manning 
had gotten any sleep at all. 

 

"Yes," Liz said, turning to her familiarly. "I'm glad we could help." 

 

"Thank the good Lord it's all over," Fee said, gulping a drink that 
Lloyd brought to her. "Well, you'll be going now. No need for you to 
stay." 

 

"That's right," Liz said. "Straight back to London. My orders came this 
morning. My employer is pleased that we were able to isolate the threat 
so quickly." 

 

"After all, you were just doing your job," Fionna said. 

 

Liz schooled her face not to show her astonishment. The ungrateful 


wretch couldn't bring herself to say thank you. That was the least she 
could do. Liz guessed she was still embarrassed that Daddy had called 
in her old school chum to pull her very public fat out of a 
particularly strange fire. 

 

"It was a splendid concert," Patrick Jones said, jumping in. He'd been 
eavesdropping, and was clearly embarrassed by Fionna's gracelessness. 
"You should see the reviews. We're all very happy." 

 

"Well, we're going in to breakfast, now," Fionna said, swinging away on 
her heel. Liz made as if to follow her. Fionna stopped short and looked 
down at Liz with disdain. "It's a private party," she said pointedly. 
"You can go now." 

 

Furious, Liz withdrew without a word. She had thought after all their 
hard work Green Fire might at least invite them to breakfast. She 
watched Lloyd open the door at the rear of the bar. Fionna sashayed 
through it without looking back, leaving Liz smarting. 

 

Oh, well, Liz thought, trying to be philosophical about the situation. 
Fionna Phoebe Kenmare Kendale was safe and well. After all, wasn't that 
why she had come in the first place? She was a government agent. She 
received a paycheck. She shouldn't expect rewards. 

 

She wasn't doing a very good job of convincing herself. Of all the 
miserable females who ever walked the earth, Phoebe Kendale took the 
biscuit. 

 

"Don't worry," Boo said, coming up beside her and touching her arm. 
"I've got somethin' better for you." He tilted his head toward the 
door. They left the rest of the band exulting in their successful 
appearance. 

 

But they did not escape unobserved. The sharp eyes of Michael Scott 
spotted them as they were about to leave. The slim figure rose from its 
place among the others, and followed them into the lobby. 

 

"Wait," he called out to them. Liz stopped, hopeful. Michael strode to 
catch up. He smiled at them. 

 

"That group of ingrates won't say thanks, but I will. You were, well, 
marvelous. Miraculous, really." 

 

"All part of the job, sir," Liz said, briskly. She was still a little 
hurt by Fee's indifference. 

 

"No more of the 'sir,' please, Liz," he said, with the little smile she 
adored. The golden lights in the lobby lit up his hair like a halo. 
"It's Michael to you, now and forever. Fee may be a tough bird to 
handle -- and I'm dyin' to know how you know so much about her -- but 
we love her. She's special. You've done good work, both of you." 

 

"Thanks," Boo-Boo said. "Happy to have been of service." 

 

"Give me your cards. You're both welcome at any of our concerts 
whenever we pass through. If you can still stand us, that is." 

 


"Of course I can," Liz said, in love with him all over again. "I didn't 
get to appreciate this one properly." 

 

"If it wasn't for you, it wouldn't have happened at all," Michael said 
firmly. "I might not still be here to thank you. Perhaps one day we can 
sit down and talk about what happened -- what really happened. I'll be 
getting back now. God bless." He bent and gave Liz a kiss on the cheek, 
shook hands with Boo. He slipped away again into the bar. A little of 
the light seemed to go out of the room with him. 

 

Liz sighed. Well, perhaps there were a few rewards for virtuous agents. 

 

* * * 

 

Augustus Kingston shuffled disconsolately through the ruins of Studio 
A. The girders were still in place, but the acoustic ceiling tiles had 
cascaded down in pieces all over the floor. His beautiful television 
station had been destroyed, along with his plans for world domination. 

 

It had looked for a while as though his place in the Council was 
assured. When the members had arrived, dressed in their red silk robes 
over thousand-dollar power suits, he'd had the stage set for success. 
He'd been proud of his attention to detail. The altar was the same one 
they used for the afternoon talk show. The thirteen black candles in 
holders made from the skulls of small animals were cast of human 
tallow. Everything had been just right. He was ready to catch the whole 
ceremony on videotape. 

 

There they'd stood, waiting for the chosen hour. Kingston had quivered 
with anticipation under his postulant's robe of red-dyed camel hair. 
The needle on the special receiver rose higher and higher until it 
pinned on the right side of the meter. Then the power came pouring into 
the studio. 

 

The Council members expected to be bathed in glory, but it was more 
like standing in a meteor shower. Sparks shot everywhere, setting fire 
to his precious props: the altar, the black silk hangings, the posters, 
and worst of all, the gauge that told them how much money the ongoing 
telethon had raised for Satan. He remembered the disbelief on their 
faces as they could smell the sticky, gooey love wrapping around the 
rush of power, three times as much as they expected. Howling, the men 
batted at their arms and robes in disgust, unable to bear the purity. 
The love and happiness were overwhelming. The men, powerful black 
magicians in their own right, started spinning in circles, unable to 
stop. Some of them floated up to the ceiling, pursued by animals made 
of brilliant colored light. The Council was getting their power, all 
right, but not an erg of it could be used for evildoing. 

 

Kingston tried to turn the receiver off, but he couldn't get near it 
for the force of the energy flow. The grand master had ordered the 
members to channel all their black sorcery into it, to try and get a 
hold of the wild magic and send it away. The transmitter had 
overloaded. Sparks began to shoot out of its base, then it rocketed 
through the roof. The rest fell in on them. The power burned up 
everything in the studio, followed by a rush of water power that 
drenched the ashes. All the equipment in the place just overloaded on 
goodness. One by one the cameras blew. Kingston himself had narrowly 


escaped being riveted in the gut by a 70mm zoom lens that went through 
the wall into the lobby. 

 

Within minutes, it was all over. Without saying a word, the Council, 
covered in confetti, crumbled acoustical tile and broken glass, had 
filed out into the night. The last to leave had been Eldredge Mooney. 
He'd given Kingston a look that could have killed. 

 

After seeing the morning national news Kingston almost wished it had. 
Fionna Kenmare was completely unharmed. Nothing out of the ordinary 
seemed to have happened to her. Green Fire had enjoyed a triumph in New 
Orleans. The reporter was particularly taken with the special effects 
which were, she said, "just like magic." 

 

Three million dollars down the tube. The plan had been so perfect! How 
could it have failed? What the hell had happened to his focus person 
and his conduit? 

 

The receptionist's voice came thinly through the hole in the wall. The 
public address system had blown out with everything else. 

 

"Telephone for you, Mr. Kingston." 

 

Nervously, Kingston picked up the telephone receiver. 

 

"Hello, Eldredge. Yes, I was expecting to hear from you. No, I can't 
explain it. You can't blame me for that. I had everything set up just 
the way we planned. It would all have worked if . . . No, we can't use 
her again. What'd be the point? I hate to admit it, but even my own 
viewers are going to lose interest because nothing happened to the 
woman. They'll think everything reported was part of the show. After 
this she'll be so popular that any attack on her will only enhance her 
and affect us negatively. Well, there'll be another victim. We'll 
strike again. What about my membership in the Council?" 

 

"You must be out of your mind!" Mooney bellowed. Kingston removed the 
receiver from his ear to frown. "Don't ever call me again!" The 
connection went dead, and Kingston found himself staring at the phone. 

 

"Well, to hell with the rest of you, too!" he snarled. 

 

It was all going to be so beautifully evil, and now his dreams were 
wrecked. Kingston looked at the mess, not even knowing where to begin 
cleaning it up. 

 

What in hell was he going to do for the morning broadcast? 

 

* * * 

 

Liz scraped up the sweet apricot sauce on the deep plate with her fork. 

 

"This is very nice of you," she said, looking across the white 
tablecloth at Boo, whose clothes looked shabbier than ever in the 
genteel ambience of the dark wood paneled restaurant. "Even I've heard 
of having breakfast at Brennan's. I'm surprised you were able to get a 
reservation. There's quite a crowd here." 

 


"Oh, I know someone," Boo-Boo said. 

 

"You always do," Liz said, smiling impishly. "Forgive the impertinence, 
but are you certain you can afford this meal? I would be happy to split 
the check with you." 

 

Boo gave her a cheerful smile. "My superiors approved the expenditure. 
They're feelin' pretty good today. Department BBB gets to keep its 
budget intact for another year. I made it clear how much you'd 
contributed to the success of my mission." 

 

Liz ate the last of the Bananas Foster instead of biting her tongue. 
She was not going to overreact again. 

 

"It was my mission, after all," she said, pleasantly, and was gratified 
to see Boo-Boo's bright blue eyes harden slightly. They'd never agree 
as to who should have been in charge. She sat up, remembering a detail, 
and fumbled in her purse. "Here's the cell phone. Thank you very much 
for the loan. I rang my chief. He's passing along the good word about 
the outcome to Lord Kendale." 

 

"Well, all's well that ends well," Boo said, "as your Shakespeare 
said." 

 

Liz let out a sigh, sitting back for a moment as the hovering waiter 
refilled her cup with excellent coffee. As soon as he was gone, she 
leaned across the table. 

 

"You realize that all we've done is stop this conduit. There might be 
others out there. Kenny Lewis disappeared before we could question 
him." 

 

"There's always somethin' or someone out there," Boo said, shrugging. 
"Y'can't keep on worryin' every minute. We've stopped this round, the 
end of our assignment. If it starts again, we'll stop it again. That's 
all we can do. Anythin' else is chasin' our tails. I think Miss Fionna 
is safe, now. They won't try it on her again." 

 

"I agree." Liz couldn't help but feel that if she'd had a tail, it 
would be wagging. Her assignment was over, and it had been a success. 
Boo-Boo paid the check with a shiny gold American Express card and 
escorted her out to the curb where a taxi was waiting. He helped the 
driver sling her bags into the boot. "Do you know, I've only been here 
three days, but it feels like I've been here for years." 

 

Beauray Boudreau grinned. "That's N'Awlins, darlin'. It creeps into 
your soul, and it never lets go." 

 

"I hope I can come back sometime, and just be a tourist," Liz said 
wistfully. 

 

"I hope you can," Boo-Boo said. "It'd be my pleasure to show you 
around." He leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek. " 'Til next 
time, darlin'. Keep an eye over your shoulder. There's always somethin' 
out there." 

 

"Stay in touch," Liz said, squeezing his hand impulsively. "If you ever 


need me, call." 

 

"Same goes for you, darlin'," he said. "We're friends now." 

 

Boo gave her a brief wave. Then, he turned and shouldered his way into 
the dense crowd on the street. Within a few steps he'd disappeared into 
the mass of tourists and genuine characters that were as unmistakably a 
part of New Orleans as the jazz. Just like Boo. 

 

"ICE cold Coca-Cola!" shouted a vendor pushing a cart along the street. 

 

"Lucky Dogs! Get your Lucky Dogs!" 

 

Liz smiled and settled back in the seat as the taxi drove away.