Zeldan shook his head in annoyance. "Morrigan, I don't think you understand. The humans draw their water from vast lakes in the area, and to produce enough Dream to make such a plan feasible would be beyond anything we've done so far."
"But my dear Zeldan,
you
don't understand," Morrigan said, her smile unwavering. "We understand the human society more than you realize. In the time since our last transaction, we have developed a new version of Black Dream. It will look the same as what you have been receiving, but it is thousands,
millions,
of times more powerful. We will send you canisters of the new and improved Dream, and you will enlist the aid of your minions to distribute it in the water supply. And in twenty-four hours . . ."
She left the sentence dangling, but Zeldan imagined the results. Slowly, a crooked smile spread across his saturnine features.
"You are
brilliant,
" Zeldan said, and truly meant it. "I doubt any of our kind would have conceived such a plan. It will mean, good gods, all that power, in
one area.
"
"This is a special version," Morrigan continued. "We have engineered it to have a time release of one day. Everyone, or nearly everyone, will have a full dose of it before authorities realize what is going on. Water is everywhere in the humans' world, and once the supply is infected it will take a great effort to cleanse it—provided they can even find the agent. This I doubt."
"And the results?" Zeldan asked, though he already had a good idea what they would be.
"Well, what else? Terrifying hallucinations, irreversible brain damage, damaged organs, poisoned blood, insanity, glorious mass insanity. The list is endless. And you will be on hand to reap all of it, to transmit it 'live,' I believe is the human term, directly to us."
Zeldan shook his head.
She must be joking.
"All that power . . . the port would fuse instantly."
"With all that power," Morrigan countered, "we can construct a Gate to admit it to Underhill, a Gate that feeds and sustains itself with the very power it's bringing to us. In that quantity, Zeldan, negative energy forms
rivers.
We will bathe in the waters of a dying race. And we will change, Zeldan. We will both become whatever we want."
Zeldan shuddered at the enormity of it all.
All that power
, he kept thinking, and the more he contemplated the reward, the more he desired it for himself as well.
We would become gods.
As the chill of excitement left his body, he turned to Morrigan and said soberly, "Morrigan, you have a deal."
"You're working
where?
" Paul Bendis shouted at his son over dinner. "Doing
what?
"
"The fitness center," Daryl said, pretending to be interested in a stray pea that had fallen off his plate.
Maybe I should have said I was the new manager.
"I thought you'd be happy to hear that I had a job."
Of course, he left out the part about the coke, but everything else about his new gig at the New You looked legit. Daryl sighed and set about the grim task of finishing his dinner. His mother had run out of Valium the day before and mysteriously felt energetic enough today to fix a full meal. It was the first time in months they had eaten together, and Daryl was hoping to make his father proud of him. But that hope was quickly disintegrating under his father's harsh glare.
Justin sat opposite Daryl and ate everything put before him, obviously pretending nothing was wrong, occasionally glancing at his older brother with sympathy. It was the only support he had at the table; Mother stared ahead blankly, exhausted after her special efforts, as Father spat his usual venom. Looking for something to distract him, Daryl noticed the t-shirt purchased earlier that summer was already showing signs of being too small on Justin's growing frame. For a brief moment, Daryl wondered why his own body hadn't grown so dramatically, and wondered if his coke habit had anything to do with it.
"Only fairies work jobs like that," Paul said, dragging him back into the argument. "Why do you need a job anyway?"
A bottle of scotch sat next to the table wine, and Paul had helped himself liberally to both during supper. When Father spoke, Daryl caught a nauseating waft of booze-breath, killing what was left of his already shaky appetite. "Doesn't your allowance more than cover your needs?"
A hundred dollars a week? If only you knew, Dad. . . .
It was a no-win situation, as usual. Anything he said would be wrong. If he agreed with his father, Paul would accuse his son of being weak. If he disagreed, that would be "talking back." Both infractions were punishable with the back of Paul's hand.
Daryl kept quiet, hoping the matter would just go away.
"So when the hell are you going to get insurance for that goddamned car?" Paul said after a blessed period of silence.
Daryl sighed. "I have insurance, Dad."
Paul looked mildly surprised. "Good," he said. "You might keep your ass out of jail after all."
Paul stood abruptly and tossed his napkin on the table. "I have a business dinner with a client. Next time you bother to cook a meal, Yanni, how about letting us know?"
Paul had left the table, grabbed his coat, and was halfway to his car when Yanni yawned and replied, "Yes, dear."
Later, when Daryl had cleared the table, he encountered Justin on his way down the stairs.
"Wanna go out?" Daryl asked.
Justin seemed to consider this. "And do what?"
"What else? Get loaded."
Justin shook his head, continued down the stairs. "Naw. I don't think so."
Daryl frowned. "Why? I thought you wanted to?"
"Because I don't want to look like you, Daryl," Justin said, without emotion, before leaving the house.
The remark left Daryl speechless. As he got ready to go out, he decided Justin was just pissed off because he'd said no the first time, and this was his way of being defiant.
An hour later, Daryl was out getting loaded on Dream all by himself, praying to the gods who governed his life that Mort would not show up.
Paul Bendis was on his second martini when Peter Pritchard decided to arrive, and he might have taken offense at his lateness. But when he saw the waiter leading his prospective client to his table, he immediately pegged him as a high-tech, high-dollar drug dealer, and decided Mr. Pritchard could be as late he wanted to be.
"Paul Bendis," Peter said, extending a large hand. "I'm Peter Pritchard."
"Pleased to meet you," Paul said, wanting to dispense with the mandatory pleasantries. He took in the Oxford suit at a glance and decided Peter was very wealthy indeed. "I hope this restaurant is to your liking."
Peter hardly glanced at his surroundings. "I did not come here to eat, Mr. Bendis," he said, waving away the menu the waiter offered. "My time is valuable. And in short supply."
"Then we will get down to business," Paul said, as Peter sat in the chair the waiter pulled out for him.
"A drink, then?" Paul offered.
"No," Peter replied briefly. "What we have to talk about will not take long." When the waiter was gone, Peter continued, "Donald Wallbrook works for me. He sells things for me, if you understand."
"I've been Wallbrook's lawyer for many months now," Paul said evenly, wondering if he should refer to his "prize" client as Presto, like everyone else. "I assume he gave you my card."
"He did," Peter said, with a subtle smile Paul found unnerving. "He has told me what an excellent lawyer you are. There are others besides Presto who work for me. They may need your services, as well, in the not too distant future."
Okay, here it comes,
Paul thought, clearing his throat. "My rates are not cheap. I'm sure Presto has already told you."
"He has. I will need a lawyer on call, twenty-four hours a day. Do you carry a pager?"
Paul had given up his pager a year before, as it tended to go off at the most inopportune times. It was easier to explain an ignored cellular phone call, which did not store the caller's number.
"You can reach me on my carphone or at my office. An answering service will call me if it's an emergency. The system works rather well, as Presto has certainly told you."
However, Peter didn't seem pleased. "I suppose that will have to do, since you are the best. Soon there will be an increase in business, within the week. My people will be moving large quantities of product, if you catch my meaning. There may be complications."
Peter removed an envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to Paul. When he opened it, he found a cashier's check for ten thousand dollars.
"Is that sufficient for a retainer?" Peter asked softly, getting to his feet.
"Ten thousand? It certainly is," Paul said, getting to his feet. "Here is my card, again, with all pertinent numbers. How can I reach you?"
"That won't be necessary," Peter said, taking the card and putting it in a coat pocket without reading it. "I will call you if I need you. Good night, Mr. Bendis."
Peter Pritchard turned and left the restaurant as Paul watched, mildly confused.
Secretive prick,
he thought, and shrugged.
But for a ten thousand dollar retainer, he can be as secretive as he wants.
Sammi McDaris listened to the conversation between Peter and Paul with extreme interest, while a reel-to-reel recorder taped it all. Sammi and Roach monitored the radio equipment while a young rookie sat in the van's driver's seat, keeping a watch for surly types coming out of the restaurant. They'd parked in an alley across the street, but had a lousy view of the entrance.
Roach uttered a low whistle when Paul mentioned the check. "Ten
grand?
For a lawyer? Must be some heavy shit getting ready to go down."
Sammi stared at the tape recorder, as if Zeldan's image would suddenly jump from it and tell her what was on his mind. "Wonder why the sudden interest in lawyers," she said, more to herself than to her partner. Then she turned and addressed him directly. "Roach, I think you're right. But do we have enough evidence for a search warrant?"
"On the basis of this tape?" He scratched his head and loosened his already loosened tie. "Doubt it. Did they ever mention coke? No. How trustworthy is that waiter you had plant that bug?"
Sammi was embarrassed to say that she wasn't sure, and regretted using a human for what an elf might have done more efficiently with magic. The waiter had a pending drug charge, and she had arranged for a little leniency if he cooperated. The waiter had put a tiny radio transmitter under the table when Bendis appeared. She knew that Paul Bendis frequented this restaurant, and they had hoped to get some choice bits of incriminating evidence on tape.
She had no idea Zeldan was going to be his dinner guest, even when they caught a glimpse of "Peter" going into the restaurant. True, he was in his human seeming, but as soon as she heard the voice and sensed the dark Unseleighe presence from within the restaurant, she knew who she was dealing with.
"No, I guess not," Sammi said, trying to sound disappointed. She knew that what they'd learned was better than any evidence they might have on Bendis; this indicated something major afoot, something that would happen soon.
Question is, how much does it involve Daryl, or Adam, and the Avalon elves?
Feeling depressed and gloomy, Adam pulled the Geo into the driveway, after having driven in silence from the New You Fitness Center. Marbann, apparently sensing his mood, did not attempt conversation. During the drive over, Adam had nearly formulated a plan of evacuation, which would take the clan to another continent, England, or even Ireland, where they might live in relative isolation from the Unseleighe in the humans' world. Or perhaps they might reenter Underhill and plead with Outremer or some of the other, larger clans for sanctuary. Avalon had been separated from the other clans by choice for so long that he didn't know if they would even be welcomed.
The force Adam had seen in the Unseleighe's eyes, however briefly, was enough to convince him.
Zeldan is too powerful to defeat. To confront him would mean certain death for myself and the clan.
Retreat was the only option, Adam decided. He kept this to himself, because he knew Marbann would violently argue in the negative, that the only chance they had was to take Zeldan directly. This he had already argued, and Adam had no reason to believe anything had changed.
Also, the nagging question of,
what would Father do?
kept at him.
Would Father run in defeat?
Hardly. He had had the opportunity to flee before Avalon fell and had fought to the bitter end.
Now, the new King considered fleeing before the battle had even begun.
Adam hated and feared Zeldan and his forces, but when it got down to it, what he feared the most was his own failure.
What to do?
The question continued to roll around in his mind while he and Marbann entered the house and greeted the clan.
"You look grim," Moira observed when he and Marbann entered the living room. "What happened today?"
She sat in one of the couches next to Niamh, who was busy playing dual Gameboys with Petrus. Wenlann was crocheting something in the corner, smiled when she glanced up, and went back to her work. The complete lack of concern the scene presented was enough to help Adam forget his worries, at least for a moment.
"Is Lady Samantha home yet?" Marbann asked, though Adam already knew she wasn't. The older elf had yet to make the connection between the presence and absence of certain automobiles and what that had to do with where the owner might be.
"She's working late," Adam said. "On some stakeout work."
Involving Paul Bendis.
He didn't want to think about what this might have to do with Daryl.
The encounter with Zeldan left him with a total feeling of helplessness, and he hoped his body language didn't reveal this. But Moira was far more observant than he'd given her credit for.
Moira pursued the issue a little more aggressively. "Adam,
what happened
? We're involved in this too, you know."