Elvendude (35 page)

"Oh, we got a couple," he said, glancing from Samantha to Daryl. "What do you have?"

"Daryl here, he's willing to help us collect some information," she replied evenly. Daryl scowled, and Adam wondered if he was even well enough to do the job.

"Guys, I don't know . . ." Daryl began, and Adam put a hand on his shoulder.

"You know, this isn't something you can do halfway," Adam said. "We either do this right or we don't do it at all."

Daryl frowned, but looked resigned to what he had to do. "Okay. I'll do it. We'd better get started quick. Presto is expecting me."

Petrus lay on his belly in front of the television, remote in hand. "You
said
you wanted to channel-surf," he said petulantly to Wenlann, who cowered in the corner of the couch. "I want to watch this. This human intrigues me."

Wenlann sighed. "So be it. I think I can put up with this grotesque display of human maleness." A frown passed over her elven features, signaling to Petrus that he had won the argument only for the time being.

On the big screen Sony, Rambo threatened to blow something away with a .50-caliber machine gun. It was the most heroic human Petrus had ever seen; if Rambo were an elf, he speculated, the man would truly be formidable.

This was the first time they'd been left alone in the human house, and Petrus had already decided he liked it. He knew enough to stay out of things he didn't understand, particularly in the garage, where all manner of Cold Iron waited to burn them. There had been the temporary excitement earlier, when the King had accidentally set fire to his carriage, but the danger of unwanted humans entering their new elfhame had passed. Adam had put him in charge of guarding Wenlann, but even now he was beginning to suspect that was only to pacify him, while the "adult" elves went off and did the important things.

"Petrus, what was that?"

The young elf scowled at the interruption. "What was what?"

She looked fearfully toward the front door. "That."

Petrus heard it that time. A thud, then footsteps. Since the big crane had already taken the burned carriage away already, he knew it wasn't that.
Was the King back already?
He doubted it.

"I'll go look," Petrus said, but he sounded braver than he felt.
I'm in charge. I
have
to go look. But I don't like it.

He crept into the dining room, which had a window looking onto the front yard and circular drive. He saw the charred outline of the carriage, and behind it was another black, rounded carriage. It didn't move, and he didn't see anyone inside.

He observed the carriage for a time, as a sense of dread fell over him like a black shawl.
This was how I felt when the Unseleighe took the palace,
he thought. Then,
We're in danger. I know it.

He ran back to the living room. "Wenlann, I think we should hide in our quarters."

She leaped to her feet. "Why?
What's wrong
?"

"I don't know," he said. "Just to be safe." She clung to his arm like the frightened child they both were, and Petrus suddenly felt like an adult.

As he helped her up the ladder, he heard the front door crash open.

"
Go
," he said impatiently as she scampered up the ladder, then pulled it up behind her.

Without really thinking, he ran back to the kitchen and started going through the drawers. He recoiled from the drawer full of Cold Iron knives, but reached for them anyway, burning his fingers.
Too hot. I need . . .
Then he saw the oven mitt over the stove.

As he grabbed the knife clumsily with the mitt, he sensed a presence behind him. Petrus froze.

"Is this all I have to show for my efforts?" boomed an alien voice. Petrus turned to face the intruder. "A pathetic elf
child
with a knife?"

Petrus knew this had to be an Unseleighe, but it was unlike any elf he'd seen. Small and vaporlike, the creature looked more like a black rat, with a ragged tunic.

"What are you doing in our home?" Petrus demanded. Despite his best efforts to keep his voice deep, it squeaked, mouselike, on
home.

Petrus flung the knife at the intruder; the weapon flew through him, as if he were a ghost.

"Care to try that again, child?" the intruder said. Petrus fled into the garage.

He sensed others in the house as he closed the door behind him. Of course, the lock was on the other side, but at least it gave him a few more moments to scavenge for some other weapon. His eyes fell on the staple gun, one of the items Adam had warned him against, because it spat Cold Iron. It was a large, heavy item, and took both hands to hold up. The Cold Iron the weapon was made of burned, but he still had the oven mitt on and relied on that hand to grip it. He squeezed hard, and out popped a piece of Cold Iron that stuck in the wall. Petrus stood, holding the staple gun in front of him.

"Petrus, what's going on?" he heard Wenlann wail above him.

"Quiet, or they'll hear you!" Petrus shouted back. Then the door burst open. In stepped the biggest Unseleighe he'd ever seen.

"Where are the others, little one?"

Though blond, and in a human seeming, Petrus recognized the face and, when he spoke, the voice.

Zeldan Dhu.

"Gone back to Underhill!" Petrus squeaked, holding the staple gun quivering in front of him.

Zeldan laughed, his voice booming against the interior of the garage.

"Where I have complete control?" Zeldan advanced a step. "Who were you talking to?" His eyes traveled upward, to the ladder. "So that's where they hide!"

"
NO!
" Petrus screamed, and squeezed the staple gun. The bit of iron flew directly into Zeldan's forehead, where it stuck.

"
YAAAAaaaargh!
" the Unseleighe screamed, reaching for the iron that protruded from his skin. Two tiny flames shot out where the metal went in. Petrus fired again, and again, missing once, then hitting him in the arm, with the same fiery results.

Zeldan screamed something incomprehensible, and Petrus continued firing until his hands ached. The staples struck his opponent half a dozen times, but fell out, more often than not, leaving only small burns.

Two other Unseleighe charged in behind Zeldan, and Petrus kept firing. They had him by the arms before he realized he'd run out of staples.

Zeldan walked over to where the others had him pinned down. "I would kill you, if I didn't need you for hostages," Zeldan said. Then Petrus saw another Unseleighe with Wenlann, who was screaming and kicking as they came down the ladder.

To the others, Zeldan barked, "Take them to the center. We have a formidable task ahead of us tonight."

This is the beginning of the end of the nightmare,
a part of Daryl realized during his grief over his brother.
I only hope that I've stopped in time.

Despite the assurance from Adam and Samantha McDaris, Daryl was not convinced he would live past the evening.

Can't live
with
it either, not anymore.

Samantha and her cop partner had gone off to get the listening equipment, and Adam had gone back out to the car for something. He was alone in the dining room as the cops went over the house again. It seemed to be a pattern, sitting in a dining room, feeling like crap, as police searched the house. He liked it even less that it was
his
house this time.

And then Presto calls in the middle of all this. Terrific. Here I am, giving the cops evidence to put him away. And Dad, wherever the hell he is, will probably be busted, too.

Presto says it goes down tonight. And it will go down more ways than he thinks, when I go in there with the cops.

What a way to die.

He kept looking at his watch, waiting for Dad or Mom to show up. Would the police protect him from Dad? He didn't know if they could; Dad would go ballistic, and Daryl doubted an army would hold him back. It became very important for him to get the hell out of there before one or both parents arrived.

Adam came in with the wire, a thin black box with an coax antenna attached to it. The wire would show through his tank top, so they went looking for clothing to conceal the electronics. Upstairs in his room Daryl tried different shirts that wouldn't be conspicuous in the summer heat, before they finally gave up and ran the rig inside the front of his pants. They did a mike check in the van, and while the sound wasn't exactly Dolby quality, it would do for evidence.

Thirty minutes later, Daryl pulled into the parking lot of the New You Fitness Center. The van and the Caprice, driven by Adam, were parked nearby, out of sight. The hour was 10 P.M., and the fitness center parking lot was packed.

But not with the usual assortment of vehicles. Instead of the sedans and station wagons, the lot bristled with faster machinery: a variety of scooters and motorcycles, Trans Ams, Mustangs, Camaros, Corvettes. It looked like a high school parking lot. He didn't feel out of place, so long as he forgot his purpose for being here.

Daryl sat in his car for some time, afraid to get out, and even more afraid to stay there. It was a classic setup for Mort to appear, and that he hadn't yet seemed odd, especially this close to the Man's hideout. Somewhere in the car was a couple of hundred in cash, perhaps much more, which would pay for a one-way trip to California. If he turned the 'Vette back on, steered it onto the nearest highway, and took off, no one would catch him.

And by the time he reached Arizona, a million innocent people would be going insane.

He forced himself to get out.
I have to do this. If I don't, people will die. They may die anyway, but at least I would have tried. Even if I die in the process.
His knees felt weak when his feet hit the pavement, but he made himself go on.

I feel like crap. Maybe if I just had a little hit of Dream, just long enough to keep me going . . .

The thought horrified him.
I can't even stay away from it for a few hours anymore.

I have no control over it. My life is completely unmanageable.

The thoughts echoed from somewhere in his memory, from a movie he remembered seeing.
Something about recovery. Treatment. Meryl Streep was in it. What was the name of that damned movie?

When he reached the front door and entered the fitness center, the decision was made for him.

About twenty or thirty kids, some he recognized from school, most he did not, stood about just inside the New You, smoking cigarettes by the carton. Smoke drifted down the tiled halls, where earlier that day, healthy and near healthy people sweated and grunted away excess fat and calories. It seemed unreal, what he felt and saw then. But then, everything else in his life seemed unreal, particularly the events of the last several weeks. As Daryl stood watching his peers, he wondered if he'd overdosed at his birthday party and had been in a coma ever since; that all the events since were a series of nightmares, strung together in his sleep as he lay somewhere in a hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and wires.

Among them was every grunge bunny and dealer he'd ever known in school, plus a few others he didn't know. They gave him a long, slow, scrutinizing look, one that seemed to say,
Okay, so you're one of us.

The air was thick with smoke. Cravings he never knew existed swept through his body. He bummed a cigarette, then a light.

"It's about time you showed up," Mort said, appearing at his side. He took him by the arm and led him down the tiled hallway. "Where the hell have you been anyway?"

Daryl mumbled a reply even he didn't understand. Mort looked him over suspiciously, so much that he thought the damned little demon was going to pat him down. Then Mort shrugged, gave him an evil grin, and led him to the free-weight room, the largest room in the club.

At one end was a portable stage. Behind this were two double doors. Everyone focused on Peter Pritchard, who stood on the stage in front of a big map of the city of Dallas. With a pointer Peter pointed to the surrounding lakes, which were highlighted in red. His loud voice carried clearly in the large room, and everyone seemed entranced by his presentation.

Peter looked directly at Daryl for a brief moment, during which Daryl's heart raced into overdrive. Peter continued, "Now that our lieutenants are
all
here, I will go into detail on what you will be doing tonight."

Peter addressed the map with the pointer. "You will all be given paper-wrapped packages of product. It is very important that you consume none of it, as it is of a potency that would kill you instantly."

Daryl looked on attentively, cautiously studying the others assembled. They were all acting like zombies, mindlessly listening to what was said on the stage. Granted, this wasn't that much of a change in this group. But it was enough to start him thinking.
What other powers are these creatures working on this gathering?

There, he said it.
Creatures. Whoever is in charge of this operation, they are not human. Even Peter up there, he doesn't look the same, somehow. Or maybe this is just another hallucination.

He looked around and gratefully saw that Mort had vanished.

"Daryl Bendis and his group will go out on Highway 80 to Lake Tawekoni. There they will deposit the product in the waters near the dam," Peter said. As he spoke, his appearance changed. A cloud of light flared briefly around him, then vanished, leaving behind a dark tunic, trimmed with silver, instead of the preppy workout clothes Peter always wore. Daryl looked on, transfixed, as Peter's skin darkened, his ears grew, his nose lengthened, until he looked like a giant rat.

Daryl stared, trying not to let his fear show, recognizing Peter for what he really was—something unhuman, perhaps from another planet. This didn't seem to faze anyone, and Daryl bit his tongue to keep from calling out. Then his feet wanted to run, but he wouldn't let them do that, either.

I sure hope they're getting this all on tape,
he thought.

"Once the product has been delivered, I suggest you all go home, pretend this meeting never took place, and watch the news. Better yet, watch the people around you, first. Things should get very interesting."