Serrated Edge - When The Bough Breaks Part 2

The red-haired woman who stepped out of the late-model Thunderbird and strode across the gravel to the Bal-A-Shar barn bore little resemblance to the somewhat battered woman who had left a cheap hotel room for the beauty salon only a few hours earlier. "Alessandra Whitchurch-Snowdon, Lady Rivers," complete with expensive-looking business cards, wore her shoulder-length hair in a neat french braid, and affected riding boots, jodhpurs, a lean tweedy jacket with leather patches on the elbows, and a high-necked silk blouse. She carried herself with the effortless confidence that access to unlimited funds and a high social standing seem to confer. She managed to convey, in her cool, clipped accent, wry amus.e.m.e.nt at American cars which had their steering wheels on the wrong side, American roads which were positively rampant with insane drivers and impossible rules, and American restaurants, which didn't know how the h.e.l.l to serve tea ("they serve it over ice, my dear, and sweet!"), or what went with it ("everything over here tastes like it's been bathed in sugar"). She saved her compliments for the horses. Within ten minutes, Merryl and "Alessandra" were on a first nickname basis, ("Dear, I'm only Lady Rivers to the poor-my closest friends call me Bits,") and were comparing points on the three two-year-old fillies Merryl was offering. "Alessandra" narrowed the choices down to two, and then it became a matter of pedigree. They returned the horses to their stalls, "Alessandra" making sure she watched gait and conformation even as they were led away, and then headed back to the house to flip through the pedigrees that Merryl kept up with on her computer. After a thorough study of the pedigrees, for both of which the delighted "Lady Rivers" received laser-printed hard copies-"Want to see what both of the girls could offer to my breeding program before I settle on one, don't I?"-Merryl gave her a guided tour of the house. "Cozier than the ancestral pile back home, don't you know?" the ersatz n.o.blewoman offered about halfway through the tour. "You wouldn't believe the chilling effect suits of armor have on one if one happens to be wandering about the place in the wee hours. But n.o.body will let me change the b.l.o.o.d.y decorating scheme. National Trust, don't you know." Prices for each of the two horses were discussed and agreed upon in between rooms-there was no d.i.c.kering. This appeared to hearten the seller greatly. The two women parted with "Bits" promising to make up her mind in the next day or so, and ring back with her decision. Both women were smiling as they went their separate ways.

Lianne skimmed the abuse texts first, and was surprised to find that they were more help than she'd antic.i.p.ated. They outlined signs and symptoms of abuse that went farther than just noting bruises with regular outlines, or a high incidence of broken bones, E.R. visits, or days absent from school. They also outlined personality traits-from constant timidity, clinging behavior, or a desperate search for anyone's approval, to erratic school performances. One book focused almost exclusively on child s.e.xual abuse, and Lianne was surprised to find that s.e.xual abuse of children did not have to include intercourse. Inappropriate touching or kissing, verbal abuse with s.e.xual overtones, and some forms of humiliation were all forms of s.e.xual abuse. She was appalled to find that a shocking number of children were s.e.xually abused-statistics varied slightly, but according to her books, by the time they reached adulthood, roughly one out of every five girls and one out of every nine boys would have encountered s.e.xual abuse. Most s.e.xual abusers were also alcoholics, and almost all of them were men. Abuse of all kinds ran in families, with a high percentage of abused children growing up to be abusers. It was agreed in all of her sources that the biggest hope for eliminating child abuse of any kind was to treat the children who had been abused, soon, so that they in turn would not continue the cycle. Lianne curled on the couch, lost in the horror of the raw numbers. The odds were that Amanda was being s.e.xually abused-she fit many of the characteristics of abused kids, though not all at the same time. Even worse, the odds were incredibly high that Amanda not only wasn't the first abused child Lianne had in her cla.s.s, but that she wasn't the only abused kid in her cla.s.s right then. I didn't know, Lianne thought. She felt sick. Dammit, I just didn't know. There had to be something she could do. Maybe I could lobby to have some sort of abuse-detection program added to our curriculum. Let the kids who are being abused know that abuse is not their fault-never their fault-and find some way to tell them that they aren't alone. The books had said that children felt-or were told until they believed it-that they had somehow caused the abuse. It also said kids thought such things had never happened to anyone but them. And sometimes-this made her gorge rise-they thought it was normal. That things like this did happen to everyone else, and that there would be no reason why anyone would help them. They were often told no one would believe what the children said. Those were apparently the biggest reasons why kids didn't go to someone for help. Another was that they were afraid that something bad would happen to their parents. They didn't realize that the abuse was as bad for their parents as it was for them-that their parents needed help, too. They could come to me, Lianne thought. And there are always a few teachers in any school that the kids know they can trust. Those are the people they should tell. Lianne stretched out on the couch, staring out the gla.s.s doors of her apartment at the quad and the faintly greening trees, and the few bits of dull gray sky that showed around the other apartment buildings. Someone would listen-someone would believe them. And then they would get help. She felt emotionally depleted, but she picked up the Truddi Chase biography anyway, and was drawn into it almost immediately. When she finally put it down, hours later, it was dark outside, and the wind had picked up again. She shuddered and drew the curtains across the gla.s.s doors. That Truddi Chase had managed to survive her ordeal in any form whatsoever spoke for the strength of the human spirit. That she had gone on to make a life for herself left Lianne feeling very weak and insignificant in comparison. I feel almost guilty that I had such an easy life. Lianne had a bad moment when she realized she could see similarities in things she read about Truddi Chase and things she saw in Amanda. Changes in personality, in abilities, in att.i.tudes toward her and other teachers and the girl's cla.s.smates-she'd seen all of them. Could Amanda be a multiple personality case? It seemed more than a little farfetched. But if she was, what sort of life could have fractured her into those multiples? The door rang, and Lianne sighed with relief. He's found something, then. Good. After reading When Rabbit Howls, she wasn't as eager to spend the night by herself as she had been. She opened the door with a grateful smile on her face. "Hi!" a masked stranger said, and wedged her riding boot into the door. "I saw your boyfriend wasn't here, so I thought I'd pay you a visit." She shoved her way inside with her gun aimed at Lianne's midsection the whole time, and closed the door before Lianne had any time to react. "Just us girls together," the intruder said cheerfully, and pulled back the hammer with an ominous click.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Feeling guilty is not the best way to start the day, Mac told himself, driving slowly toward Lianne's. He worried about telling her how out of hand his comforting of Felouen had gotten, then rationalized that hang-ups about monogamy were a mostly human obsession. But then he reminded himself that he had known about that human quirk before he started dating a human- Finally he made up his mind that he would just pretend nothing had happened unless Lianne accidentally found out otherwise. Besides, he told himself in an attempt to soothe his aching conscience, Felouen really needed me there last night. It made her so happy to see that I'd accepted the Ring's geas. She looked at me the way human women do when I've just won a race. And after Gwaryon's death, she needed comforting. And since when does "comforting" include jumping the bereaved's bones? his conscience snapped back. So much for that approach. He dragged his feet as he walked away from Rh.e.l.len, heading as slowly as he could up the walk to the apartment. And he knew immediately that there was something very odd. She's left the door standing open, he thought when he stepped into the apartment entryway. The heavy gray door stood about an inch ajar. He could see that the chain lock wasn't on, either. Considering the day she had yesterday, I'm surprised she doesn't have the whole apartment locked and barred. What did she do, just go collapse on the couch? Or maybe-maybe she left it open for me this morning. So I'd just come straight in. He shook his head, puzzled, and knocked. "Hey, Lianne!" There was no answer. He pushed the door all the way open, and looked inside. Fear overwhelmed puzzlement. He stared at the living room. It had been thoroughly and expertly trashed. Oh, G.o.ds, he thought, oh, s.h.i.+t! With inhuman strength, he clamped down hard on the doork.n.o.b; it broke off in his hand. Before him, two living-room chairs lay on their sides with books scattered across them. The shattered television lay on the floor, one of the shoes he had last seen Lianne wearing resting in the debris. In the connecting kitchen, shards from broken gla.s.ses and dishes sparkled in the light of one errant sunbeam. A Rorschach blot of blood traced obscene patterns down one wall. "Lianne! Lianne! Where are you?" he shouted. He ran from room to room. Beyond the living room and the kitchen, nothing had been disturbed. Lianne's jewelry was intact, her stereo and her computer were where they belonged, her clothes still hung neatly in the closet. Only Lianne was gone. In the sinister hush of the empty apartment, his sharp, irregular breaths and the tick of the kitchen clock were the only sounds. He stretched his psychic feelers-and came up empty. No magic had touched this room except his own. No demon creatures from the Unformed Plane had stolen Lianne away. Scenes from a hundred TV cop shows played in his memory. Robbery wasn't the motive-and it wasn't magic, either Unseleighe or human. Rape? Kidnapping? Worse? Mac started looking for a message, a note, anything-going room to room and searching inch by inch. When the phone rang right next to his ear, Mac jumped. "G.o.ds, let it be her," he whispered. "Let this be some stupid mistake." He picked up the handset and held it to his ear. "Lianne?" he asked. "Not a chance, babe. It's Jewelene. I've got her." The voice on the other end of the line was m.u.f.fled, the laughter in his ear was coa.r.s.e and vicious. "You owe me. You owe me big time, baby-and you're going to pay. You know what?" A dull ache gripped Mac's chest. "What?" "You stole my car and slashed the tires. So I stole your girl. You don't want to know what I've slashed." The voice was laughing again. Belinda Ciucci. "What do you want?" Mac whispered. The voice was full of obscene gloating. "I'm going to kill her. And I'm going to enjoy every long second of it." Think, fool! What can you bargain for her? "You don't want her." Belinda made a tsking sound. "Sure I do, babe. You know what they say about a bird in the hand and all that." Convince her. Somehow convince her. "You want me. Not her." Deep breathing for a moment, as his heart raced and fear clogged his throat. "Yeah, but I've got her. Right now, pal, I just want to hurt somebody. She put up a fight-I've already hurt her a little. She's not as pretty as she used to be." G.o.ds, Lianne. What in h.e.l.l have I done to you? Mac thought. What did I get you into? How can I get you out again? "You tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it. Just let her go. Don't hurt her anymore." "d.a.m.n shame you didn't have that att.i.tude a day or two ago. Everybody would have been a lot happier." Maclyn twisted a b.u.t.ter knife lying on the counter into a knot. d.a.m.n Belinda Ciucci,. he thought. I should have wiped her memories instead of playing games with her. The woman cleared her throat. "First, don't call the police. I'll kill her at the first sign that you've involved them. For now, you get to wait. You're going to meet me somewhere, but I haven't decided where yet. Stay by the phone. I'll call you back when I make up my mind." Mac clenched his hand on the handset. This woman was not sane. "When?" Belinda laughed, and the note in her voice confirmed that she was not sane. "Who knows?" "Let me talk to her," he pleaded. "Nope." There was a click. The woman had hung up. Mac refrained from smas.h.i.+ng the handset to shreds. Instead, he set it gently back in the receiver. Then he put his fist through the wall. "Dammit! Dammit, I should have been here, dammit! I should have been here. Not with Felouen. Here. If I'd been here, none of this would have happened." He stared at the phone, his only link with Lianne. He hadn't thought through the possible consequences of angering Belinda, then leaving her to her own devices. He could have taken care of her by himself earlier-that would have been the end of it. No one would have suffered. Now he needed help, and needed it badly. And Dierdre and Felouen and all of his other potential sources of help were currently Underhill gearing up to wipe out golems. In fact, he should have been going straight from Lianne's place back to Elfhame Outremer. Instead, he was locked in place in the apartment. He would have to construct a Gate in the apartment, he decided-one that he could leave up and use to shuttle back and forth between Underhill and Lianne's telephone. The energy drain would be bad, worse since his resources were already low. He was tired, he was needed by both his own people and a seriously disturbed child, he'd just lost a friend and had another seriously hurt-and now Lianne was a hostage somewhere. He was pulled in too many directions. Which is exactly when people get careless and get themselves killed, he told himself. Not that my state of readiness matters. There's no looking back. He started pulling in the energy that would form the Gate.

Amanda-Anne sat like a spider in her web, centered in the Unformed Plane, singing loudly and off-key, making monsters. She had started to vary them-somewhere along the line, she had gotten tired of the stick-men. She made a few two-headed stick-men, but even that was too boring. She made some things with four legs and long, spiky tails and huge teeth, and she rather liked those. She made a few more, similar but with wings. When the first of her winged monsters flew through the air, she laughed and clapped her hands-and began adding wings to everything she made from then on. Her monsters started getting bigger. One had dozens of legs and three heads on long, snake-like necks; it flew with less grace than a winged tank might have, but it did fly. No one bothered her in the Unformed's nothingness. The Father couldn't find her. The nasty things that lived there were more afraid of her than she was of them. Nothing could touch her, nothing could hurt her. She had never had so much fun in her life. She had never had so many friends, either. She rubbed the green bead strung on her wrist. "My m-m-magic door," she whispered. "J-j-j-just like the g-g-genie's lamp." She crowed with delight. To have been so weak, to be so strong-it was wonderful. And the best thing was that her magic door could take her back into the elf's world. She thought about this as she worked on her current creation, an eight-legged nightmare with hundreds of eyes and a fanged mouth that ran the length of its belly. If it weren't for the goody-two-shoes elves, that place would have been perfect. The Father and the Step-Mother couldn't get there. In among all those trees, with all that magic, she would be safe. She could hide there forever-if it weren't for the stupid elves, who would make her go home. She thought yearningly of how nice this place would be without bossy elves, about how much she would like to hide here forever. She sang to herself and made another monster.

Lianne woke to a blaze of pain, with the tang of blood and a filthy rag in her mouth, bathed in the stench of car exhaust and gasoline. She felt as if she was lying on a bed of nails, with another one slowly descending on her. Her head throbbed, her eyes would not open, her face burned horribly and screamed with pain. Her ribs crunched ominously against hard cold metal and stinking carpet when she rolled off to the left. She felt the bones of her face s.h.i.+ft relative to each other when she moved, and white-hot searing agony shot through her skull. She sobbed, and the movement of her rib cage stabbed fire along her nerves. What have I done? she wondered. Where am I? She fought to retrieve foggy memory. She remembered elves fighting the monsters-or was that a true memory? She remembered magic, too-and Maclyn doing magic. And that was crazy. Absolutely crazy. Impossible. Everyone knew that magic couldn't exist. Mac Lynn. Not Maclyn. He's a racecar driver. Not an elf. Something has happened to my mind-amnesia or something-to make me think of magic. However I got hurt like this-it's confused me. But that wasn't so, was it? Maclyn, not Mac Lynn, wasn't human. She'd figured that out all by herself, using logic, using reason-and she'd caught him out. So the elves were real. That meant the monsters were real, too. The elves had won their fight with the monsters. Because of her. I'm a hero-whoopee. Look where it got me. What happened next? She remembered books. Child abuse books-she'd been reading, and she'd just figured out something about Amanda. Yes. It was coming back. She remembered the knock at her door, but it wasn't Mac waiting on the other side. It had been a strange woman with a gun. The woman had barged in-but Lianne hadn't reacted the way she'd expected. Lianne had grabbed a heavy ashtray and bashed the intruder in the face-G.o.d knows where the courage for that trick came from, or how I managed it-and blood had spurted down the inside of the pantyhose mask the b.i.t.c.h wore. A second bash, this time to the gun-hand, and the gun had flown across the room. I got first licks in-but she had obviously had training. Lots of it. Lianne was starting to remember the other things, as well. Very unpleasant things. The woman was good at hand-to-hand combat-she'd probably used it on other people, given the way she acted. When she dove at Lianne, she took her down and flipped her on her stomach, slapped handcuffs on her-what the h.e.l.l was she doing with handcuffs?-and then started kicking. Lianne knew she had broken ribs. She remembered hearing them crack when the woman's riding boots struck, and she could feel them now, hurting more than she'd ever thought she could hurt, screaming with pain with every breath. Her nose was broken, too, and probably her jaw and her left cheekbone-those injuries had occurred after the woman retrieved her gun, when she started beating Lianne in the face with it. Her eyes wouldn't open because they were swollen so badly. I could go blind from this, she realized with horror, then wondered if she was going to live through this to be blind. She couldn't move her arms-the handcuffs were still on. Her ankles were tied together. The rag in her mouth tasted of blood, old and new. Why I'm here doesn't matter. What matters is-how do I get out? From her almost-fetal position-which she could not change without b.u.mping solid obstacles or causing even more pain than she already endured-from the smells, and from faintly heard road noises, she figured she was in the trunk of a car. She did not remember how she got there. She must have knocked me out, dragged me to the car-she was a h.e.l.l of a lot stronger than I would have guessed. The car door slammed so hard right then that the shock wave jarred her head and rattled through her teeth. The driver's weight as she (or was it a he now?) bounced the vehicle around, confirming the fact that her cage was, indeed, the trunk of her captor's car. The engine started up, and Lianne was thrown from one side to the other as the driver accelerated and turned corners at high speed. The teacher debated making some noise to let the driver know she was awake-then decided against it. There was nothing in the woman's att.i.tude last night that made Lianne think she would let her get a drink of water, or go to the bathroom-if the same woman was still the one who had her. Lianne figured if she made any noise, she was more likely to be beaten with a pistol again. A drink of water wasn't worth the pain. Mac will know I'm gone today. No one else will miss me until tomorrow, but Mac will know. I hope he finds me soon-I think she's going to kill me if he doesn't.

Elves with mage-blades and gleaming gold armor sat on the gra.s.s next to elves in Kevlar who carried Steyr AUGs, shotguns, or high-tech graphite compound bows-and these sat next to elves whose only weapons were their expressions of scorn or amused disbelief. Felouen tried to contain her dismay at the meager attendance. Less than half of Elfhame Outremer's fighting force had seen fit to show up for her briefing. The few warriors present had listened in polite silence while Felouen described her ordeal. She began with the spell that had drawn her and Gwaryon in and ended with Dierdre's entrance. Dierdre took up the tale then, describing what they found, Gwaryon's death and the rescue by the human woman. Felouen thought that she had done well-and Dierdre certainly sounded convincing enough-but it was obvious that the warriors were unimpressed. One of the younger elves, who wore no weapons, sprawled in the gra.s.s, nonchalant. He'd listened with a bored expression on his face. When she finished speaking, he indicated that he had a question with an indolently raised finger. "Yes?" Felouen asked him. "I felt the spell you're talking about yesterday. I warded against it as soon as I noticed it, and it didn't bother me. If you hadn't been hanging around old weird Gwaryon, you would done the same thing, and then we wouldn't have been out here earlier using a lot of valuable energy saving your life." He shrugged and turned his palms up. "Not that I resent helping you out-but if you had taken a few reasonable precautions, it wouldn't have been necessary." One of the older elves nodded. "You should never have answered a summons unarmed." "How in all the h.e.l.ls would I know that?" Felouen snapped. "Humans stopped summoning elves long before I was born. And Gwaryon didn't mention it." One of the others grunted. "He should have." "Granted," Felouen snarled. "However, you are all missing the point. The witch-child who summoned us wasn't the threat. The other child and the Unseleighe things she called were the threat." A mail-clad woman who sat near the front sighed. "I find it hard to believe that they are even a fraction of the threat you make them out to be, Felouen. The sort of weirdlings a child is strong enough to conjure would have to be pretty feeble. I know they killed Gwaryon, and I'm not discounting the injuries they did you-but neither of you were armed. Neither Dierdre nor Maclyn were harmed." Felouen felt her frustration building. She hit her fists together, wis.h.i.+ng each of them held one slow-brained elvish skull in it. "The only reason they were unhurt is that the human woman broke the containment spell and sent them back wherever they came from." A shrug of indifference. "Yes. Precisely. We're talking about monsters that one human can banish." "We're talkin' about five beasties that four elves couldna' kill-couldna' even scratch, Ymelthre." Dierdre, cross-legged to one side of the standing Felouen, leaned forward, her eyes glowing with contained rage. "With our enchanted blades, we couldna' even make them cry out. And neither Gwaryon nor Felouen could break the binding spell that held them helpless. A spell a 'mere human child' set. Felouen has seen these things in the Oracular Pool, and she says they are a threat to us. And I've fought them, and I say they are a threat to us. We need to stand a watch. We need to be ready." Felouen watched them as the group broke into a debate over standing watch versus not standing watch. I know what the problem is. Nothing really scares them anymore, she thought. They have been the fastest and the strongest and the best for so long, they believe they can't be hurt. Except by our Unseleighe kin, and this time they aren't involved. When the group announced its decision to post a bare-bones watch so thin that she knew it was merely a token thrown in her direction because she was the warriors' chieftain, she smiled bitterly. Well, I hope they're right. After the main group had drifted off, several of the Ring-sworn, who had waited in silence, came up to stand in front of her. She recognized all of them from long-ago campaigns together, or from more recent social meetings. Of the group, considered by most of the elvenkind in Elfhame Outremer to be dreadfully conservative, Amallen was nominal leader. Amallen bent one knee slightly-Old World manners-and briefly bowed his head. "Lady," he said in grave tones, "do not think too badly of them. They have not fought beside you-and they cannot imagine a human child who could bring forth anything that could endanger them. We," and with a nod of his head he indicated his companions, "have decided among ourselves to stand a separate watch. We will begin at once; we have already set our s.h.i.+fts. The others will realize that they were wrong later-and some may die learning their folly. We don't need to see the monsters to smell their taint. There is something sorely wrong here-and though we cannot fathom it, we cannot doubt it." Felouen smiled gratefully, as relief so profound it made her knees weak washed over her. "Those who will later owe you their lives will thank you. I know that thanks is due now." She hugged each of the nine who had supported her for so long. "I wish this were idle worrying. As it is, I know you won't be standing your watches alone for long."

Belinda grinned at herself in the rearview mirror. The worm turns-that's the phrase, I think. The worm turns. She readjusted the mirror and stretched the stiff muscles in her shoulders. The worm has certainly turned in my favor now. The light changed from red to green, and Belinda headed through the intersection and pointed the car out of town. She'd spent the night in the Thunderbird, unwilling to move her captive out of the security of the trunk, and equally unwilling to leave her in the trunk while she slept inside her motel room. No sense taking a chance on the teacher waking up and making enough noise to get herself rescued. And she couldn't think of anyplace to keep the woman-until she remembered the abandoned building out in the middle of nowhere that she'd hiked past the night Mac Lynn stole her car. It would work well enough, Belinda thought. Tie the teacher up, steal her clothes so that she didn't get the urge to do any wandering even if she got loose, and leave her. Of course, killing her immediately would be a lot less complicated. There was nothing to connect her with the woman; nothing left behind to incriminate Belinda. It would be just one more senseless abduction-murder-probably wind up on "Unsolved Mysteries." If she killed the teacher, there wouldn't be any witnesses who might cause trouble later, and Mac Lynn didn't need to know his little s.l.u.t was dead-h.e.l.l, the whole purpose of this business had been to get him by the b.a.l.l.s. Belinda smiled. The tone of his voice over the phone told him she'd accomplished that. So Miss Teacher had served her purpose. He'd go where Belinda told him to go, hoping that his girlfriend would still be alive. The abandoned house would still make a good destination. It could be weeks or even months before someone found the body-Belinda and the child and Mel Tanbridge would be well away from North Carolina by then. She retraced her trip from that night carefully, stopping and backtracking on a couple of occasions as she missed a turn. It was a long drive, made longer by the fact that she felt obligated to drive the speed limit right then. It would be a stone b.i.t.c.h to get pulled with a well-beaten kidnap victim in her possession. The sun rode higher and the day started getting hot-a nice enough change, Belinda thought, after the cold, wet c.r.a.p of the day before. She drove past hundreds of little rural houses, all of them ordinary, all of them quiet-which suited her just fine. But none of them was the one she wanted. Finally she spotted the place. Weeds had overgrown the drive, and kudzu, greening as the weather warmed, covered everything else. In another month, the house would be completely invisible under its kudzu blanket. Perfect. I'll have to thank Mac Lynn for helping me find this dump. Now, what to do with little miss schoolmarm? Belinda considered only an instant, then decided. Hostages were risky, and too much trouble to take care of. Dead bodies, on the other hand, were very little trouble at all. She'd rather deal with corpses than captives any day. So, she'd get the woman out of the trunk, march her into the place. Shoot her in the head, shove the body through some loose floorboards-there were bound to be some loose floorboards in there somewhere. Then she'd find a phone, call Mac Lynn, have him meet her-where? Why not out here? Torture the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, dump him next to his girlfriend while he's still alive and can appreciate it-then kill him. That would be fair after what he's done to me. First the girlfriend. She pulled into the weed-choked drive, and the Thunderbird b.u.mped along, weeds and sticks hissing and thumping against the glossy brown finish. She stopped the car when she was right behind the house. It was going to be h.e.l.l to get back out again, she thought with displeasure. The place was dilapidated, the wrap-around porch sagged to the ground in several places, and the only part of the structure that looked slightly solid were the boards nailed over the windows. There had been something nailed over the door, too, but that had been ripped away. The actual door hung on one rusted hinge, partway open. The place was a perfect haven for snakes and rats and G.o.d only knew what else. At least that probably keeps the riff-raff out, she mused. More than that ludicrous little sign, anyway. The building was posted, "NO TRESPa.s.s-G BY ORDER OF T-." Rain and sun and wind had bleached the yellow sign to bone white on one side and obliterated much of its message. Dump looks like the place where the universe goes to die. It gave her the creeps worse in the daylight than it had at night. She realized that was because she could see it better in daylight. Belinda pulled out her gun. It was a good, reliable weapon. She didn't use it often-guns weren't subtle enough for her taste most of the time-but it had never let her down. Still, she didn't much like the idea of killing the teacher-it would hurt the b.a.s.t.a.r.d race driver, but it was extra. She wasn't getting paid for it-and that made it dirtier, somehow, than killing for pay. Or for revenge. Belinda looked out at the bleak ruin. I'll be doing her a favor, she decided. It would be worse for her if I left her here alive. She slipped the gun into its holster and pulled the keys out of the ignition. It would be a long time before she made the mistake of leaving them in it again-no matter how little time she intended to be gone. She popped the latch on the trunk, got out, and walked around to the back, fighting her way through burrs and thorns and tenacious stickers. She pulled her shoulders back and took a deep breath. The gap between the trunk and the hood looked odd for a moment. Peculiar. It gave her the s.h.i.+vers for just a moment, like someone had stepped on her grave. She shook off the feeling. Ah, well. Showtime, she thought. She reached down to release the latch.

Cethlenn flew Abbey across the slick ice-barrier that Alice had created to protect her domain, then floated both of them down to stand in the long, white-on-white corridor. Amanda-Abbey studied the high-arched ceiling and the unadorned walls that ran, unbroken, to the vanis.h.i.+ng point. "She's in there?" she asked. "Somewhere," Cethlenn agreed. Abbey stared at the nothingness, puzzled. "How will we find her?" Cethlenn didn't seem concerned. "We won't. She'll find us." "We're just going to wait here?" Abbey asked, hoping that Cethlenn had some plan. Cethlenn gave the girl a weary smile. "I wish it were so easy. No-we'll walk. Make lots of noise." That made no sense at all. "Why?" "You'll see," Cethlenn promised. The two of them started down the corridor, stomping on the floor as hard as they could, sending the clamor of their footsteps ringing on ahead of them. Amanda-Abbey started hopping, and her heavy thumps increased the racket-until she noticed the noise becoming m.u.f.fled, and the floor on which she jumped becoming springier. She looked down at her feet. "Cethlenn," she whispered, "look! The floor is growing carpet!" "Aye." Cethlenn did not seem surprised. "She always does that after a bit. Now we must sing. Know you a bothersome song that we can sing together?" " 'One Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall,' " Abbey offered after a moment's thought. Cethlenn shook her head. "Sing a bit of it for me." Amanda-Abbey did, while the witch listened. "Oh, for sure-" Cethlenn laughed. "That will drive her to distraction." They resumed marching while they bellowed through nearly forty verses of the song. Again, Abbey noticed a change, as their singing echoed less and less, and seemed closer and smaller-though she knew she was making just as much noise as she had at the first. Cethlenn looked up and pointed at the ceiling. Amanda-Abbey's gaze followed the gesture. "She's lowered it." "Now we bring her to us," Cethlenn whispered. "Here. Take this." The witch made a gesture, and a pail of bright yellow paint appeared in her hand. She offered it to Abbey, who took it and stared at it in confusion. Cethlenn created blue and pink paints for herself, in the brightest tints imaginable. She took the pink pail, and slung it against one wall. Fluorescent streaks spread in gaudy profusion, and dripped messily down the surface of the corridor. The witch followed the same procedure with the blue. Amanda-Abbey watched, appalled. "That's not very nice, Cethlenn," she said. "It had to be done." The witch shrugged. "Now you do yours." Abbey bit her lip, then tipped her can and dribbled just a bit of the yellow onto the floor. "Not on the carpet!" a shrill soprano voice screeched, and a child raced out of hiding and yanked the can away from Abbey. Abbey and Alice stared at each other. Abbey thought that the girl appeared to be about her own age-but that similarity was the only one Abbey could find. The other girl was as white as the walls around her-white hair, white face, white lips, white clothes-no hint of color touched any part of her except for her eyes. The girl's eyes were gray, but they were neither the bright and lively gray of kittens nor the safe gray of the bark of old maple trees, nor the firm and dependable gray of the stones in good fireplaces. They were the dismal gray of drizzly late afternoons when the sun hadn't been out all day. They were the flat gray of inst.i.tutional paint, the kind Abbey saw used on garage floors and storage rooms, and the kind she suspected prisons would be painted in. "I'm Abbey," she said, lost in the hopelessness of those gray, gray eyes. "I'm-I'm your sister." The gray eyes narrowed. "You made a mess!" Alice fumed. "You tracked on my carpet, you were noisy, you were singing in my hall!" She glared at the two of them, then pointed her finger at Cethlenn. "You have come here before. I don't want you here." "Alice!" Cethlenn took the authoritarian posture and voice of a demanding adult. "You are being rude to your guest. You have not properly introduced yourself to your sister." Alice wasn't fooled for a second. "I'm not the one who went into peoples' houses and stomped and screamed and sang wicked songs and threw paint on the walls and tracked it into the carpet. That's evil. Evil! I don't have to be polite to evil people-the Bible says not to countenance wickedness." Abbey raised an eyebrow and looked at the witch. :This is my sister? She's awful. Why would anyone ever let her come out?: :She's very good at cleaning up messes. That's something neither you nor Anne have managed yet. Adults think she is a very good child, she knows manners-and she is very organized and very patient. And she doesn't mind being alone.: Cethlenn rested a hand on Abbey's shoulder. :She also knows things you don't know. You need her.: :Then we shouldn't have dumped paint on her carpet.: Cethlenn waved her hand at the paint that still marked walls and floor. It vanished, along with the paint cans that had contained it. :Now she doesn't have as much to be upset about.: Cethlenn jammed her thumbs into the braided belt that wrapped around her narrow waist and leaned down until her eyes were on a level with Amanda-Alice's. "If you want to stop real wickedness, come with us," she told the pale girl. "You have yet another sister, who protects both of you. She thinks the way to protect you is by making monsters-and that is what she is doing now. She has to be stopped." "Making-monsters?" Alice looked at Abbey. "You are going to stop her?" Abbey shrugged helplessly. "Cethlenn says the two of us can't. We need more help." Alice's eyes lit with a zealot's glee. "I'll help. When we've stopped her, I'll tell her about the Bible." Amanda-Abbey, who had met Anne once before, had doubts about the wisdom of that, but she kept them to herself. She figured Alice would reconsider, too, once she'd met the other "sister." So she said nothing, just nodded. Cethlenn said, "Excellent. I'm glad you're joining us, Alice. We can put your talents to good use." Abbey tried not to be bothered by the fact that, where she had only had herself and the faceless voice of "Stranger" to rely on a few days ago, now she had the bossy presence of Cethlenn and the bizarre Alice. And Anne, who scared her badly, and whom she did not like at all, was yet to come.

Maclyn finished the Gate and sagged against the living-room wall, gray with exhaustion. :Rh.e.l.len-stay put, and if the phone rings, come through and get me,: he Mindspoke to his elvensteed-hoofprints in the living room were the least of the damage that had been done here. :The Gate is in the kitchen-get me as fast as you can, and get me back here before it stops. I'll leave the side door open.: The elvensteed sent back affirmation, and Maclyn stepped toward the kitchen and through the Gate. He stepped out at the periphery of the Grove and immediately looked toward its center. He had expected to see the fighting forces of Elfhame Outremer a.s.sembled, or at least to have been met by armed guards. But there was no one. The Grove was devoid of warriors, devoid of elves of any walk of life. He listened and heard the gentle laughter and the music of normal days coming from Elfhame Outremer itself, and he frowned. Surely Felouen and Dierdre had brought their message to the city. Yet the sounds he heard were not the sounds of a people preparing for war. "Ha, Thaerry, you almost had me," a light female voice called from the other side of the Grove. Maclyn saw a red-clad beauty dart out from under the sheltering boughs of the trees, followed closely by her lean swain, elegantly robed in gold-shot blue. "Droewyn, you minx-I'll have you yet," the would-be lover answered. He caught the girl and tripped her into the gra.s.s, and the two of them rolled together, laughing and fondling each other, oblivious to Maclyn's presence. "Pardon," Mac said, stepping into the open arena of the Grove with them, "but have Felouen and Dierdre not been here?" Droewyn straightened her bodice with some annoyance, and said, "Aye, they've been, Maclyn-gone, too, I hope. Old buzzards, prophesying their dismal tales of doom." Thaerronal chuckled and nibbled on his companion's neck. He gave Maclyn a pointed stare and said, dryly, "They headed back toward the Oracular Pool, no doubt to bathe themselves in more of their gloomy worries. Why don't you follow them?" Maclyn bit his lip and withheld the criticism he wanted so badly to give. Thaerry was about his own age-and one of the few Elves of the High Court even less inclined to involvement in Court affairs than he had been. Droewyn was Low Court, tied to the Grove-Maclyn wouldn't have expected any better of her. So he nodded stiffly and ran in the direction they'd indicated. The rich woodland scents, the soft whisper of his boots on the forest loam, the warm, moist breeze that brushed his skin, the twilight gleam of the eyes of the beasts that watched his progress along the path-all those things said "home" to him, rea.s.sured him- :Halt, Maclyn, Ring-sworn Friend of the High Court of Elfhame Outremer.: The crisp Mindspoken command cut through the exhausted reverie into which he'd drifted. Maclyn skidded to a stop and watched the forest around him. From behind a ma.s.sive tree, an armed and armored elf stepped into view. The Uzi hung casually at her side; the Kevlar body armor fit her like a seamed skin. Her soft gold hair streamed like a river from the silver coronet that held it out of her eyes. She grinned at him. :Nice to see you've finally joined us.: Maclyn smiled with relief. :Hallara. Good to see someone standing watch.: The woman, one of his mother's contemporaries, laughed. :Some of us know Felouen-and Dierdre. They have better things to do than chase imaginary bogans; if they say the Unseleighe-or anything else-are about to bite us, we won't wait until we feel the teeth. So. There are enough of us to cover the permanent Gates, with a few left over to raise the alarm throughout Elfhame Outremer. We may be caught short, but we won't be caught sleeping.: He nodded. :Mother around?: :Checking the Oracle, I think. The omens were very bad, last time I got any news. Crisis impending, any second-of course, that's the Oracle. d.a.m.ned imprecise. Makes you wish something would happen, just so you could get past the waiting.: Maclyn's laugh was bitter. :Don't you believe it. The waiting is a h.e.l.l of a lot better. Things have broken loose on my side-someone kidnapped my girlfriend.: :The human? Is it related to all of this?: :I don't think so. This crazy woman has been following me for about a week. I don't know what she wants, but she's not Unseleighe, just mad, and evil. A bad combination, but there's none of the feel of magic to her.: Hallara nodded, then whistled-a low run of rapid notes with a liquid trill at the end. The whistle was answered and repeated. I really ought to keep up on the codes, Maclyn thought as he listened to the brief message making its way through Elfhame Outremer. It would save a h.e.l.l of a lot of footwork. In almost no time, Dierdre, astride her elvensteed, galloped into view. "That red-headed b.i.t.c.h kidnapped Lianne," Maclyn told her without preamble. "I need help finding her-and some backup for her rescue." "The timing on this couldn't have been worse. The Oracle is showing imminent disaster, Mac. None of us dare leave-it appears that an attack is going to be launched against us through one of the Gates within mere minutes. I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you on your own where Lianne is concerned." This was not only unexpected, it was disastrous. "Dammit!" Dierdre shook her head, implacable. "I'm sorry. We're thin here as it is." "I know-" he pleaded, "but I'm afraid for Lianne's life." "And I'm afraid for all of ours." Never had he seen his mother look so drawn, so torn by conflicting duties. "I'm sorry, Maclyn. Go back, do what you can-I'll come and help you search if I survive this." Mac stared at his feet, then looked into his mother's eyes, anguished. Conflicting loyalties and loves tore at him as well. "She's in trouble because of me. I can't stay and help you fight. I can't abandon her, Mother." She nodded slowly. "Go. I understand. A single fighter more or less isn't going to make a difference. An army, now-but an army isn't going to have time to come to us. We've called on Fairgrove, but they're depleted and down after their last to-do. n.o.body else is near enough." Maclyn's shoulders sagged, and he turned and began the walk back toward his own Gate.

Amanda-Anne s.h.i.+vered. The cold mists of the Unformed Plane seeped through to her very bones, and the things she had made had grown restive. They looked at her with edgy calculation in their glowing eyes-circled around her along an ever-shrinking perimeter, snapped their toothy jaws and hissed at each other, slashed and growled. But always, they watched her. And the closer they moved, the more she ached for a safe haven, and the more she yearned for safety, the more restless and dangerous her monsters became. Suddenly, making them didn't seem like such a good idea after all. They grinned at her, the awful things, and they suddenly looked hungry. She didn't know what to feed them, but she suspected they would be only too happy to eat little girls. And now Amanda-Anne felt very much like a frightened little girl again. The Unformed Plane wasn't fun anymore. Making monsters wasn't fun. She wanted to be warm, she wanted to be protected, she wanted to be- -in a safe place. Where the elves lived! She "stretched"-reached out to take control of the body she shared with the others. It wasn't occupied-all the others were elsewhere, and the body itself was in Amanda's bedroom, curled on the bed. Amanda-Anne took control, opened her eyes, wrapped stubby fingers around Mommy's green bead. The first of the monsters appeared in her bedroom, following her. Amanda-Anne shrieked and carved a road that drove straight into the heart of the elves' stronghold, and safety.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

The trunk was so hot that riverlets of sweat ran down Lianne's face, back, and chest, stinging in her cuts. The metal handcuffs around her wrists slid up and down her forearms, and every time they did, it felt as if they added another set of bruises. Everything hurt. And what didn't hurt, she greatly feared might not be working anymore. She squirmed a little, trying to find a more comfortable position. If only her hands were in front of her-wait a moment. Maybe this b.i.t.c.h wasn't used to kidnapping people Lianne's size. Well, she thought, there are a few advantages to being both skinny and flexible. This might be something the b.i.t.c.h that caught her hadn't reckoned on. She ignored the pain that movement caused her, and scooted her hands down over her hips, curling her back as she did. That hurt so bad she almost quit-but the promise of not being thrown forward on her face every time the car jolted was more than she could resist. She waited for the worst of the wave of agony to pa.s.s, then pulled her knees up to her chest and tucked her feet through the handcuffs as if she were jumping a very short rope. A very short rope. The cuffs caught on her instep. Better, Lianne thought. I always figured my twenty minutes of yoga at bedtime would come in useful for something. But I never thought it would be for dealing with a kidnapper. The pressure of her feet on the links of the handcuffs had pressed them halfway down Lianne's sweat-soaked hands. They hurt, but when Lianne experimentally shoved her thumb joint hard into the palm of her left hand, the cuff slipped down further. The possibility that she might actually get the things off hadn't occurred to her until that moment. I'll be d.a.m.ned! I think I can get out of these things! She pressed the bones of her left hand together as tightly as she could and pushed with all of her strength. The combination of her sweat, the looseness of the cuff, and her flexible joints worked a minor miracle. The cuff slipped off, sc.r.a.ping skin as it went. She pulled the foul-tasting rag out of her mouth and reached down to fumble with the knots that tied her ankles. When they came loose, she got to work on the other side of the handcuffs. The right one proved to be more intractable than the left-her captor had shoved it tighter when she put it on. It doesn't matter, the teacher thought. I can move now. I'll bet that will surprise the h.e.l.l out of her. In fact, Lianne realized, it might surprise her enough to save me. That is, if I can get the rest of me to function. . . . She tried to open her eyes again. Although they were badly puffed and swollen, she felt the lids of the left one move apart. There was nothing but blackness. Oh, G.o.d-I'm blind! For a moment she felt panic clawing at her. Then, hard on its heels, dry humor. No, idiot. You're in the trunk of a car. Lianne considered her situation. She probably wasn't blind. She was within the confines of the trunk, but completely free. She hadn't made any noise that would carry over the road and engine sounds, so the driver wouldn't know this-wouldn't even know whether she was awake or not. She had a length of rope, the handcuffs, one of which was still attached-was there anything else in here she could use as a weapon? She felt around in the trunk and stopped when her fingers wrapped around the smooth metal length of a tire iron. In the darkness, Lianne grinned. Hot d.a.m.n. Those were her advantages. She enumerated her disadvantages. She wasn't likely to have very long to make use of her element of surprise. Her captor, if she ever decided to open the trunk, could do so at any time. The only warning Lianne was likely to get was the click of the key in the lock. Also, she was hurt-the broken ribs were going to be the worst of it. She wouldn't be able to run away. Wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight-though, she thought with wry amus.e.m.e.nt, the tire iron had the potential to be a great equalizer. And finally, she didn't know where she would end up, while her captor would be on her own chosen ground-possibly with allies. I've got a d.a.m.ned good chance of getting myself killed if I put up a fight. Lianne considered playing dead, or going along with whatever the woman wanted her to do, and hoping for a chance of escape later on, when she was alone. But her dad had spent a very short time as a P.O.W. in 'Nam-before he'd escaped. He had, in the course of years of later conversations, mentioned a fact about the art of escaping from a P.O.W. camp that Lianne considered applicable now. "Baby," he'd said, with the air of one imparting the wisdom of the sages, "the sooner you attempt to escape after they've captured you, the less they'll be expecting it, and the better chance you'll have to succeed. When you're first caught, you're usually hurt, and d.a.m.ned confused-and you keep thinking someone is going to come from outside to rescue you. It isn't until later that you realize no one is coming, and you'll have to get out by yourself. So you take care of it while they're thinking you're still too messed up to take off." Then he'd winked at her and grinned his broad, easy grin. "Works in most any situation. You remember that, okay, baby?" A kid in on her daddy's joke, she'd grinned back and had said, "Sure, Daddy. I'll remember." Well-I remembered. Okay, Dad, she thought, I'll go for it, first chance I get. Let's hope for baby's sake you knew what the h.e.l.l you were talking about. The car b.u.mped wildly, throwing her against the front with a vicious thump that sent every bruise and broken bone into fresh, screaming agonies. Lianne shoved her fist into her mouth to keep from howling. She heard gra.s.s and branches dragging on the sides and undercarriage. s.h.i.+t-we're out in the middle of nowhere, then, I'll bet. Not likely to be anybody friendly around. And no witnesses to see what happens next. She planned her tactics with that in mind. Readied her weapons. Stilled her racing heart. Positioned herself as best she could in the cramped s.p.a.ce. Waited.

The Gate appeared with an unnatural shriek as time and s.p.a.ce themselves were shredded. Winds raged out of the raw wound that opened in the middle of Elfhame Outremer, whipping the delicate silk hangings and bright pennants into a frenzy. Out of the pocket maelstrom raced a child, tiny, blond, green-eyed, with a fragile beauty obscured by the fear on her face, who ran like one pursued by all the devils of h.e.l.l. The elf who reached out and caught her, a patroness of the arts on her way to the premiere of Valyre's production of "Nine Lives of Woldas Toklas," could not imagine how the little human child had arrived nor what could have frightened her so. Her confusion cleared up an instant later, as the first of Amanda-Anne's monsters followed her through the Gate, to be followed by another, and another, and another. The child wriggled free of the elf's suddenly nerveless grip and darted off among the trees. The last thing the elven matron heard as the monsters leapt on her was the seldom-sounded attack-alarm, a clarion call that echoed from the top of first one tree, then many.

When the trunk lock released, Lianne tensed. Wait for it, wait for it, she chanted in a silent mantra. She gripped the tire iron like a sword. She heard the door open, heard footsteps swis.h.i.+ng through the gra.s.s. Wait for it, wait for it. Her eyes adjusted to the meager light that came through the tiny s.p.a.ce between trunk-lid and body, and she discovered she really could see. She watched fingers sliding along the inside of the trunk, feeling for the catch. Wait for it, wait for it. "There it is,"-a faint mutter, followed by the click of the latch, and light so bright it hurt. Now! Lianne stabbed with the tire iron and hit the woman in the throat, pumped full of adrenalin and with her attention focused someplace where the pain wasn't. The woman gagged, one hand flying to her throat as she staggered back a step, her expression one of shock. If Lianne had a little more strength, it might have ended then and there. Instead, she only stunned the woman long enough to get the upper hand. Lianne loosed a banshee scream, the acc.u.mulation of her rage and pain and fear tied into that savage howl, and tumbled out of the trunk. Her grip s.h.i.+fted slightly, and she backhanded the tire iron across the woman's face, then with both hands brought it down on the top of her head. The handcuff that dangled from her right wrist swung staccato accompaniment against the metal of the tire iron. The woman threw her hands over her face and head to protect them, and Lianne staggered toward her, the tire iron held like a quarterstaff in front of her. Then she swung again, overbalanced, and fell forward, catching the woman across the chest with the tire iron. They tumbled to the ground together. Lianne screamed with the pain of her broken ribs, but she forced herself to sit up, forced herself to hit the other woman until the b.i.t.c.h stopped struggling and her arms dropped to her sides and she lay still. It was a pity, she reflected, as she sat on the ground and panted with pain, that she was so weak that it had been the weight of the tire iron that had done most of the damage. The woman lay like a lump in the weeds, a red welt rising on her cheek-but she was breathing, Lianne noted, with mingled disappointment and relief. She was still breathing just fine. Lianne poked her in the side once with the pointed end of the tire iron. She didn't move. "I wish I was the kind of person who could do to you what you did to me. I'd beat your face in with your gun and kick you in the ribs." Lianne was so angry she shook, as conflicting emotions warred within her. d.a.m.n, I wish I could do that! She looked down at the woman, lying unconscious and helpless. Well, I can't. She sighed, her adrenaline fading away. Time to get out of here-wherever here is. Lianne went through the woman's pockets. She came up with the keys to the car, but none for the handcuffs. She toyed with the idea of taking the gun, then decided against it. At least she could take the clip out of the gun-leave her without bullets. That would work. When the police found the woman, Lianne wanted them to find plenty of evidence that would make it easy for them to throw her into a cell forever. With the keys in hand, she pushed herself shakily to her feet and surveyed her escape route. She would have to retrace the other woman's path, which would mean backing the car down the long, overgrown drive to the road. She would have to twist around in the seat to back the car, which ought to hurt like h.e.l.l, considering her broken ribs. She looked at the redhead, lying in the track broken down by the T-Bird, and sighed. "I ought to just back over you, dammit. I really ought to." But she didn't. She pulled the woman out of the middle of the drive, swearing with every step. An instant of weakness and the opportunity for revenge overcame her, though, and she dragged the woman over to the edge of a huge blackberry thicket, rolling her as far into it as she could, without getting caught in the vines herself. Limping over to the car, still suffering, Lianne wore the smile of the vindicated on her face. She shoved the trunk down with difficulty, and leaned against the car itself to keep herself from falling as she stumbled over creepers and vines and fallen branches toward the driver's side door. She opened the door, leaned forward, wheezing; doubled over at the sudden stab of pain in her side, and fell onto the seat. Falling saved her life. She heard the crack of the other woman's gun, a surprisingly unimpressive noise, at the same time that the driver's side window, in the precise spot where her head had been, flowered into an array of tiny concentric cracks. d.a.m.n! Another clip? That's what I get for not killing you, isn't it! I should have taken the gun, she thought, pulling her legs in quickly, and closing the door as fast as she could. Better yet, I should have left you where I could run over you. She shoved the keys in the ignition and curled low on the seat. The car started easily, and she slipped it into reverse and pushed lightly on the gas. She sprawled across the bench, as low as she could get and still reach the pedals, facing the rear of the car, her left hand clutching beneath the headrest of the pa.s.senger seat for balance, her right steering the car. Thank G.o.d the thing's not a stick, anyway. She curved the car around the side of the house and aimed toward the road, praying like a gift-wrapped nun at the devil's birthday party. The car wallowed over a b.u.mp at the same instant that a bullet hole appeared in the front pa.s.senger window, and Lianne's foot slid farther down onto the gas pedal. The T-Bird accelerated wildly. "s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t-oh, s.h.i.+t!" Lianne wailed, as various small trees and other obstacles loomed in the rear window, vanished at high speed and were replaced by others. She swerved and kept right on going. I wish I could close my eyes, she thought. I doubt it would make much difference in my-oh, s.h.i.+t!-she dodged another tree-driving! She heard two sharp pings in the winds.h.i.+eld behind her head. Two more of the b.i.t.c.h's bullets. When is she gonna run out? Lianne didn't dare look back. As long as she was still alive, anything else could wait. The car bounced again, and a small tree splintered across the rear b.u.mper. Oh h.e.l.l, Lianne thought for some reason, it's only a rental. She didn't even remember the joke that punchline was from. There was a crunch of metal and one ma.s.sive heave-and Lianne felt the smoothness of pavement under the tires, heard the sc.r.a.pe of what must be the entire exhaust system under the car. A quick spin of the wheel, and she backed the rest of the way into the road. To her right were the dilapidated ruins of the house, and the red-haired woman, taking aim yet again. Lianne threw the car into drive and hit the gas. What a persistent snake you are. I hope you enjoy your walk home. She flipped the woman the bird and burned rubber in her acceleration. The rear window blossomed with its own bullet hole. Well, Dad, she thought. I owe you my life on this one, I think. And if I live long enough to get to a hospital, I'll have a story to tell that rivals even yours.

When Maclyn heard the alarm through the trees, there was no question of going back to the apartment and waiting for the phone call. Rh.e.l.len would have to find him, Lianne would have to fend for herself-he armed himself as he ran toward the center of Elfhame Outremer, from whence the alarm came. Even as he ran, he kept thinking What kind of fool would open a Gate in the heart of an Elfhame? Beside him, Dierdre on her elvensteed and Hallara on hers launched themselves toward the battle. :This is it!: Dierdre bellowed directly into his brain. :Get Rh.e.l.len.: :I can't! Didn't bring him!: Dierdre paused long enough to give him a withering look. :Idiot.: She pivoted her mount and leaned down to offer Maclyn an arm up. He took it and swung onto the steed behind Dierdre's saddle. :I had to leave Rh.e.l.len to listen for the phone.: :Brilliant, oh my son. Riding pillion is not the safest way to go to battle,: his mother said acidly, :but you'd be dead in no time on foot. There's nothing to contain those monsters or slow them down here.: Dierdre wielded her sword left-handed, Maclyn held his in his right. They charged along the ground paths beneath the singing boughs of the gold-leaved home-trees, past the s.h.i.+mmering curtains of light in the flame-fountains, under the branch-braided arch of the Lover's Trees-and into the melee behind Hallara, who sprayed a broad blanket of machine-gun fire to try to clear them a path. From other sites on the perimeter, reinforcements arrived. The vortex of a rogue Gate glistened hypnotically from beside the delicate blue-green filigreed sculptures in the Masters' Garden. Three elven mages engaged themselves in battling the Gate itself, trying to close it off. They threw containment spells and reversal spells over the maw that spewed the monsters into their midst-to no avail. Amanda-Anne's hastily-constructed Gate had ripped away part of the spell-formed reality of Elfhame Outremer itself. It fed on the energy of the destruction it caused, creating a direct road from the Unformed Planes to the center of the elves' safe haven. Amanda-Anne's nightmares advanced unchecked. A horde of giggling, t.i.ttering stick-men and multi-legged screamers burst through and launched themselves against the scattered elven forces with bared fangs and razored claws. Initially, there was no strategy to the skirmis.h.i.+ng. The elves hacked and slashed and shot, and the monsters failed to die. The grim things pressed forward into the elven ranks, pushed from behind by the larger monsters that moved through the Gate at their backs. Hallara, Dierdre, and Maclyn joined forces with Felouen and a small phalanx of veteran warriors who were covering an elven spellcaster and one of Outremer's adopted human mages. The mages were mildly successful at individually spelling the nightmare things with the same containment spells that had proven useless on the Gate. But the effort required of them was enormous, while the number of horrors shoving through the Gate far exceeded those being contained. Then Amanda-Anne's winged creatures arrived in force, lurching through the air like medieval stained gla.s.s demons and cathedral gargoyles. They dove on the defenders, howling like the d.a.m.ned, belching fire and dripping acid, diving down to pluck hapless elves from their elvensteeds and ascending far above the trees to fling them back to the ground below. The defenders of Outremer were forced to retreat beneath the sheltering overhangs of the trees. Then the trees began to burn. The entire population of Elfhame Outremer-that part of it, at least, that had managed to survive the initial onslaught-fought back desperately. The few elven children lent their magical energy to parents who cast s.h.i.+elding around Outremer's untouched trees. A contingent of mages battled their way toward the Grove and dug in around the heart-tree. Weapons of every variety, human and magical, were leveled against the invaders. The Oracular Pool, the many fountains, and the Vale River that circled the whole of Elfhame Outremer were drained to feed a storm spell. Rain poured from the smoke-filled sky, and the conflagrations in the tree-homes and shelters of the elven haven began to die. And wet wood did not rekindle as easily. Maclyn and Dierdre were part of the contingent who fought to protect the Grove. Their losses had been huge-more than half of the Grove's trees were charred stumps, with the bodies of their defenders scattered at their bases like fallen branches. Now, the largest of the monsters seemed to be concentrating on destroying the heart-tree itself. The death of the heart-tree would release the spells of thousands of years that had used it as the focus for maintaining Elfhame Outremer. Without the heart-tree, Elfhame Outremer would disappear back into the nothingness of the Unformed Planes. Mac had seen the movies-the battle to guard the heart