Black and White
by John R. Plunkett
"Be careful," Leopold cautioned.
"Of what, exactly?" Kara demanded, scornfully. "These pathetic little wards?" She gestured; pale lines of lavender light appeared, forming strange, arcane symbols on the door and the wall around it. "I could bypass these in my sleep, with one arm tied behind my back." With her left hand she traced a design in the air; her fingertip left a glowing trail, similar in color and consistency to the lines on the door but considerably brighter and more vibrant. With her right index finger she touched the center of the door, which also happened to be the center of the design woven upon it.
There was a very faint click as Kara's finger activated a hidden pressure plate. Somewhere nearby a klaxon shrieked.
Leopold sighed heavily and shook his head. "I told you, didn't I."
"Bite me," Kara growled.
"Promises, promises." Leopold stepped forward. "My turn, now." He keyed the microphone attached to his lapel. "All units move in," he commanded briskly, then gestured with his right index finger and made a fencing lunge at the door. A bolt of energy, as dazzlingly bright and intensely golden as the noonday sun, leapt from his hand and slammed into the door. A tremendous explosion rocked the whole building; when the dust settled the door and its wards weren't a problem any more. There wasn't a door; just a ragged hole littered about with bits of smoking rubble.
"Subtle," Kara sniffed.
"Bite me," Leopold riposted, extending his right arm and throwing in a curious flick of the wrist. A bright, golden glow shone between his fingers, growing rapidly into a sword made of light. A pale, electric blue light formed in his left hand, expanding in a circle to form a translucent, faintly glowing shield.
"Nah, you'd probably enjoy it," Kara decided.
Something lunged through the blasted doorway. It looked like a skeleton made of gleaming metal, with malevolently glowing red eyes. In its hands it carried an AKM assault rifle; it opened fire at once, aiming for the center of Leopold's chest. From a range of no more than two meters it didn't seem like it could possibly miss. Nor did it; Leopold staggered back under the impact of the .30 caliber hammer blows. But he did not fall; the bullets vaporized in bright blue flashes when they struck his shield. He responded with a deft upward thrust of his blade that opened the monstrosity's chest like a cleaver splitting a carcass. Metal glowed where the sword cut it; the thing fell back, its animating force dispelled. All well and good, except that three more immediately took its place. Quick as a wink Leopold ducked aside, slamming past one and taking off its head along the way. The next skeleton in line tried stabbing with its bayonet; the blade skittered off Leopold's shield. The third fired; one round managed to slip past the shield and tear a bloody furrow in Leopold's right shoulder. He grunted in pain but didn't loose his rhythm, shield-bashing one skeleton and stabbing the other. While the bashed skeleton reeled, off-balance, Kara leapt up and touched it on the back. Bright purple light flashed from its joints and it collapsed in a heap.
"Thanks," Leopold said, wincing as movement pulled at the wound on his shoulder.
"Leo-" Kara began, her eyes on the blood staining the shoulder of his doublet.
"It's nothing!" Leopold cut in. "Come on, we need to get in now!" He grabbed Kara with is left hand and pulled her through into the building. They found themselves in a garage that hadn't been cleaned in a very long time; cobwebs hung everywhere and boxes of dusty, rusted junk crowded the floor and makeshift shelving that looked about ready to collapse. Some had, due to Leopold's violent entrance. A wooden stairway led upward.
"It's booby trapped," Kara declared as Leopold glanced at the stairs.
"Ain't that a pity." Leopold dismissed his sword and pointed straight up. The resulting blast blew clouds of dust from the old beams and set some of the scattered junk on fire, but also left a gaping hole in the ceiling. Leopold grabbed Kara around the waist with his left arm and leapt, sailing right up onto the next floor. "Spartil Cornis, you're under arrest!" he bellowed. "You might as well give it up now, 'cause one way or another, you're coming with us!"
Kara gasped. For the first time Leopold actually looked at his surroundings. They were in the living room of what had been a very nice home back in the early decades of the twentieth century, but was now suffering from many years of abuse and neglect. This area too was cluttered. Not with junk, as below. With corpses.
Spartil had known, even before the alarm went off, that the authorities were closing in. As he rushed to complete his preparations he cursed venomously, though in truth he had no one to blame but himself. Being so close to achieving his goal had led him to rush. Cut corners. Take chances. Now he was suffering the consequences. On the other hand, he had two advantages this time: first, the experimental phase of his plan was complete. Everything he needed was in his notebook, which he placed carefully in his backpack along with the most essential of his tools and the most difficult to obtain of his components. Second, he'd figured all along that the authorities would come sooner or later, and thus had implemented his escape contingency before doing anything else.
The second explosion nearly knocked Spartil off his feet. He clutched desperately at his backpack, twisting so his body took the shock instead. Breaking some of the things inside would be very, very bad. As he scrambled upright he noted that the firing had stopped. No surprise, really; the Terminators looked fierce but really weren't all that powerful. Certainly not compared to a true combat Adept, which Leopold Donitz unquestionably was. Especially since Spartil had accidentally killed Leopold's wife. It might even be said that since then Leopold had thrown himself into his training as if nothing else mattered.
It also meant that, all this talk of being under arrest notwithstanding, Spartil seriously doubted that he'd be walking out of here in handcuffs. The Blacks might wink at things like murder and necromancy, but they had very strong- and inflexible- views on the subject of loyalty. Betraying a rival for personal gain could be tolerated- even encouraged- under certain circumstances. Betraying the Society as a whole could not. That Leopold was here, and spoke of arrest instead of revenge, meant that Spartil Cornis had run out of options. Both sides had tired of his antics, and joined forces to end them.
But there was another option. After shrugging on his backpack Spartil grabbed the big red T handle on the side of his escape device. He'd even labeled it: none of the above.
Despite the fact that only seconds- if that- remained to him, Spartil hesitated. Truth be told, he had no idea if this would really work. Still, he knew all too well the other choices. If he were extraordinarily lucky, he'd merely die and that would be the end of it. If not-
I hope to God this works, Spartil thought, squeezing his eyes shut, gritting his teeth, and slamming down the handle.
Chief Lance Hardy, two blocks away in an operations van, felt the ground shock a fraction of an instant before a shattering roar assaulted his ears. The van bounced and rocked, savaged from both below and above. Even after the shock wave passed, debris pattered down like hail. Once it let up he threw the doors open and leapt out.
The location of Spartil's hideout wasn't secret any longer. A towering, black, flame-shot cloud soared up into the sky from where it had stood. Flaming debris littered the street and the roofs of nearby houses.
"Bloody Hell," Chief Hardy muttered, staring at the cloud. "Bloody, motherfucking Hell." Along with Spartil, his hideout, and all the good malefurs and femfurs on the capture team had gone any chance whatsoever of keeping this mess safely under wraps.
In the welter of fire, police, and medical teams going about their various duties, no one remarked on the black limousine that pulled up. Nor did anyone seem to care that the officers manning the police barricade passed it without comment while refusing all other non-emergency vehicles. The limo stopped near chief Hardy's operations van; the driver got out and opened the rear door.
A short, heavy malefur in a flowing black robe emerged. He marched straight up to Chief Hardy. "Well?" he demanded.
"Nothing, my lord," Hardy replied. "Nada. Zip. A big, smoking, crater, and that's all."
Edward DeSoie, Lord of the Black, clenched his fists and ground his teeth. Chief Hardy looked away, glad beyond words that the Lord's anger wasn't directed at him. "Search it again," Lord Black commanded brusquely. "I want an analysis of every speck of dust. Search the neighborhood too."
Chief Hardy grimaced. "Ah... that won't be very... um-"
"That is not your problem," Lord Black interrupted. "You will do as you're instructed. I will figure out how to square it with the Mundanes."
"Ah, yes, Lord. Right away." Chief Hardy hurried away.
For a time, the Lord of the Black remained. Then he turned away suddenly and returned to his car. There wasn't anything for him to see here. Besides, the fallout from this mess was still coming down. He was needed to put out fires elsewhere. Not to mention his meeting, which he'd already put off far too long already.
Phaeron, Lord of the White, stood with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, his eyes focused on nothing. It was quite easy to do; in this place the magically adept called Elsewhere, there was plenty of nothing to see. There wasn't anything but nothing. The pearly, faintly shimmering whiteness before him looked like fog if one didn't examine it too closely. It seemed to press in around one, masking everything else from view. If one tried looking at it the "fog" seemed to recede. Then, quite suddenly, one reached a point where pressing closeness suddenly became infinite emptiness. It would be very easy, under those circumstances, for a person to experience extreme vertigo and sink into mind-killing panic. Anything the eye settled upon, in the hopes of finding some stability, twisted away.
None of this bothered Phaeron in the least. He'd passed the test centuries ago, upon becoming Lord of the White. The trick was to remember that nothing existed here. That included things like up and down, space, and motion. True, there was no ground. Though he held his body in a standing posture, his silver hooves rested on nothing. Which did not mean that he was falling. But he could be, if he let himself start to believe that he was. The key to the test was that most people needed something outside of themselves to give them orientation and context, be it physically or emotionally. Here, there wasn't anything to find. Looking for it simply fed back one's own fears and insecurities, locking one in a vicious cycle that eventually spiraled down into irrecoverable madness. That there wasn't anything here didn't mean it wasn't possible to get lost.
Phaeron could endure the nothingness because he'd reached a point were he no longer needed external validation of his sense of self. He stood because he chose to be standing. That no external evidence supported this belief did not signify. None existed to refute it, either. Since nothing else existed, the act of declaring a thing to be so was enough to make it so.
The only thing bothering Phaeron at the moment was that Edward hadn't arrived yet. But even that wasn't more than a mild annoyance. In way, Elsewhere was the perfect place to wait because time didn't exist either. All Phaeron had to do was decide that he'd waited the right amount of time and-
"About time you got here," Phaeron said aloud.
Edward snorted. "Quite the comedian, ain't'cha, horn head?"
Phaeron smiled. He hadn't seen Edward arrive, even though that worthy now stood right in front of him. Without time there couldn't be any cause and effect either. "I saw a funny cartoon not too long ago," Phaeron said. "It shows a fellow standing in a park, looking at a sign. The sign is titled 'Zen Park.' There's a big X in the middle, and under it a caption that reads, 'why are you here?'"
Edward grimaced while Phaeron laughed. "Least you could do is find some new jokes," he groused. Nevertheless, he couldn't help smiling. He, too, had been required to pass the test before becoming Lord of the Black. The joke captured the essence of Elsewhere more precisely than many much more learned discourses. If you tried to understand it you ended up chasing your intellectual tail. You had to let it be.
"I understand that the Cornis affair didn't end well," Phaeron said abruptly.
Edward said nothing aloud but his expression spoke volumes. "Yeah, that's one way 'o puttin' it," he growled.
"Have your people found any traces of him?"
"No, not yet," Eddie snapped. Then he stopped, setting aside his anger and looking at Phaeron. "You know something," he pronounced.
"He got away," Phaeron said.
"How?" Edward demanded.
"I'm not sure. I do know that a dimensional rift appeared in the same instant as the explosion. Spartil went through it to another place."
Edward rubbed his chin. Phaeron was a master of dimensional magic. Certainly he had no reason to lie; Spartil had betrayed him too. "Where did he go?"
Phaeron's face split into a demonic grin. "You're positively gonna shit when I tell you, Eddie old boy."
Spartil awoke with a shuddering gasp, shivering violently. He'd had a terrible, terrible dream.
Waking wasn't much of an improvement. Spartil found himself sprawled, naked but for a ratty backpack, in a pool of cold, filthy water while more poured down from a heavy, leaden sky. Since he sat between two buildings the blustery wind didn't affect him unduly, but soaked as he was it only added to the chill caused by the water in his fur. He tried to get up but a stabbing pain in his shoulder threw him back down, gasping. Something had torn a ragged furrow in his flesh just above the shoulder joint of his right arm. His abortive attempt to get up had broken recently formed scabs, letting fresh blood pour from the wound and into the already matted fur around it.
"Jesus H. Christ," Spartil gasped. It might have bothered him a bit less if he could remember how the wound had come to be there, but he couldn't. It hurt like a sonovabitch, made worse by the backpack strap tugging at it. Gritting his teeth he rolled over, shedding the pack while trying to move his right arm as little as possible. He ended up sitting against the wall, the pack in his lap, waiting for the pain to subside.
Despite his situation, Spartil couldn't help wondering: why was he wearing a backpack, when he wasn't wearing anything else? Oh, right, he thought sourly. I decided to go for a hike in the nude and got shot by a hunter. That he found himself in what was clearly a fairly dense urban area didn't seem any more illogical than the rest of it.
Which didn't matter, really. "I need to have this looked at," Spartil said aloud. The sound of his own voice startled him because he didn't recognize it. He brought a hand up to his face, exploring it. Then he looked at the hand.
Spartil found that he was a wolf. A big, muscular one, with a broad, powerful chest, thick arms, narrow waist, and a hard, flat stomach. Not a bad looker, discounting that at the moment he more resembled a drowned rat.
A portion of Spartil's mind assured him that he should be glad to find out that he was such a hunk. The rest of him responded that he'd feel better about it if he could remember being this way before. But he couldn't. For that matter, he couldn't remember anything at all. Before waking up there was... nothing. As if he'd sprang instantly into being, like a light coming on.
The pain in Spartil's shoulder reminded him that he could also spring out of being just as easily. He needed help. Gritting his teeth against the pain he dragged himself upright. The backpack slipped off his lap and fell into the pool where he'd lay upon awakening.
For a time Spartil stared at the pack. Yes, he needed medical attention. But just as much- more, in some ways- he craved identity. Some sense of continuity. The pack was the only thing around that could even remotely be considered his. He picked it up and opened it.
On top was a jar made of hand carved obsidian. It felt heavy... and cold. In a way that had nothing to do with ambient temperature. Hastily he set it aside, and scooted away. Next was... a notebook. Covered with worn leather, as if old or heavily used. No writing or pictures adorned the cover so he opened it. On the first page he found precise, hand-written script... which made no sense at all. Not only was it not a language he knew, the letters seemed to twist and writhe as he looked at them. Trying to decipher them gave him a splitting headache. With a growl he made to toss the thing away-
One words sprang suddenly into focus. It was... his name. Spartil. As if that were a key, all the other words resolved into recognizable forms. He read, page after page, his eyes widening in wonder. His lips parted in a grin. Finally, he threw back his head and laughed. He remembered. Which meant that his escape plan had worked after all. Whistling cheerily, he dug another object from the pack. It was a caduceus- a staff entwined with snakes- carved from ivory. He touched it to his shoulder; the wound closed as if it had never been. He put the caduceus away and extracted a ring, which he placed on his right hand. At once he stopped shivering; despite still being wet and naked he felt comfortably warm. Another ring went on his left hand. Now he appeared to be fully dressed, in clean and neat if unremarkable clothing. He wasn't really dressed; anyone touching him would feel bare fur, but at least he wouldn't draw undue attention. He un-zippered a side pouch on his pack and removed a bundle, from which he counted out half a dozen one ounce Krugerrands. All that remained was to find a place where he could turn them into ready cash and he'd be in business.
Very carefully, Spartil picked up the black jar and returned it to its place. He had his most precious ingredient, he had his notes... and most importantly, he had time. There wouldn't be any nosy wizards looking for him here. He slung the pack over his shoulder and set out to fulfill his lifelong dream.
Phaeron used the complimentary shampoo while showering but ignored the towels and brushes. A simple spell not only dried him but left his hair and mane brushed and combed. Some loose hairs had collected in the drain; he left them, though he was by nature fastidious. As a unicorn he was required, while visiting the mortal world, to leave some subtle clue of his presence. Frankly he thought it a ridiculous affectation, but no doubt that was his Nighthorse ancestry talking. All the purebred unicorns he'd ever met accepted it as naturally as breathing, even though not a one of them could explain where the rule came from or why it mattered.
As he emerged from the bathroom Phaeron beckoned. A fresh robe, laid out on his bed, leapt into the air and wrapped itself around him. Being an Adept level magic user meant one didn't have to waste time with mundane activities if one didn't so choose. Ironically, as he grew in power Phaeron found himself growing nostalgic for those very things he'd strove in his youth to escape. Today, though, he was in a hurry.
Gynavave waited in the hall outside Phaeron's suite; she fell in beside him as he headed for the elevator. "They're here," she said.
Phaeron nodded. He couldn't help noticing the proximity of so many Blacks any more than he could help noticing someone pounding on his skull with a hammer.
"He's here," Gynavave added, with rather more than merely a tinge of bitterness. Her ears flicked back and her tail twitched.
Phaeron sighed. He'd known the minute Morgan arrived but hadn't said anything. What was the point? Eddie brought Morgan for the same reason Phaeron brought Gynavave: they were, respectively, best suited for the task at hand. Personal feelings simply didn't figure, for Gynavave and Morgan or Eddie and Phaeron.
The elevator stopped. Phaeron and Gynavave left it, moving briskly down a hallway in the hotel's conference center. A bellman tipped his cap and opened a door for them. That the guests he addressed were a midnight black unicorn with a white mane, silver hooves, a golden horn, and blue eyes, and a gorgeous, well-built lioness with a golden mane composed of fine, hairy feathers and yellow-gold wings with brown tips didn't appear to faze him in the least. Hardly a surprise since everyone in the hotel was either an initiated Black or White or affiliated with one of the groups. No one to whom sorcery was nothing but superstition, and creatures like unicorns and sphinxes only mythological, would have to worry about having their fragile belief systems unduly disturbed.
Eddie was already at the table. Behind him stood a male sphinx, with a black mane and wings, and an etched, muscular body that was every bit as breathtakingly beautiful as Gynavave's. His eyes followed Phaeron and Gynavave but his expression revealed nothing; he might as well have been carved from stone. It perhaps said something that Gynavave returned his look just as stonily.
Phaeron took a seat at the table opposite Eddie. Gynavave stood behind him and slightly to his right, just as Morgan did with Eddie. Along the far wall, precisely spaced, stood eight enormous, massively muscular Nighthorses in half plate armor, sabres sheathed at their hips and pikes in hand, their manes- flame red shot with yellow- done in corn row braids. Opposite them, behind Phaeron, stood eight equally large and impressive unicorns, similarly armed and equipped. Providence was a neutral city; both Blacks and Whites could go there so long as they didn't cause trouble, and this conference had been personally arranged between Phaeron and Eddie, but that didn't for an instant mean that the animus between the two sides had in any way diminished.
"You're certain that Spartil escaped?" Eddie began, without preamble.
"Yes," Phaeron replied. "Not only that, the Essence of Neverwas went with him."
Eddie said nothing. For a moment he and Phaeron stared silently at one another. "You know where they went?" Eddie asked.
"Yes. To the same dimension the Guide did."
"Do you know why that is?" Morgan inquired.
Phaeron shook his head. "It's possible that the previous connection somehow biased Spartil's machine. I have no conclusive evidence one way or the other."
"If he's gone, then why do we need to worry about it?" Gynavave wanted to know.
Eddie grimaced as if tasting something unpleasant. "He got his mits on some powerful spells. I think he's gonna use 'em to bind the essence into one of his little toys."
"If these spells are so dangerous, how did he get them?" Gynavave inquired.
"That's neither here nor there," Eddie snapped.
"I must agree," Phaeron interjected smoothly. "The situation in which we find ourselves is the product of a great many mistakes. In which there is certainly a valuable lesson for the future, but here and now the only concern is how to stop Spartil from doing any more damage."
"We have to go get him," Morgan said.
"What exactly do you mean by that?" Gynavave demanded suspiciously.
"You think that, deliberately or by accident, Spartil is going to let loose an invasion of Neverwas," Morgan pronounced. "I'm sure it wouldn't concern you unduly if someone else's dimension gets overrun, but you're afraid they might somehow make it here, too. So we go and stop him before he has a chance."
"Who exactly do you propose to send?" Gynavave wanted to know.
"A team," Phaeron announced. "With representatives from both Black and White."
For a long time no one spoke. Even Gynavave seemed shocked at the idea. "A team, you say?" Eddie asked, rubbing his chin.
"We don't have time to waste smoothing ruffled feathers and stroking bruised egos," Phaeron pointed out. "You wouldn't trust us to do it, and we wouldn't trust you. A joint team is the only workable solution."
"Even if we stipulate that, deciding who's on it could take the rest of our natural lives," Eddie pointed out.
Phaeron smiled wryly. As a unicorn, his natural life was very, very long. On the other hand he was no longer a youth, as his species reckoned such things, and simply having a long life didn't make him disposed to waste it on tasks he knew to be fruitless. "We don't have time for that," he said. He held out his hand; Gynavave passed him a sheet of paper. "Here are the Whites I want to send." He slid it across the table.
Eddie picked up the sheet; Morgan read over his shoulder. "These aren't your best people," Eddie observed.
"They have to be able to get along with their opposite number," Phaeron said. "If not, their skill doesn't amount to a hill of beans."
Eddie nodded. "Can't argue with that. All right then." Morgan passed him a sheet; he slid it across the table to Phaeron.
Phaeron looked it over. None of the names surprised him unduly; clearly they'd been chosen with the same criteria as those on his own list: the ability to get along ultimately mattered more than skill and strength.
"Where do we meet?" Morgan asked.
Phaeron considered. He'd spent a lot of time in contemplation of that very fact, and didn't much like the answer that kept coming up, but any other possibility led to unacceptable delays. "Right here," he said. "Nearly everything we need is ready to hand. What isn't can be brought quickly enough. I know it's short notice, but we really don't have the time to break everything down and reconvene elsewhere. Spartil's already had weeks and weeks to do his mischief. How much more time do we give him?"
Eddie scowled. Being a bulldog made the expression even more impressive. "I can't tell you how much it irks me, but I agree," he said. "It would take months just to set the ground rules." He tapped his chin. "Very well. It should be possible to assemble everything needed in three days' time. We'll perform the ritual right here in the conference room."
Phaeron nodded. "Agreed."
Eddie rose. "Nice chattin' wit'cha, but I've got work to do." He turned and left, Morgan at his side. Once the door closed behind him Phaeron rose and hurried out.
"He gave in too easily," Gynavave muttered as they returned to Phaeron's suite.
Phaeron nodded.
"It's a trick," Gynavave growled.
Phaeron nodded.
Moments passed while the elevator rose. "Then why are we doing it?" Gynavave wanted to know.
"We have no choice," Phaeron replied. "If the team doesn't get off now it never will. The entire process will break down in bickering and name calling."
"We don't know that there's a danger."
"We don't know that there isn't one, either."
"It would be nice to know what they're planning," Gynavave muttered.
"They're going to send a second team of only Blacks," Phaeron replied.
Gynavave started. "How- I mean- are you certain?"
"It's what I'd do," Phaeron replied.
Gynavave opened her mouth, then shut it, looking troubled. Phaeron had to repress a smile; in Gynavave's world Black and White were as different as, well, black and white. Which was why she'd only ever be a lieutenant and never a Lady. A person in Phaeron's position- or Eddie's, for that matter- couldn't ignore how similar the sides were, in ideology and methodology both. Choose your enemies carefully, the old saying went, for you'll come to resemble them. Black and White had been enemies for a very, very long time.
Gynavave stopped dead in her tracks, staring at Phaeron, her mouth hanging open. "You're going to send a second team," she said.
Phaeron nodded.
"Who's going to be on it?"
"You, for starters."
Eddie, at the opposite end of the hotel, had an easier time of it. He didn't have to cajole Morgan into acceptance of the situation; Morgan understood how the distinctions blurred as one rose to ever higher levels. Unfortunately, the very thing which made Morgan perfectly suited for the mission also made sending him on it dangerous: Morgan did not cleave unthinkingly to the ideals of his Society the way Gynavave did. Sending him away on his own, where Eddie wouldn't be around to keep an eye on him, would almost certainly lead to trouble. But Eddie, like Phaeron, realized that he had little choice. At this very moment, Phaeron would be plotting to send his own team. Gynavave would almost certainly be on it, and Morgan was the perfect person to checkmate her.
"Spartil's sure to have whipped up a bunch of his toys," Eddie added, as if an afterthought. "You'll need a heavy slugger if things turn sporty. Like... oh, I don't know... Glaive."
"Glaive?" Morgan frowned. "He's not very subtle."
"If you end up needing him, you won't want subtle," Eddie pointed out.
"If I don't need him, he'll be sitting around taking up space."
Eddie shrugged. "Would you rather be a foot too long or a quarter inch too short?"
Morgan grimaced. "Point." His expression turned thoughtful. "I'll need a diviner, too."
"How 'bout-" Eddie began.
"I know!" Morgan cut in. "The Palmer kid."
Eddie frowned. He didn't like being interrupted, and he wondered if Morgan were trying something. On the other hand, Palmer was pretty good... and while his Talent was rather odd and quirky, the whole situation was as well, so it made a twisted sort of sense. Besides, there wasn't time to argue, not with the insertion only three days off. "All right," he decided. "See to it."
Morgan bowed. "At once, my lord."
Phaeron blinked, rubbing his muzzle. He felt like he hadn't slept in days. Which, in fact, he hadn't. Opening a trans-dimentional gateway was a trying prospect under the best of circumstances. Now he was doing it in too little time while simultaneously managing a very touchy political situation. He knew he was taking a dangerous chance but he couldn't very well back out after having proposed not only the activity but the timetable as well. His only consolation was knowing that very soon it would all be over, one way or another.
The conference room looked essentially the same as last time except for two things: the guards were gone and an intricate design in colored sand had been laid out on the table. Even now, black and white robed acolytes were applying finishing touches. They stepped back as Phaeron approached; he gave the design a quick but thorough look and continued on to his place without further comment. The layout and alignment could stand some improvement, but it would do. It would have to do; the frenetic pace, combined with having to work cheek and jowl with their enemies had keyed everyone up to a fever pitch. Phaeron couldn't help thinking that if he so much as farted at the wrong time it would spark an all out mage war on the spot.
"The fart heard 'round the world," Phaeron muttered under his breath, then had to fight to keep his expression composed. Realistically it wasn't at all funny; time and time again conflicts of unimaginable savagery had erupted over things that, in retrospect, looked every bit as silly as an unfortunately timed bout of flatulence. Ironically, the gravity of the situation only made it harder for Phaeron to keep a straight face. Fortunately Eddie arrived before he lost it completely.
"Good grief, Eddie, you look like shit," Phaeron commented. Stress and lack of sleep made Eddie even uglier than usual.
"I suppose you think you're the Lords' gift to the Gifted," Eddie riposted. "Oh, I'm sorry. You do think that."
Phaeron grinned. "Ready?"
"Hell no." Eddie took his place. "But I'm gonna do it anyway, just like you are."
"Too true." Phaeron saw the Adepts Eddie had selected to assist him moving up to take their positions, just as were his own. Morgan was conspicuous by his absence, as Gynavave would be on Phaeron's side. A sharp pang of conscience brought Phaeron as close as he'd yet come to calling the whole thing off. He was as sure as his own name that Eddie would be sending a backup team. He was almost as certain that Morgan would be on it. He had the right blend of skills, powers, initiative, and loyalty... and he was here. So Eddie would send him, even knowing that Phaeron would almost certainly send Gynavave, and that the nature of the mission made it almost inevitable that the two of them would come to blows. Personal feelings, no matter how painful to the individuals involved, couldn't be allowed to interfere with the greater need. It was, Phaeron thought, an incredibly cold hearted line of reasoning... and it matched his own in every particular. If the Neverwas escaped its prison, the world they invaded would quickly be divested of all life. Then they'd find another world and drain it. That would continue until all life had ended or someone managed to lock them up again. In the face of such a catastrophe, the personal problems of a few simply couldn't be allowed to matter.
Phaeron grimaced. Even in his own mind it sounded like a rationalization.
Eddie had said something. Now he turned and gestured. Phaeron did the same. The members of the primary team stepped forward from their respective sides. Phaeron looked them over, nodded, and indicated for them to proceed. They climbed up on the table and took their places.
None of the four Whites and four Blacks who stood facing one another looked like traditional Blacks or Whites. While everyone else in the room wore robes, armor, or badges that proclaimed their allegiance, the members of the insertion team all wore the same thing: combat boots, BDU pants and jackets with camouflage patterns of swirled blacks, whites, and grays, web belts, and packs. They could have been a military Special Ops team but for the lack of any visible weapons.
A smile kinked the corner of Phaeron's mouth. In fact, the team was not only armed to the teeth but carrying its hardware in plain sight. It was simply that most non-mages probably wouldn't pay any mind to the selection of rings, pendants, wands, and other knickknacks arrayed about the person of each individual. Unless, of course, the non-mage happened to be a mugger or pick-pocket, in which case the would-be assailant was in for a nasty, and quite likely fatal, shock. Political considerations aside, neither Phaeron nor Eddie were going to send people who couldn't look after themselves in an alien, and very possibly hostile environment. If that involved knocking some people on the head, no one here was going to second guess the folks on the ground.
"Prepare for insertion," Phaeron announced, raising his arms. There weren't any speeches or pep talks; they'd only give vent to axe grinding and one-upmanship that, so far, had been held in check by the frenetic pace. Pre-mission briefings had already covered all the salient points; everyone knew why they were here and what was at stake.
Eddie and the other Adepts followed Phaeron's lead. Eddie held the position of power opposite and equal to Phaeron's, but Phaeron would be leading the ritual.
As Phaeron began to speak and gesticulate it seemed as if the very air were clutching at his throat and hands, trying to still them. Quite simply, magic wasn't magic; Phaeron and the others were doing work as surely as if they'd been outside digging ditches. By application of their mystical power, the Adepts in the conference room were exerting a force that changed the balance of the natural world... and the natural world resisted the change, just as a boulder resisted being prodded into motion. Phaeron's voice and hands remained steady even while some of the others wavered, but he had to pace his words between deep breaths and sweat stained the neckline of his robe.
The problem wasn't strength. The Adepts Phaeron and Eddie had gathered could very easily blast a hole through the fabric of space and time... provided they didn't worry overmuch about where it came out or what might come through. People pushing a boulder would reach a point where the rock would start rolling on its own, and pushing it became much easier. It would also be very easy at that point for the rock to get away from them and cause untold damage, including maiming or killing members of the team. For both rock pushers and dimensional gate openers, strength got things started but only consummate skill saw them to a happy conclusion. For Phaeron, the transition point arrived with a tremendous crack that jarred the entire hotel on its foundations. A dazzlingly bright spark appeared in the air above the insertion team. The rock was moving now; stopping it would be more dangerous and take more effort than letting it roll. Only skill would save those present, and possibly the world at large, from disaster.
The spark grew into a pulsating blob that roared like a tornado. Occasionally, things became visible. At one point a dragon made of red hot iron burst forth. An instant before its jaws snapped shut on Phaeron's head the whole thing puffed into smoke. Phaeron would have sighed if he'd had the breath; Spartil's machine had done exactly as he'd feared it had, smashing through the dimensional fabric like a train wreck, heedless of the damage and disruption in its wake. Which left Phaeron picking his way through a maelstrom of forces still seeking their own balance. Like tiptoeing through a minefield in the middle of a hurricane, it was. But it was not for no reason that Phaeron was considered the greatest master of dimensional magic in the world. He felt the ebb and flow of energies that moved in ways the human mind couldn't really comprehend, and slipped through them with an instinctual feel that went beyond mere skill and entered the realm of art.
There was another crack, as loud and violent as the first. The dimensional discontinuity vanished, and along with it the insertion team. The sand on the conference table had turned black, like burned powder. A moment later the table fell apart, splitting precisely along the lines of the drawing. The edges of each piece were charred black, as if the lines had burned right through the wood.
Phaeron let his arms fall to his sides. Five Adepts- two Whites and three Blacks- collapsed. Many of the others wavered on their feet and clearly wouldn't last long. Assistants rushed forward to aid them. Phaeron walked without help, though his legs felt like rubber. He offered a silent prayer for the teams. All three of them, not just his own. They were good people- even the Blacks- going into danger they didn't really understand simply because people they trusted said it was necessary. They deserved all the help they could get... and they'd probably need it, too.
Morgan was not wearing BDUs when he entered the secondary staging area on the Black side of the hotel. He was, instead, dressed in an incredibly loud jacket and pants combination, plus a backpack so large he had to hunch forward to keep his balance in spite of his size and strength.
John said nothing, though his artistic soul wailed in anguish. Morgan was in charge of the mission. That meant he had absolute power, including that of life and death, over its members. He had a reputation as an easygoing fellow as Blacks went, but John wasn't disposed to test it, especially not with Glaive in the room.
Glaive was actually about the same height as Morgan, but appeared to tower over him because of his much greater mass. He looked like a warthog: prominent, turned up snout, small, close-set eyes, heavy, yellowed tusks protruding from either side of his mouth, small, pointed ears, and scraggly hair that looked like the bristles of a wire brush. His skin was black as night, with a texture like boiled leather. His arms hung nearly to his knees, were as thick and gnarled as the limbs of an ancient oak, and bigger around at the biceps than John's thighs. They attached to a torso that seemed almost as thick from front to back as from side to side. He wasn't wearing pads under his jacket, his shoulders really looked like that. His belly protruded with a well developed paunch, but his hips and thighs were as thick and solid as the rest of him. Instead of boots he had metal shoes with rubber soles nailed to his hooves. In addition to his kit and web gear he carried two knives, hidden in cargo pockets on his thighs, but John considered that a technicality. Even naked Glaive would be armed and dangerous. He was a weapon.
For his own part, John carried only two weapons: a ring on his right hand that fired lightning bolts, and one on his left that projected a shield. Where other team members had loaded up with various rings, pendants, talismans, and what-nots, John carried art supplies: brushes, knives, tubes of paint, charcoal sticks, grease pencils, and a selection of sculpting tools. He wasn't here to fight, after all; Glaive and Morgan would take care of that, should the need arise. John would aid them in other ways. For example, he'd already touched up the patterns on his BDUs. When he moved the color patches seemed to detach from his body and float around him, like leaves swirling in an autumn wind. Staring at it too long would give a person eyestrain, which was precisely the point. Identifying exactly where John was and what he was doing within the swirling field would be very difficult. Then, when John stood still, the patterns settled back into place and took the color of whatever was behind him. The mimicry was good enough that he could almost disappear.
"Places, everyone," Morgan declared, clapping his hands. John moved to his, looking down to make sure. Tape outlines marked where he should put his feet, and just to make sure there was no mistake his name was written on the tape. This put the team in a triangle formation: Morgan in front, Glaive behind to the left, and John behind to the right. All three of the them faced the wall; if the hotel's structure hadn't been in the way Morgan would have been staring straight at the back of Eddie's head. Or rather, over it at Phaeron.
John and Glaive didn't know or care, but Morgan knew enough about dimensional magic to realize that this arrangement shouldn't work. But it did, because the Whites had another group of three on the opposite side of the hotel, which kept the equation in balance. Now that he had time to think about it, he found it troubling that they were, in effect, counting in the enemy's duplicity... and, at the same time, giving the enemy a hand through their own duplicity. The Whites had to know. Phaeron had to know. But here they were, both sides going along with the charade, pretending that it was all a big secret. The phoniness of it all was one of the reasons he'd switched sides in the first place. Standing here, though, he couldn't help wondering if the Blacks really were any less so than the Whites-
Morgan and his team never felt the initial shock as the dimensional rift opened because they were sucked in immediately. Though he had experience with such things, Morgan screamed; he couldn't help it. He seemed to be plunging through a vortex of fire and ice that burned and froze him at the same time, not only on the outside but all the way through. The vortex twisted and writhed like a snake with a gut ache, spinning him on a dozen different axes at once, most of them ones the human mind couldn't normally perceive.
As suddenly as it began, it stopped. It might have lasted no time or an eternity; there wasn't any way to tell. Morgan arrived standing up- the end of the rift synchronized him perfectly with his environment; he materialized without so much as a hair out of place- but the psychological disorientation was so bad he fell headlong. The floor beneath him was hard concrete studded with metal protuberances, but at that moment the relief of being back in only three dimensions was so great he actually welcomed the pain.
Other impressions made themselves felt. Voices, talking and shouting. A distant rumbling. A rush of air. Morgan's hand lay on cold metal, which vibrated. His eyes snapped open. The metal surface was the top of one rail of a railroad track. The rail lay on rubber pads, secured by large bolts to a concrete foundation. Beyond it Morgan saw a wall, or at least a vertical surface. That meant he lay between the rails, right in the middle of the tracks. The style of track suggested a subway or other such heavy rail transit application. Suddenly everything snapped into focus: the rail vibrated under the wheels of an oncoming train, which drove air from the tunnel as it came.
Morgan didn't consciously think these things. There wasn't time. Another part of his brain, one that worked entirely on instinct and training, processed the data and drew a conclusion. The conclusion was that he needed to get the Hell out of here, now. A flip brought him to his feet, balanced on the railhead. A leap, tuck, and roll planted him safely on the station platform a meter and a half above. The train nearly clipped his backpack as it roared past, brakes screeching. Shocked commuters pressed back from him in a ring, staring in a mix of wonder and horror.
What are you people staring at? Morgan started to ask, but his rational mind caught up with events and stopped him. For starters, outside of a Hong Kong chop socky flick, no normal human being could possibly have performed a two meter vertical standing jump while wearing a backpack weighing nearly a third as much as the jumper himself. Next off, Morgan happened to be a large, powerfully built lion with a jet black mane composed of thin, hairy feathers and a pair of wings patterned like a hawk's sprouting from his back. Finally, he wore the aforementioned backpack and a really obnoxious suit. Add it all up and even at Mardi Gras people would be staring at him.
"Well, that was exciting, wasn't it," Morgan declared. His face assumed an expression that might be called a smile except that unburned hormones surging through his blood twisted it into something maniacal and terrifying, as well as giving his voice an edge as jagged as torn metal.
"Any one you can walk away from," Glaive put in. He stood at Morgan's side; in his right hand he held a knife, the blade folded back along his wrist to keep it out of sight, and in his left he held John, who, judging by the smell, had wet himself. For his own part, Glaive's expression and demeanor suggested that leaping from in front of speeding trains at the very last possible instant was not only entirely routine but rather boring at that.
"Quite so," Morgan agreed, in more like his normal voice. With the specter of sudden and violent death lifted from his soul it became possible to consider futures more than a fraction of a second distant. "Thank you, thank you," He declared in a strong, carrying voice, artfully making a leg. "For my next trick-" He gestured, muttering a few words under his breath. A cloud of white mist billowed forth, quickly filling the platform area with impenetrable fog.
A great many people shrieked and fell back, or turned to run, as the cloud enveloped them. Morgan paused only long enough to cast a second spell on himself, Glaive, and John, then threw himself into the press, using his size and strength to bull his way through. The panic was more than he'd expected but it served his purpose nonetheless. Fortunately there weren't so many people that they clogged the stairs leading to the mezzanine, though it was a near thing. The area around the exit was packed solid with people trying to leave the station, but security officers and station workers were feeding people as quickly as possible through the emergency exits. Morgan let himself be swept along; the evacuation was actually going quite smoothly. The crowd seemed more startled than panicked; no doubt it helped that the mist didn't come up the stairs and none of the people seeking to escape showed any obvious ill effects.
On the street those who'd fled the station stood around in milling crowds further enlarged by spectators drawn to the commotion. A few security guards tried to sort things out but there weren't enough of them to effectively establish order. Which condition would likely change very soon, Morgan decided; in addition to normal city noise he heard a number of sirens which seemed to be approaching. He led Glaive and John into one of the crowds, eased gently through it to the back, then nonchalantly strolled away down the street. They turned the corner just as a group of police vehicles pulled up to the station.
"Doesn't seem so different from our Earth," Glaive mused as the party hurried along. No one paid them the slightest attention, despite their outlandish appearances.
"Not to look at, anyway," Morgan responded. They were in London, he'd decided. All the signs were in English and the people spoke it with a particular, easily recognizable accent. Vehicular traffic drove on the left side of the street and the vehicles themselves, not to mention the buildings, generally had an English feel to them. Nor could he think of any other city where the subway trains had rounded tops. Primarily, though, what convinced him was the stern visage of Vice Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson, Knight of the Bath, gazing down at him from atop a towering column on the other side of the street.
"Look at the people," John commented. The illusion Morgan had cast in the subway hadn't affected him, but the colors on his painted outfit had changed, giving it the appearance of a nondescript coat and pants.
Morgan had been doing just that. Mostly he saw individuals who resembled dogs, cats, foxes, badgers, skunks, and weasels. In other words, just the sort of people he'd expect to see in the London on what Avalonians like Morgan and Glaive called Mundane Earth. But there were others, too. People who resembled sheep, goats, cattle, horses, and even pigs, though none of the last looked anywhere near as fierce as Glaive. In any case, none of them were types known on Mundane Earth... and not a few of them would be considered mythological creatures.
"There's something else, too," John continued. He'd removed a brush from one of his pockets and seemed to be waving it about idly, but Morgan saw flickers of color dancing from the brush's tip. "There's power here. A lot more than back home."
"Yes," Morgan said slowly. He'd felt it too; on Mundane Earth the energy many thought of as magic was... constrained. Difficult to reach, except through discipline and study. Here, the power was... right at his fingertips, as it were, just waiting to be used. Very like Avalon, in other words. Which, frankly, perplexed him to no end. The Societies of White and Black might disagree on most things- nearly everything, in fact- but on one particular item they agreed wholeheartedly. To wit, that the unrestrained use of magic would be a disaster for all concerned. Thus the Societies controlled who could learn and how it was taught and used. It seemed that a world like this, with so much power available simply for the taking, would require even more regulation. And yet there didn't seem to be any. Morgan's senses were straining for any indication that they were being tracked, studied, or observed through magic but so far hadn't caught so much as a whiff. Which troubled him immensely; the nature of their arrival should have drawn all sorts of attention. He couldn't bring himself to believe that no one had noticed... which implied that they had, but he couldn't detect it. Which alarmed him even more.
"Where are we?" Glaive inquired.
"Trafalgar square," John replied. "That's Lord Nelson up there-" he pointed at the statue- "and behind him is the National gallery." His eyes were positively gleaming.
"We aren't here to sight see," Morgan interjected gruffly. He drew a pince-nez from the breast pocket of his suit and perched it on his muzzle, then turned slowly in a circle, surveying the scene. Through the glasses the view looked mostly the same... but certain things seemed to glow, and there were lines of light on the ground and sometimes in buildings. "This way," he pronounced, setting off.
"What's over here?" Glaive asked, falling in.
"Don't know yet," Morgan replied. "Something interesting, though."
After a short walk the Thames hove into view. A park lined the near bank. The glowing lines converged on a granite obelisk inscribed with Egyptian designs.
"Wow!" John exclaimed, eyes wide. "That's Cleopatra's Needle!"
"Actually, it was erected by Tuthmose III," Morgan said. The obelisk was itself an artifact of some power, and it had bent the local ley lines until they converged upon it. Just looking at it made Morgan wince. All that power just sitting there, waiting for some nut case to come along and blow a hundred meters of the Embankment clean off the map. Morgan knew any number of people who'd do it, too, just for kicks. Needless to say, the Needle on his Earth had been secretly replaced by a thaumaturgically neutral simulacra. "Hey, John," he asked. "What do you need to find out where we're supposed to be?"
"A little time, that's all," John replied, removing a selection of colored chalk from his pockets and commencing to draw on the flagstones around the base of the obelisk. "Since someone obligingly left all this manna sitting here for us, it would be a terrible shame not to use it."
"Works for me," Morgan replied, putting his glasses away. "Keep an eye out, Glaive."
"That's an affirm." Glaive wandered off, apparently looking at the scenery, but his roving eye missed nothing that happened in the immediate area.
Had anyone happened to be watching, they would have noticed that while John's strokes with the chalk were deliberate and purposeful, the lines laid down looked random and haphazard, a bunch of scribbles not even organized enough to be called doodles. The reason for this would become clear if the hypothetical observer watched for a time: after he laid them down, the lines John drew writhed away from the paths he'd chosen, seeking new shapes and positions of their own. Nevertheless, John kept drawing; the pattern would emerge sooner or later.
Morgan sensed the tendrils of power John cast out... and he sensed them come back empty handed, if they didn't simply evaporate. The waiting grated on Morgan's nerves, all the more so because he felt so horribly exposed. He kept it locked up, though. Pestering John wouldn't speed things up any; divination was far more art than craft, and John did so well at it because he was an artist, not a craftsman.
None of which meant that Morgan had to keep lugging all this gear around. He shed his backpack and set it on a bench, followed by his suit. Underneath he wore BDUs and web gear like everyone else. He sighed happily, glad to be rid of the weight, then wrung his hands and wiggled his fingers to loosen them. After a brief pause to collect his thoughts he cast a spell.
Suit and backpack melted like wax in a furnace, flowing together into a single mass. It pulsated and swelled, extruding pseudopods that gradually took on more definite form: a hand... a foot... a leg... a head... another head...
In the end Morgan found himself with two furs: a male border collie and a female puma. They were both the same height and size; the male was a bit shorter and slimmer than average, the female taller and heavier. Both had trim, well sculpted frames, with impressive sexual characteristics: the male's penis was long and thick, the female's hips broad and full, her breasts substantial.
The most notable thing about them was not their utter nakedness, or the fact that being that way didn't seem to bother them in the least. Rather, it was that the male's left hip was fused with the female's right, so that the two of them had only three legs between them. The middle leg was rather oddly shaped, given that it combined collie and puma fur patterns, male and female structure, and a right and left foot. "Hello, Master," they chorused in voices that were strangely similar, even given the changes in timbre due to sex. "Are we there?"
"Hello darlings." Morgan gave each one a kiss on the cheek. "Yes, we are. For some reason we arrived on the southbound track of Charing Cross tube station in London, England. Now we're at Thames Embankment while John figures out where we should be." He glanced up at the sky; it was overcast with a threat of rain so he couldn't see the sun, but the impression he got was of early morning on a weekday, around the leading edge of rush hour.
"This is amazing," the female enthused. "I've always wanted to visit London!"
"I don't know how long we'll be staying," Morgan cautioned. "Don't wander off or get too busy with anything; we may have to leave suddenly." He added a modest illusion spell, so his concubines would appear clothed and merely sitting beside one another.
"I'm sure we can find a way to pass the time," the male commented, giving his companion a kiss on the cheek and reaching over to stroke her vulva. She responded with a giggle and fondled his penis.
Glaive, patrolling nearby, noted the entire exchange. He averted his eyes, keeping his expression carefully blank. In his opinion Morgan was a fop and a pervert. A female sex slave he could understand, but a male? Furthermore, word had it that Morgan used his powers to transform both his concubines and himself in a variety of interesting ways as the mood took him. And Morgan had a very fertile imagination in that regard, it was said.
On the other hand... Morgan claimed that Robin and Robin had useful skills. Frankly, Glaive had doubts. In any case, it wasn't for him to say. Eddie had put Morgan in charge, and that was that. Of course he'd also told Glaive- privately- to keep an eye on things. Don't interfere, but pay attention... and when the mission ended, don't hesitate to pass on anything that might seem important.
Glaive resisted the urge to smile. He strongly suspected that things would be very different for Morgan once this was over. Frankly, Glaive had never trusted him. It might be said that leaving the Whites for the Blacks could be seen as him coming to his senses... but to Glaive it showed a fundamental weakness of character that he could lay aside his loyalties like that. There were even rumors that Morgan still consorted with Gynavave, his estranged wife. No doubt, if confronted, he'd claim to be spying for the Society, or some such thing, but Glaive had his doubts. He also wondered if Gynavave knew about the Robins, and if so what would she think then? At that point Glaive did smile, imagining himself being the one to tell her, and her likely reaction. Not for the first time Glaive wondered how it could be that a man like Morgan ended up with a woman reputed to be so tight-assed she needed industrial lubricants to take a shit. The world was indeed a strange and wondrous place.
"Eureka!" John shouted, clasping his hands above his head. "I have found it!"
"What?" In a flash Morgan was at John's side, peering over his shoulder. All he saw was a chalk line frame containing a bunch of scribbled lines, some piles of colored dust, and a few blobs of paint.
"Observe." With a flourish John drew a paint knife from his breast pocket and traced the point in a circle through the blobs of paint and pigment as if stirring them. Bits of each color were dragged along and mixed, creating circular streaks.
Morgan opened his mouth, but then he felt a surge of power as things fell into alignment. John continued to stir but now the pigments moved by themselves, blending and flowing across the surface, until-
"Where is that?" Morgan demanded. The swirled colors had resolved into an image: a city, fronted by a body of water, with a tower located prominently in the foreground. The tower consisted of a solid cylindrical column supporting a slightly thicker body that had a protruding rim around its middle. Above that the tower slimmed down to a needle spire. Morgan found himself thinking of an Art Deco scepter.
"Auckland sky tower," John replied, sitting back on his heels.
"Auckland?" Morgan blinked. "Oh, right. New Zealand. Is that where Spartil is?"
John shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't look for him. He's really good at hiding himself, I've heard, so why bother? But this is the place where he arrived in this world, I'm sure of it."
"Well, well." Morgan rubbed his chin. There wasn't any guarantee that Spartil had stayed in Auckland, but what the hey, it gave them a lead. John could always look again when they arrived. "Huddle up, people," he called, gesturing.
Female Robin had been giving male Robin a blow job while he fingered her vagina. They both looked up, she licking her face, then rose and hurried over in an odd, three-beat gait. Glaive arrived shortly thereafter.
"We're going to New Zealand, folks," Morgan announced. Then, just as he was about to continue, a memory popped into his mind, bringing him to a sudden stop. "John," he said, "You're from there, aren't you? Originally?"
"I'm a Kiwi, yeah." John agreed. "Born in Christchurch."
"Hmm." Morgan rubbed his chin. The similarities between his own Earth and this one were enough to make things convenient in some ways... but difficult in others. For instance, he'd been warned to consider that there might be local Doppelgangers of his Earther team members. Which, in this case, meant John, since Morgan and Glaive were from Avalon. Morgan spent a moment wondering what John might have become if he hadn't been identified as Gifted and trained in magic. It wasn't a very pleasant thought; John's Gift was the sort that would tend to grow on its own even if not shaped by an instructor. Given how much loose magic there was here... no, it wasn't a pleasant thought at all.
Nor was it relevant. Morgan would deal with John's local equivalent if necessary. Until then, he had more pressing concerns. Such as getting to Auckland. "I don't suppose we could think, wink, and double-blink, close our eyes and jump?" he asked.
"What utter nonsense," John replied with a sniff, putting away his supplies and rising to his feet. "A one-two-three is quite sufficient. Besides," he added as an afterthought, "You know Mary Poppins was a White. With that saccharine do-gooder attitude, what else could she be?"
"Yes, but she did things instead of merely sitting on her ass and pontificating," Glaive pointed out. "Show me a White with that sort of power that would dirty her hands with scut work."
"You think she was a Black?" Morgan inquired, arching an eyebrow.
"I say there's a cop headed this way, and we'd best finish before he arrives," Glaive replied.
"Hmm, yes." Morgan returned his attention to the painting. "Lead the way, John, if you please."
"Right." John took Morgan's hand in one of his own and Glaive's in the other. Morgan took female Robin's hand. "Ready? One, two, three, jump."
A policeman strolled up. He looked around the park and frowned. He thought he'd seen some people messing around near the Needle, but he must have been mistaken. Glancing down, he saw that someone had drawn on one of the pavers with colored chalk. Though 'drawn' was perhaps too strong a word. More like someone had scribbled random patterns in equally random colors. He'd notify Maintenance, but it hardly mattered. The next rain would wash it away.
"Hya, Kelli," Cyndi called as she came up to Kelli's cubicle. "Got the weekly stats done?"
"Just finishing up." Kelli grabbed a stack of papers from her laser printer's output basket and handed them over.
"Awesome." Cyndi leafed through the pages. "Everybody's doing just-"
Kelli waited, for a moment, then frowned. "Cyndi?" she prompted.
Cyndi held the report before her face but her eyes looked away across the half-height rows of cubicles in which sat customer service reps wearing headsets, busily taking calls. Her gaze was locked on the thing making its way along one of the aisles. In color and texture it reminded Cyndi of nothing so much as a gigantic, semi-gelid blob of diarrhea. Spindly threads extended from the front of the mass, attaching to the floor and cube walls, dragging the thing forward. Pits that might have been mouths opened and closed; if so they randomly changed size, shape, and orientation as the blob inched forward. Pseudopods on top of the mass, which generally didn't anchor to objects, sprouted pale orbs at their tips which looked something like eyes. Since the whole thing was rolling, they moved down the face of the mass and gradually disappeared beneath it.
To Cyndi, at least as startling as the thing itself was that no one else seemed to notice it. CSRs paid it no attention whatsoever as it oozed past their cubicles. At one point a rep headed for the bathroom walked right through it as if the blob- or the femfur herself- were nothing but an illusion.
"Cyndi?" Kelli repeated, a bit more forcefully. In truth it wasn't so unusual to see Cyndi staring off into space. Generally she'd be humming under her breath, though, and Kelli had never seen it happen in the middle of a conversation. Worse by far was the expression on Cyndi's face. Kelli couldn't think of words to describe it, but seeing it turned Kelli's guts to ice.
Cyndi's eyes never left the thing as her right hand dropped to her side and came up holding a wooden flute. Kelli blinked; the flute wasn't especially large but she couldn't imagine where Cyndi could have kept it. She strained the business casual dress code by wearing denim pants that clung tightly to her ample hips; the flute would have protruded from any of her pockets and shown quite clearly if stuck down one of the legs. The stat report fluttered to the floor as Cyndi brought the flute to her lips and drew a breath-
The thing was gone. One instant it had been. The next it wasn't. Life in the office continued, unconscious of the disruption.
The breath Cyndi had drawn escaped in a shuddering sigh. Her hands were shaking, and every quill on her body stood up straight. The ones on her back and shoulders had popped right through her blouse.
"C- Cyndi?" Kelli stammered. She sounded frightened now.
Cyndi tried to say something but all she managed was a pathetic little squeak. She gripped the flute with both hands until her knuckles turned white, gulping deep breaths to steady her nerves. "I... I don't feel well," she finally managed. "I-" she swallowed. "If Adam doesn't mind, I'm gonna knock off early."
"He'd better not," Kelli glowered. "Here, sit down. I'll get you some tea and let Adam know. Is there someone you'd like me to call?"
"No thanks, I'll do it." Cyndi picked up the phone on Kelli's desk. Reaching out to dial with her other hand brought the flute to her attention. For an instant she looked as surprised to see it as Kelli had been. Fortunately Kelli had already hurried off to the break room. Cyndi lay the flute aside and dialed a number.
"Hello?" a female voice on the other end responded.
"Hi, Vicki," Cyndi replied. "Could you guys come by and pick me up? I'm knocking off early today and I-" she stopped. She didn't care to talk about it over the phone. She wasn't sure she wanted to talk about it in person, either, but most especially she didn't want to be alone. "I don't feel good," she admitted. "I... don't think I should drive right now."
"We'll be right over," Kayleigh's voice cut in. "You'll be okay until we get there, right? Should I call a doctor?"
"No," Cyndi insisted. "It isn't a doctor sort of thing," she explained, very clearly and precisely.
For several heart beats neither Kayleigh nor Vicki spoke. "Oh," Kayleigh finally said in the tone of one who has suddenly grasped a critical point.
"We'll be right over," Vicki added. "Don't go anywhere, 'kay?"
"I won't," Cyndi promised.
"Okay. 'Bye." The line went dead.
Kelli returned with the tea and Adam in tow. Needless to say that attracted the attention of Corrie and Stella. In short order Cyndi had so many people fussing over her that she wanted to ask if there was anyone actually taking calls. She let it go because she didn't want anyone asking difficult questions, such as why she was upset or where had the flute had come from. Eventually Kayleigh and Vicki arrived.
Vicki and Kayleigh were an interesting pair. Vicki was a beautiful white mink and Kayleigh an equally attractive blue-gray husky, but that in itself wasn't what made them interesting. It was that each had only half a body, divided vertically along the spine. The two halves were joined seamlessly into a single whole, mink on the right and husky on the left. Even their tail was split, white on one side and gray on the other. Nevertheless, each woman had a complete and separate head, Kayleigh that of a husky and Vicki that of a mink, mounted side by side on a single pair of shoulders.
Most interesting of all was that no one seemed to regard the pair as in any way unusual. Cyndi squinted, forcing her eyes to unfocus slightly. Instead of a double image of the conjoined pair she saw two complete and separate femfurs, one mink and one husky, walking down the aisle hand in hand. One might remark that they wore identical orange shorts and white tank tops, but that wasn't a big deal. Cyndi relaxed her eyes and the two flowed back together. No one remarked on Vicki's and Kayleigh's odd appearance because no one saw it. They saw instead the illusion of two separate people holding hands.
"Cyndi?" Kayleigh asked. "You look awful! Are you all right?"
"I just- I don't feel good," Cyndi replied. At some point, without realizing it, she'd picked up the flute, and now held it in her lap, gripped tightly with both hands. "Things we're going fine, and then- and then they weren't."
"You'll look after her?" Kelli asked.
"You bet we will," Kayleigh replied, quite firmly.
Cyndi rose and walked along with her two friends. On the way to the door she looked around; the office seemed to dim, as if seen in a half-silvered mirror, and sound became muted, distant. Zones of light, colored in ways Cyndi couldn't easily describe, overlay the scene. Where the creature had been the colors were... disturbed. Whipped into curling vortices, like tendrils of fog behind a speeding car.
"Cyndi!" Kayleigh hissed.
"Huh?" Cyndi started, blinking. The office snapped back to normal.
"Your eyes are turning purple," Kayleigh whispered.
"Oh. Sorry." Cyndi stared fixedly ahead until they got outside.
"All right." Kayleigh's face set in a grim, determined expression; she planted her hand on her hip. "What's going on?" Her tone brooked no argument, like that of a parent speaking to a child caught in the act of wrongdoing.
"Oh, nothing much," Cyndi breezily replied. "Henrick and Jolie are going to have a baby, Kim thinks Aja's cheating on her, Adam's going to a technology seminar in New Hampshire next month, Seldra's teenage son got busted for drunk driving..." She paused, as if collecting her thoughts. "Oh yeah. A nameless horror from another dimension popped in for a bit."
Kayleigh blinked. For a second she actually wondered if Cyndi were being serious. Then her ears lay down, her lips drew back from her teeth, and her hackles rose. "Dammit, we just finished one, and now we've got another?" she demanded angrily.
Vicki reached across and stoked Kayleigh's cheek. "This magic business really keeps one busy."
"If somebody's causing this, I'm gonna borrow Patricia's paddle and give 'em a whacking their bottom won't forget in a long time," Cyndi muttered.
"I know," Vicki interjected. "Shaving. Nobody likes being shaved."
"Speaking of grotesque public displays, which one of you dressed, anyway?" Cyndi demanded. "I mean, orange trunks? Come on."
"She did," Vicki and Kayleigh simultaneously responded, indicating one another. For an instant they stared at one another in shock. "Traitor," Kayleigh sniffed. "I mean, my own flesh and blood-"
"Oh, bite me," Vicki responded, sticking out her tongue.
"No way." Kayleigh turned her face away. "You'd enjoy it too much. 'Sides, I'd probably catch something."
"Cooties! Cooties!" Vicki exclaimed, reaching across to tickle Kayleigh's side of their chest.
Kayleigh let out a shriek and responded in kind. The fight ended as quickly as it began when the pair fell on their butt. Given the nature of their interconnection, remaining upright required a certain amount of cooperation. Cyndi, meanwhile, was doubled over with laughter, tears streaming down her face.
"Oh, let's get in the car before we get arrested," Kayleigh muttered crossly. Vicki, with a huge grin, presented the keys; Kayleigh opened the door.
The drive home didn't take long. Of course, by the standards of larger states, it could be argued that nothing in Rhode Island was especially far from anywhere else. Though in Kayleigh's opinion this generalization overlooked important details. Such as the fact that Providence was a large, densely packed urban center, the size of its state notwithstanding. Getting around posed the same problems as one would encounter in any other major metropolitan area.
"Um... could you guys help me with my blouse?" Cyndi asked, somewhat hesitantly, as they entered their shared apartment.
"Why, Cyndi, I thought you'd never ask," Vicki quipped, batting her eyelashes. Kayleigh tried, with only partial success, to stifle a giggle.
"Why you- I oughta-" Cyndi exclaimed, assuming a series of comically enraged expressions and gesturing threateningly with the flute. Needless to say, all she accomplished was to make it even harder for Kayleigh and Vicki to control their mirth. Once the paroxysm passed, though, Kayleigh took stock of the situation.
Cyndi was a porcupine; her quills and fur were a dark, rusty red, her large, expressive eyes startlingly green. Where Kayleigh and Vicki were tall and athletic, Cyndi was short- coming only to Kayleigh and Vicki's shoulder- and more rounded, though not plump. Quills grew from her head, shoulders, back, and tail; her limbs and the rest of her torso were covered only in fur. The current problem arose from the fact that she didn't clip the quills on her back, as did some of her type. Her only concession to fashion was trimming the quills on her pelvis so she could wear pants. Obviously this arrangement made clothing her torso somewhat difficult, but so long as she stuck to loose fitting garments they weren't insurmountable. But when she got angry, upset, or frightened, the quills would try to stand up. In this case they'd done so with sufficient force to lodge their tips in the material. The barbs then held them firmly in place, just as they were designed to.
"I think we'll need the scissors for this," Kayleigh commented.
"Oh well," Cyndi sighed. "It's about time I replaced it anyway."
Even without saving the blouse, disentangling it from Cyndi's quills took time and patience. Kayleigh had no desire to accidentally stick herself; the quills were very sharp and the barbs would lodge them in her flesh like fish hooks. Not too long ago she'd stepped on one Cyndi had dropped in the shower; it was an experience she had no desire to repeat.
"From the front it's not too bad," Cyndi allowed, holding the freed garment op before her.
"Backside's a little drafty, though," Vicki commented. Below the collar nothing much remained of the blouse's back but tatters.
It did not escape Kayleigh's notice that while Vicki spoke of the blouse's back her attention was on Cyndi's front. Cyndi's breasts were not especially large but they were round, firm, and- like Cyndi herself- perky. As if that weren't enough, Cyndi generally didn't wear a bra. Her breasts held their shape well enough without one, and her quills made it problematical in any case. To avoid trouble at work she usually wore a strapless bikini top. As an undergarment it worked well enough; as a top in it's own right it was shockingly risque, barely covering her nipples. Lusting after my straight friends like a bitch in heat is not a good thing, Kayleigh reminded herself sternly. It didn't do any good; Cyndi was much too cute and far too sexy, especially in a state of advanced undress.
The problem, fundamentally, was Vicki. She had a libido that wouldn't quit. But her naughty bits were also Kayleigh's; when Vicki caused them to get all hot and bothered Kayleigh's brain assumed that she was, too. It was, Kayleigh had to admit, a consequence of sharing her body that she hadn't anticipated. Along with quite a few others. "Would you like something to eat?" she asked in a desperate bid to steer her thoughts into safer territory.
"Thanks!" Cyndi exclaimed. "I'd love a stack of bark pancakes."
"You aren't going to tell me you didn't see that coming," Vicki said tartly as they entered the kitchen.
"Just help me make the pancakes, okay?" Kayleigh replied crossly.
Vicki giggled, but lent her assistance.
In the front room Cyndi sat on the couch, lost in thought. After a moment she took up the flute, stared at it for a moment, then put it to her lips and started playing. Nothing much at first; just scales and random collections of euphonious notes. Over time a melody of sorts emerged; it was a haunting tune in an eerie, minor key.
Kayleigh tried to ignore the music, but it gave her goose bumps and made her hackles rise.
"What's she doing?" Vicki asked nervously.
"We'll find out," Kayleigh replied, forking the last of the pancakes onto a platter.
Just as Kayleigh and Vicki returned to the front room, all the lights in the apartment went out. They came back a second later but only dimly, flickering bloody red. The low, unsteady illumination threw dancing, red tinged shadows on the walls and floor. Most of them were on the wall opposite Cyndi, though there wasn't anything casting them. And... they moved. Swirling around, like a whirlpool. Or a tunnel, reaching away into unimaginable distance-
"Zee!" Cyndi shrieked. In a flash she was on her feet, bounding right over the coffee table, diving headfirst into the vortex.
"Cyndi, no!" Kayleigh was in motion, the plate of pancakes crashing unheeded to the floor. She managed to grab Cyndi's foot... and because of it was sucked into the vortex as well.
Raquel pulled up to the building, noting that Kayleigh's car was already there. Hardly a surprise, really; the DMV call center where Cyndi worked was much closer than the downtown office tower where Raquel labored. What with traffic and everything it wasn't particularly remarkable that Kayleigh could go and return before Raquel completed her one-way trip.
A few people stopped whatever they were doing and stared as Raquel got out of her car and locked it. That too was understandable; there weren't a lot of tigers in this particular complex. Raquel happened to be quite a looker as well: tall, muscular, and athletic, but still nicely curved. Her knee length skirt and matching jacket met the business formal dress code but nevertheless showed her figure to best advantage, especially her legs, which she'd always considered her best point. Though her chest was pretty good too, especially what with having four breasts. But that wasn't so unusual among felines as it was in other species.
Still in all, the reason people stared when Raquel came around probably had most to do with the fact that she had two heads and no tail. In that respect she was almost certainly unique. At the very least she'd never encountered or heard of anyone similar... until Vicki came along, at any rate. On the other hand, it could be argued that Kayleigh and Vicki weren't an appropriate comparison. They were two different people, and not even the same species. They had a tail, too. Of course, looked at another way, it might argued that Kayleigh and Vicki were more unique, for those very reasons.
None of which mattered to Raquel at the moment. She didn't even stop to pose for the gawkers, which she might have done under other circumstances. (Watching people tweak at her appearance had become one of her most satisfying pastimes.) Concern for Cyndi swept it all away. Kayleigh had called, saying that Cyndi had suffered some sort of breakdown at work and asked Kayleigh to come pick her up. That Cyndi would beg off work for medical reasons was bad enough; that she questioned her ability to drive herself home only made it worse. Of course Raquel had immediately excused herself, citing concern over Cyndi's health, and come straight home.
Just as Raquel reached the apartment door the lights in the hall went out, then came on again, guttering bloody red. For an instant she froze; then she whipped out her keys and opened the door. This couldn't be good.
It wasn't. Raquel found herself looking across the front room at a spinning vortex of shadow. Just as Cyndi dove into it and Kayleigh and Vicki tried to stop her.
Someone else might have hesitated. Someone else might have wondered how the Hell something like this could happen in an age of science and reason. Someone else wouldn't have traded her tail for an extra head, much less have found herself in a situation where such an exchange would be possible. Completely aside from that, Cyndi was Raquel's best and closest friend, who'd stuck by her through trials no person should have to endure. Kayleigh was Raquel's lover, who'd brought her out a long, lonely dry spell. And Vicki... well, she was a bit flighty by Raquel's standards, but the joy she brought to Kayleigh made up for a lot. If pressed Raquel might reluctantly admit that Vicki's presence put a bit of a strain on Raquel's relationship with Kayleigh... but if rectifying the issue meant casting Vicki back to the horrific fate from which Kayleigh's selflessness had delivered her, then Raquel would just have to grin and bear it. She'd never be able to forgive herself. Kayleigh wouldn't either, and rightly so.
Raquel didn't have time to consciously consider all this but she didn't have to. All that mattered was that the people dearest to her were being sucked up by some sort of extra-dimensional whirlpool. As such there was only one possible course of action: she dove after them.
"Oh-" Janda gasped, then retched yet again. Nothing came up but a few ropy strands of mucous; her stomach had completely emptied itself several iterations previously.
Gynavave rested on one knee, cradling Janda's torso in her arms. She wiped the mucous from Janda's lips and slung it away. Gynavave's left boot and calf were spattered with vomit and the spreading pool threatened her right knee, but she ignored it for now. The utility uniforms were, she felt, frightfully ugly, but the heavy material resisted soaking and against the camouflage patterning the stains hardly showed. Phaeron had told her straight out that, under the circumstances, he couldn't predict where on the target world they'd arrive. As such, trying to dress for the location made no sense; better to choose outfits that were the most practical. The utilities were that, if nothing else. If, between Gynavave and Yolanda, they couldn't shield themselves from a pack of Mundanes, well, they deserved whatever they got.
Janda breathed in ragged, gulping gasps. Gynavave stroked Janda's head reassuringly; the insertion had been terribly hard on her. Gynavave would have preferred someone with more inter-dimentional travel experience, but Janda had been the best diviner on hand given the time constraints. Since Gynavave wouldn't know where in the world she'd arrive, identifying the target zone as quickly as possible was paramount.
"I-" Janda gasped, trying weakly to push Gynavave's hands away.
"You are not all right," Gynavave insisted, gently but firmly. The heaves seemed to have stopped so she rose to her feet, bringing Janda up with her.
Janda was a black leopard. Her body was trim, powerful, and exceptionally well shaped, an advantage upon which she capitalized by wearing the most sexy and revealing outfits she could. Even in BDUs she cut a fine figure, except for looking half dead and being covered with her own vomit. Gynavave didn't approve of Janda's loose lifestyle- she considered it shallow and demeaning- but that didn't mean she felt no sympathy for Janda's current plight. All too clearly Gynavave recalled her own first hop; Janda, at least, had managed not to spray a full load of beer and pepperoni pizza in her instructor's face.
"Give me a healing potion," Gynavave said, extending her hand. "I think she can keep it down now."
Yolanda's expression tightened. Frankly, she thought it wasteful to use a potion- which might not be replaceable in this world- when Janda wasn't actually injured. Nevertheless, she handed over the vial without comment. Gynavave was the boss; Phaeron had been very clear on that point.
Gynavave un-stoppered the vial with her teeth and emptied it into Janda's mouth. Janda swallowed convulsively, gritting her teeth against another twitch of the diaphragm, but it subsided before developing into a full scale heave. Then the potion did its work: like the sun coming out on a blustery day, the sickly pallor left Janda's face. Her body stopped quivering and she straightened up, no longer leaning on Gynavave for support. "Ick," Janda commented, in more or less her normal voice, grimacing comically as she tried to clear the bitter taste of bile and vomit from her mouth.
"I need you to look for our quarry," Gynavave said.
"Now?" Janda looked around; the alley was dark, filthy, and even Janda's addition couldn't make it stink any worse.
"Yes, now." Gynavave's tone was quiet but firm. "He's been here nearly a month. We have a lot of catching up to do."
"All right." Janda unslung her pack and took out her crystal ball. It was a fishing float made of blue tinted glass, its surface marked with pocks and imperfections. It wasn't even precisely spherical. None of which mattered because the power wasn't in the ball itself; it was merely the focus through which Janda accessed it. As Janda concentrated, muttering to herself, light blazed forth from the ball, filling the alley with an eerie glow. It surely would have drawn attention, being quite visible in the night darkness, except that an illusion placed by Yolanda on the alley mouth kept people from seeing it or the three travellers.
Yolanda, from her position at the alley mouth, couldn't see into the ball itself; Janda's hands blocked the view. She could see patterns of light projected on the opposite wall, though. And sometimes... they almost looked like-
Yolanda's blood turned to ice and her whole body quivered. Her right forearm itched; she rubbed it distractedly with her left hand. There had been... something that might have been a face. A black face, with golden eyes-
"There's... a powerful undead who lairs nearby," Janda said.
Gynavave cursed under her breath. "I hope that doesn't mean we're too late. Is it... what we're looking for?" Merely speaking of Neverwas could be dangerous; it created a sympathetic connection that attracted their attention and could even summon them.
"I can't tell for sure," Janda admitted. "But... there's traces. Whatever dwells in this place has had dealings with... them."
"I think we should check it out," Yolanda declared. "It's all too much of a coincidence." And if it turned out to be what she surmised-
Gynavave nodded. Her thoughts ran on similar lines. It might be that they'd just happened to arrive near the lair of an undead who'd dealt somehow with Neverwas, and Spartil wasn't involved in any way... but if so, as Yolanda said, it did seem like rather too much of a coincidence. "Show us," she commanded.
Janda cupped the ball in one hand, gesturing with the other. A swirling cloud of colored light seemed to billow up into the air. Slowly it coalesced into an image... of a building. It looked vaguely like an ancient Egyptian temple, but was clearly of modern construction. Brightly painted hieroglyphs decorated its facade, which was illuminated by spotlights. The building's grounds were dotted with date palms and pools with papyrus stalks growing in them. The corner of a car park was just visible; people came and went through the main entrance, met by greeters in fanciful Egyptian costumes.
"Apparently this undead doesn't believe in keeping a low profile," Gynavave commented.
Yolanda nodded. In her mind, a lair like this spoke of an arrogant, wanton nature, which only confirmed her initial supposition.
"Do you have it fixed, Yolanda?" Gynavave asked.
"Just a moment." Yolanda walked slowly around the image, studying it intently. "Yes, I've got it. Thanks, Janda. It's a good image."
Janda smiled, albeit a bit weakly. "Actually... it was easy. There's... a lot of power here."
"Yes." Gynavave glanced around. "I've felt it too. It's almost like-" she'd been about to say like Avalon. It had no bearing on the current situation. "Check it out, Yolanda."
"I'm on it." Yolanda concentrated, casting an illusion on herself that transformed her paramilitary outfit into a comfortable but stylish dress. It also altered the cut and styling of her mane, adding jewelry and makeup she wasn't wearing. The pendant hanging around her neck and the rings on her right and left hands were real; the pendant cast a shield against undead, the ring on her left hand blocked scrying, and the one on her right allowed her to teleport. She raised her right hand, concentrated on her destination, and spoke the word of command.
Suddenly Yolanda was there, just outside the entrance, at the edge of the car park. She started walking, ignoring one or two startled looks. This wasn't her Earth, with its Draconian rules about hiding the effects of magic from Mundanes. Aside from that, she'd learned long ago that most people simply ignored things that didn't make sense. Even if someone had been staring straight at her when she appeared out of nowhere, they'd convince themselves that it was a trick of the light or something. What was the alternative? To honestly believe that an attractive, young, black footed ferret fem had simply popped into existence out of thin air?
As she approached the portal with its faux Egyptian greeters Yolanda produced a silver framed pince-nez from one of her pockets and perched it on her nose. On the surface, this Earth looked the same as hers, but whether or not the locals knew it, there was magic. Undead were magical creatures; they couldn't exist without it. They also tended to exist for a long time; if they survived, it was often through picking up some magic of their own. For certain, if Yolanda were an ancient creature who chose to live in such an ostentatious pile, she'd have a few discreet spells here and there to make sure the locals didn't get uppity.
There weren't any spells on the entrance. But as she looked around, something caught Yolanda's eye. Up ahead a young mouse fem passed into the foyer. The greeters smiled and spoke to her; she smiled and said something back. Yolanda quickened her pace; the fem's actions and appearance weren't at all remarkable- at least not in this place- but in the glasses an aura of sorcery surrounded her like a halo. The mouse fem carried at least half a dozen magic items, some of them quite powerful. After a brief internal struggle Yolanda touched one of the decorative gems on the frame of her glasses; attempting to penetrate what might be an illusion required an active exertion of magic power that might itself be noticed. The mouse blurred and reformed: no longer a mouse in a flowing, satin dress, but a skunk in urban camouflage battle dress utilities, combat boots, a backpack, and web gear. In other words, her outfit looked just like Yolanda's own.
It was all Yolanda could do not to stop dead in her tracks and gape. The fem apparently hadn't noticed that she was being followed; she seemed preoccupied, like someone urgently in search of something. Yolanda looked around the foyer as if admiring the decor, though she didn't really notice it. A question kept running through her mind: what in the name of the seven Hells was Jessica doing here?
Raquel screamed at the top of her lungs, from both mouths, but couldn't hear herself. What had looked like a turbid whirlpool on her apartment wall roared around her like a tornado funnel cloud once she entered it. The funnel wasn't made of cloud, either; it was instead a billion spinning shadows. But these shadows had form, after a fashion. They had claws that reached for her, and eyes that blazed with hate and longing. She recognized them; she'd seen them before, boiling out of the walls of the Arthur M. Sackler Gallery like cockroaches. But here- the world she'd just left, at any rate- she wasn't strong enough to throw a tank and tough enough to take a shot from a cannon and still get up afterwards. If those claws touched her they'd tear out her soul, devouring her very essence.
Though she didn't remember grabbing it, Raquel clung to something. She didn't know what; the vortex tumbled her like a leaf in a windstorm and assaulted her senses with such a cacophony as to make rational thought utterly impossible. In fact, Raquel didn't even notice when the noise stopped; her mind was stunned by the overload. She did notice when she crashed headlong into a table laden with food, breaking it in half and catapulting ornate silver trays and dishes every which way. Now Raquel realized what she'd grabbed: it was Cyndi, curled into a ball with her quills quiveringly erect like the pikes of a phalanx. As she struggled to her feet Raquel looked down at herself and noted that the front of her jacket and blouse were punctured by hundreds of small rips, as if she'd taken a blast from a shotgun. Except that the flesh underneath wasn't punctured. It didn't even hurt. Which it should have; one night, back in college, Raquel had awoken Cyndi from a nightmare, and she'd lashed out in fear, embedding a quill in the back of Raquel's hand. That one quill alone had engendered a sensation as if someone had tried to cut Raquel's hand off with a hacksaw; removing it had required surgical intervention. Raquel picked up a silver spoon and, holding it between her thumb and middle finger, squeezed. It folded in half without any noticeable effort. Well, Toto, we sure as Hell ain't in Kansas any more, she thought to herself, using both heads to look in opposite directions and take in the whole of her environment as quickly as possible.
The place in which Raquel and Cyndi found themselves seemed to be a convention hall in a fancy hotel. The table on which they'd landed was one of several set up buffet style at the edge of the floor, in which a crowd of richly dressed people congregated. The crowd had surged back at Raquel's precipitous arrival; they edged back another couple steps when Raquel got up and focused her attention on them. At least there wasn't a squad of armed security guards rushing forward with weapons drawn.
Cyndi uncurled and got to her feet, starting forward in a determined fashion. Her eyes had turned from vibrant green to deep lavender. Furthermore, the color had subsumed all detail, erasing her irises and corneas. That, as much as the fact that her quills were still prominently flared, caused the crowd to scoot hastily out of her way. She seemed to know where she was going, and quite determined to go there, too.
"C-" Raquel began, but a motion caught her eye. There was someone coming; not a squad, only one person. He looked like quite enough, though; his head rode well above the average level of the crowd, and rested upon shoulders as heavy and solid as a concrete wall. The crowd parted for him because it was obvious that he'd bowl them aside if they didn't, and he was easily large enough to do so without breaking stride. Nevertheless, he somehow threaded his way through the press with barely a ripple. Raquel shifted away from the tables so she'd have room to move without tripping over them.
The last rank of conventioneers parted and the newcomer stood forth. He was every bit as big as Raquel had guessed; not only tall but broad and thick. A suit of armor made of metal plates sewn to leather backing covered him entirely, but his sheer size combined with the way he wore the suit as if unaware of its weight led Raquel to conclude that his body would be sheeted in slabs of rock hard muscle that stood out through his skin like cords. He'd no doubt look every bit as impressive naked, though Raquel didn't favor males with overdeveloped musculatures. At the moment she wondered what species he was; on the whole he looked like... a unicorn, truth be told. His head had a long, generally horsey look, and a spiraled horn sprouted from his forehead. But it was black, and open, like a corkscrew. What she could see of his face and neck through his helmet and barding was a deep, burnished red; a beard decorating his chin and jaw was even darker. His tail was like a lion's, except for being white, and the tuft on the end matched his beard. His hooves were shiny black and cloven.
"Um... I'm sorry about the table," Raquel began. She'd attacked Bull Dog without the slightest hesitation; of course she hadn't known that he was a Super. Fortunately, she was too, at least in the place where she met him. She seemed to be here, as well, but she still found herself reluctant to mix it up with this character. Bull Dog had burst in and immediately started throwing his weight around and generally acting like a jerk. The presumed unicorn turned the problem around backwards: She didn't know he wasn't a Super... and he seemed perfectly at ease, assuming a relaxed stance with his hand resting casually on the pommel of the longsword sheathed at his hip. Raquel didn't fail to notice that he'd left himself plenty of room to draw and wield it, should the occasion arise. She might have interpreted his quiet calm as overconfidence, but one look into his deep blue eyes disabused her of that notion. This was a male who didn't bluster because he didn't need to, and that alarmed Raquel more than anything else about him. "I'm afraid we took a wrong turn at Schenectady," she continued, keeping her left head focused entirely on the unicorn while seeking Cyndi with the right. "Hey you! Get back here!"
"She's here!" Cyndi exclaimed. "I can feel it!" She paused, glancing around, and adjusted her course slightly. "'Scuze me. Pardon. I have to find someone..." She vanished into the crowd but Raquel could still follow her progress by watching people shy out of her path.
"Good evening, ma'am," the unicorn said in a voice as deep and powerful as his body, speaking English tinged with an accent Raquel didn't recognize. "Do you have an invitation?" His teeth were sharp and pointed, clearly those of a carnivore, not a herbivore.
"Depends on whose party this is," Raquel responded. "We've had a bumpy ride so I'm a little unclear on where we are." She wondered, fleetingly, where Kayleigh and Vicki were. She'd seen them go into the vortex but they weren't here. She set the matter aside; there'd- hopefully- be time to deal with it later.
Meanwhile, Cyndi found herself face to face with a femfur in a fancy gown made of dark blue silk, accessorized with jewelry wrought from silver and decorated with an abundance of diamonds. Though face to chest might be a more technically accurate term; the woman was quite tall. She was a jackal, with a long, vaguely fox-like muzzle, and long, sharply pointed ears that stood straight up. Her fur was solid black, her eyes a startlingly bright gold. Her figure was voluptuous and then some; her breasts were positively enormous and she had four of them, showcased by a cleverly designed double bodice. Her torso looked as soft and comfortable as an overstuffed couch, her hips broad and sharply flaring, her thighs and buttocks as prominent as her bosom. But where a frame with such an abundance of flesh should have looked dumpy and fat, hers remained compellingly pert and firm, in apparent defiance of gravity.
"Zee!" With joyous abandon Cyndi launched herself into the fem's arms, hugging her fiercely. "Thank... um... Isis!" Zalika, Cyndi belatedly recalled, didn't approve of invoking the name of God.
"Aset," Zalika corrected, but in a gentle, friendly tone. "And it's only blasphemy I don't care for." She strode forward, with Cyndi still in her arms. The burden didn't seem to trouble her in the least. "It's all right, Khusrau." She raised her voice slightly to carry above the hubbub. "These are friends of mine." The unicorn dipped his head but his overall demeanor didn't change any.
As Zalika set Cyndi back on her feet she eyed Khusrau, clearly considering how best to hug him. Raquel caught Cyndi's eye and shook her head minutely. Cyndi didn't argue but radiated disappointment.
"You two certainly know how to make an entrance," Zalika commented, surveying the damage Cyndi and Raquel's arrival had wrought. "I suppose I should know better than to expect you to come in through the front door like normal people." Her tone was more amused than censorious and the corners of her mouth quirked up in a smile.
"Blame my driver," Raquel muttered sourly. Cyndi looked sheepish. "Sorry for breaking up the party, but we need to talk," Raquel added, turning to face Zalika squarely. "It's urgent."
Zalika nodded. "We'll talk after the show. I haven't the time right now. Marko-" she turned and beckoned- "take these young ladies to my suite and fit them with appropriate attire." With a touch on the shoulder she gently impelled Raquel and Cyndi forward.
"You need help? Least I can do is recreate the buffet table," Cyndi offered, eyeing it guiltily.
"The staff will take care of it," Zalika replied. Now would not be a good time to exhibit Power, Cyndi. Unfriendly eyes are watching. The words appeared directly in Cyndi's mind as if she'd thought them herself, but in Zalika's voice, not her own. Cyndi nodded.
Another figure loomed out of the crowd. He was a vampire bat; his frame was almost scarecrow thin but wiry and strong. His fur was soft gray, his eyes black tinged with flecks of red. He wore a shiny black jacket, a white shirt, and a blood red cummerbund. Since his wing membranes reached all the way down to his hips the entire outfit was stitched together into a single piece and slit on the sides.
"Please come this way, my dear ladies," Marko said, bowing with a flourish. His voice was surprisingly deep and heavily accented. He led the way through a utility door, down a corridor, and to a staff elevator. Raquel caught sight of signs written in ideographs, either Chinese or Japanese. A few floors up they emerged into another staff corridor, then exited into a main corridor of what was obviously a fabulously expensive hotel. Liveried attendants standing by a fancy double door opened it and bowed as the party swept through.
"Whoof," Raquel muttered to herself. "Someone's living it up, that's for sure." Cyndi nodded absently to the doormen, her thoughts elsewhere.
However amazing the hall had been, the suite was even more so. The floor was polished marble, covered with brightly colored, hand loomed rugs. Intricately carved cherry wood paneling decorated the walls; recessed lighting illuminated not only the room but the beautiful frescoes on the vaulted ceiling. A fully stocked wet bar occupied one corner, opposite a sitting area with armchairs and soft, comfortable couches for at least twenty people. Glass walls, dusted with mist and condensation, enclosed a swimming pool and Jacuzzi. Even at that it wasn't everything; a number of doors let out into other chambers.
Marko opened one of the doors, waving Cyndi and Raquel into a bathroom. In every particular it lived up to the promise of the main room, not in the least for being as large as some apartments Raquel had seen. The bathtub was sunk into the floor like a pool and looked big enough to seat four comfortably, and more if they happened to be on friendly terms. It even had built in hydrojets, like a Jacuzzi. A small annex to one side contained a toilet and bidet; another across from it held the shower. Which wasn't like any Raquel had ever seen; it was a cylindrical chamber lined with vertical pipes that had rows of tiny nozzles along their entire length. With all of them turned on, a bather would be sprayed from every direction, all at once. A wooden door led into what Raquel guessed to be a steam room.
"What the heck does Zalika do for a living?" Raquel demanded, no longer able to contain herself. "Turn lead into gold? I know houses that would cost less than this room does per month!"
Marko grinned. His teeth were small but needle sharp. "Not too far from the truth, actually. Ms. Corby operates a modeling agency. The program includes comprehensive and professional instruction, and an all-over bodydo. Which alone costs forty thousand dollars."
Raquel coughed.
"Would you refuse to pay, even knowing that, in an afternoon, you could become absolutely anything your heart desired?" Marko's grin actually broadened, which wouldn't have seemed possible a moment earlier.
"I see your point," Raquel allowed. She wasn't really in a position to point fingers; her transformation hadn't cost her anything. Not monetarily, at any rate.
Cyndi sat on the edge of the tub, absently rolling her flute between her palms. "I used the wrong instrument," she muttered, eyes focused on nothing in particular. They'd resumed their normal aspect, except that the irises were lavender instead of green. "I should have used a harp. Dammit."
Cyndi's comment drew Raquel's attention... and caused her to notice that there was a telephone- a telephone!- placed beside her. Marko picked it up, punched a number, and spoke briefly in what Raquel thought to be Japanese. "Ah, where are my manners," he exclaimed, rising once again to his feet. "I am Count Marko von Slavych, Ms. Corby's business manager. At your service." He bowed with a flourish, sweeping his arm before his body. What would have been his pinky, ring, middle, and index fingers were extended into spars supporting his wing membranes; the thumb remained separate, along with a digit that seemed to be an extra index finger. Both were very long and bony; the thumb was equipped with a hooked claw and the second index finger and long, straight one.
"Raquel Fayral." She returned the bow. "My friend over there is Cyndi Siun."
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance." Marko took Raquel's hand and kissed her knuckles.
Cyndi looked up, blinking in surprise. When she opened her eyes they were green again. "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to go all spacey on you!" She jumped up and gave Marko a hug. Raquel winced, but Marko accepted it gracefully and even returned it.
"I hope we're not too much of a bother," Raquel apologized. "This was a little unplanned. We'll try to keep the disasters minimal- like only a tidal wave or something. By the by, where are we?"
"You are at the Imperial Hotel in Osaka, Japan," Marko replied. "Where the Temple of Bast is holding an event to showcase the latest graduates."
"Hey, that sounds like fun," Raquel allowed, perking up.
"It certainly is," Marko agreed.
A crowd of attendants in bathrobes bustled in, carrying baskets laden with bathing supplies. After them came a young fem who was clearly the same species as Khusrau, and in fact looked enough like him to be related. She also wore a bathrobe. "I'll take it from here," she said, giving Marko a peck on the cheek. She spoke with the same odd accent as Khusrau.
"Do us proud," Marko called over his shoulder on his way out.
"Don't I always?" the fem returned.
"Hi," Cyndi chirruped. "I'm Cyndi, that's Raquel." She advanced to give the young fem a hug.
I wonder if she's one of the models, Raquel mused. The bathrobe only covered the fem's torso, leaving her arms and legs bare. Of what she saw Raquel heartily approved; the fem's limbs were long and exquisitely formed. They lacked Khusrau's bulk but the muscles were nonetheless clearly defined, more like those of a gymnast- or a diver- than a bodybuilder. In addition, she moved with a grace and precision that spoke of dexterity and control as well as power. As discreetly as possible Raquel dabbed at her chins to make sure that she wasn't drooling.
The fem allowed herself to be hugged. "Pleased to meet you both. My name's Darya." She offered a hand to Raquel.
"Likewise." Raquel took the proffered hand. It looked soft and smooth but she felt the strength in it, and a certain hardness in the palm. Darya wasn't a delicate wallflower who exercised merely to stay in shape; she took her physical development seriously. Her nails, Raquel noted, were long, black, and sharply pointed, but bore little sign of artificial enhancement. Darya buffed and polished them, but the shape and color was entirely natural. "Mind if I ask what species you are?"
"My father and I are Kartajan, or Karkadann in your tongue," Darya replied, shedding her robe and hanging it up without the slightest trace of self-consciousness. Her torso fulfilled the promise of her limbs, being similarly lithe and exquisitely formed. Nor did her sexual characteristics in any way suffer for her athletic physique; her thighs, buttocks, and breasts swelled with firm but generous curves. She lacked Khusrau's beard but otherwise she matched what Raquel had seen of his coloration exactly: a dark red hood that covered her head and neck all the way down to the shoulders, a mane of even darker red shot with flecks of gold, eyes as intensely blue as sapphires, and black lips. Her horn looked more delicate but was also black and corkscrewed to the left, just like her father's. Below the shoulders her coat turned to snowy white, separated from the red by a narrow, speckled boundary. Her nipples and aureolae were soft pink and well developed. A patch of dark red speckles decorated her rump, after the fashion of an Appaloosa, which Raquel felt accented it wonderfully. Her tail looked the same as Khusrau's, right down to the tufted tip. She had the same red-gold fetlocks, too, along with a fringe of red-gold around her ankles. Her feet were much more delicate but had the same black, cloven hooves.
Raquel used all four of her eyes to take in as much as possible of the awesome spectacle. Mmmmm. I love fems who know how to take care of themselves. A faintly pained expression came to both her faces. Geez, you have two lovers already! Down, girl!
Cyndi sighed. "I tried to get muscles once. All I got was pulled muscles."
"Because you didn't take it slow, you ninny," Raquel declared. When not speaking she kept her mouths tightly shut so she wouldn't start panting.
"Developing a well tuned physique requires patience and dedication as well as effort." Darya's eyes shifted to Raquel; the attention she gave Raquel's physique was partially clinical, partly... otherwise. Raquel almost felt it sliding over her body, and only with a significant exertion of will prevented herself from purring.
"Becoming beautiful also requires patience and dedication," Darya continued. "But not so much exertion, thank goodness." She grinned. "We'll start with a thorough cleaning." She gestured; the attendants set to work.
I hope this doesn't take too long, Raquel thought as she and Cyndi were divested of clothing, placed in the tub, and meticulously cleaned. She couldn't help wondering what had become of Kayleigh and Vicki. Cyndi, on the other hand, reveled in the attention, joking with the attendants. Sadly, they didn't speak English, but they knew their jobs without a doubt. After the bathing and Raquel were trimmed and styled; Darya participated, though she'd skipped the bath.
"And now for the outfits," Darya pronounced, clapping excitedly. Raquel's gown was dark lavender, Cyndi's yellow-orange, and Darya's midnight black. All were backless, made of the finest silk, and came with matching shoes. No panties or bras went under them; the material was so sheer it would have spoiled the lines. Raquel's and Cyndi's gowns were tailored right on their bodies for perfect fits, which didn't take nearly as long as Raquel would have expected. Her own gown, just like Cyndi's, fit reasonably well even before the tailoring, and that in spite of the fact that having two heads and four breasts gave Raquel's torso a decidedly nonstandard shape. And yet, apparently there had been a gown on hand, of Raquel's size, for a fem with two heads. That seemed like too much of a coincidence until Raquel reflected for a bit on what Marko had said about Zalika's line of work. It might be that for Zalika, two headed fems were not so uncommon as they might be for the rest of the population. For example, Zalika had fused Vicki and Kayleigh. In light of that, Raquel could easily imagine that Zalika might need to have gowns on hand for two-headed fems. Or even more exotic body shapes.
Jewelry and makeup completed the ensemble. Rings, ear rings, necklaces, and bracelets, wrought of precious metals and liberally decorated with precious stones, coordinated to match both the outfit and the wearer's natural color. Which was in turn accented by lip and nail gloss, eye shadow, and fur dye, all skillfully applied in such a way as to bring out the wearer's natural beauty while concealing any defects.
"Wow," Cyndi breathed, regarding herself in a full-length mirror. Even with the evidence right in front of her eyes, she couldn't quite believe that the stunningly, drop-dead gorgeous fem she beheld was really herself. No less amazing was how little time it had taken; the bath attendants had worked like a Formula One pit crew, doing their jobs rapidly and precisely, without a single mistake or wasted motion.
Raquel, at least, had some preparation; Mr. Gregan had instructed her on dressing for success, though even he had never aspired to such dizzying heights. What blew Raquel's mind was adding up the estimated cost of the dresses, jewelry, and accoutrements; the total, she guessed, would amount to more than her yearly salary. For Cyndi it would be more like two, or possibly three years. You could get a decent car for less. And yet here it was, as if it had been laying around, waiting to be used. The implications of that made Raquel feel as if her brains were tying to boil out through her ears.
Cyndi's thoughts were running in much the same direction. "This really is nice of Zee- um, Ms. Corby," she said, belatedly deciding that too much intimacy might not be appropriate.
"In this business, appearance is everything," Darya pronounced. The only jewelry she wore was a necklace of silver encrusted with diamonds, sporting a solid diamond pendant big enough to choke on. "If you are seen in Ms. Corby's presence and look scruffy- even by comparison- that reflects badly on her, and the whole enterprise."
"I could get used to this," Raquel sighed, inspecting her own reflection. "Believe me, I know about business," she added. "It's not so much if it works, it's how it looks. Granted, later that becomes important but for first impressions its all about appearance."
Darya led the other two out of the suite. "Do you dance or model?" she asked of Raquel.
"I body build semi-professionally," Raquel replied. "Right now I'm taking courses to be a licensed masseuse." She hesitated briefly. "To be honest, for a while I had a... deformity... that sort of kept me from wanting to show off my body."
"And I still say you were overreacting," Cyndi put in.
"Oh? What was it, if you don't mind my asking?" Darya inquired.
"Well, you'll notice I don't have a tail," Raquel explained. "It was... covered in sores and scabs. And the hair kept falling out. Basically it looked hideous. It was genetic condition too; no cure. The surface area was too damaged for transplants, and weaves and cover-ups looked fake. Needless to say, when I got the chance to trade it in for something as distinctive I jumped at it. I've been two-headed ever since, and I love it."
Darya laughed. "You've come to the right place."
"Thanks for the offer, but I'm happy with the way I look now." Raquel smiled with both faces.
"Speak for yourself," Cyndi piped up. "I've love to make my breasts a size bigger."
"Then do it yourself, oh all-mighty spell caster!" Raquel laughed.
Cyndi responded with a raspberry.
The convention hall, upon the party's return, looked as if nothing had happened. The buffet tables were gone and a runway had been set up, upon which an ornately dressed model strutted her stuff. Music played from hanging speakers and an MC offered running commentary. Darya led Raquel and Cyndi to a raised platform, separated from the crowd by silken ropes and guarded by ushers in case the ropes themselves didn't make the point sufficiently clear. Only a handful of people sat there, with Zalika at the center, and her chair- an ornately carved, high-backed affair that looked more like a throne- stood on a small platform by itself, setting Zalika apart even from her inner circle.
In spite of everything, the chair did nothing to detract from Zalika herself. She'd exchanged her blue gown for one of deep, royal purple silk. The voluminous, pleated skirt ended high enough to show off Zalika's shoes, which seemed to be made of silver and studded with diamonds, but little else other than her ankles. Above her hips, though, the gown clung like a second skin; despite the lavish and intricate lace trim it was quite obvious that there wasn't anything under it but Zalika herself. The double bodice was cut so low her aureoles were visible if one looked carefully, and her nipples very noticeably dimpled the fabric over them. Against the incredible expanse of cleavage thus displayed rested a necklace of wrought silver with no less than five pendants, each one a cluster of diamonds gathered around a central, even larger stone. The pendants grew in size approaching the middle; the center one was positively huge. A pair of earrings, which resembled miniature versions of the pendants, added their own sparkle to the ensemble. The crowning glory- literally- was a silver tiara, crusted with diamonds and set with an enormous amethyst that exactly matched the color of the gown. Zalika wore no rings, though her nails had been polished and buffed until they gleamed like jewels themselves. In her right hand she held... a curious device that, to Raquel, looked something like a large tuning fork. A round handle connected to a U-shaped frame with long, slender arms; between the arms ran a number of thin rods with tiny cymbals on them, like the bangles of a tambourine. The instrument was made of, or at least plated with silver, and etched with hieroglyphics.
You're staring, Raquel told herself sternly, forcing herself to look away from Zalika's cleavage. In truth it wasn't the cleavage itself that put Raquel in danger of tripping over her own tongues; she preferred apples, as it were, and what Zalika had were melons and then some. Much too large for Raquel's tastes, for all that they were amazingly firm. No, it was the necklace that made Raquel's heart palpitate. The necklace that made Cyndi's and Raquel's necklaces look like toys, the necklace whose value Raquel couldn't even begin to guess except that it started at a lot and went up from there. It was the sort of thing you never expected to see anyone actually wearing; you went to see it in an armored glass case, surrounded by armed guards, at a museum or national gallery. It, the gowns, the other jewelry, the suite... the amount of wealth being casually displayed was shocking. More like... like a member of royalty holding court than any typical showbiz gig.
Cyndi moved as if to rush forward and give Zalika a hug but Raquel shook her closest head sternly. "Decorum," she murmured. Cyndi looked disappointed but managed to control herself, barely.
An usher directed Raquel to her seat, immediately to Zalika's left. With a start Raquel discovered no less than three faces among Zalika's coterie that she actually recognized. To Raquel's immediate left, one position removed from Zalika's throne, sat a pair of slender, exotically beautiful seal point Siamese cat fems. They were identical twins, apparently in their mid to late twenties, and shared a single pelvis, from which sprang two complete and wholly separate torsos. They wore a cream colored gown that perfectly complimented their natural color, and looked as if it were casually draped on, with nothing to hold it but friction. Also, though decently voluminous, the outfit hardly covered anything to speak of; as she took her seat Raquel got a clear look at the right twin's nipples, which were quite obviously erect.
Raquel forced herself to smile politely but not engagingly. In her own world she'd met Tina and Theresa Vanni through her boss, Mr. Gregan. Those Vannis had been identical twins, yes, but not conjoined, and somewhat older, too: early thirties, though they'd contrived to look every bit as sleekly attractive as this pair.
"Oh my," the right twin exclaimed. She could have more obviously undressed Raquel with her eyes, but not by much.
"Friends of yours, Zalika darling?" the left one inquired, though her eyes remained fixed upon Raquel. Hungrily, it had to be said.
Yep, that's the same too, Raquel sighed to herself, waiting to formally introduced.
"Dears, these are Raquel Fayral and Cyndi Siun," Zalika said. "I met them on a recent business trip. Ladies, allow me to present Tina-" right- "and Theresa-" left- "Vanni, who are two of my investors."
"Charmed." Tina offered a hand.
"A pleasure." Raquel took the proffered hand and clasped it.
Tina brought Raquel's hand up to her face as if to kiss the knuckles. Using the motion as a cover, she slid her tongue between Raquel's middle and ring fingers and caressed the palm. Raquel started slightly but couldn't help purring softly at the sensual feeling of the tongue against her skin and fur. She also couldn't help noticing how long and dexterous the tongue was, and wonder what it would feel like stroking certain other parts of her anatomy.
Cyndi smiled and gave a curtsey. "I'm sorry we're late." She looked at Zalika and dimpled. Raquel gave her a mildly admonitory glance.
"Quite all right," said the owner of the third familiar face, flashing what he obviously thought to be a charming smile, but which Raquel thought looked more like a leer. He was a somewhat overweight male gray fox in his early fifties, dressed in a very expensive charcoal gray suit. Not a bad looker, Raquel allowed, though personally she preferred harder bodies in her males. But his bonhomie had an oily sheen to it that, at least to Raquel, bothered her more than if he'd been overtly boorish. Which, regretfully, meant that this Kyle Langford was exactly like the one from Raquel's world. Though, in fairness, Raquel had to admit that at least part of her discomfit stemmed from the fat that Kyle was the reason she and Mr. Gregan had gone to the Sackler Gallery in the first place, from when she'd been swept up in the ensuing... excitement.
Kyle glanced at Raquel but his eyes lingered on Cyndi. He turned his smile up a notch, rose, and gallantly handed Cyndi to her seat, which was the one to his immediate right, one removed from Zalika. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Siun. Kyle Langford, at your service." He bowed floridly.
Cyndi smiled demurely, batting her eyelashes. Memories of Byron still hurt, whenever she let herself think of them. Jesse was a sweet guy but heck, they'd only dated once. It wasn't like they were married or anything. "Oh," she piped up, returning her attention to Zalika. "When the show's done, if you'd care, I'd like to sing something for you and your guests here."
Raquel hoped Zalika would say yes; Cyndi had a great voice. Though Raquel couldn't help wondering a little; Cyndi hadn't ever wanted to sing in public before. Why now?
"I'm sure something can be arranged," Zalika allowed. "For now, let's watch the show." She returned her attention to the runway.
"Yes, let's," Tina put in. The seating arrangement left her snuggled up against Raquel's side. "This is excellent work," she added, reaching up behind Raquel's chair and stroking the place between Raquel's necks with the tip of a finger. From there her hand gently explored Raquel's shoulders and back.
Raquel purred a little louder. Whether by accident or design, Tina had hit one of Raquel's sweet spots. "Thanks; I did it myself," Raquel said. "With assistance." Cyndi shot her an amused look.
"My, you must be very talented," Tina observed. She went back to stroking Raquel between the necks.
Raquel tried thinking cool, calming thoughts. "One does one's humble best. Truth be told, the muscles are mine. It's the extra head I needed help with." Through an effort of will she managed to reduce the volume of her purr. But not by much.
"They're very nice muscles." Tina stroked the side of Raquel's torso with her other hand. Her fingertips brushed as lightly as a spider's footsteps across the outer faces of Raquel's breasts.
Great. Swell. Peachy, Raquel thought sourly. How am I gonna tell these kitties no? Especially since I'm about half ready to say yes. She wondered, fleetingly, exactly how far Tina intended to go. The traitorous side of her mind hoped that the answer was all the way.
What brings you to this neck of the woods, may I ask? The words materialized in Cyndi's mind, as if they were her own thoughts, but the "voice" sounded like Zalika's.
"I-" Cyndi began. No need to speak aloud, she reminded herself. Just... think loudly. She took a breath. At work I saw... something. It looked like a breat big pile of self-ambulatory poop. But... it wasn't really there. No one else saw it and people just walked right through it.
But it was there, Zalika commented.
After a brief pause Cyndi nodded. Yes. It really was there. Anyway... I asked Kayleigh and Vicki to pick me up at work. I... didn't feel good. At home I- I-
You felt something wrong, Zalika suggested. You looked around, trying to find out what it was.
Yeah. Cyndi nodded.
**************
"Are you a professional singer, miss?" Kyle inquired of Cyndi.
"I've had a lifetime of experience at it," Cyndi replied with aplomb. "I also play a mean harp and flute."
Kyle chuckled. "I'd love to hear that. If Ms. Corby won't let you play for all of us, perhaps we could arrange a private performance."
"Perhaps, time permitting," Cyndi allowed, shooting an amused glance at Raquel and smiling warmly at Mr. Langford.
The show seemed to be a fairly typical fashion event. Models came out, preened for the audience, and retired. All of them were quite beautiful and captivating, though in not a few cases it seemed as if the clothes were meant to showcase the model, not the other way around. Then the MC announced the close of the first act and the opening of the second. This presented more... exotic entrants. Raquel recognized characters and races from various fantasy and science fiction movies, books, and television shows. It wasn't makeup either; each model, at the end of her walk, came almost within touching distance of Zalika's private box. The models were exactly what they looked like, down to the last detail. Another series presented ordinary species with... extras. Extra arms, extra legs, extra breasts, extra tails, extra heads- or creative conjoinments, depending o