Bigfootloose and Finn Fancy Free (13 page)

“This feels right,” I finally said.

“You have no idea,” Dawn murmured with humor clear in her voice. She wriggled back into me, closer.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

She punched me in the leg. “Knock it off, idiot.”

We enjoyed the warmth of each other and the shared sound of our breathing for several minutes. Then Dawn said, “I think tonight's show is going to be pretty amazing. I feel … inspired.”

“They're always amazing,” I replied, giving her a loving squeeze.

“Sweet talker. By the way, Amber and Barry and the rest want to have a little after party.”

“Oh.”

Dawn shifted, looked back at me. “What, oh? Why don't you ever want to hang out with my friends?”

“What? I didn't say anything like that.” Frak. Why was it so hard to hold on to the good moments?

“You said enough for me to know how you're feeling. And this isn't the first time.” She rested her head on the pillow and snuggled back against me again. “I wish you'd just talk to me. I can tell something's going on with you, with us, beyond Alynon. It isn't going to go away by ignoring it.”

I shook my head. “No, it's just been a long day, with Sal, and Pete and Vee, and the feybloods, and—I'm sorry. I know your friends are important to you. I'll try.”

But I wasn't looking forward to it. Especially not with Barry, mister “life of the party.” And though Dawn's other friends were nice enough, they were all mundies as well, so I couldn't exactly share my day with them. I'd have to come up with some lies about what I'd been up to, and I was a lousy liar.

And given my complete lack of pop-cultural knowledge of the past twenty-five years, small talk inevitably led to me staring blankly. I'd finally had to give the lame cover story that I lost my memories of the past twenty-five years due to a tragic head injury. Which made them look at me sometimes like I was Sheriff Rosco P. Coltrane applying to the FBI, with a mix of pity and condescending amusement at my ignorance. And the cover story still didn't help when they asked about how Dawn and I met, or how we fell in love.

*I could help, you know,* Alynon said.

You've already helped enough, thanks.

*No, in truth, I could help with her friends. We could Roxanne it.*

Roxanne it?

*La! I could feed you words, like Steve Martin doing his Cyrano De'whats-his-name homage?*

Oh, right, and I'm sure you'd resist the urge to embarrass me on purpose.

*Fine. But I'd kill for a bit of fun.*

More like you kill fun
.

*You do know why you really don't wish to revel with her friends tonight, yes?*

I kissed Dawn's neck, then began sliding out of bed. As if I could escape a spirit trapped inside my own head.

“Hey,” Dawn asked sleepily. “Where you going?”

“Sorry, I should pick up Mattie from Arcana School, and you probably need to prepare for your gig.”

“Well, I guess I could send out reminders.” She slid out to sit on the edge of the bed. Her back was beautiful as she bent over to retrieve her clothes, her spine a sinuous line of light and shadow that ran down to—

I looked away, acutely aware that Alynon saw everything I did.

*Ignoring wisdom is the height of arrogance,* Alynon said.

I'm not ignoring wisdom, I'm ignoring you,
I replied as I slid on my jeans.

*Of course you are. Because you do not wish to hear that going to a party with her friends would be a fast track to Dawn realizing just how boring you truly are, how lacking in anything of interest outside your work. The novelty of the magical world distracts her for now, but once the shine of that wears off, you fear she'll see the truth of you.*

Unless you want me to play “Kokomo” on repeat every chance I get, I suggest you shut it.

*You wouldn't.*

Try me,
I thought as I pulled on my shoes.

Alynon did not respond.

Dawn and I finished dressing, and I gave her a long, lingering kiss.

“Maybe you should sleep here tonight,” Dawn said. “You know how a gig gets me worked up.”

“What about the after party?”

“You're all the party I need,” Dawn said.

*For now,* Alynon said.

I started humming the tune to “Kokomo.”

Dawn arched her pierced eyebrow at me. “Aly giving you crap?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Hey, you in there,” she said, knocking gently on my head. “You be nice to my man here, or you'll never see any of this again.” She waved at her body.

Alynon remained silent.

Somehow, that wasn't comforting.

 

8

Notorious

I pulled into Fort Worden just past 5:00
P.M.
to pick up Mattie from Arcana School.

Fort Worden State Park used to be a U.S. Army base protecting access to the Puget Sound from the Pacific, with enormous cannons mounted in concrete bunkers. The bunkers remained, ghostly gray structures with mossy walls and rusting steel doors and labyrinthine tunnels beneath.

The bunkers were spaced out along bluffs and hillsides covered in thick forests of pine, cedar and madrona, huckleberry, holly and ferns, with a maze of trails connecting the various points of interest. And it all overlooked a stretch of rocky coastline that featured a lighthouse, Marine Science Center, and campground. Altogether, it was a fantasy playground.

To mundies it was perhaps best known as the film location of
An Officer and a Gentleman
. But for arcana and feybloods, Fort Worden had been a critical site in the last Fey-Arcana War. The Fey breached the barriers between our world and the Other Realm and established a beachhead on, well, the beach. It had taken a desperate move by one of the most powerful Arcana, Arch-Magus Katherine Verona, to close the breach and end the war—an attack into the Other Realm equivalent to the bombing of Hiroshima.

With the breach closed, the Fort was converted into a processing facility for all of the new Fey spirits and their allies trapped on our side of the barriers. As cover for these activities, the ARC had influenced mundy policy and had the base converted into a juvenile detention facility for nearly fifteen years.

And now, it was a state park open to the public, most of whom had no clue as to the true history and significance of the land they hiked and played upon. Not that this was surprising. Most mundies didn't even know the rich Native history of the lands they lived upon, and unlike Native Americans, arcana had an entire organization devoted to hiding our history and activities from the world.

Mattie stood waiting on the steps of the white barn-like woodworking building, along with an old man wearing jeans and a faded Blue Öyster Cult T-shirt, his thinning gray hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Finn!” he said as I walked up. “Good to see you, my boy.”

It took me a second to recognize him as Magus Kagan. When I'd attended Arcana School during the summers of my youth, learning about arcana history, the five branches of arcana magic, the Pax laws, and every other boring academic aspect of the magical world, Magus Kagan had been the necromancy instructor. At the time, he'd been a strict but patient instructor with dark hair and an undertaker's fashion sense.

“Hello, Magus Kagan.”

“Just Rick, please,” he replied with a dismissive wave. “Well, you've certainly changed since I last saw you. You look good.”

“Uh, yeah, you, too. So you're still teaching?”

“Indeed. And I was just telling Mattie here that you were one of my better students.”

“Yeah, well, Grandfather tutored us constantly.”

“Ah, yes, Gavriel. A shame what happened with him, he truly lost his way. But you know, despite all of that, I never did believe what they said about you performing dark necromancy. I even said so to the ARC before your trial.”

I blinked. “Uh, thanks! I always thought you found me, well, irritating.”

*I know I do.*

Well
that's
the pot calling the kettle marijuana.

Magus Kagan—Rick—laughed. “I was a little more focused on my ambitions back then, and frankly resented teaching. But I've made peace with my place in the order of things, and quite enjoy my role now.” He placed a hand on Mattie's shoulder. “I think this one here may well exceed every student I've had, you included.”

“Aw, thanks, Teach,” Mattie said, and grinned.

“Of course,” Rick said. “But Finn, what are you doing to further your own education, young man?”

I frowned. “Well, I was looking into some programming classes—”

“I mean your necromancy, obviously.”

“Oh.” I raised my eyebrows. “I guess I hadn't really thought about it. I've been a little busy just adjusting to life.”

“Well, you left a year before Basics graduation, and never officially apprenticed. While I have no doubt you learned quite a bit from your grandfather and the family business, there are entire areas of necromancy, whole levels of ability, I'll wager you haven't even explored yet.”

“I know.” True masters of necromancy could use their control of spirit to sustain life in the dying, slow aging, charm people, detect lies, and even to kill without resorting to dark necromancy. “But to be honest, I'm trying to move away from necromancy, not get deeper into it.” And I certainly had no desire to be officially eligible for ARC employment.

“Hmmph,” Rick said. “You can't move away from what you are, young man. And expanding your skills will only expand your options, not to mention remove the temptations to use … shortcuts. I'd be willing to tutor you.”

“Oh, well, that's—I appreciate that. I'll think about it,” I lied, hoping to move off the subject.

“Sure, sure,” Rick said, and slapped me on the back. “Well, it was good to see you again, lad. Stay out of trouble, now.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I'll try.” I waved to Mattie. “Come on. Let's get you home.”

And then, it was off to Dawn's gig and hanging with her friends, which promised a whole other kind of trouble.

*   *   *

I walked down from our house to The Street. The shops and galleries were closed for the day, so most of the tourists had gone home, or returned to their hotels, boats, or Fort Worden campground. I was beginning to recognize the locals again, though nothing like in the old days.

Accessed by a subway-style covered stairwell, the Undertown was tucked safely down at basement level off one of the passages once used to shanghai sailors and smuggle goods.

My sister Sammy stood beside the stairs, smoking a clove cigarette. She had short-cut black hair and thick black glasses, and wore a Rat City Rollergirls T-shirt.

“Hey Sis,” I said. “Come for the show?”

“No, I heard that if you stand in this exact spot, you'll attract really dumb questions. So far, the rumors seem true.”

“Good to see you, too. Fatima come with you?”

“Yeah, she's inside. Cutting it close, aren't you?”

“I had a busy day. In fact, maybe you can lend me a hand.” Sammy was allergic to magic, which had created some tension and resentment growing up, but had also led her to become a truly skilled hacker of not just mundy tech, but a lot of magical systems as well.

Sammy snorted. “I'm not running interference with Dawn if you screwed up with her. She's my friend, too, you know. And probably still will be long after you've screwed things up with her so bad the ARC comes in and wipes all her memories of you, you idiot.”

I rolled my eyes. “You look like a normal person, but actually you are the angel of death.”

“Where do I know—ah, yes. Wow, quoting
When Harry Met Sally
.” She patted me on the head. “Look at you learning new things! Next thing you know, you'll only be twenty years out of date!”

“And you'll still be a brat. I don't need help with Dawn. But I could use some info on an alchemist, and a few other folks, some of them feybloods.”

Sammy dropped her clove butt and ground it out, then headed down the stairs.

“Did you check if this alchemist has Twitter or Facebook?” Sammy asked as we descended.

“No. But I don't think the kind of info I need would be on the Web.”

“You'd be surprised. People love to post all kinds of personal stuff online. Because obviously we're all dying to know what amazing thing they mixed with quinoa today. But sure, give me the names, and I'll see what I can dig up.”

“Thanks.”

We entered the Undertown. It was split into two large areas, the nearer side with a wraparound bar, the other mostly tables and the small stage. The walls were uneven brick and stone, the woodwork looked antique, but they'd slapped up some shiny new decorations over it all, and there was space-age-looking equipment for making fancy coffee and serving local brews.

The place was packed tonight; unsurprising, given Dawn's popularity and the lack of local hangout options. Fatima waved at us from the bar. An Iranian woman somewhere in her late twenties, Fatima had been with Sammy for a couple of years, and she was the only person I'd ever seen who could make Sammy show her sappy and vulnerable side.

“Cutting it close,” Fatima said as we drew close. She set down her ever-present sketch pad and pulled Sammy into her arms.

“Yeah yeah,” I said. “Have you seen Dawn?”

“Beautiful woman with the curves of Aphrodite and the voice of an angel? Never heard of her. Why?”

“Ha. Let me guess, she's doing her ritual?” I asked.

“Yeah. She said her friends are saving you a seat up front.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Dawn's friends. I smiled and waved as I approached the table where a half dozen unmistakably artistic-looking men and women sat. Some of them I even liked. Georgie and Amber in particular were a great pair, a couple of street performers that Mattie called “hipsters.” Doris, Tom, and Shawna were okay.