“What about cold?” I asked, feeling a rush of pleasure as Vayl looked at me proudly. Maybe his greatest power was the ability to leech heat from an area so fast people had frozen to death inside his circle of influence.
But Bergman shook his head again. “Cold will slow it down, but not destroy it.”
“Water?” Cole ventured.
“When the hood is closed, the armor becomes self-contained. It has its own internal breathing system that functions just fine when it’s immersed.”
“Tell us more about this hood,” I said.
“It activates automatically when it perceives the wearer’s in danger. It’s the only part of the armor that can be deactivated at will. The rest is permanent.”
Cassandra stirred. “You’ve begun at the end when the most important details may be at the beginning. What does this armor look like?”
Bergman shrugged. “We’ve had it on all kinds of animals, including fish, cats, and monkeys. It’s looked different on each one, probably because it binds differently to each depending on body chemistry, physical size, species type—”
Cassandra waved her hand impatiently, making Bergman crook his eyebrows with frustration. “A general overview, if you please,” she said.
“Scales,” said Bergman. “The material is made up of thousands of individual units that are physically and chemically bonded together. The colors vary as widely as the texture. On the fish it was rough, almost like steel wool. On the chimp it was softer, more elastic.”
“Is it just a defensive thing?” asked Cole. Another excellent question. My, weren’t we just operating on all cylinders this evening?
“No.” Bergman’s eyes filled with passion as he described offensive capabilities that only made me shudder because I had to find a way around them. “When the hood is activated, the wearer can ignite volatile chemicals that are contained in the nostril cavities.”
“What does that mean?” I asked. “Are you telling us the guy can breathe fire?”
“Exactly.”
“What else?” Vayl demanded.
“Contact poison in the claws that paralyzes the victim. Detachable spikes carried along the back that are so well balanced they can be launched to hit targets accurately at forty feet.”
“And when they hit?” I asked.
“They explode.”
I felt my shoulders droop.Holy crap! This one is definitely Mission Sucks-Out-the —
Vayl interrupted my thought, which was probably just as well. No sense in depressing myself any more than necessary. “We knew it would be difficult,” he said. “But that is why this task has been assigned to us. Wecan do this. And we will.”
Somehow that little pep talk allowed us to move to other issues. As Cole drove us to the site, we discussed the stage setup. It would take place tonight while Vayl could help. We talked about the show, realizing we’d probably have to spend the entire day tomorrow practicing in order to present anything remotely entertaining. And I privately wondered how a 291-year-old vampire and a thousand-year-old Seer didn’t seem at all familiar with the creature I’d seen pretending to be human today.
CHAPTERTHREE
As we pulled into our space, Cole and I noticed the Winter Festival setup had chugged ahead, making steady progress since our recent visit. We all agreed our parking spot seemed ideal, situated as it was where the mulched walkway almost met the seawall before it turned back north toward a series of craft and game booths that led to Chien-Lung’s Chinese acrobats’ half-inflated building.
Cole parked the RV south of the walk, parallel to the seawall, and we began to unload the trailer. A barbecue cook-off site stood so close to our performance location that if we stretched we’d hit a grill. But that meant we could let them take care of outdoor lighting for our customers. Several gray-headed gentlemen wearing ball caps and stained aprons had already strung yards of pink-shaded patio lights across the area. Now they were moving in several green-painted picnic tables.
Still, as we carried poles, canvas (probably something Pete had ripped off an old tent revival preacher), more poles, tons of wooden slats, and absolutely no directions whatsoever from the trailer to the tent-erection site, it was apparent we’d have enough room for our purposes. As long as one of us could figure out how to put the damn thing together.
Already the bickering had begun. Cole picked up two poles and connected them.
“Cole!” snapped Bergman. “You need to put them all in piles first. That way you know what you have!”
“We have poles and canvas, dude. You stick the little end in the big end.” He demonstrated on another pair. “It’s like magic how they go together.”
Bergman looked at Vayl. “You tell him.”
Cole gave his imagined rival a smirk. “I’m thinking you know how a tent goes up by now, Vayl.”
Cassandra decided to bail first. “I need to do some research. Weird-faced man, you know,” she murmured, and disappeared into the RV.
That woman is brilliant.I turned to follow her.
“Where are you going?” demanded Vayl.
Quick, think of a marvelous excuse he’ll totally swallow. Aha!“To practice. Unlike you guys, I haven’t tried my particular talent since Granny May signed me up for belly-dancing classes when I was fifteen.”And, by the way, why the hell did I consent to that? Or decide I loved it? Never mind, he’s buying it. In fact, he seems to be hot on the idea. Are his eyes glowing? And is Cole’s tongue hanging out? This is why I didn’t want to dance in the first place! “Anyway,” I rushed on. “I’m going to find a private place where nobody can see to laugh at me while you beat this tent”—or, more likely, these two idiots—“into submission.”
“Aah,” said Vayl. He took a couple of steps toward me, got hopelessly entangled in a mound of canvas, and stalled. But that didn’t stop his eyes from roaming. “Believe me, Jasmine, no one who sees you dance would ever dream of laughing.”
“I could come with you,” Cole offered. “You know, give you some tips. Run the camera. Maybe oil your hips for you when they get rusty.”
I couldn’t help it: I started to laugh. It was a combination of Vayl bristling like a threatened porcupine while Cole wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and Bergman stealthily organized the poles just like he wanted them.
“I’ll be over there,” I said, pointing west, where you could just make out a strip of white sand where the seawall stopped and a series of abandoned piers began. “By myself.”
And I was alone for about an hour. Then this couple came strolling by, making enough noise that I didn’t totally humiliate myself in front of them. I couldn’t see them well. Didn’t need to. They were holding hands. Kissing every fifth step or so. Smitten. And suddenly my brain cut the power to my knees.
I plopped down, watching like a starstruck fan as the lovers strode across the sand in front of me. It was the laughter that did it, transforming me from watcher into participant. Suddenly I was part of the couple, reliving a moment I hadn’t dared to remember until now.
Matt and I had taken our first real vacation together, a trip to Hawaii, to celebrate his twenty-ninth birthday. The night after we landed on the island we’d walked the beach, arm in arm, the boom of the surf echoing the music from a distant luau. Lights from hotels, bars, and all-night parties gave the evening an effervescent sort of glow. We passed other couples, whole families even, but it was as if we moved within our own love-lit world. If a giant marlin had swept out of the ocean and offered us three wishes I wouldn’t have been surprised. It was that kind of evening. Magical.