“No. I’m going to be going out,” I said, “and I’m not sure when I’ll be getting back. It was nothing really important. I’ll get in touch again one of these days.”
“Okay, then. I’ll tell him you called.”
“Thanks. G’bye.”
That one I’d almost expected. After Meg, George’s behavior had been overtly weird, at the end there. What had bothered me was that he’d seemed to know who I really was and to know about Amber — and he even wanted to follow me through a Trump. It was as if he and Meg had both been subjected to some strange manipulation.
Jasra came to mind immediately in this regard. But then she was Luke ally, it seemed, and Meg had warned me against Luke. Why would she do that if Jasra were controlling her in some fashion? It didn’t make sense. Who else did I know who might be capable of causing such phenomena?
Fiona, for one. But then she’d been party to my later return to this shadow from Amber and had even picked me up after my evening with Meg. And she’d seemed just as puzzled about the course of events as I was.
Shit. Life is full of doors that don’t open when you knock, equally spaced amid those that open when you don’t want them to.
I went back and knocked on the bedroom door, and Flora told me to come in. She was seated before a mirror, applying makeup.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
“Not too well. Totally unsatisfactory, actually.” I summarized the results of my calls.
“So what are you going to do now?” she inquired.
“Get in touch with Random,” I said, “and bring him up to date. I’ve got a feeling he’ll call me back to hear it all. So I wanted to say good-bye, and thanks for helping me. Sorry if I broke up your romance.”
She shrugged, her back still to me, as she studied herself in the mirror. “Don’t worry —”
I did not hear the remainder of her sentence, though she continued talking. My attention was snatched away by what seemed the beginning of a Trump contact. I made myself receptive and waited. The feeling grew stronger but the caller’s presence did not become manifest. I turned away from Flora.
“Merle, what is it?” I heard her say then.
I raised one hand to her as the feeling intensified. I seemed to be staring down a long black tunnel with nothing at its farther end.
“I don’t know,” I said, summoning the Logrus and taking control of one of its limbs. “Ghost? Is that you? Are you ready to talk?” I asked. There was no reply. I felt a chill as I remained receptive, waiting. I had never experienced anything quite like this before. I’d a strong feeling that if I but moved forward I would be transported somewhere. Was this a challenge? A trap? Whatever, I felt that only a fool would accept such an invitation from the unknown. For all I knew, it might deliver me back to the crystal cave.
“If there is something you want,” I said, “you are going to have to make yourself known and ask. I’ve given up on blind dates.”
A sense of presence trickled through, then, but no intimations of identity.
“All right,” I said. “I’m not coming and you have no message. The only other thing I can think of is that you’re asking to come to me. If that’s the case, come ahead.”
I extended both of my apparently empty hands, my invisible strangling cord writhing into position in my left, an unseen Logrus death bolt riding my right. It was one of those times when courtesy demanded professional standards.
A soft laughter seemed to echo within the dark tunnel. It was purely a mental projection, however, cold and genderless.
Your offer is, of course, a trick, came to me then. For you are not a fool. Still, I grant your courage, to address the unknown as you do. You do not know what you face, yet you await it. You even invite it.
“The offer is still good,” I said.
I never thought of you as dangerous.
“What do you want?”
To regard you.
“Why?”
There may come a time when I will face you on different terms.
“What terms?”
I feel that our purposes will be crossed.
“Who are you?”
Again, the laughter.
No. Not now. Not yet. I would merely look upon you, and observe your reactions.
“Well? Have you seen enough?”
Almost.
“If our purposes are crossed, let the conflict be now,” I said. “I’d like to get it out of the way so I can get on with some important business.”
I appreciate arrogance. But when the time comes the choice will not be yours.
“I’m willing to wait,” I said, as I cautiously extended a Logrus limb out along the dark way.
Nothing. My probe encountered nothing…
I admire your performance.
Here!
Something came rushing toward me. My magical extension informed me that it was soft — too soft and loose to do me any real harm — a large, cool mass showing bright colors…
I stood my ground and extended through it — beyond, far, farther reaching for the source. I encountered something tangible but yielding: a body perhaps, perhaps not; too — too big to snap back in an instant.
Several small items, hard and of sufficiently low mass, recommended themselves to my lightning search. I seized upon one, tore it free of whatever held it and called it to me.
A wordless impulse of startlement reached me at the same time as the rushing mass and the return of my Logrus summoning.
It burst about me like fireworks: flowers, flowers, flowers. Violets, anemones, daffodils, roses… I heard Flora gasp as hundreds of them rained into the room. The contact was broken immediately. I was aware that I held something small and hard in my right hand, and the heady odors of the floral display filled my nostrils.
“What the hell,” said Flora, “happened?”
“I’m not sure,” I answered, brushing petals from my shirtfront. “You like flowers? You can have these.”
“Thanks, but I prefer a less haphazard arrangement,” she said, regarding the bright mound that lay at my feet. “Who sent them?”
“A nameless person at the end of a dark tunnel.”
“Why?”
“Down payment on a funeral display, maybe. I’m not sure. The tenor of the whole conversation was somewhat threatening.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d help me pick them up before you go.”
“Sure,” I said.
“There are vases in the kitchen and the bathroom. Come on.”
I followed her and collected several. On the way, I studied the object I had brought back from the other end of the sending. It was a blue button mounted in a gold setting, a few navy blue threads still attached. The cut stone bore a curved, four-limbed design. I showed it to Flora and she shook her head.
“It tells me nothing,” she said.
I dug into my pocket and produced the chips of stone from the crystal cave. They seemed to match. Frakir stirred slightly when I passed the button near her, then lapsed again into quiescence, as if having given up on warning me about blue stones when I obviously never did anything about them.
“Strange,” I said.
“I’d like some roses on the night table,” Flora told me, “and a couple of mixed displays on the dresser. You know, no one’s ever sent me flowers this way. It’s a rather intriguing introduction. Are you sure they were for you?”
I growled something anatomical or theological and gathered rosebuds.
Later, as we sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and musing, Flora remarked, “This thing’s kind of spooky.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you ought to discuss it with Fi after you’ve talked with Random.”
“Maybe.”
“Speaking of whom, shouldn’t you be calling Random?”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean, ‘maybe’? He’s got to be warned.”
“True. But I’ve a feeling that being safe won’t get any questions answered for me.”