The owner of the occult-supplies store down on MacDougal Street opened his doors and was surprised to find a young woman standing there, waiting for him. The owner was a big man. His head was shaven, but he sported a large handlebar moustache. "Yes?" he rumbled. "Can I help you?"
"Yes," said Gwen, walking past him into the cool darkness of the store. Once she would have been frightened to set foot in such a place. But that was a lifetime ago. Her eyes scanned the various accoutrements, the horoscopes, the tarot cards, the small bottled and carefully labeled ingredients for witches brews, and then she saw what she was looking for.
She stepped over to a rack of ornate daggers and pulled one down from the display. It was small, in a black leather sheath. The thing that attracted her was on the pommel-a carved skull with red eyes, as large as her thumbnail.
"The lady would like a knife?"
"The lady would like this knife," said Gwen. She slid it out of the sheath and admired the sharpness of the edge.
"Are you purchasing this knife, may I ask, for protection?" asked the proprietor. "Or perhaps you had a certain ritual in mind?" He smiled. "If a sacrifice is intended, that knife might not be appropriate." He pointed to a large curved dagger on the wall. "Now that, on the other hand-"
"No," said Gwen, sliding the dagger back into its sheath. "This is just what I'll need. Small enough for easy concealment, yet large enough to effect damage.''
"I would say kill, if at close quarters," said the owner. "I think 1 can thank my lucky stars that I am not the one who the lady is after."
"Yes," said Gwen pleasantly. "You can." She tucked the knife in her handbag. "How much do I owe you?"
Chaptre the Sixteenth
They had cleared out the Reeves Teletape theater for the event. The television facility, situated on Eighty-sixth Street and usually home to sitcoms and the like, was now decorated inside with three podiums at which the three principal candidates would stand, a center podium where the moderator would be stationed, and on one side of this trianglular arrangement, a table where three local journalists would be seated.
Arthur's earlier nervousness had been replaced by quiet calculation as he surveyed the setup the same way he would have looked over a battlefield before engaging the enemy. He stared at the TV cameras in awe; despite all his assimilation, there were certain aspects of modern-day society that continued to boggle his mind, and instantaneous communication was definitely one of those aspects.
There was a tug at his shoulder and he glanced around. Percy smiled encouragingly at him.
'Turn around. Let's see you."
Arthur turned around obediently, and Percy straightened the collar of his suit jacket. He looked down and said, "Unbutton the bottom vest button."
"Why?" asked Arthur.
"I dunno, man. Because you're supposed to." He held out his hand and pointed proudly at the steadiness of it. "Congratulate me, Arthur. Ten months of sobriety. Haven't touched a drop."
"Not even raised a flagon of mead?"
"Not a one."
Arthur smiled broadly. "Good for you. Urn . . ." He looked around. "Gwen isn't here, is she?"
Percy stroked his chin. "For someone who doesn't care whether he ever sees a certain person again or not, you're aw^ ful interested in her whereabouts."
"Morbid curiosity. Nothing more."
"Uh-huh."
Ronnie came trotting over, a clipboard in his hands. "Arthur, you're here! Good. I was getting worried."
"Heavy traffic daunts even the best of us, Ronnie," said Arthur stridently. "Where am I supposed to be?"
"We've got an hour before the debate starts. They want to get you into makeup first."
Arthur took a step back. "Makeup?" he said cautiously.
"Yeah. Sure."
"Women wear makeup. I have put up with a great deal, but I will not look like a woman."
Ronnie stuttered, "B-but Arthur, you have to! You'll look washed out without it. I don't understand. You must have worn makeup when you did your commercials."
Arthur frowned. "Wait. They put something on my face__»
"That was it!"
"Oh. Merlin told me that was protectant salve, to prevent my being severely burned by the intense lights of the cameras."
Percy nodded, amused. "That Merlin was a smart little bugger."
Arthur turned on him with unexpected fierceness. "Don't talk about Merlin that way. In the past tense, as if he's dead."
Percy stepped back involuntarily. "Arthur," he whispered harshly, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed Arthur's sudden flare of temper, "I didn't mean anything by it."
"He's all right." Arthur paused, and then added fiercely, "He has to be." He turned to Percy.
"Come, let's get this 'makeup' done. I have an urge to be quit of this whole debate. It's..
.unseemly."
From the opposite corner of the studio Bernard Bittberg and Moe Dredd watched Arthur, Percy, and Ronnie stride toward makeup. "He's distracted," muttered Bernie. "Distracted real bad. That's gonna cost him." He turned to Moe and waved a finger in his face. "You better be right about this fantasy of his. I don't want to come across looking like some kind of schmuck." Moe patted him on the arm. "Trust me
... Mr. Mayor." Bernie grinned, and looked up at the monitor overhead, with the podiums for the candidates on its screen. "Mr. Mayor. I like the sound of that. I could get used to that real easy." "I knew that you could," said Moe.
If there were the equivalent of hell on earth, then it was in New Jersey. Verona, New Jersey, to be specific-named after the town in Italy where the star-crossed lovers of Romeo and Juliet had met their end. A small, unassuming jock town where, interestingly enough, creatures of evil were residing. But only in the not-so-nice sections.
It was a run-down two-story house, whose elderly owner had died ages ago, and it had sat vacant for years as courts tried to figure out who owned it. It finally reverted to distant family, who didn't even care enough to sell it themselves and so left it to a real estate agent, who went out of business a month later. Since then the house had fallen between the cracks in the attentions of all concerned. Ivy ran wild over the sides, and grass was supplanted by weeds stretching several feet high.
It was a dump, but Morgan called it home.
The insides had been done up superbly-exotic drapes and tapestries hung everywhere, illuminated entirely by candles.
Morgan strode through the house, her long black gown swirling around her bare feet. Trailing behind her was Lance, dressed in black leather and grinning like an imbecile. "Where are we going, Morgan? What's up? I adore you, Morgan-"
"Shut up," she said tiredly.
"Yes, Morgan."
She turned and stroked his chin fondly. "I don't need you, you know."
"Yes, Morgan. I know."
"You're a pathetic creature."
"Yes. But I'm your pathetic creature."
"Come. We're going to watch television."
"Wonderful! Uncle FloydV
"No, not Uncle Floyd'," she grated. "There's going to be a debate starting in a few minutes.
And I think it's going to be quite, quite interesting."
She walked into her inner sanctum. Pillows were scattered about for easy lounging. A television, the modern-day crystal ball, was set up on a small pedestal at one end of the room. Tonight, however, it would be used for something less arcane than spying on the movements of others. Tonight it would be used for something as pedestrian as watching a television program, broadcast live on WNYW, Channel 5, with the other local stations in attendance for taped highlights to be played later on their news broadcasts.
At the other end of the room was a life-size cylinder made of solid crystal. Encased inside the crystal, like a butterfly in amber, was Merlin. His eyes were open, burning with fury even after all this time. Morgan went to him and stroked the crystal lovingly. "Ah, Merlin. Your incarceration hasn't dimmed your anger, I see. But then, I suppose lengthy prisons are nothing new to you." She smiled, showing white, slightly pointed teeth. "You're in luck, however. Tonight I've arranged some special entertainment for you."