Beyond World's End Page 24

  She was lingering over a last cup of coffee, a legal pad on her lap, when her phone rang. Few enough people knew where she was that she had no hesitation about picking up the phone instead of letting the front desk take the call.

  "Hello?"

  "Ria? It's Eric!"

  Eric! She allowed herself a small smile of triumph. The first one to pick up the phone lost. And your loss is my gain.

  "Eric," she purred. "How wonderful to hear from you so soon. Did you sleep well?" she asked, layering a double meaning into the innocent phrase.

  She heard a rueful chuckle on the other end of the line. "Not really. I'd like to talk to you."

  And do more than talk, I'll wager. Should she lead him on for awhile to demonstrate her power? Or would immediately giving him what he wanted be more effective? Decisions, decisions.

  "Of course. Why don't you come over here? I'm at the Sherry-Netherland. The view of the Park is spectacular. I'll order a fresh pot of coffee. Or would you prefer tea?"

  "Central Park?" For a moment Eric sounded completely nonplussed. Then: "Sure. Give me about forty minutes."

  "I'll be waiting." And to hell with the coffee.

  * * *

  Eric hung up the phone, staring at it as if it were about to do something strange and unusual. He didn't know what he'd expected when he decided to call Ria, but it wasn't this, well, blatant an invitation. What was she up to this time? Other than the obvious, and if there's one thing you can say about Ria, it's that she isn't. Anyway, he was committed now. And there couldn't be any harm in going up to her place to talk, now, could there? Besides, if he went there, he wouldn't have to risk stirring up the Guardians by poking his nose into their business. He thought the best thing might be to stay out of their way if they'd stay out of his.

  Time to get dressed, but in something a little less warlike than what he'd worn to their last encounter.

  He pulled out a chunky oatmeal-colored fisherman's sweater, and hesitated for a moment between slacks and jeans. Ria wasn't a jeans kind of person, he decided, and went for a pair of dark grey slacks. He grabbed the leather jacket he'd worn last night, and dumped the contents of his messenger bag out on his bed to make room for the flute. He gave the books and notebooks a resigned glance. Rector wouldn't cut him any slack; he'd better get his paper—or at least, some kind of paper—done before 2 P.M. tomorrow.

  Somehow.

  * * *

  He'd been past the Sherry-Netherland a few times in his rambles, but he'd never been inside. It was an imposing structure, like something out of an Edith Wharton novel: very repressed, very Old New York. He almost expected the gaudily uniformed doorman to refuse to let him in.

  He made his way across the lobby to the elevators, found the one that serviced Ria's floor, and got in. The elevator was an express, and took off with a swoosh! that left Eric's stomach far behind, though it mercifully released him a few moments later. The corridor outside its doors was painted a tasteful rose-beige that reminded Eric of something you might find at a mortician's. Ria's penthouse suite was at the end of the hallway, and as he approached it, Ria opened the door.

  She was wearing a man-tailored blouse of heavy white silk that she'd wrapped, kimono-style, instead of buttoning, and it was pretty obvious that there was nothing under it. It was tucked into the waistband of a pair of wide-legged cuffed and pleated pants of bronze hammered silk, and on her feet she wore a pair of high-heeled gold mules. Eric could see that her toenails were painted Jungle Red. With her blond hair hanging loose in a Veronica Lake sweep, Ria looked like the Bad Girl from every film noir ever made.

  "Nice to see you again," she said briskly. Spoiling the illusion? Or breaking a deliberate spell? With any other woman, he'd know. "Come on in."

  Eric followed her into the main room of the suite. Her perfume hung in the air, the same subtle understated floral she'd worn last night at dinner. He tried to ignore it. He'd come here to talk over a problem, not be a slave to his raging hormones.

  There was a coffee service set out on a low table bordered on three sides by loveseats in a pale shadow stripe. As Ria had said, there was also a splendid view of Central Park. Eric tried to locate the spot where he'd stood last night and failed. It wouldn't be hard to find again, though.

  "Coffee?" Ria asked, and when Eric nodded she poured. He still found something deliciously perverse about drinking coffee, since what was harmless to him was so deadly to Kory and his other elven friends.

  "I didn't mean to interrupt your day," Eric began, "but something pretty weird happened last night, and, well, I wanted to talk about it to someone who'd understand. You see—well, to begin with, the place I live isn't an ordinary apartment building." Lame, Banyon, really lame!

  But Ria didn't zing him on it, the way Beth or some of the Sidhe would have.

  "So I gathered, after I met your stony friend," she commented, sipping her own coffee. She regarded him over the rim of the cup with steady emerald-green eyes, their vivid color one of the many legacies of her mixed blood.

  "Well, Greystone's just the tip of the iceberg," Eric said glumly, belatedly realizing how much he'd have to explain before he got to the Unseleighe Nexus, and how little Ria was probably going to like any of it. "You see, there are these folks called Guardians. . . ."

  Quickly he sketched out as much as he knew of the Guardians and their mission to protect the average run of humankind from the Dark Powers. He told her about Dharinel and Kory's warning of Unseleighe activity in the city, and of his own strange, possibly prophetic, dream about the goblin tower overshadowing Central Park amid the ruins of Manhattan.

  "I told Jimmie about it, but with the Sidhe you never know when. Right now? Next year? Next century? But last night after you left, Toni came to see me because the Guardians had run into something funky out in the Park that they wanted my opinion on. When I took a look, I found that the whole place is lousy with Unseleighe magic—and something else I couldn't quite put my finger on—and it looked to me like somebody was trying to open a Nexus."

  "In Central Park?" Ria's voice was rich with disbelief. "Using what for a Bard? And leaving aside the question of what kind of Sidhe maniac would want to open up a Nexus in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world? Sidhe magic would be almost worthless with all the iron and steel—and man-made electro-magnetic fields—around, even if they lived long enough to use it. Even a human sorcerer has trouble in a big city, with all those minds around clogging up the Etherial Plane."

  "Seleighe magic wouldn't work here," Eric admitted. "At least not consistently. But Unseleighe power runs a little differently, doesn't it?" He knew Perenor had been acting pretty much as a lone wolf in his vendetta against Terenil, but someone that ruthless must have made overtures to the Dark Court at some point.

  Ria considered, worrying at her lower lip with her teeth as she thought. "I don't know that much about the Dark Court, but I'd have to say that most of the power they use isn't that different. Not in kind, anyway, or ultimate source. But in degree, yes—the Dark Court isn't squeamish about feeding off other peoples' life-force. And in a city this size, I'd have to say there'd be enough prey available to take the edge off any discomfort Cold Iron would give them. Enough deaths would allow them to punch through any kind of interference, at least for a short time. But whoever it is that's trying to put up a Nexus here, he'd have to know he couldn't just maraud around and not expect to be stopped—by your Guardians, or the police at the very least. And for all that either of us knows, there's some alphabet agency out there like the Men In Black to save the world from the scum of Faerie. This isn't the Stone Age!"

  Eric grinned slightly, savoring the mental image of a posse of sunglasses-wearing Feds in Lincoln Green Armani suits armed with high-tech wizard's staves and magnetized steel sword-phones. It's almost weird enough to happen. . . . Then he turned serious again.

  "Maybe whoever it is doesn't realize what he's actually up against. If you're Sidhe—and practically immortal—and li
ving Underhill anyway—you might not really have noticed the last two or three centuries go by, even though it's made a helluva lot of difference here in the world. Meanwhile, you can't deny he could do a lot of damage before someone stopped him—and what would happen if the Feds got real concrete proof that the Sidhe existed? I tried to warn Jimmie and the others, but those Guardians are way in over their heads—and they won't even consider the possibility that this is something they can't handle. Quietly, I mean." Or at all. Guardians die as easily as anyone else, and the Dark Court can put a lot of resources into the field.

  But Ria's attitude had changed while he was making his point. She looked almost disapproving, now.

  "I'm flattered that you'd want to use me as a sounding board," Ria said, sitting back in her seat and regarding him with an unreadable expression. "But frankly, Eric, I don't see what this has to do with you or me, other than meaning we ought to get out of here before the fireworks start."

  Eric stared at Ria in disbelief. He'd just naturally assumed that once he'd told her what the problem was, she'd immediately have some suggestions for what to do next to take care of it.

  "If a Sidhe Great Lord starts a war with the United States, we're going to be drawn into it no matter what," he finally pointed out. "This is entirely leaving out the people who'll get killed, or hurt, or sucked dry before he's stopped."

  "The Guardians think they can handle it. You said yourself they'll probably stop him eventually. And you're the one who's living here, not me," Ria said. "Besides, there's a faint possibility you've misread the situation. Maybe a few disappointments will change your Nexus-builder's mind about moving here before he throws down for a full-scale war. So why not let these Guardians do what they're here for? You said it was their full-time job. They probably have lots of experience."

  "Not with this," Eric said stubbornly. "They don't get many Sidhe here in the city. They've never seen this kind of magic before. You have, and so have I. You know what kind of damage a situation like this can do." He leaned forward, willing her to understand how important this was. But even before she spoke, he knew he'd failed.

  "Eric, people are dying horribly every day, all over the world. Even if I devoted my every waking moment to making things better for them, it'd be a drop in the bucket compared to what they're doing to themselves. I have responsibilities closer to home—to my employees, to my staff, to the people who depend on me personally to be there, and not go haring off on some kind of damnfool idealistic crusade designed to get someone close to me out of a midterm exam."

  "Is that what you think this is about?" Eric demanded, recoiling in hurt. Ria of all people knew how much trouble a Nexus in the wrong hands could be. He'd been sure that the moment he explained things to her she'd be ready to help.

  Ria smiled gently. "No, Eric, not entirely. But I think it is part of the reason you're trying so hard to push yourself into someplace you're obviously not wanted. Dharinel told you to stay out of it. These Guardians told you the same thing. Why not listen to somebody for a change?"

  I've already been doing too much of that! Eric felt a stubborn anger rising inside him, and tried to push it aside. He'd been open and honest with Ria, and she seemed to be treating this as if it were all some sort of meaningless game!

  "Okay. All right. I guess I deserve some of that. But at least come and look at the place in the Park with me. Make up your own mind about how bad this could be. And if you don't want to get involved then, I'll respect that."

  He leaned forward, willing her to say yes. To that much, at least.

  Ria sighed. "Okay, Eric, you've won me over. I'll come and look. But I can't do it today, and Monday's looking pretty full, too. I have companies to run; give me a few days. I'll clear a space in my schedule."

  A few days could be too late! Eric took a deep breath and regained control of himself with an effort. He felt oddly disappointed—in Ria, in himself—as if a door that might lead to something wonderful had just been unexpectedly slammed in his face. He'd thought—well, maybe he hadn't actually thought. He'd been upset about what happened at the Park last night, he'd wanted to see Ria again, and he guessed he'd let his hormones do at least some of the thinking.

  "Okay," he said grudgingly, hating how hurt, how betrayed he felt. "I guess that's fair. Why don't you give me a call when you've got some free time?" He got to his feet. "I won't bother you any more. I'm sure we've both got a lot of things to do."

  Ria rose gracefully, her face a cool social mask of politeness. Bard or not, Truth-sense or not, he couldn't get a peek at anything behind her shields to judge her feelings. "I'll see you later, then, Eric."

  With as much dignity as he felt he could muster under the circumstances, Eric left.

  * * *

  Out on the street again, Eric took a few moments to catch his mental breath. Those mis-cues just now had been at least partly his fault—and more than partly, if he were being totally honest with himself. He realized that he'd been thinking of Ria as a sort of natural ally against the Guardians who'd fall in with anything he proposed—well, she'd disabused him of that notion pretty quick.

  Then I'll do it myself, said the Little Red Hen.

  He managed a smile. It would have been nice to have company and a little backup, but he was a Bard, after all. He could do his own investigating. And I'm right here, and the Park is pretty safe during the day. All the muggers are probably out Christmas shopping, too.

  And it wasn't really going against Dharinel's advice. Not yet. Whoever'd put up the Nexus didn't seem to be around during the day, and Eric would be sure not to leave any trail that could lead an Unfriendly back to his doorstep. The guy was after Talents, and Eric didn't fool himself about the fact that his own power made him a pretty enticing mouthful. And he wasn't interested in being anybody's lunch, thank you ma'am.

  But a little looking around wouldn't hurt. And Ria was right about one thing. With a quick glance in the dark and a bunch of other people around, he might have misjudged how serious the situation was. He waited for a break in the traffic and crossed the street, heading into the Park.

  * * *

  From the window high above, Ria watched him go. She felt an irritated mixture of anger and regret over what had just happened.

  Just who the hell did Eric Banyon think he was, anyway? The Lone Ranger?

  Not the old Eric Banyon, that's for sure. The old Eric, the one she'd kept as an intriguing pet, wouldn't have thrown himself into things this way. That Eric had waited to be led, or told what to do. This one made his own choices, and his own rules.

  But I'm not going to play by them. He can be the Lone Ranger if he wants, but he'll have to find another faithful Indian companion!

  She respected him enough to send him away today, rather than teasing him into bed. It would have been a sweet sort of triumph to distract him that thoroughly—Eric had always been a generous lover, and this new maturity made him even more interesting as a potential bed partner—but she wanted him as an equal, not a conquest. And that meant equality on both sides. If she didn't want Eric as a submissive follower, then he was going to have to learn that he wasn't automatically the leader, either. Living in the real world meant negotiating for what you wanted—and if Eric wanted her as much as she wanted him, he was going to have to learn that little lesson. And hope it doesn't kill either of us.

  That didn't mean she was going to hang him out to dry, either. He'd been right about one thing: she knew this enemy better than he did. She hesitated a moment, coming to a decision, and then picked up the phone.

  "Jonathan? Ria. Look, I've run into a little something out here that needs looking into, and I'm going to need some backup. Yes. Armed and very discreet. Who do we use in New York? Call me back when you have the number. I want to make the call myself."

  * * *

  About an hour later there was a knock on her door. She checked through the peephole, and then opened the door.

  "Gotham Security," the man said, holding open a phot
o ID for her to look at. Raine Logan, read the name below the photo.

  He was only a few inches taller than she was, but he carried himself as if he were six feet tall. He wore a dark blue nylon bomber jacket and jeans, with an army surplus duffle slung over his shoulder. His black hair was brushed straight back from a deep widow's peak, there was a day's worth of black stubble on his jaw, and beneath his bulky clothing, he had the trim, sculpted body of someone who worked out with weights for more than show. When she'd called the service, she'd specified needing someone who could keep her safe anywhere in New York—and blend in on the street. The man they'd sent more than fit the bill. You wouldn't give him a second glance anywhere from Spanish Harlem to Crown Point.

  "Come in, Mr. Logan," she said, closing the door behind him.

  "Just Logan. And you're Ria," he said. "These are for you." He held out the bag. "The service has your size and your profile; you've used our West Coast service in the past."

  She opened the duffle and pulled out the contents. Worn jeans with the extra gusset at the crotch that would give them as much flexibility as a pair of dance tights, a tight black T-shirt, and a jacket. It looked like a cheap vinyl imitation of a black leather jacket, but when she lifted it, it was heavier than she expected. She checked the lining, and found it was lined in Kevlar—enough to stop anything up to a Black Talon cop-killer.

  "The dispatcher said you'd be going into some rough neighborhoods. You don't want to go looking like money," Logan said.

  "Thanks," Ria said, meaning it. Gotham Security was the best. They turned down more clients than they accepted, and the reason they still accepted her commissions was because she never argued with their decisions once she'd set the parameters. Ria respected competence in any field. When you hired an expert to keep you safe, there was no point in telling him how to do his job.

  "Help yourself to some coffee. I'll go change."

  She'd worn running shoes on the plane, but they weren't some expensive brand someone would try to kill her for. She stripped off the seduction outfit she'd worn for Eric and changed into the street clothes the bodyguard had brought, then braided her hair severely back and pinned it into a tight bun. She looked in the mirror, frowned, and then went into the bathroom to scrub off every trace of makeup. There were thin gloves in the pocket of the jacket, and she put them on. Satisfied at last, she came back into the sitting room of the suite.