After I hung up with Ed, I spent a while swearing aloud just to get it out of my system.  I like to think I had gotten pretty creative given that no one I knew personally had to work up swearing involving imaginary creatures of indeterminate virtues, well, except maybe the atheists in the crowd.

(I was never sure how to count myself.  I mean, how could you know of deities who interacted with mankind but were probably just things from Beyond and yet not really believe in them being effective towards yourself?  I figured it was like believing in the mailman.  At least the mailman delivers in answer to your stamped prayers.  Or some such oddity.)

I stomped around for a few minutes and woke up with some cold, carbonated caffeine and sugar.  Then I sat at my table and stared at the phone.  The minutes mocked me as the screen went into the, “Nothing’s happened! Let’s darken the display!” mode and I sighed and pulled it over to me.

“If this is my brother, I’m going to cut him into bloody gobbets and feed him to passing pigeons.”

“Love you too, sis.  How did you guess?”

“Oh, I say that whenever a phone call wakes me in the pre-sunlight hours.  Guess I just get lucky this time.  You have a preference for breed of pigeon?”

“You couldn’t tell a pigeon from a seagull without a professional.”

“A tall, dark, handsome professional who is paid to handle my eccentricities, you mean.  Some kind of birdwatching prince in search of a young American bride.”

“Still holding out for royalty?”

“Still playing D&D in someone’s mother’s basement?”

“Glad to hear nothing’s changed.”

“You could call our mother sometime.  You could let her know you still deny the need for constant psychiatric evaluation.”

“I wouldn’t want to put any kind of strain on her aging heart.  One psychotic in the family is enough.”

“Like telling her that you were in not one, but two unexplained and unusual accidents in a month?”

I sighed. “You took the call as her, didn’t you?”

“I had to.  After all, my plans wouldn’t come to their evil fruition unless I get to be the one to tell her of your unfortunate and untimely demise.  What do you need, anyway?  Are you in…” she gave it a moment of savored anticipation, “trouble?”

“Yeah, I need a ride.”

“The clinic’s not open until nine.  Who did you knock up, and was she homeless or merely drunk at the time?”

“Not that kind of trouble.”

“What is it, then?  Arson?  Rape?  Theft?” She paused.  “Murder?”

“Murder, definitely murder.”

“Brother of mine, in some ways you never disappoint.”  I heard her shift a little.  “Let me get my pants on and I’ll come by.  Still living in that little hovel on the East side?”

“Sorry, some of us haven’t found the right millionaire,” I pointed out.  It wasn’t a hovel.  It was snug and cozy, the way I liked it.

“You mean, like, any?” she laughed.  “Do I need my kevlar?”

“This is the wrong side of the highway for the body armor,” I sighed.  “In fact, I had a good police presence here just yesterday.”

“So you mean all the good drugs are gone?”

“Are we even related genetically?” I asked.

“Mom said she tried to sell you to the gypsies, but they returned you during the buyer’s remorse period.”

“Funny, mom told me you were the inspiration for“The Ransom of Red Chief.'”

“You’re still a charmer.  Well, working on it anyway.  Keep practicing.  Hold on.”  She put the phone down and said something in a quiet murmur.  Probably something like, “Jeeves, please get the car ready.”  She returned.  “Fine.  I have clothes and money, and you can bring the shovels.  Where are we burying her?”

“Somewhere in Boulder.  And why do you think it’s a her?”

“Because, my big brother, you’ve never been smart about women, so if you’re in trouble, it’s about a girl.”

“Huh.”  I shrugged.  “You’re probably right.”

“Of course I am.  I’m your little sister.  I know everything about you and you have to love me anyway.  Kiss, and bye now.  I’ll see you in about twenty.”

I was actually surprised that she was willing to help, but it had been a while since we’d seen each other.  I don’t really know what she was expecting to find, but I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if it turned out to be a unicorn.

Lion, and now unicorn.  The Small types had a sense of humour.  I had no doubt that it was the second Messenger.  The only question is what message it was sending… protection of my friends?  Potential for mayhem?  Mere mischief?  I only hoped it didn’t bring me a riddle.  I still hadn’t gotten the first ones figured out.

I brought some sheets for Matana’s body.  It was ridiculously hard to kill a vampire, and really, I didn’t have the time or patience for it.  I wanted some answers first.  The sunlight would destroy the traces of her blood, but until dawn arrived there would be a lot of questions if someone passed by or otherwise stumbled upon the scene.  I had wanted Ed to stay by the body so no one else picked her up, but I had sent him to his mom’s to wait for me.

Of course, I was hoping this wasn’t another set-up.  First Sylvia, and now Matana.  Neither permanent, but both would have looked terrible if seen by a judge.  I realized with a laugh that I was the kind of friend who would help a friend move bodies, apparently.

I made another call to a number I had in my phone that I’d only used one other time.  The person on the other end was far more murderous in nature and likely to cause bloody trouble than my sister.  Of course, he was also a treasure trove of vampire trivia I’d met on a BBS in the pre-Internet days, and I believed to have some experience in what I was about to try to do.

I ran my errands and picked up some dinner on the way back.  It was around the end of rush hour.  If I really believed in movie zombies, I would have been scared the way the wafting smell of french fries seemed to grab the attention of the other people on the bus.  After a day of work anyone might look a bit wan and glazed, like a sad diet doughnut.  Several people noted how good they smelled, and I just drew the bag closer to me.  I was getting a little nervous that either I would be mobbed if I actually started eating them, or that they would be cold by the time the bus lurched to my stop.  (And lurch it did; isn’t the rule that the lazy late driver gets the old, decrepit bus?)

Once I decided that the people on the bus were not going to start shambling off after me, moaning, “FRiiiiiiiieeeees,” I had too much time to think while I walked.  At least I had salty, oily, carbohydrate goodness to fuel me.

I was thinking about Rohana.  I was feeling strangely conflicted.  Half of me felt good, I mean, really good, like I should skip and dance and music from an old musical would swell up behind me and I’d grow a hat and a cane and, well, you know the rest.  Half of me was cautious and concerned because I didn’t really know a lot about her.  Did she have a dog?  A boyfriend?  A skeleton or something grisly in her closet?  She said she wasn’t a witch, but she was aware of them.  She knew Maggie.

Maggie.  The piece in the puzzle I kept trying not to think about, because I didn’t want to think her capable of making a simulacrum.  I didn’t want to be dragged into her war, and yet, I knew, I knew in a way that was impossible to clear from cynicism, that she still wanted something from me.

I was worried about Rohana, really.  I decided that as I came through the door, put my keys in my octopus cup, left my bag of hamburgers and processed poultry parts on the table and went to the bathroom.  The last block had been less dancing and Broadway and more this last little piggy.

Ahem.

Once my business was done, I sat and ate, only half-watching some things I’d saved on the recorder.  I really only watch things that have been recommended to me, but there were some neat stories out there.  Alas, the best of them always seemed short lived, but that could have been part of the appeal; a show past its time was always a sad thing.

I washed up some as I hate that hour-after-cheeseburger feeling.  Brushed my teeth, and parked myself in front of the tube for a while.  I felt myself getting pretty sleepy and so set my alarm so that I’d catch up with Ed around midnight, if only to yank his chain a little.

I slept through it, of course, deep  in uneasy dreams.  Something moon-like was chasing me, but only enough to get my adrenaline to pump and keep me uneasy.  It was playing with me, silver-white in the darkness, fast, fleet of foot.

I picked up the phone in a kind of automatic motion, without looking to see who it was. “Yuh?” I asked, sounding extremely insightful and witty.

“E.  I… didn’t think there’d be so much blood.”

“What?” Awakefulness was forced upon me like a deluge of water from a bucket.  It was less like when Maggie would snap sobriety into me, which I would rather describe as a forceful joining of my drunk and undrunk selves with the alcohol squished out of me, and more like jumping into a puddle and finding it was the Marianas Trench.  “Ed.  Ed, what happened?” He sounded weak and tinny over the connection, which, by the way, got excellent freakin’ signal.

“You were right.”

You know, usually I love to hear those words.  Those words are sweet, sweet words of vindication, an aperitif that led to a full course of redemption.  Somehow they were tasting of dust and clay, and old feathers, like the underworld in the Epic of Gilgamesh.

“You were right, E.  She attacked me.  I just… I…”

“Talk to me, Ed.  Use your words.”  I bit my tongue.  “What do you need?  Where are you?”

“I’m…” he wandered off for a moment, but just before I said something else, he gave me a street name I didn’t recognize.  “It’s a cul-de-sac off of,” and I remembered that as not too far from his mom’s house.  “I’m… I’m covered with blood.”

“OK.  You need help.  You need a new set of clothes.  It’s,” I looked at the clock above the television.  “It’s at least an hour before dawn.  Is she dead?”

“I…”

“Topor, it’s called.  You did a good job, pinning at least part of her heart, right?  None of that ‘Vampire with Brooklyn’ business?” I asked.  “What kind of stake?”  I fumbled for my keys, and slid into my shoes.

“That’s… that’s why I called, E.”

“It doesn’t really matter.  Oh,” I swore.  “I don’t have a car.  OK.  I’ve got to…” I tried to think of the people I could call for a ride.  The list didn’t quite begin and end with Ed, but once you took Maggie off the list, it was disturbingly short.

I’d have to call my sister.

“No, it does matter.  I didn’t do it, exactly.”

“Hey, this isn’t a court of law.  It’s absolutely self-defense, but there’s things we have to do.  I’ll have to let you go.  There’s a lot of calls I have to make.  Can you walk to your mom’s?”

“No, I mean…  Something else did it.”

“Wait, uh, what?”

“E. Promise you won’t laugh.”

I took a deep breath.  “Ed, after everything we’ve been through together, that’s one promise I can’t really make.  Hit me.”

“It was a unicorn.”

I almost laughed.  I exhaled a wheezy little squeaky thing and then caught my breath.  “A unicorn?”

“Yeah.  And it mentioned your name.”

There’s a strange place where theory and rule don’t seem to meet.  For example, I know everyone has their own personal rules.  They might not think of them as anything more as idiosyncratic guidelines that work for them, but they’ve got them.  Having a little obsessive-compulsion is like having a few rules too many so that they get in the way, but us regular folks with our low-level neuroses have rules, too.  I think having too few rules is also a sign of illness, so playing in the median (so to speak) makes sense, too. 

When you know what you think is just a theory and it might not work along those lines, you’re a little hesitant to put your foot down and draw a line.  (I like my metaphors shaken, not stirred.)  Gravity, for example, seems to work a certain way, except when it doesn’t.  Magic’s a lot like that, at least, for my small window of observation.  I can’t say anything is possible or impossible for a certain practice, but I’ve got some good rules of thumb that I expect. 

Ivan made a simulacrum.  It was a particularly disturbing situation, as my nightmares recall.  It wasn’t a fully active one, so it was more a shell that looked like him, but I had to add that to my list.  Wrapping a spell into a shape is on those lines.  So maybe it’s easier than I thought, but really, the Red Poets are the real deal.  There are stories about the Cold War that would chill your bones, and that’s even knowing that most practitioners aren’t political. 

I think it makes sense; when you’ve literally seen or even been in the middle of empires rising and falling, whoever is in charge is likely a temporary situation.   Just as they aren’t political, they’re also not especially concerned with local legislation.  I sometimes think Maggie’s headed that way with her disdain for the laws of traffic, let alone physics. 

But, and you knew I was actually going somewhere with this, one of the unwritten rules is usually to not get involved with something so vulgar as law enforcement.  That’s why my brain was protesting that this situation got the police involved.   That subconscious mote was raising flags and complaining, “You don’t do that.  It’s trouble.”  Ordnance aside, an investigation could certainly be considered an act of Will, and it has its repercussions. 

It didn’t actually mean something rogue.  I mean, for all that I know we have home ground advantage, when it comes to mortal and practitioner, well, the whole, “And they lived happily ever after,” usually means someone’s died to make it happen.  Werewolves kill people.   Vampires kill people.  Fairies don’t even notice that what they’re killing are “people.”   (That’s actually one of the reasons they’re pretty darn scary.  At least werewolves and vampires are generally aware of their status as predators, and thus the relationship they have with their victims, both internally (the parasite that takes over the host) and externally (their foodsource)). 

Humanity needs every advantage it gets.  Sure, we do terrible things to ourselves, but don’t be fooled – that’s not unique to our species by any means.   (Sometimes I think all we need to do is point out that, indeed, that behaviour is horrible, so we should stop doing it.   Of course, generally anyone who does is martyr’d in some fashion.   Egads, but I’m a cynic some days.) 

So, the “No Poking the Policeman” rule is good in theory, but a lot less a rule in practice, I guess.  I wasn’t sure how it revised my estimate of the forces that had me in their wake.  The whole Jedi Mind Trick is a slippery situation anyway – I don’t see anything wrong in using it for the little things, but then it grows into this.  Into what happened with Sylvia’s roommates… the, “No, I wasn’t speeding, Officer,” slides right into darker places.  Where do you draw the line? 

Of course, the easy flat line to draw is the, “Don’t lie,” rule.  Lying is bad.  Is theft a form of lying?  Of course it is.  If I convince you that these leaves are a couple Benjamins, it’s definitely theft… by lie.  I’m not saying that all practitioners are as bad as that, but it’s like the paintbrush that says all authors are drunken madmen with the sole purpose of misleading you.  If art is illusion, all art is lies.  We’re doomed, poets, lovers, magicians, and sane men all.

I had to get the police report and the insurance claim, and, well, my neighbors hadn’t actually said anything, but that was just a matter of time.  I sighed as I got more bus tokens out of the bag I kept on the dresser.  I had bought the bag for my dice, but then my collection grew out of it.  (I took a moment to imagine a little tag on the inside that was like a size tag on clothing, but meant for dice.  “6XS – will hold eleven twenty-siders, or fifteen six-sided cubes…”)

I moved things aside so that I could look out the window.  There was still debris and staining and stuff, but much of it had been cleared away.  Light reflects into my room from windshields usually around this time of day, but… huh.  There had been a note on my windshield when Ro had picked me up.  I shrugged.  Probably had been a flier for the local church, but while people rarely move past the fence into the parking area to leave them, we get soul subscription drives every 8 months or so.

I went back to look up the routes and connections.  Things were starting to get a bit darker earlier.  I found another jacket in my closet, courtesy of being a native.  Really, people who live in Colorado don’t just have one jacket, or even one of a single type.  This one was a leather windbreaker I usually wore out to ball games.  It wasn’t the shiny black biker style, just a soft brown cow type, I guess. 

I was sliding my phone into the pocket when I realized I had somehow missed a call.  It was from Sylvia’s phone number.  Curiouser and curiouser, indeed.

I let it simmer and brew.  Were there any other common aspects of the incidents besides myself, and, well, what I do? (You know, the Portal thing.)  The Shadow King didn’t count – he was my fetch for now.  I had to expect him to follow up on the things I had interest in, but I hoped that he would be more personally involved in the Witch War rather than spending his myriad energies interfering with me.  Of course, there was a small part of me that shouted, “But they’re my witches!”  I didn’t listen to it.  That’s a whole can of worms for introspection for which I didn’t have the energy to turn the can opener.  (I have a lot of friends and family with electric can openers.  My house even came with one.  This always surprised me, but I did finally come to the consideration that as one got older the things I took for granted were not as simple.)

The Gillikins were still interested in me.  They were a Court, no doubt, but not interested in Small things.

The Small Court got my number (so to speak) from my friend Thomas. Thomas had no interaction as far as I knew with any of the other groups.

The Red Poet Society had paid me off, so I took them off the list of interests, except that there was a Schroedinger’s Dragon at the other side of any Door I might open.

The -cubi just existed.  As far as I knew, except that they carefully protected themselves from me… and who set that up, I wondered?  I still thought there was something involved with the Messenger.  I didn’t trust my instincts, so much, but… She didn’t vamp me.  I mean, she made an effort,  but despite the discussion Matana’s other being had with it, there was a bit of a half-hearted nature to the attempt.

Matana and Ed.  I shook my head.  I had to do a little thinking about that.

Why do a man and a woman go out to something if there wasn’t any attraction?  Except you can have intellectual attraction, I guess.  I mean, I sounded just like a neanderthal, but I think my brain was searching for an angle that made sense.

I had to admit, the vampire thing distracted me.  I couldn’t accept her as a person because she had made a choice not to be one.  It wasn’t like a physical disease she contracted unwillingly, but more like an addiction she chose to feed.  Truly, I didn’t know if she could get help.  She could get dead, sure, but once a vampire, well, the “cures” I knew of got pretty ugly.

Matana as herself was an attractive woman.  Don’t think I didn’t have the urge to tell Ed six times in the conversation that I’d seen her stark naked.  It’s not something I was likely to forget.  I just wasn’t going to forget that she was the evil, evil, undead O!

(Which didn’t work to replace “undead” with “victim of a parasitical other-dimensional creature,” because then scansion was broken and left crying and alone in the dark.  And poets might like it that way, but scansion doesn’t.  Scansion likes to be all sunshine and flowers.  I think.  I stopped writing bad teenage poetry the second my sister got into it.)

Ah yes, my sister.  No connection, I hoped.  As far as I knew I really was the family mutant when it came to the supernatural.  Which isn’t to say they were complete nulls on the scales of Wot Bumps In De Night, but that their focus wasn’t strong enough or their will in a shape to get results.

Like most of us.  Peredur’s nonsense aside, I didn’t even understand wizards.  Vasilisa was pretty amazing.  I’d love to pick her brain for hours and hours just to talk technique and theory, really.  That much I got from Artur.

On the dead list, I hoped.  I wouldn’t have wanted him to be alive in all that fiery anger.  On the other hand, he would have been very tough to kill.

Life and Death were not Small things.

What did the Small Court want me to wish for?  That was really what was getting to me about the messengers.  Clarity.  I could wish for clear answers and solutions to my problems.

Alas, those weren’t Small at all.

What other forces were at play?  Troll Knights of the Small, the messengers of Christmas Present and Future, or at least Solstice Present and Future, to give a dumb Dickens allusion.

Man, I didn’t know Ed was gay.  I mean, I still didn’t, somewhere in my head.  Easy for me to presume that he was just like me, I guess.  I still didn’t know if it was supposed to change anything between us.  I mean, on one hand, he’s still a good, good friend.  On the other, if I don’t acknowledge the difference, am I being a bigot?  I can never tell which side of the line is good for acknowledging I’m an idiot and yet not perpetuating further idiocy.

I guess if he wanted me to treat him differently, he’d say something.  Something about how he wanted to be treated, I guess.  I mean, besides not offering to introduce him to interesting women (which, with the kind of girls I was running into, was probably a blessing anyway.) In the meantime, I’d just consider him Ed.

I still had a dinner invitation from the Questor.  I wanted to do that, but I think my quest was pretty self-evident.  I needed to walk the veils at the eight corners of Monaco and see what Small thing was needed to put things to right before it became a Big problem.  After that I did need to ask.  I needed to ask the Questor what to do about the Dragon.

Because then I could sleep again, and not worry that I would wake up there in the dark with her, or see Doloise again, or smell Ivan burning.

And Rohana.  I needed to know what was going on with her.  Two wonderful nights, or days, or whatever this was, wasn’t a relationship, I guessed.  I didn’t want to push, anyway.

And my insurance company was going to raise my rates.  I’d have to call the agency again and get another job soon.  Not to mention rent another car, if they’d do business with me again.

Cops acting strangely…why did that get stuck into my head?

“Sometimes I am happy that I’m not in your shoes.”

“You wouldn’t fit.  My family has always had big feet.”

“Not even with extra socks?”

“Hah!”  I grinned. “I do want to point out that you’re still breaking the essential rule.  You’re going out with a vampire.”

“She’s interesting.  She’s educated.  She’s not human.  That sounds like it should be the tagline for a movie.  It’s not really a matter of life or death, is it?”

“Life or death are not small things.”  I stopped cold, and repeated that sentence to myself mentally, adding the capital to the S.  I swore.

“What?”

“Nothing.  I just can’t tell if someone’s misleading me, flat out lying, or trying to get me into trouble.  Or any combination.”

“Meaning they’re not all the same thing?”

“Intent?”

“As they say, that doesn’t make it magical.  Um, unless, of course, in your world it does.”

“Freakin’ magical.  Well, that’s disingenuous, and it has to do with applying will, which belief by itself rarely does.  Philosophy.  Forget it.  OK.  You try to convince yourself that the dark powers are not manifest and clouding your mind.  I’ll sit at home and be moody about sending you off to your doom.  Don’t do it twice.”

“You have some weird hang-ups.”

“Most people say, `Good-bye,’ but sometimes I do push them far enough to just drop the receiver.”

“And you’re old school.  These days we just hit a button on the screen or flip the lid closed.”

I smiled wryly.  “I’ll call the local equivalent of the Frog Brothers if you don’t make it home by what time?”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“Midnight it is.”

“Huh.”  He gave it a fair guffaw.  “Fine.  And I’ll call you if I end up dead.”

“You’d better.”

We said our goodbyes and I got off the phone.  I set it down next to the computer and completed a perfect headdesk.  Life and death are not Small matters.  So was he playing with me?  They wanted me to go somewhere and do something.  I had presumed the whole time it was a matter of closing a door.

I have a recurring nightmare that there’s a door between life and death that someone will blast open some day.  It’s not the kind of nightmare that has places and events and people, it’s a feeling.  It was a sentence that crawled into my brain and down my spine one day.  I kind of believe in reincarnation, meaning that it’s more a revolving door, but even if it only opens up once, it’s a door that should stay closed.

Simulacrum, simulacrum… it sounded kind of like a girl’s jump-rope beat for a moment.  I guessed I could go and try to look at the body or something.

I busied myself with the more mundane tasks, trying to talk to the insurance company again, making payments over the phone and internet, and checking my gaming calendar.  My GM was due to come back into town.  I also looked at the phases of the moon, and some of my favourite Fortean almanacs.

There’s this bit in Ghostbusters where they talk about the end of the world.   For all that it’s a comedy, there’s a serious moment about, “What if it is?”  I mean, for all that I didn’t believe a bit about the whole concerns about 2012 (seriously, the only worry I have is the worry I have this and every year: that some person is going to flip out and do their best to destroy everything, and even then, there’s a lot of Everything to try to destroy) there was a lot of activity with which I was suddenly in touch.

I am actually surprised that I don’t have to suspend my disbelief so much at books where the protagonist finds themselves the center of a plot that destroys the world.  First, I am a tiny bit of a “personal world” viewpoint type, where we do have our own worlds that are under attack by our own insecurities, let alone that of others.  Second, I think that it’s like the bit about having an open mind and not trying to have it so open that rationality falls out: the more you are aware of happening, the more you know about other things.

I like to watch the news, although I hate the “packaged” feel of so much of it.   I vote, and I encourage other people to do so.  It’s important.  (It does matter.  I’ve seen too many stupid things get put into place legally by a margin of less than a thousand people.  I might not know a thousand people well enough to change their minds, but I definitely know a hundred who could have helped change that.  Besides, supernatural beings rarely vote, so I like to think of it as a way we keep our world ours.)  I keep my ears open at various jobs, and while I might not always appreciate the spin on a certain issue, I might learn a lot about what the opponents to my viewpoints have to say.  

(By the way, I am rapidly growing to be a disciple of the school that says you call bigotry and bullying what it is.  This is something changing in me that I would have to explore.  Maybe being nearly et by a Dragon is enough to put some steel into a spine?  Or at least fragments of Dragon teeth, enough to plant a warrior?  Nah.)

All of this is to say that I was beginning to think there was something to the timeline for which I was drafted to do a Small thing.  There were signs of something big on the horizon.  I wished I’d seen them sooner to know that something big was going to try and eat me, but without thinking there was some kind of cosmic conspiracy (the only fulcrum of my life is me: the Smalls and the Gillikins and the witches and the Shadow King and the -cubi are not all part of a net of incidence) I had a feeling something was truly shifting and, well, us small practitioners kind of just needed to learn how to keep our head above the waves… how to get to metaphysically-higher ground.

“Let me try saying this a couple of different ways, Ed.  She’s a vamPIRE.  She’s a VAMpire.”  I tried to put different stresses on the syllables.  “I don’t think you’re really getting it.  VAM-PIE-er.”

“I think I heard you the first time.”

“Yes, but hearing me and understanding the problem are two different things entirely, as noted by the fact that I’m not hearing, `Oh.  Yeah, gotcha, E.  That was a dumb idea.  I’ll go give blood to Bonfils or something instead.'”

“Do you even read those books?” he asked.

“Bonfils is like the local blood center, not a series.”

“No, I know that.”  He sighed.  “I meant those books on your shelves.  You know, the ones with all the sex and the immortality and the blood all that.”

“Uh,” I paused.  “Yeah, but they’re just kind of my guilty pleasure.  I mean, not that I should be ashamed of anything I read.  I mean, really, my vampires don’t sparkle.”  I thought, remembering.  “They might glow, but no sparkle, for sure.”

“She says she wouldn’t drink my blood.”

“Maybe she has some kind of discerning appetite, then.  That doesn’t mean you don’t whip her up into some kind of frenzy and she forgets she’s a gourmet.”

“Uh.  I don’t think it’s like, `Ah, a fine type A-,’ blood sommelier thing.  I think she can’t drink my blood for some reason.”

“What, she only feeds on virgins?  Only drains the humours of your eyeballs?  I knew leaving you two in the car alone was a mistake.”  I got up and started pacing.

“Look.”  I could tell something was bothering Ed.  “It’s not like that, anyway.”

“What, you’re looking for the cheap and fast route to power?  Sure, let some kind of otherworldly parasite strip you of your soul, slowly.” I think I was even more angry than I sounded. “If you’re thinking of suicide, can I recommend some better methods?”

“Whoa, hold on!  I think I have some rights here, E.  I think I have a better idea of the stakes, if you ignore the unintentional pun, than you think.”  He was sounding pretty heated, too.  “I am not asking you for permission.  I am asking you because you might have some solid safety advice.  You are the closest thing to an expert I know.”

“And I appreciate it.  But the advice of this expert is leave the heck alone.” 

“Are you jealous?”

I stopped cold.  “What?  What the heck does that mean?”

“I know you’ve got a girl, but do you have something against me being happy?”

“No… that’s ridiculous.”  I sputtered.  “I want you to be happy.”

“Good.  That makes two of us.  And I ask because you’re completely wrong.”

“I think I am the expert you asked.”

“So.  In other news, um, E, did you ever figure out that I was gay?”

I couldn’t say anything.

“I take it from your stunned silence that you didn’t.”

“But you like girls.  I mean, really like girls.  When I went with Maggie that night you were chatting up some cute students.”  I sounded like an idiot.  “I know I sound like an idiot, but…”

“Yeah, you do,” he said, but I think it sounded like there was a smile.  “Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I can’t have friends who are, you know, female.  It’s not like it’s my whole driving concept or anything.”

“Um.  Yeah.  I guess.  Why is this conversation suddenly so weird?”  I sat back down at the table.

He laughed.  “It doesn’t need to be, I mean, I did call you up on my lunch hour and ask you about taking a vampire on a date, but you had some major assumptions, bro.”

“Is this an occasion I should send a card for or something?”

“Beer and pizza still work, but, no.  Look, nothing’s really changed, it’s just that you don’t have to worry about me putting any big moves on the vampire.  I’m not coming out to you to confess my secret love or anything.  You’re my brother, dude.   If I’m laughing it’s because I finally have something in my life you find weird.”

I had to laugh at that, too.  It eased the tension a little.  “Okay.  So.  Um.  Let me focus for a moment.  You just basically want to know if it’s cool to hang out with Matana or if she’s going to go all batty on you and freak out for your blood or whatever it is she eats.”

“I get the feeling that hanging out with a vampire is kind of like hanging out with a tiger.  They’re a really big cat, but that doesn’t mean that even if they’re laying on your lap one moment that they’re at all tame and won’t go for your throat the next.”

“Well, I don’t know about tigers, but a tame vampire is a sad and sorry beast indeed.”  I took a moment.  “Vampires aren’t sexy, Ed.”

“Hey, I don’t think witches hold any kind of particular attraction.”

“Some of them are… wait for it… enchanting.”

“Ugh.”

“Seriously, though, no, no garlic aftershave, no ultraviolet flashlights, the thing you really have to remember is that the more human they act, the better able to control themselves they are all over.  So, if she’s eating human food, she’s a lot less vampire than ones who can’t drink wine.  If she’s flashing fang, she’s piqued in some way.  That’s one thing the books have right.  If you were going to have to meet her after dark, I’d be worried.  If she’s fine in sunlight, she’s in control.  If she goes bat, she has to keep most of her mass, but she loses her clothes.  I know, it’s kind of stream-of-consciousness.  Basically, if you notice anything unusual be on your guard, but that’s kind of true of any date.  Girls or otherwise, I guess.”

“Um, E, I don’t know if you’re in any position to say how a normal date goes.”

“I had a normal date, just last ni… oh, no I can’t say that.”

“What happened?”

“Um, a planter came to life and gave me a riddle.  Oh, and the Sylvia thing.  Which I’m still trying to piece together.  But other than that, we had dinner and, um, we talked like people do.  So…”

“Like people do.”  He chuckled.

“Yeah, yeah.”  I sighed.  “I want to say this is the tail end of some of the weird stuff, but then more weird stuff just keeps on hitting me.  Did I accidentally subscribe to the real speculative fiction club and not just the book portion?”

The first thing I did was, of course, to go obsess.

Type some keywords into Google to find out how to make a simulacrum and the three main thematic topics seem to be regarding “artificial” intelligence, religion, and gaming.  (I put the word “artificial” in scare quotes because I’m one of the people who side on the opinion that intelligence is intelligence, mostly because I generally hold the idea that creation doesn’t just have to be a frothy flesh conundrum.  Of course, recent arguments against in-vitro fertilization just seem to be a new form of bigotry to me, too.  You know, we really don’t have to make anyone else in the world feel like they’re subhuman.  Unless they’re a Nazi.  Those are apparently still fair game.)

The old school version has to do with mandrake roots, calling demons, and making your homunculus sweat it out.  I don’t know all the details.  I do know that I had never seen anyone but Doloise do it with so little preparation without it being an illusion or shadow.  (A shadow is a version of you, usually fueled by something you leave behind in it… kind of avatar-like as well.  They’re hard to explain, but they make sense magically, and most things written down to “ghost activity” is related to shadows instead.  Death being a traumatic event, usually some guilt is left behind.  I’ve heard of pornographic shadows, too, but I’m trying to get rid of the -cubi influence.)

I stopped reading for a moment and tried to think through it.    Out came the notepad and pen.

1.  I did not want to make Rohana unhappy.

This was important.  I circled it and then underlined it a couple of times.

1-Counter: I was in potential danger.

Alright, that seemed fair enough.  Presuming she didn’t want me to be hurt, and that would make both of us unhappy, I had my reason for pursuing this.    How was I in danger?  I would have to explain that.  Well, because a Small thing told me so.  Kind of like hearing it from a Little bird.

Could I trust that Small sense? I had a Little feeling, sure, but that’s easy enough to produce an illusion for, I guess.  (Subtle, though.)  (I’d have to suggest that for my secondary character when my GM got back into town.)  (“I’d like to give them the feeling that this was the right way to go, the right thing to do.”)

2. Do not refer to this as “the Clone Wars.”

I knew as soon as I typed that in that it would be stuck in my head that way.  There may be things in life that don’t make Star Wars references, but I was probably unfamiliar with them.  Maybe some kind of naval reference? No, they have ships. Dog training? Hah!  Refrigeration repair?  Locksmithing?

(“Lovely bit of clerk.”)

So, it was at least posited by Master Small that my simulacrum turned into a host for the Shadow King.   I remember that Doloise had dismissed it when we got back from the haunted house, but I had been practically sick with fatigue at that point.  I just knew it wasn’t around after she did something with it, but she could have turned it into a pancake flipper and I would have maybe grunted, “Neat.”   Besides, it implied far more concern with cause and effect than I had any reason to believe Doloise had at that point.

3. Doloise had grown.

That wasn’t on the list of things I had to consider, was it?  I mean, with what she was, I don’t think considering her as an individual was entirely fair, but I had seen change.

I typed the words, “I think she died free,” and then erased everything.  That hadn’t been my real focus, after all.

Fine.  Let’s go back a step.  Who were the players?

There was the Witch War.  I was reluctantly forced to say I was involved just because I knew some of the witches, but I was going to stay out of it as much as possible.  If they started calling up things from Beyond, I was kicking doors closed whenever and wherever needed.  Well, needed and if I could find them.  That meant the Shadow King and the Messenger were involved.  Fine.  They had some kind of deal and until I could get rid of the karmic vulture or whatnot (I’d heard of dogma, but that was man’s best friend) I was stuck worrying about the Shadow King’s propensity to be near me and mine.

Oh, and Peredur wanted something from me.  He wanted to make me a wizard, as far as I could guess.  He wanted to change me, and that was enough.  I didn’t know why he would meddle, but I got his attention.  This wasn’t anything about Naul or the Red Poets, I was pretty sure.  And I was supposed to come up with a good Small favor.

The phrase caused me to snort in laughter.

The phone rang.  It was Ed.

“Hey-a,” I answered.

“I’m on lunch.  Why did you have the police call and interrogate me?”

“Is it lunch already? I needed to prove I was where I said I was.”

“And you were. It was weird.  I’ve talked to cops before, and this was like talking to robots.  I mean, I thought it was only the FBI that did not have a sense of humor, at least according to Men in Black.”

“Or simulacra.”

“Isn’t that a kind of baby formula?”

“Uh, no.”  I had a wild Soylent Green thought for a moment, and then shook my head.  “Means clones. They beat you up verbally or anything?”

“Nah, ‘sall good.  Asked if you were abusive and hated women.”

“You told them `Yes,’ right?”

“Of course I did.  You’re practically Jack the Ripper.”

“If I told you that they killed Sylvia, only it wasn’t really her, but a clone, what would you think?”

“I’d think that the stress had finally done you in,” he said after a moment.  “Sylvia?  Is that who it was about?”

“Uh.  Yeah.  They never mentioned her?”

“She’s dead?”

“That’s under investigation.”

“You move fast.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d seen me in the hospital?”

“Oh.  That.  Well…”

“Yeah, that.”

“I didn’t want to make you feel bad.  I know, it’s dumb, but there hadn’t been anything I could do except fill out some forms.”  He sighed.  “So I told them if you’d turned for the worst to call, but Maggie was there giving me the frigid shoulder.  I told them to stop trying to call your mom.”

“Thanks,” I said.  “I’ll need your side of the story, sometime.”

“Hey.  That reminds me.  What do I need to know about dating Matana?”

“She’s a vampire.”

“Yeah.  Do I wear a garlic aftershave?”

“She’s a vampire.”

“Got that.  It’s not a date-date, it’s a scientific lecture thing.  Crosses?  Silver?”

“She’s a vampire.”

“Obsess much, E?”

Far be it for me to ignore advice from something not quite as tall as my knee.  I can’t read omens, but there are definitely times where it makes sense to do that thing where you lose a yard or two just so you can punt the ball ahead.  Hey, I was a nerd – I don’t have to know football terms.  (Oh, I’ll watch the local team, but the last few years have been hard on the old enthusiasm glands.  If they are, indeed, glands.  I know I have a bejeebus reservoir for moments the bejeebus might be scared out of me, so why can’t I have enthusiasm glands? 

This may be why I failed anatomy.  I’m not that kind of doctor.)

So, before I fonged the ball into enemy territory, I did a little more picking up, stripped to my boxers, grabbed a couple of the graphic novels I had been accumulating, and headed to bed.  I thought about checking my e-mail and bank account and all that, but I knew if I started noodling on the computer I would stay up too late, and really, I wanted to earn my +2 hat of “Sleep before Midnight.” 

It made sense at the time, which showed you just how tired I was.  I did make a dent in my pile before I fell asleep on a glossy page.   I might not keep them in “collector’s condition,” but at least I don’t drool on them, right?

Somewhere in the night, I was moved gently off the book, and a blanket was moved over my shoulders.  I heard a couple of various audio “alarm on” references, and then something very sweet and warm snuggled up against me.  I had enough consciousness to think, “I hope it isn’t Peredur,” before sleep embraced me like it was a threesome.

I guess.  I just wanted to use the phrase while no one could hear me think it.

I woke up uncommonly late, with my bladder complaining bitterly.  Truly, I hate to think it’s that sullen on a regular basis.  I really had no choice but to mollify it, which indicates that I am willing to be taken hostage by my bodily functions.  I didn’t think it was a good precedent, but sometimes civilization has a point by not letting you pee on the bed.  Or onto the floor.

I didn’t want to move as Rohana had an arm slung across me, and I was afraid moving would disturb her.  Of course, apparently my waking had inspired similar things in her, so in lieu of breaking some kind of dating urine code I slid as smoothly as I could off the bed and dashed into the bathroom.  You know, when you’ve gotta go…

A few minutes later, able to concentrate on something else than irate body parts, I returned to find that Rohana had stolen the sheets and half the blanket and all of the pillows.  Her hair was splayed behind her, dark in the little bit of light that came from the blinds over the window.

I probably spent too long just looking at her.  She fit there, in the bed.  I realized that as soon as I thought that I was doomed.

“Are you just going to look,” she mumbled from under the pillows, “or are you coming back in?”

“You have all the sheets.”

“There’s a solution for that,” she said, rolling onto her back.

If some alien observer had come in and watched what we did as art, I imagined that they would notice all the interplay between light and darkness as indicated by the sheet.  We wrestled for it at first, a linen umbilical of sorts between us.  It went over her head, and then mine, twisted and then taut, wrinkled and then puffed up by air and wafting gently down to coat curves and straight lines both with painted shadows.  

I won’t say it did or did not get messy, but it did get thrown into the laundry hamper before Ro went off and took a shower.  I made breakfast for us, and we ate in-between giggles, occasional ribald gestures and companionable silence.

“I don’t want to leave, but I do need to get back home,” she sighed.

“When shall we two meet again?” I asked, with a grin.  I knew anything else I put forward would sound terribly whiny, and I didn’t want to pressure her.

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be around,” she said, grinning right back.  “The only question is whether or not I’ll have to knock.  You know, you might be entertaining witches or something.”

I rolled my eyes.   “I am on the witch wagon.”

“Wagon?  I thought they used broomsticks.”

“Well, I thought ‘stake,’ but then thought it was terribly tasteless.”

“You should never have a tasteless steak,” she agreed. 

“Well, I agree that they should be rare,” I offered.

She snorted.  “I don’t think I needed a medium to predict that.  So, what about Dragons?  Sleeping with any that might get jealous?”

“Do I look like a princess?” I scoffed.

“No vampires, no things that go bump in the night, no elves, no aliens, no coeds?” she giggled.

“No wonder it’s dark,” I rolled my eyes.  “What, you think I’m some kind of monk?”

“You’d be helpful around the house that way.”

“You need a eunuch?” I asked, surprised.  “You don’t live in a harem, do you?”

“Nah, just a proactive housekeeper.  Monk he see…” she winked as she trailed off.

I let out a chortle.  “Monk, he do.  Yep.  Got me.”  I stood up and stretched for a moment, then offered her a hand up.  “No, although a little fellow told me that Sylvie may still be in the picture.”

Rohana looked at me for a moment and I couldn’t read her expression.  “E, I saw her.”

“I know.  And I know it sounds crazy.”

“It sounds like you were more involved than you’re letting me know,” she said.

“It’s not… no.”  I shook my head.  “It’s weird.  I’ll let it go.”

“It’s a clone thing, right?” she smiled.

“Uh.”  I shook my finger at her.  “I said I’d let it go.  No tricking me.”

She giggled and kissed me.  “I don’t believe you, but I’ll give it a chance,” she said. 

She gathered up her alarms and purse and left.  The apartment seemed a little empty without her, but I was still smiling from the kiss.  I liked her.

Oh dear.  I was definitely doomed.

I have often wondered idly about the role of genetics in magic.  I have a lot of theories, but it’s not like I can manipulate time long enough to view it, and the few who I know who could live or have lived that long won’t be able to give me a straight answer.  Really, I think that even if they speak my language (and it’s really convenient how many can) they live in fear of some kind of giant ruler of knuckle-whapping that comes down on them if they even answer a “Yes/No” question without a twist.  Wielded by a cosmic nun, of course.  (Don’t ask about Dark Matter.)

I mean, I could take all the great things the Small thing was saying at face value, but that would be dangerous.

The fey are aliens. Honestly, I’ve read a ton of urban fantasy that goes on about how long those things on the Outside have lived in comparison to the short recording span of humanity.  I don’t believe it.  For one thing, I know from experience that for the things Beyond to come into what I think of as Reality they have some translation to be done — some synchronization to my universe.  The vampires do it by parasitic attachment to existing members of the Reality club.  What the Small one said about adapting to our dreams was very telling.  Power changes not just the world around us, but the worlds Beyond, which is why I’m not sure where it begins.

See, the general assumption is that Power, whatever its source, is some kind of recessive gene, and if you get two powerful types they come up with Power Junior.  I don’t really see it working like that.  Another school of thought says that Power is available to everyone with Will (thanks, Mr. Crowley) but it takes training to manipulate beyond the basic little things everyone seems able to do (like hitting all red lights.  You do that to yourself, you know.)  I’m a little better with that.  I’ve heard the “some people have more access to the untapped potential of their own minds,” and because that whole 90% of your brain theory is hogwash, doesn’t mean all of that needs to be thrown out.  After all, not all of us even strive to reach our full potential, and there seems to be some magic in that.

I can’t even tell you how I close Doors.  There just are no words for it.  If I could project the feeling I would, but even that changes.  Sometimes it’s just relief like being able to pee after holding it for an hour longer than you thought you should.  Sometimes it’s like buttoning something just below the inside of your ribcage, only completely not physical.  Sometimes I just know I have to wave my hands, and once I had to hum, and it’s all kind of based on gut instinct crossed with little urgings I hope are my talents talking to me and not just some cruel masochistic streak.  Since I get results, I’m good with looking like a crazy fool.

And this kind of stuff shows up in a family tree.  It’s all those stories of the weird cousin that I think got the whole “seventh son of a seventh son” kind of rule.  The black sheep of the family is usually the wizard.   And while I have suspicions about Gran, I don’t have anything solid.

And my sister, if she has any special powers, they’re certainly not being used for Good.  Twenty-some years later, and I still hold it against her when she blamed me for stealing the brownies in the refrigerator.  I make a point of bringing some to every Family gathering, just so she, “has enough.” …and she does the same for me.

Of course, the word, “chosen” when he spoke of my magic indicated that there was something with sentience involved.  Peredur had chosen me for something, that was sure, and I noticed how the Small had weaseled out of explaining the situation.

“See me clearly, and I speak crystal,” he said.

“Does not compute,” I retorted.  “Why three messengers?”

“Each bears a puzzle with a solution to guard or guide,” he shrugged.

“Synchronization into your world, in other words?” I guessed.

“You bear a mark which could prove incompatible.  By whose design, do you wonder?”

“Do you know, or are you just asking me to ask the questions?”  I retorted.

“You cast a wide net, but sometimes the answers are minnows.”  He smiled.

“I don’t like fishing.  Too many things I could be doing instead of waiting on a smelly lake for some fish to decide my bait’s worth the potential trap.”  I shrugged.  “I think too much, but that doesn’t mean I’m dangerous.”

“Why would Dragons use illusions in their currency?” he asked me.

“When they can bite out chunks of Reality instead?  You’re asking the wrong guy.  I just figured out what I could do to trap them.”

“Did you go too far, or not far enough?” he asked me.

My mouth felt dry.  “I didn’t kill her.”

“How do you destroy a legend?” he asked.

“Doloise was a new story,” I said.  “Artur, he had echoes of old stories, but he too was fairly new.  Ivan.  Ivan I think had old stories written all over him.  If he wanted me dead, I’d just keel over, and no one would know the difference.”

“An Ivan, a Jack, a Puck, names of power, perhaps?  What about an E?”

“I’m trying to at least leave it a capital letter in my world,” I smiled.  “Are you the second messenger?”

“No, but I’m a member of the family.”  He jumped down.  “Now, I’ve told you everything I can tell you freely.”

“Does that mean you could teach me but you’d have to charge?”  I couldn’t resist.    The elf didn’t get the reference.  “Hey, just because I’m bright doesn’t mean I’m not dense.  Astronomy taught me that.”

“The stars have their own answers, but they read from a much older book.  Goodnight, E.  Get some rest before your lady returns.”  He turned the corner around the bookshelf and disappeared.

It was amazing how easy it was to ignore him as I opened the box.

I can’t tell you what was in the box, of course.  The chefs probably had some kind of illicit portal to heaven that they sliced thin and then drizzled a devilishly rich sauce on to hide their theft from the angels.  Or maybe the angels were in on it, bored of ambrosia and baklava (if such a thing is possible.)  (Maybe Uriel is allergic to nuts.  That would explain a few things.)

I mean, I am just listening to the lies my tastebuds told me.  I’m innocent, man, just the force of delivery.

Rent-a-Wreck stared at me for a while as if trying to get me to talk through the sheer force of his presence.  Then he started muttering in what was probably some kind of ancient fey language, except for the bit about my mother being an aardvark.  (She wasn’t, but I figured that to be self evident.)  Instead, he went strolling across my bookshelves, kicking the occasional mass-market paperback as if he had opinions.

When I sat back with a satisfied sigh, he looked at me again, giving me what was likely a pure 1960s Spockian Eyebrow.

“Hey, you’re the one who shows up unexpected and uninvited,” I said, putting my hands up in the air.  I felt too good to argue, so I surrendered from the first.

“I am not uninvited.  You accepted the mission.  I am certainly part of it.”  He actually crossed his arms and glared at me.

“Wow, is the mission how to banish you forever?” I asked, sounding at least mock-enthused.

“I have not even begun to annoy you,” he frowned.

“Are you going to read my Spider-man graphic novels and then spoil the endings?” I asked.

He shook his head and looked confused.

“Are you going to paint my nose in egg whites while I sleep?”

He shook his head again.

“Are you going to kill my potential girlfriend?” I snarled that one, but I managed to not make it a full yell.

“No!  No, that is why I’ve arrived!” he responded.

“Then talk,” I slammed the spoon down on the counter.  It made enough of a noise that I had to keep myself from jumping.  He flinched.

“You have not used the stone,” he said.

“Darn right I haven’t.  I have no idea what I’m supposed to use it for.  Do I break it and six fairy godmothers come in some kind of Bollywood moment and take me away to Calgon world?  Do I eat it?  Do I stuff it in the mouth of a Dragon and faint until I’m back home?  Because that’s what happened to the last fairy gift I got.”

“Whoa.  Whoa.”  He put his hands out and shook his head.  “Maybe you shouldn’t have sugar before bed or something.  Infinity within, infinity without, but the rock is our promise.  We can… we can do something for you.”

“That almost sounded like a straight answer,” I growled.  “All I have to do is let you pull some kind of Morden, `What do you want?’ scene and be held to you forever.  Maybe I want a little less weird in my life?  Maybe I want to have a girlfriend, a normal, non-witchy girlfriend, and a chance to read my trade paperbacks, and maybe even catch a movie.”

“Self pity is a terrible color on you,” Rent-a-Wreck said.

“It’s not self pity.  I am not a freakin’ wizard!”

“Shhhh!  You will scare the neighbors.”  Rent-a-Wreck sat on the shelf near the Stephen King books my sister sent me.

“Like the firetrucks and the dead woman didn’t freak them out enough?” I fumed.

“Mortals have a fabulous ability to veil themselves from reality, and I expect they are weaving their blinders of rationale as we speak.  Sit down.”  His voice filled with power for a moment, and I found myself sitting where I hadn’t realized I was standing and yelling at the small man on my bookshelf.

The Small King.

Oh.

Duh.

“I am sorry, your majesty.”

“Hah!”  He laughed.  “And I am sorry that you are incorrect.”

I gave him my best Spockian Eyebrow reply.

“You are a Small Wizard, but a wizard nevertheless.”

I swore.

“Nevertheless, I said.  Peredur has great hopes for you, but I don’t expect you enjoy being a Dragon’s pawn.”

“I never understood the wizard-Dragon relationship.  I thought the world Beyond thought I was more of a George than a Merlin.”

He cackled.  “And I am not the Seven King, but that is neither here, but only there.”

“You’re not the Seven King here, but you might be where you… are?” I tried.

“Precisely, and yet completely incorrect.  The first messenger explained in part.  I expect you shall weather the weather just fine, but can you be in lien or on loan alone?”

“I don’t–”

He cut me off, and there was the faintest hint of majesty to it.  “Test your own mettle.  You had a simulacrum made.  Where is it now?”

I was horrified at the thought.  “The Shadow King…”

“Ah yes, but just as you say you are not a wizard, he can only be so much you.”  His manner had changed, and I saw less of the little green elf and more something perfectly comfortable with the world outside, a master of it, provided that world was about four feet shorter than the one I knew.

“Wait.” I thought quickly.  “Can I use that?”

“No.  You are not a wizard.  A wizard could, perhaps, throw a Shadow of the Shadow in the way.  You can only close doorways.”

I was disappointed.  I had had the inklings of a plan.  An idea.

“Do not look so glum, E, my good fellow.  You are not a wizard… but you know of at least a few places to find them.”

“And I am owed a favor in advance, is that it?”

“I am not a wizard, either.  So let us talk of your dead friend.  Perhaps Peredur’s beloved is not the only one to build simulacrums.”

“Sylvie’s alive?”  I felt something tight in my chest give way, and I felt suddenly far more tired than I had any expectation to be.

“And your Rohana is more of a witch than either of you think.  She is, however, not of the lineage that has drawn to you.   Think of this as a trap that you have escaped.”

I frowned.  “You don’t have to pay the deductible.”

“Hah!  A handful of leaves and twigs may have their electronic counterparts.  We do not go away just because your dreams have changed their venue.”  He smiled a little.  “Not any of us are what we seem today.  Tomorrow, we again become something of what we always were.”

“That’s the kind of philosophy I expect from a self-help seminar.”

“Your dreams do not run on calendars and fountain pens.”  He shrugged.  “You complain at the same time that you want something different.  That you do not want the wills of those in the worlds intersecting and overlapping to present to you.  Do you ever wonder how you were chosen for this particular magic?”

“If you say that my sister is a hidden Jedi, I will squish you,” I said, but I was smiling.