Forest Moon Rising

Table of Contents

 

 

P. R. FROST’S

Tess Noncoiré Novels:
HOUNDING THE MOON
MOON IN THE MIRROR
FAERY MOON
FOREST MOON RISING

Copyright © 2011 by Phyllis Irene Radford.

All Rights Reserved.

 

 

DAW Book Collectors No. 1536.

 

DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

 

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

 

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First Printing, February 2011

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-47851-6

This book is dedicated to the armies of volunteers and professional foresters who work very hard at maintaining the treasure of green spaces in urban areas everywhere.

A lot of a writer’s time is spent in isolation; our minds engaged in a fictional world, our thoughts shaped by the imaginary characters, and the impossible demands we put upon them. But no book is totally created in solitude. We need to come up for air upon occasion and take inspiration from reality (no matter how you define it), and from the people around us who graciously allow us time alone, the right to be cranky when the plot ties itself in knots, and rejoice with us when all the puzzle pieces fall into place.

So I must give hearty thanks to Tim Karr, my beloved husband of forty years. Without you I couldn’t do any of this or be a complete person. My brainstorm crew of Deborah Dixon, Lea Day, Sara Mueller, Jessica Groeller, Lizzy Shannon, Maggie Bonham, Bob Brown, and Big Brother Ed deserve more thanks than just a mention here. These are also my first readers. They help lever my wandering prose into a story that is actually readable.

The lovely filk song “Heart’s Path” by Chris Dickenson is printed here with her kind permission. A recording is available on the “Harmony Heifers” CD produced by Mystic Fig Studios, available at
www.mysticfig.com
or CD Baby.

Many years ago, ElizaBeth Gilligan and I sat in a filk circle at Orycon and crooned “Where Are All The Aliens.” I thank her for the loan of the lyrics we compiled together.

And I can’t forget Sheila Gilbert, editor extraordinaire, the best in the business.

“T
ESS NONCOIRÉ, Warrior of the Celestial Blade, you really don’t want to do this,” Scrap whispered.

In the chat room—that big, white, blank space between the dimensions with portals to all of them—my interdimensional imp had substance and size. He no longer fit on my shoulder or on top of my head. So he stood beside me. His potbelly looked thinner than usual and his bandy legs stronger—we’d been working too hard. A lovely scattering of warts decorated his chest and his bum. His tattered wings stretched from above his head to his heels. They fluttered in agitation.

His normally gray-green skin flashed between yellow and pink. He was scared and we were in danger.

I knew that. I was as scared as he. Maybe more so.

My scar, which ran from right temple to jaw, pulsed and burned, a clear warning that I needed to either fight my way clear or flee. Rapidly.

I couldn’t accept either option.

“If this is such a bad idea, why’d you bring me this far?” I asked, trying to keep my teeth from chattering.

“I brought you here to scare you into going home.” Scrap’s actual voice came through deeper than his normal telepathic communications.

I caught sight of the demons on guard duty in the distance. Their bright blue, stacked-tire bodies with pink feather ruffs at neck, wrists, and ankles loomed larger with each giant stride toward us. Think the Michelin man decked out for an Easter parade.

“B’Cartlins,” Scrap whispered. “Their stupidity makes them more dangerous than their size. They need everything repeated six times before they understand.”

“I think I want to hide.” No shadows presented themselves in the limitless white. The B’Cartlins grew by the heartbeat as they approached. Without a thought, either of them could squash us to unidentified road pizza.

“No trespassing in the chat room,” one of them boomed. Demons took seriously their duty to keep everyone in their home dimension.

I covered my ears against the cannon roar of sound.

“Imps go anywhere, anywhen,” Scrap announced to them with authority and dignity.

“No imps outside Imp Haven. Those are the rules,” they both repeated by rote.

Full blood, or Midori, demons aren’t terribly bright.

“If we stay very quiet, maybe they’ll forget we’re here,” I said quietly.

If we needed to remain quiet, why were we talking? It was either that or run away and leave this essential errand unfinished.

“I have to do this, Scrap.”

“I know. This is going to cost me some warts. I worked hard to earn these!” He heaved a sigh that might provoke a hurricane. “You couldn’t wait for backup?” He produced a black cherry cheroot out of nowhere and lit it from a flamelet atop his thumb.

“I don’t have backup anymore.”

“What about more information?”

“I dismissed my archivist.” I would not think about Guilford Van der Hoyden-Smythe, PhD. I would not. I had to cut Gollum out of my life and my heart.

I did not like where this conversation was leading. So I took a couple of steps toward where I thought the proper portal should be.

Scrap grabbed my arm and steered me in the opposite direction. My frail human flesh began bruising beneath his solid, unrelenting grip.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” I asked, trying to peel his talons off my forearm.

“Unfortunately, I am.” He led me at a ninety-degree angle to the guardian demons.

The burning along my scar flared higher. The B’Cartlins were the least of my problems.

In the blink of an eye, an elegant brass door with stained glass panels to either side loomed before us. It just showed up to block our way. No dark spot in the distance that grew larger as we approached. One minute nothing but white stretching on forever, misting to more white to hide corners and angles where floor or ceiling met wall. The next heartbeat the door became a solid barrier.

Or a chance at salvation.

A blob of mottled bile green and sulfurous yellow flesh pooled across the entrance, sort of growing out of the white on white.

“You know there’s a reason Donovan told you that few beings who faced the Powers That Be have survived the encounter, and never a human,” Scrap grumbled, eyeing the blob between the door and us.

“I can’t trust anything the former gargoyle says. He betrayed his calling and his creation. For that he doesn’t deserve to raise his daughter Lilly. He lies as easily as he breathes.”

“He didn’t lie about this.”

“Then we’ll just have to make sure we get what we want before they execute us.”

“Today is a good day to die.”

“As good as any,” I replied, not sure I believed my own lies.

The blob stirred, raised a bulbous head with two intelligent eyes and a parrot beak. At least eight legs stretched outward, flicking their tips.