Forest Moon Rising (42 page)

A couple, way back at the end of the prepaid registration line, have a fat tabby cat in a canvas-and-mesh shoulder bag. Cats are evil. I don’t know which dimension spawned them, but they don’t belong in this one any more than the full-blooded Windago Tess and I fought a couple of years ago. But cats are everywhere. This overweight antique shouldn’t hinder my movements though.

I can do all these normal things. But I cannot pop into the chat room or get out of Tess’ line of sight.

So I find a perch in a ficus tree that’s trying to pretty up an overflowing trash can—some great mold in the can—and watch.

I’m good at watching and noticing things that don’t fit patterns. Demons can mask themselves, but they can’t hide forever. Sooner or later they will do something outside the pattern and I’ll see it.

This means I can’t keep an eye on E.T. and Phonetia in the gaming rooms. I can’t monitor the con as a whole.

Maybe I need some help. That parrot has potential. The pug, too; she’s crazy enough to chew through her leash and run around yapping at everything outside her limited experience, including demons. But I’ll never enlist that damned cat to our cause.

I
LED MY TROUPE AROUND the domed courtyard at the center of the hotel. A paved path encircled the area, lighted by the multiple triangles of lightly tinted glass four stories above. Graveled paths wandered through small landscaped mounds with fanciful fountains and park benches. Tasteful groupings of roses dotted the gardens. Portland was known for its plentiful and award winning roses. At the very center of the lobby a bevy of volunteers set up the weapons demonstrations on a raised cement slab that could serve double duty for small concerts and filking. An array of boffer weapons, specially designed with cushy balls on the ends of arrows or padded PVC tubing in place of swords, lay stacked untidily all around.

I explained to Sean about the arena. “No one gets inside the circle without a helmet and padded gloves. The only people allowed to wield real weapons—and only if they’ve been foiled—are armored historical re-creationists.”

“Good idea. If I wanted to spend my weekend patching up people I’d have stayed at work.”

We took a side corridor to a ground floor suite with sliding glass doors that opened onto the indoor pool. Guests of the con, professional writers, costumers, and other panelists or presenters gathered in the Green Room for snacks, networking, consulting with the con volunteers on scheduling, and just a resting place away from the nonsense of the rest of the events.

We went through the drill of introductions once more. Volunteers gave me my badge and printed schedule and then had to hunt for Sean’s. I’d listed him as my guest when I filled out the forms on-line. As usual, someone’s badge always got lost in the melee.

While they searched, I turned away and showed the girls how to find the schedule in their pocket program, making sure they read the modern words correctly—they excelled at convoluted classical sentence structure but still struggled with modern abbreviations. And glory be, the program actually matched the duplicates on the back of my badge and on my table tent, the folded piece of card stock with my name printed in two-inch high letters. With all that duplication, you’d think that authors tended to get spacey and forget.

Well, duh. I’ve had idea attacks that completely removed me from reality for days on end until the story or chapter was committed to words.

The girls scampered away, eager to begin gaming again. Thank goodness I hadn’t had time to show them computer games and on-line groups. They’d never surface again.

I checked my telepathic link with them and knew precisely where they’d stopped in the courtyard to study the hotel map and find the gaming room they wanted.

“Oh, Tess, I need to tell you there’s a last minute addition to your three o’clock on folklore. An anthropology professor from McLoughlin College agreed to join us,” the volunteer called to me. “He’s going to be quite an asset on a number of panels, and he’s going to do a slide show on Saturday afternoon on the anthropology of dragons.”

“I’ve met Dr. Van der Hoyden-Smythe. He puts on quite a show.” I grew hot all over. At the same time a chill began eating at my fingertips and toes.

“Let’s go get a cup of coffee.” Sean steered me toward the door.

“We have coffee and hot water for tea, and a few snacks,” the volunteer added hopefully.

I glanced toward the buffet table at the far end of the suite. Already half a dozen authors crowded around the free food. During the early years of my con life I’d lived exclusively on the free food. The only way I could afford the con was to crash on the floor of someone else’s room and stuff myself on the free snacks.

“Oh, and your daughters might like to know that the owner of Halfling Games has joined our guest list too,” the volunteer added.

Now I really did need to sit down. Rather than an opportunity to reconnect with the writing and fan community, this was turning into a convention of my exes.

“Now all I need is for Lady Lucia to show up.”

Don’t look now, babe, but her pearl gray limo just pulled into the porte cochere.
Scrap nearly chortled with glee.
And she brought the kidlet, complete with stroller and diaper bag!

“I guess she couldn’t find a new nanny. Let’s go to the coffee shop, Sean. I think I’m going to need more fortification than just snacks.” Then sotto voce I said, “Scrap, start loading up on mold now. You’re going to need it.”

Can’t I play with Sophia first?

Lucy and Sophia have taken over a banquette in the back corner of the garden café. She has a name badge discreetly clipped to the waistband of her ankle-length, pencil slim, slit to the thigh, hot pink skirt. Only a long strand of black pearls adorns her tight black blouse with ruffles at neck and cuff. Her badge has a KIT sticker on it. That’s Kid-In-Tow, so people know that the kidlet with a matching sticker belongs to her. Sophia’s badge hangs from the hem of her frilly black skirt. Her hot pink tights and knit top are wrinkled and just a bit saggy, as if she’s rearranged her clothing trying to get out of Mom’s clutches.

Dr. Sean and Tess have taken a table across the café. The buffet and some more dusty ficus trees block the path between Lady Lucia and them. They don’t seem to notice each other. But I can see both.

So I alight on the lady’s table and waggle my boa in her face until she notices me. She pretends not to. But she has just enough demon blood in her to make me almost visible to her.

“Hey, crime boss lady, I can keep an eye on Sophia. Let her run a bit.”

Lady Lucia sighs, almost in relief. “I’ve hired and fired three nannies in as many weeks. I don’t know what I’m going to do until Tess agrees to our little arrangement.”

“Let me baby-sit a bit. I’m good at it. Really, really good at it. Just ask Tess how good I keep an eye on E.T. and Phonetia.”

“Okay. But just for a minute to let Sophia stretch her legs.” She lifts the toddler out of her high chair and sets her on her feet.

The little girl squeals in delight, balances briefly—I can actually see her thinking about taking a step—then plops to her bottom. She rolls to her knees and hits the floor crawling. I have my work cut out for me, herding her in circles that don’t intersect Tess’ line of sight. Tess needs to concentrate on whatever is hanging around the con that keeps me within her line of sight, not longing over the baby coming our way.

Sophia and I have fun!

And Lady Lucia smiles fondly at our antics.

“All that cholesterol is going to clog your arteries,” Sean said with distaste as I polished off the last of my hot turkey sandwich with gravy and mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and steamed mixed vegetables. I’d also had a salad with Italian dressing. Now I was eyeing the desert menu.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Scrap playing hide and seek with a laughing toddler. He was doing a good job of staying between me and the little girl. But he is transparent. Sophia was probably the most beautiful child I’d ever seen.

And if I played my cards right, in a few days she’d be
mine
. I think I paid more attention to Scrap and the baby than to Sean.

As soon as I recognized Sophia, I spotted her mother in the back corner. Okay. The vampire crime boss of Las Vegas wanted to watch from the shadows, observe my lifestyle to see if she still approved of me. I’d let her. For a while. Until I figured out why all the remnants of my Scooby gang gathered here this weekend.

Did I ever say that I don’t believe in coincidences?

“I’ll worry about too much fat, salt, and sugar later. The imp flu supercharged my metabolism. Let’s get to the dealers’ room before the big crowds show up.” I pushed back from the table, my appetite barely satisfied.

“Will they all be set up?” Sean took the bill to the cash register and once more presented his credit card. On our few and too brief dates he’d paid cash. Must be close to the end of the pay period for him. I’d have thought he made enough money not to run low on cash.

“The dealers set up last night or early this morning,” I replied, seeking the proper escalator to the ballrooms on the mezzanine. The one rising behind the cash register should dump us right in front of the section designated for dealers. It also passed right above Lady Lucia. I’d be able to scout her unobtrusively.

“You only have an hour and a half before your first panel,” Sean said, consulting his pocket program. “
Thinking outside the Celtic Box: folklore of other lands in SF/F literature
. Sounds a bit boring.”

“Just wait and see. Fans get a bit passionate about their favorites. Even the most boring topic can turn into a verbal brawl. Depends on the people on the panel.” I took his arm and nearly pulled him onto the first riser on the escalator.

“You and this professor person seem to agree a lot.”

“But we don’t have to on a panel. He’ll probably quote some obscure African myth and I’ll counter with American Indian. The young adult writer will throw in something Japanese; the audience will say something about validating the cultural heritage of the majority of Americans—usually of British descent. Or Irish,” I chided him. “Then we’re off and running. But in the end we’ll all agree that a story should hold a universal truth. That’s what folklore and myth do. Sometimes I think modern SF/F writers are creating the new myths and folklore for our multicultural world that no longer anchors itself in a single past or ethnic bond.”

New energy and enthusiasm countered the heaviness of my meal. I really loved a good con. Next year I could bring Sophia with me.

Three dozen dealers had opened for business. A few still arranged stock on their tables, but they were all ready and willing to take our money.