San Francisco, California

Mon petit reynard.  The sorcerer had called him that long, long ago in the mists.

Ewan paused, shaking the ash from the burning stalk of his cigarette and watching as the tip glowed red-hot in the darkness.  He leaned against the dock's protective railing.  From across the Bay, lights glittered and danced.  With eyesight far keener than most, he saw the garish lighting of advertisements, the multi-spotted glow of high-rises.  He could practically feel the thrum of music through the pavement courtesy of a few nearby dives.  His nose twitched, catching the ghost of a million scents on the wind.  Ewan was completely and physically aware of the thrum of life around him yet he could hardly have been more removed.  He had the strange, heady feeling of double vision.  Or rather, double senses. He saw San Francisco, the Golden Gate, all the people around him; overlaying it was mist and marshy granite.  No face in this crowd of younglings filled his vision as much as the memory of another.  Those smooth, nearly asexual features.  Features on a ...a... creature that should never have existed.  Rasping car engines and the harsh, distasteful odor of gasoline and smog became confused.  Lost even as the clinging, sickly sweet aroma of crushed herbs, specifically lavender and clove, intruded into reality.  And that voice...

Ewan gripped the railing, leaning forward and hoping the sensation of touch would banish that sultry, honeyed voice.  It never did though.  That voice would ring in his ears until the last days.

Mon petit reynard, each word had been almost a physical caress.  What a merry chase you've led me.  You're almost ready, my little princeling. Yes, my little prince of foxes.  I'll let you run a little longer--

Watching tendrils of smoke billow and wisp, Ewan took another long, almost savage drag.  The acrid, bitter taste of nicotine filled him.  He coughed, lungs rebelling against the filth he sought to drown them in.  Damned nasty things, cigarettes, he thought, viewing the smoking stump with equal parts longing and distaste.  Still, they took the edge off the nervous tension rifling through him.  The knife-edge of potential he felt hanging in the air like the proverbial sword of Damocles.

With a negligent flick of the wrist, he tossed the remains of the cigarette, grounding it to nothing with the toe of his shoe.  He was walking away before he even realized it.  The urge to prowl was strong with him tonight.  Had there been a full moon, Ewan might have written off as some odd impulse caused by that.  After all, there was no denying the strange power the moon held over animals, humans in particular.  It was an effect he was doubly aware of.

But there was no moon tonight.  And that worried him.  Moon-dark was not a safe time; if there was any such animal as a safe time.  Moon-dark, however, fell about as far away from any safety parameters as you could get.  It was a time of strange forces. Dark flushes that any sensitive worth his salt avoided.  Besides, it was their time.  The Old Ones. 

Tread warily, if at all, on the nights encompassing the new moon.

So why am I here? he asked himself.  Ewan liked to think he had some common sense, but right now, he was beginning to question that.  Why had he come here?  Why had he obeyed those impulses that had compelled him to run hundreds of miles without rest from the concrete and otherwise jungles of Los Angeles to this more sedate glen of 'Frisco?  And what were those impulses?  What were they trying to tell him?  Why were they having such an irresistible sway over him?

For these and other questions...  He didn't bother to finish the thought.  With any luck, whatever madness he was suffering from tonight would be banished by the morrow's light.  He wanted to be miles from this place, this feeling of dread settling over him.  Perhaps he would run up to Oregon tomorrow.  It had been a time since he had roamed a natural stretch of wilderness.  Besides, he had a hankering for a big, fat old rabbit.  His stomach grumbled.  Ewan sighed.  And I thought I had problems before.  Where the hell am I supposed to find a rabbit, here and at this time of night?

II        

Small piercing blue eyes stared soulfully into hers.

God, how was it possible for one man to be so fine?  Claire sighed, reaching for the bowl on her night stand, never once moving her gaze.  Oblong, smooth rectangles met her touch.  She reached in deeper, removing one.  She pondered the possibilities before lowering her gaze.

A grape Jolly Rancher.  There was a God.  She smiled blissfully.

"It's just you and me and Mr. Jolly Rancher tonight, Ralph," she purred, addressing the poster above her head.  "And what with it being grape and all, this could be fate." 

Claire contemplated the poster above her, an 18 x 24 picture of Ralph Fiennes.  It was Ralph just the way she liked him.  Rugged, long-haired, and unbelievably hot.  Like he had been in Strange Days.  Now there was an idea.  She sat up, leaning over the side of her bed to pull out the cardboard box where she stored her movies.

While she was leaning over, she heard a low jangling.  Switching the direction of her hand, she thrust her hand under her pillow, then rolled over to point a .357 in Josh Kincaid's startled, sweaty face.

"Hi," she smiled without batting a lash.  Or lowering her gun.

"Jeez, point that thing somewhere else, okay?" Josh made a pushing motion without actually touching the gun.  Or getting too close.

"Oh, I don't know.  I seem to have found the perfect target," she cracked, but lowered the weapon, flipping the safety back on.

"How did you know I was there?  I didn't make any noise."

"Three things," she held up three fingers, ticking one off, "One, you did make noise.  Your keys, they jingled when you shoved them back into your pocket.  Kudos to you though for keeping the locks from rattling.  I'll have to check them--I thought I'd fixed that."

Claire wrinkled her nose, "Second, you've been to Marnie's, haven't you?  Nope, don't deny it.  I could smell the garlic on you a mile away.  And since you're the only person I know who could stomach all the garlic and onion that Marnie puts in his, ahem, creations," she said delicately, "I drew the logical conclusion."

"And the third reason?" Kincaid's grizzled face was chagrined, but interested.

"You're the only person besides yours truly with a set of keys to this place," she frowned, "A privilege I am seriously considering revoking if you keep coming and going without asking like you do, young man."

"Hey, I pay the rent for this dump.  I can come and go as I please."

"No, dear.  You come and go as I please.  Besides, you pay me and I pay the rent.  There's a difference.  And would it kill you to knock?  What if I'd been in the shower?"

"I'd have been a happy man," he deadpanned.  His bloodshot eyes twinkled and he waggled his eyebrows lewdly.

"Yeah, you'd have been happy and I'd have had to kill you."

"Thanks."

"If it makes you feel any better, I would have been terribly sorry about it later," she consoled him. 

"Sure you would have--for about as long as it took you to find another employer," he snorted. 

Josh didn't look well, Claire thought critically.  He definitely needed to lay off of Marnie's and start eating better.  Years of drinking were conspiring with his fat-laden diet to make him corpulent and varicose.  Well, she would just have to 'convince' him of the wonders of carrots and low fat.   Even if she had to reintroduce him to Mr. .357.  Maybe if she smiled encouragingly it would help soothe his feelings, Claire scratched her chin in consideration.

"Employer?  Now there's an interesting way to describe it," she replied dryly.

"Mind your manners, Miss," Josh reproved.  He removed a heavily creased brown package from his dark jacket.  "Besides, I brought you a present."

She sat up straighter, as expectant as a child on Christmas morning.  "Well, why didn't you say so before?  What is it? Dinner?"

"Even better." 

His massive hand deposited the package into her open, almost twitching grasp.  There were no preliminaries.  She dug into the packaging, shreds of paper flying.  Her tearing unearthed a small black box.  She lifted her head to stare eagerly into his eyes.  "Is this what I think it is?"

He shrugged, trying hard to appear nonchalant, but he looked almost as excited as she did. Running her hands along the edges, she snapped the locks and lifted the lid almost.  Inside, a top a sea of protective gray foam, lay a small, beautifully lethal piece of weaponry.  She picked it up with almost reverent fingers. 

"A Walther PPK!  Josh, you shouldn't have!" she squealed, bouncing up and down on her bed.

"I thought you deserved a little reward for the job well done you've been doing lately.  There's a cleaning kit under the foam, by the way."

"Are you serious?" she scrabbled to uncover the truth of his words.  "Oh, my.  And look at these engravings!  This must have cost you a small fortune."

"Ah, what's a little money?" He opened his arms in an expansive gesture.

At his words, her smile faltered.  It didn't disappear, but it did fade a bit.  A wary light entered her eyes for the first time.  "What's the catch?"

"Pardon?" 

Yep, something was up.  Josh couldn't lie to save his life.  His voice went high and his movements became too exaggerated.  Like now.

"Josh," she sighed, regretfully laying his 'gift' back into its case.  "Just tell me what you want me to do."

"You shouldn't be so cynical."

"You shouldn't eat so much," she countered, "And it isn't cynicism.  You forget, I know you, Josh.  I know how your mind operates.  I just had a momentary lapse of hope for you."

"I've got a special delivery I need carried out tonight," he confessed after a pregnant pause.

"When?"

"Before midnight."

She glanced at the digital clock on the wall.  10:55. 

"You're cutting it close," she accused.

"I was busy.  It shouldn't take that long.  All you have to do is drop it off and pick up the money."

"Who's it to?"

"Uh-uh," he shook his finger at her, "Not who.  Where.  We don't ask for names, remember?"

"Okaaaaaay, where then?"

"162 St. Anne's Street."

"St. Anne's?  Slumming, are we?"

"Cut the wisecracks.  Just make the exchange, bring the money to my place, and you can get back to whatever it was you were doing," he waved a vague hand.

"Yippee.  And just how am I supposed to know who to make the exchange with?" She pointed out.

"He's a big man.  Dressed in rainslicks.  Damnedest thing you've ever seen.  Looks like a barge at full sail when he comes at you."

"Lovely," she drawled, " Now that I know where and who, all I want to ask is how much?"

"How much?"  Josh's puffy face went suspiciously blank, almost innocent.

She wasn't buying it for a second. "Yeah, how much.  Heeeeeello?  My cut.  I don't get any monetary incentive here, then I ain't moving."

"But I brought you a present," he whined.

"And I'm touched.  But it isn't Christmas and my services aren't for free."

"How much do you want?" he mewled.  Honestly, Josh was such a child sometimes.  She found it a miracle he was a successful as he was.  Like she was going to fall for a sad face and let him off the hook.  As if, she smirked.

"I think fifteen percent sounds fair," she buffed her hails, "My usual ten and another five for trying to con me."

"I would never--"

"Of course, you wouldn't.  Is it a deal or should I go back to my film collection?  I have a yen to watch a Ralph Fiennes flick, y'know."

"You're a shark," he sulked.

"And you taught me everything I know," Claire got up off the bed, tweaking his cheek affectionately, "Cheer up, Josh. It could have been worse."

"How?"

"I could have asked for twenty percent."

As soon as she cleared Josh out, Claire took a moment to collect herself.  Jobs were never fun and she liked to have a few moments to breathe before putting her game face on.  Shedding her fraying nightshirt, she pulled a dark blue camisole over her head, then pulled on a pair of jeans.  A pair of combat boots and a leather duster completed the ensemble.  She preened in front of the mirror.  A gypsy child with warm olive skin and cinnamon brown eyes made faces back at her.  She ran a hand through her tangle of raven black hair and started to clip it back.  Then she gave up, letting the clip clatter to rest on the counter.  Her hair tended to be unmanageable even on good days.  And she really didn't have the time to wrestle it into place.

She took a deep breath before reaching over to retrieve the .357 on the sink next to her.  Under the harsh bathroom lights, it glinted at her, a winking promise of deadliness.  Checking the clip, she slapped it back in, made sure the safety was on, and then secured it into the secret holster inside her jacket. While this should be a routine delivery, past experiences had taught her not to take chances.  Some of Josh's clients tended to be less than savory.  Some of them were, in fact, downright psychotic.  If their money hadn't been so damned good, she would have told Josh to drop them a long time ago.  Money was money, even if it belonged to a psycho.  It still paid the rent and kept her high in Jolly Ranchers.

'Don't you even want to know what the package is?' Josh's voice wheedled in her mind.  He always asked her that.  And she always replied with a negative.  She was better off not knowing.  She had a fairly good idea as it was what some of his less than kosher business activities were.  As far as she was concerned, the less she knew, the better.  After all, it would be really hard to commit perjury if you had no idea just what you were perjuring yourself over.  And it was possible, though unlikely, mind you, that Josh might slip up and end up in jail  (although knowing him, he'd bribe the judge and end up in a cushy federal penitentiary for eighteen months of vacation time before hitting the streets again).  Well, she'd rather not join him if she could manage, thank you very much.  Even if she would be terribly sorry to see him behind bars.  Maybe she could bake him a cake with a nail file in it if it ever did happen.  Hmm...

Josh Kincaid was what she liked to think of as a wish-fulfiller extraordinaire.  If it existed, he could probably lay hands on it for you.  For a price.  And sometimes money wasn't the only form of payment he extracted.  It was not a good thing to owe him a favor.  Of course, sometimes he felt really generous and made you one of his employees.  He played with lives the way most people played card games. 

To look at him, you wouldn't exactly leap to the conclusion he was a shadowy, not exactly legal, power player.  To be perfectly honest, he looked more like a professional drunk and bum more than anything else.  A bloated weasel of a man with perpetually bloodshot eyes, disarrayed ginger hair, and a fashion sense that seemed more threatening than he was.  Appearances were indeed deceiving.  What a small world.

Even big dogs need help from time to time.  Back-up, you might say.  That was where she came in.  Claire had a certain 'talent' for dealing with some of the more questionable elements Josh associated with.  Big, mean dogs who only responded to bigger, meaner dogs.  And she could be one hell of a bitch when she needed to be. 

Figuratively speaking, of course.

Their arrangement was fairly simple.  She ran deliveries and interference while Josh kept her in the style to which she was accustomed to.  Modest as it was, she acknowledged, surveying her small loft with its spartan furnishings.  She didn't need much and she preferred not to accumulate too many material possessions.  They would have weighed her down and provided too tempting a leash for Josh to hold over her.  Like the one he had wasn't already long enough.

The thing about leashes was that sometimes they snapped.

"You're not from around here."

That observation was punctuated with the quick, even strokes of a rag against the inside of an ale mug.  Ewan raised his eyes to the holder of the glass.  The bartender.  Pretty thing, he noted with some appreciation.  The women nowadays were so interesting.  So much more variety these days than in the past.  This one was no exception.  Her short hair was dyed a burgundy shade; it gleamed almost purple underneath the flashing lights.  A tiny silver bob studded the right side of her nose and there were at least five earring holes in each ear.  She was wearing so much eye makeup that her cornflower eyes were quite startling to behold.  Despite all the makeup and accessories, he could still make out the clean heart shape of her face and the warm tan of her skin.  Though her eyes were focused on her task, there was a hint of interest in her voice that her bland facial expression didn't betray.  He smiled to himself.  How many times had he played this game before?  Times, fashions, values--all changed, but some things would always remain constant.  Just as it should be.

"Perhaps," he drawled, leaning forward ever so slightly even as he straightened.  "Why do you ask?"

"Well, for starters," she laid the mug aside to focus her full attention on him, "I know all the regulars, some more than I ever wanted to.  I've never see you in here before though."

"And?"

"And," she promptly continued, "You sound like Sean Connery.  Or Mel Gibson."

"Really?"

"Y'know, the Mel Gibson from Braveheart.  No kilt though," she sounded disappointed.  "Damn shame there.  You're legs aren't half-bad from what I could see."

He grinned.  "I don't wear a kilt for just anyone."

"No," he flirted, "The kilt is special...private."  He injected the last word with especial emphasis.  It might earn him a slap.  He didn't think so; at least, it didn't smell like it.

"I think I catch your drift," she purred.

He was definitely catching hers.  The scent of pheromones rose up to tickle his nostrils like delicate champagne bubbles.  Ewan inhaled with relish.

"Nice.  Would it be terribly forward to ask milady's name?" He put more of a burr than usual to his Scots.

She mock-swooned.  "Maddy."

"'Tis a lovely tattoo you have going there, Maddy," his eyes traveled the length of it, "It's very prominent."

The tattoo in question was a Chinese dragon, painted in vivid crimsons and golds.  The intricate attention to detail bespoke a perfectionist streak in the artist.  The creature seemed almost alive, an illusion enhanced by each ripple of movement coursing through the bearer's skin. 

The drawing depicted a dragon in mid-flight, its scarlet-lined gold wings half-lowered against it.  Scales twisted and flinched; as he studied them, Ewan realized that each one contained a barely visible Chinese character.  He raised an eyebrow, impressed.  Even more impressive was the sheer size and scale of the rendering.  The tip of the tail coiled around her left index finger with the body taking up most of Maddy's upper chest.  The serpentine head with its slitted jade-green eye dominated her right arm, with its forked tongue slithering to a halt around her right index finger. 

"Most impressive," he remarked, although his eyes had long since dropped to other points of interest.

"Thanks," she placed a hand on the tattoo, just above the hem of her short, tight black tank top.  "See anything else you like?"

Definitely not subtle.  He liked that.  Sometimes games could be so tiresome.  His intense blue eyes rose to meet hers.  "That depends.  Are you offering?"

"Maybe," she demurred, "Show me your kilt?"

Ewan lifted his hand so that his fingers ever so slightly caressed the back of her nearby hand down to the wrist.  "Oh, I think that can be arranged."

IV

Despite its proximity to Golden Gate Park, St. Anne's wasn't exactly in the high class section of town.  There were worse neighborhoods, Claire knew.  Neighborhoods where it wasn't worth your life to go walking down them.  St. Anne's wasn't quite up to that division, but it was definitely a world away from the glossy image most people had of San Francisco.

What St. Anne's had were homeless people.  It had them in spades.  Most larger cities did have a homeless underclass; there was no real way to avoid that.  Only they seemed to congregate around St. Anne's in 'Frisco instead of being spread through out.  Part of that was due to the ancient brownstone edifice at the west corner of the street, the Sisters of St. Anne and the Blessed Virgin.  Aside from giving the street its name, the brownstone was a shelter for the sick, the poor, the illiterate.  If you were down in the world and just couldn't get back up, you went to St. Anne's.  The nuns who ran the shelter did what they could to ease the suffering they encountered, but it was never quite enough.  Somehow, some way, there was always one more who'd slipped through the cracks to land here.

Most people stayed away.  Not because they were afraid of crazed winos; it was always a possibility considering that some families decided to save themselves time and expense by tossing their mentally ill out into the cold.   No, most stayed away because of uncomfortable pricklings of conscience and unwanted lumps in throats.  You'd have to have a heart of stone not to feel badly for those less fortunate.  As a result, most people tended to avoid this area as a rule.  It was just easier to get on with your life without the constant reminder that there were those out there who were even worse off than you.

Because of that mentality, Claire found it both ironic and amusing that the city fathers had decided to plan Golden Gate Park, a rampant show of opulence and indulgent investing, near a slum zone.  She found it somewhat less than amusing, however, that Josh had chosen to send her here at this time of night.

Maybe I should have charged him the twenty percent, she grumped.

People darted in and out of her sight.  Most of the street dwellers were like the mice they shared the alleyways with--wary and not looking for any trouble.  There were always those who were the exact opposite, of course.  Claire didn't harbor any illusions about what they'd do to her if she let them.  It was the whole reason she packed a piece.  She wasn't cruising for any action, but she meant to have an option if it came down to it.

She found an empty spot (well, several actually) and leaned against the wall of a condemned building.  She kept one eye on the area surrounding her, one hand unobtrusively removing her .357.  It had a nice, comforting weight in her hand.  As she settled in for a wait, she glanced at her watch.  Quarter 'til.  Show already, will you?  She wasn't one to get spooked easily, but the crowded emptiness of this place gave her the creeps.  She wanted to be at home, curled up in her bed and dozing dreamily in front of a Ralph Fiennes movie.  Instead, here she was, huddled in a slum and shivering as she waited for one of Josh's clientele to show up.

After this is over, Josh and I are going to have to renegotiate the terms of our 'agreement.'  He's definitely not paying me enough for this.

Ewan had to admit it.  This place had real style. Ambiance.

From the outside, it didn't appear to be anything special.  Quite clearly, the

building at one time had been an old theater. Carved Corinthian arches with two huge, welcoming double doors. Vaulted ceilings just screaming for exquisite chandeliers to hang there. And the balconies... He could see it in his mind's eye in all its former glory.  The red velvet carpet, the classy doormen in their neat red and gray suits. Men in trenchcoats and women in furs, ready to lose themselves in a night of entertainment.

How odd that time had passed and yet some things remained the same.  This place still drew all sorts seeking a release from their nine-to-five worlds.  

But there were differences.  Some more obvious than others.

The building itself was now painted black.  Runes of protection had been carved, then painted onto the face of those beautiful oak doors.  He felt a brief pang at that.  They didn't make accessories like those entry ways anymore.  Not with the loving craftsmanship that had so obviously gone into them.  And the place where there might once have been a theater billboard now carried a sign with a single word. 

Avalon.  It wasn't a name, so much as a proclamation.  A challenge.  A warning.

The interior was quite something else.  It looked like heavy metal had met Town, House, & Gardens, fallen in love, and spawned.  The result, needless to say, was rather unique.  Walls that were midnight blue and littered with glyphs of binding and power.  No chandeliers any more, but that was quite all right.  The ceiling was a marvel in and of itself.   It looked as if all of the starry heavens were contained there in.  Ewan blinked.  Someone's cheated a little, he thought, narrowing his eyes. It was too perfect a mirror image of the night's sky to be faked or painted.  In fact.... I knew it, he thought, watching closely as glittery stars slowly changed their positions and wispy, gray clouds moved across an opalescent moon.  It, like the sign outside, bespoke power and total self-confidence. It was...showy. It quite clearly said, damn all the rules. And that intrigued him. His curiosity piqued, he continued his perusal.

Chains, black leather, vines, and wire entangled, dangling from various fixtures. 

The supports were amethyst-studded, silver-roped columns. He was surprised to note that they were genuine.  And the balconies they now supported... Ewan tipped his head in greeting as he locked eyes with one of the guardian figureheads there, this one a stone gargoyle with his claws digging into the violet curtained top.  There was a tense moment before the creature's glaring eyes turned elsewhere. He let go of the breath he had been holding.

A nature lover would have appreciated the large apple tree near the bar.  It puzzled him.  It didn't quite fit the image thus far he'd been forming in his head of this place's owner.  The tree lent the atmosphere a softness that seemed out of place.  Stranger still, the tree never appeared to shed and was burgeoning with lush scarlet apples despite the fact that apple season was well over.  Or that there was no visible means for it to obtain sunlight.

The walls were fairly pulsating with the loud music pouring out of the P.A. system.  The air was humid, the dance floor crammed with a seething mass of writhing limbs.  Mostly mortal.  Some not, but no one out there noticed.  The little things tended to be ignored on the whole.

Both a blessing and a curse. 

"Sorry," Maddy breathed in sharply as she dashed over from the other end of the bar, "It's crazy tonight."

"No worries," he replied amiably, "I was just admiring the architecture."

He was referring to the club, but he turned his gaze on her.  To his slight disappointment, she didn't appear to notice.   Instead, her blue eyes touched on her surroundings.  "I know, she gushed, "Isn't it great?  Don't you just love the way what should have been a major clash in styles just balances out so...harmoniously."

"Great," he echoed dutifully, though he had to admit he was the tiniest bit impressed himself, "Though I have to admit I'm a bit puzzled by the apple tree's significance."

"Careful, stranger.  Was it not apples and the knowledge they contained that caused the Fall?"

The words were spoken dryly, but there was more than a hint of probing in their wording.  Ewan adjusted towards the words and found himself face to face with a legend.

"Morgan," Maddy acknowledge quietly.  The knife edge of awe entered her voice.

Ewan made a conscious effort not to gape and to, at all cost, not scrape and bow.  After all, he had just as much royal blood in his veins as she did.  They were on equal footing.  One of the woman's delicately arched brows rose ever so slightly as if she sensed what he was thinking and it amused her immensely. 

Okay, maybe not so equal.

"Of course," the newcomer continued, drawing ever closer, "Maybe it was just human weakness.  Human stupidity."

Ewan darted a quick look at Maddy, who was hanging on every word.  Morgan followed his gaze and made a sudden quick motion of dismissal.  The bartender flushed, actually taking a step back.  She hesitated.

Then fled as Morgan turned the full impact of her steely-eyed gaze on her.

"Perhaps it was human strength."

"Hmm?" her cool eyes refocused on him.  Ewan resisted the urge to squirm.  God, he hadn't felt like this since his tutor had strapped him in front of the whole court.  And curvy, little Jenny McConnell.

Still, he never had been one to back down.  And he wasn't about to start this late in life, "To take of the fruit and brave the consequences of the search for truth."

"A little knowledge is a dangerous thing."

"And not enough can kill you."

"Besides," he leaned back to rest against the bar.  A deceptively relaxed position.  He wished his emotional state matched it,  "I don't fear the truth."

"Now there speaks a very brave or very foolish man.  Which are you?"

"You tell me."

They locked eyes, engaged in a silent battle of wills. Then her lips curved upward in minute approval. "Well met, indeed."

So much for the preliminaries, he thought.  Now that there was a lull in the excitement, he took the time to examine his opponent.  The bards had the truth of it when they had sang of her looks.  She was not beautiful.  Attractive, yes.  Beautiful, no.  Her face was too thin, with its chin tapering off to a sharp point.  In fact, she seemed almost all angles.  Even her gray eyes slanted. Her nose wasn't so bad, with it's long and straight lines.  Her character though was defined by that wide, generous mouth that seemed to smile with almost open sensuality and sneer at him with utter disdain. She was short, but it was the kind of smallness that resulted in tiny bone structure and delicate form.

But what did she need of beauty when by mere force of personality alone, she seemed more intimidating and more dangerous than any of the hundreds of truly beautiful women he had ever known?  She had presence.  She was a presence.

"You are new here." The statement was direct and implicitly demanded a response.

"Yes."

She nodded.  "And you are here because...?"

"Is there a problem?"  He crossed his arms of his chest.

"That's what I'm trying to determine ...?  You have a name, do you not?  Or do you have a reason to hide it?" 

"Ewan. Originally of fair Caledon, lately of no fixed address," he bowed with no small degree of courtly flourish, "And I am at your service."

"Are you?  How...charming."

"And you milady, you're..." he hesitated.  He couldn't quick bring himself to say it, to admit it.

Her eyebrows quirked, "Yes?"

"Are you really...?"

"Go on, I'm waiting," she was quite obviously enjoying his discomfort. 

"You're Morgan.  Morgan le--"

"Yes, yes," she waved it off impatiently, "Morgan of the Fairies.  Quite.  Only in here, it's just Morgan.  Or ma'am.  Got it?"

"Perfectly."  So, she wasn't so unflappable.  And that means you'd better tread carefully, my son, before you really annoy her.  He'd heard stories about those who had and he wasn't anxious to be mopped out of the carpet.

"Look, you're new here, so I'll cut you some slack.  And this first time it won't cost you."

"This is my club.  It is neutral ground and you will respect that," she didn't threaten consequences.  She didn't have to.  Her voice spoke volumes.  "You have a problem with that?"

"No, it seems quite fair," he hastily assured her, "I'm not here looking for trouble."

She studied him closely before pronouncing, "That may be, Ewan of Caledonia, that may be, yet I feel very certain you will find it, whether you will it or not."

VI

Claire whistled or rather, was trying to.  She didn't care what Lauren Becall had said, whistling was a tad more complicated than just putting your lips together and blowing.  Still, the uneven sound was something.  It was a comfort, if nothing more.  Things were just too quiet around here.  She missed the sounds of traffic and millions of conversations rising like it did in the greater city.  Here it was just...quiet.  She felt as if she were standing in the midst of a ghost field.  There was the feeling of presences, but no concrete evidence.  As if all signs of life had segued into the proverbial woodwork.

Now, all we need is for some tumbleweed to blow across the street to complete this tableau, she rolled her eyes.  

"You are the emissary from Mr. Kincaid?"

The question entered the air and was hanging there before she realized it.  It had been so long since she'd last heard a human voice that she actually started.  Claire cursed herself for doing so.  Then she proceeded to curse herself for not registering the newcomer's presence before now.  Sloppy, Claire, sloppy.

And it would have been next to impossible to miss this arrival.  A regular barge at full sail, Josh had said and damn him, if he wasn't right.  A large magisterial form swathed in an array of scarves, slicks, and a positively ancient fedora.  Surprisingly enough, he (from what she could see, Claire hoped it was a he) moved with an easy grace that made his odd apparel cling to him with the regalness of a robe.  She couldn't make out his face and it bothered her more than a little. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Rainslicks was patiently awaiting a reply. Emissary? She raised her eyebrows at the wording.  "Uh, yeah.  You could say that, I guess."

"Excellent.  I believe you have a package for me?" 

His voice was filled with sounds.  The pitter of rain against a stone roof, the swell of the waves, and the rustle of leaves.  It entranced her, held her.  She had to shake herself just to answer, "That depends.  Do you have the money?"

"Of course," Some people might have gotten offended at that or would have tried to quibble down the price.  This guy seemed merely nonplused.  He reached into the voluminous folds of his coat and produced a bulging backpack.  "Two million in unmarked, sequential bills as requested.  Do you wish to inspect the contents?"

Two million?  What the hell had Josh gotten his hands on? Twenty percent? Hell, forget that.  Thirty percent would be more like it.  "Er, you wouldn't be offended?" she gulped.

"Not at all," he tossed the bag at her which she promptly snatched with shaky hands.  Tearing at the zipper, she peered inside.  Bills seemed to rise up and greet her like a long lost friend.  She hadn't seen this much green since the Saint Patrick's Day Parade.  She picked up a set of the neatly bound bills and examined it closely.  Everything appeared to be in order, she noted faintly.  Her fingers twitched around it, eyes screwed up in thought as her mind calculated just how many Jolly Ranchers she could buy with her cut of this.

She tried very hard not to squeal in excitement.  She would not squeal. 

Though she did squeak.

"Should I give you a moment alone?"  Rainslicks asked, with a throaty chuckle. 

Her cheeks reddened in mortification as she was snapped back to the here and now.  "Um, that won't be necessary," she managed, "Everything here seems to be in order."

"Just so.  And now for your end?"

She nodded, then reached into her own pack (not once letting go of the moneybag) to retrieve a medium-sized wooden box.  As it came under the glare of a nearby street lamp, the cracks and scratches on the box's finish came to light, its gold edges flaking off in minute showers.  Nothing to get excited about.

Except that it was.  Claire frowned as an odd tingling began at the tips of her fingers traveling up her arms through to the rest of her body.  Not quite an electric shock.  More of a tingling, familiar somehow.   She swayed, suddenly dizzy.

"I'll take that," Rainslicks reached forward to pluck the box from her slack grip.  She blinked. His movements had been so fast that, in her confusion, she had missed them completely.  Still, what did it matter?  She had the money and he had his box, right?

And yet she had the feeling that it did matter.

"What's in that thing?" she asked, for the first time breaking her own rule about not knowing for her own good.  "Feels strange, like I've got needles all over.  Tingly."

Rainslicks looked up from his perusal of the box.  She wished she could see his face clearly.  As it was, she could only guess from the suddenness of his movements that he was surprised.  The feeling of two eyes boring into her, measuring her, crawled along her awareness.  She thought she detected the color blue.  Blue flecked with gold appraised her carefully as if this were the first time he had really taken note of her.

"What do they call you, child?"  He ignored her question, posing one of his own.  

"Claire."  She replied without thinking.  Then swore.  Idiot.  Just because someone gives you a couple million dollars of which you get a cut is no reason to act all moony.  Getting stupid at this point in the game was liable to get her killed.  Or worse.

"Claire what?"  he pressed her.  His manner was gentle, quiet, but it brooked no denial.

Claire hesitated.  A strange sort of lassitude settled over her and suddenly, she wanted to tell him who she was.  She wanted to tell him everything about herself.  In fact, her mouth opened to do just that--

Glamour, something in her whispered.  What this meant, she had no clue.  She just knew that was what he was doing to her.  How he was affecting her.  The word whispered in her blood and she felt a stirring inside her. 

"Stop," she heard herself say.  Her voice sounded strange.  Like it belonged to someone else.  She felt as if someone else were talking.  As if her own consciousness had been pushed aside temporarily.  "I will not be coerced."

There was a flash of color as gold-tinged blue flickered, then ebbed.  With them fled the lassitude.  It was like a switch had been flipped and her mind swelled in relief.  She took a step back, bewildered.

"So I see," Rainslicks replied wryly.  Then he cocked his head, "Do you even know who you are, child?"

This was just too weird.  She didn't understand what was happening here and she didn't like it one little bit.  "Who the hell are you?  What did you just do to me? What do you mean, do I even know who I am? And don't call me 'child'."

"My apologies.  I thought--I thought you were someone else.  Perhaps you are yet," he seemed to be talking more to himself than her.

"Uh-huh," she clutched the money bag and took another step back.  Great, another loony.  A harmless one, but a loony nonetheless.  Maybe not so harmless, she thought remembering the way his eyes had made her feel all muzzy.  Why do these people find me?

He raised his face.  She got the brief impression of light; clear, blinding light with the details all blurred.  "Again, lady, my apologies.  I am called Lleu of many skills."

"Oh, yeah?  Well, I'm Claire de Lune," she snorted, then pulled herself up short.  What had possessed her to say that?  Still, it somehow seemed...right.  As if she had uncovered a universal truth that had eluded her until this point.  Claire de Lune?  That was a Debussey piece minus the 'e', not a name.

Certainly not her name.

Lleu, however, seemed delighted.  "Ah, as I suspected.  I am most honored to make your acquaintance, Miss de Lune."

Is this guy for real? She watched him warily.  He reached into the folds of his raincoat again and she tensed, ready to throw herself out of the way in case he should try anything--

He pulled out a small white card and thrust it at her.  She stared at it, then him.  He nodded, clucking at her impatiently.  Gingerly, she reached out and took it with the tips of her fingers.  "What's this?"

"My card," he replied promptly and most unnecessarily.  "You are a woman of many talents and many secrets, Mistress Claire.  It would be my honor to aid you in discovering them."

"Erm..."

"Should you need to find me, look to the card." With that, Lleu, he of the many rainslicks, bowed deeply and pulled out of the ring of light cascading from the lamp above them.  Leaving her to stare after him before lowering her eyes to the small card in her hands.  It was crisp and white, as if it had just come from the printers.  The lettering was simple, but she could swear that the clean scent of ferns seemed to waft up from it. 

Lleu Gyffes

A name and nothing else.  Claire lifted her head to peer into the darkness.  She broke the silence with one word, "Nuts."