Mercedes Lackey - Tregarde 1 - Children of the Night

[Front Blurb] [Version History and Scanners' Notes]

CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT

by Mercedes Lackey

A Tor Book

First edition: August 1990

Dedicated to

Melissa Ann Singer

For more reasons than I can count

ONE

Diana Tregarde sighed, propped her chin on her right hand, and leaned on the countertop. Of all

the jobs I could have taken, working in an occult supply store is not one I'd have chosen on my own. I like

my profile low, thank you very much. Too many people know I'm into the Craft as it is. This just boosts my

visibility. She stared out the window and tried not to feel like some poor GI in a bunker, waiting for the

next scream of "Incoming!"

I hate being exposed like this. But I owe Annie . . . She flexed her shoulders, forced herself to

relax. Your paranoia is showing, Tregarde. There's no reason to be this gun-shy. It's not that bad. This

isn't like the Bible Belt, where I'd get crosses burned on my lawn for being a witch. And most people I run

into here are either gonna take me for a flake, or a phony. Besides, I've learned my lessons about staying

invisible but doing my job. Nobody's going to have to show me again, especially not the hard way. She

finally laughed at herself for being so nervous. After all, what could possibly happen to me two blocks off

Forty-second Street?

Then again . . .

She sighed again. The noon rush was over at Bell, Book, and Candle; now—afternoon doldrums.

This is ridiculous; I'm letting this gloomy weather get to me. All is well. We made the rent at noon.

Come three, it'll be profit. The turn her thoughts had taken reminded her of the morning rush, and she

snorted, thinking what the reaction to most of the otherworldly types that frequented this occult emporium

would be to the word "profit." A profit is not without honor, save when it's not in your pocket.

She yawned; stretched, looked at her watch. Still got a little time. At least the lull gives me a

chance to think about that stupid almost-seduction scene in chapter four.

She mentally reshuffled palm trees, sand, moonlight, hero and heroine one more time, made some

internal notes—then looked out the shop window and stifled another yawn.

I should never have let Morrie set up this category-romance deal. I'm just not the type to turn out

marshmallow white-bread story sandwiches. I know I need the money, but—this heroine is such a ninny.

The stuff they want me to do with her is bor-ing. And I don't need to be reminded about how awful the

Apple is in the winter.

"Just follow the outline," says Morrie. "It'll be easy, no thinking, just writing," says Morrie.

"Bubie, you can't lose," says Morrie. "You need the dough, they want the book. You got 'em by the, you

should excuse me, short hairs—they need this book and you're the only writer I got or anybody else has

got that isn't contracted up right now." Morrie, you shark, I'll get you for this. You owe me. I wanted to do

another Regency. I wanted to have something with a little humor in it, and something like a bit of

historical accuracy. Not Hollywood's idea of Caribbean pirates. You didn't tell me the editor with his ass

on the line was your brother-in-law. You creep, you knew I was a pagan, you knew I wasn't gonna be

doing Christmas stuff like everybody else you've got—or even Hanukkah stuff, you snake. You knew I'd

have "free time." Gods, I'm gonna get you for this. "Limpid, heavenly-blue waters of the Bahamas,

sparkling beneath the full moon, as she gazes adoringly [and mindlessly] into his ebon-dark eyes,"

phooey.

It all only made the filthy October weather and the drab New York street outside the shop seem

bleaker and the possibility of making getting even with Morrie even more appealing.

I'll fix you, Morrie. I'm gonna write that honest-to-gods historical Blood and Roses and I'm gonna

make you sell it. And read it, too. Gods forbid you should learn something from it. Give you something to

read on your Las Vegas vacation next year.

"I need a vacation," she muttered, while the wind flung dirty bits of paper past the grimy window.

Grimy despite the fact that she'd cleaned it once this week. "Gods above and below, I need a vacation."

After a moment of self-pity, she chuckled and shrugged to herself. "But I also need to pay my rent.

Morrie was right about that, anyway. I can't quite make it on writing yet, and the reserve is getting lower

than I like."

I should be thankful I've got an agent as good as Morrie. I should be grateful I've got an agent at

all. If it hadn't been for Itzaak tangling with that dybbuk and me bailing him out with fairly light damage,

he wouldn't have talked his good old uncle Morrie into taking me. She grinned a little. I'll never forget

Morrie's face when he saw the bite mark on 'Zaak's thigh—and 'Zaak told him where it came from—and

then told him where the dybbuk had been aiming in the first place . . .

. . . like, forget about "be fruitful and multiply."

The glass rattled in a gust, and a listless spatter of rain drooled across the black and gold lettering.

Even the storm predicted for this afternoon couldn't get up the enthusiasm to do more than threaten.

She rubbed her eyes, and shifted her weight—and sent a little more energy into the shield around

the shop. Umpty bizillion people in this city, and half of 'em unhappy at any one time. With weather like

this, probably most of 'em unhappy. Yuck. Hell being an empath in the Big Apple. Hell being a big shiny

target the way I am. Every time I do something arcane I feel like I've sent up a big neon sign—"GOOD

EATS"—with an arrow pointing right down at me. "Hi, I'm the blue plate special. "Too damn many things

I can't handle. Too damn many things I can take, but only if I get 'em from behind. She shook her head.

I've got to snap out of this mood. I'm getting paranoid again. This is ridiculous. It's probably just because

I'm tired.

After six hours behind the counter, her feet did hurt. She wasn't used to spending this much time

on them.

And the thought of spending some time in someplace remote, isolated—and warm—

"Now if somebody would just give me enough money to pay for a vacation. And the rent. Now

what's the odds I could find a sugar daddy . . . ?"

She laughed at herself. "Right, Tregarde. A sugar daddy and you. Sure. Being real bad at taking

orders is the reason you don't have a mundane job. Oh well. I guess I'll have to settle for turning the heat

up and putting the ocean record on when I get home."

Today had not been a good day to boost the mysterious and otherworldly atmosphere that Annie

preferred to cultivate. "Mysterious and otherworldly" tended to be gloomy and chilly.

Not today. Di had turned on every lamp in the place, turned up the heat a little, and chosen

cinnamon incense and spice candles and set them burning as soon as she opened. She closed her eyes and

took a deep breath; it was as cozy in here as in a kitchen full of baking pies. Could be worse, could be

worse. I sure can use the cash Annie's paying me. Gods, I hope the baby comes soon, though. I want to get

this damned freebooter romance out of my hair. She tasted the cinnamon in the air, and thought about a

hot cup of tea—

And looked up.

Looks like the afternoon rush just started.

Across the street she saw three people she knew so well she'd recognize them a mile away—and

they were heading straight for the shop.

And in front of the shop was a young man with a notebook sticking out of his pocket and a

peculiar look on his face. Curiosity and distaste.

Oh double hell. A re-port-er. Just in time for the afternoon rush.

The young man pushed the door open, and the string of bells over it jingled in the rush of cold,

damp air. They chimed with a cheer Di could not force herself to emulate; the sour expression this lad

wore did not bode well.

"May I help you?" she asked, making face and voice as neutral as possible.

He started; she could see the whole shop from where she was, but the arrangement and sheer

volume of merchandise crowded into the tiny storefront tended to confuse the unwary—

She ran a practiced eye over him, as the bells on the door jingled again and Melani, Jorge, and

Nita slipped in, heading straight for the "reserved" shelf and the books Annie ordered for her "regulars" in

the back.

It isn't in yet, kids, but I'm glad you showed.

She watched the reporter carefully, keeping all her "feelers" tucked in, reading only body

language. No use in advertising—and if he was marginally sensitive she might freak him.

Hmm. Caucasian, brown and brown. Um—twenty-five, tops. Gods. A "cub reporter." Betcha they

sent him out to get him out of everyone's hair, after a silly-season fill story; he has visions of coming up

with something weird enough that the wire services will pick it up. She gritted her teeth. Gods, give me

patience, and give it to me now. Why can't I get more like that nice chick from the six o'clock news last

week?

The classical station on the radio behind her finished baroque, and began modern, grating and

interminable. Not my day, she concluded, and turned it down. The reporter looked for a path through the

bookcases and standing racks of incense, notecards, and transparent "stained glass" window decals. He

clutched his notebook to his chest possessively, and made his way toward the counter, emerging

eventually from between two coatracks festooned with rainbow-colored "ritual robes," specifically made

for the tourist trade.

Di smothered a grin at his grimace of distaste. The robes weren't real, and Annie was no dummy.

Not with B, B, and C being just off Forty-second Street. The tourists and teenyboppers came looking for

weird and outre, and she was perfectly happy to separate them from their money. These "magic robes"

sold especially briskly just before Halloween and New Year's, and at twenty-five bucks a pop, the

polyester horrors would buy a lot of diapers for Baby. And no one who patronized the shop for serious

purposes minded—because Annie kept a stock of real robes, made by hand (and about as ornate as a

monk's habit) in the back.

Di noticed empty hangers as he pushed past the rack, and made another mental note. Going to

have to remind Annie to get Jillian to do another batch of red, black, and purple; we're low.

She knew before he even opened his mouth that this reporter was going to be one of the

obnoxious ones.

"Are you Miz Sandstrom?" The very tone of his voice, strident and demanding, set her teeth on

edge.

"She's on vacation," Di replied, polishing the counter with a piece of chamois and quietly

signaling the trio at the back of the shop to stay out of the way for a minute. "I can probably help you."

She watched him out of the corner of her eye. His face fell, and he actually pouted. "I expected to

talk to Miz Sandstrom. Give me her home address."

Without even a "please" attached. "I'm sorry," she said insincerely, wondering if he'd go away. "I

can't give out that kind of information."

Because if I did, you'd print it, you little creep, and then Annie would have nuts trying to break

her door down, to save her soul from the Devil.

He sulked, and glowered at her as if he blamed her personally for keeping him where he was, at

the bottom of the journalistic pecking order. "My editor said she'd be here. My editor said to get an

interview with a real witch."

As if Annie ran her life by the dictates of his editor. She smiled, a conciliatory, saccharin-dripping

simper, and debated doing something to drive him off. But if I don't give him something to write about,

he'll make up a story. Then may the gods help us. He'll be certain we're hiding something, and he'll have

us sacrificing chickens and drinking acid-doctored blood cocktails at Friday night sit-down orgies. So she

groveled a little, and batted her eyes, and said, in a confidential tone of voice—"But I'm a real witch."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "You are?" he asked, making no secret of his doubt.

"Uh-huh." She nodded vigorously.

"Well." He sulked a moment more, then said ungraciously, "I guess you'll do, then."

She caught Melani's eye and gave her the nod; the three of them swarmed the counter.

"Excuse me a minute—" she said. "Customers—"

Thank the gods for friends.

"What's up?" Jorge asked, making a big show of asking for some of the herb powders behind the

counter.

"Reporter," she said sotto voce, and Melani grimaced. Di measured powdered dragon's blood into

a plastic bag. These three were some of Annie's steadier customers—and if it weren't that they all had

jobs, Annie would have asked one of them to mind the store for her instead of Di.

"Hey." Nita spoke up—a rarity. She usually let the other two do all the talking. "Tell you what—

you bore him, and we'll carry him off, okay?"

"I love you," she said gratefully. "I go, I go—"

Di returned to the visitor and went fully into a character she'd created for moments like this one,

the persona of "Gladys Eisendorf" (which was the name she gave him); the dullest human being on the

face of the planet.

She gushed, she wheedled, she fluttered. She talked through her nose, so her voice was as whiny

and grating as possible. She pitched it just on the bearable side of shrill. She giggled like a fool.

And she gave him nothing he wanted.

When he asked about Halloween ceremonies, she corrected him primly, like a schoolteacher. "It's

Samhain," she said, deliberately mispronouncing it, then spelling it out for him. With a sanctimonious air

she described a ceremony that made a Tupperware party seem licentious revelry by comparison. Before he

could draw breath to ask another question, she proceeded to a tedious homily on Harmony, Peace and

Love, and the Role of the Spirit in the Universe. It was a piece of tripe riddled with the clichés of every

"The Universe is a friendly place, my child" type she'd ever had to put up with. And it was so boring that

even had the young man possessed the temper and patience of Saint Francis he'd have thought longingly

on satanic sacrifices before she was finished. With her as the starring attraction.

Both of these dissertations were punctuated by flirtatious asides and hungry looks—" I'm single,

you know"—" If you'd like to come to the ritual, I'd be happy to vouch for you"—" We're allowed a guest,

and I'm single, you know—"

It would have taken a stronger man than he was to shrug that blatant attack off.

He took notes—then pretended to take notes—and finally stopped even pretending, waiting with

growing and visible desperation until she paused for a breath. He flipped the notebook closed, shoved it

into his pocket, and spoke before she could get started again.

"Thank you, Miss—" He'd obviously forgotten her name, and hurried on so that she wouldn't

notice the lapse. "Thank you very much, you've given me plenty of information. I'm sure I can do a terrific

article from what you've given me. Of course, I can't promise that my editor will print it—"

She hid a grin. Weaseling out of it already, hm?

"—but you should know, middle-class values, bourgeois materialism, chauvinistic prejudices—"

You rattle that stuff off quite well, laddybuck. Covered the peace movement lately?

"—but of course I'll try, sympathetic exposure, put a word in the right places—"

He was babbling now, and backing away, carefully, as if he were afraid that if he turned his back

on her she'd throw a net over him. She encouraged that belief.

"You don't have to go—" she cried faintly, flapping her hands frantically. "I have plenty of time.

No one ever comes in here this time of day!"

"No! I mean—"

The trio, who had been awaiting this moment of retreat, swooped down on him.

And suddenly, with Nita, exotic, dark-eyed Nita, Nita the professional belly dancer, cooing at

him, "witchcraft" became a lot more interesting. And the shop a lot less interesting. And the absent "Miz

Sandstrom" a creature of no importance. She watched the transition with veiled amusement. Before thirty

seconds had passed, the "terrible trio" had him neatly bedazzled and were luring him out the door;

notebook, the shop, Annie, and "Gladys" forgotten.

When they passed out of sight, she leaned against the counter and wheezed, laughing too hard to

get a full breath, tears coming to her eyes.

She'd managed to get herself under control when the bells jingled again, and a middle-aged couple

who had tourist writ across their expressions in letters of flame crept in. By now the classical station, as if

in apology for the first two pieces, was playing Dvorak's New World Symphony.

That was usually a soothing piece, but—

I don't think they're soothed, Di thought, watching them inch their way into the shop. I don't think

they know what it is they've gotten into. They're actually scared. Poor things. I'd better be gentle, or they

may have heart attacks right on the threshold.

"Hi!" she said brightly, when she was certain they'd spotted her. "What can I do for you?"

Mister Tourist peered at her while Missus Tourist clutched at his arm. "What is this place?" he

asked, blinking. "This some kind of hippie store?"

She came out from behind the counter, so that they could see her. Mister was at least six feet tall,

so he towered over her by a good foot. The disparity in height seemed to reassure him, as she'd intended.

"Well, not really," she admitted. "We're kind of a religious supply house."

"You mean—" Missus Tourist whispered, looking over her shoulder for demons, "—Satanists?"

Di laughed, projecting reassurance as hard as she could. "Oh, heavens no! We get a lot of people

into Eastern religions in here," she told them, with perfect truth. "Some odd kinds of Buddhists, for

instance. And we carry a lot of books on spiritualism and the occult. Fiction, too. In fact, the name of the

shop comes from a play—" She beamed, and stuck her hands in the pockets of her jeans. "I bet you saw

the movie version by the same name, I think it had Kim Novak in it—"

Both of them perked up and relaxed at the hint that she did anything so mundane as go to movies.

And about then, Missus Tourist subconsciously noticed the cinnamon scent in the air, the familiar odor

relaxing her still further. In about five minutes they were chattering away like old neighbors. There was

method to her madness. The next time someone back in Davenport, Iowa, said something about horrible

hippies practicing witchcraft, it would be Di that Fred and Edna remembered. They'd think about the

friendly, cheerful girl who looked more like a refugee from American Ballet Theater than anyone's notion

of a "witch"—the girl who'd encouraged them to stay and chat until they'd warmed up, in a store that

smelled like apple pies baking. And maybe, just maybe, they'd tell their neighbor a thing or two—

It turned out that they'd wanted something out of the ordinary in the way of a souvenir, and the

hotel clerk, perhaps in a fit of maliciousness, had suggested Annie's shop.

That annoyed her enough that she went out of her way to be even nicer to them. Before they left,

she'd found them their "unusual souvenirs"—a book on the ghosts of New York City, and another on the

purported Viking ruins found up and down the New England coast—and she had Fred Blaine joking with

her, while his wife, Edna, smiled at her and said she wished now that she'd had at least one daughter

instead of all those boys.

"I always used to carry one of these," Fred remarked at last, while Di rang up his purchases on the

store's ancient preelectric cash register. He had spotted, then insisted on buying, an overpriced rabbit's-

foot key ring. "Dog got my last one, and I haven't felt lucky since. Of course it wasn't so lucky for the

rabbit, now was it?"

Di laughed at the joke—no mean feat, since she'd heard it at least once a day since she started

tending the store. But they were, at bottom, good people, and she felt a bit more cheerful as she wrapped

their purchases and waved them out.

Her good humor lingered, which was just as well, because the rush was on.

The trio returned from reporter seduction just as the classical station moved on to Praetorius's

suite from "Terpsichore." She was weighing out their purchases when the shop began to fill. There were a

couple of book browsers, who would probably come back for another couple of days before they made up

their minds, a couple of teenage girls, and three young men of about college age who scanned the store

and came straight for her.

That was so out of the ordinary that for a moment she was taken completely aback.

"Hi," said the bespectacled blond who seemed to be the leader of the trio. "We need some help—"

She stiffened.

"Just a second—" '

The loaded words hit her like a slap in the face with a cold washcloth. Her adrenaline kicked in,

and her heart started racing—because those words held special meaning for her. They need some help? Oh

my god—what now?

She rang up the trio's purchases, hoping they wouldn't notice how her hands were shaking. An

innocent phrase like that shouldn't throw a scare into anyone—

Unless you were a Guardian.

"We'd like some books on Druidism and the Norse," said the second, a thin and dreadfully earnest

type, while she handed Jorge the brown paper sack, "We war-game, I mean the hobby, and we're just

getting into something called 'fantasy role-playing games.' Napoleonics we know, but we need rules so we

know how to run magic and religions—"

Her knees went weak with relief. Only a game? Lord and Lady, for a minute I was afraid they

were Calling on me—

"See you later, guys—and thanks." She waved her friends through the door, and turned back to the

newcomers (trying to keep a weather eye on the two teenagers). "Is this something like—uh—re-creating

battles with toy—I mean miniature—soldiers, only doing it, like, with Tolkien?" she asked, vaguely

remembering a couple of her war-gaming friends talking about something like this just before they all

graduated from college. Gods, that was Itzaak and his lot, and the bunch of them were like kids with a new

pony. What did he say? "A very new twist on traditional war-gaming. Using maps and miniatures—only

you fight dragons instead of dragoons—"

"Exactly!" The blond beamed at her as if she'd just come up with the unified field theory. "And we

need some help, the guys playing clerics are getting away with practically murder—"

"We don't mean anything sacrilegious," the third, tall and beefy, and altogether looking like a

jock, interrupted meekly. "I mean, we're not making fun of anybody or anything—honest!"

That set off the other two, who were nowhere near as shy as the muscle boy.

"Whoa!" She brought the torrent of explanation to a halt. Lord, the intensity here, and for a game!

Was I ever that earnest about anything? "I know Tolkien and most of the other major fantasy works pretty

well; why don't you just tell me what your game is closest to, and I'll tell you what books I think will suit

your purposes best."

That pair of giggling girls that couldn't be older than fifteen watched her pull books down off the

shelves, surrounded by the three boys. She ignored them for the moment; she was doing mental

calculations and trying to keep in mind the fact that these young men probably didn't have much spare

cash.

Lord knows Itzaak never did. Were we really ever this young? Has it only been two years—less—

since I graduated? It feels like I'm a hundred years older than these kids. Itzaak, if I ever catch up with

you, I don't know if I'm going to kill you or kiss you for getting me on Uncle Morrie's client list. Though

right now "kill" has an edge.

Their finances, when pooled, got them the first four books on her list. "Believe me, that should

hold you for some time," she told them, while the two girls whispered and eyed the young men from the

shelter of the astrology section with predatory interest. "We're not talking a couple of hours of light

reading, here. The Golden Bough has been used as a comparative religions text in more than one

university." The talkative two looked a little daunted; the jock perked up. "Gimme that one, okay?" he

said, reaching for it. "And the Wallis Budge. You two can take the others."

Di raised an eyebrow at him. "You're tougher than I thought."

He actually blushed. "Hell, ol' Budge didn't put me to sleep with the Book of the Dead in

Egyptology, I don't figure he's gonna do it now."

Di's other eyebrow rose.

Egyptology? Have we got a budding psi here?

But before she could say anything, they'd gathered up their books and headed off into the cold.

The two girls sidled up to the counter, killing her chance to call the boys back, and a tall and

saturnine older man slipped in behind the exiting boys. She heaved a mental sigh and turned her attention

to the girls.

It didn't take ESP to figure these two out. They were just like the bunch that had come in at noon,

all cast from the same mold, so fierce in their nonconformity that they set an entirely original standard of

sameness.

Bet if one started a sentence, the other could finish it.

"Hi," she said, when they just stared. "Need something?"

"Um," said the short-haired, aggressively made-up blonde. "Like, we're having a Halloween party,

you know? Like, we kinda wanted something different, you know?"

"Like, spells and stuff, you know?" finished her partner in crime, a baby-faced redhead. "Like, it's

just girls, and like, we wanta do love spells, you know?" She giggled, trying to hide obvious

embarrassment.

Lady bless. Just what I needed. Well, at least they came here. They could have picked up

something from that bastard Ulrich, and if there's anybody in that little clique that's got even marginal

Talent—gods have mercy.

"Well," she said slowly, "you know the problem with doing stuff like that is that the ingredients

are awfully expensive."

"They are?" the blonde said, beginning to look doubtful.

"Sure," Di replied cheerfully. "Take your average love spell—to start with you'll need a whole

mandrake root—" She began naming off ingredients at random, taking care that they were some of the

most expensive herbs in the shop. ". . . and you finish up by binding it all together with attar of roses."

At one hundred dollars an ounce. Sheesh. Good thing we seal the bottle with wax every time we

have to open it.

Since the prices were all posted openly, she watched with amusement as the girls made some

hasty mental totals.

Mercedes Lackey - Tregarde 1 - Children of the Night

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