A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters - Martin Harry Greenberg [81]
I banged a tambourine with a St. Brigid’s Cross painted on the front in vivid colors.
One by one, the other dancers returned to their tables, guzzling their tall glasses of beer and ale, then plunking down in their chairs to recuperate.
The prancing young man slowed but didn’t falter.
I flicked my fingers at Holly. Her gaze shifted to the dance floor. She nodded slightly, then changed the tuning on her harp and returned to the slow songs, a lament straight out of the Scottish Highlands.
The dancer with the black hair looked up bewildered.
“Pookah!” Holly mouthed.
Of course. That was the name of the creature we faced. Obvious now that I knew.
I shuddered. Sighting a black Pookah in horse form portended death. I had no idea what a Pookah in human form signified.
But one music lover fought death in the hospital after being around this Pookah.
I faded off stage into the shadows, tambourine held tight against my thigh so it wouldn’t jingle.
“Now if you’ll take your seats again, I have a new song to try out on you,” Holly said, a little breathlessly. She sipped greedily at her water bottle, then deliberately replaced it at her feet.
While her gaze was directed away from the audience, the few remaining on their feet either found places to sit or retreated to the perimeter and held up the walls. Including the young man doing a great imitation of a horse.
I snagged his elbow the moment he merged with the crowd.
He resisted.
“I’m a Warrior of the Celestial Blade,” I whispered into his ear. I had to stand on tiptoe and stretch high to reach that ear. It flicked back and front in acknowledgement.
“It’s not killing me you’ll be wanting,” he protested in a thick Irish accent.
“Not here I won’t. Your survival depends upon cooperation.” I tugged harder on his arm. He didn’t need to know my imp had gone walkabout. Without my imp I had no weapon. The St Brigid’s Cross on the tambourine might act as a ward.
I fingered the pen in my skirt pocket. I had a chance.
Light drizzle caressed my face and hair out in the alley. Drops glistened in the light of a lamp a block away.
“What’s your name?” I asked. Keep it casual. Just making conversation.
“I’m not supposed to tell,” he replied sheepishly.
Damn. A smart one who knew the rules.
“I can’t help you if I don’t know your name.” I fluttered my eyelashes in mock innocence.
“And how would you be knowing I need a wee bit o’ help?”
“You are out of your element.”
He hung his head and pawed at the ground with his foot. A hoofed foot, not boots. He blended perfectly with the Keep Portland Weird crowd.
I held the tambourine in front of me, cross facing out.
“Please, ’tis not be killing me, would you. It’s not hurting anyone I meant.” He crossed his arms in front of his face, palms out, fingers twisted in his own ward.
“You are feeding off the audience’s energy. Draining them.”
“Aye. But it’s just tired they are and recover they do after a good meal and night’s sleep,” he protested. His eyes gleamed with strong emotion that I couldn’t read. Not enough light back here.
“One man fell asleep while driving home from a concert. He won’t recover completely. He might not live.”
“Oh.” The Pookah seemed to collapse within himself. “I didn’t mean to do that. But the music is so grand, so much like me home, I couldn’t help myself. When Holly sings, I’m feeling like I can go home.”
“Why can’t you go home?”
He dashed a tear out of his eye and looked longingly down the alley toward the Willamette River and the wide expanse of grass beside it.
I led him in that direction. We’d both be more comfortable with soft earth beneath our feet and away from the smells of discards and disuse that collected in most every alley.
Did I want him comfortable? I jingled the tambourine a bit to remind him all was not well between us.
He dug at the damp grass with his hooves at first touch. Then he lay down and rolled, wriggling his back and pawing the air. A huge sigh that stirred the fronds of a nearby Douglas fir escaped his lungs. “And don’t I