A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters - Martin Harry Greenberg [83]
“Thank you for honoring me with the gift of your name. I promise that when your time approaches, ’tis gently I’ll be coming to you.”
“That’s more than I’d hoped for. What’s your name?”
“Can you call me Liam?”
“Only if that’s your real name. Short for William?”
He shook his head. Again his hair flew about in wild abandon.
“Spill it or I’ll have to kill you to keep you from hurting anyone else.” I didn’t know how I was going to do that without Scrap. But I’d find a way.
“Doyle Dubhcoill is what me dam calls me.”
“Dark Stranger of the Black Wood.”
He nodded.
I pulled out the pen and stared at it. My memory of signing a contract in blood nearly overwhelmed me. “There has to be a bargain. We need to trade something.”
“And don’t I just have a prophecy for you? Will you send me home in return for a prophecy?”
“I think I can do that. Though if it’s bad news I’d just as soon not know.”
“Not totally bad news.” His eyes rolled up and his face went blank. “By the light of the moon trailing a silver path along the river you shall find an end and a beginning.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I looked out over the river. Too deep a cloud cover tonight to allow the full moon to peek through.
“ ’Tis not for me to be knowing.”
“Never mind. I’ll figure it out eventually.”
“Can you send me home now?”
“I need a drop of your blood, Doyle of the Black Wood. I’m afraid this will bind us together for all time. But it’s the only way I can send you home. I just hope it works.”
“And aren’t you a Warrior of the Celestial Blade? Honor adorns your actions. If we be bound together, I can slip messages to you. And won’t that be a help to you now and then? Won’t I be wanting to mind your children in your absence?”
“I won’t have any children.” I gulped. The Powers That Be had guaranteed that. “Okay, Doyle. This might hurt a bit. Hold back your hair, please.”
He grabbed a handful of long black tresses and bared his neck. Then he leaned forward so I could more readily reach the throbbing vein.
Abruptly I stabbed his neck with the gold nib of the onyx pen.
Doyle howled in pain and jerked away from me, prancing and kicking back his heels. He slapped a hand over the wound. His skin closed almost immediately. Three drops of crimson stained his white lace-edged ascot.
I had five more drops of blood on the pen. Enough.
Before I could think about the consequences of binding him to me irrevocably, or the blood dried, I scribbled his name on the back of my wrist. The writing glowed with unearthly red highlights, standing out clearly for any to see.
I burned slightly as it etched permanently into my skin like an invisible tattoo.
“Doyle Dubhcoill, I command you to go home now, without hesitation or delay,” I said precisely and firmly. “And never come to this place again without a clear mission in mind or in deep friendship.”
His pale skin and dark hair blended, lost definition. His long jaw looked like a digital picture pixilating.
A mist drifted up from the river. It flowed between us, obscuring him. He faded, becoming no more substantial than the suspended droplets of moisture.
“Thank you, Lady Tess,” he whispered as the mist returned to the river. “Celebrate life. Sing well and die gently. I shall return to you when you need me.” His words fell into the cadence of a lovely tune.
And then he was gone.
Not lost any longer. “Oh, Scrap, come home soon. Don’t get lost like Doyle Dubhcoill. I’m lost without you. So don’t stray between two worlds like that homeless man . . .”
I dug in my pocket and found an emergency five-dollar bill. Two blocks away, a neon sign announced a late night convenience store. I dashed in and bought a couple sandwiches and their biggest cup of coffee.
The homeless man was still slumped in his doorway, still lost and alone. I handed him the food and drink, along with the tubs of cream and packets of sugar.
“Thanks, lady. God bless you.”
Maybe he wasn’t quite as lost as I thought. And neither was I.
I returned to Holly’s rollicking concert