Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon
Born to Run
A Serrated Edge Novel

CHAPTERONE

A dark red Mustang perched beside the ribbon of
highway, alone but for the young man resting against
its door. It was an unusual sight for such a place, here
where the shallow water of the wetlands reflected
moonlight, and endless silvered marsh grasses
whispered in the breeze. The dcadas didn't care if the
man was there, nor did the night-birds, nor the foxes
and raccoons — they were used to the comings-and-
goings of men in their loud machines, and would avoid
him. There would seem to be no reason for him to be
stopped here — no smoke or steam poured from
beneath the nostrilled hood, no line of shredded rub-
ber marked a newly departed tire. A highway patrol
officer would have been very interested — if there had
been one anywhere within twenty miles. And that, too,
was unusual; this dose to Savannah, there should be
police cruising this stretch of road.

"One of these nights," griped Tannim to no one in
particular, "I'll have a normal drive, with nothing chas-
ing me, pestering me, shooting at me ... no
breakdowns, no detours, no country-western music,
no problems. Peace, quiet, and the road. No place to
go, no one to save, no butts to cover except my own."

Tannim pulled himself up onto his old Mach 1,
faded black jeans shushing over the hood. Its cooling
engine tick-tick-ticked, radiator gurgling softly as it
relaxed from its work, the warm old American sheet
metal satin-smooth and familiar. He ran a hand
through his long brown hair, catching fingers in his

2           Mercedes Lackey and LarryDwan

uncountable ratty knots of curls, and snorted in cynical
amusement Casting his eyes skyward, scratching at his
scalp, he said wistfully, "Man. They keep telling me,
'Y'knew the job was dangerous when ya took it.'
Thanks for giving me the job description after I've
signed the contract, guys."

The cicadas answered him by droning on,
unimpressed.

The road was deserted, the air clear, the bright
country sky shining off of the curved fenders. Tiny
pinpoints of light twisted into sweeping contours only
to be swallowed up in the flat black intakes of the hood.

The beauty and peace of the evening softened his
mood. No finer job in this world, though. When it works out
— wish Kestrel were here to help. He's better at thus than me.
Tannim thought about his old friend from high school
back inJenks, Oklahoma, with more than a twinge of
regret — regret for Derek's curious blend of talents,
compassion, and guts. Derek Ray Kestrel was gifted
not only with a sexy name but with a knack for magic
that just wouldn't quit. Deke spent his time with his
cars and guitars, now, and didn't do road work
anymore. Guess he didn't have the stomach for it. It can get
gross enough to freak a coroner. Damned if he didn't have more
than just talent, though.

He gave up on his hair and adjusted his jacket, a
third-hand Battlestar Galactica fatigue he traded a
Plymouth carburetor kit for. Both he and the other kid
thought they'd gotten the better deal. They were both
right Tannim didn't know from carbs then, and had let
go of a rare five-hundred-dollar sixpack. Deke had
sure given him a hard dme about that! The other kid
had no idea how hard the battle-jackets were to get
Live and learn. He dug around in one of the many pock-
ets he'd sewn inside the jacket, and pulled out a cherry
pop, whistling along with the Midnight Oil tape on the
Mach 1's stereo, occasionally falling into key.

BORNTORUN            3

Decent night for a job, though. Not raining like last time,
and no lightning to dodge, either. Tannim was a young
man, but he was not inclined to die that way, despite the
reckless pace he kept up. Better to run towards something
than away, he'd always thought, but the scars and aches
all over his wiry body testified that even a fiery young
mage can be harmed by too much running. Or per-
haps, not running hard enough .. . He had been
self-trained up to age twenty, and then someone from
elsewhere had taken him in and really shown him the
ropes of high magic. Their friendship had built before
their student/teacher relationship really began,
Chinthliss admiring the boy's brazen style, wicked
humor, and dedication to the elusive and deadly ener-
gy of his world's magic. That was, in fact, the reason
Chinthliss had taken Tannim on in the first place; it
had not escaped the young mage that he and his men-
tor were a great deal alike in many ways. There were a
lot of words to describe the two of them, the best of
which were creative, crafty, adventurous, virtuous —
well, maybe not virtuous — but their many aides had
other choice adjectives, none flattering. Tannim had a
way of taking the simplest lesson and turning it around
to befuddle his "master," who in turn would trounce
the boy with the next one, and giggle about it for a
week. It was Chinthliss who had given Tannim his
name — it meant "Son of Dragons." It fit, especially
since he thought of Tannim as he would his own off-
spring.

Eventually, the lessons simply became jam sessions
of experimenting, and Tannim began teaching
Chinthliss a thing or two. What was about to occur on
this lonely stretch of road was something he'd come up
with himself years ago — something that had scared
the scat out of Chinthliss. It was the kind of "job" he
had done a couple of times with Deke Kestrel in tow.
He unwrapped the cherry pop and began chewing on

4 Mercedes Lackey and ianyDwon

it absent-mindedly, humming along with the tunes. He
crumpled the wrapper and slipped it into a pocket, and
his humming became a chant through clenched teeth.

He pulled his shoulders back and stretched, neck
and back popping from road fatigue, and let in the
rush of energy that heralded a major spell. Around
him, the dcadas rose in pitch, to harmonize with Peter
Garrett and the young man's chanting. Harmonizing
with Garrett was no small feat, and he noted it as a good
omen. He kept his arms raised toward the crescent
moon overhead, and his eyes perceived a subtle
change in the starlight as he entered his familiar
trance.

His body went rigid, as if rigor mortis had suddenly
frozen him in place.

To say that Tannim died then would be misleading
— although he was not precisely alive anymore either.
The trance he entered was protected well, and he was
being monitored by otherworldly allies, but the young
mage's soul was now connected to his body by the thin-
nest of threads —much more tenuous than anything
most mages ever depended on during out-of-body
work. Most of them would have been terrified at the
notion of trusting their lives to so fragile a bond. But
most mages weren't Tannim. He had been trusting his
life and more to far more fragile bonds than this for a
long time now.

As he stabilized his spirit-form, there was the sensa-
tion of everything being well-lit and dark at once, and
of infinite visibility — the dizzying effect of mage-sight
in the now-and-then hereafter.

He "felt" completely normal, right down to the
candy tucked in his cheek and the feel of the Mach 1
beneath him. He tapped his worn black high-tops
against the chrome, focusing his thoughts and getting
comfortable, teeth gnawing on the pop's soggy stem as
he drew energy up from the earth through the frame

BORN TO RUN            5

of the Mach 1, tempering it through the sheet metal,
grounding the wild-magic resonances into the engine
block, radiating the excess through the window glass.

Good so far; now tojmd him.

With that, he pulled his spirit away from his body, his
shadow-image standing upright, stretching, and ad-
justing its jacket while his body remained seated on the
hood, connected to it by a shimmering field of gos-
samer threads, the only traces of the spell visible to the
trained eye. He stepped away from his anchor, and
crossed the gravel shoulder.

A figure wavered and coalesced before him, a for-
tyish man in a plaid workshirt and chinos, standing
with his hands in his pockets, looking away from the
road. There was a half-smoked cigarette hanging slack-
ly from his lips. He was an ordinary man, the kind
you'd see at any truckstop, any feed store in the
southern belt, lines etched into his face by hard work,
bright sun, and pain endured. The only thing that set
him apart now was that he was edged by a soft yel-
lowish glow, which seemed to fill in every shadow and
crease in that face, and followed him as he stepped
towards Tannim.

His brows furrowed, as if trying to remember some-
thing. He took a drag off the cigarette. It glowed, but
did not bum down. Smoke curled up around his face, a
bright blue and violet. "Haven't seen you here before,"
the man said. "Hiya. Canfield, Ross Canfield...." The
man stepped forward, reflexively offered a hand. Tan-
nim bit his lip, stepped forward again, and grasped his
hand. Well, Fve got him. Oh God, I thought this was going to
be easier. He doesn't know.

"Hello, Ross," he said. "I'm Tannim."

Ross nodded; he seemed distracted, as if he wasn't
entirely focusing on the moment at hand. "Tannim?
Good ta meetcha. That a first name or a last name?"

"Only name," Tannim replied cautiously. "Just Tan-

6            Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dixan

mm. How are you? I mean, you look a little stressed,
Ross; are you all right? How do you feel... ? "

IfCanfield was surprised about this atypical show of
concern from a stranger, he didn't show it. "Been bet-
ter. Strange night." Ross took a pull off of his dgarette.
Its dp glowed again, but still didn't shorten. Its smoke
wisped up violet and vanished above his head, and he
blew smoke from his nostrils in a wash of reddish-
purple.

"Mmm. As strange as usual." Tannim smiled inward-
ly at the oxymoron. "Where you from, Ross?"

Canfield focused a little more on him as the question
caught his attention. "Louisiana. Metairie. You?"

Tannim moved a little farther away, unobtrusively
testing the energies coming from Canfield. "Tulsa."

Now Canfield's attention was entirely focused on the
young mage. "Why you ask?"

"Just curious; I wondered if you were local." It was
time to change the subject. "You know, Ross, you seem
like a friendly fella, laid back, able to handle 'bout any-
thing. Got something kinda serious to talk to you
about"

"Uh huh." Ross Canfield set his jaw, and the glow
around him turned a rich orange. Not a good sign. Red
would be worse, much worse, but orange was not a
good sign.

"Ah, look, Ross, I have some bad news for you, so
don't get mad at me...." They always blame the messenger,
don't they?

"Bad news?" Another drag on the dgarette, which
now glowed a fierce red — echoing the glow of energy
swirling around him. "My wife just left me, kid, and
you say you've got bad news?"

Abruptly, Tannim was no longer the focus of
Canfield's anger. "That sonuvabitch Marty Lear tore
the hell outta my lawn with her in that goddamn Jap
pickup of his and — and — took her away — "

BORN TO RUN            7

So; there was the reason for it all. Uh oh. Eistwwk, boy,
you hit it right the first time.

Tannim's eyes narrowed, and he took the mangled
pop stick out of his mouth. Power fluctuated around
them, silent and subtle, but there. Tannim noted their
patterns, setting up buffer fields with a mental call. He
saw a fan of lines spread around them both, channels
waiting to be filled if needed.

"What did you do?"

Canfield did not take offense at what should have
been considered a very personal question. "Went after
'em. We was fightin' and she'd already called the bas-
tard; he showed up and she jumped in. Caught up to
'em. Have this oF 'Cuda, hot as hell..."

"Hod."

Tannim was the focus of Canfield's attention again; he
felt the hot glare ofRoss's stare. "What?" Canfield asked.

He isn't going to like this. "You hod a Barracuda. I'm
sorry, Ross, but... that's the bad news I have for you."

"What you talkin' 1»out, son?" Ross Canfield looked
pale for a moment, then his glow pulsed cherry red
and his face began to twist into anger. He exhaled
bright red smoke from his nostrils, jaw set, threads of
energy coalesdng around his feet and fists.

Now a quick deflection. "Ross, walk with me a minute,
will you?" Tannim started along the roadbed toward
the overpass a hundred feet away. "How long would
you say you've been standing out here, Ross? An hour,
maybe? A couple?"

Ross hesitated, then followed Tannim. The tiny traces
of reddish energy cradded and followed his steps.

"Ross, you remember stopping here? Getting out of
that car? Lighting that dg?"

Ross absently pulled the dgarette from his mouth
and looked at it, brow knotted in concentration.

Tannim stood next to the overpass abutment It was
gray concrete, scarred and cracked, with patches ofce-

8           Mercedes Lackey and LanyDixon

ment covering half its surface. Bits of glass and plasdc
glittered in the starlight. Tannim picked up a razor-
edged sliver of safety-glass an inch long. Barrier's mplace;

nagfaaswdlteUhmstrmghtup. Hehasn'ttakenthehmts.

"Ross... this is all that's left of your 'Cuda. You hit
this bridge doin' one-forty, and you never walked away
from it."

The dgarette slipped from Ross' fingers and rested
in the dry grass. It smoldered, but didn't set fire to the
grass it landed in. The energy field around Ross Can-
field crackled like a miniature thunderstorm,
apparently invisible to him.

"Ross, look over there." Tannim pointed at the Mus-
tang, and at the man still sitting on the hood. "That's
me."

Ross took a deep breath, stooped to pick up his
dgarette, and returned it in his mouth.

Here's where it. fats. Icon handle it; he's not vxipowerfvl ...I
hope. Tannimbuiltuphisdefenses,preparingforamen-
tal scream of rage.... Or worse. Sometimes they don't just
blame the messenger, they kill the messenger. I hate this part.

Ross bit his lip, shock plain on his face as he realized
the meaning ofTannim's words.

"Never... walked... away...."

Tannim nodded, ready to strike back if Ross broke and
gaveintotheragebuildinginhim. "So I'm dead, huh?"

Tannim could feel the energies arcing between
them, screaming for focus....

Hoc bay. Now so am I.

"That's right, Ross. You died three years ago, right
here. I'm sorry, really...."

Ross Canfield pulled himself up to his full height,
towering over Tannim by almost a foot, eyes glowing red
with fury as he seethed. His fists denched tighter, then
relaxed slowly and finally opened. His broad shoulders
slouched as his aura dimmed to orange, red tinges
slithering away into the ground. He inhaled one massive

BORNTORUN            9

breath, pulledahand back through his hair and said—

"WelUAK."

Tannim heard mental giggles from his guardians,
felt them skitter away to other business, pulling his bor-
rowed energy reserves with them. He heaved a sigh of
relief and lowered his guard against a strike.

Ross swayed as if drunk, then stared atTannim's
spirit-form like he was trying out newly bought eyes.

"So, this is what it's like to be a goddamn ghost," Ross
said to Tannim as they stood beside the Mustang, "[ust
my damn luck. I should've expected something like
this to happen to me. What the hell do I do now?"

Tannim stood at the hood, beside himself. "I'll tell
you in a second." He drew up the Walking spell's
reserve energy and stepped back into his body, trusting
his instincts that Ross was not going to disturb his trans-
fer. Back at home, he opened his eyes, stretched and
stood, rubbing the ever-present kink in his left leg.

"Just for the record, you could have hurt me pretty
bad back there, Ross. Just now, I mean. Stepping into
and out of a body is a vulnerable time. I trusted you
that you wouldn't — thanks."

"Uh huh. What was I gonna do, rattle my chains at
ya?" Ross snorted. "And, uh, if it's not too much
trouble, what the hell good is this gonna do me? What
am I s'posed to do? If I'm dead, where are the angels?"

Tannim paused, and walked to the door of the car.
"Get in; I'll tell you."

Ross reached for the door-handle, and his hand
passed through it, a tracing of fire around the point of
entry. "That's lesson one, Ross. You're only partially in
this land of the physical. You can choose whether or not
to interact with it. Lotta advantages to being a ghost; I
don't get the option of deciding if I want to be hit by a
bullet or no." Tannim grinned. "You do. Or rather, you
will. You're not up to that yet"

10 Mercedes Lackey and LarryDaan

"That's spooky as shit," Ross observed, watching his
forearm disappear completely into the door.

"Normally you wouldn't be able to do that to this
particular car. As a ghost, that is. It has some powerful
defenses. I'm lowering the ones against spirits for you,
keyed to you and you only. Otherwise, you couldn't get
within a foot of that door. Also, another thing: if you get
near my tape collection, I'll kill you." Tannim smilecL
"You can fry magnetics with a touch — tapes, com-
puter disks, that sorta thing. The tapes are in that red
box there. Please don't touch it."

Ross looked through the window at the red fabric
case, and read "NO GHOSTS OR POSSESSIONS WITHIN
10 FEET" embroidered into a panel on its lid» The cau-
tion was surrounded by arcane symbols. "Yeah, I see.
What are those, spells or something?"

Tannim chuckled and leaned against the roof. "The
runes? They're from the back of Led Zeppelin Four.
Scares most of the ghosts bigtime, except the metal-
heads, they just give me a high-sign and say
'Duuuude!'"

Ross laughed, and pulled his arm free of the door.
He shoved his other hand in his pockets, and dragged
on his ever-present cigarette. The smoke wisped away,
disappearing as blue this time.

"That's another advantage, you can see things living
people can't, like that warning. It's for spirits only. Your
vision should be changing soon, now that you've real-
ized ... ah, what you are now. Things'11 start getting
pretty weird... people will have funny glows around
them, colors that show how they feel emotionally, the
brighter they are the more intense they are. I see that
way all the time, it's called 'mage-sight' — that's how I
can see you now. Watch out for blind spots, they mean
trouble every time. They stand for something you can't
see, something someone won't let you see, or some-
thing you don't want to see."

BORN TO RUN            11

Ross appeared grim for a second, then turned his
head to face the overpass.

He looks like he's seen a...

Well, he turned very pale.

"I can't see... I never noticed that before. That's
where I died, and I can't see it at all." Ross looked visib-
ly shaken, and began walking towards the overpass.

Would he be able to see it? Should Tannim even en-
courage him to try? But he seemed ready. "The trick is
to look past it, and bring your field of focus into it. Con-
centrate on seeing the road past it, then pull back until
it appears; the more you want it, the sooner it will
come."

Tannim watched him walk up to the place where
he'd died, and stop.

"Ross..." he said softly, "you don't have to do this, if it's
making you uncomfortable, at least not right away. There
are ghosts in this world who haven't been able to come to
gripswiditheirowndeathsfor centuries. It^snoteasy."

"How th' hell would you know?" Ross snapped, and
then immediately looked embarrassed.

"I've helped almost a hundred move on to their next
destination," Tannim said. "Not always willingly, but
... it's for the better."

Ross faced him, skepticism warring with a touch of
awe. "You're not — an angel, are you?"

"Me?" Tannim laughed. More often, he was mistaken
for something else entirely. "Not hardly. Not even dose.
I'm just a man who can tell you a thing or two about
magic, about dying, and what comes after it. Angels live
far deaner lives, and have far deaner consdences."

"There are angels, then? And Heaven?" Ross pulled
a long drag on his dgarette.

"I guess." Tannim shrugged. "Hell, I don't know
what your definition of Heaven is, so I can't say. But I
will tell you that not everyone who dies waltzes through
the 'Pearly Gates' of their choice; they still have things to

12 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dawn

do. A lot of *em love this world, and don't want to leave.
They don't have to, at least, not right away."

"They don't?" Canfield looked surprised — and
bemused.

"Nope. Not if they still have things to do, things on
their minds." Tannim leaned up against the Mustang.
"Most move on to whatever suits them, pretty much
right off. But some, it takes a while to find out what it is
they want. You're probably that way. It's a whole dif-
ferent ball game when you're dead; conflicts that were
big guns when you were alive don't count for much. You
meet all kinds of people from all times. Plenty to talk
about Hell, the drone of sports talk at Candlestick Park
from a hundred thousand dead fans is enough to put
you over the edge!"

"Uh huh." Ross pulled the butt from his mouth. "So
I'm gonna be this way for a while?"

"Yeah, probably." He kicked up at the dear night sky
for a moment. "Since you didn't — go on, when you
really understood what had happened to you. I guess
you must have some things to do. The way you are —
it's kind of a way to live again, with your senses en-
hanced and a new way of looking at things. Kind of
gives you a second chance."

"I guess it isn't all bad," Ross observed after a mo-
ment of thought. "Guy could do a lot, see a lot, like this.
Things he never got a chance to."

Tannim nodded. "There's a big tradeoff to it; if there's
something you need to take care of, that de will hold you
to a place. Even without that, there's des to your family.
Most ghosts build up a sort of'monitoring' of their
families and loved ones, so they know what they are
doing, and can be there to lend support from beyond if
they can, while they're soil ghosts. Nadve Americans in
particular have a strong de widi dieir ancestors, and dieir
spirits fill everything around them. If I were you, I'd
travel a bit and reconcile your feelings about everyone

BORN TO RUN            13

you've ever loved or hated. Then visit your gravesite.
After dial it's up to you whedier to stay or to move on."

"Well, ain't dlis a helluva turn. Life after deadi is just
as big a pain in die ass as living." Ross planted his hands
on his hips, and stared towards die bridge. "I can kinda
see it now, Tannim. And I can see ... my 'Cuda. Holy
shit... I really did buy it good." Ross shuddered, and
swore again. "Damn. I loved diat car."

Tannim nodded. "Yeah, I can relate. I've lost a
couple of good ones myself.,.. Thank it for its services
and offer it its own afterlife. Even cars can develop
spirits, believe me. Honor everydiing you knew, Ross,
dien you'll be happy again."

Ross looked down at his feet. "I... I loved her too,
more than the car, more ..." he said, and Tannim
didn't have to ask to know who he was talking about "I
cried like a goddamn baby every dme I couldn't tell her
how I felt. It was easier to drink die booze dian to find
the words. And I chased after her drunk . .. hell, I
didn't even know what road she was on. I couldn't even
get dying right..."

Better intervene before he starts getting caught in a
downward spiral. "Uhhh, Ross, I've met a lot of spirits in
my day, and diere've been a lot of diem who died 'good
deaths,' real 'blaze of glory' stuff. Every one of'em
mentioned how stupid it was after all, you know, big
picture stuff. I don't know ifdiere is a right way to die.
But, diey all have had regrets about dieir lives ... die
real heroes and die regular joes."

"Hmm. Yeah, well, I guess I have a lot to diink about,
and a lot of dme to do it'" Ross turned, and pulled die
dgarette from his lips. "So now I get die chance to change
dungs, huh? Fix what I shouldn't have been in at all.
Fine." He direw die dgarette down and ground it out
"I've wanted to quit smoking for twenty years now, and
never could. I'll be damned if I'll do it when I'm dead.
Don't start drinking or smoking, boy."

14 Mercedes Lackey and, Lany Dixan

Tannim smiled and said, "Yeah, the stuff '11 kill you."
Ross bent down before the concrete pillar, and
reached a translucent hand towards a sparkling shard
of glass. He crouched there a moment longer and
smoothed the dirt over it, then strode towards the Mus-
tang, leaving his death behind him.

The Alan Parsons Project's "Don't Answer Me"
played on the tape deck as the wind rushed past the
Mach 1, its engine thrumming in mechanical sym-
phony. The breeze from the open windows made the
young driver's hair stream back against the seat-covers,
and that same breeze blew right through his passenger.

Ross Canfield put his hand to his chin, shifted to lean
his arm against the sill, and put his arm through it He
withdrew and tried again, this time successfully resting
his arm against the vinyl. "Shit, this is gonna be hard to
get used to."

Tannim chuckled and leaned forward to tap a stick-
ing gauge. "You're doing fine, Ross. Just remember,
things in my world may or may not affect you. It's most-
ly a matter of what you want to be influenced by; for
instance, you could, if you wanted to, fall right out of
this car doing seventy now by simply deciding that seat
won't affect you. Then, you may choose for the road
not to affect you, and you wouldn't be hurt by the falL
But you missed the armrest just now because you for-
got to 'want' it to affect you. Tricky, huh?"

"Kinda like — what'd they used to say? Mind over
matter?"

"Exactly." He nodded with approval. "Now, until
you learn spirit-traveling, you're limited by your old
human abilities. One day, you may be able to fly cross-
country by will alone, but for now, if you fell out of the
car, I'd have to stop and pick you up, 'cause you
couldn't run fast enough to keep up with me."

Ross chuckled. "Yeah, but I can run faster now that

BORN TO RUN            15




I'm dead. No wheezy lungs from smoking, no beer gut."

"Yeah, and you can play tennis with dead pros to
keep in shape."

Ross and Tannim both laughed. "You know, I never
thought being dead would be so damned entertaining.
And it seems like I should be more upset about it."

Tannim kept his eyes on the road, but he smiled to
himself. Ross Canfield was coming along very well — a
lot faster than Tannim would have thought. "Well,
seriously, Ross, there are a lot of ways to deal with it, but
you're running on instinct. Your subconscious was
aware you were dead, but your superconsdous wasn't
ready to accept it, so you stood there sucking a butt for
a couple of years. Now, it's kind of a relief that it's out in
the open, and you're able to get to the decisions you've
been building towards all this time. And as for it being
entertaining, kissing a bridge at lightspeed drunk off
your ass is a grim thing, but there are a lot of things
about being a ghost that are damn funny, no matter
what the circumstances are."

"Like fallin' through doors," Ross supplied.

"Uh huh. So, deal with it now with a laugh, because
there are plenty of things in the future that'll make you
cry, make you scream — " now he turned to look at
Canfield out of the comer of his eye " — and make you
wish you were more dead than you are."

"Huh. As you can tell by the two-year wait, I don't
spook easily." His face cracked with a smirk.

"Ross! I'd never picked you for a punster!"

"Yeah, well, that's why I'm not in Heaven right now."

Tannim grinned and thought about the turn of a
friendly card. Maybe they were both lucky they'd met.

"Seriously... what do I do now? How'm I supposed to
learn all these ghost things, and how do I get outta bein'
one? This shit's gonna get old eventually." Now Ross
looked uncertain. "I don'tsuppose you'd teach me — "

Tannim shook his head. "I can't, Ross. The best I can

16 Mercedes Lackey and Lurry Dwon

do is what I just did — break you out of the stalemate
you were in and get you started. Like most things,
Ross, you have to get out and practice. Leam by doing.
Talk to other ghosts, pick up the tricks. I can't show you
what you need to know; I've got too many other irons
in the fire, and I've got problems enough with people
trying to make me into a ghost"

At first Ross snorted; then he looked around, and
squinted. His eyes widened, and Tannim figured he had
started to see some of the protections on the Mustang. It
was enough to impress him — even if he wasn't seeing
more than a fraction of the magics Tannim had infused
the Mach 1 with. "There are a couple of other things I
can tell you: just like you can let the rest of the world af-
fect you, with practice, you can influence what happens
in the physical world — or, more accurately, the world
I'm in right now. Like back there, when you touched
that piece of glass, buried it... there's a lotta different
kinds of'physical.' Making a change in this one means
discovering how to make yours interact with it. That
thing with the magnetics is an example of one you can't
control; there are others you'll pick up soon enough."

"Got some simple tips?"

"Sure. Stay away from things that make you tired,
don't fiddle with walls that won't let you pass, and if
anything tries to eat you, hurt it."

"Tries to — eat me?" Ross's eyes widened again.

"There's a lot of unfriendly things out there, includ-
ing some that used to be human. Remember, don't
attack first. Undl you have the experience to tell friend
from foe, be cautious. It's always easier to hold a defen-
sive position anyway. And there are a lot of things out
there that aren't human at all; treat them fairly, they can
become very dose friends. My best friend isn't human.
Pretty simple. Otherwise, things are similar to living.
You can have sex as a ghost, ride in an F-15. Fly on the
Space Shuttle if you want, if you can find room. It's very

BORN TO RUN            17

popular. Enjoy it, and leam. That's the key to moving on
— knowledge and maturity are important."

"But, what about moving on? How — "

Tannim shook his head. "I can't tell you; it's different
for everyone. You'll know when. If you didn't know
how, you'd have never seen the bridge back there; that
was an important move. It shows you're finally ready to
accept what you are."

Ross was silent for a while, and the miles ticked away
as the skyline of Savannah came into view. Finally he
spoke. "Tannim... thanks."

"No thanks needed, friend," Tannim said, slowing as
he approached the dty limit. "You ready to take off on
your own?"

Ross nodded. "If you need anything, call. I'll find a
way to get there. I guess this is dangerous work you're
doing, and I owe you for this," he said through teary
spectral eyes. "I'd better get out there. I lost enough
dme to getting shit-faced before, and I want to see what I
missed."

Tannim looked sideways at Ross Canfield, nodded,
and turned his eyes hack towards the highway, pulled to
the shoulder and stopped. The dty lights illuminated
the car, the driver, and the empty seat beside him.

"Be sure to visit River Street while you're here, Ross.
Always a party. Good luck. Here's your exit."

The ghost stepped through the door onto the
shoulder, and Tannim watched him in the rearview
mirror, an ordinary enough guy, watching the Mach
1's taillights recede into the night. Ordinary — except
that only Tannim could see him.

And only Tannim could hear him, as clearly as if
Ross still sat beside him.

"You need me, you call."

CHAPTER TWO

"That was Georgia's own B-52s, with 'Rock
Lobster,' " said the radio announcer, his cheerful
voice murmuring from the sixteen speakers of Doc-
tor Sam Kelly's home-built quadraphonic system.
"Next up, Shriekback, the Residents, the new
British release from George Louvis, and an oldie
from Thomas Dolby, but first..."

Sam hit the "mute" button, and the commercial
faded to a whisper. The dmer would bring the volume
back up in another sixty seconds, and by then the sta-
tion should be back to music. Doctor Samuel Sean
Kelly might have majored in metallurgy, but he had
minored in electrical engineering; sensing, even back
in the '40s, that the time would come when everyone
had to have some understanding of electronics. After
all, hadn't he grown up on H. G. Wells, and the sdence-
fiction tradition that the engineer was the man who
could and would save the universe? "Not bad, for an
old retired fart," he chuckled to his Springer Spaniel,
Thoreau, who raised his head and ears as if he under-
stood what his master was saying. "I liked Elvis in the
'50s, I liked the Stones and the Fuggs in the '60s, and
now, sure, I'm on the cutting edge — right, boyo?"

Thoreau wagged his stub of a tail and put his head
back down on his paws. He didn't care how eclectic his
master's taste in music was, so long as he didn't crank up
those imposing speakers to more than a quarter of their
capacity. When Sam retired from Gulfetream, he'd hdda
party for his younger colleagues that was still the talk of

20 Mercedes Lackey andLanyDswn

the neighborhood. There had been complaints to the
police about the music from as far away as five blocks, and
poor Thoreau had gone into hiding in the back doset of
the bedroom, not to emerge for three days.

The desk-top before him was pretematurally dean,
with only a single envelope cluttering the surface. Sam
fingered the letter from "Fairgrove Industries," as the
radio volume returned to normal, and Thomas Dolby
complained ofhyperactivity. He sat back in his aging
overstuffed rediner, surrounded by his books, frown-
ing at the empty room and wishing wistfully that he
hadn't given up smoking. Or that he hadn't agreed to
talk to this "Tannim" person.

It had seemed very harmless when he first got the let-
ter; this "Tannim" — what sex the person was he hadn't
known until the phone call came confirming the evening
appointment — wanted to talk to him about a job as a
consultant He had offered Sam an amazing amount of
money just to talk to him: fifteen hundred dollars for an
evening of his otherwise idle time. Sam had said yes
before he thought the consequences through — after all,
how many retired metallurgists could boost their income
by that much just by talking to someone? But later, after
he'd had lunch with some of the youngsters at
Gulfstream and heard some of the latest news, he began
to wonder. There was a lot going on over there right now;

the joint project with the Russians, a lot of composite
development and things being done with explosive
welding and foamed aluminum. None of it was exactly
secret, but there was a lot of proprietary information Sam
was still privy to — and more he could get clandestine ac-
cess to, if he chose. What if this "Faiigrove Industries" —
which was not listed with the Better Business Bureau,
and not in any industrial database that Sam had access to
— was just a front for something else? What if this Tan-
nun was trying to set him up as a corporate informant, or
looking for some "insider trading" type information?

BORN TO RUN           21

Sam had loved his job at Gulfstream; they were, as he
joked, a "growing, excited company." He liked the
people he worked with enough to socialize with them,
even now, when he had been retired for the past several
months. He wasn't interested in doing anything that
would hurtthecompany.

Sam tapped the edge of the envelope on his desk and
made up his mind about what he was going to do, now
that he had realized the implications. "Well, Thoreau,
if this young fella thinks I'm some kind of senile old
curmudgeon he can fool with a silver tongue and a
touch of blarney, he's going to be surprised," Sam said
aloud. "If it's looking to make a fool of me he is, I just
may be making a fool of him."

If this Tannim was trying to set him up as a corporate
informant, Sam dedded, this old man would turn the
tables on him. There was a break-in camera under the
eaves; it took snaps when the burglar alarm went off,
but it could be operated manually. Very well, then, he'd
snap pictures of the man's car and license tag when he
arrived. First thing in the morning, he'd call his old
bosses, give them the number and the young man's
description, and let them know exactly what had gone
on. Looking for a corporate informant wasn't illegal,
exactly — but the fellows at Gulfstream could certainly
put a stop to anything shady.

And Sam would still have the fifteen hundred
dollars.

Not bad, when you stopped to think out all the im-
plications first, rather than backtracking in a panic.
Assuming of course, the check didn't bounce.

But planning ahead in case things did go wrong was
what had made Sam one of the best in his field.

"Or so I like to tell myself," he said aloud, smiling at his
own conceit.

The doorbell rang, and Sam reached automatically
for the modified TV remote-control that, through the

22 Menxdes Lackey and Lorry Dmm

intervention of an old Commodore microcomputer,
handled gadgets throughout the house. The poor old
thing was useless even as a game machine these days,
but it was perfectly adequate to mute the radio — or
take pictures of the young man and his car before Sam
even reached the door. He made his way to the door
with a shade of the limberness of his youth, and opened
it, catching the stranger in a "listening" pose that told
Sam the man had been trying to catch the sound of his
own approaching footsteps.

"Doctor Kelly?" The man at the door was il-
luminated by the powerful floodlight Sam had used to
replace the ridiculous little phony carriage-lamp that
had been installed there. And he was a very young man,
much younger than his deep voice had suggested. He
nodded in a noncommittal fashion and the man con-
tinued. "I'm Tannim — we had an appointment — "

He was carrying a dark leather folder. Sam first took
in that, then the wild mop of curly hair, cut short in
front and long in the back, the way a lot of kids on MTV
cut theirs — a dark nylon jacket, with a good shirt un-
derneath, and a soft scarfinstead of a de — dark slacks,
not jeans — boots — the first impression was
reasonable. But not exactly fitting the image of a cor-
porate recruiter. The face was good; high cheekbones,
determined chin, firm mouth, fine bone-structure and
curiously vulnerable-looking eyes. The kid looked like
a lot of the hotshot young engineers Sam worked with.
But not like what Sam had been expecting.

"I remember," Sam replied cautiously. There was
something about the young man that suggested
trustworthiness, perhaps his eyes, or the curious sense
of stillness about him; but Sam knew better than to trust
his first impression. Some of the biggest crooks he had
ever known had inspired that same feeling of trust.
And some of them had been just as young as this man.

"Can I come in?" A quirky grin spread across the

BORN TO RUN           23

man's bony face, transforming the stillness without en-
tirely removing it. "Or would you rather earn your
retainer standing here in the doorway? Or would you
like to go somewhere else entirely?"

Well, it wouldn't hurt to let the youngster in. Sam
moved aside, and Tannim stepped across the threshold.
Sam noticed that he walked with a limp, one he was at
pains to minimize; that he moved otherwise with a cat-
like grace at odds with the limp. Sam was no stranger to
industrial accidents and their aftermath. This was some-
one who had suffered a serious injury and learned to
cope with it. That moved him a little more into the
"favorable" column, in Sam's mind. Con artists tended
to emphasize injuries to gain sympathy — con artists
tended not to get injured in the first place. "Follow me, if
you would," Sam said, leading the way to his office. This
was going to be more interesting than he had thought.

Tannim cocked his head to one side as he entered
the office, and caught what was playing softly over the
speakers. The playlist had migrated to the outre. His
eyes and his smile increased a trifle. "Doctor Kelly —
I'm pleasantly surprised by your taste in music."

Sam shrugged, as the Residents gave forth their own
terrifyingly skewed version of"Teddybear." He took
his seat in the rediner behind his desk and waved at the
two identical rediners in front of the desk.

But Tannim didn't take a seat; instead, he put the
folder he had been carrying on the desk, and beside it,
a set ofI.D. cards he fanned like a set of playing cards.

"Before we talk. Doctor Kelly, I'd like to assure you of
something. Fairgrove Industries is a brand new entity in-
sofar as the rest of the world is concerned — but we've
been around a long, long time in the private sector." Sam
looked up to see that Tannim's smile had turned into a
wide grin. "We've been around a lot longer than anyone
knows. I know what you've probably been thinking; that
I'm a corporate raider, thatrmafront-manforindustrial

24 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Down

espionage, or that I'm looking for information on your
former employer. Actually, I don't usually do this for
Fairgrove, but the folks back at the plant thought I'd be
the best person to approach you."

"Oh?" Sam Kelly replied. "So —just what is it that
this Fairgrove does that they want from me?"

Tannim tapped the folder with one long finger. "We
build racecars. Doctor Kelly. We have nothing to do
with aerospace, and I doubt very much we'll ever be in-
volved in that business. But you have skills we very
much need."

Sam looked back down at the top photo I.D.,
which was, unmistakably, Tannim. And listed only
the single name, oddly enough — no initials, no first
or last name. It was an SCCA card, autodub racing,
sure enough; beneath it was a SERRA card
(whatever that was), an IMSA card, an I.D. card for
Roebling Road racetrack, and beneath that was his
Fairgrove card. That particular piece of I.D. listed
him as "test-driver/ mechanic," which Sam hadn't
known was still possible. Not these days, when either
profession required skill and training enough to
overwhelm most ordinary people.

But Tannim didn't give him any chance to ask about
that — he opened the folder, and began describing just
what it was that Fairgrove wanted from him, if he
would take the job.

"We need you as a consultant. Doctor Kelly," he said,
earnestly. "We're working on some pretty esoteric tech-
nologies here, and we need someone with a solid
background who isstillflexibleand opentonewideas. You
were one of the best metallurgists in the country before
you retired — and no one has ever accused you of being
stuckmarut.orbeing too old-iashioned to change."

That surprised him further, and embarrassed him a
little. He was at a loss for a response, but Tannim was
dearly waiting for one. "Oh, I would'na know about

BORN TO RUN           25

that," he said, lapsing briefly into the Irish brogue of
his childhood.

"We would," Tannim said firmly, nodding so that his
unruly mop of dark, curly hair flopped over into one
eye, making him look, thin as he was, like a Japanese
anwe character. "We've looked very carefully at
everyone who might suit us, and who could legitimate-
ly work with us without compromising themselves or
their current or past employers. You are the best"

Sam felt himself blushing, something he hadn't done
in years. "Well, if you think so... what's thejob, anyway?"

"Metallurgy," Tannim told him. "Specifically,
fabricating engine blocks and other high-stress parts of
non-ferrous materials." He flashed that grin again,
from under the errant lock of hair, calling up an
answering smile from Sam. "Like your music, we're on
the cutting edge."

"I don't know," Sam replied, slowly, as Tannim final-
ly took his seat, leaving his host free to leaf through the
Fairgrove materials. Most of them had the look of
something that had been produced on a personal com-
puter, the great-great grandchild of the one that
helped Sam run his house, and the cousin of the one
on the workstation behind him. The specs Fairgrove
had on their "wish list" were impressive — and as un-
likely as any ofH. G. Wells' dreams of Time Machines.
"I don't know. Engine blocks — you're talking about a
high-stress application there. You want a foamed
aluminum matrix for internal combustion, with water-
cooling channels, air-cooling vanes, and alloy piston
sleeves? In five castings for the main block? I don't
know that it's possible."

"Ah, but you don't know it's not possible, do you?"
Tannim retorted. "We aren't going to pay you on the
basis of whether or not common wisdom says it's pos-
sible — we're doing research. Applied research, yes,
but when you do research, you accept the fact that

26 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dixan

some of your highways may turn out to be dead ends.
That's life. And speaking of payment — " He reached
into his jacket, and pulled out an oak-tree-embossec
envelope, which he laid on top of the Fairgrove folder.

Sam thumbed it open. There was a cashier's check in
side, made out on his own bank, for fifteen hundred
dollars. Until thismoment.Samhadnotentu-elybelieveci
in the reality of this retainer. Now, holding it in his hands
he could find no flaw in it — and no real flaw with whar
Fairgrove, in the person of this young man, proposed.

Except, of course, whether or not what they wanter'
was a pipe-dream, a Grail; desirable, yes, but impos-
sible to achieve....

Or was it? These people certainly had a lot of money
to wave around. And there wen some problems you
could solve by throwing money at them.

"I suppose I could take a look at this place," he ven
tured. "I could at least see what you people have to worf
with."

If anything, Tannim's grin got wider. He spread hii
hands wide. "Sure! How about — right now? We're all
night owls over there, and it isn't that far away"

Now? In the middle of the night? That wasn't an
offer Sam expected. Did they expect him to come? Or
did they expect him to say no?

If he showed up now, surely they wouldn't have time
to put on a big display for him... and that mightbe all for
the best, really. He'd see things as they were, not a dog-
and-pony show. As for the lateness of the hour, well, one
of the advantages of being retired was that he no longer
had to dock in — and he didn't have to follow the
company's time schedule. He'd always been a night owl
by nature, and although this was the "middle of the
night" to some people, for him the day was barely
halfway through — one reason why he'd set this ap-
pointment long after a "normal" working day had
ended.

BORN TO RUN            27

And besides all that, if he was going to take a look at
this place, he wanted to see all of it. That meant the
metal shops, too. This early in the fall, daytime
temperatures were still in the nineties, and no matter
how good their air-conditioning was, the shops would
be as hot as Vulcan's forge during the daylight hours.
Metal shops always were, especially if these people
were doing casting work.

"All right," he said, shoving himself resolutely out of
his chair. "Let's go. No better time to see this miracle
place of yours than right now."

"Great!" the young man answered, sliding out of his
chair and getting to his feet with no more than a slight
hesitation for the bad leg. "Want to take my car? We've
used it to test out some SERRA-racer modifications;

y'know, suspension mods, rigidity, a little composite
fiddling. It's street-legal — barely."

There was something challenging about his grin,
and Sam decided to take the dare. "Sure," he replied,
taking just enough time with his remote to tell the
house to run the "guardian" program. He slipped the
remote into his pocket as an added precaution; without
that, no one would be able to disarm the system. Not
even cutting the power would make a difference; the
house had its own uninterruptable power supply, and
a generator that kicked on if the power stayed off for
more than half an hour. He'd installed all that during
the Gulf War terrorist scare, when high-level people at
a lot of industries, including Gulfstream, had been
warned they might be targets for kidnapping or ter-
rorism. He'd gotten into the habit of arming it
whenever he left or went to sleep, and it didn't seem an
unreasonable precaution still. Maybe he was paranoid,
but being paranoid had saved lives before this.

Thoreau sighed as he saw Sam reach for his jacket.
Sam reached down and ruffled the dog's ears, promis-
ing that even though "daddy" wasn't going to be




28          Mercedes Lackey and LanyDixan.

around to beg a late-night snack from, there would be a
treat when he got back. Thoreau accepted this
philosophically enough, and padded alongside,
providing an escort service to the front door.

There, Sam was briefly involved in locking the door,
and wasn't paying a great deal of attention to the car
behind him. Then he turned around.

Sam had been around hot-rodders' all his life;

seemed to him that for every four techies at Gulfstream
who were indifferent to automobiles, there would be
one who cherished the things. Now he was looking at a
machine that would impress any of them. It was
parked with the front wheels turned rakishly, and he
made note of its distinguishing features. Dark metallic
red; three antennas. Scuffed sidewalk. Dark windows.
It was hardly the "company car" he was expecting.

Tannim was wearing that sideways smile of his, and
thumbed his keyring. The Mustang rumbled to life,
and its doors unlocked and opened a crack. Despite
himself, Sam's face showed his interest in the electronic
gimcrackery. Tannim gestured to the open passenger's
side door with a flourish, and went around to the
driver's side as Sam pulled the door open and got in.

Sam pulled the seatbelt snug as Tannim slid into the
driver's side, noting as he did so, that these were not
standard American windowshade seatbelts, which
tended — in his opinion — to allow far too much
freedom of movement for safety. And as Tannim dosed
the driver's side door, he noted something else....

Something besides the door had closed, sealing them
inside the protective shell of the Mustang. It had sprung
into being the moment Tannim's door closed, and
covered car and occupants. It wasn't tangible, like the
seatbelts or the roll-cage — it wasn't even visible to ordi-
nary sight. But it was there, nevertheless. Tannim
pushed a worn tape into the dash deck, and turned
down or switched off most of the suite of other instru-

BORNTORUN            29

ments there — the CB, high-end channel-scanner, an
in-dash radar detector, and — what was this, a police-
repeater sensor? Sam looked over the interior a little
more, noting the various boxes in the back seat. Some
more electronics gear. Hmm. There was also a trash-box
stuffed with candy wrappers, a dssue box, allergy tablets,
fire extinguishers mounted next to crowbars, two first-
aid kits... and an embroidered tape-case. As he peered
at it, Sam thought he could almost see words in the
threads, and familiar symbols. This vehicle was notjust a
very unusual car; there was more to it than that There
was a great deal of power under the hood — and there
was far more Power of a different sort infused into it

The differences might not be visible to normal eyes,
but Sam had a litde more to use than what his granny
had called "outer eyes." Sam had not been gifted with
the ability the Irish referred to as "the Sight" to neglect
using it, after all. Nor had becoming a man of science
interfered with that. If anything, he was too much of a
scientist to discount a gift that had granted him
knowledge he might not otherwise have, with fair
reliability, over so many years.

Interesting. Very interesting.

"So," he said, as Tannim pulled out smoothly onto
the darkened highway, the headlights cutting the dark-
ness ahead of them into areas of seen and half-seen.
"Tell me about Fairgrove. Why did they decide to get
into manufacturing? And why nonferrous materials?"

Tannim fiddled with the tape deck for a moment
before replying. He had put in a Clannad tape, and
made a show of ensuring that the volume exactly
matched that of the radio in Sam's office, stalling a litde.
Sam knew a stall when he saw one.

"Before I tell you about Fairgrove, I have to explain
SERRA," he temporized, paying doser attention to the
road ahead than it really warranted. "In some ways,
they're almost the same entity. Virtually everyone

30          Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dixan

working for Fairgrove came out ofSERRA, and the
president and board of Fairgrove actually helped
found SERRA. Uh, their families did."

Sam was pretending to watch the road, but he was
really watching Tannim out of the corner of his eye.
And that last, about the board founding SERRA, had
been a real slip. Tannim hadn't meant to say that. But
what made it a slip?

"So? What's this SERRA?" he asked.

"South Eastern Road Racing Association," Tannim
replied promptly, and with enthusiasm he didn't try to
conceal. "It's an offshoot of the SCCA— Sports Car
Club of America. Part of the problem for us was that
SCCA doesn't allow the sort of modifications we
wanted, and the folks in SERRA wanted to push the
envelope of sportscar racing a bit more, more
'experimental' stuff. Fairgrove also supports an IMSA
team, running GTP, but that's for pro drivers, guys
who don't do anything but drive, and we've only just
started that circuit. Some of us — like me — sdll race
SCCA, in fact, I drive for the Fairgrove team. There's
things to like about both dubs, which is why Fairgrove
still maintains a team in both."

"You don't drive in the Fairgrove SERRA team?"
Sam said. Tannim shrugged.

"We've got some drivers as good as I am on the
SERRA team, drivers who can't race SCCA cars. Since I
could do both, I opted for the SCCA team, and left rides
for the other guys." He grinned. "Don't worry, I get
plenty of track time in! If I had the time, I could spend
every weekend and most weekdays racing."

Sam had no doubt that Tannim was a professional
driver in every sense of the word, despite the disclaimer;

the way he handled this car put Sam in mind of an ex-
pert fighter pilot, of the way the plane becomes an
extension of the pilot himself, and the pilot can do things
he shouldn't be able to. There was an air of cocky com-

BORNTORUN           31

petence about the kid, now that he was behind the
wheel, that was very like a good pilot's too.

"That's not cheap, fielding several teams — " Sam
ventured.

"Three teams, each with several cars, and no, it isn't
cheap," Tannim admitted cheerfully. "The founding
families started out independently wealthy — in-
herited money that survived the '20s crash —but
they've been making radng pay for itself for a while
now. Not just purses and adverts — they've been farm-
ing out their experts — "he grinned again " — like
yours truly, and opening up their shops for modifica-
tions to whoever was willing to pay the price. But that
could only go so far. Now we'd like to hit the bigdme.
Indy-style, Formula One, that kind of thing. Getting
right up there with the big boys — maybe even have
the big boys come to us. But to do that, we have to have
something better than just mods. We have to have
original advances. That's where you come in."

He braked, briefly, and Sam caught the flash of a bird's
wings in the headlights. An owl; a big one. Most drivers
wouldn't have known it was going to cut across the car's
vector. Most drivers wouldrithave bothered to avoid it

"Maybe," Sam replied, feeling his way. "I don't
know; this sounds like it could be very risky
business...."

"Your part won't be," Tannim promised. "Fairgrove
will pay half your consultation fee up front, before you
even pin on a badge, and put the other half in escrow in
your bank." Then he named a figure that would have
given Sam cardiac trouble, if not for watching his diet
and cholesterol. It was considerably more than his salary
at Gulfstream had been. Of course, one of the disad-
vantages of staying with a firm for years was that your
salary didn't keep pace with the going rate for new-hires
with similar experience, but — this was ridiculous; they
couldn't want him that badly! Could they?

32 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dwm

"What about disclosure?" he asked, when he could
speak again.

"We've got a tentative non-disclosure dause in your
contract, but we can modify it if you feel really strongly
about it," Tannim said. "We based it on the non-dis-
closure clause at Gulfstream, but we made one
modification, and that's in the area of Research and
Development in safety. Anything that's a significant ad-
vance in safety is immediately released, and patents
won't be enforced. Think you can live with that? Even
if it means a loss of income?"

Since that was the one area where Sam had himself
had several heated arguments with his own bosses over
the years, he nodded. "Some things should be common
knowledge," he said grimly. "That's in a Mercedes ad,
but it's true for all of that."

He asked many more questions over the course of
the next fifteen minutes, and although Tannim never
refused to answer any of them, he kept getting the feel-
ing that the young man was doing a kind of verbal
dance the whole time — carefully steering him away
from something. It wasn't where the money was com-
ing from; at least, this wasn't the kind of youngster or
the kind of operation Sam would have associated with
money laundering and organized crime. And car-
racing wasn't the kind of operation that would lend
itself to that sort of thing anyway. It wasn't what he
would be expected to accomplish. It was nothing that
he was able to put a finger on. But there was some skill-
ful verbal maneuvering going on here, and Sam
wished strongly that he could see at least the shape of
this blind spot, so he could guess at what it was hiding.

Tannim pulled off the highway onto a beautifully
paved side road, and stopped at a formidable gate,
punching in a code on the keypad-box just in front of
it. The gate-doors retracted —

And just on the other side of the gate, a miniature traf-

BORNTORUN            33

fie signal lit up — the yellow light first, then the green,
and the radar detector under the dash lit up. Tannim
turned toward his passenger with a sparkle in his eye,
and a grin that bordered on maniacal. "Did you know
that there's no speed limit on private driveways?" he
said, conversationally. Then he floored the accelerator.

Once again, it was a good thing that Sam had been
watching his diet for years — and that he was well ac-
quainted with "test pilot humor." As it was, by the end
of that brief but hair-raising half-mile ride, he wasn't
certain if Tannim had added years to his age, or sub-
tracted them by peeling them off, with sheer speed as
the knife-blade. One thing was sure; if Sam's hair
hadn't already been white, the ride would have
bleached it to silver.

Tannim pulled up to a tire-screeching halt beside
another miniature traffic light. As they passed it, Sam
noted — faintly surprised that he still had the ability to
notice anything — that going in the opposite direction,
the light was red as they passed it. It turned yellow well
after they passed, then green a moment later. A wise
precaution, if people used the driveway as a dragstrip
on a regular basis. A board lit up with numbers, and
Tannim laughed out loud. "Elapsed time and speed,
Sam." He cocked his head sideways like an exotic bird.
"Not my best run, but not bad for nighttime, and with a
passenger weighing me down."

They rolled up to a driveway loop at a sedate pace.
In the center of the circular cut-out was a discrete
redwood sign reading "Fairgrove Industries." The
building itself looked like Cape Canaveral before a
shuttle launch, with hundreds of lights burning. Evi-
dendy these people were night owls.

Tannim pulled the Mustang into a parking slot, be-
tween a Lamborghini Diablo and a Ferrarri Dino.
"Expensive neighbors," Sam commented. Tannim just
chuckled, and popped his seatbelt.

34 MercedesLackeyandtarry Dixon

He led the way through a series of darkened offices; the
clerical staff was evidently not expected to keep the same
hours as the techies-Theoffices themselves gave an overall
impression of brisk efficiency with a touch of comedy; al-
though the desks were dean and orderly, there were toys
on all the computer terminals and desks, artwork and
posters on the walls, and so many plants Sam wondered if
someone had raided a greenhouse. Most of the artwork
and toys had something to do with cars. These people evi-
dently enjoyed their work. And these were working
offices; had been for some dme; there was no way you
could counterieitthat "lived in, worked in"look. Whatever
else Fairgrove was, it had been in existence for some dme.
This was no facade thrown up to delude him.

Tannim brought him to a soundproof wall — Sam
recognized it as the twin to one at Gulfstream, that
stood between the offices and the shops — and opened
a door into bright light and seeming chaos.

There were cars in various states of disassembly
everywhere, each one surrounded, like a patient in in-
tensive care, by its own litde flotilla of instrumentation
and machinery. There was a lot of expensive equip-
ment here: computer-controlled diagnostic devices,
computer-controlled manufacturing machinery be-
hind the cars on their litde islands of activity —

There must have been several million dollars in cars
alone, and about that in equipment. Oddly enough,
though, no one seemed to be using any of the latter;

they all seemed to be working direcdy on the cars. The
machinery itself was standing idle. In fact, given the
sheen of "newness" on all that expensive gimmickry,
most of it hadn't ever been fired up.

Why buy all that stuff if you weren't going to use it?

Tannim was looking for something, or someone,
craning his head in every direcdon. Sam was unable to
get his attendon, and really, didn't try very hard. There
was definitely somediing odd about this place. There

BORNTORUN           35

was a facade — and it was in here, not out in the offices.

Finally, as a litde group of people emerged from be-
hind one of the cars and its attendant machines,
Tannim spotted whoever it was he was looking for
among them. He waved his hand in the air, and called
out to them.

"Yo!" he shouted, his voice somehow carrying over
the din. "Kevin! Over here!"

A tall, very blond man turned around in response to
that shout, green eyes searching over the mass of
machines and people.

And Sam felt such a shock he feared for a moment
that he'd had a stroke. Those eyes — that face — they
were familiar.

Haundngly, frighteningly familiar, though he hadn't
seen diem in nearly fifty years.

Heknewdasmaa—
— who wasn't a man.

• CHAPTER THREE

It was the same face — not a similar face, the same
face, the same man. Identical. There was no confusing
it, nor those green, cat-slitted eyes.

Inhuman eyes; eyes that had never been human.
Sam fell back across the decades, to his childhood,
and his home, and one moonlit, Irish night-
Sam stumbled along beside his father, miserable
right down to his socks, and wanting to be home with
all his five-year-old heart.

"Da — me turn hurts," Sam whined,
The full moon above them gave a dear, dean light,
shining down on the dirt path that led between the pub
and John Kelly's little cottage. A month ago, they
wouldn't have been on this path. A month ago, Sam's
mummy, Moira, would have made them a good sup-
per, one that wouldn't have hurt Sam's tummy the way
the greasy sausage-and-potato mix the pub served up
did. In fact, a month ago, John wouldn't have been
anywhere near the pub, and the pint of whiskey he had
in his back pocket would have lasted him the month,
not the night. He would've had tea with his good din-
ner, not washed bad roast down with more whiskey.

But that was a month and more ago, before Moira
took a cough that became worse, and then turned into
something awful, something called "new-moan-yuh."
Something the doctor couldn't cure, nor all the prayers
Sam and his Da had offered up to the Virgin.

She'd taken sick on a Monday. By the following

38 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dixan

Monday, they were putting her under the sod, and the
priest told him she was with Jesus. Sam didn't under-
stand any of it; he kept thinking it was all a bad dream,
and when he woke up, his Mummy would comfort him
and everything would be all right again.

But he went to sleep at night, and woke up in the
morning, and it wasn't all right. His Da was drinking
his breakfast, and leaving Sam to make whatever
breakfast he could on cold bread-and-butter and go off
to stay with Mrs. Gilhoolie, since he was too young for
school. John Kelly was going to work smelling like a
bottle, coming home smelling like a botde, and taking
Sam to the pub every night for a bad supper and more
botdes.

It was cold out, and Sam had forgotten his coat "Da,"
he whined again, knowing that he sounded nasty, but not
knowing what else to do to get his Da's attention. "Da, me
turn hurts, an' I'm cold." The wind whisded past them,
coming around the Mound, and cutting right through
Sam's thin shirt and short pants. The Mound was an un-
canny place, and Sam didn't like to go there. The Fan-
Folk were supposed to live there, and they weren't the
pretty little fairies in the children's books and the car-
toons at the cinema; Sam's granny had told him about
the Fair Folk, and she had never, ever lied to him. They
were terrible, wonderful creatures, taller than humans,
handsome beyond belief, and many were utterly unpre-
dictable. The best a human could do was steer dear of
them, for no human could tell whedier a man or woman
of the Folk was kindly inclined towards humans or
dangerous to them. Even when they seemed to be doing
you favors, sometimes they were doing you harm, the
bad ones. And the good ones sometimes did harm with
the idea of doing good.

But right now Sam had more immediate troubles
than running into one of the Fair Folk. His tummy
hurt, he was so cold his teedi chattered, his head hurt,
his Da was acting in peculiar ways—

BORN TO RUN           39

And oh, but he missed his Mummy —

"Daaaaa," he whined, holding back tears of grief.
When his Da said anything about Mummy, it was to tell
him to be a man, and not cry. But it was hard not to cry.
The only way he could keep from crying, sometimes,
was to whine. Like now. "Daaaaaa."

There was no warning, none at all. One moment he
was stumbling along beside his Da, the next, he was
sprawled on the cold ground beside the path, looking
up at his Da in shock, his face and teeth aching from
the blow his Da had just landed on him. The moonlight
showed the murderous look on his Da's face clearly.
Too dearly. Whimpering, with sudden terror, he tried
to scramble away.

He wasn't fast enough.

His Da grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him
to his feet, then off his feet, and backhanded him. Sam
was in too much shock to even react to the first two
slaps, but at the third, he cried out

There was no fourth.

John had his hand pulled back, ready to deliver
another blow. Sam struggled fruitlessly in his father's
iron grip, crying —

Then there was a tremendous flash of light; Sam was
blinded, and felt himself falling. He flailed his arms
wildly, and landed on his back, hard enough to drive
the breath out of him.

He wheezed and rubbed his eyes, trying to force
them to dear. The sound of someone choking made
him look up, squinting through watering eyes, still
trying to catch his breath.

What he saw made him forget to breathe.

A tall, terrible blond stranger, dressed in odd doth-
ing, like something out of the pantomimes of King
Arthur, was holding his father by the throat John Kelly
was white-faced and shaking, but was not trying to
move or fight the stranger. This was no one Sam had
seen in or near the village, and anyway, most of the

40          Mercedes Lackey and, Lorry Dwan

people around here were small and dark, or small and
red-haired. Not tall and silver-blond. The man looked
down at Sam for a moment, and even though the only
light came from the moon overhead, he saw — dearly
— that the man had bright, emerald green eyes; eyes
that looked just like a cat's. And long, pointed ears.

This was no man. This could only be one of the Fan-
Folk, the Sidhe; and the fairy-man's eyes caught Sam
like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a motorcar.

Sam couldn't move.

John Kelly made another choking noise, and the
stranger turned those mesmerizing eyes back towards
his captive.

"John Kelly," the terrifying man said — with a gentle-
ness made all the more terrible by his obvious strength.
"John KeHy, you're a good man, but you're on the way to
a bad end. Tis the luck of your God that brought you
here tonight, within my reach and my ken, for if you
hadn't struck your lad just now, I wouldn't have known
of your troubles and your falling into the grip of pain and
whiskey. Now get hold of yourself and get your life
straight again — for if you don't, I swear to you that we'll
steal this lovely boy of yours, and you'll never see him
again, this side of paradise. Remember what your
mother told you, John Kelly. Remember it well, and
believe it. We did it once within your family, and we can
and willdoitagain,ifthe need comes to it."

There was another flash of light. When Sam could
see, the man was gone, and his father was sinking slow-
ly to his knees. Sam still couldn't move, numb with
shock and awe, and feelings he couldn't put a name to.

For a long, long time, John Kelly lay in the dirt, his
shoulders shaking. Then, after a while, John looked
up, and Sam saw tears running down his Da's face, glis-
tening in the moonlight.

"Da?" he whispered, tentatively. "Da?"

"Son — " John choked — and gathered Sam into his
arms, holding him closely, just the way he used to. Sob-

BORNTORUN           41

bing. Somehow that made Sam feel both good and bad.
Good, that his Da was the man he loved again. Bad,
that his Da was crying.

"Da?" Sam said again. "Da, what's the matter? Da?"

"Sam — son — " John Kelly wept unashamed.
"Son, I've been wicked, I've been blind with pain,
and I've been wicked. Forgive me, son. Oh, please,
forgive me — "

Sam hadn't been sure what to say or do, but he'd
given his father what he asked for. Forgiveness, and all
the love and comfort he had.

Eventually, John Kelly had gathered his son up in
his arms, and taken him home. And from that day until
the day he died, he never touched another drop of
alcohol

It can't be — he thought dazedly, from the perspec-
tive of half a century away. It can't be —

Despite the Sight, he'd assumed for decades that the
whole incident had been a dream, something his child-
ish imagination had conjured up to explain his father's
brief, alcoholic binge and his recovery.

He'd only been five, after all. But this, this tall, blond
man striding toward them was the same, the very same
person as that long-ago stranger. No matter that the
long hair was pulled back into a thick pony-tail, not flow-
ing free beneath a circling band of silver about the brow.
No matter that the clothing was a form-fitting black
coverall, incongruously embroidered with "Kevin" over
the breast pocket, and not the tunic and trews of a man
of the ancient Celts. There was no mistake.

Sam knew then that he must be going mad. It was an
easier explanation than the one that fit the situation.

The man strode towards them with all the power
and grace of a lean, black panther in its prime. As he
neared them, he smiled; a warm smile that reached
even into those emerald eyes and made them shine.
"You've grown into a fine man, Sam Kelly," he said,

42           Mercedes Lackey arid Lorry Dixon

stopping just short of them, and resting his fists on his
hips. "A fine man, like your father John, and smarter
than your father, to wash your hands of a dying land
and seek your life on this side of the water. Now you
know why we chose you, and no other."

"I see you've met," Tannim said, with an ironic lift of
an eyebrow.

This man, this "Kevin" — he hadn't aged a day since
Sam saw him fifty years ago. He'd looked thirty or forty
then, which would make him what? Ninety? A
hundred?

Either he had discovered the fountain of youth, or —

"You — " Sam said, finally getting his mouth to work.
"You're—"

"One of the Fair Folk?" Keighvin said, with a lop-
sided smile, and a lifted brow that echoed Tannim's.
"The Lords of Underbill? The Kindly Ones? The Old
People? The Elves, the Fairies, the Sidhe?" He
chuckled. "I'm glad to see you still remember the old
ways, the old tales, Sam. And, despite all your univer-
sity learning, you believe them too, or at least, you're
wiBing to believe them, if I read your heart aright."

In the face of a living breathing tale out of his own
childhood, how could he not believe? Even when it was
impossible? He had to believe in the Sidhe, or believe
that someone had read his mind, picked that incident
out of his childhood, and constructed someone who
looked exactly like the Sidhe-warrior, and fed him all the
pertinent details.

It was easier and simpler to believe in the Sidhe —
the Wise Ones who had stolen away his granny's
brother, because great-grandfather had beaten him
once too often, for things he could not help. He
remembered his granny's tales of that, too, for Patrick
had been granny's favorite brother, and she'd told the
story over and over. Poor Patrick; from the vantage
point of near seventy-five years Sam knew what
Patrick's problem had been, and it hadn't been wfflful-

BORNTORUN           43

ness or clumsiness. They'd have called him "dyslexic,"
these days, and given him special teaching to
compensate....

"We helped him," Keighvin said, as if reading his
mind again. "We helped him, and sent him over the sea
to this new land, and our kin here in Elfhame
Faiigrove. He prospered, married a mortal girl, raised
a family. Remind me to introduce you to your cousins,
one day."

"Cousins?" Sam said, faintly. "I think I need to sit
down."

"... so, that was when the Fairgrove elvenkin got in-
terested in radng," Tannim said, as Sam held tight to
his cup of coffee, and Keighvin nodded from dme to
time. Sam sat on an overturned bucket, Tannim
perched Hke a gargoyle on top of an aluminum cabinet,
and Keighvin leaned against one of the sleek, sensuous
racecars. Now that there was no need to counterfeit the
noise of a real metal shop, things were much quieter,
though there was no less activity. "Now roughly a
fourth of the SERRA members are either elves or
human mages. At first it was mosdy for enjoyment The
Fairgrove elves in particular got interested in the idea
of using racing to get some of their members out into
the human world, the way things used to be in the old
days."

"Aye," Keighvin seconded, leaning back against a
shining, black fender, and patting it absent-mindedly,
as if it was a horse. "In the old days, it could be you'd
have met one of the Sidhe at any crossroads, looking
for a challenge. You'd have found a kelpie at every ford
— and on moonlit nights, the woods and meadows
would be thick with dancing parties. Plenty of the
Sidhe like humans, Sam; you give us a stimulus we
sorely need. It was Cold Iron that drove us Underbill,
Sam, and Cold Iron that drove us away, across the sea.
It's deadly to us, as your granny doubtless told you."

44 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dawn

"But— " Sam protested, gesturing with his coffee cup.
"What about— that? 'You're leaning against Cold Iron."

Keighvin grinned, white teeth gleaming in a way
that reminded Sam sharply that the man was no
human. "That I'm not" He moved away from the car,
and the car — twisted.

It writhed like something out of a drug-dream. Sam
had to close his eyes for a moment; when he opened
them, there was no car there at all, but a sleek, black
horse, with wicked silver eyes. It winked at him, and
stamped a delicate hoof on the concrete. Sparks struck
and died.

"An elvensteed," Tannim said, with a chuckle. "That's
how the pointy-eared smartasses got into racing in the
first place. They transformed the elvensteeds into things
that looked like cars, atleast on the outside. Butoncedub
racing started having inspections—"

"I'd have found it damned difficult to explain a
racecar with no motor," Keighvin supplied, as the
elvensteed nuzzled his shoulder. "Rosaleen Dhu can
counterfeit most things, including all the right noises
for an engine to make, but not the engine itsel£ Only
something that looks superfidally like an engine."

Black Rose. She's beautiful....

Tannim gestured at the lovely creature with his chin.
"And that's how Fairgrove is setting the pace in
aerodynamics, too. .Put an elvensteed in a wind-tunnel,
and alter the design by telling it what you want. No
weeks of making body-bucks and laying fiberglass."
Tannim gloated, and Sam didn't blame him. This was
better even than computer modeling.

"But — you're still racing now, with a real team — "
Sam protested. "With real cars — real engines — "

"With every part we can manage being replaced
with nonferrous materials," Tannim told him. "That's
what we started doing even before the inspections. It
was no challenge to race an elvensteed that can reach
half the speed of sound against Tin Lizzies. It was a

BORN TO RUN            45

challenge to try and improve on human technology."

Keighvin held up his hands, and only then did Sam
notice he was wearing thin leather gloves, black to
match his coverall. Sam also noted a black web belt and
a delicate silver-and-silk-sheathed knife, more decora-
tive than a tool. "And for those things that can't be
replaced by something other than iron and steel, well,
some of us have built up a kind of tolerance to Death
Metal. Enough that we can handle it if we're protected
— and we try not to work much magic about it." He
patted the horse's neck. "I'll explain the Laws of it all to
you later — and how we're breaking them."

Tannim jumped down off the cabinet, catching
Sam's eye, and began pacing. Sam suspected he
needed to ease an ache in that bad leg. "Radng and
building cars was what lured the elvenkin out from
Underbill," he said. "But racing wasn't the real reason
that some of the elves wanted more of their company
out in the human world, and to be more active in it"

"Some didn't approve — " Keighvin said.

"But most of Fairgrove did," Tannim interjected.
"And now we have to get into some old history. That's
Keighvin's subject."

The horse had turned back into a car again while
Sam had been watching Tannim; Keighvin leaned
back against its fender (flank?) and folded his arms.

"Do you have any idea why I confronted your father
that night, Sam Kelly?" Keighvin asked. "Or what I was
talking about, with your great-unde and all?"

Samblurted thefirstthingthatcameinto his head. "The
Fair Folk steakhfldren—everybody knows that—"

A moment later he wanted to go hit his head against
a wall. Now you're for it, Sam Kelly. Why not go into a gay
gym and teU the boys there that you've heard they seduce six-
year-olds?

But strangely, Keighvin didn't look the least bit angry.
"Aye, Sam, we steal children. The Seleighe Court does,
at any rate. To save them. Children bein' beaten within

46 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dwon

an inch of their lives, children bdn' left cold and hungry
and ded t' the bedpost all day, children bein' sold and
slaved.... Oh aye, we steal children. Whenever we can,
whenever we know of one in danger of losing life or
soul, or heart, and we can get at them, aye, we steal
them." Keighvin's expression was dark, brooding. "We
used to do other things, too. There are some problems,
Sam, that can be fixed by throwing money at them, as
you yourself were thinking earlier. Not all of those
problems are technical, either. Do you mind some of the
other stories your granny used to tell? About the
leprechauns, or the mysterious strangers who gave gold
where it was most needed?"

"Aye," Sam replied, again falling into the brogue of
his childhood, to match the lilt of Keighvin's speech.
"But those strangers were the holy saints, or angels in
disguise, sent from the Virgin, she said — "

Keighvin snorted. "Holy saints? Is that what you
mortal folk dedded? Nay, Sam, 'twas us. At least, it was
us when there were hungry children to feed, and
naught to feed them with; when there was no fuel in
the house, and children freezing. When some mortal
fool sires children, but won't be a father to them, leav-
ing the mother to struggle alone. Our kind — we don't
bear as easily or often as you. Children are rare and
predous things to us. We're impelled to protect and
care for them, even when they aren't our own."

Suddenly a great many of the old stories took on a
whole new set of meanings.... But Keighvin was
continuing.

"This isn't the old days, though, when a stranger
could give a poor lass a handful of silver and gold in
return for a kindness. For one thing, the girl would be
thought a thief, like as not, when she tried to trade it for
paper money. For another, someone would want to
track down whoever gave it to her. We have to truly,
legitimately, earn money before we can give it away."

Tannim shook his head in mock sadness. "Oh, now

BORN TO RUN           47

that's a real pity, isn't it — you elves having to work for a
living. What's the world coming to?"

Keighvin cast the young man a sharp glance. "One
of these days, my lad, that tongue of yours is going to
cast you into grief."

Tannim chuckled, uncowed by the fire in Keighvin's
eye. "You're too late, it already has." He turned to Sam.
"These boys can literally create anything, if they've
studied it long enough beforehand. We've been
making foamed aluminum engine blocks ever since
Keighvin here got his hands on a sample from a Space
Shuttle experiment." He hopped back up onto his
cabinet, crossing his legs like a Red Indian. "I'm not
even going into how we got that. But, we've been using
the stuff in our cars — now, can you imagine what we
could charge some of the big boys to duplicate their
designs in foamed cast aluminum?"

Indeed, Sam could. And the major racing teams had
a great deal of money to play with. "So that's why you
set up this shop, Fairgrove Industries — but what do
you need me for?"

"We need a front-man," Tannim said, leaning for-
ward in his eagerness to explain himself. "We need
someone who can give a convindng explanation of
how we're doing all this, and show us how to create a
setup that will at least look like we're making the things
by some esoteric process and not by magic."

"But there isn't any process — " Sam began. "There
isn't a firm in the world that could duplicate — "

Tannim waved a negatory hand in the air.

"It doesn't matter if no one else can duplicate what we
do," he said blithely. "They'll expect us to have trade
secrets. We just need someone who knows all the right
techno-babble, and can make it sound convincing. As
long as you can come up with something that's possible
in theory, that's all we need. We'll keep on buying
machines that go bung, and you leak tech reports to the
curious."

48          Mercedes Lackeyand Lorry Decora

Sam couldn't help himself; he started to laugh. Tan-
nim and Keighvin both looked confused and
surprised. "What's so funny?" Tannim asked.

"Do you know much science fiction?" he asked,
through his chuckles. Keighvin shook his head. Tan-
nim shrugged. "Alitde. Why?"

"Because a very famous author, Arthur C. Clarke —
who also happens to be a one of the world's finest scien-
tists and engineers — said once that technology that's
complicated enough can't be told from magic."

"So?" Tannim replied.

Sam started laughing again. "So — suffidendy com-
plex magic is indistinguishable from technology!"

Keighvin looked at Tannim for an explanation; the
latter shrugged. "Beats me," the young man said with a
lopsided smile, as Sam wheezed with laughter. "Some-
times I don't understand us either."

It was nearly midnight when they'd gotten the basic
shape of a plan hammered out By then, they'd moved
into Keighvin's office — a wonderful place with a huge,
plate-glass window that looked out into what seemed to
be an absolutely virgin glade. The office itself was
designed to be an extension of the landscape outside,
with plants standing and hanging everywhere, and
even a tiny fountain with goldfish swimming in it.

"Well, I'm going to have to go home and sleep on
this," Sam said, finally. "Then get into some of the jour-
nals and see what kind of a convincing fake I can
concoct before I can definitely say I'll take the job."

He started to get up, but Keighvin waved him down
again. "Not quite yet, Sam," he said, his expression
grave. "There's just one thing more we need to tell you
about. And you may decide not to throw in your lot
with us after you've heard it"

"Why?" he asked, a little surprised.

"Because Fairgrove has enemies," Tannim supplied,
from his own nook, surrounded by ferns. "Not

BORN TO RUN           49

'Fairgrove Industries.' I mean Elfhame Fairgrove, the
Underbill Seleighe community here." He leaned back
a little. "Keighvin, I think the ball's in your — ah —
'court' So to speak."

Keighvin didn't smile. "Sam, how much did your
granny ever tell you about the Seleighe and Un-
seleighe Court elves?"

Sam had to think hard about that. Granny had died
when he was barely ten; fifty-five years was a long time.
And yet, her stories had been extraordinarily vivid, and
had left him with lasting impressions.

"Mosdy, she told stories with — I guess you'd say —
good elves and bad elves. Elves who wanted to help
humans, at least, and elves who wanted only to hurt
them. She said you really couldn't tell them apart, if
you were a human child — that even human adults
could be easily misled, and that sometimes even the
good elves didn't know who was good and who was
bad. She said the Unseleighe Court even had agents in
the Seleighe Court. She just warned me to steer dear of
both if I ever met either kind, until I was old enough to
defend myself, and could tell a glib lie from the truth."

Keighvin nodded, his hair beginning to escape from
the pony-tail. "Good enough. And that fairly sums it
up. There's the Seleighe Court— that's us, and things
like elvensteeds and dryads, selkies, pukas, owls, things
that can pass as humans and things that never could.
Oh, and there's creatures native to this side of the water
diat have allied themselves with die Seleighe Court as
well. And for the most part, the very worst one of us
wishes is that the humans would go away." The Sidhe
looked out into the forest beyond the glass, but Sam
had die feeling he was seeing something else entirely.
"For the most part, we're interested in coexisting with
your kind, even if it forces us to have to change. Many
of us are interested in helping your kind. We have the
power of magic, but you have the twin powers of tech-
nology and numbers. One on one — you humans are

50 Mercedes Lackey arid Lorry Dixon

no match for us. But population against population —
we've lost before we even start."

"AH right," Sam agreed. "I can see that. What about
the Unseleighe Court?"

"They hate you, one and all," Keighvin replied,
somberly. "There are elves among them; and many,
many things straight out of your worst childhood
nightmares: bane-sidhe, boggles, trolls, things you've
never heard of. The Morrigan is their Queen, and a
terrible creature she is; she hates all things living, even
her own people." His eyes darkened with what looked
to Sam Kke a distant echo of pain. "They hate us, too,
for wanting to coexist with you; they're constantly at
war with us. They want you gone, and they're active in
fostering anything that kills you off. If you run across a
human conflict that seems senseless, often as not, they
have a hand in it Not that you humans aren't adept at
creating misery for yourselves, but the Unseleighe
Court has a vested interest in fostering that misery, and
in propagating it. And they don't like the idea that
Fairgrove is a little further along the path of easing
some of it"

"All right so far," Sam said, a little puzzled, "but
what's that got to do with me?"

"We have agents in their ranks, just as they have
agents in ours," Keighvin told him. "We've gotten
word that some of their lot that can pass as human have
found out what we're planning, and are going to try to
expose us as frauds."

"It'll be Preston Tucker all over again," Tannim put
in, his own expression grim. "Without someone with a
spodess reputation fronting for us, they can do it, too.
They can claim we've stolen our samples, that the en-
gine blocks aren't what we say they are, and that we
have no real intention of manufacturing the products.
It's happened enough times in this industry that
people are likely to believe it — especially with a bit of
glamorie behind their words and a strong publicity

BORN TO RUN           51

campaign. Your actions will be the saving of us — as
Keighvin's was of you and your father."

"No one's ever heard of us, except as a racing team,"
Keighvin said, leaning forward in his chair, giving Sam
all ofhis attention. "But they know you. Your reputation
can give us the time we need to actually build a few cus-
tomers. Once we have that, it won't matter what they say.
They'll have to come after us some other way. But
there's the danger. They will. And not only us, but you."

Oddly enough, the threat to himself didn't bother
Sam. In fact, if anything, it added a litde spice to the
prospect. Terrorists and fanatics who threatened folk
just because they were American frightened him; there
was no predicting people like that, and there was some-
thing cold and impersonal about their enmity. Give
him a real, honest enemy every dme. You knew where
you stood with a real enemy; you knew whose side you
were on. After all, hating a country takes away its faces,
but hating someone because of what he did was some-
thing he could get a grip on.

"To tell you the truth," Tannim put in, "I'd have
been a lot more worried before I saw how you've got
your home defenses rigged. Even a creature with
magic is going to have trouble passing them. And once
I add my two cents' worth, I think you'll be in fairly
good shape to hold them off if you have to."

"Your two cents' worth?" Sam asked quizzically. Tan-
nim grinned and shrugged — and Sam remembered
die odd protections around the car. This Tannim might
not be one of the Fair Folk, but diere was no doubt he
held his own in dieir company.

More of Sam's granny's lore was coming back to him.
There was, surprisingly, a lot of it. And the things he
remembered about the Unseleighe Court were un-
pleasant indeed, especially when it occurred to him
that she had undoubtedly toned things down for his
young ears. Now he wondered how much she hadn't
told him, and how important that information was.

52 Mercedes Lackey ami Lorry Dixon

And where she had gotten it from. The "missing"
brother, perhaps? He made a mental note to ask
Keighvin about that some time.

Still — here was a chance to see things very few other
humans had seen. A chance to be useful again. He'd
retired only because he'd had no choice. He had en-
joyed the first few weeks of his vacation, but truth to
tell, he was getting bored. There were only so many
things he could do to improve the house. He hated
fishing. He could only watch so much television before
feeling the urge to throw something at the tube.

"All right," he said. "I'll do it. Full speed ahead, and
damn the torpedoes. You've got your man."

The little that remained of the evening passed in a blur.
Tannim took him home again—and this time did not treat
him to a mini-race on the driveway. Neither of them said
much, except to set a dinner meeting for that evening —
sinceitwas already "tomorrow," beingwell past midnight.

Tannim waited until he was safely sealed inside his
little fortress before driving off; he wasn't certain if that
was a wise precaution, or real paranoia. Surely the Un-
seleighe Court denizens wouldn't already know he'd
agreed to help Fairgrove?

Then again, this was magic he was dealing with; as
unknown in its potentials as a new technology. Maybe
they could know.

Thoreau was lying beside the door, patiently but ob-
viously waiting for his promised treat Sam headed for
the kitchen and dished out a tiny portion of canned
food. Thoreau didn't need extra pounds any more
than a human did, and these late-night snacks were the
only time he got canned food. The rest of the time, he
had to make do with dry.

Thoreau was one of the more interesting dogs Sam
had ever owned. Instead of greedily gobbling down his
treat, he ate it slowly, licking it like a child trying to make
an ice-cream cone last Sam left him to it and went to his
library in the office, but didn't immediately pull down

BORN TO RUN           53

some of the reference materials he'd mentally selected.

Instead, he sat with hands idly clasped on the desk
for a long moment, wondering if, when he did go to
bed, he'd wake up in the morning to find that all this
had been a dream.

Something crackled in his jacket pocket as he took it
off, and he found the envelope with the check in k still
in his breast pocket.

"AH right," he said to Thoreau, as the dog padded into
the study, licking his chops with satisfaction. "Maybe it is a
dream. Maybe there are fairy checks as well as fairy gold.
But it's here now." He planted the envelope under his
favorite paperweight, abronze replica of the Space Shuttle
Challenger. "If it's gone in the morning, I'll know it was a
dream. Butfornow,all we cando is try. Eh, Thoreau?"

Thoreau wagged his stub of a tail in agreement, and
put his head down on his paws as Sam got up and
began pulling books and bound magazines down off
the shelf. He'd seen this before. He knew it was going
to be a long night.




• CHAPTERFOUR

The Mustang purred happily as Tannim drove into
Sam's driveway. There were times, especially lately,
when Tannim wondered if maybe he hadn't instilled a
little too much magic into the car. Or maybe he'd
planted something else besides pure Power. Lately it
had seemed as if the Mach 1 was almost— sentient. It
certainly seemed to approve of Sam Kelly; there was a
warmth to the engine's purr that hadn't been there
before he turned into the drive, and the car had
embraced Sam as if he belonged inside it.

Well, for that matter, Tannim approved of Sam Kelly.
He was a smart, tough old bird, and too good to waste
on retirement Now, as long as he and Keighvin hadn't
gotten the old man into more danger than any of them
could handle.... His conscience bothered him a bit
over that. Sam had brains and savvy, but what if he
needed that and a younger man's reflexes as well?

He was taking Sam to dinner, after a couple of drinks
at Kevin Barry's Pub in Savannah, on River Street.
There were several Irish pubs in the area, but Kevin
Barry's was the one Tannim preferred. He had the
feeling that Sam would feel more at home, easier, in an
atmosphere that reminded him of Ireland and all it
meant.

He'd chosen a dinner meeting rather than a return
to Fairgrove for a very good reason; he wanted Sam's
first dose of Keighvin Silverhair to wear off before they
talked again. Keighvin's formidable personality had
been known to overwhelm far stronger personalities
than Sam's, even without a glamorie at work.

Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dwon

Not that Keighvin would have used a glamorie on
Sam Kelly. They wanted a willing ally, with all his facul-
ties in working order, not a bemused dreamer.

Tannim wasn't entirely certain how old Keighvin was;

certainly at least a thousand. That much living
produced personalities that could easily bowl the un-
suspecting over. If Sam was having second'thoughts,
Tannim wanted to know about it without Keighvin

around to influence him.

The pub itself, however, was a good place to talk to
Sam. The atmosphere, so strongly Celtic, should put
Sam in the state of mind to remember and Believe, even
though he was going to be completely in the "real world."

And there was no more "real world" a clientele than
the bunch that frequented Kevin Barry's. Students
from SCAD, business people, locals, artists, holdover
hippies, folkies — you name it, and you would probab-
ly see it in Kevin Barry's. Except maybe yuppies; the
place wasn't trendy enough for them.

Not enough ferns, or drinks with clever names and inflated
prices. And no selection of forty-five mineral waters.

Sam must have been watching for him, for he was
locking up even as Tannim arrived. He opened the
passenger's side door and slid in beside Tannim as
soon as the Mach 1 came to a full stop. He was amaz-
ingly fit for a sixty-five-year-old man; he looked as if
he'd been getting lots of regular exerdse and watch-
ing his diet — his build was a lot like Jacques
Cousteau's, in fact, who at sixty-five had still been
leading his own underwater expeditions. Maybe
Tannim didn't need to worry quite so much about

him after all.

"Am I in for any more impromptu racing today?" Sam
asked, with a twinkle, as Tannim pulled out again. And
there was no doubt of it; the Mustang was truly purring
with satisfaction, a note in its engine he'd never heard
before. The Mach 1 liked Sam.

Too bad I can't ever find a lover it likes that much, he

BORN TO RUN           57

thought ironically. Of course, if I do, she'll probably Hke the
car better than me. I can see it now — my girl and my car,
taking off into the sunset without me.

"No, no racing today," he said, with a chuckle. "I'm
taking you into Savannah. I had the feeling you
probably haven't been downtown in a while."

Sam nodded. "Not for years," he admitted. "Never
had a reason to. And to tell you the truth, I spent most
of my time at Gulfstream. There wasn't much of any-
thing I wanted to go downtown for."

"I may be able to change your mind," Tannim
replied. "So, how are you feeling about our offer in the
cold light of day?"

"Well — the check didn't disappear, or turn into a
handful of leaves when morning arrived," Sam replied
after a moment. "And my bank was perfectly happy to
have it. I wasn't entirely sure it would still be there
when I woke up this morning, and that's a fact. I was
half convinced I must have dreamed the whole thing.
Especially that car-horse-car."

"I don't blame you." Tannim chuckled, watching
Sam out of the comer of his eye. "I know how I felt the
first rime I saw anyone working real magic."

There. The word was out in the open. Sam hadn't
flinched from it, either.

"Magic," the old man mused. "The Sidhe, and magic.
Maybe I've come into my second childhood, but — I
think I could come to appreciate all this." He tilted his
head to the side. "So, what happened the first time you
saw magic at work?"

Tannim laughed. "I freaked. For the first few
minutes, I thought someone had slipped me recrea-
tional pharmaceuticals without my noticing. Then,
once I figured out that everything I saw was real, I just
hoped that whoever was duking it out didn't notice me.
I was — oh, sixteen or so — and I kind of got caught on
the sidelines of a magic duel." He waited to see the ef-
fect of that revelation on Sam.

58 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dmm

"Fair Folk?" Sam asked after a moment. "A duel be-
tween elves?"

Tannim shook his head. "No. A witch and a sor-
ceress. The witch was the good guy — or rather, gal. I
didn't know who the bad guy was, or that it was a female
at the time. I was just glad the witch had a good sense of
ethics and was trying to keep the mayhem to a mini-
mum where the audience was concerned."

"A witch and a sorceress? Aren't they the same
thing?" Sam asked, in a genuinely puzzled tone.

Again, Tannim shook his head. "Trust me, there's a
difference between the two. The reason it was
dangerous was because although the witch was being
careful about innocent bystanders, the sorceress
wasn't. And, like I said, in this case, the witch was the
good guy. There's a lot of parallels between the
Seleighe and Unseleighe Courts there."

Sam nodded thoughtfully, but made no further
comments for a moment. By that time, they had
reached Savannah proper, and the infamous brick-
work streets. Quaint and picturesque, but hell to
drive on.

They got a bit of relief at a stoplight. Tannim's leg
ached distantly, from hip to ankle. "I keep forgetting
about these damn streets," he remarked to Sam, who
nodded.

"I remember now," Sam responded. "This was one
of the reasons I avoided coming downtown. There
wasn't anything down here that was worth having to
drive this, and the cobblestones are worse."

Tannim sighed. "I guess it's because I like River
Street so much I sort of forget what it takes to get there.
I'm sure the tourists like this — but I swear, I know I'm
going to have to put the car up and do an alignment
when I get home."

"It's the tight suspension, I'd wager," Sam said
through clenched teeth. "Makes you wish you had a
Lincoln or a Caddy."

BORN TO RUN            59

Tannim laughed. "Maybe I'll remember this next
rime I come here, and rent one!"

The Mustang coughed as though its carburetor had
stuck, then settled once Tannim patted the dash.

Some things never change, Sam thought, as he watched
a trio of black-dad art students walk by in the shade of
the old, Spanish-moss-bedecked oaks. There seemed
to be an unwritten rule that young artists had to wear
black and act morose at least twelve hours out of every
day. He'd seen that sort of thing, in a different way, with
the Gulfstream engineers, who thought that if they
wore blue cotton shirts, dub des, and Cross pens, they
would be taken for Brain Trust. Sam had never been
able to take that kind of thing seriously after watching a
PBS documentary about mimicry in moths.

The art students were a constant source of amuse-
ment and amazement for the locals, but the kids always
meant well. It tickled Sam that their school was slowly
buying out the entire downtown, building by building.
"Are those ninjas, or performance artists?" Tannim
chuckled, nodding at a duo in black gis and black, ab-
surdly baggy pants, like rappers wore on MTV. They
lounged beneath a wrought-iron balcony that was old
when their great-grandparents were their age. They
reminded Tannim of similar sights in New Orleans,
and the mix of cultures and ambience there.

"Poster kids for mousse abuse," Sam replied solemn-
ly. "Ninjas would have better taste."

"Geez, you could hide aircraft in those pants," Tan-
nim commented, after a second look. "Better keep
them away from Gulfstream, Sam. Some of your
planes might mistake them for hangars."

A blue-haired old lady under the trees of one of the
dozens of tiny park squares nagged at her husband as
the balding man focused his camera on a building
across the street "Wait until the kids are in the picture,
George," she shrilled. "I want a picture with art kids in

60 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dwan

it. This is where the art school is, I want art kids in the
picture."

The old man just grunted and made minute adjust-
ments of the focus. The art students just ignored it all
and continued drifting along in front of the boutique
windows, expressions of studied angst decorating their
young faces.

"Maybe he can't hear her," Tannim suggested. "His
shorts are drowning her out." Indeed, the man was
wearing possibly the most obscene pair of Bermudas
Sam had ever experienced; an appalling print in cerise
and chartreuse. He and his wife were completely un-
aware of the team of video students behind them —
taping every move they made. Sam nearly died, choking
down laughter.

They found themselves creeping along at five miles
an hour, stuck behind one of the horse-drawn
sightseers carriages. Tannim put up with it for a little,
but finally muttered something under his breath and
turned off their street at the next light, leaving the
coveys of tourists and micro-herds of art students be-
hind. After about a mile, Sam noticed they had left the
glass-front boutiques and hole-in-the-wall shops be-
hind as well. The buildings were neglected, now; paint
cracked and peeling, windows broken and patched
with tape and cardboard, yards full of weeds. The cars
here were in the same shape as the houses. There
weren't many businesses; what few there were had
grates over the windows and rusted bars on the doors.

Sam would not have wanted to break down here,
and now he recalled another reason for not visiting
downtown. River Street was flanked by two bad neigh-
borhoods. Even in daylight, Sam would not have
wanted to be alone out here. The sullen expressions of
the toughs lounging on the corners were not feigned
or practiced, and their cold, dead eyes gave Sam the
chills. He kept his eyes on the dashboard, and Tannim
was uncharacteristically silent

BORN TO RUN            61

Finally the young man broke the silence. "This
neighborhood's economy isn't depressed," he said
grimly, "it's suiddal."

They turned another comer and drove for about half a
mile, with the buildings slowly improving again. Finally
they turned onto River Streetitself, and as they hit the cob-
blestones and the punishment really began, Sam felt able
to take his eyes oflFthe dashboard. That waswhenhe found
that the dubious sorts wereritlimited to the bad neighbor-
hoods, either, there was a duster of kids in front of a shop
with a "for rent" sign in the window, and from the look of
them, they were exchanging money for drugs. Sam
watched the loitering toughs out of the comer of his eye,
and remembered that this was yet another reason why he
bad avoided the downtown area in general He certainly
wouldn't want to come here alone at night, and maybe not
even with someone. He knew he was tougher than he
looked—yes, and a tot sprier than he let on—but he was
nomatchforastreet-gang.

And he was smart enough to know it.

A cop car rumbled down one of the cobblestone
ramps from the street above River, and the gang
evaporated, vanishing into the covered alleyways be-
hind the River Street stores.

Well, maybe it wouldn't be so dangerous. The cops
were certainly a presence. And then, again, there were
a number of Irish pubs around here, and a lot of Irish
on the street as well — the ones without the bags and
cameras and look of tourists. If he did happen to find
himself in trouble, it could be there'd be more help
here than he first reckoned.

Tannim pulled into a parking place so abruptly that
Sam was taken by surprise; cutting in right under the
fender of a departing vehicle, and neatly getting the
Mustang worked into the slot so quickly it seemed as
magical as the car-horse. As the young man shut the
engine off, he turned to grin at Sam. "You've got to be
quick around here," he said. "Parking places go fast,

62 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dmm

and the god of parking has a short attention span."

To his surprise, since Tannim hadn't mentioned
specifically where they were going, the young man led
the way into one of those Irish pubs Sam had been
eyeing. And to Sam's great delight, once inside, the
place proved to be real Irish, not "tourist" Irish. It
looked — and felt — homey and lived-in. There was a
small stage in the restaurant section, against one wall,
with a folk-group setting up on it, whose instrumental
mix Sam also noted with approval. He liked mixing the
old with the new, although one could do some quite
amazing things with traditional instruments. One of
his most cherished memories was of being in a dub in
Tennessee and hearing the Battlefield Band perform-
ing "Stairway to Heaven" on the bagpipes....

Still, although he was prepared to spend several
delightful hours here, this did not look like the kind of
place that would suit his companion. Young Tannim
looked as if he'd never encountered an acoustic guitar
in his life; a rock'n'roller to the core. The Clamiad tape
notwithstanding, he couldn't imagine Tannim caring
for any music that didn't come with amps and
megawattage. It was to Sam's considerable
astonishment that the lady bartender greeted his escort
by name, and asked if he wanted "his usual table." At
Tannim's nod, the lady waved them on, telling them
that "Julie" would be with them in a minute.

As Sam took his place across from Tannim, he real-
ized that, once again, he was going to have to realign all
his previous ideas about the lad. And that was a dis-
covery just as pleasant as the existence of (his pub.

"Well," Tannim said, when the waitress had brought
them both drinks, "ready for a litde more business?"

Another surprise for Sam — not the question, but
the drink. Tannim had stuck to pure cola. He was
young enough to take delight in drinking because he
could. Interesting.

BORN TO RUN            63

"I think so," Sam replied cautiously. "You gave me a
lot of information last night, but it was all in pieces. I'd
like more of a whole picture."

"Fine," Tannim said agreeably. "Where would you
like me to start?"

"With magic." Sam took a deep breath. "Just what is
it? How does it work? What can you do with it — and
what's it got to do with radng — "

Tannim held up a hand. "The discipline people call
'magic' is a way of describing an inborn talent that's
been trained. It has rules, and it obeys the laws of
physics. It uses the energy produced by all living
things; it also uses the energy of magnetic fields, of sun-
light, and a lot of other sources. It's a tool, a way of
manipulating energies; that's the first thing you have
to remember. It's not good or bad, it just is. Like, I can
use a crowbar to bash your head in, or to pry a victim
out of a wreck." He shrugged. "It's a tool; just a tool
and nothing more. Some people have the skill to use
the tool, some don't."

Sam nodded, since Tannim looked as if he was wait-
ing for a response. "But — how does it work? And who
has it? Can anyone work it if they've got the
knowledge?"

Tannim chuckled. "Hard to describe, Sam. First of all,
you have to be able to see the energies in the first place,
or at least know that the/re there. That's the key; if you
can see them, you can learn to manipulate them with
magic — which is basically a way of making your own
will into that tool to manipulate energy." He licked his
lips. "Here's where it gets complicated. If you've trained
your will well enough, you can still use the energies
without seeing them. Everyone could use some kind of
magic, if they had the training — but most folks never
come in touch with what they can use. Know anything
more now than you did before I said that?"

Sam shook his head, ruefully. "Well... no. Not real-
ly. But I can believe in plasma physics without knowing

64 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Down

exacdy how it works. I suppose I can believe in magic
too. So long as it follows rules."

"That's the spirit!" Tannim applauded. "Now, what
Keighvin won't tell you, because like most elves, he's an
arrogant sonuvabanshee, is that humans were applying
magic to cars before the elves thought of it A lot of times
they didn't realize that was what they were doing, but a
lot of times they knew exactly what they were doing,
especially on the racing circuit So when the elves came
on the scene, they got a bit of a shock, because there
were humans out there already, using magicked cars.
That's when they decided it might be a good idea to try
and join up with some of those humans." He spread his
hands. "Voila—SERRA was born."

"But why racing?" Sam asked, still bewildered. "For
the Sidhe, I mean. It seems so — foreign to what they

are."

"Boredom," Tannim replied succinctly, tracing little
patterns on the wooden tabletop with his finger. "They
live — if not forever, damn near. But here's something
else they won't tell you. The one thing they lack is
creativity, as near as I can figure. Every bit of their culture,
with the sole exception of who and what they worship,
comes from humans." He looked up through his lashes,
as if he were sharing a secret "They can replicate what
we do, and even improve on it, but I've never once seen
one of them come up with something new and original.
So they depend on us to bring new things to their cul-
ture; as far as I can tell, that's always been the case. They
were bored, and racing gave them a chance to bring back
some excitement to their lives, like the old combat-chal-
lenges used to give them. Brought them that element of
risk back — "his face sobered " — 'cause, Sam, if you
mess up on the track, sometimes it's permanent, and
sometimes it's terminal."

Sam wondered ifTannim's game leg was evidence of
the bo/s own brush with just that.

"But they won't admit it, even if you confront 'em,"

BORN TO RUN           65

Tannim said, with a crooked smile, making a figure
eight. "That's the real reason they got into racing
though, I promise you. Now as to why Keighvin took it
farther, to where Faiigrove is trying to make mundane
money — he's not lying, he wants to have that kind of
mundane cash to kind of fix things for kids. I've got a
hunch he wants to set up some safe-houses for abused
kids that we can't take Underbill, starting here in Savan-
nah. All elves have this thing about kids; Keighvin has it
harder than most. If he could save every kid in the world
from pain, hunger, fear — he'd do it But he can't do it
magically, not anymore." Tannim made a complex sym-
bol that looked suspiciously like a baseball diamond.
"For one thing, there's too much Cold Iron around for
his magics to work down here in the dties."

"Huh." Sam nodded, but he had reservations. Not
that he hadn't heard about all the supposed abused kids,
on everything from Oprah to prime-time TV dramas,
but he wasn't sure he believed the stories. Kids made
things up, when they thought they were in for deserved
punishment Hell, one of the young guys at work had
shown up with a story about his kid getting into some-
thing he was told to leave alone in a store, breaking it,
then launching into screams of "don't beat me,
Mommy!" when the mother descended like a fury Em-
barrassed the blazes out other, especially since the worst
she'd ever delivered in the kid's life was a couple of
smacks on the bottom. Turned out the brat had seen a
dramatized crime-recreation show the night before,
with an abused-kid episode. Sam was beginning to think
that a lot of those "beaten kids" had seen similar shows,
then had been coached by attorneys, "child advocates,"
or the "non-abusing spouse." Wasn't that how the Salem
witch-trials had happened, anyway? A bunch of kids
getting back at the adults they didn't like?

As for the runaways — they'd had a solution for that
back when he was a kid. Truant officers with the power
to confine a kid, and reform school for the kids that

66 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dccan

couldn't toe the line at home. Maybe that's what they
needed these days, not "safe-houses."

But just as he was about to say that, he took a second,
harder look at Tannim, and thought back about what
Keighvin had said. Tannim might be almost a kid him-
self, but he didn't look as if he was easily tricked. And
Keighvin had known what was happening to Sam —
and presumably Sam's great-uncle — by supernatural
means. It wasn't likely that they were being tricked....

They, the elves, had been right about Sam's great-
uncle. And who could say what might have happened
if Keighvin hadn't intervened that night, so long ago.
Would John Kelly have come to his senses before he'd
done more than frighten Sam? Or would the beadngs
have continued, getting worse with every incident,
until Sam turned into a sullen, trouble-making crea-
ture like Jack McGee, with his hand against every man
alive, and every man's hand against him? Jack's father
was the mainstay of the town pub... Jack's mother a
timid thing that never spoke above a whisper, and al-
ways with one eye out for her husband, wore high
collars and long sleeves, and generally bore a healing
bruise somewhere on her face or neck. Now Sam was
forced to confront that memory, he wondered, as he
had not, then. What did those sleeves and collars
conceal?

Maybe the stories were true; maybe the elves were
right....

dory be. Am I thinking as if they're real?

He was. Somewhere along the line, he'd accepted all
this — magic, elves, all of it He might just as well accept
the abused kids as well....

"Have you people cast some kind of spell on me?" he
demanded. "Mademebelieveinyou? Brainwashed me?"

Tannim laughed. "If we used magic to make you
believe in magic, to brainwash you, doesn't that mean
magic works?"

Well, the boy had him there.

BORN TO RUN           67

"I suppose you could have brainwashed me some
other way," Sam said, feebly.

Tannim shrugged. "Why?" he replied reasonably, as
the waitress brought another round. "What's the
point? By definition, someone who's been brain-
washed is operating at less than his optimum reasoning
capacity. Why would we want you brainwashed, when
what we want is for you to be at your sharpest?" Tan-
nim took a sip of his cola, and looked up at Sam from
under a raised eyebrow. "Are you having second
thoughts about all this, about agreeing to help Keigh-
vin?" he asked. "If you are, Sam, it's nothing to be
ashamed of. We need you, but not at the expense of
forcing you to make a bargain you regret."

Sam sighed. "No. No. It's just that I find myselfbdiev-
ing in the impossible, and it doesn't seem right, all my
brave words about plasma physics to the contrary."

The young man took a moment to finish his drink
before answering. "Sam," he said, slowly, gazing offinto
nothing for a moment, "when you were a kid, people
said it was impossible for a plane to fly past the speed of
sound, for polio and smallpox to be eradicated, for the
atom to be split, for a man to walk on the moon. I don't
know what's impossible. All I can say is that 'impossible'
just seems to mean that nobody's done it yet. There's
some people that still don't believe a man walked on the
moon. And there's people who still believe the earth is
flat Nobody puts their names in the history books. I know
it all seems fantastic, but we are based in reality. It's just a
bigger reality than most people are used to dealing with."

"Whatdo you know?" Sam found himself asking, his
own meal forgotten for the moment. "You, who's
magicked his car, who walks and talks with the Folk and
treats them like mortals — what do you know?"

Tannim grinned. "Well — I know your beer's getting
flat."

Sam laughed, and gave in.

68 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dswn

Tannim finished his third cola with one eye on Sam,
and another on the crowd. On the whole, the evening
had gone well. Sam had weathered both his initial ex-
posure and the period of doubt that always followed it
in good form. Better than Tannim had expected, in
fact. Of course, he'd had a dose of the Folk as a child;

that tended to leave a lasting impression.

Sam had finally worked himself round to asking
specific questions about the elves, and how they were
functioning in the human world. And why.

The crowd-noise around them was not too loud for
them to be able to talk in normal voices — or at least, it
wasn't after Tannim did a little local sound-filtering
around their table, a tiny exerdse in human magic that
was worth the energy he expended on it. "Well, this is
something else Keighvin won't admit unless he's
pressed. Essentially, the Seleighe Court is split," he said.
"One group thinks they should all withdraw Underbill,
and leave the world we know to the humans. The other
group thinks that would be a major mistake."

"Why?" Sam wanted to know, his head turned to one
side.

"Remember what I told you about them, that they
can't seem to create anything?" Tannim reminded him.
"Keighvin thinks that if they withdraw, they'll stagnate.
That's something a little more serious to them than it is
to humans. They call it Dreaming; they can be forced
into it by caffeine addiction, or they can drop into it
from lack of stimulation, and being cut off from their
old energy sources by Cold Iron. That's happened to
one group in California already. They managed to get
out of it, but — it wasn't pretty."

He didn't like to think about that- They had all been
damned lucky to pull out of their trap. And they
wouldn't have been able to without the aid of humans.

He pulled his thoughts away; Elfhame Sundescend-
ing was all right now, and thriving. "like the old story
of the Lotus-Eaters; they lose all ambition and do next

BORN TO RUN           69

to nothing, sit around and listen to music and let then-
magic servants tend to everything, dance, and never
think a single thought. Scary. I've seen it once, and I
wouldn't wish it even on the Folk who'd be pleased to
see me six feet under. Keighvin's got some plans to
keep it from happening on this coast, and they involve
all of us in Fairgrove."

Just then, his attention was caught by someone that
didn't fit with the usual Kevin Barry's crowd. She was
dearly underage; he guessed round about thirteen or
fourteen. Fifteen, max, but he doubted it. She was
tarted up like a bargain-basement Madonna in black-
lace spandex tights, a black-lace skirt, and a cheap
black corset; wearing entirely too much makeup, so
that her eyes looked like black holes in her pale face,
with a bad bleach-job that made her hair look like so
much spiky dead straw. What in hell was she doing
here? This didn't look like her kind of crowd. God, she
looks like Prisfrom Bladerunner, he thought.

But then, Sam had been surprised that he was a
regular here. Maybe she just liked the music.

"I can see that, and I can see why racing, now," Sam
said, in answer to whatever he'd just told the man. "But
what are they doing about Cold Iron? That's what
drove them out of the Old Country, isn't it? Doesn't it
bother them now?"

"How much real iron and steel do you see
nowadays?" Tannim countered, raising his eyebrows.
"Plastic, fiberglass, aluminum, yes —but iron?"

"Hmm. You have a point."

The girl had worked herself in towards the stage, with
a look of utter fascination on her face. Tannim felt a
twinge of sympathy; he remembered the first timeA^ en-
countered really good Celtic folk-rock. It had been right
here — and this band, Terra Nova. Kind of like having
your first experience of pizza being Chicago deep-dish.
And it wasn't often that the old members of Terra Nova
got back together again for an old-time's-sake gig, what

70 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dwan

with Trish being so busy at the restaurant and all. No
wonder this chick had shown up. Yeah, it looked like she
was just a punker with Celtic-rock leanings. Too bad she
was so young. This was supposed to be an adult dub,
what with the bar and all. She could get bounced in no
dme, if she got herself noticed.

Well, if she behaved herself, they'd probably leave
her alone.

He watched her, still a little bothered by something,
something not quite right. Then, as he saw her stop
and talk to a businessman who shook his head abrupdy

— and ignore a SCAD student who half-made an ap-
proach, it dawned on him.

She was a hooker.

He'd thought he was beyond shock, but this stunned
him. So damned young —

He watched her make her way around the floor,
most other attention on the band, but obviously a part
of her keeping an eye out for a potential John. Don't try
and turn a trick in hers, honey, please, he pled silendy widi
her. He might be wrong — but the more he watched
her, the surer he became. At that age — out here on a
school night, dressed like she was — it was long odds
against her being on River Street for die fun of it. If you
get too obvious, or bother the customers, they'll throw you out.
Stay cool. It's cold and mean out there, and if one of the soft-
hearts sees you, they'll get you something to eat andyou'll be safe
a little longer....

Sam asked him a question, and he answered it ab-
sendy. "Well, what's happening is diat some of die elves

— with Keighvin leading the pack by a length — are
trying to build up a kind of immunity to Cold Iron —
or a tolerance, at least. I can think of half a dozen, ac-
tually, who can handle it widi a minimum of protection,
and two that can actually tolerate it well enough to
work on and drive a stock car."

Danal, he thought fondly. Wish you were here, man. You
couldpick up this poor little chick a/ndglamam her into coming

BORN TO RUN           71

back to Rixrgrwe withymi, tuck her away Underbill until you'd
talked some sense mto her. And if you couldn'tyour brother could.

The more he watched die girl, die less comfortable he
felt. She was wandering around die area of the stage,
and although she wasn't making any full-fledged tries at
picking up the customers, it was pretty obvious that if
anyone that she diought had money responded to her
tentative overtures, she wouldn't turn him down.

"Keighvin says die Folk have to adapt or die, it's that
simple," he concluded, as the band finished a wild polka
and went into a still wilder reel. "They haven't got a
choice anymore. He thinks if they wididraw, ttieyll do
worse dian stagnate, they'll fade away. Just— disappear."

"Is diat possible?" Sam asked, sounding surprised.
Tannim pulled his attention away from the girl long
enough to catch his eyes. He nodded, slowly.

"It's already happened," he said seriously. "Mosdy in
Europe, but even over here, diere've been enclaves of
die Folk diat went Underbill and just vanished after a
while. Nobody's heard from them, nobody can find
diem."

"Couldn't Uieyjust have dosed diemselves off?" Sam
wanted to know. "If they became that anti-social,
maybe uiey even got tired ofodier elves. I mean, what
is dlis Underbill, anyway? We used to say the Fair Folk
lived in die mounds, but what you're saying, it sounds
more like Underbill is everywhere. Couldn't the miss-
ing Folk have just shut the door and turned off the
phone, so to speak?"

Tannim shook his head. "Underhill doesn't work
that way. It's hard to describe. It's kind of— another
world, one magicians can touch, and sometimes get
into. A kind of parallel world, I guess. Lots of magic; I
mean, of power, and it's readily available, like
electridty, only it's like — " He diought for a moment,
as die crowd began dapping in time to die music. "It's
like having all the power-stations and die power-grid
in place and running, only there's nobody manning it,

72 Mercedes Lackey and LanyDwan

and no electric company to make you pay for what you
take. It's yours for the tapping into. The only 'cost' in-
volved is in tapping into it and in using it"

Sam shook his head, but not in disbelief, exactly.
"Sounds like free lunch, to me."

Tannim looked around for the girl, but she'd gotten
lost behind a screen of taller people. Not that that was
hard, as riny as she was. He thought he knew where
she'd moved to, though, by the path of mild distur-
bance along the bar. "Not really; the cost to the
individual of tapping in and using it is high, and you
have to have the ability in the first place. Kind of like
solar energy. Keighvin thinks that's where the power
created hers that doesn't get used leaks off to — if you
think of it as bio-energy, the kind that makes Kirlian
auras, you're dose enough to the truth."

Sam closed his eyes for a moment in thought. "All
right," he replied, opening them again. "That much I
can believe in. What's it like in there?"

"Parts are like a bad sf novel," Tannim laughed,
without humor. "Like some of the old pulp writers
described an alien planet. Parts of it are like an
architect's wet-dream." He spread his fingers wide for
emphasis. "Mostly it's a kind of chaos, a place where
things are always changing, always dangerous, and
that's where the Unseleighe Court creatures go. Then
there's stretches of order, walled gardens or even small
countries, and that's where the Seleighe Court
enclaves are."

"And those?" Sam prompted.

Tannim sighed, but this dme at the memories Sam's
question invoked. "I've only been there a couple of
times, and each time it was different. Figure every
description you've ever heard ofElvenlands, Morgan
Le Fay's castle, the Isles of the Blest — that's what those
Underbill enclaves are like." He felt his eyes sting with
remembrance and the inevitable regret that he hadn't
stayed, and pushed the memory away. "Incredible —

BORN TO RUN           73

and they require elven-mages of very high power and a
great deal of will to force the chaos out, and the area
into that shape. That means they leave a mark on the
world of Underbill, very visible, like the Red Spot on
Jupiter. When someone like Keighvin goes Underbill,
he knows where all the other pockets are, at least the
ones created by other Folk. Always. He might not be
able to get into them without invitation, but he knows
where they are."

Sam took a sip of his beer before replying. "So it
doesn't matter if the Folk in that place don't want to be
bothered, they can't hide themselves. At least not on
purpose."

Tannim nodded. "Right. So with the ones that faded
out, the places that have gone missing — well, they're
not there anymore. Maybe they died, maybe they went
to still another world, and maybe they just dissolved
back into the chaos. Even if there are still Folk alive in
there, nobody can reach them, and they can't find their
way back to the rest of us, nor to the real world.
Likeliest — according to Keighvin — is that they faded
until they were easy prey for the Unseleighe Court
critters."

Sam toyed with a napkin, looking troubled. "You
mean — they — "

Right on cue. Terra Nova launched into "Sidhe Beg
and Sidhe Mor," a tune that sounded lighthearted —
but was about a war between elves of the Seleighe and
Unseleighe Courts. The body count, as Tannim
recalled, had been pretty high.

He raised an eyebrow at the band. Sam chewed his
lip, as the meaning of the tune came home to him.
"The Unseleighe Court plays for keeps, and every dme
they kill a Seleighe Court creature, or a human, they
add his life-energy to their own power. Elves can die;

they can be killed. Ever think about where the word
*banshee' came from?"

Sam's eyes widened. "Bane-Sidhe?"

ft

74 Mercedes Lackey and LanyDixan

"Right. 'Bane' or 'death' of elves. And it's not just a
name." Tannim was just glad he'd not had any per-
sonal experiences with one. The descriptions were bad
enough.

"The stories my grandmother told me — she said
some banshees actually came for people." Sam looked
a little embarrassed, as if he'd been caught believing in
the bogeyman.

Who also exists.

"They do that too; they'll do their damnedest to scare
you to death," Tannim said grimly. "That's how they get
their eneigy; from your fear and from your dying."

"Oh." Sam blinked, as if he wasn't sure how to take
that. He'd accepted danger last night — but that was
with Keighvin, in Faiigrove territory. He was here now,
the "real world," in the middle of a pub full of noisy
people and a Celtic-rock band.

And a thirteen-year-old hooker.

She appeared again, this time giving up all pretense of
working the crowd, just standing dose to the stage and
hugging herself, as Irish sang "Buachaffl on Eire" with a
voice an elven Bard would have paid any price to display.

A glitter ofTrish's half-dosed blue eyes, and the set of
her chin, betrayed the fact that she was watching the giri
too, and Tannim relaxed minutely. Irish didn't pick up
on street-sparrows often, espedally not now that she was
managing "Acadia," but when she did, she was very kind
to them. Like the way she'd adopted that monster
wolfhound others, letting it take over her life to the
point of buying a house just so the dog would be able to
stay with her. She wouldn't let the girl get away without
at least trying to see she got something to eat. With luck,
she'd keep the child busy until Tannim could take over.

Maybe I can get her to Keighvin. I can't get him out of
Riirgrove territory, not yet, but if I can get her to him, he'll take
care of her. Not for the first time, he wished that he could
just lie to the kid, get her into his car and make off with
her, but to take her away from whatever life she had

BORN TO RUN           75

chosen, he had to have her consent, and she had to
know what she was choosing. Conal and Donal
wouldn't have worked that way, but they were Sidhe,
and trickery was a part of their nature. Not his. It
couldn't be by deception. Even Keighvin could work
that way, but he couldn't; he was bound by a different
set of rules. Self-inflicted, but nevertheless real. He
hadn't liked being lied to, or manipulated, even with
good intentions, when he was younger. He wouldn't do
that to another kid. Besides, small incidents have a way of
turning around and biting my ass. If the wrong person saw we
getting into my car with an underage hooker, it could mean big-
twne trouble later. Trouble we can't afford.

As the band finished the set, he saw with relief that
Trish definitely had her eye on the girl. As soon as
they'd finished their bows — and before the child had a
chance to escape — she was down off the stage and be-
side the kid. She made it look completely casual, and
Tannim gave her high marks for her subtlety.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked, startling him. He tore
his eyes off the girl for a moment to stare at his
companion.

"What do you—"

"Oh, come now," Sam interrupted. "You haven't had
more than half your attention on me for the past fifteen
minutes. And you've got a frown on your face, so it
can't be that you're watching a pretty girl, or that
you're enthralled by the band. So what's the problem?"
As Tannim paused, debating how much to say, he lost
his half-smile and began to frown, himself. "Is it some-
thing I should know about?"

Tannim sighed. "Over there, with Trish, from the
band. See that other girl?"

"The one that's made up like a cheap tart?" Sam
asked, disapproval thick in his voice. "Girls these days
— ah weU. What about her?"

"She's not only made up like a cheap tart, she
probably is a cheap tart," Tannim replied wearily. And

76 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dawn

before Sam could reply to that, added, "Take a good
look under all the paint She's not only underage, she's
hardly gotten away from playing with Barbie dolls.
What's a kid like that doing out here hooking? And
more than that, why? She has to be a runaway —
what's she running from that's bad enough for her to
be turning tricks at fourteen?"

Sam started to make some snap reply, but it looked as
if some of what Tannim had been talking about — the
abused kids and all — had penetrated. Tannim could
almost read his mind from the fleeting expressions that
passed over his face. First, contempt — then disgust —
but then a moment of second thoughts, followed by
worry. "I don't like it," he said.

"Neither do I," Tannim told him, "but we're going to
have to be careful about this. She could be bait in a
trap; she could be a trap herself. Some of the Un-
seleighe Court things can look like anything they want
I don't See any magic around her, but that doesn't
mean she's not one of them, or even a human kid they
picked up to use against me. This is one of my regular
hangouts, and everybody knows it"

And they know my soft spots.

"So what do we do?" Sam asked. A frown line was
forming between his brows. Obviously he wasn't used
to the kind of the multitudinous layers of deceit the
Unseleighe Court creatures used by habit.

"We let Trish handle her. If she's after me, she'll find a
way to get Trish to bring her over here. If she's a real kid
in real trouble, she'll act like one." He watched the two of
them, without seeming to. It looked as if the singer was
warning the girl against soliciting; Trish was nodding
her head so emphatically that her black hair bounced,
while the child blushed under all the makeup, and hung
her head. But the singer didn't leave things there; she
took the girl to a table in the corner, and got her a
sandwich and a cola, standing over her and talking undl
the food arrived. By then, it was time for the next set,

BORN TO RUN           77

and Trish abandoned the girl for the stage.

The kid finished the food in about three seconds flat
Tannim had never seen a kid put away food so fast, and
the way she cleaned up every crumb argued that it
might well have been the first meal she'd had today.
She lingered over the dregs other cola undl Trish was
obviously wrapped up in her song. Then a look of
bleak determination passed over her face, and she slid
out other seat; and without a single glance at Tannim
or even in his direction, she went back to the bar.

Tannim sighed, half in relief, half in exasperation.
All right, he said to himself. She's genuine. Now what am I
going to do about her?

• CHAPTERFIVE

Just as Tannim asked himself that question, the girl
found a mark.

It wasn't one of the regulars, andJulie hadn't even
bothered to try to find the jerk a table. He was holding
up the bar, more than two sheets to the wind, and up
until the kid cruised by, he'd been insisting that
Marianne, the barkeep, turn on a nonexistent
television. He jumped all over her tentative overture,
so much so that it was obvious to half the bar that he'd
picked her up. The guys on either side of him gave him
identical looks of disgust when they saw how young the
giri was, and turned their backs on the situation.

Unfortunately, Tannim wasn't going to be able to do
that. Not and be able to look himself in the mirror
tomorrow. Hard to shave if you can't do that....

Well, he knew one sure-fire way to pry her away
from Mr. Wonderful. And it only required a little magic.
With a mental flick, he set the two tiny spells in motion.
With the first, a Command spell, he cleared people to
one side or the other of a line between his table and her.
With the other, a simple look-at-me glamorie, he
caught her eye.

At precisely the moment when she looked his way,
down the open corridor of bodies, he flicked open his
wallet, displaying his Gold Card, and nodded to her.
Her eyes were drawn to it, as if it was a magnet to catch
and hold her gaze. Only after she looked at it did she
look at him. She licked her lips, smiled, and started
toward him.

Tried to, rather. The drunk grabbed her arm.

80 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dixon

"Hey!" he shouted, rather too loudly. "Wa-
waitaniinit, bitch! You promised me some fun!"

All eyes went to the drunk, and none of the looks
were friendly. Kevin Barry's was not the kind of pub
where the word "bitch" would go unnoticed.

So much for taking care of this the easy way.

Tannim was up and out of his seat before the girl had
a chance to react to the hand gripping her arm. He
grasped the drunk's wrist and applied pressure. The
drunk yelped, and let go. "I think she's changed her
mind," he said, with deceptive gendeness.

The drunk yanked his hand away, and snarled ag-
gressively, "Yeah? And what's a faggot artsy punk like
you gonna do about it? Huh?"

His hands were balling into fists, and he swung as he
spoke, telegraphing like a Western Union branch office.
Tannim blocked the first blow with a little effort; the
second never landed. Three patrons landed on the
drunk, and "escorted" him outside. And that was all
there was to the incident; Kevin Barry's was like that.
Tannim was family here, and nobody messed with family.

And nobody even looked askance at Tannim, for
guiding a kid barely past training bras back to his table.
It would be assumed that, like Trish, his intentions
were to keep the kid out of trouble, and maybe talk
some sense into her. He caught Sam's eye as he made a
show of pulling a seat out for her; the old man was any-
thing but stupid. "I'll be at the bar," he said as Tannim
sat down. "I can hear the band better over there."

That was a palpable lie, since the bar was far from
the stage, but the girl didn't seem to notice. Sam
vanished into the crowd, leaving Tannim alone with
the girl. She looked around, nervously; tried to avoid
his eyes.

But then, young hookers are always nervous.

"So, what's your name, kiddo?" he asked quietly,
projecting calm as best he could, and regretting the fact
that he wasn't an Empath.

BORN TO RUN           81

"Tania," she said,, so softly he could hardly hear her.

"Tania. Okay, my name's Tannim. We've both got
the same first syllable in our names, that's a start." She
looked up at him, startled, and he grinned. "Well, heck,
it's not much of a line, but it beats 'Come here often?
What's your sign?'"

She smiled back a little. "Wh-what do you want
me to do?" she asked bluntly. "W-we could go to
your car and — "

My car. So she hasn't even got a place of her own. The
thought sickened him. How long had she been turning
tricks in strange men's cars?

"What's your rate?" he asked, just as blundy.

She didn't bat an eye. "Sixty an hour."

Right. You wish. And you'd take sixty a night. He raised an
eyebrow, cynically. "Give me a break. That's for some-
body with a little more experience than you've got."

She wilted faster dian he expected. "Forty?" she said,
tentatively.

He watched her over the top of his drink, as Trish
belted out one other own compositions, die notes sail-
ing pure and clear above the crowd. "Sixty and forty.
Okay, that makes a hundred. Let me tell you what
you're going to do for a hundred."

She looked frightened at diat, and she might have tried
to get up and run except diat he was between her and die
door. He wondered if she'd gotten an "offer" like this
before-And if she'dgottenawayreladvely undamaged.

Yes to die first question, from the look of fear in her
eyes — and no to the second. It was all he could do to
keep up die pretense; to keep from grabbing her hand
and dragging her to his car, and taking her straight to
Keighvin.

"No, I'm not a cop," he told her, "and I'm not going
to bust you. I'm not into S and M and I'm not going to
hurt you." A litde of the fear left her eyes, but not all of
it, not by any means. "I am a pushover."

He looked up long enough to signal Julie with his

82 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dixon

eyes. She hustled over to his table as soon as she'd set
down the other customer's beer. Tannim's tips were
legendary in the River Street bars and restaurants, and
that legend ensured him downright eager service.

"Julie, I need four dub sandwiches with everything
— to go." He nodded significantly and she winked at
him, turning and heading towards the kitchen with the
order. He turned back to Tania.

"Okay, that's a hundred dollars for tonight; the first
dme. You take it, you go home if you've got one. You get
off the damn street, at least for tonight. You get a room if
you don't have a home." He slid the five twenties he
fished out of his wallet across to her. She looked at them,
but didn't touch them. "Use what I gave you for seed
money; start putting a real life together for yourself. I
come here a lot You find me here and ask me for help,
you get another hundred to keep you going — but only
if you aren't doing drugs. Believe me, I can tell if you
are, better than any blood-test Got that?"

She was just inexperienced enough to believe him,
and experienced enough to be skeptical. "So what do
you get out of this?"

He smiled crookedly. "I stop having to rescue you
from drunks. I told you I was a pushover." He sobered.
"Tania, it's harder to keep believing in dreams these
days — but when you stop believing in them, you kind
of stop believing in yourself. I still believe in them. And
I'm just crazy enough to think that giving an underage
hooker a hundred bucks just might make a difference
to her. Maybe give her a chance to go out and build
some dreams other own."

"I'm not under — " she started to protest frantically.

He covered her hand, the one that was holding the
cash, with his, just for a moment "And you can start by
not lying to me. Kiddo, you're underage even in Ten-
nessee, and we both know it. Now there; one crazy,
helping hand. This time, I pushed help off on you.
Next dme, you ask for help. All right?"

BORN TO RUN           83

She nodded, speechless, as Julie arrived with the
sandwiches. 'Julie," he said, as he shoved the brown
paper bag towards Tania, "I want you to start a tab for
Tania here. Two hundred bucks' credit, food only. Put it
on the card."

"Sure thing, Tannim," the waitress replied, plucking
his credit card from his outstretched fingers, and flash-
ing a sparkling smile. She winked at Tania, who
clutched the paper bag with a dumbfounded look on
her face, looking for all the world like a kid in a Hal-
loween costume.

Yeah. "Trick" or treat. Poor kid.

"Now, you get hungry, you come here," he ordered.
"Even if I'm not here, you can get fed. Okay?"

"0 — okay," she said, letting go of the bag long
enough to shove her money into her cheap vinyl purse.

He grinned again. "Go on, get out of here. It's getting
nasty out there, and I don't just mean the weather." She
whisked herself out of the chair, threading the crowd
like a lithe little ferret, and vanished into the darkness
beyond the door. Sam returned almost immediately.

"What the hell was all that about?" he asked, sitting
himself down in the chair Tania had vacated.

Tannim sighed. "The first step in building trust," he
replied. "I just put up a bird-feeder. If I'm really lucky,
one of these days the bird will eat from my hand. That's
when I can get her back to where she belongs — or
over to Keighvin, whichever seems better for her."

Sam shook his head dubiously. "I don't know. You
gave her money, didn't you? What's to stop her from
blowing it all on drugs?"

"Nothing," Tannim admitted. "Nothing, except that
she doesn't do drugs, yet Kid like that probably doesn't
turn more than a couple of tricks a week. I just gave her
enough to stay off the street for a while, maybe even
more than a week, and promised her more if she asks
for it." Julie brought back his card and the credit slip;

he signed it, and added a sizable dp for her. "And this

84         Mercedes Lackey and LanyDvwn

gives her a two-hundred-dollar food tab here."

Sam frowned. "You're a fool, boy. She's going to be
on you like a leech."

He let out some of his tension in a long breath. "I
don't think so," he replied. "I know... I don't have a real
reason to think that way, but I don't think she's har-
dened enough to see a potential sugar-daddy and snag
him. And even if she did — well, I could insist she come
stay with me, and hand her over to Keighvin that way.
Frankly, Sam, I'm more worried she'll vanish on me;

dedde I'm some kind of nut, the Savannah Zodiac killer
or something, and never come near me again." He
looked up again at the stage, where Irish hadjustbegun
"The Parting Glass," a sure sign that the gig was over, at
least for her. The rest of the band might stay, but Thsh
was caBing it a night "Enough of this. That's our signal
to move along, Sam, and go find ourselves some dinner.
How's tandoori chicken with mango chutney and raita
sound? Or lobster with macadamia nuts?"

Sam gave him a look of pure bewilderment. "What
in hell are you talking about?" he asked.

"Dinner, Sam," he replied, grinning with anticipa-
tion. "Pure gourmet craziness."

"Sounds crazy, all right," Sam said, as they wormed
their way through the crowd, and out into the damp,
fish-redolent air.

"Trust me, Sam," he laughed, as the mist began to
seep across the street, the precursor of one of
Savannah's odd, chin-high fogs. "Trish knows wine
and food the way she knows music. It might be odd, but
you won't be disappointed."

TaniaJane Delaney slipped up the warped steps to
the apartment she shared with five other kids, her
heart in her mouth. The entrance to the upstairs
apartments gaped like a toothless mouth when she'd
arrived, dark and unfriendly. The light at the top of the
stairs had gone out again — or somebody had broken

BORN TO RUN            85

or stolen the bulb — and she shivered with fear with
each step she took. Jamie'd been beaten up and robbed
twice by junkies; Laura'd had her purse snatched. If
anybody knew she had money — if there was someone
waiting for her at the top of the stairs —

But there wasn't, this time, nor was there anyone
standing between her and the door as she'd feared
when she felt for the knob. She fumbled open the lock
with hands that shook so hard her key-ring jingled.
There were only three keys on it, and the little brass
unicorn Meg had given her for good luck. One key for
this place, and the two to the locks of the townhouse in
North Carolina—

But she wouldn't think of that.

There wasn't anyone else in the apartment, which
was all right. She really didn't want to share Tannim's
largess with the other three kids that had the room with
the kitchenette, anyway. They'd given her a hard time
the last time she'd wanted to cook something, and she
thought they were niching things from her shelf in the
fridge. Not that there was much to filch, mostly, but
there had been things she'd thought she had that came
up missing. She and Laura and Jamie never gave them
any trouble over using the bathroom, and never had
any problem with making sure there was paper and
soap in there.

Please, don't let them blow all thevrmffney an dope again, she
pled with an uncaring God. The vent's due in tfwee days, and
old man March sent his kids to collect it last time. Itkmk they could
wad us up like Kleenex without even trying hard. They could
thrmvvs(Mt(maurassesandwec(nildn'tdoatkmgaboiitit.

She'd already eaten one sandwich, feeling guilty, but
too hungry to leave it alone. She hadn't eaten anything
yesterday but a cup of yogurt she'd shoplifted. But that
still meant Jamie and Laura had a sandwich and a half
each, plus all the chips. There'd been a styrofoam cup of
bean soup in there too, and cookies; she'd saved the
cookies for Jamie and his sweet-tooth, but she drank the

86 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dwan

soup, sitting on a stone bench in Jackson Square, watch-
ing the fog roll in, listening to the far-away music coming
from abar somewhere. It had been awfully good soup.

Mother had never made soup like that. Mother
never made soup at all; she bought it from a gourmet
place. And when she bought it, she bought weird
things, like cold gazpacho or miso, things that didn't
taste like soup at all. When she wasn't on some kind of
crazy diet with Father, that is. When Tania ran away,
they'd been on one of those diets; some kind of stuff
that looked like rice with things mixed into it, and
tasted like hay. They'd made Tania eat it too, and she
was hungry all the time. She'd have killed for a candy
bar or a steak, or even a hamburger.

"You only think about what tastes good," Mother had said,
scornfully. "Just like every child."

The only time Tania had eaten real soup was when
she was little, and she got it at school or the learning
center. It wasn't called a "day-care" center, it was a
"learning center," and she'd had lessons stuffed into
her every day for as long as she could remember.
French, math, music ... she hadn't gotten bedtime
stories, she'd gotten flashcards. She hadn't gotten hugs,
she'd gotten "quality time," with quizzes about how
well she was doing in school.

Lake the Spanish Inquisition, with long talks about how if I
really wanted to get into a first-class college like Yale I had to
have better grades.

She left the food on her roommates' sleeping beds.
Jamie and Laura had an old mattress, with the seams
popped and the stuffing coming out. It had been so
stained that Tania would have been afraid to use it, be-
cause of germs, but they didn't seem to mind. They had
a pile of cargo pads stolen from a moving van for bed-
ding, all spread neady on top of it, plus the blankets and
sheets Laura had taken out of the Goodwill drop-box,
all different sizes, none matching. Tania had two thin
foam mattresses she'd gotten from the open dumpster

BORN TO RUN           87

at the old folks' home, piled on top of each other, and
some of Laura's leftover sheets and blankets. Laura had
thought the idea of using the egg-crate mattresses was
too creepy; they wouldn't have been out in the
dumpster if their owner hadn't died, probably on them.
But the idea of ghosts didn't scare Tania; she'd taken
them, hosed them down real good in case the old person
had peed on them or something, and she hadn't been
haunted yet In fact, a ghost might be preferable to some
of the people who hung out around here.

She went to the bathroom to wash the makeup off.
The makeup, bleach-job, the whole outfit was Laura's
idea, but she wasn't sure it was working. On the other
hand, any tricks she got looking like the way she used
to would be real pervs. The makeup at least made her
look older, and the outfit like she knew what she was
doing. But it itched, and if she didn't wash it off every
night, she'd wake up looking like Tammy Faye Baker
after a good scam-cry. She saw as soon as she pulled the
chain on the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling that
somebody had been by the Hilton again; the toilet-tank
lid was covered with little bars of soap, and matching
rolls of paper sat on the cracked and grimy brown
linoleum. It was probably Laura; she was really good at
sneaking in, finding an unattended maid's cart, and
sneaking out again. That was how they'd gotten their
towels, too.

She ran some water into the sink, ignoring the rust
that had stained the gray, grainy porcelain under both
spigots. The hot water was actually hot tonight, and
Tania decided impulsively on a bath. She had to dean
the tub first, though, and by the dme she was done, she
was ready for a good long soak.

She went to the footlocker where she kept her
}   things, got her tiny botde of hotel shampoo, and dis-
jf   covered that there were lots more beside it. That
clinched it; only Laura would have gotten shampoo for
everybody* She silendy blessed Laura as she stripped,

88 Mercedes Lackey and tarry Dixan

hurrying because the apartment was cold. She ran
some hot water into the tub to warm it, trying not to
think about her beautiful, antiseptic, sparkling-dean
private bathroom at home.

It wasn't my home. It never was home. It was just a place to
Hue. They probably didn't even miss me when I was gone; I, bet
they're glad Fm gone, in fact. Nowthey can buy another BMW
or a Porsche and take a trip to Bermuda.

She washed her hair under the tap, kneeling in the
bottom of the chipped, scratched tub, then filled it to
the top with water as hot as she could stand. Mother
and Father had a Jacuzzi in their bathroom, but they'd
never let Tania use it.

She sighed, and sank back into the hot water. She
was so cold; when the fog came, it brought chilly air
with it, and Spandex wasn't very warm. She'd been out
longer than she'd intended after that strange guy gave
her all the money. She'd stopped to watch Legend
through the window of somebody's apartment after
she'd eaten the soup; the unicorns had attracted her at-
tention, and she stayed when there didn't seem to be
anyone in the room who could see her peering in from
outside.

What a great movie. Altogether, it had been a good
night, and she felt a little happy for the first dme in
weeks. First there'd been the music at that bar, then the
food the singer had gotten her, then the money for
doing nothmg. That would have been enough, but
there was a two-hundred-dollar tab waiting for her,
and she'd be able to get one good meal a day for all
three of them until that ran out. She wasn't certain the
guy was for real, but the tab was. It would be easy
enough to avoid him, and still eat on his money.

The movie had put a cap on the night She hadn't seen
it when it was first out. Mother and Father hadn't per-
mitted it They didn't let her watch any TV at all except
PBS, didn't let her see any movies, ever, but this had been
one film they would have really tossed a hissyfit over.

BORN TO RUN           89

Fantasy. They said it like it was a cuss-word. If Meg's
parents hadn't been one of Mother's clients, they'd
have made her throw out the unicorn keychain. She
wasn't allowed to read anything but schoolbooks, listen
to anything but classical music, but fantasy was the ul-
timate slime, so far as they were concerned. She'd
managed to read some at school, by keeping the books
from the school library in her locker, along with the
unicorn poster Meg gave her, and the dragon calendar.
She'd also had a little cache of books she'd hidden
under the springs other bed, books Meg gave her
when she was through with them, books full of
unicorns, elves, magic... and that turned out to be a
major mistake. Mother had found them.

You'd have thought it was kiddie-pom, she thought,
angry and unhappy all at the same dme. Or drugs. You'd
have thought they were Fundies and the books were about
demon-warship.

The way they'd carried on had been horrible; not
yelling, no, yelling would have been a relief. No, in-
stead they lectured her, in relays. About how the stuff
was going to ruin her mind for logical thinking; about
how it was wasdng time she could have been using on
extra-credit stuff to boost her grades and give her an
edge. How they felt betrayed. How if the colleges
found out she read this stuff, they'd never let her in.
On and on and on —

And then they took it and her into the living room
and burned the books in the trendy gas-log fireplace,
right in front other.

"No living in a dream-world for you, Tania," Father
had said, as he fed the brightly colored books to the
flames. "It's dme to wake up to the real world."

Well, Tm in the real world now. Father, she thought at
him, her eyes stinging. It's more real than yours.

They hadn't been able to do much to her, other than
spend every minute they had to spare lecturing her.
What could they do, after all? She wasn't allowed to

90 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dwan

"waste" her time on clubs, boyfriends, hobbies, music
for pleasure — the only time she was ever outside the
townhouse was when she was at school or at her after-
school lessons: ballet on Monday, piano on Wednesday,
tennis on Saturday. She didn't like any of those outside
lessons; they couldn't punish her by taking any of them
away. She didn't have any friends but Meg, she wasn't
allowed to have any friends but Meg, and she only saw
Meg on Saturday, at the dub for tennis lessons.

Then she found one Saturday that there was still one
thing they could do. They moved her lesson, from
Saturday morning, to Saturday afternoon. She'd lost
even Meg's tenuous friendship.

They told her Friday night. That was when she
dedded to run away.

Father always accused her of being unable to plan
ahead, of forgetting about the future. Well, he was
wrong.

She knew the combination of the safe, and how
much money her parents kept in it. She went to it by
the light of a dny flashlight, opened it, and counted...
she didn't dare take too much, or they might miss it if
they happened to need money for something on Satur-
day, but she made sure she had enough for the fare.
Then she packed her tennis bag, taking everything she
could fit into it, stuffing it and her purse to bursting.
Father was on the way to New York, Mother was seeing
a friend of Meg's father, helping him find a house for a
relocating veep. She did things like that for her clients;

that was why she got so many accounts.

Too bad she didn't do things like that for her kid. Ormaybel
was She a "declming account" to her.

When Mother dropped her off at the club, she'd
gone around to the kitchen instead of to her lesson.
She asked one of the busboys how to get to the dty bus,
figuring they'd know, if anyone would.

It was easier than she'd thought; many of the
employees at the club used the bus as their primary

BORN TO RUN           91

i ^
?•

transportation. She'd taken the dty bus downtown,
and from there it was a simple matter to get to the
Greyhound depot Before the four-hour tennis lesson
was over, she was on her way to Savannah. There was
no special reason to go there, it was just a place some-
where, anywhere, else. She'd picked it more-or-less at
random, figuring if she hadn't known in advance
where she was going neither would her parents. Re-
search Triangle Park, North Carolina, vanished
behind her.

IfFather'd been more like Tannim.... She let a little
more hot water into the tub, and sank back with a wist-
ful sigh.

Money didn't last as long as she'd thought it would.
Really, she didn't have any idea how much things cost
She made the mistake of buying a couple of nylon bags
and a lot oft-shirts and things to wear so she didn't look
so conspicuous. By the time she readied Savannah, she
was down to her last twenty dollars, and desperate. The
bus arrived after midnight, and had dumped her out
on the street, cold and scared. Afraid to hang around
the bus terminal, she'd wandered the streets, jumping
at every shadow, expecting to get mugged at any
moment.

That was whenJamie found her; she found out later
he'd just turned a really good trick, and was a little
high, and feeling very generous and expansive. AH she
knew was that this really cute guy came up to her, as
she was sitting on a bench in some kind of little park,
and looked at her kind of funny. Then he'd said,
"You're in trouble, aren't you?" and offered her a place
to stay.

If she hadn't been so exhausted, she'd have been
horrified by the awful apartment. The place was musty,
full of mildew, with stained ceilings where leaks had
sprung. Two rooms, on the top floor of an old, un-
painted building so rickety that it leaned. No furniture,
cracks in all the walls, carpeting with about a hundred

a

92 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dwan

years of dirt ground into it, bugs crawling everywhere
— she'd never seen a place like it before.

Laura had been waiting, and when she saw that
Jamie'd brought Tania with him, she started to yell at
him. But then she'd taken a second look, and just gave
Tania a couple of blankets and a pillow, and said they'd
talk in the morning.

They talked, all right. Or rather, Tania talked. When
she was through, Jamie'd looked at Laura, and Laura
had nodded slowly. "All right," Laura had said. "Y'all
can stay. But y'all gotta pay your own share. We ain't
got anythin' t' spare a-tall."

She'd thought it would be easy. She didn't know that
no one was going to hire a fourteen-year-old with no
experience, no phone, and no transportation. Not
when there were so many SCAD students looking for
jobs. After a week of filling out applications and getting
turned down, she was getting desperate. If Laura and
Jamie threw her out —

She asked Laura to get her a job where she worked.
That was when Laura laughed, and told her what she,
Jamie, and the other kids sharing the apartment did all
night And offered to show her how.

"It's easy," Laura'd said cynically, in her thick, Geor-
gia-cracker accent. "They pay y'forty bucks, and /just
lie there. Half hour, and it's over, an' ya go find another
John."

She'd had sex education; she knew about all of it,
from contraceptives to AIDs. As desperate as she'd
been, she hadn't thought it would be that bad.

So she'd been deflowered by some guy in the back
seat of his car and gotten forty bucks out of the ex-
perience; he hadn't even known she'd been a virgin. It
had hurt a lot, but she soaked away the pain in the
bathtub, and went out the next night. After a while it
stopped hurting — physically.

It could have been worse, she told herself. In fact, she'd
been incredibly lucky, and she knew it. There were

BORN TO RUN           93

guys who hung around the bus station waiting for kids
like her; they'd offer a place to stay, and the next thing
the kid knew, she was hooked and he was her pimp.
Jamie saved her from that, anyway. At least she wasn't
doing drugs, her money was her own, and she could
make her Johns wear rubbers.

She sat up a little in the tub, thinking she heard the
key in the lock. But no, it wasn't Laura or Jamie. It was
getting awfully late, and she was beginning to worry.

Especially about Jamie. He'd started using drugs;

he'd always smoked a little grass, hell, he was high
when she'd met him. But she was pretty sure he'd been
doing something harder than grass, lately, and she was
afraid it was crack.

She couldn't blame him, in a way. She'd naively as-
sumed that he was getting picked up by women the
way she and Laura were hooking with men. Then
she'd seen him in a car with one of his Johns ... and
later, down on Bull Street, with the other cute young
boys, cruising for another customer. Male customers.

"I'm not a fag," he'd said fiercely, when she men-
tioned she'd seen him. "I'm not. I'm straight, I'm just
making the rent, okay? It doesn't mean anything."

"Okay," she'd said hurriedly, "I believe you." And
didn't bother to tell him that it didn't matter to her if he
was gay or straight. Her father had referred to one of
her Fine Art Appreciation teachers as "queer as a foot-
ball bat," and she'd always liked him. What mattered
was that Jamie was careful; that he made sure all his
Johns wore rubbers, the way she did, and that he stayed
safe. That he didn't start on heavy drugs, like the kids in
the other room.

Because she'd seen what happened when you got
hooked. Especially the guys; they wound up going to a
pimp, one who'd keep them stoned all the dme and
take all their money, and when they got stoned, they
weren't so careful anymore.

Laura wasn't much better about taking chances.

94          Mercedes Lackey and LanyDixon

When Tania did anything besides in the guy's car, she
never went anywhere with a guy except a motel room,
and then she'd meet him there, and if he wasn't alone,
she'd leave. She wouldn't do kinky stuff, either. Laura
did things Tania never would; Laura took chances all
the time.

But Laura was a lot tougher than Tania.

You'd have to he tough to take what she did. Getting raped fy
yourstepdad, thenthrown out of the house for telling... hernwm,
saying she VMS a slut, and that shelved about it ali... Iguessshe
jigunsshehasn'tgota lotto lose. ExceptJamie, I guess.

Laura spilled the same story every time she came
home drunk, which was about once a week, even
though she wasn't more than sixteen. Jamie didn't talk
about his past. Tania figured it must have been worse
than Laura's; sometimes she'd wake up and hear
Jamie crying, hear Laura comforting him. She'd seen
him nude a lot, and there were scars all over his body.

Tania was getting all wrinkly, like a raisin; she got out
of the water reluctantly, and pulled the plug. As she
watched the water run down the drain, making a little
whirlpool, she remembered the PBS show bit about
how you could tell what hemisphere you were in
whether the whirlpool ran clockwise or counter-
clockwise.

Gravity, Coriolis forces ... her life was running out
like the water. It was so hard to think of anything but
the next trick, hard to plan past making the rent

She used to have dreams, plans. When she first ran
away, she was going to get a job, maybe learn to be a
model... or get into a tech school and leam computers
... or maybe see if her art teachers were right about
her being good at drafting. These days, she watched
the SCAD students with a kind of dull hatred. They
had it all, and they didn't even know it. How dared they
pretend they were so tortured, so tormented by art?
They didn't know what torture was.

Torture was coming home with cigarette burns on

BORN TO RUN           95

your arms, like Laura; having scars all over your body,
like Jamie.

Torture was running fifteen blocks with a guy chas-
ing you, hoping you knew a way to get away from him
before he beat you up and took your money. Torture
was not having enough to eat, ever; worrying about
getting kicked out onto the street because the junkies
in the next room couldn't afford their share of the rent

Tannim had talked about having dreams. What had
happened to hers?

She pulled on an oversized t-shirt and curled up in her
blankets, waiting for the others to get home. Next week
was the end of the month and the bookstores would strip
books of their covers, turn in the covers for credit, and
pitch the stripped pages into the dumpster. There might
be some fantasy or science fiction in there, if she got there
early enough. There had been, last month.

If she couldn't live on her own dreams, she'd take
other people's. That would do. She thought again
about that black-and-white TV she'd seen for ten bucks
at the Goodwill store; maybe she could get it with a litde
of the hundred dollars....

Meanwhile she'd wait for Laura and Jamie to get
home, make sure they ate the food she'd brought,
make sure they were all right

They were all the family she had.

She must have dozed off, because she woke up with a
start to the sounds of the kids in the other room coming
in, all three together, higher than anything. Joe and
Tonio were all over each other, and Honi kept telling
them to hush in a voice louder than their giggles. Tania
didn't know if Honi was a boy or a girl; Horn had awfully
big hands and feet for a girl, and a prominent Adam's
apple, but she never wore anything but tight black skirts
and pumps and fishnet hose out on the street—and this
grubby old bathrobe with tatty marabou trim at home.

Joe and Tonio were, according to Jamie, "queer as

96          Mercedes Lackey and LanyDixon

football bats." Odd thatJamie and her father used the
same expression. They said they were lovers, but
whenever they got drunk — as opposed to high — they
beat each other up something awful. Laura andJamie
ignored them, but Tania always stayed hidden in bed
when they started on each other that way.

She glanced over at the other bed, almost by reflex,
and saw one lump in it, with long, fire-red hair. Laura.

"Jeezus, ah wish the hail them queers'd take it out-
side," came a loud groan from the lump. Laura had
deliberately made it loud enough for the others to hear,
and Tbniojust giggled harder.

"But baaaby it's cooold outside," Joe shrieked, and
by the thump, fell onto the sleeping-bags he shared
with Tonio. The overhead bulb went out in the other
room, leaving the harsh light from the cracked ceramic
lamp in the comer of their room as the only source of
illumination.

Laura sat up, shaking her hair out other eyes, and
peered through the doorway into the other room.
"Weahll, theah goes the rent," she said glumly. Tania
pulled her blankets back and sat up too, her heart
sinking.

But then Laura took a second look. The trio in the
other room were already snoring. "Or mebbe not," she
said thoughtfully, and slipped out of her bed to creep
quiedy into the other room.

She came back with a handful of something.
"Damnfools didn't spend it all, this tayhme," she said
grimly. "Got thutty from Tonio's pants, foahty from Horn,
ari twenny fromJoe. I got foahty putby. How "boutyou?"

Tania dug into her purse and came up with Tannim's
five twenties, handing diem over without a qualm. After
all, she didn't have to worry about eating for a while.

Laura looked at her with a dumbstruck expression
on her face. "Whut in hail did y'all do, gal?" she asked.
"Ah found the sammiches. You go to a pahty, or didja
get a delivery kid?"

BORN TO RUN            97

Tania giggled, and shook her head. "No," she said,
and the story of the strange guy in the bar spilled out
under Laura's prodding. But to her surprise, Laura
wasn't pleased.

"Jee-zus!" the girl finally exploded, tossing her
tangled hair over her shoulders. "Whut in hail didja
thank you was doin'? This ain't no fairy tale, girl! Man
don' give away money foah nothin'! You ain't gonna go
back theah, are you?"

"Not while he's there," she replied, resentfully. "But
the tab's real, Laura; I saw the charge slip. I think we
oughta eat it up before he changes his mind — "

Laura wasn't convinced, and she scowled, then in-
terrupted her. "That's 'nother thang, now ah'm glad I
didn' eat them sammiches — he prolly put dope in
there. First taste is free, but — "

"Laura, they came straight out of the kitchen. He
didn't touch them! Kevin Barry's is straight-edge, you
dummy, they wouldn't do anything like that!" At
Laura's continued scowl, she added, "Besides, I al-
ready ate one, and it was okay."

"Jeems," the older girl said explosively. Then, "I
reckon it's all right. But don' go near him agin, you
heah me? He's prolly a pimp, all that crap 'bout dreams^
and do-good bull. Only dreams man like that has come
in white powdah, or lil' brown rocks. He jest wantsta
get you off, get you stoned, an then he's got you."

Tania sighed, and bowed her head in acquiescence.
It would have been nice to have somewhere to go for
help. She had vague memories of a dream, where Tan-
nim was some kind of warrior, in leather and blue
jeans, and he fought monsters to protect her....

But this wasn't a fairy tale or a movie; Laura was right
Nobody gave money away for free, and dreams had a
way of vanishing when the rent needed to be paid.
Laura was nibbling tentatively at a comer of one of the
sandwiches, as if she expected to bite into something
dangerous.

98 Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon

That much was real, anyway. Food today, and food
for the next week or so, and just twenty more dollars
fromJamie and the rent would be paid up.

"Where's Jamie?" she asked, and Laura stopped
chewing. Her scowl turned to a frown of worry.

"Ah don' know — " she began, and then they heard
the rattle of a key in the lock. From the sound of it,
Jamie was having a hard dme finding the lock.

When he stumbled through the darkened outer
room, it was obvious why. He was even higher than the
others had been. But this was a manic kind of high that
made Tania sick inside. There was booze on his breath,
but that wasn't all.

Crack. He's been smoking crack.

She sat in dumb silence, while Laura scolded him
out of his clothes and into bed, holding out one of the
remaining sandwiches. But even she went silent at the
sight of rope bums on his wrists.

"Whut happened?" she asked, after a long pause.
Jamie laughed and snorted.

"I did a party, baby. There was a birthday, and I was
the favor. They got a little rough, but they made it up to
me." He snatched at the sandwich she held, and
devoured it before she could say anything; dove into
the bag and got the cookies and ate them, then the
second sandwich.

How? With dope and booze? Or did he get that after?

"How many?" Laura asked, finally, flatly. He gave
her an owl-like stare, as the food made him sleepy.

"I don' know," he replied, his words slurring. "Four.
Five. I wanta sleep."

"Did you make 'em use rubbers?" she snarled, as he
lay down. When he didn't respond, she shook him.
"Answer me, dammit! Didyou?"

"Yeah. Sure. I'm gonna sleep now." And he pushed
her away. He didn't so much fall asleep as pass out

Frantic now, Laura scrabbled through his pockets,
turning them out on the cargo-blanket and pawing

BORN TO RUN           99

through them. A pocket-knife, a butterfly-knife, as-
sorted change. Keys. Three crumpled twenties. Gum
wrappers and half a pack of gum.

Three condoms.

"He went out with six," Laura whispered, her voice
right with fear. "He had six."

Six; three gone — but Jamie had said there were
four or five Johns. And he had been at a party; no tell-
ing how many times each.

Laura started to cry, tears streaking her face with
cheap mascara, rent money lying forgotten on the bed.

Tania went to her, hugged her, and held her, rock-
ing, not able to say anything, only able to be there.

"It's all right," she said, meaninglessly. "It's all right
We'll take care of him in the morning, okay? It'll be all
right This isn't the first rime this has happened, and he
was all right before."

"Yeah," Laura sobbed, "but— "

"If they had the Plague, they wouldn't have parried
together, right?" she said, trying come up with some-
thing that could soothe Laura's fears — and not
mentioning her own.

Like, what if they had it and didn't know yet. Or what if they
aUhadit and didn't cars?

"But — " Laura couldn't get the rest out through
her tears.

"Look. Whatever happens, we'll take care of it," she
said, holding Laura and rocking her. "We will. We'll
take care of it together."

•CHAPTERSIX

George Beecher sighed, pulled his raincoat a little
tighter against the damp chill, and litanotherdgarette. He
moved out of the shadows, walking a little farther along
the riverfront, and leaned on one of the cutesy gaslights,
staringoutat the river as ifhe was watching for something.

He was, but it wasn't out on the river — which you
really couldn't see much ofbecause of the creeping fog.
What he wanted was inside that building behind him,
in warmth and laughter and candlelight

Well, the only way he was going to earn some of that
for himself was to park out here, in the dark, fog and
cold. And wait.

A lot of what a El. did was wait, although for the life
of him, he couldn't imagine why the gal who'd hired
him had wanted her hubby followed. Or what she
figured he was doing on his nights out He hadn't done
anything at all this whole evening. He'd thought she
was a litde odd when the boss first talked to her; now he
was sure of it.

The guy had shown up at the Irish bar, like she'd
said he would — but it wasn't with a chippie, like he'd
expected; it was with an old man, a guy that had that
"white-collar worker" look about him. Reared white-
collar. Nothing untoward there, either, the old guy was
as straight as diey came; George had a knack for pick-
ing out the bent ones no matter how far in the closet
they'd buried themselves. The young guy just had an
odd friend, that was all. No big deal. Plenty of guys
were buddies with old guys — maybe this was some-
body he'd worked with before the old man retired.

102        Mercedes Lackey and Lany Djxan

They'd listened to the band — along with the rest of
the bar. The guy — kid, almost — hadn't even had any-
thing to drink; it had looked to George like he'd stuck

to cola the whole dme.

Then a chippie had shown up, a free-lancer, and way
out of place for the bar. For a little bit, it had looked like
he was going to get a bite; the gu/d come real dose to
getting into a fight over the underage hooker.

But the fight never materialized. The rest of the
patrons bounced the drunk, and the guy George was
following had taken the kid back to his table. The old

guy left them alone.

Once again, it started to look like pay-dirt, but he'd
just talked to the kid; then got the girl some food,
maybe passed her some money, then turned her loose.
And when he and the old guy left, it wasn't to go party
with the chick — it was to this second-floor restaurant.

They'd been there for hours. The girl had

evaporated.

Nobody in his right mind would give a hooker cash
and expect her to be waiting for him after dinner.
Either the guy was really crazy, or —

Or the guy was a pushover for a sob story. Stupid,
but nothing you could prosecute in a court of law. Un-
less wifey was planning on getting him committed....

You'd need a lot more than giving a panhandling kid
some dough to get a guy committed. He hadn't even
started the fight in the bar back there — and he'd hard-
ly laid a finger on the drunk. You'd need some serious
shit to lock a guy up; some evidence that he was being
more than just a pushover for a sob story, something
really crazy. So far the guy hadn't obliged at all.

What was more, he didn't look as if he had enough
money to make locking him up a profitable deal. He
had a nice classic car, yeah, but nothing wildly spec-
tacular, no Ferrarri, no fancy clothes, and he wasn't
parading around with high-class types.

On the other hand, he had flashed a Gold Card. And

BORN TO RUN           103

he was eating in a gourmet place. A lot of millionaires
didn't look or act the part. Maybe —

Well, it wasn't George's business what she did with
the information he got her. All he had to do was follow
the dude around, and make his report, take his pic-
tures. He'd gotten one of the guy with the old guy, and
one going into the restaurant. Funny thing had hap-
pened; every dme he wanted to get a pie of the guy
with the hooker, somebody had gotten in the way. He
had only his verbal report, and a picture of the kid as
she came out of the bar.

No matter. Wifey would have what he'd gotten.
Whatever she did with the full report after he turned it
in was her own affair.

He dropped the cigarette on the cobblestones,
ground it under his heel, and lit another. It was going
to be a two-box night from the looks of it

Aurilia nic Morrigan leaned over her stark ebony
desk and flipped through the pages of the last detective
agency's report one more dme, frowning. This
perusal, like the last, yielded nothing she could use.
Bruning Incorporated certainly hadn't come up with
much in three weeks of following Tannim around;

hopefully the new agency she had hired would be a lit-
de more resourceful.

She slapped the folder dosed, petulantly, and stared
at her perfectly manicured nails. Aurilia wanted
Keighvin Silverhair shredded, scattered over at least a
condnent, preferably by those same perfecdy
manicured nails. But Keighvin had formidable protec-
tions, and at least the grudging backing ofElfhame
Fairgrove. She and Vidal Dhu were the only Folk of the
local Unseleighe Court who wanted Keighvin's skin;

they had no backing if it came to an all-out war instead
of minor skirmishing. So she and Vidal were reduced
to hide-in-comer strategies; one thing she had never
been particularly good at. Right now, the only way to

104        Mercedes Lackey and LariyDwan

get Keighvin, at least so far as she could tell, was
through this "Tannim" character. The problem was,
she had discovered that beneath a veneer of commonly
known information, there wasn't anything togive her a
due to the human's nature.

She sighed, tossed the bound folder onto the filing
cabinet, and stretched her arms over her head, slowly.
The beige suede screens that walled her off from the
rest of the room were hardly more than a few feet away,
just barely out of reach. There was very little in her tiny
office-cubicle besides the desk, the filing-cabinet and
the black leather chair she sat in — but unlike humans,
she and her associates didn't need much in the way of
paper records. The single three-drawer filing-cabinet
served all their needs for storage, and all of one and a
half drawers was taken up with reports on Fairgrove
and the personnel there. The records for Adder's Fork
Studios filled barely half of the bottom drawer.

But Adder's Fork didn't need much in the way of
paper-trails and record-keeping. Customers came to
find them, not the other way around. There was no
need to go to any effort to keep track of accounting;

payment was always in advance, cash only. And if the
IRS or any other busy-body agency came looking for
them, their agents would find — nothing.

Customers, on the other hand, could always reach
them. Vidal saw to that

Supply and demand, Aurflia mused, a little smile play-
ing about her lips. A smaU market, but a loyal one. And one
with few options to go elsewhere....

She stood up, walking around the discrete beige par-
tition to the space taken up by the studio. It was a good
thing they didn't need to hire outside secretarial help,
A mundane secretary would never be able to handle
the environment.

Nearest to the office was the newest sound-stage.
Tiny, by Hollywood standards, but quite adequate for
the job, it looked very much like an old-fashioned

BORN TO RUN           105

doctor's office. Aurilia looked the new set over again,
and decided it wasn't quite menacing enough. There
was a definite overall impression of threat, but the cus-
tomers weren't terribly bright sometimes; they needed
things pointed out.

Circles, arrows, and underKnings.

She considered the doctor's examining table. The
next film would be a period piece, of the 1800s, re-enact-
ing a series of incidents that had taken place during the
Chicago World's Fair. With liberal embellishments. The
kmdtheircustomersreaUyappredated.

The lead character — one could hardly call him a
"hero" — in this movie was a physician who had used
the activity and bustle caused by the Fair to cover his
own activities. He had lured in young women new to
the city by advertising for secretaries, and offering a
room above his office as an added incentive. With the
Fair in full swing, rooms had been at a premium and
were very expensive even in the poorest parts of town.
Doctors were respected professionals — and in any
case, he (supposedly) did not actually live in the same
building as his office. Many young women applied
whenever he posted his advertisement.

He only chose select individuals, however. Pretty
girls, but ones with no family, or very far from home.
Girls with no friends, and especially, no boyfriends.
Girls with quiet, submissive natures.

He would scientifically discover their weaknesses,
play upon them, and eventually, lure them down into
his "special office," with the hidden door. Among other
things, he had performed hack-abortions before he
had hit on the secretarial scheme. Some of those secret
padents had been his victims. It had been no problem
to have any number of surprises concealed within the
building; it had been constructed from his own plans.
Once hidden behind the soundproof walls, he would
overpower his girls with chloroform, then strap them
to a special examining table —

106        Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dmm

And once he was finished with them — or even at the
climax of his pleasures — he would behead them, with
a special device he mounted onto the table.

The bodies he disposed of in various ways, none
traceable at the time. Aurilia reflected that he had real-
ly been very clever, for a human. His downfall had
come when he overestimated his invulnerability and
grew careless, choosing a girl he thought fit the profile
—who didn't.

But that was not what concerned the studio. They
would use only the barest bones of the original story —
and it certainly would not end in the doctor's capture.

Indeed, they were going to take extreme liberties in
the matter of the victims' ages. None would be over the
age of about sixteen. Most would be nine to thirteen, or
at least, would look that young. Vidal already had
several girls in mind, and there would, of course, be
many constructs used to fill out the cast. Aurilia was
considering a second version, employing young boys
instead of girls, and a female "doctor" — or even a third
and fourth with same-sex pairings. After all, why waste
a perfectly good set?

But right now that set still needed a few modifica-
tions. Aurilia considered the examining table carefully.
She couldn't make the restraints any more obvious.
Perhaps—

Perhaps a change of color.

She reached out with her magic, and touching the
aluminum with the hand of a lover, stroked the surface
of the table, darkening it, dulling the shiny, stainless
surface and changing its substance, until the tabletop
had become a slab of dark gray marble.

That did it. That was exactly the touch the set had
needed. Now the table called up images of ancient
sacrificial altars, without the mind quite realizing it, or
wondering why.

Of course, after the first victim, the audience would
know what the table was for, and would simply be wait-

BORNTORUN           107

ing for the "doctor" to lure another victim to his lair.

But the little touches and attention to detail was what
had made Adder's Fork the leading producers ofS and
M, kiddie-pom, and snuff-films in the business. There
was true artistry involved, and centuries of expertise.

Hmm-Bsfii^anAztecthemefortheriextgnnip. Wasn'tthem
aseawhewethesacnficewasfa^shar^byaSthepartmparits?

Aurffia busied herself with the rest of the set, check-
ing the apparatus and the camera and sound set-ups,
making certain that everything was in place for the
shoot tomorrow. It was ironic that both the Unseleighe
Court and the Seleighe Court had the same problem in
dealing with the modem world. They both had to earn
real money.

Different motives, and different ends, but the same
needs. For Aurilia, Vidal, and Niall, it was money to pay
for the private detectives and to buy property. Money to
buy arms to ship to both sides of a fight, be it a simple
gang-war or full-fledged terrorism. Money to bribe offi-
cials, or those whose power was not official but no less
real. True money from human hands, not magic-made
duplicates, for the underworld was cannier than the rest
of human society and would catch such tricks quickly.
The underworld preferred bills in denominations ofless
than a hundred dollars; preferred old, worn money
rather than newly printed. They would not accept
money with sequential numbers. The time it would take
to gather single, old bills and duplicate them, or to dupli-
cate a single, old bill and make enough changes in it to
make every copy look different, was better spent in ways
that simply earned thatamountofmoney.

There are times in the humans' world when it is simpler and,
easier to do without magic.

That had left Aurilia with a few problems of logistics,
but nowhere near as many as her opponents were
forced to cope with. The Seleighe Court fools limited
their ways of earning cash to legitimate means. Fools
they were, because "legitimate" and "constricted" were

108         Mercedes Lackey and LarryDixon

one and the same. And when one reduced one's op-
tions, one halved one's income.

Anything illegal was far more profitable than any-
thing legal. And, for all of its difficulties, moving and
working in the shadow world of the underground was
much simpler than coping with all the regulations and
laws of the "honest citizen."

Look at everything Keighvin had gone through to
establish Fairgrove Industries, for instance. He'd
created something that could function totally within
human parameters, and yet leave the nonhumans free
to work. Resourceful he was, indeed, and though she
hated him passionately, Aurilia could admire that
much about him.

Whereas Adder's Fork had required only three
things once Aurilia and Vidal had arrived at a plan;

kenning an airplane and all the equipment they
needed, making an underworld contact adept at forg-
ing records and getting their electronic copies into the
proper systems, and installing a Gate into Underbill in-
side the plane.

The plane, a C-130 cargo craft, had taken six months
to duplicate and another to modify so that it no longer
looked like the craft it had been copied from. The lines
had been subdely changed, and the color turned to a
light blue that blended in very well with the open sky.
Being able to work Underbill had helped; magical
energy was much more readily available there. But
they had not been able to create the craft exactly; in
point of fact, there was no iron or steel anywhere in it, it
had no engine, and never needed refueling on mortal
aviadon gas. That was both an advantage and a disad-
vantage. There was nothing to break down, and they
could land and take off from anywhere, at any time, but
they dared not let inspectors or anyone with more than
a cursory knowledge of aircraft anywhere near it That
flaw made a dreadful hole in their defenses. Aurilia
would have liked a real engine — but the Unseleighe

BORN TO RUN           109

Court shared their rivals' "allergy" to Cold Iron. How
Keighvin and his crew could bear to work so near it was
a mystery to her. And if they ever broke through the
Fairgrove defenses. Cold Iron and humans wielding it
would without a doubt be Keighvin's second line of
defense. That was fine... she had a syringe of human
blood with iron filings ready to inject into Keighvin
when she had him. It would be very entertaining to
watch his reactions to that

But for that single technical flaw — the authenticity
of the aircraft —Adder's Fork was completely in the
dear. Gold coins — kenned copies of genuine Kruger-
rands — had bought the records for plane and pilots,
and had bought the human who inserted those records
into the humans' computers. More coins, sold one at a
time to dealers, had rented equipment long enough for
Unseleighe Court mages to ken it. Aurilia had stock-
piled many favors over the course of several hundred
years; she cashed them all in on this venture.

Then it had only required time. Time to reproduce
complicated gear and make sure that it worked; time to
build the studio Underbill. Time to make more con-
tacts in the human underworld, offering the kind of
product certain humans would literally bankrupt
themselves to own.

Adder's Fork did simple pom movies at first — well,
relatively simple. All of their pictures had real, if un-
adorned, plots, and most involved the occult. And
every Adder's Fork film involved pain, bondage, S and
M; these things raised power, energy the humans
never used, energy that would ordinarily have gone to
waste, so in addition to bringing in human money, the
filming itself was a potent source of power. The favors
Aurilia had cashed in were quickly replaced by other
favors owed as the denizens of Underbill vied to be in at
the filming, acting either on Vidal's du-ection as camera
operators or other technicians, or as extras, if they
were attractive enough. Not every creature of the Un-

110        Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dwan

seleighe Court was a boggle or troll. Some, like Aurilia
and Vidal, were as lovely as any High Court elven lord

or lady.

Now that they had both studios up and running,

they still did produce that simpler sort of film, for over
in Studio One, they'd finished one such film tonight. A
gay-bondage party using the Caligula set, to be precise;

one with a simple plot that was dose to the reality of the
situation — a group hires a strip-tease entertainer for
the birthday-boy, then they all dedde to take things a
little farther. The "party-favor" had been a very pretty
young male hooker, dark-haired and dreamy-eyed,
who Aurilia thought they might use again some dme.
He was the only one who hadn't known the "party" was
being filmed; he'd been plied with liquor at the bar
where he had been picked up, and drugged in the cab
on the way here. The set was a discreet one, the
cameras mountedbehind mirrors. The other five men,
old customers, had been recruited with a cash bonus
and a promise of whatever they wanted from the com-
pany catalog.

That was a formidable promise, and one that might
have lured them more than the money. One thing that
Adder's Fork had that no other pornshop possessed
was an unbreakable copy-guard. Adder's Fork tapes
could not be duplicated; attempts would only result in
both tapes' signals breaking up — thanks to a special
spell in the Underbill duplicating room. There was a
warning to that effect at the front of each tape — and
every time Aurilia received a request for a copy of
something that duplicated an order to the same ad-
dress, she smiled. Certain humans never could believe
that there was something they couldn't get around.
High-tech meets high magic — ami loses.
A. more economic way to make ends meet She con-
sidered her solution to the cash-flow problem to be just
as dever and creative as Keighvin's-And far less work.
His setup had taken decades to establish; hers mere

BORN TO RUN           111

months. His was rooted to one spot, and if there were
ever troubles, he would have to vanish with no other
recourse. Hers was as mobile as her "plane," for it did
not matter where the Gate was located in the here-and-
now of the humans' world, so long as it was rooted in
something large enough to serve as an anchor. It was
useful to have the studios Underbill, especially Studio
Two. Screams couldn't penetrate the Gate, and even
more Unseleighe Court creatures were vying for a
chance to serve as extras in the films Two produced.
Adder's Fork Studios had always been known for high-
quality pom, but the Studio Two films, snuff-pictures
with emphasized occult and satanic themes, really had
the customers begging for more.

The customers raved about the "special effects," and
it was not the deaths they were talking about. Vidal's
careful camera work, showing every nuance of the
snuff and lingering on the corpse afterwards, so that
the customer could see for himself that it was neither
moving nor breathing, made sure the customers knew
they had gotten what they paid for. Most of the dead
were magical constructs, who lived and breathed only
long enough to scream and die, but there were enough
true human deaths — and human reactions of fear and
pain — to satisfy both the customers and the thirsts of
Aurilia and her partners. No, the customers were talk-
ing about the "monsters" and "demons" that
participated in the sexual rituals, and usually ac-
counted for half of the deaths. Little did the clients
know that these "monsters" were not humans in
makeup and prostheses, but the Unseleighe Court
creatures who thronged Aurilia's auditions every time
she cast a picture.

And no one ever went away disappointed. Whoever
didn't get on camera, got to help dispose of the corpse
when Vidal didn't need it anymore. Maybe we ought to
film that next time.... The Chicago doctor in this version
was going to be a satanist as well, and at the moment

112 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dawn

when the police broke down his door, would summon a
demon to carry him to (presumed) safety. On second
thought, Aurilia decided to leave the script the way it
was, with nothing other than the rituals and the half-
seen hints of "the Master," with the supernatural
actually entering the picture only at the end. Save all
the limb-chewing for the next flick.

It was ironic, Aurilia thought, that human religious
fanatics seemed convinced that there were so many truly
innocent activities that were inspired by their "Satan"
and created by evil, yet they didn't recognize true evil
when it walked among them. Adder's Fork was the
name of the studio that produced bondage, kiddie-
porn, and snuff-films. The holding company that
owned the airplane and (supposedly) produced train-
ing films was a respected member of the Chamber of
Commerce, incorporated as "Magic Mirror, Inc." Vidal
went to all the meetings and all the functions, smiled,
and passed among the foolish human sheep, even
donated money to some of the more fundamentalist
churches, and none of them ever guessed that beneath
his smooth, flawless exterior lay a creature that would
gladly have torn their hearts from their living bodies and
eaten them alive. In fact, he was praised by those fun-
damentalist leaders as a "true Christian businessman."

A shiver of energies touched her spine as the Gate let
someone through from the human world. She wasn't
worried; right now the Gate was keyed only to herself;

Vidal, and Niall mac Lyr. She waited a moment, dim-
ming the lighting with a thought. Vidal stalked
through the door from Studio One shortly thereafter,
dosing it so carefully behind him that Aurilia knew he
was angry.

Lovely. What sort of'temper tantrum am Igoing to be treated
to this morning?

She turned slowly to face him: He was still wearing
his human-seeming, which meant that although he
was angry, he had not been enraged so far as to lose

BORN TO RUN           113

control. It was much the same as his true-shape; raven
hair replaced the silver, though he wore it longer when
he was not passing among humans. The pale skin had
been overlaid with a golden tan. Brown eyes with
round pupils substituted for the colorless, pale green,
cat's eyes.... But the brow was just as high, the cheek-
bones just as prominent, the eyebrows still slanted
winglike towards his temples, and the body was still the
wiry-slender build of a gymnast or a martial artist. His
face wore a cool, indifferent expression, but his body
betrayed him.

She, in her turn, did not pretend she did not notice
his anger. She simply waited, smoothing the cream-
colored silk of her skirt with one hand. She might be
the head of this triad, the one with the plans, but he was
the strength. He was only a little less intelligent than
she, and a better, more powerful mage than she, and
she had no intention of ever forgetting that fact Only
his hatred for Keighvin Silverhair kept him at her side,
for normally Vidal worked alone. What Keighvin had
done to him to warrant that undying enmity, Aurilia
did not know and had never asked, but Vidal had tried
to destroy the High Court lord for centuries. Until
recently, he had rebuffed all efforts at recruiting his aid,
even to eliminate Keighvin — but when she ap-
proached him with her plan, he had volunteered his
help as soon as she had presented it all to him.

So now she waited for him to speak, and even though
she felt a flash of irritation at his superior attitude, she
suppressed it She could not afford to lose him, and she
would not antagonize him. Not yet, anyway.

He stalked past her, to the Roman oigy set; they'd
finished the Caligula picture last week, but Aurilia
hadn't broken the set down yet, because she'd planned
to use it for the party picture. Vidal flung himself down
on one of the stained cream satin-covered couches, and
glared up at her through absurdly long lashes. She
seated herself calmly, folded her hands in her lap in a

114 MercedesLackeyand Lany Down

posidon of calculated passivity, and waited for him to
say something. It would have to be verbally; he would
not deign to speak to her mind-to-mind. She was not of
sufficient rank to warrant that intimacy.

"Keighvin's dose to getting the engines into produc-
tion," he snarled, finally. His command of human
vernacular had improved out of all recognition in the
past few months. Now it was almost as good as hers.
"Very dose. He's within weeks."

Aurilia frowned as she recalculated her original
plan; she hadn't expected to have to put it into motion
quite so soon. She crossed her legs, restlessly. "That's
not good — but we've got a counter-plan already in
place to discredit him." She blessed the day that she
had watched that movie about Preston Tucker. It had
given her everything she needed....

"It won't fly," Vidal informed her, his black brows
meeting as he scowled. "Somehow he's figured out his
own weak spots, and he's ahead of you. He's got a
human to front for him. Aman with respect and reputa-
tion; a retired metallurgist who used to work for
Gulfstream. This human knows his field, Aurilia, and
he's got contacts we can't touch in the human world.
He's going to be able to concoct an explanation that will
hold up. And both Keighvin and that human mage of
his have placed protections about this new man. I can't
touch him magically, not with human and elven magic
working against me. I couldn't even take down the first
of his shields unless I could catch him Underbill."

That wasn't good; briefly she wondered if Keighvin
or the human had seen the same movie she had. She
would have to assume that they had, and plan accord-
ingly. She dosed her eyes for a moment, and thought
"This human, how old is he?" she asked, finally. "How
healthy is he? Could we attack him physically?"

"Well, he's retired, so he's at least sixty-five," Vidal
admitted. "He doesn't look terribly sturdy, but he's
from the Old Country. You know those scrawny little

BORN TO RUN           115

men — they look fragile, but they're as tough as a briar
root and twice as hard to break."

From the Old Country? Eire? Hmm —first generation im-
migrant? I can work with that. "But their meals are full of
butter and eggs and fatty bacon," Aurilia said with a sly
smile. "And they drink. That doesn't do a great deal for
their hearts, their arteries, or their livers. By now,
Keighvin has convinced him that all of his childhood
tales are really true, and he's thinking of the things be-
sides the Seleighe Court that might be real. He should
have dredged up a tale or two from his memory about
us — hopefully, a gory one. Why don't you go see if you
can't frighten him into a heart attack?"

Vidal considered the idea for a moment, then
smiled, slowly. His musdes relaxed, and the frown-line
between his brows faded. "Now, that's not a bad notion
— and it has a certain amount of entertainment value
as well. A good thought, acusKla. Well done."

That last was patronizing, a pat on the head, as one
might pat a dog for a clever trick. Aurilia kept her
temper, and smiled winsomely back at him. She was the
mind, and he the strength; as long as she kept that
firmly in mind, she remained in control of the situa-
tion, no matter what he might think. Let him break
into a froth at every obstade. She would keep her head,
and guide them all through to the other side.

As she would keep careful track of every insult. She
was not of high rank in the Unseleighe Court — but
rank could be gained by toppling one higher. There
would be an accounting when this was over.

Oh, yes.

Vidal lounged on his couch, perfectly at ease now,
with a look in his eye as if he might well order Aurilia to
wait on him in a moment. He could get away with that
if he cared to, right now. He could order her to
produce refreshment, or even to serve him in other
ways, and she was bound by rank to do as he asked.

She had to sidetrack him, to remind him other status

116 Me/cedes Lackey and Lorry Dixon

in the human world, where he depended on her plans
and knowledge. He'd enjoyed working the Caligula
picture; he didn't much like the Deadly Doctor con-
cept, mostly because it wasn't decadent and luxurious
enough. Aurilia sought for a distraction in plans for
Adder's Fork to keep him from giving her orders — she
wasn't sure she'd be able to keep her temper if he took
the master-slave tone with her.

"What do we do after the Deadly Doctor?" she asked,
innocently, looking around at the cream-and-red set,
four couches, a couple of marble columns, and a lot of
draperies and mirrors. And the series of red ropes
lying about. It wasn't an elaborate set; the extras had
provided much of the ornament on the Caligula film,
and the party picture hadn't needed much more. "It
ought to be something demonic. I'd thought Aztec — "

Vidal shook his head emphatically; the one place
where she trusted his judgment over hers was in
marketing. Somehow he always anticipated what the
customers were going to buy. "Not yet I don't think the
customers are going to be ready for anything that exodc
yet. It requires too much imagination, and the lead
characters are the wrong color. We'll lose a lot of our
Southern audience. They want handsome white men as
their protagonists. We need something — steamy —
decadent — depraved, debauched. Exodc, but not
something where the customer can't identify with the
master character— "

He shook his head, unable to come up with anything.
On reflection, Aurilia agreed with him. She searched for
a subject that might do, and suddenly a most unlikely
source ofinspiration flashed into her mind.

It was the rack of paperbacks at the airport; fully half
of them were lurid romances, and she remembered
thinking at the time that taken with a little less sugar
and allowing the "villain" to win, the plots weren't all
that different from Adder's Fork productions. Passion's
Frenzied Fury, Harem Nights, Wild Moon Rising, they fea-

BORNTORUN           117

tured stupid, sweet and submissive heroines and some
villains who certainly fit the "exotic, depraved, and
debauched" description.

"What about a harem thing?" she asked. "We could
re-use most of the Caligula set...." ButArabs were not
in particularly good odor at the moment, not even with
the Adder's Fork customers. And the master character
in a harem theme would have to be an Arab. "No, how
about pirates; we could do the same there, use this set
for the pirate captain's cabin, with one couch and a
couple of sea-chests full of bondage gear. The cus-
tomers won't know they didn't have reclining couches
on ships, and frankly, I doubt they'll care. We can open
with a boarding party, kill offa few constructs, lots of
blood and guts there, take prisoners, and then cut to
the cabin."

"Pirates," Vidal mused. "I like that. Snuff, or S and M?"

"Why not both?" she suggested. "A little torture, a lit-
de bondage, film from a couple of different angles, mix
and match, and leave out the snuff scenes for me S and
M flick. But what about the occult angle?"

Vidal grinned, pleased to come up with something
she didn't know. "Voodoo, acushla. Everybody knows
pirates were into voodoo. It's perfect; it's black magic
on an exotic island setting, the white stud presiding
over a harem of dusky priestesses on a moonlit beach
... easy to reproduce Underbill with constructs doing
all the extra parts. We can even use the arena set for the
voodoo rituals, just grow a few palm trees, fill in the
seats with foliage, and conjure a moon."

Aurilia felt that cold shiver again, but this time it was
not due to someone using the Gate, but to a brush of
fear. She did not care to meddle with alien magic —
especially alien human magic. She'd had too many bad
experiences in the past...

"Be careful with that, will you? We can't afford to
bring in something from real voodoo, even by accident
They might not be amused." They weren't the last time.

118 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dixon

The Manitou was particularly displeased. If I hadn't been
operating against whites, and not against the natives, I might
not have survived his displeasure.

"True." Vidal frowned, this time absently. "I think it's
worth it, though. Especially since I suspect we can get
extra footage for another couple of flicks out of this. It's
going to require some careful research."

By which he means I should take care of it, of course. Well,
better research assistant than lowly handnavlen.

"Consider it done," she said, with a sweet smile.
Vidal looked much happier, and she decided to broach
her other idea. "What about making the Deadly Doctor
into a foursome, with a female doctor in two of them?"
This would be a chance for Aurilia to take her turn in
front of the camera. Vidal got plenty of opportunities;

even when there weren't any Unseleighe Court volun-
teers to act as technicians, he could control the camera
magically even when he was being filmed by it, and his
incredible — attributes — made him a natural for the
master character. But they hadn't done anything with a
Dominatrix for a long, long time. She'd wanted a
chance to be in on the kills personally for weeks.

Vidal pursed his lips, looked sour, but nodded reluc-
tantly. "Not a bad idea, I suppose. How many victims are
we talking about? All told, I mean. It takes energy to
make the constructs, and it won't be you who's doing it"

As if I didn't know that. "For the first film, I'd say six
constructs and two real kills," she replied cautiously.
"For the other three, I think the female-male needs a
couple of extra real kills, otherwise the customer won't
believe in the doctor's ability to overpower young men.
But I wouldn't put real kills in the same-sex flick at all;

the situation itself is going to be enough of a shocker."

Vidal nodded, after a moment of thought. "We
ought to downgrade the same-sex encounters to
bondage and torture. The fringe there is a lot smaller
market, and I doubt it's worth going after."

She nodded, for once in complete agreement. "That

BORN TO RUN           119

was what I thought—and there's more money available
from the leatherboys than there is from the psychodcs.
The leather crowd never will believe that they can't find
some way to break our copy-protection."

She rose, so that he followed her lead, subtly answer-
ing his superior attitude with body language other
own.

To recover his upper hand, he spoke first, with an
order framed as a request "Why don't you set up your
casting-call while I go pay a visit to Doctor Kelly," he
suggested. "And get me some parameters for the con-
structs. I'd prefer file personas, if you have some that
will do; they're a lot easier to make than brand new
types."

"I don't know why file personas shouldn't work," she
replied, already heading for the office and speaking
over her shoulder as her cream-leather heels clicked
against the marble floor. "I'll just modify the Submis-
sive Secretary, the Street-Sparrows, the Victorian
Hookers, and the French and Irish Maids. The hardest
part will be the costumes, and I'm a good enough mage
for that."

"Precisely," he said, not quite sneering. She ignored
the implied insult that she was only a good enough
mage to make clothing. He strode towards the door, his
soft-soled shoes noiseless on the marble, already reach-
ing for the knob.

"Bring me back some good news this time, all right?"
she responded sweetly, with the implied insult that she
was sending him out to do her bidding.

But the door closed on her words; he was already
gone.

• CHAPTERSEVEN

Held aloft by good fellowship and excellent wine —
for Trish did, indeed, know her wines as well she knew
music — Sam deactivated his alarm system, unlocked
his door, and with a farewell wave to Tannim, slipped
inside. Thoreau had been waiting, and gave him a tail-
wagging welcome, then padded beside him with eager
devotion.

Sam smiled down at his faithful companion, and his
pleasure was not due just to the wine, the company, or
the greeting. This was going to work, this strange al-
liance of magic and technology, of the ancient Sidhe
and modern engineering. It was as real, and as heady a
mixture, as the odd gourmet dinner he'd just eaten.
And like the meal, it all meshed, so well that the various
parts might have been made for each other.

For all his skeptical, cynical words to young Tannim,
he'd seen a reflection of the elves' purported concern
for the welfare of children in the way Tannim had
treated the young prostitute. That hadn't been an act
of any kind; Tannim had been worried about the girl,
and had expressed that worry in tangible ways that
could help her immediately and directly. Money was
one thing, but giving her a way to eat regularly for a
while was a damned good idea.

He could have bought her groceries — but that would have
entailed getting her into has car, and that could be trouble if the
police took an interest in the proceedings. And even if he'd
bought food for her, chances are she'd not have known how to
cook anything. Assuming she lives somewhere that she caacook
anything.

122        Mercedes Lackey and LanyDixan

It must be a hard, lonely way to live, now that he
thought about it. Under the makeup, the child had
been thin and pale, wearing a brittle mask of indif-
ference that was likely to crack at any rime. He'd always
assumed hookers were too lazy to do any real work —
but what place would hire a thirteen-year-old child?
And what runaway would risk the chance of being
caught by giving her real name to get a real job? Under
the age of sixteen, you had to have a letter of parental
consent to work, and if she was, indeed, a runaway,
how would she ever get one?

Of course, she could have lied about her age, and
forged a parental consent letter, but such fragile deceits
wouldn't hold up to any kind of examination. Perhaps
she had tried just that, and been found out Perhaps she
had discovered she had no other choice. Sex seemed less
important these days than it was in his day; perhaps sell-
ing herself to strangers didn't seem that terrible.

Then again, perhaps it did, but there were no op-
tions for her, no way to go home.

He had never quite realized how relatively idyllic his
own childhood had been. Why, he'd even had a pony
— of course, most Irish children living in the country

had ponies, but still...

Her life now must be hellish — but as Tannim had
asked, if she was willing to continue with it, how bad
must her home life have been that she chose this over

it?

Sam resolved to start carrying books of fast-food gift
certificates. That way, if they did run into the child
again, or one like her, he'd have a material way to help

as well.

And 'tisn't likely she'd find a dope dealer willing to trade

drugs for coupons.

But there wasn't much he could do now, not without
knowing all the circumstances, without even knowing
the child's name and address. He had work to do;

Tania's plight would have to wait

BORN TO RUN           123

He'd learned long ago how to put problems that
seemed critical — but over which he had no control —
in the back of his mind while he carried on with lesser
concerns. He'd gotten several possibilities for the solu-
tion to Keighvin's needs last night, and he needed to
track down the latest research, to see if anything new
could eliminate his bogus "process" right off.

At least there's one problem I won't be having. The engine
blocks will be there, and be everything I claim, pass every test. This
won't be a cold-fusion fiasco — Fvegot real results, solid product
that I can hand out to anyone who doubts. If the bays in Salt Lake
City had just waited until they had working test reactors produc-
ing clean power before they went public, they'd have saved
themselves a world of trouble. And if the process had worked the
way they said it did, well, nobody would be arguing with their
theory or their resuQs, they'd just be going crazy trying to reproduce
what they'd done. That's what's going to happen here.

He was looking forward to watching the other firms
going crazy, in fact. This was almost like his college-
prank days, on a massive scale.

Sam walked slowly down the hall, turning on lights
as he passed. He intended to re-arm the security sys-
tem as soon as he got to the office so that he couldn't be
disturbed. His mind was buzzing with all of his plans,
and he was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he
didn't even notice the stranger standing in his office
until Thoreau stopped dead in the doorway and
growled.

Perhaps the man hadn't been there until that very
moment — for as soon as he saw the creature, Sam's
own hackles went up. There was a curious double-
vision quality about the intruder; one moment he was
black-haired and dark-eyed, and as human as Tannim.
The next moment —

The next moment he was as unhuman as Keighvin,
and clearly of the same genetic background. But there
the resemblance ended, for where there was a palpable
air of power tempered with reason and compassion

124        Mercedes Lackey and Larry Daon

about Keighvin, this man wore the mantle of power
without control and shaped by greed. Now Sam under-
stood what his granny had meant when she had said that
even with the Sight it was difficult for humans, child or
adult, to tell the dark Sidhe from the kindly. If the crea-
ture had not been so obvious in his menace, he might
have convinced Sam that he was Keighvin's very cousin.

Thoreau growled again, a note of hysterical fear in
the sound; he backed up, putting Sam between himself
and the Sidhe. Not very brave, certainly not the
television picture of Lassie — but very intelligent. Sam
was just as glad. He didn't want this creature to strike
out and hurt his little companion. Sam had defenses;

Thoreau had none.

"Samuel Kelly, do you see me?" the Sidhe asked flat-
ly. It had the sound of a ritual challenge.

"I see you," Sam replied. "I see you as you are, so
you might as well drop the seeming." Then he added,
in a hasty afterthought, "You were not invited." Just in
case recognition implied acceptance of the man's
presence. Granny's stories had warned about the Sidhe
and the propensity for semantics-games.

"I don't require an invitation," the Sidhe responded
arrogantly, folding his arms over his chest as he
dropped the human disguise.

One for me, Sam thought. The Sidhe played coup-
games of prestige as well. Every time he surprised the
creature, or caused it to do something, he won a "point."
That intangible scoring might count for something in the
next few moments. The higher Sam's prestige, the less
inclined the thing might be to bother him.

"So what do you want?" Sam asked, tempering the fact
that he'd been forced by the stranger's silence into asking
with, "I'm busy, and I haven't time for socializing."

Again the Sidhe was taken aback — and showed a
hint of anger. "I have come to deliver a warning."

To the stranger's further surprise, Sam snorted
rudely. "Go tell it to the Marines," he said, hearkening

BORN TO RUN           125

back to his childhood insults. "I told you, I have work to
do. I've no time for games and nonsense."

Inwardly, he was far from calm. Tannim had put some
kind of arcane protection on him after dinner tonight,
when he signed a preliminary agreement with Fairgrove.
The young man had said that Keighvin would be doing
the same, but how effective those protections would be,
he had no idea. He knew something was there; he saw it as
a glowing haze about him, like one of those "auras" the
New Agers talked about, visible only out of the comer of
his eye. How much would it hold against? Would it take a
real attack if this stranger made one?

The Sidhe raised a graceful eyebrow, and the tips of
his pointed ears twitched. "Bravado, is it?" he asked in a
voice full of arrogant irony. "I should have expected it
from the kind of stubborn fossil who would listen to
reckless young fools and believe their pratde. Hear me
now, Sam Kelly — you think to aid yet another rattle-
brained loon, one who styles himself Keighvin
Silverhair. Don't."

Sam waited, but there was nothing more. "Don't?"
Sam said at last, incredulously. "Is that all you have to
say? Just don't?"

"That is all I have to say," the Sidhe replied after a
long, hard stare. "But I have a demonstration for fools
who refuse to listen — "

He didn't gesture, didn't even shrug —

Suddenly Sam was enveloped in flames, head to toe.

His heart contracted with fear, spasming painfully;

he lost his breath, and he choked on a cry —

And in the next moment was glad that he hadn't ut-
tered it. The flames, whether they were real, of magical
energy, or only illusion, weren't touching him. There was
no heat, at least nothing he felt, although Thoreau
yelped, turned tail, and ran for the shelter of Sam's
bedroom.

He remained frozen for a moment, then the true na-
ture of the attack penetrated. It can't hurt me, no matter

126         Mercedes Lackey and Lurry Dixon

what it looks like. After a deep breath to steady his heart,
Sam simply folded his arms across his chest and sighed.

"Is this supposed to impress me?" he asked mildly. A
snide comment like that might have been a stupid
thing to say, but it was the only attitude Sam could
think to take. Tannim had warned him about lying to
the Sidhe, or otherwise trying to deceive them. It
couldn't be done, he'd said, at least not by someone
with Sam's lack of experience with magic. And good or
evil, both sorts took being lied to very badly. So —
brazen it out. Act boldly, as if he saw this sort of thing
every day and wasn't intimidated by it.

The Sidhe's face twisted with rage. "Damn you, mor-
tal!" he cried. And this time he did gesture.

A sword appeared in his hand; a blue-black, shiny
blade like no metal Sam had ever seen. A small part of
him wondered what it was, as the rest of him shrieked,
and backpedaled, coming up against the wall.

"Not so impudent now, are you?" the Sidhe crowed,
kicking aside fallen books and moving in for the kill,
sword glittering with a life of its own.

Sam could only stare, paralyzed with fear, as his
hands scrabbled on the varnished wood behind him —

Tannim cursed the traffic as he waited at the end of
Sam's driveway for it to clear, peering into the dark-
ness. Something must have just let out for the night, for
there was a steady stream of headlights passing in the
eastbound lane — when he wanted westbound, of
course — with no break in sight. And there was no
reason for that many cars out here at this time of night.
It looked for all the world like the scene at the end of
Field of Dreams, where every car in the world seemed
lined up on that back country road.

"So if he built the stupid ballfield out here, why didn't
somebody tell me?" he griped aloud. "If I'd known the
Heavenly All-Stars were playing tonight — "

He never finished the sentence, for energies hit the

BORN TO RUN           127

shields he'd placed on Sam — which were also ded to
his shields.

The protections about Sam locked into place, as the
power that had been flung at the old man flared in a
mock-conflagration ofbael-fire.

Mock? Only in one sense. If Sam hadn't been
shielded, he'd have gone up in real flames, although
nothing around him would have even been scorched.
Another Fortean case of so-called "spontaneous
human combustion."

But Sam was protected — the quick but effective
shielding woven earlier caught and held. Tannim had
not expected those protections to be needed so soon.

He knew what the attacker was, if not who. Only the
Folk could produce bael-fire. And the hate-rage-lust
pulse that came with the strike had never originated
from one ofKeighvin's Folk. That spelled "Unseleighe
Court" in Tannim's book.

All this Tannim analyzed as he acted. He jammed the
car into "reverse" and smoked the tires. The Mustang
lurched as he yanked the wheel, spinning the car into a
sideways drift to stop it barely within the confines of
Sam's driveway. He bailed out, grabbing his weapon-
of-choice from under the seat and didn't stop moving
even as he reached the door; he managed to force his
stiff legs into a running kick and kept going as the door
crashed open, slamming against the wall behind it.

He pelted down the hall, his bespelled, bright red
crowbar clenched in his right hand, and burst into
Sam's study. Sam had plastered himself against the wall
nearest the door; Tannim flung himself between his
friend and the creature that menaced him, taking a
defensive stand with the crowbar in both hands,
without getting a really good look at the enemy first

He never did get a really good look. He saw only a
tall, fair-haired man, a glittering sword, a scowl of
surprised rage —

Then — nothing.

128        Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dawn

Only the sharp tingle of energies along his skin that
told him a Gate had been opened and dosed.

The enemy had fled. Leaving, presumably, the way
he had arrived, by way of Underbill.

It's gonna be the last time he can do that, Tannim thought
grimly, framing another shield-spell within his mind,
setting it with a few chanted syllables. He dropped it in
place over the body of the house, allowing the physical
form of the house itself— and, more particularly, the
electrical wiring — to give it shape and substance.

It was a powerful spell, and one ofTannim's best.
Now no one would be able to pop in here from Under-
hill without Sam's express permission, nor would they
be able to work magics against the house itself.

But it was draining, and Tannim sagged back against
the wall when he was done, letting the crowbar slip to
the floor from nerveless fingers. It fell on the carpet
with a dull thud, and Tannim kept himself from follow-
ing it only by supreme effort

He looked up, right into Sam's face.

The metallurgist was reaching for his shoulder to
help hold him up, such a mixture of expressions on his
face that none of them were readable.

"I... don't suppose you have any Gatorade ... ?"
Tannim asked, weakly.

"... and he set fire to me," Sam continued, after
another sip of good Irish. After all the wine tonight, he
was only going to permit himself one small glass — but
by Holy Mary, he needed that one. His nerves were so
jangled that he wasn't going to be able to sleep without
it, and he didn't trust sleeping-pills. "He did, I swear it.
Only the flames didn't bum. Scared the bejeezus out of
poorThoreau, though."

He reached down and fondled the spaniel's ears.
Thoreau had emerged from the closet only after much
coaxing, and remained half-hidden at Sam's feet, com-
pletely unashamed of his cowardice. Sam had praised

BORN TO RUN           129

the little dog to the sky for doing the right thing,
though he doubted that Thoreau understood much of
what he was saying; probably all Thoreau knew was
that Daddy said he was a Good Boy, and Daddy was
going to comfort him after the terrible fright he'd
taken. Sam was quite glad that Thoreau had deserted
him. One small spaniel was not going to make more
than an indentation in a Sidhe's ankle — assuming the
animal got that far before being blasted. He'd lost
enough pets in his lifetime to old age and illness. He
didn't want Thoreau turned to ash by a Sidhe with a
temper.

"That was bael-fire, Sam," Tannim replied, refilling
his cup from the bottle of Gatorade on the kitchen table.
He'd already polished off one bottle, and Sam wondered
where he was putting it all. "If you hadn't been
protected, you'd have burned up like a match, but noth-
ing around you would have been touched. Charles Fort
had a lot of those cases in his books of unexplained
phenomena. He called it 'spontaneous human combus-
tion,' and thought it might have something to do with
astral travel." The young man shook his head, much
wearier than Sam had ever seen him. There were dark
circles of exhaustion beneath his eyes, and his hair was
limp and flattened-looking. "Nobody ever told Fort that
going up in heatless flames is what happens when you
get the Folk pissed off at you."

"But I was protected," Sam protested, sensing a flaw
somewhere. "You said I had shields, and you said other
mages would know that."

Tannim nodded, and rubbed his eyes. "Exacdy. He
knew bael-fire wasn't going to touch you. He'd have to
be blind not to know those shields were there. I don't
think he intended you to be hurt direcdy, Sam."

"What, then?" Sam asked in fatigue-dulled ap-
prehension. What worse could the Sidhe have had in
mind? "Or was that just intended as a warning? A bit
extreme for a warning, seems to me."

130         Mercedes Lackey and LarryDixan

"Heh. The Sidhe are always extreme." Tannim cock-
ed his head sideways. "I think he was trying to scare
you to death. I think he wanted it to look like you died
naturally."

Sam took another sip of Irish, thinking about that
for a moment before replying. "He did then, did he?"
His apprehension turned to a slow, burning anger.
"Sure, and that's a coward's way, if ever I saw one."

"Attacking a human withbael-fire is just as cowardly,
Sam," the young man pointed out. "Or going after a
human with elf-shot. In either case, it's like using
grenades against rabbits. The target hasn't got a
chance. I think he must have assumed that since you're
retired, you're frail, and he was going to use that."

"Can I assume the blackguard was Unseleighe
Court?" Sam asked, the anger within him burning with
the same slow heat as a banked peat-fire.

Tannim nodded, and finished the last of his
Gatorade. "That's their way, Sam. They never take on
an opponent of equal strength if they can help it. I as-
sume they came after you because you're hooked in
with Fairgrove and Keighvin. I told you before that if
you wanted to back out of this, you could." He capped
the bottle and slowly tightened the lid down. "You're
still welcome to. Nobody is — "

"Back out?" Sam exclaimed. "Bite your tongue! If
the blackguards want a fight, they've come to the right
place, let me tell you! Sam Kelly never started a fight,
but he always finished them." He bared his teeth in a
fierce smile. "I don't intend to let that change, no mat-
ter how old I might be."

Tannim's tired face lit up in a smile, and he clapped
Sam on the shoulder. "That's the spirit! I was hoping
we could count on you!"

Sam let the grin soften to something more wry than
fierce. "They should have known better than to try and
frighten an Irishman. We're stubborn bastards, and we
don't take to being driven off. But come to think of it—

BORN TO RUN           131

what the devil did you do to frighten him off? You just
popped in the room, and he ran like a scalded cat."

"It wasn't what I did," Tannim replied, tapping the
glass bottle on the crowbar that sat on the table be-
tween them. "It was what I had. This."

"Cold Iron?" Sam hazarded.

"Twenty pounds' worth, enchanted to a fair-thee-
well," the young man told him, one hand still on the
red-painted iron bar, a finger trailing along the
gooseneck at one end, apparently remembering past
uses. "One strong shot with this, and I don't care how
powerful a mage he is, he'd have felt like he'd been hit
by a semi. Eh heh... pureed by Peterbilt."

Sam snorted, then gazed at the bar with speculation.
"Can anyone use one of those things? I used to be a fan-
hand with singlestick not long ago."

Tannim's eyes widened for a moment, then nar-
rowed with speculation. "Huh. I never thought about
that, but I don't know why not I'll tell you what; I can't
give you this one, but I can make one for you. And until
I finish it, just remember that any crowbar is going to
cause one of the Folk a lot of distress. If you'd had one
in here tonight, it might even have disrupted the bael-
fire spell."

Sam made a mental note to visit an auto-parts store
tomorrow. He'd have one under his car seat and in
every room in the house. "I'll get the one out of my car
before you leave, and I'll pick up a few more tomorrow.
You're sure nobody is going to be able to get back in
here tonight?"

"Positive." "fannim took a deep breath, and held
Sam's eyes with his own. "Absolutely positive. And as
soon as I get back to Fairgrove and tie Keighvin's
protections into yours, if the sorry sonuvabitch even
tries, the Fairgrove Folk will know. If he brings in
enough firepower to crack those shields, he'll touch off

awar-

"Not on my account!" Sam exclaimed with dismay.

132 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dixan

That was far more than he'd bargained on ... and
something he did not want to have on his conscience.

Tannim grimaced, and now Sam realized that the
young man had been a lot more shaken by the attack
than he wanted to admit "No — no, don't worry, they
won't even try. They aren't any readier for open war-
fare than you and I are. But — you really can quit,
Sam, and no one will hold it against you...."

Sam shook his head emphatically. "I told you before,
and I meant it. Tannim, the answer isn't 'no,' it's 'hell
no.' In fact — " he grinned, and discovered it was ac-
tually a real smile " — you couldn't get rid of me now if
you paid me!"

Aurilia sighed, sipped her herb tea, and tried not to
look at Niall mac Lyr. She concentrated instead on the
delicate, fragile porcelain other teacup, on the white
sadn tablecloth, and on the gray velvet cushions of her
lounge chair. Normally she would have been enjoying
a luxurious breakfast along with the tea, but her break-
fast companion was not a creature designed to
stimulate anyone's appetite.

The Bane-Sidhe squinted across the table at her, and
glowered, its cadaverous face made all the more un-
pleasant by its sour expression. Every time Niall
moved, a breath of dank, foul air wafted across the
table toward her. Niall smelled like a fedd ditch — or an
open grave. There had been times in Ireland when
they were one and the same. The Bane-Sidhe did not
at all match his surroundings in Aurilia's sybaritic sit-
ting room of white satin and gray velvet. He looked like
a Victorian penny-dreadful cover, for something en-
titled "Death and the Maiden," or "The Specter at the
Feast." Aurilia sighed again, and pulled the gray silk
skirts other lounge-robe a little closer. She could only
hope that when Niall left, he'd take the stench with
him.

"Where is he?" Niall asked, for the seventh dme. The

BORN TO RUN           133

Bane-Sidhe's speaking voice was a hollow, unpleasant
whisper; not even Vidal cared to hear its full-voiced cry.
The wail of the Bane-Sidhe brought unreasoning ter-
ror even into the hearts of its allies.

Aurilia shrugged. It was no use answering him.
She'd already told him she didn't know where Vidal
was. The Bane-Sidhe was only interested in his own
grievances.

"We have work to do," it continued, aggrieved.
"Studio Two should be operational around the dock —
we don't have to put up with union nonsense or mortal
time-clocks. You promised me when I joined you that
there would be enough nourishment for all of us. You
told me—"

"I know what I told you," Aurilia snapped, her
temper frayed by the Bane-Sidhe's constant whining. "I
told you that eventually we'd have all the pain you could
ever need or want. I didn't promise it immediately."

"Pah!" the Bane-Sidhe snorted, tossing its head
petulantly. "That was a year ago! You could have had
Studio Two in full production three months after you
brought up Studio One. It's not as if we have to fret
about the cost of sets or casts, or even equipment! But
no, you had to chase after Keighvin Silverhair — you
had to waste your time discovering what he was up to.
And instead of being at full power, I must limp about on
the dregs of energy a few paltry deaths supply, and
Studio Two has produced only that puny little Roman
fantasy—"

"You think humans come running to us to bare their
throats to the blade?" Aurilia countered with justifiable
irritation. Niall simply would not come to grips with
the fact that the world had changed, and she had got-
ten tired of trying to convince him that things were
different now than in 1890. "You think there's no risk
involved in finding those 'paltry few victims'? This isn't
the old days; when people die or disappear, even if they
have no relatives to ask after them, someone generally

134         Mercedes Lackey and LanyDixan

nodces! Take too many, and we'll be contending with
mortal police at every turn! I'd rather not have to fly the
anchor off if I don't have to, and if too many people
come up missing, or we pick the wrong victims, Folk or

not, we are going to be — "

"That is not the point," the Bane-Sidhe whispered
angrily. "Your — " It turned, abruptly, its enshrouding
wrappings flaring, sending a wash of dank stench over
Aurilia, as the door to her sitting room opened and

Vidal entered.

She assessed his expression, and her already-sour
mood spoiled further. If Vidal had been unhappy
before he left on his errand, he was livid now. Aurilia
started to ask him what was wrong, then thought better
of the idea. The rage that burned behind his thoughts
was palpable even to her, and she was not particularly

sensitive to emotion.

Well, this time she was not going to play scapegoat.
Niall would undoubtedly want to know where Vidal
had been and what he had been doing all this dme. And
just as surely, when the Bane-Sidhe learned of his er-
rand, Niall would sneer at him.

Well and good. Aurilia would stay out of it. If anyone
was to suffer Vidal's anger, let it be the Bane-Sidhe.

After all, she thought maliciously, he spoiled my break-
fast by arriving when he did. Let him take it in the teeth. I've
had more than my share of My Lord Vidal's temper tantrums.
Niall outranks him; let NiaU exert himself for a change.

"And where have^ou been?" Niall snarled. "I have

things I wish to discuss — "

"And I don't give a damn!" Vidal exploded, his eyes
black with rage, fists clenched at his sides. He turned
pointedly away from Niall and snarled at Aurilia. "That
thrice-damned human mage Keighvin has had his lit-
de protege put shields on the old man. I couldn't touch
him! And what's more, when I threw bael-fire at him,
the old bastard laughed at me!"

The Bane-Sidhe rose to its full seven-foot height,

BORN TO RUN           135

stood over Vidal, and glared down at the elven-mage,
its tattered draperies quivering with anger. "Do you
mean to say that you have been wasting your time
trying to frighten Keighvin's pet mortals when you
could have—"

"I'm doing -whatyou should have been doing, you
shabby fraud!" Vidal sneered. "You should have been
the one trying to frighten the old man into a heart at-
tack, not me! Not even a shield would have stopped
your wail — right? Or — "

"Why? Why should I waste my time, waste the energy
it takes to cross the Gate into the mortal world?" the
Bane-Sidhe countered. "I've not enough to spare as itis!"

Vidal was not to be daunted by height or stench,
Aurilia had to give him credit for that much. "Because
Keighvin has to be stopped, or he'll stop us. ILvenyou
admit that! If you'd been here — "

The Bane-Sidhe's eyes flashed angrily, and Aurilia
held her breath. If Niall grew enraged, he might lose
control. "I would not have been wasting my time pur-
suing a dead-end vendetta when there are other
options open!" Niall whined, his voice climbing
dangerously in pitch and volume. "Humans are in-
finitely corruptible. Just look at the sheer numbers of
them that are willing to pay to watch their fellows in
torment! Look at our files! All we need do is find these
foolish mortals' weaknesses and they will be our allies,
not Keighvin's! It's simply — "

"Alotyou know!" Vidal spat. "You haven't been Out-
side for a century! The mortals you knew are as dead as
the creatures of Tarn Lin's time! You can't corrupt a
human by dangling a pretty piece of flesh in front of his
nose anymore! And they aren't naive little village boys
with shit on their shoes and not two thoughts in their
heads. It's bad enough that we've got Keighvin against
us, but now he has these human mages with him, and
artificers, and they're not stupid, I'm telling you!"

The Bane-Sidhe grew another half a foot. "I have

136         Mercedes Lackey and LanyDixon

taken the lives of more mortals than you ever dreamed
of; I've the deaths of six knights of the Seleighe Court
to my credit. That's more than you've ever hoped to do,
you elven trash! Destroying the likes of you is less than

a pastime — "

By the dark moon, this is getting serious — Aurilia
dapped her hands together, distracting both of them

for a moment.

"Niall, unless you really want a duel on your hands,"
she said coldly, "I think you'd better take back those last
words to yam partner."

She had dealt with the Bane-Sidhe for so long now
that she knew exactly what was running through its
head, now that she'd sidetracked it. For all Niall's
power — and he was powerful — he was old and afraid
of losing any of it. He used his hoarded energies spar-
ingly, and he lived in fear of finding himself in a duel of
magics and coming out the vanquished. Vidal was
young, as elves went, but he was powerful as well. Niall
did not know how powerful, and that uncertainty
would be enough. If he were forced to go head-to-head
with the younger mage...

.. . who had done away with two of the Seleighe
Court single-handedly, in the far past....

"I beg pardon for those hasty words," the Bane-
Sidhe whispered stiffly. "I am concerned that you seem
to be wasting time better spent elsewhere."

Aurilia turned to Vidal, who stood, still rigid with
anger, facing the Bane-Sidhe. "You should explain the
problem to Niall, Lord Vidal," she said, in as dose to a
servile tone as she could manage, given how angry she
was at both of the fools. "You are right in saying he is
not familiar with the world outside the Gates today.
You should tell him why Keighvin and his pets are
dangerous to us."

Vidal'sjaw tightened, but her subservient tone evi-
dently mollified him enough to try to be polite.
"Keighvin Silverhair is interfering direcdy in the world

BORN TO RUN

137

of mortals," he said, slowly, "as I have pointed out to
you before. He will stop us in our quest for power if he
can, for we are on direcdy opposing sides where mor-
tals are concerned. But he has gone beyond simply
interfering. Tonight I discovered that he is using them,
recruiting and training them. And betraying our
deepest secrets and weaknesses."

"What?" Niall and Aurilia both gasped. This was
news to Aurilia; unpleasant news. If mortals knew how
to meet the Folk in equal combat—

"The mage tonight had a bar of Cold Iron as a
weapon," Vidal continued grimly. "Not steel — pure,
forged Cold Iron, with Far-Anchored spells keyed to
the Folk, and shieldings set specifically against our
powers. The bastard glowed to the Sight, and he knew
what he was doing, I tell you. Keighvin must have told
him everything. He's going to be impossible to deal
with. Another Gwydion, Merlin, Taliesen."

If Niall could have paled, he would have. Instead, he
seemed to shrink, and he fluttered back into his seat,
collapsing bonelessly with a moan.

"By the dark moon," the Bane-Sidhe groaned. "Why
didn't you tell me this before? We must — "

Aurilia knew what the old coward was about to say —
that they should leave, pack up in defeat and leave the
ground to the enemy. Not a chance.

"Oh, no," she interjected sweedy. "He won't be im-
possible to deal with. I already have human informants
following his movements. Before the week is out, I will
know his weaknesses."

When the other two turned to stare at her in
astonishment, she smiled, careful to cloak her triumph
in modesty. "I simply don't have the power you have,
my lords. I have learned to make do with the kind of
weapons mortals use themselves. There are many ways
to wound the human heart, and I have learned most of
them. All I need to know is what the young man Tan-
nim cares for — and he will be powerless against me."

138         Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dixon

She bowed her head a little, to hide the gloating in
her eyes, for both the Bane-Sidhe and Vidal were still
staring at her in a kind of awe. "You deal with the old
man," she finished. "Leave the younger to me. I will
deal with him, Cold Iron and all — for Cold Iron will
not save him from a pierced heart."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Tania sat in the farthest corner of Kevin Barry's and
nursed her mug of hot, milk-laden coffee between
hands so numb she couldn't even feel the cup. The
weather had turned cold, out of nowhere, and despite
Laura's repeated warnings, she had decided to take a
chance and come to Kevin Barry's long enough to look
for the strange young man again. The hundred he'd
given her was long gone for rent; she'd been eating
once a day here for the last week, trying to make the tab
last a while, but she hadn't found a single trick in a
week of walking the streets.

She had to admit, though, that she hadn't really been
trying hard. Laura hadn't bothered warning her about
Tannim after that first night; she had troubles of her
own. Jamie was mixed up with something. He came
home with less every night, and usually came home
high. Laura was worried sick about the night he'd
done the "party"; she'd gotten him to go to County
Health and take the HIV test, but they wouldn't know
what the results were for another couple of weeks.

And meanwhile, with Jamie getting high so often, it
was only a matter of time before he slipped up again.

In a way, Tania didn't blame him for getting high; it
might be the only way he could face what he had to do
out there. But he was making Laura miserable.

And just maybe he's getting high because he can't face some-
thing else. Like his life. He isn't gonna be a cute young kid
forever — and then what's he gonna do? He's already getting
picked up by some really rough guys. He's come home with
bruises or rope-bums the past three nights. The older he gets, the

140        Mercedes Lackey and LarryDixan

more of that kind he'll have to go with. And he says he'd rather
die than get a MacDonald'sjob. He'd told Tania and Laura
grandiose stories about getting a job at one of the
country clubs, like waiting in the bar, and finding a rich
old bored lady to support him, but he wasn't fooling
anyone. Buses didn't run out there — and he wasn't
exotic or talented enough. Tania had seen the kind of
kids the "country-club women" picked up; they were
generally very dark and latino-handsome, and they
could dance, sing, and pay inventive flattering compli-
ments. Jamie couldn't dance (at least not upright) and
his most flattering compliment wasn't printable. "Es-
corts" were intelligent, and could make some kind of
conversation. Jamie was stoned most of the time, and
his brightest comments usually had to do with sports.

Tania studied the cream swirling slowly in the coffee.
Ever since she'd met Tannim, Tania had felt like she'd
gotten slapped awake, somehow. What she had now
just wasn't enough anymore. She'd started looking
ahead, planning for something besides the next trick,
or the cheap TV set at the Goodwill. If Tannim was for
real, and not just a pimp with a creative approach —
well, maybe she'd see what he had to offer. She wasn't
sure why she had decided to take the risk, and she
wasn't sure why she'd decided to act against Laura's
advice. In fact, she didn't really understand what was
going on in her own head since she met the guy. But
whatever it was, it kind of felt good — and it was a hel-
luva lot better than sitting around listening to Laura
try to cry without making any noise, or hustling the
dirty old men in expensive suits.

Maybe all he wanted was her. That would be okay,
too. She wouldn't mind going to bed with him. He was
kind of cute, and was certainly nice. He'd promised not
to hurt her; she trusted that promise.

She did know one thing: she'd made the decision to
come here today at least in part because it had been too
damned cold to trot around the street in nothing but

r

BORN TO RUN           141

Spandex bike shorts and a halter. Now if Mr. Tannim
would just show up....

At least her hands were finally getting warm.
The pub had just opened for lunch a litde while ago,
but she really hadn't been that hungry when she first sat
down. And in the last few minutes, as the place filled up,
she noticed something kind of peculiar: although she'd
have been glowered at for nursing a single cup of coffee
instead ofbuying a meal or a drink anywhere else, no one
was hassling her here. It had been that way every time
that she had come in to get something on the tab; the girls
smiled at her and were nice, and no one gave her any
trouble, acted just like the night she'd been here with
Tannim, in fact. Right now no one had even bothered
her about getting something besides coffee. They acted
like she was someone important; someone who should
be given privacy and space, if that was what she wanted.

Maybe that man had something to do with it Maybe
because he had taken notice other, they had extended
that "courtesy to a good customer" umbrella he
seemed to travel under to include her as well.

Every time someone darkened the doorway of the
dining room, she looked up, squinting against the
light, to see if it was him. As lunchdme filled the place
up, she began to think she'd picked the wrong dme, or
day, or something. Even with the best wishes in the
world, the waitresses were going to have to ask her to
leave pretty soon, and let a paying customer have her
table.

Of course, she could go ahead and order something.
There was still enough cash left on the tab. And the
aroma of the bean soup from the kitchen was enough
to make a corpse hungry. Bean soup and bread — that
wouldn't cost too much, and she could have some more
coffee with lots of cream and sugar....

She started to look for one of the waitresses, when
movement at the door made her turn her head out of
habit to see who it was. And there he stood, looking a

142         Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dixon

lot like she remembered, only maybe cuter. A beat-up
leather jacket this time, really nice Bugle Boy jeans and
a hot brown-and-gray shirt — he could have been
making an ad or something, he had that kind of style
about him. She glanced down at her second-hand bike
shorts and flushed a little. She was tacky. But it was the
best she could do, and it was dean, anyway.

She looked up again. On second glance, the young man
also looked dred, like he'dbeen working really hard.

Maybe he won't notice my clothes.

He squinted into the relative darkness, then started
to turn away to go into the bar. She threw up her hand
in an involuntary wave, then snatched it back, not cer-
tain now that she really wanted to talk to him again,
after all. He might not be real happy to see her here,
now. He might, in fact, be mad that she'd shown up, at
least during the daytime.

Too late — he saw her signal, hesitant though it was;

smiled and waved back, and started across the floor
through the crowd.

But someone else had seen him too.

A really gorgeous dark-haired woman, dressed all in
black leather and cream-colored silk, intercepted him
at the entrance to the bar where she had just material-
ized as he crossed the room. Tania's heart sank. This
must be who he was meeting. He hadn't come here
looking for her. He hadn't even really seen her. He'd
only seen the waving hand, and he'd thought it
belonged to his lunch date. And God, she was in-
credible. The kind of woman Tania would have
expected him to be seeing, not some tacky kid in
Spandex.

She sidled up to him and put one hand on his
shoulder, smiling brilliantly into his eyes. Her lips
moved, although Tania couldn't hear what she was
saying. He continued to scan the crowd in Tania's
direction, a slight frown on his face. She blushed so
hard she felt hot all over, and wanted to sink into the

BORN TO RUN

143

floor in embarrassment; her eyes burned, and her
throat tightened. In another second, she was going to
cry, she just knew it. And on top of looking tacky, she
was going to get mascara smeared all over her face. She
knew what he was looking for; now he wanted to know
who had pretended to know him. Probably so he could
make sure his lunch date with this fabulous babe wasn't
interrupted by some scrufiy litde —

Abruptly, Tannim shook his head, said a few words,
and brushed the woman's hand off his shoulder. His
brow wrinkled just a litde, and he stared directly into
the woman's eyes. Then he drew his right hand up into
a fist, slowly extended his thumb, and pointed it over
his shoulder towards the door. The woman stood
there, wearing the most stunned expression Tania had
ever seen on anyone's face. He walked away from her
as if she wasn't even there.

And as he got close enough to Tania to make out ex-
actly who she was, his face broke out in a wide,
welcoming smile, so warm it dazzled her.

Tannim had the feeling he really ought to go to
Kevin Barry's for lunch today ... it was a very strong
feeling, and Tannim never, ever ignored those silent
hunches of his.

So, although Keighvin had assigned him out to
Roebling Road with a brake-mod this afternoon, Tan-
nim decided to take a long lunch break.

Once again, he endured the bone-ratding cobbles-
tones of River Street. He kept his "feelers" out for an
incipient gap, then spotted one. He took instant ad-
vantage of the opening, shoving the Mustang into a
parking space, right on the tail of a departing Caddy.
He grinned at the driver of a Beemer, a suit-and-de ex-
ecutive type, who scowled at him in frustrated
annoyance.

Eat your heart out, buddy, he thought in smug satisfac-
tion. Here you are in your tie and execu-cut, and here lam in

144         Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dixon

my jeans and long hippie-freak hair — and I know I'm hap-
pier than you are. Why don't you just spend the rest of the
afternoon trying to figure out what I know that you don't?

He felt just a little smug as he grinned into the yup-
pie-type's scowl. He'd gotten one of the primo spots,
too; hardly more than a wink and a nod from Kevin
Barry's. As the Beemer pulled away in search of another
place to park, he eased himself out of the car and headed
for the door to the gift shop — for the tiny gift shop let
directly out into the dining room side of the pub.

He waved at the lovely lass behind the counter of the
gift section, and looked over the new shawls, letting his
eyes adjust to the dim light. It was pretty dark in the
stage/dining area, and really crowded for a weekday; it
looked like half of Savannah had decided to hit the pub
for lunch. All of the tables were full, and there was a
line of about four people waiting for one to clear out.
But after a moment, that sixth-sense tingled again, and
he peered off into the far right-hand comer.

Someone waved tentatively at him from the very
back of the room. Tania?

It might be; whoever it was, she was female and
blond.

He started towards the corner, easing his way
around tables surrounded by people obliviously chat-
tering and munching away. But there was a huge
group in the very middle; they'd put three tables
together to form one big arrangement, and to get to
the rear he would have to go past the pub entrance on
the right-hand wall. Well, that was no problem, as long
as there wasn't anyone in there who wanted to have a
chat with him.

Just as he reached the double-doors into the pub,
someone pushed her way past the stand-up crowd at
the bar, and intercepted him at the doorway.

Before he realized she wanted him, she laid her hand on
his shoulder, forcing him to stop whether he wanted to or
not. He turned involuntarily to look at her, she smiled at

BORN TO RUN

145

him as though she was an old friend. "Hello," she crooned,
in a voice just loud enough for him to hear over the babble
of voices in the pub. "I've been hoping you'd be here
today; I'mgladtosee my intuidonis working."

She was stunningly beautiful: long, raven-black hair
with a slight wave to it, huge brown eyes, sensuous lips
and high cheekbones, and a flawless, rose-and-cream
complexion. She was dressed in an ivory silk blouse
and black leather skirt, both expensive, both under-
stated in their elegance.

She was no one he'd ever seen before in his life.
Just before she'd touched him, all his internal alarms
went off, for she had donned a glamorie that would
have sent a Vulcan into heat This was trouble, and all
of his shields went up in full defensive mode.

While she spoke, he did a closer "check, using mage-
sight; as he had guessed, her appearance was nothing
like her real self. There was no mistaking the white-
blond hair, nor the cat-slitted, green eyes and the
pointed ears.

Elven. One of the Sidhe. And since she was no one he
knew, the odds were high that she was Unseleighe Court.

But she hadn't done anything to him but stop him —
at least, not yet. So she wasn't declaring open warfare,
not unless you counted attempted seduction as an ag-
gressive act.

On the other hand, she could have assumed that Tan-
nim was just as young and inexperienced as he looked.

I don't think so, lady.

But this was neither the time nor the place to answer
her with a challenge. If that was Tania back there, he
didn't want a kid to see him having even a verbal battle
with a Sidhe. He calculated a dozen possible responses
to her approach, trying to figure the one that would
leave her the most stunned, and selected one by the
time the last word had left her soft, wet lips.

He brushed her hand from his shoulder as if it was
an inconvenient bit of dandruff.

146         Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dixan

"Your friends and mine don't get along, lady," he
said, without the least bit of inflection. "Run along and
we'll leave it at that."

He indicated the door, and watched the woman's
energy fields fluctuate wildly as she tried to process this
unexpected stonewalling. It was hard not to laugh,
even dire as the repercussions might be.

There was a split-second of astonishment before the
woman clamped down her mask of impassivity. He
could still see her body stiffen in the universal posture
ofdefensiveness.

Score more status from the Bad Guys. She's trying to play it
off, but she's counting me as an equal, or a superior.

He then moved past her as though she was not
there.

I'll have to ask one of the girls what her face looked like to
them. Heh.

Aurilia had perused the new agency's report very
carefully. This one had quite a bit of new information,
besides all the dossier nonsense that anyone with a
phone and a lot ofpadence could pull up out of public
records. According to the detective, young Tannim
favored one particular pub over every other estab-
lishment in Savannah: a pub called "Kevin Barry's."

Well, the lad was young, in his twenties, and if there
was one thing a young man was susceptible to, it was sex.
There hadn't been a young man yet that Aurilia hadn't
been able to lead about by the nose, sooner or later.
Generally sooner.

But just to make certain, she put a glamorie on her-
self that could make a corpse rise. Not even the pure
Sir Galahad could have withstood her now. And she
smiled to herself as she stood at the bar, sipping a glass
ofuiskebaghe, and waiting for the youngster to make
one of his appearances. He would, too — she had that
feeling, and her premonitions were never wrong.

Those two fools were so busy persuading themselves that the

BORN TO RUN           147

only way they could dispose of the human was by combat that
they never even bothered considering other options. Idiots. Why
do anything with violence that can be accomplished subtlety?

She toyed with her glass, signaling the lady bar-
tender for another, and considered what she would do
when she had the mortal safely beguiled. He might be
useful, especially tfhe is any good as a mage. I could take kirn
Underbill, to my own stronghold.... Ves, that might be the best
solution. Hell be tended to in a gilded cage, and I can drain
hmsbwty of power without the others knowing I have him.

Movement of power at the edge of her shields
alerted her that there was a mage within the confines of
the pub; turning to check who had just entered, she
saw to her immense satisfaction that the quarry had ar-
rived. She left her glass, and quickly conjured a
crumpled twenty, identical to the one she had kenned a
few days ago, to leave beside the glass.

She intercepted Tannim just as he passed beside the
door to the pub, placing one hand on his shoulder and
whispering something innocuous while she exerted
her glamorie. He stared at her for a moment, and she
felt a flare of triumph. / have him; I truly do. Now let's see
whatVidal says aboutme—

"Your friends and mine don't get along, lady," he
said, brushing her hand off with an absent gesture.

He blew me off. I can't believe it....

As she stared after him, stunned, he wound his way
gracefully through the crowded dining-room without
a single backward glance. He went all the way to the
rear, where a tatty litde teenager with badly bleached
hair was sitting at a table for two —

Belatedly, she realized that not only had the young
mage recognized her for what she was, he had broken her
glamorie Not only was she terribly conspicuous, he might
wdlbe watching her toseewhatshe was going to do.

She melted back into the crowd as only a Sidhe could,
and worked the opposite sort of glamorie — one to make
herinconspicuous.

148 MercedesLackeyand Lorry Dawn

Then she retired to the gift shop and strained all her
senses, trying to keep watch on him and his lunch guest.

In one sense she was frustrated; he had placed
shielding about himself that he had extended to cover
the table and the girl, so that she could not listen in on
their conversation. But she could watch them, with a bit
of the Sight-
After a moment she recognized the girl; she might
have been the one in the blurred and darkened photo
the new detective had included with his first report.
Tannim had befriended the girl, who was evidently an
underage prostitute, the first night the new man had
been on duty. Then, as now, he had engaged her in
conversation, and had bought her something to eat

Well, that was interesting. What on earth could a
teenage whore and a powerful young mage have in
common? The report had been adamant that Tannim
hadn't done anything with the girl, had in fact sent her
on her way. Could it be possible that this was the weak
pointAurilia had been looking for so fruitlessly?

The more she watched, the more certain she be-
came. The girl did hold some kind of interest for him.
Not sexual — but perhaps all the stronger for that. By
the time the two of them paid the bill and left, she was
filled with satisfaction. She had him. She had the vul-
nerable point. She didn't know exactly what she could
do with it — yet — but she knew what it was.

Tania couldn't help herself; she smiled and blushed
as the young man pulled up a chair and sat across the
postage-stamp table from her. "Hey, kiddo," Tannim
said, looking meaningfully at her coffee cup. "That
doesn't look like a very nutritious breakfast." Before
she could reply, he signaled one of the waitresses. "My
usual," he said, "for two." And as the girl disappeared,
he turned back to Tania.

"I've been watching for you," he said, "and I was kind
of afraid I'd scared you off when you didn'tshow up."

BORN TO RUN           149

She looked down at her cup in confusion. "Laura
told me you were probably a — " She stopped herself
just in time, appalled at the way she had let her mouth
run without thinking. If the guy was a pimp, he might
get angry and take it out on her, and Laura too. If he
wasn't, he might get offended. " — Ummm — some-
body I shouldn't get involved with."

"What, a pimp?" Tannim asked. "Or a pervert?
Kiddo, you have to know that most of the guys who
pick you up are perverts. Nobody really straight would
want to make it with a kid as young as you are. And,
Tania, the hair and the makeup job aren't fooling
anybody."

The straightforward reply — too calm and matter-
of-fact to be an insult — brought her up short. And
before she could think of any retort, he continued.

"Look, I'm not interested in sex. I've got that else-
where. I just want to talk to you — and not dirty,
either." He looked ready to say more, but the waitress
arrived with two dub sandwiches and two colas, and he
waited until she was out of hearing distance.

She eyed the sandwich dubiously, remembering
what Laura had said. He caught her at it, and laughed
a little. "Go ahead, Tania, it isn't drugged or anything, I
promise." And as if to prove his point, he exchanged
plates with her and bit into his sandwich with hungry
enthusiasm. Feeling a litde stupid, she did the same.

"Look," he said, when she'd finished half of her
meal, gesturing with a potato chip, "I told you the
other night that I liked seeing people able to dream —
and I like it better when I can help them with those
dreams. See, there's some weird shit going on out
there, and helping you keeps me balanced. Keeps me
in touch with the "real world.' Dig?"

That was just a litde too near the bone. "What are
you," she asked defensively. "Some kind of Boy Scout
or something?"

He sighed and shook his head. "I'm just a guy," he

150 Me/cedes Lackey and Lany Dawn

replied. "A plain old human being. Eccentric. Obses-
sive. Imperfect I can't do much, Tania —but I'd like to
at least talk a while."

She shrugged, uncertain and trying to cover it with
bravado. "I suppose. I'm not really busy right now.
You're not my usual kinda client, but you ought to get
something for your two hundred bucks, I guess — "

"Have you ever been on a picnic?" he interrupted.
"A real picnic?"

Caught off-guard once again, she shook her head.

He took her hand and rose, pulling her to her feet
"Come on, then. Let's see if I can show you a good rime."

Before she knew what he was doing, he had left
money on the table for the bill, and led her outside into
the bright sunlight She squinted as he donned his Ray-
Bans, and tugged her over to the River Street parking
lot. The next thing she knew, she was sitting in the
passenger's side of his car, while he buckled himself in
on the driver's side, staring at a dashboard with more
gadgets than a fighter-plane cockpit

"Buckle up, kiddo," he reminded her. "What do you
want to hear?"

She was dazed, and replied with the first thing that
popped into her head. "That music the other night—
here — is there anything more like that?"

"Good choice," he replied, popped in a cassette, then
pulled out of the parking space before she had time to
say anything else, like "where are you taking me" —

She could have hit herself in the head. IfTannim
really was a pimp after all, in spite of all his talk about
"dreams," she'd just put herself right into his hands.
Willingly. How stupid could you get?

But he didn't pull out towards the worst part of
town; he just drove up the ramp, onto President. They
crossed a couple of bridges, while Tannim raided on
about music, and pulled up at a place called The
Country Store. He left the motor running (and the
tape playing) and dashed inside.

BORN TO RUN           151

This is nuts — I could take the car right now, drive away.
Take my chances —

But for some reason, she sat and waited, listening to
Celdc harp and soulful voices as he returned with two
white boxes, a large sack, and a couple of drinks in a
paper carrier.

A faint aroma of food came from both boxes as he
dropped them on the seat behind them, and Tania
relaxed a little more. The idea of a pimp or drug-
pusher buying a couple of box lunches was too
ridiculous to contemplate. Maybe he was for real —

She yawned involuntarily while Tannim wedged the
drinks into the center console. Last night had been
long — and fruitless. She'd pounded the pavement
undl about four, then come home to find Laura in tears
and Jamie too stoned to do anything but snore. Then
she'd gotten up relatively early to come to Kevin
Barry's — now the short sleep was catching up to her.

She must have dozed off anyway, for she came to
herself with a start as Tannim turned the engine off.
"Well, we're here," he said, with an expectant expres-
sion on his face.

She looked around, baffled. "Where's here?" she
asked, not recognizing anything.

"It's a park, outside Fort Pulaski. This is a place I
come with friends. That's one of die approaches to the
docks — it's very deep here." He indicated the
waterway before them. "See? There's one of the big
container ships you see passing River Street." He
opened the trunk of the Mustang and pulled out a
familiar item: a cargo blanket like she used for bedding.
Some pimp: blanket over one shoulder, white
lunchbox in each hand, and a goofy grin.

She shivered in the sea breeze, and Tannim slapped
his forehead after laying out the food and blanket. "I
should have given this to you before," he explained
sheepishly, handing her the sack. "Sorry... hope it fits."

Tania opened the sack, and pulled out — a sweat

152 MercedesLackey and Lany Dwan

suit. Amce one, with a puffy-ink Hilton Head logo and
... a unicorn.

He knew. How could he know? Oh, God, it's beautiful...
it's better than anything Ihave now. Fd look like a tourist or a
college student....

She felt her eyes tearing up, and only her involuntary
shivering broke her out of it Tannim stood with a self-
satisfied smirk, then sat on the blanket, his back to her.

God, Fm a teenage hooker, and he gives me credit for modes-
ty. Incredible....

She slipped the suit on over her speedos and imme-
diately felt warmer. It was thick fleece. "I look like..."
She let the sentence trail off.

"You look confident" He grinned, looking her over.
"The unicorn design suits you. They're powerful
beasts, very, very magical, and as graceful as you are.
And just as capable of miracles."

Tania felt herselfblushing." I don't know... this is aD
so weird, I mean, this feels like some movie. It's stupid,
this fairy-tale shit just doesn't happen."

"Mmm. No. Normally it doesn't It doesn't make any
more sense than sunlight or trees. Or internal combus-
tion." He gestured with a pickle spear. "You turn the
key, the car runs. Inside it, water runs through iron,
lightning sparks fire, thousands of tiny firestorms, and
all people ever think of is 'push the pedal and it goes.'
But, Tania, people are like that Complex, but so taken
for granted, with all the powers of the elements in
them. Sooner or later, even we forget how wonderful
our internal machines are. All we need to be great is to
remember how amazing we really are."

"Oh, God, you're not one of those Scientologist
people, are you?"

Tannim nearly choked laughing. "Oh my God! Give
me some credit! I'm not(/io( brain-dead!"

She smiled a little, sheepishly. "It's just that what you
keep saying all sounds like some feel-good pep talk to
fat executives."

BORN TO RUN           153

The man had nearly stifled his laughing. He wiped
his nose with a napkin. "All right. So it does. I just get
enthusiastic sometimes. Guess I've gotten used to
things working out."

Tania peered out towards the horizon again. The
container ship there was four times larger, but still ap-
peared no closer. "I haven't had that kind of luck lately.
The street takes away dreams. Makes them hard to
even remember...."

Tannim nodded, as if he understood. Maybe he did.
"Yeah. Yeah, I can imagine. But, well, like I said, some-
times all we need is a reminder that we can do about
anything."

She shook her head stubbornly. "But how come
you're doing all this for me? It doesn't make any sense!
You've got to have something better to do than — "

"Than spend my day with a teenage hooker?" he
interrupted. "If you were any such thing, maybe so.
But I don't believe that any more than you really do.
You know you hate it, but you think it's all you are.
We both know better. And, well, yeah, I could be
working. I've got testing to do, but, hell . . . the
machines can wait. You can't. Not another day. Or
else you wouldn't have shown up at Kevin Barry's
looking for me."

They were both silent for a moment, watching the
huge ship at last move into the channel. It was at least
twelve stories high, marked in a language Tania
couldn't identify. It bore a prancing horse atop a globe
painted on one stack, above hundreds of multicolored
boxes the size of tractor-trailers. Tannim stood up slow-
ly and dusted his jeans off, then raised his arms and
waved.

From beside a massive lifeboat a smgle figure waved
back.

Tannim stood, grinning and satisfied, hands on hips.
"There. A first welcome home."

154        Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Daon

Tania and Tannim talked for what felt like an hour.
He was so easy to talk to, that by the dme she realized
what she'd done, she'd not only told him about herself,
she was telling him about Laura andJamie, too. She
managed to keep from blowing everything, but from
the bleak expression on his face, she guessed he was
able to figure out most of it on his own. So she tried to
change the subject—

But he changed it for her, asking her first about what
she liked to read. That got her on the subject of fantasy,
and then she was spilling the whole story about the night
her mother found her book, and what had happened,
and she was holding back tears with an effort....

He patted her hand, but didn't try to touch her in
any other way — which was just as well, really. She
would have felt really stupid and afraid, both at the
same dme. Stupid, because she was crying over books,
for chrissake; afraid, because if he touched her, he
might try something more, and she liked him, she didn't
want him to be like another trick. But she wanted
someone to hold her and comfort her, wanted it so
badly it was a dull ache deep down inside.

She stared out at the river as another ship ap-
peared in the distance, and fought her tears down.
Finally, after a long silence, he cleared his throat
self-consciously.

"Don't you think maybe you ought to go back to your
folks?" he said cautiously. "I know it was bad, but— "

She shook her head, angrily. "No!" she replied
adamandy. "It was like being in jail all the time, except I
hadn't done anything to deserve it! Hell, even in jail,
people get to read what they want!"

"But— " he began. She cut him off with a look.

"I didn't deserve being treated like a criminal, and I
won't go back to it," she said firmly, relieved that anger
had chased away the indpient tears.

"All right, so you won't go back — but what about
one of the shelters?" he replied. "That would get you

BORN TO RUN           155

out of that apartment into somewhere safe, and you
could go back to school. You could even get a job if you
wanted to; the shelter would help you."

She laughed, sourly. "Haven't been out on the street,
have you?" she asked. He shook his head. "Well, the
good shelters have waiting lists — or else they only let
you stay a couple of weeks," she said, bitter memories
of checking the places out still fresh in her mind. "And
the rest of them either have churches running them, or
they're always on your case about contacting your
parents — and if you won't, they will, whether or not
you like it"

He blinked. "Oh," he said. "But — don't you think
it's still better than — "

"I don't need Jesus with my orange juice, thanks,"
she snapped in irritation. "I don't need getting told this
was all my fault and I'm a sinful slut I don't need get-
ting nagged at, and told by some stupid psychologist
who never met my parents how much they really do
care about me. All they ever wanted was something else
they could boast to the people at the dub about They
never cared about me, they only cared about how good
I could make them look." She shook her head. "By now
they've probably put a Soloflex in my room. And
they've figured out not having me around saves them
enough for a weekend cruise to Bermuda every couple
of months. I'll stay where I am, thanks."

Tannim just looked sad, and watched the ship grow
nearer. "I never thought I'd wind up here," he said,
after a while. "There was a time when I thought I'd stay
in Oklahoma all my life. Now — sometimes I wonder if
I'm ever going to really setde down in one place."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because I like traveling," he replied, and started off
on a series of stories that lasted until the sun started to
set. Some of them were so crazy they couldn't be true
— and she wondered about die rest It was weird, like
he was talking around something half the time. Surely

156 Mercedes Lackey and ianyDwan

nobody as young as Tannim could have done so much
in such a short time, could he?

On the other hand, why would he lie to her?

She let him talk; while he was telling her stories, he
couldn't pry any more out of her. Finally, though, all
the food had been eaten, all the stories seemed to have
been told, and the sun was going down. She had work
to do—

She found herself dreading it; going back onto the
street seemed filthier than ever after this afternoon.
But she didn't say anything, and when Tannim asked
her if she wanted to go back to town, she just nodded
and let him lead the way back to his car.

They were both silent on the way back to the city; it
was as if they had forgotten how to talk to each other; or
that they didn't know what to say. The silence was as
awkward as the earlier conversation had been free.
When Tannim asked her where she wanted to be
dropped off, she replied, vaguely, "Wheaton Street,
near Bee," and hardly noticed his wince.

But she did nodce the worried look he wore when he
pulled over to the curb and she got out

"I wish you wouldn't," he said, and she didn't have to
ask what he meant She shoved her hands in her pock-
ets, unable to look him in the eye —

And discovered that there was paper in there, paper
that hadn't been there before.

She pulled it out. It was money, cash; several twen-
ties. She wasn't sure how many, because she shoved it
hastily back into her pocket before someone could see
that she had it. "You believe in magic?" he asked. And
before she could reply, continued, "Don't It's unreli-
able. Make your own luck."

He smiled, reached over, and closed the door, then
pulled out into traffic, leaving her standing on the comer.

With a pocket full of cash.

Make your own hick, he'd said. What was that supposed
to mean? Or was itsupposedtomean anything atall?

BORN TO RUN           157

She turned to head down the street, pausing once in
the shelter of a doorway to remove the cash again, and
count it

Five soft, old twenties. One hundred dollars. Exactly
what he'd given her the last time.

Make your own luck.

Well, there was one thing she could do. She could get
off the street for another night. Maybe even another
week. That was luck enough for right now.

"Sam, old lad, could ye hand me that wee driver?"
The Sidhe-mechank put a hand out from underneath
the computer-module, and Sam dutifully dropped a
small screwdriver into it. An aluminum socket-wrench;

Donal might be one of the three Sidhe at Fairgrove
capable of handling Cold Iron with relative impunity,
but it was only "relative." Right now Donal was doing
something more than a bit dangerous: manipulating
some of this computer equipment magically, altering it
so that while it looked perfectly normal from the out-
side, and in fact would pass inspection by any licensed
tech, what it would register was not what would be
going on inside.

Which was, in fact, nothing at all.

But even the tiny amount of Cold Iron present in the
screws holding various covers in place was enough to
foul Donal's magic. Donal was taking them all out,
placing them in an insulating container, then making
his alterations according to Sam's instructions. The
Sidhe's body twisted about for a moment as he
squirmed to reach the tiny screws, then was still.

"There now," Donal said, his voice muffled, but the
satisfaction coming through plainly. "That should do it
Turn it on, old lad, and let's see if it lies to us proper."

"Are you sure you want me to do that?" Sam asked
anxiously. "You're still in there — that's a direct 220
feed—"

Rob, Donal's human shadow, snickered. "Ah, don't

158 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dwon.

worry about frying Donal's brains. He hasn't any to
speak of. All you'll do is reinforce his perm."

"And who was it had to have his phone taken away,
'cause he'd order every damn thing K-Swell ever
made?" Donal countered. "Who was it came t'me in
mortal terror, 'cause he'd broken a chain letter? Who
was it that told Keighvin he'd seen Elvis baggin'
groceries at Kroger? Hmm?"

"Beats me," Rob said cheerfully, his round face shin-
ing with amusement.

"Well, Skippy, I think I'll take that as an invitation — "
Donal started to emerge — fist-first — or at least made
motions as if he might

"All right, all right! So I get a little carried away!" Rob
sighed dramatically.

"Turn on the juice, Sam," Donal repeated, suppressed
laughter in his voice. "Ye needna worry about me. Tisn't
electricity I need worry about; that I can handle — 'tis
enough like magic as makes no nevermind."

Sam plugged the machine in and turned it on, set-
ting it through its cycle, still worried despite Donal's
assurances.

"Well?" came the muffled voice. "Is it lyin' to us the
way it should?"

Sam nodded, forgetting that Donal couldn't see him.
To all intents and purposes, there was a full-blown
smelting operation going on — temperature was
rising, the aluminum about to slag down, the vacuum
building up preparatory to foaming the molten metal
— even though there was nothing attached to the com-
puter console.

Ormaybe DonalcouM see him. "How much in the way
of'accidents' do ye want now an' again?" Donal asked.

Sam thought, making mental calculations. "With a
process this complicated, I'd expect a fail-rate of fifty
percent I'd be really suspicious if it was less than that."

"Fifty percent it is," Donal answered. "Here, I'll gi'
ye a taste of it." A moment later, alarms went off, in-

BORNTORUN           159

dicating a catastrophic failure of the injection system.
The system powered itself down.

Donal climbed out a moment later, and stood up,
brushing his black coverall off. " Twon't always be the
injection system," he said, full of happy pride at his
own cleverness. " Twill alternate. And we may get five
•failures' in a row before we get a 'good casting.'
Danaa's light, that's amusing! Wish I could do this sort
of thing more often."

"What exactly did you do?" Rob asked. Donal
smirked.

"Nothing you can dup, lad, nor your evil twin,
neither. I just engraved a few extra circuits into the
machine where they won't show; built 'em on the sen-
sor-connections, then programmed 'em hard. So even
if someone comes in an' changes the stuff they can see,
'twon't affect the outcome." Donal's grin got even
wider. "Have t'say I'm right glad ye showed me how
those computer-things work, now."

"Even though I had to drag you into computer
literacy kicking and screaming," Rob taunted. "So, all
we have to do is have one of the kenning Sidhe stand-
ing by to supply the evidence in the mold or in the
furnace if we happen to have visitors, hmm?"

"Exactly," Sam said, feeling a wash of contentment
come over him, despite the threats of the morning.
Donal and Rob had told him, over and over again, that
Donal could make these invisible mods to the com-
puter-driven casting equipment, but until he'd seen it,
he hadn't dared believe it

"I hate to admit it, but you did good. Canal," Rob told
the Sidhe.

"Thank ye kindly, Skippy," Donal replied, slapping
the litde mechanic on the back so hard he staggered.
"Gents, I have t' be off; I've got mods to put in on m'
brother's car."

"I don't think we'll need your particular expertise
any more today, Donal," Sam said absently, as he ran

160 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Down

another "casting" through the system, and this time got
perfect "results." "Everything else Rob and I can fake
without mucking with the computers."

Everyone was behaving perfectly normally; Sam was
taking his cue from the rest, in spite of the fact that
tonight would be anything but normal.

Assuming Vidal Dhu carried out his threats. He
might not, according to Donal. He might simply have
issued a challenge without intending to follow through
on it seriously.

"He's done that before," Donal had said, sourly." Tis
worth it to him just t' muck us up for a night, make us
waste energy and magical strength to counter a threat
that was never real. Make us jumpy, make us chase our
tails from midnight t'dawn, and all for naught."

The tall Sidhe (who reminded Sam strongly ofG. E.
Smith from the Saturday Night Live band) turned at
the door and sketched a mocking salute before heading
for the main shop building. As Sam and Rob finished
setting up the rest of the equipment, with Rob running
the fork-lift and Sam supervising the placement, Sam
finally had the chance to ask a question that had been
plaguing the life out of him all day.

"What's with this 'Skippy' business?" he asked, as
they brought the second smelter up online and
plugged its controls into the computer console.

Rob laughed, and rubbed his short black beard with
a finger. "That's from when I first came into
Pairgrove," he said. "They already thought I was nuts,
'cause I do imitations oftelevangelists and bad game-
show hosts at the drop of a hat But then I kept seeing
this one Sidhe all over, like, within seconds of the time
I'd seen him somewhere else. And half the time, when
I'd call him 'Donal,' he'd glare at me like I was
simpleminded and say his name was Canal. I thought I
was going crazy. Then somebody finally told me that
there were two of the bastards, they were twins, and
they'd been having a good laugh at my expense." Rob

BORN TO RUN           161

chuckled. "I didn't mind, I mean, if they'd been human
that's the first thing I would have thought, but who
ever heard of twin Sidhe? The birthrate's so low I'd
never have believed it."

"So?" Sam replied. "That doesn't explain 'Skippy.'"

"Well, I turned the tables on them. Half the time
when one of them saw me and called me 'Rob,' I'd glare
and say my name was Skippy. And when I was Skippy is
when I'd do the really outrageous stuff, like try to sell
Donal his own tool-kit or something." Rob's grin was so
infectious that Sam found himself grinning in return.
"They actually started to think I had a really crazy twin
myself, named Skippy. It was weeks before anyone ever
told them the human bad-movie joke about 'the evil
twin, Skippy.' I thought when Dottie finally broke
down and confessed that they were both gonna hang
me right then and there."

Sam joined in Rob's laughter. "I'm surprised they
didn't," he commented.

"I'd rather have been well-hung!" Rob grinned, and
made sure the smelter was staying cold even though
the computer console said it was red-hot. "Those two
have a lot better sense of humor than anyone except
Keighvin. I think it comes from hanging around Tan-
nimsomuch."

Sam's response surprised even himself. "A lot of
good things seem to come from hanging around Tan-
nim," he said softly, half to himself. Then, a little
embarrassed, he glanced over at Rob to see if the
young man had overheard him.

Rob was nodding, uncharacteristically sober. "They
do," he said, then —

"Sam, I have to tell you, I've got this great deal on a
set ofGinsu steak knives, and if you order now, you get
a free bamboo steamer — "

Sam chased him out of the building, brandishing a
broom.

•CHAPTERNINE

Although she had every sense at her command lock-
ed onto her quarry, Aurilia "lost" the pair to everything
but sight the moment they entered Tannim's car —
and she lost the vehicle itself to President Street traffic
soon after. The protections on the vehicle might have
been set by Keighvin Silverhair, but Aurilia doubted it
Whatever other powers the boy had, he certainly drove
like a demon. Once again she found herself forced to
admit to a kind of grudging admiration for one of the
enemy....

But not for long. The aggravation of losing quickly
overwhelmed the admiration. Damn him, anyway. Crafty
little monster. Where did he learn all that? Surely not from Sil-
verhair. If I didn't know better, Fd suspect he'd managed to find
some devil actually interested in buying his skinny little
soul....

Still, Aurilia hadn't practiced her own particular
brand of subterfuge for so many centuries without
learning patience. She found herself an out-of-the-way
spot in one of the little "pocket parks" and sat in her
Mercedes. Tannim could cloak himself, and even his
car — but once the girl left his presence, she would
register to Aurilia's mage-senses. And the girl was real-
ly whatAurilia was after at the moment.

It took longer than Aurilia had thought it would, but
towards sunset, the girl finally "appeared" to Aurilia's
inner eye. She quickly triangulated with a mental map
of the town, and determined that the girl was at the
comer of Bee and Wheaton streets.

She reached out in thought, and seized mentally on

164 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Down

the nearest pigeon, taking over what little mind it had
with her own. Pigeons were possibly the stupidest crea-
tures on the planet, but that stupidity made them
remarkably easy to enslave. When she was done with it,
it would drop dead of shock, of course, but that didn't
matter. One more dead pigeon on the sidewalk would
excite no one except a feral cat or dog.

She sent the bird winging in a direct line to the area
where the girl loitered. With sunset coming, a pigeon
was perhaps not the best choice of slave-eyes, but it
would do. A grackle would have been better, but like all
the corbies, it would have fought back too much, wast-
ing dme and energy before she could take it. An owl
was the best, but Silverhair used those, the bastard.
And frequently owls were not what they appeared to
be.

She caught only glimpses of what the pigeon saw;

just enough to guide it to her target Fortunately, the
girl was fairly conspicuous with her bleached-blond
hair, even from above. Though darkness had fallen,
the shock of pale straw made a kind of beacon for the
bird's dimmed eyesight. So although the pigeon was
not much good at flying by street-lamps, once the bird
had the girl in sight, Aurilia had it land on a rooftop,
and follow her in short flights, from tree to phone-line,
to rooftop again.

Even by daylight the pigeon's eyesight wasn't par-
ticularly good, as birds went, but Aurilia made out
enough detail that she was forced to wonder what on
earth Tannim saw in this appalling little creature. It
certainly wasn't her looks. She was scrawny, underfed,
a modern version of one ofAurilia's own Victorian
Street-Sparrow constructs. Clean — well, Aurilia
would give her that much. She was dean. And young, if
your taste ran to children. But cheap, tacky— tasteless.
Perhaps that was why her glamorie at the pub hadn't
worked — maybe Tannim was only attracted to cheap
tarts. Maybe he only enjoyed sex with hookers,

BORN TO RUN           165

children, or both.... But that didn't fit his profile,
didn't fit anything she'd been able to leam about him.

peculiar. Once she'd seen him, he hadn't struck her
that way; in fact, his attitude towards the girl, so far as
she had been able to make out, was positively chaste. In
any case, the girl's parents had to know what she was
doing, unless they were even stupider than the pigeon.

The girl wound her way farther and deeper into one
of the bad areas offWheaton. Well, now it wasn't much
of a surprise that she'd had Tannim drop her back
there on the comer. Aurilia didn't wonder now why the
girl hadn't wanted Tannim to see where she lived; she
was probably ashamed of her home. If she lived here,
her parents couldn't be much better than what was lo-
cally termed "poor white trash." That might be why
they didn't put any restrictions on her dress, her move-
ment, or her behavior — they probably didn't care.

The girl suddenly dashed across a street and up an
enclosed staircase, catching Aurilia by surprise. She
sent the pigeon to perch in a tree outside the first
lighted window she saw.

She peered short-sightedly at the window, trying to
determine if the bird could get any closer, and dis-
covered that luck was with her. The girl passed in front
of it, showing it was the right one; and not only that, it
was open, with no screen to keep her from perching on
the ledge.

She moved the pigeon in a fluttering hop from
branch to ledge, and poked the bird's head cautiously
inside. The place was appalling: filthy, bug-ridden, fall-
ing to pieces, with the only furniture being pallets on
the floor. There were two rooms to the place; the girl
and two other youngsters were in this one, and voices
from the door beyond proved that there were at least
two more in the other room. There were no parents,
no adults of any kind, anywhere in sight. Within mo-
ments of listening to the conversation between the
children, it was dear to her that there were no adults in

166 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dixan

residence in the tiny apartment at all. There were per-
haps a half dozen children living there, and now
Aurilia knew exacdy why the girl had looked and acted
the way she did — for she recognized one of the other
children. There was a girlishly-pretty young boy on a
pallet at the side of the room, sleeping the profound
sleep of the drugged with his face turned towards the
window. Aurilia knew him very well indeed; she had
just spent the past week editing film that had his face —
and other parts — all over it.

It had been the "bondage-party" film (now called
"Birthday Boy" and with three thousand copies al-
ready on order) that had featured five of their
customers and one "pickup." The boy, called 'Jamie," if
she recalled correctly, was a free-lance hooker and a
runaway.

Suddenly, given Tannim's notorious do-gooder im-
pulses, many things fell into place. That was the
attraction, then. Tannim, wants to save the girl if he can —
and that fits right in with his profile. Meddling fool. Topical
hero-wishing. Save her for what? A life of food-service? Well,
if he wanted to waste his time and resources on dead-
end losers, Aurilia wasn't going to stop him.
Particularly not when his litde hobby fit right in with
Aurilia's own plans. Not only her plans, but the current
projects for Studio Two.

She withdrew her power in a burst of triumph,
abrupdy, allowing the pigeon to tumble unnoticed to
the ground.

Tannim had expected Keighvin to jump all over him
when he got back to (he Fairgrove complex. After all,
he had been scheduled to run test laps at Roebling, not
spend the afternoon watching container ships and loll-
ing around on the grass, however noble his motives.

Maybe if I just tell hum the truth... edited. Emphasizing the
need the child's m, and leaving out the lolling on the grass and
the picnic dinner.

BORN TO RUN           167

But as he wound his way through the offices, a
change in the schedule posted beside the machine-
shop door caught his eye. It would have been hard not
to notice it; under the track schedule was a red-drded
"canceled" notice.

When he read it, he had to grin. The old luck comes
through again. Excellent. Some time between when he'd
left for lunch and when he was supposed to return,
Keighvin had changed the scheduling. The track had
been closed this afternoon for repairs after some
damage from a tire-test this morning.

A tire-test? What the hey?

He grabbed the first person he saw when he got into
the shops. "What happened at the track this morning?"
he asked.

The mechanic, Donal — one ofKeighvin's Sidhe,
and Tannim's oldest friend Underbill except for
Keighvin — grinned wryly. "Hard to believe, eh?
Wouldn't have believed it meselfifl hadna seen it. We
had a series of new tires for the GTP test mule — same
mule you were supposed check brake mods and
suspension geometry on. Well, seems our mods or the
tires or both were a litde too good." Tannim watched
the elven man rock back on his heels, eyes glittering.

"So what happened?" he asked, since Donal was ob-
viously waiting for him to make some kind of response.

"Well, the lateral gees put a three-inch ripple in the
asphalt on one of the turns." Donal's grin got even
wider, and Tannim didn't blame mm; Donal was part of
die crew responsible for the handling. This was some-
thing of a coup — for a mule to hug the track that hard
on the turns said a lot.

But — a three-inch ripple? That was a lot of lateral.
His expression must have said something of his
surprise, as Donal held up a hand as if he was swearing
to the fact

"I promise; I measured it meself. We all saw it — a
three-inch lump, plain as Danaa's light, ten feet long.

168 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dwan

We had to hire a steamroller to flatten the track. Took
us the rest of the day. Keighvin figured you'd see the
posting and take off."

Now Donal raised an eyebrow, because Tannim
should have known what had happened, since it had
undoubtedly been all over the shop; Tannim just
shrugged. He wasn't good enough to lie to a Sidhe, so
he simply told part of the truth. "You know there's
never anyone to answer questions around here in the
afternoon. I had a picnic out at the Fort. So, where's
Keighvin?"

"With Sam Kelly, at the forge-shop." Donal grinned
again, showing gleaming white teeth, teeth that were a
little feral-looking. "Now 'ds a 'forge' in more ways than
one. Sam seems to have concocted a process that will
pass muster, and he's moved that molten-metal equip-
ment we kenned out to the other shop. Says we'll be
ready for a cast of thousands."

"Ech, that's awful. 'Forged' engine blocks, hmm?"
Tannim indulged the Sidhe; Donal was fond of puns.
"And a 'forged' process. Well, I'd better get out there
and see what Keighvin wants me to do now."

He wound his way through metal and machinery to
the roofed passage that joined this shop to the former-
ly-empty forge building. He noticed along the way that
a lot of the computer-driven equipment was missing;

presumably it had been moved to its new home.

Keighvin should have been glowing with cheer; the
mods that had warped the track had certainly proved
successful, and now he had a "process" that would ex-
plain where his engine blocks and other
cast-aluminum pieces were coming from. But when
Tannim found him, supervising the set-up and activa-
tion of some arcane-looking machine by that insanely
cheerful human tech-genius Skippy-Rob, he didn't
look particularly happy.

Tannim wondered if something more had gone
wrong than he'd been told, but it wasn't that kind ofex-

BORNTORUN           169

pression. He'd seen the Sidhe display all kinds of
moods, and it was the "unreadable" ones that he feared
the most. Keighvin was a gendeman by any creatures'
standards, but he had his breaking points, and when
he was near one ... Keighvin looked up and saw him
lurking out of the way, then beckoned the young mage

over.

"What's cooking?" Tannim asked casually. "Any-
thing wrong with Sam's phony process?"

"With the process — nothing," Keighvin replied,
rubbing one temple distractedly. "But — Vidal Dhu
showed up at Sam's this morning. Not inside the
house, but he blocked Sam's driveway long enough to
deliver a message."

"I think I can guess the message," Tannim said slowly.

Keighvin nodded, grimly. "A threat, of course. At
least he didn't say, 'And your litde dog, too.' The wor-
risome thing is that he's managed to recruit a corps of
lesser nasties, and they're putting pressure on our
boundaries. Nothing like overt warfare, but — don't go
into the woods after dark."

"Any things we haven't taken out before?"

"Nothing any worse, so far as we can tell. I don't like
it And I don't like Sam being outside our hardened
boundaries. I'm setting up our spare rooms here as
sleeping-quarters for anyone who can't protect them-
selves, including Sam."

The man in question had come around the corner
during Silverhair's little speech, and waited until he had
finished before leaving the work crew and joining them.

"You're worrying too much, Keighvin," the old man
said comfortably. "I've been going over my old gran's
stories. I think I can hold off the boggles; enough to
permit the cavalry to come over the hill to rescue me,
anyway."

Tannim noticed that the old man was wearing what
looked Kke an Uzi bolstered at his hip; Sam patted it as
he finished his statement

170

Mercedes Lackey and Lany Doom

Tannim frowned, rubbing his eyes. "Sam, I don't
mean to rain on your parade, but plain old bullets
aren't going to stop Vidal, and they certainly aren't

going to do anything to a creature like a troll that can
heal itself—"

Sam pulled the gun from the holster and handed it
to him, wordlessly. Tannim took it — and it sloshed. It
was one of the old Uzi-replica water-pistols, and not a
real gun at all.

"One of your local geniuses prepared this for me,"
the old man said. "That's salt and holy water. That
should take care of a fair number of yon blackguard's
friends. I've got rosemary, rue, and salt in my pocket,
and a horseshoe nail with them. There's an iron plate
across every door and windowsill of the house, horse-
shoes nailed up over every door and the fireplace, and
sprigs of oak, ash, and thorn up there with them. A lass
here is preparing iron-filled .357 hollowdps for me
Colt, and meanwhile, there's this — "

He touched the sheath on his other side, and Tan-
nim saw the hilt of a crudely-forged knife. He had no
doubt that it was of good Cold Iron. Sam wasn't taking
chances on a steel blade.

"That's all very well," Keighvin warned, "butit won't
hold them for long. They'll find ways around your
protections and mine, eventually."

Sam bolstered his water-pistol. "Doesn't have to
keep them busy for long," he countered. "It'll hold
them baffled for long enough. All I have to do now is
supervise your setup, put my John Hancock to every-
thing and write up my part in this deal. That's a matter
of a couple of weeks at most. The rude bastard can
bluster all he wants. Once I'm finished, you don't need
me anymore. You just need my name."

"But what if something goes wrong?" Keighvin asked.
"There's nobody here that knows the language—"

"But this Vidal character doesn't know that," Sam
replied. "He's like some of the really old execs at

BORN TO RUN           171

Gulfstream, the ones who didn't understand tech. He
may even be a technophobe, for all we know. That kind
thinks that once something technological is set in place,
it sits and glowers and runs itself with no further help."

Both Keighvin and Tannim snorted; Sam shrugged.
"I know it makes no sense, but that's the way these
people think. All he'll see is me sitting back in my chair,
and letting you run the show. He'll figure going after
me is a waste of effort."

Keighvin shook his head doubtfully, and Tannim
had to agree with the Sidhe. He wasn't convinced that
Sam was right, either.

But Sam was an adult, and perfectly capable of making
his own decisions. Besides, Tannim had other problems.

"Keighvin, I know this is coming at the worst pos-
sible dme," he said, reluctantly, "but we've got another
problem, too." Briefly he outlined Tania's situation,
and the plight of the underage hookers she lived with.
He hoped to catch Keighvin's interest, but the Sidhe-
mage shook his head regretfully.

"Damn ye, Tannim, your timing sucks. I can't do
anything for them right now," he said, plainly unhap-
py with the situation. "I'm sorry, but we're up to our
pointy ears in alligators at the moment I can't do any-
thing for them out there — and you can't bring them
here. I can't have a single non-mage mortal inside the
boundary right now," he continued, frankly, laying the
whole situation on the table so Tannim could see it.
"And I'm stretching things to include Sam, because he
believes and he's got a bit of the Sight himself. Who
knows what these children would do if they saw a skir-
mish with one of Vidal Dhu's little friends out there? If
they panicked, they could breach the shields. If they
were taken in by appearances, they<ould actually
bring Vidal inside."

Tannim had to admit, reluctantly, that Keighvin was
right He didn't want to say it out loud, though. Maybe,
just maybe, I can talk him into changing his wind.

172         MercedesLackey andLanyDixon

"If I let you bring them here, they'd at best be targets
and weak spots," Keighvin continued. "Can't do that,
no matter how desperate their situation seems to be,
my friend. Keep siphoning them money; that's easy
enough. They've kept their necks above water this
long, Tannim, they can keep a little longer. When we've
finished with Vidal Dhu,-you can coax them in to us,
but right now they'd just be in more danger with us
than they are now."

Tannim grimaced. He didn't like it — but Keighvin
was the boss at Fairgrove. This was his territory, and he

knew the strengths and weaknesses better than anyone
else.

So be it, Keighvin. I've got more to call on than spells.
There's always the magic of folding green.

Keighvin eyed Tannim with a very readable expres-
sion — one ofrired worry. He could read moods as well
as minds. Tannim figured that Keighvin knew what his
current expression meant. He met Keighvin's eyes
squarely, and a little defiantly.

Yes, I am up to something.

But it was too late tonight to do anything about the
situation. Tania was safe for the rest of the night, at
least, and with any luck at all, that hundred would keep
her off the streets for another couple of days. That

would be long enough for Tannim to get Plan B into
gear.

Assuming nothing happens between then and now. Like one
of her friends getting tangled up with a pimp, or on the wrong
side of a dealer, or—

He cut the thoughts short. There was no use worry-
ing about the kids right now; he'd do what he could,
when he could.

"Look," he said, running his hand through his hair,
catching on more snags than usual, "I'm beat If there
isn't anything you need me for, I'm going home to get
some shut-eye. Are we rescheduling those tests for
tomorr— I mean, today? Or is it tomorrow?" He

BORN TO RUN

173

rubbed his eyes, wishing in a way that he could run
them now. Although he was tired, he was also full of

nervous energy, and he wished he had somewhere to
go with it.

"No, Goodyear has the track," Keighvin said, his ex-
pression one of mingled relief and apprehension.
Tannim had a shrewd idea of why the Sidhe wore the
latter. Keighvin had to be wondering now just what it
was Tannim had in mind to do about the kids.

Keep wondering.

"We have it after Goodyear," Keighvin added. "You
are going to be fit to drive, I hope? And you don't plan
on going anywhere tonight, do you? Sam should be
safe enough here." The statement indicated that he
wasn't necessarily worried about Tannim's involve-
ment with the kids.

He thinks Tm going to go spend the rest of the night guard-
ing Sam, or trying to hunt down Unseleighe creatures or
something. Does he really think Fm that foolhardy ?

"Don't worry, I don't plan on running out and hunt-
ing the kids — or Vidal Dhu — down tonight," Tannim
replied with irritation. "I've got a litde more sense than
that. If the kids can wait, so can Vidal. He's not going
anywhere. If he comes after us here, he's a fool, but
you don't need me here to face him down."

Now the relief was so palpable on Keighvin's face
that Tannim restrained himself from a sharp retort

only by reminding himself that Keighvin didn't
deserve it

It's not his fault that you can't hit the broad side of a barn
when you're tired. And it's not being paranoid on his part to
worry about having you around when you're wonky. Canal
may forgive you in a couple of hundred years, but what if you'd
gotten more than his hair?

It was something Tannim didn't like to think about.
And he hated being reminded of this new weakness of
his. If only there was something he could do about it —

But Keighvin was waiting for him to say something;

174 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dixon

he managed a tight smile, and flexed his shoulders.
"I'm heading straight for bed," he said. "You know
where to find me if you need me."

Keighvin was too aware of his own dignity to give
him a comradely slap on the back, but Sam wasn't.
"We'll be seeing you some time in the afternoon,
then?" the old man asked, as Tannim ?taggered a little
beneath Sam's heavy hand.

Keighvin lifted an ironic eyebrow. "Aye, do check in
some dme, won't you? So we can let you know what the
schedule is."

Tannim controlled his expression carefully, so that
none of his guilt would leak through. He's got a suspicion
I played hooky. It's a good thing this isn't your normal busi-
ness. ... "I'll call when I wake up, but I'd like to come in
after dark, if that's all right with you," he said. "It may
take that long to get recharged."

This dme he wasn't quite so irritated with Keighvin's
reaction to his implied exhaustion, since it was working
in his favor.

"Take all the dme you need," the Sidhe replied quickly.
"I'd rather have you take a couple more hours to get into
top form dian to come in at less than full strengdi."

Tannim nodded, trying his best to keep it from look-
ing curt. "See you later, then."

He turned and walked out, back through the
darkened office complex, back to the safe haven of the
Mustang. It would take more than Vidal Dhu to get
through the protections on die Mach 1, and he relaxed
a litde as he slid into the seat and shut the door.

There were times he wished that he'd taken
Keighvin's offer of an elvensteed to replace the Mus-
tang, especially when he was tired. It was a great honor
for a mortal to be offered an elvensteed, and it would
have been really nice to have a car that could find its
own way home.

On the other hand, there was enough Cold Iron
in the Mach 1 to give any Unseleighe Court critter

BORN TO RUN           175

more than it cared to handle. Keighvin couldn't
even ride in it without pain. Tannim was glad of the
new "plastic cars" for the sake of his friends, but
when it came to keeping his own hide safe, arcanely
and mundanely — he'd take good American sheet
metal every time.

He thought, as he drove through die gates, that he
sensed a lurking nastiness in the woods. But it was too
dark to see much, even with mage-sight, and he was
too tired to really want to risk a confrontation with any-
thing. That nervous energy that had filled him was
draining away a lot faster than he'd tfiought it would.

He drove carefully — and slowly, for him — back
down the dark, near-deserted highway to his litde
rented house on the outskirts of Savannah. Normally
he wouldn't have bothered renting anydiing as large as
a house — but dlis place had some advantages that out-
weighed every odier consideration. For one thing, it
had a three-car garage almost as big as die house itself;

whoever had built it must have been a real car-nut, or
needed a hell of a workshop. The Mustang and all die
gear Tannim needed to keep it in pristine condition no
matter what he put it dirough fit comfortably inside.

But there were even more important considerations.
The house and yard were hidden from die road by a
diick ring of tall evergreens — which themselves were
planted far enough from die house diat while someone
could have used them for cover, to get to die buildings
an intruder would have had to cross a good-sized ex-
panse of bare, weedy lawn, mowed short every week by
die rental company.

The ring of evergreens was perfecdy circular. It was,
in fact, a Circle of the protective variety, and had been
that way before Tannim moved in. Possibly even long
before; the trees were old, fifty, maybe as much as a
hundred years old. Had they been ensorceled that
long? It was certainly possible. Sorcery invested in
living dungs, unlike diat invested in nonliving things,

176 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dwm

tended to sdck around long after the caster was dust —
and could even grow and flourish on its own.

The house itself was much younger, but it had been
built on an old foundation. Who had built the place this
way, Tannim had no idea. The rental agency simply ad-
ministered it, kept things repaired, collected his rent
There had been protections on the house and garage,
too, but since they had been based on dead wood
rather than living, and the electricity had been off so
that the protections cast into the circuitry had drained
away, those shields had been faded by the time he
rented the place. The agency had been pathetically
grateful; evidently they'd had a hard time finding a
tenant.

Maybe the trees themselves kept out people they didn't like. It
was possible; there was the same feeling of semi-aware-
ness about the trees as there was to the Mustang. Odd
how he didn't even react to such things anymore.

Still, with the privacy and all, it was kind of odd that no
one had come along that wanted to rentitbefore he saw it
On the other hand, for a house, the place was kind of
small; too small for a family, and yet the rent wasalitde too
steep for most single people. Itwas worth it—in an effort
to find a tenant, the agency had installed new appliances.
Butthe rent was stillalitde steep, even so.

For whatever reason, the place had stayed vacant for
a couple of years until Tannim came along. The little
one-bedroom cottage was perfect for him. The only
other thing he wished he had was a Jacuzzi — and if he
stayed, he could always install that in the garage.

He thumbed the garage-opener as he drove up the
drive; his electronics weren't quite as fancy as Sam's,
but then again, he wasn't as much of an engineer as
Sam was. Twin floodlights came on over the garage
door, two more went on inside, and the door rose
majestically on a miniature equivalent of the Fairgrove
shops.

The Mustang rolled inside, and the door descended

BORN TO RUN           177

again, noisily. It was a little noisier than most, because it
was heavier than most: five joined slabs of steel.
Bombproof, he would have said. The door predated
his occupancy, too.

Every so often he wondered what on earth the
owner had been into that he needed a garage door that
would withstand a B-52 strike.

He opened the Mustang's door, then paused, as all
of the strain of the past week came down on him with a
rush. Up until today, the test runs out at Roebling
Road had alternated with sessions on the mods, all day
and into the night And when he hadn't been working
on the mods, he'd been working, magically, on Sam's
defenses. They weren't as good as the ones here, and
he wasn't going to stop until they were —

Or until they buried Vidal Dhu and his friends.

He dragged himself up out of the bucket seat, and
stumbled towards the door into the house. Fortunately, it
led straightinto the kitchen, and temporary salvation.

He leaned up against the fridge door for a moment
until the hum of the compressor starting up jarred him
out of his tired daze. He pulled the door open and
reached inside, blindly taking out a brand-new, un-
opened bottle ofGatorade with one hand. The other
hand groped on top of the fridge and encountered
crackling plastic. He brought down what he had
found, and looked at it blearily as he shoved the fridge
door shut with his hip.

Corn chips. Close enough to food.

He got as far as the tiny kitchen table, dropping
down into the chair like a sack of deer antlers. There
was an entire row of brown bottles and jars on the back
edge of the table against the wall; vitamins, minerals,
amino adds. He opened the bottle ofGatorade, ripped
open the sack of chips, and began opening each of the
bottles in turn, spilling out a couple of each until he
had a little heap of pills in front of him. Then he began
popping them into his mouth, methodically, washing

178 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dixon

them down with swigs from the bottle ofGatorade, al-
ternating pills with a handful of chips until pills, chips,
and Gatorade were all gone.

Well, that takes care of the lOUto my body.

He thought about a hot bath, stood up, and decided,
when he went lightheaded, that the bath could wait.
He turned off the kitchen light and stumbled into the
bedroom, past the stark living room. The living room
always depressed him, anyway — it looked so empty.
There were two armchairs that had come with the
house, a floor-lamp, and his old stereo. The good rig
was in the bedroom; anyone who broke in would
probably figure Tannim didn't have anything worth
stealing. Which was mostly true; he hadn't accumu-
lated much in his years of traveling. Moving fast keeps
you from hanging on to much.

He flipped on the bedroom light; and there was The
Bed — the single piece of furniture he had acquired
and held onto through so many changes of address
that he'd forgotten half of them.

It was the size of two king-size beds put together, and
completely filled the bedroom. The basis for construc-
tion had been two orthopedic hospital beds, complete
with controls, with a flat section in between. The book-
case-headboard behind it went up to the ceiling, and
held mirrors, speakers, a lot of his audio gear, bed con-
trols, and remotes for the TV and VCRs across the
room on the shabby bureau. Plus a tiny bar-fridge and
microwave. It had padded rails, and one section of the
padding on each side flipped up like the armrests on a
first-dass airline seat; inside were tray-tables. When he
was really hurt or sick, he didn't even have to leave The
Bed except to hit the bathroom.

He'd found it (sans electronic gear, but wired with
four power-strips and its own pair of breaker-boxes) in
a Goodwill store in Dallas. It had been made in Ger-
many, and he'd always figured its previous owner was
one of the victims of the slump in oil prices. Occasional-

BORNTORUN           179

ly he looked at it, and wondered why he'd hung onto it
with such tenacity. It was a stone bitch to move, and
holding onto any piece of furniture was so completely
unlike him that keeping this monster was insane. But
then he'd get hurt, or he'd have one of his days when
he'd wake up after a race or a fight hardly able to move,
and he'd know why he kept it. He'd never find another
like it. And it at least gave him one constant in all of his
changes of address.

Too bad that he seldom had anyone to share it with.

He edged into the clear slot at the foot, and peeled
off his shirt. Beneath it was his body-armor; one of the
other reasons he hadn't been overly worried about an
ambush by Vidal Dhu. It looked like a unitard, but it
was composed of thousands of tiny hexagonal scales,
enameled in emerald green. As he slid his pants off, the
cool scales slipped smoothly, silkily, under his hands. It
had been a project he and Chinthliss had worked on
for three months, to the exclusion of everything else.

There were no seams. That was because every scale
was joined magically to every other scale, and it could
be opened where and when he chose. Though if he
was ever unconscious, it would take someone like
Keighvin to get it off him....

So he just wouldn't get in any accidents.

Right

He crooked one finger, which was the only com-
ponent of the set-spell to open the suit, and ran the
fingernail up the front. The armor opened and he
shrugged it off, exactly like a dancer squirming out of a
costume.

Beneath the armor were the scars.

Starting from the first, a knife-scar on the forearm he
got protecting a potential mage, to the latest, teeth-
marks that marked his leg from hip to ankle, his body
was criss-crossed with a network of lines. They ranged
from the thin white lines of old wounds, to the red of
the newly healed.

180 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dixan

Tin, certainly not going to win any bikini contests.

Without the added support of the body-armor, his
leg ached distantly, his shoulders felt like knotted wire
ropes, and The Bed looked more inviting than ever.

But there was one more thing to do before he col-
lapsed for the night.

He reached to the nearest shelf, and took out the
tiny jar of Tiger Balm he kept there. Actually, he kept
more than one in there — there was nothing worse
than reaching for the only thing that could ease those
constant aches only to find the jar empty.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, on the padded
rail. With habit that had become ritualized, he applied
the salve over every aching muscle. Before he had
finished rubbing it into his shoulders, the heat had
begun to soothe his aching leg.

He sighed, put the jar back, and crawled into the
bed's embrace, fumbling for the light-switch and drop-
ping the room into total blackness, without even a hint
of outside light. The electronic clocks of the VCRs
bothered him though, enough that he briefly con-
sidered flinging a towel over them before deciding he
could just bury his head instead. His last conscious
thought was to pull the blankets up over himself and
burrow into them, before the exhaustion he had been
holding off with both hands won the battle and flung
him into sleep.

CHAPTER TEN

Sam glanced over at Keighvin as Tannim retreated.
The young man had looked tired and worried, and
Sam knew the "why" of both. Tannim had put in
several after-hours sessions reinforcing the protections
on Sam's house; that took a lot more out of him than
mere loss of sleep. And there was no doubt that he was
worried about the kids, Tania especially.

He has reason to be. She takes her health into her hands every
time she walks the streets, if not her life.

Sam had more immediate worries on his mind, and
so did Keighvin. There was something Keighvin
hadn't told Tannim. The Unseleighe Sidhe had shown
up this morning outside Sam's house with more than a
personal warning. He'd delivered a warning to
Faiigrove as well, in the form of a challenge; dme and
place specified for tonight, at the Fairgrove boun-
daries. And despite Donal's attempts at reassurance,
Sam trusted Keighvin's judgment, and Keighvin was
worried.

"It's traditional," Keighvin had said. "You always
warn your opponent before you attack — if they're of
the Folk, that is." Then he'd smiled, but without
humor. "Of course, the warning can consist of sending
back the pieces of someone, appropriately gift-
wrapped."

Sam had winced a little; it was one thing to hear
about the bloodthirsdness of the Sidhe in a tale, and
another to feel it so close to home. "What about mor-
tals?" he'd asked. "Why did I rate a warning?"

Keighvin had pondered for a moment, as if the

182 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dixan

quesdon hadn't occurred to him. "Probably because
you were protected too well to attack easily. Mortals —
well, mortals in general just don't rate any courtesy,
Sam. I'm afraid the Unseleighe Court deems mortals
one short step above cockroaches."

At that Sam had grinned widely. "Could be they for-
get what good survivors cockroaches are," he had
offered. Keighvin had laughed and slapped him on the
back.

As soon as Tannim got out of earshot, he asked the
question that he couldn't voice while Tannim was
around. "Why didn't you tell young Tannim about the
rest of the warning?" he asked the Sidhe. Keighvin
shrugged.

"He's too tired to be of much use to us right now,"
Keighvin said with resignation. "He plays hero too
much for his own good, and he'd be right here pitching
levin-bolts, exhausted or no, if we'd told him. I'd rather
not have the lad at my back when he's this worn down."
Sam looked at him quizzically, and Keighvin coughed,
embarrassed.

"Lately Tannim gets a little — erratic — when he's
tired," the Sidhe said, carefully.

Erratic, hmm?Just what's that supposed to mean?

"How so?" Sam probed. "Level with me, Keighvin.
What are we talking about here?"

Keighvin shook his head. "Truth to tell, Sam, I'd just
as soon not have Tannim anywhere nearby when he's
exhausted. His intended targets are safer than his al-
lies. Lack of endurance, I fear."

Sam didn't know whether to be amused or alarmed.
It was funny now, but it might not be that funny later, if
he found himself having to dodge — what?

"Is this bad aim just with his magic?" Sam asked.
Keighvin sighed.

"Magic, fisticuffs, guns, 'tis everything, anything that
requires aiming." He spread his hands. "The last time
it happened, we were picking slugs out of the walls for

BORN TO RUN           183

a fortnight, and poor Conal still hasn't regrown the
hair Tannim scorched from his scalp."

Conal, a few feet away, looked up at the sound of his
name, and scowled from under the brim of his baseball
cap. Sam recalled now that the Sidhe-mechanic had
looked rather odd when he'd removed the cap to
scratch his head. He'd had a swath about two inches
wide shaved from front to back, in a kind of reverse
Mohawk. Sam had wondered at the time if it was some
sort of new fashion — many of the younger elves had
taken to punk and cutting-edge clothing with a glee
unmatched by any human over eighteen. Now he
knew better, at least in Conal's case.

"A near-miss," Keighvin continued, "and damned
lucky it wasn't nearer than it was. Eh. Poor lad never
was very sharp with a gun anyway." He shook his head
again. "Wish we could get that glittery friend of his with
the odd name to magic him up some endurance, but I
fear that's asking for a miracle. He hasna been the
same since he got that leg of his chewed on."

That explains the limp. Sam thought about asking
about just what had been responsible for that injury,
saw Keighvin's face, and decided against it. There are
some things nan was not meant, to know.

Instead, he glanced at one of the many clock-calen-
dars mounted around the shop. Not because anyone
was on a timeclock, but because it was very easy to lose
all track of time in here. Work continued every hour
and day of the week — there were deadlines to be met,
and later, once Sam and Keighvin had convinced the
world that Fairgrove was a reliable, legitimate concern,
there would be production schedules for outside
clients as well.

It was ten-to-twelve. The Unseleighe Sidhe's chal-
lenge had specified midnight as the hour of attack.

And even as he looked up at the dock, folk and Folk
all over the shop were putting up tasks and taking
weapons from the unlikeliest hiding places. Conal

184 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dawn

opened the top drawer of his rolling tool-chest and
produced a matched pair offiligreed swords; a pretty lit-
tle human girl Sam had thought no more than eighteen
went to the first-aid kit on the wall and opened it up. She
took out a closely-wrapped bundle and unwrapped the
silk from what it contained: a gunpouch. Keighvin had
explained the insulating properties of silk when he'd
asked Sam to be sure and wrap anything of doubtful
content in a square of the stuff from a pile kept beside
the door before bringing it into the shop.

She opened the gunpouch itself, and the gleam of
more silk showed Sam that the pouches had also been
silk-lined, as double protection against the disruptive
effects of that much steel inside the shop. The pouch
contained a Glock Model 22. Everyone at Fairgrove
that was a marksman used these nine-millimeters; that
way all the ammo and magazines matched. Sam was
the only exception, and there hadn't been dme to find
or get used to a new gun.

There was an entire row of those silk-wrapped
bundles in the kit. The girl handed one to another
mechanic, and slapped her acquisition into a shoulder
holster.

Sam patted his water-Uzi to be sure it was still with
him. His granny's tales had been very specific about
the effects of salt water on some creatures, like boggles
— and one of the mechanics, seeing what it was he had
on his hip, had stopped him long enough to put some
kind of pagan blessing on it. She'd said she'd made it
into "holy water" — and Sam's granny had been quite
adamant about how effective holy water was on the
"bad Sidhe." It made him a little uneasy, though; he
wasn't certain that was the kind of "holy water"
Granny'd had in mind.

But then, again... maybe it was.

He also had a silk-wrapped bag of iron filings in his
pocket, but unless he could find a way to use them safe-
ly, they were going to stay there. Using an area-effect

BORN TO RUN           185

weapon like the iron filings could be as disruptive to his
friends as to the enemy.

Like using a nuclear hand grenade.

Keighvin had spoken of the elven trouble with magic
near iron earlier that day as they walked around the
Fairgrove grounds. It had surprised Sam that he'd
treated it like any other conversation topic, only wrin-
kling that smooth, passive brow when he mentioned
the effects of iron's contact with elven flesh. He'd ex-
plained that the Sidhe's bodies thrived on magic itself,
as well as food and drink, and the touch of Death Metal
was a poison — a corrosive one. Then he'd gone on.
The touch of iron was like a lens focusing light — to
bum. It seemed that iron in its purer forms attracted
the "frequency" of magical energy the elves used,
much like a magnet, and warped it in ways that were
often dangerous for the mage. Sam had said it was hke
a planet's gravity affecting every other heavenly body,
always slightly tugging it off-target even from a dis-
tance, and Keighvin had nodded energetically. Then
Keighvin leaned against a very thick fencepost, and
said conspiratorially, "Therem'sour advantage in the
fight tonight. We've discovered that different iron al-
loys warp the magic in different ways — and we know
how to see the alloys now. Magically."

Then he'd leaned back, very obviously smug.

Sam was not going to be in the front lines for this lit-
tle confrontation; Keighvin had been quite firm about
that. He was to be in the second rank, with the archers
and others whose distance-weapons could not be fired
from hiding. The humans on the crew who were good
shots would be firing from cover, or protecting mages
from physical attack. The others would be wading in
hand-to-hand with weapons of steel and Cold Iron.

Keighvin had produced a shining, blue-sheened
sword from out of nowhere (literally) and headed
towards the outside entrance. Sam followed the Sidhe
out, and stood behind him as he conferred with two

186 Mercedes Lackey andLairy Dixon

other Folk and an obviously retired GI employee. They
pointed out sections of Fairgrove on a map, and likely
avenues of attack. Sam got the impression they knew
the grounds very well, and had a few hundred dirty
tricks ready. They nodded to each other, traded code-
words, and checked radio headsets. Abruptly, the four
split up, and Keighvin motioned Sam to follow him,
speaking tersely into his mouthpiece.

The two walked briskly into the parking area, where
Sam realized he wasn't quite yet used to the mixture of
machinery and magic at Fairgrove. Before him were a
half-dozen figures; a few humans in Cats Laughing
and lan Falconer concert-tour sweatshirts and faded
jeans strapped on ballistic-cloth vests, and checked
magazines and radio earpieces. The rest of the group
stood among them, long hair in braids or falling like sil-
vered snow over the intricate armor of the elven
Courts, settling the same sort of earpieces into gently
upswept, pointed ears. One of them carried a US
Army-surplus first-aid kit duct-taped to his enameled
armor; another swung a handful of aluminum baseball
bats as she warmed up for the coming battle. He
watched the Lamborghini and Dino ripple and shift
into a pair of tall, glittering "horses." They stamped,
and their hooves struck sparks.

Keighvin swept the sword suddenly in a great vertical
circle, cutting a groove into the asphalt. Blue sparks
traced along its arc, and followed the blade up, leaving a
semicircular "mirror" suspended in midair. Images
showed within the mirror immediately, lit in tremen-
dous contrast. "Here is where they are now," he said,
"and this is what we know of them. Janie on camera has
picked out five boggles, and three trolls on their front
line. Four rows of goblins, thirteen each, are after them,
Danaa only knows why. Here is their leader." The image
sharpened so quickly that a stab of pain shot through his
head behind his eyes, and Sam took an involuntary step
back from the thing he saw. One of the humans whistled

BORN TO RUN           187

in mock appreciation and a little fear; another human
female snorted and pulled the slide on her gun.

"You know the routine — we've gone over it before.
Plug your other ear, or make enough noise to disrupt
its effects. Dottie, you shouldn't have too much trouble
doing that for all of us." The woman giggled and let the
slide smack back into place. The rest laughed along as
she stroked the extra five magazines she carried affec-
tionately. "Donal, take Sam with you, watch him and
watch your back. Dottie, Jim, Cuil, follow me and fan
on my signal. Take the creek oak, Kieru. Anything goes
sour, medical is here, and escape is by Thunder Road."

Sam ran through what he knew of Fairgrove. Seven
of the lot are medics; Thunder Road is what they call the
driveway. Oh, Holy Mother.

Two more elvensteeds appeared so suddenly that Sam
was startled, and blushed in embarrassment over it.
Donal jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and led the way
inside again. He half-ran through the corridors to a well-
lit room where scores of television screens glittered in the
eyes of a single woman wearing a full headset, who spoke
information so quickly it sounded like a chant.

"Keighvin, camera three shows the first and second
ranks of goblins are splitting to let the leader advance.
Two trolls are flanking, past camera six, coming into
camera twelve. Wire shows crossing at the creek —
camera six shows the other two trolls now, following
the first two. Camera twenty has all of the boggles
moving as one unit towards the forge. Carrie, you show
dear to intercept from the other side...."

Even an armchair general could see what was going
on. These bogeymen havena'plan at all that I can see. They've
got a sorry lot to face these people.

Donal leaned close to Sam and said, "Sarge Austin
says a deployment like this shows the leader is such an
egotist he thinks he can't be defeated."

"We still haven't seen his second rank, or his reserve.
Maybe he's right," someone muttered, sounding

188 Mercedes Lackey mid Lany Dixon.

nowhere near as confidant as Donal. Nods around the
room echoed that sentiment.

On one screen, Sam saw Keighvin look directly into
the camera, and unexpectedly smile and wave. He
mouthed, "Hi, Mom!" and then moved on. It was
obscenely absurd with the battle at hand and the odds
so greatly against them, but despite himself, Sarn
smiled.

Donal only shook his head and said, "Danaa, he's
been around that boy Tanmm too long."

Janie paused for one long heartbeat, then spoke
again: "Keighvin . . . their second rankjust arrived
You aren't gonna like it/'

Donal spat a curse in elven, and began running.

Panting and with a pain in his side, Sam came to a
rest at Donal's back after a sprint through the offices
and garages ofFairgrove. They had only paused for a
moment in the body shop, so Donal could find an ear-
piece for Sam; all they could find was an old, taped-up
full headset with a battered power pack, stenciled with
a SWAT logo. It crackled horribly when activated, bi-it
settled down after the initial protest, and then thev
were running again. Now they were outside, and Sam
heard Keighvin's voice in his ears.

"Janie, dim the cameras in five, then hit the spots.
Ready on the Pinball."

Donal crouched down and covered his eyes. Sam did
the same, still wondering what this "Pinball" could be
An area-effect weapon? Some kind of spell? Keighvin
had told him how all the iron around Fairgrove would
disrupt any magic the elves used....

The grounds lit up in brilliant light as hundreds of
halogens came to life. Sam squinted against the glare
and then gasped as he saw what they faced.

Oh Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name...

Caught in the daylike brightness were creatures out
of his nightmares and old stories — although under that

BORN TO RUN           189

much candlepower, they looked only like so many spe-
cial-effects puppets. All except their leader. It was
unmistakably real, horrifyingly real, riding a creature
that might once have been a horse, but now was tattered
hide stretched over bone, fang-filled mouth, and evil,
glint-of-fire eyes. The leader's ragged clothing whipped
in a wind that seemed to blow from Sam's own soul, and
he knew the Bane-Sidhe for what it was. Around it were
rank upon rank ofgray-and-green skinned goblins,
wicked weapons drawn, and great shambling trolls with
glistening knobby skin. Virtually all of them were cring-
ing and clutching at their eyes. Behind them, in the
second rank, were — Sidhe. Tall, silver-haired, dusky-
eyed, identical to the Fairgrove Sidhe, and yet as
different as a surgeon's scalpel and an assassin's dagger.

Unseleighe Sidhe. The first besides Vidal Dhu that
Sam had seen. They carried some sort of weaponry
that looked vaguely gun-shaped — all but four of the
tallest. The quartet raised their arms and gestured,
gathering sickly green light around their hands, and
Sam knew the attack had begun.

"Come on, ye bastards," Donal muttered. "A little
closer. Just a little doser — "

They didn't immediately oblige him; instead, some
of the skinnier goblins peered, squinting, through the
halogen glare, and the Unseleighe Sidhe raised
crossbows. They looked odd; when they fired them
into the trees where the hidden humans with firearms
were waiting, Sam realized why.

Fairgrove wasn't the only group to have pirated
technology, and although this was a simpler level of
tech, it was no less deadly. The Unseleighe Sidhe had
armed themselves with compound crossbows, and the
bolts glowed with the same evil green as the mages
were gathering about their hands.

"Shit," Donal spat. "Elf-shot The pricks brought elf-
shot."

And from the sudden cries of pain in the trees, those

190 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dixan

bolts had found marks among the humans. Some shots
rang out from the trees in answer, but the Unseleighe-
mages cast a curtain of deflecting energy across their front
ranks, and fourboggle-mages emerged from the woods.

That'll be their attackers —

Encouraged by their success, the enemy leader ges-
tured his troops to move forward under the
crossbowmen's covering fire.

The boggle-mages gestured, as if about to throw
something.

Keighvin's voice came clearly, calmly through the
headphones: "Janie, Pinball now."

Then Sam realized why the elven leader had been so
smug. The fencepost he'd leaned on earlier that day —
and every other fencepost — cracked open along its
top and revealed a dark metal bar, trailing shreds of silk
cloth as they rose. The grounds-sprinklers popped up
from the ground, refracting the artificial daylight in
huge rainbows.

The tricky bastards!

The boggles unleashed their spells, and the bolts of
searing energy careened madly across the field. One
looped in a devastating arc, incinerating a half-dozen
goblins before striking the boggle itself, who fell to the
ground writhing in agony.

The beautiful, tricky bastards, they built silk-wrapped iron
bars into the fenceposts! Sam's mind swam with amaze-
ment. They ran lines to those posts when the sprinklers were
installed,, and it only takes turning one valve to raise the bars
when you activate the sprinklers....

The bars themselves warped the paths of both the
magical energy blasts and the enchanted elf-shot. And
that was why it was called "Pinball," he realized, as he
watched the spell-bolts the boggles had unleashed tear
through their own ranks like silver balls in an arcade
game, undl they ran out of targets to bum.

He could see the flashes of gunfire around him, and
felt the dull thuds muffled by the earphones. There

BORN TO RUN           191

were bodies down on their side, but most of them
seemed to be moving, at least—

And now the odds looked to be even; tech on the
Fairgrove side, numbers and bloodthirstiness on the
Unseleighe side, as the crossbowmen changed from
elf-shot to plain bolts with dark, glittering heads, that
flew through the Pinball field with courses unaltered.
Keighvin and Janie barked information to the team
leaders, and the lines of tracer fire mixed with the
enemy's spell-bolt trails. Donal stood behind a wild
cherry tree and fired a longbow, measuring his shots
very carefully, felling one goblin after another. Then
the spells from Fairgrove began, and the odds altered
again, this time in their favor.

Pinball. Good Lord, they're brilliant.

Keighvin had said that different iron alloys pulled elven
magic — and Sam realized that those amounts could be
measured. Like scientists used a planet's gravity to launch a
satellite into orbit, the elven mages were using the known
effect of iron on their spells to deflect their shots into their
attackers, and destroy the enemy's accuracy!

Levin-bolts from human and elven mages lanced
out from the buildings, the human ones tracking
straight and true, the elven bolts ardng gracefully into
their targets as they were pulled by the iron-alloy bars.
The enemy's magickers launched spells back, and
watched in horror as their attacks not only missed, but
circled back out of control like unguided fireworks
rockets inside the perimeter marked by the fenceposts.
Keighvin ordered someone to fire "the magnet," and
began counting backwards. When he reached two, the
spellfire of the defenders halted, and Sam watched a
crossbow bolt strike the ghastly horse their leader rode
a moment later. Although he couldn't hear it, he could
see Donal shout "Yes!"

Then the spells started up again, and Sam realized
why the layout had seemed so familiar as the bolts dis-
appeared around the other side of the buildings — and

192 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Decora

reappeared moving faster around the other side,
radng around the inside of the fenceposts in a league-
wide stream of death. They accelerated.

Til be damned. Fairgrove's built like a simple electric motor
— or a cyclotron. The posts are the electromagnets, the bolts the
brushes.... I don't believe it! The more power you add, the
faster the drum spins... and the magnet will —

Sam never even needed to finish the thought, as he
watched the spell-bolts swirling around the complex
track in, one by one, on the single solid iron bolt em-
bedded in the Nightmare's chest. There was a silent
explosion, and a great coruscating ball of fire spread
for a hundred feet When it cleared, there was a smok-
ing pile of shredded flesh and rags marking what had
once been a Nightmare.

But the rider was still moving, and had pulled back
its hood.

Its face was a contorted image of pain, hatred,
sadism, every vile emotion a human could possess,
magnified a thousandfold. Its eyes glittered with cruel-
ty and hunger, desiccated skin wrinkling around the
sockets as it opened its mouth to scream. A low, painful
sound built in Sam's ears, like bone scraping concrete.
It rose in pitch as the creature wailed, giving him a
shoodng pain that ricocheted in his head like the spell-
bolts racing around the complex. Sam tried to
concentrate on what Keighvin andJanie were saying,
not wanting to ponder the fact that a few dollars' worth
of surplus police equipment was all that was saving him
from the deadly wail of the Bane-Sidhe.

Sam and Donal broke from their cover and ran to
crouch in the bushes around the forge building, but
the creature lashed out at them with a whiplike tendril
of crackling green fire. The blaze caught Donal in the
chest, and heaved him off his feet. The Bane-Sidhe
strode through the water-sprays, inside the lethal wall
of spell-bolts, its head still tipped back in a wide-
mouthed shriek.

BORN TO RUN           193

Sam crouched over Donal while the monster ap-
proached, and saw that he was still breathing — but
barely. The breastplate had been breached in three
places he could see, twisted and seeping a bright red
fluid that looked as human as any blood Sam had ever
seen. Sam felt a dog-like growl of anger rumbling in his
chest, and he stood and pulled the Uzi.
TV, be damned ifye'llget away with that, y'black bastard.
Narrowing his eyes, Sam trained the watergun on the
horror stalking towards him, trigger pulled as he leveled
it It primed and fired when the Bane-Sidhe was only
two arms-lengths from him, and the holy water struck
and burned, burned like sulfuric add. Its scream turned
from one of attack to terror as it caught "fire," deep
channels burning into its flesh where the water touched,
black blood streaming, and the last thing Sam saw in its
eyes before it turned to run — was fear.

In a little pocket of Underbill chaos, hastily built into
an island of protection, Vidal conjured another torrent
of water. Once again, he sluiced the Bane-Sidhe down.
The liquid poured over Niall, who lay face-down on
the rubbery, soft floor, in a quivering heap of pain and
suffering, rags plastered to his unnaturally thin body.
Niall's howl had died down to a whimper, which was a
blessing. It wasn't the purposeful scream of a Bane-
Sidhe's vocal attack, but Niall's cries of agony had called
up corresponding pain in his ally, even through Vidal's
hastily-conjured earplugs of wax.

The ultra-pure water, carefully warmed to blood-
heat, was having an effect. Finally, Niall's whimpers
faded and were replaced by hoarse, exhausted breath-
ing.

Vidal conjured a warm breeze to dry the Bane-
Sidhe. He hadn't bothered to remove the creature's
rags — he hadn't dared. He didn't want to know what
lay beneath them.

Slowly, the Bane-Sidhe uncurled, as the rags dried

194 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dixon

and fluttered in his artificial wind. "Are you all right?"
Vidal asked carefully.

"No," the Bane-Sidhe whispered raggedly. "But I
shall mend." Then, as if the words had been dragged
out of him unwillingly, "I thank you for your quick
thinking. And you are right"

"Right?" Vidal replied, surprised. "About what, pray?"

"Keighvin Silverhair." There was no mistaking the
venom in the Bane-Sidhe's voice now, the acidic
hatred. "He has become contaminated with these mor-
tals to the point that he is a great danger to us. He must
be removed."

Vidal nearly lost his jaw. Those were the last words
he expected to hear out ofNiall; the Bane-Sidhe's stub-
born refusal to admit he was ever wrong was
legendary.

"I will help — when I have recovered," Niall con-
cluded faintly. "But what do we do in the meantime?
We have been routed."

"Not necessarily," Vidal said slowly, thinking of the silk-
wrapped bundle he'd left Underbill. Aurilia had given it
to himjustthis morning, after he'd issued the challenge.

"Keighvin and his fools have one strength," she'd
told him, handing the tear-gas grenade to him, after
showing him how to handle the weapon with silk-lined
leather gloves, and how to pull the pin by means of the
nylon cargo-tie she'd fastened to it in case he lost the
gloves. "Their pet mortals know our weaknesses and
exploit them, and they're using the mortals' weapons
whenever they can. You'd best get ready to do the same
if you want to defeat them."

He'd laughed at her at the time. Now —

Now he was coming to the reluctant conclusion that
she was brighter than he had thought.

"I think I have a way to even the score a little," he
said, slowly. "If nothing else — I think I can force one of
the vermin out of its hole. The one, not incidentally,
that got you."

BORN TO RUN           195

The Bane-Sidhe's head turned sharply, and Vidal
thought he saw the glitter of eyes inside the darkness of
its hood, and despite himself, he shuddered.

"Do that," Niall said tersely, "and every power I have
is at your call, without reservation."

Vidal held back the thrill of triumph, at least enough
to keep it from showing on his face.

Sam unlocked the door and turned to lock it behind
him — for although Vidal could not pop in magically,
there was nothing stopping the Sidhe from walking in
mundanely through the door unless Sam was very
careful. The house was much too quiet without
Thoreau padding up to greet him, but Sam was glad
now that he had sent the spaniel to a kennel for safety
until this was all over.

That's one non-combatant out of the way, anyway, he told
himself. He'd done everything he could to cover his
tracks, too; he'd paid in advance, then registered the
dog under a neighbor's name, with her agreement,
telling her he was going to be on a consulting job and
might not be home for a while. It would take a great
deal of investigation for the enemy to learn that
Thoreau belonged to Sam. And by then, with luck, this
would all be over.

He made sure that his new crowbar — one of six —
was still in the umbrella stand by the door, and headed
for the library. He still wanted to double-check some-
thing before he turned in for the night — what there
was left of it

Certainly the last thing he ever expected when he
took this job was to get involved with elven warfare.

But the moment he reached the library door and
turned on the light, something crashed through the
window.

Glass shards flew everywhere. Something dark skit-
tered and spun across the floor, banging into the
furniture, skipping across the rug, spewing a yellowish

196 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dwan

gas from one end. It spun like a dervish, and Sam made
the fundamental error of gasping in surprise.

The stinging of his throat and eyes told him how
great an error that had been.

Tear-gas. Just like Belfast. Only this dme he hadn't
gotten such a big whiff of it.

Coughing and choking, Sam covered his nose and
mouth with his hands, and ran, stumbling, for the
door. His eyes burned painfully, streaming tears,
making it hard to see; and his lungs felt as if someone
had poured hot lead into them.

He fumbled at the lock and wrenched at the door
handle until it opened, slamming it into the wall. He
dove through it, tumbling out into the cool, fresh air
and dropping to his knees on the concrete, his lungs
screaming for oxygen.

Falling to his knees was all that saved him from the
knife that thudded into the doorframe above him.

He started back, then jerked his head around in the
direction of the curse that came out of the darkness, just
as the house alarms — which he had not disarmed —
started wailing, and all the exterior lights flared on as the
second line of computer-driven defenses activated.

Peering through tears, he made out the dark shape
of the enemy Sidhe, Vidal — and only that single foe —
as the creature threw up its arm to protect its eyes from
the wash of powerful light

Vidal Dhu —you bastard.

He knew then that he had a few seconds before the
Sidhe recovered and renewed the attack —

He was praying under his breath, the old litany of
"Hail Mary," the words tumbling off his tongue in a
high-speed gabble without his being aware of when he
had started. And in the meantime, the rest of him was
moving again, scrambling to his feet and making a
desperate, tear-blurred, panting dash for the garage.

He reached it a breath ahead of the knife that clat-
tered off the door, punched in a key-code on the pad to

BORN TO RUN           197

open it, and ducked another blade that landed some-
where in the darkened interior of the garage. If he
could just reach the back —

He did, falling to his knees beside his goal, as the
Sidhe came charging through the door behind him.
Sam glanced over his shoulder, seeing only the
upraised arms, and that black and glittering sword.

ThankyffuMotherMary — Sam reached for the switch
on the powerful box-fan in the middle of the floor with
one hand, and the loosely wrapped packet of iron
filings in his pocket with the other.

Just then the Sidhe spotted him, crouched on the
floor. The enemy shouted with triumph, cries audible
even over the sirens from Sam's alarm system, and
raised his sword.

Sam switched on the fan, ripped the bag out of his
pocket and dumped the double-handful of iron filings
into the wind of its blades.

Howls of triumph changed abrupdy to cries of pain,
as thousands of tiny lances of Cold Iron bit into the
Sidhe's face and hands, penetrating and catching even
in its garments.

The Sidhe cried out again, threw his hands up to
shield his face, and dropped the sword, which shat-
tered into a thousand glassy bits on the concrete floor.
Sam snarled, and rose to his feet, reaching blindly to
the tool rack on the back wall, his breath wheezing in
his lungs, his face still streaming tears.

Sam grabbed the first thing that came to hand; a
solid, antique metal T-square, old and heavy enough to
be made of steel.

He charged the Sidhe, swinging the implement vi-
ciously, like one of his peasant ancestors with a scythe.
The Sidhe broke and ran, and Sam pursued, still
swinging, to the end of his driveway. There he had to
stop, for his lungs and legs both gave out — though he
screamed hoarse curses at his enemy right up undl the
police first arrived in response to the commodon.

198 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dixon

Neither Vidal nor the Bane-Sidhe were anywhere in
the studio complex, which suited Auriliajust fine. She
had work to do, and she couldn't do it if they were
hanging around the studio or even the area of Under-
hill that had been sculpted to hold it. All they ever did
was laze about, doing nothing useful, whining about
some imagined grievance or other. Making constructs
was tedious, exacting work, and she couldn't do it if
there was someone distracting her, critiquing her,
generally getting in the way.

The grunt work, of making the blanks, had already
been done for her by an Unseleighe-mage who had got-
ten to play Messelina in the Caligula piece, trading work
for the privilege of participation in their epic and a share
in the results. They waited for her in their boxes in the
Underbill workshop, in a work area Aurilia had pretty
much to herself most of the time. The other two couldn't
be bothered with sculpting constructs; Aurilia con-
sidered herself something of an artist in that area. It took
skill to create something that would fool the clients into
thinking it was a human being; skill and attention to
detail. The latter required a patience neither Vidal nor
Niall had, for all that they were powerful mages.

She hadn't planned on building her "extras" for
another week, but the discoveries of this evening
changed all that. She was working with a limited win-
dow of opportunity. Before too long, Tannim would
extract his litde pavement princess from her surround-
ings and get her away to safety. If he didn't succeed in
that, the girl might be murdered by her own stupidity,
or the kids might connect Adder's Fork with the young
hookers who had already disappeared. The entire
schedule for shooting "Deadly Doctor" would have to
be moved up if Aurilia was going to be able to extract
the maximum value from the potentials of the situa-
tion. That would take a lot of work on her part, but the
end result would be worth it.

BORN TO RUN           199

She opened die first coffinlike box. The creature wait-
.  inside was not "alive" in the strictest sense. It was
shaped rather like a store-front mannequin, the
modem kind that was utterly featureless, widi no eyes,
ears, nose, mouth, or other orifices, just a blank face-
shaped area. No hair yet, eidier, and it didn't breadie. If
you cut it right now, it wouldn't bleed, for it had no cir-
culatory system. It took all of its nourishment passively,
Hke a plant, from the energy Aurilia channeled into it. If
Aurilia didn't use it or feed it, within a month it would
die of starvation and never even whimper in pain.

This construct was destined for another fate, how-
ever; one it would never understand.

Aurilia had already selected personas for this batch
of constructs, and had clipped the pictures she wanted
to use to die top of each box. This one would be a "Vic-
torian Street Sparrow"; Aurilia's term for die underage
thieves, pickpockets, and prostitutes that used to
throng London's working-class districts.

And humans treat teenage prostitution as if it's something
new because now there are mortals with PhDs writing about it.

She took the picture of the full-face shot in her right
hand, and placed her left on the construct-blank's
chest. The flesh was warm, but a litde rubbery under
her hand — and much too smoodi to be human. That
was all right; the clients weren't going to be paying
much attention to the skin, after all. If it looked too per-
fect, diey'd assume it was makeup or lighting.

The face would be die first; it was the hardest. She
chanted the first words of the spell, calling into being
the features in the photograph she held: square chin,
slighdy undershot jaw, petulant lips. The flesh writhed
and obeyed her, clearing away fromjawline and neck,
mounding up to form the lips, cheeks, and chin. The
nose was next; nothing hard there, since the basic
shape was already in place. Then the eye area. But
there were no eyes there yet; the lids closed over
round, featureless balls at die moment.

200 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dixon

She selected another photograph and chanted to the
body, giving it high, small breasts, a slightly protruding
belly as if it was a little bit pregnant, broad hips. Then
she sang hair into being, head and pubic; she had in-
tended brown, but it grew up auburn. She decided to
leave it the way it was. Sometimes the constructs took
on slightly different characteristics than she had in-
tended, though she never knew why.

What she had done up until now was pure sculpture.
Now began the hard part; the part that required ken-
ning. She removed her hands from the construct, and
flexed them, then cupped them over the body in the box.

She sank herself into deep awareness and her chant
changed; the rhythm pattern shifted, until it replicated
the beat of the human heart. The words shifted, too, be-
coming heavier, more potent in sound if nothing else.

But they were potent in other ways.

Now the skin of the construct heaved and rippled, as
beneath it, Aurilia created organs, bones, and a primitive
nervous and circulatory system. The latter didn't have to
actually do any work; its main job was to carry "blood" to
places where the construct was going to be hurt. If
Aurilia hadn'tbeen in so much of a hurry, she could have
created an exact duplicate of a human, something that
would stand up to anything but a tissue analysis — but
there was no pointin being that thorough.

In the old days, that vxis why so many changelings sickened
and died; no matter what they were fed, the food didn't nourish
them and they wasted away. Why create something well made?
We wanted the changelings to die. So did the Seleighe fools,
though for entirely different reasons....

Lungs were made the same way; mere bellows to
simulate breathing and provide air for speaking and
screaming. However, the construct did need a good
pain-nerve net; it was going to have to react ap-
propriately to painful stimuli. That meant a basic spine
and some brain functions.

Within an hour, she had her "extra"; one of the crea-

BORNTORUN           201

tures destined to die in front of the camera. She'd
created dozens of constructs in her time; so long as the
raw material was there, it was no effort anymore.

Bending over the box for a dose look, she made the
creature blink, simulate a variety of expressions, breathe.
She fished a long, slender crystal from a pouch at her
waist It looked like a half-melted idde, but was warm to
the touch. This was the key to making her "extras" truly
convincing; it was a condensed memory-crystal, contain-
ing the reactions of every human who had ever been
inside either of the studios. She placed it point-down on
the construct's forehead, and pushed it into the "brain."
When her palm touched the skin of the forehead, the
eyes suddenly snapped open.

The construct screamed itself awake.

She hushed it with a word and a motion.

The creature blinked, looked at her — and cowered
away.

Satisfied, she put it to sleep with a thought, closed
the lid on the creature's "coffin" and moved on to the
next box.

She was half done when Vidal entered the complex,
so immersed in her creations that she honestly didn't
notice he was there until he knocked something over in
the Studio Two bathroom and it broke. That startled
her and broke her concentration, and she sensed his
presence. She waited impatiently for him to put in an
appearance and disrupt her work.

But he didn't; in fact, he stayed right where he was.
She heard him moving about the bathroom, but very
slowly — unnaturally so.

What on earth is wrong?

She finally left the workroom, too puzzled to con-
tinue working. When she entered Studio Two, she
realized that the sound she had attributed to the back-
ground of disturbing noises that was a constant in the
Underbill chaos-lands was actually nothing of the sort;

it was the the sound of Vidal moaning.

202 Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dvwn

She strode over to the bathroom door, her high-
heels clicking on the stone of the floor, and jerked the
bathroom door open.

She had half expected to find the Sidhe drunk, or
otherwise incapacitated with self-indulgence. She cer-
tainly did not expect to find him wounded, bleeding,
and suffering from Cold Iron poisoning. His face
looked like a bloodied sponge.

"By the dark moon!" she exclaimed, shocked, and
too starded to keep from showing it. "What happened
to you?"

Vidaljust groaned. She damped her mouth shut on
further questions, kicked off her shoes, and used the
last other energies to conjure handfuls of silk and bone
instruments, tweezers and probes.

When she was finished, Vidal lay on the couch in the
old Roman set, swathed in bandages, and she had a
bloodstained, silk-wrapped bundle containing a hand-
ful of tiny iron fragments. She would have to take it
across the Gate into the human side to dispose of it.

She shoved it aside for the moment with her foot.
"What happened?" she asked flady, fearing that Vidal
had done something irrevocable. "I thought you and
Niall were harassing Keighvin, I thought you'd issued
a challenge — "

"We were," Vidal said, after a long moment of silence.
"We were. But the bastard brought the humans into it,
and the humans brought their own weapons. One of
them got Niall with blessed water — die old blessing, the
touch of the sun and die full of the moon — "

"What9" she exclaimed. "I didn't think anyone knew
that this side of die ocean! Did he — "

"He's all right," Vidal said, sullenly. "He didn't get
hit with a great deal, and I managed to get him back
Underbill before it did too much damage to him. I — "

The shiver of Power behind her warned her of
Niall's approach. "He did the best he could," the Bane-
Sidhe said hoarsely, as she whirled on her knees to face

BORN TO RUN           203

him. Filmy white rags — much cleaner than they had
been— fluttered as die creature gestured expansively.
The chamel odor wasn't as bad, either.

Too bad he doesn't get doused with holy watermore often.

"He did more than most I pledged my full power ifhe
could remove the mortal beast diat struck me down. I
had come to see if you had triumphed," Niall concluded.

"It was wiser dian I had diought," Vidal said bitterly,
raising himself up onto one elbow. "It was craftier."

A hiss of rage emerged from the hood cloaking the
Bane-Sidhe's features. "So I see," it replied.

Aurilia held her breadi. Uppermost in her mind was
the fear that now the Bane-Sidhe would revoke its
promise. Without Niall's aid and magic, she would not
be able to restrain Vidal Dhu. He would fling himself at
Keighvin's pet mortals undl they destroyed him — and
with him, her plans for vengeance.

The Bane-Sidhe raised itself up to its full height.
Aurilia shrank into herself; Niall towered over her,
emanating a kind of cold hatred. He seemed to pull all
the light into himself— the very air grew dark, thick,
and oppressive, while he himself glowed a faint,
leprous blue-white. She shivered, and her breath
caught in her throat. She had never experienced
Niall's full power before dlis, and now she understood
why mortals died of fright on simply seeing him.

"This cannot be borne," Niall said hollowly. "Mortals
have never confronted us and won. This cannot be
permitted. If more of diem discover our weaknesses,
they may learn also how to travel Underbill and con-
front us here as well."

That had never occurred to her, and die thought was
as chilling as die full effect of die Bane-Sidhe's Presence.

Then she realized what Niall had not said. He was
not removing himself and his power from their al-
liance. He was not insisting that they leave Keighvin
and Fairgrove alone. In fact, he seemed to be advocat-
ing the very opposite. "But — "she began, feebly.

204 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dixon

The cowl bent to regard her, and she shivered again.
"We must eliminate Keighvin Silverhair and his mortal
allies," the Bane-Sidhe said grimly. "He is the cham-
pion of those of the Seleighe Court who wish to
integrate their society with that of the mortals. That
must not be! I pledge to you, I shall drain every drop of
my power to see him defeated and 4estroyed!"

"But we must be careful," she replied, quickly.

Niall paused for a moment, and then sighed, shrink-
ing back to his normal size as he exhaled, releasing the
light. Aurilia sighed with him, but with relief. If she
never had to face the Bane-Sidhe in his anger again, it
would be perfectly fine with her. "We must be careful,"
Niall agreed. "Our present state is the direct result of
carelessness and overconfidence."

Vidal grunted; Aurilia assumed it was in grudging
agreement

"Thus far," Niall continued, shifting from side to
side, restlessly, "the only one of the three of us who has
brought plans to fruition scathlessly is you."

"Well," she replied, with a certain amount of hesita-
tion, "I don't know about that."

If Vidal gets his nose out of joint about this —

"The Bane-Sidhe is right," Vidal growled. "It will
take the three of us to achieve our goals, working
together. We cannot afford to hare off with separate
plans."

It's about time you figured that out, she thought sourly.
After all the work Fveput in here.

"Since you have been working here for hours, I as-
sume you have a plan," Niall said pointedly.

Now, if ever, was the time to seize leadership, while
momentum was behind her. Vidal was temporarily in-
capacitated and might be influenced; the Bane-Sidhe
was already on her side. She gathered her composure,
steadied her nerves, and nodded with all the authority
she could command.

"Yes "she said. "I do."

CHAPTERELEVEN

Tannim woke three or four times during the night as
random sounds threw him out of dreams, but that was
all that they were, pure random sounds, and he drifted
back into sleep again. When he finally woke for good, he
lay watching the darkness for a while, thinking about
getting up for a long time before doing anything about
it Bed felt wonderful, and he wished, selfishly, that he
could stay there for the rest of the day. He felt rested,
and at the same time, dred — as if he had gone off sleep-
fighting, or something. He'd had some strange dreams
last night; images of fairy-tale bogeymen mixed up with
a Tbkomak accelerator, of Nightmares getting hit with
Cruise missiles and exploding, and of Sam on a S.WAT
team, guarding a rainbow.

Weird.

There was no light at all in the bedroom, other than
the clock on the VCR. The lighted numerals said 4:23
— which meant it was about eleven. He hated having
the damn thing blinking "12:00" at him, so he always
reset it to some arbitrary time whenever the power
went off or he had to unplug it.

There didn't seem to be any windows in the room.
There was one, but he also hated daylight, which was
why the floor-to-ceiling headboard blocked the win-
dow entirely, so that nothing could leak thrpugh.

So, it was about eleven. If he got up now, he could
shower, shave, eat — pick out an appropriate outfit —
and by one, when the people he wanted to see were in
their offices, he'd be ready to see them.

He ran a systems-check on himself, first. About the

206 Mercedes Lackey and LanyDixon

only thing still not right was his leg, which twinged a lit-
tle when he flexed it. It had healed about as much as it
was likely to, so it always felt like that, except when he
was in a hot-tub, so he ignored it and reached for the
light in the headboard.

He fumbled around a little before his hand en-
countered the proper litde round knob. It was on a
dimmer-switch, which he brought up in microscopic
increments. His last live-in lover had hated that, insist-
ing on having bright light instandy in the morning. It
was one of the reasons they hadn't stayed lovers for
long, although they had parted friends.

His stomach growled impatiendy, reminding him
that it had been a long time since lunch — most of
which he'd pushed off on Tania — and diat corn-chips
and vitamins were not an adequate substitute for din-
ner. Chinthliss railed on him constantly about his
admittedly horrible diet. He pried himself up out of
die bed and headed for the badiroom.

Being a mage means you're never out of hot water....

One very long, very hot shower later, he felt a litde
more like a human, but not up to choosing clodiing.
Magery was a very diverse avocadon, and some mages
could change dieir form widi a diought — but Tannim
was not one of diem, and so clodiing was die closest to
shape-changing he was going to get on dlis world. His
choice of garments today would make all die difference
in die success of his still-nebulous plan, if he was going
to get the maximum clout with a minimum of ques-
tioning. He put off die decision and pulled a Salvation
Army print caftan over his head. Making a selection
diat important should be done on a full stomach. Time
to invoke die spirit of die microwave.

His last lover had been an excellent cook, and had left
die freezer full ofmarvelous microwavable goodies for
him, knowing that he would never cook for himself,
and knowing diat he often forgot to shop as well. Tan-
nim had been making them last for a while, but now, if

BORN TO RUN           207

ever, was die time to dip into the stash. He poked his
head into die freezer and contemplated die neady cal-
ligraphed labels.

Cakane, Chicken Kiev, Veal Scaloppim, Chicken Cordon
Bleu, Gad. Eggplant Parmesan, ick. That can't have been
meant far me. Unless I was out of everything else and couldn't
move. Maybe that was the idea. Ah, Huevos Rancheros. Per-
fect. But it needs something to go with it. Should end in a
vowel.... There, three-cheese zucchini. That'll do.

The microwave beeped five minutes later, and he
fished dean dishes out of die dishwasher, poured him-
self a big glass ofGatorade, plucked an old t-shirt off
die back of a chair and wrapped it around his hand,
then pulled his breakfast out of the nuker. He took a
forkful and blew on it to cool it, while he stared at die
Ninja Turtles cavorting on his glass for a moment.
Maybe that's what I can tell my mother about what happened to
the leg. "There was this glowing ooze. Mom, and — " Nah.
She's probably seen the movies.

Besides, right now he shouldn'tbe dunking about how
to explain his scars to his mom. What he really needed
was to figure out a persona for his meeting widi die shel-
ter directors. Something where he could plausibly fling
money at diem widi a condition attached. They might
not care for die condition — diat diey take in Tania (and
her friends, ifhe could get diem to come in widi her) widi
no questions asked, and no pressure on any of diem to
contact parents. Counseling, yes; pressure, no.

And no sneaking off behind their backs, either. Whatever
drove those other kids into hooking, it had to be worse than
hooking. If it was, I'm not going to let them go back to it.
Tania's folks were trying to make her into a good little Type-A
overachiever drone by killing her spirit and imagination. She
seems pretty sure it was worse for her than hooking. I don't
know zf they've learned their lesson yet, since she ran off, and I
won't send her back to them until they have.

Getting them into a shelter would get diem off die
street long enough for Keighvin to clear up the litde

208 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dixon

war with Vidal Dhu. Once that was taken care of, they
could all go Underbill while Keighvin's spies found out
whether the various parents were worthy of the
privilege of having children. If not— Underbill they
stayed, like half the humans at Fairgrove.

But meanwhile there was that matter of keeping
them safe for a couple of weeks. The way he had it
figured, if he threw enough cash at one of the shelters,
more than enough to pay for the keep ofTania and afl
other friends, they'd take in the strays just as fast as he
could deliver them. The shelters were hard up for sup-
port; they couldn't afford to turn him down. But he
needed that persona to make the offer.

It can't be a Suit. They'd smell Corporation and want to know
toomwh, maybe get greedy, certainly want to see some I.D; whack
I don't have—exceptfor luwgrove, and I don't want to leave that
kaid of trail far Vidal Dhu to find. It can't be my usual look, or
theyTlwanttoknowwhereIgotallthecash, maybe call thecops an
me, figuring me for a pimp or o pusher trying to recruit on their
iurf,ordum{}mgsomepoorkidtoogonetobeusefulanym(m. He
finished his breakfast quickly, hardly tasting it Then he
gulped the last of the Gatorade and went back into the
bedroom, flung himself down on the bed, and turned it
into a lounge chair while he pondered.

Teacher? No, where would a teacher get that kind of money?
That lets out cop or social worker too, plus they'd want to see
credentials; ditto psychiatrist or grad student doing research. I
could try forging credentials, but if they double-checked, they'd
find out I was phony.

He idly flicked on the TV to fill the silence; it was set
on MTV already, and the picture and sound came up
in the middle of the old "Take On Me" video from A-
Ha, where the girl and her comic-book lover are being
chased by the comic-book bad-guys. It was one of
Tannim's favorites.

Now if life were just like a comic book —

Then it hit him. The perfect answer. He jumped out
of bed and ran to the closet, ignoring the protests of his

BORN TO RUN           209

left leg, and dug through the jeans and soft cotton
shirts undl he came to an outfit he'd only worn once.
He dug it out, and looked at it, then smiled.
Perfect.

Tannim lounged at his ease in the shabby waiting-
room, his clothing at violent odds with the tacky plastic
sofas. A young woman in her early twenties, with no
makeup and her brown hair in a wash-ahd-wear bob
eyed him warily from behind the shelter other beat-up
gray metal desk.

This was the first shelter on his list; the best, the
cleanest, and die one least inclined to put pressure on
kids. There were rules: you had to go to school, stay dean
and offthe street, do your homework, pass your courses.
There were rules about boy- and girl-friends (group
dates only), extra-curricular activities (supervised only),
and sex (none). The kids got straightforward lessons in
sex-education, and a thorough medical exam when they
came in, including the HIV test They had to spend time
with a counselor every day. But if a kid couldn't bring
himself to actually talk, he didn't have to — diere were
counselors who spent whole hours with utterly silent kids
every damn day.

And the kids didn't have to give their real names
until they wanted to. A big plus in Tannim's book. Un-
derstandably, this was the shelter with the longest
waiting list. If they wouldn't go for his litde bribe —
well, dien he'd try the next, dien the next...

If none of diem swallowed the bait, he'd hit Keighvin
up for some duplicated gold coins, cash them in widi a
collector who knew him, and come back to try again,
with a new set of clothing, a new face, and a new story.
Sooner or later, somebody was going to get bought.

Just as long as they're getting bought for a good cause,
taking my conditions to have a chance to help more kids.

He setded die shoulders of his dark-red, full-lengdi
rayon jacket over his black silk shirt a litde self-con-

210 Mercedes Lackey and tarry Dwon

sdously. This was a lot more flash than he usually wore.
So were the heavy silver-and-turquoise choker and
matching ketoh bracelet and concho belt. Those he
usually didn't wear at all except to pow-wows or when
he was with Mike Fighting Eagle and the rest of his
blood-brothers out in Arizona.

He watched the young woman at the desk without
seeming to look at her, it was easy enough, since she
couldn't see his eyes through his Ray-Bans. She was a
little nonplussed by his appearance; she obviously
wasn't used to having close to a thousand bucks worth
ofdothing stroll up to the door of Shelter House unless
it was a pimp looking for a stray. She scraped the legs of
her plastic patio chair noisily against the worn brown
linoleum as she tried to find a comfortable way to sit.

Little does she know everything on my back was either con-
jured by elves or a gift. Never thought this outfit would come in
handy a second time.

"Mr. Cleveland will see you now, Mr. — ah — Bur-
gundy," the case-worker currently manning the
front-desk said, with only the slightest hesitation. Tan-
nim walked past her into the equally shabby, but
pleasant, office. The window blinds were wide open to
the sunlight, and there were plants in clumsy, hand-
made pots on the sill. The wallpaper had faded until the
yellow roses were a pale cream, and the leaves a ghost of
emerald. The decor was Goodwill-reject; the art on the
walls was all posters, posters of rock, sports, and movie
stars urging kids to stay in school, to stay off drugs, and
to read. The notepad was a giveaway from FedEx, and
the letterhead stationery on the man's desk had been
printed up on a very spotty dot-matrix printer, probably
donated. Obviously this place wasn't wasting money on
gold-embossed stationery and collector artwork — or
even interior decorating. The dark, harried-looking
man behind the desk stood up, surprise flashing briefly
across his face before he covered it with a smile. Ob-
viously he wasn't used to seeing clothing like Tannim's,

BORN TO RUN           211

either. He reached a hand across the desk to Tannim.
"Alyx Burgundy," Tannim said, taking the hand imme-
diately, and shaking it.

"Harold Cleveland," the director replied, with an
equally firm handshake. "What can we do for you, Mr.
Burgundy?"

Tannim sat down in one of the three visitors* chairs.
Vinyl with an aluminum frame, they were as uncom-
fortable as they looked. "Mr. Cleveland, my boss sent
me over here on his behalf. He's a horribly busy man,
but he has the best of intentions. I'm sure youll under-
stand my being direct. I've got a donation with some
strings attached."

Harold Cleveland eyed him with some suspicion.
"What kind of strings?" he asked.

Tannim shrugged. "My boss wants to make sure that
a little girl and maybe a couple other friends have a
safe place to go. You've got a waiting list — by the time
you got around to them, they might be in real trouble.
But — you also need money. My boss is very well-
known in the music business, and very, very wealthy.
He and the girl met after one of his shows, and they
started talking. He likes her." Tannim paused for effect.
"Well take care of that money problem you've got right
now if you'll move her and her friends to the top of the
list." He presented the envelope of cash he'd
withdrawn from his bank earlier, and fanned its con-
tents on the desk — a thick stack of fifties and
hundreds.

Harold blanched as he ran a quick mental count.
Emotions warred on his face, and his hand flinched
towards the money.

But the man had integrity. "I don't know," he said,
slowly, controlling his immediate impulse. "I'd like to
say yes — but we do have a waiting list. And I don't
know where this money is coming from...." He nar-
rowed his eyes. "If your boss has this much to play
around with, why isn't he taking care of this girl him-

212 Mercedes Lackey andLany Dixon

self? Just because we're a charity, that doesn't mean we
have no rules and no standards. If I may be so forward,
Mr. Burgundy, why is he wanting us to take this girl in?"
Tannim sighed, as if exasperated. "My boss — and
I'm sure you understand that I cannot reveal his identity

— is in no position to do so. It's because she's underage

— and as you probably figured out for yourself, right
now, she's an underage hooker. My boss is in the public
eye — every moment, you might say — and whenever
he turns around there's somebody trying to come up
with some kind of dirt on him. He feels sorry for the girl,
but he can't risk some cop — or a smear sheet — putting
two and two together and coming up with 'contributing
to the delinquency of a minor' when all he wants to do is
get her off the street and back in school."

He allowed his eyes to flicker up to one of the posters
behind Cleveland's desk. There were several rock-music
idols up there — but only one group was on tour in the
area. He watched as Cleveland's eyes followed his "slip,"
and felt a bit of satisfaction as the man's mouth softened a
moment Good. Tannim hadn't lied. Let the man make
his own conclusions — even if they were wrong. Given
that particular star's reputation as a good-guy, Cleveland
should now be very sympathetic. "The guy wants to get
a good kid out of a bad situation, but you know what the
tabloids would say if they found out"

He grimaced, and Harold Cleveland nodded.

"I see. This is a most... unusual proposal, Mr. Bur-
gundy. On one hand, it's hardly fair to the children
waiting that we take your three ahead of them. On the
other hand, with just the money you have here — " he
touched the stack " — we could afford to take in your
three and a half-dozen more for a couple of months."

Tannim could see by his aura that he'd accepted the
offer. Now it was only a matter of completing the dance.

"Mr. Cleveland, I appreciate your position. It's a
tough call." He shrugged, making it look helpless.

Harold Cleveland sighed. "I don't see how we could

BORN TO RUN           213

refuse, Mr. Burgundy. We've got no money to speak of,
really. Too few donations, and the problems are getting
worse. We'll take the offer."

Tannim nodded, then bowed his head.

"Good. Good. Her name is Tania, and she will be
here with her friends within the next couple of days. I
hope. She will have a lot to talk about — but nothing
relating to my boss." He handed over a small polaroid.
"If your outreach workers see her, I'd appreciate it if
they talk to her. She might be shy about coming."

"Sworn to secrecy, I assume? To protect his
reputation?"

Tannim looked back up, through the Ray-Bans.

"My boss is also my friend. When it comes to kids,
he's a pushover. He's spent his life trying to under-
stand them, and be like them, and make things easier
for them. He said before I came over that he had a
good feeling about this place. I am constantly amazed
at his faith in human nature. Times like this — "he
said, palming from a pocket" — I understand why.
Thank you for being suspicious, Harold, and for being
kind. This one's from me."

Tannim left a paper-clipped roll of twenties, stood
and smoothed the jacket, and walked out smiling.

Tannim swung himself into his driver's seat, and in-
dulged himself in a moment of self-satisfaction. So much
for Part, One ofPlanA. Now for Part Two.

He dosed the door and sat quiedy in the Mustang
for a moment, searching for a particular energy track,
drawing on the energies stored in the car and on the
faint traces still lingering about the passenger's seat.
Negotiating with Harold Cleveland had taken longer
than he expected, though it had been worth every
second spent. Cleveland's outreach people would be
looking for Tania now, as they made their rounds of
Savannah. If they spotted her, they'd try to make con-
tact and tell her there was a bunk for her and her

214 Mercedes Lackey ami Lany Dwan

friends. Tannim really didn't think they'd spot her
before he found her, but there was always a chance,
and one he couldn't pass up.

Sunset created a brilliant sky right out of a Maxfield
Parrish painting over the marshes to the west. He
sought through a maze of energy patterns as brightly
and as subtly colored as the patterns in the sky, search-
ing and discarding —

Then he found it; less red-tinged than before, and
shading more towards the blue of intellect and accep-
tance, and away from the vermilion of anger and
unreasoning emotion. But full of the warm gold of ear-
thy good sense, too, which hadn't showed before, and
the tingle of humor —

Tannim started the car, and pulled out of his parking
place, which was filled as soon as the Mustang's tail
deared it He scarcely noticed; he was too intent on trac-
ing that energy trail back to its source, in the real world
as well as in the spirit world. It wound through all the
other traces, touching briefly at River Street before drift-
ing on, heading off past the edge of Savannah.

After a little while, he got a sense of distance as well as
direction, and realized where the trace was leading
him. Oatland Island, huh? Never figured Rassfw a vnldUfe
fancier. But then, Inever picked him fora punster, either.

Now that he knew where he was going, he was able
to take a more direct route than following the trace
through Savannah. By full dark, he was at the gates of
the Oadand Island Education Center, parking before
the carved wooden sign. Alitde conspicuous —but that
could be remedied.

He turned off the engine and got out of the car;

placed his hands palm-down on the warm fender, and
frowned with concentration, activating one of the per-
manent spells that was as much a part of the Mustang
now as its paint. He straightened after a moment, satis-
fied that the eyes of any passerby would simply slide
right over the car without ever noticing it was there.

BORN TO RUN           215

That spell — which he had dubbed "Hide In Plain
Sight" — was one of the most useful he'd ever come up
with.

He stretched, flexing finger and neck muscles,
taking deep breaths of the cool, sweet, air. Ross Can-
field wasn't likely to be as hard-nosed a negotiator as
Harold Cleveland; with luck, he could get this over
quickly and get back to Fairgrove before Keighvin
started to get annoyed.

He pulled a sucker from the inner pocket of the ex-
pensive jacket, unwrapped it, and tucked the
cellophane back into the pocket before stowing the
candy in his cheek. The flavor startled him for a mo-
ment. Pina-colada? Where'd I— oh, that's right. Donal
thought I ought to have fancy suckers to match the jacket.
Elves.

He sat himself cross-legged on the warm hood while
the crickets chirred in the grass beside the road, glad
that the pants were a practical set of Bugle Boys instead
of the unwashable dress-slacks Donal had wanted to
put him into. One snag, and they'd have been
ruined—

He relaxed all over, and began a low chant, drawing
more power up from the stores invested in the Mus-
tang. He had no intention of going for a spirit-walk this
time, though. Not tonight, especially now that Vidal
Dhu and company knew he was a player in the game.
This time, all he intended to do was to call, sending out
a very specific identity-sign along a specific trace. And if
Ross Canfield was still willing to keep that promise he'd
made—

The crickets stopped chirping. "Didja know that
bluejays sing like damn canaries?" said a gleeful voice
in his ear. Tannim jumped.

"Uh — " he said, cleverly, telling his rattled nerves
that this had not been an attack and he didn't need all
that adrenalin, thank you. And no point in yelling at
Ross; the spirit didn't know about Vidal Dhu's vendet-

216        Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dmm

ta, or that Tannim was one of his planned targets. "No,
Ross, I didn't. I thought all they did was scream."

Ross sat himself down on the hood beside Tannim, a
big grin on his face, oblivious to the shaking he'd just
given the young mage. "They do," Ross said gleefully,
as if he were imparting the greatest wisdom of the
universe. "And starlings are 'bout the only birds that'll
eatJunebugs an'Jap'nese beetles, an' bears have then-
cubs while they're hibernadn', an' there useta be
cougars around here, an' gray foxes c'n dimb trees — "

"Whoa!" Tannim held up his hand. "Now I know
why you were hanging out here! Ross, why the sudden
interest in wildlife? Or is it sudden?"

Ross grinned, not at all embarrassed. "Always
wanted t' be a Park Ranger when I was a kid, but they
gotta have college degrees an' my folks couldn't afford
college. So — " He shrugged, then brightened. "Now,
shoot, I can walk right up t' birds, sit practically on then-
tails an' watch 'em — found out about this place an'
been hanging around listening t' everything. Better'n
goin' t' college, 'cause there's nobody givin' tests! So,
what can I do for you? I don't s'ppose this is a sodal call.
Some'a my new buddies know you pretty good, an*
they told me that when you said you was kinda busy,
you weren't tellin' more'n half the truth."

Tannim blushed, unaccountably embarrassed.
"Yeah, well, you can't believe all you hear, either. But
no, this isn't a sodal call, I'm sorry to say. Wish it was,
actually. I've got a favor to ask you."

Ross scratched his head, and Tannim noticed that he
looked a lot younger — and definitely slimmer — than
the last time they'd met. He'd noticed that effect before,
with spirits that had adjusted well.

Being a ghost seems to be agreeing with him.

"Ask away," the ghost said. "I told you, I owe you."

"I don't know, Ross," Tannim replied slowly. "You
might not want to do it once you've heard what it's all
about."

BORN TO RUN           217

"Try me," Ross suggested, and sat patiently while Tan-
nim explained everything he knew about Tania, the
trouble she was in, and how he needed someone to keep
a dose eye on her until he could get her into the shelter,
and from there, to Keighvin and Eairgrove.

Everything was fine until Tannim worked up to telling
Rossthatthegiriwasarunaway—andahooker. Then the
ghost frowned, and scratched his head again. "I don't
know, Tannim," he said, reluctantly, and Tannim's hope
slipped alitde. "I mean, dial's the kinda kid I'd've said was
apunkan' a tramp —before—but— "

That "before" gave Tannim reason to let his hopes
rise again. "But?" he prompted.

Ross wrinkled his brow. "Well — I kinda found out
somethin'. I can kinda see when people get worked up. I
found out there's a lotta things goin' on, stuff" I useta
think were just media people makin' up stories t' sell
papers. Lotsa kids in trouble out there, Tannim. Heard
a couple of stories from ones dial wound up — out here.
They didn't have a reason t' make dungs up, /know?"

Tannim nodded; Ross had changed, in more ways
than showed in his aura. "She's not mixed up with
drugs, Ross — and I don't diink she will be — volun-
tarily. But if she gets picked up by a pimp before I can
find her and talk her into the shelter — "

Ross scowled. "Yeah. That's what one of them kids
out here said. Damn pimp picked her up at the bus
stop, made all friendly, gave her what she thought was
just grass — next thing she knows, she's hooked on
crack with the bastard sellin' her for a hundred bucks a
shot an' makin' her do all kindsa pervo kinky stuff— "
He shook his head, and his aura swung into the bright,
dear red of suppressed and controlled anger, anger
carefully focused. Genuinely righteous wrath. "If I
could make a ghost outa that bastard, I would."

"So would I," Tannim said sincerely. "I know it's not a
lot of comfort—but you ever noticed dierearen'talot of
old pimps and pushers? His lifestyle is real likely to get

218        Mercedes Lackey and, Lany Dwan

him killed—and Ross, -whenhe comes over to your side,
there are going to be a lot of things waiting for him.
Remember what I told you about things that might try
to eat you? Well, they drink that low-lifes like him are
mighty tasty, and they'll actually hang around, waiting,
on the off chance that somebody'll put a hole in him."

"So that's what they were doin' — " Ross mused,
half to himself. Then he shook his head. "Okay, Tan-
nim, I'll see if I c'n find this girl an' keep an eye on
her for you — though I don' know what help I
could be if she got into trouble."

Tannim folded his arms over his chest, and grinned.
"More help than you think, Ross. You been practicing
what I told you about affecting the real world?"

Ross nodded. "Been learnin' some. Ain't fallin'
through the hood, am I?" he replied, with a chuckle.
"But that's me lettin' the real world affect me. When it
comes t'me actually doin' things, I can't do much
more'n flip a botdecap."

"That could be enough," Tannim told him. "One
thing you could do, you could come get me if the kid's
in trouble. If you can't get me," he paused as he called
up an image of Sam from an open palm, "you go to this
man. His name is Sam Kelly, and he's a friend. He
should be able to see you. But remember — not
everybody can. Moving a botdecap at the right time
could make a big difference; you just have to start
thinking on your feet."

"Easy for you to say," Ross grumbled, but he was
smiling a litde when he said it

Tannim let out the breath he'd been holding in a
sigh of relief "Thanks, Ross," he said, sincerely. "When
this is over and Tania's safe, I'll owe you."

But Ross shook his head emphatically. "No way,
partner. I think I got one thing figgered. You kinda
gotta earn your way upstairs. I didn' earn it when I was
alive, so now I gotta do somethin' about it. What'dyw
think?"

BORN TO RUN           219

Tannim had to shake his head, laughing. "Damn if I
know. Never had a chance to talk to somebody who'd
been there."

Ross laughed. "Well, if I turn up missin' when all this
is over, you can figure I was right, huh? So show me
what this kid looks like, and I'll get outta here."

Tannim caBed forth an image ofTania as he had last
seen her and projected it into the spirit world. Bad
bleach-job, too much makeup, Spandex shorts, and all.
Ross studied the image for a moment, then nodded,
and Tannim let it evaporate.

"Poor kid," the ghost commented. "Looks like
trouble lookin' for a place t' happen."

"Yeah," Tannim said. "That's what I figured. Oh,
and another thing. I have friends at the police depart-
ment I give tip-offs to. You see anything from your side
I could use, let me know."

Ross nodded, paused for a moment, then said,
"Done. Well, I'm outta here. Got what I need. See you
later, Tannim."

And with that, he was gone, instantly. Tannim stared at
the place he had been, and snorted. The crickets started
back up again.

" 'Been learnin' some,' my ass! That was a teleport,
or I'm the Pope!" Then he chuckled. "Ross, you're a
good man, and a sneaky bastard. Glad you're on my
side "

31.U^J.

Tannim stretched again, dimbed down off the hood,
started the Mustang and drove off into the night, head-
ing for Fairgrove, and anodier set of duties.

Now if he could just keep them from becoming con-
flicting duties....

Ross Canfield hadn't teleported, no matter what Tan-
nim thought He'd translated — or at least that was what
The Old Man had called it, explaining that the literal
meaning of "translate" was "to change one thing into
another." What Ross had done was to change from

220        Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dvwn.

being partially in the real world, to being completely in
the spirit world. Or, one of the spirit worlds, anyway;

he'd gotten the feeling from The Old Man that there
was more than one, but this was the place that folks that
were something like him wound up, until they were
ready to go off elsewhere. Whatever, wherever "else-
where" was. The Old Man wouldn'"t say anything more
about that than Tannim would. Ross had started to
think of it as being like tuning a radio station — some-
times you were right on the frequency, sometimes you

drifted between them.

It was a peculiar sort of "place," not really a place at
alL But it was a lot easier to find other ghosts from here.
It was no use looking for The Old Man, though; Ross
never found him, he found Ross, when and where he
chose. Sometimes he taught Ross things; sometimes he
just said something that only made sense a lot later. Sort
of like that David Carradine movie his wife had liked so
much. Ross was even starting to understand that now,
though every time she'd played it on the VCR when
he'd been alive, he'd gotten mad, 'cause it didn't make
any damned sense.

He'd figured on doing what Tannim had suggested,
looking her up, trying to come to terms with what had
happened. And he'd run into her all right, but not
when and where he'd expected. Turned out she was
married to Marty now, looked happier and younger,
more like the girl he'd married, and she had a kid, a lit-
tle baby, about six months old. He hadn't thought he'd
be able to forgive either of them, but they'd shown up
at his grave and left flowers —

That was where he'd first seen them, as he was
standing by the headstone, wondering what he should
do next. It had been kind of a shock; he'd just stood
there, staring at them, while they left the flowers and
talked about him. And they hadn't said anything mean
or spiteful, either. He'd listened to them for a long time,
and had to conclude that the girl he'd thought he'd

BORN TO RUN           221

married, and the one he really had married, had been
two different people.

He'd felt a lot better when he'd realized that, as if
he'd got rid of a poison that had been in him. That was
the first time The Old Man showed up, right after they
left; taught him a couple of things, like how to translate,
and vanished again. He'd left the grave and hadn't
looked back.

Right now, Ross was looking for Vanessa, the kid-
hooker he'd told Tannim about. He figured that if
anyone knew where the other hookers would be
operating, it would be her. Once he knew the streets to
look on, he'd be a lot likelier to find this Tania kid.

When he'd first run into Vanessa, she'd been scared as
a little baby bunny, with some of the annoying things
that liked to pick on the weak and the frightened mob-
bing her. The damn things were cowards, even if they
did look like some kind of deep-sea horror, and he and
his new buddy Foxtrot Xray had scared them off. He
wasn't sure what Fox was; he was native to the spirit
world, and he changed his appearance all the time,
sometimes more-or-less human looking, sometimes no
more human than a ball of light Called himself by that
name 'cause it was military-talk for FX, and since he was
kind of a spirit-soldier and kind of a special effect, it fit.

He wished he could enlist Fox's help on guarding
Tania, but it wasn't Fox's kind of thing. Oh, Fox would
be willing enough, but he could only operate in the
spirit world, though, so he wasn't going to be any use
on this job.

Not like when they'd found Vanessa under siege,
and he and Fox had chased off the bullies. Ross had
stayed around to give Vanessa a hand, and a shoulder
to cry on; taught her about being newly-dead, like Tan-
nim had done for him, and how it wasn't so bad.

He sometimes wondered if she thought of him as
The Old Man. Maybe for her, he was.

Moving around in the spirit world was pretty easy;

222         Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dixon

you just had to think of who you wanted to be with, and
unless they had you blocked out (which you did by
thinking you wanted to be alone and felt like putting
up walls), you were there. He found her wistfully
hanging around a radio-stadon control-room, watch-
ing the DJ and listening to the music. He wrinkled his
nose a little; not his kind of music at all, but it was
making her happy, so what the hell.

"Hey, Vanessa," he said, quietly, so as not to starde
her. She starded easily.

She looked up, big brown eyes wide, from under an
unkempt mane of raven-black curls, her aura draining
to muddy yellow-green. There was fear in her eyes
which quickly faded, and she smiled shyly, the colors of
her aura coming back. "Hi, Mr. Canfield," she said dif-
fidendy. "Mr. Xray, he was here an' showed me how t'
find the radio station when I said I missed rock'n'roll."

"Honey, you c'n go backstage of every concert there is
now, y'know," he reminded her gendy. "No reason t' miss
outonstuffnow.Ain'tnowherey'can'tgoify'want."

She shook her head. "I can't. Not yet. It just —
reminds me too much — makes me mad 'cause all
those kids are alive an' I'm not — "

He nodded, understanding perfecdy. "When you're
ready, honey. Listen, I got a question for you. Friend of
mine needs t'find a girl, 'fore she gets herself inta
trouble. You got any idea where the areas are that die
hookers hang out?"

Vanessa's eyes widened. "Bull, President, an' the al-
leys between President an' River Street," she said
prompdy. "Mr. Canfield, she's not —anyone I know, is

she?"

He shook his head. "Don't think so, honey. She's
workin' alone, but she's just a litde bitty baby, like you
was, an' we need t'get her somewhere's safe." He didn't
add, before she winds up like you; he didn't have to.

Vanessa's hands balled into fists, and tears welled up
in her eyes. "I wanta help," she whispered hoarsely,

BORN TO RUN

223

"an' I can't. I wanta do somediin' an' whenever I try*n
get near Bull, the world just sorta goes away — "

Fox said diat Vanessa had died on Bull Street, vicdm
of a heart attack brought on by one too many hits of
crack. She still hadn't come to terms wirfi her life, much
less her deadi, and Ross sighed widi helpless fi-ustradon.

"Look, honey, you just now helped, okay? An' some-
day you'll do better. Right now, you gotta leam to stand
up f'r y'self, fight back, don't let nobody push you
around. Then maybe you c'n do more."

Vanessa scrubbed at her eyes, and sniffed. And just
when Ross began to feel really badly, wandng to com-
fort her, but needing to go find Tannim's girl in die real
world, help showed up in the guise of Foxtrot. Today
Fox looked like a cartoon hero, pipestem legs and wild
hair. He just appeared out of nowhere, like always, and
Vanessa looked up at him and smiled through her
tears. Somehow they bodi always recognized Fox, no
matter what he looked like.

"Heya, lady!" Fox crowed, as if there was nothing
wrong. "Got somediing I want to show you." Then he
looked over his shoulder at Ross, and grinned. "Sorry
old man, no fossils allowed. It's just for people who
believe in die magic of rock'n'roll."

"Ah, go on," Ross said, relieved. "You wouldn't know
good music if'n it sat up an' bit your ass."

"That wouldn't be where I'd want somediing to bite
me," Fox replied insolendy, and reached for Vanessa's
hand. She took it hesitandy, and diey vanished in a glit-
tering shower of sparks.

Fox was a pistol, all right Maybe he'd picked Vanes-
sa as his vixen of choice.

Ross smirked, then furrowed his brow in con-
centradon, picturing Bull Street... building it up in
his mind... then, deciding to be there.

Then he was there. Now that was a teleport.

He grinned widely. It was also his first teleport

But tfiere was no dme to gloat about it; he had a giri

224        Mercedes Lackey and LanyDixon

to find, one who might be getting herself into trouble
she couldn't get out of right at this very moment

He sharpened his real-world focus, bringing himself
as far into the world of the living as he could without in-
teracting with it; he wanted to be able to walk through
people and things if he had to. He had noticed that he
no longer had any trouble seeing even in the darkest
places; the street was as bright as daylight to him, with
every person on it outlined with his or her own little
glow of colored light. The faces were the dearest, but it
was as if every living creature carried its own litde spot-
light with him — and from the way the females tended
to be dressed and act, it was pretty obvious that there
was no lack of "professional ladies" on this section of
Bull. They ranged in age from teenagers in punk gear
to women with a fair amount of mileage on the meter.
He noticed that their glows were all in muddy colors,
sullen and angry; dirty red, murky yellow, dirt brown.
Just like Vanessa, when she first came over. Her colors
were dealing now, but she had a long way to go before
she looked like Ross — and he was no match for the
dear, blue-white light of Fox or The Old Man.

He spotted the pimps right away, too — and interest-
ingly enough, the colors of their glows were sharp and
less muddied, but acutely painful to look at Reds and
yellows that swirled together in eye-hurting combina-
tions, screaming, dashing pinks and yellow-greens —
and die intensity was somehow too much; a fluctuating,
pulsing brightness, as if they were burning diemselves
out with every heartbeat. There were litde ribbons of
evil yellow connecting each pimp to his "ladies," and
Ross wasn't sure just what diat meant; was diere some
kind of emotional or mental dependency there? And if
so, who depended on whom? And there was somediing
else, too. Just as Tannim had said, there were things
lurking about die pimps, vulturine creatures of shift-
ing shape and shadow, watching and waiting with
infinite patience. One of them looked in Ross's direc-

BORNTORUN           225

don as if it felt his eyes on it, but its glance was indif-
ferent, as if he was of no use to it. It blinked
leprous-silver eyes and turned away, back to the pimp.
He shuddered anyway. If diese jerks only knew what
was waiting for diem....

But none of die girls he saw, in dieir dnsel and flash,
short skirts and glorified underwear, was Tania.

He drifted along Bull Street for about a mile, seeing
no sign other. When he nodced diat die street had got-
ten empder, diat die girls he saw were no longer plying
die trade, he realized he must have come to die end of
die "district," and turned back, taking die opposite side
of die street.

It all was pretty different from what he had expected.
There were no "Irma la Douce" girls here, no "Pretty
Women," or "Happy Hookers." This sure was a far cry
from the way most movies portrayed street-walkers.
There was nodiing playful or cheerful here. Most of'em
looked like whipped dogs, spirits broken, minds
numbed. Oh, diere were a few who were different, but
none of them were hooked up with pimps. It looked to
Ross as if die best diese kids could muster was die same
blank business-like approach as die kids in die fast-food
places, selling burgers. No wonder Vanessa had called a
night on die job "hanging on die meat-rack."

Suddenly, his musings were broken into by a glimpse
of blond hair widi the streedight shining off of it, and
die arch of a nose and cheekbone diat seemed familiar,
an aura diat wasn't as muddy as most. The girl moved,
and he got a better look —

It was her, all right. Then something else caught his
eye, and he realized that he wasn't the only person
hundng her.

There was a man stalking her; a man in a suit, widi
an aura that was completely black, and a swarm of
shadow-creatures around him diat was diree dmes die
number around any of die pimps.

Ross moved in on the man, quickly, fearing the

226 Merced^ Lackey and Lorry Dixon

worst. But before he could reach the girl's side, the
man had already maneuvered so that he was between
her and the rest of the people on the street. And just as
he got within touching distance, the man managed to
crowd her into an alcove, where she pressed herself
back against a locked doorway, a look of fear and shock
on her young face.

"What — " she said, her voice tight with panic.
"What do you want? Leave me alone! I don't have any
money, I don't have any drugs — "

Ross crowded in, trying to think of something he
could do. He couldn't hit the guy, he couldn't drag him
away, or even shout in his ear to distract him. And sud-
denly there didn't seem to be anyone else on this side of
the street, as if the rest of the denizens of Bull had
sensed the trouble and evaporated.

"It's you I want," the man said, in a cold, utterly ex-
pressionless voice. "Ifyou come along, there won'tbe any
trouble." He pulled back his coat, and terror spread
across Tania's face as she saw the gun he was reaching for.
"But if you won'tbe a good Utrie girl—111 have to—"

Ross didn't even think; he just grabbed for the gun,
desperately, reaching right through the kidnapper's
back and somehow getting his hands on the gun-grip
and the trigger. And realizing that he couldn't take it
away. That in fact, there wasn't much he could do. Ex-
cept — maybe —

His next move was pure instinct. He cocked the
hammer, and, as the kidnapper started in surprise at
the telltale click, pulled the trigger.

The gun went off in the shoulder-holster, the bullet
tearing its way through the leather and down his side,
with a roar and a muzzle-flash that would have blinded
and deafened Ross if he had been alive. The jacket blew
away like a rag in a hurricane, and the man's body
whip-cracked against the opposite wall of the alcove.
Tania jerked back, screaming, then spun and bolted for
the street.

BORN TO RUN           227

The kidnapper clutched at his side, nearly doubling
over as his legs and torso went slick with hot, red blood.

Tania made it across the street, just as the firefieht
began. Gunmen appeared from nowhere, the pimps
and pushers he'd seen before, firing wildly; and Ross
realized as he ducked out of sheer reflex that none of
them knew why they were shooting. But they certainly
knew what they were shooting at; the kidnapper, as the
originator of the first shot.

The kidnapper went down, blood spraying, in the
crossfire; Tania ducked into an alley, and sirens began
to wail in the distance.

The firefight continued as Ross dashed across the
street after her, while the red and blue flashes of ap-
proaching cop cars lit up the sky in both directions.

CHAPTER TWELVE

lamia's side was afire, pierced with pain, but she ran
anyway, gasping for breath as her lungs ached and her
throat rasped. Behind her, sirens split the night air with
unearthly wails, though the crack of gunfire no longer
echoed down the alley. She didn't care; or rather, she
had no room in her mind for anything but the
desperate need to run, run until she was somewhere
safe.

She couldn't see at all; her eyes were still dazzled by
the Hash when the gun had gone off. She lost her
balance when she stumbled over a trash-can and fell
face-first in the slimy alley, ripping the knees out other
tights and scraping the skin of both palms. She was up
again in the next heartbeat — dashing out of the alley
and into the lit street, across it, and into another alley
again. She ran into a dumpster she hadn't even seen,
pushed away from it, and stumbled off into the dark. At
the end of this alley she slowed, then stopped, doubling
over with one hand on the brick of the wall beside her,
sucking in huge gulps of breath, her belly heaving as if
a dull knife carved at it deeper every time she breathed.

Panic ebbed, slowly. Her palms burned, and so did
her knees. She stood up, slowly, as the blinding white
light of pure fear flickered and went out, freeing her
mind, letting her think again.

This wasn't the first time she'd been approached by a
pimp, but they'd never come after her before. No one
had ever pulled a gun on her. If it hadn't gone off like
that—

She started to shake, and not just from reaction to her

230        MercedesLae^aridLa'nyDsan

narrow escape. The gun — the gun had gone off, in the
guy's holster — before he even touched it. He'd just
pulled his jacket open to show it to her. He had been
reaching for it, but he hadn't actually gotten his hand on
it, when the hammer had gonec&A, he'dgottenastarded
look on his face, and the gun had flashed and roared.

It had misfired. She had to think that Anything else
was too weird.

Besides, she didn't want to think about it at all. All
she wanted, she realized desperately, was to get home.
Back to the apartment, where she could soak her knees
and hands before they got infected, soak her dred body
in a hot bath, hide in her bed with a book, and never,
ever come out again.

She stood up, still shaking but determined to get
home, knees and palms sending little stabs of pain up
her arms and legs every dme the raw skin flexed.

She ignored that, and the distant ache in her side,
and stepped out into the dim light from the streedamp,
trying to muster a show of courage. She couldn't help
but glance over her shoulder, up and down the street;

trying not to be obvious about it, but looking furtively
to see if there was anyone else likely to make a grab for
her. It wasn't just that shewas afraid of another muscle-
boy coming after her. In her current disheveled
condition, she knew she looked like prey, easy prey.
Even someone who might ordinarily leave her alone
could be tempted to go for her the way she looked right
now. And there were muggers, rapists, kids just look-
ing to make some trouble, and she was all too obviously
a good target She started to shake again.

She saw only a couple of people on her side of the
street, and neither of them looked terribly dangerous.
One was an old bag-lady who tottered down the street
peering into comers, clucking and muttering to her-
self; the other, of indeterminate gender, wandered all
over the sidewalk, clutching a bottle in a paper sack.

That didn't mean there wasn't someone lurking

BORN TO RUN

231

around the corner, or in the mouth of an alley; some-
one she couldn't see. But at least she'd see them and
have a head start if they came after her....

She started up the street, in the direction of the apart-
ment, forcing herself to walk normally, with her head
high. The wino stared at her as she passed him, but he
didn't seem to really see her; the bag-lady ignored her
entirely in favor of an old sneaker she'd just found.

Nothing happened; no one jumped out of shadowy
doorways to grab her, and no one pulled any more
guns. One or two kids, alone, dressed in variations on
jeans and gang-jackets, looked her over carefully, but
evidently decided she wasn't worth hassling.

By the time she made it back to the apartment, she
was ready to pass out from fear and from exhaustion.
But at least tonight there was a lightbulb illuminating
the staircase, however faintly. There was no way that
there could be anyone lurking on the landing, waiting
to ambush her. She took the stairs slowly, carefully,
pausing every few stairs to catch her breath. It took her
a long time to fumble the key out other tiny purse, and
even longer to unlock the door.

The apartment was completely empty.

In a way, she was glad; that meant she wasn't going to
have to explain what had happened to anyone until
she'dmanaged tosortit all out herself. But the emptiness
of the apartment meant she was going to be alone for a
while. What if that pimp had friends? What if they knew
where she lived? What if they'd been following her?

They couldn't know where she lived, she told her-
self, as she shut and locked the door behind her. AH she
had to do was stay away from the windows, and not
turn on any extra lights that might be visible from the
street. That wouldn't be too hard.

The sound other own heart was so loud she was certain
thatifanyone did breakin, they'd find herbythatatone.

She edged her way around the first room. Tbnio,Joe,
and Honi were nowhere to be seen, and the bedding

232        Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dawn

hadn't been slept in. She kept between the wall and the
light, so that no betraying shadow could fall to tell anyone
watching that there was now someone inside the apart-
ment. The bathroom was dark, and once in its
comforting shadows she heaved a sigh of relief. She
stripped off the ruined tights, whimpering as she pulled
the fabric away from abraded flesh. They were useless
now; huge runs had already started unraveling the black
knit, and by the time she got the tights off, there wasn't
much leftofthembut a weblike snarl of threads.

My best tights, too, she thought, angrily, tears in her
eyes. They'd cost her a foil two dollars at Goodwill, and
had been brand-new, out of a batch donated by some
store or other. SCAD students had snapped up the rest;

she'd practically had to fight to get this pair. And now
some goon with a gun had ruined them. Her knees
started bleeding again, and she caught the blood with a
hastily grabbed wad of toilet dssue. She probably ought
to let the scrapes bleed for a while, to clean them out

She waited until the bleeding slowed, then wrung out
a washrag in hot water, and sat on the toilet in her panties
and cotton minidress, carefully dabbing at her knees and
the palms other hands, trying not to get any blood on
anything else. Each touch of the damp doth brought an
involuntary hiss of pain from her, and she rinsed the
doth and wrung it out, over and over, then dabbed at her
knees again, wondering if she ought to use the peroxide
Laura did her hair with on the scrapes. But soap and
water were free, and peroxide cost money.

Finally the scrapes looked pretty clean, and the
bleeding stopped. Her knees looked awful, though.
She could hide the palms other hands, but how was
she going to cover up her knees? She still had to hustle
tomorrow, if not tonight

She finally dedded to wear the black garter-belt and
the black opaque stockings for the next couple of days.
Men never asked her to take those off, not even the
suits. And if she never told them that the hose were a

BORN TO RUN

233

little old Italian lady's black support hose, they'd never
guess. Those stockings were dark enough she could
tape her whole leg and they'd never know it

A great Goodwill find, courtesy of Laura, who could
see potential in anything.

It was easier thinking about what to wear than it was
to think about what had just happened. She filled the
tub with hot water and slipped out of the rest of her
dothing, then dimbed in, hissing a litde as the water set
her knees and hands afire. The pain didn't stop, it only
leveled off, and she relaxed back into the tub with a
sigh and dosed her eyes.

The pimp was dead; she had no doubt at all about
that. The minute his gun had gone off, he had been
dead. There were enough pimps and pushers nearby
to start a small war; they all went armed, and they were
all as paranoid as hell, espedally the pushers. The
minute a shot rang out, every muzzle on the street
would have been pointed in her would-be kidnapper's
direction, and a micro-second later, every one of the
triggers would have been pulled. The law on the street
was, "assume they're shooting at you." That was why
she'd run for cover, hoping to reach the protection of
brick and concrete before the fire-fight began.

She'd kept running once she was out of the line of fire
because she also couldn't afford to get caught up with
the dead, wounded, and witnesses when the cops came.
Somebody might remember the guy was trying to grab
her — might even finger her for the one who shot first
The Savannah cops were some of the best They'd never
let a private litde war go on for long; she had to be out of
there before they arrived and sealed the area off.

But who was that man, and what was he? Was he a
pimp himself, or somebody's musde? She didn't recog-
nize him, but that didn't mean anything. New pimps
moved in every week; he could have been someone
new trying to expand his stable. She knew why he'd try
for her; she was working alone, which made her a

234        Mercedes Lackey and LanyDixmi

tempting target Blondes, especially young ones, were
always in demand. That was what Laura had told her
when she'd insisted on bleaching Tania's hair.

But he hadn't looked or acted like a pimp; he'd had
none of the flash, none of the surface style and smooth-
ness. Hired heat was more like it — but if he'd been
hired, who had done it? Why hire muscle to bring her
in — was she that valuable, or was it just that there was
just a scarcity of young blondes worth recruiting? And
would they try again — or hunt her down and take the
loss of the muscle-boy out on her?

Her head swam, and not just from the heat of the
bath. It was all too complicated... and none of it made

any sense.

She'd have to wait until Laura got home. Laura
knew the street, Laura would be able to help her sort it
out, and decide what to do.

/ ought to at least change my territory, she thought drow-
sily. That's a good idea. I could start wmkmg President Street.
It would be a little hazardous to move into a new area,
since she'd be competing with girls who already had es-
tablished territories, but maybe she could trade one of
them for her old beat on Bull.

Or maybe she could see if she could hit Tannim up

again—

But what if3onwTO had sent the muscle?
The thought made her sit up straight for a moment
It was possible. He knew where her beat was; he knew
when she worked. He'd already advanced her three
hundred bucks and gotten nothing for it Maybe he'd
decided to collect...

The thought made her sick. She'd trusted him. But
wasn't that how the really sick people operated? They
got you to trust them, and then they did horrible things

to you.

Maybe he was the one behind some of the disap-
pearances that had been going on for the past couple
of months — the hookers that went off somewhere and

BORN TO RUN           235

never came back. The ones that weren't in the shelters,
hadn't been busted, and hadn't moved to Atlanta.
Maybe she wasn't the first kid he'd approached; maybe
she was just the latest one in a series. She'd read a dis-
carded newspaper's article about serial killers the other
night; about how they always chose the same kind of
people, that they seemed real nice until they were
caught Regular people; folks you'd never suspect

She could only sit in silence and cry, her shivers
making ripples in the steaming water.

The minute Tannim pulled up to the gate and keyed
it open, he knew that there was something wrong. The
radar detector on his dash whined as the gun hit it, but
the run-lights didn't come on.

Suddenly he recalled his dreams last night; all of
them had been about Unseleighe critters attacking and
being countered. And he remembered the careful way
Keighvin and the others had handled him before he'd
left last night There had been something about to go
down — and they'd been keeping it away from him.

He flushed with anger, half tempted to turn the
Mustang around and go home, his good mood vanish-
ing. They were treating him as if he was some kind of
invalid, a risk, just because he was a little tired and his
aim got a litde erratic—

Unbidden, the memory of Conal and the near-
miss during the last litde altercation rose up before
his mental eye, and the flush turned to a blush.

He had been more than a "litde" tired last night. It
had been all he could do to get home and into bed. And
his aim was worse than erratic when he was that weary.
The last near-miss had been funny, but if someone
from Faiigrove got plugged by Tannim's friendly fire,
it would be a lot worse than Conal's hair-loss. Last
night he'd been too exhausted to have been any use
magically — it would have been firearms, then, and no
mage-fire shield would deflect a steel-jacketed slug if

236 Mercedes Lackey and LanyDwan

the mage wasn't expecting one to come winging in.

But he was in good shape now... and he'd better get
up there and see what Keighvin had for him.

The radio announcer finally ended his commercial
spiel, and the first notes of the next half-hour's series of
songs started.

There was no mistaking that horn riff, even without
the lyrics. "Dead-man's Curve," by Jan and Dean.

With a shiver offfl-omen, Tannim snapped the radio
off before the singing started.

The radar detector continued to whine as he pulled
up the drive, at exactly two miles per hour under the
posted limit of thirty. Whoever was on the cameras —
probably Janie — would know by that speed that the
car she was tracking was a friend and not a stranger or
an enemy.

The glare beyond the trees told him that the parking
lot was lit up like the yard of a maximum-security prison.
In fact, all of the halogens were probably on tonight.
Whatever had gone down, itmusthavebeenhig....

He cursed his own weakness. He should have been
there. He should have. He longed to floor the Mustang
and race up the drive, to get there all the sooner — but
that would give Janie and everyone else heart failure.

Instead, he pulled sedately into a parking lot so bril-
liantly illuminated that every stray pebble showed
deariy. It was a good thing the lot was square, or pilots
would be mistaking it for the runway at the airport

Sam's old Mark IV Lincoln presided over an other-
wise empty lot. There were no other cars there,
elvensteeds or otherwise. Of course, most of the other
Failgrove humans would be gone by now; the few that
were left tended to have gift-steeds, presents from their
foster-parents, like the Diablo and the Dino. And any el-
vensteeds would have gone back to native form for a
fight. Still, the empty lot gave Tannim the shivers again.

He parked and locked the Mustang — normally he
never locked it here, but there was no point in giving

BORN TO RUN           237

anything to the enemy. If the enemy was still here.

Once he was outside the Mustang's protective
shields, there didn't seem to be any sign that the
Fairgrove complex was still under siege. There was
nothing in the air but the scent of honeysuckle and wet
grass; no tremblings in the power-flows betrayed any
disturbance of the protections around the place.

But out beyond the parking lot, there were more
glares of halogen lights. The lights at the fence were
blazing at full power, so there was something going on
at the borders tonight.

He gave up on speculation and headed for the shop.
Whatever had happened, he'd find it out a lot quicker
by just going in.

The shop was quiet, with no one working on
prototypes. No elvensteeds waited in car-form for
someone to suggest modifications to their lines to add
to verisimilitude. There was a huddle of bodies, stand-
ing and sitting, at the far comer, beside the prototype
Victor he and Donal had been working on, and Tan-
nim headed that way at a limping trot-
Sam looked up first, and his wide grin of relief was a
welcome sight. Keighvin finished whatever he was
saying to Sarge Austin, then turned his own emerald
eyes up to greet the young mage.

"We had a visitor last night," the Sidhe said without
preamble.

"And a fair horde of his friends," Conal said with a
grimace of suppressed pain. "He'd sent a challenge
with yon mortal, but we hadn't reckoned on his bring-
ing as many as he did."

Tannim glanced around the circle, and came up
quite a few names short. And there was a gloom about
the Sidhe, combined with the reddened eyes of the
humans, that spoke volumes.

We lost somebody. Shit.

"Casualties?" he asked carefully.

"Donal," his twin replied, and the lack of expression

238 Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dwan

in his voice told Tannimjust how deep and raw the
wound of loss was. Tannim dosed his eyes briefly, and
extended a tentative mental "hand" to his elven friend.
It was clasped, and Conal accepted the comfort that
flowed across the link.

"And one of the fosterlings," added Kieru. "Rob van
Alman. Dinna fret yersel' lad, 'twouldn'thave changed
matters if you'd been here. The blackbastard senta Bane-
Sidhe, an old, powerful one, and he'd gi'en his lesser Sidhe
compound crossbows loaded wi' elf-shot 'Twas the shot
that got yon Rob, and the Bane-Sidhe that did for puir
DonaLYe'dha'beennouse'gainsteitherone."

Tannim kept his eyes closed for a moment more, as
he mentally ran through every swear-word he knew
twice over. None of them were enough. Rob had been
the most cheerful guy he'd ever known, always ready
with a joke at his own expense, keeping the place
laughing at the worst of times and under the most
stressful conditions. And Donal — the Sidhe driver was
Tannim's own replacement as mechanic on the SERRA
team. He'd taught Donal everything he knew, and he
could always count on Donal being there at the track
whenever he ran — ready with a cold towel and a
squeeze-bottle ofGatorade —

His throat tightened. He opened his eyes, and asked,
hoarsely, "And wounded?"

"About a score," Keighvin replied with the carefully
impassive expression of a war-leader. "We know that
they're learning from us now; we won't underestimate
them again."

Tannim took a deep breath to force his throat open,
then another. He'd have his own private mourning ses-
sion later. Maybe, once it was safe, he'd try to visit them
on the other side....

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"Mine-sweeping," Phil Austin said.

He blinked, puzzled. "But we don't— "

"What Sarge there means is that there's bits of steel

BORN TO RUN           239

all over the grounds," Sam stuck in. "Bullets that
missed, that kind of thing."

And none of the Folk would be able to do any precision
magic except in the protected rooms untfl the stray metal
was gotten rid of. He nodded. "And when I'm done?"

"Reinforcement on the perimeter," Keighvin replied
decisively. "I want a shield ye couldna bring tank nor
mouse through."

He nodded, and turned to go.

"Take Sam with you," Keighvin added. "There was
enough ordnance flyin' about last night ye'U need four
hands, an' he can tell ye the full of the story."

And that was definitely toned as a dismissal. Tannim's
liege he was not, but the young man knew that the
Sidhe's terseness was caused by pain, and not the ar-
rogance of a nobleman. They walked out to the lighted
perimeter, with Tannim stopping long enough to pick
up a couple of chisels to dig bullets out of trees with, from
the silk-lined tool locker where steel implements were
kept A half-dozen other humans prowled the grounds
already, most of them sporting stained bandages, but
none of them were mages. They were looking for bullet
holes by eye alone; digging the steel-jacketed rounds out,
and marking the hole with a splash of paint Others were
wrapping the Pinball bars in their special silk sheathes
and shoving them down into the fence-posts. Someone
with her face obscured by a bandage — Dotde, he recog-
nized after a confused moment — came up and handed
himacanofpaintandabrush.

"Glad you're here now and not earlier," she said. "I
just sent Fred home and you're the best mage we've
got. Fred found all the easy ones; we know there's
more out here, but they're probably buried in the dirt
or twenty feet up in a tree."

Tannim nodded, a little relieved. He wouldn't have
been any use, earlier. The presence of the other rounds
would have obscured the ones that were harder to find.

"If you find something in a tree, dig it out, and slap

240 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Da/an

this stuff on it real good," Dottie continued tiredly.
"There's fungicide, wood-sealer, and growth-hormone
in it The least we can do is make sure the poor trees
have a fighting chance after the way we damaged them."

"Are you all right?" Tannim felt impelled to ask.

"What, this?" she replied, touching the bandage.
"Just a graze. Bled like hell and hurts worse, but I'm
good for duty."

Unspoken — that there were plenty who weren't.
Tannim nodded again, and as she turned back to her
own task of putting the Hnball bars to bed, unfocused his
eyes and reached into himself for the spell that would let
him detect any amount of iron and steel, however small.

Sam asked quietly, "Uhm, lad, can you call up any of
your friends to help?"

Tannim absent-mindedly sniffed the paste, and
dosed his eyes. "No... no, Sam. I'm not going to call in
any favors for something we can do ourselves."

We may need them later.

While Sam waited in silence, he gathered power from
inside himself, chanted in a mechanical drone to set the
spdl in place, then triggered it with a hissed syllable only
Chinthliss would have recognized.

There was a bullet not ten feet from him — straight
up. It didn't take a prophet to predict a lot of climbing
tonight.

"So," he said, waving to Sam to follow him and hand-
ing the older man the paint and brush to hold as he
dUmbed the tree, "tell me what went down."

Sam took a visible breath, and began.

The tiny office was too small to contain Aurilia's rage.
"You/oo4" Aurilia stormed at Vidal. "You empty-
headed vntKng. I told you that I had a plan, that it
involved the child-whores, especially Tannim's chosen
slut; why couldn't you wait until I got the giri here?"

Vidal Dhu glowered and sulked, but Niall stood be-
hind Aurilia, radiating cold anger, and finally Vidal

BORN TO RUN           241

deflated, slumping down into his seat. "I thought it
would be better to act directly," he muttered. "I
thought that if we left the girl out on the street, any-
thing could happen. She might dedde to return home,
she might decide to go into one of the shelters, she
could even get herself killed being stupid."

"And you nearly got her killed!" Aurilia snapped.
"Now you've frightened her; she'll be twice as wary as
before! You've undone everything I built, in a single
moment of genuine idiocy!"

"Maybe not," Niall rumbled thoughtfully. She
turned to stare at him.

"How on earth can you say that?" she asked. "This
— man — sent out a stupid human to kidnap the girl.
He died trying to coerce her, and she was so frightened
she ran, the gods only know where! You say he hasn't
undone everything I worked towards?"

"Think a moment, child," Niall replied, as she chafed
at being called a "child." "The girl has been affrighted, it
is true. She may keep herself from the street for some
time, it is also true. But you know who one of her friends
is. And it seems to me that if she were offered a chance of
employment that appears to be safer — at least, safer in
the light of the attempted kidnapping — than whoring
on the street, she may well take it"

Aurilia licked her lips thoughtfully. It was true, she
did know the boy called "Jamie." It would be easy
enough to find him in the course of a night. And if she
offered him another "movie job," not only for himself,
but for a female friend, he might bring in the girl. The
ploy might not work the first dme, but if Aurilia made it
tempting enough, and added offers for other friends,
sooner or later, she'd get Tannim's protege, especially
when the "movie work" was mild bondage, some sado-
eroticism with only the trappings, not the actuality, or
perhaps a staged "satanic ritual" before the cameras;

nothing that would frighten them. It would mean a
delay in her plans — for she had expected to go directly

242        MercedesLackey and Lorry Dwan

to where the girl was, and make the "movie offer" in
person, but it wouldn't be too great a delay. Right now
if anyone or anything approached the girl directly ex-
cept her trusted friends, she'd bolt — and Aurilia
wasn't certain she had the resources to try and catch a
fleeing child without complications.

"I'm going to explain what I have in mind dearly
this dme," she said waspishly to Vidal Dhu, "so that
there will be no mistakes, and no ill-advised attempts to
anticipate the capture. I will find the boy I used in the
party-film. He knows the girl. I will offer him more
work, work for himself and a female friend. If he brings
the girl in the first dme, well and good — ifrao<, we will
be patient. We will offer him another night of work, this
dme with two females, and ask him if he has any more
friends. Eventually, especially after we gain their trust,
the giri will come of her own accord."

"Then we send Keighvin Silverhair a special little
tape, or perhaps some pictures," Niall rumbled in sads-
facdon. "But — do we bring him here? That could be
dangerous — this place is full of the kind of machinery
and creations of Cold Iron his humans use so well.
Even if it is on our own ground — "

Aurilia shook her head. "No, we will let him think diat
we have the children on our ground, Underbill. He will
bring humans and Cold Iron weapons there trying to
thwart us. We will ambush him, but more dian that, we
will portray him and his dogs to die Seleighe Court as a
danger to us all. His posidon is tenuous enough; this
violation of custom will have even his supporters against
him. If he survives our ambush, he will never be allowed
to set foot in die human world again."

"Leaving dlis place open to our hundng — " Vidal
breadied in surprise. She nodded.

"And leaving us die children to dispose of in front of
die cameras, accomplishing two tasks in one."

She smiled at Vidal's stunned expression. You. never
gave me the credit far that much intelligence, did you? she

BORN TO RUN           243

diought widi viperish sadsfacdon. When Keighvin is a
memory, and I no longer need you, I think I shall challenge
you, VidalDhu. With Niall's backing, Iwill not only humiliate
you, I may even be able to destroy you.

But she allowed no hint other droughts to appear in
her speech or her body-language. Vidal studied her for
a moment, but evidendy read nodiing, and shrugged.

"Very well dien," he said. "I will go and prepare die
ambush site. I can sdll conjure or cajole more dian
enough underlings to take on Keighvin and all of his
allies—"

"Just be certain you do not underestimate him,"
Niall said coldly. His eyes glittered red widiin his pitted
face. "As you did die last dme."

Aurilia watched Vidal seedie with anger, but he held
his tongue. "This dme the confrontadon will be on
prepared territory of our choosing," he replied, just as
coldly. "There will be no mistakes this dme."

"I will find die children," Aurilia said quickly, sick to
death ofdieir posturing. "After all, I know what diey
look like."

Niall sighed gusdiy, breadiing a wash of air straight
from die grave over her. "And I shall ready die studio,"
he said. "I am weary, very weary. That is ample
employment for me at die moment." Then he added as
Vidal Dhu turned to go, as if in afterthought, "And
Vidal, if we are able, 1 would like very much to have die
destrucdon of Silverhair on videotape."

Vidal reddened again, but said nothing. Aurilia
smiled.

George Beecher stared at die report on his desk and
ground his teedi in anger and frustradon. Bad enough
diat everydiing he'd collected on dlis "Tannim" char-
acter showed him to be die kind of guy George could
easily have been friends with. But when he'd men-
tioned his client to an old buddy in Vice, hoping to find
somediing diat would make him dislike die guy, if not

244        Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Down

something he could take to the bitch, Terry had given
him a strange look.

"You know I don't mix into your business, bud," he'd
said, "but I think maybe you took the wrong client this

dme."

George had wondered about that remark — and now,
today, this had arrived in the mail A copy of a police file,
withanote, "Burn thiswhen you getdone, okay?T"

Slim, as police files went, it nevertheless held more
than enough to make George seethe with rage. His
client, that charming, lovely young woman with the face
of an old-world madonna, was up to her pretty little ear-
lobes in a porn ring. And not just plain old
garden-variety smut, either; George wouldn't have
cared about that She was definitely linked to S and M, B
and D — and tentatively to kiddie-pom and snuff-films.

Whatever hold she wanted over Tannim, George
wasn't about to give it to her. If he hadn't been dead
sure that not even Terry could cover for him, he might
have been tempted to go put some large-caliber holes
in her wide, smooth forehead.

Now he was in an ethical quandary. He'd just gotten
paid for his last invoice; he had a couple of days' worth of
hours on the new one, but nothing he couldn't live
without Ifhe hadn'talready deposited the cashier's check,
he'd have been in an even more serious quandary; as it
was, the bills had all been paid and there was no way he was
goingtoget the money backtothrow in her face.

And I wondered why you alwayspaid with a cashier's check.
I thought it was so ex-hubby wouldn't know you'd hired me.

Bitch.

He chewed on his lip and stared at the police file
lying in the pool of light cast by his desk lamp, and
made some hard dedsions.

He couldn't do what he wanted to do; go to her office,
throw the file down on her desk, and tell her she could
keep her damned filthy blood-money. For one thing,
that would throw Terry's investigation. For another,

BORN TO RUN           245

these people never operated in a vacuum; she could
have mob contacts and bosses, and certainly could hire
muscle herself. If she knew he knew, it wouldn't take
more than five hundred bucks to erase George
Beecher, El., from the face of the earth.

So, no dramatic gestures.

No gestures at all, in fact.

With his jaw clenched, he swiveled his chair to face
the old Smith-Corona on the typing stand beside his
desk and laboriously typed out a letter on the agency
stationery.

Ms. Morrigan: In light of the fact that I have uncovered
nothing substantial in my investigations, I voluntarily dissolve
our contract with no further payment expected. G. Beecher.

He dated it, folded it carefully, slipped it into an en-
velope, and left it for the secretary to mail in the
morning.

And there was another thing he could do; he knew
Tannim's address. Not that the kid hadn't lost him a
million dmes when he'd tried to follow, but there were
other ways of finding someone than tailing them.
When the City Directory had come up dry, and the
phone company proved uncooperative, he'd turned
into a prospective creditor and called American Ex-
press. The kid had a Gold Card, after all. And he'd
been oh, so puzzled, because Mr. Tannim didn't seem
to have a first name... this amused the person on the
other end of the line, who'd confided that Mr. Tannim
was very eccentric in that regard.

Bingo; name, address, phone, current employer,
and the fact that the kid paid all bills in full on time.

So he had Tannim's address. Now for a little
anonymous letter to ease his conscience.

Sir: I wish to advise you that you an being investigated by a
Ms. Aurilia Morrigan, of no known address, who operates a
business from Hangar 2A at the Savannah Regional Airport.
I do not know why Ms. Morrigan has chosen to have you inves-
tigated, but her motives are suspect, since confidential

246 Mercedes Lackey and lany Decora

information given me reports she herself is under investigation
for possible involvement in illegal activities, including chm
pornography. Please be advised that she may be dangerous, anc
take what seem to you to be sensible precautions.

There. That was all he could say without blowing L,,
cover. This letter would not be entrusted to th>-
secretary; it would be hand-delivered.

He folded it and inserted it into a plain, white en
velope, turned off his desk lamp, and took his coat cS'
the back of the chair. He knew where Tannim would bs
tonight: Kevin Barry's pub. He was probably lookins-
for that poor litde teenage hooker again. So, while Tan
mm was at the pub, George Beecher would be slipping
this warning under his door.

It wasn't much, but it was something. And a darnr;

sight better than doing nothing.

He flipped off the office lights and picked up the
police file, leaving it and the copy of his letter to Aurilia
Morrigan on the boss's desk. In the morning when he
came in, there'd be a new case on his blotter, the file^
would have quietly disappeared, and no mention 01
the case would ever be made again. There was a little
calligraphed piece in the boss's office, where he could
see it when he sat at his desk.

Responsibility. Accountability. Integrity.

It wasn't the agency motto, but it might as well have
been. Nice to work for someone with a bottom-line like
that one. Yeah, the boss was a good man to work for.
Even if sometimes it meant that you sweated a litde at
the end of the month. Better sweating a litde money
than not being able to sleep at night. Being a
hardworking, average joe with a relatively dean con-
science wasn't a bad way to live.

George flipped die latch and dosed the door of the
office quietly, patting his coat pocket to be certain that
the letter was still there, and looking forward to a good
night's sleep.

• CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Tannim drummed his fingers idly on die phone-tap
detector, and waited for his police contact to pick up.
There had been a few too many coinddences lately for
comfort— and his nerves told him that anything could
be a setup. This anonymous dp in his mailbox reeked
of an inept trap.

On die other hand, why would any of his enemies be
diat inept? Unless it was to throw him off, and make
him dunk it was too inept to be a trap —

Circular reasoning like that is gonna make me too dizzy to
see in a minute.

At last a voice answered. The detector showed nil.

"Yeah?"

"Hiya, Terry? This is Greeneyes, Hey, look, you need a
good botde of scotch? I need a fingerprint check." He
crossed his fingers and hoped Terry wasn't busy... or
radier, too busy. Vice was always busy with somediing.
Terry sounded annoyed, but not angry. "Aww,jeez man,
you know I hate to do diose! They take freakm'forever."

Tannim sighed. The balance sheet was a litde too
tilted in Terry's direction lately. He'd have to do some-
thing about that, later. Maybe when he got Tania safe
he could talk her into fingering some pimps or
pushers. "I know, I know, it's just that there's some-
thing weird going down, and there are a couple real
young dvilians in the middle of it. Dig?"

The growl Terry produced sounded only half-
hearted. "Damn Boy Scout. All right, diree botdes of
Amaretto and a Bob Uecher card."

Well, that was an easy bribe, and just a litde too quick

248       MercedesLack^ardLcirrfDwm

for something off the cuff. Tannim had always
suspected Terry of keeping a list of items he wanted for
doing favors. "Done. Thanks. Here's the story: got an
anonymous letter in my mailbox, no address or
postage, tipping me off to the whereabouts of Bad
Guys. Letter says these Bad Guys are into everything
that pushes my piss-off buttons. All I've got to go on is
this letter, and I don't know if it's genuine. If it is,

well..."

Terry snorted. "If it is, we'll find out about it after
you've played vigilante, same as usual. Dammit,
Greeneyes, this covert hero-crap of yours is going to
sink us all. You and your friends're gonna get shot by a
cop one of these days while you're out being white hats.
You dig that?"

Tannim bit his lip. It was not the most encouraging
thing he could have heard at the moment, but Terry
had a good point. The police were damned good at
their job in Savannah, and a lot ofTannim's activities
could look mighty suspicious if someone that wasn't a
friend happened upon them. He could picture it, too.
His armor could stop a bullet, but he'd still lose a
couple ribs from the impact, and then there were the
explanations....

And there was nothing armoring him from a head-
shot.

"Greeneyes? You there?"

"Yeah... yeah, I'm here. I'll be careful, Terry. And
look, you're right. If things get too rough, I'll call you

for help."

Terry produced something that was closer to a bark
than a laugh. "Ifit's that bad, I'll bring an ambulance."

Tania rubbed sleep from her eyes, her mouth tasting
like her sweat-soaked, musty blankets. She'd tossed all
night in half-sleep, haunted by images of gun-toting
maniacs forcing her against grimy walls, and awaken-
ing was at best a hollow improvement. The creaking

BORN TO RUN           249

from the apartment's warped steps had snapped her
into attendveness — but she'd calmed as she heard a
familiar voice. It wasJamie, high as a kite, staggering
up the stairwell.

Oh, God. Not again. This is too much....

Tania pulled the strands of hair from her mouth —
that always seemed to happen when she slept, no mat-
ter how short her hair was. Jamie giggled
uncontrollably, amused beyond belief by how difficult
it was to get his key into the lock. Tania heard the un-
mistakable sound of his forehead thumping against the
door, but the giggling didn't stop even then. He was
wasted but good this time.

Laura was not waking as readily as Tania had; the two
spent the wee hours hugging and comforting each
other before finally crashing. Laura had seemed un-
usually tense over the threat to Tania, and it had amazed
her no small amount diat die normally suspidous, cyni-
cal girl could be so open about her fears when Tania'd
confided in her. Both of them had talked about suicide as
some solution to put the street out of their minds
forever, but neidier could do it. There was something,
somewhere, to Hve for, and diey could cry in hope over it
— and if nothing else, diey had each odier.

And they bodi agreed diat Jamie was in trouble. The
drugs, the recklessness, his frailty...

By die time Jamie had gotten die door open, Tania
had pulled her sweat suit top on, and was pulling die bot-
toms on over her srill-sdnging, scab-caked knees. Laura
had roused, too, and had pulled on a tattered black shift.
She'd obviously had better nights herself, and gave Tania
a significant look as die door came open.

Jamie stumbled in, a red scarf around his neck
despite the sultry night, right jeans torn at the knees
and a wad ofsomediing in his pocket. Dozens of rubber
junk-jewelry bracelets covered his wrists, falling down
his forearm as he hung his keys on an exposed nail. He
turned heavily dilated eyes to his roommates.

250        Mercedes Lackey and LanyDwon

"Heya! Miss me?" Another fit of giggling overtook
him, and he made a great show of trying to control it
"Okay. Okay. Before you ask — no, I did not mug Ed
McMahon." He turned his pocket inside-out, and a
shower of crumpled twenties fell to the rotting floor.

With them fell a pair of tiny plasdc bags full of white
powder. Laura's breath hissed when she saw them.
Tania's heart froze.

Jamie fished a last bill out of his pocket, smoothed it
carefully, and dropped it onto the floor with the rest. He
then tottered off into the kitchen and turned on the tap,
and splashed his face obsessively. By the dme he
returned, Laura had picked up the money and counted.
She'd avoided touching the bags as if they were pit vipers.
Three hundred forty dollars.
'Jamie, how'd you get this money?"
"You oughta be in pictures .. . you oughta be a
star...." Jamie sang off key. "I'm in show business,
baby. Big dme mooo-vie star. Want my autograph?"

Laura's brow was knotted up in rage. "What ah
wanta know is what's goin' on, Jamie. What d'you do
for all this cash?"

...And how much VMS there before you got stoned...?
He gestured wildly. "I have starred... in a major
motion picture, clothing optional. I agented myself
and found my contract agreeable."

Laura's fist clenched, white-knuckled, on the cash.
"I was so very surprised to find that acting was so
easy. Heels in the air and speak into the camera — it
was so much like my day job I may go full-time." He
snickered again, and bowed.

Tania tucked her knees up into her chest and rocked
slowly on the mattress. This was the worst Jamie had
ever come home wasted. It was like seeing your little
brother slice at himself with a dirty knife, and laugh at
the spectacle.

"Did they give you the drugs,Jamie?"Taniaasked softly.
"Oh no. No. They don't like drugs on the set, baby.

BORN TO RUN

251

They say it affects the quality of the performance. I got
my buzz later. I like to celebrate. Party, 'arty, 'arty..."
His voice trailed off.

Laura stashed the bills inJamie's pocket and took his
face in her hands. "You are efled-up, boy."

"Yeah, but I'm rich. Money, money, money for hook-
ing easy." Jamie smiled, the kind of look he'd give with a
birthday present. It was like sunlight through
thundercloud. "And they want girls, too. Money for you,
and it's in cash. Straight sex, some kink, a little bondage,
but not worse than street Johns, and they even call you a
cab when you're done. You wanna come?"

Laura was still far from happy, but Tania knew that
chilling look in her eyes. It was the same look she used
sizing up Johns, or buying clothes at Goodwill.

Tannim leaned back in the vinyl chair in Terry's of-
fice, and gazed in wonder at the hundreds of baseball
and football cards in frames covering every wall. This
was the first time he'd been allowed inside the Sanctum
Sanctorum, but Terry had insisted he show up in per-
son. Behind a coffee-stained desk cluttered with file
folders, Terry jawed on the phone with one of his team.
After a few minutes of mind-numbing technical talk, he
insulted the caller's sexual prowess, then hung up
grinning.

Tannim looked around conspiratorially, winked,
and withdrew three bottles ofAmaretto, a small paper
bag, and the plastic-wrapped letter from his backpack.
With a flourish, he opened the bag to reveal a colorful
card between two thick slabs ofLexan.

"But it's not a bribe, of course," he said, grinning.

Terry nodded. "Of course not"

"That would be illegal." Tannim held it out. "I'd
never do anything illegal, and if even if I thought about
doing anything illegal, I'd never, ever ask you to do
anything illegal."

"Heaven forbid." Terry leaned over the desk, took the

252 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Doom

card-holder, and held it up to the light "Thirty-proof
Uecher." He put it down on top of the file-folders. "A
token of your undying esteem, I'm sure."

"Naturally." Tannim somberly handed over the let-
ter. "Here it is, pretty much as I found it. My prints are
on it, of course."

Terry took it out of the plastic and unfolded it with a
pair of tweezers, and glanced at the contents. Then he
snorted and passed the note back to him without taking
the same elaborate precautions. "Greeneyes, I don't
have to run prints to know who sent you that. It's legit,
from one of the most principled P.I.'s I know. He's a
buddy, and he managed to acquire a litde confidential
information from the usual impeccable sources. And
he was really pissed off about working for this woman
once he had the dope on her."

Tannim raised an eyebrow. "The impeccable source
was someone for whom I have undying esteem? You're
investigating her?"

Terry went stone-faced. "Can't answer that You just
watch yourself if you go anywhere near her. She's not
only pretty poison, she's gonna find herself hip-deep in
alligators real soon now. And I'd hate to see a friend
caught in the alligator pit"

Tannim nodded. He knew Terry had grown up on
cop shows where the good guys worked outside the let-
ter of the law. That was the only thing that had kept the
cop in him from pushing Tannim away for interfering
in police business, any number of times. Terry knew
there was something strange about his friend
"Greeneyes," and that favors could one day be called
in. After all, he'd upped off Terry to some goings-on
around town before, ones thatby-the-book police work
would never have revealed. The baseball card bribes
were only part of the dance.

But that meant there was another debt that needed
to be put to rest. "All right, credit where it's due. He
take a personal check?"

BORN TO RUN

253

Terry opened a worn Day-Timer, then scribbled on
stationery marked "From The Desk OfHankAaron."
"Here's bis address. His rate is fifty-eight an hour plus
expenses, and he has a car to pay off. You were never
here, I never saw you, pay no attention to the cop be-
hind the curtain. Later."

Tannim took the note. 'Just let me know when
you're in need of another token of my admiration."

"Out," Terry ordered. "Let an honest cop get some
work done. Go."

Tannim went, whistling "Take Me Out To The Ball
Game."

Tania tried, but couldn't erase the image of twenties
falling to the floor. They fell in slow motion, or in sharp
detail, and crept back into her thoughts no matter how
hard she tried to forget them by reading.

Laura andJamie were her family now, like it or not
All three of them knew they were too young to be
trying to survive out here on their own, that the world
was a cold, uncaring place that made no allowances for
their weaknesses. It was never more plain than the past
few days, and going through all of the old magazines
she'd collected only reinforced how hopeless the future
looked for her almost-family. Page after page showed
perfect teeth, made-up faces, clothes that cost more
than Tania had made in a year. Here on one page was a
cigarette-smoking model, showing how glamorous a
stick of burning weeds could be. On this page was a
bare-chested Adonis in designer jeans. On this page...
Tania closed the magazine on the camper ad. Was this
the way the real world was, or was this what the adver-
tisers expected people to be? The Suits at the ad agency
hyped what their demographics told them to: that
upper middle-class whites were their target audience,
blue-eyed, dean-cut, blond....

Like my family ... was. ... And there they were,
laughing and happy, in their pressed slacks and forty-

254        Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Damn

dollar haircuts, mocking the decay around Tania from

glossy pages.

Tania chewed on her lower lip. That, among other
things, was something her mother had nagged her about
constantly, calling it a "bad habit," or "unladylike."

J wander if she chews on her lip now when she thinks of me.
She probably told the social clubs that I was kidnapped, and
milked her grief far the attention. The neighborhood probably
used my disappearance as an excuse to double their security
patrols, while setting up a politically-correct fund to find me.
Papa probably bought that third BMW he wanted with it, and
the money he's saved on my French tutor and racquetball

coach....

It all would have been so much better with one less
imported luxury car, and a camper instead, out in the
woods once in a while, where there were no neighbors

to impress.

It seemed like a ragged lifetime ago, those days when
her posture and manners were always on her mind for
fear of verbal punishment later. There could always be
somebody watching, her parents had drilled her, and
looking like you were everything they wanted to be
would make them do exactly what you wanted. Now,
Tania was in a world where invisibility was what one
desired most; trying to be unnoticable to the ravagers.

Money was one thing her parents had that she en-
vied — but all that ready cash hadn't kept her from
running. If money hadn't kept the all-American yup-
pie dream family together, how could it help a trio of
tramp runaways?

It hadn't escaped Tania that their shared poverty
was the glue that kept them together. If each of the
three had enough money to live independently,
wouldn't her new family dissolve?

God, I wish they were back.

The other three roommates hadn't returned yet,
either. In fact, they hadn't been seen in a couple of
days, not here, nor on the street. Tania's imagination

BORN TO RUN           255

painted grisly images of what had happened to them,
none of which were likely, but still — they had probably
only hopped a train, or stolen a car, and were in
another state by now.

Or gotten shot by a —

Enough. Worry about how to pay the rent if they'd
gone for good, not about what might have happened
to them. You couldn't worry about everybody. Save the
wonymg for the people you care about.

Tania opened one of the books in her small stack of
paperbacks. She was bright enough to know that es-
capism was a myth; she read now to find solutions. The
science fiction and mystery writers she loved the most
were the ones who taught as well as they entertained,
and whose characters understood human nature.
There were heroines and heroes, aliens with kind eyes,
fire-breathing dragons and silver unicorns....

Like the one on the sweat suit Tannim gave me....

And there he was in her thoughts again. Maybe she
had believed a few too many fantasy stories. Maybe she'd
been tricked by her own wounded heart into believing
there could be someone who did good things for no
other reason than that they needed to be done. Why
would anyone do that? ltdidn'tmake any sense atall....

No mow sense than treating a kid as property.

There was the burden of proof: if her world were
cruel enough to make her an alien to her own blood,
then it had to have another extreme to the good. One
crusty, drunken old John had babbled about odds last
week, saying that if something hadn't happened yet, it
was statistically likely to happen soon. He called himself
a gambler, but he'd never gambled with disease and
death the way a streetwalker did. Maybe Tannim was
the long-awaited proof that a human being could be
kind for kindness' own sake in a risky world full of self-
serving pricks.

If her world was one of insane gambles, then
Tannim's brand of insanity was the better.

256 Mercedes Lackey and Lurry Dixon

And, no matter how restricted she had been in Re-
search Triangle Park, her life had never been in
danger. Her folks had always seen to it she'd had the
best health care their money could buy. She'd never
had to worry about guys with guns coming after her on
the street... or someone with a knife waiting for her on
the landing with the lights out.

Maybe they'd changed once they'd lost her. Maybe.
People changed — God, people changed. Maybe they'd
welcome her back and have things her way, now that
they knew what assholes they'd been. They'd forced her
to run by not giving her enough credit, but Tania was
damned if she'd be that insulting even to them. Anyone
could change if they were kicked hard enough.

And that, Tania knew, was the single good thing that
being on the street had done for her. She wasn't the
mewling brat she saw herself as a couple of months
ago, she was a hardened survivor. If they were going to
get her back, it would be on her terms. She'd have her
privacy, her room inviolate, her own choice ofdothes,
her own choice of books....

And their love....

Tania sat a few minutes, and realized a smile had
come to her face. The dream the ads showed could be
real, if everyone loved everyone else, and gave them
the choice to be themselves.

Her brow furrowed as she realized that was why
Jamie had gotten the way he had, though — she and
Laura had wanted so much to stay out of his business
that they'd let him get progressively more out of con-
trol. He was just as much a kid as she was, and he
needed someone to say "no, stop that, you're screwing
up" once in a while. The three all loved each other,
even though they'd never said it. The way Laura and
Jamie had insisted she stay home until whoever was
looking for her got tired of looking was proof of that.
And, as his family, the two girls were obligated to help
him out of the drugs and danger, just as they were

BO&NTORUN

257

obligated to help each other improve their lives. Maybe
the money could keep them together after all.

A car engine outside roused her from her thoughts.
She rose, knees protesting, and edged next to the win-
dow. She peeked around the frame, and saw a glossy
yellow taxi at the broken curb. Jamie and Laura were
getting out, wearing new outfits, and laughing. The
taxi left as they climbed the stairs, and Tania met them
at the door, an expectant look on her face.

Laura arrived, sailing through the door like Marilyn
Monroe at the premiere ofThe Seven Year Itch, her face
aglow. "Hey, sugah! We're baaack! Jamie here picked a
good one, honey. Ah been keepin' his sweet tush outta
trouble."

Jamie blushed, and giggled a little self-consdously.
Laura got in his face and pinched his cheeks, saying,
'Jamie-wamie, you'se the best UT studmuffin ah ever
beengiggedby."

Tania stammered, taken aback by their happiness.
And Laura being sexed by Jamie? That was a first —
none of the three had ever had sex with each other. It
must have been some gig indeed. "S-so, what was it
like? You both okay?"

Laura twirled in place, making her bright red mini-
skirt flare. "Honey, we're better than okay. It's easy
tricking, soft kink, and they'se payin' enough I ain't
gonna rag on 'em about rubbers, 'specially since it's with
mah Jamie, an' we know he's dean. Lookie lookie."

Laura opened her clutch purse and thumbed open
a roll of twenties. "Three hundred each, sugah. And
they need another girl." She licked her lips and
winked. "Baby-doll, I think you're exacdy who they're
looking for."

"She turned about her milk-white steed, and took True
Thomas up be'hind, and aye whene'er her bridle rang, the
steed flew swifter than the wind. For forty days and forty
nights he wade thro red blood to the knee, and he saw

258        Mercedes Lackey and LanyDwon

neither sun nor moon, but heard the roaring of the sea."

Tannim lay back in the worn driver's seat of the Mus-
tang, hands caked with dirt, clutching the three dozen
or so slugs he and Sam had dug out of the trees and
grounds. "The Ballad of True Thomas" came unbid-
den to him, one of many songs and fables he'd learned
to fascinate and entertain the Folk Underbill. He
dosed his eyes, seeing neither sun nor moon, and the
breeze washing over the car sounded like the sea.

"For forty days and forty nights, he wade thro red blood to the
knee...."

It hadn't just been fatigue that had kept him down
the night before, he'd surmised. Conal or Keighvin
had no doubt influenced his sleep, playing on his
own desires to deepen it. He remembered, now, the
other elements of his dreams: the lover that had
come with him into a room of green and gold, and
laid him down .. . they had no doubt arranged that,
too, to occupy him, keep him in the dream for as
long as it took for his body to heal itself of the strain
he'd been putting on it. And in the room with them
had been a sleeping golden eagle, and a tapestry of a
kind dragon holding a child, gently, as a parent
would.

Oh, the dreams of mages. They were sharp and
powerful, second only to the waking world, but just as
real in their influence on the mage. The lover had been
that woman that had plagued his dreams for so long;

the one he'd seen while with Chinthliss, so far away. He
had seen her a half-dozen dmes, but never spoken to
her; black hair, green eyes, grace beyond words, cheek-
bones. ...

Litde wonder he had been enthralled by her, and by
the dream. Even with all that had just happened, she
still could dominate his thoughts.

The Queen of Air and Darkness....

But she wasn't Sidhe, he was certain ofdiat, not even
Sidhe in disguise; there was too much of mortality

BORN TO RUN            259
about her, a mortality that made her beauty all the

cwcptpr

sweeter....
Mow to be done.

With the slugs in the car's protective envelope, the
Sidhe could resume their great magics on the grounds,
and safely call up the Lesser Folk to assist The grounds
would be changed, from above and below. Although it
might look the same to a casual observer, below the sur-
face would be thousands of tricks and traps that not
even the souls at Fairgrove would know completely.
That was for the better, too — anyone could be broken,
and made to betray their friends, when magic and guile
were involved. Tannim didn't want to know the place's
secrets; he had too many weak spots that could be
manipulated. Chinthliss had laid him bare one time, to
show him how easily it could be done, then helped him
build up defenses against the most likely attacks. Tan-
nim had countered by dissecting him with words. The
great creature had twitched uncomfortably as he
repaid the test, using no magic at all. It had been the
most trusting moment of Chinthliss' life, and his best

friend had never forgotten the lesson his human friend
had taught him.

There were many ways to destroy someone — with
magic, knives, or scalpels of language. Nothing could
save a victim from a determined and resourceful
enough foe. Nothing could save a human trapped by

the Unseleighe Court. Or one of the Seleighe Sidhe,
for that matter.

It couldn't save...
Enough.

There were two boxes still in the back seat, aside from
the tape case; both of them had been gifts from Donal.
One was a CD player diat Tannim hadn't had rime to in-
stall since it had been given to him eight mondis ago.

"So that you may stop fearing for your precious songs, my
friend. These little ^ivis /•/»-".""< »•- '•— -J'  '

/    —J —"r
friend. These little disks
'spirits."

•IS"' "V

cannot be harmed by the passing of

260         Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dixan

Oh, Donal.
The other was...

He reached back with one hand, cupping the spent
slugs in his lap, and brought the small box up into the
front with him. He thumbed it open, and pulled from it
an emerald green silk scarf with edges of silver and
gold. Abirthday gift from one of the Fair Folk, one that
showed great trust and friendship. Silk, spun and
woven Underbill, with all of the magic of Underbill
twined in its warp and weft. A single shred of this could
open doors into Underbill for Tannim that few mortals
had even guessed at.

God, Donal, this is never what you intended it for. Danaa
watch over you, dear friend. Tannim solemnly placed the
bullets on the scarf and tied it into a bundle, then
nestled it on the dashboard.

Aremindertomeofwhatyouhavetopayfor, VidalDhu.
Tannim drew the crowbar from its resting place, and
slipped it into its leather and silk sheath. The
gooseneck crowbar was one of the most elegant designs
ever, he'd always thought. A single piece of simple
formed iron, direct and unadorned, flat blade at one
end, strong hook at the other. No one he knew of be-
sides himself had ever used that hook quite the way he
did. He'd found that it would fit comfortably over a
shoulder, and never be noticed under a loose jacket
even when you were shaking someone's hand.

Chinthliss and his other friends had warned him
about his temper. Told him how mages affected every-
thing in the area when they became emotionally upset.
How he had to be in control all the time. How he
couldn't let revenge be a motivator.

Good thing they can't see how much I want to crease Vidal
Dhu's skull with this crowbar right now.

But they were right, and he knew it If he let the rage
inside him take over, let the grief overwhelm him, he
would be operating at less than peak performance.
Vidal Dhu was a past master at seeing weaknesses that

BORN TO RUN           261

were waiting to be exploited, and his own anger was
just such a weakness.

"Whenyou'w angry, you aren't thinking, you're feeling,"
Chinthliss had said. "That's all well and good when you're
putting power behind something, but it spells disaster in a
fight."

Yeah, well, the old lizard was right He ran his hand
through his sweaty hair. He had to calm down; he had
to. He wasn't ready for any kind of a fight in this state.

Drive. He could just drive, and let the thrum of
motor and highway be his absolution. Actually, that was
not such a bad idea — there was tension by the bucket
at Fairgrove right now, and some of it might be the
result of ordinary hunger. A quick burger run might
do everyone a lot of good.

Tannim started the car with the key and the foot-
switch under the brake pedal, and pulled onto
Thunder Road, not even thinking of making a speed
run. His head was filled with replays of what had hap-
pened lately — the fights and intimidations, the pain of
little Tania. Vidal Dhu's incessant vendettas. The
dreams. Donal. There they were again — Donal and
Rob. Damn. So much of this could be dealt with by call-
ing Chinthliss and teaming up with him, but his friend
and mentor had problems of his own, and was just as
likely to call for Tannim's help. So, no dice there. That
familiar feeling was back — of having all the pieces but
not quite fitting them together yet

Keigkvin's building like a volcano. Canal's suppressing his
grief'farhas brothel; but it won't hold for long. SUpfy-Rob's death
is hurting us all, and Baltic's out of it along with a half-dozen
more, easy. Sam'sturnedouttobestnmgerthanwe'dthought, but
Vwlal knows it too —plus, whateuer's left of the Baw-Sidhe will
want a piece of him. The production schedule's at a complete
standstill. Jame's probably been on the phone all day letting the
isstofSERRA knowwhat'shappened, sotheiv'Ubehelpsoon, but
"anything happens before then, we're sucking fumes.

The overcast skies didn't help his mood any, and the

262         MercedesLackey and Lorry Djxan

drive-through burger order was in a monotone, not his
usual cheerful banter. The girls at the window, who
usually flirted with him, could tell there was something
wrong, and mercifully said nothing while Tannim sat
and stared through the Mustang's front glass, eyes un-
focused, chewing on his knuckles in concentration.

That's not even considering what this is doing to me. My
concentration is going straight to hell. Fighting Eagle could
probably snapme back into shape with a sweatlodge, but that's a
couple thousand miles away. TU have to call in allies before this
is done, and Tm running out of bribes for them. No Guardians
around either. Td call that PL, but he's a civilian. First sign of
magic and he'd freak. Can't call in cops, or Teny would catch it
but good, plus they're ciwies too, at least where magic is con-
cerned. My power reserves are okay, plus what's m the car, but
against pissed-off'Sidhe? Hard to say.

A polite cough startled him out of his thoughts. The
cheeseburgers and chicken were ready, and the drive-
through girl waited patiently with all six bags. Tannim
sheepishly took the bags, and used the old trick of seat-
belting them in place before driving back towards

Fairgrove.

Get a grip, man. You could be broadsided by a Peterbilt and
never see it coming in this state. He shook his head and
began paying more attention to the road, before he ran
into someone. Never drive angry or distracted. Rule one,
boy. Innocent people out there...

Innocent people. Damn, with all of this going on, he
hadn't had time to get word to Kevin Barry's about
Tania and her friends having a place at the shelter!
Tannim again regretted not having installed a cellular
phone — it would have made that a moment's work
Instead, he had to pull over to a pay phone and root
through the phone book for the number.

Before his hand could touch the receiver, a psychic
blow slammed against his shields. He whirled and
flared out his shields into a barrier, scintillating and
probing in the light ranges humans couldn't see.

BORN TO RUN           263

Before him stood Ross Canfield, hands curled into
fists, ready to strike at Tannim's shields again. Tannim
leveled a blade of magical force at the ghost's throat,
and held it there until Ross relaxed.

"Jeez, boy, come on! Just trying to get your attention.
Ya couldn't seem t'hear anythin' else I tried!"

"You got it, Ross. Bigtime. What's the damned
problem?"

Ross backed off— evidently, the young mage was
projecting irritation like a bad country station. Tannim
reduced his shields after checking Ross over, and ner-
vously ran a hand through his hair for the umpteenth
time that night

"It's your little girl, Tannim. She's in bad trouble.
She..."

Tannim looked around a moment, then gestured at
the car with a thumb. "Get in."

The shields around the car turned transparent for a
moment, and Ross slipped into the passenger's seat and
waited, food-sacks visible through his body. Tannim sat
down next to him and fastened his harness, then started
the engine and pulled away from the pay-phone.

"Sorry, Ross. Lost a couple friends last night. Still on
edge over it."

Ross nodded; could be the news of the fight had
made it over to his side.

"lama?"

"I've been following her. Last night, a real nasty fella
tried to kidnap her. I stopped him. Today, she's gone
off with her friends to be in a pom movie. Alimo picked
them up, and as soon as they stepped in, I couldn't see
them anymore. There was just something about it that
wasn't right — a wall, like you've got on this car."

"Oh, shit." Pieces were falling into place. The car ac-
celerated.

"Fox is watching her now. Last time he talked, he was
furious. I haven't heard from him in a couple'a
minutes, though an' I'm startin' t' worry. She's— "

264 Mercedes Lackey and LanyDaan

"Fox? Who's this Fox?"

"A friend of mine from the other side. Foxtrot Xray,
he calls himself. Smartass shapechanger. Powerful.
Anyway, the limo lost me, but Fox could follow it. I
came to you, soon as I could."

The gates of Thunder Road were coming into view.
As the Mustang rolled up, Tannim could see that there
were three of the Fairgrove crew, including Conai,
standing around a foot-wide smoking hole. They
turned at the sound ofTannim's approach, and Con<J
walked a few steps to stand next to the open driver's
window.

"What's the bum-spot?"

"A messenger," he spat Conal peered into the Mus
tang, noting the burgers and the ghost at once, and
appeared unimpressed by either.

"The ghost is with me. That" — nodding at the hand
— "must be bad news."

"Aye, you can bet your last silver on that." He
handed the envelope to Tannim. It bore the black seal
ofVidalDhu.

The main bay was eerily quiet. There were no
screams of grinders, no buzz of technical talk or rapping
of wrenches. There was no whine of test engines or>
dynos coming through the walls. Instead, there was a
dull-bladed tension amid all the machinery, generated
by the humans and the Sidhe gathered there.

Tannim laid the envelope on the rear deck of the only
fully-operational GTP car that Fairgrove had built t< •
date, the one that Donal had spent his waking hours
building, and Conal had spent track-testing. He'd
designed it for beauty and power in equal measure, and
had given its key to Conal, its elected driver, in the same
brother's-gift ceremony used to present an elvensteed
Conal now sat on its sculpted door, and absently traced a
slender finger along an air intake, glowering at the en-
velope.

BORN TO RUN           265

Tannim finished his magical tests, and asked for a
knife. An even dozen were offered, but Dottie's
Leatherman was accepted. Keighvin stood a little apart
from the group, hand on his short knife. His eyes glit-
tered with suppressed anger, and he appeared less
human than usual, Tannim noticed. Something was
bound to break soon.

Tannim folded out the knifeblade, slit the envelope
open, and then unfolded the Leatherman's pliers.
With them he withdrew six Polaroids ofTania and two
others, unconscious, each bound at the wrists and
neck. Their silver chains were held by somethings from
the Realm of the Unseleighe — inside a limo. And, out
of focus through the limo's windows, was a stretch of
flat tarmac, and large buildings —

Tannim dropped the Leatherman, his fingers gone
numb. It clattered twice before wedging into the
cockpit's fresh-air vent. Keighvin took one startled step
forward, then halted as the magical alarms at
Fairgrove's perimeter flared around them all.
Tannim's hand went into a jacket pocket, and he threw
down the letter from the El. He saw Conal pick up the
photographs, blanch, then snatch the letter up.

Tannim had already turned by then, and was sprint-
ing for the office door, and the parking lot beyond.

Behind him, he could hear startled questions
directed at him, but all he could answer before disap-
pearing into the offices was "Airport!" His bad leg was
slowing him down, and screamed at him like a sharp
rock grinding into his bones. There was some kind of
attack beginning, but he had no time for that

Have to get to the airport, have to save Jamafrwn Vidal
JDhu, the bastard, thesonofa bitch, the—

Tannim rounded a corner and banged his left knee
into a file cabinet. He went down hard, hands instinc-
tively clutching at his over-damaged leg. His eyes swam
with a private galaxy of red stars, and he struggled
while his eyes refocused.

266 Mercedes Lackey andLanyDwan

Son of a bitch son of a bitch son of a bitch....
Behind him he heard the sounds of a war-party, and
above it all, the banshee wail of a high-performance en-
gine. He pulled himself up, holding the bleeding knee,
and limp-ran towards the parking lot, to the Mustang,
and Thunder Road.

Vidal Dhu stood in full armor before the gates of
Fairgrove, laughing, lashing out with levin-bolts to set
off its alarms. It was easy for Vidal to imagine what
must be going on inside — easy to picture that smug,
orphaned witling Keighvin Silverhair barking orders
to weak mortals, marshaling them to fight. Let him
rally them, Vidal thought — it will do him no good.
None at all. He may have won before, but ultimately,
the mortals wffl have damned him.

It has beenso many centuries, Silverhair. Isworsrdkillyow
entire lineage, and I shall. I shall!

Vidal prepared to open the gate to Underbill.
Through that gate all the Court would watch as
Keighvin was destroyed — Aurilia's plan be hanged!
Vidal's blood sang with triumph — he had driven
Silverhair into a winless position at last! And when he
accepted the Challenge, before the whole Court, none
of his human-world tricks would benefit him — theirs
would be a purely magical combat, one Sidhe to
another.

To the death.

Keighvin Silverhair recognized the scent of the
magic at Fairgrove's gates — he had smeBed it for cen-
turies. It reeked of obsession and fear, hatred and lust
It was born of pain inflicted without consideration of
repercussions. It was the magic of one who had stalked
innocents and stolen their last breaths.

He recognized, too, the rhythm that was being
beaten against the walls of Fairgrove.

So be it, murderer. 1'will sufferyowstench no mane.

BORN TO RUN           267

"They will expect us to dither and delay; the sooner
we act, the more likely it is that we will catch them
unprepared. They do not know how well we work
together."

Around him, the humans and Sidhe of his home
sprang into action, taking up arms with such speed he'd
have thought them possessed. Conal had thrown down
the letter after reading it, and barked, "Hangar 2A at
Savannah Regional; they've got children as hostages!"
The doors of the bay began rolling open, and outside,
elvensteeds stamped and reared, eyes glowing, anxious
for batde. Conal looked to him, then, for orders.

Keighvin met his eyes for one long moment, and
said, "Go, Conal. I shall deal with our attacker for the
last time. If naught else, the barrier at the gates can act
as a trap to hold him undl we can deal with him as he
deserves." He did not add what he was thinking— that
he only hoped it would hold Vidal. The Unseleighe
was a strong mage; he might escape even a trap laid
with death metal, if he were clever enough. Then, with
the swiftness of a falcon, he was astride his elvensteed
Rosaleen Dhu, headed for the perimeter of Fairgrove.

He was out there, all right, and had begun laying a
spell outside the fences, like a snare. Perhaps in his
sickening arrogance he'd forgotten that Keighvin
could see such things. Perhaps in his insanity, he no
longer cared.

Rosaleen tore across the grounds as fast as a stroke of
lightning, and cleared the fence in a soaring leap. She
landed a few yards from the laughing, mad Vidal Dhu,
on the roadside, with him between Keighvin and the
gates. He stopped lashing his mocking bolts at the gates
of Fairgrove and turned to face Keighvin.

"So, you've come to face me alone, at last? No walls
or mortals to hide behind, as usual, coward? So sad that
you've chosen now to change, within minutes of your
death, traitor."

268        Mercedes Lackey and, LanyDwan

"Vidal Dhu," Keighvin said, trying to sound
unimpressed despite the heat of his blood, "if you wish
to duel me, I shall accept. But before I accept, you must
release the children you hold."

The Unseleighe laughed bitterly. "It's your concern
for these mortals that raised you that have made you a
traitor, boy. Those children do not matter." Vidal lifted
his lip in a sneer as Keighvin struggled to maintain his
composure. "Oh, I will do more than duel you. Silver-
hair. I wish to Challenge you before the Court, and kill
you as they watch."

That was what Keighvin had noted — it was the ini-
tial layout of a Gate to the High Court Underbill. Vidal
was serious about this Challenge — already the Court
would be assembling to judge the battle. Keighvin sat
atop Rosaleen, who snorted and stamped, enraged by
the other's tauntings. Vidal's pitted face twisted in a
maniacal smirk.

"How long must I wait for you to show courage,
witling?"

Keighvin's mind swam for a moment, before he
remembered the full protocols of a formal Challenge.
It had been so long since he'd even seen one....

Once accepted, the Gate activates, and all the Court watches
as the two battle with blade and magic. Only one leaves the
field; the Court is bound to slay anyone who runs. So it had al-
ways been. Vidal would not Challenge unless he were
confident of winning, and Keighvin was still dred from
the last battle — which Vidal had not even been at....

But Vidal must die. That much Keighvin knew.

• CHAPTER FOURTEEN

There could be no mercy this time. Those mortal
folk who had raised Keighvin in the tradition of the
mortals' forgiving God had been wrong — there came
a time when there could be no more forgiveness.

But neither could Keighvin afford to accept Vidal's
Challenge. In a straight mage-duel right now, he was
no match for Vidal; and in his current state of physical
exhaustion he could not even best his enemy blade-to-
blade.

That left only one thing he could do: stall for time,
trigger the trap when Vidal was not looking, and hope
that someone or something would intervene and tilt
the balance back his way.

Pray for luck, in massive quantities — to Danaa and
the humans' God, who also cherished children — that
all the pieces could somehow come together at once
and Keighvin could save himself, Fairgrove, and the
hostage children.

"Why here, Vidal?" he asked, keeping face and voice
impassive. "Why now?"

"To prove to Seleighe and Unseleighe Courts alike
that you're a fool, a brain-sick, soft-headed fool, Keigh-
vin Silverhair," Vidal snarled, scarlet traces of energy
crackling down his hands as he clenched them, his
pitted face twisted with sick rage. "You and your obses-
sion with these mortals, with their works and their
worid, when you should be exploiting them!"

So far he hadn't noticed that Keighvin hadn't formally
accepted the Challenge. Until the Challenge was ac-
cepted, with the proper words, any means of defeating

270 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dwan

Vidal was legal. Undl Vidal noticed, Keighvin intended
to keep stalling, while he tried to think of some way of
alerting his people back at the complex to his need.

From a half mile away, his sharp hearing picked up
the burbling growl of a high-performance engine; a
particularly odd growl, closer to the sound of a racing
plane than a car. Long familiarity let him identify it in-
stantly as Tannim's Mustang. And a plan occurred to
him with a blinding flash of insight.

All he had to do was keep stalling, for a little longer.
The trap would not be needed after all.

Blessed Danaa, thank you. Sacred Mother of Acceleration
bevnthvs....

He swept his arms wide, flinging his cloak to either
side as if he had unfurled wings; at the same time he
magically keyed the gate-control behind Vidal, so that
the twin panels receded and locked in the "open"
position.

"Oh, impressive," Vidal mocked. He had not noticed
that the physical gates behind him were open; all his at-
tention had been centered on Keighvin's extravagant
gesture — precisely as Keighvin had hoped.

Behind Vidal, the engine-sounds screamed and
dopplered as Tannim gunned the Mustang and turned
her. Vidal Dhu had not noticed the telltale noises at all;

or if he had, had thought it was another car on the
highway somewhere in the distance.

Or perhaps, in his arrogance, he accounted the
things that mortals did of no importance.

He sneered, and the vermilion glow about him in-
creased. "What is your next trick, Keighvin Witling?
Do you make an egg appear from your mouth? Or a
coin from your ear?"

The engine's growl pitched up; and behind Vidal's
back, the speed-run lights flashed from green, to yel-
low, to red.

Pain from Tannim's abused knee sent streaks of red

BORN TO RUN           271

lightning across his vision. It felt as if someone had
driven a glass knife into his kneecap, and his leg got
heavier with every step he took. Very much more, and
his leg wasn't going to hold him.

fust a fewmore steps....

Light. Light from the parking lot ahead of him,
through the office windows. The Mustang was close
enough to "hear" the remote now.

The keys were in his right hand, although he didn't
remember groping for them. With his left hand dutch-
ing his thigh just above the knee, he thumbed the
remote while staggering for the door, and was
rewarded with the growl of the engine.

A few more steps....

The door, the last barrier between himself and the
Mach 1. He hit it, hoping it would open, hoping it
hadn't quite caught the last time someone had come
through. It flew wide, spilling him onto the concrete
outside. He tried to roll, but didn't quite make it, and
his left knee struck concrete, leaving a red splotch of
blood where he'd hit.

JEEEEsus!

Gasping for air, he got to his feet again, and made the
last few steps to the Mustang. He fell inside, sobbing,
unashamed of the tears of pain.

He hauled himself into place with the steering
wheel, and stole a predous few seconds to jerk the har-
ness into place, yanking it tighter than he ever had
before. As he reached over for the door-handle and
slammed it dosed, he averted his eyes from the hole in
his jeans and the mess underneath. If he didn't look at
it, it might not hurt so much.

Oh God, don't let me have taken my kneecap off, please....

And he was profoundly grateful he'd followed an old
cop friend's advice — that he "couldn't shoot and
drive" without an automatic tranny. Right now, there
wasn't enough left of his leg to manage a stick-shift.

He reached blindly for the T-shifter and threw it into

272        Mercedes Lackey and LanyDwm

reverse, gunning the engine at the same time. The rear of
the car slewed wildly, spinning in a doud of exhaust and
dre-smoke and a screech of rubber, until the nose of the
Mustang faced thedriveway.

He smoked the dres.

Gees threw him back into his seat, and his leg howled
in protest; tears blurred his sight, but he knew
Thunder Road like he knew the colors of his magic,
and he kept it straight down the middle.

Kfty. Seventy. Ninety.

The Mustang thundered defiance, getting louder as
it built up to speed, the war-cry of the engine thrum-
ming through the roll-cage, vibrating in his chest,
filling his ears to the exclusion of any other sound. The
trees to either side were a blur, made so as much by ac-
celeration as by his watering eyes.

Hundred ten.

The road narrowed, and he felt every tiny ir-
regularity in the asphalt in his tailbone — and his knee.
The passing-lines down the middle started to strobe —
then seemed to stop — then appeared to pull away
from him. It was one of the most unnerving optical il-
lusions of high-speed driving, daring the driver to try
and catch them. He damped his hands on the steering
wheel so hard they hurt, and sdll the tiny corrections
he was making sent him all over the road like a drunk.

And the road got awfully narrow when you were
going this fast...

The Mach 1 shuddered and vibrated, as its spoiler
and ground-effects fought against lift. Now would not
be the time to research a Mustang's airspeed velocity.

One thirty.

The trees on either side seemed closer — much
doser. The speed made them bend right over the road,
cutting off the stars above the road. There was light
from the streedamps at the end of the tunnel of trees.
The gates were open. He keyed in his mage-sight

His mouth was dry. His knee still screamed pain at

BORN TO RUN

273

him, but he was no longer capable of feeling it Some-
where, deep inside, he knew he was going to pay for
this later — but that was later and this was now, and he
was in the grip of his own adrenalin.

The speedometer had already pegged, and he was
going to run out of road in a few seconds.

Keighvin counted under his breath, keeping himself
and Rosaleen squarely in front of the gates, occupying
Vidal's complete attention. The Unseleighe Sidhe was
still blissfully unaware of the engine-howl behind him,
but Keighvin saw the tiny dot ofTannim's Mustang
growing larger, and knew that his timing would have to
be exquisite.

He's going to have to start braking soon...

One heartbeat too soon, and Vidal would escape the
trap, for Keighvin'sjump would warn him. One too late,
and he and Rosaleen would go down with the enemy.

Better too late than too soon, he thought, and felt
Rosaleen, the darling of his heart, agreeing silently
with him.

:1couldjump for him,: she added, mind to mind.

Blessed Danaa. ... It was a brilliant notion. Vidal
would probably not interpret that as either an attack or
an attempt to escape something coming up behind
him. It would certainly get his attention. And it might
look as though Rosaleen had bolted out of nervousness
or battle-anger her rider couldn't control.

But Rosaleen, as strong and clever as she was, would
not be able to make the jump in one bound. She would
have to take a second leap at the very last instant to
dear the Mustang, and that would leave her wide open
to an attack by Vidal.

:So be it,: she said, and then it was too late for second
thoughts — the Mustang was braking, the engine-howl
was near enough that even Vidal was likely to sense
something wrong, and there were only seconds left—

Rosaleen leapt.

274 MercedesLackey and LanyDixan

Vidal started; shouted in contempt. "Idiot! It'll take
more than one horse to — "

Rosaleen gathered herself a second time, muscles
bunching beneath Keighvin's legs, and Keighvin
heard Tannim inexplicably hit the gas — again.

Rosaleen threw herself into the air, as high as she
could, flinging herself over Vidal, and over the Mus-

tane. But the Mach 1's sudden acceleration threw her
• -   n-
tmungon—

She strained — tucking her hooves as high as she
could—

One trailing hoof caught on the Mustang's roof,
sending a shower of sparks up, just as Vidal whirled,
and saw a silver horse below two flaring nostrils —
framed by a hood the deep red of heart's blood — and
his mouth formed a scream he never had time to voice.

Tannim pumped the brakes furiously, pleading with
all powers that they wouldn't lock up. He looked past
the gates for the first dme.

There was something blocking his way.

The glow of magic — flavored unmistakably with the
screaming scarlet of Vidal Dhu.

Screw it.

The foot went down again — on the accelerator.
Vidal turned, sensing something wrong — his eyes
grew wide in horror —

And Tannim saw, over the tied bundle on his dash-
board, the final moment of Vidal Dhu's life.

The Mach 1 impacted his body squarely, as Tannim
used the hood's air-intakes to sight on his hips — and
Vidal folded, his face mating with the Mach 1's hood in
a soggy, splintering crash like a melon below a hurtling
cinder-block.

Suck sheet metal!

Tannim threw a burst of reinforcing energy into the
windscreenjust as they hit, praying the glass wouldn't
shatter. The pyrotechnic-glare blazed out from the

BORN TO RUN           275

car's every seam, as long-stored energy was tapped,
obscuring Vidal's impact on the windshield. Then
Vidal was flung up in the air like a rag doll. The glass
held, then cleared enough to reveal the next problem.

Tannim had just run out of road.

Oh shit....

Rosaleen stumbled, throwing Keighvin against the
saddle-bow; recovered, stumbled again, and went to
her knees. Keighvin thanked Danaa that Rosaleen was
not a horse; the first stumble would have broken her
legs off like twigs; the second would have broken her
neck and his.

The elvensteed lurched to her feet and whirled.
Keighvin heard the whine of another car approaching,
registered it absently as Conal's Victor, and leapt from
Rosaleen's back, his hands clenched into fists as he
watched Tannim's Mustang slewing sideways.

Dear Danaa, let him pull this off—

Tannim didn't have the room to brake; instead, he
slung the car around, gunning the throttle to break
loose the drive-wheels, putting the tail squarely in the
direction of momentum, with the still-spinning wheels
now working to arrest the car's movement.

The dres smoked like an erupting volcano, with a
scream like the death-wails of four Bane-Sidhe. The
cloud of smoke and dust hid the Mach 1 from view, and
Keighvin held his breath —

The screaming stopped; it did not end in a crash of
sheetmetal and glass. The smoke and dust lifted, to
reveal the Mustang sitting beneath the streetlight, with
steam and smoke coming from the wheel wells, its tail
tucked neatly into the embankment on the opposite
side of the road.

Blessed Danaa — he did it. In all of his long lifetime,
Keighvin had not seen a piece of driving to match it.
He sucked in a deep breath, only now aware that he
had forgotten to breathe entirely.

276        Mercsdes Lackey and Lorry Dswn

Before Keighvin could take a single step towards the
Mustang, the engine coughed and roared, and with
another screech ofdres, Tannim pulled the Mach 1 back
onto the road and screamed offtowards the airport...

... Just as Conal braked the Victor beside Keighvin.
Conal took in the entire scene in a single glance, swore
a paint-blistering oath, and burned rubber in hot pur-
suit of the human mage.

Keighvin took another deep breath and walked,
slowly, to what was left ofVidal Dhu.

The Unseleighe Sidhe was still alive. His body was a
broken wreck, his face a shapeless ruin, but he still
breathed, and Keighvin could Feel the hatred rising
from him like the stench of decaying flesh.

He looked down at his lifelong enemy, and knew that
Vidal was still conscious, could still hear every word he
spoke.

He stared down at the body for a long time, then
chose his words with precise care. "Once before I left
you for dead, Vidal, and once before you returned to
make war upon me. Once I gave you mercy and let you
live — and you repaid my mercy with blood." He drew
the tiny, hand-forged shewn dhu, the little "black knife,"
from its silk and leather sheath at his belt Fitting that it
should be a gift from Tannim, who never believed the
gift of a knife severed a friendship. This stroke would
be from both of them. "No more mercy, Vidal Dhu."

With a curious lack of passion, he drove the knife of
Death Metal home to the hilt and stood, leaving it
buried in what was left ofVidal's twisted heart

Tannim's leg felt as if he'd been soaking it in lava, but
it was bearable. The hood of the Mach 1 bore a huge
dent where Vidal Dhu's face had made its first impres-
sion. Tannim wanted to hammer the dent out with
what was left of that face.

But that could wait until later. Right now, there were
three kids in trouble, and personal vendettas could

BORN TO RUN           277

wait — assuming Keighvin left anything of the Un-
seleighe Sidhe for anyone to play with. He didn't think
Keighvin Silverhair had even an atom of mercy left for
Vidal Dhu.

And, of course, before Tannim could get any more
licks in, there were others with more right than he had
to dance on Vidal's little corpse. Conal, most notably.

Tannim still wasn't certain how he'd pulled that
slingshot maneuver off, and he wasn't sure he'd ever
be able to duplicate it

Thenagavn, 1devoutlyhope TV-neverhaveto....

He looked reflexively in the rear-view mirror, not ex-
pecting to see anything, but as an automatic reaction —
and saw the front end of the Victor filling the rear
windscreen, with Conal, helmeted asifhewasonthe track,
grimly dutchingthe wheel. Foronestardedmoment.itfelt
asifhiseariierthoughthad summoned the Sidhe.

Conal?

The Victor was so close he could hear the high-
pitched whine of its engine over the brawling thunder
of the Mach 1's.

Jeez,—the radio!

If Conal had his helmet on, he might have plugged in
his radio-mike. Tannim reached over and flipped on
the FM scanner between two four-wheel drifts; it hit
two broadcasts too faint to hold, then stuck on —

".... Tamwn mill ye turn yer bloody damned receiver on,
Fvebeen..."

"... tryin' t' raise ye fer the past five friggin' minutes,
ye demon-blasted muddle-headed excuse fer — "
Conal broke offhis tirade as Tannim waved frantically.

"It's about damned time!" the Sidhe exploded.
"Keighvin's bringin' up th' rear-guard; the rest is most-
ly behind me. I don't s'ppose ye've got a plan?"

While waiting for a reply, Conal cursed under his
breath, as between the right suspension and the low
ground clearance, the Victor bottomed out for the

278 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Doom

thousandth dme since this desperate run began. He
was certain they were leaving a trail of sparks and
grooved pavement Not to mention what this run was
doing to the undercarriage ofDonal's precious car—

Donal. Sweet Dawa....

Tannim stuck his hand out the window, miming
shooting a gun. Repeatedly. "Ah, blessed Danaa,th' boy
thinks he's Md Gibson now," Conal muttered." Tisn't a
plan he's got, 'tis a deathwish." He raised his voice a lit-
de. "Yon Sam's wi' Dotde an' her 'steed. You an' I have
th' only real metal beasdes, an' we're leadin' the pack.
They should be on my tail in a trice. Ax/you're leadin' me
b'cause I don't have any bleedin' headlights!"

Plan, we need a plan... there's going t' be damn-all inter-
ference at the airport. Conal thought fast, speaking his
thoughts aloud, and watching the mage-sight-en-
hanced silhouette of the young man ahead of him for
any signs of agreement or disagreement.

Staying right on Tannim's tail was no easy feat — it
was a good thing die Victor had better brakes than die
Mustang. "We're goin',t' have t' breach th' mage-shields
on their stronghold — an' we're goin' t' have t' break
down a fence diere too, if I recollect Now, die shields,
diey're likely t' be just like any reg'lar Sidhe defenses —
an' dial's pure Sidhe magery, w'out any human backup.
So if you an' me should happen t'hit it wi' all diat sheet
metal, seems t' me it should go down...."

Tannim nodded vigorously, and raised a clenched
fist in die air.

Conal condnued to dunk aloud. "That still leaves di'
fence. But if we put our magics t'gedier, you an' meself,
an' armored up di' point on yon Mustang—ye diinkitll
fly, lad?"

There was no doubt diat Tannim thought it would
fly. Conal grinned in savage satisfaction, even diough it
included a twinge of guilt

The Mustang was Tannim's pride, joy, and predous
baby. He was going to have to spend weeks on it as it

BORN TO RUN           279

was, repairing die damage diat had already been done
to it Conal hated to ask him to put die Mach 1 on point
— but diere wasn't much choice. "I know how ye feel
'bout diat car, old son. But ye've got 'bout twenty-five
diousand worth diere, an' I'm pilotin' near half a mil. I
promise, ye'B have every tiny atom of magery I got on
diat nose. So — do we brace for rammin' speed?"

In answer, magic eneigy flared upall over die Mustang,
a vivid coruscating aurora of every color Conal could
name and some diat had no names, as Tannim released
more of die energies he had invested in die Mach 1'sbody,
adding his own to diem. After die initial flare, diey setded
into a dun skin oflight, widi a vivid blue-white glow some-
where near the front end. Conal unleashed his own
powers, letting diem meld widi the human's work. He Felt
Tannim direct die shape and force of it, as Donal and die
young mage had soofien when workingon die Victor....

He choked back a sob, and shook his head to free his
eyes of of die stinging tears diat direatened to obscure
his sight

This one's far you, Donal.

He let his grief and anger build, containing them
widiin himself until they were too painful, too power-
ful to hold back any more. And then he added bodi to
die mixture, strengthening it as only emotion could,
giving it a wild power no dispassionate, cold, controlled
magery could ever hope to rival. Oh aye, my brother, my
friend. This one is for you....

Tannim triggered the remainder of the Mach 1's
defenses, letting the energy run wild for a moment
before shaping it into a pointed ram over the
Mustang's nose. To his mage-sight it outshone the
headlights — and when he added in his own, personal
power, it flared again widi arc-light brilliance.

One eye on die tach to keep her from red-lining, one
eye on die road —he needed a diird eye for die magic—

Well, he could manage diat by inner eye and feel; he

280 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dwan

waited for Conal's input, and it came to him, smooth
and controlled, from the hand of an expert. And so like
Donal that his eyes stung with unexpected grief.

Christ.

He and Donal had worked so closely together on
that vehicle behind him, working complex collabora-
tive magics. The Victor wasn't pretty, not yet; the
bodywork was immaculate, but the paint job was hard-
ly more than a promise, and it still had tech-bugs to
work out. No, it wasn't pretty. But it was beautiful, a
work of pure art and genius, magic on four wheels.

A complete whole, in its own way. Even if it didn't
have headlights yet

A lump of sorrow threatened to choke him; just
before he could swallow it down, he felt another surge
of energy coming down the link. This one was pure
emotion, and the feelings matched his own. Grief.
Rage. Abuming need for vengeance.

He gave in to his mourning, to his anger, and let his
emotions join with Conal's to reinforce the magery
they had just created. He rode it like a wave, then
wrenched the wave into a coruscating barrier/weapon
sheathing the front chrome.

Never fight when you're angry. Chinthliss had told him
that, over and over. But there was a counter to that.
Yes, anger destroyed control, disturbed the ability to
think. But itgranted a force that no controlled magic
could match; and this, if ever, was a situation that called
for that extra edge.

Deliberately Tannim forgot everything except the
road ahead and his memories of Donal and Rob; and of
little Tania, somewhere ahead, in mage-forged chains.

In the hands of people who tortured and killed
children, and filmed it for profit.

He linked himself into the mage-ram, and filled it,
laying its channels so the ram would dispel moments
after impact with the fence, exposing the steel of the
Mustang's nose.

BORN TO RUN           281

Finally, when he had to dim his own mage-sight be-
cause the front of the Mach 1 had gotten too bright for
km, to bear, he became aware that Conal was trying to
get his attention.

"Tamwn! Wake up lad! Th' rest ofth' cavalry's behind, an'
Keighvin saysye'rs Ughtm'up th'shy like a bloody fireworks dis-
play!"

He shook himself loose, and took the eye he'd had
on the tach and spared a glance for the rear-view mir-
ror. Yeah, they were behind him, all right. All the
elvensteeds were in car-shape, and they streamed be-
hind him as if he were a demented pace-car driver; in a
LeMans race to hell.

It wouldn't be long now; the beacon from the airport
was on the horizon.

"Tarvnian! Sarge says Hangar 2A is second off the commer-
cial access road!"

He hadn't noticed any civilians on the road — either
they'd been lucky, or —

"By the way, ye've run a brace a' station wagons an' a Miata
off onto th'shoulder. We better get there pretty quick-like, orth'
next lad ye run off is likely t'bea black'n'white."

And he hadn't noticed. Oreat. Just great.

Then he knew where his other-worldly allies were —
they were ahead of him, forcing people off the road so
they wouldn't be hit. Bless them, bless them, and thank
God for mage-sight — there was the sign for commer-
cial air. It couldn't be far now....

Hang on, Tania. Help's on the way —

The movie people sent a limo; that alone impressed
Tania. She and Laura got in the forward-facing seat,
while Jamie (wired and irritable, and in need of a fix)
bounced into the rear-facing bench. The driver dosed
the doors, and Tania ran her hand over the armrest,
only to discover that it was really a cellular phone. In-
trigued, she and Laura began exploring all the
amenities this rolling room offered.

282 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Damn

The dark blue upholstery hid a myriad of surprises:

a TV and radio, wet bar and a litde refrigerator, and —

She looked up at Jamie's sudden exclamation of
pleasure, and lurched across the intervening space be-
tween them. Too late; he'd not only gotten one of the litde
bags of white powder open, he'd stuck his nose inside it
and snorted direcdy from the packet

As she and Laura stared at him, appalled, he lay back
in the embrace of the seat-cushions and grinned at
them. "Oh, chill out," he said, mockingly. "It's no big
deal. I just need it for the shoot — "

Then he stuck his nose in it and sniffed again.

OhGod—how much of that has he dorte—

That was when the driver turned to look at them,
and something odd about his eyes made Tania glance
at him.

She froze, as his glowing, red eyes glared at them
through the glass of the screen and the growing dark-
ness of the interior. Eyes like two litde candle-flames in
the middle of a completely featureless face.

Tania screamed; Laura jumped and gurgled —
Jamie started to turn —

And then, with no warning, everything went black.

She woke to moaning, in the dark, with her hands
cuffed behind her back. She held absolutely still for a
moment, wondering if she was stuck in the trunk of a
car, or in a completely darkened room.

Her left arm was numb where she was lying on it,
her legs knotted with cramps, and she was horribly
cold. She stretched out her legs, tentatively, and en-
countered no resistance, rolled, and learned she was
on some kind of hard, cool, stone-like surface; probab-
ly a cement floor.

Somewhere off in the darkness, someone was curs-
ing. Someone else was moaning, crying. After a
moment, she recognized the voice. Laura.

OhGod—

BORNTORUN           283

At just that moment, lights came on again in the
darkness off beyond her. The huge bulk of something
was between her and the light, and it took her a mo-
ment to recognize it as an airplane.

The moment the lights came on, Laura stopped
moaning and started to scream, cry, beg her unseen
captors to leave her alone, to let her loose. The sharp
crack of a hard slap echoed across the building, but
Laura didn't stop.

"Get her inside and across the Gate," said another female
voice. A cold hand of fear clutched Tania's throat; these
must be the people who'd sent that thug out after her!
Whatever they'd done to Laura so far, what they were
about to do must be much, much worse for her to be
shrieking like that They must be monsters —

Then she remembered the faceless thing in the limo.
Maybe they really were monsters, and Laura was
screaming in mindless fear because the limo-thing — or
something worse — was what had hold other.

Oh, God— The ice of fear direatened to paralyze her,
but right now nobody seemed to be watching her. She
might have a chance to get away, get help. She rolled
over, whimpering with the effort and pain it cost her,
dosing her eyes to concentrate on moving quiedy —

And when she opened diem, she was staring straight
into Janrie's dried, wide-open eyes.

She couldn't help it; she screamed, and kicked away
reflexively, pushing herself across the concrete away
from the corpse, which gazed at her widi a frozen ex-
pression of horrified pain. There was no doubt that
Jamie was dead; he never blinked, never moved, never
took a breath; his body was twisted up in a careless
heap — a discarded puppet, witfi die ghasdy evidence
of violations no sane mind could inflict

"What's diat?" die female asked. Footsteps out of die
dark heralded die arrival of someone. A moment later,
a hand caught a fistful of Tania's hair and pulled her
face up. She just caught a glimpse of a blond man,

284        Mercedes Lackey awlLanyDixon

handsome in a movie-star way, before he slapped her
hard enough to lose his own hold on her hair and she
dropped back down to the concrete, too much in shock
and pain even to cry out.

"just the little bitch, my lady," the man called out, star-
ing down at her and smiling. "She seems to have been
startled by her bedmate. I think she'll be quiet now." He
leaned down and crooned, soffly, "Won'tyou?"

She nodded, tears cutting their way down her
cheeks. He has pointed ears. And green eyes —

"Fine," the woman snapped. "Come give me a hand
with this one."

The man smiled and locked eyes with her, and Tania
shuddered at the promises in that smile. With a toss of
his head, he flung his long mane of blond hair over his
shoulder, and walked off again, turning only once to
say, "He's sure to be hard for you now."

He had pointed ears. First the monster, then this — elf?
He matched all the descriptions of elves — at least, the
evil ones....

They killed Jamie. The tears fell harder; she put her
bruised cheek down on the concrete, and sobbed. They
kiUedJame, they're going to kill Laura, and then thesis going
tokilime—

At that precise moment, the lights went out with an
explosive flash; Laura screamed again, high and shrill,
and the woman cursed.

"Hold still, little lady," came a harsh, Louisiana-ac-
cented whisper in her ear.

She jumped, and stifled a yelp.

"Come on, now, I cain't help ya ifya -won't hold still," the
voice scolded. "It's hard 'nough doin' this shit without ya'U
mown'around."

"Who are you?" she whispered back, unable to hear
or feel anything behind her, in spite of the fact that the
whisperer must be on top other. "What — "

"Ross Canfield, honey," he whispered back. "Tin tiyin' t'
get these damn cuffs unlocked. Tm afriend'a Tannim."

BORN TO RUN           285

Her heart leapt and pounded, and she started to try
to struggle, then remembered to hold still. "Tannim?
Oh God, does he know what's happening? Mr. Ross,
they killed Jamie, they've got Laura — "

"I know, honey," came the grim reply. "Tamwm's cmnxn'
asfast as he can, butthene's a couple miles between him an'us,
an' a lotta things c'n happen in a couple'a minutes. I keep
puttin' out th' lights t' kinda delay 'em, an' now that you're
awake, Tmgaima try andgetyou loose."

"Don't bother about me, get to Laura before they do
something horrible to her!" she said, hysterically.

"Honey, I cain't help Laura," Ross replied. "There ain't a
lot lean do, but Fm doin'all ofit right now."

"Why not?" she whispered through her tears, as
Laura screamed again. "Who are you? Why won't you
let me see you?"

There was a click behind her, a grunt of satisfaction,
and the handcuffs suddenly loosened. She jerked her
hands, freeing them, and pushed herself into a sitting
position, feeling frantically for her rescuer.

"Ya cain't see me 'cause I couldn't get visible an' work on th'
damn cuffs at th' same time," said Ross, from right in front
other, where her hands were groping. She blinked; a
glowing shape was forming in front other. "I'm sorry,
honey," he continued, apologetically. "There's only so
much a ghost c'n do."

As he finished his sentence, the glow took shape and
sharpened — and she sat there with her hands buried
to the wrist in the chest of a transparent redneck.

She jerked her hands back, and stuffed them in her
mouth, choking on another scream.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Five thousand, sw thousand, seven thousand, hold an, hold

an---

Tannim's eyes flicked from the road to the tach to his
mirrors, each split-second's attention divided. The
RFM needle swept up as the engine's exhaust note
built to a lusty whine, but Tannim refused to lift. He
wanted every ounce of power he could get from the
351, and he was timing its peak torque to coincide with
the impact on the fence. There were only a few
hundred feet for the Mustang and the Victor to build
up speed once the last turn was made. Then, the fence
faced them: chain link and pipe.

This isn't a movie; they don't just break away, Tannim
thought grimly, at last slapping the T-bar up into drive
and stroking the throttle. Four hundred horses'
strength thrust the car forward and pressed Tannim
back into the seat as the distance to the fence dosed —

— and the chainlink disintegrated, shattering like
crystal shards as the magical field disrupted it and cast
flaming shrapnel high into the air. The Mustang ex-
ploded through it onto the tarmac, and barely a breath
behind it came the Victor. Crackling sheets of name
swept over the Mustang and then curled off into noth-
ingness, exposing unscorched paint and chrome and
four headlights stabbing the darkness.

Mage-sight showed flickering patterns of energy all
over the hangar door, and more beyond — there was no
doubt this was the right place. Any hope of surprise
would be lost, though, if the field could not be breached
allatonce—and doing that meant punching a hole.

288         Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dixon

TVH going to miss you, oldcar,reaUy—it's been good....

Tannim braced himself as the RPMs climbed again,
and the hangar door swept inexorably closer.

Alarms and klaxons burst into life, while rotating
scarlet lights sent flashing signals of danger.

Ohshxt. The cops will be here any minute. We'd better get this
overwithfast.

The bulk of Hangar 2A loomed ahead, the alarm-
lights strobing against its flat metal sides. It looked
locked up tight from where Tannim sat. He went
through a very short list of bones he could afford to
have broken, but still, there seemed to be no other way
to sunder the magical defenses against elven magery.
Lacking a helmet to protect his eyes, Tannim used the
only defense he had against the inevitable flying, shat-
tered glass from the windshield. He drew the Ray-Bans
from his jacket and flipped them open, raised them to
his eyes....

A sliver of light grew from the ground as the main
door of Hangar 2A rose, clanking and protesting.

Whatm—

"Hurry up, hotshot," came a voice so dose to his ear it
might have been from the passenger's seat. "I hit th'
damn door button, but I ain't gonna promise it'll stay that way
ferlongr

"Ross!" Tannim could have kissed the ghost. "You
ever-lovin'geratit?!"

"Save it," Ross said shortly "You got a reception conwut-
tee. An' I ain't up t'anvw-catchin'."

Tannim backed off the throttle. Foronce, he had aB the
concrete he needed, and guided the Mustang intoawide
arc which would very soon place him at the tail of the
aircraft he saw inside the hangar. The "victor didn't need
to follow, not with its superior handling. Conal gunned
the beast and pulled up alongside, then ahead ofhim, the
elvensteeds overtaking both of them, having no need to
conform to the apparent laws of physics. The steeds
streamed into the open hangar, a fantasy of black, white,

BORN TO RUN           289

and screaming scarlet Pen-arris, Lotuses, Jags, show cars,
all bearing inhuman warrior's in enameled armor and
humans with high-powered firearms.

Every light in the place came up full, much to the ob-
vious surprise of those inside, giving the Fairgrove
team a dear view of their enemies. The enemies ran for
what little cover the hangar and the C-130 inside
provided—

And one small peroxide-blonde in a torn taffeta min-
idress spotted the Mach 1, lurched to her feet, and
stumbled to a run. And a silver-haired Sidhe darted out
of cover, in hot pursuit of her, hands stretched to seize
and hold her.

Aw shit — Tannim hit the door-release keypad on the
console and yanked the wheel sideways, so that the
momentum of his spin swung the passenger door wide
open just as the Mustang came to rest a few feet from
Tania. She flung herself in the general direction of the
passenger's seat, crying hysterically, her face streaked with
mascara and tears. Tannim leaned as far over as his race-
harness would allow, offered his right hand, grabbed her
outstretched hands and dragged her the rest of the way in-
side. Then he gunned the engine again, slewing the car to
the right on the slick concrete, and as the pursuing Sidhe
came charging, glittering blade drawn, Tannim opened
the driver'sdoorrightin his path.

The side window shattered as the Unseleighe Sidhe
went down and the rear tire rolled over him. Tannim
jammed on the brakes and bailed out, forgetting his
bad knee—

Which promptly collapsed under his weight, with a
stab of agony that made all the previous pain seem like
a day at the dentist's. He fell, mouth gaping; saved
himself from complete collapse by grabbing the door,
and hauled himself back up. Tania stared in shock,
tears still pouring from her eyes.

"Shut the damn door!" he yelled. Galvanized by his
angry command, she reached over and shut her side,

290        Mercedes Lackey and LanyDwan

head snapping back to face him instantly. "Lock them,"
he continued. "Please! Stay down, and don't move'"

She stared at him dumbly, as if she had seen too
much for her brain to take in. Aw hell, she's probably seen
Ross, boggles, trolls. God knows what —

"Look," he said pleadingly, taking his crowbar out as
the firefight erupted all around him. "Whenthisisover, I
promise I'll show you a unicorn. Just lock-the doors, shy
down, anddon'tmove."

She nodded, and he slammed the door, waiting just
long enough to see her push the lock down and duck
under the safety of the dash next to the battered CD-
player box before turning to stumble into the fray.

Dotde let the elvensteed do the driving; she simply
checked over her ammo and the rest of her gear as best
she could with only one unbandaged eye. The headset
looked very odd, wired in place over the bandages. She
had assured Sam that the damage was slight, just a cut
eyelid rather than a gouged eye, but it meant she
couldn't use that eye until the lid healed. Sam noticed,
however, that she had not mentioned the rest of the cut,
a slash that continued up over the top other head and
had taken forty-seven stitches to dose.

She finally took her main weapon onto her lap, and
patted it the way Sam patted Thoreau. He stared at it,
and her, still fascinated and taken a bit aback by the
mere existence of a shotgun with a bore the size of the
Holland Tunnel, never mind that it was tiny Dottie who
was toting the thing. And then there were the shells, in
double bandoleers that made her look like a Mexican
bandit. She smiled gleefully when she noticed the
direction of his stare.

"Triple-aught steel shot and salt," she said fondly.
"Packed 'em myself. Forget the Force. Trust in the
spread of the gauge, Sam."

He took a mental inventory of his own weapons. He'd
left the water-Uzi behind, figuring that the enemy al-

BORNTORUN           291

ready knew of that, and were expecting it. Twopenny
nails, Colt revolver and steel-jacketed bullets, six-inch circular
saw blades.. .goodthmgTho'reauandIplayfrisbeealot.

He'd been saving the damn sawblades for months, col-
lecting them from all his friends, since his neighbor Mary
had started painting daft little landscapes on them and
peddling them at craft fairs. He'd not trusted her around
even a dulled edge, and he'd ground every bit of sharp-
ness off, lest she slice open a finger while dabbing paint

Still, dull or not, they'd play merry cob with an Un-
seleighe Sidhe's day when thrown hard enough.

Id'knaw about that baggy of iron filings, though, he wor-
ried. Is the plastic likely to break on impact or not? He
wanted to have at least one weapon that couldn't pos-
sibly harm anyone but a Sidhe. There were three
children in there, who might still be alive. If one of the
nasties grabbed one to use as a shield...

Ahead of them, the Mustang impacted the gate with
a fiery crash that sent sparks in a thousand directions,
and lit up the place with every alarm known to the
mind of man. Dottie only sighed. "So much for sub-
tlety," she muttered, then frowned as she listened to
something on her headset.

"Sam, Keighvin wants us to check the offices and make
sure nobody gets out that way," she said absently, after a
moment Sam nodded, though Dottie looked a little dis-
appointed as her elvensteed made an abrupt direction
change, throwing him against the door, then screeched
to a halt outside the darkened glass of the office entrance.

The doors dissolved and he and the mechanic bailed
out like a pair of commandos. The elvensteed waited
until it was obvious that they weren't going to need it in
its current form — then it rippled, transforming into
horse-shape, before rearing, pivoting on its hind
hooves, and shooting off through the night towards the
open hangar door.

Dottie moved in fast, blasting the thick glass door
open with a single shell and darting through to throw

292 Mercedes Lackey aMiLanyDixan

herself against the wall. Sam followed, Colt in his hand
and heart in his-mouth, plastering himself to the wall
on the side opposite her.

Nothing: desk, chairs, a painting on the wall behind
the desk, now all full of holes. Typical receptionist area.
But two hallways branched from it — one to the right,
and one to the left. Glass crunched under their feet.
Dottie jerked her head leftwards; Sam nodded, and
eased into the hall to the right, ripsaw blade from the
ammo-box at his side in his odd hand. Funny thing,
that. Even though he was right-handed, he'd always
been ambidextrous at frisbee. Thoreau had no idea at
all what a good doggie he'd been.

He inched along the hallway with his back against
the wall. When he reached a door, he opened it from
the side; waited, then felt along the wall for the
lightswitch and flicked it on before poking his nose and
the barrel of the Colt inside. The first two doors he en-
countered led to storage rooms full of cardboard boxes.
He checked one box that was open; it was full of
videotapes in blank plastic holders. The third, how-
ever, was a little different.

He blinked in astonishment; this was a reception
area that would have done justice to any of
Gulfstream's high-powered execs. In one comer was a
wide-screen TV with a discreet VCR on top; surround-
ing it were couches covered in what Sam was willing to
bet was black leather. Matching black leather chairs
were arranged in little conversation circles, each
centered on a stylish walnut table. A wet bar took up
one entire side of the room. Sam licked his lips, and
tried not to think how much money was invested in the
plush gray carpet, the black marble of the bar, the lush
seating and furniture.

He eased along the wall to make sure no one was
hiding behind the bar, sliding on the soft cushion of the
bag of iron dust in his pocket If only he'd had time to
think of a better delivery system for it...

BORN TO RUN           293

The bar itself was magnificent: rare scotch and
decanters of cut crystal, goblets, stem glasses, silver-
chased antique seltzer botdes, shot glasses....

Holy God, I could use a whiskey and soda right —

He froze. Soda. Seltzer botdes — the old fashioned,
rechargeable kind — their nozzles were big enough
that nothing would dog them — not even iron dust. At
least not right away — and the seltzer would make a
good vehicle for the dust.

Now if the bastards had just gone all the way with
this yuppie image of theirs, and had really invested in
expensive crystal seltzer siphons and not the fake kind,
the kind that could be opened and recharged at the bar,
instead of the sort that took refills of cheap canned
soda-water....

He stuffed his gun back in the holster and dropped
the sawblade into the ammo box, and began rummag-
ing through the stock under the bar itself.

Armed with overcharged seltzer botde in one hand,
sawblade tucked under that thumb, and Colt in the
other hand, Sam resumed his explorations.

There wasn't much else to find. The rest of the suite
was one enormous room, with tables piled high with
videotapes, mailing boxes, and more supplies beneath
the tables. Two postal machines graced the far end of
the room.

He started to cross it — and Dottie's personal Howit-
zer thundered from across the hall.

He sprinted back die way he had come; it was longer,
but this way he'd be coming up from behind her, not
arriving in the line of fire.

This side of die office complex was a set of small, empty
rooms, barren even of furniture. The shotgun spoke
twice more as he passed them. He began to pant as he
reached what would have been die executive lounge; he
was an old man, and not used to running so much—

The shotgun roared again as he reached the door

294        Mercedes Lackey andianyDwon

and flattened himself to one side of it It looked as if this
place was set up as a kind of rudimentary video studio.
He couldn't see Dotde at all —

But he could see the back and shoulders of a tall,
slight young man hiding behind a screen with a
crossbow in his hands: blond-haired —

— pointy-eared —

He didn't even think; he just acted. He dropped to
the floor, putting the seltzer bottle aside, drew up the
sawblade and pitched it — then dodged aside without
waiting to see if it hit. The worst it would do would be to
distract him.

The Sidhe must have seen the movement out of the
comer of his eye, for he turned just as Sam dropped,
reflexively firing the crossbow.

The bolt thvdded into the wall above his head —just
as the sawblade hit the Sidhe in the neck.

He shrieked and gurgled, and fell back into the
screen, knocking it over, and Dottie's shotgun
thundered again.

There wasn't much left of either Sidhe or screen
when Sam got to his feet again. With the screen gone;

the rest of the room was in plain view, and it was pretty
evident that Dotde didn't miss with that thing.

And the bodies of the Sidhe — were smoking and
evaporating.

Sam stared at them, repulsed, but unable to look
away. The bodies were literally dissolving, leaving only
the sprinkles of iron buckshot behind. Dotde stood up
from her hiding place behind an overturned sofa
across the room, and made her way across the smashed
lights and broken video equipment to his side, absendy
reloading from her bandoleer.

"Why are they doing that?" Sam asked, fighdng down
nausea. "Our people didn't — "

"Our people weren't killed by Cold Iron, holy herbs
and blessed rock-salt," Dotdesaid. "It'smosdydieirondiat
does it — " She caught sight of what Sam had in his right

BORN TO RUN           295

armand frowned. "Sam, thisisabad time for cocktails."

He took his eyes off die remains soaking into the in-
dustrial-brown carpet. "Here," he said, thrusdng it at
her. "Put that pagan blessing of yours on it, like you did
with me watergun."

She raised an eyebrow, but freed her right hand to
cup over the botde. She whispered a few words, then
sketched a sign in die air over it —

And this time Sam saw for certain what he hadn't
quite caught the first dme, A flash of light traveled from
her hand to the botde, and the water lit up for a mo-
ment. Her brows furrowed.

"There's Cold Iron in the water in that thing!" she
exdaimed, half in accusadon, half in admiration. "How
in hell did you manage that?"

Sam just grinned. "Never piss off an engineer."

Ross was livid, and ready to murder — if he could.
They'd already tortured and killed the boy. One of the
bastards had taken the other girl, the dark one, across
the Gate into Underbill before he could do anything
about it. That was Foxtrot's territory; he'd have to
handle it now. But Ross had managed to get the hangar
door open, and to keep it open, long enough for
everybody to get inside.

The little blonde was safe inside Tannim's car — or at
least, as safe as any physical body was going to be widi
all that steel-jacketed lead and those magic lightning
bolts in the air. The firefight was spectacular, and the
Bad Guys were losing it...

Ross decided he'd better go keep an eye on Miss Bad
News, the one duded up like a fashion model who
seemed to be in charge. If she had any rabbits to pull
out other pert litde hat, now would be the dme.

He scanned the area for her aura, a peculiar purple-
black like a fresh bruise. It was easy enough to spot; she
was heading straight for the C-130 — or whatever it
was. It wasn't exactly a plane, although it used the

296

Mercedes Lackey and LanyDixon

electronics of one. The engines didn't run on any fuel
he was familiar with. There weren't any fuel cells in the
wings, just peculiar spongy things filled with sullenly
glowing energy.

He blinked himself into the body of the plane, avoid-
ing the dead-black area of the Gate in the tail. He didn't
know where that led, and Foxtrot had whispered into
his head that he didn't want to know where it went For
a moment he was afraid that Queen Bee there was
going through —

But no; instead of turning towards the tail, as soon as
she climbed the stairs to the side entrance, she turned
towards the cockpit, taking strides as long as that dght
executive skirt others would permit, her high-heels
clicking determinedly on the flooring. He followed her,
growing more and more alarmed.

Jeez. She got a gun up there or somethin'? She can't be
planmn' t' take this thang off—

But that, it seemed, was precisely what she intended
to do.

She dropped herself down into the pilot's chair, and
reached for the controls. Ross looked around, frantical-
ly, for a way to stop her — he was just a plain old
country boy — he didn't know anything about gear like
this, not like Tannim did.

But that reminded him of what Tannim had told him
about how he could glitch gear — and none of this stuff
was armored against spirits. In their arrogance, the
Bad Guys must never have counted on finding a ghost
ranged up against them.

As the motors caught, and the rotors started to turn,
Ross grinned savagely, and began taking a walk through
the control panels.

Aurilia strapped herself into the pilot's seat and
reached for the controls, glad she'd taken the dme to
rob that young pilot of his memories. It was dme to cut
her losses and run for it. Vidal was gone, and since the

BORN TO RUN           297

Fairgrove hosts were here instead of at the ambush site,
presumably they had either killed or captured him.
She'd already lost personnel, including some lesser
Sidhe. Since the hangar door had malfunctioned and
let the enemy in, she might as well take advantage of
the situadon and fly die plane. Gate and all, out. There
were other ddes to exploit; Adanta wasn't diat far away.
She could return one day in force, and take Keighvin at
her leisure.

She heard die first engine catch; die second. All die
instruments were green —

She'd take die aircraft out on die runway, and too
bad for anything that happened to be in the way.
Maybe she'd waggle die wings at die Fairgrove idiots
shaking dieir fists down on die ground. Then head for
new, fresher meat —

The engines coughed once, twice — the rotors
slowed — and die engines died. Lights began flashing
all over the cockpit, and warning buzzers whined like
hornets in a blender.

She stared at die instrument panel, which now dis-
played readings that made no sense at all. The
oil-pressure was off-scale; an engine was overhearing.
One had never started. Five airplanes were about to hit
her according to radar. The airspeed read one
hundred twenty knots. The aldmeter showed her to be
in a steep climb.

She pounded her fists on die panel, but succeeded
only in hurting her hand. Somehow, something had
glitched die electronics. And as she stared at die display
panels, movement ahead other caught her eye.

The hangar door was dosing. Even if she could fix
what had just been done, she'd never get die plane
started and moving before die door was dosed.

She snapped die belts off and flung herself out of die
seat Niall, shediought, a red rage beginning to take hold
other, making her shake. Niall will have to go call in his
debts, the stinking corpse. If Keighvin wants a war, a warhe'Uget!

298 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dwm

The girl lay where one of the Sidhe had flung her, on
the couch in one of the movie-sets, too hysterical and
fear-crazed to touch. Foxtrot left her alone. He
couldn't do anything for her mental state, and at the
moment she wasn't in any physical danger.

There wasn't a lot he could do in this Sidhe-built
pocket of Underbill, anyway. His realm was a different
sort of space. Right now he was little more than a glow-
ing spark, hovering at about eye-level for a human,
beside one of the video cameras. Still, whatever he
could do to help the cause — though he couldn't do
much here, at least he could do something. He couldn't
even enter the human plane at all, not like Ross and
the true ghosts could.

Changes in the energy level rippled across him,
alerting him to the fact that something had just crossed
the Gate. He bounced in place, torn between the urge
to see what had crossed it, and the fear that if he left the
girl alone, something would happen to her. Finally he
gave in to the former, and raced across the studios to
the staging area in front of the Gate. It didn't look like
much; just an expanse of flat, brown stone, walled on
one side by the studios, on two sides by the gray, swirl-
ing chaos ofUnseleighe Underbill, and on the fourth
side by the utterly featureless, black void of the Gate.
The two pillars that held it in place on this side glowed
an eye-jarring blackish-green. If Fox forced himself, he
could see through to the other side, very dimly, as if he
was peering through dark smoked glass.

The Bane-Sidhe paced impatiently on the other
side, rags fluttering as he moved. It must have been
what caused the disturbance in the Gate energies. Fox
reasoned. But—why?

Movement in the gray chaos caught his attention.
There was someone out there — coming in response to
a caB?

No-


BORN TO RUN           299

There were hundreds. Lesser Sidhe atop
Nightmares, trolls and goblins and boggles and red-
caps and worse — every variety of Underbill nasty
Fox had ever seen — headed this way —

Making for the Gate.

If they came through, Ross's friends would be out-
numbered and outclassed. He had to stop them,
somehow. All he had here in the way of special effects
was the power of pure illusion....

And there was only one entity powerful enough in and
of himself to stop an army of the Unseleighe Court. It
would be a gamble; they might not believe the illusion.
They might decide to take him on anyway. By his reckon-
ing, the trick had only a fifty percent chance of working.

Well, that was what being a shapechanger and a
trickster was all about, and he'd played worse odds
happily.

He took his most recent memory of the High King
and held it up before his mind's eye. The memory was
about five hundred years old, but it would do. That
wasn't so long in the lives of the Sidhe.

He Manifested in a flash of light, calculated to blind
and surprise them, and when they recovered from the
blaze, they saw the majesty of King Oberon striding
towards them.

As he raised his remembered image ofOberon's
sword in a threatening sweep, the foremost riders
pulled their beasts up on their haunches, pure fear on
their faces. As he took one step forward, they turned
tail and ran, panicking the ones behind them, until the
entire army was in flight.

Fox howled with maniacal glee, conjured the illusion
of an elvensteed below him, and gave chase.

Aurilia snarled with impatience, kicked off her high
heels, and summoned her armor and arms. She ran
down the stairs of the plane and headed aft, wondering
what could be holding up Niall. Surely it didn't take that

300 Mercedes Lackey and Lanny Dwan

long to summon his followers! And while the Bane-Sidhe
dawdled, the lastofVidalDhu's flunkies were falling, and
her own troops were coming under fire. Ratal fire too;

most ofKeighvin's people were armed with a variety of
Cold Iron weapons, and those that weren't were using
the presence of the two steel-bearing cars to bend the
trajectories of their magics in unexpected ways.

Damn them!

She could hardly see, she was so angry. The feel of
the hilt in her hand was not enough; she wanted to
slash something with it —

Just as she reached the tail of the plane and (he ramp
down onto the concrete, the Bane-Sidhe let out a wail
of despair and stumbled down the ramp to ding to her
with both skeletal hands, babbling, desiccated eyes
wide in horror.

"What?" she shouted at him, daring to shake him,
hard. "What? What's the matter?"

"Oberon!" Niall wailed. "It's Oberon! He's here, he's
on Keighvin's side, he — chased off the army — he
might return — "

Oberon! For one moment, she panicked as
thoroughly as Niall. But then —

"It can't be Oberon, you fool!" she said fiercely. "He's
vowed to stay clear of things involving mortals!" Niall
continued to babble, and she pushed him away from
her in disgust. "Come on, you worm," she snapped,
turning, and hoping the insult would wake some sense
in the Bane-Sidhe's skull. "There's still time to — "

She froze. There was a mortal between her and the
battle; an old man brandishing a gun — and a seltzer
bottle.

While Dotde marched straight into the fray, pump-
ing her shotgun and picking off targets as calmly as if
she was shooting skeet, Sam worked his way around
the edge of the hangar towards the C-130. The
sawblade-frisbees proved lethal indeed; by the time he

BORN TO RUN           301

was twenty feet from the tail-ramp, he'd used them all,
and to good effect. Dull or not, they acted as if they were
sharp when they hit any of the enemy — and even if all
his hits did was to wound the creatures, that gave one
of the other Fairgrove Folk a chance to get in a killing
blow.

He made a dash from cover to the tail-ramp of the
plane without getting worse than his hair scorched —
and a steel-jacketed round into his attacker's face took
care of hazard from that quarter. That was when he
heard voices — and recognized one of them for the
Bane-Sidhe by the evil whine under its words.

Blessed Mother Mary — if that thing starts to howling, in
here, with all the echoes—

He froze with fear and indecision. He remembered
all too well his last encounter with the thing. And that
was with the protection of his ear-pieces. Here, at short
range, the thing could fry his brain.

Vm'reforit, lad. This is it. It's you between that thing and all
yow friends. He squared his shoulders. He was the only
one within striking distance of it. And if it took him
down — well — there were worse ways to go.

He stood up and walked calmly around the ramp;

the Bane-Sidhe was there, all right — and curiously
shrunken. It clung to the shoulders of a stunning
woman in dark, shining armor, and babbled fearfully at
her. She pushed it away, and turned. And froze as she
saw him. He brought up both his weapons to bear.

The Bane-Sidhe took one look at the bottle in his
hand, and stood paralyzed with fear, unable to speak,
much less howl.

The woman stared at him — then began to laugh.
"WhatK this?" she said scornfully. "Which are you,
Moe, Larry, or Curly?"

The Bane-Sidhe pawed her shoulder and babbled
something about "It's him, it's him, Holy Water." She
shoved the thing rudely away and began walking
toward Sam. "You're a fool, mortal," she said, her eyes

302 Mercedes Lackey arid Lorry Dwan

narrowing as she slowly unsheathed her sword. "I
know all about guns and gunpowder." Her free hand
sketched a symbol in the air, where it glowed between
them for a moment. "There," she continued, "your
gun is useless. Go ahead, try it — "

He did, he couldn't help himself; he pulled the trig-
ger convulsively, and the hammer simply clicked. She
laughed.

"I don't necessarily have to play by elven rules any
more than Keighvin does. What my magic can't touch,
the magic of an elemental can. And as for that silly little
water botde you have, it might give Niall problems, but
it won't hurt me. Holy Water is only good against the
Bane-Sidhe, not a full-Sidhe. I might even find it —
refreshing—"

He shook the botde frantically to get the maximum
amount of spray, as she neared him, forcing him to
back up against die corrugated metal wall of the han-
gar. She raised her sword. "Good night, court jester,"
she said—

And he hit her full in the face with the metal-charged
water.

She screamed; he raised the stream above her as she
dropped to her knees, pawing at her face, and sprayed
the Bane-Sidhe. It opened its moudi to shriek, and he
directed the stream into its mouth — saw it splash out for
a moment — and dien come out die back of die Bane-
Sidhe's head, boiling die decayed skin off of its bones.

The nozzle clogged, dien, but it didn't matter. Bodi
die woman and die Bane-Sidhe were out of die batde
and no hazard to anyone. The woman knelt, keening
in pain; die Bane-Sidhe writhed on die ground unable
even to do diat.

I did it. By God, I did it....

He took one step to the woman, raised die seltzer
botde, and brought it crashing down onto her skull.
His old legs gave out, then, and he sat down on the
concrete, and waited for die rest to find him.

• CHAPTERSKTEEN

Tannim limped away from Tania and die Mustang,
crowbar unsheadied and at die ready. Three black el-
vensteeds diundered past him, ridden by spell-casting
Sidhe in cobalt blue armor. They cut across his path, in
pursuit of two red elvensteeds ridden by gray-dad Un-
seleighe, whose armor already showed bum marks
and holes from bullets and elven arrows. As he
watched, the diree chasing split into an inverted vee,
one to each side and one pulling back between diem.
Seeing diey had been flanked, but not immediately
noticing the diird fighter, die Unseleighe slowed and
whirled, to be caught in the throats by that third
Fairgrove warrior sweeping a silver longsword in a
massive arc. Bodi riders fell, and die Fairgrove fighters
dispatched die red 'steeds widi swordstrokes. Then die
diree turned as one, seeking new targets. Padmig, Sean,
and Siobhan, Tannim noted absendy. I guess polo vsgood
for something after all.

And so the batde went; the Lesser Sidhe dieir Un-
seleighe opponents had rallied were being steadily
routed by Keighvin's tactical skill — and the unpre-
dictability of die magical and technological weapons
brought to bear against them.

Tannim had not yet engaged any Unseleighe in
hand-to-hand combat since leaving die car — but he
held no illusions diat his freedom would last. For now,
he was taking die lay of die situation magically, while
he had die time to do so. He Felt the hangar's defensive
net being drained away around the batde; someone
had given up on this place, and was going to use its

304 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dixon

energy elsewhere. The airplane's engines had started a
moment earlier, but had then gone silent, propellers
seizing. Maybe Ross had glitched the airplane, and
now whoever had been trying to escape was gathering
power for a last stand. Maybe it was one of the
Fairgrove mages stealing the power away.

Maybe it was part of a trap.

In any case, the flow was heading in the general direc-
tion of the airplane; he narrowed his eyes to home in on
the focal point—

And was struck sharply from behind, strongly
enough to go to the concrete.

Darmmt! I massed one...?

A heavy arrow clattered to the ground beside him,
from where it had struck him in the back. Its tip
smoldered — elf-shot, made to kill humans instantly by
disrupting their tissues and lifeforce at once. It had not
penetrated, thanks to Chinthliss' armor, but left a
ragged, seething hole in his beloved jacket He whirled,
hands blazing with energy, to face a seven-foot-tall Un-
seleighe who had fired point-blank at him from behind
several huge wooden crates.

The bow was raised again, arrow leveling at
Tannim's face this time — and Tannim took three
stumbling steps towards him and lashed out with the
crowbar's hook. He caught the bow, which splintered
as if touched by an arc-welder.

Enchanted. Damn, Fve got a good one here....

The Sidhe's face contorted with a snarl; apparently
he had felt about the bow much the way Tannim felt
about his jacket. Tannim looped the crowbar's path up
over his head and brought it down on the Sidhe's
upraised arm, where sparks flew again.

Enchanted armor, too9 Oh, hell, I don't need this right now.

Tannim's shoulder blades ached from where the
arrow had hit; the armor had done nothing to arrest the
shaft's momentum. The knee, and now the entire leg,
were threatening to freeze up, and only dogged deter-

BORNTORUN           305

mination was keeping him on his feet. That, and a
strong sense of self-preservation.

The Sidhe staggered back, and dug his fingers into
the crate beside him, coming away with a two-by-four
the size of Detroit He dearly intended to beat Tannim
into a liquid with it The fellow hadn't drawn his sword,
doubtless assuming that Tannim was armored the
same as he, but like as not, he'd noted that the arrow's
impact alone had hurt the human. The young mage
could only limp backwards, mind working furiously to
find an easy save — or any save! — while the towering
Unseleighe stalked him.

The two-by-four swung; Tannim deflected it
downwards with the crowbar. Its owner brought it back
around much faster than Tannim would have thought
possible and swung again, too fast to deflect, this dmejust
catchingTannimmthe left sideabove the kidneys. He flew
sideways, landing on his back, and the crowbar slipped
from his fingers and clanged againsttheconcrete.

The visor on the Sidhe's helm was down now, a sil-
very metal skull shadowing slit-pupilled eyes. He
stepped swiftly to the downed human, drawing the
board up over his head for the final blow, one to
Tannim's skull. Tannim's fingers grasped the pointed
end of the crowbar as he propped himself up with his
left arm, and he did the only thing he could —

The crowbar struck again, this time hooking the
Sidhe's right ankle, and Tannim put all his weight into
pulling on it The warrior went off-balance and toppled
back, as Tannim recovered and leapt to the warrior's
chest, pressing the crowbar's point under the visor and
prying up. The metal skullface bent until the bone un-
derneath gave. The body twitched once, then fell still.

Tannim withdrew the dripping bar and staggered
back, falling against the crate he'd nearly body-
slammed a moment before. The three riders shot past
him then, one raising a high-sign to him before
decapitating another Lesser Sidhe, and then all three

306        Mercedes Lackey ami LanyDmm

disappeared behind another stack of crates. Above
them, a flash of white — a bam owl, no doubt giving
aerial information to Keighvin. To his right, shotgun
blasts and other gunfire marked Dotde's arrival with a
pair of mechanics. And at the tail of the airplane was —

Tannim broke into as good a run as he could manage,
sending out a desperate mental call to all of his allies, and
evenChinthliss. He'dspotted the focusofthe tapped ener-
gy—andshewasjustabouttounleashitonSamKefly.

Sam backed away from what he'd done, inching on
his buttocks like a kid in a sandbox. This was all so ab-
surd, and so deadly — maiming fairy tales with a
slapstick gag. At his age, anyone else would be sipping
prune juice and weeding petunias in Florida, not ac-
ting like Batman in mail-order slacks. It was ridiculous,
all of it, but there it was — a gibbering, discorporating
Bane-Sidhe scratching its last moments on the tail-
ramp of a C-130 with no throat or mouth left to scream
with, and at the foot of the ramp, a former Joan Craw-
ford look-alike knelt, doing the ultimate death scene.

He could hear her sucking breaths, sobbing, and
despite what she'd no doubt done, it was a heart-rending
sound — that of a near-immortal dying. Funny, he'd
never thought of it that way before — it made him shud-
der. Orvxis that the reason his skin was prickling... ?

The woman raised her head, and gazed hatefully up
at him with a marred, bloodied, but by no means dis-
solved face. She clenched her fists. Sam's heart froze.

Bloody hell, hermakeup. It wasn't water-based. Gad help me
— the iron-water didn't touch her skin enough to kill her—

Tannim kept a weather-eye on all sides while running,
not wanting to be bMndsided again. And much as he liked
Sam, if there was a greater danger to be met, he'd have to
answer that first. But as far as he could tell, the Unseleighe
were at fourth and ten, with no kicker and no linebackers
left. The hangar door was dosed now, and they weren't

BORN TO RUN           307

going to be able to escape—what was left of them, anyway,
unless they had a Gate up their sleeves. Tania was still in
the Mustang; the Victor was still in one piece. Keighvin
was on the farthest side of the hangar, astride Rosaleen.
With nootherthreatsapparent, he allowed himselftonar-
rowinontheoneimmediately before him.

The woman Sam had been backing away from was
standing now — the primal energy building up in her
like floodwater against a dam. It did not Feel exactly
like Sidhe magic, either — this was something Tannim
knew well, something he was familiar with himself—it
was elemental magery. It swirled about her in a sullen
eddy as she raised her hands to spell-cast.

And where in hell did she get that? The Sidhe don't do
elemental stuff—

Well, evidently this Sidhe did. But there was some-
thing wrong with the flavor of it.

Never mind that; right now Sam was a sitting duck —
literally, so far as the sitting part went — and the Un-
seleighewasabouttoletloose. Hecouldn'tdeflectit, andhe
couldn't shield Sam from it — he had his hands full keep-
ing hisownshieldsup.Therewasonly one thinghandy.

He threw the crowbar.

It wasn't exactly made for throwing, and Tannim
was badly off balance. He went down on his ass, as his
leg gave out altogether — and the bar just barely hit
the woman's upraised hands, knocking them aside,
aborting the spell she had been about to cast. She
whirled and saw him — and he recognized her as the
woman from Kevin Barry's — probably the same
"Aurilia Morrigan" that had sicced the P.I. on him. And
she recognized him, too; though her face was red and
swollen, blistered in places from what could only have
been Cold-Iron contagion, she snarled with an unmis-
takable rage and turned her attention towards him.

He clasped his hands, arms braced towards her in a
desperate warding-spell, and cowered inside his shields as
she unleashed a deadly combination of Sidhe and elemen-

308       MenxdesLack^a^ Lorry Dcwn

tal magic on him. She overloaded his mage-sight; his eyes
burned with the raw power flung at him. He Felt his
shields eroding, being peeled away a layer at a time. He
kept throwing more of them up, but he was quickly run-
ning out of energy. He'd pumped too much into the ram,
and he'dalready drained all the reservesin the Mustang.

Alick of fire got through, and he cried outas it scorched
his cheek before he managed to cut it off. She was just
throwing too much at him — it kept changing with every
second — forcing him to change his protections just as
quickly. He couldn't see anything; he was trapped in the
heart of a swirling maelstrom of multicolored magics, all of
them subdely wrong, but enough so to make his stomach
chum with distress and his eyes ache and water.

Another lick of flame came through, touching his legs.
It burned away patches in his jeans, but could not eat
through further. His armor was proof against that, butnot
against everything, as the Sidhe with the two-by-four had
figured out The argument his knee had lost with the file
cabinet had bruised or broken his kneecap — and had
torn newly-healed gashes open again. There was blood
seeping through the armor there—ifAurilia saw that and
figured out the implications, she could call up a stone
elemental to pulverize him, and his friends would bury
himin the armor because it would be the only waytokeep
himnDmoozingaUoverdiebottDinoffhe coffin....

There were two determined firelords and an air
elemental striking at him, relentlessly. They were
beginning to hurt him seriously — all of his magical
deflections were being undermined second by second.
He'd never been oriented towards force-versus-force
war — all his life he'd been the clever one using a tiny
bit of leverage in the right place. like the crowbar —
but it was likely slag by now, and soon there would be
nothing left of him but smoldering ashes in green-
scaled armor. He was nearly blind, crippled, and
thoughts of submission or suicide lanced his mind....
No! There's gotta be a way I can turn this stuff agamst her

BORN TO RUN           309

— there's always a way. She's got the elementals Bound — if I
can break the coercive spells, the elementals will —

The Hammer of God crashed down about ten feet
from him. He dapped his hands to his ears; a reflex, it
was too late to effectively protect them.

The magics around him swirled and evaporated —

Aurilia stood with hands outstretched, a look of com-
plete surprise on her face, and a hole in her chestplate.
As she crumpled, her eyes left Tannim and tracked to
his right—

Where Sam was getting slowly to his feet, smoking
Colt revolver in his hand, an expression of grim satis-
faction on his face. He walked wearily to where Aurilia
lay, and stared down at her for a moment

Then, slowly and deliberately, he sighted down the
barrel of the Colt. This time Tannim had enough
warning to cover his ears and look away to protect his
eyes from muzzle-flash. Sam Kelly planted a second
steel-jacketed round right between Aurilia's eyebrows.

Tannim's ears were ringing; ringing hard enough to
make him dizzy. Or maybe that was the pain in his
knee. When he looked back, Sam had bolstered the
gun and was walking towards him.

"Why — why in hell didn't you use that before?" he
said in frustration.

"What?" Sam's voice sounded very faint and far
away through the cacophony in his ears.

Right. Neither of us can hear after two shots from the Colt.

"I said," he shouted, "why didn't you use thatbefore?"

"She got me damn bullets!" Sam shouted back.
"They wouldn't fire!"

"So?" Tannim yelled.

"I guess she saw too many movies!" Sam screamed,
with smug, self-satisfied anger.

"What?"

"Guess she never heard of speed-loaders!" Sam
laughed.

So. She'd neutralized the bullets in the gun with her

310 Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dixon

elementals, but not the ones in Sam's speed-loaders.
That was the drawback of coercing elementals; when-
ever they had the option of taking you literally — if it
was to your disadvantage — they would. They had
done exactly what she told them to, and had not
touched one bullet more than that

Tannim felt his lips stretching in a grin; a feral grin
that Sam answered with a nod. She'd underestimated
Sam, too. She'd surely thought that once the old man
was down, he was helpless.

"I saw you were in trouble, so I took a chance!" Sam
continued; his voice seemed a little louder over the
ringing. Maybe their ears were starting to recover. "I
figured the gun might fire with fresh bullets — an' if
that hadna worked, I'd've dubbed th' bitch with it!"

He offered Tannim a hand; the battered mage took
it, and hauled himself to his feet Or rather, foot — his
left leg flatly refused to bear his weight. With Sam's
help, he limped over to get his crowbar to use as a
makeshift cane.

"That's what happens when ye piss off an engineer,
lad," Sam continued, at a slightly lower volume. "We
keep pitchin' things at ye until something works."

"So you do," Tannim observed, with a smile. "So you
do."

Their troubles weren't over yet, however; for al-
though the Unseleighe Sidhe and their troops had been
destroyed to the last troll, there was a mundane problem
still out there. Dotde galloped up on the back of her
'steed, shotgun still smoking, to remind them ofjust that

"Tannim!" she shouted. The 'steed's hooves skidded
on the concrete when she reined it up abruptly beside
them. "Tannim, Conal says the cops are outside! We've
got them barricaded out for the moment, but how are
we gonna get out of here?"

"Oh, shit" The rest were pulling up beside him or
running to meet him, including Keighvin and Conal in
the Victor. He looked about frantically for an avenue of

BORN TO RUN           311

escape, but couldn't think of anything. "Keighvin,
there isn't any time to build a Gate, is there?"

"Large enough to take the 'steeds — and especially,
the cars?" Keighvin shook his head. "And we dare not
leave them. They would point straight to us and
Fairgrove."

Tannim tugged at his hair, frantically, trying to think.
"Can't you transform them or — "

"Hey, hotshot!" A familiar misty form, visible only to
mage-sight, appeared at his elbow.

"Not now, Ross — " He wondered, briefly, if they
could all pile into the plane and fly off—

"Hey!" The ghost slammed into him, jarring what was
left of his shields, shaking him. He turned to glare, but
Rossignoredit. "Ifyouwantagoddamn Gate, Igotoneforya!"

Those besideTannimwhocould hear the spiritstaredat
Ross. Keighvin seized him by the insubstantial arm. Ross
started, and stared back at the etven lord in shock. Keigh-
vin was probably the first real-worid creature Ross'd met
who could grab and hold a ghost when he chose.

"A Gate? Where, man!" Keighvin demanded.

Ross pointed at the tail-section of the C-130. "Right m
there. That was how they was bringin' in reinforcements, until
Fox scared 'em off. You could bring the cars up the ramp, see?"

Keighvin started to smile, for the first time in this
long, harrowing day-and-night "Fitting," he said, with
great satisfaction. "Fitting, that we should use their
Gate." He looked about him, and began issuing orders.
"Dome, get Tannim back to his car; you and Frank
armor it to protect Underbill from it. Conal, you and
Kieru do likewise with the Victor. Deirdre, Siobhan,
Padraig, Scan — you help me incinerate the corpses
that are left. The rest of you, collect the wounded, and
up through the Gate! We'll gather on t'other side and
make our way home at leisure — after we destroy the
Unseleighe holdings Underbill!"

Keighvin set the last of his spells in place, and double-

312 Mercedes Lackey mid Lany Dwon

checked them. He glanced around the hangar once to
make certain that there were no further signs ofSidhe or
Faiigrove or anything out of the "ordinary" —

Though he doubted that the police would think what
they found was ordinary. Hundreds of pom-tapes, in-
cluding several of kiddie-pom and snuff-movies. One
young man, obviously tortured to death—

And a hard time we had getting young Tania to turn loose of
the body, too. He shook his head in pity; he hadn't
blamed her for not wanting to leave Jamie's corpse
here for the police to find, but he'd convinced her that
it was the only way to cover the Fairgrove trail and give
the police enough to think about that they wouldn't
look for complications.

The complete sets and equipment from the Under-
hill Studios, dumped near the crates, including what
they had used onJamie — and what few records the
trio had kept

Danaa only knew what the police would make of it
all. There would be no bodies save that ofJamie; noth-
ing but the wreckage of the offices and hangar,
evidence of a fight — and a mystery.

Yon Tarmim thinks that the police will assume that some or-
ganized-crime contract went,, sour, and this was the result. Well,
I care not.

All the preparations had taken less than Fifteen
minutes; meanwhile, the police were outside, trying to
find a way to crack the wall of protections on each door-
way, and shouting to them to come out and surrender
on their bullhorns. Keighvin heard them through the
corrugated metal walls — but while he stood here, this
place was made of sterner stuff than corrugated

aluminum.

Let the police concoct an explanation/or how a fight took
place, but bodies and survivors vanished. So long as there is
nothing linking this place to Fairgrove or the Sidhe, it matters
not to me what they say.

Well, he was ready. Siobhan was the last of the

BORN TO RUN           313

cleanup crew, and she had gone through the Gate a
moment ago. It was dme.

He mounted Rosaleen, and galloped up the ramp.
As soon as he passed across the Gate boundary, the
spells he had set activated; the substance of the plane,
of Underbill itself, tried to go back to Underbill
through the only portal available.

The Gate.

Let them explain this.

The plane imploded, taking the Gate with it, and
leaving nothing of itself behind.

The protections on the outside walls collapsed.

Tannim's Mustang was the first up the ramp, with
Sam in the seat beside him, and Dottie and Frank in the
passenger's bench. Dottie's 'steed — transformed into a
proud, ethereal unicorn, a glowing snowy white, with
silken mane and tail, silver hooves and horn, and gold-
en eyes — was right behind with Tania on her back.
The Mach 1 was doing a good job of glowing itself,
from all the magics Dottie and Frank had layered on,
insulating Underbill from the devastation so much
Cold Iron could cause.

Riding just ahead was Kieru, with his 'steed back to
its normal shape — though not even for Tania's sake
could Kieru convince it to put on a hom.

Kieru vanished into the dead-black nothingness at
the end of the ramp, dissolving into what appeared to
be a hard, solid wall. Tannim shuddered, and tried not
to look — but his turn was next, and he sent his much-
abused American-built steed following in Kieru's wake.
He dosed his eyes, slowing to a crawl as the Gate suck-
ed up nose, hood, and approached the windscreen —

There was a shiver of energy all over his body as he
passed through, and every hair on his body stood on
end for a moment. When the feeling had passed he
opened his eyes again —

There, Kieru had pulled up, his mouth agape with

314        Mercedes Lackey and Lorry Dvwn

astonishment and a little fear. Just beyond him stood a
tall Sidhe; blond hair streaming to his waist, armored
with gold-chased silver, brandishing a sword. His face
was — impossible. Too beautiful, even for the Sidhe —
and he was crowned.

"The High King," Kieru said aloud, as his el-
vensteed backed. "Danaa! Tis High King Oberon—"

Then, before either Tannim or Kieru could do or say
anything else, the High King shifted shape —

And in place of the breathtakingly handsome
Oberon, there was a red-haired young man in black
coveralls, with an aircraft carrier flight-crew cap, mir-
ror-shades, ear-protectors, and a pair of aircraft batons
— who began directing the new arrivals, as if he was
parking fighter planes.

Tannim looked at Sam; Sam shrugged. "Do what the
man tells ye," Sam suggested.

Seeing no reason why he shouldn't, Tannim did,
eventually parking at the edge of the "pavement" that
marked the end of the Unseleighe-built area and the
chaos of the unclaimed places of Underbill. He turned
the engine off, pivoted, and watched the stranger.

The red-haired youth walked up to the Mustang,
saluted with a baton, and vanished — leaving only the
afterimage of an embroidered chest-patch on his flight
suit, which read "FX."

CHAPTERSEVENTEEN

It had been a long few months of healing and
rebuilding. Conal, thorough as ever, had stroked every
last bit of information out of the Victor's diagnostic
computer after returning to Fairgrove, and had al-
ready forged enough redesigned parts to keep the
crew busy testing for a year. The local and national
news had enjoyed a field day with the high-visibility
"Mystery of Hangar 2A" — no doubt Geraldo was plot-
ting an expose by now.

Tannim had mentioned to Keighvin that someone
would eventually discover the Fairgrove link, possibly
even one of the few Fed-employed mages he'd run
around with a couple times, but reassured the elven
lord that diey were generally pretty cool, and cynical in
the way only Government employees could be.

They also knew when to leave things mysteries.

It was no mystery, though, how well Tania had
recovered from her ordeal. She and he had talked
often, and she admitted to having lost faith in Tannim
before her kidnapping — but Tannim suspected
seeing him coming to her rescue had helped restore
her faith in other things, too. And being brought to the
wonderland of Underbill, astride what at least looked
like a unicorn — that is, before meeting a real one —
had jolted her fi-om her fears. Her friend, Laura, had
been badly broken by what had happened, but was
being cared for Underbill by the Court It was certain
that when she was seen again, she would be strong and
well, and had promised Tania to be her friend always.

Then Tania had been advised to go to the counselors

316 Mercedes Lackey and Lany Dawn

at the Shelter House back in Savannah, to talk out what
the people ofFairgrove could not help with. Her heart
of hearts had healed well in her talks with the coun-
selor—and that had led to today.

Tannim bent forward in the seat, pressing the scan
button on the new CD/FM/AM tuner, installed at long
last. It skipped from WRDU in Raleigh to WYRD in
Haven's Reach. Haven's Reach was a tiny community
with one of the highest per-capita counts of mages in
the United States, right between Raleigh and Fayet-
teville. Somehow, WYRD stayed on the air year after
year regardless of its eclectic playlist.

Now it played Icehouse: "Hey Little Girl." The DJ
must be psychic Actually, in that town, he probably was.

Tannim's left knee hardly ever hurt anymore;

Chinthliss had finally showed, embarrassingly
apologetic that he hadn't come to Tannim's aid. His
dear friend had finally, apparendy, had a romantic en-
counter, and was very distracted when Tannim had
screeched for help. To make up for it, he'd called in a
favor from a Healer-friend — now the knee moved just
fine, and the muscles had finally gotten the detailed at-
tention they'd needed for months.

That had made the drive to Research Triangle Park
bearable physically — but he was srill on edge emotion-
ally over what was happening now.

The counselors had been more than professional —
they had sincerely worked for the girl's best interests,
and Tania decided, after going over all other options,
that this meeting would be best. So, her parents had
been contacted, and Tannim had driven here here, to
her old home, to see if the pieces could be fit together
anew. She'd told him on the way there that she'd know
the moment she saw her parents whedier it was right or
not, and if she was going to stay, she'd turn and wave.

Tania was walking up the steps, across a yard that
had at one time been perfectly manicured. Now it
showed signs of neglect, at odds with the Architectural

BORN TO RUN           317

Digest showpieces to either side of it. In the looping
driveway was a gold BMW with a "For Sale" sign on the
dash. And in one window of the house, a crystal sun-
catcher glittered, etched with a white horse sporting a
single spiraling horn.

That was a good sign. The DJ segued from Icehouse
to a-ha: "Out of Blue Comes Green."

The door opened, and two figures rushed out,
embracing her for one glorious minute. They stood at
the door, then motioned for her to come inside with
them. Tania stepped towards the threshold, stopped,
and slowly faced the Mustang. Her arm raised, trem-
bling, and Tannim could see tears streaming down her
face even from this far. She shakily waved, smiling
sweedy but obviously choking back more tears.

Tannim slipped the Mustang into drive and pulled
away slowly from the curb. Tania was going to be all
right, that much he knew. She had loving parents who
had finally learned what raising a child was about, and
she would be just fine.

After all, once touched by a unicorn, growing up
couldn't be too hard.

AFTEKWORD

Tania's story is, unfortunately, not unusual. In fact,
Tania got out of her troubles relatively easily. If your
situation is like Tarria's — alone, out on the street, with
nowhere to go and afraid to go home, there is help for
you. Real help; not elves, not magic, and you don't
even need a quarter to get it

Call 1-800-999-9999 for the Runaway Hotline. There
are people on the other end of that phone that will help
you: they'll find you a safe place to stay, they'll help you
with any other problems you might have, from drugs to
getting away from a pimp, and they'll get you back with
your parents if that's the right thing for you.

You can call an 800 number from most payphones for
free. Check the instructions on the front of the phone;

you shouldn't even need a quarter to use it Just wait for
the tone, and dial the number. You won'tbe sorry.

Make your own luck — and your own magic. And
then go and build yourself a good life.

High Flight

Larry Dixon
Mercedes Lackey

Baen Books

Jim Baen
Tbni Weisskopf