Midsummer

by Sylvia2

S&HMidsummer Night's Dream x-over. Help unlooked for on Midsummer's Eve.

Title: Midsummer

Author: Sylvia

Rating: PG-13 (language and violence)

Flavor: Gen, all the way, but with a fair amount of shmoop

Summary: In the hands of a vengeful woman, Hutch gets help from a source unlooked for and unexpected.

Disclaimer: They ain't mine. They belong to them what holds the rights. Please don't sue me.

Warnings: quasi-original character, drug-related violence, spoilers for episodes up to and including Pariah, and archetype and ellipses abuse. Also, un-beta'd and envenomed (sorry...Hamlet...wrong play...)

No hobgoblins were seriously harmed in the writing of this fic, although one got more than a little pissed when his...her...his gender got switched around by a certain High King.

I've borrowed Mickey from "the Fix" for my own uses, and freely from folklore and the works of William Shakespeare. Also, much information on the fae was gleaned from: Info on Puck from: . and Midsummer Night's Dream from:



And awaaay we go!

Midsummer

The air shuddered in the still basement room as two figures stepped out of one realm and into another. The first was tall and slender, with elegantly tapered ears and a long fall of silver-black hair. The burnished threads found their echo in his clothes, which shone and glinted in the dim light. They were of an archaic cut, the sleeves loose and draping and the pants tight and clinging. On any other man, the effect would have been foppish, even effeminate. On this man, however, the clothes merely accentuated his lush virility and regal strength.

The other figure was different in every way from the first. Short and pale, with bushy red hair and golden eyes set into a pointed face, he crouched at his master's feet with the air of a pampered and beloved pet. He wore what might have been cast-offs from the taller man, for the fabric was fine and rich, but the cut was for a larger person. A golden rope around the creature's scant waist caught the folds of fabric and gathered them in, and the sleeves had been ripped off and discarded long ago. Tiny horns sprouted from his head, and his mouth was full of sharp teeth, as those of a dog or any other carnivore. His fingers were long and slender and agile, and he braced them on the floor as he scrambled closer to the third figure in the too-hot basement.

"He has been cruelly used," said the tall man. "He bleeds."

The smaller man shrugged. "He is mortal. Mortals bleed."

The tall man grimaced, a moue of displeasure, but did not argue the point.

Bound to a thin post, his hands behind his back, the object of their discussion did not move in response to the softly spoken words. A darkening bruise to his temple told the tale of it; the man was unconscious. His blond hair was in spiky disarray, tufted up around the sweat-stained rag that covered his eyes, and blood matted down the fine strands by his left ear. His long legs were sprawled before him, and only the post kept him upright.

"He will wake and hear us, master," said the crouching creature, peering more closely at the battered figure. "Why have you brought me here?"

On silent feet, the tall man strode forward. "I wish you to help him."

The other laughed, a merry and hearty sound that bounced off of the walls and set the unconscious man twitching. The tall man glared and the other drew in on himself, instantly and falsely contrite. "Sorry, master," he said in a voice that fawned and begged forgiveness. "I think I must have misheard you. You wish me to help this mortal?" The gangrel creature scurried close to the tall man's feet and looked up at him beseechingly. "It is a goodly jest, Great King."

"No jest, my jester," the tall man replied. "You will help him. He is a champion of the city, and a protector. It has been long and long since we left our havens, and longer still since I have seen one Hero, let alone two, in Our precincts."

"Him? A Hero? You jest again, Great King. He is weak and frail with sickness. The dregs of poison flow in his veins; I can smell it from here." With deft hands, he drew back the bound man's sleeve and shook his head at the fading puncture marks in the curve of his arm. Two fresh wounds nestled there as well, and blood was dried and smudged around the sites. "The poppy poison parades through him even now. Soon he will sweat and shake and loose control of his bodily functions. This is no Hero, but only a person in need of one. Do not ask your Robin to do this thing, Majesty. It is the eve of Midsummer. There is a revel this night and...."

"Silence, hob," the regal man said, and his voice was rolling and as soft as distant thunder. "He is a Hero, and he is of the Blood. If my command is not enough," here he glared, and the creature shrank a little in on himself and smiled an unsure smile, "then it is enough that he is of the Blood and We will not suffer any such to be used in this manner."

Mischief, bred in the small figure's bones, made him dart foreword and taste the rusty matting at the bound man's temple. "No more than a drop," he muttered, wrinkling his nose at the flavor. "His mother's mother's mother's sister's mother lay with a minor princeling one Hallow's Eve and begot herself a whelp with pointy ears and now I have to rescue a twitching fool from his folly. 'Swounds." The complaint was heard by the tall man, but he made no comment, save but to roll his eyes toward the heavens.

Salvaging his pride by pretending to deliberate, the creature finally nodded and turned back to his master. "Very well. I will undertake the task. Just remember what happened the last time you asked me to do something complicated. We were forever sorting out which one was Hermia and which one was Lysander, but the ass-head was worth it all." Here he cackled again, and the bound man lifted his head.

"Who...who's there..." His voice was cracked and raw, and despite himself, the gangrel man felt pity stir his heart. No more than a drop, but it was enough to soften him toward his task.

The tall figure made a gesture, and the crouching fae stood straight, cloaked in the guise of a girl child, a waif of ten or eleven years, with tangled hair, ragged short pants, and a faded blue tunic which had seen more wear than washing in its tenure. In a low voice, the king said, "So long as you remain discrete, good jester, you will hold your glamour. If the mortals suspect you are not of their ilk, you will pass from my protections."

Robin folded his...her arms and glared up at the tall man. "You're doing this because you're bored," she declared. "That silly bint, Titania, won't put out and you're bored silly."

"Silence, my Puck," said the king, looking daggers at the child. "Do my bidding."

And with a tiny rush of wind, the basement held only the man and the girl- child.

The bound man was becoming agitated, and sweat stood out on his high brow. "Damn it. Who's there!" He drew up his legs, but had not the strength to push himself to stand. The long limbs shook with fatigue and he let them drop once again, knees akimbo and ankles crossed beneath him. Abruptly the fight went out of him, and his head sank to his chest once more. "Do what you're going to do and get out. This is getting old."

Tiny tremors were beginning to shudder along the man's arms, and his teeth chattered together. The poppy poison was wearing thin in his blood, and the need would be on him soon, ravaging his body as a wolf ravages a coney. Robin crept closer, her bare feet soundless on the concrete floor. She needed to get him free of his bindings, somehow, but the means escaped her at the moment. The post to which the man was bound was cold iron, as were the cuffs which circled his chafed wrists. Robin could feel the burning of the stuff from a yard away, and it turned her stomach.

Her magics would not work on cold iron. Pity there was so much of it in the mortal world.

Raising his head again, the man spoke, and his voice was as pale and wan as was his face beneath the bruising. "Is anyone there?" Then he answered himself, muttering, "Hearing things. Nothing there. Pull it together." He leaned his head back on the post and took a deep breath, letting it out in a thin stream through his teeth.

Before Robin could speak, the door at the head of the stairs opened, leaking light from a bright lamp down into the dimness. A crowd of figures descended, and Robin scurried into the shadows before they could see her. There were many boxes piled into a corner; she found a refuge there and watched for an opportunity.

The bound man stiffened again, turning his face toward the sounds from the stairs, but he did not speak. The last man through closed and latched the door, then joined the others. It was not a small room, but these five filled it. Four large, burly men, wearing ill-fitting suits in garish colors and fabric that had never seen flora nor fauna in its making. The fifth was a woman, dressed simply and with a quiet elegance. She carried a small bag, and set it on a table near the man on the floor.

"Round three, Detective Hutchinson," she said, opening the case and setting out several small objects. A candle was kindled, and soon she was heating something over the flame. A smell like old wine, tangy and a little sweet, filled the room. It made Robin want to sneeze.

It brought a much more violent reaction from the bound man.

"No!" The energy he lacked before found him now, and he surged to his feet, pulling at his cuffed wrists with a loud clang of metal on metal. "Damn you, don't do this!"

The four trolls grinned, and stepped forward, holding him fast and releasing his wrists but not giving him his freedom. Still, he bucked and struggled like a baited bear, pulling against the hard hands of his captors and fighting with all of his will as he was pulled closer to the woman with the spoon and the fire.

"Struggle if you must, Detective," she said, not looking up at him, but smiling nonetheless. "Salvage what pride you still have. In a day or so, you'll come to me willingly, your arm outstretched."

He shook his head, spitting anger. "Hell I will, lady," he said, and his voice shook. "Why don't you just kill me and get it over with. Whatever you want from me, you're not going to get it."

At a nod from the woman, the trolls held out the man's arm, braced and still. One had a lock around his neck, holding him steady, and the others grappled with his long and gangling limbs. Once set, the man in the middle could more no more than his mouth, and he used it to yell his defiance as the woman slid the needle home into his arm.

From her hiding place in the shadows, Robin blinked and rubbed her aching stomach. Perhaps this one was a Hero after all. Even as the poison took him, he fought the hands, which took him back to his upright prison and locked him in place once again. After a moment, though, he succumbed, sinking to the floor and into oblivion with a sad sigh and a tiny giggle. "...not going to get it..." he echoed himself, and his head lolled forward to his chest.

The woman looked down with cold eyes, and Robin shuddered to see them. This one was full of hate, killing hate, hate to devastate life and love and all good things. All directed at the man Robin was to save. "I will, Detective. You'll see. You'll beg and crawl and offer up anything for a hit, and then my father will go free. Let the DA see a few pictures of you sticking a needle into your own arm and we'll see how long his case stands."

None of which made the least sense to the changeling-child in her corner, save that this woman had an interest in keeping her prey locked safe away for some time. After a moment's gloating, the woman gathered up her quartet of muscle and malice and vanished up the stairs once again, locking the door behind them with a snick and a thud.

The locks were not the problem. The problem was the iron. There was no way Robin could get the circlets of steel off of the stricken man's wrists by herself. The metal would burn her and steal away her mortal guise faster than a Fir Darrig on roller skates. So. Help.

Question was, who? The Faerie King had made it quite clear this was Robin's job, so she couldn't count on help from anyone in the Seelie court, nor from the lesser fae in hedge nor barrow. They were scattered far and wide in these strange days, and few kept to the old ways any longer anyway. Rather than die off, the fae had adapted to this new world, as well as immortal minds were able. Some had taken the road to Tir-nan-Og, the land of always summer, but most had stayed and made a new life in the cities.

None of them were what Robin called reliable, though. So they were out. That left anyone who knew and loved this man.

Hitching up her faded and ragged shorts, Robin stood up from her hiding place and strode forward. "No time like the present," she said, and took off the man's blindfold.

He shied away from her touch, his blue eyes lost in a sea of red and pink, and he blinked hard against the dim light. "Wha...who...?"

Robin rolled her eyes. This would never do. He was riding the swell of the opiate in his veins, and would make no sense for an hour or more. Never the most patient of hobgoblins, Robin put her hands on her hips and chewed her lip, thinking.

Oberon had spoken of a second Hero. Perhaps the two were connected in some way. Putting one small hand on the man's sweating and burning brow, Robin closed her eyes and went Within.

His mind shied from hers, as a beaten dog will shy away from the friendliest of hands. //Easy, now. Sooth, I'll not harm thee. I only want to see....// She calmed him, letting his jumbled and erratic thoughts buffet her until he tired and subsided into a murmuring bewilderment.

//...crazy...//

//No. Not crazy. In whom do you trust? Tell me swiftly.//

An image. The blond man, looking hale and well and more than a little worried. Beside him, a man with dark and curling hair and a touch of the Hebrew around his mouth and nose. "So who do we trust?" said her charge, looking toward a group of dun and drab apartments.

"Like always. Me and thee."

The image faded, leaving behind a name. Starsky. David Starsky.

Chapter 2

The cottage by the canal was locked up tight, but Starsky had the key on his ring. Not bothering to knock, he let himself in and yelled, "Hey, Hutch! You home?" No answer from within. Cursing softly, he shut the door behind him and turned on a light.

The place was a mess, worse than usual. Dirty coffee cups and spilled sugar cluttered up the dining table, and there were dirty clothes on every flat surface. "Partner, you need help," he muttered. Gathering up cups, he carried them into the kitchen and placed them in the already overflowing sink.

It was the start of a long weekend. Dobey had called them both in after IA had finished grilling them about Prudholm and ordered them to take the next few days off. Before the Captain could finish speaking, Hutch was out the door, saying something about a date with a long, cool blonde.

The sink filled with soapy water, and Starsky took of his jacket and laid it over a chair, rolling up his shirtsleeves. Hutch had been ducking him for weeks, ever since he got cleared by the Doc to go back to work. Bernie had been good as his word, and nothing official got put on Hutch's record. Dobey and IA knew what had happened and that Hutch was clean now and no way he was a liability to the force. Still, they both knew that the episode would come back to bite him, some day. Promotions would go to other men, and the guys in the suits would watch closely any drug bust they made.

Worse than that, Starsky was sure Hutch was still hurting some from what had happened to him. Not physically; the bruises were gone and even the needle marks were starting to fade away. He was getting his wind back, too, although the chase still tired him more than it used to. Those six days of hell had set him back a month and he was still working on getting back into shape. Health food, desiccated liver and goat's milk every morning, and nothing stronger than coffee had passed his lips for weeks. Every other night he spent two or three hours at Vinnie's Gym, and every morning he got up and ran.

Yeah, physically Hutch was doing just fine. Emotionally, Starsky wasn't as sure about.

He was pretty sure Hutch wasn't sleeping, for one thing. There were circles under his eyes and a kind of vagueness that never seemed to go away, no matter how many cups of coffee he drank. Then, too, they just weren't talking like they used to. Hutch kept ducking out before Starsky could say more than two words to him in private. It had not affected the job, but it was affecting their friendship, and that was something Starsky wouldn't stand for. They were going to work things through this weekend, or he'd insist Hutch go see a shrink.

"Oh, yeah," he said, wiping the last cup dry. "That's gonna go over real well."

The hours ticked on, and no sign of Hutch coming back from his date. Starsky busied himself cleaning, picking up and sorting through the layers of laundry and running a few loads through. After that, he lay down on the couch and picked up a book from the coffee table. "Stranger in a Strange Land. Huh." It was old paperback by some guy named Heinlein, and Hutch was almost done with it from the position of the bookmark.

Turning to the beginning, Starsky settled himself in to wait. He'd wait all night if he had to.

()()()

Time was a-wasting. Robin could feel the passage of it in her bones, even without sun or moon or mortal clock to keep the pace of the passing minutes. The first rush of euphoria had passed for the mortal, fleeting as woman's love, followed by a brief bout of sickness that had added to the ripeness of the room. Already stifling in the summer heat, with no fans to move the air, Robin was as sweat-stained as was her charge within an hour.

After his first questioning of her, a vagueness had settled into the man's eyes and he'd slept a bit. Robin used the time to prowl their prison, looking for some exit she might exploit. Like his manacles, the locks that held the door barred were of iron, and would resist her will. A simple cantrip would work on the smaller lock, but there was a bolt of steel as well, and she doubted she could shift it far.

So. A trick, then. Robin rubbed her hands together and smiled. Her foes were only mortal, and not very bright. Something simple should work. Could she not change her shape? Or even one of theirs, as she had once done with a certain foolish weaver long ago? But no, Oberon had said that none must suspect her true nature. Changing one of them was out, but if none saw her, perhaps she might alter her own form.

"Hey." Robin turned to see that Oberon's Hero was awake and looking towards her, blinking and squinting. "Hey, kid."

Robin grimaced at the epithet. A kid was a baby goat; no matter that she wore horns in her true shape, no one liked being called a goat. It irritated her, moreso because now she could not change form and be ready when the chance came. Still, she wasn't truly ready to depart. She needed more information. Now that he was awake, perhaps he could provide it, if he stayed coherent long enough.

"Hey yourself," she answered, drawing closer to him. The smell was worse, here, but breathing through her mouth it was bearable. "You thirsty?" In her wanderings, she'd found a filthy sink in one corner. At the man's nod, she went to it and turned the tap. An empty ale can served as a cup, after she rinsed it out, and she carried it back carefully to her charge.

After he had drained it, he looked up at her and said, "Thanks. What's your name?" His voice was raspy and low, but not unpleasant for all that.

"What's yours, then?" she challenged. "A name is a powerful thing. I'll not be giving mine out to just anyone who asks it." She settled on the floor, her legs crossed, and gave him a hard stare.

He laughed, a tired huff, and leaned his head back on the post. "My name's Ken. Ken Hutchinson." Then he looked up, as sharp as sharp, and asked, "How did you get in here? Are you with her?" He flicked a glance at the top of the stairs, then back, suspicion growing in his gaze.

That wouldn't do. She needed information if she was going to help him. The poppy was making him fearful to trust, seeing enemies where he should be seeing friends. "Nay," she replied, shaking her head. "Not that one. I...snuck in. Lookin' for a place to bide...to sleep for a while. I was hiding behind yon boxes when they brought you in." She gestured with her chin toward the corner, and then folded her arms around her bony knees. "M'name's Robin, if you still want to know."

The cautious look left his tired eyes, and he leaned his head back once again. "You need to get out, if you can. Those are bad people. They'll hurt you if they find you here." He was growing sleepy, now. "Can you get out?"

"I was thinking along those very lines, Ken Hutchinson. Trouble is, I've no notion where to go." She let herself look small and sad and innocent, a frightened child. "M'folks are both dead, and I've no one else to go to. Besides, I can't just leave you here. That witch will kill you, as sure as dragons love gold." Tell me something, mortal, she thought. Anything. If I ask you right out where to find your David, you'll tell me naught.

"You talk weird, for a kid," he said, drawing up his knees and wincing. The cramps were starting, then. Not much time. The dark at the center of his blue eyes was growing, and sweat was trickling down his flushed face. "Sounds like...you're from England...or something."

"Or something," Robin said. Her heart went out to him, as he began to shiver and shake, but she schooled her will to sternness. "Have you no friends I could fetch here?"

Ken shook his head, closing his eyes as the shudders wracked him. "No. No. Don't want him to see me like this. Not again." He turned his face toward the door, a look of despair and need filling his eyes for a moment, and then he turned away. "God. Not again."

The sound of a distant door opening and closing signaled that their time was about to run out. Giving up all pretense of subtlety, Robin stood and put her hands on Ken's shoulders, pushing him upright and drawing his sight to hers. "David. Where do I find him? I'll bring him here, if I'm able, but I ken not where to start lookin'."

His darting eyes locked on her face, and bewilderment filled his features. "How...?"

"Ne'er mind the how, fool. Where? They're coming back, and I'll lose my chance to get free of this damn'ed room if ye don't tell me quick." She gave him a little shake, for emphasis, which rocked his whole body. Damnation, when had he gotten so weak? It was as though one breath would blow him over. The fire that raged through him, the need for the poppy, had left him nothing but ash that might blow away at the opening of the door at the top of the stairs.

The bolt turned. Hearing it, he quaked under her hands and looked desperately up at her. "Huggy's," he whispered, his voice harsh and raw. "Go to Huggy's."

Then the door opened, and his gaze turned upward. Seizing her chance, Robin darted back to her cardboard haven before anyone could see her. There was no time for the change, though, before the door closed once again and the four trolls and their diminutive mistress descended once more into the room.

Half way down the stairs, she stopped, and then aimed a glare back up at her minions. "Which one of you idiots took off his blindfold?" But all four claimed innocence as Robin laughed soundlessly at their confusion. Any taste of chaos was like sweet wine, to her. It had always been thus.

"It doesn't matter," the woman said. Short, sharp steps carried her to Ken's side, and she filled her hand with his hair. "It's better this way, anyway. Do you know me, Detective Hutchinson?"

Peering out from between two boxes, Robin saw Ken blink and try to focus on the woman's face, wincing as she wrenched his head back with a vicious tug. "...bitch...lemme 'lone..." He tried to free his head, but her grip was stronger than his failing vigor.

"Look at me, Detective," she crooned, dipping her face a bit lower. "Look hard. You know me. You've seen pictures, if nothing else. Say my name." She spoke as a lover, tenderly, but her eyes held the same icy cold as the tears of a frost giant. "Say my name. Patricia...."

Ken's eyes widened. "...Forest. Patricia F-Forest. His d..."

"Daughter." She smiled, releasing his head with a sharp rap against the pipe. "That's right, Detective Hutchinson. My father is Benjamin Forest. The man you wrongfully accused of abducting and assaulting you to cover up your own shameful addiction to heroin." She shook her head, assuming a mournful and chiding expression, as a mother will to her son when he's done something he ought not. "The man you will help free, before all's said and done."

Now she stroked his head, soothing his damp brow in a mockery of comfort. Robin set her teeth and would gladly have set them in the woman's throat, but the time was not yet. The odds were bad, and Ken was still a prisoner of the iron. Bide and see, though your gut clench and your fists go white with anger.

The candle was kindled once more, and the scent of vinegar and dying flowers seeped into the air. Ken pulled away weakly as the four trolls freed him and held him fast, but the shock of knowledge had taken some of the fight out of him. That and the ebbing tide of the opiate, which sapped strength and will together. "Won't help," he said, sagging as the needle slid out of his arm. "I won't help you. Don't care what you do." Then, softer, barely to be heard from where Robin hid..."lousy creeps."

Belatedly, she realized that it was now or never. As the trolls secured Ken once more to the post, Robin reached Inside and drew forth one of her favorite forms. In the blink of an eye, she had transformed from a waifling to a tomcat, grizzled and ear-torn from many battles in many alleys on many moonlit nights. He could barely restrain the urge to yowl and claw as the largest of the trolls, dressed in an atrocious yellow and blue plaid, pushed the mortal roughly. He fell to the ground in a boneless heap, only the tether of his wrists keeping him from measuring his length on the cold floor.

The trolls laughed, a sound that made the fur on Robin's back stand upright, and turned to leave. The tom gathered himself, waiting.

The woman paused to pick up her supplies, and then turned back to the fallen man once more. Lifting his head with her toe, she looked down into his face and smiled. Then she hauled back her dainty foot, and buried it in his stomach with a single, vicious kick.

The bound man drew up his legs, a startled cry of pain escaping his lips, as he tried to curl away from the cruel woman. Moments later, he retched, bringing up nothing but bile and water. The woman took a hasty step back, taking care that none of the mess touched her shoes, and bit back a curse.

"...s-sorry..." Ken stammered, panting for air. Then he grinned.

It wasn't much of a grin, in Robin's experience, but it was probably the best he could manage under the circumstances. However pained and wan, it did the fae's heart good to see it. If you can't beat the devil, then spit in his eye, eh lad? he thought.

The door at the top of the stairs was open. The trolls were waiting for their mistress. Time to go.

Quick as thought, Robin was up and over the boxes, up the stairs, and out the door before any of the villains had a chance to do more than wonder how the hell a cat had gotten into the basement. He scampered down a short, dark hall and up another flight of stairs, following the faint promise of fresh air. Soon, he tracked the source. An open window, no more than a handspan, but more than enough to give a wily tomcat his freedom.

Robin was outside and leaping from roof to tree to ground almost before the door was once more locked on her charge and the smaller of the four trolls exclaiming something about ordering pizza or Chinese.

The moon shone brightly, and there was nary a cloud in the sky. The cat found it easy going, at first. The lawns of the houses were wide and well kept, and all the dogs were securely chained. This was a district of much wealth, it seemed, going by the size of the houses. Of course, just now everything seemed much bigger to Robin. One of the hazards of this form.

Whoever or whatever Huggy was, Robin was fairly sure it wasn't to be found here. He had to go deeper into the city, down out of the high hills, and find a guide of some kind. There was a cluricaun he knew of who had taken the unfortunate name of Mickey Finn. He was one who'd do anything for a bit of ale or the price of one. Of course, Robin had neither, but that had never stopped the hob from getting what he wanted. Grinning a Cheshire grin, the grizzled tom ran down the darkened streets, carefully noting the route as he went.

The vast ocean was miles to his right shoulder and the dry hills to his back. To his left shoulder rose Wilson's mountain, and the park the mortals called Eaton. The Midsummer revel would be starting soon, and Robin snarled to think on't. The moon was high, and as round and full as a gravid woman, with all the promise that lay therein. The Daoine Sidhe, boggart to brownie and anthropophagi to the Tylwyth Teg, would e'en now be broaching a cask of new ale and setting up the rounds for the dances. If a cat could sigh, Robin would have done so.

The rumor was that her cross-legg'd ladyship, Titania, had lured the Corrigan out of her hiding. She was a beauty by moonlight and a hag by day, and doomed to stay so until a suitor came to love her in both forms. Robin was not that suitor, but he had always wanted to meet and tup her, for the bragging rights if naught else. Tonight was to be his chance. Now, it looked as though he would be still running about this mortal vale by morning, and she'd be hag again and gone back to wherever she had found to bide the long years away. Cats can curse little better than they can sigh, and Robin considered briefly changing back to a two-legged form for the moment, simply to vent his frustration.

Luckily, for the sake of the peaceful slumber of those in the increasingly shabby dwellings through which he ran, he hadn't the time.

Finn would not be at the revel, that much was certain. Those sidhe who chose a mostly mortal life tended to shy away from court doings, for shame. Mickey was one of the worst of these. A rabbit-faced fool, shaking and flinching at the slightest noise, he was slave to the drink. Cluricaun were thus, in the main, but Mickey worse than most. Drink was to him as the poppy was becoming for Ken, as necessary as life and breath.

After an hour or more of rooting in dark alleys, and a brief but satisfying romp with a willing she-cat, Robin finally ran the sidhe to ground. It was hard to see the fae in the man, and hard to look on him at all. He was crouched in a dirty cardboard box, his tan coat drawn over him like a blanket, and he clutched a bottle of a foul smelling brown liquor to his heart. Every now and then, tremors would shake his hands, and he'd bring the bottle to his lips as a lover kisses his best beloved and drink a short drop. Enough to hold the thirst at bay, Robin thought, but little enough to make the bottle last.

No need to hold this form longer. In the blink of a madman's eye, Robin went from cat to child once more. Lost in his whisky dreams, Mickey never noticed. This infuriated Robin, who above all else hated to be overlooked, and she strode forward and gave his home a good kick.

"Wha...hey! Cut it out!" The rumpled figure glared up at Robin, blinking and cringing even in defiance. "What the hell do you want, kid? Go 'way." He hunkered down even deeper into his overcoat, shivering despite the warm evening, and took another sip from his bottle.

"Is that any way to speak to your betters, cluricaun?" Robin asked sweetly, and folded her arms. "Do you not know me?"

Mickey blinked, and shrugged a sodden shrug. "Why should I know..." he began, then blinked again and looked hard at the girl-child before him. "Cluricaun? Why'd you call me that, kid? What's...what's a cluricaun?" As a deception, it was laughably pathetic.

"Ho ho ho! You are, laddie my buck! Though you're more whisky than fae by what's in your blood just now." She grinned a nasty grin and deftly took the bottle from his shaking hands. "Know me yet? 'Sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl in very likeness of a roasted crab, and when she drinks against her lips I bob and on her wither'd dewlap pour the ale.'" Suiting action to words, she loosed a short stream of spirits from the bottle onto the barren ground.

"No!" Mickey shouted, and made a grab for the bottle, but Robin danced back and lifted it upright again. "Give it back, please!" Then he looked harder at the seeming-child and paled. In a whisper, full of fear and a bit of awe, he said, "Puck? Is that you?"

Robin grinned, and cut a little caper in her delight. "There are those who call me that, aye. Hobgoblin and sweet Puck am I, and you are a stupid and sniveling excuse for a sidhe not to see it right away."

Drawing back into his hovel, Mickey winced and shrugged. "I've been out of circulation, lately. What d'you want with me, anyway?" His eyes strayed to the precious bottle in Robin's hands, and he licked his lips.

"This falls out better than I could devise," Robin said, drawing her intent around her like a cloak and becoming as serious as she was able. "I seek Huggy's. I am on a mission from Oberon and you would do best to help me, if you want your oblivion returned to you." She shook the bottle at him, letting him hear the gurgle.

"Huggy? Huggy Bear? What do you want with him? He's not one of us." His rabbit-like eyes never left the whisky, and Robin made a game of it. She moved the bottle to the left and his head swung to follow it. Back to the right, and still his gaze was locked.

It was pathetic. "Never mind why I seek him. It is enough that I do. Now, tell me where he bides and I'll give this back to you." The look of hope and dread on the cluricaun's face reminded her of the look on Ken's face when the door at the top of the basement stairs opened. Need and fear and self-loathing all intermingled. Robin felt a little sick, and a shadow of disgust for her actions. She stilled the bottle, abruptly tiring of the game.

"He's got a bar and grill, over on Eighth Street. I don't know if it's still open, but he lives above it, so he should be there." The words tumbled out like eager puppies, wanting to please and earn a pat in reward. "I'll take you, if..." he looked up at her, tearing his eyes from the brown glass in her hand, and they were Ken's eyes, full of unsavory and unwanted hunger.

She thrust the bottle into his hands and wiped her own on her tunic. "No need, sirrah. I know the way." Her own voice was gentle and kinder than she'd meant. "Be at ease. The bottle will not run out for a month. I've made it so."

Before he could thank her, she turned and ran back the way she'd come. His shouted blessings, though, chased her for two blocks. "What is wrong with me?" she wondered aloud, slowing to a walk when she could no longer hear him. "Time was I'd have taken his knowledge and dashed the bottle to the ground for the fun of it, after. Or turned it to milk, for spite. Sour milk, at that." She shook her head, ignoring the looks from the people she passed.

Pity. That was what she felt, she realized. She'd felt it for Ken, stricken and drugged against his will, and she felt it now for Mickey. It was a strange emotion, and one to which the pooka was not accustomed. She gnawed a fingernail, and puzzled through street signs, making her wandering way westward down the numbered byways. Perhaps she was coming down with something, some mortal illness from spending this much time among them. Robin had heard of such things, in court gossip, but had always laughed the tales away. Maybe there was more to them than she'd thought.

Not pity, then. She had a cold. That was all. The realization brought her much comfort.

Rougher and coarser grew the denizens of the city as she moved toward the eighth street. Never had she felt farther from field and fen, here in this concrete hell. Painted strumpets plied their bodies on the corner, and ragged men and children in alleys slipped poison into their veins willingly. Old women picked through garbage, muttering to themselves like Mad Maudlin, and sipping from paper bags that smelled like a cluricaun's nightmare.

Some of the folk called out to her, but she ignored these and pressed on. One large man tried to lure her into a car, offering her money for her carnal favors, but she merely smiled and wilted his manhood. It would be a year and a day before he could act on his desires again, and looking at a child with lustful eyes would always serve him thus. Robin grinned and fluttered her fingers at him, skipping happily at the look of consternation in the man's face.

At long last, footsore and weary beyond memory, she found Eighth Street. Half way along it, set into a brightly colored wall, was a sign proclaiming she'd found her destination. There was music coming from behind the door, and the sign overhead read "open late", so in she walked. So late, there were few people within. An old man in a battered and shapeless hat sat in a booth, nursing an ale. A young man and woman shared a table, heads bent close over a basket of fried potatoes, their hands intertwined in a lover's knot over the checked tablecloth. In the back, bent and dancing over a machine that beeped and clanged and rattled with bright lights, was a tall man with dark skin dressed as a mountebank in reds and golds and garish greens. A glittering chapeau sat atop his close-shorn head, and his feet were clad in silver boots with heels that elevated him to precarious heights.

The old man looked up and gave her a damp smile, then bent once again to his sipping. The man at the machine, however, turned and waved her in. "Eve'nin', little sister. What can we do for you this fine and frolicsome night?" He gave the machine a last shake and turned toward her, grinning a grin that went straight to Robin's heart. "We're about to close up, but you're welcome to stay a bit, if you need to."

He was worried for her, Robin realized. Or, rather, for the ragged child she beseemed. Fit enough reason to worry, given the neighborhood, but she'd not felt that caring from the others in the street, nor elsewhere. For all his outlandish garb and gawky limbs, this one had a good soul, for a mortal. Perhaps he could help. Time was passing, and Ken was no closer to rescue. "I am looking for Huggy Bear," she said. "Do you know him?"

"Know him?" the man laughed, pushing his cap back on his head and looking down at her. "I am him. What can the Bear do for you, little sis? Don't tell me, let me guess. You heard about the fine soul food in this here establishment and decided to see for yourself, am I right?" Before she could answer, he called back to the kitchen. "Bonnie, fix me up a plate of chicken and greens, will ya? And a big glass of milk."

To tell true, Robin was hungry, and the smell of food was appetizing, but her task came first. Pulling on the man's bright coat, she got his attention and drew him down to her height. "I was sent to you," she said, and his wide mouth quirked at her seriousness. Well, reason enough for humor, to see such gravity in a child of ten years, but Robin had not the time for games. "Ken needs David. He's hurt and needing help."

All laughter left the dark man's eyes. "Ken? You mean Hutch? He's hurt? Damn, girl, why didn't you say so? Where is he?" He took Robin's shoulders and pressed hard, a fearful look in his eyes.

This was not the one, though, to whom she'd been told to trust. "David Starsky," she said. "Do you know where he is? Ken...Hutch said you would." Hutch was a fitting name for the man, and sounded better in her mind. Ken meant understanding, and she was far from that just now. Hutch was a friend-name, and a truer name than his given one. "Please. Time is short."

Indecision warred with mistrust in Huggy's eyes. "How do I know this ain't a trap for Starsky? Both them boys got enemies, and for all I know you could be workin' for one of 'em." He let her go and folded his long arms. "You got some proof what you're saying is so, little sister?"

Being a creature known for mischief, Robin was used to not being believed. Still, it rankled, and the sense of time passing made her feel near- desperate. "Not a jot," she snapped. "All I have is my word and the fact that I am here. If you wish to take a chance and leave Hutch in the hands of that woman, then it is on your head. I will find Starsky in some other fashion." She turned to go, but a long-fingered hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"Okay. Okay. I'll try to find him. But you better be telling me the truth." Now his deep brown eyes were cold, and his hand tightened ever so slightly. "I got friends too." The threat was clear, and she nodded in acceptance of it. Hutch was right to send her here. This one was loyal and true, and a fitting companion to Heroes.

Her food arrived, and Huggy let her go without another look, heading to the phone in the back. The chicken was crisp and delicious, and the greens tender and savory. Robin set to the simple fare with a will, hungrier than she had realized, and soon cleared the plate. She was gnawing on the bones when Huggy came back and sat down next to her. He blinked at the scoured state of her plate, then called for another. "You were hungry, weren't you?" he asked. "How long since you ate?"

She shrugged. "Did you find him?" she asked, draining her milk and looking sadly down into the empty glass.

"Yeah. He's on his way. Given the way he pushes that striped tomato he drives, he'll be here in about five minutes. Time enough for you to polish off the rest of the chicken, if you hurry." He smiled a little smile, but worry still lurked in his eyes. "You ain't what you seem, are you kid?"

The question took Robin aback, and she pasted an innocent look on her face in panic. "What do you mean?" Had she slipped, somehow? Her glamour held, she was sure, and she'd used no magic here. True, she'd avoided the fork she'd been given, eating chicken and greens and potatoes with her hands, but that wasn't so outlandish. Was it?

"Just what I say. The way you talk, and carry yourself. Huggy ain't no fool. You're no more a little white girl than I am." He kept his voice low, and his eyes were keen on her face. Perhaps he saw something there, for he just nodded and handed her a fresh plate. "I've lived in this city a long time, and seen a lot of strange things. Things from storybooks, or nightmares. I know what I know, and I'll keep it to myself, but just tell me I'm wrong, if you can tell it true. Pick up that fork."

The chicken steamed and the greens were oozing with butter. Robin's stomach growled, but her hunger had fled. He knew, by the old gods and godlings. "I...I cannot, neither," she said, her voice a bare whisper. Now the glamour would flee, and she'd be revealed for her true nature and all hope for helping Hutch would fade into fairy gold.

Nothing happened. Huggy just nodded and refilled her glass with milk. "Thought so. Don't worry, little sister. I'll keep my word. You just keep yours." He looked hard at her, and went back to his machine.

He'd guessed, she realized. She hadn't told. Oberon's laws had not been flouted, so her disguise was safe. She sighed relief and set to the chicken anew, stripping the meat from the bones with a will and ferocity that drew the attention of the lovers two tables over. The woman, a slender black of no more than twenty years, smiled hesitantly at Robin and then pulled her man to his feet. Throwing some money on the table, they left hurriedly. Robin just shrugged and cracked a bone.

She'd just finished when the door flew open and a dark-haired Fury stormed in. "Huggy! Where..." Then his eyes alit on her face, and she was rocked with the anger and fear that filled them. With long strides, he came to her and dropped to one knee, taking her hand. She had to smile at his manner, when he spoke. This was the other Hero, it was plain. In his worry, still he tried to put the child at her ease, for he lowered his voice and tried on a smile that ill-fit him. "Hi there," he said, not unkindly. "Huggy said you were asking for me? Something about Hutch?"

This was not the time for games, nor trickery. Robin had a feeling that if she tried either, this man would lose his barely-held composure and tear her into very small bits looking for answers to his questions, despite her seeming innocence. She didn't have to ask if he was David Starsky. This was the man from Hutch's mind, the one man he trusted above all others, and she could see why. "Achilles and Patroclus," she murmured. This one was as a brother, or closer, and nothing would stand between him and those who would hurt his other soul.

Shaking herself, Robin nodded. "Aye. He's hurt and hurting. A woman holds him 'gainst his will. Forest is her name, and she has a will to go on hurting him unless we can stop her."

As she spoke, his hand on hers grew tighter and tighter, and the storm clouds in his indigo eyes built into a hurricane. "Where?" he said.

"I'll take you. I don't know the address, but only how to get there," she said. The grip around her was white, and she could feel bruises forming on her grubby arm. "You're hurting me," she said, a little surprised that this should be so. It had been long and long since a mortal had dared to harm her in any way, but this had not been done from malice, but fear and love.

The moment she spoke, the fingers flew open, and a look of guilt chased out the worry for a split second. "Sorry. Come on, let's go." He stood, and pulled her to her feet, but a raised voice from the back of the room stopped him.

"Uh...Starsk? Can I talk to you a sec, my brother?" Huggy looked down at Robin. "I'll keep my word," he said. She nodded. He'd keep all his words, both that her secret was safe and that he'd find a way to revenge any wrong done his friends.

Starsky, obviously wanting nothing more than to race out the door, reluctantly let Robin go and went to talk to Huggy. There they spoke in whispers for a moment, and then Robin was being pulled out the door and into the street. "What was that about?" she asked.

"Never mind. Come on." He opened the door to a bright red machine and sat behind a round wheel. A moment later a roar and the smell of burning filled the air. "Get in!" he yelled, opening the door near her from the inside.

Iron. The machine was all of cold iron. Robin could no more go near it than she would willingly bed a duergar. Even now, at this little distance, she felt her form wavering, her teeth sharpening and her hair growing red. She'd not be able to hold her glamour more than a moment, within, nor use her magics. Oberon would forsake her and all would be lost. Never mind how painful it would be.

"I can't," she said, and she felt herself tremble. She'd not thought of this, not thought out a plan at all for getting the mortal to his brother. "I'll walk, thank you."

Dark eyes glinted at her from within the shadows of the machine. "Get. In." His teeth flashed, and there was a clear menace in his voice. In a moment, he'd get out and take hold of her and pull her within, and then all the evils of the unseelie would seem but party-games for the chaos that would ensue.

Normally, chaos was Robin's bread and butter, but there was no time for it now.

If discovery was inevitable, then so be it. Huggy had kept his word, she was sure, but now it mattered little what he had told the man. "Something is about to happen," she warned. "Take it as it comes and trust me. I'll not let you fall." The sidewalk was empty, for the moment, and no cars passed. None would see but herself and the Hero.

Bidding a silent farewell to Oberon's good will, Robin threw off her mortal guise and took on a much older one. Where had once stood a little girl now stamped a pitch-black mare, without saddle or reins. She shook her head, shrugging into the form as a woman would try on a dress she'd not worn in a while, and looked to Starsky as though to say, "Are you coming, then?"

Chapter 3

This was, without a doubt, the single freakiest night in his entire life. The weird little girl had just changed into a horse. Just like that. It was almost enough to distract him from his worry about Hutch, but not quite. Never taking his eyes off of the animal, he got out of the car and walked up to it. Maybe he was still dreaming. A balmy breeze from the distant ocean ruffled his hair, and the horse's mane. A spicy scent rose from the beast, like a campfire, or a field of night-blooming flowers. Distant memories of Scout camps in the Catskills and warm summer evenings stirred in Starsky's mind, and he took another cautious step forward.

Laying a hand on the horse's neck, he could feel the pulse. "Kid? Is that you?"

Rolling her red eyes, the horse bobbed her head and snorted. Starsky looked from the animal to the Torino and said, "Y'know, if you didn't want me to drive, you could'a just said so." The horse snorted again and tossed her head, long mane flying. Starsk could swear she was laughing at him. It was the full moon, he decided. It made everything possible. Little girls turning into horses, all perfectly natural. Huggy had said to trust her, no matter how weird it got, and it had just taken a turn for the seriously strange.

"Guess it's time for a little trust," he said. "You gonna take me to Hutch?"

The mare nodded again and clopped a pace forward. The step sounded dull, and looking down Starsky noted the horse wasn't wearing horseshoes. Well, made sense. The kid had been barefoot, too. Unreal. Down the rabbit hole time. But she would take him to Hutch, and that was all that really mattered. "Okay then. Let's go."

First stumble. No saddle or stirrups to get him aboard. "Um...Robin? Can you, uh, kneel or something. I don't think you want me trying to jump up there, not in these jeans."

The horse laughed at him again, and walked over to stand next to the Torino. "Great. I'm getting laughed at by a freakin' horse," he muttered, and climbed up on top of his car. "Don't move, now," he said, and stepped from the hood to settle over mare's broad back.

The instant his butt touched her spine, she was off. Starsky yelped and bent low, grabbing a double handful of black mane and hanging on for dear life. He clamped his legs to either side of the great barrel of her body and yelled, "Slow down, willya!"

The mare shook her head, and then stretched her neck and fairly flew down the empty street. Her hoof beats thudded in time with his hammering heart, and the wind of their passage blew her tangled mane into his eyes. Every moment that passed, he was sure he'd fall off and break a leg or something. After a while, though, Starsky noticed that he wasn't slipping around like he'd feared. In fact, the mare's gait was so smooth it felt almost like riding in his Torino. She took a corner, and he leaned into it as he would if he were driving, and grinned in exhilaration.

If Hutch weren't in trouble somewhere up ahead, Starsky would be having the time of his life.

He'd fallen asleep on Hutch's couch and dreamt some tremulous dreams, as Lord Buckley had once said. Hutch in that alley, scared and hurting and looking like death warmed over. Hutch, angry and ashamed, sweeping the checkers off of the table and stalking around Huggy's room like a caged lion. Hutch hurting, alone, and afraid and Starsky couldn't get to him, no matter how hard he tried.

The telephone had awakened him, and he'd been glad for the interruption until he heard the message. Some kid had come to Huggy, telling him Hutch was in trouble and for Starsky to come right away. Starsk had been out the door before he put down the phone.

Then things had taken a turn for the bizarre. Straight out of a Twilight Zone episode, the kid turns out to be not a kid at all but something Else, and now Starsky was riding a freakin' horse into Beverly Hills. A horse that laughed at him.

Must be still dreaming. That was the only thing that made sense.

The neighborhoods turned nice, then nicer, then posh. When they turned filthy rich, the mare entered a little park and trotted to a stop. The place was dark and quiet, surrounded on all sides by a brick wall over which roses had been trained. A tasteful playground sat in the center, and dew spattered the grass with moon-reflecting diamonds.

With a convulsive shudder, Robin shed herself of her rider and pranced a few steps away, laughing her horse laugh. Moments later, the sound changed. "Ho ho ho! By Oak, Ash, and Thorn, I've not had as much fun since Weyland was a babe in arms!"

A little man stood in the horse's hoof-prints. Shorter than Starsky by a couple of feet, the guy had tiny horns on his head and a shock of bushy red hair. His chin was pointed, the angularity accented by the van dyke that sprouted there, and when he grinned Starsky could see that his teeth were all sharp as a cat's. Stretching, he looked up at the moon and then danced a little jig. "Midnight," he crowed. "Fairy time. Come, let's away!"

"Robin?" Starsky said, but there was no doubt in his mind. "What the hell are you? What's going on, here?"

All jollity left the strange creature. He stood upright, his head level with Starsky's shoulder, and bowed. "I'm a pooka, or hobgoblin, or pwca, or whatever you like. I'm a trickster and madman and right now I'm your boon companion's only hope. Will ye not shift yerself, friend David? We've not the time to stand about gawping. 'Tis midnight on the eve of Midsummer, and tonight of all nights I've been sent to you. T'moon will be setting soon; your Ken still bides in pain and fear, not far from here. Will ye not trust me?"

Hutch was in trouble. Nothing else mattered, really. Coming to a decision, Starsky nodded. "Lead on, MacDuff," he said, and the weird little man winced.

"Don't ever do that. 'Tis bad luck to quote that play, don't ye know that?"

"Come on," Starsky said, impatiently. "Just take me to him."

The pooka nodded, and turned to lead the way out of the park. 'Pointed ears. The guy has pointed ears. I'm dreaming.'

"You're not dreaming, David," Robin said, grinning over his shoulder.

Deciding silence was wiser than comment, Starsky just glared at the little man and followed him out of the park.

The crept down the quiet streets, Robin trotting ahead and Starsky trailing behind, his gun heavy in its holster. This wasn't what he'd expected, this rich neighborhood, when he had heard Hutch had been kidnapped again. Some warehouse, down by the docks, yeah. Or some place in the mesas, abandoned and decrepit. Not this. Lawns stretching for miles and cars that cost more than he made in a year. What was Patricia Forest doing in Beverly Hills?

Then again, it stood to reason. Ben Forest had been big in the drug sale and distribution business. That kind of traffic brought in big bucks. No reason not to set up his kid in style. They just hadn't tracked her connection yet, with her father's business. The DEA had taken over, after the bust, and were still mopping up Forest's operation. Neither Hutch nor Starsky had wanted anything further to do with the case.

Looked like that option had been taken away from them. The case had come back to haunt them both. "We almost there?"

"Aye," the little man said. "Next house. What will you do when we arrive?"

"Get Hutch out of there," Starsky replied. Duh.

Robin rolled his eyes. "How? There are four stout men within, and the woman. There may be more that I did not see. I am sure they all carry those...pistols. If they hear you coming, they might harm Hutch, for spite."

The pair came to a stop in the shadow of a high wall. More roses nodded overhead, their scent an annoyance just now, and a distraction. It was thick, cloying, and it made Starsky want to sneeze. "We'll have to take them out before they can do that, then," he said.

"How?"

Good question. Throwing up his hands, Starsky said, "I dunno. Maybe you could turn into a horse again and take 'em all for a nice ride." Every muscle in his body urged him forward, knowing that Hutch was hurting close by and unable to stop it Right Now, damn it. "What do you suggest?"

The little man grinned, his sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. "I thought you'd never ask, laddie-buck. I'll go unlock the door and then see what mischief I can devise. Hutch is in the basement, under the stairs. I'll do what I can, and leave the rest for you."

Before Starsky could object, the man was gone. In his place stood a dirty white cat, who hissed and purred at him, and then turned and scampered into the dark.

"Dreaming," Starsky muttered. "Any minute I'll wake up and Hutch will come through the door and ask me what the heck I'm doing sleeping on his couch. Any minute."

()()()

It was easy as sin to find the window again. Robin scampered up the tree and through the gap in a trice. Following the smell of garlic, he found two of the trolls asleep together, their beefy arms entwined each around the other. 'How sweet,' he thought, and purred a spell to make their sleep a deeper one. Nothing save an earthquake would wake them now. That left two, and the woman. Once more on two feet, Robin crept down the hall and toward the front door.

Dolorous Willie had penned a play, once, about the Daoine Sidhe. Robin had seen it fair often, and thought it great sport. In it, he, or rather the Puck of the play, tricked two worthy youths into combat by imitating their voices in the fog. "'Up and down, up and down, I will lead them up and down. I am fear'd in field and town. Goblin, lead them up and down. Here comes one.'"

Indeed, one of the trolls approached from the kitchen, bearing a slice of meat pie and a mug of weak ale, by the smell of it. Fading into a handy shadow, Robin pitched his voice low and slow. "That the last slice, you pig?"

"Fuck you, Vince. You took twice as much as me, and I paid for it anyway." The troll glared toward the voice, then went his way. Robin rubbed her hands together and laughed a soundless laugh.

Scampering forward, once more in girl-guise, Robin unlocked the door and swung it wide. In a trice, the mortal Hero ran up the lawn and into the house, his pistol drawn and ready. "I go to sow dissention in the ranks," said Robin. "Two are asleep and will not wake. I've not found the woman, yet. The other two will soon come to blows, or my name's not Robin Goodfellow."

Starsky grimaced. "Yeah, well, I'll take your word on that, merry wanderer of the night. Where's Hutch?"

"Below," Robin pointed toward the door beneath the stairs. "But he's chained and I doubt not the woman has the keys. He'll bide a while longer."

"No. He won't." Before Robin could object, Starsky unlocked the door and disappeared inside.

"Lord, what fools these mortals be," Robin said, shaking her head sadly, and went to look for Vince.

She'd gone no more than a step when a long-fingered hand closed on her shoulder. With a shriek, she jumped and spun in place, a spell on her lips to turn the offender into a water vole. It died unspoken, and her gaze traveled up and up until it met the cool eyes of the one she called master. "Great King," she said, bowing low. "What do you here? The revel...."

"The revel proceeds without me for the nonce," Oberon said, sounding none to pleased at the prospect. "How goes Our business, my jester?"

Robin cringed at the ice in the king's voice. "Well, master," she said, bowing low once more. "Hutch, the one you bid me aid, is below, and his brother is e'en now with him. I go to put paid to the other villains in the house and see them both safe home. If you will grant me leave to go?" She looked up hopefully, but her heart pounded in her chest.

The raven-haired fae looked down at her with cold and pitiless eyes. "I will not. You have flouted me, my dear. You have made yourself known to a mortal, and by extension, you have put us all in jeopardy. Why do you think I bade you to be discrete, fool of a pooka?" When Oberon became angry, he did not yell. No, his voice became soft and sweet, and almost too quiet to hear. Now, he was near whispering, and his voice was charming enough to steal babies from their grandmothers. "What am I to do with you?"

Above all else, Robin dreaded her lord's displeasure. He could be very...inventive at his punishments. Still, she was a favorite, a pet. Perhaps that would count for something. Grinning a bright grin, Robin said, "Forgive me? Give me a lemon drop and a pat on the head? Send me to bed without supper?" She waggled her eyebrows, inviting him to laugh.

He did not take her up on her offer. A hard cuff sent her stumbling, and then Oberon stood over her, and wrath filled his fair face. "Mortal you beseem and mortal you shall remain, until morning's light. You are barred from my company for a month, and none of the Blood will aid you for that time. Use that time to think on your crimes, hob, and come to me contrite when the time is up."

The Sidhe king held his hand over her and a pale light filled the dark hallway. When he lifted his hand away, it felt as though sand had been poured into her limbs. "Mortal," she whispered. "If you prick me, I will bleed." She looked down at her hands, seeing the dirt under her nails, and made a fist. No beseeming, this was her true form. The magic which had fizzed in her blood was now silent, and the dark seemed deeper than before. She couldn't feel the moon, nor smell the wind. Worse, she could barely see Oberon. She had only a mortal's senses, and abilities.

A terrible thought occurred to her, then. "Dread king," she said, and all merriment was gone from her voice. "How can I help them now?" The men below stairs, in danger and alone, might have need of her before the night was through. How could she help with no magics to aid her?

Oberon just smiled, fading into shadow. "You will think of something, my Puck," he said, and was gone.

Folding her arms, Robin glared after him. "Beautiful," she muttered, and went in search of her foes.

Chapter 4

They'd kept Hutch in the dark. That was Starsky's first thought when he opened the door under the stairs and had to turn on the light to go any further. It was dark and hot and there was a distant smell of sickness in the air that made it hard to breathe. Drawing his weapon, he swallowed against the fear and anger in his throat, and descended the steps slowly. His heart was hammering and he dreaded what he'd find, but at the same time he was hurrying along faster than he should into an unknown situation. Hutch was down here, and hurting, Robin had said.

Of course, Robin had then turned into a horse, so that made anything she had to say a little suspect.

Turning a bend, he reached a second door. "How big is this basement, anyway?" he muttered, unlocking the deadbolt and pushing the heavy door open. The heat within wafted up at him, and it was dark here, too. Fumbling around the corner with his free hand, Starsky flipped on a switch, flooding the room below with light.

"Hey!" a weak protest, but it was his partner's voice, and it drew Starsky's eyes like a magnet draws iron.

"God, Hutch," Starsky said softly. The man looked terrible. Sweat had plastered his clothes to his thin frame, and he was sitting against a thin metal pipe in the middle of the room. He'd buried his face in his drawn up legs, hiding his eyes from the light probably, and even at that distance, Starsky could see his friend shaking.

Shock held him immobile for a long moment, then caution for another as he scanned for bad guys. Going quietly down the stairs, and battling every step not to run to Hutch, Starsky poked around the room, behind boxes and under the wooden stairs, until he was satisfied they were alone. A moment after that, he was crouching next to Hutch, reaching for his handcuff keys. "Hutch? Hey, look at me, buddy. You okay?"

Slowly and reluctantly, Hutch raised his head and squinted at him. "Starsk? What are you doing here?" He blinked a couple of times, then coughed and rested his head on his upraised knees once again. "Not here. 'M dreamin' again."

The blond hair was wet and a little oily under his hand, but that didn't matter. Stroking the bowed head gently, Starsky urged it up with a gentle pressure. "I'm here, babe. Look at me. Gonna get you out of here." The handcuffs were proving stubborn, and it didn't help that Starsky's own vision was blurring a bit. He dashed moisture from his eyes and set his teeth. Hutch's wrists were red and swollen, and there was old blood and new staining the silver metal of the cuffs. Every now and again, Hutch shivered, and his hands were clenched into fists so tight there was blood in his palms as well, from his fingernails. "Damn it. I'll kill 'em. I'll fuckin' kill 'em."

One cuff came free, and Starsky caught Hutch's arm and eased it forward. With a grimace and a stifled moan, Hutch let him move the other arm forward as well and start working on the other cuff. "Easy now, buddy," Starsky said, summoning up an encouraging smile. "I'll have this off in a jiffy and we'll get you out of here."

"Starsk?" His voice was hoarse and rough, and a little raspy, like he'd been yelling a lot. "You're here? How...."

The smile turned into a grin as Hutch finally connected with him. "There y'are, big guy," he said, and put his hand on Hutch's neck, giving it a gentle squeeze. He ducked his head to look into his partner's eyes and saw recognition there. He also saw no blue, only pupils and reddened whites set into dark shadows. Reaching down, hoping he wouldn't see what he knew was there, he pushed back Hutch's loose sleeve.

"Don't," said Hutch, trying to pull away. "Don't look."

Don't look. Right. He couldn't tear his eyes away, though the sight made him sick. A dozen or more old puncture marks riddled the skin over the large veins in his arms. Set among them were five new wounds, red and inflamed. "Oh, jeez," he said softly, letting the sleeve fall. "Oh, Hutch." He wanted to cry, and he wanted to hurt something, preferably the people who had performed the obscenity on his friend.

"Sorry," Hutch said. He sounded miserable, and he drew his arm back and wrapped them around his legs. "Sorry, Starsk." He pulled himself into a tight ball, trying to control the shudders, which were running through him freely now.

Starsky sat down next to him and lay an arm over his friend's shoulders, pulling him close. "Wasn't your fault, babe. You got nothin' to be sorry about, you hear me? We got through this before and we can do it again." He sniffed, wiping away the unwanted tears that were blurring his vision, and reached for one of Hutch's hands. "Two, three days. That's all. You'll be fine. We can get through this."

There was no question in Starsky's mind, and no hesitation in his words. At long last, Hutch looked over at him and gave a little smile. "We, huh?"

Starsky grinned, and hugged a little tighter. "Like there was ever any doubt, you big dummy. Let's get you out of here."

"Oh, this is touching." A woman's cold voice drew Starsky's attention upward, and his gut clenched with anger and sudden dread. She had two big guys with her, both with guns pointing down at the pair on the floor, and an ominous looking black bag in her hand. "You must be Detective Starsky. I must say, you got here sooner than I'd expected, but I think we're far enough along to proceed."

For openings which could be measured in millimeters, the barrels of the guns pointed at them seemed wide as tunnels. For himself, Starsky could probably do a good job of dodging for cover if it came down to a firefight; Hutch wasn't anywhere near able to do the same. Plan B, then. Distract, delay, and survive until an opportunity presented itself. There was a third player on the side of the angels, after all, and one who seemed to like spreading confusion to their enemies.

Keeping his hand well clear of his sidearm, Starsky gave Hutch one final covert hug, then stood and faced his friend's tormentor. All the caution in the world couldn't keep the anger from his voice, no matter how hard he tried. "What the hell do you want, lady? You gotta know you waste a couple of cops, the feds and the DEA are gonna be all over you. If you was smart, you'd just stand aside and let us go."

Patricia Forest laughed at this, a strangely sweet sound that echoed off of the sweating concrete walls. "You're right, Detective Starsky. What was I thinking? Frankie, Vince, please go help Detective Hutchinson up and then call the authorities. We're turning ourselves in." She laughed again, and led the way down the rickety wooden stairs, placing her bag on a little table. "On second thought," she said, turning back to her thugs, "don't. Take Detective Starsky's weapon and handcuffs and secure him somewhere. Keep Detective Hutchinson covered and kill him if Detective Starsky makes any sudden or untoward moves. You may hurt him, a little, if he doesn't cooperate."

From the floor, Starsky heard Hutch's teeth begin to chatter. It was a sound that had haunted him all through that first night at Huggy's, after they'd got Hutch back from Forest, Sr. The chills hadn't let the suffering man alone for a moment, even when he had finally fallen asleep. Worse than the nausea, worse than the aching and driving need for relief from the craving inside, the cold wouldn't leave Hutch any peace. He'd huddled in Starsky's arms most of that first night, wrapped in blankets and drinking cup after cup of sweet coffee, teeth chattering like castanets.

It was happening again. Hutch was going into withdrawal, and this time there was no safe haven to see him through it. Just two burly thugs, coming this way, with an evil humor in their eyes. One of them kept his piece on Hutch, who seemed oblivious to the whole proceedings once again. The other reached under Starsky's jacket and relieved him of his sidearm and badge, handing them both to Forest. "You gonna be good, pig?" he said, and Starsky wrinkled his nose at the scent of garlic and tomato sauce that wafted out of the man's maw.

"Whew, Guido. You need to think about brushing a little more often."

The smirk turned into a scowl, and Starsky found himself pushed against the wall, his arm wrenched up behind his back until he had to stand on tiptoe to relieve the pressure. "Funny man," the guy growled in his ear. "You like jokes?" He pulled up a little higher, and Starsky felt something give in his shoulder, an agonizing jolt of wrongness as the ball popped out of its socket. "I think this is funny."

No breath to object, none to scream, Starsky held on to consciousness with his fingernails. 'Can't pass out. Hutch needs me. God, that hurts.'

"Enough, Frankie," Forest said, her voice seeming to come from a long way off. "Stop playing with your food and get him locked down. I have work to do and I need you on the camera."

"Yes, Miz Forest," Frankie said, and let Starsky fall to the floor. Floor was good, comfortable, even a little cool on his hot face, but hard hands lifted him once again and set him against something narrow and hard. His arms were pulled back, and this time he couldn't help it. It wasn't much of a scream, but it got him through the worst of it. Starsky even managed to black out a little, but it couldn't have lasted more than a second.

When he blinked again, Forest's daughter was lighting a candle and holding something over the flame. "God," Starsky said, and swung his gaze over to Hutch. It was a spoon. A spoon for cooking heroin. Even now, he caught a whiff of the distinctive sharp, sweet smell of good grade smack being melted down.

Hutch wasn't looking at Starsky. He was watching the spoon and the flame and the woman with the needle. His eyes were hungry, and full of shame, and even the guy with the gun on him looked a little sickened at the sight.

"Hutch?" Starsky said. "Hutch, look at me." Starsky stood up, keeping his injured right arm as still as he could. "Hey, partner. Look...." Frankie stepped in, giving his arm a shake to shut him up. Stark set his teeth and blinked, breathing through the pain, then glared at the guy, who just grinned at him with a mouth full of rotten teeth

Patricia Forest set the filled syringe on the table, next to a rubber tourniquet and Starsky's weapon. Then she took a step back. "Here you are, Detective Hutchinson. Make a choice. Sweet oblivion, or possible rescue for your friend and yourself and the little girl upstairs."

"Robin?" Hutch asked, startled out of his enthrallment. He turned to Starsky and said, "You brought that little kid back here?" Then he looked harder at Starsky and a look of puzzlement filled his pale face. "Starsk? I think your shoulder's dislocated. It looks different from the other one." He blinked, and then winked, a gesture so quick Starsky wasn't sure he'd even seen it, then turned back to Forest.

The gun. The needle. Hutch took a shaky step forward, his arms wrapped around his body and shaking so bad he could hardly stand straight. He looked up at Forest's daughter, then down at the table, and licked his parched lips. "My choice?" he asked, looking up at her again.

The woman nodded. "I won't force you this time. The drugs you've had, on top of the cravings left over from before, ought to be enough to make the choice for you. Your body needs it, Kenneth. You hunger for it. You gave up that whore for it. You know the truth of what you are, Kenneth." Her voice was sweet, pitying, understanding, and implacable. "You're a junkie. A hype. You'd sell your soul for a hit, wouldn't you? Much less your friend. Well, there it is. Ready and waiting for you. Pick it up, Kenny. Pick it up and put that needle in your vein. Die a little, and then we'll talk about letting your buddy go free. Maybe that interfering little street urchin upstairs, too.

"Not you, though. You'll never be free. You can stay here and have all the Turkish Delight you want, forever and forever." She smiled a cold smile, and took a step back from the table.

"Don't do it, Hutch!" Starsky yelled. "Come on, babe. Fight it. We can beat this. You're not a jun..." A hard fist came down across his face, silencing him with a brutal efficiency.

Hutch didn't even notice, it seemed. He reached out, barely hesitating, and picked up the syringe. "I'm sorry, Starsk," he said, looking over his shoulder. "I...I c-can't help it. She's right about me." He turned back, leaving Starsky feeling very alone all of a sudden, and deathly afraid for Hutch.

With shaking hands, Hutch rolled up his sleeve and looked down at his arm. He had to put the syringe down for a moment to pick up the rubber tubing and loop it around his bicep. His hands were shaking so badly, though, he couldn't pull the tourniquet tight. In a voice so hopeless it made Starsky want to cry, or break something, he said, "Can you help me with this, Patricia?"

The woman smirked and flashed a look of triumph at Starsky, then stepped up. "Of course, Detective Hutchinson. Hold out your arm. Get ready with that camera, Frankie."

In the instant she looked away, Hutch grabbed up the syringe and spun the woman into a headlock. He pulled her head back with one hand and pressed the syringe into the large vein in her neck with the other. "Call them off," he ordered, his voice strong again, if harsh and raw. "Tell 'em. Get Starsky loose, now!" He pushed the needle a little deeper, and the woman yelped, not quite daring to struggle.

"Do it!" she said. "Drop your weapons!"

Starsky couldn't stop grinning. "All right, Hutch!" he crowed, and looked daggers at the goons. "You heard the lady. Drop your weapons and get these damn cuffs off me."

Frankie and Vince did as they were ordered, and a few minutes later Starsky had them cuffed together, the chain looped through some pipes to hold them both secure. His arm was still in agony, but it was his right arm. He held a gun just fine with his left. "Good job, partner," he said, walking over to where Hutch still had Patricia Forest in as neat a wrestling hold as you'd ever want to see.

"Thanks. Mind taking her? I think I want to pass out, now." He unlocked his grip, pulling the syringe from her neck, and let the woman fall to the ground. She was out cold. "Oops," Hutch said, looking not at all contrite. "Must have given her a little on accident."

He looked at the syringe in his trembling hand, and closed his fist around it. Then, with a yell, he threw it at the concrete wall. It shattered into a million pieces, the drug leaving barely a damp splotch on the cinderblocks. The candle went next, and the spoon. The packet of drugs, he carefully picked up and carried over to the sink. Turning on the tap, he flushed the heroin away until not even a trace was left, then stuffed the baggie down the sink as well.

Starsky just watched, letting Hutch's agitated movements slow until his self-appointed tasks were complete. As he watched, Hutch stilled and stood, swaying in place. The invisible winds that shook him were dying down, now, but there was little warning when the tall man started to crumple. No matter. Starsky was there and caught him, easing him down to the ground as best he was able with a bum arm. "Feel better, partner?" he said, rubbing Hutch's back gently.

"Yeah. Guess so. Relatively speaking, that is." He looked at Forest's daughter with hate in his eyes, and then looked away. "Can we go now? I need...coffee. Lots of coffee."

Starsky nodded. "You bet. Let me call Huggy and get him to bring the car."

Hutch looked up at Starsky in confusion. "You didn't drive the tomato? What, did you take a cab or something?" Then he blinked and looked up the stairs. "Robin. What about Robin? I can't believe that kid found you so fast! Why'd you bring her back here, anyway?"

Helping Hutch stand again, Starsky pulled him toward the stairs. "She kinda brought me. It's a long story. A long, weird story."

"Okay. Later then." He stopped Starsky again, looking at him with concern. "How's your arm? You okay? That guy was huge."

Hutch was getting goofy now, with fatigue and the let down of stress, not to mention withdrawal. "I'm fine, babe. Don't worry about me. Let's just get you up the stairs."

"Okay."

Little by little, with many stops and starts, they made it to the first floor. Locking the door tight, just in case, Starsky found a phone and called Huggy, then joined Hutch in the chintz-covered living room. Dawn was breaking, and a gold-gray light filled the air. It didn't make the furniture any more appealing, though. "How many different rose prints do you think there are in here?" Starsky asked, leaning back in an over- stuffed chair covered with little pink buds.

"Thirteen," said a young voice. "I counted." Robin stood up from behind the couch, holding her head. "Is it over, then?" She walked around and sat, her feet clear of the floor by a good foot. "Did the Heroes emerge victorious?"

"Yep," Starsky said. "Where were you, anyway? I thought you were taking care of the last two goombas."

Robin grimaced and touched her head. "The trolls got me," she said, and showed him the smear of blood on her hands. "I just now awoke." She looked embarrassed, and fidgeted like any child will who's done something wrong. "Sorry, fellows. That's not happened to me in centuries."

Hutch looked at her with concern. "Just so long as you're okay. Starsky shouldn't have brought you back here, kid." He rolled his head until he was looking at Starsky, lacking the strength to pick it up. "What the hell were you thinking, anyway? Bringing a child into a dangerous situation." He shivered, more violently this time, and Robin sprang up and wrapped an afghan around his shoulders.

"This kid ain't no kid," Starsky said. Robin turned and glared at him, then rolled her eyes and shrugged.

"Tell him, if you think he'll believe it, friend David. Me, I'm thinkin' he'll not." She sat back down on the couch and looked out the window, drumming her fingers on the arm.

"Fine," Starsky said, and turned to Hutch. "She's a pooka."

Hutch blinked slowly, then looked over at Robin. After a long moment, he turned and looked at Starsky again. "She doesn't look like a six and a half foot tall, white rabbit."

"Gaah!" Robin exclaimed, springing up once again and stomping out of the room. Her outraged voice filtered back to them; "I hate that movie!"

Hutch shrugged. Starsky grinned. Robin broke things, by the sound of it.

The shakes were getting worse. Starsky's grin faded as Hutch curled up around his stomach again, grimacing as the cramps hit. "Huggy'll be here soon," he said. "Hang in there, babe."

Robin marched back in and threw open a window. Sunlight streamed in and bathed the dirty little girl in light. "At last," she said, and stretched like a cat. When she turned back around, the cut on her head was gone, and hair had turned red. "I can help somewhat, now," she said.

Starsky must have looked as confused as he felt. "Oberon turned me mortal for the night," she explained, walking over to him. "Dawn's come, so now I'm myself once more." She touched his throbbing shoulder and pushed on it gently. With none of the pain he was expecting, it slid back into the socket like it had been greased. "Better?"

He moved his arm around, surprised at the complete lack of discomfort. "Yeah. Thanks." A stifled moan drew his attention back and he said, "What can you do for Hutch?"

"What I can," Robin said, and climbed up on the couch next to the shaking man. "Help me lie him down." Together they made Hutch comfortable on the cushions, and then Robin said, "Close your eyes, Hutch. Sleep, now." She put her hand over his forehead and, in an instant, Hutch was out cold. Before Starsky could become alarmed, Robin turned back to him and said, "He's safe. He'll sleep like this until the poppy poison is done with him, and then a little longer. Three days, and nights, and he'll wake up whole again. Is it well?"

Starsky nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, it's well." He blew out a relieved breath. Hutch wouldn't suffer through another cold turkey withdrawal, like before. "Thanks."

As an afterthought, the girl ran her hands down Hutch's arms. Where livid punctures had mingled with old wounds on the pale skin, where her hand passed there was nothing but unblemished flesh. "'Tisn't much," she said, and it sounded like her voice was a little thick. As Starsky watched, she raised her hand and wiped her eyes, sniffing. "'Tis little enough. Had I my way, he'd remember none of this, and the woman below would be screaming the rest of her life away, somewhere no one could hear her or care."

She sounded so fierce, for such a little girl. Then again, Starsky reminded himself, she wasn't a little girl. He had a feeling she was very old, indeed. Ancient. She represented a reality he wasn't ready to face, quite yet, but he was glad she was on their side. "I'm with you, kid," he said.

"You do realize," said Robin, looking up at him with shining and dancing eyes, "that a kid is a baby goat." In a twinkling, his lap was full of wriggling wool and a darting tongue was giving his face a bath. Tiny horns stood out from the infant head, and a barnyard smell filled the air.

"Bah," he said, and scratched the kid behind the ears before shooing her off of his lap. "Why couldn't you have done that while Hutch was awake? He'd'a believed me, then."

"Baaaaa"

Epilogue

One week later

The cottage by the canal was glowing with light, and music seeped out under the door. Starsky grinned and let himself in, juggling paper bags in one arm and a bottle of good wine in the other. "Hutch!" he called, and the music was turned down in the other room. "'S me!" The place was sparkling, he saw as he passed through the bedroom. Not a sock was to be seen, nor a fallen leaf from the topiary Hutch insisted on cultivating behind his couch. The theme continued into the dining nook, where the table had been wiped clean and was laid out for two.

"Course it's you, dummy," Hutch said from the kitchen. "Come in! Did you bring the bread?"

"As requested. Baguettes from Betriz' Bakery and cheese from Collette's, um, cheeserie. Collette says hi, by the way, and sent along a bottle of wine she says will go good with bachelor chili." Sumptuous smells wafted toward him, pulling him forward until he stood in the doorway to the scrubbed and shining kitchen. "It almost done? I'm starving."

"You're always starving, Starsk. It's part of your charm." Hutch grinned at him and added onions to the bubbling pot, followed by a generous measure of beer.

His partner being busy, Starsky allowed himself the luxury of just looking at the man. The three days he'd spent sleeping off his withdrawal had left him a little weak, at first, but it had been worth it. Now he was moving easily, almost dancing around the kitchen to the strains of something that sounded like Jethro Tull, but with more guitars and less flute. He looked strong, and happy, and fairly glowing with health and good humor.

Starsky wondered, not for the first time, what dreams Robin had given him while he slept. For certain, there'd been no reappearance of the gloomy and depressed man who'd lurked around the precinct for the past month or so. This was a man at ease with himself and with life, from the unconscious smile on his face to the tapping of his bare feet on the linoleum as he opened the wine.

"Ok," Hutch said, pouring a glass and handing it over. "What gives?"

Startled, Starsky took a sip to hide his embarrassment at being caught staring. "What do you mean?" he asked, coughing a little at the strong flavor. He put down the glass and picked up the bottle of Harp Hutch had been dosing the chili with, taking a long drink.

"You know what I mean," Hutch said, taking the bottle away from him and finishing it off. "You've got something on your mind." He hopped up to sit on the counter, reaching out a long arm to stir the chili, then pouring a glass of wine for himself.

Damn it. Hutch had that look in his eyes. The one that said he wouldn't be letting this one drop any time soon, so Starsky might just as well spill. Being a stubborn man, a man of convictions and possessing a strong will, Starsky did the only thing he could do. He spilled.

"You're different. I was just wondering what happened to make you so happy all of a sudden. Before," he hesitated, not wanting to give words to what he was thinking, then went on, "after what happened to you..."

"After Ben Forest pumped me full of heroin, strung me out, forced me to betray a girl I think I was half in love with, and then tried to kill me?" Hutch took a sip of wine, and his eyes had grown a little haunted, but nothing like they'd been before.

"Yeah," Starsky said, strangely relieved, "that. You were...different. Moody. I mean, God knows you had the right to be moody, after all that, but..." He staggered to a stop once more. Words had never been his strong point, and it was doubly hard when he had to talk about this kind of thing.

"I was more than moody, Starsk," Hutch said, putting down his glass. "I was thinking of leaving the force."

"What?" Starsky was appalled, then angry. "Why? You'd leave everything, just like that? Our beat? Our partnership?" Me? said a little voice inside, and he closed his mouth on the needy word.

Hutch seemed to hear it anyway. "I couldn't trust myself, Starsk," he said, hopping down and padding over to his friend. "I couldn't trust myself not to betray you, like I did Jeanie. And I didn't want to find out." He put his hand on Starsky's shoulder and squeezed gently. "I was scared, Starsk. I was so scared that next time it would be you, and I'd choose the drug again, just like before."

There were tears standing in Hutch's eyes, but they didn't fall. Starsky reached out and wiped them away with his thumb. "You didn't," he said. "You wouldn't. I never doubted it for a minute."

Hutch shrugged, blinked, and this time the silent tears did fall. "I know," he said, and he smiled a brilliant smile.

Outside, standing at the window, Oberon reached down and tousled Puck's hair. The hob looked up and smiled toothily, then stepped away from the window. "When do you think Hutch will start wonderin' about who's pickin' up after him, now?" Puck asked.

"He's a clever man, for a mortal," Oberon said. "I'd give him a week, then tell him about the brownie. Bring a crock of cream for the lad, to get him started, and mind you warn him not to leave any clothes out for Meg. She hates that."

"Of course," Puck said, though he intended to do nothing of the kind, and they both stepped back out of the night.

The End