Authors' Note: This chapter is dedicated to all those who dressed up as Tolkien characters for Halloween. Eirual made a amazing Arwen, and Sun Queen pulled off a great-looking Legolas. Ivy's cousin was a miniature Nazgul, too, and Ivy got to do her makeup. She looked so cute! Well, as cute as a small threatening Black Rider with a sword can look, anyway. We know that you Tolkien fans are out there and you took advantage of Halloween to try out our Middle Earth look. Also, Eirual wishes to apologize for the mistake she made in the Authors' Note about Aragorn and Arwen. He lived to be 210, and he was 87 during the War of the Ring. Many thanks to Kat Nicholls for pointing this out to us. Eirual is much ashamed of the fact that she made this mistake when she went to check over her calculations for that note. She anticipates being beaten by the other two Nightrunners for doing something stupid.
As promised: the Hobbit chapter. You asked for it, we obliged. Enjoy the show. Happy Halloween!"
Hobbit-Hunting
Soundtrack: Life (Our Lady Peace)
How many times have you been pushed around?
Is anybody there, does anybody care?
And how many times have your friends let you down?
Is anybody there, did anybody stare?
And how many times have your friends let you down
Just open up your heart, just open up your mind
And how many times has your faith slipped away?
Well is anybody safe, does anybody pray?
Oh life is waiting for you
It's all messed up but we're alive
Oh life is waiting for you
It's all messed up but we'll survive
Doo, doo, doo..
And how many days have you just slept away?
Is everybody high, is everyone afraid?
And how many times have you wished you were strong?
Have they ever seen your heart
Have they ever seen your pain?
Oh life is waiting for you
It's all messed up but we're alive
Oh life is waiting for you
It's all messed up but we'll survive
She gets high, she gets lost
She gets drown by the cost
Twice a day, every week
And all of her life
She gets high, she gets lost
She gets drown by the cost
Twice a day, every week
And all of her life
Life is waiting for you
It's all messed up but we're alive
Oh life is waiting for you
It's all messed up but we'll survive
Oh life is waiting for you
It's all messed up but we're alive
Oh life is waiting for you oh
It's all messed but we're alive
It's all messed up but we'll survive
It's all messed up but we're alive
It's all messed but I will, I will survive..
The Outer Limits turned out to be a nightclub in Necropolis, a ramshackle building that pulsed with light and sound. I could see why people would be drawn
here, towards the warmth of gyrating dancers and the crush of people. Anything to beat back the cold darkness of the street.
I glided past the bouncer, a huge bald man with more tattoos, it seemed, than skin. Following the flow of people, I drifted past the bar and into the club.
The club was one large room, with a beat-up bar running along the wall by the door, and a small stage set in the centre of the dance floor. A band was jamming
onstage, surrounded on all sides by gyrating dancers. Overhead, an ancient incandescent system shot darts of coloured light through the gloom. I sniffed the air
and realized, from the acrid smell, that more than one person in this crowd was flying tonight.
A crush of humanity engulfed me as I stepped onto the dance floor, some ignoring me, some turning slightly to size me up. I felt eyes all over me, some awe,
some lust, and some less-than-friendly emotions. This was Necropolis, after all, and any weakness could get you killed, slowly and painfully. I began to dance,
letting my black duster sweep back like a pair of wings, arcing my neck so the mage-killer tattoo glowed against my skin. The potential attackers suddenly
decided they could find an easier mark elsewhere and drifted off. Then, I turned my attention towards the stage, and had to bite back a laugh. The Valar really
did have a sense of humour.
The Hobbits were tall.
**********
Felix collapsed against the wall in the dingy back room of the Outer Limits, sweat glistening in his spiky hair. He slid to floor, carefully setting his prized guitar
off to one side, and rubbed his burning eyes. The stark light from the bare bulb overhead seemed to drill into his brain, and only served to increase his pounding headache.
A warm body slid down next to his, and he leaned gratefully against Sam's muscled shoulder. "Good show tonight," the other young man whispered hoarsely,
huddling up next to Felix.
"Yeah, no animal sacrifices this time. Remember how long it took to get the goat blood out of Peter's drums?" Felix tried to keep his tone wry, but his
shoulders slumped in despair. "God, I hate this place. I feel like I'm still a little kid, scared that the magic will get me."
He felt a warm hand touch his cheek, and he turned and accepted Sam's kiss. This was everything that was hot and right and alive, and it kept the shadows at
bay. For a while, at least. Felix snaked his arms around his lover's neck, and Sam pulled him closer-
"Christ, get a room, you two." At the flip remark, Felix and Sam broke apart. Mark Brand, bass guitarist, best friend, and sarcastic wit extraordinaire; he had
entered the room and started his post-gig griping. "Is there a beer left? I'm dying over here."
"Yeah." said Sam, pointing to the little fridge under the barred window, Felix being occupied with nuzzling Sam's neck. Mark opened the door and poked his
head inside. The light glowed weirdly off his sweat-streaked face.
"Let's see...we have mouldy cheese, in both green *and* grey, the milk that Marie Antoinette planned to drink with her cake, and..." he trailed off in horror.
"How long has that Chinese take-out *been* there?" He held up the flimsy paper carton dramatically. "Shit! It's *mutating*!"
"Give it to me, I'll eat it," came a new voice. Peter Taylor bounced through the door, dropped his drumsticks with a clatter, then slid to the floor opposite Felix
and Sam. He grinned suggestively at his friends, who were still engaged in some rather compromising activities. "You do realize that there are a half a dozen
lovely young women who left the club disappointed tonight when I told them you two weren't coming back out."
Felix good-naturedly lobbed an empty beer can at Peter's head, but the youngest band member ducked, and the missile hit the wall instead. "I'm sure you got
enough phone numbers for the lot of us."
Mark was still staring transfixed at the leftover Chinese. "That *cannot* be natural."
"Will you shut up about the fucking Chinese food?" Sam cried, and launched himself at Mark's knees, bringing them both crashing to the floor. Peter, in spirited defence of his friend, retaliated by hurling the mostly empty carton of milk in Sam's face. He laughed, trying to maintain his grip on Mark's legs while wiping sour milk out of his eyes.
Meanwhile, Mark had squirmed across the floor towards the dropped Chinese food, and had grabbed a handful of soggy rice, with the intention of throwing it at
Sam. Felix, however, intercepted his wrist in mid-throw, and the rice was redirected towards Peter, who was heroically trying to rescue the beer from the fridge
before it was used as ammunition.
Soon all four band mates were brawling, amid Peter's frantic battle cry of "Save the beer! Save the beer!" More of the offending takeout went flying into the
fray. They were so engrossed in their miniature war, they didn't hear the door creak open.
Finally, Felix found himself sprawled on the floor, breathless with laughter, Sam idly poking Mark with one of Peter's drumsticks, with a triumphant grin on his
face. Peter had salvaged the beer, (it had fallen from the fridge during the fight), and he took a swig, pausing to pour some into Mark's open mouth.
Mark's spluttered curses and Peter and Sam's laughter distracted Felix for a moment. He suddenly sensed a presence behind him and he scrambled to his feet,
his friends leaping up behind him to face the stranger.
A tall bloke with long blond hair stood framed in the doorway. He wore a black leather duster over dark clothes, and his hair was knotted back under a forest
green bandana. His face was also splattered with chow mein noodles. Delicately, he reached up and brushed the ancient takeout away. Only then did he seem
to notice the rockers. He raised one eyebrow and drawled, in a slight British accent, "I hope I'm not interrupting."
All four glared at the stranger, though the unspoken threat was greatly diminished by the fact that they were covered in leftover Chinese food, and, in Mark's
case, beer.
The man looked at Felix and smiled slightly, as if they shared a secret unknown to the other three. With that glance, Felix's headache returned with a vengeance,
but this time it was different. He knew this man! But how? He winced as a jumble of faces began careening through his head at high speeds.
Sam, instinctively noticing the flash of pain crossing his lover's face, stepped protectively in front of him. "Is there something we can help you with?" he asked
bluntly. He wasn't overly polite: manners were reserved for people that you were sure were not going to kill you.
The blond man seemed to avoid the question. "I listened to you guys tonight. You're quite good."
Mark narrowed his eyes. "Are you a talent scout?"
"No, not exactly. But I liked your rendition of 'Stairway to Heaven'. As good as if not better than the original."
Sam's eyes widened. "You recognized it?"
"Yes. Old music is a hobby of mine."
"Really now."
"Yes."
"Are you looking to hire us?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes."
The band members' threatening postures dissolved instantly. "In that case, let's talk business." Mark gestured him towards the tiny table in the corner. "I'm
Mark Brand, that's Felix Baker, Sam Gardener, and that's Peter Taylor, over in the corner, the one with oyster sauce on his face." Peter hastily wiped the
offending takeout away. "We charge six hundred a night, with free bar tabs, and if any crimes are committed in your establishment, we don't testify on either side."
The stranger raised his eyebrows. "No, you misunderstand me. I have no interest in hiring your band. You have...other skills that I have a use for."
Instantly, the suspicious expressions were back. "We don't *have* any other skills, my friend." Peter spoke as if the man was a bit slow. "We play, we get
paid. Otherwise, forget it! We don't do hits, you want someone dead, go find yourself a street gang." He looked at the stranger rather disdainfully.
Suddenly, Felix, who had remained silent during the entire bizarre 'business meeting', spoke up. "I remember who you are now! You're that guy! Christ, you
got flattened by the hit-and-run and then you got up as if nothing had happened!" He glanced at Sam, who remembered the insane story Felix had told him.
"Who the hell are you?"
The stranger sighed. "Let's go someplace else and talk. No offence or anything, but this place stinks." He glanced pointedly at the Chinese food and the milk cartons and wrinkled his nose. Mark shrugged ruefully.
He turned and strode out the door. The four friends exchanged glances. The blond man, seeing that none of them had followed, sighed in exasperation. "Five
hundred dollars each if we can leave this rattrap and have a civilized conversation. No strings attached."
Another exchange of glances. They had no idea who this guy was, but two thousand dollars was enough to live on for more than a month. They would proceed
with caution.
Then, on a hunch, Felix said, "A thousand each and you've got a deal."
The others looked at him, slightly shocked, but they trusted his instincts. The blond man nodded wearily, not looking so dangerous anymore. "Fine, a thousand
apiece."
Peter, emboldened, replied cheekily. "And you have to buy us dinner."
Another exasperated sigh. "Why am I not surprised?"