Macha signaled to the bartender for another drink. She brushed the hair back from her face and reclined back, prepared to remain there until she was roaring drunk, or the bartender threw her out.

"I was hoping I would at least find you sober," said a deep melodious voice.

She sensed someone sit down across from her and opened her eyes to pear blearily across the table. "Really? I was rather hoping I'd be passed out by now."

"Why don't I buy you another drink, Goddess. You look like you could use it."

Macha went suddenly very still as a shiver raced the length of her body and back again. She knew the man across from her; there was only one left who still knew to call her Goddess, though he used the word in mockery instead of the solemn reverence it deserved. But then, what were gods and goddesses to those few creatures who were as timeless as the two seated together at this table? Time and its gods were as smoke and mirrors to them, faith like dust crumbling before their eyes, sunsets like a wish in time. All things were mortal, except them, even gods.

She felt a quick laugh bubbling up inside her and let it come. What irony . . . I have searched the world over . . . both above and below . . . for you, for one glimpse, one touch, one soft word . . . She thought all this and knew he heard it. Aloud, she said, "Hello, Jareth."

"What's funny?" he asked, though he already had a pretty good idea.

"You are," she rasped, her laughter dying abruptly. "I spend most of my time hunting you, and when I finally stop . . . you sit down in my lap."

"A tempting idea, Goddess. Maybe later." He reached across the table and brushed a lock of scarlet hair back from her face, his fingers lingering only a little on her brow. "Right now what I think you need is some good, strong coffee . . . and a shower."

She looked at him and took in the black poets shirt, grey trousers, and knee high boots. "What the hell are you wearing?"

He looked down at himself, then back at her and lifted an inquisitive brow. "Clothes? I've heard humans are quite fond of them. Almost what you might call a necessity these days . . . at least in polite company. Personally, I think they're a bit overrated, but times do change."

"How long have you been in the Aboveground?"

Jareth tilted his head and looked at the clock over her shoulder. "About an hour now."

"You've been walking around L. A. in that ridiculous get-up for almost an hour and you haven't been mugged?"

He shrugged enigmatically. "So what brings you to this . . . fine establishment so late at night? Another lover lost?"

"Something like that." She drank another shot, then said, "My king is calling for your head, you know."

Jareth did know, which was precisely the reason why he was sitting across this dirty little chipped formica table with a woman he had not allowed near him in over a thousand years. The last time he had seen her, she had been naked, in his bed, with a cold-iron knife at his throat. Macha did not lose lovers, she destroyed them. He would not be here now, if he hadn't needed information. If he hadn't needed to protect Sarah.

"You and I both know that you answer to no king," he said.

She ignored this and took another drink. The tequila burned all the way down. "Raspiel calls you an abomination of the flesh. And a murderer. I tend to agree with him on the first point."

Unoffended by this, he chose to ignore it. It was just a little peak at the huge well of resentment she undoubtedly harbored for him. "What about this lover of yours?" he asked instead. "The one you grieve for. The one who I assume is the real reason why you have a stack of shot glasses and a half empty bottle in front of you. What happened? Did you kill him?"

She looked away from him, down at the table, tears suddenly stinging at her eyes. She forced them back. She'd be well and truly damned before she'd shed one single tear in front of him. "Yes."

He'd expected as much. She was like a praying mantis; she couldn't help herself. "Perhaps you should talk to someone about it," he suggested. "Unload a little of that . . . whatever it is, on someone else."

"You mean a shrink, don't you?" She gave a wry laugh. "No thanks. I'll leave the mental masturbation to someone who can afford it."

"You're not poor, Goddess," he pointed out.

"I didn't mean that, and you of all people should know that," she snapped. "I can't afford to take the chance."

"Ah yes, one slip of the tongue . . . you would not be forgiven. Though I believe your dear doctor would have to worst of it. After all, we can't have a man with such credibility running around babbling about people living forever and turning into owls, and ravens and such. Someone might decide to believe him."

She gave him a harassed look. Of course he was right. But she had her pride as well; she could not even imagine spilling her soul out at the feet of some dense mortal, who's only real interest was not the state of her sanity, but the consistency of his coffee.

Jareth merely smiled at the anger on her face. He'd only been half serious.

She seemed paler than he remembered, and gaunt to the point of unhealthy. Her features were too pronounced, her cheekbones too sharp, her eyes too haunted. Yet, beyond that, she was still proud and beautiful; still his Goddess.

"You look like shit," he said.

Macha seemed not to have heard him. "How do you take it all back, Jareth? How do you undo the wrong, or—?"

"Banish the regret," he suggested softly. "I don't think you can. I think, after a time, it becomes part of you, and you hardly recall a time when you did not regret."

His complete understanding surprised her. Was this the mighty Goblin King? Had a little slip of a mortal woman brought him so low that he could speak of regret without a sneer? She had not believed the rumors at Court, but now she wondered.

"You love her, don't you?"

He looked away from her, out the window behind her head, at the people passing in the night, flickering in and out of his line of sight like dancers on a stage. "Yes," he said at last. "I love her."

She smiled sadly and poured herself another shot. "I didn't think it was possible. I thought it was all gossip and exaggeration. Now I see why Raspiel wants you so badly. I thought maybe he was just overreacting about your little pet killing his men and cutting his face, but now I understand."

"I doubt it," Jareth said.

"Why couldn't you love me like that?" She asked suddenly. "Why can you love some . . . mortal, but not me, Jareth, why?"

With a weary sigh, Jareth stood up. He had what he wanted; Macha would be no threat to them. She was too broken and time mad to be any danger to anyone but herself, and whatever unfortunate humans were lured to her bed by her beauty.

"It is you who cannot love, Goddess, not me. It has always been you."

She put her face down in her hands so that she would not have to see the pity in his mismatched eyes. When she knew that he was gone, she poured another drink, drank it, and poured another.

A man at the bar winked at her when she glanced up and she smiled at him automatically. He was handsome, with bright blue eyes and short, tidy brown hair. And he was very young.

Her smile became warmer and she took her bottle and moved to the bar.

It was going to take a hell of a lot more than some tequila for her to find oblivion now . . . but she had a pretty good idea what might just do it.