If I Were a Herald Chapter 47: What Does a Herald Do, a valdemar universe fanfic

If I Were a Herald

Chapter 47

What Does a Herald Do

Disclaimer: I wrote this song. It's a parody of Chris Weber's "What Does a Dorsai Do," which, though filk, seems to be an original tune. Other than that, well, I can't say I own the setting, but you can't sue me for it, either. Kudos to Fireblade for the horse-race idea, although Lyrna kind of nixed it. Again, any resemblance to real people and places is purely intentional, but this is also meant as a work of fiction, and cannot be construed as evidence in a court of law. And yes, major parties are called PCPs. There are three of them every year. It stands for Palm Court Party, so it's completely innocent. halo

A/N (1/18/06): I just finished watching "The Princess Bride." That movie is best watched drunk, high, or at three in the morning. My favorite combination is drunk at three in the morning—I wouldn't recommend the "high" option, although I have this nagging suspicion that the writers, director, and quite possibly actors were on weed when they were making it—especially Westley, in that one scene where he's too weak to stand because he spent the better part of the day mostly dead.

Dark Angel Lytha: Sorry to hear you're sick. Illness is miserable. Both my roommates are sick, but so far I've managed to avoid contracting whatever it is they have. If you do go ahead with your idea for a self-insert, you must take care not to make it a Mary-Sue. It is way too easy to slip into the self-aggrandizing mode in a self-insert fic. I know 'cause it's happening with mine. Well, I do have my own alphabet, and it'd be easy enough to get the code from that. My alphabet is sort of a bastard child of Greek and Tengwar. At least, those were the two main influences on it. I also have this book, called "Codes and Secret Writing," which used to belong to my mom. That's where I got the idea of a word-based Caesarian cypher. A Caesarian cypher is a simple replacing of one letter with another, usually a certain number of letters later or earlier in the alphabet, the number designated by the letter that replaces "a." In a word-based one (my term; can't remember the official one), you write a word over and over one line below the message, and the letter appearing above each letter in the word is transposed the number of letters designated by your code-word's letter. Which probably makes no sense. But if you'd like, I can give an example. Oh, speaking of thin walls…you do not want to know what the people living above me like to do in their spare time. Right now I think whoever it is is bouncing a ball on the floor, but I can't quite be certain.

Goldenruhl: You're welcome to skip the poetry; I like it, and that's why it's there. I'm aware that not everyone is as obsessed with music as I am, which is why I put the breaks around the song, to show where it begins and ends.

Tempeste-Silere: Speaking of cops, I recently got interrogated by the campus cops because of this rumor that I'd stabbed someone. For some reason they thought that someone was my boyfriend Jay, so they called him…but he'd been out of the country. As for cops questioning Herald Kali…that could be very interesting. She's probably been listed as a "missing child" for the past six years.

Krystalis Xanaria: I'm glad you liked my feeling of suspense, unintentional though it was.

Fireblade K'Chona: Okay, okay, I'll rewrite that scene…eventually. And I'll upload it…eventually. As for what I'd do, well, I'd probably faint. But that's just because I have low blood pressure. And sorry, no horse race. I tried, but Lyrna's a real killjoy at times. Her sense of morality is much more rigid than Herald Kali's.

Jay: Thanks. Actually I later realized I needed to mention more about the song in Chapter 44, where it was already mentioned…but no matter. And it was good of you to look up Mord-Sith for me. Sometimes I suspect you're slightly obsessive-compulsive. Or maybe that's the two of us together. I'm obsessive, you're compulsive. Herald Kali is an arrogant bitch. It doesn't help that, like McKay, she's usually right. Thanks for the "bleeding human" suggestion—I've incorporated it into the chapter. It's very touché. From now on, you're in charge of the money in my story. You do the calculations much better than I do. Yeah, the romance got fun…maybe you could take a hint. ;-)

Rachel: You're back! Yay! does the happy-dance But you only gave me one review….Still, you're back. But what do you think of the story in detail? And you leave my cats alone! I'm updating, see?

What does a Herald do when all his missions are complete?
Where does he go for dancing when the itch is in his feet?
How does he treat his family—or hers, if he's a she?
What does a Herald do when a Herald's free?

How does a Herald travel when Companion's not a choice?
Who's gonna sing his praises when the bards have got no voice?
How does a Herald handle someone looking for a fight?
What does a Herald wear when he's not in White?

Does a Herald go to parties when his working day is done?
Does a Herald have a friend with whom he likes to share his fun?
Can a Herald find a Healer when he's feeling out-of-sorts?
Does he have a white Companion on his white Bermuda shorts?

What does a Herald do when his true love just broke his heart?
Where does he go when he needs a drink—do they have a Herald bar?
Does he throw himself to duty and then cry himself to sleep?
To whom does a Herald go when he needs to weep?

Does a Herald go on dates or does he spend his time alone?
Does he find his way with friends or does he strike out on his own?
Can a Herald still recover from his suffering and pain?
Or does he sing in bars when he's got nothing else to gain?

What does a Herald do when to his family he goes?
Whom does he take to bed and then to whom does he propose?
Where does he go to marry—does he worship God above?
How does a Herald act when he's in love?

Can a Herald love a woman who is nothing but a thief?
Can a Herald hold her tenderly, and shield her from all grief?
Can a Herald find the good in her she's hidden from all sight?
And can a thief love someone who is always dressed in White?

Where does a Herald go at night when there's nothing else to do?
How does he act at gatherings, in the public eagle's view?
Will a Herald be a killjoy or will he make a load of friends?
What does a Herald do when his mission ends?

Does a Herald go to parties like a frat boy or alum?
Can a Herald dance to music and get wasted on the rum?
Can a Herald do the shake and can a Herald do the grind?
Does he dump his potent hunch punch in the nearest bush he finds?

An advertisement on the radio gave me an idea how to earn some quick cash. Not that it'd do me any good once we returned to Valdemar, but the bug was in my soul. There was a horse-race being held in a week's time, just outside Melbourne, and there was still room for a few more contestants.

:Well, Lyrna? You up to showing these fools what real racing's like:

:No. It's not right. I have magic, and they don't.:

I rolled my eyes. Trust Lyrna to be on a moral high horse. And from what I knew of Companions—and Lyrna in particular—no argument was going to sway her. I didn't actually need the money, after all. After six years, I knew when to back down, and when to stand my ground. :Okay, fine. But we could enter in the trick riding arena.:

:Well…: Lyrna hesitated.

:The rules don't disallow Companions.: They couldn't. Nobody on Earth knew that Companions existed.

:But they do specify horses: Lyrna replied, and that was the end of that. Well, okay, there was more arguing, and maybe a few raised voices (or maybe it was just me using different accents), but the cursed horse wouldn't give in. When she started mentioning all my past sins, I stopped arguing. There are some conversations that you just know aren't going anywhere good.

Well, now that the horse race idea was nixed, what was I to do? What did I do at home, usually? Well, I wrote. And read. Yeah, that sounded like a good idea. There were a load of romance books I hadn't gotten the chance to read.

That's how Jacoby found me. Sitting in my room, wearing my TIP Philosophy shirt I'd gotten way back in 2002 and a pair of painted-on black pants that had been just a bit big for me the last time I wore them, reading the latest in a growing collection of romance novels that had been sitting in the attic for the past six years, awaiting my return. Mommy had admitted that she'd kept my books for me, knowing how much I was attached to them. When she'd said she might clean out my room while I was at college, I'd threatened mayhem if she touched my books.

"What's that?" Jacoby asked me, sitting down close enough to cuddle. Which I did.

"Romance," I replied. "Girl porn. Hot, steamy sex and very little plot."

He read a few lines over my shoulder. "Do you read that often?"

"All the time—or at least, I used to, six years ago. It's drivel, but it's addictive, and it beats having a life. Harder to find good books in Valdemar, but I found some. I was actually writing my own novel. It's about a girl who turned pirate. Problem is, all my notes are on my computer over there, so I couldn't continue it in Valdemar. Besides, it's set in the seventeenth century Caribbean, and I doubt anyone in Haven is familiar with Tortuga, Port Royale, Nassau—or cannons and clipper ships. Although the clipper ships weren't until the eighteenth century, I believe."

Jacoby nodded as if he understood. Or, rather, as if he didn't really understand, but didn't really want me to explain it, either. I was going to have to get my hands on a history book for him to read. And a map. We were going to return here, and often, once this mess with the Confederation cleared itself up.

"Let's go somewhere," I said abruptly. The book shut with an audible whuff.

"Where?"

"I dunno. Somewhere. To my old school, for all I care. Actually, that sounds like a grand idea. Let's go there and hang out until we're discovered and kicked off campus."

West Shore had changed some in the years since I'd gone there. Still no obvious gang symbols—the anal-retentive administration made absolutely certain of that—but everywhere I looked, my sharp eye detected signs of bullying. Outside the media center, I discovered its source.

He was a Senior. I knew that because he wore a Powderpuff shirt for Class of '11. At least eighteen, probably nineteen or even twenty. My guess was he'd been held back a grade or two before he came to West Shore. They didn't allow you to stay at West Shore if you failed a grade while attending. Bigger than Jacoby, by at least fifty pounds. Probably six four, six five. Real hulk of a guy.

I caught him using his overwhelming presence to intimidate a youngster. Little thing, probably still in Junior High. Seventh or eighth grade. Skinnier than I was at that age. Four and a half feet tall, eighty pounds sopping wet. Terrified.

"Now give me the money, and there'll be no unpleasantness," Mr. Hulk growled.

"B-but it's my lunch money," the little girl replied.

"So you'll go without lunch. I'm sure your mommy will give you more money."

While I was still trying to work on a strategy, Jacoby sucker-punched the hulk in the back of his head. Score for him. But maybe not such a good idea if we wanted to keep the security officer out of it—and ourselves out of prison.

"Hey, Jacoby, try not to fight on school property."

"That bastard—"

"Yes, I know. That's why we do things my way. Herald Death style."

He liked that. I could see it in the evil glint that came to his eyes. "Herald Death it is."

"Who are you?" the hulk demanded.

"I'm Captain Jacoby of the Bloodred Falcon, and this is Herald Kali."

"Kali Rainwater," I added. "I went here."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah really. Back in the good old days, when bullies like you had to hide your torments and couldn't stalk campus openly. But we definitely had some. I was suspended, once, for getting into a fight. The other participant didn't come back to school." I left it at that, letting him draw his own conclusions. Truth was, the other girl had been looking for a fight so she could convince her parents to let her leave the school. "So what's your name? I like to know who I'm hitting before I go to jail."

"Tom Banks."

"Which grade did you have to repeat? And are you so dumb you can't even get a job at Taco Bell? Is that why you have to bully little kids out of their lunch money?"

"This is my turf. You two want to challenge me, that's your mistake." He drew himself up and glared down at us. Decently scary, but I'd seen worse.

"Your turf, is it? Sounds like gang talk to me."

"Yeah, that's right. Gang talk. What you gonna do? Call the police? They'll probably arrest you too."

"Or not," I replied equitably. "Doesn't much matter to me. You should know I'm wanted in three countries. I couldn't care less about the police."

"Big talk for a little bitch like you." He made a couple of obscene comments that totally infuriated Jacoby. It was nice finally to have a protector. I'd kinda become my own hero when it became apparent no one was going to stand up for me, but my preferred method of defense—kick the offender where the sun don't shine—would have gotten me kicked out of school. Now, well, I'd have to watch myself, but not as much as if I still lived on Earth. And here was Jacoby, ready to be my white knight.

Usually in the stories, white knights challenge the offender to a duel. Not so Jacoby. He slammed Banks into the wall of the library and proceeded to beat the shit out of him until the security officer pulled him off and cuffed him. He didn't even hear my pleas to leave the bully alone.

I could just feel my options withering away. At this rate, we'd both be wanted in the U.S., too, before it was safe to return to Velgarth. I do so hate being helpless.

The little middle school girl was still there, having watched wide-eyed as the scene unfolded. Well, at least we had a witness that Jacoby hadn't started the fight. Exactly.

"Sir, I'd like a chance to explain." I stood at parade rest, trying to avoid looking at Banks's prone form. Jacoby had really done a number on him, and I could feel each and every one of his bruises. But worse than that was my squeamishness. Usually I just ignored it, locked it in the corner of my mind where it couldn't bother me. But at times it would rear its ugly head. It was my main weakness. Not blood, but broken bones and missing pieces. Injuries of all kinds. Once, watching a Red Cross medical video, I'd gone into shock, curled up in a ball, and proceeded to whimper my way through the rest of the tape. My Chem teacher in tenth grade had threatened—jokingly—to tape my eyes open and force me to look at pictures of chemical burns if I didn't do my work. At least, I think he was joking.

"You'd like to explain?" the officer asked.

"Yes sir. This is my fault. I was baiting Banks, and he responded in kind. Except what he had to say was quite a bit harsher. My fiancé took exception to what Banks was calling me."

"Which was what, exactly?"

Fighting a blush, I repeated Banks's words. Six years ago, I would've been panicking; but this was nothing compared to facing Roald after betraying his trust. Perhaps the hardest lesson I'd learned as a Herald was how to take responsibility for my actions. "Perhaps we'd best just leave campus." I hummed a little and used my Wild Talent to encourage him to do what I wanted. A Herald in jail was not going to do anyone any good.

"Perhaps you'd best." Reluctantly, he released the lock on Jacoby's cuffs. At least he saw the reason for the fighting. It hadn't exactly been illegal. Jacoby glared darkly at Banks, who was still moaning in pain, but I managed to drag him to the car.

"Maybe we should go to Sarasota," I said. That would, at least, get us away from the two bullies in Melbourne whom we'd managed to anger. Not that I doubted my—or Jacoby's—ability to handle either or both if they came to call. Only the ability to stay out of jail afterwards. Today had been a close call.

We did go to Sarasota. Eventually. More than a month later, actually. Once a week I'd Gate to Valdemar to feel out the situation, but if anything, things seemed to be even more tense than when I'd left. Maybe I'd been wrong about the time frame. It could take a year—or more—before the Evendim Confederation decided that they didn't really want us after all.

Near the end of October, we moseyed our way across the state, leaving Lyrna behind and taking an old pickup I'd bought with the money I'd left in the bank. I'd spent an entire weekend painting the thing various shades of green. I'd really rather have had a Jeep, but considering that I wouldn't be seeing much of it except for annual visits to my family, it didn't really matter what it was. Just that it ran. But during my Senior year, I'd acquired this dream of having a camo car/truck/van, and since I had nothing else to do (except avoid Jacoby's wandering hands, which I could do quite well while covered in paint), I saw no reason not to make my dream a reality.

Not that Jacoby's wandering hands were bad or anything. Just a danger to my continued sanity—not to mention my vow of chastity.

"Jacoby, that feels really nice, but kindly remove your hand from my thigh," I said with all the calmness I could muster. Trying to drive on the interstate while Jacoby played a seduction scene from the passenger seat was sheer suicide. Especially in this rattletrap of a truck.

"If it feels good, why stop?"

"Because—ohh—you're going to get us both killed!" The car in the lane next to me decided it didn't like the lane it was in and swerved over into my lane, only inches in front of my bumper. I shrieked, swore, and pounded on the horn while my foot slammed down on the brake. "Now stop that before I jump your bones and swerve off the road."

"Can I try again when we get to your Collegium?"

"You can try whatever you like once we're stopped, but be prepared to have me slap you. You'd think you could at least wait until after the wedding."

"It's been a long time. I don't like to wait."

"Thanks. I'm flattered—I think."

After that, he kept his hands to himself, but I could feel the effort it cost him. There was one thing I could say about Jacoby—our marriage would never be boring. Maybe we should scratch the idea of the Sun-Priest. The sooner we got married, the happier Jacoby would be. Or, better yet, get married twice—once on Earth, once on Velgarth. That way it would be legal in both worlds.

Or we could wait.

As I mentioned earlier, Lyrna remained in Melbourne. We'd all agreed it was for the best. To appease her before we left, I sang the song I'd written—"My Lyrna's Eyes." For some unknown reason, she didn't like it much.

My Lyrna's eyes are like the skies,
The bards would all aver.
No other horse—she's not, of course—
Could e'er compare to her.
My Lyrna's eyes cannot disguise
The soul she hides below.
So gentle, fair—or is it there?—
I'm not quite sure I know.

Now while I'm here I'll hold her dear,
This dear beloved horse.
I'll always do—I'll follow through,
With how she sets my course.
And when I'm gone I'm holding on
In hopes that she will come.
To frolic so in rain and snow
Beneath the golden sun.

My Lyrna's eyes are ever wise,
Or so she likes to say.
If it were me, I would not be
So sure in such a way.
For she is just a ghost who must
Be mortal once again.
Her wisdom shows not what she knows,
But how things were back then.

Finally we arrived. It was something of an adventure trying to find the place—after all, I'd been away for six years—but I managed. After all, I had a map. I'm good with maps—once I've gotten oriented, that is.

We'd stopped on the way to pick up some booze, and as soon as I was parked I unscrewed the cap on my bottle of Captain Morgan. "Here's to parties."

The chill air hit me as soon as I opened the door. "Bézód té zandramas," I muttered. "It's not supposed to be this cold. This is Florida!" It really didn't help that I was wearing a really skimpy pirate wench costume I'd picked up from the party store. I'd managed to talk Jacoby into wearing something vaguely reminiscent of Stormwind's attempt to look like a pirate. We made quite a pair.

"Halt! Who goes there?" a girl called good-naturedly from one of the benches in front of the Four Winds Café.

"'Tis the dread pirate Lightning and Calico Jack…Vertin. Here, have some rum."

Jacoby shrugged, then nodded. Vertin was as good a name as any. After all, he'd practically grown up in that town. It was better than no name at all.

She took a careful sip of my rum and passed it back to me. "Be ye guests or alums?"

"I'm an alum, he's me guest."

"Okay. What dorm did you live in?"

"Pei, second court," I replied immediately, then struggled to think of the number. I couldn't. But that was okay, because the girl gave us both wristbands and ushered us toward the party.

"We just have to ask you the question to make sure you really went here," she explained. "If you answer something like, 'That Peggy dorm,' we'll know you're just faking it."

I looked about, admiring the view. New College still had a beautiful campus. They'd instituted some changes since I'd been there, but nothing too major. There was a new building going up behind the Heiser Natural Sciences building. A couple of the palm trees that should have been lining the walk were missing. Probably blown over bya hurricane. Either that or killed by some idiot student.

There was a cop at the entrance to the overpass walkway that went over US 41. Jacoby straightened and tried to act like he had legitimate business. Strangely, he actually succeeded. Could be he was a natural at this acting thing—or maybe he'd just had practice playing the innocent. The only evidence of his nervousness was the tenseness in the arm that held me.

"Whoa, Jacoby, relax. The cops here are cool. Come on, let's go talk to him."

"That alcohol?" the officer asked.

"Yeah, rum."

"You know bottles aren't allowed in Palm Court."

"Oh, right." Actually, I'd forgotten. The rule had two lines of reasoning behind it: first, that half the population of New College wore shoes rarely if ever, and glass and bare feet was a bad combination; second, that glass bottles were easily recognizable as containing alcohol, and the cops didn't have to investigate if they saw you with a cup instead. They'd know what was in it, but New College had a kind of "Don't ask, don't tell" policy on the subject of underage drinking. Everyone knew it happened, but the students didn't rub it in the cops' faces, and the cops turned the other way. If anyone tried to take their liquor away from them, there was a good chance the entire student body would revolt. "Here, ye want some?"

He waved me off. "Pirates, huh? Were you in the pirate club?"

"Aye, matey. Arr!"

Oh, the wonders of New College parties. This wasn't just a Wall, this was PCP. Something I hadn't yet experienced, due to my untimely departure from the school.

I still knew my way around, though. Some things you never forget. Like where they keep the booze. Second Court lounge, as always. Hunch punch that was more hunch than punch. I poured Jacoby a glass of that. "Girly drink," he muttered, and went off in search of beer. I sniggered up my sleeve. Girly drink indeed. That stuff could have me under the table in ten minutes flat. Much more potent than rum.

Back at the party without Jacoby, I started to dance. The song was techno, probably Benni Benassi—it seemed like his style. I didn't recognize it, which really didn't mean much, because I only knew one of his songs—"Satisfaction."

I was really getting into this single-dancing thing. Sexy moves, sensuous swaying of the hips. I even trailed my fingers up my leg, lifting the hem of my skirt to reveal the set of Lightning throwing knives. Possibly illegal—but I was still paranoid, and I was not going to go to a party full of drunk (or high) horny guys without protection.

The way I was dancing—and my costume—were just broadcasting "I'm single and a slut" type signals. So, okay. Maybe that was the wrong message. But I was enjoying myself, and that's what mattered. At parties, you danced with anyone and everyone. Single, attached, or even married. Dancing was not a sin.

Jacoby returned with a can of Beast at precisely the moment that this other guy came up behind me and put his arm around my waist. "Bugger off before I kill ye," he snarled.

"Hey, take it easy, man. Let the girl speak for herself." Typical New College attitude. Jealous boyfriends just didn't exist because boyfriends weren't supposed to get jealous. Cheating was a college pastime.

Back came my elbow. It caught the guy in the solar plexus. "Do you want my fiancé to kill you, or do you want me to feed you your balls on a stick?" I asked pleasantly.

"Whoa, there's no need to get violent. It was just a question."

I put on my best sneer. I'd been practicing in front of a mirror for just such an opportunity as this. And the song playing was just perfect. "No, I don't want your number. No, I don't wanna give you mine. And no, I don't wanna meet you nowhere. No, I don't want none of your time. And no, I don't want no scrub. A scrub is a guy who won't get no love from me, hanging out the passenger's side of his best friend's ride, trying to holler at me." With a shove, I sent him stumbling back into the throng.

Jacoby offered me a taste of his Beast, but I declined. I still hadn't acquired a taste for beer, and doubted I ever would. Even if I did, I would not drink Beast. Milwaukee's Best was a definite misnomer; the epithet "Beast" was far more accurate.

"Hey, I think I recognize this song." I cocked my head in concentration. "Yeah, it's—oh, I can't remember who does it. Cat something-or-other. But the title is 'Don't Ya Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me.'"

"If I understand correctly, my girlfriend is hot like you."

"Good answer." I took his hand and led him to the wall after which Walls were named, really just a platform of bricks that ran the length of Palm Court. There was one other couple already dancing on it, but they moved aside to make room for us. The Wall had always been my favorite place to dance. It was the spotlight. I'd discovered my love of the spotlight in New York, the summer before my Senior Year. I'd been at West Point, at a week-long summer camp. There had been a dance, but nobody was on the dance floor. Plenty of people wanted to be, but they were all too chicken to dance alone. Rather surprising to find so many cowards at a military school. Me, I was scared, too, but I really wanted to dance. So I went out on that empty dance floor and danced my heart out. Got to dance with a boy, just the two of us, for a while. When the song was over, everyone cheered. It was such a liberating experience that I danced in the spotlight the entire night.

The music cut off for a second before the speakers began blaring a new song. It seemed to be all about dirty sex in dirty places. "Lovely music," I commented to no one in particular.

"Quite bawdy," Jacoby agreed. "Is this normal? Does everyone on your world listen to such music? I heard similar things at your party."

"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to call anything about New College 'normal'—someone's bound to take offence—but yes, everyone these days listens to this crap."

"It's not considered improper?"

"Well, I'm sure our parents would like to have it outlawed, but there's not much they can do about it. I miss the good old days. Back when I didn't have to worry about innuendos in everything. Back before country went the way of rock'n'roll." I miss back when.

"Songbird," Jacoby said, barely audible above the music, "that man's been watching you for the past five minutes. I'm going to have a talk with him."

I snuck a glance at the guy. He wasn't watching me. He was watching Jacoby. "Oh no you don't. I'll go talk to him."

"But—"

"He's after you."

"Shaych?"

"Yeah, shaych."

Now the guy was approaching us. Maybe he'd sensed Jacoby's stare. Great. Just great.

"Can I cut in?"

"No," I said, as Jacoby drew me closer.

"Well, if that's how you feel about it." He shrugged.

"Good. I'm glad we understand each other. I'd hate to have to get violent. It's getting harder and harder to break out of prison."

"What are you, Republican?" he asked, like it was a sin.

"Yeah. What of it?" I challenged.

"You're a bigot," he accused.

"She is not," Jacoby growled while I was still trying to formulate a reply. A bigot! Of all the low-down, nasty, insulting things to call me—the only thing more offensive would be to call me a hypocrite.

"She is too. She's nothing but a gay-bashing Republican."

"That means shaych, right?" Jacoby whispered in my ear. I nodded. "And what if I were…gay? What then?"

"You're bi, actually," I informed Jacoby.

"He's bi?" the gay guy asked disbelievingly.

"Aye," Jacoby confirmed, trusting me to know what I was talking about. "The first time we met, I thought she was a lad. Didn't stop me from trying to seduce her."

"So don't run your mouth when you don't know what you're talking about," I told Mr. Gay Pride. "It makes you look like an idiot."

After the gay dude left, Jacoby and I got down from the wall and blended into the crowd. "Honey," he began huskily, pulling me full-length against him. There was a bulge in his pants, and I just knew what he was going to say next.

I cut him off. "Deal with it. And not with anyone here, or I'll kill her—or him."

The music was getting shittier and shittier as the night progressed. Bad rap and techno, for the most part. There was one new song all about death and destruction. Whenever a bad song came on, I took a long swallow of my rum. It helped improve the quality of the music. Jacoby ended up drinking a lot of it, too. More than I did, actually.

By the first one o'clock, my rum was gone.

I say the first because it was daylight savings. It was actually Sunday, October 30, and tonight would be Fairy Night.

Oh, the pranks I could play.

I tipped the bottle in order to coax out a few more drops. When none were forthcoming, I decided it was time to get punch. My arms led the way through the crowd, weaving through the air before me. In the line for punch, I squinted at the two girls before me. One was tall and stocky, the kind of girl you don't want to get into a wrestling match with because you know she's going to win. The other was somewhat shorter, an African-American with frizzy black hair. They looked familiar, but I just couldn't place them. "Whoa. I swear I should remember you, but I'm drawing a blank."

"Well, I'm Amanda, and this is Lensa," the tall one replied.

Lightbulb. "Hey, weren't you my roommates? For like, three days. Way back in '05. I was really annoying because I went to bed at ten and got up at the positively unholy hour of seven in the morning."

They exchanged a glance. "Kali?" Amanda asked.

"Yup."

"What happened to you? You've become a New College legend. The great pirate ghost who stalks the campus at night."

"Hey, cool. I, uh, I was kidnapped, actually. Taken to another country. I only just got back. It's been quite an adventure." I grabbed a cup and filled it with punch. Some splashed over onto my hands. Typical. "Let's go back to the party. And you two have to tell me if you've found anyone special." That had been one of the major conversations we'd had when we met. We were all three waiting for Mr. Right. They'd predicted I'd be the first to find him. My goal had been to go on a husband-hunt as soon as I got out of college. Problem with being a Herald was that I just didn't have the time.

"Have you?" Amanda asked.

"Yeah, I have." I thought of Jacoby, and a smile came to my face.

"Married yet?"

"Well, no. But I'm engaged! I'll introduce you."

"Did you meet him in the other country?" Amanda asked jokingly. I could tell she didn't really believe my story.

"Yeah. He's foreign, but he speaks good English. Most of the time."

"What other languages does he speak?"

"Well, he can curse fluently in Tayledras, Karsite, and at least one other language I can't name." We shared a laugh.

"Who was that one guy you were dancing with one the wall?" Lensa asked. "The one who looks like Johnny Depp."

"His name's Jacoby, and he's my fiancé. If you try to jump his bones, I'll have to kill you."

"You got the hot guy because you're pretty," Amanda grumbled.

"You have no idea," I responded. "In truth, I got him because I look like a guy." That was when I saw Jacoby, standing not three feet away. He'd taken off his shirt. I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. "Nice," I croaked. His eyebrows lifted. "But the answer's still no." The statement lacked my usual bravado.

Amanda and Lensa had both gone bug-eyed, along with every single female and half the males in our vicinity. Most of them looked ready to melt into puddles at Jacoby's feet. "Put your shirt back on. People are staring."

He drew me into his embrace. "Let them stare."

"Slutmuffin," I accused his chest.

"What's that mean?"

"Supposed to be an insult," I replied. "Mmm, you're warm. It's bloody freezing out here. My liquid warmthifier isn't working." That being the alcohol which I'd consumed.

"I know a way—"

"No, Jacoby."

"Why are we staying here so long? The sooner we get to Valdemar, the sooner we can get married." He paused, struck by a sudden doubt. "You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

I snuggled closer. "Nope, no second thoughts. I just like it here. And, well, I'm hiding. I sent Roald a letter saying we were getting married. I don't imagine he took it too well. Tell you what. I'll go back on Sovvan to feel things out."

"You can brush my hair, undress me everywhere," blasted the speakers.

I groaned. "Tell me that's not the Barbie song."

"It's the Barbie song," Lensa replied.

The song continued, "Kiss me here, touch me there, hanky-panky."

"Oh, wonderful. The songs we teach our children these days," I said. It was a subject I had pondered long and hard. "It's not just the Barbie song. We start with 'Rock-a-by-Baby.'" The others nodded their understanding. What sort of mother wants her child to fall out of the cradle? But everyone sang the old lullaby. "Then there's 'Ring Around the Rosie.'"

"Isn't that about the black plague?" Amanda asked.

I nodded. "The flowers—posies—were to mask the smell of all the dead bodies. And the ending of the rhyme was where everyone dies.

"Then there's my personal favorite. 'Oh My Darling Clementine.' The ending of the song goes thus: Ruby lips above the water blowing bubbles one last time. But alas, I was no swimmer, so I lost my Clementine. How I missed her, how I missed her, how I missed my Clementine. Then I kissed her little sister and forgot my Clementine." There were other examples, of course, but I couldn't think of them at the moment.

At least whoever was throwing PCP made up for the Barbie song with the very next song, which was Backstreet Boys, "Larger Than Life." That was one song I'd liked even when I hated the Backstreet Boys out of sheer spite. "Every time we're down, you can make it right, and that makes you larger than life."

The four of us remained together in a little dancing group. Lensa, Amanda, and I caught up on everything that had been happening for the past six years. There was more bad music, so I downed my glass of punch. They hadn't put quite enough juice in the punch; I could still taste the alcohol.

Something good began to play. "What song is this?" I asked.

"Spice Girls," Lensa replied. "If You Wanna Be My Lover."

"Yo, I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want. So tell me what you want, what you really really want," I sang along with the music. Well, most of that was the music. I kind of faked it, since I didn't really know the words.

"Ye know what I want," Jacoby breathed into my ear. The warm air sent tingles down my spine.

"If you want my future, forget my past. If you wanna get with me, better make it fast." I pressed closer to Jacoby, moving in time to the beat. "If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends. Make it last forever. Friendship never ends. If you wanna be my lover, you have got to give. Taking is too easy, but that's the way it is."

If anyone knows any other disturbing or otherwise inappropriate songs for children, please tell me. I'm going to write an essay on it someday.

I've decided on a chapter called "Secret Agent's Prayer," where Herald Kali is, well, praying. A lot. Because Murphy decides it's a good time to make everything go wrong. All at once. In the worst way possible. Anyhoo, what I'd like for that chapter is suggestions of which deities she might pray to, what she might say, and who the hell these deities are, anyway. It's probably going to be the next chapter, actually. Or maybe the one after that. I'm hoping to wrap this up around Chapter 50. Which means that with "Secret Agent's Prayer" and "Music of the Night," there's room for one more chapter. And I've noticed how this has grown into a goliath. If someone had told me in October that I'd be writing fifty chapters and two hundred thousand words by the end of January, I'd have laughed in their faces. I still would, but not quite as loudly.