no message. The only other thing I can think of is that you’re asking to come to me. If that’s the case, come ahead.”
I extended both of my apparently empty hands, my invisible strangling cord writhing into position in my left, an unseen Logrus death bolt riding my right. It was one of those times when courtesy demanded professional standards.
A soft laughter seemed to echo within the dark tunnel. It was purely a mental projection, however, cold and genderless.
Your offer is, of course, a trick, came to me then. For you are not a fool. Still, I grant your courage, to address the unknown as you do. You do not know what you face, yet you await it. You even invite it.
“The offer is still good,” I said.
I never thought of you as dangerous.
“What do you want?”
To regard you.
“Why?”
There may come a time when I will face you on different terms.
“What terms?”
I feel that our purposes will be crossed.
“Who are you?”
Again, the laughter.
No. Not now. Not yet. I would merely look upon you, and observe your reactions.
“Well? Have you seen enough?”
Almost.
“If our purposes are crossed, let the conflict be now,” I said. “I’d like to get it out of the way so I can get on with some important business.”
I appreciate arrogance. But when the time comes the choice will not be yours.
“I’m willing to wait,” I said, as I cautiously extended a Logrus limb out along the dark way.
Nothing. My probe encountered nothing. . . .
I admire your performance.
Here!
Something came rushing toward me. My magical extension informed me that it was soft-too soft and loose to do me any real harm-a large, cool mass showing bright colors. . . .
I stood my ground and extended through it-beyond, far, fartherreaching for the source. I encountered something tangible but yielding: a body perhaps, perhaps not; too-too big to snap back in an instant.
Several small items, hard and of sufficiently low mass, recommended themselves to my lightning search. I seized upon one, tore it free of whatever held it and called it to me.
A wordless impulse of startlement reached me at the same time as the rushing mass and the return of my Logrus summoning.
It burst about me like fireworks: flowers, flowers, flowers. Violets, anemones, daffodils, roses. . . . I heard Flora gasp as hundreds of them rained into the room. The contact was broken immediately. I was aware that I held something small and hard in my right hand, and the heady odors of the floral display filled my nostrils.
“What the hell,” said Flora, “happened?”
“I’m not sure,” I answered, brushing petals from my shirtfront. “You like flowers? You can have these.”
“Thanks, but I prefer a less haphazard arrangement,” she said, regarding the bright mound that lay at my feet. “Who sent them?”
“A nameless person at the end of a dark tunnel.”
“Why?”
“Down payment on a funeral display, maybe. I’m not sure. The tenor of the whole conversation was somewhat threatening.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d help me pick them up before you go.”
“Sure,” I said.
“There are vases in the kitchen and the bathroom. Come on.”
I followed her and collected several. On the way, I studied the object I had brought back from the other end of the sending. It was a blue button mounted in a gold setting, a few navy blue threads still attached. The cut stone bore a curved, four-limbed design. I showed it to Flora and she shook her head.
“It tells me nothing,” she said.
I dug into my pocket and produced the chips of stone from the crystal cave. They seemed to match. Frakir stirred slightly when I passed the button near her, then lapsed again into quiescence, as if having given up on warning me about blue stones when I obviously never did anything about them.
“Strange,” I said.
“I’d like some
Christopher Golden, Thomas E. Sniegoski