Elvendude Read online

  Adam's car was a new Geo Metro, a three-cylinder with a turquoise paint job. The door handles were plastic, as were most of the surfaces inside, a main selling point with him. It was the least painful for him to drive, easily insured despite his age, and the most affordable in payments and gas. Since he always went to full-service gas stations, to avoid handling the metal gas spouts, he needed to milk as much mileage out of his car as possible.

  Moira had a little trouble getting her huge hair into the tiny car, mashing it against the car's roof in order to fit.

  "How's your car holding up?" Moira said as she fiddled with the vents. "Must be nice having air-conditioning."

  "It still feels new," he said. "Gets me where I need to go."

  Adam dropped in a Blancmange tape, wishing he had bothered to put in a more impressive sound system, the one thing about an automobile that would have impressed Moira. She didn't much care for the large muscle cars or even slick sports cars, but she did love music, Blancmange in particular.

  "So you went and got this," she said, looking over the cassette case. "Like it?"

  "Love it," he said, really meaning it, even if he originally bought it in the event he drove her anywhere.

  "Ever talk to your mom?"

  Adam had forgotten all about calling her. He now realized that, since the weird experience in the empty mall space, he'd forgotten about the whole incident at the Wintons'. "Not yet," he replied.

  With Moira so close to him, and catching occasional whiffs of her perfume, he forgot about Daryl and the whole sordid mess at the Wintons'. It's not my problem, he thought. Daryl can take care of himself.

  "Moira, we've been friends for a long time." Adam heard his mouth working, and was uncertain where the words were coming from. "I don't know how to tell you this, except that I think you're really attractive."

  Moira turned to look at him slowly, resolutely. He felt his male ego and other things withering under her look, like an African violet in direct sunlight. And he immediately wished time travel was possible, so he could recall the words.

  "I don't know what to say," Moira said, obviously flustered. "I'm flattered. I'm sort of surprised. I mean, I thought you might have had something for Spence."

  What?

  "Spence is a good friend," Adam said quickly. "But I don't think about him, well, that way."

  "Oh," she said. "But you do like me. That way."

  He was about to say something, but his throat constricted. Had he spoken, it would have come out a squeak, and he knew it. He made do with a simple nod.

  They rode in a terrible silence. A string of firecrackers going off in the backseat would have been a welcome relief of the quiet that fell between them, despite the music.

  The tape switched over to side B before she said, "We are going to your house, aren't we?"

  "Do you want to?" he said nervously. Then quickly amended, "Go to my house, I mean."

  She gave him a sly, mischievous look that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "Only if you have condoms."

  Stunned, Adam focused on the road. Did I really hear that? Did she really say that? I don't believe it! The smile that spread on his face threatened to squeeze his eyes shut. Sure am glad I got that box of condoms to practice with. . .

  "Don't look so surprised," Moira said casually. "You've been doing some, well, growing in the past year. And I've noticed."

  He pulled into the drive of their modest home in the burbs, a four-bedroom brick house on Doucette Street, a few blocks off Cedar Springs. In an otherwise older section of Dallas, a developer built a whole street of new homes, each unit a mixture of contemporary and 1940's architecture. Their driveway was a horseshoe of brick, which swung around to a garage on the side. The house itself was white stucco with an oriental roof of white tile. Though not as luxurious as some of the older, larger homes a few blocks to the north, their home was above the standard of the average police officer. His mom's Taurus was nowhere to be seen.

  As sex became an immediate prospect, Adam's knees threatened to buckle when he got out of the Geo. Moira grinned, reminding him of a predator, swooping in for the kill.

  "Looks like your mom's somewhere else," Moira said, taking Adam by the arm. The gesture seemed to support him as much as anything; he felt dizzy suddenly. Dots clouded his vision.

  "You're not a virgin, are you, Adam?" she asked.

  "Huh?"

  She giggled and pulled him closer. "You heard me."

  He dropped the keys in front of the door. Picking them up, he said, "Yes."

  "Good," she said. Adam didn't understand that reply at all. In fact, he didn't understand anything right then, as his brain had seized up completely.

  He opened the door, fumbled with the keys some more, and dropped them.

  "Leave them," Moira said. She closed the door, and they stood silently in the main entrance for a moment. Then Adam looked up, put his arms around her, and closed his eyes.

  The kiss lasted an eternity. Somewhere in the base of his spine a light exploded, sending shock waves through his body. She returned the passion, reaching around his back and running dagger fingernails up and down his inflamed spine.

  Beyond his closed eyelids he perceived a flash of light, like a camera bulb. The kiss closed, and he leaned back, his eyes still shut.

  "You've done this before," she whispered, her breath brushing against his cheek.

  He opened his eyes a bit, and noticed something different in her blurred image. Their noses were touching; their arms wrapped around one another.

  When his eyes opened all the way, he stared.

  Her eyes, which were once dark blue, had become emerald with no whites. The pupils, dilated, stretched vertically, in slits.

  The rush of hormones leveled out and finally drained from his system, replaced now with a confused fear. Slowly, he drew further from her. Her arms relaxed, fell to her sides. Adam's arms released her, but remained in position, as if he were clutching a thick force field surrounding her.

  The tips of her ears extended a full two inches above her enormous hair, tapering to points.

  Adam stared. He stopped breathing, afraid to speak, afraid to move. No coherent thoughts formed as he stared at Moira, her eyes, her ears. Frozen in place, he felt the blood draining from him, the strangeness of the situation spraying ice water on his fire.

  "My name is Ethlinn," she breathed, a slight smile creasing her alien features.

  Light clouded his vision, and he became vaguely aware of his body folding into a heap on the floor. She grabbed his arms, breaking his fall, seconds before he passed out.

  Presto pulled his '82 Camaro with the bashed-in front fender into the hidden recesses of a dark, empty alley, parked, and turned the engine off.

  "I said, he'll be here," he said to the kid sitting next to him. "Do you think you can shut up for at least a minute?"

  "Yeah yeah yeah . . ." the boy said, sounding bored. "Look, I told you, I've done this before. I know what I'm doing." His hair was long and matted, and his eyes wild and crazed. Presto hadn't wanted to take this kid under his wing and make him his new middleman, but his former lieutenant, Monk, now in jail for unpaid tickets, said he was clean and never did product. Presto had doubts, and expressed these to Monk, who replied offhandedly that Mikey was just naturally insane.

  "But you don't know this dude," Presto said. The boy irritated him. He reflected that it would be easier to make the exchange himself, go home, and start stepping on a ki of coke by himself, without Mikey's help. But he needed to train a middleman, if only a temporary one, and acquaint him with his supplier. Until Monk got out of jail, he would have to make do with temps.

  He even considered recruiting Daryl Bendis, one of the few regular customers who appeared to have a brain, but figured he'd be watched after the fiasco at the Wintons' mansion. Maybe later, he thought, after things cool down.

  That is, if he didn't kill Mikey first. The boy started humming a few bars of an Ozzy Osbourne tune, tappi
ng his feet on the rusted floorboard, and playing drums on the dash. Not cool. Simply not cool.

  "So what's he going to be driving, huh, boss?" Mikey chirped, peering down the darkening alley. He had an annoyingly high voice for a boy, but then he was only sixteen. Maturity, and intelligence, had not occurred yet.

  "You'll see," Presto growled. Wonder where Daryl is right now? "It'll be here in a minute."

  From one end of the alley came a strong gust of wind, sweeping litter past the Camaro. Mikey stopped all noise and movement. He stuck his head out the window. "There's not a cloud in the sky. This a storm or what?"

  "Sit tight," Presto said, grinning sardonically. "It's almost here."

  A jet-black Volkswagen beetle with blackened windows pulled in behind them, drove past, and proceeded to the end of the alley. As usual, the driver was invisible.

  He's going to crap his pants when he hears this guy, Presto thought, trying hard not to laugh.

  The beetle parked, but its engine remained running. Thick gray exhaust clouded around the vehicle.

  "That's him," Presto said, pulling a shoebox full of fifties and twenties out from under his seat. "Give him this. He'll give you something. It's that simple."

  Mikey said nothing as he climbed out of the Camaro. He gave a Presto a nervous, worried look, and for a moment looked like he was about to bolt.

  "What's wrong?" Presto said evenly.

  "Uh . . . nothing. Just smells like something died in this alley," he said before he walked up to the bug.

  That could be arranged, Presto thought as he opened a bottle of Evian.

  Adam woke in his bedroom, fully clothed, lying on his bed. He wanted to believe that what he saw was a dream; no, not a dream, a nightmare.

  I was trying to get laid. And Moira turned into an alien.

  Voices filtered in from the living room. Moira's, and another, a male voice.

  ". . . should have waited until after Lady Samantha broke the spell before dismissing the glamories," the man said with an actor's voice that reverberated throughout the house. "But at least you brought him here, to the Gate. Does he know anything yet?"

  Adam propped himself up on his elbows. I just woke. Or did I? This sounds like part two of Nightmare On Elm Street. Or Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

  "I don't think so," Moira said, her words softer and difficult to hear. "I've been with him since the King Gated us to this human realm, and from the first moment we assumed our identities, he was completely ignorant of his elven identity. I just hope he recovers soon."

  Adam moved to his feet and silently crept to the door.

  "Lady Samantha works effective spells. Where is she now?"

  "Dealing with a potential Unseleighe infestation," she said. Adam understood none of it. Mother's a cop, not an exterminator. What in the world are they talking about?

  They whispered something among themselves, then became silent.

  "Adam. Come in here," the man said loudly. "We have a great deal to discuss."

  Geez! How did they know I was awake?

  He considered bolting through the window, but by the time he got the outer screen off, they would have caught him, or whatever. Besides, he wanted to know what was going on. Moira and a stranger are in our house. I'm going to find out how he got in here, and what he wants.

  "Adam, there is an explanation for what you saw," Moira said. The hair on the back of his neck stood erect.

  Taking a deep breath, he walked down the hallway and stopped at the edge of the living room, then peered around the corner.

  Moira and a strange man sat on the couch, opposite the home theater system. Neither seemed particularly alarmed that he was awake. In fact, they seemed eager to talk to him. Moira's eyes and ears were the same as he remembered from the nightmare. The stranger, who was a large blond man, had the same features, though his pointed ears looked to be much longer. He seemed older, too, as did his dress. His right arm had been bandaged with gauze between the elbow and shoulder, and a bit of blood showed through. Aside from that, he looked like he'd just walked out of a fifteenth-century portrait.

  The rest of the living room seemed normal. In the center, facing each other, were two gray couches and a matching chair. The coffee table was a solid cube of granite, decorated with a vase of lilies and a china tray of empty lead crystal liquor decanters. An antique buffet with its usual collection of art deco bric-a-brac lined one wall, and a long mirror framed with flowery Greek columns hung over it. Overhead a 1930s ceiling fan turned placidly on its lowest setting. The room had its usual cozy charm, which was spoiled by the two aliens now occupying it.

  He closed his eyes, leaned against the hallway wall, and slid down into a crouch.

  "I'm not seeing this," he moaned to no one in particular.

  "Adam," Moira said sharply. "Quit being silly. Get in here."

  "Lady Ethlinn," the man gasped. "Dare you speak to King Aedham that way?"

  "This is a drastic situation. He will understand, once he returns to his normal self."

  Adam opened his eyes against his will, stood, and entered the living room. The man and Moira sat comfortably on the couch as if they belonged there; he felt a twinge of jealousy that, given the strange circumstances, seemed completely out of place.

  "Sit," Moira said.

  "No," he said resolutely. "Not until you tell me what's going on." He peered at Moira and rubbed his eyes. "What happened to you?"

  "Perhaps we should tell you," the man said, "what happened to you."

  As the man spoke, Adam realized he simply could not be a human being. Not only did he speak with a deep, bass voice, it had a metallic ring to it. A robot? An android? A Vulcan? What is he?

  The man turned to Moira, looking annoyed. "Lady Samantha should be here to dismiss the spell. As long as he remains human, it will be impossible to convince him who he really is."

  "I know it would have been better," Moira said apologetically. "But she simply could not be here. Remember, we are having to maintain our human covers, as well as watch for the Unseleighe. Samantha was doing both."

  Are they talking about my mother? he thought. She's the only Samantha I know. Then, Someone must have slipped me some LSD. This is a very real, vivid hallucination, caused by drugs. He focused on the man's pointed ears. It's the only explanation.

  "This isn't real," Adam said simply. "I'm going to close my eyes. And when I open them, you're going to be gone."

  Adam closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were still sitting there.

  "Young King," the man said, "I know this must be a shock, but please listen to me." He stood, towering above Adam like a giant, having a good six inches or more on him. Adam took a few steps back, then stood firm. This was, after all, his house, and this man was an unwelcome intruder. But this intruder wore a period costume, straight out of the Middle Ages, or perhaps from the distant future. The tunic was a light tan, with tight-fitting sleeves pulled back over his thick, muscular forearms, and folds that covered his waist. A thick leather belt secured loose trousers of the same, linenlike material. His boots were black leather, and gold embroidery trimmed the edges of sleeves and boot cuffs; in all, a striking outfit. But in Adam's home, it was completely out of place.

  At first glance the intruder reminded him of Prince Valiant in the old Sunday edition cartoons. He had a strong, handsome face, with all the stereotypic lines of a heroic figure. His eyes were emerald and slitted, just as Moira's continued to be. Pointed ears protruded from his blond, shoulder-length hair like antennas.

  Moira looked on with concern, all the sexiness she'd radiated during the ride over here now gone, replaced by this insane mixture of stage costuming and special-effects makeup.

  "Please believe me," the man said, his arms spread in a gesture of pleading. "While I don't expect you to remember, I am Marbann of Avalon, faithful subject of the Tuiereann Crown. I fear I come with sad news." He looked down, his posture radiating grief. "Your father is dead. The Unseleighe murdered him short
ly after they invaded the castle."

  Adam laughed. "My father is in Canada. Marbann of what? Avalon? What is that, an insane asylum?"

  Marbann ignored him. "Since the King is slain, you are the new King of Avalon. I have come to serve you."

  Adam crossed his arms and regarded him with cool skepticism.

  "The Gate through which I passed is located in yon glass screen," he said, pointing to the Sony TV.

  Yeah. Right. "So where's the hidden camera?" Adam tried desperately to find humor in this whole thing, and failed miserably. He'd seen complicated stage makeup before, including good prosthetic Spock ears and contact lenses, but this job was as good or better: there weren't any seams. If I'm not hallucinating, this must be a joke. But why today? Why not April first or Halloween or some other traditional day for practical jokes? But this guy's not a kid; he's at least thirty, and he looks very serious about all this.

  He must be psycho.

  "I don't think he believes us," Moira said. "Perhaps we should contact Lady Samantha now?"

  Marbann looked thoughtful. "Perhaps you're right."

  "If I am the King," Adam said, "and you are here to obey me, then obey this. Get out. Both of you. This isn't funny anymore." He turned to Moira. "What's going on here, Moira? Is this a joke? I thought you . . . liked me."

  Moira looked hurt. "I do, my King," she said. "But it's not the same anymore. Perhaps if we'd had more time as humans, I might have fulfilled your desires."

  "My what? Oh, that. So what's changed, aside from the fact that you've turned into an extraterrestrial?"

  She crossed her legs, a very Moira-like gesture, and regarded him with surprise. "But my King, we have not been properly wed. We're not even betrothed!"

  That did it. "I'm calling the cops. You can play your games with someone else. This has been a really crappy day. I'm not in the mood for this elaborate joke." He paused, reflecting. "You know, someone sure put a lot of work into those outfits."

  He reached down for the phone and put the receiver to his ear. Nothing. He tapped the hook several times. No dial tone. The phone was dead.