The Good People

The Good People. By Gregg D’Albert

©2009

PROLOGUE County Meath, Ireland May, 1882

The small, white farmhouse stood on fertile land between two rises that were not hills as much as they were mounds. A stream, marked by a copse of low trees, ran just a few yards behind the house, and hawthorn bushes dotted the landscape and occasionally broke the symmetry of the hills. Two such bushes also marked where the property began, one bush on each side of the boreen, or bridle path, that led up to the dwelling. A lone figure on horseback now passed these bushes on his way to the house. He was an imposing man, tall and solidly built, with sandy brown hair and beard, and blue-green eyes. But as strong as he looked, his demeanor and carriage also suggested a growing fatigue, a weariness that was as much mental as it was physical. John Crandall, it appeared, was growing very tired of Them. A crash sounded from inside the house just as he was pulling up to the stable, the sound of breaking glass echoing around the darkening hillsides. Suddenly the man changed his appearance, the look of fatigue falling away like a discarded overcoat, and rage filled out his features; now it was war. He dismounted, leaving the horse standing outside of the stable, and burst into the house. His wife stood beside the dining table, a broken dish at her feet and a worried look on her face. He knew she hadn't broken the dish. “The boggart?” he asked. She didn't answer, though her look of consternation deepened, and that was all the answer he needed. "Blast it!" he roared, "I'll – " He was interrupted as a wooden bowl flew off the table and hit him in the chest. He caught it as it bounced off of him, and hurled it back at the table; this was answered by several more bowls, a pitcher, and most of the wooden flatware being tossed at him. He shrugged off the last of the spoons and, his eyes squeezed shut, rushed the table in a desperate attempt to grab the invisible assailant. Miraculously, he caught it. A slick, wiry something squirmed in his hands; it wasn't like anything he'd ever felt. He staggered back from the table, trying to maintain his grip. His wife gasped. "John Crandall, you'd best let go that thing, else it's likely to tear y' apart!" John didn't appear to be listening. His hands moved up-and-down and to-and-fro, as if the thing were putting up quite a struggle. Finally, its motions were too much, and he was forced to let go. The front door, at first slightly ajar, now crashed open, and sounds from outside indicated the thing was beating a hasty retreat. John ran to the doorway. "That's right!" he yelled. “Cut, you shingawn!" His horse, and those in the stable, whinnied and shied-up as the thing passed by, headed for one of the hills. John lingered in the doorway a few more moments, glancing at the door itself, on which was carved the symbol of the claddagh; then he turned around to face his wife – who, though a little agitated, seemed none the worse for wear – and sighed. "An' they say that the Good People are dead. Ha!" He hugged his wife. "That does it, Mary," he said into her ear. "We're movin'." Mary pulled away. "Oh, John, are y' sure? America's so…so distant."

He nodded. "That's right. Distant. The further 'way from here, th' better." He looked out through one of the windows towards the hill. "Dangerous things livin' in that knock. We're better off movin', and leavin' the place to the Daoine Sidhe." “But maybe…maybe they're here because they want somethin' from us, John." John spun away from the window. "An' what could they want from the likes of us? Sure, that ain't the trouble. Nah, it's settled. We're movin'." Mary smiled a little. “I once heard that a bauchan followed Callum Mor McIntosh all th' way to America, John! You know they can be persistent." “McIntosh was a Scotsman, an' therefore got whatever he deserved. For us, movin's the best thing; even the horses think so." Mary laughed out loud, mirth shining in her dark eyes. "An' how would y' know a thing like that, John Crandall?" Her raised spirits caught on, and John smiled back at her. He didn't, however, answer her question.

CHAPTER ONE TWO ORDINARY CITIZENS San Fernando Valley, California May, present day The warm Santa Ana winds had started in the middle of the night, strong and bone-dry. By the time dawn arrived in the Valley, power lines had been downed by the dozens and several big rigs lay like beached whales on the freeways. But the winds also contributed to a most spectacular sunrise, with the sky turning a wondrous cobalt blue, unspoiled by smog. Nonetheless, for Ken Crandall, the Santa Anas always seemed to be an omen of some sort, a harbinger of bad tidings. Some minor disaster always befell him on windy days: The car wouldn't start, his rent would be raised, or, as happened on one memorably bad day, a Dane Cook film was released. On this particular occasion, the problem was his alarm clock: It didn't have a battery backup, so every time the power was interrupted, as it had been for a brief time early that morning, the clock would reset itself to 12:01 AM. It was not a very unusual or uncommon problem, especially on windy days, but it was one that was guaranteed to piss him off. Eventually, Ken was awakened by his dog, Bart, at 7:30 – a half-hour late, but still hours before the alarm would have sounded by itself. Bart didn't wake Ken by scratching him with his paw, or barking, or licking Ken's face, as a normal dog would do. Instead, Bart just sat there at the edge of the bed and stared at Ken until the man realized, even in a deep sleep, that he was being stared at, which meant that there was probably a good reason to get up. Groggily, Ken did so. "Mmm," he mumbled, brushing his sandy hair away from his face. "Morning, Bart." Ken glanced at the digital clock on the night-table. It read 2:17 AM. He blinked and looked at it again. It didn't change. Ken sighed and closed his eyes, vowing to give it one more chance, or else either the clock or his mind would be forced into early retirement. He opened his eyes. This time, the clock read 2:18 AM. An improvement, but not quite what he had been hoping for. He was certain that the light pouring in his windows was indeed sunlight, so either the Romans had made a terrible miscalculation in the solar calendar, or exactly two hours and seventeen minutes earlier there had been a… "Goddamn POWER OUTAGE! Aw, shit, Bart, I'm late!" Ken leaped out of bed. “Bart, there is no God! Do you hear me, there is NO GOD! Oh God, please let me make it there on time…" With that, Ken was in the shower. Bart looked over his shoulder towards the bathroom and yawned. Except for the wind, and what was in the backyard, it didn't seem to be that much different from any other morning. By the time he got out of the shower, Ken had calmed down a little. It wasn't as though he would be fired if he showed up late to work again. Would the Reynolds/Hatch Agency dare fire its wunderkind copywriter on such a minor infraction? Of course not, but Ken had promised his boss that he would at least try to match the on-time performance of the Agency's major client, North American Airways ("They are on-time at least once a week," Mr. Reynolds would joke). Ken Crandall liked where he worked, and vowed at that moment to "deliver more of himself", to borrow another one of his boss' little idioms. Besides, it was Friday. Bart came back into the room as Ken was lacing up his Reeboks. "Hey, Bart," said Ken to the black Labrador retriever. "Thanks for, er, staring at me this morning. So, what was all the commotion at midnight? I heard you barking like crazy. Was it the wind? Was it the cat next door?" Bart sat down and thumped his tail against the wall a few times.

Ken finished tying his shoes, fished his wallet and car keys from the night table, and stood up. "You're staring at me again," he said, noticing Bart's continued gaze. "Well, what is it, Bart? Is it Fiona?" At the mention of Ken's girlfriend's name, Bart's ears perked up and he inclined his head about 30 degrees to starboard, adopting the classic curious canine look. "I know you two are buddies," said Ken, stuffing his wallet into his back pocket. "So don't worry, I'll call her. See you later, Bart." Bart saw Ken to the front of the modest 1930's style bungalow. Mounted on the large front door was a knocker in the shape of the claddagh: Two long, curved arms holding a crowned valentine heart. Ken didn't know too much about his Irish ancestry, but he'd once heard that every member of his father's family had kept a claddagh on their front door, and he saw no need to buck tradition. As soon as the door was closed, Bart bolted through the dining area towards the rear of the house, where the pet door was located. As usual, he forgot to check his speed at the kitchen, where the floor surface changed from carpet to tile, and the sudden loss of traction sent his paws scrambling in all directions for purchase. Sheer inertia managed to convey him all the way across the room to the back hallway, where the carpet began again, and he sprinted through the pet door to the fenced-in drive that stretched along the side of the house. The drive ran all the way to the detached garage at the rear corner of the backyard; the garage was now used only for storage, since no automobile larger than a Model T could fit inside. Bart watched as Ken got into his `67 Mustang on the other side of the chain-link gate. When the car started without incident, Bart turned his attention to the rather spacious, treeshrouded back yard, to see if its new addition was still there. As the car pulled back out of the driveway, Bart peered hesitantly around the rear corner of the house. Thirteen large toadstools stood in a perfect circle in the center of the lawn, right where Bart had discovered them the night before. They didn't seem to have grown or changed position since then, and nothing else in the yard was disturbed. But the fact that they were there at all made Bart very uneasy, and he resolved to guard the house until Ken got home. Although, if things got even a little serious, Bart was confident that he could scale the gate and escape out the front yard. Meanwhile, elsewhere in the Valley, Fiona Lindstrom walked around the huge ground floor area of the Braddock's department store in Sherman Oaks, where she worked as a Floor Manager. She checked that all clerks were present and in close proximity to their respective stations. She also made sure that all cash registers were online, and hoped that she hadn't missed anything major, like the roof collapsing over the Clinique display, or the fire sprinklers flooding the powder room. Nothing quite so drastic seemed to be happening, however, so she nodded to a security guard that it was all right to open for business. As the guard walked away to unlock the doors to the main entrance, Fiona wondered if she should call Ken at work. He would already have been there for two hours, but she thought it was still probably too early in the day to call, and she didn't want to seem desperate or anything. Acting this way about a man was out of character for the six foot tall, straight-blonde haired, blue-eyed woman. She was also slightly muscular, but it was her natural build, not the ripped physique of a hardcore weightlifter. In short, her looks were stereotypically Nordic; she was, as she sometimes put it, "Not drop-dead pretty, but more like long, drawn-out illness pretty." Still, looking like she did, she could have had any of the walking libidos that passed for men in Southern California. Unfortunately, (or fortunately, depending on how one looked at it), that body was attached to a singularly independent mind. Indeed, most people who knew Fiona thought her to be somewhat eccentric. And at least one girl at Braddock's thought she was certifiably insane. I'm just a little headstrong, thought Fiona. And somewhat of a misanthrope. So why can't people accept that and let me be me? Just because I think that most men are idiots and most women are shrews, does that make me so different? It's not that I dislike humanity in general, I just don't like them as individuals. Fiona began to spin her key ring around her index finger, a sure sign that she was getting herself riled.

Let me see, she continued to herself, because I don't let people get away with being rude or stupid, I'm a “bitch”. Because I don't like it when strange men make passes at me, I'm a “dyke”. Why can’t I ever act like a normal girl? Maybe it was something in my childhood… "Shit. I hate feeling sorry for myself," she said out loud. She walked across the vast floor towards Formalwear. After she was gone, Teresa and Jenny, two pretty Valley girls staffing the Accessories counter, exchanged glances. "See?" said Teresa, a short, shapely blonde. "Did you see her talking to herself? I told you she was nuts!" "Oh, please," said Jenny, a tall, thoughtful-looking brunette. "Like you've never talked to yourself? Give me a break." With that, she walked to the other end of the counter. “I don't know…there's something wrong with that woman," Teresa said to herself, watching Fiona's retreating back. Fiona continued her train of thought as she made her rounds of the other departments. Ken was on her mind again. What was it about him? She liked his hazel eyes; was that it? No, they were very nice eyes, but by themselves were not reason enough to rush on down to the nearest Justice of the Peace with the guy. She also liked his dog and his Mustang; she herself owned a ‘70 Camaro and shared his fondness for classic American cars. But no, the dog and the car weren't by themselves what made the thought of spending the rest of her life with him not unappealing. It was the fact that – He understands me. The thought stopped Fiona midway through Estee Lauder. Could that be it? she wondered. The thought concerned her because it was as paradoxical as it was clichéd. How could somebody understand me when I don't even understand myself? she thought. Or, maybe what he understands is the fact that I don't understand myself. The idea was still new to Fiona. No one, she figured, had ever understood her in her entire life. Even now she had an irrational fear that if somebody were to ever understand her, she would lose her individuality…somewhat like those primitive peoples who were afraid of having their pictures taken because they thought the camera would steal their souls. Her thoughts were interrupted by the first customers of the day filing past her, their hair already rendered totally ungovernable by the wind. Fiona perked up a little at the sight. Fuck it. He has great eyes. Maybe I should marry him.

CHAPTER TWO RING Ken had had several errands to run after work, so by the time he got home it was already dusk. The wind was still blowing hard, and he rushed inside, yearning for still, quiet air. He received a nasty static shock as he gripped the doorknob; the wind's parting shot for the evening. There was a message on his answering machine, and he played it. “Hi, K.C., this is your pal Freddy. Listen, I – oh, shit, that asshole nearly – oh, sorry, I'm calling from my car, and the traffic is really horrendous. Anyway, you're still invited to come over to my place tomorrow and swim a few laps or something. And you can bring along that weird girl you're seeing, I kinda like her. Whatever, just call me tomorrow, okay? Bye, bud!" Ken shook his head and reset the machine. Freddy Browning was one of the few people who called Ken’s landline number with any regularity, and in fact was the main reason that Ken maintained thatnumber. Freddy was a bit OCD that way. They had been friends since kindergarten, the only two people that either knew who had been born and raised in the Valley, and had elected to remain there. Perhaps they were both a bit OCD that way, Ken thought. It would explain why they hadn’t fled to a more mild climate, such as Hollywood. For his part, Freddy had inherited a booming real estate agency when he was only 23, and managed to expand the business even through the worst market downturns; after all, only an idiot would find a way to lose money in Southern California real estate – and Freddy was no idiot. Yet for all his success, Freddy never forgot that it was largely inherited, and it came out ofan industry for which he had no passion. He had always wanted to be a scientist or a researcher of some sort, but he had also loved and respected his late father, and so he dutifully obtained a business degree at UCLA and ended up running the business when his father passed away only months after Freddy’s graduation. One thing that the business had given him was plenty of free time to pursue all of the scientific hobbies that wanted to, and the money to buy all of the gadgets that those hobbies required. Ken wondered if Freddy had been on his way home when he'd called. Ken gambled on it and began to dial his friend's home number, but was interrupted by the sound of Bart barking wildly outside. He realized that the dog hadn't come inside to greet him or stare at him to get food, which was unheard of. It must be something pretty damn major, thought Ken as he replaced the receiver. He ran to the back door, switching on the outside floodlights as he opened it. Bart stood at the edge of the lawn, barking towards the center. As he rounded the corner of the house, Ken noticed the circle of mushrooms poking out of the grass between the trees, but nothing else seemed to be awry. "Bart, shut up! You'll piss off the neighbors!" Bart turned and gave Ken an unusually concerned took, but he stopped barking. "Is that what's bothering you? The mushrooms? I admit, it's pretty odd, but –" “Sidheóg,” a voice said. Ken spun around. The voice had sounded like it was right next to him, yet at the same time very distant. Bart growled intensely and actually bared his fangs, something Ken had never seen him do. Now Ken was concerned. Someone, it appeared, was trying to scare him. And they were coming along swimmingly. Ken gulped down his fear and vowed to confront whoever it was before calling the police. "Hey!" he yelled. Bart stopped growling and listened for a response. there was a whisper, then a cool breeze

A cool breeze hit Ken, even as the warm Santa Anas continued to toss his hair. This was definitely not normal. Ken turned back toward the house, intending to call the police. Then a movement atop the wall at the far end of the yard caught his attention. A pair of iridescent yellow eyes reflected the floodlights back at him: A cat. It was only the big gray tabby from next door, come to taunt Bart from atop the back wall. Embarrassed at having been spooked so badly by a cat, Ken moved forward to shoo it away. Bart barked out a warning, but it was too late. Ken stepped into the center of the ring of mushrooms – cold, it was very cold now – and his world suddenly disappeared. There was no flash, no thunderbolt. There were no impressive natural special effects. The dog had barked. The cat had growled. Ken had taken a step. Had blinked. And suddenly, Valley Spring Lane was nowhere to be seen. The Los Angeles Basin had inexplicably disappeared. North America, in fact, seemed to have vacated the entire vicinity. Ken looked down. The mushrooms, of course, had also disappeared. He was standing on a grassy mound at dusk, with a cold wind whipping the light jacket he had not even had the time to remove when he arrived home, and he was surrounded for miles around by similar grassy hills. There was not a habitation in sight. Ken sat down hard on the ground, the words of his mother suddenly rushing back to haunt him: "Rule number one: Never walk into a Faerie ring!" It took several more minutes before Ken felt confident enough to stand up without fainting. He looked around one more time. The entire sky was filled with cold gray clouds. The light didn't seem to have changed at all since he'd arrived, but it didn't matter; it was as dark as it could possibly be without being officially designated "night". The wind still blew, making loud whooshing noises as it passed his ears. Ken stuffed his hands into his pockets. The feeling of his car keys in his right front pocket was shockingly familiar; it allowed him to calm down somewhat and analyze the situation. He was sure he wasn't dreaming. That was the worst part. It seemed to Ken that whenever things like this happened to people in movies, they always simply convinced themselves that they were dreaming. For Ken, this was exactly the sort of thing he could expect not to happen in one of his dreams. Ken’s dreams were always disappointingly dreary and pointless. They never involved, for example, encountering a magical Faerie ring in his own backyard – let alone walking into one and being instantaneously transported to another dimension that looked amazingly like Ireland, Ireland. That's what had been gnawing at him…this place looked just like Ireland. Of course, Ken had never been there in person, but he did possess the old family photo album, and figured he damn well knew Sligo when he saw it. That thought comforted him a little. He decided that, rather than worry about the paranormality of it all, he'd try to save his skin by finding some shelter. That was when he heard a distant sound that made his flesh crawl. A long, low howl sounded from among the mounds behind his. It sounded like a dog, and yet like no dog he'd ever heard. It was an evil-sounding howl that suggested fury, madness, and worst of all…hunger. The Hound of the Baskervilles-meets-Cujo, with a little Cerberus thrown in. A dog you wouldn't want to get to know. The howl sounded again, closer this time. As it faded, Ken noticed a light between two nearby mounds ahead of him. He ran. He had been standing still for quite a long time, and his legs were a little shaky at first, but sheer adrenaline made up for the lack of coordination. He reached the bottom of the mound and made for the next pair, picking his way over the rocks and pits that showed in the gray twilight. Another howl convinced Ken that the beast had already reached the mound he had just vacated, and he willed his legs to move faster. Finally, he could see a reflection of light between the mounds ahead of him. Somehow he felt that the light would afford him some protection. Ken ran between the two mounds without slowing, following the curve of the one on his right. Suddenly, the source of the light was visible ahead of him: A ball of brilliant orange-yellow

light hung motionless in midair, and just as Ken's mind warned him, Will O’ the Wisp, they trick people, he fell into a peat bog and began sinking. The howl sounded again, closer still, and the Will O’ the Wisp rose higher into the air, as if to signal Ken's position. Ken struggled, but the bog's hold was stronger than quicksand. At this rate, Ken figured, he'd be up to his neck in two minutes, just in time for the dog to arrive and bite his head off. And that wasn't the only problem; Ken could now hear other noises approaching, most noticeably a loud galloping. Large lightning bugs arrived and began swarming around Ken, strafing his head and shoulders. They made no noise, but the dog howled closer, and the galloping became louder; Ken didn't know which he feared more. What he saw next, however, made up his mind. The largest, most fearsome horse he'd ever seen topped the mound on the far end of the bog. It was dirty-white in color and had giant hooves and an enormous head. Its eyes were luminous and glowed a dull, ember-red. And it looked directly at Ken, into his eyes, the way no selfrespecting animal should look at a human being. Ken heard the great dog arrive behind him and skid to a stop. Apparently, it was going to defer to the horse. One of the lightning bugs came to a hover in front of Ken's face, and for the first time he realized that it wasn't an insect at all: It was a tiny, beautiful woman. She didn't have wings, and she was naked, but this was one kind of Faerie that Ken could recognize instantly. She was exquisite – a lithe, supple, luminous body; bright, flowing hair, and a beguiling face. An altogether perfect specimen of a human female, except that she was only three inches tall. Ken felt himself growing aroused despite his predicament, and he realized that she was working her glamour on him. Ken cleared his throat and spoke with false bravado. "Yeah, all right, you're really very beautiful, but I'm in a bit of a scrape right now!" The horrible horse began to trot down the hill. Its hoofprints smoldered. "Oh, God! Look, young lady, if you'll just help me get out of this mess then maybe we can elope or something. I have a nice home and steady employment. Otherwise, I wish you'd stop playing games with me and let me lose my head with some dignity!" The tiny Faerie looked thoughtful for a moment, and then raised her arm as a signal. With that, all the other swarming females ceased their aimless buzzing and simultaneously dove into the bog. Meanwhile, the horse reached the bottom of the mound and began to move towards Ken. "Whatever you're gonna do, please do it fast!" he shouted, watching with dread as the horse arrived at the edge of the bog and leisurely reached toward him with its mouth. Ken saw its massive teeth and smelled its fiery breath, and suddenly felt a huge regret that he'd never see Fiona again. It made him angry. Before he could utter a last, defiant curse, however, the bog caved in. It was as though someone had opened up a giant trapdoor underneath Ken, causing the entire contents of the bog to drop messily into a chamber fifteen feet below. As he fell, Ken saw a look of great disappointment cross the horse's face, and then nothing as the Will O’ the Wisp winked out. He landed with a muddy splash in the middle of what looked like a cave; the rather disgusting sound of the remaining sludge slogging down from above echoed around the walls. The tiny Faeries had returned, and filled the space with light from their luminous, threeinch-long nubile bodies. The one who had originally taken an interest in Ken returned to her position in front of his nose. "Thank you," said Ken. "I didn't actually believe you were going to help me. I don'tknow why you would want to. I mean, I don't even know what I'm doing here." The Faerie looked Ken up and down, seeming to appraise him. Then, in a voice as small as her stature, but not high or squeaky, she said, "They set a trap for you, Mortal. They desperately want something of yours. I know not what.” Even her voice is exquisite, thought Ken, and his heart palpitated with a crazy desire. To distract himself, he made an academic observation: “You speak my language!” "No," she said simply, “you speak our language.” Another Faerie flew up to her and whispered something in her ear. She nodded, and said to Ken, "They have breached the Way. That is fortunate. You will be able to return to your world, and we shall accompany you. They may also be able to enter your world. That," she concluded, "is unfortunate."

Ken suddenly remembered the deal he had made with this little woman, and his mind reeled at the consequences. Fiona would probably kill him. Bart would move out in disgrace. Ken knew he loved Fiona, but he only lusted after this diminutive Diana. Nevertheless, his curiosity got the better of him. "Who are 'they'? And, forgive me, but who are you?" "They are certain members of the Unseelie Court. But they, and I, all of us, are Daoine Sidhe." She pronounced the last words as ‘danny shee'. Knowing what they called themselves didn't enlighten Ken any but it did make him more nervous; he tried stalling. "Uh, you know, you really wouldn't want to live in my neighborhood," he said. "Nobody gives each other the time of day, and they keep trimming the trees too far back, and there's no parking anywhere –" "You are the first mortal I have seen in a millennium," she interrupted. "Without contact with mortals, I would eventually cease to exist. It is my purpose –" “It is your purpose to drive men insane with desire. I've heard something of your kind.” "No more argument. I will not harm you; there will be plenty of other mortals to occupy us. We are going to return now, and here is some advice: My kind can only function in your world at night, for it is perpetually twilight in my own. If you want to avoid us, I suggest you sleep during the day. You will need your wits about you at night." Ken was about to issue a self-assured retort when movement from above caught his eye. Two red embers glowed down at him from atop the pit. It looked as though the horse was going to jump for it. "Very well," Ken said hastily, "no argument. Please show me the way home." The Faerie floated past Ken's head, and he turned around. The cave wall behind him was imprinted with a circle of thirteen white dots; the backside of a Faerie ring. "You must pass through the Breach," she said. Ken didn't question her, only nodded and stood up. "You'd best hurry," she added. "We shall be close behind." Ken looked at her one last time. God, she was beautiful. He could understand how mere mortals could be beguiled by that body, that voice. He thought he remembered reading in a fairy tale somewhere that they could occasionally assume human size. Uh-oh. Quickly, before he was overtaken by any more amorous thoughts, Ken jumped headfirst against the cave wall. A split-second after Ken had disappeared into the ring, he reappeared, this time flying vertically out of it as if he'd been spat out by a geyser. Startled, the cat jumped off the top of the wall and into the neighbor's yard, and Bart jumped back reflexively. Bart thought he noticed some small, ethereal shapes chasing after the cat – but his main concern was Ken, who now landed on the ground outside the ring hard enough to bounce once. Bart ran over and sniffed him. Ken groggily sat up, trying to catch what few bearings he had left. Then, ignoring everything else, he struggled to his feet and staggered through the back door into the house. He somehow traversed the 26.2 mile distance that seemed to have materialized between the back door and his room, then collapsed face-down on the bed and passed out. Bart, meanwhile, took one last look over his shoulder at the yard, whined, and then followed Ken's lead and ran into the house.

CHAPTER THREE SIDE EFFECTS As Ken slept, a series of unusual events occurred in the neighborhood that would have interested him a great deal, had he not been catatonic. First, the police and animal-control departments responded to at least 30 reports of prowlers and wild animals in a twelve-square-block radius, the epicenter of which was Ken's street. Several of the calls had to do with sightings of ambiguous "dark figures” outside of windows; and one insomniac whose backyard overlooked the L.A. River swore he saw a large horse "jumping around in the center channel". Second, there were a number of minor automobile accidents in the area, caused by drivers being distracted by everything from "floating lights" and "a small, hairy man" to an extraordinary sighting of “a severed leg jumping onto the road". Third, and most importantly to Bart, objects outside of Ken's house began moving about of their own free will, which caused the dog no end of distress. By sunrise, when the garden hose was just finishing wrapping itself around a rose bush, Bart gave in and ran to wake up Ken, but the man wouldn't budge. Bart was in the process of actually jumping up and down on him when the phone rang. The dog barked in relief and jumped off the bed. He reached onto the night table and clasped the receiver in his jaws, then released it onto the floor. "Rise and shine, K.C.," said a female voice from the receiver. "Big day ahead of us." Bart barked. "Come on, Ken, wake up! I can hear Bart in the background, so I know it's you. Ken, are you all right?" Bart barked twice more. "Oh, shit…last time, Ken: Are you okay?" When Bart barked several more times, Fiona said, "Oh Jesus! Hang on, Bart, I'm coming!" There was a click as she disconnected. The dog didn't bother trying to replace the receiver on the cradle, so a few seconds after Fiona hung up, the off-hook signal began to buzz loudly throughout the room. Then the sun cleared the trees on the side of the house and daylight dribbled in through the windows. In his mind, Ken fought consciousness tooth and nail. He wanted, more desperately than anything else in the entire Universe, to remain asleep this Saturday. And perhaps for the two hundred or so other days that remained in the year; that would fill out his schedule nicely. But consciousness can be an insidious force, especially when it’s the last thing one wants to possess. Even more insidious, in fact downright malevolent, is the telephone off-hook signal. Together, the two forces conspired to deprive Ken of his blissful coma. And the final, waking blow was delivered by a voice. "Hey." Ken rubbed the epoxy of twelve hours' sleep from his eyes and noticed that he was in his own bed. For a split-second, he thought that the events of the previous night actually had been a dream; before he could chalk one up for the movie script writers, however, he noticed the mud on his sheets. And there was something else, wasn't there? "Hey." Oh, yeah. The voice. Ken rolled over and glanced around the room. The only other visible living creature in it was Bart, sitting at the foot of Ken's bed, staring at him as usual. "Hey, Bart," Ken said. "Morning." "Ken, I'm glad you're up, I was –"

"Whoa, whoa, hold on a minute, just wait!" Ken looked around the room again, with the same results. "Please bear with me, whoever you are…I'm not really together this morning. Now, is there a reason you're not showing yourself?" "Whattaya mean? I'm right in front of you. Ken, it seems that – " "No, no, no. Correction: The only thing I can see right in front of me is the foot of my bed. And my..." Ken's voice trailed off. His mind, it seemed, was being admirably creative that morning: It had just formed a theory. Ken tried to put the idea out of his head, but it kept creeping back in through the lavatory window of his cerebellum. He gave up trying to stuff the idea down the drain, and decided to face it head-on. He looked hesitantly at his dog. "Bart…?" "Yes! Ken, I just found out the most amazing thing this morning: I can talk to you now!" "S – so I've noticed," Ken stammered. "Amazing.” "You're telling me! This is fabulous! All those years of sitting at the edge of your bed, screaming at you to wake up, but never quite finding the right frequency…” "It appears as though you've found it." Ken said. He didn't see Bart's mouth moving; instead, the voice was sounding directly inside his head. "So what am I…FM?" "Very funny. Look, would you mind hanging up that fucking phone? It's driving me crazy." Ken replaced the receiver onto the cradle. "How did it get off the hook? "Fiona called a little while ago. I think I got her sufficiently worried; she's on her way over." Ken collapsed back onto the bed, and sighed. "So, maybe there is a God after all." Then he pounded the pillow several times. "But he must be a really, really small one!" Fiona arrived a few minutes later. When Ken opened the front door, she nearly tackled him, looking for serious wounds, checking his pulse, examining his pupils, and so forth (she was a few inches taller than him, and in better shape, so Ken didn't bother resisting). Not finding anything seriously wrong, she kissed him several hundred times in relief. Finally, she stopped, backed up and took a good look at him. "You look like shit, Ken! What the hell happened?" "I slept in my clothes," Ken said. Fiona chortled. "From the look of you, I'd say the problem isn't that you slept in your clothes; it's that you slept in a sinkhole, in your clothes. Are you all right? I mean, you answered the phone but didn't speak, and Bart was barking, and I didn't know if you were hurt or drugged or…" Her voice trailed off, waiting for Ken to fill in the details. "Actually, I answered the phone," said Bart. Ken flinched. Having his dog able to talk to him was one thing he was quite sure he would never get used to. Fiona apparently didn't hear Bart, but she did notice Ken’s jumpiness. "My God, Ken, you're shaking! Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor?" "Positive." "Then at least come with me; I'll clean you up a little, and it might help you to relax. Then you can tell me everything." Ken hesitated. "Fiona, I don't know if I can. You'll think I'm crazy, and I…I don't want to lose you over something like this." Fiona put her hands on her hips. "Ken Crandall, I thought you knew me far better than that. You, a psycho? Takes one to know one, K.C." Fiona dragged him towards the bedroom. She gave him a bath in his spacious master bathroom. Ken had never actually been bathed by anyone before (forced immersions during childhood notwithstanding), and now he realized what a remarkable gesture it was on Fiona’s part. In fact, had he not felt akin to a recently-retired Volvo crash dummy, he would have found the experience intensely erotic. Instead, he merely said "ouch" a lot. After the hot water had soothed his bruises somewhat, Ken told her everything, starting with the circle of toadstools and ending with Bart talking to him that morning. Contrary to what Ken had feared, Fiona was enthralled by the whole story, and was fully prepared to believe him.

Ken sighed. "Thank you for listening to me, Fiona. If you hadn't, I don't know what I would have done. I probably would have thought I was going crazy. I mean it. But I know it happened! I don't know how or why, but it…" Ken trailed off in confusion. "It did," he concluded. Fiona tilted Ken's head back and rinsed it clean. Then she kissed his forehead. "Ken, you are the sanest person I know. Also the nicest, barring that little temper of yours. Believing in you just comes naturally. But more than that, I…I'm returning the favor." Ken leaned forward, puzzled. “What favor?" "My opinions apparently make me seem pretty eccentric to everyone else, and yet you just accept it. You…" Fiona paused; unexpectedly, tears welled up in her eyes. Ken was the first person to see Fiona cry since she was ten years old, although she had cried to herself on a couple of occasions in the intervening years. "You don't have to say anymore," said Ken. Fiona shook her head. "No. I want to. Listen to me: You're the only one who ever really cared. Do you know that? You're the only person who was ever honestly concerned about my feelings. That includes my family. It always seems to hurt you more when people say bad things about me. You literally empathize. I don't even need to ask for your support, it's just your nature to want to be there for me. That's why you don't have to worry about me believing you; I'm just – I'm just glad that you're okay." Ken was overwhelmed. All he could do was hug Fiona. "God damn the world!" she said. "Why can't it just leave two of its perfectly normal, dysfunctional denizens alone for a while?" She laughed softly in mid-sob. "When it looked like that horse was going to kill me," Ken said, still embracing Fiona, "my last thought was that I would never see you again. It made me very angry – and terribly sad. You were the most important thing in my life at that moment. And at this one." "Awwl" said Fiona, pulling herself apart from Ken to face him. "You see?" she sniffed, "there you go again! I'm gonna call my therapist on Monday; this was a breakthrough. This was definitely a breakthrough." She looked down. "Christ, Ken, did you have to get my shirt all wet?" "Sorry. Guess you might as well join me in here, now." "Forget it. That water's filthy now." Fiona sighed, and was quiet for a few moments. Then she looked into Ken's eyes. "Ken? You're actually scared, aren't you? What are you – what are we going to do?" Ken smiled mischievously as an idea came to him. "We're going to call in the cavalry, that's what. My friend Freddy Browning happens to be a Ghostbuster."

CHAPTER FOUR AN INORDINATE FONDNESS OF BOGIES

Freddy regarded the immense stack of books he had placed in Ken's living room. "Judging from what you've told me," said the lanky, curly-haired man in his quiet voice, "there are three important things we need explained: Who ‘they’ are, what they want from you, how we can get rid of them, and why you can talk to your dog. Four things." "So this means you believe my story," said Ken. "Christ, Ken, I know you too well –" "That's what everyone keeps telling me. I wish I could believe myself as easily as you guys believe me." "Ken," said Fiona, "you are a twenty-six year old copywriter who can communicate telepathically with his dog, and you are the most normal person in this room." Freddy cleared his throat and pushed his spectacles back up on his nose. "Yes, well…" He cleared his throat again. "We'll get back to the dog issue later. Fortunately for you, Ken, the other things you described could be identified by a six year old with a mild interest in parapsychology, let alone by a maniac like me." "Besides yourself, how many people have been interested in parapsychology at the age of six?" said Fiona. "And what does your wife think of your strange little hobby?" Freddy ignored the first question, but went eagerly after the second. "Kerri majored in Transcendental Meditation at Santa Cruz and took an astral projection course at Esalen; don't tell me about weird hobbies." "She sounds like my kind of woman." Freddy nodded in agreement. "She could probably do her thesis on you." "Anyway," said Ken, trying to steer the conversation away from the rapid-fire exchange of one-liners into which it was clearly about to descend. "Er, right," said Freddy, sprinting after his train of thought. "The creatures you described, Ken, are indeed Daoine Sidhe." Freddy spelled out the words. "It’s Gaelic for, I believe, 'The Good People.'" "They don't seem like your average friendly citizens," said Fiona. "That's because they're not. Most of them are the nasty kinds of spirits Ken encountered. Since the earliest times, the Irish and other people of the British Isles have referred to them euphemistically as ‘The Good People’, or ‘The Gentry’, mainly so the spirits wouldn't get pissed off at them and steal their spouses or children. The Daoine Sidhe are all that remain of the Tuatha De Danann, or the original Irish gods." "How do you recognize a ‘danny shee’”? asked Ken. "Leprechauns are Daoine Sidhe; so are hobgoblins, brownies, pixies, bogies, everything the English refer to as ‘Faeries’, and everything you encountered last night. They're all catalogued in my books here. I find them incredibly fascinating." "Freddy, I am very concerned about you," said Fiona. "Fine," said Ken, before Freddy could return fire, "but what was that terrible horse?" "That," said Freddy, "was an Aughisky, more popularly known as a Pooka. Silly-sounding name to American ears, until you meet one…then there's nothing silly about 'em. They're one of several kinds of water-horses from British mythos. But they can supposedly be tamed. Make damned fine riding horses if you can catch one; you see, they only get homicidal within sight of water. Don't be on or near one around water, because they’ll jump in with the rider and devour him. Or her."

"That's why it went after me, then," said Ken. “I was sitting in a bog, after all. That's mostly water."

"But someone, or something, wanted you in that bog," said Freddy. "They wanted that Pooka to get you." "But they had me in their dimension already," said Ken. "Why didn't they just shoot me or something? I was a sitting duck." "Well, it could be that you have some kind of ward, or protection, you don't know about. But really, I think they just wanted you to die as horrifically as possible. That's generally their way. But those other Faeries rescued you, which fortunately kept you from finding out. You see, they're not all bad…just watch your back tonight." "What do you mean?" Fiona asked hesitantly. "I mean, some of them, or all of them, may have followed Ken back through the ring; they said they would." Ken put his arm around Fiona, and felt her shudder. "The ring's gone," he said. "We checked." "Then they moved the entrance somehow. Which is something else that's not in any of my books. Normally, they only move around in our world twice a year: May Day and November Eve." "You mean Halloween." "Yes. But opening a breach, in America, at will, is something new. The Unseelie Court – the bad Faeries – must want something very desperately." There was a long pause as everyone let this sink in. "Bummer," Bart finally said, causing Ken to fall out of his chair. Later that day, after they had eaten lunch, Ken called Bart back inside. He looked at the dog and wondered if Bart knew why they could now understand each other. "No more than you do," said Bart. "So, I don't even have to speak out loud!" said Ken. "Are you talking to him now?" asked Freddy. "Yes, but I still don't know how," "I think that this is merely a side-effect of traversing the Breach," said Freddy. "Your mind got readjusted." "Bart said something about frequencies." "Yes. Many so-called primitive cultures believed that they could communicate with all earthly things, living and otherwise. It's called 'animism', the belief that everything has a soul." Freddy looked at Bart again. "What's really amazing, though, is that there's a relatively recent precedent for animal communication such as this; you may not be the first one, Ken." "What the hell are you talking about?" "Back in the 1950’s," Freddy explained, "a farmer on the Isle of Man claimed that a mongoose had come to his house and started talking to him, and could understand his responses. The farmer’s wife and kid saw the mongoose, too, but only he seemed to be able to communicate with it. It was one of the biggest parapsychology stories of the decade, believe it or not. What I'm getting at is, maybe the guy could understand the mongoose all of a sudden because he'd passed through a Breach shortly beforehand, possibly without even knowing it. Meaning, it wasn't the mongoose that was ‘enchanted’…it was the man!" Fiona, who had been taking all of this in, looked Ken up and down. "Well, what do you think about this animism thing, K.C.? Can you talk to anything besides Bart?" Ken held up his hands. "Now, wait a minute. The Faerie ring I could take; and the Pooka was just doing its job. But the sudden ability to talk to my refrigerator or chat with my house plants is not something I want to deal with, at least not if I want to remain – " Ken interrupted himself, and remained silent for a few moments. Then he quietly said, “Oh, God.” "What?" said Freddy and Fiona, concerned. Ken gulped. "My refrigerator has just informed me," he said carefully, "that it's about time I defrosted it."

CHAPTER FIVE THE COURT RE-CONVENES Several blocks north of Ken's house, on a relatively busy street, stood a distinctive fivestory, white building. What made it so distinctive, apart from its imposing Byzantine-style architecture, was that it was one of the oldest continually used buildings in the area, and with good reason: It was the local Masonic Temple. The building, designed in the 1920's, had plenty of large rooms that were perfectly suited for holding meetings, initiation ceremonies, ganja parties, or whatever it is that Masons do with themselves in Temples. And, like most buildings of its era, it also sported a very large basement. Right now, the basement was being occupied by beings far older than the Masonic effluvia that surrounded them; older, in fact, than Freemasonry itself. For, far off in a darker corner of the already pitch-black basement stood a group of unusual creatures holding counsel with a more human-looking male individual. The black-bearded, otherwise ageless man was speaking, using a language that predated many of the rocks in the building's foundation. "Your attempt to do away with the mortal in our own world failed," the man said, "rather miserably. No thanks, of course, shall be wasted on our own brethren who assisted him. In fact," he added conspiratorially, "if my wife knew I was here, she'd probably disembowel me again." One of the creatures, a tall humanoid with no skin on its head, grunted at the prospect. "Yes, an unpleasant thought, indeed," said the man. "Although not entirely worse than having to spend any more time in this forsaken desert-city than we have to. But we must kill the mortal Kenneth Crandall, and if it must happen in his own world, then so be it. Once the deed is done, of course, my wife will probably thank me for it, as will the rest of our kind." The assorted creatures in the assemblage snorted, crowed, and globbered their overwhelming approval. “Thank you,” said the man. “But if the deed is to be done at all, then we must change our strategy; many mortals must have noticed our arrival last eve. And a few of the wiser ones may even suspect that it us, come to reclaim the world which is rightfully ours. That is why the one mortal who stands in our way must perish. Therefore, it is time for me to shift the Breach one last time. No more playing by the old rules! We must strike now!” A wraith floating in the background groaned an opinion. “Yes,” agreed the man, “’tis a pity that this world is so damned bright half the day. But it once belonged to our people, and by the stars, it shall be ours again!”

CHAPTER SIX SEARCHES AND STAKEOUTS "Freddy, my carpet would appreciate it if you didn't drag your feet like that. And one of my drinking glasses says that you nearly chipped it! Is this true?" "Er…gee, Ken, I'm really sorry. I'll try to be a little more conscientious in the future." "No, don't! I'm sorry, Freddy…the voices were speaking so loudly, and I was just reiterating what they said. I didn't mean to snap at you. God, I feel cursed!" "Don't worry about it," said Freddy. “It can't be as bad as all that. Look, I've almost got the equipment all set up, so we'll soon be able to pinpoint where they've moved the Breach.” "What is all this stuff?" asked Fiona, indicating the sophisticated apparati. Freddy patted a small metal console that had an oscilloscope and a lenslike aperture. “This baby's a spectrometer, a device that measures solar and electromagnetic wavelengths. And this camera here is a thermographic video imager; it basically defines objects by the amount of heat they generate, like on those old Gatorade commercials. I also have a parabolic microphone, for pinpointing distant sounds, and several – " "Fine, fine," interrupted Ken, "but what does it all do? How can it help?" "Well, since I didn't know exactly what we'd be dealing with in terms of physical forces and all, I just brought along anything that might be useful. The spectrometer, for instance, can measure emission spectra and atmospheric absorption bands; if the Breach is spewing out ‘foreign’ light, even in an invisible spectrum, we might be able to pick it up with this. Much more simple and effective is the thermographic video camera. If the breach is still blowing out cold air at a rate of several cubic meters per second, then it should show up as a blue tornado on the monitor." "Like Ajax," said Fiona. "No, that was a white tornado." "What's the range on the camera?" asked Ken. "Only about half a block," said Freddy. "Which means that we may have to drive around the neighborhood with the camera tonight." Ken nodded. "Anything to get out of the house," he said. They set up the camera on a special mount affixed to the open sunroof of Freddy's BMW 535i. Since Freddy had to operate the camera, Ken got to drive the car while Fiona sat in the back with Bart (who didn't want to be left home alone under any circumstances). The sun was setting as they drove off slowly through the neighborhood. So intent were they on watching the small monitor on the dash that they didn't notice the brown Ford sedan following them at a distance with its lights off. It took them more than an hour to circumnavigate the immediate neighborhood, driving slowly enough to examine each block thoroughly with the camera, but still the survey proved fruitless; no blue tornadoes showed up on the monitor. "Damn!" said Freddy as they pulled-over to regroup. "The Breach has to be around here!" “How can you be sure?” asked Ken. "Because, according to another of my little devices, a magnetometer, the Earth's magnetic field is going nuts around here. I'd say that's a pretty good sign that pan-dimensional beings have opened up a doorway, and the doorway would have to be very nearby to have such an effect on the magnetometer. Maybe the camera is malfunctioning." Ken was silent for a moment. Then he said, "No, the camera's doing just fine." "How would you – oh." said Freddy. "Never mind."

"Well, then," said Fiona, "if it's all right with you two, I'd like to go over to my store to check up on things. It's open late tonight for the One Day Sale, and Teresa is in charge of my floor. I want to make sure that it's still there." "Fine by me," said Ken. "Hey, isn't Teresa that nasty Valley girl who thinks you're nuts?" “Yeah. And with you guys tagging along, I’ll finally have the chance to prove it to her.” With that settled, Ken made a U-turn and sped off in the direction of Sherman Oaks. Bonner and Wick, the two LAPD detectives in the unmarked Ford, watched the black BMW drive by. Bonner, a gaunt, tired-looking middle-aged man, said, "Think we should bother following 'em? They could be headed out of our jurisdiction." Wick, a well-dressed man who somewhat resembled Billy Dee Williams, and cultivated that fact for all it was worth, said, "They took that funny camera down." "We were just supposed to watch ‘em at home for a while, then report back if they went anywhere," said Bonner. Wick looked at him. "I don't know what they're up to, but it's damn strange. If they have anything to do with the craziness that went on last night, then I want them in custody. Follow them." Bonner shrugged, and put the car in gear. Ken pulled the BMW into the parking structure adjacent to Braddock's. The venerable department store was one of the oldest in the Valley; the mall to which it was attached had been built around it only a few years previously, but recessions and changes in shopping habits had rendered it “under-exploited”, as its owners euphemistically referred to the dwindling traffic. After Ken parked the car, Freddy didn't bother to roll up the windows or set the alarm, as they were leaving Bart in the car to guard the equipment. "Is there a Radio Hut at this mall?" asked Freddy as they entered the ground floor of Braddock's. "Yes, as a matter of fact," said Fiona, "but they'll be closed now. So will the other stores. We're just open late tonight for the sale." "You managed to get a pretty good crowd out here for it," said Freddy. "They must know something my wife doesn't." At the Accessories counter, Teresa had spied Fiona coming in the front entrance with the two men. "Oh, terrific," she said to her colleague, Jenny. "Ms. Wacko Floor Manager has come to baby-sit me. I wonder which one is her boyfriend…the beatnik or the nerd?" "Hey, the 'beatnik' is pretty cute," said Jenny, approving of Ken. "And the ‘nerd’ is a sharp dresser – that’s an Italian sport coat. But he looks too rich to be Fiona's type. Gotta be the other guy." Fiona had simultaneously located Teresa at the accessories counter, and nudged Ken. "Which one's Teresa?" he asked, "the disturbed-looking blonde or the reservedlooking brunette?" “The disturbed one, of course,” said Fiona. They reached the counter, and Fiona gave the girls a businesslike greeting. "So, how do you think we're doing, Teresa?" "Not too bad. Accents had some sizable sales, and Clinique is selling like mad with that new promotion. But I heard that some studio bigwig just bought out half of Men's Formalwear upstairs, so they're gonna cream us in sales no matter what we do." Wishing to find out if her hunch had been correct, Jenny nodded to Ken. "So, is this the amazing ‘Ken’ we've been hearing so much about?" "Yes!" said Fiona. "I'm sorry, Ken, this is Jenny. Jenny, Ken." Ken nodded back, and shook her hand. "Charmed." Jenny smiled a genuinely warm (although slightly flirty, Fiona noticed) smile in return. "And this is Teresa," said Fiona. “Well, you seem like a very stable, down-to-earth kind of guy,” said Teresa, shaking Ken's hand. "Just what Fiona needs," she added snidely. Before Fiona could come back with a retort or a Karate maneuver, Ken yanked his hand out of Teresa's and held it to his temple. "Wait…wait a sec. I think…"

Freddy, who had been wandering around Cosmetics waving around a device that looked like a walkie-talkie with rabbit-ear antennae and generally freaking out the passers-by, now walked up beside Ken. "What is it?" "I think Bart is trying to contact me." Fiona quietly started massaging her temple, as if she had suddenly developed a headache. Teresa and Jenny glanced at each other. "Who's Bart?" giggled Teresa, "your psychic guide?" "No," Freddy said soberly. "His dog.” Teresa stopped grinning. Jenny's jaw dropped noticeably. Freddy whipped out the strange device and waved it around a bit more. "Meter's acting up," he said. “I don't like it.” "Hey, wait!" said Fiona. "I thought you guys were just pulling Teresa's chain. You mean –" "Something's going on," said Ken. Jenny noticed two men waiting at the other end of the counter, and took the opportunity to duck out of the strange conversation. “Can I help you gentleman?” The mustachioed black man with the tasteful suit gestured towards Ken. "Do you know that man?" he asked quietly. Jenny nodded. "He's Fiona's – my manager's – boyfriend. But I only just met him tonight. What's going on? Are you policemen? Is he –" The thin, rumpled one held up a hand. "It's all right, Miss. There's nothing to worry –" He was interrupted by the store lights suddenly flickering and dimming. "– About." People in the store stopped what they were doing and looked around the nervously. "Wind?" Bonner said to his partner. Wick shook his head, puzzled. "Don't think so." On the opposite end of the counter, the sudden fluctuation in the lighting made Teresa jump. "Fiona," she said unsteadily, "I don't know how, but I know you are doing this just to get to me. You're all in on it, aren't you? These two are just as crazy as you!" This time, before Fiona could answer, all the tights in the building went out. The emergency lights came on almost instantaneously, but Teresa shrieked. "What the hell is going on here?" said Jenny, her composure slipping. “I don't know," said Bonner. "What should we do, Bernie? Take care of our suspect, or take care of the store?" "Well, since we're here, we can do both. But helping the management safely clear the store is our first priority. Let's go put a leash on Mr. Crandall, just in case." Fiona had started rounding up customers to escort out the front entrance, advising everyone to leave their intended purchases on the counters. The battery-powered floodlights cast an eerie glow over the surprisingly hushed scene. Suddenly, the quiet was shattered by a commotion near the entrance. Murmuring turned into shouting. Which turned into screams. "Oh, shit," said Ken. "They've arrived."

CHAPTER SEVEN SIEGE The shouting and screaming continued at the front of the store. One woman cried out, "Get it away!", or "Get away!" – it was hard to tell over the commotion. Many people were retreating from the front of the store, while still others walked forward, their curiosity getting the better of them. Teresa ran around the counter to Jenny. "Oh my God, Jenny, what's happening?" she sobbed. "I don't know," said Jenny, "but don't worry. These two guys are cops." Wick had had enough. "Ralph, get out to the car and call for backup, then come straight back. You two," he said to Teresa and Jenny, "show him the back way out. I'm goin' to the front." Bonner nodded, and firmly motioned the two girls toward the back of the store. Wick walked around the counter to Ken and the others and flashed his I.D. and badge. "Mr. Crandall, Ms. Lindstrom. Detective Bernard Wick, LAPD. I'm going to need to talk to you later. Right now, we've got other things to worry about. Ms. Lindstrom, find your security guards and have them open the back doors and direct people out of here in an orderly fashion. I'm gonna clear the front." "Can I help?" said Ken. Wick nodded, too distracted to argue, and started walking. What he saw when he reached the front of the store stopped him in his tracks. There were creatures there, just outside the front doors. Wick watched for several seconds as some of them gingerly touched the glass doors, testing them. Then Ken nudged him, and he snapped out of his daze. Wick pulled out his chrome .357 pistol and his badge and held them in the air. "LAPD! I wantall of you people to move back! Back of the store! Exit to the rear!" Just then, Fiona ran up with the two security guards. She shook her head, catching her breath, and said, "Not the back. Something's blocking the doors from the outside." "Can't be!" said Wick. "I just sent Bonner and the two girls out that way. They never came back, so I figured…" Wick paused. "Jesus," he said. "How about upstairs?" said Fiona. "If necessary, we can take them up to the roof and they can climb down the emergency stairwell on the other side. It leads directly to the street in back." Wick sighed, and nodded. "Okay, people, listen up! Change of plans! I want everybody to go upstairs. The security guards will direct you. Please proceed upstairs now!" The crowd made for the now-powerless escalators at the center of the store, the guards ensuring that everybody went up single-file. Finally, as the last person mounted the steps, Wick said to the guards, "Stay up there and try to keep everyone calm. Don't take them to the roof yet. Just sit tight and await further instructions." The guards nodded and ran upstairs. Wick heaved another sigh. "Well, that went as well as can be expected." "Ahem," Freddy said. He was still watching the front of the store; everyone else whipped around to follow his gaze. The creatures had figured out how the doors worked, and were coming inside. A four-foot-tall, hairy, naked man was examining some of the dress racks. He pushed them over impatiently. An enormous black dog followed him, sniffing the ground like the puppy it obviously wasn't. Then, Fiona gasped as a fantastic apparition pushed open one of the glass doors and bounced inside: It was half a man. It was about three feet tall. What it looked like was essentially a muscular human leg topped by a head. The head had one eye in its center, a long, pointed nose with one nostril, a mouth full of nasty-looking teeth, and a tuft of wiry hair on its pointed crown. Just below the head, a single human arm stuck out, palm down. The whole creature resembled a little mannequin

assembled by a particularly deranged person and then cut in half lengthwise. It hopped a few more steps. The eye blinked. "The 'severed leg'," murmured Wick. "A Fachán," said Freddy in amazement. “Mostly harmless,” he added. "I mean, what the FUCK…?" said Wick, who was approaching a state of shock. The huge dog growled, and everybody took a step back. "Definitely do not make that one angry," said Ken. "It seems confused; that may help." Wick looked at Ken. “I need to know one thing,” he said. "Are you in any way responsible for the appearance of these things?" "Indirectly, maybe. Come on." They continued moving back; more creatures were appearing in the main entrance every second. What appeared to be a legless toad with bat wings and saber teeth flapped through an open door and circled around the high ceiling. Objects in shadow at the edge of Ken's vision seemed to be moving about by themselves. Swarms of the lightning bug ladies also appeared, which Ken wisely ignored. More brownies arrived, and some goblins followed, making Ken realize that the humans in the store would soon be outnumbered. The same thought occurred to Wick. "We are very close to having a major disaster here," he said. “We've got to repel them.” The others looked at him dubiously. "Okay, or at least, you know, get some backup over here." He looked toward the front entrance. A cow was frolicking outside the doors. "I hope Bonner also called Animal Control." He cleared his throat nervously. “If he made it.” On Wick's advice, Ken went into the men's restroom to check for any stragglers. Ken thought that any bodily function that could keep a person in the bathroom during an occurrence such as this, ought to be the sole business of the body causing the function. Not that Ken was expecting to find anyone in the bathroom; that's what made it so surprising when he did. The emergency lighting gave the restroom a strange gray tint, which the stainless-steel fixtures seemed to absorb, making it appear even darker. As the door thumped shut behind him, Ken rounded the steel partition and saw a tall man leaning with both hands against the row of basins, his head lowered. He had rather long, black hair and was dressed in dark clothes that seemed to absorb what little light had made it past the fixtures unscathed. "Sorry," Ken said, a bit sheepishly. "Just came in to check for stragglers. We're moving everybody upstairs." The man made no movement. Ken shifted on his feet awkwardly; the strange thought occurred to him that if this man had lost his sanity after seeing the monsters outside, then he, Ken Crandall, would be to blame. He cleared his throat and tried once more. "We'd better hurry. Those creatures – " "Sidheóg," the man said. Ken felt the instant chill that came from recognizing something he had no wish to recognize: He'd heard that word, pronounced "sheehoag", about 24 hours earlier, just before some really nasty things had happened to him. He forced the chill back down his spine from whence it had originated, and told himself to please remain calm; after all, it could have been a coincidence. The man straightened up and turned around to face Ken. He was about half a head taller, and bearded, but aside from the strange clothes, looked completely normal. “Sidheóg,” he said again. "That is their true name. Your kind refer to them as ‘The Good People’. Or sometimes 'Faeries', but I find that word to be a bit demeaning, or at least misleading. Don't you, Kenneth?" Ken took a step back, thinking, So much for coincidence. "Who are you?" he said. "Well, as a matter of strict fact, I am your doom. But you can call me 'Fin'. I've always believed a man should be able to refer to his slayer by first name; after all, when a man's facing death, there's no real need to defer to protocol." "That's big of you," said Ken, stalling. " 'Fin.' Isn't that Irish? Are you some kind of royalty?" "It is a Gaelic name, yes, although I am far older than that culture. In fact, the land called Ireland, indeed, the entire Earth, used to be the domain of my people. That is, until your ancestors banished us. Which happens to be why I must kill you. You see, we want it all back. It's rather a long story, which I can more easily tell you after you're dead." "Hey, er, I had nothing to do with my ancestors!" said Ken, backing toward the door.

"Oh, you have far more to do with them than you realize, Kenneth. Did your forebears really think they'd be safe from us by moving to this 'America'? By the way, in answer to your other question: Yes, I am a king, of sorts. Sorry." "Er… think nothing of it.” Ken was considering various ways of convincing this man to let him live, from bribery to begging. His thoughts were interrupted, however, by an uncomfortable sound from one of the stalls to his right, followed by a flush. Ken thought for a fleeting moment that he had been saved, that in all fairness Fin couldn't kill him and an innocent bystander. Unfortunately, what emerged from the stall wasn't an innocent bystander. It was another man, or at least a humanoid. This one was enormous, a full head taller than Ken. Its head, in fact, was its most interesting visible feature: It had no skin. Raw, red flesh and muscle shimmered on its face and forehead, criss-crossed at times by blue pulsating veins. The thin layer of tissue on top of its head twitched, and the muscles on its brow moved together, and Ken realized it was squinting at him, sizing him up. "Meet my associate. Its name is Rawhead," said Fin. "Seeing as how it hasn't eaten anyone in a long time, I think I may let it have the honors tonight." "Ch…charmed," stammered Ken. Rawhead just leered, and shambled forward, fixing its mental crosshairs somewhere on Ken's throat. Ken tried to move and found he was rooted to the spot – literally. Gray, twisted roots stretched out from between buckled tiles on the floor and now gripped his ankles tightly. Suddenly, for the second time in as many days, Ken found himself regretting that he would never see Fiona again. A loud report from next to him suddenly deafened Ken's right ear. At the same time, a gap opened up just above Rawhead's left eye, as a .357 caliber bullet entered its skull and exploded out the back, screwing up Rawhead’s mental crosshairs in a big way, and splattering the tile wall behind it with gore. The impact forced the eye out of its socket, and as it fell towards the ground, seemingly in slow motion, there was another report, and Fin's left arm jerked back. Ken saw Fin's sleeve burst open where the bullet entered, and saw the mirror behind Fin shatter where it exited. The eye finally reached the floor and bounced once. Two strong arms grabbed Ken, one of them still clutching a, smoking .357 pistol, and he felt himself being dragged away. He looked down and saw that the roots were retreating back into the floor. Before Wick pulled him around the partition, Ken got one last look at the room: Where Fin and Rawhead had been were now only two clouds of smoke. Then Ken was out the door, and Freddy was helping Wick take him to the center of the store. Inside the bathroom, after the door thumped shut, an arm reached out from one of the clouds of smoke, grabbed the eye, and disappeared back into the haze. Ken, recovering from the shock somewhat, began to walk on his own again. Fiona ran up to him and hugged him extremely tightly. "Well," Ken said, "that was an Interesting restroom experience. Thank you, Detective; does this mean you're on our side?" "The enemy of my enemy is my friend," Wick said, his alert eyes scanning the dark store. “Or some such cliché. If these things want you dead, you can't be that bad a guy.” "Just why did you want to see me, anyway?" he said. "We were tailing you. Last night the department got a massive number of disturbance calls from your neighborhood. All of your neighbors called, and some even reported seeing strange things in your backyard. Yours was the only residence we didn't receive a call from, so we figured you were up to something. Well, Bonner was skeptical; he just thought there'd been a wild party and that you have paranoid neighbors. Little did we realize you're a Satan worshipper with odd friends." “These aren't demons,” said Freddy, "they're Faeries." "Who is this guy?" said Wick. "This is my friend Freddy," said Ken. "As in Kruger?" "Uh, I hate to break up this little rap session," said Fiona, "but it appears as though we're surrounded."

Everybody looked around; as Fiona had observed, the assorted denizens of the ethereal Emerald Isle had closed in and seemed to be gathering themselves for a charge. And not the monetary kind, either. "This is it," said Wick. "We're closer to the back now. I suggest we try to force our way through the back exit. I have four bullets left, and for all they know, I have plenty more." "The bullets can not permanently harm them, of course," said Freddy. "These creatures are essentially immortal. If you destroy their corporeal forms in our dimension, they’ll simply reconstitute themselves back in their own dimension –where they may have a chance to find a way back here. Rinse and repeat." "What about all the people upstairs?" said Fiona. "We can't just abandon them." “I don't know if you've noticed, but these things don't seem to be too interested in the other people,” said Wick. "And the people themselves no longer seem to be all that concerned about it either," said Freddy. "Faeries are known to be able to induce a kind of hypnosis, called fey, in people; that's where the name 'Faerie' comes from. Just don't ask me why we haven't been affected." "All right, then," said Wick. "We'll take off between these two counters, then break towards the left wall, near the elevators. Then we'll have to force our way through the back doors. Grab something to use as a weapon…it may get ugly. "This is ugly," said Ken. "Let's do it."

CHAPTER EIGHT FOUR LETTERS Wick went first, brandishing his pistol, followed by Freddy, carrying a fire extinguisher. Fiona came next, holding a sturdy mannequin arm, and Ken brought up the rear, using the steel support bar from the mannequin as a staff. As soon as the humans started running, the creatures screamed, howled or willomied their war cries, and attacked. Anything that had been left loose on counters or tables was now thrown at the humans by invisible marauders. The brownies and goblins behind them scrambled to pursue, but they seemed to have trouble getting traction on the slippery floor, and kept stopping at the sale racks, and quickly lost ground. The creatures ahead of the humans, however, advanced, and were upon them in seconds. One of the vicious flying toads swooped down on Freddy, aiming to sink its razor-sharp teeth into his throat. Freddy swung the fire extinguisher and knocked the toad back with a metallic clang. The toad recovered and banked around quickly for another attack. This time, Freddy opened-fire at it point-blank with the extinguisher; the creature dropped to the ground, frozen solid, and immediately started turning into vapor. Wick broke toward the left wall and suddenly found his path blocked by a black dog the size of a Bengal tiger. Wick skidded to a stop; Ken rushed forward to assist, and was tripped by a goblin wielding a broom. The goblin, a wiry, elfin-looking creature with leathery gray skin, pointed ears and ridiculously large fangs, swung down on Ken from above. Ken rolled, and the broom handle smacked loudly on the floor, inches from his head. He grabbed the handle and kicked the goblin in the chest, and the creature lost its grip and fell over backwards. Fiona, meanwhile, suddenly found her path blocked by a brownie, one of the hairy, naked men. The brownie reached for her and caught her by the left thigh in a very strong grip. Fiona dropped slightly and pivoted on her leg, bringing her right foot up into the brownie's groin. The brownie, with a surprised and pained took on its face, let go, and Fiona swung around with the dummy arm and smashed him with an uppercut to the jaw. The brownie flew back several feet, taking out a few clothing racks; it made no further provocative movements. Fiona turned around, panting, and ran over to the huge dog, holding the mannequin arm out suggestively. "Here, boy! Look! Nice human arm!" The dog's ears perked up. Fiona wound up and hurled the arm towards the front of the store. "Go get it, boy! Go on!" The dog ran ecstatically towards the front, from whence loud crashing noises and growling were subsequently heard. Fiona reached down to help Wick off the floor. Wick looked at her and shook his head. Then he took her arm and hoisted himself up. Ken and Freddy joined-up once more, and they continued their flight to the rear. As they passed by the elevator landing, Freddy noticed an emergency fire hose case, and skidded to a stop. "What is it?" said Ken. "An almost foolproof ward," said Freddy. “Faeries don't like to cross running water.” Ken nodded. "The other Faeries, maybe; but if that Pooka is around, he'll make a beeline for it – and us." Freddy shrugged. "Good point." "There's the door!" shouted Wick. Then he, too, came to a stop. "Aww, shit." The Fachán, that horrific one-legged creature, and several goblins stood between them and the double doors. "For Christ's sake!" said Fiona. "Now what? Where the hell's your partner, Wick?!" As if in answer to her query, a rebel yell sounded from outside. Then the double-doors burst open, and Fiona and the others jumped out of the way an instant before a shotgun blast blew two of the goblins into the next dimension.

The Fachán hopped away desperately, but only made it two steps before another blast hit it dead-on. Limb flew everywhere. Bonner ran through the doorway and suddenly hit the deck, as a swooping devil-toad dove for his head. Wick quickly took aim and fired before it could gain altitude, and hit it, sending what was left of it across the building. Bonner somersaulted to his feet and was immediately clotheslined by a goblin wielding a hat rack. The goblin raised the heavy rack over Bonner's prone figure. Wick fired, and the bullet hit the rack, knocking it out of the goblin's hands. The goblin growled, and leaped up into the air, aiming to land fang-first on Bonner's throat. Its expression changed, however, as Bonner, still on his back, instantly cocked the shotgun and raised the barrel. The blast hit the goblin square in the chest, and the impact sent it back across the building in a towering arc that nearly touched the twenty foot high ceiling. Bonner leaped to his feet, looking around eagerly for more targets. The remaining creatures fled toward the front of the store, and Bonner sent a few more perfunctory blasts after them before they disappeared. "Yeah!" shouted Bonner. "YEAH! That's it! You'd better run! Ha-ha! You monsters wanna try an' fuck with this town again? I got four letters standing in your way: L A-P-D!!" Ken picked himself up off the floor, where, along with Fiona and Freddy, he had thrown himself. Wick shook his head and approached his partner. Bonner turned, grinning; the adrenaline was practically squirting out of his ears. "Hoo-wee, Partner! I am PUMPED! Didja see that?! He just sailed out there, I mean, he just, he just sailed… out…" Bonner stopped, noticing Wick's glare. "What?" "Thanks for the assist, Partner," said Wick. "But what the hell took you so long?" Bonner seemed taken aback. "Whattaya mean? I went out to the garage as fast as I could; radioed for backup; got the shotgun out, left the girls in the car, and ran back. All told, I was gone maybe three minutes." "Bullshit! We've been jerking around in here for almost half an hour!" "Ben, I swear to you, I – look, what time does your watch say?" Wick checked his timepiece. "About 8:40." Bonner shook his head. "No, no. That's, let's see, about twenty-four minutes fast!" Freddy checked his combination watch and celestial azimuth tracker. "I've got8:40 as well. Clearly, time has passed differently for people inside the store than it has for people outside." “Yeah,” said Fiona, “it’s called ‘working retail’.” "No, that can't be!" said Bonner, ignoring Fiona’s joke. "I don't even wanna know how that happened." Wick sighed. "All right. Let's go. All of the creatures have disappeared. Those people upstairs are probably coming out of their daze. We'll have to tell the backup units that it was a robbery attempt…sleep gas, or something like that. It'll work – for now. As for the time thing, I'm not even gonna think about it now. Or, hopefully, ever."

CHAPTER NINE FAMILY HISTORY / WICK’S UNIVERSE Ken dragged himself through the front door of his house, feeling half-asleep. Bart ran inside excitedly; he, at least, had gotten plenty of sleep in the car and was in a great mood. What Ken had thought was Bart trying to contact him in the store had actually been a stray thought from that other, gigantic dog. Fiona towed herself along behind Ken, her arms clasped round his chest. Ken shut the door and yawned. "Where's Freddy?" he asked sleepily. Fiona answered his yawn with one of her own. "He's getting the equipment out of the car. Didn't want to just leave it sitting out there tonight." “I don't see that it makes any – ” "Ken! Fiona!" Freddy's yell interrupted Ken. "Get out here, quick!" Fiona looked worriedly at Ken; he shrugged, and they ran outside. Freddy was on the porch, looking at the dial of his magnetometer in disbelief. He pulled out the device with the rabbitears, examined its readings, and seemed to come to some sort of internal conclusion. "What is it?" said Ken. "You trying to get me in trouble with the neighbors again?" Freddy shook his head. "It's your door." Ken turned his head around and then looked back at Freddy. "Yes, it is." "Well, not really. I think I can say with confidence that your door is acting abnormally inasmuch as it's producing a magnetic field that could be picked up by Voyager 2." Ken blinked. "Really? Wow. My door?" Clearly he was getting way too tired to feign interest convincingly. "What could be doing it?" "I think you know what," said Freddy. A look of realization flashed across Fiona's face. "The claddagh! So it does have some sort of power." Ken shook his head. "I don't see how," he said. "From what I remember reading, it was designed in the 16th century. That may not be exactly current, but it's not ancient, either." "What does that have to do with it?" said Freddy. “Many Irish and Anglo documents put the 'official' demise of the Faeries at sometime in the 1500's. Most people back then believed in them as literal beings, and some still do to this day. Do you think the supernatural pays attention to a calendar? Of course, there's one way to find out what the truth is, what really happened to the Faeries, and possibly why they're back now." Fiona nodded, and gripped Ken's hand. “Talk to it, Ken.” So he did. It was like talking to an old friend. Unlike the other 'inanimate' objects with which Ken could communicate, the claddagh on the door was infused with a power that flowed from within itself, a special force that was beyond his…well, his ken. Fiona watched with fascination as Ken gently touched the brass object and shut his eyes in concentration. To him, animism seemed a burden, which he reluctantly bore for the sake of saving the world as he knew it, not to mention his own skin. Fiona, however, liked the idea of being able to communicate with things other than human beings; for she had grown weary of people's callousness and shortsighted greed, and figured that there must be more wisdom in a blade of grass than in all of the world's so-called leaders. And she had witnessed for herself that it doesn't get any better in the spirit world. After about five minutes, Ken's fingers slipped from the claddagh, and he swayed backwards into Fiona's and Freddy's arms. They lowered him to the ground, Fiona gently caressing his face until he regained total consciousness. "Well?" said Freddy, as politely as he could.

"Well," Ken repeated, “I'm most certainly impressed. The spirit in the claddagh told me some very interesting things.” “Such as…?” Freddy prompted. Ken sighed. “The first claddagh was forged by an unknown artisan for one Tomás O'Crandal, a chieftain in County Kilkenny, in 1529. Yes, he was a relative." “And Irish nobility,” said Freddy. Ken nodded. "O'Crandal was reputed to be an alchemist and practitioner of white magic. He had been commissioned by the Monarchy and the Church to help stem a great supernatural tide that had been plaguing the nation at that time, and do it quickly. Most of the lords and bishops of Ireland thought that the general populace were merely suffering from mass hysteria. But O'Crandal knew better. You see, there was another plague going on – the Black Plague – and the presence of thousands of corpses seemed to be bringing out certain Faeries in force. These were the Unseelie Court, and their leader was one named Finvarra." "The king of the dead," whispered Freddy. " ‘Fin’," said Fiona. "From the men's room at Braddock's!" Ken nodded again. "So, Tomás O'Crandal designed a ward to protect people from the Faeries: Two powerful arms, symbolizing strength and brotherhood; a crown for loyalty; and a heart – for love, the greatest power of all. But he also gave it something else: A powerful spell that would be regenerated for every claddagh that was produced according to his specific design. "The people who had commissioned O'Crandal didn't believe in his white magic. So he told them that the claddagh was only a symbol, something for the people to focus on, something that would give them peace of mind. But it was actually an extremely powerful ward, something that could stop the Unseelie Court in their tracks. Which it did. Before long, the claddagh was appearing on the front doors of houses all across the land, bringing the Faeries' reign of terror and mischief to an end. "Unfortunately for O'Crandal, the price of creating such a powerful ward was physical weakness, and eventually death; he'd poured every last bit of his knowledge and power and lifeforce into the thing. It turned out he was one of the last victims of the Unseelie Court, and he died before he could use his magic to achieve his lifelong goal, which was to force the British Monarchy to relinquish its death-grip on Ireland. By saving Ireland from one enemy, he delivered it into the hands of another. After O’Crandal’s death, his widow and children moved to County Meath, taking on the name Crandall. Within a generation, the inheritance had run out, and the family resorted to raising horses for a living." "Wow," said Freddy. "Yeah," agreed Fiona. "So even now, the symbol of the claddagh contains some sort of supernatural power?" said Freddy. "Yes," said Ken. "It's probably what's keeping us from falling under the Faerie spell. But Finvarra knows it's a good time to return, because claddaghs are just not prevalent anymore, especially in America." "Which reminds me," said Fiona. “When did your family come to America? And where do you fit into all of this?” "That, to me, is the most interesting part," said Ken. "It seems that the Faeries made periodic raids on my family's homes over the ensuing years. Not knowing why they were singled out by the spirits, they kept moving around the countryside; it would then take the Faeries a while to find them, but they eventually would, and the havoc would start all over again. So finally, over 300 years after the start of the whole mess, my great-grandfather – an enterprising man named John Crandall – decided it would be safest to take his wife to Massachusetts, where they could raise a family in peace. Which they did. And then my parents moved to California when I was a year old, not suspecting that the wild stories that my mother’s grandfather had told were actually true. Anyway, it took the Unseelie Court over a hundred years to pick up the trail again.” "And why is Finvarra out to get you?" said Fiona. "Because, the claddagh's effectiveness as a ward will be stopped forever with the death of the last of the O'Crandal line. Which is me, unless my wild oats have produced someone I have not yet met."

“In any other situation I would have been offended by that remark," said Fiona, smirking. “I know, honey. Thank you for your restraint.” "So, with your death," said Freddy, “the Unseelie Court will be free to walk the Earth unhindered once more.” "Yep, " Ken said simply. Wick pulled up a few minutes later. He examined for a moment the scene of the three people sitting on the ground in Ken’s courtyard-like front patio, made a scarcely discernable shrug, and sat down to join them. All was quiet for a minute. The night air was pleasant, and the Santa Anas were finally beginning to die down, Wick noticed. Goodbye blue skies, and hopefully, to supernatural phenomena from another dimension. Finally, he spoke softly. "They're starting to forget. The people back at the store…their memories of the whole incident are hazy. The backup team bought our robbery story hook, line and sinker. And why shouldn't they? Even Bonner is starting to have his doubts that it wasn't just human terrorists dressed up in costumes." Wick swallowed. "God damn it, he shot them and they just disappeared! How the hell could he just, just stand there and tell 'em it was only…" He fumbled for words, and gave up in frustration. Freddy sighed, and adjusted his spectacles. "If it helps any, Detective, this is in keeping with what we know about the Faeries. Short-term memory loss is a common side-effect of Faerie encounters. And strangely enough, it's also the same M.O. as those supposed 'alien' abductors; one of these days I'm gonna research that whole connection more thoroughly, but my guess is that ‘aliens’ are simply modern people’s interpretation of Faerie encounters. Hell, the stereotypical alien visitor even looks like the stereotypical Faerie. Anyway, my point is that maybe Detective Bonner is better off thinking it was all just ordinary robbers. Certainly those witnesses are." "Okay," said Wick. "So why the hell can't I forget? Huh? Or you? Or her, or him?" He indicated Fiona and Ken. "Lord knows, I'd like to forget. Like to go on thinking the Universe is a pretty consistent place." He paused, trying to regain his composure. "Anyway, I just came to say that the Department has forgotten about you, Mr. Crandall. Nothing supernatural about that – just the fact that a much more interesting case has developed over at Braddock's. Therefore, you are now going to get rid of these things specifically as a favor to me. Restore my Universe, Mr. Crandall, and I won’t have to mess yours up." "I understand,"said Ken. “I will take care of this. You have my word.” "Thank you," said Wick. "By the way," added Ken, "you really want to know why our memory hasn't been affected?" Wick nodded. "Well," Ken said, "my doorknocker is protecting us." "There goes the Universe," said Wick. "Okay, then!" said Freddy. "We're gonna do it. Let's show 'em what we've got. Fiona, would you be so kind as to retrieve Katherine Briggs’ Encyclopedia of Faeries from the trunk of my car?" He tossed her the keys. "Who the hell do I look like?" Fiona said. "Igor?" She stood up. "Don't you dare answer that, smartass! I'll get the book." She flashed a grin and walked out of the small patio courtyard towards the driveway. "What are you thinking?" said Wick. "Well, before we can do anything, we've got to find out as much as possible about our friend Fin." Freddy had backed his BMW into the driveway to unload the equipment, and there it still stood; Fiona reached it and clicked the button on the key fob to open the trunk, shivering automatically against the cold. At the instant her mind asked her, What cold?, a hideous force enveloped her, smothering away consciousness. She hadn't even the time to scream.

CHAPTER TEN FINVARRA / FLAMING HOT PURSUIT

Ken flinched. Freddy turned to him questioningly, while Bart's ears pricked up. "I just felt – something," Ken said, beginning to breathe heavily. His head snapped up. "Freddy! That's an awfully cold wind for this kind of weather, isn't it?" After a moment's hesitation, all three men and the dog jumped up at once and ran to the driveway. And then they all skidded to a stop. The trunk lid of Freddy's BMW was open, and bright blue light was radiating from within the compartment. Ill-defined shapes were jumping or flying out and scattering quickly off into the neighborhood. Then the lid slammed shut, extinguishing the light and revealing a figure standing next to the car. "Finvarra!" Ken yelled. "What have you done with her?" Finvarra pointed to the closed trunk. "She's in there. Or at least, she was." "Bring her back! You can take me instead!" "Well, that was actually my original plan, as you’ll recall. Now, I've also gained a special bonus: The woman has a strong spirit." "Shit," Freddy whispered to Wick. "No wonder we could never locate the Breach…it was in the trunk. Airtight. That's how they followed us to the store; it’s a mobile Breach. Very ingenious." "Why isn't he going after us?" whispered Wick. "We must be too close to the claddagh," said Freddy. "You were serious about the damn doorknocker?!" Ken continued stalling. "You must have used an awful lot of your power to open the Breach again. And to send Fiona through. I doubt if you could open it again right now if you wanted to. Or stop all three of us from coming after you." "You're almost correct," said Finvarra. "I can not stop the three of you; however, your machines are not protected!" With that, Finvarra raised his arm, palm out, towards Ken's Mustang, parked on the street. His hand glowed and for an instant emitted a blue bolt of electricity that lit up the yard. The bolt struck the car, and crackling noises could be heard as the Mustang’s electrical system shorted out. Another bolt, and Fiona's Camaro, parked behind Ken's car, and Wick's Ford across the street suffered similar fates. Ken winced as the vehicles' anguished cries registered in his mind. "There," said Finvarra. "And since you correctly guessed that I am unable to open the Breach at this time, it looks like I will have to let this machine do the work of taking me far away to a suitable place where I can regroup." He indicated the BMW. "And I believe one of these can outrun even the fastest mortal, isn’t that correct?" He got into the car and the engine came to life. "Let's find out." The motor revved. The three men and lone canine backed up nervously. Suddenly, an approaching siren could be heard in the distance. Finvarra closed the door and lowered the window – without actually touching anything. "Damn. I'm afraid you're right, Kenneth: I don't have the power to take on a force of mortals at the moment. I’ll just have to return for you later. Goodbye." The wheels screeched loudly, and the car practically jumped into the street and sped off down the block. Wick stamped around in frustration. "Aw, shit! That bastard'll have too big of a head start! We'll never catch him. Looks like we missed our chance, Ken." Ken looked across the street and shook his head. "I didn't." Wick and Freddy followed Ken's gaze. Standing in the yard of the house across the street was the biggest horse either had ever seen. It was dirty-white in color, with huge, dark eyes and hooves, and at the moment it appeared to be enjoying the Kentucky bluegrass lawn on which it was feasting. Ken started to walk across the street. "Ken, no!" shouted Freddy. "First of all, Finvarra wants you to follow him. The further you get from the claddagh, the more power he'll have against you. Second of all, if you come upon water while on that horse, it'll kill you!" Ken stopped, turned around, and walked back towards his yard. Freddy sighed in relief. Ken, however, walked over to Wick. "I need to borrow your gun." Wick shook his head. "Against regulations. No way am I gonna let you ride off with an LAPD firearm and an itchy trigger-finger." "First of all," said Ken, "that chrome .357 is not Department issue, is it? It's your personal

fancy-ass firearm, and I need to borrow it. Second of all…he's got my Fiona." Wick clenched his teeth; this went against every fibreof his being… "Do you want me to restore your Universe, or not?" Ken said. …Except that one. Wick closed his eyes, reached into his coat and pulled out his revolver. "It's loaded," he said, handing it to Ken. Safety’s right there. ‘Red’means safety’s off. If anyone finds you with this, I will testify that you stole it from me. I’m serious.” “Thanks,” said Ken, and ran across the road. Ken hoped that his two horseback riding lessons at age 13 would serve him well now – or at least that the Pookawould be smart enough to realize that its rider was a clueless greenhorn. He grabbed the Pooka’s thick mane and hoisted himself onto the beast. The horse nickered, ready for action. "Follow that car," said Ken. The horse took off with such incredible speed that Ken nearly lost his grip; before he knew it, his house was disappearing behind him, Freddy's warning shouts inaudible under the terrific racket of the Pooka's hooves on the pavement. The BMW had turned right at the end of the block, which would take it deeper into the neighborhood before it got to the business district. Finvarra had actually been planning to return to the Masonic temple, where he could summon his minions and escape through the emergency Breach he'd left there; but in his weakened state he miscalculated and headed West instead of North. Ken didn't know this, and was in fact wondering why Finvarra was headed deeper into the Valley. Meanwhile, a few seconds after Ken had rocketed around the corner on the Pooka, a squad car pulled up in front of his house. Wick ran over to it and flashed his badge, then forced the two officers responding to a disturbance call out of the vehicle and climbed in. “You two stay here and wait for backup. He’s with me.” Freddy ran up and got in the passenger side. As they sped off, Wick said, "Did you see which way they went?" "No," said Freddy, "just follow the flaming hoofprints." Ken spurred the Pooka and incredibly, effortlessly, the horse accelerated. Now it could sense Finvarra's direction and began taking shortcuts. As Ken watched in horror, the Pooka changed course and headed straight for a trim, single-story house. Ken closed his eyes, waiting for the crash through the front wall, but instead found his stomach receding behind him as the horse leaped into the air. Everything seemed to slow down as they sailed towards the slanted tile roof; the sudden absence of hoofprint clatter only made the situation more surreal. Ken could see the lights of Ventura Boulevard from that height, as well as the overpasses of the 101 freeway to the North – and, several blocks away, the taillights of the black BMW, as it turned another corner. The silence was shattered as the Pooka landed on the roof, its forelegs pulling it up the slope, followed a moment later by its hind legs smashing into the terracotta in front of the forelegs; then it pushed off with the hind legs, propelling itself and Ken once more into the air. Flaming roof tiles rained down on the street for several seconds as the occupants inside the house dove under their beds, fearing that the Big One had finally hit, which, in a way, it had. The Pooka, meanwhile, landed in a narrow walkway between two houses in the next block, and burst through a wooden gate back onto the street. Miraculously, none of the houses they passed around, over, or through had a swimming pool, which would have resulted in one wild Pooka mood-swing. Wick, pursuing in the black-and-white cruiser, was forced to take the long way around for several blocks, as he looked in amazement at the trail of burning hoofprints. Even Freddy was impressed. Unfortunately, before he could express this to Wick, a fist slammed through the passenger window and grabbed Freddy by the throat. Wick instinctively turned the car away from the disturbance, and it spun out of control. The powerful arm, meanwhile, lifted Freddy off the seat and slammed his read repeatedly against the roof headliner. The Ford finally came to a halt, and Freddy managed to say, “Rawhead,” before another thump knocked him unconscious. Rawhead jumped from the car’s roof onto the hood, and leered through the window at

Wick. "Not you again!" said Wick, reaching instinctively for the revolver he'd loaned to Ken – an idea which, in retrospect, was beginning to seem more and more stupid. Rawhead nodded, and made a fist to smash through the windshield. Suddenly, the creature froze as its left eye popped out of the now-enlarged socket and rolled down the windshield into the wiper slot. Rawhead muttered a nasty-sounding curse in its ancient language. Wick floored the accelerator, and Rawhead lost his balance and fell back onto the car’s roof. Wick spun the wheel back and forth, but Rawhead was hanging on to the strobe light bar for dear afterlife, and did not budge. Wick knew that the two officers he’d ejected had kept their sidearms with them, and the squad car's shotgun was locked into its vertical rack, pointing uselessly at the sky. Or was it useless? Wick reached over with his right hand, strained, and cocked the gun. Then he leaned as far away as he could, flicked off the safety, and pulled the trigger with his right index finger. The concussion of the discharge cracked the windshield, and the blast tore through the roof, disintegrating the lightbar and blowing Rawhead clean off the car; it was airborne for three seconds before it crashed to the pavement behind them. The blast brought Freddy back to consciousness with a start, and he instinctively tried to jump out the door without actually opening it. "What the fuck was that?!!" "WHAT?" said Wick, whose ears were ringing louder than Saint Paul's at Easter. He put the car in reverse and screeched backwards until they felt the car bounce twice, as an obstruction passed under the rear wheels, then the front. Freddy's head hit what was left of the roof. "OW! Hey, what the hell's – oh." He saw what they had just run over, now lying on the road ahead of them. "Thanks, Wick." Many, many sirens now sounded from somewhere behind them. Wick sighed, and punched the car forward again. "Ow! Hey – ouch!" The BMW was in sight now. Finvarra was having to turn too many corners, while Ken and the Pooka just sort of jumped over them. They were now quickly approaching a dead-end Tintersection with a traffic light; beyond the light was an impassible wall; to the left was Ventura Boulevard, and to the right, about a mile away, was the 101 freeway. The traffic light was red, but the road was utterly deserted. Finvarra turned left without stopping, and accelerated away from his pursuer. Ken realized that Finvarra had a chance of losing them on the straightaway of Ventura Boulevard, and if he did, then that would be the end of it. Ken spurred the Pooka on, and saw that the car was bearing down on the bridge that lay just a block from the Ventura intersection. Suddenly, the moment its wheels touched the bridge, the BMWs brakeiights lit up, and it screeched to a halt before reaching the halfway point of the bridge. Then the wheels turned, and Finvarra quickly began to bring the car about, back towards Ken. For a moment, Ken was confused by the action, but then he remembered something Freddy had said earlier, and it all made sense. Ken pulled hard on the Pooka's thick mane, and the great horse locked its legs. Four giant hooves threw off brilliant sparks in all directions as it skidded to a stop. Ken dismounted; the car was picking up speed, bearing down on him. He pulled the pistol out of his jacket pocket, flicked off the safety, and dropped into firing stance. He aimed the pistol and fired three times. The first two bullets struck the BMWs grille; the third shot, however, scored a direct hit on the car's left front Pirelli; the tire exploded and the car skidded off the bridge to Ken's right, jumped the guard rail, and fell twenty feet into the center channel of the L.A. River. The Pooka heard the splash, and its eyes began to glow red. Ignoring Ken now, it trotted to the edge of the bridge and started down a dusty access road, also ignoring the chain-link gate it had just broken through. Ken followed at a run. The car was wedged nose-first into the narrow center channel – a ten-foot-wide swale that ran down the middle of the vast concrete canyon, and the only portion of the river that was carrying water at the moment. It was only a few feet deep, but was flowing very fast, the water making a

loud roar as it sluiced around the obstruction. Occasionally, a piece of debris would strike the car and add to the din. Finvarra struggled out of the passenger window. The crash couldn't have killed him, of course, but the car's airbag had certainly saved him some temporary cosmetic problems. He pulled himself onto the dry concrete bed of the main channel, on Ken's side. He looked up as Ken reached the bottom of the access road. "Well, Kenneth," he said, "you've certainly made my job easier by following me. Now I won't have to go out and find you, I can just kill you right here. You realize, of course, that you can not hurt me with that." He indicated the pistol. Ken looked at the gun and shrugged, still out of breath and unable to say anything. “Good,” said Finvarra. "And now, I believe it is about that time.” He took one determined step towards Ken…and that was as far as he got. Suddenly, Finvarra's expression changed to one of utter surprise. Ken's legs somehow figured it out before his mind did, and they removed themselves from under him, forcing the rest of his body to the ground. With a fearsome scream, the Pooka flew over Ken and struck Finvarra, knocking him into the water and landing on top of him with a tremendous splash. Ken could make out Fin's voice, in between more splashes, commanding the Pooka to stop. But the horse was in its other element now, and it single-mindedly, and a bit hungrily, set about its task. Shrieks, and then some very painful-sounding rending noises followed. Something Freddy had said earlier had occurred to Ken back on the bridge: Faeries can't cross running water…with one exception. The same force that had prevented Finvarra's escape also led to his downfall. Then the BMW's trunk lid popped open, and suddenly the Pooka and its prey, and Rawhead's body, and all of the other Daoine Sidhe who had escaped into the greater Los Angeles area, now turned into blue swirls of energy and were sucked into the Breach in the car's trunk. A reverse vortex was created, a blue tornado of energy that howled and spun into an opening only a few feet wide. Ken saw this and knew what he had to do; and as he jumped into the Breach, he realized that this time, at least, he could spend eternity with Fiona.

CHAPTER ELEVEN PLANE FOLK In the 1/900th of a second it took to cross over to the Faeries’ plane, Ken traversed an infinite distance. While it is true that some planes resemble our own familiar Earth in certain ways, they are by no means nearby in space; in fact, in order to get to another plane, it is necessary to travel out of space, as it were. The theoretical implications of being able to traverse infinite distances without traveling through time or space are staggering; suffice it to say that, while the journey is brief, crossing over into another dimension is a process more complicated than even the restrictions on most airline ticket purchases. Ken suddenly found himself sitting on the stump of a tree in the middle of a beautiful glade. Looking around, he realized that this was totally unlike the depressing, wind-swept hill and gray skies that had passed for a landscape on his previous visit. The breeze was light and pleasant here, and although he could see that the sky was still in dim twilight, the glade itself was filled with light that emanated from no identifiable source. Ken stood up. The forest wasn't completely silent; voices and the general sounds of activity were coming from a clearing ahead in the distance. As he walked toward it, Ken could see that the area was even brighter than the surrounding forest, and warmth flowed from it like a radiator. Anxious to do something, whether to find Fiona or merely become so much Alpo to a huge black dog, Ken cleared the last few trees and entered the clearing, and although he had prepared himself for the unexpected, it happened that Ken had stumbled into precisely the last thing in the Universe he expected to behold. Namely – “A party?!” "Sure it is a party," said John Crandall. "An' what's it look like?" It was indeed an extra-dimensional party. A few moments after Ken had burst into the clearing, a jaw-droppingly beautiful (albeit semi-transparent) woman had glided up to him with a tray and offered him a glass of ambrosia. Logic told him to refuse anything offered to him by the Faeries, because it could be an enchantment device; but experience told logic to get stuffed, because the one thing he needed at that moment was a good, stiff drink. He drained the glass. His great-grandfather approached him. Ken recognized him from old family photographs, and from images he saw while in communion with the claddagh. “We've been expectin' you, Ken,” said John Crandall. "You've done a man's job, son – savin' the world an' all – an' we're grateful." He stroked his beard and waited for Ken's reply. A million questions raced through Ken's mind at that moment, most of them concerning Fiona, but the sheer novelty of speaking to his deceased great-grandfather won over. "Are…are you one of them?" he finally asked. John looked over his shoulder, then back at Ken. “What, them? The Daoine Sidhe?” He laughed heartily. "Heavens, no – I'm just a plain ol’ ghost. I'm just visitin’. These folk invited me over when they realized you'd be comin' back here one way or another…either with Finvarra or lookin' for your lady. Well, since the Pooka came roarin' by a little while ago with Fin's body in its mouth, we figured it was the latter. She's safe, Ken. You have my word on that." "They let you come here just to talk to me?" Ken had learned not to expect generosity from the Faeries. "Don't forget, these are the Seelie Court: The good Good People," said John. "None of 'em were behind Fin's scheme. But only Finvarra and some o’ his minions can move through your world more'n twice a year, so that's why we couldn't help. When we saw that you'd nipped Fin's plan on your own, we were ecstatic, an' so we threw together this loverly party." John smiled as the angelic hostess returned with more ambrosia. He took another glass from the tray and held it up

admiringly. "Imported from Valhalla…it's the good stuff." The hostess lingered as John took a sip and said, "So, Kenneth, how's my beautiful granddaughter-in-law?" Ken smiled. "Mom's fine. She lives in a place called San Diego now. It's a nice town on the ocean." John nodded. "Crandalls and their spouses never like to get too far from the sea." Ken asked suddenly, "John? How…how's my father?" John smiled back at Ken. "Just fine, me boy. An' you can tell your mum that. He's quite surprised by all this; never suspected our family's unusual past." Ken nodded, musing. Then he seemed to notice the hostess' continued presence for the first time. John cleared his throat. "Bloody hell, where are me manners? Kenneth Crandall, may I introduce the lady Oona, wife of Finvarra." Oona, a petite woman with short, raven-black hair, full red lips and the aforementioned semi-transparent body, smiled a devastating smile. Ken bowed, not only out of respect, but also to hide his panicked expression. Several thoughts occurred to him, such as, This is an honest-to-goodness Faerie you're meeting, and, God, she's incredible, what's she doing married to a psycho like that? and, Since you've just killed her husband, there's actually no need to worry about that last thought. What he actually said when he straightened was, “Er…” Oona chuckled. "There's no cause for alarm, Mortal. I know what you are thinking. You have not killed my husband, you've just taught him the lesson he needs to be taught every few centuries. He lets this King of the Dead business go to his head – which, incidentally, I've hidden in a tree stump. I do love him, but I think I shall just leave him alone with his thoughts for a time, whilst I go out and enjoy myself. He owes me that much at the very least." Ken felt flattered, and suddenly a bit warm. "You mean, you were on my side?" Oona nodded seriously. "Finvarra does not realize that we could not exist in your world today; it is a far different place than the one we left those many years ago. A simple King of the Dead could not even begin to comprehend what goes on there. He would be overcome. Myself, I am thankful for the claddagh. It doesn't protect you from us; it protects us from you." Oona took Ken's hand in a tingling grip. “Thank you, Kenneth Crandall. It seems you have saved two worlds.” She nodded goodbye and returned to her guests. John Crandall watched her retreating form. "It's just as well I don't spend much time here," he said conspiratorially. "They're sorta depressin'." Then he shook Ken's hand once more. "Well, Ken me boy, we've said what we had to say. I don't think you'll be bothered again by anyone from this world. A fine man you've turned out to be, too. Remember: We're all proud o' you." He relinquished his grip and backed away. "Wait!" said Ken. "Where is Fiona? I can't go without her!" "You'll find her in the Breach of the Worlds, me boy!" Ken looked at him questioningly, and John said, "Take a step back." Ken looked behind him. There on the grass was a circle of mushrooms – a Faerie ring. He looked back at his great-grandfather, who nodded. Ken nodded in return. Then he closed his eyes and stepped backwards into the ring.

CHAPTER TWELVE FIONA In the void between worlds, in the space outside of space, Ken opened his eyes and saw that he could see. Which is to say, he saw something when he expected to see nothing…not that the something he saw was much of anything. Ken slapped the side of his head; obviously, being in the Breach for more than 1/940th of a second could make a person feel extremely disoriented. But he had stopped himself from going through to the other side, because Fiona was in there – somewhere. "Whoa!" said Ken. He hadn't just had a sneaking suspicion that Fiona was near; he could feel her, he could sense her presence, and she was everywhere. But he still couldn't see her. The void was like an infinite room painted off-black. Ken knew it wasn't totally black, because he could still see his own body. Beneath his floating feet the void continued, unchanging, with no distinguishing features signaling a way out or an end. Ken got the impression he was in motion, as a slight wind was tossing his hair. There was no sound, however, save that of his hair brushing against his ears and his sleeves rustling. Basically, the place was pretty boring. However, right after Ken had thought that exact thought, he flew into the sun. At least, that's what he thought it must have been. The void was now filled with an intense white light, radiating out from a central point and illuminating the entire plane. It was like every angel, every star, every welding torch had been compressed together and told to blast out everything they had, because the light in here was way too poor for reading. And the source of this illustrious illumination, this galactic glowing, this surprising shining, just happened to be Ken's girlfriend. "FIONA!" Ken practically screamed with joy and wonderment. Her body was invisible underneath the painless glare, leaving only her beautiful face with her billowing, luminescent hair visible behind her head. She obviously wasn't sure what was going on, but she seemed to be enjoying the hell out of it. Their bodies were being drawn together naturally, and she beamed at Ken (in more ways than one). "Honey?" she said, a bit puzzled, "do you think this has some sort of special significance?" She looked around herself, indicating the light. Ken laughed, still flabbergasted. “I don't know. Do you have a history of luminescence?” Fiona laughed too, and the light pulsed brighter as she did. "Finvarra said you had a powerful spirit, but…" said Ken, searching for the appropriate words. "This merits looking into." "Let's go home, K.C. Right now. I don't like being the center of attention, let alone the Universe." "All right, Fiona. But I do think this is a special sign. And as we all know, Teresa is the center of the Universe, so you're in no danger there." Fiona smiled, and shook her head. "I knew you'd find me, Lover. Now, take me home before I burn a hole through to the other side. We'll figure out what it all means later." Ken nodded, and willed himself closer to her. At what felt like the right moment, he reached into the blinding light and found her hand. A little while later, they climbed out from the trunk of the BMW imbedded in the river channel (all told, their trip from the Faeries' world had taken a whopping 1/394th of a second, including layover). They crawled onto the dry concrete bank. Fiona looked at the ravaged automobile. "You chased Finvarra? And forced the car off the road? Whatever possessed you to do a crazy thing like that?"

“Apparently, I love you,” said Ken. He looked into her eyes. "I love you," he said again, earnestly. She stared back into him, and his heart fluttered. Then he shrugged, and said, "The usual reason." They kissed deeply. When they parted, Fiona said, "Just checking. I love you too, you know. I've always known it. And I'm living proof that a person's luck can change." She looked back at the car, wistfully. “We both are.” She sighed. "Poor Bimmer. Oh, well, it knows it did the right thing." Ken stood up. "And how would you know?" Fiona stood up as well. "I don't know, I just…do. You tell me, you're the animist." Ken shook his head, and smiled. “All I can hear now is you, thankfully. Remember? I've, um…traversed…twice. Freddy said that the first trip re-adjusted my frequency. Well, I think that the second trip just re-adjusted me back to normal. But you..." He left the thought hanging in the air for her to complete. Then Fiona started to smile, too. Just a small one at first, but it grew quickly as realization flashed across her face. By the time a battered squad car arrived on the bridge above them, she was laughing like a little girl. They embraced again, and forgot about the rest of the world for a while.

Fin.