Chapter 12: Taxicab Digressions
In which Strephon and Miss True discuss the events of the evening and Devon drops by for some cocoa.
"Did you folks have a good time?" Tobias said cheerily as he stowed Strephon's chair in the trunk of his cab. Strephon mumbled something vague in return. His attempts at small talk thwarted, Tobias shrugged and proceeded to drive them to Cassandra's flat.
“I’m not sure if I like your friend Melchior,” Cassandra said after a couple blocks.
Hm?” Strephon chastised himself. He had been so absorbed by his own brooding that he had neglected her. “Well, he’s not exactly my friend, so I shan’t be offended.” He paused a moment, then added, “Why do you say that, if I may ask?”
Cassandra made a face which suggested that she was either trying to put something vague into words or trying to identify an unpleasant smell. “He seemed nice enough when I interviewed him, but… well… Have you ever noticed that he’s always smiling? All the time!”
“Ah. One may smile, and smile, and be a villain?”
“That’s it exactly! There’s just something about him. Something not right. Byron was trying to tell me about it, but I can’t remember what. I knew about it when I came out of the game, I’m sure of it. But then everything got so confused and mixed up with space aliens and feather bunnies and I lost it.”
Melchior had clearly done something to Cassandra during those few minutes when he had taken her away from the cubicle. He had meddled with her memories, the unmitigated cad. True, Strephon had perhaps done something similar in her dream the night of the wolf attack, but that had been solely to ease her psychic trauma, not to erase the event from her mind. Strephon briefly considered trying to undo Melchior’s tampering, but no, that might do even greater harm. He wished he knew what that Sanders boy had told her.
“I hope Byron will be all right,” Cassandra said. “I’ve read… you’ll think this is silly, but I’ve read that if you’re having a dream in which you’re about to die, if you die in the dream, you die in real life too. It’s probably just an urban myth.”
Strephon considered the matter. “It sounds like a plausible theory,” he said gravely, “but I shouldn’t think there is any scientific research to corroborate it. Granted, I don’t know how one would go about testing the matter; but from what I could see, Mister Sanders seemed to be regaining consciousness when the ambulance drivers were taking him away. I’m sure there’s every possibility that he’ll make a recovery.” Another taradiddle. He was sure of no such thing; but he hoped it was the case.
"You know," Cassandra said after a couple more blocks, "This is twice in the past forty-eight hours you've saved my life."
"Three times, if you count the dream," Strephon replied absently.
"That's right!" A faraway look came into Cassandra's eyes. "I was at the paper and Potts was a wolf and he attacked me and you were there... and then we were walking on the beach and then we..." She turned red. "But that was a dream! How did you know about that?"
"Hm?" Strephon jolted out of his thoughts. "Didn't you tell me about it? Perhaps I was thinking of a dream I had."
"Oh." Cassandra paused. "You've been dreaming about me?"
This was not the direction Strephon wanted this conversation to go. He suddenly flashed an insincere smile and said, "Tonight, Miss True, you are a dream." A calculated risk. A stammering denial would only intrigue her; she'd be more likely to dismiss shallow flattery.
She gave a sarcastic snort. "Right," she said.
Strephon turned and looked out the window. He should never have taken her to the party. She could have died, all because he thought she would be useful. In that he was no better than Melchior or any of his lot -- or than the Queen for that matter. Not that he particularly cared for Cassandra. He couldn't. She was mortal and he a Fae, or half a fae at least. No, it wasn't fair to put her in any more danger. He would drop her off at her flat and let her return to her own life. He probably would never see her again.
Why did that thought seem to stick in his chest?
The cab pulled up in front of the block of flats where Cassandra lived. As she climbed out of the cab she paused. "Say, Strephon... would you like to come up to my place for a bit?"
Strephon gaped like a stunned codfish. "Uh..."
"Well, since you had me over the other night, it's only fair, right?"
He almost said yes. That would certainly bollocks up his plans. It took him a moment of stammering to engage his tongue and say, "I... would dearly love to, Cassandra, but don't you have a story to write?"
Cassandra winced. “Oh, God. The interview. I was assigned to do a puff piece, a ‘Profile Of Local Businessman.’ How the hell am I going to work Byron and the game into it? I can’t even remember everything that happened!”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Strephon gave her a reproving glance. "Cassandra... you do want to escape Page Three, don't you?"
Cassandra sighed. "You're right." Then she added hopefully, "Some other time then?"
No promises, Strephon told himself. "We'll see."
The cab drove away from her flat and Strephon settled back into the seat.
"You should have taken her up on it," Tobias said.
"Just take me home."
* * * * *
Strephon did not expect to find Devon sitting in his parlor when he came home, but he was not particularly surprised. Devon wore the same black trenchcoat and dark glasses he had on his previous visit. He lounged on Strephon's sofa with his feet on a table Strephon bought during Queen Victoria's Silver Jubilee.
"You certainly took long enough," Devon groused.
"Had I known you were waiting I should have taken longer. Would you kindly remove your feet from that table? It's rather expensive."
Devon shifted his feet. "Don't you have a television in this house?"
"There's a new technology that's just as good. You might have heard of it. They're called books. Why are you here?"
"I came for a status report. Have you learned anything useful, or have you been too busy frolicking with your mortal bagatelle?"
Strephon furiously wheeled his chair from the parlor to the kitchen. "Primus, she is not my anything; secundus, I am not in the habit of frolicking; and tertius... it is none of your damned business!"
Devon followed him into the kitchen. "I struck a nerve, did I?"
Strephon ignored Devon and set about making himself some hot cocoa. As he set the pan of milk upon his stove and stirred, Devon continued, "So what have you learned?"
"Lord Melchior has devised a way to mass-produce Faerie enchantments and means to market them as computer games. He means to ensnare large numbers of mortals in these games and harness their dreams to feed his own power."
"That's impossible."
"I've seen it myself. Illusions that trick not the eye, but are fed directly into the subject's mind. Visions more realistic than the waking world that Melchior can manipulate as easily as a dream."
"And he has shown you all this?"
"Lord Melchior wishes to recruit me. He does not trust me, but he would like to use me; so he is keeping me near for the present." Strephon took the pan off the heat and poured the steaming milk into a cup. "He has already forged alliances with Lady Kurayami, one of the more powerful vampires in the city, at least one of the werewolf packs, and Mister Simon Knox, publisher of The Morning Star. I haven't decided what he is; possibly a sorcerer, but a powerful one."
"We are aware of his alliances," Devon said grimly. "Are you going to offer me some of that?"
Strephon stonily mixed the cocoa into his cup. "You didn't say the magic word."
"My, but you're in a foul mood. Did the trollop dump you?"
To his credit, Strephon did not slam his cup on the table; it was bone china and breaking it would have spilled hot cocoa all over the place; but he did set the cup down with a decided firmness. "Have you learned anything about the attack the other night?"
Devon shrugged. "Nothing definite. It looks like just a random wolf attack. I did hear of someone who might know more. She's one of our folk who likes to run with the wolves." He curled his lip slightly to show what he thought of fae who ran with wolves. "She works in the children's ward of the hospital. She calls herself Ferner."
"Ah, slumming with the mortals, is she? Well, she might know something useful."
"For someone who has shut himself away from mortal and fae alike for nearly a century you certainly are becoming quite the ladies' man."
Strephon narrowed his eyes. "Don't you have a toadstool you need to be dancing around?"