Publish and Perish Read online

  Seated at a small table was a tweedy professorial type in his fifties and a young Asian man dressed in blue jeans, a sweater, and a leather jacket. The younger man wore heavy, black-rimmed glasses, and his glossy black hair brushed the collar of his sweater. He was talking when the recording began again.

  “All of my research indicates this is a parasite.”

  “But the legends—” Tweedy Man began, only to be interrupted.

  “I’m a scientist not a folklorist. The idea that some sort of Godzilla thing is going to be unleashed and stomp around and kill all the Powers is just … well, ludicrous.”

  I had this sudden vision of Godzilla ripping the roof off the skyscraper that housed the law firm of Ishmael, McGillary and Gold, plucking vampires out like a man pulling sardines from a can and tossing them down its throat. I gave a hollow laugh, switched off the television, and pulled out my phone. It was time to call for a cab and head to the hospital.

  * * *

  By the time the cab dropped me off at the Lutheran Medical Center it was past midnight and my eyeballs felt scratchy. A young couple was huddled in the waiting room, their arms wrapped around each other. I wondered if it was a parent or a child that had brought them out this late at night. A TV hung on the wall, the sound turned very low. On the screen, a man was trying to sell some amazing cleaning product. I went to the desk and explained the situation to a woman who looked as tired as I felt.

  “I haven’t located any next of kin, but I’m his attorney, and I called for the ambulance. Can you at least tell me his current situation?”

  “He’s in surgery. That’s really all I can say.”

  “But he’s not dead?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Oh, thank God. Look, he’s English so I doubt he’s got private insurance—”

  “That’s been handled.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A man and a woman turned up and gave us a prepaid credit card. There was twenty thousand dollars on the card.”

  “The woman, what did she look like?”

  “Long dark hair. Sort of foreign looking. The man was Japanese.”

  “As in Japanese Japanese?”

  “Yeah, he had an accent.” The woman looked less tired and suddenly concerned and compassionate. “You’re very pale. Are you all right? Do you want to sit down?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  She came out from behind the desk and walked me over to a chair. I sank down onto the cheap vinyl seat. “I don’t understand any of this.” I looked up at the woman. “Did they say anything?”

  “Just that this was money for Mr. Bryce’s care and that they would check back on him.”

  “No! You’ve got to keep them away from him! Mr. Bryce was attacked, and she was the one who did it. I walked in on her, but she got away.”

  The receptionist was frowning. “Then why give us the money for his care?”

  “I don’t know.” I pressed a hand against my aching head. “Maybe to lull us? Get close to him and finish the job? We can’t take the chance. We need to tell the police.” Agitated, I stood and groped for my phone in my purse. “Look, I’m going to stay here until he’s out of surgery. I know the doctors can’t tell me anything, but I just want to make sure he comes through the surgery okay.”

  “Of course,” the woman said gently.

  I called the number the Brooklyn policeman had given me and reported this latest wrinkle. They promised to keep an eye on things. I had my doubts. Despite the uncompromising angle of the chairs I fell asleep. A gentle touch to my shoulder brought me bolt upright. I forced my gummy eyelids apart. An older doctor in blue surgical scrubs stood by my chair. I looked around the room. The young couple was gone. According to the wall clock it was 5:15.

  “I’m Dr. Kapur. You’re Mr. Bryce’s attorney?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s out of surgery. He’s in intensive care so—”

  “I can’t see him. I understand. I know you can’t give me any details, but can you give me a general prognosis?”

  “Cautiously optimistic. We’ll know more when … if he regains consciousness.”

  “So he’s in a coma? Sorry, I know you’re limited in what you can tell me.”

  “Let’s just say he’s unable to speak right now, and until he wakes we won’t know the extent of the damage.”

  I fished out a business card and handed it to him. “Thank you. If he does wake could someone let me know? Also, there may be a woman or a man and a woman who will try to see him. Please alert the nursing staff to call security if they see either of them. She’s the one who attacked Mr. Bryce. The man may be working with her.”

  “I will warn the staff immediately.”

  “Thank you. Okay, then I guess I’ll head home.”

  2

  Later that day I was seated in a trendy café near the Metropolitan Opera House having lunch with my fellow associate at Ishmael, McGillary and Gold, Caroline Despopolis. Outside the windows was a gray March day with the wind trying to peep up women’s skirts and tugging urgently at coat hems. I felt lightheaded from lack of sleep and gnawed with worry.

  Caroline noticed. “You’re being very quiet. It’s not like you.”

  “I can’t figure out if there’s a barb in there or not,” I said.

  Caroline, her perfectly coiffed blond hair falling like spun gilt over her left shoulder, set aside her grilled eggplant sandwich and gave me a look. Caroline and I had started as rivals in the vampire-owned law firm of Ishmael, McGillary and Gold. We had moved cautiously into frenemy territory, and finally graduated to actual friends, but there was still an edge to all our dealings. She proved it by saying,

  “Little bit. So what’s wrong?”

  “A friend of mine got assaulted last night. He’s in the hospital.”

  “That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

  I hesitated and then said, “And I think I might be a superhero.”

  “Okay, I know going to the Academy Awards, and wearing a designer gown, and hanging around with a famous movie star might go to your head, but—”

  “I also stopped a massacre, and cleared two Álfar of murder … and nearly got murdered myself—”

  “Which sort of disproves your theory, doesn’t it?” Caroline drawled.

  I stared down into the depths of my potato leek soup and gave the contents a stir. “Not if my super powers only work on … well Powers. You know, werewolves, vampires, and elves.”

  “Oh my!” Caroline said sarcastically.

  “I’m serious. I mean, think about it. My very first case at IMG had me battling murderous werewolves. Then I go to California and get attacked by murderous Álfar. And the score so far? Linnet one, werewolves and Álfar zero.”

  “Proving that you are just very lucky.” Caroline’s tone was dismissive.

  “You are a very unusual human, Linnet Ellery.” The words of the elderly Álfar who had tried and failed to ensorcel me and force me to commit suicide returned to haunt me. I had puzzled over Qwendar’s words and now with Jolly incapacitated I had no hope of an explanation for what made me so unusual.

  Caroline’s voice pulled me back to the present. “So, how do you intend to use these newfound powers? For good, I hope.”

  I didn’t miss the sarcasm, but decided to give her a straight answer. “Actually, I was sort of thinking I might go into Fey and get John.”

  “He’s that Álfar private detective who used to work for the firm, right?” I nodded. She cast her eyes heavenward. “And are you utterly out of your mind?”

  “Oh, probably.” I sighed.

  She eyed my almost-untouched soup. “Are we done or are you going to eat?”

  I pushed away the bowl and shook my head. “Not really hungry, I guess.”

  We divided the bill and tossed down money. Just inside the door I pulled a hat over my ears, gritted my teeth, and faced the weather. The weather for the last few days in LA had been beautiful, and I just wasn’t prepared to face the
rump end of an East Coast winter.

  Back in my office I called the hospital, and finally got to the nursing station in intensive care. They wouldn’t tell me anything beyond the fact that Jolly was still there. Next, I called the barn manager and told Kim what had happened to Jolly. At that point, I had no more excuses for not working so I began reading through a stack of case files, but found I couldn’t concentrate. All the cases revolved around people who had money wanting more of it, and it just felt pointless right now. A friend was lying in a coma and I feared it had something to do with me, and another man I cared about in a complicated, undefined way was a prisoner in Fey again thanks to me. I couldn’t do anything for or about Jolly right now, but I might have the power to free John. Both of those things seemed way more important than the cases on my desk.

  Since I couldn’t do anything about Jolly, I decided to concentrate on the John problem. I also had the excuse that John was a trained investigator. If I got him back I could hire him to investigate the attack on Jolly. Grabbing a legal pad, I made notes about how I would approach the rescue I was contemplating. Once I had it down on paper I studied the list. One notation in particular leaped out at me.

  Have at least a fig leaf of legality.

  There was only one way to get that. I spun to face the computer and typed in the train schedules between New York and Philadelphia. It turned out there was a train leaving from Penn Station within the hour. Grabbing my hat and coat I headed out, only pausing by her desk to tell my assistant, Norma, “I might be late getting in tomorrow.”

  Norma was an older woman whose perfectly coiffed silver hair had all the softness of a knight’s steel helmet. I had inherited her along with my office when my previous boss had been torn apart by a werewolf. I had a feeling she did not approve of the substitution.

  She proved it again when she cranked her head around to look at me and muttered, “Like this is a surprise.”

  It hurt, and I found myself defensively saying, “The firm sent me to LA. I wasn’t exactly vacationing in California.” I forced a smile and added, “And hey, look at it this way, less for you to do.”

  Suddenly Norma gave me one of her rare smiles. “Linnet, honey, you almost got there, but you needed to drop the whiny justification, and add not that you do much anyway.” Bland contempt dripped off her tongue as she demonstrated the proper delivery.

  I suddenly realized that Norma might actually like me, and I smiled back at her. “I didn’t know how to supply the rim shot,” I said and headed to the elevator.

  * * *

  Two hours later a taxi dropped me in front of the narrow blue-sided, three-story house in a suburban Philly neighborhood. The snowmen that had been there—God, had it only been a week ago—still stood in frozen immortality in front yards. The streetlights made the ice crystals glitter, and the sunken stone eyes seemed faintly ominous.

  I shook off the unease, climbed the front steps, and rang the bell. Big Red O’Shea, a great bear of a man with a shock of graying red hair, threw open the door, gazed down at me from his six-foot-three height, gave a bellow of pleasure, and enfolded me in a rib-crushing hug.

  “Meg, honey! Linnet is here,” he shouted as he led me into the hall and took my hat and coat.

  Meg O’Shea, a plump little woman with a smile that was sheer sunlight, emerged from the kitchen. There was a smear of flour on her nose and her husband tenderly wiped it away with his thumb and gave the tip of her upturned nose a quick kiss.

  From the other side of the hall a middle-aged man appeared in a doorway. He was a smaller version of Big Red—same red hair, but there was only gray at his temples. Unlike the older man his hair hung below his shoulders. Big Red glared and Parlan quickly gathered the loose tresses into a ponytail and confined it with an elaborate silver clip in the shape of a butterfly.

  Meg looked nervously between the men, then hurried into speech. “Oh, Linnet, it’s so lovely to see you. I’m making an apple pie. You’ll stay to dinner, won’t you?”

  “Yes, happily,” I said.

  “You here about John?” Red asked.

  “Indirectly,” I hedged.

  “So, no word,” Meg said sadly.

  I shook my head. “The various branches of government just keep passing it back and forth. State says it’s a problem for customs, customs says the FBI ought to handle it. The FBI says it’s technically not a kidnapping since John wasn’t carried across state lines and they send me back to State.”

  “So we’ve lost our son forever,” Red said. A dull flush rose in Parlan’s cheeks. He spun on his heel and went back into the den.

  “We have our son back,” Meg said softly and gripped Red’s upper arm. Her husband’s jaw worked but he said nothing.

  I looked away, uncomfortable at being a witness to their pain. Technically, Meg was right—Parlan was their child, bound by ties of blood and DNA, but also a stranger. Because the day they’d brought the infant son home from the hospital a powerful Álfar queen had stolen the human child and left her own son in his place.

  It seemed odd now, almost fifty years after the Powers had revealed themselves to humans that nothing had been done about a kidnapped child, but back in 1972 no one exactly knew how to deal with the fact that vampires, werewolves, and Álfar had crashed into our consciousness and our world. Since the mid-1960s we had been living in a world where your lawyer or history professor was likely to be a vampire, your stock broker a werewolf, and your weekends would be spent watching gorgeous Álfar actors on the screen at your neighborhood gigaplex, but it took a while for society to adjust. In 1972 no one knew how to react or what to do about a child stolen away by elves. The government and the legal profession had ultimately told the grieving parents that there was nothing they could do and to just be glad the queen had left a substitute. So the O’Sheas had given this new son their old son’s name—John—and raised him as their own.

  John O’Shea had followed in his human father’s footsteps. He’d become a cop, put in his twenty years, retired, and opened a detective agency in Manhattan. He had been hired to conduct investigations for Ismael, McGillary and Gold, which was how we met. While being pursued by murderous werewolves and to keep me and my clients safe, John had called on his Álfar powers and taken us out of human reality and into the Fey. Where his real mother had decided that she’d like to have him stay. She gave him a hideous choice—his freedom or ours. Of course John had stayed. Some might have found that act of gallantry quaint, even laughable, but Meg and Big Red O’Shea had instilled all their essential decency in their exotic child, and John lived up to what his parents would have expected of him.

  That left the queen with two sons, one Álfar and one human. Having lost interest in the human child, she dumped him back where she’d found him. But Parlan wasn’t a child any longer. He was a forty-four-year-old man who had never lived in the human world. Instead he had lived as a pampered Álfar prince, had no education to speak of, and didn’t have a single useful skill.

  “Look, I’ve got an idea. It’s a little crazy…” I paused. “Okay, it’s totally off the wall, but it might just work to get John back. But I need your help to make it work.”

  “We’ll do it,” Red said.

  I held up a restraining hand. “Wait until you hear what I’m planning. You were a cop and this is … dodgy.”

  “I need to get that pie in the oven,” Meg said. “Give me five minutes.”

  “I’ll help,” Red said. “And how about we order a couple pizza pies rather than cook that roast? Faster that way.”

  She nodded and they went into the kitchen. I went into the den in search of Parlan. He was slumped on the couch frowning at the television. I was startled to see he was watching Bridezillas.

  My unruly tongue once again took control. “You watch crap television?”

  He raised aquamarine eyes to meet my gaze and gave a small nod. Then shrugged. “It’s the closest thing to Álfar behavior I can find. You’re all so controlled and subtle. I have a ha
rd time understanding what humans want or mean.”

  “Wow, so the extremes of human behavior are the norm for the Álfar?”

  “Yes, I suppose that is true.”

  “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “After the excitement at the Academy Awards it was hard to come back to this.” He gestured around the room.

  It had a comfortable lived-in look. There was a toy saddle on one worn arm of the sofa ready for when a grandchild came by and wanted to play cowboy. Pictures of Meg and Red’s four human children, one changeling, and five grandchildren lined the walls. I stared at a photo of John in his PPD dress uniform. His hair was cut short, but it couldn’t disguise the tri-part colors that streaked the underlying blond or the unearthly green of his eyes and the pointed features and upturned eyes and brows that marked him as other.

  Parlan followed my gaze to his changeling brother. “Yes, my nemesis. The man against whom all others are measured and found wanting. Even Brian, Marie, Patrick, and Sean cannot measure up,” he said, referring to the human children Red and Meg had had after the loss of their firstborn.

  “John couldn’t help it. You know how the Álfar throw glamours on humans whether they want to or not.” I changed the subject. “You’re unhappy.”

  “Yes. Very.”

  “So do something about it. Have you thought anymore about my suggestion?”