Chapter Eight

I'm not too sure about this," Barbara said as they pulled into the parking lot. Donahue had managed to wangle an unmarked Expedition after he saw how much luggage was "a lot" and the drive down had been uneventful. But as they pulled into the registration area of the hotel and Barb saw the con-goers unloading, she got a little nervous. "I haven't read science fiction in years. The only fantasy I've read is Lord of the Rings. And I'm only half way through Goldberg's book and it's the first horror I've ever read. I usually read romance novels for heaven's sake."

"You'll be fine," Greg said. "We've got two rooms, a double and a king. I couldn't get them adjacent but they're on the same floor and wing. Obviously, you two get the double."

"And you'll be with me," Janea said. "Other than . . . you know, how much trouble can you get into?" She had chosen to wear a pair of hip-hugger jeans, stilettos and a halter top for the drive down. As she put it: "Comfortable clothing." Barbara looked at her for a moment and shook her head.

"A lot?" Barb said, chuckling.

"Not at this con," Janea sighed. "This is a lit-geek con. Now, you go with me to DragonCon or Arisia and we'll burn the hotel down. I've got some costumes that would probably fit you . . ."

"No way," Barbara said. "I'm not wearing a chain-mail bikini."

"Okay, okay," Janea sighed. "Jeeze. But . . . how about a -corset?"

The hotel for the con was an old resort north of Roanoke off of US 221. Time and highways had past it by and it had fallen into disrepair before being purchased by an enterprising Hindu family. They had slowly fixed it up and then offered it as a getaway for corporate functions. Together with the occasional small gathering like the convention, and some solid work it had begun to be regain its former glory. It was set well back from the highway up a steep and winding road through leafless trees. The check-in was smooth and with the help of a luggage cart they got all their bags up to the rooms. Donahue, in contrast to the girls, had only brought two small carry-on type bags.

Once in the room Janea started pulling out outfits.

"What do you think of this one?" she asked, holding up a midriff top and a miniskirt.

"Well, it's definitely you," Barb said, shaking her head. "But we could, you know, wear the same clothes to go register."

"What's the fun in that?" Janea asked, opening up another bag. "Or this?" she added, holding up a corset and a long, matching skirt with a wide slit up both sides.

"What are you going to wear over the corset?" Barbara asked.

"Nothing, of course," Janea said, frowning. "What should I wear?"

"Janea," Barb said, gently. "It's February. You'll freeze to death."

"You've got a point," Janea admitted, digging in the clothes. "I've got the perfect outfit."

The "perfect outfit" turned out to be another pair of hiphuggers, these with laces down the side that left large, triangular, gaps, a bra and a see-through shirt. She threw a leather coat over the ensemble and then posed.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"I think you're going to freeze to death," Barbara replied. She'd gotten into the spirit the extent of changing from the skirt and blouse ensemble she'd worn down into a pair of relatively tight jeans, a blouse that showed a small amount of cleavage and one of her heavier "dressy" jackets.

"We're gonna slay 'em," Janea said, grinning. "But, really, I could loan you a corset. With that jacket over my green one, it would be really outstanding. All the guys would drool. They're probably going to think we're lesbians, anyway, and some guys really get off on . . ."

"Janea," Barb said, tightly. "I'm not an acolyte of Freya. Try to remember that."

"Oh," Janea said, slightly abashed. "Sorry. Uhm . . . Greg's probably wondering what took you so long, so let's get going . . ."

When they got to Donahue's room it took him a moment to answer the door.

"Sorry," the agent said, waving them in. "I was checking my e-mail."

"You get that much?" Barbara asked, stepping into the room cautiously. She had a vague feeling of uneasiness entering the room of a person, a male person, she wasn't married to. Donahue hadn't changed and except for opening up one bag to get out his laptop his bags were undisturbed. She mentally sighed at the amount of room he had compared to them; his room wasn't crowded with luggage.

"I had a few," Donahue admitted. "But I was replying to some and I called the lab. The moonstone was apparently part of a piece of silver jewelry. There were striations on the surface indicating that it had been set and traces of silver. It's been sent on to the Special Circumstances forensics group to see what they can get off of it."

"They'll take it slow," Janea foretold. "That's a damned evil piece of rock. They'll have to set up precautions to ensure the evil won't spread or contaminate anything or anyone."

"Well, it's all we have so far," Donahue said, shrugging. "That and the generic description of the perp. Have you two . . . felt anything?" he asked, uneasily.

"No," Barbara replied, shaking her head. "Nothing."

"Generally you won't feel a necromancer," Janea said. "Or so I've been told. Not unless he . . . It's hard to explain. He doesn't have to perform a rite but if he uses power you might sense it, Barb. And if he . . . sort of thinks about necromancy . . . if he starts to slip into the mental state where he'd be . . . stalking or hunting, he might give off a trace. But if he's just . . . wandering around or gaming or something, we could walk right past him and not even notice."

"I'd think that if he was carrying whatever had that gem on it, I'd feel it," Barbara pointed out.

"I don't know whether to hope he does any of those things at the con or hope he doesn't," Donahue said, seriously. "This assumes he's even at this convention. But let's go register and sort of look around."

"Welcome to KaliCon." They had been in the registration line for about half an hour and Janea had already collected a legion of followers; the male congoers kept running into walls as they passed. It wasn't a very long line but there was only one person giving out badges and "Black Kitty", or so her badge read, seemed prepared to chat with each person or group. Black Kitty was a short, wide woman in her fifties with thin reddish hair and a broad smile that gave her face prettiness that was belied by her overall looks.

"Donahue, Janea and Barbara E," Greg said. "We only registered last week."

"Well, let's hope we got them done in time," Kitty said, digging into the box that held the badges. "Sure enough," she continued, pulling out badges and slipping them into holders. "Have you been to the con before?"

"Not this one," Greg said. "I've been to a couple and Janea has been to several. Barb is a con virgin, though."

"I'm sure you'll have a good time," Kitty said, handing over the badges which had pins to stick them on a shirt. "We're a very laid back con. There will be some room parties you might enjoy, though." She looked at Janea and a frown momentarily crossed her face. "There's a DragonCon party on Saturday I hear."

"We're mostly here to see Miss Goldberg," Barbara said, smiling. "I'd really like to meet her."

"Well, stop by the Wharf Rats suite," Kitty said, smiling again. "She spends a good bit of time around them and if she's not there you might find out where she is hanging out. She's very good about visiting with the fen. For the rest," she continued, handing over a pile of schedules, "she has a couple of panels and a signing."

"Is there a LARP going on?" Janea asked, smiling disarmingly. "I like to LARP."

"It's in the schedule," Kitty said, nodding. "Underworld, I think."

"Oh, good," Janea said, bouncing in happiness. "I love being a Hunter! It's like I live it!"

"Goldberg doesn't have a panel until tomorrow morning," Donahue said as they walked down the hallway. "And the Dealer's Room doesn't open until six. I think it's time for dinner."

"When's the LARPing start?" Janea asked, seriously. "I'd like to take that side of the investigation and Barb might enjoy it."

"There's a meeting tonight at nine after opening ceremonies," Donahue replied. "So do we eat in or out?"

"Well, I'm always up for eating in," Janea said in a sultry voice, waggling one eyebrow. "But let's eat out," she added, more -normally. "We're probably going to be immersed in fandom for the rest of the weekend; one last normal meal would be prudent."

"Okay," the FBI agent said, looking at Barbara. "You okay for that?"

"For the time being, I'm just along for the ride," Barb pointed out.

"Out it is," Donahue said, heading for the parking lot.

There was a nearby Outback steakhouse which wasn't completely overflowing. However, they did have to wait. The interior was crowded so they wandered outside, despite the falling temperatures, ending up sitting between a group of obvious fen and a group of much more obvious mundanes, a pair of couples, the men in slacks and golf shirts and the women in informal dresses. The fen were chatting loudly about something that had happened at another con. Barbara couldn't make head or tails of it and she more or less droned it out until the group got up to go to their table.

As the last of the group entered the restaurant one of the women next to Barb's group shook her head.

"I wonder where the Klingon costumes are," she said, cattily. "I don't think they could fit in them anyway."

"You gotta wonder what they do when they're not here," one of the men said, laughing. "I think I saw one of them working in a Seven Eleven yesterday."

"Well, the balding guy in the leather jacket is a New York Times bestselling author and scriptwriter," Greg replied, turning to look at the foursome. "One of the women owns a software development company that's just short of fortune five hundred. And one of them is an out-of-work graphic artist. I didn't know the other three."

"I wasn't talking to you," the man said, sharply.

"No, but you were talking loudly enough to be heard by everyone out here," Greg responded, coldly. "Ergo, you were trying to denigrate them generally instead of specifically within your group. What I've never understood is why."

"Tribal instinct," Janea answered, ignoring the group but speaking loudly enough that they couldn't ignore it. "Also fear of social status. Maintenance of social status for a high status person is a full time job. People like these four have status to maintain and these days they have to live in fear of the oddballs that control things like computers and information technology. Since suits can rarely figure out how to turn on their computers, much less do anything more complicated than a simple spreadsheet, they increasingly fear geeks."

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," one of the women snapped. "I can figure out a computer just fine."

"Yes, but use the word 'router' around you and you think it's something used in a woodworking class," Janea said, turning to her and smiling thinly. "But primarily it's a throwback to primitive society where the higher status got to eat the better parts of the mastodon. And they'd eventually get kicked out of status and end up eating the knees. Keeping people in their place was important for them. Now, they go through high school and college in a comfortable in-group and then, upon exiting into the real world, find that they're dependent upon the people they denigrated in both areas. It has to be terrible for you," she added with mock caring.

"I hadn't realized you were with them," the man who had made the Seven Eleven comment said, tightly. "Sorry."

"We're not with them," Greg said, turning away. "But we are of them."

"And what do you do?" one of the women asked Janea, smiling but with a very bitchy tone.

"Greg is an FBI agent, Barbara is a nice little home-maker from Mississippi that has somehow fallen in with evil companions," Janea answered, smiling pleasantly. "Me, I'm a very expensive call girl. Don't worry about me stealing your men, though. I'm far too expensive for anyone who dresses up to go to Outback. And I only do men like your husbands for free if they're likeable," she added, smiling happily and bouncing enough to cause a nice jiggle.

Barb half hid her face and shook her head as silence descended upon the area. Fortunately, the group of mundanes were soon called to their table.

"I hadn't expected you guys to go picking fights," Barbara said as the group left.

"I shouldn't have," Greg admitted. "But that sort of catting really pisses me off."

"I've done it myself," Barb admitted. "Trying to fit in to an in-group in a new school. Geek bashing isn't really a full time job for groups like that, they're much more focused on cutting each other down."

"Maintenance of status in any group is a full-time job," Janea said. "You can't believe the sort of status games you get in stripping."

"I don't work on it full-time," Barbara argued.

"Hah," Janea said, grinning. "Look at the way you do your clothes and make-up. I bet you're first in line for all the school bake-sales and PTO chores, too."

"Well . . ." Barb said, frowning. "I guess so."

"Everybody does it," Janea said, shrugging. "It's normal and human. The question is the way that you do it. You can choose to cut people down or you can choose to raise them up. By raising them up, or treating them like equals, you don't really reduce your status. Their admiration for how you treat them automatically raises your status."

"Well, you cut them down," Greg said, frowning. "I mean really sniped them bad."

"I'm Asatru," Janea said, smiling. "It's my job to do battle, even verbal battle, for my tribe. And fen are my tribe. I just got God points. Especially by using sex as a weapon. Freya should be really happy. Most of her devotees come from tribes that find that tribe to be the enemy. I did battle and I kicked their ass."

"I'm not sure," Barbara said. "Call-girls are automatically of such low status to people like that they can ignore you."

"The men weren't," Janea said, archly. "And the women will know that, especially later tonight. Trust me, I kicked their asses."

"You didn't use power, did you?" Barb said, frowning.

"Nope," Janea said, shaking her head. "Didn't have to, I have these," she added, in a little girl voice, bouncing and giggling again.

The rest of dinner was uneventful and afterwards they made their way back to the con.

"Opening ceremonies are at eight but I'd rather skip," Greg said when they were back in the con area. "Most of the time it's boring as hell to everyone but the con in-crowd. Most of the guests won't even show up."

"I'm headed over to the Dealer's Room," Janea said, grabbing Barbara by the arm. "We'll catch up with you later. Where are you going to be?"

"I'll probably stop by the Wharf Rat party," Greg said, clearing his throat uncertainly.

"What's wrong with that?" Barb asked, curiously.

"Well, it's like being fen," Greg said, shrugging. "When you're in something like the military or FBI, you generally don't want people to realize you're into some of this stuff. I'm sort of a Wharf Rat, a lurker anyway."

"Okay, what's a 'Wharf Rat'?" Janea asked. "I've heard of them but I've never paid attention."

"Well, there's this publisher, Pier Books," Greg answered, shrugging. "They've got a webboard where people talk about their books and . . . all sorts of other things. The people that hang out on the board are Wharf Rats. It's sort of an in-in group in fandom, those that go to cons. The outcast of the outcasts."

"Why?" Barbara asked, chuckling. "Completely lacking in social skills?"

"Some," Greg said, nodding his head in admission. "But mostly . . . Fandom tends to be pretty liberal. The Wharf Rats . . . have some liberals but they tend to be into more old-fashioned SF and conservative. I hope you can handle cigarette smoke. And, I dunno, military types. They're not very PC."

"I think I might finally feel at home," Barb replied.

The Dealer's Room turned out to be a moderately large ballroom filled with folding tables. The offerings were eclectic. The first table through the door was a comic book seller and next to him were a man and a woman selling silver jewelry and other knickknacks.

"Keep an eye out for moonstone jewelry," Barbara pointed out. "I'm going to circulate counter-clockwise."

"You never seemed like the widdershins type," Janea said, grinning. "But . . . okay."

Barbara wandered down the east wall, checking out the selections. There were two booksellers, one specializing in signed and out-of-print books and the other with a vast assortment of newer titles. Barb stopped at the out-of-print seller's booth and perused the titles as the dealer, a short, heavily-endowed brunette, was completing a sale. Barbara hadn't heard of most of the titles on display: being an SF con they were mostly science fiction and fantasy.

"Looking for anything in particular?" the dealer asked from over her shoulder.

"I'm just getting back into reading," Barb admitted, turning to look at the woman. She was older than Barbara had thought at first glance, with fine lines by sharp green eyes. "I'm more into romance."

"I've got a signed copy of A Civil Campaign," the dealer said, pulling a book out. "It's SF, but it's really a Regency romance novel. Lois is an excellent writer."

Barbara glanced at the price and blanched. With all the "homework" she had, she wasn't sure when she could get to the book.

"A bit much," she murmured. "Do you have anything about necromancy?"

"Hmmm," the woman said, lifting an eyebrow. "Fiction or non-fiction?"

"I'd think that anything about necromancy would be fiction," Barb said, smiling faintly.

"Well, there are books on the occult," the woman replied, squatting to pull out a thin volume. "Mark Tommon's Necromancy in the Western World for example."

"Got that one," Barbara admitted. "I think I'll just look around."

"Feel free," the woman said, smiling. "I hope you find something interesting."

"Oh, it's all interesting," Barb said. "It's simply a matter of time. I'm taking a course at the moment and I don't have a lot of time for pleasure reading."

"A course in necromancy?" the woman asked.

"The occult," Barbara said, generally. "It's part of a . . . church program."

"Ah," the dealer said, her expression closing. "Christian?"

"Not . . . exactly," Barb admitted. "More ecumenical, I suppose. Thank you for your time."

"Not at all," the dealer replied. "Enjoy yourself. First con?"

"Does it show?" Barbara asked.

"A bit," the woman said, smiling. "But you'll find you fit in pretty quick."

A couple of booths down from the bookseller the dealer had a large selection of silver jewelry in glass cases, quite a bit of it in moonstone. The dealer handling the jewelry was a "pleasingly plump" brunette with long, dark-brown hair, but on the side of the booth was a massage chair where a short, heavily muscled man was painting henna on the arm of a teenage girl.

"If you see anything you like, just ask," the woman behind the counter said.

"Thank you," Barb said, closing her eyes for a moment and running her hand over the display. She stopped and opened her eyes, looking at a silver dragon brooch with a large moonstone in the breast. She had felt a definite twinge of power from the brooch, but not necromantic. It felt . . . sad but not evil. "That's very nice."

"Yes," the dealer replied, her eyes wary and a touch sad. "I had a friend who died of AIDs. His avatar was the dragon so I made that in his memory."

"I see," Barbara said, carefully, unsure how to ask the question. "When you were making it . . ."

"I imbued it with my sadness, yes," the woman replied. "You noticed."

"It's a gift of God," Barb said. "It is very beautiful and very sad."

"It was designed to draw sadness out," the woman said. "But I think, instead, it brings the sadness with it. Not what I'd intended."

"You're a witch?" Barbara asked, interestedly.

"A bit," the woman said, frowning. "I don't think you are, though."

"No, but I'm not a Bible thumper, either," Barb replied, smiling. "I'm finding that there are many ways to God. Each chooses his or her own. And you make beautiful jewelry. Do you make custom pieces?"

"Of course," the woman said. "Do you want one?"

"Thinking about it," Barbara admitted. "But I'll have to think about what."

"When you've got a design in mind, call me," the woman said, handing her a card. "My husband does the design work and I make the jewelry."

"Thank you," Barb replied, taking the card and inserting it in her purse. "Go with God."

"Thank you," the woman said, smiling. "I will."

Towards the back of the room was a large freestanding booth just about covered in weapons, armor and leather accoutrements, some of which Barbara half turned her eyes from. The racks hid the center of the booth so she peaked in, letting out a startled squeak of surprise at the sight of the dealer. He was about seven feet high and skeletally thin, with long graying hair pulled back in a pony-tail. His arms were covered in tattoos so old and faded they were hard to make out. But what was especially startling were his eyes, which had red irises and a vertical pupil.

"Contacts," the man said in a deep baritone. "They're contacts."

"Oh," Barb replied, embarrassed at her reaction. "Sorry."

"I get it all the time," the man said, grinning. When he smiled his formidable looks faded into the background. "Looking for anything in particular?"

"No," Barbara said, taking a glance around the interior, carefully skipping over some of the studded pieces she suspected she knew the purpose of, and then stopping at a sword that was on display as a centerpiece. It was a katana, but something told her it wasn't just a cheap knockoff. "Oh, my," she continued, sliding past the dealer to look more closely at the sword. The price tag dangling from it told her all she needed to know about its authenticity. ". . . Murasaki?"

"Yes," the man said, sliding past her in turn and lifting the sword down carefully. "For anyone who can identify it that quick, I'll take it down."

Barb took the sword in a perfect two-handed grip and examined the wavery light reflected from the dark steel. "Beautiful," she said, turning it from side to side to look down the blade. It was perfectly balanced for her.

"I found it in a pawnshop," the man said, shaking his head. "It was just about covered with rust. The guy thought it was one of the World War Two souvenir swords. I spent three years rebuilding it, working the blade inch by inch when I had time and the right energies."

Barbara closed her eyes and opened her link, feeling for the sword. Then her eyes flew open.

"This sword has a soul," she said, softly.

"The maker put his energies into it," the man replied, just as softly. "That was why I only worked on it when I had the right energy."

"You can't give a soul," Barb said, looking up at him.

"You can give of yourself," the man contradicted. "The soul is ever refilling and the more you give of it, the more you gain."

"Did you put your soul into it?" Barbara asked, comparing the feel of the man, which was deep and a tad dark, to the feel of the sword. The sword was . . . remarkably neutral.

"Not really," the man replied, shaking his head. "I simply showed it that it was once again cherished and loved. It is not for me, though. It's soul and mine are not in full harmony. It is for someone else."

"Not me," Barb said, handing it back regretfully. "Not at sixty grand." As the man placed his hand on it, Barb's spasmed shut and she grabbed at her head as a wave of evil seemed to wash over the room.

"Are you okay?" the man said as Barb finally relinquished the sword.

"Fine," Barb gasped as the wave passed. "Headache. I have to go now."

She stumbled out of the booth and settled in a convenient chair. The wave of evil had passed but it left a numbing miasma behind it.

"Barb, are you okay?" Janea asked after a moment.

"Did you feel that?" Barb asked.

"No," Janea replied. "What?"

"Our friend is definitely at this con."