There’s hair in the shower drain and on the bar of soap, so I guess they know about basic hygiene. The cute little triangle folded at the end of the TP roll by the maids has been mangled and the seat is up, so they know what a toilet is for. The two queen beds have not been slept in. Dirty underwear spreads across the floor in distinctive patterns. I’m reminded of a dog peeing to mark his territory. The guys are doing it with their discarded clothes. The girls too. Boxers in three of the piles, white cotton panties for the girls—high waisted and low legged preferred by older women, not the scanty and silky stuff of modern teen girls. No bras. Didn’t notice if the two girl trees are well enough stacked to need them.

Fresh, unopened packages of underwear lay neatly in the dresser drawers. Five sets. I count two in each of the five piles on the floor. The kids are wearing a set. They plan on staying one more day. They’ll leave the con when Tess does Sunday evening.

They haven’t changed their jeans and Tees. The ones they are wearing begin to crumple enough to look normal.

Where’d they get the money for clothes and transportation, lodging and food? Someone in this family has a job or a trust fund. That could be the link to Cooper’s Furniture Store.

Hmmm, if all these clothes are brand spankin’ new, I wonder what they wear in the woods? Anything more than skin? Or do they live in bark?

I sat on a straight chair with my cast propped on a matching seat. Beside me a young man with a guitar strummed the chords of the song based upon a love triangle in a popular SciFi TV series. I wondered if I could manage to choke out the entire piece before breaking down. The semi-tragic fate of the two men and one woman mirrored my own situation with Gollum and Julia too well.

But I had to get the sentiment out of my system. My mother had used music as a catharsis. This wasn’t a bar in Las Vegas with a karaoke machine. For me, it was better. It was a familiar venue among true friends.

And I had my mother’s pearls to help me imitate her sultry command of the music.

I bit my lip at the end, lost and alone, believing that Gollum heard my thoughts two hundred miles away. When I looked up again, Allie and several others scrubbed at their eyes, some openly, some surreptitiously.

Donovan stood against the far wall, the forest children in a line beside him. His chin quivered a bit. He brought a folding chair and set it beside me. I caught a glimpse of Doreen’s back hastening down the corridor away from here.

“You don’t sing that song for me, Tess,” he said sadly.

I looked away from him, unable to answer. He’d used my name, not his pet endearment. I still don’t know the true meaning of L’Akita, or its linguistic origins. I might have solved the mystery of Donovan’s origins, but he had depths and secrets I didn’t quite dare compare to mine.

Paul strummed the opening chord of a brighter and livelier tune. The crowd of about fifteen joined in on the chorus of a saga about never being able to leave the dealer’s floor of a con.

“Life might be less complicated if I could love you, Donovan. But I don’t. I can’t order my heart.”

“Do you have to love only one? I’ll settle for being second best, if only you’d settle with me.” He took my hand and kissed it with hope in his eyes.

“Not yet. My wounds are still too raw. You’ve found someone else who suits you better.”

He dropped my hand like a burning ember. “What did you hope to accomplish with my charges?” He shifted his gaze to the five teens propping up the wall.

“The devil does not stay where music is.”

“I don’t know that quote.”

“Martin Luther. If you stood guard over a cathedral ...”

“Lutherans didn’t attend my cathedral.”

“Perhaps you are more familiar with Milton: Music doth soothe the savage breast.”

“If you say so. It all sounds the same to me,” he growled.

But the Nörglettes were tapping their feet. The two youngest, a boy and a girl joined a clapping game on the next round of nonsense songs based upon a goblin character from the gaming community.

“Maybe they are redeemable,” I whispered, oblivious to Donovan’s latest sensuous assault on my palm.

Then they started whooping and dancing—more like stomping and banging themselves against the wall.

I spoke too soon.

Squishy appeared out of nowhere. Deftly she grabbed the hands of the tallest of the Nörglettes and danced him out the door. The others followed, imitating her nimble hopping and sliding.

Scrap jigged above their heads, nearly drunk on their enthusiasm.

“I didn’t know she could be so graceful,” I whispered.

“Size and grace are not mutually exclusive,” Allie snorted. She sidled after them. “You should be in bed. We’ll keep an eye on the guests. I think they’ll enjoy the dance and rock music more than this quiet interlude of song.”

“She’s right. May I escort you to your room?” Donovan stood up too. He offered me a hand.

He was back to being nice and charming; his usual seesaw between angry resentment toward me and trying to woo me into compliance.

I resisted, not trusting his charm any more than his anger.

“I can manage,” I returned. Instead of taking the assistance I sorely needed, I grabbed my staff and leaned heavily on it as I levered myself upright. I’m perverse that way.

My staff seemed to have a mind of its own. The rubber tip slid along the vinyl flooring, nearly taking me with it.

Donovan moved with demon quickness to grab my elbow and slide his foot in front on my own skidding one.

I flailed wildly, trying desperately to right myself on my own.

“One of these days you will learn that you can’t do everything by yourself,” he growled.

“Pratfall practice is three doors down,” the guy with the guitar called.

A general laugh went around the room.

Then he strummed “Old MacDonald Had A Farm” and sang

Somewhat steadier on my feet, half supported by Donovan, I sketched an awkward bow and stumped out to a round of wicked applause. My face burned with embarrassment.

Donovan’s lips twitched with a half-suppressed smile.

“Don’t start.”

“Start what?” He opened his eyes in feigned innocence.

And then I lost it. Gales of laughter poured from the tips of my toes to the depth of my gut. I laughed at the ridiculousness of my grim approach to life these last eighteen months.

I laughed for the joy Mom had found in singing the last few days of her life.

I laughed for the freedom Julia had found away from her mother and her locked hospital room—were they symbolic of the same thing? Oh, my, I had a story in there somewhere.

I laughed at the idea of trying to tame five elven children.

And then I laughed at the wrong turn my depression had taken my book into and I knew how to write the next chapter properly.

“What’s so funny?” Donovan asked. He looked bewildered.

“You. Me. Squishy dancing with the Nörglettes. Allie and my brother, Steve, engaged. I’m laughing at life. Come on, Scrap. I’ve got a book to write.” I limped down the hallway, spine straighter and lighter than I’d felt in a long, long time.

“Let me help you.” Donovan was at my side again, his hand under my elbow.

For half an instant I considered letting him take me back to my room to enjoy a few minutes of privacy ...

Nah, we’d done that before and I always ended up distrusting him and hating him for his lies while thoroughly enjoying his sexy body. Even now I envisioned his sleek muscles sliding beneath his smooth skin, his braid draped over one shoulder caressing my breasts.

Gulp.

And then I remembered Doreen.

And I remembered the sweetness of Gollum’s kiss.

Suddenly, Donovan wasn’t so attractive. Or maybe I just didn’t need him in the same way I needed Gollum.

How to get out of this gracefully?

A whiff of smoke drifted past my nose. I looked up to see if Scrap had broken the no smoking rule inside the hotel.

No sign of him or his cigar.

I sniffed cautiously. More than a bit of burning leaves outside. Only sharper, more acrid.

Trouble, babe. Scrap landed on my shoulder, glowing bright pink.

Donovan slammed his fist into the nearest fire alarm, grabbed me around the waist, and threw me over his shoulder as he ran for the nearest exit.

Tess keeps batting at her denim skirt so that it doesn’t fly up and reveal her dark blue panties. I picked out this skirt for her ages ago, but she never wore it much because she lives in jeans, unless she’s dressing up. She wears tailored slacks with a silk blouse and blazer when she needs to look professional. For parties and awards banquets—too few of either since Mom died—she lets me choose glitzy dresses with sparkles and drapes and interesting necklines.

But this skirt has proved perfect for her incarceration in the cast. Jeans don’t slide over the bulky thing. This skirt hangs just below her calf and closes up the front with brass buttons. The eight inches of slit below the last button gives interesting peeks at her legs. It’s casual enough for a con, but dressy enough to remind people that she is a professional writer.

Much more stylish than plain sweats.

“Why did you hit the alarm?” she yells at Mr. Toxic.

“Because there’s a fire. Can’t you smell it? It’s the responsible thing to do.” He continues carrying her across the courtyard, beyond the pool and hot tub.

I can tell by his pheromones that he’s thinking about how sensuous a hot tub can be. Then he remembers my babe can’t get the cast wet and his scent turns from lushly sweet to icky sour.

“Not at a con!” She slams her fists into his back. “Kids pull the fire alarms as pranks all the time. No one heeds them. Call 911. The kids will come out to see what the sirens are about. They won’t even notice the alarm.”

“Oh.”

Well, duh. More proof that he doesn’t hang out at cons like he claims.

“Hey, babe, my nose tells me that the fire is small. So far. But it’s in some shrubbery near the back door to the vendors’ room. No, not shrubbery. On the sidewalk. A planned fire, built of presto logs and newspapers.”

I can’t fly away from Tess. My instincts to stay with her override my need to know who started the fire and why.

I should not be able to smell moss and damp wood in the middle of the high desert. Even in October when rain does fall here, moss is not an option.

My instincts are always right. The who and the why have something to do with Donovan taking her as far away from the fire danger as possible. Right into more danger. Demon danger.

Heat builds inside of me, fueling my transformation into the Celestial Blade. This time I cannot, I will not wait for Tess’ command. I stretch and stretch and sharpen. She grabs the shaft of my body with both hands. This is our destiny. This is why imps were created.

Tess is still draped over Donovan’s back.