“Do you mind?” the technical director barked, cupping his hand over the microphone on his headset. “Excuse us, we’re doing a show here. Sorry,” he said to Liz and Boo. Boo put a finger to his lips and nodded to Liz. They retreated to the rear of the control room to watch the crew prepare. The female sound engineer shouted into the microphone set in the console in front of her. The lighting engineer gestured with both hands as he talked into his headset. Lowe gave Liz and Boo a brief glance, and then forgot about them as the disembodied baritone of stage manager Hugh Banks boomed out of the speakers overhead.
“All right, people! That’s the last of the firemen and the cleanup squad out the door. Everyone’s gone. Let’s get to work.”
Down below on the stage the miniature figures of the band took their places and lifted their instruments. Michael Scott flicked his long fingers down and over the strings of his guitar in the fanning gesture Liz had seen in a dozen concert videos, drawing forth a glissando like a harp. As always, the ripple of sound made her quiver with delight. If this case wasn’t so serious she would be thrilled to be here with her idol. Voe Lockney beat his sticks together over his head, then attacked his drums with a frenzy. The other two joined in. Liz could hear the music begin to echo and thrum outside, but it was much muted here in the booth. The sound engineer’s hands flew over the controls.
Fionna appeared at the edge of the stage in a flame-red sheath dress that could have been painted on her. Her eyes, cheeks, and lips were tinted the same bright shade. What with her green hair close-cropped against her skull Liz thought she looked like a shapely match. Liz wondered why she hadn’t detected Fionna leaving her dressing room. She counted back in time, and decided the cantrip alarm must have gone off while Captain Evers was teasing her about the Jumbotron.
The tiny, brightly colored figure stopped at the edge of the stage, while a couple of men in security uniforms ran around the open platform like questing hounds.
“All right,” Lowe said, leaning forward with his hands on the chairbacks. “Cue the spotlights, cue Fionna, and . . . what the hell is the matter with her?”
The music died away, and all the band turned to look at Fionna.
“Come on, down there!” Lowe growled. “What’s the hang-up now?”
“She wants them to check for bombs, sir,” an overhead speaker crackled. “She says she’s afraid of being attacked again.”
“Bombs! Hell and damnation!” the technical director shouted, pounding on the engineers’ seat backs. They sat rigidly, watching the screen. “We have a show to do! Get those men off the stage, or carry Fee over to her mark yourself. We haven’t got any more time to waste.” He flopped down into his seat, between Robbie and the sound engineer. “I wish that Fee had been in the damned costume when it went up, and then we’d have a reason for all this fuss! Let her writhe in agony! Let those rotten `filmy sleeves’ burn to ash! Now, let’s get a move on! Get her on stage!”
Below them, a man in blue jeans and a headset went over to Fionna, and pulled her into place in the center of the stage. Fionna held out her hand in appeal. From the edge of the platform, the bulky form of Lloyd Preston came over to stand beside her. Next to Liz, Robbie let out an audible growl.
The band struck up again. Fionna grabbed her microphone in both hands, closed her eyes and emitted a piercing ululation that softened and resolved into a mellow warble that rose and fell like folds of silk. The technicians’ shoulders relaxed visibly. Even Lowe stood back, arms crossed, to watch. Boo touched Liz’s arm, and they slipped out of the room.
“No magic,” Boo said, as they went through the next set of double doors on the level. This was the press box, another large area like the control room, with a broad, curved window looking down on the stage. Facing it were tiers of desks with microphones and places for computer terminals to be plugged in. Toward the rear of the chamber, television and radio transmission lines ran from a labeled console into the ceiling. Several video screens showed different camera angles of the stage, a necessary innovation to supplement the view, unless the reporters were carrying binoculars. At this distance the figures of the band were tiny, almost featureless.
Down on the stage, Fionna was making love to her microphone like a torch singer. She and the guitarist started to step toward one another, intent with passion. Liz felt a shiver of delight, waiting for them to close the distance and begin their duet.
“Nothin’,” Boo-Boo said, bringing her back to the present with a disappointing snap. “Nothin’ but what we brought ourselves. It’s lookin’ as if the cause was somethin’ natural or physical. That’d be a job for the local police, not for us.”
“My chief will be happy,” Liz said, resignedly. “He’d always rather prove a negative. Less difficult to explain to Upstairs.”
Boo-Boo grinned engagingly. “Y’all got one of them, too?”
“Don’t we all?” Liz asked, smiling back.
She found in spite of her earlier misgivings she was beginning to like this American. No matter how unconventional his approach, nor that he looked like a bag of rags, he was a good investigator and an effective agent. She was convinced he was right. Nothing more here than an accident, and accumulated paranoia of a spoiled rich girl with powerful connections. Liz had no idea what would account for the Irish agent’s difficulty. Possibly he had been drugged by someone who recognized him as MI-5. There were more strange chemicals floating around in the underworld than even most of the department was permitted to know. There’d be grumbling in Whitehall about her spending thousands of pounds to fly here to investigate, but at least Lord Kendale would be happy.
The music rose toward a crescendo. On the stage Fionna stood in her place under the lights, trembling. Her hands had fallen to her sides, but they were slowly lifting with the music. Michael Scott stood behind her, back bowed as he tore the notes out of his guitar. Liz enjoyed the rich psychic waves this song put out. It felt as though power was rising through her. She stood almost on tiptoe waiting for Fionna to shout out the last line, when the music would crash around her like waves against a cliff.
And then, Liz felt it. Or smelled it. Or just knew, in that way her grandmother always told her she would. There was evil here. Powerful evil. But where was it coming from?
“Do you feel that?” she started to ask Boo. Suddenly, there was a flash of light on the screens. Fionna let out a shriek of agony, throwing her arms up against the blaze.
Liz wasn’t prepared for another attack so soon, but her training kicked in without hesitation. Never mind where the fire had come from, put it out! Liz summoned up every erg of magic she had, down to the reserves, and threw it through the glass at Fionna with both hands in a smothering spell that would have extinguished a house fire. The force of the spell knocked all the wind out of her for a moment. She staggered backward, staring. The huge pane of glass seemed to shiver and sing dangerously, threatening to break. The little figures on the stage swayed and ran towards one another. She had no time to consider the consequences when she was flung to the floor by a blast that came from Boo’s direction.
“Clear!” he yelled, too late. Automatically, the analyzing part of Liz’s brain recognized the effect as a containment field to suppress any other occult activity in the area. Liz was impressed. She didn’t know the Americans had been working on anything so sophisticated. Boo glanced over at her. “Seems like we were wrong.”
Liz scrambled to her feet and made for the door, the American half a step behind her.
“Rapid deployment, eh?” she asked, as they ran down the stairs toward the stage.
“Finest kind,” Boo said.
“If you’d thrown that thing one second sooner you’d have blotted out my spell!”
“I saw what you was doin’, ma’am,” Boo said, peevishly. “I waited. Now, let’s see what happened.”
* * *
Liz shoved her way through the crowd of people that had gathered on the stage. The fire alarm was blaring overhead. Nigel Peters’s voice cut through the noise.
“Someone shut that blasted thing off!” he raged. “We don’t want everyone down on us again!”
At the center of the mob, Fionna had sunk into a heap on the floor. Lloyd huddled over her, frantically trying to bring her around. Nothing seemed to be wrong with Fionna apart from red, angry skin on her bare arms.