“A hell of a lot of help you were,” Lloyd snarled at Liz.
All Fionna could say over and over as they bandaged her arms was, “Now you’ll believe me.”
And Liz had no choice. The stink of malignity rose from her skin like cheap perfume.
“You say the hair on her arms caught fire?” Liz asked, wondering if she had heard incorrectly. “Not the sleeves?”
“That’s it,” Laura Manning said, examining the skin carefully. “There were no sleeves. Left her smooth as a baby’s bottom, apart from the burns, that is. Shh, honey. I’ve got some cream downstairs.”
“We can’t have any more delays,” Patrick Jones cried, pacing up and down. “My God, if the reporters get hold of this. I’ll kill myself.”
“Oh, that’d be good press,” Eddie Vincent growled. Nigel Peters tore his thinning hair.
Liz focused immediately on finding the source of the power. “Did anyone see where the fire came from?” she asked, but every face in the circle was blank. To them it was just another freak accident, one of many. Only Liz had felt the anger and hatred fill the arena just before the attack. It was fading quickly. They would have to work fast to find the source.
“It’s symbolic that the fire was centered on Fionna’s sleeves,” she said under her breath to Boo-Boo, who knelt beside her near Fionna. “She didn’t have any in this dress, but that’s what everyone was talking about just before the blaze. That meant the energy had to have come from somewhere in here.”
“How many people could hear the stage manager?” Boo asked. “Let’s ask everyone again, one at a time. I can do that. I’ll bring them back to what they were thinkin’ of at the last moment before it happened.”
“No, that’s a waste of time,” Liz said sharply. Fionna’s eyes fluttered, and she sat up. Lloyd immediately pushed the agents away and cradled his girlfriend in his arms. “We have to examine the site at once, before the influence dissipates.”
“I think,” Boo said, in a low tone, “you’re forgetting that this is my turf. You’re my guest. I’m in charge here.”
“Not this again,” Liz hissed. “We asked for your help. It’s my case.”
“It’s our country,” Boo said loudly, his eyes glowing with the light of battle. “You can’t operate here without our permission. You might as well pack it up and go home.”
“Never! My government will never take a back seat to yours!”
“We tossed you out once. We can do it again!”
“Knock it off or leave!” Lloyd shouted. “Look at her. She’s hurt! Let’s go downstairs, love.”
Liz looked down at Fionna, who was holding onto the bodyguard like a drowning swimmer to a float. She was ashamed of herself. It was the second time that day she’d caught herself behaving in a nonprofessional manner. Two black marks, Miss Mayfield, she thought, shaking her head. Lloyd helped Fionna to her feet. Fionna tottered toward the stairs to her dressing room, with Lloyd and Laura Manning in attendance. The crowd parted to let them pass. Liz and Boo-Boo followed behind.
“We’ve got to work together on this,” Liz said, after a moment. The tension in Boo-Boo’s shoulders relaxed. She knew the two of them were thinking the same things. Here was a case where she could produce proof of an actual magical attack. If they solved the mystery this could spell credibility for their departments, assuring the budget for next year, not to mention putting Lord Kendale in their debt. It would put the Department and OOPSI into the headlines. Horrified, Liz stopped her flight of fancy. If this made the headlines the furor would never die down. The general public was not ready. They already suspected the government of prying into their everyday affairs. If they knew about the departments devoted to the paranormal, there would be open rioting out of naked fear.
Boo-Boo was thinking the same thing. “We’ve got to solve this and keep it quiet,” he said, guardedly. “Miss Fionna needs us, ma’am. Both of us.”
“It won’t be easy,” Liz said. “To say we have different styles is an absolute understatement, but I’ll try if you will.”
“It’s a deal,” Boo-Boo said, holding out his hand for hers. They shook on it.
“The first thing to do is talk to our crime victim,” Liz said, briskly.
Instead of occupying her grand throne, Fionna was curled in Lloyd’s arms on the couch at the side of her dressing room. She had her knees drawn up protectively, like a little girl.
“They’re here,” she whimpered. “They’re listenin’ to me. They’re comin’ for me.”
“Who’s they, honey?” Lloyd asked, rocking the trembling woman in his arms.
“Let me see the burns,” Liz said, starting to sit down at Fionna’s other side.
“Piss off,” Lloyd snapped, glaring at Liz. “I don’t want you within yards of her. This is all your fault.”
“All our fault?” Liz asked, blinking at him. “Are you mad? How?”
“This has been going on all along,” Lloyd said, his face stony. “She tried to tell you.”
“We needed proof,” Liz said.
“To hell with your proof,” Lloyd said. “I’m calling this all off as of now. You’re out.”
“It’s not so easy as that,” Boo said.
“Oh, yes, it is!”
“Oh, no, it isn’t!” Liz said. “You might have believed her, but what could you do to help?”
* * *
As they argued over her head, Fionna clutched herself in fear. She had felt herself hauled to her feet from the stage, and had obediently followed Laura and Lloyd downstairs, while angry voices rang in her ears. She didn’t follow half of it, didn’t want to. With her eyes closed, she felt her arms stretched out. Something cool was swabbed along them, and the familiar feeling of gauze and sticky tape touched her skin. Fee was having a hard time keeping from raving out loud and crying for police protection or an exorcism. She might be Fionna Kenmare to millions of fans worldwide, but underneath the wild, Irish persona beat the upper-class English heart of Phoebe Kendale. Where Fionna delved into the supernatural with alacrity, Phoebe still thought it was a little naughty, something to taunt the Aged Parents with, who didn’t like her choice of career or friends. She’d always known in her heart something bad would happen if she started to play with magic. Always. She’d been cautious. She’d followed every rite of protection she could find to counteract the dark forces just outside the light, just in case. Just to make sure. Never step on a crack. Never spill salt without tossing a pinch over her shoulder. Always wish on a star, a fallen eyelash, a candle flame. Don’t let black or white cats cross one’s path. But the evil had started to press too closely in the last few months. That was why she had come to New Orleans, in hopes of finding stronger magic than she had. But the bad ones had found her here, first. They were coming for her, just like before. She started to rock back and forth, worrying.
The strong arms surrounding her helped to push the bogeys away. All her friends were gathered around her. They wanted to help. They were the grownups, there to protect her from the darkness. She felt as if she was a little girl again, crying in the nursery when the lights went out. They’ll make it better. But they couldn’t help. They didn’t understand. She had followed every one of the superstitions to the letter, even the ones that made her feel silly. It wasn’t enough to keep her safe. She drew a ragged breath and burst into tears.
Oh, I want my mummy.
Fionna sobbed uncontrollably. The evil was here. It had followed her here. The emotional storm inside her rose to hysterical proportions. It was hard to breathe.
She felt herself being shaken. A calm voice, a familiar voice, cut through her misery.
“Fionna. Fionna.”
Oh, it was that imperious prig, Elizabeth Mayfield. Forgot to set the tables again, or was it some equally tedious House task?
“Fionna.”
Go away, she willed the calm, insistent voice. Go away. Elizabeth was just another manifestation of the evils that surrounded her, haunted her. She tried to shut them all out, using the ward chants she had learned from the books. Go away, pesty voice.
“Fionna.”
She put her fingers into her ears. Two strong hands grabbed her sore wrists and pulled them away. She yelped, and went back to chanting.
“Fionna,” the voice continued, in an urgent whisper, sinking lower and lower and becoming more and more intense until it burned into her very being. It was a mere breath upon her ears. “Phoebe Kendale, if you do not open your eyes right now and snap out of your sulk I will tell everyone here how you jumped naked off Magdalen Bridge into the Isis River at dawn on Midsummer Day five years ago.”