Wages of Sin

CHAPTER SIX

"Please have your timecards ready so the scanner can update them as you approach the gate ..."

Goldie had, fortunately, managed to escape the angered, hot-blooded Spaniards who were the most frequent customers through the Conquistadores Gate. One lady about ten years Goldie's junior shoved through the crowd to follow.

"Wait! Wait, please, I wanted to thank you!"

Goldie stopped and turned, allowing a puzzled smile to drift into place. "Thank me? Whatever for?"

"For ... for saving my luggage." The woman was still out of breath slightly. "You see, my husband and I were going downtime to research some of our ancestors. We'd planned to attend the hotel's Christmas ball as a kind of celebration after we got back and, I know I'm silly, but I packed away my gown and great grandmother's diamond tiara, necklace, and a few other matching pieces in that suitcase. You've saved me so much grief! I never did believe the ridiculous story that young man told the security chief and neither did Rodrigo. Please, let me say thank you."

She was holding out a slightly used bill with a one and an undetermined number of zeroes after it.

"I couldn't possibly," Goldie protested weakly, having deciphered the number of zeroes. A thousand dollars?

"Oh, please, Rodrigo and I have more money than we know how to spend, but those jewels are absolutely irreplaceable. Please. Take it."

Goldie faked reluctance beautifully, allowing the other woman to push it into her slack hand. She closed careful fingers around the bill, and while she maintained an outward mask of surprise and lingering reluctance, inwardly she was gloating. A thousand bucks! A thousand! Wait until Skeeter hears about this! Maybe he'll choke on envy and we'll be rid of him even sooner!

Goldie thanked her generosity, pocketed the bill, reassured her that she hadn't missed the gate departure yet, then watched her disappear into the crowd milling around the waiting area. Then, exulting in her good fortune, Goldie headed toward the library, grinning fit to crack her skull. Strike one, you little fool. Two more and you're out for the count! Nobody loved a wager more than Goldie Morran-and nobody else in La-La Land came remotely close to Goldie's orgasmic pleasure at cheating to win. It was not how the game was played that counted with Goldie. It was about how much she could rook out of the opposition's wallet, downtime coinage, or bank account.

Just a few more days and Skeeter Jackson would be gone.

For good.

She passed Kit Carson, who was sitting at a cafe table sharing a beer with his pal the freelance guide, Malcolm Moore. She grinned and waved, leaving them to stare after her.

Let 'em wonder.

After what Skeeter had tried to do to Kit's grandkid, those two would surely be more appreciative than most when Goldie's plans came to full fruition. Goldie very carefully did not think about what she had very nearly done to Kit's granddaughter. Even Kit had eventually admitted the whole disaster had been entirely Margo's doing, accepting the challenge to go after those diamonds through an unstable gate.

Too bad about losing that scheme, though. Goldie sighed. Win some, lose some. At least Margo was uptime at school, toiling to repay her grandfather the money Kit had paid Goldie for that worthless hunk of African swampland. Goldie patted her pocket and regained her smile, then headed for the library so Brian Hendrickson could record her "take" in his official bet ledger. He might even laugh when she recounted her tale of that cretinous woman giving her a reward. La-La Land's librarian had so far found very little humor in Goldie and Skeeter's bet. This ought to change his tune.

Goldie didn't exactly need to stay in Brian's good graces to continue her own profitable business, but burning bridges unnecessarily was just plain-and simple foolishness. There were certainly times when Brian's encyclopedic memory had proven useful to her. And there would doubtless be other times in the future she'd want to call on his knowledge. So, scheming and dreaming to her heart's content, Goldie Morran smiled at startled scouts on their way into or out of the vast library and found Brian Hendrickson on his usual throne.

The expression in his eyes was anything but welcoming.

"Hello, Goldie. What are you doing here?"

She laughed easily. "What do you think, silly?"

Brian just grimaced and turned back toward the master computer file he was updating.

"Here." She set out the thousand dollar bill that idiotic but wonderful woman had given her. "Put this on my ledger, would you, dearie?"

He eyed the money. "And how, exactly, did you come by it?"

She told him.

Then stormed out of the library, money stuffed back into her pockets. How dare he not count it?

"Reward for good deeds doesn't count, my eye! That overstuffed, self-important.."

Goldie seethed all the way back to her shop.

Once there, among her shining things, Goldie comforted herself with the knowledge that Skeeter's "tips" hadn't been counted, either. Then she got to work. Part of her mind was busy figuring out how to scam the next batch of tourists unfortunate enough to enter her shop, while another part was preoccupied with how to foil Skeeter's next attempt. That-plus a swig from a bottle she kept in reserve under her counter and fifteen minutes' solitude with her beloved, deeply affectionate Carolina parakeets-got her through a long, dead-flat afternoon. Not a single tourist entered to exchange uptime money for down or downtime coinage for uptime credit.

By the time Goldie closed her shop for the day, she was ready to do murder. And Skeeter Jackson's grinning face floated in the center of every lethal fantasy she could dredge up. She was going to win this bet, if it was the last thing she ever did.

And Skeeter would pay in spades for daring to challenge her!

Goldie entered the Down Time Bar & Grill, ordered her favorite drink from Molly, the downtime whore who'd stumbled through the Britannia Gate into TT-86, and settled in the billiards room to wait for some drunken tourist who thought he knew how to play the game to wander in and become her next victim.

Lupus Mortiferus was afraid-almost as afraid as he'd been his first time on the glittering sands of the Circus. He struggled not to show it. Nothing about this insane world made sense. The languages bombarding his ears were very nearly painful, they were so incomprehensible. Every now and again he would hear a word that sounded almost familiar, making the wrenching dislocation even worse. Some of the lettering on the walls reminded him of words he knew, but he couldn't quite make out their sense. And everywhere he turned were mysteries, terrifying mysteries-that beeped, glowed, hummed, screeched, and twittered in alien metals and colors and energies he would have called lightning or the ominous glow of the evil-omened lights in the northern night skies, had they not been imprisoned by some god's hand in pear-shaped bulbs, long tubes and spiraling ones, plus all manner of twisted shapes and disturbing colors of glass.

And the sounds ...

Voices that erupted from midair, coming from nowhere that he could see, blaring messages he couldn't begin to understand.

Have I fallen into a playground of gods?

Then, unbelievably, he caught a snatch of Latin. Real, honest Latin.

` ... no, that isn't at all what I meant, what you have to do is ..."

With a relief that left him almost in tears, Lupus found the speakers, a dark man who was certainly of African origin: Carthaginian, perhaps, or Nubian--although his skin was too light for Nubia. He was speaking with a shorter, nondescript man in shades of brown at whom no one in Rome would have given a second glance.

Lupus followed them eagerly, desperate for someone he could actually communicate with in this mad place. He followed them to a room-a vast, echoing chamber of a room-filled with shelves of squarish objects made from thin vellum and rows of... what? Boxes men and women sat before and talked to-and the boxes talked back, their glowing faces flashing up pictures or streams of alien words.

Lupus held in a shiver of terror and wondered how to approach the dark man who clearly knew Latin better than the brownish one. He was about to approach when two other men entered and collared the dark-skinned man first. Lupus melted into the shadows behind a bank of tall shelves and hugged his impatience to his breast, biding his time until the dark man who could speak Lupus' tongue would be alone and approachable.

"So," Kit Carson asked, relaxing back into his chair, "what do you have planned for Margo's visit?"

Malcolm Moore flushed slightly. The light in Kit's eyes told him exactly what Kit expected them to do. Fortunately, Kit approved-provided Malcolm's intentions were honorable and he took reasonable precautions against pregnancy.

"Well," Malcolm said, running a fingertip through the condensate on the tabletop, "I was thinking of a little visit to Denver. I've checked my log entries, there shouldn't be any risk of Shadowing myself. I wasn't in London during the week the Denver party will be downtime."

Kit nodded. "I think that's a good idea. Margo should like it, too-and it'll complement her American History studies very nicely."

Malcolm grinned. "Sure you won't come along?"

Kit just grimaced. "I was in London that week. That whole month, in fact. You two lovebirds go along and have a good, careful time." Kit sighed. "It's strange. I didn't think it would happen, but ... her letters are changing, Malcolm. Their tone, the intelligence behind her observations and comments."

Malcolm glanced up, noting the furrow on Kit's brow. "So you did notice? Figured you wouldn't miss it. She's growing up, Kit." That brought a flinch to his friend's eyes. He'd just barely begun to know her when she'd vanished: once, almost for good, the second time off to college. Trying to help his friend get used to the idea, Malcolm said, "Hell, Kit, she grew up in that filthy little Portuguese gaol. But now she's growing in ways it's hard to put into words."

Kit nodded. "Yeah."

Malcolm punched Kit's shoulder. "Don't take it so hard, Grandpa. Her mind's coming alive. I can hardly wait to see what directions her thoughts take her next."

Kit laughed sourly. "Just so long as it isn't toward a South African diamond field." Then Kit blinked and stared past Malcolm's shoulder. "Speak of the devil ..."

Goldie Morran passed, smiling so sweetly at them Malcolm wondered who'd just died.

"What can she be up to?"

Kit laughed sourly. "Given that wager between her and Skeeter, God knows. Want to play tag-the-nanny goat and follow along?"

Malcolm grinned. "If that sour old goat has ever had kids, I'll eat this table. Goat I'll allow. Nanny? Not even in the British sense, Kit." His grin deepened, however. "Sure sounds like fun, though. Quick, before we lose her!"

Kit's eyes glinted as they scurried for the door, dropping more than enough money on the front counter to pay for consumables plus tip. Each of them knew the consequences should Goldie ever discover the double scam they'd pulled on her with Margo's help-not that she could really do anything, not legally, anyway. Their uptime diamond strike was one of La-La Land's best-kept secrets. And that was a monumental achievement in its own right.

Malcolm and Kit quickly determined that Goldie Morran's goal was the library. They took up places at computer terminals near the counter, ostensibly doing research, but more than close enough to overhear Goldie's screech when her "take" was disallowed.

She stalked out of the library in a towering rage.

Kit stepped over to Brian's counter. Malcolm abandoned his computer, too, and leaned on his elbows beside Kit.

"So what's new?" Kit asked casually.

His long-time friend gave him an evil stare, then shrugged. In his wonderful, outlandish accent, he muttered, "Oh, why not. You're not involved, after all." Brian Hendrickson grimaced expressively, the skin around his eyes tightening down so much Malcolm grew alarmed. Then, curtly: "They have begun a war of attrition. A serious one. Goldie just spoiled one of Skeeter's schemes in a way that could have been fatal for Skeeter, anyway. I suppose spoiling each other's schemes is better than letting them rip off unsuspecting tourists, but this ... I didn't think their idiotic wager would turn this deadly. I suppose I should've seen it coming from the very start."

He wiped his brow with a handkerchief plucked from a pocket, then neatly folded and replaced it with such style, Malcolm found himself seriously envious of the librarian's unconscious panache. Malcolm clearly needed to do a covert study of Brian's movements and work until he'd copied them motion-perfect. On London tours, those elegant movements would serve him well. Particularly with the hopeful plans he'd been developing in the back of his mind. Then Brian sighed mournfully. "I still can't believe I allowed myself to be drawn into this."

Malcolm, who was about to comment that Brian had voluntarily put himself exactly where he was, abruptly spotted a man in Western getup watching them ferally from the shadows across the room. He blinked. Not a scout, not a freelance guide, not even a Time Tours, Inc. guide. Malcolm made it his business to keep close watch on the competition-.particularly since Time Tours Inc. was indirectly responsible for the death of his previous employer and close friend.

The mystery-man's face arrested his attention for a moment. But I've seen that face before, I know I have. But where? Maybe a tourist Malcolm had approached at some point, looking for a job? God alone knew, he'd begged work from thousands of transient tourists over the past several years, before he and Kit and Margo had become repugnantly wealthy. (They didn't flaunt it-didn't need to-but it certainly was a great deal of fun, just looking at his bank account's balance, which had hovered near negative numbers for so long.)

Maybe one of the tourists had remembered him and was looking for a good guide?

No... whoever he was, his attention was focused directly on Brian. For some reason he couldn't explain, that very fact sent a chill racing up Malcolm's spine. He wondered if he should speak, then thought better of it. If Brian Hendrickson had a profitable side deal going with someone, it was none of his business. But he did use it as an excuse to leave, now they'd discovered what they'd wanted.

Malcolm nudged Kit with an elbow. "I think there's someone waiting to talk to Brian. Why don't we grab a bite of lunch. I'll fill you in on my plans for Margo's visit."

Brian's expression cheered immensely. "Miss Margo is returning? Capital! Have her come by and say hello, would you?"

Kit laughed. "Count on it. Malcolms taking her to Denver. Even with her studies at school, she'll have timescout-type research to do before they step through the Wild West Gate."

Brian chuckled. "It's a date, then."

Malcolm cast a last, uneasy glance at the man in cowboy getup standing in the shadows, then shrugged the whole thing off. He had better things to look forward to: like Margo's kisses. He grinned in anticipation. The ring he'd had made from the sample diamond she'd sent was ready and waiting. All she had to do was say yes. Counting the hours and minutes until Primary cycled and brought her back into his life again, Malcolm strolled out of the library with his hopefully future grandfather-in-law and suggested the Epicurean Delight for lunch.

"We haven't been in a while. And I understand Ianira Cassondra's been selling Arley some ancient Greek cheesecake recipes-long lost delicacies and confections."

Kit nodded. "The Greeks were so fond of cheesecake, we have written complaints from a Greek, a married man who asked for cheesecake for his dinner and was, um, to put it delicately, irate when he didn't get it. Weren't there supposed to be dozens of different flavors?

Malcolm nodded. "Yeah. And from what I've heard, just one slice of whatever type of cheesecake he's made for the day is enough to make a California billionaire pay a thousand or more just to get the whole thing!"

Kit laughed, an easy, relaxed sound that reassured his friend. "Sounds great," Kit agreed vehemently. "I've been hearing those same rumors and I, my friend, am a cheesecake-a-holic. Let's test it out, eh?"

Malcolm chuckled and thumped his friend's wiry, granite-hard gut and said, "At least you work it off somewhere.

Kit grimaced. "Sven Bailey is a fiend from Hell. He even looks like one."

"So I'd noticed. And so Margo complained-bitterly, those first few lessons with him. And then, would you believe it, our little imp started to love having Sven kick her around the mat like a sack of squashed potatoes."

"Ah, yes; but she learned, didn't she? C'mon Malcolm, let's eat! Skimpy lunch and all the cheesecake we can hold!"

They set out, lauding like lids. The "cowboy they'd left lurking behind in the library was so far from his thoughts, it was almost as though the man had never existed.

Ianira Cassondra was attempting to sell an amber and silver bracelet and necklace set to a genuine tourist through the howling idiocy of her self-proclaimed acolytes. Did uptimers have nothing better to do with their lives than hound and harass her, day and night, month after tedious, temper-provoking month? The Little Agora was seething with gossiping `eighty-sixers when Chenzira Umi-a grey-haired, stately Egyptian merchant who'd fallen, a drunken accident, through the Philosophers' Gate not too many months after Ianira had stumbled through--elbowed and shoved his way to the side of her little booth.

In Greek, which he spoke only well enough to dicker, nobody else on station (except the Seven) spoke his ancient Egyptian (although Ianira knew well enough that Chenzira earned much of his meager living by teaching his long-dead language's proper pronunciation, including some odd inflections, to uptime scholars), Chenzira reported. "Goldie badly done. She broke attempt by Skeeter." ..gyp

Ianira paled so disastrously the tourist dickering over the jewelry actually noticed-and frowned in genuine concern.

"My dear," he said in the drawling tones of an American Texan, "what in thunderation's wrong? You're whiter'n the underbelly of a rattler what's just shed his skin. Here, honey, sit down."

"Thank you, no, please, I am fine." She fought off shock and worry and mastered both, plus her voice. "I apologize profoundly for causing you distress. Did you want the bracelet and necklace for your wife?"

He glanced from Ianira to the jewelry, the calmly waiting Chenzira, bringer of bad tidings (noticeable in any language), then up at the surrounding vultures. He scowled impartially, evidently not liking his face and voice recorded without his permission any more than she did.

"How long these nosy bastards-uh-vultures been after you, honey?"

"Too long," Ianira said, half under her breath.

His pop-up grin startled her. "Hell, yeah, I'll take 'em, and throw in some of those funny-lookin' scarves there. Marty, my wife, she's nuts about stuff like that yeah, those, right there-and what's this little doohicky here for? Love charm? Well, hell, gal, gimme a dozen of those!"

His friendly grin-despite Ianira's inner turmoil -- was infectious. She rang up the bill, bagged everything into velvet bags she'd sewn herself-ending with one large easy-to-carry parcel with a secure drawstring, and handed him the itemized bill she'd written out in a somewhat shaky hand.

He handed back double the price listed on every item, gave her a jaunty wink and an, "It'll be fine, honey, don't you fret, now, hear?" and vanished into the crowd before she could protest or give back the extra money. She stood trembling for a moment, the sounds and bright sights of the Commons washing over her like a dim, color-puddled dream, while she stared at money she and the father of her children so desperately needed, while on all sides, six to seven deep, her maddening acolytes Minicammed, voice-recorded, and jotted notes on every single second of that interchange. She wanted to scream at them all, but knew from experience any action other than business as usual would bring twice as many watchers who'd stay another week hoping a revelation would be near.

Chenzira leaned closer, his disgusted tone of voice helping bring her whirling mind back on track. "If I your beauty and charms had, Ianira, I, too, such deals make would. You demon are-under soft skin!" Gentle, deep laughter took any possible accusation from Chenzira's words. Along with the other downtimers in The Found Ones community-not to mention being elected to The Council of Seven almost from his first few weeks here-Chenzira was a born haggler, as many an unfortunate downtimer had discovered to his or her woe.

And since Chenzira Umi was as shrewd a man as Ianira had ever met, she, too, merely smiled. "And had I your canny wits," she countered calmly, "I would not be a huckster of this junk."

Chenzira smiled; but said nothing, in that mysterious Egyptian way of his. Ianira received the impression strong one-he still deferred to her as Head of the Seven. Then he leaned close again and said very quietly in his own language, which All of The Seven now had to learn, "You must convene the Council. The Seven must decide what is best and summon a general Council immediately afterwards to vote on it. This atrocity, this interference must stop."

"Yes," she agreed, already somewhat proficient in Chenzira's native language. A smile tugged at her lips as she imagined the idiotic, eavesdropping throng trying to translate this conversation!

She asked-also in Egyptian-"Could you watch my shop a little?"

He nodded.

Ianira bolted from the booth, outrunning her merciless followers by a few staggering strides to a nearby hotel lobby. "Private in-house phone?" she gasped, damning the fact that women's clothing from her own time was not designed for an all-out, freedom-winning dash.

The desk clerk, who knew Ianira's reputation-and pitied her for the never-ending madness of her enthralled seekers-stepped back and all but shoved her into the hotel office, muttering, "Lock the door and l'll hold 'em at bay."

She gave him a startled glance of thanks, then banged shut the door and snapped the lock. It was cool and quiet inside the hotel office. She lifted the receiver and dialed a trustworthy in-house line. One phone call, she knew, would lead to others. Many others.

Having set things in motion, she returned to her stand, having to push her way through angry Seekers, all of whom were taller than she was, and forced on a bright smile for a couple of genuine customers who'd stopped to -window-shop."

"Thank you, Chenzira Umi" she said formally. "You have been of great help."

Chenzira's unexpected grin (as the Seekers took up their disgruntled positions, furious they'd missed even those few, short moments of The Great One's words) startled Ianira.

"What?" she asked.

Chenzira nodded at the man and woman peering at her stock. "Your previous customer knows them. They lost no time seeking out this `find of the year' if I remember the words. I am not yet so good at English."

"Thank you, Chenzira Umi," she breathed as she turned toward her customers with a bright smile.

Chenzira Umi was long gone, faded into the crowd as nondescript as any other bald tourist, before Ianira noticed the new price markers. Her eyes widened ever so slightly: in her absence, he had doubled the price on everything she sold. And the customers were buying: jewelry, Greek style clothing for both men and women (in a matching pattern she'd sewn lovingly), scarves, and charms of all sorts.

Even all the copies she had in stock of a little, hand done booklet Dr. Mundy had helped her write, print, and bind, which they'd titled, There I Lived: Athens in Its Golden. Age and Ephesus, 5th Century B. C. Trading Center and Home to The Great Temple of Artemis, Seventh Wonder of the Ancient World. The booklet was nothing, of course, to the scholarly work he was building from the sessions she spent with him, but it was a decently scripted, informal "chatty" little booklet full of odd little facts and anecdotes, some previously unknown until Ianira's arrival. It was a popular item, even outside the sales to maddening Seekers.

One of her long-term plans as First of the Seven was to assist other downtimers in writing similar booklets, which she would then sell and pass along the money to the authors, taking no commission, for this would be Found Ones' business, not her own.

By the time La-La Land's first-shift "business day" was over, that single phone call made from the cool, quiet hotel office-she must remember to reward that wonderful, understanding clerk with some little trinket of thanks had borne its intended fruit. Ianira made her way to the madhouse of La-La Land's School and Day-Care Center where her daughters played with the other children. She picked them up, then took backstation staircases down into the bowels of Time Terminal Eighty-Six for a secret meeting of The Found Ones.

Since this was an informal meeting, no ceremonial garb was needed nor were her daughters a nuisance to anyone. Others of the Seven who had arrived ahead of her were already discussing the news. The day after Skeeter Jackson's gift to Marcus, Ianira had passed word of his true standing to other women in the downtimer community and they, in turn, had passed it to their men. Word had traveled through the entire community before bedtime. For the first time since their arrival, the downtimers of La-La Land knew that, alone of the uptimers, they had found someone who understood.

Many who had looked on him with disgust as a simple thief had immediately begun to cheer on his exploits. Anything to punish the uptimers who used them for grunt labor, without a single thought for their welfare, was worth a cheer or ten. Astoundingly, in a few short days Skeeter had rapidly taken on the status-thanks to Ianira's judicious meddling-of their champion and hero for causing uptimers to suffer monetary losses and public humiliations.

Also thanks to Ianira, it became unwritten law that Skeeter's past was a private secret to be kept from all uptimers on the station. Parents warned children, and those children held their tongues.

Word of the wager between Skeeter and Goldie Morran, at first simply an affair between uptimers, had abruptly taken on new significance. Fear like the shock-waves of an earthquake traveled through their community. If Skeeter Jackson lost his bet, they would lose their spirit-champion. So when Ianira placed that phone call and word spread that Goldie Morran had deliberately spoiled one of Skeeter's attempts, and that a general session would follow a meeting of the Seven, narrow-eyed men and women gathered in the depths of Shangri-La Station to discuss what should be done about it, while wide-eyed children listened in silence to the anger in their elders' voices.

"We could slide a knife between her ribs," one gray-haired man muttered.

"Poison would be better," a younger man countered. "She would suffer longer."

"No, we don't need to kill her," Ianira said over the babble of voices as she joined the other Six on the low dais. Silence fell as abruptly as night fog rolled over the wharves of Ephesus. The Seven had previously decided the only course they could safely take. Now it was up to the Seven to convince the others.

She held her daughters close, partly from protective love she could scarcely give coherent tongue to, and partly because she was-as a former high-ranking Priestess of Artemis-aware of the symbolism their stance of togetherness roused. Those who stood nearest to her saw not only a mother and her children, but looked at her little girls and understood in their viscera that the children's father owed more than anyone on this station to Skeeter Jackson.

Which was precisely what she wanted them to think.

Had she been born uptime rather than down, she'd have been running the government inside two years.

Although most of the gathered Found Ones came from times and places where women were expected to remain silent on pain of beating, even men who had grown to grey-beard stature had learned to respect Ianira-and in this matter, she had the right of a mother whose children were threatened. That right was so universal, even those men who had found the adjustment to TT-86 and in particular-the status of women in TT-86, held their tongues and listened in respectful silence.

She looked from face to silent face and nodded slowly, understanding their message without the need for words. "We don't need to kill her," Ianira repeated. "All we need to do is ensure she loses her bet."

The smiles that lit multiple eyes-dark eyes and light ones, black and grey and brown and blue ones, and the occasional clear amber or green ones-all were smiling, cold as Siberian ice.

"Yes," someone on the edge of the crowd murmured, "the gems dealer must lose that bet. Which would be the better strategy, Council? Help Skeeter with his work? Or plot to destroy the moneychanger's schemes?"

Ianira laughed, tossing thick, black hair across one pale shoulder. "Destroy the money-changer's schemes, of course. Skeeter can hold his own when it comes to stealing from the uptimers who kick and rob so many of us. All we have to do is make sure the money changer steals less. Much less. It ought to be fun, don't you think?"

Laughter rippled through a group which moments before had been grim enough to contemplate violent murder, consequences be damned just the thing the Seven had feared. Agreements were made to watch the money-changer's every move. Assignments were given to those best suited to the task of foiling Goldie Morran's schemes-or, if necessary-stealing her winnings before she could "log" them with Brian, as the rules of the wager demanded.

Ianira kissed her daughters' hair and smiled softly.

Goldie Morran would rue the day she had dared interfere with Marcus' patron and champion. Rue it as bitter as wormwood and never once guess why she failed in her every effort. Ianira pledged silent sacrifices to her patron Goddess Artemis of moon-pale hunting dogs and silver arrows notched through eternity to her moon-wrought bow, as well as pledges to her adopted Goddess, Pallas Athena of spear and shield, Athenian war helmet and above all Justice, should they secure victory for Skeeter Jackson.

She left the meeting with her own assignment and returned home to put supper into Artemisia and Gelasia, then put both girls into their little beds. She worked on Council business, while waiting with great anticipation for Marcus to finish his shift at the Down Time Bar & Grill.

She hummed an old tune as she worked, one her grandmother had taught her as a child, all the while quietly hugging to herself the secret of the astonishing money she'd made at the booth today-thanks to wise, old, mercenary Chenzira's meddling with her prices. In the all-but-silent backdrop of their apartment, the dinner she'd prepared for her love bubbled and simmered its way toward perfection in the endlessly miraculous oven.

Goldie was cashing out money for tourists returning uptime from a tour when she spotted them: three small, innocent-looking coins that were worth several thousand dollars each, they were so rare. Avarice warred with caution. She wasn't supposed to make use of her knowledge to obtain them. She couldn't buy them at a fraction of their value and claim the collector's price or Brian would disallow them completely. So she smiled in her cold heart and simply short-changed the tourists. Stealing the coins should certainly count. She waited until the batch of tourists had gone before putting up her "Out to Tea" sign and locking up the shop.

She could hardly wait to gloat to Skeeter about the day's success. Goldie headed for the library at full tilt, a battleship plowing through seas of disgruntled tourists, and cornered Brian behind his counter.

"Brian! Just take a look at these! Stole 'em fair and square!"

Brian examined the coins with care. "Very nice. Mmm... Yes, very nice, indeed. Let's see, now." He glanced up, a frosty look in his dark eyes. "Valuing these is really quite simple. This one, that'll give you a bet credit of twenty-five cents, this one's face value is what, thirty-five cents? Hmm ... The silver content of this one's a little thin. I'd say about a buck thirty for the three."

Goldie stared, mouth agape and not caring who saw it. She honestly couldn't find her voice for whole seconds. When she finally did find it, heads turned the length of the library.

"What? Brian Hendrickson, you know perfectly well what those three-"

"Yes," the librarian said repressively, interrupting her before the tirade could build momentum. "Their collector's value is probably in excess of five thousand dollars. But I can't give you that kind of credit for them and you know it. Rules of the bet. You stole a couple of coins. Face value-or metals value, whichever is higher. That's it. Feel free to sell them for what they're really worth, but you won't get credit for that on the bet."

He pulled out a little ledger book and made an entry. Goldie couldn't believe it. A dollar and thirty stinking cents. Then she caught sight of Skeeter's last entry in a column next to hers: zero.

That was something. Not much, but something.

Goldie stormed out of the library, determined to eat Skeeter Jackson's liver for breakfast. Chuckles behind her only rubbed salt in a raw wound. She'd pay Brian back, too, she would. Just wait and see if she didn't. A buck-thirty. Of all the humiliating, backstabbing

A feathered Ichthyornis screamed past on a powerdive into a nearby fishpond. The splash drenched Goldie from waist to knees. She screeched at the toothed bird and cursed it in language that caused mouths to drop in a fifty-foot radius. Then, catching herself, Goldie compressed her lips, glared at the people staring at her, and sniffed autocratically.

Skeeter might be behind, but a dollar and thirty cents wasn't a lead, it was an insult. She'd show that upstart little pipsqueak what an amateur he really was or her name was not Goldie Mon-an. She smiled tightly. The expression hurt the skin of her face and started a nearby toddler whimpering against its mother's skirts.

Goldie Morran had not yet begun to scam.

Skeeter, having successfully picked several pockets in a crowded cafe, returned to the library to hand over his take for Brian to hold, per the rules of the bet. When he caught sight of Goldie's last entry, he laughed out loud.

"A buck thirty?" His laughter deepened, the primal joy of a half-wild Mongol who has pulled one over on the enemy.

Brian shrugged. "You're taking the news more cheerfully that she did."

"I'll bet!"

Brian said repressively, "You already have, Jackson. Now beat it. I have real work to do."

Skeeter laughed again, refusing to be insulted, and let his imagination linger on what Goldie's face must have looked like as she received the unpalatable news. Bet her face had gone nearly as purple as her hair! He strolled out of the library, hands in pockets and whistling cheerfully. The Commons certainly was a pretty place this time of year ...

A heavy hand grabbed his shoulder, spinning him roughly around. His back connected with a concrete wall, driving the breath momentarily from his lungs. Skeeter blinked and focused on the face of a man he'd last seen standing on the banks of the River Tiber, cursing him for all he was worth.

Oh, shit

Lupus Mortiferus.

In modern clothes and a towering rage. "Your entrails aren't really worth a hundred-fifty gold aurii-but they'll do!"

"Uh ... " Skeeter said, trying to buy time before the gladiator choked and/or stabbed the life out of him. How the hell did he get on to the station? Not that it mattered. He was here-and one look into those dark, murderous eyes told Skeeter he was about to die.

Or worse.

So Skeeter did the only thing that might possibly save him. He dropped to the floor like a limp rag doll. His opponent paused just an instant too long. Skeeter rolled, kicked Lupus Mortiferus' feet out from under him, scrambled up, and ran. A bull's bellow of fury followed him. One quick glance showed the enraged gladiator in close pursuit. No river to jump into this time. No horse to steal, either. How the hell did he get into TT-86?

He wove and dodged through the dense holiday crowds, ducked past a cluster of blinking, six-foot-five decorations, and shouldered someone aside when they blocked his way. An autocratic screech and a splash were followed by Goldie Morran's voice cursing him in language almost as colorful as Yesukai at his best. He took a brief second to wish he'd had the time to enjoy the sight of Goldie dripping wet from purple hair to spike-heeled toes-but that gladiator was right on his heels. He rounded the fish pond and pounded through Edo Castletown. In his wake, men dressed like samurai shouted obscenities at his pursuer, who shoved several of them bodily to the floor in his charge.

Ooh, Yakuza, Skeeter thought with a wince as he glanced back to see tattooed men swearing at the gladiator's back. Too bad they hadn't managed to lay hands on him.

He pounded out of Edo Castletown into Frontier Town, with its Wild West Gate, bars, saloons, and show-girl halls. Frontier Town's saloons offered a confusing maze of darkened rooms where bar girls served whiskey, poker games lasted until all hours, and rinky-tink piano players hammed it up on artificially battered upright pianos. Skeeter ducked into the nearest, sliding under a series of tables in the dim-lit bar, scattering card players and whiskey glasses in his wake as men jumped back in startled surprise. Then whole tables crashed to the floor behind him. The gladiator had waded in, snarling something in Latin. A fist fight broke out somewhere to his rear. Skeeter didn't care. He dove across the bar, catching a glimpse of the barkeeper's shocked expression in the mirror, then hauled butt back for the door while Lupus Mortiferus battled his way through a mob of really pissed-off "cowboys" including at least one wrathful time scout who knew martial arts.

Having bought himself a couple of minutes' lead, Skeeter blasted through the saloon doors into the bright Commons again and pelted back through Edo Castletown, where the first Shinto observances had begun at the new shrine. A deep bell-tone shimmered through the air as the first worshipper pulled the bellrope to sound the gong that would catch the attention of the resident, sacred kami. A glance over his shoulder revealed the irate gladiator battling his way past a dozen really irate Yakuza thugs. Lupus Mortiferus had knocked them down on their first dash through Castletown, causing them to lose serious face in public. They were out for vengeance. He grinned, leaped the low fence marking off the new shrine, gaining traction in the expanse of white gravel, ducked under the shrine, and vaulted the fence on the other side while outraged japanese curses poured after him in waves. One swift glance showed Lupus Mortiferus in even greater trouble as the worshippers vented righteous ire upon the gladiator.

Sorry about that, really, Skeeter told the certain-to-be-offended kami. I'll, uh, come ask your pardon later. Honest.

Skeeter cut hard into a side corridor leading toward the maze of corridors that made up Residential. A bellow in the distance told him the chase, although badly slowed for Lupus Mortiferus, was still on.

Skeeter pelted up a staircase and rounded a wicked bend at a full run, grabbing a heavy rope garland and swinging around the outside of the girder that supported a balcony platform above, using it like Tarzan's vines to whip around at maximum speed. Below him, gasps of shock and fear arose from the packed Commons floor. Great. All I need's an audience. Three changes of corridors, two more staircases, and another turn brought Skeeter out onto a wide balcony of shops and restaurants overlooking Commons.

Far back, but rounding the corner after him, Lupus Mortiferus was still coming. Cripes, doesn't anything stop that guy? Skeeter tipped over clothing racks, cafe tables, and fully-lighted Christmas trees. He kept running, providing any and all barriers he could that the gladiator would have to jump or pick up first, then skidded down a gridwork staircase, mostly sliding down the banister. A flock of roosting pterosaurs screeched and took wing in protest. They swooped and dove, knocking wreathes, plastic candy canes, and all sorts of other decorations off girders and balconies-which created panic amongst the tourists gaping in his wake.

Skeeter heard curses-but they were farther and farther behind. He hit the next balcony level still running flat out, slammed a seven-foot plastic Santa to the balcony floor behind him, and spotted an open elevator. Skeeter grinned and dove into it. He punched 5 and the doors closed. The elevator shot upward, carrying him to the upper floor of a hotel's graceful balcony. Skeeter stepped out onto lush carpet, rather than bare gridwork hearing the very distant sounds of pursuit below, then slipped into the hotel's hallway, covered with a different color carpet, but just as luxurious as the balcony's. Skeeter jogged easily down the line of gilt-numbered doors and found an interior elevator which took him to the basement.

Under the hotel were weapons ranges and a gym. Skeeter ducked through the gym, found another elevator tucked back in the men's shower area, which had been placed there for the convenience of residents who wanted to head straight up after a workout. He rode it up to the third level of Residential.

When he finally stepped out into a silent corridor, there was no sign of the gladiator. Skeeter leaned against the wall and drew several deep breaths, then slowly relaxed. He couldn't help grinning. What a chase! Then reality settled over him like a blast of Mongolian snow. With Lupus Mortiferus on the station, Skeeter was in real trouble. What to do about it? Skeeter narrowed his eyes. He could always go to Bull Morgan and report the downtimer, but that would mean having to confess his downtime scam to the station manager. And that would get him into serious legal trouble with Management, with a probable eviction from TT-86 as the result. He wouldn't need to lose the wager to lose his home.

If the gladiator were reported-and questioned-the result would be the same. The damned gladiator would be given refuge, but Skeeter would be kicked uptime to fend for himself in a world he had grown to hate. And if that gladiator caught up with him, he was a dead man.

"Great," Skeeter muttered to the listening walls. "Not only do I gotta win this bet, now I gotta stay alive while doing it."

He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. The boy who'd survived life in Yesukai's camp wasn't a quitter. He was no professional fighter-certainly no match for someone like Lupus Mortiferus-but he knew a few tricks. He wasn't happy, but he'd cope.

He always had, no matter what life handed him.

Tired, hungry, and thirsty, Skeeter headed for his little apartment, hoping Lupus Mortiferus didn't tumble to the fact that any computer in La-La Land listed his address bold as a Mongolian sky, on an entry screen Skeeter couldn't hack into and purge-not without drawing serious attention to himself from Mike Benson's sharp-eyed gang. He thumbed open his door and retreated into his private little refuge to fret over the problem, knowing as he opened the fridge for a beer and turned on the shower that wishing would not make this particular problem vanish.

He took a long pull from his beer and made the wish anyway.

From his viewpoint, Skeeter figured the gods owed him a break or two. For once, maybe they'd listen?

Lupus Mortiferus stood panting in the middle of an empty corridor, hand on the pommel of his gladius, eyes narrowed in a rage that filled his veins until his ears roared with it. Where had that little bastard slipped away to? So close ... and the rat had vanished into thin air.

Again.

"I will find you, odds maker,- Lupus swore under his breath. "And when I do.. ."

Meanwhile, he had to find someone to communicate with. That dark-skinned man had answers Lupus needed. It took him nearly an hour of confused wandering through the mad place before he found it again, but find it he did. And the man was still there, perched comfortably behind a wooden counter. Girding on courage as though it were armor, Lupus strode up to the counter and greeted him in Latin.

The man glanced up, surprise showing in deep brown eyes. "Hello. Guide? Or scout? Don't think I've seen you before. Just in from another station? Brian Hendrickson, Station Librarian."

The man stuck out a hand.

Lupus stared at it, wondering what in the world the man was babbling about. The words were Latin, but their meaning ... He might as well have been speaking some obscure desert tongue like Palmyrene or the incomprehensible babble of a Scythian horseman.

"Well," the man was saying, staring at him with rising curiosity, "the computers are at your full access, of course. With that getup, I'd thought you were headed down the Wild West Gate. Planning on a freelance trip to Rome? It's a lucrative gate, certainly, and thanks to Kit's leaning a little on Bax, Time Tours is giving freelancers a freer hand with the customers. You shouldn't have any problem at all making a good living if you decide to stay."

The man made no sense at all. With a rising sense of panic he couldn't control, Lupus tried to marshall a single question, but found his tongue glued to the roof of a mouth gone dry with fear. The gods make sport of me for fun ... .

Whatever the man said next, it wasn't in Latin. His brow furrowed in open puzzlement. That was more than Lupus could take. He couldn't afford to be found out as an imposter in this place of divine madness. He bolted for the door. Mithras, help me, he prayed in growing misery. I don't know where to go or what to do. Lupus didn't quite run down the bewildering confusion of staircases, ramps, shops, ponds, and imitation streets that made up the main room of this world, but he moved fast enough to put distance between himself and the man who was most certainly coming to the conclusion that Lupus did not belong here.

He was halfway down the long, long stretch of room when he realized he was being followed. The man was younger than he, brown-haired and slender enough that Lupus could easily break him in half with bare hands. Lupus knew a jolt of fear that stabbed from heart to groin, anyway. The gods who ran this mad playground had found him out.

Then anger, pure and simple, scalded him to his bones.

I have been swindled, cheated, and dragged out of my very world. I will not submit meekly to this!

He took a side corridor that led into a quiet, private part of this world and hid in a shadowed niche. Sure enough, the young man following him took the same turn. Lupus gripped his sword and slid it sweetly out of its scabbard. Someone would give him answers or pay the consequences of their refusal.

He waited patiently for the quarry to come close enough to strike.

One moment, Marcus was completely alone in the Residential corridor, having lost sight of his quarry. The next, he was crushed painfully against the wall, sword at his throat. He gasped. Lupus Mortiferus ...

Shock detonated in the other man's eyes. Marcus only realized he'd gasped the man's name aloud when the gladiator demanded, "You know who I am?"

"I-" Marcus thought he might well faint from terror. How many men had the Wolf of Death killed during his bloody career? The thought of leaving Ianira and little Artemisia and Gelasia alone, trying to survive without him, drove him nearly to gibber. "I know-I know you, yes. I saw you, once. Many years ago. Before a fight. At-at one of the gladiator feasts-"

The sword blade stayed pressed against his throat. "Where am I? What place is this? And why have the masters of it sent you trailing my steps?"

Marcus blinked in surprise. ",`Nobody sent me. I saw you earlier and thought I recognized you. I-I just wanted to ask what you were doing here. You shouldn't be here at all. Please, I beg of you, Lupus Mortiferus, don't kill me, I have children, a family-"

The blade remained at his throat, but the pressure eased up just a bit. "Kill you?" the gladiator snorted. "The only man in this mad place who speaks Latin that makes sense? Do you think the Wolf of Death a complete fool?"

Marcus began to hope he might survive. "How did you come here? The Roman gate is very well guarded-" His eyes widened. "Those boys who got sick, when the gate cycled. You must have come through during the confusion."

Lupus Mortiferus narrowed dark eyes. "Gates? Talk sense. And answer my question! Where am I?"

Marcus knew he'd once been a slave, but it had been years since anyone had used that tone with him. `The last time I saw you," he dared flare back, "you were still a slave. Where is your collar? Or have you run from the school?"

Lupus' dark eyes widened. For an instant, Marcus saw his own death reflected there. Then-shocking him beyond all reason-the Wolf of Death lowered his sword. "I bought my freedom," he said quietly. "Then the money I earned with this sword, the money I was saving to start a new life, was stolen by a blackhearted street-rat of a foreigner. I followed him here." The threat returned to his eyes. "Now tell me, where is `here'??"

Marcus blinked several times, struggling with emotions that ran the gamut from pity to terror and back again. "If you will put away the gladius, I will tell you. In fact, if you put away the gladius, I will take you to my own rooms and try to help you as best I can. What I have to say will not be easy for you to understand. I know you are a proud man, Lupus Mortiferus-you have a right to be-but you will need help to survive here." Some glint in Lupus' dark eyes toll Marcus he'd hit a raw nerve. "I have a woman and daughters to support, but I will do my best to help. From what I remember, you didn't begin your life in Rome either. In that, we have something in common. You have asked for answers. I offer them and more. Will you come with me?"

The gladiator paused for several heart-shattering moments, then sheathed his sword under the ridiculous cowboy chaps. The gladius snicked softly into place under the concealing leather. "I will come. I think," he said softly, "the gods have left me no choice."

The admission shocked Marcus speechless.

But he recalled all too vividly his own first days in La-La Land, with their wrenching, sick dislocation and the terror every sight and sound brought. This man had been badly wronged by someone from TT-86. Marcus would do what he could to make amends.

The Wolf of Death followed silently behind as Marcus led the way toward his small apartment. He wondered with a sinking terror in his gut what Lupus Mortiferus would do when he saw Ianira's delicate beauty. He was strong enough-and ruthless enough to take her while Marcus watched helplessly from the floor, bloodied and dazed, perhaps even bound and gagged. Surely Lupus would adhere to guest/host laws? But Lupus was neither Roman nor predictable. Marcus had no idea what he would or wouldn't do.

But he had given his word and Lupus Mortiferus had been wronged.

And the laws here, he recalled with effort, were not those of Rome. If Lupus Mortiferus tried to hurt his beloved, he could call for help---or send her and his daughters to live with others who could and would protect them.

Afraid and torn between honor and multiple duties, Marcus led the gladiator to his little home deep in the recesses of Residential.

Ianira had just taken a cooling cheesecake out of the oven, placing it on a rack on the counter beside simmering pots and sizzling pans filled with their dinner, when the apartment door opened. She glanced up, a smile on her lips ... and let the smile die, unborn, at the look in Marcus'eyes. His face was ash pale.

He held the door for a stranger dressed for the Denver Wild West Gate. Eyes downcast, Marcus' posture screamed his feelings of fear and inferiority. The stranger's dark gaze darted about the room, paused briefly on her, then returned to a scrutiny of the room as though expecting it to contain lethal traps.

With her eyes alone, Ianira sought Marcus' gaze and begged the question: Is this the man.? Your former master? She realized she'd begun to tremble only after the slight movement of Marcus' head indicated, No, this is not the one.

The relief that flooded her whole being was short-lived. If this were not Marcus' mysterious uptime previous master, who, then, that he inspired such terror and deference in her beloved? When Marcus spoke, he spoke in Latin and kept his voice soft-the voice of a slave addressing a social superior from his own world.

"Please, you are welcome to my home. This is Ianira, the mother of my children. A high-born woman of Ephesus," he added with just a touch of defiant pride in his eyes and voice. The dark-eyed stranger gave Ianira a long, clear-eyed stare which left her trembling again, from anger, this time. She knew the look of a man hungry for a woman's body. That look was a ravening fire in this man's eyes when he stared at her.

"Ianira, Lupus Mortiferus has stumbled through the Porta Romae in pursuit of a man who stole his money. He needs shelter and our help."

Ianira relaxed marginally, but remained alert for trouble. Why was Marcus so visibly shaken, so subservient, if all he offered was asylum to a fellow downtimer in need? By rights, he should be playing the role of social superior, not struggling to hide obvious terror.

Taking the plunge, Ianira recalled her duties as hostess in Marcus' home. "You are welcome as our guest," she said in her careful Latin. Marcus spoke Greek better than she spoke Latin. Their common household tongue was English. Living as they did, it was a survival ritual they practiced as much for the sake of their children as for the practice speaking the dominant language of the time terminal. Most of the languages Ianira heard spoken on the station, particularly japanese-were utterly beyond her. But English she learned from necessity and Latin she learned from love. She could even understand a little of Marcus' native Gaulish, although he rarely used it except to swear at or by gods neither Athens nor Ephesus had ever known.

Marcus gazed worriedly at the man who continued to stare at Ianira as though the jeans and T-shirt she wore didn't exist. The look sent chills down her back and made her long to close her hands around a weapon to defend herself.

"Ianira," Marcus added with a touch more courage in his eyes, "is highly placed on the Council of Downtimers in this world. She owns her own business and is well respected even by those from uptime, who control the fate of all downtimers who stumble into the station. She is important in this world." The warning in his voice was unmistakable--and it had effect. Lupus Mortiferus' look changed from that of a man who is considering taking what he desires by force to that of speculative curiosity.

Marcus ended the introductions by saying quietly, "Ianira, Lupus Mortiferus is the most famous gladiator to fight in the Circus Maximus at Rome. He has won the Emperor's favor many times and has killed his way to victory in more than a hundred fights by now, I should guess. He will need our help adjusting to La-La Land and to find the thief he seeks. It is his desire to find that thief, recover his stolen money, and return home."

That was against the law. They both knew it.

But a man like Lupus Mortiferus, who had survived combat in the arena, wasn't likely to abide by any such rule. Clearly, Marcus wanted only to help him regain his money as quickly as possible so the man would leave again. Ianira found herself agreeing with that silent desire which burned so brightly in Marcus' frightened eyes. She did not want Lupus Mortiferus to stay on Time Terminal 86. The shorter his visit, the greater her peace of mind. But until he left, he was an invited guest in the home of the father of her children.

She gestured gracefully, playing the role she had learned so well under the lash in her husband's home. "Please, come in. Sit down. The evening meal is nearly ready. It is very simple fare, but nourishing, and there is Greek cheesecake for afterward."

Lupus Mortiferus' eyes came back to hers. "Greek? I thought you were from Ephesus?"

"I was born in Ephesus, yes, but came to live in Athens for a year before stumbling through the Philosophers' Gate, as it is called here. You came here by way of the Porta Romae."

Lupus treated them to a mirthless laugh. "Gate of Rome. How incredible. So you really did live in Athens? The cheesecake is genuine?"

She held back a proud, haughty smile by main force of will. Romans felt a humble respect for anything Greek, believing-as well they ought!-that Greek culture was culture.

"I have heard much of Greek cheesecakes from wealthy patrons."

Ianira forced a light laugh. "Indeed, my recipes are genuine. I knew them by heart-and I was born about six hundred years before you were."

Shock detonated in the man's dark eyes.

Ianira laughed again, knowing she played a deadly game, but knowing also that she could more easily risk it than a man. "Welcome, Lupus Mortiferus, to La-La Land, where men and women from many different places and times come together under one roof. You have much to learn. Please. Sit down and rest. I will bring refreshments for you and serve the dinner. Then we will talk of things you must know in order to survive here."

The piercing look he gave her was difficult to interpret, but he took a seat on their plain brown couch. The vinyl squeaked as the leather of his chaps rubbed it. Ianira noticed the sword half concealed beneath them, but said nothing. Guest laws notwithstanding, Lupus Mortiferus was a man lost in a world he could not possibly comprehend-one that Ianira herself, after three years, took mostly on faith, translating "technology" into "magic" for anything she didn't understand.

For what it was worth, she knew there were uptimers who did the same when confronted by the power of the gates through time.

As for the weapon, keeping it would reassure him, more than any words of welcome they could offer. Ianira served fresh fruit juice to the men, deciding against the wine she'd previously planned for their dinner she had no intention of serving alcohol to a potentially explosive guest then returned to the kitchen. Marcus would normally have joined her to help, but the presence of their guest held him against his will in the room that served double duty as living and dining area.

Artemisia, strapped into her toddler's high chair beside the device that kept foods and drinks wonderfully chilled, even frozen, cooed and giggled at her mother's reappearance. Ianira stooped to kiss her child's hair, then filled a bottle with apple juice and gave it to the little girl. While Gelasia slept peacefully in the crib in their one bedroom, Artemisia sucked on the rubber nipple contentedly, gurgling occasionally as her wide, dark eyes followed her mother's movements around the kitchen.

Low male voices, intense and frightening, crept like ghosts into the warm kitchen. Irrationally, Ianira wanted to stand between her children and their new guest with the gun Ann Vinh Mulhaney had taught her to shoot. She knew her reaction was irrational and overprotective, but the Goddess' warnings of impending danger were not to be lightly ignored.

Why hast thou sent this man, Lady? she asked silently, addressing her frightened prayer to the great patroness of Athens itself, wise and fierce guardian of all that was civilization. I fear this guest, Lady. His glance causes me to tremble with terror. What warning is this and how should I listen for Thy answer? Is he the danger? Or merely the messenger? The portent of a greater danger to follow?

In the closed environment of La-La Land, there were no sacred owls to give her omens by the timing of their cries or the direction of their flight. But there was in-house television. And there were birds-strange, savage, toothed birds so ancient that Athene herself must have been young when their kind flew the darkling skies of Earth. Artemisia, her attention caught by the moving colors of the television screen, dropped her bottle of juice against the high chair's tray with a bang. A chubby finger pointed.

"Mama! Fish-bird! Fish-bird!"

Ianira looked-and felt all blood drain from her face. She had to clutch the countertop to keep from sliding to the floor. An Ichthyornis had struck a brown fish and was devouring it while it struggled. Blood flowed in all-too-lifelike color. Ianira lunged across the narrow kitchen, driven by terror, and snapped off the machine with shaking hands. The screen went dark and silent. Fear for Marcus rose like sour bile in her throat.

No, she pled silently, keep this death away from our threshold, Lady. He has done nothing to merit it. Please ...

Ianira's hands were still trembling when she carried the dishes out to their small dining table and offered the food she had prepared for their evening meal. It took all her courage to smile at their guest, who tore into the food like a ravening wolf. Lupus Mortiferus ... Wolf of Death... Ianira did not yet know precisely how danger would come to Marcus through this man, but she was as certain of it as she was certain that her shaky breaths were barely holding terror at bay.

Ianira Cassondra had lost one family already.

She would do murder, if necessary, to keep from losing another.