Chapter 1   In this group, a winged alien would hardly be noticed. Standing in a corner of the hotel lobby, well away from the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows, Nigel Jamison watched a vampire and a green-skinned Martian perform an “After you, Alphonse” dance at the main entrance. Finally the Martian came through first, and the vampire, following, caught the hem of his cloak in the door. Nigel swirled his own crimson-lined black cape, reflecting that he’d chosen his costume well–striking enough to compel attention if he wanted to do so, but not distinctive enough to stand out. The general style could fit in with any literary milieu from high fantasy through pseudo-medieval to Gothic. Not that Nigel planned to enter the masquerade later that evening, of course; that would violate his low-profile strategy. Many of the attendees, however, wore costumes for the sheer fun of self-expression. Watching the rather fleshy vampire stride up the broad stairway to the second level, Nigel wondered what could induce such a man to envision himself as a cadaverous prowler of the night. Despite his doctorate in psychology, Nigel often found the human mind unfathomable. He shrugged off the thought. This weekend, while not precisely a vacation, should at least be a break from his usual concerns. He shouldered his way between clots of loitering people, breathing shallowly to inhale as little as possible of their perfume, aftershave, and perspiration. The registration table stood at the far end of the lobby, beneath a banner proclaiming “Sequoiacon IV”. A hand-lettered sign admonished: “We are sharing this hotel with mundanes. Please don’t freak the mundanes.” Behind the table sat a slender woman with glossy black hair, whose bronze skin and aquiline profile suggested Native American genes. When she reached out to shake Nigel’s hand, silver bracelets inlaid with turquoise clinked on her arm. They matched a heavy pendant around her neck. Nigel leaned over the table, not quite releasing her fingertips. He glanced at her name tag–Patricia Rainbow. “Tell me, Ms. Rainbow, how much is one membership at the door?” Her brown eyes widened. “At almost six p.m. on Saturday evening? You sure you want to pay twenty-five dollars for less than half the con?” “I didn’t know about it until last night,” he said. “Just happened to notice a small article about it in the paper, and this evening’s program sounded entertaining.” The woman shrugged. “Your money. Welcome to Sequoiacon.” Her eyes traveled up and down his black cape and lace-ruffled shirt. “You’re too late to sign up for the costume contest.” “I would rather just watch.” Money changed hands, and Ms. Rainbow gave Nigel a name tag to fill out. “Art show open until nine, when the masquerade starts,” she said. “Auction tomorrow at noon. The dealers’ room closes at ten, and we have movies playing continuously all night in two different viewing rooms. Good place to sleep, for people who don’t want to pay the hotel for a bed–but you don’t look like that type.” “I was lucky,” said Nigel. “They still had a few vacant rooms.” While he didn’t plan to do any sleeping in his overpriced quarters, he needed somewhere to retreat when the crowd became insufferable. “Oh, and before the costume show, the Mock Turtles will be playing,” she added. “Mock Turtles?” “You must not get to many SF cons,” she said. “Mock Turtle Soup–folk and filk band.” She handed him a program and a hotel floor map, waving her hand to indicate the stacks of promotional flyers covering the table. Uninterested in fanzines or upcoming conventions, Nigel glanced around to make sure no one lingered near enough to take an interest in their conversation. He sat on the edge of the table–gingerly, to avoid toppling it–and captured Ms. Rainbow’s eyes with a steady gaze. “There’s one particular thing I wanted to ask about,” he said in a low voice. “The newspaper piece mentioned–well, it’s almost too ridiculous to repeat, but I was intrigued.” Reaching into his back pocket, he extracted and unfolded a clipping. The headline read “Sci-Fi Con Promises Out of This World Entertainment”. “Sci-fi.” Ms. Rainbow snorted. “Sure, I saw that. Any publicity is better than none, or so they say.” “What about the winged alien?” he asked, his fingers again brushing hers. She looked still more disgusted. “Oh, that nut–what’s his name, Brewster. Gives the rest of us a bad reputation.” “But he did actually claim to have authentic photographs of an alien?” Nigel persisted. “The newspaper wasn’t fabricating that part?” “The man said it, all right.” One hand toyed with her pendant. She hardly seemed to notice Nigel’s light touch on her other hand. “Announced he’d hold a discussion group tomorrow in his room and show off the pictures.” Nigel’s fingers crept up the woman’s arm. “Exactly where and when?” Ms. Rainbow shook her head as if trying to throw off drowsiness. “I don’t know. Check the bulletin board.” With her free hand she gestured toward the wide easel standing a few yards away. “Did you see this man yourself?” asked Nigel. “What does he look like?” “I did sell him a membership, but how the heck could I possibly remember what he looks like? One guy out of hundreds?” “Of course you can remember.” Nigel’s near-caress traveled from her arm to her shoulder. “The powers of the human mind are practically limitless. You just need to relax and concentrate.” Maintaining eye contact, he continued in the same low, crooning tone, “Think. He walked up to the table and checked in. You recognized the name from somewhere, didn’t you? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s drawn attention to himself at a gathering like this. Describe him.” In a sleepy drawl, she said, “Around thirty, curly brown hair, balding in front, medium height, wears designer jeans and a denim jacket. And a crescent-shaped bronze pendant.” She twitched her shoulders and added in a faintly surprised tone, “I did recall the name. He writes articles for a lot of little fanzines. Not very good ones–throws together whatever material he can scrape up and tries to come across as an instant expert.” Just the type, Nigel thought, who’d jump at the chance to publish something he thinks is real. “Anything else?” “He came through the lobby a minute ago, now you mention it. You just missed him. He tacked up a note on the bulletin board.” She rubbed her eyes like a drowsy little girl, her bracelets tinkling. “He walked off with some guy–the publicity rep from Lost Eon Books, I think.” Damn! He’s already spreading it around! Am I too late? Nigel’s hand involuntarily tightened on Ms. Rainbow’s shoulder, making her wince. He hastened to moderate his touch, gentling her into dreamy abstraction. Glancing up again and noticing a group in silver wizards’ robes meandering their way, Nigel ran his fingers along the woman’s jawline and whispered, “Excellent. You’ve been a great help. You can forget what I asked you; it wasn’t important.” As he stepped back from the table, Ms. Rainbow shook her head again, blinking. Nigel grinned at her and, with a casual wave, tucked the clipping away and strolled over to the bulletin board, dodging a boy and girl of about ten who were dressed, respectively, as a hobbit and Maid Marian–though when had Robin Hood’s consort wandered the greenwood with a wyvern on her wrist? Staring, unseeing, at the clutter of flyers and index cards on the easel, Nigel shrugged his cape out of the way to stuff his hands in his pockets in a far from swashbuckling manner. The brief contact with a healthy, responsive female had shaken him more than he’d expected. Keep your mind on the job, he admonished himself. You’re not really interested, anyway; it’s just blind instinct talking. Also, he was tired, but he could stand losing one day of sleep in a good cause. He forced his attention to the posted announcements. At the top left corner of the board, Keith Brewster’s notice hung at a precarious slant. Block letters in red ink on an index card shouted “WINGED FEMALE ALIEN IN NORTHERN CALIFORNIA–DISCUSSION AND PHOTO DISPLAY IN ROOM 318, ELEVEN A.M. SUNDAY.” Brewster had scrawled his signature at the bottom, also in red. As Nigel committed the message to memory, a Wookie stepped up beside him to scan the board. Not wanting conversation, Nigel walked away, leafing through his program. He crossed the forest-green lobby carpet to a side lounge, where drapes were shut against the declining sun. In a fake leather armchair beside a potted avocado tree, he read the evening’s schedule. He had no intention of waiting until eleven the next morning to carry out his task regarding the snapshots. By that hour he expected to have the whole unpleasant business behind him and, with luck, forgotten. As yet he had no clear plan, though, and he hoped for inspiration from the con schedule. What he needed was an ally–or, to be honest, at least with himself, a tool. Someone to provide a diversion, so Nigel could avoid a direct confrontation with Brewster. The less likelihood of that meddling amateur photographer guessing how or why his pictures had vanished, the better. Nigel suspected the small group presentations would offer him the best chance of ensnaring an assistant. Three panel discussions were scheduled for seven: Writing and Selling High Fantasy, New Trends in Urban Horror, and The Search for Nonhuman Intelligence. Nigel immediately pounced on the third. If he couldn’t find a sympathetic listener in that group, his technique needed polishing. Meanwhile, he might as well get the feel of the gathering and, if luck was with him, get an unobtrusive look at Brewster. He strode across the lobby to the main auditorium, where a petite blonde sat on the edge of the stage, cradling a Celtic harp. Listeners filled the front three rows, with other people dotted at irregular intervals throughout the room. They read, munched candy bars, or whispered together. At least one, a bearded man in a T-shirt captioned “Miskatonic University Alumni Association–Ia, Team, Ia!” slept, his head lolling on the back of the wooden folding chair. Nigel followed the harp’s music to the front of the auditorium, taking the vacant seat nearest to the stage. The pain between his eyes, aftermath of the drive up from Berkeley, eased as the sound flowed over him. The relief didn’t spring from the music alone, but from the concentrated attention of the audience. For the first time since entering the hotel, Nigel didn’t feel bombarded by a crossfire of conflicting emotions, like a constant barrage of BB shot. With the thoughts of everyone around him focused on the singer, Nigel felt he could stretch and breathe. She switched tunes and began accompanying herself in Gaelic. Nigel listened for several minutes before reluctantly tiptoeing away. This self-indulgence wasn’t accomplishing anything. Next he followed the hotel map down a corridor to the dealers’ room. Before entering, he drew a deep breath and mentally braced himself. From his slight acquaintance with similar conventions, he knew he could expect the sales room to be overcrowded and noisy. Just as he was about to pass the bearded con official guarding the door, Nigel heard a familiar voice call, “Hey, Professor Jamison!” No use pretending not to hear that stridently cheerful greeting. With an inward groan, Nigel turned to face the lanky young man walking toward him. “Hello, Steve. Fancy meeting you here.” “So you decided to try the con after all! Incredible, isn’t it?” Steve Klein possessed unruly russet hair, brown puppy-dog eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses, a T-shirt adorned with a star map, and the unquestioning belief that professors loved socializing with graduate students. “I couldn’t help but be intrigued by the newspaper item you showed me.” Since he knew he might run into Steve at this affair, Nigel had registered under his real name, a decision for which he now congratulated himself. “Going to get an … Continue reading Sealed in Blood by Margaret L. Carter