Carl Sargent

Nosferatu

Marc Gascoign

1

Why the frag is Knight Errant swarming all over the place? Serrin wondered, rubbing his sleepy eyes and squinting into the June sunlight. Uniformed security had sprouted up on the grass around the campus library like mold on a rotting peach. Not breaking stride, the elf headed straight for the group blocking his path to the building's entrance.

"I'm sorry, sir," the security goon said indifferently. "No one is admitted to this area today."

"I've got all my passes," Serrin offered, halfway toward reaching into a jacket pocket for his plastic. His hand froze in mid-air as one look on the goons' faces told him not to put his hand anywhere near any of his pockets. "I'm sorry, sir," the man repeated in a bored tone of voice. "Block C is closed today. Haven't you heard?" "Haven't I heard what?" the elf said irritably. "The Beloff Research Laboratory is being inaugurated at two o'clock this afternoon. By Andrew T. Small in person." The man's voice betrayed just the merest hint of contempt at mention of New York's mayor.

"Great," Serrin muttered, turning on his heel. He wandered off to the nearest canteen, bought a garishly headlined Times from the vending machine, and sat down to read it over a cup of soykaf and a Danish. No one read a cheap tabloid like this for news in 2055, but even its wild sensationalism couldn't distract the elf from his irritation. The grimoires he needed to consult were under the most highly restricted access, and this was the only place in the world that had them. The most he'd been able to get was permission for a week's access to the magical collection

here at Columbia, and now he was going to lose a whole day of it.

His gray eyes meandered over the top of the newspaper to the girl who'd parked herself down across from him. She had the fresh-faced look of the typical university student, but Serrin wondered about the brief flash of something hard in the brown eyes gazing at him from beneath her dark curls. Her datajack was silvered and her nails were polished to match, but the metallic lip gloss was a little too flash for his liking. Yet he could also see that on her it looked good.

"You a mage?" she asked abruptly. He nodded. "One of the parapsych profs?"

He smiled and shook his head. "No, just doing some research." He reached into a pocket for his cigarettes, offered her one.

"You can't smoke in here," she said, with a little laugh. "We social outcasts have to take it outside." She picked up her cup and headed for the door. Stealing a brief look at her long, smooth legs, Serrin got up and went limping after her.

"What're you working on?" she asked as he sat down beside her on the grass. She'd already lit up, the smoke from her menthol cigarette rising lazily into the already warm morning air.

"Um, magical defense," he said, adding his own plume of smoke to the humid, heavy air. Her eyes narrowed a little and he regretted having given himself away so readily. Not that anyone couldn't have figured out what he was after simply by scoping out the grimoires he'd been consulting in the library.

"Against who?" she asked, leaning back on one arm as she watched his face.

Serrin shrugged. "No one amp; Or at least not that I know of. Let's just say I'm a little bit paranoid."

"Then New York's just the place for you. But you're not a native, are you?" She cocked her head and studied him for a moment. "I'd say your accent is West Coast, somewhere north maybe? Seattle?"

Smart girl, he thought, enjoying himself thoroughly. Despite the heat, it was a beautiful summer morning and

she was almost as lovely. The mage barely noticed the passage of time as she gradually drew him out like a fisherman reeling in a difficult catch. The security goons twitched from time to time, perhaps wondering why the elf and the young woman lingered so long doing nothing while the sun rose high in the sky toward noon and then beyond.

The mayor's official cortege arrived on schedule, even a bit early at five minutes to two. By then, the stars of Columbia's parapsychology department had begun to assemble in front of the new research building on a dais festooned with ribbons of red and silver. The stairs leading up to the new building gleamed as if they'd been scrubbed twenty times during the night.

Serrin and the girl wandered across toward the gathering, which apparently hadn't attracted much of a crowd. Despite the fact that the mayor of the city was making an appearance, the Rotten Apple's media snoops obviously had more exciting stories to cover.

"What's he doing here?" Serrin wondered aloud. "I mean, the mayor can't be too worried about the parapsychology vote."

She grinned. "I've heard that some of the money to construct these new buildings came from foreign sources including one that's megatight with a vote he does need."

That caught Serrin's interest, and he was just about to ask what she meant when Mayor Small, surrounded by a phalanx of grim-faced bodyguards, emerged from the safety of his Phaeton and advanced toward the applauding academics.

Long afterward, the mage still could not pinpoint what had alerted him. It wasn't his spell lock to detect enemies, which wouldn't have homed in on an assassin whose target was somebody else. Nor was help from any other magic, for Serrin had no spells going. Trying to run spells in the middle of a place crawling with Knight Errants wouldn't have gotten him more than an abrupt but efficient escort straight off the campus.

No, the way it happened was like a smooth tracking shot in slo-mo. The hazy-edged tan whirl of an Arab face,

a gleam of metal, a masked aura, and a rush of adrenaline. The Knight Errant goons must have caught Serrin just as he was casting his spell for a magical barrier, because all at once several of them were pointing their Predators straight at him. It was at that moment other magical energies swam into focus along with his own.

The bullet never did hit Mayor Andrew T. Small, but deflected away as Serrin's spell defeated its course, sending it shattering into a high window of the new research building. The sound of breaking glass came slowly, as if from a long way off. Small hit the ground while three of his bodyguards piled on top of him like three linebackers sacking a rookie quarterback. The goons staring at Serrin seemed unable to focus, confusion written all over their faces. The Knight Errant mage who'd stopped them from filling the elf with lead barked an order, and they slowly let their raised weapons fall.

Serrin watched the terrifying, unstoppable line of their aim drop from his own body, then, in a sudden burst, everything resumed normal speed in a great rush and roar of noise. The lone gunman had been overpowered by street samurai among the crowd. A squad of Knight Errant's finest leapt for him, eager to save what little face they could.

Serrin was first bundled to the ground, then hauled to his feet again and forced into a tinted-window limo. A coat was clumsily flung over his head as the car sped away. The elf huddled in his seat, barely breathing, barely moving. All he could do was hope and pray that his reflexes hadn't gone and got him into deep and serious drek.

"I apologize for any rough treatment, Mr. Shamandar," the man in the sharp suit told Serrin. "It's just that we were trying to optimize your debriefing. You'll appreciate the need for a full security-implication assessment of events."

Yeah, sure, Serrin thought Wearily. 1 stop the mayor of New York from getting smoked and all I get for my trouble is eighteen hours of nonstop interrogation. I don't

even know where I am. He crossed his arms and gave the nameless suit his best "Well, what now?" look.