Blind God's Bluff A Billy Fox Novel - By Richard Lee Byers Page 0,7
I carried them into the car with me, gashing my cheeks and forehead but somehow missing my eyes. Screaming, I slammed the door, then pulled them off me and beat their long little heads against the dashboard until they quit squirming and scratching.
The engine was still running even though there was no key in the ignition anymore, or at least, none that I could see. I wrenched the wheel and stepped on the gas.
Fairies clung to the hood and glass and glared at the old man and me. I had the terrible thought that, really, there was no way to get rid of them. No way at all. But once I accelerated, they started shaking and blowing off. And as I turned onto a wider street, with other traffic and more lights, the ones who’d hung on until then flew away of their own accord.
CHAPTER TWO
The causeway that runs along and then across McKay Bay goes by docks the shrimp boats use and berths where freighters put in for maintenance and repairs. Surrounded by gantries and scaffolding and all lit up, the big ships glowed like ghosts in the dark.
No Eyes had me stop at a spot where there were no docks or boats, small or big, just a narrow strip of sand and pebbles leading down to the black water. We walked down to it, and I stood looking out while he muttered words I didn’t understand. He picked open one of the scabs on his cheek and flicked drops of blood at the channel.
I had no idea why he’d wanted to come here, or why he was doing what he was doing. Which may have meant that I was stupid to stand around while he did it. But my brain was on overload.
While the fairies were attacking, I’d been too busy trying to cope to think about how crazy everything was. But once we got away, I kind of went into shock. And when the old man told me to drive him to the causeway, it was easier to do it than ask questions. I only insisted that we stop at a 7-Eleven along the way for disinfectant, Band-Aids, gauze pads, and tape.
But I regretted being so cooperative when the thing rose out of the water.
At first, all I saw was the dark bulb of a head as big as a fat ten year-old, and the oily gleam of black, slanted eyes. Then, splashing in the shallows, coiling, clutching, and pulling, the octopus’s tentacles hauled it onto the shore.
I yelped and tried to drag the old man backward. He resisted and snapped, “Calm yourself! This is the being I was calling.”
Well, of course it was. How dumb of me not to have realized. I took a deep breath, and, against my better judgment, held my ground.
“Murk,” the old man said.
“My lord Timon,” Murk wheezed, like it was hard for him to breathe out of the water. There was a tiny clicking, too, that his beak made opening and closing. “Someone hurt you.”
The old guy frowned. “It’s trivial. And I killed several of them.”
“If you say so.” The octopus’s eyes shifted in my direction. “Is this for me?” His tentacles stirred.
I started to backpedal, my shoes crunching the sand and stones. Timon raised a grubby hand to reassure me.
“I have a use for him,” he said. “He’s helping me get around.”
“Then this is a rude, miserly sort of summoning,” said Murk.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Timon said.
“You’re well known for making such promises. Not so well known for keeping them.”
“I said, I’ll make it up to you! Meanwhile, it is what it is, and I am who I am.”
Murk grunted. “That’s for sure. What is it you want?”
“There’s a tournament underway.”
“I know. The Twin Helens told me.”
“My injuries make it impossible for me to continue. I need a champion.”
“You surely don’t mean me.”
“My old friend, who else would I even consider? You’re powerful and cunning. If not for bad luck, you might already be a lord yourself.”
“If not for my master holding me down, you mean.”
Timon frowned. Another drop of blood oozed from his right eye socket; he’d refused any of the bandages I’d clumsily used to patch myself up. “If you want your freedom, and a piece of the bay to call your own, you can have them. All you need to do is win.”
Murk laughed. It sounded like a muted trombone—wah-wah-wah—played by someone running out of wind. “What I want, my lord, is to see you