Channing nodded and said, “Very good.”
“Would you like me to leave you alone for a few moments to discuss things?”
“Yes, if you would.”
“Certainly.” Abbie walked up the stairs but left the door open. She went into the living room so they would be sure she wasn’t eavesdropping. She wondered what the neighbors would think about vampires living next door. But that wasn’t her concern; she just sold the house.
She did not hear them come up, but they stood suddenly in the living room. She swallowed past the beating of her heart and said, “What do you think of the house?”
Channing smiled, exposing fangs. “I think we’ll take it.”
The smile was very genuine on Abbie’s part as she walked forward and shook their hands. “And how soon will you want to move in?”
“Next week, if possible. We have had our down payment for several months, and our bank is ready to approve our loan.”
“Excellent. The house is yours as soon as the papers are signed.”
Isabel ran a possessive hand down the wall. “Ours,” she said.
Abbie smiled and said, “And if any of your friends need a house, just let me know. I’m sure I can meet their needs.”
Channing grinned broadly at her and put his cool hand in hers. “I’m sure you can, Abbie, I’m sure you can.”
After all, everyone needs a house to call their own. And Abbie sold houses.
A TOKEN FOR CELANDINE
This story is set in the world of my first novel, Nightseer. It’s set on a continent hundreds of miles away, but it’s still the same world with the same magic system. Marion Zimmer Bradley rejected the story by saying that I’d done a pastiche of Tolkien, and elves really should be left to him, but do send another story and try again. I disagreed about elves being left to Tolkien and sent the story out again. It sold next time out, to Memories and Visions. And I would send Ms. Bradley my next story, and have the pleasure of her buying it. No elves in that one.
THE prophet was an old man crazed with his own visions. He crouched against the dark wood of an elm. His fingers dug into the bark as if he would anchor himself to it. He gasped and wheezed as he drew in the morning air.
We had been chasing him through these woods for three days. And I was tired of it. If he ran this time, I was going to put an arrow in his leg. Celandine could heal him of the wound, and she could finally ask her question. I had not mentioned my plan to the healer. I thought she might object. The old man looked into a bar of dazzling sunlight. The glow showed his eyes milky with the creeping blindness of the very old and the very poor.
He was sick, blind, and crazy, and he had eluded me for days.
His prophecy protected him or perhaps the voices he called out to told him I was near. He turned his head to one side as if he were listening. I heard nothing but the wind and a small animal scuttling in the brush.
He turned his blind eyes and looked directly at me. The flesh along my back crawled. He could not see me, but I knew he did.
His voice was an abused cackle that never seemed to finish a thought completely. I had listened to him rant, but now he spoke low and well. “Ask,” he said.
It was Celandine’s question, but while he was in the mood to answer, I asked. Not all prophets are able to answer direct questions. Those that do tend to answer only one question for each person. “How do I find the token which Celandine the Healer seeks?”
“The black road must take. Demons help you. Fight in darkness you will.”
I heard the whisper of cloth that announced the healer.
She came up beside me, white cloak huddled round her body.
Without taking my eyes from the old man I asked, “Did you hear what he said?”
“Yes.”
“Ask him something.”
“Where is the token I seek?”
“Demon, demon inside.” He coughed, his body nearly doubled over with the violence of it. Bloody foam flecked his chin. Celandine stepped forward. “Let me heal you.”