Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers

I live now on the top floor of the highest building in Springfield. An aerie, I call it. I have made a bassinet and lined it with down. I am a doctor, I will know how to attend to my own delivery. I do not trust anyone else, for my child might look like his father. I am not certain that the attending physicians at Cooley Dickinson are ready for a baby born with pin feathers. I have practiced lullabies, especially the one about the baby in the tree tops. It seems right, some how.

I am alone now. But that does not matter. I am sure the hawk man will come back next season. One thing Lewis taught me: The big hawks mate for life.

And so do I.

So do I.

A Wife of Acorn, Leaf, and Rain Dave Smeds

JORDAN WELLES WAITED IN his study, glad to spend a Monday at the mansion. The paneled walls and heavy bookcases insulated him, holding at bay the purposelessness that clutched at him at work. Downtown was a universe away. Among the century-old rooms, the vast garden, and the wooded acres stretching toward the shore, he could concentrate on the goal that surmounted all others.

Here, the Outsider could visit, as he could not in the city, with all its metal and trappings not of nature.

Jordan stared down into the box at the items he had placed within it. A negligée. An evening dress. High-heeled shoes. A makeup kit. A diary with its lock removed. He resisted the temptation to turn the box over and restore the contents to their places around the house. Though he would be getting everything back within a few days, it hurt to be deprived of these mementos.

He was adding articles to the accumulation when the housekeeper appeared in the open doorway.

“Your visitor has arrived,” she said. A faint twitch of her mouth hinted at the disapproval he knew she must be feeling.

“Very good, Mrs. Cory. I’ll meet with him here.”

She vanished, reappearing only briefly as she escorted the guest to the room.

The Outsider was taller than Jordan, as his kind often were, and slim to the point of emaciation. Fair-skinned and fair-haired, he paradoxically conveyed the impression he was standing in shadow. A human inexperienced in the effects of the glamour might have, after the fact, remembered him with the aspect of a Sicilian or Spaniard. A Mediterranean teenager, Jordan thought, body hair atypically sparse, with a distinct flavor of androgyny.

The visitor shrank away from the metal lamp at the end of Jordan’s desk. He tucked his head farther beneath the hood of his robes and hid his hands within the sleeves, retreating from the hostile emanations of the house, encasing himself in layers of chestnut and sorrel.

“You’ve found someone for the job?” asked Jordan.

“Indeed.”

Jordan had already learned his guest was a creature of few words. That was just as well, given the unnerving tendency of his speech to echo. All that mattered was that he could deliver what he had been asked to acquire.

“She’ll need these,” Jordan said, gesturing at the box on his desk. He also picked up a thick manila folder and extended it, declining to make contact as the material slid from his grip.

The Outsider glanced in the folder. Photos of Véronique flashed momentarily into view. He grunted approval at the thick sheaf of biographical notes.

“I’d like to add something else,” Jordan stated. “Do you have access to a VCR? Can you operate one?”

The being reacted with distaste. “We study all the magicks of your world, as best we can. A way can be found.”

“Tapes will make the task easier. They’ll provide a means to study physical mannerisms, speech patterns, and so forth.”

“If you wish, we will use them.”

Jordan opened a drawer and added the half-dozen videocassettes he found there to the box. He held up the final one, unmarked save for a blue sticker. “This one’s especially important.”

Jordan paused, then let the cassette settle into the box. He had promised Véronique he would never let anyone see that recording. It was for him, for those times when Véronique couldn’t be with him, and occasionally for them to view together. He grimaced at the thought of strange pairs of eyes poring over its images. Did Outsiders feel voyeuristic delight? What of any human that might be brought in to assist in the operation of the machinery?

The visitor lifted the box. He cradled it against his body, apparently able to tolerate the traces of metal therein—just a few tiny screws in the cassettes. “These will help, but the dreams are the key,” he said.

“She can do this, can’t she?” Jordan asked, almost hoping to be told otherwise.

The other nodded. Taking off his glove, he held out his hand. The index finger grew indistinct. When it came back in focus, it had become thicker and was no longer the same length as the middle digit. It strongly resembled Jordan’s own.

The transformation lasted a few moments, then reverted back. The Outsider swayed, blinked, and caught his breath.