man. I haven’t played since college.”
Drake straightened up. “It is no act, Ms. Reyes. I am . . . displaced, you might say, from my original context.”
Ree narrowed her eyes. “Run that by me again?”
Drake took a breath, then said, “I was born in the Year of Our Lord 1864, and while I was battling the Kadel torture-ships across the skies of great Avalon, my Aetheric Rifle had an unforeseen effect upon the Kadel gravitic drive, catapulting the ship into the deepest reaches of Faerie. After years of adventures with My Mistress, the Contessa of the Lapis Galleon, I found myself in the twenty-first century, far from home.”
Ree knew her eyes couldn’t get any narrower and take in light, but it wasn’t enough to convey her doubt. Still, he didn’t look like he was lying. “Are you serious?”
Drake leveled a severe look at her. “One must always be serious when speaking of the beautiful dangers of Faerie.”
Ree shifted her weight, continuing to work on the puzzle that was this man before her. “And what do you do these days?”
Drake smiled. “I do what I’ve always done. Protect the innocent, punish the wicked, seek to find the light of truth amid the dark cloud of ignorance.”
“So, super hero?” Ree asked.
His expression seemed to say not quite . “I have read the exploits of some of these super heroes.” He thumbed through a bin of back issues and pulled out a Batman comic. “I find the Dark Knight to be quite compelling—one man pitting his cunning and determination against the forces of corruption. Very inspiring.”
Ree nodded, finding it easier to speak in her own voice now that she was conscious of the Princess Bride energy pushing her to act differently. “I’ve always been more of a Spider-Man girl, myself. Do you know Eastwood?”
He nodded. “A stalwart if somewhat morose figure. Are you his apprentice?”
“No. Well, maybe. Has he had apprentices before?”
“None that I know of.”
Drake was charming in the same way that a Cinnabon roll was sweet. A little goes a long damn way, and a lot quickly becomes too much to stomach. “Do you know anything about the recent string of suicides in town?”
That eyebrow quirk said no . “I had not heard of such a thing. I admit I am not good at using thinking machines for news. I prefer the texture of the daily paper.”
Fair enough. “Well, that’s what we’re working on. If you hear anything, can you drop me a line?” Ree fished a business card out of her purse—it was her “Rhiannon Reyes—Screenwriter” card, because why in the nine hells would someone ever make a business card that said “Barista”?
“I certainly will—I have acquired a mobile telephone, thanks to the infinite kindness of our dear host.” Drake produced a flip phone at least four years out-of-date, though she supposed that for a nineteenth-century throwback, it would be slightly less of a Future Shock while still being totally alien.
“So, what do you think of the twenty-first century?” she asked.
Drake paced back and forth, talking with his hands. “Everything is very clean here, except in certain neighborhoods which are rather more like the streets in Avalon. Technology has advanced in so many directions and fashions I would have never imagined. However, I find the everyday approach to technology rather impersonal.”
Drake threw back his coat, revealing a collection of gadgets on his belt and strapped to the inside of his coat, like a fake-watch-salesman-turned-vigilante.
“I made every piece of my gear by hand and know it inside and out.” He closed his coat and held up the phone. “But this phone. I couldn’t start to tell you how it works, where it was made, or how to repair it, and I feel that I am not far behind the average citizen in that regard.”
Ree shrugged. “Clarke’s Third Law.”
“Beg pardon?” he asked.
Right, Ree thought. “Arthur C. Clarke was a writer of scientifically based fiction. His Third Law
Drake straightened up. “It is no act, Ms. Reyes. I am . . . displaced, you might say, from my original context.”
Ree narrowed her eyes. “Run that by me again?”
Drake took a breath, then said, “I was born in the Year of Our Lord 1864, and while I was battling the Kadel torture-ships across the skies of great Avalon, my Aetheric Rifle had an unforeseen effect upon the Kadel gravitic drive, catapulting the ship into the deepest reaches of Faerie. After years of adventures with My Mistress, the Contessa of the Lapis Galleon, I found myself in the twenty-first century, far from home.”
Ree knew her eyes couldn’t get any narrower and take in light, but it wasn’t enough to convey her doubt. Still, he didn’t look like he was lying. “Are you serious?”
Drake leveled a severe look at her. “One must always be serious when speaking of the beautiful dangers of Faerie.”
Ree shifted her weight, continuing to work on the puzzle that was this man before her. “And what do you do these days?”
Drake smiled. “I do what I’ve always done. Protect the innocent, punish the wicked, seek to find the light of truth amid the dark cloud of ignorance.”
“So, super hero?” Ree asked.
His expression seemed to say not quite . “I have read the exploits of some of these super heroes.” He thumbed through a bin of back issues and pulled out a Batman comic. “I find the Dark Knight to be quite compelling—one man pitting his cunning and determination against the forces of corruption. Very inspiring.”
Ree nodded, finding it easier to speak in her own voice now that she was conscious of the Princess Bride energy pushing her to act differently. “I’ve always been more of a Spider-Man girl, myself. Do you know Eastwood?”
He nodded. “A stalwart if somewhat morose figure. Are you his apprentice?”
“No. Well, maybe. Has he had apprentices before?”
“None that I know of.”
Drake was charming in the same way that a Cinnabon roll was sweet. A little goes a long damn way, and a lot quickly becomes too much to stomach. “Do you know anything about the recent string of suicides in town?”
That eyebrow quirk said no . “I had not heard of such a thing. I admit I am not good at using thinking machines for news. I prefer the texture of the daily paper.”
Fair enough. “Well, that’s what we’re working on. If you hear anything, can you drop me a line?” Ree fished a business card out of her purse—it was her “Rhiannon Reyes—Screenwriter” card, because why in the nine hells would someone ever make a business card that said “Barista”?
“I certainly will—I have acquired a mobile telephone, thanks to the infinite kindness of our dear host.” Drake produced a flip phone at least four years out-of-date, though she supposed that for a nineteenth-century throwback, it would be slightly less of a Future Shock while still being totally alien.
“So, what do you think of the twenty-first century?” she asked.
Drake paced back and forth, talking with his hands. “Everything is very clean here, except in certain neighborhoods which are rather more like the streets in Avalon. Technology has advanced in so many directions and fashions I would have never imagined. However, I find the everyday approach to technology rather impersonal.”
Drake threw back his coat, revealing a collection of gadgets on his belt and strapped to the inside of his coat, like a fake-watch-salesman-turned-vigilante.
“I made every piece of my gear by hand and know it inside and out.” He closed his coat and held up the phone. “But this phone. I couldn’t start to tell you how it works, where it was made, or how to repair it, and I feel that I am not far behind the average citizen in that regard.”
Ree shrugged. “Clarke’s Third Law.”
“Beg pardon?” he asked.
Right, Ree thought. “Arthur C. Clarke was a writer of scientifically based fiction. His Third Law
Similar Books
