The Warslayer(6)

But if it was not . . .

Deep inside her, a tiny spark of warning woke to life. That these three were honestly sincere was something she did not doubt for a moment—but what they were showing her was the utter sincerity of madness. Glory had been famous for six months, long enough to know the dark side of it: the obsessed, the stalkers, the people dazzled by the bright images on their movie or television screen into believing those images were real people who could see them back. So much belief could twist people in ways they never would have chosen for themselves: twist them and change them into weapons pointed at the celebrities they worshipped. These three truly believed that they needed Vixen the Slayer, but all she had to give them was Glory McArdle. When they realized the difference—when they realized there was a difference, things were going to get . . . ugly.

"I'm not what you need," she said, very quietly. I couldn't even medal at the Games. I'm a too-tall Phys Ed teacher who got lucky! "It's not like I— You shouldn't believe everything you see on television. I mean— You've got the wrong person. I'm an actress. Not even all that good an actress, I reckon. Romy's better. She plays Lilith, and . . ." Cut the grizzling, Glor.

"You were our last hope," Belegir said, his voice choked with hopelessness. "We have sought through all the worlds, gone to each hero—kings, barbarians, warrior-maids, and doomed princes. Always the answer is the same: they are too busy, they will come later. But there is no later for us, Slayer! We are dying now!"

"And so we came here. This is not a world for heroes—but we did our research," Englor said despairingly. He thrust the book he carried toward her.

Glory looked down at the well-worn paperback copy of Vixen the Slayer: The Unofficial Journeys by Greg Cox. She'd spied it a moment ago and thought it meant they were fans, but if they were, they weren't the same kind of fans she'd been meeting all summer. Not by a long chalk.

"Your life imitates art," Englor added with forlorn dignity. Mascara made grainy tracks down his face as well. "We have read it." Then he sobbed outright, and Helevrin enfolded him in her arms. The turquoise-clad woman glared accusingly at Glory as she comforted her comrade, and in that instant Glory understood completely how love could turn to hate.

"We will go," Belegir said with quiet dignity.

Oh, God, yes. Just open the door and go.

The intensity of her fear made her feel angry and ashamed. How could they do this to her? What right did they have to do this to her? Being Vixen was a part, a role, a really expensive game. It wasn't life!

She clenched her hands at her sides and concentrated on what she was going to say to Christina when she got her hands on the lazy little tart—and flinched back as Belegir raised his staff. It was of some straight fine-grained wood, silvery with exposure and handling, and banded and capped in shining copper. Strange symbols graven in fine spidery lines seemed to dance over its surface, and the strange violet jewel on its end glowed with cool radiance.

"Neddhelorn, Hambrellorn, Gathrond Megnas!" Belegir chanted in a deep impressive voice. He thumped the staff on the floor as he did, and with each blow the purple crystal glowed brighter.

"Hey, Vixy? C'mon, you're up next." Christina's voice, calling through the door. There was a rattle as she tried the knob.

The door was locked. Glory hadn't locked it.

"—Lergethil, Gwainirdel, Algoth-Angras!"

"Yo! Vixen!" The knob rattled again.

Glory lunged for the door, forgetting she was spooked by the weirdos, forgetting to be afraid that one of the "Allimir" might be armed with more than the strength of his convictions. Christina could set things right. Everything would be fine.

Just as her hand touched the doorknob, there was a loud pop, a flash, and a wave of intense scent like burned perfume. Glory screamed and flinched in shock, but an instant later she realized she wasn't hurt—yet. She grabbed the knob tightly and jerked at it as hard as she could, willing the door to open, to let her escape.

The knob slipped from her hands, pulling and twisting until she lost her grip. The door fell free, hinges first. Could she have torn it loose in her momentary panic? She blinked. It hadn't made a "bang" as it hit the floor. Christina hadn't screamed.

And for a very good reason, so it seemed. Christina wasn't there, and neither was the hall outside her dressing room.

A wave of cold, damp, forest-y air rolled into the room, and through the now-open doorway, Glory could see trees—a birch forest that stretched into the infinite distance. She could hear the rustle of the branches as the wind passed through them, and watch the flicker of sunlight. The forest floor was covered with bright yellow leaves that began sharply as her doorway ended. As Glory stared in wonder, the leaves rustled and disgorged a chipmunk. It dashed up to her feet before realizing where it was, then turned and dived back into the leaves again.