Woman King (14 page)

“See what I mean,” she said, handing me a
tissue. “Blocking is like one of the baseball games you love so
much. Energy shifts. One distraction, one error and you can be
behind in the count, as you like to say.”

My task for the remainder of the evening was
to focus and maintain my blocking. No matter how hard Elsa pushed,
I was to resist. I had to focus and not divert my attention, for
even a moment. That was somewhat easy if I was standing still
watching her. But then she insisted we go outside and run. Trying
to block while moving was a whole other story. I had to look down
to see where I was going and try to keep her locked out of my
skull. As I tore though the forest behind the museum, jumping over
logs and trying to avoid obstacles in the dark, I could feel her
pressing on me.

At first I was too distracted to keep her out
and she wasn’t even trying very hard. Then my eyes finally adjusted
to the darkness and I began to use my senses more efficiently. I
calmed my mind as Elsa had instructed and began to imagine a huge
force of energy surrounding me. It both protected me and propelled
me. I could see the glow in my mind’s eye—a sensation Elsa had told
me to expect. I was generating a field of energy around my body and
my mind. For a short while I was able to run with ease and felt no
pressure in my head. Then, for one moment, I got distracted and my
mind wandered and just like that…Wham! It felt like Elsa had taken
a bat to the back of my head. I went down in the mossy loam of the
path and curled up into a ball.

“Why did you stop concentrating?” Elsa asked
as she ran up and bent over me.

“Why did you wallop me in the back of my
head?” I gurgled from the forest floor.

“I didn’t mean to use so much force,” she
said, trying to help me up. “You were doing so well, you were
aglow. I was testing you and then—poof! you stopped blocking…” Elsa
stopped mid sentence when I abruptly put my hand to my nose, where
I could feel the warm trickle of blood starting up again.

“Let’s go inside” she said. “I will help you
clean up.”

****

After a couple of weeks avoiding nosebleeds
and working what amounted to a double shift, I was ready for a
break from my duties. Luckily, my need for a diversion coincided
with the arrival of a bluegrass music festival. Planned and paid
for through the generosity of a local philanthropist, the annual
event is a three-day tribute to the twangs and twinges of guitar,
fiddle and banjo. The music is performed in several large meadows
and groves in Golden Gate Park where bands play continuously from
late morning until dusk. Because it’s free, tens of thousands of
people stream into town to enjoy the music. I couldn’t think of a
better way to spend the last days of San Francisco’s Indian summer
than outside at a concert.

On the first day of the festival, I printed
out a map of the five stages and the program of performers. I
perused the lineup of bands and plotted a strategy for moving as
little as possible while enjoying maximum sun and music. After some
quick deliberation, I decided to make camp in an area where local
bands would be performing. Most of the big names I wanted to watch
like Iron and Wine wouldn’t perform until early evening. I knew
some people would stake out a place now for those shows, but I
didn’t have the heart to sit through music I didn’t like for
several hours.

I had invited Elsa to join me, but she
declined, saying she had some work to review with Aidan. Alone, I
grabbed my camp chair and a thermos of rum and coke and headed for
Golden Gate Park. With little trouble, I found a good spot to sit
in an open grassy field, directly in front of one of the smaller
performance stages. I opened my chair, put some sunscreen on my
face and prepared to enjoy the day.

Technically, you are not allowed to bring
alcohol into the park. I say technically because, although the law
is very real, it’s rarely enforced. In fact, it seemed to me that
I’d rarely been in the park at a festival where alcohol and other
assorted goodies were not being passed around.

Although I was beginning to think of the park
as a gigantic hideout for magical beings, and as the headquarters
of the Council, the park was also a human refuge. In a city as
dense as San Francisco, with more apartments buildings than
single-family homes, the park is a backyard to thousands. It’s a
place to run, walk, think and get high. Today was clearly one of
those days when getting high took precedence over other
activities.

As I unscrewed the cap on my thermos and
poured a bit of my cocktail into the small plastic cup, I was
tapped on the shoulder and handed a joint. When I’m working I
usually don’t smoke pot. I am paranoid that there will be some kind
of campaign emergency and I will be too out of it to solve the
problem. It was also true that Elsa would have been less than
thrilled at my attempt to dull my mind, which she was working so
feverishly to sharpen. But I am human. It was too beautiful a
moment not to take a little hit.

Not long after, I was feeling right as rain
and leaned back in my chair to enjoy the music. I pulled out my
schedule and read the name of the first band: Three Blind Mice. A
trio came on stage, a woman carrying a fiddle, a man with a
stand-up bass and, a few seconds later, another man sauntered out
with an acoustic guitar in his hands.

He was pale, amazingly so, with a slight
sprinkling of freckles across the middle of his face. He had fiery
red hair that hung straight to his shoulders. Before he began to
play, he pulled a hair band out of his pocket and tied the hair
back in a ponytail. This made it easier to see a small hoop earring
in his left ear and to see his eyes, which were a shade of green
similar to the moss on the shady side of a log. He had a long,
narrow nose that sat above a set of pale, pink lips. He was
moderately tall and slim in a way that appealed to me, as I have
never been one for bulky, muscular men.

OK, I’ll admit that I was intrigued.

But I couldn’t say why he caught my
attention. In San Francisco, there is no shortage of tall, gaunt,
waifish men to gawk at. I noticed also that he had a fabulous set
of tattoos around his wrists and elbows—again, not a rare
occurrence. With him, though, there was a certain
je ne sais
quoi
. Maybe it was the way his grey shirt and faded jeans hung
on his body. Maybe it was the pot. I was trying to put my finger on
what it was that caught my attention when the trio began to play.
The moment I heard the music, I knew he was the vampire from the
tunnel.

The recognition was immediate for us both.
When I looked back at the stage, his green eyes were gazing
directly into mine and he had a slight smile on his face, as if he
also was satisfied to find me. I held his gaze. I sank back in my
chair and locked on to him and watched as he moved his fingers up
and down the neck of the guitar, fret-to-fret-to fret, hitting
every note while never taking his eyes from mine.

In general, romantic fairy tales don’t sway
me, especially now that I know that fairies can actually be quite
evil. But, honestly, I was quite dazzled by the gorgeous musician
making eyes at me. Now and then I would look away to chat with
someone, or look out at the swelling crowd gathering. He
periodically switched instruments, using a banjo instead of a
guitar, but the moment I turned my head back to him, he would meet
my gaze.

I was enjoying myself, but I realized that I
needed to bring our staring contest to an end and leave before the
vampire got the idea I was actually interested in getting to know
him better. It’s been well established (by me) that I don’t have
boyfriends. I sleep with men occasionally when I feel the urge,
usually the kind of men who don’t want to be called again. This
suits me fine. I’m not interested in romance. I don’t believe that
people meet, fall in love and get married. There is no such thing
as happily ever after. And now, with my newfound powers and a
sidekick named Elsa, I am especially not interested in dating.

Of course, this vampire never said he wanted
to date me either. I had no evidence that he wanted anything to do
with me. Last time we were alone, he’d abruptly stopped talking and
disappeared. In fact, I didn’t even know if vampires liked humans,
let alone dated them. But the biggest black mark against him? He
was already dead, which meant he had a lot of free time on his
hands. To me this was the fatal flaw. The last thing I needed was a
guy with too much time on his hands hanging around.

Having had this entire conversation quickly
in my head, I reluctantly packed up as the band was ending its set
and abruptly set off, walking into the massive stream of people
surging toward the main stages. I was never so relieved to be
swallowed by a crowd and I hoped it would help me disappear. I was
allowing myself to be pushed along with the general direction of
the mob when I felt a whisper of breath against my ear and a set of
firm fingers on my shoulder.

“I see you still can’t finish what you
start,” he said, his Southern drawl sounding stronger today.

I turned to face him and was prepared to deny
all when I found myself looking into eyes far darker than they had
seemed from the stage. I exhaled before I could stop myself. My God
he was beautiful. And calm. He was still giving off the calmest
waves of energy I had ever felt. I, however, did not feel calm. I
was feeling anxious. How had he found me so quickly, and in such an
enormous crowd?

“Have we met?” I asked, using my haughtiest
voice.

My remarks caused him to throw his head back
and laugh. “You spent my entire set ogling me, and now you’re going
to pretend we don’t know each other? That is downright cruel.”

“I was not ogling,” I said, unable to steel
myself against his charm. “I was watching you play. I happen to
like bluegrass music.”

“Liar,” was his reply.

We were at a standstill. As I stood watching
him, trying to control my breathing, it occurred to me that he was
standing in the mid-day sun.

“Are you going to burst into flames if we
stand here?” I asked genuinely not wanting to draw that kind of
attention to myself. I mean, how would you explain that to the
police?

He smiled. “No, I will not burst into flames,
but I would like to get my hat and my guitar and find some shade.
Would you care to join me,
ma’am
?”

It was the
ma’am
that got me. It was
delivered in a velvety drawl that sent shivers down my spine. I was
transported to my imagination’s version of the South, with a door
being opened at some luncheonette so I could stroll in and order a
tall glass of lemonade. And like that, all of my “I don’t date,” “I
don’t get involved,” disappeared and I walked off with a strange
vampire into the middle of a music festival.

We walked back to the stage where his band
had performed. He pulled several lanyards with plastic badges from
inside his shirt and showed them to a guard, who let us both walk
behind a makeshift fence. As we headed toward the back of the
stage, I found myself ready to ask questions.

“Do your band mates know?” I asked.

“Know what?”

“You know,” I said. “What you are?”

“They know,” he said, picking up the same
straw cowboy hat he’d been wearing in the tunnel. “They don’t much
care as long as I show up for our performances.”

“They must live in the Mission,” I blurted
out before I could stop myself.

My Southern man of mystery smiled. “You mean
because in the Mission no one would notice a vampire walking
around?”

“Exactly,” I said, glad he understood what I
meant.

“I’m William Ferrell, by the way,” he said,
extending his hand.

I took his cool hand into mine and for the
second time I could not control a gasp. He was an old soul. I could
tell now why he was so calm. He had lived lifetimes; the energy he
gave off spoke of conservation and time. I was amazed at what I
could feel coming from him. But more than that, I could feel his
strong interest in me. He was burning with curiosity about what I
was and was clearly letting me read him to see what would
happen.

“Why are you letting me do this?” I
asked.

“Tell me your name,” he said, holding on to
my hand.

“Olivia. Olivia Shepherd,” I said.

“Well,
Olivia
,” he said, stretching
out the syllables. “I am trying to figure out what you are.”

Although we were in a crowded place with
people who had been partying for hours, I was leery of saying
anything. The Council had been explicit that I was not to discuss
my skills or the existence of the Others with regular humans.

“Shhhh,” I said, laughing. “You’ll scare the
humans. Let’s get out of here.”

William picked up his guitar and we began to
walk. We left the festival compound and headed east along the
sidewalk until we got to the entrance to Stow Lake. I don’t know
why I took him there. I guess I thought it would be quiet and it
has some nice shady groves where we could talk.

By now it was late afternoon, and the clouds
were moving in. The light around the lake was slightly dulled, and
the sun had to push through the clouds to be seen. It was still
beautiful to look at and I was pleased to see a flock of geese
flying across the lake, honking as they came overhead. I led
William to the inner ring of the lake, where a dirt path climbs to
the top of what locals call Strawberry Hill. I didn’t have to worry
that he would be out of breath from carrying a guitar as he walked
wordlessly next to me. When we got to the top, I gestured to show
him the panoramic view of the city. He smiled.

We sat down on a large boulder and looked out
at the Pacific Ocean and Marin headlands laid out before us.