I stood on the stage, in front of the mic, staring out at hundreds of young people dressed in all kinds of costumes, from witches to cartoon characters, including one rather confused-looking girl dressed as Meryl Streep. At least I didn't have to think of them naked to assuage my fears. They looked more ridiculous like this.
"Um, hi." I tapped the mic, only to hear excruciating feedback. "I'm, uh, Beetle Dork."
There was mass applause. I didn't expect that.
"Welcome to Druid-Con!" I tried to throw my arms in the air, but the carapace wings were holding my arms down. "Okay. Bye." And then I walked off stage.
Kelly met me on the floor. "That was interesting."
Stewie and his druids ran up onstage and began speaking into the mic about stuff I didn't pay attention to. I was really regretting being here. Especially when Kelly took about a thousand pictures.
"I'm just staying long enough to meet Deliria," I insisted.
"Mrs. Wrath!" A cluster of little girls squealed as they ran over.
They were all dressed as princesses of course. I recognized them after a moment. The wigs were very realistic. There was Caterina—the sweet, quiet one; Inez—who was whip-smart; one of four Kaitlyns—who all looked alike so I could never tell them apart; Ava—the bossy leader; and Betty—a terrifying-in-a-fun-way eleven-year-old with a promising future in either the CIA or the mafia.
"You were awesome up there!" Caterina gushed.
"You were okay." Betty shrugged.
"Why are you guys here?" I asked, looking around for their parents.
Ava stepped forward, wearing a crown that said Ava for Mayor. "We're going public with my campaign."
The troop go-getter, Ava was destined to be CEO of an insurance company someday. But right now, as a fifth grader, she was starting her trajectory by running for mayor of Who's There, Iowa—a town that, after an election where a donkey won and served a four-year term, had only one requirement for the office—you had to be human.
I looked around. "You might be in trouble here. Most of these kids don't look old enough to vote."
Ava thought for a moment. "Well, I'll just have to pre-screen those who I talk to."
"I can make them all fake IDs," Betty mused. "They'd definitely vote for you if I made them all drinking age."
"No," Kelly warned. "You are not giving teenagers fake IDs."
"Why not?" Betty asked. "Mom says the drinking age was only nineteen in the 1980s."
Inez nodded. "When dinosaurs could vote."
"Except for pterodactyls," Caterina said sadly. "They didn't get the right to vote until the 19th Amendment."
"So not fair," Betty agreed.
"Hey!" one of the Kaitlyns said. "Drinking at 19 and 19th Amendment! Think there's a conspiracy theory there?"
Ava explained to us, "Betty's getting into starting conspiracy theories."
"Only for idiots," Betty added for good measure.
"There's so much to correct you on," Kelly said. "I'm not sure whether to start or just give up."
"You should give up," Betty replied. "That's what my parents are always telling me they do."
"Betty's moving on to conspiracy theories?" I wondered aloud. In the past, Betty had dabbled in magic, freedom for the Basque people and Catalonia, 1920s gangster speak, and explosives.
"Sure." The girl looked at me seriously. She always looked like that. "I can make one up about Beetle Dork if you want."
"No thanks." I waved her off.
"Can you make one up for us?" Stewie and the druids appeared seemingly out of nowhere.
"Sure." Betty considered. "For fifty bucks an hour."
The druids eagerly accepted. I thought about putting the kibosh on this, but the druids seemed so happy, and they certainly had enough money, so I didn't.
Kelly, on the other hand, attempted it. "No, you aren't going to create a new conspiracy theory for the Cult of NicoDerm."
"Why not? Everyone else has one," Betty argued.
"And," my co-leader continued, "certainly not for $50 an hour."
"What's the problem if they agree to pay it?" Betty asked.
Ava interjected, "It does seem like an adequate going rate. Although, she isn't charging me anything." Since she'd started her campaign for mayor, Ava had decided to learn words that went beyond the fifth grade, like adequate.
"Betty is coming up with a conspiracy theory for you?" I asked.
"Of course. All the political campaigns have one. Why not mine?" Ava sniffed.
Betty explained, "We're saying that Ava's opponent, the current mayor, has had several kidnapping attempts made against him and that it's his fault because he hates puppies."
"But you're the one who'd always talking about kidnapping the mayor," I pointed out. "And I don't recall anything being said about him hating puppies."
Betty blinked at me. "And your point is?"
"Works for us!" Stewie said eagerly. "I've heard of these kidnapping plans. This kid gets results!"
I shrugged and decided to act like I'd never heard this. Claire could sort Stewie and the other teen druids out later. She was good at that. Besides, I kind of wanted to see what Betty would come up with for this motley band of weirdos.
"Make sure I seem taller in the conspiracy," Stewie suggested as Betty wrote things into a little notebook. "I hear you're into Catalan and Basque independence. Can you write a hero story about me using that?"
Betty closed her notebook. "Are you kidding? I'm much older and more mature. My thing is Scottish independence now."
"Okay. That'll work. I think…" Stewie's words trailed away as he turned paler than normal. Something behind me appeared to make him nervous.
"Are you alright?" I asked as his cheeks and neck turned bright red while sweat ran down the sides of his face.
"What are they doing here?" Kayla snapped, sounding way more annoyed than usual.
"Dred Demigod Odious," a cultured voice said behind me.
I turned to see five teens, all in black silk robes with flames embroidered on them, smiling at us. Their clothing and haircuts looked expensive, even though they appeared to be just as dopey as my cult.
"It's Dred Demon Odious!" Stewie squeaked indignantly.
"You must be the Bird Goddess." The very tall, very thin young man ignored Stewie and smiled at me. He took a deep bow that was echoed by the kids on either side of him. "I am Dred God Sherman the All Knowing. At your service, Goddess."
"You're not a god!" Stewie sputtered.
"I assure you"—Sherman gave him an oily grin—"I most certainly am."
"Druids of America rule #38"—Mike's Adam's apple bobbed with irritation—"states that no one can elevate themselves to god. The highest rank possible is demon, followed by demigod."
I turned to my cult. "Druids of America?"
"Well…" Sherman examined his perfectly manicured fingernails. "That was before my father gave a rather large endowment to the society, so they rewrote the bylaws."
Stewie turned purple and looked like his head might explode. "Your dad bought you a godship? That's so not fair!"
"Druids of America?" I asked again.
"We must away…there's danger afoot," Sherman said, taking my hand and kissing it before I could tear it away. "A pleasure to meet you, Bird Goddess. You should come visit us at our Tabernacle of Terror—trademark pending."
The other four kid druids with him bowed deeply and murmured, "Bird Goddess," and then they walked away.
"They're trying to poach our Bird Goddess!" Heather protested.
Four pairs of eyes looked at me, pathetic with fear.
"Relax. No one is poaching me. I'm still your Bird Goddess," I assured them. "Now, who was that?"
"The Cult of Eternal Fear and Loathing." Kayla made a face. "They're from Kennedy's Landing. And that's Sherman Kennedy."
If Bladdersly was considered our county's armpit, Kennedy's Landing was its poshest zip code. The unincorporated community was founded while I was in the CIA. A whole ten minutes closer to Des Moines than Who's There, the landlocked and therefore surprisingly named Kennedy's Landing became a sort of bedroom community for the wealthy. I'd never been over there and never really had no reason to go.
"He's a Kennedy?" Kelly whistled.
I stared at her. "One of those Kennedys? The famous Kennedys?"
"Well, fifteenth cousins four times removed," Kelly responded. "But yes. In a way. Sort of."
"And they never shut up about it." Heather punctuated her remark with a very loud gum crack.
"I had no idea." I'd have to ask Dad about that. As a longtime senator, he knew everyone in Washington. He'd know if these Kennedys were connected to any power source. After all, it was always a good idea to know your enemies, whether they were Russian spies or competitor teen druids.
Stewie's normal color of pale beige started to return. "I can't believe those jerks are here!"
"Well," Mike reasoned, "we did put up posters everywhere."
Stewie's already tiny eyes narrowed to slits that made it looked like they were closed. "I told you guys not to put any up in Kennedy's Landing!"
Heather threw her arms in the air. "We didn't! But it's a bedroom community to Des Moines! I'm sure their rich parents spotted one there!"
"Besides," Kayla said. "They are here, which means they bought tickets, which means they gave us money. That's a plus, right?"
Just then Kurt, her boyfriend from Bladdersly, joined us. "Hey babe!" He made a weak attempt to kiss her, but she brushed him off. He looked at the druids. "What's wrong?"
Kurt Allen Hobbs Jr. III, Esquire, was an inept but very eager young bounty hunter from Bladdersly, who I'd recently had dealings with when I was the suspect in a murder there. He'd had a crush on Kayla for a long time, and recently he'd worn her down and they'd started dating.
I looked at my troop, who were taking this all in. Someday they'd be interested in boys. I suppressed a shudder. Not just because I'd be losing them, but also in fear of what kind of boy would catch Betty's eye. At this point it would have to be a horse-riding, extortionist Scottish independence activist who let her wear the pants in the relationship.
The druids whined to Kurt about Sherman. He listened thoughtfully.
"I can tail them and do some digging, if you want?" he offered.
Kayla planted a kiss on his cheek. "That would be great!"
The young man blushed deeply. "I'll do it for free!"
"No," I interceded. "The Cult of NicoDerm will pay you."
Betty nodded. "The going rate is $50 an hour."
Stewie looked at me and gasped. "You're supposed to be signing autographs!" He shoved me before I gently twisted his arm until he let go. Then I apologized. It was just an automatic reaction.
"I don't want to sign autographs," I said through gritted teeth.
He panicked. "You have to! That's the whole point of you being here!" He pointed at a table across the room with a chair, and ten feet away there were thirty kids in various costumes in line, waiting.
I gave in and walked over to the table and sat down. Apparently, I was signing headshots of what looked suspiciously like Stewie wearing the Beetle Dork mask. Upon closer examination, I realized it actually was a headshot of Stewie wearing the Beetle Dork mask.
"I'm not signing that," I insisted. "It's not even me."
"We didn't have time to get one of you," Stewie insisted. "They won't even notice."
"They won't even notice?" It was obviously a chubby adolescent boy face and not an almost thirty-year-old ex-CIA face.
"Fine," Stewie grumbled as he collected up the photos and tossed them under the table. For a moment I wondered if he was getting some secret thrill out of having his face being autographed. "You can sign these." He handed me a stack of glossies of the Beetle Dork comic cover.
"I guess I have no choice," I grumbled as Stewie stepped around the table and started issuing instructions to the folks in line.
That's when I noticed Ron and Ivan, my Chechen goon brothers-in-law, taking up positions on either side of me. I'd been undercover with the two of them while working for a Chechen strong man. The thick-muscled, thick-in-the-head men were sweet, and they meant well. And after marrying Rex's twin sisters, they were family.
I looked blankly at Ron and Ivan. "What are you doing here?"
"We are your security," Ron explained as he folded his arms menacingly over a broadly muscled chest.
"Guys, I don't need bodyguards." Seriously, the fans in this line looked like they'd run screaming if I just mocked them.
Ivan clapped his hands. "Ooh! Like in movie! I am Kevin Costner."
"No." Ron shook his head dismissively. "I am Kevin Costner."
Ivan disagreed. "We cannot both be Kevin Costner. There is only one in film."
Ron considered this. "I will be Whitney Houston."
"No, Merry is Whitney Houston." They looked at me expectantly. I felt a lot less like Whitney Houston while dressed as a beetle.
"Sing something," Ivan demanded of me.
"Absolutely not." I shook my head for emphasis.
Ron looked at me pityingly. "If you cannot sing good, you cannot be Whitney Houston. But we still have to decide who is Kevin Costner."
Ivan brightened. "We could fight for it!"
Without waiting, Ron lunged over the table, crashing to the floor with Ivan in a headlock. The teens in line, probably mistaking this for some sort of reenactment, began to applaud. I got up and took each man by the thumb and twisted hard and back toward their forearms. The men went silent and, while their faces contorted with pain, got to their feet.
"No more fighting. Got it?" I hissed. "Just act normal, if that's at all possible."
I took up the provided pen and a comic cover and smiled at the first kid in line. "How would you like me to sign this?"
The young man, who wore a scarlet mask and cape over a yellow T-shirt with a goat eating a dragon on it, said, "You will write, To Arnie, my best friend in the whole world, who saved my life fifty times and to whom I will write a check for $10,000—All my adoration, Beetle Dork!"
There were multiple cries behind him of Cool! And I want that too! And Are you really as lame and useless as you are in the comic?
I wrote, I'm letting you live…this time. Regards, Beetle Dork, and shoved it toward him, shouting "Next!" before he could respond.
This was going to be a long day.