Chapter XXXVI:
An Encounter in the Dark

A QUEEN NEED offer accounting of her actions to no soul save her priest; with a team owner, it is different. I had perforce to notify the board and my staff of the outcome of my investigation into the Ogres. The manager I had sacked was a former teammate of the GM, who had on several occasions lobbied for his friend’s promotion within the franchise. This factored large in my insistence upon settling the matter myself; he knew I was trying to get Sandy back as GM—and thus far with no success, alas.

The GM was not pleased with my report.

“You sacked him right then and there? Without a trial to prove the charges!”

“There will be a trial, Ewan, I assure you, and I will press charges to the fullest extent of the law.”

“An embezzlement conviction will ruin Malcolm in baseball. No team in the world will hire him!”

“That was his risk to take, and he was caught. No man steals from my players, even the very bread from their children’s mouths, and walks away to spread his evil elsewhere.”

A noise akin to a cross between a growl and a groan sprang from deep in his throat, followed by, “Bitch!” and he lunged across the table toward me like a foaming lunatic. I could have dealt with him using a spell, but not without revealing my secret, and I was curious how far Ewan would go. He tore the lapel of my blazer before some of the other men pounced, pulled him back, and restrained him.

Here I missed Sandy most acutely. He would not have been satisfied with the capture, but would have pummeled the man’s face into the semblance of hamburger—which would have necessitated my levying upon Sandy yet another fine and suspension, but I would have appreciated the retaliatory gesture nonetheless. Upon further reflection, I realized none of that would have occurred; Sandy would have attended the meeting as GM, and Ewan in the capacity of Assistant GM would have heard the report second-hand.

“Ewan McBain, if you touch me ever again, I promise you shall not live to regret it.” I smoothed my lapel as best I could until a private moment when I could repair the tear, also smoothing away my memories of Sandy, though they remained like tide-washed footprints upon a deserted beach; and I turned to depart but tossed a parting shot over my shoulder. “And, by the by, you are fired. You and Malcolm will have plenty of time with each other, as I shall see to it nobody in baseball hires either of you. Gentlemen, ensure he vacates his office and these premises as swiftly as possible.”

I heard rather than saw Ewan’s futile struggles to break free of the hands gripping his arms and shoulders as I left the chamber.

Although outwardly I displayed naught but serenity, as befitted my rank and station, inside my emotions and thoughts were churning. I railed against Ewan McBain for losing self-control—the centuries have not cooled that wild Celtic blood by even half a degree—and against Sandy for not being present to prevent the incident from happening altogether. Mostly Sandy; Ewan, I could not have given a brimming pisspot for. Before long, as these things perversely happen, Sandy was consuming my thoughts, even to the point of forgetting my torn lapel. I craved air and exercise to clear my brain.

Since I had become such a well-known figure throughout London in general and the stadium district in particular—and since my local precinct had stepped up patrols in the wake of the Nîmes debacle—I felt safe enough to adopt the habit of walking the several blocks to my home, rather than taking my team limo. In the London of my native era, I never would have attempted such a foolish feat without an armed escort at least a half dozen strong; the ancient town was dark and dank, its narrow, winding streets squelched with mud and all manner of stinking refuse, beggars huddled together in doorways for warmth, and one could count upon a cutpurse—or worse—lurking around the next corner.

To-day’s London streets were well-paved, well-swept, well-lit, well-patrolled, and well-traveled by pedestrians and all manner of conveyances, large and small, with the exception of the greensward that sprawled along the route between New Wembley and my abode, which featured sparse lighting, copious vegetation, a sizeable duck pond, and narrow gravel footpaths curving pleasantly throughout. Usually when walking home at night I stay upon the sidewalks paralleling the streets. This night, with my heart full-tilt yearning for Sandy, I angled into the park to rest awhile on one of the benches and indulge in my memories.

I should have kept to the streets.

Under the moonlight, I had my favored bench in sight—on the pond’s bank, where Sandy and I had shared many a fine, soft evening staring out over the water and murmuring about nothing in particular—when I passed a shrubbery, and a shadowed figure leaped upon me!

Magic would have felled him at once, and I could have moderated the spell to disable rather than kill him, but fear fired by the moment’s heat locked those thoughts from my mind. As he tried to wrestle me to the ground, I reached into a concealed pocket, drew the dirk I always carried upon my person for such emergencies, and slid it home. My assailant collapsed, dragging me down with him. His moans and half words sounded familiar… before they ceased altogether.

My heart hammered like a blacksmith’s tool; my chest, the anvil. I drew a deep breath, shoved the man off me, rolled him over, and gasped.

It was Ewan McBain; note well the word “was.”

I fled the scene and hurried for home, urged by the erupting chorus of, “Weee-oo, WEEE-OO, WEEE-OO!”