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My eyes widened. This hadn’t been on his blog; he’d saved it for the show. Awesome. “The Beatles were fairies?”

“Please, don’t say that word. Maybe not like that. Not specifically them, maybe. But all those screaming insane crowds? The reactions they got? No one had ever seen anything like it. They must have had some kind of crazy magic. What if it was a case of elven magic intersecting with modern rock and roll?”

Or maybe they were just really talented songwriters and musicians … “Hmm. It would certainly give a whole new meaning to ‘I Am the Walrus.’”

“Yeah. Or no—wait a minute. I’m not talking about the lyrics so much as the effect.”

“The screaming hordes of teenage girls we’ve all seen in the concert footage.”

“The Beatles started an epidemic of that sort of thing,” Martin said wi

th obvious awe. “Almost had to be supernatural, don’t you think?”

I rather thought it may have had something to do with the widespread availability of television ushering in an era of hyped-up pop culture and mass consumerism. But I was willing to humor him.

“You may very well be onto something. Let me ask you a question: should there be an effect with recorded music, or is it only live?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? It would seem to only have an effect on live audiences, but they’ve sold millions of records. In fact, I’m developing a study that would examine this exact question. If only I can find the funding for it. I’ve applied for several grants. No luck yet, I’m afraid.” He slouched a little.

“I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before someone steps forward to help out.” Coming on my show certainly wouldn’t hurt. I wondered if I’d opened a can of worms.

“That’s just it—this isn’t frivolous research. It’s an investment.”

“Oh?”

“Oh yes! If I can figure out what the magical thing is, package it somehow, then sell it—can you imagine?”

“Didn’t they do that already with the Backstreet Boys? And the Spice Girls?”

He frowned. “Oh … oh, someone’s already done it is what you’re saying?”

Many times over, I thought. “Fairy magic really is the only explanation for some of that music, isn’t it?”

“I’m going to have to think about this.” He was staring at the microphone, wide-eyed, contemplating whole new vistas of potential, undoubtedly.

“And I think we’ll wrap it up there,” I said. “Thank you very much for coming to talk with me, Martin.”

“Oh—yes. Thank you!”

A familiar, back-of-the-neck chill crawled along my spine. I’ve created a monster …

My toughest guest came right in the middle of the session, for good or ill. I let the studio staff deal with her, figuring she’d be more at ease. I wanted this woman to talk. One of the techs ushered her in and guided her to the guest seat at the other end of the table.

She was human, average, in nice jeans, a blouse and blazer, a thin gold necklace and stud earrings. Her hair was short, dyed dark blond with highlights. In her forties, of average height and build, she looked utterly normal and nondescript. I never would have picked her out of the crowd on any street in any town in Middle America.

I thought about approaching her, to try to get her to shake my hand—or to make her refuse to shake. But I could tell by her frown and the hard edge in her stare how that was likely to go. I let the tech deal with her, fitting headphones and showing her the mike, while I sat back and smiled.

As soon as she was settled, the sound guy gave me a cue, and I launched in.

“I’m feeling a tiny sense of victory in even convincing my next guest to come on the show. But she’s here, and I’m very much looking forward to our chat. Tracy Anderson chairs an organization calling themselves Truth Against the Godless, members of which have been out in force picketing the conference. They’ve gone on record denouncing government recognition and public acceptance of people with supernatural identities. Ms. Anderson, welcome to the show. Thank you for being here.”

She and her group had chartered a plane to bring them and their protest banners to London. They’d been planning and organizing to come here for a year. The level of commitment was almost admirable.

Calmly, hands folded on her lap, she said, “I want to make clear that I’m only here because you offer a chance to speak to the audience that most needs to hear our message.” She sat as far away from me as she could and still reach the microphone. I had thought she would avoid looking at me at all. But she stared at me, lines of tension around her mouth. I couldn’t help but stare back.

“Well, I know I’m taking you away from your busy protest schedule, and I appreciate it,” I said.

“My work calls for many sacrifices.”


Tags: Carrie Vaughn Kitty Norville Fantasy