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"There's a dragon here to see you." I was proud of how steady I kept my voice.

He glanced up from either the papers strewn across the coffee table or the datascreen sitting on top of the pile; I couldn't tell which he was working on. The slice of pizza in his hand dripped grease onto the papers. "Oh. Which one?" he asked.

"How the drek should I know?" I replied. He was being a royal pain again. "You haven't started teaching me that yet."

He smiled and put the pizza slice down on the table. "Of course, my dear," he said as he stood. "Soon, soon."

"So?" I asked, dropping my hands to my hips.

His left eyebrow lifted. "So?"

"There's a fraggin' dragon here to see you!"

He licked the grease from his hand. "Well, yes, you just told me that." He'd made me promise to try to stop hitting him, but one of these days. . . "Do you want me to just leave him out there?"

"No, of course not!" he replied. "That would be quite rude. Ask him in."

"Um, don't you think he's a little big for the doorway?" I figured that was probably a stupid question. In the short time I'd been with him, I'd learned, if nothing else, that the obvious was rarely that, and the impossible the norm.

He gave me his best "I know lots of things you don't know" look. "Why don't we let him decide, eh?"

I shrugged. "Fine, why don't we. You're the one paying the repair bills." As I turned to leave, something occurred to me. I paused and looked back at him. He was reaching for the pizza slice.

"Uh, I don't know what dragons are into," I said, "but I figure you might want to put some clothes on before he comes in."

He looked at me, then at himself. "Yes, I suppose you're right," he said. "But how do you know it's a he?"

Someday I was going to hit him so hard he'd need a closed casket.

At the back of the house I hesitated, straightened my clothes, then walked briskly into the garden. It was still sitting right where it had landed, curiously watching the poi circling in a nearby shallow pool. Its sapphire and silver scales reflected the late afternoon sun, changing the garden into a Maxfield Parrish painting. The dragon seemed oblivious to my presence, intent instead on the movements of the goldfish. I didn't want to&emdash;actually, was afraid to&emdash;disturb it. I didn't want it to move again.

"Is he home?" it asked. I should have been ready for the voice. I knew how they spoke, but I still found it unsettling. I heard the words clearly, but it hadn't moved. No part of it had moved.

Startled in spite of myself, I took a step back up the flagstone steps. "I. . .yes. Yes, he is."

"I did not mean to frighten you, you know." Its great head swung slowly toward me. A glint of light shined from somewhere deep behind its eyes. It could have swallowed me whole, right then and there, and I'd never have noticed.

"No, I know you didn't. . ."

"May I go in? It is very tiring keeping my tail in the air like this, and this is such a wonderful garden that I would not like to spoil it."

I looked up at its tail suspended a number of stories above me. Barbs stuck out all around the end. Giant hooks like that could&emdash;wait a minute, it was gone.

"He is expecting me, then." A strange voice spoke.

My head snapped back toward earth. The dragon was gone. In its place stood a young man, about twenty years old, dressed in a suit cut from the most beautiful blue silk I had ever seen. He had pale skin, and his features were those of Michelangelo's David. His eyes sparkled a sharp silver and blue. I gave a stupid-sounding laugh.

He smiled. "Oh dear, I have startled you again. I am sorry."

I managed a small smile myself. "I didn't know dragons could do that," I said sheepishly. I'd taken a few more steps backward without realizing it.

He walked toward me, and placed one finger on his lips as he passed. "Please do not tell anyone. It is supposed to be a secret."

More secrets for me to keep, I thought. No problem. However you looked at it, this was sure as hell more interesting than Missouri.

He seemed intrigued by the house's modern decor. He questioned me about the creator of every piece of art we passed, but only paused once to lean in for a better look. That was at the Warhol, drek knows why. I led him upstairs and, deciding to be grandiose, threw wide the study doors as he entered.

He grinned, and strode past me. "May I present Dunklezahn," I announced.

The man the dragon had come to see stood as we entered. He hadn't cleaned up the room any; it still reeked of sausage and pepperoni. He'd managed to get dressed, though, and was wearing black boots, denim pants, and one of the white cotton shirts he'd bought the other day. He'd kept his face unpainted.

"It's been some time, hasn't it?" he said, touching his chest with the fingers of his left hand, just below the heart. I'd seen him do that a few times before, but he'd never explained what it meant. I think it meant he was viewing the new arrival as an equal, thank god.

"Yes, it has, Harlequin," replied the dragon, repeating the gesture. "I was pleased to hear of the outcome of your chal'han." Dunklezahn didn't turn, but I felt his attention rest on me for just a moment. Obviously, there were no secrets from him.

Harlequin grinned. "I'll bet you were." He gestured at the overstuffed black leather couch across from him. "Won't you sit down?"

The dragon nodded. "Thank you." He walked to the couch, considered it for a moment, then carefully sat down. Only when he was fully balanced on the seat did he lean back. He smiled.

"So, what can I do for you?" inquired Harlequin.

"I take it you are aware of my status?"

Harlequin tilted his head. "You mean as host of 'Wyrm Talk'?"

I laughed to myself. Dunklezahn had been interviewed by an international media team shortly after reemerging. He'd apparently enjoyed the experience, especially his spontaneous cross-examination of the journalists, so much so that he requested his own show from one of the networks. In the intervening years, he'd only given the idea his attention long enough to produce three shows. Harlequin and I had watched the show the last time it had aired. The dragon, obviously enthralled by modern culture, had spent the whole program commenting on an amazing range of topics. In a couple of segments, he'd taken the concept of confrontational journalism to such an extreme that I suggested the show should have been renamed "Wyrm Food."

Dunklezahn grinned. "Exactly so. I find the media absolutely fascinating. Free, unrestricted information exchange. Who would have imagined?"

"Well now, I wouldn't exactly call it unrestricted," said Harlequin.

"No," agreed the dragon. "nor would I. Which is precisely why I am here."

"Oh?"

"I would like you to be the subject of my next program."

"What!" Harlequin exclaimed, leaping to his feet.

I laughed aloud, and then clamped my hand over my mouth. Harlequin glared at me for a split second, so I knew I'd regret my indiscretion later, but it was such a joy seeing him surprised.

"Yes," continued the dragon. "I think you would make a wonderful guest."

Harlequin ran his hand through his hair as he shook his head. "Of all the things I was expecting to talk about. . ."

"But, Harlequin, you have always been the best storyteller. Just think how amazed these humans would be by the things you could tell them! There is so much they just don't understand&emdash;"

"And I'm certainly not going to tell them!" interrupted Harlequin.

The dragon moved his head oddly. "Is it not possible that they have a right to know? It is their world, after all."

Harlequin exhaled noisily, his brow furrowed. "You want to just tell them everything? Reveal all the myriad secrets of the universe? You want me to. . ." He turned toward me, arm extended and fingers twitching madly. "You want me to. . ."

"Spill my guts on global television?" I suggested.

"Yes!" he said, snapping his fingers and turning back toward the dragon, who blinked. "Do you want me to spill my guts on television? Open dear Pandora's box once again?"

"Well, yes," said the dragon. "Do you realize how confused they all must be? Look at how their world has changed. Is it not their right to know what it all means?"

Harlequin nodded vigorously and moved toward the center of the room, gesturing wildly. "Of course it is!" he said. "But why tell them? Let them figure it out; that's the fun of it all! The clues are there!"

"The clues?" The dragon and I were equally baffled.

"To the mystery of life, Dunklezahn! The world is like a giant tapestry. You start out standing very close to the picture. There's a lot to see, and you could spend your whole life inspecting that one little section. Some find that section isn't enough. They step back to see more of the picture. Eventually, they may find themselves standing so far back that they see the whole tapestry hanging before them. But if you start them standing all the way back, they'll be confused. They won't know where to look first. They'll miss seeing the whole picture." He folded his arms across his chest, a satisfied smirk on his face. I eyed the dragon, who still looked perplexed.

"Are there not some things they should be warned&emdash;" he began.

"You mean like the invae?" Harlequin broke in.

"As a beginning, yes," the dragon told him.

Harlequin dismissed the idea with a gesture. "They're of no concern. In fact, they actually support my point! The humans knew nothing of their coming, but have been dealing with them quite nicely, nonetheless. Spilling our guts&emdash;" he nodded to me, "&emdash;to the humans early on would have denied them the discovery! The joy is in the unfolding. Let them marvel at their world, horrific as it may sometimes be. Let's not reveal the end of the tale before the final page is turned, Dunklezahn. Allow the story to tell itself."

The dragon seemed to be staring at the now-cold pizza, but I could tell he was lost in thought. Finally, with a sigh, he stood and nodded. "I will take that as a no."

Harlequin laughed, looked down, and shook his head.

"Thank you for your hospitality," said Dunklezahn, moving slowly toward the door.

Harlequin looked up. "I hope I haven't fouled up your schedule of guests."

The dragon smiled innocently. "No, not at all. I may ask Lady Brane Deigh of the Daoine Sidhe to speak in your place."

Harlequin's face stilled. "I wouldn't recommend that."

"Oh?"

"Dunklezahn, you and I have always at least been cordial," Harlequin began.

"Very true."

"But I warn you, there are some of my kind, and your kind, who think you have told too much already."

"Oh?"

"Your comments about great dragons and dracoforms, for one thing."

The dragon nodded. "Yes, I received some. . .grief for that."

"Should you start to speak of other things. . ."

Dunklezahn nodded again. "Thank you for your warning, Harlequin." He added wistfully, "You are quite sure of your decision? Such wonderful stories could be told."

Harlequin smiled. "And they will be, in time."

The dragon touched his fingers to his chest again, and when Harlequin had repeated the gesture, began to walk out of the room. He stopped as he passed me. "It has been a pleasure meeting you, my lady," he said. "You do your heritage proud." I smiled, and couldn't think of what to say, so I touched my fingers to my chest. He smiled, and returned the gesture.

I closed the doors behind him, and turned back to Harlequin. "It's too bad," I said sadly. "I kind of like him."

"I do too," Harlequin replied, looking down at his papers. "He's the most reasonable of them all. It'll be a shame when we have to destroy him."

Despite the efforts of the room's tungsten lights, darkness came. The corner of the room whispered a name.

"Knight. . ."

He looked up for a moment from the twin flatscreens inlaid beneath the plexiglass surface of the desk, and frowned slightly. Behind him, the sun cut through Detroit's fog for the last time that day and the city slipped into twilight. He sipped from a glass of pale gold liquid and waited. Nothing.

He looked down and the numbers danced again. Profits, losses, credits, debits, balances forward and in arrears woven together in a four-dimensional matrix. Projections birthed from the financial mandala as&emdash;

"Knight. . .

He removed the thin, gold-framed glasses from his aged face and placed them gingerly on the desktop. Unburdened, his tired eyes scanned the room and settled on the shadowed corner across from him. He waited. Nothing.

"Show yourself," he said, finally.

"As you wish," said nothing.

The corner's shadow became mist and flowed forward. It shifted, and silently extended a long and articulate part of itself into the room. Solid now, it clicked against the marble floor and found purchase. Another slim extension, hard against a nearby wall, dug in and pulled. Darkness entered from the corner and skittered against the floor. Slick and shapeless, it grinned.

"Damian Knight. . .

The man stood slowly as it came, the pale color of his hair now matched by the skin of his palm pressed hard against the desktop. He licked his lips and nodded. "As good a name as any, I suspect."

"We all have many names, some truer than others. We all bear many faces." "I doubt you came here to recite trite philosophies. What do you want?" His eyes flicked to the room's other corners and then back to the dark form stretched before him.

"You have spoken my question."

"Then the answer should be obvious: I want you to leave."

The grin turned sly. "But I shall not. Your tower is crafty and well protected, and I have spent much time gaining entrance. I demand my due time of you."

"Speak your piece and get out. I have no time for such as you."

The darkness grew larger before him. "But you have devoted much time to me already. Everywhere my children are hunted by your agents. My deepest nests burn in the night and my young cry their last."

A smile touched the man's lips. "Good."

Blacker eyes in the darkness narrowed and it moved forward slightly, brushing aside furniture. The man stepped back. "Do not taunt me, for I have not the patience and may slay you before I intend. Speak the ills I have done you, Damian Knight, so that I may wonder at my own foolishness."

The man looked down for a moment at the numbers that continued to flash beneath the desktop. He touched the surface, and the screens dimmed and faded away. A light came on above him and cast his shadow on the desk. He looked up and faced the darkness.

"You've done nothing to me, spirit."

"Then I have harmed your precious corporation. Have I weakened Ares Macrotechnology in some manner I have forgotten?"

"No. My only losses connected to you have been ammunition expenditures."

A tendril of darkness lashed out over the man's head and struck the light. The fixture shattered and sprayed metal and glass across the room. Darkness swelled behind a flashing rake of teeth. "Then why do you burn my nests?"

"Because you are."

"My spawn damned for simply being? Then likewise are you. For their essence I take yours."

The man's eyes widened slightly. "My soul is mine to give. You cannot take what is not yours."

The darkness hissed. "I am the form incarnate: all is mine to take." It lashed out and struck at him from every corner of the room. Blinding silver blocked the darkness as veins of white fire shot up through the marble floor and created a circle around the man and the desk. The darkness stepped back and black talons scratched brilliant sparks as they probed the borders of the ward.

"Powerful," came the voice from somewhere in the darkness.

The man shrugged. "It suffices against such as you."

"Such as I will feast on your soul until the last cycle falls." The black eyes and grin reared over him and dark limbs grew from the shadow to grasp the boundaries of the ward. Everywhere they touched argent fire danced along their length.

The man shook his head. "I think not. If you were truly as you would have me fear, this ward would not slow you. You are no avatar."

The eyes narrowed above him. "You know nothing of the names you wield."

Now the man grinned. "I know more than you think. While you are less than you claim, I am more than I seem." The man's features turned liquid and ran from him, the carefully styled silver hair growing long, black, and shiny. The creased, aged face smoothed and sharpened and his dark brown eyes shifted to piercing blue.

"Ah. I named you wrong. No matter, I will have your soul and then that of the man you pretended to be."

The man shrugged and let the now too-big suit jacket fall from his shoulders. "I say again, you are no avatar. You are no incarnation, insect, merely another true form sent to destruction at your master's bidding."

The talons tightened, and the ward strained, white and black energy arcing about it to form a geodesic dome of power over the man. The spirit's grin grew. "Then I will have your heart, mortal, to give to the newborns so that they may know the taste of human early."

"I think not. You will, in fact, find the situation even worse than you begin to suspect."

"Defiant to the end! Sweet will be the taste of your lifeblood. Banter on, mortal, this ward of yours is soon no more."

The man spread his arms wide and looked up at the spirit. Black and silver lightning danced just beyond his reach. "The ward is not mine, and so protects you from me more than I from you."

The spirit laughed, and a high, sharp, cracking tone began to grow. "Who are you, child of the earth, to stand against one such as I?"

The man brought his arms together, one held straight out, the other touching the first at the elbow in a well-practiced, fluid gesture. Power shifted and grew around him. "I may be born of this earth, spirit, but that is not where I have been of late."

Part of the ward gave, and a black limb gouged into the floor within the circle of light. The spirit's chitinous, ebony body slammed against the circle as it began to buckle. "Many of your kind wander the greater planes, I feast on them often."

"Wrong realm. Knight suspected something would try to kill him, so the corporation brought me down to protect him. Magic is so much easier here."

The ward shattered, raining white sparks down around the man. The spirit's legs caged him and its impossibly grinning face came closer to the man. "Magic is easy for me everywhere. There is nowhere I am weak."

"Nowhere on the Earth, perhaps, but what of above it?" The man pulled his arms toward himself, and held his palms parallel. Power flowed inward, cleanly, from everywhere around him. A light grew between his hands.

"Your tricks will avail you not, human, I am power incarnate." The spirit reared again.

The man laughed. "I've shaped power among the stars and danced with hearts far darker than yours." The spirit fell upon him, a wave of darkness pierced by a shaft of light brighter than a hundred suns. "Taste what I have learned."

Harlequin sat alone in a quiet room lit only by the sinking flames of a dying fire. His face was unpainted, and he wore a plain long robe woven with golden and burgundy threads. The firelight caught the metallic threads of his robe and the intricate metal filigree on the walls behind him and made them sparkle. Harlequin didn't even notice. He was drunk and his drink was his only concern.

The liquid swirled in the glass, impelled by the gentle motion of his wrist. He watched the magical blending and bleeding of colors as the liquid hovered on the edge of solidifying, maintaining its liquid state only by the energy from his moving hand. The colors changed dramatically as he changed the direction of its motion. Firelight danced along the edges of the fine crystal goblet that held the drink.

Harlequin drank from the goblet, barely sipping, and let the drink's deep fire run through him. He nearly laughed with the pleasure, but, as always, the cold aftertaste caught him by surprise.

"You have fallen far," spoke a long-dead voice.

Harlequin turned slowly from the fire and looked across the long expanse of the room. In the center of the room, caught in the flickering firelight, stood a figure. Its robes were black, torn, covered in the dirt of a thousand roads. Dark, gnarled hands hung limply from the sleeves of the robe, but no face appeared within the raised hood. In its place, he could see only smoke churning slightly.

Harlequin raised an eyebrow, snorted once, and turned back to his drink, raising it to his lips. "Oh, please," he muttered.

"You cannot ignore me," said the robed figure.

Harlequin snorted again, spraying a few drops of liquid from his mouth. "I can do as I please," he said.

"You are drunk."

Harlequin laughed. "And you, sir, are a feeble attempt to frighten me with an image so common that it would not frighten a child." He looked into the fire. "Lewis Carroll must be spinning in his grave."

"Indeed he must," agreed the figure. "You are drunk and confused. A Christmas Carol was written by Charles Dickens.

"You fog your mind so you cannot see the truth."

Harlequin stood abruptly and hurled the glass toward the robed figure. The missile fell just short, exploding into fragments of brilliant, flashing crystal and a spray of liquid color. The figure did not move.

"Begone, foul spirit," Harlequin cried. "I summoned you not into my home and I banish you hence." He flung his hand out toward the robed figure, spreading his fingers as if throwing dust. A hint of power danced there.

The figure did not move. "You cannot," it said.

Harlequin's face grew wild. "I can and I do!" he cried again, and thrust his arms out to his sides. "M'aela j-taarm querm talar!"

The room darkened suddenly, and pockets of moisture sealed in the firewood burning at Harlequin's back burst, throwing showers of sparks into the air. They rained down up him, ignored, until a cool wind rushed back at him and damped them into embers. He brushed the char from his shoulders.

The figure did not move. "It has been a long time since those words were last spoken, Har'lea'quinn. It is not the first time you have used them against me." The figure's robes rustled slightly. "And they did not aid you then."

Harlequin paled. "No. . ." he breathed, and stumbled back to his chair. "You are gone. . .forgotten. . ."

"Forgotten, perhaps, but never gone. How could we ever be truly gone?"

Harlequin turned away, covering his eyes with his forearm. "You are the past. Your place is there only," he moaned. "That world is gone."

"Perhaps," replied the figure, "but as long as you remember. . ."

"Yes. That is the key, isn't it?" Harlequin said, standing and dropping his arm to his side. He faced the robed figure again. "My mind. You are right, whatever you are. I am drunk, and that is a bad state for one such as me."

"Then I am a figment of your imagination?"

Harlequin shrugged. "Were you ever anything more?"

The robes moved as if the figure laughed, but Harlequin heard no sound. "That borders on blasphemy. You once were more devout."

"Never for you."

"I understood you too well."

Harlequin thrust his hands into the pockets of his robe. "Or vice versa."

The figure bowed slightly. "Perhaps. Madness can bring wisdom."

Harlequin sneered. "You are the Master of the Twisted Path. The only wisdom you teach is avoidance."

"And yet I am here."

"Alamestra," said Harlequin, pointing to the now-motionless, solid globs of color around the figure's feet, "is not an indulgence known for gifting wisdom."

"Then what of me?"

"What of you?" replied Harlequin.

"If I exist only as a creature of your mind, why am I here?"

Harlequin shrugged again. "It matters not. Your words are lies and your deeds treachery. Your inspiration is betrayal. I care not why you are here and will not listen to you."

"And yet you say you summoned me."

"I am, was, drunk."

"If I am of no consequence or concern, then why did your dispelling not work?"

Harlequin stared at him.

"You have cleared your mind. The fog is lifted, yet I remain."

"You are a hangover incarnate, nothing more."

The figure's robes shifted again. "You lie to yourself."

"No," said Harlequin, "you lie to me."

"As I said."

Harlequin tensed. "This is foolishness. You are a shadow of the dead past conjured by my drunken mind to vex me."

"Why me?"

"I do not care." Harlequin told the figure, turning back to the near-dead fire.

"You lie to yourself."

"You repeat yourself, bland spirit."

The figure slowly raised one arm and pointed at Harlequin. "I am Deceit. I am Deception. I am Treachery. I am Betrayal. I am the passions that bring men to lie to others, and themselves."

Harlequin turned and stared, his eyes growing slightly wider. "As you say," he said.

"As you do, now."

"Your words can never be believed," said Harlequin.

"I am not words, Har'lea'quinn. I am emotion, I am passion, I am what you feel."

Harlequin was silent.

"And you feel them, do you not?"

"I feel nothing."

"You can taste them in the air."

"I taste nothing."

"Smell them on the wind."

"The air is still."

"Hear them laughing in the silence, calling for their due."

"I hear only your maddening voice."

The figure lowered its arm. "You lie to yourself."

Harlequin rushed toward the figure. "I do not!" he howled, his hands clenched into sweaty fists. He shook them at the robed figure. "It is too soon!"

"They are coming."

Harlequin spun away, then rounded back on his antagonist. "It is too soon! They cannot be coming!"

"You lie to yourself."

"It is you who lies to me!"

"As I have said."

Harlequin turned again and stumbled back toward the fire. "It is too soon. . ." he mumbled. "Nothing is right. . .I cannot understand. . ."

"You do not wish to understand. The humans play with things they do not comprehend because no one teaches them."

Harlequin whirled back to face the figure. "And telling them would stop them? I think not."

The figure shifted. "The humans have danced their little dance, Har'lea'quinn. They shook this world, and the others. Now they pay the price."

Harlequin grasped his head and shook it. "No. . .It is too soon. . ."

"You will still be saying that when they tear the fingers from your hands and blind you with them. Have you fallen so far, Har'lea'quinn? Have you forgotten the horror?"

"I can't. . ."

"Nor can I." The figure stared at Harlequin. "I expected more from the last Knight of the Crying Spire."

Harlequin stared back at the figure. "The Northern Islands are gone. Forgotten dust of a forgotten world."

"As all shall be, Har'lea'quinn, as all shall be."

"What would you have me do?" Harlequin cried.

"Destroy the bridge."

Harlequin blanched. "That cannot be done. . .How. . ."

"Thayla's Voice."

Harlequin sat abruptly. "No. . ."

"You know where she roams. Her song will shatter the bridge and cast them back from the chasm. It will take them time to find it again."

Harlequin stared off into the darkness and nodded. "Yes. . ."

"Travel lightly. Some already wander the netherworlds. It will not be safe. They will smell you coming."

Harlequin continued to nod. "I understand. . ."

The figure moved forward, walking past Harlequin toward the dying embers of the fire. "Move quickly, Laughing One; they have experience in building their bridge."

Harlequin did not answer but stared off into the darkness of the room, still nodding.

The figure shook its head and stepped into the fire. The embers flared and kindled, but no heat warmed Harlequin. At last he looked up and saw his growing shadow on the wall, and turned. He saw only the last swirls of burning cloth as the heat from the now-raging fire danced them higher and higher.

He stared at the fire. The large, ornate doors at the far end of the room swung open and Harlequin stood quickly. A young woman entered, her long, white hair falling in waves over the black satin dressing gown she clutched to her body with one hand. The other hand held a heavy-barreled chrome pistol. "Did you. . ." she stammered. "I felt. . ."

Harlequin nodded and walked toward her. "Indeed you did. Prepare yourself; it is time to see how much you have learned."

She stared at him. As he moved past her he turned and continued walking, backward.

"The netherworlds. . ." he paused, and smiled. "Pardon my anachronism. The metaplanes will ring with the sounds of battle and songs long unsung." He walked backward out of the room and down the hall.

She followed quickly. "I don't. . .What happened?"

"Call up your files, dear Jane, and find us some heroes."

She snorted. "Yeah, right."

Harlequin grinned broadly. "Yes, times have changed." His path arced across the large hall they'd entered and he began ascending the staircase.

She stopped at its foot and yelled up after him. "Will you tell me what the frag is going on?"

"Why, my dear," he said, turning away from her, "Harlequin's back. Can't you tell?"