It just figures that the night something interesting happens, I have to close the store, Dobie thought as he poured water on the grill, let it boil, then scraped the scorched hamburger from its dulled steel surface. The radio next to the register blared the news of the mysterious appearance of "megaliths in Tulsa," and it sounded like everyone in the world was there to see it. Everyone, of course, except himself, who was stuck here closing the Mega Burger for the thousandth time.
At least I'm not straining the grease tonight.
The Mega Burger was one of the oldest fast-food joints in Tulsa, so dated it didn't even have a drive-thru window. It was one of those ancient derelicts with cluttered windows and tacky white and blue tile, with all of the hassle of a '50s style drive-in and none of the charm. But the Mega Burger was a minute's walk from his front door, which made up for quite a bit. Since graduating from high school two months earlier, he didn't feel compelled to go to college, which he couldn't afford anyway. He didn't feel like doing much of anything different; he had some money and a place to live, and right now that was all he really wanted. With his seven-finger deformity he should probably stay put, his thinking went. Until he was eighteen, anyway. He might not be able to find a job anywhere else.
He went through the motions of closing the store: mopping the floor, washing the milkshake machine, taking the trash out. The two other employees, a Hispanic kid who didn't speak much English, and his boss, a large round woman with greasy blond hair, drifted through their tasks, saying nothing, hardly looking at each other. This was how Dobie preferred it. He didn't like being looked at.
After work he would normally go home and catch some HBO or Cinemax on cable, but tonight was different. As soon as he heard about the mysterious megaliths at a closed down shopping mall he knew he had to go check it out. If he had stopped to think about how out of the ordinary the plan was, he might have changed his mind and gone home, to perhaps re-read The Hobbit for the hundredth time, or watch Men in Black for the eleventh. The idea of aliens living undetected among humans was one he thought about every day.
With barely a nod to his boss he clocked out and walked the short distance to his ramshackle house. On the front porch, which presided over a postage stamp-sized yard, was an old River Trails bike he'd picked up at a pawn shop for fifty bucks. It didn't occur to him to change out of the orange polyester Mega Burger shirt and ball cap. He was just going out to see something unusual, not to be around people.
The storm of the previous evening had cleaned the air, and brought down some coolness from the north. Peddling at a casual rate, Dobie first took the 23rd Street bridge, then crisscrossed over medians to the Riverparks bike trails. The river was high from the recent rains, he saw through the trees on his right. A full moon lit his way.
Chugging up, then coasting down an incline, Dobie found himself at the intersection of 41st and Yale, where cops directed slow-moving traffic with luminous orange cones. Cars lined up in all directions, bumper to bumper. They must have come to see the megaliths. At a Texaco, news crews with vans and satellite uplinks had set up shop. Two newsmen, one local, one from Oklahoma City, were talking into cameras under bright light. Dobie walked the bike across the four-laned intersection with a tight knot of pedestrians.
A huge crowd had gathered on this expansive, until now abandoned parking lot. Dobie remembered the day his mother had brought him here to buy school clothes for the seventh grade. It was one of the few times his mother had taken him out in public, which they usually avoided because of his hands.
The atmosphere here was carnival-like, though the crowd of people was strangely quiet. Four or five deep, they stood around the towering blocks of stone. A reporter was wandering through the crowd, asking questions. Dobie avoided her, and got back on the bike, peddling slowly through the sparse outer fringe of the crowd.
On a long expanse of sidewalk in front of the mall entrance, Dobie got off the bike. He took in the megaliths from this new vantage, and a chill of recognition took his breath away.
No one's saying it, but they might as well. This is Stonehenge.
He chained the bike to a gas meter against the wall; here he noticed the J.C. Penney had become something else, in fact looked like it was about open. The letters on the new sign were funky and gnarly, spelling out Lazerwarz. He'd heard about this place. It was a laser tag arena. Something Tulsa, or Dobie, had never seen before. Hanging across the glass foyer was a banner that read Grand Opening, July 19th. That was tomorrow.
He cupped his hands around his eyes and looked in. A vending machine cast a dim light, revealing little of the interior. He made out a counter, a sign that said "Stage One Pay Here," and the faint glow of a computer screen somewhere off in the back.
Someone was in there. Dobie watched the silent, ghostly figure move out of sight, past the counter and vending machine. It paused to look back at him. It had no face.
Shaken, he stepped away from the glass, noticed the crowd's reflection cast in it. That's what it was. Someone walking around out here. Still, he moved further away from the store front. He might set off an alarm or something. Someone, or something, might see him, if it hadn't already.
Time to get a closer look at these stones. Now he worked his way through the crowd, an amoeba of humanity struck dumb, except for the few furtive whispers of "Stonehenge," or "UFOs" or "It's gotta be a fake." Standing among this many people would normally intimidate the hell out of him, but tonight something was different. It reminded him of the final scenes of Close Encounters, when the giant UFO came down and landed, and everyone was standing around it in amazement.
Closer to the stones a handful of police milled about like security at a rock concert. Three separate strands of yellow police tape fenced in the site where the black asphalt became white, chalky soil. People were moving right up against it, to get a better view. The cops' expressions were grim, like pallbearers at a funeral.
Dobie could not understand why. Standing amid the stones under the full moon was supposed to be a joyous event. He just knew it. The moon lined up with one of the stones, and if he moved a little to the right, it lined up with two. It was the purpose of the stones, to bring people together and show them the heavens. He didn't know how he knew that, he just did.
Headlights shone briefly from behind; Dobie turned to see a red Corvette convertible ease casually into view, its lone occupant regarding the gathering of people with mild interest. She was a beautiful redhead, with a glittering crimson evening dress, looking for all the world like a movie star.
And she was staring straight at him.
Trying to be nonchalant, Dobie attempted to avert his gaze, but found he could not. Their eyes had locked, and he was certain this was no accident, that she was trying, and succeeding in getting his attention. Me? Why? There must be a mistake.
But apparently there was no mistake; with a single crooked finger, she was gesturing him over to the car.
Gleefully, Morrigan admired her handiwork on the bank of monitors in the Lazerwarz control center. Video cameras covered every square inch of the premises and a good part of the parking lot in front, giving her a complete view of the situation.
Why did Mort object so violently to this? No one was even looking at the arena, and the media had made no mention of Lazerwarz. All they care about are the rocks!
From the main control center, amid the security monitors and Compaq file servers, she was indeed a goddess, ruler of all she surveyed. Mort had left her alone to gloat over Stonehenge, to go do whatever Mort did in his Underhill palace. She hoped he would fix those silly horns of his; they had begun to spiral from his forehead like a bizarre headdress.
The human race still behaves like ignorant cattle, she noted in the monitors. Something that could not be explained by their finite science had attracted this vast audience. Mort really needn't concern himself with secrecy so.
As a young human walked in front of one of the cameras, she did a double take. He looked familiar, but how could he be? Was the Seleighe Court looking into their project already? She zoomed the camera in and framed the youth, who was chaining a bike to a fixture just outside the arena. No elf could handle cold iron like that. She relaxed, but only a little. Mort had tweaked these cameras to detect any magical beings; a blazing white aura appeared around the youth.
If not of a god, then of a god's offspring. But . . . among humans? That had happened long ago, when the Tuatha were themselves above ground and fighting for their right to stay there. Since the sidhe went Underhill, and the realms had split between matter and spirit, the gods had not bothered much with the humans.
Perhaps a reincarnation. Yes, that just might be it.
Whatever the spiritual heritage of this human meatball, she needed to investigate it. His presence here, at this time, would not, could not be a coincidence. And the more she learned about him before Mort did, the better.
Morrigan took the exit down to the stairwell, paused to cast some temporary concealment for herself, and entered the main front lobby. He was standing just outside, now looking at the arena.
I know who he is! she exclaimed to herself. That signature in his aura, it is not just any god's, it belongs to Lugh, the god of light. Yet this is not Lugh . . . this is one of his sons. Which one?
Taken by surprise, the concealing magics slipped, and the youth saw her, if only briefly. Cursing herself for her carelessness she retreated into the service hallway, hoping she hadn't frightened him off.
In her chariot called a Corvette, Morrigan drove around to the front of the mall. She had first seen the Corvette as a hindrance, a human trapping that she could just as easily have done without. Now it was an asset: the men of this world seemed drawn to it, almost as much as they were to her. All the better to entice the youth, who had only gone to inspect the stones closer. His aura was no less brilliant now than on the monitors, and here, sharing the same space with him, his presence was more tangible.
This can only be Cu Chulainn, The Hound of Ulster!
The humans didn't notice the divine presence among them, but then the humans saw little to begin with. And something else, too: the youth, in this human incarnation, was a virgin!
She would have never believed it if someone had told her. As she spied him from a discreet distance, she became more convinced that the lad had no idea of his real identity. During various incarnations it sometimes happened that gods and their by-blows lost touch with their souls, and forgot their glorious pasts. Memories did not always follow their owners, and when they did they might be hidden, to be discovered later as the human organism grew and developed. And this human organism, this mere youth, had much growing to do.
These immediate findings did not discourage her.
Dormant powers can be awakened.
In Cu Chulainn, The Hound of Ulster, there was much power to awake.
Before the beginning of time, when matter and spirit were one, Morrigan consorted with Cu Chulainn's grandfather, Dagda, the god of goodness. From their union sparked a line of gods and goddesses who later, inevitably, turned upon each other. The Foevorians were one of these races, though explaining this to Mort would be pointless; the little Foevor would never admit that anything existed before his race did. She remembered Lugh Long Hand, Dagda's son, as being boisterous and generous, but lacking in ambition to rule and control. Lugh had wanted a human son, and seduced a human maiden, Dechtire. Their union produced Cu Chulainn.
Morrigan first heard of the youth while spying on the druids' ceremonies. Establishing a link into such festivities from Underhill took little power, as the druids raised most of it themselves. And they loved to hear themselves talk. They spoke of an amazing youth, barely old enough to father children, who had become the Champion of Ulster. The boy had fought an entire army with barely a scratch to himself.
The art of war had for some time enjoyed Morrigan's patronage, and war was a frequent occurrence in these primitive human lands. They were great sport to watch, particularly when she intervened on the behalf of one side or another, depending on whatever obeisance, or lack of, the armies paid her. Their worship gave her power, and she reinvested it in the army of her choice. Thus the cycle repeated, sometimes precariously; her influence was not a guarantee of victory.
If what the druids said were true, The Hound's appearance threatened this delicate balance, and she decided that such a warlike lad should have some personal, intimate knowledge of the patron god of war. She studied the landscape of Ulster from afar, and when she finally laid eyes on him, the notion of gods frolicking with humans, or half-humans, was not so disgusting anymore.
On the day she had chosen to meet the young Cu Chulainn, she found herself glowing with the first flush of youth. Until now she had favored war, death and slaughter, without much attention to the life-renewing pleasures of love. Cu Chulainn had changed that; she intended to give him what every warrior desired, a woman by his side . . . if only for an evening.
She wore a long red dress, and a red cloak which billowed behind her as she rode her chariot. Satisfied that she looked her very best, she called to Cu Chulainn with her loudest voice, as she knew he was sleeping soundly after a series of battles. Cu Chulainn appeared armed for battle on chariot, led by his charioteer; confronted with a maiden, he seemed at a complete loss for what to do next.
He called out, "Who is this maiden in red who has come calling on the Champion of Ulster?"
He does not know I am a goddess, she thought. All the better.
"I am the daughter of King Aranrod, of a far-off land," she said, making up the fiction as she went. It would not do to frighten the lad with her true identity. Let him think I am a princess instead. "I have come to meet the warrior who has made such a name for himself," Morrigan called. She knew of no warrior who would resist such flattery.
But the youth was not moved. "I know of no King Aranrod, and if it is a far-off land what is its name?"
"It doesn't matter the name of the land," Morrigan continued. "It is I who seek you, not my people . . . and I wish to become acquainted with the mighty Cu Chulainn."
His expression was unreadable. Morrigan's patience grew short. Time to drop a few hints as to my identity. "It is a land with no sun, far below. The druids know of this land, but they speak little of it."
"You speak in riddles!" Cu Chulainn shouted. "Who are you and state your business!"
My, but the lad is dense, Morrigan thought, sending a touch of magic his way, in an attempt to stir up his lust and get directly to the point. "I have come from the land of the spirits to find the Champion of Ulster, for I have fallen in love with him!"
She sent this last plea with a push directly to the root of his loins, but the son of Lugh seemed to deflect her intentions with ease.
He certainly isn't aroused. He's . . . angered?
"I do not have the time to make idle talk with every maiden who finds me desirable!" replied the Champion.
"You really don't know who I am, do you?" spat Morrigan. "Who is it who watches over you in battle, who protects you and aids you?"
"It is no woman who aids me!" shouted Cu Chulainn. He seemed ready to charge. "And I don't need your protection, or whatever favors you seem willing to trade."
That did it.
"You young fool! How dare you insult the goddess of war! If you will not accept my love and assistance, then you will have my wrath!"
Just as Cu Chulainn was about to charge, Morrigan made her chariot vanish, then turned into a large black crow, one of her favorite otherworld forms. The bird circled about the Champion twice while he waved his sword ineffectually at it, then flew off with an indignant squawk.
Beyond a vast ocean, a continent away and many centuries later, Morrigan looked upon the youthful yet wimpy incarnation of Cu Chulainn in the orange polyester Mega Burger shirt, feeling like an eagle ready to pounce on a field mouse. Since he hadn't gotten a good look at her yet she was free to make herself into whatever she wished. Let's see, what erotic fantasies has the young man indulged in lately . . . His mind was utterly unshielded. As she reached surreptitiously into his soul, she entered a gallery of his recent memories, none of them betraying his divine origins. But Lugh's fire was there, deep down and undisturbed. For the time being she would leave that part of him alone.
She found what she sought. An actress, seen in a recent movie. How quaint, and sad. Not even someone he would have the slightest chance of bedding. The youth must be desperate for love. I shall oblige him, certainly. Then, after I have wrung every last bit of physical pleasure I can from him, he will know a goddess' wrath!
As her eyes met his, she motioned for him to come over to the car.
Dobie approached the convertible cautiously, suddenly aware of a pleasant fluttering in his stomach. The woman was an absolute knockout, small and slender, with a striking likeness of Sandra Bullock; he'd seen Speed and Speed 2 the week before, and had fantasized about her more than once. The Corvette didn't much interest him, but it was attracting attention from the men in the crowd, and here he was, being summoned to it right in front of them. He felt an unfamiliar rush of male pride.
But what could she possibly want with me? His mind raced. By the time he reached the car, he'd decided she was looking for directions for someplace far more interesting than here, to be with someone far more worthy than himself.
"Hi," Dobie said, his male ego withering now that he had to actually talk to her and not sound like a chump. It seemed an impossible task. When his hands didn't get him into trouble, his mouth always did.
She didn't say anything, first regarding him with an appraising expression, her eyes tracked from his face down, hesitating midway before proceeding to his feet. When the inspection was over, she smiled, and Dobie did a double take.
Is this Sandra Bullock after all?
No, it could not be, not in a million years. They stood gazing at each other awkwardly. Conversation, about anything, would be a welcomed miracle.
Then the miracle occurred. "Saw you checking out the arena over there," she said, nodding towards the Lazerwarz glass doors. "Do you . . . play?"
"Um. It's not open . . . yet," he said, feeling foolish.
"There are other arenas," she said, as if it was something he should have known anyway. "It's really a wonderful invention. It came from . . . Under . . . England, some time back."
"Cool." Having blurted the first few words in a tentative conversation, Dobie started to relax.
"Would you like to see it?" To his confused look, she added, "The arena. I'm the district manager. Come on. Hop in. I'll give you a tour."
The passenger door opened, by itself. She must have a latch somewhere. New cars and all . . .
As he climbed in, whistles and whoops of appreciation rose from the guys in the crowd. Dobie felt his ears burning. She didn't seem to notice.
"As you can see from the banners, we open tomorrow," she said conversationally as she sped the Corvette expertly around to the back of the mall, to a large garage door which opened automatically. In an enormous loading bay, fluorescent lights flickered on, and she pulled the car to a stop.
"My name is Morgan," she said as her hand closed around his on the seat. "Don't be shy. You really are quite cute."
Dobie didn't know what he liked most, the part about being cute, or the fact that she didn't even comment on his seven fingers, which she could not have missed when she clasped it. His hands had felt like enormous, awkward clubs, but caressed by her delicate one, they felt normal for the first time in his life. Her hand lingered there, then traced a curve over his palm. She held it up, as if reading it.
"You will be glorious in this life," she said, then giggled at his heightened confusion. In explanation, she added, "I studied palmistry in college."
He sat there, staring at her, wondering for the first time if she was playing him for a fool.
"What does palmistry have to say about seven fingers?" he asked, and he regretted how cross it must have sounded coming out.
She shrugged vaguely, and brought his fingers to her face, holding them against her cheek, and his big, clunky seven fingered hand felt like a silken, feather pillow. Then, taking his index finger into her mouth, she sucked on it, expertly lapping her tongue around his knuckles.
Dobie's gulp echoed in the loading bay.
She released the finger, winking as she said, "Well, you know what they say about men with seven fingers." Morgan opened her door and got out. "Let me show you the arena. Then we'll go for a drive."
He was more interested in going for that drive now, before considering what a tour of the arena might involve. As he followed her lithe, curvy, incredibly sexy body into a dimly lit hallway, he also wondered who said what about men with seven fingers. It sounded like something he should know.
At the hallway's end he found himself in the front lobby he had been spying on only a few minutes before. The lighting rose subtly as they entered, and Dobie figured everything, from the Corvette's passenger door to the lights, was on a big omniscient computer that could see everything they did. On the walls were airbrushed murals of scenes from a fantasy land. The smell of new paint was overpowering, and the place had that brand-new, never before inhabited feel.
"The arena is in here," she said, entering another door, which had been decorated with bits of junk and metal, circuit boards and a big valve handle, giving the impression of an entrance to a spaceship. In the darkness, black lights cast a purple glow on orange fluorescent. Lined up on racks along the walls were numerous futuristic vests, each with a holstered ray gun.
"We can run up to ninety players in a game," she explained.
She held up a small black object, that was either a VCR remote or a cell phone. "With this I can run the computer and set up a round."
"How do you play?" he asked, intrigued.
"I'll show you," she said, lifting one of the vests off the rack. He felt her warmth, and her breath against his face, as she lowered the vest over him. "I'll activate a game."
She did something to the VCR remote thing and a panel against the wall flashed to life. Red, blue and yellow lights on the vests blinked and flashed in unison. Morgan put a vest on, pulled the gun out and checked something over the grip where the hammer on a revolver would be. Dobie glanced at his and found a tiny computer screen with a full color graphic that said Lazerwarz.
"My pack is in test mode," she said, firing the gun at him. A ruby-red line of light discharged from the barrel's end, with a loud ray gun report straight out of Terminator. "You can fire as many times as you like. When I hit a target on your vest, I score points."
"Do you ever die in the game?"
The severe look she gave him turned his blood to ice. "You never die."
Dobie pulled the somewhat bulky gun from the holster, finding it rather light. It had a good feel to it; his hand fit the contours of the grip perfectly, as if it were made specifically for him. The game hadn't started yet, but already he was feeling a change come over him, a rather exuberant, aggressive feel. He wanted to kick ass. While attempting football in school, he had seen the same change in others, but never in himself; he was lousy at sports. Is this a sport I can actually be good at?
Morgan was eying him in that exhilarating if disconcerting way, as if she knew what he was experiencing.
"You just gained about three inches in height," she said, and he realized he was standing up, straight up, proudly. "Now let me show you the arena."
Dobie looked around him. "This isn't it?"
"Don't be silly," she said, and another smaller garage door rolled up on his left. "This is the arena."
His first impression was that of great space, though he couldn't see very far through a thick, soupy mist. Dissonant techno music thump thump thumped through the gloom, and he found himself on the outskirts of a vast maze. Hallways and tunnels branched off in every direction at wild, chaotic angles, and deeper in the maze was an upper level looking down on the first. It would have been impossible to see without the array of black lights spaced randomly throughout the interior; patterns and whirls painted in orange and pink fluorescent paint blinked back, giving some sense of distance.
Wordlessly Morgan walked into the mist and vanished.
A moment later, a beam of laser shot from the mist, tagging his main chest target; his pack made a horrible dying sound, then went dark. A moment later, it came back up.
"What are you waiting for?" he heard her say from the mist.
Somewhat humiliated, he fired back, but she had already moved. Now he was getting the idea. Feeling a bit like a commando he ventured into the maze, gun forward, then caught a glimpse of red-blue-yellow target lights ducking behind a wall. Over the weird electronic music he heard her stiletto pumps clicking through the maze.
Then, through a hole in one of the walls, he saw her targets, and fired. Her pack squawked and went down.
"Touché!" she shouted. He moved back, but too late, the second she was back up she tagged his shoulder targets. The game of hide and seek went on like that, tagging back and forth as they moved throughout the lower level. Dobie began to see how big the arena was, and they hadn't even found the way to the upper level yet. At least half the mall had been transformed into this strange and darkened netherworld. Then Dobie's confidence soared. After all, she was in heels. He had the advantage.
And she thinks I'm cute.
Then suddenly, the game was over. The pack went down, and stayed dark, while a cluster of white strobe lights flashed high on the wall over the entrance.
"Not bad for a first game," she said, suddenly beside him. Her abrupt appearance startled him. How can she move like that in those shoes? Or in anything. I didn't even see her. "Now. How about that drive?"
Morgan looked absolutely glorious with her hair in the wind, Dobie observed when he could pry his eyes away from the oncoming road, which was rushing under them at a terrifying rate of speed. He regretted not buckling in, and if he did now he would only look like a wimp. She seemed completely unalarmed at their speed, which reached 100 mph and more, or by the relatively slow-moving traffic, which had became a slalom course. Conversation was impossible; he could hardly hear himself think over the wind and the roar of the Corvette's V8.
The wind was making his eyes water. Through the lens of his tears Morgan's outline morphed into an old warty hag, something that would ride a broom on a cheap Halloween door decoration. He wiped his eyes, and saw the Morgan he wanted to see, and now wanted. His erection, trapped in an uncomfortable knot of underwear and pubic hair, strained for release.
The strangeness of the situation weighed heavily on him as the Corvette's nose pierced the hot, humid night. Indignant honks, Dopplering behind them, saluted their passage. The other motorists were all lesser beings now, bugs to be squashed underfoot . . . Morgan's foot. Dobie had never felt this way before, a ruler in the kingdom of darkness, in a glorious red chariot with a lovely maiden at the helm. Life was suddenly much better than it had been just a few short hours before.
Who is this creature, who came charging into my life without warning? A tiny voice in the back of his mind told him that to ask too many questions might be a mistake, might break the delicate spell a benevolent witch had cast on his existence. Speeding through the evening seemed like fun for the sake of itself, and until they pulled up in front of the expensive Doubletree Hotel he hadn't seriously thought they had a destination. A valet appeared from nowhere and whisked the Corvette away. Dobie's jaw dropped when he saw her tip him a hundred dollar bill.
He thought they might have attracted more attention. A cheesy teenaged kid in a fast-food uniform and a gorgeous woman, dressed to kill. Hell, they probably figure me for her little brother. But no one seemed to see them. The walls and columns were either gold, chrome, or mirrored, and a vast landscape of carefully nurtured philodendrons and lilies, mulched with cedar, cascaded around them. They moved though the cold, air-conditioned lobby as if they owned it. A glass elevator injected them into a world Dobie had never seen before, a land where only the wealthy and privileged dared to enter. She opened two enormous, solid wood doors on a suite.
"Make yourself comfortable," she said, as she flipped on a light.
An expensively decorated living room invited them in, and the heavy wooden doors closed behind them like a palace gate. A balcony overlooked downtown Tulsa, the night skyline looking like that of Los Angeles or New York to Dobie's unworldly eye. For the first time in his life, Dobie felt kind of glamorous.
"Would you like a drink?" Morgan said, and poured two glasses of whiskey from a lead crystal decanter at a bar in one corner.
"Yeah, sure," he said nervously, now suddenly aware that he reeked of onions and pine cleaner and sweat. Morgan handed him two fingers of Jack Daniels in a tumbler. The whiskey had a bite he was more or less expecting; he managed to get it down without asphyxiating.
"We're going to have sex, you know," She said over the edge of the glass. "Would you like that?"
Dobie nearly dropped the tumbler. He nodded, and stammered out, "Yeah, uh, can I like, uh, take a shower?"
"Suit yourself," she said, with a smile. "Don't bother getting dressed when you're through."
Their eyes locked, and Dobie saw that indeed, this was not a dream, he was actually going to get laid by a wealthy, gorgeous woman driving a sports car. Any doubt to the contrary evaporated in the pungent fumes of Jack Daniels. He turned towards the bathroom as a smile threatened to rip his face apart. About five seconds later he emerged, scrubbed pink with Neutrogena bar soap. As per instructions, he left his Mega Burger uniform on the floor, but had to at least wear a towel around his waist. All the while he was astounded at his sudden fortune. Having seven fingers on each hand had never worked out for him like this before.
Morgan was nowhere to be seen in the suite, but from an open door near the bar flowed soothing harp music . . . and the scent of an exotic incense.
"In here," he heard Morgan call from the bedroom.
The incense was much stronger now as he stood in the bedroom doorway. A completely naked Morgan sat up in a bed the size of Texas, her red hair cascading around her shoulders but not quite concealing her marvelous, rounded breasts. She patted the empty space on the bed next to her. "I saved you a spot," she said.
The towel fell from Dobie's waist, but did not fall to the floor.