Revised: Chapter 7

I re-wrote most of chapter 7. If you'd like to read the revisions, I just edited that post instead of re-posting it.

I think this works much better and gives a stronger impression of who Pooka is. Plus it's a more solid foundation to build his character on in future chapters. I am most pleased.

The Hero Factor: Chapter Ten (a)

ALATHEA


She was prepared for a barrage of questions. She had anticipated everything Michael might want to know, about her, about her world and her people, preparing her answers well ahead of time, judiciously deciding how much to reveal to satisfy his curiosity while omitting those things that would be of no benefit, to either him or to Fae-kind, for him to know. As they set out on their journey to see the witch, Thea braced herself for an interrogation.

What she was not prepared for was Michael's sullen silence.

Time was growing short, so she had allowed Taggart to procure a car and drive them. She and Michael sat in the back where she watched him stare blankly out of the window. Whether he was processing all that he'd learned, or pouting, or perhaps a bit of both, Thea couldn't know for certain. When she could stand the silence no longer, she reached across to place her hand atop his. "Thank you," she told him.

Slowly, Michael looked down at her hand, and then he looked at her. His expression remained blank. One might even describe it as cold, but she was an optimist. "What did you say?"

The coldness in his voice was easier to discern. Thea retracted her hand, but smiled, as warmly as she could, hoping the warmth of her smile would melt his iciness. "I wanted to thank you for what you're doing. I know it isn't easy for you."

At this he laughed, sharply. "You're thanking me?" He shook his head and looked back out the window. Thea opened her mouth to explain herself better, but turning back, he cut her off. "You thank someone for doing you a favor. I'm not doing you any favors, so let's get that straight right now. I'm doing this because I can't do anything else. I'm caving in to blackmail. You don't thank someone for that."

Her smile thinned. She wanted to tell him how wrong he was, but in a way, he was correct. "Nevertheless," she said, "you have our gratitude."

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Only when they arrived at their destination did Michael speak again. "Wait, we're stopping here?"

"Here" was a little shop in Ventura. Thea couldn't fault his incredulity--it did seem an unlikely locale for ritual magic. She and Taggert got out of the car and proceeded toward the entrance, but Michael hung back. "You've got to be kidding." Thea stopped to look back at him. He wore an expression of skepticism and a small amount of disgust. "You brought me to get my fortune told?"

The shop was painted black, with a yellow sun, moon and stars stencilled all around the door. Beaded curtains hung in the window behind a darkened neon sign advertising, "Palms read! Fortunes told! Astrological charts $30!" Beside her, Taggart let out an impatient sigh. "You'd think you'd have figured out by now that things are rarely what they appear to be. Now come on. We don't have much time." He pulled open the door, causing a bell to jingle inside, and held it, offering Thea a slight, deferential bow of his head as she passed through before him.

More beaded curtains, their colors and placing forming a zodiac pattern, hung across the doorway. Thea pushed these aside and held them for Michael, who still lingered back at the car. "Are you coming?" she called.

"Yeah," he hedged. "See, you didn't tell me that I'd be putting my existence in the hands of some two-bit palm reader."

"What did I just tell you?" said Taggart, still holding the door.

Thea reached over and touched his arm to calm him. Patiently, she called to Michael, "Taggart's correct. This isn't what it appears. We're in the home of a great sorceress, I can assure you."

"And a little respect wouldn't hurt," added Taggart.

"Fine. Maybe she can tell me if I'm finally getting an Emmy this year." Michael entered the shop, glaring at each of them in turn as he passed by. Once inside he paused to take in the the astrological wallpaper, the glow-in-the-dark stars scattered across the ceiling, and the table in the center of the shop, surrounded by pillows and draped with scarves of many different colors and patterns, atop which sat about a dozen candles and a crystal ball. He wrinkled his nose. "What's that smell?"

Thea sniffed the air. "Frankincense, I believe."

"Great." Michael tugged at the collor of his tee-shirt. "Man, it's stuffy in here. Let's get this done before I get nausea."

"Hello!" called Thea. "Is anyone here?"

"We're closed," an aged female voice called out from the back. "What do you want?"

"We've come to seek an audience! We have need of a spell, we were told you could perform it?"

Another set of beaded curtains tinkled behind the store counter, and a middle-aged human woman dressed in a rumpled, oversized tee-shirt and flannel pants emerged. Here close-cropped hair was disheveled, and her eyes still had sleep-sand in the corners. She held a cellular phone in one hand. The other trained a small pistol on them. "How did you get in here?"

"We were invited," Thea assured her. "My name is Alathea."

The woman's eyes widened, and she lowered her weapon. "Princess Alathea of the Summer Court?"

Thea offered a small smile. "I'm afraid so."

The woman's face broke into a grin, all traces of sleepiness gone from her features. "Well why didn't you say so? Come in, come in." She stashed the pistol behind the counter and waved them all over to the table. "How is your mother?"

The question was meant to be polite, but even so, Thea bristled. "I'm afraid wouldn't know. I don't suppose you've seen her recently?"

"Not that I know of," she said, missing the sarcasm. She put a hand on her forehead. "Blessed be. I'm so scatterbrained when I wake up, and all this excitement isn't helping. Sela! We have company!" A small girl emerged through the beads and went straight to a hot plate behind the counter. As she began a pot of tea, the woman urged them all to sit. "I'm Madame Genevieve," she said, guiding them to the pillows around the table. "But you already knew that. You must be the Princess's consort," she said to Taggart.

"Uh...." He glanced uncomfortably at Thea.

"'Consort' isn't quite the right word," she offered.

"Right," he said, smiling. As the woman turned away he muttered, "Not anymore."

Thea had time to shoot him a rapproachful look before a shriek startled her. She jumped to her feet. "Are you all right?"

Madame Genevieve stood with both hands covering her mouth and huge eyes fixed upon Michael. He regarded her in return with a wary posture an a skillfully arched eyebrow. "Oh my God," exclaimed Madame Genevieve. "Oh my--oh!" Her hands fluttered over her hair and clothing in a futile attempt to smooth them. "I'm so embarrassed. I can't believe you're seeing me like this."

"It's okay," said Michael, giving her a relaxed smile. "You look fine."

"I just can't believe... oh, I'm such a big fan. This is just so--oh! Just a minute." She ran behind the counter and disappeared into the back of the store. Thea and Taggart both turned to look at Michael, who simply shrugged. While they waited, the girl, Sela, brought each of them a cup of tea, and then moved around the shop, locking the door and closing blinds on all the windows. Michael lifted his tea to sniff it, and was just about to take a sip when Madame Genevieve reappeared. She went straight to Michael, holding out a small package and a pen. "Would you please?"

Michael took the package from her. "A Simon Caufield action figure. Sure, why not." He took the pen and scribbled across the package. "Guess it's not enough that you're about to have a life-sized one of these things."

"Thank you so much," Madame Genevieve said, examining the autograph. "This is going to be the star of my collection. Oh! Unless..." She leaned in closer to Michael. "Would it be too much to ask to have our picture taken together? It would mean so much and it'll only take a moment--Sela! Be a dear and fetch my camera?"

"The sun's about to rise," said Taggart, getting them back on track.

"Is it?" asked Madame Genevieve.

"He's correct," said Thea, "and we were told that this spell works best if performed before sunrise."

Michael stood up. "And I'd really like to get this over with, if you don't mind."

"Certainly not," said Madame Genevieve, looking only mildly disappointed. "Of course, of course, the picture can wait. Now... um... which spell would that be?"

"Turning me into Simon Caufield. For real. So, should I, like, stand somewhere, or hold some kind of talisman or something?"

Madame Genevieve laughed. "Oh, honey, believe me, if I could perform that spell I would have done it years ago." She waved the girl over. "Sela, dear, do you need anything?"

The little girl came to stand next to her and size up Michael. "He should be wearing the costume," she said.

"Got it right here," said Taggart, pulling a bundle of clothes and a pair of heavy boots from his biker bag and setting them on the table.

"Hey!" Michael pointed at the clothing. "That's my wardrobe! That's studio property! How'd you get it?"

"The same way I gas up my bike," said Taggart. "How do you think?"

"Put them on," ordered Sela.

Michael laughed. "What, you're doing the spell?" At the apparent child's grave nod, Michael looked over at Thea. "But she's just a kid!"

Thea worked very hard not to roll her eyes. "We have warned you not to be fooled by appearances."

He looked back down at the girl and regarded her for a moment. "So you're one of them, huh? A faerie?"

She tilted her head. "That is your word. I've never been fond of it. Now, hurry." She gestured at the costume. "As your companions have already said, there isn't much time."

"Right." Michael gathered up the clothes. "Is there somewhere I can change?"

"Right this way," said Madame Genevieve, escorting him to the back of the store. Once he reached the curtain, he stopped.

"Uh, thanks. I can take it from here."

The fortune-teller giggled like a young girl. "Of course you can. You can't blame a gal for trying." She rejoined the others as Michael passed through the curtain.

After a moment, he reappeared, looking very much like his character in dark jeans, heavy workboots, a white tee-shirt and a long, black trench coat. There was a slight swagger to his walk as he met them back at the table. "So, can I ask, why the costume? I kind of figured the clothes would come with the spell."

Sela shook her head. "Clothes make the man," she said, simply. Then she climbed up onto the table next to Michael, placed a finger against his forehead and uttered words in a language even more ancient than the one speaking them.

Nothing happened.

(TBC)

The Hero Factor: Chapter Nine

This is a place holder. I thought there needed to be a chapter here that checks back in with Claire and the Pooka, but writing it hasn't been going well and I'm starting to doubt whether it's even necessary. Even so, I'm saving this space for it, just in case it ever works itself out. Moving on...

The Hero Factor: Chapter Eight

There are a lot of italics that didn't make the c&p, and I'm too short on time to put them in. So if something seems like it should be in italics, it probably is.

Also, please bear with me as I figure out such logistics as, for example, what happens to Pooka's clothes when he shapeshifts. I'll work that stuff out in December.

~~~

MICHAEL



He pounded on his back door until his fists hurt. He could see his keys lying useless on the kitchen counter. He didn't know what that thing with his face was, or what it was doing in his kitchen, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He just wanted to go inside, shower off the ogre goo, and go to bed. He wanted to know Claire was safe. Mostly he wanted her to hear him. "Claire!" he cried, watching helplessly as she poured herself a cup of coffee and then disappeared from view, leaving him locked outside.

Michael backed into the yard and looked around for something to smash the window, wondering vaguely if it would make a difference. He clung to this idea that getting home--all the way inside his home--would end all of this and he'd be real again. But what if it didn't? What would he do if he was still invisible to everyone who mattered?

That thing could see him, of that he was certain. It could see him, and Claire could see it, and she thought it was Michael. The thought made his stomach turn. He had to get in there, if only to keep that son of a bitch clone thing away from her. He practically tripped over a large rock, and bent to pick it up.

That's when the door opened. His double stood in the doorway, dressed in his clothes and reeking of his imported beer. At the sight of it, all of the indignities and traumas Michael had suffered throughout the night came together in a roiling explosion of rage. He raised the rock over his head and, with a scream, charged at the imposter. When he reached the open door he slammed into an invisible brick wall and bounced off, landing square on his ass. He shook his head, carefully, to clear the ringing from his ears. Pressing a palm to his aching forehead, he opened a cautious eye.

His double leaned casually in the doorway, arms folded. "You can't come in," it told him. Its voice was calm and matter-of-fact. Its voice was his, the same outside-his-head voice he could never get used to no matter how much he watched himself onscreen. "Not without being invited."

"This is my house, asshole." Michael climbed unsteadily to his feet and did his best not to sway. "You're the one's not invited."

"No, actually, you brought me here yourself. Then you explicitly told Claire that she was welcome to bring me back--"

"What the fuck are you talking about? What the fuck are you, even?"

The doppelganger's smile faded. "I'm beyond your comprehension, mortal."

"Oh, spare me. You know, there's not a bar high enough to show how much I have had it with you people. I'm done! Now get the hell out of my house and go back to Never-neverland, or whatever it is you call it, and give me back my life!" With the last word he pounded on the invisible barrier. It didn't budge.

"Sorry," said the double without any trace of sincerity. "Really not up to me."

"Hey, Michael?"

"Claire?" She had reappeared in the kitchen. Michael's heart skipped until he realized she wasn't addressing him.

"Who are you talking to?" she asked his double, looking out through the door and Michael.

"Just going over some lines," said the fake. Oh, this guy was good. "What is it?"

"I think I'm gonna take a rain check on breakfast and go post some signs around the neighborhood." She held up a computer-generated poster advertising a reward for her lost cat. The cat that started this whole damn mess.

"Tell you what," said the double, smiling reassuringly at her. "I'll come along and help, then we can go for breakfast after."

She smiled. Then she crossed the kitchen to wrap him in a hug. "Thanks, Michael."

"He's not Michael!" Michael leaned against the barrier and shouted. "I'm Michael! Me! Right here!"

"It's nothing," said the imposter, grinning at Michael as he returned her embrace. "It's the least I could do after I was stupid enough to let him out in the first place."

Michael just glared at himself. "Get away from her."

But it was Claire who finally broke off the hug. She sniffled and wiped her nose. "I'll just go finish printing these up."

As she left the room again, Michael fixed his gaze on the phony. "I don't know what you are, or what your game is, but I swear to God, if you hurt her--"

"You'll what?"

"I'll kill you."

"Will you?" The double laughed.

Then it changed.

Suddenly a black horse reared up in front of Michael, kicking at him with its front hooves. He dove out of the way as the horse charged out of the kitchen and into the yard. It galloped around as Michael watched in shock, then slowed to a trot and sauntered over to him. "You and what army?" it asked.

It all came back to him then. The horse, the ride through the mountains, getting bucked off and kicked in the head. Watching the horse transform into a perfect, naked copy of himself. "You," said Michael. "That was no dream. It was you!"

"Finally catch on to that, did you?"

The next thing out of Michael's mouth was a wordless, frustrated shout as he took a swing at the horse. It gracefully pranced out of the way, causing him to lose his balance and stumble.

"Now you're just being pathetic," said the horse.

Michael straightened up and circled the horse. "You think I can't take you? I killed a fucking ogre tonight."

The horse snorted. "An ogre, eh?" There was a blur of motion, and then the horse was gone, a ten foot tall, hairy, pissed off looking ogre standing in its place. "Like this one?"

Michael swallowed, hard, but stood his ground. "It wasn't quite that tall, actually, but, yeah. Kinda like that."

"Wow," said the ogre, its voice still sounding weirdly like Michael's. "That's impressive. Hey, do you think you can slay a dragon?" Another blur, and something out of a Tolkein novel flapped its huge wings and snorted fire at Michael. This time he dove for cover.

"Enough!" shouted a voice. It was female, but deep. Commanding. Accented.

Thea.

She stood in the middle of the yard, leaning against her longbow. "Pooka, you were charged with impersonating Michael, not tormenting him."

The dragon shrunk back into a copy of Michael. "You never said I couldn't have some fun with him."

"I'm saying so now." She crossed over to Michael and offered him a hand up.

He took it. "Charged?" he asked. "This asshole works for you?"

"Hey, I'm a free agent," said Pooka.

"Who is currently obliged to obey my orders, yes," said Thea. "I apologize if he harmed you. I assure you, he will be dealt with accordingly." She shot a glare at Pooka.

"It's not me I'm worried about," said Michael, dusting himself off. "It's Claire. What's he doing with her? Why can't I get inside my house?"

"The inner sanctum of your home doesn't exist on this plane. It's protected."

"It-- um. What?"

Thea sighed, and tried again. "Our world overlaps yours. Two realms occupying the same space, understand?"

"Not really."

"Well then, trust me, they do. They are practically identical, and one can be affected from the other by those with power. The Fae have such power, and can slip back and forth between the two worlds at will. Except when it comes to the homes of mortals. The home is sanctified, and we can't enter without permission. Since we can't enter, we can't see, and we can't replicate in this world that which can't be seen."

"But--" Michael tried to wrap his head around it, but all he could focus on was, "but it's my house!"

Thea closed her eyes in frustration, but the look gave way to a compassionate smile. "Yes. It is. But as long as you're in our realm, you can't go home. Our realm, our rules."

He pointed at the Pooka asshole. "What about him?"

"I'm afraid the Pooka plays by a different set of rules than the rest of us."

"Damn straight I do, baby." Something flew through the air and struck him in the head. "Ow! What the--?"

"Shut your insolent mouth, Pooka, and speak to the princess with the respect befitting her station!" Taggart came storming across the yard, one arm dangling useless at his side.

"You're hurt," said Thea.

"Shoulder's dislocated," he said, clutching his arm close. "Had a run-in with an ogre. You're pet mortal here killed him single-handedly. You'd be proud."

Thea looked at Michael with appreciation. "Is this true?"

Michael felt his ears warm. "No. Well, yeah. I mean, I got lucky. And he helped."

"Nevertheless. Many of our bravest warriors have fared less well against such creatures."

"Yeah, that's real nice, but let's get back on topic here." He pointed at Pooka. "What's that about?"

"Pooka?" asked Thea. "He's just a shapeshifter I charged with filling in for you during your absence. Don't mind him. He's harmless."

"Hardly," Pooka and Taggart both muttered. They shot annoyed glances at each other.

"Harmless?" Michael didn't buy it. "You send that inhuman imposter to take over my life, and you think that's harmless?"

"He's only holding your place," said Thea. "He'll keep anyone from noticing that you're gone."

"Still not really seeing the good in that."

"You don't need to see it. You need only to trust it. It's best if the mortals surrounding you don't notice anything is amiss. If they go looking for you, there could be trouble."

"There will be trouble if he hurts Claire."

Thea frowned. "This Claire. Is she your mate?"

Michael sighed. "No." Not anymore.

"But you care for her?"

"Of course I do."

She nodded. "Pooka, no harm is to come to Claire while she is in your company. Is that clear?"

"Sorry, lady--ow!" He rubbed the back of his head and glared at Taggart, who had reached over to smack him. "Sorry, your worship, but I don't owe you any more favors."

"No, but if you disobey my request you can expect retribution from the Queen herself."

Pooka scoffed, but Michael thought he saw fear flash across his face. "Fine. Whatever. I like Claire. I have no desire to harm her."

"Nor will you cause harm to any other humans during your time on this task."

"Fine!"

She looked back at Michael. "Happy?"

This time he scoffed. "No."

"Princess," said Taggart.

"Not now," she said, stepping closer to Michael.

"There's something you should know. The ogre--"

"I said not now! Michael, I know none of this seems fair--" A bark of laughter burst from the Pooka. Thea swung around to face him. "Do you have something to add?

"No, not really. It just struck me funny, you as an arbiter of what's fair."

Thea put a hand on her hip and shook her head. "You tricksters are all alike. Not a one of you can stand to be tricked yourselves."

"Well, no. It does tend to make one feel less than clever. Look, this has been a nice diversion, but I have a kitchen to clean up. Followed by a great big breakfast." He started to head inside, but paused at the threshold and looked back at Michael. "I sure hope they don't look too closely at the credit card slip. I haven't had a chance to practice your signature yet." He flashed a grin and went inside.

Michael pointed after him. "I'm gonna kill that prick."

"Not until he's outserved his usefulness," said Thea. "After that, I may just help you."

"I'm glad we're all bonding in our annoyance," said Taggart, coming to stand before Thea, "but as I was saying, there is something you should know. Now."

Thea tossed her dark hair in irritation. "All right, what is it?"

"The ogre," said Taggart. "It attacked a boy."

Thea's posture straightened. "A human boy?"

"Yes."

"But, that's not possible."

"But it happened. The boy survived, thanks to Michael, and never knew what was harming him."

They both started speaking in hushed tones. While they talked, Michael became overwhelmed with... with everything, and sat down on the ground. Finally, the faeries both got quiet, and he realized they were watching him. He breathed a tired sigh. "What now?"

Thea knelt in front of him. "Michael, you know what I ask of you."

He shook his head. "I can't. I can't... this is all too much."

She pressed her lips together and rubbed her palms against her thighs. Then she took hold of both his hands. "If that is your answer, then I will send you back to your life and neither I or my kind shall ever cross your path again."

"Really? That's all it takes?"

"Michael, hear me. The ogre and its ilk are not ruled by my court. There is another, darker court, vile and corrupt. Your program has something like it, called the Unseelie Court. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes." He didn't like where this was going.

She nodded. "Yes, well. The balance has always been tilted in our favor. The dark court has been subject to restrictions placed upon it by my mother. It's members can't pass through the veil between our worlds and cause harm to your kind. Or at least they couldn't. Until now."

"And what? You think I can stop them?"

"Not you. Simon Caufield. We can make him live--exist, flesh and blood, with all of his power intact. But we need him to live through you."

"Yeah. Great. So what happens to me?"

"You... will continue to exist inside of him, the way he now exists inside of you."

"Oh, great. Yeah. Nice trade."

"It's only temporary. Only until the battle is done."

"Battle?" Michael jerked his hands out of her grasp. "And if 'Simon' gets killed?"

"I will do everything in my power to ensure that doesn't happen."

"But if he does--if he dies, I die. Right?"

She closed her eyes. "Correct."

"No." Michael shook his head. "No. I'm sorry. I wish I could help you. But I'm not a hero. I only play one on TV." He got to his feet. "Now if you would be so kind as to let me get on with my life and forget that I know about any of this."

Thea stood as well. "Very well. I'll send you back to your life, what is left of it."

"What does that mean?"

She laughed in frustration. "What do you think? What do you think will happen once the dark court achieves power? They're already preparing to wage war on us. Day by day, they grow stronger while my people grow weak, too complacent in their dependency on human toys to remember what it is to use true magic. We will lose. They will rule. And then what do you suppose will happen?"

Michael stared at the ground as her words sunk in. This was bad, yes. But it was too much. It was a job for a whole army of superheroes. Not for some dork in a Star Wars tee-shirt who just happened to get lucky enough to make a great living pretending to be a superhero for other people's entertainment. He looked in the kitchen window, where Clair stood talking animatedly to the inhuman creature she believed to be him.

"He won't harm her," Thea said gently, "but what do you suppose they'll do to her once they decide to spill their chaos and torment into your world? She'll die horribly. So will your family, your friends. The dark ones will wreak havoc upon both our worlds until they destroy everything, including you."

He shut his eyes and pressed his palms against the lids. "I don't--"

"You don't have a choice. Come with me and fight." She laughed, a little maniacally. "Look, I know it's insane. It's a completely desperate last-ditch effort, you think I don't know that?" She held out her hand. "Come with me, Michael. With you, we might all stand a chance."

He dropped his hands to his sides and stared at her outreached hand. He really didn't have a choice, did he? If he tried to go back to normal now, to forget it all and pretend none of this ever happened, he knew he'd have nightmares. He'd fall apart waiting for this faerie apocalypse to crash into his world and swallow it up. "I hate you all," he said, taking hold of Thea's hand. "So how does this work? You sprinkle me with faerie dust, and poof? I'm Simon?"

She squeezed his hand and offered him a smile of gratitude. "I'm afraid it's a bit more complicated than that."

Michael sighed. "It always is."

The Hero Factor: Chapter Seven

POOKA



Pooka got smashed.

It didn't take as much as expected. He had a strong constitution, but it had been years--decades--since the last time he'd imbibed. Halfway through the second six-pack, it hit him: he was drunk. Sprawled on the kitchen floor with his back against a counter, beer bottles lined up beside him, he paused to examine the feeling. His head felt light, and the world began to tilt a bit. Pooka laughed, and kept drinking, curious to see how long it would take him to black out.

He hated being human. It was necessary from time to time, even fun on rare occasions, to take a human form. He had a favorite that he liked to slip on when the need arose. On occasion he would imitate a real person, usually for purposes of entertainment and personal gain; but he'd never done it to this extent, or for this long.

Being human was messy. Things had a way of getting complicated, and Pooka despised complication. Things were already complicated with Claire, and he didn't know what to do about it. He needed her. She knew Chambers, knew his life, knew the man's schedule even better than he did. Fooling her would be the most difficult part of this task, but without her he wouldn't be able to pull it off. Already she was angry with him, blaming him for the loss of her cat. Well, she had him there. He never would have been so responsive to her affections in his feline form if he'd known she'd get so damned attached.

If she wasn't so necessary he would simply remove her. Take her away on horseback, or perhaps even on eagle's wings, to someplace far away, and leave her there. It would be someplace safe--he had no desire to harm her. By the time she got back home, though, this farce would be long behind him and he would never have to deal with her again.

Pooka downed another bottle of beer. There was plenty more where that came from. Chambers kept his refrigerator well stocked with a selection of beers from around the world. Pooka read the label on the bottle in his hand. He had to squint to bring the letters into focus. Brewed in Thailand. At least he had good taste. Pooka belched his appreciation and leaned forward to line that bottle up with the rest. It slipped from his hand and rang hollowly as it rolled across the kitchen floor.

He slumped sideways and his eyes slid shut. He was no longer human. He was an eagle, and he flew. He passed over mountains that towered above the clouds. He skimmed the tops of oceans clear and blue and deep as the heavens. He flew over paradise, and beyond, up and up, beyond the moon, until he grew tired and perched on a star.

The star became a lake, and he was human once again. Wet, black hair stuck to his forehead and got in his eyes. She came to him, naked and proud, breasts just visible above the water as she smoothed his hair back from his brow. Delicate hands carressed his skin, traced contours of his chest, tugged at him, held him close as she pleaded. Stay. Be with me. Love me. She pulled him down into the shallow water, tasting him, tempting him to taste her, to forsake himself and all that he knew, to sacrifice all that he would ever be.

In his dreams, Pooka always gave in.

And then he woke up.

The kitchen tile felt cool against his cheek. He had know idea how long he'd been there, but he could feel his own drool drying and crusting on his face. When he tried to get up his head spun and his stomach roiled, so he put his head back down. He'd just rest here a moment, until the world stopped turning.

"What the hell?"

Shit. Claire.

She crept into the kitchen, carefully picking her path through the empty food cartons he'd left strewn across the floor. All he could see from his current angle were her feet, shod in silk slippers with Asian firefly embroidery. "I mean... just... what the hell?"

"Morning, Claire," Pooka groaned.

She was quiet a moment, and then he heard her sigh. "Stay there. I'll make coffee."

He grunted a reply as her feet shuffled through the kitchen, kicking empty containers and beer bottles out of her way. The bottles clattered as they rolled, and to Pooka's hungover ears it sounded like a handbell choir was holding a jam session inside his skull. Claire provided percussion by slamming drawers and cabinets as hard as she apparently could.

Things definitely weren't looking up in the "keep Claire happy" department.

"Here," she said at last, helping him sit up and pressing a hot, steaming cup into his hands. Pooka took a sip and spit the bitter liquid right back into its cup. "No thanks," he said, handing it back.

Claire frowned. "Since when do you turn down coffee?"

Damn. "Since never," he sighed, taking it back from her. He choked some of it down and forced a falsely appreciative smile. "Delicious."

She stood over him for a moment, hands tucked under her arms, studying him. Then she cleared a place on the floor in front of him and sat, cross-legged and facing him. "I think I know what's going on here."

"You do?" Pooka felt suddenly a little more sober. Panic will do that to a body. He hoped his scenario of spiriting her away hadn't just become necessary.

"I do," said Claire. She reached over and took his hand. "I know you still have feelings for me, Michael."

"Um." Pooka gulped his coffee.

"It's okay. You know, I'd be lying if I said my feelings for you didn't still get confused sometimes."

"Really?"

She looked down at the floor for a moment. Then she squeezed his hand and let it go. "But we're not kids," she said, meeting his gaze. "You don't have to pull my pigtails and run away so I won't figure out that you like me. We're grown-ups with an understanding, and who both know the stakes. So for God's sake, Michael, be a grown-up." She got to her feet. "And if you can't figure out how to be one, then at least act like one. That is what you do, after all."

Pooka slumped forward and held his head in his hands. He didn't know how to respond and thought this might buy him some time. Plus, his head really fucking hurt. Keeping Claire convinced of his identity was going to be hard work. Keeping her mollified and pleasant to be around was going to be even harder.

The only thing he despised more than complication was hard work.

He looked up to meet her gaze. She looked so sincere, so naive and vulnerable. It would be easy to destroy this child.

It wouldn't exactly be the first time.

No. Guilt was useless, and he'd used up whatever compassion he'd once been capable of long ago. He had a job to do. No reason he couldn't have a little fun doing it. When the answer struck him it was all he could do not to smile. Instead he made his face a careful mask of sincerity and contrition. "You're right, Claire. I'm sorry."

She sighed. "So am I. That last thing I said was uncalled for." She looked down at her hands as they fiddled with the belt of her bathrobe. "I should have known this would be weird for you. I just thought, with my office here... tell you what. I'll call my friend Tess, see if I can crash at her place while my apartment airs out."

"No!" Pooka scrambled to his feet. The sudden movement made him dizzy, but he steadied himself and forged ahead. "No. I said you could stay here, so you can stay here. It won't be weird anymore. I promise."

She chewed her lip and regarded him for a moment. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." Pooka held out his arms. "Okay?"

Claire smiled and closed in for a hug. "Okay." As she pressed her face against his shoulder, he allowed himself that smile. He wouldn't just be a convincing Michael Chambers for her. He would be a better Chambers, the one she so clearly wanted him to be. It would be a challenge, but a fun one. Best yet, it would keep her happy.

She pulled and adjusted her robe as he adjusted his expression. "I'll help you clean up," she said, stooping to pick up some bottles. They clinked together as she chucked them into the garbage bin. Pooka bent to gather some food cartons, but stopped when he heard the handle on the back door rattle.

"Claire!" Michael Chambers--the real Chambers--pounded on the glass. "Claire, let me in!"

Claire continued to putter around the kitchen, picking up trash and paying Chambers no notice.

"Hey!" Chambers pounded some more. "Claire, please God, tell me you can hear me and let me in!"

Well, now. This task was suddenly looking to be a lot more interesting. Feeling evil, Pooka went to the window to have a look at his doppelgangee. The look on the man's face as he recognized his own living image was priceless. He backed away from the door. "What the... what the hell...?"

"What is it?" asked Claire. Pooka felt a stab of panic as she came over to him. Had she heard Chambers' plea? "What are you looking at? Do you see Sam?" Pooka smirked as she looked out the window and right past Chambers.

"Claire!" he shouted, pounding the glass right in front of her. "Claire, come on!" He jabbed an angry finger at Pooka. "You! You see me, don't you, you son of a bitch? You keep away from her!"

Still smirking, Pooka put an arm around Claire's shoulders.

"Don't touch her!" screamed Chambers.

"Tell you what," said Pooka to Claire. "This is my mess. I'll clean it up. Why don't you go get dressed and I'll whip us up some breakfast."

Claire gave him an incredulous look. "Seriously?"

He shrugged. "Least I can do."

"Cool," she said. She grabbed herself a cup of coffee and headed out of the kitchen, the entire time oblivious to the real Michael Chambers.

Pooka watched her go and waited until he heard her bedroom door close. Then he turned to Chambers and opened the door.

The Hero Factor: Chapter Six (b)

Sorry for the delay, folks. I managed to pick up the latest crud that's been going around, and it knocked me out of commission for a while. Here's the rest of the chapter that began with the previous post.

***

MICHAEL (cont'd)


"Where are you going?" called Taggart.

"Home!" There was a subway station a few blocks over. Michael headed that way.

"I said I'd take you," said Taggart, following behind on foot. "We keep our word, you know."

"No," said Michael, "I don't know. The only thing I know for sure about faeries is that they don't exist."

"Oh, Michael," Taggart sighed. "You'd save yourself a lot of trouble if you'd just believe. Come on. Get back on the bike." When Michael didn't respond, Taggart jogged to catch up on him. "Wait. You're not taking the subway."

"The hell I'm not," said Michael.

"No. No no no. Don't take the subway, Michael." Ignoring him, and more determined than ever, Michael plowed ahead. As they reached the mouth of the subway station, Taggart grabbed his arm. "Don't!"

Michael jerked his arm away and stopped to face Taggart. "Why not?"

"Just trust me. You don't want to go down there."

Michael laughed. "Right. I'm going to trust the guy who kidnapped me and not go where he doesn't want me to."

"I didn't kidnap you, Michael. I'm here to protect you."

"You expect me to believe you're not the one who knocked me in the head and dragged me off in the first place?"

"I don't really expect you to believe anything I tell you, stubborn human. But no, actually, that wasn't me."

"Look, enough! Okay? I don't know what kind of deluded fantasy you and your girlfriend are trying to play out here, but it's over. I'm getting on this train and going home, and then tomorrow I'm going to call my lawyer and file a restraining order against you both. And if you touch me again, so help me God, I'm going to knock you on your ass. Got it?"

Taggart grinned that infuriating grin. He held up his hands in acquiescence as he took a step back, then, with a bow and a flourish, motioned Michael into the subway station.

Michael rolled his eyes and resisted the temptation to flatten the guy anyway. Inside the station, he took out his wallet and approached a bank of vending machines. He removed a crisp bill and tried to feed it into the token machine, but it wouldn't even try to take it. He moved to another machine and tried again. "Fuck it," he muttered, stuffing the money back in his wallet.

Nobody noticed when he jumped the turnstiles.

Onboard the train, a homeless person of non-apparent gender slept in a corner, and an old woman sat in the middle, knitting needles clacking rhythmically in her hands. Neither of them took any notice of Michael. He took a seat across from the woman. "What are you making?" he asked her, knowing as he did that it was futile. When she failed to acknowledge his existence, he rolled his eyes in disgust, then shut them and leaned his head against the back of his seat. He heard the doors swish shut, and then swish open again as someone else boarded. Michael opened one curious eye to see his new stalker coming down the aisle. He closed it again and said nothing, hoping Taggart would go away.

He didn't. He sat down next to Michael without a word. The doors closed, and the train took off.

After a few minutes of feigning sleep, Michael couldn't take it anymore. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Protecting you," said Taggart.

Michael snorted. "From what?"

The train slowed as it approached the next stop. "You'll soon see," said Taggart.

That got Michael to open his eyes. "What," he snarked, looking at the two other passengers, "I'm about to get knitted to death?"

The train screeched to a halt and the doors swished open. A group of teenagers armed with skateboards got on. Behind them, a giant of a man who must have been a professional body builder stepped on board. He wore a black hooded sweatshirt with the hood drawn over his face. As he entered the car an overpowering smell came with him, filling the air with the foulest stench Michael had ever encountered. It smelled of rotten eggs and dead flowers with a little sewer thrown in for good measure. "Aw, man!" Michael covered his nose and mouth with both hands and fought not to retch. Naturally, none of the other passengers so much as wrinkled their noses. "How 'bout you protect me from that?"

"That's the idea," said Taggart, rising to his feet. "You might want to get ready to run."

"Huh?"

From beneath his leather biker jacket, Taggart produced a small crossbow that looked like a prop from Michael's show. He pointed it at the body builder.

"Whoa," said Michael. "What are you doing? Put that thing away!"

"Get off the train," said Taggart. "Now, while you have the chance. You'll be safe above ground."

Before Michael could even consider the moral implications of taking the opportunity to run from his abductor and leave him, armed, with a bunch of innocent bystanders, the train started moving. So much for that. The kids all found seats, but the body builder planted himself in the middle of the aisle, facing Taggart. "I smell meat," he said. Or, more accurately, growled. His voice was deep and had the quality of gravel scraping asphalt, and it turned Michael's blood cold.

"Stand back, ogre," said Taggart, leveling the crossbow.

Ogre. Right. Michael had enough. He stood up. "Okay, guys, enough's enough. You and your little Dungeons & Dragons sketch comedy troupe can just pack it in and call it a night. I'm not buying this, and I'm sure as hell not going with—"

The body builder threw his head back and roared. When he did his hood fell away, revealing a thick mane of black, bristly, fur-like hair, out of which protruded a pair of shiny black horns. His skin was a mottled greenish-yellow, and his eyes, when he stopped bellowing to look at Taggart and Michael, were solid black. His face looked like someone had shaped it out of play-dough and then mashed it in with their thumb and tried to hide their mistake under another mass of fur. And there were teeth. Lots of sharp, pointed little teeth that made Michael think of a piranha.

"Michael, run!" shouted Taggart as he shot his bow at the monster. An oversized hairy claw batted the bolt out of the air the way Michael would swat a mosquito. "Shit," muttered Taggart as he fumbled to reload. For his part, Michael was too busy not peeing his pants to follow instruction.

The ogre—that was what Taggart had called it, and Michael thought that sounded about right—turned its attention away from the two men and onto the oblivious group of children. "Fresh," the thing snarled as it reached out to wrap its claws around a chubby boy's neck. The boy showed no reaction.

"Get him away from that kid!" said Michael, taking a step toward the ogre in spite of himself.

Taggart put a hand on his chest to block him. "Don't worry. He can't harm anyone on the other side of the veil." He found another bolt and slid it into place. "You, on the other hand, seeing as how you're on this side, he can devour. Let's try to make sure he doesn't realize that." He took aim and fired.

The bolt imbedded itself in the ogre's shoulder. It roared and squeezed harder. The kid gasped, his eyes suddenly panicked, and started to claw at his neck as his friends gathered around to help, completely unaware of what was truly happening.

"I thought you said it couldn't hurt him!" said Michael.

Taggart's eyes were as wide as the kid's. "Something's wrong. It shouldn't be able to!" He handed the crossbow to Michael and then threw himself at the ogre, shouting some kind of primal battle cry as he went. The creature swatted him away as effortlessly as it had the crossbow bolt. Taggart flew threw the air and bounced hard off the subway car's Plexiglas window. He lay on the floor, stunned. The kid started to turn blue.

"Hey!" Michael heard himself shout. He looked down at the weapon in its hands, but he had no ammunition, so he threw it at the ogre's head. That got the bastard's attention. "Hey!" he shouted again, waving his arms. "Come on, big guy. Wouldn't you rather have me?"

The ogre looked him up and down, sneered, and went back to strangling the kid.

"I said, hey!" Michael spun and planted a roundhouse kick square in the monster's chest. He was good at roundhouse kicks. He always did his own for the camera. His foot bounced off the ogre, and he lost his footing and fell on his ass, but at least he'd managed to piss the creep off. "Let's go," he said, scrambling to his feet. The ogre released the boy and came toward Michael. Michael, coming to his senses, screamed and ran like hell.

In the fairytales of Michael's childhood, ogres were fat and hairy and lived in caves, coming out every now and then to inspire terror and maybe eat the occasional small child. The more recent Hollywood incarnations he was familiar with were also fat, surly but gentle and misunderstood beasts. His show had its own ogre, a hairy, horned blob with a snarky disposition who worked as Simon's informant and, except for a nasty habit of snacking on kittens, was mostly harmless.

This thing pursuing Michael was not harmless. It wasn't gentle or misunderstood. And underneath all that hair it was pure, solid muscle. It was fast, too, staying on his heels as he ran from one train car to the next, slowing down only to squeeze its massive bulk through the connecting doors. That gave Michael enough of a lead that, when he reached the last door on the last car, he had time to catch his breath and watch the ogre come for him.

This was where Simon Caufield would pull out some clever magic, or a cool martial arts move that nobody saw coming, or maybe climb outside and on top of the train to buy himself more time. But Michael had no magic, his limited martial arts training was mostly for show, and he knew that trying to climb around on top of the train would bring almost as certain and violent a death as standing there waiting for the ogre to get him. Besides, the back door was locked. So this was it, then. Death by fairytale. He wondered, if there was anything left of his body, whether they would send it back to the real world so they could have a funeral.

The ogre reached Michael and pinned him against the door. Its beard was slimed over with foam and yellow spittle. Michael thought of his mom, and of the will he'd had drafted as soon as he came into wealth. At least she'd be taken care of. So would Claire.That was all that mattered. Then the ogre bared its teeth and growled in Michael's face, and the only thing that mattered at that moment was the ogre's breath and the impossible feat it managed of smelling even worse than the monster's hellish BO. Michael retched. "Come on," he choked, a little amazed at his own capacity to be a smartass in the face of impending doom, "put me out of my misery already."

The ogre laughed, a black, evil sound deep in its throat, and grinned. "Happy to." He opened his mouth impossibly wide, and Michael closed his eyes.

He opened them again when the ogre screamed. Its scream was even more terrible than its laugh, but it was music to Michael's ears. It let him go and reeled backwards as Taggart hung on, one arm wrapped around its neck in a chokehold as the other twisted a crossbow bolt that penetrated the ogre's eye. "Metal!" shouted Taggart. "Its allergic to modern metals.You can use it to kill him."

Michael shook himself out of his stunned shock and realized Taggart was speaking to him. "Great! Where am I supposed to get some metal?"

"Look around, you idiot! You're surrounded by metal. Use the poll!" He grunted as the ogre backed up and slammed him against a side door, but he held on. "I can't keep him back much longer. Hurry!"

Michael grabbed hold of the pole that supported the hand rail and gave it a tug. It didn't budge. The ogre wailed and bucked and clawed in turns at Taggart and at the bolt in its eye while around them witless passengers read and daydreamed and listened to their music, but Taggart still held on. Inspired, Michael felt his resolve strengthen. He could do this. He stood back from the rail and aimed a kick at the pole. Again. And again. The pole started to loosen. Michael kept kicking, not looking at the ogre. Then he heard Taggart holler in pain, and looked over to see him slump to the floor. The ogre was gathering itself up to launch at Michael. No more time. He grabbed hold of the pole and pulled with everything he had. It came loose and he lost his balance, falling backwards into a row of seats. The ogre raised a claw and slashed the air toward Michael, but he caught it with the pole, holding it lengthwise to block. He got his feet up and planted them both against the ogre's chest. It didn't hurt it, but it knocked it backwards enough for Michael to raise the pole like a club, and he came up swinging. He smashed it hard into the ogre's face. Its skin sizzled upon impact, and it screeched in pain. Michael swung again, and again, and again. The ogre stumbled back, trying to protect its head with its arms, but Michael was relentless.

"Kill it," said Taggart from his spot on the floor, his voice weak. "You must impale it, or it will keep coming."

Michael heard himself screaming as he kept hitting the beast. Following Taggart's instructions, he grasped one end of the pole with both hands and raised it over his head like a knife, ready to plunge, but he stopped. He'd never killed anything before that didn't have at least six legs. This... this wasn't him. He couldn't do this. He became aware of the yellow ichor and blood covering him, saw the ogre's fucked up face and heard his cries of pain, and felt overwhelming nausea. He stood frozen, fighting to keep his stomach from emptying right there.

The ogre recovered itself and lunged. Michael met it halfway with the pole. It hit the thing's eye and kept going, through its brain and out the back of its head. It dropped to its knees, then slumped to the floor. Black blood pooled around the designer shoes of a woman who didn't even pause from typing into her laptop.

On the floor, Taggart laughed. It sounded broken and full of pain, but joyful nonetheless. "You've done it, Michael. You've slain your first ogre."

The train ground to a halt. The doors swished open. Passengers stood to get off as others filed on. Michael forced his way through them and got off the train. On the platform, he took three steps before falling to all fours and vomiting.

When he finished, he rolled onto his back and looked around for a station sign. Hollywood & Vine. He was still a couple of stops away from his neighborhood, but he'd be damned if he'd get back on that train.

The doors closed, and the train took off without him. Slowly, Michael got up. He took a moment to make sure he was steady. Then he found the stairs and headed back up into the night.

The Hero Factor: Chapter Six (a)

Whew. Ten thousand and counting. Here's a partial chapter. I'll try to make time to finish it and post it from home tomorrow (and make up some of my flagging word count in the process), but for now I really must stop and do some of my actual job before the work day is done.

Here is also where I must beg tolerance for various inconsistencies and continuity errors as I hammer out the details of my little make-believe world. I'm giving myself permission not to worry about those until the re-write stage.

***

MICHAEL



Somebody could see him. That somebody was currently giving him a ride home. Michael clung to the back of the motorcycle and let the wind and relief wash over him. He told himself that if he'd lived back in that neighborhood and a stranger with a lot of weird drama rang his bell after dark, he probably would have pretended not to hear, too. He didn't like to think that of himself—he liked to believe that he'd act differently in that kind of situation, that he'd be willing to help—but what people liked to believe they'd do in a situation and what they actually did once human nature took over rarely resembled one another. At any rate, human self-interest and apathy was a sad but much more rational explanation for what he'd just gone through than being turned invisible by faeries.

It had been an extraordinarily long day. He felt very tired, and his head still hurt. He still had to file a police report, and worse, he still had to face Claire and explain how he'd lost her cat—although hopefully by now his missing status would concern her more than the cat's. That and the knot on his head might earn him some sympathy points. It might even earn him a temporary reprieve from their break-up. The thought of going home and spending the night with her in their old room… well, it was a thought he knew better than to indulge. So he opened his eyes and looked for something to distract him.

That's when he realized they were going the wrong way.

"Hey!" he called, but his driver didn't hear him. He tapped him on the shoulder. "HEY!" The driver craned his neck to look back at Michael. "We're going the wrong way!" he enunciated, hoping the guy could at least read his lips. But the driver gestured to indicate he couldn't hear anything. With an exasperated sigh, Michael gestured for him to pull over. The driver nodded and steered the bike toward a nearby gas station. He parked beside the pumps and killed the engine.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," said Michael. "I don't mean to be an ungrateful pain in the ass, but I live back in Los Feliz."

"Yeah," said the driver. "You mentioned that."

"But we're heading into Hollywood."

"Yeah."

"Um. Well. You said you'd give me a ride home."

The driver nodded and flashed him a grin. "No worries. Just have to take care of something first." He climbed off the bike and jerked his chin toward the store. "If you have to pee, now's your chance. I'm going to fill up."

Michael sighed again. It had been a while since he'd gone. "Thanks," he said, climbing off the bike. "I won't take long."

"Take your time," the driver called as Michael headed inside. When he reached the door the patron entering in front of him let it shut in his face.

"Nice," Michael grumped. He jerked the door open and scanned the store until he spotted the restroom sign. When he got there it was occupied, so he waited a respectable distance outside the door. While he stood there a teenage boy came up and jiggled the handle. "Somebody must have had tacos," Michael joked, but the kid ignored him and leaned against the wall next to the door. "Um, hey," said Michael. "Line starts here." The kid didn't acknowledge him. Michael started to get a very bad feeling, but then he noticed the kid's mp3 player piping music into his ears. He raised a hand to tap the boy on the shoulder when the bathroom door opened and an elderly man stepped out. He and the boy exchanged pleasantries as the kid stepped inside and shut the door.

Michael watched the old man pass him without so much as a glance and realized his mouth was hanging open. He shut it and pounded on the door. "Hey in there! I was next!" The kid didn't answer. Michael closed his eyes and rested his head on the door. What was he doing? He didn't have to go badly enough to make a scene. He didn't even need to stay there. He decided to go find a phone and call the police, and then cut the biker loose.

There was a payphone at the front of the store. Michael dug some change out of his pocket and plunked it into the slot. His situation didn't really qualify for 911, so he dialed the operator instead. The phone company's computerized jingle sounded in his ear, and then a pleasant female voice asked how she could assist him.

"I need the police," he said. "It's not really an emergency, but I need to report a kidnapping."

"Hello?" asked the operator. "How may I assist you?"

"Hello? Can you hear me?"

"Hello?"

Michael hung up, and stared at the phone.

It was happening again.

A young woman reached in front of him to pick up the phone. He jumped out of her way, an irritable "Excuse me!" coming out of his mouth by habit. She didn't even appear to see him standing there. He waved a hand in front of her face, and she didn't so much as flinch as she loaded her change into the pone.

Michael turned from her and went to the counter. "Excuse me," he said to the clerk, who proceeded to ignore him. "Excuse me!" he shouted, shoving his way between the clerk and the customer he was currently waiting on. They paid no attention whatsoever to Michael. They were involved in a heated debate over the customer's gasoline charge.

"I'm telling you, I only put in $30!" said the customer, on the verge of shouting.

"Sorry, buddy, the gauge reads $50. You must have put in more than you thought."

"But my tank doesn't even hold that much! You're reading the wrong pump. I'm on pump number 5, look again!"

Michael looked out to pump 5. A compact truck sat parked beside it—and beside the motorcycle Michael rode in on. The driver leaned against the bike, casually lighting up a cigarette despite the "No Smoking" sign plastered above his head. He glanced up and caught Michael staring at him, and waved.

Michael felt his teeth grind together. He stormed outside, almost plowing some customers down in the process, not that they noticed, and marched up to the motorcycle. "Who the hell are you?"

"Relax, Michael," said the driver before taking a pull on his cigarette.

"I didn't tell you my name."

The driver smiled. "Yeah, but you're him, right? The actor? You play that guy, the one with all the power over the faeries." He took another drag and blew smoke over Michael's head. "Love that show. Big fan."

"Yeah. So, you can see me."

"Sure I can. Why wouldn't I?"

Michael opened his mouth to speak, but got distracted by the irate customer from before stomping past them and climbing into his truck. Michael pointed at the pump. "Did you steal gas from that guy?"

"He was generous enough to pay for it. Wouldn't call that stealing."

"You did. You totally ripped off gas from that guy, and nobody noticed. They can't see you either, can they?"

"Sure they can. What's all this crazy talk about people seeing us? Now come on. Just need to make a few stops, then I'll take you home."

Michael reached past him to the bike's controls and blared the horn. Nobody so much as glanced in their direction. "Take off your helmet," he told the driver, who grinned.

"Very good, Michael," he said as he unfastened the helmet's strap. "I can see why her highness thinks you might be of some use." He took off the helmet, revealing white-blond hair and pointed ears.

"Fuck me," muttered Michael.

"Sorry, not really my thing. Name's Taggart, by the way, though I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't tell anyone." He shrugged. "It's a Fae thing." He reached out for a handshake.

Michael looked down at his proffered hand for a moment, then, shaking his head, turned and walked away.

The Hero Factor: Chapter Five

ALATHEA

Thea followed and watched. It felt extraordinarily cruel, letting him go from house to house, trying to get his fellow humans to notice him, but it was the only way. He refused to listen, so he had to see for himself. Eventually he stopped trying to talk to anybody, and started walking toward home.

She detached a small device from her quiver, unfolded it, and dialed. She held it up to her ear. "It's me," she said into the mouthpiece. "I've got him, but he's not cooperating. He's trying to go home. Make certain he doesn't get there."

She folded the phone and put it away with disgust. Thea detested such things. They were the reason she was doing this in the first place. But for now they were a necessary evil. Once upon a time she'd have sent her pixie servant to deliver her message and bring back a reply. That was still her preferred method of communication, but she was virtually alone in that preference. Not even pixies could travel as fast as light and sound. So Thea adapted as much as necessary. She would never embrace human technology the way so many of her kind had, but she would use it if she must, for now-- as long as it took to wean her people off of it so it would stop destroying them.

It had begun over a century ago as an innocent fascination. The Fae would marvel at human innovation, play with their toys and laugh at their continued attempts to achieve godhood. But then the humans started doing things with science that put faerie magic to shame. Fascination became obsession, and obsession became addiction. There were a few left in her mother's court who had shunned this new human wizardry, but even they had been weakened by it. Those who embraced it, who awaited eagerly every new scientific development, who glamorized humans and their tech to the point of emulating them… they had forgotten their magic entirely.

Thea sighed heavily. She wished her mother would return.

Speaking of returns. The roar of a motorcycle filled the valley as a lone headlight sped up the road past Michael. He paid it no heed, nor did he appear to notice the tiny iridescent light that flew along beside it. The motorbike's pilot pulled up to the curb nearest Thea and shut off the engine. As she approached, he removed his helmet, revealing a shock of blond hair that spilled over his elvish ears, and grinned. "Your Highness."

"Taggart." Thea gave the bike a pointedly disapproving look before turning her attention to the rider's companion. "What news?"

"It's bad," said Taggart, climbing off his bike.

"I'm asking Skex," said Thea.

"I was there. Why don't you ask me?"

"Because I trust Skex."

Taggart's face was a mockery of offense. "Don't you trust me?"

Thea ignored him as the pixie lighted on her shoulder and spoke into her ear. She grew cold at her core listening to its intel. Yes. Things were bad. And getting worse. "You've performed your service well," she told Skex. "Rest until you are needed again." The pixie disappeared into her quiver. Its light went out, signaling sleep.

"Told you," said Taggart as he moved to stand beside her. He followed her gaze to Michael. "Is that him?"

"Yes."

He looked incredulous. "That's our great hero?"

"Not yet. But he will be."

"Did he agree?"

Thea felt her jaw tighten in irritation. "Not yet."

"The spell won't work without his agreement."

"Yes, I know that. That's why we must convince him."

"Must we?" Taggart moved in front of her, blocking her view of Michael. "We don't need this human. He has already said no. Send him home. Make him forget whatever it is that you revealed to him, and be done with it."

She shook her head. "No. We do need him. You know what Skex told me."

Taggart looked at the ground. "They're rallying their forces. Preparing to make their move."

"They know that we're weak. But Caufield is strong. They know who he is and what he can do. They'll fear him."

Rolling his eyes, Taggart laughed. "Fear a man who doesn't exist? Why would they do that?"

"Because we'll make him exist. He's the one, Taggart. He's our only hope."

"Thea," said Taggart, taking hold of her hand.

She pulled it away. "You lost the right to take such liberties long ago," she warned.

With a sigh, he locked his hands behind his back. "Very well, Your Highness. You trusted my counsel once."

She smiled, sadly. "I did. Once."

He nodded, just as sadly, then turned away from her to look back down at Michael. "What if he never agrees to help?"

"He will. He won't turn his back on us. Not once he believes."

"And until then? What will you have me do?"

Thea looked up at him. "Make him believe."

He laughed. "And how shall I do that?"

"However you must. Only don't harm him, or allow him to be harmed. And don't tell me your methods. I don't want to know."

Taggart nodded. "Easier to keep your conscience clean that way, eh?"

Thea looked away and back down at Michael. "Until my people are safe I don't have the luxury of heeding my conscience."

"They're my people too, Thea," Taggart said quietly. "I wish you could remember that." He returned to his bike and strapped on his helmet. "Stay near him. By sunrise you'll know what kind of hero your human has it in him to be. You have my word." He started his bike and sped back down the hill. When he reached Michael, he pulled over and offered him a ride. The human looked like he might faint with relief, or like he might forget himself and hug Taggart. Then he climbed on behind him.

"Skex," Thea called, waking the pixie. "Follow them. Track the human for me." As Taggart and Michael sped down the road, the pixie obeyed.

Thea closed her eyes and hoped she hadn't just ruined everything.

The Hero Factor: Chapter Four

MICHAEL


He woke up on the ground. He was disoriented, at first, but once he sat up and focused he had a pretty good idea where he was. The view of Hollywood Hills sprawled out below was too familiar not to recognize instantly. His head hurt. He leaned forward to hold it in his hands, trying to clear it and remember how he'd gotten here. The last thing he recalled clearly was going out to look for Claire's cat. After that, disconnected flashes of memory came to him like broken fragments of a dream: A talking horse. Taking a ride and getting thrashed and bucked and kicked in the head. Lying on the ground and looking up at a naked reflection of himself. More like fragments of an acid trip, really. Michael rubbed the spot on his temple where he remembered being kicked. It felt tender and sore to the touch. He remembered the voice calling to him in his front yard, and arming himself with a shovel. Whoever it was must have jumped him from behind and knocked him out. Whatever he thought he remembered after that was only a crazy dream.

So who had jumped him, and why had they brought him here? He was pretty certain that there were no good reasons for being knocked unconscious and dumped on the side of a mountain, at least not from the perspective of the dumpee. He should probably get out of here while he had his chance. But that required moving, and just sitting there on the ground with his head on his hands, while maybe not entirely dignified, felt a hell of a lot better right then.

Finally, gritting his teeth, Michael forced himself to his feet. He staggered through a wave of dizziness and reached out to steady himself on something solid. That something, he realized once his vision cleared, was a giant white O. He'd been dumped in front of the Hollywood sign. That gave him hope. This wasn't exactly the middle of nowhere, and he was surrounded by surveillance cameras. His kidnappers must be pretty inept.

Something moved behind the sign. Michael prepared for a fight. This time he could see them coming, and while five years of performing carefully choreographed martial arts for the camera hadn't exactly turned him into a black belt, it hardly left him defenseless, either. "Hello?" he shouted, hoping it was merely a tourist or a maintenance worker, somebody who could call the police, or maybe just call him a cab. But when they didn't answer he decided that probably wasn't the case. "So, is this a ransom thing or a crazy fan thing? Why don't you come on out so we can talk about this?"

"All right," said a female voice, and a woman emerged from behind the W. "Let's talk," she said.

She was Amazonian in both size and beauty, wrapped in leather the same shade of black as her hair, cut to show off both her athletic muscles and her curves. And she had just the right amount of both. A casual observer could mistake her for a stripper or a fetishist, but the RenFaire longbow and the pointed ears gave her away. "Crazy fan thing it is, then," Michael muttered. It made him sigh. If there was one thing his appearances at fan conventions had taught him, it was that the overzealous came in all shapes and sizes. Beautiful people were just as susceptible as anyone else to unhealthy obsession, and to losing sight of that line between fantasy and reality.

And they could be just as scary when that happened.

"I need you to listen to me," she said. She spoke in a melodious accent that he couldn't pin down to any one nationality. "My people have need of Simon Caufield."

Shit. He was going to have to move again, to someplace even more secure. Cut back on his convention appearances, maybe hire a body guard. God damn it, he hated this. He liked mingling with his fans. For the most part, they were good people. But then some poor deluded soul always had to show up and ruin it for everybody else. Maybe he could do some damage control here. He smiled. "Sure. Whatever you want. You seem reasonable. Why don't we go somewhere and get some coffee? You can invite your friends and we can all take pictures, I'll sign all your stuff, and I'll put you in touch with my agent so that in the future—"

"You don't understand." She took a step toward him, and Michael jumped back. "I have no need of an actor. I need a savior."

Michael got the sinking feeling that he wasn't going to be able to talk his way out of this one. Still, for the moment it was either that or start swinging, and he wasn't about to start hitting women. Even crazy, armed women who looked like they could probably snap him like a twig.

"Look, Miss—"

"Call me Thea."

"Thea." He maintained his smile. "I think you're mistaken. My name isn't Simon, it's Michael. I'm an actor. I know it can be confusing sometimes—"

"Contrary to what your writers might think, Mr. Chambers, my people are not that naïve. Nor are we stupid. I know who you are. I'm actually a big fan."

"Right. Great." So if this wasn't some kind of Nurse Betty thing, then what the hell was it? She reached for her longbow, and Michael jumped. "Hey, you don't need that."

"I know," she said, taking it off and laying it on the ground. "I only want to show you that I mean you no harm. All I ask is that you listen to me. What you do after that is entirely your choice."

Michael was losing patience. "Why did you kidnap me?"

Thea stood back up. "I didn't. One of my servants did. The Pooka's methods aren't something I entirely approve of, but they are nonetheless effective."

Making what sense he could out of that, Michael shook his head. "That doesn't tell me why."

"No. I'm about to do so if you will be silent and let me speak."

He swallowed, and nodded. Let her talk. The longer he could keep her there talking, the more time someone had to spot them on camera and come bust them for trespassing.

"As I said, my name is Thea. I'm a member of the race you know as the Fae."

She paused as if to let that sink in. Michael felt his eyebrows creep upward as it did so. "You're a faerie?"

"That's one of your words for us, yes."

"I'm sorry, but, you don't really look like a faerie."

"I see." She smiled like an amused mother humoring her child. "And how many faeries have you actually met?"

She had him there. He motioned for her to continue.

"In short, my people are on the verge of destruction. There are few among us who are willing to put themselves on the line to save our race, and of those, even fewer have any real power. We are in desperate need of a hero, Mr. Chambers. Believe it or not, your show is quite popular among the fair folk, egregious errors and the occasional racial slur notwithstanding."

"Is that right?"

"It is. And many of us are convinced that Simon Caufield's is just the voice needed to make our people see reason and effect change."

Michael didn't know why he even bothered trying to make sense of this woman's fantasy, but he couldn't help himself. "So… you want me to come with you and get in character and give some big speech?"

"I'm afraid more is needed than words and pretense. We need a man of action. We need you to become Simon Caufield."

"Become…?"

"With your permission," she said with extra emphasis, "we would like to use you—temporarily, of course—to bring your character to life. Only long enough to help our cause, mind. Then you'll be turned back into yourself and allowed to continue on your way."

Michael laughed. He couldn't help it. "Let me get this straight. You want to, what? Sprinkle pixie dust on me and actually turn me into Simon Caufield?"

She no longer looked amused. "In essence, yes. Except I'm afraid the spell is much more involved than that. I don't possess the power to perform it myself, but I know a sorceress with both the power and skill to transform you."

The sad thing was, she really seemed to believe all of this. Michael feared he might do her more harm than good by continuing to play along. "I'm sorry, Miss. I hope you believe me when I say I really wish I could help you. But I can't. You need to let me go."

"You're free to walk away any time."

"Am I?"

"Of course. You're not my prisoner. I'm only asking you a favor. You're free to say no."

Michael nodded, and turned to go. He started down the mountain toward the neighborhood below, but after a few feet he stopped and looked back at Thea. "You should come with me. I can help you contact some people. People who really can give you the help you need."

Thea was putting her longbow back in place. "I am coming with you," she said. "You have a pure heart. You will do what is right, eventually. I intend to make certain you survive long enough to make that decision."

"Uh… thanks. But I don't actually live that far from here. I'm sure I'll make it home fine."

Thea smiled her amused smile as she started down the mountain beside him. "I suppose we'll see."

As they hiked down in silence, Michael decided not to press any charges. It was pretty clear that what this woman needed was a shrink, not a jail cell. It didn't take them very long to reach the highway, but it was still quite a walk to the residential areas. Somebody should come along before that, though. He was sure they wouldn't have any trouble flagging down help.

As if to prove his theory, a pair of headlights came around a curve, moving toward them down the hill. Michael waved his arms frantically as it went by, but it didn't even slow down. "Asshole," he muttered, and kept walking. The same thing happened a few minutes later. After the third car failed to heed him, he stood and watched in wonder as its red lights sped away. "I don't believe this." He looked back at Thea. "I'd blame your costume, but, I mean, you look like a cross between Xena: Warrior Princess and Aeryn Sun. You're a fanboy's wet dream. I'd think any guy'd be happy to pick you up." He reconsidered her outfit and added, "Unless of course they think you're a hooker, but still."

Thea's smile wavered slightly. "I believe there was a compliment in there somewhere."

"There was. I meant it as one, I mean. Sorry about that hooker remark. No offense." They started walking again.

"None taken. And I'm sure they would be happy to give either one of us a lift if they could see us."

"Right. I'm sure that's it. I mean… what?" He halted again and looked at her.

"They can't see us. I suppose I should have told you about that."

Michael laughed. "Right," he said again.

Thea looked back the way they came. "How do you suppose we got past the fence and all of the security surrounding that sign up there? I told you, I'm not stupid, nor, despite what you may believe, am I delusional. Do you really think I'd have had you brought to a place that is constantly watched by cameras if there was any danger of us being seen by them?"

Michael just stared at her. He was saved from having to answer by another set of lights coming down the hill. When they got closer he could see the on duty light of a taxi cab, and he smiled. "Here's our ride," he said, holding out his arm and hailing the cab.

It sped right past them.

"You can't go home, Michael," said Thea as he watched the taxi drive away. "Well, you can, in a physical sense, but you can't go back to your life. Not unless I send you back."

He was losing his patience, and with it, his compassion. He looked at Thea. "You're insane," he said bluntly. He felt cruel saying it, but it was only the truth. He kept walking.

"I brought you through the veil," she said, following him. "It's what we call the mystical energy that separates your world from ours. They appear the same, they overlap, and we can navigate between them, but humans can't. Nor can they see us unless we choose to reveal ourselves. Even then, your kind is so impressed with your own technological accomplishments that you completely fail to notice true magic when you're confronted with it. You don't believe because you're terrified of the idea that there is anything out there more powerful than your own imagination and ingenuity."

"I don't believe you because there is no such thing as faeries, lady. You can put on Spock ears and dress up all you want, but that isn't going to make it real. And it's not going to make Simon Caufield real, either. Now one way or another, I'm going home. And then I'm calling the police and taking out a restraining order. Got it?"

He realized she'd stopped walking with him, and turned to look back at her. She stood shaking her head, looking profoundly sad. "Got it," she said, a touch of anger in her voice. "Have it your way. Go home, Michael Chambers. Try not to get yourself killed getting there." With that she left the road and took off on her own down the hill.

Michael watched her go, feeling like a complete ass. He had to remind himself that she had kidnapped him, and to do that either her or an accomplice had cold-cocked him in his own front yard. He should call the police. That was the sensible thing to do. She clearly wasn't harmless, and besides, he couldn't be a personal hero to every deluded fan that came along.

He saw houses up ahead and broke into a jog. He stopped at the gate of the first one he came to and rang the buzzer.

"Yes?" asked someone from inside.

"Yeah, hi. My name is Michael Chambers, and, well, it's a long story, but I need some help. Could I get you to call the police?"

"Hello?"

Michael sighed and leaned closer to the intercom. "I need some help. Can you hear me?" When they didn't respond, he pushed the button again. "Hello!" he shouted. "I need some help here!"

The gate started to open. Michael stood back and waited. After a moment a uniformed rent-a-cop stepped through and shined his flashlight on Michael. "Thank God," he said, holding up a hand to shield his eyes. "I've been kidnapped," he explained. "She let me go and took off down the mountain, but I can give a good description of her if you call the police. We should hurry. She's not a well woman."

The guard swept his flashlight past Michael and over the end of the driveway. "Hey!" he called. "Who's there!"

Michael felt his stomach plummet. That didn't just happen, did it? He stepped into the guard's flashlight beam. "I'm right here, buddy! Want to call the cops for me?"

The guard shook his head and turned off his light, then held a walkie-talkie to his mouth. "There's nobody here. It must have been some kids." He went back behind the gate, and it closed behind him.

Michael stood there for a very long time, trying to process what had just happened. But he couldn't process it, so he moved on to the next house.

And the next.

And the next.

Eventually, he began to suspect that Thea was telling the truth.

The Hero Factor: Chapter Three

CLAIRE

The back door stood open. Claire hauled her groceries inside, kicking it shut behind her, and plunked them on the counter. "Hello!" she called, but got no answer. "Michael?" She knew he was home. His car was in the driveway, and there was a half-drunk bottle of beer on the counter. Maybe he was in the bathroom. She put away the groceries and then went to her office. That door was still closed. She opened it and saw the cat carrier sitting in the corner where she'd left it.

"Hey, kitty!" She knelt beside the cage and fumbled with the latch. "Bet you're ready to get out of that stinky old carrier, huh?" She opened the door and waited for him to come out. "Come on, it's okay." Finally, she bent to peer inside.

Sam wasn't there.

"...the hell? Kitty?" She sat up and scanned the room. "Sam? Where'd you go?" Claire got up and shifted her luggage around, then checked all of the room's cat-sized nooks and crannies. After about ten minutes of searching, she had to conclude that he simply wasn't there. Why would Michael take him out of there? She went to his bedroom to ask him, but found no sign of him in there. She knocked on his bathroom door. Still nothing. Then she remembered the open back door, and went to look outside.

"Michael!" she called as she stepped into the back yard. He wasn't out there, either. Maybe he'd gone around front. "Sam?" she called as she went to check. "Here, kitty kitty!" As she passed through the gate and hurried toward the front yard, she thought she heard the front door. "Michael!" she called, jogging around to the front porch, but the door swung closed when she got there. With an exasperated sigh, she climbed the front steps and went inside.

Michael stood in the foyer. He turned to face her when she came in. He looked confused, like he couldn't decide which way to go. He looked pissed off. He looked surprised to see her. He also looked completely naked.

"What's wrong?" Claire asked.

He stared at her for a long moment. "Claire," he said at last, as though trying out her name for the first time.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

"I… it… it's a long story. Do you want something?"

"Yeah. Sam. Have you seen him?"

Michael's eyes narrowed. "The cat."

"Yes. The cat. My cat. Who was still shut away safely in his carrier in my office when I left. Where is he, Michael?"

"I… he… the cat's gone."

Claire laughed. He was obviously screwing with her, and she was determined to be a good sport. "Come on, Michael. Where is he? And while we're at it, where are your clothes?"

He looked down at his nakedness. So did she. She couldn't help it; he had a fantastic body, smooth and tan and cut in all the right places without being too bulky. She realized her gaze lingered a little too long in certain places, and forced it up to the ceiling.

"The cat had somewhere else he needed to be," he said at last, apparently ignoring her second question.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Joke or not, this wasn't funny. "What did you do with my cat?"

Michael sighed. "I freed him. He wasn't comfortable in that cage, so I released him. When he indicated he wanted to be let outside, I obliged."

"You let him outside? Crap, Michael, this is a strange neighborhood for him. What if he runs off and gets lost? What were you thinking?" As she spoke she stepped back out onto the porch and scanned the yard. She looked back over her shoulder at him. "Are you going to help me look for him, or what?"

Uncertainly, he came toward the front door. Claire sighed. "Not like that. Go put some freaking clothes on first." Michael turned and left, muttering something about favors and the price of freedom as he went. Claire had no idea what he was talking about, and she didn't have time to care. She had had exactly two pets in her lifetime—a puppy when she was six, and a parakeet when she was fourteen. Both had run away—flown away, in the parakeet's case—never to be seen again. She'd sworn that this time would be different. She was a careful, responsible, organized adult. How hard was it to keep track of a cat?

For someone like Michael, who couldn't even keep track of his socks without help? Impossible. She should have known better than to trust him with Sam, even for a couple of hours. She knew Michael couldn't help being the way he was, although sometimes she suspected that maybe he could, if he wanted to badly enough. Not that he was a stupid man. When it came to acting and all things creative, he was one of the smartest people she knew. He just couldn't keep his head on straight when it came to practical matters. She was the exact opposite, and together they made a pretty good team, so long as they kept romance out of the equation. But sometimes they were such a well-oiled machine that Claire would forget just how much Michael relied on her to provide him with common sense.

She was down on her knees by the front fence searching through a bed of bougainvillea when he reappeared, dressed in a plain white tee-shirt and blue jeans. His feet were still bare. He came down the front path to join her. "Claire, Sam is fine."

"How do you know?" She wiped her cheek. She hadn't even realized she was crying.

"I just know," he said, his voice sure enough that she almost believed him. "And I'm certain that he'll come back to you once he's completed his business."

"Yeah, well," she said, climbing to her feet, "I'm certain that you'd better help me find him."

She pushed past him and went to check under a hedge. She felt him watching her, but when she glanced back at him, he shook his head and started calling, "Here, kitty!"

They searched for two hours, canvassing the whole neighborhood before Claire was forced to concede that if Sam was okay, he wasn't yet ready to be found. Back at Michael's, she set up a simple box trap in the yard and set out a bowl of kibble and a saucer of milk as bait. "You'll trap worse things than cats with that," Michael warned her, but she had decided that it was probably best if she didn't try speaking to him for a while, so she only glared at him and went back inside. She didn't cook him stroganoff. He didn't deserve it. Okay, so the dinner was supposed to be a thank you for letting her stay here, and that still held; but she was way too upset to cook. So she went to bed.

The guest room felt cozy, with warm colors and furnishings that were utilitarian but still homey—it was decorated very much to her taste. That was probably because she decorated it, as she had most of Michael's house after they moved in three years ago. They were still together then, and this had actually been their bedroom for two years. Michael had moved his things into one of the spare rooms after they split up, and stayed there even after she got her own place. He said it didn't feel right sleeping in here without her.

That was the kind of sensitive guy Michael typically was. It was why she could remain friends with him after everything. It was also why she couldn't understand why he was currently being such a dick. That was what made her so angry. She could forgive him for losing her cat—stuff happened, especially when it came to Michael. But he was always sorry, and was generally pretty good about not screwing up the same way more than once. It was his stubborn refusal to apologize and take responsibility that made her so furious. It wasn't like him. Neither was that whole naked thing. If she wasn't so tired and upset, she'd be worried about him. She knew she should go talk to him and get to the bottom of his strange behavior, but she just couldn't. Not then. She'd sleep and give her anger a chance to abate, and then she'd talk to him in the morning. Whatever his deal was could wait until then.

Unless, of course, he brought it to her. There was a soft knock on the door. Claire sighed, and got up to answer it.

"Are you okay?" he asked as she opened the door.

Claire relaxed. This was more like it. She gave a petulant shrug. "I just hope Sam's okay."

"I already told you, he's fine."

She felt her jaw tighten in irritation, but she decided to accept his reassurance, poorly delivered as it may be. She nodded. "Did you check the trap?"

"I'm watching it like a hawk. But you don't need it. He'll come back when he's ready." Michael shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down the hallway. He seemed to want to ask her something. Claire waited, too worn out to push. She wanted to be there for him if he needed to open up about something, but part of her hoped he'd just save it for morning and let her go to bed. Finally, he took a breath and asked, "So, is there anything to eat?"

Claire stared up at him. Calmly, she said, "This is your house, Michael. You should know if you have anything to eat."

"Right. It's just… I haven't had a meal since this morning, and—"

"You're kidding me with this, right?"

He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head a bit to the side, as if studying her. She made sure that it was plain as day on her face that she was in no mood to be jerked around. He must have gotten it, because his face broke into a wide grin. "Yes. I'm joking. Bad joke. Sorry." He held up his hands and waggled his fingers. "Hey, look, opposable thumbs! I'll just go use these to find myself some dinner."

"You do that," said Claire, and shut the door.

The Hero Factor: Chapter Two (b)

The promos didn't take as long as he'd expected. Afterwards, he got in his car and drove himself home. He still drove the same beat up old Saab that had brought him to this town. He liked it. It was comfortable, he knew all its quirks, and it kept him mindful where he'd come from. Michael had gotten lucky soon after arriving in LA. Really lucky, the kind of luck that hundreds of runaways and would-be starlets hope to strike as they file into the city and answer the cattle calls each year. He'd won the Hollywood lottery just by going to do his laundry. A casting director with a broken washing machine handed him a card as he stood folding his whites and invited him to an audition. He went. He got the part. His character became a fan favorite, and the next season he was spun off into his own series. That was five years ago. Now Michael was a bona fide TV star on a show with a rabid cult following and equally rabid critical acclaim. The ratings could be better, but they were good enough to ensure that he'd be working for at least another year. It was a pretty good life.

He wanted to remember that. He was determined not to let his success and fame go to his head. So he still drove his own car, and he lived in a modest house in the suburbs. As his fame and popularity grew, security issues had forced him to upgrade from his studio apartment to a bungalow with a gated yard in Hollywood Hills, but it was still just a house. Three bedrooms—one of which functioned as Claire's office—a spacious kitchen, a living room and a den. More than that, he felt, would be unnecessarily showy.

Once home, he parked in the detached garage and headed inside. He could tell instantly that Claire had been there because the kitchen was clean. In place of the dirty dishes and breakfast detritus he'd left all over the counter lay a calendar printout showing his schedule for the next two weeks, a stack of screenplays with a note from his agent, and a neat pile of open mail. And then there was the cat, sitting on top of the mail like it was a tiny paper throne.

"Scram," said Michael as he shooed the cat off of the counter. With a sigh he picked up the mail—bills and magazines, mostly, it appeared at first glance—and shook off the cat hair. Bad move. It floated everywhere, settling on the counter, sticking to his clothes and even going up his nose. Michael sneezed and brushed futilely at the hair on his shirt. He didn't understand how somebody as OCD as Claire could stand to have a cat around. But she'd already gotten attached to the little bugger, so Michael might as well make nice. It was only for a few days.

He got a beer out of the refrigerator and then picked up the schedule to study as he drank it. His days were pretty open for the next week, in case he was needed to shoot additional scenes. The nights looked busier, with the end of season wrap party in two nights and a short trip to New York to appear on The Late Show at the end of the week.

He heard a scraping sound and looked up to see the cat pawing at the kitchen door. Looking around at the absence of a litter box, Michael set his beer down and went to oblige. "Nature calls, huh, cat?" he said, opening the door. The cat took his own sweet time venturing outside, so Michael gave him a gentle nudge with his foot. The look he got for his helpfulness could have frozen Florida.

Once the cat stopped giving him petulant looks and began to explore, Michael shut the door and went back for his beer. He looked back at the stack of mail and noticed a note from Claire on top. "I left my stuff in my office," it read. "Don't worry about Sam—he can stay in his carrier until I get back. See you soon."

Michael read the note again, and then a third time, and then it sunk in. "Shit!" He strode over to the door and jerked it open. "Cat!" he called. "Hey, Sam! Here, kitty! You shouldn't be out here, fella!" He stepped out into the yard, but couldn't see the cat anywhere. "Hey, little guy, I'm sorry I pushed you with my foot, okay? Come back in here!"

He had a big back yard, but it was sparse. There weren't that many places to hide, even for a cat. He must have gotten over the fence.

Claire was going to kill him.

"Son of a bitch," Michael muttered, going around to the gate that let him through to the front yard. "Here, kitty kitty," he called as he went. "Please don't do this to me!"

"Michael."

Michael froze. It sounded like somebody had whispered his name from far away, but he had heard it distinctly all the same. "Hello?" he called, hoping he hadn't picked up a stalker who knew where he lived. But he saw nobody, and nobody responded. He must have imagined it. He continued on toward the front yard, calling for the cat.

"Michael!"

There it was again. "Who's there?" he called, backtracking to the nearby garage to grab a shovel. He wielded it like a club as he rounded the house, but then lowered it when he saw the horse.

A small pony, black as night, stood grazing on his front lawn. "Hey there, horsy. Where'd you come from?"

The horse raised its head to gaze at him with blazing yellow eyes. "Let's go for a ride," it said.

Michael was vaguely surprised to find he had no problem with the horse speaking to him. He dropped the shovel. "Cool," he said, and climbed onto its back.

And they were off.

The Hero Factor: Chapter Two (a)

MICHAEL

Michael Chambers watched the screen and ran his lines.

"The Fae are an old and magical race. Older than humanity, to be sure. Some say, older than God. You'd think that with all that age would come wisdom. But the truth is, faeries are incredibly naïve creatures. Somebody who knew what they were doing could exploit that to their advantage. Somebody who could inspire fear among even the high and mighty royal courts. Somebody with power. Somebody like me.

"My name is Simon Caufield. I have power over a realm you thought only existed in fairytales. How I got it, and what I'll ultimately do with it, are questions that even I can't answer. But I have plenty of enemies who are determined to find out, and to speed me along to my fate. In the mean time, all I really want is a cold beer and a good night's sleep. Maybe tonight's the night I'll finally get what I want. But I doubt it."

Michael looked down at his script and shook his head. "I didn't like that last reading. Can I do it again?"

On a screen outside the sound booth, Michael watched filmed footage of himself rewind. As it started forward again, he ign