Perilous, after all.”
“How fortunate for you,” Sir Gene said. “I suppose I’ll be a nonperson here as well?”
The anti-Linda shook her head. “Don’t leave on my account, dear. I won’t give you any trouble. Of course, if Incarnadine finds out you’re here —”
“We already ran into each other.”
“How unfortunate for you. Don’t worry, I won’t sic my boys, here, on you. Put your sword away.”
Sir Gene harrumphed to himself and sheathed his weapon.
“It might be wise to keep you handy,” the anti-Linda said. “I suspect you’ll be ducking through an aspect to lie low, but keep in touch, will you? It’s good to keep potential allies close at hand.”
Sir Gene gestured toward Linda. “What about her?”
“Well, that’s a problem.” The anti-Linda brought up her hand. Somehow a strange elongated pistol had materialized in it.
“A gun?” Sir Gene said, perplexed.
The anti-Linda was looking at her twin. “Sorry, honey, but the best way to deal with you is just to get it over with. I hear you’re very sweet, but you’d only be in the way. My apologies.”
Sir Gene began, “But a gun won’t work —”
The pistol made a sharp hissing sound. Sir Gene turned toward Linda and looked wonderingly at the feathered dart that had blossomed in Linda’s chest like a small deadly flower. Linda sank to her knees.
“Poison-tipped,” the anti-Linda said. “Quick-acting, attacks the nervous system almost instantly.”
Sir Gene made an instinctive motion to catch Linda as she teetered.
“Let her go, Gene. She’s dead. No magic can block the effects.”
Sir Gene straightened. The whites of Linda’s eyes rolled up, and she fell over and lay still.
The anti-Linda smiled brightly. “Gene, how about lunch?”
Twenty-three
Weirdworld
“There it is,” Dalton said, pointing ahead.
“That look like a teeing green to you? Nothing but gravel.”
“Well, there’s the hole, way out yonder.”
Thaxton shaded his eyes. “Where?”
“Out beyond that herd of animals.”
“You mean we have to play through a herd of bison?”
“I don’t think those are bison.”
“Yes, there is something strange about them.”
“They have six legs apiece.”
“Well,” Thaxton said, “they’re an improvement over gryphons and basilisks. Do I have the honor, or do you?”
“You.”
“Look at that bloody fairway. Full of rocks.”
“It’s a challenge.”
“Right you are.” Thaxton chose a driver and teed up.
They played the thirteenth. The herd moved off the fairway for the taller, more succulent grasses of the rough, and the men made their approach shots. They were on the green in three and two-putted for par.
“That was an easy hole,” Dalton said as they followed a path away from the green and up a little hill.
“Yes. I hope they’re not setting us up for something really dicey.”
“We’ve pulled through so far.”
“So far, so good, the man said as he fell thirty-nine of forty stories.”
“I wonder who designed this course,” Dalton mused.
“You think someone actually sat down and thought out this madness?”
“It has its inspirations, and there’s a method to it all, however bizarre. Recurring themes, too.”
“Oh, yes, and I’m just about fed up with the strange beastie motif.”
They had come to the top of the hill. Below lay a shallow valley shrouded in impenetrable fog.
“Well, we’re not going to be playing through that.”
“Looks like there’s no getting around it,” Dalton said. “Next tee’s bound to be somewhere in there.”
“I’m worried about what else may be in there.”
“What’s a little fog to two seasoned hell-golfers?”
Thaxton hoisted his bag over his shoulder. “Right, what could be worse than … I won’t say it. No telling what could be worse.”
They descended into the mist. A blanket of whiteness enveloped them, bringing a moist, muffled silence. They walked down a gentle grade for a good stretch. When the ground leveled off they stopped.
“See anything?” Dalton said.
“Not a bloody thing. Are we still on the course?”
“I think we missed the tee.”
“Then this must be the fairway. Let’s retrace our steps.”
“Wait a minute,” Dalton said. “I’ve lost my bearings. Is that the way we came?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, this is a fine kettle of fish. We’ll have to wait for the fog to lift.”
Thaxton eased down and arranged himself so that he was half reclining, elbows resting on his golf bag.
Dalton squatted on his. “How’s the leg?”
“Coming along. I’m a fast healer.”
A sound like the moan of a dying man came out of the mist.
“Good God, what was that?”
“He must have a bad lie.”
Shrieks like the tortured screams of the damned. Then the flapping of great wings.
“That bloody roc again,” Thaxton said.
“Or something else.”
“Maybe a harpy. Actually I wouldn’t mind. That barbecued harpy doesn’t sound so bad now. I’m feeling a bit peckish.”
“That salamanderburger didn’t fill you up?”
“Like Chinese food,” Thaxton said. “You know, an hour later …”
“I’m rather fond of Chinese. Moo shoo with plum sauce.”
“Not my cup of tea, to coin a phrase.”
“Of course, nothing can beat French cuisine.”
“As a general rule I don’t fancy wog food.”
Dalton looked at him. “Wog?”
“Well, you know, the wogs begin at Calais.”
Dalton glanced around. “Fog’s lifting.”
The mists took a few minutes to clear. Shapes in the distance came into view, craggy peaks against a black sky. Something was howling in the rocks to the right of the fairway where remnants of fog curled. To the left, a bloated yellow moon was rising, casting eerie light and purple shadows. In the sky were faint stars and glowing spectral clouds.
They had been sitting, as it turned out, right in front of the tee. The grass both on the tee and in the fairway looked like green crepe paper.
“Strange,” Thaxton said.
“Yup. That moon’s throwing enough light to play by, though. So …”
Dalton drove deep and straight. Thaxton teed up, swung, and sliced, sending the ball into the rocks. He
