Worlds Without End by Caroline Spector Read Free Book Online Page A

shock of the war wore off, life went on as usual. For the most part. Most Americans thought they would be exempt from the conflict. After all, what did it have to do with them, this bloody war in Europe?
    And so, on this summer night with the heavy scent of lantana and moonflowers in the air, I went to the movies. Some people were afraid of being in closed places because of the polio, but that was never a concern of mine.
    The theater was dimly lit and I used a fan given away at the local Herbert E. Butts grocery store to push the sweltering air about. The lights went down and the newsreel began. Of course, the war in Europe was the first item. I watched as scene after scene of destruction flashed across the screen. Many things were being blown up in Poland and France and England.
    Then we were looking at images of happily waving crowds. The little man rode through them making his straight-arm salute to the frantically waving masses.
    And then I saw her.
    At first I couldn’t believe my eyes, but the shot held and I knew what I was seeing was true. It was Alachia.
    She was sitting in one of the cars in the rear of the procession. An expression of perfect happiness was etched in her face. A blond man with his hair slicked back and perfect Aryan features waved at the crowds while his other arm encircled her waist. He smiled down at her and she smiled back. They were gone in an instant, replaced by the image of refugees fleeing down some unknown road.
    The screen went black and then the Parade of Fashions appeared. Sweat rolled down my face but I was suddenly cold. So very cold.
    * * *
    We rode the shuttle bus headed south toward Dublin, hooking up to Dorsett Street once we were in the city proper.
    We’d made it through customs relatively easily. There was no need to resort to the sort of tactics I’d used on that idiotic bureaucrat from before. Like many of the Dublin streets, this one turned and bent and changed names. We took a left onto Church Street and headed south toward the river. Four Courts was to our left. The dome of the central building was covered in the green patina that comes to all copper as it ages. It was a beautiful piece of neoclassical work. All white columns and statuary at every corner. The fact that it was standing after all this time gave me a fleeting feeling of permanence.
    As we crossed Whitworth Bridge, I looked out the window. Below us the Liffey River flowed a gray-jade color, the dark clouds of the late-October sky barely reflected in its depths.
    At the next stop, we left the tram and cut across West High Street. It was a strange experience, to see almost as many elves as humans walking about. No one gave us a second look. Oh well, perhaps one or two. We were dressed better than the average Dubliner. I know the reports out of the Tir have it that the land is green and milk and honey flow from every stream, but after all, this is Eire.
    Poverty has been at the throat of the people for generations. And goblinization hadn’t changed that. Perhaps no one was starving, but all was not well in the Tír.
    At St. Nicholas Street we headed south and cut west before we reached St. Patrick’s Park. I glanced back to see if anyone was following us. An old woman pulled a shopping cart filled with vegetables, but as far as I could see there was no one tailing us.
    “How long since you’ve been here?” I asked Caimbeul.
    “Oh, I get about.” he said, shrugging.
    “Meaning you’ve been here recently.”
    He gave me hard stare. “Yes. I was here recently. I was invited to attend a wedding.”
    “Whose wedding?”
    “I’d rather not say.”
    “Because I wasn’t invited?”
    “Well, yes.”
    “Well, I don’t care about that.” I lied. Weddings were highly symbolic events in the elven community. Full of alliances and power-jockeying. Not being invited meant I wasn’t considered a power anymore. That would hurt me when I went to the Court. No doubt Alachia’s hand at work once more.
    We