"Deidre, can I have my keys, please?" I asked, stomping to the crowd, the flush of anger on my face.

"Sorry," Deidre said, holding out my keys. "I didn't think you'd mind if I shared it with everyone."

Fuck this. "It's none of your goddamn business," I shouted.

The crowd silenced and Jimmy looked at me with his stern leader face. I didn't care, this was more than I could take.

"She's talking about the sword," Jimmy said, his voice even and reasonable. Gunther moved aside, and I could see that the lovely case I'd built for the black sword lay on the picnic table, opened, with the sword practically glowing in the crushed velvet liner.

"Damn fine job," Stuart said, breaking the awkward silence. "We didn't touch her, but she's a thing of beauty."

"I'm sorry," Deidre said. "Katie told me you'd fixed it last night, and how beautiful it was. I just wanted to show the others."

Now, if you'd taken that sword out of that case at that moment and driven all thirty-three inches of blackened steel into my chest, I would have felt much better. As it was, all I could do was walk forward awkwardly, watch as my friends moved aside, embarrassed, and quietly close the case.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled. "I need to leave."

I carried the sword to my car, keeping my eyes on the ground in front of my feet.

No one said a word, but I felt their eyes on me.

I put the sword case back in the hatch, couldn't believe I didn't notice it was missing. Of course, the hatch was filled with old clothes, several hammers, and several books on weapons. How could I have not noticed? Could someone shoot me now, please?

Guns N'Roses blared out of the stereo when I fired the ignition. I rolled down the windows and glanced in my rearview mirror. Katie stood at the corner of the house, her hands in her pockets. The look on her face was the worst of it all. What a dumbass I could be.

I drove out of the driveway, away from the shame and the guilt. Only it followed me, buried deep inside.

Better to stop digging when you realize you have the shovel in your hand, my old man had always told me. Digging more wouldn't make the hole smaller.

Of course, what he taught me mostly was to run. Leave your troubles behind in the last town. I never understood what he was afraid of, but it followed us, from tiny village to rural town. I think he was moving from church to church more than anything-seeking salvation, he claimed. I just think he was afraid to face whatever demons haunted him.

It scared me how much I was like him. Better to cut off those around you than admit you were wrong, that you'd overreacted. Ma stuck with him, though. He had that rock to lean on. Me, I had no one. Anyone who got close freaked me out.

I'd promised myself I wasn't a quitter-anymore. Katie was the best thing that had ever happened to me, but the ridicule, the shame and derision, that trumped it all . . . again . . .

Maybe I'd have more luck tonight with Elvis Versus the Goblins.

Twelve.

ONCE PAST LEY ROAD, I TURNED TOWARD GOLD BAR AND LET the wind whip through the car, the windows down, the moonroof open. I'd switched to Sheryl Crow, and sang at the top of my lungs, lamenting my love life, when a black and green Hummer roared out of a side street, nearly clipping my back end. I watched the driver fishtail the behemoth across the road before it came up behind me. I was doing forty in a thirty-five but this asshole was in more of a hurry than I was. I slowed, pulled closer to the shoulder, and waved them around, only they didn't go around. They rode right up on my rear and blared their horn. Jerks.

I began looking for a wide spot to pull over, knowing the road got really windy up ahead. Come on, asshole. Move around.

The impact surprised me. The Hummer had pushed right up against my bumper and nudged me. I kept the car under control and punched the gas. The Civic weighed about twelve pounds, but it had pickup. I watched the speedometer pass fifty, and the Hummer tapped my rear bumper again. I saw the twenty-five-mile-an-hour-zone signs as I topped fifty-five, and swore. A string of cars approached ahead of me, and the Hummer backed off, but I had to slow way down to keep from wrecking. Once the traffic faded, the Hummer accelerated once again. We did this several times by the time the quarry came into view. If I could make it that far, I could pull over and let the Hummer get past me. Beats dying.

I sped up after the last curve, punched the Civic to sixty, and prayed for a cop. Better to get a ticket, I thought, than end up as roadkill.

I passed the kennel and the taxidermist without the Hummer tapping me again. Another quarter mile and the quarry appeared around the corner. Of course, at that moment, one of the slow-ass trucks pulled out, causing me to hit the brake and swerve.

I managed to avoid the truck and hit the breakdown lane, but it was covered in loose gravel. I watched the empty guard shack go past my windshield as I did a bootlegger reverse, shouting over Sheryl Crow.

My car came to a bone-jarring halt against a pile of sand. Luckily most of my speed had diminished enough to prevent any real damage. Sand began pouring into the passenger window and into the moonroof, over my head and into my car. I flipped the latch and pulled the moonroof closed, cutting off the skittering sand. At the same time I rolled up the passenger window as fast as my arm could spin the handle. Soon, my car would be buried. I jammed the car into first, punched the gas, and popped the clutch. The wonderful car of mine performed like a champ. It died, of course.

Come on, even Rocky would have collapsed if he'd been tapped by a Hummer and spun out into a huge mound of sand.

I tried the ignition a couple of times before the car coughed to life again. I eased the clutch out, and the car surged forward, trailing sand back toward the road. When I got there, the Hummer sat idling across the exit.

I stopped, shook sand from my hair, and waited. A large man, about the size of Rhode Island, climbed out of the Hummer from the passenger side. He walked toward me, his hands clenched into fists.

"Give me the artifact," he bellowed, pointing a meaty finger at my windshield.

"Bite me!" I yelled, gunning the engine. He looked from me back to the Hummer, and back to me. Making up his mind, he broke into a run toward me, swinging his fist at my car.

Holy crap. The world slewed sideways as he connected to my front quarter panel. The car didn't die, and I took the new direction as a sign, and stomped the gas. I swung around, slinging gravel from hell to breakfast. I hoped it did more than dent his paint.

I drove along the fence that kept the kids out of the quarry and prayed I didn't drive into a ditch, or a huge gaping hole that had once held sand or gravel or whatever else this place sold. At the far end, a second gate stood open. The sign said it was where the trucks entered the quarry. I jetted out the in door and veered back onto May Creek and headed to First Street. The Hummer sat behind me and hadn't moved. I drove out past the light industrial area and to the more congested intersection with the fast food joints.

The Hummer did not show up again, and I merged onto Highway 2 toward Everett and the movie shoot. If they'd wanted me dead, I'd have been shoved off the switchbacks up on the high portion of Ley Road. They just wanted the artifact. What artifact? They couldn't mean the sword? I glanced over my shoulder toward the case in the back. How the hell had this been about that blade?

Thirteen.

WHEN I PULLED INTO THE LOT AT THE SHOOT, I WAS THIRTY minutes late. Carl stood by the stage door, chatting with Jennifer, the DP, and checking his watch. I opened the door and sand spilled out onto the parking lot. I'd be vacuuming that out for weeks, I just knew it. I climbed out, shut the door, and opened the hatchback.

"About time, Beauhall. You got my sword?" Carl called from the door.

I waved at them. "Yessir."

"Better late than never," he said before turning and stomping into the building.

Great, now Carl was pissed at me. Lovely day I was having. And it had started with such promise. I grabbed the case out of the car and crossed the parking lot. Jennifer watched me, a clipboard in one hand and a patient look on her face.

"If you are going to be late in the future," she said, falling in step with me as I passed her, "could you call?"

"Yeah, sure," I said, annoyed. "Did I mention some jerk ran me off the road?"

She stopped in her tracks, startled. "Are you okay?"

I waved my hand at her, the sword's case in my left hand. "Did some damage to the car, but I'm okay."

"Did you report it to the police?"

I thought of Maggie and Susan out at Jimmy's and felt my stomach flop over. "Not yet, but I know someone."

She patted me on my shoulder, nodding. "You just be careful, single girls like us, all alone in the world-we gotta look out for ourselves."

We walked into the studio to the sound of my grinding teeth.

Single gals, yep. That was us. Bitchy, neurotic balls of tension and fear, unable to commit. I am woman, hear me roar.

The transition from Everett industrial to goblin encampment really wasn't that big of a stretch. We had a run-down cityscape to work with, the third movie Carl had shot with that set. Recycle and reuse, he said with laughter when it was brought up. I think the faux Vegas ruins far outstripped the bombed-out London and the earthquake-decimated Los Angeles of the previous two movies.

Maybe this one would make a bit of money, even.

But not until the film was in the can. I quickened my step, crossing the soundstage like a metronome.

Of course no one was ready. I'm just the prop girl and the goblins had been putting on those costumes for weeks. Surely they could've gotten started without me. Instead half of them were talking on cell phones, while several sat around playing cards. Amateurs.

I stormed to the prop unit, stashed the sword on top of a trunk full of elephant ears, and began grabbing big rubber hands.

"Come on, people," I barked at the milling extras. "Goblins, get your asses in here."

The usual crew came in and gathered their gear. I helped several of them with the gloves, then the rubber feet. The smart ones pulled the suits on first, then put on the feet. The rest had to take the feet off because the jumpsuit costumes wouldn't fit over them.

I was getting a headache.

Of the thirteen giant goblin heads that normally lined the costume cage, twelve had been handed out among the low-paid extras. Hell, they were practically volunteers. I knew I should be kinder to them, but I was in a foul mood.

"Who's missing?" I asked the assembled goblins.

One of them pointed over at the offices. Rolph stood next to Carl, the two of them with their heads together over something on a clipboard.

"Come on, Rolph," I called. "Got a shot to get in before dawn."

He didn't move, just glanced my way and continued his talk with Carl.

I made a big production of slamming a cabinet, but the two did not stop their secret meeting. This was asinine. Here I was fussed at for being late, and Carl was keeping one of the goblins from dressing out.

After twenty minutes, I started swearing. Hanging out with blacksmiths can really color your vocabulary. Add in cops, jazz musicians, SCAdians, and movie folk, and you come with a string of epithets that make a sailor swell with pride.

Both of them looked my way a couple of times when I pitched some choice word at the right volume, but neither made a move to break up their coffee klatch.

Goblin number three, a young man with a bad case of acne and a nasal voice, began to cry when I ripped out the C word. Goblin seven, an elderly woman who just loved to feel needed, shushed me, wagging her giant goblin hand at me.

That was it. I was not going to be shushed by granny goblin and the amazing wunderkind.

I stormed out of the prop cage, slamming the steel door shut with a loud clang. I'd just built up a righteous head of steam heading toward the two of them, when Rolph broke away and walked toward the offices.

"What the hell, Carl," I called. "Rolph needs to be dressed if we are going to make this shoot. Some of us have lives, you know."

I knew that crossed the line, but damn it, I was tired and still reeling from the earlier fiasco.

Carl turned, his face red with frustration. "Back off, Beauhall. This is my movie. I call the shots."

He was right, of course, but it still galled me. "I thought you were in an all-fired hurry?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead. "I have a headache, which you are not helping, and a series of issues that goes beyond your current abilities, Sarah."

I took a step back. He never called me Sarah.

"Rolph is making a phone call," he punched his finger at me, "that is very important to the continued existence of this production." He started toward me, each step forward a moment of panic, his voice rising in volume with each word. "Can . . . you . . . just . . . back . . . the . . . fuck . . . off?"

I matched him, step for step, horrified. Carl never raised his voice. Hell, he had to use a whistle to calm the chatter at times.

I raised my hands, surrendering. "Sure, boss. Whatever you say."

"Just get the goblins in position, will you, please?" He turned away, his shoulders slumped, and walked toward the offices.

Something had kicked Carl in the breadbasket since I saw him last, and it was not a pretty sight.

I mumbled apologies to the extras, gathered the twelve of them in a neat little line, and finished their costumes one at a time. Every now and again I glanced over at the office, watched as Rolph talked into the phone and Carl paced, his ball cap in his hands, his thinning hair disheveled and askew.

Something bad was happening, I could feel it. There was a solution being applied that was worse than the problem. Carl radiated it, Rolph practically had it written on his face. If this was about money, I'd bet they were borrowing from a loan shark.

Nothing I could do. I concentrated on doing my job.

A cudgel here, a short axe there-eventually I had them all outfitted for battle, in the meager, rat-on-a-stick way goblins survived. They'd look great on the screen. Number eleven had real rats in a cage, courtesy of Jennifer. I just had to make sure they didn't escape, or eat the foam costumes.

Finally they got into their positions, number three and number seven comforting one another and settling onto their taped marks in front of the ferrocrete hill JJ, the wonder-mule, would mount later to decry their foulness and such.

Rolph hung up the phone, finally, and shook Carl's hand. In fact, Carl grabbed Rolph's with both of his own and pumped them like he was expecting oil to shoot out of Rolph's ears. Carl was suddenly very happy, and Rolph looked like he'd just sold his mother's kidneys. I didn't like it one bit.

When he finally walked across the soundstage to get dressed, Rolph let an impassive mask fall over his face.

"Hello, Rolph," I said, handing him his jumpsuit.

"Smith," he said, nodding at me. His eyes were distant and cold. Nothing like the gleam of excitement and hope I'd seen the night before when I forged the sword.

"What was all the hullabaloo about just now?" I asked.

He donned his jumpsuit and said nothing.

"You mad at me?" I asked as he buckled the dirty, matted pelt across his shoulder and hefted his rubber head.

"You heard my plea last eve," he said, looking down at me as I buckled his feet.

"Yeah, well. That was a bit out there."