Free [Oxrun Station] The Bloodwind by Charles L. Grant

stormwind . The police station was on the corner diagonal, the Town Hall two lots to the Cove's left.
    And for the Cove, red brick and white trim in imita tion of Monticello, it was a slow night, a January night, when the bartender in red velvet and the waitresses in nautical black wanted nothing more than to go home and warm their feet by a fire.
    Pat sympathized, thinking as she stared at her gin-and- tonic that the way she felt now she'd never be warm again.
    They were in a booth as far from the entrance as they could find. The bar was in the center, encircled by round tables and captain's chairs padded with black leather; the walls were a deep wine textured to the touch, the booths themselves partially obscured by drap eries of fish netting. Mahogany, ebony, squared posts and carriage lamps, on each of the tables fat candles in red chimneys. The restaurant had closed down an hour ago, and there was nothing left now but the clinking of glass and ice, the soft footfalls of a waitress, a whisper or two, no music at all.
    Greg sat beside her on the outside, Stephen and Janice opposite. They had downed their first drinks without bothering for taste, had ordered a second round and were sipping them slowly.
    "I don't believe it," Pat said finally, shaking her head.
    "You saw what you saw," Stephen said. His black hair was cropped close to his skull, his eyes deepset , his cheeks hollow. Most of his female students were in love with him, most of them jealous of the way he looked at Janice and smiled.
    "No, I don't mean that," she said. "I mean, why me? My god, he must have known already what had been decided, for crying out loud. I can tell that now from the way he acted at the beginning. But why . . . why blame me?"
    Stephen considered, then sketched a circle in the air around his temple. Janice poked him hard. "Don't be silly, Steve. It isn't fair to him."
    He frowned. "Isn't fair to him? To Danvers? Jesus." And he looked to Greg for support against illogic and women. "Look, Pat, the man doesn't like you, pure and simple. You beat him out of his precious little fiefdom, with" —he grinned immodestly—"another chunk gone he probably didn't expect. Plus, you're a woman. You're taller than he is by a head—and stop smiling, it's true. You know he's a refugee from the nineteenth century. God, his forebears practically set tled this place in the year zero."
    "All right," she said reluctantly. "I can see all that, but I don't have to like it, okay?" Stephen nodded, Janice shrugged. "But what I still want to know is —who? Who would do a thing like that?"
    "Oh, come on," Greg said, just short of impatiently, as if the culprit was too obvious to mention. "Who else could it be, huh? Ford may be one of the best in his field —and let's give him that, the poor dope—but he's certainly not going to win the Mr. Chips Award. He's been tough on us, but he's wicked with his so-called actors and actresses, and I'm really surprised they haven't had a crack at him before."
    "Tell me about it," Stephen said, pushing back into the corner of the booth. "In spite of my extreme beauty, believe it or not there are kids who don't much like me, either."
    "I believe it," Janice muttered, and took an elbow lightly in her ribs.
    "And Pat, too," the musician continued.
    "Who? Me?" She smiled, but didn't feel it.
    "Sure," said Greg, staring at a point over Janice's head. "You should hear . . ."He stopped and shrugged.
    "Hear what?" she said, curiosity overcoming a grow ing distaste for the subject. "Come on, you started to say something. What is it?"
    "Well . . . your Three Musketeers aren't exactly camping on your doorstep these past couple of months, are they?"
    She blinked her astonishment. He couldn't be talking about Oliver and the others, but the expression on his face told her he was. "No," she said in swift denial. "No."
    "The show," Greg reminded her gently.
    "But I've told them a hundred times how long it takes to arrange something like