by Tiger Gray
"Tell me your name," he said, pitching his voice to be both quiet and soothing. He heard the door open and he waved at the guard without looking. A moment later and there was a bottle of water in his hand, and the sound of the boy retreating. At first he thought she wouldn't answer, but she stirred and lifted her head.
"Kassandra. Kassandra Jericho."
He could imagine her voice when healthy, a powerful alto enriched by vigor. Now, though, she sounded as miserable as a child with the flu.
"I'm Ashrinn," he offered, not sure how to start a conversation with a woman who could turn into an abomination at any moment. He touched the bars and felt the tingle of mage magic. The fact that she couldn't escape comforted him.
"The Redeemer." She laughed, but the sound had a weak, mirthless quality. Ashrinn raised his eyebrows. Was that what the Free Wolfen were calling him now? He got the distinct impression it wasn't meant to be flattering. "Will you redeem me, then?"
"That depends. Would you like some water?"
He could hear her lick her parched lips. "Yeah," she said, rolling to all fours and forcing herself upright. Ashrinn had to admire her determination. He made a concerted effort to show no apprehension as she came towards him. She looked like a spirit who had died a bad death, covered in stomach contents and dirt. She shivered as she moved, as though she couldn't get warm. Her eyes glinted green as she focused on him, and the energy in them had an unpleasant quality that made panic start to burble away in the pit of his stomach. "This isn't one of those things where you give me water so I think you got my back before you stick a knife in it, is it?"
Ashrinn blinked. He hadn't even thought of that. "No," he said, "Not my style." He handed her the bottle. The cage would only electrify if she reached out, not if someone reached in.
"You got some kind of special project," she said after gulping the water in two swallows. She tossed the bottle away, misshapen after being clenched in her desperate fist. "Some secretive shit. That a good way to get people to join up, not telling them jack?"
Ashrinn shrugged. If it weren't for the bars they would have been nose to nose. "It's the only way. Just enough to attract people, not enough to reveal our real purpose."
"Something paramilitary, yeah. That's what Brenna told me."
"Brenna?"
Jericho tapped her temple. "Wolfen have a hive mind. Trust me, I wish the motherfuckers would shut up."
"Tell me what happened to you."
Jericho sighed, turned and paced the length of the cell. "I used to be a cop. Vice, in Detroit. Been doing a lot of work on tracking down this new drug supplier. Except now I think that it wasn't drugs. Not like you thinking. Like, worse shit. Anyway, partner and I went to where we thought a drop was going to go down, but I met some kind of horror movie monster instead. A Wolfen, I guess. One of the crazy ones that don't have no control. The crazy ones run away from they lives, they families, don't get nabbed in time by the Free ones and they get eaten. Or their minds do. I think the addicts in the area wanted to get in on this Wolfen's infection, wanted to be stronger, scarier, I don't know. Met me instead, and I didn't even want it."
She paused, and Ashrinn could hear her dry heaving as she turned away from him. After a moment, she kept talking.
"They thought I was dead. Stuck me in the morgue. Woke up in the drawer. I wasn't dead, though it was damn close. The virus had just been waiting, infecting me slow. Guess I have to thank Brenna for that; her constellation's part of the hive mind rescued me, kept me from going nuts, helped me get out and escape. But that doesn't mean I want to go be one of them."
"So you came here? You know I can't give you a chance if you can't control yourself."
She turned towards him again. "Yeah. They told me you'd shoot me if you didn't take me. But you know. I'm down with that. I don't want to be a rabid animal, and if I can't make it with you, might as well get shot."
Ashrinn shook his head and tried to focus. "You just turned? Do you know how to shift? It doesn't take the full moon, does it?"
"Naw. Bad horror movies again. This ain't no comic book, neither. I can do it whenever I want but I'm not going to lie. Every time I got to fight it. But I was a tough bitch before and could always take care of myself. Now the bitch part's just literal."
Sense of humor even at what had to be the worst moments of her life. He liked that. He could feel that old impulsivity in him as he touched the bars of her cage.
"I'm going to let you out."
"What? Why? You don't know me. I could be lying to you, telling you whatever shit I want."
"Yes," he agreed. "Are you?"
She stood, came towards him until only the bars were between them, and stared into his eyes. He stared back, never wavering, even though he could feel the garbled call of madness there, hear the gibbering howls of the hive mind like a recording turned down until it was more felt than heard.
"No," she admitted, looking away, "I'm being straight with you."
"Sir --- " one of the guards protested.
"You can leave, if you're scared," Ashrinn said, letting the slightest note of contempt weave itself into his voice. He could hear the two boys shifting their weight from one foot to the next in a gesture of extreme unease, but neither of them took him up on his offer. He felt a quiet surge of pride, glad they at least had that much mettle.
He was no mage, but these wards had been designed with that in mind. He had only to press his fingers to the locking mechanism for it to click open. He imagined a hum as the magical field powered off. He opened the door and stepped back. Jericho watched him for a moment longer, as if she were afraid this was a trick the same way she'd worried about the water, but in the end she stepped out to join him.
He walked out, her following. "You used to be a cop?"
"Yeah," she said, groaning as the light in the hall, weak as it was, hit her, "Jumped the line. You know, between trailer trash and the law."
"Bet that made you popular."
She scoffed but didn't say anything else. He lead them down the main tunnel, headed towards the hospital. The woman needed treatment, not to mention a bath, before he could really consider her. They'd have the wards to contain her there, too.
"Where are you taking me?"
"The Order's hospital."
"You're not going to have me killed?"
"Jericho. If you'd proven irredeemable, I would have done it myself."
There was a long silence.
"I like that. So?"
He stopped at the Waygate, a cluster of mage symbols etched on the ground, magic that would take them through into the hospital. The mage manning it saw them coming and his eyes looked like they might bulge right out of his head, but Ashrinn ignored it and turned towards her. She'd crawled out of the damn morgue, come close to going insane, made it from Detroit to here, and even when at her sickest she'd fought to stand.
"You'll get your chance."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ashrinn left the house like a dog let out of its kennel, making his way down the front steps as though he had two working knees. The street lay clothed in navy, the gathering dusk broken only by hazy streetlights and a few windows yellow with late evening reading lamps. The shouts of children out past their bed times echoed to meet him. In the distance he glimpsed a man walking a pack of small white dogs on a tandem leash.
You would never see a thing like that in Ft. Bragg, he thought, feeling a spark of affection for his new home. Or down in Belltown, for that matter.
The Tielhart house boasted a wrap-around porch and a gabled roof. The front door had a panel of stained glass at the height of an average man's eyes, which meant it was about two inches below his. He knocked, not sure what to expect. He knew Malkai's family, of course, but he'd been gone on missions more often than not. Furthermore, he hadn't had his magical senses then.
Raietha answered. He only avoided staring because of the manners that had been drilled into his head since childhood, but he fumbled after words for a distre
ssingly long couple of seconds even so. Every time he saw her he felt about as articulate as a wild boar with a head injury. And why not? She had burnished skin, flawless like a sculptor's master work. Her mane of iridescent black hair, swept up and held in place by a pair of jeweled pins, accentuated her classic Greek features. Her eyes were the color of a nutrient-rich ocean. The hard look in them, however, spoiled the effect somewhat. Even so, it couldn't erode her beauty in any significant way. Her grey dress hugged a body he couldn't describe as anything but completely and utterly womanly.
"Raietha. I'm glad to see you again."
"I understand I owe you once more for my husband's life," she said, gratitude a frosted thing on her lips. "Please come in."
"No more than I owe him mine." He did as she beckoned. "I've rarely met a finer soldier."
The front room gave him pause. It, like the woman who lived in it, was tastefully and richly appointed. He wondered how she kept the lavash-colored carpet so pristine with four children. Raietha had a taste for antiques, though every so often he caught a piece out of place. A silver tea set, but on the mantle and askew. An art piece meant for an end table but perched on the hearth.
Not where a human would think to place those things, that's certain. He wondered if the objects were Raietha's way of trying to connect to the human world. The woman loved Malkai enough to remain here, where everything had to be alien. He had to appreciate her for that much.
He opened his third eye as they went into the kitchen. His had quirky appliances and bare, well-used wooden surfaces, but the Tielhart kitchen had the finest of everything. Ashrinn couldn't help but run a hand over a granite countertop, practically salivating with envy.
He refocused on Raietha. Her beauty had been greatly magnified. The woman he'd seen with his mortal senses still stood there, but with the illusion cast away as though she'd thrown back a veil. A pair of slender, pointed ears rose from the tangle of her hair. Her eyes became fields of molten silver. He stared at her impossible body, clad in a dress crafted from pure magic that frothed and undulated like waves. An idealization of all that was beautiful and terrible. He trembled in her presence, but tried his best to hide it. He didn't want to be seen as stupid.
. Perhaps he had more skill at dissembling than he thought, but he suspected her manners were such that she had chosen not to mention his reaction. She turned away from him and he expelled a silent sigh of relief. Her gaze was too intense to bear for long. He'd never seen a Fae's true form before and his brief lesson on them had in no way done the reality justice.
This is what Malkai is married to? My god.
The sobering reality that he'd lived near Malkai and Raietha's children their whole lives, never knowing they were Changelings under their human husks, made his world tilt on its axis. Had Malkai known about the other realms, the astral, the magical, this whole time? Was this a fool's errand, to tell Malkai something he already knew?
"Down the stairs," Raietha said, indicating a spiral staircase that wound into the pantry below, "and to the right down the hallway."
His knee wanted payment for his earlier enthusiasm, to say nothing of the rest of his body. Why these old houses had to have so many damnable quirks he didn't know. He said nothing. He wasn't going to admit to being some kind of cripple to anyone, let alone to this woman.
"Thank you." he passed her to take the first step. "I appreciate it."
"Think nothing of it," she said, and swept out of the room. He couldn't fault her on civility, but he couldn't help but think that she didn't care for him. He shrugged and made his way downwards.
* * *
Ashrinn walked from the white pantry into the blackness beyond, a hallway illuminated by a single line of light slashed into the carpet. The sounds of a Led Zeppelin album caught his ear and for the first time in a long time he felt himself relax. He trusted Mal and needed to be near his old friend.
He knocked and Mal opened the door. His friend wore a leaf-green cashmere sweater he never would have chosen himself. If Ashrinn were any judge, Raietha had picked it. Mal had on a pair of faded jeans, though, and that was more like him. Feet bare, like they had been in the garden, but somehow seeing him like that in his own basement jarred Ashrinn even more. Once they'd got their spots in the Unit they hadn't had much call for uniforms, but this had such a civilian feel to it Ashrinn felt quite strange.
"Ashrinn!" Mal grinned. "Come on in."
Mal moved aside and Ashrinn stepped into the room, feeling as awkward as he had at that first roll call decades ago. He couldn't help an answering grin, though. Mal had that effect on him.
Full of battered, comfortable things, Mal's hideaway stood in direct contrast to the upstairs. A shabby brown leather couch against the far wall, a bookshelf to its left. A pile of vinyl records sat on one of the shelves, the player squatting on an end table nearby. A small sideboard across the room from the shelf. Ashrinn licked his lips, hoping Mal would be free with the liquor. A couple of mismatched chairs waited in front and to the side of the scarred wooden coffee table in the middle of the room. A cork board hung on the wall above and to the left of the couch. Military souvenirs and a few pictures of the children hung there. Ashrinn recognized a folded and faded picture of the youngest girl, a red headed newborn.
Holy spirit, she must be nine now! At least! The thought made him feel elderly, even though he was only thirty-seven.
"Nice set up, Mal," he said, folding himself stiffly into a chair, "I'm jealous."
Mal flopped onto the couch with enviable ease. "Man has to have his cave, right?"
"You make it sound like we're still crouched around a fire eating meat with our hands."
"Admit it," Mal said, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward, "that sounds pretty damned good!"
"Texans," Ashrinn sighed as though pained, "so stereotypical." He felt the last of his anxiety fade. Being civilians wasn't so different from being on active duty, not with each other.
"It isn't my fault you're too big a sissy to play football. At least tell me you eat red meat."
"Well yes. Though sometimes if I'm feeling squirrely I tell people I don't eat pork."
Mal leaned back and howled with laughter. The old joke had a treasured, worn quality, like a memento carried in a breast pocket. "Ashrinn," Mal said when he'd got hold of himself, "hell of a thing about your leg."
Ashrinn shrugged off a pang of misery. He had the Order of the White Eagle now. Soon he would have a team. Likely a group of misfits, but he'd been a misfit once, too.
Still. He looked at Mal and focused his other senses, more afraid of finding nothing than finding something.
There. Subtle but unmistakable. Divine magic shimmered around Mal, a nascent, pale signature in contrast to his own red-gold aura. Ashrinn's heart did a drunken little whirl. He'd been right. So dim, though. Mal had been repressing it. Why?
"That's all right, Malkai," he assured his friend with a mildness he didn't necessarily feel. "Maybe there's some other purpose out there for me."
Mal nodded, but Ashrinn saw the sadness in his eyes. Sadness for him? The emotions he felt when he considered that puzzled him, so he put them to the side in favor of the matter at hand.
"Yeah," Mal said, "it's what I tell myself, too. Remember when we first got in, the guy who put us through our stress test to see if we'd make it in the Unit? He told me once that being in the Unit had branded him, changed him too much. He couldn't do anything else, after that. Huh. Should have listened to him."
Unlike Mal, he'd been forced to join by his father, with the hope that it would keep him from being a career tearaway. After living in three countries, appearing at political functions even as a young child, and undergoing an intense education, he had little in common with most of the men and women who were supposed to be his comrades. His prominent Persian features, softened not a whit by his English blood, hadn't helped. People often mistook him for an Arab and he'd received a cold reception thereby. Not abused, no. He'd laid out the f
irst man to try that, and ever after no one tried to fight him with their fists. Still, the subtle shunning hurt badly enough.
He'd decided, one night just before he met Mal, that he had two choices. He could blubber about his poor decisions while continuing his habit of indulging in too much drink and sex until the military either kicked him out or arrested him, or he could become the best.
He had chosen the latter. Through it all, Mal had stayed by his side from that day they'd first met in the mess hall. He thanked whatever divine power now watching over him --- the both of them --- for letting them stick together even when the bureaucracy had made it seem impossible. Their pact to never be separated had held. Ashrinn looked at Malkai now, his red hair bright in the low light, his eyes sparking with good humor. His body, still toned, had no tension in it. Ashrinn had a sudden sharp memory of Malkai, crouched low in an alleyway, grime on his face. In Iraq, the sand clung to every piece of exposed skin, crawled under uniforms, collected in every moist crevice. Their training had been hard, service harder.
And now here Mal was, freshly bathed, wearing clothing that not only served to keep him warm and dry, but had an aesthetic purpose. He was in his own home, where spirit willing he had no worries about being shot at, knifed, or any other immediate danger to life and limb. More than once Mal had spoken, albeit in few words, about his regrets at leaving his children behind. Mal had taken to the military effortlessly, by contrast. A brilliant strategist, he lead the men below him with ease and while he had a confidence that rarely wavered he never challenged Ashrinn's authority without cause, once he'd pulled ahead in rank. Yet his brood had grown every time he'd gone on furlough, and it had therefore become more and more difficult to rejoin his squad. Now, Ashrinn reflected in a morose mental tone, Mal had everything he wanted.
And here I am, poised to take it away.
Ashrinn knew that Mal had free will and could very well turn down his offer. But after twenty years of companionship Ashrinn also knew that he could exploit the thin tendril of boredom wending its way around Mal's soul, the sense of restlessness men forged in combat often had when faced with nothing more challenging than home improvement projects and family concerns. He could have Mal beside him again.
