I clenched my hands.
“Please, I must find her.”
The fey lifted a pudgy hand to his head and scratched under his hat. “I can naught in good conscience—”
I surged to my feet and his words trailed off. What did the fey know about a conscience? I’d heard the legends. I’d seen the Irish battlefields. The invisible force clenched in my stomach.
“Then kindly point me in the direction of someone with a bad conscience.” I balled my fists as the magic expanded through me. I looked for the quickest path out of the ruins. The arch. I ran for the ancient doorway. I scrambled to a stop at the precipice on the other side. The moors rolled away from me like waves on a deep, dark sea. Starlight revealed few details of the nocturnal landscape beyond the low, cresting hills.
Energy raged inside me. Its wild, thrashing presence fought for a way out. I thought of the plane and the hole I’d torn in its side. Destruction. This thing inside me was a sundering instrument. If I couldn’t control it, I could at least try not to fight it. The building force pressed the air from my lungs and gripped my heart. If I could just shape a path for its release.
Make yourself a cannon…
I opened my mouth and relaxed my muscles. Sound and fury ripped from my body in an eruptive wave. The blast of energy traveled out over the empty hillocks and knolls. It tore over the shrubby slopes and crashed into the next highest elevation with a thunderous impact. A moment later the ground shook beneath my feet. I collapsed to my knees as air rushed back into my lungs. A clutch of roosting birds fluttered away from the ruins in a panic of slapping wings.
“What manner of magic is that?” the small man whispered gruffly behind me. I turned to see his hands glowing a sparkling green. I folded to the ground and rolled on my back.
“It is a long story.”
The green radiance around his hands pulsed brightly, then winked out.
“My favorite kind.”
Chapter Fourteen
Beautiful Imperfecciones
Melisande
In my dream, I was back in my own studio in Portsmouth listening to the idle conversations of the other artists around me. I dabbed at the bleeding edge of the wash I’d just applied to my portrait. I’d never painted myself before. I’d never felt like I could have an unbiased eye when depicting my own features. The image of myself in my mind was sometimes warped and not one I cared to commit to canvas. But in the dream, each line and shadow, each feathery brushstroke followed my likeness exactly. It was even better than if I had looked into a mirror.
I dipped the bristles of my paintbrush into a pool of vibrant cerulean blue on my pallet and transferred it to the canvas, but as I dragged the stiff boar’s hair across the gessoed fabric, a gash of red appeared. I rinsed the brush and tried again. This time I dabbed the tip in a deep forest green and fanned it across the outside edge of my throat. The negative space gushed an arterial vermilion. I dropped the malfunctioning brush in my water can and grabbed another. I opened a tube of yellow ochre and gobbed it on a dry part of my palette. I swished the fresh brush until it gleamed with a golden summer glow. I touched it to the soft skin beneath my eyes to give my portrait a sense of life. A bead of scarlet formed at the corner of my eye and trickled down my cheek like a scarlet tear.
My breath caught in my throat as I dropped the brush and backed away from the painting. Red. It was all red. I stared at the monstrous expression riding my features. It hung like a taunt in the center of the sanguine chaos. My garnet lashes curved over merlot irises. My bloody cheeks dripped down to the puckering lines of my dark currant lips. A thick, coppery scent closed over me.
“This isn’t me,” I whispered, but the painting seemed positive it was. I watched in disbelief as the single carmine tear drew a bloody trail down my cheek. My scalp tingled with horror as my cherry tongue slipped from between my two-dimensional wine-stained teeth and caught the tear in a sticky curl of gory pleasure.
“No!”
I gasped and jerked awake.
“All done,” Celene whispered close to my ear. Her warm breath caressed my neck. She was too close.
“What?” I blinked, retreating to the farthest corner of the chair. It bought me an inch of distance. Celene had invaded every last bit of my personal space.
Finally, she backed away and the bright light of the room assaulted my eyes again. I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the chair, but her hand stopped me from standing.
“Let me tidy your hair, Sleepy Head.” Celene clicked a curling iron near my face. I sat rabbit still as she lifted segments of my hair and worked the iron down the length of the strands. I usually enjoyed having my hair done. I relished the calming drag of a comb through my hair or the graze of fingers against my scalp, but this was not a salon. There was no radio in the background blaring pop music. Celene did not engage me in idle chatter.
In fact, when she finished with my hair, my unspoken captor stalked around my chair in total silence, taking in every angle of her completed work. She came to a stop in front of me and placed her fingers beneath my chin. She tilted my face toward the diffusor shield.
“Perfecta.”
I didn’t feel perfecta. I’d never been perfecta in my whole life. I nodded my head in mute appreciation while quietly clinging to the beautiful imperfecciones that defined me.
Chapter Fifteen
The Maiden of the Well
Grayford
I waited as the little fey thought about what I’d said. I’d chosen to give him the complete story. This tiny stranger from a different version of our world looked me over. He studied my skin, my hair, my clothes.
“So ye are dead.”
“I was.”
“Why did ye come back? The eternal lands did not call to ye?”
“They most certainly did,” I assured. The beckoning of heaven is not something that can be overlooked. “I had unfinished business.”
“Aye, indeed ye did.” I watched the sky as my companion reloaded his empty pipe and lit it again. His puffs of smoke mixed with the scudding clouds. “ ’Tis a grievous thing, what happened to yer woman.” He puffed. “But ye can naught help her in the state yer in.”
“Too true.” It seemed that any bout of negative emotion could trigger the violent force inside me. “If the druids have Melisande, I must try to reach her.”
“Well, do naught be wastin’ yer time in Tintagel or Glastonbury. All ye’ll find there are hedge druids and witches. Ye need the Order of Druids in Canterbury.”
I gave my friend a sideways glance. Canterbury was the seat of the Church of England.
“Isn’t that Anglican territory?”
“Aye. It is, but the Archbishop is also a druid.” The fey squinted his yellow eyes. “He’ll know the location of yer Second Gate.” He puffed and sent a great cloud of smoke to hover over us. The plume was larger than his lungs could possibly create. It drifted like a ghost above the ravaged stones until the wind found it and dragged it away.
“It’s a long way to Canterbury.”
“Aye, and ye will be needin’ something more than yer breeches for the journey.”
I was starting to like my pragmatic little friend. It was hard to read his craggy face, but I detected a sense of humor lurking beneath all those whiskers.
“I think I know someone who can help ye with both yer predicaments.”
Hope bloomed inside me.
“You need the Maiden of the Well.”
Chapter Sixteen
The Dying of the Light
Melisande
The city had changed in the time it had taken for the sun to set and the night to spread its wings. The metamorphosis unfurled from every corner of the Gothic Quarter. Bodies moved with an expectation I could feel but not understand. Eyes slicked over me in an admiring way. Celene had dressed me in a gold and black halter top that looked more for belly dancing than a night on the town. She’d found a stretchy black micro-miniskirt that hugged my hips to match. I’d fought the b
lack open-toed shoes with shiny golden heels, but I’d lost.
The dying of the light had unmoored the stronger specters, setting them loose to wander through the living. The ice of so many spirit streams cooled my skin and made the hot night bearable.
My hosts drifted ahead of me, threading through the curving corridors with ease. The jostling crowd seemed to flow around them like bait fish around a feeding shark. I backstepped. I turned sideways. I swung wide. I did everything I could to keep moving up-current with my party until it dawned on me that I could just stop fighting the flow. I glanced around at the current of festival faces. I was anonymous. A nobody. I could slip away. These streets were like slot canyons. There were too many twists and turns for my captors to search them all. I could find a shadowed corner and wait them out. In the morning, I could find a police person or trade this stupid bracelet for an international cell phone and call Gr…him.
I stopped and bent over as my heart hit an off beat. God, I couldn’t even picture his face without a blistering lance of anguish boring through me. I’d almost rather take a bullet than feel that sudden wash of torment.
“Melisande, do keep up. You Americans are so lazy.” Celene’s voice reached over the din of drums and revelers and yanked me like a leash. A smile played across her red diamond lips, but her eyes held a command. It was usually moments like that when my anger made a stunning appearance and altered my perspective on my predicament. I waited for my stubborn streak to lash out and take control of the moment…but nothing happened. The photon laser of certainty that I could rise above whatever had befallen me was MIA. Not only was there not a fire in my belly, there wasn’t even a match with which to light one.
I stared numbly at my impatient companions as I shuffled forward on compliant feet. Celene ushered me to the center of our small group, and I was carried along by their brisk inertia.
Chapter Seventeen
Keyholes, Garden Gates, and the Usual Modes of Travel
Grayford
We followed the retreating night west while dawn’s approach was still a thin ribbon of blue behind us. The winds had stripped me of every ounce of body heat as we traversed the rugged moor. With no real knowledge of our destination and a limited range for translocating, I had no choice but to blunder along with my diminutive friend. I had not tried to translocate another along with myself since I’d undergone the change. My powers were so altered that I feared what might happen to a second body. But the bitter night was beginning to change my mind.
A stiff wind cut through my body and soul, and I squatted in a ravine to protect myself for a moment. My guide’s churning legs scrambled to a stop and then he joined me in the shallow basin. His little lungs gasped like a guppy for air.
“How much farther?”
“Naught far. Just over that ridge, there is a farm with a great swath of pastureland. We need only make it to the fence. From there, ’tis a short jaunt down a footpath to the Well.”
I rubbed my arms for warmth and peeked through the brush in the direction he indicated. An owl swooped low along the ground, a silent missile in the dimness.
“That rise there?”
“Aye.”
“Might I offer a quicker option?”
“I’ll not join you in the between lands if that is what yer suggestin’.”
I nodded my understanding. I couldn’t force the fey to translocate with me, particularly when I was unsure of the result. It occurred to me that we might move faster if I carried him, but something told me that was also not an option he would consider.
We took a moment out of the wind to rest.
“This Maiden of whom you spoke. How can she help me?” I folded my legs and crouched into the windbreak.
“The Maiden tends to the waters of the Seep. She can be found at any well in the Cornish lowlands.” He lifted his hat and produced his pipe. “If ye are to make it through the druids’ defenses, ye must travel the ley lines that feed the wells.” He stuffed a pinch of something brown in his pipe and lit it. “They’ll be watching keyholes, garden gates, and the usual modes of travel.” He pointed a crafty finger at his head as if I could see the brilliant thought inside it. “But they will naught be expectin’ the wells. Naught many folk move through them anymore. The magic of the wells has gone wild ever since yer kind began dedicating them to saints. The resident spirits did naught take kindly to the slight.”
“The wells are a conduit?”
“Aye. They’re connected by the ether. Step into one and step out of another, no matter the distance. Where there’s a well, there’s a way.” The little man giggled. The tickling chime of his laughter tunneled through my straying thoughts.
“And this conduit can take me to the druids in Canterbury?”
He puffed on his pipe and blew a ring of twisting smoke between us.
“There’s a reason yer kind settled a church on the Canterbury site. A magic older than the Cathedral’s stones lies beneath it. Find the well ’round which the church was built and ye will find the druids.”
I waited for him to burn his pipe empty, then we set out again.
****
The sky to the east blushed with the warmth of a new day and dew drops glittered like diamonds on the cottongrass and wildflowers. We were trudging toward the sloping ridge ahead when a shadow detached from the darkness ahead of us. Wings as silent as the grave cut the air next to me, and in a flash of talons, my companion was ripped from the ground. The owl surged away on powerful wings. Green light flashed and sparked beneath the pale hunter’s talons, but the bird held its grip on the flailing fey.
Shock glued me to the ground long enough for the bird to lift into the brightening sky. I may have been able to find the well without him, but he was my liaison to the Maiden. Furthermore, my conscience would not allow me to leave him to a bloody fate. I had to recover him.
I reached between my atoms and unmoored my flesh. With no time to lose, I picked a spot in front of the owl’s projected path. I came together as a solid sinking weight. The orange-eyed hunter flared its feathers to dart around me. I reached for the leading edge of its wing, and it screeched its dismay. Its talons opened, and the tiny fey plunged through the air.
I released the bird and picked a point below the tiny man’s body. I translocated about three meters above the ground. It was a dangerous fall for me, but a deadly one for him. There was no choice. I snatched the little man from the air and unbound his molecules. We reappeared a meter from the ground, he in his skin and me in mine. My feet struck earth, and I released the fey.
My thoughts suddenly tumbled into the vastness of his mind. His brain was a great winding place with a landscape of memories that rolled on forever. I clamped the connection between us closed, and his alien mind drifted away from me.
“Why the blast did ye do that?”
“You were about to be eaten.”
“I had the situation under control.”
“It didn’t look like it.”
“None of ye humans are to be trusted,” he fumed. His hands glowed an angry green. A thin, but menacing clutch of vines crept from the ground at my feet and wrapped around my ankles. “If I want yer help, I’ll ask for it. Ye think that was my first ride in an owl’s talons?”
Something about the miniature man’s tirade was greatly amusing, but I kept a grip on the smile threatening to creep across my face.
“I beg your pardon,” I apologized, and kicked at the spindly snare of vines.
“I’m precious low on pardons. And worse, I’m now in yer filthy debt.”
A corner of a smile escaped and spread across my face.
“ ’Tis no laughing matter, sir. We can naught part ways until I’ve repaid ye.” He fixed me with his stormy yellow stare.
“Let us resume our journey. Deliver me to this Maiden, and I will consider the debt fulfilled.”
He blinked once, then spit in his hand. I spit in mine and closed my fingers around his little fist.
Chapter Eightee
n
A groping, grinding teenaged dream.
Melisande
The city was alive. It was a ravenous animal. A reverent worshipper. A dirty-faced pickpocket. It was a VIP party, and I had a ticket to the debauchery. We flowed along the sizzling streets, mingling with the locals in their feast day garb. Some were dressed as patrons in old-fashioned costumes. Others wore giant papier mâché heads and danced alongside devils and dragons with firecracker mouths, but the real show was the human towers. Twelve-foot giant saints made of fiberglass or plastic and pressed paper lumbered down the tight throughways, each balanced on a pair of human legs. Every saint was dressed in robes of their station with details from their sainthood perfectly propped in their outstretched hands. One held a mace, and another clutched flowers. Many wore swords and crowns, but only one glowed from within, casting her matronly light into the darkest corners of the ancient city. Mary blazed like a blue star, bathing the bacchanal in a momentary blessing, then she disappeared around a corner, taking her benediction with her.
“Here we are,” Mephos announced. I peeled my gaze from the snaking parade and peered into the dazzling club. A stunning pair of statuesque young women rushed to pull open the glass doors for our party. Celene’s eyes raked the dewy girl on her side, and the young woman’s cheeks pinked. Mephos reached a hand toward the other girl, and his fingers grazed her ripe breast. The plump weight of it bounced under her shimmering minidress. Her lips parted, and my eyes were drawn to her sharpening nipples. I quickly looked away, but a strange warmth had settled low in my stomach.
Bertrand, who had not interacted with me since the courtyard, suddenly extended his arm. It was an old-fashioned gesture for our very modern surroundings. I accepted, wrapping my fingers in the bend of his arm. His bicep bulged against my hand as we processed through the open doors into the swaying den of bodies.
A runway model of a hostess greeted Mephos and led us to a circular alcove on the opposite side of the dance floor. We slipped along the curved seat and settled around a small table. She began to close a pair of gossamer curtains behind us. Mephos gestured and she stopped. He reached out, and a euro with a five hundred passed from his hand to hers. He pointed to the bar and made a gesture. The hostess smiled and slinked away.
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