by Amy Hoff
***
“Sorry to take you away from that,” Robert apologised.
“What do you mean?” demanded Iain. “That was a nightmare?”
“How was that a nightmare?” asked Robert. “You were in love!”
“Because I’m not like you, you idiot,” snarled Iain. “I’m like her. Father called me broken. She knew better.”
“Ah, good morrow, Iain!” said Dorian, as if he’d only just noticed his fellow seal-man.
“What’s wrong with him?” asked Iain.
“Can’t remember most of the last century,” said Leah. “Nightmares have taken over the city.”
“That explains a lot,” Iain said. “So what’s the plan?”
“You’re not exactly a police officer,” said Leah.
“Best you’ve got,” Iain responded. “Far as I can tell, Dorian’s high and Robert’s mortal. So. You, me, and – whatever that thing is – ”
Fludge bounced around in response.
“You’re in charge,” Iain finished. “Let’s go.”
He pulled out an ancient gun and examined it.
“Why do you have a gun?” asked Leah.
“Selkie,” Iain explained. “Different rules. You run into a lot of strange things on the other side.”
“I wouldn’t think a gun would be much use against the faeries,” Leah said.
“You’d be surprised what an iron bullet can do to one of the Fae,” Iain said, and smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY
CAPTURE
In a walled city, thousands of years ago, the creature called Fallen in those days, and Desdemona now, slept the floating sleep of opium dreams beneath silent stars. Long before there was much else in the world, long before the humans had spread across the land, the Fae had taken to the Smoke and thought it would last forever, just as they had, and they would, throughout the long grand march of time.
This night, she had a visitor. A shadow seated at the end of her bed. She woke against her will.
One luminescent green eye cracked open.
Desdemona rolled over and glared.
“Well, hello to you too, lazy!” cried the phoenix. Desdemona groaned and rolled away to face the wall.
Nour’s pretty brows drew together in consternation.
“This isn’t like you, Desdemona,” she clucked.
“Sleeping is very like me, Nour,” grumbled Desdemona into the pillow.
“No, I mean, I haven’t seen you in some time,” said Nour. Desdemona heard a tilt of concern in her voice that was never present before. She opened one bright green eye again.
“What?” asked Desdemona. “I’m sure we last met, what, fifty years ago?”
Nour looked at her sadly. This made Desdemona sit up. Nour was never sad. Ever.
“It’s been two hundred years, Desdemona,” she said. “Do you want to tell me what this is about?”
“What o clock is it?” asked Desdemona, yawning. “What year is it?”
“It’s 213,” said Nour. “The year, not the time.”
“213!” she yelped. “When did that happen?”
“I think we need to talk about this,” said Nour, and dropped a case of leaf onto the bed.
Desdemona stared at the case, guilt twining its cold fingers around her heart.
“It’s none of your business, feathers,” she muttered.
“It is every inch my business,” she said, “I have seen what Faeries are doing with this thing you call the Smoke.”
“What’s it to you?” Desdemona snapped.
“People are dying,” said Nour simply.
“Ah well, they do that,” said Desdemona.
“Faeries are dying,” Nour corrected. Desdemona’s mouth dropped open.
“And the humans along with them.”
“Look, I don’t need you to be my conscience–”
“You missed my funeral!” wailed Nour.
Desdemona shut her mouth with a snap. Nour’s great golden eyes brimmed with tears.
“And you’re always at my funeral! Always!”
For this, Desdemona had no suitable response. Everything seemed insincere and trite.
“Nour-el-ain. I’m sorry,” she said, using her friend’s full name for the first time in centuries to illustrate the sincerity of her words.
This did seem to assuage the bird-woman’s grief. She dabbed at her eyes with a little cambric handkerchief she produced from somewhere on her person. Sniffling, she cleared her throat.
“Now, do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Nour asked. “They’re beating the war-drums in Faerie, you know. Saying they were here first, before the humans. Saying they have the right to do what they want. Saying it doesn’t matter, like you just did. What does that sound like to you?”
“Like the angels who were jealous of humans,” Desdemona said.
“Yes,” said Nour. “Now, I know you’re responsible. What are you going to do about it, Fallen?”
I found it, Nour. I don’t know if it was my fault, in the end, but I found it.
Found what?
I was passing a campfire as usual, trying to stay out of the way, and the smoke of the fire came to me, I breathed it in, and it was like I fell into my body for the first time. I could – I could smell the meat on the spit, I was – it was the first time I felt alive, because I knew that I was dying.
Mortal. You felt mortal.
Only for an instant. But I never stopped chasing that dream.
It must have been the same herbs that made up the Smoke.
Yes, of course. It took at least another century before someone had discovered it. I did not create the Smoke with my two hands, Nour, but I certainly created it with my words. I was not quiet about it and I think that other Faeries may have taken too much of an interest. We do live forever, and with enough time and enough inclination –
Monkeys can write Shakespeare, or so I am told.
***
Robert suddenly found himself walking down a hallway. He instinctively knew he was in present-day Glasgow again, and that he was awake. He must have been sleepwalking, as he had come to while he was mid-step, drawn inexorably towards something. He didn’t know where he was, only that it was a house; a house that seemed unlived-in and long-empty. A house that felt like even the shadows of its former inhabitants were long gone.
On the walls of the house, and every available surface, were portraits and miniatures of him. Statuettes and books and paintings, there was nothing in the house that did not echo his name. Even the wallpaper was festooned with images of his face, and a large portrait of him hung on the wall. Despite Robert’s fascination with himself, and with the way the world still celebrated his work, this was too much for even him and a creeping terror sank into him like a damp chill that set his skin crawling with gooseflesh.
He found himself in front of a doorway. He found himself thinking about Jeannie, and Des.
He found himself wondering if he’d had it wrong, all these years. All those women. All those children.
He wondered what happened to them. He wondered if perhaps he should have – could have – treated Jeannie better. God knows she deserved it.
He opened the door.
He stood inside a living room.
These walls, too, were hung with portraits of his face. His poems were written across every available surface, as a half-mad man would do, over and over again. The house had an air of elegant wealth, from the tall sofas with their delicate feet, the chandeliers and the large windows open to the night, lace curtains blowing in the midnight Glasgow breeze.
There was a mirror, there, above the mantlepiece. He looked into it. He could see his reflection for the first time in centuries; he was not a vampire anymore.
He could also see, faintly, a banner hung on the wall behind him. Red streaks spelled out a message:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY ROBERT BURNS
it said, in gore and blood. He turned around and stared at the sign.
There was a sou
nd, beneath one of the sofas. He began to recognise the feeling, one he hadn’t felt in all those long, long years of being the monster himself.
It was fear, bone-deep and paralysing. He broke through it with effort.
He went to look under the sofa.
Glassy green eyes stared out at him from a white face. Long, impossible, bone-bleach-white talons dug tiny grooves into the floorboards, scratching slowly back and forth into the wood.
The creature met his eyes. And chittered its teeth.
The sudden explosion of movement startled Robert far too late, and he was unconscious in the monster’s arms; a place he’d longed to be for years, but not like this.
***
In the mysterious room with the chess-set, an argument was raging.
Robert was something that had never been before, and never would be again. Immortal from loving too completely, there was a rift in the world because of him. Desdemona chose not to feel guilty, chose not to make contact, in the hope that his love would fade in time and he would be released from the curse he had inadvertently put himself under.
It wasn’t inadvertent, Nour reminded her, he wanted this. This is what he asked for, with his whole heart.
It wasn’t a curse, either, and wasn’t that even worse?
“This is no life for him,” said Desdemona.
“Without you? No,” Nour replied.
“I cannot give him what he wants.”
“No. But that changes nothing. Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” said Nour.
“I do not want him, Nour!” Desdemona cried. “I never did! We are not human, we do not love like they do.”
“That’s a good thing,” said Nour, “because it would drive us mad. And what would the world be like, if monsters could fall in love?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE GATEKEEPER
Dylan’s phone rang, startling him awake.
He turned to look at the other sofa and sighed when he saw Nuriel still there, wrapped in great black wings that cascaded to the floor beneath him. Instead of sleeping, the angel was just glaring at him from behind the mess of feathers.
Dylan dug around until he found his phone, ignoring the angel.
“’Lo?” he mumbled into the receiver grumpily. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Leah, Dylan,” said Leah. “Don’t test me right now, pal.”
“Aw right!” Dylan said, sitting up straighter. “Sorry, didnae recognise your voice, hen.”
“What are you doing right now?” she asked.
“Aw, nae much, darlin’, jist tryin tae get a real live angel aff my couch and straight tae fuck!”
“You’re an abomination,” Nuriel said.
“Fuck aff,” said Dylan, and he meant it.
“Dylan! Focus. I need you and the other Guardians to get every human off the street,” said Leah.
“What, everyone in the city?” Dylan asked. “That’ll take ages.”
“Figure it out,” Leah snapped. “Get it done as soon as you can. We’ve got a fix for this one but there can’t be any humans in the streets.”
“I’ll do my best?” said Dylan doubtfully.
“You do that,” she said. “I’ve got some monsters to rescue.”
“Good luck,” said Dylan, but she was already gone.
Dylan sat and thought for a while. He looked over at the angel’s sphinxlike expression and he was reminded of nothing more than a highly suspicious Siamese cat.
“Right, you,” said Dylan. “I think this may be yer ticket hame.”
“And just what do you propose?” asked Nuriel, blowing smoke rings into the air through his feathers.
“That was Leah. She’s polis. She’s smart. And if this is what I think it is, then this’ll be your chance,” said Dylan. “You game?”
Nuriel stood up in such a fluid motion for a man framed by gigantic wings that even Dylan was grudgingly impressed.
“Lead on, abomination,” he said.
“Stop calling me that,” Dylan growled, but did indeed lead the way.
***
Down in the Gorbals, there were a series of statues that seemed the stuff of nightmares. Apparently meant to be interesting decorative sculptures, the round, expressionless faces attached to the wall of an apartment building with bonelike arms tended to give the creeps to anyone passing by. These statues were lit up dark purple and red at night for some reason that only added to the unease experienced by anyone viewing them.
In the middle of all this, a strange angel-shaped sculpture floated, suspended from a single chain, twisting slightly in the cold wind of the city. The marks on its outstretched hand were even considered, by some, to be an example of stigmata, the discolouration putting viewers in mind of blood. Beneath this statue was an inexplicable giant photograph of a woman standing in the middle of a vaguely Egyptian-looking hallway. Taken together, these things would be the meat and bones of horror stories stretching back into time. The sculpture floating in the air had been built as a symbol for immigrants and hovered over a crypt of the burnt remains of items offered by the Gorbals community. But for those who knew the secret workings of Glasgow’s Fae, this was command central for the Guardians.
For the statue, known only as The Gatekeeper, was technically the ruler of them all.
The night was windy and frigid with rain and ice pelting their faces. Glasgow’s weather was rarely pleasant, and an outdoor jaunt in the middle of the night wasn’t at the top of anyone’s bucket list. There was a reason tea and whisky were so popular in Scotland.
When they finally arrived at their destination, Nuriel leaned against a wall and lit a cigarette, looking for all the world like the kind of guy in music videos who suddenly bursts into song and follows women down the street, encouraging everyone to join in, such was his air of self-assured charm and detached sense of cool.
Dylan thought he was a twat.
Nuriel stared up at the admittedly terrifying statues and took a long drag.
“They’re hideous,” he said loudly.
“Shhhh!” Dylan reprimanded him. “They can hear you, y’know.”
He turned to The Gatekeeper.
“Awright?” he asked.
HAVE YOU BROUGHT AN OFFERING?
Nuriel heard the voice in his own mind instead of hearing it with his ears. He turned away from the wall and joined Dylan in looking up at The Gatekeeper, suddenly interested in the proceedings. The two men made quite a picture; one in his Rangers tracksuit and huge white angel wings; the other in a long, dark peacoat and gigantic black wings spreading out over and above his back, as they stared up at The Gatekeeper staring down at them.
Dylan started digging in his pockets and produced lint and 20p.
There was a sense of indulgent laughter.
DINNA FASH YERSEL. WHAT HAVE YOU COME TO ASK ME?
“We need tae get everyone aff the streets. Leah said so,” Dylan replied.
AND SO IT HAS COME TO PASS. THE BLOOD DEBT TO SEBASTIAN IS PAID.
“Sebastian?” Nuriel whispered.
“Crime boss, runs the toon,” Dylan whispered back, and Nuriel nodded.
Dylan addressed The Gatekeeper again.
“Just wait a minute,” said Dylan. “How many of ye are in league wi’ Sebastian?”
NO. IN LEAGUE IS INAPPROPRIATE. IN THRALL PERHAPS.
“I–” said Dylan, floundering, “don’t know what that means. But what I do know is, if ye dinna help us, Leah Bishop will come here and kick yer arse and that’s somethin’ you can count on.”
YOU, A FAE AND AN ANGEL, THREATEN ME WITH A MERE HUMAN?
“Clearly you’ve no met Leah,” said Dylan. “So, are you gonnae help us or no? You owe us after turning a blind eye after all these years.”
“How have you and your people let this city get into such a mess?” Nuriel demanded suddenly. “Shouldn’t you be helping these people? Saving them?”
Dylan shot daggers at him and was about to reprimand him when The Gatekeeper spoke in
stead.
THE ANGEL IS RIGHT, DYLAN. OUR DUTIES HAVE BEEN NEGLECTED.
Then the silence of the Glasgow night was only punctuated by the sound of the rain. Dylan waited, chilled to the bone, but no other information was forthcoming. He shrugged and turned away.
“Guess that’s all we’re getting,” he said. Nuriel stared at him in consternation.
WE WILL ASSIST YOU.
A grin spread across Dylan’s face. He gave the thumbs up sign to The Gatekeeper.
“Cheers,” he said, and motioned to Nuriel that they were leaving.
Nearby, Dylan went into the lee of a building and indicated that Nuriel join him beneath the overhang, outside of the rain and wind.
They stood there for a while, warming up. Nuriel flicked his cigarette into a puddle.
“Ye ready for this?” asked Dylan. “Scare ‘em off the streets? Well, if they’re believers.”
“Even if they’re not,” said Nuriel.
“How’s that?” Dylan asked.
“What’s the first thing an angel says when it appears?” asked Nuriel.
“Do I look like a good Christian?” Dylan asked, his anxiety about his wings forgotten in the once-in-a-lifetime chance to wind up an angel.
Nuriel smiled. It was not a kind smile. It was a cat that got the cream smile, but it was strangely reassuring – the kind of look one gives a comrade, not an impostor.
“Be not afraid,” said Nuriel, spreading his great black wings, and turned toward the city lights illuminating Glasgow in the orange warmth of a distant fire reflected in the clouds.
***
With a creaking, groaning sound, the bone-arms of the Attendants ripped away from the side of the building. They crawled down it like spiders, chitin clicking as they went. The Gatekeeper stayed, watching over the city, as the Attendants walked on their bone-arms to join the war for Glasgow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DRAGON
Her lips were red, her looks were free
