Burns Night

by Amy Hoff

  Her locks were yellow as gold

  Her skin was white as leprosy

  The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she

  Who thicks man’s blood with cold.

  - The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  Robert came to slowly.

  He’d made sure to be the last through the door in order to keep Dorian from wandering off. Dorian always got weird when he was high. Once they found him back at his summer home trying to get into the underwater ballroom. He didn’t have a clue where he was or that it had been some years since the place was even useable. He’d last been seen in Whitechapel and somehow got all the way to Surrey without registering it at all.

  And then he remembered the house, with all his portraits, and the writing on the wall.

  Robert began to be aware of a scratching sound, again and again, into wood.

  Scratch. Scratch.

  Numbly, he looked up, as the world began to right itself.

  Long, bone-white talons dug deep into the wood of a table in front of him.

  Desdemona’s face filled his vision, but not the familiar one he knew.

  Here, up close, he could see her face ghost-white, blood smeared across her eyelids like war-paint, green eyes blazing deadly through the crimson dark. Her lips were red, her teeth were white, and although Robert had seen her in a dress a few times in the past, this one she wore like a weapon.

  He knew then that he was staring at the baobhan sith called Fallen, and not the Desdemona he knew at all.

  The thing in front of him smiled sensuous against full lips Robert had so long desired to capture with his own.

  “Once upon a time,” it hissed, in a deep breath-growl he didn’t recognise, “a little boy fell in love with a dragon.”

  She circled him, slow, like prey she was assured of eating but wished to play with first. Those long talons scraped across his skin, leaving bloody gashes into which she plunged her tongue deeply, quickly licking up the blood. He moaned at the sensation, and at the feeling of her lips and tongue against his skin, woozy with terror and arousal from the simple contact high of her touch.

  “Desdemona,” he croaked. “Des. It’s me, Robert. You have to remember. Remember me. Please.”

  The monster circled in front of him, dragging its claws down his chest, bare above the buttons of his shirt, and lower still.

  “Are you my pet?” it asked, eyes shining, hungry.

  “No,” Robert said, shaking his head, his dark hair falling forward. “No, you – you told me not to follow you. I wouldn’t leave you alone. I thought you died and you’d never come back.”

  He coughed.

  “At least then I couldn’t follow you anymore,” he said wretchedly.

  Robert saw clearly in his mind’s eye the bar in the Highlands where they met, the bar he now worked in, where he guarded the door to Faerie. He saw her there, standing in the centre of the pub, just as he had seen in his dreams so many times, when he’d imagined what it would be like when she walked in, Dileas running around her on his white-socked feet and the peat-smoke fire throwing warm shadows on the walls.

  “I bought the tavern, you know,” he said, to the Desdemona in his mind more than the monster in front of him. “The one where we met? I didn’t realise back then that it was your local, and that the door to Faerie was behind it. I tend bar, waiting for you, guarding the entrance. I thought if there was anywhere you’d return to, it’d be there.”

  He looked around the beloved pub in his mind, that place of their long-ago first meeting, heard the peat-fire crackle softly in the fireplace and saw Dileas sleeping curled up nearby, safe and sound in the cosy friendliness of The Angel’s Share.

  “I always wanted to show you that I’d done it,” he went on. The Desdemona in his mind stood frozen there, staring, a statue of herself. “To impress you with my loyalty. I waited for the day you’d walk through the door and find me there.”

  Abruptly, Robert woke to her claws deep in his flesh, throbbing points of pain where his blood pulsed out, dripping waiting into her heavy mouth, red, red, so red and somehow inviting. Robert surrendered entirely and offered himself up as the sacrifice he had been on the night they met centuries before.

  “It wasn’t right, I see that now,” he sighed, barely audible. “If this is how it has to be, it’s only fair.”

  His head lolled back on the chair, exposing the long line of his neck and the arteries waiting there, thrumming below the surface. He wasn’t a vampire anymore, after all.

  “Unmake me as you made me,” he whispered, his breath coming in short gasps.

  The monster tore into his neck and latched itself to him, wrapped around him, and he gloried in it, faint though he was.

  “I love you, Desdemona,” he murmured.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  RESCUE

  In the room with the chess-set, outside of time, the two most ancient creatures in existence watched events unfold in the city. There was no linear path to follow, in this night of dreams, all doors led to some new place. In one, Leah confronted the spectre of her mother, lost years ago. In another, Iain Grey faced his demons of forced marriage and love. And in another –

  “I know you’re keeping him prisoner,” Nour whispered. “And you have to let him go.”

  “Stop,” said Desdemona.

  “No,” said Nour. “I want you to remember. You must know, somewhere.”

  Desdemona looked troubled.

  “I – I remember,” said Desdemona, a wraith grin spreading slow across her features. “I remember my people, by the roadside. And the young men. In the Highlands. In the dark.”

  “That was a very long time ago, Fallen,” said Nour. “Desdemona is what you call yourself now.”

  “I do not know that name,” said the monster in the other chair.

  “No, but you will,” said Nour. “The city is under attack. There is a tear in reality.”

  “There is a rift in the world and you’re not affected?” asked Desdemona.

  “No, but then I never was. By anything,” said Nour.

  “I remember you, little bird, and what your powers can do.”

  “Yes, and that is why we are playing the game,” said Nour. “But you need to remember, and you need to let him go.”

  “Who is he, anyway?” Desdemona asked.

  “A man who gave his life for you, not once but many times,” said Nour. “His name is Robert Burns.”

  ***

  The tavern hadn’t changed much, in all the years intervening since Robert first pushed the door open. The place was filled with smoke and laughter, camaraderie and the kind of lived-in familiarity soaked into the very walls. There was always a Dileas snoozing by the fireplace, in every generation of the pub. The oldest people in the pub had introduced their children to it, and their children did so likewise. The Angel’s Share was just as eternal as the Fae, which is why the door was behind it. Maybe, in fact, the door itself was the reason for its incredible longevity, after all.

  “We stormed the barricade at nightfall,” Iain was saying to his superior officer proudly. “We cut off their food supply. I think we’re going to win the war.”

  Desdemona sighed, mouth drawn down. She didn’t like these kinds of tactics but Iain was good at this part of warfare; as a selkie, he used his innate empathy against their opponents, a wholly unexpected aspect of the seal-men’s charm.

  “I think so, too,” she said. “Good work, Iain.”

  Iain beamed with pride. Desdemona just drank. The war had been going on for what seemed like an eternity. She was a good soldier, but she was losing faith in their ability to win after all this time and blood and death.

  And the bell on the door rang and in walked Robert Burns as if he expected the entire pub to explode into applause. By this time, he had a right to expect it.

  His black hair glowed luxuriously in the low light of the tavern. His neck was covered in a high white ruff popular with rich douchebags of the er
a. He wore a lovely crimson coat that made his shoulders seem at least twice as large as they really were; although Robert had been a ploughman for much of his early life and had the sort of stocky body to match, repeated bouts with illness gave him a frailty that belied his frame. Nevertheless, Robert’s cherry-apple cheeks shone with good health, his skin white as cream, his legs covered with fine white breeches met by thick, clocked stockings. He gave the tavern in general a cocky grin.

  The pub was already rowdy and the music playing loud as Robert entered, Desdemona grinning up at him. His heart skipped and nearly stopped. He had become so smooth and talented with women, but any time he was fortunate enough to catch the Fae on one of their Brigadoon-like forays into the human world, her strange fiery eyes, green lit jade flames sparking at him, made him feel as tongue-tied and silly as the first time they met.

  “Erm,” he said intelligently.

  “Come on, Robert, sit down!” crowed Desdemona, and she gestured towards a chair beside her. He sat down in it and stared openly at her. She nudged him with a shoulder.

  “Stop staring,” she said. “Did you get any whisky? Iain’s pouring it for everyone.”

  “What’re we celebrating?” asked Robert.

  “Ah, nothing really,” she said, “aside from needing a celebration now and then. Come sit with us.”

  And at the sound of that deep, rolling voice, Robert’s cockiness washed away in the tide of his love for the monster seated at the table.

  He sat down. Iain’s beautiful features and preternaturally luminescent skin could not hide his disdain for Robert.

  “Well. I have something to celebrate,” said Robert.

  “Men!” Desdemona called out. “Robert has an announcement.”

  Robert grinned, proud to share his fortune with his friends.

  “I’m rich!” he told her. “I’ve been to court with kings. I’m famous, too – they know my poetry everywhere.”

  “Good,” Iain ground out. “You can buy the next round.”

  Robert lifted a bag heavy with coin and smirked at Desdemona while dropping it into Iain’s lap without looking at him.

  Iain slowly stood up. He bent down so his face was right next to Robert’s.

  “I,” he said mildly, “have a gun.”

  “Iain,” snapped Desdemona. “Go buy us drinks.”

  Iain stalked off.

  “So,” Desdemona said, raising her glass. “The famous Robert Burns.”

  Arrogance rolled off him in waves.

  “Thank you,” he replied.

  “I knew it!” Desdemona said, striking the table and pointing at him. “The day we met I knew there was something different about you!”

  “No accounting for taste,” said Iain, who had returned with two glasses of whisky, which he set down in front of Desdemona and himself. Robert stared at the glasses for a moment, and at the empty space in front of him at the table. Iain just grinned.

  “Yes, thank you, Iain,” said Desdemona.

  The shadow returned to her rich green eyes.

  “What’s the use of wasting your human life on a war that can’t be won?”

  She downed her drink in one go, not something that was habitual for her.

  Robert discerned in an instant the drawn, haggard look in her eyes.

  “Desdemona,” he said, soft, gentle. “You know I would–”

  “That’s neither here nor there,” she cut him off. “Congratulations, Robert. You deserve every penny.”

  “No he doesn’t,” Iain interjected.

  “Do you want to be discharged, Iain?” she barked. Iain backed down.

  Desdemona reached across the table and took the poet’s hand. Robert stared down at it, scarcely believing his good fortune, holding his breath so as not to start panting like an animal over such a small thing.

  “I’m proud of you,” she said, and all he could feel was her touch.

  ***

  “A human?” Desdemona said to Nour. “Foolish man.”

  “You tell him that often,” she laughed.

  “This is no life for him,” said Desdemona.

  “Without you?” asked Nour. “No.”

  “I cannot give him human love!” said Desdemona.

  “No. But I can sense the world as I always could, and his mark is deep upon it,” said Nour.

  “I am not responsible for the heart of this human!” Desdemona snapped.

  “You made that decision when you tried to turn him,” said Nour. “Otherwise he’d be long dead from this world.”

  “I turned him? Why? I didn’t think it was possible,” said Desdemona.

  “It wasn’t, until him. Many strange things have come to pass in these latter days.”

  ***

  Desdemona sat at a small, smoky bar in one of the hidden buildings in Tokyo. No one knew the bar was there unless they happened to come across it. Tokyo was a city like that; layers on layers of hidden paradises known only to the lucky few.

  Tonight was a raucous evening, as it often was in these late 1970s nights of revelry among the threats of gang violence and the convivial atmosphere of these secret places.

  Desdemona was smiling, her eyes darkened with smoky eyeshadow, her long hair curling bright over her shoulders, her lips a dark painted red. She drank her red wine and felt at peace with the world, wondering if she would feed that night. The bearded man sitting next to her in his black leather jacket, sunglasses, and bandanna was grooving to the song on the radio, swirling water in a wine glass.

  The clock struck midnight.

  Desdemona took a sip of wine. She was far away from anything that could remind her about who she had been, or what had happened. Iain. Gregoire.

  The music was loud and everyone was dancing. In this small nondescript bar in Asia, she stood out with her long red hair and brilliant green eyes, but no one seemed to care. She lifted her empty glass at the handsome bartender and he grinned, going back for another bottle of red.

  “Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought tae mind,” the people in the bar began to drunkenly yodel.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said, with feeling. Of course, it’s New Year’s Eve.

  The man who had been swirling water in his glass turned abruptly.

  “Excuse me?” he asked, taking a drink of the red wine now in his glass.

  “Not you, Jesus, sorry,” said Desdemona, pushing off the barstool and pulling a pack of smokes out of her jacket.

  Behind her, the bartender caught the man’s eye and pointed sternly at a sign that said NO OUTSIDE BEVERAGES. The man held up his hands in an apology, and just grooved right on.

  Outside, Desdemona puffed on a cigarette in the neon lights of late-night Tokyo. She leaned against the wall in the wintry evening, her breath making mist of the air. Around her, signs blazed neon and the music of half a dozen bars and clubs mixed with the throngs of people. So many people, and still she could vanish, and be alone, and lonely.

  “You are thousands of miles away from Scotland,” she told herself. She breathed in the smoke.

  “You are not responsible for the heart of Robert Burns,” she reminded herself again, as she blew it out.

  She took another long drag.

  “What’s happening to you?”

  ***

  “If there is a tear in reality,” said Desdemona, “there is only one cure I know – a spell.”

  “Yes,” Nour agreed.

  “And the most important ingredient of that spell is – “

  “Yes. And it’s almost time,” she sighed. “I only wish I could have prevented more suffering.”

  “How long?”

  “Tonight.”

  “I will be there as I always was,” said Desdemona.

  “Not in centuries,” said Nour. “But I hope you will be there tonight.”

  “No matter what has become of me, I swear I will,” Desdemona promised.

  “If only the people of the city knew the power ground into its very stones,” said No
ur.

  “It only matters that we know,” said Desdemona.

  “It will have to be enough,” Nour replied.

  ***

  There was a resounding crash as the door was kicked in.

  “Get up! Get moving!” shouted a voice.

  Robert came to blearily and saw the silhouettes of three people in the doorway.

  “The goddamn cavalry has arrived,” muttered Leah, Fludge running from shoulder to shoulder in a panic.

  “She was here, Leah,” mumbled Robert.

  “I can see that,” Leah replied, getting his arm around her shoulder. She hoisted Robert to his feet.

  “I need to find her. We can’t leave her,” he said.

  “We can and we will!” Leah said, dragging him out the door. “You’re not immortal anymore. Don’t argue with me.”

  They left the building to join Iain and Dorian on the stairs outside. The selkies were staring at something in the sky. Leah followed suit.

  Her jaw dropped.

  “This is fucked up,” she said.

  Above Glasgow City Chambers, there was a rift in the sky, colours bleeding through into the world. The cut in the clouds vibrated, alternating purple and yellow, roiling light and dark. The lights of City Chambers were blazing in all the windows, and the streets were strangely empty of people. Dylan had done his job.

  There was no question as to the source of the problem; like many problems in cities, it emanated from City Hall.

  Leah arranged Robert on her shoulders. Fludge, for once, was still.

  Leah’s mouth set in a line.

  Time to get to work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  SEBASTIAN

  Focus.

  Focus.

  Robert! Focus!

  Robert opened his eyes as old memories of the war, of Jeannie, of Desdemona, fell away from him like scales from his eyes.

  Leah was shaking him roughly, Fludge hopping to and fro on her shoulders, lashing his tail wildly.

  “Robert,” she said. “Oh, thank God. You fainted. Try to stay awake.”