"They can't make me go back there," Magnus echoed, sounding desperate.
"They can't," Eric agreed. "I'm an upstanding citizen, with a trust fund, a job, and good references. I've already demonstrated that I can take care of you properly—you have your own room in a very expensive piece of New York real estate, and I've enrolled you in a good private school in which you are making good grades. I guess I could even get a desk job here if I had to, right Ria?"
"I'm sure we could find something useful for you to do," Ria said, smiling faintly. "Gus, don't worry. This is Manhattan, not some backwater holdover from the Dark Ages. Single men adopt here all the time, and our cover story of a recently dead mother and a father eager to make things right is only going to make our case stronger. If the Banyons of Boston actually go the route of petitioning to get their grandson turned over to them, half our work is done for us: they'll be admitting you're Eric's son, which is the keystone of our legal position. And Eric is right. You're in a good school, getting good grades, and on your way to college: all of that counts with a court toward showing good intent.
"And if they keep trying to prove that you're their son, and not Eric's, well . . . let's just say that the harder they try to do that, the less they're going to look like fit guardians for anything more evolved than a houseplant." Ria smiled one of her best shark-smiles. "Not even a DNA test is going to prove that you are anything except what we claim you are. I almost hope they demand one. It should be amusing."
"You're going to do something weird, aren't you?" Magnus said hopefully.
"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," Ria said offhandedly. "Just believe Eric: a Bard's sworn word is gold."
Magnus wrinkled his nose in disapproval; he still wasn't entirely comfortable at the mention of Bardcraft.
"Now why don't you go see if Anita has any pastry left over from the afternoon meeting, while I plot secretly with Eric. I'm sure Derek has the Vandewater party out of the building by now."
"Yeah," Magnus muttered. "Bribe the kid to get out of the way." But he went.
* * *
"Why can't I ever get away with talking to him like that?" Eric asked. "You herd him like a champion cowboy."
"Do you offer him doughnuts?" Ria asked whimsically, then sobered. "The first thing they'll probably demand is a DNA test; I wasn't joking about that. We'll need to make sure it only shows what you want it to. There are a lot of ways you could deal with that; I suspect the easiest would be magic—but if you find out differently, I have a few cards up my sleeve. I've already taken care of his birth certificate and other records, and they are gone past all dredging up."
Eric blinked. "You made him disappear?"
"I made a Magnus Banyon disappear, or at least, to appear as if he was never actually Magnus Banyon: certainly there are plenty of eyewitnesses to the fact that there was a child that the Banyons raised and called Magnus, but without those records, that child could have come from anywhere. Adopted—purchased—kidnapped." Ria shrugged. "If anyone were to ask me, I would say he found out where he was really from, and that probably he's back with his natural parents at this very moment."
"Do you think anybody's going to believe that?" Eric asked.
"It depends on how thoroughly Derek can get your parents to unhinge in open court." Ria smiled a tight, thin smile. Eric had seen that smile before. It generally meant that there were bullets with names on them. "Oh, it isn't nice. I'm not a hypocrite, and I won't pretend that the things I have planned for them are even remotely on the straight-and-narrow. But I'd be willing to do far worse to keep Magnus out of their hands. Wouldn't you?"
"I'd rather I didn't have to," Eric said honestly. "But—I grew up with them as my parents too. Yeah. I'd do it. I'd do it twice."
* * *
He collected Magnus—who'd managed to eat most of a dozen doughnuts in the short time he'd been absent—and headed for home. Magnus seemed outwardly calm, but Eric didn't trust that. In many ways he was Eric's exact opposite—he tended to keep his feelings bottled up inside until he exploded.
Ria sent them home in one of LlewellCo's cars—by now it was getting close enough to rush hour that a cab would be hard to find. It took them the rest of the way Uptown and over to the West Side, to Guardian House.
When Eric had wandered by the old building on one of his rambles when he'd first come back to New York, he'd never realized that his nearly random choice of a place to live would have such far-reaching ramifications. He'd simply seen the "For Rent" sign in the window and gone in.
It hadn't occurred to him at the time that he was only one of a handful of people who could see it at all—and of that handful, one of a far fewer number who could make it up the front steps. For Guardian House was a place as unique as Eric himself: a building that had been home since the day it had been built—or grown as much as built, for it was as much a living thing as a work of steel and stone—late in the nineteenth century, to shelter those who gave it its name: the Guardians.
Though he'd known about them from nearly the first day he'd lived here, though his apprentice Hosea was both a Bard and a Guardian, Eric didn't know much more about them now than he had then. They were human Mages of great power. Their entire purpose was to guard and protect humanity from supernatural threat. When one died, another was summoned into his or her power.
But how many there were, where all of them were—beyond the four who lived in the building—where they had come from, and even the full extent of their abilities, Eric suspected that even the Guardians themselves did not know. That they worked in secret as much as possible, and in general could not offer help unless they were asked for it, was as much as Hosea had told him, though Eric knew his friend and pupil didn't mean to be secretive. It was just that there didn't seem to be much to tell, when you got right down to it. Magick was often like that.
As for the rest of the building's tenants, none of them suspected the Guardians' existence. They were simply people the House had chosen for its own reasons—writers, artists, dancers, creative people of all kinds. Kind people. Happy people, most of the time. The House, Eric had been told, needed that creativity and happiness to "live"—and certainly the city was a better place for their presence.
When he and Magnus reached the building's vintage Art Nouveau foyer, the first thing they heard was loud barking echoing off the golden marble. There didn't seem to be a dog attached to the barking, but Eric noticed the gilded cage of the very ornate—and very slow—elevator rising up from the basement. As it got closer, he heard a voice to go along with the barking.
"Come on, Molly. Come on, Molly. Come on, Molly. Sheesh, you'd think you'd never been in an elevator before."
Kayla sounded more resigned than irritated. Eric grinned to himself. From the sound of the barking, Molly wasn't the least upset, but enjoying the echo of her voice against the marble.
Kayla Smith was Elizabet Winters's protégé, currently studying computer science at Columbia. She'd been a teenaged Healer for, well, a very long time now, courtesy of a mishap with the Gates when she'd gone Underhill to improve her Healer's skills and hadn't come out where—or more precisely, when—she'd expected to. At least that meant she was more-or-less the age Eric "expected" her to be, from the time he'd known her Before: in fact, it had taken him quite a while to figure out that she shouldn't be. Kayla had laughed like a loon when he'd admitted his mistake.
"Elves!" she'd crowed. "They'll get you comin' an' goin', Banyon."
At least in Kayla's case, the discontinuity didn't matter that much. Her real parents had abandoned her when her Talent had begun to manifest, and there wasn't much likelihood they'd ever want her back. Elizabet hadn't minded, since she'd known where Kayla was the entire time. And Kayla didn't have that much of a paper-trail to worry about—not before Columbia, anyway.
Kayla and Molly arrived in the lobby. From the noise, Eric had expected a larger dog, but Kayla was holding the source of all that noise in her arms: a fawn and black pug. Seeing st
rangers, Molly stopped barking and began to wiggle enthusiastically.
"If its head pops open and a little alien comes out, I'm so outta here," Magnus muttered.
Kayla's current look, as far as Eric could tell, was a combination of Terminator chic and Japanese schoolgirl: short plaid skirts, Engineer boots, and the inevitable leather jacket tied around her waist. She was wearing her hair longer now, and had dyed it blonde. On one side. The other side was black, and she had a bright red filigree bindi stuck in the middle of her forehead. There was a matching temporary tattoo on her bicep. At least, Eric hoped it was a temp. If it was real, Ria would skin her.
"Meet Molly," Kayla said, setting the pug down and shrugging into her jacket. The little dog came bustling over to Eric and Magnus importantly, trailing a red leather leash.
"You got a dog?" Magnus said, sounding somewhere between scandalized and intrigued.
Kayla snorted. "A friend of mine, Brenda, she's gonna need a dog-sitter in a week or so and I volunteered. So I thought I'd test-drive the mutt today and see how things worked out."
"Hey, pretty cool," Magnus said. He'd knelt down in front of the dog and was scratching it gently behind the ears. The pug received his attentions with a wide grin, pink tongue lolling as it panted happily.
"Bad day?" Kayla asked. People had very few secrets from a Healer and Empath, whether they wanted to or not.
"Could have been better," Eric admitted. "Another round with Charles Fulton Vandewater, Esquire."
"Sounds like too much fun for one Bard to handle," Kayla said, her gaze intent on a point a few inches above his head. She studied his aura intently for a few seconds, her gaze unfocused. "I'd better get the mutt out for her evening walk. Then it's time to hit the books. You need anything, you give a shout. C'mon, Mol. Duty calls."
As if she'd understood—and Eric had seen far more unlikely things—Molly bounded away from Magnus and trotted after Kayla. Kayla stooped down to pick up the leash just as they reached the doors, and the two of them headed off down the street.
Magnus gazed after them for a moment, getting to his feet.
"C'mon," he said, heading for the stairs. "I'm hungry."
After all those doughnuts?
* * *
When Eric had first moved in to Guardian House, the one-bedroom top-floor apartment had been perfect for his needs. But acquiring a teenaged brother meant a sudden need for more space, and he didn't really want to move out of Guardian House.
Toni Hernandez—the building's superintendent—had done her best, but it hadn't been until February that she'd been able to free up a two-bedroom apartment. How she'd done it, Eric still wasn't sure; he knew it had involved bribery, persuasion, and a number of people moving within the building, but no one would give him any details. In the end, he'd only had to move across the hall.
He'd had to admit it was a relief to have his own bedroom again—Magnus had taken over the bedroom of the old apartment, filling it with the growing collection of his new possessions, including an electronic drum-kit that he practiced on for hours, and a second computer and music system, while Eric had moved out into what had been the living room. The arrangement had been less than comfortable. Eric had made sure that the magical soundproofing on the bedroom was exceptionally good, for his own sake and that of the other tenants, but it still had been difficult on both of them.
The new apartment looked pretty much like the old one: the same white marble fireplace (it didn't work, but a touch of magic could make it seem as if it did), same furniture: leather couch and chairs in oxblood red, same flotakis covering the parquet floors. His electronics were still in their accustomed places—a few years out of date, now, but they'd been top of the line when he bought them and he didn't see any need to upgrade just to stay with the fashion. The windows were the same size, so all he'd had to do was re-hang the curtains, buy Magnus some bedroom furniture, and they'd been good to go. He hadn't been all that sure about the William Morris chintz when Bethie had picked it out, but he'd gotten fond of it.
And the moonlilies in their blue glass vase still bloomed on the mantelpiece—elven flowers from Underhill, Kory's gift when he'd moved in; a daily touch of magic would keep them alive forever, and no matter what else was going on in his life, he, or his friends, had never forgotten to do that.
Magnus moved past him, with unerring certainty, toward the kitchen, pausing only to toss his coat and backpack onto the couch as he passed. Eric went over and tapped the computer awake. He'd been out all day, and he thought he might as well check his email first thing, then check his phone messages. A lot of his students' parents used email to keep in touch, rather than phone, and he'd hate to show up for a lesson that had been cancelled.
He scrolled down through his message queue, finding nothing urgent, and most of it spam (did anyone really believe that the diet pills and organ enlargers actually work?), until he came to one from Kory.
He opened it quickly—was everything all right at Misthold?—with Beth?—with baby Maeve?—and skimmed it quickly before sighing ruefully.
To the Bard Eric Banyon, Laureate of Misthold, Greetings.
Uh-oh. That was Kory in High Elven-speak. This was going to be Formal and probably involve Politics.
The Matter of Jachiel has been put off for far too long. Your liege-lord and Prince has concluded that, while Jachiel and his Protector must and will remain so long as they claim Sanctuary, any further delay in informing his lord father of the child's whereabouts may endanger Misthold itself. Therefore, he requests and requires that you return Underhill to place that information in the hands of the Lord of Bete Noir before this mortal day is out. By my hand of write, Korendil, Magus Minor, Knight of Misthold.
Oh, crap. Eric sat back. Kory was right. He'd put this off for far too long. He sighed and went into the kitchen.
Magnus was hanging over the open refrigerator, staring down into it as if it might contain something different than it had this morning. Aside from last night's Chinese take-out—which had apparently already been rejected—Eric didn't think there was much in there in the way of potential dinner.
"I, uh . . . something's come up. I'm going to have to go away this evening."
Magnus straightened up and stared at him, face blank, green eyes expressionless.
"It's Underhill business," Eric added. It was odd to feel the need to explain, odder still to realize that yes, he did owe Magnus an explanation if he was going to simply up and take off. "Something I should have taken care of a few months ago. I should be back by morning."
He watched Magnus think this over. He knew that Magnus believed in elves, but—as he was coming to realize more and more, Magnus didn't like believing in elves. Even though his closest friend—whom he might never see, or even hear from, again—was Sidhe. It didn't exactly make sense, at least to Eric.
Then again, Magnus hadn't known that Jaycie was an elf until—well, practically until just before Jaycie went Underhill again. Maybe the whole Magick thing had him spooked. After all, elves and Magick—well, that just added another layer of complication to a world that was already more complicated than Magnus liked.
"Are you going to see Jaycie while you're gone?" Magnus finally asked.
Jaycie—Jachiel ap Gabrevys—was Magnus's friend, someone he should never, by rights, have met, for the Sidhe did not allow their children into the World Above until they were much, much older than Jachiel had been when he and Magnus had run into each other. But Jaycie had been running away just as Magnus had been: from his Dark Court father and a fate he feared far more than the unknown: learning Magick. Maybe it wasn't all that surprising that they both got washed up with the other young flotsam of the streets. There weren't that many safe places to go around.
Now he and his Elven Protector had sought Sanctuary at Elfhame Misthold, and it was Eric's duty as Prince Arvin's Bard to go to Jaycie's father and explain matters—or try to.
"I don't know if I'll get to see him. I won't be at Misthold for very lon
g. But I'll give him a message from you, if I can."
"Sure," Magnus said. "Tell him I'm still waiting for him to email me." He turned back to his contemplation of the refrigerator.
Eric stifled a sigh and went into the bedroom to change into riding leathers. Misthold had Internet access, or at least, Kory and Beth had an Internet-capable setup, but whether Jaycie would be allowed to use it was a question Eric couldn't answer. He'd never even seen a Sidhe child in all the time he'd spent Underhill—they were that closely kept.
And Jaycie's status was still . . . uncertain.
The son of an Unseleighe Prince, at the Bright Court of his own free will. It was an awkward political muddle. Certainly the Sidhe changed Courts—but only as adults. And children were sacrosanct. If there was any thought, any suspicion that Jaycie had been kidnapped, or was being held under duress, there would be hell to pay. Kidnapping a Sidhe child was cause for war—between Elfhame Misthold and Elfhame Bete Noir at least; between as many of the hames as each side could draw in at worst.
If it came to war.
The joker in the deck was that Jaycie had his Protector with him. Protectors were sworn to the welfare of their charges above all things. Rionne ferch Rianten would not, could not, let Jaycie come to harm, or remain in a place where he could come to harm. That was something both Courts agreed upon absolutely. So . . . so long as Rionne was with Jaycie, it shouldn't matter where Jaycie was, Bright Court or Dark, so long as his father knew where he was, and could (at least in theory) get to him, all bases should be covered.
And of course, the only person who could safely go to Elfhame Bete Noir to tell him was Elfhame Misthold's Bard. Bards were also sacrosanct, at least so long as they didn't draw a weapon. That was something else both Courts agreed upon.
When he came out, dressed head to foot in leather, the door to Magnus's room was closed. A thin line of light showed under the door, but the Bardic soundproofing kept him from hearing anything that might be going on inside. Magnus had done what Magnus always did when he was profoundly unhappy; he had retreated into his own space, possibly into his drums. Eric shook his head. And the afternoon had started out so promisingly. . . .
Music to My Sorrow Page 4
