But what Gabriel had slipped into Billy's pocket was not something as simple and straightforward as an enchanted object. What he had given him was no less than Magic Itself.
The Sidhe cast spells as naturally as they breathed, but few of them could have done what Gabriel had, for the art was nearly lost. Take a spell, give its components solid form, turn it into an amulet or a talisman that anyone, mortal or Sidhe, might carry and wield.
Of course, such devices lacked the power of a spell freshly cast, one with the caster's own will directly behind it. And that had been just as well in the case of the Talisman of Compulsion Gabriel had given Billy Fairchild, for had the empty-headed fool been exposed to one-tenth of Gabriel's natural power, he would have been burned to ash.
But the talisman should have ensured Billy's victory in the courtroom today, and Gabriel could see from Billy's thoughts that it had not. Worse, its power had been thoroughly drained, and Billy himself reeked of Bardic magic.
"Is something wrong?" Gabriel asked, as if he didn't already know. "The hearing—"
"Come on up to my office," Billy said, glancing meaningfully at Toirealach.
* * *
Once the door to Billy's private office had closed behind them, Billy went over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a stiff drink. His hands still shook with barely suppressed anger.
"That heathen bitch said she couldn't make up her mind!" he snarled, gulping down the whiskey as if it were ice water. "She looked right at my little Heavenly Grace—oh, Gabriel, it would have broken your heart; she stood right there dressed like a man-woman and painted up like a harlot—and said she couldn't make up her mind it was God's will that a daughter belonged with her parents!"
"But she hasn't ruled against you?" Gabriel asked, wanting to make sure the matter was clear, at least in Billy's mind.
"Said she'd give her answer in a week." Billy slammed his empty glass down on the top of the credenza. "Said she'd like it best if one of us gave in before then—what good's that fancy lawyer I hired if he can't win a simple case like this?"
"You haven't lost yet," Gabriel said soothingly. "I suppose the judge wanted to avoid too much adverse publicity."
"Publicity?" Billy yelped. "There wasn't anybody in that courtroom but me and her and that high-toned New York lawyer bought and paid for by that Ria Llewellyn that's trying to steal my child!"
So whatever Bard had spoiled his plans—and Gabriel was fairly sure it wasn't Eric Banyon; he knew where Bard Banyon was—Billy hadn't seen them. Which meant the Bard must be a powerful Bard indeed, to conceal him or herself and still cast the spells that had foiled Gabriel's.
After all the work he'd gone to—putting pressure on judges, distracting and misleading Ria Llewellyn, expending all his most subtle glamouries to get the case heard in New Jersey instead of New York—that there should still be a Bard arriving to foil his plans at the final hour nearly maddened Gabriel.
And even if he personally cast a glamourie on the judge, making sure she would rule the way he chose next week, there was no guarantee that the Bard would not be there again, and break it.
No. The judge must rule the way Gabriel wished of her own free will. And that meant something important must change in Heavenly Grace's family in the next seven days.
But first, he had to soothe this fool. Otherwise Billy would rampage around like a maddened bull, wrecking everything in his path. There were too many important things going on this week, too many delicate situations Billy's rantings could overturn. So much as it made Gabriel's back teeth ache with clenching, Billy would have to be appeased and patted. "I wouldn't worry about it too much, Billy. I'm sure she's taking her time simply because she knows you're such an important man. Unfortunately, Ria Llewellyn is also an important woman. Before the judge rules in your favor, she needs to give every indication of fairness and impartiality." With the words, Gabriel put forth the force of his will, to smooth the ruffled feathers and ease the anger.
As usual, Billy answered to the pull on the reins as he'd been conditioned. The anger oozed out of him.
"So you think next week my little angel will come home?" Billy asked hopefully.
"I am confident that next week the judge will find a compelling reason to deny Heavenly Grace's petition," Gabriel said smoothly. "If she hasn't already withdrawn it herself."
* * *
Derek Tilford brought Ace back to the hotel, and parked in front of the entrance.
"Are you quite sure you'll be all right here?" he asked.
"I'll be fine," she said, though she wasn't really convinced of it at all and was trying hard not to panic. She looked around the parking lot, and didn't see the pink Cadillac anywhere.
Maybe Hosea was taking the long way back. As soon as she got inside, she'd call his cellphone and find out where he was. Then she'd call Ria.
"You're sure?" Mr. Tilford said again. He sounded doubtful.
"Right as rain," Ace said, summoning up her sunniest smile. She popped out of the Mercedes before Mr. Tilford could think of a good reason to keep her, and hurried off across the parking lot toward her room.
Neither she nor Derek Tilford noticed the nondescript man in the nondescript car that had followed them from the courthouse and waited until the Mercedes left before driving away.
* * *
Hosea drove only a few blocks—enough to take him well away from both the hotel and the courthouse—before parking again, sliding over to the passenger side of the front seat, and taking Jeanette from the case and slipping a set of silver picks over his fingers. He had questions that wouldn't wait, and right now, there was only one person who might be able to give him some answers. Thank Heaven the Caddy's heater was efficient; there was nothing worse than a cold banjo for being out-of-tune.
"Hello, Sweetheart," he said softly, as he began to play.
He felt Jeanette's flash of annoyance—she hated pet names nearly as much as he liked to tease her—but she quickly grew serious.
:You stink of Sidhe magick,: Jeanette's ghost said succinctly. :Unseleighe magick. What the hell have you been up to, Hosea? If you get us both killed, I'll—I'll find some way to haunt you personally, I swear it—:
"Killed" in Jeanette's case was a relative term, but if the banjo that she haunted were destroyed, she'd have no chance to finish her redemption and pass on. She'd simply cease to exist with grim finality.
But all that was far from Hosea's mind at the moment. Not when she had just given him the key to what was puzzling him, and it was a key he had in no way anticipated.
"Unseleighe magick?" Hosea said, so startled he stopped playing.
That made no sense. He'd faced Aerune mac Audelaine in battle. He should recognize an Unseleighe spell.
And more to the point, what was Parker Wheatley doing launching his crusade from Billy Fairchild's pulpit, if Billy had an Unseleighe Magus casting spells for him—or on him?
With an effort, he resumed playing—a version of "Danny Deever" he'd written himself. Nearly all of Kipling's poetry did well set to music. "'What are the bugles blowin' for?' said Files-on-Parade . . ."
"Jeanette, are you sure?"
:Oh, no, I'm just talking to amuse myself,: the ghost snapped irritably.
Hosea grinned, despite his worry. Jeanette hadn't been much of a "people person" in life, and death and an afterlife hadn't done a lot to sweeten her temper. But irritable or not, she was a good friend and ally when it counted, and had proved herself again and again.
"How much of what went on in the courtroom did you see?" Hosea asked.
He felt rather than heard her wordless snarl of exasperation. :WHAT courtroom, you gormless farmboy? I see what you see, I hear what you hear—when you're playing this damned yammerstick. The last thing I saw was your hotel room last night. Did we win, by the way?:
"Yes and no." As the bright rills of music ebbed and flowed through the car, Hosea filled Jeanette in on what had happened at the hearing, seen and unseen.
:Yo
u're in trouble,: she said succinctly, when he'd finished. :If you want my guess, this Sidhe you're hunting isn't working with Billy. He's working with Wheatley. Wheatley and Aerune had a partnership. Aerune's gone. So Wheatley needs another partner; working with an Unseleighe Sidhe worked once, so Wheatley's gone back to the same well.:
"And Billy's fetch-bag?" Hosea asked.
:Wheatley needs Billy's organization since he doesn't have government funding any more. What better way to ensure it than to be able to do Billy-boy a few favors? If I were him, and I wanted to persuade him I'd helped him out, I'd say I'd blackmailed the judge, though, not that I'd slipped him a magick spell,: Jeanette said judiciously.
All that made perfect sense; all the dominos were lining up. "Ayah. That's be the way to play it, I reckon." Hosea chewed on his lower lip for a moment, thinking on it.
Just then his cellphone rang. He set the banjo aside and rummaged in the pocket of his jacket until he pulled it out.
"Hosea Songmaker."
"Hosea, where are you?" Ace's voice was skittery with worry, just on the right side of panic. He felt guilt; she was the one who'd been up there in the cross hairs, and she had to have felt it, felt like she was all alone. She'd had to stand by the side of Billy Fairchild and stick up for herself, and then get told she was going to have to wait to hear what was going to happen. And here he was, gallivanting around, without telling her.
"Just sittin' on a side-street, havin' a little chat with Jeanette," Hosea said. "Didn't mean to worry you none."
He heard Ace let out a long breath. "Are you coming back soon?" she asked plaintively. "I want to talk to you."
"Ah guess Ah'm about done here," he said. "Ah'll be along."
He picked up the banjo again just long enough to tell Jeanette he was going back to the hotel, then put the instrument back in its case. He checked his watch. He'd have just about enough time to shower and change and make a phone call or two before driving out to keep his appointment with the Reverend Billy Fairchild.
And any members of the Unseleighe Court he might have watching over him.
* * *
Magnus squirmed in his seat, while trying not to catch the teacher's eye. It was hard to keep his mind on his schoolwork today—or even to look like he was. Not that History was his favorite subject. Who cared about the Treaty of Ghent? He bet whatever country it had been signed in wasn't even there anymore anyway.
History was the last class of the morning; Magnus made a desperate effort to keep from yawning, his mind wandering, as Mr. Goulburn continued to lecture. If The Ghoul wasn't the most boring speaker in the entire history of the universe, he was definitely in the top ten.
Magnus knew he ought to pay more attention to the lectures, but deep in his heart he knew he really only had to show up in class, do the reading, and somehow manage to pass the tests, and he didn't need the lectures for that. His math and science grades were high enough to pull his average up to respectable levels—his English grades were fair—but he truly hated history.
Today more than usual.
The tasteful, expensive, and oh-so-classic dark wooden student-desk (dark wood didn't show ink) felt like a set of Colonial stocks.
Eric had promised he'd call the moment he heard anything about how Ace's hearing had gone. The school insisted that students turn their cellphones off during class hours—and confiscated any that weren't—but his multifunction watch was set on "stun," and even his techno-Luddite brother Eric could handle text messaging. He'd get the news as soon as there was any.
Magnus wished he'd gone to the hearing. It wasn't like the world was going to come to an end if he missed a day or two of school. And it couldn't really make that much of a difference to whether the State of New York decided to roll over and play nice, he told himself. Sooner or later Eric was going to be declared his legal guardian . . . and if he wasn't, well, now that Magnus had gotten a taste of freedom, he bet that within six months he could have his parents begging Eric to take him off their hands.
Just then there was the faint hiss that indicated the classroom intercom had come on. It was funny: there were cellphones and computers everywhere, and practically every student at least had a pager, but the Administration still relied on the hot new technology of half a century ago when it wanted to tell them something. Goulburn broke off in the middle of a description of the Battle of New Orleans—which was actually starting to get Magnus's attention—and waited to see what would happen.
"Magnus Banyon, please report to the principal's office at once. That is all."
Magnus sat bolt upright as every eye in the class was riveted on him. What the hell?
He knew he wasn't being called out of class because he'd done something violating the many rules in the Cooties & Runt Code of Conduct. Other than his neckties—and the rules only specified that the students must wear ties, not what kind of ties—his conscience was entirely clear. If there was one thing Magnus knew well, it was how to skate close to the edge of a set of rules without falling off. Magnus looked down at his wrist, but there were no messages there. He glanced at the time. Eleven-thirty; Ace would probably be out of court by now, but she might not have had time to call yet. But maybe Eric was here to take him out of school for something else.
He got to his feet amid restless stirrings and stifled snickers from his classmates. Goulburn cleared his throat sharply for attention, and the noise subsided.
Magnus stuffed his history books back into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, then walked out the door.
* * *
Even in the hallowed halls of the Coenties & Arundel Private Academy for Boys, discipline reigned supreme. The paneled oak halls were silent. The stained glass windows glowed serenely. The scent of lemon-wax permeated the atmosphere. Only the faintest hum of higher learning emanated from the classrooms Magnus passed on his way to the staircase.
Jerks, he thought succinctly.
He'd been here long enough to know what most of his classmates intended to do with their lives, and there wasn't an ounce of fun in any of it. Even though they were all within a few years of his age, they already had their futures all planned out: law, medicine, politics . . . a few wild and crazy souls were going to become architects or bankers. The right Ivy League university, the right contacts, making the right friends, and then a serene slide into the Old Family Firm or something like it. One or two were going to teach—at the university level, of course. Nothing so plebian as public high-school or elementary-school teaching for them.
The thought of having his life planned out that far in advance—and such a boring life, too!—made Magnus's blood run cold. Was there such a thing as a Stepford Teenager? If they wanted a life without challenges, without surprises, without fun—why not just buy a pine box now and lie down in it? Because Life was supposed to be unexpected.
He walked sedately down two flights of stairs—the wide oak banisters were made for sliding, and the stairs just begged to be taken three at a time, but both actions earned major demerits, and there were always hall proctors around even when you couldn't see them—to the first floor, and turned down the hall that led to the principal's office.
And slowed.
And stopped.
Because it had suddenly occurred to him that there was something very, very wrong with the scenario he was walking into.
The principal wasn't calling him to the office for some disciplinary action. That meant someone had shown up asking for him. He'd immediately assumed it was Eric, but he'd just realized that was impossible. Or pretty unlikely at the very least.
Eric wasn't the brightest crayon in the box by any means, much as Magnus loved his brother, but even he should have thought to message ahead to tell Magnus he was here.
So whoever had called Magnus down to the principal's office wasn't Eric.
There was a really short list of people who weren't Eric that Magnus was willing to go anywhere with. Ria. Hosea. One or two of Eric's other friends from Guardian House. And
every single one of them would have messaged ahead.
It would be just like his parents to try something at his school.
He stepped quietly out of the middle of the hall and moved slowly along it. The principal's office was around the corner, but the door into the outer office had a glass pane in the top half, and directly at the end of this hallway was a marble-topped table with an antique gilt-framed mirror hung over it. The mirror was large, and heavy, and angled slightly out from the wall. If you stood in just the right place, you could see the office door reflected in it.
He didn't like what he saw.
There were two men in black suits standing at Ms. Castillo's desk. They were as tall and as wide as professional wrestlers, and as alike as two clones. Ms. Castillo was sitting at her desk, but she was doing absolutely nothing, simply staring straight ahead, eyes wide open, as if she were asleep sitting up.
He couldn't exactly see Principal Kinross, but he could see part of a grey business suit standing at the edge of Castillo's desk. It wasn't moving either.
Weirdness. Very bad weirdness. And actually, Magnus didn't care for weirdness even when it was good. He backed away quickly the way he'd come, and when he could no longer see the doorway in the mirror, he turned and ran.
* * *
He didn't really have a plan—all he intended to do was run until he'd opened up enough distance to feel safe enough to stop and call Eric—but he didn't get that chance.
By the time he reached the street he knew his grace period had run out—they were after him now in earnest, and he knew that whoever they were, he had no intention of letting them catch him. He felt it in his gut, in the back of his neck; he didn't have to look back. There was a Presence back there, and he fled from it like a homeboy from a SWAT team.
Music to My Sorrow Page 15
