Music to My Sorrow

by Mercedes Lackey

  "It's dead," she said in frustration.

  "Try mine," Hosea said, handing it over.

  But by the time Hosea had reached the road, they'd discovered that none of their cellphones worked. Possibly the Grey Room's spells had drained them—technology and magick were an uneasy combination at the best of times.

  "Crap," Eric said flatly.

  "We'll call Miz Ria from a payphone—" Hosea began, but Ace cut him off.

  "Her phones screen out everything that comes from a payphone and sends them to an answering machine. She doesn't check it herself; her secretary does, and that won't be until she comes in at eight!" Ace wailed.

  Magnus shook his head. "I don't remember anybody's number," he confessed uneasily. "I just put 'em in the SIM so I won't have to."

  "We've got to tell somebody about the bomb!" Ace cried, tossing her phone to the floor in frustration. "You saw all those people back there—and more coming. They're gonna be killed!"

  "Do we?" Eric said in a strained voice. "Who do we tell—and what do we tell them?"

  They'd gotten out of the business park now, and all of them breathed a little easier, although it didn't mean they were safe, yet, by any means. Eric was turned sideways in his seat, looking back out the car's rear window, but saw no sign of pursuit yet.

  Of course, their enemy wouldn't necessarily be so lawabiding as to be using headlights. . . .

  "We tell the police," Ace said, looking quite beside herself. "I was right there when Mr. Horn and Daddy planned it all out, and you better believe the police take things like that seriously these days."

  "And then Gabriel told you that it wasn't going to be a fake, like he told your father, but a real bomb—when he had you tied up in a back room of Christian Family Intervention waiting to get your brains sucked out by creatures from Underhill," Eric finished for her. "And even if you don't tell them that part—and I think you're smart enough to leave that out—they'd want to know how you came to overhear the first conversation. And even if you had a good answer for that, you're in the middle of suing Billy Fairchild. It doesn't make you a very credible witness."

  "So make it an anonymous tip!" Magnus said belligerently. "They'd have to check that out."

  "And he'd use magick on any police that showed up," Ace admitted bitterly, after a long pause. "And make them believe anything he wanted them to believe. It wouldn't work, would it?"

  Eric nodded.

  "Ah 'speckt not," Hosea said regretfully, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Then, what do we do, Eric?"

  Fortunately, he had an answer for that.

  "Ria," Eric said. "We find something that isn't a payphone, and call her on it. Or better yet—call her service and talk to the live person, who will put us through." Fortunately, that was one number he did remember; unlike Magnus, he hadn't lived most of his life with cellphones available. Ria certainly screened her calls—but the service knew him, and he had the right code-phrase that would tell them to put him through. The advantages of having a live person on the other end of the line could be enormous. "Ria will believe us, and she'll be able to make the right people believe her. We just have to get to a phone to call her." One that works. One we can defend for long enough to tell her enough of the details.

  "There's a phone back at the hotel . . ." Hosea began doubtfully.

  "First place they'll look," Magnus said instantly. "Hey, can't this thing go any faster?"

  "It better," Eric said. "I don't think we can take Gabrevys and his Bard both if it comes to a fight. So we've got to stay out of their reach, and warn Ria—and both those things are about equally important."

  "Seems to me this'd be a good time to whistle up Lady Day and go see Ria in person," Hosea said, after a moment's thought. He was making random turns, heading south and west, back toward the city proper.

  "No," Eric said. "They attacked me while I was riding her before. They might be able to track her."

  "So we're stuck?" Ace asked.

  "I think if we—Hosea, where are you going?" Eric demanded suddenly.

  "Ah . . . Ah don't rightly know," the Ozark bard said, sounding shaken. He applied the brakes and the Cadillac bucked to a sudden halt in the middle of the deserted road.

  "Back to the hotel," Ace said, answering Eric's question. "But we shouldn't go back to the hotel . . . should we?"

  No. And right now, Eric didn't have time to get to the bottom of the question of why Hosea was going there.

  "Let me drive," Eric said. He got out of the car, and Hosea slid over on the wide bench seat without comment.

  Driving the pink Cadillac was like navigating a tugboat, especially since most of Eric's recent driving experience had been not only with elvensteeds, but motorcycle-shaped elvensteeds at that. But he got it in gear and took off again.

  "We need to get out of the area," Eric said, gathering his thoughts. "They'll expect us to head north, back to our home base, so I'm going south. The Parkway's full of rest stops. The first phone we find, we'll call Ria. Hell, if her phones screen out pay-phones, I'll just buy a damned pay-as-you-go cell and call her from that!" And I'll find out what's wrong with you, he added silently to his Apprentice.

  But if the Cadillac handled like a barge, it accelerated like The Millennium Falcon, and by the time they found the on-ramp for the Garden State Parkway South and reached the speed-lane, it was cruising along at a smooth eighty-five. A little Bardic glamour would ensure that they weren't stopped by any troopers, and as for other drivers, at this hour on a Friday morning, south of Atlantic City, the Parkway was just about empty.

  For the first time since he'd awakened in the Grey Room earlier that night, Eric began to feel hopeful. There was no chance Big Pink was bespelled—not with all the Cold Iron in her—and it was just possible they'd either managed to outrun their pursuers, or misled them. . . .

  "There's some guys behind us," Magnus reported in idle tones. "Looks like bikes. Good time for a run." There was a pause, then he spoke again, sounding worried, "They're coming up awfully fast."

  "Eric—" Ace said, alarm in her voice.

  Suddenly there was an ear-splitting wail, and every pane of glass in the Cadillac shattered.

  Eric flung up an arm to protect his eyes as the wind whipped pebbles of safety glass and shards of mirror around him. Suddenly he was driving blind, with the eighty-five-mile-per wind whipping into his face. But he didn't dare slow down.

  Adrenaline thrummed through his veins, as Ace shrieked behind him. He summoned his armor and slammed the visor down—it wasn't as much protection as a motorcycle helmet, but it would have to do.

  Eric pushed the pedal all the way to the floor. Automatically he glanced down, but the face of the speedometer was a spiderweb of cracks. They had to be doing over a hundred, though.

  Not good enough.

  There was a thump on the roof, and a groaning, tearing sound as something began to pull at the roof of the car. There were long, curved black talons hooked around the edge of what had once been the windshield, and Eric thought he'd really rather not see what they were attached to.

  Behind him, Magnus was invoking the "F" word at a machine-gun rate and at the top of his lungs.

  Now Eric could hear the sound of hoofbeats, even over the sound of the howling engine and the wind.

  "Get down!" Eric shouted to the others.

  Hosea reached for the wheel, steadying it and freeing Eric's hands. That trick would only work for a few seconds, but a few seconds would have to be enough.

  He turned in his seat—the angle was awkward—summoned the 1812 Overture, and blasted the roof with all his might.

  It was already weakened. Now it blew free, and took with it whatever had been tearing at it. Eric heard a shriek as their arcane passenger was dislodged, and then more shrieks as the mass of Cold Iron tumbled into the middle of the riders following them.

  He turned back and grabbed the wheel from Hosea, yanking the now-convertible back into the middle lane, and jamming the acceler
ator all the way down again.

  "I thought they couldn't touch iron!" Magnus yelled from the back seat. He'd climbed out of the footwell and was looking over the back deck again.

  "Some of them can," Eric shouted back. "If they aren't Sidhe." And Gabrevys had apparently come to the World Above prepared for every eventuality.

  With three bars from the first thing he could think of, which happened, ironically enough, to be "Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott," (thank you, Martin Luther!) he flung a shield over the top of the car. It made a poor windshield—it was like looking through a thin bubble of water—but it cut the icy blast of wind and it was better than nothing.

  And it would protect them from a levin-bolt, if the riders started firing at them.

  There wasn't a lot he could do while he was driving, and while he was willing to risk changing drivers at a hundred miles an hour if he had to, he wasn't sure what Hosea would do once he was behind the wheel. Maybe turn right back the way Gabrevys wanted them to. Maybe stop. Either would be bad.

  Hosea had slung Jeanette's strap over his shoulder, and was getting ready to play, but looked uncertain, as if he couldn't think of anything appropriate.

  Remind me that I have to increase your repertoire, Apprentice.

  "They're coming back," Ace announced. "What can we do?"

  "Your power will work on them as well as on humans," Eric said. "If you can think of some way to make them decide to go away, now would be a good time to try it."

  Ace gave a strangled hiccup. More than anyone Eric had ever known, Ace hated and feared her Gift.

  "Here they come," Magnus said grimly.

  The thunder of hoofbeats got louder. Even though they seemed to be riding horses—or nearly—the riders were overtaking them easily. The rearview mirror was gone, of course, but when Eric risked a glance over his shoulder he could see them clearly: black-armored riders, still nearly a dozen.

  He was just glad there was no one else on the road now.

  "'Fighting for Strangers,'" Ace said. "Quick!"

  She took a deep breath and sang as the banjo sparkled into life. Not the usual sort of thing that Hosea played; this was a grim tune, full of hollow melancholy.

  "'What makes you go abroad—fighting for strangers—when you could be safe at home—free from all dangers—'"

  Hosea's strong baritone joined in on the counterpoint—if there was a folk song that Hosea didn't know, Eric had yet to discover it. Ace's pure soprano soared above his voice and the banjo both, carrying its message: give up, go home, you'll only get badly hurt if you fight. . . .

  Eric felt the power of Ace's Gift wash over him, raising the hackles on the back of his neck. It took all his determination and will not to stop the car right there and get out. Ace reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, and the desperate desire to surrender eased slightly.

  Magnus began to drum on the back of the seat with his hands in time to the song.

  "'You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg—The enemy nearly slew you—You'll have to go out on the streets to beg—Oh poor Johnny what have they done to you?'"

  There was a wildness and a sorrow in Ace's singing that made Eric want to lay his head down and cry, right there. It was not about this fight, right here: it was about every fight, every battle, since the beginning of Time—every time someone had left their home, for good cause or bad, and come back maimed, changed . . . or dead.

  No reason for it. No good reason. Ever.

  Fewer riders now.

  "'What makes you go abroad—fighting for strangers—when you could be safe at home—free from all dangers—'"

  No wonder Billy had wanted to keep her—no wonder Gabrevys had wanted to take her. No wonder Ace feared her own Talent so much. It was the ultimate seduction, the ultimate compulsion . . .

  Much more of this and he was going to drive off the road. He had to stop. But not on the Parkway, and not at a rest stop. Now that he'd seen what Ace could do, Eric thought they had a chance against the rest of them, but he didn't want to involve any innocent bystanders.

  There was an exit coming up. He took it at speed.

  The other three never faltered until the jouncing became too great to ignore. Eric didn't think they'd noticed until then, lost in that place where good musicians go. He pumped the brakes, disastrously reminded when it was far too late to change his mind just how much heavier a good old fashioned piece of Detroit iron was than a modern piece of road-plastic.

  Go-fast doesn't help much if you don't have slow-fast too.

  Maybe their pursuers would overshoot. But it wouldn't matter. The nightmares they were riding were a lot more nimble than Big Pink. And if he put her in a ditch, it would take serious magick to get her out again. And they didn't have time for that.

  But he reached the bottom of the ramp without incident. The exit put them on a two-lane country road with nothing on either side but fields and trees, and here, as opposed to the Parkway, the road was foggy. He'd stop right here, except for the fact that in his experience, there was always a lone traveler coming down these back roads doing eighty at just the wrong moment. He glanced back over his shoulder.

  Through the spell-shield, he could see that the remaining riders—only four now—were gathered at the top of the ramp. Their eyes, and their mounts', glowed red.

  Eric gunned the engine.

  Two miles down the road he found what he was looking for. In season, it was probably a roadside cider stand. Right now it was nothing more than a wide spot in the road. He yanked Big Pink off the road so violently that the car spun completely around and ended up pointing back the way it had come.

  But it was off the road.

  He got out of the car, drawing his sword. On the other side, Hosea got out too, his hand pressed against the banjo's strings.

  "Five-fifteen," Hosea said, glancing down. "Sunrise is 5:51. Don't know what dawn would be."

  It was already a little less dark, but not dawn by any stretch of the imagination, and cold as only a March morning in New Jersey could be.

  And Eric could hear hoofbeats in the distance. Coming slowly—why should they hurry? They knew precisely where Eric and the others were.

  Eric looked around. They couldn't run. And fighting was starting to seem more and more like a losing proposition.

  "Come on—quickly!" he said. "I have an idea."

  * * *

  Judah, Abidan, Coz, and Jakan—who in another time and another place answered to four quite different names—rode slowly down the road. They were the strongest of Gabrevys's Court—strong enough to resist the siren enchantment of the girl's Gift, when the others had turned and fled, sobbing like children.

  Of course, having the chunk of Deathmetal dropped in their midst had hardly improved things. It had killed two of the mounts outright, and taken some of the fun out of the chase. If the four of them had not taken care to ride well back, they might have met the same inglorious fate—only think of the ignominy of being taken from a Hunt in full career by fleeing prey!—but Jormin had been more wary than that. He had met Bard Eric before. The mortal boy was clever, and the Deathmetal chariot was a weapon to be reckoned with.

  And now at last the mortal Bard had chosen to fight, not flee. That might be entertaining in its own way. It was true that now he knew that he could not be harmed in body, nor could his brother, but the two hostages to fortune he rode with possessed no such sureties. What price would Bard Eric place on their safety?

  The four reached the place where the Deathmetal vehicle was, and stopped.

  It was empty.

  Jormin rode forward, suspicious of a trap. His mount shied in the presence of so much iron, and he rowelled its sides ruthlessly.

  He rode all the way around the vehicle. Nothing. No tracks leading away from it, no scent of them in the trees beyond. Only the reek of iron befouling his magick.

  He swung down from his saddle and stepped forward, glancing up at the sky. Far less than an hour till the peu de porte opened, and the S
oul-eaters came from their feeding pens in Bete Noir to feast. If Bard Eric and his brother were not there then to receive their attentions, Jormin was not certain they would still be lawful prey. What he did know was that the Soul-eaters could not be summoned again until another feeding pen was constructed, for this one would be gone in the spectacular display that Prince Gabrevys had promised them all.

  He heard breathing.

  It was coming from the back of the Deathmetal machine.

  They were hiding within!

  He clawed at it until the leather of his gauntlets smoked, and the pain of his burns made him hiss with rage, but he could not pry the closed compartment open. With a scream of fury, he brought both fists down on the metal, leaving a deep dent in it, then sprang back in dismay. If he crushed the compartment in which they had secreted themselves, he might kill the mortal Bard and his brother—and the punishment that would come to him for that made him shudder.

  He backed away from the chariot, growling in anger. No spells he could summon would transport the entire object back to his master, and he could not open it. He could destroy it here, but to kill Sieur Eric and the boy Magnus outright would be a far more terrible failure than to simply fail to bring them back. Escaped prey could be captured later—but not all of Jormin's arts could re-animate the dead.

  But if this vehicle would not yield to him, at least it would not serve its cowardly masters any longer. He lashed out at it with a levin-bolt. The iron made the magick ricochet spectacularly about the clearing—causing the other three to swear and dodge, and all four mounts to buck and shy—but the levin-bolt had its desired effect. For a moment the entire iron car was outlined in an eerie violet halation as the paint boiled up on the vehicle's surface, and all four tires melted.

  There! The iron dragon would carry them no further at least.

  Jormin did not like to confess failure. But at least he could wrap the tale in some success. He had marooned the worldlings here in the middle of nowhere. It would take them hours to reach civilization, and longer still to convince anyone that their tale held truth. And before they could manage that, the Prince could send mortals to retrieve them.