Quinn glanced at Arturo. “What exactly is a fae, anyway? I’m assuming they don’t fly.”
He smirked. “They do not have wings, no. They are humanlike and gifted in the ways of clairvoyance. Think Tolkien’s elves, though perhaps not quite so attractive.”
“Not so attractive” turned out to be an understatement. Minutes later, Arturo dismounted, turning to her, then standing back to allow her to dismount on her own.
He nodded with approval. “You’re getting the hang of it.”
Arturo rapped on the split-wood door of one of the houses, and a face appeared in the front window. Male or female, Quinn couldn’t tell, but the mouth was comically wide, the eyes slanted downward, giving the person . . . the fae . . . a look of sadness despite the wariness in those pale orbs. The face disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and, a moment later, the door opened. The sad-eyed creature, apparently a female, if the simple, old-fashioned dress was anything to go by, eyed Arturo with antagonism.
“You are not welcome here.”
Quinn looked between them in surprise. Then again, he’d admitted he’d had few dealings with the fae.
But the great diplomat . . . the great manipulator . . . wasn’t about to be put off. His voice low and hypnotic, he said, “You have nothing to fear from us. We ask only to speak with Tarellia.”
The woman watched him carefully, the rigid line of her shoulders easing just a little.
“Who are you?”
“I am Arturo Mazza.”
“Mazza,” she muttered, then frowned. “Cristoff’s snake.” She spat onto the dirt beside the porch, disgust in her words.
Arturo said nothing for a moment. When he spoke, his words were even more hypnotic than before. “I mean you no harm. I am here on a diplomatic mission and only want a word with Tarellia, then I will take my leave.” He leaned forward slightly, and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I bring gifts, woman. I carry with me the latest seasons of CSI and So You Think You Can Dance.”
The last was the clincher. The fae’s eyes lit up like Christmas-tree bulbs. “Dance! And AA batteries for the DVD player?”
“And batteries.”
Quinn stifled a disbelieving smile. Every time she thought she had this place figured out . . .
The fae eyed her with distaste. “The human stays outside.”
He shook his head as if he knew he had the upper hand now. “My slave goes where I go.”
The fae frowned, then waved them inside. “Come, both of you.”
They followed the now-excited woman through a tiny, if quaint, sitting room and into another, slightly larger room with a fire in the hearth. In a rocking chair in front of the fire, in a dress of bright red velvet, sat a female similar in appearance to the first, her eyes not quite as sad-looking.
She looked up when they entered, her gaze wary.
“What is this?” she asked the first woman sharply.
“He wishes to talk to you, Tarellia. He brought the latest season of Dance!” Her face glowed with happiness.
The fae in the red dress, her yellow hair piled high atop her head in a classic beehive, rolled her eyes and waved them in. “You discovered her weakness.”
Arturo gave a charming smile. “I’ve found it to be the weakness of half of the population of Vamp City.”
“What brings you here, Arturo Mazza? I’ve not seen you in an age.” Tarellia motioned to the straight-backed wooden chair beside the hearth. “Sit.”
Arturo glanced at Quinn with apology and did, leaving her standing as he would any servant. He clasped his hands and settled them on his lap, bending slightly forward. But though on the surface he might look friendly, something about him reminded Quinn of a tiger ready to strike.
Apparently Tarellia thought the same, for her gaze turned sharp, wary.
“I came upon some information of interest sometime back . . . Martine.”
The fae’s rocking stopped abruptly, her hands slowly clasping the arms of her rocker. “No.”
Quinn had no idea what was going on, but clearly the fae had once gone by another name. Martine. And wasn’t happy to be found out.
Arturo leaned back, propping one ankle on the other knee, his body language saying “game, set, match.” “I am very good at keeping secrets, Tarellia. And I have secrets to share.”
The fae, whose face had drained of color, watched him sharply. “What kind of secrets?”
Arturo said nothing for several moments, letting the silence stretch.
The fae leaned back in her rocker, her grip on the arms easing. “I am very good at keeping secrets, too, Vampire.”
With a slow nod, Arturo smiled though the smile didn’t reach his eyes. He held out his hand to Quinn, motioning her forward.
“I want you to read my slave, Tarellia. Tell me what you sense.”
The fae’s eyes narrowed, turning to Quinn with interest. Slowly, she rose to her feet, barely reaching Quinn’s shoulder. Taking Quinn’s hand between both of hers, she closed her eyes. For minute after minute, she didn’t move until Quinn began to wonder if she’d fallen asleep.
Tarellia’s eyes snapped open suddenly, and she dropped Quinn’s hand as if it had burned her. Whirling toward the fire with quick, jerky movements, the woman pulled down vials and jars from the rough-hewn mantel, then began mixing herbs and what appeared to be oil in a small ceramic bowl on the table beside her rocker, crooning all the while in a soft, singsong voice. This is what a witch should look like, Quinn thought. But Tarellia was the fairy. The real witch in the room could do nothing more than stand there in her leather jacket and watch.
The concoction smelled foul, and Quinn hoped to high Heaven the fairy didn’t push her to drink it. To Quinn’s relief, Tarellia threw the oil concoction onto the fire in a spitting hiss of flames, then turned back to her, grabbing Quinn’s hand once more, her grip surprisingly tight.
Closing her eyes, Tarellia threw her head back and began to croon.
Quinn glanced at Arturo over her shoulder, seeing the small frown between his eyebrows. Clearly, he wasn’t sure what was going on, either . . . or didn’t like it. Which calmed her own nerves not at all. They stood like that again, frozen, for what felt like twenty minutes though it was probably only four or five. But as Quinn’s muscles began to jerk in protest, Tarellia’s eyes flew open. Releasing Quinn, she blinked, brushed her hands on her dress, then turned back to her rocking chair with slow, calm movements, and took her seat as if nothing had happened.
Quinn backed away, then turned and tried to pace the tiny room, her restless muscles in desperate need of movement.
Slowly, Tarellia turned to Arturo with eyes that held a hint of wonder. “You’ve found a sorceress.”
Arturo nodded. “None can know.”
Tarellia frowned. “She must save Vamp City.”
“She will. But Cristoff cannot be trusted not to hurt her. And I’ll not have her hurt.”
The fae cocked her head with interest. “You defy your master. And one such as Cristoff.” A smile bloomed bright and delighted across her face. “Secrets indeed.”
Arturo gave a nod, his expression rueful. “Indeed.” He glanced at Quinn, meeting her gaze. “She has no control over her power, Tarellia. Most cannot sense that she has magic at all. Why is that?”
The fae’s visage had turned calm, serene. “The sorceress is cursed.”
Quinn frowned, meeting Arturo’s surprised gaze. Cursed? Seriously?
“By whom?” he demanded.
Tarellia gave a small wave. “Are you not familiar with the Levenach Curse?”
Now it was Arturo’s turn to frown. “I suspected her of Blackstone blood, not Levenach.”
“She has both. It’s impossible to say how far back the bloodlines converged. Her Levenach magic is dormant, of course, thanks to the curse. But it would appear that the curse is also strangling her Blackstone magic.” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen a sorcerer with both Levenach and Blackstone blood, so I cannot be sure.
”
Quinn watched them, her mind awhirl. Magic and curses and sorcerers. Her heritage. Her life. She wanted to shake her head, to deny any of it could possibly be real. And yet, she knew better, now. The whole thing made her stomach ache.
If she was cursed . . .
Her blood pressure began to rise. “Does this mean that there’s no hope for my magic? That there’s no way for me to renew the magic of Vamp City?” Heaven help her, Zack would die. She slammed Arturo with her gaze. “Why is this affecting Zack?”
He looked at Tarellia. “What effect, if any, might the crumbling of Vamp City be having on her power?”
A thoughtful looked entered the fae’s eyes. “Vamp City was created with Blackstone magic, which her Blackstone blood no doubt responds to. But . . .” She turned and peered at Quinn hard. “Two or three years ago . . . what did you do?”
Quinn frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You may have been the trigger. Did you come into your magic then? Attempt a spell?”
“A spell?” Quinn shook her head. “Three years ago . . .” She blinked. “I moved to D.C.” She’d lived in Bethesda, Maryland, until Zack started college at GW.
“Within the Boundary Circle?” Tarellia demanded.
“Yes.”
The fae nodded. “That’s it. The trigger. She is the reason the magic began to crumble after all these years.”
Quinn gaped at her. The trapped vampires, the sunbeams breaking through, the humans disappearing right and left—Lily. Zack.
“I did this?” Her gaze swung to Arturo, and she found him watching her with surprised, troubled eyes.
“Not you, per se,” Tarellia said. “But your battling magics. Blackstone blood called to Blackstone magic, but the curse somehow infected Vamp City’s magic and slowly began to trigger the demise.”
“If I leave—move away from D.C.—will the magic stop crumbling?”
“Nothing will stop or reverse the disintegration but the Renewal ceremony, which you will complete using your Blackstone magic.”
“But I can’t reach it. The curse . . .”
Tarellia held up a hand. “Free the magics, one from the other, and you will have access to your Blackstone power.”
“Can you help her with that?” Arturo demanded.
A sad look crossed the fae’s face. “No. I haven’t the gift, and the only fae this side of the Atlantic who does is aging.”
“Tell me, woman,” Arturo demanded.
“Vintry. He’s been Fabian Neptune’s sage for nearly two hundred years.”
“How much time does he have?” Arturo asked.
“Days. Perhaps only hours, now. I will know when he dies, and I’ve not felt his death, but I know it’s near.”
Quinn looked pointedly at Arturo. “Zack?”
The vampire nodded at her unspoken question. “Is it possible the sorceress could have somehow entangled another in the magic? Someone who accompanied her into Vamp City on a sunbeam.”
The fae cocked her head, her mouth pursing. “When it comes to battling magics, anything is possible. Renewing the magic should solve all problems.”
Arturo rose. He turned to the fae, his expression grim. “Secrets, Martine. If anyone asks, I sought only your aid in locating the missing sorceress, which you were unable to give me.”
The fae nodded, her expression once more tight. “Of course.”
“Thank you, Tarellia,” Quinn said.
As Arturo ushered Quinn out of the room and house, the sad-eyed fae followed them to their horses, grinning happily. While Quinn mounted, Arturo pulled the two DVD sets and a pack of AA batteries out of one of his saddlebags, along with a large package of Oreo cookies.
The woman’s joy knew no bounds. “Oh, this is a fine day, a fine day.” As she bounded back into the tiny log cabin, Arturo mounted.
“Are we going to find Vintry?” Quinn asked when they were out of earshot of the small settlement. She was still reeling from the revelation that she was suffering from some kind of curse.
“We? No. I will take Micah. The Gonzaga kovena has diplomatic relations with Fabian’s, but the two are not friends. Cristoff has been . . . aggressive . . . in recent years. The other vamp masters do not appreciate it.”
“I can imagine.” Cristoff’s brutality knew no bounds. “If there’s not much time, I should go with you.”
“No.”
“Vampire . . .”
His expression turned obstinate. “Do not demand this of me, cara. I cannot keep you safe there.”
“Is he another pain-feeder?”
“He is a pleasure-feeder. And you are not going near him.”
His determination to keep her out of harm’s way was admirable. And appreciated. But from what Tarellia said, Vintry was nearly out of time. Which meant Zack was, too.
Micah would see her side, she was almost certain. She’d save her arguments for Neo’s. Besides, other questions crowded her mind.
“Tell me about the curse.”
Arturo frowned, his eyes scanning the horizon in every direction before he finally began to speak. “Legend has it, the Levenach Curse is centuries old, perhaps millennia, placed by the Black Wizard, from whom all Blackstones are descended, on his arch enemy, the wizard Levenach.”
“They obviously hated one another.”
“Levenach had stabbed the Black Wizard with a blade empowered to kill him. With the Black Wizard’s dying breath, he swore that none of Levenach’s heirs would ever again have access to their magic.”
“How is a curse like that lifted?”
“It isn’t. Only the one who performed the curse can lift it.”
“And the Black Wizard died moments after uttering it.”
“Yes.”
She could almost imagine that she felt the curse twisting around her organs, choking them. A curse that she was stuck with for life, for it could never be lifted. But perhaps it didn’t matter. Not as long as she was able to access her Blackstone magic.
“So if we can reach Vintry in time and get him to disentangle my two magics, I should be able to renew Vamp City and, hopefully, free Zack from its effects. Will it be enough to keep my battling magics from triggering the crumbling again?”
“I do not know. Once you have renewed the magic, you must leave D.C. regardless. You’ll never be safe from Cristoff. Never.”
As they rode, the cool breeze caressed her cheeks and lifted strands of her hair. But her mind was in turmoil, questions darting every which way. Unfortunately, most were questions Arturo had no better answers to than she did. Who had her Levenach ancestor been? How powerful might she be if not for the curse?
If only there were someone to ask, some relative still living from that side of her family. But her mom had been an only child and had lost her parents at nineteen. Then she’d died herself when Quinn was only two. If any of them had possessed magic, Quinn had no way to know.
“What did Tarellia mean when she said Vintry is aging?” she asked aloud, one question Arturo should be able to answer.
“The fae are not entirely immortal. They live two to three millennia before they begin to grow old. But once the aging begins, it happens very quickly. Within weeks of its onslaught, the fae will wither and die.”
That was sad, in a way, and yet perfect, too. Who wouldn’t love to live for lifetimes, retaining their youthful appearance and strength right up until their last days?
Arturo coaxed his horse into a canter, urging her to give it a try. For a short while, the increased speed kept her mind engaged on the riding and off the questions.
Suddenly, Arturo pulled up, muttering something low and short in Italian. Then, “Cara.”
She managed to bring her horse to a stop, though she suspected her mount of reacting more to Arturo’s than her own inexperienced attempts at control.
“What’s the matter?” Quinn asked quietly. But she knew the moment she saw the dark forms beginning to slink out from behind the trees a short distance ahead, more tha
n a dozen of them. Huge, pelted, four-legged forms. Wolves.
Werewolves.
Arturo eyed the wolves with dismay, his muscles tensing for the fight that was almost certain to come. The werewolves snarled, circling them, sliding out from behind the trees.
Mio dio, this was not good. The wolves were hungry, and while they might attack him, it was sweet human flesh they craved. Quinn’s flesh.
His muscles tensed. They would not get it. He would not let them harm her.
His horse nickered with fear. Quinn’s mount began to shy, and he urged his own closer, grabbing her reins to keep hers from throwing her.
Options ran through his mind, lightning fast. Diplomacy? His power of persuasion almost never worked on werewolf minds, not when they were in their animal forms. His only real option was to grab Quinn and run.
Trust me, cara.
Snatching her off of her mount and into his arms would be easy. But the wolves, while not as fast as he was, had an uncanny ability to track a vampire’s movements. Breaking through the line that now surrounded them would not be easy at all.
“No,” she said quietly, her voice tight with strain. “Don’t touch me.” The telltale glow of power leaped into her eyes even as she pulled and cocked her gun. “Where should I aim?”
“The head. It will slow them down the fastest.”
“But not kill them?” She was shaking from her struggle to keep hold of the power.
“Not necessarily.”
Tension knotted his muscles as the need to snatch her away warred with the certainty that he must do everything possible to aid her in maintaining control. He prepared, as she did, for the only other option.
Fight.
The ground began to quake. A crack of thunder rolled across the skies. Sunbeams burst through in the distance, at least three that he could see.
Quinn’s gaze flew to his, her eyes widening. Wild. She was losing control. “I did that,” she gasped, clutching the reins with one hand while the gun in her other vibrated badly. She’d never be able to hit anything like that.
Hold on to the power, cara. We stand a better chance if you remain mounted and in control.
Pamela Palmer - [Vamp City 02] Page 12
