But right now, Aerune wanted a Hunt.
Jeanette picked a direction at random and began walking, trying to get her bearings and cull information from the agonizing and bewildering wash of sensations that surrounded her. She needed to strike a trail, and fast. Aerune’s patience was close to nonexistent at the best of times, and this was more than a test. Somehow, this was a trap.
Is what I overheard so important that I’ve got to die? That can’t be it. He could kill me any time he wanted to. And who would I tell about Wheatley, anyway? Everyone in that place belongs to Aerune body and soul, even the High Elves. None of them would betray him. None of them would even care.
All the while, something had been trying to get her attention, like the high faint peal of a bell over the roar of a storming ocean, and she finally focused on it.
Power.
Enormous power. The thing Aerune sought—that he must have known was here, somewhere in New York, before he ever set her on its trail. She stopped in her tracks and turned this way and that, trying to get a bead on it.
North and west.
“That way.” She pointed.
Aerune reached down and pulled her up behind him on the horse, riding in the direction she indicated. It drew her, swamping all other input. Not one Talent, but too many to count—an ocean of power, enough to drown in.
Enough to turn Aerune into a god.
And if she didn’t help him find it, there were millions here for him to slaughter. He didn’t even have to kill them one by one. All he had to do was take down the power grid, and thousands would die as the carefully-balanced machinery of the city ground to a halt.
And if she did help him find the Power he sought, how many more would die?
How could she make that kind of choice?
The elvensteed broke into a trot. They were near the river now, and Jeanette realized he was no longer waiting for her directions. Whatever the source, it was big enough—and close enough—that Aerune could sense it himself now.
They stopped on a darkened side street. She didn’t know what time it was, but she knew it was late—there wasn’t any traffic here, and most of the buildings around them were dark. On her left was a parking lot filled with motorcycles and an assortment of small cars—the lot itself unusual on the Upper West Side, where real estate space was at a premium.
And beyond the lot was the source of what had called her. An apartment building, with a few windows lit. Every apartment contained Talent of some sort, and behind one of those windows, a concentration of pure Power, and anguish so great that Jeanette tried to curl up where she sat, and only succeeded in sliding from the saddle to the ground, to huddle at the elvensteed’s feet.
Aerune jerked on her leash. “Stop that.” The Sidhe’s voice was lazy; he sounded almost drunk on the pain that was killing her. “Do you not see? My other hound has done me one last service in his dying, striking a heart’s blow against these petty mortals who would oppose my will. He has opened a path through their defenses; helpless in their grief, they will not sense me until it is far too late. In their destruction, the seeds of mortalkind’s destruction will be sown as well.”
He was gloating, Jeanette realized with numb indignation. But she could barely concentrate on his words, let alone react to them. The torment was too great, worse than ever before. It was as if . . .
She was dying.
In his impatience to tap into this concentration of Power—or perhaps because he needed all his own puissance to survive here—Aerune had loosed the spells that kept time from affecting her. The T-Stroke was working again, weakening her, burning her out.
If only the people in the building would keep Aerune distracted, keep him from noticing her again until it was too late. She hated herself for the thought, but she had no illusions left. She was a coward, a user, a destroyer. A victim, not a hero. Even if she dared to try to do something right, things only got worse.
All she could do—the only thing she could ever do—was try desperately not to be noticed. To escape, any way she could.
If only mortals knew what power lay in their despair.
Aerune could sense his hound’s anguish—he fed upon it, increasing it as he did the pain of those who lay in the fortress beyond. It had been Jeanette’s helpless rage and self-loathing that he had most loved about her. Her empathic power had only been an incidental thing, his use of it a way to pass the time and learn more of the mortal world while his long-range plans came to fruition. He had been surprised at her strength—no matter what he did, she did not surrender, did not come to fawn upon him with the helpless groveling love of his Court. With time enough, she would have realized what power her despair gave her, and that would be tiresome and inconvenient. Better to end it here, now, by allowing the poison she had taken to work its will upon her at last—or would it be more amusing to let her think she had escaped, then to snatch her back from the gates of Death?
Only a small part of Aerune’s consciousness was occupied with that idle speculation. Most of it was engaged in siphoning off the rich banquet of power and grief that lay before him, slipping his subtle magics past the lax wards of the stronghold and turning the anguish of those inside back upon itself so that they could think of nothing else, and in their sorrow become utterly vulnerable to his attack.
For I am the Lord of Death and Pain, and all who sorrow and weep do me homage . . .
Aerune no longer felt the weakness brought on by the deathmetal surrounding him. Once he had drained these enemies dry, destroyed the last of their defenses, all that set them apart from the ordinary run of humanity would be gone, to flow through his veins, allowing him to strike them down with impunity. Power to spare, power to waste, power to shield him from their monkey tricks and petty impediments . . .
Kayla’s eyes ached with unshed tears. The power she’d expended tonight had left her exhausted, and there was nothing to show for it. The operation was a success, but the patient died, as the old joke went. Her head drooped, and she shivered, even though she’d reclaimed her leather jacket when they got back here and was huddled into it now. Everything in her urged her to give up, surrender, make an end to things now before life could hurt her any more than it already had. . . .
Wait . . . wait . . .
Her thoughts were groggy, as if she’d had a lot more to drink than just a sip of Scotch.
This isn’t right.
It was hard to think. She was drowning in the others’ grief, resonating to it like a water glass to a soprano.
Not just me . . .
Cautiously she lowered her shields, wincing at the uprush of grief that spilled past her barriers. Gritting her teeth, she reached past her immediate surroundings. The House itself was grieving—it, and everyone in it: the Sensitives who did not know the cause of their overwhelming sorrow; the magicians who set up wards against it in vain; even the other tenants, those who were only as sensitive as any artist. All of them mourned, turning inward, shutting out the world beyond their walls.
And something outside those walls was feeding on that pain, magnifying it and siphoning it off at the same time.
Kayla drew back inside herself, making her shields as tight as she could. But there was such a sweetness in surrendering to the pain, a dark joy in the knowledge that she could receive no greater hurt in life than that she had already received, that turning away from that submission was the hardest thing she had ever done.
“Hey . . .” Kayla said. Her voice came out in a croak. “Something’s wrong.”
Paul looked at her, his red-rimmed eyes bleak. “Everything’s wrong. The good die and the innocent suffer, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it,” he said in a flat voice.
Kayla pulled herself to her feet, the dragging weakness—physical and emotional—making her stagger and reel. “No!” she said, louder now. “Something’s wrong!”
The others ignored her as if she hadn’t spoken. Sat, drained and grieving, emotional zombies.
I’ve gott
a do something! Something to turn them out of themselves, away from Death, back toward Life. But Kayla was tapped out. She had barely enough energy to keep herself on her feet, and none to spare to heal them.
Music. Could that help?
I’ve got two Bards here, they oughtta be able to do something.
She looked at Eric. He was sitting with Ria’s head on his shoulder, staring at nothing. His eyes were empty, swollen with unshed tears. Maybe if she put the flute in his hands . . .?
She staggered toward the bedroom. The floor tilted crazily with her exhaustion, and she could barely feel it beneath her feet. She clung to the wall, keeping herself upright by sheer bloody-mindedness.
There! The flute case lay on the bed, and beside it, Hosea’s banjo. She tripped over the edge of the flokati rug and fell to her hands and knees. It would be so easy just to lie here, give in to her exhaustion, sleep and pray to never wake up again.
Wimp.
She pulled herself to her feet, clinging to the edge of the mattress, then grabbed the flute case and the banjo. They seemed to burn in her hands, weighing far more than they possibly could. It was only with an effort that she kept herself from using the banjo as a crutch as she reeled back into the living room.
She dropped the flute case in Eric’s lap. “Play something—something happy,” she demanded raggedly.
Eric looked up at her, moving as though underwater. “Not now,” was all he said.
“Eric, we need this. Play.” Oh, please. Don’t make me beg. I don’t have the strength.
He shook his head.
“It’s too soon. Let the dead rest,” Hosea said, dully.
Kayla rounded on him, holding the banjo like a club. She felt anger building inside her and fed it, welcoming the burn of fury. It was all that was keeping her going. And when it was gone, there would be nothing left.
“Oh, yeah. That’s a great idea! Jimmie’d be real proud of you, farmboy—she goes through hell for you and this is how you pay her back? Lie down and die? So she’s dead—play her out, then! Play for her!”
Hosea’s eyes focused on her, and slowly he reached for the banjo. “Guess I can do that much,” he said. He began to play, something slow and mournful—“John Barleycorn,” she thought.
“Oh great—is that how you want to remember her? A dead loser? You want to lie down in that grave with her?”
Hosea stopped and looked at her. “That ain’t fair, Kayla.”
“Do you think this is how she wants you to remember her?” She spun around and glared at Eric and Ria, although the world was graying out around her. “Do you think she just wants you to give up and die? Play!”
Slowly Eric began to fumble with the flute case, plainly unable to understand why Kayla was so upset. Hosea began to play again: “Ashokan Farewell.” Kayla groaned inwardly. Not much livelier than the other thing. But when she looked at him, she could see confusion in his eyes as he began to sense the wrongness here. By the time the melody came around again, Eric had joined him, the flute wailing like the wind in high lonely places. She could see he didn’t get it, and she had no more to give. She sank down to the floor, sitting at Eric’s feet.
But still the two Bards played, pulling themselves agonizingly from song to song, like travelers crossing a frozen river: from “Ashokan Farewell” to “Lorena” to “Bonnie Blue Flag” to “Dixie.” It almost didn’t matter what they played, not really. Music was life, and anything would help. Then faster: “Marching Through Georgia” and “Union Forever”—fighting songs, those—and “Susan Brown” and “Turkey in the Straw” with their catchy cheery rhythm, and she could see the power linking the two Bards like binary suns. Power—and life, that spilled over into the others, through the walls and the floor, filling the entire building with their defiance, filling Kayla until she twitched with it, all exhaustion banished.
The others roused, shaking off the seductive despair that had wrapped them like a burial shroud, breaking the cycle of grief and surrender. It seemed as if Kayla could feel the House itself taking a deep breath and shaking all over like a wet dog.
And then at last they could all sense the threat that came from without: the malignancy—and triumph.
* * *
:Bogeys at six o’clock! Scramble!: Greystone Sent, panic in his mental voice. They could all feel it, that power like no other: the mark of the Dark Lords, the Unseleighe Sidhe. Eric ran to the window and stepped out onto the fire escape. Behind him he heard the apartment door slam as the Guardians ran to defend their turf. The front door of the building was “twelve o’clock,” so the enemy was at the back, in the parking lot.
Aerune. A sickness twisted in Eric’s gut as he recognized the rider on the black elvensteed. Aerune was the one who had been feeding on their anguish, turning their grief to despair. He vaulted over the railing, and let a touch of Power carry him lightly five stories to the ground. Outside the bespelled air conditioning of his apartment, the summer heat enveloped him like a glove, plastering his white dress shirt to his body as sweat sprang out of every pore.
The other three—no, four—Guardians reached the ground at the same time he did and fanned out, not seeing Aerune yet. Eric didn’t see Ria—she was probably still inside, sitting on Kayla. That was a small mercy. The last time any of them had faced Aerune, he’d been kidnapping and draining Talent—and Kayla would be just the sort of morsel that would whet his appetite—if he weren’t already glutted with the power he’d siphoned off from Guardian House and its inmates. Aerune glowed with Power in Eric’s mage-sight—power enough to rock the city around their ears.
But tonight it seemed that Aerune had other plans.
“Greetings, mortal pests—and Bard.” Aerune bowed with a flourish, leaning over his mount’s saddle, hugely pleased with himself. When he spoke, the glamourie that surrounded him vanished, and the others could see him as well. “It is a lovely evening, is it not?”
“What does he want?” Toni whispered to Eric. “You’re the expert on elves.”
“Good evening, Lord Aerune.”
Eric stepped forward, bowing in turn. Good manners, due form, these were vital in dealing with High Court Sidhe, whether Dark or Bright. Ignore the forms, and they could kill you out of hand, but if you played by the rules, they had to as well. “You are far from home.”
“I ride over lands I intend to claim,” Aerune said. “Had you fallen into my trap, I could have done so tonight without difficulty—but no matter. I am an apt pupil, Bard, and I have learned your lessons well. My allies daily grow stronger . . . and I can wait while you wither and die. Mortals die so easily—ah, but you have already discovered that this fine evening, have you not?”
He means Jimmie, Eric realized, and held onto his temper with a great effort. Fury was weakness. It would not help him.
“Yes, I can wait,” Aerune continued, “while all you can do is age and die, pathetic mortal meat that you are. Perhaps I will save you from that, and grant each of you a hero’s death.”
Aerune drew back his hand. It glowed blackly with levin-fire. Eric barely had time to throw a shield over himself and the others, but they were not his target. Aerune struck at the House itself, balefire fountaining over bricks and mortar, until the walls of the building itself ran with cold fire.
Eric could hear screams coming from inside. The Sensitives of Guardian House would have nightmares for months, but he dared not look away from the Unseleighe Lord. He wasn’t powerful enough to take on Aerune by himself, the Guardians had no experience with the Sidhe, and Hosea was untrained either as Guardian or Bard. And nightmares were better than body bags.
Seeing that none of them would attack, Aerune began to laugh. “But not tonight. No, tonight, in token of the great love I bear for you all, I bring you . . . a gift.”
Something—someone—staggered forward, sprawling at their feet. It was a girl—a woman—dressed in a glove-tight suit of black leather studded in silver, that covered all of her but her face. Silver hair spilled do
wn her back, glittering in the parking lot’s merciless halogen lights.
She wore a collar and leash, and she was human.
Aerune’s mount reared and vaulted through the Portal he had opened. The Portal vanished, but his laughter echoed in the air.
Eric ran forward to help the girl up, but she scrabbled backward on hands and knees, whimpering. The leash dragged along the ground. She was hemorrhaging Power, radiating like a beacon, and Eric could detect no hint of shielding.
“Hey, take it easy. We won’t hurt you.”
She shook her head—he still couldn’t see her face—but she began to laugh breathlessly, a sound chilling in its hopelessness.
“What the hell is going on?” Ria demanded, arriving with Kayla. “What’s that?”
“Aerune said she was a present,” Eric said tightly.
The crouching figure looked up.
There was a frozen moment of silence.
“You,” Ria breathed, fury in her voice.
The woman scrabbled to her feet and tried to run, but Ria was faster. She lunged forward, grabbing a handful of silver hair and dealing a stinging open-handed slap with the other. She drew back her hand to slap the woman again, but Eric grabbed her.
“Ria! Stop it! What’s going on?”
Ria glared at him, green eyes flaming, her hand still fisted in the woman’s hair. She shook her victim. Ria’s handprint stood out lividly against her skin.
“Don’t you know who this is, even with the clever plastic disguise? Meet Jeanette Campbell: she invented T-Stroke, and I’m going to make her wish she’d never been born. Let go of me!” She struggled, trying to pull her arm free of Eric’s grip. Jeanette cowered back, panting and whimpering.
“Now, Miss Llewellyn,” Hosea said mildly. He picked up the trailing leash and looped it around his hand. “She isn’t going anywhere. And I think we’d all like some answers.”
“She’s mine!” Ria snarled.
A Host of Furious Fancies Page 60
